Atheist Campus Crusaders - a favorite topic

This post was in response to an article in Religion Dispatches, Are Atheists the New Campus Crusaders?
(I would provide a link to the article but for some reason the site isn't loading.)

With all due respect to my friends who are atheists but I have to point out that, IMO, these non-theist college students are displaying every bit the level of hypocrisy found in many campus religious outreaches. My issue has to do with unbelievers constant complaint that Christians try to shove their religion down their throats. And it's true, that happens a lot. So the academic atheist's response? Shove their anti-religion "beliefs" down theirs. This all looks like "atheist evangelism" to me. And that very concept, as far as I'm concerned, is contradictory to their insistence that they are NOT a religion.

But what bothers me the most is what atheist crusader Jesse Galef had to say: “I don’t think it’s unfair to say that groups like (the former Campus Crusade for Christ) are our cultural opponents.” CULTURAL OPPONENTS??? I have to say it again...CULTURAL OPPONENTS??????????????? I don't discount the fact that Christians' built-in predisposition to proselytize can often come off as strategic assaults (if you've ever foolishly invited Mormon missionaries into your home you'll probably understand what I mean). But atheist evangelism has, at it's core, nothing more than breaking down and eradicating beliefs that pose no threat to them and are of no harm to anyone secure in their faith. There seems to be a distinct "meanness" in their zeal to "convert". I can't help but see them as obsessively wanting to take away something from people they look down upon (and don't try to argue that they DON'T look down on believers, because the very idea that someone needs to be changed, needs to be re-wired and de-programmed is as condescending as the old folks in the front pews tossing out the tired "love the sinner, hate the sin" saw when pressed to discuss the possibility of gays in their church).

Cultural OPPONENTS??????????????? Why is that necessary? I'm not favoring believers over non-believers. I respect the right for everyone to hold dear the principles that give their lives meaning. Just because those principles aren't always the same with each person does not mean we have to go to war with those whose experience is not our own. And it doesn't mean that we have the right to demand that others adopt our principles because maybe we've somehow deluded ourselves into thinking that those we live by are better, are more rational, are more fulfilling than theirs. I'm not taking sides here, in this monumental CULTURE WAR (??????????????????????). I'd rather be a peacemaker. The only message I have to the atheist that has it's roots in religion is "do unto others as you would have them do to you". The only message I have for the believer that has atheistic overtones is "never stop exploring, always question". Those mandates are what I want to live by. And as much as I think those principle would benefit all of humanity I can't expect everyone in the world to adopt them.

Dream Journal - early morning, Feb. 1, 2013

Most of the dreams I have are forgotten within moments after waking. The more intense ones may last a couple of hours before completely vanishing from my memory. But the one I had last night has stuck with me all day and I think I should probably write it out as best I can.

So, it starts with me and my wife at a concert or a movie, some kind of function that requires a theater. There is an intermission and we leave each other to go to the restroom, etc. I'm standing in a stall relieving myself and there's a guy in the one next to me who is controlling the flow of his urine in such a manner that the splashes made by the stream actually have a rhythm recognizable as a well known song. I'm amazed at this talent and try to compliment him. He just looks at me with sort of a condescension in his facial expression. Obviously he has no desire to talk to me. I say a few things on the way out, all of which are completely random and have nothing to do with the situation. Instead of saying "goodbye" I say "Be-bop-a-lula, baby!"

The program starts back up but the wife is nowhere to be found. I look all over for her and ask total strangers if they know where she's at. I start to panic. Next thing I know I'm in a car with my father driving. I start to grill him about where my wife might be, convinced that he knows. He says nothing...in many of the dreams I have of him he does not say a word. I get really, really pissed off that he won't tell me. I get mouthy and disrespectful, but he just looks straight ahead and drives.

Then I realize that wherever he is going is where my wife will be. It's not too long after that revelation that we pull up to a house and he gets out, walking to the door. I do the same and all of a sudden I know where I am and that my wife is probably not there. It's my mother's house.

I walk in and there she stands...she didn't look like my mother in the dream, but I knew this was who it was. I could not help but believe that dad had taken me to her because she didn't have long to live and I just broke down, sobbing "mama, mama, mama" with my head on her shoulder. Don't know where my dad went off to, but it was at this point that I woke up.

I lay in the bed almost as if I'd had a nightmare. I tried for a long time to put the pieces together and figure out what it all meant. The easy answer would be that my relationship with my mother is for all intents and purposes non-existent and this was a precursor to the inevitable time of reckoning. Then I thought there must be some reason that dad was the one who drove me there. They had been divorced for many years before his passing but she was always his true love. His demeanor was almost solemn as he took me there. Then there's the connection between losing my wife and finding my mother. There's got to be some kind of Jungian explanation for that. As for the pissin' musician, who knows why I still remember him. Maybe it's because he was so talented.

Lost Weekend

Michael walked huddled through the valley of the shadow that followed him all night long,
Cast, fading then glowing, fading then glowing,
By the shine of bright halogen light meant to illuminate and show the way.
Micheal built a bridge. Michael burned it down.

Bibles on the tables at the last place he ate, with plastic knives,
Plastic forks and plastic spoons, cold canned chili never so delicious.
The rat stole the bread, wasn't that something to laugh about?
And he fought like a soldier for a blanket on the floor.

Cold wind pushed him forward to the Great Unknown.
Cold and shivering
Someone stole his coat while he was giving blood.
He kicked himself for leaving it in the lobby.

He said, "What kind of fool am I, how did I get here?
Was I so naive as to think someone wouldn't have taken it?
These ghosts are every bit as desperate as I am."
Michael built a bridge. Michael burned it down.

"I would have done the same thing cuz goddamn it's cold,
This void of uncertainty, this sentence I've been handed.
Time drags so slow I cannot feel it pass.
Nowhere to go. Go to be going. It tires me."

He sat on a porch last night with grizzled, bent sages
The sweet sick smell of alcohol floating like fog from their mouths.
"In this world," the sober one said,
"You've got to learn to fight and beg."

He knew in his heart of hearts
He could do neither.
So his fate on the mean streets was good as sealed.
Michael built a bridge. Michael burned it down.

It wasn't quite so bad when he still had that coat.
It was torn and frayed from the frost of older days
But the pockets were deep and warm.
His hands belonged there.

It gave some comfort when the chill came on.
When his legs were getting sore, he had to stop and rest.
In the slate brick awning of the old Indian school
He'd lain down to nap but his eyes wouldn't close.

It wasn't time to dream of how things used to be
Or how they all wound up being tossed to the wayside
Or to prophesy a future somehow rising from these ashes
Of the bridge that Michael built, of the bridge that Michael burned down.

Now Michael wishes he had stolen one of those Bibles,
Onion paper pages hard to turn
But good kindling for a fire on this cold night
In the valley of the shadow

Without a coat.

New "Spotify Blog" in the works...

I realize I haven't written to much on the blog lately anyway, but I thought I'd let you know that posts will continue to be few and far between, as I am currently working on a new blog that incorporates all of my Spotify playlists. Just populating it with posts/lists is going to be a long-term affair but I'm also going to do a lot with the design (spotlight artists, etc.).

If you've got Spotify installed you might as well visit and see how it's coming along. If you don't have Spotify yet, well now is the time to download the program. It's free w/ads and cost $10 a month for Premium...money well spent, I might add.

James Casey's SPOTIFY Blog

"Songs for Swinging Larvae" - Renaldo & the Loaf

Disappointed Voyeurism

I like to think your eye is at the keyhole,
Your sloppy brain conjuring make-shift realities
     for your majick to paint into thin air
         from your lies.
Bald-faced whoppers or sneaky half-truths,
You twirl them around your illusion
     expecting
          a fantastic creation
                with which to delight yourself.
A pitiful white smoke jin,
     dissolving
          almost as quickly
                as it rose from the flame.
You honestly believe you've stolen my illusion,
     kept it just long enough to smudge,
           a chalk drawing.
You honestly believe
     I've let you do it, unwilling and unknowing.
Your fingers are dirty,
     the powder won't wash away.
All for nothing.
 You only erased the memory of what I once felt for you.
     Ah, your makeshift majick works!
Well done and thank you.

How long will you keep squinting at the light on the other side?
Your eye must be getting tired.
Why don't you just open the door?
     It ain't locked.

I've a feeling you've got a wicked temper
     and a lot of hate built up inside that you
          refuse to acknowledge,
              try to ignore,
Until you're secure in the darkest corner of your prayer closet.
     Facing a mirror,
          Worshipping and damning
               at the same time
That's when it boils over.
Dirty damn dog, frothing at the mouth...
 Mean drunk, indiscriminate for a fight,
     but there's no one at the bar.
          Only a witch's cruel mirror
                    and all it says is...

"You aren't the Golden Child,
"Your majick is a sham
"No one cares enough to read you
"You're a thick, boring book
"The worst kind: a book about a book
"A book about yourself
"A book called 'Look What I've Done!'"

So here I sit, on the other side of your peephole view
Wondering what I should do next,
Knowing I'll never be strong enough to tell you
     to your face
          that I've known all along...
I walk through streets in your dreams...
Of this I'm certain
     even as I know you're watching me right now,
         with all your wasted mental projections,
                 charms, chants, lusts, cravings, desires, needs,
Casting that covetous spell my way but I guess
     The keyhole must be too small
Because I don't feel a thing
     and as I sit here,
         naked in my own secret place,
I could care less that you live for these moments
                of disappointed voyeurism

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