Confessing

Psalm 139 has been one of my favourites for a while now. I relate to it so strongly that when I am lost for words and struggling to pray for myself, the psalmist seems to speak for me.

I'd been carrying an unidentifiable burden for about a week, and a few days ago, something finally triggered a total lock-down in my spiritual system. My body didn't want to cooperate either. And of course the judging little devil-voice told me it was sin: I must have done something wrong to feel this way. So I ran to the psalms and stumbled into chapter 32.

While I kept my silence, my body wasted away
through my groaning all day long.
For day and night your hand was heavy upon me;
my strength was dried up as by the heat of summer.
Then I acknowledged my sin to you,
and I did not hide my iniquity;
I said, "I will confess my transgressions to the Lord,"
and you forgave the guilt of my sin.

So I confessed. I got down on my knees with my face to the ground and prayed and confessed and prayed and confessed and begged and pleaded with God to take the trash away from me. I know the categories: sins of commission, sins of omission, known, unknown. You name it. I thought I was doing a pretty good job of cleansing myself.

Of course I'd forgotten we inevitably fail in that. Nothing changed. I went back to my good ol' 139 and started reading.

Now a lot of us know lines 13 and 14:

For it was you who formed my inward parts;
you knit me together in my mother's womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made..

I mean, I've got it underlined in purple in my NRSV and all. But what caught my eye that morning was 15 and 16:

My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was being made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes beheld my unformed substance.
In your book were written all the days that were formed for me,
when none of them as yet existed.

Now I don't know what this says to you, but suddenly, I realized that I am not some flawed piece of God's creation that He was making with His hands while watching TV or something. He wasn't just practicing on me. As He made me, I was not hidden, His eyes beheld me. He observed, very carefully. And He appraised and approved every intricacy of my mind, every weave of my emotions, every line and molecule of my body.

And then you know what? He even wrote it all down before it was, just to make sure everything was perfect.

Oh look at me! Trying to fix it, trying to make sure it goes right. Dancing around in the gooey muck of my life, trying to hold it all together. And so proud of my shoddy work.

I didn't clean my life up that morning and I didn't suddenly see the light either, but I had a revelation. I am still struggling on my own strength. I don't still completely trust the man who made me. And I still have much to surrender.

I keep forgetting the latter part of 14:

Wonderful are your works;
that I know very well.

God is breaking the box that I've been trying to put Him in.

I've tried to close Him up between a number of walls: prayer, worship music, bible reading, animated discussion and sermons. I seem to have decided I will not hear Him or see Him in any other situations, and that if I don't "feel" Him in the situations I've laid down, then something is wrong with me.

But He is breaking through that.

He is speaking to me, despite my lack of discipline. He is speaking to me through my illness. He is speaking to me in "sensible" thoughts. He is speaking to me.

He is telling me I have become religious. I have a system I've developed for myself. A system of rituals like prayer, worship, bible-study, cell and rules like not swearing, not listening to secular music and not dressing a certain way. They are drawing me away from Him because He is love and grace. And there is neither love nor grace in rituals and rules.

Sometimes, it really is about letting go. And that's why love and grace are so important. We let go, and by His grace we don't fall. We let go, and in love, we are saved.

How terrifyingly simple.

How God-like!

“This, too, shall pass.”

Sometimes when things go wrong – or right, just not how you planned them – it’s a good idea to deal with shit before it hits the fan. Most times, it’s good to leave the world alone.

I develop this idiotic urge to verbal-puke when I am in a “rush”. This is what I am doing right now. Technically this is not true, since I am not quite in a “rush” right now. I just want to be, I want to create some drama for myself. This is usually just my personal universe of boredom escaping via my skin, but today it is utter dissatisfaction. No. Disillusionment.

It was not there.

I knew it was not there.

I knew it was possible it could be there. Now,

I know it is not there. Because,

It is not there.

How boring when you realize you really were not expecting the unexpected. How utterly drab to find your self among the masses. How blah that your imagination can’t run riot in your world anymore and turn your biology into a whirling cyclone of blood, bone and muscle. How clear that all this is so unimportant!

What’s done is done. Tough *ish.

Melomanic 4

I’ve been meaning to get myself to the Melomanic Sessions for some time now. Not out of professional interest (these things are sprouting like caterpillars!) or anything of the sort. Comment made to maintain due aloofness.

The atmosphere, as people keep commenting, is nice. There’s close, warm lights to counter the bareness of the warehouse (though not enough to balance the glare from the string-lights behind the performance space), and couches and whatnot bring some familiarity to the place – a bean-bag or two would have been just perfect! This paragraph was completely unnecessary. It gives away the fact that really, I have nothing to say and makes me sound every other random blogging person. I am not every other blogging person btw. Remember this.

So Imaad opens. Apparently he doesn’t do “covers or whatever you call them” so hits us with stuff off his “upcoming EP”. Lets not talk about EPs right now. His first two numbers were (I think) My Love and Love Is a Bird, that had, as he admitted, pretty much the same chords. This brings me back to – but we’re not talking about it right now. This guy is something like 21 years old but manages with some long hair to come off a little more mature. Good. I’m not much of a guitar person, but as accompaniment, his playing was nice. His voice is rather thin and obvious jitters made him waver a bit so he kept straining, but the instrument kept the vocals up admirably. And the vocals, though lacking polish and articulateness, were strong; he had the kind of punch one doesn’t expect from a wiry frame.

I couldn’t help notice how uncomfortable the boy looked perched precariously on the barstools lined up on the performance space, and was glad when Dani, vocalist for the next artist Not Another Metal Band, decided to do his thing standing. I’m sorry that sounded wrong. If it didn’t sound wrong, I’m sorry I have my moments. So Dani stands to sing and I am already hopeful. But honestly, I don’t understand the name. Technically, this has nothing to do with their performance, but it tells me they’re ambitious. And the ambition just might be not so off-the-mark. This guy also pushes his voice a bit (I mean, most singers do), but is otherwise smooth. Super falsetto and cool delivery makes a stark contrast between him and the rest of the band that were (from an amateur p.o.v) only alright. I can’t remember what covers they did, but I remember thinking they were not exactly easy, and so, I’d imagine a bit more accuracy and these could be very good indeed.

Now one man I expected would be “very good indeed” – to quote myself – is Asela. I don’t where the expectation came from; possibly the fact that he was involved in the organizing, and his namesake Bandara from Paranoid Earthling, but this I know: it was not fulfilled. In fact, I decided as he finished his first number that I would put my Complete Works of Shakespeare – Histories Vol. 2 aside, because there was enough murder in the atmosphere without Richard and Bolingbroke and the rest of the lot slaughtering each other in my head. I am hugely critical. I admit. People find it irritating to sit beside me at any event related to music/theatre. But honestly, something was wrong. I don’t listen to much alternative/acoustic anymore, so I actually came home and checked out Naked As We Came by Iron and Wine. It’s a lovely song, but I was left wondering whether Asela even sang the right notes! With all due respect, I am sure this was a bad day for him. If it wasn’t, I must have been in a super-lousy mood.

I probably was, because when Kei “and her little friend” the ukulele joined Asela for a duet, my mind was scream-dialing stage-911. Forget fashion police (its probably cheaper to maintain a reward-system for well-dressed people than the opposite: I should know!), get them in the music-force. Please. But I forget, it was my mood. Their second number together, You And I by Ingrid Michaelson with Dan Romer was miles better. The song itself is incredibly simple-souled and Kei’s coy smiling and carefree singing (unfortunately completely shadowed – for me at least! – by her attire (or the lack of it) and killer heels) did the whole thing a nice shade of quaint. They were both obviously much more relaxed by then, and I was made happy. Thank you!

The men were the beginning and end of all things that night, so we had Kavya immediately after Kei. Finally. The sound system was overdoing it by this time, but that hardly compromised the maturity of the voice and performance. Even the two boys who played guitar for her and also sang were so much more confident. Their rendition of Nickelback’s ‘Hero’ was impressive to say the least; Kavya doing some super-controlled ornaments and smooth voice modulation.

Salvage after these was good. They’d built the space for some noise. And I realized why people rave about CC’s voice. (note: that sort-of rhymed). After last year’s TNL Onstage (shudder!) I was really confused about all the hype and discovered at ‘Melomanic’ that he can shout. There’s good strength in the lungs there and decent pitch. He just seems to have a tendency to overestimate himself. But we are going to be very forgiving, if not in consideration of the coolness of creating a thing like ‘Melomanic’, then in consideration of the face he possesses. Their cover of Flood by Jars of Clay got people (me) pumped though the instruments and voices didn’t gel so well together. Storm and Sunshine (provided this is what they were called) fared better after the warm-up.

Either way, the crowd (and we kept hearing it was bigger than last time) was hyped by the end of this set, and Gehan was understandably worried about being next in line. I am possibly biased, but in all honesty, the worry was unwarranted. The keyboard involvement complicated matters a bit, a heavy left range drowning him, but this was the best controlled voice in the program so far. He was also by far the only singer that absorbed in the music, a refreshing thing, though not always good.

And then along came Natasha from a completely different league. Her voice is mellow and more definitely controlled, and when she talks of Barbershop quartets the coin drops. She’s been trained. At the risk of sounding sadly old-school I assert and maintain: it made a huge difference. But then her numbers were not right for the crowd, and the arrangement of In the Still of the Night not right for the duet with Svetlana. Pity’s the thing because a good artist knows her platform and her audience, though these two were the best voices. Hands down.

After that little anti-climax CC brought on Cynosure to send people home “feeling good”. These boys are so enthusiastic and vocalist Shezri (three cheers for facebook band-pages!) having so much fun dancing around that it’s impossible not to get a little bubbly and giddy. He lost pitch here and there, but infectious harmonies (despite being simple and predictable) and an odd genuineness to the whole thing made up completely.

So that’s that.

The First Day of the Second Half of the Year.

It has been a long, long time since I last experienced this twisting in my stomach to such an extent. It quickens the blood even to my extremities; the palms of my hands are prickly, and the only reason my fingertips don’t itch is that I am typing. My eyes refuse to focus and my mind sleeps. I am going into nervous-system hibernation.

But I must stop this thing and break out. The more dramatic moments in my life have been preceded by such perceptive shut-downs; and I am not enthusiastic about most of the “more dramatic moments in my life” so far. I need some clarity.

But this heat will not help. Kandy is warm these days, but Colombo is just oppressive. It is not so much the heat but the humidity. This is not news to you. I don’t break out in sweat, the droplets themselves fear the sun and struggle to remain hidden under my skin, and so I am bloating. My pores are begging with their bulging eyes to be allowed to open their mouths and scream. I am not saying no, but the atmosphere is. And I have no control over the atmosphere.

Hara-Kiri must indeed have been release. I want now only to slit my stomach open and let the guts flow out so I can carefully sever whatever connection they have to the rest of my being.

Choices. My toes curl at the thought. My teeth itch.

But I must decide.

My second thoughts on the future.

I have been called stupid and irresponsible among other unpleasant things. And by general standards I probably am*. But even by these “general” standards (forgive me for generalizing), I can twist my words about decently well. Now while I get paid well enough for a growing child my age, to do this thing with words, I have other uses for it also.

 

We used to live very high up at the very top of a little mountain called Upper Hantana. It connects to one end of the Hantana Range and – needless to say – commands a lovely view. The drive there, past where I live now, takes you by the little muddy lake which sometimes homes demure manel pondering the clouds, up the quieter and quieter tarred road watched on either side by the towering forests of pine, to cooler air. On an evening, one inevitably meets villagers traversing up, down and sometimes simply across the road – furred ones, quilled ones, tusked ones, spotted ones, and all generally inoffensive and shy.

The thing I remember today is the mist. Mornings up there are freezing, cold at best. To splash tap-water on your face is to have it slightly numbed for some time or stinging at least. To open the front door or even windows before the sun is clearly out is to invite the clouds in to gulp the warmth right out of your tea. On a bad day, to step out of the house at dawn is a thrilling adventure.

I can see the upper step, but the second is only a shadow. The lowest one is completely invisible. But I know it’s there. I can’t see the flat stones that pave step-by-step the eight or ten yards between the door and the little swinging gate that leads out to the pine-carpeted vehicle path. But I know they’re there. I have only to stretch my arm out in front of me to lose my hand, although I know it’s there. It is cold. And despite the thrill of the dewy air teasing my blood, making my skin tingle, my brain is hassled by the familiar unfamiliar.

If I venture off the first step onto the shadow of what I know is the second, I will begin to see the shadow of the third. If I step off the second onto the shadow of what I know is the third, I will see the first stepping stone. I can make it to the gate and beyond.

I can have a whole adventure.

All I need is a shadow, without a doubt.

 

If, after this whole artistic harangue, you still hold the opinion that my policy on “planning the future” exposes a character that is stupid and irresponsible, let me bring your notice to the fact that there was an asterisk (*) – gosh, Live Writer turned that into a orangey-balooney-cartooney-graphic-monstrosity! – just after “I probably am” in the first paragraph (it’s alright if you absolutely must scroll back up to check). This, dear uneducated reader, denotes what is called a ‘footnote’. See below. FAIL.

“If any of you lacks wisdom, you should ask God, who gives generously to all without finding fault, and it will be given to you. But when you ask, you must believe and not doubt” -- James 1:5,6

*disclaimer – my standards are completely different and by those, people who think me stupid and irresponsible (and let me add irrational also, for good measure) are just failures.

My thoughts on the future.

I have been wasting too much time today (and yesterday, and the day before, and for many many days before that) in front of the computer, producing ZERO work. So, despite the fact that there are now two computer screens and four hands (two left and two right, the middle two oddly juxtaposed onto each other - the wonders of our sensory system, really!) in front of my eyes (I jumped the gun with the "sensory system" comment there it seems...) I WILL WRITE.

The elder places of a "young mind" doesn't seem all that accurate a description of the source of these rants anymore. I am starting to worry. As much as I drill myself to walk the walk and trust that "so much more" will God provide for me, my thoughts often go to actually having to foot my own bills rather than doing it simply because it gives me a kick. I have come to another one of those places.

Suddenly it's all about my "plans" again. With only six months left to go with the blasted degree, people want to know what I'm "going to do next". So far, I have not had a problem with the question because:

a.) I don't worry much

b.) I have (and always have had) a (very vague) "plan"

c.) Talking about it helps sort things further

d.) It also allows me to enjoy the sounds of my voice

e.) I love the sound of my voice

f.) I'm so much fun to listen to

g.) People don't always care so very few problems occur in the rare instance my monologue develops into an actually conversation/discussion

h.) If a problem occurs I can always still enjoy the sound of my voice

i.) I'm so much fun to listen to!

But I really do have a problem. But you already knew that. Only you never knew what the problem was. Good.

Bite me.

*And forgive me the arrogance of deciding to leave in the typo.

pedestal

thoughtful posts are generally not my thing. but considering I’m supposed to be studying for an end-semester in two days and facebook has got stale, I have to write something. and at a complete loss for any other sort of inspiration, I’m going to have to think to write.

We all have people who inspire us, and these at different levels. there are those you only hear about on the news and you can’t help think wow. [honestly, I don’t feel you on this one – I hardly admire anyone I don’t know personally – I just wrote it to sound well-researched or something.] and then there are those you know so well, whose struggles and victories have been close to your heart, and they come out letting you know for sure that God put bits of himself in us.

but I’m thinking of those in between. the people you don’t know so well, but for whom you’ve created an identity and character you could admire. these are the people who make you feel you can do better. you know them, so they’re real. but you don’t know them, so they’re better. and so “better” is real. it can happen.

until you discover they’re human.

they’re not perfect. they’re not awesome. they’re not untouchable. scrap the pun, it wasn’t intended. this is serious.

I REALLY need some source of inspiration. sigh.

We all go through our different phases, most often not recognizing the hilarity of our position as subject to phenomena of life we once laughed at or scorned and believed ourselves above the influence of. And then its also difficult to see ourselves and our own follies in those that come after us. How proverbial, and how stupidly simple.

I come home late these nights after the Wala Festival most often to no food or lights, on good days to cold food and a single bulb. Every night though, the house is literally empty. My brother now spends four to five of seven nights a week at his friends, and i find myself getting more and more irritated at this. I've already, in bruised indignation, raised the issue with my mother a number of times. I have also mentioned to the younger sibling that the removal of his personal belongings from our house to that of his friend would make possible the better use of space.
But i forget that i too have done this, at worse times and under worse circumstances.

Personal Essay

I believe this Earth is flat and that photographs taken from outer-space which display the Earth as a globe or sphere are false; 'maya'. The Earth stretches down infinitely beneath us. The limit of the Earth is the limit man has dug. If someone today digs deeper than any man has dug before, then the bottom of the pit that this man digs is the depth of the Earth. It stretches as we push ourselves towards it. The deeper we dig, the further it gets from us. It is the same with truth. That is why philosophers who began searching for an embodiment of truth now search for the definition of truth. We are a backward 'advancing' species that believes it is ahead of all others. True, we move fast; but we move in the wrong direction.

So, beyond the depth of the Earth is Hell. That is where the man who has dug his own grave goes. The depth of Hell is also limitless. The man searching for truth falls into it and never ceases to fall until he reaches its depth. But truth is nothing – We are only figments of God's imagination – so the man never reaches it. He keeps falling. I know this because I know everything. God told me so.

 

*The use of the words "he" and "man" here should not be taken in sexist terms: I myself am a female – the writing would be OFF if I kept saying "he or she" or "person".

I have a problem. Well of course I have a problem, but that's not what I mean, I really have a problem. I don't have anything to write about; and that has hindered me from keeping my oath to write at least a sentence each day.

I just realized I lied. I DO have things to write about; it's just that I can't be bothered with spending time thinking about these things enough to write an interesting post.

1. An issue popped up recently about just how personal these public posts should get. I started the argument staunchly supporting not giving a shit what you say where as long as you're comfortable saying it, but realized that I had to change my stance once it was made clear that although I'm generally ok with saying anything anywhere, I'm not okay with handling whatever (unpleasant) repercussions being an 'open-book' might have.
   
2. Identity. Gehan talks about it in "Pardon Me, But Who Am I Again?". I'm not really concerned with the race, the caste, the language, the type of music you listen to etc., but the last quote from the bat-man-guy is close to what I've been thinking about. What would be the better measure of a person? What he or she IS or what he or she aspires to be? I wanted to base an argument for Writing Skills on this, but my lecturer thwarted the idea. I believed that a person would be better measured by what he or she aspires to be than by what he or she has already done. But does a murderer aspire to be a murderer? So then it seems to follow that it's better to measure a person by what he or she does. Right? Wrong. Because what a person does is not limit to actually doing it, it also involves justifying it. So it's possibly better to look at why a person does/has done something before you measure them. This kid at Bible class put it nicely today. A friend of his has a weird form of encouragement apparently. He just says "why do you do it"? Some of you will understand the beauty of this, some of you may not. What we are is defined by what we believe in; our reasons for living.
   
3. We also discussed punishment at youth today. Why are people (children specifically) punished? What does it achieve? Is it effective? I propose rewarding 'good' things as opposed to punishing 'bad' things. Positivity always seems to work. I've read a little about this in terms of behavioural psychology for school, but obviously haven't read enough to actually say anything about it or develop a strong personal opinion. Not that I have a strong personal opinion about anything
   
4. Homo-sexuality has been addressed in my hearing at least four times in different environments this week, it's funny.
   

Ah… for time to discourse!