The lord bankrupted heaven for our bodies to be the price?
Who have the first fruits of the spirit the redemption of our bodies
So not only has sin affected the ground that we walk on but we ourselves we who have been
adopted feel sin in our own bodies
Because of sin
We are not exempt we are not delivered from our broken bodies when we become
Supervising a church group if you couldn’t tell. I have been practicing typing and this guy in front of me like absolutely hates it. My little tippy typing ain’t affecting ur connection with the lord my brother.
I keep having these moments where I feel like my only existence is right now, but not in the way I want it to. If anything, I am living in the past and future, squatting in the present’s apartment. And they never do their dishes.
And I hate that every christian group always says the same thing about feeling god in the room –– that I of little faith will be proven blasphemous in the emotional confrontation of Him. But like bro, of course I felt something, you just gave me the freedom to stop weighing the finitude of my existence. And like these values can be applied to any faith system, why the one that upholds violence and horrific enforcement of oppressive tradition?
Thank you God for that.
This morning I went on a run with Mary from work and absolutely embarrassed myself. I am akin to a flailing rat and a baby jack sparrow while running. But I did 2.5 miles, with a 13 minute time. Just like middle school all over again. I threw up on the way home too.
I met god and he told me to quit cigarettes.
On the road again. September had me fill up her tires. We have 12 hours of conversation to make.
We’re chasing the sunset. Beating it.
I had something to say but the trees are too much. The change in pastel on the skyline. Feeling the weight of words.
An old trucker came up to me buying zyns. He tried to get my attention but I thought he was talking to the cashier. He followed me to the Arby’s and got it again.
He told me when he was young, in college, soon after the invention of the wheel. He went to a hospital one night. The bell rang from a room. No attendant in sight. He peaked his head in. A young man laid in the white. He smiled cheerily. He coughed off black. Black as the condiment dispensers. He came back weeks later, asking about the man. He had died, he told me. I smiled at the man. Told him I understood. That this was harm reduction. He told me God was with me, if I let him in. I thanked him. Provided a fist bump. Ran back to September. We turned back to the highway. I felt God in that man's headset.
Closing my eyes on the turns. I wince and September tells me it’s ok.
I’ll always have your turned lip.
At Level Up. $3 beers taste like water. Everybody knows, somehow. I feel eyes in my back. I shouldn’t have told Dylan. I told Joe and he says he doesn’t judge me but he does. I can tell. I’m overthinking, September would say. I should just be happy. She’s right. I remember seeing this half empty bar with contempt. Now I come with joy. $3 beers taste like water.
I wonder how long until I become one of those writers who makes their city their anchor: Oh, Los Angeles….the city full of angels…and just one devil.
I am chopped at stories. Almost positive the barista was mean to me because I look so chopped.
But anyway, throw all that away. I believe I have noticed something.
I drank a small bottle of kratom and it tasted what potion would be.
I’ve recently started posting on instagram again. Now in my day to day life I think im an
interesting person.
I’m taking more photos
And writing things down
I put on a ring today. Just thought it looked good.
I’m walking block to block watching the social classes of the UO flock. They travel to me akin to nature documentaries. The women all wear high boots or jeans. The men, a T-shirt. The younger packs are larger. But then again who am I to critique their patterns? I, alone, and far too high for the social expectation of a co-workers party, circled the block deciding between hers and another until it was too late to go to either.
The prime hours of Saturday night for finding a group amongst the street is 10:45 to 11:30. The first party or pregame has just about ended and the frats start opening their doors. So it’s not that the city has fallen asleep, but rather found it's place for the night.
On a Thursday, balcony parties can be seen at around 6 pm. The weather is nice and class is done for the week. And the sun is soon to set. What better way to celebrate?
The farther away you get from the population dense 5 block radius encircling campus, it dies down. There are bars out there, for the pleasure seeking Eugenian.
A cracked egg lays on the asphalt. How’d that get there?
I’m waiting for the first mention of zyns in mainstream scripted media.
The barkeep came straight up to a table, I suspect it was to get a closer look at the beautiful people up close. They, more than I, experience the plight of seeing people once and never again.
It rained while we were in the bar, the egg is no longer.
The leather man was wearing eyelashes. I would’ve paid to listen to their conversation.
Sitting at the bar at the Gaia Hotel in Anderson, California. The bartender works her magic on those little black plastic nubby things. I can’t help but feel I’m doing something wrong.
Like I was invading the space she existed in. As though the only socially acceptable option was to pull out my phone—which I’ve done now but for the purpose of concreting this thought—and disappear.
She’s wearing an encrusted tank top that says MILF and won’t stop calling me hun.
At the beach. Having to remember that I like the sun. I am at the beach. Donovan gave me his Dodgers hat since I forgot most everything. We all reapply sunscreen every few minutes. The rest of the group will get here sometime in the next hour, and we will want to leave. Caught a glimpse of myself in the reflection of the phone. I hate having those little prickly reminders jut out every 12 hours. I do not know how to be away from the pulse. It’s so infectious. . I was telling Donny something about this on the way back from Hermosa Beach.
“Mark Fisher had this thing he wrote about.”
Donny nodded his head, “Mark Fisher.”
“––What was that?”
“Nothing. Keep going.”
“It was about one of his students. How they were playing music into some wire headphones without evening listening. The kid said something about how he wanted to stay connected, and how the different webs of media make us feel like we always have to be involved––and even worse, that we like it.”
You ever see the drummer from Rush?”
“Yeah. My dad showed me the dudes drumkit when I was kid.
“So cool.”
“So cool.”
back of my knees ended up sunburnt.