Even in absurdity, sacrament.    Even in hardship, holiness.    Even in doubt, faith.     Even in chaos, realization.   Even in paradox, blessedness.   

Home of Theodore "jay" Joslin; divinity student, author, wingnut, and queer nature boy. Dedicated to the Unity and Sacredness of All-That-Is, including and especially you.

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May 2003
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The Archival Thingy

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Digging the Immaterial;
Yet another human
pondering the Universe
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05/04/2003 to 05/10/2003
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Saturday, 10 May, 2003...........................................................

"Breath of River"

This is the day that I came here for... a day reserved exclusively for the joining of my great freinds Nate and Amber in a Holy Hitchin' ceremony. I'm feeling very ready to do this service; I've done many weddings before but this one is special, not only because it's for such swells buds as they, but it is my first wedding in Delaware, a homecoming for sacramental purposes. While there have been minor kerfuffles between parties, I'm sure that when the wedding gong rings, they will lay down their hooey in honor of a beautiful day.

I am still sweaty from my morning run. I'm drinking coffee from a mug commemorating the coronation of King Edward the Eighth. Do Kings really matter anymore? For two miles I slid by the banks of a grand river concealed entirely in fog. Past the mudflats and grasses, you cannot tell where the river begins and ends. It may as well arc over me in a tremendous suspended wave, I wouldn't know the difference. Purple marlins and swifts wove the air in a thousand gordian knots all around me. They are so fast and fleet in their flight they could have flown right through me, and again, I wouldn't have noticed. Mockingbirds laid out jazz from atop flowering trees, fuzzed by the mist. Redwing blackbirds stood atop the reeds in the marshes, overseeing the comings and goings of the tinyest of importances. With a splash a few yards away a blue heron emerged from the brackish water like a god returning from a long slumber, fish in it's beak. The river's breath blew a scent into my senses that may well have been the first scent; primordial, primal, mud and trace salt and wavelets teeming with single celled life, mud born from the dissolution of plants, fish, and mystery. Essential. The river slipped past as boats hung suspended in a silver cloud, and gulls toyed with the bounds of worlds.

It's time to focus on the scant hours remaining to prepare for a brief ritual designed to entrust hearts to one another, and to commit a community to support. My father's scepticism does not phase me, nor does the ceramic stare of the late King Edward VIII. All days are special, yet for two this will mark the beginning of a new way to relate. My father's bitterness may come from the fact that on May 10, 1985, he and Anne were married into a rocky, messy decade and a half of love and discontent. Eighteen years ago today I was in a tux and festooned as a young Best Man. Today, Anne is a box of ashes atop my father's refrigerator, but her love and humor are ever present in memory. Today, I help two commited people seal vows before their families. This is precious and poignant. Each day is a possibility, each possiblity is infinite. Good luck and Godspeed, lovers, and flow on, great river.

jaybird wrote this at 11.07 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

Friday, 9 May, 2003...........................................................

"State of Confusion, County of Glut"

Tonight is the wedding rehearsal. Right now I'm in the midst of a heuristic maelstrom, rushing from this to that, but holding steady inside despite the excesses of useless crap that the Great State of Delaware hurs at me. I say on a billboard today something so psychically shocking that I have to gwet a picture of it and document it as solid evidence of a civilization in rapid decline, a spiritual mudslide. It pictures two figures arguing over taxes with *guns aimed at eachother coming from their eye sockets.*This is about the most depraved image I have ever seen, and could only happen in a cultural void such as this. Not to knock those I love still embedded within this asphalt swamp, they are braver folk than I.

But, despite this ugliness, I'm internally content and in a state of peaceful work. Mountains, I'll be home soon, reabsorb me!

jaybird wrote this at 15.36 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

Thursday, 8 May, 2003...........................................................

"The Journey to Hometown"

I made the trip in nine and a quarter hours, almost record time. Time didn't seem to matter, it wasn't a noticeable thing. Sure the shadows on the road eventually extended so far it became night, but it hardly seemed like I'd been in a tiny red car careening over Earth's surface for the better part of a day when I arrived here. I was helped along by Annie Dillard's "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" on the stereo, and by a total lack of anxiety ( "mindful thoughtlessness?" ) even as tractor trailers would come close to wiping me off the planet in a greasy smear.

My hometown was being polished by a warm inviting rain and by sensational angles cast by streetlights. After unloading my travel paraphrenalia up the stairs and past my sleeping father and his loud dog, I slipped out for a walk in a town I've really only seldom explored. I can't get over the beauty of the lights... artificial of course, but for some reason if there was ever a night where such conveniences were good to have aesthetically, this was the night. For the pier, with the rain diving into the Delaware river for hydrogen dioxide communion, the lights made a smoky dance of the surface. Each orange glow could have easily been one of Salome's seven veils, or the river paying homage to nebulae. Would it know a nebulae if it saw it? Does it know anything less?

The first church I'd ever attended, as a short blondheaded snotty bouncing bubble, stole the show. The church is over 300 years old, and it shows. The tombstones in it's yard are thin and pale, themselves ghosts, fixed there in a semipermament reverie of the spirit. As a child I remember seeing a ghost there, a figure in revolutionary garb and a tri-cornered hat, leaning over a stone with a hand held lantern. When we made eye contact it blew through me and knocked me to the ground. Last night I stood there for a minute, perhaps waiting for the return, that these older eyes might make more sense of it. White lights from electric candles, pure as Sunday, reflected over the mossy brick in the walkway, making a shimmering pathway to a protestant heaven.

Certain trees deighted in these strange illuminations, energy that is literally from the death throes of creatures now millions of years gone. Perhaps this color was their last gasp, streaming through mechaical bulbs a primieval millieu of wildness, boldness, simple natural beauty. Tree trunks twisted in shadows in time with our own twisting galaxy, rain made cobblestones the backs of turtles or waves frozen in mineral elation. Leaves caught the light and made fun of it, changing it's meaning, tunring it around and sending it on it's way befuddled, it's job interrupted by play. The sound the rain made across this little town built upon history, upon history, upon history, was dim but deep, as if Buddha was breathing in your ear, or perhaps the snores of Bacchus. The wind in Christ's hair. The sigh of the Goddess. The sound of your own dreams being made in your forge of gangliae and whistful synapses. The whipser of a star.

Somewhere down that river still is a piece of knotted driftwood I threw in as a child. Upon what shore has it alighted upon? Who else has tossed it in after me. The river is a sure thing, it's currents known by hardy and hale locals who watch the ships churn on their way, laden with commerce. Yet we only see the surface, it's eddies and wavelets. What stirs beneath we can only imagine. Who calls that mud home, and how do they survive. That mud, into which countless stones and wishes flew that lept from my smaller hands, is so essiential to everything on earth, yet it is generally regarded with disdain. Mud is so essential an element, it should be one in it's own right, the child of two prodigious parents. Everything this old town is is crystallized mud. It's churches, it's tourist trampled courthouses and 'historic' homes made out of dinosaur teeth and mud. Standing on the wharf, I cannot touch it. Separate from it. Yet walking up the stairs of my father's house, I can smell it. The essence of mud and mirth, enters my nostrils. Perhaps even the effort of driving nine hoursand lulls me to sleep.

I dreamed of trees and how they bend in the breeze. I dreamed of rain and it's frolic on shapes and things in the night. I dreamed of everything that had just happened, so how can I be sure I'm not dreaming now? I'm not, but my father in his indutriousness has left post-it notes all over the house, reminding me of this or that, and to walk his loud dog. Slipping into this place in the night, magic night full of tricks and damp coattails, assures a punchdrunk from driving mind that everything really is just a sort of lucid dream, and we can choose exhaustion or peacefulness as it's canvas. Daylight, however, conspires to make us work, and for good reason I suppose. The loud dog does deserve outside time, my father does deserve his mail dropped off, and the coffee mug should be rinsed out. But night, especially after journeying, gives a repreive. In the light, there's always something to do, and that's fine.

In that fleet spirit, I must be going. I am bidden by a schedule, and while a great part of it involves fun with other people, it is with mixed feelings that I keep looking at the clock. Timelessness into time. Selflessness into self. But one more thing before I go. Somewhere in Virginia, to my left, was a spectaular sunset so full of itself, it just wouldn't go away. On my right, however, were rain soaked clouds that has whisps of golden rays dangligh from their edges. I'd never seen anything quite so stunning opposite a sunset. The rain they were soak with was glittering distant in golden right, and for a short time a short line of rainbow joined the atmospheric circus. What an act. Breathtaken, I plunged ahead into shadows and starlight.

jaybird wrote this at 10.16 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

Tuesday, 6 May, 2003...........................................................

Late night, last minute packing, ahh the thrill. This here box o' stuff is coming along for the ride, so I'll be posting from Delaware, albeit with less regularity and more peculiarity. The zen-like mystical peace out of late I hope will be retained amidst the electro-asphalt no-eye contact jungle of money and psychic woe that is called the "First State." It will be a test, and Goddess knows I've picked some big challenges lately, but not the Goddess' nose.

I work a full day then do the 10 1/2 hour drive. I've done it in less, once almost 8 /12 hours, but that was in total disregard for personal safety while travelling at abstract speeds. I leave Sunday afternoon, getting back to Asheville by 3am-ish, then up at 6 for work. I've chosen this whirlwind (in a way) and all I can do is twirl through the maelstrom of stimuli gracefully. I'll be listening to Annie Dillard's "The Pilgrim At Tinker Creek" on the way up, and "Dharma Bums" on the way back instead of going frantic with which CD fits the mood of this particular stretch of interstate. I've never done the book on tape thing before so I thought it's worth a try.

Without further prodding on, I'm going to shut down, and open up simultaneously. Open up to the mystery of homecoming, open up to the good work of marrying tow great friends, open up to the road and hope it winds it's way back home quickly and with a lesson, or at least a laught, at each exit.

jaybird wrote this at 23.54 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

This website on Crummy: .:fell en san urdu:. It's worse than fried eggs.

jaybird wrote this at 17.41 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

Why Ecocide Is 'Good News' for the GOP

jaybird wrote this at 17.23 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

DJs Suspended for Playing Dixie Chicks A>

jaybird wrote this at 17.12 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

Monday, 5 May, 2003...........................................................

"Splish Splash"

What splendid rain. Everything is drenched. I'm inside, and while a large percent of me is already water the extra humidity saturates what's left. A few streets are class four rapids and a few kayakers can be seen weaving inbetween SUVs instead of river boulders. Squirrels and otters are rubbing shoulders, and rainbow trout are logging into AOL. In other words, it's wet.

It's obvious I haven't been posting as much, and while I'm in no need of an excuse, I can say that I've been deeply enjoying myself doing other things. Some of which were/are the book signing (which went swimmingly, a very sweet crowd on a very sweet day), kissing Granny D on the lips and being wowed by the singular Patch Adamsat theRolling Thunder, and of cousrse, writing Nate and Amber's wedding. I sent them a draft today and it seems my dear friends are pleased. On paper and knock wood, I think I can say that this is the best wedding I will have done. Time, nerves and foibles will tell.

I've got to get out of this house. My latest housemate is blasting this heavy metal drummer's practice CD at full blast and Vivaldi is fighting for his life in here. Nonetheless, I'm content and feeling very uplifted by all the support of folks who've procured the book and the company of my friends.

In the bath last night, I teared up feeling not how 'lucky' I am, but how genuinely appreciative of all the experiences and oppurtunities this crazy life has swung my way. What choked me up most of all was that while my life has had so many crazy twists and turns, as if at the hands of a cosmic pretzel maker, that the same abundance of chance is everywhere, availible to everyone. All it takes is nothing material, but a simple state of mind, a flowing of faith not towards some dogma, but towards an awareness of the limitless possiblities of here and now. Convoluted? Ubetcha, and that's because we humans will complexify the most simple things, myself most definately included. Yet it's been made clear that in order to be clear, I've got one thing to do... to clarify, simplify.

I let the water out of the tub, and despite only a few soap bubbles lingering, suddenly felt very clean. In the relative, non-moralistic sense, of course.

jaybird wrote this at 19.59 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

Pissed Off! House catches fire, tenant catches leak, hilarious consequences!

jaybird wrote this at 18.48 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

Country of the Week, day 2: History of the Democratic Republic of Congo (Zaire).

jaybird wrote this at 18.25 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

Ole! Happy Cinco de Mayo!

jaybird wrote this at 18.11 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

"Overcommited or Underrelaxed?"

It would be an understatement to call Sunday a productive day. I worked (twice), networked, cleaned my corner of the house, washed the car (something I never do), did the budget, and wrote Nate and Amber's wedding for next Saturday, a task that had been daunting me for weeks that came quite easy. Being that I have to be up and chipper for work in less than six hours, I'm curbing what could've been a long diatribe about oneness and activism until tomorrow. Besides, after writing the ceremony, I'm a little worded out!

I can say that we have a new country of the week. The dart landed today in the north western regions of the Democratic Republic of Congo, formerly Zaire. Expect further linkage and deeper context tomorrow. I mean today. What is time, anyway ("does anybody really know what time it is, does anybody really care?")?

jaybird wrote this at 01.02 EST| entry link| your thoughts?|

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jay/Male/26-30. Lives in United States/North Carolina/Woodfin/New Bridge, speaks English and French. Spends 40% of daytime online. Uses a Normal (56k) connection. And likes creativity/mysticism.
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