Fuck karma
What I need is grace
I’ve got no time for this sowing and reaping shit
My addictions to pride, and to feeding my own self-righteous indignation pulls me back
Again and again I not am snared by my own inability, rather my own unwillingness
My life will be far too short to reap all that I’ve sown and still make it out unscathed
I’ve got no excuses
What I need is forgiveness
There’s no reason for my doubting, insubordinate selfish whining and fear
None but my own self-loathing and destruction
I can reason away my resolution of arrogance and the need to bang what I deem to be “truth” over the heads of those around me who think enough of me to care
I cost myself their trust in me, their respect of me, their compassion for me, and their kindness to me
I hope they can be repaid for lasting as long as they have…
So maybe I believe in Karma after all.
So maybe it’s karma AND grace
Oil and water
The two don’t mix but may sometimes share a glass
Maybe what I don’t deserve is to get what I have given
Maybe I’ve done well with a spiteful heart and shouldn’t receive the reward at all
But damnit, I’d love to
Maybe what I have is an ass-load of excuses that I’ll never actually voice ‘cause they’ll instantly disqualify me for the unwarranted mercy that I seek
Maybe my excuses aren’t excuses at all
Maybe they’re my reserves of ammunition in case I ever feel I’m not getting what I need, regardless of whether or not I deserve it
Maybe what I actually need is to get what I deserve
Maybe it’s what I want that’s the problem
Okay, maybe what I want AND what I need.
Maybe what I deserve AND what I desire
Maybe it’s Karma AND grace
Maybe it’s Him…
... AND me.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
On Mr. Primm, and his epic funeral
There’s a sign on the wall that reads as a stern warning to cowboys who feel the temptation to dance on the tables with their spurs on. Apparently, the management of Bill Miller’s Bar B Q would prefer that, if you feel the need to dance, and if that need drives you off of the floor and onto a shuffle atop their furniture, you kindly do so in your socked feet; or at least in boots without the noisy and destructive clanks and scrapes of those heal-mounted ninja stars. It’s Texas country humor. I hate it. I get it, but there’s something about it that I just can’t stand. I’m only here because the bus station is across the street, and I’m on my way home… in one more hour.
I didn’t know how this would feel. I definitely didn’t know how it SHOULD feel. Greg has been ill for years, and after a while it was like he was gone, without all that inconvenience of leaving. It isn’t like he just died. He didn’t. He faded. Like those epic 70’s southern rock ballads that never actually ended, Greg just got softer and softer as the studio engineer slowly slid down the volume on his air supply, until you couldn’t hear it at all. Just the same, it’ll be a while before you can convince yourself that the song’s over. That’s pretty much where the parallel stops, because after Free Bird grows completely silent, Skynard jumps into a new tune, and the album is back to life. Greg’s needle reached the center, and is now securely resting back a safe inch or so away from the vinyl, which is still spinning from shear gravity and momentum, with no motor turning at all.
I told you I don’t know how to feel. I can’t describe it. I can only use metaphors (and simile’s, Mrs. Mary… I know those were similes) to try and capture some of the moments of emotion that I’ve seen and heard in the last two days, and even a few that I’ve managed to actually feel for myself.
The hardest thing to me about someone being ill for an extended time before they pass away is that you have all of this time to work up courage. Only it’s not courage at all, it’s something a great deal closer to fatigue. I am speaking here completely as an outsider, considering my distance from being biologically connected to Greg in any way. Kelly says it was better this way, because she got to say all of the things that she wanted to say. She says that she got to spend time with him, and be strong for him when he needed it. It’s like slowly turning up the volume as the band fades so that you can keep the levels as consistent as possible for those last few bars of the solo. Still, she lost her daddy, no matter how slowly it happened.
She’s beautiful. Karla too. Karla wasn’t my age (and still isn’t, incidentally) so I never got to grow as close to her as I did with Kelly. Also, Karla’s married. She’s tough as nails, and she’s got this husband who, once you get to know him, confirms almost every one of the stereotypes that you’d give to him by his persona. He’d be totally willing to blow up a small country for Karla if he felt the need. He has the kind of face that you easily imagine covered in make-shift camouflage makeup, holding a grenade in one hand, and a picture of a beautiful pair of girls in the other. No one in their right mind would have pissed Karla off when she was younger; now that Troy’s in the picture, it’s just suicide. But in the mean time, Troy just wants to talk about Guns and Roses, and the way his new Harley sounds from his driveway. So, Karla is fine, but not Kelly. She’s not the same.
When my mom called me, she said that Greg had been brought into hospice care, and that they gave him a few days… again. Somehow I knew from her voice that this was it. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say if I wanted to. But mainly, I just didn’t say anything. I heard once that some people speak because they have something to say, and everyone else speaks because they have to say something. I’ve been bouncing around like a pinball somewhere in between those two for the last few days. I can find something to say, and I think I should say something, but neither seems a good enough excuse to speak about something that I honestly can’t express.
With Greg and Mary, it was like this existing organism that was somehow still alive; this bond that was lasting after the separation that our lives’ paths had caused. The highways of progress and development had paved over the fertile and sturdy ground that our relationships had nurtured. Greg was the first to die. He was the first absolute confirmation of the mortality that blankets humanity, and the cold reminder that Liberty Ministries, and the life that it/we/they breathed into so many, was not shield enough to keep us breathing without a heartbeat. When the needle lifts, the record stops. And just like that, after years of sacrificial service to the widows and the fatherless, we are made aware that we have no immunity to wearing those titles ourselves. Greg is dead, Mary is his widow, Kelly and Karla are now fatherless, and all that I can be for them is here. We are a submarine crew on an epic dive, and Greg’s was the first bolt to come loose, as the walls begin to cave in.
Last night felt surreal and slowed down my life so much that, for a while, it seemed to go backwards, but didn’t bother to come to a stop in between. I had almost missed the bus here before the funeral, and I don’t really have a good reason. I knew that I was going to San Antonio, so I got up, and headed for work as usual. And, not completely out of character, I stopped at Starbucks and just worked there until about lunch. It wasn’t until I spoke with my dad on the phone that I realized what time it was, and that I was likely to miss the wake if I didn’t hurry back home and get my bag and my lazy, indecisive butt to the bus station.
After a short trip on the bus, miscommunication on the phone, and a $20 cab fare for a ride to the hotel (which must have been either Hampton’s blueprint experiment franchise or the chain’s embarrassing distant cousin location, considering their insistence in testing the limitations of their customers’ patience for subtle inconsistencies and terrible service) I finally saw my mom and dad, and we went to eat. Red Lobster sucks. Greg hated that word.
Greg Primm was the Principal of the small school that my parent's opened in south Texas, and which I attended (along with Kelly, Karla, and all of my brothers and sisters). One day I was called outside during class hours along with all of the other boys in the school. "Brother Greg" wanted to talk with us. I distinctly remember the cold winter day outside on the playground, and how cool I felt being included with all the older boys for this little discussion. It was classic Greg Primm. He wanted us to stop saying things “sucked”. He said it was a perverted word. He said it was a word that implied gay tendencies. This was around 1986 (so I was about 7). I was lost, but I remember thinking, “Wow, what a great word. Why is it dirty?”
When we got to the funeral home for the wake, I realized how long it had been since I’d seen Kelly, and how weird it was. She doesn’t seem like she could ever lose that sincerely energetic innocence in her laugh and her smile, but she also seemed tired and beaten. Had her father not been lying on padded satin in a wooden box 30 feet away, I’d have wondered who I needed to find and punish for making her feel the pain that her face reflected. Troy could help, I hear he’s good with explosives… or maybe he just looks like he would be.
The weirdest thing wasn’t that she had bad breath, which I noticed as I hugged her, having just stomped out her cigarette, but that I still didn’t want to be more than six inches from her. Like she was drowning and I had just enough air in my lungs for the two of us to make it out alive. I made myself walk inside and say hi to everyone else, but I wanted to pick her up, fold her into a ball, and lock her away from the world for the rest of our lives. She is a butterfly flapping slowly after having landed in glue, and can’t get off the ground alone. I’d be happy to help, but I’m afraid that her wings are too fragile, and I won’t risk breaking them.
Okay, I’m out of metaphors, and I’m only two feet into the funeral home. This is gonna be hard.
Greg died at 3:33 on Friday the 13th.
58 years to the day after breathing air on his own for the first time, he did it for his last. Happy Birthday, Brother Greg.
I didn’t know how this would feel. I definitely didn’t know how it SHOULD feel. Greg has been ill for years, and after a while it was like he was gone, without all that inconvenience of leaving. It isn’t like he just died. He didn’t. He faded. Like those epic 70’s southern rock ballads that never actually ended, Greg just got softer and softer as the studio engineer slowly slid down the volume on his air supply, until you couldn’t hear it at all. Just the same, it’ll be a while before you can convince yourself that the song’s over. That’s pretty much where the parallel stops, because after Free Bird grows completely silent, Skynard jumps into a new tune, and the album is back to life. Greg’s needle reached the center, and is now securely resting back a safe inch or so away from the vinyl, which is still spinning from shear gravity and momentum, with no motor turning at all.
I told you I don’t know how to feel. I can’t describe it. I can only use metaphors (and simile’s, Mrs. Mary… I know those were similes) to try and capture some of the moments of emotion that I’ve seen and heard in the last two days, and even a few that I’ve managed to actually feel for myself.
The hardest thing to me about someone being ill for an extended time before they pass away is that you have all of this time to work up courage. Only it’s not courage at all, it’s something a great deal closer to fatigue. I am speaking here completely as an outsider, considering my distance from being biologically connected to Greg in any way. Kelly says it was better this way, because she got to say all of the things that she wanted to say. She says that she got to spend time with him, and be strong for him when he needed it. It’s like slowly turning up the volume as the band fades so that you can keep the levels as consistent as possible for those last few bars of the solo. Still, she lost her daddy, no matter how slowly it happened.
She’s beautiful. Karla too. Karla wasn’t my age (and still isn’t, incidentally) so I never got to grow as close to her as I did with Kelly. Also, Karla’s married. She’s tough as nails, and she’s got this husband who, once you get to know him, confirms almost every one of the stereotypes that you’d give to him by his persona. He’d be totally willing to blow up a small country for Karla if he felt the need. He has the kind of face that you easily imagine covered in make-shift camouflage makeup, holding a grenade in one hand, and a picture of a beautiful pair of girls in the other. No one in their right mind would have pissed Karla off when she was younger; now that Troy’s in the picture, it’s just suicide. But in the mean time, Troy just wants to talk about Guns and Roses, and the way his new Harley sounds from his driveway. So, Karla is fine, but not Kelly. She’s not the same.
When my mom called me, she said that Greg had been brought into hospice care, and that they gave him a few days… again. Somehow I knew from her voice that this was it. I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say if I wanted to. But mainly, I just didn’t say anything. I heard once that some people speak because they have something to say, and everyone else speaks because they have to say something. I’ve been bouncing around like a pinball somewhere in between those two for the last few days. I can find something to say, and I think I should say something, but neither seems a good enough excuse to speak about something that I honestly can’t express.
With Greg and Mary, it was like this existing organism that was somehow still alive; this bond that was lasting after the separation that our lives’ paths had caused. The highways of progress and development had paved over the fertile and sturdy ground that our relationships had nurtured. Greg was the first to die. He was the first absolute confirmation of the mortality that blankets humanity, and the cold reminder that Liberty Ministries, and the life that it/we/they breathed into so many, was not shield enough to keep us breathing without a heartbeat. When the needle lifts, the record stops. And just like that, after years of sacrificial service to the widows and the fatherless, we are made aware that we have no immunity to wearing those titles ourselves. Greg is dead, Mary is his widow, Kelly and Karla are now fatherless, and all that I can be for them is here. We are a submarine crew on an epic dive, and Greg’s was the first bolt to come loose, as the walls begin to cave in.
Last night felt surreal and slowed down my life so much that, for a while, it seemed to go backwards, but didn’t bother to come to a stop in between. I had almost missed the bus here before the funeral, and I don’t really have a good reason. I knew that I was going to San Antonio, so I got up, and headed for work as usual. And, not completely out of character, I stopped at Starbucks and just worked there until about lunch. It wasn’t until I spoke with my dad on the phone that I realized what time it was, and that I was likely to miss the wake if I didn’t hurry back home and get my bag and my lazy, indecisive butt to the bus station.
After a short trip on the bus, miscommunication on the phone, and a $20 cab fare for a ride to the hotel (which must have been either Hampton’s blueprint experiment franchise or the chain’s embarrassing distant cousin location, considering their insistence in testing the limitations of their customers’ patience for subtle inconsistencies and terrible service) I finally saw my mom and dad, and we went to eat. Red Lobster sucks. Greg hated that word.
Greg Primm was the Principal of the small school that my parent's opened in south Texas, and which I attended (along with Kelly, Karla, and all of my brothers and sisters). One day I was called outside during class hours along with all of the other boys in the school. "Brother Greg" wanted to talk with us. I distinctly remember the cold winter day outside on the playground, and how cool I felt being included with all the older boys for this little discussion. It was classic Greg Primm. He wanted us to stop saying things “sucked”. He said it was a perverted word. He said it was a word that implied gay tendencies. This was around 1986 (so I was about 7). I was lost, but I remember thinking, “Wow, what a great word. Why is it dirty?”
When we got to the funeral home for the wake, I realized how long it had been since I’d seen Kelly, and how weird it was. She doesn’t seem like she could ever lose that sincerely energetic innocence in her laugh and her smile, but she also seemed tired and beaten. Had her father not been lying on padded satin in a wooden box 30 feet away, I’d have wondered who I needed to find and punish for making her feel the pain that her face reflected. Troy could help, I hear he’s good with explosives… or maybe he just looks like he would be.
The weirdest thing wasn’t that she had bad breath, which I noticed as I hugged her, having just stomped out her cigarette, but that I still didn’t want to be more than six inches from her. Like she was drowning and I had just enough air in my lungs for the two of us to make it out alive. I made myself walk inside and say hi to everyone else, but I wanted to pick her up, fold her into a ball, and lock her away from the world for the rest of our lives. She is a butterfly flapping slowly after having landed in glue, and can’t get off the ground alone. I’d be happy to help, but I’m afraid that her wings are too fragile, and I won’t risk breaking them.
Okay, I’m out of metaphors, and I’m only two feet into the funeral home. This is gonna be hard.
Greg died at 3:33 on Friday the 13th.
58 years to the day after breathing air on his own for the first time, he did it for his last. Happy Birthday, Brother Greg.
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