Hurt. Hatred.

Why can't I just accept you as you are?

The glazed look in your eyes remind me of what has been stolen. The confused look tells me what remains. The childish glances hurt me and give me hope.

What remains stirs up hate—hate for the culprit who has robbed you. I know many times I lash out at that thief, but in the process I end up hurting you.

Pops, I'm sorry for hurting you. I forget that it’s not your fault. I forget that it is not you who are responsible for your condition. Forgive me for misdirecting my anger.

Los Juanes
A Dios Le Pido

These lyrics sum of my life at this moment:


Que mis ojos se despierten con la luz de tu mirada yo
a Dios le pido

Que mi madre no se muera y que mi padre me recuerde
a Dios le pido

Que te quedes a mi lado y que mas nunca te me vayas mi vida
a Dios le pido

Que mi alma no descanse cuando de amarte se trate mi cielo
a Dios le pido


Por los días que me quedan y las noches que aún no llegan yo
a Dios le pido

Por los hijos de mis hijos y los hijos de tus hijos
a Dios le pido

Que mi pueblo no derrame tanta sangre y se levante mi gente
a Dios le pido

Que mi alma no descanse cuando de amarte se trate mi cielo
a Dios le pido


Un segundo más de vida para darte y mi corazón entero entregarte

Un segundo más de vida para darte y a tu lado para siempre yo quedarme

Un segundo más de vida yo a Dios le pido
Y que si me muero sea de amor
y si me enamoro sea de vos
y que de tu voz sea este corazón todos los días a Dios le pido
Y que si me muero sea de amor
y si me enamoro sea de vos
y que de tu voz sea este corazón todos los días a Dios le pido

A Dios le pido

Exhaustion

---

How does one resolve the emotional entanglement of the death of a loved one?

Today at the cemetery I mumbled the following prayer: "My pobre mensa".

The hurt and the pain you caused, so unfair. But, how can I hold that against you when you yourself were in such turmoil. Your hurt, your pain, your anger, your selfishness, blinded you.

What you worked so hard for brought you your demise. But you had no other choice. You were wrongly accused, wrongly ridiculed, wrongly pursued. All works of the devil.

Those who called themselves Christians were the first to pick up the stones. They were the first to pass over their sins and judge you with such intense disgust; they hailed those rocks at your head. They killed your heart.

I can't blame you entirely, sis. How I miss you. This should not have happened. It is not fair--all I get are memories.

Your memories are not enough. How can one stand on a righteous soapbox and proclaim: you have memories to hold onto. I rather not waste my time in cursing such maladies.

I hate the 80's. Especially those evangelical 80's Christians. You know the ones...

But what good does my hate do? None. No good at all. My hate is really not hate. What I have is hurt, hurt, hurt.

If I weren’t a little kid at the time I would have protected you. I would have stuck up for you. I would have shielded you. What they did was wrong. Yes, you made mistakes, but where was the grace?

They used you. They made you their escape goat. Their pretty boy got away. I don't blame him, but I blame the leadership. I blame those who pranced around on the stage with their bibles proclaiming God's goodness and love. But in the meanwhile they slaughter you for divorce. They slandered you. They ridiculed you. He got away.

What of their sins? Yes, their sins. Their sins eventually caused division in the church. Their sins split the church. But they were forgiven. And they too got away.

They are still alive. You, My sister, are dead.

Am I anger for what they did? Yes. Do I want retribution? No.

What I do want is for them to acknowledge their wrongs.

Some are still preachers. Some are still worship leaders. Do what's right.

Maybe what I ask them to do is retribution. If that is the case, then I do want retribution!

This is not an open letter. These are my emotions.

The Fruits of Our Labor

This morning we launched the official espanol version of VEGAS.com -- pronounced: VEGAS punto com.

Here is the direct link to the to the official espanol site: http://espanol.vegas.com

Also, there is the link to the official english site: http://www.vegas.com

Both sites have a top nav graphic that link to its counter-language part. One says English and the other says.......En Espanol, of course :-)

On a unrelated note: Off to the cementary. Today is my sister's birthday. It’s a mexican thing.

Ramon

Perchlorate Lake Mead

Just got home from our sailing trip.

We stopped and ate dinner at Milo's (something....something place) -- I don't remember the full name. Nonetheless, it is in downtown Boulder city.

Today I had some moments of feeling like a kid again--unfortunately it did not last long. My friend, me and Jeff Stoddard set anchor at this nice alcove that faced in the direction of the Dam.

The three of us swam, laughed and played with our noodles (floating devices). We laughed about the concept of magical brown floating noodles and pondered why the water seemed warmer--at times--waist high. Typical guy stuff. But it was fun.

There was a moment where childhood memories rushed through my mind -- those memories were sad ones -- memories of when my friend used to tease me and pick on me. There was a moment where I held my breathe in anticipation of him picking on me.

To my surprise and relief, he did not. On the contrary, with a sincere heart I felt that he was looking out for my best interest, doing his best to keep me out of harms way. A small, clumsy, powerful moment was experienced (had).

I'm dead beat. Time for bed.

One last thing, we did stick with tradition--A dairy Queens run was had prior to heading back to Vegas.

Scene II, Act 1 or Act 1, Scene II

Which on is it?

We had a spiritual/roommate/life pow-wow this morning.

Our derailed freight train is back on course. Life is a little better.

Jeff, me and my friend are off sailing this afternoon at the perchlorite infested Lake Mead. I anticipate a time of talking about life and God.

Pray for us.

Ramon