1 superbowl, groundhogs day, valentines day and ash wednesday later....

(taken from text messages)


Jan 18-  

Silas: Going to Haiti

Me:    dude no way, ive been searching for orginazations to go, who you going with? im jealous man you get to help.

Silas: with a group from old church. theyre redcross or habitat for humanity?

Me:    sweet man for how long?

Silas:  Friday for a month

Me:    dude i wish i could go, is there anything i can do to help?

Silas:  Save money to go

Me:    are there not a lot of people going?

Silas:  yeah biggest need is 7 people to care enough to go

Me:    (cant remember, something about the complacency of americans and the apathetic attitude some of america's churches)

Silas:   Almost cant blame the people. this world made life all about number one. gotta bust tradition.

Me:     (i say something in agreement)

Silas:   yeah it's bad


(silas called me day before he got on plane, couldn't talk much since i was about to go into archaeology class)

             19 Days Later....february 17th


Me:     bro youre going to be released!! Yeehaw! you got to tell me how hardcore a haitian jail is dude!

Silas:   haha hey man. yeah ive got some good stories. see you soon.

Me:     SILAS! no kidding dude. call me when you get a chance! check your facebook wall dude! im coming home this weekend if you guys come back. so crazy dude so crazy.

february 18th 12:00-12:39 am idaho time....

Silas called. we had a good talk. turns out, cannibalism and "card games" are quite common in a haitian jail.
and i quote silas " its never too early to start haitian jail cell jokes"
so let the jokes begin...

good to have you back buddy.

jordman

Let My People Go.

 When the waters came we were sitting,

On your dry front porch,

Watching the remaining embers of the greedy fire-swept city,

Die away;

The columns of smoke turned white as the poisonous, salty, and chilling tide blanketed the coals of what use to be a bright and busy boardwalk,

Full of blissful people;

Our view from your faithful home,

Perched atop the capitalized mountain of melted houses now dressed in gray,

Was perfect;

We could soak it in, the reality of what was coming,

Everything,

Even the crisp cutting cry of the ocean bending and breaking the iron arms of the baseball stadium hit our home.

And there we sat,

You on your piano bench, gently, like a mother,

Softly caressing the ivory keys of that poor puling piano,

While my callused fingers bled emotion through the heartstrings of my frowning guitar;

And you sang!

Oh your sweet liberated vocal chords announced to the earth,

That we were all that was left.

And your voice guided the waters to us,

Giving birth, like a virgin, to our own Nile River;

And when it cradled the wail of an abandoned infant in a 4000 year old woven basket to our port,

You smiled,

And waded through the polluted muddy water,

Past the sailing washing machines and anchored minivans,

To the middle of our dead and silent street,

Where the Egyptian package met you;

And as you spread your arms out to catch the floating treasure,

The wind blew through your wingspan,

Up to your pitch-black star bright hair,

And brushed it out of your green eyes,

Revealing the smile you were hiding;

The smile I had never seen before,

A smile that assured me,

Everything was gone,

But not to worry, we wouldn’t be left behind,

Soon, we’d be gone.

So you opened the dull brown basket,

Your pale skinny fingers almost snapping under the weight, but had enough strength,

No more,

No less,

And out shot a hand, stolen of its staff,

A small wrinkly hand, amidst the blowing ash and calm water.

It took hold of your finger,

Like a child does a balloon,

A yellow one;

And your smile grew faint,

While you tucked in this infant,

This lost cause,

This baby moses;

You wrapped him in swaddling clothes,

The ocean mist perfumed him with frankincense and myrrh,

And you let your draped hair cover your tired face as your back bent to kiss our baby moses on the forehead;

Such a brave kiss!

Quick and painless, without hesitation,

And you made sure he was snug and warm,

And replaced and secured the intricate woven dome of the wicker basket over him;

Then you pushed him away from his yellow balloon,

Into the rising waters,

Just like Yocheved must’ve done.

And you turned,

Without a cowardly second glance back at the biblical baby;

And you waded; waste deep, back to our musical messengers and me,

And there we sat,

Sending musical messages from that dim front porch;

Even as the waters came,

To the level of your accepting keys;

Even as the waters came,

To the level of our necks and washed against the ash that caked our empty faces and aged us through the years until our hair,

Was as thin and white as Abraham’s;

Even as we took deep deep breathes,

In the cold jealous water,

It came.

And there we sat,

On your wet front porch, letting go to all we ever thought we knew;

Providing the elevator music to whichever direction we were headed,

Up or Down.

for the believers no proof is necessary and for the doubters no proof is possible…

“No problem can be solved from the same level of consciousness that created it.” Albert Einstein

http://www.brainwaving.com/2010/01/20/is-the-us-government-covering-up-the-truth-about-ufos/

Vocables

Today was a slow day,
not slow-core but slow shoes,
and not shoe-gazin' but hazy daydreamin'.
today was postponed but i was not alone,
and the lonely guitars screamed, but,
it was not screamo,
the vibrations commanded the rocks to sing out in his name,
but the pedals pushed out a post-rock praise and revealed a silent shame.

Today was the same as yesterday was tomorrow,
cause the melody will never change,
for it is a spiritual magic marker,
a permanent press, an inhalant imprint on the solvent soul,
an irreversible aspiration of brain cells disappearin'
from the consensual.

From the normal heart beat beat beat level of consciousness,
every beat beat beat is an essential part to human existence.
the sole of our bare tribal muddy feet will try to tap it out,
it will go and go and go and go until you've
Painted your Face with Fruity Flesh and Feather Paste
and joined the natives dancing ritual.
it will stomp and clap, scat and rap, it will mumble and hum,
it will become,
an overtone song, a throat chanting mantra,
it will never be done.

Because everyday is all that was which is,
a shaman's journey through a DMT accessed dimensional bliss.
a wave of sound, trough to crest, that reconnects every tribesman and tribeswoman,
to the whole,
we all share the same soul.
lost in our physical food, our material jail cell,
our minds are robbed of bail, and our bodies accept what society sells,
our malnourished bodies accept that hell.

We are not transcendent beings, no,
we have forgotten,
we accept only what we think we can control,
but this is not reality,
we have forgotten,
that we are all musical.

Jordman