1.178 – The (con)-Artist

“We’ll be reduced to bland subject matter, just to avoid embarrassment.” – The Writing Class

The fiction writer is a fictional artist

A recorder of the con; living in the con, breathing in the con, working the con and retelling it to unsuspecting ears.

From the crack of dawn until the setting of the sun, this life is a mound of clay – molded to the specifications of the story teller…the story maker.

Because the greatest truths and the greatest lies have not come from soldiers and martyrs, not the teachers or students but the artists. The artists of the con.

The mouth you feed. Filled with shit

The bible you read. The con made it.

The sky you see. Foundation laid.

The God within it. The story we made.

History is what we want you to know. The future is where we want you to go. The day is but the time to rise. The night is your impending demise. Because we’ve made the weather and decided whether you will know tomorrow…if the chapter is completed.

Defeated, sometimes we end on an ellipses that is meant to travel like sands of time……………..until the decline of interest in which we pick it up with a beat, a strike of the keys, demigods and pleas…sanction on screens and pages and repeated by drones we’ve hand plucked from the tomb of unsuspecting…canvases.

Because you are nothing unless I make you into my heroine. But your not the drug of this plot. Just the catalyst until I devour inspirations – presented on a platter, soaked in your tears. Which I made.

A league of extraordinary…liars. We breathe into life what your nimble mind couldn’t even imagine. We make tree’s resemble men and men resemble dirt and earth resemble the heart – pulsing and growing and dying and flowing

Into rivers created to sweep away poorly made paragraphs and half assed sentences lingering on the edge of the rocks, reaching out desperately to dead words from dead languages

quid solebat te mori

Because it is not in this segment, this chapter, this section of the trilogy. You last as long as the artist desires, as long as the con must continue. Because every bad thing that happens to you is for some audience to relate and to pity and to empathize and to say “damn, so glad that shit ain’t happenin’ to my ass.”

The air you breathe. We made it be.

The life you conceive. That’s thanks to me.

The dreams you chase. You follow my lead.

The regrets to erase. I give what you need.

Your government, your religion, your desires, your fantasies, your goals, your wonders exist solely because someone somewhere read something we left behind. The flame that makes people hungry, warm, passionate, assiduous. We left the seed that planted the tree that fed the fruit that made shit happen.

We create and then take. And you want us to. Spark up images of demons and defiled innocence, the goddess upon the mount and the mole in the hill, the sad man cradling his dying dog on the street with a sign that begs for food and the triumphant moments of autistic children learning and sharing and loving and knowing…something powerful. We create the bad, the good, the hideous and the microscopic images of perfection, speckled on a dark cloud, raining down upon you maybe once…twice in a lifetime.

That rain you will chase into a forest never seen and you will fight for a love you couldn’t possibly ever know. But you think you can. Because someone, somewhere…wrote about it. And left it on a parchment in the sand. For you. To find. To dream. To reach.

For the stars you cant kiss and the moon you cant touch and the sun you cant really feel because none of it is there. We are the magicians of the world, which is really just a box, a cubicle in a building that isn’t really a building but a tunnel of dirt. And in this tunnel, we are all still and blank and filled with nothing. We have no skin, no bones, no reflections but are the epitome of ghosts.

Until the artist comes. The artists come. The madmen. The delusional sirens projecting their hallucinations onto those tunnel walls, smearing the smudge into enough paint to cover your lifetime. Because nothing you know is yours. It is just another manipulation of ink upon a collection of notes. Your life is not yours, oh no.

This life.

Is just another sentence.

In the book of the Con

Artist.

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1.173 – A Memory

She sat across from me. We were talking about God, yet again. It was sunny out. It was warm. The porch I had so often walked across was now an island; a place I could not escape. I would have run away but my belly was full…swelling with the unborn I carried.

She cried. Her faces wrinkling, her eyes turning red. She stared at me as she pulled a drag on her cigarette. He remained silent beside me, as he always did when she spoke – such a passive gentle giant…such a fool.

I didn’t need to ask because I already knew where this was going. She whimpered through her tears. “You’re going to hell,” she said. I put my hands across my belly as if I were protecting my unborn from the heinous accusations being thrust at me. She sobbed, explaining that my unborn would meet the same fate. Because I did not believe. Because I denounced her deity. Because I did not believe.

This is the memory that keeps me up this evening. I have tossed and turned, tried to think of different things, tried to muster the energy tio add just a sentence to my June CampNaNoWriMo project. I cant. Because I don’t have it in me. I chose a topic that is foreign to me beyond compare. I choice to write about God in fiction because I thought it would be good for me, interesting, thought provoking. But I have come to a realization. I just don’t care. I find peace in my life when I am proactive…when I am working and providing for my son. I am tired but I am happy.

I reflect on that moment when I foolishly looked to someone for enlightenment. To the time when I believed that someone could teach me how to find peace and clarity. To a time when I ignored the ugly moments and stood in shame quietly while I hoped for redemption. To the moment when I held my hands over the swell of my belly and said “I don’t believe that,” instead of a big “fuck you.”

Because that is what she deserved. That’s what anyone who believes an unborn child is damned to hell because of the fault/beliefs of their parents deserves. I am ashamed that I have wasted almost a decade of my life attempting to push myself into a mold to appease sketchy people and their convictions. I will not pen another sentence of this novel until I decide where I stand. Period. I will not compromise my feelings, thoughts, emotions, and convictions in the hopes that I will fit into something I do not understand. I will not sacrifice my sanity and stability for anything or anyone who will attempt to demean me in order to overpower me.

She said me and my baby were going to hell. What she failed to realize was…I was already there. The journey I am on right now is the road to help me get out of that hell. The hell she helped to create. The hell I will never return to. The hell my child will not be subjected to. Because I said so. Period.

1.144 – Heavenly Earth

Sitting on my lunch break, I read an article by Jon Meacham entitled Heaven Can’t Wait – Why rethinking the hereafter could make the world a better place and it got me thinking. So much so that I had to reread it. And then I had to read it again, only this time, with a highlighter in hand. And then I had to give a copy of it to someone I know…because I had to share this…whatever this was.

Meacham starts his article with a synopsis of Heaven Is For Real by Lynn Vincent…a book I’ve never read. He quotes John Blanchard, founder of Planet Rock Youth Ministries…a ministry I know nothing about. He talks about N.T. Wright,  Billy Graham, and Stephen Hawking…people I know nothing about. Realistically, this article…in a magazine I’ve never read…should be of no significance or interest to my silly little mind. However, this article…in a magazine that I’ve never read yells at me. Forces me to think.

“Heaven isn’t just a place you go-heaven is how you live your life.”

“…people who are motivated by heaven are also people motivated to make a positive difference in the world.”

“”Seeing heaven as the world beyond this one can offer powerful comfort, particularly in life’s most dire circumstances.”

“Gods love…should inspire the religious to open their arms more often than they point fingers. Heaven thus becomes, for now, the reality one creates in the service of the poor, the sick, the enslaved, the oppressed.”

“Our entrance into heaven has nothing to do with how good we are; what matters is how good Jesus is, and what He did for us.”

I’m just a girl. A girl from the Bronx. A girl who’s gone through her struggles and in turn…sits in front of this keyboard with one million questions and zero answers. I’m just a girl who hopes to be better and doesn’t know how. I’m just a lost soul dreaming of something beautiful…hoping it’s attainable for someone like me.

After reading this article, I asked myself…what is heaven? Where is heaven? I will not consider what the world tells me. I will not consider the images painted upon walls and on the pages of old books. What is heaven? Where is heaven?

Heaven is seeing that glimmer in my sons eyes. Heaven is laughter. Heaven is a warm hug. Heaven is feeling loved. Heaven is feeling understood. Heaven is music, art, spoken word. Heaven is understanding. Heaven is giving. Heaven is the unconditional. It is what we search for every single day…in everything that we do…in every encounter we have.

I want heaven. For myself. For my son. For my best friend. For my father. I want heaven for people I don’t even know. But how do you reach something that defies all sense of logic? Religion makes no sense to me. There was a phone call between God and I at some point in my life but the call got disconnected.

He may…in some way…be trying to call me back. But I don’t know if I’m willing to answer that call.

I don’t know if God exists. Without a shadow of a doubt…no, I can’t say that I know. But do I know heaven exists? Yes, I do. It’s not a crown of jewels and a palace made of gold. It’s in our works. How we nurture our fellow man. How we inspire our kin. This is heaven. This is where I want to be.

1.101 – You Never Saw This Coming

Facebook Status of The Day:

Eetsa gonna be manicotti night! Also… Eetsa me! Mario!

Now that we’ve covered that…this post is going to change direction. I’m working through some emotions and so Im turning to my forum to do so. So bear with me for a moment.

I literally just opened a book, recommended to me by a friend, a few minutes ago. I have only gotten six pages in and I feel extremely uncomfortable. I have a million questions running through my head and even more reasons why I want to close this book. Im listing all of the reasons I don’t feel like reading this book. And yet, I know I have to keep going.

I’m trying to be open-minded. To steer clear of the presumption that I know better. In my search for personal growth and a non-judgmental perspective, I have agreed to read The Case For Christ by Lee Strobel.

My mind is racing and I feel really uncomfortable. I keep asking myself why and I keep running in circles. Is this book going to make me see something I didn’t see before? I don’t know. But what if it does. I’m just going to pretend for a minute…that by the end of this…I feel enlightened.

What changes? I dont respect organized religion. I don’t respect the man-made use of religion to spread bigotry, hate and oppression. I could believe in a god…I guess. The hypocrisy, the evil laced in a pretty package, the inconsistencies…I just cant.

If that is the case, why the heck am I reading this book? Do I subconsciously want to believe in something much greater than what I know? Do I want there to be a reason…for everything? Am I already a mindless sheep, willing to believe in anything that will make me feel warm and fuzzy as I sit close to my rock bottom? (Not every person of faith is sheep – so if you’re an existential thinker, don’t take offense to it).

Part of me wants to throw this book aside and move right along. Am I scared to see something new and have new hope? Or am I scared that at the end of this…I will feel no differently. Proof that there really is nothing greater. Am I already setting myself up because I want hope?

And this whole thing is pissing me off. But the only way to truly say “I don’t believe” is to identify what I actually do believe. And the only way to do that is to face every option with an open mind…to let it run through me and to…do something I have yet to figure out.

This post made absolutely no sense. But neither does this blog. Let’s be honest. I rant about shit on here. Shit, shit and more shit. But I guess this random shit is my life. And my life is my art. And my art is what I want to share. Hence…i share shit. Aren’t you glad?

I’m sure Ill post again about this book…we’ll see.

1.87 – Frowns and Smiles

My Facebook Status:

Dear FB: making one of my recommended pages “Jesus”….you’re wayyyy off. But thanks for trying.

Comment:

‎;( Your opinion tho

My Reply:

I know. Hence why I said my recommended pages…on my facebook.

Here’s the deal. I’ve given religion it’s fifteen minutes on my blog. I’m quite over it, actually. EVERYTHING I write, I write because it’s my inspiration, my feelings, my thoughts. I don’t claim to have anything all figured out.

That being said, I find it hysterical that people on my Facebook, people who know me, see my status updates daily, act like they don’t know where I stand. If you’re on the friends list, you know. Do you have to agree with anything I say – no. But if I’m saying anything that feels wrong to you – do me the favor – hit delete. That’s like someone clicking follow on this blog and expecting me to post recipes. If that’s what you’re looking for, cool, but ya aint gonna find it here.

I have never disrespected anyone and commented on any religious loving post with “;( your opinion though.” But now, I’m tempted. If I did that, the gloves would be off. I’d be 8 million types of messed up. But what the hell is the difference? I accept your faith and proclamations via status updates and yet…mine are up for pinpointing. I’m willing to test this theory and watch the hypocrisy floodgates open.

In the course of writing many of my religion based posts, I have had some great responses – people who agree and disagree with me. Heck, several of my followers on this blog are religious based bloggers. I’ve had enlightening conversations with people who are dedicated to their connection with a higher power and at no point have I felt threatened, awkward or less. They are respectful, they answer my questions, they give me insight. I appreciate them. They do not frown upon me. They share their word with me with gentle hands. I completely respect them and their faith. My disgust comes from people who DO frown upon me, who cast a judgement, who assume they are any closer to a higher power than I am.

If something exists, I’m sure that entity respects my questioning, my desire to clarify. Because I’m never going to be the girl that does something, believes something, follows something without asking why. I don’t need the label of (insert religious denomination here). I may take a different road in trying to understand the whys of life. But isn’t that the beauty of it? The freedom of choice. The one you’re god supposedly gave us all? Well, this is my choice. Yours is to accept the things you cannot change or to move right along.

This is, in no way, an attack. This is for enlightenment. I’ve learned so much in such a short period of time from some amazingly strong religious hearts. I consider those hearts true testaments of love. Of faith. Because it’s not us versus them. Me versus you. We are different. Those differences are beautiful to me. And I look forward to knowing the beauty of different insights as I grow in age.

Frown upon me. That’s quite alright. It’s your opinion tho.