Wednesday, May 23, 2007
David Brainerd quote
"September 19, 1747. Near night, while I attempted to walk a little, my thoughts turned thus: How infinitely sweet it is to love God, and be all for him! Upon which it was suggested to me, 'You are not an angel, not lively and active.' To which my whole soul immediately replied, 'I as sincerely desire to love and glorify God as any angel in heaven.' Upon which it was suggested again, 'But you are filthy, not fit for heaven.' Hereupon instantly appeared the blessed robe of Christ's righteousness, which I could not but exult and triumph in." -David Brainerd
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
"True Saints, When Absent from the Body, Are Present with the Lord"
These quotes are from the sermon by Jonathan Edwards based on 2 Corinthians 5:8: "We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord." -2 Corinthians 5:8.
"And when the souls of the saints leave their bodies, to go to be with Christ, they behold the marvelous glory of that great work of his, the work of redemption, and of the glorious way of salvation by him; desire to look into. They have a most clear view of teh unfathomable depths of the manifold wisdom and knowledge of God; and the most b right displays of the infinite purity and holiness of God, that do appear in that way and work; and see in a much clearer manner than the saints do here, what is the breadth and length, and depth and height of the grace and love of Christ, appearing in his redemption. And as they see the unspeakable riches and glory of the attribute of God's grace, so they most clearly behold and understand Christ's eternal and unmeasurable dying love to them in particular. And in short, they see ever thing in Christ that tends to kindle and inflame love, and every thing that tends to gratify love, and every thing that tends to satisfy them: and that in the most clear and glorious manner, wihtout any darkness or delusion, without any impediment or interruption. Now the saints, while in the body, see something of Christ's glory and love; as we, in the dawning of the morning, see something of the reflected light of the sun mingled with darkness; but when separated from the body, they see their glorious and loving Redeemer, as we see the sun when risen, and showing his whole disk above the horizon, by his direct beams, in a clear hemisphere, and with perfect day."
"...the souls of departed saints with Christ in heaven, shall ahve Christ as it were unbosomed unto them, manifesting those infinite riches of love towards them, that have been there from eternity; and they shall be enabled to express their love to him, in an infinitely better manner than ever they could while in the body. Thus they shall eat and drink abundantly, and swim in teh ocean of love, and be eternally swallowed up in teh infinitely bright, and infinitely mild and sweet beams of divine love; eternally receiving that light, eternally full of it, and eternally compassed round with it, and everlastingly reflecting it back again to the fountain of it."
"And when the souls of the saints leave their bodies, to go to be with Christ, they behold the marvelous glory of that great work of his, the work of redemption, and of the glorious way of salvation by him; desire to look into. They have a most clear view of teh unfathomable depths of the manifold wisdom and knowledge of God; and the most b right displays of the infinite purity and holiness of God, that do appear in that way and work; and see in a much clearer manner than the saints do here, what is the breadth and length, and depth and height of the grace and love of Christ, appearing in his redemption. And as they see the unspeakable riches and glory of the attribute of God's grace, so they most clearly behold and understand Christ's eternal and unmeasurable dying love to them in particular. And in short, they see ever thing in Christ that tends to kindle and inflame love, and every thing that tends to gratify love, and every thing that tends to satisfy them: and that in the most clear and glorious manner, wihtout any darkness or delusion, without any impediment or interruption. Now the saints, while in the body, see something of Christ's glory and love; as we, in the dawning of the morning, see something of the reflected light of the sun mingled with darkness; but when separated from the body, they see their glorious and loving Redeemer, as we see the sun when risen, and showing his whole disk above the horizon, by his direct beams, in a clear hemisphere, and with perfect day."
"...the souls of departed saints with Christ in heaven, shall ahve Christ as it were unbosomed unto them, manifesting those infinite riches of love towards them, that have been there from eternity; and they shall be enabled to express their love to him, in an infinitely better manner than ever they could while in the body. Thus they shall eat and drink abundantly, and swim in teh ocean of love, and be eternally swallowed up in teh infinitely bright, and infinitely mild and sweet beams of divine love; eternally receiving that light, eternally full of it, and eternally compassed round with it, and everlastingly reflecting it back again to the fountain of it."
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
The Subway is a Creepy Place for Sex.
By Jared Weatherholtz
(I was in the subway and I saw a couple making out.)
The subway is a creepy place for sex.
Stumbling fingers reach to strip bodies of
damp shirts. Heated grasps stretch for
weighty satisfaction—a means to an end. Pumping breasts
cannot find a common beat—don’t care to find
a common beat. One pulse chases another in a personal race
for communal pleasure. He will not stop until he has had
his fill. She will not stop until she has had her
unquenchable desires chipped away at. She will be back for more. He will
hunger again. I am always hungry.
The subway is a creepy place for sex. Tell that to the couple making out up front.
Guilt is not an honest way to make a wage. What sorry mother neglected to tell her daughter that? She left a 12-pack of basic Crayola Crayons in my lap. I stared down at the small, pleasant box from outside of my body. I felt connected. I could not be heartless and refuse to pay the old, misguided lady. After all, her mother forgot to teach her the basics: don’t put out until they pay. Or maybe she’d fooled us all: put out until they pay. The subway is the perfect place for life lessons.
A man prepares his blanket like a Japanese wife—submissive and honorable, kneeling to show respect. He lets each corner fall to its particular side from the center hold, straightening the fabric with the palms of his hands—carefully, so as not to disturb the shards. He lets out a warrior’s cry and begins the ritual beating, a self-inflicted pain for the pleasure of the world. (We are so fucked up.) The dance is rhythmic and smooth, contrasting with the heinous cuts he is inflicting. His torso swivels and strikes, swivels and strikes the green broken glass of the blanket. His back begins to bleed, small gashes like new coats of paint on the scars of old walls. He has no face, and no legs—only a bloody torso that cries poverty. The subway is the perfect place for tragedy.
This place is a dichotomy. I have never felt so alive in a landscape of death.
Steel structures and aged concrete make this jungle a vacuum.
Truth be told, I would go crazy being in here for too long.
And sometimes, at 2am, on my route home, I feel the palms of insanity massaging my column, creeping toward my cerebrum.
But on the landscape of death are lived the lives of thousands, no, millions of art’s master characters. Beauty is never more accentuated than when juxtaposed with its counterpart. Tonight I know that steel and concrete are great hosts of life. The subway is the perfect place for romance.
I am hungry.
(I was in the subway and I saw a couple making out.)
The subway is a creepy place for sex.
Stumbling fingers reach to strip bodies of
damp shirts. Heated grasps stretch for
weighty satisfaction—a means to an end. Pumping breasts
cannot find a common beat—don’t care to find
a common beat. One pulse chases another in a personal race
for communal pleasure. He will not stop until he has had
his fill. She will not stop until she has had her
unquenchable desires chipped away at. She will be back for more. He will
hunger again. I am always hungry.
The subway is a creepy place for sex. Tell that to the couple making out up front.
Guilt is not an honest way to make a wage. What sorry mother neglected to tell her daughter that? She left a 12-pack of basic Crayola Crayons in my lap. I stared down at the small, pleasant box from outside of my body. I felt connected. I could not be heartless and refuse to pay the old, misguided lady. After all, her mother forgot to teach her the basics: don’t put out until they pay. Or maybe she’d fooled us all: put out until they pay. The subway is the perfect place for life lessons.
A man prepares his blanket like a Japanese wife—submissive and honorable, kneeling to show respect. He lets each corner fall to its particular side from the center hold, straightening the fabric with the palms of his hands—carefully, so as not to disturb the shards. He lets out a warrior’s cry and begins the ritual beating, a self-inflicted pain for the pleasure of the world. (We are so fucked up.) The dance is rhythmic and smooth, contrasting with the heinous cuts he is inflicting. His torso swivels and strikes, swivels and strikes the green broken glass of the blanket. His back begins to bleed, small gashes like new coats of paint on the scars of old walls. He has no face, and no legs—only a bloody torso that cries poverty. The subway is the perfect place for tragedy.
This place is a dichotomy. I have never felt so alive in a landscape of death.
Steel structures and aged concrete make this jungle a vacuum.
Truth be told, I would go crazy being in here for too long.
And sometimes, at 2am, on my route home, I feel the palms of insanity massaging my column, creeping toward my cerebrum.
But on the landscape of death are lived the lives of thousands, no, millions of art’s master characters. Beauty is never more accentuated than when juxtaposed with its counterpart. Tonight I know that steel and concrete are great hosts of life. The subway is the perfect place for romance.
I am hungry.
To Frida (on repentance)
By Jared Weatherholtz
This is a response to "To Diego (on sorrow)" which is posted in my blog history.
To Frida (on repentance)
Mi vida,
El monstruo soy yo,
¡de verdad!,
con un apetito que nunca cesa.
I have always seen myself in my murals, and shuttered.
I am pregnant with guilt, writhing under your love,
bearing flowers of peace to my smiling wife.
I am weighed down by my own lusts.
Driven down!
I cannot get up, Frida!
I cannot get up.
You were a welcome babe in an ancient world,
the innocence and vigor of my life.
You are a bloody, beating heart among sharpening stones,
a martyr at my own hands.
You cover my infidelities in a pool of red,
and I rest—
while you writhe.
El monstruo soy yo.
We are the entire history of Mexico!
The revolution flowed from our love,
the people’s passion from our very bosoms.
In La Chingada, I painted you with a look of unbelief.
The tension of my body falling powerfully on yours
as I had my way is all too real for me now.
They say we cannot escape heritage,
and I have sealed ours in disloyalty.
I find myself kneeling reverently before a bed of carnations.
My people and your love are the only gods I have ever known.
But these flowers are my shrine.
Their beauty binds, enslaves.
Their shape is my best friend,
who has torn trust and thrown it to the diseased dogs on the street.
You are the innocent victim of an imperialist regime.
The monstrosity I am!
Yo soy el monstruo.
But, mi vida, don’t forget us.
I am you,
Friday. You
are me.
This is a response to "To Diego (on sorrow)" which is posted in my blog history.
To Frida (on repentance)
Mi vida,
El monstruo soy yo,
¡de verdad!,
con un apetito que nunca cesa.
I have always seen myself in my murals, and shuttered.
I am pregnant with guilt, writhing under your love,
bearing flowers of peace to my smiling wife.
I am weighed down by my own lusts.
Driven down!
I cannot get up, Frida!
I cannot get up.
You were a welcome babe in an ancient world,
the innocence and vigor of my life.
You are a bloody, beating heart among sharpening stones,
a martyr at my own hands.
You cover my infidelities in a pool of red,
and I rest—
while you writhe.
El monstruo soy yo.
We are the entire history of Mexico!
The revolution flowed from our love,
the people’s passion from our very bosoms.
In La Chingada, I painted you with a look of unbelief.
The tension of my body falling powerfully on yours
as I had my way is all too real for me now.
They say we cannot escape heritage,
and I have sealed ours in disloyalty.
I find myself kneeling reverently before a bed of carnations.
My people and your love are the only gods I have ever known.
But these flowers are my shrine.
Their beauty binds, enslaves.
Their shape is my best friend,
who has torn trust and thrown it to the diseased dogs on the street.
You are the innocent victim of an imperialist regime.
The monstrosity I am!
Yo soy el monstruo.
But, mi vida, don’t forget us.
I am you,
Friday. You
are me.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poetry
Poetry for the truly postmodern.
"On Gifts for Grace"
By Bernadette Mayer
I saw a great teapot.
I wanted to get you this stupendous
100% cotton royal blue and black checked shirt,
There was a red and black striped one too
Then I saw these boots at a place called Chuckles
They laced up to about two inches above your ankles
All leather and in red, black or purple
It was hard to have no money today
I won't even speak about the possible flowers and kinds of lingerie
All linen and silk with not-yet-perfumed laces
Brilliant enough for any of the Graces
Full of luxury, grace notes, prosperousness and charm
But I can only praise you with this poem--
It's being is the same as the meaning of your name
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