Critic

Be your own worst critic in the best of ways.

Then Who Will Be Laughing?

It's another sunny Saturday.
I'm home alone.
Esther's working.

I'm trying to write about... the way, I tend to write about... nothing.
All the time.
That is to say, how my writing tendencies always just come out-
I don't know-
like half written tales with no resolution-
Or character development-
Or much of anything that makes much sense, or is probably useful to anyone.

But I read something of such substance to someone the other day.
2 people actually.
They were both awake and listening.
Which meant I had to pause after the first sentence to let my quivering voice catch up with my fear.
And their response was actually encouraging.

They saw some type of value in the word dance of nothingness I had created.
And there's something my ego just can't let go about that notion.
Before they were even done praising me I had the book title solidified in my mind,
and how I was going to capitalize on my greatness 6 ways before Sunday.
Because, it was suddenly my duty to let the world know their meaninglessness turns out to maybe mean something after all- and that means more to me and my appetite for praise than anyone could ever know- unless your like me- and you don't know much- and most things confuse you- and you often wonder if your life is like a dog chasing its own tail and you just haven't realized it yet.

Well.
Then you know all too well.
Don't you?
And I'm sorry for that.

But then these words about nothing are for you, I suppose.
Aren't they?
They say if everyone's invited then no one is invited.
So I say, if these words are to no one, then they can just as well be for anyone.
Right?
And how beautiful is that?
And how can I help but wonder if someday you'll write some words or create some type of madness right back to me as indirectly as I have so un-specifically written these words not to you-
And then we'll just essentially be a couple dogs chasing our own tails.

Together.

Then who will be laughing?

The Meaning of it All

It's Easter weekend.
It's sunny today.
It's Saturday.
The weekend.
For some.

I'm happy I have the day off.
I'm pissed I don't have more clients keeping me busy.

I remember the sacrifice of Jesus.
I hunt relentlessly for my dreams.
For what I want.
For what I can achieve.

I am greedy.
Self focused.

I am determined.
A provider.

I am humbled by God's sacrifice.
His devotion.
His external focus, and compassion.

I've been given a life of comfort.
Luxury.
Ease.
I want more of it.

I forget his sacrifice.
I don't know how to live in his sacrifice.
Live out of his sacrifice.
How do I mirror the holiest of holies devotion?

I don't.
I meander.
I squandor.
I reap what I have not sown completely.
Barely.
Hardly.
So I give a little.
I pray a little.
I remember a little.
And I try not to be that bad.

But at the end of the day,
on every good day,
I will never stop asking myself,
what am I called to?
If I am not to be fully enveloped in my own interests.
I've always gotta ask that question.
Dream about that question.
And hold the answers above my head,
in a little more than a prayer,
and a little more than a hope,
and a little more than I could ever expect of myself.

Not that there's meaning in all of this.
Not that I don't write from sneaky shards of my own desires.
I acknowledge my weaknesses.
But more importantly, I acknowledge my place.
And my perspective.
From the confines of a comfy couch on a sunny Saturday where my debatable joy pauses long enough to know the meaning of it all.
The answer of it all- is simple.

How do you breathe, after you've asked yourself the question?

City Love

There's something about loving a city. Despite it's crime. It's pettiness. The show-offs and the have-not's. Cities are eclectic. And real. And they're hard. And dirty. And amazing. And things are always changing. And staying the same.

There's something about the place we call home. The neighbors that we know, and the spots we frequent. Our routines and the places we love with all our hearts that most people will never notice. The hole in the wall bars and taco trucks and the homeless guy whose name you know and you bought lunch that time and every time you drive by him you remember how unsettling the reality of the world is.

There's something about where we keep ourselves. From not moving from yesterday or tomorrow, the place we've placed ourselves in a certain proximity and structure, that single address where we always go back to. Cities aren't easy. But a cozy home with a locked door and full fridge can mean so much. And those without, just outside half a block away idling by the Salvation Army or Wilsons Delicatessen's. They remind us how unsettled the world is. That there is sadness. And heartbreak. And things we wish we're different.

Theres something about the shelterless sad man in the rain. He is not the problem, he just graces us with reminding ourselves that there are so many problems. So many damned problems. And in the scary city we love where we cozy up in our warm homes, we remember the distressed, and the hurt, and the sorrow of our world. And we love our broken little city for it. Cause it reminds us of reality, and every dream we've ever had.