1...2...3... Time To Jump

I used to swim all the time. 

Like, literally all the time. Every weekday, in fact. This was when I was in Jr College in Salinas. It was cold, and it rained. You could smell the ocean sometimes, on a foggy morning. I didn't always want to go swimming. It wasn't always the weather for it. Every morning though, every morning, I would look into that pool. Hesitating for just a moment, I counted to three, took a deep breath, and jumped in. The water was freezing at first, but then I got used to it, and could swim all day. 

That was all it ever was. A deep breath, count to three, and then jump. I always got used to whatever it felt like. 

I've been standing at the edge of the pool for quite some time now, looking in. I haven't been swimming so much. I'm not used to the abrupt change. The cold, the fog in the air surrounding me.

It's time to leap in.

I don't want the change. It scares me. I'd rather be dry, and have the same old things surround me. Why can't I wrap a towel around myself and go inside, without ever getting wet? It's been so good up here, on the deck. I knew I couldn't stay up here forever, but why does it have to end now? I guess I'll never know the answer to those questions. All I can know is that my body needs exercise, and I already dressed up for a swim. There is only one step left now, and I know what it is.

 Count to three. Deep breath. Jump.

I'm moving. To a place where it's not always the weather for swimming. Where you can smell the ocean in the air sometimes.

Things I See That Make Me Wish I Lived In Canada

 

Eight year old boys

with sunglasses

sipping on Starbucks coffee.

 

Morbidly obese women

Chattering

Gossiping

ordering

a double

cheeseburger with large

French fries

and

a

diet coke.

42 ounces, of course,

to make sure

that greasy burger slides

all the way down their throats.

 

Fat people

Who think that

Those in

Undeveloped countries

Are

starving because

They don’t work

as hard

as we do,

Otherwise they’d have

As much food

as we

have

access to.

 

People passing by

homeless, hungry

men on

the street,

muttering quietly

about the downfall of

the economy,

while on their way

out of the

toy store,

or,

Starbucks coffee.

 

Forever 21

and

Limited

Too, producing

increasingly

sluttier clothing

while

everyone else is

desperately

trying to find

a way to reduce

teen

pregnancy.

 

A woman

talking on her cell phone,

smoking,

holding

an umbrella

while

trying

to ride

her bicycle.

Sipping on Starbucks coffee.

Safety Pins and Mismatched Socks

I had a meeting today with Cathy. Cathy works for an advertising agency in Fullerton. Cathy thinks I'm a videographer and audio technician, because I told her I was one. This week was about putting up a false front. "Fake it 'till you make it," as Sean would say. Or, "Act as if," As Sean's brother Mike would say. 

Step one: pretend you've got your shit together.

Step two: get your shit together.

My shit, this morning, was held together loosely, if at all. I sat in the meeting room of DSYL Advertising, intimidated by the ornately carved Buddha in the corner, and giant print on the far wall displaying a quote by T.S. Eliot.

I am one of the lesser known Elliotts. There's T.S. Eliot, then Pete's Dragon, followed by that kid from E.T., then my father, my uncle, my older brother, my cousins, and me. I'm sure there are some others that fit in between, but I'm definitely near the bottom at this point. I hear there's a writer named Stephen Elliott in San Francisco. He writes erotic political fiction. I hope Cathy hasn't heard of him. I might not be erotic enough for her.

I'm here because of my false front. I know I don't belong. I made up a business, and printed up fake business cards with materials I bought at office max. I drew a little picture of a polar bear leaning up against a brick wall, and put it on there. I stayed up until three AM to do that. Loosely held together. I wondered if Cathy would notice that all my clothes were from the Goodwill. Or that one of my socks was black and the other white. I prayed against the cuff of my pants riding up at all to reveal my secrets. My false front. I've always been somewhere between black and white. D id anyone know that my sweater was too big, and that I had hemmed it with safety pins last night? Professionals don't do that. Professionals spend more than 5 dollars on a sweater. Professionals buy sweaters that fit them.

I don't belong here and I know it. I'm living on pins and mismatched socks. It's like the prayer I said this morning. If I succeed, it is because God has blessed me to go forward. If I fail, it is because he has cursed me in that direction, and wants me to go somewhere else. I'm nothing but a false front, but today was bigger than me, today was about someone who knew me to be false from the start, and loved me into legitimacy. To this great love that surpasses all hate, that gives peace that surpasses all understanding, I am indebted. I owe it my life, and even that is insufficient, but we'll start there. We'll see if art can be made from my loosely held together shit.

You know me better than I know myself. To know you is all I want.

"For I know the plans I have made for you, says the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future."

-I am ashamed for all the times I doubt his ability to provide for me.

I Want To Be Somebody's Bitch

My friend Terence has a dog. Itzy is her name. 

He brought her to Bible study tonight. 

It's interesting to see how people love on pets. Everyone was petting her, scratching behind her ears, letting her sit on their lap. Terence even picked her up and hugged her, holding her right up to his face. She was licking him, and she even bit a few people (lightly) on the hand. No one cared though. It was as if her behavior had no bearing on how much she was loved. 

What if we treated human beings like that? It's not like we're any less lovable. Less hairy maybe, less cute, definitely, but not less lovable. 

I wish I was a dog, and people smiled at me and scratched me behind my ears when they saw me. I think I would eat dog food for that.

(edit two days later): 

I've changed my mind. Humans aren't that loveable. I just wish I could find someone who's not loveable, who would love me right back, even though I'm not so loveable myself.

Mild Mannered

My seventeen year old brother is quite popular with businessmen and prostitutes.

I was home this weekend for my sister's wedding , of which I can say with a slight bias, it was one of the most beautiful ceremonies I have ever seen. I had to read a poem in the middle of it, and I was afraid I would start to cry. You all can ask me about that later (It's not what I'm here to talk about). The best part about Sarah's wedding was getting to go home, and see my family. Especially my brother, Timmy. It was not easy growing up with Timmy as a little brother. He can be quite the pain in the ass from time to time (By "ass," of course, I mean democrat). I love him though, and he grew up to be quite an interesting person. He's got a great life in Salinas. A great relationship with his family, an awesome girlfriend, the ability to drive stick shift, and has the distinct honor of being one of the top 50 rock climbers in the nation. 

There's more to him than that though.

My father went to one of the meat markets he designed the day I got home. He needed some meat for the rehearsal dinner we were having at our house the next day. The man who owned the place was having difficulty paying for my father's services, so he was taking his payment in chicken and steak. Dad grabbed Timmy before he left and said that the butcher wanted to meet him.  Timmy just shrugged it off, and went along. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened. When Dad and Tim arrived at the meat market, the manager emphatically shook Timmy's hand and gave him his business card. "I've heard all about you, and what you're doing," he said. "If you ever need anything, give me a call. I want to help."

I've always thought my brother could do anything. I felt like his dreams for himself were too small. He doesn't want to go to college. He wants to join the police academy, so that he can fulfill his lifelong dream of being a police officer. Maybe it's just my own personal feelings about the police, but I just always thought my little brother could do better than that. Like, he could probably be the real Batman. He's passionate about justice, he's got good eye-hand coordination, he's good at climbing walls. All he need is funding. If we could somehow get him to a planet with a weaker gravitational pull than our sun, he could probably be Superman. He would make a good Superman, flying around in circles, picking up people that fall off of buildings, pulling cats out of trees and the like. I still don't understand why my little brother wants to be a cop when he could be Superman.

As much time as he spends there, you'll never catch Timmy in the rock climbing gym on a Monday night. On that night, he, his girlfriend, and another kid from their high school youth group are in downtown south Salinas, in one of the most dangerous areas to be. They spend their night at Dorothy's Kitchen, a local soup kitchen, preparing a custom meal for the people in the women's shelter that is housed there. It's just the three of them. They were brought to Dorothy's by some adult leaders in their church, trying to "teach the kids how to serve the poor." The adults are long gone. Only the three of them remain. They know these women that come in by first name. They know what kind of food they like, and what their dietary needs are. Each week, Timmy and his friends prepare a meal for the homeless the same way a mother prepares a meal for her children. With those who are eating it in mind. They sit, they cook, and eat with them like family. I think Tim really gets what family is. I just don't know how to put it any other way.

You can't walk the streets of Salinas without seeing somebody that Timmy knows personally. The people we try to ignore. He knows their names. He waves back to them, and says "See you Monday." 

That's the thing I forget about dreams.

I have often thought that success was having a good job, a well adjusted family, a good relationship with God and ...being creative. I don't know, something like painting as a hobby. Given that definition, you can't be very successful as a Cop in Salinas. I didn't realize that that's not what my brother is. He is like Jesus, in more ways than I can say with good conscience that I am.

A few weeks ago, my brother was talking about what he does with one of the elders of my church. "Oh yeah, Dorothy's Kitchen," he said. "My wife and I used to go there, but I can't handle it anymore. I got propositioned by a prostitute the last time I was there." With one sentence, Timmy turned the world upside down and turned this elder, this church leader, this great teacher, into a student, while he became the teacher. "Yeah," he smiled. "Those people are my friends."

My brother. Mild mannered high school student. Jesus to the prostitutes and butchers of Salinas. Superman.

Broken Bodies

I went to the grocery store today. I really didn't even need to go, I just felt like getting out of the house, and I'm making pesto for my Bible study tomorrow, so I figured I would just go and pick up the extra ingredients I needed and then come back and write all day. That's kind of what I do these days. I suppose I'm getting used to it. Things like this always happen once I'm comfortable. I was coming out of the grocery store, when I was approached by a man and an elderly woman. I could tell what they wanted just by looking at them. The man, who said his name was Robert, told me about how he had just gotten out of the hospital, and needed to care for his mother (her name was Nina) who also had some health problems. He showed me his foot, which was swollen and red, so much so that he could not fit it entirely inside his shoes, which were falling apart. He swore to me several times that neither of them were addicted to drugs or alcohol, and asked if I could help them get something to eat. I hesitated. I always hesitate. It's my defining characteristic. I tried to offer them some of my groceries, but Robert said that his mother couldn't chew anything but soft food. I reluctantly asked him where I could get them some food. He asked me if I had any change. I told him I didn't. Only the card. I lied. I just can't trust people, but I still wanted to help. He told me to go across that street to the Carls Jr. "We live there," he said. "We're homeless." I offered him a ride, given the state of his foot, I thought he could use it. "We'll walk there," he said. With that he left. I watched him walk over there, gently taking his mother's arm, limping across the street. I drove over to the other side of the street, where they passed out of my view. I wondered how they could actually live there, since the restaurant was on the corner, and there didn't seem to be any alleyways or places they could hide for the night. I couldn't see where they went. Then I saw it. Robert pushed open the door to the dumpster on the side of the restaurant. That was their home. They lived by the dumpster. I began to see them differently. We walked inside, and I stood in line to get some food, while Robert went to sit his mother down at one of the tables. He then went and stood by me, and told me what he and his mother wanted for food. I asked him about his foot. He told me that he was on his way to the hospital to have it checked up on again, but if he didn't get the medicine he needed, the doctors said he might lose his leg. I have no idea what that must feel like. After ordering the food, I went over to the table, where Nina was sitting. Robert said he needed to wash his hands, and asked if I could watch his mother for a while. I agreed. She asked me what my name was. I could hear in her voice that it was painful for her to breathe. I told her my name and put my hand out to shake hers. She did not even move hers. It was at that point that I realized why her son had to direct her everywhere she went. She was blind. "It's nice to meet you," she said, with great effort. "I'm sorry I can't see you." I could see every rib in her chest as she struggled to breathe. She told me about her condition. Athsma. I had never seen it this bad before. She said that the inhaler cost $13.00, but she couldn't afford it. I had a little money in my pocket, minus my tithe, which I forgot to put in the offering plate this Sunday. I gave her what I had. I know I tell people all the time (just said this to someone yesterday, actually) to never give out money to the homeless, but I suspended my beliefs for a moment. I started to think about what it would take for someone to survive in this state. A blind woman living behind a dumpster with her son, neither of them able to find the money for medication they need to live. I asked Nina and Robert if I could pray for them. They smiled and said yes. I prayed my most feeble prayer, without much hope for Robert and Nina. How can I dare hope? I watched them leave. I almost cried as I thought about the two of them. No hope in the world, and nothing to hold onto except each other. This is a strange world we live in, where I can call myself poor, and yet there are people who live beside dumpsters, as though they were trash. I thought about my tithe, and how I had been taught from a young age to give to the church, and let God have the first fruits of our harvest. What good could be done with that money, and yet we use it for the new building fund. For a brand new sound system. For snacks for the monday night Bible studies, where people who can afford to eat far more than is healthy come to stuff their fat faces once again. I don't know what Robert might feel like, but I know that I belong to a body that does not function as it should. I'm afraid of what might happen if we don't heal soon. We might lose more than a few body parts. "Remember me in your prayers," Robert said as he walked out the door. "I don't know any other way we're going to get through this." What else do I have to offer besides this? So I am praying. Praying for two broken bodies, and the body that was formed out of brokenness. I pray for healing, and by God, I pray that I remember.

Difficult to Swallow Bible Verses

There's some interesting things in this book. Ironic, I think it is that some of the most adamant thumpers/belt carriers don't bother to read it before using it as a weapon. Here are some of my favorite verses that run contrary to popular theology. Enjoy, all you soapbox evangelists, you writers of gospel tracts, you door-to-door Jesus connoisseurs. I hope you end up utterly confused. That, I think, is the first step to real faith.

Isaiah 9:6 (a certain part is often removed from this verse to accommodate Christmas cards)

For unto us a child is born,

Unto us a son is given,

And the government will be on his shoulders.

And he shall be called Wonderful Counselor,

Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Ecclesiastes 7:16-18

Do not be over righteous, neither be over wise-why destroy yourself? Do not be over wicked and do not be a fool-why die before your time? It is good to grasp at one, and not let go of the other. The man who fears God will avoid all extremes.

Matthew 25: 41-46

Then he will say to those on his left, "Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the Devil and his angels. For I was hungry, and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty, and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you didn't invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison, and you did not look after me." They will answer "Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison and did not help you?" He will reply "I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these you did not do for me." Then they will go away into punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.

Romans 9:20-21

Who are you, a mere human being, to argue with God? Should the thing that was created say to the one who created it "Why have you made me like this?" When a potter makes jars out of  clay, doesn't he have the right to use the same lump of clay to make one jar for decoration, and another to throw garbage into?

These are some of my favorites. Many more where that came from. Just send me a comment if you want to hear a few more. Or, just read the Bible. There's a thought. 

Another thought: The bible= over a hundred verses about money management. 2 verses about homosexuality. Which one should be a priority?