I thought I wrote something especially fine last week. But it was, and is, nothing compared to my brother’s most marginal jot or his roughest draft. It is only now—so late and so old—reading and writing on walls with spectacles and impatient scrawls, I see he sharpened himself in the spirit world, a world filled with angels and demons, saviors and satans, since he was a teenager. He trained against Leviathans and behemoths, wielding his sword over the tallest heavens and beneath deepest hells; his words honed breaking chains, his wit a thing drenched in fire and blood, both edges of his truth gleaming in the sun. Whereas I walked away from this world at the same age into a world of dollars and cents and molecules and atoms; believing in the smallest things because I believed they could not be split. But they could be split. And it is exactly this splitting of the smallest and falsest truths where all the energy is released; enough to destroy everything or enough, when harnessed, to power chariots of fire.
When does something (a thought, an idea, a message, a hope, a prophecy, a god) come true?
When what one thinks might happen finally happens? No, that is mistaking truth as a thing one thinks about, a thing sitting on a road up ahead somewhere beyond the horizon. One day it passes by one’s life, finally realized, but only as something that happened; something a little too little and a little too late. But whatever is beyond tomorrow’s horizon doesn’t one day arrive, it is always arriving; always passing directly beneath one’s feet. If one searches the horizon by always looking back, he completely misses it. The truth is now. Truth comes alive right in front of a person, not when the truth gets there one day but when the person does.
The sun will rise again. This is not a truth to think about and so ignore every morning. It is a truth to believe, and so walk among horizons and bathe in endless suns.
Truth only becomes true when it is believed.
Is mirror that doesn’t look like a mirror.
It reflects but not all at once it slowly turns slowly focuses
The best symbol annihilates itself. Annihilates the self.
Sometimes people are too close for you too to see. They have become trapped in the sticky, frustrating glob that is you and your world. Easily hiding right under your nose so high in the air, always getting under your ever-growing feet, never free of your goo, unable to walk far enough away to be seen. It is a great and terrible thing that a savior comes with a sword to cleave, separating brother from brother, wielding the only weapon magical enough to slice the unsliceable. So that you can finally hate enough to love.
The desire for proof is not the same as the desire for truth. The desire for proof is actually the opposite of truth.
One’s desire for proof stems from knowing it can please his intellect without the trouble of needing to believe. But belief is knowing the pleasure of God without needing intellectual proof. Strange as it seems, proof is actually cheating. In demanding truth prove itself true, one willfully cheats on the troublesome test of faith. Intellectually, one would happily prefer knowing the ruby slippers on his feet take him home right at the start rather than go through the trouble of the Wizard of Oz. But that’s a cheat because intellectually knowing how to go home isn’t the same as going home. There is only one way to go home. And the only way to prove it is to believe.
If what most informs (proves/justifies/solidifies) one’s faith in life is what happened or might happen rather than what is happening, then one has buried their head in the sand or is chasing the wind. Never is one’s sail filled with the wind. Never is one with the wind, at once resting and moving.
Outside of choice is acceptance.
Because to choose anything is also to reject everything else. And the love of God is not rejection.
The love of God is acceptance; as the love of life is acceptance. And the gift of acceptance is pleasure. But to get there, this place of outside of choice, requires one—and only one. There is exactly one choice to make for the Christian. EVER. But the Christian's singleness of choice does not diminish his freedom or power, rather it releases, reveals, and explodes it. This one solitary choice places him exactly at the fulcrum, changing the course of the universe. The solitary door, the singular choice of mankind is this: whether to obey or not. And that is no small feat because it is death. Death to one’s own will in order to live in another’s. But not in a hateful, spiteful way, pitted always in enmity of the other; rather in fealty to the other. A friendly obeisance and one freely given. An obedience in love and trust.
The sailor’s hand is at the rudder and every moment the force and lover of the wind, he whom abides and is the wind speaks as captain of the vessel: talking, asking, whispering, shouting, commanding, guiding the sailor. And the sailor makes a choice: He loves. He trusts. He obeys the will of the wind over his own. And together they go; the sailor and the wind.
The fourth beast is technological. He has unnatural teeth of iron. He is massive. He doesn’t simply consume to get his fill like the second beast, the bear, with three ribs sticking out of his teeth. The fourth beast consumes to destroy; a maniacal appetite without end.
The fourth beast is the last beast. Daniel learns it is the last kingdom; and his dream and what it means disturbs him greatly. The last kingdom is a creature reminiscent of many last kingdoms, maybe all of them when followed to their logical end (certainly this was the case even of the last kingdom within myself before I finally fell apart). It is the kingdom of reason and enlightenment; which sounds gentle as a lamb and wise as an owl. Yet as this kingdom ages, it grows horns , and its teeth turn to iron; and it is a beast so stuffed with reason it goes mad and the glow of its enlightenment becomes radioactive.
It was not that I didn’t have the answer right. I had the answer right. It was the problem I had wrong.
The answer in and of itself is something small and rather uninteresting. Whereas the solution is large enough to contain all the interest of the cosmos.
The right to choose, as far as I can tell, is the right to halt existence merely for the fact it exists. On the face of it, it seems a very wrong kind of right. Setting aside for the moment its ethics, which sound distinctly Luciferian, the right to choose doesn’t even sound like a right. A right is not something one can choose. And to choose something is not a right—it’s a fight. A battle of wills within oneself. In fact, one may or may not choose most anything except their right. And one may have almost any kind of right as long as they didn’t choose it. A right is not something given by anybody, it is granted by the universe. And it is not granted simply to anyone, it is granted to everyone. A right is granted at the moment of creation to all men.
To demand a right for oneself that hasn’t already been granted by the heavens (which is the same as demanding of the universe the right to be what one is not; or to put a fine point on it: the right to be unpregnant when one is not), exactly forces someone else to bear the full, earthly weight of responsibility for that right. Which is not only the height of selfishness, it forces into a pair of handcuffs that unsuspecting person, taking away (if you will allow me a little fun) their involuntary right to bear arms, which is the right to exist with two free hands (even to defend themselves)—which is to exist.
If the argument is about choice:
Rights are miraculous precisely because one can not choose them, they are granted. Responsibilities are miraculous precisely because one can choose them, they are accepted.
It is only when one accepts responsibilities voluntarily, that everyone is granted rights involuntarily.
A right is miraculous because it is granted, regardless if it is accepted. A responsibility is miraculous only when it is accepted, regardless the cause.
If the argument is about the circumstances:
The how or when or under what circumstances an existence came to exist is a terrible reason to abort it. Because the how or when or circumstances of coming into being are completely arbitrary to the being who came to be (just like you and I, I might add arbitrarily). I could just as well have arrived in 1873 as in 1973 as far as my being is concerned. I could just as well have been born the son of a pickle farmer or the daughter of a pickled banker as far as my being is concerned. And as far as they are concerned, the farmer, the banker, or the entire Western Hemisphere may be in a pickle by my arrival, but I would only be in a bassinet.
One thing is for certain: once existence exists, the last thing it is is arbitrary. Which means the first thing it is necessary.
If the argument is about time:
Time is completely arbitrary. It is relative. Just ask Einstein. It absolutely does not matter whether it is one month or 9 months. It is the same. You might as well say because it is harvested in November, corn doesn’t matter in June.
If the argument is: Unconscious tissue isn’t alive.
Then I argue as you sleep tonight that you aren’t alive. What does it matter that a thing is unconscious just before it wakes up? We are unconscious 1/3 third of our lives. Some people are unconscious eight hours a day, some only two. One time my room mate was unconscious 24 hours straight. Using the abortionists’ logic, I could steal my roommate's roast beef sandwich at midnight but not after seven; or maybe, if I timed it right, I could wait until his eyelids begin to flutter. And I could happily claim the sandwich was mine because I was hungry, he wasn’t conscious, and a sandwich was in my refrigerator. And if he woke up groggy and thought it was Tuesday instead of Wednesday, maybe I could take his sandwich even then.
And if the argument is over whose tissue it is, then I say it is as much a woman’s tissue as a woman is her mother’s tissue. And I will gladly concede that to a large degree a woman’s tissue is her mother’s. Doesn’t she have her mother’s eyes? Her skin? Her bad knee? Does that mean the mother can come over and do her daughter in simply because she wants to? She can’t even come over and do her daughter’s hair simply because she wants to.
But even if a good bit of a woman is her mother’s, is she ALL her mother’s tissue? If so, where did she get that brown hair and that crooked toe? And that funny nose? And what about the parts of her that aren’t anyone’s tissue at all? The ones that really make her her? Whose tissue, exactly, makes her so angry at stumps? And whose tissue, exactly, makes her so delighted in stamps? Whose tissue makes her pinch her pennies when she’s nervous and whose makes her pinch her nose?
It is insanity.
Abortionists are so hungry they eat their own feet.
Abortionists defend the rights of everyone! Making a better world even (and most importantly) for the ones who aren’t here yet! Abortionists defend with their right hand exactly the ones they slay with their left.