Another twist in the fabric of Galen's time on earth

An Army Recruiter called me tonight. He offered me: $4000 to join; $70000 for school when I'm done; all my current loans and my last two years at Whitworth paid for by the Army; guaranteed enrollment in the Advanced Individual Training course at the linguistics school at Monterey (one of the best in the world); guaranteed acceptance to Officer Cadet School; a commission as a Captain upon graduating Whitworth with my B.A.; guaranteed assignment in a linguistics related position; guaranteed assignment to the base of my choice (Italy anyone?); and I only have to serve two to four years after graduating from Whitworth. It's an incredible offer, but I feel like they're offering me a bribe.

So these are the questions mulling about in my head right now: If the Army is bribing me to join them, doesn't that prove them to be insecure about their cause? I mean, if they're willing to give me $200,000 to fight in the War on Terror, isn't it obvious they don't consider the war itself to be a compelling reason to serve my country? And if they're that insecure about their own cause, do I really want to devote my life to it?

The second question builds on the first: since I don't agree with their cause in the first place, and would be joining them purely for their bribes, that makes me a mercenary. Can I ethically justify being a mercenary? Especially when innocent people (and guilty people of course) will die because of my involvement? Is getting a full ride at college worth risking causing a human to die?

Then there's this: I'd have to skip out on working at World Vision, even though I've committed there. And I'd have to skip out on some dear friends I've made this year.

BUT... I could go to Whitworth, for free. I'd get free linguistics training, which is great since I can't afford MIT. I'd get to travel the world with the US paying for it. I'd get another $70,000 for grad school later. And I'd be an Officer, with quite the adventure before me.

What to do? What to do?

For the photographers in the bunch

If you like taking pictures and you just aren't impressed by mine, you should go check out MSNBC's recap of the years best pictures. There's a set chosen by the public and one chosen by MSNBC's editors. There's some pretty incredible stuff there. Makes me want to practice a bit more.

Go check them out and then come back and let me know which one's you like the best. I'm curious about what images people like and why.

732 gallons = $1610 and a couple of human lives

According to http://www.participate.net/terrapass my car burns approximately 732 gallons of gas a year. That means I spend about $1610 on gas over the course of a year. That's a lot more than a transit pass. And my Jeep produces 14,321 pounds of carbon dioxide every year from emissions. That's five times the weight of my car.

Normally I wouldn't care, because carbon dioxide helps trees grow, and I like trees; and normally I wouldn't care because it's obvious to me that God has systems in place to ensure the earth never gets too hot or cold to sustain life; but tonight I watched Syriana, and tonight I realized that people are dying so that I can drive my car around for $1610 a year. I'm not ok with that. I'll ride the bus if it means less people will die. The only thing is, I'm not sure riding the bus is going to save lives. And so I feel impotent, sort of like I felt after Constant Gardener, and after Hotel Rwanda.

And now I'm going to eat some toast, and go lay down, and forget all about this. And maybe I'll look into a bus pass.

Zadi's vlog

Go visit Zadi's vlog. This video made me happy, because even with all the crap going on in the world, both liberals and conservatives are still people underneath it all -- even when we disagree, we're still in this together. Also, check out her vid on Hurricane Katrina.

Go visit Zadi!

Scrooge you for judging Christmas gifts by their covers

So I don't like getting gifts, because I don't like saying thank you and then putting something in a drawer. Most gifts are so "it's the thought that counts" and that's annoying. Because if you have to say that about a gift, it probably wasn't a very thoughtful gift at all. I have all the stuff I need, and nearly all the stuff I want, and I really don't have very much at all, but I'm content. Most Christmases and birthdays I tell people no gifts -- actually, I always say no gifts -- but people are determined and still get me stuff. So every year there is a lot of awkward, "Thank you. How nice. Well, I've always wanted one of these, I think, sort of." People feel very good about themselves because they've discharged their gift-giving responsibility, and I'm left trying to find a place to put my new-fangled stuff that I don't want, don't need but must keep to avoid being "ungrateful." It's really one annoying holiday after another over here in Galenland.

I say all this to say that this year is different. I told everyone no gifts, like usual, but people were still determined. However, I have yet to receive a calculator or a Christmas ornament or a bargain-book on the History of Chariots. This year I've received three gifts before Christmas, and every single one has been thoughtful and, well, instead of saying "Oh, how nice," I've said, "Wow, I'm shocked. Someone got me something that A) Won't cause clutter B) I can use C) I actually like." So thanks to those people. You're the chamomile in my tea.

Oh, and, can you believe it, someone I barely know gave me Blue Like Jazz. How the heck did they know? That just made my morning today. Cheers to you Cole.

Time: People of the Year

Finally, role models worth imitating. Read all about it.

A cause for violence

I punch people to make them mad, to see them come alive. Like "Pushing here" on a stuffed animal, and dancing to the music. People are hollow, their faces are masks, store-bought expressions, eye liner, plastic-bottled tears. Like a fancy doll posing at that awards show. She's so sad. Break their teeth or touch them there, piss them off or call them names; and the manequinns growl, shirk their fancy dresses, shout, flip you off, and then you know -- then you know. Then you know them, alive.

It's a week since I lost my wallet.

I lost my wallet. Some nice people gave it back. I had to get gas. To do that I had to open my wallet. When I did, I was surprised. No, nothing was missing. But something was new. The people who gave it back also gave me notes. I really liked them. I almost cried. Or maybe that was the breeze drying out my eyes. Yes, probably that. But thank you. You're all rare like unicorns.

A little fun with the snow and a cameraphone

Rachel really likes her snow. Click the image to watch the movie.

A short list of things to do today

1. Drive through the falling snow at warp speed.
2. Tell the nice lady at Safeway "Merry Christmas", and feel really very merry about it afterall.
3. Have intense discussions repeatedly. Interrogate self following aforementioned: could I have been wrong? How do I know anything? Epistemology my ...
4. Peek through curtain. Is it still snowing?
   
5. Wonder at the snow. Wonder: "What is the meaning of snow?" Enjoy homogenous landscape. For once homogeneous get a good connotation. I like when it snows and everything is soft.
   
6. Find words are inadequate to describe some things, like how I feel right now.
7. Sigh. Maybe that says it all?

Cheers. It's Christmas and we're all alive.

questions I asked myself today

1. How does cheese melt in a quesadilla when it wasn't frozen in the first place?
2. Has anyone actually read the ingredients in toothpaste? Does it scare anyone else that it says, "Do not swallow?"
3. Once everyone our age gets married, what exactly will everyone talk about?

Bon nuit.

A staggering night of heartwarming genius

This is Matt. Matt is an intrepid Austrian hiker.

















Matt is enthralled by a note jotted in Galen's little black book.















Galen and Trevor want some time to think about this.


















Apparently Matt thinks the note is amusing.


















Galen and Trevor are relieved.






















Now Matt is a city slicker and Trevor is a graduated artist. Trevor has grown a moustache in the past seven minutes.















Then Matt changed clothes and died.















Galen died too.




















Trevor is dismayed by these developments.
















Matt resurrected to find out he is wearing a pink boa.

















Kayla is incredulous.



















And now for something completely different.















"Change... the channel..."
- Uncle Bill

Click.

Cheers!

The fog, like fish and visitors, begins to stink after five days.

oh, the decisions

Apple Pie, Pumpkin Pie, Cranberry Pie or Strawberry-Rhubarb Pie?

Thank you, Nordstrom

Posted at the Southcenter Nordstrom

The Wizard's Winter (updated)

And there was another time, when we went to Mr. Saintpatrick's house. Laura's mom never let us visit Mr. Saintpatrick's. She said we shouldn't go to stranger's houses. But I saw them talking once, and they waved at each other a lot, so I guess he wasn't a stranger, really.

That afternoon, we only went into his house because Amber had slipped on the gravel in front of his house. We were running away from this kidnapper who kept driving by getting ready to steal us, and we turned around the corner in front of Mr. Saintpatrick's house and Amber bought the farm. She scratched up her whole body, and the kidnapper was still chasing us in his car, so I knocked on Mr. Saintpatrick's door.

He looked scared when he opened the door; I think I knocked really hard. He looked both ways while he asked me what I wanted. I explained the situation to him and pointed to Amber limping up the sidewalk. When he saw her, he didn't look so scared anymore. He told me to go inside and call Laura's mom, to tell her to come as fast as possible. She said she'd be right over and to not let him feed us anything, but I forgot that part, because when I got off the phone, I saw Amber on the couch and Mr. Saintpatrick was taking off her coat. He wasn't doing anything dirty. He just put bandaids on all of her scratches, and told her he'd make her some chocolate milk with his secret recipe to make her bruises go away. He made some for me and Laura too.

We sat on the couch next to the patient, and he stood by the fireplace with his back to the fire. Across from the fireplace, the news was playing really quiet on his TV. He looked scary with his face flashing colors in the TV light, but when he turned to stoke the fire, he looked a lot like my Grandpa. He had a belly and eyebrows like my grandpa, so I felt safe. He asked us about school, and riding bikes, and did we like our chocolate milk. We forgot about the kidnappers pretty soon. He sat down in a rocking chair next to the fire, and finished his chocolate milk that he was drinking out of a metal bottle with a very short neck.

Amber asked him to tell us a story. He told us about when he was a kid and his uncle taught him how to make it snow. Laura didn't believe him, so she double-dared him to prove it. He laughed a big laugh, like Danny Kaye in White Christmas, and he went to the window and rubbed his chin at the clouds. He looked over his shoulder at us on the couch, and at the news. He smiled at the clouds for a few seconds, like he saw an old friend flying by, and then maybe he did see a friend, because he waved at the clouds a few times and he laughed again. He said to the window, loud enough for us to hear, "Just wait -- it'll snow tonight. It'll snow. Your mom is here now." He opened the door for her, and she thanked him for taking care of us and she almost died when she saw us drinking chocolate milk from a secret recipe. We walked home very fast and she squeezed my hand and Laura's hand really hard. I tried to get my hand away, but Laura's mom wouldn't let go. She was very nice to Amber that afternoon, but not me or Laura. She told us not to go into stranger's houses, and especially not Mr. Saintpatrick, because he was a bad man. I thought about her waving at him a lot when they talked, and him waving at her, and I couldn't understand. I thought about it all afternoon. We were having pancakes for dinner, so I forgot about him until the next morning. When I woke up I had to squint when I looked out the window, because the everything was so bright. There was snow on the lawn and the neighbor's roof, and there were tracks from the neighbor's car. Laura's mom might not like Mr. Saintpatrick, but I don't think he's bad. I don't think he's bad at all. I think he's a good man who knows a recipe for secret hot chocolate and I think he's a wizard who can make it snow.

I want to curl up in a little ball and never have to think of this again.

and you hated prepositions most

about. over. upon. without. for. to. with. under. below. inside. outside. within. regarding. against. across. alongside. within. as. between. from. except. down. like. minus. off. up. past. near. less. save. plus. per. till. unlike. until. while. toward. and on.

A tribute to prepositions, the words that let us have relationships.

can you imagine?

I think the first time we did it was when I was four. We all had Mickey Mouse ears on. Not mine of course. I've never been to Disney Land. My parents wanted to wait till I could remember. By the time I could I was too old to care. Bad idea, waiting for anything. Like working hard all year for two weeks of pleasure. Why not enjoy the work? Then you don't need a vacation.

So we had these Mickey Mouse ears on, from when Laura went to Disney Land. And we're sitting on a brick wall that's holding back a bajillion tons of dirt and probably the whole house too. There's gravel in the flowerbed, and a tree we used to climb leaning out over the grass, and us. It's not rare for the three of us to be together, or sitting in Laura's back yard like we are. But there's this look in our eyes, and you know we're not there right now. I mean, we are. We're posing for a picture, and we're smiling and all. But we weren't there. Our eyes have that glazed look, like a kid who walks in a department store, touching all the coats with his hand as he walks circles around the women's department. You know he's touching the coats because the coats are moving, but you know he's not there. He's probably an actor and he's running his hand along the curtain after a performance. He's waiting for his girl to change, and he's the hero. Boys always make themselves a hero, when they're there and not here. She'll tell him he was wonderful, and the janitor will look at him enviously as they kiss. He'll be envied; he'll have what they want.

And perhaps that's what we had, what we wanted, the first time we did it. In the hedge behind Laura's house we stockpiled the swords, and the treasure that took us all Saturday to bury. Golden goblets, chests of Spanish coins, rubies, probably iguanas and dogs and kangaroo rats because we liked them more than jewels. It was back to the ship, which the others called the swingset, but that was ok with us, because they couldn't see the treasure like they couldn't see the sails. We swung higher than any other kids, because the faster we swung, the sooner we'd catch that merchant ship. The sooner we'd be safe in our fort, spending stuffy summer afternoons counting our treasure in the shade of our imaginations.

I think when I was eight, it happened again, in the rafters above my friend's garage. Construction sites are inspirational to kids like sunsets are to lovers. Every unfinished wall is an excuse to invent something new. This isn't a loft, it's the Olympics, and the American gymnasts will beat the Russians once and for all. And on the ground, a hockey game will begin, as soon as Dad moves the car. But how strong are you? How long can you hold yourself on the parallel bars, and can you turn around? Are you scared? And skinny arms flex like sapplings and we don't fall. Or we're mobsters, and here in the insulation we'll hide our contraband. And then we have to stop doing it when the sheetrock goes up, and there aren't any holes cut into the Olympics. They wouldn't. Adults are so practical. Heating costs and all. Who heats a garage? But never fear, because we'll fight the Texans from our fort in the back yard. Because the Texans are the enemy today, why else? And do you think you could throw a water balloon into the road? Of course I can. I did once, and it hit a police car. No it didn't! Yes I did! Even ask... and now we're fighting ourselves. The Texans go back to Texas becuase it's the Swedish we hate now, and the Swedish hate the Scottish now. And they'll hate the Cherokee later, because everyone has a bit of Indian in them. We shoot bow and arrow too. Because we hunt bears and deer between the fort and the fences. Bears live in gardens these days. But it's dinner time and while we eat macaroni and cheese and hotdogs, the deer will recover their energy, because we'll hunt them until it's time to ride my bike home, where I can't do it, because I can't do it alone.

Now, I can't do it at all. Sex is permissible, but it isn't. Adults can have sex, but adults can't do it. It's not realistic. Condoms are realistic, but flying kites off the back of motorhomes is stupid. Waking up next to him is allowable, but don't associate with dragons. Porn is creative, but pirate ships aren't powered by swings. Grow up? Screw you! You don't know where Laura lived. You don't know where I hid my treasure!

Do you Flickr?

I have a Flickr account now! Six of my zoo pictures are posted there. And maybe more once I develop the second roll.

Click to see my Flickr!

2:30 and it's time for our morning epiphany

I was going to write a post about how annoyed I am with the laziness of Christian musicians (and other artists -- how they all label their work "Christian" to get it sold in Christian bookstores, where otherwise no one would buy it).

But then I realized, I don't have a problem with Christian artists, really. I am glad I'm not one of them, but I realize some have talent, some are creative, and many produce good, edifying material, when they aren't writing in cliches. The only reason I wanted to attack them is because they were easy to fault. I needed a cause, and they were the easiest available. Talk about ironic. I was lazy and uncreative, so I planned to attack the lazy and uncreative.

But I still won't buy their stuff.

Anyway, what I'm thinking about now is similar to what Raj has been mulling. How much criticism is good, and effective? At what point do we become a cause of the disease, instead of the doctor diagnosing it? Is it pleasing to God when we find fault with mediocre artists making mediocre art? Doesn't he judge the heart, while we're stuck criticizing the appearance? Maybe their art is pleasing to him, and maybe their hearts aren't mediocre. In fact, I'm sure they aren't. People generally can't be labeled mediocre. There are mediocre artists and students, and teachers, and pastors, and prophets, but there are no mediocre people.

I'm at a loss of what to do now. It's so easy to criticize the facets of the commercial church. It's such an obvious cause. Any cause I undertake now will require more effort. But maybe by undertaking any cause harder than this one -- maybe when we take on harder causes, we grow, and become stronger, and thereby strengthen the church. Maybe all this criticism is a two edged sword: it cuts down those we criticize, and it leaves us weak and unpracticed as well. And so the weak church attacks its weak. If we leave off attacking each other, perhaps we'll have time to attack things that matter, and thereby we'll matter, and thereby the church, too, will matter.

Oh the things we think of at 2:40am.

My house, hallowed in moonlight,
Like Jesus in a Cathedral
of trees.
Your house,
planets and moons
and stars,
blink like video camera lights,
and I remember you watch the tapes
again and again,
since you like how it ends
so much

I see you and my house,
at the same time.
I see both,
without moving my eyes.

So this is Christmas?

It's November 10th. Azina is playing Christmas music. And her sister, Amber, authorized this. Nicole is all for it. Kayla is talking about Christmas ornaments, and OrnamentTrees she got yesterday. Amber is talking about how much she loves giving gifts. I'm sure if Matt had blogged recently, it would have been about Christmas; he's like that. The mall has lights up. Sears is having a three day Christmas sale. A three day Christmas sale. It's November 10th.

Am I making myself clear? And please don't say "Crystal clear" because that reminds me of my Mom's favorite ornaments, which reminds me of Christmas, which is something I'm just not ready to think about. So stop. Please. All of you. As Mrs. Dashwood put it, "If you can't find something un-Christmasey to say, you'll kindly restrict your remarks to the weather."

Steve. I need you now.

to Ali and others

I wrote in a journal for the first time in months. I wrote not for anyone else, but for me. I wrote as if no one would read it. It started off like a puppy on a hardwood floor. Then it looked like a hamster in a wheel. Then it looked like a religion textbook -- as if mentioning God means we don't need his help. But then it ended. And it ended like a horse finally in the gate. Now it's ready to run. The horse is focused and now it's ready to run. It was a mess of a start, but here's how it ends:

"Now is time for friendships that don't go away. Now is time for friends who say they're glad to see you even when they're tired; because they know you need to hear it now, in case they forget next time. Because they know, and they want you to know, there will be a next time. This isn't contingent on you anymore. This isn't worried about being afraid of being clingy anymore. This doesn't care how tired you were last night. This doesn't mind when you cry because so-and-so did such-and-such. And this doesn't forget, even after a year. It hugs like cashmere, and calls when it is lonely, because it knows -- the hug told it -- this friendship knows it's safe all the time, and that being lonely and saying so isn't the same as being clingy. Because everyone is needy."

"I can think of friends I didn't think of before. The void isn't the only option. Real people will listen. And for the friends not ready to pick up gems and hold them to the light -- those not ready to bear with imperfections -- give them time. Because the friends that can hug even when they are tired used to be people you were afraid to tell."

Post 100

This is the morning after the first frost. The air is crisp and cold, and still. The birds talk joyously about their winter plans, and the leaves crackle when they dive from the trees. They tuck and roll and they dance together, three or four, spinning around and up and down, till they land in bed -- a deep mattress of decaying leaves, where they will sleep away the cold.

There is no thought of death this morning though for weeks the battle raged. The Indian Summer clung tightly to the trees, kept fanning the sun to keep us warm; but now the frost has come and summmer has migrated. Those in Chile will be happy to see him come. But here, finally, the world is at peace with autumn -- the world rests in a contented defeat -- as if this is what it wanted all along.

And this is how I want to feel.

a book for your winter book list

If you've ever loved Peter Pan by J.M. Barrie, you'll want to secure yourself a copy of Winnie-the-Pooh by A.A. Milne.

The fatal joust

From a conversation in a car, today:

"What did you think of the quote I put on the board?"
"I joked about it with Mom and Rachel -- that you were trying to get me to quit my job."
"Hah. Well, no, that's not exactly how I meant it. I read it in a book. One of the books I'm reading. And then I was watching a show about Sergei, and I'd heard of him. He worked at the UN as vice president of the UN or something. He'd go to countries that were having troubles and make them whole and heal them. He was in Sierra Leone before he went to Iraq. He brought democracy to them. I read that he'd died in the paper a couple days ago, but it was a blurb so it didn't mean much to me. But watching the show, how he was killed in Iraq doing what he really wanted to do. I don't think enough people do what they want to do."
"They do what they think they have to do."
"Yes. They don't follow their passions. I don't think many people do what they really want, because they are afraid to do it. They get stuck on their obligations and what they think they should do, because they're afraid to step out."

The highway is busy at rush hour, and the sidewalk is covered with molding leaves. A storm is calling from a few days away, and one can hear it on the breeze. The skies clear in anticipation.

"Steinbeck wrote that every man battles with greatness, but most lose and become mediocre."
"What?"
"It's not exactly how he says it. I'm paraphrasing it. But he basically says that every person battles with greatness, but that few become great because most people don't want the responsibility. Greatness brings a heck of a lot of responsibility."

The cars ahead stop. And so do the cars behind. A river pauses for a moment. Eyes wandering out the windshield, and the window lowered an inch to sample the air. Eyes unfocused, and clear again, like when a movie is flashing back to the past. A long green field, stretching away, far, probably around the world. The grass probably grows like this, a giant watchband around the world, even under the sea. Sea sponges make their vacation homes in the grass, far from the coral reefs. But the grass stops at the highway. The grass is full of clover; and probably bees, but the road is too large, the window is too far away, too blurry to tell. A viking hefts his wooden shield, levels his lance. His skin must be goosey, exposed like that. And his opponent is a skinny kid, curved like a shrimp. There is no question who will win. The shrimp steadies his lance. This isn't about killing the viking. He won't feel anything, now that he's writing his victory speech in his head. "The great pontificate, lord of the sword!" The shrimp in a pot turning red. Past the butterflies and past his mother's admonishments, he'll charge into grandeur, and crash. The shields will meet and the lances will fall, and perhaps one or the other will bleed. Each will hear their eulogies, as all boys do -- on the walk home -- when they die and become men.

"I've forgotten what my passions are. I've talked to God about it, and I'm asking him to show me again. There are things I enjoy doing, but they're not the sort of thing you make a living doing."
"Like waxing cars."
"Hah. Yea, like waxing cars."

"Did you see that?"
"I wasn't sure I did."
"Those boys were jousting."

"The light is green."

Far better it is to dare...

I thought this was pretty apt (which, I've just noticed, is an abbreviation for "appropriate") considering the hike I and a few friends (yes you) took on Sunday.
Thanks for pointing these out again, Azina. You can see the rest of them, which Azina wrote, at her website. Thanks for reading.

"#6
At this point I'm thinking it would be better to be up there with Dave climbing the wrong mountain than to be stuck here making plans about climbing mountains, but not actually climbing any at all. So what if you get all the way up there and realize you're one peak off, at least you've gone somewhere, given it a shot, instead of sitting around making plans that never pan out. Climb a few wrong mountains, eventually you're sure to end up on the right one, and even if not you'll have some great stories to tell of adventures with Dave."

This also reminds me of one of my favorite quotes, which perhaps my friends think I quote too frequently, considering its duration. Our beloved president Theodore said it: "Far better it is to dare mighty things and win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much because they live in the gray twilight that knows neither victory nor defeat." Well said. I think I'm going to try again on Sunday. Anyone up for Mt. Si?

Crash

"It's the sense of touch. In any real city, you walk, you know? You brush past people, people bump into you. In L.A., nobody touches you. We're always behind this metal and glass. I think we miss that touch so much, that we crash into each other, just so we can feel something." -- Crash

You want to see this movie. Crash. Rent it.
Or come visit me. :)

The midpoint of Oktober

Seeing as Octoberfest is half way over, I'm posting the first half of the Oktoberfest story Andrea requested. What happens next? You'll know when I know. Enjoy. And any advice is welcome.

-----------

There is a quaint town on the northern slopes of the French Bavarian Alps, named for its benefactress, the Duchess of Pontoof. M'me Pontoof is a ravishing creature with hair so golden, Rapunzel was locked in a room to spin its equal. The Duchess does not age; nor has she ever. Legends tell that her husband discovered her collecting butterflies in the deepest parts of the Forest Noirtier. She was beside Edelweiss, a spring named thus because its color is the scent of that rare bloom. And it is said that the Duchess of Pontoof was made beautiful by this pool. It is told that she was once a homely, calloused milkmaid, but upon pouring her despairing tears into the pool, she was bade wash her face with its color; when she did, the water filled her eyes and she became enchanting, and enchanted. Her eyes turned from brown, to clear -- the color of Edelweiss. Now the Duchess has returned this greatest of favors by one still greater: she has built her estate around the spring, and around her estate has been built a town, named for M'me Pontoof.

Each year a festival is held remembering the day the best-loved Lady d'Edel became beautiful. All throughout the town, in every available square, great striped tents are erected and filled with teeming crowds from throughout the canton. And in these tents, in nearly every one, actually, a bar is built against a back wall; and at this bar are queued the masses. They wait hours to drink, each taking only one pint and savoring it, for in Pontoof, no golden beer is consumed. In Pontoof all beer is like the Edelweiss -- rare, unique, and again, rare. The only beer in Pontoof is beer drawn directly from the spring. And when all the beer is gone, a collective sigh flows about the town, rustling the last autumnal leaves from their perches and hurrying them along to the ground. Upon this annual sign, every citizen and stranger directs their footfalls towards the large tent, striped orange and red alternately, the large tent placed beside the Pontoofian Manor, beside the spring Edelweiss.

It is here, at the bar along the back wall, that each year a very important person is announced: the recipient of the last pint of sparkling beer. For ages this tradition has been repeated. My own father told me of it, and how as a child his father had charged him at his bedside to pray to one day be the lucky man to whom the Duchess of Pontoof presents the last pint of the year. But before you think the Duchess might descend to standing behind a bar in a striped tent doling out beer, you had better know that the Duchess is much more beautiful than that. Her eyes would light the tent, and it might burst into flames, on account of their clarity. They do seem to channel the sun. If one is not careful, when gazing at her, one may find themselves rapidly falling in love. But, to return to the beer; it is her dear friend, the mayor Viktor Von Pontoof, who does the announcing, and the last pint is presented at a masquerade ball which lends one memories of the Carnival at Rome. This ball is days of dancing and cheering and messes of confetti thrown about by the elite, masked revelers -- elite in their social class, not in their talent for frivolity -- capped at the climax by the presentation of the last alcohol imbibed at the festival.

There is only one more thing you must know before we may join current events as they play upon the stage, and it is this: M'me Pontoof is a spinstress. That is all.

We join our hero and our villain on the third night of the ball, the final night, when the important people deem to condescend to the mess the not-so-important-but-elated-to-be-invited revelers have already made. Amongst the company of the important is one rather unimposing being dressed as a musketeer; he trips over his cape and flails his scabbard behind him like a labrador; he is a short fellow, wearing a recent fashion behind his feathered mask: spectacles. This unimposing man is Hans. Hans is to be the recipient of the last pint. He has perhaps not yet comprehended his exaltation to the throne of men's admiration, as he is still apologizing profusely to the other guests, and is still breaking vases with that sword. We must be fair though: Hans has reason to be nervous. He is a simpleton from the town, a watchmaker. He is used to walking with his chin tucked to his chest, and even now, in the midst of this gala, he walks with his eyes fixed on his knees. It has been long since anyone has seen his face, and if they had, they would not remember, for his face is not remarkable. He is on his way to the main ballroom, where the Duchess will soon present him with a pint of blue beer, which Hans is still not sure he has won. Hans never wins anything, you see. He did once win a raffle as a child, but all it gained him was a wooden stick from the treasure chest in his brother's fort -- and the ticket had cost him an amount of silver. When his name was announced by the mayor, Hans stared at the man in disbelief, for reasons we will address before ending this story, but suffice it to say Hans was not one who hoped for fortune's benificience. But here he is, without regard to his doubt, standing before the chair of the Duchess, whose face I cannot discern, so closely do her eyes resemble the Edelweiss. She wears a obsidian mask, and I cannot help thinking of her eyes as jewels adorning a Polynesian volcano. It is as if the myriads of revelers are all standing in line at a museum, to see her eyes and to care nothing for the momentous occasion, or the beer or Hans at all. And then Hans did something that is still talked about in Pontoof, to this day.

Hans, though timid, was not entirely plain. Hans was the sort of fellow who doesn't talk at the bar, but always wins at arm wrestling; he does eat black chilis; and he holds his liquor better than any man you or I have known. And so Hans bent to the ear of the Duchess, then took her hand and together they twirled the length of the ballroom. All the best ladies stepped back a bit, and all the best men stepped nearer to the couple, so attracted are crows to bright shiny objects, whether they be dimes or Edelweiss eyes. The ladies murmurred that the Duchess did not look her usual dignified self on the dance floor. She did not bear herself as a swan upon a pond; no, she did not dance with poise at the hands of Hans. No, she danced like a child on a swing, and Hans was her father pushing her faster and higher and she laughed with delight. Between her laughs, the Duchess attempted to forward some conversation. "You wear spectacles, do you?" she asked. Hans wondered at her powers of observation; "Why yes, you are kind to notice, my lady." She appeared as bemused as he, and continued her theme of interrogation. "And you have begun wearing them recently, have you?" Hans was all politeness. "Well, no, my lady; I have worn them since childhood, my lady." And now she is confused. "But do you wear them in public at all?" He is confused as well. "Yes, yes my lady. I do. I have poor eyes." Hans' poor eyes searched for another topic of conversation. The Duchess was insistent though: "But how do you see when you give your speeches and presentations before the council..." And here her words slipped away unheard, because the song had ended. Hans kindly helped M'me Pontoof to sit. The two of them beside each other cut a dashing figure, with posture perhaps more familiar than one might expect from complete strangers. Hans, always the gentleman, slipped away to acquire the M'me a drink to refresh her for the presentation. A few moments later a trumpet was sounded and a herald entered bearing the last pint of the year, borne upon a tray inlaid with diamonds and sapphires and other gems that sparkled like a crayon box. And still, next to this radiance, the eyes of M'me Pontoof shone like the afternoon sun on a deep blue sea. All eyes watched hers, as the valiant musketeer approached her with a glass of water. He offered it to her and she in exchange, with much fanfare which I am of course leaving out for expediency, she presented him the last glorious pint of beer. The musketeer stood and, facing the Duchess, drank to her health and swallowed the pint in two breaths. As he set the pint back upon the shimmering tray a cheer erupted from the bystanding revelers, the trumpets sounded again, the Duchess smiled, and Hans returned to her side with a glass of water.

The future latent in the people

Returning to Les Mis, one entire chapter later, I was knocked off my socks by this little paragraph. I couldn't sleep for another thirty minutes. I really like it, and I'll explain why after you read it.

Part 3, Book 1, Chapter 12:

[The narrator is talking about the Parisan street kids] "They cannot read. So much the worse. Will you abandon them for that? Would you make their misfortune their curse? Cannot the light penetrate these masses? let us return to that cry: Light! and let us persist in it! Light! light! Who know but that these opacities will become transparent? are not revolutions transfigurations? Proceed, philosophers, teach, enlighten, enkindle, think aloud, speak aloud, run joyously towards the broad daylight, fraternise alphabets, proclaim human rights, sing your Marseillaises, sow enthusiasms broadcast, tear off green branches from the oak trees. Make thought a whirlwind. This multitude can be sublimated. Let us learn to avail ourselves of this vast combustion of principles and virtues, which sparkles, crackles, and thrills at certain periods. These bare feet, these naked arms, these rags, these shades of ignorance, these depths of abjectness, these abysses of gloom may be employed in the conquest of the ideal. Look through the medium of the people and you shall discern truth. This lowly sand which you trample beneath your feet, if you cast it into the furnace, and let it melt and seethe, shall become resplendent crystal, and by means of such as it a Galileo and a Newton shall discover stars."

One of my heart's rationalizations for helping the poor and oppressed (other than the sheer morality of it, and Jesus' insistence upon it) is that if, for example, all of Africa was given the same level of opportunity we in the "developed" world are offered, that continent would throw off its misnomer, "The Dark Continent", and quite probably supercede our innovation. It's not like Africans are stupid! The library of Alexandria and the University at Timbuktu are both African institutions. There is proof that African's landed in the Americas long before they were named for Amerigo, or by Columbus. If they were only given a chance to breathe and think instead of having to scramble for the scraps of our tables, they might just change the world and change our cliche lives. If this sand which we trample beneath our feet and upon which we offer our libations were allowed to feed themselves, were stirred up by education, were allowed to self-determine the course of their lives without the spectre of AIDS hung by a string above their heads, perhaps, through this replendent crystal, a Mandela and an Achebe will discover stars.

This picture is nearly perfect

Since our existential world allows us to find meaning in anything, I'd like to point out that the chicken and the barge, before which he struts, match. Click on the image to see the larger picture.

Who is Cambronne?

I was interested by Hugo's reference to a clay pipe owned by Cambronne, so I looked him up. There's quite the controversy surrounding his words upon being defeated at Waterloo. The French hold that he said, "The guard dies; it does not surrender." Apparently other accounts hold that he uttered merely, "Merde!" (No, you look it up). There are other sides to the story, but all that is not quite as interesting as the gentleman who, in 1932, wrote to The Times (London, not New York). He informed the editor that he had, in his childhood, known an old German General who relayed to him that it was in fact he, the old General, who had captured Cambronne, long before the Old Guard was broken by the Prussians. It's fascinating. Read the letter here.

To dare; progress is at this price.

If you have a copy of Les Miserables close at hand you may wish to read Part 3, Book 1, Chapter 11. I'll quote the pertinent portion for you:

"To dare; progress is at this price.
All sublime conquests are, more or less, the rewards of daring. That the revolution should come, it was not enough that Montesquieu should foresee it, that Diderot should preach it, that Beaumarchais should announce it, that Condorcet should calculate it, that Arouet should prepare it, that Rousseau should premeditate it; Danton must dare it.
That cry, 'Audace', is a Fiat Lux! The onward march of the human race requires that the heights around it should be ablaze with noble and enduring lessons of courage. Deeds of daring dazzle history, and form one of the guiding lights of man. The dawn dares when it rises. To strive, to brave all risks, to persist, to persevere, to be faithful to yourself, to grapple hand to hand with destiny, to surprise defeat by the little terror it inspires, at one time to confront unrighteous power, at another to defy intoxicated triumph, to hold fast, to hold hard -- such is the example which the nations need, and the light that electrifies them. The same puissant lightning darts from the torch of Prometheus and the clay-pipe of Cambronne."


Well, dear reader, what do you dare? Will you carry humanity any closer to Shalom -- to completeness, to right relationships with environment, self, humanity and with God? Will you dare?

oktoberfestic

Just a momentary update: the Oktoberfest story had stalled like a butterfly in a tailwind, but tonight I was grabbed by a thought and the train is back on the trestle.

If you only have the money for one movie right now, the one you'll want to see is The Constant Gardener. I'm serious. See it.

First Annual Summer Galen Awards

I watched 53 movies this summer. At least. Some sucked. Some were amazing. Some were forgettable and some said something important. Here are my awards for movies this summer (not all were released this summer, or even this decade). You may be surprised.

Best Comedy:
Guess Who?

Best Drama:
Life as a House

Best Political Commentary:
Good Morning Vietnam

Best Documentary:
The Story of the Weeping Camel

Best Classic:
Gentleman's Agreement

Best Romance:
Love Actually

Best Film with an Overtly Religious Message:
Saved!

Best Indie:
Garden State

Best Foreign:
Lagaan

Best Actress(es):
Cate Blanchett
For: The Aviator

Natalie Portman
For: Garden State

(Gwynyth Paltrow should get a nod for Shakespeare in Love, but this is getting long)

Best Actor(s):
Johnny Depp
For: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Finding Neverland, Pirates of the Carribean, What's Eating Gilbert Grape and Chocolat

Leonardo DiCaprio
For: What's Eating Gilbert Grape

Best Narrator:
Morgan Freeman (he just has the voice for it)

Lifetime Achievement Award:
Morgan Freeman
(Can you name a bad movie this guy has been in? Shawshank Redemption, Driving Miss Daisy, Million Dollar Baby, Amistad, High Crimes, Se7en)

Best Soundtrack:
Moulin Rouge, Amadeus

Best Cinematography (ie Most Beautiful Film):
Out of Africa

Best Picture:
Shakespeare in Love

So, there's my awards. There were many great movies this summer, so it was hard to choose a couple times (that's also why there were two actresses and two actors). I almost included movies I saw this Spring, which would have added When Harry Met Sally, Finding Neverland, Good Will Hunting and Hotel Rwanda into the mix, completely changing everything.

Please feel free to disagree. Or agree if you like.

there's a signpost up ahead

Tucked safely into my warm home again, out of the flailing rain, I am occupied with these thoughts: How wet my socks are, and how nice it is to own a raincoat. How oddly dogs eat, and how no matter how much we personify them, they still eat wholeheartedly like dogs. How harmonic the smells of decay and life are on the fingertips of a September wind. How a cold rain on a warm night is a perfect time for a walk, and how taking my off my hood and letting the rain soak my hair makes me smile like a kid again. How idyllic it is to pick up the cat and tuck her safely inside my raincoat, her purr muted against my chest. How the tension of muscles, even in an inquisitive cat, is a sign of vitality. How much I want to write about these things that don't matter, but do matter so much still; how they shouldn't be the last words to a chronic patient, but should nonetheless dot an invalid's life; it's these moments we savor in this life, but to end on these notes, to take them with us... no, that would be like going to Disneyland for the express purpose of reading the guidebook. These are only signs, only reminders of where we're going, of whom we're going to; and so we should repeat them to each other, for encouragement, but only till just before the end of the journey. At the end, we won't need cats wrapped in raincoats, for will see our destination with our own eyes.

must we beach our coracles no more?

"He studied the sign on the deli window.
I - L - E - D. E - E - F - F - O - C. Then, on the other side of the glass, there was Pooh, passing between two parked cars. And now Pan, hands on his hips two stories above the street, looking for an open window. Snoopy tore past with Linus' blanket and Toad bowled through traffic in a Jalopy. All his childhood playmates, for these past years phantoms hiding behind doors and lounging in shop windows at Christmastime, were out again, eager to play again. Or were they always there? He looked away, watching the leaves float about in his tea, wondering what little Piglet, peering from beneath the table, could possibly want with him."

to address the luck of the Irish

Vision without action is a daydream.
Action without vision is a nightmare.
- Japanese Proverb

Listening to bears

Again, by no means an excuse. Andrea's Oktoberfest story will be done before Oktoberfest is over. There's just been a lot going on here recently and I've hardly been at home for two days. I'll try to finish it in the morning, or after work.

And now Amber has upped the challenge with Lego. Thanks Amber.

This story was inspired by Krystle, who told me if I wanted someone to listen to me, I should go talk to a bear. But don't take that the way it sounds. She's nicer than that.

------

[ Begin in the Yukon territory. Find the smallest river, like a wrinkle in a forehead of pine needles. Look at the hairline of the forest. I sit there, on a leftover stump, on the side of a hill, me, and a bear.]

Bears are perhaps the most intimidating animal. Lions roar, but there's a reason that things we are afraid of "bear" down on us. When a bear charges all you'll hear is the crunch of earth beneath her paws. The feeling is the same as when all the junk on the top shelf of the closet tumbles down on top of you. You can't stop it. You know that much and so you cover your face and wait for the impact. You know it will hurt, but if pain is inevitable it's not really pain, because there was no better option. Bears really are painful creatures.

And yet I sat on a tree stump and looked one in the eye. Sometimes when people stop listening, we have to talk to our worst enemies. I had come to the forest to get some time alone, and found myself hating it all the more. I got exactly what I wanted, but didn't want it anymore. Which is why I had come to the forest in the first place. I always got everything I wanted, but didn't want what I got. I felt like a man reaching in his pocket for something he forgot was there, only to bring out a diamond and be disappointed because it wasn't the thing he couldn't remember. I knew my life was an errant ship, floating only because it was so attached to the icebergs that punctured its sides. I needed a week to clear my head. A week with no inputs, no new information, nothing to confuse me. A week to find myself and clean me out.

And yet I was talking to a bear. My hands rested on my chin. My breathing was steady. My eyes calmly surveyed the scene. I should have been scared, but for once I knew exactly what I wanted, and I was about to get it. A bear. Six feet away from me. Getting nearer, quickly. Finally, someone running towards me. Perhaps they will find me interesting, charming, entertaining. How do you talk to a bear?

"In my left hand is a hole, and my right hand is open wide. But the breath that flows in my left hand doesn't leave through my right hand. It's stopped at a big intersection in my chest. Like a cartoon hose with a kink in it. It's getting bigger and blocking more breath. Pretty soon it could choke all the air out of me. Or it could pop. Either way, a disaster. But since it's deep inside me, half way between my hands, I can't exactly unkink it myself. My ribcage gets in the way."

People stereotype bears. They think they're all dirty, all bulletproof and that every bear has fish breath. It's just not true. The bear I talked to at the hairline of the forest had breath that smelled like strawberry jam.

So that's how I arrived here. The kink in my heart is gone, but so is everything else. God, you fixed me alright. The breath enters in one hand and flows out the other. So, even though I think there were gentler options, thanks for sending the bear. It wasn't a very professional surgery, but when people don't offer any hope, sometimes a bear will do.

and this is by no means an excuse

In the meantime, check out the only site listed under the "Inspiration" folder in my bookmarks: gapingvoid.com's "how to be creative"

The guy says a lot of truth.

You'll like it. It'll inspire you. If you're of the inspirable type.

The story is coming, and so is something else. But first, two questions:

How many of you know of babies who laugh a lot? Yea me too.
How many of you know of babies who watch Comedy Central? Hmm... maybe there's something to be learned there. And this was one of the most profound things I discovered tonight at the School of the Spirit.

Ok, hold your horses, just another short while and the story and the something else will be here. I'm already half way through both of them. It may be a couple more days though, cause I'm going over to Whitworth for two days, beginning tomorrow. Which doesn't mean I can't blog, only I'll be analog a lot of the time.

Much love and lots of cheerios! Wow, I sound like a Danish cupcake.

Story time?

Shall we do it again?
A name.
A villain.
An object of desire.

Ready, go.

Story one: The biggest game of all

Every now and then, there is a game so huge, the world holds its collective breath to watch. Devyn Aud was holding his breath. He had searched eBay, Craigslist, the Times and even gone to the stadium to search for a scalper. The lady at the ticket window was not moved by his tears. "Honey, if there's no tickets, I can't sell them to you." Sound logic, but Devyn Aud was not in a reasonable mood. He put his sweaty palms to the glass and leaned his head in. "I... need... tickets... to THIS game." It was a huge game. The Ticket Witch closed the window. Devyn closed his eyes.

"You do want a ticket, though, right man?" Devyn's eyes snapped open. He peeled his face off the glass and turned, slowly, calmly, so as to avoid frightening the voice. A cocked blue hat mocked his passion. The thin guy in the windbreaker put his hands in his jacket pockets. "Yes..." Devyn finally answered. "Do you have --" Devyn looked down the street. "Do you have... tickets?" Cocked mocking hat smiled like the cheshire cat. Devyn nearly expected him to fade away. Devyn closed his eyes. "How many tickets do you need, man?" The man was still there, hands in his pockets, wide smile and mocked cocking hat. Devyn bumbled, "Four, no five I mean three at least, but if you only have one I still want it." The man in blue drew his hands from his pockets. He held a wad of money in one hand, and two tickets in the other. "Do you want both of them, man?" Devyn nodded. But his eyes were on the wad of cash. Either the man had sold a lot of tickets, or this was going to hurt. "How much?" Devyn half said, half choked. He reached for his wallet. "One-fitty," the mocking cocking man in blue laughed. And still he didn't disappear. "Each or for two?" The wad of cash said, "Too much old man? I can find someone else who wants them." Devyn shook his head. "No, I want them." The three hundred dollars exchanged hands. Devyn held his palm up for the tickets, like a dusty farmer who senses rain. The tickets were in the air, in his hand, grasped by his fingers. He stared at them. He had them. The man in blue laughed a cheshire laugh and sauntered away. Devyn extended his hand into the sky and inhaled a shout. He had his tickets.

I know you all expected something to go wrong. The scalper may have given him bad tickets, or perhaps Devyn would have dropped them during the hand off, or maybe the man in blue would have drawn a gun and asked for the tickets back. Scalping is a lot like dealing drugs. But none of those things happened. Instead Devyn pointed his tickets at the sky just in time for your average, streetcorner raven to fly by and pluck them from his fingers. That's just happened, so let's watch his reaction.

His eyes were closed again. The raven was a block away. "I have my tickets!" Devyn praised himself. He peeked one eye open, just to see them again, at the end of his fingers, fluttering in the wind. The sky was gray, and felt like snow. And the only thing in his fingers was carelessness and perhaps a bit of a childhood insult, "Butterfingers."

But when it comes to football, one must think on one's feet and quickly too. Devyn jumped into an athletic stance and sized up the situation. This was not about three hundred dollars lost, or even tickets to the big game. This was now primal -- this was man against nature. Devyn looked to his left, then to his right. He pivoted on his right foot and bolted down the block like Michael Johnson in the hundred meters. His muscles were twitching, his knees were tweaking and his fat was bouncing like a washing machine. But he was light on his feet, quick, powerful -- a machine. If a Hummer had been in his way, he would have hit it like a tackle hits a kicker in the fourth quarter. Nothing could stop him. He was a monster.

He reached the corner, panting like a V12 at ten thousand feet. He leaned against the light post and waited for the light to change. Even Randy Moss needs to rest once in a while. The light changed and the raven was just across the street in a tree, waiting for the show down. "Cocky bird," Devyn thought to himself, "But he's never gone head to head against the Audacious Aud." It wasn't much of a pep talk but contenders don't need pep talks. He chugged across the street, sweat streaming behind him like froth from a boat. He was at the tree, and now the raven was about to meet the "Audacious Aud". Devyn reached for the low branches and started to climb. The raven bedded down for the night. Devyn swung his sweaty hamstrings like wrecking balls until he had enough momentum to gain the first branch. It was an unparalleled victory. "OOO who's afraid of the Aud!" Devyn crowed to himself. Peter Pan would have felt his exorbitant cockiness far inadequate to compete with Devyn Aud. It had been a while since Devyn had honestly considered his strengths and weaknesses. Like since high school.

The raven had estimated him though, and by the time Devyn had breached the second branch, during the moment his lovehandles got stuck on two branches Devyn was sure he could fit between -- by that moment, the Raven had left. He was in the next tree and Devyn was stuck. But when a man wants tickets to the game, he wants tickets to the game. He clambered down and made for the second tree. He was limping a bit now, and his chest was starting to hurt.

He tried the wrecking ball swing again, and nearly made it. Nearly. He laid flat on the pavement, his face staring up the tree at the raven. The raven cawed loudly, and that's when Devyn realized just how many ravens there are downtown.

But never fear, I'm a kind writer, and I know in these dire times, everyone needs a happy ending once in a while. So here you go:

There may be thousands of ravens per city block in every city in the world, but in this particular city block there was only one. And this particular raven had just dropped two tickets to the big game. Devyn stared into the heavens and heard the clouds split. Rain fell like it does in the movies, glass balls filled with lightning. The lightning lit more than the rain though. It sillouhetted the tree, and the raven, and it highlighted two scraps of paper floating like feathers between the drops of lightning. Devyn smiled: his tickets were returning to him. It had all been worth it. He was a machine, a monster, unstoppable. He closed his eyes and inhaled.

It was there, on the sidewalk, that five teenage guys discovered him. His body was stiff, blue and chilling to the touch, but upon his chest rested two tickets to the big game. One of the guys, visiting from Oklahoma, saw it as a sign. He plucked the tickets from Devyn's chest and handed one to his friend, Matt. The two went to the biggest game of the season: the Seahawks' first ever Superbowl appearance. And though the Seahawks lost, like they usually do, this story still has a happy ending. You see sometimes it's not winning that matters. It didn't matter who won the big game, only that there was a big game at all, and that both teams showed up to compete. And so it is with Devyn Aud. He may have lost the tickets, and his life, but at least he was a monster, a machine, a madman, unstoppable, on his way out.

let's try something new

The oneword.com thing has inspired me. What if we had a bit more time and could convert it to story? Let's try. This will take two though. I'd like all you commenters out there to get your comments ready. I'm going to write a story, impromptu, no editing, ad-libed and improv'd, and I'm going to write it based on your input.

So here's what I want from you:

1. A name. Any name. Male or female. Something not boring though. Something with a connotation, perhaps.
2. A villian. Not necessarily a Cluny the Scourge, or Philip Tempest, or Sauron, but just an antagonist.
   
3. An object of desire. Something passionate or platonic. Anything that someone might possibly want.

That's it! You can give a setting too, if you want.

Then I'll write a story and post it!

Yay! This will be fun!

A manifest

In my head are:

• A cobalt house against a monotone cobalt sky
• A piece of velcro, rolled and unrolled in dirty fingers
• Lots of sunglasses and rainy days

And they're all waiting for a train.

I'll wait with you.

These colorful prison walls

The hardest part of writing is choosing the correct environment. The music, the posture, the lighting, the time, the level of silence. Do you write better when it snows out? With tea in one hand? Hemmingway wrote standing up. Capote lying down. Do you let your uncomfortable chair or your droopy eyes stop you from writing? Do you want to be a writer, or to write? To be is imprisoned is to be restrained. Do your whims and fancies restrain your writing? What if, just once, all the variables were perfect. Then could you write?
-----------------
The wardens released the prisoners early this year, before the snow had properly melted from the sidewalks. Under orders from the courts, all prisoners in ________ must be given a day of freedom. The intent, according to the city, is to ensure no criminal forgets the pain of his sacrifice. Was that TV or that little girl or that joint worth it? Can a uppercut possibly compensate for 23 hours a day locked in a cage? No, nothing is worth prison. I would know.
The snow was the color of an Oreo milkshake, but it clung tightly to winter. It was the sort of snow that twists knees and breaks ankles: hard on the outside, soft on the inside, like freezer-burned ice cream. The prisoners stood in the street at the end of the prison drive, in a line like expectant school children all sure they'll be picked last.
It was as if the road with its two yellow stripes was the line, and on the other side was the underdog. Do you join his side? Will your risk it out in that world? One crossed. He didn't look both ways. The snow was his insurance. The twenty something convicts and the guards at the gate watched; would he survive? This ritual is repeated every year. One always risks it alone. Freedom is that important to him. The hazard of the road, which is trafficked when the snow melts, doesn't deter him. Neither do the stares from the free people -- perhaps even the stare of the shop owner he robbed. But the village people are kind this one day of the year; the prisoners are to be pitied. They greet the lone adventurer with politeness and condescension. He says little; this year he says nothing. His arms hang limp at his sides and he is hunched like an elderly man who has forgotten why he crossed the street. What does a convict do with his day off? His hair is speckled gray, like the dirty snow. Perhaps he has forgotten. The younger prisoners silently inch their way across the street. One, then another make their way into the pub. They finger the dirty cash in their pockets. They're self-conscious, and everyone watches their hands move about beneath their jeans. The next few make their way to the theatre, and another group goes to the grocery store. The town begins to bustle again, carefully. No one wants to slip on the snow.
I watch from my window. I've drawn the curtains back, and their black forms are stark against the white sidewalks. It is a large window, one I had installed following my accident. I wheel up and down the length of the window, to get a different perspective on the world outside. It is my only view of the world, because the other windows are too high. I am content with it though. I couldn't go outside anyway, even if I had an immune system. The snow would wreak havoc on a wheelchair. Darn near impassable. I'd get stuck and then I'd be cold as well as look the idiot. Like the old man. He stood there, looking at the snow. He held his breath, then hyperventilated for a few seconds. He must have been recently transfered here. If this was his first glimpse of freedom in years, no wonder he gasped. If I could walk again, after these thirty years, I'd probably gasp too. But I don't want to walk. Not if it was only for a day.
At first I got all the therapy I could, to try to walk again. It crushed me every time my noodle legs shriveled up on the shiny hospital floor. Hospital floors are shiny, to trick people into thinking they are clean. It makes people think being in a hospital isn't that bad. It's a lie. Hospitals smell like death. There is no worse place a living man could dwell. When I fell, I would only want to walk all the more, so I could leave that place sooner. I was adamant that I would walk. My failure depressed me. It was only when I gave up on recovery, and accepted my movable prison, that my spirit recovered. It became where I wanted to be.
The old man is comfortable in his prison. It is what he has accepted. To have freedom, to walk away from his prison permanently would please him more. But to walk away, carrying the obligation with him; that is not worth it. It's like putting a vacation on a credit card. If you can't afford it, it's not a vacation. It'd be better to accept reality and learn to love where you are, sans vacation. You wouldn't enjoy the vacation anyway.
He turned, probably with these thoughts on his mind, and shuffled back to the prison side. To my side. The guards heckled him of course. They always bother those who go back early. Those free men take liberty for granted. They can't comprehend how comforting and stable prison is, once you adjust to it. Once you accept it. I'm happy here. It's where I want to be. You see, then, that it's not really a prison. And that man, hunched and heckled, he with his speckled hair is the freest of those convicts, though he never takes his day away from prison. Because he's not in prison, inside those walls. I think if you could ask him, through that smudged glass and tinny voicebox, I think he'd tell you it's better to accept your lot, and live.

The feeling of rain

The bravest leaves, still green and clinging to the trees, not yellow like the ones on the ground, shimmered like a windchime in a tornado. The yellow leaves, a crushed poultice for the cracked earth, tremored like china in a cabinet when a train passes.

The river, though now it was a mudflow, popped and burbled as if the frogs were feeding. Poosh they hopped and ploop they bellyflopped in the mud. But there were no frogs jumping; even the hardiest had buried themselves in the mud. The horses stamped in the silt and snorted dust weakly. They had lost their lustre; their ribs were washboards covered with Apaloosa or Palamino. Their hooves were cracked like old pottery, caked in the dust of Vesuvius. Their fur, and the wolves, dogs, cats, and camels, too -- all their fur bristled and they panted in fear. Their dry tongues hung limp, hopeless. The animals all watched the ridge, Mabhannatan, the highest ridge of all the mountains that circled the valley. The ridge shook too, and avalanches slammed down the side and puffed into the lower ridges like powdered sugar.

Bahavata'a and I watched the ridge too. He tied a knot on a saddle, as his horse pawed the ground. His trembling fingers dropped the rope. He fumbled to find it, and his eyes never left the ridge, where the Sun stood. The Sun reached down and drew a golden line along the crest; "This line you shall not pass," he said. Hands on his hips, the Sun guarded our valley from all clouds; a giant dictator baking his charges.

Many valleys away, at the same time, upon another high ridge, God laughed at the sun. And then he yelled. The leaves stood up straight, on the ground, on the trees, in the air; the river jumped out of its clothes; Bahavata'a dove to the ground and hid his ears. God's voice sounded to us a trumpet blast signaling a charge. God yelled, and the stampede began. From valley to ridge the roar rose, shaking the sky. The wolves ran-slunk away, tripping over themselves in their rush. The horses reared up and pawed the air. Bahavata'a held his rope tightly, but his horse broke free.

The stampede came on, and though the sun stood firm, the approaching army kicked up such clouds that the sky grew dim. The line on the ridge faltered like a mirage, and then blinked out. The Sun shone for a final moment. He held his hands out as if to stop a speeding train; and then he disappeared, trampled beneath the hooves.

Black horses with lightning for manes and thunder for breath, breached the ridge like a river consuming a dam. The sun shone and the next moment horses covered the sky. They hurtled down the ridge, tumbling and cavorting, a solid river of white water. When they had covered the sky and all the land was dark, the horses exploded and diamonds replaced the oxygen -- the rain had come, and everything else disappeared.

I pulled my raincoat tight around me and hunched to avoid the rain, but it soaked through my layers and soggied me. I looked at Bahavata'a; he was braver than I. He was not hiding from the rain. He stood leaned back on his hips with his face bent towards the sky. Rain formed gulleys in his skin and ran off like waterfalls. I had my bottled water to drink, but he, he opened his mouth wide and swallowed the rain whole. God had yelled, and the horses would be fat again. The river would run and the frogs would hop. Bahavata'a ran about like a child, back and forth between me and his horse, wild, pumping his arms twice for every step. He danced, jumping, his knees reaching his chest. And he yelled, back to God, "HALAL! HALAL! HALAL!" He screamed and laughed. He thrust his hands into the rain and caught it in his palms. He opened his mouth and drank God. The tree, with its green-not-yellow leaves, followed Bahavata'a and stretched its branches into the air, like a castaway on the beach thanking his rescuer.

one of my kids just biffed it

It rained today, and I wrote a story to mark the occasion. I liked it a lot. Then it froze and ... it's gone. This is ironic because just Friday night Matt was marveling at my ability to remain detached from my writing and toss stuff that didn't satisfy. And now I lost a piece I really liked. How do I react?

• Like it's a gift from God? He gives and takes as he wishes. If he wants it written, he'll give it to me again.
  
• Like all good stories are better with practice? This is just an opportunity to practice.
  
• Like I'm disappointed? Well, one of my children did just die.

Perhaps all three. And I'll sleep soundly tonight.

But now the larger question: how to act next. Do I rewrite it? Or move on to something else.
I don't know. I want to rewrite it, but then the disappointment of losing a story is always sort of overwhelming. I'd rather take the easy route and walk away. Especially tonight, when I'm tired. I think I'll sleep now, and dream about it. I'll decide in the morning.

a dieu (to God).

Finally

It's raining.

microsoft rex nihildum

Update: After another two hours of messing around and research, I got it to work on every browser except IE5.5 for Mac. Yay! So, you're looking at it! But still, MicroSoft rex nihildum.

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Well, I have a new template for you. One that doesn't confine my words to such a small box (thanks Azina). One that is a bit warmer and friendlier and just looks cooler. It's green and orange and white all over. It has transparencies and pictures. It's really very cool. I like it a lot.

Then how come I'm not showing it to you? Because internet explorer screws it up. It works in all the browsers but IE. IE has it's own standards and own way of doing things, which makes it difficult to design for. So, until internet explorer is updated or annihilated, you don't get to see the new layout. Sorry.

Unless, of course, you promise to use Firefox. If you promise, maybe I'll show you. Just for a day or something.

lest history be lived again

"I have been a witness, and these pictures are

my testimony. The events I have recorded should

not be forgotten and must not be repeated."

-James Nachtwey-

View his testimony here.

expressed without language

People have been saying really important things today and as much as I want to respond, I feel like I have a lightbulb in my mouth.

I'm sorry. I just don't know what to say.

Have a very merry unbirthday, indeed

Not only is today hump day, it's also my half birthday. I'm 21 in six months. Holy shit. And I'm clueless as ever.

coldplay, etc

I've just left a Coldplay concert. How I'm feeling: a bit sad. Because the music stopped? No, the concert ended perfectly. In fact, the concert as a whole was well played. Even the staged encore pleased. It may have been the most entertaining part, actually. And an accoustic-style set in the middle, dedicated to Johnny Cash, was great. So why so sad? After thinking about it on my drive home, alone, I decided it was just that: loneliness. I sat on a hill side with 20,000 people, interacted with maybe ten and connected with: zero. There was a grab-bag of interesting people all around me and I didn't talk, joke, laugh, fight, anything, with them. My three somewhat meaningful interactions involved a guy, Mike, who wanted to smoke a bowl and believed I was hiding pot from him; then there was a girl who couldn't light a lighter, so I lit it for her, handed it to her and watched it go out; then there was that girls' chaperone, who was wearing earplugs and studying Spanish. We spoke politely for a few seconds. Hurrah. I don't blame anyone else for my lack of interactions. Rather, I think I'm emotionally broken. As in I don't feel much at all. It's been months since I've laughed. Snickered, chuckled, politely shook my head bemusedly, yes; but not laughed. Or hardly even smiled, except to deflect the question marks in pitying eyes; pityful people are frightened away any sign of teeth.
I guess I've never had much tact. I'll look a passer-by in the eye, unblinking, until they look away. And often I see them ponder me, even though they don't know me. They wonder, perhaps, how I can look for so long and give no reaction at all. I don't smile, or flinch, or glare, or search. I just look. And when they are gone, I look at the next person. I never connect. I'll never let anyone see me. My walls are not steel, screaming "Stay out!" Instead, they are white paper: vanilla, blank, nothing. They'll break easy enough, if ever anyone tries. They're like a curtain between an artist's premiere and an expectant audience. People are asking questions with their eyes, and the walls will soon fall to reveal a(n) -- masterpiece? essay? wall? nothing? fiasco?

Until this summer, I've been really laid back. I'm generally a pretty laisse faire person: don't worry, let it happen. But this summer, I've gone nuts. I've turned OCD, ADD, control freak, worry-wart. It's really frustrating to be the annoying one sweating the details and freaking out. I don't know what my rush is, but I do rush, everywhere I go. I miss telling people "Don't worry; it's all going to work out." I think I don't anymore because I've stopped believing it will all work out. I think I give myself too much credit. Can one kid like me really stop God? Can I really mess up his plans? Is this something to be insecure about? No. What he wants to happen, will happen, regardless of what I do. I really do want to "be still and know he is God." I've just lost all faith in his good will. Thankfully, he's willing to be faithful on my behalf. Even when I can't believe it, he's still making my feet like hind's feet, and is enabling me to follow him to the high places. He is a God of hesed: unfailing love; and when we lack, he overflows.

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Here's some observations I jotted at the concert (what else is there to do?):
"Twenty thousand electric stars, eatingHuggingDancingLaughingTalkingSingingScreaming, blinking to the music. Twenty thousand beating hearts set to drums; the chords strike a message home. Twenty thousand syncopated forty-dollar-ticket-buyers unite in one rythym -- for a beat. All eyes, set in rows, in a greengrass smile, lift the rythym, lift the spirit, wrap themselves around a man."

"Electricgreen river, murmur through the blades -- of people, of chairs, blankets, laughs, smoke, grass. Hope plastered on a TV screen, echos of a stage; a man reflected in a river, electric and... alive."

"It's the small things, which no one sees, that make me feel special, as if God created them (that moment) just for me."

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And now for something completely different. I want to remind you, the reader, that this is blog is a diablog, not a monoblog. That means you get to respond. See the comment link? Click it. Say hello. Interact. I know it's digital and virtual, but you're still human.

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And finally, a quote from Shall We Dance: "I think we get married so that we'll have a witness to our lives." Personally, I don't want to get married yet, but I'm tired of being unknown. I'd like a witness, in the form of a friend. Hmm... I really miss having a roommate.

Goodnight dear void.

words worth a thousand images

I have read a lot of books. Most of which I don't remember. But there are scenes, even after so many other books since, scenes I cannot forget. They occur to me at odd times. Jane Eyre in her curtained window seat on a day too rainy for play -- I see it when I touch a velvet curtain. The rain on a house which has pulled its roof down over its ears like a hat -- when the rain kicks up the dirt "like gunfire" (The God of Small Things). Phillip Tempest and his portrait in the hall of Rosamunds grandfather -- when I see a man with dark sideburns and brooding eyes (Long Fatal Love Chase). And from the same book: the ship, the boardwalk at Nice, the balcony from which Rose escapes. Or how about the cabinets full of things, down the Rabbit Hole? The last party at Gatsby's and the Library there? Edmund Dantes in prison with Abbe Faria? John, Michael and Wendy learning how to fly?

Somebody told me that people won't remember the things I say to them, or the things I do around them, but will remember only the way I made them feel. I think perhaps these scenes are the same way: I remember them for the way they made me feel.

So now, I want to know, what scenes in which books do you remember best?

Defining Imagination

Last night I figured it out, but I'm having the hardest time deciding the best way to say it. Tell me which you like the most.

Basically I'm trying to say that imagination is something true that you stumble upon and everyone is skeptical of, until it becomes popular to agree with you.

1. Imagination is merely knowledge one is the first to discover.
2. Imagination is something you know before everyone else believes.
3. " " is knowledge you know before everyone else.
4. " " is knowledge one possess that is not yet common knowledge.
5. Imagination is something you believe before everyone else agrees.
   

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Explore the vast realms of simple faith; some cowardly pragmatist is depending on you to tell them what they've missed.

The Devestation of the Hundred Acre Wood

We may be sure that even today, Peter Pan leads many children to the Neverland. And we know from the children among us that Peter and his home are the same as in our ancestors' day, for no ambitious adult can reach near enough to ruin it. You see, as J.M. Barrie discovered, most Neverlands are islands, and islands are hard to reach, especially since to reach the Neverland, one must fly for months.

This is not, however, true about all the Neverlands. There are some that are not islands. You may remember one such, for just like the Neverland, you have probably traveled to it in your childhood. It is called the Hundred Acre Wood, and it is known for a series of legends which arose from it in the past century, mostly centering around a stuffed bear "of Very Little Brain", his cadre of adventurers and his friend, Christopher Robin.

Adults call this wood, "Ashdown Forest" and it is in no danger particularly. However, there are many forests and woods like Ashdown which have served as portals to the Neverland for many children, and some of these are becoming threatened. In a sort of mechanistic march those woods once called "Hundred Acre" are now called "Seventy-Five Acre" or "Twenty-Seven Acre" or even "Three Quarter Acre" Woods.

Developers march relentlessly against great groves of pines and ash and elm, like those of Bonney Lake and of Maple Valley and Sammamish. They enter idyllic lands with zeal and leave behind them only scars on the hills and houses where homes once stood. Surely hundreds of Homes Beneath the Ground have been dug under by earth movers, and many a Swiss Family Robinson lookout has been manufactured into a dining room wall.

Naturally the catastrophe is not limited to the physical world. It seems these Captain Hooks are intent on destroying all creativity by squishing gigantic imaginations and their families into cookie-cutter boxes devoid of aesthetics.

As they crush a generation of free-thinkers and wipe away Neverland, one can only ask, "Did these developers, as boys and girls, never meet Peter and never fall in love with Tiger Lily or feel the fear of Piglet and the unfettered joy of Tigger?" One must wonder, "Did they have mothers?" or "Did their mothers close the window? Did they chain them to their beds until they forgot how to fly?" Only be thankful your mother was happy to let you fly freely too and from the Neverland and adventure, before she made you grow old in school. Only be thankful you have not turned out like these crocodiles, chewing the arms of children, and handing them a gaming console to replace their forest haunts.

Oh heavy day it is that dawns to find the Hundred Acre Wood buried beneath a shopping mall, stuffed full of stores selling rememedies to a depressed generation.

Safe? Who said anything about safe?

I've been reading a book that is reputedly very good. It's about God, which always gets a book off to a good start. It's intellectual and scholarly, which I appreciate. And it's really frustrating. That's the part that has me writing a post now.

The book is entitled, "Knowledge of the Holy" by A.W. Tozer. I'm sure many of you have heard of it, and possibly even read it. And it's been killer, let me say. I do appreciate it and would recommend it. Only it's not what I was hoping for. When I picked up the book I was hoping to learn a bit about God. See, I want to know God. It was recommended as a book that would tell me about God, so I started reading it. So far I've found out God cannot be known, God is a deity and God is triune. Now, I'm not being pedantic here: it's not that these attributes are rather elementary to most Christians; it's really that they're attributes. So far reading this book has been a bit like a friend telling me about a girl I should want to date, "You haven't met her, she's female and she's got a personality." Thanks... but does she prefer daffodils to daisies and is ice cream her favorite breakfast cereal and does Captain Hook have her sympathy?

Again, I do really appreciate having the attributes of God reiterated to me, but I was hoping it'd be more of a letter from a friend sort of book. I was hoping Aiden Wilson Tozer would have found out a bit more about him. I know some people have. It says in the Song of Solomon that the Bridegroom is "charming." Which raises the question: Would Jesus be the center of attention at a social gathering? I previously envisioned him as so unassuming... And I think a beaver in Lewis' stories may have another insight: When one of the children asks Mr. Beaver if Aslan is safe, Mr. Beaver responds, astonished, "Safe? Who said anything about safe!? Of course he isn't safe. But he's good." Good is such a hollow word until that scene. He's ferocious and wild and uncontrollable; and he's there to protect me. Hmm... now you have me interested. I think I'd like to meet this God -- I want to know more.

____________

Another thought Caboosing on the previous train:


At the end of The Last Battle, Lewis describes a scene in which a devoted follower of the enemy god is welcomed into Aslan's heaven. In my C.S. Lewis Survey at Whitworth, my classmates were up in arms that Lewis would be theologically inaccurate. I was annoyed then, but now I've decided what I wish I had said. "But let's just hope he's right: that sinners go to heaven, and that people who only half believe in God get to spend eternity learning to believe the other half. Perhaps he's theologically wrong; or perhaps our theology is wrong. Let's hope it's the latter, or none of us will be let into heaven."

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It's been a while since I've posted. I've two excuses:

1. I've been working on the template. What do you think? A bit dreary for summer, I'm sure; but still, any structural suggestions?
2. I've been taking a sabbatical from the computer to give me time to see people in the analog world. I think I've seen a friend every day since two Saturdays ago. Quite nice, I assure you. I'm a little worn out from the 1600+ miles I logged on my Jeep in a week and a half, and harried from the lack of time to breathe, and a bit aghast at the gas money I've spent, but then, I wouldn't have it any other way. Only, I would prefer if social events would spread themselves out over the summer instead of getting through in two weeks. I've had hardly anything to do for two months, and last week I had to turn down four events/coffee-dates/parties in two days. I won't bore you with the details, but if you'd like to get together next week, I'll tell you more. That means, "I'd love to see you." Sharon, that last sentence was typed in your general direction.

I work tomorrow, and so I get up early. Like Matt early. So now I go. Stay well. Shalomle'atem.

In reply to

Unfold the tattered pages, stapled at the corner. Smooth the wrinkles, spread the words, smell the anticipation. Curious, with my first letter, a letter, a real letter. Written in ink, a pen's ink, in a flowing script I strain to read: this is not Times New Roman -- no, this is human. And what will I find today? I'll hold my breath and see.

"You are free now, you've been set free, you've been liberated." Is this what you've been looking for? Permission? "Please," reads my narrator, "Please, show me Saturn's rings, the butterflies' wings and how the faeries in Neverland sing." Someone saw, someone read, and responded. I stirred the broth, with a dash of basil and passion and rosemary and love. And now the soup satisfies with love.

"Would you compare a friend to a soup?" But aren't all friend's soup? A delicious blend of 70% water and all of life's ingredients? And they're comforting on a dreary day, awful at the wrong times, and if you stick them in the fridge they'll congeal and become stiff to you. People are soup, and writers stir the pot.

If you'll believe it, writers season the soup; if you'll understand, the soup inspires the writer. But here's the thing: writers are soup too. Therefore some soups are writers. And this soup, that's just strengthened me... no, he's not a writer. He writes. And that is far better.

Do you want to be a writer, or to write? A haunting question. One that stills the pen and tosses me upon my bed, that rolls about in my head like the ballast in a ship. And this ship will not stop rolling till the ballast settles.

I'm wide awake. I'm not sleeping.

Do you want to know? Mount Rainier is growing. So is the moon. No one will believe me; no one agrees. I tell you they are! Bigger by the sunset. Bigger at midnight. "We flatten things, put them on postcards," states my little black book. We consider the horizon a wallpaper. But it's real. It's not the edge of life. It's getting bigger. Look up from your couch. Look at your wallpaper. You live inside this, but it's not just for decoration. It's getting bigger. I tell you, the mountain and the moon -- they're growing.

Can I say: in Neverland, the streets aren't numbered. If you want to find me, you'll have to search. You can't dial my number. You have to walk the cobblestones, between the ivy on the alley walls. And after you find me, I won't answer your question on the doorstep. You'll have to come in for tea.

Do you understand how big this means?

It is not only my imagination: the winds on Jupiter really are like your breath on a gnat. And Saturn's rings get dust all over my shoes. And the moon guides the butterflies while it shepherds the sea.

I am on a planet they call earth, looking up, 90 degrees into the air. I have the distinct feeling the air does not belong to me. The air is black, thin; it looks like it isn't there. It isn't there. I see three planets. On the horizon is Venus, and in Orion's fist is Saturn. Mars watches from the middle of the sky. There are many stars. Many tiny dots. White dots in black air that isn't there. And I think to myself, "Really though, Mars is red. Saturn too. Venus is big and gold. And they are there. Not just as dots in my air, but there. Venus is bigger than my planet; it's a huge chunk of rock enveloped by clouds. It's very big. Bigger than the dot. It is bright. Bright because it reflects the sun. The sun is shining on Venus right now. Right now. And the light I see, looking through the air, the air that isn't mine, is the sun's light. It has traveled very far. The distance is inconsequential. It's too big to matter. Too far to make any sense in my head, which breaks road trips into sixty mile increments."

Saturn doesn't move. It is faster than any rocket ever made. It spins faster than any top a child has spun. Saturn is in the air, a white dot, and it was there in January, in Hawaii, clenched above Orion's head. It will be there a while longer and then it will not be there. It moves -- like my planet moves. They move together, to different places, but both move at once. They hurtle around another bright dot, the source of all light in my eyes. I see three planets, but no; I see three mirrors, one light, in my eyes tonight. They do not belong to me, but to their light. They orbit the light, as I do, and they are not mine.

They are not white dots, as White Out on black paper, but are like airplanes in the sky, which only look small because I'm not looking at them up close. If I were looking up close they would be big, bigger than me, bigger like this planet. I would see only the land six feet in front of my left foot and two miles out to sea. But now I see the whole thing, because they are farther away than I can understand. How far? You can't understand because you think "big" is the earth, which is only twenty-five thousand miles from here to the other side to here. Venus is far away like Greenland is from a crocodile. Saturn is far away like a penguin from the West Nile. Mars is far away like home is from Siberia.

When you really think about it... but then, maybe don't. It might make you stop breathing. It might make you hug the next stranger who asks you to take their picture. Because Venus is far away like you are from Joseph and Mary. And right now, basking in the light the sun glares on Mars right now, the light that is not warming me right now, these three planets are closer to me than you are. And that scares me. But I'm not afraid, because there is no man on the moon. There is only the moon, a ball of gray dust, and it's really eighty long walks around the earth away, and the dust would filter through my fingers and fall, because the moon is really there. When you really think about it, it makes you put your hands in your pockets and say, "Ah." It's day on Saturn and I wish you were here, to hold my dusty hands, and wonder and be...