Do You Ever..?

Do you ever wake up from dreaming and believe the dream for a few moments after you open your eyes?

Does it make the day feel a little better?

Lately when I’m dreaming my head is full of you, and mundane little things we do. And I can’t help but want to stay in bed all day, even if you’re just a fraud and only half of the self you are, when you are less than flesh, still you’re always nice to me… when I dream.

Isn’t it strange? The way the human mind works and the games it plays on us, poor unsuspecting conscious selves.. how the unconscious mind must be amused at how we go about our days, living half lives… shallow breathing, barely concieving of the game we are playing at, called Life.

Oh enter in, deep Spirit self, dive into the pool of Trouble that is living here, on this plant here with you, and you, and you.. dream-like you soothe my soul and rebirth confidence that all ends well, even though the flesh of it is troubled and intense.

Still, I trust, would rather be in this equation with you, than any other Mathematician even when you never say the things I want you to, makes your words your own.. for even though I’d write you a lyric that would melt my heart, I don’t need melting I just want you and the truth of it.. so don’t bend to my will…

Stay here… dreaming, stay here.. dreaming, stay here.. dreaming.


Friday night was so indulgent.. Carlene and I went to see Cyclefish.. which considering the current state of the love in this hemisphere.. was amusing in itself. The crux of the plot is that Sam and Bex agreed to marry if by thirty, they hadn’t found anyone else. Sam returns from London at 31, remembers the agreement and chases her down for dinner, drinks and a rehash of the proposal. She denies, and he sues for enforcement of a verbal contract.

The first half had us absolutely in hysterics, the ridiculous differences between the way men and women approach love and all that jazz. The second half was still good, but not as brilliant as the first.

Then we went to Borders and pored over the bookshelves, although it was the giftbook section that was most amusing and fascinating for some reason!

Can I find a word for addicted to bookshops? Apparently not.. at least not in 2 minutes worth of Googling. Anyway.. I think that I have a problem. Friday saw me spend approximately 4 hours in bookstores. Delightful, wonderful bookstores. No Whitcoulls .. but luscious bookstores with hard to find titles and high stacked shelves. I went to Unity books, Dymocks, Borders and University Press.

Stu has told me that I need to write a book, and secretly .. I agree with him, that deep in my veins is the capacity to write. There is ultimately the possibility that noone will read, but to write.. definitely it is within me to write. Composing passages of text and images that construct new worlds of thought and imagining for the reader.. a sort of spiritual carthaticism of biographical fiction, spiritual journalism and observation. A feast of a book that is both poetry and prose, fact and story, encouragement and challenge, tragedy and triumph.

Deep at the heart of my bookstore addiction, is the longing to compose words that will sit upon a shelf, and then rest in the hand of some young or old reader whose capacity for hope has been in some way, diminished.. and by means of their journey, my words to rebirth it.

Hmmm. Either that, or I should just write travelbooks. Mike and Lisa’s (my drummer and friend) imminent departure fills me with longings for distant shores and faraway seas. Walking past Sta Travel on Queen Street and seeing their offers for summer break working holidays makes me feel restless. I’m wanting to change the world and take a holiday in New Orleans with music, food, wine and a good friend or two.

Finally, The Sermon
Last night there was lots of cats away, and the mice were certainly playing. My band was on music, I was preaching.. it was fun. Just relaxed and casual. I spoke on the breath.. on breathing, on the Sacred space created by the breath of Life. I think it went ok. People were receptive and positive. So what more can you ask for? Should I post it? Should I not? Want to read it? Let me know.

I deviated from the script in a number of places, so I’m probably going to rewrite a transcript. Kevin called it ‘postmodern’ which may in fact be a synonym for ‘heretic’. But I like delving into the abstract and weaving truth into art.

The change in atmosphere was tangible though, with Al & Heather being in Wellington, Glen trapped in Pauanui due to road slips, Blue being catatonically ill. The whole service was left with Ben and I, and so was very casual and relaxed. It felt easy and simple. Experiment by accident.. but a pleasant discovery.

Song Of The Moment : You Might Die Trying
Dave Matthews Band

To change the world,
Start with one step.
However small,
The first step is hardest of all.

Once you get your gait,
You will walk in tall.
You said you never did,
Cause you might die trying,
Cause you might die trying.
Cause you—

If you close your eyes,
Cause the house is on fire.
And think you couldn’t move,
Until the fire dies.
The things you never did,
Oh, cause you might die trying,
Cause you might die trying.
You’d be as good as dead,
Cause you might die trying,
Cause you might die trying.

If you give, you, you begin to live.
If you give, you begin to live.
You begin, you get the world.
If you give, you begin to give
You get the world, you get the world.
If you give, you begin to live.

You might die trying.
Oh, you might die trying.
Yeah, you might die trying.

The things you never did,
Cause you might die trying;
You’d be as good as dead.
You never did.

The Bleeding Man
He must have had a hard weekend, because his head has been bleeding again, and as he hobbled up Elliot St ahead of me, I overtook him as he limped along, often resting on the side of the building. I want to do something for him, but on the return trip, I tried to catch his eye, in order to engage in some conversation, or ask him what I can do for him, whether or not he needs medical attention.. his eyes wandered over the sky. His fluttering eyes, unfocussed become my prayer .. that in the least of these, I see Jesus, and yet and still waiting to discover or realise the thing that He is searching for in this scenario. Be with my friend who limps along today, Lord.

Internal Bleeding
I am working for an executive recruitment agency. That’s fine for now, but long term I don’t think I could keep this up. There is a certain sadness that grows in me seeing the number of applicants that apply for positions, and the number that are turned down. Each one represents a family or a life dependant on income, possibly struggling, possibly hopeless. There is a different tone about some CV’s, the ones who have flitted from job to job, obviously looking for the right fit and purpose, others who have advanced through the ranks of one company, but in all of their faithfulness are now too old, too inflexible for the roles they are applying for.

There are the ones who have art degrees and hobbies that suggest they would have chosen a more nomadic existence creating, shaping and constructing artworks of any nature had they not been burdened with the pressures of supporting family and social structures and expectations 30 years ago at the onset of their ‘youth’. Makes me think about those of my friends who are ree

valuating career options and paths, and pray for them the strength and grace to find true calling and purpose and meaning in the tasks they take on as work.

The hardest are the interviews who come in, the ones whose style of dress tells you immediately whether or not they will make it through to a second round. Or the faceless emails from well-qualified Indians, Malaysians, Chinese, Koreans, Indonesians who cannot work to the level for which they are trained and experienced because the Anglo-Saxon equivalents blend into workplaces easier, and are more marketplace friendly.

On Friday I processed an application for trade finance role, from a highly trained and experienced Indian man. Graduated from the best university in India, and yet since his immigration here, has been working on the phone exchange for a taxi company. It hardly seems just or fair, and yet marketplace dictates that he will probably not get a shot. Not the recruiter’s fault either, just the faceless, heartless marketplace.

So even having preached with Maori proverbs last night, I become aware again this morning, that our multiculturalism is something for the next generation, not necessarily for us to experience in all it’s richness and depth. That’s something I would like to be different. I just feel too guilty about the colour of my skin to be in the recruitment business long term. Guilty also for my youth, guilty for the social constructs that shape lovely, curving, unique creatures into square and balanced boxes.