cats, pot, cults, and the broken white line

So I think a lot about what to post, and then I don't always feel like typing it in. I feel in some way like my left arm is punching my right. I don't know how I feel about being so technological all the time (*sung softly to herself, so that nobody else can hear*...Yes, I love technology...). I was thinking tonight while in the shower about how I would love to obtain an old printing press. With all the moveable typeface and image plating, made out of heavy iron. And the big ink blotter, and the thick, slightly translucent yellow paper. I can see myself now, swinging from the arm of the press, producing page after page of identical print, that took me hours to put into place. My hands would be inky and I'd have bulging forearm muscles. Think what a conversation peice that would be! Here's the dining room, Chauncey; we don't use it much anymore now that the *press* is in here. I don't know how easy they are to find. Maybe I could build one. I would need blueprints, and wood. Lots of wood.

CATS.

My roommate has a cat. I guess it is sort of mine by default, then; at least I find myself referring to it as "my cat." I think I really understand what it means to like a cat. Draco = radness. He's independent, beautiful, black, sleek and emerald-eyed. So, I think I might go adopt a cat from the Pikes Peak Region Humane Society. I've always thought myself more of a dog person, but we have no yard and I don't want inside dogness. And since we already have a cat, two won't be much harder than one. So that's that. I really like this six year old female, named Rosie, who is also incidentally black. Black is the new black.

POT.

I witnessed my first marijuana sale last night, between two friends from my massage class. What is my moral objective here? The buyer asked me if I thought she was a bad person a few moments after the loot was exchanged. I told her, I'm not in the business of judging people, period. And that was that. Am I a Satanist? Probably not. Negligent of the law? Guilty as charged.

CULTS.

Ever notice how people in those special clothes that hang out together are so happy? And you think you could be that happy too? As happy as the first day when you put your hand in the hand of the man who walked on water? Like waking up from the longest dream, how real it seemed, until your love broke through. Or reality hit, whichever came first. No, I'm not talking about the US Gymnastics team. I'm talking about friends who seem to be living a more authentic Christianity than myself. Then I discover they only home school their children, work at carpentry, farming, or weaving, and have to wear beards or skirts, depending on gender. (Don't get those last two requirements mixed up.) I always grieve a little on hearing the first major item on the step down the slippery slope of theological distaster, which includes items like claiming Jesus is descended from the first pure seed of Adam, or that we can only call him Yashua. I wish it could be that beautiful and easy and mind-numbing all the time. Maybe I should revert to my previous paragraph. At least the high would be temporary and explainable.

THE BROKEN WHITE LINE.

I've tried to be fairly consistent in my life of drawing a line in the sand, and sticking to it. And though the line may not move, sand is known to shift. When does divorce become okay? Where is the point of no return in a crisis of faith? Where does a call to morality clash with the type of acceptance Jesus demonstrated? Grah.

Judge, and even so ye shall be judged.

Ask.
Seek.
Knock.

...and the door will be opened...