>Disambiguation

>I am sitting in my chair in a towel, because I am waiting to get a shower until the clothes in the dryer are done tumbling so that when I am done they will be warm and dry and ready to cover my cold skin.

I bought a cd today too. It is a departure from my musical tastes of late (meaning primarily that it is not Lovedrug), and I welcome the departure of style if anything just because it is new material and it is a switch and a temporary break from the monotony that has become my minutes, hours, days, weeks. It is scary how fitting the title of this album "Disambiguation" is.

I perhaps do my topic disservice by restricting it with that "my" above, because I think I meant to address a broader audience than just my busy self.

Go to school for 20 years. Get a job. Do not live on the street. Walk on the sidewalk. Make enough money to eat. Give the rest of it to the establishment created by us. For us. That has forgotten about us. Complain about something and then realize how pointless complaining about that thing is, because it's done and you can't change it. Fall in love. Create. Recreate. Retire or die. Now repeat after me: I am free.

I think that the most compelling evidence for the existence of God to somebody who is in search of it is the system in which we are trapped. The little box of earthly, physical existence. Rich or poor, old or young, we are in chains, and I dare you to find somebody who would disagree with that. We are enslaved to time and to desire and to passion and to lust and to love and to sin. Each and every one of us. But just like there can be no dark without light to be the contrary, no rich without poor to be the opposite, no high without low to compare, the mere fact that we are enslaved means that there exists freedom.

But, since there is nothing earthly that we can do to break free of these chains, that means that there has to be a spiritual key to the locks. It must exist outside of time, because if it existed within time, it would eventually decay or rot or turn to dust. It must have no beginning because that would mean it would have an end. If all we know is the here and now, there must be an unhere and an unnow.

This is nothing new. Solomon knew it: "Vanity of Vanities! All is vanity!" "What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done, and there is nothing new under the sun." Since the literal dawn of time the disconnect between us and God has been both the proof of God and the burden on His heart. Because the presence of the physical means the presence of the non-physical, or else physical would be nothing. It would have no alternative. And we know that this disconnect is the burden of God's heart because of the lengths He went to restore it. We live among sin. He dwells among perfection.

Beauty is not beauty without un-beauty. Pain isn't pain without pleasure.

So with all of this said, the part about God I mean, it should be no surprise to us that without Him life would be rather miserable. Without the assurance that there IS beyond this, I cannot fathom the shattering hopelessness that would accompany our steps. They would only see the horrid pattern described above. School.Job.Family.Kids.Love.Loss.Death. and they would feel extraordinarily trapped. Herein is the beauty of my Savior, the Messiah, the promised and received Christ. Because He dwells not inside of this wretched box, but rather His father is the one that holds it. And I can't get outside of it except through His arms...

Don't you see? If it were up to me, the highest I could ever get in the vast span of eternity is how far I can run. Whether you accept it or not, the same principle applies universally: the give and take; the idea behind there being no light without dark permeates literally everything. It has to, because things only mean in juxtaposition. God doesn't need your support to exist. You can deny it all you want but your belief or lack thereof is not what keeps Him around.

Rather it is His existence that keeps your disbelief around.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.

>If At First You Don't Succeed?

>I tried sleeping, but I couldn't.

I laid down at 10:30 and shut my eyes as tightly as I could after watching about 30 minutes of a Ken Burns documentary (one of my new little pleasures), I did the readjust the pillows thing, pulled the blanket snug against my neck, turned to the other side to see if my left cheek was my ticket to the sleep train, got up and checked every deadbolt in the house, closed what doors were open to closets, bathrooms, bedrooms and whatnot, put a dish in the dishwasher, and returned to my bed, thinking maybe this would have settled whatever restlessness was nipping at my skull... but it didn't.
I did some successful staring at the ceiling and tried music and tweeted something about being tired of all of my friends getting married and then attempted to figure out what in the world was on my mind. I then realized that I didn't know what was on my mind.
I tried talking to God about it and although I know He was listening, I felt like the words were bouncing off of the walls and getting back to me with a singsong mockery that caused me to again shift my position in bed from the discomfort. I rotated 180 and put my head in the corner, surrounded by walls, and tried to wedge myself into a comfortable little nook to increase snugness and I tried hugging a pillow and I tried drinking a glass of water and I tried pacing and I tried lighting a candle, but it was burnt down enough that I only succeeded in burning the end of my finger.
So now I'm sitting on my back porch with the slightly chilly Hixson summer air wicking at my skin in my boxers in a little white chair that has a crack in the back of it that doesn't let me recline. I've tried for at least a week to write another blog with some sort of substance, but I can't seem to get past the first couple of sentences. I have under the "edit posts" tab a collection of drafts that started with such promise but ran out of steam far too soon to be considered worthy of public consumption.
I secretly wished I could retreat back to high school with somebody to text me until I fell asleep. I secretly felt the urge to fall asleep with an N64 controller in my hand and the Ocarina of Time still up and running when I woke up, only to find Link walking in circles because of the position I left my thumb in for the past 6 hours. I wanted a heavy downpour to begin and pound upon my window with only the rhythm God could dream up to lull me into a secure cocoon of dry and warm comfort.
I would have even taken some last minute inspiration to scribble into a bedside notebook only to feel the texture of the page underneath the end of my pen which was slowly and calculatedly leaking ink into shapes that represented whatever ideas were swimming beneath my complicated subconscious.
I tried writing some more of this screenplay, but I couldn't.
I tried writing a song but I couldn't.
I tried reading but I couldn't.
I tried sleeping... but I couldn't.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.

>The Road

>The only lamplight at the end of the street

Filters green as the cadence of dream.
And a boy and a girl,
As he smokes and she twirls
Cast shadows that dance in the heat.
There's a moon in the sky that encircles the night
Though it's shy behind clouds filled with rain.
And somewhere the noise
Of the girl and her boy
As they laugh becomes echoes again.
And the woman in her doorway with a peppermint glow
Stands, shaking, and looks at the road.
In a window a flicker, a silhouette bigger
Than the figurines watching the screen.
His arm wrapped around her
His steady heart pounding
With her cheek on his chest, sound asleep.
Somewhere away and across the lane
A jazz singer's timbre sustains
And it cuts through the thickness
And causes homesickness
And transcends the words wrought in vain
But its waning mundanity
And subtle profanity
Is all He can hear or explain.
So he sits without words in the light that is thrown
From a van carrying weary men home
And the woman in the doorway with the peppermint glow
Embraces her man in the road.

Hamilton Barber

The subject of this page is an introverted writer/musician/lunatic from Chattanooga, TN who dabbles in lexical dexterity, unorthodox thoughts on prosperity, and being overwhelmingly undeserving of the privilege of waking up every day. He hopes that everybody who reads these words takes them to heart and leaps higher than he ever could. He reads, thinks, and speaks too much; he listens, works, and loves too little; and he says “I” entirely too often. The words on these pages are not his: they are the words that were given to him.