From: eric
Date: Thu May 26 17:49:36 MST 2005
Subject: James is My Joyce

Responses james: whom do you speak of (5/29/05) eric: James Joyce (5/29/05) Responses (sorted by date) eric: James Joyce (5/29/05) james: whom do you speak of (5/29/05) So, when anger become the price we pay for our leftover dreams, we can no longer understand why goals float and desire wane. If only hell was cold and heaven was hot, then those who are evil could find themselves in Antarctica. Image lost – cold and unforgiving - the choice we make to leave our humanness. Life is put together with impatience and anxiety, we run to rescue our victims, emotionless and cold we try to feel, happy and confused, we scream at our Ark God. There is a pretending, an I’m not listen that we practice everyday, and yet, we are listening . . . and we are angry. Angry because someone hurt us, angry at those people who waste our time and make us uncomfortable. Oh, I tell stories to hear myself talk, to feel the past that I have lost. I’m not to concerned about you, well only as a story prop in my existence. Mostly, I . . . we cry and complain . . . when we are feeling something. The pain of life, it comes on us quickly . . . like a big puss bubble bursting out of a un kept wound. We weep. We confess, and then we control. There is an argument going on these days . . . something about hell and who’s going. Or is it what is hell and does it exist in any form? Can one really burn? . . . or is our God image a gift that can be squander to the point of no return? Some say they have the answer . . . they found it in the lake of fire, while others only ask questions and safely claim ignorance. The wall of questions and the ramparts of I don’t knows only force the battle into an uncomfortable postmodern conundrum. Our identities are ours and that’s just how it is. We can do it all. We have no need for a King. A deadly King isn’t what wish to reflect. The poor are always with us and we are poor. Hell is and Heaven isn’t. Grace it does abound. I’m strong. I’m wise. I’m proud. Oh, and I’m afraid. Afraid of sex and love. Afraid of people and their opinions of me and you and us. I know, and yet I’m nothing. Shame is our place . . . love our hope . . . I lumber and sit in the corner waiting for the prince to walk through the door. Many do, but none talk to me. Loneliness and sorrow find me at the most inopportune times . . . in crowds, on busy streets, and on the telephone. Happiness is good and joy is better. Being new and not a slave is life. Saying no and yes without guilt is like diving into a cold beer and swimming for weeks in bliss.

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From: james
Date: Sat May 28 18:18:04 MST 2005
Subject: whom do you speak of

From: eric
Date: Sat May 28 22:19:35 MST 2005
Subject: James Joyce