Garbage
On my wall I have poster of an obscure musician. On the poster is the name of her album: "STAND WITH THE STILLNESS OF THIS DAY"

On my desk I have large slab of cardboard with mad scribbles scrawled across it. If I look to my left “WHY WOULD GOD WANT MY GARBAGE?” spits in my eyes. If I look to my right, “SILENCE IS THE LANGUAGE OF LOVERS” dissolves into a small mist.

Part of me hates being weak, wants only to offer God my best work. The other part of me resonates with the Gospel of Grace; it wants to offer God my garbage; it knows God is asking me to surrender all I am.

There seems to be many other parts of my self at odds with each other. I suppose you could call it war. But wars kill. To kill any part of my Self would be unhealthy. I think I need to look at my garbage long enough to realize it’s mine and it’s not going anywhere.

I need my garbage. When I lug my junk into prayer -when I lay it at the foot of the cross- something absurd occurs: I experience forgiveness…I experience grace. If I didn’t own my garbage I would be numb to grace.

to pee or not to pee (…sitting down)
confession: sometimes i pee sitting down.
i do enjoy standing, don’t get me wrong. a standing pee is far more satisfying, especially when outside. oh how i like the sound of pee cascading off crisp edges of supple leaves! And the innocent pleasure of painting pictures with one’s pee cannot be denied. however, i only stand when i know a good and steady stream will ensue. otherwise i sit. and so i ask you my dear and gentle reader…does this make me less a man?

Zoology 101
My apartment has become a hostel. Not only do we put up a variety of couch surfers –be it crazy Egyptians, eccentric actors, and/or oddball artists- we also house a mix mash of small critters.

In the air duct above our stove a mama bird has made her nest. Every morning it sounds as though a helicopter lands in our kitchen. For a while this sound was compounded by incessant chirping and little-wing-flapping once the eggs hatched. But I think the little ones are learning to fly, and so the chirping has diminished significantly.

We also have a leopard skinned gecko that the crazy Egyptian left behind. Her name is Lex and she is beautiful. For a time she was surrounded by chatter-box crickets. Now she’s surrounded by their carcasses.

Just two nights ago we welcomed Zoey into our home. She’s a year old bunny with a penchant for playing hide–and-seek. We did eventually find her. We had to: my room-mate’s eyes were turning into plum tomatoes while his forehead glistened with sweat as thick as olive oil. When his breathing soon became constricted we knew Zoey would have to find a new home. We bid her goodbye the same day we welcomed her. Alas, it was for the best.