My story is not for the religious or the atheistic or the agnostic... it is for everyone interested in the truth. This blog contains first drafts of poetry and prose for my series of books on Christ, the first of which, Waking Up Jesus, is being greeted kindly by critics. Thank you... John Scott Ridgway
WAKING UP JESUS...
We come into this life expecting too much and leave expecting too little
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
COLLECTED MAY BLOGS--18TH OF MAY
LOOK AT ME… A bio. Update
1)
“I ain’t no fortunate one.”
John Fogarty
Existentialism Boofishly Explained Away
My first brush with existing in the moment came when I had a psychologist, back over twenty years ago, who proclaimed that he was an existentialist. I read a few books about the movement ,which pretty much confirmed answered an unspoken question that I had about whether this dude’s red eyes were caused by weed, or what? A young man in his twenties, with eyes that were as red as his hair. He was trying to live in the moment, for sensations and feelings, thrills and pills and chills. . . Can you see how this could lead to problems with a savings account? This is how a crack addict or a baby looks at the world… and it is the way everyone of us looks at the world to certain degrees. Who doesn’t want to feel good? Even people who like pain do so because it feels good, oddly enough…
T his philosophy of living in the moment sounds like it makes sense under a godless sky, where the old ideas of tying morality to religion – and thus the empowerment of the current power structure that it is propping up – are being not only questioned, but for all intents and purposes rebutted. . Taking whatever life has to offer with gusto like this is of course a lot easier if you are a rich rock star, rather than a crippled, sleeping in the streets, bum.
But, without a god to lick our wounds, what are we to do on this planet, spend our lives slowly bleeding to death from the thousands of tiny cuts that accumulate with the passing years? First a dead santa, then a dead cat, a dead sibling, dead grandparents, dead parents, dead… and no heaven waiting for them. I am forever surprised that more peoples minds don’t just break down and disentigrate into microcosmic countries reigned by the madness. I personally was so over whelmed by seventeen, when the essential question was being asked of me – how will you proceed in life (though I had no real sense of this at the time), that I felt like I was going crazy. Feeling like you are going crazy is only almost as bad as actually going crazy… I think, but what the fuck do I know?
2)
The Story of A. Crayon.
My neighbors are a strange lot. Across the hall are two couples in their seventies, who have had some kind of open group marriage… there is a lot to it, of course; they put together a book once, that didn’t sell much. They claim to have found the perfect existence for man in a socialist world that they thought was going to sweep the world long before now… I don’t know. Down another flight of stars and there is a heroin addict and her fourteen year old kid, who hangs out as much as possible in our studio… Another of the denizens of 1436 Jarvis is a man in his early thirties who claims to be an alien. He was convinced by his present religion that he is one of the ‘thirty six’ chosen ones (36 being actually a floating number, based on how many people are keeping up with Sunday school in his sect – we could have been chosen, too, and become, in our mind and theirs, Godly, but I put down my foot on this one. I mean, if everyone is chosen than no one is chosen, you know?
I go by crayon, an artist to some, a slacker to some, a waste to some, an object of lust and pity and anger and laughter. To myself I am a boof, a fool. It took many of years of college to reach such a level of foolishness. This story is an overly wordy, whiny postulation of my life. . .
The others here are more earthy than I am. They smell the turpentine in the air, notice when I leave the toilet seat down, and can always rinse out their coffee mugs. I am always somewhere else, no matter where I am. I am no longer an existentialist. I stand amid white flakes falling from a hot, July sky and yell at everyone around me to shut up and listen for the sound of snow hitting the ground. They shake their heads like I am nuts. At first I believe them.
What happened was . . .
and then we . . .
In the end, I think everyone learned a thing or two, though at the moment I can’t think of any.
3)
LOOK AT ME… A bio. Update
Weird how I decide to write about his and that for this blog here. I sometimes jot down a few ideas in my drawing pad, and occasionally the whole story just comes out on the subway or something. I always carry a pad and pencils. Like I tell people, they are my form of knitting; my mom knits, and I am sure we are doing the same thing somehow. I pull out my pad during long conversations, music show… on the train I am either engrossed in a a drawing or reading.
So, I have been watching a lot of movies, read a number of books, went to the doctors and hospitals and pharmacies too many times for me to keep track of. Right now, I am a couple weeks away from meeting with a surgeon who will do my surgery. She is a young possibly Indian woman; oh so attractive; I like the idea of being operated on by a really hot woman; going under on the gas is fun, too…. Waking up after a major back pain brings one into a body screaming with pain, though… enough pain to make the memory of the gas a dream of a way to escape his damaged flesh. Muscles have been sliced through. Nerves severed. How utterly boring even this event in my life seems. I hope the surgery takes away some of the pain. I would love it it was enough for te
4)
CHASING THE NEIGHBORS WITH CHAIN SAWS
….
State Prison let him out after 18 months?
Sent a wolf out amongst the sheep
He’s 38 and stabbed his daughter and her best friend to death.
A potato knife he says one of the third graders pulled on him
The cops think this is a lie.
Just an wily convict trying to say he killed the little girls
in some preposterous/ludicrous state of defense?
The prosecutor says the con is lying
to save his ass from frying
father was a month out of prison
for trying to kill his neighbors
with a chain saw,
They had to beat him down with a shovel to stop his madness
Psychopaths
out there
With hearts that don’t quicken
As they eviscerate a corpse that they’re fucking
Eyes turned inward
Staring into their porno/revenge/sensual realms
He sees’ only a weaker con in the jail house
One he can take down and fuck
Kill and get away with it.
He doesn’t mind killing
He kinda liked taking revenge in prison
Felt like superman
Entry Six/Not in Blog
A freak in LA goes on trial for violating little boys
Hoping to do an O.J.
Right now there is a few weeks away from the verdict
I am trying to find a place to put this information
into a mental context
Where it won’t cut and bruise me
1)
“I ain’t no fortunate one.”
John Fogarty
Existentialism Boofishly Explained Away
My first brush with existing in the moment came when I had a psychologist, back over twenty years ago, who proclaimed that he was an existentialist. I read a few books about the movement ,which pretty much confirmed answered an unspoken question that I had about whether this dude’s red eyes were caused by weed, or what? A young man in his twenties, with eyes that were as red as his hair. He was trying to live in the moment, for sensations and feelings, thrills and pills and chills. . . Can you see how this could lead to problems with a savings account? This is how a crack addict or a baby looks at the world… and it is the way everyone of us looks at the world to certain degrees. Who doesn’t want to feel good? Even people who like pain do so because it feels good, oddly enough…
T his philosophy of living in the moment sounds like it makes sense under a godless sky, where the old ideas of tying morality to religion – and thus the empowerment of the current power structure that it is propping up – are being not only questioned, but for all intents and purposes rebutted. . Taking whatever life has to offer with gusto like this is of course a lot easier if you are a rich rock star, rather than a crippled, sleeping in the streets, bum.
But, without a god to lick our wounds, what are we to do on this planet, spend our lives slowly bleeding to death from the thousands of tiny cuts that accumulate with the passing years? First a dead santa, then a dead cat, a dead sibling, dead grandparents, dead parents, dead… and no heaven waiting for them. I am forever surprised that more peoples minds don’t just break down and disentigrate into microcosmic countries reigned by the madness. I personally was so over whelmed by seventeen, when the essential question was being asked of me – how will you proceed in life (though I had no real sense of this at the time), that I felt like I was going crazy. Feeling like you are going crazy is only almost as bad as actually going crazy… I think, but what the fuck do I know?
2)
The Story of A. Crayon.
My neighbors are a strange lot. Across the hall are two couples in their seventies, who have had some kind of open group marriage… there is a lot to it, of course; they put together a book once, that didn’t sell much. They claim to have found the perfect existence for man in a socialist world that they thought was going to sweep the world long before now… I don’t know. Down another flight of stars and there is a heroin addict and her fourteen year old kid, who hangs out as much as possible in our studio… Another of the denizens of 1436 Jarvis is a man in his early thirties who claims to be an alien. He was convinced by his present religion that he is one of the ‘thirty six’ chosen ones (36 being actually a floating number, based on how many people are keeping up with Sunday school in his sect – we could have been chosen, too, and become, in our mind and theirs, Godly, but I put down my foot on this one. I mean, if everyone is chosen than no one is chosen, you know?
I go by crayon, an artist to some, a slacker to some, a waste to some, an object of lust and pity and anger and laughter. To myself I am a boof, a fool. It took many of years of college to reach such a level of foolishness. This story is an overly wordy, whiny postulation of my life. . .
The others here are more earthy than I am. They smell the turpentine in the air, notice when I leave the toilet seat down, and can always rinse out their coffee mugs. I am always somewhere else, no matter where I am. I am no longer an existentialist. I stand amid white flakes falling from a hot, July sky and yell at everyone around me to shut up and listen for the sound of snow hitting the ground. They shake their heads like I am nuts. At first I believe them.
What happened was . . .
and then we . . .
In the end, I think everyone learned a thing or two, though at the moment I can’t think of any.
3)
LOOK AT ME… A bio. Update
Weird how I decide to write about his and that for this blog here. I sometimes jot down a few ideas in my drawing pad, and occasionally the whole story just comes out on the subway or something. I always carry a pad and pencils. Like I tell people, they are my form of knitting; my mom knits, and I am sure we are doing the same thing somehow. I pull out my pad during long conversations, music show… on the train I am either engrossed in a a drawing or reading.
So, I have been watching a lot of movies, read a number of books, went to the doctors and hospitals and pharmacies too many times for me to keep track of. Right now, I am a couple weeks away from meeting with a surgeon who will do my surgery. She is a young possibly Indian woman; oh so attractive; I like the idea of being operated on by a really hot woman; going under on the gas is fun, too…. Waking up after a major back pain brings one into a body screaming with pain, though… enough pain to make the memory of the gas a dream of a way to escape his damaged flesh. Muscles have been sliced through. Nerves severed. How utterly boring even this event in my life seems. I hope the surgery takes away some of the pain. I would love it it was enough for te
4)
CHASING THE NEIGHBORS WITH CHAIN SAWS
….
State Prison let him out after 18 months?
Sent a wolf out amongst the sheep
He’s 38 and stabbed his daughter and her best friend to death.
A potato knife he says one of the third graders pulled on him
The cops think this is a lie.
Just an wily convict trying to say he killed the little girls
in some preposterous/ludicrous state of defense?
The prosecutor says the con is lying
to save his ass from frying
father was a month out of prison
for trying to kill his neighbors
with a chain saw,
They had to beat him down with a shovel to stop his madness
Psychopaths
out there
With hearts that don’t quicken
As they eviscerate a corpse that they’re fucking
Eyes turned inward
Staring into their porno/revenge/sensual realms
He sees’ only a weaker con in the jail house
One he can take down and fuck
Kill and get away with it.
He doesn’t mind killing
He kinda liked taking revenge in prison
Felt like superman
Entry Six/Not in Blog
A freak in LA goes on trial for violating little boys
Hoping to do an O.J.
Right now there is a few weeks away from the verdict
I am trying to find a place to put this information
into a mental context
Where it won’t cut and bruise me
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