On Incarnation

This Sunday was Christmas Sunday, and my church celebrated with a service comprised mostly of singing by both congregation and a fantastic choir. Due to various influences, I ended up at the church for both service sessions that my church has scheduled. A dear friend invited me to sit through the service with her again and I agreed, thinking to myself that it would be nice not only to hear the wonderful music again, but also that it would be an excellent opportunity to do some writing. I like writing during services, and some very good thoughts tend to come out of it. It usually starts on a theme from the service and goes wherever the pen leads, but not always. On this particular morning, I decided to write a poem. With Christmas approaching oh so rapidly, the miracle of Christ's birth has been in my mind, particularly the fact of God becoming man and all of the implications surrounding it. These were some of the thoughts that were poured into the following poem, the product of my mind full of allusions being surrounded for an hour by hearts praising the greatest and humblest being in the universe.

Image

We tried so long
To make man a god
We took the greatest
And made them more
Praised them
Raised them
Exalted them to the highest
But they all
Fell
And showed themselves men and women
With wings of wax
Smoke dissipates
Mirrors shatter
And we see ourselves in the broken glass
Disjointed fragments
Showing a true image
A disconcerting image of disjointed souls
Brutal in its honesty

And the malcontents
Seek another deity

So God
Made himself a man
The greatest
Made himself the lowest
So that perhaps he would be seen
For he is the flawless mirror
That we might see ourselves
A reflection cast in diamond and gold
A truer image
And unbelievable image of what a soul could be.
Breathtaking in its honesty

And the malcontents
Were terrified

We tried so hard
To kill a God
We took the greatest
And made him the sacrifice
Pierced him
Raised him
Put him on display for all to see
And he showed us
Glory
Showing the truest image
In penultimate transparency
Brutal in its ugliness
But beautiful
A radiant image cast in light
Showing the malcontents
Their long-awaited deity.

On a Novel to be Written

I felt very out of place in the world that day. It was like I was standing in the room without actually being there, almost like I didn't belong. Then again, it wasn't the sort of room where anybody really feels comfortable. My father was on the other side of the room, sort of. Technically speaking, my father's body was on the other side of the room. Whatever it was that made that body my father had departed a few days earlier in a sterile room filled with charts, tubes, and wires. I was avoiding the coffin. I had looked into it once before the viewing started, but I just couldn't look it again. According to legal standards, I had been an adult for a little over a year, but peeking over the edge of that mahogany box and looking at the waxy features that I had seen in every possible expression of emotion allowed by the now dormant muscles beneath, I suddenly became a child again. I was overwhelmed by the unfairness of it all. Tears streamed down my hot cheeks, and my eyes grew all puffy and red. I felt very small.
People had been coming and going all day. You would never expect a real long visitation in a small town like this, but dad was the kind of guy who knew just about everyone, and they all wanted to pay their respects. The line seemed like it would never end. In fact, as afternoon stretched into evening, I was pretty sure it was getting longer. Fortunately our neighbors, the Millers, had come over early to help get things ready. They were good people who had owned the farm across the street from ours for as long as I could remember. I don't know what I would have done without them. They took the responsibility of welcoming people, shaking hands, and trying to offer encouragement. Mrs. Miller had always had a knack for comforting people. I remember having a number of scraped knees bandaged by that gracious woman after a fall while playing with her son, Micah. He was off at college now, studying engineering or something like that, but he was hoping to make it back in time for the funeral. Due to finals or some similarly difficult series of test, he wasn't able to join the long line of mourners that had currently gathered outside of the funeral home. They all wanted to talk to me. I knew most of their names, it's hard not to in a farming community like ours, but it was strange to have them all suddenly so intensely interested in how I was doing. I guess it was because, with dad gone, I would be in charge of the farm. Whenever a property got a new owner in our community, it was the talk of the town. I was hoping that wasn't the only reason they were talking to me, but I wouldn't have been surprised either. They all expected that they would be doing business dealings with me now that my father was gone. I wasn't really the oldest, but I was the one who stayed. I was the only one left.
My brother, Zach, had left five years ago. He had started off planning to go to college, but he dropped out after his first semester. Even then, he didn't come home. No one was all that surprised. Home had always been too small for Zach, or maybe it was beneath him. I was never entirely sure. We got letters from him occasionally, always with a different return address, but they were usually vague or hastily written. From what we could tell, he had become an actor and, if nothing else, was making enough to live on. Apparently his pay was as inconsistent as his correspondence.
I had tried everything possible to get a hold of him when dad's health started failing. He had been fighting cancer for a long time, and the doctors finally gave him six weeks to live. tried to call him, I wrote letters to the last address we had, I even made calls to a few of the friends he had during his brief stay at college, but none of them could give me any information. Still, no reply came. When the end finally came, I went through the whole process again with similar results and finally concluded that Zach had finally forgotten his family and had no intention of looking back at the life that he had worked so hard to escape. That is why I was so surprise when I received a tap on the shoulder and turned around just in time to be clasped in a bear hug so tight it can only come from a brother. I suddenly found myself face to face with my brother, Zach.

On Empathy

Someone once said to me, "It is different when you know somebody, when it is right in front of you, and you see it."
Are there downsides to innocence?
Are there different kinds of innocence?
Is it possible to truly understand the dark while still remaining in the light?
These are some of the questions that haunt me from time to time. I long so much to be able to reach people, especially in my writing. Paul said that he became all things to all men. I want to be able to write to all men, but how can I do that if I do not understand them? What must I do to understand? After all, "Understanding is the beginning of empathy." Surely one can remain right with the Lord and still come to understand, but the questions still haunt me.

On Anticipation

I feel the sound of so many things calling to me. Ropes around my heart like fate are pulling at me, and if I do not see fit to follow, then I fear my heart shall be wrenched out. Heart, soul, mind, and strenth are being beckoned to go deeper, to dive and to claw at the waters with all of my strength in puruit of the bottom I know I shall never reach. What holds me back? Is it weariness of the pursuit? Is it a subtle fear like an sack of air giving me unwonted buoyancy? Is it apathy? I certainly hope not. I feel like I am on the brink of a mad rush into the unknown, a feeling that has been far too prevalent in me of late. Perhaps this is the deep breath. I wonder what is coming.

On a Picture I Wish I Could Paint

Sometimes, I think the weather forgets what season it is. Either that or the seasons themselves forget their place. I've noticed that winter is very pushy. He is usually trying to show up early and leave late. It is very unfair to Autumn. What did she ever do to Winter? Well, even though winter does not officially start until the 21st, we have already received enough snow to make us forget that fact. However, Autumn has not forgotten, and she sent a reminder today. The beautiful layer of snow that had grown was wiped away pretty quickly by a nice little warm spell. I think I must be an aesthete, because I could find a degree of beauty even in cold puddles and dirty snow and gloom.

Fall's Last Gasp

Water
On water
On water
On water
On water
With water coming down
Fall's last gasp
In the greyish haze
It was cold
Bitter cold
For a few days in a row
The pond froze
But not quite through
Now it's raining
I can't escape the damp
It hangs everywhere
And it falls
Rain replaces the long resting snow
The ice is thinning
Water underneath
The thin ice
And water rests on top
Once it was snow
Now it is water spread thin
On the milky white ice
A glossy mirror
Smooth
Except for the drops
Here
And there
The slight ripples in the surface
As the rain gently falls
Through the mist
The cold that hangs in the air
Not knowing where to hide
So it mingles with the clouds far above
The overarching grey
Casting its shades of slate on all.
Water
On water
On water
On water
On water
With water coming down

On Covert Operations

I had a very interesting experience yesterday when I went "off the grid" as it were. Some would argue that, due to my lack of cell phone, I am never really "on the grid" anyway, but this time I was intentional with it.
A friend of mine and I were going to hang out together and study, but we had noted that whenever we make attempts to do this, we end up surrounded by a group of friends that we love, and little studying or homework is actually accomplished. So it was that we made the decision to barricade ourselves in a conference room at SG for three hours and deny all human contact. We told no one of our plans, not out of distaste for their company, but solely because we actually needed to get work done.
This would not normally be a problem, but it just so happened that while I was hidden from the world, my director for a student directed scene decided to move the rehearsal time from 11:15 to 10:00: a wise choice. No one likes starting a rehearsal after 11:00. It is just gross. Apparently, when this decision was made, the world exploded, because no one knew how to contact me. After working for an hour, I briefly emerged from the conference room and was immediately attacked by a fellow actor in my scene, desperate to make sure I knew about the change. She informed me that no one knew how to find me. After this, I hopped on facebook briefly because my mind needed a break from researching, when suddenly facebook chat started thrusting its way into my life. Immediately, two people, one of them another actor, the other not, told me about the change. Later on, two other friends happened to see us in the conference room, and while chatting for a bit, they made sure that I knew that the rehearsal had been moved. Apparently everyone with whom I have ever come in contact was called in an attempt to discern my whereabouts.
I just found it remarkable how dependent we have become on instant communication. People complain and/or tease me often about the fact that I do not have a cell phone. However, due to the "wonder" of facebook, I am usually reachable. But this one time, when I was out of contact for a scarce three hours, no one knew how to handle it.
Is it wrong that I was very amused by all of this frantic confusion and desperation?

On Feigning Friendship

Welcome December. It is good to see you again. You're looking good this year. How have you been? You know, you are among the more well reputed months of the twelve. People spend much of the year looking forward to seeing you. This is probably true for a few reasons. For one thing, your name is associated with winter. Even though that season does not officially start until the 21st, Autumn is pretty much passed by the time you show up. Nonetheless, only four months get the privilege of hosting a change in season. I guess that is a part of your renown. With that change in season you also get to host the winter solstice, the longest day of the year. Even though most people do not really mark it, they are aware of it, and the hope of days with more sunlight is a hope worth having, and that is a hope you give them. Also associated with winter is the coming of snow, at least in those regions fortunate enough to be blessed by this form of precipitation. As much as people tend to complain about it, deep down everyone has at least a little appreciation for snow. And you are lucky. Other months go garbed in white. January and February and usually March display the wintry powder. Even April and November have been known to display snow. However, you are lucky because while you are around, people still enjoy the snow. It is fresh and clean and covers over the decay left by Autumn's passing. By the time February and March roll around, snow is well out of season, and the white has usually gotten old and been stained by then. People generally want a change after seeing so many months dressed the same. However, you are not blamed for this, because you make the snow popular.
These are all veritable reasons for your fame, but I think that the most significant cause is Christmas. You were fated long ago to bear that holiday. I think it is time you knew that we humans are very shallow, especially those of us who are Americans. We are also quite materialistic. That Christmas of yours (I suppose I should also include Hanukkah and Kwanzaa, to be fair) has provided us an opportunity to be unremorsefully selfish and focus entirely on our own wants. You give us gifts, and that more than anything is why people love you. Every month is host to a handful of birthdays, thus endearing a select group of people to each month. However, you have the constant. Especially now that Christmas is commercial, it is a holiday that everyone can enjoy, a holiday that brings gluttony to all. If it were not for the fact that you were such a good acquaintance with Ole Saint Nick, we would probably get sick of your gray skies and slick roads a lot quicker. As it is, we will endure them for the sake of presents, not to mention the days off that we get. I hate to break it to you, but this love we have for you is not founded on depth of character, or even the fact that this so beloved holiday is associated with the birth of our only Saviour, we just like you for the toys we get. It is a good thing you save Christmas til you are almost gone. That was good thinking on your part. So welcome Christmas, I mean, Winter, that is...shoot, what's your name? Oh yes...uh...December, that's it, December! Welcome December. It is good to see you. Now where are my presents?

On Giving Thanks

I know you are supposed to do this on Thanksgiving Day, but a day late never hurt anybody. The following is a list of things for which I am thankful.

1. Grace. There can be nothing more rich in my life than the gift of eternal life given to me by the sacrifice of Jesus Christ.
2. My family. Being at college, I sometimes forget just how wonderful these people are and how blessed I am to call them my family. It is a knowledge that is always present in my mind, but I am not always conscious of the extent to which they are wonderful. My father is an incredibly strong and compassionate man. My mother cares so fiercely for all of us. My sister is always surprising me, and I am so proud of her.
3. My friends. It would be unfair to try to list all of the friends for which I am thankful because so many wonderful people have come into my life, and it would be a tragedy to forget one of them because each of my friends has been so integral to who I am today.
4. Bethel College. The place is certainly not perfect, but what on earth is anymore? God continually works through this place in my life, and I know that it is exactly where I belong.
5. Gifts. Not presents. That will come in December. No, these are the gifts that God has given me. I am aware that he has blessed me in so many ways, and I want to do my very best to use these talents to their fullest in his name. I can think of no better use of my abilities.
6. Weaknesses. If I am thankful for my God given strengths, then I must be thankful for the weaknesses he has given me as well. I am more acutely aware of some of my faults then others, but it is good to be reminded that I am far from perfect and not nearly so deserving of praise as I sometimes fall into thinking.
7. Changes of Season. As a poet, especially one who loves nature's beauty as much as I do, few things brighten the day more than a new view out the window. Fresh inspiration.
8. The Lack of Sharp Objects on Bethel's Grounds. This affords me the freedom to go about barefoot with relatively little concern for the well being of my soles.
9. Great Artists. Few things inspire me more than seeing the passionate art of others in any medium. My subject matter may come from a variety of sources, but the muse so often strikes after being impacted by the product of someone else's muse.
10. Unlined Leather Bound Journals. Does this really need an explanation?

This list is far from complete, but it is a sufficient sampling of some of the things for which I am most thankful. Finally, thank goodness for a holiday that forces us to think about our blessings. It can heal a lot of pessimism and cynicism if you are serious about it.

On Delineation

I have recently been thinking about the increasing ocurrence of my poetry in my blog. It did not take long for me to realize that this was probably connected in some way to my discipline of writing a poem every day. I continually find it remarkable what a dynamic outlet my writing has become. My journal is quickly filling as at least one page every day receives the mark of a poem. I cannot wait to go back through these poems someday and see what it is like to re-experience the feelings that went into all of these scratchings, as I am sure I will be able to do. The more I write, the more I begin to see my poems falling into very distinct categories. There are nature poems. I seem to write an awful lot of these. Then there are venting poems or expression poems or whatever you want to call them. These are the poems that say what is going on in my heart...my feelings. I write a lot of these as well, but I share fewer of them. There are also my thought out poems. These usually involve a bit more structure, they are centred around a specific theme, and they are usually longer. Finally, there are poems about writing. I am not sure yet whether those poems are more often written on nights when I am to exhausted to be creative or if they are just as creative as any others. This is hard to say because I write most of these poems late at night, and I am often exhausted. The problem is that I am bound to write a poem every day, but I usually only have free time late at night. I wonder if the quality of my work would go up if I wrote in the morning or afternoon when I am more awake. Who knows? Regardless, last night I wrote a poem that very much amused me. I do not know if it is acceptable to be amused with your own work, but I definitely was in this case. The poem falls into the latter of the aforementioned categories, and I think it pretty accurately describes much of my writing process.

Those Nights

Sometimes
My mind
Races faster than my pen
I could write the greatest poem
The world has ever known
If only
My fingers
Were faster
Fast enough
To catch the thoughts as they come
My pen in rhythm
With the beats
Of my heart
My overflowing
Heart
Pouring out emotion
Faster than my pen can set it down
The ink flows like blood
Coursing with feeling
Not flowing fast enough
Before emotions
Are lost
They pass
Unwritten
Those are the nights
I feel I could write
Something
Something that is
A good poem
A great poem
Something that is great
Yes
Tonight
Is not one of those nights
It is one of those
Other nights
The pen
Is heavy
And slow
And every
Word
Is a labour
My pen would love to race on
If the ink starts flowing
Let it flow
But
My mind
Misfires
Thoughts come too slow to
Lines are disjointed
I wonder why
What
Ramble, ramble, ramble
The writing continues
But the words mean nothing
I'm rolling a ball up a hill
To see it roll behind me
The ink
Dries up
Waiting for a though
Dries
Like a wound
That's when it really hurts
Still the poem tries
Even though its dying
Slowly
With sporadic
Breaths
That are so painful
Stumbling
Yes
This is one of those nights.

On Surprises

I have always wanted to be a writer. I am pretty sure that when I say always, it actually means always. I do not actually remember desiring any other career. While it is true that I have always love art as well, the only career association I ever made with that field was the possibility of someday being able to illustrate my own books. I am pretty sure that this desire is genetic. My mother is an amateur playwright and my father is a skilled journalist; somehow, I decided that my goal was to be a novelist. I guess we need one in the family.
However, after 19 and-a-half years of life, I have written poems, short stories, essays, news articles, and even plays, but never a novel. Essentially, I have written almost everything but a novel. During my younger days, I made a few fleeting attempts, but none of these even surpassed a score of pages before my efforts were abandoned. While it is true that I am young, I still find it somewhat ironic that I remain so far from what has long been my greatest ambition. To add on top of this, I am now in the beginning stages of writing a screenplay.
I have never wanted to write scripts for movies. The closest I have ever come was thinking of an idea for a play that would work better as a movie. However, in a slew of videos made by friends and a striking of the muse, I found myself with a strange desire to make a movie sometime. I expressed this idea to my roommate, and he wisely replied, "So make one."
Brilliant.
Since that moment, thoughts of what this movie could possibly be have flooded my mind. In a day, I have already begun developing plot and characters, come up with camera angles, and thought about a soundtrack. In my head, it seems like a pretty incredible movie. However, I have never made a movie before. I have very little idea how much it requires. Nevertheless, inspiration has struck me, and I feel that this is an idea worth pursuing. My only qualm is not even my lack of experience, but my lack of resources. Being a perfectionist in my art, I would not want this film to be shoddy. If I were to make it, I would want the final quality to be superb. Unfortunately, I do not have access to the sort of equipment that would make that possible viz. camera, microphones, editing software... I also have very little idea how to acquire these items. So, I am determined that this movie will be made, I just have no idea how.

On a Different Perspective of Winter

Yesterday I posted a poem relating falling snow to deaths. I was really happy with the poem, but a certain friend of mine (cough-cough-HANNAH-cough-cough) had quite an adverse reaction to the association between death and snow, even going so far as to say that her world was shattered. I would hate to be responsible for the destruction of someones world, especially by means of darkening their love for the beauty of snow. As a result of this friend's comment and the picturesque landscape that was so pervasive today, I decided to write the following poem. Hopefully, it can in some way rekindle this friend's hope in winter.

Waking

I forgot how to use my eyes
Until today
And the brilliance
My eyes
Had grown quite lazy
With rainy spring mornings
Hazy summer days
And muted Autumn afternoons,
But now,
Now,
Light
The sun rose on a whitewashed world
The rays don't just fall on the earth
They race in every direction
And it hurts my eyes
To take in the glory
Long forgotten
Now returning
Snow

On a Perspective of Winter

Attention

Snow
Falls
Like the dead
We notice
Flakes
Fluttering down
Here they come
A snowflake
Such a little thing
Passing
We notice
We ignore
They fall
Sometimes more
Sometimes less
More and more
Accumulating
We notice
The lines
Blur
It's harder to see
In a white out.
They fall.
The snow
Is heavy
What remains
When the deaths stop?
Confusion
Unrecognizable
Forms
Irreconcilable
Distorted
Pristine.
Everything is joined
Division Ceases
If enough fall
Because snow
Falls on all
And covers all
We find
New paths
For snow
Hides the familiar
The walks
We know.
To find old ways
One must push aside
The fallen
shatter the beauty
Rather than enjoy
The gift
Of the fallen
The beauty
The chance
For new.
They fall.
We notice
Snow.

On Flashbacks

This afternoon I visited my old high school. Despite the nearness of my alma mater, this was only the third time I had visited since my graduation a year and a half ago. I went to see my sister in a showcase featuring performances by the choirs and a one act play. Entering the auditorium was like putting on a familiar pair of jeans at the beginning of fall after having worn shorts for the duration of the hot summer months. It was a strange feeling to be surrounded by all those red chairs and those pale taupe walls, but at the same time, it felt somewhat natural. As a student, I had spent a lot of time in that auditorium. I have always been a theatre kid. For several months a year, that auditorium was a second home. A part of me felt like I belonged there. However, another part of me had pushed high school behind me. It is not that I am ashamed of my high school. My time there was wonderful, and I would not trade it, but that chapter of my life is over. I am very different from the boy who used to walk those halls. A very different actor would stand upon that stage today than the one who used to get the leads of so many shows. Nonetheless, as I spoke to my former director, revisited the scene shop and the wings of the stage, he was not so far away. That theatre, that school is a part of how I got where I am today. It would be impossible to deny that part of myself. I suppose you can take the boy out of Jimtown, but you can't take the Jimmie out of the boy. A part of me will probably always dislike Concord and Westview, and a part of me will always scoff at Laville. As unwarranted as these attitudes may be, I do not mind. They come from my heritage. I can prune myself as much as I like, but I still came from Jimtown, and it is a part of me.
I find myself drifting into the age old battle of free will theory vs. a whole is the sum of its parts. It is such a silly argument, at least, I seem to think so. I am no expert. However, it appears to me that it is both. Such drastically opposed arguments usually are. It is impossible to separate a person from their experiences. They shape our perceptions and and our understanding of forthcoming situations. Nevertheless, it is still possible to make a choice different from that for which they are conditioned based on how the person affects himself. Regardless of the choice, the mark made by past experiences always remains.
This became quite a different post than I expected it to be when I started writing. I just meant to expostulate on some of the qualms I had about reentering the halls of my youth (yeah, because it was SO long ago...), and suddenly I am getting philosophical about it. I am not quite sure how that happened. All that is to say, it was refreshing to return to my high school, and remember a bit of how I have become who I am. That's all.

On the Little Things

As the title of this post implies, the following poem is about some of my little joys in the mess of a daily routine. If you can find joy in a constant, so much the better. It will be there for you later. I do not necessarily recommend adhering to a routine, but if you happen to be stuck in one, try to find some joy. And now that I am well off track, I present to you a poem. I had help with the title from my roommate, Chester.

Defribulator

Ceramic
Cool to the touch
Smooth and glossy
Open
Awaiting
The darkness
Enter the contrast
The white
the black
Inhale
Ah, there it is
The comforting scent
Steam
Rising
Swirling
Curling
Dispersing
Like a dying pen
Whose trail
Slowly
Fades
To blank
There's the cloud
Spreading in the dark
Enter the contrast
But the pale cloud grows
Stretching
Thinner
Reaching
Blending
With the grains
Dancing
Like fools
Spinning away
Untill all are one
Ah, there it is
Good morning

On a Frightfully Honest Self-Analysis

Greg often walks barefoot. He enjoys it. Often, immediately after exiting a building, he will stoop over and remove his sandals, Old Navy flip-flops: 2 for $5.00. These sandals have a thong that slides between the first and second toe. Long ago, though not really so long ago, he would never have worn such a thing. He only wore flip-flops with a broad strap arching over the entire foot. Before that, he would never even consider buying flip-flops. The only sandals he would buy were clunky, leather beasts, encasing his foot in a loose net. However, that was in his distant childhood. Now Greg buys his flip-flops from Old Navy. These flip-flops are very popular. Greg really likes his. Nevertheless, he readily takes them off in favour of dirtying the souls of his feet.
Why does Greg walk barefoot? He is asked this quite often. he could give you many different reasons. He likes the feel of the ground. The world is more interesting when you use all your senses to experience. Greg is very in tune with textures and greatly values touch despite his apparent avoidance of physical contact. It is also a bit of a discipline. Greg has thick callouses on the bottoms of his feet from many steps taken on rough cement. Occasionally he treads over gravel as well. This is a bit more unpleasant, but Greg enjoys overcoming pain, and it is another interesting texture after all. Also, by walking barefoot, he is able to preserve his flip-flops. When bought at 2 for $5.00, one cannot expect the flip=flops to be long lasting. In a time not too far past, when Greg was barefoot less often, he quickly wore out his sandals, not only from much walking, but also from his heavy footstep. The last pair of his that wore out, broke in early fall, long before the weather necessitated the need for shoes, but well past the days when Old Navy was still selling flip-flops. Since only the thong had come loose and was able to be repaired, he kept wearing them, but they were prone to fall apart often. At this time, Greg became much more vigilant about the removal of his shoes outdoors in order to get the longest possible use out of his flip-flops.
Greg has a couple of other reasons for walking bereft of shoes, but they are reasons he is unlikely to share. For one, he likes being asked. He likes being identified by the sandals, not on his feet, but carried instead in his hand. It is a conversation starter. It makes him unique. it gives him the slightest bit of self-affirmation, sort of like when he wears his flip-flops and shorts in cold weather. True, he has a great tolerance for the cold and feels it differently than others, but he is always greatly pleased by stares of those bundled up and warmly shod. Being barefoot is an attention grabbing trait in a similar though not as extreme way.
However, Greg has another more deeply hidden reason for his habit of removing his shoes. There was that girl. She too can often be seen carrying her sandals at her side. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Greg always had a bit of an affinity for being barefoot, but it was never a habit until he met her. It was in observing this friend that he first learned to remove his flip-flops when exiting a building. For a time, it took the sight of her bare feet to prompt him to do the same, but soon Greg did so on his own, perhaps in the hope that she would see him being unique like her. Slight affections come and go, and thus did this one, but Greg still can be seen walking barefoot.
All of these reasons for Greg's barefoot walks are true, but there is still some question which is the real motivation. As a result, Greg can be seen without shoes regularly for reasons unknown, or at the very least, undefined to all; perhaps even to himself.

On the Mind

In my attempt to become a better poet through rigourous discipline, I have sometimes experimented with stream of consciousness poems. I always find this interesting, though I rarely understand them, especially if they come from my mind. Below is a stream of consciousness poem I wrote a couple of nights ago, and for whatever reason, I find it really quite fascinating. However, I am at a loss to understanding it. If there is anyone out there who would like to analyze this poem or grant some feedback, I would be most obliged.

The Messenger

The trees drip
Rain
Snow
Fluffy white clouds
In my head
I'm drowning
Deep
In the sea
In the dark
Where the shifting twilights
Come alive
To snatch away
Homes
And lives
And make misery
Reign
Like a fool
On a throne
For apes
Where mockery
Sings
A mournful song
That no one knows
Though they hum along
At empty tables
In the shadows
Waiting
For a finale
To lull them
To sleep.

On Aesthetics

I find myself surprised sometimes by how much I truly love beauty. I am an aesthete. Things that are beautiful intrigue me, inspire me, ellicit an emotional response from even me. Sometimes I forget that this is so true. I am not sure how this is even possible considering my artistic nature, but I find myself time and time again reawakened to this intense affection I have for true beauty.
Especially in nature.
This weekend several of my friends and I went on a road trip to New Castle, Indiana. Anyone who has been to New Castle can tell you that it is not an especially beautiful city. In fact, much of the city is rather run down. It has its nicer sectors as most cities do, but there is an awful lot that is decrepit there. While there, the four of us managed to have some fantastic fellowship and even rest, although we had to sacrifice some productivity to accomplish this. I think it was worth it.
Well, in the midst of this merriment, we took some time out of one day to hang out at an apple orchard. I am so glad to live in a region where such places exist. I feel bad for all those in Florida who are limited to oranges and will never get to experience the great joy that can be found at an apple orchard. Not only was this an orchard, however, but it was an orchard in full swing for the middle of fall. There was a pumpkin patch, gallons and gallons of freshly made cider from the season's still unfinished harvest, bushels of apples, hot cider, cider slushies, and even apple cinnamon donoughts, an astounding creation of which I had never before partaken, but which I quite enjoyed. Outside of this particular apple orchard, there happened to be a number of large hay bales, stacked several layers high, so as to reach a height around twelve feet. Those who know me well no of my great fondness for climbing just about anything that will hold my weight. Fortunately, I am blessed with, and was accompanied on this occasion by friends who are aware of the truth that maturity does not mean forgetting how to play (this became quite evident during an impromptu pillow fight, but I will not go into those details). These hay bales were certainly intended as a mountain to be scaled by young adventurers visiting the orchard, but as there were no children about when we stood before the mound, we made it our own for the briefest span of time. We climbed, jumped, ran, posed (there were a couple of cameras being used to their fullest capacity), and altogether had a good time. I have such wonderful friends.
The sky on that day was remarkable. It had been dreadfully windy the day before and would be raining later in the day, but while we were out on our venture, heaven was made manifest before our unworthy eyes (note the aesthete in me coming out). On the way to the orchard, I sat in what has come to be known as the way-back of Alice, my good friend's station wagon in which we took our tour of central Indiana. This was one of the classy station wagons featuring a seat in the very back that faced the rear of the car. As I sat there looking out the rear window, I could see autumn trees wafting beneath an azure sky thick with glistening clouds as hard at play as we would be on those hay bales. When we arrived and I was finally let out of the car (the rear hatch requires a key on the outside to be opened), it was remarked that I had hardly said a word on the whole way there. I could not help it. I was watching the astounding sky unveiled before me. During our time at the orchard, I happened to snag a friends camera for a spell, and I promptly filled it with pictures of those majestic clouds. This is not the first time I have done so either. Skies, especially clouds, fascinate me. Part of it may be their artistic mystery to me. Try as I might, I have never managed to accurately capture the beauty of clouds. I know there are artists who can, but to capture them as they appear is a feat as yet beyond me. However, I think that in truth, it is simply their incredible beauty. The return trip from the orchard was very much the same. I was mostly silent as I watched the billowing angels. That very day, we left New Castle. As we were driving, the aforementioned rain clouds began to gather ahead of us, but before they could throw off their yokes, we got to watch the sunset. Another reason I love clouds: the unfathomable things they do when the sunsets. I could not even begin to describe what the sun did that day. Pictures were taken, but I maintain that it would be impossible for them to come anywhere near capturing what passed that day.
This morning, I woke up to behold a few loose patches of snow still clinging to the shadows. By the time I stepped outside, they had vanished, but there was still a chill in the air nipping at my bare legs and arms. My father has always said, "If you don't like the weather in Indiana, wait ten minutes." Today has certainly been the proof of that statement. They day is not even over and we have had clouds, sunshine, rain, and snow. While I was sharing breakfast with a friend, she remarked that there was a rainbow outside. Sure enough, there it was. Rainbows are incredible. Anyone who tries to belittle them for those things with which they are associated is close minded and incredibly pitiable for not being able to enjoy their beauty. Well, my curiosity got the better of me. I went to the window to get a better view of this age old message from God, and I noticed that it went a lot higher than I anticipated. Excited now, I went outside to see it and observed a complete rainbow, rising from the horizon, singing in the clouds, and than descending once again. I received so much joy from that experience.
I am such an aesthete.
I am blessed to be such.

On the Furtherance of my Thoughts on Joy

I do not often post this frequently, but last night I wrote a post on joy, the latter portion of which was concerned with that joy which I found in beholding the fresh morning frost. What I did not anticipate while writing that blog post is that a few short hours later, I would then write a poem pertaining to this very theme. Had I but known, I could have added this poem to it. However, I shall simply have to increase the number of my blog posts by adding this today.

Frost

I passed the frost this morning
It was leaving as I was coming
Our greeting was friendly
As his smile met mine
His handshake was as firm as ever
And left my hand chilled
With stiffness in the joints.
How I had missed him
I'm always glad to see him round
My gentle friend
Heading south this time of year
Painting as he goes
The most skilled of painters is he
Applying his brush
To every leaf
His work has always been my favourite.
Perhaps another day
We'll spend more time together
My friend, the frost, and I.

It was only after rewriting this in blog form that I realized it could be misconstrued by an overly analytical person who knows of my love for Robert Frost. Huh. Well, as much as I enjoy the work of that brilliant man, this poem does not in any way pertain to him. There is only personification in this poem. Don't look for symbolism and such. At least in this poem...

On Joy

I have recently gotten the opportunity to share in the joy of two of my closest friends. One of them recently entered into a relationship that has been anticipated for some time. It has been a long journey and I was fortunate (or unfortunate) enough to share in just about every rise and fall and twist and turn that has brought her this far. I am so happy for her. Another of my friends recently got a job for which she had been hoping for quite some time. It was such a huge answer to prayer for her, and it is something she deserves. Somehow I knew she would get it, although there was a long wait between the final interview and word that she has officially received the position. I am so happy for her as well. I found out about both of these joyous circumstance in the same night within almost an hour of eachother. My heart was almost bursting for my friends. I had been hoping with and praying for these friends for a long time and to have such radically positive answers to these prayers was astounding. God is faithful. I know he does not always give us the answers that we seek, but he always knows exactly how to bless us.
I did get to partake of a little joy of my own. It was not quite so dramatic as the situations surrounding my friends, but it was joy nonetheless.
There was frost this morning.
That is not earth changing news. It went unremarked or unnoticed by many people surrounding me, but I was ready to celebrate it. My heart leapt when I looked out of my window to see a field of grass with every blade polished with silver. Fall is securely here now. The leaves have been revealing themselves more and more, but now they are going to hasten to glory. Autumn is by far my favourite season, and this was a sign that it is approaching its climax. And today was such a glorious day to bring this first frost. The sun is shining brightly, but the air is brisk, and there are chill gusts of wind drifting in and out. I love it. Fall is so wonderful.

On Emulation

I am going to be a writer, of some sort. Of that much I am certain. However, the question remains, what sort of writer am I to be?
I have dreamed of being a writer for almost as long as I can remember. I actually don't know if I ever actually considered anything else. My parents probably know. Regardless, for a long time, I have also aspired to be like other writers. Usually it was my favourite author at the time, but sometimes it was merely one that interested me. I have sought to emulate the sci-fi imagination of H. G. Wells, the incredible and gripping plot complexity of Alexandre Dumas, the virtuosity, scholarly simplicity, and skill for parable of C. S. Lewis, the scope of J. R. R. Tolkien, the poetry and prolificity of Shakespeare, the character development of Dickens, and the sheer brilliance of Dostoevsky. All of these, especially Lewis and Shakespeare, have inspired me greatly. At times, I have thought, if only I could write like that. Think what I could do or say if I could write like that.
I'm sick of it.
It is time I was through with that.
I want to write like Greg. I want to write novels and plays and poetry and maybe even more. I don't want to try to be like another writer because at the very best, I could only stand in their shadow, especially if I pick such giants as those aforementioned. There is nothing wrong with having influences, but I want to write the way I write, and I'll leave it to the scholars to figure out like whom I am most similar.
So there.

On a Really Thick Novel by Tolstoy...ish

An Ode to General Sherman...ish

Hell

This is war
Seven-hundred thousand men
Marching out to save the day
Seven-hundred thousand men
Marching out to meet their fate
Seven-hundred thousand strong
Seven-hundred thousand gone
Ours is not to reason why
Ours is but to do and die
Die and
Die and
Die and
Die and
Kill
So we must
Peace is easy
But war is hard
As women and their children flee
To prevent a further atrocity
And we raise our guns
To attack
The enemy marches on
This is war
The enemy marches on
To attack
And we raise our guns
To prevent a further atrocity
As women and their children flea
But war is hard
Peace is easy
So we must
Kill
And die
And die
And die
And die
Ours is but to do and die
Ours is not to reason why
Seven-hundred thousand gone
Seven-hundred thousand strong
Marching out to meet their fate
Seven-hundred thousand men
Marching out to save the day
Seven-hundred thousand men
This is war

This poem (along with my multiple uses of ellipses and the suffix -ish) probably does a pretty good job of showing how vague are my feelings toward war. They are more vague than my feelings on capital punishment, but far less vague than my feelings on pacifism itself. These have always been very tricky areas for me, and I have never been able to do anything more than lean toward a certain stance for any of them. I cannot commit to a position, although I know how dangerous it can be to sit on the fence. These are such annoying topics. Can there be a necessary evil? I don't know.
For those of you possibly wondering about the General Sherman line, several of the lines in this poem were inspired by his words and actions, though it is not exactly about him.

On the Practice of Pain

I've been thinking a lot lakely about the question of pain.
I have experienced very little real pain in my life, but I have had to learn to thank God for the pain that I have had. I'm trying at any rate. Sometimes I lose focus. Then it just sucks. For the most part, I try to take it to him.
For years I have suffered with chronic migraines. They are awful. When one comes, it tends to take me away from wherever I am, because I simply can't focus on things. Pain can be remarkably overwhelming. My understanding of these migraines has had to change many times over the years. Scripture has been one of my strongest bulwarks in dealing with them. The greatest encouragement has come from 2 Corinthians 12:7-10: "To keep me from becoming conceited because of these surpassingly great revelations, there was given me a thorn in my flesh, a messenger of Satan, to torment me. Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me. But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me. That is why, for Christ's sake, I delight in weaknesses, in insults, in hardships, in persecutions, in difficulties. For when I am weak, then I am strong." This has become one of the most important passages to my faith. God has used it remarkably. The pain of my migraines has also driven me to deeper faith in prayers. I believe that I truly learned to pray while wrestling with vice grip tightened on my nerves during my headaches.
This summer, I also had to deal with some intense and rather humiliating pain. I hurt my leg at the beginning of the summer by jumping off of a swing. Really, Greg? Really. Unfortunately, I was a camp counselor all summer, which meant that I really needed my leg, and I continued to use it, despite my extreme discomfiture and pain. And this pain did not go away. It lingered all summer; sometimes better, sometimes worse. Because my summer was so hectic, I did not make it to a doctor until two months after the actual injury, and (lucky me) the doctor could not find anything, so he told me to rest it. I had a hard time dealing with this pain, not physically, I dealt with that alright, but emotionally I suppose. It was a big shot to my pride. Then, afterwords, I just wanted it to go away. I wanted to move on (thorn in the flesh, anyone?) and be back to carefree Greg again. Silly me. The question is so often asked, why do we willingly accept good from our father, but not the bad? God sees a whole lot more than we can, and what we consider bad is not always what he considers bad. I am not at all referring to good and evil here, I am speaking strictly of circumstances. I finally listened to God enough to realize that he wanted me to just accept the pain. Well that sucked, but I eventually got to the point where every time my leg pained me, I was able to thank God for it. And gradually, it started healing. It is still not a hundred percent, but after what I put it through this summer, what should I expect?
Well this is plenty of exposition, but it still says very little about my thoughts on pain. I suppose it says a lot, but not very clearly. Suffering is one of those incredibly tricky questions. It's very existence is enough to sometimes drive people away from believing in a benevolent God. Christians, of course have plenty of explanations for this, and many of them are very valid. Suffering is caused by the wrong choices of others, by the effects of our own wrong choices, by consequences for sin, because of sin. I could expostulate a great deal on these, but that is not really my purpose in writing this.
I think pain can only be defined by how you respond to it. Pain will make you or break you. You can fight it, cling to it, deny it, ignore it, fall to it, or overcome it. No matter what you do, pain will make you a different person. They say, "Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger" (or stranger if you are a fan of the Joker). Unfortunately, the Joker's version is more accurate. Pain leaves scars of some sort. Some will make you tougher, some will leave you disabled. A big part is how you respond to it. If you are paying attention, you will see how pain can make you grow.
Sometimes people say that in a perfect world, such as we will have in heaven or would have had if man had not sinned, there would be no pain. I do not know if that is true. How much do we learn through experiencing pain? Think about it. You learn not to touch a hot frying pan because it hurts. Building muscle is only significant because it requires enduring pain to get there. A rose is more beautiful for it's thorns (if you ask me at any rate). God created both light and darkness. Contrast is beautiful. Part of me believes that in a perfect world, we would still learn through pain. Let us not forget that at the fall, God said that pains would be greatly increased; he did not say they would be experienced for the first time. I think if you fall on gold paving stones, you still skin your knee. But God is our father. He picks us up when we fall off our bike.
Perhaps I am wrong about all this. Or at least some of it. I have only ever known a broken world that experiences pain. It is hard to conceive of a world where there is none. Perhaps my mortal mind is just too small.

On Cloud Cover

I enjoy grey skies. I do not understand why some people see an overcast sky and think it an ugly day. Just because the rays of the sun are diffused between a bunch of drops of water doesn't mean that the world is any less beautiful. A photographer will tell you how much he loves it when a nice cloud rolls in front of the sun. It removes the worry over shadows.
Perhaps it is just a personal preference. When it comes to weather, I tend to have different tastes than most people. In addition to taking great delight in the warmth of a summer sun, I also love standing in the rain and letting it fall down my face. What is more, I enjoy the cold and wear shorts even when it is below forty degrees outside. I just love weather. Maybe I am meant to live in England, where the skies are more often grey and damp, where I can more often enjoy the beauty of the fog. It is quite common there, and I already have a great affection, both for their writers and for their spelling, as anyone who has read much of my writing could certainly affirm. I do not know why, but I am quite a big fan of that country. However, I do not think I am meant to live in England; maybe for a spell, but not forever.
Well, these reflections have been rather random, but it was time for a new post. I shall follow with something deeper soon.

On Labouring

Tonight, a friend of mine came into my room and started talking to me. It was a fairly casual conversation, one you would not normally remark as anything especially out of the ordinary, but as I was talking to him he must have noticed something. He sort of cocked his head a little and asked if I was okay. Pretty standard question, but something in the compassionate way in which it was asked was very penetrating. I realized quickly that I was tired, quite tired. I have been running myself ragged, and (like usual) been putting a very undisturbed face on it. I endure. That is something I have always done. I just keep going. Somehow I had succeeded in fooling even myself that I am fine. It is not that my life is horrible, I have simply been draining myself slowly out of a hundred tiny holes. I am always busy with something, and I have not let myself rest. It is not bad to avoid inactivity, but I have not really been able to rest. The myriad of activities to which I have committed myself have been incredibly rewarding, but exhausting nonetheless.
I must be honest with myself: I am wearing myself out. Perhaps I need to cut back a little. The problem is that I also feeling a sense of urgency. Something is compelling me. I feel as though I have a great work to accomplish, but the inclination is still too nebulous for me to have any certain feelings about it. At the very least, I need to take a step back and figure out what I am pursuing and make sure my motives are right.

On the Individual

I sometimes struggle to escape cynicism when I look at the world in general, but especially at America. I suppose it is because I live here and see so many of its shortcomings. Sometimes I have to remind myself that it is not as dismal a place as I tend to think. We have yet to do anything the Romans didn't do, we've just discovered new ways of doing them. That is not really an encouraging thought, however. It makes me wonder how long before our modern "empire" falls. I have a dreadful feeling that it will, but as yet I cannot see how or when. There I am, back to my dismal outlook again. No, America has, in fact, done some good, and it would be quite wrong to give up on the country especially when it is my home.
Nevertheless, there are some aspects of American culture that really disgust me. Chief among these is the prevalent egotism in our society. I do not mean the society as a whole, though there is that. Mostly I am referring to the extreme self-centredness that is cultivated in each and every individual. I know it is a part of our human nature, but we seem to do a very good job of encouraging it around here. Somehow we managed to idolize the individual and decided that it was a far better thing to be independent. Silly.

Self-Reliance

Thanks a lot Emerson
You transcendental sage
Thanks
You gave us all self-reliance
Now we can get by
On our own
Alone
And be proud of what we've done
If I succeed
It's me
I succeeded
Me
Myself
I did it
It's all for
Me
I'll stand upon the peak
At the zenith
To survey the far spread world
The world that I have conquered
Alone
Me
By myself
There I'll find my actualization
And then at last I can die
When everyone is looking up to me
I can die
Alone
Without any help
After I fall
While everyone is watching
Me
I'll fall
Down
And die
On my own
I don't need anybody
I can do it by myself
I can die by myself
When the world I try to carry
Crushes
Me

On Broken Glass

Last night I walked down to the river for various reasons, none of which are pertinent to this account. Anyway, I love it down by the river. There are so many spots that are simply beautiful, and I have fantastic memories at each of them. There is one that features two stone/cement benches facing the river, and they are fantastic for either sitting and writing or for conversing long into the night. This is where I went last night.

By the River

The water flows so fast today
Gliding by
I came to one of my favourite spots
To listen to the river sing
Broken
Glass shard strewn about
On withered steps
Of mortar and stone
So much glass
Blue
Green
Clear
Everywhere
Amidst the straws and plastic bags
Why?
Styrofoam ground into the earth
A thousand tiny
Cigarette butts
Decay among the leaves
Over there's an empty pack
Over there's another
This makes me sick
Gatorade and mountain dew
Washed up bottles by the shore
And so much alcohol
Expensive or cheap
It was here
The not quite empty cans testify
And all the coloured glass
The refuse mosaic
Beside my stone bench
And over there
Beside those long dead branches
A sleeping bag lies cast aside
I shudder
It all has been defiled
Broken
I came here for peace
But here I now must morn.

I know this is not a particularly good poem, but the occurance was important to me, and I had to write it. I also feel I must clarify that this is not at all a poem about being against littering or going green. Those are very important, but they have nothing at all to do with my poem. It is more about the disregard for and degradation of beauty, of something I held slightly sacred in a way. It turns my stomach to think of what might have happened in that place of peace and reflection. I cannot expect people to know that I hold that place in such regard, but they can at least respect beauty.

On the Continued Pursuance of Wonder

I know I said that I would post my good poems as they came. I do not know if this is a good one, but I really like it. It makes me happy, so I decided to post it anyway. My poems have been quite melancholy of late. I think it is partly owing to the constant grey skies we have had for the last week. I love grey skies, but when I write beneath them, I write with a somber melancholy. Anyway, here is a poem.

Ode to a Dragon

Gone
Gone
The mighty beast is gone
A little bit of magic
Is lost
So far gone
Where is the great lizard,
The lord of all the skies,
Where?
The hawks
Circling above
Are a mockery.
Where is the creature
Who blotted out the sun
Whose beating wings
Could shake the earth
Where?
Man
And beast
Trembled at his coming
fled at his approach
Hid when he drew near
But once the dragon came,
They stood
In awe.
Shrouded by smoke
His eyes shown forth
Ever burning embers
Keen,
Wise,
Terrible,
The eyes of a creature
Who knows his power
Who knows that he is feared.
Majestic
But now gone,
Making the world
A smaller place.
Where are you ancient one?
Why did you disappear?
Why did you die?
Why was your flame
Extinguished?

On Challenges

So it is time to add another chapter to the ongoing saga of my love of writing. I am still not sure how this idea developed, but I now have a writing buddy by the name of Jess who shall make sure I write while I make sure that she does the same. I am pretty sure this grew out of our mutual desires to write and our respective failures in that regard. Out of that discussion came the idea of setting goals to which we would keep each other accountable. Unable to come up with goals for ourselves, we decided that each would be responsible for challenging the other as well as determining rewards and punishment based on performance. The first idea Jess came up with for punishment was public humiliation, the next idea was public flogging. Somehow it became buying a cup of coffee for the other person, but I have a feeling the final call would be something much more creative. We shall see.
Well, as of yesterday, I had two weeks to complete a short story based on someone I know. I know have thirteen days and a basic plot idea. It will be a good time to see where this partnership goes. Right now Jess has the challenge to write a first person narrative that is not about herself. I am not sure yet if we are starting small or biting off more than we can chew, but I suppose we will find out soon enough.

On Subterfuge

I do not know that this is an especially good poem, but I am rather fond of it, and it was fun to write, so I am going to post it regardless.

Idleness

Time has slipped away
Because I forgot to count the seconds.
I heard no ticks,
I heard no tocks,
For a digital clock is silent,
And it serves as a double agent.
When clocks went digital,
It all went downhill.
The computers are taking over.
Time
Time
Precious time
Lost to the LCD glow.
We lose our thoughts
We lose our souls
But first we lose our time.

On Discipline

I have been hearing recently about people who write (or wrote) as a discipline. Apparently Jon Foreman, one of my favourite song writers, makes it his discipline to write a song every day. Some of them may be horrible, and it is likely that no more than a handful will ever be heard, but how much more will you develop writing that often. It greatly increases the odds of greatness. Also, in my novel class, the teacher told us about a novelist who would write a novel in eleven days and was one of the most prolific novelists ever. Sure, some of the novels were less than great, but just to write that much that quickly is remarkable.
What if I wrote poetry on a daily basis? Yeah, I would probably write a lot of less than fantastic poetry, but I have always dreamed of being a prolific writer, and I think it would sharpen my technique a great deal. I am thinking of beginning this discipline, but I worry about it making my writing more shallow. However, if I am not shallow, I suppose my writing would not necessarily become so. It would probably get me to write shorter poems as well, something I do very rarely.
Why not? I'm a writer aren't I? I will not be posting all of these poems. Needless to say, not all of them will be that good, and I need to come to terms with that before I begin because I have a hard time accepting less than excellence. When one of them is good, however, it will probably be found here.

On Original Sin

Healing

The light is so bright
It hurts my eyes
I'm only aware of pain
I can only focus on pain
My chest is an open wound
And blood is spilling on the floor
So much blood.
I'm barely here
Blip...blip
A heart monitor lets me know I'm alive
While the surgeon is hard at work,
His hands are red
No, bloody
My blood,
As he makes another cut.
I'm dying
I don't know how to take the pain
But the surgeon never quits.
He's digging
Digging
In my chest
And pulling out the shrapnel
From when the world exploded,
When everything fell apart.

On a Taste of Beauty

I recently saw a butterfly. That in itself was nothing extraordinary. I have seen many butterflies in my life. However, it is far to rare that I look at butterflies. This one happened to rest on the ground just a few feet away from me so I decided to take a closer look. The fellow was incredible. While his wings were closed they were very dark dull grey with muted spots of red along the edge, but when he opened them, he displayed rich, glossy black wings with shimmering blue spots near the tail. Anyone who has seen one of my paintings knows that I love blues, especially when intermingling dark and light values. Maybe someone else would not have been as impressed, but I marveled at the little guy. He flitted about a bit and came to rest again, so I crept closer again. He seemed to be resting on the remains of what had once been a childs sugary snack and was quite enjoying himself, I am sure. But while he sat there, he kept fanning his wings, almost as if he was showing off. Perhaps this is lame, perhaps not, but I spent five minutes crouched on the ground watching this beautiful butterfly.
We miss so much beauty in the world. Snippets of it are everywhere, but we miss them. This is turning into just another "stop and smell the roses" story, but it is so true. There is so much beauty to be had. Nature is so undervalued. Quit reading this and go: watch a butterfly, smell a flower, climb a tree, look at a rock. Find some beauty and enjoy it.

On Escaping Standardization

I have been discovering just how weak humans are. Of course, this is a fact that I have known for a long time, but for some reason, it has recently come to the forefront of my observation in a specific way. The human race is becoming play-doh. I am sure this is somewhat of a trend around the world, but I especially note it in America, simply because that is where I happen to live. Individuality is so rare. People so easily take the shape of whatever mold into which they are pressed. Apathy is running rampant.
I hate apathy.
Now, I know that we are supposed to be clay in the hands of the potter and that we are just stupid sheep who are made to follow, but what are we following? What are we allowing to shape us? And the question that drives me mad: Where are all the good leaders? When the human race is thinking less and less for itself, and there are thousands of voices spouting a constant stream of lies, where are the voices proclaiming truth? People were made to be contagious and were made to find their identity from outside of themselves. Advertisers know this. Satan certainly knows this. Why is the church fumbling it?
What chance does the world have if the good people do nothing?
The world is looking for leaders. When so many just want someone to follow, why won't anyone step up? I guess we are all afraid of standing out, afraid of standing alone, afraid of standing with people at our back.
I hate fear.
In Christ we have freedom from fear. Let's stand up. Let's show the world that they can find their identity in Christ. Everyone is looking for something or someone to follow. Let's give them better options.

On Weeping

Dawn

Conviction
Hallelujah
The blow finally came
And my heart has been rent.
The chaff is burning
And the skies outpour.
Fire
Fall down
Join my tears in gravity's dance.
My steps are shaky
But my heart is light
My body misgives
For how do I walk
When I've just learned to stand?
How do I speak
When I've just found my voice?
Broken
Blown
Burnt
But alive.
I'll scale the mountain
However long it takes
The road may wind,
But someday
I'll reach the end
I'll be pure
Till then, I will stand
I will walk.
Conviction
Hallelujah

Leave it to God to break me less than a month after I complain about not being able to cry.

On Adventure

Like all good stories, it started with me and a dame. The dame was Traci, and they call me the Fox. We'd worked together before, but never on a job this gritty. Normally I don't like doing dirty work, but a guy's gotta eat, and sometimes you just have to go where the dough is. We got a call from a lady, a lady named Joye. Unfortunately, the job she had for us was no laughing matter. You see she wanted us to move some counterfeits. Those weren't the words she used of course, but she was sending us to The Paper Room, and everyone knew what came out of there. It was a place Traci and I had only heard about, never seen. The hardest part was figuring out how to find it. People in our position usually try to avoid the slums, but we had a job to do.
We started out at Al's. You can usually find out what you need to know around Al's. There were always people going in and out, and most of them knew more than they needed to. We started asking at the bar, but no one there knew anything about The Paper Room.
Somebody must have overheard because soon we were approached by a big guy who had info to sell. His name was Matt, but he went by Erd. Nobody knew how he got the name, but everybody knew he had earned it. He was one of Big Dan's boys, and he told us he had the info we needed. Then, there he was. Big Dan himself. He was the toughest gangster in the city, and he had his fingers in every illegal operation that went on. Normally he charged for information like this, but he decided to treat this one as a favour, something he liked to do to ensure kind treatment in the future. He had Erd take us to down to The Paper Room, and when I say down, I mean down.
It was no wonder we had never been able to find it before. The thing was buried in the deepest recesses of the city. Beneath the sewers we repelled down a deep shaft that lead to a large open cavern: The Paper room. There was no telling how long The Paper Room had been buried or how it had even gotten there, but it was there that we found our shipment. We had it delivered to Joye in an hour, but apparently counterfeits were only the start. Next she had a package for us to deliver.
We didn't like it. We had already had a long day, and it was turning into a long night. Not to mention we had already had one ride too many on the darker side of town. But money was money, and this job paid. It was no ordinary package we had to deliver, this was a big one, and it was hot, radioactive hot. No one was saying anything, but we had a feeling we had our hands on something explosive. Not only that, but it was going straight to Big Dan. Unfortunately, finding Big Dan isn't always as easy as it was at Al's. He never stayed in one place long. We decided to spend as little time as possible with the package, and went right to the source. In the toughest part of town where most working folks are afraid to set foot is the Plant. Any deal with dirt on it went down around the Plant and that was where Big Dan kept his headquarters.
He had a girl that worked for him, covering all the business up front. She was a smart dame, but not even she knew everything Big Dan was up to. Nevertheless, that's where Traci and I started. The girl called up Big Dan, but he didn't answer. So she took us to his office, a place we had heard tell about, but never actually seen. Then, there we were, looking into the office of one of the toughest men in the city. Just like that, the package was gone, and the door was closed. And that was the end of our journey to the underbelly. It was a dark journey, one that still haunts me, but we survived.
Now you might say, that we just went down an elevator to a basement storage room, and that it was just a banner that we delivered to a Maintnence worker, but things are never just what they seem. Someday maybe I'll know what I delivered that day, but for now, I'm just another shmo, trying to earn a living, trying to keep my hands clean.

On Goals

Things I want to accomplish in life:

-Swim across something at night (like that scene near the end of The Motorcycle Diaries)
-Skydive
-Sculpt something out of marble
-Find a fedora that fits my oversized head
-Write a play (I suppose it would also be nice to see this play performed, but I will start small)
-To have my predominant trait be eccentricity (I would also love to exploit this eccentricity to get away with stuff when I am old)
-Invent a word that works its way into the common vernacular
-Own a Jedi costume (and possibly a storm trooper costume, preferably both)
-Publish a novel
-Experience poverty (why? I have no idea, but it seems like it would make me grow as a person)
-Write like John Donne (the man was awesome. If you have not read "Batter my Heart Three-Personed God" quit reading my blog right now and go do that)
-Walk on my hands
-Have something named after me (I do not really care what it is; a building would be nice, but I would be content with a disease or even a park bench)
-Build an awesome tree house
-Memorize the entire New Testament (technically, I have already memorized half of it, but I have not really retained it very well at all)
-See the entire Shakespeare canon (maybe as a bonus I'll memorize all of that too...maybe)
-Write plots like Alexandre Dumas (if you've read "The Count of Monte Cristo" you know why)
-Spend a night in a castle
-See an ocean (yes, I know it is tragic to live 19 years and never have seen an ocean, but that is why it is on the list)
-Cross the country without the use of an internal combustion engine
-Destroy a product advertised as indestructable
-Create a book that is a multi-genre compilation of writings and images that has the power to change the way people think
-Always be there for my friends
-Always have friends who will be there for me
-Do a true painting of a sunset (no photograph can ever truly capture a sunset; too much of its beauty is connected to emotion)
-Fall in love
-Serve God faithfully
-Know Jesus

On Tears

Well, as of today, it has been a year since the last time I cried. It is weird to think about. A year is a long time.
The question is whether I am heartless and unfeeling, or if I really just hide my feelings and fail to express them. The truth is probably in the intersection of the two. Because I am analytical and laid back, I am rarely upset about anything, and what I do feel I often just "get through" by gritting my teeth and putting on a mask. Sometimes it is for the better. Feelings cloud judgement, and rationality can break through the haze of emotion; but at the same time, emotion is a part of the human experience. In bypassing feeling, am I bypassing a part of my soul?
Maybe I am being a bit melodramatic. Perhaps the cause is more in my lack of suffering than in my lack of feeling. Or maybe I am just too stoic for my own good. I don't know.
What's in a tear?

On Nuptials

So I was recently invited to be the wedding date of my good friend Lyndsey. The wedding was her sister's who I didn't know, neither did I knew the groom. In fact, I only knew five people who were there at all.
Making things even more awkward was the seating. I couldn't sit with Lyndsey because she was in the wedding. Of course. As I walked into the sanctuary, there was an usher standing there. I made eye contact with him, but he said nothing and then proceeded to take the people behind me to their seats. Apparently I looked competent. Silly usher. I decided to pick my own seat in one of the weird very narrow rows. Unfortunately, I had picked a row in which no one was being seated. I was right across the aisle from all of the bride's guests but the only person in my row was the photographer. Great. Somehow fitting since I didn't know anyone anyay.
The icing on the cake was the fact that this was a Catholic wedding. I am never sure how to respond to Catholocism because my father's entire family was Catholic until him, but we are entirely Protestant. I have a hard time handling liturgy anyway. Similarly, the brides entire family was Protestant. So there were only pockets of people who knew when to answer the priest properly.
Speaking of the priest, he was a goofy man. Somehow, I never thought a priest could be goofy. I always sort of pictured them as dull and serious. I don't know why.
Well that was the wedding. What I did not know until the ceremony was over is that it was four hours until the reception. So I went home relaxed for a while and then went to the reception. It couldn't be anymore awkward than the wedding, right?
Thank goodness it wasn't. I was actually able to stick with the people I knew. All five of them. The food was quite good, and then the dancing started. I have never been a confident dancer. Hannah insists that deep down inside, I am a dancer, but I have seen very little evidence to support this theory. Nevertheless, I was there for Lyndsey, so I was going to dance with her. Something miraculous happened then. I wasn't self-conscious at all. Maybe it was the fact that no one there knew me, or perhaps because many of them would never remember me because they were too drunk. I am not sure what it was, but I just decided to have fun, and it was a good time. I discovered that I am not an awful dancer. I am not particularly good either, but I am not awful. Lyndsey informed that I dance like a male escort. How do you respond to a comment like that?
Oh well, so ends my first adventure as a wedding date

On Morals

Shading

I'm looking for lines,
But all I see is gradient
I see the black
I see the white
But I can't tell where they meet.
Beneath a haze the shadows blur
Like my vision.
The line is there
But it's growing fuzzy
Black becomes grey
Grey becomes white
Seamlessly in my eyes.
Which is dark?
Which is light?
Is the line moving
Or am I?
My hands are black
Charcoal stained by blurring the lines
The masterful delicate strokes,
Spreading the black across the page
Filling the sheet
Completely with gray
Darker here
Lighter there
But all grey.
Form and contrast disappear
And the beauty is lost
What is truth?
And where does it lie?
Is it found in the white
Or revealed by the black?
Or maybe
Truth is in the line
The line I've tried so hard to hide.
But it still exists
And it must be found.
So when I walk in the grey
I'll follow the light
To turn from the dark
And maybe, somehow find a line.

On Self-Actualization

I am writing. Thank goodness I am writing.
It is my dream to be a real writer, and I have called myself a writer for some time now, but for the first time, I actually feel like I am worthy of that title. I have been writing so much of late. For my birthday in my I received one of the sweetest gifts possible: a leather-bound, unlined journal. Since then I have been constantly filling those blank sheets with my thoughts and ideas, and few random entries here and there. I also have a blog now, which is kind of like a journal, but with the intent of others reading it.
Those two have kept me writing fairly consistently (well, this blog only went up a short while ago, but you get the idea). However, what really prompts me to believe that I am becoming a real writer is the fact that I have finally begun writing a play. I have been messing with ideas and talking about writing for a while, but I finally sat down and just started writing one. I wrote three plays for my playwriting class, but those were all assignments, and the longest was only a one act. This will be a full length play, written of my own volition. It is such a great feeling just to be working on it, to overcome my laziness, sit down with pencil and paper, and write. I have discovered a few very strong characters, and the dialogue I have so far is coming along nicely. I am far from an expert on the world of theatre, but I feel like this play has the potential to be very good. I know it is a good story, but my ability to tell that story is what will determine how good it actually ends up.
I feel even more strongly now that I am meant to write...to be a writer, not just in hope, but in truth. I do not know what sort of things I will end up writing, but God has given me such an incredible love for the use of words that I cannot help doing much else. It brings me such joy to write, and it is good for the soul, especially for one such as mine which rarely finds voice through the tongue and so often must rely on the pen.

On Contests

Something interesting happened to me at CDYC. I had the opportunity to serve as a judge for the junior high art contest. I have been in several such competitions, but this was my first time ever evaluating the work of others. Things went well, I suppose. I was neither an overly generous nor an overly stingy judge. Most of the work I evaluated fell in the median range.
However, I am one of those wierd people who cannot help overcomplicating anything just by thinking about it. There I was, critiquing the efforts of fragile junior high students in a room with two middle-aged women and Jordan (he was judging photography) and suddenly I was contemplating the differences between judging and judgement, and the purpose of competition. Who does that?
Regardless of whether these thoughts were warranted or not, they came. It was difficult to be a judge when I had been an entrant so many times and often been dissatisfied with judge responses. What little junior higher was I going to crush with my criticism? I tried to remain as positive as possible with my comments, but sometimes it was a challenge. Some of the work, simply put, was not very good. I try not to be snobbish about art, but it is one of my things, something I really love and an area where I am gifted, which makes it even harder to respect the efforts of others.
My job was to judge these works, on various criteria. I have somewhat random conectivity of thought at times, and suddenly I was thinking about Jesus' warning not to judge. Of course, this is a slightly different form of judging, but how many of those students did I judge in my mind, especially when I would read the purpose they gave behind their work and guffaw at their shallow or even incompetent attempts at finding purpose in their piece. Where does critiquing become criticism, and when does bemusement become self-aggrandizement? I was careful to make sure my comments to the entrants were positive and gentle; I do not think any of them will find cockiness or belittlement in my responses, but what is going on in the judge's mind?
I will be serving as a judge for group drama for the senior high tomorrow, and probably evaluate the senior high art as well. It is a somewhat scary prospect, not only because the number of entries will be greatly increased, but also because I now know what judging is like. It requires a bit of personal and emotional detachment, but also requires maintaining compassion for the person who will be reading your critique. I do not want to have to be cold to be a judge, but I also do not want to deal with the emotional strain of looking for faults in the work of others I have a whole new level of respect for the challenge involved in judging competitions, and a new realization of the claws of pride still clinging to me. I pray that I may dislodge them.

On Setting Out

The first step is always the hardest. So often, we seem to imagine that setting out ought to be as momentous as the climax. However, so often, the beginning is rather inconsequential. Journeys, wars, lives, and deaths can all begin on a whim and grow into something unfathomable. I have no intent for this blog to become earth shattering, but I am beginning, rather on a whim myself. I was frustrated in trying to log in to my bethelblog, and with hands itching to write, I decided to take my friend Chester's advice and begin a blog of my own. This is the first step. It is nothing special, but there's no telling to where the road will sweep me.