"Is that the church of 'Popeye The Sailor Man'?" asked my musician friend. "It is, now," I replied, winking. I stopped wearing it when I returned to Michigan from Maryland, placing it on a 'reef' of polished stones. My efforts to settle in the Washington area faltered; I’d obviously reached the point of contemplating my path anew. I didn’t want to continue displaying the anchor without understanding what it means to me now.
I called truck #212221 'Desirae'. Google tells me this is a French name for "the one desired". I found a poster of Ray Lewis propped against a pump-canister in the back of the flat-faced Isuzu my manager assigned to me: perhaps a desire but even more a discovery. "I'll call you 'Rae-Rae'-- short for Desirae."… Continue reading Halloween Day: My Truck, My Tablet, and a Pink House
I start building a wall over my common-sense in the next paragraph, brick-by-brick using the ideas of 'Faith' gleaned from those toxic books she wanted me to read. That Faith was made from inertia and introspection, which explains my over-correction a year later: I built a Faith on perpetual activism.
I wear an anchor pendant. Unhoused neighbors, in uncanny encounters, recognize it as a sign of faith, at times, and indicate it when they ask for donations. There is a subtle lift to being recognized for what I am despite not being sure what composes me, or how to express it — the nebulous, shifting… Continue reading Wrestling the Anchor: Nautical Impressions
"I define religion at its best as a positive and effective means of relating to the mysteries that define our lives: love, death, birth, illness, marriage, and work, to name a few . . . . A twenty-first century religion sanctifies them with sacraments, rituals, sacred stories, and sometimes guardian spirits. The arts serve this… Continue reading Wrestling the Anchor: A Prologue
I remember the day I lost it. My mother would have disapproved. We squished together onto the back of a motorcycle and rode through the Philippine jungle to a series of small waterfalls. There, all the knots in my torso came undone in the fast, cool water. I relaxed and swam. Dante* was sitting in… Continue reading Anchor, Pipe, and Needle: Bethlehem Ink