Rob Krabbe's Blog: From a Krabbe Desk, page 9
January 27, 2011
Big Momma's Front Porch
Sunday dinner at Big Momma's
full gospel holiness church
on the front porch, in the back
of the Brock family farm.
The old farm was there first;
then the city built the road,
so that right was left and back
was front and the front room
looked out over the hills out back.
The most remarkable aspect of
a working farm was the smell,
"Whooooo boy! [shake your head] Lawd, lawd!"
Sweet, sick; and thick, the manure and
old rotting hay, animal body odor;
all created a wonderful pungent combination
of animal, vegetable and mineral.
The aroma got in your clothes,
your hair, and you just couldn't get rid of it,
but for them that's, "raised right," twas
more like going home, and a feeling
warmer than the fresh manure.
When we left home for home we "was"
southeast of Due West, 12 miles east of North,
24 miles from Six Mile, a hop skip and a "two step" slide
from Townville City between Fairplay and Sugar Tit, South Carolina.
With all the "South will rise again" we could muster,
we were headed soul-deep into "God's country",
Bainbridge Georgia, which is so south
every where else is north a good piece
especially South Florida.
The "real south," hidden amongst the Kudzu
and "gotcha" vines, chorus frogs, "fixin to /
I heard dat / all y'all" and "balls to the wall,"
the eggs are always "cooked up behind the bacon."
Deep sickening beautiful lung full, and that old
familiar mix of smells transported me back
to a simpler place and time before we even
stepped out of the car and walked cross the Dixie Winter Rye.
You always could smell big momma's kitchen a mile off,
the hypnotic odors of love, rising above the outdoor
smells, draws a body into a state of mind and heals any "ill"
just to take a lung full.
Healing so completely even a yankee
will begin using errant blasphemes, like
"boy howdy dat some fresh meee-ilk, taste
like it's right out the cows teet" and
I dun tol y'all, show nuf, praise Jesus,
we got sum full-up cows!" [chew/hork/spit]
Melissa's jaw, passed right out and flopped
to her chest, sucked in a hushed panic
as she realised I had not exaggerated
even a little, the past few years. She had
"never dreamed it would all be so much like I said."
Even I, had not really expected such a treasure
as the "boys" drove up, a still-soft deer strapped
to the bumper and front grill of the old family truck.
"Sheeee-it!" [Hork/spit], "I can't believe someone left
this perfectly good meat on the side of the road" Joe smiled,
and praised Jesus for the unexpected bounty and provision
as they dragged it to the "blood-shed" where they turned
the road-kill into "proper meat, and stew parts." [hork/spit/lifting groan]
Two ticks later, arms full of freshly wrapped steaks,
Brian was dead sure he "got all the pieces of headlight out"
and "what a blessin, who-eee" God was good when the poor creature
had only been "a layin there" a few minutes when they had "came" by.
"My, my!"
Melissa, my now-nervous California city-wife, born and bred,
was standing in the front room, when the tv blared
in the drawing room. She could hear it and giggled,
an old memory of a familiar cartoon.
A Looney Tunes character was lamenting, some old man country voice,
bent over, wrinkly-sounding, Yosemite Sam style, saying "lawd, lawd, lawd,
aint dat a day praise Jesus, whoooeeey, but dat boy like ta bug
da hound outta mee lawd. lawd! [tittering laughter] Hayyall?
Y'all want ta go-ta-da sto? I'm, fixin te go-ta-da wall-mot."
Melissa thought it was an odd thing for a cartoon to say,
so she walked in to see which episode it was, but the tv never was on.
Old uncle William, however, was on and suddenly
aimed his voice at her "Aint y'all a sahht? Woooooooo-lawd!
come ova heah, give Weelyum sum shugga baby!"
[more tittering]
Grandma Dolly came up about then, "mercy, mercy, look at you!"
She had never met Melissa yet, but that was her way.
Our family is a huggin family, and within a few bone crushing moments
Melissa was starting to get used to it.
Can't explain why sweet tea heals, and soothes,
but that syrupy sweet, ice cold, swirling hot liquid
tumbling down over ice cubes defies physics and any "ill."
"It'll kill the grass," JC chuckle though his gums, as he never did
cotton to his store bought teeth.
Venison, not everyone's cup of tea, but I loved it
sharp, and chewy, reminded me that loving hands
had killed and cut its body up for us.
Unless it was an act of God or road kill, I lamented,
as I found the impression of a Ford logo
deeply embedded in the fibers of my steak.
After supper, a line of eight old over stuffed recliners
from the salvation army, line up in a semi-circle
Filled with snoring "men folk" while the women
cleaned up the dishes. I tried to tell my California bride
Not to misundrestand this insult to her sensitivities
The men had been in the fields since 4:00 A.M.
and the women "sho nuf" did not want a part of that kind of equality.
Really, there's not much else to say about my momma's people.
See, there's not a better way for a stranger to feel part of a family
then to just come on up to the front porch, on the back of the
Brock family farm main house, grab a glass of fresh sweet tea,
and sit a spell on a Sundee. No man, woman or child alive goes hungry
on a Sundee, if'n Big Momma hears of it, no matter who you are..
My "sweet city wife" survived Sunday dinner in style,
and all my momma's people loved her on-sight.
We ate too much, slept after dinner, played some "cousin ball"
after supper, nursed our football injuries, and bedded down for the night.
Breakfast, four in the morning, and then the boys were all out in the fields.
We packed up, said good bye, Dolly, and Big Momma cryin'.
It wasn't too long before Big Momma was gone to Jesus,
But "lawd" the memories are sweet.
Big Momma rockin', chewin' and spittin'
and the "boys" gettin the music out.
Playing old hymns as long as it took for Pappa Joe
to start dancing in the Holy Spirit, and
Dolly's five-flavor-sour-cream cake to be ready to eat.
You see, everybody's welcome, no matter who ya are
long as you don't cus in front of Big Momma,
and you compliment Dolly on her cakes and biskets, and never,
remember this if you don't remember anything else,
never take the "good Lord's name in vain, lawd!"
Ok, well, you also got to eat more than you ever had in one sitting
in your whole life, "less'n" you want to be labeled a communist or sickly.
There is no way a person can get closer to America's heart and soul
then to spend Sunday dinner at Big Momma's full gospel
holiness church on the front porch, in the back of the Brock family farm.
[hork/spit/touch the brim of the hat]
"Lawd, Lawd! Y'all come back."
full gospel holiness church
on the front porch, in the back
of the Brock family farm.
The old farm was there first;
then the city built the road,
so that right was left and back
was front and the front room
looked out over the hills out back.
The most remarkable aspect of
a working farm was the smell,
"Whooooo boy! [shake your head] Lawd, lawd!"
Sweet, sick; and thick, the manure and
old rotting hay, animal body odor;
all created a wonderful pungent combination
of animal, vegetable and mineral.
The aroma got in your clothes,
your hair, and you just couldn't get rid of it,
but for them that's, "raised right," twas
more like going home, and a feeling
warmer than the fresh manure.
When we left home for home we "was"
southeast of Due West, 12 miles east of North,
24 miles from Six Mile, a hop skip and a "two step" slide
from Townville City between Fairplay and Sugar Tit, South Carolina.
With all the "South will rise again" we could muster,
we were headed soul-deep into "God's country",
Bainbridge Georgia, which is so south
every where else is north a good piece
especially South Florida.
The "real south," hidden amongst the Kudzu
and "gotcha" vines, chorus frogs, "fixin to /
I heard dat / all y'all" and "balls to the wall,"
the eggs are always "cooked up behind the bacon."
Deep sickening beautiful lung full, and that old
familiar mix of smells transported me back
to a simpler place and time before we even
stepped out of the car and walked cross the Dixie Winter Rye.
You always could smell big momma's kitchen a mile off,
the hypnotic odors of love, rising above the outdoor
smells, draws a body into a state of mind and heals any "ill"
just to take a lung full.
Healing so completely even a yankee
will begin using errant blasphemes, like
"boy howdy dat some fresh meee-ilk, taste
like it's right out the cows teet" and
I dun tol y'all, show nuf, praise Jesus,
we got sum full-up cows!" [chew/hork/spit]
Melissa's jaw, passed right out and flopped
to her chest, sucked in a hushed panic
as she realised I had not exaggerated
even a little, the past few years. She had
"never dreamed it would all be so much like I said."
Even I, had not really expected such a treasure
as the "boys" drove up, a still-soft deer strapped
to the bumper and front grill of the old family truck.
"Sheeee-it!" [Hork/spit], "I can't believe someone left
this perfectly good meat on the side of the road" Joe smiled,
and praised Jesus for the unexpected bounty and provision
as they dragged it to the "blood-shed" where they turned
the road-kill into "proper meat, and stew parts." [hork/spit/lifting groan]
Two ticks later, arms full of freshly wrapped steaks,
Brian was dead sure he "got all the pieces of headlight out"
and "what a blessin, who-eee" God was good when the poor creature
had only been "a layin there" a few minutes when they had "came" by.
"My, my!"
Melissa, my now-nervous California city-wife, born and bred,
was standing in the front room, when the tv blared
in the drawing room. She could hear it and giggled,
an old memory of a familiar cartoon.
A Looney Tunes character was lamenting, some old man country voice,
bent over, wrinkly-sounding, Yosemite Sam style, saying "lawd, lawd, lawd,
aint dat a day praise Jesus, whoooeeey, but dat boy like ta bug
da hound outta mee lawd. lawd! [tittering laughter] Hayyall?
Y'all want ta go-ta-da sto? I'm, fixin te go-ta-da wall-mot."
Melissa thought it was an odd thing for a cartoon to say,
so she walked in to see which episode it was, but the tv never was on.
Old uncle William, however, was on and suddenly
aimed his voice at her "Aint y'all a sahht? Woooooooo-lawd!
come ova heah, give Weelyum sum shugga baby!"
[more tittering]
Grandma Dolly came up about then, "mercy, mercy, look at you!"
She had never met Melissa yet, but that was her way.
Our family is a huggin family, and within a few bone crushing moments
Melissa was starting to get used to it.
Can't explain why sweet tea heals, and soothes,
but that syrupy sweet, ice cold, swirling hot liquid
tumbling down over ice cubes defies physics and any "ill."
"It'll kill the grass," JC chuckle though his gums, as he never did
cotton to his store bought teeth.
Venison, not everyone's cup of tea, but I loved it
sharp, and chewy, reminded me that loving hands
had killed and cut its body up for us.
Unless it was an act of God or road kill, I lamented,
as I found the impression of a Ford logo
deeply embedded in the fibers of my steak.
After supper, a line of eight old over stuffed recliners
from the salvation army, line up in a semi-circle
Filled with snoring "men folk" while the women
cleaned up the dishes. I tried to tell my California bride
Not to misundrestand this insult to her sensitivities
The men had been in the fields since 4:00 A.M.
and the women "sho nuf" did not want a part of that kind of equality.
Really, there's not much else to say about my momma's people.
See, there's not a better way for a stranger to feel part of a family
then to just come on up to the front porch, on the back of the
Brock family farm main house, grab a glass of fresh sweet tea,
and sit a spell on a Sundee. No man, woman or child alive goes hungry
on a Sundee, if'n Big Momma hears of it, no matter who you are..
My "sweet city wife" survived Sunday dinner in style,
and all my momma's people loved her on-sight.
We ate too much, slept after dinner, played some "cousin ball"
after supper, nursed our football injuries, and bedded down for the night.
Breakfast, four in the morning, and then the boys were all out in the fields.
We packed up, said good bye, Dolly, and Big Momma cryin'.
It wasn't too long before Big Momma was gone to Jesus,
But "lawd" the memories are sweet.
Big Momma rockin', chewin' and spittin'
and the "boys" gettin the music out.
Playing old hymns as long as it took for Pappa Joe
to start dancing in the Holy Spirit, and
Dolly's five-flavor-sour-cream cake to be ready to eat.
You see, everybody's welcome, no matter who ya are
long as you don't cus in front of Big Momma,
and you compliment Dolly on her cakes and biskets, and never,
remember this if you don't remember anything else,
never take the "good Lord's name in vain, lawd!"
Ok, well, you also got to eat more than you ever had in one sitting
in your whole life, "less'n" you want to be labeled a communist or sickly.
There is no way a person can get closer to America's heart and soul
then to spend Sunday dinner at Big Momma's full gospel
holiness church on the front porch, in the back of the Brock family farm.
[hork/spit/touch the brim of the hat]
"Lawd, Lawd! Y'all come back."
We Were Rock and Rollers
© 2010 Rob Krabbe
At the Troubadour, gassed up for
the two hundred and twenty first show
of the year, one funked up night,
five more in North Hollywood.
Bend a few, see what gives.
"No Smoking!" a good thing,
till we smelled the club in it's glory.
It was just one more dues-paying gig
and they all smelled like piss and beer.
Forty years of leaking drunks, uncovered
by a popular-but-not-around-here
greater LA ordinance, so my fellows,
"light up" we were pleading
way before happy hour.
Finally, an illegal herbal haze
was spreading in anticipation.
With the traditional mingling
of the herbs, bold cologne and fresh booze,
I pronounced the crowd "ready to ROCK".
Drummer Dave winked at me,
twirled a hog's leg, and smashed a rim shot
that could have launched the Titanic
right to the deep, and saved the ice for the booze.
Little Bear announced the band.
"Ladies and Gentlemen"...
a deep-pocket zen groove slammed
into my chest like a steady panic attack.
During this yet one more moment
we've all been waiting for:
"The Jake Collins Band!"
The room exploded and pulsed like a fresh heart.
I defibrillated and Jack-Horner'd
to the bassman's corner,
having lived too much life to
play center stage under the hot lights.
We had a young sexy front man for that
and he did aerobics and still slept
well on the bus at night.
I love to watch though, from
the 'best seat in the house' and,
baby, court was in session.
Posers, losers, and rock and rollers
hustling the want-to-be somebodys.
A leather wearing horny C.P.A. smiling behind a
cowboy pimp mask two decades too late.
His toupee flap-jacking to the beat, snapping his fingers
like he used to have some crazy power over women,
as he bobble-headed toward some forty year old
'single girls' at the end of the bar.
Looking damned cool doing it, I'd say,
as surprisingly he came on to cross-dressing Steve;
I guess he figured it out when Steve smiled, and asked
"did we just have a moment?"
Mr. Bad Hair Day couldn't leave quick enough.
Guitar-man erupted, swirling his blade fast,
high and wide, and cut everyone
in the room, leaving bodies everywhere.
Cool swaying masses of pulsating flesh, reeling
from the opening solo, rhythmically licking the blood
off each other, while singer Jake lays back,
straddles the mike-stand like a forty dollar hooker.
I rif on my bass and drummer Dave kicks into
the deepest pocket ever created by men, and
the foundation for singer Jake's smokey gravel
voice is in place; appetites are in peak season.
Making love to the microphone, Jake
lays the starving audience down onto
his bed, his gift: each person,
the only one in the room.
Mystic healer slinging a Ten-Penny
Hartford ale and sleazy lyrics
he found on a truck-stop bathroom wall
deep in the heart of the motor city,
back in nineteen-ninety-four.
The old song still does the trick however.
He promises nothing, ever,
but tonight he was a one-audience man.
He tosses lies at the crowd but his eyes
reach out, prying into the loneliness, and
breaking down the work-a-day walls.
The divided sheep and goats melt
into a massive collective soul.
Men, women and in-betweens, hypnotized by
the voice of the son of an alcoholic Midwest druggist,
they became one creed, one race, one people.
Jake eases into his lover, pressing the
first verse slow and easy, deeper, and deeper
all the way in, to the chorus.
A french art student faints and slides to the ground
screaming, lies there panting and wiggling
between boots and heels, trying to catch her breath,
dodging vomit drops and once again
tries to master gravity but fails.
Me, I'm downing a bottle of 26-year-old Scotch.
Bloody wasted that award winning hootch,
chasing a 'bakers' dozen' beers, the blues,
and a random chunk of tooth; I still don't know
where that came from, but afterwards I took
a long hot shower, and threw out my shoes.
Somehow, right after the third encore,
I woke up in the state of Arizona, getting off a
bus with no identification and
seven dollars in my pocket.
It was at that moment of discovery when
I found the note pinned to my jacket that read
"Write when you find work - like never."
I laughed because
we were having too good a time
to think about tomorrow.
We were rock and rollers.
At the Troubadour, gassed up for
the two hundred and twenty first show
of the year, one funked up night,
five more in North Hollywood.
Bend a few, see what gives.
"No Smoking!" a good thing,
till we smelled the club in it's glory.
It was just one more dues-paying gig
and they all smelled like piss and beer.
Forty years of leaking drunks, uncovered
by a popular-but-not-around-here
greater LA ordinance, so my fellows,
"light up" we were pleading
way before happy hour.
Finally, an illegal herbal haze
was spreading in anticipation.
With the traditional mingling
of the herbs, bold cologne and fresh booze,
I pronounced the crowd "ready to ROCK".
Drummer Dave winked at me,
twirled a hog's leg, and smashed a rim shot
that could have launched the Titanic
right to the deep, and saved the ice for the booze.
Little Bear announced the band.
"Ladies and Gentlemen"...
a deep-pocket zen groove slammed
into my chest like a steady panic attack.
During this yet one more moment
we've all been waiting for:
"The Jake Collins Band!"
The room exploded and pulsed like a fresh heart.
I defibrillated and Jack-Horner'd
to the bassman's corner,
having lived too much life to
play center stage under the hot lights.
We had a young sexy front man for that
and he did aerobics and still slept
well on the bus at night.
I love to watch though, from
the 'best seat in the house' and,
baby, court was in session.
Posers, losers, and rock and rollers
hustling the want-to-be somebodys.
A leather wearing horny C.P.A. smiling behind a
cowboy pimp mask two decades too late.
His toupee flap-jacking to the beat, snapping his fingers
like he used to have some crazy power over women,
as he bobble-headed toward some forty year old
'single girls' at the end of the bar.
Looking damned cool doing it, I'd say,
as surprisingly he came on to cross-dressing Steve;
I guess he figured it out when Steve smiled, and asked
"did we just have a moment?"
Mr. Bad Hair Day couldn't leave quick enough.
Guitar-man erupted, swirling his blade fast,
high and wide, and cut everyone
in the room, leaving bodies everywhere.
Cool swaying masses of pulsating flesh, reeling
from the opening solo, rhythmically licking the blood
off each other, while singer Jake lays back,
straddles the mike-stand like a forty dollar hooker.
I rif on my bass and drummer Dave kicks into
the deepest pocket ever created by men, and
the foundation for singer Jake's smokey gravel
voice is in place; appetites are in peak season.
Making love to the microphone, Jake
lays the starving audience down onto
his bed, his gift: each person,
the only one in the room.
Mystic healer slinging a Ten-Penny
Hartford ale and sleazy lyrics
he found on a truck-stop bathroom wall
deep in the heart of the motor city,
back in nineteen-ninety-four.
The old song still does the trick however.
He promises nothing, ever,
but tonight he was a one-audience man.
He tosses lies at the crowd but his eyes
reach out, prying into the loneliness, and
breaking down the work-a-day walls.
The divided sheep and goats melt
into a massive collective soul.
Men, women and in-betweens, hypnotized by
the voice of the son of an alcoholic Midwest druggist,
they became one creed, one race, one people.
Jake eases into his lover, pressing the
first verse slow and easy, deeper, and deeper
all the way in, to the chorus.
A french art student faints and slides to the ground
screaming, lies there panting and wiggling
between boots and heels, trying to catch her breath,
dodging vomit drops and once again
tries to master gravity but fails.
Me, I'm downing a bottle of 26-year-old Scotch.
Bloody wasted that award winning hootch,
chasing a 'bakers' dozen' beers, the blues,
and a random chunk of tooth; I still don't know
where that came from, but afterwards I took
a long hot shower, and threw out my shoes.
Somehow, right after the third encore,
I woke up in the state of Arizona, getting off a
bus with no identification and
seven dollars in my pocket.
It was at that moment of discovery when
I found the note pinned to my jacket that read
"Write when you find work - like never."
I laughed because
we were having too good a time
to think about tomorrow.
We were rock and rollers.
January 25, 2011
The Depth of a Sorrowful Joy
© 2010 Rob KrabbeBranches hang dripping, low on a mist-covered pathway.
A walk I have put off till the calendars fell from the rotting shelf.
Deep in the fall forest's cool morning air shackles clank to the ground.
My melancholy and I are life-long friends, whispering - giddy like lovers.
Trying to remember how many I have murdered in my sleep.
"You say, killing myself could repair the damages?"
Irony sitting on my shoulder likes to hear his own rusty voice.
Well, I would have jumped a long time ago into the abyss.
Years of the couch, lithium blood canals, till I found only apathy and Frankenstein's shoes.
Thankfully a peaceful wilderness and nature protects me now
and gives me the margin I need to soak up grace and forgive.
Forgive myself? maybe, but I don't deserve it; still, that's how grace works.
It's a two-way blazing heat day, a clogged blast furnace and crunchy dry grass.
Bake till dead, scraped up ashes fill the brass urn to overflowing.
My neck, today offered to the King, how much easier would that be?
But to face the old man, sing the young boy and put in the work.
Damn it, I wish I could remember where all the burned bridges lay.
I pick up the steel, the glimmering, wonderful flashing blade.
Razor sharp, it faithfully mirrors my soul, my face, my eyes.
Romancing the sexy lover she offers pleasure for pain.
Boy, yes, I like how I look in the reflection of a big beautiful knife.
I want to make love to it, slide it deep into my heart,
I could cut gills and swim away into the dark cold sea; free.
My faithful, faithful friend, always there for me - waiting.
Across clear creek water, shocked back by the sound of flowing life.
The smell of the organic process, and the non-stop healing.
A purpose for everything under heaven? Sometimes I sing that line.
All members of the body, every part, every task, unflinching,
and no judgement or personal agenda, only an offering of a deeper joy.
I stand back and look at my day, a masterpiece canvass, shades
of darkness, glorious textured globs of melting paint fall from my wounds
and create a new and special way to look up and wonder.
There is no going back to picking up all the trash, but one can try
repairing all the bridges, healing all the damage, admitting the lies.
Some of the corpses have long rotted into the soil continuing the cycle,
nurturing new life without my "damned" help.
No going home again? Wisdom or frustration of the court jester?
The infection will only fester, but suddenly I realised, my eyes open wide:
Time is my true lover. I sit and "befriend" old enemies; we all chuckle.
The flavor of the month, "we was just stupid kids back then," grains of sand.
"Don't give it a thought. You ain't been thinking of that all these years have you?"
The grace of a forgetful mind is not as satisfying but works wonders in the soul.
I was a real jerk but now I'm just one you "ain't heard from in thirty years."
Well, I fought back the tears and my blackened heart found an odd acceptance,
rubbing the tarnish into wisdom, comfortable shoes and a gentle old but joy-filled fool.
October 14, 2010
Big Momma’s Front Porch
Big Momma's Front Porch
© 2010 Rob Krabbe
Sunday dinner at Big Momma's
full gospel holiness church
on the front porch, in the back
of the Brock family farm.
The old farm was there first;
then the city built the road,
so that right was left and back
was front and the front room
looked out over the hills out back.
The most remarkable aspect of
a working farm was the smell,
“Whooooo boy! [shake your head] Lawd, lawd!”
Sweet, sick; and thick, the manure and
old rotting hay, animal body odor;
all created a wonderful pungent combination
of animal, vegetable and mineral.
The aroma got in your clothes,
your hair, and you just couldn’t get rid of it,
but for them that’s, “raised right,” twas
more like going home, and a feeling
warmer than the fresh manure.
When we left home for home we “was”
southeast of Due West, 12 miles east of North,
24 miles from Six Mile, a hop skip and a “two step” slide
from Townville City between Fairplay and Sugar Tit, South Carolina.
With all the “South will rise again” we could muster,
we were headed soul-deep into “God’s country”,
Bainbridge Georgia, which is so south
every where else is north a good piece
especially South Florida.
The “real south,” hidden amongst the Kudzu
and “gotcha” vines, chorus frogs, “fixin to /
I heard dat / all y’all” and “balls to the wall,”
the eggs are always “cooked up behind the bacon.”
Deep sickening beautiful lung full, and that old
familiar mix of smells transported me back
to a simpler place and time before we even
stepped out of the car and walked cross the Dixie Winter Rye.
You always could smell big momma’s kitchen a mile off,
the hypnotic odors of love, rising above the outdoor
smells, draws a body into a state of mind and heals any “ill”
just to take a lung full.
Healing so completely even a yankee
will begin using errant blasphemes, like
“boy howdy dat some fresh meee-ilk, taste
like it’s right out the cows teet” and
I dun tol y’all, show nuf, praise Jesus,
we got sum full-up cows!” [chew/hork/spit]
Melissa’s jaw, passed right out and flopped
to her chest, sucked in a hushed panic
as she realised I had not exaggerated
even a little, the past few years. She had
“never dreamed it would all be so much like I said.”
Even I, had not really expected such a treasure
as the “boys” drove up, a still-soft deer strapped
to the bumper and front grill of the old family truck.
“Sheeee-it!” [Hork/spit], “I can’t believe someone left
this perfectly good meat on the side of the road” Joe smiled,
and praised Jesus for the unexpected bounty and provision
as they dragged it to the “blood-shed” where they turned
the road-kill into “proper meat, and stew parts.” [hork/spit/lifting groan]
Two ticks later, arms full of freshly wrapped steaks,
Brian was dead sure he “got all the pieces of headlight out”
and “what a blessin, who-eee” God was good when the poor creature
had only been “a layin there” a few minutes when they had “came” by.
“My, my!”
Melissa, my now-nervous California city-wife, born and bred,
was standing in the front room, when the tv blared
in the drawing room. She could hear it and giggled,
an old memory of a familiar cartoon.
A Looney Tunes character was lamenting, some old man country voice,
bent over, wrinkly-sounding, Yosemite Sam style, saying “lawd, lawd, lawd,
aint dat a day praise Jesus, whoooeeey, but dat boy like ta bug
da hound outta mee lawd. lawd! [tittering laughter] Hayyall?
Y’all want ta go-ta-da sto? I’m, fixin te go-ta-da wall-mot.”
Melissa thought it was an odd thing for a cartoon to say,
so she walked in to see which episode it was, but the tv never was on.
Old uncle William, however, was on and suddenly
aimed his voice at her “Aint y’all a sahht? Woooooooo-lawd!
come ova heah, give Weelyum sum shugga baby!”
[more tittering]
Grandma Dolly came up about then, “mercy, mercy, look at you!”
She had never met Melissa yet, but that was her way.
Our family is a huggin family, and within a few bone crushing moments
Melissa was starting to get used to it.
Can’t explain why sweet tea heals, and soothes,
but that syrupy sweet, ice cold, swirling hot liquid
tumbling down over ice cubes defies physics and any “ill.”
“It’ll kill the grass,” JC chuckle though his gums, as he never did
cotton to his store bought teeth.
Venison, not everyone’s cup of tea, but I loved it
sharp, and chewy, reminded me that loving hands
had killed and cut its body up for us.
Unless it was an act of God or road kill, I lamented,
as I found the impression of a Ford logo
deeply embedded in the fibers of my steak.
After supper, a line of eight old over stuffed recliners
from the salvation army, line up in a semi-circle
Filled with snoring “men folk” while the women
cleaned up the dishes. I tried to tell my California bride
Not to misundrestand this insult to her sensitivities
The men had been in the fields since 4:00 A.M.
and the women “sho nuf” did not want a part of that kind of equality.
Really, there’s not much else to say about my momma’s people.
See, there’s not a better way for a stranger to feel part of a family
then to just come on up to the front porch, on the back of the
Brock family farm main house, grab a glass of fresh sweet tea,
and sit a spell on a Sundee. No man, woman or child alive goes hungry
on a Sundee, if’n Big Momma hears of it, no matter who you are..
My “sweet city wife” survived Sunday dinner in style,
and all my momma’s people loved her on-sight.
We ate too much, slept after dinner, played some “cousin ball”
after supper, nursed our football injuries, and bedded down for the night.
Breakfast, four in the morning, and then the boys were all out in the fields.
We packed up, said good bye, Dolly, and Big Momma cryin’.
It wasn’t too long before Big Momma was gone to Jesus,
But “lawd” the memories are sweet.
Big Momma rockin’, chewin’ and spittin’
and the “boys” gettin the music out.
Playing old hymns as long as it took for Pappa Joe
to start dancing in the Holy Spirit, and
Dolly’s five-flavor-sour-cream cake to be ready to eat.
You see, everybody’s welcome, no matter who ya are
long as you don’t cus in front of Big Momma,
and you compliment Dolly on her cakes and biskets, and never,
remember this if you don’t remember anything else,
never take the “good Lord’s name in vain, lawd!”
Ok, well, you also got to eat more than you ever had in one sitting
in your whole life, “less’n” you want to be labeled a communist or sickly.
There is no way a person can get closer to America’s heart and soul
then to spend Sunday dinner at Big Momma's full gospel
holiness church on the front porch, in the back of the Brock family farm.
[hork/spit/touch the brim of the hat]
“Lawd, Lawd! Y’all come back.”
© 2010 Rob Krabbe
Sunday dinner at Big Momma's
full gospel holiness church
on the front porch, in the back
of the Brock family farm.
The old farm was there first;
then the city built the road,
so that right was left and back
was front and the front room
looked out over the hills out back.
The most remarkable aspect of
a working farm was the smell,
“Whooooo boy! [shake your head] Lawd, lawd!”
Sweet, sick; and thick, the manure and
old rotting hay, animal body odor;
all created a wonderful pungent combination
of animal, vegetable and mineral.
The aroma got in your clothes,
your hair, and you just couldn’t get rid of it,
but for them that’s, “raised right,” twas
more like going home, and a feeling
warmer than the fresh manure.
When we left home for home we “was”
southeast of Due West, 12 miles east of North,
24 miles from Six Mile, a hop skip and a “two step” slide
from Townville City between Fairplay and Sugar Tit, South Carolina.
With all the “South will rise again” we could muster,
we were headed soul-deep into “God’s country”,
Bainbridge Georgia, which is so south
every where else is north a good piece
especially South Florida.
The “real south,” hidden amongst the Kudzu
and “gotcha” vines, chorus frogs, “fixin to /
I heard dat / all y’all” and “balls to the wall,”
the eggs are always “cooked up behind the bacon.”
Deep sickening beautiful lung full, and that old
familiar mix of smells transported me back
to a simpler place and time before we even
stepped out of the car and walked cross the Dixie Winter Rye.
You always could smell big momma’s kitchen a mile off,
the hypnotic odors of love, rising above the outdoor
smells, draws a body into a state of mind and heals any “ill”
just to take a lung full.
Healing so completely even a yankee
will begin using errant blasphemes, like
“boy howdy dat some fresh meee-ilk, taste
like it’s right out the cows teet” and
I dun tol y’all, show nuf, praise Jesus,
we got sum full-up cows!” [chew/hork/spit]
Melissa’s jaw, passed right out and flopped
to her chest, sucked in a hushed panic
as she realised I had not exaggerated
even a little, the past few years. She had
“never dreamed it would all be so much like I said.”
Even I, had not really expected such a treasure
as the “boys” drove up, a still-soft deer strapped
to the bumper and front grill of the old family truck.
“Sheeee-it!” [Hork/spit], “I can’t believe someone left
this perfectly good meat on the side of the road” Joe smiled,
and praised Jesus for the unexpected bounty and provision
as they dragged it to the “blood-shed” where they turned
the road-kill into “proper meat, and stew parts.” [hork/spit/lifting groan]
Two ticks later, arms full of freshly wrapped steaks,
Brian was dead sure he “got all the pieces of headlight out”
and “what a blessin, who-eee” God was good when the poor creature
had only been “a layin there” a few minutes when they had “came” by.
“My, my!”
Melissa, my now-nervous California city-wife, born and bred,
was standing in the front room, when the tv blared
in the drawing room. She could hear it and giggled,
an old memory of a familiar cartoon.
A Looney Tunes character was lamenting, some old man country voice,
bent over, wrinkly-sounding, Yosemite Sam style, saying “lawd, lawd, lawd,
aint dat a day praise Jesus, whoooeeey, but dat boy like ta bug
da hound outta mee lawd. lawd! [tittering laughter] Hayyall?
Y’all want ta go-ta-da sto? I’m, fixin te go-ta-da wall-mot.”
Melissa thought it was an odd thing for a cartoon to say,
so she walked in to see which episode it was, but the tv never was on.
Old uncle William, however, was on and suddenly
aimed his voice at her “Aint y’all a sahht? Woooooooo-lawd!
come ova heah, give Weelyum sum shugga baby!”
[more tittering]
Grandma Dolly came up about then, “mercy, mercy, look at you!”
She had never met Melissa yet, but that was her way.
Our family is a huggin family, and within a few bone crushing moments
Melissa was starting to get used to it.
Can’t explain why sweet tea heals, and soothes,
but that syrupy sweet, ice cold, swirling hot liquid
tumbling down over ice cubes defies physics and any “ill.”
“It’ll kill the grass,” JC chuckle though his gums, as he never did
cotton to his store bought teeth.
Venison, not everyone’s cup of tea, but I loved it
sharp, and chewy, reminded me that loving hands
had killed and cut its body up for us.
Unless it was an act of God or road kill, I lamented,
as I found the impression of a Ford logo
deeply embedded in the fibers of my steak.
After supper, a line of eight old over stuffed recliners
from the salvation army, line up in a semi-circle
Filled with snoring “men folk” while the women
cleaned up the dishes. I tried to tell my California bride
Not to misundrestand this insult to her sensitivities
The men had been in the fields since 4:00 A.M.
and the women “sho nuf” did not want a part of that kind of equality.
Really, there’s not much else to say about my momma’s people.
See, there’s not a better way for a stranger to feel part of a family
then to just come on up to the front porch, on the back of the
Brock family farm main house, grab a glass of fresh sweet tea,
and sit a spell on a Sundee. No man, woman or child alive goes hungry
on a Sundee, if’n Big Momma hears of it, no matter who you are..
My “sweet city wife” survived Sunday dinner in style,
and all my momma’s people loved her on-sight.
We ate too much, slept after dinner, played some “cousin ball”
after supper, nursed our football injuries, and bedded down for the night.
Breakfast, four in the morning, and then the boys were all out in the fields.
We packed up, said good bye, Dolly, and Big Momma cryin’.
It wasn’t too long before Big Momma was gone to Jesus,
But “lawd” the memories are sweet.
Big Momma rockin’, chewin’ and spittin’
and the “boys” gettin the music out.
Playing old hymns as long as it took for Pappa Joe
to start dancing in the Holy Spirit, and
Dolly’s five-flavor-sour-cream cake to be ready to eat.
You see, everybody’s welcome, no matter who ya are
long as you don’t cus in front of Big Momma,
and you compliment Dolly on her cakes and biskets, and never,
remember this if you don’t remember anything else,
never take the “good Lord’s name in vain, lawd!”
Ok, well, you also got to eat more than you ever had in one sitting
in your whole life, “less’n” you want to be labeled a communist or sickly.
There is no way a person can get closer to America’s heart and soul
then to spend Sunday dinner at Big Momma's full gospel
holiness church on the front porch, in the back of the Brock family farm.
[hork/spit/touch the brim of the hat]
“Lawd, Lawd! Y’all come back.”
October 1, 2010
Crazy Aunt Lois - 1692 - thought she was a Salem witch
[image error]
Crazy Aunt Lois was the real deal,
ramping up a war with conspiracy.
Rattling and prattling through tense trembling smile,
God’s own directive to kill anything that betrays.
She portrayed crazy, romping through the corn fields,
and seasons, not knowing who the enemy was.
After a while, she stopped hearing anything at all; just defended.
In the good days she wore shiny Nancy Sinatra boots,
a mini skirt, and a bee hive.
An army of boomer men, nonstop parties and bubble gum hair,
before anyone knew there was a price.
Bad days she could lift a grown man, in one hand
and throw him twenty feet across the room.
By sixty, her mind had given up trying to reason with demons.
Stooped and painted wrinkles, giggling and bright like death,
a puffy red smile shuffling through the door.
Mortal like a long night, plodding till morning,
the magistrate’s fading book of conceivable truths.
“Lies, all lies!” she screamed, weeping, they tightened her wardrobe,
and closed the door to the “pillow room.”
By sixty five, the treason of chemical lobotomies and shock treatments.
Don’t knock it, till like rock stars, you ply the trade
using ancient manuscripts, and prophecies.
Teasing and casting divine natures around with gold witchy coins
in hidden pockets of black suits.
She saw through all the worlds motivations, her station,
the true savior, manifested by “God’s truth.”
By seventy she had pulled out her own left eye for looking around.
Evil and heretical, roll-y poll-y girls, happy-go-lucky pointing fingers
from “innocent” children,
“She’s a witch, I see the specter, guilty, guilty, guilty!”
She quietly wrote in the devil’s book, a testimonial masterpiece.
Winking, and captivating the jury while the “little whores danced”
then Salem lit its first fire, and the smell was pleasing.
Once you’ve burned one witch you have to burn them all!
Crazy Aunt Lois left great grandma for dead, naked in the tub,
for three days, and then she had to go.
The throwaways and toss outs of the midwest fifties
that wanted no reminders, no unsalvageables.
The truth, pressed to death by seventy five stones,
and passed from back-room to jail cell, till her mind just stopped.
Silence and peace, in cold glazed eyes; no one plotting against her anymore.
September 30, 2010
Coming Back as a Mondravian Blood Worm.
The psychiatrist sat nervously pretending to write notes, keeping a flitting eye on me, trying not to have me notice. We had finished our interviews and all the testing and retesting (which must have been a bad sign). I could tell by the look on her face what she really wanted to do was prescribe me heavy doses of anti-psychotics, starting with an injection of Haldol or something equally as affecting, rendering me “safe”. This was during a period in my life when most people kept one eye on me, not sure what I would do next. A period when I finally went to a shrink because I had run fresh out of ideas and self medication techniques. What most people did not understand is I have always been “self aware,” meaning I always knew that the voices are not part of reality so I knew when not to do what they said, you know . . . murder someone.
Most psychiatrists meet the patient at the door with a prescription pad in one hand and a session timer in the other. If you’re a psychiatrist, I am certainly not talking about you. Instead, Doctor Nina Patel offered a lightness for a moment.
“I am a Hindu,” she said. I thought that an odd way to begin telling me what was what. “You have said you are a Christian, though you are not religious in the traditional sense?” I nodded, not sure what she was trying to set up. She smiled, trying really hard to put me at ease. She spoke slowly and clearly as if I was found to be hard of hearing and she was nodding at all the right moments. She knew some psychology, too, it dawned on me.
“I just wanted to say: it is good that you are a Christian and not a Hindu.” Then she nodded silently and knowingly, one eye brow raised, head tilted, issuing a dramatic pause in that way that said “listen to the words i have spoken until you agree with them, I’ll wait.” She may have been waiting for what she had said to sink in or just appreciating her own wisdom. About five minutes of awkward silence later, I must have had a look of befuddlement and curiosity on my face, for she then gave me the punch line. “Because if you were a Hindu, my friend, you would have to come back to earth like two hundred times or more, just to work off the bad Karma.”
With this she exploded into a kind of tittering laughter that has entertained me to this day. Every time I think back on it I chuckle. I also laughed and I was not sure why. Whether I found it very funny, which I did, or her explosion was so loud and forceful it cause the eruption in me, or more likely it just plain irritated me and I worked to cover the more negative emotion.
Is there some kind of affectation that betrays an epiphany? I must have had one hell of a “tell” on my face because she picked up the slack and said “Now don’t get me wrong, but you are not well.” She waited for some kind of disagreement that would never come.
“See, you are gifted and creative, but you are not at peace within yourself and it has caused some symptoms that turn your gift into an illness and a nightmare.”
It was then and there I started a ten year walk to wellness. A place in the arms of God, after twenty years of just thinking I was “special” in some way, He let me know I was and not just a walking insanity.
“Wellness” does not mean I am not mentally and emotionally enhanced to this day but it means that I have since declared a truce in the war that raged within my own soul and mind for decades. I am now a very creative musician and writer, said in a nutshell. Said on a doctors journal, “ultra rapid cycle deep-sine bi-polar with psychotic features.” Seriously, once I declared a truce with myself and my demons, I was actually able to be held, to be seen. The battle had kept me from seeing God himself.
I found that together we stand, mind, body and spirit; God, family and faith and now I prefer my own father’s definition: “My son, oh he’s an artist type, (looks around to make sure no one is listening) a musician. He’s not like normal people.”
So I lament the old days of deepest struggle and bless today that I am at peace with both the medical definition and the reality of mercy. Thankful that I am not at war within anymore. I am an “artist type,” highly creative, to the point of illness, that I prefer to call mentally eclectic. Just on a place on the same scale as all human beings, 99.9% being defective in some way. I am in good company, in fact. Most of the most creative and gifted people were basically nuts.
Today I was just sitting here enjoying my coffee and realising that no matter what becomes of me, at least I don’t have to come back to life as a Mondravian blood worm.
So I thank Doctor Nina Patel, and I thank God that I am more and more sure He is there, every day I live, and doesn’t require me to come back again and again or even look back at a past that is dead and gone. Now on to my work for the day, blessings to you all.
___
BTW for those who have emailed me about the “King Laments” blog series. I have been taking as my inspiration the book of Ecclesiastes from the bible for that project which i just think is some of the best existential stuff from ancient texts available. I will get back to it, I promise.
I have in mind to finish writing the entire book's worth, into verse. I am just running out of time on a daily basis, finishing my new novel and now I have been contracted to do a Biography which may very well include having to do some media, interviews etc which I really, really . . . don’t prefer. Anyway, I will keep on, keeping on. And I will post it here on Goodreads, as the chapters come, and then make available, the entire thing on amazon in printed form and for Kindle or eBook, once it’s all published here.
So to all who read this blog on various servers, thanks to you, and blessings!
Rob
Most psychiatrists meet the patient at the door with a prescription pad in one hand and a session timer in the other. If you’re a psychiatrist, I am certainly not talking about you. Instead, Doctor Nina Patel offered a lightness for a moment.
“I am a Hindu,” she said. I thought that an odd way to begin telling me what was what. “You have said you are a Christian, though you are not religious in the traditional sense?” I nodded, not sure what she was trying to set up. She smiled, trying really hard to put me at ease. She spoke slowly and clearly as if I was found to be hard of hearing and she was nodding at all the right moments. She knew some psychology, too, it dawned on me.
“I just wanted to say: it is good that you are a Christian and not a Hindu.” Then she nodded silently and knowingly, one eye brow raised, head tilted, issuing a dramatic pause in that way that said “listen to the words i have spoken until you agree with them, I’ll wait.” She may have been waiting for what she had said to sink in or just appreciating her own wisdom. About five minutes of awkward silence later, I must have had a look of befuddlement and curiosity on my face, for she then gave me the punch line. “Because if you were a Hindu, my friend, you would have to come back to earth like two hundred times or more, just to work off the bad Karma.”
With this she exploded into a kind of tittering laughter that has entertained me to this day. Every time I think back on it I chuckle. I also laughed and I was not sure why. Whether I found it very funny, which I did, or her explosion was so loud and forceful it cause the eruption in me, or more likely it just plain irritated me and I worked to cover the more negative emotion.
Is there some kind of affectation that betrays an epiphany? I must have had one hell of a “tell” on my face because she picked up the slack and said “Now don’t get me wrong, but you are not well.” She waited for some kind of disagreement that would never come.
“See, you are gifted and creative, but you are not at peace within yourself and it has caused some symptoms that turn your gift into an illness and a nightmare.”
It was then and there I started a ten year walk to wellness. A place in the arms of God, after twenty years of just thinking I was “special” in some way, He let me know I was and not just a walking insanity.
“Wellness” does not mean I am not mentally and emotionally enhanced to this day but it means that I have since declared a truce in the war that raged within my own soul and mind for decades. I am now a very creative musician and writer, said in a nutshell. Said on a doctors journal, “ultra rapid cycle deep-sine bi-polar with psychotic features.” Seriously, once I declared a truce with myself and my demons, I was actually able to be held, to be seen. The battle had kept me from seeing God himself.
I found that together we stand, mind, body and spirit; God, family and faith and now I prefer my own father’s definition: “My son, oh he’s an artist type, (looks around to make sure no one is listening) a musician. He’s not like normal people.”
So I lament the old days of deepest struggle and bless today that I am at peace with both the medical definition and the reality of mercy. Thankful that I am not at war within anymore. I am an “artist type,” highly creative, to the point of illness, that I prefer to call mentally eclectic. Just on a place on the same scale as all human beings, 99.9% being defective in some way. I am in good company, in fact. Most of the most creative and gifted people were basically nuts.
Today I was just sitting here enjoying my coffee and realising that no matter what becomes of me, at least I don’t have to come back to life as a Mondravian blood worm.
So I thank Doctor Nina Patel, and I thank God that I am more and more sure He is there, every day I live, and doesn’t require me to come back again and again or even look back at a past that is dead and gone. Now on to my work for the day, blessings to you all.
___
BTW for those who have emailed me about the “King Laments” blog series. I have been taking as my inspiration the book of Ecclesiastes from the bible for that project which i just think is some of the best existential stuff from ancient texts available. I will get back to it, I promise.
I have in mind to finish writing the entire book's worth, into verse. I am just running out of time on a daily basis, finishing my new novel and now I have been contracted to do a Biography which may very well include having to do some media, interviews etc which I really, really . . . don’t prefer. Anyway, I will keep on, keeping on. And I will post it here on Goodreads, as the chapters come, and then make available, the entire thing on amazon in printed form and for Kindle or eBook, once it’s all published here.
So to all who read this blog on various servers, thanks to you, and blessings!
Rob
September 22, 2010
The Day After, Again
Oh, my cup is to ponder, warring blackness
that creamed with velvet smoothness, wet flesh engaging
Yes! Wants my body, naked, and slogging from the day's death
and as I gather my frailties about me like a huge beer buckle
Thumbs hooked, betrays a hint of unsteadiness.
“Crying boy? I’ll spank you till you stop!” I chuckle now
It’s what I have, and after all he meant well.
How many promises, to not pass on some epitaph?
Cold and calculating, hell knocks, but fuck off, i say, learning.
I sip the cup and start my own, personal day
like a 1978 304 racing block that hates a cold morning.
Shattered from the nightmarish prophecy of a Memphis derelict
The wonderful Indonesian potion pulses through my conflict
Puts the pieces of my “self” in order, alive, ready for the fight
Like old country music at night, leaves my soul curious and yet
I down another gulp of the salted brew, and feel the resurrection.
The insurrection, a happy old habit from Grandpa Joe Collins
“Ah,” I make obligatory gasps of appreciation, and look to the news in the “hood,”
where some teen aged cartoon character planned to columbine
He was shot permanently senseless before he could rain down fire
Down indeed, the next slug, heaven on earth, after all “it’s all good.”
A lie, that, but sometimes I trap that one and torment it
Swish it around in my mouth, the words taste like an old shoe.
Chew them up, fling them at the stars, and “do tell.”
Feels better now to meet the battle full, and know
that eyes wide open, I can walk to the counter
brew one more wonderful fresh pot and I’m good to go.
that creamed with velvet smoothness, wet flesh engaging
Yes! Wants my body, naked, and slogging from the day's death
and as I gather my frailties about me like a huge beer buckle
Thumbs hooked, betrays a hint of unsteadiness.
“Crying boy? I’ll spank you till you stop!” I chuckle now
It’s what I have, and after all he meant well.
How many promises, to not pass on some epitaph?
Cold and calculating, hell knocks, but fuck off, i say, learning.
I sip the cup and start my own, personal day
like a 1978 304 racing block that hates a cold morning.
Shattered from the nightmarish prophecy of a Memphis derelict
The wonderful Indonesian potion pulses through my conflict
Puts the pieces of my “self” in order, alive, ready for the fight
Like old country music at night, leaves my soul curious and yet
I down another gulp of the salted brew, and feel the resurrection.
The insurrection, a happy old habit from Grandpa Joe Collins
“Ah,” I make obligatory gasps of appreciation, and look to the news in the “hood,”
where some teen aged cartoon character planned to columbine
He was shot permanently senseless before he could rain down fire
Down indeed, the next slug, heaven on earth, after all “it’s all good.”
A lie, that, but sometimes I trap that one and torment it
Swish it around in my mouth, the words taste like an old shoe.
Chew them up, fling them at the stars, and “do tell.”
Feels better now to meet the battle full, and know
that eyes wide open, I can walk to the counter
brew one more wonderful fresh pot and I’m good to go.
September 21, 2010
My Two Cents - Language, and the Heart
It was an interesting discussion on the poetry group, on Goodreads.com. It was about bad or vulgar language. In art, poetry or in posts about art. It was a lively and sometimes vulgar discussion, and frankly very entertaining. I think looking back, as fun as it was, and for some people, a hard discussion, I think it misses the mark a little.
Language sometimes fails me. Words sometimes don’t come that get close to expressing the depth of the emotion I am trying to express. So for me the use of whatever word conveys what I feel or want to express is what I will generally use. Yes, yes, when and where. It evokes a vastly different reaction from some. MOst of us, will not want to admit that more of us than not, have colorful speach when not at church or in polite society. Is it just the language of the workers, the masses, the uneducated? Nope. SOme people are simply just better at filtering and taking that final breath before uttering what they really feel like saying.
For you who have made spiritual decisions to clean up the language, great. I applaud you, but the very Jesus that works within you to finish what He started in you, to complete the work begun, the very Savior, the cornerstone of your (and my) faith and walk, used the language of the people and at times said things that the leaders blasted him for being blasphemous or base.
I will drop an “f” bomb, an “a” bomb, an “s” bomb, from time to time, and every other colorful bomb, when the emotions get the better of me and the expression is stilted, so that a more base choice is made, but where I will try to govern myself even more is the heart that says such things in anger.
The motivation when it is to express, but not attack, I will from now on have more grace for. Meanness makes me feel sick to my stomach, when I think that the words are used to try to hurt another person. Where does it become sin? The bible talks about vulgarities, but my own study has ended up with me feeling that the intent was when disrespect for sexuality, meanness, each other, God, simply, the motivation of the words chosen. Its sin when it separates us from God for those who are religious. For those however who are not, I suggest then, that regardless of theology or humanology, maybe for now we could try to watch more, our motivation to hurt, to destroy, to tear down, and maybe focus more on building up and encouraging.
I know I am preaching, but, if the words said, are simply in bad taste, well, I will take a deep breath and remember the more important value of how we love each other, accept each other, celebrate the differences, and as a Christian, my core value should be to love and spread love that is saving and grace filled not judgemental, if I am not a total hypocrit. And if I am not looking to a higher value, yet maybe the world would be a better place if we said what we felt honestly and candidly, yet tried to have grace towards each other as people. Give people room to be themselves and celebrate the individual.
Control of speach is the first step in the control of thought, and eventually the taking or control of the freedoms which we celebrate and hold sacred.
My two cents for today, September 21st, 2010.
Have a great day!
Rob
Language sometimes fails me. Words sometimes don’t come that get close to expressing the depth of the emotion I am trying to express. So for me the use of whatever word conveys what I feel or want to express is what I will generally use. Yes, yes, when and where. It evokes a vastly different reaction from some. MOst of us, will not want to admit that more of us than not, have colorful speach when not at church or in polite society. Is it just the language of the workers, the masses, the uneducated? Nope. SOme people are simply just better at filtering and taking that final breath before uttering what they really feel like saying.
For you who have made spiritual decisions to clean up the language, great. I applaud you, but the very Jesus that works within you to finish what He started in you, to complete the work begun, the very Savior, the cornerstone of your (and my) faith and walk, used the language of the people and at times said things that the leaders blasted him for being blasphemous or base.
I will drop an “f” bomb, an “a” bomb, an “s” bomb, from time to time, and every other colorful bomb, when the emotions get the better of me and the expression is stilted, so that a more base choice is made, but where I will try to govern myself even more is the heart that says such things in anger.
The motivation when it is to express, but not attack, I will from now on have more grace for. Meanness makes me feel sick to my stomach, when I think that the words are used to try to hurt another person. Where does it become sin? The bible talks about vulgarities, but my own study has ended up with me feeling that the intent was when disrespect for sexuality, meanness, each other, God, simply, the motivation of the words chosen. Its sin when it separates us from God for those who are religious. For those however who are not, I suggest then, that regardless of theology or humanology, maybe for now we could try to watch more, our motivation to hurt, to destroy, to tear down, and maybe focus more on building up and encouraging.
I know I am preaching, but, if the words said, are simply in bad taste, well, I will take a deep breath and remember the more important value of how we love each other, accept each other, celebrate the differences, and as a Christian, my core value should be to love and spread love that is saving and grace filled not judgemental, if I am not a total hypocrit. And if I am not looking to a higher value, yet maybe the world would be a better place if we said what we felt honestly and candidly, yet tried to have grace towards each other as people. Give people room to be themselves and celebrate the individual.
Control of speach is the first step in the control of thought, and eventually the taking or control of the freedoms which we celebrate and hold sacred.
My two cents for today, September 21st, 2010.
Have a great day!
Rob
September 14, 2010
Just Another Day In The Upstate . .
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A beautiful day in the upstate, and I sit in an old rocker.
Front porch worship of an ancient spirit
Courts open, and fall, like an old friend, easing in
Comes in to give witness to the passing of time
There is a wisdom and an evil about time, as it passes
Gives no quarter and offers no regard, casting its shadows on my soul
In part, I push back, ambiguous, not really trying
I smell the death, down near the creek, a life process
Sometimes...
August 27, 2010
Conspiracy Theories and Constipation
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When I lived in the Los Angeles area, I was sure that the men in the PacBell trucks were government agents, keeping an eye on me. That when I snuck out, they frantically drove around, talking on their fantastic watch phones, and no matter how hard I tried to hide, within minutes, the chip imbedded in my body would give them enough of a signal for them to triangulate and blam, they would find me. Of course, at one point with the help of several psychiatrists, and a heavy lithium...
From a Krabbe Desk
A thought, now and then, this "blog," and it is more a matter of filtering than writing. It is that scavenging through the thoughts to find one or two that transcend from an inner reality to a deciphe
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