cloudthreads

thanks² 18

2011-11-19T01:55:00.001-06:00

Blessed are those who pull for shore. Not for the peril of dry land, but the safety of the deep.

thanks² 17

2011-11-17T22:20:00.001-06:00

"Let's go."
"We can't."
"Why not?"
"Because we're waiting..."
"Oh yes."

thanks² 16

2011-11-17T15:41:00.001-06:00

We only gather together in order to scatter together.

thanks² 15

2011-11-17T15:38:00.001-06:00

We're all patchworks of each other.

thanks² 14

2011-11-17T15:35:00.001-06:00

Once abandoned, some things grow beautiful.

thanks² 13

2011-11-17T15:31:00.001-06:00

Everyone's a mess under there.

thanks² 12

2011-11-17T15:29:00.001-06:00

Dry leaves wash up on the roofshore, the apostles of the gospel of winter.

thanks² 11

2011-11-17T15:27:00.001-06:00

Someday, I am going to die.

thanks² 10

2011-11-17T15:26:00.001-06:00

I weep with, and I laugh with. Not so good at keeping a straight face with.

thanks² 09

2011-11-17T15:17:00.001-06:00

Who says pessimists get all the emptiness?

thanks² 08

2011-11-17T13:44:00.001-06:00

Go to the theatre. Play the part. Sing and raise your hands. Pretend to love. Then wear it home. Maybe your heart will stick like that.

thanks² 07

2011-11-17T13:38:00.001-06:00

It's dangerous to go alone.

thanks² 06

2011-11-17T12:35:00.001-06:00

We are afraid there is nothing there. But flip that switch anyhow, friends. The light itself is good.

thanks² 05

2011-11-17T12:32:00.001-06:00

William told us and Chinua told us.
And we have to believe them.
But you can sew a satin lining, too.
And then when you come home to a dark house,
you aren't afraid to find it
and half a closet empty

thanks² 04

2011-11-17T10:23:00.001-06:00

Deep down, I wanted to be fired.

thanks² 03

2011-11-17T10:20:00.001-06:00

To unravel is to destroy, I know.
No more to be held and hover
in the echoes of spring, sleep quickened.
And a couch shared
does not make more than friends.
But those intent minutes among
untwisted ropes would be glorious.

thanks² 02

2011-11-17T10:00:00.001-06:00

So much have I not lost.

thanks² 01

2011-11-16T11:00:00.001-06:00

All mornings are windows too bright to see through.

thanks² prime

2011-11-16T10:52:00.001-06:00

My friend Bet Mercer invited a bunch of people to contribute to a project on thankfulness for the month of November. Every day, take a picture with Instagram or RetroCamera and write a line of prose or poetry about it. I've been posting these to the Facebook page, but I want a central place to archive what I've been up to these last few weeks. Here comes what I've been and will be thankful for.

Lenten poem

2011-07-01T14:06:00.003-05:00

I was asked to contribute a piece to our church's Lenten table this year that centered on the Main street corridor near our house. In the midst of the earthquake in Japan, and the Love Wins controversy, and the Arab Spring, and everything else, I wrote this poem for that first week of Lent. I rewrote it for the last week, and then did some slight revisions for here.

Roots All the Way Down
Elemental reflections on Lent, 2011

I. nero
Rushing water invades spaces,
all of your gathered
broken-home friends,
crushing like week-fresh teenage infatuation
dashed, sneaks under the doors, rats
bringing a new plague, nipping at your toes
under blankets, your bed was too low, friend, your house
built too close to the sand.

I always imagine Death green, glowing
like in paintings of Chernobyl
that hung in our church hall in Minsk,
lumbering with his scythe, skeleton
sweeping through skinned skeletons, the helpless
and the helpful, and I'm sorry Irina, and
I'm sorry Andrei, you don't get to have legs. Or
a mother besides this cold crib, one more
in a cubicle sea dropped in an ocean of dry white
buildings where they can't afford enough nurses.
And yeah, yeah, amazing grace. But also,
what amazing destruction.

Minsk made it through. They seeded the clouds with cannons;
you could hear them booming in the morning.
It was only the country that died.
And I'm sure Japan will make it.
Okuma isn't Pripyat, I tell myself,
whisper with all the courage of
God is now here.

II. gi
I walked the earth to Main last night,
the light turned down to amber,
wanting to be plucked by a great hand
off to a valley chock with metaphor
where God would ask me a question I had no answer for,
and he would answer with breathing
life into death,
and I would finally have a good word for you now.

And I know Main isn't 27th, isn't Detroit, I know
some businessman will breathe life into these bricks again,
replace rock-emptied panes. The sunshadow
of long-dead Auto Parts signs will
be filled again, life abundant. I believe, brother.
I believe, sister.

But if God met me there at all, I couldn't touch him like
I held a flaked shard of a concrete window sill,
broke it, thought to taste,
laid it back to rest instead.

III. aer
On a walk like that, when you don't meet God,
you expect the devil, coming along with
look at her walk, why can't you afford
this bauble, turn that
unused parking barrier into bread.
But I didn't hear him either,
just the voice of the city,
the vast empty rush of tires on pavement,
dirty windows, NO standing, get a loan you'll never afford.

This also I heard: the spaces between waves of cars and buses,
drywall hung -- not finished, and will it ever be?,
black windows further up than a man's throw,
and the alley between a pair of houses condemned.
And if he's not up there somewhere in the sky,
looking down on us, causing tsunamis and breaking all our hearts,
maybe this was God.

IV. pyr
There's a fire burning in the womb of the world,
it's a pool they can't cool before it steams,
pouring and pouring, can it ever be filled?
And it's people walking the earth, out into streets, asking
for a voice, crying for a voice,
and hearing bombs in return,
our bombs and their bombs, and who couldn't pull a trigger
in a place like that?
And it's a city divided by a street and a color and a state line.
And it's all the things you can't hear, even straining.

I hear hope lives. I pray hope lives.
But there isn't a man on a hill,
right here, bushy beard, smelling of campfire smoke
and a long second mile
to tell me don't be afraid,
selling all I have and giving it all away
will wake me to a new view, a new kind of crushing empire,
an empire of love the Leader killing you like you love your brother,
like you love your own self,
and if you were the one hurting you, what would you do?
All we have is alleys, lovers' whispers you can't quite hear,
waiting rooms, and wind chimes,
and the long silence after the shaking stops.

V. aether
So we huddle lonely on the mountain,
waiting for the waves to come,
afraid only of now, of when,
afraid of everything,
then. Even living.
Asking what we'll do
when the fire consumes us,
the silt and mud suffocate,
the wind topples over the edge.
Saying farewell to those who dare think
we could have a scrap here and now,
the only question to ask is when to jump. Not if.
All the paths directed to the same damned place.

Unless, there aren't any questions anymore because
there aren't any answers except
reaching over and clasping hands.
God off his throne,
in the warmth of our fingers.

I've never bought the end of Job

2010-04-06T16:01:00.003-05:00

I wrote this at the vigil, between the stations of the cross and the end of the open mic time, and finished the second draft it in time to read it aloud. I had waffled on posting it, especially since it's very Saturday, and we're all into Sunday now. I considered writing a Sunday piece to companion it, but that felt like I was betraying its truth. But Tony Jones posted today about a musician named David Bazan, and the song that David is singing in this video has some parallels, and I dig global synergy of artistic statement, so I thought I'd go ahead and revise my piece and add my voice to the conversation.

Immlamence
( Holy Saturday Vigil, 2010)

I've never bought the end of Job,
he's dust,
wrapped up in sackcloth
lying in dust,
and you show, whirlwind or no,
all haughty and proud, after all that time,
like this guy's the one
who's got something to answer for,
like he was the one done the betraying,

and you're casting another stone:
brace yourself, bucko,
answer me like you're a man
like you haven't been being a father,
where were you when pressure and heat
made physics break down,
like you're breaking down now,
femto and femto, and everything BANG,
or when I separated waters from waters?,
like you're separated from daughters and sons.
Do you know what it's like to swim the Mariana trench,
the pressure would pop you like a ripe boil,
or lay down Armstrong's steps for him,
traced out in fine white dust like this ash?

I see why you needed Jesus,
if he'd shown up like that,
we'd've killed him sooner.

And since Job never answered,
awed by questions and presence, they say,
but maybe more broken by oozing sores on his back,
and a wife laying down track for his suicide,
in the wake of crushed, rotting loves,
I'll speak for the downtrodden,
for those with no voice.

Who is this that obscures your counsel without knowledge?
It's all of us. We only know what you've given.
Brace yourself like a God,
and I will question.

Where were you when Uday beat those men's feet,
for losing a match?
And where were you when the men's souls had died already,
so it was nothing to push another hundred into the showers,
living gas, not water?
And do you know what it is like
when soldiers sent kill themselves because
protecting their loves from babbling beards in towels,
fresh from a life of dollars a day,
doesn't protect them from having their hearts scraped out
by their own automated trigger pulls?
And when the girls won't eat,
because daddy's leaving,
he's found a weekend girl,
easy to play like a Final Fantasy,
and mommy's already surfing for
the eharmony of a fill-in-the-blank replacement,
were you there?
What good is good news to the dead?

Surely, I speak of things I don't know about?
Surely, these are things too wonderful to know?
Right? Your ways are not our ways?
Maybe. But they're the ways you laid
on your foundation.

So, what was the deal?
You had to win a bet against an accuser?
It was because you had to be right when he was wrong?
Is that it? Is that what all of this is,
just a cosmic game of backgammon,
where at the end, after chastising them
for laying on the board,
finger picked and hand placed,
you're just going to cast
white stones and black stones
together into the sea?
Or, do the white ones get to file home
on the soul merit of skin's tone?

How about this:
were you there when they hammered railroad spikes
through a god-forsaken man's arms,
like they were blood draining a hog on a tree?

Because, you were supposed to be.
That's supposed to be you,
stepping into the way of suffering,
like cheeks we're told to turn.

And if it's not,
if, like with Job,
pain you inflict,
is pain you deflect,
darkness is our only God.

Liveblogging the Anthem Glow accoustic set.

2009-11-18T20:46:00.023-06:00

8:14. In Emporia at the Inner Bean Coffee House. It's an actual house. As you can see. Jeremy and Samn of Anthem Glow pictured here. This picture was taken just before they launched into their classic soundcheck, an up-tempo and cheery version of Johnny Cash's Folsom Prison Blues.

They then opened with The Killer's All These Things that I've Done, typically
cheesy, yet passionate, with a strong encouragement for the audience to join in on the I've got soul" bridge business. I am not a soldier, so, of course, joined in.

We're Going to Be Friends by The White Stripes started slow and then morphed into another Samn Wright that guy party song. Biggest applause of the three songs so far.

More and more people start filtering in. Going from just five or six to a bursting twenty in a few minutes.

Unfortunately, they are greeted with a sappy tale of love-to-be-lost, which is fortunately accompanied by a solid cover of Delicate by Damien Rice.

The story of the love lost continues with one of the few average songs in the Anthem Glow repertoire, What is Beautiful is God. Of course, an average Anthem Glow song is still . . . glowing. BAD-DUM-BUM.

Also, Amanda says something funny. And we all chuckle. That, or she just told me to say that. A little braggy.

8:33. The Euseys just walked in. I shook Evan's hand. Austin is reading this over my shoulder as I write, and patting my shoulder when I type something she agrees with.

8:37. Anthem Glow follows up the emo stylings of What is Beautiful is God with Wild Roses and Drowning in Faith, continuing the story of Samn's relationship with that girl, and also God at the same time, and how that worked out.

"Amanda returned with yet another witty comment," said Amanda. She also asked if this song was another song about that love triangle between Samn and that girl and God. It is.

8:41. During the Falling Slowly sing-along, I go up for that high note. And fail spectacularly. And intentionally.

Austin and Erin are conspiring next to me to dance together during Spider Web Waltz. I plan to thwart this plan. Bwa ha.

8:46. And now my absolute favorite Christmas song, Samn's Evergreen. Easily the highlight of the show so far. And so we cut trees down and dress them up in tinsel and strings. We ask you for a savior, you give us a baby. We asked you for a kingdom, and you gave us a mustard seed.

8:52. Aaand, break.

9:03. We're back with Wake Up by the Arcade Fire. But it's not actually them. It's Anthem Glow covering it. Which is cool. But not, like, David Bowie cool.

At 9:07, an Invisible Girl walks through the Bean. No one sees her.

And then there was the time that Amanda took over the live blogging and allowed anyone and everyone to comment.

Question 1 of live blogging take over: Commentor Jacob, is that Jake Petty?

Ben is enjoying a lovely strawberry italian cream soda.

Also, Michelle is drinking mt. dew with whip cream. no lie. she just loves it so much.

Samn and Jeremy are still singing. Samn is sweaty and about to play Orpheus.

Poll: How sweaty is Samn?
"He's really sweaty."
"I would say 7.5, 10 being the most sweaty I've seen him."
"Just right."
"On a scale of 1 to 10, he's really sweaty."
"Question, why is Jeremy not sweaty?"

Also, I am Orpheus.

The Inner Bean is very nicely decorated, mostly with snow men. I find most of the snowmen unfrightening, but there is one that rather startles me. I feel that he prematurely gave up his icy world to settle into a life on top of an old radio without thinking about what that would mean for those who would have to sit facing him while listening to Anthem Glow. He freaks everyone out who passes by. And it's not doing much for his self esteem.

Quote of the night: "Why are we both in Canada?"

Also, still singing.

2nd Poll on How Sweaty is Samn?:
"Is Samn crying?" "You can't tell because he is sweating."

Waltz Time:

On second thought, he's not so bad.

Also, We Are Like the Stars.

Good night!

9:52. After a long conversation with the Euseys, and a bit part in Like the Stars, Timothy returns to find his liveblogging taken over and improved upon. Also good night.

Just another together-when.

2009-11-12T17:34:00.004-06:00

This last weekend there was a Saturday. I know you may think this is a normal thing for a weekend. But you would be wrong. This was a Capital-S Saturday. You don't get those every week, let me tell you.

I got off work at three, windows down all the way home, after six hours under florescent lights, and the weather was late-May, school's out, nothing to do, call your friends, right down the list in your phone, who wants to do something, anything, outside? Some radical insurgent Spring cell got in and took down the oppressive Empire of November. If even for one day. And when oppressive empires are going' down, we are SO there.

So, I got home, and Samn and Jeremy were practicing in the basement for the acoustic set they're playing next week in Emporia. The house was getting darker, and Samn had texted me an idea that he had, a capital idea for Capital-S Saturdays in November, and so I waited with Juliet and Amanda for the rehearsal to end, hoping it wouldn't get too dark to pull this thing off.

Once they were done, Amanda left behind to sleep off a busy week, we packed up, piled in, and drove to Loose Park. Only then did we discover that we were not the only people with brilliant Saturday ideas. Some other people we didn't even know were already there, at work. And so, we doubled what they'd done, and almost fifteen of us made like it was effing Saturday, man.

This is us, after dusk, right before we left:

I'm pretty sure Samn is standing up there on the right.

At its best, the pile was taller than me. My first jump, I dove flat out, parallel to the ground and flew.

One kid, about 4 feet tall, just ran straight at the pile and disappeared, POOF, and he had to climb out of the middle.

Juliet went it with Jeremy one time. On his shoulders.

One tall guy did half a flip and went in head down, knees up, sunk right in.

Nobody told me this was what jumping in leaves was like. I would have started a long time ago.

You can't get leaves for that in the spring, and November weather is never this kind. It was like the evening was made just so for raking, like, half an acre of leaves into one pile and leaping into it.

American Beatitudes. A targum.

2009-11-02T20:00:00.000-06:00

(I, of course, owe much to Brian Walsh and Sylvia Keesmaat in the inspiration of this.)
Edited 11/2/2009 8:00 pm

Wake up.
Become aware.
Come alive.
Because
The Republic of God,
The United States of Heaven,
The Commonwealth of Jesus
is right here in front of you,
is right here inside you.
There is another way.

Privileged are those without hope or ability to succeed in the economic and political and (especially) religious systems of the world,
those without a college degree,
those without enough capital to start a business,
those deep in debt,
those who don't have time to get all spiritual,
those who don't go to church because they have been judged by people in churches,
those who don't understand what all this fuss is about God.
And privileged are all the people who aren't American,
who come to this county legally or illegally,
those who could never even dream of coming here.
Because they are the senators and policymakers and secretaries in this other nation.

Privileged are those who are worn out from the weight of being a cog in the machine of industry,
working 9 to 5, or 6 to 8, or midnight to 6, or a rotating shift, never see the sun,
whose benefits don't cover their medical bills
whose bosses’ bosses’ bosses, people they’ve never met, made decisions to lay them off, and now they can’t feed their family.
And privileged are the people turned into a commodity by a depersonalizing and dehumanizing image-driven society,
the teenage girls who think they have to cut calories just so to stay thin,
men who buy magazines promising to teach them to lose a gut they will never lose,
reality show contestants wanting to be famous, because being famous means being loved,
prostitutes and johns,
everyone lonely or scared of being poor or addicted or lost.
Because in this nation,
they will be comforted and given a new life
they will get to start over fresh,
and start over again,
and start over again.

Privileged are the timid and the unstrong,
the bullied and the scared,
the impotent in a world of rampant false virility,
the ones who don’t test well,
the ones who never spoke up in class.
And privileged are those unwilling or unable to work,
the ones turned lazy by entertainment funneled down their throats
the ones who never learned to be motivated themselves.
Because they are the CEOs, and they will receive the bonuses at Christmas, and the options. Their parachutes are always golden.

Privileged are those who have only ever experienced pain and oppression,
those who see injustice around every corner,
on the way out of their bosses’ offices,
in their landlord’s notices,
from the fists of their fathers or pimps or lovers,
in the systems of the federal or state government
in the systems of charity that only helps those who can help themselves,
in the lack of any system at all to help them,
those who wish they could just stop hurting for one minute a day.
Because they will see the pain and the oppression and the injustice and especially the hurt
finally stop.
And as empty as the hurt ever was, they will be filled up and over.

Privileged are those who have the easy opportunity to take advantage of someone else,
to make money,
or take power
at the expense of those without it.
And instead choose to give of themselves
to cast aside their comfort,
to not fuel someone’s slavery for the own convenience
of cheaper shoes,
a bigger television,
a better vacation.
And privileged are those who were oppressed by others and forgave,
who should have risen up and fought,
who should have sued,
who were justified to kill the men who raped their daughters,
and hugged them instead.
Because they, in return,
will be let off the hook,
be found innocent in the court of law,
will go free.
They are free.

Privileged are those without eyes to see the complexities of world,
without the understanding to read the fine-print of a mortgage document,
without the vision to depersonalize someone else's body for their own pleasure,
those unfamiliar with sex in a culture that fetishizes it,
the ones who don’t get jokes,
the gullible who get socked in the arm for looking at nothing.
Because instead of all of that,
they see and understand God.

Privileged are those who reconcile
murderers and victims' families,
landmine planters and soldiers without legs,
rapists and rape-victims,
Democrats and Republicans,
Hutus and Tutsis,
the kid who lost his fingers with the person who bought the t-shirt the kid was enslaved to make.
And privileged are those who refuse to take up arms to defend themselves,
those who stand in the way of someone else's pain, making it their own,
those who have never hostilely taken over anything,
or ordered someone to do something just because they could.
Because they will be titled:
President-on-Duty, Commanders-in-Chief.

And so, you are privileged.
When people insult you,
spit on you,
exclude you,
blog about you unfavorably,
or say all kinds of evil against you,
change their Facebook status to slight you,
invade your homeland,
laugh you out of the forum,
mock you on the Daily Show,
Fox News, or 4chan,
because you recognize this other, better nation,
because you are not a patriot anymore,
your interests abroad are deeper than American ones,
when you sympathize with killers and terrorists,
when the decisions you make for this other nation
hurt the economy of America,
when you change your life for justice,
and this inconveniences others' safety and comfort,
and especially when you forgive these very people who insult you,
rejoice and be glad!
Buck up.
Throw a party.
Someone will always persecute prophets and
people who find a third way,
and you're there among them.
So, great is your reward in
The Republic of God,
the United States of Heaven,
the Commonweath of Jesus.
You are the senators and CEOs now,
landlords and bosses.
You are the free ones.
You get to start over,
start fresh.
And you will do all these things differently.
From below,
without power or the desire to control.

And, sometimes, you will give up even this privilege.
Because,
you see God.
You have seen God.
He is here.
He is in you.

Send a heartbeat to . . .the void that cries through you? Or is it something else crying? Someone?

2009-10-28T17:06:00.001-05:00

Reality doesn't match up to what I'm told it's supposed to; I don't know any evil men. I think I'm supposed to. By evil, I mean of course the sort of evil men movies premiering the week before Halloween imply are hiding in your car right now. The man with the knife. The man with in the suit in the office with floor to ceiling windows, fingers pressed to fingers. The woman who locks her foster children in the basement, you are not a person, you are a thing, you have to earn your scrap of bread, you dog. The ones who are cruel because they like it.

I read about them in the news; these kinds of evil men must exist. But how could I know them so well when I see them on the screen? "Ah, yes, that is just the sort of evil that exists, and just the sort of justice that must be mediated to stop it." So many of the resonant stories, the ones I think about for days afterward, the ones I sink down into again and again are filled with this evil, from the time I was born, from Red Riding Hood to Lord of the Rings to Boy's Life to The Eyes of the Dragon to Slumdog Millionaire to Let the Right One In, it's there, and the evil men are real, and I know them, without having met them. Cruelty and hate hide under all the rocks and in all the dark empty rooms.

But I look around me now, and I can't see any. Yes, yes, I can peek into the internet and find any number of websites dedicated to chronicling the psychopaths and the serial killers and distant politicians. The kinds of people my friend Adam says don't exist since he can't see them in person. But in my day-to-day life? Even in my excessive lazy-job-induced amount of time on the internet? I see a whole lot of hurting people. I see a whole lot of lonely people. I don't see any evil men.

And maybe I should. If there are any police officers reading right now, I imagine they would tell me that the evil men are closer than I think. That I am glad the police patrol and protect and intimidate. Otherwise, POW, right in the kisser. And if there are any people who live without very much money reading, I imagine they would tell me that the evil men are everywhere and they own everything, and keep it for themselves, and there is no way to get ahead. Even the other people without very much money will do anything to get just a little.

But even those people aren't Hannibal, aren't Goebbels, aren't Maleficent, aren't Iago. Those are selfish people, or desperate people, or angry people. But evil?

Maybe it's the opposite, then. Maybe I know only evil men. And this is why all these stories resonate. Everyone around me holds all this potential for cruelty, and have somehow, miraculously, they keep that pushed down under, letting good shine out. So when Stephen King's cruel children characters torment his normal kid characters, and then are killed for it by supernatural clown/temporal-spiders or whatever, it's not that I identify with the normal kids, it's that I see the cruel kid within myself and want it to be killed there, too.

But that's too simplistic, too. Because I do identify with the normal kid. Maybe I haven' t been bullied to that extent. Maybe I haven't been tortured. Maybe I haven't had everything taken from me. But I feel those things. I want justice for me. I want justice for other people. I've seen cruelty, and I've seen oppression, and, heck, I even have this huge weight of knowing that by typing this on a computer I am in some way affecting other people's lives ecologically and economically, people I could not even attempt to visit and get to know without continuing to contribute to the same cycles and systems. So, I'm right there, too.

So, yeah. I do not know any evil men. I do not know anyone but evil men.

But all this seems to me like it might be a pedestrian conversation. Stuff, maybe, we all know. So, there are deeper questions this idea of no evil/all evil brings up for me. Two sets of questions, actually.

First, how do atheists deal with evil in the world? I don't mean intellectually. I mean emotionally. How do the people who really, honestly, don't believe that there is anything beyond the emperical come to grip emotionally with the fact that there are really cruel people around? Also, even as a hyper-social species as we are, why should I, intellectually-justifyably, care about people who are hurting rather than just kill them off? Just because I get an endorphin release? Because my genetics dictate that 'nice' survives? Those answers seem really shallow. To treat someone as a human, and humanity enough for respect seems like a mystical concept, not an empirical one. But one that I think most people are drawn to emotionally. Maybe I just don't get ethics. But, even on the plane of ethics, most atheists I know believe there are some disposable people. Some people for whom it's ok for the gene pool to remove via natural selection. That I shouldn't care about them because we're evolving past them. In other words, not mine, "Does it make you happy you're so strange?" Does reality match up with what you're told, and what you tell?

Secondly, how should we theists (small-t) deal with all of this? I don't mean emotionally. We've got lots of good reasons to care about people and treat them well. Everyone's made in the image of God, so treat 'em good. Love your neighbor like you want to be loved. Gotcha. I mean intellectually. It seems like an awful big cop-out to say that the reason life really really sucks for a lot of people is that God lets it be so in order to allow for free will. Because life doesn't have to suck this much, does it? And why should a person who doesn't believe in God take seriously the reason that evil is in the world is that God is too big and too wonderful, and his ways are above our ways? Isn't it just simpler to say that life sucks because it was chance for it to be here, and we evolved in such an odd way as to notice it? And also, are people generally, who actually believe what I say they ought to belive actually changed for the better? Actually less cruel? Does entering the upside down kingdom turn me upside down? Or, in other words, not mine, "Is it bright where you are? Have the people changed?" Does reality match up with what I'm told, and what I tell?

My birthday party last year, and yeah, I need to post more, I know.

2009-10-20T17:06:00.000-05:00

It's the ancillary work you don't think about at the outset

2009-03-26T23:52:00.001-05:00

This evening, during that crazy Mizzou game (Dear Memphis, had you ever seen a defence before?), I worked this up for the novel I'm working on (yay having a part time job to allow times for to be writing!). It's heavily based on Young's Literal Translation. I changed a couple of words here and there to stronger syonyms, modified most of the punctuation, and omited needless words (Thanks, Messrs Strunk, White!), but I did keep as much of the sweet grammar of the translation as I could. Sections of this piece will serve as chapter notation in the first half of the novel. Thought I'd share it with you, since it'll be months before I can share any of the actual work with anyone, and sharing is really motivating for me, re: artistic endevours. (By-the-by, the whole pre-Noah section of this first book is pretty much my favorite passage in the whole collection. I love the untouchable mystery of stories told through the eyes of ancient peoples about times even more ancient, times that would otherwise outside the realm of history.)

In the Beginning
(Of the Elohim's preparing the heavens, the earth)

The earth had existed waste and void,
darkness on the face of the deep,
the Spirit of the Elohim fluttering on the face of the waters.

And the Elohim says,
'Let light be.'
Light is.
The Elohim sees the light good,
separates between the light, the darkness,
calls to the light, 'Day.'
To the darkness he has called, 'Night.'
There is an evening; there is a morning --
day one.

And the Elohim says,
'Let an expanse be in the midst of the waters,
let it be separating between waters and waters.
The Elohim makes the expanse;
it separates between the waters-under-the-expanse,
the waters the expanse.
It is so:
The Elohim calls to the expanse, 'Heavens.'
There is an evening; there is a morning --
day second.

And the Elohim says,
'Let the waters-under-the-heavens
be collected unto one place.
Let the dry land be seen.'
It is so:
The Elohim calls to the dry land, `Earth.'
To the collection of the waters He has called, `Seas.'
The Elohim sees good.
The Elohim says, `Let the earth yield tender grass,
herb sowing seed,
fruit-tree (seed in itself) making fruit
on the earth.'
It is so:
the earth brings forth tender grass,
herb sowing seed
tree making fruit (seed in itself).
The Elohim sees good.
There is an evening; there is a morning --
day third.

And the Elohim says,
'Let luminaries be in the expanse of the heavens
to make a separation between the day, the night,
for signs, for seasons, for days, for years,
luminaries in the expanse of the heavens
to give light upon the earth.'
It is so:
the Elohim makes the two great luminaries,
the great luminary for the reign of the day,
the small luminary and the stars for the reign of the night.
The Elohim gives them in the expanse of the heavens
to give light upon the earth,
to reign over day, over night,
to make a separation between the light,
the darkness.
The Elohim sees good.
There is an evening; there is a morning --
day fourth.

And the Elohim says,
'Let the waters teem with the teeming-living-creature.
Fowl, let fly on the earth,
on the face of the expanse of the heavens.'
The Elohim prepares the great monsters,
every living-creature-that-is-creeping which the waters have teemed with,
every fowl-with-wing.
The Elohim sees good,
blesses them, saying,
'Be fruitful, multiply,
fill the waters in the seas.
The fowl, let multiply in the earth.'
There is an evening; there is a morning --
day fifth.

And the Elohim says,
'Let the earth bring forth the living creature,
cattle, creeping thing, beast-of-the-earth.'
It is so:
the Elohim makes the beast-of-the-earth,
the cattle, every creeping thing of the ground.
The Elohim sees good.
The Elohim says,
'Let us make human in our image, according to our likeness.
Let them rule over fish of the sea,
over fowl of the heavens, over cattle,
over all the earth,
over every creeping thing creeping on the earth.'
The Elohim prepares the human in his image;
in the image of the Elohim he prepared him,
a male and a female he prepared them.
The Elohim blesses them,
says to them, 'Be fruitful, multiply, fill the earth. Subdue it.
Rule over fish of the sea,
over fowl of the heavens,
over every living thing creeping upon the earth.'
The Elohim says, `Look around, I have given to you
every herb sowing seed upon the face of all the earth,
every tree, the fruit of a tree sowing seed.
To you it is for food.
And to every beast of the earth,
to every fowl of the heavens,
to every creeping thing on the earth in which breath of life,
every green herb for food:'
It is so.
The Elohim sees all that he has done very good.
There is an evening; there is a morning --
day the sixth.

The heavens, the earth are completed, all their host.
The Elohim completes by the seventh day.
His work which he has made ceases by the seventh day,
all his work which he has made.
The Elohim blesses the seventh day,
sanctifies it, for in it, he has ceased from all his work
which the Elohim had prepared for making.

Never easy.

2009-03-22T05:00:00.000-05:00

I've taken down two wall hangings this week. One of them is a huge orangey-red Celtic knot, faded from washing after it got all dirty and wet when the ceiling caved in. It happened a couple of years ago, and was a direct result of water pouring through the ceiling of our old place, as upstairs pipes burst during a 50 degree warm snap. At this apartment, it hung above the antique mirror from my Omi that we set above our bed like a headboard. Now the wall is white and there is a gray crack running up from the floor that someone patched once upon a time.

The other hanging I took down is the vintage British flag that hung above the computer. Next time you see one, look to see how the stripes are uneven. The red against white is shifted to the counter-clockwise side. Having one in the house, you notice things like that .Jones's parents brought it back from England in the 70s, and she gave it to us when she moved in with Eric, what with being married and all. As I took it down, I wondered why we hang it. I was careful to have Jill sew on some loops to the upper corners so we didn't have to punch holes in it. Something about respect. I wonder if we should do something to make it an art piece, rather than just a massive hanging reminder of the existence of another country; I mean, we are no great anglophiles. Maybe we should paint "Jesus is bigger" on it, and get an American flag, and do the same. Hang them on opposite walls. I doubt that will happen, true as it may be. BUt it's fun to think about it.

The wall is empty where the flag used to be, too, and you can see the boarded up door that leads to the stairs to the neighbor's place above us. There are holes in the wall, where we miscalculated the height of nails. Apparently, we've covered a lot of imperfections with decorations.

The bookshelves that cover the window in the computer room so Jill wasn't as cold when she was studying French this winter are also empty, except for a couple of straggling knick-knacks and our copy of the board game Dominion.

See, we are moving.

On Sunday afternoons, before church, our friends stop in to drop off food for after, or sit on our couch and talk. They park in our driveway, and if you've been to Jacob's Well, directions are easy. You can see the building from our kitchen window. One of the biggest reasons we moved here was to be close to that building -- brick, with Scopes-era crenelations. Sometimes, late at night, Shayne is sneaking in for late night pastor stuff, and I am taking out the trash, and when I call out to him, maybe he thinks it's God saying hello. When I'm hanging out with the youth upstairs Sunday mornings, and there is a book I want to loan one of them, or we are done early, and I want to grab a game to play, it's a quick walk back, hardly knew I was gone. We jokingly named our wi-fi network The Rectory. After church, I invite someone over. "It's right there," I say. "Come have tacos. Play a game or have a good talk." And they do.

All of this is a matter of convenience, I realize. But it has been a beneficial convenience. I've seen life spring up here and there like the surprise lilies are just now pushing up in the back yard. Lots of friendships deepened over "Come on over." I am going to miss the convenience of living "right there."

But it's more than just an amazing location. This is where we had Jill's balloon party, when the balloons came down the next day, and wandered around the house like they had minds of their own. The doorway to our bedroom is where I last saw some friends of mine happy in their relationship before it went sour, talking about the election with another couple, two players on a debate team. This is the home of "The Noodle Game." This is the house I thought we'd only get pushed out of by our first kid. This is the bathroom I get allergic to in the spring, and the closet you get your clothes out of pre-shower in the winter, believe me. This is the basement we cleaned two trash bags of dust out of. This is the front porch we played late-summer-night Settlers on. I hid under one set of stairs and on another set in a game of sardines over Christmas. This is the house I came home to when I got laid off, and the house I couldn't get to sleep in when I didn't get that youth job I wanted so much. This is the house I've felt more at home in than any other.

Yeah, I am excited about the new place, new opportunities, new location, new layout, new roommates, 9/14ths rent, where the hangings will go up, etc, etc, amen. Really, really, I am. But I'll you all about that some other time.

For now, I'm going to miss this place. Really, really, I am.

Bigger than a The Beatles reunion, tour, I kid you not.

2009-02-24T23:09:00.001-06:00

I watched the first, say, 30 episodes of Rosie O'Donnell's daytime TV show. Weird, I know. But it was funny and fresh back in the day, and she shot koosh balls at the audience, and koosh balls rule. I thought to myself at the time, "If I'm ever famous, when I'm doing the talk show circuit, I will go on Rosie's show, and be like, I saw all the first episodes of your show. I am not a poser, or whatever. Also, can I have a Koosh?"

Around the same time, watching a lot of talk shows, I noticed that people with a thing to plug had a very clear path ahead of them. Laid out by publicists and their ilk. You had to go on all these shows, and some had good interviewers (Letterman (we didher show like Jonathon Ross; it'll be HUGE)) and some had terrible interviewers (Has any guest ever gotten a full interesting sentence out in the presense of Regis Philbin?). You'd see someone on a popular morning show on Monday, and by Friday they'd pop up after midnight. I remember thinking to myself, "If I'm ever famous, I will go on the best shows first, rather than save them for last. So, for example, Leno and Letterman and especially the Today Show could wait, Imo goin' on Conan day one."

All that to say, omygosh you guys, Andy Richter's gonna be on the Tonight Show with Conan. Squee!

Rhetorical question, short hand for same rheotrical question, rhetorical answer, tell a friend.

2009-02-24T15:33:00.001-06:00

First posts back from long blog hiatuses are supposed to be about the events of the interim, supposed to apologize for it being so long since the last post, tell you stories about how the author thought a lot about writing, but life got in the way at first, and then the habit fell away, and you, dear readers, should be grateful that the blog has continued at all.

Whatever.

Besides one justifiable dalliance on my birthday, this blog has, I admit, lain dormant since the day I got waylaid on the way out of the cubicle row with lunch on my mind and sent to a meeting where we were told by a man with a creepily thick neck whose position in the power-structure of my brain is still "company stooge whose unintentional Simon Pegg movie quotations asked me to shill our now terminal Previa out for the company" that everyone in the room was getting laid off. Among these fine people were the company party planning committee (one woman), the only man I've ever seen actually enjoying long conversations with real estate agents mid-tech-support-call, and the guy who took more calls on average than any other tech, and who once spent 20 minutes chewing out an AOL technician who refused to allow a user the basic email functionality to receive emails that they themselves were sending from another email account because it "might be spam" (SIR, this woman is sending the email, please do your job as an email provider and allow her to get emails that she herself is sending! She is telling you that she wants to get a particular email, there is no more basic function of your job than to let her do this!), among plenty of other fine people. So, the creepy neck guy who had just waltzed in to say his little speech about the importance doing his dead wife proud by winning Village of the Year again, or whatever it was, I wasn't really paying attention, waltzed right back out to go lean over a desk in a glass-doored office next door and look important with the new execs. That morning they'd also just laid off the entire executive team, which was a nice gesture to the rest of us, I'll admit, but I'm not sure what good it actually did. Then again, I don't really care how the company does anymore. Surpisring, I know.

And that day set in motion an over-3-month ordeal of trying to collect unemployment benefits while emptying what paltry savings we had, and relying quite heavily on the kindness of strangers and friends (Thanks, friends and anonymous donors . . . theinds and thanonymous donors.) to be able to do basic things like eat food and not get kicked out of our apartment for failure to pay the rent.

This morning, we drove to the credit union and used our fancy new state-mandated-financial-institution-I-don't-really-trust-issued debit card to deposit the daily maximum in our checking account, the rest to follow via electronic transfer in "up to three business days".

So, although it was not intentional, ala my eight-month, post-teaching job search sabbatical from Halo 2, the day of bloody finally depositing the first money from the unemployment office I've been paying into for, say, 13 years, seems like a good day to get back to this blogging business. I can't promise it'll be as frequent, as I used to blog almost exclusively during the work day (while still resolving more calls on average than any other technician, I might add) but it's back.

Oh, and now I TOTALLY wish I had taken that license plate cover for the Previa. The back bumper is falling off, the front right blinker cover is shattered, and the rear end screams like a dying animal with a really high pitched, whining, moaning scream whenever you drive more than 30 MPH. Its going to just die on us someday soon unless we shell out a couple grand. Nothing signifies my confidence and belief in the fidelity of that real estate software company I used to work for than that mini-van.

Birthday Party Preparations LIVEBLOG

2008-12-19T17:30:00.000-06:00

5:30. I am setting up the computer in the new location so the photo booth thing will work. Also downloaded a bunch of speed runs to show on the other monitor. Then to pick up around the house a tad and then jump full into playing with bread dough.

4:07. To-do list:

Make Middle-Eastern-style hearty lentil soup for the veggies and anti-glutenites. Should be done around 7. So, with prep time, 40 minutes to cook until soft, and then a good 20 minutes after that, start around 5:45.
Stuff and cook runzas. Also should be done cooking around 7. So, to cook 25 minutes, rise 15 minutes before cooking, and be able to be stuffed, start around 6.
Fry wontons. To be ready at 7, and fry all of them, should take a good half hour to 45 minutes. Start at 6:15.
Remember to get 2 extra selves.
Open bags of chips for cheese dip stuff.
Remember to tell everyone who can't make it to go to my new flickr feed starting at 7 to be able to see live picture updates every 30 seconds.
Bring in noise and funk.

3:16. Has beef kind and doesn't has beef kind are go.

2:52. Actually, it's time to get the cheese dip ready. Respite is off the table for now. (The saurkraut is long gone and in the runza mix, no need to freak out, cabbage-haters)

2:40. Other batch done. Eddie Izzard on the monitor. Dishes in the wash. Might have a bit of respite before I prep the lentil soup, and run the home stretch on the runzas dough.

2:05. Wonton! That's the word I was looking for. I'm making fried rice wontons. So, refrigerating the rice didn't work as well as I'd hoped; it's more mushy than I wanted, but I think it'll work out just fine as a filling. The chicken kind is wrapped and egg whited in the fridge, and the kind without any chicken awaits. Back to it, friends.

1:18. A quick peek at the two refrigerators. The first one is the downstairs. That's Jones Soda Cane Cola in the bottom left. Comes in cans now, apparently, and I know some people love cane sugar over corn syrup (and the non-fattening chemicals that sweeten, whatever those are: yikes, and wow I'm not as fat as I could be) to a degree that five years ago I could not fathom in a sweetener choice, so there those are. The Boulevard Wheat is from a few weeks ago, when a good friend of mine got good and fired for something not so much his fault, and we didn't drink any when he came over and we spent the day like eight-year-old versions of ourselves we played Mike Tyson's Punch-Out for 4 hours, but a few have trickled out over the weeks.

You may have to click on the second one to see all the pre-prepared dish ingredients sitting around in there, waiting expectantly for me to fish them out and toss them on the counter, ready to be mixed or kneaded, or cut, or drizzled, or stuffed, or sampled.

12:47. Two batches mixed and set to chill for a couple hours. (my mixing bowl didn't seem to want to hold 12-13 cups of flour). Now on to the wraps (or, I suppose, egg rolls with fried rice instead of veggies, depending on your point of view): chicken kind, and there isn't any chicken kind.

12:00.

Oh, my, yes. Food processors RULE.

11:48. So, it's cold today, and heating bills and leaky windows being what they are, the thermostat is set to 62 during the day, which is up from 58 last week, when we realized even with the both of us sitting in front of space heaters all day, it wasn't enough. But with the cooking, and the space heater at the edge of the kitchen, it's been just fine today.

11:46. Ugh, that was, like 4 hand washes. So gross looking, so delicious! The mixtures are saran wrapped (ok, off-brand plastic wrapped, which never, I mean NEVER, wants to come off the roll in a clean break) and away in the fridge. The chicken breast is cooked and ready to be shredded, which means my forearms are going to hurt tonight. WAIT! We have a wee food processor down here. Imona try that.

11:11. This batch of hamburger is done, and I've separated the three pounds into two bowls: one for the regular runzas, one for the pizza runzas. After looking at it, the bread recipie I'm making from scratch will require more fine fine timing than I thought to get the runzas out hot and on time, so I really want the stuff going inside to be standing at the ready. Stupid real life food preparation. How did The Ancients (also, most of the world alive today) do it?! Now to get all that set up and ready as the chicken for the wraps finishes cooking.

The dishwasher has been emptied, the dishes next to the sink stowed. Thanks be to Jill for getting all of that done last night while I was out carousing and living it up, er, I mean . . . at prayer group.

10:48. If you are one of the "privileged" few who have had opportunity to visit me in my job-search dungeon, you'll be familiar with the computer set up I've arranged on the kitchen counter. The orange-tinged book is the aforementioned cookbook. But, what, you may ask, is the second monitor for, recipes that require such complex machinations that you much see two pages of text simultaneously, and such? No, no, nothing so urbane. Throughout the day, I'm going to be watching various videos, DVDs, and internet phenomenon such as Look Around You: Maths.

10:25. The rice is done and off to the fridge to cool so the fried result is less gooey. The beef for the runzas (or bierrocks, as they're known in some circles) is cooking in the pan now. Although I'll be making the bread for that from scratch this afternoon, I want as much to be ready beforehand as possible.

10:12. The rice for the chicken, and not-chicken rice wraps is in the pot and boiling as dictated by our excellent Mennonite cookbook More-With-Less, an excellent gift for those of you either still tied into the consumerist Christmas lifestyle, or with relatives for whom not providing such a still-culturally-appropriate gesture of economic goodwill would cause your relationship to be otherwise strained. I will chill be pre-wrapping the rice, this morning in order to make the just-before-the-party- preparations less hectic.

9:58. I'd been thinking for a while about having a birthday party. In these latter days, with the military-birthday complex in such full stride, and the pressure on every front to celebrate in the most elaborate fashions with the most and modern methods, who doesn't wish for a most excellent celebration of his or her anniversary of emergence? And so, in the spirit of such a broad cultural phenomenon (but, may I say, not the particulars) I prepare. And all day, you, most careful RSS feed reader, and Facebook status minder, shall be kept abreast.

I know, I know, I know.

2008-12-17T21:43:00.003-06:00

It's been a while since I've been here. Looking for work and writing fiction, mostly, should you wonder what I've been up to. And I'm not sure how long it'll be until I get back. The other things are more important right now. If I can find a way to do all three, then I'll be here a lot. I like it, and I miss it.

But I'm back just for a moment to tell you about something just read over on a blog I read sometimes. My mouth hung open for a good ten seconds thinking about it, and then I covered it with both hands like you do when you open the wrong door in the wrong kind of movie. And while it's an interesting point the author is making, this one thing stood out above and beyond, so far above, that I can't believe the entire article wasn't just two lines:

The federal bailout we gave the other day to people who got filthy rich by giving bad mortgages to people who couldn't afford them, and then selling the mortgages to people who would never get their money back: $700 billion (850, really)
The total amount of aid the world has sent to Africa since 1960: $600 billion.

As you might expect.

2008-11-20T13:28:00.003-06:00

I had planned on spending the afternoon working on a blog about how the modern American capitalist system/corporate culture is really a voluntary opt-in feudalism, using specific examples from the company I work for. Instead, they laid me off. So, I'll have to get to that entry later. Such is the life of an artiste.

You know everybody sees it. Except you; you don't believe it.

2008-11-19T10:50:00.002-06:00

I don't think I need much commentary on this. It speaks for itself. I mean, even The Onion sees it.

http://www.theonion.com/content/opinion/im_not_one_of_those_love_thy?utm_source=onion_rss_daily

The Shift.

2008-11-07T17:00:00.000-06:00

We had a mid-week weekend of reprieve, but autumn is back, nipping and cozying us down into blankets and scarves, but his eyes have gone steel having been so inviting. Is it even the same one? The time shift felt weighty this year, again, as late as it comes, an hour substantial. Morning feels like mornings used to, in grade school, a bright sidewalk straight up and onto the hill on Walker, where the alien walnut eggs slowly hatched day by day, and I waited for Billy (my first memorized phone number not mine, 782 not 764) and his mom at the T so we could walk together. Evenings start more sinister, and drop away winkaflash, leaving night to stalk in the wake.

Found peaking.

2008-11-06T18:51:00.000-06:00

I've been lost in a corn maze twice now this year. The first time was back in late September. The maze hadn't been open very long, and the corn was a good ten feet tall, maybe twelve, deep green leaves filling out right through the middle of some of the narrower paths. A machete would have been a useful accessory. It had rained earlier that day, and every now and again there was a wet intersection. But the paths were mostly firm and dry, and as yet unspoiled by people cutting through the walls. Jackets only needed to protect arms from the fresh leaf scratching.

We flat-out raced through the first maze, my second guessing costing me the win. Then we took turns being the guide for the group in the second maze, the odd configuration taking us much further than we would have needed to if we'd been willing to cheat ourselves and do checkpoints out of order. For the third, we did a team race, starting at different ends, where you had to hit all the checkpoints as a team. It felt like the sun stayed up late just for us, and the sky kept its shaded colors over the hills surrounding the valley, horizon to horizon, for what seemed like hours.

For the fourth and longest maze, we decided to just strike out on our own, winding through the two miles of paths alone. Sam dove in without consulting his map, forging ahead with the intent of getting lost and finding God out in the sea of corn. Jill went in through the exit, head down, eyes on the map, determined to find her own way. I was in a weird headspace, caught up between wanting to get lost, but not really being in the mood for it. I felt detached, the world unreal there in the long-waning light and the tall corn. Unable to concentrate hard enough to notice God, unable to ignore his presence. So I just went to do it efficiently, but breezily. Enjoy the evening. Work my way through quickly, but not worry about it. Find what I found, and let it be.

But less than 5 minutes from the entrance, I suddenly had to use the restroom, and took the shortest path back to the starting point for the mazes I could find, cutting through the end of our maze on my way. But as I came back, I got confused, and started tracing the exit path I took out on the map instead of the entrance one I took back in. And I got lost.

Not hopelessly lost, though. I kept moving away from the exit, my sense of direction was good enough for that. But where on the map I was, I had no idea. None of the intersections looked right. I kept seeing Sam from time to time, wandering steadily, but he wasn't using a map at all, so he couldn't help my find where I was exactly. And if there's one word I'd use to describe the whole experience, I'd say "relaxing."

To have no other responsibilities than to some time find my way through a maze that I know had a path that I could find. Nothing else to worry about, nothing else to think about. A single, doable, pleasant task right in front of my face. A purpose, but not a hard one. Untaxing work. That's relaxing.

Eventually, I noticed that I may have been in a particular section (the kanagroo?) a good way south from where I thought I thought I was, but it looked like if this path was that path, and that one was that, a turn here would bring me to a checkpoint. And it did.

With by bearings found, worked my way to a bridge where two paths crossed and climbed up to look around. A couple of teenagers, and a younger kid were hanging around. I thought the older ones might have been dating in that early teenage way, unsure of what to do with your bodies when you're together, somehow still living off the friendship you started the whole thing with. Attached and detached, but together.

Thunderheads lumbered along east and south of us. I felt small, like a blank face in a crowd. There were big things happening around me, great and wonderful, and all I could do was watch them happen.

I traced my way out from there, stopping once to watch the sun drop below the corn right down the center of a long straight path, finally weary of our wanderings, ready to kick us out to get to bed. As the darkness settled, a couple of buses pulled in, and kids spread through the maze, cutting between the paths, and shouting, boys stealing girls cell phones, as they do (how else at that age to be chased when you want to be?), jumping out to scare, laughing and yelling.

It was a definite foreshadowing of what it would be like when we come back, late October, the corn tired of living, ready to finally sleep. By then, the paths were wide, the leaves pushed back by so many explorers, the walls between rows thinned, sometimes so far as to be doors.

We came back with our own teenagers from church, bundled in stocking caps from our personal stash, intended to let our earlier foray inform this one. We ran the same race in the first maze, this time, the worn down corn making it hard enough to stay on the path that the first 5 people came out the wrong one maze. 4 out the wrong exit, 1 out the wrong entrance. I sent them off in teams to race the next one, but teenagers are less loyal in these situations, and some of them ended up separated, in far corners of the field, going edge to edge without finding their checkpoints, the first group coming back long after the third had done so, the sun leaving much quicker this time.

Now what? Send the kids out to get in the long maze lost themselves? No. Not a good idea. The paths were too fluid. We decided to play Sardines in the big maze. I was the first runner, so I decided to head out to the cross bridge, sit down at the bottom the stairs to one side and wait.

I had the count of 500, so I dove right in the exit, cutting through the corn to get myself hidden as quickly as possible. I knew that after a certain point southwards, I was guaranteed to be in the right maze, so I knew they could find me. But as I made my way along in the dark, through that section I'd thought I was in the previous time, I missed the bridge, and near the south edge of the field, found a crossroads to stand it, and with no idea where I was, really, other than, "south-easterly-ish," waited in the dark to be found.

So now I was lost, but not at all trying to get unlost. Only waiting for someone to find me. Trying not to scare random people as I stood there alone in the dark. The corn dry like over-bleached hair. It was less relaxing to wait, and I wasted the thinking time I had by busying my mind. Keeping it from thinking usefully. On all the subjects but the deep ones. I do that far too often: calm, relaxed, my head not engaged. I don't know why.

I waited for quite a while, walked in a circle, stepping over fallen corn stalks, kernals ground into the earth. Standing, waiting, lost but not wandering. Every now and then, the sounds of distant groups working their way through the maze. And after long enough, I decided to whistle loudly, and the main group of the guys showed up soon after, the one other crashing through the corn from the opposite direction. We waited for a while for the ladies to show up, but they eventually called and said they had quit the search So we made our way out as we could, singing Vader's theme from Empire Strikes Back, piled in the vans, drove past vast orange halogen-lit asphalt and steel industrial complexes, and had ice cream at Dairy Queen on the way home.

By-the-by, the pumpkin pie blizzard is especially good.

Remember 'remember;' it rhymes with 'November.'

2008-11-05T15:31:00.000-06:00

Whew. That's over.

I hope.

For the last month or so, I've felt strangely detached from the hopes and yearnings and fears of a lot of the people around me. According to the news, a lot of the people in the world, that is. Crammed into a binary situation by circumstance, I took a third way and voted for a man whose name I could not even remember as I waited in line for the two and a half hours it took for the election commission to get the right voter registration books to my polling place. Who I wasn't sure I'd vote for until I'd been in that line for an hour. And I voted for that candidate mainly because another man who I respected more than any of the candidates endorsed him. A candidate who, in Jackson County, got less than twice the number of votes as there were write-ins. A candidate whom I literally know nothing about besides his name, his running mate's name, and his party. And I'm fine with that. But I was able to not vote out of fear or hope. And I'm fine with that, too. Happy even.

(I would have voted for Jesus, but I figured he's gonna take office no matter what the vote. But I came close to doing that anyway. Maybe I should have. (Thought I'd address that.))

So, last night felt weird, detached, out of body. I've voted in two presidential elections before this, and I really thought those elections mattered at the time. So, this time, to see election numbers flashing on the screen (annoyingly, and prematurely) and to not really care which way they fell was weird. I felt like a sociopath, not able to feel.

My culture says I'm supposed to care. I'm supposed to think voting is the big deal. Get out and vote. Vote vote vote. Get a coffee. Get a doughnut. Get accolades. Wear a sticker; show your patriotism. If you haven't voted, you can't complain. But voting is just one wee thing in a whole big sphere of possible political action, and while my vote didn't count anyway, I went ahead. It felt right, but I don't know if it was right or wrong. It felt good, a little subversive, but I don't know if it was worth my time. Maybe I would have been better served staying home and sleeping an extra hour and a half, been able to be more present for the youth guys I hung out with on Tuesday night. As it was, I was exhausted.

I kind of wonder if the Baldwin/Castle ticket in Jackson County had 664 votes instead of 665, what it would have changed. Maybe I could have gotten all worked up and plunked my vote into a 90k-drop bucket (either way). And then, as I always do, I wondered if I had changed my one vote, how many people also would also have changed theirs. Would me changing mine been enough to affect the cosmic unconsciousness so that others would have too? I doubt it. Same thing with economics. If I create my own little demand or supply of something, does that even have an effect? I don't know. But again, I doubt it. Is that nihilism or realism?

As far as winning goes, I kind of wanted McCain win in order to to spite the really smarmy pundits on TV, and everyone like the self-important people standing around the line at the election place yesterday, the kind of person who likes standing to the side at events, letting other people see them at the thing, but not willing to stand among the 'unwashed.' The kind of person who took running for 6th grade class president as an opportunity to make things happen. The kind of person who strongly believes in the power of volunteering to serve on boards of organizations. Also, you always get a garishly colored t-shirt, apparently. I kind of wanted Obama to win because I like when people have hope, and like when young black guys have good role models. I kind of wanted McCain to win because I think he's got a better sense of humor than Obama. I kind of wanted Obama to win because I think he would have a more policitally interesting administration. I kind of wanted McCain to win because because because. But in the end I really didn't care for most of the policies of either of the candidates. I kind of liked Mccain's more. But only just. Not enough to cast a vote.

So, I watched the Daily Show/Colbert report, saw how hard it is to be funny with short notice. Saw them call New York with 0% reporting. Saw them call the Obama win, hope in Jon Stewart's eyes, like it all finally meant something. Got ready to sleep, saw a generous and well-spoken concession, saw a triumph, cared less about Oprah, as usual. Went to sleep. Woke up.

And all that's different today is that I feel more like writing. More than I have in a month or so. Maybe longer. Like I've been under a cardboard box for a while, and now someone moved it, I can't figure how I got under there, or why I never left earlier. So, there you go. Maybe there'll be more writing. That's the impact of the election in these parts; it's over.

Now that I've chimed in on these two things, maybe the news can FINALLY talk about something else.

2008-10-08T15:38:00.000-05:00

The question I would have asked at last night's "town hall meeting": "Mr. Obama has said that he 'still believe[s] America is the last, best hope of Earth.' Ms. Palin has recently been quoted in saying in no uncertain terms that Mr. McCain believes, and all Americans should believe, that 'America is the greatest force for good in the world,' and has also said in the VP debate that that America is to be a 'shining city on a hill' for the world. A two-part question, then: First, do you agree or disagree with these statements now? If you disagree, how do you now see America's role in the world; and why the change? If you agree, each of you have made public claims of being Christians, why do you see America, respectively, as either a better hope for the world, or a greater force for good in the world than Jesus?"
I like capitalism, that people can ask other people for money to invest in the capital for their business, and if the business does well, that person gets some of the profit, and if it doesn't, they don't. That lets people start businesses when they otherwise couldn't. Which is good for the community at large. I like free markets for buying and selling things, letting the demand and the supply for a good set the price, and I like there being as little regulation from an outside entity on this process as possible. So, for example, if in your part of the country, there isn't much gas, I think people should be able to set a high price for it, since there's little supply. People will deal, and they'll be fine. Of course, gas is an obvious example that doesn't work that way, because the local supply and the demand are artificially controlled by several non-local outside entities. If everyone in my neighborhood decides to stop buying gas from the Quicktrip on 43rd, and goes to the 7-11 on Linwood, it's very unlikely the price will drop significantly at that Quicktrip. Not more than 10 cents, even. That's because someone up the chain is creating a different kind of demand than I and my neighbors can: a person who is buying and selling futures and options on oil to be delivered, shorting and going long. Same thing with coffee, gold, frozen orange juice conentrate (haha, but it's true), and debt even. In fact, a HUGE part of this whole "crisis" we're in right now is that people bought and sold debt. Which is weird to me. I don't know if I would ban it, but I certainly don't like it. If you make a bad investment, you should have to pay for it, says I. And let's not even get into the ability to buy and sell money itself. But this article does, much better than I could. So you should read that sometime.

All your sanity and wits, they will all vanish. I promise!

2008-10-02T16:35:00.002-05:00

First they took Fortunate Son, and cut out all the "it ain't me"s. Which is asinine, I agree. The exact opposite of what the song originally said. When I first saw that commercial, I laughed out loud.

Now, today, as I was watching Tuesday's Daily Show full episode online, I found another example of the same edited song absurdity. The interspersed commercial was a new ad campaign that uses this song:

to promote a web search engine. So, an angry/silly song about a guy's girlfriend starting to act senile 60 years early, loses all references to losing one's mind, and now is just a silly viral jingle for a search engine I stopped using the minute another search engine stopped providing it more detailed results.

And now a song I liked to sing at random, partially for the absurdity, and partially because I happen to like gypsy punk, has now been co-opted into commercialism and consumerism. I'm not sure if I'm angrier at the company for slaughtering the song, or the band for letting it be slaughtered. At least John Fogerty didn't have any say in his song being used.

I'd say more here, but I don't want my prose to slip into purple.

A proposal. Decide for yourself how modest.

2008-10-01T15:24:00.000-05:00

My friend Julie mentioned to me last night an idea that she came up with for solving the current global financial crisis.

Jubilee.

That's right, follow in the ritual footsteps of ancient Israel and forgive everybody's debt. Maybe just mortgage debt. Maybe all the debt. Either way.

It's probably a really foolish thing to do. But then again, so is basing the strength of your currency entirely on debt.

Trying to be ordinary, trying to be radical.

2008-09-24T16:09:00.000-05:00

As you can see from this picture that I cribbed from the website, Jill and I took some of the middle school guys from church to see the third showing (total!) of the documentary The Ordinary Radicals on Tuesday night. Ben and Jake are also there, just off camera to the left.

The film uses this last summer's Jesus for President book tour as a structure for telling the larger story of the changing face of evangelicalism, frequently manifested politically. How by trying to follow Jesus, and by reading the Bible, what used to be a primarily politically right group of people is moving out of general American conservatism, but not necessarily into general American liberalism, per se, moving into a kind of third political sphere. There's more than the political stuff, but that's the easiest place to see the change. Apparently, I'm part of that shift.

For me, the film was just more encouragement to live more radically, to live more simply, to love people more, to listen to people more, to really live a whole life that tells the story of God. I hope it had the same impact on the youths I brought with me. Since we're also reading The Irresistible Revolution together, I think it might. It also had some really beautiful stories about particular people who God is using to love people. I was inspired; the people in this movie are the kinds of people I want to be.

One of the difficulties in communicating what's going on to people who are still entrenched in general American conservatism is that this new political face finds a lot of common ground of praxis with anarchists and progressives (and hippies), which can very easily look like a shift to the left. Maybe it is, some, but I think that maybe it's just shooting off in a new direction, and in our country anything that's not right looks left, and vice versa.

Zack Exley is interviewed in the film, and Jamie Moffet, the director, had him stand up to help lead the Q&A afterward. Zack said something at the end that I've been trying to think through for quite a while, actually, and finally had something to say about it. He talked about how this film helps him start bridging the gap between secular progressives and the new breed of evangelicals, that both groups have a lot of similar goals. How Creation Care, for example, has a lot of the same goals as typical secular environmental groups.

I think these kinds of partnerships can be good for everyone involved, and I would also hope that this film would also help people bridge the gap between the traditional evangelicals and the new evangelicals. I'm sad, though, because I think that this latter bridge may be a very long conversation with some people, late into the night at the kitchen table, where the traditional evangelicals are like a father hearing his daughter wants to elope with her boyfriend, and he's so angered by the mere mention of the topic, that very little actual communication will take place.

But what I wanted to say at the talkback in response to Zack, but didn't, because it was awfully late for a school night, and we had to leave, is that I don't think the goals of the new evangelicals and the secular progressives are the same. It's the praxis that's similar. Not that that's neccessarily a proble, but that distinction can be confusing for everyone involved. Maybe with the secular progressives, taking care of the poor, and resisting the consumerist empire, and non-violence, taking care of nature, & etc., are the goals. Which is why you see the progressives willing to go to pretty significant lengths to accomplish these things, put aside the US constitution, or flat-out take money from people that have more to give to those with less. For them, since these other things are the goal, nothing should get in the way.

And it's not that Christians should ignore the poor, or believe the narrative of redemptive consumerism and progress, or kill people, or destroy nature in pursuit of progress, but that these aren't the goals. God is the goal. As Zack said on Tuesday, for example, the progressives don't have anything fueling their desire for equality, no underlying reason for it, other than that it seems right. The new evangelicals think everyone is made in the image of God.

And so, as one woman named Rachel was saying at the talkback, there comes a particular tension when trying to live socially just and consumerisictly ethical as a new evangelical. She talked about how much morality was overtaking her thoughts lately, and how we can do all these good works, and without morality, we're still going to be judged by God. I wasn't sure what she meant by morality. What I wanted to say, but again, didn't have time for, was that morality is way more than sex, which is what it sounded like she might have been talking about (and something we've become completely obsessed with on all fronts as Americans/American Christians). But taking care of the poor is a moral issue. Not perpetuating slavery by buying things made by slaves is a moral decision. Loving people who hate you is a moral struggle. All through the prophets, God uses sexual morality imagery to call attention to immoral uses of power and abdication of the responsibility to care for the poor (also, idolatry).

So, when I recycle, it's because I think God's story about him loving creation is true. When I hang out with people who live on the streets, it's becaue I think that God's story about his image being in them is true. When I say I'm against war, it's because I believe God's stories about beating swords into plowshards, and not pulling up the weeds with the wheat, and turning the other cheek. But for me, God's the point, not the thing that I'm doing.

Some pictures of Minsk.

2008-09-18T08:01:00.006-05:00

Some places feel like home, even if you've only been there a short time. Even though I was only there for a couple years, Minsk will always be one of those places for me. I'll try not to over-romanticize it. Not tell you know green it is in the spring. How there is a park where every turn is just flowers and trees so you can get lost there. How the tramvi stops in Yanka Kupala square and you used to be able to walk to the Komarovski Market and there was Pengvin ice cream in kiwi and strawberry and mango.

Anyway, here are some pictures of home I found on English Russia today: http://englishrussia.com/?p=2052

I realize the irony.

2008-09-18T08:01:00.003-05:00

Dear GreedyMortgage-Obsessed AmericanGovernment-FinancialSystem complex,

A failure to plan on your part does not constitute a crisis on mine.

I don't usually do this, but,

2008-09-15T13:40:00.001-05:00

I don't care who you are, that's funny.

Two sides of two different coins: just simply sharing a quote from a friend. (The long way.)

2008-09-11T16:59:00.000-05:00

Last night I went to Dragonfly with Sam and Jeremy M. Sam bought us a pot of green tea that came out perfect on the first try; the best green tea tastes and smells a little peppery and a little sweet, and this was just so.

We talked about the issue of AdBusters I mentioned yesterday, and about politics, and the failure of hipsterism, and played a game of Midgard and a game of Taj Mahal, and the wonderful Dragonfly people gave us each a massive cinnamon roll to take home. So you should go there because they are nice and their baked goods are delicious.

Jeremy said something provocative that was simultaneously the most cynical and the most insightful thing I'd heard all day. And in a given day, I read a lot of insightful and especially a lot of cynical things on the internet, so that's actually saying something.

But the problem is, I'm sure that posting Jeremy's comment here is going to provoke some people, because it relates to a pretty sensitive subject. But then again, it seems like most subjects have gotten pretty touchy lately.

Part of the problem, I think, is that when it comes to significant issues, our country has separated into a false polarity. "Oh!" a person says, "You disagree with me on something relating to issue X? You must disagree with me on issues O-T, as well. You're one of those P believers, eh? Well, I'm not associating with you. You can't be reasoned with."

Exacerbating the problem is that these two sides of the false polarity aren't even talking about the issues on the same plane of discourse.

Take something like environmentalism. One side argues that taking care of the world we live in is really important, and businesses and people shouldn't be able to pollute it since we all live in it. So, if you're disagreeing, you must obviously be for destroying nature for the sake of personal progress. The other side is arguing that the government shouldn't be regulating environmental issues because it's only a power play to get more control over people by feeding their fears. So if you disagree, you must be trying to increase the power and control of an already massive government.

It's all so obvious. How can anyone see anything any way different than I do?

But I think it's obvious that we shouldn't destroyed nature. It's also obvious we shouldn't pander to people for our own political ascendancy. So all those other bastards are obviously evil.

And sometimes they are, I'm sure. Just like me.

(Ok, fine, grammar Nazis: Just like I.)

So, when the issue of (and I hesitate to even mention it) abortion comes up, people get rightfully hacked off. One side's rhetoric is: "Um, that's killing someone, if you're on the other side, you're for killing innocent people for your own benefit or convenience." The other side's rhetoric is: "Um, that's someone's life already. Bringing a new person into their world would be tragic for them, and hell for that new person, too. Also, what if they were forced? If you disagree with me, you must hate people."

And so the arguments shoot off in completely different skew tangents, and those other people over there are demonized, and there's no conversation.

Of course, just like with the environment, where I'm sure there are people who think that destroying nature for progress is just fine, thank you, and I'm sure there are people who think that playing on the fears of people in regards to nature is a great way to increase the power of the government, there are very likely people who don't mind killing off innocent people to decrease the population so life is "better" for them, and there are people who don't care if kids get born to poor people who can't afford to give the kids much of a "good life," because, who cares?

Why can't you think that protecting nature can be done without government control, and that babies should be born and then taken care of by someone else if the parents can't?

Because you're not allowed to do that in our country. Our system forces you to choose. Republican or Democrat. Faith or science. Life or choice. But for all these issues, and so many more, we're mostly talking about two entirely different spheres of conversation here, not two bright and distinct points at the ends of the same line.

So, in order to get to the quote, which is the point of this post, I've got to say that I've got some strong opinions on things like abortion. I think the killing innocent humans argument is more important than the post-birth isn't so hot argument. A lot more important.

But see, right there, you're either nodding your head violently, or shaking it just as violently. What can I do?

I think that we should be taking care of all the people, born or not born. People close to us, and people far away.

And yeah, I'm still not sure how. Whether national organization or personal action is more required. If one of those should be put aside for the other one on important issues. Whether we should set up a system in which right decisions can get made, or just solve the problem with the system, no matter what the necessary process.

So, anyway, here's the provocative quote I wanted to share with you, as close as I can remember it:

"As long as people keep getting elected simply for opposing abortion, it's never going to be illegal."

Ramblings from a lunch time

2008-09-10T14:04:00.001-05:00

When I started working at this job, Jill had her car, and I drove the van. And I liked to drive over the highway, go to Taco Bell for lunch, or wherever, and sit in the parking lot, listen to the radio. I like sports radio more than I like sports. Open the windows and let the air in. Or keep the windows closed, obviously, if it was winter, just let the cold creep in until it was too much, and I had to start the van and drive back, thawing on the way. If I wanted to, I could stop at Half-Price books or Borders, or whatever. One time I even spent the whole hour driving to the game store to buy a gift for a friend. Even at an easy job where you can do what you want most of the day, the ability to hop in the car and just go feels like real freedom. It's sort of how I've been conditioned. No car? No freedom. Not in a town like this, where the good buses come twice an hour.

But now that I'm riding with Adam to work, it's rare that I get a chance to just go. Most days I either stay at my computer or take the ten+ minute walk to Hy-Vee. We're down to one income with Jill being a stay-at-home-Jill these days, and when I eat out for lunch, I've given myself a budget of the price of a $2 can of soup, since that's likely what I'd get if we went grocery shopping. At Hy-vee, I can buy a really nice roll and a fifth of a pound of rare roast beef for about a buck fifty, and with some mustard that's a right fine lunch. And seeing how I'd like to lose weight, I'm fine with not having expensive options like the only slightly further Sonic.

Sometimes I spend my two bucks on drugs. A 64 oz fountain drink is a dollar nineteen. Of course, making my own sandwiches would be even cheaper. But that means keeping ingredients fresh and available, which we're not so good at. Seems like we're always either scrounging for last scraps, or throwing out food because it's gone bad from sitting around for too long.

But Adam got back from Portland yesterday, so I drove myself to work. Which meant I had options. You can eat good at Taco Bell or McDonalds for two bucks, nice and fattening, but I wasn't even in the mood to spend that, so I ate a $1.29 carrot cake Clif Bar, and given my freedom, headed to Borders with $12.87 in two-year-old gift cards.

I have said it before, and you will likely hear me say it again, but bookstores are dangerous places. It's a bit like a porn addict flipping through the underwear ads in the Sunday paper. You're still skirting the edge of realm of safety, but you've got an outside chance of going off the deep end. I'm just finishing reading Colossians Remixed again, having read Christ the Lord: Out of Egypt and Watchmen in between, while I'm still in the middle of A Failure of Nerve, and further back, Exclusion and Embrace, so it's not like there's a real strong temptation to empty the bank on books I don't need, but it still felt a little dangerous walking through the double doors with the name of the store engraved in the wooden handles. In the end, it's not owning books, that's dangerous. Not really. It's the potential of books. It's the hidden story, the one you discover, and no one else knows. It's getting lost in them.

Right at the front of the store there's a display of political books, and one of them is a thin biography of Sarah Palin with quotes on the front about her VP nomination. That's really fast. I wonder if it was fast-tracked or re-released. It had a 2008 copyright. I know there are people out there who write insta-non-fiction. Propose a book on current hot topic, write it in a week, sell it, propose another. But this one seemed thoroughly researched. So that's a mystery.

I headed over to the discount fiction. If I needed a copy of all three Lord of the Rings books, I could have had that for $8.97, but I'm already there, more than once, and there wasn't anything else I was interested in. And I didn't feel like a coffee table book, or a book on how to do tai chi, or a miniature zen garden, or any of the cookbooks, so I moved on to the graphic novels, looking for 1602, even though I know it was a cool $19.95.

But it wasn't even in stock for me to be able to check the sticker. I stood there and read Incredible Hulk: The End: the Last Titan. Thematically, it compares the Marvel superheros to the titans of Greek mythology. Hulk is created by the atomic age, and he is the first of the new 'titans.' This story is set in the distant future, the world destroyed, Hulk/Banner and huge cockroaches are the only living things left, and Hulk is the new Prometheus, now the last titan, left to be eaten again and again by the cockroaches, never able to die, even though Banner is trying to end their lonely lives. It's these kinds of modern takes on classically tragic stories are the reasons I like the comics and graphic novels I like (Watchmen and Sandman for example), and this Hulk story makes the link between old stories and new stories even more clear.

As I left the comics section, I got that rich, heavy feeling I get sometimes in book stores and almost always in libraries, walking through stacked rows of books, back cover to front cover packed in shelves, the feeling of so many words and ideas brimming in such a small space, the weight of possibility, the stretch of all that time: reading a book is days, unless it's tiny, and then it's at least hours. And just within my reach are a hundred books, thousands in view. And how long was a single book to write, even? A season of work, solstice to solstice? A year, maybe? And all that time is packed down and overflowing there in the bookstore. Moreso in the library, books upon books, some untouches for decades. That's gravitas, man. That vibe stuck with me for a good hour after I left.

I looked at some other stuff. There are a couple of Get Fuzzy books newer than we have in the Get Fuzzy bathroom. I almost got one, but I wanted both. so I didn't get any. I realize that thinking is bad economics, but that's how it was. In the end, I decided to get the latest issue of AdBusters, an advertisementless magazine that I cannot usually afford since it has to rely on sales for revenue, but gift cards are gift cards, and I pulled $8.95 off the card with the picture of the wrapped Christmas gift on it, even though I meant to use the one with The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe on it first, since it's only got 28 cents left. Almost without thinking, deliberate like in a Wes Anderson movie, I took the magazine off the counter, receipt tucked inside, in my hand so as I was carrying it face up, right side up. Words and time demand my respect, apparently.

This theme issue of Adbusters is the decline of the West and the rise of the East, which is manifesting in the US and China, primarily, it says. And the issue is a double issue, if you start and read it normally for us, left to right, you get the part about the west, and if you read from the end, right column to left column, it's about the east, and the stories meet in the middle, ask you to see the other perspective by jumping to the end and starting over. I'm not done reading it yet, and I'm not convinced the rise and fall business is definitely going to happen; I'm no oracle. But there was a particularly interesting quote at the end of an article on the east side by a guy named Martin Jacques: "America is utterly unprepared for a world in which it is no longer the dominant power: it has barely given any though to the question, not even in its nightmares."

And I'd have to agree, even if I'm not utterly convinced if the west is really in decline or if that's just speculation. It's like we think we're always going to epic-ly rule, and are planning accordingly. But what if the Fed can't keep messing with interest rates? What if the bottom did fall out of the dollar? What if China called in all that debt? I'm not worried about it, and I wonder if on a macro scale preparing for economic disaster brings it (or vice versa), but I also think that occasionally contemplating our west declining isn't a bad thing either. Maybe we'd be more humble.

So I drove back and sat at my desk, nestled in my cube, and helped the people who pushed it to bubble, try to help the housing market turn back again. And read my magazine. And wrote most of this.

I realize not doing it with a Polaroid camera strips it of some of the poignancy.

2008-08-23T14:32:00.000-05:00

But a laptop webcam with a single take is as close as I can get. So I'm joining in:

Before I die, I want to do something
really, really well.

From a thread.

2008-08-21T21:34:00.001-05:00

Last week I stayed up late, watched gymnasts and beach volleyballists and badmintoners getting their job done, son. Beat the metal of your life into a pleasing shape, and if it's your day, you get a medal. Not your day? Then you aren't even shown on the camera, and so you're as alive to the world as I am here in my office chair. Dive in the water, decisecond here, you're a millionaire, decasecond there, you're a nobody from a nobody country, and the world waves its red or white and blue and you wave no banner at all. Well, unless you're American. Two teams drop two batons in two relays and I see more about them than the teams who advanced.

I watched that swimmer guy win some medals last week. That was impressive.

I almost didn't start watching, though. I hadn't really planned on it. I figured China'd be China, and I didn't want to participate in that, even from afar. And after watching, it was like I figured, China's China after all, and all the blind faith of the IOC in itself to make the world a better place by its mere presence hasn't done a darn thing to help. As of this afternoon, there are still six American protesters flat out missing. Another 12 hours or so, and the embassy can start looking. Until then their hands are tied. That doesn't count the 12 bloggers arrested for protesting. China didn't clean their air (can you even do that?), and they didn't open the internet, and it's all a big show so a red party can prove to a big ol' sixth of the world it's still worthy of ruling them. All like we expected. So knowing that kind of thing was coming from China was almost enough in and of itself to keep me uninterested.

I was also considering not watching due to not knowing how I would feel about the dominance of the American empire's Olympic juggernaut. The richest, most powerful country in the world wins athletic events, so it's no big story, right? Empire being empire. But the U.S. Olympic Committee is a not-for-profit, not a government entity, and all those athletes give so much of their own (and parents') lives and time and money (before sponsorship (sometimes it doesn't even come)) to becoming the best at what they do. So, yeah, we're all emperor here, we're all the shadow government. You buy phone service and the phone company donates some of your money to the people who go to the Olympics so they can do well so you'll watch and they can advertise phone service at you. So even though I'm also not interested in participating in the propaganda my own empire, even from afar, I still find myself drawn on by the culture around me. Kind of like how when you're a kid you think that smart and cultured people are supposed to like the evening news, supposed to be informed, but then you learn the evening news is not really for informing. Aren't I supposed to want to watch the Olympics.? Make it an us up there winning, not a them? Do my part to support the economy, er, I mean, the team?

Also, and I may be alone on this, but who cares if someone's the best in the world at something? What does that prove? What's the good? In the "kingdom of God" there's neither Olympian nor official nor spectator, neither Chinese nor American, neither sweat shop worker nor consumer; we're all one in Christ, right?

So I'd decided I might not participate at all. I would have a private little boycott. Maybe I'd even end up avoiding self-righteousness. Ha, fat chance.

Ended up, we were at Jill's cousins' house watching the opening day events, and the kids were getting all kinds of over-excited about winning. Chastising the players for not playing as well as they needed to. "Blood makes the grass grow, kill kill kill" trickles down. "Home of the Chiefs" trickles, so does "we love you Chelsea." But who am I to deny the hospitality, deny a shared experience, so I did participate then, and I got hooked and I still am participating. As I'm editing this, the women's platform diving is pre-empting the men's beach volleyball final that we'll see an over-edited version of as soon as the network says it's okay, boys and girls. [Later edit. Never mind. It's live, after all. My schedule was wrong. Whoops] But the reason I kept watching the Olympics is the same reason that I watch that one golfer some Sundays lying half-awake on the couch: I like seeing people do really well at things. Sometimes I feel like I and the world are such good buddies in failure, it's so reassuring to see someone excel at anything, even if it's just hitting a thing into a thing from a ways off so people will pay you to say their motorcars are for fancy people. Or swimming faster than everybody else in the world six times in a row and that gets your mom her own clothing line, and you a million dollar bonus. Or sometimes it's just one person proving they're better than someone else at something, even if, in the grand scheme, that doesn't mean anything. Right then, that person was good. Right then, the world wasn't so broken that a person couldn't do well at a thing.

Or maybe I just like being entertained.

Or wanted an excuse to stay up late, push myself to limits of exhaustion.

So I chased those late Olympic nights last week with morning caffeine, stretched myself out on a rack between the two, like Bilbo and butter and bread, getting more and more tired, watched one event while another played on the laptop, no commentary, just the soothing seashore of a crowd, and gulls of the stadium announcers. Got snippy at work. Cheered for the eastern European outside lanes in swimming. Cheered for people to do well, no matter what country. Skipped naps for sports I didn't care about. Cheered for people at all, when it came down to it. Good job, under-age Chinese girl, you did it even though they made you lie. You still did the best, did your best. Good job Japanese guy flying off the rings. You'll be fine even without a medal on your neck. Good job guy whose elbow went backwards weightlifting. Good job specific height-range, specific eye-width to face-height ratio medal ceremony attendants. Good job over-thirty crowd. Good job opening ceremony propagandists. Good job Morgan Freeman voice-over hiring director. Good job Georgian athletes, way to overcome what's being done to your country. Way to go Russian athletes, way to overcome what's being done by your country.

But it wore me out, and the only thing I did creatively all week was take a couple pictures (some shown in this post) on break on Tuesday. So, that's where I've been, if you've been wondering. (Also, I've got a potential new job thing on the horizon, pushed back again to the horizon, and I was thinking about that an awful lot.)

So I was glad to take the day off on Friday in preparation for going on pilgrimage over the weekend. Slept in. Took it slow. Did watch some Olympics, if ya believe it.

Every year our church takes a weekend to travel to a camp an hour away from home and eat, play, and pray together for a couple days. Prayer three times a day, food three times a day, swimming, camping, talking. Do nothing or do everything.

Saturday night, most of us spent a couple hours grouped in 20s on a symbolic pilgrimage out through the woods, stopping to reminisce about the Hebrew exodus a couple times, then through a 1/3 scale model of the tabernacle, talking about how Yahweh's right here among us, a god who pitched his tent among the people, and what that might mean for us. We talked about that for a while in our group, and how a bunch of us are more in love with comfort than most things, even a god we're trying to follow. And I watched the other groups come down the path and through the tent like a nation on the move, and then we sang some songs like we Christians like to do sometimes, and then headed back to build a fire so Sam's last year rained-out s'mores plan could come to fruition.

I ran inside real quick to go to the bathroom before we went to make the fire, and on the big screen in the dining room there was a crowd gathered watching a swimming relay race. I watched it. It was impressive, like all the others. Some of the people cheered when the U.S. won. Some of the people clapped. I saw a man earn an eighth gold medal, get turned into something more than a man in mythological imaginations, still be just a man. I ask why he is the god or the dolphin, the one going home to Sea World? Why not the Japanese breast stroke guy, or the back stroke guy, or the guy who whose name I don't know who swam under a world record time but slower than three other guys who did the same? They're still above and beyond my ability, your ability, all but one other guy's ability. Gotta be the best, or you aren't a god. Or you aren't anything, apparently.

I read an article the other day by this lady who used to be a gymnast, and she is now an office drone, and she's tired of people saying that they could have been an Olympian, could have been that swimmer, that wrestler, that fencer, if only they'd stuck with it back when they were younger, could have flipped above the beam, flipped just so -- so there's no splash, jumped a horse over parallel metal bars. And while I agree that no matter how hard you try, there are some things you won't do, some medals you won't win, not everyone could win, I also think that anyone could have won. Anyone could have been that guy. Who picked field hockey? Not good enough for soccer? Of course, some people could never be there, no matter how they trained. But it could have been anyone. Didn't the Chinese replace most of the men's gymnastics just before the games? Maybe they were good enough for gold, too. My friend Galia swam for the junior national Belarusian team. Maybe she'd be famous, I wouldn't have a friend Galia if she hadn't quit. Maybe that pole vaulter is a friend of Jill's, save a choice she made when she was ten. Maybe Jill's on that uneven bar eight years ago if her parents pushed her to be the best, rather than the Jill. Maybe none of that, maybe all of it.

Things could have been different. Some guy's dad sticks with his mom, and he never gets into after-school swimming in Baltimore, and someone else gets to be America's Apollo this year. Like in those speculative commercials where the famous pitcher is instead a famous bowler. Maybe the swimmer would be the ninth best fencer, or the fifth best biathelete (it was the shooting that will keep him home from Vancouver in two years), and we'd never know him. Or maybe he'd be some frat guy at a college, gonna be the next big thing at the law firms in New York. He'd be just as unalive to the world at large as we are. Just as unsponsered, unaccoladed, unmedaled, just as much an everyday emperor as the next guy, buying phone service. Just a cog, just a bolt in a row of bolts on top of an air conditioner behind some power boxes in an industrial park. Or maybe, he's supposed to swim, that's who he is, he's made to swim, that's how he makes the world more beautiful. Maybe he would have been there no matter what.

I'm not trying to discount the work, the mornings, the sacrifice. Those are beautiful things. Maybe more beautiful performances than the ones on the big stage. But, for what? What's the big story those small ones tell? Is it so I can say my empire's just as strong as the red one? So I can have comradery with my fellow US-ians. Because it's good for the economy? To foster peace around the world. Aren't these the reasons use to we go to war? Is this the bloodless war?

My dad is bigger than your fatherland.

I met a foul-mouthed guy named Jeremiah at lunch today who caught a ride to Olathe last night to "visit his homegirl." She's going to buy her grandmother's car, but hasn't yet, so he was trying to hop a bus downtown to get home to 42nd and Rainbow. He said that a cop stopped him as he was walking to HyVee from 125th and Ridgeview because he had an axeman tattoo that indicated he was into the Insane Clown Posse, and Olathe's having a Juggalo problem. You read that right. The cop said Olathe's having a Juggalo problem. A. Juggalo. Problem. Jeremiah said he got his tattoo in fifth grade, back when he was doing whatever he wanted, before he knew better. The cop asked his birthdate. Sometime in early 89, he said. So he's not truant or anything. Cop searched him for drugs and alcohol based on the probable cause of a "gang-related" tattoo. I helped Jeremiah find where the Olathe Connector stops, so he could get to the "great" mall, and then get on the C bus four hours later to get home. I shook his hand and wished him luck, prayed for him a little on the inside.

I wonder if Jeremiah could have been an Olympian, if he wasn't the next Adonis, but he grew up in KCK, never learned a sport he loves. Probably not, I guess. That's a specially gifted human who gets there, after all. But I do know that I care more about this guy whose life story I haven't seen in stock footage and popular music and twirling black background camera shots, and who I'll never see again (let alone for shore in four years) than I do about people who worked really hard their whole lives to win a shiny disc on the end of a wide ribbon, a shiny disc that's for their country, as much (or more than) it's for themselves. I hope he made it home.

Disclaimer: I listened to my second through umpteenth Bright Eyes songs while writing this today.

Cracked time parentheticals

2008-08-06T16:57:00.002-05:00

But somehow (

The wall clock we bought with our wedding money at Target, the old-timey one that had the cracked face from when we moved, that is now missing a fat shard from laying on its face the last time I took it down for the batteries and (by not saying what for, I have) (and not one of the three white-plastic-thick-around-the-face clocks we got at the wedding (which we thought might have been part of an elaborate joke, given who the three people were who gave them to us (including Jordan, to whom (and Ellie) we gave white towels and a sappy card as a subtle joke at their wedding( but maybe too subtle (since they didn't get the joke))) but we later came to believe we must have registered for them, and then returned two of them, and one lives behind the blinds in the window over the sink by the canned air ("Danger: Do not open." it says.) Paris)) there's a ring (why, I don't know (or how)) on the wall where it's since we moved here. So I find myself in the absurd position of glancing at a faint circle and a nail when I want the time.

Therefore, I have no idea what time it is when I'm first writing this with one of the Bic ballpoint pens Jill bought when we ran out of pens (instead of the gel ink pens I thought she'd would buy (that's married people communication for ya)(I like the gel ones better)) on a sheet of printer paper which on the package is labeled "copy machine paper" (but when you get it for free (or, let's be honest, even when you pay for it) can you tell the difference?) using the back of a large black dictionary (not the magic dictionary, which is brown, and my friend Dan used to use for divination ("What should I do with my life" Opens it, points to an entry: "go away" in the phrase section) back in the days when our Ten Percent Society (the society we founded because we still believed in chivalry and muses) had names and faces) as a writing surface here on the arm of the couch.

I can't tell if I'm writing in it (I suspect not), but I can hear Stephen King's voice in my head. And although to most people this means something entirely different, to me it is a lucid voice, unafraid to say things that, although quite terribly true, need to be said. I have just finished reading the last 2/5 or so of Lisey's Story, up from a cool skin, soft sheets bed where I laid for an itself indeterminable amount of time, eyes happyclosed, but not sleeping (even though yesterday was spread thin like finals week and I nearly dozed several times at work, and oh yes, my excellent good friends, I went to bed early).

I suspect it is the caffeine, although my last hit was in that sweet spot, 2-3 in the afternoon, when your circadian rythyms are least affected. As I said, I'm using again, 90 mg at a time, 2-3 times a day. I once read that 100 mg in a setting is what it takes to get you high, and according to a study I read that's also the level at which chemical dependence starts. And 30 mg is enough for mood changes. But I've talked plenty about caffeine before. Moving on.

(I've reached the point in my job where I don't care enough some days to get enough sleep the night before. So I'm tired enough that I, as Dan puts it, give people "the sass." Which means that I, as I put it, am needlessly short with people and spontaneously annoyed with minor setbacks in people listening to me and following directions. Also, people being at all non-self-sufficient. In other words, combine not caring enough to go to bed early with not caring about the job, and I get rude. Dan says it's surreal to hear me being that way with people. And I agree. So, many days, it's the caffeine that keeps me civil.

Jill asks how my day went and I can only talk about what I am doing besides my job. Partially because there are only so many days you can complain about willfully ignorant rich people ("OK, double-click on that." "Double left click?"), and partially because I'm not at all proud of being unable to be kind to them ("That's the way it's usually done." "Well I'm not very computer savvy, so you'll have to be patient with me." (Is there any time in navigating a web page one must double-right-click? In Windows even? I'm only being so specific because you've needed such excessive hand holding thus far.)).

So I don't know if I should stick it out and learn to be the proverbial best ditch digger I can be, or jump ship so old ladies dipping their toes in the eastern seaboard real estate market can get technical support from someone else, someone under or over the fabled 18 month lifespan hump of a technical support I'm running up against, and not getting over.)

I read the that last 2/5 of Lisey's Story (which, as you might expect) tells its story in nested flashbacks), partially becuase the story was calling me from bed (along with Fantastic Contraption (which I played all day (you know how videos games are at the end of a day of playing them))), and also partially because although I could not sleep (tired though I was) my eyes did not feel like the light of a computer monitor (my oftentimes activity when this late night unsleeping happens (always in seasons when I'm on caffeine, ('strue)). I was afraid to bother Jill, but I turned on the lights, anyway, expecting her to complain if they did, corner floor, pillar table, curled up on the couch and got on with my better addiction. Not until I'd finished it, and the paragraph before the paragraph before this one, did my eyes feel like getting back to bed. So I did (after taking some pictures for the blog (not my favorite set I've taken)).

) I'm quite awake and doing well today at work, though, thanks. (I've even been nice.)

I got the thiiing.

2008-08-01T16:15:00.001-05:00

Every week, as part of my workplace's continuing effort to improve our morale so as to encourage us forget the fact that our poor business model (no plans for the market ever turning down even a little, apparently) resulted in none of our workers getting our annual and expected merit-based raises this year, (that's right, folks, it's Spirit Month!) they sent around a movie trivia quiz, via email, the winner winning some delightful and sparkly and distracting from lower pay trinket. (Technically, a gift card to Target, which I do not need, nor do I really, deep down, want, given that it would only further drive my unwanted desire for STUFF and THINGS.) But I love quizzes, so I busted out IMDB and answered all the questions correctly. I was the first person to get my results in. I even went so far as to double-check my answers, if you can believe it. I know, I know.

Well, most of my answers and mostly correctly. When it came down to clicking send, or checking every single one, I decided not to check the first question, since I thought it was right: What was the other X-rated picture to be nominated for best picture besides Midnight Cowboy? The answer is, of course, A Clockwork Orange. I, however, answered Last Tango in Paris, which was nominated for best director, which is close, but not close enough, also not that great a film, in my opinion. Depressing, artistic, and bland. Not a best picture. I should have known.

So I didn't win the trinket. Which is how I figured it would turn out when I clicked send. See, when I take a test, I fully and completely expect to getat least one of the answers wrong becaue I thought I knew, and didn't check. No matter how well I know the subject matter. I'm surprised when I get them all right even when I'm the one who made the test. It's kind of an anticlimax if I do get them all right, too; all that work, and then, well, boring success.

The same happens when I create a puzzle; I expect to have to go back and fix it at some point. In third grade, we were assigned to make assignments for the rest of the class for our spelling words. I made a word search that was really complicated: some were backwards and up to the left, even. But, I misspelled about half of them, and people kept getting confused. So, things that I said were in it, weren't. And then, some of you got to see what happened when I made that puzzle for the blog. Had to redo it, like, three times. So, I figure, when I do a thing that requires precision, I'm gonna mess something up along the way. I'm much more of a creative person than an ontarget person. No excuses, fie on it, even, but it is so.

So, when this week's history quiz came along in my email yesterday, I decided to go all out, answer all the questions really thoroughly, researched on Wikipedia, the whole bit. Elaborated on Napoleon and Hitler's downfall in attacking Russia during the spring. Named 10 of the modern countries that exist within the boundaries of the Holy Roman Empire, instead of just 5. Double-checked the ones I thought I knew. Mentioned the last unsuccessful invasion of Britain in a question about the last successful one. So, then, I made it creative and precise. Best of both worlds. But when the results came back, I wasn't even in the top 2. Thought I'd done so well, too.

Today, the guy who made the quiz came by and told me I did a good job, and I asked him what I missed. I thought it might have been that I put "The Orient" instead of "The East Indies" in a question about ol' Chris Columbus, but he said that was fine. Turns out I'd only lost half a point: I left off the "when" part of the question about which two presidents died on the same day, and when. Same old, same old. Missing minor details and hitting the big picture. 'Swhy I'd make a lousy engineer. On my ACTs, I hit the 97th or higher percentile on every category except pre-algebra. Aced the college level reading, bombed jr. high math. It's my life.

But then the guy who made the quiz said he had come by, not to let me know what I'd gotten wrong, but what I'd gotten right, to let me know that I was correct: Tanzania had never declared independence, that it is a merger of two other countries that had declared independence previously, and so there is no true date of independence for Tanzania. Then, he gave me a very nice consolation prize, a leather keychain with a carrying bag(!(?)), which I won't need for the keychain which I will now use, that I may end up using for holding dice or for my sunglasses, which I am tired of losing.

So, to celebrate creatvity trimphing over lack of precision, I turned on my under-shelf florescent lamp, tore July off my desk calendar for a backdrop, and I took a picture. That I posted on my blog. And then wrote a blog post about. Which you are reading. Er, have been reading. Good day.

Oh, and for those who care, here's a link to the rest of the good pictures I took yesterday at lunch: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=62312&l=2a2e3&id=529650350

Tidbits for Thursday

2008-07-31T16:53:00.000-05:00

Tid. I took a walk today at lunch for the express purpose of taking some pictures and posting them on my blog along with whatever I ended up writing. This is because, at the going-away party on Friday, people like Juliet and Jen said they wanted more pictures and fewer words. Sometimes, there are a lot of words here.

It was not quite hot, and a little cloudy. I took a turkey sandwich from the company provided lunch. I walked through the parking lot and over to some land that the company across the access road owns. I took some pictures of a culvert, and some orange and blue building materials. There was a white flower the side of a hill overlooking a wetlands and a parking lot. I took some pictures of it, but they came out washed because the flower was white. I took a picture of an even smaller flower, maybe half and inch in diameter, and I got the bonus bug in the frame you can see there. I tried cropping it, but it didn't look right, so I ended up posting it just the way it showed up on my camera.

Bit. I'm rereading Colossians Remixed for the first time since the first time. I find myself taking more of it as a matter of course, rather than bold and personally challenging statements. Same as the second time I read Velvet Elvis, only it's a more radical book than that. In chapter 2, they have a section where they do a targum (a translation/interpretation/recontextualization) of the introduction to the book of Colossians. It is all wongerfully written and piercing. One of the bits that stuck out to me the most this time through is this:

"But here's the rub. Everything in this monolithic culture of McWorld globalization is allied against you and will try to keep your imagination captive, stripping you of the courage to dream of alternative ways to live. When a culture is threatened, it becomes especially repressive of those who dare to live differently, subject to another vision of life, especially repressive of those who dare to live differently, subject to another vision of life, another Lord. So may you be strengthened with all strength and empowered with the weighty power of God in this disempowered culture of unbearable lightness. May your vision, your stubborn refusal to allw your imaginations ot be taken captive, have the tenacity to hand in there for the long haul and a patience that doesn't need to aggressively realize the kingdom of God now, because your faith will work and wait for a miracle, for the coming of God's shalom to our terribly broken world."

Since I've read this book, I've felt allied against and have not been stubbornlly-enough refusing to keep my imagination from being taken captive. I feel that tide changing back. At least, I hope that's what I'm feeling.

Tid II.
I saw a monster at lunch.

Bit II.
I have a very easy job . . .

so sometimes it's hard to be motivated, knowing what's coming.

Tidbit.
Some days, when I go to the supermarket, I find all the lazyleft shopping carts and put them in the corral. Some days when I meet someone, I remember their name forever. Some days I never want to own another thing. Today, on my walk, I saw some trash, but it didn't cross my mind to pick it up.

I normally don't do this, but . . .

2008-07-30T16:05:00.000-05:00

I know a lot of people who read this blog love people in Belarus. Here's a link to a photo essay on Belarus from Boston.com: http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2008/07/daily_life_in_belarus.html

Last day of the weak.

2008-07-28T22:16:00.001-05:00

Summer is just ripened, I realized Friday, riding home after work with Adam. The evenings are so full of dusty light and the trees are plump with summer's own green. You'll linger over a ripe pear, no longer crisp like an apple, or a peach you were willing to wait for, letting it turn, and no matter how hard you try you can't suck the pit clean. But the brownyellow summers, the green strawberries, the summers that come in floods or ticks, the summers of florescent lights and tinted windows, they wane in memory, a tart reminder only useful for contrast. Summer will get soft soon, the night will sneak earlier, and the heat will swell until summer starts ripping along the seams, and autumn will slip in, summer ripe, too-ripe, gone.

Friday night was my high school's 10th reunion's pre-party at Johnny's Tavern in Olathe, as Austin reminded me as we rolled 10 miles an hour down the long gravel driveway, the center line grown over but trimmed, to the Perdaris estate, out across from Heritage Park. As much as I wanted to go to the pre-party, knowing how many people likely didn't want to shell out the $55 to go to the big to-do the next night, so I could only see them Fridat, I felt like the going-away party for our friends Vika and Jonathon was more important. Same reason I was late for church Sunday night: sometimes friends are more important than events. Well, always.

We were coming, via Adam's bus stop (some stairs to nowhere on Pennsylvania), from a party at Jill's work, their 20th anniversary. The place was crowded with men wearing shirts open to the second lack-of-button and women in cocktail dresses and heels. They had catered with stuffed mushrooms, and lemon shrimp and scallops on skewers, and spirals of chicken on unsharpened toothpicks, and zucchini and onion pancakes, and spicy popcorn, and two kinds of fruit/nut/olive medleys, and veggies with onion dip and pecan butter dip, and seafood salad on blini. Yeah, blini. Someone ordered Minsky's for the kids, and I heard someone else got the job of cutting it up into hors dourves size pieces because at fancy parties, full slices of pizza aren't chic, or something. But Minsky's is good no matter the size of the slice.

People stood around half-eating, drinking the free booze and making their small talk, which I failed at. I was tired, and when I'm tired, I can't get up for meaninglessness. Except it's not meaninglessness, really. People are trying to connect, trying to have a good time, trying to escape something to know someone to be somebody. But in my fog, I couldn't remember to try to make it happen. I kept meeting people, kept forgetting names, kept eating the food. What do you do at a party like that? I've never known. Now if only I could break my way into all meaningful conversations I want to have, but can't find a way.

Even though it was stifling outside, they had a jazz band playing, and the smokers stood around in the shade over by a side door, begging for scraps of air conditioning. We stood out with them for a while, Jill's work friends among them, and the talk was just as small as it was inside. But Jill had already said something to me, reminded me to be present, so I tried to perk it up, get with the program. I'd say I mildly succeeded, made a couple jokes, offered unheard help to a friend of Jill's who said she was allergic to the unlabeled pecan butter, and needed to go to the hospital, her EpiPen was in her blocks-away car, but then she stood around like nothing was wrong, and I didn't bring it up again because she didn't. Like a nodding-off driver, all it took me to engage was a reminder I wasn't engaging. Even so, I was tired, and on the way to get Adam, I filled up on the 44 0z diet Mountain Dew from Quik Trip, because that is a wagon I am very much back on, much to my, and surprisingly few others', chagrin.

Later on, at the going-away party, we sat around talking in lawn chairs, the bugs whirling around the lamp post, bocce and badminton lost to the waning light, all of us drenched Jen's home-mixed all-natural bug spray and sweat, talking. Iron Chef, and family business causing family heartache, and babies.

We'd stayed at the Perdaris house for a few months on our way back from the Belarus all-summer in 2004. Summers there are like a six-moth spring, cool rain and always budding. The Perdarises were good friends, and they let us store stuff in their barn while we were gone, and it was almost natural for them to let us come stay. Jill and I spent half the year living out of suitcases in different one rooms. The transition from the missions trip lasted longer than the trip itself. I came back all fired up, ready to live like a missionary back in my home culture, and I failed at that, too. Looking for a job always makes me feel inadequate and I let myself get lost in a selfish fog, like being tired, but months long, and you can't take a hit of caffeine for temporary relief. There I was, eating other people's lunches out of the refrigerator, buying Jill super-crappy birthday presents, ignoring promised household chores, playing video games and lounging like a teenager on summer break. Jen sat me down one night, slapped me out of it like real family, kind and direct, instead of booting me out the door like she could have. And I'd like to hope I shaped up lickity, but I can't remember much more of our stay after her kick in the pants of true friendship, and that I tried a whole heck of a lot harder once I knew to try. But I should of known. I still use that event as a touchstone; am I being that guy right now? So, thanks, Jen, for that, and everything else. Thanks thanks thanks thanks thanks.

When we moved out of their house, we moved away, and Jill and I were working through things, and then Jill got busy with school, and I taught high school, and we've rarely hung out with them, and I hate that. Seems like I hardly have time for old friends. It's like each time I take a step, I'm leaving droves of friends behind, Moscow, Minsk, Olathe North, Emporia, Olathe Bible. But sitting around, drinking bottled water as Vika shot people with the water gun, and Juliet got her back with ice water from the cooler, and the night was warm and waning, it felt a little bit like old times, friends in early summer, before it's gone full.

Road Show. An Epic Review.

2008-07-22T15:53:00.000-05:00

Kept trying this in prose. Started last Tuesday. Kept failing. Hope this is better. But tha's why it took so long. Sorry.

postlude
Tuesday night she said
how long the weekend felt,
how luxurious
even with the busyness.
I agreed.

I. back
We left Wichita nine Monday evening,
following Stafford's deep rung bell
through rolling flint hills, a picture of Ireland,
green and elusive.
Sunset faded. We talked of art and Jill's future,
intersection without pretension?
What is an art? What is a future?
And before we expected,
we dropped down towards lights of Emporia,
oasis of vaporized sodium and halogen
nestled in the pre-horizon dark.
Vocal trance filled the best kind of silence:
the comfort of a warm lap laptop,
home without bustle, love without words.
And the whole drive steamed on lickity:
pee stop in Beto, shoes back on, smooth without socks,
up over Ottawa causeway,
where Jill's been home, but it's not home anymore.
As the sky grew bright with metropolis,
we corner-to-cornered through Johnson County,
a good 30 miles, I'd guess, but slowed by construction,
dark fields to dull concrete.
We cut the corner of Wyandotte,
nestled ourselves back home
just inside the Missouri border
just before midnight.

II. there.
We were in Wichita because Sam lost a kidney,
Tuesday morning, early, like losing his soul,
(how else can you find it?)
to his aunt, who needed one.
So we drove down noon Monday,
sat in his aunt's living room,
a whole wall with no pictures,
the blanket and pillow and bottle clutter of illness,
talking small-ly of dinner,
(Pizza or salad? Out or in?)
the pallid hunger of her dying kidneys
muffling the conversation.
What's on TV?

III. elsewhere
But before we could sup, we went to Brianna,
director of evangelism at a church
long as a city block,
winding non-Euclidean hallways,
four-story abstract stained glass in the shell-shaped sanctuary,
an institution among churches.
A building more than people.
The hospital decor welcome center
makes the membership, aging (long dead?),
feel right so at home.

As far I can tell, "Director of Evangelism" means
"Beat Ye Up On This Person,
All of Waning Faith"
or maybe "She's Just a Girl,
What Can She Do?"
It's been the the jobs of six people, at least:
Sunday School teacher,
middle-aged singles ministry director,
young adult ministry co-chair,
heck, girl, set up chairs for the men,
cook their meals
like a good girl ought,
a list long like a scroll,
bitter but not sweet.
I ask myself, does that hinder her real job,
as a lover of people?
And my answer feels obvious.

She preaches on Saturday, but.
Fancy Sunday, she's on camera singing,
"seen, but not heard
unless it's her place,
our place for her."
One wall of her private office,
name and title on the door,
is rows of someone's counseling pamphlets,
the shelves are stacked with
general church storage,
sheaves of dead trees stacked in tree boxes.

Sunday night, at the Church Basement Roadshow, a rolling revival,
a man said 70% of the people in the American church are traditionalists,
that they would cuddle continuously with the status quo,
if only if it were propriatous to cuddle these days
what would people think?
But there with Brianna,
the number's more ninety,
so, I guess I'm complaining here,
on her behalf.
Justice,
revival,
repentance,
all words for the same thing.
Why can't it come?

IV. before.
The Church Basement Roadshow rolled through our city,
and just off our driveway, 1909 in a 2008 coach.
Old-timey beards and hats and video screens.
We sat on the steps, ate bread and cheese and tomatoes,
cracked coconuts with a hammer,
scraped them with knives for the meat.
Inside, they were shilling for books that I'd like to read,
propaganda for the propagandists,
entertainment for faith.
Would you buy their snake oil,
if they told up up front
that it won't work,
and it's good on a salad?

Who do we follow?
Why, the man, Jesus of Nazereth.
Is his news good?
Aye, it is good.
Love your enemy, yea, I say verily.
But, should buy from your friend?

I want to enjoy this. I think it is funny.
I think I enjoy this. The message is clear.
But why do it for books, why do it for sales,
(I read one of the books. I thought it was good.
I've quoted it twice. But I felt dirty
for getting it as a bonus,
like a shirt with campus plastic,
you got from a a sheet on a clipboard,
(aren't Sallie Mae loans enough?)
for promising to help a boy in Africa,
whose name I've just learned,
whose face is a stranger,
eat.)
if it's good enough on its own?

V. again, almost.
At the institution, Sam parked in the heat,
waves off the pavement, across from a coach,
that we'd all just seen, just off our driveway, yesterday night.

We followed the Road Show in at a distance,
down to the basement, where they met Brianna,
she'd been cooking their meal.
She already knew Tony, as he mentioned in his blog.
and after she'd hugged them, we hugged her.
Brianna made dinner, the chicken and fruit kinds of salad,
for the Road Show Revivalists, and we carted it up
along with lemonade and water, the drinks of revival,
to the prison ministry room, the old library,
after our tour of the building.
Then Tony and Mark and Doug came up,
and stared at clean-faced pictures of pastors past,
none in 1909, alas.

We said that we'd been there last night. We'd seen the show.
And Tony asked me what I thought.
I didn't yet know, and so I said,
"It must be a hard line to walk."
He said, "What do you mean?"
I said, "Between being campy and being serious."
And he said, "See the thing is, people think
we're going to make fun of old time revivals,
but really we like them." Then we had to go.
Sam's Aunt was waiting.
I would have liked to say more, sit
and discuss what and why and how,
with these Emergent leaders,
and I think I came off rude,
having not helped set up
the chairs for the show,
because we'd been with Brianna,
loving her deeply and briefly,
and then that thing about walking a line.
But there were dinners more pressing.

VI. even earlier.
Jill asks me what I like to do when I'm swimming.
It's Sunday, and we're between church when we serve
and church when we're served. Sabbath is fleeting.
We sprayed sunscreen from our spray can
from our anniversary theme park splurge
I got Jill off te phone by threatening to throw her in.
Then I did anyway.
Eight years, still flirting.
If that's what you call it.
"I just like being in the water," I said,
"I find it relaxing."
When I was a kid, at Mill Creek Pool,
I'd hold my breath and ball up under water,
eyes tight, floating until my lungs felt like spilling the air out,
letting the sharp water spill back in, push to the edge
and then I'd push up,
grab the oxygen with my lips,
eyes smarting with chlorine and sunlight after darkness.
And it's like CDs, I guess, what is the intended venue?
When are you supposed to be listening?
What are you supposed to do in the pool?
Or, even, what are you supposed to do at a revival?
What if you don't change? What if your soul is untouched?
Is that something you can schedule?
Eight o'clock Sunday, your soul comes alive.
Don't be late.

It's the aftershocks that surpise you.

2008-06-27T02:37:00.002-05:00

Note: I know I said I'd talk more about weddings and marriage today, and single people. I'll get to it. This morning, this started coming out instead. It's kind of about marriage, too.

Quite a while ago, I had a long and multi-faceted dream in which I was teaching in a very large high school. At first, thinking back this morning, I thought I'd had the dream the night before I started teaching at Turner, but it's more likely it was just a dream I had sometime well after I stopped teaching. Especially considering how I think one of the people in the dream was one of my favorite students, J. who was bubbly and deep at the same time, the sort of person perfectly suited to lead you through a dream. The dream covered a few weeks of classes, and a field trip, and as dreams do, the beginning and end of the school year, and lots of teaching and interacting with kids, and a lot to do with the end of the school day, bright and sunny and school busses.

The dream school building was made up of all different parts of other schools I'd been in, hodge-podged of different eras and insitutional architectural styles like Olathe North is. It had very long halls akin to my memory of visiting Lawrence High as part of a Stu-Co exchange back in high school (or maybe it was Free State; they're both huge). It had a central commons hub with hall spokes like Olathe South. A lot of the classroom halls were the two-story stacked hospital sterility of Olathe Northwest.

But the atmosphere of the whole building reminded me of my grade school's little theatre, which had a long snake-curved concrete wall that formed the back wall of the stage in the middle of a large room. The wall had a balcony you could get up to from behind, which is quite the amazement for grade schoolers, let me tell you. A balcony! Such fun! They cut some fat, curved steps into the concrete floor for seats. The whole thing, stage and seats and balcony, was thin carpeted. It was a wondrous place, a room open to the hall, right by the office, usually dark, except for special events. A room where anything could happen. I remember performing a melodrama there with the girl I always had a crush on, I wore a my dad's fedora and a trenchcoat and sunglasses, the first time I remember loving theatre. Brian Busby came once to speak about the weather. One of my most vivid memoeries is a speed arithmetic competition that I did not win, but always wanted to have won because I thought I was SO smart, and I still look back on for perspective on my own thinking processes.

So there was a magic and nostalgic sadness to the dream school. But also, there was the feel of the back stage, behind that snake wall, with the stairs up to the balcony, and the storage for the projection machine for making large primary colored posters with bold lines. I was in Mr. Lang's fifth grade class, and his room was down the hall behind the little theater, in between the two kindergarten classes. And on the way back from lunch or gym or music, or especially visiting the other two 5th grade classes, on the far end of the building, we walked in line by that backstage area, which was indirectly lit and littered with bulky school supplies like rolls of colored paper and that projector I mentioned, and there was a door to outside that we almost never used, but let light in like heaven when it was open, and it all felt like the back side of the world, God's scaffolding exposed.

They later filled the sunken seats in with more concrete and carpeted it over and remodeled the whole thing into an expansion for the neighboring library, and all the magic left. Which is the exact opposite you'd expect for filling a space with books, but that is what happened. That's the truth.

In this school in the dream, there was a sparsely-used wing, far off the commons, and the top floor had 50's style classrooms like Shawnee Mission North, with doors to the outside and untinted windows in the hall. But if you went down a dimly lit hall underneath, and then down a long ramp like the ramp at Olathe North, but done in the brick architectural style of Johnson County Community college and underground. Then you got to a small commons area, with a pod of classrooms on the other side like California/Chisolm Trail. But before that pod, on the left side, at the bottom of the ramp, across from the janitor's closet, was an old band room, dug into the side of the hill, which was my classroom. It had tiered seating going down, and I brought incandescent floor lamps, so it felt like home or a hobbit hole, and my desk was at the top in the right corner, surrounded by posters and shelves and knick-knacks, and I taught lots of interesting things, and it was good.

Last night, I went back to the dream school, and I thought it was Turner. Not until much later in the night did I remember what my actual classroom was like. I walked the classroom halls, and the corridors, and the dark overhang of the entryways off the commons, light streaming in through high windows, there in the waning days of the school year, after classes had stopped, but before the teachers had left. Summer school weeks away. This is when school buildings always feel the oldest. All the youth is gone home to play, and the motes hang in the shafts. It's closing time, you've cleared all your things and you've put them in boxes. But there are stragglers turning in last late projects, yearbook staff settling in for the last deadline work of the summer, football players hitting the weight room, teachers sliding laminated posters into drawers, finishing grades, really hearing the air conditioning fans deep in the ceiling for the first time since August..

I went down a hall, past a dark place that felt like the back side of the world, and down the ramp which was very much in the same place as Mr. Lang's classroom somehow, and into my old classroom. It looked much the same, the new teacher had posters, and her own floor lamps, and her own shelves. It'd been raining lately, and the ceiling had been leaking from the waterlogged earth above, and it was stained brown and peeling.

I had this long conversation with the wonderful woman who now taught in my old room. Some of her students came in and hung out, did some work, felt at home. She was young, and punky, short brown hair. We talked about how she was keeping up a lot of the things I'd done, without even knowing I'd done them before; the kids kept telling her. The incandescent lights, and the laid-back style, and hanging out with the kids like they were people, and teaching them with really good books how to read better. She'd had them reading Maus to expand their reading skills to graphic novels, something I hadn't considered. The year was good. She was hoping for another. Some of my old students came in and they said how much they missed me, but that the new teacher was good, so I didn't have to worry, that the new lady had taken over, and it was fine.

I've always felt a little guilty about leaving teaching. Sometiems I like to lie to myself that there's nothig I coud have done, but that's not true. There are many things I could have done, if I'd only started much sooner. If I'd known I'd teach before I taught. And yeah, I liked having a job that felt meaningful, but the profession? Meh, really. You can have that. Oh, but the kids? Ah, alas.

It's like I was SO important, and I needed to be there, those kids needed me to listen to their stories, and to teach them more stories. But this obviously isn't true. Other teachers can come along and be there, and other teachers do come along, and other people, too, adults and peers. I am just a man. Just a small part. But you love them enough, you think maybe you can change something. Surely you can change something.

I think the best teachers must feel like this. This is why they're always there, late at light, weekends, summers, preparing and thinking. Letting the building soak into you, and you become part of it. You've got something to offer those kids, like nothing else anyone can offer, so you've got to be there. Your life for theirs. Your life is theirs. That's why so many good teachers seem like they don't have other lives. Their lives have become the school. Giving your life up for someone gives your life meaning. Is teaching enough?

In my dream, I thanked the new teacher for for being there, and I meant it, she was good, and I said goodbye to the kids, and visted the teachers in the pod across the small commons, they had been my lifeline my "first year", and then I went outside on the hill next to the school and I buried my face in the cool grass and cried for a good long time, really letting myself mourn, for the first time, leaving teaching.

Weddings are, like, the biggest deal ever. Also, not a big deal at all. Part 1

2008-06-26T17:00:00.003-05:00

Last week, 'a Monday, a good friend of mine asked me if I, or anyone I knew, was ordained and could perform a wedding. I told her about my dad, who is ordained seeing as how he is/was a missionary and Rev. is a useful door-opening title for missionaries, and about our mutual long-time acquaintance Ben, who is a youth pastor in town, and I forgot to mention my friend Maux who got ordained one time just to perform a wedding on a beach for some friends of hers, which is as good a reason for ordination as I know.

At the same time, I also asked my friend why she was asking, and she said that she was getting married that next weekend, if she could pull it off, seeing as how her affianced was going to be shipped out to Iraq at the end of June for 15 months, and she knew, I mean, knew, and the families were happy with the idea, and even suggested the this-weekend nuptials.

But it came out that she wasn't really asking me so much about anyone I knew, per se, rather me, specifically, re: ordained persons, and how even though Kansas doesn't require somebody official to say you are married, you can do it yourself, that the two of them would like me to do it, if I could. I was honored, quite so, as you might expect, and so I looked up my options on the internets, and decided to do it.

I decided to go with the more universalist option I found over a slightly more theologically distinct option, since the theologically distinct option costs, like, fifty bucks, and the universalists are free. All I had to do to be a Rev. in that church was believe in 1) religious freedom for all faiths, and 2) doing the right thing, and even though I'm a lot more specific than that when it comes to my own theology and praxis, I was willing to just roll with it for the sake of a friend, and signed up for a grade A, legal, internet ordination.

The bride and groom aren't really religious types anyway, and are pretty laid back, so they asked me to do a laid-back service, which they thought I could pull off. I think I did. Come Saturday morning, I officiated, gave a short homily as it were, oversaw vows, gave charges, and they even let me pray for them, and we signed papers, and had a substantial breakfast/lunch afterwards, and fielded the kinds of general, skeptical/reverent questions from the family that I can assume ministers always field at these sorts of events (and, I suppose, at all kinds of events in folk cultural religianity here in the US.). We did the whole ceremony in a park, with an arch and balloons provided by Austin, and we played on the playground afterwards. It was beautiful and simple and so right, and so was the weather.

The homily I gave was tailored to the couple, obviously, but the main point I tried to make was to ask why we were there at a wedding at all, considering we didn't have to be. And the two main reasons I gave were that marriage is, like, a really big deal, and not a big deal at all.

Heck, those are the two reasons I even officiated the wedding in the first place: I thought it was a really big deal, and I wanted to be there, and be supportive, and I also thought it wasn't a big deal at all, it's so right, so let's just do the thing.

Now, I've got more thoughts on the issue than would fit in the fifteen minute time limit for the whole ceremony (self-imposed) or were appropriate for that venue, so I compressed it, and tailored it, as you'd expect. But I'd like to expand on them a little more, more than I did there at least, and this seems like a better venue for general thoughts.

A lot of what I said then had to do with the fact that the bride and groom are going to be apart for most of the next 18 months, barring a single furlow. So, if you'll forgive me, and I do apologize, what I'm going to say here will be more universal than what I said on Saturday, and like all universals, it'll be less meaningful than a particular would be. Certainly less meaningful than being up there with a good friend and seeing her very real sparkling eyes and smile as she married the man she wants to meld the rest of her life with. But we'll have to deal. So, here's my take on weddings, then. Culled and edited and expanded on, I remind you, from something I wrote for two particular and wonderful people, and while, aiming for the universal, still completely from within my context, as everything I write is:

Marriage . . . Big Deal? Not a Big Deal? Yes, Both.

When you go celebrate a wedding for someone, right off you've got to ask yourself why. I mean, those two people standing up there, walking down the aisle, or appearing from the pastor's special secret door that far too many churches have for some reason, or coming in from the side, and/or lighting candles, and/or sliding down a zipcord, and/or jumping out of cakes, or just standing up and walking over from the tree, or whatever, those people didn't have to have a wedding.

They could have easily gotten together on their own, in secret, and gotten married. Kansas law permits it, for example; you don't even need an ordained me up there overseeing the whole thing like I did this last Saturday. It's all very catholic now. Or heck, they could just decide their love is enough, and who needs a marriage, it's just a piece of paper, and they could make promises to each other in secret and get on with their lives. But instead, they decide to bring you and all these other people in on it, to let you in on the secret, and more importantly to get you all to help keep and maintain the secret of their love for each other. And so you show up to affirm that. To be like, "Right on. You're taking a huge step, and we want to affirm that." So that's part of why you're there: you get to be a secret keeper.

But there's more to the big deal-ness of weddings than just the presence of the audience, a large part of it is because those two people up there, and this is really big, I think, have transcended their natural human tendency to be selfish and self-centered, and any time that happens, it is a cause for celebration. So, especially with two people you know and love. It's not everyday humdrum to give yourself up. It certainly wasn't with the wedding I did this weekend. Those two people were giving up, at the very least, 18 months of potential freedom to vow to love each other. They bound themselves to each other even in absence. That's amazing.

But for any wedding, the two people choose to give themselves up for each other, to give up their independent lives and their independent hopes and dreams to form this new project, this micro-community within a larger community that we've termed marriage, to morph their independence into interdependence, into shared lives and shared hopes and shared dreams. That's exciting. And if you look around you, it's not the norm for something like this to happen. Not in our culture. Not anymore, at the very least. Maybe not ever. People tend towards selfishness, especially in relationships.

And, to be honest, even though most marriages start out with all these ideals at the wedding, many times, they lose all the luster, and people get selfish again. The marriage couldn't overcome it. But it's that hope for a better world that drives us as humans back to the marriage project again and again. Maybe this one will work. Maybe they'll make it. Maybe people can be selfless. Weddings are the hope that people can be more than animals, people can be human. So if we can agree, I'm talking here about the potential of a marriage, not every marriage that comes along. And what else is a wedding than a celebration of the potential of a marriage?

Besides that, though, there are all kinds of reasons that we always give for a wedding being a big deal. It's such a huge commitment. It's a choice for forever. It's excluding other sexual partners. You're merging finances. You're leaving a family to create a family. Etc, etc, amen.

But we all know marriage is a big to-do, that's why most people spend so much on the ceremony, and people freak out about it, and there's this massive industry with magazines filled mostly pictures of depressed women in dresses (I always read those for the articles, if ya believe it), and parents tell their kids things like, "Well, when you grow up and get married and have kids you can . . ." when they want to justify their parenting decisions, and people are always trying to find a person to marry so they aren't lonely anymore, and little girls play wedding, where the older one gets to be the groom because she can do the threshold-carrying.

But I also want to talk about why it's not a big deal; it's the completely natural thing for people to do. Because I don't hear enough of that, how this is the right and normal thing for emotionally mature people to do when they fall in love -- to get married, to become this new person with another person, and to move on through life together.

First off, there's totally precedent. Looking back through history, we see this desire for two people to commit to each other playing out. Yeah, sometimes it was political, sometimes it was stupidly over-dramatically fakey-romantic, sometimes it was just convenient. But it's pervasive -- people coming together, giving up what they had on their own to go form this new marriage project. I mean, almost every culture has a specific wedding ceremony it practices. Cultures get people together. Look at how much we teach our young kids about it. And hey, it's even expected in a lot of our subcultures.

Marriage is even one of the primary metaphors God's relationship with his people in Christianity, our culture's folk religion. So when God his-very-self is trying to explain how much he loves everybody and wants us to know him and him to know us, he explains it using our terminology; he explains it being like a marriage. There was even a really strong parallel this weekend, with the whole Iraq deployment business, where that groom is like Jesus in , going off, and leaving the bride waiting for him to come back, and everyone's looking forward to that day, but no one knows how it's going to play out.

So, yeah, it's not a big deal because there's something very historically and culturally normative going on here.

But there's more than that. Another reason marriage is so normal is that people get lonely. And it's good for people to form deep, committed relationships they can rely on when they're lonely. Not even necessarily romantic relationships, singles take note. But when people are so in tune with each other, and so in love with each other, a wedding is just the natural outflow of that relationship.

But it is hard to stay committed to someone. People get selfish. So, like so many events in a healthy culture, we set it apart with a ceremony or a ritual, and in this case we bring along some friends and family to say, "Hey! You guys! Stay together! You can make it." Maybe even just to give the other people hope in a better world, right?

Another reason people so naturally get married is because it's a good, healthy place to raise kids. And kids are the future of humanity; if we want to keep it going, we need to have, at least, a few of them here and there. And it's hard to raise healthy kids on your own, without another person. And it's hard to be an emotionally healthy kid without a mom and a dad both, to learn how to relate to different genders. Not saying that you can't make it with a single parent, but it's harder. And it's a lot easier if your parents get along. On Saturday, I reminded everyone that we had the parents of the bride and groom there, and so I cut the kids talk off there, to try to avoid you know (wink), controversial subjects. But if you're going to have kids, a committed, loving relationship is a very good place to do it. I'm just sayin'.

One last reason I gave, and the last I'll give here, that it's so natural to have weddings is that people get horny. And there is no better place, in my opinion, to live out that natural and human desire for sex than in a committed relationship. I'd even go so far as to say it's best with a committed relationship where you've had some sort of ritual and people around to affirm your sexuality. In that kind of relationship context, sex can mostly easily become about maintaining this other person, not just consuming them like entertainment or just to get your own kicks. In other words, sex is better as a team event than masturbating with someone else's body.

Also, in my experience, there's something almost mystical about sex when you know you can completely be yourself, and this other person can completely be themselves, not worrying about what's next in the relationship, just being together, and you can trust each other, and you can let sex become, not this super-duper magical thing up on a pedestal, like a once-a-year trip to Disney World or whatever, but a wonderful, natural, normal everyday pleasure. With high points and low points, like eating, or sleeping, even, that is communal, though -- it symbolically and literally melds you into one person. Of course, with the two people I married, they're going to get some of that that once-a-year Disney World experience inside a committed relationship for this first bit here, so, congrats for that to them-- best of both worlds . . .

I don't know if what I'm saying here disparages 'sex without a preceding wedding'. I honestly don't even know if I want to disparage it or avoid disparagement, which. On the one hand, I don't want to play down things where people find connections, and can stave off the natural loneliness of life. On the other hand, I want people to have the substantial comfort of the ceremony and the community's encouragement as a context for sex; I've seen sex from that place and I think it's so much healthier and beneficial than it would be elsewhere. And I see a lot of people getting really hurt with sex in an amarital context. I dunno. Maybe I just think it works better in that context. It has the opportunity to be more everyday, and so can become more transcendant. I'll just direct anyone interested in a good spiritual take on this to Lauren Winner's delightful and insightful book Real Sex, which says what I'm trying to say here about a million times better.

From this point in the conversation on Saturday, we went on to the ring exchange and the vows and the charges and the making out and the clapping. It was all very beautiful, and I hope hope that it succeeds. That it becomes everything that we hoped for.

I didn't talk very much about people who are not getting married at that time. I did briefly mention that I didn't want all of that ceremony business to make it seem like single people have to get married to be happy or whatever. That marriage, because it is normal and natural, is also necessary. I left it at that, saying that I don't think we hear enough of that sentiment, but that was a wedding, and we were there for that. I've got a lot more to say about how weddings aren't a big deal, and how that relates to people not getting married, I'll come back to that tomorrow.

What a world, what a world.

2008-06-13T14:36:00.002-05:00

We are having a group of users come to our facility next week for a conference. As a result, I was asked to remove the following comics (show here in the order they were asked to removed) from my cubicle wall for the duration of the conference, in order to keep from offending anyone:

http://www.marriedtothesea.com/022406/never-reveal.jpg
http://www.marriedtothesea.com/102406/extinction-theory.gif
http://www.marriedtothesea.com/092306/charles-darwin-and-the-magic-hat.gif
http://www.marriedtothesea.com/031306/no-bread.jpg

The following passage from Romeo and Juliet is still laying open on my desk, and I have not been asked to close the book, or remove it, even though I read it aloud yesterday morning to great laughter:

Sam: A dog of the house of Montague moves me.
Gre: To move is to stir and to be valiant is to stand. Therefore, if thou art moved, thou runnest away.
Sam: A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's.
Gre: That shows thee a weak slave. For the weakest goes to the wall.
Sam: Tis true, and therefore, women being the weaker vessels are ever thrust to the wall. Therefore I will push Montague's men from the wall and thrust his maids to the wall.
Gre: The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.
Sam: Tis all one. I will show myself a tyrant when I have fought with the men: I will be cruel with the maids. I will cut off their heads .
Gre: The heads of the maids?
Sam: Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads. Take it in what sense thou wilt.
Gre: They must take it in sense that feel it.
Sam: Me they shall feel while I am able to stand, and tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh.
Gre: Tis well thou art not fish if thou hadst thou hadst been poor John . . . .

Take that for what thou wilt.

Why I Love Riding the Bus Home From Work

2008-06-12T17:00:00.000-05:00

Junior high is brutal. Not only are you finally realizing that you have been a complete doofus since, like, first grade, why did no one tell you before?! (parents! I tell ya.), and you're trying not to be one now, and all your friends are SO cool, or maybe they aren't our friends, oh no!, how come you can't be that cool!?, I hope they like me, you find yourself eking out your day-to-day life in a school system bound and determined to skirt the edge of practical fascism as a matter of course. Re: to trust you a little as possible and enforce that distrust, shall we say, dictatorially.

I substitute taught for three years, and about half of that was in junior highs. I hated it. Not because of the students, who, I will admit got a little rowdy now and then, as you would expect of humans of that age, but because of the draconian behavior policies of the faculty and administrators. Nowhere in our society is fascism so socially acceptable as when perpetrated against junior highers. (Okay, also terrorists and prisoners, too, but let's not quibble.)

Look, I get it, you're afraid of mass chaos, kids stripping naked and fashioning spears or whatever, but maybe you should put your cross-referenced reference copy of Lord of the Flies down for a minute and actually pay attention to the real people you are dealing with. You know, treat them like people. Relationally. Because they are people. Also because junior higher are cool. No where else do you get that kind of enthusiasm about the world, that excitement about the possibilities of life, that passion for relationships and friendships. Get to high school, and while you may still have some of these a qualities, they're already beginning to be browbeaten out of you by the system, and your own bloated sense of self-awareness. Start something then, and you can go a very long way.

But Timothy, you might be saying, didn't you teach high school? Didn't you keep trying to get a high school job over a junior high/ middle school. Yes. And if I had to go back to it, I'd say the same. I have a hard enough time keeping my wayward and self-important vocabulary hospitable for peers, let alone your average-everyday 7th grader. So that's on me more than them. Also, I like high school subjects better. You can go even more in depth. But I'd do junior high if I was back in teaching if that was all that was available, sure.

Oh, and let's not even get into parents of junior highers. Is there anything worse than a parent who's spent the last twelve years of their life thinking they're raising a kid, who wakes up one morning, sees their kid's shoulders have broadened, or voice deepened, or breasts started to bud, and freaks the heck out that they're going to have an adult on their hands in half as long as this kid has been alive? Time to clamp down. Time to really dole out the what for. Darn kid, thinkin' he can grow up on me? I've got SO much to teach him, and only so much time.

And heaven forbid the kid does something remotely dangerous,.Like, running to the car, or holding hands with a real live GIRL, or heaven forbid again going on overseas mission trip! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, BOYS AND GIRLS, CHILDREN OF AAAAALLLL AGES, step right up, step right up, see the nicest, most culturally sensitive person in the world LOSE THEIR EVER-LOVIN' MIND and suddenly believe that every single possible non-American in the world is going to SLAUGHTER THEIR CHILD at the first opportunity.

So, yeah, being in junior high is the most carefully structured hell an otherwise normal society has ever devised. And not only that, these are pretty formative years, lemme tell ya. You may have had an idea of who you are, but all of a sudden come 11 or13, you realize you're a real person, and what kind of person you could possibly be. Yeah, yeah, your brain doesn't develop out of that impulsive stage until 22 or whatever, but junior high is when you start to know yourself, and while I'm not sayin' that's set in stone, that's where a lot of where it begins.

I spent my junior high years in Minsk. Which if you're not familiar with world geography, may be most familiar to you as the home of the first friend of our plagiaristic protagonist in Tom Lehrer's classic song 'Lobachevsky.' And while I can't say my outside-of-home-schools were particularly helpful, at least my parents, I thank God, were not the sort of parents who wake up one morning to realize their precious snowflake will someday soon be a snowman, instead, they fought those urges and decided to help, rather than hinder, me growing up. Starting with a this-guy-will-eventuallly-be-a-full-on-snowman-centric style of parenting from start, you might say. In Minsk, I walked to the park. I took the overnight train to Moscow to give tours to strange pastors (is there a better night's sleep than that train ride? Not for me there isn't. Not anywhere, not any bed). I took the metro home from late night youth meetings, I got involved in theatre with the international community, and oh yes, I took the bus (didn't think I'd finally get here, didja?)

Oh, the bus. I'd like to say that in grade school, for me, a to-school-walker, the bus was the magical transport to freedom from the drudgery of the humdrum daily grade school grind, but I don't have any clear memories of feeling this way. I do remember liking the camaraderie of a bus, the fun of going somewhere with these people that I knew. But it wasn't the bus, per se, but the going somewhere with that I liked. (I epitomize extrovert -- there are times that a person has left my presence, and I've completely lost my train of thought just because there was no one with me anymore.)

But I don't think the fact that I've ridden the bus home for the past two Tuesdays to get home in time to hang out with junior highers from my church and LOVED it has anything to do with that escape mindset. For me, it was the freedom of being a junior higher, with all of those typical body changes, and all of this proto-wisdom, and also, amazingly, the ability to go where I wanted, and the trust of my parents to go there. Need some fireworks? Let's go get them. Want to go shopping? Sure. Go see friends? Go ride the Super 8 roller coaster? Go where I wilt? Sure, sure, sure. As my friend Nick and I say, le's jus' go.

But really, really enjoying riding the bus home from work is obviously not exclusive to residual echoes of initial adolescent freedom. I mean, it takes me 25 minutes on a slow day to drive home, and an hour and twenty to get him by bus on a fast day. That's not freedom. So, what gives? Why did I get positively giddy juttering along on the JO Route R Olathe-Downtown Express? Why did it feel so . . . right?

I can do what I want on the bus. There are no responsibilities. I can read or write or think, or just watch the city move by, in sound-barriered air conditioning. Part of it is that I love seeing the city like that,like an outsider might see it, the way I see other cities when I'm there. I feel detached like a tourist, and so I naturally love where I am, like a tourist.

I was talking with my sister about why I like the bus so much, and she said that it's got to be something to do with how really formative growing up in a different country was. I remember feeling like I belonged where I was , living in Minsk. Yes, I didn't really speak the language. Yes, this wasn't my culture. And I was far from my own. So I created my own. While most junior high kids were getting picked on, and primping for the ladies/gents, I was developing a wild individualist streak, and enhancing and enforcing that in my own mind as much as possible. I didn't have to prove I was a different person than other people (a common source of teenage rebellion (and angst), I think), because I was clearly different than them. I was reading like mad, listening to sermons, playing video games and beating them with no contact with the outside world. I have a clarity of memories from those two years that far outshines my two years of college almost ten years later. I knew exactly who I was then. No doubts, full confidence.

Sure, I had stuff to work out, but I knew that, and was excited to get there. I didn't feel great all the time. I got angsty. I got immmature. But I knew I could work my way out of it. (It's part of that confidence, I think, that allowed me to get into a near-dating experience with a senior at a conference I attended on summer furlough the summer before my freshman year. But that's just bragging, ha-HAH!) I was drowning in beautiful certainty. Drinking it wildly.

So, it's not just the residual feeling of freedom from my junior high years. I have this odd residual feeling of belonging when I ride the bus that comes from echoes of feeling at home and completely sure of myself. It also throws me back before uncertainty came over and started hanging out all the time, poking me if I started falling asleep. Throws me back before the weight and exhaustion of high school academic responsibility. Before I had a girlfriend who became a wife who became a lover. Before debt, and before real freedom, freedom where you can step off the edge any time you like because the glass wall that you used to trust to keep you safe has been pulled away when you weren't looking. Throws me back before I had friends who were married, let alone divorced. Throws me back to when I believed in a simple system of belief, not a wild and terrifying and still somehow way more satisfying God. So, it's 5 o' th' clock and my ride is going to class until 8, so I'm off to ride the bus home again so I can cut the grass with our old school mechanical mower. Since I don't have a junior higher yet to do it for me.

Lay down your walls, they don't mean a thing. Keep on shinin', baby.

2008-06-10T01:00:00.000-05:00

I used think I was a teacher. Most people who teach professionally do. Even the very good ones. Sometimes especially the very good ones. Ask them who they are, and they'll tell you, "I'm a teacher!" Of course they do. I've even said that in interviews, that I teach even when I'm not doing it professionally, that it's who I am, deep down. That I taught English not just because I loved language, but also because English classes are the best place to teach about life and how to live it. That is what they want to hear from you in that room, across the principal's desk, portfolio and a suit, that you'll give your life to this teaching thing at their school, because it is your life. Life identity and career match. What synchronicity!

While there is some truth to part of my identity being tied up in wanting to help other people learn and grow, that's a hollow story if I believe it's the full truth; it's just not enough. I've written about how long it took me to get over not being a professional teacher, and how much longer it took for me to realize that my identity wasn't any longer tied up in being a teacher. Now I am just a man. I am just a man.

My friend Adam works as an engineer. This is because he has a mind of a person who can engineer. He likes figuring out how things work. His brain plans and plots and schedules and thinks. But this is not who he is. He's a guy who gets lonely sometimes, and eats muffins whenever possible, and shows up to help when people need help, and likes playing board games, but not all the time, and walks to a place when he can, and more and more and more. All of which makes him a whole, deep, complex, person -- just like, and completely different than, everyone else. But the parts are just parts. And the appellations and descriptors are just that. Adam is a guy. Is he an engineer? Yes, but mostly no. Engineering is just part of it.

What got me started thinking about this, weeks and weeks ago on a sleepy Friday morning*, in the shower and the closet, is that I read a lot of blogs. Blogs on emerging Christianity, and blogs on poker (which I don't play), and gadgets (which I don't buy), and games (which my friend Jeremy would say I don't play), and compounds, and pictures of things in Russia, and lifehacking, and having a baby, and having already had a baby, and Photoshop disasters (two of those), and unnecessarily quotation "marks", and secrets, and satire, and for a while there, ampersands even. Most blogs are this way: I'm a christianarchohippy conservatarian, so I write about that. Or I play poker for a living and golf for fun, so I write about that. I'm famous, let me tell you how. There are people who write only about the sex they have and want to have, and people who only write about the cars they drive and want to drive, or people who only write about the food they eat and want to eat.

But my favorite blogs are where the writers slip the rest of their lives into the mix. It's no longer a blog about Topic X, which is of interest to you, but Topic X, which is one of the things in my life. Like when Pauly talks about how hard it is to be wrapped up in the degeneracy of Las Vegas, or his yearning to become the writer he wants to be and how his job writing gets in the way. Or when Wil talks about his kids and his wife and California sunsets, or how he learned to stop believing the voices that told him he could only find success in being an actor. Or when Gabe and Tycho take a break from gaming comics to talk about their kids.

Overall, blogging seems to be this deeply focused thing, like magazines, that strips away the essential mystery and confusion of being a whole person, and lets you say, "I am just this thing, and this thing makes me who I am." I am a lowrider owner. I am a woman who likes to be titillated. I am a man who likes the same. I am health. I am a person interested in making my living room remind people of the deep south. For me, though, I like seeing the person. For me, Topic X is just a means to the end of knowing a person.

This narrowing is the same sort of exclusionary definition that Rob Bell talks about in his book Sex God. How most people in our culture approach their sexuality from one of two extremes: animal or angel. You're either an animal who can't control your urges, so whatever feels good, do it, or you're a perfect angel, no physicality at all, no hormones, shove your body into a nice little Gnostic package and live like the spirit you truly are.

But we're humans. We feel like mating, and we can stop ourselves. We need to touch someone to feel connected and real, so we can hug and shake hands and sock shoulders and tickle. It's okay to embody your body. Lauren Winner talks a lot about that in her book Real Sex, how the number one indicator of girls not having sex as teenagers is being involved with a team sport. They learn how to use a body, so they don't get used by it.

Rob talks about how Hugh Hefner grew up in an "angel" household where nobody ever even hugged. And how that shaped all of Hefner's philosophy growing up. All the hedonism and depersonalization as the extreme of isolationism. How all he wanted was to break out of that lie that people don't need to be touched. All because his familiy didn't understand how to just be people. He never learned that just being human is okay. But it is. Human is what we are.

But the false dichotomy of Angel-Animal is just one example of how we define ourselves as anything but just a human. De-humanifying definitions abound and spread like memes. Okay, fine, they are memes. I wrote about his a while ago, but how often in a conversation do you hear someone ask you who you are, rather than what you do? Not often, I'd bet. Not that 'what do you do?' isn't a legitimate question to learn more about a person, but it's a form of shorthand, and too easy to depend on. That guy's a doctor, she's a lawyer, he's an engineer, they're students. I will define them as such. Just as easy to define someone by skin color or what they buy.

Obviously the answer to the 'what do you do?' question tells us something, there's something in a person's make-up that caused them to choose to be a chemist, or a salon's schedule coordinator, or a guy who sits at a desk and tells this person to do that and that person to do this, but it's not enough. There's a whole person lurking behind the iceberg tip of their job, or their blog, or their brand of t-shirt.

All the marriage books tell you that it takes a whole life to get to know someone, and you'll always be discovering new things. And all the pop-psych books tell you that it take a whole life to even know yourself. And there I go wanting to crush someone into a single sentence subject. Actuary. (Full disclosure: I don't actually know any actuaries. They have likely predicted this.) Avid reader. Cat owner. Slacker. Anime reader. Homeless guy. Nun.

Then there are terms like Tutsi, Hutu, Nazi, Jap, black, white, American, capitalist, Christian. Reduce, reduce, dehumanize, kill. It's all the same cycle. All the same mindset.

Now, I realize that saying something like "I am a teacher" is a form of necessary shorthand. And shorthand is how we mentally survive the chaos of historically normal life, let alone the rapidly accelerating life we live in this country. Like how we block out unnecessary visual info in visually busy environments (Hi, stretch of I-35 between the Southwest Trafficway entrance and downtown!). But forms of societal shorthand, even good ones, diminish the substance of the thing shorthanded.

For example, when the guy on the news says IED, most people know that means improvised explosive device (Some people may get them confused with intrauterine devices, of course, what with the similarity. How embarrassing.), but IED doesn't have the same lexical impact as the three words laid out. The object is improvised and it is explosive -- both words conjure their own set of ideas. In what kind of place would someone need to be to improvise something to explode? that's a questions worth asking yourself. One that wold unlikely come up when exposed to a term like IED. So, in short (not shortly enough?), shorthand has its place, but it's woefully inadequate. And besides, it leads to dehumanization.

And I want just the opposite. I want people humanized. Living deep in being a person. Loving life and loving people. Being loved. Being more than graphic designers and tech support technicians, and actors, being people.

I think my blog could be more popular if I focused on some topic, though. More marketable. If I wrote about politics or faith mostly, or living in Kansas City, or being married, wrote about games I'd played, or just conglomerated other things I'd found on the internet. That's how to get a readership. That's the kind of thing that draws me into reading someone else's blog, usually. But that's not who I am. Efficacy does not equal necessary action. People like to read things about topics, I know. But I write about topics because they are part of my life. They are the us-upon-a-times and the together-whens. The gathered cloudthreads of life, all woven into a larger whole.

And the reason I write about all kinds of threads in my life, rather than just picking one is because, deep down, I am a teacher. I want to show even one person who reads this thing, even in a small way, that my life isn't constrained to the one topic. Maybe if I write it, someone else can believe it. Just like how everyone with an audience wants to affect the audience to do something. Laugh and applaud, in most cases. Sometimes something more, but something. Even if they won't admit it to themselves. Just so, I want people to laugh and applaud, who doesn't, but more than that, I want the same thing I wanted for my students; I want people to live.

*When I finished writing this, as usual, I had to change the time from when I started it to when I finished it. This is usually a switch from 8:05 to 4:50, or summat similar. Date and time this blog started: 4:38 PM, 4/17/08. I have had the song 'Jezebel Eyes' by Dime Store Prophets stuck in my head ever since. I've quoted from it liberally here. I even considered changing the name of my blog to I Am Just a Man.

The haiku, re-examining some criticism, and some (possibly rhetorical) questions.

2008-06-04T09:22:00.000-05:00

I'm not proud to say it, but I wrote a haiku back in January and I posted it here. As you might expect, I hate haiku. They seem to mostly exist in English as a cop-out for inept English teachers -- an assignment to give to students to make up for not knowing how to actually teach poetry. Sort of the moral equivalent of teaching the Macarena at a ballet class. Sure, it's dancing, but dancing for people who want to dance without trying. Easy to teach, and you sure as heck don't need to be able to make any value judgments on the quality of someone's Macarena skills. You don't need to critique someone's Macarena dancing if you're teaching a class on dancing; let people just enjoy themselves. Why critique any dancing at all while we're at it? Dancing is a method of expression, and expression is pure.

Or something. Most people teach the form of haiku and never touch the substance. I can write a quick and dirty poem in haiku form any old time. For example:

Poetry Teacher's Dream
"Darkness surrounds me . . ."
began the freshman's poem
I burned with Mein Kampf.

See, it's easy. 5-7-5, home for second breakfast. I even spent a little extra time on the images that I didn't really need to. Not for an English language haiku. English language haiku are lazy punk hooligans. In my opinion, the syllabic requirements for haiku should be thrown out, and we should set wheelbarrows, white chickens, and stations of the metro as the standard. Also, cold, sweet, plums.

But anyway, in January I was in the middle of a lot of people telling me that my blog posts were too long, and I was also in the middle of thinking about something that I didn't want to expand on too deeply at the time, so I took a stab at a poem to try to express it. Also, I didn't want to directly confront the person who was bringing up the things I wanted to address because I didn't hear it directly from her, and didn't know her that well. Also, some days I'm lazy. So, yeah, part irony, part artistic expression, part non-confrontation, part laziness. Here it is again:

Our roast hen cloister,
greasy fingers strumming loaves,
laughs. Is it moral?

Yes, it needs a title. Maybe I'd call it 'Fellowship' if I had to write it again. Clue you into the context. As if you needed it, O Independent Reader. But titles are polite.

My desire to write the haiku came out of some comments that F. (a friend of mine's ex-girlfriend) made to N. (this friend) about our group of friends, that N. mentioned to me as part of his wresting with the deteriorating state of their relationship. So this is partially hearsay, but I think the points are worth examining anyway. Besides, hearsay only means the veracity of the origin of the statement is in question, not the content of statement itself, per se. Especially in non-legal contexts. Also, because it's easy to be overly critical of friends' ex-girlfriends, to pull out the ol' ad hominim hose and spray indiscriminately, I'll try to take what she was saying in the most positive light. This is called self-censorship. Also, possibly, maturity.

F. came to know our group entirely through N., and I'd like to think we made her feel welcome. I know we tried. We love N.; darn right we do. So we added his girlfriend to our Facebook friends, invited her to things we were doing even if N. wasn't going to be there, chatted jovially with her at parties, etc, etc, amen. Welcoming things. I don't think she ever felt part of the group, though. From what I can tell (as I continue to try to be kind), part of the reason was that she felt like we weren't living up to what she thought our Christianity should have been. Or perhaps it was that our lives weren't Christian enough for her.

I've talked about this next bit elsewhere (finally getting back to it, you might say) but there was a time in my life that if I didn't have a board game with me when I showed up to someone's house, it surprised people. It still surprises people who have known me for a long while (Hi, Juliet!). Settlers, Icehouse, decks of cards for spades or Durak (my research has revealed our standard house game includes all the variants), Three-Dragon Ante, anything, really. As long as it was a game, and especially if there was a party. Back in high school, I took a lot of pride in the fact we played board games at parties and didn't drink (more on the drinking bit some other time). New Years parties were official board game fests. One time, back in the days of Jill-at-Avila, I even took a whole backpack of games to a party with her college friends. Not really their scene, it turns out. Apparently, their scene involved watching Resident Evil 2 and drinking. So, yes, I've seen Resident Evil 2; judge me if you will. But the drinking seemed to take precedence even over the people who might have been interested in some sort of game. Ah, alas, Alcohol, how you have thwarted fun activities time and again.

But I've been moving away from playing board games lately. Part of it is that Jill's not a huge fan of board games (but they are growing on her she said the other day, so WOO). I even quit playing D&D, which was not an easy hobby to give up (but that was more for the time commitment than anything else). I just kept feeling like when I got together with people, I wanted to have some sort of substantive conversation, talk about something meaningful. So, that meant fewer board games in my mind. Of course, just as often those conversations end up being just as meaningless (if not more) than the light-hearted camaraderie of sitting around a basement table and building roads out of six pressed sheep.

So, our group's board game playing sparked some of F.'s criticism, I know. For example, she came along to a party at N.'s house - I think it was our New Years party - and we played Settlers, as you might expect, and there were more games going - Spades tournaments and the like. We spent the whole party playing games. She didn't say anything then, and never to me, plus, they had another party to get to, but N. said (as I recall) that it wasn't just the games that bothered her at that party, it was how much time we just spent being together. Eating, playing, talking. Maybe she thought we should have been out doing things. Things she thought were substantive. Out protesting for change, or feeding people who were hungry, or whatever Christians are supposed to do. And those criticisms do resonate with me. I want the things I do to be meaningful, to have weight, to be worthwhile, to be in line with the things I think God is in line with.

And F. isn't the only one asking these kinds questions about the group. I been in several discussions lately where we talked about how much board gaming we do, and how many people come to parties we throw, vs. and how frequently people show up when someone needs moved, for example.

Is there even a 'supposed to' when it comes to action?

The amount of money Americans spend on ice cream every year is greater than the amount of money that not-for-profits have said they would need to raise to make sure everyone in the world can eat if they're hungry. Should I stop eating ice cream? Should I match the money I spend on ice cream with money sent to organizations that fight hunger? Should I match my ice cream money with money spent on feeding hungry people I know?

I know I'm always supposed to love people. I want to, and usually do, but I don't always know how to act that out. It's something that's taken me long enough to start learning in marriage, let alone with people I don't have the benefit of sleeping with. Is love love if it's not acted out?

So, I have to ask the question of the haiku again, for me, is sitting around a table and eating food with people I am similar to, and enjoy the company of, moral? What if, instead of chicken, it's a vegan meal? A freegan meal? Is sitting around a table and playing a game with the same, similar, people moral? Is sitting in the same room as people I am similar to moral at all, or should I only associate with people who are very different from me? People I don't like? If so, what is the point of reconciliation; what then am I trying to reconcile people to? Is sitting in a room moral? Is watching the Stanley Cup finals with a good friend moral? Are sports at all moral? Good friends? Watching movies? Reading books? Are games? Is anything that isn't sacrifice for the other moral? Is everything moral? Is nothing?

Or perhaps the better question is, what should I/we be getting up to these days? What's a good use of time? Is time something for which we should even appropriately consider the word 'used' to be used? Is fun ok if it's restful/sabbath? Is fun ok if it's with your enemy? Is fun always ok? Ever ok? Why if all things are permissible are some things even so forbidden (Hi, adultery and drinking blood!)? How do I reconcile the things I think I ought to do with the desire to not be legalistic? That is, is trying to be disciplined legalistic? Is encouraging other people to be disciplined legalistic? Can I do anything without discipline?

Is asking these questions even a good use of my time, or should I be out living what I already know, which I don't do most of the time anyway? I know a lot of easy answers to these questions. Answers like: love. But like I said. Love, how?

The (kingdom, block party, diaspora) of God is like a teacher teaching the haiku, who when he planned to teach it, could not decide how to discipline and forgive, be grace-giving and instruct, work hard and have fun. So he walked the tightrope of love and grace and discipline and told his students to both use the 5-7-5 format, and striking, fresh images, especially of nature.

A sectioned list of personal political statements. Also, jokes. Or, how I learned to stop loving the bomb.

2008-05-27T16:57:00.000-05:00

List Part I: An Introduction.

I am the bomb. Woop woop.
That might have been a joke.
It is not.
However, I am not the walrus.
Coo coo ka choo.
I am the eggman.
That is a lie.
I am TWO eggmen.

List Part II: Who I Have Voted For, and War.

I have identified as Republican for as long as I can remember. This has recently changed.
I voted Dubya twice, and I don't regret it.
I would not vote for Dubya again
Partially, this is because I no longer believe in war. In any circumstance.
I don't even think I believe in force anymore.
If I believed in the use of force to stop bad people, I think I would vote for Dubya again, if given the chance.
He believes that power should be used to protect people.
I do not.
I don't know how they could have gotten rid of Saddam Hussein without war, let alone some sort of force. That man did many evil things in order to keep his own power. You could say he forced the issue. Ha ha.
Maybe a Brechtian puppet show would have worked. Next time let's give that a shot.
I do not think that would work.
I don't know how non-violence works on psychopaths. If it does at all.
I think non-violent solutions are right whether they work or not.
I think anything right is right whether it works or not.
This is my definition of an extreme rightist.
A extreme leftist believes that only things that work are right.
I don't know if Saddam Hussein was a psychopath. I think he wasn't. I think he was just a plain old normal selfish person who got his way a lot more than I do.
An American unconcerned with efficacy? What will they they think of next?

List Part III: Who I Will Vote For.

I am not planning on voting for any of the major three candidates for president in November. (Nor October via absentee ballot. Nor December via being a Supreme Court Justice. Ha ha. Perhaps in January as part of the Supreme Court Justice League's time travel division. Ok, that would technically be November, so that's a possibility, I guess.)
I am excited about this election.
Two men walk into a bar wearing two-man donkey suit. The one behind says, "You keep trying to get ahead, slow down." The one in front says, "Quit being a butt."
That was not a joke. Rather, a personal political statement. The one in back really was being a butt.
I am excited about this election for the same reasons the Democratics and Republicanites are scared of it: the possibility of chaos at the conventions: The HILLARY vs. OBAMA quagmire. MCCAIN vs. all the RON PAUL people who went to the trouble of going to the state conventions. That seems like a real political process where people was similar things, but disagree on the how of the thing. But as for after the conventions? I am barely interested.
Candidates for president are always allcaps.
I wonder, but have no answers for why when BUSH the II ran, the lists listed him as BUSH. But when CLINTON the II runs, she is HILLARY.
I am not planning on voting for anyone. Primarily because I do not believe that power is the method by which change happens. I wish this wasn't a joke.
Change happens when people change.
Most people do not want change.
Most people, even revolutionaries want the status quo. But only if they get to run it.
Two men walk into a bar in an elephant suit. The one in back says, "You keep trying to get ahead, slow down." The one in front says, "At least I'm not a communist."
This, also, is not a joke. Rather, a personal political statement. The one in back really was a communist.
Well, anarcho-socialist. But who can tell the difference anymore?
Ok, technically, just a Brechtian. But only because theatre pays the bills..
I don't think "Brechtian" is a noun.
I don't plan on voting for CLINTON the II. I don't think she'll be around for to be voting in November anyhow. Plus, I don't trust her. Call me a biased ex-Republican if you want.
I don't plan on voting for OBAMA. I do trust him. Call me a biased ex-Republican if you want. This is nitpicking, but he recently said that America is the world's last best hope. I do not believe this. I see people hoping in OBAMA as president more than the others. I don't know if hoping in a guy is good. I think hope is good. Maybe that'll be good. Doesn't mean I'm voting for him, though.
I don't plan on voting for MCCAIN. I don't trust him. Seems more interested in power than policy. I would want to vote for someone who believed more than politicked. Two years ago, he almost defected to the Democratics. I could care less if he did. His voting record seems a little more AMERICAN LEFT than AMERICAN RIGHT. But to do so, or not do so as a political manoeuvre? Meh, says I.
The AMERICAN LEFT and AMERICAN RIGHT do not believe they believe the same things. I agree and believe they do not believe the same things. But I do believe they practice the same things to the point that, to an outsider, there is no discernible difference.
The way things are going, I am planning on writing in JESUS for President. I don't think he's going to win. He doesn't test well in the young urban professional demographic (not sure they even think he's real), and his PR people have really dropped the ball over the last 6800 quarters or so. Crosses on shields, indeed.
I don't mean White Jesus. No sashes.
Whoever thought that a first-century middle-eastern philosopher looked more like Val Kilmar after a summer at the beach than Osama bin Ladin should be shot.
Or, uh, shown a Brechtian puppet show.

List Part IV: General Politics.

I still believe that government can be an effective way of organizing people.
I do not believe that any governments have been very effective for very long.
Maybe they have never been effective.
For some reason I am still hopeful.
Some days, I don't believe anything has ever worked, that everything is a failure.
This is probably true.
Most days I think everything I do is a failure.
I don't know how that works with the concept of imago dei, which I also believe.
Ah-ah.
I believe in small government. I'm close to libertarian if you have to define me.
Quit defining me.
I don't think I'm an anarchist. I don't know why. It seems almost closer to what I think than libertarianism. Maybe I think people should organize for safety. I would like this to be true.
Maybe it's that I still want decent roads, dangit, and don't want to pay some company for it.
I don't trust companies any more than I trust governments.
I don't trust any groups of people.
I don't trust people.
Two anarchists walk into a bar. Because they wanted to. Ow, though.
Also, clean water would be nice.
And laws against slavery and such.
How to enforce without force, though . . .
A good law is sometimes all an oppressed person needs.
A good swift kick in the pants is sometimes all a snotty person needs.
My Facebook political views say I am not interested in power.
I am interested in power.
I do not want to be.

List Part V: The Undiscovered Country.

Who says it has to be death?
Shakespeare? What did he know?

List Part VI: In Conclusion.

In a series of articles beginning here, that is not yet finished, Zack Exley says that Christians need to go beyond love on the small scale, and can organize to love on the big scale. That large organization does not necessarily mean failure. I don't know if I believe him yet.
In light of that, I would like to define my politics as loving the people I see better than I love myself, and trying to see as many people as possible.
I do not live what I believe about politics.
Does anyone live what they believe?
Is everyone a failure?
Likely.
I believe that anything that can go wrong, will.
I also believe that anything that can go right, can, sometimes.
So yeah, I still have hope.
I believe in hope.
Um, JESUS for President!

The Song That Never Ends

2008-05-21T22:47:00.001-05:00

I am writing this using entirely the speech recognition software built into Windows Vista. My hands are behind my head. I kid you not. I am navigating Firefox without touching the keyboard, laying in bed. The future is now. Or something.

What is really odd is how I went to Quiktrip with Amanda before we worked on our book earlier this evening and how sort of I thought I could use voice commands to pull things off the shelves. Like I could get the chips to fly into my hand, or maybe just show blue numbers over the vodka which would allow me to click on the bottle to get more information. It's kind of like when I went to see The Matrix having just seen Dark City for the first time. I came out of AMC 30 and walked across the concrete star where you can lay down and hear your voice echo in your ears, and for half a second I thought I might be able to fly with just the power of my mind.

Maybe this is one of the reasons I like to turn the volume down when the commercials come on when I'm watching Lost. Besides the reason my mom does it. Which is also the reason I turn the radio off them in the car with people, and partially why I break the spaghetti before I put in the pot. I mean, I like shorter spaghetti. It's easier to eat with a fork. But also that's what I grew up with. But I turn down the volume because I don't want those stories to dictate to me what I'm supposed to think. I'm very impressionable.

For example, in a conversation with someone with whom I disagree entirely, I will totally lay out all the reasons I disagree with them. Three hours later, I argue their point to someone else. The conversation about total depravity comes to mind, just so you know, Steve.

I've talked about this before. Remember the whole conversation about that nasty drink called Snow that they sell at Target which is a minty carbonated beverage that I actually liked until everyone else said they hated it? Yeah, I'm that guy.

So yeah, I typed and edited the whole thing, italics and all, without touching the keyboard. Ain't I fancy.

Ruminisms on Euphamisms

2008-05-16T06:49:00.000-05:00

Not since The Popsicles have I seen a band with as much pageantry and positively electric stage presence as The Khrusty Brothers, who I saw last Friday night at the Crosstown station at the same time as such friends as Jill and Lucas and Moe Didde and John Raux and Dan Farmer and Bet(h) Mercer and well, half of Jacob's Well, really. Saying it's a great show is an understatement. Good songs, good theatre, good performances. Good. Their upcoming show at the Bottleneck in Lawrence has been postponed, but when they play next, you should see them. Even Jill loved the show, and she's not such a big fan of concerts. They're kind of a Beck-ish rock band with two drummers and an announcer named Cowboy Jesus who dances through the whole set. I'd dance to them. I did dance to them.

They've got a line in their song 'Sympathy for Jesus' where a man with a "hot gun" stumbles into church to tell Jesus his demands. But some angels are acting like Jesus's secretary. The man calls Jesus out on this, and then Jesus calls him out right back and says to him, "so address me to my face, if you think you've got the balls." The man "tries hard to remember every shitty circumstance" to tell Jesus to try to vindicate himself. Jesus tells him he "appreciates [the man's] kind and pours himself a drink," and then kind of goes off on a non-sequitur, telling the the man that that Jesus is "saddled with the job, you know, interpreting [his] dad to a bunch of frightened people. Frightened or just mad." Then he says "I got my fiancee; she's supposed to speak my mind; sometimes she's just chicken, and she meses it up other times," which is referring to the church as you know. Maybe even suggesting the man should have been helped by the fiancee.

It's a great song, and you can listen to it here if you want. I'm a big fan of using art to recast things that are commonly known into new metaphors. So calling the church Jesus' fiancee is pretty boss. another good example would be Page France's 'Chariot', where the singer refers to Jesus as "the blushing circus king." I need more artists with good imaginations like this.

Ok, even though I think it totally fits the song, and the concept, and I think I like how it works in the song, I've got to say here, just so you know, that 'shit' is my least favorite word.

That's what I'd say if they asked me on Inside the Actor's Studio. I might even say "the s word" when asked. By the by, 'bastard' is my favorite swear. It has a really good ring to it.

Here's how much I hate the word, though. If I were reading this aloud to you, I'd substitute "the s word" for the s word. Ridiculous, I know. I don't even want to write it more than once. Even though it's powerful and specific. My morays getting in the way of my literary aspirations.

I only bring the specifics of the lyric up because I've been present in a number of conversations lately that have been about swearing. The general consensus seems to be that Christians should swear when the situation would warrant it, because that's the honest and non-hypocritical thing to do. Even Shane Clairborne in Irrisitible Revolution talks about how there was a youth pastor driving these inner city kids to a youth camp, and on the way, the van broke down in a particularly annoying fashion (storm or summat), and he let rip a fine string of obscenities while getting the van up and running again. The story goes that a bunch of the kids that rode up in the van decided to follow Jesus that weekend, and when the pastor asked one of them why, the kid said that if a guy who could get angry and swear like that could follow Jesus, maybe he could too.

And then Steve said the other night (on the porch at the guy's house. Again, yay porches.) that when you say 'heck' and 'darn' and 'shoot' and what-have-you that that's also dishonest, not just ingenuine, because you're thinking to say something else, and we all know what you meant, really.

Earlier today, my friend Zack dropped the f-bomb in response to something I was saying about human trafficking, and then he quickly apologized because he had forgotten that I was the sort of person who did not like swearing. I'm not sure I've ever told him this. Maybe it's my "Christian-ness", whatever that means. I thought it was appropriate, honestly, considering the nature of human trafficking.

Here's my deal; I grew up hearing that swearing meant you didn't have a strong enough vocabulary to express what you meant. My parents actually said the alternate words and phrases (with the very rare exception) and so that was what I thought one said in those circumstances. Not that I didn't say 'crap' or whatever mid-range swearing is out there (list includes bastard, but not gang, darn, shoot, or rats, in my opinion), but it actually came as a surprise as I got out into the world that other people really used words like 'damn' (and worse) in non-cinematic conversations.

So I feel a little guilty when I say things like 'for crying out loud' or 'what the heck' because I don't mean 'for Christ's sake' or 'what the hell,' and I'm sure it sounds like I'm inauthentically censoring myself, but I'm not thinking those other things in my head, and then modifying them for the audience, that's what I mean to say.

I wrote a short story my junior year where most of the substance came from the irony between the characters names and what actually happened in the story. For example there was this character Anne, whose name means 'grace', and she was very ungracious to people. Get it? Do ya? Ha! Yeah, it sucked. I also put some swearing in it to make it seem more realistic, because most all the people I knew were swearing types. Teena Winter, who was my very good English teacher at the time, said that among the many faults of the story was that my swearing didn't seem authentic. Tacked on, as it were.

Although, once in a great while, I'll think a swear when I've been reading Stephen King or watching Boondock Saints or whatever, I'm not tempted to say them. What does that mean for authenticity? I think some things I don't say, but I don't consider those thoughts things that I'd actually say. Like, I think about skateboarding ala tony Hawk all along the pews and front of the stage EVERY time we go to Olathe Bible Church, but I'm not going to even try. Also, I can't skateboard.

Of course, I do take way too much pride in the fact that I've never sworn using the "bad words". Yeah, I've quoted people who swore, and I'd be lying if I told you that the Jill and I hadn't reclaimed some colorful terminology for our own, non-vulgar, usage, but I mean, in anger, I've never said . . . well, you know . . . all those words that most people say. I think back the angriest I was in my entire life, and my exact words were "Oh for crying out loud. You're got to be kidding me." I have said "freaking" (sung that at church, even) and "bastards all" and "load of crap" and "full of it" (with no intention of 'it' meaning anything but the pronoun) and even "freaking bastards" (most of this in response to anecdotes concerning corporations who have screwed people over, if ya believe it), but never have I said any of these at someone. Even when I'd say I've had good reason.

Like I said, too much pride.

Jill has said this is an example of my non-emotiveness. I'm not sure what she thinks now. But that was a point of contention for a while there. Which, she, ironically, expressed using such language. One of her favorite swears is my least. Go figure.

Maybe I'm just coming in to you, like you're Jesus in that church, hot gun in my hand, and trying to vindicate the fact that I don't swear, and that's dishonest. But maybe the point of writing this is to try to say that it's not dishonest for me. But then again, maybe I've betrayed the opposite.

To others of you, I think I'd have to come in and justify for the little swearing that shows up here, since it likely, in your mind, falls under the "coarse jesting" or the "let no unwholesome talk come out of your mouth" bits of the New Testament. And let's not even get into the whole, "Let your yes be yes and your no be no" business, which shows up in these conversations.

That's all I've got. I'd say something clever, swearing for ironic emphasis, but I don't feel like it. See, not even for the irony.

Left hand meet right hand. Oh, you know each other? Well, crap.

2008-05-12T16:55:00.000-05:00

Back in high school/early college days, I had my room set up just the way I wanted it:

Bunk bed with a loveseat pushed up against it and comforter hanging down from the top bunk to create a cocoon-like curtained-off sleeping chamber. Sitting on the loveseat, I could access my computer (dial-up FTW), my VCR (used to hit Movie Gallery and watch a movie a night), my Nintendo (only 60 or so games at the time), the portable CD player that I bought a 50 foot cable for to hook up to the totally old school stereo system/turntable on the other side of the room. Records for the stereo. A keychain collection hanging in a long chain over the closet door, floor to doortop to doortop to floor.

The walls and ceiling were covered with posters, the bad hair day cat, my StuCo campaign posters, a Tim Johnson South Dakota campaign sign that Juliet had lovingly added the letters OTHY to, a Toy Story poster, a set of multi-colored cards describing my identity as a follower of Jesus (I would have said Christian at the time), some CD cover posters I got that summer I worked at the Christian Book and Gift store (Jesus Freak, Bloom, and later a signed Conspiracy No. 5 I got at a rare live acoustic show), a painting or two that I did living in Belarus, some witty postcards, and a bunch more that I've forgotten (but if you remember, feel free to comment).

Above the stereo, I kept a shelf full of nostalgic knick-knacks: craisens from Mackenzie, little spiky haired bottle cap guy from Mackenzie, a plastic dinosaur from Mackenzie (heck, a bunch of great white elephant stuff and birthday knick-knacks from my good friend Mackenzie who I kind of blew off about two years ago and still need to get back in touch with and apologize to), some paintballs from that time I went paintballing with the youth group (stored in a little laquer box from Belarus, two drippy candlesticks that were once lamps that I had used in my quasi-ironic shrine to Toy Story, a virgin strawberry daquiri plastic goblet filled with Frutopia caps, a Frutopia CAN, a can of Cheetoes, a marble or three, a double shot glass candle from prom, as many badges with my name on them that I could collect, my dead older brother's cap gun (with new caps I bought just for that gun), my ONHS spirit buttons, an Altoids can filled with cufflinks, and a bunch of other stuff I can't remember (but again, if you remember, feel free to comment).

That was me up there. I'm even getting a little nostalgic as I write this. That was who I was. Those things. Keychains, and the shelf of knick-knacks especially, and posters, and the computer, and the old NES games. I was the guy who didn't care if he had good stuff, as long as he had stuff he thought was cool. Especially if only he thought those things were cool.

The funny thing was that as much as all those things made my image, I had a friend tell me that of all the people he knew, I was the most likely to be able to give everything up. I was the most likely. That's scary.

Admission: I love shopping. Jill has a hard time remembering this for some reason, so it always catches her off guard when I actually need something and I go and have a long fun shopping time and get all kinds of good deals on stuff. I love walking around malls, going into every store that interests me. I love swap meets and garage sales and flea markets and Goodwill and thrift stores. Heck, I even really like grocery shopping.

The thing is, over the past few years or so I've been realizing how much I've bought into the lie that what I own is who I am. It's a big lie, too, and a lot of people believe it, even people who aren't necessarily materialistic. Maybe even especially the people who aren't materialistic. In our culture, what you don't own is as much your identity as what you do. So I've really laid off shopping. To the point that I probably could use some more clothes than I have, but it's almost an addiction to paint my identity like that, so I keep away as I can.

I was saying week before last about that walk I took at lunch how I like being seen. I like my image to be one that makes people think, makes them question their own image. Like, "Hey, that guy is X, and he's Y; I didn't know you could be both. For example, I used to try to be a "cool" Christian. I'm not sure anymore that such a thing exists. Now I'm not even sure what image I'm trying to project. I want to be the iconoclast. Also, something intelligent, probably. I like to be thought of as smart. But I want to give it up. Deepest down, I don't want an image at all besides Jesus (Try the You are the Image song here, which should also give you some insight into a recent post title), and I have no idea how to shed everything else.

But just a layer shallower than that, although I've somewhat left behind the image of the guy who only owns stuff he thinks is cool (oh but not entirely), I want the image of the guy who doesn't own very much. Or the image of the guy who owns nothing.

At the same time, I don't want to own very much. I want to live simply. I could do it so no one knew about it, I wouldn't care. If someone broke into my house and stole everything we had, I'd be sad, but I'd also be really relieved. It's even a selling point of moving to the east side: better chance to get our stuff stolen. Ha.

But not ha. I'm kind of serious. Jill and I actually talked about it and the only thing I'd really be sad about losing would be some of the data on our hard drive. Which is a good reason to start backing it up off-site, which we've started to do with our pictures (Thanks Dropbox). I'd be fine with losing the books and the games and the game systems and Nintendo games and even the laptop (I'd actualy be saddest about that, really. Almost as much as the data.) and the DVDs and the furniture. I'm cool with that. And I really want everyone to know that I'm cool with that. But I also don't want anyone to know. You know?

In defense of porches.

2008-05-07T10:24:00.000-05:00

There's nothing to defend. Porches rule.

But for the skeptics, I'll provide two short examples.

Example 1:
Had the Jr. high guys over last night for our weekly group. Talked about how Jesus is the gospel and how he wants to marry everybody. Also, Schrodinger's Cat, God's possible deterministic role in random chance, the Monty Hall problem, and we watched the We Didn't Start the Viral video, which isn't a rickroll, but features Rick Astley towards the end. Also, there were fig newtons.

Afterwards, one of the guys and I sat out on the porch waiting for his dad to come get him and talked more about certainty and the role of the observer in epistemology. The porch was awesome.

Example 1: PROVED

Example 2:
Sunday night after church, the guy's house held an after-after party for the spring formal they'd held Friday night. We grilled hamburgers and hot dogs, and Brett decided he was going to be "re-emergent" to be contradictory to Steve, who is post-emergent. We talked about how Christianity is changing, and about old churches we'd gone to and new churches we go to. I head nodded to a guy walking down the sidewalk and he nodded back. Austin cleaned a bunch, and then we played Twister in the dining room. The porch was awesome.

Example 2: PROVED

The foilbles of frequent communal meals

2008-05-02T15:02:00.000-05:00

Last Sunday, we held the family celebration for Amanda's birthday over at her apartment. Jill and I brought low fat strawberry and low fat caramel ice cream and waffle cones and sugar cones. Amanda had some sherbe(r)t and some low fat other kind of ice cream I've forgotten . Probably chocolate. With my chocolate allergy, I tend to block its presence out of my memory. She also bought some cake cones that turned out to be kid size. Which is good for those on diets. Also, Lilliputians.

The appropriate party epoch for ice cream distribution arrived, so I got all the ice cream out of the freezer, opened the cartons, got out spoons for each kind of ice cream, opened the cones, announced that ice cream was ready, waited a few minutes, and then piled my strawberry on my waffle cone to get the ball rolling; people sometimes have hangups about being the first in line, so if no one jumps in, I'll sometimes just start things off so people will feel comfortable getting food. Feel more like they're at home.

I sat down on the couch with my cone, and both my mom, and my grandmom (Omi) commented more than once that I hadn't served anyone else. It took me a second to realize what they were talking about. I'd opened the cartons, got everything set up. It's not like I got the ice cream out, made a cone and put everything away. That'd be rude. You leave dessert out for a while so people don't have to go rooting for it when they're ready for it. I announced the ice cream was ready and didn't jump in right away even, although it was fully within my prerogative as person who set the food out.

Then I realized that at Omi's house, when there was ice cream, everyone sits around and waits for the host to serve them. Aha, cultural differences at play.

See, at our house, the food sits on the peninsula, and everyone grabs what they want and makes what they want and eats how and where they want. I usually get plates out for people, but the silverware and the cups in the drawers on the peninsula, you can get what you need. Most people who come to our house more than once even know where the pots and pans are.

It never crossed my mind to directly serve the people at Amanda's party their food. I mean, wouldn't that make them feel less at home? Wouldn't it make them feel like I was dictating to them the manner in which they should eat their food ? That they are less capable?

The answer is obviously no, but this incident does highlight two different schools of hospitality: Make the guest feel at home, and make the guest feel like royalty. Both of these serve people, I think. One says, let me serve you directly. One says, let me serve you by making you feel at home. Yeah, I could have gotten them cones. And maybe I would have thought about it if we didn't frequently eat similar meals at Amanda's that we do at home. Heck, I'm sure I should have gotten them ice cream in order to be hospitable to them. Just didn't occur to me. Whether that's unintentional rudeness, or unintentional cross-cultural sensitivity, that's up to you, I think.

The nature of hospitality is an easy place for cultures to clash and feelings to get hurt.

We had some friends at OBC, the Hoskins, who totally fell into the royalty category. Parties at their house were like catered affairs. There were particular times set aside for various planned events. They even pre-planned dinner conversation topics. All to make people feel special. It was very impressive, but not really my bag. I'm a pretty laid back person, and that sort of hospitality always felt too rigid. I appreciated it for sure, but it sometimes felt stilted. I know they didn't feel this way, but almost like they didn't want us to get close, so they put up structures to keep it from happening.

There are a number of households like theirs I visit on frequent (or occasional) occasions, where all I want to do while I'm there is sit on the couch. Houses that do the royalty style hospitality. Omi's, for example. Anything else I do besides sit, I feel uncomfortable, out of place. My guest status places me outside of comfortability and familiarity.

But there are other houses (hi Guys' House) where I sometimes even naturally take up doing the dishes when they're dirty. I take more ownership of post-dinner cleaning because I feel more like their home is mine.

I'm not saying one is good, or the other is bad. One's clearly easier for me to live in. But it is another example of how very easy it is to unintentionally cross cultural boundries with people even in your same culture. Almost worse than full-on cross-cultural faux pas because we don't realize the other is Other.

My once per year snarky comments about local media. A few years ago, I called 980 KMBZ about Mr. Remodeler Dean Blay.

2008-05-01T21:19:00.001-05:00

The following email was sent to KMBCnews@gmail.com at 9:14 P.M.

Subject: Breaking news! LOST, quality television production pre-empted AGAIN

Seriously? This folderol again? ABC newscasters heart their own faces, year II. Look, I realize we can watch LOST online tomorrow. But if this is the case, we can also check our weather online, and don't need continual blanket coverage of a storm. I hate to break it to you, but there are other media from which I can get news. Media that aren't preempting quality programming. This evening, Channel 41 gave their weather report in commercial breaks. Channel 4 is running a bold scroll along the top of the screen. Ia lso realize Brian Busby only gets so many chances to get his face on TV, and needs this sort of seasonal career boost. Oh, wait, he's on every bloody night; I forgot.

I understand this sort of letter will have no impact on your programming decisions. Ergo, I see no reason to continue watching your station when your delight in the the availability of later internet viewing is so apparent.

The letter was unsigned.

Flotsom and Tidbits

2008-05-01T15:41:00.002-05:00

Bison vs. venison vs. lamb. Who wins?

Took a walk today at lunch. It was windy and cloudy, but warm. Stuck Irresistible Revolution in my back pocket and read as I forged down the sidewalk, my newly longer hair flapping about like an agitated flamingo. Was not expecting a re-read to be this challenging. Was wrong. Am challenged and unsettled. We'll see where that goes. Had a BOB at Taco Bueno. I know, I know fat burritos are fattening. Also, delicious. Ordered it to go without a bag because I would just throw it away. The food makers gave me a bag anyway, but the manager fellow manning the counter saw that and debagged my food for me, hopefully to reuse for the next order. But who knows. I mean, what am I going to do with a plastic bag for one burrito? Make a wee parachute and get a lift back to work? That sounds fun, if a tad futile. Stopped at the Hyvee convenience store on the way back and got a diet Sunkist. Which has caffeine. Which I lovehate. And have quit, apparently. But, mmboy, alertness in the afternoon is delightful. That's my forth day in a row taking some small amount of caffeine. Shayne Wessel told me this morning that if I write more on the drug than off it, maybe it's worth being on, seeing as how I love writing so much. I'm not sure I know how to keep form over-doing it. I can't imagine being able to go back to teaching without the ability to stimulate my brain on those days I stayed up too late the night before.

When I came back in, it took almost 20 minutes for my sight to readjust to being inside. Is that normal?

Been catching up (on emulator) here at work on all those SNES games I never played as a kid, not having a SNES, or being good enough friends with anyone who had one. Final Fantasy VI (or III, depending on your nationality) has been my constant work companion for the last two weeks. Impressively epic story, especially for a ol' 16 bit system. Here's a sample: rediscovering that long-lost magic still can exist in a world that's been without it for centuries, singing in an opera in order to attract a roguish airship captain (actually had to memorize some lines of the libretto), redeeming past failures with new friends, losing your family to war and getting one last chance to see their spirits before they cross over to the afterlife, challenging the heart of a vast and oppressive empire, saving the world from destruction but not total devastation, getting depressed and attempting suicide in an isolated corner of the new and desolate world. And that's just the first half of the game. Also, this is time consuming and I'm lazy. Hence less blogging.

Which leads me to the next item. Today is RSS Awareness Day. Which is a ridiculous thing to have an awareness campaign for, considering all the other more important things in the world that could a day of awareness. But RSS is helpful for catching my blog when it's updated, rather than furiously refreshing the page all day waiting for me to post. so that's nice. RSS is a way of aggregating and viewing continually updating websites all within a single other webpage, or reader. Kind of like getting an email every time a webpage updates. So, when my favorite blogs or news sites or comics (except Married to the Sea/Natalie Dee/Toothpaste for Dinner, dangit) update, it shows in my reader, and I can either choose to go to the website directly, or just browse in my reader. Here's a nice lo-tech video explaining it: http://rssday.org/. Jill just started using Google reader, too, and seems to like it

Speaking of blogs, my brother in-law-in-law, Nicholas, a music fanatic, is starting a new blogging project where he listens to "Christian" and not music for a month each and records his moods. http://3030musicjourney.blogspot.com/ I've already subscribed to the feed.

Just watched the documentary The Business of Being Born with Jill and Nick and Martha. You should see it if you're into well made documentaries. Some stats: When the film was made last year, more than a third of American hospital births end in C-section. New doula Kathy Weatherford says it's now 40%. That number could be 50% by 2010, based on current trends. Less than 4% of American home births end in C-Section. Now, less than 3% of births in the US are attended by midwife. The average in the rest of the "industrialized world" (Hi western Europe!) is 60%. We have the second highest infant mortality rate among those countries. All I'm sayin' is, somethin' ain't right there.

I'm thinking about going back and re-proofreading and editing and tagging all my previous blog posts. Is this worth it?

Yesterday lunch: a peeve thwarted and a vaguely related theory. Beware of a sharp turn and an abrupt stop.

2008-04-24T11:44:00.000-05:00

I bought some strawberry yogurt at Whole Foods to have for breakfasts. I got some organic, some fat free and some regular so I could compare and see what kind I'd like for future breakfast purchases. Yesterday morning, on the drive to work, Jill had one of my yogurts. Which is fine. Food is food, and our policy is that any food in the house is for anyone in the house, resident or no. And she even asked, which she didn't even have to do. So that's cool.

On the drive over to pick up Adam, the smell of yogurt filled the van as Jill stripped the foil lid off most of the way (so it wouldn't fall off and she didn't have to throw it away separately (a very responsible and considerate on-the-go packaging maintenance procedure, says I)) and stirred the lurking strawberry puree off of the bottom.

Now, I didn't say anything at the time, it would have been ridiculous and rude (this is going to sound a little absurd) but that kind of thing really bothers me. Not the eating in the car, or the smell of yogurt. I'm cool with that. It's the packaging. I don't have a lot of neuroses (the sound of people blowing their nose is one), but half-unwrapped food is probably my number one irrational pet peeve.

There is little in the world that grates on my nerves more than a cheeseburger half-wrapped in paper, or a popsicle with the wrapper pulled down, or a Chipotle burrito with the foil stripped around to show half of the thing. Or a yogurt's foil lid incompletely removed.

I know, I know. These eating techniques reduce the mess. And I'm a person the frequently finds mustard on my shirt. So you'd think I'd adhere to a culinary modus operendi including packaging-come-barrier, but no. I want my food out of its wrapper (a word I hate for some reason). I want my burrito laying on the foil not in it, my burger fully naked in my hands, and my popsicle accompanied on its journey to my mouth only by a wooden stick. I even pull the little paper cylinder off of ice cream cones.

Maybe it's a bizarre fear of biting into paper. Maybe it's that I don't like to take any unnecessary breaks from chowing down. Maybe I'm just weird. But I always, always, fully unwrap my food before I eat it. That sometimes means messy hands and more napkins (I also don't like used napkins, or especially Kleenexes, by the way). But I'm more willing to have half of the burrito innards in my hand than keep that thing under wraps. Ketchup, mustard and onions on my fingers? Sure, just as long as there's no wax paper on it when I'm eating.

So when yesterday, a beautiful day, even with the clouds, maybe because of the clouds, a great day for walking, on the 20 minute stroll down to Sonic for lunch, the food took so long to prepare that when it finally it came, I was forced to take burger in hand, water in the other, book in back pocket (Irresistible Revolution still) and start my trek back, I completely unwrapped my burger, and ate it as I walked. Dripping a wee bit o' mustard down my shirt in the process, as you might expect.

It's a funny thing, walking down 119th street from Renner (ish) to Ridgeview. They have nice, wide sidewalks, but the entire area is very clearly a non-pedestrian zone. I feel iconoclastic. I'm breaking the taboo. Lookit me, lookit me, I'm walking, I think. Same with the burger yesterday. Lookit me, lookit me, I'm walking with a burger and a cup with a straw. Ain't I crazy and stuff. Lookit.

That sort of desire for other people to see me walking is part of that whole interpersonal relationship theory that Don Miller writes about in the first third of Searching for God Knows What. How once upon a time people got continual exterior validation from God, and now we don't, due to that whole fall of man business, so we're always looking for external validation from somebody.

Even introverts are always looking for someone outside of ourselves to tell them who they are. When your mom or your teachers tell you not to care what other people think, they're kind of asking you to go against the very nature of being a person. Not that it's a good thing, per se, to always be concerned with what other people are thinking; it's just sort of who we are as people

I think the theory explains a lot of human behavior. That is, people are always trying to get someone else to validate their identity, to tell them that they're loved. They then act accordingly, to try to get someone else to tell them these things. It's why kids act up in school, and people get into bad relationships, and people try to be famous, why people tell jokes.

It's even part of why I write this blog.

Back on the wagon.

2008-04-23T10:29:00.000-05:00

I've been reading again. Dangerous, I know. I don't mean reading articles and magazines and blogs. That's kids' stuff. I can do that at work and no one notices. Those kinds of reading just give you a cheap high and only make you want something harder. Heck, I do them all day and have no adverse effects.

What I mean is the real hard stuff: books.

I know, I know. When I'm on books, I can get irritable, and I get nothing else done, and I get kind of obsessed. Like every book I read is the greatest thing ever, and other people should really give it a shot, man, everybody's reading it, c'mon.

But at least I'm not using novels hardcore yet; I'm only sampling at the moment. Mostly because I'm still plodding through Susanna Clarke's Jonathon Strange and Mr. Norrill, which is good stuff, don't get me wrong, but hasn't sucked me in like most novels do. I'm not sure if it's the characters or the plot or the writing (which is genius, and hysterical, by-the-by), but I'm just not that deeply into it. In the meantime, I'm not interested in picking up some other novel. I want to get through the one I'm in. So at least I've been able to stave off the novel demon for time being.

And yeah yeah, Jill and I will get together in the late evening, in the privacy of our own home, I might add, and take hits off Steven King's Dark Tower series, but that's purely recreational. Only keeps us up too late now and again.

But, I have been on a serious non-fiction kick for a few weeks, getting beat up in the best way by Jesus for President by Shane Claiborne, and Everything Must Change by Brian McClaren. Feeling discontented with my life, but not guilty, if that makes any sense. Next, I'm re-reading Claiborne's Irresistible Revolution for something lighter, if that's any indication. May re-read Walsh and Keesmaat's Colossians Remixed after that; I've changed my thinking so much even since I read that last year, and I'd like another shot. Anyway, I buzzed through all four of these books, not wanting to get bogged down in the details and lose the big picture. So now I want to go back and savor the specifics.

Reading has always been my gateway to changing what I believe. Then what I believe drives the engine of what I do. I'd like to write more here about these books, how they're changing me, teaching me, but I need even more time to process. The short version is that I don't feel like I've given near enough of my life to the things I believe in, the people I believe in, the capital P person I believe in. I am too content with what is safe, complacent, with what is socially normative, with what is uncreative, anti-creative, even. I'll get stoked up by something, and then come home, or close my book, and just want to play a game or flip on the TV, even for 10 minutes. Consume something to numb the discontent. Like turning on the radio do dull the boredom of car trip. It's exactly what I'm discontented about, and especially what to do about it, that's going to take more time to figger out enough to be able write about.

In the meantime? Mmm, books.

Overtime Illuminated

2008-04-19T14:49:00.000-05:00

Saturday workdays, the lights start cut.
I don't switch them on.
Only once, has a co-conscripted lit the office for our weekend duet.
Most times, we're isolated, half-lit by our under-shelf tubes,
the distant windows casting brightshadows of the parking lot across the ceiling.

Pick any day, and I'm drenched in fluorescence and
the voices of problem solvers trapped in cloth-covered cells,
walls on three sides; the fourth still cages.
Take a call, fix a call, close a call, take a call. Make 'em happy,
so they can buysellsteal the houses.

But this day, it's two voices like golfers,
I take a swing, he takes a swing, we take a swing.
Take a call, fix a call, close a call, take a call.
We wander the aisles quiet like vigil.
Here's a break, there's a break, queue fills up, tap it,
and it dries.

Saturday workdones, the lights stay cut.
I'm through the tinted doorway
and the sun's switched on.

Why, two nights ago, I meant to go to bed at 9:30, but got to sleep after 11

2008-04-18T15:53:00.001-05:00

Note: Although in-text links in blogs tend to be either lazy replacements, or unimaginative springboards, for content, I've been including more of them lately. Mostly this is so those of you who want to actually see or experience what I'm referencing, can, without having to Google them yourselves. I try to only link directly, and sparsely, and then only for those who might not have seen something and would like to. That is, you won't see things like "I was reading this today, and I am so mad about cheese now." More like, "I was watching the Dramatic Chipmunk video today, and it reminded me of blah blah blah." So, the goal is that you don't have to go off to a link and read something and then come back to get what I'm talking about. Think of links in this blog as more of bibliographical footnotes, or examples for a richer experience. Let me know if they're intrusive. Or I suppose, if you want more links to things I mention.

I took off Tuesday from work because I had spent the previous six days of work talking with the most uncooperative, anti-listening group of people I'd experienced in the previous 16 months of work. As weary as I was of that, and the fact that I'm working my 3rd Saturday in 6 weeks this week, I figured I'd be out longer than a single day if I didn't get some rest. That day was awesome.

But for some reason, though, I didn't sleep well that Tuesday night, and I spent most of the next day in a stupor, and by Wednesday night at 9, when we left Dragonfly from playing Scrabble at Dragonfly with Dave Weatherford, I was beat. Home by 9:30, in bed, by 9:45, you might think. But in reality, I got to sleep after 11. DUN DUN DUN.

Here's the story.

The fall after I stopped teaching, I was temping at a Perceptive Software. You know, the place with the twirly slide from the second floor to the first, and the free pop machines, and the frequent free leftovers from training classes, and the occasional fancy breakfasts, and occasional fancy lunches, and we went bowling my first week even though I was a temp and got paid for it even. Yeah, that company.

But it was pretty menial work -- entering information from trade show contact cards into a database program and then assigning the contacts to three people to do the follow up. Not much to it. I got good quick, and was buzzing through those things faster than they expected. So to entertain myself, I brought in some of my CDs. After a few dats of that, I started to get a little board. Most of the time I can only listen to a given CD three or four times before I need to put it away for a while. Historically, The Violet Burning has been the most frequent exception to that rule. But even so, and even with my surprisingly high tolerance for repetition of things that I like (my own jokes are an embarrassing example of this, also flash games), there's only so much I can take of the same songs over and over.

I'm not sure if it was from Wil Wheaton's blog that I first heard about it, but this is about the time I first started listening to Pandora stations, which I do pretty frequently these days when I'm in the mood for music, and some of those first stations I made are still in frequent rotation in the QuickMix we play when people are over at our house on Saturday and Sunday nights. But even Pandora got a little dull after a while. I guess I'm not huge music person.

On the way to work every morning, though, I was listening to the radio, and while I listened to the Buzz for music, I've always been more of a 810 sports talk or 980 news talk, or 89.3 pretentious talk kind of person. And sometimes, even though I'm not a big fan of the excessive southern accents of Christian radio voices, I even listen to 92.3 Christan talk (even though as rob Bell says, Christian is a lousy adjective), where it was either Ravi Zacharias or Chuck Swindall, depending on whether I hit the end of the 7-7:30 half-hour, or just the 7:30-8.

So one day, I thought I'd look up Ravi Zacharias, and listen to his stuff at work, because he has a wonderful lilting voice, and is one of those apologist people, who I had always liked, considering how they made me feel so smart. Once I started listening, though, I found that most of his online sermons and lectures were kept in that supremely annoying Christian radio format.

You know the one, where they take a 45 minute sermon, break it into three 24-ish minute sections with large overlaps so it'll fit into their half-hour-a-day programming format. They sandwich the sermon in the middle of some annoying theme music and local commercials with way more investment opportunities than I'm comfortable with, especially on a station that purports to be about the guy who liked to go around and say things like, "Blessed are the poor." But that's indicative of a whole freakin' culture of Christians, and is a whole blog for some other day.

Then towards the end of each day's sermon section, they play sappy music over the speaker as he (or much more rarely, she) talks. You know, like it's ending; so it doesn't sound like they are actually breaking the sermon up into smaller bits, and so it fits in their paradigm of Christian things need crappy music, especially at the end of a sermon; so it's more emotionally stirring. Because if you don't feel something, every time, it's not real, or whatever the bizarre logicemotion is. Because, you know, audience manipulation isn't a huge criticism of Christians these days, or anything.

And then the announcer comes on and reminds you of how great the ministry is, and how you really ought to send them some money if you've been 'blessed' by the ministry, or whatever, and they do such good work. (Ok, seriously, how often does a person who doesn't call themselves a Christian voluntarily listen to a Christian music radio station, let alone a Christian talk at you radio station? Just pull an NPR and ask for donations for the program if you like it. Why disingenuously drag 'ministry' into it?)

And then sometimes they'd do another 5 minutes of the sermon, closing with more sappy music, like it's actually ending (hint: likely it's not), or sometimes the speaker comes on and does a little interview, or explanation of his talk, or announces there's going to be a cruise that you should pay for. I am not making that up. (Nor am I making up the time that I got a brochure from a company advertising a cruise for the whole family!/missions trip to the poor in South America.)

All of this format isn't SO bad if you're listening on the radio. Where you hear part on one day, part on the next, and there's some overlap so you don't forget where you were the day before. But when you're listening to five sermons a day, it gets kind of old. And as much as I liked Ravi, it all started to feel a little excessive. Just gimme the guy's words, and leave the rest.

After getting frustrated with that, I thought I'd listen to some Tim Keel sermons that I'd missed from back before we went to Jacob's Well, because they are not made for radio, and I like listening to Tim Keel, and they go back a full two years, and a Tim Keel sermon does not have commercials (Unless it's for the KU Jayhawks, but we all have our foibles). After I caught up on the year of those I hadn't heard, I went and listened to Rob Bell's sermons from Mars Hill Church (Grand Rapids, not Seattle, srsly) because we'd read his book Velvet Elvis in our small group and it had been pretty paradigm changing for me. But their archives only go back twelve weeks, and I could easily listen to five or six sermons in a day. So I ran out.

Looking for more at-work listening fodder, I did a search for "Tim Keel" and "Rob Bell," looking for other people I could listen to. I found a couple of people that I didn't really get into, but that's where I first heard of Rick McKinley.

Ok, that's not entirely true, Rick is the cool pastor that Don Miller writes about in Blue like Jazz and other books, which I'd read. But I hadn't actually heard him yet. Rick sounds like a stoned-out hippy, and looks like a football player, and his church, Imago Dei, in Portland, has almost all their sermons online, all the way back to the beginning of the church in their archive. So I blazed a trail through through the entire three or four year archive, and by November, having switched to another temp job labeling accounting archive boxes for a conglomerate of industrial building part manufacturers in Lenexa, I even caught up to that week's sermon. So, besides the two weekely sermons from Rob and Rick, I was out of material. I spent the last weeks, before Thanksgiving, listening to the four gospels free from the open source World English Bible project.

Around that time, I listened to the November 16, 2006 message from Imago, where Rick laid out the seeds of what became the Advent Conspiracy, something Jacob's Well participated in this last year. Jill and I were inspired to join in on their relational gift giving and their spending less, making Christmas more Jesus-y. We even shared that sermon with the group we spend our lives with, and a bunch of them hopped on the Give More, Spend Less wagon. The whole thing is hard for me, because I really, really like spending money on people, especially at Christmas, but it's been a good learning experience, trying to break free of the religiously consumerist story we find ourselves living in.

So for that Christmas, we tried making gifts. I spent most of December making hollowed-out books, for example, and we gave some people times for us to go and hang out with them, and we gave Sam laundry facilities for a year. And after a year of seeing Sam a lot (we kinda like the guy), the following Christmas, we gave him another year.

Which brings us to Tuesday night. Our drier had been kind of laming its way through it's supposed job of drying clothes for the past week or so. Taking an extra half-cycle to wring out the water, and so on. Sam needed to do laundry, and we told him we wouldn't be there, but he's one of a number of close friends with keys to our place, so he went over while we were still in Olathe. We get home, ready to sleep at 9:30, and Jill went down to run another load of laundry, because we are trying to keep up with it, rather than let the clothes pile up all over our room like a lumpy patchwork carpet.

But Sam's clothes were wet in the drier, and our clothes from the load Jill had started that morning were wet in a basket, so I figured I'd run the drier longer. Even just air, hot or no should eventually do the trick. But the button didn't work. I checked the door. It was closed. Checked the lint screen. It was clean. Hit the button . . . nothing.

So while Jill and I argued about the state of cleanliness of the basement, and how months ago, to make room for games, I had moved a bunch of stuff into the area she had cleaned, and now there were spiders, and it was too cluttered to be able to vacuum, and she was unhappy about the whole thing, I unhooked the drier, slid it out of the way, moved all of the stuff off of Amanda's drier, walked it over, plugged it in, tested it (it works), spent a long while of sore fingers reconnecting the exhaust tube and it's wire fastener, and went to put Sam's wet stuff into the drier. But it was dusty, so Jill vacuumed it. Then it was uneven, and the feet, which are supposed to be adjustable, were not adjusting, so Jill went upstairs while I was figuring that out. Her suggestion of sticking the one corner of the drier on the carpet worked. So at least it was level and wouldn't walk all over the basement in the process of flinging water out of soppy garments. Then I put our drier back where Amanda's had been.

By then, for whatever reason, I was no longer sleepy, and in one of those rare, late-night cleaning binges, and spurred on by Jill's displeasure on the state of the basement and the need to put things away that we'd moved to get the drier away, began the long process of completely reorganizing the basement so that her laundry area would be clean, and, if I could swing it, we could still play games somewhere in the basement.

I had just finished folding up the table in the game room, so I could use that as a temporary staging area, when Jill came downstairs. She sat on the stairs, and I sat on a chair, and we talked about cleaning and organizing the basement, and about Jesus for President, which she is finishing and I've already read, and how challenging it is, and about our feelings on the basement and the cleaning and organizing. Then we went to bed and because I wasn't sleepy now, read some more of Wizard and Glass, which we've been ignoring for a while.

And I pulled on my stocking cap, and belatedly texted Adam to let him know we couldn't carpool to work because we were going to see Wes and Katy for dinner the next night, and slept.

BONUS LINKS:
1. I've seen some tie-lapse photography in my day, but nothing as beautiful as Eclectic 2.0 by Ross Ching.

2. Lauren Thompson's is my favorite of the whole series. But the whole Youngme - Nowme series makes me love humanity. A lot.

My licence plate is the image of the invisible corporate website. Ah-ah.

2008-04-16T18:49:00.000-05:00

I'd like to quote selectively from, and comment on, a recent memo I received on his behalf from the executive assistant of the president of the company I work for.

"You’ve all just heard my recent State of the Company address [No I didn't. I needed to either go to an late-in-the-day cocktail reception, which wasn't important enough to close our call center, or important enough to invite spouses to, so it wasn't important enough for me. Or I could have listened in on another time he gave the address during the work day. When I'm supposed to be on the phone. Doing my job.] and have some understanding of where we’re headed. You also should understand by now the importance of all of us contributing to the greater good [Emphasis mine. Nothing like using language most recently used in popular culture to justify killing undesirables in order to win the title of 'Village of the Year' in the hit comedy HOT FUZZ starring Simon freakin' Pegg, a comedic genius.] and that I’m looking to each to you to be thinking constantly of creative ideas to push the marketable concepts of our company to the consumer [No, no, not giving anyone in the company any raises at all this year wasn't enough motivation to stick around contribute joyfully. Now we're all being asked to do the job of the marketing department in our spare time? I'm gonna work here forever! I love being treated so well. Nigh unto a king. Sarcasm filter off. Ok, I mean, yeah, it's nice to be considered for input on things in a company. But how about any input what-so-ever on the methods in which we do our job, or the software we deal with on a daily basis? Oh, we're not smart enough for that? I guess we're also too dumb to give you marketing ideas for free, either.].

"A few people have already brought ideas [Never mind. Not all of us are dumb enough to keep our ideas to ourselves.]. . . . [O]ne that you saw in our presentation . . . was that of the license plate frame. The frames are being sent to each of you over the next few days so that you can put them around the license plates of your cars. The idea, of course, is that people will see [WEBSITE PRODUCT NAME REDACTED] and be curious enough to log in [to the website]. . . . [<stunned silence from me>]

"This is strictly a voluntary program. Consider, however, as shareholders and as workers with jobs, everything we do can only help to increase our company’s worth [Yes, master. I am your slave. My life for yours.]. As you help to increase the worth of our company, you may increase your own, as it may be worth your while to have one of these frames on your car. [Note how threatening these words are. Strictly voluntary" (I promise, no promotions or considerations will ever be given to those who uncompensatedly attach these advertisements to their cars), "consider," (or else!) "workers with jobs" (who can quickly become workers without jobs, if you know what I mean), "it may be worth your while" (Or I'll send a large man with a baseball bat to convince your knees that it would be).].

"Thank you for your participation!" [Thank you in retrospect for your condescension! (Which means talking down to)]

Now, look, I'm not against working for a company. Nor am I against spending time telling other people how great the product my company sells. If I think it's good. But in such a religiously consumerist society as we live in, I have a hard time plastering the iconography of any company on anything I have, let alone something unrelated to the product that it's on.

I have a hard enough time with the fact that I have a Sony TV, a Dell laptop, and a Panasonic TV (among other things) and that they all present their icon for through-worship (re: consumer envy) to anyone who looks. But I paid for (or was given) all of those things that have those icons on them. I'm not adding advertising on top of an already branded item. I.

But to be asked to tack advertising onto my car by a company that boasts at every quarterly meeting of how it puts its workers first, boasts of how hard our division worked this year, making the only profit in the entire corporation, boasts of sending a large dividend to the stockholders, and then decides that the standard (and only annual) less-than-inflation size raises are too much for the company to handle, is insulting. I mean, look, I don't need more money. In fact, I really need to learn how to live more simply, and have less money for me, and more to give away. But in a culture of a company where money is so important (Seriously, every meeting, the VP gushes over how big "the check" was we sent to the stockholders), it's just another reminder of the excessive power structure of our society, a narrative, I'm more than interested in deconstructing, if you get my drift. Think more 'demolition' than 'Derrida.' Heck, give my raise to other people. I'm fine with that. But don't ask me to shill.

Actually, come to think of it, the real estate industry is entirely obsessed with image. Here are some example email addresses that are not too far from the truth of email addresses I get on a daily basis: johnsells4you@besthomesinthegalaxy.com, or executivepremiereRealtorofthedecade@cheatstowinreaestate4you.com, or theonlyrealestateagentinamericasoyoubetterhiremesuckersImtheonlyoneinthgame@remaxbestestagentever.com.
I'm only slightly kidding. I have agents alk to me on a weekly basis FREAKING OUT that their image in our system is stretched or out of date. Not to mention the obsessive nature with which some agents pour over comparative statistics, asking me for the most esoteric minutiae of data in those reports.

So maybe it would be a good idea to plaster my 199x Toyota Previa (can I get a Juno shout-out?) UFO/baby blue egg with slogans for my company. We wash it once every few months, honest. Nothing says "Buy a New Home That You Can't Afford. It'll Make You Finally Happy in Your Loveless Marriage, Honest" like that van. Then again, maybe someone important will see it and realize it's in their best interest to pay me off to remove the ad. Like, bills in an envelope slide under my cubicle wall at midnight. Then I'd give it to a homeless shelter or something, just for the irony.

Mmm, irony.

Never Gonna Give You Up.

2008-04-04T16:43:00.010-05:00

I woke up this morning, a little groggy, but much awaker than I have been the rest of the week. Jill and I have been having a very hard time getting good sleep as of late. Sometimes we find ourselves awake at the same time in the middle of the night, and have conversations like, "I'm going to pee," and "Get me some water while you're up."

But this morning, I rolled out, showered, and dressed, all the while plotting today's blog post. It's Friday, and we take fewer calls. So I'd have plenty of time. I haven't written as much lately as I'd like. As I emerged from the closet, I had it. I had two recent events, tied together with another thought I'd been having lately, all shooting on ahead to a larger idea I'd been wanting to talk about. It was gonna be good. Not too long, but real punchy and relevant. Genius, I thought.

But now I can't remember it.

I've spent at least 20 minutes in silence today, trying to rework what it was, not to mention other thinking times throughout the rest of the day, and a couple of times trying to trick myself into remembering by playing a video game until I got lost in it, and then jumping out and thinking nonchalantly about writing. I took several hours off and thought nothing of blogging or writing or deep stuff. Went to lunch with Nicholas, read some webcomics, played some Chrono Trigger . . . nothing. I even drank some delicious green tea with lemongrass and mint that Dan gave me. But all to no avail. Maybe it'll come to me tomorrow.

It was something about . . .

See I tried to type just there to see if it would just come. Rats.

So, in lieu of my brilliance, here's some YouTube video brilliance. nothing too profound, but worth hearing from time to time. (And no, it's not our old friend Rick.): Music and Life

Oh. And as I completed that link, I just TOTALLY remembered what the idea was from this morning. Haha. I'll get back to you on that. Should be good.

Friday Night Art.

2008-04-04T16:43:00.009-05:00

Friday evening, Jill and Adam and Sam and Emily and I went to John Raux's art showing at Bad Seed over on McGee, which is usually the farmer's market/headquarters for a particular urban farm over around Bannister and State Line. But they allowed John to come in spend several months painting in their space, and then include those in a larger exhibition of his work exploring the last year or so of his life.

The space they own is two storefronts next to each other. On the the left side, the farmer's market side where they sell fresh fruit, and art, and baked goods on Fridays nights through the springsummer, John took a whole wall to document, in a kind of timeline, his last year's hike along the Pacific Northwest trail, a trail that runs from the desert along the US-Mexican border, through high desert and then mountainous forests, all the way up to a pass in the mountains at the Canadian border. He used photographs, and diary entries, and explanations penciled right on the wall to tell the story of his journey. He also hung some of his gear along the path: an icepick that he said he had first taken as kind of a joke symbolizing the end of the trip on the snow, but ended up as one of his most useful tools, even becoming a significant player in a 40-person, 4-hour ordeal that kept a tree lit ablaze by an exploding Sterno can from becoming a forest fire; his resewed backpack which had held the fish oil tablets that prompted a six-inch-from-your-face-400 lb.-black-bear wake up call, followed by a wild, screaming (two voiceless weeks followed), barefoot chase after the bear which concluded with a full-frontal charge at the bear, who finally dropped the now fishoilless, but ripped apart, bag, but didn't rip John to shreds somehow; and a Nickelodeon brand toy camera which he used before it crapped out in the middle of the most beautiful part of the hike, but still got some great pictures form none the less.

I took my time with the journey. Read the diary entries. Meditated on the pictures. Was moved by his essential humanity that I saw sparkling in each little piece of the whole wall. By the time I reached the mid-point, however, Oriole Post, a folksy band helmed by Rachel Bonar, had set up in the corner and started playing. I finished up the diary entry I was reading, John's tightwild handwriting on long thin cards, and listened to a couple of songs.

On the way home from work, we had dropped by our house to grab our new wireless router off the porch (our new, fancy wireless network is called TheRectory), and then headed over to to the Freak Show to decide where to go for dinner before we went to Bad Seed. Chipotle was the first suggestion, and a good one, and a delicious one, oh indeed, but I thought it might be cooler to go somewhere more sitty-downy, which is the kind of meal I like best. You're comfy, and friends chat longer than they should really have time for, and it's good.

We narrowed it down even further to family-style eating, and decided on Buca di Beppo, Korma Sutra or New Peking. Adam didn't want Indian, and Jill didn't want Italian, and Sam sometimes works at New Peking and knows the menu quite well as a result, and even gets a discount sometimes, so there we went. We had the salt and pepper shrimp, which comes whole and you're not even supposed to shell them when you eat them; and Adam's favorite the House Beef; and some spicy beef fried rice with broccoli and tofu. Also, because it's so fun, the five of us shared an appetizer sampler for one person -- because it comes with flaming gel in a little iron pot that's supposed to be used sear the one beef kabob it comes with. Fire! Every meal is better with a fire to sit around, no matter how small. Candles, and campfires, purple flaming gel for beef searing, whatever. Our server, who looks Asian, but endearingly used the term "ya'll," gave us extra gel for extra fire, and the bus boy guy was refilling our waters faster than we were drinking them almost, and we had a good time.

The house beef has garlic. And I had the house beef. So at Bad Seed, I found myself in the middle of a large tight gathering crowd of Oriole Post listeners, friends and strangers and people who I know, but I can't count among friends for a wide variety of merely circumstantial reasons, with garlic breath. Ah, alas.

After a couple of songs, Rachel's brother Kyle jumped in on the muted trumpet, an instrument he'd only picked up at Christmas, she said, as a gift from their grandmother who had wanted to learn her whole life but learned that starting at 70-ish does not supply you with sufficient lung capacity. Rachels' mom and dad were sitting up at the top of the stairs by one of those classic second story warehouse offices, and they confirmed the story. The place was packed with people I know from church, Mike Crawford and fam, the Keels, Beth Mercer, Tim Bridgham . . . like, everyone, really. It's cool to see an artist like John so supported by the whole community. I love the fact that our monthly leadership community dinners, the artists are invited along with the prayer team, and the music people, and the small group leaders. Let the artists see the vision too.

Anyway, We were standing by Don and Lori Chafer, and I heard them mumble something about 'going around.' Then I saw them leave the building behind me and a minute later reappear on the far side of the crowd.

At this point my heart was already stirring in that deepwater feeling of art that I get sometimes. Something akin to the feeling of getting delightfully lost in a large library, and then the added bonus finding books you'd sort of always hoped had been written. I hadn't seen the paintings yet, which were the real reason I'd come. For a while, when I'd seen him in passing, John had been talking and hinting about these huge paintings that he'd done to express what'd been going on in his mind and heart since coming back from the trail. So, the Chafers reappearance on the far side of the crowd prompted me to seek out the other gallery. I grabbed Jill and we threaded out of the crowd to the street to go see it.

On the right side of the building, the Bad Seed has a retail space, which (as I understand it) they're trying to lease out, but in the meantime, let John use to paint and exhibit. The walls were white, and the floor was concrete, and the six paintings hung like they were supposed to be there. And they were. Painted and shown in the same room. Not something you see often.

When we came in, John was standing in the middle of the gallery, talking with some people. I told him something too gushy (and maybe a little garlic-y), I'm sure, about how good the whole show was, and how impressed I was. He looked a little shell-shocked, even that early in the evening. I know he's an extrovert, but he's talked about how being out alone on the trail for so long made it really hard to be around lots of people. Maybe that's still going on.

But the paintings? I don't even think I can describe them. I've never seen abstracts like these. Strong lines and scandalous colors layered on huge canvases, each with a title and a poem to help explain. John let me take a picture of one. I forgot the exact title, but it's something like 'the hope and sorrow of time travelers.' This picture does not capture the scope and color of the piece, but at least it'll give you a vague notion of his brilliance.

I spent some time engrossed in the paintings. And I meandered back behind to where the Chafers were, and listened to some more Oriole Post, and talked to Dave Blattner. And then I meandered back. On a table in the gallery, there was a guest book. I wrote something about there being enough time in the world to let the all this art dribble down from the corners of my mouth; there was too much. Next to the guest books was a single poster advertising the show. I thought about taking it, but it didn't seem right. It looked good on that table. But a few minutes later, Oriole Post finished up, and I was able to get back over to the other side and finish looking at John's journey. And on the way, Sam showed us a poster he'd found in a stack on a chair somewhere, and we took one from the stack, and Jill got it signed, and now it sits on top of our book shelves, sandwiched between our poster that says "Despair: It's always darkest just before it goes pitch black," and out ostentatious large canvassy picture of us that my aunt and uncle made with their new business that does things like that.

After I went through the rest of the journey timeline, Jill and I hung around talked to Kyle Bonar, and then later Jenn Nolongeragneiwishicouldeverrememberhermarriedlastname. The garlic did not help the easy flow of conversation, but such is life. In the course of the conversations, both Jenn and Kyle asked what we were doing later. We said we were going to Halliday's fashion show, but only later did I realize they were maybe inviting us to hang out with them. Which is cool, because, growing up at OBC, Kyle was a cool guy, PK, off with his own stuff going on, someone I never thought I'd hang out with. And Jenn and I never seemed to be able to get along in youth group, ever. So to find ourselves in a place where we might evers pend time together intentionally is pretty cool.

It's been a lot better lately, but I've spent most of my life just assuming that I'm offending, like, everyone I spent any time with. Jenn especially, looking back. I got to the point where I didn't trust myself to make a good impression, so I just went with being me, bold and over-intellectual, sometimes at the expense of other people's feelings. But I'm trying to learn. Kind of like how I like Chinese food these days, and can tolerate mayo and Miracle Whip on sandwiches, and even pets sometimes (but seriously, people, I know they're cute, but do you realize how much we as a country spend on pets). But it's slow. Some days I get excited and say things that don't make any sense, or come off wrong, or I get all brainy and Jill gives me a a look. But I guess we've all got our brokenness to live with.

Then we ran into Andy Woolard, and talked about his blogs, his dad's blog, and the Interwoven Threads shirts (the new line's coming in a couple of weeks) we've been buying for presents for people since Christmas, and some other stuff. We met Andy in the first small group we were in at Jacob's Well, one that didn't end so well, with people with hurt feelings, and nobody talking about it. The remnants of that group eventually merged with our pre-existing Saturday night group. So it was cool to get to talk to Andy.

And then we left. Adam and Emily seemed ready to go, and Sam had to be home to go see Run, Fatboy, Run with his friend Tonya, who he works with at the Metropolitan Ensemble Theatre, and some other people, and we were going to Halliday's show.

But Jill called Halliday's roomate, Jill's friend, Jo Lee, and Halliday's show was already over, so those of us who were left walked down to the plaza on a gorgeous night and saw Run Fatboy Run, which was a typical comedy, but still funny becuase of Simon Pegg and Hank Azaria.

And then we went to bed because we were going to the farmer's market the next day with Amanda. and to see John talk about his show. And to set up the wireless network. but that's for another post.

Note 1: If you want to see some more pictures of what went down at John's show, a glimpse of some of the other pieces at least, check out the bottom of this set at Tim Samoff's Flickr.

Note 2: This blog post has been composed listening to the following: the sounds of other people answering the phone here at work; On Soundclick: Jukebox Heart, Radio Sky 70, Creeps, What You Got, Traveller, Taking Away my Good Feelings, Imo Fight You, and 4th of July [heck, yes] by Lowry; several people restarting their computer on the phone; and an awful lot of background talk about some sort of national championship.

Short, but pointed. Like a dagger, even.

2008-04-03T15:37:00.004-05:00

I am having one of those days where I really wish people would fix their own common sense computer problems (A pop-up is getting blocked? Why would you call me for that? Consider, please, simply allowing pop-ups on one of the fifty toolbars that you installed. You know, the ones that crowd the top of your screen to the point that every website gets scant inches to display information?), stop expecting me to do their job for them, be willing to trust me when I tell them that for certain subjects their local board is a better place for information, look at the screen and read off what it says when asked to do so, and just quit being such whiners.

But today, apparently, is not that day.

'Freak and' Rhymes 'With Weekend.' A History.

2008-03-27T19:18:00.002-05:00

Easter weekend, "The One with the Vigil," as we call it these days, was packed full, pressed down, and overflowing with activity. Like most weekends around here, really. I planned on taking tons of pictures all Saturday and all night, but for some reason, it slipped my mind. So, sorry about the lack of visual aids, all of you raised in the last thirty years or so. You'll have to rely on your wits for this one. Allow me to elucidate the weekend's events. Using links to demonstrate things you might have missed. No rickrolls today. I promise.

On Friday, I had been planning to start the Easter fast at noon, watch last week's Lost on my family-provided laptop and a' that, but Nicholas IMed me and wanted to go to lunch, and who am I to refuse a man a friendly lunch appointment? "Not me," said the me. Especially when the friend's took a week's vacation (against his will, Pappa, against his will!). I tell you the truth, it was a good time.

Twice since Nick's left working at our blessed corporation, we've had a chance to go out at lunch,. The first time was a substanative and spontaneous excurstion to purchase a tie so I could participate in a late announced interview. We used to hang out a lot more than we do now, But since we moved north, those times have grown fewer and far between. Even with us working together, I think we hung out less. Back in the day (twas four years ago, even!), we lived in the same apartment complex, and besides all the poker and games we played, also sometimes Nick would drive in his black Kia with the band stickers on the back, and we would jes' go and talk abut life and relationships (although we were not Freshman at the time, if ya believe it).

This last Friday felt like all those old times. Freshnostalgic like spring. For the life of me, I cannot remember where we ate, but I think I had a little too much. But since I wasn't planning to break the fast until Sunday, it didn't bother me. I am a huge fan of what Tim Keel terms conviviality, that is, intentionally and hospitably eating meals with people. Even if I eat little (wish that happened more), I still love the experience eating food with someone. Back in high school, I had some friends who, at a party, would always go out and grab food from some fast food place (Taco Bell, ima lookin' at you) right in the middle of the thing. I'm rarely offended, but that always rubbed me the wrong way. Spend the same money on something to share, man. I'm no Slow Food evangelist, but I think the way our culture does food is too personal, too individual.

Maybe like everything else these days, we've made what and how we eat a product of being consumers. I think 'you are what you eat' equates with 'who I am is what I buy'. And that individualistic view of food, where I'd rather get something I want than something to eat and share with someone else bothers me. We need more steaming communal pots of stew, I say. Bring back stone soup. Or at the very least, a roast boar, and, like, ten onions. And partridge? Bring the partridge.

I had a good time with Nick. There's nothing like, after a long absence, slipping back into a worn and treasure friendship that fits like it's tailored. Like when we go See Harmonie and Jason in Emporia. Good friends are like good wine: the more you drink the better. Wait. I'm not sure that's how it goes.

So, that Friday night, Jill and I went to the Tenebrae service for Good Friday, and on the way in the door, everyone was handed a rock to hold, but we weren't told what we'd do with it. I was sort of hoping for a symbolic stoning, but no suck luck. Perhaps the one of us without sin should have started, but he sneaked out the back when it started, I'd guess.

While we waited in the half-light, I studied the rock. Mine was a dark gray and roughly triangular, with one corner cut off. On what I considered the back side, because it was flatter than the 'front,' I rubbed a drop of wax off with my fingernail, wondering if this rock had been part of a candle ceremony at some point - a prayer vigil, or a Christmas Eve service where the room starts dark and then as each person lights their candle from the person in front, you all learn you're the light of the world, or sumsuch metaphor, and it's beautiful and flickering.

At the end of the Tenebrae, after all the side candles had been extinguished along the spoken road to the cross, we did a kind of reverse communion, everybody shuffling out of the row instead of in, and to the back of the sanctuary on a symbolic pilgrimage, and then down and along the aisle, even going front row to back row instead of back to front like usual. Instead of taking bread, dipping it in wine (it's really grape juice) and eating, we laid our rocks on the altar to show that we were sinful, we are part of the darkness. I'm a big sinner, so I put my gray rock right smack on top of the pile, next to the Christ candle that someone finally blew out at the end of the service as part of the ritual.

That's the the Christ candle we cantors were supposed to relight at the end of the vigil to signify that he had risen indeed. But the band was warming up rather loudly Sunday morning, drowning out our balcony playing and singing, and we had to shout out out the final reading in a lull, rather than cradling it with the Christ candlelighting between a version of Page France's Chariot that Sam had added some hallelujahs to at the end, and Sam's Easter song Rising Son. Neither of which we got to sing due to the band practice for Sunday morning starting so early. So a night's-long practice of discipline ended ten minutes early in the lee of a sound check. (And yeah, that's an odd use of the word 'lee,' but I like it.)

Back on Friday, having left our rocks at the altar, and awkwardly filing into our rows from the same end we came in, only the first person to leave was the first person back, we left the Tenebrae in sombre silence, as we usually do for those kinds of things. Adam and Sam and I stood outside our house for a few minutes, talking about life and relationships (also, not Freshmen at this point. Sam went to dance, and Adam we home, and Jill went to bed early, but I downloaded and played through a game called Polarity that is a short platformer that plays with magnetism in some interesting ways. But I still got to be with plenty of time to sleep. Or so I thought.

Over eight hours later, I woke up tired for whatever reason, and Jill and I headed off to Olathe (getting gass and a drink treat on the way) to Nicholas and Martha's apartment to help them move to their new place. As we moved our center seat from the van into their apartment so we could fit in some of their longer furniture, Adam joked that his parent shoul dhave come up for the weekend, since they ending up helping Nick and Martha move in the last time. But it didn't take long to brim the vehicles we had, and we were able to just escape lugging their cyclopean bedroom set on the first trip, so we headed off to the new place. Amanda and her crowd went for their drink treats then.

Now, the new house, is a delightful place, a good location for them, and pretty roomy to boot. Because I occasionally (re: frequently) complain that the living spaces we dwell in are too small , the Jill seems to think that I'd think that Nick and Martha's place was too small if we moved in a similar layout. But I don't think I would. They have four carpeted living spaces besides their bedroom. So there's no need to be concerned about people sitting on a hard floor. And if one of the rooms got full of people, we could easily move to a second room. Plus, the TV wouldn't be in the main living space, which would rule. But Jill usually knows me better than I do, so I could be wrong about all of that. Maybe I'd feel cramped. But I still think their house is frickin' sweet.

From there, Adam and I headed to the game store (31st Century, buy some games), while Jill helped Martha paint their new yellow bedroom not-yellow, to meet Jeremy McKean and Dan and Sam for some good ol' fashioned hardcore gaming to celebrate Jeremy's Christmas. But Dan was late because his wife's Dreamcast broke and he had to go buy a new one because she had her heart set on busting out Skies of Arcadia again, and also because that is what husbands do sometimes, even if it means leaving their friends in a lurch.

After waiting a while for Dan, Jeremy and Adam and I decided to see how far we could get into a game of Starcraft: the Board Game before he showed up. Not through the first turn, it seems. So Dan finally came, but Sam was delayed in his theater furniture acquisition geas, so we decided to play the already-mostly-set-up Starcraft: the Board Game so we could play something else when Sam finally arrived. But by the time Sam showed up, and watched the last few turns, and we even ended the game a turn before Jeremy was oh-so-likely to win, we didn't have enough time to play any of the games we had with all five of us. Which is pretty much the same thing that happened the last time we played a nice, long board game - Sam had a theatre thing, couldn't make it, and so missed out on the start, only coing in over half-way through. After an hour of waffling, considering whether to buy another board game that we could play in two hours, or just call it off for this week, or whatever, Adam and Jeremy and I played one last game of Starcraft, and then Adam and I rushed off to vigil, hot the heels of Sam who had left early.

I got my aforementioned nap in, and then Austin and Jake came over to hang out for a bit before the art show at the church because the main doors were locked when they tried to get in. It's kind of an odd combination of people to show up at my house, if you think about it. Austin was my free-spirited drama class friend from seventh grade who told me in my yearbook to keep never combing my hair, she liked my individuality so much, who then became one of the Seven Muses of my Ten Percent Society in high school. As old and dear a friend as I have. And Jake is a guy who went to my church, but I really never knew that well, but he did go to Belarus on a missions trip at some point, but I'm not 100% sure I was there at the time. He hung out with Brett some, and then came to our group some, and then lives at the guys' house over on the east side of Kansas City some, a block or two from the corner street sign that Heet Mob shows in the 'KC (It Goes Down)' video as representative of "the block [in Kansas City] that might hurt you." Jill was watching Underworld 2: Gratuitous Sex Scenes, during my nap, so we turned that off and headed to the art show after getting some pictures of Austin's new cute short hair. Which you can see at her Facebook, should you know her well enough to be a Facebook friend. Which is very possible considering she is cool, and many people like her.

We had to go in the side door, it turns out, as the front one was locked, and it also turns out that I was a little disappointed in the Body of Christ art show. Most of the time, I am blown away by the quality and quantity of art at the gallery showings at church, espeially the lemental Faith one last year, but there weren't a whole lot of pieces this time, and only a couple really grabbed me. Usually there's a lot to see and a lot I love, so one off night, and I guess I start complaining.

I liked Beth's photography piece; something struck me about her choices of images and their composition, and I also really liked the concept and layout of her poem. Mostly words and phrases I am excessively familiar with, but putting them in a poetic format made me think about them moire distinctly. But that is the point of poetry in my opinion - make the strange familiar, or the familiar strange.

I also liked the interactive grid of stylized woodcut (?) prints of body parts, labeled in Spanish, and hanging on pegs. You were supposed to take one, and as you did, it revealed different other ones beneath it. So, someone would take blood, or the spirit, or the skeleton, and a pancreas, or the intestines would be be revealed for someone else to take. All to represent the different kinds of people in the body of Christ. Too many of one, and the less popular ones would show en masse, so people would take those to maintain balance. I have the skull, and Jill took the eye. We'll hang them at home sometime here. They also had a really good strawberry puree punch, and given the concomitancy of the gallery and the room we read the gospels in for the vigil, I hit that stuff pretty hard all night.

Then we vigiled. Ben Anderson was there, and Jess Lempkin was there, and Beth was there, and Phillip, and Tim Bridgham, and John Raux, and Lukas, and Dave Blattner and Sam and Jill and Adam and me, and you were there, and you where there, and Bert the farmhand, even. I made that last one up.

After the vigil, like I said, I took a nap, and Jill tried to take a nap but didn't. As she lay in bed, she decided to wear one of her fabulous vintage sun dresses from her collection. But when she got to the closet, she found they were all too small. Which is cool for her because she's been trying to gain weight for a long while now, and only this last year has she been able.

But we made it to church, and Tim gave a good sermon on what the gospel is and how he hates the pressure of preaching on Easter. Jill and I broke our fast with communion, and served communion, and then we were out, saying that he was risen and responding "INDEED."

Our house was pretty messy, so we all (save Adam who was sore exhausted) headed over to the guys' house (on the corner of holy-crap-a-bus-crashed-here-call-U.P.I. and Walrond) to have bacon and turkey bacon (from Jill and me) and hash whites (browns take forever) and pancakes (from the guys) and eggs (from Sam) and all kinds of good Easter bread (from Austin) and juice (from Dave). All of which Brett and Jake cooked (except the bit of bacon Lukas the Austrian ate) which amazed Austin who has not been around long enough to know that the guys in our group do most of the cooking. So she sang some songs because it was Easter, and asked if we knew any good Easter sing-along songs, and we didn't, except for original Easter herself songs like that hips song from Shakira or Mouth, which we didn't think were quite appropriate for the situation.

But it was a good morning breakfast with family, the kind of mornings people are always looking for in bad poetry, and Brett (I think) said that we all should pretty darn well have a community house going by the time he gets done with college in two years, and I thought it was a grand idea. At the very least, a series of community houses, I think. Not as something to seek out in and of itself, but something still worth doing. Something prophetic, maybe even, to use an overused word. Something that says that the way we do things in our society isn't quite right, and not to be too idealistic,but that sometimes God can change people and they can live peacefully with each other. That sometimes people gave give themselves up for other people as a way of life. There ya go -breakfast on the bottom, hope on top.

After that, we took Sam home, and Dave home, and us home, and slept for longer than we intended because, I think, I turned off our alarm before either of us heard it. But then we went out to Olathe for Easter late lunch with my parents and sisters and the Fords (there is an overlap here, see if you can spot it). We had deviled eggs made the way I like them (no mayo, yes mustard), and burgers and hot dogs. Then we did our Easter egg treasure hunts made by my Dad, and then he did his, which was much harder, made by Jeremy Ford hisveryself. While he was doing that, we played a game of Settlers of Catan. My dad's prize for solving his hunt was playing spades, but since we were all going over to the Fords for Reign of Fire RiffTrax watching, the decided to go there and play there, since we were getting close the time and some cleaning still needed to be done.

But since we were in Olathe, we also went over to Jill's parents house, and we watched the drama that Jill's mom had written and directed that had been performed that morning at OBC, which made me tear up, and Nick and Martha showed up, and we all hung out for a while until I started sending text messages to Jill that we really needed to go to Jeremy and Juliet's because it was time.

From there, we went back to Nick and Martha's to get our center seat that Jill hadn't had a chance to retrieve on Saturday. At first, I said I didn't want to go now, that I could go later in the week, but Jill made the very good point that we would just keep putting it off, and maybe never get it back, considering our track record of personal sundry item retrieval. And I've learned that when the Jill gives advice, it is good advice, and should be followed. So we go that back in the van, along with our two tubs of back-of-the-car stuff that someone had put in another car when we were putting big things in, but we had to take out of that car because it they were not Nick and Martha's moving crates, just our car paraphernalia. We were going back and forth carrying the seat to our van and some clothes to their car, and once we had the seat in and they were inside the apartment, we took off like banshees. Or, more accurately, like two people who were about to go somewhere else, and knew that the other people they were with were also about to go to the same place as well, so there was no need to wait or anything.

As we turned onto I-35 from 119th, (which I always, always type 199th and have to go back and change) Amanda texted me to ask if we were coming, and I foolishly interrupted Jill's and my conversation to call her to say yes. But luckily, over the years, my museJill has learned that sometimes I just do things like that when people call, and there was no argument or anything. Bring in Ripley.

So, a little after six, Easter evening, we rolled up to Jeremy and Juliet's apartment building, late, but not SO late since we'd heard that the original start time had been pushed back to 6:30. After much hemming and hawing about what to eat, Juliet came up with Runzas, and we went with it. Runzas are bread dough stuffed with ground beef, sauerkraut and onions, which once baked, you dip in mustard. And although his may not sound appetizing, to you, here on the cold internet, even Nicholas, who hates sauerkraut, likes them. We also, for the real kraut haters, decided to make some pizza flavored ones, with cheese and pepperoni, which never really turn out as good as a hot pocket, even, but are better cold than the real runzas.

I made a shopping list, and some people went to the store to buy ingredients. While they did that, my dad's reward spades game went down in the bedroom, only Austin sat in for Jeremy, while some of the rest of us played Soul Caliber III on the mode where you fight with randomly dressed characters with random move sets. Jeremy hasn't played the campaign mode much, so our move sets were pretty limited, and we didn't have as many costume piece options as we'd like, but it was still a good time seening what absurdity would come next. The highlight was a gentleman fighting with tamborines who did slinky dances as he did. Tthis would not be so bad if he hadn't been wearing pants short enough to make Richard Simmons blush.

The ingredients purchased, Amanda and I set ourselves to make the runzas. Which involved mixing by hand ground beef and sauerkraut and onion flakes in a large bowl (kind gross/cool) and then opening cans of dinner rolls (apparently Price Chopper dinner rolls are not meant to be removed from the packaging without extreme force. A couple of people helping went as far as banging them soundly on the counter edge to no avail.), flattening the rolls, filling them with the hand-mixed filling, closing them up, and then placing them on the baking sheet. The pizza ones were considerable more messy given that they included spaghetti sauce. I can't be held responsible.

The runzas were cooked, and eaten, and distributed so that everyone got their fill. Spades was won. Soul Caliber III reminded us that even after all this time, a sword still desires truth. We got to the real entertainment of the evening: the RiffTrax. Now, the Reign of Fire Rifftrax is really, really good. The best of the series that I've seen. In fact, I've seen it 4 times already. So instead of watching it with Jeremy and Juliet and Jill and Adam and Jake (but not Brett, he had a paper to write on violence in movies, which I have now read, and think is good) and Austin and my parents and Nick and Martha and Amanda , Sam and I played Arkham Horror with the King in Yellow expansion which he gave me for Christmas, but I had yet to play. But first we sorted ot the other two expansions, so we could get a real King in Yellow experience. We didn't quite finish by the time the movie was over,but we were getting beat up int he game, so we didn't mind so much packing it up.

We made our goodbyes, and Jill and I went home and crashed hard. Didn't recover until Tuesday at least. Another typical weekend done.

PLACEHOLDER THE GREAT

2008-03-27T16:59:00.001-05:00

Had some long training this afternoon, friendsRomanscountrymen. I'll get the full thing up later tonight.

I wanna rock and roll all night.

2008-03-26T16:55:00.001-05:00

Saturday night into Sunday morning, Jill and Sam and Adam and I were the cantors for the all-night vigil at church. I only say 'cantors' because that is what Phillip called us at the end of the art show before the vigil when he was introducing us and telling people that they didn't have to stop chatting, but they would need to go up to the third floor if they wanted to keep talking, and then everyone just left anyway. I sort of prefer a label like "people-who-were-there-the-whole-time". But since we did read the hourly prayers, and kept up the all-night straight-through reading of the four gospels, I guess you could say we canted. We did plan some of the specifics at a meeting the previous week. But the overall structure was already there. cantor just seems so official.

I consider it to have been a good time, but I'm not sure exactly why. We read through all four gospels, but I didn't hear even half of that because I was off manning other things, and trying ot keep awake. And I didn't get much prayer done. Even though I had a good night's sleep the previous night, and a nap at about 4:30, I spent most of the evening and the whole night using all my focus to stay awake. Prayer and meditation were not happening. But the point, I think, of an Easter vigil is to try to do what Peter and John and James did not on the night before he died, and simply stay awake with Jesus. That, also, I did not accomplish. I made it all the way to the last hour. But I willed my way all the way there.

There were three watches. Nine to midnight, midnight to three, and three to six. Each watch had an opening prayer, prayers on the hours, and a closing prayer. The third hour of the first two watches, we set aside for silence in the sanctuary. The other two had Chant and the like playing. The ninth hour, or the third, third, we decided to keep up our tradition and play and sing music in the balcony of the sanctuary. Which is where I ran into trouble. Most of the night, the church had been pretty cold. I'm not sure why. But it did help me stay awake. Until the balcony, that is. It was 62 by the thermostat, and Jill had a blanket, so I snuggled up to keep warm. And zonked out.

Now, I had another nap between the vigil ending at six and the first service at seven. But I was still tired a good portion of the day. And kind of irritable. Which got me thinking about Jesus, how that whole last day you read about, or see movies about, the whole of the Passion movie, for example, Jesus is going on zero sleep form the night before. All his measured answers and presence of mind still somehow come out of a sleep deprived guy. Which I find impressive. Guy doesn't sleep, gets beaten within an inch of his life, and still, when is asked by the governor if he's leading an insurrection against Rome, gets the governor to start questioning the nature of truth.

See, I don't operate well when I'm tired. I can do things I really like a lot, reading or playing a video game, for example. Entertaining things that occupy my whole mind, but don't stretch it. But even while I was reading the last half of Mark and the beginning of John at the vigil, I started getting a little swimmy. I just have a hard time focusing on anything substantive when my lids are slightly heavy, let alone when I haven't slept all night. I don't get how other people can do it. I just want to curl up and sleep. I can imagine Pilate saying, "Are you the King of Jews?" and Jesus being like, "Can I take a 20 minute nap first? I think I'd answer better." That'd be me in his shoes. Which is just another good reason in a long line of good reasons that I would not make a good messiah. Lack of turning water to wine skills is another.

But, oh, have I tried. When I become an x-man, my mutant power will totally be alchemy. Just you wait.

LINK OF THE DAY:
For those of you who somehow missed this, and are fans of the rickroll, here's the man himself discussing it: http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/webscout/2008/03/rick-astley-kin.html.

And here's a much, much longer version with 3d charts and a monkey interpreting into sign language: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oHg5SJYRHA0

Why I'm not planning to teach this fall . . . I think.

2008-03-19T17:42:00.000-05:00

Forward
Thanks for your patience. It's been a while, eh? And I know this is similar to something I wrote before, but what I wrote before was why I'm not teaching right now. This is about the future. As I look ahead, I'm trying to work out why I'm not going back.

I started writing this blog a week ago Friday, and since then, I've just been coming back to it and back to it. I'd even been planning it for weeks before, letting my thoughts simmer. A simmering that overpowered the other dishes that I could have been preparing, as it were. Parts of it have been sitting as a draft since then. I've been trying to figure out how to say what I wanted to say. Not to be dramatic (too late!), but at this point, I'm not sure I'm going to be able. But I'll try. Otherwise, I'm not going to be able to get over it and write about other things.

Chapter 1
Jill's been job hunting lately. Looking through classified ads and Craigslist and calling in favors from friends working at places with openings. She gotten some calls from a couple shady places, a couple of solid places, but she's still looking for something that feels right.

It's a tough gig because just now she's finally looking for her first real job after college, what with feeling loyal to the law office she's been secretarying at for so long, and that she doesn't have a passion for any vocation really, and tied up with all that, she especially feels like her degree didn't prepare her for the job market. Or anything, I guess; she's got this fancy purple and gold Avila-stamped piece of paper that indicates she learned how to survive underneath an oppressively political leadership clique, but not much else. Jill wishes she'd gone through with her language degree, never gone with theater, something she thought she loved, but never did. And now she feels trapped by it. She thrives with deadlines and teachers to please, but has a hard time at self study. Kind of how I have a hard time thinking things through without someone to bounce ideas off of.

Chapter 2
A week ago Thursday (originally, this said, "Last night") we had a night off because we needed one. Normally, we'd be over at the Freak Show praying, but time together is one of those things, for whatever reason, that helps maintain a relationship. Go figure. (Ha ha.) I suppose, alternately, we could be over at the Vicarage watching Lost, but Jill's off the TV for lent, and I don't think I can, in good conscience, go watch TV on a prayer night. Besides, I'm seriously in love with the widescreen HD version of Lost I can grab off the internets later Thursday night and then cuddle up with on fancy family-supplied laptop in an vacant cubicle at the end of a deserted aisle. And since I'm certainly not looking to own a TV that can play the widescreen fanciness any time in the distant future, the download-then-watch-the-next-day model will have to do for now. But I think, Lent or no, we may end up just taking off Thursdays for ourselves. Not like anyone's going to be planning anything out of the ordinary that night. And we need time to be us, says I.

So, anyway, we finally beat X-Men Legends a week ago Thursday, having spent several shots at it over the previous week, what with the last boss being annoying and shielded and all. We used Wolverine alone at the end, with the rest of the X-Men dead, and his X Factor regeneration being the old thing that would allow us to survive long enough. We were both kind of disappointed at the lack of further playability upon beating the game, though. I mean, you level Wolverine up to 35 or whatever, you want to use him at level 35 to replay the game. But, no suck reward. A couple of retro costumes just ain't gonna cut it as a reward for beating your game, Marvel. Get with the program.

Afterwards, we were talking about the job hunt, and Jill asked me what degree I would get if I could go back in time and be who I am now, post-teaching, and choose again. Now, I was pretty non-communicative having just consumed far too much gluten by way of the runzas we had just made (mmm, runzas . . .), so it was hard to come up with something at the time, but I ended up telling her I'd get the same degree. And she said, no, she didn't mean what degree would I get if I could go back in time and do it over; she meant, if I knew everything I knew now, having quit teaching and it being so much of a drain on life, what degree would I get? Funny thing is, I think my answer would be the same, still.

I don't know what else I'd like to get a degree in. Even with all the Bible and Jesus and ministry stuff I'd be interested in studying, to get a degree in that area, I'd have had to go to a Christian college with arbitrary rules for living that I don't think I could have submitted myself to. Don't watch movies! (Unless you do it in the lounge with other folks. Who knows, you might be fiddling with yourself back there in your room. Can't have that, nossir!) No dancing! I mean, like, even over summer break, ya heathens. (Unless it's in the school musical). No holding hands on campus, even if you're married. Can't be tempting the singles, now.

Instead of English, I had thought about teaching Chemistry. Part of the problem is that I'm not nearly precise enough. I know it sometimes seems to people like I have this massive fount of trivial knowledge stored up that I can just dole out at a moment's notice. And while I can draw on that sometimes, half the time I'm just working it out as I go.

Story to illustrate: I got a 32/36 on the ACT. Ten years later, and it obviously doesn't matter, but at the time I was trying to get into colleges. I know that a lot of people would be pretty freakin' delighted with the 32, but I wasn't. Main reason? Here are my scores: 36 in Reading, 35 in applied English, 33 in science. Then we go down the math section and all the little bars are stuck over to the far right side, high percentiles and a' that. Except one. Pre-freakin'-algebra. That's right. I kicked the crap out of algebra and geometry and trig and pre-calc and everything. But pre-algebra tripped me up. That means the basics. The simple stuff. The rote. And that's what I mess up on in general. Things like remembering the negative sign, and how to spell simple words, and the like. Yes, if I'm concentrating and thinking, I can do it usually, but not always. For most things, like I've said, I've got to actually make a conscious decision to engage my brain, otherwise, I don't think very thoroughly. And then, sometimes, I'm just thinking past it. So, yeah, I likely could have taught chemistry, and would have enjoyed it, but grading papers would have been a nightmare. And besides, when it comes down to it, I most like teaching about life, and English is the best place to do that. I would have been a good Chemistry teacher. I could have been a great English teacher.

And what else could I be besides academic Jesus follower or pedegogical chemist? I even enrolled at a school that I couldn't afford with a double major in secondary ed Chem/Bible. Which I couldn't afford. Only after long contemplation did I realize that I'm much much more suited for teaching English.

Chapter 3
So why am I not teaching English? Why not go back to it? Besides, of course, the fact that I am not currently certified, which I could easily remedy by this fall just by taking summer classes at Baker I mean, I have a degree. I love language. I love teaching kids reading, and about life, and about literature, and about writing. I was good at it. I still have students who IM or email me for advice or just to say hi from time to time. Deep down, I wish I was teaching. I'd even not change my degree if I could go back. Why not?

I think I am afraid.

Afraid of what my life would go back to if I taught again, my brain's rpms running in the red seven days a week for nine months, never really resting, never coming down, always tired. Afraid of the early mornings and the late nights I'd lose, needing to be alert and ready to go at 7 in the morning every day, attentive and focused, and yet needing social interaction. Afraid of consistent classroom management, loving the kids, trying to show grace, and also be firm so I can teach them how grow up. Afraid of dealing with parents who care more about their reputation as a parent than actually parenting their kids.

But maybe fear isn't the right word. This post was originally titled "why I'm afraid of teaching." but I had to change it because that's not quite the right word. And as I thought about it, I didn't have nearly enough reasons to justify a whole post of them.

I've been mulling this for a month now, trying to reason out why I don't just get the 8 hours of masters work so I can get re-certified, or heck, just go teach in KCMO without certification. Am I really so afraid of all that stuff up in that paragraph? So afraid of failing? I don't know. that's stuff I'm concerned about, and afraid of, but I don't think any of it's enough to keep me form doing something I'm so good at.

Chapter 4
Ok, ok. I wrong. I think when it comes down to it, everything else aside, I am afraid. Sorry to get all wishy-washy on you. What I'm afraid of is teaching eating my life again. The very best teachers I ever had let it be their life. They were teachers first, and other people second. They graded papers at football games. Let relationships stay secret so as not to hurt their position. gave up their evening and weekends to go on trips or coach or direct. They lived teaching school. And I'm too selfish with the rest of my life to let it go.

Epilogue
Now what? What are my 'action points?' Can I overcome the fear? Should I stay where I am? Should I go looking for a third way? It's all something I need to keep thinking about because while this job is nice, and I just had an interview today to try to get bumped up to the next level, it's not a place I see myself working in ten years. There's no meat to it, if you will. No real substance. And if I'm not here, I've got to be working somewhere.

Or not.

But that's another post for another day.