I Thirst

This non-prose world, called unreal by the rulers of this age, but real to people of faith, is the world entered by the mystic, the contemplative, the visionary, the prophet, the poet...For the modern man, truth...is arrived through prose...not intuition, not imagination, not wonder, not awe, not worship, not reverence, not trust, not faith. - Brian D. McLaren.

I tried to read " A Generous Orthodoxy" years ago as a denominational Christian. I've always thought too much, so my days in mainstream Religianity were numbered. I have a reading problem. Books are my crack. I've haven't pawned anything to buy books...yet, but it could happen. In spite of this proclivity, I could not finish Brian's attempt to reconcile ecumenism with doctrine in a major world religion that has fractured into myriad fragments, with much disagreement and (in the past...right?) bitterness. He was just too blasphemous. That much openmindedness was an antidote to faith, seemed to be the underlying sentiment in my little church. Brian wanted me to entertain the notion that my faith might have a few errors in it, and that when I disagreed with your theology, that you might have a point. My tiny Kentuckian congregation had some firm boundaries about stuff like this, even though one of our cliche's was "Don't check your brains at the door". I did like the fact that McLaren wears out parentheses. Perhaps we are distantly related. When I shelved "Orthodoxy" I didn't realize how arid the landscape was becoming...
Now, after a little time in the desert, I find him MUCH easier to swallow. (It's because you have apostasized, Brother! The Corinthians have turned you over to SATAN!). So my inner mystic (we all have one... it's kinda like an inner butthead. I have one of those, too.) tells me "Your pastor just referred to that heretic you're re-reading...and for five or six years you have not lost that book. It must be a sign!"
The question is (After all, Jesus performed a sign or two, and then went on to say wanting a sign wasn't cricket.)," By looking for writing on the interior sky, am I guilty of wanting to be the star of my own story? Or am I disappointed that my life seems to be unimportant in this Grand Epic, and simply hungering for a more significant role?"
I gotta go to work. Unfortunately the mule is in the ditch, and these musing will have to go in my inner "Drafts" folder. Who knows when I'll get around to cleaning that up?

    
     Suzie, my bitch (lol. It cracks me up to type that.) who usually sleeps diagonal to me on the left side, wandered in and out of the whelping area I prepared for her (a few towels, a couple old sleeping bags in the closet of Kelsie's old room) earlier this week. She's done that for the last few of nights, but last night she was unusually agitated. She woke me up about 1:30, and I figured she was in labor. I got threw down my good sleeping bag next to the whelping area, and that calmed her down quite a bit. She's a daddy's girl. I fired up the laptop and started re-listening to a podcast. every time I would drift away, Suzie would whimper, roll around, or simply lick my face, nostrils, and closed eyes, until I defended myself. I got a little coleman led lantern and the turning it on revealed that Suzie's vagina was REALLY funny lookin'. It was swollen (I've seen a couple swollen vaginas. This was different.), and looked somehow... too long. 
So I touched it ( I know, ewwww!), it was a LOT harder than any other  vagina I've ever touched. I began speculate and imagine that this is what a canine vagina would look like if it had a puppy in it.
     Guess what?
     I was right!  It  spit out a little water balloon that ruptured into what looked like a wet guinea pig in a condom. And since then we have been having puppies. Six  Seven of 'em in five hours. and she's getting that look again...

     I rolled out of bed while the little hand was still on the four this morning, and strapped on my sneakers and went out for a run.

     For yards.

     And yards.

     Maybe three hundred of them.

     Jesus. The pain was remarkable. I did this the day before yesterday, I went out for a bit of exercise before daylight and decided to run a little bit. I jogged almost to a particular tree on the way to the park. When I approached I was beginning to get winded and said to myself, "I'll make it to the tree tommorrow, and then go a little further than that on subsequent days, until I regain the ass and legs and lungs I had ten years ago." I really don't speak to myself that clearly, but you get the gist. After running the first day, running the second morning was out of the question.
     Just walking was something I had been taking for granted. I simply couldn't get out of the house before before daylight, and I would just like to get to the point where I look just a leetle better before I run primetime, for an audience.

     But I got my ass up and out there this morning. I don't wanna screw around about this. Poor physical health is a guaranteed shitty old age, and you will arrive suddenly, surprised the horizon you've been watching approach for years is now in your face, like these last couple of sentences.

     Oops.

     Sorry. I was in self-motivation mode. Talking sweet to me is generally not a great policy until after the job is done. I do need affirmation, but you need to shame or embarrass me a little to get me off my ass. It's my Asian roots, coupled with my western sense of entitlement.

     Anyway, I get to the tree, and I'm nervous. My chest is tight, each breath seems devoid of oxygen. My knees are competing to see who can scream submission the loudest (We are your bitches! Please stop this!). I wonder if running during the late morning is a better idea...at least someone might see the beached whale flopping about in the throes of a heart attack ( is that a pain?...shooting down my left arm?...WTF? OMFG!) and as Wycleff asks Mary J. Blige...please call 911.

     I think jogging and running, are bad for you. The impact on the knees, that is. Inertia, and the fact that we live so much longer then naturally selected for suggest that we break from nature a little. Especially after middle age*. Running is the is the ideal exercise in terms of body maintnence from a design perspective, but progress has enabled us to outlive the warranty on our knees, so really, I guess old farts like me need to ride bikes and swim.

     Or Nordic Trac, which is low impact on the knees.

     And hey, that's cool. I get it.

     But running is still the ideal exercise, and from an evolutionary standpoint, running keeps you alive in the whole "Catch food, don't be food" system. Running is nature's fitness test. In simplest terms, if you can't run, you die. I want to be able to pass nature's fitness test. I will do the biking, hiking, aerobic thing as well, but I wanna be able to run. I haven't figured out how far this needs to be, but right now... after about half a mile I can look to my left and see a dark figure pacing me, lookin' like Gandalf in a hoodie with a big sickle, and that aint good enough.
    Not for me.
  
     now, you do not have to run...

     Hell, you don't even have to exercise at all.

     Have another bon bon.

    But my spidey sense is tingling. I add my observation of the the lives of old folks who had a few bad habits to what I learn about the rythyms of growth and deterioration in the human lifespan, and my Ideas of what needs to happen politically in the world if we are going to eradicate poverty, and what will probably happen instead on account of human nature, and I realize:

1. If I don't get on the ball about some significant changes in my lifestyle, I will have a poor quality of life when I am at my most helpless.
2. This will be followed by a painful death.
3. At my age, It's right around the corner, If I don't quit screwing around. In case you haven't noticed, time is picking up speed.

     Stanley, in one of his series (The Path Principle, maybe) talks about praying for God to tune him into potential trainwrecks so that he can avoid them...The ol' "Lord, keep me from screwing myself through ignorance or inactivity." prayer.

     I have had flashes of insight, and seen where that prayer was answered when I never prayed it. We can probably all look back and see places where we are grateful we chose a particular direction at a fork in the road. Hopefully this will be one of those times for me, as I look back. My father died early because he made some poor cardiovascular choices. He left when he had stewardship of greater resources than ever before. His potential to impact the world for good was greater than it had ever been, and he left at a time when I really needed my father. All of this could have been otherwise if he had picked differently at a couple forks.

* And hey...for those of you who have trouble with the concept...if you don't expect to double your age before you die....IT'S AFTER MIDDLE AGE!

Suzie is pregnant as can be. I am amazed she doesn't squirt puppies out with every step. She has been extra needy, underfoot a lot, and prone to lick your face without warning. Debbie makes no attempt to moderate Soozer's behavior... she just sits there and takes it.

Email puppies@christopherrauch.com to reserve yours today!

Hopefully Soozers was a little picky, and Daddy was a handsome dog.

     This was shot at the same firestation I took Colin too a few months ago, I'd never seen a fire truck stretched out, so to speak...

     This guy is a friend of mine from school, and this was shot very casually, but I think it's a striking photo, I was pleased.



The History club also had a guy drop by in an old top hat and give a presentation on Sidney Lanier, a poet and musician from Macon

     Sorry.
     I kinda had to write it that way. It's offensive.
     Twice I have posted schoolwork here on the ol' blog. The comparison of Dunbar's Mask with President Carter's World was for English 102. I was actually impressed with both poems. It seems at some point, I have lost some of my hatred of poetry.The Homosexuality Post, I originally wrote for English 101. It is by far the most viewed post on my blog. There is no close second. This will be my third posted assignment. I believe it is  the first fiction I have written. Both my previous papers were A's but this last one has the highest numeric grade I have ever gotten, which is amazing. In the days following Aunt Judy's death, I was immobilized, unable to accomplish much, so this was written in the space a couple hours under an enormous feeling of pressure, without my usual visit to an English tutor to proofread my grammar, which is a little bad, since I am a high school dropout. The rush also forced me to finish before I could smooth some of the rough edges of the plot. I printed this thing less than 15 minutes before it was due. It takes 7 minutes to drive to this class.
     Robert Browning has a poem called Porphria's Lover about a man that strangles his lover with her hair so (I speculate) that her love, for him which he is insecure about, will be frozen into eternity. Yep. Pretty sick stuff . The murder of his woman is a theme Browning uses in more than one poem,..hmmm. I wonder If he resented the fact that his wife, Elizabeth Barrett Browning ("How do I love thee..."), was more highly regarded.

1. Browning has his victims cheeks blush after death. How do I do that?
2. Much of the poem takes place after the murder. How does Porphryia witness it?
3. What kind of backstory is needed to account for the shocking sequence of events?

     
     Porphyria's lover can be read here, It's not very long. I am mildly amazed that this is literature, but then I look at the Bible and there is some pretty disturbing stuff in there, too. My paper is a little more graphic then the Bible. I would never write any feminine first person story (remember, I don't think I've ever written a "story" ) unprompted, so this stretched me and possibly the writing sux.  Browning's poem is hellaciously shocking. 

     My own story is probably more shocking, and  a LOT sicker. Not everyone should read it. I am slightly dismayed it sprang from my head.

     Didja get that?  In my story the motive for Porphyria's murder is her promiscuity, a dysfunction resulting from being sexually abused by her father. The story also contains sex and violence. Together...  in an unusually nasty way (at least I think it's unusual. We don't do any of this stuff over here...). So consider yourself warned. Fairly.
    

     We get a few snowflakes every winter here, in Middle Georgia. The appearance of a little snow is a happy little occasion. Accumulation is kinda remarkable. This morning, there was frozen white stuff on top of the asphalt. We don't get that much. I just saw a clump of snow slip off my roof and fall to the freakin' ground past my window, like something from a movie.
     I bet Blood Mountain is incredible.

seems like its been forever since I saw the baby... got a surprise this afternoon.

     Well, I've decided against afflicting the blogosphere with another self portrait. Day 6 nicotine free. OMG. THTKMA. (This has totally kicked my ass.) I have ventured out to the Atlanta Bread Company as an experiment. I have gone to a couple social things, small group and such with a 'leave whenever you want' attitude. I went to church this morning which was a first...an event with a beginning and an end, which I intended to endure for the duration. Without my crutch. I even had a conversation with Katie at church while she smoked a cigarette.
     The whole thing.
     I felt like my conversational skills were clumsy, and undiplomatic. It was hard to concentrate. I never forgot about her cigarette for even a second. (I remember talking to a titty dancer at a bachelor party...Patrick's.  It was like that. You never forget they're naked, not for a second.)
     I never forgot about Katie's cigarette, but every time I wanted to interrupt and ask her for one (twenty in all, at least.) I just sat there withdrawing, and taking no action. That worked out so well, I felt up to a test, so I have braved the real world, and came to ABC to begin my reentry into the fledgling decade. To reconnect  with a life of direction and purpose, to see what this day day holds for me, in my new freedom.
    

     A couple of weeks ago the world record largemouth bass was caught. The interesting thing to me is not the weights involved, but the locations. The old record holder was caught in south Georgia, within a couple hours of here. So this catches my interest, and surfing around trails.com, I notice a icon near Byron, over by my church. Trails says a neighboring church, Byron Methodist is built next to the largest blackjack oak in the world.
     Yup.
     Well I decide to ride to church early and swing by this tree, to get a shot of the hopefully spectacular sunrise over the largest blackjack oak in the world.
      In the world!
The Pastor, who took a break from his preparations and strolled outside, showed me the spot. There wasn't even a stump.

'Bout a year and a half ago, we had to take it down. It was a sad day. It dwarfed the church. It was dying.

     Dissapointed, I told him to get out of the weather (18 degrees F), walked to the van, and drove to Lifepoint

     This is the SP from a couple days ago. I'm getting jowls. I did not overeat today. Much. I actually, to borrow a phrase from Arod, feel like I could get a pretty good write on...I'm thinking about profanity, what's okay, and what's not, and exactly what the hell is meant by the taking of someone's name in vain. But alas, the voice of wisdom calls from a tub of scalding, sudsy bathwater, saying to read up on the enlightenment before my analysis of Tartuffe. This is good advice. Who said the voices in your head have to be a bad thing? The smoking update: I shall have 72 hours nicotine free at nine in the morning. 72 is the magical number of physical detox, having to do with things like half-life, and metabolic rate, which are not blogworthy at this time. After seventy two  hours the physical addiction is supposedly broken, and it becomes a psychological from that point on. That's not what I feel at the moment, but I won't chase that rabbit. (It's psychological from the beginning.) I have noticed my pants get tighter in the last five days as I have tried to do this...

     Yesterday morning and had a cigarette. You can buy singles illegally from certain ethnically managed convenience stores, and (the going rate is .50 a stick.) I had to hook up. I immediately felt shame and remorse, and smoked the (Newport is the only flavor Mr. Patel does. He offered to do Marlboros once, but I declined. I didn't want to make things too attractive.) fag right down to the taste of filter. I cut the filters back on 'Ports anyway, to get more of the good stuff. Anyway, I now have once again detoxed for 36 or so hours.
     I can definitely say that breaking the 24 hour barrier ushers in a special increase in the suck factor. It's exponential. You could say it was SUCKQUARED. Truly. I am not fit company for humans.  I have made no attempt to encourage interaction, though I did drop by Debbie's for a minute or two at some point earlier. I could tell as soon as I was in an environment with other people, that my inner asshole lurked just beneath the surface.
     I split.
     The Craving is intense, and deep, it is accompanied for me, by feelings of anger, loneliness and hopelessness. They come in waves, usually three at a time lasting about three minutes a piece. I have killed a box of Pop-Tarts, and yearn for more, even though full. Coffee is an old dear friend, but detoxing from nicotine, by some cruel twist of fate effectively halves the ex-smokers caffeine tolerance, so my comfort food is denied me. Hopefully, another nights sleep will take some of this edge off.
     I hope this is it.

     Okay...that is a picture of yours truly... smoking a cigarette 25 something hours ago. He hasn't had one since. He's been here probably 10 times or better. He's a stubborn bastard when it comes to shakin' a bad habit.
     The first 72 hour period is the trial by fire. I have a little program I downloaded. It tells me how long I have been quit, how many cigs I have not  smoked, how much money I have saved, and chronicles the statistical increase in my life span. like this:

Chris - Free and Healing for One Day, 1 Hour and 30 Minutes, while extending my life expectancy 2 Hours, by avoiding the use of 27 nicotine delivery devices that would have cost me $6.38.

     Kinda neat. It helps. This is a terribly lonely endeavor .

     The title is actually a quote from one of the old Dark Tower novels (Stephen King)...Jake spits it at Roland as our hero abandons his friend to fall to his death. Something along the lines of "Go on, then. There are other worlds than these..."
      There are other worlds than these both in a physical sense, and otherwise. IMHO, the spiritual world encompasses our own, this world that activates and stimulates our senses. In some geometry that my feeble math skills cannot analogize, this sphere ( the spiritual one, that is.) surrounds ours in every dimension. This means time, space, beyond the tesseract, even. This view holds no heresy that I know of, to religion or science. The nature or boundaries of this other world(s) are simply speculation, (for me) but as to existence, I have no doubts. Doubts become impossible in the face of memory. I have twice been present at the proper location in time and space to witness when the line of demarcation became blurry and indistinct, between this world and another. Twice I have come across a temporal/ physical point where the fabric of this reality was worn and frayed, like the denim on the knees of incredibly comfortable Levi's. A place  where the warp of reality has been abraded away, and the threadbare weft permits glimpses of  flesh beneath the surface. A place where I perceived stuff I will not post about today.
     Yeah, baby.
     Here be Dragons, demons, and things that go bump.
     The Light of the World is there as well. He is a reality that encompasses all worlds, in every conceivable dimension.
     Believe it.

The 365 pool on flickr is challenging. You are challenged (and not many succeed) to upload 1 self portrait a day, shot on that day. This is yesterdays.... shot at work, post processed in Elements, and Photo-bee. The early light on this jobsite, is interesting... and I am to busy to think, so this is an easier post than any of the theological musing that flit through my awareness, and slip away before I can consider them properly...The idea of taking a self portrait a day for a year arouses very mixed feelings in me. I may explore this in a later post.

     Wow.
     This was a milestone for me. The last couple of weeks, in between life shaking events, I have tried to learn a little more about shooting people, Hoping to kinda head in that direction. Yesterday, Debbie called and informed me about contractions, dilation, and other disturbing things having to do with the maternal vagina. She closed the phone call by informing me that belly shots of her daughter-in-law had to happen immediately, or during the next pregnancy. This was done in a loving, unpressuring tone of voice. Baby can send pressure, and threatening gloom simply with the power of her mind....often her voice is not involved. But I'm not saying she did that, here.
     So I strapped on some gear and tripodery (which I barely used,) and ran over to Ryan and Jenny's.
     Kapronto.
     Now, you should know I have an emotional scar...
     Decades ago, I had hair, enough that it had to be cut by a professional. Said professional went into a quick, intense labor during my incompleted 80's hair maintenance. I'll save the details for another post, but laboring women leave me feeling endorkened, with  fear and a sense of unfinished business.
    Anyway, I got a couple shots, and the laptop has been converting raw files all night, and Lily Saddler arrived. Yeah. the baby came shortly after I took this picture. Actually I got a few shots of Jenny wincing with contractions. I'll ask If I can display them in my public photos. I have never been around for the birth of a baby. and I am excited. It occurs to me I can abandon this slow, laboring laptop, run over to the Women's Center, and get some shots of cheesy, eye-boogery, howling perfection. I am going to teach her how to fly fish.

I felt my back catch, as I tried to stretch the kink out of it...that feeling that another quarter inch would take me down and have me in bed for twenty four hours, desperate for steroids and a visit to my chiropractor. I winced and began to move a little more gingerly as I shuffled about this morning, planning the death of my dog. I was up late (after midnight) and up early (5 0'clock, baby.)I am tired. Now I write, the voice demands it, and I wait for Debbie. Momma wants to go. She wants to take her puppy to the vet, and probably keep an eye on me. I am keenly aware that I am fallen, my world is broken, and only love redeems these things. Today is a bad day. Today as I see Jack struggle and wonder if I waited too long, I know there is something wrong with the world, I remember with embarrassment a casually caustic, irreverent prayer on the 23 of October. Cast upward on the smoke of the blogosphere, a gauntlet in the face of my God.

For over two more months, Jack seemed to bounce back. He regained his feet, and began to hold food down again, though it grew increasingly difficult to find items to tempt him. He seemed an old, decrepit, easily tired version of himself, following daddy around, waiting for me to stop so he could lay down in whatever room we were in. There has been a slow but noticeably decline that grew exponentially worse the last 36 hrs. I know he shall not bounce back from this and after my girlfriend arrives, I will take him down and have him put to death because I love him.

I feel like it is my responsibility. For over a decade If I was near Jack, and looked at him, I often found him with his attention fixed upon me waiting to see if I desired a companion for whatever endeavor was in the wings. He forgave quickly, except for maybe the baths...and would avoid me if I was showing my ass. He ate what we had, housebroke like no dog I'd ever known, and defended his territory with ferocity once we had women and children to protect.

The master/dog dynamic has a few disturbing concepts, analogous to the Creator/creature relationship. Master understands things so far above the dog's level, there is no point even trying to convey the Master's understanding. Sometimes master denies things to doggie, for good reasons doggie doesn't understand. Master get lots more enjoyment over a dog that comes when he's called, than a dog that is always leashed, and under thumb (or at least this master does). I cannot imagine letting Jack continue to suffer. Why does God handle his pets differently ?

That was quite an ordeal. I've never put my Dog to death before.

I'm gonna have a few beers, and dig a hole. And BTW...my left-handed prayer, uttered when I first planned to kill my dog, was over two months ago. Thank you, Lord.

Is an interesting translation...

     I think on love often. The Character of God. My Savior. Patient, kind, conveniently forgetful of my wrongs, and blindly optimistic about my character. He hopes and believes all things about me. This Friday, Christmas morning, I am thinking about love since I intend to post on it in a day or three... and I am at the Houston County detention center. This is a repeat of  Thanksgiving morning. My girlfriend's youngest son is in jail, visitation is especially important on these days and of course free ranging family and friends must be connected with also. This demanding day makes it a good idea to visit our prisoner first. I'm not even allowed back to see him (I'm not on the list...possibly because I threw the young man out of my house some time ago.)
     Thanksgiving Day I rode down with Debbie, on our way to dinner with her family, and walked around outside the jail and sat in the car as she saw her son through a piece of glass. It was actually not a terrible day for her. Her son had been in for a few days, and the shock had worn off. My Debbie is a coper, a survivor, and this young man has given her a lot of practice...the shock wears off quicker now. Thanksgiving morning everyone also expected Kalan to get out soon, so this was just something that sucked a lot, but we would get have him home for Christmas. It was not as rough as it could have been, for those of us outside. We found out later he would not quite make it home by Christmas, but he would be out by the 29th. That was too bad, and the holiday spirit at Debbie's house got a little more blue.
     My Baby loves with a heart to melt icebergs, and when something like this happens, she shoves the additional pain deeper and tries to be herself for the rest of us... other kids, grandkid, and boyfriend.
     I guess Wednesday, we found out Kalan is scheduled to remain incarcerated for several months, and Debbie's spirits plummeted. Christmas Eve was bad. Debbie has to work 7 to 7 today so I rode to Perry with my littler baby to visit her brother, providing moral support, and the gaining the pleasure of worrying about how she drives on wet pavement.
     It is cold and wet, so I am inside. Thinking about love. This is my first time in the building. The guards did not want me to take pictures, and I've been on the other side of the glass before, so I'm not gonna argue. I’m thinking about love, and wondering if Starbucks is open…Somebody that loves me gave me a 4 day job. I was broke until 4:30 Christmas eve, and would love to get some Starbucks cards for the kids, and nieces that I’ll see in a few hours. Debbie would probably love some Starbucks, later as well. Sometimes, on days like Christmas, the ER can get a little bit sporty. Debbie loves a treat like coffee, about eight hours into her twelve hour shift. I think about love as I notice the traffic, here at the Houston County detention center. Twelve people shortly after nine o’clock. Here to see their prisoner on Christmas morning. I'm thinking about drama, heartbreak and aggravation, I'm remembering Douglas John Hall- "God's problem is not that God is not able to do certain things. God's problem is that God loves. Love complicates the life of God as it complicates every life."
     I'm thinking about love and going to see my Aunt Judy in the nursing home later, and my friend that lost his job Monday because of office politics and a bad economy. I think about the baby to be born any day now... a little girl named Lily, and the puppies I suspect inhabit the womb of my bitch, Suzie. (Gotta love an unexpected litter of puppies. oops.). Love is our benchmark. Boards. The Exam for How Well You Live, or your spiritual development.
      Yes.
      Anytime you want to check your spiritual GPA, you just take the love test. God has left copies of it laying around all over the universe. You can find one. How well do you love? or, since that's none of my business how well do I love? This is what I'm thinking about now, back at the ranch. or back at the split-level, with the 3/4 basement and a moisture problem.
     Mysterious.
     Paradoxical.
     Noun. Verb.
     The Character of God.
     Love. Exactly what the hell is it? Am I any good at it?
     Tonight I will spoon on the couch, with a tired, marvelous, green-eyed blonde, and watch a movie with a hot cup of raspberry zinger, a bag of buttered popcorn on the side. I will think about love and be amazed. I will be warm, full, and lost in a sea of drowsiness and contentment. I may snore a little, from time to time. I have it worse than many, but better than so many more.
     Who am I?
     I think on love often.

     Merry Christmas, and special blessings to those of you who stroke the traffic whore in me, with your pageviews, and the wonderful comments that make me feel honored.  Special thanks as well, to those who visit the prisoners...in cells, beds, and broken lives. Thank you to my brothers and sisters who have brought me a cup of cold water in the name of love incarnate.

     Merry Christmas, and thank you Debbie,
     You are patient, kind, conveniently forgetful of my wrongs, and blindly optimistic about my character. You hope and believe all things about me. You even let me write about your personal stuff. You look kinda like a really hot Jesus. You make an A+ on the Love Test baby, in every way. May your thirst be quenched.