Mind Blogeling by Caleb Childers

Zit

2010-06-04T12:00:00.000-07:00

This is a freeverse/spoken word poem i have been working on. Its called Zit.

In the split second that you sat down I noticed it was there. A spot so discrete that by covering it you made it more obvious to me. Sploched on the side of your face as if to say:LOOK AT ME! I wouldn’t have cared if you had just left it there. It just seems a little bit unfair. In what sense you say? In the sense that sitting by a woman so fine, in all its meanings, I look like a pig in his slop. And you have the audacity to try to be cleaning it up? Who told you that was there? Was it your mother, father, brother, sister, lover or just some random mirror. Did it surprise you that there is something on your face that resembles the food you eat to the extent that for a moment you said, ill never eat that again! But ordered it for breakfast this morning. Don’t feel embarrassed, im just pointing out what you hoped noone would see! You obviously pushed it, and tried to pop it, or it would not have looked like your face fell into a giant pot of crawfish. Yes, its that bad! Do you feel so bad now that you worked so hard to make sure people cant see what you have? Its no disease, though it might look like it, in your face or in your cheeks, but its in your mind that I see the zit, that believe you me, has been ready for years, but you just cant seem to pop it. Oozing out all of this society that’s taught you that you can only be free by looking good and trim like that new tree outside your window. But when you want to sit in the shade and read a book, why do you think you always choose the old oak, that im sure will fall soon, and bust up my house. There is something in all of us, you see, whether or not we believe we need to look perfect all the time, there is always something more we chose to hide. honestly, there is nothing on your face.

Madness

2010-03-10T19:12:00.000-08:00

The essence of anger and malice is in creating strife. Madness and anger are nothing alike. One is the reason we have so much pain yet the othere is the reason we call some insane. Collect a moment in your mind. Rewind it till you're in its place and ask yourself if madness was at stake? By what measure do you make such statements? Whom do you call sane?

If you measure your madness to yourself than sanity is but an individual perspective rather than an eternal objective. What definition have you given it, to escape responsibility and relationship? Or to be ones self free fram another, a mind on its own must rely on some essence, if truth or reality or God is at stake then without it the mind is as strong as butter-when melted becomes nothing more that soured milk from the utter.

Do me a favor and skip your semantics, tell me your madness and ill tell you my position on your antics. Untill then I must presume that madness is not transmitted, genetically nor inflicted. So next time you call someone mad realize this is an attribute you have given them, not one they might inherently posses.
Yet I regress, I am mad for spending so much time on this.

For what purpose are you here?

2009-12-06T21:53:00.000-08:00

Pain.

For what purpose are you here?

All you do is cling yourself to my every being,

distracting me from seeing,

The only one to whom I should adhere.

Pain.

Inescapable mistreatment of my flesh,

My bones churning in distress!

God of heavens, see what has happened!

My soul was fallen, and now blackened .

Pain.

Through to the core, I'm begining to hate you more,

Only can I scream for my own discerning

Heart to settle the score.

Pain.

And yet, as I scream from within, my soul is atwist,

Somethings peering through this damp mist!

Pain.

Christ stands, his hand in mine, and I realize that he was dragging me all this time.

December is Here

2009-12-01T00:25:00.000-08:00

December is Here.

Celebration is near, and yet my heart is at fear.

Fearing that man has forgotten the promise.

The promise of hope and life that is ageless.

December is here,

hopefully you have not forgotten why we celebrate.

everyone celebrates something which brings us joy,

the joy that sets us free from sins checkmate.

Boys rejoice for a single toy,

man rejoice! Salvation ahoy!

Faith dost seek understanding, but faith is not without understanding

like the man at war who fires without aiming.

It is true and hopeful,

this understanding is a requirement found in our Bible.

And yet we men fail to celebrate,

that we are released from human hate,

to a place of Christ-like fate.

December is here,

May our joy be fulfilled as the Son of Man appears.

Afraid

2009-09-23T21:34:00.000-07:00

Face it.

You are afraid of something.

Something so dark and perturbing that it is inescapable.

Your heart is bound in fear to its very existence.

And yet, I attempt to pose a question about your fear:

Is it necessary?

Must you be afraid in order to live properly?

Is your life in need of fear?

Or has some strange creature taken you captive through fear. This creature of course, being yourself, in some ill manner.

What we do with our time molds us into what we make of our time.

Are you spending your time in fear?

If not, should you save some time for it?

love

2009-07-25T01:28:00.000-07:00

is it an answer?

does it not become an excuse?

when was the last time you used it?

is it yours to give?

are we even right to try to guard love?

is it not an inescapable force that we bind down?

have you ever said it?

have you ever meant it?

how much does it ask of you?

how much do you ask of it?

love

there isnt much time left. Remember me, love, and I will remember you.

Forever Walking

2009-06-06T11:23:00.000-07:00

As I walk, I learn.
I learn where to step.
I learn how to step.
My steps increase, and as they do, I walk further.
The further I walk the more I desire to continue walking.
As I walk, I learn.

Dont Stop Walking.

(no, this is not a commercial for Johnny Walkers...jaja.)

I will be unnavailable for a while

2009-05-02T22:54:00.001-07:00

I am leaving for the Pacific Crest Trail tommorow afternoon. Please be praying for me! I will be updating the blog as much as possible, maybe once a month. Thank you all who are supporting Team sweetwater. please visit the site at www.teamsweetwater.net . Much love to all of you! God Bless,

Caleb

Obedience

2009-04-25T20:11:00.000-07:00

Untill you obey what you already know, we cannot be taught nothing new.

Righteousness is internal.
Selfagrandisment is fatal.

obedience to known truth is crucial.

Responsibility is personal.

-Ravi Zacharias on Ezekiel 12:22, 14:22, 18:2.

good thoughts to ponder.

Where Hast Thou Gone?

2009-04-06T01:04:00.000-07:00

Doesnt Old English just boil up feelings of the "old country?" Do we have such a place? In reality, does it actually exist? Or is it that we become defined by the land in which we live? I have seen myself change into being more American-ized, however, there are still parts of me (the young Bolivian) that screams, this is not how its meant to be. There are some cultural things I still reject, and see as immaturity, when in fact, I just grew up there and North Americans grew up here... And yet, most would argue that I am Scott-Irish, and therefore the UK must be my "old country." I would hope not, although there still is a certain attraction to that Old English.

Where hast thou gone?

Underneath the sun?

Hideth there, but I shall find thee,

When the time turns right, my eyes shall fight to see you

perohaps beneath that glorious sunlight.

Yeah...I dont know much old english I guess....but the idea of trying to hide under the sun...its the ancient idea that "The best place to hide is in broad daylight." Perhaps it is, but one might say that you cannot escape your past just as you cannot escape your future, and therefore the only thing you can know is the present, leaving you amidst the dawn, always waiting to see what lies underneath the sun.

Caleb Childers

Street Wisdom

2009-03-22T23:52:00.000-07:00

Here is a little something that came to my brain whilst on the streets of San Francisco, CA.

Falling further just to fall.

A generation stays dead to itself, but without denying itself, it supracedes itself in intellectual poverty. It wishes to challenge life itself and ends up so burnt out at the end of the day that its thoughts are incoherrent nonsense that has ruptured chaotic "scholastic" research as a crime. They regress philosophy to a childrens game and attempt to stir a pot of thought with a plastic knife of "vital" truth, a knowledge which they neither possess or intend to. We live in a dead society which thinks it is living as it eats away at the very worms that the dead earth feeds it.

Caleb Childers

A little alliteration

2009-03-03T00:46:00.000-08:00

I have recently began to laugh at the concept that just a couple alliterations can change so much in life. It can make it hilarious, incredibly thoughtful, or make you look like a complete fool and nerd. So here i go, hoping to take you on a journey of words and letters that might just leave you thinking.

Someday someone sighed slightly soft, making my mind meander. The snow slowly sank into soft soil. My hands hardly held high hopes my heart harked hinderlesly. What will women wait for finding far fetched falsehood in indespicable irrational insight? Nothing.

Nevermore, noone notices needs like lonely lost lakes in mountanous merry meadows up undeserved unpercievable unsaid unstill sanguine sultry spots.

Nature of humanity is a reflection of that which surrounds us. Is it not? Do we not behave as that which we so carefully observe?
The closer I get to nature the more I want to be a part of it, the more I try to be a part of it, the more I realize I cannot escape it.

-Caleb

Believe

2009-02-17T19:19:00.000-08:00

We live in a world dominated by belief. Belief that there is something greater. Belief that we are greatness. Belief that there is nothing. Belief that believing is a ridiculous idea.

Maybe Decartes should have said I am therefore I believe.
Why is it that no matter what we say and do, we act on something other than our own words and promises? Why are we such wretches that our words exalt us when by saying the very things we say we should be crucifying ourselves with the language we so disrespect?

I heard it said once that "I don't believe in miracles, i dont believe in faith, but sometimes when its cold outside and its getting late...I dont believe in signs, i dont believe in God, but sometimes when its cold and you are in my arms. Everybody knows, and everybody understands. There are some things you dont explain."
That was written by the Norwegian singer/songwriter, Thomas Dybdahl. A very insightful man. But has he truly grasped knowledge, or is he reaching for another long lost feeling or emotion that runs through us all?

What are you craving? What drives you? Moves you? Carries you? Lifts you?

-caleb

The Forrest

2009-02-05T16:13:00.001-08:00

A tree fell over in the forest.

"Is anybody there?" the tree shouted.

"Noone is going to come down there." The forrest answered.

"But if I stay here the lumberjacks will take me first!" The tree sobbed sap in the silent summer day.

"Dont you know that the lumberjacks will take all of us next time they come?" The forest swayed in silence.

Not a creak was heard.

"What have we done to deserve this?" The tree shouted out into the thin air.

The forest swayed in the wind, and softly answered,

"We grew, my tree. We grew."

Everything serves its purpose when it finds its end.

suffering

2009-01-28T23:25:00.001-08:00

What is suffering?

Who defined it?

Who got to say, "this hurts!" first?

It wasnt me, thats for sure.

I dont like it.

Needless to say I know I need it to make me stronger, to help me wait longer and breather deeper and try harder and live tougher...

What is suffering?

Who am I, but yet a lonely man, suffering at the hand of the world in hopes that somewhere far from here, in space and time, a tree hung a man for me?

What tree can sustain a man?
I've sat in trees, ive sat in bushes, and they hold me up, but no suffering ever came from a tree, did it?

Has it been by very nature itself that suffering has arrisen, and by default a tree might be the reason I am in pain?

And yet, I know I am a part of reason, a part of reality, a part of nature, a part of that tree that is suffering. It is I who cause my own pain and suffering

But why?

Because someone like me decided to eat from that very tree.

It is a tree that hangs me

Day or Night?

2009-01-14T23:30:00.001-08:00

Which are you, o death?

Have you appealed to darkness? What defined death as darkness?

Is death not a moment of light?-for some?-

And yet, what is darkness? Is it not an absense of light? And if light can be varried, can there be one great light? How does one great light look? Like Day?
Is Day the greatest example of light that our meek minds can conjure up?

That at the moment of the red, yellow,orange,blue sunrise, our eyes dont think life? do they? But what is life but a reflection of the day and the night? Here one day, and gone the next, or different the next? Is there such a thing as altered life?

If you were to wake up one day and be someone else, could you pull it off?

I say nay, you naive! negatively nuisant nonesense! You are who you are.

Day or Night?

Both come and go, but if you are true to yourself, the day nor the night can contain you,.

Free write

2009-01-10T14:20:00.000-08:00

I've spent some time freewritting since I got back from my break, which if you dont read my personal blog at calebchilders.blogspot.com, then you dont know that I was hiking on the pct for a week, and gained a great depth of inspiration in the mountains. So here is a piece that I'm working on:

How will you ever be free if everything you do is defined by society and its false standards? in order to be free you must expand your mind and rearrange your life for the efforts of good and not the evil you are now commiting, otherwise the life you are living has

no meaning. To be free you must cut every chain. redefine your life and eliminate the society that is so governed by the pursuit of selfishmess and the pointless ramblings made of pure hate and definition of an irate, irresponsible, independant which defiles all that is good, all that is LOVE. Now that you neck has recieved its due pain and ifliction, it is now your duty as an ambbassador of all that is good to reshape life and take what what this wretched "life" has so unrightly taken from us. Fight to end society.

Like a Lilly Among Thorns

2008-12-16T01:21:00.000-08:00

This was a poem I wrote not long ago for a girl. Now I leave it for my future wife, wherever she may be....here is a poem for you, my love, most of it was taken from the Songs of Solomon:

Like a lily among thorns
       is my darling among the maidens.
            My dove in the clefts of the rock,
                        in the hiding places on the mountainside,
                                    show me your face,
                                                let me hear your voice;
                                                            for your voice is sweet,
                                                                        and your face is lovely.

                                                                        How beautiful you are, my darling!
                                                            Oh, how beautiful!
                                                Your eyes are doves.
                                   Your lips are like a scarlet ribbon;
                        your mouth is lovely.
            All beautiful you are, my darling;
there is no flaw in you.

You have stolen my heart, my sister, my bride;
       you have stolen my heart
            with one glance of your eyes,
                        with one jewel of your necklace.
                                    How delightful is your love, my sister, my bride!
                                                How much more pleasing is your love than wine,
                                                            and the fragrance of your perfume than any spice!

                                                      Your lips drop sweetness as the honeycomb, my bride;
                                                milk and honey are under your tongue.
                                    You are a garden locked up, my sister, my bride;
                        you are a spring enclosed, a sealed fountain.
            I have come into my garden, my sister, my bride;
I have gathered my myrrh with my spice.

I have eaten my honeycomb and my honey;
            I have drunk my wine and my milk.
                        And I ask you, my sister, my bride,
                                    Look down from your window seal, see my lonely feet
                                                They traveled all this way to see your face
                                                            To feel the warmth of your embrace.
                                                                        Look out your window, my love.
And I hope that you will see me here.
   Looking back at you.

poetry

2008-12-11T13:20:00.000-08:00

Poetry can be beautiful, if done correctly
it can tear down and rebuild
control and set free
if done correctly.

poetry is free to run,
if you let it.
so STOP HOLDING IT
set it free.

poetry can be beautiful, if done correctly
since you've never tried,
you might hope for an immaculate chance at diction.

don't count on it.
poetry can be beautiful, if done correctly,
just don't blow it for the rest of us

Esperanza

2008-12-10T01:47:00.000-08:00

Sin saber lo que esperar

Ella me llama y me atrae.

Sin saber lo que quiero tener

Ella me quiere

Sin saber mi futuro por un momento

Ella me busca y me encuentra.

Esperanza.

Ahora la tengo por la mano

Y no la quiero soltar

Inesperada

Esperanza.

Quizas te veo manana, quizas no,

Pero nunca te perdere,

Esperanza.

This is the first time I've shared a spanish poem with you guys, so if you want to translate it, be my guest, but I feel that it must stay at this present state. much love,

Caleb

Its been too long.

2008-12-07T21:30:00.001-08:00

Well, the school year has finally caught up to me. I've been tired, constantly writing papers, and studying for tests but I have lost one of the greatest times that I used to have in my day. My time for writing from the heart. Not saying that my schoolpapers arent from the heart...but that is true for the most part. I only have two weeks left. So Im going to try to make sure I make time to dig up some old stories and memories that I have written down. Here is an old idea I played with in my mind for a short story:

Los Angeles.
4 am

The cops come just as it seems that my sleep is actually helping. I never have trouble falling asleep. 5 years on these streets is enough to break anyone. But there is still one thing I have. One thing that they can never take away from me.

music.

it is what keeps my breath alive everyday of this pathetic life. Police Cheif Dodson says that if I would just get off the drugs and get into some rehab my music could really take me somewhere. Problem is, I'm clean. I mean, sure I messed around when I moved out to California and did lose most everything I had because of drugs. But im clean now. Been clean for over a year. But they still tell me to go through their program.

And yet all i see is people going into their programs and coming out just the same, cept that they dont play anymore. My friend Jay went through the program, and they placed him into a drug-infested house within the city limits. He came out of that place without the desire to even touch his guitar. back on the streets with drugs and no music. Now that man is lost. I am not. I know what Im doing.

music.

It is the one thing that drives nations together and nations apart. It unites and seperates. It connects and breaks. But that is what makes my language, namely music, so beautiful.
So i wont go to some program to take it away from me. Ill just sit here the rest of the day and sing Redemption Song. maybe somebody will drop some money in my box so that I can get some food tonight. maybe not. either way I still have

music.

Old School #7

2008-12-01T00:14:00.000-08:00

Hey guys. sorry haven't written in so long. it was a crazy good break. here is an old poem i wrote called democracy:

Fall from above, fall from below

find me in the lone-star grove.

lost in oils and tar

frozen to this lonely bar

poems and peoms

words and words
nothing is left without meaning

everything is meaningless

a loose bird in my head

cookooed and said "hey."
get me out of these chains.

liberty, freedom of speech

and democracy.

color lost

race in the race

black, brown, blue, white.

the toughest thing ill face tonight

is you.

I know whats there and i want it.

it is not mine to desire

Ghost catch me inside of me

I love you.

Poetry

2008-11-24T15:17:00.000-08:00

Well, I recently found myself reading E.E. Cummings, an incredible poet, so I figured i would try his style. See what you think-

Hate.

Love fell in me not too long ago.
I stranded myself from life and humanity
   To see it.
I ran
   To see it.
Consumed by fire perennial love.
Oh
   To
   Joy!
Have you seen my love around?
I left her here
   Or so I thought
That she might be free
Or I not!

   Love
   Is
   A
Tragedy. Should it not?
The world has bowed down before it
Women shout, and men moan for it.
Could this
   Be
   Love?

Or is it another feeling for which despised am i?
For which the cry earth delights?
What worldy scavenger am I
   Is
   That
   Her?
Trailing down the come.
Alas! What auxiliary hope have I,
   To see her.
At my side
   To see her.

Fiery Dreams

2008-11-22T13:12:00.000-08:00

The flames grew in size, and increased my agony. A dream had never felt so real. The pain slowly shot down my spine, a sharp, well-paced pain throughout my body. My eyes could not focus in the blistering heat. My memories slowly returned to me. I saw a flame, burning in the darkness, lost in midst of an unknown wilderness. In the flame a figure aroused my thoughts. A ghost from my past, a face that I should know erected from the flame. Not that of a stranger, but rather my own face shown upon the flame. The thought of my own body engulfed in flames must have been what brought me to this trance. I saw the moments of my life which I cherished most pass before my eyes, but they were over very quickly. My life had been filled with a cloak of negativity, a shadow of pain and sorrow. I was in hell.

Old School #6

2008-11-19T17:11:00.000-08:00

What Satan Did to Me. You know those extremely laid back days that end up being notably one of the worst days of the week....yeah that was my wednesday. But it was good, cause I was able to accomplish alot, just alot of running around. Here is the second part to my story I wrote a couple of days ago. Enjoy...What Satan Did to Me

Many nights I knew this was real, yet attempted to convince my self otherwise, wishing that at daybreak I would still be alive and that the night of which he speaks is not reality. To my dismay, I know today that it existed, a night separated by Satan himself to take my life if I denied to give it to him. I remember nights clearly at when I would awake and smell the burning sulfur. I knew not to turn and look, for behind me lay two beasts, one that would grunt and snort and another who would mess with my electricity. They watched me night after night, waiting for the night that my eyes might be filled with freight at the sight of their faces. I never looked. Many a night they would tap the window or creek the door, and make loud noises to keep me up.
I prayed every night, and sought God to help me. But I didn’t know who God was, and when I would awake, I would deny His existence. He wouldn’t come to my aid at night, He was false to me. Yet every night, I would fall back into that routine, praying and hoping that tonight would be the night that God released me from such torment. No night ever came, until I learned to confess in His name. You see, I never went to church, my father disagreed with God and Jay never cared. That dark man bothered me in my dreams, and frightened me. It wasn’t until the day in plain sight when I saw that very man walk past our gate that I knew my dreams were reality. He walked as if he owned the place, and he circled the house, as if to say, “This is mine, and all that dwell in it”. To this day I never saw his face, but his name I know because I asked him. Alone at night lying in bed I saw him standing at my window watching me sleep. His darkness overwhelmed me. I said to him, “I don’t know who you are and I don’t know what I have done, but please leave me alone, or I’ll get my daddy’s gun.” I felt as if he mocked me, using rhyme and meter to test my intellect in his response: “Nay, I’ll stay. And I will do what I want. I’ll laugh and watch and even taunt. Your daddy’s gun sounds like fun, but can it kill the darkest man alive? Can it take the sting out of the biggest bee-hive? I am he of that no one speaks; He that people fear and the same that others seek. I am the prince of this life and the next, the one who God himself has vexed. I am many names given unto me, Lucifer, Satan, and the Great Adversary. You see at night I watch you sleep and think of what a fine prince you will make me. You see, my lineage runs in your family tree…the night your mother slept with me.”
At the end of his words, away he went, vanishing in the darkness, leaving me alone, and desolate for answers. Was my mother impregnated by the devil himself? Perhaps there is truth behind Jay’s diabolical ways, or worse, that’s the very reason that he watched me. My days carried on in the same way for many a years. Days went by and I wouldn’t see him, but some nights, he would come back and watch me. I never dared to speak to him again. Alone in the house on the 3rd of March, I found myself searching through my heart and mind: Who am I? What is my purpose here? Is it real?
My questions were answered as I stumbled upon the thought of my mother. I went to the cupboard where I knew dad kept all the “mom” stuff, and sure enough, there it was, The Holy Bible. At first I was hesitant on opening it. I always wanted to do this, but was afraid of my father’s reaction. Like a dove descending from heaven, my hand fell upon the perfect pages. I figured, where better to start then at the beginning. Genesis 1. I knew that God existed, I knew that He created everything, but it didn’t change my situation. So I skipped forward a couple books and I got to the Psalms. Why was this man praising God, I mean, can God really be that great, look at my family.
I finally decided that there are two parts, and the first part didn’t help, so I figured I could try the second, the New Testament. Here I found all the comfort I needed in a man named Jesus Christ. This man seemed very nice. The Bible even called him the Son of God. I figured, if only I can find this guy and talk to him. I figured I had read enough and put the old dusty Bible back in the cupboard. I said nothing to my father and my brother, and continued the day as if nothing had ever happened. That night the strangest thing happened…
Satan came to see me, but for the first time ever he stayed outside. I felt as if somebody was in the room with me, saying, “Its ok, I am here.” I began to think to myself: “Who is this man that can hold the very devil from entering my room?” And as if he had heard me say this, he responded, “I AM is here.” I didn’t understand. If this is truly someone great, why can’t they speak proper English? But it was only until later that I began to understand what that meant.
I AM, as in the great I AM. YHWH, Jehovah. God himself. I never thought that the presence of God could dwell on this earth. I was wrong. He is here. He is among us. He rules over us. He loves us. That night changed my life and the struggle for it as well. The fight for my soul began, and everything seemed like tiny grains of sand compared to my God and the fight that was before me.

Missing Home

2008-11-18T17:08:00.000-08:00

I wrote a poem for Skid Row several weeks back. I go back on Friday, cant wait to meet up with old friends and just chat.

I miss it.
The street sounds.
the smiling faces.
even the occasional scolding for being a white guy.
I miss it.
I miss their stories,
I miss their tears.
God, I miss them all

The smell, the taste, the everything.
The laughs, the cries, and things that make you wonder why
Why do I have more than them?
They live life as if in an abyss.
Their life seemingly passes, thin as mist.
Streets cracked, and buildings tall.
yet broken hearts choose the stone walls.
They wont move lest you help them.

Feed them, bathe them, bed them.

But there is so much more than just that.
Their hearts wish to be full again,
they wish to make their amends.
So today I cry and I pray for them
hoping a second chance may pass today,
that they might leave this evil place

More will come, I know this.
I love them all and wish to care for them
so much more to cry to show it.
Please shed a tear with me
and let us end this American tyranny.

Old School #5 I believe...

2008-11-17T00:59:00.000-08:00

Well, it was a long and much busier weekend than I had hoped for. But here we are, past midnight, and having to get up at 7 tommorow, but I know I need to write something now, cause I dont know when I'll be home tommorow. This is an old Story I began to write, which I will continue to write as time goes on, I am sure of it. But here is the first section I am going to give you:

What Satan did to me.

The sun fell upon my eyes like a whitewash fence in a thunderstorm.
“Tim, get in the house! Now!”
I had only been out for a minute, but it seemed like an eternity. My brother Jay chased them off as I lay in the street, bleeding and squirming with pain.
“Get up Tim.” Jay’s voice always sounded the same. There was such a monotone and indistinct care or appreciation in his voice. He always did this. These guys had followed me home every day since I was five. The first time it happened I just gave them my lunch money and they left me alone. Then they figured out that they could get it from me every time, that is, until my elder brother Jay decided to get off his lazy butt and taunt the boys. Jay was a bigger fellow, 6’4, 200 pounds to be precise. Not your average high school junior to say the least. I hear kids say that going to high school with your brother sucks, but not Jay, with Jay things were different. Jay never talked, he never laughed…he never had any friends. You see, Jay was diagnosed with Cancer 6 years ago. Everyone says it’s a miracle of God that he is still alive. Others think that the devil is keeping him alive to do his dirty work.
I know my brother Jay, and I love him. Sometimes he can be pretty pushy, other times he can be the greatest older brother anyone could ask for. If you ask me, I think it’s the drugs. When he was first diagnosed he began to take drugs heavily to try and O.D. Perhaps God is keeping him alive for a big reason. Who is God anyways? I always refer to him. I always hear about him in the news, and my dad quite often uses His name in vain. I wonder what mom thought of God. From what I know my mother was a very devout Catholic, and a loving wife and mother. I don’t remember because after I was born my father killed her. During and argument he pushed her into the stove, where she cracked her skull, and because of my fathers drunkenness, was left there to bleed out for hours till she died.
People always think I’m heartless, they often say, “How can you refer to your mother’s death so calmly?” Easy, I know my father. I never met my mother, and I grew up in a neighborhood where killing seemed second nature, and wiser than many other alternatives. The streets are narrow and the houses dark. The only light left on in the night is where the partying happens, that is until someone gets killed. The reason I write this to you is not so that you can learn about the ghettos of Santa Cruz, but to tell you the story of my encounter with God. Or should I say, my encounter with Satan, which led to my newfound faith.
I always had nightmares as a kid. Always thought I saw people walking through my house. I often spoke to them, and they responded. It wasn’t until after I found God that I understood who these people were and what they represented. When I was very young I had a reoccurring dream of a man dressed in black coming through the back door of my house, coming to get me. He would come into my room and lay down beside me. I would never move, afraid of what he would do to me. Some nights I did, and to my surprise, I stepped outside of my body and looked upon myself being held by this dark man, and I could not awaken my family. I would try to roll my body over to awaken from this dream. I would try to scream for my dad or for Jay to come and tell me its ok. Some nights the words came out, and the man would leave. Other nights he would stay, and whisper in my ear the darkest words that would rein my life unto this day: “If behind this mask you seek, you will find me, humble and meek. And in the night and dreary hours, I will take you to devour; to eat of flesh and glorious meat, to feast on saints and rosary. In this night that you come to me, I will give you righteous treats. I’ll take your life away from thee if indeed you deny to concede.”

Old School #4/story time

2008-11-13T08:54:00.000-08:00

Well, I began to dig through my old work and I found another book that I never finished, so I figured I would start posting it on here. So here is the first part of DEMONOLOGIA. I wrote this about 2 years ago,

DEMONLOGIA

My eyes fell to the ground. “Why’d you do it?” The detective’s words trailed off in my thought process. Detective, yeah right. More like a country hick that caught a lucky break. Imbecile.
“We discovered the weapon, we saw you over the body. We know it was you, so why won’t you admit to the crime?”
My silence irritated him. I was loving every minute of it. The weapon wasn’t mine, but it sure worked well, didn’t it? It sliced well, definitely diced well. Ha-ha, oh the moments. I know you may be thinking, “Why am I reading this? Who is this freak?” if there were an easier question, it would have gnawed at your brain. I’m your next door neighbor. I’m the little snotty kid down the street. I’m your uncle Thomas. I’m whoever you want me to be, because you must understand, anyone can be me, and I can be anyone. You weak links call it possession, but I like to think of it as…as, exaltation, you know? I’m using a half-link to create and destroy. In essence I make you feel like God! And yet you treat me as if I am a criminal. Doesn’t matter, soon enough I’ll just leave, find someone else to exalt. Ungrateful half-links! Your minds are but pawns, lying in the midst of our playtime…and we love chess. Can’t you see, we work for you, not against you? Out of the millions, they choose me as a tool of “revelation”. You would think the king of darkness would know better to put me on this assignment. Maybe I can be like the great Opemdium and convince one of you half-links that you are a prophet. You look at me as if I’m a fool, but do you not realize how many millions have fallen for this trick? Daily you consider yourselves greater than God. HA! We try to give you a taste of it, and you whimper out! The so-called prophets of your time enjoyed these very meals of god-likeness. Look back to the beginning! Adam and Eve! Did you not see the revelation given to them when they ate the fruit that the Great Serpent offered unto them? How much greater can be the revelation if you feast on his knowledge? Ah but life is too short for you half-links walking upon the earth. In all my years of existence, from the time I left the temple of God to feed upon the future death of earth, I have never seen such a beautifully filthy society. And yet, you still retain your stupid laws and imprison beautiful artists.
“Why don’t you speak?”
The detective continued to ramble on random facts about the crime…as if I don’t know the picture I painted. The great thing is just watching his face swell up with frustration…oh it’s so great! The agony of defeat seems to be getting to him. I love the fact that cops always lie, haven’t you noticed. He knows I was there, he saw me over the body, they know its me…but I have to admit to the crime. Ha-ha. The nonsense you half-links come up with is just so amusing. I have to admit, the complexity that you give the simple things of life are so far-off, so hopeless.
The small metal door slammed behind Detective Frost.
Frost had too many questions that couldn’t be answered.
“James Dutefields.” The voice of the new recruit was so shy and nervous; Frost just about smacked him for his input.
“Thanks.” Frost uttered the words in the middle of his thought pattern. “The psychologist says it has to be split personalities. There is no other explanation.”
Frost stood for a moment as if ready to explode. “He’ll get off on insanity.” As he walked away, Frost threw his files to the floor.

One week earlier.

“James, get in here right now!” Mother’s voice was unmistakable.
“Yeah mom, what is it?” I was obviously nervous, he knew she knew.
“Your girlfriends have to stop coming over here so late at night.”
Maybe she didn’t know.
“Mom, I don’t have a girlfriend.”
“Well, somebody was in here last night.”
Yep. She knew. I hate mind games, why couldn’t she just say what she had called me in for.
“They broke your father’s vase.”
Dad had lived a hard life. Everyday he worked 9 to 5, and when he got home he would cook supper for us, since mom always worked nights at the diner. One night, my father came home, and there was a man waiting for him outside. I stood at the window, waiting for him to come in. I used to stand on my brothers shoulders so that I could see him when he crossed the street. But this night was different. He stopped and talked to this man standing on the corner. Dad always took the bus. Mom took the car. The guy pulled something out of his shirt.
It was a gun.
He shot my father right then and there, on the corner of Madison and Oak. I saw it all. Ever since then, my mom won’t let us talk to strangers, and hardly ever lets us leave the house.
“Mom, I promise you, there was nobody here. I was walking through here last night to get some water, and I must have knocked it over.”
I knew it was a weak argument, but I couldn’t tell her the truth. For some reason last night, I found myself standing over my father’s ashes, the vase broken. I know I broke it, but I have never had a problem sleepwalking. Still, mom could never know this. With her superstitions, she would probably say some spirit did it to tell us a story. Mom has always been crazy like that. Even when dad was alive, she would tell him, make sure you pray tonight, otherwise they will come for you. One night when I was about 8, my dad forgot to pray, and there was a break-in that night. Ever since, my mother was convinced that it was the lack of praying that brought the thieves.
“What have you done with your fathers ashes?”
“I have them in a bag, mom; I swept them up last night. I was going to get a new vase today.”
“But you haven’t.” Her voice was sharp and sunk deep into my patience.
“Mom, I’m going right now, ok?”
“You better get a move on it.” Mothers can be so tedious at times. At least she didn’t kill me for breaking the vase. Why do we keep my fathers ashes anyways, it never made any sense to me in the first place. We should throw them into the sea at least.

---Come back so that you can read more---

CAleb

Old School #3

2008-11-13T01:09:00.000-08:00

Here is a poem I wrote while reflecting on E.E. Cummings, one of the greatest poets of all time. Enjoy my old thoughts,

Seek.

My eyes fought the sun. What dreary a day when my eyes run away.
My feetscream hope mountain beaches and sandy rocks.
But my heart calls for you, wherever you are, it calls for you.
My nose sniffs the smells of small southern cuisine. Oh what a smell that calms my every scream.

Wednesday

2008-11-13T01:02:00.000-08:00

Although it is technically Thursday, I havent slept yet so its wednesday to me. I was so busy today that I never had time to write something for you guys so I'm going to share some "not so old" stuff. This is something I wrote reflecting on the people walking by me as a sat on the streets of downtown L.A.

They walk without knowing where the path ends.
What they call freedom, God condems.
Chained to the world with shackles of lies, they've made
such riches in the midst of their poverty.
They have never been free.

Engulfed in thoughts of sexuality, men chase
after dreams that were never meant to be.
Flying above the clouds, all we have here
are memories.
Forget who you are, be who you were meant to be.

Old School #2

2008-11-11T22:52:00.000-08:00

Digging up some old memories before I head off to bed:

Sometimes I just stare into the black of night, and wonder
What is the darkness trying to hide?
But all of my lifes mislead, countless emotions hanging by a tiny thread. I dont know where I belong.
I dont know where I wanna go, I just know one thing is real;
He is the one that taught me how to feel. My eyes in distress, my life is a mess, and all I can think is
"Why'd you die for this?"

Long Day

2008-11-11T18:38:00.000-08:00

Such a long day today. My heart beat at my chest, "Let me out of this place!" I was so tired of class. But its all good. I just got dinner and now I'm home. At 6:40. Man. Nobody told me college was this fun....Haha. Its all good. Life is about learning. Today, sitting in a philosophy class I thought up this short poem,

At the door he stood patiently.
"It is your time to come with me."
He smiled and reached out his cold hand.
Should I go with him?
It is not yours to make this choice.
Soclimbaboard.
This ship is leaving now and I'm on it.
Mine is the choice to make say that one might,
Cept I'm on this ship and I never even wanted

A ticket.

Old School.

2008-11-10T15:38:00.000-08:00

Part of this project is to drag out old stuff I've writen to see how my writing has developed, or even the stuff I've writen in the past that may have been ahead of its time. The following is the First segment of "Old School", it is a poem I wrote titled: "the dark Knight." (Note: this was way before batmans version!)

I knew that I would find you here.
In this darK Knight I wait.
Searching for an answer
To my own vast array.
Sitting here so patiently
Hoping You
will know the Way.
I've come to discuss my plan
of learning to live again.

I sit and watch the tide pass
and even the moon hides its face.
The aliens inside of me
pushing foward on my time
and my eternal resting place
Im trying to find you
But the knight wont keep his hands
OFFOFME!

What More, But Love

2008-11-09T22:14:00.000-08:00

Well. What more should start off a new creative writing blog but the biggest topic in the world: Love. Here is a poem I wrote, maybe you might enjoy it.

Look to Find.
---I saw you once, well twice, I have to admit. But then I realized that I was looking too closely. Staring into eyes that were not yours. I ask your pardon for the things I have done apart from you, but the truth is, I have never stopped waiting for you. Always hoping for the day when my eyes would meet yours. When your quiet smile would awaken a shout in my silent heart. Your lips make the sounds of the heavens; angels fall to hear the songs of your heart. And yet I cannot stop singing for my joy is overflowing in poems. Poetry of love lost now found, happiness in a sad world. Controlled by love my mind tends to ponder thoughts of you, thoughts of a life spent together in the quiet night of Gods storyline. The screenplay of a movie so great that it lasts my entire lifetime. Oh, what it would be to have children with your heart…that would fulfill mine. The moon comes out at night only to cast light on your eyes. At least this is the only purpose I see for the moon, just like the moon you light up my night. I love you. Where are you, because my heart screams it is lonely. God, guide me to the woman of my dreams, that I may find comfort, love, honesty, joy, happiness, and a sense of fulfillment in her. Thank you lord for being loyal to me even when I fall away. I await the arrival of the most beautiful woman in the world. Thank you Lord,

Your servant.

Come one, come all!

2008-11-09T21:20:00.000-08:00

The lasting words from the circus' of earlier times carry on in our memory, even though people from many generations were not even present when it was first used. Welcome to Mind Blogeling. If it is your first time here, please make sure you "follow" that way you wont get lost when multiple stories begin to arise. This is a blog dedicated to one thing. The insane ravings of a college students' creative writing. For years I have been writing, and never thought it could get me anywhere. Then I thought, "Hey
MAybe
SOMEBODy
ELSE
MigHT
EnJOY
My writing."
Just maybe... see it, shall we?
I'll start posting some of my stories up here so you guys can follow along. But first things first. I have been writing a story for several weeks now and posting it on my other blog, but i am transporting it here on a magical carpet ride(great song!..). So if you start in Chapter 4...Make sure you go back and read 1-3. Enjoy yourself and let your brain out of its cage, that imagination may roam free in great meadows of transcendental thought.

Caleb