Sky Open Wide

I shut the wipers and let the rain tesselate over the foggy pane. I saw the reflection of the sky in the cement today, as if I were driving a car through the clouds. Speaking of, the clouds bawled today. I could no longer take being inside during the beauty, so after the sky's 3rd roar, I grabbed my petticoat and fled to the lake, feeling the pelts absorb into my cheeks and neck and hands. Finally, I took off the coat and drank some more, watching the sky collapse on me, channeling its emotions into the sea, quenching the turf's thirst. Lightning illuminated the earth. A bolt would strike wherever he so pleased. The day was grey; I wasn't blue. 

Misty air. Fragrant air. Frog families taking to their lily pad colonies. I don't care where I am, where I choose to call home. I call the world home now. This is to live. This is what I've always hoped for-- to finally look upwards, to know the world and all its worth. 

Courtroom Theology

June, Ellie

Mr. Summers 

English 11 H

21 May 2009

Don't Thoughts Exist To Contradict?

the⋅ol⋅o⋅gy [thee-ol-uh-jee]

–noun, plural -gies.

1. the field of study and analysis that treats of God and of God's attributes and relations to the universe; study of divine things or religious truth; divinity.

2. Originally applying to only Christianity

Religion is steadily versatile. No longer is mankind constrained to the pillars of monotheism; for, the guidelines of morality are now subjective from soul to soul. Throughout the year, we have, together, insecurely and steadily studied authors with challenging theologies with both valid and believable arguments. The world is a courtroom; however, we are not attorneys with duties to convince and convict. Instead, we are jurors, placed to empathize with our convicted prophets, who so tirelessly claim their integrity.

With the genesis of our literary explorations, we began interpreting the works of Puritan,   literary geniuses such as Anne Hutchinson and John Edwards. The two took the monotheistic approach to spirituality, claiming that not only that there is undoubtedly a god, but God, himself, predetermines his followers' loyalty.  

“I have been guilty of wrong thinking,” confessed Hutchinson, expressing her traditional Puritan theology of man's conviction and inherent corruption. In her eyes, man's inferiority to the Lord allows Him to debase us which indirectly glorifies him through which we finally feel the truest of joy. 

Venturing into the vast lands of Romanticism, we came across Nathaniel Hawthorne, the dreamiest of them all. As the godfather of natural poetic surreality, Hawthorne advocates a life far from civilization, one entwined within the vines of April. The most interesting aspect of a Romantic lifestyle is its versatility. Sure, most Romantics seem to prefer a Godless life, but devotion one would normally have for a supernatural being is, instead, used to glorify the Pines and Ferns. 

In modern times, this faith would be dubbed as Pantheism, a doctrine that identifies God with the universe, meaning the world is a microcosm of the metaphysical body of God. At the same time, some Pantheists are strict Atheists, claiming only  to worship the universe for the emotions rendered by its wholesome beauty. Emotion is the Romantic deity. “A pure man needs no glove to cover it,” Hawthorne once said. It is by intuition that man learns of himself. And if he, indeed, does adhere to the faint voice within his heart, he will never be faced with shame; for instinct never fails him.  

Mark Twain preferred to nix the nonsense. Thus, commenced the era of Realism. Through characters like little Huckleberry Finn, Twain cleverly portrayed his apathy towards faith and his simplistic lifestyle. A counter to Monotheism—Atheism professes a theology that no type of supernatural or superior being exists. 

“You can't pray a lie,” admitted Finn. If the action doesn't feel natural or render satisfaction, then its purpose is invalid. Prayer wasn't for him; however, he never once mocked the faithful. Rather, he let them do as they please.

Normally, I choose to remain pokerface; however, my religious beliefs (or lack thereof) is so radical from others surrounding me that it would be tedious not to give background. Raised in a culturally Islamic family, simultaneously in a religiously lax household, I was never preached to, insomuch that my parents frowned upon my Christian conformity a few years back. I attended a Catholic middle school against my will and found myself treading behind the pastors' daughters in faith.  I devoted my life to Christ, prayed to Him relentlessly, and persuaded myself that He was my savior and one and only. Needless to say—things have changed. 

To clarify a common misconception: Atheism is not Satanism. A person proclaiming disbelief in God does not directly connote that he is inherently evil or corrupt. How is he so sure the holy pages bound, he so preciously adheres to are steadfast? He can't. 

I do not intend this monologue to be an opportunity for the reader to evangelize me. I respect all faiths entirely, I really do, but let's start by addressing that I am, indeed, a devout Agnostic, dedicating my life to good thoughts, good words, and good deeds. My theories of a god-like figure vary and I am content with my inconsistency. At the moment, I don't believe in God; however, ask me tomorrow, after I've experienced a surreal coincidence and I might contradict myself. I won't subscribe to the whole Atheistic cult, because really, who knows if there is a metaphysical being? 

Bluntly stated--humans are ignorant for either stating complete and utter belief in an invisible creator and too full of themselves for denying blind faith. Why are we bound to choose one over the other? The human mind is far too insignificant. You will never comprehend  the meaning of life. Your pastor is fatuously respected when he is only man-weak, stupid, selfish. “These liars warn't no kings nor dukes,”  explained little Huck Finn, “...But just low-down humbugs and frauds.” Then again, the Atheist you met on the plane last week--he's nothing but a fraud who obstinately thinks he's deciphered the world's mystery.  My doubt is my dogma. 

In short, I wholeheartedly believe my purpose is to use my mind, hands, and energy to benefit this treasured world around me, to see as much as I can and if that means I will one day witness Jesus rise again, so be it. I'm sure he'd be just as satisfied with me. 

Welcome To My Sub-Reality

Time speaks in a tongue familiar to its own kind. Then there is man who presumes that all factors pertaining to this world can empathize with his trivial issues. The clock keeps ticking without your consent, young fellow. 

I place myself in a time capsule, in a time bomb, really and never let a single molecule of modern air seep through the poor steel-plated mechanics. Keep dreaming or prove your intentions.

You're moving at your own pace and it's tedious waiting for your snail strides

You're a hologram; I can scarcely see you, let alone feel your blemished, transparent skin 

No- you're more like sunlight, casting it's rays without my blessing, you angelically possess this power to tint my skin a color only visible during the birth of the year

You're a curse on my lungs and startle me, choosing sporadic minutes to steal my quivering breath

You're a catastrophe, arbitrarily casting grief and terror within the depths of my core

You're a ghost to me

You're time, so temporary

Reach

Our fingertips intertwine

Like vines, inching to mend 

We seek the night 

Like bats, owl eyes 

Never seen daylight

Beneath the stars tonight

I'll wait 

'Till the comets collide 

'Till the universe transforms

Into nothing, but ashes

And fragments

And remnants of a past-life

But there will be sun

The night is so black

Hit the lights 

Such Impermissible Discontentment

“A knowledge of the existence of something we cannot penetrate, of the manifestations of the profoundest reason and the most radiant beauty - it is this knowledge and this emotion that constitute the truly religious attitude; in this sense, and this alone, I am a deeply religious man.”-Albert Einstein

Tell, me—why is mankind so enveloped with roaring curiosity? And how is the thirst for an answer quenched? You and I are human beings. We feel emotion, empathize towards one another, run, play, laugh, speak. Aside from mere relentlessness, what is the the purpose of divulging into a matter too perplexing to comprehend? Wallace Stevens sees no opportunity for the simple “Complacencies” of “Coffee and oranges” while concurrently burdened by what he calls an “Encroachment” of “that old catastrophe.”

Sunday Morning, a creed for the devout Atheist, renders the reader to feel debased, misled by rituals she has been beseeched to practice. However, she is reintroduced to a reverent “divinity,” she used to call God, now the “beauty of the earth.” Stevens is the quintessential Romantic-realist, conditioned to know all things tangible, all things personable to Man, a quality he feels absent in the God only present in “silent shadows.” Stevens discerns that we are simply kinesthetic creatures, yearning for a concrete truth. His last resort—truth within Man, “divinity within herself,” a steadfast, secure theology. Though he sees no loyalty in the Creator, he still searches for someone, someone to “walk naked among [us].”

Finally, Stevens comes to the conclusion that if holiness does stem from “April's green,” then what justifies man to inquire about such myths as “Jove” and “his inhuman birth?” Foolishness is what drives us, overriding the “sweet berries,” that “ripen” within the heap of the “wilderness.” We simply are not content. We crave the “haunt of prophecy,”the mysteries, temptations of recovering the cryptic clues and formulas to finally reach the “paradise,” meet the “Spirits lingering,” gain a “heavenly fellowship,” but Earth—this “paradise” is all “we shall know.” Acceptance is the only duty we are commanded to proclaim.

Nevertheless, how is the truth so veiled to you and me when the “echoing hills,” who from time to time, “choir among themselves,” and give notion that they are, indeed, present in man's life, fully ready to “chant in orgy” with us?

Overall, man should not “test the reality,” rather, consider its intrinsic value. Trivializing the heavenliness in all things tangible is the fall of mankind. 

The Crane Wife

	The Decemberists - 14 The Crane Wife part1
	Found at skreemr.com

Colin Meloy inspires me to write with more imagination. Every chance I can get, I turn his music up loud, in the car, and let him tell me stories of far off kingdoms, beautiful gypsies, and romances surpassing the standards of today's grotesque relationships. He surfaces the untouched beauty of war and figuratively depicts the anatomy of the human body as if each limb and tendon were alive.

The Silent Raconteur

The Silent Raconteur

Tender feet, so distressed

After a day of swiveling limbs

Threadbare, he reaches for a quilt,

Regarding hands too weak to to stretch

 Somber eyes, memories seen

Never once asked to tell

 Reaching for the bandage, it's swelled

Dressing his wounds clean

Next time Grandpa Joe has something on his mind, listen. Odds are it's a damn good story to hear. Those scars you see, veiling his brow, hands, knees, body, tell times of his past, yearning to be discovered.

First, It should be noted that I was only three paragraphs into “A Piece of Steak,” when I became inspired to write a poem, vividly telling of a man so predisposed in the past, but forced to forget and fast-forward to the current. It has absolutely no relevancy to the actual story, told by Jack London, though I'm sure it is possible to correlate between the two ambiguously.

The poem primarily incorporates symbolism and allegory to denote that he is not only just a weary, reserved man, but one who, in his youth, could have suffered trauma. His “tender feet” (1) are worked after years of manual labor. The reason why “tender” was used is to juxtapose a child to this elderly man, explaining the revolution man makes as he is born, matures, grows old, and finally reverts back to a childlike mentality. His heart and mind are impressionable like that of a young boy.

Simultaneously, he is calloused and cannot feel emotion as he once did. His “somber eyes” allow him to see through a mesh screen, netting visions that remind him of “memories seen.” (5) To contradict a statement above, he is neglected, just as some of the elderly are when their bodies don't allow them to participate in activities they once could have. He is independent, “threadbare” and keeps himself warm with a measly “quilt.” (3) He “dress[es] his own “wounds,” and forbids himself of bringing up the past. He “clean[s]” the dirt from his cuts and scrapes. (8)Though the dirt may render morose memories, it should not be cached; for, it could cause infection. It should be sifted to the surface and removed so that it couldn't harm him in the future, haunt him without news.

It's a shame that “bandages” (7) cover his untold tales of the past. From what it seems like, these stories are yearning for a voice to recount them. They are “swelled,” constantly reminding him of the secrecy. (8) Unfortunately, no one has inquired about “The Silent Raconteur's” past, but his age and distress only make his undivulged history a burden to his spirit.