The Creek View Restaurant

I see the jungle lined shore of Roatan Honduras outside my cabin window. I remember smell and color from the refuse filled creek; swirling brown. The broken TV stuck in the mud pointed up at the foot bridge; its final viewers. What did the locals watch on that TV before it broke and they tossed it out the back door with the rest of their waste: Friends, Cheers, Seinfeld, and Reality TV?

I also remember the dilapidated but vibrant Creek View Restaurant. I didn’t eat there. The view wasn’t appetizing; watching the sludge wash past the half submerged television set, upset my stomach. Too many Discovery Channel memories: parasites, bacteria, virus.

It was tempting though. The vibrancy of the thin stick building was appealing. I imagined their food being simple and fresh. A cold Honduran beer, Imperial, and fresh tortillas made by the old brown skinned grandmother in the back and delivered by their bright smiled granddaughters; dazzling white teeth against deep brown skin. The food sounded hearty in a fresh-soul way. As if the food itself was karma-light and while eating I would be unhurried and capable of truly enjoying the simple things: assimilation of culture through diet. I didn’t eat there. Instead, I’m waiting for the Sail-Away-BBQ on the pool deck, which will be delicious and free of intestinal parasites: continuation of culture through diet.

I visited Honduras. I really visited them. It has not been commercialized to the extent of Cozumel. I feel like I’ve had an honest and brief glimpse of this little island. While I remember the colorful birds that little native men put on my shoulders, and the playful and fun monkeys they encouraged to climb up into my arms, bribed with sunflower seeds, I also remember the Creek View Restaurant and my imagined meal.

This small bit of recall has no point, no liberal moral, no heart pulling we-have-it-too-good hand holding sermon. No such sentiment drives me to change the things that I saw. I’m no liberal; I believe that men should make their own changes. I don’t look at others and see victims. I do not need the ego masturbation. I can appreciate that they have the lives they’ve chosen and that they and their ancestors have made decisions for reasons that seemed good to them. My glimpse into their chosen world left me with a splinter of reason, a vision of a wholesome family filled life (avg. family size of 17) that is less reflective than mine, and less pressured and hurried. A life that doesn’t need to be justified and approved, but instead it is hot tortillas, pulled chicken, smoked iguana and cold beer.

I have the life I’ve chosen. They have theirs. Whose is best? It depends on the values of the one making the judgment. I will keep living mine. They will keep living theirs. I’m driven to reach certain goals and ends; I have a will to power and a will to create. I pay the cost for my will. I pay the cost for my decisions. Is this the best way? For me and those few akin to me, yes. There is a best way for me, not all men, not you, but for me and the others of this kind we have our path.

I enjoy fresh tortillas, pulled chicken and cold beer too, but for different reasons. I didn’t eat at the Creek View Restaurant, but I’m glad they do.

James

We used to go to church once a month. On our first Sunday back after almost two months, this guy, James, passed out little purple flowers to everyone in the congregation. They smelled fresh, as he held them in a big clenched fist. He came by and said, “God bless,” as he passed me two tiny petunias. His dark hair was shaved close, and his feet were naked. He was new to me, but I instantly appreciated his energy.
During the singing, James stood in the back, alone—not near a seat. He kept his eyes closed and he rarely looked around, as he swayed and worshiped with the music. From time to time he raised both hands to heaven and cried out to God.
At the end of the service, the pianist played “Amazing Grace,” and the congregation sang accordingly. Instantly James made his way to the altar in front of the people. He hit his knees and sobbed louder and harder than I’ve ever heard anyone. All the kids in the building peeked from behind parents’ legs and arm chairs, shocked by the raw display of emotion.
I remembered the story of the man who wrote Amazing Grace. Until he came to God, he was the worst of the worst kind of man. He admitted to the most atrocious acts, and he wrote the song about himself, “a wretch like me.”

Memories and a Flame

I only remember his hands well—and what they could do. The rest of him is blurred in my memory. I know he had brown skin and short dark hair, but there is no face. I was a small guy, five years old, and he was a high school student. I was assigned and sat by him, during chapel, first thing in the morning, Monday through Friday, at Pear Park Baptist School.
The school used the main sanctuary of the church for its chapel service. They had the little kids dividing all the older kids to keep the teenagers from talking and disrupting chapel. He and I were in the rear, near the end of a long wooden pew alone.
For weeks, when the school year started, he never once acknowledged my existence. Then, one day he gathered my attention and showed me his hands formed together. His focus was in the cave he had created with his hands. With his eyes, he showed me the focus point deep in the cave of his hands. And there, without illusion, was a single flame. To a child of five, it was exciting, but not overwhelming. And I remember him being a very calming soul.
From then on, he and I sat together in the back. We sang when we were asked, and we listen when we had to, but every chance he had, he showed me the flame in his hands. I don’t know what it was. And he never claimed to be a magician. I don’t know much. But I felt confided in, in an eerie way.

Often when I look back, it seems there’s nothing interesting about that time or that place, but then I think of his dark smooth hands and the flame, one of the clearest memories I see.

Journal Entry from February 2005

I really never know what to say to anyone. I speak and something comes out. But what does come out is so important as Christ said. If I live right, pray and focus on Him and not me. Abandon me. Prisoner/slave for the kingdom of God. Abandon self. Who or what do you live for, if not for Him? You’ve been saying it and saying it. You are created to worship. You worship in many ways, but you’re always serving. Serve God serve others.
What does U2 do? They blur the line between secular and Christian music. And the popular culture doesn’t even realize U2’s conscious effort. They take the words and use them in their way, as pop culture is a use [glean from it what you think it means to you] and dispose mentality. But U2’s lyrics are pure and right and good. They engage the secular world in worship as the secular world does what it does. They’re a high fast moving spy plane.
Why have I pondered this so much lately? Perhaps I will write in that way. Perhaps that’s the way I’ve already been writing without realizing it. However, if that’s what I do, realizing it can be a useful tool. Write what you know as God wants it, and be able to recognize it when it’s there. Pray for that. You know the world too well. You must know God more, thus revealing Him within you. Use the tools as tools around you. You know what I mean. There is a right way.

Story ideas:
1.

Jesus lived his passion

Don't praise Jesus for his death; instead praise him for his life. Give him praise for his example in living, not the single time he was a victim of life. He did not die for our sins; instead he lived to teach us to do without them.

In the Forgotten Corner

Saturday retail madness and I’m never in the mood. We went for the children, only the children. I had to pee. So, I left the group and walked to the restroom. I knew the place because I used to work there. I knew what aisles I wanted to take before I was to them. I went into the restroom as a man was exiting. The standup urinals, with small dividers were on the right wall of the small room. There were three of them. The first was a short kid-sized urinal, and the second, a regular height stall, was unoccupied as was the rest of the room. There I stood.

And there I stood. I dreamed into the dirty scuffed tile in front of me. I went in. I pissed, and there I stood. The dream was of beauty I’ve never known and a place I couldn’t scheme. I’ve never been as content in my life as I was at that moment. And then a small old man came into my place. My dream continued, and I vaguely noticed him. Naturally, he stopped at the urinal to my left, another standard height unit.

And there I stood. The old man hadn’t settled for even a second into the stall on my left, when he’d changed his mind and decided to use the kids stall on my right. His abrupt shift focused my lens and snapped me out of my day dream. And it was gone. It was gone.

I looked down and realized I’d been missing the urinal completely. I’d been pissing into the left corner of the wall and the divider. A large pool had collected on the floor and the divider was still dripping clear yellow drops, from my mindless aim. I could tell I had disgusted the old man, but he never said a word. And now embarrassed, I left as quickly as I could.

What are the Green Domes

"the green domes are where i go to avoid god. all the world is green and unchallenged. through drivethroughs and on couches and under your arm the stinch of old, spirits off, in ghostly steam. a river in georgia makes a sound, constants. joy is bordem. nothing is lost or misplaced. the clock functions around you, we're a few seconds ahead and behind. dinosaurs will walk on MY grave." ABlade

"...the green domes is a good place to be where everything's cool & easy, relaxed & high, lazy blink of any eye, sunset, water drop, humming bird, public bath, mountain peak, blue sky, dopamine rush, new love, ancient roads that lead us to now, sit down & relax under Salinas mountains & nothing to do tomorrow . . . birds chirping late into the evening . . ." Maxweed

"In the green dome minds are lifted from bodies and thoughts are exchanged without tongues" Technomonk