Through Gritted Teeth (Grateful Tuesdays #6)

What a lovely thing a bike ride is! And what a splendid gift for the Lord of Hosts to give!

I'm so glad (grateful), Father that, even though you are LORD of the Angel-Armies (as The Message puts it), you are also the inventor of the buttercup and the daisy. I thank you for the hints you have left of yourself all around creation and not only creation as in rocks and birds and trees and whatnot but also the institutes you have created, like marriage and families and fathers and churches and the like.

One of the hardest things for me to thank you for right now is direction, because I see that you are pointing me in a hard way. And by "hard" God, I mean a way that requires work.

Work. That's all, God.

Bleh.

How disgusted I am with myself! I hate what I am, God. And I hate it that I'm not willing to change. I hate how, ugh, slow and... I don't know how to say it but acediac I've become.

You know what I mean by "acediac", God. Jeff Berryman was talking about it. I don't really know how to explain it except to say that I know it's not of you, and I'm sorry.

But if I was really sorry, God, wouldn't I do something about it? I am hopeless on my own, God. You know that.

I have a hope in you.

Thank you (I say through gritted teeth) for the hope I have in you. It's hard to thank you, God, when I feel so dead.

But the parenthesis I just used reminded me of poetry. Thank you so much for poetry, God! Thank you for thinking up this brilliant way of helping me in my struggle to declare my thoughts to the universe. Of lifting up my soul to you really, because that's what it's all about.

And I thank you for also for my friends who help me in my effort to lift this massive weight up to you. Friends like Eucharisto (even though I don't communicate with him as much as I should and Katie and so many others God including my family and, though I'm sure the nice people who listen to my thoughts are tired of hearing about her, I thank you for the girl who's picture is serving as the wallpaper of my computer right now. I'm grateful that I can say, when it comes right down to it, that she leads me closer to you and to a better understanding of you and your love for me. Thank you.

Anyway, thank you again for bike rides and for Wendy - my bike - who, I found out, I misnamed, because it seems that the horse after whom she's named is really "Windy". I don't like it when things like that happen, but I guess I can live with it.

Thank you for Mt. Hood and how blue it looks right now, God. I don't want to sound ugly, God, but I think it put the mountains in Colorado to shame. Now I feel kind of bad saying that, what I mean is that I like that you can just look at it and know that it's a mountain. Maybe that's just because it's standing by itself.

Speaking of Colorado, thank you for the Garrett family (I don't know if I spelled their name right); that whole family is spectacular. If my kids end up like their kids I think I'd be proud. Katie (Katy?) Garrett is such a magical person, God, such a gift

Thank you for U2 and for Bono, God. That guy gets the Gospel more and is able to communicate it better than so many other artists out there. I'm convinced that, if my campers had been consuming U2 instead of AC/DC and Pink Floyd and whatever other bands are coming back from the dead these days, my job of communicating the Gospel would have been easier. I don't know, maybe not. Maybe... I don't know. Do you think it's bad that I see your Gospel, your story everywhere? I've been told that I over-analyze things, that I over analyze life and don't just enjoy it and let it come my way. God, whether you gave it to me or I stole it from someone or turned it into something it wasn't supposed to be, I have a brain, a mind that pounces on things, on bits of information and tears them to pieces looking for you, for a trace of you.

Oh Lord! Have I broken your Stradivarius looking for the signature? Oh my... that would be terrible.

But no, God, isn't it the people who don't see you that fall into trouble, who miss the point? Who end up lost and without even spiritual pocket change?

Oh my, God. This really is crazy, isn't it? I've been called wise, God, and I don't think I am. I think it's worry.

Well you know what? To Hell with that! I've too much life ahead of me to spend it on that silly pastime! How ridiculous!

Mmm... God. I thank you for beauty. What a healing balm it is to my soul. As Bono says, God "Soul needs/beauty for a soul mate." Thank you for the beauty that you've sent to me. I know it comes from you, every good and perfect gift comes from you.

So God, kill my apathy and resurrect me to live a new life in you. Let me glory in you.

Amen.

Let peace rule (give thanks), let the Word dwell (richly) and preach with your guitar close at hand (give thanks).

Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, since as members of one body you were called to peace. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom and as you sing psalms, hymns and spiritual songs with gratitude in your hearts to God.

(Colossians 4:10)

Grateful Tuesdays #5 (A little short, a little late.)

My dear God,

Today I’m grateful for love. The kind of love they’re singing about right now. Two joined as one flying towards you.

Hm.

I hope to have that kind of love one day, God. Be in that kind of love, you know? I’d like, God, to play that divine game of pretend where I play Christ and the other plays your Bride. I thank you that this kind of love exists and that I might one day get to experience it; walk around and kind of play in it, you know like water, like a river. Of course, that'll happen in the future...

Oh my future.

I thank you for you, God. You’re one of the scariest people I know; you ask me to do such hard, hard things. Scary things. I see a lot of darkness right now. I don’t want to step into the darkness, God. It scares the heck out of me; you scare the heck out of me, God, the Hell out of me, I guess. And maybe that’s the point.

But you know what scares me most, my Love? Not holding on to you. Not being with you anymore. There’s real Hell, if you want to know. I'm getting cold and shivery on the inside right now thinking about it.

"If you want to know..."

But of course you do know. You know everything, God. Then why, I half-wonder, do you say that you will say to some, “Depart from me; I never knew you.”? I've talked to other people about this, but there's still a little bit of mystery in it. But I guess that’s the subject for another post. I should continue on, for I’ve much more to give thanks for. Example:

Whales! Thank you, God, for whales! Thank you for pelicans! Thank you for cranes and seals! Thank you for how you reveal yourself at the beach and in your creation in general. Thank you, God for Nature, this dear Sister you’ve given us, who gently, modestly gives an idea of who you are. She quietly paints thunderous pictures.

Did I already thank you for whales? I love their silent grace, dear God, they reassure me so very much of your presence. I turn into a little boy around them.

Ah, God, thank you that I can run to you; thank you that you’re always listening (and talking!). You’re the only one before whom I can unpack my whole mind. The only one who takes me just as I am. Others try, God; some make a noble effort. But my dear Lord, only someone of Godlike proportion could possibly even consider trying unweave the tangle in my brain. Know me, God. Bless me as I seek to know you.

Is it okay to love Disney again?

Looks like...


OHUDKHJERJ FUD! (Some excitment is hard to put into words.)

Thank God for Flannery O'Connor.

And thank God for Douglas Jones and his fantastic essay on one of my favorite writers and her representation of God's dark grace.
I have to say, I love this woman more all the time.

Blogs are about me, right? (Wait, isn't everything about me?)

Okay, so I'm indulging in one of those "email questionnaire" thingies. They're actually a weak spot for me; I'm just too lazy to insert my answers and email a bunch of friends. I don't believe in sending emails to a billion people at once, either. So, of course, I turned to my true love, blogging. Here's the text of the email, with my answers inserted:

How well do you know me?? (By the way, I HATE double exclaimation marks with a firey passion that burns with the intensity of a thousand suns; if you didn't know that then you already fail the test. Sorry.) For instance, did you know...


Four Jobs I've had in my life:
1. Auction worker
2. Video editor (for EVERYBODY and his Aunt Charlie)
3. Janitor (it was actually a family job; we were all paid janitors at Montavilla Baptist in Oregon and Little Log in Colorado - which is kind of funny in retrospect, to me anyway)
4. Odd jobs (so true, so odd)

Four movies I would watch over and over (this is the most exciting one)
1. Serenity
2. The Incredibles
3. Star Wars, Episode V: The Empire Strikes Back
4. Fiddler On the Roof

Four places I have lived
1. Portland, Oregon
2. Bratislava, Slovakia
3. Budapest, Hungary
4. Gallatin, Tennessee

Four TV shows I love to watch
1. I Love Lucy
2. The Dick Van Dyke Show
3. Firefly
4. Monk


Four places I have been on vacation
1. Ireland
2. Cannon Beach, OR
3. France
4. Italy


Four of my favorite foods
1. Stew. Cooked by my Mom. I really miss my Mom's cooking, by the way.
2. Pizza with lots of things on it
3. Chicken Alfredo
4. Anything with potatoes in it. That's really healthy, right?


Four places I would rather be right now (first let it be known that I am perfectly content right where I am right now with my family; these are just four places I'd like to be.)
1. Tennessee
2. Ireland
3. A rain forest somewhere
4. Slovakia

Four things I always carry with me
1. My tummy
2. My hair
3. My heart
4. My ruggedly handsome face

Four friends that I think will respond (not really relevant; unless you decide to make it so, I guess)
1. Eucharisto
2. Katie
3. You
4. The Queen of Arts and England

Tag you're it! You are tagged. so here it goes... Copy and paste. . Delete my
answers, replace with your own and send it back to me and on to other friends!

It's not really over though, because I decided to add some questions of my own:

Four albums I could listen to until those darn cows come home
1. Sam Phillips, A Boot and a Shoe
2. U2, Le Joshua Tree
3. The Arcade Fire, Funeral
4. Sufjan Stevens, Come On! Feel the Illinoise! (MAYBE; his repetition might drive me crazy)

Four writers that have changed my life (or at least caused me to jump up and say AMEN quite loudly)
1. C. S. Lewis (duh)
2. Mr. G. K. Chesterton (he helped keep me sane during the summer; thank you, God for Mr. G. K.!)
3. Jeffrey Overstreet (if for nothing other than whispering to me that I wasn't alone in my views on movies!)
4. Frederick Buechner (brings me back to the essence of Christianity maybe more so than any other author; through his fiction no less.)
5. Phillip Yancy (hey, you didn't really expect me to keep it at four, did you?)

Four dead people who are also my heroes
1. Socrates! (I love this man; I want to be just like him. Dying for education and all.)
2. The guys at the end of Hebrews 11 ("the world was not worthy..."; those guys )
3. (Dare I say) Jeremiah? (this man led a hellish life of communion with God; next time someone tries to sell that "Christianity is easy" crap, point them to this guy. Yes I just said "crap")
4. DAVID! (This messed-up guy GOT IT. Psalm 27:4! Psalm 40:1-3! Communion with Christ is all!)

Four things I'd grab from a fire
1. There's a little book on top of my bookshelf that means a lot to me; I'm grabbing that.
2. My Bible? (the reason for the question mark is that I can buy a Bible anywhere, but truth be told I really am getting quite attached to mine)
3. Albert, my iBook G4
4. Why's external hard-drive (my life is on that beast)
4 1/2. All my books! I'm not leaving those!

Okay, I hope that was fun for you kiddos. Actually it was kind of fun for me too. Hey! You should do one of your own (you know, on your own blog). The one who comes up with the geekiest questions wins!

Help is Coming (Grateful Tuesdays, One Day Late)

Dear God,

Today I’m grateful for pen and ink. For paper and for the gift of being able to render your creation on the page. And God, by “able” I of course do not mean that I can really, fully do that. Just that I may. Dear God, thank you for allowing us to copy off of Nature’s notes on who you are. Who you are. Hm.

Thank you God, that I got to hold a starfish today! I hope that it was okay that I did. I held it just the way I saw the biologist man do it; I don't think I hurt it at all.

(Thank you, also, that you do not charge me for each exclamation mark I'm going to use today. I'm already poor enough.)

Thank you, my Father, for the beach and for sunset on the beach! And once again for the joy of drawing your creation even though sunsets cannot really be rendered in pen and ink. But that's because of all the beautiful colors, God! Such a dazzling sight, God. Thank you so much for all these colors.

And thank you so much for the girl who thinks and dreams (at least daydreams) in so many colors! My mind's black and white, God. Her's is ablaze with color! Thank you so much for allowing me to get to know her; she's such a treasure, and it's such a delight to see the world through her eyes.

Thank you for haystack rock (and once again with the pen and ink).

Thank you also for my cool pillow cases (which the above mentioned girl sewed for me). They're so cool. (And also for the little drawing book she gave me! I'm very grateful for it too.)

Thank you for letting me get to see a starfish in the process of eating a barnacle thingy. That was pretty neat.

Me!

Wait. Can I thank God for me?

What I really mean is life. The life you’ve given me.

And what about Mr. G. K. Chesterton? Who was so giddy with gratitude and love for you.

Make me giddy in love with you. You’re the one I seek.

Because you’re beautiful! You are life! You impart life to me! You are worthy; you are worthy to receive the reward of your sufferings. What is the reward of your suffering? What was the joy set before you so that you endured the hardship of the cross?

Union with your bride! How wonderful. Make me (us) lovely, my Love.

You are the Lover, we the Beloved.

To be loved by you. The most complete. The Perfect One. To have the Complete One, the Sufficient One be made incomplete and insufficient for me.

I’ll never understand it. I’ll never be able to describe it really. This is so poor you know, God.

I thank you for my sister even though we argued about whether or not George Eliot is a good writer!

Thank you for Tuesdays and allowing me to post this even if it's one day late. Thank you that I can always give thanks. Make it my life's rhythm, God.

In Jesus' name,

Amen.

Hey! Why are you reading THIS blog?

Why not hop over to my other blog? I update IT too you know.

The Lyrics to "Hard to Get" by Rich Mullins

You who live in heaven
Hear the prayers of those of us who live on earth
Who are afraid of being left by those we love
And who get hardened by the hurt
Do you remember when You lived down here where we all scrape
To find the faith to ask for daily bread?
Did You forget about us after You had flown away?
Well I memorized every word You said
Still I'm so scared, I'm holding my breath
While You're up there just playing hard to get
You who live in radiance
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in skin
We have a love that's not as patient as Yours was
Still we do love now and then
Did You ever know loneliness?
Did You ever know need?
Do You remember just how long a night can get?
When You were barely holding on
And Your friends fall asleep
And don't see the blood that's running in Your sweat
Will those who mourn be left uncomforted
While You're up there just playing hard to get?
And I know you bore our sorrows
And I know you feel our pain
And I know it would not hurt any less
Even if it could be explained
And I know that I am only lashing out
At the One who loves me most
And after I figured this, somehow All I really need to know
Is if You who live in eternity
Hear the prayers of those of us who live in time
We can't see what's ahead
And we can not get free of what we've left behind
I'm reeling from these voices that keep screaming in my ears
All the words of shame and doubt, blame and regret
I can't see how You're leading me
unless You've led me here
Where I'm lost enough to let myself be led
And so You've been here all along I guess
It's just Your ways and You are just plain hard to get.

Lay Hold On Eternal Life (Grateful Tuesdays #3)

Dear God,

I thank you for people. For Donald Miller, first of all, who showed me it's okay to need people. And secondly for all the people he showed me it's okay to need. For Katie (who, I hope, has not transgressed beyond the point of salvation) and her similar need for, and delight in people. I thank you that she delights in me; I know she does, because she missed me very much when I was gone.

And God you know the person first on my mind at present. My Lord, is it all right that she is there? I suspect so. I suspect that your view of things is not half so grave and gloomy as mine is.

Dear God, thank you for being a God of buoyancy, a God that lightens loads and relives burdens. A God who understands what it is to be weary. And confused. Do you, God? Has your mind ever known confusion? Or is that to be the one chink in your armor of understanding?

You must, you must have known confusion. Of course I see it now, a little. I see a little of it in you before you changed water to wine. A little in how you reacted to us human beings.

How do you react to us, I wonder? Are you really very mad with us? With me? Or is your reaction more one sadness? Or maybe amusement? Oh God, to know that, at the very least, if I fall short of pleasing you, I amuse you. To put a grin on your holy face, my Lord. To cause a reaction from you.

Do I cause a reaction, God? Do I have an effect on you? Is there something that, that... happens to you God, when I'm around you? Something that you can't help? What is the effect?

I've heard it said that you love me. I'd like to hear it from you.

I have 59 unread emails in my inbox.

I'm trying to get to yours. Honest I am.

My Ten Favorite Love Songs

Yes, I said "love". You know, that man-woman thing, the thing that causes well-groomed princes to slay dragons and disgruntled daddies to change diapers at midnight. You know, The Beatles sing about it a lot.

Now, I don't claim to know a whole lot about this subject (having avoided both dragons and diapers with equal vigor), but I guess I know enough to at least make a top ten list, and would you please hold your snickering till the end of the tour? Thank you. Let's begin.

All I Want is You, U2
Eileen's Song, Burlap to Cashmere
Casimir Pualski Day, Sufjan Stevens
Built Her a Cloud, Terry Scott Taylor
A Man and a Woman, U2
This Sweet Old World, Emmylou Harris (A cover of I'm not sure who)
When I'm Sixty-Four, The Beetles
I Walk the Line, Johnny Cash
A Moment in Time, The Choir
Hush Now (Stella's Tarantella), Over the Rhine

Well, there's the list for now; there's no order to it yet, and I know I'm missing a bunch probably. Does anyone have any suggestions? What are your favorites? I'm thinking of trying to put fit U2's "Love is Blindness" into the list; what do you think? What about "Crown of Love" by Arcade Fire? Oh, what about "Girl from the North Country" (Bob Dylan, Johnny Cash)? And should I put why I like each song or just leave that to your imagination?

At least Katie will be excited...

Jeff Berryman has good news for Leaving Ruin fans; he is apparently mostly finished with Ruin's sequel Hunting Grace (and anxious to begin work on a third book!). It's in the hands of his publisher right now.

I love Jeff Berryman; The Daily Hopper has always been one my favorite blogs to go to when I just want to soak in good writing, and the companionship I found in Berryman's Leaving Ruin was great (as in "a large amount"). I had no idea a sequel was in the works! How exciting! Aren't you excited?

Installment Twenty Six...

"Angels fly because they take themselves lightly."

-G. K. Chesterton

Blogging is for Dweebs

And, as a card carrying member of the Dorks Of America, I can say it's good to be back.

Let me begin this sojourn back into the land of the (mostly) living with a topic that has been on my mind of late. Or at least my face. I'm talking of course about facial hair, and I'm afraid that other, less meaningful topics (e.g. how I spent my summer at a Bible camp, what it was like being in the same time-zone as the girl with whom I'm prayerfully cultivating a "getting-to-know-you" relationship, the role of rest and peace in the life of a child of God etc.) will have to wait.

What concerns me chiefly right now is the role that facial hair has played in my life and the question of whether or not I should keep what little of it I have on my face (or continue the life of slavery and hardship that is shaving).

First things first, a brief personal history of facial hair:

• About six years old: I wonder to myself where mustaches come from and reach the conclusion (based on a little research and personal observation) that a man's mustache grows from his nostrils. Riddle solved.
• A little later: Bad discovery. I notice some of the older ladies in our village have faint mustaches. Conclusion: Everyone has facial hair; it's just that most women, in order to please their too-psychically focused husbands, decide to shave it off (which calls my Dad's moral character into question and explains my Mom's need for razor and shaving cream). I begin to wonder if God will be okay with me asking my wife to please shave or if that would be changing things too much from the way they're supposed to be (how did Adam cope with Eve's facial hair?). Oh yeah, and it turns out the nostril-hair thing's a bust.
• Puberty: Ahh! Dark hairs on my face! I pull them out in an attempt to keep all the changes at bay. They keep growing.
• A little later: Peach fuzz big time above my lip. Surely girls are not attracted to this!
• A little more later: I shave for the first time! Worries over; it's a carefree life of clean-shaveness from here on out!
• More a little later: Discover the need to shave again, but if I ask Dad if I can borrow his razor will he think I'm growing up too fast? I decide to lock the door and shave in secret. This continues for several months till what I'm doing gradually becomes obvious to Mom and Dad.
• About fifteen years old: The rest of the family finds out that I shave. And the world breaths a collective sigh of relief.
• Spring 2006: Grow a beard-like thing.
• Summer 2006: Shave off beard-like thing. Continue slavishly shaving the rest of summer.
• END OF SUMMER 2006: BEARD-LIKE THING RETURNS! Boy it's nice not to shave! But boy oh boy is my face ever scratchy! [Angst piles up, provoking blog post...]

Okay, so that's where we're at now. I like having facial hair (and not having to shave!), but I think that, on a nineteen-year-old, it might just look like I'm trying too hard. Maybe I should shave and just wait till I'm twenty to let it grow back. Yes I think that's what I'll do.

Hey look! It took me so long to write this post that I've already arrived at a decision without getting to hear any of your input. Oh darn. Well, they'll be more angst to come, I'm sure. Until then, this is me, signing off.

He Has Made Everything Beautiful in Its Time (Grateful Tuesdays #2)

I've decided to keep going with this blogging-thanksgiving thing, for which, by the way, I've made a new rule: I'll avoid mentioning the same thing two weeks in a row. Other than that, everything's the same.

====

Dear God,

Thank you for my stuffed kangaroo "Kanga" and her little joey "Roo". (If it be your will, would you allow my kids to be more creative when they name their stuffed animals?) Thank you that we are reunited at last and that they are willing to sit on my bed all day. Thank you also for my yellow blanket which I've had since I was born and which doesn't have a name. Thank you that almost nobody makes fun of me for still having it. Thank you that it has been a good friend these past nineteen and a half years or so.

Thank you for Albert and Elric and the good traveling companions they are. Albert is so cool in all his white-ness, and Elric is so cool in all his green-ness. For Ernest too. I also thank you for my friend's computer Eddie, even though he is a PC. And for Firefly who I helped name. They are all great tools and great friends.

Thank you for my uncle and my cousins. Thank you for how excited they get over music and that my uncle calls me the "iPod master" and that he put me in charge of the music yesterday while we were driving to various grave sites and so forth. Actually, I thank you for all of my uncles; I'd get more specific, but I don't think I'm allowed to.

I thank you for my extended family in general. Thank you that I can count each one of my cousins as a friend in his or her own right and that we all get along so well.

I thank you that my friend now has a Volkswagen Microbus and that I will now see it most every day. This is probably the best thing that's ever happened to me. Ever.

I thank you for tea: For wild raspberry herbal tea and for Tazo Passion tea especially. I thank you that every time I smell wild raspberry tea it makes me think of U2's "Electrical Storm" because I listened to that a lot at camp. I thank you for how you are continually affirming my calling (your calling), how, at camp, you showed me the vital role of art in the lives of children and the amazing ministering power of beauty. I thank you for all the beauty that you've brought into my life. I thank you for women who I'll just see around town or throughout my day who take time to be beautiful. I always want to go up and thank them. I'm not sure why.

I thank you for my friend Tim, for his love of music and of people. Thank you for how much he's taught me about community. I'm sorry that he's leaving. Thank you that he's following you, though. Also thank you so much for the community that you've put me in.

Thank you for the companionship I find in reading; I don't know where I'd be without books. Thank you for Godric, who is always trying to be holy, for Hazel in Watership Down, who wants very much to be a good leader. For Reverend Ames, who takes time to think and to remember. For Marilynne Robinson who causes Reverend Ames to think and reflect. For Philip Yancey, who is always looking for the truth.

Keeping me looking for the truth, and bless me now as I seek to do you will.

In Jesus' name I pray. Amen.

My heavens! There's no escaping the randomness!

First Why, then The Queen of Arts and England; now I find that Stan has fallen under the sway of all things random!

Of course, I haven't done anything to alleviate the situation.

Okay, so people have been doing this for a long time, and I'm just freaking out over nothing. But freaking out is fun, so I'll keep on with it. Anyway, all this to say that I've now added Katie and Stan to my homepages so I can keep tabs (get it?) on them daily. They post a lot, and have trouble keeping up with them otherwise.

If you, by the way, think I should add your web page to my list of homepages then just let me know, and I'll think about making you a part of the family.

Happy Birthday, Bob!

It's Bob Dylan's birthday today! Everybody do a dance! Hooray!

Okay, bedtime.

Oh, and to give credit where it's do, this portrait was done by our own Eucharisto some years ago. (On a program called "Appleworks" - the Mac version of Paint [the best program Microsoft ever designed]).

To Enter His Gates

With this post I am making good on a promise that I made to my brother, Why. The promise was that I would steal the format of one of his recent posts for a post of my own. I am also honoring the request of a friend, but, to be truthful, the roots of this post are nevertheless mostly grounded in thievery. However, I've decided to give this stolen item my own twist (surprise!). And seeing as how recently I've come to see the practice of giving thanks as a key element of our beautiful Gospel, this seemed like a good way to do that.

So you see that I'm killing three or four birds with one stone here. But please, poultry genocide aside, join me as I toss this
stone up to glory seeking to give thanks to my Creator. And who knows? Perhaps this will be the first of many thanksgiving posts to come.

===

To begin with basics, Lord, I give thanks for ultimate frisbee. And for Mt. Tabor park even though there's no good spot to play ultimate frisbee up there. This is why I also give thanks for Berrydale park; it's name makes me think of the asylum in Arsenic and Old Lace, but it has a long stretch of grass, and that counts for something.

I give thanks for rain. For running in the rain. For running in the rain on Mt. Tabor park, in the morning when there is a fog in the air and in the trees.

I thank you, God for my friend who's name I don't want to say on the Internet and who goes running three times a week with Why and myself rain or shine, though of course, because he's from California, he'd prefer it were shine. Also I should say that Why and I go running with him, since he's been doing this longer. I thank you most of all for his willingness to listen, I thank you that you brought him into my life at one of its darkest points. Thank you for bringing me out of that darkness. (Don't let me go back.)

Thank you for artists who show me other ways to do things. Thank you that you are far more creative or imaginative than any human. I don't think I could worship a God whom I could out daydream. Thank you for 2001: A Space Odyssey and The New World. Neither film is complete, of course. But they are both so refreshing to my soul. Thank you for Sufjan Stevens and for the Danielson Family and that they both heed your vision (to borrow from the trailer that supplies me with all the information I know about the Danielson Family). Thank you also for Frederick Buechner and for the colorful wings he has put on my perception of the Gospel. Thank you for G. K. Chesterton and the enormous, crushing joy that is your Gospel that he has revealed to me.

Thank you so much for your Gospel, which is Good News not only for the sinner but for the saved. Thank you that you Gospel is a well to which we can continually return. I thank you that you do not stand in the way; the only thing keeping me from being roaring slobbering drunk on that Living Water is me.

Hm.

I thank you for my family. I thank you for the crazy, bottled up tensions and relationships that make up a family; how I'd miss that holy insanity! (I thank you also for using Brave New World to point this out to me.) Give Mom and Dad grace as they seek to serve you. Thank you for parents are willing to fling everything to the wind to chase the Wild Goose that is your Holy Spirit.

(I thank you for "Casimir Pulaski Day", which my computer, Albert is just this moment playing.)

I thank you for relationships. I thank you for the health and richness you have brought into my relationships since bringing me out of the darkness I mentioned. All of the rich friendships, the wonderful people that I can't even begin to name in this place.

Thank you for those two wonderful people who lead our college group; you used them to show me the perilous importance of thanksgiving (and for other things which you and I know).

I send a special prayer of thanks also for the relationship you've permitted me to begin with the girl that most people know here by that very long name. That the person called The Queen of Arts and England would even consent to join me on this "getting to know you" venture is cause enough for a thousand songs. Thank you.

Lastly, my dear sweet Jesus, and perhaps most importantly, I thank for my beautiful sister, Midsummer, who's birthday is tomorrow. I thank you for the summer sunshine that she is in this family and I ask that you make your own face to shine upon her on this special day.

And now I end this prayer of (mostly) thanksgiving, with a prayer that you make me fully alive, fully in communion with you. Use me to bring to life those around me. I hope there's some of you left in this post.

In Jesus' name.

Amen.

Hiatus

Look for me next Monday because I'll be taking a week off from anything related to the Internet (except email; I tend to hurt feelings when I stay away from that for too long). Nothing too serious; I just need to readjust some priorities.

See you Monday!

A Scrap from the Bottom of the Barrel!

I don't have time for a real post today, but (of course) that doesn't mean I can't dig up something from way back in my past. Today's somewhat moldy dish a paper I wrote for my psychology class; yes, it's a hack job, but my teacher liked it, and that's what counts. I quote poetry in it, if that interests you. Besides, some of you (okay, one of you) have expressed interest in reading this paper, so that's probably a good enough excuse. Here it is:

Most Fresh Sting: Memory Storage and Retrieval

In the Australian children's story Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge by Mem Fox, a little boy name Wilfrid who lives next to a retirement home seeks the answer to a simple question: "What is a memory?" Wilfrid asks this question in hopes of somehow restoring the memory of his friend, Miss Nancy, who is suffering from memory-loss. Wilfrid Gordon's neighbors had many different answers to his question, and one gets the feeling that, if modern psychologists were approached on the subject, a similarly varied response would result. The question of Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge still lingers a little in the world of psychology, though perhaps in more complex forms. Psychologists might have moved beyond simply seeking a definition for memory, and instead are asking themselves questions relating to memory storage and retrieval. It is this topic of storage and retrieval that I intend to survey in this paper, focusing also on the role of the olfactory receptors in memory recall.

The concept of memory storage that probably many of us have in the back of our minds is the idea that we store our memories in a little corner of our brain, in a room, perhaps with a sign above the door, labeled "Memories". This is a nice, neat theory of memory, and, of course, it's wrong.

In the early 1900s, psychologists began a search for such a room, a search that more or less continues to this day. These researchers, like the little boy in the story at the beginning of this paper, were looking for memory. But how exactly does one pinpoint memory? Is it localized in one spot (as our imagination might have us believe), or is it spread across the brain? One famous researcher, Harvard psychologist Karl Lashley, went a long way in answering these questions.
Lashley's method was ingenious, though perhaps cruel. According to author Mark Pendergrast (1996), Lashley started by teaching several rats to complete a complex maze. After that, finding where the rats stored their memory would be relatively simple. Lashley would systematically remove sections of the different rat’s brains and let the rats try their luck in the maze again. If a rat demonstrated a total lack of memory for the maze after a certain section of the brain was removed then the search for the memory's storehouse would be complete. But surprisingly, no matter which part of the brain Lashley removed, the rat always retained at least some memory of the maze; it was not where the brain was affected, but how much it was affected that made the difference in how well the rat remembered the maze (pp. 101-102). Lashley’s conclusion: We store memory all over our brain, not just in one localized area.

As "Psychology Today" journalist Jill Neimark (1995) puts it: "Memory is not a single entity residing in a single place.” Neimark goes on to say that memory “is the likelihood that the pathway of neurons and connections an experience forges in the brain can be reactivated again." (Neimark, 13 Ways of Looking at the Brain section, para. 5).

How, then, is a memory formed? We know that a memory starts as an experience. This experience then passes through the hippocampus, where psychologists believe that memory is received, and then the hippocampus decides whether to relay the experience or discard it. (Neimark). If relayed, the experience will be stored along a complex network of neurons. The neural bonds that are formed may then be strengthened over time by recollection.
In William Morris's poem "The Defence of Guenevere" Arthur's runaway queen ponders the phenomena of recollection; what Neimark describes as a “pathway of neurons” being reactivated:

In the lone sea, far off from any ships
Do I not know now of a day in Spring?
No minute of that wild day ever slips

'From out my memory: I hear thrushes sing,
And wheresoever I may be, straightway
Thoughts of it all come up with most fresh sting (103-108)

If memory recall (surely the lifeblood of memory) is the reactivation of such "neural pathways", how does this reactivation occur? Before attempting to answer this question, let us look at the two different types of memory. In the poem above, Queen Guenevere is referring to what’s called “explicit” memory, that is, the memory that records events, people, conversations, and so forth. The other kind of memory, called “implicit” memory, is what’s being referred to when someone says, "Once you learn to ride a bicycle, you never forget it”. Implicit memories are the memories of the unconscious: skills, routines, strategies, and the like. I do not intend to delve into the recall of implicit memory in this paper, but instead propose to explore briefly the effects of certain sensory stimuli on the minds explicit memory.

We know from experience that a familiar taste, the whiff of a scent can trigger memories long thought forgotten. An unpleasant car trip, and exciting family adventure, a time of great loss, the intimacy of relationship. Consider this quote about the power of the sense of smell to release a flood of memories:

“My grandfather died three years ago, and his image in (a photograph), caught in a moment of posed reunion, often reminds me of my boyhood, when he doted on me as his hunting and fishing companion. Yet the recollections are vague and distant.
Recently, however, I took his old deerskin hunting vest out of the closet and on an impulse pressed it to my face and sniffed. Abruptly there came over me a rush of emotion and memory as intimate as it was compelling. No longer was I an adult squinting across a chasm of years at dim events: Suddenly I was a boy again, and there in all but the flesh was my grandfather, methodically reloading his shotgun as the flushed quail sailed beyond the mesquite.
This was no hazy reverie. I could feel his whiskered cheek against mine and smell his peculiar fragrance.” (Boyd Gibbons)

This only makes sense, considering that the olfactory receptors have a direct link to what is thought to be one of the key areas in memory processing in the brain.

In conclusion we see that, while Wilfrid Gordon may not find a definite answer to his question, the field of the study of memory is beginning to cement some of the foundational concepts of memory, including memory storage, and is also advancing in the study of what sensory stimuli strengthen and trigger memory.





















References
Fox M. Wilfrid Gordon McDonald Partridge (1989) Kane/Miller Book Publishers
Gibbons B. as quoted in Creating Understanding by Donald K. Smith (1992). Zondervan Publishing House.
Morris W. (1909-14). The Defence of Guenevere. The Harvard Classics.
Neimark J. (1995). It s magical. It s malleable. It s..memory. Psychology Today, 13 Ways of Looking at the Brain section, para. 5.
Pendergrast, M. (1996). Victims of Memory (pp. 101-102). Upper Access, Inc. Book Publishers.

For Cash Fans

Wow.

This is very, very exciting news. (Found via Thunderstruck.)

A task for my intelligent readers (that would be all of you)

I'm working on a post for my new darling: Communication Matters, but I need your help. The essay I'm working on will (God-willing) explore the concept of "Christian" Music, but I think that before I go off and form my definition I should do some shopping and see what good ones are out there. This will give me idea of what normal, sane people (i.e. people not like me) think on this matter. This is, of course, where you come in: While I would hesitate to call any of my readers "normal", you are pretty much all sane, and I think it would be helpful to me if you would give me an idea of what you believe "Christian" Music is. For example: How do you discern whether or not a song (or movie, or book for that matter) is "Christian" or "Non-Christian"? What trials must it go through? Is it the artist responsible? The content? The market it was released to?

These are just some questions to keep in mind. I can't wait to hear your responses.

Something a little more personal...

My dear readers,

As most of you know, I have started up a new blog called Communication Matters. I am very excited about this blog and on it I intend to post all of my most profound thoughts and ideas, which seem to occur to me on a bi-weekly basis. In the meanwhile, I have decided that this blog (Foolish Knight) shall contain a bit more of that which is personal, a bit more of the every day.

So, reasoning along these lines, I thought it would be good to let you know something that has changed about my life in recent days. Well, not changed exactly, but... well, I'll just tell you: The smell of my new deodorant, at times, hurts my teeth. I'm dead serious: It's that strong and that weird.

Now this is a vast improvement over my last deodorant which, by the way, didn't have any odor AT ALL. It seems to me that if a deodorant doesn't really prevent bad body odor (which this last one DIDN'T), the least it can do is cover it up.

Am I right? What do you guys think? Let me know by leaving a comment expressing your views.

Also, you guys should really check out my new post on Communication Matters. It will change your life forever.

Installment Twenty Five...

"A saint is somone who exaggerates what the world neglects."

-G. K. Chesterton

Speak Now...

I'm plan to make my blog rounds on Saturday; leave a comment on this post if you think I should visit your blog (and you might let me know what you've been up to recently, if you think about it).

See ya Saturday! ("Ya" is a weird word too; I'm ashamed to have used it.)

Fascinating News Items And Grammar Bits!

Now that I feel bad for having run you guys through the ringer a little bit with that April Fools prank (Midsummer tells me that, on judgment day, I'll have to answer for the part about wanting you guys to pray for me), I guess it's time for a real update. (Update is a funny word, by the way; it hasn't been around for very long. It was invented, I believe, by businessmen. A dry word, I think.)

Anyway, starting with old news, I have gotten a short haircut. It's been about a month, I think, so it's not so short now, but I plan on keeping it short throughout the summer because it's so convenient (and at camp, convenience is essential).

Which brings me to my next "update" (again, funny word): I've been accepted as a counselor at Trout Creek Bible camp, and I'll be working there from June 8th to August 26th, then there's a weekend retreat, so camp really ends on the 29th. Hooray for weekend retreats, woo hoo! ("Woo hoo" is also a funny phrase, and one that I plan on using a lot this summer. [Keep in mind also, that there is no such phrase as "alot", in fact I planned on using the nonexistent word at the beginning of the second sentence of my April Fools post, just to tip you guys off, but I settled for using two exclamation marks on the end of the first sentence instead - which really, if you ask me, should have been enough of a hint for you guys.])


In other news (which is, by the way, probably the laziest transition phrase ever) today I got to help out with childcare for Mom's Club at church, which, since there are plenty of kids but only ever a few boys, means that there were lots of little pink

(Hey! Because I got bored writing this post, I went to the Looking Closer Journal and found this witty piece about the future of television. Joss Whedon is a funny man.)

people running around, and it also means that I had the chance to truly express myself through the unfortunately under-appreciated category of "pink crayon" art, the results of which can be seen here.

Okay, one last news item: I have started a new blog, what's more, I believe that its justified even! Take a look.

Exciting Update!

Dear All,

There's so much to tell you!! A lot has happened in my life since you last heard from me; I won't be able to tell you everything though, so I'll just keep it brief. Last week was a wonderful time for me; this girl at church who I've been interested in for a long time (I won't say her name here, but I think that some of you know her) finally agreed to "go out" (as public schoolers would say) with me and we had a great time! I've never been in a serious relationship like this before, so if you all would pray that I would have wisdom, I'd really appreciate that.

Be sure to leave a comment and let me know what's going on in your life! (And happy first of "International Guitar Month"!)

Blog Cloud

What's a blog cloud? Andy Whitman explains. (Try it out, it's fun!)

Installment Twenty Four...

"To be witness does not consist in engaging in propaganda, nor even in stirring people up, but in being a living mystery. It means to live in such a way that one's life would not make sense if God did not exist."

-Emmanuel, Cardinal Suhard as quoted in Madeleine L'Engle's Walking On Water

Why Dorothy Went Back to Kansas (My Final Paper For Writing 121)

A dangerous question lurks in the minds of well-meaning people everywhere. A question not dangerous to everyone, perhaps, but for some, especially for families of some English as a Second Language students with whom I’ve had the chance to speak, the question might be unsettling.

“Where are you from?” People will ask, innocently smiling, not knowing that they have touched on a point that shakes the displaced to their very souls. For dammed up in this one question is a potential flood of many other questions, questions which have perhaps not yet been fully answered even in the mind of those who are being questioned: “Where are you from?” leads to “Where is your home?” and “Where was your sense of self formed, and your identity nourished?” These questions eventually lead to “Who are you?”; a startling question for anyone to encounter, and a laborious one to answer on a daily basis.

Still the question must be answered, so as not to seem rude. So those questioned begin to once again dig and scrap, and a kind of frantic pondering ensues as they mentally sort through different pieces of information: many houses and cultures, many stamps on a passport. They are not for the first time, searching, but they hope that maybe this time the answer will come. That somehow a place: a country, town, village - anything - will come forward and make itself known, that someplace will claim them for its own. The displaced must hope that the too-many options will somehow meld into one obvious choice. The child of a refugee or an immigrant finds that there is perhaps one too many homes to choose from, and that he is just as curious as the one who has asked the question to find out what he’s going to answer. More than curious even; anxious is a better word. There is a feeling that something is at stake.

Of course this is not the case with most people; for most “home” is an easy concept. Ask these blessed people where they’re from, ask them even the harder question of where they consider home, and they’ll answer you without the least hint of doubt in their voice, without the slightest shade of worry passing over their face, or trace of uncertainty across their minds. These people, being seen by the gods as somehow the most fit to bear this blessing, will smile an easy smile and tell you where they were born and raised. Born and raised. Home. Easy.

For Mimi’s child the question will not be so easy to answer. Mimi is from Ethiopia, and she has just recently found out that she and her husband are going to have their first baby. Of course they now have a flood of choices before them concerning which culture they are going to raise their little American-born, Ethiopian child in. And in this regard Mimi and her husband are surely not alone; all who have raised children in a culture other then their own have tangled with this beast of a issue. But I wonder whether parents like Mimi, who have to ask the necessary question of what culture they will raise their child in, who have to ask essentially “Where will my child be from?”, know the terrible power they wield. I wonder if they have a choice.

Consider too Claudio, from Mexico, who came to the U.S. when he was a teenager because his father wanted him to come. I wonder where he will now find his identity, if he will find it in the land in which he lived the first half of his life, or the land he will likely live in for the rest of his life. Perhaps Claudio will never really be home; perhaps he will only ever live in a corner which he had no choice but to back into. I wonder if I could grow fond of a corner.

Perhaps it seems frivolous, though, for people to make such a big deal about wanting to live where they were born, or, at least in some way or another wanting to be able to call the place they’re living now “home”. Perhaps to some, wanting to be raised either in the same culture as your parents, or the same culture as your peers seems superficial. But those who are tempted to think this way of the the people whom Judith Ortiz Cofer describes as “the perennial new kids on the block”, would do well to consider the gift they possess, the gift they were born and raised with (562). They posses the gift of being from somewhere. It’s a gift inexorably bound to the most basic of all gifts, the very gift of being, itself. Such might be tortured by the question of where they are going to (in the future or the hereafter), but at least they know where they’re coming from. My heart goes out to the child that can list many places he has lived, but has no clue what to tell people when they ask him where he is from.

For those who are not of any culture, the ache indeed must weigh heavy. However, could it be that these seeming unfortunates, the displaced, the uprooted, and the divided, those who are going through life homesick, but without a place on earth to call home, are better prepared for something in the end? Might they be better prepared, perhaps, for a different home, a home that lies beyond this world?

Baby You Can Write My Paper

I'm sorry for having abandon you all; I'm submerging myself in homework and won't emerge till spring break. I hope to make up for it by linking to a great post I just read, talking about last Monday and why it's special.

Without further ado, here's Andy Whitman's thoughts concerning the first Monday of March (also known as "Casimir Pulaski Day").

See you spring break!

And Now, For My List!

1. "Casimir Pulaski Day" by Sufjan Stevens
2. "Theologians" by Wilco
3. "We Know Too Much" by Mark Heard as coverd by Michael Been
4. "Something Beautiful" by Jars Of Clay
5. "With Or Without You" by U2
6. "Every Grain of Sand" by Bob Dylan
7. "We Have Forgotten" by Sixpence None The Richer
8. "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails as coverd by Johnny Cash
9. & 10. "Fire And Water" by Buddy Miller tied with
"Flash in Your Eyes" by Daniel Amos
11. "Mysterious Ways" by U2
12. "I Walk the Line" by Johnny Cash
13. "Spark" by Over The Rhine
14. "Your Beautiful Mind" by Kevin Max
15. "Mercy Street" by Peter Gabriel
16. "She Walks On Roses" by Vigilantes of Love
17. "In The Backseat" by The Arcade Fire
18. "Hard To Get" by Rich Mullins
19. "One Day Late" by Sam Phillips
20. "Jungle Trail" by Steven Delopoulos

Your 10 Favorite Songs Have Arrived

1. "With Or Without You" by U2 (41)

2. "Kingdom Come" by Coldplay (40)

3. & 4. "Casimir Pulaski Day" by Sufjan Stevens (35) tied with
"Where the Streets Have No Name" by U2 (35)

5. "The Hallelujah Chorus" by George Frideric Handel (31)

6. "Fire and Water" by Buddy Miller (30)

7. "Broken Heart" by Falling Up (28)

8. "Mercy Street" by Peter Gabriel (24)

9. & 10. "Born" by Over the Rhine (23) tied with
"Burn In Me" by Tait (23)

The Rope and the Sword

I was supposed to write a 750-word essay for my Writing 121 class. Out of several writing assignments to choose from I decided on one where I was supposed to make a general statement about a group of people I knew well, being sure not to use the first and second person. Well, I got my paper back yesterday and thought it might be fun to share it with you guys, so here it is, as handed to my teacher:

On Those Who Wear Hats

Wearing hats was once a widely enjoyed activity, surpassed in practice only by such entertainments as breathing and sleeping. There is a fellowship among those involved in this practice, one of the more poetically inclusive fellowships known to man; thieves and thespians, priests and pig farmers, wizards and whalers, are all embraced in the order of those who wear hats. Few hat wearers, however, know that they are a part of this group; neither do they know that this group reflects humanity as a whole, but to tell the story of those who wear hats is to tell the story of the Human race, a story both of separation and of a common bond, of categorization and of needs met.

It is not known when exactly mankind first donned a piece of cloth as a hat and the clues history leaves aren't specific. One early clue, cave artwork, depicts animal skins worn on the head, not a hat proper perhaps, but a forerunner to the hat, worn for protection for the elements. Somewhere in between this time and the time of the ancient Greeks and Egyptians the purpose of the hat began to change slightly, shifting from a piece of equipment meant to keep Early Man's head dry while hunting for dinosaurs, to something of significance such as Pharaoh's headdress and Caesar's crown. The hat had now fully emerged, no longer merely a practical expression of survival and common needs, but an ordering device and a sign of rank.

This idea of rank was cemented in the late 14th and 15th century, when the hat was introduced into the world of men's fashion, becoming an integral part of class distinction. In the 1960s and 1970s the hat fell from grace as it fell from the head of the flower child. The hippies threw their hats to the blowin' wind because they saw the hat for what it was, a bond maybe, but also a sign of separation. It was one more restraint cast aside in pursuit of free love and a universal brotherhood.

But what if everyone in history took such a negative view of hats? Had the hat never graced history's stage, organizations such as The Red Hat Society, would perhaps simply be know as The Society, G. K. Chesterton would have to change the topic of his famous essay, "On Running After One's Hat"; the reader of the altered essay ("On Standing Still" perhaps) is pitied. Hats can play a large role on how those who wear them are perceived; consider the career of John Wayne, might he still be known only as Marion Michael Morrison had the cowboy hat never been invented? And it is doubtful whether George Washington's strategic crossing of the Delaware would have been quite as grand if his three cornered hat had not so heroically perched itself upon his powdered locks. Don't forget to take Abraham Lincoln into account too; separated from his trademark stovepipe hat, he would scarcely be distinguishable from any other emancipation-proclaiming, six-foot-four, self-educated politician with which history presents us. It's clear that history and culture would lose a little of their flavor had the hat never stumbled into the light of existence.

But as flower children age into senior citizens the hat finds itself accepted once again. It still binds like a rope, uniting all those throughout space and time who have worn hats, and separates like a sword, rending bishop from pawn, king from farmer, with the mere placement of a feather or shaping of a brim; both Eminem and the Pope don a hat for official reasons, there is a connection there, a brotherhood, but those same hats also separate them, placing them in vastly different worlds.

For average people the hat still bears signs of what it once was, its anonymous wearers perhaps carrying a slight odor of divisiveness, but for the man or woman on the street the bond outweighs that, and when they see each other they acknowledge the history worn on their heads; we are like brothers they say, who have fought epics together, we are like people of the same village, who have loved and hated side by side, we carry the mystery of that scattered tribe called the human race on our heads. But none of this paradox of separation and of unity is put into words; instead, what comes out is simply, "Nice hat."

Happy Valentines Day!

Note To My Future Father-In-Law (Whoever You Might Be): Please Don't Get Any Ideas

I thought I'd link to a story and break the monotony of (avoiding) studying.

The story (presented in the form of a blog) is called Jay and the Canoe.

One of the girls here at the WorldView Center gave us the web address for the blog because she knows the guy in this story. By the way, this is a story for which all of my adjectives are very girl-ish sounding so I'll just say this: Girls, prepare to sigh at least once, and guys, take notes. And since it's a blog be sure to start at the very bottom and work you way up. Happy reading!

A couple of side notes:

I hope to have the results for the second annual Foolish Knight "Song Vote" ready by Thursday, and my own list (with commentary) posted as well.

I also plan on posting a paper soon about people who wear hats. It's my first Writing 121 assignment that would be of interest (hopefully) to you guys and I'm waiting for feedback from my teacher before I post it.

(By the way, I love my writing teacher dearly but it is my abiding fear that one day she will stumble on this blog and be horrified at case after case of poorly worded sentences, incorrect grammar, and all around bad writing, all of which have been known to sneak into this blog from time to time. Or worse: I think, maybe she's reading it RIGHT NOW! That would be the scariest of all! Does anyone else have fears like this?)

One more thing: The swelling has gone down so I think I can say this: I'm pretty sure that my nose is broken, seeing as how it doesn't quite point in the same direction as it used to point before I knocked a kid over with it on Wednesday night. Not to worry though, it doesn't hurt and it kinda conveys an air of rugged handsomeness. I hope. And it's not really VERY noticeable that much anyway.

WWJW

Sorry, I don't have a lot of time so this is going to be rough (and short).

I think that God probably wants you to watch Steve Taylor's movie The Second Chance, on February 17.



Steve Taylor is one of my new heroes, not because of his great music, or the fact that he's a wonderful producer, but something more, what he's doing now to be precise. I mean to put that kind of career on hold, and mortgage your house to go into the SUICIDAL world of filmmaking (more on that later) just because God is leading you there. Well, that's just crazy, however poetic it might be.

Not only is it crazy but it's something I plan on doing one of these days, God willing. So please, go out and see this film on opening weekend and, if it helps, pretend it was me who made it.

Polls Close Today

The voting for your favorite songs ends today at midnight, pacific standard time.

Update On the Disney/Pixar Situation

Looks like Lasseter & Co. have already begun to clean things up around the Mouse House. First thing to go? The ill-advised Pixar-less Toy Story sequel.

(Discovered via Looking Closer.)

For those who love/hate Disney...

Further evidence of my inherent weirdness: When I read the first item in today's FilmChat Newsbites (especially the part about John Lasseter's future position), I wanted to cry with joy.

There's Still Time!

There's still time to submit a list of you twenty favorite songs! Better make it quick, though, February 2nd is coming up fast!

Draft

It is, of course, far too late to post any kind of "Top Ten" list for the year 2005. That's why this list of my favorite gifts of 2005 only has nine items! Because there's no rule for "Top Nine" lists, right? These highlights are roughly in the order that they happened (hard to put them in any kind of exact order since some of these overlap). Here they are:

1. Reestablishing friendships
Because of the move back to Oregon I got to move beyond superficial relationships with many childhood friends, people at church, family members and the like. A definite highlight.
2. Graduation
Of course, moving has its price too (besides back trouble), and the time spent with those who came up to celebrate my day of liberation, uh, I mean accomplishment was a time of wonder for me.
3. Camp
4. TruthQuest
5. Meeting Jeff and Anne Overstreet
6. Meeting Albert and Elric
7. My birthday
8. Meeting Steve Taylor
9. Trip to Tennessee and Colorado

Ecclesiastes 7:2

Dear God,

You say that it's better to be in the house of mourning than the house of rejoicing. Well tonight I'm mourning myself, the things I've done. I'm in mourning for the lustful, ego-driven life I have lived, for my selfishness and for my hate of You. For the manipulation I've used. For jealousy. For raping the souls of my friends. For the hate shown and love withheld. For sacrificing everyone I've loved on the alter of my Self. For the blackness I've spilled or ejected or spewed onto the world. For the lies I've told and the people I've killed. For the girls I've raped and the people I've mowed down.

God, restore me to you. I can't stay in this darkness any longer. God, thank you for your light and you love.

In Jesus' name,

Amen

Little Big Things

Thanks, guys for letting me take a little time to reflect and evaluate, ponder and consider. God's been showing me some things lately and maybe we can work through some of them together, but for now I'll just be trying to keep up with school, though I might throw you a few crumbs here and there. Anyway, thanks again for you patience!

Gone Thinkin'

Magical Mystery Poem # 4

Can you guess who wrote this poem? (If the guessing comes hard then you may use any resources you want - except for the internet.)

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.

It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;

It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil

Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?

Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;

And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;

And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil

Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.



And for all this, nature is never spent;

There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;

And though the last lights off the black West went

Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs--

Because the Holy Ghost over the bent

World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Installment Twenty Three...

“Even in literature and art, no man who bothers about originality will ever be original: whereas if you simply try to tell the truth (without caring twopence how often it has been told before) you will, nine times out of ten, become original without ever having noticed it.”

-C. S. Lewis

High-larious Adventures! Masquerade Humor! Me!

I've finally added some more words to my new post at My Old Sketchbook. Seriously, if I could, I would write things like this all day.

Epoch

Tuesday's Child (also known as Eucharisto's sister) is posting again. (Hooray!) I hope she can finally make a habit out of this; she is one of the few bloggers I know who is also really a writer. So it's a joy to read her stuff. You should check it out. (Get it, guys? A joy? Her blog is Take Joy? Get it? And her sister, eh - oh, never mind.)

Holy Syllabus, Batman! or The Amazing True Life Adventures of A Homeschooled MK Turned College Student!

Dear Citizens of the Free World,

I was going to update you on how my life as a college student is going, but it's breakfast time, and my stomach takes priority.

Love,

Foolish Knight

A Post-Holiday Post Of Little Or No Importance, Which Contains a Photo That The Foolish Knight Finds Amusing

Did you have a good Christmas and New Years? I'm still recovering from mine (in a good way), and don't expect to post anything else on this blog this week. But don't worry, I'll be back before you can spit. In the meanwhile, why not treat yourself to a viewing of Serenity, put on a record of Sufjan Stevens (whose name I now pronounce your way, Eucharisto) or read The Great Divorce or The Elements of Style or something like that? (I guarantee that you'd have more fun doing any of those things than reading this blog, anyway, even if I was posting.)

Or you could clean your room, which is what I need to do.

If you're looking for a good time...

Then you could visit Her Royal Majesty Brings Forth the Bread over at her blog and get advice from the Love Doctor (who has helped me with a heartbreak or two). What's that you say? Your love-life is fine but your life as a cinephile is going nowhere? In that case I recommend this list of Jeffery Overstreet's favorite films of 2005. Good reading that.

Can't have enough articles on U2 and God, right? Here's one served up by Chuck Colson's ministry, BreakPoint.

Other random items:

Jeffery Overstreet has a new hero.

Eucharisto has a new blog.

LarkNews has a new issue.

Sister Ames (the Baptist Nun) writes up a storm.

Plus!

Brokeback Mountain considered.

Blue Like Jazz discovered.

Masquerade attended! (Here, and here.)

There's a New Blogger In Our Midst

I present to you:

Sister Ames!

Go forth and make her welcome!

Emmanuel

Dear God,

Thank you for filling this beggar's cup.

God, I love you.

Amen

This is the prayer that's been rolling around in my head of late. I mean, for God to become a dying thing that he might infuse the dying with life? What a crazy deal. I get everything, and God gets me. What's crazy is that God's acting like he got the better end of the bargain (Hebrews 12:2, The Song of Solomon, Luke 15). Is this not enough to drive you into the ground with weeping and send you to the sky with rejoicing? Doesn't your heart soar with joy?

All those giddy psalms on giving thanks are starting to make a little more sense...

Merry Christmas!

Retraction

I am still waiting for song lists from six or seven people, however I expect these list to be late, and I see now how silly it is to hold this kind of vote at Christmas time, so I am extending the voting time all the way to Groundhog Day (February second); a much less busy time for me, and I trust for you as well.

Happy Christmas Adam, everybody! Enjoy the season! (Christmas Adam comes before Christmas Eve, for those who were wondering.)

Are You Working On Your List Of You Twenty Favorite Songs?

You'd better be! You only have five days left! Quick, don't just stand there! Make a list!


Note: You can use this post for submitting a list if you want to, but please don't use it for ordinary comments. Thank you.

Oh yes, props once again to Soldout for a great picture.

For the Record

Whoa! This is the coolest news I've heard all day; Sufjan on Vinyl! I got a chance to listen to Illinoise a couple of times at Eucharisto's house and I have to say that the only thing that could make my experience with the album more enjoyable would be if it was an actual album. And now it is! Woo hoo! This just got bumped to the top of my Christmas list. This is too good to be true!

Rock Stars Preachin' It, Vol 1

"Q: Money. Irishness. God. Which one couldn't you live without?
Bono: Wow. Well it's an easy question to ask but... here's a thing. When I was 16, my head was exploding. I just felt my life was going nowhere. I didn't fit in. I couldn't get a job. I didn't know how I could do my exams and I wasn't even sure I could concentrate at college. In those days, I remember, a prayer came up inside me. I said "I don't know what I'm going to do with my life but if there's a God out there, and I believe there is, and You want me to do something, then I'm ready. I don't have any plans for myself and I'm available for work." Pretty much within a few months of that epiphany I had joined U2 and started going out with Ali. A pretty good two months! Now had my destiny been -- if the God in heaven had said I want you to become a fireman and run up very dangerous buildings and save people's pets, I'd like to hope I'd have gone at it with the same gusto. So -- I couldn't let go of my faith. But what's more interesting is that I don't think God will let go of me. I love it when people on bar stools rub their chins and say do you believe in God? That's so presumptuous. A much more important question is does God believe in us?
Q: That sounds like you believe you were chosen.
Bono: No, no, no, I don't believe that. I do think God gets a laugh out of using some very poor materials. I volunteered is what I'm telling you."
--Bono in Q Magazine

Intentions Part 1

I went through a stage in my life where I would start an essay, get about halfway, then tuck the miserable bit of writing away in a folder on my computer to edit later (read: never to be looked at again until my biographers are forced to sift through it to get a clue to my complex thought life).

Recently I accidentally happened upon these writings and thought it might be fun to share them with you (in several installments), since you wouldn't be reading this blog anyway if you weren't obsessed with my every thought. I warn you, though, time has not been good to these essays (written two to three years ago); they are clunky and self-conscience, more so than I remember. But I guess my writing hasn't changed much beyond that, has it?

Maybe I will try to make something coherent out of these one day, but for now let's just air the dirty laundry and see what happens. First up, some rambling writ to do with art. Shocking, no?

The Artistic Element is an element as real as flame or water or dust.
The Artistic Element is a gift, given by God.
It is a means by which we may glorify our Creator, what better way to honor the Creator than through creativity?

On Storytelling
&
Overemphasis

What is it about the film that knocks you over the head with its sentiment that appeals to so many people? Is this sort of storytelling bad storytelling? Is it ever right to indulge in bad storytelling for the sake of the point you’re trying to make? Let’s examine Christ’s Storytelling (if anybody had a point to make it was him) I think that Christ’s parables should be the ultimate example to us in storytelling (by storytelling I mean not only novels and the like but also; paintings, ballet, rap-songs, film, Poetry... (the list goes on) in short anything that relates a story), so I think it best if we examine one of our Masters own stories for the answers to these questions (along the way let us see how Jesus makes known the point of his own artwork) incidentally you may be offended by my calling Christ’s parables “Art”, if so than you should know that we are probably working with different definitions of the word Art. Art is not something to be enjoyed by the sophisticated elite only, who happen to have enough money to get into those stuffy museums, rather it is entirely relevant (albeit incomplete) way to communicate truth

The person who separates what the intended effect of a song you hear on the radio (that is, God’s intent) from the intended effect of The Parables of Jesus, has missed the point of art; in this case art has become something what even the smallest schoolboy dreads with a dread that takes years of education and training to overcome: A Museum Piece. Storytelling is to recall a historical event, even if that event has not yet taken place
The fact that I took a shower this morning after getting out of bed, is supposedly a historical event. I will allow that it is historical, but is it real? I think that if you asked Solomon he would say “No of course not!, [edit] Don’t even think it!”
Odysseus’ journey home is more real to me than the historical event in question.
-vanity as history
-allegory less vain; it cuts through the manure spread across reality
-two sides, same cursed coin
-’Jesus spoke all these things to the crowd in parables; he did not say anything to them without using a parable.’
A real live parable:
“A farmer went out to sow his seed. As he was scattering the seed, some fell along the path, and the birds came and ate it up. Some fell on rocky places, where it did not have much soil. It sprang up quickly, because the soil was shallow. But when the sun came up, the plants were scorched, and they withered because they had no root. Other seed fell among thorns, which grew up and choked the plants. Still other seed fell on good soil, where it produced a crop--a hundred, sixty or thirty times what was sown. He who has ears, let him hear.”

Do you object to my usage of Parables as models of Art? So do I. In a way.

Installment Twenty Two...

"For our titanic purposes of faith and revolution, what we need is not the cold acceptance of the world as a compromise, but some way in which we can heartily hate and love it. We do not want joy and anger to neutralize each other and produce a surly contentment; we want a fiercer delight and a fiercer discontent. We have to feel the universe at once as an ogre's castle, to be stormed, and yet as our own cottage, to which we can return at evening."

-G. K. Chesterton, Orthodoxy

I Know That I Am Not the Salt of the Earth, But Ain't There No Way To Figure What My Intentions Are Worth?

Hey guys,

Today is Answer Email Day for me, and I have a little under thirty to respond to. I won't be getting to all of them today but I'm going to make a noble effort. I have some emails from as far back as my birthday that I haven't had time read yet, much less respond to. (I'm feeling super-bad about this, in case you're wondering.)

See you later. And remember, floss daily and don't listen to Christmas songs on the radio!

Love,

The Foolish Knight (I put the "The" in there to bug you, Queen Mum)

Post Script: The title of this post is from a Mark Heard song, who can guess which one?

Make a Difference In the World! Vote For Your Favorite Songs!

Last year at about this time I asked you to submit a list of your twenty favorite songs, and, after running the lists you gave me through the Magical Counter of Foolishly Musical Voting-ness thingy that I keep in my garage, I published your ten favorite songs; a decent list overall, but sorely lacking in the variety department. Which is why I'm adding a new rule to the voting this year; a rule that is restrictive, but necessary. On the list you submit, no artist may be included more than twice. Otherwise, the voting process is the same as last year's:

Step #1. Come up with a list of your twenty favorite songs. (Remember, your favorite; not your friend's favorite, or your uncle's favorite, or your second cousin once removed's favorite, or even the favorite of your next door neighbor’s miniature poodle. The list had better be truly yours or the Magical Counter thingy won't except it. Also, please only include songs that are your favorites right now, this list is not to determine what songs you listened to when you were a kid, or the songs you enjoyed a couple of years ago; it's about what songs mean the most to you right now.)

Step #2. Order the list, placing your favorite at the top and the rest down from there. (Hard to do, yes. Like breaking up, only a lot more painful.)

Step #3. Get it to me. Via comment (on this post), e-mail, pony express, whatever; just get it to be by midnight on Christmas Day or your valued opinion will not be represented on the list. And that would be sad, wouldn't it? (Please keep in mind that I won't be accepting any lists posted by "Anonymous" commenters.)

Three steps. Simple enough, right? Enjoy making your list; I can't wait to see what comes of this.

No Time To Say Goodbye, Hello!

You know what I really don't like? When somebody puts up a blog post just to say that they don't have time to put up a post. That really irks me.

Oh, by the way, I'll be running around like a chicken (or turkey, if you prefer) with it's head cut off till after Thanksgiving, so don't expect to see anything from me till then. (I'm putting off several things right now, as we speak.) For now, here's a passage that's becoming one of my favorites on the topic of Thanksgiving:

“For since the creation of the world His invisible attributes, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly seen, being understood through what has been made, so that they are without excuse. For even though they knew God, they did not honor Him as God or give thanks, but they became futile in their speculations, and their foolish heart was darkened. Professing to be wise, they became fools, and exchanged the glory of the incorruptible God for an image in the form of corruptible man and of birds and four-footed animals and crawling creatures.”

Romans 1: 20-23

Give thanks for God's sake! Happy Thanksgiving!

Installment Twenty One...

“Since words are the way we communicate experiences, truth, and situations, who should know how to use them more creatively than Christians? The world is crying out for imaginative people who can spell out truth in words which communicate meaningfully to people in heir human situation. And of all people on earth, committed Christians ought to be the most creative for they are indwelt by the Creator. Charles Morgan speaks of creative art as “that power to be for the moment a flash of communication between God and man.” That concept opens up our horizons to a glimpse of God-huge thoughts, of beauty, of substance beyond our cloddish earthiness, of the immensity of all there is to discover.
Yet, tragically, Christians often seem most inhibited and poverty-stricken in human expression and creativity. Part of this predicament comes from a false concept of what is true and good. The fear of contamination has led people to believe that only what someone else has clearly labeled Christian is safe. Truth is falsely made as narrow as any given sub-culture, not as large as God’s lavish gifts to men. Truth and excellence have a way of springing up all over the world, and our role as parents is to teach our children how to find and enjoy the riches of God and to reject what is mediocre and unworthy of Him.”

-Gladys Hunt, Honey For A Child’s Heart

Magical Mystery Poem # 3

When I see birches bend to left and right

Across the lines of straighter darker trees,

I like to think some boy's been swinging them.

But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay

As ice-storms do. Often you must have seen them

Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning

After a rain. They click upon themselves

As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored

As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.

Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells

Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--

Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away

You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.

They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,

And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed

So low for long, they never right themselves:

You may see their trunks arching in the woods

Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground

Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair

Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.

But I was going to say when Truth broke in

With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm

I should prefer to have some boy bend them

As he went out and in to fetch the cows--

Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,

Whose only play was what he found himself,

Summer or winter, and could play alone.

One by one he subdued his father's trees

By riding them down over and over again

Until he took the stiffness out of them,

And not one but hung limp, not one was left

For him to conquer. He learned all there was

To learn about not launching out too soon

And so not carrying the tree away

Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise

To the top branches, climbing carefully

With the same pains you use to fill a cup

Up to the brim, and even above the brim.

Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,

Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.

So was I once myself a swinger of birches.

And so I dream of going back to be.

It's when I'm weary of considerations,

And life is too much like a pathless wood

Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs

Broken across it, and one eye is weeping

From a twig's having lashed across it open.

I'd like to get away from earth awhile

And then come back to it and begin over.

May no fate willfully misunderstand me

And half grant what I wish and snatch me away

Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:

I don't know where it's likely to go better.

I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,

And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk

Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,

But dipped its top and set me down again.

That would be good both going and coming back.

One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

It's My Birthday

"I'm going parading before it's too late!"

If you've gotten an email from me regarding something called "Ringo", please just ignore it. It's just a dumb mistake.