28 July 2014


This dumb old blog. Had it for too long.
Frequently forget the password.
Have to put myself back into my 2009ish self to remember it.

And I only come here to be selfish.
To write things that I want to get out of myself.
Or things to recap a year.

But today I am shaken.
And I don't like to choose these big verbs that carry weight.
I like quiet verbs that float by, barely revealing their load.

I heard about this violence in my old area today.
People I know fleeing to the bush and praying at the same time.
All ages, different religions running for the sloping hills where I once spied sunrises.

I thought of just one friend.
I check his social media things to see if he was ok.
And he was ok.

But he posted a picture of his aunty.
And you should know an aunty doesn't always mean an aunt like we think it does.
It could mean a slightly older female friend or a woman who cared for him.

His aunty was face down on the ground in the tan dusty dirt.
Her wrapper still tied to the right side of her hip.
His aunty with her head clearly decapitated.

This face was resting on her own back with a look of sheer terror staring at the viewer.
Her hair recently plaited.
Her mouth opened, her eyes frightened.

I stared at this picture for several seconds.
My mind told me what it was that I saw.
I closed this picture and couldn't/wouldn't look at it again.

And all day, I'm thinking about this image.
The shame I feel for closing the picture because it was too much.
Because closing this picture meant I was closing this aunty's story.

12 May 2014


Devotion time was led by Ben this morning. He referenced this guy and how the framework for this poem works. See the framework here: http://www.georgeellalyon.com/where.html In fact, I'm disappointed that I didn't think of this before. Here's mine.

I am from backyard campfires & stargazing on slick reclining plastic chairs.

I am from the river-- with a sweaty suburn and the Beach Boys 8-track playing out of the boat. I am from ham & ketchup sandwiches & a Capri Sun wedged in the sand.

I am from that old country church where the widows sit in front of me and pass back candies. From the alto section where my 2 favorite schoolteachers transform into the best singers each Sunday morning at 8:30.

I am from the outfield--where the grass is green and my back pocket is full of sunflower seeds. From where my old glove has a nickel shoved up the ring-finger slot when my brother used it.

I am from my yellow bicycle, my blue scooter, and wooden water skis. Where being outside everyday during the summer got me through longer winters. I am from my dad's beard--seeing that meant snowmobile season. Where bean fields meant a smoother ride than a cornfield on a winter weekday night.

I'm from that Quincy town--where cousins and families converged on a hometown and passed the newest baby cousin around. Where Maid-Rites and Gem City pizza had to be eaten once a trip. Where cousins sneaked sips of beer and aunt and uncles talked long into the night.