A Vision of Communion, Part 1

Allow yourself to imagine…

You’re entering into the main hallway of an enormous palace.  You’re walking on a red carpet, looking up at the 40ft. ceilings.  On the walls beside you are ornate decorations, paintings, fixtures, and sculptures.  You are led around the corner into the Great Room, and it’s a massive space; marble columns, gold furnishings, hanging tapestries, and an atmosphere that is too vast to even allow an echo.  On the opposite side of the room, almost too far to see clearly, sit a King and Queen in thrones built for giants;  dark mahogany wood and deep velvety cushions.  You are expected to approach the King and Queen, but the nearer you draw, the more difficult it is to move your legs!  “I have no business in the presence of a King and Queen,” you think. “I am but a pauper.  I don’t even deserve to be in this room!”

But that’s not how it goes, is it?

Lord I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof….

Now, imagine your house.  Your shack.  Outside the castle walls, it is raining lightly, and has been for weeks.  The mud is thick and smells awful.  There are cracks in between your door and roof, between your roof and walls.  A draft blows through them and threatens to put out the meager fire heating up a pot of water and chicken bones.  Your children, God bless them, are quietly playing in the corner, patiently awaiting their supper of broth and bread.

There’s a murmur outside.  Over the pitter-pat of rain on your shack’s tin roof, you can hear people calling and remarking.  What is all this commotion?  It’s getting louder and closer.  Then, a knock on your door!  The door is opened and standing in the doorway is one of the royal guards.  He steps aside and just behind him, in mud up to their silk socks, stand the King and Queen!  Their long robes, red, gold, purple, and indigo, their shiny jewels, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds, even the full color of their own skin, all stand out against the gray and sunken backdrop of your front entrance.  “The King and Queen plan on coming in?!” you think.  “To my ugly shack??  But.. but.. we haven’t cleaned! We barely have any food to offer! The roof may not even be tall enough for them to enter!”  Yet the King and Queen duck their heads through the doorway and come inside.  You and your spouse drop to your knees, but the King and Queen take your hands and rise you up.  They are smiling, looking into your eyes like.. like they know you.  Like… they love you…

How incredible is it that God comes to us rather than waiting for us to come to him?  In our lowliness, poverty, and dirt, God still meets us where we are and lovingly calls us to a better life. God will stand in the rain and stinking mud for us.  And don’t think that God ‘can’t smell’ the stinking mud in this analogy.  His nose smells better than yours and mine and to patiently wait for us in it is no small feat.  God is knocking at our flimsy, tin door, and inviting us to feast with Him in his palace.  All we need to do is allow Him into our lives and follow Him to Salvation…

Next time…

Leaving the shack and trudging through the mud is much easier said than done.  Boots gets stuck and yanked off.  It smells. You get tired.  You slip. You look back and think how easily you could slide back down the hill right into and through the front door of your shack…

Also…

“Yeah, but I didn’t ask for this.  I didn’t ask for you to stand in the mud for me!  I’m fine- just leave me alone.  I like my dirt.  What would you know anyway?- you live in a golden palace!”

…to be continued…

What Cross Do I Bear?

I have not been practicing what I believe in.  I have been giving in to the temptation of lust at the slightest distraction, not allowing God to help me through prayer, and yet still preaching and pretending to understand chastity.  I have become a slave to my desires.  God, please forgive me, I am a wretch.  My confessions have been not much more than dogma, my prayers a chore until an acceptable amount of time has passed.  I am filled with pride, Lord, cut me down.  The Devil has become my good friend; offering ephemeral entertainment and pleasure whenever I am still.

            Tony Robbins talks about the first step in change and taking control is being honest with the reality of your current situation.  Here is my honest reality: I have been a spineless worm, a fluttering leaf in the wind, a man with no substance.  (I can hear a friendly voice saying, “you’re being too hard on yourself…” as I write these lines now)  It is true, I have not held tight to my Rock of Truth.  How can anyone be confident in the everyday decisions they make if the person is not first tethered to a Steadfast Source.  My unmoving Mover, I want to come back to You.  In my days, I encounter small distractions, temptations, frustrations, and boredom, and my good friend The Devil knows just how to convert these into sin for me.  Of course Christ is there with open arms saying, “But these are lies!  Look at these distractions, temptations, frustrations, and boredom in the Light of Truth, in the Glory and Love of My Plan”.  Lord, you are too kind and gentle for a blockhead like me to heed sometimes!  Let your love be like a thorn in my shoe, Lord God. 

What cross do I bear?  What battle do I fight?  Modern man is a pampered and privileged creature and there is little we need to do in order to maintain our role as ‘men’ in society.  Yet how I fail even still.  I can continue on, but without You God, where am I really going?  There may be small graces in my days, but when I finally cry out to you in desperation, I may then be too far away from You to get any instantaneous response.  Oh Lord, my words and thoughts of You can be as fluffy and poetic as a cloud, but The Devil seems to place much more tangible ‘goals’ in my view: a pair of tight jeans, a whiff of sweet smoke, an endless sea of mindless YouTube…

It is time for us to kill this whispering Lizard (see "The Great Divorce" by C.S.Lewis).  I have allowed him to grow quite large, Lord, and suspect that the strength required for its fatal blow may also graze me.  It may even maim me.  I tell you this now, Lord: I am ready.  Kill it.  If I get hurt in the process, let me rest in the faith of Your Undying Love for me.

            I am a man. I am a man made in God’s image, a disciple of Jesus Christ.  I stand for and will fight for my beliefs.  I acknowledge that I am weak and easily persuaded to stray from my beliefs and will therefore be all the more alert of even the beginnings of temptations.  I will devote myself wholeheartedly to God through powerful prayer.  I will research how lustful temptations work on people to better understand my Enemy.  I will think about this battle of will and faith as an actual war.  I am a soldier, currently soft and green, but eager for training.  I have the tools and the Teacher to succeed.  There will be times when it will hurt and I will suffer.  These are the times that I will prove my manhood. God, this is when I will need your armor and I will trust that you will carry me through the night.  When The Devil tells me he’s got a good idea, this will be my battleground and my finest hour!

MassMouth Story Slam, "Serendipity" Alex Johnson @Doyle's Cafe Nov 10, 2013

Thanks to Danielle's inspiration and push, I got up behind the mic and told a story for the first time!  And I did alright:  Tied for first place (finished in 2nd), and won the Audience Vote!

Phoenix Oak

Red leaves turning out my window,

have been my friend,

my hourglass,

my reflection,

my beauty,

a vision of imminent death,

and my hope of renewal.

Lobster mini-season

Every year in the Florida Keys, there is a lobstering ‘mini-season’.  For a 3 day window, fisherman are able to catch lobsters about a month before the full season opens up.  I was in high school, and my friends Doug and Joel asked if I wanted to go with them.  I said of course, it sounded awesome!  What I found out was that Florida lobsters do not have claws like Maine lobsters we’re accustomed to seeing.  Florida lobsters are very spiny and don’t have big claws, but the tail meat is still just as delicious.

So, we woke up early on Saturday morning, hopped in the truck, and drove down to the Keys, getting there by about 8am.  After trying a few different spots, we found that either we didn’t know the best places to go, or that all of the spots had already been ‘fished out’.  You see, as the ‘mini-season’ began on ‘Saturday’, the hardcore fishermen would actually begin fishing at midnight!  With flashlights, you’re able to shine the light underwater to catch the reflection of the lobster’s eyes.

After trying a spot without having any luck, we’d hop in the truck and drive a few miles to another spot and get in the water.  It wasn’t until about the 3^rd or 4^th try that we actually started catching lobsters.  While snorkeling, you’re able to find a lobster underwater, shoo him out from under the rock, and catch him in your mesh bag or just in your gloved hands.  After catching a lobster, Doug and Joel showed me ‘the proper technique’ to twist the body and the tail in separate directions, separating the two in a horrible kind of ‘Indian burn’.  They told me to keep the tail and leave the body in the sand.  It was pretty gross.  We ended up catching 4 lobsters.

It’s important to mention that when you go lobstering, there’s a few laws that you need to follow.  First, you need to have a buoy.  As you’re snorkeling around in the ocean, the law requires you to have a bright orange buoy floating above you so that boats don’t run you over.  Next, you are required to have a license.  Just like fishing, you need to be registered through the state to have a permit to catch lobsters.  Finally, the lobsters you catch need to be over a minimum size if you want to keep them.  If they are too small/young, it is illegal to kill them. 

So, after we caught our 4 lobsters, we were walking back to the parked truck.  I didn’t see the state ranger until very late.  Luckily Joel and Doug saw him soon after we got out of the water and somehow managed to hide the tails in the fins and masks.  When we got to the truck a Florida Marine and Wildlife State Patrol officer was waiting for us. 

“Hey guys.  I didn’t see a buoy out there.  Where’s your buoy?”

“Uh, we don’t have a buoy.”

“No buoy? Ok, let’s see your permits”

“We don’t have permits either”

“No buoy or permits?!  So what did you catch?”

I forget whether he searched our stuff, or if my friends offered him the evidence, but he ended up with only 1 of our 4 tails.  He measured the tail and it was just under legal size.

“Guys, this lobster was too young to catch.  Paired with not having a buoy or permit, you’re looking at about a $10,000 fine.”

I gulped.  He continued.

“So who caught it?”

All three of us balked and turned into a Three Stooges act. 

“Uh, I think you caught it, right Joel?”
“No, I think Johnson caught it, right?”
“I didn’t catch it, I thought it was Doug!”

“Well come on.  If you only caught one lobster, who caught it?" the officer said.  "All three of you didn’t put your hands on it at the same time, did you?”

The officer took down our names, and told us to go home.  We weren’t sure what that meant for us in the future, but for the moment we were free and had three delicious lobster tails to barbeque for dinner.

That Monday afternoon I walked into the trainers office to have my ankle taped before after-school practice. 

“Hey Alex, there was a state trooper in here earlier looking for you”  Will the trainer said.

“What?!”

“Yeah, he was asking around saying something about a lobstering incident and a felony with a warrant out for your arrest??  Holy shit, what did you do this weekend?”

At this point I was shitting my pants.  How would I explain this to my parents?  I started to reel and swiveled towards the door.  Then, through the window, I could see both Joel and Doug watching the scene inside unfold, laughing their asses off.  I saw them and then looked back at Will.

“Sorry man- they put me up to it”.

I almost puked.

Goodbye Philly, I'll miss you a ton!!

With plans to move back to Boston this September, I'll have lived in Philly for two and half years.  It's been a fantastic two and half years, I must say.   I was thoroughly surprised with how much I enjoyed this city, and tending bar at FWOT.  In no particular order, here are some highlights and best memories of my time in the City of Brotherly Love...

Night prayer with Tall Pete

This was the first time I ever lived in a ‘Catholic’ household, and I loved it.  It was such a blessing to be able to talk to your roommate about theological questions, reflect upon the season or mass readings, and even do night prayer every now and then.  I had only previously done night prayer with the men’s group in Boston, and really enjoyed it, so I was pumped when Pete started asking me if I wanted to join him. 

Weirdos in Rittenhouse Square

Rittenhouse Square is such a fun park!  Although it’s surrounded by some of the most expensive real estate in Philly, the park has an eclectic mix of people.  There are groups doing yoga, public dance lessons, and breakdance team practices.  I’ve seen a guy yelling a sermon into a tape recorder, a lady reading a book topless, an incredible beatboxer, dueling trumpets and dueling hula-hoopers.  It seems that every other person in the park has a dog too, so it’s a good spot for both dog and people watching.

Rittenhouse library

How lucky/blessed was I that the library closest to me had an entire floor dedicated to children’s books?!

Noodle gym

The first Philly apartment I lived in had a basement with 6ft. ceilings with rafters hanging down another foot. I was determined to put my workout equipment down there nonetheless.  After chipping away at uneven concrete, and then filling in any dents, I had a decent floor to place all the equipment.  The problem however was that if you weren’t always paying attention, you would slam your head into the rafters.  I tried to solve this problem by gluing and taping foam pool noodles to the undersides of the rafters.  The result was something that looked like an 80’s aerobics studio vs. dungeon basement gymrat lair…

Meeting Ace

The guy at the bus-stop with the weird sneeze actually ended up being a really interesting guy and eventually a friend. 

Tuna fishing with Dimitry

Ranstead Room with Danielle

A dirty, dark back alley has a plain, old door with only a small ‘RR’ on it.  If you go in, you’ll find yourself in the super-posh waiting room of an even shnazzier Speakeasy-style bar and lounge.  Drinks were made with alcohols you’ve never heard of and the bartenders were exact in everything they did.  I only went there once, and I’m afraid to ruin the memory with a potentially mediocre second time!

Chris' Jazz with Danielle

Sexy date night!

Hipster bars

Resurrection, Ranstead Room, Devil’s Den, Sidecar, Devil’s Alley, Franklin Mortgage, Hawthorne’s…

Motorcycle, hot rod, and foodie talks with Rocco

Rejected marriage proposal

see http://ajbloggeroni.blogspot.com/2011/03/st-pattys-day-at-fwot-last-night.html

North Bowl bday

What a ‘scene’ that place has!

The Hives concert with Steve (tix bought by Danielle)

Great show!  Thanks Danielle!

Learning how to use urban landscape as gym equipment

Writers group and SCBWI

Pool hustling, horse racing, and gambling at FWOT

‘Hustling’ may be a strong term as I really didn’t win enough to claim that I was hustling… But it was a blast playing pool for dough, especially on the slow days!  With live horse racing on even in the slowest of summer days, there was always something to bet on.  I believe I still have an open wager that NASCAR drivers (specifically B. Keselowski) have personal trainers..

Drawing prompts with Skye

Vad the cabbie

St. Ritas Shrine

What a blessing!

Reverting back to a flip phone

The Verizon lady did a double-take when I told her I wanted to go from my Droid ‘back’ to a old school flip phone! 

Poker nights at FWOT

It’s not so much that these were a ‘highlight’, but more ‘memorable’ due to the characters that would show up every week for free poker.  

The birth of a sandwich

A long time ago, 80 years to be exact, there was a hot dog vendor.  He sold hot dogs in the streets of Philadelphia.  One morning before leaving for work, he decided to pack himself a piece of steak for lunch.  He planned on cooking the steak on his hot dog grill.  That afternoon during the lunch rush, one of the customers saw the steak on the side of the grill.  He said, “I’d like that steak, please.”  The hot dog vendor said, “Oh, I’m sorry.  The steak is not for sale.  I was going to eat it for my own lunch.”  To which the customer replied, “Well, I want that steak, or I won’t even buy a hotdog!”  The vendor thought about this for a minute and finally agreed to sell the man the piece of steak.  So, he cooked the steak on the grill.  When it was cooked, he chopped the steak up into small bits and put them into a hot dog bun.  This was the world’s first Philadelphia Cheesesteak!  (The cheese came later, of course).  That hot dog vendor’s name was Pat.  Pat brought a steak with him the next day, and the same thing happened!  A new customer demanded the steak!  So, once again, Pat cooked the steak on his hot dog grill, chopped it up, and put it in a hot dog bun.  The next day, Pat brought two pieces of steak and they both sold!  Pretty soon, Pat became known for his special steaks!  The lines in front of his hot dog cart became longer and longer.  Pat quickly realized he had found something BIG.  With enough money saved, he opened up his store, ‘Pat’s KING of Steaks’.  Business was booming!  What started as a small hot dog stand became a business that gave the city of Philadelphia a signature sandwich.

"Legends..." reflection, 1/13/10

I just watched Legends of the Fall,
and I associate with the character of Tristin.
I, too, feel a wild bear or beast burning inside me.
He had unquenched issues that he quietly carried everywhere.
But deep down, there was a wild madness that,
despite his desire to love Susanna,
forced him to retreat.
Not her fault he had a bear's voice in his head.
He had to go away and deal with his anger, fear, passion,
and urge to live so much he could taste Death plainly.
And after he quieted this voice,
he was able to return.
But she had moved on.  On paper.
She still loved him.
"He was a rock that everyone broke themselves against."
Except for Isabel Two.
Somehow, she could see into his soul,
and his soul did not run with the bear's voice when she did.
She was quiet, peaceful, natural, and deep.  Beautiful.
I almost cried when...
-well actually multiple times (hey- it's a great movie!)-

I know that feeling and far off look Tristin has in the 'hot tub' with Susanna.
I don't don't care for politics and much of the concerns outside my 'ranch'.
He asks, "Am I and the people around me damned?"
Does he ever find peace?

Finding Eden, intro

He stands below moss covered roots, rising up from the ground, some as big as cars.  Looking up the hill of the forest, he is silent.  Still.  Hunting.
The peyote had caused him to vomit for an hour or so, but he viewed the sickness as an expungance of innocence and ignorance.  The end of a life provided by, the beginning of a life provided for.  Colors enriched, sounds acute.  He would become an animal here.

Finding Eden, excerpt

I’d like to track down an animal.  A boar.  I’d like to study it in the wild while I eat nuts, fruits, and fish.  Shitting liquid, swatting bugs, staring at the moon like it was a blazing sun in my sleep-deprived, hunger-driven eyes.  My tanned skin has hardened into scales over sinew muscles.  I’d like to lash a knife to the end of a long stick.  It’s a stick that’s actually already saved my life.  Not because I had needed it to defend myself or to hunt in the past.  No, this stick was the only stick I’ve found straight enough to be strong.  There’s no use in curved and crooked sticks except for firewood.  With hope and resources at an all-time low, it was upon finding this stick that I am revived.  I don’t know that there is, in fact, a boar in the forest nearby, but I’ve seen dung larger than deer's  and occasionally heard rustling in the bush loud enough to be bigger than any squirrels at play.  I am hungry.  I am thirsty.  And most of all, I am scared.  Yet my body has taken on a twitch and strength I have never known.  I’d like to be able to find a spot in which I could overlook my scene and watch for the boar.  It eats plants over here and drinks at that pool in the afternoon.  I’ve tried sneaking up behind it but it can either hear or smell me, or both.  I can’t get within 30 yards of my prey.  Much too far away to throw a javelin.  I would look at my makeshift spear and snap it over my knee.  Fuck you, stick! What good can you bring?!  Now, holding the knife alone, I can feel it’s murderous power.  If I could make the animal come to me, I might be able to…

I’d like to set up walls somehow in the forest, to lure the boar down a specific path.  What would I make them out of?  No, that would be too much work.  No, let me collect a bounty of the things the boar likes to eat and pile them under a tree that is easy to climb.  What of my human smell though?  I would cover myself in mud.  Like Schwarzenneger in Predator, I would think with a humored raise of an eyebrow and wild fold of an eyelid.  I would sit on the branch above the pile and wait.

I think my muscles would get so stiff!  I would be drifting in and out of sleep after waiting for hours.  I am the most excited and the most terrified I’ve ever been at the same time.  Boars are not small or gentle animals.  If I jumped on it’s back, my thrust would need to be unwavering and pinpoint.  What if it stood at an angle that would be difficult for me to fall on?  What if I needed to shift my body before I jumped and the sound of my shifting caused the animal to run?  What if I bury my knife into its neck bone and the animal does not die?  Would I try to contain the wounded beast and most likely get a hoof or tusk embedded somewhere into my own body?  Maybe I’d just try to track the blood droplets until I came upon a heaving boar, lying on its side, ready to die.  I would pull the knife out of it’s neck and it would scream and writhe in its own blood.  I am scared to stab it again, lest it gain energy and go off running again.  Its eyes are rolling and both drool and blood are spilling from the mouth.  I conclude that a hunter does not allow its prey to bleed out in front of him.  Where should I make the kill shot?  Through its eye socket?  I wince at the thought.  Should I try to jam the knife through its skull?  Is that even possible?  Maybe I could try to widen the neck wound or even slit its throat?  No, I felt how thick a boars skin and fur are on my first kill attempt, and it doesn’t seem like slicing would be an effective method.  I think back to my Cutco knives and wonder how their patented ‘Double-D’ edge would fair against boar’s fur…  You know what would be good is some spiked brass knuckles!  I look down at my hunting knife and wish it also had knuckles and spikes.  No such luck.  The ear!  That’s it!  I wince again and swallow down the bile of what would may have been a reflexive vomit.  I stand over the animal, near dead already anyway.  My right hand is covered in sweat, blood, and boar’s drool, but the tendons popping from under my skin tell me that my grip on the knife has never been tighter.  Do it.  CRUSH. The animal’s spine arches and contorts.  I twist the knife inside its ear and skull.  It grinds like the clatter of an unsolved Rubik’s Cube and the animal haggles out its last wet breath.  I vomit before I can look away.

Skinning the boar takes hours.  It does not come off in one long sheet as I had hoped.  Maybe more seasoned hunters are able to make this a seamless process, but for me, it is agonizing.  The animal looks disgusting, and only my hunger keeps me from hating it.  “Swine”.  It sounds like a curse word in my head. 

It is sundown.  I’d like to have a controlled fire and even have a makeshift spit over it.  The animal has been prepared, but I’m constantly swatting flies away from it.  I swat more out of a sense of pride than of food safety.  Fuck- there’s no way my little spit will be strong enough to hold this entire animal.  I am starving.  My stomach had wretched out any and all traces of food during the skinning process, and it ceased to feel twisted; Now, it burned with its own acid eating away at my malnourished and ill-equipped body armor.  I grip the flesh of one of the boars thighs and saw off the entire leg.  I am angry and defiant, weak and crazed.  Dropping the leg on top of its own body’s carcass, I find half of my straight stick and carve one end into a long thin point.  The animal is well past dead, but I jam the spear through the leg like I had to kill it all over again.  Right into the fire.  I stand with my arm outstretched because my face burns from the heat.  My hand is burning too.  I need to find a better way to keep this over the flame.  Two rocks are perfect.  Leaning the spear against one rock, the meat hangs just above the flames and I am able to sit another rock on the bottom to keep everything in place.  The meat sizzles and pops.  It sweats a thousand times more indulging than a Boston Market rotisserie and propels me into a maniacal dance around the fire.  Maybe it’s in celebration?  Maybe it’s to ward off any predators that may come and try to steal my cooking feast?  Maybe I’ve actually gone mad?  How long do I dance? 

I pull the stick out from the two stones and nearly drop it into the fire, burning my hand even on the bottom of it.  Two massive leaves wrapped around the pole like ‘hot hands’ hanging on a kitchen hook.  I dip the handle end of the stick into the shallow water to cool it, but the meat is still smoking and sizzling.  My brain does not register that this means it is too hot for me to consume and I inhale as deep as I can, “BOAR S’MORES, BITCH!” and dive into the meat.  My mouth scalds and the meat does not tear easily.  I scream but won’t let go.  My lips liquefy into molten flesh-goo.  A slab tears off and touches my cheek bringing tears.  I swallow after half a bite and my throat seems to seal up behind the lava I’ve forced down it.  I think this would be the only sensation that keeps my mind from believing it can regurgitate the meat.  A primal roar comes out of my chest, through my burned esophagus, and out of my upturned and open mouth, reaching the moon itself.  The forest quivers.  The animals hide.  The waters recede and the wind moves in my direction.  I am Man.