The Marks that Name Us

In a diner. Steaming cups of coffee and a waitress who chews gum. Stereotypical like that, you know, with a jukebox and all. A guy and a girl at a table, watching an unshaven man at the bar. The two are talking in hushed tones, and of course, like the movies, no one finds their collusion at all suspicious. "Do you see his hand? The mark. See it?"

The guy looks, "Yeah I see it. The bear?"
"Everyone says it's a goat."
"It looks like a bear to me."
"But what if it is a goat?"

She thinks a bit, and then, "Do you think he's in a cult?"

He looks at her with one of those looks that judges her for judging people. Ironic, and the realization flashes behind his eyes. He blinks, hides it. She notices the flash, but hides that she saw. They're two people who are friends, who lie to each other with their eyes.

Her eyes are blue. Aren't they always? His are a deep brown, but not inscrutible brown. His eyes are his enemy: they tell all kinds of secrets about him. She knows, and uses it against him. And has for the three months they've been friends.

But this isn't about them. The mark on his hand does look like a bear. Or a goat. Depending on the current conspiracy. Black cats are plentiful in this town, and just yesterday the waitress with the gum found her vanity mirror broken in her purse. She cut her finger on the shards and said "Damn" and blew a bubble. She sees the mark on his hand too.

He pays his tab, with a twenty, puts his hand in his pocket and leaves. Everyone watches him go. They all notice that he's hiding his hand.

"He always walks with his hand in his pocket!"
"Yeah? So do I. Leave him alone. Everyone in this town freaks out when a new person comes. He's probably messed up just like the rest of us."
"But the cats?"
"It's summer so all the kittens are coming out. They've always been here anyway; just everyone's noticing now, now that he's here."
"Ok but everyone knows he talks to Ellen."
"Probably because she's the only person who will talk to him without sounding scared."
"Ok but Pastor said he came into town when her husband was killed."
"Oh, so now he's her husband reincarnated? You don't actually think people come back from the dead do you? Are you Hindu now?"
"NO!" -- and here she looks around ashamed at his coarse joke -- "But Pastor says the dark arts can do things like that."
"Yes, and Jesus did things like that too."
"That's sacreligious."
"So is judging people."
"Oh shuttup, like you're any different. Have you talked to him?"
"No. But I'm inviting him to go climbing on Thursday."
"Ooooh so he can show his hand to everyone at the gym? Or so you can drop him when he starts trying to convert you to witchcraft."
"HE'S NOT" -- he says the next part quieter -- "a witch."
"I don't know. I think you're being stupid. He does talk to Ellen a lot."
"I'm not really worried about it."
"Do you want me to go with you?"
"You don't even like climbing."
"But I could protect you if he tries to cast a spell."

He starts laughing and between gufaws -- and she looks hurt by the laughter -- he manages to spit out: "What, are you going to quote John 3:16 at him? Or are you planning on shouting -- he says this in a evangelistic tone -- "in the NAME of JESUS."

She's mad, and everyone's looking at them. She's red like a cartoon, and she's holding something back. Her head is like a balloon about to explode at her mouth. But he stops laughing in time.

"Sorry. I know Jesus is powerful, but I just don't think Jesus plans on doing whatever you want him to."
"Pastor says whatever we ask in faith will be ours if we just believe."
"Which is why your mom is still sick..."
"Pastor says I just need to keep having faith, and she'll be healed."
"What if he wants her to die?"
"She won't. The whole church is praying."
"Are they? Because they always tell me they're praying for me, and I still can't walk."
"You just need to have faith."
He looks annoyed, and lashes back, "Yeah, and maybe I just need to get up in front of church and whine like your dad does every Sunday."

She gives him this self-pitying look, sort of like nurses give to their patients, as if they will "forgive that insult, because you're sick and you need me."

"I'm not a little kid. You think my accident means I need you."

She smiles at him sweetly. She's counting her money. She puts a few bills on the table with some coins and pulls his wheelchair away from the table. She still has that nurse-look and he's peeved at it. He wheels himself through the door and bumps down the steps to the street.

Their breath freezes like thoughts in a comic strip. He's still wheeling himself and she's pretending to push. If anyone sees them they'll pity him and applaud her.

-----------

At a climbing gym. He's in a wheelchair, and he's belaying a teenager on the wall. He doesn't look at all angry that he can't climb anymore. He has peace in his eyes. The guy with the mark on his hand stands next to him. He's laughing nervously. "I think I should start on an easy one -- Just to warm up.
"Yeah, that's what I used to do. I'll get you up on the wall as soon as David is done."
"Ok. So you just use your legs to go up, and your hands are just to hold you there?" He pantomimes as if he's climbing a wall, like he knows what he's doing.

A couple of the staff watch from a distance as the guy with the mark ropes in. They talk quietly as if they expect him to fly to the top of the wall. The guy in the wheelchair is watching them and thinking, "If he could fly, why would he rope in?"

----------

"How was climbing with the witch boy?"
"He's not a witch."
"Why's he hide the mark on his hand then?"
"Probably because everyone judges him based on the mark before they get to know him."
"Did he try to convert you?"
"No, turns out he's a normal guy though."
"Mike said he practically flew up the wall" -- she snickers.
"Yea, turns out he ran track in high school. He's built for climbing. He's really strong."
"Oh did you think he was cute?"

He throws her a look and it occurs to him that he doesn't like being around her. "It's those damn blue eyes," he's thinking.

"He's coming over tonight. Come over for dinner."
"Shouldn't you two have some time alone?"
"Oh please. My parents are cooking and everything. David's coming too."

"My parent's didn't like that you took him climbing."
"Your parents don't like me anyway."
"Yes they do! They're always asking when you're going to come over."
"You never invite me."
"You're always too busy. And when you're free you're hanging out with witches."
"He's NOT --"
"I'm talking about Ellen. Chris told me he saw you and her at coffee."
"Does that make you jealous?" -- he's testing the waters.
"No" -- he's shot down -- "I just find it weird that you hang out with Ellen when everyone knows she's a Wiccan."
"Her mom was Wiccan, but she doesn't practice."
"You realize that she has a generational curse on her. Your children will have rashes on them if you marry her."
"Ok, but she has a choice. And she chose not to practice Wiccan, so there's no curse on her."
"Is that why everyone likes her so much?" -- she's being semi-sarcastic here. The thing about Ellen is she's hilarious, so people love to be around her, even though they worry the whole time that someone will see them. Ellen has no real friends, and people avoid her in public. Some say she carries a curse that repulses people, even though everyone knows she's popular.

"Would it bother you to know that I was at her house last night? With Micah."
"What!? Who's Micah?"
"Micah is his name. Funny that you knew he was a witch but didn't know his name."
"What were you doing there?"
"We were playing cards and drinking tea."
"Just tea?"
"Yes. Just tea. Ellen showed me her horses. Did you know she's been riding since she could walk?"
"Riding brooms?"
"What is your problem? You talk bad about her, but she only says good things about you. Who's the sinner now?"
"What good things does she say about me?"
"She says you're really loyal to your church, and that you have a servant's heart."
"How would she know?"
"Apparently she's psychic."
"Probably."
"No, ok you know what, let me tell you what she told me last night. Ellen and I got talking about her mom's Wiccan. Turns out Ellen doesn't have anything to do with it, and gets into spiritual warfare all the time with her mom. Yea, like 'in Jesus' name' spiritual warfare. Turns out Ellen knows Jesus. But she doesn't go to church because people at church always make her really uncomfortable. People like you. Why don't you give someone a chance before you blow them off."
"She's not a Christian if she's given up meeting with believers. Paul made it clear that we have to love each other or else no one will know we're Christians."
"You're unbelievable. You're soo... blind. You can see Micah's mark, but you can't see how uncomfortable you make him by staring at it. You can hear about Ellen's mom, but you can't hear the lonliness in Ellen's voice. You don't even care do you? You just want to be a Christian so you can go to heaven. Do you even want to know Jesus? Some people do. And most of them don't go to church."

He has a funny look on his face.
"What?" she asks.
"I just realized I was asking myself the same question."

so these are summer nights

My night was like a summer movie soundtrack.

A girl with eyes like the sea wearing my sweatshirt.

Leaning over the edge of a very high bridge. Climbing in the girders.

Dropping pennies into the trainyard. Wishing on them.

Forgetting things and driving backwards to get back to what we forgot.

Stars on a curvy backroad. Long grass whispering when I pass.

Watching the ants steal my food from the floor. I didn't want it anyway.

There was this spider with long legs and a tiny body, the color of his web. I could hardly see him or his web. An ant walked into it. I waited for the spider to run down and capture his prey. He didn't. Instead he reeled the ant in like a fisherman. The the spider tied the ant up. That's when I realized he didn't have a web. He was hanging from a single strand, and he lowered a single strand like a fishing line. I think he knew the ants would be there, so he came by to set up a chair and fish for ants. Smart spider.

I decided to climb the cliff.

his hands are like leather gloves
strong so you would trust them
to pull you out of a ravine
or to clean a wound

wrinkled like the desert
dry riverbeds where
his hand was stressed
where he's moved

the same motion again
and again he kneeds the rope
then wham and the rope is
snapped.

the sheep wobbles to its feet
wobbles after him, after the hands
that freed it, took it off the truck
bought it from the slaughter man

he crosses the road, sheep in tow
and the truck saunters on, one
less death slowing it down
one less meal for demons.

leathery hands lift a cup,
leathery hands are cracked
and bleeding into clay
a clay cup full of blood

rescuing hands
purchasing hands
liberating hands
bleeding hands

hold a cup of blood and
pour on the woolen head
"so the meat factory will
know you are mine"

the sheep is happy, but
it watches the truck.
watches the dust cloud
through the wash of blood.

leather face and peaceful eyes
see the lonely gaze, and, loving
the sheep, cracked lips offer
freedom to return.

"You can go. I bought you
so you'd be free. I want
you to choose to be
in this flock with me."

Poetic words tickle sheeply
ears sticky wet with blood
from cracked hands
open, letting go.

"You were worth it. Every
penny. Even if you leave.
If you stay I'll show you
why I chose you, I'll have time.

My flock is big; it fills a valley
just past that hill. You'll like it there
and you'll be one of many covered
with a red badge of freedom;

My blood that says you can leave --
a passport to liberty from me
and a sign, if you stay, that you
find me a just man, and wish to obey."

"It's a horrid path around that hill, but
I'll carry you through the worst spots.
Yes, there goes the truck. Which do you
choose now? The free ride on that truck?

Or a hard road with me, to where only
the few go -- only a few choose to walk
instead of ride, and few choose me
over that popular, bumpy ride

to the fattening farms. Sure the food
is the best you've had, but when you're
ready they'll strip you, of your wool and
your sheepness. They'll kill you twice.

They'll take your identity -- you'll look like
every other sheep. In my valley, the only similarity
you'll bear to the others is the blood that
tells wolves not to bite, or they'll deal with me.

Last chance, which will it be? A free ride or me?"

Leather hands stands to wait a sheepish reply.
Bloody head vaciliates, concatenates,
meets the Shepherd's eye.
Off they go, leather hand on bloody head,

Off they meander,
a sheep no longer in despair,
a sheep with a shepherd
leading to the lee of that hill.

The road less traveled is a very tall cliff.

I see three roads leading out from where I stand. Below me, a trackless dune -- I could ski down it in my bare feet; but it's a dark sea at the bottom. Ahead of me, a wide path, which I'm on, at the base of a cliff -- the escarpment blocks the heat of the sun, but for a few places where the sun sneaks through; I'd like to eat lunch there in the sun, to warm myself; but it's a rocky, precipitous mile from here. And above me, a hard climb (I'll need chalk and shoes, or hinds' feet) but I see mountain meadows, and flocks of sheep. I hear the twitterpated birds and the bouncy children's song, the many voices, which never grow up. It's sunny up there, but shaded by fruit trees. And I see there are others there, picnic baskets in hand, eating brie and salami. The smell of Jasmine wafts down the face of this cliff -- I want to go there, but it is a tall cliff. Is it worth the work? The path ahead is not too rocky; I won't suffer too much between those rare sunny spots. I could be happy on this path; bearably at least. I could be loved on this path, and love. The suffering of this path will develop my character too, so it will be good in the end. I'll cling to this path, and with my hands cuffed, I'll navigate these rocks; and, if I'm strong and good and persistent, I will not slip off down the dune into the dark sea.

Laughter though... laughter bounces down this cliff to my side; it frolicks about me, taunts me. There is no laughter on this level path (laughter will not be obligated, or chained). All the laughter is from above, from the brooks in that sunny meadow, from the picnic baskets and the children's song. It's a hard climb, up that cliff, but the laughter navigates it so easily, and there are others there. A girl in bare feet, I saw her back a few miles; she climbed it -- a blonde girl in bare feet. I want to call to her, ask her to join me on this level path. With her company it could be more than bearable. Perhaps we could force laughter to join us. No, no. The delight in her face... the life in her eyes... she climbed this wall with bare feet -- and me with my shoes... I should climb it too. But she and I could be friends, her in the meadow, peering over the cliff, shouting to me on this path below. And I'll shout greetings back. It's not too far, we could be close, relatively. But she'd spend all her time with her back to the meadow, for me? No, no. I will not be so piteous. I will not chain her to me with my charm. So then, I will walk this rocky path alone. If I should fall? Who will lift me up? Well there's less risk of falling on this level path, than on that cliff. That cliff could kill me. But the meadow... she climbed it with bare feet. And what of those travelers on this path behind me? Should I say, this is the better road, don't risk that climb? There are sunny places where laughter may join us, though for a moment. They crane their necks, listening to the laughter from the orchards above us. No, I'll climb. The blonde girl with bare feet... the gardens where I can lay between the jasmine... the shepherd (I can hear his tenor soaring, like an albatross, out above the dark sea; it is mindful of the path below; it watches me).

I remember the shepherd from when I used to walk in that meadow, before I saw some wild cherries growing beside this level path. He was always laughing. This is his laughter around me now, floating around me like gnats. I would swat it away -- but I remember when it clothed me. Isaac, they almost called me, because laughter was my garment. Then I took this level path, for the sake of those cherries, and thus this sad burden I put on like a shirt -- and how! How should I climb that cliff to the meadow and to the shepherd and to that blonde girl with bare feet, how should I climb a cliff with this extra baggage? Who will hold this for me while I climb? And how would I lift it up this cliff to the meadow (there are no ropes up there). Those up there can't possibly expect me to leave my burden behind. This suffering is who I am! No one will pardon my mediocrity if they can't see this burden I carry. They will say to me, "What burden? What weight? Why should you be sad? You're as free as we are, and we are happy." Oh, happiness, cheerfulness, laughter... it's all too much work. Suffering is easier; it lets you off from the hard tasks. If you have a bad back, you don't have to help with the farming, or the warring, or with moving rocks to build a wall. People pity you when you're sick, and they leave you alone. They write you off, and they don't expect anything amazing out of you. You get to lay on the ground and moan. You may get muddy, but at least you don't have to think, or work, or help anyone, or create art, or prepare feasts. People will bring you the leftovers from their grand feasts and feed you in the mud. It's much better on this level path, with this burden... with this excuse. I'll not climb that cliff, because none of the others up there get to have any burdens. To be completely free and uninhibited, to have no excuse not to create masterpieces, not to write that epic novel, not to worship the numinous with stanzas... to even face the possibility of success and glory -- oh! it scares me. No, no. I don't know what I'd do with myself if I should possibly succeed. I'll carry this burden thank you; at least I know the weight of my fear -- and it's bearable, so long as I stay on this level path.

The sunny spot is not too far; I know there will be some joy on this path. When I have joy, even with this iron shirt on, then I WILL laugh. I will mock those on the burns and hills above. I will shout to them, "I did not toil up that cliff, and I did not sacrifice my burden, and I'm still happy." They will look at me and envy me, for I will be happy, and had an easier time of it too. I will turn my back to them and they will wish they had followed me. They will wish they had kept their burdens too. No, no. They will not even hear me. My shouts will be drowned by that dark sea whose waves crash beside this path. My taunts will be smothered by the laughter and the songs which are flowing over the edge of the cliff like a summer breeze.

They will not even see me to envy me. I will be invisible to them, to the shepherd, to the girl with bare feet. I can't stand to be invisible. I can't stand to not be heard; I hate to have to shout to be noticed. Up there they all have friends. All their imperfections are obvious, naked; and overlooked, covered. They are known, and still loved. They doff their iron shirts and take on linen. They dress for the constant seaside summer. They sing and laugh, drink fine wines with their fancy feasts. They never are alone. Even solitude is not lonesome, for it is voluntary -- it is play, like a child who enters an imaginary world for the car ride to a friend's.

I want to want to climb that cliff; I think I belong there. I miss the blonde girl and her eyes like the sea. I miss the Shepherd who always led me to sunny meadows. How will I tell my muddy hands and my wayward feet to turn and grip this cliff? I am afraid of heights, irrationally so, but still my palms will sweat and I may die. But perhaps death and failure are worth the risk -- for if I should fail, should catapult off that rock... I should die and then the Shepherd will come and carry me to the high places (for only in dying do I become useful). And now I remember his promise. I shall attain the heights, if I should turn my way to tackle this cliff. I will not need chalk, nor shoes, for the girl with bare feet began without shoes, and ended with feet like a mountain goat; this cliff will not frighten her again. I stand at these three roads, a gimp, unresolved, but knowing should I face this face, I'll find mine, and the Shepherd will ensure I reach the top, and he will call me Isaac again, and will give me a towel for my wounds, and will give me a linen shirt, which is light.

And I hear his words to Cain: thou mayest.

Now, to want, to want to climb. Oh, Jesus, friend, be my desire.

why dreaming sucks

Snugly tucked in down, he toodles round the town. His dream is shining bright, full of green and sunlight. It's a canvas of a happy painter, with ducks on the shore of a crystal lake, laughing babies in perambulators, kites soaring on the breeze, and vast swaths of grass checkered by picnic blankets and wicker baskets. He sees himself on a bench, the only comfortable park bench he's ever sat in, and his arm around a certain girl. Her hair is golden in the sun, and she is his delight.

The paint begins to run, in drips and smears, racing pel-mel down the happy painter's canvas. Tucked snugly in, he begins to sweat; now he's hiding round the town from flying sinks like battleships in the sky. They're raining sludge in the crystal lake -- solid strings of sewage preserved like fossils in glass. Flooded baby perambulators are sticking in the mud and all the picnic blankets are stained dark and deserted, like a back alley chessboard champ kicked over in defeat. There is no breeze. His bench is empty. He runs with one arm out to his side, wrapped around his memory of her, like gauze around a mummy, of what his dreams were to be.

Aloe Avoidance Addictions

There's this aloe vera plant, quite a large one actually, just outside the door to my room. It sits on top of a bookshelf about eye level, and its branches grow all over the place like a slow-motion monster. One branch, an especially long branch, is growing horizontal. At eye level. Just outside my door. The first few times I left my room I nearly poked my eyes out. Now I'm used to it. Every time I leave my room I dodge my head to the left and escape unassailed. I no longer think or consider the branch. My head just sort of jerks left and then rights itself. I wonder now if this is how addictions form. We repeatedly do the same thing to the point that we no longer think while doing it. If the aloe vera plant is moved, I have a feeling my head will still snap left and then right. Isn't that like addiction? The original reason is gone, and yet we go through the motions as if it were still somehow propelling us.

So if the Aloe Plant is moved... and I still go through the motions of avoiding it... how do I form a new habit that doesn't involve the aloe branch? Just sheer willpower and always being aware of what I'm doing when I leave my room? How can I make sure I'm never preoccupied? Never too tired to care? Perhaps I need a new reason to keep my head still... something on the other side so I won't lean left. Something painful? A new aloe plant? Or perhaps something to look ahead towards, to keep my head focused -- a painting at the end of the hall? I like that idea better.

Now, for the aloe plants in my life, once I've moved them, with what do I fill their void? As MacDonald wrote, "Only good where evil was, is evil dead." What good can I place before me upon which to fix my eyes, so I won't lean left for reasons I no longer see?

June rains inspire haikus

Some Haiku I wrote this morning, while chatting with Amber. They're not all technically Haiku. I wasn't counting my morae. It's a neat form though. I used to hate it for it's restrictions, but it's really beautiful when done right (read some real Japanese Haiku). Also it's kind of nice that you only get 17 morae. That means you won't have to come up with many words. Or be loquacious. As I'm doing right now. Anyway, cheers!

---------

Summer has come
large toads follow
crossing roads

[ Added later. I think this is better. But then again, no one likes my edits :P
Summer has come
large toads cross
rainy roads
]

Sea in spring
happy water levels rising
float boats

June rains
all over Japan and Covington
and on me

May flowers
were early because now
June showers

June rains
but I'm warm inside
by the fire

June rains
but I'm very cozy here
with Rosy

Haiku rhymes
are frowned upon sometimes
nickles and dimes

Rainy season
makes the leaves drip on me
and I leave

Moon viewing
is very nice and fun in June
though impossible

Shining leaves
covered in shiny rain clothes
ogres in gowns

Build bridges on borders, not walls

I'm reading in the papers that Congress is debating passing a bill stating that English is the "offical langauge" of the United States. I'm reading in the papers that a Seattle area restaurant has instated a policy that requires all meals to be ordered in English. I'm hearing my Grandmother state that she doesn't mind if people speak their own language at home or in private, but at the grocery store or at the bank they had better speak English, because this is America, and in America we speak English. When did we stop being a land of immigrants and become a land with only one culture? What makes us think our langauge or culture is somehow better than any other? Why should someone who comes to our country be required to speak "our" language? What is "our" langauge anyway? The majority of our citizens speak english, but only a simple majority. The number of spanish speakers is growing. There are thousands of other languages spoken here. Each of us knows someone who speaks another language fluently, or should.

Any of us who has attempted to learn a second language knows how difficult it is. So, why should any of us expect another to learn english before immigrating to our country? How can we expect a Chinese family fleeing religious persecution (for this is the principle we avow gave rise to our country), how can we expect them to bother learning a new language when they are in risk of losing their lives? If this is our requirement for immigration, or for citizenship, or even to buy groceries, how can we expect anyone to want to immigrate to our land?

Or is that the intent: to stop immigration, especially from Mexico and from the middle east? If we impose intense language rules, will we not keep out the illegal immigrants and the terrorists we so despise? Perhaps, but it's doutbful. The illegals are already risking their lives, and the terrorists will learn the language. However, we will punish the Indians, the Chinese, the Eastern Europeans, the Sudanese who arrive on our shores in hopes of prosperity, of freedom of thought, of a new chance, of freedom from oppression and violence. By building political walls against our "enemies" (and not all Mexicans or Middle Easterns are enemies), we also inhibit our friends. By damming the rivers we stop the salmon. And these friends are our greatest admirers. When I stand in awe of the prejudice of Americans, and lose my hope for a peaceful nation, I remind myself of this land's virtues by considering the immigrant. They come here because they hope for our way of life -- free to think, to speak, to prosper, to pursue happiness. They flatter us by their persistence in crossing our borders. They admire us, and then, sadly they become us. A hundred years after the Irish immigration, and four hundred years after the English colonized, we are all Irish, all English. Those Anglos who built America are so watered down now, that they consider themselves indigenous, and forget that others were here first. We forget that we were forbeared with long enough to send roots into this ground and establish ourselves; we converted from immigrants to Americans. During our transition we spoke our own languages, practiced our own traditions. And now we mock those immigrants who speak their own langauges and follow their own customs, as if we ourselves have never been different, never needed acceptance by an preceding culture. Those immigrants we oppress daily -- by noticing their robes, by stereotyping their turbans, by asking them to speak "our" language -- they will be like us someday, turning to oppress the next flood of immigrants who would flatter them. They will become Americans and then they will become snobs, like us.

Why do we attempt to make them into us? We tell them "become like us, or don't come." What high opinion of ourselves do we hold that convinces us they should be like us? On second thought, I'm not so sure we think so highly of ourselves. I think we're worried they have a better way and we will all adapt to be like them. I think really we're afraid we'll change, or our beloved country will change. Then what will be of our old country tis of thee? What will it be like? I don't know, but I can assure you, if we welcome the immigrants and welcome their languages and their diversity and their wisdom, we will be better for it. We as people will improve, and likewise our nation will improve. When the parts are better, the whole is better.

We should not, and cannot, ask immigrants to change to be like us, to speak our language. It is like how the whites belittled (and still belittle) the blacks and the asians for their differences. Asking a Mexican man to learn english so he'll be like the majority is a bit like asking a black woman to become white so she'll be like the majority. If we're asking them to learn english so they'll succeed, that is empowering. But if we pass a policy or bill that REQUIRES one to speak English, we show preference for one language, culture, and identity over others, and therefore oppress. This is the race problem with a new face. None of us would think today of judging a person based on their skin color, so why will we judge (and even legislate against) a person based on their language? Are not race and language a gift from one's parents? Do we choose our first language, or our skin color? Then how can we be punished for that which is not by our volition?

Our preference for our language over all others is unhealthy, it is oppressive, it is anti-social and it must stop. There is a principle in the Starbucks mission statement that expresses the desire to "embrace diversity." I like this because it does not hope that we might "tolerate" diversity, or be patient with it while it adapts to be like us, but rather it gives the image of hugging those who are different and finding ways to combine our strengths so that all langauges and all creeds and all colors might be considered American and might consider "American" something we want to be. And I think in the chaos that results from so many differences, from the absence of a homogenous face, from the teeming, huddled masses, we will see arising an America that is not afraid of change, not afraid of other cultures; we will see an America that is matured, and wiser, and willing to understand and accept people that are not white and english. This America will befriend the cultures it will no longer fear, and we may see an America that can support Muslim nations, and that can champion the efforts of so many Mexicans who cross our southern borders for the good of their families. We will thus befriend our enemies, and make them family. By this change and only by this befriending can we ensure America maintains its way of life and its identity: a land of immigrants who are free.

must we beach our coracles no more, redux

I rewrote this a bit differently. Let me know which way you like better. Just an experiment with words.

1.) "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."

2.) "He studied the sign on the deli window.
I - L - E - D. E - E - F - F - O - C. Then, past the letters, on the other side of the glass, passing between two parked cars, there was Pooh thinking thoughts. Two stories above, Pan, hands on his hips, looking for an open window. Just there, dodging the pedestrians, the families on a walk, the children with their eyes wide and adults with their shopping bags, there was Snoopy with Linus' blanket. And bowling through traffic, Toad, in a jalopy, horn blaring and dusty goggled face howling with laughter as he wrecked car after car. All his childhood playmates, for these past years phantoms hiding behind doors and lounging in shop windows at Christmastime, they were out again, eager to play again. Or were they always there? He looked down, watching the leaves float about in his tea. They were ships, and Odysseus was tying himself to the mast. He stirred his tea and congratulated himself on not being taken in. He chuckled to himself. He caught himself wondering what little Piglet, peering from beneath the table, could possibly want with him."

OR #3?

3.) "He studied the letters on the deli window.
I - L - E - D. E - E - F - F - O - C. Then, past the paint, on the other side of the glass, passing between two parked cars, there was Pooh thinking thoughts. Two stories above, hands on his hips, Pan, looking for an open window. Just there, flying down the sidewalk, Snoopy with Linus' blanket. And bowling through traffic in a jalopy, Toad. All his childhood playmates, for these past years phantoms hiding behind doors and lounging in shop windows at Christmastime, they were out again, eager to play again. Or were they always there? He looked down, watching the leaves float about in his tea. They were ships, and Odysseus was tying himself to the mast. He stirred his tea and congratulated himself on not being taken in. He chuckled to himself, caught himself wondering what little Piglet, peering from beneath the table, could possibly want with him."

one must learn, even from bad movies

Titanic was in theatres for twelve months. During that time 128,000,000 American's paid to see it. It grossed 600 million dollars... 50 million dollars a month. After rentals it's made almost $1 billion dollars ($924.5M to be exact).

Most of the people I know now didn't see it in theatres, but I remember a lot of the girls
I knew then did -- multiple times. There were all kinds of jokes and comics (FoxTrot especially) that mocked how many girls saw Titanic repeatedly. I remember my friends loved bragging about how much they sobbed in that oh so cliche scene when Jack and Rose part. They quoted those lines, "I'll never let go Jack," with gravity and that... song... was a part of my daily social life.

But let's be honest: it's not that good. The plot is star-crossed-lovers at its basest (rich girl falls for the wild boy); the dialogue is predictable; the graphics aren't convincing; the acting is forced and the even the climaxes don't hold my attention. So why did 128 million people see it in just one year? And why did all the girls go again and again and again? With what did they identify so deeply? The kitchsky romantic lines? The contrived love affair? Nah, I have a better opinion of all those girls.

I think they identified with something way better than Rose and Jack's romance. I don't think they cared about that much at all. I think what the girls identified with was Rose's lifelong devotion to Jack. Even in her last years, she remembers him, and has kept him dear to her. She still loves him, 80 years later. I think the girls I knew, and those I know now, want to be that devoted to something.

I'm realizing girls are prone to devotion. It's one of their strongest qualities. It's the reason they can focus their entire lifetimes on nurturing their families, raising their children and supporting their husbands. It also makes them incredible humanitarians and wonderful teachers. They thrive in customer oriented businesses and in the church they are the truest worshippers. They are devoted to their God, their friends, the men in their lives and their children. On the other hand they can be stubborn about sticking with guys who are abusive, or just deadbeats. They are sometimes incredibly faithful to lost causes and bad ideologies. Still though, I think God really appreciates devotion, especially since devotion is basically the english word for holiness. When a person devotes themselves to something they set apart themselves for that thing and are faithful to it and focus their energies upon it. All of them is committed to that one object or cause. Of course, a thing is not good or bad in itself, but in how it is used. So, from what I've seen, girls are also wise and choose good things upon which to focus their hearts. I think this is one of my favorite parts about girls, and I see this in Amber, that when she makes up her mind, she is faithful to her choice, and devotes herself to whatever or whoever is in front of her at the moment. I want to learn that sort of devotion: I'm sure it pleases Jesus.

A recent day in the life of Galen

3:15 (AM!!) - Fall out of bed.
3:20 - Wake up Again.
3:45 - Shower
3:50 - A knock on the bathroom door. Pull on the pants and open the door.
3:51 - Rachel (gasping): "The house is on fire. THE HOUSE IS ON FIRE."
3:51 - Galen (thinking): Then why is everyone standing around?
3:52 - Mom (in the hall, panting on the phone): "Yes, I'd like to report a house fire."
3:52 - Open door to my Mom's deck so Dad can place a smoking microwave outside the house (which isn't actually on fire).
4:02 - Leave for work. Drive past two fire engines and an aid car headed toward my house. Laugh all the way to work.
4:12 - Driving 68mph, notice headlights catching up.
4:14 - Notice those headlights have bars in front of them. Notice lightbar. Notice speed is 74mph. Let off gas.
4:15 - State Trooper drives past me at 74mph. Sigh of relief. Back to 70mph.
11:15 - A man asks for a water. Happy to oblige I take a cup and step towards the ice. Reconsider. Step back to the counter. He's holding his hand inside his coat now. Consider the possibilities. Notice the tip jar is gone. Notice large square plastic bulge beneath his coat. Look customer in the eye and say, "Can I have that back please?" He thinks for a few seconds, then puts it back. Says he needs a dollar for bus fare. I search my pockets. No go. Says he just needs a dollar for bus fare because he just got out of jail. I think: Stealing again? And so bad at it? No wonder you were in jail. Apologize profusely but the tips aren't my money so I can't give him a dollar. Offer him his ice water anyway. He takes his water and leaves.
11:16 - Becky sees me holding two tip jars and asks what I'm doing. I explain. Much laughing. It is expressed that she didn't know I had it in me to catch a thief. I explain I was nice about it -- I did say "Please" after all. :) Receive small award for saving the tips. Feel like a hero.
1:00pm - Amber arrives. Change clothes and set out upon more adventures.
12:15am - Get home. Talk to Mom since she can't sleep.
1:33am - Go to sleep.
7:33am - Get up.

At least I'm not wasting my life asleep :P It was a 22 hour day, but it sure was exciting and fun. I love these supposedly mundane days that really are adventures in themselves. I love having a family and coworkers that can laugh about minor crises. I love having Amber along for it all. She's a great one with whom to share these days.

when everything happens at once

"No words can express how much the world owes to sorrow. Most of the Psalms were born in a wilderness. Most of the Epistles were written in a prison. The greatest thoughts of the greatest thinkers have all passed through fire. The greatest poets have "learned in suffering what they taught in song." In bonds Bunyan lived the allegory that he afterwards indited [wrote], and we may thank Bedford Jail for the Pilgrim's Progress. Take comfort, afflicted Christian! When God is about to make pre-eminent use of a person, He puts them in the fire." (George MacDonald)

I will not to temptation run, nor to a murderer following me.

Let me stay here, safe, for a while.

I want some company now.

A good conversation. An affectionate touch.

Someone to settle my soul.

Uninterrupted. Safe. Sanctity.

-------

I read that to judge is to cast someone out of your company. I'm tired of being watched. Of hoping to please.

Dilemma

1.) The man in a relationship is supposed to pursue the woman in the relationship.
2.) The man in a relationship is supposed to lead the woman in the relationship.

Therefore the man should both pursue and lead the woman in the relationship. This implies he should be both behind her (chasing) and in front of her (leading). This is not a practical possibility. So, which is it? Is there a middle ground or third option?

Why they / we write

There are many authors who begin their novel with the thought, "I will make this entertaining," and they think, "I will be famous." And there are authors who begin a novel with a burden. They think to themselves, "This will be art."

let go. just let go.

I think I've spent probably 12 years studying the English language. I've done a million grammar exercises, conjugations and sentence diagrams. Every kid does. And yet I don't think all that studying helped me at all. How can I be sure? Well, I was a slacker: I didn't ever pay attention to grammar. So how do I know what to hang my prepositions on? How do I know where to use semicolons instead of colons? I know because I've read literature and essays that moved me and I saw how they formed their sentences. I absorbed the meaning of their words. I heard how certain syllables slid softly off my lips. I understood. But I didn't learn the specific rules... I didn't need to (don't start with contractions; don't hang that preposition :P).

I was thinking about how people who have a teaching mentality usually break topics into bullet points. It makes it easier to teach. And I was thinking how I usually do this too, even with really complicated topics that can't really be generalized in lists. I wondered what it would be like to teach a history class and never mention a bullet-pointed fact. I wondered if your students would learn better if you just told them stories. All I remember from my history lessons is the stories. The dates came later, when I looked at timelines and recognized famous battles and epic explorations. I wonder now, why don't history teachers -- the teacher with access to an endless amount of stories illustrating all sorts of amazing concepts and theories and New Deals and Chinghis Khan (who wasn't actually much more cruel than Joshua son of Nun) and British aristocracy (Charles is a generous landlord) and French Revolutions (do we really need dates when we have Les Mis and the Scarlett Pimpernel?) and Chinese poetry? Do we really need bullet points when we have the source materials? When we have the actual experiences expressed in language like rain on flowers?

And I wonder if a teacher could, after telling a story, avoid the tempation to break it down into bullet points to somehow make it "easier to remember"... As if anything is easier to remember than a story.

In my life I want to let go of the details and the bullet points. The story... My story has meaning.

I wonder if I really mean this

Sometimes I wish everyone knew my flaws. Then there'd be no fear. But we don't feel safe here amongst humans. At least I don't. In heaven I think we'll all know each other's earthly flaws. And it won't matter, because we'll all be so validated by each other and by Jesus. We'll be safe, because in heaven, we're not in a lifeboat anyway.

an axe is set against the root

Sometimes I want to pop my back. It's instant gratification. But it doesn't solve the root problem: muscles that are tense, vertebrates that are pulled by tense muscles, nerves that are pinched by vertebrates. Popping my back is so easy, but stretching loosens the muscles which releases the vertebrates which frees the nerves. So now, I choose to stretch. I choose yoga over popping. I choose good posture over cracking my back. Stretching takes longer, and sitting up straight takes more attention and determination (laziness is so easy), but it solves the problem.

Yes, that was a metaphor too.

I like how Thoreau said it: There are a thousand hacking at the branches of evil to one who is striking at the root.

bash: dump.

I got my blood tests back today. Drum roll please! BrrBrrBrrBumBumBUM

I have perfect blood. Well then, now that I'm not dying, it's about time to find something to do with my life.

Don Miller released a new book yesterday. It's reflections on growing up fatherless, but it's titled something about owning a dragon or somesuch. I'll be reading it, if only because it's also about men mentoring younger men, which is something that's important to me.

That stupid travel itch is coming back. I've been home... hardly a week and the itch is back. I like how everything is going here! Why would I leave? But it itches...

I saw the Constant Gardener again. I still like that movie. I like how it's a love story about people, rather than being a political docudrama with flat characters.

Does anyone else wonder if our children will be as critical of us as we are of our parents?

Jesus keeps popping stuff out of the scriptures at me, like potholes on a ten-speed.

I still don't get why he loves me so much even though I tend to be so fucked up -- even though I love him so much less than he loves me. More on that tomorrow. If in the past few days I've told you to remind me of something, you'd best do that, because I've forgotten. I only have the vague impression I've told people to remind me...

On that note, do remind me to tell you what I learned about Jesus and Peter's exchange at the end of John's gospel.

Oh, and remind me to tell you about the hitchhikers and the old man I met at a garage sale.

You're all lovable. Cheers.

the new red bmw

Well, here it is. Still no name though.
1988 BMW 325ix (30-70 awd).
168 hp
181 lbs torque
heated seats
sunroof
really bright high beams
pirelli tires
and this one Dodge Ram can keep up with it on the curves on 128 between Napa and Winters. Sad!

hydrogen and stupidity

Yesterday on 167 a woman broke her femur in a car accident. A man was charged for wreckless driving in the incident. The headline in the Journal reads, "Crash creates traffic nightmare."

Oh, sure, a woman broke her femur, but you should have SEEN that traffic.
Come on Journal, have a heart.

Finding our faces

Ah, the internet. Where else can you simultaneously discuss comic books, Google's impending collapse and your deepest hopes just by tabbing between chats? In person you can only have one face at a time. Online, you're basically one messy mood swing. You can console a friend who lost a grandparent, while cracking political jokes just one conversation away. Doesn't that seem rude? Can we concientiously express sympathy in one window and feel entirely flippant in the next? Do we confuse ourselves when we are deeply spiritual with one person while ranting about LA's traffic to another?

Can we be true to ourselves and wear these many faces at once?

waiting

I was exploring some Hebrew words this morning and talking to Jesus, and I came across this:
"I waited patiently for the LORD; And He inclined to me and heard my cry. " Popular verse and all. David wrote it, and we labeled it Psalms 40. But I looked at two of the Hebrew words behind our words: qavah (waited) and natah (inclined), and the verse seems more important to me. The Hebrew word for "waiting" isn't "waiting" like an orphan for adoptive parents, because an orphan never knows if anyone is coming. Qavah is to wait because you know something is coming. Amber is qavah right now for her camera. She ordered it, and knows it's coming; she waits till Friday, and she waits excitedly because Friday her camera IS coming. So, when David says he is waiting for God he's waiting excitedly because he knows God IS coming. He has no doubt, so it's not hard to be patient. Like Matt counting down the four Saturdays till Florida, David is counting down the moments till God arrives. Obviously God comes when he comes and goes when he goes, so David doesn't have a firm date about when God will come... or does he?

Check this out: natah is translated inclined, as in leaning towards. But that Hebrew word was more often used to say stretch or extend. So don't picture God leaning down towards David like your great-aunt towards a toddler, all achy backed and arthritic. Don't imagine the slow movements we use to ease towards someone. This is God we're talking about. Imagine Michelangelo's Sistene Chapel and God reaching mightily towards Adam. Imagine God running like an Olympic sprinter to David's side. He's arched and stretched and throwing all his energy into crossing the finish line and breaking that ribbon. So David is confident God will come, and he's excited, because God is coming as quickly as he can. How fast can our omnipresent, almighty God get there? Immediately. And when does God begin his journey? Probably when he heard David's cry. When he saw David waiting. Understand this: David is qavah because he knows when God is coming -- God is coming now.

I woke up at 9am this morning. I felt like I had left the swimming pool just to climb into bed. All soaking wet. Sweat everywhere. It was 9am so I decided to shower and get out of my stifling blankets. I locked the door to the bathroom and then my Dad knocked on the door. He mumbled something, so asked him what he said. He said, "Are you ok?" That's when I realized I was sitting in the bathtub in my pajamas, and the shower curtain was wrapped around me like a hot dog. It took me a few minutes to decide it was worth unlocking the door. He had heard a clunk. I couldn't decide if I was dying or not. He got me water and a piece of bread. He knelt on the floor to make sure I was ok, and I sat on the edge of the bathtub and hung my head in exhaustion. Who knew falling down could be so much work? The doc says I need to eat more (sweeeet!), drink more, rest more (me? rest MORE? hahahahaha) and he stole some of my blood. I don't think he's going to give it back. What he doesn't know is my body is a blood manufacturing MACHINE!




My palm pilot is covered with things I want to be doing right now. But I'm supposed to take it easy. I'll just avoid washing my hand until I feel better.

Well, let's see:

1.) The water was cold. Very cold. The wind was colder.

2.) The hopefully came true! The plans went off perfect! Fun times were had by all! We stayed up till 2am talking and it was healthy and beautiful. The play was educational at a heart level. I'm not sure I can factually point to what clicked with me, but I think it mostly came down to realizing that the human condition is common to, well, all humans.

3.) The mystery dinner was a night of intrigue and proposals and lots of lying through teeth. It should be repeated.

4.) The family dined at Eva in Wallingford. Good service, quite the selection of unique food, a great tawny port and a 10 table atmosphere. Pleasant to say the least.

5.) The meet with Sharon fell through but I did get to spend a few hours with Katelyn, which was decidedly beautiful. El Diablo was made for interesting conversations.

6.) I missed my flight to Long Beach, so I read Hemingway in SeaTac's new terminal which is light and bright and modern and has some very cool art on display. I flew into Orange County instead and caught a shuttle to the car which turns out to be exactly what I expected. A few hours later, after 10 hours of not eating I stopped at Trader Joes before the long drive to Sacramento. Taragon and chicken is a great combination and fresh juices are wonderful. The drive wasn't nearly as trafficky as I expected. At 5pm I made it from Long Beach all the way out of LA on the 405 and the 5 in just two hours! The car handles well and rides like a BMW, which is the point. The paint isn't perfect and there's some personality quirks, but it drives like a BMW, so who cares? Oh, I have a radio in my car. It's been so long since I've had a radio.

I'll update again soon!

My birthday is in less than 2 hours.

Here are the plans for my birthday weekend:

Tomorrow morning Matt, Trevor and I are going on a drive. Our goal is a secluded beach upon which we will look at the sea, smoke cigars and drink homemade beer (excusing Matt of course, as he is admirably legal).

Tomorrow night, us three plus Renae and Amber hopefully will be going to a play. We've purchased tickets, but I say hopefully in that somehow my plans usually fail. I don't know why. But God willing, we will be.

Saturday night, the plan is to have a mystery dinner at my house, with 8 friends and my sister and parents. It looks to be an exciting night of intrigues.

Sunday the family is having a family day. I don't know what we'll end up doing, but a nice dinner is in the works.

Monday I'm meeting my friend Katelyn in the afternoon, and another dear friend, Sharon, in the evening, the latter at a pub on Post Alley. I hope both of those dates work out because I really appreciate both of those people.

Tuesday morning I fly out to LA, pick up a car, and hopefully see Azina.

Tuesday, Wednesday and possibly Thursday I drive home.

Here's the part that terrifies me: after I pick up the car on Tuesday, I have no firm plans for the rest of my life. I feel like I'm setting off to swim across the pacific, knowing the only guaranteed stop is Asia on the other side. It looks very vast from here, and cold, and scary. And now that I'm swimming, I see no other course than to continue on towards the other side, which I call heaven, and home.

Wish me well. Voy con Dios.

The UK was nice but now Africa looks like liberty.

1. It's official. No one is allowed to smoke in the UK. So much for my dream of a pipe and a pint in a pub.
   
2. In other news every time there's a terrorist attack, the suffering nation responds by allowing the government more power and the people less freedom. You can now be held for 28 days without charge in the UK. Funny that it takes 28 days (and Blair wanted 90 days) to find a crime to charge a "terrorist" with. Even though we know they're "evil" and the opponents of all things good and right, because they threaten citizen's liberty. Reverse that and suddenly anyone who threatens a citizen's liberty is a terrorist, and now, hey there, the UK is a terrorist state. Only they think it's their duty to protect their citizens, says Blair. By incarcerating citizens while searching for crimes to charge them with? Someone is confused.
3. In other news, Zanzibar looks neat. Another place on the list of places to go.
   

where is that wisdom when I need it Jesus?

I have a feeling that even if I read every book on safe people, healthy relationships, boundaries, negotiations, shalom, holiness, communication, love, and every book on man's search for meaning, and searching for God knows what and every book on the gospel, raggamuffin and otherwise -- I have a feeling that no matter how many books I read I'll still fail at relationships. I'll still have unhealthy friendships. I'll still hurt people. I'll still be unfaithful. I'll still break my word. I'll still judge. I'll still do everything I hate myself for doing.

This makes me really, really sad and I don't know what to do about it.

I don't have anywhere to turn. God's not talking. I'm resigned. I can't do this. I'm giving up on me. And I don't even know what that means. I'll still have friendships, but maybe I just won't expect them to be healthy relationships, or safe or holy or anything but depraved and human. That is so sad.

Is this the curse? Imperfect relationships for the duration of our lives? Then this really is a curse and now, finally, I'm pissed at Adam and Eve.

I'm sorry I keep hurting you. This isn't me repenting and promising never to hurt you again. This is me realizing I'm fucked, and this is me begging for your grace.

Oh, this blinding light is nice

The sun is in my eyes.

It's been 55 some days since I've been able to say that.

Take that S.A.D.

Fuluptinacaputle

I should not:

1. Listen to happy music
2. On Sunny Days
3. It makes me want to travel
4. and I just can't afford that right now

I've just realized that if I can make it through summer without a car, I can afford to go to Eastern Europe for a month at the end of summer. Slovakia anyone? Estonia? Croatia?

And these are dreams, and only dreams, but they keep me going. They are just dreams, because, well, if I don't have a car, I can't make the money to go to Europe. So, I must buy a car, which uses up the money for Europe. Sick cycle, I know.

Anyway, listen to: Let Go by Frou Frou and Just Watch The Fireworks by Jimmy Eat World, and just the whole Keane album in general, and finish off the Garden State album while you're listening to Frou Frou.

I think I'm going to take the dog for a walk.

And in the midst of this, Darfur, new youth pastors, girls, schools, airplanes, businesses, ideas and it's still COLD out. It's all so confusing.

But as a dear friend said, "Your job isn't to be certain about anything. Your job is to love God and love people." That's a relief. But how? God seems so transparent sometimes: I know he's here, but everywhere I look I'm seeing trees and pillows and runways and blue sky. How is it so hard to know someone who's so close? Everything points to the fact that Jesus is still talking... but is he? You'd think he'd work on speaking more clearly, if he really cared to talk to us.

My sunny day is getting clouded by these worries.

Stopping. Toodle pip.

The past 48, a recap.

So today I missed the opportunity of a lifetime, and yesterday I almost died.

We'll start with death, so that we can end on a good note.

It began because I was thirsty. I was on military road near 5 mile lake, and I was thirsty. I started looking for my nalgene. It wasn't in the front seat, so I progressed to the back seat. No go there, but after about 10 seconds I realized, "Hey, I've been looking back here for about 10 seconds... I bet I'm drifting." So I looked up. At that very moment I was greeted with a ditch, one of those very ditches Amber never lets me off-road in. There was a ditch and a stop sign, and I was going 45 mph. So I did what any self respecting Jeep owner does: I swerved. However, I was already becoming horizontal in the ditch so the swerve was a bit abrupt. My tires caught the grass and yanked me back onto the road, with a big clunk where I hit the edge of the pavement. I flew across the yellow lines, corrected hard back onto the shoulder, corrected into the lane, and after a couple of small corrections, continued on my way, never having reduced my speed or hit the brakes. Then I laughed really hard for a long time and had a rather chipper rest of the afternoon.

Then today, I was in downtown Kent, on Meeker Street, in the midst of all those little shops, when I missed the opportunity of a lifetime. I stood on the north sidewalk about to get into my car, when across the street a payphone started ringing. Naturally there was a sudden rush of traffic. I nearly ran in front of a car, but I decided the trauma might be too much for the septagenarian piloting it, and so I waited my turn. The friendly old man took his bloody time passing me, two whole rings. I made my way across the lanes, through parked cars, across the sidewalk, my eyes tunnelvisioned on the ringing payphone. As I crossed I discussed with my shoulder-angels the merits and dangers of answering said payphone. What if there was sniper nearby? Posh, said the courageous angel. Well, what if it's an important phone call for a spy? Courageous angel rolled his eyes. It could be a wrong number. Courageous angel decided that idea was too boring. He and I consulted, and chose to take the risk and answer the phone. So I arrived, and I reached for it, and it stopped ringing. Sigh. It was the first time I've encountered a ringing payphone. What if it's the last? What if the person was dying and was giving a final call for help? What if they were suicidal were searching for a caring soul, and thus, practically speaking, they died because I waited for traffic?

I stood by the phone for a while, waiting for it to ring again. When it didn't I meandered back across the street -- the now empty street -- and wondered how the once annoying rain seemed so poetic now.

And tonight I walked into a door. I just flat out forgot to open it.

And in case anyone was wondering, I haven't actually climbed a snow capped mountain before.

"And" is my new favorite word, because it means people intend to keep talking.

Say hello in case this is our last goodnight

The sillhouettes are spiders, crawling like the night
Your eyes are greenwhite, luminescent like the sea
untresspassed, sanctity
That cloud, it's a monster, it scares me with its claws
The dragon shakes the boats, and I'm falling down
The plankton are greenmilkwater, and we wander in their world
You're laughing. It's windy, and I can't stand

My lifeboat is leaving yours. Can you see a way to row?

The cold in the water, the warm of your hand,
I miss you already, Thank God we're friends.

Pandora's box fell open, but I latched it shut
I caught hope inside -- I'll keep it under my coat,
The ocean won't steal this from me.
My heart was open, but now it's closing time,
it's on the house, thanks for talking, I love you
friend.

A girl spinning in the rain, curious,
how many drops till the clouds runs out,
how many birds fly all the way around the
world -- can they keep up as it races by?
Let's catch it like a ship that's leaving late for
who knows where

I've been here before
but not with you.

Your eyes plus mine and the stars are stories,
the sweaters are softer, softer on a cloudy day
The girl is barefoot, spinning in the waves
The beach fades in fog like memories and photographs
Was anything ever clear?
The sand leads to who knows where, to the edge of
who knows where, but our lifeboats have landed -- so come on, let's go.

Thoughts for curious minds on Saturdays

"The first thing which I can record concerning myself is, that I was born. These are wonderful words. This life, to which neither time nor eternity can bring diminution - this everlasting living soul, began. My mind loses itself in these depths."


-- Groucho Marx

From A.W. Tozer's Knowledge of the Holy:

"To believe actively that our Heavenly Father constantly spreads around us providential circumstances that work for our present good and our everlasting well-being brings to the soul a veritable benediction. Most of us go through life praying a little, planning a little, jockeying for position, hoping but never being quite certain of anything, and always secretly afraid that we will miss the way. This is a tragic waste of truth and never gives rest to the heart.

There is a better way. It is to repudiate our own wisdom and take instead the infinite wisdom of God. Our insistence upon seeing ahead is natural enough, but it is a real hindrance to our spiritual progress. God has charged himself with full responsibility for our eternal happiness and stands ready to take over the management of our lives the moment we turn in faith to him. Here is his promise: "And I will bring the blind by a way that they knew not; I will lead them in paths that they have not known: I will make the darkness light before them, and crooked things straight. These things I will do unto them, and not forsake them."

With the goodness of God to desire our highest welfare, the wisdom of God to plan it, and the power of God to achieve it, what do we lack? Surely we are the most favored of all creatures."


Emphasis added, naturally.

i don't have a title

I wrote this probably 10 times, and these are the four versions I liked the best. But I want to know which you think makes the point the best. So tell me which you like the best and what you think the point is, so I can know if I made it clear. THANKS.

------
1.)
One time I kissed this girl -- for a long time. She asked me how it felt so I told her she fit perfectly in the curve of my arm, but that she wasn't what I was looking for. I said that because she didn't love me as much as she liked my arm.

2.)
One time I kissed this girl -- for a long time.
She asked me how it felt so I told her
She fit perfectly in the curve of my arm,
But that she wasn't what I was looking for
Because she didn't love me as much as she liked my arm.

3.)
One time I held this girl. She snuggled up to me. She whispered questions in my ear, like "How does it feel," and are you happy right now. I told her she fit perfectly, and that we were like puzzle pieces. Then I told her I thought we were from different puzzles because being with her didn't make me feel any less alone. She put her head on my shoulder and sighed. I don't think she was listening.

4.) (From the girl's perspective!!!!)
After a long road trip, this guy I know put his arm around me, all the way around. He held me for a while, then he moved to a different couch. I asked him why he left and he said I wasn't what he was looking for. Holding me didn't make him feel any less alone. I think he's happy now, because he's with a girl who likes him even when he's weird.

something i'd like to tell the modern church, because i'm obviously angry at it

I send you my tired, my weak
I send them teeming to your doors.
I send the sick, the mad, the livid,
I send despair.

If a muddy child should take your hand today
Do not shake them off or back away.
Do not reject them, I insist. I insist!
You must not, for you are a misfit too.

Walking in Jesus' dust

Here's something that changed the way I follow Jesus.

There's a book called "God is closer than you think" and I bought it entirely because I liked how fancy the cover was. But God, as my mom always says, is an opportunist.

So there's this section of the book that tells why Hebrew Rabbis are important to God. Basically it comes down to this: Rabbi's aren't just teachers who blab on about God's law in a classroom lined with maps and dusty books. They definitely do that. But Hebrew boys like their Rabbis so much that they like to spend time with them outside of the classroom as well! So a typical Rabbi, upon leaving his dusty classroom, enters the dusty street tailed by a few eager boys. These boys watch the Rabbi intently. They immitate the way he walks, like schoolboys mimicking a headmaster. They follow him to the synagogue and gather in a ring at his feet and nod in agreement while he discusses the law with other Rabbis. They stand and watch him eat, and they hold their cup with both hands like he does. They follow him to market and watch what he buys and who he gives alms to. These boys are daring: the book mentions that some were so intrigued by their Rabbi that they hid beneath the Rabbi's bed while he and his wife slept. These students would go to any length to discover how their Rabbi lived.

Rabbi's devoted their life to studying the law, and applying it in all situations. Eager students followed Rabbis closely, and watched their every move, to learn the intracasies of applying the law: it was easier to see the law practiced by a human than to attempt to memorize every detail of written words (imagine Leviticus times a million). This is how Hebrew culture worked: there weren't schools for everything. You learned by watching someone. Fathers passed skills to their sons. Rabbis passed the law to these young men who then became Rabbis and passed the law on again.

So why is this important to me? Why do I care if Hebrew boys watched their Rabbi's eat? I care because Jesus' disciples referred to him as Rabbi. Jesus' disciples were not a group of mature, responsible men -- not at first at least. They were not an orderly group, organized heirarchacly. They were raggamuffins. They were lonely college kids with zits, looking for a way to apply the gigantic books of the law in such a way as to attain righteousness. They were young men who weren't even interested in becoming Rabbis themselves -- they had to catch fish with their fathers. But then Jesus came along and they said, "Here is the fulfillment of the law. Here is the one who saves us, the one the stories tell about." And they were fascinated. He lived differently than any other Hebrew. He ate with sinners. He healed people on Saturdays. He loved without reservation, touched lepers, stayed with tax collectors, smelled like fish, even while he taught at the synagogue, raised people from the dead and made really good wine.
He also called the other Rabbis names and told them their interpretations of the law were only there to make them look better and everyone else look worse. He told them they were unrighteous, even though they observed the letter of the law perfectly.

These twelve boys wanted to be just like Jesus. So they followed him around and ate with him, sailed with him, fished with him, visited with him, traveled with him. They did everything they could to become like him. And he taught them. He revealed God to them. He opened the scriptures so they could understand. He commissioned them to do as he did, and to do more.

And it didn't stop when he died. A couple of Thursdays ago I was zoning out during a sermon when my ears tuned in just in time to hear the speaker say, "Paul's telling the Philippians that if all the rules are too confusing, they should just do what he does. He's saying they should follow his example." Paul, who followed a Rabbi, basically offers to be a Rabbi to the Philippians. He tells them that he is doing his best to be like Jesus, and if they want to be like Jesus, they should try to be like Paul. He's saying the Rabbinical tradition didn't end with Jesus. He's saying learning by example is a valid way to learn God's ways.

So I see now the importance of mentors -- how dearly important it was to God that I have three mentors my first two years of college. And I'm seeing now that I too am intended to become a Rabbi -- first to the boys who look up to me, and later to my sons. I am to follow Jesus' example and then provide that example to those who follow me.

And you are to provide an example to those who follow you. Suddenly our dreams for our lives aren't only for us. What we do with our lives will reach farther than our own satisfaction. If we live mediocre lives, then those who inevitably follow us will also live mediocre lives. But if we live like Jesus, then we will transform those who follow us -- they will also live like Jesus.

It's a lot more responsibility, but it's also an amazing affirmation. God told us to do this -- be holy even as I am holy, etc -- and this means he also TRUSTS us with this responsibility. He thinks we can do it. And he's going to help. He wants to be our Rabbi.

So what are you going to do?

Practicing for my days at the NSA

Who knew knives could be such fun. I think a gallery showing is in order.

My only regret is to have been found without a spoon in my pocket. Does anyone remember when Ken stole the spoon? Does anyone from that era read this?

Hm, social capital lacking. That's what sucks about people. They move on, and leave you remembering things alone.

Or did I move on?

Shutup 2AM

I don't want to go to bed. It's not that I'm not tired. I am tired. It's just that I'm afraid of the unknown that tomorrow brings.

Eleven things which brighten days

Things I'm excited about *so far* today:

1. SQUALLS!
2. Sunlight on rainy streets
3. BLUE SKY!
4. Bamboo Windchimes
5. EDAMAMES!
6. 12:30 wake up calls
7. GIANT CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIES!
8. Flax in my yogurt
9. UNLIMITED POSSIBILITIES!
10. Edward V (How did I ever hate Shakespeare?)
11. You.

Cheers.

I must reaaaally like flies...

I was dusting at work today, just like I always do, cleaning cobwebs out of the corners, when I came upon a deserted web that had trapped hundreds of tiny flies. The spider was long since departed, and this bothered me, because the flies died for no reason. What a waste.

ANOTHER Spielsburg movie

After watching Memoirs of a Geisha I have only two things to say:

1. Movies more than two hours long need an intermission. Especially slow movies more than two hours long. Especially this slow movie more than two hours long.
2. I really like Japanese Architecture. One scene in the movie tempted me to change whatever course my life may be on now and become an architect specializing in Japanese gardens. Then I realized I don't want to design Japanese gardens -- I just want to live in one.

My toast is up.

Munich

I feel like writing something else.

I just saw Munich. Incredible directing, subliminal score, enthralling cinematography, convincing script (laughs from the whole audience on a number of occasions) -- very real, very effective over all. Absolutely not recommended.

Another one of those movies that makes you feel impotent -- because no human can solve this dilemma -- and a bit hopeless. The escalation between Ishmael and Isaac's descendents that we feel today, that was so commonplace thirty years ago, has been going on for millenia. And it won't end until the very end. How's that for encouraging?

Go watch Pride and Prejudice. Chew your nails over whether Darcy and Elizabeth make friends in the end. But don't watch Munich. It's raining hard enough.

For those of you who have seen Munich, how about the whole radio scene? Makes the whole conflict seem really... pointless, wouldn't you say?

Eggs, eggs, go away.

To all who commented on the previous post: thanks for weighing in. I would have commented on it, but there were numerous requests that we bump the picture off the hello screen. So, let it be known, this post is for Azina, whose queasy stomach inspires me.

As for your actual comments:
Amber, thanks for the advice. Trevor and I have been discussing it as well, and he managed to successfully poach a couple of eggs directly in the water this morning, so I'm going to give his recipe a shot. Matt, Edie, Steve: Does wealth beget luxury, or does luxury prove wealth? I'm for the latter, and I'll make poached eggs whenever I feel like it, if only because there are some luxuries nearly everyone can afford. An egg isn't very expensive at all. The ten minutes to make a poached egg isn't much either. But the feeling of luxury provided by said eight cent poached egg -- that makes one feel important. So, go for it! Live a little. It's okay! You're worth it.

And Amber again: I'm glad to hear I inspired you. Hereafter, I'll always aim for such heights.

Ooooook, enough chatter. I think the image is off the page. Cheers all!

Toodle pip.

I'm not eating this...

Can some one PLEASE tell me how to make poached eggs? The cookbook's method doesn't work. I used vinegar and everything. I've tried it twice now. Help! I want eggs, not primordial soup.

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."