King Jesus, and it is You who are the Great Amen, You great I Am,
Your mercy, Almighty, forever with us in this world, this world. And we love You for that, because You loved us first. We look unto You for all mercies and blessings, which You taught me to envelope in one term, mercies. Thank You, King Jesus for being here and speaking to us.
In years past, Dear Father, it was very easy to write about beauty. I only had to open my eyes in the morning, and time travelling we went, only time travelling the same as the other 7 billion souls on the planet, and travelling based on our 360 degree world, but we were time travelling; that is to say that I only had to open my eyes to this temporal world to be filled and to see and so capture beauty, since it was beauty I was being filled with and beauty I was seeing; that is to say; that is to say that all of us are time travelling due to the agency of time, time which is our eternity fallen due to the Great Fall, and why not see beauty while we are awake. However it goes, beauty was apt always. And it was my joy to capture it. And I felt in those moments, which were daily, that my trying to capture it was also trying to capture You and to keep you at first sight and reach always while writing about it, King Jesus. How do I capture it now, King Jesus, Almighty God? How do I capture apt beauty? Ahhhh… yes, I can see how perhaps?
Beauty is still here, so beauty is here. It’s like the poetry of the universe or at least this world, always there for the taking, there to be captured. My mother is an artist, and so were all of my girlfriends poets, strangely they were, as Christ lives. Do birds of a feather actually flock together? And to say that poetry is always here, is like saying that your skin will get wet if you stand in the rain. If someone is smoking nearby and you can smell it, for a crude descript. A more perfect explanation of poetry being in the air is picturing a warm summer morning, the air is cooled by the night, and sun is coming up from the East [of Eden] (where we all live for now by the way), and the child in you decides to hold your hand up towards it, away from your body, and as you do, and stand there, you can feel the heat, literally feel the emanating and radiating heat exuding from the Sun, our giant, friendly star, on the palm of your hand. The only faculty within you that needs to be active in the process to absorb that poetry is your attentions. Naturally our attentions are lazy, as is our spirit, but poets’ attentions are continuously being attentive to the warm emanation of poetry’s gentle rainfall on the the skin of their spirit. And to this point, take Emily Dickinson, that Amherst beautiful oddity as an example of a woman who lived in that emanating shower. She not only was aware of this, she lived in it, as do we, but her attentions were aware of it and most of ours become less aware of it the older we get; it’s safe to say that it was one of if not the best friend of hers, besides her Newfoundland. How else did she produce so many timeless pieces of poetry? She was a genius most will say. She was a poet that’s for sure, but was she a genius? On top of producing her poems, she never once feigned fame or recognition, and she barely would socialize with her neighbors or her town, little lone talk about her writing. It’s safe to say that she had the gift of the poet knitted into her spirit by the Lord. She sat up in that room between cleaning the house and cooking the meals writing her words, and not once became anxious or impatient for romance and so wild, looking and running about for Mr. Right. She was content in doing what she did. She did enjoy friends, though through rare visits and the written word. Her skin was always being warmed by the sun. It was always wet by the rain.
She was beautiful to me. She was beauty. She just happened to be beauty on a metronome. That is beautiful. There it is, Almighty Father. There is beauty. I love You. Maybe there is another side to beauty? Does that make any sense?
Perhaps another side of beauty is being able to see evil without being evil yourself? “To the pure in heart, everything is pure.” I must say that I must not be pure in heart because I see evil every day. For instance, our America that envelopes our American diaries is becoming the dark shadow of a Republic Democracy. In a beautiful way, con-artistry and scheming is the dark shadow of honest decency. Violent rage is the dark shadow of light- hearted peaceful gentleness. Disease is the shadow of health. Hate is the shadow of love. Conceit the shadow of self-worth. What America will turn into is the shadow of 1776. Apparently 1776 casts a long shadow. Rome was a republic. What happened to Rome when homosexual orgies became the rule of the day? It burned violently and then crashed with holy silence, that holy silence still screaming in the ruins in Italy and Europe across. Ironically enough it was conquered by Germans, but it was burning long before it caught flames from the bow of Nero’s fiddling violin. America isn’t burning yet, but many special interest groups are rising in the Boy Scout ranks in making a camp fire with nothing but their tender and hot air. Soon they will be Eagle Scouts, having robbed the Girl Scouts blind, while the Girl Scouts were busy championing cross dressing, sex changes, and same-sex marriages, creating fires in the dry forest of the American psyche, then actual infrastructure. Is there beauty in watching that while not being a part of it?
I work with a lot of girls where I work. Nearly every one of them is lost. No. Every single one of them is lost. It’s so sad. Even a lost soul can laugh evidently.
I thought today, Almighty, that it would be nice to be on the river banks of my youth. And how I should have stayed there. It wasn’t You calling me was it to leave that? It was the world. It was so nice there. While there, King Jesus, I prayed for the “faith of the ancients”. Now I pray for mercy. O’King Jesus. I hunger for your touch. Are You still mine?
Is Your Spirit still here? The Spirit which abides in me, the feeling, is difficult to explain. If one were to light a candle, in a dark room, and then cup his or her hands around it, near it, close enough to feel the heat but not so close to be burned. That will work until I can figure a better way. “Our God is a consuming fire.”