Mercedes: my obtuse attempt

She sells the lie.  That is what she used to say.  Once, I saw her in the library behind a public computer; I walked up to her and asked her for some magazines that I could submit artwork.  She seemed a little i don’t know.  But she gave me a list.  She smiled.  I can feel her heart right now, King Jesus.  The music on my headphones sounds more hallowed.  She’s extremely pretty.  She is the kind of woman who can have pretty much any guy she wants.  But enough of the world.  She was beautiful to me when I sat by her.  And we wrote together with our pens and little pieces of paper, and our Downy blown clothes.  We were both looking to the future, like two college kids travelling on a heavenly highway to future perfect; will two Americans settle for anything less?  Her heart is here now, King Jesus, animating my characteristics, or giving me animation with reason, something that is better than the alternative, that horrific converse.  I don’t feel well, King Jesus.  I don’t feel well, Almighty Father.  Where did my emotions go?  She’s a woman now.  I remember her.

      I remember her at the poetry reading.  I swear I did not understand.  I was there sitting with Angela, the girl with the electric hand, drawing my hand to hers, her magnetic hand.  She knew what words like juxtaposition.  She’s a Ph.D student, graduate of Northwestern.  And she was my friend, her heart here now.  Does anyone know what means?  “I can feel her heart?”  She’s in Kansas.  I’m in Colorado.  I can explain it.

       Her heart, through my new birth in Christ Jesus, is resting in my bosom, the center of my belly.  It’s warm sphere of life, yet purely spiritual, like the Words of Christ are spirit; warm emanating animation of a unique soul, beaming into her flesh, now resting in my bosom, my own flesh recognizing it through my senses.  The characteristics of who she is as manifested through her flesh seeps out of her heart and into my flesh, to where I can feel those characteristics.  At moments I can feel her facial features on my face.  And the presence of her heart is markedly feminine.  The feeling is soft, very soft, contrasting my masculine nature, my maleness.  When I sip my Caprisun, I can feel the memory of what her lips look like in or around my own lips.  The most noticeable observation, when her heart arose, was how the music on my headphones sounded.  Here is what it sounds like.

     There is a cathedral like resonance to it.  It makes me think of her education, her ivory tower education.  Like listening to music in a large concert hall, prestigious, echoing.  When I come across another person, that person’s heart will take hers place.  But Mercedes’ is uncharacteristically prominent when compared to my usual experience with this, the observation of hearts.  Maybe it’s because we once knew one another in intimate circumstances; that is social settings, the beginning of friendship, the initiation of friendship.  And she is doing well in some sense.  The academic sense is easiest to pinpoint.  She feels good about her accomplishments; she is proud of them.  I never forget friends.  I don’t forget them or who they are.  I think Jesus taught me how to love my neighbor.  I believe He did.  Because I do love people.  In a loyal sense.  That is why I never forget people.  A do-or-die sense of loyalty with few conditions, packaged in myself.  He helped me or cured me of those petty games our psyche plays while we’re walking around or buying a Slurpee.  He cured me of those shadowy negativities, those grudges, those keeping scores, those holding anger towards another because they didn’t like our Facebook posts and store hatred for someone.  The childlike, erroneous neuroticisms that plague and retard the growth of mankind.  And they are not for better or worse; they are only for worse.  Jung calls them shadows.  Freud calls them psychosis and anti-sociabilities.  Erikson calls them failure to launch-emotions.  Well, no he doesn’t.  That’s what I call them.  But I can miss one person a night.  I miss them.  I actually and really miss them.  I miss our interactions; I miss them.  I had a little crush on her back then.  I don’t get crushes on girls anymore.  I guess some of us, in our friendships, just weren’t meant for do-or-die.  “But I still love them.  I can love them without understanding them.  I can love them full without fully understanding them.”–Norman Maclean–  And she is beautiful, King Jesus.  Her beauty is like the true cathedrals in Bavaria, and entering through their doors, their crisp white-on-stone paint older than our nation, you see the pews lining the human spectacle of nostalgic faith and its choirs, who sing in perfect faith and worship, and along the conjoining walls are bookshelves of the chosen ones, who look unto the Chosen One, and within those walls, between the pews, their is a carpet, one with Autumn colored symmetrical kaleidoscopes–rapt dignity, rapt decency.  And you sit down with your laptop, and Sony headphones, and play the most melancholic beautiful song your memory has; and the treble voice and bass filled bass create awe inducing reverberating resonance in your ears, to your brain, filling your bones, and into this heart made alive by Life, and the moment is beautiful, to the point where you’re no loner sitting on your front porch table, but there in that very Chapel of her heart.  That is what her heart is like.  Her name is Mercedes.  And her memory will be secure in these lines, a memory of her that is accurate and true, secured in our fabricated cloud, forevermore.  And she is beautiful.  She is a beautiful artist, an uncanny one, filled with dreams and pointed delicacies of quality femininity.  Bless her this night and always, King Jesus.  Bavarian chapels are the prettiest, and pretty is wonderful; beauty that is pretty is a Bavarian chapel.  

    I used to live in a Bavarian Chapel, but nobody will ever know what that means.  lol.. between me and the Lord, King Jesus, You.  Our Bavarikan Chapel, Caroline, our German sister, our German princess, who opened her heart, after our failed romance, and someone who has a heart for the right orphan, opened hers:   “My true love has my heart and I have hers. My heart in me keeps her and me in one. My heart in her, her thoughts and senses guide. She loves my heart for once it was her own. I cherish hers because in me it bides. My true love has my heart and I have hers.”–Philip Sydney   She let me abide, and the power thereof showed us one of the powers of the Kingdom? King Jesus?  or just lovelorn kindred spirits’ playground of more than unholy playing?  “Her thoughts and senses guide”.  I played around with that for quite a while, a holy orphan, made holy by Him, orphaned by his sentiments, adopted by the grace of a Bavarian Chapel named Caroline, who was once forever in her own rich fields of Bavarian wheat and tall grass all alone, with only her intelligence to play with, and is lonely no more, our Caroline who finally found her sacred home.  Her heart felt so good.

   Her heart felt so familiar.  Maybe that is why I feel empty?  She felt so good.  She felt so familiar.  I didn’t know how rare that was then.  I’m knowing it now.  In my American thicket, my homeless outdoors thicket patch where I sit, I’m knowing it now.  Did anyone ever know a homeless man with a big screen TV and broadband internet?  with carpeted floors?  I know one.  

Melancholia and yearning are wonderful writing tools.  They are absurdly wonderful, far-fetched wonderful.  Melancholia under restraint is beautiful.  Melancholy yearning.  Melancholy yearning in a crisp Colorado night.  Melancholy yearning on a crisp, Autumn, Colorado night, anchoring down the important things of our own hearts.  The human heart.  If it wasn’t for the human heart and all its capabilities, I would have never met these tender people.  

     Perhaps some time ago, all of us found what the eternity in us cries for in the confusion of darkness and youth, a soul-mate, a Bavarian Chapel or a German Princess…By His grace coupled with my boyish curiosity I found a few of them.  To this day, I really have no idea why me and my friends traveled the heavenly highways this world offers; the important thing is that we did, and we God-speed in the darkest hours back to those lonely highways, where the flowers of life and memory bloom, to remember our travels.  At their way points we found curiosity, profundity, love, and a home.  At just the right moment, when our hearts are filled with faith, we’ll look down those highways and see what is really on the horizon, and there God will be.  He’ll ask us to give up everything and become fools.  We fear being homeless at giving our things over to Him.  We fear we will become moronic gazing stocks.  Yet,  the second we do, he gives us everything we ever wanted: an intellect, a home.     

“From God, who is our home.
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
Thanks to the human heart by which we live,
Thanks to its tenderness, its joys, and fears,
To me the meanest flower that blows can give
Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.”–Wordsworth–

Praise You, King Jesus for all you do and are doing.  Are we not marveling?  Do Your children not look?  Captivating Christ, who led captivity captive, lead us to our homes, so we may rest.  I love You.

p.s.  thank you Mercedes.  You are beautiful.  

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