I am open to crazy talk. I look for lunacy at parties. I spend a lot of time looking at the not-real. My imagination expects regular meals or it howls and keeps me awake. I used to let it inhabit my entire head where it fed on my brainstem to the detriment of daily discernment, but now I shove the plate through the bars quickly, before it takes my fingers off.
Not so many years ago when we were still simpatico, we wandered the world looking for cracks to slip through. "Slipping through" was actually a pastime of ours. We were looking for the exit. Various guides and side-alongs were there, were not there. None of the cracks were permanent and the membrane always pulled us back in.
We got tired, friends got hurt, the Mondays-to-Fridays began to crush with a terrible pressure. Imagination became something to leash and feed. Life is more stable now and there aren't so many black days, but I miss the thrill of the possibility of the One Wardrobe.
On the plus side, I am less susceptible to charlatans like Hal Lindsey, Mike Warnke, and Jack Van Impe, each of whom actually had an influence on my early thinking, to my profound current embarrassment. I was brought up Baptist, a grayish lukewarm people who never took a risk or a stand beyond that of the average upper middle class conservative taxpayer, was educated in a Catholic private school from grades one through seven, and was born with a physical requirement for powerful stories. Small wonder I was a strange and restless little boy with a curious credo. Revelations was my favourite book of the Bible, and by extension, anything written by mountebanks who shouted up the Dragon sweeping a third of the stars from the sky, an earth which perishes in fire and blood, seals, trumpets, and all the rest. Holy cats, it's terrifically exciting to believe that stuff. I get an incredible charge out of fiction, which says "hey, let's imagine," but how much more electrifying is the fantastic which is also the actually real. It's like imagination crack.
Not so many years ago when we were still simpatico, we wandered the world looking for cracks to slip through. "Slipping through" was actually a pastime of ours. We were looking for the exit. Various guides and side-alongs were there, were not there. None of the cracks were permanent and the membrane always pulled us back in.
We got tired, friends got hurt, the Mondays-to-Fridays began to crush with a terrible pressure. Imagination became something to leash and feed. Life is more stable now and there aren't so many black days, but I miss the thrill of the possibility of the One Wardrobe.
On the plus side, I am less susceptible to charlatans like Hal Lindsey, Mike Warnke, and Jack Van Impe, each of whom actually had an influence on my early thinking, to my profound current embarrassment. I was brought up Baptist, a grayish lukewarm people who never took a risk or a stand beyond that of the average upper middle class conservative taxpayer, was educated in a Catholic private school from grades one through seven, and was born with a physical requirement for powerful stories. Small wonder I was a strange and restless little boy with a curious credo. Revelations was my favourite book of the Bible, and by extension, anything written by mountebanks who shouted up the Dragon sweeping a third of the stars from the sky, an earth which perishes in fire and blood, seals, trumpets, and all the rest. Holy cats, it's terrifically exciting to believe that stuff. I get an incredible charge out of fiction, which says "hey, let's imagine," but how much more electrifying is the fantastic which is also the actually real. It's like imagination crack.
There's nothing more powerful than the knowledge that the cosmos of sensory input will vanish away like mist, that every small detail is part of the Big Plan, and that every choice made in the physical realm has eternal repercussions in the spiritual.
"Choose you this day whom you will serve" - Joshua
"You gotta serve somebody" - Dylan