Phil's Story, Chapter 14

Issues.

“You have issues.”

Phil knew about my issues. He helped bring many of them to light.

“Like what?”

“Trust for starters.”

“How would you know?”

“Trust me.”

“Why.”

“See?”

“No. Just because I don’t trust you doesn’t mean I have trust issues.”

“That’s not the issue. There isn’t even a desire to trust; that’s the issue…”

“I’d love to be able to trust someone.”

“Then trust me.”

“It’s not that easy.”

“Sure it is.”

“Trust takes time.”

“Trust takes risk, not time.”

“I’m not big on risk.”

“No?”

That day Phil took me cliff jumping. Forty-odd feet to start. Our phys-ed teacher had taught us how to deep dive off of a three meter board… but that couldn’t prepare me for sprinting off of a forty-plus foot plateau into nothing, and then water. It was exhilarating to say the least.

“Now do you trust me?”

Treading water after the fall. High on adrenaline. Elated.

“Enough to follow you off of a cliff… not enough to reveal my heart.”

He laughed and we swam for shore.

“Are you going or not?”

“I don’t know.”

This was the night he met Angelica. He was trying to convince me to accompany him to this party for some guy in our Algebra class I had never spoken to in my life. I’m not big on parties to begin with, not the kind I figured this would be, and especially not parties for strangers.

“What else are you going to do?”

“I don’t know… something might come up.”

“Someone?”

“Something.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know… something I’d enjoy.”

“You’d enjoy the party if you gave it a chance.”

“There’s a lot I might enjoy that I will never give a chance for that very reason.”

“No one could say you’re a hedonist… but they could say you have a commitment issue.”

“How so?”

“I told you about this a week ago, and you’ve kept putting it off in hopes of something better. Hope isn’t worth waiting for, Fost. You’re going to miss living for hopes of living.”

I don’t think he could have known then about Hope… but he sure hit the nail on the head… sort of. I am aware of my commitment issue, but that isn’t to be confused with my indecisiveness issue. My indecisiveness comes from not caring about certain decisions and not figuring that they’re actually worth the effort of thought and weight of commitment. I take commitment seriously. Remember, my problem with commitment is that I commit to things that don’t exist… but I still take it seriously; this was my first act of commitment towards Hope, but I had previously acted similarly with both Jules, and Alice, so it’s an issue with a history I’ve never bothered to delve into. This wasn’t indecision, it was commitment-oriented: determination not to enter into a circumstance in which I might willfully or otherwise compromise my chances of being with Hope.

“I’m not going, Phil.”

He left it at that. I ended up trying to call her that night, long-distance, and getting the answering machine. I left a message and spent the night waiting. Had anyone called that night they would have been the recipient of uncharacteristically prompt, well-mannered, and good-natured greetings, but no one did, which meant I didn’t have to explain much the following day, especially because Phil was doing most of the talking during coffee. He was going on about Angelica. I just kept agreeing, thinking of Hope.

“I know what you mean.”

“You couldn’t, you haven’t met her.”

“It’s your turn to trust me. Have a little faith.”

“Faith is one of my issues. Prove it.”

“She is the cause, and the solution, of every problem. She poses questions and she is the only answer. There are traces of her everywhere, but they are not enough. You’re thirsty, and only she can satisfy your thirst…”

I would have continued but he interrupted me.

“Ok, you’re close… perhaps one day you could make me a believer… today, just let me…”

He trailed off, so I finished his sentence.

“Hope.”

He looked at me looking at him with my smug smile. That coffee we said little, considering the time, but we communicated much.

“It’s not so much communication… more a lack of honesty therein. You’re very good at articulating thoughts and stuff… just not yours.”

He was exploring another one of my issues, this time during lunch, after a drama exam. I had to tell a personal story…

“We left early enough, but that was because we didn’t have a clue where we were going. I had booked the test in a nearby town, that I wasn’t familiar with, to avoid having to wait eight months to take it. Let this be lesson, patience is a virtue. I ended up arriving early, despite numerous detours, and parked with my licensed-driver friend in the parking lot. While I waited patiently for my appointment time things began to happen around us. Cars started lining up in the street, the uniformed transportation officers arrived, and my friend spilled hot coffee down my front. I was supposed to be one of the first scheduled to take my test that morning, but I didn’t know that the timetabling was just a farce and that the real MO was to line up and wait your turn. I only figured it out when the driving authorities made their way to the line of cars that had formed before my very eyes not far from where I sat parked.”

I started my story with the utmost sincerity. I was seated before my peers telling the tale of my failed driving examination, not the easiest thing to share with classmates, and as the imminent humiliation was presented to my conscious mind, along with the realization that all eyes were on me, I started to feel cramped and violated. This all happened during “We left early enough”. In the time it took for me to take a breath, a change occurred. I paused, realizing I was on a stage, in the spotlight, and a strange thing happens to me when I perceive that I am the center of attention… I start acting. So the change that took place between “We left early enough” and “but that was because…” was subtle, but enough to convince Phil that it was no longer myself telling my story but a character, birthed out of convenience to distance myself from the associated shame and simultaneously actively entertain those who were watching.

“I mean, it was over before it began. The man who kicked my friend out of the car and asked for my permit was a hulking beast who must have stood six five and weighed in at over three hundred pounds. He later claimed that he was the least intimidating of the driving instructors. He entered what information he needed and then prepared himself for another leisurely drive down the familiar streets he knew so well.

‘You can go when you’re ready.’

He seemed pleasant enough. I was as ready as I would ever be so I went, smoothly and safely, wherever he directed me to go. Then it happened, the one little mistake that ruined it for me. He directed me to make a left down a small residential street. I did; he critiqued my steering. As I drove down the street I was haunted by the horror stories of those who had taken similar tests before me. I was calculating and anticipating what to expect and how to overcome the trickery I would face at the whim of this man beside me who held the key to my immediate future in his hand. Then it registered, something was not quite right with the scene composing my field of vision; facing me, on either side of the street, were two stop signs. Which was fine, of no relevance whatsoever, so long as I didn’t have to…

‘Turn left at the stop sign.’

I bet he said it with a malignant smile of deviant victory. I scanned around frantically for a logical aid. There was no oncoming traffic, no lines down the middle of the road, and there were two stop signs, on both sides of the road, facing me. On the other hand I didn’t see any ‘One Way’ street signs… but I had been distracted, and besides, every road test is supposed to take you down a one way street, every story I had heard foretold of the dreaded ‘one way’ situations. On every account my reason was backing the decision I made. I lacked confidence however; if reason were enough, we wouldn’t need laws. I began hesitantly to drift into the left-hand side of the road, trying to test out the water, until he grabbed the wheel and the water froze and trapped me under, in the frigid darkness, and he won. I knew I was finished.

‘You realize that you’re driving on the wrong side of the road.’

It didn’t matter that I had preformed flawlessly up to that point, or that I triumphantly overcame my attitude and completed the test without peeling out into the nearest throughway and playing chicken with Mack trucks until he passed me, or crushed me, or I killed us both. He failed me mercilessly. He even had the audacity to say I parked too close to the curb (without hitting it) while parallel parking. I guess that’s the price of the road less traveled…”

When I finished my story I sat for a second and slowly came to myself. As I stood and returned to my seat in the audience, my peers congratulated me. My teacher’s criticism was that I was too comfortable (‘too close to the curb’?). Phillip, seated in the back, was shaking his head. We didn’t talk until lunch.

“What was wrong with it?”

He hadn’t even sat down yet, but I was curious.

“It wasn’t you.”

I put my drink down, he was starting something.

“So.”

“You have issues.”

He took a bite of his sandwich.

“So do you, so does everyone… so what.”

“True. But when you know what they are, shouldn’t you try to work through them?”

My greatest issue is just that; I’m comfortable, even content. I embrace these personal quirks because I think that they define me.

“You won’t be remembered for your problems, Fost. Like you said, everyone has them. You’ll be recognized for overcoming them, because you not only have the ability to do so, but you can do so in a unique way.”

“What are you prophesying or something? You’re starting to sound like some of the guys from church.”

“I may not believe in your religion, but I believe in you.”

“Stop, you’re making me all teary.”

I’ve never been able to accept compliments or encouragement easily. I tend to get offensive when people try, thereby dissuading their praise, that they might direct it to one more worthy… another product of institutional religion and circumstances affecting my developmental stages.

“I’m serious… there’s potential in you”.

“There’s potential in everyone.”

“Maybe… but there’s not hope in everyone. You’ve retained a means of hoping, and that’s going to empower you to heights many can’t reach. Hope is going to give you wings, as soon as you cut the binds tying you down.”

“I’m sick and tired of hoping, Phil. I want more.”

“There is no life without hope.”

“There are greater things than hope.”

“Hope comes first.”

I’m not intending to illustrate how inconsistent people can be, while remaining true to themselves, and true to the given scenario, but that seems to be the case for Phil at the moment. I’m coming to think that we, as people, are capable of making issues out of just about anything. The more we talk and think about things, without professing them in action as well, the more apt we are to make hypocrites of ourselves or clichés of what we say. I wonder if the law of supply and demand applies in literature. If it does, and I have a store of one million words to share, what is the worth of one?

Phil's Story, Chapter 13

Art.

I work at a hotel. One of my regular duties is to set up tables for afternoon tea in the lake lounge. There’s a piano located in the room and it’s usually locked up to deter potential nuisances. However one day as I walked into the room, carrying a table under each arm, I noticed that it was particularly crowded. This wasn’t too unusual considering the house count was relatively high for the off-season, so I didn’t take much notice, and I went about my work. Then the playing started. My initial reaction was to approach the young man who had begun to play and politely ask him to desist. The décor is not a toy. However, by the time that thought was fully formed, I had noticed that my eyes had begun to well up. I managed to hold back any full-fledged tears, but my throat tightened, and while my fingers worked their way around the table, preparing it to be set, my mind was carried away by the melody hammered out by those skilled young fingers nurturing those aged keys, giving them purpose, unlocking a portal to a realm of emotion that only music can penetrate.

There is power in music; there is power in art.

I have a tendency to create artistic associations, especially with music and songs. I’m not a follower of bands or a fan of groups. I’ve been to a couple low-key concerts and I’ve decided they’re not my thing. (But I’d gladly accept U2 tickets.) It just seems like too much hero-worship for mere people. I know, that’s coming from an aspiring actor/writer/whatever, but musicians have a unique effect on people because their mode of expression is such a universal one.

I’m particular to love songs; heartfelt ballads professing passions and amour, love and romance; they nurture my hope; they nurture my hope for my Hope… sometimes. There are those times that they make me realize that my hope for Hope is still just a hope and a ways off from becoming the love that they, the songs, profess. I’m big on pictures that capture beauty and color and some natural emotion; the anger of the sky, the tranquility of an evergreen, the joy of a waterfall, the resolute mountaintop… the world is full of expressions not our own. I love audible and visual sensations, but sound and sight lead me to reflection, and reflection leads me to act.

I love to act. It provides me with a means to release all of the emotional baggage I have a tendency to collect and store in the recesses of my being. All that I receive from the limited relational inputs, and all that is infused from the ongoing bombardment of external artistic stimuli, is harbored until I find a spotlight or a stage. I think I’m most myself when I can don the guise of being someone else. I can profess my love as Romeo, I can be angry and confused reading Hamlet, the shame of Proctor, I can even cry, with a painted face, for all the agonies of humanity because I know how to express my own agony; hatred, fear, desire… I know how I would portray most every thought that traverses my mind had I a character to excuse the purity of my expression, because you never know when honesty will end up risking more than you’re prepared to risk. I have a problem with risk.

Inspiration?

You lived in the age of Empires, both real and ideal,

But Rome and Byzantium fell to ruin by fire;

Their ashes are a memory we no longer feel.

Disbelief has rendered mute your revelations of the divine.

In time it will not matter, for now silence whispers lies.

Youth once sought you in the wisdom of the ages

Today they can't be bothered turning pages

And instead of heeding those who heralded your virtues,

We send them off to die.

Why not? They will not yield your tales to their children anymore.

You were rich in Love when Love was treasured still.

Now Love lies down for lust and lures not worth a lover's skill.

Yet the truest hearts remain outbid in their affection

In a world where everyone is wooing their own reflection

And bankrupt Love has failed to make good its past collection.

Your last refuge lies in nature.

Nature lies in need

Of nurture, love, or holiness to water nature's seed.

Where has Inspiration gone?

Why have poets ceased to write?

Their memories scrawled on subway walls,

Lost in tired faces,

They've vanished in the night in search of meaning in these spaces.

Phil's Story, Chapter 12

Hope.

Pandora’s box is problematic, especially for me, because it raises the debate of the nature of Hope. It begs the question: is hope a strong virtue, to withstand being packed away with so much evil and survive, or is it the weightiest vice, so thick, heavy, and consuming that it must lie in wait to be found? I’ve known a few Hopes in my lifetime. Each, in succession, has raised some standard of what it will take for me to hope again… and each has brought me to Pandora’s box.

I have a commitment issue. Actually, I have a lot of issues, I’m practically a subscriber; I even have some issues with my issues, double-sized with glossy covers and pullout sections. None of them are Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Editions either; sorry Phil. My problem with commitment is that I have a tendency to bind myself to relationships that don’t exist; I commit to Hopes. I guess my way of thinking is that ideally I’ll wait patiently building up trust and faith to becoming a friend, and should a mutual attraction develop then the investment of Hope matures into Love. This is still just theory, and a seemingly naïve one. What usually ends up happening is this: I slowly open myself up, one petal at a time, to the one I have my heart set on, meanwhile they, in full bloom, meet someone else, hook up, sometimes break up and find another after crying on my shoulder and leaning on me through the difficult time(s), otherwise things get serious, they become engaged, married, or simply detached, and I end up in one of two positions; lying wilted in a heap with a myriad of others tossed aside, or displayed nicely in a vase labeled “best friend” or “like a brother”. My idea of love is that it isn’t put on display. Love takes root; true love is grafted on, then takes root, and a whole new hybrid is created.

I think the real problem in that, is not with the plan in itself, I think it’s essentially a good plan. One vital thing needs to be remedied in the equation though. Hitherto, what I’ve done is this, I’ve fallen in love with Hope, and in so doing I’ve stopped hope from maturing into love. If Hope is a blossom, Love is the fruit.

“Hey, you know that girl who served you at the counter? She wants to talk to you.”

An employee of a movie theater came to the place where I was sitting with my father and my brother and said this to me five minutes before the movie was scheduled to start. I couldn’t believe it.

“Excuse me?”

“She wants to meet you. Her name is Leslie and she thinks you’re hot… Do you do drugs or any other freaky shit?”

I looked at my father and my brother incredulously… they were doing all they could to refrain from laughing out loud.

“It doesn’t even matter. Just go talk to her. She’s really sweet.”

I could tell they weren’t going to take the hint that I’m not well versed in these kinds of situations and would rather just sit, relax, and enjoy the show, because I’d be lost in going and talking to some girl whose only association with me is having served me a box of candy.

“Fine. I’ll talk to her before I go.”

“Her shift is over before the movie gets out.”

“Then you’ll have to give me a minute.”

“Alright, I won’t even start the movie until you come back… that way you won’t miss anything.”

“Thanks. That’s very considerate.”

There are times that I can’t even tell when I’m being sarcastic.

The employee left me with my thoughts, and my father and my brother, and their chiding. I excused myself, because anything was better than having to put up with my familial harassment. Leslie was in a back room when I came out of the theater, but as I approached the counter a different fellow employee went to summon her. I sensed that something was afoot.

Leslie, the girl who sold us our snacks, was a very attractive girl, she had longish dirty blonde hair, a beautiful smile, lovely eyes that always seemed imploring because she was rather petite in stature, but that seemed to suit her athletic frame. I was actually somewhat taken aback; the only girls who ever seem to show an interest in me are ones I’m not attracted to; Leslie was the first and only exception to date. When she emerged from the room she was in, I couldn’t help but feel a tinge of pride. Naturally that led me to try and hide the fact that I didn’t have a clue what I was doing.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

So far, so good.

“So…”

It was all down hill from there.

“Your friend said that I should come and talk to you.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be. I mean, I’m glad I was given such an opportunity. I’m not one to speak up unless an opportunity presents itself.”

“No?”

“No… I’m pretty bad at this.”

“No you’re not.”

“Thanks for the encouragement.”

“Are you from around here?”

“Yeah, not far. I live right around the mall… in the apartment buildings.”

“East or West?”

“West. Number eighteen.”

“I have a friend in five.”

“What about you?”

“I’m in the ‘L’ section.”

A pause followed. An awkward one. I broke it.

“So… do you go to school?”

“Northern High School.”

“My brother went there. I went to Mayland Arts. I’m in college now.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, look I really should get going… the movie is about to start.”

“Here.”

She handed me a folded piece of paper, on which was neatly printed “Leslie” and seven legible digits.

“Call me.”

I know why I said it and I’ll admit it could have been a grave mistake not even giving such a seemingly great individual a chance, but I couldn’t help it, I had met Hope first, and I was taken… Hope just didn’t know she had me.

“I have a girlfriend.”

“Oh…”

“But maybe we could still chill sometime…”

“Sure, call me.”

I never spoke to Leslie again. I took my seat for the movie and stared blankly at the screen. I don’t even remember what movie it was that was ruined for me. I couldn’t escape the feeling that I had made a mistake. For what it’s worth, I am sorry. I’m sorry that I am how I am at times, but, c’est la vie. It’s no excuse, I know, but I’m aware of my limitations and it would not have been fair to be with Leslie and still be thinking of Hope.

After my father remarried he went back into the ministry relocating four hundred miles away. Regardless of what a relationship is, there are factors that are apt to influence it. Absence makes the heart grow fonder only in contrast to the presence that makes the roots go deeper. I’ve only just recently learned that there’s something to be said for history. That’s getting ahead of myself… Needless to say, my father and I, once quite close, drifted suddenly apart. Efforts made to close the gap mended little. My relationship with my mother wasn’t much better, despite the close proximity or due to it. In short, I ceased to have a home when mine broke; from the time I was fifteen years old I lived in hopes. I’ve sustained myself with ideals and dreams and futures less bleak, none of which have been realized to any degree worth articulating. Changes have occurred in my life, both major and minor, but I’m still alone and homeless, albeit sheltered and better off than many, so what right have I to complain? My complaint lies in myself, in who I am, and in how I’ve become this faithless hopeless creature in search of meaning and identity.

Phil said he knew me. He thought he could predict what I would say or do. He’d try to prove his case by finishing sentences that I ended in some predictable fashion, or mimicking some gesture or expression. He said I was deep and superficial.

“What does that mean?”

“You have all these ideas locked away, trapped behind masks and fronts. When will you learn to open up and risk yourself?”

“Someone will break me.”

I met Hope at a church function of my father’s congregation. My previous Hope, Julianne, had been engaged some time ago and that had marked the definitive end to that hope. No one had since evoked in me the same purity of passion and inspiration that emerged from my time with Julianne; that is until Hope arrived at the banquet in a black evening gown and glided across the dinner hall to the table I alone was sitting at. I tried to close my mouth but I don’t recall succeeding, watching with awe and admiration her grace and finesse, she was introduced to me by her sister-in-law, an acquaintance I had met during an earlier visit.

“This is…”

Hope.

A new Hope is distinct and separate from all those that previously held the title. What makes them so is the very fact that they are given the same distinction. To hope, one must anticipate an unforeseen ecstasy, realized only in possibilities rather than experiences. To be Hope, one must embody that same anticipation. From that night to this, I have been in a constant state of anticipation of the next opportunity I would have to see, hear, touch, smell, or otherwise sense her. Hope is sensory. Each hopeful experience births a greater hope, until all that remains is an action I’m incapable of carrying out… that covering cocoon of confession that enables the metamorphosis of hope to love.

Hope isn’t something you can just turn from at a whim. I think there’s only three things that will break Hope’s spell: Hope’s betrayal, a greater Hope, or the transformation of Hope to Love. All are capable of breaking someone, but it’s only the latter that will set you free in doing so… and I think that in everyone love eventually takes priority…

Phil's Story, Chapter 11

Faith.

Faith was once defined for me as being the relationship that develops out of faithfulness. To have faith in something is to trust it, and trust relies on experience, so where there is no experience, there is no trust, and where there is no trust, there is no faith, and where there is no faith, there is no life. Living is relating. There is no life for the faithless.

I was born and raised in a home of professing Christians. Thus I became one, and remained so for a number of years. I don’t remember much of my childhood, I joke that it’s because I was suplexed one too many times by my older brother. To be honest I don’t know why it is that I have so few conscious memories of growing up. What I do know I’ve pieced together from the stories of family and friends, a few scattered recollections, and a bit of logic. I do remember going through the motions of being saved as a child, no more than four years of age. I remember going through the motions time and time again, crying and pleading to the angry, white-bearded, overseer called God, every time I upset one of my parents or did something I knew was wrong. I remember explaining my actions to my father, I assume he caught me in fervent prayer, and he tried to comfort me.

“Fost, what are you doing?”

My dad always called me ‘Fost’, Phil picked it up from him.

“I’m asking God to come back into my heart.”

“Fost, son, you don’t have to ask God to come back, God doesn’t leave.”

“But I was bad.”

He came and sat next to me, my small bed saying its own prayer of salvation from the excess weight. He looked at me a moment, then placed his huge fatherly hand on my shoulder.

“I know honey, but nobody’s perfect… that’s why we need God.”

I didn’t get it. I just kept on trying to be perfect and continued in my fear and trembling of the Almighty and consistently reaffirming my father’s faith that was instilled into me. My own faith overcame my father’s within me when all that I had been taught by my parents was undone at a family meeting.

“We’re getting a divorce.”

That was the beginning. From those words a chain of events that had a profound impact on my present dysfunction was put into the works. Faith was the first casualty, and it was an inside job. I was attending a very charismatic church and frequented a small group affiliated with it on Monday nights. I would go to the group on Mondays and would be “encouraged”…

“Your parents will work through their marital problems.”

That was before the announcement of their imminent divorce was finalized.

“Your parents will get back together.”

That was before they started seeing other people.

“Your parents will still get back together. Family togetherness is God’s will.”

That was before my father got engaged.

“We pray against this union. Your parents will see the error of their ways and get back together.”

That was before the wedding date was declared.

“It’s not too late. We rebuke this plan of the enemy and ask God to intervene.”

That was before my father was remarried. After that?

“Gee… sorry…”

Throughout the whole ordeal I was being led to believe, in faith, that God would heal and mend whatever problems existed between my parents and that everything would turn out for the best. I was reminded constantly of one pivotal truth…

“God hates divorce.”

I learned some valuable lessons through my parents’ separation and divorce. There is also much I failed to learn. Foremost, I decided that I would never take relationship advice from either parent, or any other divorcee. I learned to take all church related rhetoric with a grain of salt, because human filters are usually dirty and capable of contaminating much, if not all, which passes through them. Probably most importantly, I realized that people make choices, and are held accountable to them and in so being, must face consequences. I also realized that whatever God I tried so hard to love and communicate with (whatever that meant) was not keeping up my efforts… I felt that our relationship was very one sided and I hadn’t the capacity to keep up such an effort when it amounted to so little. So I prayed…

“God, I’ll be living, should you ever want to reach me, I trust you’ll know how to get a hold of me.”

Since that prayer I’ve lived my life, as best I could, trying to figure things out by myself… alone, utterly alone, until I met Phil, and if faith is the product of relationships, it follows that I can’t have much of it with so few of them, especially now that Phil is gone. After questioning the foundation you can’t help but examine the structure. Now, I question friendships all the time, wondering what peoples’ motives are for calling me up or letting me hang out with them. I wonder what it is that people see in me, what I see in them, that brings us together or tears us asunder. I wonder why I have no friends that I’ve kept in touch with, that have lasted, over the years, the moves, the changes, the monotony, and the diversity of this life to date. I wonder if I’ll ever be able to find that attainable Hope, and stop reaching for those perpetually out of reach. These are cumbersome musings. They often take their toll on me and can laden me with any number of manifest maladies. All too often I allow myself to be overcome and overrun by my trivial circumstances as seen through my pessimistic world view. Phil frequently managed to alleviate the burden when he found me particularly sullen. I think he almost saved my life once.

“Hey!”

I was at the hotel, the Mountain House, at work.

“Hey! Fost!”

I wasn’t working though, I was on one of the many meandering trails.

“Foster! Is that you?”

I was standing.

“Yo! Fost!”

I was thinking.

“Fos-ter!”

I was standing, thinking, at the edge of a cliff.

“Foster?”

I was thinking of jumping. I was wondering how exhilarating it would be to fly, just once, for as long as I could; spread my arms and catch a breeze, or perhaps a breeze would catch me, the breath of God, or better yet, God’s very hand, perhaps I could provoke the touch that seems perpetually out of reach to catch me if I would just…

He put his hand on my shoulder.

“Fost… you alright? I thought it was you… I’ve been calling you. You couldn’t even wait while I tied my shoes?”

He sees my blank stare. I’m pretty sure he knows my thoughts… he smiles anyhow.

“C’mon… we’re going to miss tea.”

Phil's Story, Chapter 10

1 Corinthians 13.

I took this from a NKJV version…

Though I speak (write, draw, act… fill in the blank) with the tongues of men and angels, but have not love, I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and though I have faith, so that I could remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, (or tossed off a balcony?) but have not love, it profits me nothing.

Love is patient. It suffers long. (Phil was patient and a long time suffering. Only a couple weeks, three months at the most? I don’t know if you know what it’s like to pass a second in genuine anticipation. I met Hope a couple years ago now, and as we’ve grown better acquainted, the days have lengthened exponentially. I’ve passed days of a thousand years. I’ve measured dreams and wishes that transcend all temporal planes. It’s taken me a million thoughts to take one step nearer to her and a second to fly worlds apart. Time is relative, especially in relation to relationships. Phil was patient. Coincidently, I happen to be scared motionless, but that doesn’t stop me from thinking, it only makes the time I wait longer…)

Love is kind. (Phil was kind. His purposes seemed to be selfless, up until his final fling, so to speak. Perhaps that’s too harsh to be saying… but I’ve had much thought-packed time and I’ve shed my share of tears and I’ll shed more rest assured, that doesn’t change the fact that jumping off of a balcony is a selfish end. I can’t believe that an end so selfish was spawned in selflessness. I’d like to believe in the ability to be truly selfless… I don’t know if I can believe in something that is so fragile, something so easily undone. True kindness is rare. Rare because of how it is qualified.)

Love does not envy. (If love is born of two people’s union as an act of free will, jealousy is a non-issue. You can’t envy what you respect, and you can’t love someone you don’t respect… still, it hurts to see her prefer the company of someone else…)

Love isn’t proud. (Thus, It is humble…

“Humility is seeing yourself the way God sees you.”

Another quip of wisdom from one of my numerous youth pastors.

“And how is that?”

I was genuinely curious, searching, desperate for all the clues I could get on how to live a proper existence. He was prepared for that one though…

“It’s how you really are.”

He didn’t get it. I wanted the secret. The irrefutable key to living life how it is supposed to be so that I could be fulfilled, if in no other way, in the knowledge that whatever I was doing was justified by the only judge that mattered.

“So… how is that?”

A pre-rehearsed coverall answer would not suffice. I wanted a messenger of God to tell me how it was that God envisioned me.

“Well, I guess it would be perfect… insomuch as you are a child of God, but still a sinner, albeit covered by the blood, so I guess that makes us all red.”

Cute. Hardly satisfying, but cute.)

It does not behave rudely. (Phil was, in most instances, a gentleman. I remember once a little old lady reversed right into me… more accurately into my mother’s car’s front right passenger door. Phil was sitting in the passenger seat. I watched as Phil got out of the car. The old lady walked right up to us and blamed me for her cataracts. I maintained control as best I could and was even commended on my behavior by the lady after she spoke to an officer or a lawyer and found out she was at fault. If Phil hadn’t intervened on my behalf with the words to substitute for the ones I was thinking (like Phil I’ve always tried to maintain control of my tongue) I never would have received the praises I did… regardless of my innocence. Phil remembered his manners on all occasions, even when those around us in the bars or clubs had rebelled against decency. The only exception was when Phil and Seth got together. I frequently had to cover my virgin ears, and they usually ended up raping them anyway. There’s something caustic in people… sometimes the reactions are extreme.)

It does not seek its own. (It is self-finding in the midst of self-sacrifice. Love is not seeking itself, it’s offering one’s self, and what better way to see what you have to offer than by holding it out.)

It is not provoked. (I’ve never known a person more difficult to provoke than Frosty. I should know; I tried quite a bit. That whole Frosty thing started as an attempt at provocation and he ended up embracing it. He embraced a lot that would have broken other people... then again, he broke when others may not have. We used to work out together. In high school we were the skinniest guys around, but by the end of our freshman year at collage we had other guys coming up to us for spots and pointers. I did it for three reasons. One, because I thought it would make me a more adequate catch for whoever it was I sought at the time. Two, I was once robbed at knife-point in an elevator. I lived in an apartment on the twenty-second floor on the west side of the mall; I was relieved of five dollars and a few bus tickets by two guys I held the door open for. Nothing kills the desire to be polite like having preferred your assailants. I vowed when the blade was against my throat that I would never again be targeted as easy prey. The third reason; I grew to enjoy it. Phil had only one objective. Go. He wouldn’t stop until his body quit on him, and even then he would have me spot him, lifting five-pound dumbbells, until he wasn’t even able to lift his arm. Once his mind was set, nothing could budge it. Phil would not be provoked to do what he would not have done, or to stop what he thought was necessary to achieve.)

Love thinks no evil. (I’m convinced that that is one of two things… the unattainable standard that qualifies that God is love and we are incapable of being on the same playing field as God, or that it is referring to the blinders that go on when you look at someone you adore. If you don’t know what I mean, try finding faults in the object of your affection during that preliminary stage of infatuation, chances are that if you do… the infatuation won’t last very long, and if you don’t, well, you may have found your Hope.)

Love does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in the truth. (I fall short here. Not because I’m purposely deceitful, but because I’ve led myself to believe that a look is enough. A look is not enough. If love rejoices in the truth, then the truth must be expressed… clearly. I have all these romantic notions that words aren’t necessary… funny that I have to write that notion down… I have looked Hope in the eyes and I’ve been swept away, but there is no love for me until I find the words to say. Phil had a similar problem. He couldn’t say what was necessary… until it slipped out of its own accord. I’m not saying a bit of tactful presentation of truth is necessary… not in love, but I don’t think it could hurt… maybe that’s my problem though… I’m counting on too much tact and not giving truth enough credit.)

Love bears all things.

Love believes all things.

Love hopes all things.

Love endures all things.

Love never fails.

(I can’t say that Phil, or I, or anyone for that matter, is capable of doing any one thing to all things… which makes love impossible for humanity… which often seems an accurate assessment. It’s a good thing that love is more than a feeling… that God is Love.)

Whether there are prophesies, they will fail, whether there are tongues, they will cease, whether there is knowledge, it shall pass away. We know in part, we prophesy in part, but when that which is perfect has come, that which is in part will be done away.

(Imagine… no more halves, just the whole.)

When I was a child I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. (I’m still a child… in so many ways. I have so much stuff to pack up. Phil was twenty when he fell to his death; I think he tripped over something he could have picked up.)

For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known. (While this endeavor is partly for Phillip, something he asked me to do, it’s mostly for me, something I need to do, to know who it is that I am, and what, or whom, I seek. Phillip knows and sees now and I wonder if it’s too late… and if it will be too late for me when the mirror breaks and I see face to face.)

And now abide faith, hope, love, these three; but the greatest of these is love. (If I’m not in love, I’m afraid of what will become of me should I ever have the privilege. I know I can’t be this love, the one described here, alone, but if there’s a way to receive it, I know I want to, if only to give it away. But I struggle enough with Faith and Hope.)

Op-ed: The Separation of Wealth and State

The Separation of Wealth and State:

“The love of money is the root of all kinds of evil…”

A lot of people have praised the proclaimed re-separation of church and state since the general consensus after the last American administration held that faith should decidedly remain as far outside of the political spectrum as possible. I tend to agree; faith has little to no place in politics, though I adhere to this maxim for a different reason. While most would argue that the two don’t adequately mix, like oil and water per se, I liken their mixture more to that of adding lead to gold. And it’s not the politics I value. Adding politics to faith merely cheapens faith. If you believe something to be true, it’s independent of a majority vote, as former President Bush might tell you. Of course, things have changed since Bush’s consecutive terms. Faith’s reputation has been tarnished by the policies of government despite the fact that nothing of faith has changed. Nevertheless, professing adherents of faith are on the decline, being faced with the imminent ridicule of being labeled zealots, extremists, terrorists, or right-wing extremists as a consequence for confessing a belief in something that extends beyond sensual experiences.
However, in recent light, it has come, or should have come, to the collective attention span of the world populace that there are equal, if not greater, threats to private liberty than those of a strictly religious nature, even if the subject at hand is not too far removed.
It is high time that a discussion concerning the separation of wealth and state be instituted for the betterment of all humanity, hopefully before the economic powers that be send all of civilization into a spiral of destruction that will doubtlessly lead to desolation of far more than the ever-changing world we have known the past hundred years. Of course, such apocalyptic revelations often send people reluctantly clinging to the elements of faith they so quickly disregard when trials deem such profitable, but there’s that idea again, profit, wreaking havoc on my argument.
Even the former disestablishment of theocratic government had its roots in the abolishing of and redistribution of wealth and power out of the greedy vice grip of the few and into the shared responsibility of the laymen, and eventually laywomen, and perhaps one day into the outstretched hands of all humanity, but until then, distributed nonetheless to those who’ve suffered through to obtain the right of suffrage, but to what end?
Without the means to reside peacefully in a nation, free of the constant fear of sudden fiscal failure, or circumstantial material ruin, what matters disenfranchisement?
Conspiracy theories abound concerning the oligarchy of the finance elite, out to rule and enslave all the world through the power of the dwindling dollars and sense of the masses, and whether the theories are true or not, it remains the onus of the individual to rise above their own dependency on currencies and focus instead on what remains of value in society while it yet exists to cherish as more than a memory.
Much of the so-called developed nations of the world have utilized a perceived “right to owe” which has resulted in the impending crises of late with more to come.
You can argue all you want for or against certain policies, on either side of the aisle in congress, plotted wherever you wish on the bipartisan line, or if you are lucky enough to live where an axis exists, place yourself anywhere among the quadrants, it matters not so long as all of the area exists as a game-board for the uber-rich.
That I struggle to place my piece on the cross is my own concern. That I continually look for things more valuable than money in life is my own endeavor, for better or worse, one that I think may prove viable. I invite others to do likewise; to better inform myself, and one another, on the finer aspects of how to live this temporal life free.