carla

i remember the 8th grade, paper letters to carla, and how careful i was to craft them; afraid of saying too much for fear i'd be stuck, dark, nervous, frantic, waiting on the mail for relief, hoping what i had written would be well received, knowing the earth turned slowly and that an out of town football game might soon well come before her sweet, pale yellow perfumed correspondences. it was 20 miles from clarksville to ozark. we would kiss behind the band buses and she would talk about my letter. she was kind. and even if we'd said everything there was to say there in ozark, she always always wrote back.

jP 15.13.Y1

considering birds

Last night at coffee, Paul Dewayne said it was the ritual he was addicted to not the activity of puffing smoke. Jack walked by and we visited a moment. I remembered how we are not alone. I remembered the Fall and my deciduous choices.
When you speak out loud you offer the opportunity for correction and reproving, refining and redefining. The world does not conform itself to the flats of solitude. It pours itself thru that glass very darkly and only in the globe of warmth and rebuke can that mirrored reflection finally stand beside you and hold light.
I walked to my car and thought about design and what holds true about God's reasons to daily rescue me. Still why would he? And how? I drove home. And then, I looked on the sofa table and heard the sound of my own voice. A ritual. He can use a ritual.
Before bed, buddy and I walk out the front door most evenings and do a quick business in the yard. The rain and sleet were especially cold two nights ago while Nashville continued to make up its weather never-you-mind. I noticed the flowers blooming in the yard. They were goners. My heart loved them went out to them and i wanted them with me in the spring of my own house. There was no time to put on my coat. And now, they will live a week in this window, God's very heart for me is realized and revered in my own compassion for the mere, and today we are blooming, rescued and alive.

jP 14.28.o13

building the fleet with my nephew, i thought: if you wanna build something, anything, first go back and start with a paper airplane. go slow, fold on purpose and thumb the corners like you mean them; like you love them; like you lose time touching a face or sitting in an open field. ease the creases as they line up, and gently marry the seems. breathe and breathe life into your work and everything worth building after that should carry the self-same similitude.
hold the weight of this in earnest and nothing will finally become nothing; the thing of value will find fervor; and salt will never again be wasted on fruitless endeavors.

jP 14.21.o13

(photo by jP 14.20.o13)

#onethingaday

A Row of Trees

There is the sun; back there somewhere,
in rain today and a world of refracted-grey light
and Nashville is covered in filters.

Martins are as black as Memphis
and everything is an illusion and a silhouette.

What is it about quiet that looks so much like still pictures?
What is it that draws me out of my stone and puts me forward in,
being to the middle of it just as black?

My perception of myself is only my own.
The tree falls and no one hears.

jP 14.10.o13

the excerpt of a letter

the excerpt of a letter

what is it to "make" something? do "they" know? can they tell me the limits of a man's creation? what if i were a singer and i built a chair? would that make me a carpenter? not necessarily but maybe i'm a carpenter who sings. maybe i am neither and they are confused by the smell of oil and spirits and tobacco. how well do they know? what is an artist?

they've been saying recently, "he's moved into the production end of music." did i? and God in all his wisdom has moved into hurricanes and earthquakes?

do they know the chair i build is only a piece of the catalogue; the song i sing only a piece of the same; the record i produce for another is framed in gold leaf and the painting i pour life into will only feed another epic poem? are they limiting me; limiting divinity; limiting the story?

do they know that what i do i do only unto God, and what i'm given to do only pieces along that path? surely. but surely if they loved me... should they partake in all of it? hmm. its funny, they. 5 records now. they act as if they own them all, and yet the faucet drips.

what if my head is simply down like some mad van gogh? and when the muse is dead, perhaps there will be 2700 pieces of catalogued work. perhaps they will sell me and at pauper auctions. perhaps they'll burn the dog-eared corners. they do already. perhaps then, not. regardless, the paint runs thick.

do they know i am only given one turn at living?
jP 22.11.o12



(photo perry hagopian o4)

brother

i love him brother, boy i loved him. he was mine and like a twin, and we held hands in sunlight. birds knew us alone and skates flung away the sight of us. we were terror and fright and eventide and joy! boys! we were boys! what a man would forget? what a man for the love of a sorrow? what a man for the foundation of blood? my twin! my darling, my kin lies with her now, and i sleep like rain grows lively for the coming storms. jP N.14o12

sabbath

so, sabbath rest. yes, that was yesterday. then what is today for? today is for gathering. gathering of family and hearts and like minds and starting the first day of the week off with a bang; getting ramped up and remembering who your God is and who is at the center of everything you put your hand to.

me, come 2 sunday, i love siesta. then after its show time. my domestic work day starts at three and i kick ass until around 7. laundry and cleaning, laying out and organizing and getting ready for Monday; what the rest of the world calls day one. check this out. I kid you not, i haven't had a manic monday in years because i don't wake up monday morning behind. my week started sunday. but come friday, first star, start again, and be done. the discipline to leave it until sunday is the offering.

take sabbath seriously. its for you. then watch sunday turn into something hopeful and productive. when monday rolls around, you will not miss a beat. promise. and all you evangelicals out there, get below Gregory. dude's whacked!

jP oc7o12b

(photo jP sept o12)