A buckram creamfall
of light – phós in the Greek
mathematician’s Mind
[stark laceration from the Soul]
illumines the quiet murder
in a choir pew. Ascetic,
wretched fleshsucked skull;
vaporous farceform, from
an earth whose dirt
is a dream.¹

We spent a lot
of time before
our dimes run out;

“Nickel please?”

[Part One,
Part Two,
Part Three]

Per his request, I excitedly elaborated that one of the two letter-writers in the book was a historian named Luke, the same Luke who authored two manuscripts found in the New Testament. I explained that his letter exchange was between him and a wealthy benefactor to the Roman Empire, Antipas.

I shared how Antipas intelligently challenged Luke about the validity of the seemingly subversive claims of the man named Jesus, but instead of responding with a plethora of propositional arguments, Luke rather encouraged that Antipas do no more than take part in the house-gatherings of these who followed Him with their entire existence-corporate. The only true apologetic for whether or not the claims of a Leader are true is the extent to which his followers carry them out in praxis. [Come and see].

Even in the face of heavy persecution – I went on – this people-group remained faithful to their Leader by embodying his life and actions, and by doing so they made the same bold and unique proclamation with their radical, communal behavior. As Antipas’ interacted with Luke, his manuscripts, and these people who were dangerously committed to this New Way of Life, Antipas became increasingly convinced that this must be The True way to Live. Soon enough, Antipas had converted his allegiance from Caesar to the True Emperor, and was eventually martyred for it.

+

Now sure I’d overwhelmed him, Steve surprised me when he said, “I want to read that book.” Apparently, Clear over Cute is Steve’s angle.

He said he has an invested interest in anything sociological, and I acknowleded, then, that this book would likely be a good fit for him, especially since it depicts a group of people who radically restructured their lives in deep contrast to the larger culture. I said I’d found it most interesting the way their behavior was clearly governed by a Realm Other than Rome, and, that after a good deal of searching myself, I’d realized [with Help] that I have an less-increasing desire for loyalty to anything else myself.

I told him I did not think this First-Century communal ethos was unique to the first century, but rather that it was possible to embody in the twenty-first century as well. Together we could do a great Work to heal the sick, feed the hungry, provide shelter to the weak, to exchange present evil for future Good, and to make all things New. I explained these are the purposes for which the leader of these people walked the earth, and that just as he, the Son, was sent by the Father to make things Right again, he now has enabled and sent all people to continue this purpose.

+

Steve gave his number even though we both knew our phones would be inoperable inside the house. Knowing this gesture is a valuable relational step among Twenty-First Western culture, I was honored that he would extend it.

He said he would like to get a ale sometime to exchange books that have been important to us. Another collection of Letters immediately came to mind, but I vowed to wait before I said anything more.

Rush Hour

Shrood the Shoulds! and Musts! with Coulds
then/if [conditional] creatures crawl through
the [tick-tock] tangly web of the nihilo+ἀρχήness monster.
Studies show, studies, show studies, show
Cups of caffeine [and other sorts of fiendish -eines]
slows down Time. [or the personperception of it]
{but conciousness is what is any way worth of the while
waiting} room, stalling room, haystalls stacked
of people squeezing into Emptiness by filling
freeway cars with shaking fists and screaming
“shit!” when the guy in the tractor swings
his five-mile-an-hour-turn without a blinker.

The more I write, the deeper the gap seems between each instance that I do. I often wonder about what the rhythm of life is like for a Writer, or what quota of produced work is required for one to assume such a towering title. Throw out the wondering, and the one thing I can say with certainty is that the more I write, the more I don’t feel Right if I don’t.

Maybe that is the criteria of the title; not that the product is something eloquent or polished or rhetorically convincing – but that the very act is essential to one’s daily existence.¹

•

After over two-month’s time at Vickery, I’ve finally come around to putting things on the walls and situated some rugs about the floor. Increasingly in the months to come, this place will serve as both Home and Office, and since I will be spending a good amount of my time here, I wanted to be certain my surroundings occupied an aesthetic groove more agreeable than were the blankwhitewalls before.

•

Last night, I bought some irresistible whole wheat bread from the 24-hour gas station by Mockingbird Station. I photographed a wedding yesterday, and typically after such marathons I am bent towards a soft, chewy peanut butter sandwich. Since grocery stores have no concept of the time 1:38AM [and because I was simply unable to control my insatiable desire for the bread], I went to the biggest gas station in my area with hopes they would carry some of the grainy goodness, and in fact they did!

When I got home, I made not one, but three sandwiches [over time, will you] before bed, which is not among the healthiest choices I have ever made.² My judgment is substantially impaired after a wedding day, though, so I leave myself a good amount of slack.

•

When I lived in New York, I thrived on the letters a good friend and I wrote back and forth to one another. Some of my [self-induced] loneliest episodes took place in that bedroom in Spanish Harlem, and often the thing that kept me from spiraling into some stupid culture-shocked-self-victimization was the little brown envelope which periodically appeared over the Entourage icon in my dock. “New Mail!” – I thought – meant that I meant.

That which does not destroy us makes us stronger;
We must pass through the destruction to be Made.³

As I have lately begun to re-read the particular form these letters assumed between the two of us, I wanted to make sure in future letters that I maintained the unique ethos of our so-far correspondence. Reading our antiquated exchange has made me realize – among other things – how I once failed to capitalize any one word that needed it. I can remember one definite time during last summer when I decided I was going to begin capitalizing the things in my writing that asked for it. Though it was a whimsical decision, I thought that it would also be a healthy thing to get together. That is only one small example of how we change, and the sorts of steps we take to get there.

No snowflake in an avalanche ever feels responsible.⁴

Unfortunately, when Texas took away the apostlesnyc.com domain from my email address, she took with it the majority of our year-long electronic correspondence. I do think this friend is in much the same boat [an ironic adage considering his current Place] as I was there, in terms of separation from friends, family [and cultural familiarity], though I am sure on a much deeper and intense level. I can not imagine what us writing back and forth must mean for him, considering how much it means for me, a child safe in the city where he grew [grows] up.

By this point, it’s no peculiar thing to me that the majority of my closest friends are married and having kids. In fact, my former bandmate¹, suitemate², let’s-skip-Christian-Ethics-together-mate³, and brother with whom I’ve been close over the past five years, added a new title to an already long list.

“You are a dad,” I told him, with nothing better to say.

A few days ago, while I was relentlessly editing photos [a task from which I usually look for some sort of break that involves talking to people], he explained to me over iChat about how emotional the past few days have been for him.

“It’s the most amazing thing.”

He must have noticed from my %iTunes status that I was listening to the new Sigur Rós album, since he asked me what I thought of it. I told him how thoroughly I’d been enjoying it – that it’d been on repeat for the last few days without ceasing since I’d a hard time getting over how intimate and uncharacteristically raw it is. He responded to say he’s been listening the same in the days since his son was born.

+

As I began to imagine what sort of meaning Jónsi’s Hopelandic must embody for him in these moments, I could think of no other sound [at least in form] that point toward the miraculous reality of birth, and the Second Birth for which it yearns. If Incarnation sounds like anything, surely Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust is not far from it.⁴

Exactly a year ago this weekend, Austin and I traveled to a city named Austin to see our favorite songwriter, Ryan Adams, throw a tantrum in front of an auditoriumfull.

On our way, we stopped in front of this wall.

I remember.

[Part One,
Part Two]

I began to tell him that from what I can tell so far, the book is a fictional exchange of letters between residents of the First Century Mediterranean region.

Hoping I could manage my excitement over the topic matter, I explained that basically, Letters provide a detailed account of first-century culture, and a particularly peculiar group of people within it. These people, I explained, had begun treating one another like a close-knit family, to the point of calling one another “Brother” and “Sister” to express it. They shared everything they owned for the Good the Whole, provided food for the hungry, raiment for the naked, and home for the orphan.

I went on to explain that these people shared a unique Purpose which led them to do so, that it had been handed over by One who’d gone before embodying and proclaiming it. By it they remained committed to the reconciliation they had already begun to experience, seeking to create community in their homes by offering an Open Door and sharing meals with whomever would want to share.

It became quickly apparent that these people lived as if a new Way of life had been inaugurated, and they held on to it with desperation. They had quickly begun to redefine First Century life to the extent that they subverted social codes, and since they lived in the expectancy that History was soon coming to its End, their behavior made them appear radically different than the majority of the Roman Empire.

The crux of the letter exchange is the story of this New People, between the two letter writers – one which already belonged to the group and one which was outside the group. I told Steve that at the beginning of the book, both letter writers wrote from particularly different perspectives, but by the end of the book – I explained excitedly – the worldview of one to the other was not discernibly different!

I would have liked to explained the “how” to that final statement a bit more, but I thought to end it there in an effort to avoid overwhelming the guy.

Internally, I gathered my final comments. And again, he inquired a little further.

Rest’s pliant linen–
Phlox-stems from stone cracks
returning to Work.

During the festival-event
for my current State
I was found
on a porch with
two women. When I cracked
the Redbook
on the stool to my
left, “Men’s Biggest
Fears,” the heading read
itself. The women
were instantly curious
perchance I was
one of the Men
meant, and might I be
able to assess the validity
of the claims from a ghost
writer. “Am I the Best
You’ve ever had?” or “Will I
Ever get a gut?” was
the crux. I explained

the universality of them
is no-thing too tangible.
So the women turned fronts
to me and asked as if I am
an archetype, “Andrew,
then what is your biggest fear?”

I tried to swallow down
the Thing
I knew my answer
must contain, but instead
it came crawling out like a
hairy Tarantula, gagging me with
its squirmy little legs.

“To Know
I Am
Understood,”
[of course the fear
would need a not after the I Am]
was the what I’d never vocalized
loudly like this, thinking
the saying would lead away
from a solution to the Thing.

So came a second-level re-
daction of a less abstract “To be
perceived correctly,” which
actually means that of Great
value to me is a congruency
of the Theirs to the Mine.

Then we could
each nod-agree, since
sitting on a porch, the sun
setting said we were fifty [million] miles
from somewhere we had
to Be.