this moment before noon

sufjan sings to me lullabies, permitting me to feel more cultured, selfless than i should, more serene than i likely would otherwise.

i am yet unemployed, yet at home in spirit, yet a lover of cacao, desserts and pastries. i am newly engaged in practices foreign to a once-me: jogging and jabbing and roundhouse-kicking; long intervals between rewarding auditions; reads and discussions for restorative justice bubbling up to what i pray will be a fervent boil of active Love; falling short of the glory of God in new and once unforeseen avenues which would lead to, stop at shame if not for the intersect of grace. a grace that seems utterly foolish for sparing such a fool as me.

hot beverages and empanada dough provide the mainstay of my nourishment, along with the grace mentioned.

i have also rediscovered swing dancing. this alone would be a sufficient example of designed provision. but there is so much more.

i've cookies to make and books to stack before friends make it over for an evening of food and art.

all his songs have the effect of waltzes, even the marches and rumbas.

it was time to write, she said

the scene: portland, oregon. a desserts and pastry shop. she sits alone at a table for four with a flower-shaped plastic bowl that once held cacao gelato. it has been scraped clean.

everything is beautiful here. not the cliche kind of beautiful- the kind that's full. of beauty. i pass species of flowers every day that i've never seen in my life. everything is locally crafted or grown including the street gallery of beards.

a melancholy cover of the beach boys' "sloop john b" just finished playing overhead.

with any move, you leave things behind. after i arrived, i walked away from the job i had lined up for me. i'm unemployed and searching. going after, at long last, the theatre dream. searching for any day job, any audition. i'll be touring local parks in a modern day remake of a moliere remake of commedia del'arte. i'll be a walking, talking timeline, and i can't wait.

the kingdom of God is like a treasure that a man found hidden in a field. after he found it, he hid it again and in his joy sold everything he had to buy the field.

that's the heart of the matter, though.

don't hoist up the john b sails, don't call for the captain ashore. here or there, i'm home. and i'll keep travelling home.

tink

define and contrast

"zeal. fervor for a person, cause, or object; eager desire or endeavor; enthusiastic diligence; ardor."

"passion. the state of being acted upon or affected by something external, esp. something alien to one's nature or one's customary behavior.

(contrasted with ACTION)."

"action. the process or state of acting or of being active:

The machine is not in action now."

God, help me.

tink

at the request of boo radley

camp is almost over. summer [break] is almost over. i'm considering applying to work for a funeral home. there are other options too, but i imagine them more likely to be filled quickly.
waiting and learning have outdone adventure and excitement recently. this is probably good, but it feels like walking through marshmallow creme.
the other day, i snuggled up with to kill a mockingbird and apple pie and cried out of my pride for atticus. he's a good man, you know? he doesnt make growing up seem too dreary. 
my daydreams recently have been filled with oregon and art museums, my nighttime ones with trips to asia and voodoo donuts in portland.
and tracy called the other day.

write me a letter,
tink