by tashmcgill | Jul 21, 2005 | Uncategorized

Words
In the beginning there were words. Words that in their being, brought earth and all creation into being with them. Words that shaped land and ocean, sky and heavens, words that placed stars into the atmosphere and brought water out of springs in the earth, to water the ground. That the ground might bloom into life, and the walking, breathing life that lived upon the earth might eat of the blossoming of the earth. All this came from words.

At the end, there are always words. They are heavy words filled with sadness and loss, words that endeavour to bring meaning to a series of repeated breaths, repeated motions that together construct what we call life. We use words to describe a person in all their broken glory. Words that paint pictures of them in younger, more productive years. Words that make small triumphs from failures, words that give us the power to influence and change the purpose of a life, from smallness to greatness at the moment of death.

Words seem infinitely powerful at that moment. When the silence becomes an ache, and the ache an emptiness, and the emptiness cannot be filled, then words have the infinite power to restore, to birth, to create, to offer. Until the final word is spoken, hope remains and life endures in the breath and intonation of the phrases we choose to define the life we mourn.

So ask me not, to give to you my mind or body, or my soul so much as you could ask of me a kiss; a kiss of syllables and consonants, of round, deep vowels and slowly formed phrases. My kiss of words I give to you, crafted with the infinite depth of my heart, which cannot find sharper, truer or more apt gift to give you, than my words spilled out on paper and in space; carved out in the ether.

Words contain more of ourselves than we realise. Why do I always say woman and not female? One is sensual and human, the other cold and scientific. Why do I twist and turn the phrases in my mouth into new shapes and sounds to soften that which is hard or smooth that which is broken? How is it that within my phrases I find spaces for latin, greek, hebrew and polynesian roots and yet I am an English mutt according to my ethnic blueprint? Why do I find a deep sense of home in listening to the words that roll from your tongue in fluid apathy to my apparent need of them?

My words speak my heart aloud and they fly up into the air, resting on shadows and clouds, sliding down raindrops back into puddles at my feet, before the listless wind blows fragments of my phrases back towards me. I do not recognise my own heart as it comes broken back to me, and yet drawn to these fragments I piece together a strange jigsaw puzzle of a poem. Once poems were my bridges to the world. I slid over velvet phrases into reality, and landed softly amongst other poet friends. The lens of ‘form’ was like a comforting blanket, where any phrase could be turned around, remade into something gentler to the ear. All phrases were turned around in the end.

Our words together seem like a dance where one is never certain of the other, and the orchestra slips ahead, like salmon darting ahead upstream, always dragging us behind, always lost in thinking of a lyric for the bars that we pass by.

Some words hesitate me for moments and hours, glueing me to the spot in a fickle jelly, for fear never likes to admit what it is, except what it is not. I am not cold, I am not small, I am not frightening. I am terrified. It is a follish assumption to believe that words alone can prove their Truth, for words without context are like sentences without punctuation. Neither likes the restraint but is depending on the clarity it brings. Words like beautiful can trip me up for hours, words like father bog me in delay. Others are like deep, sapphire pools of the ocean and entice me to frolic and play.

Words are like the breath of the wind, even lighter than the wind, but existing in every atom of the air. They sit like art upon the page, they fly soaring when spoken. They have a power all their own, they don’t deserve the loneliness of One-ness. They are tiny threads that march out from my heart into yours, along an invisible string, that seems tightly tied to your heart also, and so we walk now tied together by the heartstrings of words that have been spoken and twitter and dance between us.

by tashmcgill | Jul 21, 2005 | Uncategorized

Dirty Bomb Detector

I had some riveting posts planned for yesterday afternoon, but apparently the Universe had other plans. A candidate walked into the office just as we were peering out the windows and seeing police close off our street on both sides. The candidate informed us the there was a bomb scare in the other tower. You see, our building is actually two towers joined by an atrium. So we decided to evacuate, moments before the alarms went off. Then the whole block was cordoned off by the police for about two hours. I went home after the second hour, pretty convinced that there was not much point staying around. Pretty devastatingly boring to spend two hours walking around half of Queen Street. Especially when nothing went boom. Not that you actually want anything to explode, but all the tension builds up inside your body.

Traffic
This morning when I woke up at dawn, I had the joy of being able to roll over and go back to sleep for an hour or so. But instead of sleeping, I listened to the hum of the traffic build until it felt noisy in my peaceful little house. How destructive all that noise and pollution must be, not just to my peace, but to the way we live. We wake up in the morning and make noise. Not even attractive noise, but just loud, murky, smelly noise.

by tashmcgill | Jul 19, 2005 | Uncategorized

A Flurry Of Small Things
Last night I stayed home, ate wholesome food, drank only one beer, read a novel, watched the news, painted, washed my dishes and allowed the emotions of being just to wash over me.

This morning, I have perused this website… Visual-Voice. It’s truly stunning macro photography, and I have appreicated reading her entries as well. The posts are peppered with quotes.. and some of them have captured me this morning.. so I’ve put them here, bookmarked for later days of contemplation.

Life has taught us that love does not consist in gazing at each other but in looking outward together in the same direction.
~ Antoine de Saint-Exupery

We are told to let our light shine, and if it does, we won’t need to tell anybody it does. Lighthouses don’t fire cannons to call attention to their shining- they just shine.
~ Dwight L. Moody

Let your heart speak to other’s hearts.

What did the tree learn from the earth to be able to talk with the sky?
~ Pablo Neruda

If you reveal your secrets to the wind you should not blame the wind for revealing them to the trees.
~ Khalil Gibran

And the day came when the risk it took to remain tight inside the bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.
~ Anais Nin

Since you cannot do good to all, you are to pay special attention to those who by accidents of time, or place, or circumstance, are brought into closer connection with you.
~ St. Augustine

An Uncanny Juxtaposition of Time
So.. Kahlil Gibran has been a favourite for a long time, and it was his words that I poured over in my various bookstores follies last week. Around about here, I happened upon him in the phrase ‘Love does not know it’s own depths until the hour of separation’. Now even though he bridges Islam, Christianity, Buddhism and hedonism into one nebulous set of humanistic beliefs.. the words are still poignant and powerful and truthful, depending on the lens that you use. I particularly like this excerpt from ‘The Prophet’ that I read with Carlene last Friday.. particularly this phrase.. And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;
For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed. Silence between friends can be a soothing balm, a wellspring of understanding, a strong bond. I miss silent space.

Friendship IXX
Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.
And he is your board and your fireside.

For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.
When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the “nay” in your own mind, nor do you withhold the “ay.”

And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;
For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.

When you part from your friend, you grieve not;
For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend.
If he must know the ebb of your tide, let him know its flood also.
For what is your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
Seek him always with hours to live.

For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.
And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

Khalil Gibran

by tashmcgill | Jul 19, 2005 | Uncategorized

She’s Moving On, She’s Coming Home, She’ll Be Here Soon
Dani is reminiscing about her Nashville days .. and calling to memory favourites posts. It’s so hard to believe that my dear dear precious friend is going to be sharing this hemisphere so soon. I know that Hans probably thinks that he’s winning the bonus round here, but it’s I that is blessed. So here’s a letter to my girl.. for all the world to see.

Important Things
A couple of the links that I’m about to put here are relatively old and have done the rounds before, so I’m archiving for my own sake, and to reference the fact that they have been part of conversation and thinking today.

Where you sit in terms of the Worlds Wealth Distribution can be done here at the Global Rich List

The World Hunger Quiz may just yet surprise you.

And the one that’s currently doing the rounds and makes for interesting beer café conversation.. Eccological footprints can be determined here at My Footprint.

Tributes
I have been a semi-regular at Small Ritual for a long time. He manages to cross lots of things together into a woven feast of words, graphics and ideas. Today I have found myself turning there with new ravenous eyes, and have soaked in thoughts that quench like rain. So.. here are a few of my favourite ‘Restorations’.

Doors

breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe.

Feel refreshed yet?

Then how about these reflections on youth ministry, church culture and focus?
One,
Two,
Three.

More Later.

by tashmcgill | Jul 17, 2005 | Uncategorized

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.

Cyclefish

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!

Bibliomaniac
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

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.