I’ve been hearing the knock for some time, and not finding any way to open the door. You never know with these things. Is it that I haven’t been finding any way, or that I’ve been, on some level, refusing. While that’s been happening I’ve been knowing that the 52nd entry was some kind of transition. I couldn’t find a way to honour that, and number 53 dell into vague musings about Jean Genet.

Then I had a dream. In my dream I was being pursued, not aggressively, by a man who appeared to be of middle European origin. He was angry and very insistent that I had in some way slandered or wronged him. In order to escape him I stepped into an elevator. He didn’t get in, but stood glaring at me as the doors closed. Once in the elevator, I had no access to the button and never, in the dream, got anywhere.

I am learning these days to segue from dream to prayer, asking the Lord to take the dream, use It. open in out for me.

Here’s what I know. The narrative voice that has run “Mind for Jesus” for a year is degenerating, getting kind of thin.

A new voice is demanding to be heard. I don’t know much about him. His name is Peter Washburn. He is Polish/English/Canadian. He’s a fierce fellow, a little younger than I am. He announces himself as a Christian nihilist, but I’m not sure what that means, and I don’t know if he’s sure either. I think we need to set him free.

So enough already. A puff of smoke. A swirl of the magician’s cloak. My voice is stilled indefinitely.

Go NOW to thevoiceofpeterwashburn.wordpress.com.

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Saint Genet (my blog reborn?)

I think I’ve said what I have to say. A full year of this blog has given me space to spread myself out in language, and find out what I thought about a number of things. I’ve enjoyed it for sure. There’s nothing I love better than language, and, interestingly, now that I can’t read, I find myself writing the things I would read if I could.

When I discovered French intellectual tradition (it began with reading Camus when I was in my teens, spread like wildfire to Sartre and then to Genet) it was like a rebirth. Those guys use language in a very different way. English is a methodical language. To some extent, with its crazy Gothic grammar architecture, it has to be. Generally Presbyterian in outlook, its flights of fancy have to be well buttressed, butterflies broken on the wheel of rational organized thoughts.

But those French writers let the holy fire into their writing. Jean Genet was a lifelong criminal, recidivist, thief, hustler, and artist. His book, with the provocative title “Our Lady of the Flowers”, grounded its narrative in his masturbation fantasies. Their relative intensity guided the plot. When Sartre wrote his biography he called it “Saint Genet”. All the passions have a place in literary discourse, he suggested, and when we bring them in we sanctify them, and we spread the light of human thought a little further out into the darkness.

When we exclude things, call them evil or demonic, we in fact make them so, give them to the demons, and the demons love it. That’s when they win. God is everywhere. Love and light are everywhere. I think Edna St. Vincent Millay said it best when she wrote “They drew a circle that shut me out, heretic, robber, a thing to flout. But love and I found a way to win. We drew a circle that shut them in.”

The only real danger is fear.

Spring wind, spring ghosts

I feel as if I’m waking up after a very long sleep. It’s the first of May. I can’t see that much of it, but I can see the green mist of new leaves on the trees. I can feel the amazing breath of the spring night, and hear the roar of Cottonwood Creek, feel the secret jubilation of the trees moving a little in the rainy darkness.

These are all easy to describe. But something is moving in me, and I’m wary of enclosing it in language. I want to say to my thoughts “Beware. This man’s words are amber, sticky, beautiful, and dangerous, and if you don’t take care you’ll find yourself trapped in a golden eternity, looking out at the living world as it looks in at you.”

But we have to try, or what’s a blog for?

I had two or three ghostly visitors last week. I’ve never in my life had any ‘supernatural’ experiences. This might sound odd, coming from a guy who makes a living reading Tarot cards, but I have never, and do not now, see Tarot as in any way supernatural. It’s maybe about as supernatural as ultra-sound, a way to see what our five senses can’t.

I’ve been praying hard for something to be released, to come out of me. Wild and noisy events in my house, occurring in the night, when I’m certain I was awake, are, I hope, its departure. It was running around the house not knowing what to do with itself. I was praying for its release into whatever rest or dissolution it needed. Interestingly, I was never afraid. Goose bumps like crazy, and a very powerful startlement, but no fear at all.

I’m hoping I’m right, and that something has gone. I think so.

And at the same time I feel my own fire rekindled. I have drive and energy I can’t remember having for a very long time. And, most terrifying, hope.