Broken Reed (p.II)

These are the words of Gregory, a Georgia boy, in the years of Saint Louis IX, two years before the end of the academy, having received nothing but the grace of God.

A fierce storm raged upon the land.
For three nights and for four,
the light of the sky cracked like the taskmaster's whip,
and the son of perdition whispered into my ear as I slept,
till daylight when a column of cloud swept in on a wind,
and caused the waters to subside.
For three nights and for four,
until at last my accuser tired in the early hours of the morning,
and I passed over the threshold to receive my daily bread.
But my accuser would not go in himself,
for it would be a defilement.

I felt the sting of sorrow without repentance.
The turning by tears but a foolish act,
a hook by which one is dragged upon the shore,
and fed to jackals.
But the turning by the mind a gift,
for it does not come and go,
like the waters of the wadi.
The affections are fleeting,
arguments are forgotten,
but the inner self is dense.
As John the Forerunner saith,
Change your mind, for the kingdom is at hand.
So the second great purgation began.
And a column of fire arrived,
and consumed the whispers.
It was then that I knew the calmness of joy,
made plain in my smirk,
day and night.

Then the accuser's rhetoric came again,
From where is my help to come?
And memory played the flute,
so I danced.
What is a son of man that God is mindful of him?
Come, let us reason together,
and speak with God.
Here you whisper nothingness,
glossing over falsehoods like a child.
But now I am watchful in the night,
I wish to reason with God,
and find your vain remedies to be a broken reed.

So I repaired my harp's reed,
and blew and drew, saying,
Hear, I will make melody to the Lord.
Guide my right hand to the mallet,
and drive it through my mind,
piercing the inner being.
And it lay still, shattered,
till at last what was left arose,
having been harvested,
it rose like the sun in its might.

I recalled the waters made calm,
my own adoption,
and at last slept soundly under the shadow of the wing.
And being in a desert,
I determined to take nothing but water,
if I should want life.
And a calmness was about my soul,
and imagination played within the mind
and reason returned as a lost sheep,
I was whole in accordance to the wind of the Spirit,
and my mind's eye was turned towards the Lord.
It shone upon the waters of the wadi,
light refracting like birds of the royal courts,
shining like a lampstand upon the ephod.
And at once it was clear,
that which made me whole,
was also a breastplate to my being.
And there was evening and morning, the second day.

Blues Harp Melody (p.I)

These are the words of Gregory, a Georgia boy, in the years of Saint Louis IX, two years before the end of the academy, having received nothing but the grace of God.

My God's voice raises within me
shaking the pillared foundations
breaking down what cannot stand the force
till first grounds remain.

Thus says the Lord our God,
For three songs of the blues harp,
and for four.
I will put an old hymn into your throat
and have you breathe new life into it,
for now it has been made empty and without form,
but soon it will be made anew,
by the working of your hands,
as I have given you to do.
And the rhythm shall devour your enemies

Thus says the Lord our God,
For three songs of the blues harp,
and for four.
Because the wadi is dry,
and no one to replenish it,
you have cracked rocks with your staves.
So now you are besieged by all sides,
and so shall be for six suns,
and on the seventh you shall blow and draw
in the melody I have set before you,
and so shall fall your seven ways.

And on the first day the blues harp sounded,
and the mountainous rocks shook and fell.
A familiar melody filled the ravines,
as water fills the wadi crevices,
and at once I was full.
Then my thirst was no more,
and my mind was at rest.
Then the night fell.
A deep slumber fell upon me,
and my enemy numbered one,
and my friend numbered one.
And blood ran from the others amongst us,
the earth cried out in horror,
for I was many,
but now I am one.
and there was evening and morning, the first day.

Week 1 - Week 2, day 1

Remember B, chronology mixed up, used pictures for quick reference identification.

I'm Subdeacon in the Mass every day of the week. I wear a cassock and surplice on certain days. The cassock is long Matrix-esque black coat complete with buttons from about ankle to neck. It takes some time to put on. The surplice is a white robe. I'm learning more about vestments. On other days (I'm still figuring out the liturgical appropriateness for each) where I act as Subdeacon I wear a tunicle on top of these two, and is nothing more than the poncho that peasants used to wear during Mass. It's funny how they're dressed up now, but also funny how some figure these vestments to be something prideful.





Mike introduced Father Stephen to me over lunch at Saint Louis Bread Company. Stephen is an orthodox priest who has a PhD in biology and taught for a long time before finding his vocation. We talked about Orthodoxy in doctrine, practice, etc. Mike sees much fruit in its practices and looks to Stephen for spiritual guidance. Stephen laughed about how he taught at a Lutheran university who questioned evolution and had a student give a sermon during chapel which put evolution into the category along with a number of unethical practices so as to include it as a cause for what is "wrong with the world today." It's funny to see a side of Christianity that embraces reason, the sciences, understands the inconsistencies of assuming gravity when you throw a baseball or watch the weather report but deny the same methodology applied to evolution -- or turn on our computers and cars assuming the logic used in programming and computer chips is right only to deny once dealing with God. Here within lies the secret to the traditional Christian denominations, we do not fear reason but have a long history of being its pioneers. We do not take Scripture as literal-historical when reading the NT but read OT as metaphorical once past Exodus. So much inconsistency in these modern Christian phenomenons. There is reason all about us, and God grants the intellect the grace to discover it. Anyway, the Orthodox Church according to Stephen works in such a way that there shouldn't be different ones in America, e.g. Romanian, Slavic, Greek, Coptic, etc. but rather there ought to be an Orthodox Church of America or American Orthodox Church according to their polity. However there has become a kind of ethnic mentality that has set in and kept them distinct, and who wants to give up their bishops, churchs, etc. once established through time, congregations, finances, etc. I'm sure each claims much good has come of them where they are at, and nothing else is needed. Who knows, maybe one day they'll all ban together and set it into one. It'll be interesting to learn more about our brothers.


I often find I become worried or nervous at my respective roles, and tend to botch things up while doing it. Not too bad, more often than not I forget things than mess things up. But Mike, the assistant rector and my supervisor, is very patient with me and only points out a few errors a day. I more often than not already know a few and recite them while we're returning to normal work wear before he can. We have three chapels in the church, Saint Michael's, Saint George's, and Saint Mary's. The first is for Sundays and is large enough to support them (400-600). The second is smaller and is used mostly by their student body during the year, and is a bit more "funkadelic" as Mike says, though clearly still catholic. Saint Mary's is a small room attached to Saint Michael's and I think, the most beautiful. It is used for daily prayer and daily Mass. The entrance is always open, two black, iron wrought gates with gold painted insignias on them. The room has enough seats for about 20 people. It is lit by candle light and you can reach out and touch the blue stained glass windows (which open to let in fresh air too!). I have different roles in the different chapels since each is used for different activities. So far I've been part of daily Mass having anywhere from one to about 20 people. Differing numbers give them different feels, especially on whether or not Mike decides to talk to the crowd during the homily -haha.


Daily Mass at the "cruise ship of retirement homes." Went well enough, I did everything except the Absolution if memory serves (not ordained baby). Met some wonderful people. I spoke with one lady whose name now escapes me to my shame, I said I would pray for her. And while this doesn't prohibit me, I wish I had a name for her face and words. In her old age she was finding a lack of faith, namely because of Christ's conception story. I moved the topic to creation and asked her about the possibilities and greatness of it. She agreed heartily and spoke a long while about how amazed she was at the world. Then I slid back into the "conceived by the Holy Spirit" bit and asked why it is so hard to imagine it as possible if one understand God created the universe. She said she'd think about it, but found it a fanciful story. No matter, as a firm believer in the sciences I believe God created the universe, but as our knowledge grows what this means exactly becomes all the more mysterious. Things like quantum theory's "indefinite states" makes the world a strange place indeed. (P.S. Just got out of a 2 hour conversation about Quantum Mechanics with my host Mark - who is a theoretical physicist and professor at Washington University. Man did I have a lot of things wrong, and man have people misunderstood and used it wrong :P) I mentioned this to Mike who told me she had mentioned her lack of faith, and Mike urged me not to bear it alone, but let the church shoulder some of the burden as well. Mike always seems to know the answers in such easy, gentle terms. I think he embodies more of the Eastern Orthodox spirituality than he thinks he does.


My seminarian stripe has fallen off my collar. The tailoring job was spotty so they're not going to bother replacing it unless it becomes a problem (e.g. I'm off trying to give sacraments). I'm only been called "father" once but I quickly explained that's not the case. More often than not I get odd looks, from the eyes, to the collar, then back up. The man who gave me my lunch today at St. Louis Bread Company (the founder of Panera I found out :P) looked at me for a moment then told me to have a blessed day. Mike tells me the collar is like a white movie screen, people project their hopes, fears, problems, histories, good, bad, ugly, and oddities onto it. That and young clergy are an anomaly. Luckily Mike and Andrew both are looking to train more early clergy. They staunchly believe it takes 6 years to make a priest, starting after ordination. They say it takes much longer to make a good one. Someone told me the church has made an error in letting in so many second career people into the priesthood, that they don't have enough time to do it well before retiring. I must admit, it inspires me that I might do this well before I'm 65, which I highly doubted before.



Mike took me along to two different hospital visits. Both had surgery to remove cancers. As we drove along he informed me of what priests do at visits. We ask them how they are, we don't be intrusive, we offer to pray, we don't stay more than five minutes. The last seemed cold for a priest. He explained, they are trying to heal, more often than not they are uncomfortable, tired, already have many guests, and need to time to heal properly with quiet and rest. I've heard a few times already that we a priest isn't everyone's best friend. Mike told me to "move" when serving the Eucharist, "we have a lot of people." Feels rushed, feels "cold?" Mike explains, "We're not giving them ourselves, we're giving the body and blood of Christ." Ah, there's the rub. Mike clarified that if person wants to talk, by all means, but don't assume it, wait for a sign. If they don't give one, pray, and get out. Perhaps with hospital visits it is the same as the Eucharist. We pray to God, we don't come to give ourselves. Then when I was in the kitchen after work I realized, "Does this mean the priest 'has' God to give?" The classical evangelical response. Then I remembered, the priesthood is a sacrament (I'm Anglo-Catholic), and sacraments are the means by which grace is conveyed. This collar is a yoke after all, but trustworthy is the saying that it is easier to bear. I wouldn't want to fancy myself the source of grace, simply a tool, a mule, nothing more. God I love how much the Episcopal Church makes sense.


The rector, Andrew, has assigned me a book on Bowen's Family Systems Theory. It seeks a "new" way founded in clinical experience to focus more on the complicated causality that goes into relationships, essentially that everything and everyone share in part of the causality. As a result they believe it most difficult to solve such issues for other, so focus on self is best. This is done by using non-emotional responses to people and opting for rational questions in dealing with problems. They claim this approach is not to be "distant" since removing oneself from the equation is equally an emotional response. I find it suspicious. It is nothing more than classical Socratic ethics put into psychological practice. I know first hand it doesn't always work so well. People sometimes hate you for wanting to continue the conversation without reacting emotionally. Perceptions run high that you are "distant" even though present, or that you are talking down to them. Time will tell if there's more detailed practical advice on such things.


We had mass at an extended care center. This included people with all sorts of physical and mental ailments that required these retired persons to need continual assistance and/or supervision. It was quite strange. Most of the persons had some sort of mental disability from old age, dementia, alzheimer's, you name it. In one respect I felt odd, like Mass was a sham, and questioned myself, "Can these people understand this or should we be approaching this a different way?" The people who assist them I'm sure have problems with basic communication sometimes. What were we going to do in one hour? The man who works there as chaplain could do no more than we could, and merely joined us in the liturgy. After some thought on this issue I resolved that we did what we had come to do, to give them God, not ourselves. This experience gave me a reductio ad absurdum of the sort of relational model as universal. Yes, our God is relational, yes a priest ought to be - when s/he can. But ordination is to be called to be a tool of God, not to be their God. The hammer doesn't have the capacity to become the carpenter anymore than vice versa, so to with God and priests. To enter the world and bring the Gospel to all must include a way to reach those beyond the reach of human means. I cannot reason with a severely mentally retarded person anymore than I can make a person in a vegetative coma feel or will something. The limits of the individual disallow some from ever being theologians, sages, prophets, and so forth - at least in this life. But what we can do is be the right hand of God, to give the body and blood of Christ to everyone. We aren't needed to give the grace of God, but God chose us to do so, so we respond. I put on the collar myself, I do not fight it like a newly tamed beast.


The youth minister's name is Isaac. He invited me to a Cardinal's game for his bachelor party with an extra ticket. How fortuitous. This was one of those box tickets that's all inclusive. We drank beer and ate nachos and all da' cookies. I learned how to catch the St. Louis train and met a bunch of seminarians from Concordia. Thems good peoples. At the game I spent much of my time talking to Buzz, the new assistant youth minister who will slowly take the reigns over some time. He's a graduate from that notorious Mars Hill Church who became an Episcopalian. He still dresses like he's young, and comes off not much older than 30. Buzz is a good man; we talked much about religion and life, vocation, the game, and how tasty everything was. Isaac married Samantha on Saturday. I served as Subdeacon but it was more of a watching fest for me. I was worried they might give me a chance to ruin these lovely people's wedding but luckily I held books and turned pages hahaha - it felt a bit ridiculous since I at least do something in other liturgies, but I learned much. In fact, I brought Mike back to where he was at one point, after he had looked up and lost his spot while tying the knot so I like to think I "saved the whole event" haha. I discovered "tying the knot" came from a literal practice which we observed whereby the priest took his stole, wrapped it around the couples' hands while praying to tie their hands together with a knot. This was the biggest wedding Mike and Andrew had ever seen at CSMSG. It was a full out liturgy with procession, hymns, and a Eucharist all took part in. Andrew gave an excellent sermon on the inability to predict how people would change, who you might wake up to tomorrow might not be who you thought you married, and the importance of saying "I will" versus "I do" when making that "vow." It was the greatest wedding I've ever seen. I was very fortunate to even observe. The reception was on the top floor of a pub, privately reserved, tons of good food and drinks. Later that night the self-proclaimed "semi-adults" of CSMSG abducted me to chit-chat. They're in the age range of 20-41, Samantha and Buzz being the limits. They were all married off which made me feel weird for about 5 minutes, and then the talking and jokes began. Wonderful night. Hung out with (in coupled form) Isaac and Samantha (newly weds), Garrett and Amber (Covenant seminarian and wife), Christie and Jake (youth choir director and husband), Kyle and Jean (PhD in theology and wife), Buzz and Jennie (youth minister and wife).


Mike bought me Jesus of Nazareth: Holy Week: From the Entrance Into Jerusalem To the Resurrection. It's written by Pope Benedict XVI and is an interesting attempt to reconcile theology with the historical critical method into a coherent, academic, and spiritually honest and applicable book. He doesn't claim to have succeeded, but a lot of critics lauded him for his attempts and think it is a good step. It reads like something in between an academic work and a devotion, but uses the two appropriately without falling to the weaknesses of those in love with one to the neglect of the other.



Visited the Cathedral Basilica of Saint Louis. The whole thing is a mosaic, gold everywhere, finely carved stone, true craftsmanship. I'm always astounded when I see what artists can do when inspired by God, and it doesn't turn into the tawdry, overly explicit junk that modern Christian artists pump out. Sure, God appreciates any artwork a person makes as a sign of worship, but it doesn't follow that it's all equally as great. Here I think I have seen the true muse who has guided the hands of the faithful artist. After this we went to see the Episcopal Cathedral which was further into the city. I can't find an actual picture but it looks exactly like this at the altar. On the back of the church is a horribly ugly painting. Some contemporary depiction of Christ hanging on a cross, a man with a ladder climbs up in contemporary clothes to bring him down and a few others stand around weeping in jeans and t-shirts. Terribly ugly and mismatched to the rest of the church. One morning we also got breakfast and discussed school, eventually walked back to the church through the campus of a Lutheran seminary, Concordia. Beautiful architecture till you get to the chapel. The pews are an obnoxious turquoise dulled in vibrancy through years of use, the woodwork of the roof is a mahogany color with snow white pillars meeting them. There are some tacky banners of varying colors. The color palette in that place reminds me of vomit. But hey, get your worship on wherever, doesn't make it any less efficacious.


Andrew also wants me to read Merrily On High: An Anglo-Catholic Memoir. It is surprisingly intriguing for what would seem like such a dull topic. I don't care for biographies. I find peoples' lives to be boring reads. The man is recalling his youthful aspiration to be Anglo-Catholic, and his early obsession with the outward signs of the church. I'm learning an awful lot about earlier fights in the Church of England and a bit about England in general. Interestingly enough there were pro-Pope Anglicans in the Oxford Movement and some clergy as well as parishioners were outraged at either bringing the Book of Common Prayer more into the liturgy or as using its direction as sufficient in liturgies. We are a strange lot, always fighting tooth, nail, and claw to keep what has been the parish tradition. And then, once it changes, a 100 years down the line someone fights like a dog to keep things the way they are. I suppose Anglicans demand a good reason for change rather than swaying with the tides.



Today Garrett had come in to talk to Mike about holy orders. Garrett attends Covenant Seminary but discovered after his first semester he isn't a Presbyterian after all, but an Anglican. Mike asked if it was okay if he joined us in some of our summer activities. I thought it was an excellent idea and warmly welcomed him. Then Mike sent me on my first solo visit to the hospital. I was to go to Barnes-Jewish Rehabilitation center to visit Dr. Rosalyn England Henry. I was told she was in her 80's but didn't look a day over 50 or 60 by two people. I got lost and couldn't find the place despite it being within a few miles of the church. I returned frustrated as hell and remember angrily venting to God that I wish sometimes my stupidity could be for a reason. I got back in time to do daily Mass which calmed me to the point of forgetting about the event entirely. Garrett and Amber were at Mass so we talked after. Mike again mentioned him joining us with some more specifics and I again reaffirmed my answer. Then I remembered I had to go to the hospital and invited him along. He agreed and we set the time for 1:30. I went about my day until Noon Prayer rolled around and quietly visited the chapel. After putting my own supplications into the liturgy it struck me. I might have messed up earlier in finding the hospital but at least now Garrett would be able to join me. Answered prayers make me laugh at myself, and I often end such realizations in prayer with an outward, "I'm such a fool" as I walk away. So Garrett an I went. I repeated to him what Mike had told me concerning hospital visits. We checked in, introduced ourselves to Rosalyn, to which she quickly informed me we had already met. I apologized and explained I had met many people. We didn't ask her what was wrong as Mike told me it might be inappropriate or uncomfortable for them depending on the circumstances, but she pointed out a cast on her arm. We offered to pray for her and she agreed and asked if we would also pray for her sweetmate Ade James. (I spell from memory - I wonder if her name was Adeline and this was short for it like my Wesley friend in Athens.) I said a short prayer, asked her if there was anything else we could do for her to which she responded "prayer." We said goodbye and I dropped Garrett off. No more than 3 minutes. Mike said "perfect" at my report. It still seems strange, but I understand the reasoning, and it makes more sense than forcing yourself onto someone. "Give them God, not yourself." And Rosalyn repeated "prayer" when I asked her at the beginning and ending of our meeting concerning what we could do. It seemed fitting after everything was said and done.

Today I started reading Venerable Bede's An Ecclesiastical History of the English People. I keep referring to the map in the front to understand the power shifts in terms of geography. He has a very beautiful style that is both intriguing and easy to follow. Though some of his history has since been known to have error, he makes his sources known and quotes them. More often than not it's often small errors, e.g. his dates have been off by 1-2 years a few times. Not bad. I'm early on in it and am learning about the relationship between the Britons, Angles, Saxons, Jutes, Picts, Irish, and Rome. It's bringing out my appreciation for history again. My (soon-to-be) advisor, Jo Wells, tells me in her lovely British accent, "You can't understand Anglicanism without reading about its history [mentioning this work]." In other news I couldn't find a decent coffee shop in town. Eventually ran on a Starbucks, the place is in downtown Clayton and closed at 7pm. What kind of coffee joint closes before midnight?

First Day at CSMSG

I am the only field education position wearing a seminarian collar. It is a bygone practice. I personally like it, not because it makes me feel entitled, special, distinguished, for I know that my ignorance is great in he church. The collar itself is a pointer to this. There is a vertical black line in the middle of the collar to let people know (1) I'm new (2) Say hi to me (3) I'm learning, gimme a break. I wear the typical black priest shirt, pants, and shoes to match.

I woke up 6am contra my usual 5am. My body is adapting slowly. Once at the church my suit was topped off with a white robe called an "alb" (latin for white, from which we derived albino). It was a little hot to say the least. I sat in at the altar at the 8 and 10 o'clock services. I did very little other than be introduced to the church, observe, and find my position in the procession for entrance, exiting, and for baptisms at the 10 o'clock service. It is strange being up at the altar. It's as if I'm sitting in the midst of a dream I once had.

A picnic was held after the 10 o'clock service. Bratwursts and beer were served and the people were very welcoming. I think the collar helped to set me apart so people had no problem finding and greeting me. It was very nice and I love the church and Saint Louis people very much. Everyone offered to hook me up with people to hang out with, suggested places to see, offered answers to my questions, etc. The rector Archie and my advisor and associate rector Mike are hysterical, intellectual, and most importantly pious and "real" men. I think I will get along great with them and have much to learn.

The 5:30 service was quite small, only having around 15 people, and takes place in a very contemporary funky chapel. The cross looks like a smith beat a cross out of metal, a weaver fixed up some tapestries with Christ on it, and the stained glass windows are red instead of the blue I'm used to. It has a very comfortable feel to it. The people dressed more casual, ironic since I a further tunicle (Never trust a man in a tunic - Land of the Lost) was added on top of my alb. I was decked out in all kinds of robes at this point. Sweatin' like a hooker in church if you'll pardon the expression. I read the second lesson, a decent passage from 1 Peter. One of my favorites that in essence says its better to suffer injustice than do injustice. I think one of the psalms we sang was also the the first I ever sang, in my first visit to an Episcopal church. I recall my good friend Laura saying it was ridiculous how they sang of giving bulls and rams and such (not to pick at her). And I recall thinking it was odd, and now I laugh because it is the Psalms we sing, and we still believe they can be appropriated and understood in modern context as symbolic for our own thanksgivings and worries. Very "fitting" as Anselm might say for such a thing to occur to me today.

After the 5:30 service I got changed and headed over to Jed's (sp?) and his wife Mary-Beth's house. They took me over to someone else's house who was having a get together. A bunch of architects from a firm/company all hanging out. They were all around 24-26 which was nice since the Episcopal church on average is 55+. Regretful I know, but I can't very well be deciding truth based on whether or not others my age are somewhere. Truth first, pleasure second. We just had some drinks, grilled out, and played a game called "washers." From what I gathered it is a midwestern version of cornhole, although they have cornhole and even cornhole leagues in Saint Louis. I told them we keep it to tailgating but said washers was very "cute." There is a small wooden frame no longer than a foot long and about 8" wide. A pvc pipe sits in the middle of it and the box has just enough sand in it to cover the bottom. Standard cornhole rules, 1 for sand, 3 in the hole, points from opposing players subtract from one another. We lost but I got to meet some people. I met some interesting people, got to talk a little with a few of them, at a lot, laughed a bunch. It was good to talk around. Jed and Mary-Beth insisted there was a lesson in it - have some non-parishioner friends, particularly around your age. I like both of them very much. I feel I can talk with Jed honestly and we can understand one another (he went to General Seminary in NY) and I can cut up with Mary-Beth and she shoots it right back at me. "Thems good peoples."

I'm found a ridiculous radio station that plays blues, jazz, and some stuff that sounds like it ought to be on a 1950's underfunded stage play. I like it over say iTunes or Pandora at nighttime. Reminds me of older days and keeps me calm. Something about having interference, the faint old noise, I just prefer it over the crystal clear quality of computer age stuff now. Something about this room makes me want to be simpler. The small window, the vacant space, knowing I am alone in the basement. Perhaps it'll turn into the classical monastery cell before long. I can do me push-ups, read, write, listen to a spot o' music, and that should be fine with me. The occasional game with my cousin and brother help me stay up with them too though - technology isn't all bad, nor complexity :)

CSMSG, Park, Neighbors

I woke up at 4:30, 5:00, 5:30, 6:00, about every ten minutes from then on until about 7:00. Georgia time is only an hour ahead so I'm not sure why the sleep schedule is so loony.

I ate breakfast with my host family. Later I had a long discussion with Mark, the husband, about political system differences between the US and the UK. Riveting if I do say so myself. One comment stuck out in my mind about how in times of desperation, the US legislation is so spooked to action in agreement with the executive branch that the US isn't much different from the UK where the Prime Minister serves in both capacities. War would be a prime example in our times I'd suppose.

I drove down to The Church of Saint Michael & Saint George (henceforth CSMSG) to take a look around. I was supposed to call my advisor Father Michael sometime to talk about tomorrow's first day. It just so happened as I was pulling in to park he pulled up next to me. The same thing occurred when I got to my host home. No phone calls, lots of luck, if I believed in such things.

I toured Forest Park which is a stone's throw away from the church. This place is gigantic, with an art, science, and history museums as well as a zoo. According to Father Mike the zoo recently surpassed San Diego's as top notch. There are several golf courses and rolling green hills coming down from each building. "Art Hill" comes down from the art museum and is in the last remaining building from the World's Fair of 1904. Georgeous. This thing looks something akin to the Taj Mahal in layout. There is a pond followed by a stretch of green, though this one is uphill, topped with an old looking, majestic building. There are tracks for jogging, cycling, etc. A stage where they do Shakespeare on the green, several places to eat. But the best thing about the zoo, museum, and events is they're all free. Amazing. I never really went into Atlanta because every time I did research on their exhibits they all cost ridiculous amounts of money. This one is free and right by the church, bi-winning like Charlie Sheen.

The neighborhoods are full of beautiful hardwoods of various sorts, lush and verdant. The houses are in the Old English stye. Very quaint.

At the church I got a tour through the whole place. There is a chapel for Sundays, one for school mass which is used in the summertime for evening mass (it's quite funkadelic), and a tiny room with no more than 10-12 chairs used for daily mass. I'll be assisting in all of these sooner or later in varying degrees and two out of the three services on Sunday. Father Michael gave me my black shirt with my seminarian collar (nothing more than a standard white collar but with a black stripe down the middle). They're working on a cremains (word for cremated remains apparently) sort of 'cemetery' or whatever the word is for such an area. There isn't much room for a cemetery since all the land is filled with houses. I have my own office complete with several icons and pieces of religious artwork already up (all beautiful) as well as one creepy doll standing on a wooden platform surrounded by a glass shield. It reminds me of the rose from Beauty and the Beast except inside is the Blessed Virgin Mary in a black dress an frock. Father Michael informs me they put it in the "new person's office" and the church affectionately calls it "Scary Mary." It's an antique and they don't know what to do with it. It is a little creepy indeed, but I like it. I'm already programmed into the phone lines and my name appears on the digital face plate "Blake T." I've got calendars and event sheets with all the stuff I'll be doing already up. I've got my own key to lock the place up, a computer desk, chair, several book shelves both standing and wall-mounted. It's all rather impressive and too much for a measly 10-week intern.

Mari and Mark cooked dinner and invited the neighbors Peter and Bethany-Anne with their children Miles and Michael. I played with Francis while we awaited dinner and guests to arrive. Peter is in the advertising business, now selling electrical medical equipment such as defibrillators, pace makers, and the like. Bethany-Anne is a chemist who does something now, didn't catch it, but in the past has worked on antioxidants that are in plastics, worked for the company that produced the colors for M&M's, etc. Bethany-Anne seemed real keen on me and talked for me a long time about all sorts of religious topics and experiences with being Roman Catholic in Minnesota versus West Virginia. We have a similar sense of humor and we joked about me being "normal" even though I'm a seminarian. As a group we discussed whether or not to play the lottery - haha. I of course took up my political statistical training on utility outcomes as a model, but Bethany-Anne was quick to point out the entertainment value or "dream" value some get out of it. True enough, I ended up comparing such actions to voting. I guess we all play the odds in hopes of dreams sometimes.

I was offered water, beer, or wine. I took the classy choice of beer and Mark pulled out some imports and domestics. There as a single Miller Genuine Draft which I simply had to have in my wine glass. It went well with the ribs but seemed totally out of place for such a white linen event. I secretly found it funny but didn't say anything. We had a lintel soup before the main course of ribs, carrots, green beans, corn on the cob, cornbread and a desert afterwards of tiramisu, watermelon, mango, and strawberries. Mari is a very kind woman. I mentioned to her my favorite fruits were mangoes and watermelon and tadaa! they showed up. Mari got up and played the piano after desert. It felt very much like what I imagine old times to be like, when people old had one another for entertainment. Even though it was one song I thought it strangely enchanting and nostalgic. I am very fortunate to have such hosts.

Saint Louis, Michael, & George

>>Driving
Tennessee has sheared crags surrounding each side of the most winding interstate roads I've ever driven on. They also have a speed limit for trucks posted under the usual one.

Illinois is flatter than Lady Gaga's voice. Flooded fields flat. They need to install some storm drains in the middle of their corn fields. Corn? I'm not actually sure what they're growing out there. Maybe rice?

I saw a tag that said "Ullico," which I *think* is a nickname my father used to call my mother, whose name is Ulla. Either that or I know that word from somewhere.

8 hours. My legs are killing me, the blood has stopped moving some time ago. I get sleepy when that happens so I fidget a lot in the car.

>>Saint Louis
Industrial, rusted truss bridges, broken down factories, surrounded by gleaming glass and steal. This place looks barely post-industrial. But it looks strategic, purposeful. I like it. There is one bridge that looks as if the trusses are nothing more than toothpicks and string, marvelous.

>>Host Family
The wife is Japanese, her name is Mari (mar-ee). She got her MD in Japan and spent time in both the US and Japan growing up. Now she teaches physiology and statistics at Saint Louis University. The husband Mark is British and is a theoretical physicist who teaches at Washington University.

Mari took me through the entirety of the house, explaining everything. Even small things such as what oven mitts are used for. I kind of chuckle at the over explanation, I know she is just being kind. Mark cracks me up. He's got a hint of sarcasm on the end of every sentence, and watching him tease his wife cracks me up even more. They are a calm, collected couple. They have one son named Francis. He just finished his 1st grade year in a Catholic school but attends a Japanese school on the side. Mari is traditionally Roman Catholic and Mark grew up in the Church of England. They settled on the Episcopal church I am at now, the Church of Saint Michael & Saint George.

Mark leaves soon for Los Alamos, New Mexico but will return after a week. After that he leaves for Britain for some time. Mari and Francis are going to Japan, where Francis will be in a Japanese public school for the summer. Their school years start in April. Mari explained to me, "It starts in the spring because this is a time of new beginnings."

>>Town
They live in a neighborhood whose population is roughly 50% Orthodox Jewish. It was interesting to see so many traditional outfits and yamulkas out and about. A main road divides their neighborhood from the other side which is predominately African American.

There are Chinese restaurants lining the main road nearby, Olive road. Every third shop seems an accurate assessment. For dinner we went to one that had taken over an old theatre that had closed down. We sat in a floor with some eighty tables, only two of them filled when we got there. It felt so empty, and I only saw three employees. A giant red curtain loomed at one end of the building with lights above them, the only sign left, though a large one, that this edifice was once a place for showbiz. I was hoping we'd get dinner and a show. No such luck. Apparently it was only used during the Chinese New Year where they opened it up to reveal a dragon dance. Wish I could see that.

>>Home
I am in a basement, my room is bigger than my apartment one which is quite sizable. I have my own bathroom and got a few groceries. Everything is very nice, very clean, well organized.

The normal excesses are missing from my life. I do not have tons of electronic things and junk weighing me down. I feel as if I can devote myself to study and exercise without temptations to good around at all hours of the night. I think I will very much enjoy this room. There is one small window, only 2.5' x 2' in the middle of the room, just enough to let in some light, and just barely above the ground.

>>Work
Due to phone and e-mail difficulties I have still yet to get in contact with my advisor Father Michael. I shall probably just head down to the church tomorrow to see what all is going on. On Sunday I will be introduced to the church publicly. I should probably be nervous, but I seem unable to get nervous, worried, or even excited about things until they are happening.

>>Night
Ironically I felt lonely during the daytime instead of the night today. Every other day those are flipped. Sometimes I worry about myself dealing with it. Hopefully the people here will keep me busy enough during the daytime to not think on it, and too tired after work to stay up late enough for it to set in. But experience tells me otherwise.

I shall do some reading now. There is much I wish to study this summer. I will do some reading and discussion with my good friend Ahmaud. I am always encouraged and enlightened by discussion with him. He is a good man and a good friend. I am going to immediately tackle some articles he gave me on the issue of homosexuality. It has become a very interesting topic to me theologically, probably couldn't help it having joined The Episcopal Church. After this I hope to read though the Venerable Bede's Ecclesiastical History so that I may learn more about my roots in the Church of England going back to the 3rd and 4th centuries. I would also like to go back through parts of Aristotle's Metaphysics that I have already read, and forge forward further. Time will tell.

Daydreams Whilst Studying

four metals tokens
scratched beyond the work of polish
an eye only for blue and yellow
all the red is missing from vision
it seems dreamlike
the floorboards, like a handmade cabin
of the colonizing days
when man tried to tame the Americas,
and it cost him his life.
The boards are raw, untreated
grey and blue

my hand leans to them
one token, four in all
placed on one board,
four in all
at once the boards move
rotating like a turn of the hand
and the tokens are no more

a bear walks out on hindquarters
it moves like a son of man
snout up, snarling and sniffing
walks to my side, turns
suddenly sitting on a smaller bear
rides away slowly
jostling left to right
like a rider on a horse

a lady crouches on the boards
she has all the red
vivid and fiery like the dying flame
of a setting sun
her skirt and corset
soaked in the sun
laced with black
buttons black
black feathers adorn her hat
but her face is downturned
and I cannot gaze upon it
her hands raise,
gloved in white
one brings up an apple
a matching flame
and bites out of it
though I still cannot see,
I know it by sound

she cries out
her lips and chin visible
but for a moment
pale and cracking quickly
drying up, dying.
her clothes fall to a heap
on the blue-grey floorboards
no form to fill them
and the red sweeps over the room
as a pollen cloud over a springtime land
mixing with the color
to restore the room to fullness
And now it loses its dreamlike quality

And I snap back to,
and go back to reading.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

I am a child.
Barely able to reach the countertops.
The chariot has ventured across the sky,
and a blanket of darkness has rested upon the land.
I fancy silhouettes for beings,
the proverbial prisoner in the cave,
sleep no escape,
for my dreams are surreal horrors.

My mother kneels over my bed,
lowering herself to me.
I lie under the sheets,
my mouth stitched shut,
silent dread
of the nightmares I fear will come.
She asks me if I want to learn a prayer.
I say yes.
And she tells me to repeat.

Now I lay me down to sleep,
I pray the Lord my soul to keep,
And if I die before I wake,
I pray the Lord my soul to take.
And God bless...

and she looks at me and asks,
"Who do you want to bless?"
And explains to me
that I'm wishing well for others,
And guides me through it--
as a good mother does,
teaching me to pray for family and friends,
and others in the world,
who are in need.

And we say amen.
I sit watching the shadows,
move across a bookshelf.
One I could not even yet reach,
that still sits in my room today,
crafted by my father's hands,
gifted to me,
holding now what has become dear to me.

The Mountain

"I came down from the mountain too fast," she said,
"forgot to use my telescope."
A mountain from a pop-up book,
stood giant and browned,
and she quickly scaled down it.
So I sat on a couch,
with her and another.
And the competition I under no circumstances desired,
for I disdained its dishonor,
played out in my dreams anyway.
Though I was given second chance,
it tasted of indecision.
And as I leaned upon her,
I awoke,
and the dream became a broken reed,
for in the waking hours-
it pierced my shoulder.

Walk On Boy

If the Temple is in the heart,
then the Pitt is the stomach.
And the incineration that removes it,
the inferno in the lungs.
A refrain plays through the willows-
a string of lines floatin' higher,
to cut the glow of a Georgian Crescent,
melodies and moons to soothe.
Walk on boy, walk on down the road.
And the sound of hammer strikin' steel,
rings out onto the lake
waves intertwine
with those of some creature movin' about
in the chaotic waters.

Anybody ask, it's the willows I shoot shit with.
As long as I've been comin' to 'em,
they're always there to weep with me.
And as high as I stand,
they always standin' taller.
Walk on boy, walk on down the road.
I just sit a spell in a spell
listenin' to my Paw talk about the world
and the men that turn against one another
Ain't nobody in this whole wide world,
gonna' help you carry your load.
The world is full of pretenders and liars,
slanderers and flakes, and a whole bunch,
of nobodies puffed up with hot air.
I exhale 'em like this smoke.
And take another drag of life.
You can't find a person,
whose bond is their word anymore.
Walk on boy.

I wish there was somethin' I could do,
to bring you back.
And if you're lookin' for a fighter,
I ain't gonna' fight another man.
But if you suddenly found honesty,
I got no way of knowin'
Cause your mind changes so often,
and your words are twisted and knotted,
and I can't unwind it anymore to find truth.
Feelin' pretty beat.
And I can't imagine God,
usin' somebody to teach someone else a lesson.
Ain't no good in wreckin' someone's life,
to help another.
Ain't no appreciation to be had,
if the first is left in shambles.
So I pack up, wander on down,
driftin' till death do me part.
But my feet are so damn tired Lord,
and I'm sick of this wandering.
I want a home.
Walk on boy, walk on down the road.

Whiskey Dreams

absorption too slow
I pick up the room
and empty it into myself
and the excess dribbles onto stubble
attempt to wipe it ends with--
a smear of salt and poison,
a raging sea of firewater
threatens to drown me
help me Lord, for I cannot quell it
and at last I sink

scent of cherry blossoms
exotic but familiar
like a lost homeland,
the sea is calmed at last
a soft touch and tone,
a nickname from my childhood,
whispered, both sweet and drawn out,
like honey.

the albatross' cry awakens me
A workshop awaits,
disheveled and hollowed out
now I wander in the land of nod
and a nightmare sets in.
The risen sun is here,
but I missed Lady Dawn.
I phase out
A West African asks us to write on our names.
Not sure why I'm here.

My name is short. It comes from a Poet's surname. It is said quickly, haphazardly, often with a smile. But what is in a name? The essence is not. Once my name was spoken softly, drawn out as a ribbon in the air, and I could see it wrap around me, pulling me to its speaker. But now it is silent. If it is spoke at all it is quick and violent like the sword, spoken through gnashing teeth and furrowed brows. It is spit out onto the ground and stamped upon. My name means black (from blsec). It is like a gangrene of rotting flesh in need of amputation. It is the midnight hour when there is no dawn nor sleep to be had. My name is Blake

ignore a room of people
for six hours
is quite the feat
sketched a woman I found instead
sitting on her own legs
looking aside
one arm resting on leg
the other, the ground
but her torso is missing

a core gone amiss
without heart nor stomach
and I imagine if it was there
that I might smell cherry blossoms again.
my own on fire, knotted and aching
but the outside cool as a cucumber
a smile or laugh every so often,
does the job
so nobody bothers me.
I'm jealous of the woman
for without my core,
maybe I'd forget
these whiskey dreams

Checkmate

Tire of game.
The hand-carved piece,
by start runs at double speed.
I am not a toy Lord.
Is my heart the bishop?
My darting diagonally,
only to return to the start.
Does not the bishop reside by the queen?
But now another piece resides there,
and I am no longer welcome to my home.
So I sit in limbo,
centerboard is no man's land,
a purgatory of dread and fear.
I suppose I'll paint the roses red.
And wait.

Why am I used this way?
Should I assist a pawn in recruitment?
A new member joins the ranks.
And though they rejoice,
am I not hollowed out the more?
Should my past haunt me forever?
Is there no redemption?
No forgiveness?
No reconciliation?
What is one without the others?

I complain as if I deserve something.
So I'll harness the yoke to myself,
for it is lighter,
than what was before.
And keep trudging.
Though we both know,
there is another burden,
which I will always bear,
till you see it fit to fix.

A pawn or a rook, seem easier.
That I could man up on.
But this use you get out of bishop,
it pains me so.
So if you insist,
I'll continue,
though I cannot alone.
I have need to return home,
should you allow me.

Frustration

I find my conscience
exasperated by pretty words
pushing forth preconceived notions
vehemently like a truckload of shit.
Rhetoric but a poor persuasion
of an assumption we do not share,
from an ethic founded in feelings.
I think the lot absurd.
So my theology turns toward the sea.

The assumption capsizes upon itself.
Weak stilts standing in a sea of logic,
crushing forth upon its foundations.
And a poor drunken sailor,
with whiskey and spit in his beard,
cries into the gale,
"We will live in the tension!"
as the pier collapses upon his body.

Mouthfuls of salt and foam and poor reasoning,
fill in the lungs of a drowning man,
gargling about eloquently like a fool,
as if articulation builds for mighty foundations.
If the pier reach to the vault itself,
and run the length of the surf and around Oceanus,
but cannot stand at the first break of waves--
well.

The darkness swallows the man,
as he swallows the waters,
But his mind regurgitates memory--
of the day the pier was built.
The painter's harlequin costume and demeanor,
the engineer's instruments and blueprints.
Alas, we confused their roles!
But the painter's engineering was quite pretty.
And the engineer's painting was methodical.
So now we drown.