those sunday mornings

I went to church this morning, for the 2nd time in 3 weeks. This is rather monumental for me, being that Chesapeake is a spiritual void that is filled with spectacular kitsch houses of (pat roberston) worship. (How's that for making a generalization!) This church has a young southern preacher, and he doesn't embody the typical worship leader disease--the absence of genuine understanding, so that is refreshing. I was also reminded of where my strong distaste for worship music comes from. I am convinced that CCM is a consequence Satan's roaming brilliance and success in infiltrating and employing his Wormwood like tactics into suburban churches. I say that with a hint of humor. Anyway, it was good sermon based around Matthew 7:13-14, which is a verse I've been hearing since I was an infant Christian, and today offered no new meaning. I have by now realized and been a victim of the Afghanistan like terrain one ventures into when deciding to become a christian, and each person steps into their own nightmare of truth. The sanctuary reeked of soccer mom perfume and adolescent cologne, and I simply reeked. It was a comforting morning despite my mind's inevitable critiques, they are only that--hyper analytical critiques. I'm left to my silent house today, no TV, no Entourage tonight. I'm listening to the Get Up Kids on my record player while barely watching football on mute. An old bottle of stale wine to my left and packaged flavored "college" pasta in a green Target bowl to my right. My desk is too small, and I do not have enough storage space in my room. A friend sent me some pictures and a small piece of paper she made with onion skin and whatever other organic gems are required to create the canvas for her words or imaginations, hallucinations or intoxicated musings (the most valuable kind). It has one single sentence, "I met a cat one night, her face half black and half calico."

"God, if you can hear, can you help me and my friends?
We've been driving all night into dead ends.
We just wanna find our own way home again.
We knew you as kids but lost you in smokey bars.
We lost you in the boom of lowered cars -
in parties that grew into the yard
God, if you can hear, as the sun is creeping down,
Could you kindly point me right out of town?
Honestly I'm sick and tired of falling down.
We knew you'd be here in the fray of darkest nights,
and the sad and holy glow of tv light,
in the blood and the bruise of back-alley fights.
So we're totally deprived,
buried alive
I couldn't help myself to save my life
Totally deprived
Buried alive
I couldn't help myself to save my life
Totally deprived"

(238 was good)