The Church….

I once had a dream of man who started a church to pick up women.  I must admit they weren’t that good looking…but man could they sing. 

And it was a pleasant dream, filled with inconsistencies, biopsies and trilogies, fantasies wrung dry on the high wire of another extravaganza.

            What will you let yourself dream? What will you believe in…on a Sunday afternoon drive, a dog-day afternoon in the autumn of your life?

Have you ever compared what you do with what Bill Gates has done, or what the guy on the street corner has done, with his toothless smile, standing next to his scraggly dog, asking…with a handwritten sign…to collect enough change to get back to the Midwest?

            Only compare yourself to yourself and rise above the bars set in your own head, and meld it into a push that is beyond what you have ever done, not what Andrew Carnegie or Henry David Thoreau or Gandhi have done.

            Life is filled with success patterns: Follow them and you may not start a church, but you may create so much self discipline within that the “without” becomes a playground for your desires. Your incredible mission may be to glow in the dark, to live a lark, to climb the highest mountains so you never, ever fall into the deepest depths again.

            Twist a dream around a bean stock.  Take a shot on fairytales and the wind in your sails and planting a seed in the back yard as your grinding, night teeth are flat as the world used to be…before Copernicus and Galileo and the church that was started by, again…hello, the Italians! 

And what do the Italians want?  What was their reasons way back when…probably more than a girl fest, more like a quest, or a crusades that circled the known world, a world that appeared as flat as Kansas, as divided as kingdoms and surrogate royalty riding on horseback and realizing that the Pope was just a figure head too.

Start a dream and use benchmarks on the way to that dream to notify your conscious mind where you came from…so as to leave a checkmark in the sand, a tick mark in the register of getting there.

            Who are you?  Who have you become? And why do you really believe that you are a just “a mathematician, or a carpenter’s wife,” a slice of strife on the barroom floors after midnight, when the very nice waitress, named Tess, makes you believe that you are man enough to start a church, to have a revelation after your third micro beer…along the Seine, the sane, the same ol’ Friday night drinking gang.

            Compare yourself to no one, but raise yourself above everyone who says you can’t, you shouldn’t and you should stay in some government job with benefits and holidays off…just over broke—a dream stuck in your back pocket, stuck in neutral…stuck in fear of not being able to pay your bills, or fear of not being able to get over and above the rabble in the streets, and the grumbling voices in your own head.

            Start a church, a dream, a business, a book and do it ‘till you complete it, ‘till the cows come home, ‘till you realize you can achieve what you conceive…just make sure it’s not too sacrilegious in the pews of your midnight desires. 

Hey, I was raised Catholic.