The year was '97.
Waiting for That Day
So every day I see you in some other face
They crack a smile, talk a while, try to take your place
My memory serves me far too well
I just sit here on this mountain thinking to myself: You're a fool boy
Why don't you go down, find somebody, find somebody else
My memory serves me far too well
It's not as though we just broke up. It's not as though it was yesterday.
But something I just can't explain, something in me needs this pain.
I know I'll never see your face again
C'mon now; I've got to be strong now
Now everybody's talking about this new decade, like you say the magic numbers
then just say goodbye to the stupid mistakes you made.
Oh my memory serves me far too well
Don't you know that the years will come and go
Some of us will change our lives; some of us still have nothing to show
Nothing baby, but memories
And as for these wounds, they are self-inflicted. I don't really know how my poor heart could have protected me
But if I have to carry this pain, if you will not share the blame, I deserve to see your face again
C'mon now; You don't have to be so strong now
Come back. Come back to me darling
I will make it worth your while
Come back to your baby: I miss your kiss, I miss your smile.
Seems to me the peace I search to find ain't going to be mine until you say you will--
Don't you keep me waiting for that day
I know, I know, I know you hear these words that I say
You can't always get what you want
I've pulled another page from my blogging friends by placing song lyrics, which i particularly resonate to, in this entry. It's not a practice I'd want to encourage, as I've always believed that one should write his own songs, compose his own poetry, speak in his own voice. But sometimes the words escape you, or maybe your own voice hasn't grown enough in expressive power. Or maybe somebody just beat you to the punch, writing about this human thing he and you have in common: this dilemma, this problem, this joy: this Kirk missing warm toast in mornings of dappled sunlight and clean cotton sheets he's never really seen.
I look around at the blogs of my friends, associates and compatriots and guess what I find: a steady improvement in the way they write. Friends of mine who struggle with written English write as if they have to struggle less. Grammatical and spelling mistakes still abound in some, but that's easily overlooked by someone who finds greater clarity and sophistication in how my blogger friends express themselves. Here and there, I see a borrowed phrase, an appropriated word: a healthy plagiarism, the marks of a growing writer.
One cannot help but find something pleasant in all of this. Blogging may not make us rich, but our lives are all the better for it. Kudos to all of you!
Jesus to a Child
I haven't been. I've had the experience of having begging hands shoved into my face, through car windows, on the street, in public places. And I've been avoiding them the way I do on-site credit-card and insurance salesmen: like the plague. This isn't a good way to score brownie points with the Lord. After all, He did confess an abiding love for children.
I am aware that a mindless, knee-jerk charity is not going to help these kids get off the street and launch themselves (like the Star People they should be) into their individual futures as productive members of society. And obviously, I cannot overextend myself to the point that I'll wind up in the same hole they're in. But their need is so great that it breaks my heart not to give immediate, if only topical, relief.
How does one refuse without having to reject? I've had to ponder this question when faced with proposals of a sexual nature. It turns out I have to do this too when considering giving in to the demands of a street child. This is someone who forces you to confront his need, presents you with only himself. It doesn't matter that he makes a lousy effort at shining your rubber shoes, washing your windshield, singing loudly, badly into your ears for his supper: at this moment, you are confronted with the prospect of abandoning a child.
The mind throws up its near-instinctual barriers:
It's not my responsibility! --
I already give to charity! --maybe, but this is often said with the intent of dismissing the problem before you. The problem with the greasy hands holding the greasy rags being swabbed across your now greasy rubber shoes.
This will take too much time! --true, and just as
Are you prepared to commit to this child and the others you will want to save for the rest of your life, Dex? 'Cause that may be what it's going to take...
Obviously, I can't do this, can't even think this through thoroughly, alone.