Hawksquill

Ah Words

2012-02-08T16:25:00.000-08:00

Another freewrite*. Sort of.
In the abstract, I am severely tired of writing words. The possibility does not always look endless, especially from the unpracticed perspective. Here is my old complaint coming back to haunt me and keep me company in my lethargy: I have nothing to say. But then I start. And all these vague wisps of thought, words upon words strung one next to another, build into rythmic and reasoned ideas and sentiments I did not know I possessed. A fusion of language from a fission of thought. Ah. That's why I wanted to be a writer.
Lovely as the words themselves may be, happy as the thought of expressing something well may be, it is nothing if I have not waded through confusion and sorted through information to articulate something worthwhile. That is difficult. Lord, it is so wearing! And it takes up so much time. And it makes it dissatisfasying to compare the process and outcome to others' efforts, but by necessity I must compare the style and content to others' efforts, to grow better. Then I feel such a sad lack of accomplishment that I forget that accomplishment is not precisely my aim. Life is so incomplete here. And redundant rants on a same old theme are easier to write than actually saying something. Phooey.

*A label here used to justify a prolix jeremiad or bombast.

One Frosty Morn

2012-01-12T15:08:00.000-08:00

The cold provides respite, if you live in Tucson. And getting out early on a frosty morning, alone with God and the air and the wide blue sky and His quieter creatures can be sort of reviving. I like that, going out and finding beauty in what no man made. Which I think makes me more appreciative of man-made beauty too.
I don't want to flood this blog with pictures, but thought I would share a few.
Cameras are fun. Pictures make me want to draw more too.
I think my right brain is ADD.

Whatever is true

Whatever is noble

Whatever is right

Whatever is pure

Whatever is lovely

Anything excellent

Or praiseworthy

Think on these

Let no one steal your wonder.

Seasons Greetings

2011-12-15T20:34:00.000-08:00

I thought I would never want to see another bite of turkey again. Oh the misery of overeating. A temporary misery, but thoroughly regrettable. After my family's Thanksgiving feast I briefly sympathised with the idea fasting forever. Before eating a slice each of two kinds of pie for dessert. All our leftovers are gone by now, I think (I hope). But for a week after, all our biggest leftover containers were taken up with mashed potatoes, gravy, turkey, green bean casserole, spiced and honeyed sweet potatoes, home-made rolls, pumpkin and apple pies, cheesecake, sweet corn and cranberry stuffing.
Friday morning breakfast, in other words.
I filled my plate with a little of everything minus the stuffing and cranberry sauce and stuck it in the microwave to break my fast at noontime. My brothers joined me in post-thankful indulgence. Which made me feel a little better, not being the only one having a late breakfast. Our parents were gone and Ellie was sleeping off some Black Friday craziness. We sat at the table, stiff from Turkey Bowl football the morning before (we tied 1-1), not quite ready for Christmas music but glad for a lazy day after the festivities.
Eddie, when he eats Thanksgivingness, piles everything in one mass: cranberry sauce on top of turkey on top of green beans on top of pie on top of gravy and potatoes. It's like the Thanksgiving version of Buddy the Elf's spaghetti breakfast.
"You could just stick that in the blender, save yourself the trouble," I said.
"Don't tempt me," he said, before taking a bite.
I think he knew I was being facetious. But it's Eddie. So he got the blender out.
"No," I said, probably grinning like a fool.
"I'm gonna try it," he said, sounding determined.
"Are you crazy?" I stood and followed him to the counter where he was setting up the blender. "You know, you could use the food processor."
"I'll just use the blender."
Eli stood and joined us, scrunching his nose in consternation. "Eddie, that's gross."
"It'll be fine," he protested.
"The texture's going to be really gross," I said, as he began to spoon the contents of his plate into the blender. "Do you want to add a roll and some apple pie too?"
"Just pumpkin pie. Toss me a roll."
He covered the appliance and turned it on. We watched it whir, whipping foodstuffs into one pinkish brown mass. It was thick.
"That looks like cat barf," Eli said.
"It's fine." Eddie said reassuringly, scooping it onto his plate. It did look something like wet cat food, with appropriately festive flecks of red and green. If we lived in a cartoon, this is probably the meal that would come alive, eat the family dog, and go on a rampage, terrorizing the neighborhood. That would make an auspicious beginning to the Christmas season. Sounds like something Eli would draw a comic about. I am so thankful I have brothers.
It didn't taste too bad. A little sweet for my taste, but basically Thanksgiving-like.
"Well?" I asked, after Eddie had consumed a third of the blob.
He groaned. "I miss the texture."

Advent Means Coming

2011-12-12T10:32:00.000-08:00

The world in darkness, unchanging, still in its madness. The Fall, the Fall! An instance, a moment, a singular situation, broke the original perfection, shifted all things away from splendor. One act tore all life from the nearness of God. We were made to be holy, and are now tainted. We were made to be perfect, and are now broken. We were made to belong, and are now traitors.
Thanks a lot, Adam.
How long, Lord? Questions. Why and how and what for. I know who. We are all of the same brokenness, the same weakness, born into the same wretchedness. How long, Lord? This, I cannot escape. It is infused into my soul, tattooed on my heart, burned into my flesh that I am fallen. Should I talk of deserving it is all death and horror and darkness. That is mine. That is all my right. How long, Lord? Anathema to all purity: that is all my deserving. What one man did has spread to the furthest reaches of his seed. What we touch is tainted. Did scorpions sting and disease lead to death before he introduced it to the world?
Life is pain, life is striving, life is struggle and biting and little gains for great trials. Yet something cries. How long, Lord? Yet something reaches, tentative and desperately hopeful, towards what is not in this wretched shadow of nature. Something cries for Life. How long, Lord? This I cannot explain. I was born in darkness, and somehow my scarlet heart yearns for what it has not known in itself: Light. My soul, which wallows still further in darkness, knows this is not its end. I am a traitor, a bitter one. But eternity tenaciously grips my heart and captures some part of my longing.
This is not the end. There is a longing that consumes, that burns, in the part of us that we cannot see. This is the corresponding call to a purpose thwarted by the workings of death in us. We can't run back. We can't return. We cannot undo or unbetray. Like a single drop spreads to be part of the entire ocean, every part is infected, unclean, lost, wicked, made of death. And yet something cries. For before this something was intended which was not death. And the One betrayed once called all things made "good". And He once loved us with a love that is immovable. And He once made us for Life. How long, how long, Lord?
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it." John 1: 1-5

Wineskins

2011-11-05T15:49:00.000-07:00

I am stretched. Like too little butter over too much bread. I am stretched. Like what? Like cellophane, taut and smooth over an expanse of potato salad nearly too wide? Like deerskin not yet useful which must be pulled at every side and softened to make it pliable and smooth enough to keep wearers warm and not chafe? Like a new wineskin containing new wine. No old patches here. I have been broken, made anew, and taken beyond what I could bear. I am fragile. And I marvel at how I am used in spite of me. I am failed. And I press on, exhilarated by hope, by goodness. I am weak. And I strive, reckless, for no promise of rest but the end. Am I a fool? Am I a failure? Am I bound to wear my bones to nothing? Or until I snap? What if that is where I get up -- dry bones dancing on their own grave. The old wineskin, fervently clutched in weary hands, desperately held to death-dry lips, bursts, breaks, and is emptied. I am a new wineskin, taut with new wine, stretched and stretching to new capacity: breaking point unknown and irrelevant. I shall be made new. I shall be filled. I shall be taken beyond what I can bear. I am fragile and must be broken. Then weariness shall not defeat Him in me who is not me but my Lord.
I am stretched and it is good. I am a new wineskin filled with new wine.

Child of Mine (lyrics)

2011-10-09T13:02:00.000-07:00

Small Details and a Bigger Picture.

Child of Mine
Stand in Wonder,
Let your awe sweetly overcome.
Child of Mine
Lost in Wonder,
Can't you see I've held you e'er so long?

I've never kept from you
What you needed to see,
I've never held you back
Save from what harm would bring,
I never left you
Though you couldn't see me,
And I've never hurt you
Except to make you free.

Child of Mine
Stand in Wonder,
Let your awe sweetly overcome.
Child of mine
Lost in wonder,
I will love you forever long.

So let your questions
In my knowing melt to peace;
Let your fears
Chase themselves beyond the sea;
Though you sorrow,
Share in whelming joy and grief,
Your soul I've harrowed
Only to make you see.

Child of Mine,
Let no one steal your wonder.
Child of Mine,
Let no one steal your wonder.
Child of Mine
Stand in awe
Stand in Me

Child of mine
Stand in wonder,
I will love you forever long.

Written 10/2/11

Recipe for an Hour Well Spent

2011-10-04T23:21:00.000-07:00

The other day I laid on a bed in a quiet room with the doors closed, the sunlight softly shining in, my books strewn around me, and simply listened to five songs I like. I closed my eyes, stretched out my legs, laid my arms over my head and drifted on the words, holding the music in my mind, attentive wholly to the goodness wrought into each song. I had thought to read a little. I picked up my Bible at one point and held it on my chest for awhile, opening my eyes only long enough to hit play again on "Invictus", which I did two or three times before floating into sleep.

It had been so long since I did that: just listened to music, without trying to multitask or consigning it to background noise. Probably just as long since I had laid down to rest with no pressing thought or must-do or even consciousness of the need for rest and precisely how much. I count my hours of sleep and calculate the need for naps. And I hardly ever just listen to music, which sounds a little sad now I think about it. It is good to have moments like this; meditation in the sense of quiet thanks for peace and rest and things well made.

Songs for a sunny afternoon:
5. The Boxer, by Simon and Garfunkel
4. White Winter Hymnal, by Fleet Foxes
3. Casimir Pulaski Day, by Sufjan Stevens
2. Beautiful, by Phil Wickham
1. Invictus, by Brave Saint Saturn

Love People. Cook Them Tasty Food.

2011-09-30T21:41:00.000-07:00

A trip to Mexico usually means visiting people as an excuse to eat a lot of delicious food. Or vice versa. Sometimes it means eating new things. Earlier this month my mom and I went to my grandparents' house for the weekend. It being the anniversary of Mexican Independence, everyone was on vacation and some of the cousins and uncles were able to join. Which of course meant secret-family-recipe birria at cousin One's house, and several kilos of shrimp to be prepared various ways at Mamacame and Papachuy's house. We had the requisite breaded shrimp twice as well as ceviche and boiled jumbo shrimp with limon (lime).
There were also, this time, several foods that were new to me. The first day in our little coastal village, at my grandparents place of residence, I had caldo de cabeza (beef's head soup). To be precise, I don't know exactly what I ate. Besides some tongue and cheek. The broth was good. The cheek was tender and comfortingly beef-like. The tongue tasted good, but had an usual texture (smooth muscle tissue, I think) and some scary looking skin attached to it -- black and pink with pointy little cow-tongue buds. The only part I couldn't down was some grisly bit of something that reminded me of overbaked custard. Except brown and gray. Or maybe the browner, greasier, firmer version of cottage cheese. Suffice to say, that bit of carnage was fished out of the bowl and set aside on a special little plate with the inedible fat and squeezed remains of half a limon.
We had camaron ahogado as well (drowned shrimp -- in limon). Which was good, even if I was a little wary of the uncookedness.
On the drive over from Navajoa to my grandparents' house my cousin Eli bought a cup of tepache at a stoplight, which several of us in the car shared. Fermented pineapple and piloncillo (brown sugar/crystallized molasses). I believe this may be my favorite alcoholic beverage. Unfortunately it was also the means of discovering I really need to avoid alcohol. Heat, sleep deprivation, dehydration, and sugar overload notwithstanding, past experience convinces me the three sips I had were what tipped me over into some serious pain in the Kopf (head). Two ibuprofen tablets, and three or so fresh tortillas (which I helped make) later, I was fine; ready for bed and more food the next day.
We had a wonderful time. I think cooking tasty food for people is our dear viejitos' love language. Fortunately, I am fluent. At least at the receiving end.

Special thanks to Penzeys Spices for the use of the text off one of their billboards. Which is genius. I agree wholeheartedly.

... We'll Travel to Very Distant Lands

2011-09-27T15:29:00.000-07:00

Five minute pre-German 101 free write. Take 2:

I rode the bus all night. Not the first time I've done that. Not the funnest thing to do. Most fun or funnest? Whatevs. We got in at 4:48am, my mom and I. My poor dad had to pick us up. At least that's not as bad as the first time I rode the bus alone. Yeah, I'm that hardcore.
I fell asleep. I rode during the day and slept almost the whole day through. At one point I woke up and had to wonder if the rapture had happened and I and the dirty-mouthed bus driver and his buddies were the only ones left. They freaked out a little when I went to follow them off the bus at the cleaning station.
"What are you doing here?" So accusatory.
I was just slightly less than mortified, but I waited on the bus until we got back to the station and everyone else got on. I stayed awake through the whole ordeal of crossing the border and the hour-long drive from Nogales to Tucson. That was an adventure. I keep forgetting I need to have those once in a while.
You see, it's not just a matter of waiting for adventures to happen, or even thinking adventure only ever happens in that other, grassier lawn over there. It's all about attitude. My life is one grand, glorious adventure because I choose to see it that way. Tell me otherwise, I'll have to prove you wrong. Don't believe me? Just wait until you hear what I ate on this last trip.

Addendum: What I meant to say is, living adventurously requires a readiness for action on one's part, as opposed to fatalistic passivity. Not that delusion or escapism are recommendable, but that one should strive to do the better (often harder, sometimes riskier) thing in present circumstances -- and revel with hopeful expectation in the unknownness of the outcome. That is all.

Ha. What a Whiner.

2011-09-13T09:07:00.000-07:00

Five minute free write. Before German class. Aaaaaaand go!

I have nothing to say. Do you have any idea how frustrating this can be? I love words. Words dance in my head; they have color and sound and tone and such lovely subtleties. And you can say things with them! Not just to convey some vague idea, but to express what a heart truly feels, to articulate what a mind truly thinks, to give validity to what we seek to understand and make known to others.
But what if you have nothing to say? I love words! I love expression. Lord God, creativity and communication can only come from You! So what if I can line up words into ear-tickling bits of syntax. Little bite-size, pixie stix shots, sugary nothings of rhetoric. But what am I to write? I get so lazy. I get so frustrated. Ask me if I second guess myself ever. The answer: always. Without fail, the contents of my mind evade any attempt at evaluation. We are not simple creatures, human persons. I like alliteration. But what use is a well-turned phrase if it says nothing? I complain bitterly to the pages of a journal that is for my eyes and God's omniscience -- even there, to say all that I feel and think and vaguely know fails to really come forth in a way that I know will be of any benefit to anyone. Is that the problem? How am I supposed to think about writing? I waver back and forth so much in this! Among other things. Which is what nearly depresses me, even though I talked myself out of the idea of depression years ago. I vacillate. I love words. But what the hell am I supposed to do with them?

Apologies for the language. It is uncouth, unladylike, and unnecessary. But further editing felt dishonest... Do as I say, not as I do. That is all.

22

2011-09-06T00:38:00.000-07:00

22 years, 15 days, 22 hours -- how long I have lived on this earth. In Korea I would have been 23 since January 1st, but that is just a fat, juicy red herring. I like and dislike those. They're like a side dish that can taste good but clashes with the main course. Like serving Pad Thai with a side of meatballs and mashed potatoes.
   Dare I attempt to summarize a year? 21 was not easy, but it was good. Odd numbered years always seem more significant. I can't tell why. 22 sounds like settling more comfortably into the 20's is all. 21 was changeful and confusing.
     1 year and 2 weeks ago, I was crying because I couldn't transfer to the University of Arizona. I didn't want to go to the UofA. I don't like the UofA. But I still cried. Months of phone calls and paperwork and research and waiting and paperwork and planning and searching and paperwork, obstacles every step of the way, only to be thwarted by a missed deadline I didn't even know about. I felt frustrated and ashamed of my own irresponsibility and confusion. But there was relief mixed in. It is one of those things I can't explain in words, but that particular plan never felt right. In all these attempts to plan, to spend time like a responsible adult, to calculate what ought to happen, uncertainty can easily scare peace away. But even if I felt a little lost and directionless for months after, I have not regretted not going to school last year.
      Something similar happened this year. Financial circumstances being what they are, I was not able to go to the school I had planned and looked forward to since February. It shakes me a bit just how much potential there is for despair in this change. I did everything I could to prepare for going back to school, online. Now I am back at my old community college, rethinking things. For all that, I can't conjure enough disappointment to really be depressed. I don't feel like any of the last year has been wasted at all. I've wavered a little in the past couple weeks, but mostly I have such an odd, inexplicable peace.
   The thing is, I have had enough changes in recent years, both inward and out, to know the only thing I can do is trust. If something I begin to rely on is ripped away from me, it's only what I asked for, and something better is about to come. That's grace. In the time I have spent not working towards a degree or law school or a career, there has been so much. Just that: muchness. Life is so deliciously, frighteningly unpredictable in the particulars (even without jabberwocky smackdowns). Sometimes all I can do is stand in awe-filled wonder.
     It was a good year. And I am optimistic about the one that just began. New adventures and daring to live!

Songs for the passing of the age:
"Mature" by Ryanhood
"Forward Motion " by Relient K
"Let That Be Enough" by Switchfoot
"You Have Me" by Gungor
"Feelin' Good" by Michael Buble

Like a Hurricane

2011-08-24T20:57:00.000-07:00

Recommended listening : How He Loves, John Mark McMillan; and (then) Make You Feel My Love, Adele.

Have you ever been overwhelmed by love? Please do not misunderstand. I mean unconditional love which is so vast you can't resist and could never repay it. Love like a hurricane that floods your carefully wrought balance of give and take. Love that plunges you into such a sea of kindness all you can do is float along and marvel at its vastness. You can't contain or understand or categorize or measure it. It seems presumptuous even to say you receive it. As if you have a choice. As if. You cannot contain it; it has no fathom. You cannot encompass it; it is beyond you. And yet.
And yet, you find yourself the object of it. Like molten gold poured into a plastic cup. Like the ocean tenderly tipped into a thimble. Love that crashes you into quietness. The only thing you could say, in a whisper: God, I am so unworthy. This is love that humbles; something so painfully beautiful. Joyous despair. Tender terror. I cannot contain. I cannot comprehend. And yet.
And yet, I am loved. And yet, the God who holds back His glory, knowing it would kill us, pulls back the curtain enough for this glimpse which slays self importance and overcomes all you are.
You hold your head in your hands and silently sob at the disparity between your capacity and the sheer greatness of what you are freely given. Oh, this is not a love that puffs up. Harrowing sorrow comes with seeing your own efforts try to stand up next to it. What a fool I was to think I could repay! What a painful delusion to ever think I could earn it! And yet.
And yet, O still, small, thunderous Voice, and yet You are with me even to the end of the age. This love never leaves you nor forsakes you at any moment. This love took and withstood the searing, Almighty wrath meant to burn up unworthiness. For you. In your place. And this love knows your heart. Knows it! Floods and overwhelms and overcomes it!
What can this love not do? What CAN this love not do? Have you ever been overwhelmed by such love? The love that you surrounds you, that you cannot always see?
Oh yes. You are loved like that.

Also posted on Dare to Live.

Mundane narrative corollary to follow. Maybe.

Harrow My Soul

2011-07-23T12:01:00.000-07:00

In quiet You come
And strip away all
That has held me down.
And it aches
And it tears.
Like bandages ripped away,
Scabs suddenly pealed;
It hurts like chains left too long
Leave their cruel pricking shadows.
Like I was once bound
And now I am loosed:
The sharpness of full breath stings
Though it's free.
Could be I mistake
Freedom for pain.
This is fear,
but You
Smash that too, in Your zeal.

In quiet You come
And get me alone;
No reason to grasp,
No comfort to hold,
No strength to stand up on;
So I free fall
Only to find
You held me all along, so tenderly.

I was blind, now I see a little.
In quiet You come
And You harrow my soul,
But so tenderly,
How can I not love You?

You wash and rip away all
That prevented
My coming to You, and jealously.
How can I not love You,
Who free me so tenderly?
Can I not love You?

I was blind, now I see a little.
In quiet You come
And You harrow my soul.
How gentle is Your touch, after all.

Strangers Who Impressed Me: Tod

2011-07-14T21:18:00.000-07:00

The entire right wall of the front room of Guitar Center in eastside Tucson is covered, floor to ceiling, in colorful electric guitars. Various displays in the front room hold more guitars, amps, cords, pedals, picks, strings, CD’s, chord charts, and other related paraphernalia. To the left are the registers. Beyond this the store extends into various rooms devoted to acoustic guitars, drums and percussion, keyboards, mixing equipment, and more. Including my favorite room in the back full of electric pianos. Plenty of fun stuff. But the best part of going to Guitar Center may be attributed to two things. One is the stools placed all over the store, particularly near the guitars and turned-on keyboards. The other is the people who come with the confidence of music makers to sit on those stools to try out instruments and play their favorite melodies over whatever classic rock tune is sounding as a backdrop. Some of these are employees who keep their energy up for dealing with people by – what else – playing music. They are the ones who really keep the entire atmosphere of casual ease with their lumberjack shirts and band tees (usually paired with skinny pants and a beard). Something I can really appreciate having been in skate shops – these guys manage to be casually helpful without making you feel guilty for not buying everything in sight.
I was there a couple months ago with my dad and friends from Mexicali. Crissy was looking for a violin and I was the designated interpreter. I led her towards one of the lumberjack impersonators who looked to be wandering without too much of a fixed purpose. He appeared to be in his late twenties, a few years older than us; tall, thin, with shoulder-length blond hair, black-rimmed glasses, and a confident smile.
“We are looking for a violin,” I said after stopping him to request assistance.
Without a pause he replied, “We don’t carry violins, actually. But I can check and see if there’s another store nearby that does.”
First point in his favor: offering service beyond what was asked.
So far pleased, I glanced back at Crissy with raised eyebrows and followed him towards the last register.
He spent just a moment at the computer before turning his attention back to us. “Rainbow Guitars has violins. Do you know where that is?” He had a pack of Marlboros in the front pocket of his plaid.
“I know of it. I don’t know exactly where it is.” Sheepish.
“Do you know where Campbell is?” he asked intently.
“I don’t know this part of town very well,” I had to admit with a smile and a shrug. Directions: my one weakness. A la Ms. Dorcas Lane.
But he was hardly dampened. “Here,” he said before reaching for a scrap of paper and pencil and quickly drawing a map. “Here’s how you get to Rainbow guitars.” He leaned over the counter on his elbows, showing me the map, and explained how to get there from where we were. “Just tell them Tod sent you. They’ll treat you right.”
I looked up, again with gratified surprise. “Thanks very much.”
He smiled. Imaginative recollection makes me want to say he winked. But I think he just said, “No problem,” with a smile that looked thoroughly satisfied in giving.
I led Crissy away with a smile, thoroughly happy in receiving, not at all feeling the need to tell him we really had no intention of going to Rainbow Guitars since we had not driven there ourselves, had plans for later, and Crissy and co. were leaving the next day.
I have a high regard for individuals who enjoy doing their jobs, and brief interactions with people like Tod make me happy. There is something very pleasing about customer service offered with relish. The attitude, not the condiment.

Rain

2011-07-03T16:26:00.000-07:00

I like rain. Virga especially is one of my favorite things to look at.

Currently: it looks like rain. And this is wonderful. I live in the desert and we have not had rain in too long. I have not seen rain, I think since February or April. I haven't seen a good long storm probably since last summer. But it's building now. You know what that looks like? Glory. It's not just the way it looks, it's the way it sounds, the way it feels, the way it smells. It's nearly frightening, it's so beautiful. Clouds from gray to glowing white build and move and condense, converging in a way that almost makes them look angry. Like they fight one another and the wind, and end up piled and melted into denser and denser masses of dark skywaters. Winds just sound rushing. Not rushing like hurried, just rushing with steady purpose, nearly and kindly mindless of us and all life in their focus. They seem to say, "A storm is due here," and work with a noisy intensity to bring it. Even the mountains participate, as if their part is to anchor the world and challenge the storm, though they shudder with the thunder. They bask in sun rays while they last, soak up and take on the warmth of the sun fitfully, petulantly trying to break up the building clouds. And while the storm comes, everything glows greener. Every tree and bush, twigs and leaves, flowers and earth; it's like they thrum in anticipation, exuberant, fragrant, scandalous, and beautiful. It's a full and heady scent, rain. It would be too unkind to say the air is thick with it. But it is. And it's not even here yet. Ah, but when it comes. When droplets begin to fall, striking the ground with soft, pattering music which grows and grows until it is the echo of God's voice and shakes the very mountains in their majesty. When the clouds' feuding turns to flashes, strikes of light chased by growls and deep, rolling blows of mind-shaking sound. When dry and weary ground, crying out with all its ardor, is drenched in the clear wine of the heavens, so overcome it cannot drink it all in, and rivers and rivulets form and reform the very earth. When the storm comes, cool overcoming summer's hubris, wet overcoming a soulful drought, sound overcoming silence such that I must feel very small and somehow at the same time fearful and joyously, recklessly bold. I must think this is creation's song of praise to its Creator.

Yes, we are a bit rain-deprived.

Dare To Live

2011-06-27T10:31:00.000-07:00

I have begun a new blog. Not to fear, I have no intention of abandoning this one. And I give an explanation of why and what for below. What I intend is to continue posting to both and occasionally post a link here to the new one, Dare To Live, leave it up to Hawksquill readers whether they want something more weighty in their lexical diet. It has the same author*. And I nearly giggled to myself just now, both about referring to blog-reading as a consumption of words and about referring to my own writing as weighty.
What do you think of this plan? Comments welcome!

The Introduction

I have been wanting to do this for some time, have some sort of outlet for more devotional-type writings and spiritual musings. Writing often is my way of reasoning things out, to understand better. Going back and reading what I have written before, seeing how I have grown and how God's grace has worked in me is encouraging and at the same time humbling. It may sound odd to say that, but it is true. I can't help but recognize that any good in me has been God's work alone. And I thank Him for that.
As far as actually sharing what has encouraged me, I have hesitated for a couple reasons. One is that it feels presumptuous to think what I wrote will be any help to others. The other is that I already have a blog, Hawksquill, which I have tried to keep fairly light in content and aimed at a broad audience. I didn't want to change the feel of Hawksquill (maybe I've paying too much attention to other blogs, getting stuck on terms like "niche", instead actually writing, I don't know), and I wasn't sure I wanted to have something completely separate simply because it will feel like more pressure to keep up two blogs.
What finally tipped the scale was the account in Acts 3 of Peter healing the crippled beggar outside the temple...
Read More...

Philadelphia

2011-06-24T11:23:00.000-07:00

An old one. Free verse or rambling thoughts, as you will.

Mine is a wretched heart
That fails in even returning
A fellow seeker's love.
Friend is he who gives
For no return;
Friend is she who takes thought
For my way, unasked;
Friends are they who seem to call
A smile reward,
Or timid thanks
When overwhelming kindness
Exhausts my poor attempts to give.
I am overwhelmed even by the lowness of my gratitude
And would rather mention again
The greatness of brotherly love
I fail to reflect.

So how is it that You
-- even You
-- Would call me friend?
Love so vast,
So deep, so wide, so high, so great
Defies description.
I have not loved You
Near well enough
Who have been friend and more to me.

Contemplation Of...

2011-05-31T19:46:00.000-07:00

A landfill is a desolate place. An acres-long, loveless hole for society's refuse. We went there late and the workers tried to hurry us from their great machinery -- cranking, groaning, like weary giants about their work shoving, tarping, piling and compiling garbage. The only soft sound is the frenzied flutter of dark-winged pigeons that make their home there. They are not delicate eaters, but neither are their city-gray gentledove cousins. The smell is unpleasant, but not impossible to ignore. It is a sad sort of place, the dump. Like I said, desolate.
I couldn't help thinking it was perfect place to drop someone who had been knocked unconscious and needed to be out of the way for a while. I believe that would be insult upon injury upon treachery. Especially for a directionally-challenged germophobe.
My mind takes strange directions sometimes, still. But it did seem like an interesting, almost solemn place. It gave me a little bit of the feeling I get in a cemetery. Not fear or even necessarily sorrow. Just a contemplative interest in the remains of what was and the memories, feelings, thoughts and ideas that die in their decay.

Validation

2011-03-28T15:51:00.000-07:00

Hugh Newman is my hero.

YOU... are great. You are amazing! Has anyone ever told you how handsome you look in that shirt? I can tell you have good taste. And you really do have beautiful eyes. You're so caring too! Most people might not realize that by smiling at a stranger, by praising what's good, you are giving of yourself, your time. But that's what you do. You give. And you really care. You have it in you to validate the heck out of people. Because YOU are awesome. You have a wonderful day!

Creativity! Part 2: The Sledgehammer of Inspiration

2011-03-15T10:30:00.000-07:00

There is an unfortunate tendency among many would-be writers to wait for inspiration to hit them over the head like a sledgehammer. Unfortunate, because it rarely resembles anything so forceful. It's more like the Invisible Swordsman. He'll help you, but you have to work to find him and be careful not to shoot him (Beware singing bushes; they'll only distract you).
Creativity really is something you have to work at (even barely tenable movie metaphors). No matter how much we may romanticize the life of a writer (or any generic artist), no matter how effortless our right-brained friends make it look, there is a real element of discipline necessary to realizing creative accomplishment. Like anything, the most important step in achieving is to try. Simply do and keep doing, even if not every attempt results in something mind-blowingly wonderful. Along with having a healthy dose of tenacity, you have to be willing to fail a little. Maybe even a lot.
We want to be original. But this can also become an excuse to wait on the muse -- who is a capricious little renegade on a good day. If accepting (and learning from) failure is the first step towards excellence, then the second step may be realizing absolute originality is unfeasible. We learn by imitating and improving on what has already been done. This is perfectly okay. Solomon's assertion that there is nothing new under the sun still holds true. This is why exposure to a lot of good writing (or music or...) is important.
So, discipline and failure. Perhaps more like a two-sided ax than a sledgehammer.

Incidentally, making oneself write while bushy eyed and bright tailed feels good. I recommend waking early, maybe finding a cool hat (Jo March style), and making yourself pen a few words.

Marty McFly We Ain't

2011-03-08T13:25:00.000-08:00

Future, present, past. I wish not to belabor the point that the present is the only moment we really have. Yet what temptation there is to live in a moment that does not exist.
I say things sometimes without thoroughly thinking through what effect they will have. Not an uncommon trait, I think. Unfortunately my particular brand of neurosis has involved dwelling on past experiences, picking them apart for possible negative reactions (which I can do nothing about) and what I could have said or done (when it's too late). There needs to be a balance between thinking through something before following through, taking advantage of opportunities as they come, and letting go of what's already been. Essentially, this is living in the present -- not in a screw-it-for-all-I-care kind of way, but in a present-and-fully-engaged kind of way.

Looking too far ahead is not good either. Worry accomplishes nothing, and an odd thing happens if you try to plan in your head how a situation will unfold. A conversation with yourself, for example, where you argue some point with a miniature version of an acquaintance who fits in your head, may help to reason out something, but it can also tweak your view of the actual person (or situation) the accommodating projection is based upon, so that later when you do talk to them you end up shocked and dismayed that they are not as agreeable as the little them you won an argument against. Having goals is good, but setting up unrealistic expectations usually results in disappointment and mars your ability to enjoy living in the present.

There is so much unknown, unchangeable. It usually does seem easier to have things all planned out, controlled. But that detracts so much from the adventure of simply living with what comes at you. It's like dancing. I teach Zumba, where each song is choreographed and each time we dance it is the same. There is a performance aspect to it, which I enjoy. But I am also learning to swing dance, where I, as a follow, have no idea what is coming up except that I must stay in sync with my partner, trust him to lead, and follow through on whatever crazy steps or turns or jumps he throws at me. Which do you suppose I make more mistakes on? Which do you suppose is more exciting?
I like this dancing-as-a-metaphor-for-living-in-the-present thing (and hyphens, apparently). God's providence has a tendency to foil plans, change circumstances, switch timing, and generally quash (obliterate, annihilate, extirpate, pulverize, massacre) expectations. Following well feels risky. But there is something so exhilarating in not knowing what your steps will be before you take them, flying in the arms of someone who does. It involves trust, strength, obedience, and a mind fully engaged in what you are doing. In the end the dance was beautiful, mistakes and all. In a word, this is faith. And taking the time to listen to the music (the Lead's words, His serenade) helps.

Creativity! Part 1: Extracting the Juice

2011-02-13T20:46:00.000-08:00

Roughly a month ago a friend issued a challenge to describe my creative process and inspiration. It happens sometimes that another person inadvertently becomes the harbinger of a period of trial and woe. Fortunately the period harbingered in this case has been one of contemplation and analysis of all that it means to be creative. The how, the what, and the why of creativity have been on my mind a lot lately. Some may have noted the absence of fiction on Hawksquill in the last few months. This was intended for the much-needed reevalution of how much time I was giving to creating fiction, and to what purpose (they weren't much help at The OFIS, so I was forced to consult reality). I hope it is some comfort to blog-deprived readers to know the author (your servant) has benefited spiritually, psychologically, and/or grammatically. The right side of my brain does appear to be waking from hibernation with this warm weather.

Hence, I am tentatively titling this collection of thoughts "Part 1," with the expectation that more will follow.

Creative Beginnings.

When it comes to writing stories it will sometimes happen that another story or music -- something with strong emotive tension or cognitively stimulating -- will put me in the mood for creating fiction. This has only resulted in stories when it inspires the creation of a character or plot twist I can develop and use later. The quick-flash feeling of inspiration usually wears off pretty quickly if it is indulged right away. I write more when I feel the need to express something or when thoughts and ideas need the written word to be organized and understood. Although much of what I have written resulted when I had no clear idea at all of what I needed to say but simply began putting words down. The act of writing itself, arranging words which are pleasing or finding delight in seeing my tattered thoughts made clear, can become the stimulus. This is when metaphors begin to form and unexpected phrases appear. For motivation in writing, the only thing that tops being able to say "I can do better" to bestsellers, is looking at your own writing and saying, "That's brilliant. I never would have thought of that," and wondering where it came from. I think these are things that come of reading a lot and then writing a lot.

Composing music, on the other hand, has been (for me) something a bit more abstract and subjective, guided by emotions -- which may be why I have been later in developing this (and dancing and doodling, et. al.) as artistic pursuits. Writing feels more measurable in value and allows more thought beforehand. The above is more a matter of feeling and improvising. If writing has been the vehicle for expressing and making thoughts clear, then music might be what fills in the blanks, expressing what words cannot. Sometimes I sit at the piano, begin with whatever chord my fingers reach to quickest, and play through my mood from there. Sometimes I do play with articulate thoughts, starting with a few words, or lines, or phrases that need only a melody to carry the weight of what they say. Occasionally little, harmonious bits of wordage even blossom into a poem or a song, if I still like them the next day, or the next week. And sometimes I write lyrics which are later lost, for the better of the song made to fit them. My words and music don't always play well together. Sometimes I have to separate them. Music is becoming easier though, and I can usually play what I hear in my head. This comes with doing and listening a lot too.

One thing I still feel I need to much further develop is what may be called intuition. When being creative -- that is, when making a sally at originality -- there is usually a feeling of how something ought to go. This is hard to quantify or describe. With either stories or songs, I think it is easy to mistake for familiarity. I have found myself repeating cliches inadvertently, so it is not always first instinct which must be followed, but possibilities must be considered. But there is often a definite "feel" for how a melody will go before it is composed, or how a story will go, particularly with dialogue. I think this is where disciplined practice and outside critique come in. I can speak only from the experience of one, but both have been (I should say, are) critical in my development as an (aspiring, hopefully getting there) artist.

How do you go about extracting creative juices?

Reminisce, Resolve, Rinse and Repeat

2011-01-08T11:56:00.000-08:00

Recomm... Required (!) listening for this post: "Beautiful Things," by Gungor

2010 was not as I expected. It brought good things: answers to prayer and unexpected friendships, release of expectations and conquering of fears. But it has left me not knowing what to expect of 2011.
I am not even inclined to make New Years' resolutions. Partially because I'm almost sure not to keep them. But I think partly because the newness of the year is frightening. It can be exciting. But new things, changes can also be confusing, unsettling. I suppose it's just that the New Year means letting go of what you had hoped for the previous year, even while its insecurities and fears might not so easily go away.
And here's a daffodil. I love the fact that they bloom in the middle of winter, when everything else looks dry and dead. It's so unexpected. I wonder if God meant it as a metaphor. In the darkness, light shines the brightest. That's a hearty little bit of sunshine.

I did make a personal resolution at the beginning of 2011, but not only for the new year.

Dare to Live Resolution #1: To let go of what-ifs and experience life in all its gritty, confusing, slowly-unfolding mystery. To build hope on what I know is true and not on an imaginary paradigm. To let relationships unfold naturally, seeking to know rather than be known. To accept that the future is unpredictable and not fear the unknown. To release control of circumstances to God. To honor others by observing and responding to who they truly are. To observe things as they are and then do what is good, rather than imagine it. To expect the unexpected and be confident of God's grace in it all.

Here's to beautiful, scary newness. I am determined to emulate daffodils and dare to live.

Happy Christmas to All!

2010-12-24T23:59:00.000-08:00

My brothers take creative liberties with tradition.

Hawksquill's Top Christmas Songs for 2010 (in no particular order):

"What is Christmas to You" by Ryanhood

"Sleigh Ride" by Relient K

"The Gift" by Aselin Debison

"Jingle Bells" by Barenaked Ladies

"Joseph's Lullaby" by MercyMe

"Santa Claus is Coming to Town" by Straight No Chaser

"I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" by Jars of Clay

"Let it Snow" by Michael Buble

"Labor of Love" by Andrew Peterson

"Mary, Did You Know?" by Mark Lowry and Buddy Greene

"God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen"

What has this season meant to you?

I almost tend to think of Christmas as two things. It is culturally significant as a season when we see family, sing carols, give gifts, and eat too many cookies. This might be similar to what it means for anyone who celebrates Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or "the holidays." Or Festivus.

But Christmas itself is the season that has been set apart as a time to remember the Advent of Jesus Christ, how He came and why. It still blows me away to think that the God who made the universe chose to do this, the most significant event in all our history, in such a humble way. Time began when a Baby was born in the stable of an overcrowded inn in a little town under Roman occupation in the Middle East a couple thousand ago. Amazing. That Baby brought hope, which is good news now as it was then. But it's already been said better than I could.

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light;

on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned....

For to us a child is born,

to us a son is given,

and the government will be on his shoulders.

And he will be called Wonderful Counselor,

Mighty God,

Everlasting Father,

Prince of Peace.

Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end. (Isaiah 9:2, 6-7a)

And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, "Do not be afraid. I bring you good news of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is Christ the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger."

Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

"Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men on whom his favor rests." (Luke 2:8-14)

Happy Birthday, Jesus. Thank You for being born.

What Introverts Won't Tell You

2010-12-12T17:37:00.000-08:00

I have been too reticent.
The other day a friend was relating how amazing it was to read an autobiographical book written by an acquaintance of hers. She wondered why the woman had always appeared standoffish before, when she apparently could bare her soul in written words.
"Do you experience anything like that when you write?" she asked me.
"Yes," I had to admit, "sometimes it's easier to say things in writing than to have to verbally articulate them."
"Why is that?" asks the extroverted feeler.
For the sake of conquering such timidity, I may as well admit this: questions that touch on my personal feelings loose my tongue and make me feel very exposed, sometimes even foolish.
For some introverts it is easier to say things in writing, when no particular audience may judge without hearing us out and we have all the time we want to think through our words before releasing them. I understand perfectly why some introverts appear standoffish. We observe, we listen. A lack of contribution does not indicate a lack of interest.
Not all introverts are shy either. Some are observant, analytical and articulate. The commonality -- and this is reiterated in several articles by and about introverts -- is a need for alone time to recharge. We can learn to behave like extroverts, but this is merely acting, which gets to be exhausting. Interacting with groups can be exhausting. Conversing with multiple people in the course of one evening-- though stimulating -- can be exhausting. Having a conversation with a few people who like to talk, say interesting things, and can even coax out our thoughts without prying, is wonderful -- preferably taken one at a time if extroverts.
In other words, introverts are socially more pansies than butterflies and we spend a lot of time in our own heads. I have to disagree with some of what writers and psychologists are saying about introverts, or at least their attitude towards introversion. Humans are relational beings. There is merit in trying for some extroversion if that is what it takes to relate to people and build them up, like my friend who suffered from a lack of connection with a woman she liked, respected, and worked with for years. Just as there is merit in extroverts trying to relate to the need for quietness.
Why the researched, wordy rant? I've felt convicted lately. There is so much I write that is never shared and when I sit down to write what I know will be read, there is often an accompanying apprehension which can rapidly grown into writer's block. This is not a plea for sympathy. This is me figuratively shaking myself by the scruff of the neck and saying, "Get a grip, Hawkins. Risk a little extroversion." Because it is worth it to do hard things, to step out of comfort zones.
Truth is, I believe there is a real calling to be a better (the best and most unique) version of ourselves. Adam sinned and fell from grace and humanity has never been the same since. Human nature is cursed, and God is just. I can't afford to hide behind personality, who I think I inevitably am. I can stand behind Christ, though. Considering He is the only One Who is perfect and can make me perfect, that seems like the safest place to be: in Him and imitating Him. Even if it means being a little more extroverted. Even with feelings. It's worth it.

"For those God foreknew He also predestined to be conformed to the likeness of His Son, so that He might be the firstborn among many brothers. Those he predestined, He also called; those He called, He also justified; those He justified, he also glorified." 1 Corinthians 8:29-30

Advent: Definition

2010-12-05T13:28:00.000-08:00

One day Glory came to earth. The dust we walk on was tread upon, the air we breathe was inhaled by a Person who was more a person than we are. He came from the Origin of personality. He was human. He was divine. He is human, He is divine. He was carried and born and ate and grew and talked and walked and experienced and felt and gave and received and enjoyed and suffered and learned and lived as we do. But all this He did without our doomed nature. He suffered all the consequences of sin and our fallenness without earning it, as we inevitably do. There was nothing to compel Him against His will to endure this unjust life, justly ours. Glory came down because the one Absolute, Almighty, Infinite Person chose to identify with us, the mortal, finite, fallible people He made. He wanted to identify with us. Not because He needed help understanding us, but so that we could have a chance to personally know Him and understand how God loves us.

One day Glory came to earth. His name is Jesus.

Better Late Than... Unthankful

2010-11-28T19:22:00.000-08:00

My family's Thanksgiving tradition has been to invite neighbors and friends who do not have family nearby. This year, however, ours was a small group. Relatives came up from Mexico, my grandparents (Mama-Came and Papa-Chuy), an aunt and a cousin with her husband and two toddlers. They happened to be in town for Thanksgiving.
I love having a bicultural family.
My mom made everything from scratch. I baked pies -- one too many as it turned out. I was supposed to make the rolls too, but, you know, Turkey Bowl (I still have bruises. And it was thoroughly worth it. My team pwned).
When Mama-Came saw our traditional Thanksgiving fare being prepared, she said, "You're not having tortillas?" with both a look and tone of shock.
My dad partly translated George Washington's Thanksgiving Proclamation and explained the origins of our holiday just before we gave thanks for our meal.
Papa-Chuy is the reason for Mama-Came's concern. He's a picky eater and has no qualms about expressing his distaste. While the rest of us downed nice portions of mashed potatoes, green-bean casserole, cranberry sauce, et. al.; he ate a little turkey, liberally sprinkled with salt, a large helping of cooked corn and a roll. He did enjoy the pumpkin pie. Then he accidentally served himself a glass of eggnog, which he mistook for milk. His lips turned down in a perfect expression of disgust as he set the glass away from himself, shaking his head at the wrongness of it. It was great.
Carmen and Chuy are seventy-six, have been married about five and half decades, have twenty-five grandchildren and a dozen great-grandchildren, and they come from another world. I am thankful for them. And for having a day set aside to give thanks to God for blessings like family, food, football, and napping, among many others.
And now, I am thankful for Christmas music.
No, it is not too early. Enjoy it while you can.

A Murky Stream of Consciousness

2010-11-11T11:14:00.000-08:00

Have I a canvas

On which thoughts pour

In some order not

Conceived by my own mind

Yet somehow coherent in

Spite of my own best efforts?

A mind not centered

Is my own enemy

Though words here come,

Ready enough,

Some part of me loves them

In spite of my tongue's trepidity.

I don't get it.

In small steps, in

Quotidian glory, relentless

And dull, I'm moving,

I'm getting there.

Tell me where

There is and I'll

Tell you my innermost thoughts.

A promise

In irony,

A tongue

In cheek where

It cannot speak when put on the spot.

So to speak.

But still and all.

I'm getting there.

I've gotten there,

At times.

Can't complain.

This bit of wordage is hereby dedicated to the veterans who served their country. Thank you and God bless you. Rock on.

Just Picture a Predatory Bird Plucking a Porcupine

2010-11-03T17:32:00.000-07:00

Recommended listening for this post: "Why Do You Let Me Stay Here?" by She and Him*

Overheard snippets of conversation between strangers can result in confused and amused musings. Much of the material of my periodic bouts of fiction is gathered while dropping eaves. Art only imitates life, after all.
One can learn things by having curious ears as well.
We continue with the subject of names thanks to a man in a bright, striped shirt of whom the only other thing I can say is that he was conscious of dental hygiene.
"What's your name again?" the stranger said in a deep voice, the kind you would have to describe as booming if he were to raise it.
"My name's Danielle," the friendly receptionist said in her friendly receptionist voice.
I could hear them speaking at the counter behind where I sat.
"I'll remember it now," the man said, "I pride myself on remembering names. I'll just think of you as Danielle Boone."
Danielle laughed.
"You have to make up ways to remember people by their name," he continued.
"Oh really," another receptionist said. A non-comment, but bless it for continuing the exchange.
"If I meet someone whose name is Barbara, I just have to picture her with barbed wire coming out of her head and I'll remember."
This visual caught my full attention. I bit the smile beginning to engulf my face and stealthily glanced up from the pages of Les Miserables to see if any of the other three people in the waiting room were also stifling giggles. They were unaffected as far as I could tell.
The fish tank bubbled, a drill whirred somewhere in the back rooms, the dialogue continued.
"How would you remember 'Crystal'?" the second receptionist asked.
"Crystal's easy," he immediately replied. "I'm from Tennessee. We have Crystal's Burgers. So I would just picture you with a burger in your mouth. Every time I see you, I'll just think, 'Why does she have a burger in her mouth?' Easy. Crystal's Burgers. Your name's Crystal."
Actually, the striped-shirt man from Tennessee was using a common memory trick. The more bizarre the association the more likely one is to remember it. Mnemonics. Fun stuff.
Except now every time I go to see the dentist I'm going to picture a female barber with barbed wire for hair with her lips clamped around a giant hamburger.

*Which hardly has any tenable connection to this post. I just felt like having music again.
Same goes for the picture, now I think about it. Oh well.

Make Your Move

2010-10-21T17:28:00.000-07:00

Recommended listening for this post: "People C'mon" by Delta Spirit

Is it simply human nature to grow restless? We need consistency, but we crave change. If a person is middle aged, this might lead to buying a Corvette. In the times in between it might lead to a new hairstyle (and dyeing my bangs purple sounds really tempting right now).
For twenty-somethings it seems the change may be something more internal, constrained, invisible. Like a nuclear reaction.
21 may be a young age to check quarter life crisis off one's list of life experiences. Or not. As of now, it is just half checked for me: a single line, like a castaway marking the days of his exile without knowing when it will end, but at least comforted in knowing how long he's been gone. So maybe I can at least claim some empathy with other victims of uncertainty or even (dare I say)purposelessness.
All these decisions, choices, possibilities, options, questions, unknowns, wonderings. Comfort comes in strange ways for what we of the quarter-life section face. Here are a few oddities that have emboldened me to take a few of those frightening steps, albeit small ones, without looking back. Because, really, what's the use of looking back if you can't go back?

1. There is nothing new under the sun. You are not unique in this. The stress you face is nothing that humanity has not suffered before. Yes, that is a good thing.

2. There is a saying that goes, "You become an adult when you begin to take responsibility for your decisions." Something like that; I translated it from Spanish. Decisions are hard. This is growing up. Maybe we never even really "arrive" at certainty at this life, so maybe this is being an adult. Maybe. I'll let you know when I get there.

3. "All the days ordained for me were written in Your book before one of them came to be" (Psalm 139:16). Free to choose what path we take, but foreordained. Not impossible, just hard to grasp. What logically follows is that no choice you take can really result in missing out on something you were "supposed" to do. Not that we escape consequences or responsibility. But you'll never catch Providence off guard. God has a plan and He's working it out in your life too, no matter what you choose.

4. What breaks your heart and what makes you come alive? Give it some thought. The answers might cut down on the "what to do with my life" quandary considerably.

Thoughts?

Hey Bob, What's Your Name Again?

2010-10-10T21:14:00.000-07:00

I'm sure someone could put together a nice little list of faux pas' I've committed. Fortunately, I think I'm oblivious to most of them. Which perhaps is not so fortunate for everyone else.
However, a person getting your name wrong after you've known them for more than year is pretty dang awkward.

I sometimes forget people's names after being introduced. Which is a bit gauche, but easily excused with the tired, misleading, detestable little phrase, "I'm terrible with names." I recommend repeating a person's name back to them when you first hear it. People are funny that way, we need more than one stimuli (in this case, oral as well as aural) to tack things onto our memory. See. I just gave you visual, so now you're more likely to remember it.

We can all appreciate it when someone we just met uses our name. It is an acknowledgement of one as an individual, a signal that the person using our name counts us as worth remembering and referring to. If they pronounce it wrong or call us something altogether different, it can have the opposite effect, but the offender is usually apologetic and learns his lesson if corrected right away. There should be no shame in asking a person to repeat his or her name.

But what do you do with someone you've known for over a year, who has been to your home, who you have had conversations with, who interacts with your loved ones weekly, calling you a name one letter off from your own? Several times throughout an evening. Out loud, referencing you in a familiar way.

In a recent case, our acquaintance was too far along for me to feel polite correcting the guilty party. And it was embarrassing for her sake to know others heard the mistake too. I quietly cringed, then twitched, then waited for some braver soul to point out that my name is not, in fact, "Larissa*." For which I thank the assertive soul in question. And my parents and God.

I get the feeling the person who did point out this faux pas wouldn't stand for being called anything other than her own name. Maybe most normal people wouldn't. I respect them for it.

Maybe the rest of us could learn to be more assertive.

Or we could just wear nametags.

*Please know that I have nothing against anyone named Larissa -- aside from the name being too close to my own. I just happen to be fond of being called by my own name.

photo courtesy of Flickr

Interrupted!

2010-10-07T20:05:00.000-07:00

What the heck.
Time passes, time flows, time jerks and whips you along in its trail. And life moves on whether we will or no. Although I find it hard to believe anyone would really wish otherwise.
Anyways.
Enjoy this video. It cracks me up. I crack myself up in it.

Wonder Why

2010-09-25T21:16:00.000-07:00

You set stars up in the sky

Who wink and whisper, wonder why

The God who made them dares to die

For lowly creatures such as I,

Wipes tender tears from human eyes

And listens to hearts' humble cry,

Yet knows the names of lights on high

Who watch, amazed, and wonder why.

Somehow, They Reminded Me of Children

2010-09-21T21:04:00.000-07:00

Gas stations always seem shady at night (no pun intended, honest). Even if they're not the type that seem shady during the day. Especially if you're a girl. Watching you're nearly six-foot brother walk away. Leaving you alone. In short shorts.

We had just come from the Y. Eddie walked over to Basha's in search of a skateboard magazine while I searched the Red Box in front of the station's convenience store for a couple movies for my littler sister's sleepover. There really would be no reason to expect any trouble at the little store attached to the gas station in the corner of a grocery store's parking lot. Still, I looked over my shoulder when I heard the rumbling motor of a car pull up next to our minivan, remembering that I had left the windows down -- a dangerous thing to do if you parked a whole ten feet away from your destination.

The other car was a little, beat-up Ford pickup. In it were a man and what appeared to be his daughter. Then they started making out. Not his daughter. I turned back to searching for movies, head up, shoulders squared with one hand on my purse.

Ah, Red Box. The thing about these nifty entertainment dispensers is that the billboards announcing their contents are rarely accurate. In order to determine whether they really have a movie or not, one has to scan through "All," then search A-Z, then search in the genre of the desired title. Or maybe that's just me.

Heavy metal suddenly augmented the rumbling coming from the car behind me. And not in the musical sense.

Red Box lied. It did not have Letters to Juliet. I did a quick genre search under Action & Adventure for Prince of Persia, then another quick A-Z under P. They didn't have that one either.

I got a better look at the couple in the truck as I left. The girl was older than I had taken her to be, the sort of person who looks forty-something and turns out to be twenty-eight.

From behind, the guy looked like he had either worked hard all day or hadn't changed his clothes in a few. The latter of which seemed more probable considering you could have buttered a couple pieces of toast with what a quick run-through with a comb might have strained from the stringy mess on his head.

His lady friend had a nicer head of hair: long, thick, wheat-blond, the top half of which was pulled up into a ponytail. The bottom half sported a buzz job. Sort of a Jekyll/Hyde thing. Which somehow went perfectly with her leopard-print pajama pants.

Right Here, Right Now

2010-09-11T20:33:00.000-07:00

I gave myself a lecture and it came out in rhyme. Poetry? That is questionable.

Enjoy. Or, check out last year's post on 9/11.

Let me keep eyes on the present,

And will and mind, thoughts never absent.

I’ll lose not a moment, a second, a jiff.

It’s all that I have; the present’s a gift.

It’s only the moment that’s real and near,

Touching eternity. We hold it not dear

If we struggle and strive to hold what’s not there

And keep in mind’s eye past, future, and cares

Not in keeping with the task here at hand.

Why worry about it? It’s good to prepare

And remember; the present’s a duller affair.

But tasks not attended soon become regrets.

A great, flitting idea that’s vague only gets

Swollen egos, dulled senses, time stolen away

From thoughts worthy – though slow – to articulate.

A thought with some bearing may be worthy of all

Your focus, sans haste, lest it be sure to fall

Far short of the weight of the task here at hand

Do all with intention! It’s right here, right now,

The moment’s the present. We rarely think how

The present’s the only time we can miss out on

And God, being Spirit’s not in time and not gone.

He dwells in eternity and knows our mind

And in the present He’s only too kind.

Time touches eternity the moment He’s near;

Now is when He listens and would have us hear

The call to attend to the task here at hand.

Waste not a moment to dwell on what’s not

More urgent, more dear is the moment you’ve got,

For hope’s in the present, and lovelier still

Than ought you could hope for that could become nil.

Hope touching eternity touching right now

Is what you can cling to, and Love’s only how

We bring about hope to the world, to our friends

Pouring out love that every hurt mends,

And that, above all, is the task here at hand.

Brooklyn and Co.

2010-09-03T15:08:00.001-07:00

Note: Finally, some fiction! This was originally a scene from a longer story I worked on for about year before shelving it last spring. Brooklyn hijacked that tale, as you will see. However, what is posted is here is essentially the meat of the story. It is mostly a character sketch, but hopefully tells enough to stand alone. Do you think so?

Caddy could hear yelling from Brooklyn’s house two doors down. He sat on the doorstep outside the preschool teacher’s unit. He had to step out. His grandmother and the fine educator who took them in were discussing everything wrong with his friends, from their choice in clothing to their hygiene. Not to mention their morals. He watched as the door two units down was flung open. Brooklyn shot out, slowing only as she went into the street. Caddy stood from the doorstep. Instinct moved him towards her, almost unconsciously. She came to a stop in the middle of the street...

Book Review: The Screwtape Letters, and Inklings

2010-08-26T17:54:00.001-07:00

More than C.S. Lewis, Or Tolkien, or any of the members themselves, the Inklings as a group are rather interesting. These were a group of writers, mostly associated with Oxford University, who met to discuss their stories and writing in general. They met at a pub with the somewhat absurd name "The Eagle and Child" (sometimes called The Bird and Baby).

Why did/do old English pubs and inns have such odd names? Obviously to make themselves identifiable to illiterate patrons, via easily remembered symbols. But this one makes me think the proprietor either had a twisted sense of humor, or a total lack of imagination. Or all the good signs were taken.
Concerning Inklings, I would have loved to sit in on one of their meetings. Imagine, a room full of mythopoeics discussing their stories; getting to hear Lord of the Rings or Out of the Silent Planet read aloud when they were merely works in progress; for fun, competing to see who could read horrifically bad prose the longest without laughing. Nerdy thought, I know. But I would have been in good company.

C. S. Lewis's The Screwtape Letters is presented as one side of the correspondence between Screwtape, an old demon with a high position in Hell, and his nephew Wormwood, the tempter of a young man in England in the early 1940's.

Screwtape's letters give all sorts of advice on how to tempt the "patient" into sin, to secure his place in Hell, so that the devils may feast upon his anguished soul. He outlines methods of attack on the Imagination, the Intellect, and the Will -- which those in Heaven call the Heart. He offers his observations on human nature, human feelings and perception; and critiques his impudent nephew's failure to direct his patient's thoughts.

There are many lovely, effective similes here. Lewis often makes good use of those. The premise of a devil writing letters to his nephew is an example of that. It is terribly funny. The letters start out in an encouraging vein; Screwtape almost sounds like a gentleman. As they progress, he becomes more and more frustrated and reveals the weaknesses of his kind, their inability to comprehend this mysterious thing called "Love," and their low tolerance for being mocked by the disgusting, little, "amphibious" human creatures. Yet, at the close of every letter he signs "Your affectionate uncle." A phrase which is revealed to have a shudder-inducing meaning at the close of Screwtape's last letter.

Reading this book is a bit like reading in a second language. To Screwtape everything that is good is disgusting and everything that is evil is good. What Lewis means for the reader to gather from this is the reverse of what is said, so everything has to be translated in the your head. It makes for stimulating reading, I think. Although it may just be that the content is thought provoking.

Lewis has a way of making clear articulation of truths we (I) often take for granted. Screwtape's observations of human foibles, besides being satirically amusing, really hit home.

One pertinent observation "Screwtape" makes in letter #25 particularly caught my attention. He says,

The greatest triumph of all [demons] is to elevate this horror of the Same Old
Thing into a philosophy so that nonsense in the intellect may reinforce
corruption in the will....He[God] wants men...to ask very simple questions; is
it righteous? is it prudent? Is it possible? Now if we can keep men
asking, 'Is it in accordance with the general movement of our time? Is it
progressive or reactionary? Is this the way that History is going?' they
will neglect the relevant questions. And the questions they do ask are...
unanswerable; for they do not know the future, and what the future will be
depends very largely on just those choices they now invoke the future to help
them make.

Relevant to now, methinks. Thank you, Jack.

There is a lot here touching on time and the future, which together could keep this going for longer than you would care to read. Suffice to say, The Screwtape Letters is an excellent book. Go read it! Then, let me know what you think.

Eugenides Likes my Earrings

2010-08-15T21:29:00.000-07:00

How to describe "Pepper's Piercing" in Coos Bay, Oregon? When you walk in the door, you enter a hair salon, composed of a two chairs near the corner windows. At the back of the room - this is not a large space - is a chair where people get the tackle-box treatment. To the left is a small room which serves as a boutique, with clothes and jewelry and assorted bobbles. And sqarely in the middle of the shop is a big, red Harley Davidson.

I must confess, I was only vaguely aware of any of the these details. I had just gotten a third earring in my right ear, at Claire's, and it had hurt a little more than I remembered of previous piercings. I was at Pepper's to get a second cartilage piercing in my left.

Several times in my thus far short life, I have felt the need to put a few holes in my ears. It always seemed like a reasonable way to express the inner artiste. Whatever that means. I did seek advice whenever considering it. When I asked my dad the second time, his response was, "I think you should get them pierced all the way up and get a nose ring." Not necessarily something I would have considered at the time, but apparently it is Biblical (Gen. 24:22). Interesting.

When I got my first cartilage piercing, high up on my left ear, I went to Claire's in the mall in Tucson. One would think that getting bling into ears would be Claire's specialty. They have their ear-piercing chair right up agains the glass walls in the front and offer quite a plethora of earrings for sale. This is uber Girly-Girl Land. You walk in surrounded by pink and frills, assaulted by sugary pop in every corner of the store. There are cute things at Claire's. And generally I might be more friendly towards such a place, except for what follows.

"Kassy, will you do her ears," the girl at the piercing booth near the door said, then turned to me with a half-apologetic smile, "I just had to do a little kid, so I don't feel like piercing more ears right now."

I was not sure how to take that. I returned her smile and sat in the seat.

The guy who did it at Pepper's (Pepper himself?) knew what he was doing. He was no kid; and he had enough piercings and tattoos of his own that I was reassured he understood what this entailed. Besides which, the girls with me had described him as "an artist" for how he pierced ears. No lawsuit-phobic pile of pink paperwork, no counting to three, no double and triple checking the location of the piercing. When the moment came he told me to inhale, then exhale. Between these two actions he slipped a needle through my ear, hooked onto an open ring, which he then closed with pliers and screwed a little ball into the opening.

I then thanked him and proceeded to bounce around the room from mirror to mirror with a huge grin on my face. Good fun.

Kassy came over and prepped my ear as I filled out the form she handed me, a page-long, two-column document which requires two signatures and initials in five places. Which is pink.

"How do you spell 'imagine'," asked the other girl. Perhaps this slight ignorance could have been forgiven. They both looked under twenty. And they were both blond.

Kassy looked over with a drawn out "Um."

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.

"Do you know how to spell 'imagine'?" Asked Kassy, turning back to me.

I turned to the other girl, "i-m-a-g-i-n-e."

"Oh, so there's no 'o' in it." She said.

I nearly let out a very unladylike snort as I took the time to consider the wisdom of allowing these people to stab a sharp object through my body. Kassy lined up the ear-piercing gun and counted to three after checking and rechecking the little purple dot she painted on my ear, finally shooting the little stud through my ear.

No harm done over all. I still prefer Pepper's.

Like Snow in August

2010-08-07T20:01:00.000-07:00

Our new little friend. I think I'll call him Snowflake.

White Sands in New Mexico looks -- much like the sand dunes in Western Oregon -- as if God or some giant had dropped a handful of sand in the middle of nowhere simply out a sense of irony. It is delightfully incongruent, this little patch of sand which constitutes a tourist attraction in the middle of a missile testing site. Apparently they close it every two weeks for missile testing and cars have to wait half and hour to pass through.

We passed through here on our way to Minnesota -- another epic family road trip, which you will certainly be hearing more of on this blog.

These sand dunes are different from the ones in Death Valley, which my family is more familiar with. The sun was bright when we explored them the other day, but the sand was cool enough to walk on barefoot. It had damp patches in the little valleys, where sparse bits of dry grass and yucca grow. The dunes were cool and packed hard beneath a couple inches of powder as fine as white glitter. It looks like snow and was just as blinding. What is interesting is that the highway (toll road!) that snakes through the dunes is shoveled smooth, like a winter road in the cold north. No pavement is apparent and the dunes come right up on either side of the dampened road.

We climbed a couple of dunes and crossed a valley. A few lonely ants scurried around, looking strange in their solitary wanderings. We also saw a white lizard. And we mused on the possibility of quicksand. I suppose it would be something like the lightning sand of the Fire Swamp. But we saw no R.O.U.S.'s. Or Jawas. But we did find a dune soft enough to roll in and bodily fling ourselves over, in a joyously reckless way. Which cured us of any envy for the people who brought sleds, slowly sliding down.

And excellent stop, in spite of brother Eli losing our dad's movie-star sunglasses.

We dusted shovel-loads of glitter of ourselves and left happy, unable to even muster a suspicious glance at the fighter jet overhead. We were somewhere near Area 51, I'm told. I wonder what those lonely ants were really up to?

Eli fell down. As for how, I make no comment.

Dog Day Blues

2010-07-30T12:33:00.000-07:00

A month's absence should require a lengthy and fascinating excuse. But I have yet to fabricate one.
Be comforted, dear readers, in the knowledge that I have had a marvellous time gallivanting to distant ends of the country and foreign lands. Or else be peeved, if that is your want.
I ventured south of the border, where an Arizona license plate may have put us at risk, to eat such exotic delicacies as yoyomos, ciruelas, and huamuchil; to be stung by vicious blue jellyfish, and bees; to get serious sunburns. And to eat many fresh tortillas.
I travelled to the coast, ate clam chowder, waded in the ridiculously icy Pacific ocean and nearly got stranded out on a salty rock face as the tide came in. I drank hot coffee in the middle of July and got a tan in Oregon.
There has been much merrymaking and fellowship in the past month, meaning more stories to come. After all, summer is not over yet. Not matter how many requirements and deadlines a university might threaten with.
There has also been some song writing. Perhaps we may expect the above offering to become a regular occurrence. Let's hope so.
At least I managed one post for July. That's something, right?

Non Spraken el English-Desu?

2010-06-27T16:17:00.000-07:00

When the doors of Lee Lee Oriental Market in Tucson open, you are greeted with the wafting scents of raw meat, chile, spoiling produce, and stale snacks. This is, to my mind, a distinctive of third world countries. Every supermarket I've been to in Mexico smells this way. This one also has more exotic scents; things like ginger and soy. Another difference is that it looks surprisingly clean for being so permeated with food smells. This may, however, be an effect of novelty on the observer's perception. Here is a place to inspire some curiosity and even fascination.
The people who work there all appear to be Asian in some way. Smiley Korean and Japanese girls at the registers, quiet Hmong stocking the aisles, Chinese and tan Filipinos at the meat counter. Customers are fairly multicultural as well. The store is also attached to a small Vietnamese restaurant, purveyor of some pretty excellent egg rolls. But I have yet to meet a Vietnamese egg or spring roll I didn't like. The day we visited, we were on a mission to collect ingredients to make our own.
My mother, brother, and I entered, shopping list in hand. Mama went one way, Eddie and I went another. we wandered through aisles stocked with foreign staples and oddities. Tea, rice noodles, Aloe Vera-flavored beverages, and dried snacks in odd shapes. Things that were pickled. Things that looked like prepackaged organs. Things we assumed were candy, with pictures of smiling children on the package. And a whole lot of right-to-left writing in characters I couldn't read.
We found the first thing on the list in aisle three: peanut oil. At least, it was next to rows of vegetable oil and I assumed the picture on the packaging indicated the main ingredient. Which made me wonder about that candy.
Next item on the list followed the peanut theme: dipping sauce of the same. That threw me. We decided to ask for help.
With Eddie in tow, I approached a man stocking the shelves. He might have been Vietnamese.
"Excuse me, can you tell me where I can find a peanut dipping sauce?"
"Sauce?" he said, along with a couple other syllables I couldn't decipher. I would have to simplify.
"Yes. Peanut sauce, for spring rolls."
"Fo' spring roll, yes," he smiled and nodded profusely.
I nodded equally profusely. "Yes."
"This way." He led us towards the back of the store to a refrigerator, then pulled out a pack of egg roll wrappers, handed it to me, and quickly escaped back to aisle three.
I looked down at the wrappers, which we had just bought two packs of, then at Eddie. He smiled and raised his eyebrows as if to say, "Now what?"
I marched back to the store guy, determined to find our sauce. "I need peanut sauce," I said, emphasizing the last word. As if that would make him understand the second time around. An idea hit. "Peanut sauce. From peanuts." I pointed to the picture on the jug of oil I carried.
"This nut?" he asked, understanding lighting his eyes.
"Yes," I said excitedly, "A sauce with this nut. For spring rolls."
"Fo' spring roll?" He looked confused. I had lost him again. He hesitated for half a second. "You ask at the front." So I was dismissed. Not his problem anymore.
Were we not still in Tucson? Or by "this nut," was he referring to me? A helpful shopper saw my plight and directed me to the peanut sauce in the next aisle.
Next on the list, bamboo shoots. I had no clue where they could be. We wandered past aisles labeled with nationalities rather than food items: Hungarian, Spanish, Swiss, German, South American, Ethiopian, and Mexican. We finally found another employee. I was nervous to ask, although our next victim looked more promising. He wore a woven, poncho-like shirt and had dark, curly hair. Possibly Latino? He seemed more confident than our last helper. And turned out to be even more unintelligible.
"Too-el," he immediately answered to my query.
"Two?" I said, repeating the syllable I understood.
"Too-el," he said again with a nod.
"Twelve?" I said, turning to Eddie, probably with a panicked expression.
"There bamboo shoot," he said with some finality.
I thanked him with a sideways glance and escaped towards the back of the store. "What the heck is 'too-el'?" I demanded of my brother. He just shrugged.
We were in aisle ten. I didn't feel like trudging all the way down to two again, so we tried aisle twelve. All we found were dried rice products and the same happy-children candy, which was beginning to creep me out.
"Now what?"
"Twenty?" Eddie suggested.
The produce aisle, full of strange vegetable-like things I had never seen. And packaged bamboo shoots. I almost let out a hysterical burst of laughter. 'Two-el' indeed.
Unanimous verdict:
"This place is cool."
"We should come here more often."
"Definitely."
Turns out you don't have to go far for a little intra-cultural experience, comfort-zone stretching, call it what you will. Good fun.

Night Thoughts Unleashed

2010-06-24T11:13:00.000-07:00

This gets a bit melancholy. I think too much when I stay up late.

What happens to forgotten hopes and dreams? Are they recycled, passed on as memories to be revived by another generation? Do they remain dormant, a silent participant in the subconscious, quietly tweaking a person's psyche until they die with them? Or do they simply fade slowly into nonexistence, until even the memory is gone? Are they so thoroughly replaced by hard, real things? Are they wiped out by deadlines? Overcome by duty? Stripped away by objectives? Things with real ends in a conscious, busy world. Maybe stress gobbles them up. Or should I even blame responsibility?
Maybe they are meant to be like the childhood memories branded on our brains that trace through into actions and attitudes that otherwise make little sense for even a young adult. Like how not stepping on cracks leads to a consciousness of every theoretical line that is crossed. Or how watching The Jungle Book leads to an immediate association of the word "snake" with hypnosis and sinus problems. Perhaps old aspirations become to our decision making what these memories are to our conception of the world.
Perhaps this is nonsense. Words for words sake. But I feel I am -- if not arrived at a threshold -- walking a line I long realized was there but have been unwilling to cross. What is certain? Not the future. Not to my mind. How am I to take this? Mine is not to wait, unthinking, for some spectacular thing. I am not without purpose. Perhaps a little without direction. Like the needle of a compass that has been spun around and swings a little, swaying back and forth before settling on true north.
Time. Horrible, precious time. When did it begin to slip away so fast? It's like water through my fingers the more I grasp at it. Why waste time wondering about time? Why waste time wondering what is worth pursuing? Because that is where I am at, at the time of decisions. I am overly cautious; a borderline hoarder with thoughts and interests as some are (and I have been) with possessions. Both must needs be undone by discipline. And discernment.
Yet not my will, but Yours be done, Father.
Soli Deo Gloria.

"How Great Thou Art"

2010-06-17T21:11:00.000-07:00

Is it a bad idea to have too many pokers in the fire? One of my most recent schemes has been to upload videos of my music, covers and originals, on youtube once a month or so. Nothing wrong with plans like this, in general. The problem is that my little mind tends to extrapolate such ideas into full blown fantasies. I was imagining having as many subscribers as some of the great, underground Youtube musicians I admire. Eventually I was satisfied with my own vision of what could be, and also discouraged with the effort it takes to get a song to performance-caught-on-camera level. The video above was two months in coming. And take #6 for today. And the fourth take to be interrupted by noisy family members.

It is longer than it needed to be. But perhaps it is better not to make apologies or excuses for a first attempt. Ah well. There it is. Enjoy.

All Quiet on the Western Front?

2010-06-13T22:16:00.000-07:00

Somewhat of a book review today. I just finished All Quiet on the Western Front. It is considered the best war novel ever written. What can I say that has not yet been said?
Erich Maria Remarque so beautifully, vividly expresses and articulates things and sensations that could never be merely described. He paints with words a living picture of war and all its despair, its horror, its death to hope. How it makes men artificially primitive, even innocent, superficial and instinctual so that they may outlive the natural, human horror inspired by their surroundings.
The author writes of things he experienced himself. He understands and explains how this experience molded an entire generation. Young men, his comrades on both sides of the trenches of World War I. It made them different, set them apart from the generation before them and the generation that came after. The War became the most impacting occurrence in their lives. It erased whoever they had been before, in their youth, and defined who they would be forever after. I can only assume as much from the fervor of Remarque's expressions. This is what he knew. This is how he matured.
I cannot fully fathom what it must have been like. This book illustrates one thing that is very true for everyone. No matter how searing a pain, how great a time of suffering, once it is passed the memory of it cannot fully recall the feeling of it in the present. Paul Baumer and his comrades lived in every moment, whether it was a crippling despair after days of bombardment and death in the trenches, or time in the barracks playing cards, joking, and eating sausage. Every moment passes. And a moment passed is a moment we do not have.
The protagonist of the novel, Paul Baumer, is my own age, and the same age as Remarque during the time it is set. Remarque writes of how he himself grew up and left behind his youth. Just as civilians could not relate to his experience, I think he could not realize what coming of age might have been for anyone else. The odd thing is, I feel I relate to some of what he expresses concerning just that. A feeling of loss, a disconnect from former interests and dreams, a mechanical superficiality which appears to be just practicality and common sense, such as all adults are meant to have. Not as severe. Not as traumatizing. I could never claim that, but it was interesting to find similarities. And somehow affecting and even disconcerting to realize a guy my age might suffer these things.
I still feel a twinge when I think that I cannot recall the feelings of childhood. Only memories of memories.
How much should we hold onto old interests and feelings? How much can we hold onto old interests and feelings? I'm not sure any of us can help the change. Although I have to wonder about some fiction writers.

Perhaps the one thing worth holding onto from childhood is fascination. Children have a sort of trusting wonder, an undying curiosity. Their interest is passionate. I feel older than I should, trying to put this into words. And a child naturally thinks it odd when old people express their observations of a child's sensibility. This I do remember. The difference is, once we are older, wonder and fascination with all that is good has to be cultivated and guarded, lest worldly cares choke the life out of it.
This must be part of what Jesus meant by "Faith like a child."

Serendipity

2010-05-29T20:45:00.000-07:00

Curious. You can search and search, but the time you find one is when you say, "Ooh, look, clover," bend down for three seconds, and pluck the little thing right out of the ground. It's the nature of such things, I suppose.
Last week I forgot my keys at the YMCA. Today, I drove there to meet my mom for a little mother-daughter bonding/workout. I could have left with her earlier this morning. She actually invited me to go yard-saling. My response was something like, "Hmmph... what?... Sure...*snore*."
I made the half-hour drive to meet her for our ten-o-clock class. We stayed for a second class, showered. I double-checked to make sure I had with me everything I had brought: water bottle, purse, book/gym bag, and most especially keys. Then we went to run a few errands, and came home, comfortably chatting the whole way. Pulled up to our house. My mom parked the car. Then we noticed the empty space next to us in the carport.
And I was worried about forgetting my deodorant.
Not quite serendipitous, but I had a good laugh at my own expense.

Beaky the Terrible

2010-05-20T09:13:00.000-07:00

Maybe I'm too easily amused, but hummingbirds kinda fascinate me. Last year's spring thaw produced a spurt of productivity, during which I made a list of things to research. Hummingbirds ended up on that list and I found out several interesting things about them.

For example: hummingbirds' nests are made with spider silk and lichens. Imagine, one of those tiny birds weaving spider silk with its beak. The nests are actually designed to stretch as the chicks grow. Ruby-Throated hummingbirds lay pea-sized eggs and only incubate them 60-80 percent of the day for 12-16 days, which sounds almost negligent compared to many birds. Also, to maintain their insanely rapid movement, hummingbirds have to eat every ten minutes, all day. They beat their wings on average 50 times per second and can flick their tongues 14 times per second when drinking nectar from flowers. They are the only birds that can fly forward, backwards, side to side, and even upside down. And they fly at 30-63 mph. Enough factoids for you?
Remember, we're still talking about those ridiculously cute, tiny green birds with the iridescent red or purple heads who buzz around flowers and get pollen on their pointy little beaks. Here's what cracks me up. Hummingbirds think they are bad-ss. They are extremely territorial. They will fight off fellow hummers, other birds, wasps, bees, moths. According to one hummingbird website,"Hummers occasionally attack other birds, even hawks and crows." Imagine a hummingbird attacking a hawk. The poor hawk just might die laughing.
Maybe hummingbirds suffer from Short Guy Syndrome.
It fits with what I observed. Last year there was a fat little gray/green one who would perch on the vines growing on our porch, placidly watching me as I placidly watched him, sipping iced tea. If another hummer dared approach our -er, his (her?) - flowers, they were chased away by a flurry of buzzing and vicious burst of high-pitched chatter. The intruder gone, he would return to his vine, fluff his feathers till he looked like a gray and green puffball, and stand sentinel, daring any other bird to enter his domain. I miss the little guy.

Squirrel Jones

2010-05-17T22:16:00.000-07:00

Note: Finally, some fiction! This is a scene out of a recently-begun, longer piece. The best I could do, for now. A few details still need to be worked out. Such as where exactly these characters are travelling from. Virginia sounded good. But it might be a good idea to first find out where exactly Virginia is. In relation to Houston and Tucson and stagecoach travel back in the day, you understand. Geographical/chronological issues notwithstanding, please enjoy.

The stage coach had bumped and creaked and jostled its passengers the whole way to Houston and seemed likely to continue to do so until Tucson.

Annie Jones had vomited twice during the first three days of the journey and now she barely ate. She leaned her head against the side of the stagecoach miserably, once again observing the others in the cramped interior. Anything to distract her from being sick. The man across and to the left of her took up enough room that the stage should have charged him for two. He had been on since beginning of her trip, while others came and went, and spent the entirety of every day sleeping. The person currently occupying the seat directly across from Annie was a woman with a dour face, a dull dress, and a sleepy, blond-haired little boy on her lap. The woman’s expression turned from dour to sour, and Annie immediately looked down. After all, there was a limited number of places to look.

Annie glanced at the passenger next to her on the bench seat. Her cousin Squirrel Jones was affected by neither the movement of the vehicle nor the heat. Only extreme boredom, it appeared. Both her hands were on the edge of her seat on either side of her, fingers silently drumming. She stared out the window – which had been left unshuttered, by her will – happily unaffected by the dizzying landscape flashing by, a blur of red dirt, green shrubbery, and blue sky. Squirrel glanced at the other passengers and then back out the window, tossing her dark hair over her shoulder. Annie had failed to persuade her to put it up that morning.

Annie closed her eyes until she heard Squirrel heave a sigh. When she opened them, the woman in front of her had her eyes closed, with her head against the back of the coach and her mouth hanging open.

“She’s asleep,” Squirrel said with a grin.

“Keep quiet. Let’s not wake her,” Annie said, shifting in her seat.

Squirrel sagged back into her seat and rolled her head towards her cousin. “Annie, if I don’t find something to do, I promise you I will go berserk.”

“At least you don’t get motion sickness.” Annie clenched her teeth as the stage coach rolled through a dip in the road. “You could have brought a book with you.”

Squirrel simply stared at her for a moment, blue eyes wide. “I might have, if you’d let me bring more than eight.” All safely packed in her valise, where an extra petticoat should have been. “And I would have finished them before we even got to Tucson.” She heaved another sigh, clasped her hands over her stomach, and turned her head to watch the jiggling belly of the man in front of her. “Besides, that’s the only way I do get sick. It’s an awful long way to Tucson, isn’t it?” The subject change brought a slight quiver into her voice, though she did not turn to look at Annie. Coming had been her choice, after all. Annie had even tried to talk her out of it.

“Don’t say ‘awful,’ Squirrel. It’s slang.”

Squirrel smiled slightly, forgetting her apprehension. “I like slang. Besides, some people might say Squirrel is an awful name. No one in our family has any objection to using it.” She turned, with a full grin that dared Annie to disagree.

Annie rolled her eyes, then winced. Rolling her eyes made her head spin.

“Do you think,” Squirrel began hesitantly, “Was I very foolish in wanting to come with you?” She had returned to her contemplation of their travelling companion’s gut.

After all, Annie came because she had to. Although Aunt Amelia thought differently. Mail-order bride was not exactly high on the list of respectable endings for a Jones girl. But since her father died two years before, she had failed to find any other prospects. Her mother and little sister Martha earned more money teaching school than she did sitting at home, alone all day sowing. And now her younger sister Mary had beat her to the altar at barely just eighteen. She did not want to be the old maid that the rest of the family had to take care of and pity. She would not burden them, not even kind Uncle Thaddeus whose daughters were like her own sisters. After all, she had written letters to the man for a year before the decision to go out West to meet him. That should be enough.

Squirrel, on the other hand, came for reasons that fell more along the pattern of adolescent restlessness. Annie knew, mostly from what Martha told her, that Squirrel was impulsive, willful, and “full of the strangest ideas.” It was bound to be that one of the five daughters born to sweet, practical Aunt Amelia Jones would turn out with a penchant for climbing trees and too much imagination. This happened to be her fourth child, Squirrel. Whose sisters generally regarded as a scapegrace, and whose father generally regarded as his favorite.

“Regardless, I’m glad you came with me.” Annie smiled. Although she was surprised Uncle Thaddeus had sanctioned the plan. But here they were, for better or for worse, en route to Tucson and a theoretical fiancé she had never met.

Squirrel smiled back.

Here There Be Ladybugs

2010-05-04T10:38:00.000-07:00

My words grow rusty from unuse.
I counted 18 ladybugs out by the rock I sit on out in the front yard in the mornings sometimes. It presents a lovely view of our little valley, our sandy river (It's dry 360 days a year), and all the nice trailers in our neighborhood. And the mountains. I sat on the rock and read Ecclesiastes 3, the passage that lists out everything there is a time for. That would make a great song. Too bad the Byrds beat me to it years before I was born. That always seems to happen, especially with the Beatles. They seem to have already written every song I ever intended to compose.
It did occur to me that these verses would work very well as chapter headings. I've been (figuratively. Somewhat.) pacing a hole in the ground trying to think of story ideas, and here's a plot outline, ready made. Sort of. And original too. Solomon would beg to differ: "There is nothing new under the sun." Dare I disagree? It probably has been done, but at least I've never seen it.
I think it's healthy to remember once in a while that there is a lot I don't know and have never heard of.
I had another brilliant idea the other day. Hawksquill's poor readers have nothing to listen to whilst they read. Longer stories I write generally have a soundtrack. Why not blogposts too? I also have camera angles figured into the visualization of my stories, but that might be a bit difficult to do with a post about, say, ladybugs and Ecclesiastes and music and tapioca*. Can you guess what will be first on the playlist for my 16-chapter Ecclesiastes 3 story?
Finally, myspace can be put to good use (maybe). Patience, dear reader, patience. Links coming soon.
The times they are a-changing**. I think I'm finally coming out of hibernation. Be gone, cold front! It feels good to have ideas again.

Recommended listening for this post: "Turn, Turn, Turn," by The Byrds. Obviously.

*Actually, this post was not going to be about tapioca. But now I've mentioned it.
**Another excellent song for the Ecclesiastes 3 playlist. Thanks, uncle Bob.

What About Merlin?

2010-05-01T19:47:00.000-07:00

Last night was one of the rare occasions on which I had a realistic, cohesive dream that actually stuck to a continuous plot. This painting is "King Arthur’s Castle, Off Tintagel Head, Cornwall" by Thos. D. Murphy. Which is a fairly accurate depiction of the location of the final scene in the dream.
It concerned King Arthur and Guinevere. Here's the story:

Arthur, legendary king and warrior. His was not the time of great castles, fiefdoms, and vassalage. His times were more ancient still. When England still had bards and Rome's power was a recent memory*. The clans were barely united under him, but they learned to love their king and respect him as a great warrior.

Until the whole fiasco with Guinevere. Or rather, Guinevere was the fiasco, and worse still. Tragedy of tragedies for a very king to be so betrayed by his wife, whom he had loved. His pain was written on his face, for all his warriors to see. His anger did little to mask it.

She became a sorceress, with powerful allies -- enemies of Arthur. Arthur took Guinevere's infant son and was forced to flee, leaving the fortress of Camelot in flames.

He also took with him a young woman who would care for the baby. She had a name and a past, but they became irrelevant. She was commoner. A nursemaid whose sole purpose was to care for Guinevere's baby so Arthur wouldn't have to.

He pushed her hard as they travelled, the two of them on foot with the baby. Perhaps he did not mean to be harsh, but his frustration could find little release in anything else.

The nursemaid bore it with a strength and grace that was more than admirable. She served her king without complaint and loved the child given into her care as her very own.

It was a long journey to make it to Arthur's other stronghold, where they would be safe. They traveled over untamed lands, where there was no risk of running into others.

Arthur took to calling the girl "Tether." At first, because her life was all that tied him to Guinevere's child, and later because she became for him a tether that held him to his purpose, to hope, to his duty as king of England, and even to the baby he would come to love as his son. Tether became Arthur's best support and comfort.

Years passed and the baby grew into a young man, loved by his courageous father Arthur and his wise mother Tether.

At the edge of a storm-harrowed sea, Guinevere came once again to attack, appearing almost like a sea-monster in her ferocious ship. The boy who had once been Guinevere's baby was trapped on a rock as the waves roared around him. Guinevere had chosen her moment carefully. Arthur was overseeing important affairs in another part of his kingdom. The friends who had gone out with the prince could do little to help him now. But Tether was there to defend her son.

Immediate thoughts upon waking: "Tether. What a beautiful name. Where did that all come from?"

*I blame Stephen Lawhead. Consult The Pendragon Cycle for background.

The Fast and the Fabulous

2010-04-19T11:07:00.000-07:00

Right foot to the brake. Left foot to the clutch. Press both down firmly, hold the monster in place as you turn its key, bring it softly roaring to life. It rumbles, it purrs, eager to go and waiting on your command, in your power, bowed to your will.

Left hand to the wheel, to direct the beast. Right hand laid on pommel of the stick. It is warm, seething with a vibrant anticipation.

Shift to first. Left foot eases up as right foot presses the gas, giving a spark to the beast. It moves forward, slowly, slowly, but eager to consume gravel.

Foot off the clutch. All power now, the vehicle is unleashed. All in a breathless moment:

Gas off. Clutch in. Shift to second.

And it continues with a satisfied purr to gain speed. It strains with a continuous groan, yearning, stretching towards greater velocity.

Gas off, clutch in, shift to third.

Dust and gravel fly in our wake. An orange needle climbs and climbs and climbs. We fly.

Gas off clutch in shift to fourth.

A turn approaches. It flies at us, an inexorable challenge. We will meet it. We shall conquer it.

Clutch in. Hit the brake. Turn the wheel. The dust swirls in our glorious, swerving arc. And then we come to rest.

There was no pavement to screech on. Otherwise, we might have laid down tracks. Or perhaps not. I was going barely over 40 mph, so it was kind of a shock when I spun out. Apparently gravel does that.

My reaction: "That was freakin' awesome!"

My cousin's reaction: "Awesome? I should smack you upside the head. I never even let my brothers do that. You almost gave me a heart attack."

My cousin Jessica took me out in her little blue Versa to teach me to drive stickshift at the stadium in Los Mochis, Sin., Mexico when I was there three weeks ago. Bless her heart.

Blah, Blah, Blog

2010-04-19T11:06:00.000-07:00

I wonder what sort of reasoning there is behind the random string of blogs that come up when you click "Next Blog" up on the nav bar. Try it sometime. I give you fair warning: you may be trapped in a loop of wedding blogs; teenybopper blogs; or cutesy, child-worship blogs. All fine in their place. I guess. I have yet to decipher why these are linked to Hawsquill. Or worse: Asian electronics blogs with no nav bar. Shiver me timbers. You can't get away from those things. Portuguese ones are almost as bad. But at least the burning need to translate anything in a semi-familiar language holds this blogger's attention for a few seconds. Molto bom.
I'm sensing a car theme for April. Not seeing it? You shall, dear reader, you shall.

Traffic Jam

2010-04-12T21:39:00.000-07:00

2:41
We've come across some sort of accident in the road. Cause unknown. Only visible evidence is a few sheets of plywood torn apart on the pavement. Law enforcement is redirecting traffic to turn left onto Tangerine road for a detour. We have changed course accordingly and continue en route to HQ. ETA unknown. Will continue in communication until arrival.

2:44
We have left Tangerine, turned right onto Innovation Parkway. This is currently the only road leading to Rancho Vistoso, Catalina, and Oracle. We cleared the green light at the turn, but I fear vehicles behind us may not be able to turn until the line of cars begins moving. Even with two lanes. This may take awhile.

2:53
We are moving at a pace a gastropod would not envy. I can no longer see the stoplights of Tangerine and Innovation Park, fortunately. The passenger has fallen asleep. The curves of the road prevent any estimation of the number of cars or distance until the next possible turn. We move only a few feet every 10-40 seconds. At least we have air conditioning.

2:57
A Lexus cut in front of me. I wonder what would happen if I rear-ended it. My mother is still asleep. Traffic cops are herding us into one lane for no apparent reason. I need to use the restroom.

3:08
Mom's unconcsious. She woke up long enough to observe that we were still here. A couple a few cars ahead of us got out to to switch drivers. I don't trust them. Seems fishy. If the rest of us can wait this out, so can they.

3:12
I texted while driving. I've never done that before. It always seemed so unsafe. So wrong. HQ might have a thing or two to say about it. We're hanging in there, but just barely. Mom's still KO'ed. I can't even have music any louder than the AC. When will this end?

3:18
Just rolled through a stop sign. The rules don't apply to us. This is anarchy, baby. Some cars tried to cut through out of their comfy, spacious parking lot. The doofus in front of me let them through, but they were just turning. Good riddance. Now some dude's taking the cross walk. I'd forgotten how fast people can walk. It looks nice.

3: 21
We're moving! This is it! Thank You, God! We're saved! Almost home now. It won't be long.

3:24
The Subaru in front of me has a propellor on it's butt. Why the freak does a car need a propellor? It's utterly useless. Kinda nice to look at though. It actually moves. I think that means there's wind. Dang, it looks nice spinning all fast. It looks like a circle. It's my friend. I could sit here forever looking at that little propellor. Spin, propellor, spin.

3: 27
Oracle is in view. I can't take this. Why aren't the coppers directing cars here? They're stopping us. They're actually stopping us. Oh, how I wish I had a tank right now. A tank would make things so much better. I would take it and run over every car in this line. I'd drive up and down Oracle and see what ridiculence caused this disaster. I'd take it through the drive-thru at Dairy Queen. We don't have one in this part of town. But I'd make them build one. So help me, I would. And I'd make them serve free candy-crunch cones to everyone. And if they didn't, I'd blow them to bits with my tank's cannon. Then I'd come out with an RPG and shoot it down their throats. Then they'd have to give us free ice cream, and so help them if they don't. They'll see. You don't deny icecream to someone driving a tank. I think I'd want a purple tank. And I'd get my creamy revenge with it. I swear by all that rolls on four wheels, I'll have my revenge! I'll have it and no one will stop me!

4:10
At this point, it is needless to inform you that we have arrived safely at our destination. We have cause to believe the earlier mishap has since since been cleared up and trips on Oracle may be conducted in safety and peace of mind. Hawkins out.

Sing, Sing a Song

2010-03-26T18:48:00.001-07:00

Note: Last post for March, I'm afraid. Don't cry. I'll bring back some nice fiction from my trip South of the Border -- which in no way refers to Taco Bell.
Be sure to enjoy the author's father's birthday, the movie "How to Train Your Dragon," and Megan Whalen Turner's latest book (finally!) A Conspiracy of Kings, in my absence.

Curious. One tends to believe that either a person can sing or else they can't restrain a melody to one key any more than you can train a wombat.
Can wombats be trained?
What is a wombat?
Should I have stubstitued a narwhal? Would a narwhal be a good substitute for a wombat?
I'm not entirely sure if either wombats or narwhals can sing in tune. As that is the salient point, perhaps we had best not substitute either. As for people, they do fall at both ends of the spectrum. Some sing lovelier than a nightingale without a jot of training. And some are better off training a narwhal to sing for them.
However, for those who fall somewhere inbetween, it is very possible to improve. There is hope.
Wonderful thing, youtube. So many things to learn.
Of course, if you have no interest in singing, then this post avails you nothing. Good luck training your narwhal.
Have you had your daily smile yet? If not, imagine a wombat. Now imagine a narwhal. Now imagine a wombat and a narwhal singing a duet. Now look at your man. Now look at me. I'm on a horse. Not really, but you've at least rolled your eyes by now. Now you're amused. Mission accomplished.

Well, Well, Well

2010-03-23T18:56:00.000-07:00

Thus far I have succeeded in posting once a week. How marvellous. I am perfectly ashamed of what aspersions this casts on my lofty aspirations. I believe I just used a word incorrectly. And just for the heck of it, I'm leaving it in.
Who says you have to have something interesting to say in order to blog? Probably someone who thinks socialized health care is a good idea. Yes, I went there.
What a horrendous cliche that last sentence is. For shame.
And there has been nothing taught, no obscure information transmitted, no grandiose exposition on any topic at all. How sad. You poor blog-reader. You are learning nothing here. I can almost see your brain cells stagnating.
Very well. I shall tell you of something I saw the other day in San Diego.
Piled in the family minivan, we drove from my Cousin's home in Bonita to Coronado Island. Coronado is very nice, very clean, very pretty. Funny, usually if you see a Corvette or even a new 'Stang, the driver is visibly post-midlife crisis. Not a teenager.
Then there's the other end. Driving on the way to Coronado we passed an area that immediately earned the eponym Bum Central. At first I suspected there might be a homeless convention. But we saw nothing anouncing free meals, and bums can't really afford to have conventions, even in California. Homeless people lined the street, apparently because they simply had nowhere else to go. They had their bundles and plastic bags and dirty clothes. A few might have had shopping carts or bicycles. At least they had company.
Just a few minutes drive and we were watching the sunset on a clean beach. We walked up the Del Coronado Hotel, which looks like a huge, royal manor, both inside and out. Very beautiful. A popular place for weddings.
It reminded me a bit of ancient Rome.

The Power of a Smile

2010-03-16T20:39:00.000-07:00

I suppose trolling the widest of the Arizona Renaissance Festival's pointless stone bridges was my idea. As per form, Emile acted on this whim immediately. She, Miriam, and I begged a shilling as bridge tax from all who passed, in our best Cockney accents, and received twenty-six cents, a stick of gum apiece, a balancing act, a tune on a whistle, several handslaps, and many dirty looks. We also all three got married in a single ceremony to Will Scarlet, Robin Hood's famed roguish companion, who carried a string of rings and binding ropes on his arms for just such an occasion.
Several years in a row now we have taken the hour-long drive once a year, in our best Renaissance costumes, and spent the better part of the day strolling about the festival grounds, watching shows, shopping, and eating giant turkey legs. This is how we spent last sunny Sunday. Bright colors and odd characters were everywhere, as usual. Last year, we bought an over-priced flower from a Renaissance-era, hippy rapper and Miriam received a marriage proposal from a potato. His name was Franky. And she broke his spuddy heart. We also watched a few shows, containing plenty of comedy, juggling, and bagpipes. Our first was Gypsy Geoff performing on the green, who last year stole a kiss on my cheek -- much to my friends' amusement.
We returned to our bridge in the afternoon, this time with a plan. Emile adjusted her accent to Irish, Miriam switched to plain English, and I suggested that our apparent panhandling wasn't going over well. We modified our request to, "A shilling or something to make me smile." Emile was a natural at chasing people down. I watched for awhile, which garnered some complaint.
"I'm the enforcer," I told her. Which she then accepted with a laugh.
An idea came to me after a little observation. It is fun to mess with strangers in that kind of setting. But what better to do than bless them, if you can? A smile is a powerful thing.
"Bridge tax," I would say, "It's a smile to cross the bridge."
What's this? Distrust would cross their faces, then confusion. What did we say?
"A smile to cross the bridge, sir. I'll need to see nice big smiles from you all before you go on."
Huge grins would spread across their faces whether by choice or compulsion.
"There they are." And I couldn't help grinning back. "Lovely smiles. Keep at it. Keep smiling."
People left the bridge happy. And the returns we got were smiling faces, hugs, thanks, "You're cute," "You're funny," "Tyrell, come take a picture with these girls," "Can you tell me where the roasted almonds are?" and "Where are the bathrooms?"
A few slipped away. And the royal executioner threatened with us with his ax. But overall, it was amazing to make so many people smile, even if we weren't getting payed for it.
Smile and make another smile. Captain Hawkins highly recommends it. Huzzah.

To Get an Education

2010-03-11T20:31:00.000-08:00

The Circumlocution Office from the 2009 BBC production of Little Dorrit. Excellent film.

I had an idea for a cartoon. But as I haven't the inclination to even consider giving taking the time to draw it, I will describe it here forthwith. I wonder if this is the first occurrence of the word "forthwith" in this blog. Interesting. Allow me to begin with a quote from Mark Twain.

"I never allowed my schooling to interfere with my education."

Thank you, Mr. Clemens. My sentiments exactly.

Picture if you will, the Student. There is a hoop before her she must jump through. It looks simple enough, not too high off the ground, large, not on fire or anything of that sort. Above it is a sign announcing, "University." Naturally, she assumes jumping through the hoop is the act which precipitates her entrance into this University, a very necessary step to getting through another hoop farther down labelled, "Degree."
There is a person standing next to the hoop. Let's call him Advisor. He seems very distracted. He is surrounded by papers. Papers in his hands, papers falling off the clipboard he holds, papers coming out of his pants and pockets and shoes. Papers even coming out of his hat. He holds papers clamped even in his teeth, which make his answer to the Student's inquiry rather muffled. She repeats her question. He pulls the papers out of his mouth and takes a moment to look around where he might stash them. Instead he pauses, both hands now full of papers, and says, "Yes, this is the hoop you have to jump through to get to University." He smiles.
The Students is content. She jumps through the hoop and lands safely on the ground on the other side of it. But now she notices a problem. The hoop was not so simple as it first appeared. The University sign was not hanging over that single hoop, but a whole series of hoops she couldn't see while facing the first. They are all in a line, stretching on to a point she can't see. She gawks for a moment. "Was I supposed to jump through this next hoop too?"
Advisor seems surprised at the question. "Yes. But, where's your paper?"
"What paper?"
He does not deign to look disgruntled, but he does mutter a bit while searching through the stack on the clipboard before handing the paper he wants to the student.
"Do I take this through the next hoop?"
"Yes." He smiles.
No harm done so far. The student takes the paper and jumps through the next hoop, certain she will make it to University. She lands a little harder this time, and looks up. More hoops. She notices now that they seem higher up. The hoops are even, one after another. But the ground beneath them slopes down, so that the further you go, the higher you have to jump.
The student taps the advisor, who seems to have lost a specific paper. "Do I have to jump through all of these?"
He raises his eyebrows at her. "All of what?"
"The hoops."
"Hoops? Yes, you have to jump through a few hoops. No harm done. No harm. Where are your papers?"
She hands him the paper he gave her before. He peruses it for a moment before giving her a look of consternation. "Where are the rest?"
"What rest?"
"The rest of your papers. Everything you need to make it to through the next hoop."
"This is the only one you gave me." She shrugs almost apologetically, although she feels vaguely put out.
He sighs heavily. "What do you need?"
She takes a moment to answer, unsure of what he's asking. "I don't know what I need. I was hoping you would tell me."
He gives her a look that clearly questions her intelligence. "How am I supposed to give you anything if you don't ask for it?"
She remains silent for another moment. "How about if you just give me everything I need to get to University?"
"Like what?"
"Like papers. Give me papers." She begins to grow frustrated.
"Okay, here." Advisor loads his arms with all the papers he can find and dumps them on the Student. Now, besides the paper she held in her hand, she is so covered with papers she cannot see Advisor, or the hoops, or even the huge University sign.
"Is this everything I need?" she asks, her voice muffled beneath the pile of paper.
Advisor shrugs, then realizes she can't see him. "I don't know."
"Aren't you supposed to know?" The Student's voice pitches up, beginning to sound frantic.
Advisor smiles. "That's not my department. I'll give you a phone number to connect you to the Circumlocution Office so they can connect you with another advisor who will advise you about who you should contact to find out about what department you have to call to get in touch with someone who might know about requirements and stuff."
"How many hoops are there?"
Advisor scratches his head with the edge of another sheaf of papers he just found rolled up in his back pocket. "I think you're supposed to jump through all of them."
"What happens if I can't jump high enough?"
He is silent for a moment. Then shrugs and smiles. "Let me give you that phone number to talk to the advisor who can connect you to the Circumlocution Office."

I Heart Cheese

2010-02-28T20:34:00.000-08:00

Two weeks late for Valentines. Sometimes I think I might be part Vulcan, like Spock. Then I think I really need to stop making references to Star Trek.

O Heart.

What a silly thing

You are. So strong,

So reliable, so turned

By substanceless feelings.

Like a mockingbird

To a bit of glitter,

You are trapped

By the intangible.

O Heart.

Painful thought

That you must be

Naive and tender,

Sheltered by

A fearful mind;

Or else scarred,

Hardy and unwhole,

Given too freely.

Better to trust

Tender heart's care

To the One

Worth trusting.

O Heart.

Don't be overwhelmed.

The OFIS

2010-02-16T17:03:00.000-08:00

"Next."
Waiting in the Office of Fantasy, Imagination, and Speculation is so much like sitting in the DMV, a scatterbrain might confuse the two. Fortunately, Rhiss was not a scatterbrain. She was a Thinker, one of the rare ones who had been blessed with a fertile imagination and enough external awareness to make observations of people.
"That's not so rare you know. And you, Ms. Scatterbrain, just went right from mentioning location to internal monologuing. And some pretty conceited monologuing, I might add. Completely skipped over description." The man sitting behind the desk at booth 023 startled Rhiss out of her thoughts. She looked over. He was standing, leaning over the desk. A short, solid gentlemen with his shirt unbuttoned, sleeves rolled up and glasses halfway down his nose. He leaned his hairy arms on the desk and stared at her expectantly. "I can help you now," he said.
Rhiss stood up, hiding her embarrassment. She had forgotten thoughts were audible to employees in the OFIS. No wonder the receptionist had smiled at her.
She made her way around several rows of uncomfortable blue chairs to the man's booth, identical to the others lining three sides of the room except for the number painted in white on the side of the partitions that separated it from the others. The partitions were also blue and the walls were white, but tended to appear grey in the lighting and the general lack of cleanliness. One would expect a more imaginative atmosphere.
"We wouldn't want people to spend all their time here," the man said with half a smile as Rhiss approached and sat in a chair, as blue and uncomfortable as her former seat, in front of his desk.
She was startled once again.
"Don't forget your other senses," he prompted, still standing.
Rhiss looked over her shoulder. Besides those being helped, there were a handful of other people waiting in blue chairs. A heavy guy reading a sci-fi magazine, a dreamy-looking woman in a Victorian evening gown, and a blue-haired pixie who looked completely ecstatic to be in this dingy waiting room. She apparently couldn't keep still. She might have taken a hint from the dashing steampunk sky captain who paced the floor, repeatedly checking his pocket watch. This was understandable. The place smelled like a sweaty bus. The only tolerable thing about it was Johnny Cash blaring from the speakers in the corners of the ceiling.
"It helps us focus on one person's thoughts at a time," the man explained.
He extended a firm hand and introduced himself as Bill before he sat down and pulled a sheaf of papers out of drawer in his desk. "Now," he adjusted his glasses and looked through the papers, ignoring the computer on his right. "What's the problem?"
Rhiss took a deep breath and tried to keep a tremor out of her voice as she began. "I can't seem to get my imagination to work. I haven't been writing anything. And I can't seem to start." Her voice got smaller and smaller as she went on.
Bill looked at her over his glasses and set down her papers. "And how is this my problem?"
She stared at him. "I'm afraid I'm going to lose it."
He smiled at her, and she couldn't tell if it was more reassuring or condescending. "Have you been reading lately?"
"No."
"Have you had time to write?"
"Not really."
And you're worried because you used to be able to start stories and finish them whenever you wanted," he stated, implying a question.
Rhiss thought about this a moment and faltered. "N-no. But I used to have ideas for stories all the time."
"And you never got anything done." He reminded her.
She was silent.
Bill sighed. "You remember how much you used to use that thing when you were kid? Just about wore it out. You're growing up, changing, making up for some of that time. And you're not going to lose it."
"How can I be sure?" Her eyes pleaded with him for some reassurance.
He gave it to her with a genuine smile this time. "You made it here, didn't you?"
She was skeptical, but finally smiled in return. "I had a hard time finding the way."
"I hope you didn't ask the pixie for directions."
She laughed. "I'm not really into crazy muses."
He grinned. "See, still independent and here you are doing dialogue."
"But what do I do?" Rhiss said, still searching for some plan of action.
Bill sighed again and replaced his glasses. "What does Relient K tell you?"
"Emotional girls should wear mood rings?"
"Wrong song."
"Penny Loafers are ugly?"
"You have been talking to the pixie haven't you?"
"Oh, 'Pressing On'!"
Bill nodded, folded his arms on the desk. "That's all I can tell you."
Rhiss smiled. "Okay. Thanks, Bill."
"Don't thank me, I didn't give it to you."
"I'll remember to thank Him too." She looked over her shoulder into the waiting room and grinned. "Maybe I'll even get some ideas from these rejects."
Bill looked serious and raised a warning finger. "Stay away from the pixie."
Rhiss laughed and looked speculatively at the impatient sky captain. Then she looked sideways at Bill, who smiled at her. She blushed.
"Next."

Ski Day

2010-02-10T17:45:00.000-08:00

Five a.m. and Black Sabbath's "Iron Man" was playing when the family stepped into our preheated minivan. The temperature read thirty-five degrees, but the car was cozy, and a little on-and-off dozing during the four hour trip to Sunrise Ski Resort hopefully made up enough lost sleep to sustain us through a day of skiing.
The temperature decreased and patches of snow multiplied as we drove. A couple hours later a glorious sunrise broke through soft streaks of cloud. As we neared the town of Show Low (a gambling term?) the ground became flat. I had forgotten how frost makes everything sparkle. It was enough to make any vampire envious. The sight of tall, straight trees, sparse enough to shutter the light as it streams through always makes me think of going on a quest, or running through a forest (like Selah and Silas), or walking leisurely through the endless expanse in a fine gown any female character in Lord of the Rings would envy. Depends on the weather.
In the midst of the trees stood a lonely snowman. His arms had fallen off. It reminded me of the first time I tried skiing.
No, it really doesn't, but that's as a good a transition as any.
I was five years old. All I remember is some girl I didn't know trying to tell me what to do. I guess she was a ski instructor.
Last year was my first real try. The thing about skiing is that it takes a lot of imagination to romanticize it at all. You're bundled so that it feels like you're being eaten by your clothes and have your feet trapped in heavy, stiff boots strapped to an akward pair of boards. The most interesting situations that might be related to skiing are:
a) You are cross-country skiing in a snowstorm, on a journey to rescue someone or to reach help for a tiny snowed-in village. Thing is, this is not cross-country skiing and a snowstorm would result in you and all the other skibums and snowbirdies getting kicked off the slope. No snow dancing, now.
b) Your archenemy's henchmen are chasing you down the mountain. Because he's one of those freak villains who builds his fortress on a frozen mountaintop. In which case, you may need to consider finding a new archenemy.
c) If your thoughts are inclined in that direction, a romantic ski weekend with your honey with the intention of impressing him or her. Problem: see description preceding (a).
Actually, that's not bad.
Last Friday was the third try. A few runs on the short, wide bunny hill led up to multiple trips down the long, long green circle run after lunch. Picture if you will carving your way down the slope, kicking up powder, and --slowly but surely -- gaining speed. And I finally realized it is the speed that makes this exciting. Laugh, if you will. These are the words of a desert rat.
We rarely get snow in Tucson. Half an inch results in a snow day for four-fifths of the schools and some difficulty convincing little brothers it is actually a bad idea to take a snowboard down the driveway.

I Hold Out Hope for the Future

2010-02-04T16:15:00.000-08:00

Why, you may ask? My brothers and their friend have constructed a working hoverboard, the likes of which Marty McFly would envy. It is built with magnets, constructed to ride a track on a mini, half-pipe mini-ramp. It floats an inch above the magnets of the track and slides back and forth over the air on either transition; up one side, back down, and up the other. They have even tested its capacity for carrying passengers. An excellent science project indeed.
Now if only they would build a life-size one.
Will streets one day be replaced with magnetic tracks? I can see how that would present difficulties. Anyone with braces would dread stepping out the door. And what would be the fun of a car you can't drive?
Of course, some would prefer to be doing other things while driving anyway. Like the man I saw the other day, blithely shaving his chin as he passed us at 55 miles per hour.
And as it turns out, card-counting is actually quite easy. And has absolutely nothing to do with hoverboards, or magnets, or shaving.

Selah and Silas

2010-01-29T18:27:00.000-08:00

A bit of fiction for this week. The first half of a story that came out of nowhere. Shall I continue it?
When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn!
What will become of us? These words repeated in my dreary mind's eye. We ran and we rushed, with swiftness guiding our feet, silence ruling our movements, flight governing our thoughts. Ours. I spoke and thought in plural. Though I could not see my brother's mind I knew it, as he knew mine, so long had we been alone save for each other.
"Selah," he whispered my name. It was warning enough. I stopped. Both of us tensed, turned alertly back towards the danger we ran from. The night sky broke above and bright moonlight was loosed on the ground before us, escaping in patches through the branches of the dense wood. The path was lit. Years of use had even taught the trees to leave the trail cut into the hillside exposed.
Voices began to quiver through the wood, growing into discernible words. I was late in hearing what had caused Silas to stop. "Go back, Elaine," the Baron said, his voice raised, else we would not have heard him so clear. A softer, sibilant murmuring followed, though we could not make it out - a woman's voice.
I looked at my brother and could see the tremor in his lip in the moonlight, the hardening in his chest, a glint reflecting in his eye. It was her voice he had heard.
The voices were replaced by a faint pounding of hooves, growing louder as they neared. And then a sound we had silently dreaded since we set out: the bay of a hound.
"Silas, we must go." I took his sleeve and he let me pull him off the path, though hearing his beloved had robbed his feet of swiftness. I understood. He had ceased to think and I must think for him, or all his thoughts would be of running back to Elaine. I would lead my elder brother that night, and protect him from the darkness of his own thoughts. Darkness well-deserved by the injustice perpetrated against us.
We slid down fallen leaves on the damp slope below the path and carefully picked our footing as we hurried away from the Baron, his men, and his dogs. I looked behind only once to be sure Silas was following me. He was quiet as a shadow and sure as a king in the woods, though the clouds once again darkened the night. I was as glad to have him at my side as I was that he had taught me to know the land around us. The sound of running water soon lent its music to our flight. Even as the dogs drew nearer, the call of the stream was like a hand reaching out to pull us out of the torrent of infamy that engulfed us. We could hear the Baron's men calling to each other as they made their way after us, cursing the soil beneath their feet. But the stream would wash away our trail and the dust of the house we had left behind.
The stream was deeper than I had known, and a chill ran up my spine as my clothes were soaked and my cloak billowed behind me. "Silas," I called, afraid.
"I am here." He took my hand. The water flowed under his arms. "The other side is shallower. We will go upstream."
"It will slow us down."
"They will expect us to go downstream." He was thinking once again. I followed his direction and we marched as silently as we could up the West-flowing stream, trudging more than a mile before we lost the sound of hooves and hounds and left the icy flow. We traveled on, silent most of the night, though we could not stop our chattering teeth from showing our misery. We would not dare rest, while sleep threatened to overtake us. And the Baron would not rest while we were on his land.
I had no thought of the time or the distance when we did stop. Morning's light found us wrapped in our cloaks at the base of an ancient oak.

The Great Tornado Warning of 2010

2010-01-23T17:02:00.000-08:00

It has been an eventful weekend. If we may allow for Thursday to be included under the category of "the weekend." It included a marvellous storm which threatened to blow my family's little shelter right off my siblings and I.
The lights had flickered on and off repeatedly throughout Thursday afternoon. The power went out completely at six thirty, just as Brad Pitt discovered his wife was, in fact, an assassin. I had seen it before. But it was jolting to have the room go dark of a sudden. The television's screen appeared suddenly backlit with a greenish hue for a few seconds before fading to black. Rather than the silence you expect of a dark room, we were was surrounded with the howl and whip of a violent wind. The entire house creeked with eerie sounds caused by continuous pressure changes. Tucson homes are not built for severe weather. Our many windows now presented more hazard than pleasant views. We could see nothing outside the front door, but a peek out the back revealed a house on fire a mile or two away. And many trees straining to resist the wind. But an abundant supply of candles kept us cheery. We heated soup on the stove and pretended to be a Victorian era farm family. In which case, the number of candles we burned would be an outrageous luxury. All the while, I envisioned scenarios which ranged from several days living like Little House on the Prairie to being rescued by attractive firefighters to leading a militant band of survivors in a post-terrorist-ambush world. After a quick call to my parents to ascertain that they would be back at a decent hour, and a quick call to the power company to ascertain that they hadn't the foggiest clue when our power would be back, we settled down to a game of Settlers of Catan by candlelight.
The morning revealed a return of power, a missing doormat, a fallen tree, and a yard full of roof shingles. Our typicall dry river bed was roaring. Now the Catalina Mountains, which stand like a well-ordered guard to face the rising skies, are covered in snow two-thirds of the way down to their bases. They've been hiding behind a glorious blanket of gray cloud in the mornings, which sits like a shawl around their shoulders when the sun comes out in the afternoons. This is just about my favorite thing to look at. And the air smells crisp and fresh and wonderful.
We found out later that a tornado warning had been broadcast, as well as the blizzard warning for a few hundred feet above us. A historic day for Tucson.

Go Forth and Flourish

2010-01-14T16:35:00.000-08:00

Extreme Card Manipulation: a prententious, 90'sesque name for a curious little niche in the performing arts world. Also known as cardistry, flourishing, and card conjuring. Although aficionados will make distinctions. this art consists of non-magical flourishes done with an entire deck of cards. It is the sort of thing that might appeal to magicians, Las Vegans (not to be confused with Darwinist cannibals. Or vegans), and the odd blogger. The moves of flourishing include cuts (one-handed and two-handed), fans, riffles, spreads, and springs, among others. All take an incredible amount of dexterity that comes only from hours of practice. There happens to be a 545-page Encyclopedia of Playing Card Flourishes. There are also forums devoted to the practice, a plethora of videos on youtube, and online stores that sell the tools of the trade: cards, fanning powder, dvd's, etc.
This is both an accessory skill for magicians and a subcategory of the even more obscure world of Extreme Hand Sports. These also include coin manipulation, sport stacking, and pen spinning (Which I thought was something slackers do to distract themselves from the drone of a college professor's lecture). Presumably, there is some nerd appeal as well. Or intellectual badass appeal, as some would term it. Incidentally, they (nerds) have more groups on facebook than XCMers. Although, for all their attempts at compensation, this general subculture/clique appear to spend an inordinate amount of time arguing over whether Star Trek or Star Wars is best. Star Trek is better. Get over it. Go buy yourself a deck of cards.
What is the appeal for putting time into this? Mostly, it just looks cool. It conjures (no pun intended) images of scenes from movies like Casino Royale, and X-Men Origins: Wolverine. Who didn't fantasize about being like Gambit or the MIT Blackjack team when they first learned to shuffle and bridge? That is a rhetorical question. Is it worth the time? You decide. Here ends your obscure info/cultural lesson for the week.

It's a Duck's Life

2010-01-11T13:57:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I chopped a ducky's head off.
My father and brother came home with four ducks from their half-day hunting excursion, which they tell me was a blast. Three mallards and one merganser all riddled with holes. We dipped them in boiling water to loosen their feathers and hung them from the mesquite tree out front by a wire that threatened to slip off their cooked feet. My parents did the plucking. I did the final inspection and cut off feet and heads. We saved a few feathers, including the curly, iridiscent black tail feather of one of the two green-headed male mallards. Hopefully I can find a good hat for it.
I raised chickens, once upon a time, which had a habit of becoming dinner when they became too ornery. Yes, chickens can be ornery too. Roosters have one inch long spurs on the backs of their legs which I might still have scars from. I never did the butchering then, but I think it is healthy in a certain way to learn to eat something you raised. Life has to be given for life to continue. This goes all the way back to Adam and Eve (Gen. 3:21).
All the vegetarians I know fondly came to mind as I squeazed seeds out of gizzards and smeared the blood on my hands. I am not a vegetarian. But I do not take lightly or for granted the fact that life was given to feed and sustain me. Greater love hath no man than he who gives his life for his friends. I will not let the sacrifice of those ducks go to waste. Maybe they even loved me. Or would have, if they had a brain bigger than a pecan and could articulate anything more than a quack.
Vegans also came to mind while watching my dad pull a duck's heart out. Interestingly enough, this idea that meat is murder is congruent neither with a philosophy that allows absolutes nor with relativistic atheism. If there is such a thing as right and wrong, and taking life in every way is absolutely wrong, then a person sins by killing a fly, a dust mite, a live bacteria causing them to be ill. If they ascribe to natural selection, survival of the fittest, then it makes perfect sense to kill another creature to sustain oneself with the needful protein that can be gotten from their flesh. And they would be perfectly justified in killing a weaker person of their own species, if that would sustain them and help the species evolve into something stronger.
As if scientists with an agenda weren't creepy enough. Now we have to worry about Darwinist cannibals. Regardless, I'm sure those ducks will be very tasty.

Enter the New Decade

2010-01-06T09:40:00.000-08:00

Getting out of your comfort zone on occasion feels good. That is, doing things that you may not want to, but should; enduring discomfort for the sake of others, or for the sake of something good. That's what builds character, which is well worth building, if you are inclined to build anything. Character is a sturdy kind of structure to inhabit. And it doesn't get blown over by discomfort or difficulty because that is precisely what is was tested for.
What brought on this moralising turn of mind? A turn in Mexico, which is an area of my comfort zone beginning to be stretched thin from lack of use, even if it is second home. We fit ten people in my grandparents medium-sized living room who all fell asleep counting spiders on the concrete ceiling. One or more people slept in each a chair, two couches, and four cots. Volleyball and shrimp were the order of the day. We did not visit the beach, but still breathed plenty of salty, sea air as we swang on Papachuy's fishnet hammocks. And relatives from next door or across the street stopped by to say hello. The latest town scandal is that one of my second (?) cousins is dating someone from town. Which is to say, they are related. One morning my mom and I walked through the entire town stopping at every other house or so to say hi to an aunt, uncle, cousin, godparent, second cousin, third cousin...
Another brave cousin gave a little impromptu speech our last night together, when we had the family together around the fire on our grandparents' back porch. He pointed out that it may be the last time all my grandparents' children are reunited in their hometown. And he told them how there is absolutely nothing better than knowing Jesus Christ as Lord. And I agree.
Incidentally, I have made a plan to blog about three times a week. It is all written out on a piece of notebook paper lying around somewhere.
Here's to New Year's resolutions!
And here's to the New Year, which I am greeting more than a week late and consequently forgetting with alarming frequency. Happy two thousand ten, everyone!

Trouble at the Pump

2009-12-13T21:30:00.000-08:00

In honor of self deprecation I would like to share a little something about putting gas in your car.
Many, I think, tend to take the ability to successfuly pump gas for granted. Unless you live in a socy state like Oregon, where its illegal to pump your own gas. The thing is, it took me a heck of a long time to figure out how to do it right.
The difficulties started the first time I had to pay in cash. I drove up to a quiet gas station, near a retirement community on the outskirts of town. It was morning. Lazy retirees were most likely sleeping in. The green golf course across the street looked as empty and silent as the gas station's lot. I walked into the Minit Mart, handed my twenty bucks to the cashier, walked out to the car, put the nozzle into the car, and nothing happened. I stood there, looking from the car to the pump. No swishing of gas in the tank. No ticking by of numbers on the display. I was both shocked and distressed. I released the trigger on the handle and tried to pull it up again, but the darn thing wouldn't move.
My friend Emile was patiently waiting in the passenger seat. I waved to her as I walked back across the parking lot towards the Minit Mart to humbly ask the cashier for assistance. He was understanding. He reset the pump and suggested I try again. Again, I put the nozzle into my car's tank. The display read "Lift lever to begin fueling." So I once again lifted the trigger/lever on the handle and locked it into place. And nothing happened.
The only sound was the far-off bubbling of the artifical spring in the golf course's pond. How dare it look so serene in the middle of this crisis.
I may have spent several moments longer than I would care to admit, staring from my car, to the pump, to the Minit Mart, and back again in stupefaction. I finally worked up the guts to go back and ask for help a second time. The cashier sighed and directed me to pump #4.
I went through the same motions -- giving the pump a few seconds to warm up this time. It didn't take long to figure out this one wasn't working either. I ripped open my car door and poked my head in. "It's not pumping," I said frantically. Ems stepped out of the car, gave me a quizzical look over its roof, and shrugged. We discussed what was to be done for a moment or two and sadly came up with nothing better than to stand around and wait for a knight in shining armor to come to the rescue.
Unfortunately, it was more like gruff cashier in a dull, grey uniform to the rescue. He finally came out to see what the matter was. Then he did something amazing. He lifted the lever the nozzle rests on, then pulled the trigger and the gas started flowing.
"You girls just don't know how to pump gas," he said as he walked away.
I almost keeled over from the sheer exhausting combination of relief and mortification.
This was the first of no less than three (and hopefully not more than four?) times I had to ask for help pumping gas.
There is a lesson in this. You see, it would have saved a whole lot of trouble and embarrassment if I had simply walked in and said, "Excuse me, I'm a stupid college freshman and I have no idea what I'm doing out there. Would you mind helping me put gas in my car?"
I figured out and tested the efficiency of this method by the third or fourth time and it saved a lot of trouble. Well, minus the "stupid college freshman" part. A very nice man came out and demonstrated the precise timing and method for pumping gas.
Ah, pride does indeed make fools of us, whether it exposes us to ridicule or merely to silent chagrin. And you actually learn a lot more and get into interesting conversations when you're willing to ask questions and admit it when you need help.
Of course, I could have just googled it and found these helpful, sixteen-step directions.

The Good Old Days?

2009-12-10T14:48:00.000-08:00

Above is a lovely (borrowed) little preview of a story I have been working on. Several people have said it should be set in the 1950's. I say if you are going to write historical fiction, it had better be on purpose. Turns out, there are several obstacles besides:

1. Music. What was there in the 50's? True, rock and roll was warming up. There was blues, and jazz, and old-timey. Elvis was huge... But there was no such thing as classic rock in the 50's, much less alternative. The Beatles did not even exist in 50's!

2. Clothes. Girls wore full skirts, guys wore grease in their hair. Unless such hallowed classics as West Side Story have steered us wrong. Forgive our ignorance, O grandparents. Sure, girls wore pants sometimes. And you have variations like Beatniks, Rockabilly (and Teddy Boys in England). It was certainly not all poodle skirts and black leather jackets. That still leaves the problem of what a tomboy who leads a gang could possibly wear. If there could be a girl leading a gang in 50's, which I very much doubt. And shoes? Anything? Converse? Converse are cool.

3. The language. What is a writer to do when her characters insist on talking as if they were from this era? Is there a good guide? West Side Story seems believable. Except for gang members randomly breaking into song and dance every few minutes. That, and the story precisely following the plot of that sappy, depressing thing Shakespeare wrote. Scratch that. S. E. Hinton's The Outsiders is probably more reliable, and also very entertaining.

4. Grease. As in, the film. If that doesn't sour you on the 50's, then you are fortunate in that nothing will. The only good things to be taken from it are swing dancing and drag racing. Although I would not recommend precisely imitating the way either was done in the movie.

In conclusion, The Outsiders may redeem the decade's literary value, but at this point a story about a gang in the 1950's is not terribly original. Maybe I could get away with inserting a time machine and have a character from the future play an awesome rocked out guitar solo. Wait, that's already been done too. And I am off to research the 40's. The 40's sound good. I guess there was a big war going on then.

Christmas Time Is Here

2009-12-03T17:16:00.000-08:00

Cute video. Great song.

It seems the weather has finally turned for real. Considering this means the coldest forecasted low for the week is one degree above freezing and the high is 57*, I'm not sure I should get quite as much pleasure as I do out of wearing a pair of swashbucklin' boots. That, and the red scarf I began to knit a year ago and finished last June. It still serves its purpose. The wearer feels very much like a World War I flying ace getting ready to take down the Red Baron. Which actually sounds rather exciting. Where's my Sopwith Camel?! Actually, my mode of transport is a car (not a doghouse) with a peeling hood which refuses to play either CDs or tapes. But it still gets radio thanks to the classy coathanger antenna. And the radio is playing Christmas tunes. This has to be handled carefully. We get almost a full month of Christmas music. If you rely on a single radio station for your Christmas cheer, you may burnout. For a nice variation I recommend Bob Dylan's Christmas in the Heart and Relient K's Let is Snow, Baby... Let It Reindeer. They do some excellent renditions of Christmas classics and a few original songs that are very nice as well. Ah, 'tis the season. Nothing beats coming home, wiping dusty feet on the family's festively ironic "Let It Snow" doormat, enjoying a hearty meal of leftover Thanksgiving gumbo (or, if you can manage it, my brother's suggestion of "Thanksgiving on a stick"), and baking all afternoon. The house feels warm, sounds cheery, and smells wonderful.

An Old Excuse

2009-12-01T19:21:00.000-08:00

Hawksquill, Inc.
Tucson Alamos Billings La Aduana Navojoa

Attn: Dr. -------
Re: Student Excuse
Dear Sir,
We regret to inform you that due to an error in design we have issued an official recall of certain students’ minds issued August 22-25, 1989. These students proved to have been impaired in the areas of creativity, social skills, and physical coordination when subjected to high levels of stress involving academic pursuits such as studies in physics and long-term group assignments. For reasons we have not yet identified many subjects have shown the same symptoms after consuming wasabi, horseradish, Brussels sprouts, black licorice, or papaya as well as after watching the Golf Channel. Until we can identify the exact triggers for this disorder we recommend keeping students of this type away from possible triggers.
We have identified several students of PCC who exhibit these symptoms. To prevent the spread of lethargy and loss of motivation the imagination of your student Marissa L. Hawkins has been reclaimed in the hopes of finding a cure. We assure you that this is only temporary and it will be returned as soon as we have found a remedy for this situation. We ask that you take care not to apply too much stress to your students during this crisis as many types of minds are vulnerable to this and other disorders especially during the spring season. We ask that you contact us immediately by email, telephone, or mail if you believe other students to be in danger. We apologize for any inconvenience and appreciate your cooperation during this time.
Regards,
Hawksquill, Inc.

1-800-203-5087
uselesspunksarenotusingtheirheads@hawksquill.org
1000 Knucklehead Knoll
Tupelo, MS 30027

Napoleon Blownapart

2009-11-20T12:44:00.000-08:00

Ah, Napoleon. This is the creepiest picture I could find of him. So much has been said about this particular megalomaniacal creep. Not without reason; the guy had some serious chutzpah.Napoleon was not even French. He was Corsican. This may have been to his advantage. Look at what happened in France in the ten years prior, it doesn't say much for the intelligence of the French.
It wasn't their fault. Napoleon was a genius, after all. He was a lieutenant at 16 and a general at 24. My history teacher points out that his older, battle-hardened underlings probably weren't too happy about that at first.

Look at how he took over France. Napoleon requested a post in Egypt, to knock out England's trade with the Middle East. He lost. Far from being discouraged by this, he abandoned his troops in Egypt and booked it back to France before news could reach Frogtown of his failure. He came back as a self-proclaimed hero and magnanimously offered to take over the government. They bought it. He became the First Consul of the Republic of France in 1799. He made himself Consul for life in 1802. Sound familiar? It should if you know anything about the history of the Roman Empire. Julius Caesar did the same thing. Napoleon was kind of obsessed with Jules. He abandoned all pretense in 1804 and crowned himself emperor. Quite literally. As in, he snatched the crown out of the Pope's hands and said "I crown myself emperor of France." The nerve. Fortunately, or unfortunately as it were, he had too much power at that time for the Pope to do more than wring his robe and look sour.

He did lose some battles. Like the sea Battle of Trafalgar in which the Brits' leader, Admiral Lord Nelson, was shot by a cabin boy and then pickled in a barrel of Sherry so they could take his body back to England. And Russia. Actually, it was kind of stupid of Napoleon to go after Russia. Follow this sound advice: DO NOT wake the bear (That's a whole other post, I think).

Eventually, he was defeated and exiled to the isle of Elba in the Mediterranean. Napoleon had a nice house, secretaries, servants. And a barracks with a thousand soldiers so he would have something to keep him occupied. Eventually, he got bored, stole seven ships, and invaded France with those thousand soldiers. When Napoleon identified himself to the army sent to stop him, they turned around and joined him. Eventually, as the story goes, he was defeated at Waterloo by a passel of Prussians he thought he had already beat and a sneaky bunch of Brits in formal wear (the English officers came to battle straight from a dinner party). They exiled Napoleon again, this time to the less-pleasant island of St. Helene. The English had to poison him to get rid of him, though they deny it. Actually, they did him a favor. The poison he tried to take had lost its potency after being carried on his person for so many years.

Napoleon was a creep, but aside from his megalomania you have to almost admire his willingness to take risks. I think this is what often sets people apart more than natural brilliance. He took a few hits, but kept right on going. He might not have gotten England and Russia, but he pretty much reconquered Charlemagne's empire. If you aim for the stars you'll at least hit the clouds. And clouds are pretty awesome. Napoleon didn't let a little thing like being captured and imprisoned stop him either. But that's why Europe should have put aside their squeamishness about regicide and beheaded him when they had the chance.

Be Still

2009-11-12T16:40:00.000-08:00

Note: I have a confession to make. Be shocked if you will. Poetry has long eluded this writer. That is, there seem to be rules for it, and rules for when it is acceptable to break the rules, but I have yet to decipher these. They have something to do with rhyming sometimes, and meters, and sometimes the arrangement is just visual. The closest I come to producing anything like that is pretty-sounding words, arranged in arbitrary lines that probably make sense only to the author. Like an abstract song without a melody. Here is one attempt, penned about a week ago. Enjoy it if you will.

Rest. Still. In the quiet.
Peace in fullness,
Not empty, not alone.
Joy. Golden, sweet, deep,
Rich as honey to the hungry
It fills up, satisfies.
Not empty, never alone.
This is grace, not reward,
Freely given, freely taken,
Words beyond what merit brings.
This is honey, overflowing
On the brim, encasing,
Surrounding, sustaining.
This is mercy, not reward,
Justice assuaged, averted, satisfied.
Another in my place,
In order to bring rest,
Still. In the quiet.
Peace in fullness.
Not empty, not alone.

Space. The Final Frontier. The Next Tourist Trap?

2009-11-03T13:51:00.000-08:00

photo courtesy of pixdaus.com

Imagine spending your honeymoon in a space hotel. Fifteen times a day, you would see the sunrise. Eighteen times a day you would circle the entire earth. A world that must seem small from 280 miles above. For three days, marvel at the infinite expanse of the stars, the grandeur of the sun, the beauty of the jewel-blue earth below with its swathe of clouds, and the freedom left in the absence of weight. A fanciful thought, no doubt. Yet, they begin to say that this may be a possibility, and not just for the post-millenial generation. 2012 is the forecasted year for the opening of the first space hotel, and 43 people already have reservations. The pricetag's number is $4.4 million, including an eight-week training course.
Is the stuff of sci-fi novels now becoming reality? Perhaps we ought to follow Star Trek as our guide for what the future holds. Are food replicators next on the agenda? What about a holo-deck? Perhaps the fashions are what will follow next. The guests of this hotel will be fitted with velcro suits, in order to get around their rooms. Replicating gravity may take a bit longer, apparently. At least we are not all about to wear inside-out jeans, sparkly hats, and two ties as Marty McFly and Doc Brown would have us believe. Though I have heard rumors of flying cars. Perhaps that's not far off. It does not seem right somehow that space travel should be commercialized so soon. Maybe it's because Back to the Future's predictions turned out to be wrong and those came in this blogger's lifetime. Weird.
What is really curious is this mysterious billionaire who anonymously gave $3 billion dollars to fund this thing. For one thing, if you're in the business of making that much money, why be anonymous? What is the secret identity of this mysterious, and mysteriously rich, space enthusiast? A few possible names come to mind: Bruce Wayne, Tony Stark, Lex Luthor... Could this be a cover for something nefarious? Likely not, but it would make things interesting. As for the unsuspecting 43 guests of the soon-to-be space hotel. Well, let's hope they don't run into any Romulans. Or find any tribbles in their suites.

Character Development

2009-11-02T13:40:00.000-08:00

I have a bit of a problem. Brooklyn and Marco are fighting. Now, I shouldn't be too concerned. No question, Brooklyn can kick Marco's butt. Which is fine, because she was here first. In fact, she gets one good punch in, Marco'll go down like limp...lemur. The problem is Marco has Riffle, Sam, and Mav backing him up. Riffle's no tough, but he's smart. He'll probably try to talk his way out of a fight, while studying Brooklyn, trying to figure out her tells. He'll present enough of an intellectual challenge to interest her. She'll smirk and circle around. Riffle won't win, but Brooklyn will end up either hitting him once or maybe kissing him. Mav's a word-class gymnast, very fast, so even with all of Brooklyn's training she won't be able to touch her. The thing is Mav's not really a fighter. She might defend Marco, but she's more likely to focus on dodging and getting away. Sam could potentially take Brooklyn down. But if that happens, Dom is sure to come to her defense. Oooh, a fight between Sam and Dom. That would be interesting. I think Dom would ultimately win. But if they both survived, he would definitely have gained a lot of respect for Sam. They might even part friends. Which does not exactly do anything to assuage the hostility between Brooklyn and Marco. Brooklyn's crazy, brilliant, and totally an adrenaline rush. But Marco's using his boyish charm in full force. He's such a poser, but -- It must be the blue eyes and dimples.
And this is the problem when you are in the middle of writing one story and another comes along. I was determined to finish Brooklyn's story before starting another project. Marco was something I started out of nothing, meant to be short. Suddenly Riffle was talking first person and I had four fascinating characters.
This is the problem of creating interesting characters. If you create interesting characters, they won't shut up until you write them a story. This has nothing to do with schizophrenia. It's simply the nature of being a fiction writer. And now that the author has brought her own sanity into question...

Soft Serve

2009-10-30T11:41:00.000-07:00

Generally, you hear people speaking of hard rock/punk/metal melting your face off. I'd say the experience comes closer to someone drilling your eardrums with a jackhammer. Last weekend I attended a concert with three friends at the Living Room on Fourth Ave. This is a small venue where mostly local bands play. The room is long and narrow, roughly twice the size of an actual living room, with plenty of space to stand and nowhere to sit unless the performers are feeling generous and allow you to borrow their equipment or you fancy the floor. The 4'x5' bit of insulation on the back wall is, in a word, ineffectual. Still, it was an enjoyable time. Four bands played, the last of which we had come to support. It was interesting watching the one band from out of town. I got the feeling these guys were not performing or making music so much as they were just being a metal band. From the head banging to the language interspersed between songs. The bass player was fun to watch. He was all in black, lanky, with lanky black hair with a skunk tail. With all his frenetic movement in the small space they had to perform I was certain he would at any moment hit his head on the drummer's high hat. Sadly, he didn't. My favorite part was when the second band played the Mario Bros. theme song. I must say, they were good and I enjoyed listening to them. The only thing they lacked was vocals of any kind.

After the concert we strolled down Fourth Ave, laughing and conversing in louder-than-usual tones. We bought ice cream and sat at a table outside DQ, listening to the street preacher on an opposite corner with his megaphone, watching all the University of Arizona students wearing their team colors and dread-locked counterculturalists. The scent of patchouli oil wafted down from the shops. The girls and I sent longing glances down the street towards the vintage clothing stores beckoning to us. We received two tracts and at least one catcall. There was only one guy with us, so I was a little surprised when a paired set of blonds too scantily clad for October made their way towards us. Then they handed us fliers for a Halloween party at a local bar.

"Are you over 21?" one asked. They wore big smiles on their made-up faces.

I took the liberty of answering for the group. "No."

Their smiles faltered for only a moment. "Do you have fake id's?"

"Give these to your friends who are over 21," the other suggested, before I could answer.

Incidentally, we came to the conclusion that soft serve is not real ice cream. Ever notice that the MacDonalds menu lists "cones," "sundaes," and "McFlurries" on their menu, but no mention of ice cream? Same thing with Dairy Queen, oddly enough. Highly suspicious, but it still tastes good.

Goals

2009-10-26T11:11:00.000-07:00

People who are apt to observe will find that Disney's message of "believe in yourself and all of your wildest dreams will come true" is not exactly a viable plan for getting things done. Unless your name is Pedro and you are trying to win student body elections. I think this may be part of Disney's plot to take over the world. Incidentally, they own several hundred TV channels and reach 99% of the homes in America. Simba's not looking so innocent now, is he?
Not to say confidence is not a good thing. Just that you need more than self-satisfaction (read: stagnation, conformism, least common denominator). There is always room for improvement. That is, there is never not room for improvement. Improvement is a good objective to have, but it's also good to have quantifiable goals. Meaning, something you aim at with a clear finish line (hurray for mixed metaphors!). Like John Goddard, who to date has accomplished 109 of his list of 127 goals made when he was 15, which vary from "own a pet ocelot" to "visit the moon." It's good to aim high. Like Oswald Chambers says, "But man's reach must exceed his grasp, or what's a heaven for?"
"Well, well," you may say, "but I am not so very ambitious." The only surefire way to fail at everything is to not try. And trying is the hardest part. In a way this is related to Newton's Law of Inertia. Because every object will remain in its state of motion unless some external force is applied to it, it takes more force to start something moving than to keep it moving. It takes more effort to try something new, to step out of your comfort zone, than to continue on a path you are already on. Comfort zones were meant to be stretched. Sound scary? Start small. You take that cold shower, you talk to that interesting-looking boy who smiles at you in physics. And keep going. It's like learning an instrument. No matter how cool the idea of it may sound, when you start out practicing scales can be the most mind-numbing, monotonous (no pun intended) activity imaginable. But once you pass a certain point you realize that you can get the sounds you want out of instrument and suddenly you can't imagine life without your music. Keep trying, keep perservering, find ways to Do Hard Things. Think about it: when you are old, do you really want to have the bragging right that you preserved yourself very well and never did anything interesting?

Goals (a condensed version):
1. Write a song
2. Fly a plane
3. Save a life
4. Learn to swing dance
5. Exand comfort zone to include any and every opportunity...

"I can do all things through Him who gives me strength" (Philippians 4:13)

B.D. Concert Review

2009-10-19T11:20:00.000-07:00

I considered posting the mandatory fuzzy concert pic taken with a cell phone. It could have been one of those optical illusions, with a caption of "Can you guess what this is?" I should just get a camera. Here's a better one which I did not take:

Although I'd have to disagree with him. I saw Bob Dylan in concert a couple nights ago. He played "Like a Rolling Stone," "The Cat's in the Well," and an awesome rocked-out version of "All Along the Watchtower." This was at the Arizona State Fair in Phoenix. The fair itself had the attraction of fair-goers who were interesting to look at. I wore a necklace made out of a guitar pick used by both Bob Dylan and Eric Clapton. True story. And my dad found ample opportunity to show it off to other concertgoers.

The concert overall was highly enjoyable. The Band was great, and the lead guitarist very nearly upstaged Bob, which he seemed to prefer. Curiously enough there were both lighters and cell phones being waved. Bob, in typical B.D fashion, did not address or engage the full auditorium until he introduced the band at the end. The final bow was not a bow at all, but all the musicians stood in a row with Bob slightly to the fore. He nodded to the audience. The others appeared to wait for his cue to bow or wave or do something. When he walked off stage they wordlessly followed him off. The crowd cheered and clapped and waited for the encore. Then the lights came on and the crew began clearing equipment off the stage.

As we were leaving a man asked my brother Eddie and I if we had attended the concert. We answered yes. "Did it make you dance?" he asked.

Eddie and I exchanged glances. "A little."

That made him happy. "Yeah, that just rings through time. Like a bell."

"Ding," Eddie added.

Sad to say, but my strongest impression was how miserable fame can be. Bob tours constantly. When asked why, he's quoted as saying that's the only way people leave him alone. The only time he finds peace is on the road. What kind of listless existence must it be to be surrounded by yes-men? Granted, Uncle Bob does have a tendency to dodge questions or give snarky answers when interviewed. You have to admire his work ethic though. Bob's philosophy on that end is make hay while the sun shines. Oh, for an original metaphor! Cook away while the stove has gas? Drive the car till the breaks give out? Make music while your audience can listen without hearing aids? However you say it, I agree. Keep working if you can, be fit and feisty till your 90, then if you must die do it in some grand, dramatic way while saving someone else's life. That's the plan anyway.

This post is dedicated to William Hawkins, who a girl at the concert said is the best parent in the world for taking his kids to see Bob Dylan.

Winding Ramble. Or, Rambling Wind.

2009-10-14T22:38:00.000-07:00

I have been negligent. In honor of unavoidable sleep deprivation: something to tide us over...
I have been researching democracy. There happens to be a lot on that particular subject, so this poor college student's brain is slightly fried. Deep fried, to be exact, in fragrant olive oil after being dipped in a crispy breading and sprinkled with pepper. Girls, naturally, cannot be sugar and spice 24/7. That sounds entirely too cloying. Or rather, "empalagoso," as there is no such accurate word in our delightfully conglomerate English language. I love English. It started out as a Germanic language, which probably picked up some Celtic words when the Saxons invaded England. Which was not England until the Angles came over and mixed with the Saxons. And then the Romans invaded and probably left a few Roman words behind. And who knows what else, the Romans were actually pretty international. Then William the Conqueror brought over French and brought us words like "beef." And took over, uninvited, and started a dynasty that still hasn't given up its pretensions. Speaking of pretensions... Ahhhhh. I am reduced to repeating old news. The Nobel Prize is overrated anyway. Back to democracy, suffrage, Confucius, Tocqueville, perestroika, Kant, power, military, minzhu, shower, Catherine the Great, Enlightenment, pajamas, Thomas Paine, Brazil, soccer, precious sleep, Truth, representation...

Peter the Great

2009-10-06T14:01:00.000-07:00

Painting by Jean Marc Nattier titled "Peter I (Peter the Great)." Or, we could call it "You don't think I'm serious? I even shaved my dog."

Peter the Great: Czar of Russia, modernizer thereof, and barber?

Petey was a very strong willed fellow. As my HIS 102 professor put it, he basically dragged Russia into the modern world kicking and screaming. Russia was a very backwards country for a long time, excluded from the reformations and advances made by her European neighbors on account of 200 years under Mongol occupation and a few poor Czars (also spelled "Tsar", which I don't get since it comes from "Caesar." The Romanov czars were actually descendants of the Caesars. We digress...).

Example: Ivan the Terrible, or Ivan IV. This guy knocked his own son over the head with a mace for talking back. When he died, all the Tsar had to say for himself was, "How was I supposed to know he had a thin skull?" Also, he was so impressed with St. Basil's Cathedral when it was built that he blinded the architect, so that he could never build another to rival it. Although according to one source, "He did in fact go on to build another cathedral in Vladimir despite his ocular impediment!" Really, "ocular impediment"? And an exclamation point? We digress again...

Back to the Great Tzar. Pete was a man of many interests. Among other things, he practiced amateur dentistry. He carried his implements with him and took a poke in the mouth of anyone who looked like they needed dental work. To cite my quote-worthy professor once again, "Officials quickly learned not to complain about a toothache when he was around." This is the proffessor who also shows us movies about whatever historical period we happen to be studying, and stops and rewinds so we can twice enjoy the scene of a duck being run over by a cart or an actor being stepped on by a horse unscripted. Wonderful class.

Peter the great was passionate about bringing Rossiya into the modern world. This was the 16th century, after all, and the great Northern Bear was a bit behind the times. This meant they had to catch up with fashions. So it was decreed: men must wear stockings to show off their calves and keep their faces clean shaven. The Csar would also carry with him a razor. If anyone was seen with a beard, he would tackle them -- he was a big guy -- and dry-shave them himself. If any man (hopefully, it would be a man) was especially passionate about facial hair, he could pay a fee, the equivalent of about $1000, to purchase a special beard permit. Suffice to say, there were not many whiskerinos held in Russia during this time.

People Are Just Dying to Get In

2009-10-04T13:22:00.000-07:00

The only sound in the cemetery was me closing the car door and our dog's collar jangling as he ran around, glad to be out of the car and not the least bit intimidated by gravestones.

"Everyone try to find the oldest date of death you can find," my dad said. This was a couple months ago.

He and my mom took an uphill path and the kids took another to meet them at the top of the hill. We had an hour to kill.

Good thing dead people don't scare us. We walked over a few graves - I won't say who's. I've never yet gone so far as to dance on someone's grave. But there will be other opportunities.

It is a bit melancholy. There was a baby's grave with an inscription marked with the same date for birth and death. It is written on paper in a clear plastic plaque. I found the grave of James McAvoy, born in Ireland in the late 1800's. "Prospector and Friend" it read. And I thought he was a faun born in Narnia. Or a hitman out to kill his estranged father, I'm not sure which.

The saddest gravestone to see was one with a man's name which read "Beloved husband and father." Date of birth (if I recall correctly) was in 1924. Date of death was in 1935. He barely lived to be 21 and left behind a wife and little baby. I found myself praying that his wife had remarried and raised their baby in a loving home.

Praying in past tense may sound odd, but think of it this way: scientists can now say pretty much for a certainty that time is not a constant. It is a dimension that can vary. (The speed of light is not a constant either, take that phycisists. I think it's awesome). So, theoretically, time travel may be a possibility. Maybe not for humans. But I think it justifies praying about an unknown in the past. People pray about the future, right? Another cool implication of this is that we can thank God for the past, present, and future, which He sees all of

I thought about this when I met up with the rest of the family in the graveyard. We sat in a family's plot. It was very nice, with a raised brick border, a couple of carved stone benches, a small spruce at the each of the two back corners, and red-painted gravel. We sat on the benches and the brick border, tossing red pebbles at each other and admiring the two gravestones. One was for a woman who had died at a good old age a few years back. The other was for her husband and had only a date of birth, which I though was a little morbid.

New Orleans

2009-09-26T09:41:00.000-07:00

This is a piece written earlier this year. I have some good ideas for this story, but I've never been in New Orleans -- much less when Jelly Roll Morton was alive -- so I'm not sure if I'll continue it. Should I?

Somewhere a cat meowed in the night and no one cared. It was night in New Orleans. The lights were bright, the music loud, and Jelly Roll played a lively ode to the girls in Storyville. On the other side of town a baby cried for the first time. It was a cry loud enough to compensate for the softness of her sister’s cry a moment later.
The midwife lay the newborn twins in their mother’s arms.
“Two girls,” the tired Frenchwoman said, “Not even a son to take the fool’s name.”
The midwife wiped the new mother’s brow with damp cloth. Her mouth stayed in a grim line. She said nothing.
“What will you call them?” the Doctor asked. The danger of the double birth had rendered his presence necessary.
Cecile thought for a moment and ran a finger over one child’s hand. “This one will be Ennui. And – How they say ennui in English?”
“There’s no translation. It’s something like inertia, I think.”
“Inertia.” She tried the word. It tasted right. She looked down at her second child. “You will be Inertia, mon petite demoiselle.”
The doctor shifted uncomfortably. The midwife passed him a disapproving look. “Those are hard names to settle little girls with, Cecile.”
“They will know what I have felt waiting for them,” Cecile said harshly, “And what I have suffered waiting for him.”
She would not have to wait much longer. Him was dead. They hadn’t told her, but she knew. She had always known he would die if he dueled. And then she would die. There was nothing else to do after such a confinement in New Orleans. People had probably forgotten her existence by now. She sighed impatiently.
“Take the little ones, I’m done now.”
“Aren’t you going to nurse your babies, Cecile?”
“They would not want to nurse; a dying woman’s milk is bitter,” she said. And her tone matched the words.
“Hogwash,” the midwife said, “you ain’t dying. Havin’ babies always feels that way.”
“Non,” insisted Cecile, “I am dying.”
The doctor knelt by her bed, willing it to be a lie.
“You see?” the French girl said triumphantly, tiredly.
Her head fell back on the pillow. Her eyes closed, her mouth gaped open and her arms went slack.
The babies wailed and the doctor supplied the tears to mourn their mother.

Post-Cellphone Apocalypse

2009-09-22T14:22:00.000-07:00

I call it "Fuzzy Self Portrait" or "My Preciousssss."

It's pretty incredible how dependent we have become on technology.

Pffft. Oh, that's not the most cliched understatement of the year.

Really, though. I'm a glutton for information and I sometimes feel guilty with just how easy it is to find out about any subject under the sun. Or on it. Or beyond it. In my own lifetime cell phones were an expensive, eccentric luxury. Now if someone's phone goes dead for a day their friends may suspect they dropped off the face of the earth. Used to be if you sent your kid/hubby/roomate/monkey to the grocery store and forgot to tell them something, your plans for dessert were ruined. Now you just text them in all of two seconds, "get eggs," and you'll be munching on those chocolate chip cookies after all. Or, preferably, munching on chocolate chip cookie dough.

What would happen if we lost the internet? And cell phones? Hundreds of thousands of teenagers would stop whatever they were doing, fall dramatically to their knees, raise their arms to the heavens and let loose a cry of pure agony: "Nooooooooooo!!!!!!"

I suspect it would be a bit like a zombie apocalypse. People would band together in small, nomadic groups, scavenging and raiding Costco to survive. Raiding convenience stores would come after you've gone through Costco's entire inventory. Actually, Costco would be a great place to have as your base. You've got food, water, clothes, bedding, entertainment, pool supplies. Everything you need in one place. Even without a techno-zombie apocalypse, that would be the store to live in.

Realistically, there would be some serious chaos. Just let off a few of the bombs they use in Ocean's 11... No communication. No information. Everything goes dark. No, thank you.

PCC Student Lounge

2009-09-20T08:29:00.000-07:00

People get excited on the last day of the semester. The last day of the semester is the first day of freedom. Ours was May 19th.
After a final physics quiz (Woot! as they say) and selling back my books I ran into a friend. We talked and he invited me to watch him play ping pong in the student lounge. Finding I had some time to kill (or live, as I would rather have it) while awaiting a call from my dad, I followed him in a little later.
Interesting people inhabit the student lounge -- a longish room with ping pong and foosball tables, a couple vending machines, and an empty space where the tv used to be. Before it was stolen. These are odd, noncomformist types. "Fuzzy", homeschoolers, and the odd goth girl, and Josh, the uber-friendly, self-proclaimed king of the student lounge, keep regular hours here. I only venture through (not into) their territory while looking for people. It is also the passageway to a courtyard where students go to smoke and conduct physics experiments and a tiny, dungeonesque classroom which honors students are occasionally banished to.
When I walked in that time there was an immediate reaction. A handful of individuals, two girls and the rest guys, began talking:
"Who is that?"
"I don't know her."
"I've never seen her before."
They spoke as if I couldn't hear. I stopped and stared.
"You can keep going."
Strange people. Ah well, last day of the semester can do that to students.
I watched and then played ping pong for awhile. They kept wondering. One kept smiling at me. On his way out he introduced himself. "Hi, I'm Micah."
"Nice to meet you, Micah," I replied, "my name's Marissa."
He turned back towards his friends. "Her name's Marissa." Or rather "Karissa" as he misheard.
Shortly after, a second individual introduced himself. This one is called Ian.
"Do you play ping pong?" Ian is definitely a fixture in the student lounge. He accosts everyone who enters his domain with this question.
I played him. He won.
He shook my hand, said "Good game," and returned to his laptop and headphones in the solitary corner behind the pillar, to await his next victim. Interesting fellow. He plays Josh a lot. And appears to be well liked. One of the girls went to visit him when the others became preoccupied with chair jousting.
Definitely an interesting place. Students eat, play, and socialize here. The message is clear: you're not in the library anymore. My favorite part is the clock. Judging by the position of the hands, it tells the correct time. However, it may take a moment or two to realize this if you look at the large numbers on the clock's face, which is upside down.

Remember 9/11

2009-09-11T09:15:00.000-07:00

Note: This is a story I wrote for an assignment back in high school. It is fictional. It may be a little rough and a bit melancholy, but it seemed appropriate to share it today. Enjoy.

I was there when the twin towers fell. I saw the planes crash. I heard them too.
I was walking to work like any other day. Everyone looked up when the sound of low-flying planes rose over the city sounds. Then came that terrible crash -- a sound you never want to hear when crossing the street in New York. Dozens of people turned towards the sound. It was a horrible sound of crunching metal and explosions. My feet seemed to understand what was happening before my head, and I found myself involuntarily moving towards the crash instead of away from it. Then they collapsed, the first one started crashing down on itself, and the second crash forcibly brought to mind why I was runing towards the danger. I had friends there. My own brother was up on the twelfth floor!
I heard a scream. It must have been my own. I kicked off my pumps and ran towards the towers.
Ash and smoke everywhere, people in a panic running to and fro. All of New York seemed to be in pandemonium. Traffic stopped, and suddenly firefighters and police officers were on the scene. A cop stopped me and somehow turned me in the other direction. The chaos, the noise, the smoke, the screaming, the sirens are all imprinted on my memory, but more as something I saw in a movie or read in a book. I can't be sure I experienced it for myself. I wandered around, numb and unfeeling. I guess I was in shock.
The press got there quickly and there were cameras and people with microphones. And the towers kept right on burning. Would anyone make it out alive? I thought of all the people who must in there along with my brother and felt sick. So many must have been killed already.
But my brother! I ran towards the towers once again. There was no getting through, no way in. There nothing Icould do.
I stood there, helpless, choking on smoke and desperate tears. I was completely helpless. There was nothing I could do and doing nothing nearly killed me. I never saw my brother after that.
I found out later about the terrorists and Al Quaida. They said the planes had been crashed deliberately. The attack on the Twin Towers, killing so many people was calculated and deliberate. Yet it came so unexpectedly. Here we were, so comfortable and complacent, thinking no one would have anything against us.
Before Nine Eleven I rarely gave a thought to far off places like Iraq. At least, I never thought that things in places like that would ever affect America. I don't know that 9/11 could have been prevented. The best thing is to be resigned to it and hope that many were added to the heavenly chorus. And we who are still here had better learn to pay attention and pray.

The Oracle Lady

2009-09-04T09:01:00.000-07:00

The Oracle Lady is something of a legend in Tucson. She walks along Oracle road, a busy highway, a distance that takes about hour in a car. That in itself is odd enough, but it's what the woman wears that catches your eye. On any given day the Oracle Lady may be seen strolling down Oracle in the morning sporting a frilly white dress someone's grandmother wore to prom. Beneath this she may have a blue petticoat, fishnet stockings, and high heels with ribbon ties. For modesty's sake she may wear an embroidered Chinese jacket across her shoulders and a large "Red Hat Club" type ensemble over stiff, orange ringlets or a multitude of dark brown braids. How many wigs she owns may be left to speculation. Her face is half-covered by sunglasses and bright red lipstick. What shows of her leathery skin is protected by an umbrella, by way of a parasol, held between a pair of lacy, black mitts. This is only one of her many outfits. Suffice to say, she likes attention. And her calves must be incredibly muscular.
For a class we were assigned to analyze the "rhetoric of clothing." We really do communicate through what we choose to wear. So what is this woman saying?!
She kind of hides who she is as a person behind her clothes, I think. It reminds me of counterculture kids who dress up to stand out in a crowd. Rather than trying to actually be outstanding. The kids who equate following the "other" crowd with being unique. I don't get it.
I had the privilege of seeing the Oracle Lady up close once. I was in How Sweet It Was, on 4th Ave, browsing through hoop skirts and flapper dresses when she walked in. I froze. The girl at the counter, so very blase, callled out, "Hi, Linda." Or whatever her name is. So they know her by name in a vintage store on hippie lane. Figures, I guess. I also know someone who knows someone who knows her. I can't help wondering, what does she doe for a living? Is she unstable? What kind of upbringing did she have? Where is she from? Maybe she has a tragic past. Maybe she was orphaned and lived in a fantasy world, dreaming of days gone by when ladies wore fine gowns and chivalry and tea parties were the order of the day. She grew up hearing of the depression and denied every comfort and affection. When she was only seventeen she fell desperately in love with a honey-tongued ruffian and defied her parents to elope with him. Alas, when she rushed to meet him at the bus station, he was not waiting, as he had promised. He was gone, dead or worse. Her heart was broken, her reputation ruined, and her every hope shattered. Every day since then, she put on all her finery and took that long walk from her home to the bus station, hoping that her love might be waiting for her. Her parents have since passed. And times drifts on around her. Yet she remians, in her fragile mind, in the expectation of finding her lost love...
How tragic. Perhaps she may be forgiven a little eccentricity.

Grandma's Funeral

2009-08-18T17:20:00.000-07:00

It was a solemn occasion, or should have been. Nana Lu's dying wish was to have her remains consumed in flame and her ashes spread into to the sea. "Don't let them put me in the ground, Hal," she had said to her husband as she lay on the hospital bed. "I don't want to be eaten by worms."
Her eldest son Mark, the pragmatic businessman, had paused from his cell phone conversation long enough to reassure his dying mother: "They'll bury in you in a coffin, mom."
His sister, Elizabeth, shushed him.
Hal promised his wife to fulfill this final request.
Luisa's passing was not any great shock. She was old. Hal always knew she would go first.
She was cremated, extensive family, friends, and acquaintances came to her funeral. Then Nana Lu was placed a little jar and sat on Grandpa's shelf for several months.
Finally, it could be put off no longer. Mark protested that the Atlantic, or even Lake Superior would be closest for him, and the ceremony was postponed because of the time it took Elizabeth to get her family on the road -- plus the time it took her to get in touch with their younger brother Jack -- but they finally all made it to the Pacific coast.
The family assembled on a high bluff overlooking the ocean in northern California. Hal did the honors. He stood with his children and grandchildren around him. All except Jack, who arrived late with his girlfriend on the back of his Harley. And Mark's wife, who had a business meeting in Tampa that day.
"Well, you all know why we're here. Why we drove half way across the country."
"Tim, stay off the railing," Elizabeth yelled to her second son, who, with skateboard in hand, was waxing the railing along the cliff edge. "Sorry, dad." The baby in her arms cried.
Mark's phone rang and he excused himself to answer.
Only Isa, the middle of Elizabeth's five children, protested. "This is our grandmother's dying wish, can't anyone have a little respect?" She put a solemn hand over her heart and wore an excessively mournful expression.
"Honey, you have to respect your uncle, he's a busy man," Elizabeth said. "I'm sorry dad."
Hal sighed. "Never mind."
"Tim!" Elizabeth yelled again.
Hal uncovered the urn.
"No, I have time," Mark said.
Hal walked to the edge of the cliff.
"We'll never forget you, dear, dear Nana Lu," Isa said.
Hal shook his wife's ashes over the edge of the cliff.
"We should go down through the redwoods," Jack said to his girlfriend.
Tim came to his mother with a scraped knee just as his brother was about to try a 5-0 on the rail.
Then a sudden breeze came in from the sea. The family froze. They watched in horror as Nana Lu's ashes blew towards them in a cloud. The fine, grey dust that once was Luisa coated her husband, her three children, and her five grandchildren. And not only them, it also coated Mark's blackberry, Jack's motorcycle, and the boys' skateboards. It settled slowly, like fine snow drifting onto them, turning everything grey. No one moved for several moments. It was as if Nana Lu had rejected the cold deep as her resting place and decided she'd rather rest with her family. Or in their lungs.
The boys began coughing.
"Stop choking on Nana Lu!" Isa cried in horror.
Mark blinked ash out of his eye.
Elizabeth tried to quiet her crying baby and calm her melodramatic daughter at the same time.
Joe, the germ freak of the bunch frantically brushed his hands through his hair. "Ew, dead person, get her off me."
"Stop," Isa said, nearly in tears.
Jack made a face and spat.
Isa stared at him with her eyes wide.
He skirted Elizabeth's brood and moved towards his father.
Hal was sitting on a bench a few yards from the cliff's edge and his family. His head was down, his arms rested on his knees. His shoulders shook slightly.
"Dad?" Jack said, sitting next to him.
Hal looked up. He was laughing. "That woman always did now how to cause a stir."
They looked at their family, coughing and spitting Nana Lu's ashes.
Jack smiled. "I guess, she still does."

Redwoods

2009-08-09T20:24:00.000-07:00

The only element of childhood I sincerely miss is being small. There are few advantages to being small. You cannot reach the cereal or the ice cream in the freezer. Perhaps it would be more descriptive of the feeling to say I miss everything being so big. For the advantage of being small is that everything is huge and interesting and wonderful. Half an hour is an eternity and the path taken by a single ant can be the most fascinating thing in the whole world. Remember what it was like to sit on the floor all the time? To think your parents were very tall and your living room could instantly be turned into a cavern full of lava and the furniture was the only safe place to stand? Water and dirt were the only ingredients needed to have a good time. Oh the potions that could be made, the houses built, the scenarios imagined!

The Redwood forest brought strong nostalgia of childhood. It is not just the trees. The ferns and clover and everything else are supersized. There were all sorts of interesting little spots to explore and I felt like climbing all over everything. Remember that too? It's the sort of place one could picture oneself running into Robin Hood or Edward Cullen or Jareth. Or, well, maybe someone less threatening but equally fictional.

There comes a point, I think, when you realize you will never feel just like you did when you were a child. It's sad, but you mourn, you let go, you move on. Eventually, you can't even conjure up the memory of that feeling. Just the memory of a memory. Ah well. Being old has its perks too. Enjoy the little things and the big trees, people.

Wear Flowers in Your Hair

2009-08-02T10:34:00.000-07:00

San Francisco is an amazing city. My parents, my cousin, and I were there last week. I'm not sure what possessed people to build roads and pile up buildings on hills with 30 degree slopes (just like I don't get why people settled anywhere between Tucson and San Diego), but the effect is pretty awesome. Everything there just begged "write me a story." Where to begin? Icould set a story in China Town. Or the Golden Gate Bridge. Or the house way out on a rock under the Golden Gate Bridge. The small sign you cannot read in the picture says: "THERE IS HOPE. THE CONSEQUENCES OF JUMPING OFF THIS BRIDGE ARE FATAL AND TRAGIC." Oh really? I guess suicide attempts are common. I don't understand why. They have such lovely weather. All that beautiful fog.

After walking across the Golden Gate Bridge twice, we ventured into China Town for lunch. To get to it you must enter the mystic portal of the Orient and pass through the tunnel of no honking (it's not allowed). We had an excellent and very authentic (I think?) tasting lunch at a place where they do not have forks. Then we entered shops and gawked in classic tourist fashion. My dad tried speaking Spanish to a poor woman who did not speak English. I bought a black Chinese jacket with red dragons on it because the clerk said "look vely good on you." I think it'll look good with jeans. Is it anachronism or eclecticism? Either way, it rocks. Very interesting things to see. I was so engrossed looking into shops as we strolled down the sidewalk that I walked into a parking meter. I didn't know they had those in China. Fortunately neither of us were physically damaged, though the parking meter may eventually need therapy.

Fisherman's Wharf had some interesting sights of its own. Among them, a bushman. He held a bundle of leafy branches, sat next to a trash can, and scared passing children out of their wits. There were plenty of panhandlers asking for money for weed. A few street musicians. Free chocolate. The highlight was the grand finale of a troupe of breakdancers. We watched for twenty minutes as they worked up the crowd and gathered offerings and pledges of twenty dollar bills, setting people up to take photos. When the time came for their final extravaganza the tallest in the group did one flip. The end.

Una Media-Mexicanada

2009-07-17T20:18:00.000-07:00

This week I am an only child. The house is eerily quiet. My brothers and sister are gone and I believe I may have been talking to the cat more than the customary amount. My dad conjured up the plan of taking our Sunday to drive up to Phoenix, so that's what we did, just three of us.
There are three types of Mexicans in the U.S. of A. There are Mexicans on vacation, there are Mexican immigrants who moved here to work, and there are Chicanos who are at least second or third generation. Yesterday, my parents and I visited my mom's relatives in Phoenix. My Tia Flora ("Aunt" Flora, actually my mom's cousin, aka "La Foy") had over her sisters, their husbands, their children, her own children, their chidren's children, and their children's inlaws. We went through the customary ritual of greeting everyone in the house: hug and kiss for family, handshake (and sometimes kiss) for acuaintances and strangers. I spent some time with my second cousins and second-cousins-in-law. Conversation went something like this: "He's just really sweet pero como empalagoso." "He's so annoying though. Me mando flores para mi cupmleanos and I had never even talked to him." "Es que he's a pushover y hace todo lo que le mandan. I feel so sorry for him." This is the Spanglish of the fluently bilingual.
Incidentally, empalagoso is an awesome word. We should have it in English.
These relatives are Mexican immigrants. Their kids may be almost classified as Chicanos. Like my second cousins, these grow up speaking Spanglish, or they hear it and grow up speaking English with an accent and learning their swear words in Spanish.
Aside form these there are halfbreeds ("pochos") who sit between typical American and Mexican. Neither blue nor yellow, but green. The nice thing is, we get to taste a little slice of several kinds of lives. This was right after having hamburgers at the home of an old friend of my dad's. And afterward, we came home with the intention of maybe cooking up a tortilla or two to accompany our nightly episode of Star Trek. My advice is to be bilingual and bicultural if you can. It's actually nice to be able to whisper about the guys who work at the YMCA while they're right in front of you. Just make sure they're not wearing a nametag with a last name like Valdez or Castillo or Ramirez. They will give you wierd looks.
Here ends your cultural lesson for the day.

Substitute Status Update

2009-07-15T22:40:00.000-07:00

Twitter is the just about the latest craze. I don't really get it. But in honor of alerting all one's acquaintances of one's activity throughout the day (which I do through fb), here's what I've been up to:
Yesterday I watched it rain tumbleweeds. Or rather, tumbleweeds floated down from the sky all along my road, some of them in bits in pieces. They fell very gently despite the lack of wind, more like snow than rain. So I guess it snowed tumbleweeds.
Today I saw an air conditioner sticking out of someone's wall, on top of which knelt a statue of a small man looking up in terror. I wonder what he was afraid of.
Today I saw a truck whose hood and roof were bedecked in dozens of small, ceramic dogs. Nothing new. We used to see him in our old neighborhood all the time.
Today I learned that bleu cheese does indeed taste like mold. And it leaves a terrible, moldy aftertaste. And it's actually more green than bleu. Blue.
Today I rediscovered that a lot of firefighters actually are good looking.
Yesterday I learned that Yiddish is a mixture of Hebrew and German. I already knew this. But I asked my dad and he confirmed it. So it must be.
Today I looked up the word palindrome, since a friend pointed out that the word is not, in fact, a palindrome itself.
On Monday I learned that the number inside the recycling symbol on plastic containers is the number of times the container may be used before toxins from the plastic begin to contaminate the contents therein. That might explain a few things.
I'm afraid that's as far as I remember right now. If anything else of vital importance comes up, I'll be sure to post.

Thoughts on Tapioca

2009-07-11T22:40:00.000-07:00

Have you ever stopped to think about how much of an adventure life is? We dream of living through the things we read about in novels. But people who are really living in those kinds of circumstances don't view everything threw the lens of romanticism. They don't hear a mood-setting soundtrack, they don't follow the other characters in their lives or hear other people's thoughts. Their lives to them are simply what ours our to us, the simple day-to-day routine. If they view their situation with any excitement or sense of adventure it is only because they have learned to keep the attitude that we can only learn in our own day to day drudgery. In short, it is a choice. Like love, like worry, like discipline. These are actions, choices, not compulsory emotions. Life can be an amazing adventure. Especially when you are looking forward to something so much better afterward. If this is the case, then there is no reason to hesitate in giving our all to do what is right and setting ourselves to enjoy it.
G. K. Chesterton put it very well and got me thinking: "An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered."
On another note, I have been wondering: what exactly is tapioca and why does it form into translucent, gelatinous particles?

I've Wolfed

2009-07-11T16:37:00.000-07:00

Inspired by a captcha called the same and a song...

"There goes Harvey. His hair is perfect. His hair is always perfect. I hate that man," Melrose said. He sniffed and turned from the gloomy downpour outside the window and returned to the Chinese menu in his hand. "It took me absolutely forever to find this place, you know."
"You should have asked. Everyone knows Lee Ho Fook's in Soho," said Cox, seated across from him.
"Hmph," was Melrose's reply.
"What is Harvey doing?" Cox glanced over his own menu. The rain created a blurry picture of the street outside. Like an impressionist painting. But Londoners were necessarily used to that.
"He went into a flower shop," Melrose mumbled.
Cox raised his eyebrows and set down his menu. "What the devil is he doing in flower shop?"
Melrose looked up in surprise. "What is Harvey, God's hairy gift to women, doing in a flower shop? Buying flowers for his lady love, of course. Don't look so surprised, Cox. He has been frequenting a certain home in Mayfair, you know."
Cox cleared his throat and nervously glanced around the restaurant. "Well, I would think he would excercise a bit more caution after," he lowered his voice, "after the incident in Kent last night."
"Hmm."
"A little old lady."
Melrose finally put his menu down and looked Cox in the eye. "I think I'll have the beef chow mein, what about you?"
"This is quite serious."
"Oh quite. If the waiter takes a moment longer we may be forced to take our business elsewhere."
"I fear you are not taking itseriously at all." Cox looked pained.
"Cox," his friend said earnestly, "what on earth have we got to be afraid of? We are quite safe politically. Chaney and his son are personal friends of the royal family, they won't allow anything that might reflect badly on their mangy hides. Honestly, the worst that might happen is that Harvey might spend some time behind bars. Which would better all around for all of us after the nuisance he's made of himself every time. I swear he makes more noise on one night than the whole of London in a month." Melrose chuckled. "I doubt they'll be serving him and his perfect hair pina coladas in prison."
Cox was not so blase. "The poor woman was mutilated," he growled.
Melrose scratched his ear. "We can't help it if people leave their kitchen doors open."
"You too, then?" Cox sighed in defeat.
Melrose snorted. "It's not like you haven't wolfed, old boy."
Cox took off his glasses and carefully cleaned them with his handkerchief. He would not look Melrose in the eye as he admitted what both of them already knew. "Yes. I've wolfed. But to own the truth, I am getting tired of it."
After a moment Melrose said, "The moon is waning."
"The moon is waning," Cox agreed.
"It's not as if we had a choice in the matter."
"As you say." Cox nodded. "But it's not as if we've ever tried not being werewolves."

The Skeptic and the King

2009-07-10T17:31:00.000-07:00

A little story I wrote back in January...

A man came into town one day and he asked me to walk with him. I thought it an odd request from a stranger, but I wanted to see what he was about. Curiosity got the best of me: I left my work and followed him.
He spoke wisely. Of how things were and how they ought to be. I thought, "here is a learned man, for he speaks rightly of how things are," and, "here is a wise man for he speaks rightly of how things ought to be." So I decided to follow him a bit longer to see if he could teach me anything of use in my life.
As we walked, we came upon a woman, agitated and in great distress.
"You owe a great deal of money," said the stranger at my side.
"How do you know that?" the woman said in great surprise. "I owe taxes and cannot pay. I am destitute." She waved her hands in an anxious flutter and covered her face in shame.
"Do not be agraid," the man said, "I forgive your debt."
She gaped and stared, incredulous. "I owe taxes. To the government. What does that have to do with you? You are not even a rich man."
I looked at my companion and had to admit she was right. His words before had sounded rich, but his clothes were barely better than rags. Who was he to say such a thing?
"If I say you don't have to pay, then you don't have to," he reaffirmed.
"You're crazy," the woman said simply, with her mouth agape.
"I am the ruler you owe money to. I am moving into the castle on the hill there and I came to tell you you do not have to pay," he said.
"Are you making fun of me?" the woman asked, sounding offended.
"No."
This time, with no distress but with disdain she said, "Then you are a lunatic."
I had to agree. No wise and learned man would say such things.
He looked at me with sadness and asked who I thought he was. I did not know what to say. He bade me follow him a littler longer. My heart had been tinged with doubt, but still I was compelled to find out his purpose here. No wise and learned man would say such crazy things. But no lunatic could speak truth as he had done.
We walked a little further until we were stopped by a man in uniform.
"You may not pass here," said the officer.
"You must let us pass," my companion said, "for I am the king."
We stared at him in shock and the officer said, "You are a liar. You do not even look like a king."
I looked at him again and saw that it was true. He was not of any impressive stature, as a king ought to be. He did not have a noble bearing or a fearful countenance. But he smiled with a simple assurance.
"It has been a long time."
"Ha! I will know the king when he comes," the officer sneered.
"You have already failed to recognize him."
"You cannot say such things. The king will punish you when he does come."
"You tell me you know what the king will do, but how can I punish myself? And you cannot stop me from entering my own castle. I know it better than you do." Then the strange man told the officer all that was in the castle and he stared with great surprise.
"I know also of parts in it that you have not seen."
"Impossible," the officer shouted.
"Is it not even in the records that I planned to come this way?"
"Coincidence," the officer grunted, looking at him sideways.
"If you were to ask me, I could tell you names of every noble in my castle," my companion said, unperturbed.
"I know who you are now," the officer said, growing angry, "You are an enemy come to spy and ursurp the throne. You are nothing more than a wicked thief and you will not succeed." He jabbed an irate finger and glowered.
The stranger watched with his same sad expression of before as the other laid out the facts. Who but the most hateful, despicable enemy would come in this guise to lead people astray? He continued to shout; his words fell into place, sure enough.
But the strange man simply turned and sadly walked away.
With a weighted heart I followed after him, knowing now was the time of decision.
He looked at me with unfathomable eyes and asked, "who do you think I am now, wanderer?"
I thought hard.
"I once thought you were a wise and learned man, one who could teach something of useful for my life. But no such man would claim what you claim."
"This is true." He nodded. "What did you think after that?"
"You could not be a teacher. So I thought you might be a lunatic. No sane person would claim to have such powers or demand such things as you have done. But then, no crazy person could speak truth as you have."
"You speak rightly," he said, "What came after?"
"For a time I thought you surely must be a wicked scoundrel come to trick people. But what kind of wicked man forgives debts freely, answers a harsh word kindly, and offers friendship to a stranger?"
"And what do you say now?" He asked quietly.
I spoke slowly, trembling inside. "You are not merely a teacher, sir. And there is no wickedness in you. You are too perfect to be insane. There is only one thing I can say."
I looked into that humble face that had, with a smile, so well answered the woman and the officer, and I knelt where I stood. "I am at your service, my Lord and my King."
He smiled, tenderly laying a hand upon my head and said in a voice whose majesty belied all appearance of rags and lowliness: "Well done."

Hi. This is Your Computer. I Don't Like You.

2009-07-07T16:09:00.000-07:00

Summer is at full strength. We are steeping in our own sweat, melting into a pool of collective inertia and lethargy. That's what it feels like anyway. The monsoons are here, but that means that between glorious bouts of steely, thundering storms we get a side of extra humidity with our 105 degrees fahrenheit. This is not something we are used to in southern AZ. You may have heard "but it's a dry heat." Mostly it is. We get to use swamp coolers. For non-desert rats those are what people who live nowhere near humidity (or swamps) use to cool their houses. Yeah, not working so well right now.
These last couple summers I have had the responsibility of sending out updates to my dad's clients. Yahoo has a limit of one hundred emails an hour, so I sit on the couch with my laptop and work goes something like this: click, click, click, send, wait an hour, rinse, repeat; with Pandora on another tab playing Relient K or the Proclaimers. I get a few "delivery failed" notifications every time. I believe the person who wrote the one for Yahoo may have been having relationship issues at the time:

Hi. This is the qmail-send program at Yahoo.com.
I'm afraid I wasn't able to deliver your message to the following addresses..
This is a permanent error; I've given up. Sorry it didn't work out.

<johndoe@yourmail.com>.
216.41.43.29 does not like recipient.
Remote host said: 786 4.3.7. <johndoe@yourmail.com>: Recipient address rejected: user johndoe@yourmail.com does not exist.
Giving up on 216.41.43.29.

--Below this line is a copy of your message.

What did the recipient ever do to the remote host? MAILER-DAEMON must have just gotten out of a tough relationship after trying really hard to make it work. Or maybe he's a computer nerd shut-in who only ever dreams about remote hosts who won't give him the time of day. Poor guy. Maybe someone should write him a sympathy note. If anyone wants to give him a little encouragment, just send a message to MAILER-DAEMON@yahoo.com. I'm sure he'll appreciate it.

Shamgar the Incidental

2009-07-06T18:49:00.000-07:00

I am reading the book of Judges (that's in the Bible) which has been rather fascinating. This morning, whilst rubbing sleep from my eyes I found this delightful epic-in-a-single-verse: "After Ehud came Shamgar son of Anath, who struck down six hundred Philistines with an oxgoad. He too saved Israel" (Judges 3:31). And that's it. Samson got four chapters. Shamgar the Incidental got one verse. This could be a whole novel. Absolutely I have an overactive imagination, that's why we're here.
Think about it: "Shamgar's just a farm kid. He can't do anything about these **** Philistines," says a neighbor.
"Dude, he he killed 600 guys with an OX GOAD."
"Wow. We should make him a judge."
"Ya think?"
Okay, so maybe it didn't go quite like that, but you get the picture. It's your typical nobody-turned-hero kind of epic. Or nobody-turned-farm-implement-wielding-hero kind of epic. I wonder how long it takes to kill six hundred men with an oxgoad?
I did a little research on Shamgar. I feel a little sorry for him, even if he might not have been an actual judge. One source says his account was "inserted in the account of the Judges because he was too important to be omitted." I wonder who else was omitted. Our sources also say, "according to Wight and Freeman an ox goad was an instrument used by the ploughman." Glad they cleared that up for us.
Deborah also mentions Shamgar [the Incidental] when singing a song of praise after Jael drove a tent peg into Sisera's head (I love the book of Judges). He's referenced in a couple verses that make it sound like things were pretty bleak in his time. According to the aforementioned (somewhat palavorous) source, there is a lesson to be learned. It's a good one actually. Every epic has a moral. What is it? Well, better to be incidental for having done something than notorious for being wierd (*ahem* what did Michael Jackson...?). Like Batman. He never did anything for the credit.

...During Israel's darkest day arises a hero. A farm boy. Poor and perfect. With eyes like the sea after a storm. A mere ploughman working the fields when the Philistines attacked. No one stood up for right. No one defended God's chosen people. Until Shamgar... burning with a holy wrath... went berserk with an ox goad.

The Beginning

2009-07-06T16:04:00.000-07:00

And now there is a blog. Starting one seemed like a good summer activity. I may very soon produce a multitude of recountings of my daily adventures as well as occasionally inflicting a bit of fiction on my victi-...er, readers. Be warned, one of my life goals is to be paid to write. I plan on being prolific. Someday. I had this wonderful picture in my mind of hundreds of visits a day, publishers finding me, and having links to Matt Thiessen's blog. The logical side of my brain is pessimistically predicting two weeks before this becomes drudgery. But I generally try to ignore that side of my brain. So here goes. Enjoy!