I haven't done an abstract post in a while, for I felt them becoming a bit repetitive. A friend I spoke to in person told me that my long stream of thought lasting about three minutes straight through mild tangent links, told me that my fears were unfounded. I needed to stop worrying about what others thought of myself. For the most part, I don't mind, but still... there are some actions and comments that are implicitly not socially responsible.
It is an unspoken code of behavior, one partly self policed and community based - it keeps things pleasant and on the surface level of small talk. Some people possess a wide base of knowledge that is appropriately shallow for such occasions. Others are a one-hit wonder, but are exceptional at their tune. Most of us fall between the lines and mentally scale others along the axis, depending on how well we know them.
I am a Christ-follower, and desire to live a life reflective of this. You see, I haven't the immediate nerve or personality to be a street witness for Christ. Some in His family have that calling and gifting and I wish them well in their missions. But for me, it is like telling smokers that they should stop - it will kill them. If they haven't a relationship with me, they might brush me off: they already know the risks of their lifestyle. If I offer literature as documentation to prove my point - the smoker would find me particularly obnoxious and, if gracious and patient, excuse themselves for a "prior engagement."
If I choose to live a clean life, void of smoking, alcohol, and even sugar abuse - I will live longer, healthier and more richly. If people inquire as to how I do it, I could respond with a clearer direction and explanation as to why I live how I live and how it has worked for me.
"You defend Christ like you defend a lion. You get out of its way." - C.S. Lewis.
For me - it is the same way with my relationship with Christ. If I live my life as a testimony, not showy or pretentious, but genuinely loving and joyous. People will eventually see the light and want to know why. God will draw those as he sees fit - I live in service to Him, for He first chose me and won my heart. I am His child, as are we all. I want to live my life in truth, not fear. I cannot force people to love my Father, but I can radiate joy, love, and energy in my life as a sign of the freedom He gives.
I wake every morning and sleep every night, knowing that my Father is looking out for me and smiles. I want to do Him proud like my terrestrial mother and father - I see on a daily basis how much they love and care for me, and yet, my Creator's love is boundless and infinite, endless and beautiful. I cannot fathom it, I cannot fail it, and I will refuse to admit defeat. I live in wonder of the glory He has wrought on the earth, and know that it is but a shadow of what is to come in the wake of the Son's triumphant return in the last days.
Is that not cause for joy? We live with open and beating hearts, let us show the world Our God with the landscapes of our lives!
Monday, August 29, 2011
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Meat - Bread
I felt feverish over the weekend, but was determined to go on a trip with my family and two others. It was an annual tradition, started about 5 years ago, a trip to watch an MLB team in another state play America's game. We were all packed in a 15 passenger van with the first seat taken out for storage space. Each row of seats held a different group. The back held the elder girls, all in high school, they conversed and listened to music on a set of portable speakers. The next row had an assortment of junior high girls, laughing and chatting animatedly, they were the energy of the vehicle's atmosphere. Then, there was my row, held by my friend and me, with a father on the end. We were listening to the back and front, amused at the first, and intent on the latter. The front two chairs held my Dad and the other father, discussing current events, scripture, and family.
The game in itself was low scoring, a pitching slugfest with a high strike-out count. Impressive, but not compelling to watch every at bat, as the sides were retired so soon. The joy in the trip was the camaraderie and the food. What food! For our dinner, I had a healthy slab of honeyed meatloaf, with sides of mashed potatoes and mac & cheese. For dessert, I chose a piece of coconut meringue pie. I couldn't devour the entire serving and boxed it up for later.
The following day, we visited an indoor market for tasty meat, fresh baked bread, and tongue tickling pastries. I requested the bread, reasoning that the savory beef jerky that we were after needed something dry, fresh, and spongy as contrast. The desserts were delicate and tasteful, but I wanted something solid and substantial in my lunch.
“Every commandment which I command you today you must be careful to observe, that you may live and multiply, and go in and possess the land of which the LORD swore to your fathers. And you shall remember that the LORD your God led you all the way these forty years in the wilderness, to humble you and test you, to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep His commandments or not. So He humbled you, allowed you to hunger, and fed you with manna which you did not know nor did your fathers know, that He might make you know that man shall not live by bread alone; but man lives by every word that proceeds from the mouth of the LORD." - Deuteronomy 8:1-3
That bread was even better than I first reckoned it. It was seasoned with rosemary, a unique taste of flavored air texture that I had hardly experienced before. And the jerky?
Those strips came tender and stringy in teriyaki, tough and lasting peppered, stiff and blacked barbecue, and melt-in-your-mouth tasty buffalo chicken.
The days were sunny and breezy, the highway home had living landscapes of green stalks and brown trunks woven wonderfully. My friend inquired as to whether I regretted the school I could have gotten finished over the weekend instead.
I smiled and replied. "I will have many such opportunities to study over the the weekend this fall. I will not always have opportunities like this to spend with family and friends for this amount of time. This is an investment - I will look back on this and know that whatever comes, I had this one spot of brightness in this tunnel of school. This is my motivation, I would give up much more for this."
The game in itself was low scoring, a pitching slugfest with a high strike-out count. Impressive, but not compelling to watch every at bat, as the sides were retired so soon. The joy in the trip was the camaraderie and the food. What food! For our dinner, I had a healthy slab of honeyed meatloaf, with sides of mashed potatoes and mac & cheese. For dessert, I chose a piece of coconut meringue pie. I couldn't devour the entire serving and boxed it up for later.
The following day, we visited an indoor market for tasty meat, fresh baked bread, and tongue tickling pastries. I requested the bread, reasoning that the savory beef jerky that we were after needed something dry, fresh, and spongy as contrast. The desserts were delicate and tasteful, but I wanted something solid and substantial in my lunch.
“Every commandment which I command you today you must be careful to observe, that you may live and multiply, and go in and possess the land of which the LORD swore to your fathers. And you shall remember that the LORD your God led you all the way these forty years in the wilderness, to humble you and test you, to know what was in your heart, whether you would keep His commandments or not. So He humbled you, allowed you to hunger, and fed you with manna which you did not know nor did your fathers know, that He might make you know that man shall not live by bread alone; but man lives by every word that proceeds from the mouth of the LORD." - Deuteronomy 8:1-3
That bread was even better than I first reckoned it. It was seasoned with rosemary, a unique taste of flavored air texture that I had hardly experienced before. And the jerky?
Those strips came tender and stringy in teriyaki, tough and lasting peppered, stiff and blacked barbecue, and melt-in-your-mouth tasty buffalo chicken.
The days were sunny and breezy, the highway home had living landscapes of green stalks and brown trunks woven wonderfully. My friend inquired as to whether I regretted the school I could have gotten finished over the weekend instead.
I smiled and replied. "I will have many such opportunities to study over the the weekend this fall. I will not always have opportunities like this to spend with family and friends for this amount of time. This is an investment - I will look back on this and know that whatever comes, I had this one spot of brightness in this tunnel of school. This is my motivation, I would give up much more for this."
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Pitch - Black
*Hiss-sssss-**Crack**-sss* The chilled beverage in my hand expands slightly, taking in air to its sealed contents. It gives off a strong scent of sweet grape concentrate - the quest for it is always a serendipitous tale. It is Mountain Dew: Pitch Black, an elusive and difficult find. The brilliant manufacturers of the drink ensured that it would be available for a limited time over the summer. Its existence would be sustained through online voting and intercession online.
However, until it is solidified as a MD mainline, it is frustratingly hard to obtain: It is only available at the occasional drugstore or gas station convenience stops. Its only incarnation is in an aesthetically pleasing, but otherwise cumbersome 20 oz bottle.
No 2-liters, or even 12 packs of cans. Why is this brilliant? Because this difficulty adds to the mystique of the drink - it intrigues MD fanpeople to seek it out and pay more for less. It is usually offered at $1.59 for the 20 oz bottle, 2 for $2.50 at select gas stations. A 2-liter of MD mainline or Voltage (the blue raspberry flavor which I prefer) can be found easily at the buck and a quarter proportion of the latter, with over three times the capacity at 67.5 oz.
Mountain Dew is fortunate - this venture could have sunk useless bottles in overstock everywhere, but their gambit paid off. Fans on Facebook may complain, but they are also secretly conceited to have stockpiles of Pitch Black in the event of a cancellation.
However, I am sure that Pitch Black will override the berry-flavored SuperNova and the citrus-inspired WhiteOut, to make it as a permanent flavor until the next annual competition. What fools are all of us to participate in this marketing game.
*gulp-"ahhhh!"-(sigh)* Oh well, it tastes like cough syrup with a sugar boost and caffeine kick.
However, until it is solidified as a MD mainline, it is frustratingly hard to obtain: It is only available at the occasional drugstore or gas station convenience stops. Its only incarnation is in an aesthetically pleasing, but otherwise cumbersome 20 oz bottle.
No 2-liters, or even 12 packs of cans. Why is this brilliant? Because this difficulty adds to the mystique of the drink - it intrigues MD fanpeople to seek it out and pay more for less. It is usually offered at $1.59 for the 20 oz bottle, 2 for $2.50 at select gas stations. A 2-liter of MD mainline or Voltage (the blue raspberry flavor which I prefer) can be found easily at the buck and a quarter proportion of the latter, with over three times the capacity at 67.5 oz.
Mountain Dew is fortunate - this venture could have sunk useless bottles in overstock everywhere, but their gambit paid off. Fans on Facebook may complain, but they are also secretly conceited to have stockpiles of Pitch Black in the event of a cancellation.
However, I am sure that Pitch Black will override the berry-flavored SuperNova and the citrus-inspired WhiteOut, to make it as a permanent flavor until the next annual competition. What fools are all of us to participate in this marketing game.
*gulp-"ahhhh!"-(sigh)* Oh well, it tastes like cough syrup with a sugar boost and caffeine kick.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Night - Hope
I am sheathed in darkness on my trip home today. I am at peace in the silence, knowing that I am never alone. I am in communion with my Savior, every moment of this life.
(May I not squander it in frivolity.)
A.W. Tozer said in a prayer, "Let me not see You for who I think You are, but as who You know yourself to be." Even in the night. Andrew Peterson has a lovely, understated song on his album Counting Stars.
In the Night, My Hope Lives On" is a ballad telling the story of God and man. The prophets, the faithful, and the promised Savior. We yet have hope, even when darkness surrounds us physically or spiritually. Hope is undying, a gift from Our Father, an assurance of better and brighter days.
The Song ends triumphiantly, like few others in my experience - Peterson doesn't need to blast his audience with noise and flurries. The victory is a quiet fact, a remarkable truth in a world of illusions, so Peterson uses emphasis and passion in the line. "No they didn't take his life - He laid it down." Amen.
(May I not squander it in frivolity.)
A.W. Tozer said in a prayer, "Let me not see You for who I think You are, but as who You know yourself to be." Even in the night. Andrew Peterson has a lovely, understated song on his album Counting Stars.
In the Night, My Hope Lives On" is a ballad telling the story of God and man. The prophets, the faithful, and the promised Savior. We yet have hope, even when darkness surrounds us physically or spiritually. Hope is undying, a gift from Our Father, an assurance of better and brighter days.
The Song ends triumphiantly, like few others in my experience - Peterson doesn't need to blast his audience with noise and flurries. The victory is a quiet fact, a remarkable truth in a world of illusions, so Peterson uses emphasis and passion in the line. "No they didn't take his life - He laid it down." Amen.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Faceless - Barrier
I walk through crowds who part my way
A sight in denim, polarized sunshades paint world in grey.
I run with a burden on my back -
Daring the world to try an attack.
My coat flies freely in the breeze,
I am armored in a black shirt and jeans.
My helmet is a baseball brim,
Slanted backwards with sweat-stained trim.
I am released into the sun,
I gaze at the throng, observing everyone.
I watch as they laugh and giggle with glee
They are caught up in a bubble of their own,
They do not notice me.
Corner of their eye, edge of their vision.
It is Someone Else's problem, not one that they are given.
Fortunately, I am benign -
I am silent out of interest, for I may be quite shy.
Though I know that their are others like me.
Who thirst for contact and interactions like water for trees.
I have great friends who listen with care,
While the quiet majority fade under curtains of hair.
They are defensive to phantom dangers lurking out there.
Being introverted is a habit of mine,
But I should look out and engage one day at a time.
For who can measure the restoration of a timely word?
The kindness of strangers given with merit unearned?
I thank those who coaxed me from my shell
If I had not been blessed with friends, this would be my testimony as well.
A sight in denim, polarized sunshades paint world in grey.
I run with a burden on my back -
Daring the world to try an attack.
My coat flies freely in the breeze,
I am armored in a black shirt and jeans.
My helmet is a baseball brim,
Slanted backwards with sweat-stained trim.
I am released into the sun,
I gaze at the throng, observing everyone.
I watch as they laugh and giggle with glee
They are caught up in a bubble of their own,
They do not notice me.
Corner of their eye, edge of their vision.
It is Someone Else's problem, not one that they are given.
Fortunately, I am benign -
I am silent out of interest, for I may be quite shy.
Though I know that their are others like me.
Who thirst for contact and interactions like water for trees.
I have great friends who listen with care,
While the quiet majority fade under curtains of hair.
They are defensive to phantom dangers lurking out there.
Being introverted is a habit of mine,
But I should look out and engage one day at a time.
For who can measure the restoration of a timely word?
The kindness of strangers given with merit unearned?
I thank those who coaxed me from my shell
If I had not been blessed with friends, this would be my testimony as well.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Entertaining - Messengers
I am finding myself increasingly speaking aloud, threshing my thoughts to the air. I have had an earful of my favorite music while traversing the campus - "Joshua", by Lifehouse (an unreleased fan favorite) and Newsboys' vintage classic: "Entertaining Angels." The former makes me wistful for those in whom the memory of the song was enshrined in my own mind. The second's beginning is so pure, lovely, and longing with a violin. Entertaining Angels is an interesting composition that provokes me to think.
At one point in my life, I was actively searching my everyday interactions for proof of angelic intervention. I thought, I found one; but he laughed me off gently when I confided this hunch in hindsight. "I am just another human, sorry to say. But I am trying hard to live like a Christian."
Are not we all a little hopeful that we might have an experience with a heavenly messenger - a piercing of the veil of spirituality?
"Entertaining angels by the light of my TV screen. 24-7 you wait for me. Entertaining angels by the time I fall to my knees. Host of heaven, sing over me." - "Entertaining Angels" Newsboys.
I know that I am important to the Most High, as are all of us as His children. I lift my eyes and my voice to the heavens. With whispers, smiles, and hopes, I will conquer small victories in the extra-ordinary days I've been given.
I woke this morning with a prayer - "Lord, I am ready for today. Lord, I am prepared to take on today's challenges. Lord, I will await the adventure that you have for me. Thank you for this day."
At one point in my life, I was actively searching my everyday interactions for proof of angelic intervention. I thought, I found one; but he laughed me off gently when I confided this hunch in hindsight. "I am just another human, sorry to say. But I am trying hard to live like a Christian."
Are not we all a little hopeful that we might have an experience with a heavenly messenger - a piercing of the veil of spirituality?
"Entertaining angels by the light of my TV screen. 24-7 you wait for me. Entertaining angels by the time I fall to my knees. Host of heaven, sing over me." - "Entertaining Angels" Newsboys.
I know that I am important to the Most High, as are all of us as His children. I lift my eyes and my voice to the heavens. With whispers, smiles, and hopes, I will conquer small victories in the extra-ordinary days I've been given.
I woke this morning with a prayer - "Lord, I am ready for today. Lord, I am prepared to take on today's challenges. Lord, I will await the adventure that you have for me. Thank you for this day."
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Company - Chili
I am grateful for the lovely weather of late - it has a cheerful effect on my days. I was invited to lunch with some of my friends. Men who are worthy of the name, raising their sons in the way straight and narrow. I am grateful for their examples in my life, and am studying in the footsteps of one of their careers.
The chili parlor's menu doesn't have any poor choices - everything is tasty, meaty, and fresh. This is a favorite frequent of the group, with the bar-stools arranged around a glossy, hardwood table. The men chat about the state of our nation and its leaders, of the news of outrageous happenings in their beloved country. I listen and sip my Pepsi Dew, a fountain special that causes the regular cashier's eyes to roll. He claims that my Dad has "wacked out taste buds," but services my requests nonetheless.
I soak in these men's company, wistfully hoping that I will have an equivalent some day in the future. I want to have this kind of group to surround me in the future - a fellowship of God-fearing men who enjoy life and delight in each others' different perspectives.
After the last spoonful of chili is scraped from the bowl and final morsel of burger is swiped from the basket, the men laugh and disperse back to their offices, conversing excitedly about their next rendezvous and plans. I gain so much from these days, and am strengthened by the truth and righteousness reflected in their hearts. For they are all serving their Savior, then their families. It is a beautiful and holy sight for my youthful eyes to witness.
"The Glory of God is man fully alive." - Saint Irenaeus (From Waking the Dead, by John Eldredge.)
The chili parlor's menu doesn't have any poor choices - everything is tasty, meaty, and fresh. This is a favorite frequent of the group, with the bar-stools arranged around a glossy, hardwood table. The men chat about the state of our nation and its leaders, of the news of outrageous happenings in their beloved country. I listen and sip my Pepsi Dew, a fountain special that causes the regular cashier's eyes to roll. He claims that my Dad has "wacked out taste buds," but services my requests nonetheless.
I soak in these men's company, wistfully hoping that I will have an equivalent some day in the future. I want to have this kind of group to surround me in the future - a fellowship of God-fearing men who enjoy life and delight in each others' different perspectives.
After the last spoonful of chili is scraped from the bowl and final morsel of burger is swiped from the basket, the men laugh and disperse back to their offices, conversing excitedly about their next rendezvous and plans. I gain so much from these days, and am strengthened by the truth and righteousness reflected in their hearts. For they are all serving their Savior, then their families. It is a beautiful and holy sight for my youthful eyes to witness.
"The Glory of God is man fully alive." - Saint Irenaeus (From Waking the Dead, by John Eldredge.)
Monday, August 22, 2011
Forkless - Brush
So, today was rather nice outside. When I arrived and was perambulating the surrounding campus, I discovered someone’s artistic paintbrush. I passed it once, then thought better and retrieved it from the sidewalk. I used a bathroom sink to rinse the brush and possess it as my own. It is amazing as to the odd things you find on the ground. I myself lost a keychain attached to a dysfunctional zipper – maybe another soul will find and dispose of it.
I have gone through two classes and been let out early of both. I am realizing that this instills a false sense of freedom to explore, followed by the cold reality that it wasn’t enough to have but a taste of an activity before the next class starts. I procured lunch – an open burrito, and grabbed a fork to enjoy it later. I sat through the second short class, and then proceeded into the open air to partake of my tasty meal. Once situated, I discovered that I didn’t possess the fork. I grabbed a pair of disposable chopsticks from my backpack and will enjoy an open burrito in a whole new way.
Funny how things work out.
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Lock - Loaded
Countdown ends by tomorrow's dawn, finding me once again at school. I spent my last day poring over books that I borrowed from the library, I had always intended to finish, or even start. I completed one work, but it was a good one. I finished watching the fourth season of Doctor Who with David Tennant, my favorite incarnation of the Doctor. The finale gave me fortitude for tomorrow's return to education - Firstly, because I will never have it as bad as they did in that crisis. Secondly, because it had such camaraderie between BBC series and spinoffs - I have good friends and we support each others' efforts in small ways.
" 'My father used to say that artists use lies to tell the truth, while politicians use it to cover it up.' -Evie
'A man after my own heart.' -V "
Sometimes it takes an exaggerated version of how things stand to realize the importance of the smaller, beautiful facets of life. I am contented with all I have been free and able to do over the summer. I am more than ready for tomorrow and its challenges. It will be a cold plunge when I reenter the well of knowledge, but I will learn to swim its depths, training to navigate them with greater ease each time.
" 'My father used to say that artists use lies to tell the truth, while politicians use it to cover it up.' -Evie
'A man after my own heart.' -V "
Sometimes it takes an exaggerated version of how things stand to realize the importance of the smaller, beautiful facets of life. I am contented with all I have been free and able to do over the summer. I am more than ready for tomorrow and its challenges. It will be a cold plunge when I reenter the well of knowledge, but I will learn to swim its depths, training to navigate them with greater ease each time.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Sorted - Tangle
This is becoming an evening ritual to me - trying to distill my thoughts of the preceding day and my plans for tomorrow into a coherent thread. I have been reading much fiction of late, and find a thrill of joy in the fantasy worlds within. These mental landscapes and tapestries have the paradoxical effect of rooting me deeper into appreciating reality.
It is like seeing a spark of brilliance, creating an afterimage on my eyes - when I reopen them, the spark's image holds an impression in my perception of everything else.
"We read to know we are not alone." - Shadowlands
It warms my heart to know that there are creative minds who spin stories and songs of beauty, pain, and hope. It is evidence of forerunners, an example in which to follow, a dream of what is truly possible. I know that I have a long way to travel in my styling and communication before I can count myself in the ranks of the Authors, but to see their legacies is to glimpse the heights of human imagination.
"Fiction is a good parts version of a life." - Summation of a point from On Writing by Stephen King.
So, as I blaze this web chronicle, I will define new continuity in my patterns of postings. One day, I hope to organize my cycles beyond merely the loop of posting a lyrical poem offering every Thursday. Until then, bear with me - I hope to waste no one's time, least of all my own.
It is like seeing a spark of brilliance, creating an afterimage on my eyes - when I reopen them, the spark's image holds an impression in my perception of everything else.
"We read to know we are not alone." - Shadowlands
It warms my heart to know that there are creative minds who spin stories and songs of beauty, pain, and hope. It is evidence of forerunners, an example in which to follow, a dream of what is truly possible. I know that I have a long way to travel in my styling and communication before I can count myself in the ranks of the Authors, but to see their legacies is to glimpse the heights of human imagination.
"Fiction is a good parts version of a life." - Summation of a point from On Writing by Stephen King.
So, as I blaze this web chronicle, I will define new continuity in my patterns of postings. One day, I hope to organize my cycles beyond merely the loop of posting a lyrical poem offering every Thursday. Until then, bear with me - I hope to waste no one's time, least of all my own.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Dreams - Bardo.
My dreams have been absurd of late - I have been on the edge of consciousness and utterly convinced of odd truths about my character and surroundings. Should I rebel against my subconscious for the sake of purity and truth, or just let it have its run in order to achieve the goal of rest? James Thurber commented on this phenomenon in an autobiographical series of essays about his life. One night he was frustrated by his inability to name a small town in New Jersey, so this quirk of the night hours is not a malady limited to my discordant imagination.
Shall I tell a tale of the top of my head? This may have a point, but if you are unable to find a usable moral, take comfort in a substitute one - "Editing would make impulsive stories like this easier to read."
This is the tale of Bardo the brash, non-anthropromorphic cat. I have no particular reason to care for the species, as it hardly deigns to make notice of me. I would be much afraid if I met a cat that was anthropomorphic. However, Bardo wasn't possessed of a human personality, and my mind and narration are much eased by the fact.
How did Bardo come to be brash? The title was bestowed one fine summer's evening when I was working out in the barn. As I walked the yard, I happened to sight an orange and white example of the feline persuasion. At first, I mistook it for some toy or lawn ornament not prudently removed by parental taste standards. Bardo turned its head before this idea could gain traction in my brain, and that shattered the notion straight in the bud. I was determined not to pay heed to this inexplicable cat which trespassed on my family's yard - it wasn't worth the effort to tell it otherwise. Have you ever tried to tell a cat what to do? It is like talking to a toddler in Olde English - the child may pick out bits and pieces of what you mean by your tone and body language, but it isn't interested in your point. Only worse, because cats like Bardo look like they are pleasantly contented with their state in life, a state which I never reach for more than a lucky hour.
No sir, I ignored Bardo, and went back to my work. That cat walked in the barn after ten minutes and stretched on the concrete ramp at the entrance. See, our house is on a flood plain, and we learned early it is easier to prepare for the inevitable than to clean up after the mess that an improbable deluge would cause. I had a wheelbarrow full of logs to split outside for our wood stove in the winter. It is easier to start our burn wall early with the fallen trees of our neighbors than to be scrounging for kindling scraps in the fall when everyone has the same idea.
Well, I couldn't get out of the barn without running over Bardo, and I knew that cats don't listen to reason. That cat was concentrated on what a delight it was to bask in the sun warmed surface of the ramp, probably no plans for the future - no meals, no feline school, no ladycat with which to raise kittens. Just sun, living for the moment. It isn't that cats are stupid, by any means, just that they are stubborn, ornery, and dominated by a one-track mind. They're rather like my younger brother Stevie, come to think of it. He manages to avoid work as if it was the Grim Reaper of all the happiness in his life. Stevie is always either asleep, in the bathroom, brooding in silence, or just vanished from our plane of reality.
So, I dealt with Bardo the same way I dealt with my recalcitrant brother when he was in one of his moods. Setting down the barrow, I knelt down and got eye to eye with the creature, staring it down. Bardo, lazed in his posture of recline, just shut its eyes and basked in the sun. One-track mind, it just has a nature unfathomable and unreachable to us moral mortals of reason and intellect. We might never understand instinct, and it irks us to know that they don't even try to understand us the way we do them.
Knowing that Bardo had no give in its catty confidence, I returned to my barrow. I plodded forward steadily in a show of strength and will - the cat would have to yield to the stimuli of personal harm. Bardo didn't bother, and I ended up driving the barrow right over its contented form. Bardo just looked as pleased as punch to be on the concrete, and none the worse for wear. It went that way all day, until the sun settled behind cloud cover. Bardo stirred and licked its hindquarters, tail twitching, then arched its back and leapt into the barrow for the ride to the woodpile. This routine went on for the next fortnight, then Bardo broke the tradition and headed for our fence line in the distance, angling for the next property over.
For all I know, Bardo the Brash continued its wandering ways. I haven't seen the orange and white feline since those obstinate fourteen days, but it just goes to show - animals are not to be humanized, as they don't follow reason and they won't remain faithful. They are a part of nature, that great bountiful system filled with the beautiful butterflies, the bizarre blue-footed boobies, and brash beings like Bardo, who defy our dictates and look smug in the meantime...
Shall I tell a tale of the top of my head? This may have a point, but if you are unable to find a usable moral, take comfort in a substitute one - "Editing would make impulsive stories like this easier to read."
This is the tale of Bardo the brash, non-anthropromorphic cat. I have no particular reason to care for the species, as it hardly deigns to make notice of me. I would be much afraid if I met a cat that was anthropomorphic. However, Bardo wasn't possessed of a human personality, and my mind and narration are much eased by the fact.
How did Bardo come to be brash? The title was bestowed one fine summer's evening when I was working out in the barn. As I walked the yard, I happened to sight an orange and white example of the feline persuasion. At first, I mistook it for some toy or lawn ornament not prudently removed by parental taste standards. Bardo turned its head before this idea could gain traction in my brain, and that shattered the notion straight in the bud. I was determined not to pay heed to this inexplicable cat which trespassed on my family's yard - it wasn't worth the effort to tell it otherwise. Have you ever tried to tell a cat what to do? It is like talking to a toddler in Olde English - the child may pick out bits and pieces of what you mean by your tone and body language, but it isn't interested in your point. Only worse, because cats like Bardo look like they are pleasantly contented with their state in life, a state which I never reach for more than a lucky hour.
No sir, I ignored Bardo, and went back to my work. That cat walked in the barn after ten minutes and stretched on the concrete ramp at the entrance. See, our house is on a flood plain, and we learned early it is easier to prepare for the inevitable than to clean up after the mess that an improbable deluge would cause. I had a wheelbarrow full of logs to split outside for our wood stove in the winter. It is easier to start our burn wall early with the fallen trees of our neighbors than to be scrounging for kindling scraps in the fall when everyone has the same idea.
Well, I couldn't get out of the barn without running over Bardo, and I knew that cats don't listen to reason. That cat was concentrated on what a delight it was to bask in the sun warmed surface of the ramp, probably no plans for the future - no meals, no feline school, no ladycat with which to raise kittens. Just sun, living for the moment. It isn't that cats are stupid, by any means, just that they are stubborn, ornery, and dominated by a one-track mind. They're rather like my younger brother Stevie, come to think of it. He manages to avoid work as if it was the Grim Reaper of all the happiness in his life. Stevie is always either asleep, in the bathroom, brooding in silence, or just vanished from our plane of reality.
So, I dealt with Bardo the same way I dealt with my recalcitrant brother when he was in one of his moods. Setting down the barrow, I knelt down and got eye to eye with the creature, staring it down. Bardo, lazed in his posture of recline, just shut its eyes and basked in the sun. One-track mind, it just has a nature unfathomable and unreachable to us moral mortals of reason and intellect. We might never understand instinct, and it irks us to know that they don't even try to understand us the way we do them.
Knowing that Bardo had no give in its catty confidence, I returned to my barrow. I plodded forward steadily in a show of strength and will - the cat would have to yield to the stimuli of personal harm. Bardo didn't bother, and I ended up driving the barrow right over its contented form. Bardo just looked as pleased as punch to be on the concrete, and none the worse for wear. It went that way all day, until the sun settled behind cloud cover. Bardo stirred and licked its hindquarters, tail twitching, then arched its back and leapt into the barrow for the ride to the woodpile. This routine went on for the next fortnight, then Bardo broke the tradition and headed for our fence line in the distance, angling for the next property over.
For all I know, Bardo the Brash continued its wandering ways. I haven't seen the orange and white feline since those obstinate fourteen days, but it just goes to show - animals are not to be humanized, as they don't follow reason and they won't remain faithful. They are a part of nature, that great bountiful system filled with the beautiful butterflies, the bizarre blue-footed boobies, and brash beings like Bardo, who defy our dictates and look smug in the meantime...
Thursday, August 18, 2011
Name - Honor
More than a title, less than a line.
The second makes me bridle, the three will define.
My name is a gift from my progenitors at birth,
But it is more than a tag showing my worth.
Some aren't uniquely bestowed upon the bearer.
Others try too hard to achieve this, creating a terror.
For the first and the middle are chosen for the child.
The last, a surname, is a legacy - whether troubled or mild.
I will strive my best to carry this name.
To hold it as a standard and keep it from shame.
I will hold my head high in the knowledge so true
That I have two wonderful parents who've supported me through
Trials and tests that came with my training.
Though the circumstances be stormy or raining.
My mother and father have weathered the whether's
Of morality and courses that will bind me as a sapling's tethers.
The lessons they taught keep me on the straight and narrow -
This name that I hold is as bone to the marrow.
It defines my actions, a spur to clear every stone
It is no longer mere words, but a precious jewel which I own.
The second makes me bridle, the three will define.
My name is a gift from my progenitors at birth,
But it is more than a tag showing my worth.
Some aren't uniquely bestowed upon the bearer.
Others try too hard to achieve this, creating a terror.
For the first and the middle are chosen for the child.
The last, a surname, is a legacy - whether troubled or mild.
I will strive my best to carry this name.
To hold it as a standard and keep it from shame.
I will hold my head high in the knowledge so true
That I have two wonderful parents who've supported me through
Trials and tests that came with my training.
Though the circumstances be stormy or raining.
My mother and father have weathered the whether's
Of morality and courses that will bind me as a sapling's tethers.
The lessons they taught keep me on the straight and narrow -
This name that I hold is as bone to the marrow.
It defines my actions, a spur to clear every stone
It is no longer mere words, but a precious jewel which I own.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Listening - Still
"I will sing of your mercy that leads me through valleys of sorrow to rivers of Joy." - Jars of Clay.
I have been given today, for all that it is. I am thankful for the waking hours I have each time I leverage myself out of my bed. I realize wryly how much time I spend in thrall to electronic media and am attempting to limit it. Especially because my ballycumber from the library only grows larger. The amount of pages I am attempting to consume has gone from difficult to irrational to insanely mind boggling hours of back to back speed reading without enjoyment to complete! I have barely began my trek through literature I intend to read. I am procrastinating the full portent of this through naive denial - the books look so good, I MUST read them all before school begins.
"I will walk on water. You will catch me if I fall. I will get lost into your eyes. And I know everything will be alright. I know everything will be alright." - Lifehouse.
I have this hope for my friends on their amazing adventure through life on the edge. I support them in my prayers and encouraging correspondence with them personally. I know I will miss them for a while yet, but look forward to our reunion. Until then, I will strive to improve myself and my output of productivity. I must go ever upward and outward - blooming in the light of the Sun into a greater perfection. May your life's journey be bestowed with equally majestic scenery.
I have been given today, for all that it is. I am thankful for the waking hours I have each time I leverage myself out of my bed. I realize wryly how much time I spend in thrall to electronic media and am attempting to limit it. Especially because my ballycumber from the library only grows larger. The amount of pages I am attempting to consume has gone from difficult to irrational to insanely mind boggling hours of back to back speed reading without enjoyment to complete! I have barely began my trek through literature I intend to read. I am procrastinating the full portent of this through naive denial - the books look so good, I MUST read them all before school begins.
"I will walk on water. You will catch me if I fall. I will get lost into your eyes. And I know everything will be alright. I know everything will be alright." - Lifehouse.
I have this hope for my friends on their amazing adventure through life on the edge. I support them in my prayers and encouraging correspondence with them personally. I know I will miss them for a while yet, but look forward to our reunion. Until then, I will strive to improve myself and my output of productivity. I must go ever upward and outward - blooming in the light of the Sun into a greater perfection. May your life's journey be bestowed with equally majestic scenery.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Recovery - Novelty
I quite enjoy chronicling my thoughts, and sometimes forget that others read them. It tends to be a one sided conversation - comments only go so far. I have been listening to the band Lifehouse because it reminds me of old treasured times with even more valuable friends. Storm, Breathing, and From Where You Are especially resound with me, the words are so beautiful and the tone so sweet.
I have been given an analyzed review of the short story I posted in six parts on here. The person determined that it was overall disappointing because of its narrated delivery, but, as it was a second draft transcribed and rewritten over multiple nights, I am still pleased with the overall framework I accomplished.
I could "revise and resubmit" an third version, but I don't know how long it would take me to flesh out my idea. If I get one of these rare comments below, I will promise release to channel and release the updated version at a future time. Depends on how much faith you have on me to expand upon a previous premise, or whether you think it satisfactorily completed as is.
I enjoy my life and the friends that have crossed my path, for the savior that watches over me, and the minor challenges of the everyday. I need to be more self-motivated in the future, and have been unconsciously hoping that my consistency in utilizing this medium will encourage its future growth in other areas of my life.
"No man or woman has achieved an effective personality who is not self-disciplined. Such discipline must not be an end in itself, but must be directed to the development of resolute Christian character." John S. Bonnell
I have been given an analyzed review of the short story I posted in six parts on here. The person determined that it was overall disappointing because of its narrated delivery, but, as it was a second draft transcribed and rewritten over multiple nights, I am still pleased with the overall framework I accomplished.
I could "revise and resubmit" an third version, but I don't know how long it would take me to flesh out my idea. If I get one of these rare comments below, I will promise release to channel and release the updated version at a future time. Depends on how much faith you have on me to expand upon a previous premise, or whether you think it satisfactorily completed as is.
I enjoy my life and the friends that have crossed my path, for the savior that watches over me, and the minor challenges of the everyday. I need to be more self-motivated in the future, and have been unconsciously hoping that my consistency in utilizing this medium will encourage its future growth in other areas of my life.
"No man or woman has achieved an effective personality who is not self-disciplined. Such discipline must not be an end in itself, but must be directed to the development of resolute Christian character." John S. Bonnell
Monday, August 15, 2011
Incapacitated - Recuperation
Recuperation, yes, I have abused my immune system again by going too hard too long. I overloaded on wakeful hours and not enough sleep. This is especially unfortunate as I am beginning fall semester next week. I missed a meeting with an old and good friend because of my sickness and hope not to be a disease transporter. It will be so nice to be healthy again!
Until tomorrow, I will rest up to recharge my weakened abilities, hoping to regain the vigor of youth.
Until tomorrow, I will rest up to recharge my weakened abilities, hoping to regain the vigor of youth.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Torn - Hooked
I want to make this meaningful, but how can I do that with a surface edit? Three factors have convinced me to limit my time in frivolity online. Firstly, that I take things personal at times when the impersonality of the Internet allows for rampant misinterpretation. Secondly, that time spent online may not be regained - instead of that, I could be doing something more useful IRL. Thirdly, my time is going to be taken by demands placed upon it this school year.'
First consideration was brought home to me by conversations with friends. "I spend more time watching people on YouTube - whom I do not know personally, than with my good friends who I do!" This is a haunting realization of the convenience and time delay tendencies over this information stream. I want to continue honing this thought field as a training ground for putting my thought to action. Sorry if I ramble and tangent, my editing skills are a work in progress. I usually do first drafts and think,"Yes, this sounds about right." Then post the draft, look for glaring grammatical errors and/or misspellings like their/there, and leave it.
Secondly, I spend too much time in isolation waiting for someone to entertain me. I should make my own happenings rather than rely on others to spawn them. I need to be proactive in my life rather than reactive.
Thirdly, I have chosen to make this an unsettlingly busy season. This blog and online R&D for my winter demands must be met with discipline rather than distracted cramming for deadlines.
I will strive to keep this alive, but it will not be easy. Expect some memories I post to be rather boring data I need to recall for later on this year.
Until that day, I will be listening to Anberlin's cover of Bob Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone and World Cup Heroes version of K'naan's Wavin Flag.
First consideration was brought home to me by conversations with friends. "I spend more time watching people on YouTube - whom I do not know personally, than with my good friends who I do!" This is a haunting realization of the convenience and time delay tendencies over this information stream. I want to continue honing this thought field as a training ground for putting my thought to action. Sorry if I ramble and tangent, my editing skills are a work in progress. I usually do first drafts and think,"Yes, this sounds about right." Then post the draft, look for glaring grammatical errors and/or misspellings like their/there, and leave it.
Secondly, I spend too much time in isolation waiting for someone to entertain me. I should make my own happenings rather than rely on others to spawn them. I need to be proactive in my life rather than reactive.
Thirdly, I have chosen to make this an unsettlingly busy season. This blog and online R&D for my winter demands must be met with discipline rather than distracted cramming for deadlines.
I will strive to keep this alive, but it will not be easy. Expect some memories I post to be rather boring data I need to recall for later on this year.
Until that day, I will be listening to Anberlin's cover of Bob Dylan's Like a Rolling Stone and World Cup Heroes version of K'naan's Wavin Flag.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Reminiscing - Recycling
I have had to change bed stylings recently - The bunk bed of my youth is being sold to a younger family who needs it more than I do. It is an interesting orientation, forming a T rather than an I. The top two sides of the T are taken by a desk area on the left and a series of five drawers on the bottom half of the right side - three shelves as the right face of the top.
I liked it when we bought it - it had nooks and crannies for storing things. The desk area has always been given to me. Its cork-board interior held tickets from my trips with my family to sporting events and road travels. I had to cull the nostalgic packratish tendencies, and use the stubs as future bookmarks (of which I have too many already!). Also included on my desk are two newspaper clippings, both from the Indianapolis Star, and both dealing with insightful cartoonists.
The first is by Gary Varvel - the "Court Approved Prayer" editorial cartoon from around 2005. It is a politically correct version of the Lord's Prayer, and struck my fancy as clever at the time.
The second is an article concerning Bill Watterson, the beloved creator of the timeless strip Calvin and Hobbes. It is a retrospective look at the man who was quirky, brilliant, and famously conservative as to the rights of his creation. He turned down a movie deal, strip related merchandise, and other streams of alternative revenue. The strip was the strip, and he fought to keep it in that creative vein.
My desk drawers also were purged of my knick-knacks and supplies. I quickly found homes for many forgotten items, remembering how I first procured them and the meaning behind the items. I found a battered, rotating medallion given to me by a friend for a birthday years ago - it can be wound to a certain year in the month slot, while a second layer will align the days of the week to the month involved. It bemused me that it would hold true for 37 years, so I've kept it in sight, realigning it every so often as I thought about it.
I have an unfinished drawing of Marvin Harrison, that quietly talented former Colt. His speed and acrobatic, one-handed snags made him a favorite in my family. But, injuries sapped his quick step and his long reach, he faded as Reggie Wayne entered his prime as Peyton's go-to target.
This and many other things I have revisited in my mind, curiosities from days past. I know that when I move to another home in the future, that it will be like this on a large scale. Hopefully, I will be more compacted by then, ready to leap forward into a brave new world.
I liked it when we bought it - it had nooks and crannies for storing things. The desk area has always been given to me. Its cork-board interior held tickets from my trips with my family to sporting events and road travels. I had to cull the nostalgic packratish tendencies, and use the stubs as future bookmarks (of which I have too many already!). Also included on my desk are two newspaper clippings, both from the Indianapolis Star, and both dealing with insightful cartoonists.
The first is by Gary Varvel - the "Court Approved Prayer" editorial cartoon from around 2005. It is a politically correct version of the Lord's Prayer, and struck my fancy as clever at the time.
The second is an article concerning Bill Watterson, the beloved creator of the timeless strip Calvin and Hobbes. It is a retrospective look at the man who was quirky, brilliant, and famously conservative as to the rights of his creation. He turned down a movie deal, strip related merchandise, and other streams of alternative revenue. The strip was the strip, and he fought to keep it in that creative vein.
My desk drawers also were purged of my knick-knacks and supplies. I quickly found homes for many forgotten items, remembering how I first procured them and the meaning behind the items. I found a battered, rotating medallion given to me by a friend for a birthday years ago - it can be wound to a certain year in the month slot, while a second layer will align the days of the week to the month involved. It bemused me that it would hold true for 37 years, so I've kept it in sight, realigning it every so often as I thought about it.
I have an unfinished drawing of Marvin Harrison, that quietly talented former Colt. His speed and acrobatic, one-handed snags made him a favorite in my family. But, injuries sapped his quick step and his long reach, he faded as Reggie Wayne entered his prime as Peyton's go-to target.
This and many other things I have revisited in my mind, curiosities from days past. I know that when I move to another home in the future, that it will be like this on a large scale. Hopefully, I will be more compacted by then, ready to leap forward into a brave new world.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Rumpelstiltskin - Pt.6
We under the hill felt my brother's demise. The invocation Ilias had layered in his last words rang as a fatal alarm to myself and my companions. Through rumors and whispers, we learned of his deal with Reabnor and the wall of protection over his grandchild. One subtle loophole in James' contract could subvert his intentions, so we waited for an opening, vigilantly following the Reabnor's fortunes. Two years passed - Raisley Reabnor became the blushing bride to the Heir of the Manor, George Hammond.
The first fruits of Reabnor's threefold intent were blooming. Only two more workings were left to complete Ilias's contract. My heart simmered within from the delays, but I knew that James thought himself invulnerable from attack - the word of the People is never broken by honorable faeries. Especially after James had violated our honor, we were determined to outmaneuver him while maintaining the famed dignity of the Hill. Our course was clear, we only needed to wait for the pieces to fall into place. Time was our friend, it would only strengthen the illusion of cooperation with the human's bargain.
Upon the third anniversary of Ilias Rumpelstiltskin's fading, Raisley bore a son to George, swelling her father's heart with pride. What doubt James had held as to the foul play of Ilias's side faded when he saw his infant grandchild. The People were bound by the contract not to harm the child. His lineage was secure - He had outsmarted the fair folk. That night, he celebrated the joint victories of his first grandchild and his triumph over us. He told his story with a self-satisfied smirk on his face to anyone who would hear. He was a hero among men, his brilliance and resolve had faced nature down and forced it to look away.
That night was also remembered under the Hill, we were excited as well, but our intents were grimmer - the foundations were to be laid for our counterattack. We would make sure they never forgot Ilias Rumpelstiltskin. I volunteered for the keynote to the plan. It was sacrificial, but my brother deserved to be avenged, despite the fact that he had turned his back on us at the last, he was still of the Hill.
The circle of my companions surrounded me, weaving the symphony of mortality over my fair visage and form. It was a dull pain that suffused my limbs, rendering them weak and frail. The embers of righteous justice caused me to endure this ritual of cleansing and grit my teeth until I felt them no longer. I, Anduin, would be the undoing of James Reabnor's well laid plans.
Under cover of night, my faerie companions escorted me through Hill's borders one last time. "Remember!" They chanted, "Remember Rumpelstiltskin..." As they stole into the Lady Raisley's bedchamber, I saw her for the first time. Her beauty and innocence lay like a shadow on her sleeping face. Her father's story had troubled her, for she had nearly forgotten her meeting with Ilias, dismissing it as a girlish fantasy.
As they lifted the newborn boy from his bassinet, I recall feeling pity for my new guardian. Her end should be painless and sweet, like a twig drifting in a calm pond. "Remember Rumpelstiltskin..." whispered the last of my friends, settling my infant form into the cradle in the child's place. "Remember!"
Years passed, and James loved to tell me of the tale of how he had captured a faerie and made it promise to give me life. He loved me, thinking of me as his very own wish come true. "Didn't have a chance with me, My boy!" He would always finish, nudging me with a self-satisfied smile. I always felt sympathy for the faerie whenever he told it. It wasn't until my seventeenth year of living in the company of mortal men that I relearned the reason why it had nettled me.
That tale of Rumplestiltskin the fool grew ever more outlandish as James's memory became mixed with his imagination. But on my seventeenth birthday, I was presented with the original contract, the iron scroll Ilias had died writing, in recognition of my manhood. When I unrolled its contents, the runes on the paper triggered my memories of who I was.
That day, I made everyone know as well, reminding them with my actions why they had feared the hidden race. As I swung the bloodstained scroll as a bludgeon into James' forehead, I like to think he revisited that fateful day when he crossed my brother and dealt him an ill hand of fate.
Faeries have learned from my dead soul brother's example, they will not return. Humanity is too volatile and dangerous to be trusted near their power. I am mortal now, able to feel the mortal's pain - the waxing and waning of the years will bring about my final end. And though my brother's legacy lies broken and scorned in that flippant falsehood, it is enough that I know the truth, and will die with it as well.
Signed,
Anduin Rumpelstiltskin Hammond, Lord of the Manor.
The first fruits of Reabnor's threefold intent were blooming. Only two more workings were left to complete Ilias's contract. My heart simmered within from the delays, but I knew that James thought himself invulnerable from attack - the word of the People is never broken by honorable faeries. Especially after James had violated our honor, we were determined to outmaneuver him while maintaining the famed dignity of the Hill. Our course was clear, we only needed to wait for the pieces to fall into place. Time was our friend, it would only strengthen the illusion of cooperation with the human's bargain.
Upon the third anniversary of Ilias Rumpelstiltskin's fading, Raisley bore a son to George, swelling her father's heart with pride. What doubt James had held as to the foul play of Ilias's side faded when he saw his infant grandchild. The People were bound by the contract not to harm the child. His lineage was secure - He had outsmarted the fair folk. That night, he celebrated the joint victories of his first grandchild and his triumph over us. He told his story with a self-satisfied smirk on his face to anyone who would hear. He was a hero among men, his brilliance and resolve had faced nature down and forced it to look away.
That night was also remembered under the Hill, we were excited as well, but our intents were grimmer - the foundations were to be laid for our counterattack. We would make sure they never forgot Ilias Rumpelstiltskin. I volunteered for the keynote to the plan. It was sacrificial, but my brother deserved to be avenged, despite the fact that he had turned his back on us at the last, he was still of the Hill.
The circle of my companions surrounded me, weaving the symphony of mortality over my fair visage and form. It was a dull pain that suffused my limbs, rendering them weak and frail. The embers of righteous justice caused me to endure this ritual of cleansing and grit my teeth until I felt them no longer. I, Anduin, would be the undoing of James Reabnor's well laid plans.
Under cover of night, my faerie companions escorted me through Hill's borders one last time. "Remember!" They chanted, "Remember Rumpelstiltskin..." As they stole into the Lady Raisley's bedchamber, I saw her for the first time. Her beauty and innocence lay like a shadow on her sleeping face. Her father's story had troubled her, for she had nearly forgotten her meeting with Ilias, dismissing it as a girlish fantasy.
As they lifted the newborn boy from his bassinet, I recall feeling pity for my new guardian. Her end should be painless and sweet, like a twig drifting in a calm pond. "Remember Rumpelstiltskin..." whispered the last of my friends, settling my infant form into the cradle in the child's place. "Remember!"
Years passed, and James loved to tell me of the tale of how he had captured a faerie and made it promise to give me life. He loved me, thinking of me as his very own wish come true. "Didn't have a chance with me, My boy!" He would always finish, nudging me with a self-satisfied smile. I always felt sympathy for the faerie whenever he told it. It wasn't until my seventeenth year of living in the company of mortal men that I relearned the reason why it had nettled me.
That tale of Rumplestiltskin the fool grew ever more outlandish as James's memory became mixed with his imagination. But on my seventeenth birthday, I was presented with the original contract, the iron scroll Ilias had died writing, in recognition of my manhood. When I unrolled its contents, the runes on the paper triggered my memories of who I was.
That day, I made everyone know as well, reminding them with my actions why they had feared the hidden race. As I swung the bloodstained scroll as a bludgeon into James' forehead, I like to think he revisited that fateful day when he crossed my brother and dealt him an ill hand of fate.
Faeries have learned from my dead soul brother's example, they will not return. Humanity is too volatile and dangerous to be trusted near their power. I am mortal now, able to feel the mortal's pain - the waxing and waning of the years will bring about my final end. And though my brother's legacy lies broken and scorned in that flippant falsehood, it is enough that I know the truth, and will die with it as well.
Signed,
Anduin Rumpelstiltskin Hammond, Lord of the Manor.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Kitchen - Complaint
I am always the last one to eat.
Plates lie scattered, their occupants' complete.
Encrusted with sauce, drying stains -
Is it overly rude for me to complain?
For I know they are finished, and I am not
That it is my duty to clean what I brought.
But is rinsing your dishes off really too much?
The little ones excused only - the sink exceeds their touch.
It is ungrateful and thoughtless to leave a undone task.
Especially if you enjoyed the meal. Is it too much to ask?
Everyone should clean up after themselves.
For our house is not gifted with magical elves!
If you leave the counters strewn with used bowls.
The night air fails to accomplish the tidying goal.
This is tongue in cheek, not meant to be whiny.
But remember, proper dishwashing keeps silverware shiny!
Plates lie scattered, their occupants' complete.
Encrusted with sauce, drying stains -
Is it overly rude for me to complain?
For I know they are finished, and I am not
That it is my duty to clean what I brought.
But is rinsing your dishes off really too much?
The little ones excused only - the sink exceeds their touch.
It is ungrateful and thoughtless to leave a undone task.
Especially if you enjoyed the meal. Is it too much to ask?
Everyone should clean up after themselves.
For our house is not gifted with magical elves!
If you leave the counters strewn with used bowls.
The night air fails to accomplish the tidying goal.
This is tongue in cheek, not meant to be whiny.
But remember, proper dishwashing keeps silverware shiny!
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Rumpelstiltskin - Pt.5
James continued his monologue, "How often do the people of the hills come to the aid of us plain mortals? It is clear that you think us beneath you, unworthy of your illustrious company. You who have so much withhold it from those who possess so little. You will change the fortunes of my line, raising my daughter above her station as a creditor's daughtr. You will first orchestrate that she wins the heart of my Lord's heir. As she is sixteen summers old, and the lad eighteen winters, it should not be over-tasking on your ingenuity. Secondly, upon the completion of their love troths in marriage, she shall bear a male child, twining my descendants' fate with those of my liege lord. Thirdly, that my grandchild will receive the blessing of the People, he will not be harmed by your fickle and proud kind. I have heard how you hold grudges beyond the lifetimes of men. Agree to my terms or perish friendless."
His eyes pierced Ilias, probing for my brother's reaction. Ilias motioned for James to continue. James whispered to one of his men, who glared with undisguised disgust at Ilias and for what the Fair Folk stood in the eyes of ambitious men. We so effortlessly hold levels of power that comes with birth, while they must grovel and sweat to achieve but a shadow of our light. The man nodded once in submission to James, then stalked through the door. It would have surprised the soldiers to know how some of us envy their mortal spans at times as well - they are possessed of a spirit that burns brighter and more passionately than our quiet flames. Their finite amount of time causes them to be decisive in their actions, they only have so long to live, and cannot afford to wait years to evaluate a situation.
The soldier returned with a scroll of pressed willow, bound in smooth linen. James laid out his terms - the contract for written geas must be completed within the week. The ink was to be composed of crushed ivy and goat's milk. The scroll would be gilded with iron filigree when completed, warding faerie tampering or thievery.
Ilias labored over the inscription, while the hostile environment of metal and stone drained his will and endurance. A working of this magnitude and scope was difficult in the best of his kind. At twilight of the third day, he scraped the bottom of his inkwell. His guards simmered in the corner, asking anything of them was unwise. Ilias's despairing mind seized on a wild and desperate gambit. He wormed the tip of the nib into his left arm, patiently enduring the pin prick of nasty metallic pain which dulled his limb's reflexes. He drew blood, milking it into the well.
By morning, he lay dying - having bled out his left arm and legs with the poisonous utensil. But the scroll was finished. The soldiers were willing to let him expire, after all, if not for Reabnor, Ilias would have been killed during the first encounter. One reluctantly left to fetch his employer. When James entered the chamber, Ilias propped himself up to a swollen elbow and stared under feverish eyelids at his captor.
James ignored Ilias, focusing his attention upon the completed document. "If he is willing to perish, let the creature have his way - our bargain is completed, his life is his own to dispose as he wishes. One last question - What is your name? ... Remove its restraints, you two."
Ilias stirred as his prison was unlocked, and calloused hands scraped the poisoned gag from his lips. Ilias grinned sardonically and spat upon Reabnor's sleeve. "You cared nothing for me in life, it is only in death that you care to learn my title. Rumpelstiltskin am I, who has lost everything for a false hope. May my last words bring truth in a world of deception." James blinked once, then grinned and motioned his men to finish my brother's journey. He turned and left the chamber, clutching the scroll firmly in his grasp.
His eyes pierced Ilias, probing for my brother's reaction. Ilias motioned for James to continue. James whispered to one of his men, who glared with undisguised disgust at Ilias and for what the Fair Folk stood in the eyes of ambitious men. We so effortlessly hold levels of power that comes with birth, while they must grovel and sweat to achieve but a shadow of our light. The man nodded once in submission to James, then stalked through the door. It would have surprised the soldiers to know how some of us envy their mortal spans at times as well - they are possessed of a spirit that burns brighter and more passionately than our quiet flames. Their finite amount of time causes them to be decisive in their actions, they only have so long to live, and cannot afford to wait years to evaluate a situation.
The soldier returned with a scroll of pressed willow, bound in smooth linen. James laid out his terms - the contract for written geas must be completed within the week. The ink was to be composed of crushed ivy and goat's milk. The scroll would be gilded with iron filigree when completed, warding faerie tampering or thievery.
Ilias labored over the inscription, while the hostile environment of metal and stone drained his will and endurance. A working of this magnitude and scope was difficult in the best of his kind. At twilight of the third day, he scraped the bottom of his inkwell. His guards simmered in the corner, asking anything of them was unwise. Ilias's despairing mind seized on a wild and desperate gambit. He wormed the tip of the nib into his left arm, patiently enduring the pin prick of nasty metallic pain which dulled his limb's reflexes. He drew blood, milking it into the well.
By morning, he lay dying - having bled out his left arm and legs with the poisonous utensil. But the scroll was finished. The soldiers were willing to let him expire, after all, if not for Reabnor, Ilias would have been killed during the first encounter. One reluctantly left to fetch his employer. When James entered the chamber, Ilias propped himself up to a swollen elbow and stared under feverish eyelids at his captor.
James ignored Ilias, focusing his attention upon the completed document. "If he is willing to perish, let the creature have his way - our bargain is completed, his life is his own to dispose as he wishes. One last question - What is your name? ... Remove its restraints, you two."
Ilias stirred as his prison was unlocked, and calloused hands scraped the poisoned gag from his lips. Ilias grinned sardonically and spat upon Reabnor's sleeve. "You cared nothing for me in life, it is only in death that you care to learn my title. Rumpelstiltskin am I, who has lost everything for a false hope. May my last words bring truth in a world of deception." James blinked once, then grinned and motioned his men to finish my brother's journey. He turned and left the chamber, clutching the scroll firmly in his grasp.
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
Rumpelstiltskin - Pt.4
Upon reaching the Manor's wall, my brother scaled the tower vines once more, relieved to have arrived in time to uphold his friend Raisley's honorable word. But once he crossed the threshold of the window sill, he saw no sign of the girl, but heard footsteps on the stairway. The door swung open, revealing James Reabnor, flanked by a pair of men clad in grim steel and darkly hued garments. James lifted a whistle to his lips, sounding out a rapid series of notes. Ilias spun towards the window to find an iron mesh net cutting off his escape route. Men had been lying in wait one floor above, to drop the toxic screen over the opening. Ilias's heart sank into throes of panic, as one of Reabnor's guards sent a poisoned knife into my fair brother's shoulder. He sprang for James's throat, but was caught mid leap by the fist of the second soldier.
Upon regaining consciousness, Ilias found himself in a cage of tempered iron. It was a coldly solid reminder of why the People had a tradition of caution with humans. Ilias's mouth was bound with a gag of henbane and willow rod. His captors were silently holding vigil over the tight prison cage. When my brother's eyes flickered open, one of the two guards left the room.
Soon after, James entered, his smile looking like a death mask to his captive. "Who do I have the distinct pleasure of addressing?" he said. Ilias scowled. James went on, "Of course, it is out of my pleasure that you yet live. These two are not trusting of your kind, so if you are not willing to meet my terms, I fear I must withdraw my protection. I know you are capable of many things, as evidenced by your earlier display which gained me much wealth. You are fond of my daughter? Then my demands may not seem so troublesome - it is out of fatherly concern for her future that I have taken these measures..."
Upon regaining consciousness, Ilias found himself in a cage of tempered iron. It was a coldly solid reminder of why the People had a tradition of caution with humans. Ilias's mouth was bound with a gag of henbane and willow rod. His captors were silently holding vigil over the tight prison cage. When my brother's eyes flickered open, one of the two guards left the room.
Soon after, James entered, his smile looking like a death mask to his captive. "Who do I have the distinct pleasure of addressing?" he said. Ilias scowled. James went on, "Of course, it is out of my pleasure that you yet live. These two are not trusting of your kind, so if you are not willing to meet my terms, I fear I must withdraw my protection. I know you are capable of many things, as evidenced by your earlier display which gained me much wealth. You are fond of my daughter? Then my demands may not seem so troublesome - it is out of fatherly concern for her future that I have taken these measures..."
Monday, August 8, 2011
Rumpelstiltskin - Pt.3
Four days and nights, we restrained my brother, Ilias, from answering Raisley's pleading. First with counsel - reminding him of our tumultuous history with humanity. When he turned a deaf ear to reason on the second night, we began pleading as well. On the third day, I threatened to bring his case before the council of Elders. He agreed, though was restless throughout the day's hearing. Two days later, the decision was announced - under the pronouncement of the elders, Ilias was to remain under the Hill, under guard if need arose. Ilias's reasons for involvement were considered insufficient for a second meeting. Even if his actions had been justifiable, Ilias had already been overly magnanimous by his unauthorized use of "All Chemist's Breath."
Ilias defied the council, stating his fate was his own, as well as the gifts he bestowed. Turning on his heel, he prepared to leave. I apprehended him before he departed, whispering that if he found himself over his head, he must invoke one of the words of summoning. My companions and I would heed the beacon, arising to his rescue. If it was for a vain cause, he would be lost to me as well, as it would prove him unworthy of our legendary linage.
Ilias laughed off my graveness, saying that all of us under the Hill were overly cautious, that we had our pointed ears on too tightly. My brother left our halls with a trusting heart and unsuspecting nature, directing his course for the half day's journey to the Manor.
Ilias defied the council, stating his fate was his own, as well as the gifts he bestowed. Turning on his heel, he prepared to leave. I apprehended him before he departed, whispering that if he found himself over his head, he must invoke one of the words of summoning. My companions and I would heed the beacon, arising to his rescue. If it was for a vain cause, he would be lost to me as well, as it would prove him unworthy of our legendary linage.
Ilias laughed off my graveness, saying that all of us under the Hill were overly cautious, that we had our pointed ears on too tightly. My brother left our halls with a trusting heart and unsuspecting nature, directing his course for the half day's journey to the Manor.
Sunday, August 7, 2011
Rumpelstiltskin - Part.2
It turns out that the lovely lass had left important bits out of her story. These additions cast her predicament as less harsh than my brother thought. Her father, James Reabnor, was a guest of the Lord of the Manor, and was a rather prosperous creditor in the village below. He had taken part in the weekly game of Liar's Dice at the castle and wagered more than he had on him at the time. He had brought his daughter with him and left her behind until he returned. The reason he neglected to tell her the details was that he knew she would pass it on to his wife, who complained already of the toll this gambling habit had taken on their collected loans.
The father returned the following afternoon to settle his gentlemanly debt. Before he entered the great hall, Raisley intercepted him, gushing with news of her good fortune. James was a canny and cunning man, and pressed his child carefully as to the details of the meeting with Ilias and especially of the terms. James had accumulated wealth by recognizing golden opportunities when they were available and this bounty had fallen into his lap. He would have been a fool not to capitalize upon this cash cow.
He asked to see the gold himself, and had his attendants cart it away from the room. Calling his daughter, Raisley, into the emptied tower, he feigned rage at her lying with faery tales. Raisley wept mightily and protested that it did happen, that she was telling the truth. James gave his child an ultimatum - return to the tower and call her new friend, proving her veracity with a face to face meeting with this creature. Raisley wailed and wept for five days and nights, crying out for my brother to redeem her virtue.
The father returned the following afternoon to settle his gentlemanly debt. Before he entered the great hall, Raisley intercepted him, gushing with news of her good fortune. James was a canny and cunning man, and pressed his child carefully as to the details of the meeting with Ilias and especially of the terms. James had accumulated wealth by recognizing golden opportunities when they were available and this bounty had fallen into his lap. He would have been a fool not to capitalize upon this cash cow.
He asked to see the gold himself, and had his attendants cart it away from the room. Calling his daughter, Raisley, into the emptied tower, he feigned rage at her lying with faery tales. Raisley wept mightily and protested that it did happen, that she was telling the truth. James gave his child an ultimatum - return to the tower and call her new friend, proving her veracity with a face to face meeting with this creature. Raisley wailed and wept for five days and nights, crying out for my brother to redeem her virtue.
Saturday, August 6, 2011
Rumpelstiltskin - Part.1
This was written in hard copy scribble one insomniac night. I had an idea, and this is what spilled out. "What is the Rumpelstiltskin story from the faery perspective?" Part 1.
My Brother, Ilias Rumpelstiltskin, was a fool, that much is true. To hear the humans tell the tale, it appears that his actions were cruel, but it was the humans who instigated our retribution.
It all began one fine summer afternoon, when Ilias was returning from a journey to the northern Realm. He spotted an ancient castle, and made towards its vine covered walls. As he neared the fortress, he heard a sound of weeping from a tower window.
Curiosity was one of my brother's weaknesses; he nimbly climbed the vine to investigate the sufferer. Alighting upon the sill of the tower, Ilias found a girl, inconsolably weeping. She lay prostrate on an straw strewn floor, exhausted from grief.
Being the nosy idiot he was, Ilias made his first mistake - he talked to the girl. She was startled to see him, and drew back, afraid of the tales of the faery kind. Here my brother committed his second blunder - he promised not to cause her any harm. A quick and thoughtless promise, but it was binding nonetheless.
The girl gained some backbone here, seeing her advantage, and told haltingly the woeful tale. Her father, James Reabnor, was in serious debt to the lord of this castle - in his desperation, the father had pledged his daughter, Raisley, to serve in the King's court until restitution could be made.
Ilias took pity upon the lady, his heart strings tugged by the girl's plight. My brother's most fatal errors were these - he was gullible enough to believe the tale at face value, and blindly eager enough to pledge his help.
By this point, he had ridden roughshod over the faery protocol of "keeping your mouth tight and your abilities discreet." He had the absurd notion of spinning the straw into gold. It would have been a simple matter to glamour the grain into the appearance of wealth, but he felt generous and actually used "All Chemist's Breath" to perform the transformation in reality.
Ilias left the tower with a lightness of mind and heart. The enormity of the price for the Breath would wear out any faery. But he departed with the idea that he had done a good turn for humanity. Posterity did not return the favor, casting the legacy of his deed in a harsher light.
My Brother, Ilias Rumpelstiltskin, was a fool, that much is true. To hear the humans tell the tale, it appears that his actions were cruel, but it was the humans who instigated our retribution.
It all began one fine summer afternoon, when Ilias was returning from a journey to the northern Realm. He spotted an ancient castle, and made towards its vine covered walls. As he neared the fortress, he heard a sound of weeping from a tower window.
Curiosity was one of my brother's weaknesses; he nimbly climbed the vine to investigate the sufferer. Alighting upon the sill of the tower, Ilias found a girl, inconsolably weeping. She lay prostrate on an straw strewn floor, exhausted from grief.
Being the nosy idiot he was, Ilias made his first mistake - he talked to the girl. She was startled to see him, and drew back, afraid of the tales of the faery kind. Here my brother committed his second blunder - he promised not to cause her any harm. A quick and thoughtless promise, but it was binding nonetheless.
The girl gained some backbone here, seeing her advantage, and told haltingly the woeful tale. Her father, James Reabnor, was in serious debt to the lord of this castle - in his desperation, the father had pledged his daughter, Raisley, to serve in the King's court until restitution could be made.
Ilias took pity upon the lady, his heart strings tugged by the girl's plight. My brother's most fatal errors were these - he was gullible enough to believe the tale at face value, and blindly eager enough to pledge his help.
By this point, he had ridden roughshod over the faery protocol of "keeping your mouth tight and your abilities discreet." He had the absurd notion of spinning the straw into gold. It would have been a simple matter to glamour the grain into the appearance of wealth, but he felt generous and actually used "All Chemist's Breath" to perform the transformation in reality.
Ilias left the tower with a lightness of mind and heart. The enormity of the price for the Breath would wear out any faery. But he departed with the idea that he had done a good turn for humanity. Posterity did not return the favor, casting the legacy of his deed in a harsher light.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Sorrow - Consoling
Some days conspire against us. I am unaffected, quite pleased with my progress today. However, a malevolent spirit has loomed over certain members of the household. Tension runs high at times in a full house, and there have been flare-ups on occasion. But, as a family, our position should be in building others up with encouragement rather than sniping criticism and cute cuts.
We are human, whether cordial or cruel, we have a choice when we see a need. Take precautionary action to prevent its spread, or wait and react when it rears its ugly head as urgent. I realize that I may be oblivious at times, but I aim not to hurt others. If pain should be visited upon my family, I would prefer to endure it alone. I adore my family, and know that they are patient with my faults when I am on edge. I hope that I can have the same forbearance with them when they have their moments. I need to be a better comforter of hurt feelings, both physical and emotional. I want to hold them, protect them from further harm. Lord, watch over us all when we find ourselves broken.
"We are frail, we are fearfully and wonderfully made - forged in the fires of human passion, choking on the fumes of selfish rage. With these our hells and our heavens, so few inches apart. We must be awfully small and not as strong as we think we are." -Rich Mullins "We are not as strong as we think we are." (songs)
We are human, whether cordial or cruel, we have a choice when we see a need. Take precautionary action to prevent its spread, or wait and react when it rears its ugly head as urgent. I realize that I may be oblivious at times, but I aim not to hurt others. If pain should be visited upon my family, I would prefer to endure it alone. I adore my family, and know that they are patient with my faults when I am on edge. I hope that I can have the same forbearance with them when they have their moments. I need to be a better comforter of hurt feelings, both physical and emotional. I want to hold them, protect them from further harm. Lord, watch over us all when we find ourselves broken.
"We are frail, we are fearfully and wonderfully made - forged in the fires of human passion, choking on the fumes of selfish rage. With these our hells and our heavens, so few inches apart. We must be awfully small and not as strong as we think we are." -Rich Mullins "We are not as strong as we think we are." (songs)
Thursday, August 4, 2011
Eleven - Unominous?
I procrastinated until this hour.
I waited for inspiration, but it came out sour.
Here I wait - the eve of the eleventh hour.
One minute more, until the strike
Of the bell "Recalled to life!"
Will it sound less odd tonight?
Its connotation is wrought in fright.
Can I redeem a concept, do I have the right?
By the glow of a lit keyboard,
My words dash across a screen to solidify a core.
Will my thoughts find a thread,
Are my audiences' hearts dead?
For I listen to the silence and it whispers volumes.
Yet I continue in the hope, that a fellow soul will read and cope -
That I am not alone in my worries and fear.
How will I view this piece in one year?
I have not clairvoyance, have not a prescient career.
I cling to the Lord in this storm
Of words and philosophies that scorn.
They mock life, meaning, and warmth.
The eleventh hour stands alone.
My mind is slipping like a lodestone...
Twenty-four hours in a day.
Who decided to measure that way?
There should be a metric measurement of time!
With ones and tens, milli and kilo.
Time is a human problem, not to neutrinos.
Why do we abide by the rules of the past?
I know... without stable concepts, chaos would outlast.
Yet I lay prostrate before the eleventh hour.
I made decisions that shaped today,
And still, tomorrow will fall the same way.
Chasing ever after the life I wish I knew -
The years weather me, that is how I grew.
Here I am, contemplating my next move.
I will not fall into a groove, I refuse!
No rut for me, no doomed clouds of grey.
The eleventh hour is quietly passing its stay.
"His madness keeps him sane."
Called Delirium to Dream one day.
Neil Gaiman's Sandman is credited for this thought.
Humanity were the players in this battle fought.
For twas a bet 'tween Morpheus and Desire,
The Sleeper's hope, the Lover's fire.
This quote comforts me when peering into vain reason.
'Tis half past the eleventh hour's season...
One more verse 'fore rest I take,
In the morning, I shall wake.
My vigor restored for the life I am living -
I have no promise that more time will be given.
I cherish each moment, knowing it is faint,
I shall never meet that moment again, but harbor no complaint.
For if I dwell upon the past, the next moment might find me passed.
Innovation waits on no man's watch,
The leaders feel its clicking notch -
They are straining for the next report,
Knowing their current tech could be made inert.
Leaving them stranded in their twilight -
Eleventh hour desperation in the dead of the night.
I waited for inspiration, but it came out sour.
Here I wait - the eve of the eleventh hour.
One minute more, until the strike
Of the bell "Recalled to life!"
Will it sound less odd tonight?
Its connotation is wrought in fright.
Can I redeem a concept, do I have the right?
By the glow of a lit keyboard,
My words dash across a screen to solidify a core.
Will my thoughts find a thread,
Are my audiences' hearts dead?
For I listen to the silence and it whispers volumes.
Yet I continue in the hope, that a fellow soul will read and cope -
That I am not alone in my worries and fear.
How will I view this piece in one year?
I have not clairvoyance, have not a prescient career.
I cling to the Lord in this storm
Of words and philosophies that scorn.
They mock life, meaning, and warmth.
The eleventh hour stands alone.
My mind is slipping like a lodestone...
Twenty-four hours in a day.
Who decided to measure that way?
There should be a metric measurement of time!
With ones and tens, milli and kilo.
Time is a human problem, not to neutrinos.
Why do we abide by the rules of the past?
I know... without stable concepts, chaos would outlast.
Yet I lay prostrate before the eleventh hour.
I made decisions that shaped today,
And still, tomorrow will fall the same way.
Chasing ever after the life I wish I knew -
The years weather me, that is how I grew.
Here I am, contemplating my next move.
I will not fall into a groove, I refuse!
No rut for me, no doomed clouds of grey.
The eleventh hour is quietly passing its stay.
"His madness keeps him sane."
Called Delirium to Dream one day.
Neil Gaiman's Sandman is credited for this thought.
Humanity were the players in this battle fought.
For twas a bet 'tween Morpheus and Desire,
The Sleeper's hope, the Lover's fire.
This quote comforts me when peering into vain reason.
'Tis half past the eleventh hour's season...
One more verse 'fore rest I take,
In the morning, I shall wake.
My vigor restored for the life I am living -
I have no promise that more time will be given.
I cherish each moment, knowing it is faint,
I shall never meet that moment again, but harbor no complaint.
For if I dwell upon the past, the next moment might find me passed.
Innovation waits on no man's watch,
The leaders feel its clicking notch -
They are straining for the next report,
Knowing their current tech could be made inert.
Leaving them stranded in their twilight -
Eleventh hour desperation in the dead of the night.
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
Anticipation - Reactivate
In a few short weeks, I shall be recalled to my busy life, trying to meet the requirements of multiple authority figures who have deadlines in a tight schedule. I need this pace now, I need it to be hard, I need it as preparation for the demands of the working world.
Each season that passes, the business sector becomes more demanding of its employees. It is the law of supply and demand - the more educated and dedicated the incoming workforce, the greater the ante is raised for the next set of graduates. You may be young, but there is always someone younger. You may be good, but there is always someone better. You may memorize the dictionary, but there will always be some who did the same with a set of encyclopedias.
That equivalency is either available or expected, and when you are looking for a position, the line between the two becomes blurred. The question will be, "Are you willing to give your time, energy, and innovation to a world always on the go?"
Entrepreneurship is appearing to be a more appealing skill, though it takes a vision and knack to pull it off time after time. It is risky, but if you have a passion and a market, you have a chance to become the next new thing. The sky is limitless for the self employed, but the abyss is bottomless as well if you don't have grounding in reality.
So, in a few short weeks I return to study for a season. May I retain what is important and learn what is necessary to survive in this brave new world. See you there at the end. Godspeed!
Each season that passes, the business sector becomes more demanding of its employees. It is the law of supply and demand - the more educated and dedicated the incoming workforce, the greater the ante is raised for the next set of graduates. You may be young, but there is always someone younger. You may be good, but there is always someone better. You may memorize the dictionary, but there will always be some who did the same with a set of encyclopedias.
That equivalency is either available or expected, and when you are looking for a position, the line between the two becomes blurred. The question will be, "Are you willing to give your time, energy, and innovation to a world always on the go?"
Entrepreneurship is appearing to be a more appealing skill, though it takes a vision and knack to pull it off time after time. It is risky, but if you have a passion and a market, you have a chance to become the next new thing. The sky is limitless for the self employed, but the abyss is bottomless as well if you don't have grounding in reality.
So, in a few short weeks I return to study for a season. May I retain what is important and learn what is necessary to survive in this brave new world. See you there at the end. Godspeed!
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Weakening - Functionality
I am feeling under the weather lately. It makes me realize what a gift it is to breathe freely, when my nose is stopped up during the night. I thank God for my health, even when my immune system is failing me at the moment. If I was only rejoicing and praising God when all is well, it would be ungrateful. As said in Captain America: First Avenger, "Strength is a crutch to bullies, to a weak man, he knows the true value." When I am at my poorest I learn what a blessing it is when I don't feel so bad. There is a light at the end of the tunnel, and I will look forward to it. I will now cocoon myself in my bed for recuperation...
Monday, August 1, 2011
August - Kona
Each August, I remember the tale of Kona the nearly yearling. A bit of background is needed to set the scene. A member of my family loved animals, but had to prove that they would take care of small creatures before earning the privilege of owning a larger companion. We purchased a secession of cheap hamsters from the Supermarket, each doomed to die within a month of separation from their first habitat. That August the 11th it was to be different - we made the effort to visit a pet store and buy a quality dwarf hamster.
It was rather cute in its tiny, vulnerable form. We named it Kona, after the strongly brewed coffee bean. This one, we were determined would survive for a year in our care. We watched over its antics in the plastic cage for a year. Somehow, it managed to escape its lodgings for nights out on the floor, always to be discovered within the week. Just how it managed to squeeze through the bars we never knew.
By the eight month mark, my family was confident we had gotten the hang of caring for a furry friend. Our animal lover got its wish, and we began the search for a canine companion. We had a song rewritten to the tune of a Seven Brides for Seven Brothers's initial musical number listing the qualities the perfect dog would possess. We found him a few months later, and welcomed a quiet schnauzer named Buddy. It came by its title honestly, though we strove to change it, the name stuck.
I still liked Kona better though, and one day took the critter out of its cage to watch it run along the table. Soon, I moved it to my lap so that I might look down upon it. Kona leapt from my shorts to the bench upon which I was sitting, catching the dog's attention. That was all Buddy needed to take advantage of my carelessness. Perhaps it had wondered at the miniscule occupant of the plastic and metal box on a shelf in the dining room, I don't claim to know how dog's minds function. It snatched Kona in its mouth and bolted away. I cried out in alarm at the skittering shadowed animal rushing away to show its master the find.
Finally, we cornered Buddy and pried open its jaws. Quivering inside was our beloved dwarf hamster, soaked it spit and one unfortunate ear bleeding from the clearance of the teeth. We sat silent for a moment. It had nearly been a year, but there it lay in my father's hands, the remains of the tiny life. It slowly began to breathe again. We all rejoiced and rushed it back to the cage to rest and recuperate. We placed a fresh strawberry half inside to speed Kona's recovery from its ordeal in the jaws of death.
Sadly, the hamster died the next morning, leaving the strawberry unfinished as well as guilt in my heart. Ever since, a featherweight of guilt brushes my heart each year at this time.
It was rather cute in its tiny, vulnerable form. We named it Kona, after the strongly brewed coffee bean. This one, we were determined would survive for a year in our care. We watched over its antics in the plastic cage for a year. Somehow, it managed to escape its lodgings for nights out on the floor, always to be discovered within the week. Just how it managed to squeeze through the bars we never knew.
By the eight month mark, my family was confident we had gotten the hang of caring for a furry friend. Our animal lover got its wish, and we began the search for a canine companion. We had a song rewritten to the tune of a Seven Brides for Seven Brothers's initial musical number listing the qualities the perfect dog would possess. We found him a few months later, and welcomed a quiet schnauzer named Buddy. It came by its title honestly, though we strove to change it, the name stuck.
I still liked Kona better though, and one day took the critter out of its cage to watch it run along the table. Soon, I moved it to my lap so that I might look down upon it. Kona leapt from my shorts to the bench upon which I was sitting, catching the dog's attention. That was all Buddy needed to take advantage of my carelessness. Perhaps it had wondered at the miniscule occupant of the plastic and metal box on a shelf in the dining room, I don't claim to know how dog's minds function. It snatched Kona in its mouth and bolted away. I cried out in alarm at the skittering shadowed animal rushing away to show its master the find.
Finally, we cornered Buddy and pried open its jaws. Quivering inside was our beloved dwarf hamster, soaked it spit and one unfortunate ear bleeding from the clearance of the teeth. We sat silent for a moment. It had nearly been a year, but there it lay in my father's hands, the remains of the tiny life. It slowly began to breathe again. We all rejoiced and rushed it back to the cage to rest and recuperate. We placed a fresh strawberry half inside to speed Kona's recovery from its ordeal in the jaws of death.
Sadly, the hamster died the next morning, leaving the strawberry unfinished as well as guilt in my heart. Ever since, a featherweight of guilt brushes my heart each year at this time.
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