Lately I have filled my alone eating moments with the viewing of Hulu television. Bizarre and stereotypically American as it sounds, I have found eating alone and watching some of the latest media presentations and franchise brainwashing to be quite complimentary. What’s more, I carefully select the programs that I watch. Aside from the dark, obnoxiously giddy drama of Glee that somehow (for a whole season!) captured me, I tend to prefer the Horror and Suspense channel.
The rationale is quite simple: mysteries make me think, and that is where Hulu keeps them. Blunt, I know, but true. And the better the mystery and the harder it is to solve, the more I enjoy it. And though there is a sort of camaraderie I share with the problem-laden Detective Monk, I ultimately enjoy Psych as a show more because I have a harder time solving its mysteries before the end of each episode.
As of late, however, I have not watched either of these shows. Instead, I have become addicted to Night Stalker. True, the writing is about as dramatic as the title, and the acting frequently fails to suppress its heavy-handed tendencies. Yet I cannot stop watching a new episode every time I find myself eating alone.
Carl Kolchak, a man deeply troubled by a past tragedy, plunges ever deeper into solving strange mysteries occurring across the city of L.A. Mysteries he suspects to be connected with his own misfortune. He is also a journalist for a fictional L.A. newspaper, working in the homicide department, a job that often provides Kolchak with tips, access and other (almost positively fictional) amenities he would otherwise be without.
If the mental disabilities of Detective Monk cause me to feel empathy and comraderie with such a character, than I feel an ever-greater connection with Kolchak. Though a successful topic for suspense television, dark and mysterious pasts are not for fiction alone. The shadows of the night, along with human wondering as to the meanings of nightmares, and perplexion with the unknown, all for me are realities. Though some would scoff and classify such things as pure fiction, I am without doubt that we live in relation to more than what we choose to see.
That is about as far as Night Stalker is capable of taking the conversation, but for me, the conversation runs much deeper. In the times of silence and simplicity, when humans lived in an almost inseparable relation with nature, there was still sin and great abuse towards creation, but it was within the boundary of acknowledgment towards this relationship. Kolchak looks at the night, and he sees a veil covering evil. Then he turns his face towards humanity and sees a tirelessly moving, completely ignorant populous, unwarned of the dangers they walk amidst nightly.
He seems rash to me. Though if I were continually subjected to the berating, and after episode one, entirely unfounded, skepticism of coworker Perri Reed, I might also become overly cynical of the masses. But then I daily interact with Reformed Christians (whatever that means), and they refuse to acknowledge the works of their Holy Spirit, let alone discourse about more-to-life-than-meets-the-eye (thank you, Obenchain).
I would like to meet the writer for Night Stalker, though the concept was originally based on a modern day tale of Dracula, the screenwriter for the 2005 television series seemed to desire taking the tale deeper than the basic man versus monster arch plot. What does that writer know of evil? He seems at first slightly juvenile in associating evil with shadow, though this is a common human flaw.
I mentioned only very recently that though an adult, I continue to struggle with a fear of the dark (incited when alone in such conditions). This fear I will refer to as pack separation anxiety. We, as humans, now reign above the animal food chain, and yet we still carry with us a very primitive fear (though more a reflex than a fear)—that if we are separated from the pack, we will be consumed. But what consumes that which nothing in the animal kingdom seems to be above?
In an even earlier entry, I discussed how we, as humans, differ from all other species within the animal kingdom because we alone have the ability to comprehend the metaphysical. We are, what some might label, “spiritually” enlightened. During the day, we can see, and though we still manage at times to cause ourselves anxiety, generally feel more comfortable with lighted environments. At least in the light we can see and defend ourselves against whatever might challenge our safety. At night, however, we are reminded that there are things we cannot see, things that might still prowl and prey upon us. We, without light, are without strong defense. Heavy reliance is placed upon that which is visible for security.
Such a concept begs the question “is there something invisible (or at least hidden in shadow) worth fearing?”
Perhaps.
I strongly believe in more than what I can see. Though I should not fear, I do. The only concept that now soothes my fear of that which I cannot see is that God has created it. Perhaps one day something dark and lurking will prey upon me, and even destroy me. But the beauty of faith in God is the knowledge that all will one day be justified. Some “Christians” would like to believe that evil will one day be destroyed. Such thinking brought great comfort to our predecessors, and if such thinking brings comfort to “Christians” today, it is better they think in such a manner then suddenly be terrified of evil triumphing.
Evil will not triumph. It will be justified and used for good. This is the unseen result at the end of all times. The worst of everything will be justified.
So Kolchak kills darkness (evil), while I believe that God will one day make darkness (evil) a servant to humanity. Perhaps one day we will soar upon its back, clutch its feathers as it flies through the sky, chasing the sun. Perhaps one day the steed of darkness will carry us like the saddle-less Shadowfax, and together we will explore the depths of the caves of eternity.
Until then I wonder if there is a battle to fight. There are certain whispers in the darkness, movements in the shadows. My question is what part to play in this movement. For now I will focus on the welfare of humankind, but I will never forget what I know. There is more to this world than meets the eye, and it is with us everyday.
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Scorpions and Snakes?
The fear of the darkness has long been a part of my life, though the concept should not simply feature the phrase "a part," but the word "apart." For my fear derives not just from a lack of light, but one's person being stuck in such an environment alone. To this day, I am terrified of being apart from people, tortured by the concept of a companionless life.
In the midst of a difficult decision which I took upon at the beginning of the summer, I simultaneously felt compelled to flee from a number of relationships. I was never forced away; I retreated, for the quality of those relationships, though good, was not satisfying. It is strange to feel alone in a room of people, and I daresay I would never wish it upon someone else.
The worst of nightmares lived out comes in the form of fleeting companionship. And recently, it has existed in great quantity for me.
My largest complication arose from the quest itself. For, with the retreat from the old, came a search for the new. And yet, perhaps I moved too quickly. Great momentum carried me onward, and though at times I desired to stay, it seemed impossible to do anything save to always keep moving.
Perhaps one day I will find myself traveling at slower speeds, more manageable for escape. But John Mayer is definitely mistaken, this train should stop--or at least slow down. When the speed is too fast, one soon finds himself alone, for no one else can join the journey. I travel alone, but it is not how I wish it to be.
Some friends I have never left. Instead, they have left me. Over this season of searching, the concept of "relationship" has arisen in many forms, and in many guises. Some were what my culture calls one-way; others seasonal; and still others ,what my teacher refers to as practice.
Yet, even now, I am struck by an epiphany. Perhaps I am unsatisfied because I search not just for any friend, but friends who are wise, and share their wisdom in abundance. It is true that being around anyone can help keep my fears at bay. But what would I be if I never searched to put more meaning in my life? Only George Gray knows, his whispered warnings wafting over the cemeteries of Spoon River. I need relationships that will make me better, but not so much out of a bending to pressure, but rather from mild encouragement and beneficent wisdom.
One prominent example is immediately in my mind. In my blundering quest I stumbled upon some of the greatest people with whom I have ever had the pleasure of sharing a moment. The venue most consistently is a house just south of my own, and only a very short walking distance away. Somehow, it is like the hidden garden behind the wall. Something of greatness preserved, and I have only now found it with the luck of a child's curiosity. That is where I have seen healthy friendship, strong and prosperous in its existence, and overflowing in its love. When I am around the people who congregate and live there, these are the fleeting moments when I am filled with thankfulness and satisfaction.
Every day I ask God for many things, but most of all I ask for wisdom. And lo, the living God provides. I ask for meaningful friendships, and there are some literally around the corner. It is strange the places we are given the answers to our prayers, but it is not strange that we are given answers, and beyond answers, what we need and when we most need it. The living God is one that cannot be untangled from daily affairs. There is no reason not to ask for what we need, and there is no reason to expect that we will be given anything less.
"'For everyone who asks, receives; and he who seeks, finds; and to him who knocks, it will be opened. Now suppose one of you fathers is asked by his son for a fish; he will not give his son a snake instead? Or if he is asked for an egg, will not give him a scorpion, will he?'"
-Jesus, Luke 11:10-12
In the midst of a difficult decision which I took upon at the beginning of the summer, I simultaneously felt compelled to flee from a number of relationships. I was never forced away; I retreated, for the quality of those relationships, though good, was not satisfying. It is strange to feel alone in a room of people, and I daresay I would never wish it upon someone else.
The worst of nightmares lived out comes in the form of fleeting companionship. And recently, it has existed in great quantity for me.
My largest complication arose from the quest itself. For, with the retreat from the old, came a search for the new. And yet, perhaps I moved too quickly. Great momentum carried me onward, and though at times I desired to stay, it seemed impossible to do anything save to always keep moving.
Perhaps one day I will find myself traveling at slower speeds, more manageable for escape. But John Mayer is definitely mistaken, this train should stop--or at least slow down. When the speed is too fast, one soon finds himself alone, for no one else can join the journey. I travel alone, but it is not how I wish it to be.
Some friends I have never left. Instead, they have left me. Over this season of searching, the concept of "relationship" has arisen in many forms, and in many guises. Some were what my culture calls one-way; others seasonal; and still others ,what my teacher refers to as practice.
Yet, even now, I am struck by an epiphany. Perhaps I am unsatisfied because I search not just for any friend, but friends who are wise, and share their wisdom in abundance. It is true that being around anyone can help keep my fears at bay. But what would I be if I never searched to put more meaning in my life? Only George Gray knows, his whispered warnings wafting over the cemeteries of Spoon River. I need relationships that will make me better, but not so much out of a bending to pressure, but rather from mild encouragement and beneficent wisdom.
One prominent example is immediately in my mind. In my blundering quest I stumbled upon some of the greatest people with whom I have ever had the pleasure of sharing a moment. The venue most consistently is a house just south of my own, and only a very short walking distance away. Somehow, it is like the hidden garden behind the wall. Something of greatness preserved, and I have only now found it with the luck of a child's curiosity. That is where I have seen healthy friendship, strong and prosperous in its existence, and overflowing in its love. When I am around the people who congregate and live there, these are the fleeting moments when I am filled with thankfulness and satisfaction.
Every day I ask God for many things, but most of all I ask for wisdom. And lo, the living God provides. I ask for meaningful friendships, and there are some literally around the corner. It is strange the places we are given the answers to our prayers, but it is not strange that we are given answers, and beyond answers, what we need and when we most need it. The living God is one that cannot be untangled from daily affairs. There is no reason not to ask for what we need, and there is no reason to expect that we will be given anything less.
"'For everyone who asks, receives; and he who seeks, finds; and to him who knocks, it will be opened. Now suppose one of you fathers is asked by his son for a fish; he will not give his son a snake instead? Or if he is asked for an egg, will not give him a scorpion, will he?'"
-Jesus, Luke 11:10-12
Monday, November 30, 2009
Laughter is the Best Medicine
There is learning to be had in the very little things in life. And where one cannot learn, one can laugh. Like watching squirrels in the grass sprint to trees at the sound of a passing car in the street. Or the face that the guy at the McDonald's register makes when asked if the McNuggets are free-range chicken. Or the further surprise when his customer only wants a small fry and small soda. Or driving alone at night, and wondering about those sharing the road with you. In all of these occasions there is equal reason to laugh and to learn.
The squirrel scurries and has reason to scurry; it is likely her kin have met gruesome fates after such a noise as a car driving. And McDonald's is obviously catering to a unquestioning and relentlessly consuming populous, rather than the controlled and educated individual. And when alone, we find solace and companionship in the closest human contact possible, even if it is limited to passing each other while driving through Ohio on a dark, rainy night.
Thanksgiving is so completely that! It is the immense joys of laughter and feasting, inlaid with learning and growth. It is a time to remember that we are not alone, and to acknowledge both our elders and those that learn beneath us. In many ways, it is the Christmas rehearsal.
For if a holiday of thanks has so much joy, how much more must Christmas contain!
My uncle was an alcoholic. There is no complete certainty as to what drove him away, but it is certain that over a year ago, he fled the fingers of his vice and joined the AA. Since, we as a family have seen this prickly, over-opinionated doctor become a much gentler and humble man. And beyond the hope of quitting his vice, there is a great sense of spirituality that the AA has nurtured within him. Even he admits that it is a miracle that alcohol has left his veins.
He is the older brother of my mother, and they, along with their brothers, lost their father when my mother was only thirteen. My grandfather was an alcoholic. But there was no movement away. There was no hope for his recovery. His liver eventually received more poison than it could manage, and my grandfather wilted away.
Seeing the effect that it has played out into the second generation of children, the tragedy of such an occurrence is unavoidable. But it is not without hope. For in the learning of the human mind spring the seeds of hope. Over the holiday, I saw this hope in the eyes of my uncle. He is unashamed of this victory, but he also acknowledges that it is not his alone.
And as the holiday progressed, and we met numerous times as a large family, uncles and aunts, cousins and siblings, infants and toddlers, and one grandmother, there was such laughter. But when I laughed, I also watched the people around me. We all laugh in similar, and yet unique ways. And no one laughed harder than my uncle.
The squirrel scurries and has reason to scurry; it is likely her kin have met gruesome fates after such a noise as a car driving. And McDonald's is obviously catering to a unquestioning and relentlessly consuming populous, rather than the controlled and educated individual. And when alone, we find solace and companionship in the closest human contact possible, even if it is limited to passing each other while driving through Ohio on a dark, rainy night.
Thanksgiving is so completely that! It is the immense joys of laughter and feasting, inlaid with learning and growth. It is a time to remember that we are not alone, and to acknowledge both our elders and those that learn beneath us. In many ways, it is the Christmas rehearsal.
For if a holiday of thanks has so much joy, how much more must Christmas contain!
My uncle was an alcoholic. There is no complete certainty as to what drove him away, but it is certain that over a year ago, he fled the fingers of his vice and joined the AA. Since, we as a family have seen this prickly, over-opinionated doctor become a much gentler and humble man. And beyond the hope of quitting his vice, there is a great sense of spirituality that the AA has nurtured within him. Even he admits that it is a miracle that alcohol has left his veins.
He is the older brother of my mother, and they, along with their brothers, lost their father when my mother was only thirteen. My grandfather was an alcoholic. But there was no movement away. There was no hope for his recovery. His liver eventually received more poison than it could manage, and my grandfather wilted away.
Seeing the effect that it has played out into the second generation of children, the tragedy of such an occurrence is unavoidable. But it is not without hope. For in the learning of the human mind spring the seeds of hope. Over the holiday, I saw this hope in the eyes of my uncle. He is unashamed of this victory, but he also acknowledges that it is not his alone.
And as the holiday progressed, and we met numerous times as a large family, uncles and aunts, cousins and siblings, infants and toddlers, and one grandmother, there was such laughter. But when I laughed, I also watched the people around me. We all laugh in similar, and yet unique ways. And no one laughed harder than my uncle.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Sunrise
This morning there is hope.
If God's greatness is unfathomable, then perhaps even the most wicked of outcomes from humanity's misuse of freedom is nullified by a relationship with God that humanity's very existence provides.
It is not that the end justifies the means, it is that the means are swallowed within the end, and have become one with it.
Perhaps it is better to live a life ravaged by pain and tragedy then to not exist at all, for whether consciously or unconsciously, we are in relationship with God.
If God's greatness is unfathomable, then perhaps even the most wicked of outcomes from humanity's misuse of freedom is nullified by a relationship with God that humanity's very existence provides.
It is not that the end justifies the means, it is that the means are swallowed within the end, and have become one with it.
Perhaps it is better to live a life ravaged by pain and tragedy then to not exist at all, for whether consciously or unconsciously, we are in relationship with God.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Sun Setting on Sanity
Our words emit through the same opening with which we ingest sustenance. It is a holy passage. The future progressed through the primordial. The transcendent through the disgustingly elemental. And yet it is one, and it is good.
This is not dissimilar to (at least from the male perspective) the concept of reproduction. Males expel their liquid wastes from the same opening through which they provide their contribution of spermatozoon. The sperm itself is little but an optimistic and random attempt at initiating the creation of life. And the cell itself results not from any but the most carnal of activities. Once the ovum is penetrated, development commences, generally requiring nine months to incubate a healthy specimen, and the end result being only the messiest and fleshy of outcomes.
Yet, from the opening of waste and the crevice of a womb comes forth that which is most capable of learning. First to understand kinetics, and then noise, and then words, and then ideas. Suddenly it is a mind empowered, and even ruminates on the notions of God and eternity. It is from the earth, made from the dust, and raised from the mud, and yet in its very design, destined to become metaphysically enlightened.
This is good.
- - - - - - -
I do not understand the environment within which I have been born. My life has been subject to so much pain and embarrassment and fruitless episodes. I am a collected mess of skin and thoughts. This afternoon I am without any notion of direction, and wonder if my labors are even worth these fleeting moments. Why was I born with such enormous aspirations only to toil in the ordinary?
I do not subscribe to the belief that God finds within the end a justification for the means. Did the lepers cry out in pain as Christ healed them of leprosy? Did the blind man scream in agony as Christ removed his blindness? Healing came without pain. Creation, but in a breath. Whole planets turn without a sound. If only the means to my end could be gentler!
When the creator God saw what It had created, God said that "it was good." God is omniscient. All of creation, existence, the beginning and end laid before God. Still, God called it good.
I struggle to find comfort in this thought.
Starting with the tiniest of atoms, pitted in fatal contests, evolving in a cutthroat system, humans arose as the most capable and clever of species, and God chose them among all of creation to be endowed a gift of revelation.
God must have foreseen all the years of destruction and war. On a micro level, evolution is war. It was built into human nature from the beginning. When God chose humans, God must have seen all the shadows of humanity's darkest desires; every child murdered in Herod's quest to kill Jesus of Nazareth; every Muslim and Jew slaughtered at the hands of greatly misled crusaders.
But God said "it was good!"
I was recently told that one cannot possess faith without hope. But I have long struggled to have faith, and only now am losing hope.
This is not dissimilar to (at least from the male perspective) the concept of reproduction. Males expel their liquid wastes from the same opening through which they provide their contribution of spermatozoon. The sperm itself is little but an optimistic and random attempt at initiating the creation of life. And the cell itself results not from any but the most carnal of activities. Once the ovum is penetrated, development commences, generally requiring nine months to incubate a healthy specimen, and the end result being only the messiest and fleshy of outcomes.
Yet, from the opening of waste and the crevice of a womb comes forth that which is most capable of learning. First to understand kinetics, and then noise, and then words, and then ideas. Suddenly it is a mind empowered, and even ruminates on the notions of God and eternity. It is from the earth, made from the dust, and raised from the mud, and yet in its very design, destined to become metaphysically enlightened.
This is good.
- - - - - - -
I do not understand the environment within which I have been born. My life has been subject to so much pain and embarrassment and fruitless episodes. I am a collected mess of skin and thoughts. This afternoon I am without any notion of direction, and wonder if my labors are even worth these fleeting moments. Why was I born with such enormous aspirations only to toil in the ordinary?
I do not subscribe to the belief that God finds within the end a justification for the means. Did the lepers cry out in pain as Christ healed them of leprosy? Did the blind man scream in agony as Christ removed his blindness? Healing came without pain. Creation, but in a breath. Whole planets turn without a sound. If only the means to my end could be gentler!
When the creator God saw what It had created, God said that "it was good." God is omniscient. All of creation, existence, the beginning and end laid before God. Still, God called it good.
I struggle to find comfort in this thought.
Starting with the tiniest of atoms, pitted in fatal contests, evolving in a cutthroat system, humans arose as the most capable and clever of species, and God chose them among all of creation to be endowed a gift of revelation.
God must have foreseen all the years of destruction and war. On a micro level, evolution is war. It was built into human nature from the beginning. When God chose humans, God must have seen all the shadows of humanity's darkest desires; every child murdered in Herod's quest to kill Jesus of Nazareth; every Muslim and Jew slaughtered at the hands of greatly misled crusaders.
But God said "it was good!"
I was recently told that one cannot possess faith without hope. But I have long struggled to have faith, and only now am losing hope.
Friday, October 30, 2009
In Keeping A Child
When I was younger, I would spend so much time outdoors, that later in life my sisters and I would tell stories about our mother locking me out of the house during the summer, knowing I wouldn't return anyways until dinner.
Dirt and mud, soggy shoes and grass-stained knees, none of these things bothered me. If my hair was greasy, or my shirt was noisome, I never knew. I ran everywhere for the thrill of the wind rushing past my ears, and the momentum in my bones--never to get anywhere quickly (unless it was a race, of course).
I climbed, and imagined without shame, and I unabashedly played with toys. If the sun was out, I was outside, and if it was rainy... I was outside then too; or, at least until my mom called me back.
When did I learn to worry?
Even at the age of twenty-two, I am adolescent, but I have matured noticeably each year. What's funny is that I'm coming to an understanding of maturity that is very different from what I had imagined.
When I was in middle school, I quickly learned that if I wanted to fit in, and be cool, I would have to dawn certain costumes procured at the proper locations; I would have to keep calm and seldom smile; and I could no longer watch cartoons, or play with toys, or anything associated with childhood. I used swear words for the first time in sixth grade, and I learned how to abandon people that would bring my reputation down.
Since that time, I have come a long way. Lately I have begun to understand that maturity is not in reserved action, complete rationality, or social stoicism. We are still mature if we climb trees, or chase each other, or imagine worlds. Maturity is not supposed to lance the child out of us. In fact, I have met many who have seemed to be completely without their inner-child, and yet could not be described as anything other than juvenile individuals.
Adult deals with age and status. Maturity deals with a recognition of responsibility and urgency towards the amelioration of the world around oneself.
Understanding one's inner-child, though, requires some necessary boundaries.
I am allowed to climb trees, but if all I ever did (even if just during my free time) was climb trees, I would lose track of maturity on some level. For what does climbing trees accomplish besides a fresh perspective? And not to say that everything requires an accomplishment for its justification. But if I define all of my times of rest, and/or all of my relationships, by climbing trees, something would feel out of place. And if it came to the point that all I ever talked about, and all that I ever looked forward to, was the weekend so I could once again feel bark on my palms, and the smell of wood in my lungs, would not my life look futile?
When I was a child, my obligations were different, and so my life was allowed to focus around play. As an adult, I have an agency[ies] to fulfill.
However, the child must remain, and when I play, it seems I should be allowed to do so without fear or judgment. I should be allowed to dream. And why the hell can't I play with Legos? And these shouldn't be things that I skip, either, for the purpose of always working. The one who always works, quickly forgets how to sleep. And the one who does not sleep can no longer dream.
Our society struggles with a strange tendency to equate adulthood with a loss of humility. One of the first things one is taught in Middle School about growing up is that goofing off is uncool. When we view the things we love and bring us joy as shameful, we are too proud. Children do not comprehend pride. A soggy shoe is fun to walk on for the noise it produces. And hair is just a little extra color on someone's head.
To live healthy and fulfilling lives, our child must walk with us. I think in that way, maturity walks in stride with humility.
"And calling to him a child, [Jesus] put him in the midst of them and said, 'Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.'"
Matthew 18:2-4
Dirt and mud, soggy shoes and grass-stained knees, none of these things bothered me. If my hair was greasy, or my shirt was noisome, I never knew. I ran everywhere for the thrill of the wind rushing past my ears, and the momentum in my bones--never to get anywhere quickly (unless it was a race, of course).
I climbed, and imagined without shame, and I unabashedly played with toys. If the sun was out, I was outside, and if it was rainy... I was outside then too; or, at least until my mom called me back.
When did I learn to worry?
Even at the age of twenty-two, I am adolescent, but I have matured noticeably each year. What's funny is that I'm coming to an understanding of maturity that is very different from what I had imagined.
When I was in middle school, I quickly learned that if I wanted to fit in, and be cool, I would have to dawn certain costumes procured at the proper locations; I would have to keep calm and seldom smile; and I could no longer watch cartoons, or play with toys, or anything associated with childhood. I used swear words for the first time in sixth grade, and I learned how to abandon people that would bring my reputation down.
Since that time, I have come a long way. Lately I have begun to understand that maturity is not in reserved action, complete rationality, or social stoicism. We are still mature if we climb trees, or chase each other, or imagine worlds. Maturity is not supposed to lance the child out of us. In fact, I have met many who have seemed to be completely without their inner-child, and yet could not be described as anything other than juvenile individuals.
Adult deals with age and status. Maturity deals with a recognition of responsibility and urgency towards the amelioration of the world around oneself.
Understanding one's inner-child, though, requires some necessary boundaries.
I am allowed to climb trees, but if all I ever did (even if just during my free time) was climb trees, I would lose track of maturity on some level. For what does climbing trees accomplish besides a fresh perspective? And not to say that everything requires an accomplishment for its justification. But if I define all of my times of rest, and/or all of my relationships, by climbing trees, something would feel out of place. And if it came to the point that all I ever talked about, and all that I ever looked forward to, was the weekend so I could once again feel bark on my palms, and the smell of wood in my lungs, would not my life look futile?
When I was a child, my obligations were different, and so my life was allowed to focus around play. As an adult, I have an agency[ies] to fulfill.
However, the child must remain, and when I play, it seems I should be allowed to do so without fear or judgment. I should be allowed to dream. And why the hell can't I play with Legos? And these shouldn't be things that I skip, either, for the purpose of always working. The one who always works, quickly forgets how to sleep. And the one who does not sleep can no longer dream.
Our society struggles with a strange tendency to equate adulthood with a loss of humility. One of the first things one is taught in Middle School about growing up is that goofing off is uncool. When we view the things we love and bring us joy as shameful, we are too proud. Children do not comprehend pride. A soggy shoe is fun to walk on for the noise it produces. And hair is just a little extra color on someone's head.
To live healthy and fulfilling lives, our child must walk with us. I think in that way, maturity walks in stride with humility.
"And calling to him a child, [Jesus] put him in the midst of them and said, 'Truly, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven.'"
Matthew 18:2-4
Thursday, October 29, 2009
MUTEMATH: After
MUTEMATH took to the stage at the Orbit Room last week Tuesday, Grand Rapids being the exact halfway mark for their Fall of 2009 Armistice tour.
Fans were already in line Tuesday, hours before doors opened, many sporting MUTEMATH apparel, and standing on their toes, trying to catch a glimpse of band members as they moved back and forth between the buses and the venue.
Death By Dancing and As Tall As Lions opened for Mute Math that night.
Death By Dancing was a bit of a surprise for everyone attending the concert, since the tickets and website listed As Tall As Lions as the only opener.
They started the show strong, and although few recognized the name, many were left with a sense of urgency to find out.
As Tall As Lions followed Death By Dancing, giving what many assumed was the reason for two openers.
Dan Nigro, As Tall As Lions’ singer, had developed vocal nodules, their bassist explained, while touring with MUTEMATH, and had opted to skip the Grand Rapids show in order to take time off and heal.
The band instead played a half an hour to forty-minute jam session that some who had attended earlier shows on the tour, said was a lot better than As Tall As Lions’ usual performance.
Then it was MUTEMATH’s turn.
The crowd was wild before the band even entered the building.
There were eruptions of applause every time a roadie brought out or set up a new instrument, and there was an especially loud roar at the sight of Paul Meany’s trademark keytar.
By the time the band did take to the stage, the audience’s reaction was deafening.
“The Nerve,” the opening track on MUTEMATH’s sophomore album, Armistice, was also the first song on the night’s lineup.
The performance included fan favorites like “Chaos,” “Plan B,” and “Typical,” while also incorporating almost every song from Armistice, the album their tour was promoting.
Of course the encore was almost entirely based around one of the band’s most well known tracks, “Reset,” an incredible mix of written material and improvisation that has easily made it the pinnacle moment of MUTEMATH live shows.
Just the encore lasted for at least half an hour, as the band played through “Pins and Needles” and “Spotlight,” before ending on “Reset” and “Break the Same.”
The band had claimed before starting the Armistice tour that they had been working on some new elements for their concerts.
They practice and brainstorm for their performance almost all the time, said a MUTEMATH representative, “it’s like all they do is play a show and then plan what they’re going to do at the next one.”
During the summer, MUTEMATH’s manager, Kevin Kookogey, told fans that the band was comparing the difference between their old performances and what they were planning for their next tour as the difference between middle school and community college.
One of the most notable additions was when Darren King (MUTEMATH’s drummer) placed his bass drum into the hands of people in the audience and then stood on top of it, only to jump off into the crowd a few moments later, and crowd surf back to the stage.
Roy Mitchell-Cardenas, the bassist for MUTEMATH, incorporated the use of a bow on his stand-up bass.
He also utilized the impact of striking a propped up kick drum with one hand, while forming chords on his bass with the other hand to create a harmonious percussion.
Paul Meany, MUTEMATH’s lead vocals and keyboardist, was often jumping on top of his keyboard and then off again, at a couple points even doing hand stands on it, mid-performance.
Despite the constant movement, the quality of the music was never compromised.
Another huge element of their shows that was certainly present at this one was the use of lighting.
Electronic, stand-up drums shot out projected fireballs upon being struck by band members, and heavy backlighting led to an almost Germanic expressionism of the musical, often percussive elements on stage.
Even in their older shows, some form of strong backlight was present in order to emphasize certain moments where action and sound purposely combined.
But most of these elements seem to be with great purpose: to keep the audience’s energy up.
“They [MUTEMATH] seem to draw their energy from the audience,” one fan pointed out, discussing how the worst MUTEMATH performance he had ever seen was when the band played in Tokyo, and was at least ten yards separated from their audience.
At this concert, the audience was only a couple feet away, a barrier often broken by the band.
One of the greatest moments was at the presentation of what fans lovingly refer to as the “Atari,” a home-made, guitar shaped synthesizer the band constructed primarily out of Atari parts
The instrument is produced every concert during one song, played by Paul Meany before he passes it off into the audience for fans to play.
After the concert, a large number of fans stuck around outside, waiting for an hour in on and off sprinkling rain to meet with the band members who excitedly obliged.
Fans thanked the band for their show that night, as well as the music they’ve produced, some even expressing to the band members how the band’s music had shaped lives or inspired direction.
Their music has been from the start an attempt to break molds, whether musical, or ideological.
They’re not a Christian band, but they are attempting to inspire restoration.
Even in the hardest times, they’re fighting for armistice in the hope for a truce.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
What Motion Do We Make? (1st draft)
Outside my window lies
a world beyond the kitchen sink
so quiet like a frame
and painted in the tame movements of
Winter's approach.
The world yawns in daze
as days pass beneath sun's rays
and I long to crawl like the
Bear and wrap warm earth about me tight.
If winter were just one night!
If my being were the limit of
success and the definition of solidarity.
No, I am no monster with sharpened claws or fangs.
But like the leaves I long to fall within nature's arms and rest.
Do trees fall for less than this?
Am I bound to always wander,
unattached from closest kin?
Oh Nature, how she wanders
also with the world,
a movement always turning.
We are but mortals ever moving
and we alter so,
like brushes in the wind.
Some day the dawn breaks
deep within us all
and we too return to Nature's arms
like bright leaves or falling stars.
All must motion forth to rest.
a world beyond the kitchen sink
so quiet like a frame
and painted in the tame movements of
Winter's approach.
The world yawns in daze
as days pass beneath sun's rays
and I long to crawl like the
Bear and wrap warm earth about me tight.
If winter were just one night!
If my being were the limit of
success and the definition of solidarity.
No, I am no monster with sharpened claws or fangs.
But like the leaves I long to fall within nature's arms and rest.
Do trees fall for less than this?
Am I bound to always wander,
unattached from closest kin?
Oh Nature, how she wanders
also with the world,
a movement always turning.
We are but mortals ever moving
and we alter so,
like brushes in the wind.
Some day the dawn breaks
deep within us all
and we too return to Nature's arms
like bright leaves or falling stars.
All must motion forth to rest.
Friday, October 23, 2009
The Adventures of Lewis Beacon: Part 2 - The Hookah Lounge (continued)
I was going to save this next slot for my MUTEMATH: After entry. But sinceI'm doing it as an article for the Chimes next week, I'm saving it until then.
This slot is instead will be taken by a continuation of my Lewis Beacon experiment. So without further adieu:
The three guys sat down at a table closer to the front and immediately gave some orders to the waitress. There was no way for Lewis to hear what they were saying. They looked perfectly normal, like old friends.
"Is that them," Lisa asked.
"Uh-huh," Lewis mouthed. He couldn't believe his eyes.
"Who's the guy with them? Is that--" Kyle began before Lewis cut him off.
"Brad... yeah."
"Well, he doesn't look bad at all," Karen said. Suddenly she smiled. "Did you just make that up?"
The whole group started to chuckle.
"No. Guys, it's not funny," Lewis tried to defend himself. "Those are the same three guys I saw in the locker room. And that middle one? That's Brad."
"Well if they were beating him up, why isn't he all bruised and scared?" Karen was annoyed that Lewis was continuing the joke.
"I... I don't know. I don't get it."
"Yo, maybe you should go over there and ask them" Hewett suggested.
The rest of them laughed.
"Dude, whatever you think you saw, you obviously didn't," Kyle said. "Maybe they were different guys."
Lewis looked at the rest of the group. They were all staring at him, waiting to see what he was going to do. He stood up, and then without a word, sat down next to Hewett, just barely squeezing onto the couch. It allowed him to watch Brad without obviously turning his body. There was a moment of awkward silence and then Karen broke it, asking Lisa how classes were going for her. Kyle piped in a tease at Lisa's poor study habits. Hewett pointed out that Kyle's were no better, and the conversation continued similarly as the hoses were passed around.
Brad, Brent, and Turk, despite their buddy-buddy appearances when they came into the lounge, were hardly talking now. Brent and Turk were watching a soccer game on a TV mounted on the opposite wall. Brad was sitting slumped back, staring absently at the hookah.
The waitress returned with their drinks. They had all ordered the same thing. After dropping them off, the waitress spotted Lewis' gaze and came over to him.
"How's everyone doing here," she asked cordially. "Can I get you another drink?"
Lewis realized she was talking to him and looked up.
"I'll have whatever those three are drinking." He nodded in the direction of Brent's table.''
"Sure thing." She turned to rest of the group and asked if they needed anything. Lewis continued staring at Brad. He hardly moved.
A minute later the waitress returned with Lewis' order. It was and energy drink called COCAINE. Lewis was thanking the waitress when Hewett suddenly elbowed him in the ribs.
"What?"
"It looks like your friend's going to the bathroom." Lewis looked up as Brad walked by their table and into the back. He was wearing a different shirt from before in the locker rooms, but it was still the same guy. The hood on his red hoodie was pulled over his head and the complexion of his face looked strange. Lewis couldn't tell if it was his imagination, or the dim lighting of the lounge that made Brad look like he was wearing makeup.
"I'm going to ask him if he's alright," Lewis said as he got up and followed Brad to the bathrooms.
There was a long, thin hallway that went around the kitchen and opened up into a small waiting room for the single restrooms. Brad was just closing the men's room door as Lewis came around the corner and jammed his shoe into the crack.
"What the fu--" Lewis quickly threw his hand over Brad's mouth.
"Shhh! I know what's going on, I want to help you."
Brad pulled his head away and looked angrily at Lewis.
"The fuck you know?"
"I know you've written an article on something those two guys you're with aren't happy about. I know they just roughed you over in the Men's Locker Room at school. I know you're here against your will."
Brad opened the door more.
"You don't know anything," he said, sounding much less certain than before. His eyes were shaky, darting at the hallway behind them and then back at Lewis. In the better lighting Lewis could tell he was wearing makeup. Finally Brad sighed.
"I can't fight them alone," he said. "I think if you hit anyone enough they'll give in."
"Let me help. I'll call the police right now, tell them you've been assaulted. They'll come in a few seconds and you can testify--"
"It's not that simple. If you want to help get my computer back. It's in my room, 250 Boer. I don't have a roommate. If you can get it, bring it to the document rack on the second floor of the library, tomorrow at five."
"But what about you?"
"I'll be fine. Just get my computer."
"They're adults. The police will--"
"--You really don't know anything. Thanks anyways, but you don't want to get involved."
"Library at five. Got it." Lewis turned and nearly ran into a girl walking towards the women's room.
After apologizing to the girl, Lewis went back and sat down next to Hewett. Everyone at his table was staring at him, waiting to hear what happened.
"Well?" They all seemed to ask in unison.
"I'll explain later. Right now I've got to go take care of something."
He pulled a crumple of money out of his pocket and counted out what he owed.
"Are you ditching us?" Lisa spouted in fake annoyance.
"Yeah. I'm going to help him."
As he left, Lewis realized Brent and Turk were finally talking to each other. He tried to look as naturally as possible as he strained to listen to their conversation. But the music and the people were too loud. Lewis hurried onto the street and down to his car. He had to get to Boer before Brent and Turk did.
This slot is instead will be taken by a continuation of my Lewis Beacon experiment. So without further adieu:
The three guys sat down at a table closer to the front and immediately gave some orders to the waitress. There was no way for Lewis to hear what they were saying. They looked perfectly normal, like old friends.
"Is that them," Lisa asked.
"Uh-huh," Lewis mouthed. He couldn't believe his eyes.
"Who's the guy with them? Is that--" Kyle began before Lewis cut him off.
"Brad... yeah."
"Well, he doesn't look bad at all," Karen said. Suddenly she smiled. "Did you just make that up?"
The whole group started to chuckle.
"No. Guys, it's not funny," Lewis tried to defend himself. "Those are the same three guys I saw in the locker room. And that middle one? That's Brad."
"Well if they were beating him up, why isn't he all bruised and scared?" Karen was annoyed that Lewis was continuing the joke.
"I... I don't know. I don't get it."
"Yo, maybe you should go over there and ask them" Hewett suggested.
The rest of them laughed.
"Dude, whatever you think you saw, you obviously didn't," Kyle said. "Maybe they were different guys."
Lewis looked at the rest of the group. They were all staring at him, waiting to see what he was going to do. He stood up, and then without a word, sat down next to Hewett, just barely squeezing onto the couch. It allowed him to watch Brad without obviously turning his body. There was a moment of awkward silence and then Karen broke it, asking Lisa how classes were going for her. Kyle piped in a tease at Lisa's poor study habits. Hewett pointed out that Kyle's were no better, and the conversation continued similarly as the hoses were passed around.
Brad, Brent, and Turk, despite their buddy-buddy appearances when they came into the lounge, were hardly talking now. Brent and Turk were watching a soccer game on a TV mounted on the opposite wall. Brad was sitting slumped back, staring absently at the hookah.
The waitress returned with their drinks. They had all ordered the same thing. After dropping them off, the waitress spotted Lewis' gaze and came over to him.
"How's everyone doing here," she asked cordially. "Can I get you another drink?"
Lewis realized she was talking to him and looked up.
"I'll have whatever those three are drinking." He nodded in the direction of Brent's table.''
"Sure thing." She turned to rest of the group and asked if they needed anything. Lewis continued staring at Brad. He hardly moved.
A minute later the waitress returned with Lewis' order. It was and energy drink called COCAINE. Lewis was thanking the waitress when Hewett suddenly elbowed him in the ribs.
"What?"
"It looks like your friend's going to the bathroom." Lewis looked up as Brad walked by their table and into the back. He was wearing a different shirt from before in the locker rooms, but it was still the same guy. The hood on his red hoodie was pulled over his head and the complexion of his face looked strange. Lewis couldn't tell if it was his imagination, or the dim lighting of the lounge that made Brad look like he was wearing makeup.
"I'm going to ask him if he's alright," Lewis said as he got up and followed Brad to the bathrooms.
There was a long, thin hallway that went around the kitchen and opened up into a small waiting room for the single restrooms. Brad was just closing the men's room door as Lewis came around the corner and jammed his shoe into the crack.
"What the fu--" Lewis quickly threw his hand over Brad's mouth.
"Shhh! I know what's going on, I want to help you."
Brad pulled his head away and looked angrily at Lewis.
"The fuck you know?"
"I know you've written an article on something those two guys you're with aren't happy about. I know they just roughed you over in the Men's Locker Room at school. I know you're here against your will."
Brad opened the door more.
"You don't know anything," he said, sounding much less certain than before. His eyes were shaky, darting at the hallway behind them and then back at Lewis. In the better lighting Lewis could tell he was wearing makeup. Finally Brad sighed.
"I can't fight them alone," he said. "I think if you hit anyone enough they'll give in."
"Let me help. I'll call the police right now, tell them you've been assaulted. They'll come in a few seconds and you can testify--"
"It's not that simple. If you want to help get my computer back. It's in my room, 250 Boer. I don't have a roommate. If you can get it, bring it to the document rack on the second floor of the library, tomorrow at five."
"But what about you?"
"I'll be fine. Just get my computer."
"They're adults. The police will--"
"--You really don't know anything. Thanks anyways, but you don't want to get involved."
"Library at five. Got it." Lewis turned and nearly ran into a girl walking towards the women's room.
After apologizing to the girl, Lewis went back and sat down next to Hewett. Everyone at his table was staring at him, waiting to hear what happened.
"Well?" They all seemed to ask in unison.
"I'll explain later. Right now I've got to go take care of something."
He pulled a crumple of money out of his pocket and counted out what he owed.
"Are you ditching us?" Lisa spouted in fake annoyance.
"Yeah. I'm going to help him."
As he left, Lewis realized Brent and Turk were finally talking to each other. He tried to look as naturally as possible as he strained to listen to their conversation. But the music and the people were too loud. Lewis hurried onto the street and down to his car. He had to get to Boer before Brent and Turk did.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
MUTEMATH: Before
The last two years of high school were hard times in my life.
For the first two years I fit in well where I wanted to, I was friends with a lot of people, I was a major personality in my 400-student, senior high, youth group, and I had a well-paying job at American Eagle that provided me with a continuous supply of very cheap, fashionable clothing.
Then one day my world crashed down around me. Some of my closest friends hurt me deeply. I lost confidence in myself, and thus also lost confidence in God whom I though would protect me.
I stopped listening to the factory-molded CCM that had for so long filled my music libraries, and sought out the more independent and underground of the Christian music world. As time went on, that also led to a discovery of quality secular music, aside from oldies and jazz. One of the first artists I came across on a Pandora-esqe online radio site was a band called Mute Math. They had only recently released an EP entitled Reset, and I soon found myself downloading it to enjoy the album in its entirety.
It was not long after that when I learned two of the members of Mute Math were originally a part of another old Christian band I was once a fan of--Earthsuit. I began following Mute Math pretty loyally, although I never had a chance to see them live for at least the next two years. At the time, I was into a different music scene which took most of my focus. Jazz, at the time, was much more important to me.
I asked for a turntable for Christmas, and my parents got it for me. The search was on to find my favorite artists on vinyl. But then I saw an advertisement for an exclusive Mutemath vinyl. They had just begun touring in promotion of their premier, self-titled album. Unable to attend the show in my area, I wasted no time in at least ordering the vinyl.
Then the hard times got worse with more friend drama. I felt like an outsider, and was ever-conscious of my brokenness. The album arrived in the mail not long after, and it became all that I ever played on that old turntable of mine. Their music was exactly my style. It was obscure and fresh, electronic and acoustic, and all around different from anything I had heard before. The lyrics spoke into my life, and a lot of the things I were feeling were touched on in one song or another.
It was music to get me through a hard time.
Tonight I am attending their concert, which is part of a promotional tour for their sophomore album. And let me tell you, I am excited!
For the first two years I fit in well where I wanted to, I was friends with a lot of people, I was a major personality in my 400-student, senior high, youth group, and I had a well-paying job at American Eagle that provided me with a continuous supply of very cheap, fashionable clothing.
Then one day my world crashed down around me. Some of my closest friends hurt me deeply. I lost confidence in myself, and thus also lost confidence in God whom I though would protect me.
I stopped listening to the factory-molded CCM that had for so long filled my music libraries, and sought out the more independent and underground of the Christian music world. As time went on, that also led to a discovery of quality secular music, aside from oldies and jazz. One of the first artists I came across on a Pandora-esqe online radio site was a band called Mute Math. They had only recently released an EP entitled Reset, and I soon found myself downloading it to enjoy the album in its entirety.
It was not long after that when I learned two of the members of Mute Math were originally a part of another old Christian band I was once a fan of--Earthsuit. I began following Mute Math pretty loyally, although I never had a chance to see them live for at least the next two years. At the time, I was into a different music scene which took most of my focus. Jazz, at the time, was much more important to me.
I asked for a turntable for Christmas, and my parents got it for me. The search was on to find my favorite artists on vinyl. But then I saw an advertisement for an exclusive Mutemath vinyl. They had just begun touring in promotion of their premier, self-titled album. Unable to attend the show in my area, I wasted no time in at least ordering the vinyl.
Then the hard times got worse with more friend drama. I felt like an outsider, and was ever-conscious of my brokenness. The album arrived in the mail not long after, and it became all that I ever played on that old turntable of mine. Their music was exactly my style. It was obscure and fresh, electronic and acoustic, and all around different from anything I had heard before. The lyrics spoke into my life, and a lot of the things I were feeling were touched on in one song or another.
It was music to get me through a hard time.
Tonight I am attending their concert, which is part of a promotional tour for their sophomore album. And let me tell you, I am excited!
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Breaking with a lot of Uncertainty
Study break!
It's been too long since I've added onto this, and there are definitely a couple significant events that ought to be added.
A week ago last Tuesday I was leaving to go to school when I stepped outside and discovered my car no longer where I had parked it the night before. From what we can figure, I had parked Merlin across the street from someone's driveway a couple houses down from me, and they didn't like it, so they called the police and claimed that it was blocking their driveway. The police obligingly came and towed it bright and early that morning before anyone else was awake. The rest of my day was completely devoted to Merlin's recovery. Unfortunately, while I managed to grab a ride with Nate to get downtown to the police department, I did not have a ride from the police department to the impound. As it turns out, that's a 2.7 mile walk, and I actually walked past it before turning back, making that about a 3.2 mile walk. Oh yeah, and it was pouring rain the entire time. That was not a good day. I missed my class, payed a lot of money, and ultimately fell behind due to the lack of productivity on what usually functions as my main work day.
The weekend before I had spent on a somewhat entertaining camping trip with my Wilderness Pursuits class (a surprising requirement in order to pass the class). However, the weekends are normally my time of rest, and as I discovered that week, it's hard to be productive when you don't feel like you've really stopped or had a break for two weeks. My car getting impounded definitely didn't help getting on track for that week either. So I grew a beard and prayed to whatever God I pray to that my week might end well. And for all extensive purposes it did. I went to the Symphony with some great friends, and then met some other friends at a bar for a birthday. The rest of the weekend was extremely restful, and I managed to get substantial work done around the house.
I also decided that, so far, I've never met a Joe, Joey, or Joseph that I've liked besides my uncle Joe, and that makes me wonder if people really do develop certain characteristics based solely on their name. That thought made me decide I did not want to be like the other Davids. I have liked only a fraction of the Dave's and Davids that I've met. I want to be a Goodwin. Although I'm positive that only a fraction of the people I know like me.
Then last week I realized that I could not escape Jesus. This is because I sold him my soul for salvation. But then Obenchain completely rocked my world and asked me if the reason for joining a religion was really for personal salvation. She seemed to think personal salvation was a silly reason to subscribe to a belief system. Maybe I agree. But I certainly wasn't looking at it like that until she pointed that out. Now I'm considering joining a church.
And I guess that brings me to today. I went to Sherman Street church. Before the pastor even preached I knew what was going on. Jesus has begun his move back into my life. I suppose they were words of Sherman Street's chaplain that were my hint. She was encouraging the congregation to move about and greet one another, and she said something to the extent of whether we were in love with Jesus, but still learning more about Him everyday, or we were "yearning to know Jesus," we should move about. I don't like the name Jesus because of what it brings up in my mind. In my mind it represents a movement that is superficial, shallow, ignorant, and unproductive. But church this morning was hardly any of that. And quite frankly, I feel like the whole mess of Christianity is inescapable for me. It's something I can't leave. I really don't know what to do. Jesus really isn't working for me in one sense, but He definitely works in another. I really don't know.
I know it's jumbled and rushed and semi-confusing, but I had to get some of these thoughts out while I study. Sometimes I need a break from the things uncertain.
It's been too long since I've added onto this, and there are definitely a couple significant events that ought to be added.
A week ago last Tuesday I was leaving to go to school when I stepped outside and discovered my car no longer where I had parked it the night before. From what we can figure, I had parked Merlin across the street from someone's driveway a couple houses down from me, and they didn't like it, so they called the police and claimed that it was blocking their driveway. The police obligingly came and towed it bright and early that morning before anyone else was awake. The rest of my day was completely devoted to Merlin's recovery. Unfortunately, while I managed to grab a ride with Nate to get downtown to the police department, I did not have a ride from the police department to the impound. As it turns out, that's a 2.7 mile walk, and I actually walked past it before turning back, making that about a 3.2 mile walk. Oh yeah, and it was pouring rain the entire time. That was not a good day. I missed my class, payed a lot of money, and ultimately fell behind due to the lack of productivity on what usually functions as my main work day.
The weekend before I had spent on a somewhat entertaining camping trip with my Wilderness Pursuits class (a surprising requirement in order to pass the class). However, the weekends are normally my time of rest, and as I discovered that week, it's hard to be productive when you don't feel like you've really stopped or had a break for two weeks. My car getting impounded definitely didn't help getting on track for that week either. So I grew a beard and prayed to whatever God I pray to that my week might end well. And for all extensive purposes it did. I went to the Symphony with some great friends, and then met some other friends at a bar for a birthday. The rest of the weekend was extremely restful, and I managed to get substantial work done around the house.
I also decided that, so far, I've never met a Joe, Joey, or Joseph that I've liked besides my uncle Joe, and that makes me wonder if people really do develop certain characteristics based solely on their name. That thought made me decide I did not want to be like the other Davids. I have liked only a fraction of the Dave's and Davids that I've met. I want to be a Goodwin. Although I'm positive that only a fraction of the people I know like me.
Then last week I realized that I could not escape Jesus. This is because I sold him my soul for salvation. But then Obenchain completely rocked my world and asked me if the reason for joining a religion was really for personal salvation. She seemed to think personal salvation was a silly reason to subscribe to a belief system. Maybe I agree. But I certainly wasn't looking at it like that until she pointed that out. Now I'm considering joining a church.
And I guess that brings me to today. I went to Sherman Street church. Before the pastor even preached I knew what was going on. Jesus has begun his move back into my life. I suppose they were words of Sherman Street's chaplain that were my hint. She was encouraging the congregation to move about and greet one another, and she said something to the extent of whether we were in love with Jesus, but still learning more about Him everyday, or we were "yearning to know Jesus," we should move about. I don't like the name Jesus because of what it brings up in my mind. In my mind it represents a movement that is superficial, shallow, ignorant, and unproductive. But church this morning was hardly any of that. And quite frankly, I feel like the whole mess of Christianity is inescapable for me. It's something I can't leave. I really don't know what to do. Jesus really isn't working for me in one sense, but He definitely works in another. I really don't know.
I know it's jumbled and rushed and semi-confusing, but I had to get some of these thoughts out while I study. Sometimes I need a break from the things uncertain.
Friday, October 2, 2009
The Adventures of Lewis Beacon: Part 2 - The Hookah Lounge
It was a cold walk from Lewis' car to the lounge. Winter seemed to be stepping on Fall's toes. People stood on the sidewalks, huddled in groups talking outside of a hot dog joint and coffee shop across the street. They were mainly just post-punk kids, with their dirty, greasy hair and skinny jeans, pretending their rebellion counted against mother nature.
Someone pulled up in their car, right in front of the Hookah Lounge. A kid, probably no older than eighteen, hopped out and grabbed the door to the lounge as the car drove away. Lewis snuck in behind the kid.
Inside the lounge the smell of smoke was permanently in the air. Loud hip-hop bass bumped from speakers in the ceiling. Long, slow strains of hookah smoke wound lazily out of the mouths of a group next to the door. They were sitting on plush couches and swivel chairs around a table with three large hookahs. People talked and laughed over the music. The owner sat at the bar towards the back, staring at a wall-mounted flat screen TV.
Lewis was supposed to meet some friends that night. For a minute he stood at the door, staring around the club. The greeter was just asking him where he'd like to sit when Lewis spotted his friends. They were around a table near the bar. One of his friends, Hewett Vekeraam, stood up and waved at Lewis. Hewett was extremely tall, nearly six and a half feet to be exact. He had dark, brown hair, nearly black, with bright blue eyes.
Also at the table were Hewett's girlfriend, Karen Linderhill, Kyle Brown, Hewett's roommate, and Kyle's girlfriend, Lisa Phillips.
They had already ordered two hookahs so Lewis asked the waitress for a latte. The waitress walked away, and as soon as she did, Hewett leaned forward and asked, "So what took you so long?"
Lewis smirked, "You wouldn't believe if I told you."
"Try us," quipped Lisa.
Lewis recounted the entire event that had just happened in the gym locker rooms.
"And you didn't help him?" both women exclaimed in unison.
"Yo, fuck that," Hewett said. "If I meet Brent or Turk, I'll fuck them up!"
"I'm kind of with the women," said Kyle, "I'm surprised you didn't help him."
"Dude, they were as big as cavemen," Lewis said. "It would have been like me versus two giants. I wouldn't stand a chance."
"I'm sure my man called Campus Safety," Hewett said in Lewis' defense.
The other three looked at Lewis to see his response. Lewis winced.
"Well... I, uh. I..."
"What?"
"Why not?"
"Great! This Brad kid is probably dead now," Karen huffed, sitting back in the couch.
"They're not going kill anyone. That would be stupid," Lewis said. "You'd never get away with it at Calvin. There are cameras everywhere."
Everyone stopped talking for a while. Lewis could tell that Kyle, Lisa, and Karen were obviously disappointed in him. Hewett just grinned sheepishly. The waitress came back with Lewis' latte and set it down on the table. Lewis thanked her. She smiled fakely and walked away.
Lewis was watching the TV above the bar when Kyle got his attention.
"What did you say 'Brent' looked like?"
"Uh," Lewis turned back towards Kyle, "he was about as big as a house, with a black faux-hawk, and dressed in black sportswear."
Kyle nodded towards the door.
"You might want to see who just came in."
The whole group turned to see three men walk into the lounge: Brent, Turk, and Brad.
Someone pulled up in their car, right in front of the Hookah Lounge. A kid, probably no older than eighteen, hopped out and grabbed the door to the lounge as the car drove away. Lewis snuck in behind the kid.
Inside the lounge the smell of smoke was permanently in the air. Loud hip-hop bass bumped from speakers in the ceiling. Long, slow strains of hookah smoke wound lazily out of the mouths of a group next to the door. They were sitting on plush couches and swivel chairs around a table with three large hookahs. People talked and laughed over the music. The owner sat at the bar towards the back, staring at a wall-mounted flat screen TV.
Lewis was supposed to meet some friends that night. For a minute he stood at the door, staring around the club. The greeter was just asking him where he'd like to sit when Lewis spotted his friends. They were around a table near the bar. One of his friends, Hewett Vekeraam, stood up and waved at Lewis. Hewett was extremely tall, nearly six and a half feet to be exact. He had dark, brown hair, nearly black, with bright blue eyes.
Also at the table were Hewett's girlfriend, Karen Linderhill, Kyle Brown, Hewett's roommate, and Kyle's girlfriend, Lisa Phillips.
They had already ordered two hookahs so Lewis asked the waitress for a latte. The waitress walked away, and as soon as she did, Hewett leaned forward and asked, "So what took you so long?"
Lewis smirked, "You wouldn't believe if I told you."
"Try us," quipped Lisa.
Lewis recounted the entire event that had just happened in the gym locker rooms.
"And you didn't help him?" both women exclaimed in unison.
"Yo, fuck that," Hewett said. "If I meet Brent or Turk, I'll fuck them up!"
"I'm kind of with the women," said Kyle, "I'm surprised you didn't help him."
"Dude, they were as big as cavemen," Lewis said. "It would have been like me versus two giants. I wouldn't stand a chance."
"I'm sure my man called Campus Safety," Hewett said in Lewis' defense.
The other three looked at Lewis to see his response. Lewis winced.
"Well... I, uh. I..."
"What?"
"Why not?"
"Great! This Brad kid is probably dead now," Karen huffed, sitting back in the couch.
"They're not going kill anyone. That would be stupid," Lewis said. "You'd never get away with it at Calvin. There are cameras everywhere."
Everyone stopped talking for a while. Lewis could tell that Kyle, Lisa, and Karen were obviously disappointed in him. Hewett just grinned sheepishly. The waitress came back with Lewis' latte and set it down on the table. Lewis thanked her. She smiled fakely and walked away.
Lewis was watching the TV above the bar when Kyle got his attention.
"What did you say 'Brent' looked like?"
"Uh," Lewis turned back towards Kyle, "he was about as big as a house, with a black faux-hawk, and dressed in black sportswear."
Kyle nodded towards the door.
"You might want to see who just came in."
The whole group turned to see three men walk into the lounge: Brent, Turk, and Brad.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
Running for a Baby Banana
I have really strange dreams. Sometimes they're fun, other times terrifying. People talk about one or two reoccurring dreams they experience regularly. About the only regularity in my dreams is how bizarre they never fail to be.
A good number of them are so strange, I have to write them down. Every once in a while I even turn them into stories... except last time I did that, it didn't really make sense by the end.
Last night, I had a dream that started off in a very terrifying manner. Unfortunately I am only now attempting to record what I saw, and the only things that I remember clearly took place in the middle of my dreaming.
I was running down a side street in an unrecognizable neighborhood. The only familiar aspects of the area were houses that looked similar to the ones in my own neighborhood, and the African-American kids walking down the sidewalk. For some reason I ran over to the kids, and we exchanged some sort of discourse (the content of which now escapes me). Suddenly I heard a commotion down the street and around the corner, so I left the kids and ran to the next street.
There were no houses on this street. Instead, on one side was some sort of church, and on the other was a school. On the right side of the street (the school side, I believe), a car had crashed, and smoke was pouring out of it. A few people stood by dumbfounded, and at first I didn't know why. All I was focusing on at first were the people in the smoking car. They were friends of mine!
I ran to the car and began getting everyone out of it. Three of the four were dazed but otherwise in good health. The driver however was unconscious. I opened the door, unbuckled her seat belt, and carried her out of harm's way.
Then I turned and saw what everyone else was staring at. At the end of the street was a busy intersection with a traffic light. Cars were waiting at the light, lined up on the adjacent road. The woman who had caused my friends to run their car off the road was now driving away, having hijacked a US Post Office truck. She clearly intended to ram into a car waiting at the light, but what she didn't notice were two baby carriages in front of the car. I ran again, this time to try and stop her, but it was too late. Before I could do anything, she plowed into the car, t-boning it, and causing a slight explosion. One of the carriages was hurled sideways.
I ran to it and lifted the limp form of a child out and into my arms. It was dead. Then, before my eyes, it turned into a banana--unpeeled. Right now, it seems quite funny. But in the moment, I was filled with sadness. I began to weep, clutching the banana close. Soon the paramedics arrived. The mother was found and notified, and everyone was given their required care.
A few days later, but still in my dream, I was at a weird party. Again, I don't recall why, but just trust that it was weird from everything else I've described. We were eating, and someone started joking about a banana in a fruit bowl on the table. I couldn't stop myself. Without a word, I ran from the room crying; I never thought I'd recover.
I woke up then. For a moment I laid there, trying to cry. How does one find a good day in such a beginning?
Though truthfully, I look for meaning in my dreams. Today, I watched for accidents.
A good number of them are so strange, I have to write them down. Every once in a while I even turn them into stories... except last time I did that, it didn't really make sense by the end.
Last night, I had a dream that started off in a very terrifying manner. Unfortunately I am only now attempting to record what I saw, and the only things that I remember clearly took place in the middle of my dreaming.
I was running down a side street in an unrecognizable neighborhood. The only familiar aspects of the area were houses that looked similar to the ones in my own neighborhood, and the African-American kids walking down the sidewalk. For some reason I ran over to the kids, and we exchanged some sort of discourse (the content of which now escapes me). Suddenly I heard a commotion down the street and around the corner, so I left the kids and ran to the next street.
There were no houses on this street. Instead, on one side was some sort of church, and on the other was a school. On the right side of the street (the school side, I believe), a car had crashed, and smoke was pouring out of it. A few people stood by dumbfounded, and at first I didn't know why. All I was focusing on at first were the people in the smoking car. They were friends of mine!
I ran to the car and began getting everyone out of it. Three of the four were dazed but otherwise in good health. The driver however was unconscious. I opened the door, unbuckled her seat belt, and carried her out of harm's way.
Then I turned and saw what everyone else was staring at. At the end of the street was a busy intersection with a traffic light. Cars were waiting at the light, lined up on the adjacent road. The woman who had caused my friends to run their car off the road was now driving away, having hijacked a US Post Office truck. She clearly intended to ram into a car waiting at the light, but what she didn't notice were two baby carriages in front of the car. I ran again, this time to try and stop her, but it was too late. Before I could do anything, she plowed into the car, t-boning it, and causing a slight explosion. One of the carriages was hurled sideways.
I ran to it and lifted the limp form of a child out and into my arms. It was dead. Then, before my eyes, it turned into a banana--unpeeled. Right now, it seems quite funny. But in the moment, I was filled with sadness. I began to weep, clutching the banana close. Soon the paramedics arrived. The mother was found and notified, and everyone was given their required care.
A few days later, but still in my dream, I was at a weird party. Again, I don't recall why, but just trust that it was weird from everything else I've described. We were eating, and someone started joking about a banana in a fruit bowl on the table. I couldn't stop myself. Without a word, I ran from the room crying; I never thought I'd recover.
I woke up then. For a moment I laid there, trying to cry. How does one find a good day in such a beginning?
Though truthfully, I look for meaning in my dreams. Today, I watched for accidents.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
jonah Complex
There's a whole strand of disappointments that have wound through the beginning of this week.
Up until last week, I was overly confident in my control of things.
Things. Things. Things.
Seconds and hours, and all those things that somehow added into a past for my Mr. David Vincent Goodwin, resident of 1400 Bemis, Grand Rapids, MI, student of three years and one half of a semester at Calvin College, son of Karen and Lloyd, and older brother to Julia and Natalie.
But what am I really?
About a year ago, I knew it all. And while all of my adventures as of late have been something, where does my identity fit into all of this?
The weekend before this week was really wild. On Friday, I spent a lot of time with a bunch of people I was very happy to see. The next day, I cleaned sheep skins with Alexander, helped in cleaning the house, and then went with the same people as the night before to explore Art Prize. Sunday flew by as well. Church was useless, only redeemed by a great breakfast with some good friends.
And then yesterday. Seriously, where does one begin? There was the frigid rain, the numerous mental mix-ups making me late, a healthy load of house tensions, a mis-communication ending in my feeling rejected, and a total stranger challenging my running from God. Does God want me so badly? Or am I just stuck in a place where I can't escape busybodies?
I don't deny the completely wonderful smell of Autumn that fills my lungs everytime I step outside. And yesterday Henry was kind enough to go with me to the Hookah lounge and just listen. There was healing somewhere or another in the midst of those experiences.
But it is never easy to hear that the person who was once a massive part of your identity is now moving on to become part of someone else's. And that kind of hurts.
It certainly only rehashed my wrestlings with God from the day before. If I ever become a Christian again, I'm changing my name to Israel. Because God's hand is reaching for my hip, and I'm holding him until morning.
Up until last week, I was overly confident in my control of things.
Things. Things. Things.
Seconds and hours, and all those things that somehow added into a past for my Mr. David Vincent Goodwin, resident of 1400 Bemis, Grand Rapids, MI, student of three years and one half of a semester at Calvin College, son of Karen and Lloyd, and older brother to Julia and Natalie.
But what am I really?
About a year ago, I knew it all. And while all of my adventures as of late have been something, where does my identity fit into all of this?
The weekend before this week was really wild. On Friday, I spent a lot of time with a bunch of people I was very happy to see. The next day, I cleaned sheep skins with Alexander, helped in cleaning the house, and then went with the same people as the night before to explore Art Prize. Sunday flew by as well. Church was useless, only redeemed by a great breakfast with some good friends.
And then yesterday. Seriously, where does one begin? There was the frigid rain, the numerous mental mix-ups making me late, a healthy load of house tensions, a mis-communication ending in my feeling rejected, and a total stranger challenging my running from God. Does God want me so badly? Or am I just stuck in a place where I can't escape busybodies?
I don't deny the completely wonderful smell of Autumn that fills my lungs everytime I step outside. And yesterday Henry was kind enough to go with me to the Hookah lounge and just listen. There was healing somewhere or another in the midst of those experiences.
But it is never easy to hear that the person who was once a massive part of your identity is now moving on to become part of someone else's. And that kind of hurts.
It certainly only rehashed my wrestlings with God from the day before. If I ever become a Christian again, I'm changing my name to Israel. Because God's hand is reaching for my hip, and I'm holding him until morning.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Ears to Hear
"What do you value in your God?"
That was the question of yesterday morning.
The night before yesterday, I stayed up way too late working on my studies. I didn't feel like sleeping in my bed because there's some sort of r.o.u.s. taking residency above it in the attic. Instead, I pulled out my sleeping bag and favorite blanket and curled up on one of the couches in the family room.
Six hours later--around eight in the morning--one of my housemates came pounding down the stairs. He was late, and he was in a hurry. The couch I was sleeping on was right next to the stairs, so naturally the noise emitting from his descent sounded like lighting in my ears. I sat up in surprise, looking around to make sure had taken an early morning tumble.
Henry was flustered but fine, yelling an apology for waking me up as he ran out the front door. I laid back down, but sleeping wasn't an option anymore. My options were stay up or move upstairs to my bed and risk awaking later with a giant rodent on my face.
John woke up soon after, and seeing me in my usual morning stupor, asked if I would join him for a morning smoke on the porch. I don't smoke, but I love hanging out with people who do. They always have great conversations while smoking, and you can learn a lot from them.
This morning was no exception.
I don't recall what began the conversation, but we ended up on the topic of God's grace versus his justice. John insisted that our main focus should be on God's justice. I disagreed, and no matter how either of us put it, the other would not change views.
But the question of the conversation prevailed, "what do you value in God?" It seemed to be the main cause for differences in opinion between John and I.
I was suddenly reminded of a time when I was studying the story of Joseph in Genesis last year. I had the incredible revelation that God blesses those who work hard for Him. Each time Joseph was thrown into a new situation, he'd work diligently, and stay obedient to his boss, and the Lord would in turn bless him for his faithfulness and hard work.
This revelation was so moving for me, that I called one of my closest friends, Eric Peterson, to tell him about it. I was in the middle of saying how encouraging the story of Joseph was, and about to explain the part about diligence and obedience when Eric cut me off.
"Yeah," Eric said, "because God protects and provides for Joseph."
"Um, well, yeah," I replied, "that too. But I was really more talking about how Joseph's diligence and obedience to each of his employers."
I explained myself further, but Eric didn't agree. He said he felt as though the protection and provision by God was the main focus of Joseph's story. I insisted it was the honoring of diligence and obedience. We eventually agreed to disagree and hung up, leaving me with a sever dissatisfaction with our conversation. But then a thought dawned on me.
At the time, Eric was living at home near Chicago, struggling through a period of great need and uncertainty. I, on the other hand, was an R.A., and really wrestling with whether or not to be diligent in my work and faithful to my employer.
I realized that what we often don't see within disagreements of theology is how our perspectives are manipulated by our situations and needs.
With that in mind, it's a curious experience discussing views of God. One starts to wonder what the situation is of each person, and a light is shined upon what they require in life.
Ultimately, that should be our focus, anyways, when talking about God with one another. We should be learning each others' needs. It is a whole different motive. Instead of asking how you can convert someone, ask how you can meet that person's needs. Care for people. Listen to their stories.
John and I continued in our conversation, but I no longer argued my point, I listened. And the best part is, I learned a lot. God taught me something through the needs of someone else. After all, we are all broken.
In the name of God, the Gracious, the Merciful...
That was the question of yesterday morning.
The night before yesterday, I stayed up way too late working on my studies. I didn't feel like sleeping in my bed because there's some sort of r.o.u.s. taking residency above it in the attic. Instead, I pulled out my sleeping bag and favorite blanket and curled up on one of the couches in the family room.
Six hours later--around eight in the morning--one of my housemates came pounding down the stairs. He was late, and he was in a hurry. The couch I was sleeping on was right next to the stairs, so naturally the noise emitting from his descent sounded like lighting in my ears. I sat up in surprise, looking around to make sure had taken an early morning tumble.
Henry was flustered but fine, yelling an apology for waking me up as he ran out the front door. I laid back down, but sleeping wasn't an option anymore. My options were stay up or move upstairs to my bed and risk awaking later with a giant rodent on my face.
John woke up soon after, and seeing me in my usual morning stupor, asked if I would join him for a morning smoke on the porch. I don't smoke, but I love hanging out with people who do. They always have great conversations while smoking, and you can learn a lot from them.
This morning was no exception.
I don't recall what began the conversation, but we ended up on the topic of God's grace versus his justice. John insisted that our main focus should be on God's justice. I disagreed, and no matter how either of us put it, the other would not change views.
But the question of the conversation prevailed, "what do you value in God?" It seemed to be the main cause for differences in opinion between John and I.
I was suddenly reminded of a time when I was studying the story of Joseph in Genesis last year. I had the incredible revelation that God blesses those who work hard for Him. Each time Joseph was thrown into a new situation, he'd work diligently, and stay obedient to his boss, and the Lord would in turn bless him for his faithfulness and hard work.
This revelation was so moving for me, that I called one of my closest friends, Eric Peterson, to tell him about it. I was in the middle of saying how encouraging the story of Joseph was, and about to explain the part about diligence and obedience when Eric cut me off.
"Yeah," Eric said, "because God protects and provides for Joseph."
"Um, well, yeah," I replied, "that too. But I was really more talking about how Joseph's diligence and obedience to each of his employers."
I explained myself further, but Eric didn't agree. He said he felt as though the protection and provision by God was the main focus of Joseph's story. I insisted it was the honoring of diligence and obedience. We eventually agreed to disagree and hung up, leaving me with a sever dissatisfaction with our conversation. But then a thought dawned on me.
At the time, Eric was living at home near Chicago, struggling through a period of great need and uncertainty. I, on the other hand, was an R.A., and really wrestling with whether or not to be diligent in my work and faithful to my employer.
I realized that what we often don't see within disagreements of theology is how our perspectives are manipulated by our situations and needs.
With that in mind, it's a curious experience discussing views of God. One starts to wonder what the situation is of each person, and a light is shined upon what they require in life.
Ultimately, that should be our focus, anyways, when talking about God with one another. We should be learning each others' needs. It is a whole different motive. Instead of asking how you can convert someone, ask how you can meet that person's needs. Care for people. Listen to their stories.
John and I continued in our conversation, but I no longer argued my point, I listened. And the best part is, I learned a lot. God taught me something through the needs of someone else. After all, we are all broken.
In the name of God, the Gracious, the Merciful...
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
The Adventures of Lewis Beacon: Part 1 - Three's a Crowd
It was instinct that brought him to this point. There was no other explanation for such an action. And in all honesty, his reaction felt somewhat shameful.
Lewis Beacon had just hopped into a shower stall as three young men tumbled through the door to the men's locker room. One of them was fighting to break the grip of the other two. Pulling the curtain almost completely shut, Lewis left only a small opening through which to watch the fight. Lewis, twenty-one, had just finished dressing and packing up, having completed his daily workout and shower. He was about to leave when he overheard commotion outside the door and had hidden himself just in time. The young men passed right by Lewis without even noticing him. Usually no one was in the locker room at this time of day. Lewis loved working out alone, while everyone else was at dinner. It was a surprise to see someone enter the locker room, let alone three in a fight.
"Let me go," shouted the middle guy as the other two managed to get control of his arms.
Lewis watched as the other two dragged the young man into one of the locker stalls. He could hear the slam of a body against rattling metal.
"What were you saying," shouted a voice. It was one of other two men. "You sure that's something you're prepared to do?"
Lewis could hear their movements. One of them walked back into view, facing away from the other two. He looked a year older than Lewis, with more muscle too. Obviously an athlete, he was dressed in all-black sports wear. He stared at the wall as he spoke.
"Listen Brad," he said, "that article can't get sent to Chimes. It's that simple. Doug didn't know what he was talking about before. He's just stupid. That's all."
"Yeah," came what must have been Brad's voice. Lewis could tell because the speaker was panting and sounded weak. "And I bet Vandenberg was just being stupid too."
"We don't really know what happened to Vandenberg," said the man in black, "but we do agree that your article is pointing fingers in bad directions. It was a good thing Turk over here got wind of it beforehand."
The man in black turned around as he said this, walking back out of sight.
"So now what," said Brad.
"Well," Lewis heard the man in black say, "you're going to swear not to ever tell anyone about that article, or we're going to beat the shit out of you in the showers until you do. And when we get back, we're going to smash your computer."
"Go to hell" Brad spat.
"Suit yourself," said Turk.
Then Turk kicked Brad hard in the ribs and dragged him, now writhing in pain, around the lockers and over to an open shower. But he stopped short in front of Lewis' stall.
"Hey, Brent," Turk said. "I think we've got a witness."
Brent, the man in black sportswear, walked over to Turk.
"What do you mean?"
Turk cocked his head towards the handicap shower stall, the only one with a curtain pulled shut. Brent frowned, and in one motion yanked back the curtain. No one was there. Brent looked back at Turk.
"You pussy. No one's here at this time of day. Now let's finish with him. The longer we take, the more likely someone's going to find us."
Brad looked up at Turk and Brent.
"Someone's going to find out," he said.
Turk punched Brad in the face, and Brad fell back unconscious.
"No they're not," Turk grunted.
Lewis quietly shut the door to the locker room and ran down to the atrium of the Field House.
Lewis Beacon had just hopped into a shower stall as three young men tumbled through the door to the men's locker room. One of them was fighting to break the grip of the other two. Pulling the curtain almost completely shut, Lewis left only a small opening through which to watch the fight. Lewis, twenty-one, had just finished dressing and packing up, having completed his daily workout and shower. He was about to leave when he overheard commotion outside the door and had hidden himself just in time. The young men passed right by Lewis without even noticing him. Usually no one was in the locker room at this time of day. Lewis loved working out alone, while everyone else was at dinner. It was a surprise to see someone enter the locker room, let alone three in a fight.
"Let me go," shouted the middle guy as the other two managed to get control of his arms.
Lewis watched as the other two dragged the young man into one of the locker stalls. He could hear the slam of a body against rattling metal.
"What were you saying," shouted a voice. It was one of other two men. "You sure that's something you're prepared to do?"
Lewis could hear their movements. One of them walked back into view, facing away from the other two. He looked a year older than Lewis, with more muscle too. Obviously an athlete, he was dressed in all-black sports wear. He stared at the wall as he spoke.
"Listen Brad," he said, "that article can't get sent to Chimes. It's that simple. Doug didn't know what he was talking about before. He's just stupid. That's all."
"Yeah," came what must have been Brad's voice. Lewis could tell because the speaker was panting and sounded weak. "And I bet Vandenberg was just being stupid too."
"We don't really know what happened to Vandenberg," said the man in black, "but we do agree that your article is pointing fingers in bad directions. It was a good thing Turk over here got wind of it beforehand."
The man in black turned around as he said this, walking back out of sight.
"So now what," said Brad.
"Well," Lewis heard the man in black say, "you're going to swear not to ever tell anyone about that article, or we're going to beat the shit out of you in the showers until you do. And when we get back, we're going to smash your computer."
"Go to hell" Brad spat.
"Suit yourself," said Turk.
Then Turk kicked Brad hard in the ribs and dragged him, now writhing in pain, around the lockers and over to an open shower. But he stopped short in front of Lewis' stall.
"Hey, Brent," Turk said. "I think we've got a witness."
Brent, the man in black sportswear, walked over to Turk.
"What do you mean?"
Turk cocked his head towards the handicap shower stall, the only one with a curtain pulled shut. Brent frowned, and in one motion yanked back the curtain. No one was there. Brent looked back at Turk.
"You pussy. No one's here at this time of day. Now let's finish with him. The longer we take, the more likely someone's going to find us."
Brad looked up at Turk and Brent.
"Someone's going to find out," he said.
Turk punched Brad in the face, and Brad fell back unconscious.
"No they're not," Turk grunted.
Lewis quietly shut the door to the locker room and ran down to the atrium of the Field House.
Monday, September 21, 2009
You Keep What You Kill
On a lighter note from my yesterday's anxiousness, I had a very funny experience on Saturday. Two weeks ago, Byron and Henry and I all went fishing out in Ada. It was a very relaxing day, eating junk food while reeling in all sizes of fish. Byron of course caught the biggest and the best. Henry and I got a few too, but nothing to brag about.
When we returned to the house that day, bucket full of half-dead but freshly-caught fish, Byron revealed to Henry and I that he had no intention on taking the fish home with him. Something about his refrigerator being well-stocked. But Henry and I both lacked the experience of ever killing or gutting an animal, our closest experiences being Halo, and the Saw series.
After a few minutes of awkwardly passing the fish back and forth, Byron agreed to return at some point in the near future to teach Henry and I how to gut the fish, but until then we had to keep them. Henry was still very squeamish about the whole ordeal. Even cutting off the one fish's head so that we could store it wasn't going to happen with him.
Last Saturday, Byron returned. Henry was conveniently occupied, and I was too naive to realize what I had gotten myself into. First, the fish had to thaw. We put the fish under water for about an hour, occasionally running fresh water over them until they were soft enough to come out of the baggies. Pulling them out of the bags reminded me of something in MIB, or any of those other goo-filled, disgustathon, Science Fiction pictures. Slime gratuitously flowed from the bags along with the fish.
Producing a spoon, Byron then instructed me to grab a fish, and hold it tightly, while forcefully scraping the lip of a spoon against the grain of the scales. Scales began to shoot everywhere as Byron began on one of our captives. I was thankful it was dead; I'd hate to hear a fish scream. I looked around the sink at the other prisoners, their eyes wide with horror, and mouths gaped open in shock at their comrade's fate.
I chose one and picked it up, trying to dodge the shrapnel from Byron's handiwork. As I lifted the captive out of the sink, something clear and viscous oozed out of its mouth. My stomach winced. I picked up the spoon and began to descale the internee. It wasn't hard work, and everything went smoothly, save the almost constant backfiring of scales, as they showered forth in all directions, retreating from the attack of my spoon.
After a while, ooze and scales clogged the drain cover, and the running water filled the sink. Before us was a pool of the most disturbing soup I had ever witnessed.
"Now comes the fun part," Byron reassured me. He had obviously done this so much, the nature of the activity no longer vexed his nerves as it did mine. But I was there to finish what I started and learn from my friend.
Carefully, Byron showed me how to cut into our prisoner, just above the head, running the blade down its neck region, behind the fins, and stopping about two centimeters before a complete decapitation. We then each pulled the heads off our victims, bringing along with them a long strand of innards. It's amazing how even on something as non-human as a fish, its innards still look like innards.
By this point, my stomach was as wrinkled as a prune, and I could feel it twist and turn every time I looked at the sink. The next, and final step was to finish cleaning out everything inside of the ribs. We did this by first further slicing into the bottom of the ribs to open up the meat more. Then we rubbed our thumbs along the spine and ribs, all under running water, clearing out any reluctant pieces of Lord-knows-what-they-were.
Then the meat went back into the freezer, ready to be cooked on a later date. I thanked Byron for all his help, and for his patience in teaching me the ways of preparing fish to be eaten. Although I doubt they were prepared for it.
After Byron left, I took to cleaning, and sanitizing, the kitchen. First I had to dispose of the evidence-the leftover heads. My housemates and I agreed that I should bury them under our compost. I dug the prisoners' heads a grave and threw them in. Then I turned my attention to the guts, scales and ooze clogging the drain. With my stomach now completely tied in a knot, and butterflies tickling the bottom of my esophagus, I collected as much as possible and threw it in the grave. It was reminiscent of the Pharaohs of Egypt, buried with all of their earthly possessions. I said a few words over the grave, and then covered them up, left to the worms and raccoons of our neighborhood.
About an hour and a-severe-case-of-hand-crampage later, the sink was scrubbed in bleach and completely removed of leftover scales. No sign remained in the kitchen of any war crimes. Only the shine of polished steel, and the smell of a clean kitchen. But my stomach took a while to un-knot, and it still winces every time I think about those fish. I'll still eat fish, but I might have to give the ones in my freezer to Byron. I don't know if I can eat what I kill.
When we returned to the house that day, bucket full of half-dead but freshly-caught fish, Byron revealed to Henry and I that he had no intention on taking the fish home with him. Something about his refrigerator being well-stocked. But Henry and I both lacked the experience of ever killing or gutting an animal, our closest experiences being Halo, and the Saw series.
After a few minutes of awkwardly passing the fish back and forth, Byron agreed to return at some point in the near future to teach Henry and I how to gut the fish, but until then we had to keep them. Henry was still very squeamish about the whole ordeal. Even cutting off the one fish's head so that we could store it wasn't going to happen with him.
Last Saturday, Byron returned. Henry was conveniently occupied, and I was too naive to realize what I had gotten myself into. First, the fish had to thaw. We put the fish under water for about an hour, occasionally running fresh water over them until they were soft enough to come out of the baggies. Pulling them out of the bags reminded me of something in MIB, or any of those other goo-filled, disgustathon, Science Fiction pictures. Slime gratuitously flowed from the bags along with the fish.
Producing a spoon, Byron then instructed me to grab a fish, and hold it tightly, while forcefully scraping the lip of a spoon against the grain of the scales. Scales began to shoot everywhere as Byron began on one of our captives. I was thankful it was dead; I'd hate to hear a fish scream. I looked around the sink at the other prisoners, their eyes wide with horror, and mouths gaped open in shock at their comrade's fate.
I chose one and picked it up, trying to dodge the shrapnel from Byron's handiwork. As I lifted the captive out of the sink, something clear and viscous oozed out of its mouth. My stomach winced. I picked up the spoon and began to descale the internee. It wasn't hard work, and everything went smoothly, save the almost constant backfiring of scales, as they showered forth in all directions, retreating from the attack of my spoon.
After a while, ooze and scales clogged the drain cover, and the running water filled the sink. Before us was a pool of the most disturbing soup I had ever witnessed.
"Now comes the fun part," Byron reassured me. He had obviously done this so much, the nature of the activity no longer vexed his nerves as it did mine. But I was there to finish what I started and learn from my friend.
Carefully, Byron showed me how to cut into our prisoner, just above the head, running the blade down its neck region, behind the fins, and stopping about two centimeters before a complete decapitation. We then each pulled the heads off our victims, bringing along with them a long strand of innards. It's amazing how even on something as non-human as a fish, its innards still look like innards.
By this point, my stomach was as wrinkled as a prune, and I could feel it twist and turn every time I looked at the sink. The next, and final step was to finish cleaning out everything inside of the ribs. We did this by first further slicing into the bottom of the ribs to open up the meat more. Then we rubbed our thumbs along the spine and ribs, all under running water, clearing out any reluctant pieces of Lord-knows-what-they-were.
Then the meat went back into the freezer, ready to be cooked on a later date. I thanked Byron for all his help, and for his patience in teaching me the ways of preparing fish to be eaten. Although I doubt they were prepared for it.
After Byron left, I took to cleaning, and sanitizing, the kitchen. First I had to dispose of the evidence-the leftover heads. My housemates and I agreed that I should bury them under our compost. I dug the prisoners' heads a grave and threw them in. Then I turned my attention to the guts, scales and ooze clogging the drain. With my stomach now completely tied in a knot, and butterflies tickling the bottom of my esophagus, I collected as much as possible and threw it in the grave. It was reminiscent of the Pharaohs of Egypt, buried with all of their earthly possessions. I said a few words over the grave, and then covered them up, left to the worms and raccoons of our neighborhood.
About an hour and a-severe-case-of-hand-crampage later, the sink was scrubbed in bleach and completely removed of leftover scales. No sign remained in the kitchen of any war crimes. Only the shine of polished steel, and the smell of a clean kitchen. But my stomach took a while to un-knot, and it still winces every time I think about those fish. I'll still eat fish, but I might have to give the ones in my freezer to Byron. I don't know if I can eat what I kill.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Feeling Gravity
The last few days have had more than their fair share of excitement. Friday was strange at the start. I started having this feeling of restlessness. Like I'm uncomfortable in my own skin. Even now, in the lull of the day, I feel very uneasy. But Friday I wrestled with this feeling all afternoon until I went to Nate's place. After that, things picked up, as they always do when I visit Nate's house. Many songs and bottled messages later, we all settled down at Steph's house for a sleepover.
I slept until Susie offered to drive me home, where I continued to sleep until the early afternoon. That evening I visited JJ's pad, where he lives with Grant, Micah, Nathan, and Sam. They were hosting a game night, which was pretty fun, save that I had to leave before even the first game had ended. But I hadn't hung out with my favorite Wealthy House in a while, and we were planning a Dirty Dancing Marathon. Ironically, we only watched the first one. But everyone was tired (myself very much included), so we called it a night.
I slept again until the afternoon. I've probably been tired because I've been fighting a cold. And I imagine, I feel restless because I'm doing less due to my cold. But I'm really praying there isn't more of a reason. My mind is definitely not dualistic. My flesh and my spirit are one. I just wish that I felt more at ease right now.
Sometimes--in moments like these--I feel as though I hear the Earth yawning and groaning as it hurls around the sun. As though the whole motion does involve me, and my being is aware of its speed and its gravity. As though, at any moment I will be called to help in its turning. Am I the only one who feels as though the universe is watching me? As though it's waiting on my action? And what if I don't move? What if I let the Earth carry itself?
Is this what the voice of God sounds like?
I slept until Susie offered to drive me home, where I continued to sleep until the early afternoon. That evening I visited JJ's pad, where he lives with Grant, Micah, Nathan, and Sam. They were hosting a game night, which was pretty fun, save that I had to leave before even the first game had ended. But I hadn't hung out with my favorite Wealthy House in a while, and we were planning a Dirty Dancing Marathon. Ironically, we only watched the first one. But everyone was tired (myself very much included), so we called it a night.
I slept again until the afternoon. I've probably been tired because I've been fighting a cold. And I imagine, I feel restless because I'm doing less due to my cold. But I'm really praying there isn't more of a reason. My mind is definitely not dualistic. My flesh and my spirit are one. I just wish that I felt more at ease right now.
Sometimes--in moments like these--I feel as though I hear the Earth yawning and groaning as it hurls around the sun. As though the whole motion does involve me, and my being is aware of its speed and its gravity. As though, at any moment I will be called to help in its turning. Am I the only one who feels as though the universe is watching me? As though it's waiting on my action? And what if I don't move? What if I let the Earth carry itself?
Is this what the voice of God sounds like?
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Something about Magic
Today I talked about my belief in magic for my introductory speech in my Oral Rhetoric class. Unfortunately, I never really got to the point of my speech because I was running out of time. It may have been a very charming introduction into my life, but I felt very unsatisfied with the logic (or lack of logic) which I used to convey my main point.
My main point was that pagan animism used to teach through folklore the creatures of mysticism, which we now attribute in western civilization as creatures of fairy tales. But even those notions of woodland spirit creatures must come from truth. A person must have at one point witnessed a single-horned, four-legged, horse-like creature.
Someone must have seen small, bearded men, and giants, and something must have inspired half-animal people. Our imagination is not built on the mystery of the unknown, but the adaptation of what we have already seen and known.
We cannot ignore what our forefathers have seen and interacted with. I am not a Neo-pagan, but I believe there is definitely a lot more that exists than what we have seen, and science has accredited as fact. That being said, I believe in magic.
Maybe not Harry Potter, or even Wicca. But we do interact with unseen forces, and more than the dualistic, Christian image of angels and demons, although those may exist as well.
My main point was that pagan animism used to teach through folklore the creatures of mysticism, which we now attribute in western civilization as creatures of fairy tales. But even those notions of woodland spirit creatures must come from truth. A person must have at one point witnessed a single-horned, four-legged, horse-like creature.
Someone must have seen small, bearded men, and giants, and something must have inspired half-animal people. Our imagination is not built on the mystery of the unknown, but the adaptation of what we have already seen and known.
We cannot ignore what our forefathers have seen and interacted with. I am not a Neo-pagan, but I believe there is definitely a lot more that exists than what we have seen, and science has accredited as fact. That being said, I believe in magic.
Maybe not Harry Potter, or even Wicca. But we do interact with unseen forces, and more than the dualistic, Christian image of angels and demons, although those may exist as well.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Christening of Merlin
Okay. So I know I may sound completely obsessed, but I named my car the other day. I've never really had a thing for cars. But they get me from A to B, and they're generally reliable (as long as you excuse all of my sister's stories, of course).
My car is a red Saturn. I think Saturns are by Honda... maybe. I don't really know, and I could care even less. The point is, that my Saturn, is magic.
"The Days Are Just Packed" mentions my endeavors while in my Saturn slightly, and particularly how its trunk is capable of containing a fairly large bookcase without any trouble. It's getting awesome gas mileage so far, it rides pretty smoothly, and it's never without the perfect piece of wisdom to improve my day. That all being said, I have officially named my car, Merlin.
Truth be told, any inanimate object that I find myself spending time with on more than a regular basis I usually name. I've named pencils, trapperkeepers, backpacks, cameras, and even computers. For example, my computer's name is "Elias," and my guitar's name is "Joyfully." Something about naming an object brings out its personality and its value in one's life.
Losing that object will be worse once it's named. But George Gray has a response to such things. The truth be told, fear of loss cannot, and should never prevent us from doing what will enrich us, ultimately. Edgar Lee Masters plays the medium for George Gray's voice from beyond when he says:
For the full poem:
http://www.bartleby.com/84/64.html
My car is a red Saturn. I think Saturns are by Honda... maybe. I don't really know, and I could care even less. The point is, that my Saturn, is magic.
"The Days Are Just Packed" mentions my endeavors while in my Saturn slightly, and particularly how its trunk is capable of containing a fairly large bookcase without any trouble. It's getting awesome gas mileage so far, it rides pretty smoothly, and it's never without the perfect piece of wisdom to improve my day. That all being said, I have officially named my car, Merlin.
Truth be told, any inanimate object that I find myself spending time with on more than a regular basis I usually name. I've named pencils, trapperkeepers, backpacks, cameras, and even computers. For example, my computer's name is "Elias," and my guitar's name is "Joyfully." Something about naming an object brings out its personality and its value in one's life.
Losing that object will be worse once it's named. But George Gray has a response to such things. The truth be told, fear of loss cannot, and should never prevent us from doing what will enrich us, ultimately. Edgar Lee Masters plays the medium for George Gray's voice from beyond when he says:
| "And now I know that we must lift the sail | 10 |
| And catch the winds of destiny | |
| Wherever they drive the boat. | |
| To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness, | |
| But life without meaning is the torture | |
| Of restlessness and vague desire— | 15 |
| It is a boat longing for the sea and yet afraid." |
For the full poem:
http://www.bartleby.com/84/64.html
A Poem
So, I don't exactly remember why, but I ended up posting a lot of poetry on Facebook over the course of my Freshman and Sophomore years. And it's kind of funny to me because the poetry at times was some of--at least I thought--the best. One of my favorites was about the Knight's tale in the book, Canterbury Tales. I figured it might be good to post it hear as well.
If Pluto’s Rings
Arcita is dead,
and Saturn awaits
To take his soul
to Pluto’s grip
and thirsty cold.
What fight there was
of brothers’ tiff.
I saw them take their step,
And into misery they flew,
fighting for the love of life.
They know Not what
they leave behind;
But Palamon, life’s chosen you,
and Arcita is dead.
The cold;
The fire;
The truth;
And black are the eyes
of he who has passed away;
God has favored he who remains;
but cold are the lands
He leaves behind,
barren as a concubine;
With Midas touch
it’s frozen dead,
The land where Arcita
did rest his stead;
And Palamon - the better man -
Mourns the loss
But loves the absence.
So Palamon, Do Rise!
And take your loss with open eyes;
Your life is a key to
the door of destiny
And it screams your name.
PALAMON! ARISE!
And breathe the air of victory;
This is what we waited for!
The prison’s down,
Smile upon your fertile ground.
PALAMON! Victorious Man!
Grab your stakes and cast a tent
to milk the honey from this land;
And feel the warmth of truth,
the fire burns ever through.
Palamon, remember your friend
in Hades you will make amends
and finally thank him for his death
You have been freed - Hatched from slavery
Now Arise.
________________________________________
I wish I had the time to write more right now. It would be great to talk about naming objects, and how I just christened my car. Or even get into grudges and cold shoulders. But unfortunately, I'll have to keep those on the back burner until Islam readings are done.
If Pluto’s Rings
Arcita is dead,
and Saturn awaits
To take his soul
to Pluto’s grip
and thirsty cold.
What fight there was
of brothers’ tiff.
I saw them take their step,
And into misery they flew,
fighting for the love of life.
They know Not what
they leave behind;
But Palamon, life’s chosen you,
and Arcita is dead.
The cold;
The fire;
The truth;
And black are the eyes
of he who has passed away;
God has favored he who remains;
but cold are the lands
He leaves behind,
barren as a concubine;
With Midas touch
it’s frozen dead,
The land where Arcita
did rest his stead;
And Palamon - the better man -
Mourns the loss
But loves the absence.
So Palamon, Do Rise!
And take your loss with open eyes;
Your life is a key to
the door of destiny
And it screams your name.
PALAMON! ARISE!
And breathe the air of victory;
This is what we waited for!
The prison’s down,
Smile upon your fertile ground.
PALAMON! Victorious Man!
Grab your stakes and cast a tent
to milk the honey from this land;
And feel the warmth of truth,
the fire burns ever through.
Palamon, remember your friend
in Hades you will make amends
and finally thank him for his death
You have been freed - Hatched from slavery
Now Arise.
________________________________________
I wish I had the time to write more right now. It would be great to talk about naming objects, and how I just christened my car. Or even get into grudges and cold shoulders. But unfortunately, I'll have to keep those on the back burner until Islam readings are done.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
A Midday Break
That car is amazing! My folks have lent it to me for a while, and boy has it been fun! It's a red Saturn, and pretty much the most versatile vehicle I've driven yet. This morning I fit an entire bookshelf (probably 3' x 3') perfectly into the trunk, without moving the back seats, or even leaving the trunk open.
The bookshelf came from an estate sale I found by mistake while lost. As much as I hate East Grand Rapids, and all of the ignorance it represents to me, from time to time, it has its uses. This morning, I was supposed to go to a mansion I visited yesterday, where a set of cups and plates had been laid aside for me. But my window of opportunity was only in the hour of nine o'clock.
The house was in the neighborhood between the intersections of Breton and Lake, and Hall and Lake. And guess what intersections were closed this morning so that half a million white people could pretend they're athletes? The very ones I needed to go through in order to pick up my dishes.
Frustrated, and cursing some teenage girls under my breath (for being particularly rude to me when I tried to sneak onto Lake from a side street), I eventually found myself reading a bunch of estate sale signs lining the road, all pointing towards one house a good distance from where I was supposed to be. But knowing I had lost the dishes from yesterday, I had to redeem my morning.
So I went to the sale and truthfully found some great wares. Although my pocket did not support the acquire everything I wanted, and I had to drag myself away from some very retirement-home-esque decorations, I managed to procure not only a great book shelf for $12, but I also got a very large set of plates and and bowls for $5, and a fully-functional sewing machine for $15! I mean this may be terrible to say, but I'm kind of thankful that that woman had passed on. She left behind some great, and very cheap things.
Of course, things always seem worse when one is suffering from a massive hang over. Maybe I'll elaborate on last night more in a different entry. But let's just say my first "kegger" was one of the best parties I've ever been to. That's what you get for having quality friends.
Speaking of which, the rest of the day up until now, I've also gone to a free pancake breakfast at the Koinonia house; met up with a great friend of mine, Brian Wallace; went with Wallace to the Annual, Calvin Apartments' Mudbowl; got into about fifty mud fights; yelled compliments off of a balcony to people passing by; danced like a goofball; caught up with another good buddy, Jeff Stern; gurgled apple sauce; got spewed on with applesauce by Brian; harvested peppers; and only now just sat down. Later, I'm going to wash a car with my good friend, Annie Nelson; have dinner with Andy Zeigler and Nate Dejong; maybe go to a bar with them; and then meet up with some other people at a bowling alley for Ashley Willaim's birthday party.
The bookshelf came from an estate sale I found by mistake while lost. As much as I hate East Grand Rapids, and all of the ignorance it represents to me, from time to time, it has its uses. This morning, I was supposed to go to a mansion I visited yesterday, where a set of cups and plates had been laid aside for me. But my window of opportunity was only in the hour of nine o'clock.
The house was in the neighborhood between the intersections of Breton and Lake, and Hall and Lake. And guess what intersections were closed this morning so that half a million white people could pretend they're athletes? The very ones I needed to go through in order to pick up my dishes.
Frustrated, and cursing some teenage girls under my breath (for being particularly rude to me when I tried to sneak onto Lake from a side street), I eventually found myself reading a bunch of estate sale signs lining the road, all pointing towards one house a good distance from where I was supposed to be. But knowing I had lost the dishes from yesterday, I had to redeem my morning.
So I went to the sale and truthfully found some great wares. Although my pocket did not support the acquire everything I wanted, and I had to drag myself away from some very retirement-home-esque decorations, I managed to procure not only a great book shelf for $12, but I also got a very large set of plates and and bowls for $5, and a fully-functional sewing machine for $15! I mean this may be terrible to say, but I'm kind of thankful that that woman had passed on. She left behind some great, and very cheap things.
Of course, things always seem worse when one is suffering from a massive hang over. Maybe I'll elaborate on last night more in a different entry. But let's just say my first "kegger" was one of the best parties I've ever been to. That's what you get for having quality friends.
Speaking of which, the rest of the day up until now, I've also gone to a free pancake breakfast at the Koinonia house; met up with a great friend of mine, Brian Wallace; went with Wallace to the Annual, Calvin Apartments' Mudbowl; got into about fifty mud fights; yelled compliments off of a balcony to people passing by; danced like a goofball; caught up with another good buddy, Jeff Stern; gurgled apple sauce; got spewed on with applesauce by Brian; harvested peppers; and only now just sat down. Later, I'm going to wash a car with my good friend, Annie Nelson; have dinner with Andy Zeigler and Nate Dejong; maybe go to a bar with them; and then meet up with some other people at a bowling alley for Ashley Willaim's birthday party.
The days are just packed!
Friday, September 11, 2009
Coldplay in the Kitchen
The one thing I didn't mention about yesterday was that a lot of my old friends came by the house for dinner. It was a great time of fellowship and storytelling. Of course, I insisted on cooking. This recipe I found for beef and chickpea stew has been a big hit each time I cook it. Really, the stew should be called the beef and augerbine (or eggplant in my case) stew, because there's definitely more eggplant in it than anything else.
I doubt my joy in experience that followed dinner can be conveyed to anyone outside of my own shoes. However, my musings began when all of my guests had left. I guess I could have asked them to help with the dishes, but many of them only offered as they were halfway out the door in order to seem polite. I hold no grudge against them. There were a lot of people, and very little space. I'm surprised the old floors of our house even supported us.
So low and behold, I found myself in the kitchen immediately upon saying, "Goodbye," to my final guest. Unfortunately for the rest of my evening, and the dismay of my very soar feet, the quantity of dishes that were left in my possession to clean was prodigious. And my house only has a one-basin sink for all kitchen purposes, including dish washing. However, cleaning was not as bad of an experience os one might suspect.
While I was doing the dishes, Coldplay's Glass of Water, popped into my head. It's probably not a normal experience for most people, but I listen to music a lot in my head when I'm not thinking about something. And considering how often I find myself in thought, that little brain jukebox is usally muted. But contemplation requires more attention than can be allotted when dishes are eclipsing the ceiling light. So I soon found myself thinking through almost an entire album by Coldplay. And I don't really even know why it was Coldplay that my subconscious chose.
It just was. And it was wonderful
I mean, how often do we actually practice such things as silence, or even silence of the mind. I know that so often, my mind is more like an over-motivated mouth than a brain. But to be so silent, and yet so content, that one finds himself lightheartedly dancing to the music in his head. That is an experience that can only occur a few times in life. All though I do hope it happens more.
I doubt my joy in experience that followed dinner can be conveyed to anyone outside of my own shoes. However, my musings began when all of my guests had left. I guess I could have asked them to help with the dishes, but many of them only offered as they were halfway out the door in order to seem polite. I hold no grudge against them. There were a lot of people, and very little space. I'm surprised the old floors of our house even supported us.
So low and behold, I found myself in the kitchen immediately upon saying, "Goodbye," to my final guest. Unfortunately for the rest of my evening, and the dismay of my very soar feet, the quantity of dishes that were left in my possession to clean was prodigious. And my house only has a one-basin sink for all kitchen purposes, including dish washing. However, cleaning was not as bad of an experience os one might suspect.
While I was doing the dishes, Coldplay's Glass of Water, popped into my head. It's probably not a normal experience for most people, but I listen to music a lot in my head when I'm not thinking about something. And considering how often I find myself in thought, that little brain jukebox is usally muted. But contemplation requires more attention than can be allotted when dishes are eclipsing the ceiling light. So I soon found myself thinking through almost an entire album by Coldplay. And I don't really even know why it was Coldplay that my subconscious chose.
It just was. And it was wonderful
I mean, how often do we actually practice such things as silence, or even silence of the mind. I know that so often, my mind is more like an over-motivated mouth than a brain. But to be so silent, and yet so content, that one finds himself lightheartedly dancing to the music in his head. That is an experience that can only occur a few times in life. All though I do hope it happens more.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Good Mourning
I don't know if it's legal to write two posts in one day, but seeing as this is my blog, I'm going to do what I want to do.
And technically, it's the next day anyways.
Three days ago I had a conversation with someone that has meant a lot to me for a very long time, and that person told me something I had wanted to hear from her for too long indeed. Amidst the relief and the sadness, I finally broke down and released my grief and anguish from the loss of my experiences with her; the companionship we had shared; and the plans we had made for the future.
There was definite loss, but I would not have realized that loss without the perspective of Dan, my counselor. Until Dan and I talked yesterday, I had not fully acknowledged my grieving as progressive. As it goes with every ended romantic relationship, it is a terrible struggle discerning between feelings of loss and mourning, and feelings of missing and wishing to return.
It is as hazy as close platonic friends, who have a tendency to mistake the bond of caring affectionately for one another with that of romantic love. They can seem similar, but confusion can be fatal. And if one returns to a broken relationship thinking that what they're mourning for can be obtained in new immersion, only the problems of the original mistakes await him.
But what about when I spend time with my other, and we really seem to click? Does that mean it's better? Yes and no. The relationship itself is in an altered state, and you may find that your needs are finally starting to be met by your significant other. But what that really points to is not that it's time to go back. It more likely means that you two compliment each other much better as friends, and are in fact more capable for positive interaction without the romantic side of things.
From what I understood from Dan, however, that doesn't mean I should go and attempt a close friendship with her. But it does bring light into why, when we interact now, it feels much better than it used to. As far as romance is concerned, I must look forward, and search for someone who's strengths compliment my own. And that's not even most immediate. Before I do that, I need to make some friends.
And technically, it's the next day anyways.
Three days ago I had a conversation with someone that has meant a lot to me for a very long time, and that person told me something I had wanted to hear from her for too long indeed. Amidst the relief and the sadness, I finally broke down and released my grief and anguish from the loss of my experiences with her; the companionship we had shared; and the plans we had made for the future.
There was definite loss, but I would not have realized that loss without the perspective of Dan, my counselor. Until Dan and I talked yesterday, I had not fully acknowledged my grieving as progressive. As it goes with every ended romantic relationship, it is a terrible struggle discerning between feelings of loss and mourning, and feelings of missing and wishing to return.
It is as hazy as close platonic friends, who have a tendency to mistake the bond of caring affectionately for one another with that of romantic love. They can seem similar, but confusion can be fatal. And if one returns to a broken relationship thinking that what they're mourning for can be obtained in new immersion, only the problems of the original mistakes await him.
But what about when I spend time with my other, and we really seem to click? Does that mean it's better? Yes and no. The relationship itself is in an altered state, and you may find that your needs are finally starting to be met by your significant other. But what that really points to is not that it's time to go back. It more likely means that you two compliment each other much better as friends, and are in fact more capable for positive interaction without the romantic side of things.
From what I understood from Dan, however, that doesn't mean I should go and attempt a close friendship with her. But it does bring light into why, when we interact now, it feels much better than it used to. As far as romance is concerned, I must look forward, and search for someone who's strengths compliment my own. And that's not even most immediate. Before I do that, I need to make some friends.
Why are there owls in the atrium?
In the name of God, most Gracious, most Merciful...
This is my first blog. I feel as though I should start strong, and hopefully it will strengthen my resolve and perpetuate something more durable than a fad.
Today I was told that I must begin determining what it is that I am good at; what I would love to do; dreams; etc. I must also determine my strengths, and what I am able to bring to a relationship, as well as what I want from someone else in a relationship.
It is definitely a blessing that we have the Broene counseling center. I met my counselor, Dan, after one of my employers on campus recommended him personally. I had been to Broene Counseling Center in the past, and had a very negative experience with a different guy. But I trusted the advice of my employer and so I tried Dan out. Now I'm certain I will look back on this time and thank my God for Dan's perfectly placed presence in my life.
The advantage of having someone like Dan (and I do recommend everyone find a counselor, or shrink) is that he has about forty years of experience and study, which he utilizes while listening to me, in order to deconstruct the problems I'm having, and provide good direction.
Right now, my biggest struggle is the question of "Who?" After attaching my identity to my faith for so long, losing faith hasn't just been a loss of God's identity, but a loss in morality, direction, and ultimately my own identity as well.
So I now resort to the owls in my atrium. The bits of wisdom that fly and flutter about, in and out. Those that have come from others, and those that are my own. And this will be where they land.
This is my first blog. I feel as though I should start strong, and hopefully it will strengthen my resolve and perpetuate something more durable than a fad.
Today I was told that I must begin determining what it is that I am good at; what I would love to do; dreams; etc. I must also determine my strengths, and what I am able to bring to a relationship, as well as what I want from someone else in a relationship.
It is definitely a blessing that we have the Broene counseling center. I met my counselor, Dan, after one of my employers on campus recommended him personally. I had been to Broene Counseling Center in the past, and had a very negative experience with a different guy. But I trusted the advice of my employer and so I tried Dan out. Now I'm certain I will look back on this time and thank my God for Dan's perfectly placed presence in my life.
The advantage of having someone like Dan (and I do recommend everyone find a counselor, or shrink) is that he has about forty years of experience and study, which he utilizes while listening to me, in order to deconstruct the problems I'm having, and provide good direction.
Right now, my biggest struggle is the question of "Who?" After attaching my identity to my faith for so long, losing faith hasn't just been a loss of God's identity, but a loss in morality, direction, and ultimately my own identity as well.
So I now resort to the owls in my atrium. The bits of wisdom that fly and flutter about, in and out. Those that have come from others, and those that are my own. And this will be where they land.
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