Circumstantial - Timeliness

Life has been "peaceful" as the McCann brothers posited in Secondhand Lions.  The overall scene is serene, but circumstances have been occurring within the framework to keep things exciting.

Tonight, I attended my good friend John's 22nd birthday party at a bowling alley.  It was a bit of a hole-in-the-wall place, with perhaps ten lanes, crummy pizza at ridiculous prices (the man of the hours described it as "Two frozen pizzas stacked on top of each other for $15. It's not worth it"), and an eclectic mix of tunes pumping on the sound system. The last part was interesting to my friend and the other guests - 2 song choices for a dollar. John went first, picking out Florence and the Machine & Garbage.  Following that, the lovely Hanna chose Britney Spears and Carly Rae Jepsen.

As for the bowling itself. John has excellent form as a bowler and ended the first game at 149, with 5 strikes.  I matched him with the first two strikes, but what followed in between were petering 1's and 5's, ending with 68. Which brought to light a quirk of the lanes - Sometimes a gutterball would inexplicably ramp up off the wall and ricochet a backdoor mechanism, knocking down pins from beyond the grave.  Hanna lobbed the ball left-handedly down the lane, ending with a 54. She was cheerful about her throws though, and I hope her skills improve as the night goes on.  There is almost a bell curve for non-bowlers like me, where practice and endurance trade-off as the night continues.  Steph, the last lady in my set, was in the same boat as me, being that she remembered the idea of bowling, but it was like a bike left in the rain - the gears needed a little work before the rust wore off for a smooth ride.  Her final score was 62, I believe.

Now, as to the total experience: John is a great fellow to know - humble with many talents, a rare combination that leaves me in admiration of his abilities without resentment towards any arrogance he might have assumed as an additional swagger.  He performed in a Beastie Boys cover band called "Trip N' Balls" as a one-time joke at a friend's club.  Their show went well and they got asked to do it again. They've continued playing shows, and are going to have a New Years concert soon. Look 'em up on Facebook if you are in the Indianapolis area.

Steph and Hanna I met for the first time tonight.  They had excellent senses of humor and were pleasant conversationalists.  I was slightly distracted by the snowfalling and the implications of a safe trip home before midnight and snow clogs the roads.  Friends of John, if you read this, yes, I really wish that I could have had more time in which to get to know you, for you all made a favorable impression on me. The three late arrivals looked like Sons of Anarchy's younger and wittier cousins from the Midwest, with their leather jackets and satisfied, comfortable-with-themselves, personalities.

I had a wedding I committed to attending tomorrow and had to break off after a game to return home, rest and ready myself for that.  I am happy for my friends, hitting their transitional points in their lives & I pray their rides are smooth, and in the absence of that, that what they learn from the obstacles grows the bonds of their character and relationships with others.

As an endnote, I am soon leaving my library job of nearly five-and-a-half years.  This is a bittersweet time, as I truly enjoy the company of those with whom I've been working.  There has arisen a job opportunity in a field of my studies in college, and between learning the ropes of that position and the obligations of a new semester, something had to give.  This job is something that I've held for a quarter of my life and the experiences and lessons I've learned have grown me as a person - realizing that I can do certain services that are a bit outside my typical comfort zone.

I am a closeted perfectionist - not wanting to let anyone see what I am doing until I feel confident that I know how to do it reasonably well. I invest myself in my work & want people to like it.  It took a while to learn a happy medium between distancing myself from my work and taking feedback too personally. I am excited and nervous about this new stage in life, it is hard to be vulnerable, but sometimes I must risk failing to have an opportunity to reap a reward.

Lord, give me the patience, wisdom, and fortitude as I need it. I may be stubborn sometimes, but I thank You for not giving up and gently encouraging Me to let go to the things keeping Me from growing.  I need Thee every hour, and I learn anew the depth of Your wonders in the everyday.

Identity - Crisis

It is curious the effect of names and the power they wield in shaping behavior.  It is not the words themselves, but the idea and connotation behind them to the listener and speaker.  Communication is an everyday wonder taken for granted. I am most aware of its' power in the absence more than the effectiveness.  I could continue down that path in greater detail, but other events sparked me to post again.

It was something so simple as a vacation.  I enjoyed having a couple days off with my family, without the interference of internet access, which is more often a distractor than an accomplisher of tasks for me.  When I returned and checked my microblog on Twitter, I was dismayed to discover that I'd been hacked. Phantom me had posted false links to my feed and direct messaged others.  Three followers inquired as to the veracity behind me contacting them in that manner.  I apologized to the three, and proceeded to delete the offending messages.

When I checked back later, I discovered that, although my feed was unmolested, False Falchion Malacandra had not desisted the latter attack.  I changed my password and deleted twitter access on my mobile device and things have calmed since, but it raises a larger question?  I, who use an alias online as a passing amusement, witnessed the ease that someone else can assume my cloak and mask.  How much time, effort, and personality did I invest in my account?  Truthfully, I enjoy the access to people that twitter offers - an opportunity to speak a timely word of encouragement or praise to writers, performers, and friends whose work I admire.  It allows me to contact people quickly on their mobile devices, ask for opinions and availability.

Who am I?  How many reflections do I reveal in my own life? How many excuses and ideas do I hide behind? How much of me is truly self-created?  My current answer is a great deal of the source material may belong to the inspiration of another, but my understanding and implementation of it is my own.  The glory of free will, work, and options.  Like a hypothetical body, each interaction between intention and action is an exercise in my continuing evolution of character manifested.  As a creature of habit, my choices will become a routine, my actions do shape the course of my life and the abilities I will be able to offer to those around me.

As I rejoin the legions of the plugged in generation, examining the live feed of interactions of others on a grand stage, I believe that as people age, they reveal more of their true colors. As life progresses, people become more of themselves, only with louder actions and brushstrokes.  Inaction is also a choice - I am sometimes tempted to fade away into a shadow, observing the lives of others instead of contributing my own part to present histories.  On my own, I shall not change without monumental and superhuman strength of will and belief, I need a Savior to transform my life into something greater than I could ever dream or comprehend.

In the end, my identity's importance isn't who I am, but in whom it needs to be found.  My life is hid in Him - Fearing, loving, and worshipping Him with all I can muster now, and beyond as I grow in His grace.

Cough - Whet

I am feeling a little weakened this weekend. Not because I overindulged in Thanksgiving festivities, but that I didn't do so enough.  When the time came to state something I was thankful for this year, all I could think about was that I had a group project due this Monday, and half the group had gotten a start on theirs already.  I was approaching the matter holistically - trying to get a feel for the subject I was undertaking so as to notice more factors and avoid overlooking details.

It was as I told my visiting older sister, whom I adore: Whenever I conjure up my own measurements and work, I don't trust myself as a reliable source.  But when I derive a metric from an online (and hopefully more current), I don't feel like I am doing valuable work in the group.  I know that I tend to overthink matters, to the point of paralysis on my part. Hank Green of the VlogBrothers on YouTube entitles this frame of mind as "brain crack" - ideas that are addictive to think about, but ultimately never acted upon by the thinker.

I am aware that this double standard to my own work is a pity party parade. I do not want or expect sympathy for this behavior, but want to wield this dissatisfaction as a tool rather than letting it rule me.  If my standards for proper decent work are higher than merely "plug n' chug," this skepticism could reap superior results.  There remains the risk that this extra analysis might have an opportunity cost - making me sacrifice in other areas.  Oh, how time is whittled away by my daily activities and pursuits. I mention it so often as a personal reminder not to lose sight of its importance.

So, I am not operating at 100% the past few days, but I have resumed reading G.K. Chesterton's "Return of Don Quixote." It took a little time, but its presence has served as an excellently entertaining companion in my time of recuperation. I don't understand all of the details of the issues discussed in the novel, but I get the gist of their underlying themes through the attitudes and reactions of the characters within.

I love the librarian character, Michael Herne.  He is someone I would like to be, though I currently have a measure of his frustrating disconnect from the present period's ideas and importances.  He is a scholar on a particular race of Hittites.  It is his field of study and he lives in his mental landscapes and cultural customs.  He is awakened to a different calling, when the daughter of the lord who employs his services  is in a medieval play written by her friend, and they ask him to play a small part.

He is flustered that it is not in his period, saying that someone else who is an authority in that era should be chosen to play such a role. He takes the historical accuracy of the matter so humbly serious that he fears that if he were to attempt the role, he would act in the manner of a Hittite rather than medieval troubadour.  I love the fellow so dearly, though he is one of the hardest to understand in his references.

I read chapter 11 of the book aloud to a camera, it is a fine portion of the book and a specially interesting one for Herne the librarian's character blossoming into a more obvious version of his deeply rooted demeanor.  I do not live in a Chesterton novel, but the ideals and earnestness of the players make me wish I could.  Their society would certainly raise my intelligence by osmosis.

Carefull - Wreckless

I am stuffed on song lyrics right now. From Fall Out Boy's "I don't care what you think as long as it's about me. The best of us can find happiness in misery." From that to springboard to Good Charlotte's "Don't you know that misery loves company, Yeah I heard that misery was looking for me. Happiness, is a face that don't look good on me. Yeah I heard, that misery comes looking for me
Whoa, misery's my company. Whoa, misery is looking for me." To Skillet's "Going through this life, looking for angels. People passing by. Looking for angels. Going down the street, looking for angels. Everyone I meet. Looking for angels." To Christine Dent'e's "We're lifted up by angels. Higher than the world. Strong enough to leave it. Bound to learn the secret angels never heard. Close enough to heaven. High above the rain. Darkness cannot reach us, let the angels teach us - only love remains. We're lifted up by angels."  

I could continue this association for a while, but I find that I would like to leave my thought train at this station and explore my ideas on this subject further. As mentioned earlier, I love Newsboy's "Entertaining Angels." Not only is it a fine beginning with the violin, but the odd chorus fixes in my mind the idea that angels may walk among us at any time.  "By the light of my TV screen, 24/7 you wait for me."  

Now while it is unlikely that these celestials are television junkies, it grounds the supernatural in the perspective of the everyday routine. At one point I was suspicious that one of my friends was an angel in disguise. I had never seen him angry, he was patient and learned, and wise beyond his years.  When I asked him if he was, he laughed and told me he was flattered, but was as mortal as I.

I recall a similar story as related by my mother teaching a sunday school class of 5-7 year olds.  An old biker stopped to look in the class in the middle of the lesson. One of the little girls saw his long grey beard and kindly face and declared. "Are you Jesus?" The fellow sagely smiled and replied, "Far from it." But though he made that claim, that man is one of the most Christlike people I have had the pleasure of knowing.  This old biker lives his life in a humble and unassuming manner, taking joy in the crafting and creating of objects.  He is a skilled carpenter and wise gardener - his woodwork and tomato patches reveal the glory and beauty of nature overseen by the guiding hand of man.

But I digress. I was considering angels.  While I believe in their existence, I also admit it is unlikely that I should know them for who they are at the time.  Their glowing light in legend and scripture is probably derived from their presence in the company of the Most High God.  In the Old Testament, when Moses met with God on the mountain for days, his face shone for days after returning to the camp. So much so, that the children of Israel asked him to wear a veil so as not to blind/distract them.  Whatever the case, I serve a God in whom there is no darkness.  That is a comforting and fearful thought.

Do you ever notice how something appears all clean and neat under the lighting of a florescent light fixture or fan, but then the sunlight strikes the surfaces - revealing all the streaks, dust, and imperfections that were left behind?  Sometimes the truth of a matter shines upon our efforts and reminds us that there is more that can be done - that a greater degree of purity is possible now that we have been shown our errors.

Some of the time, I am resentful of this - Am I not enough already? I have put forth a good effort here, but it apparently wasn't all that it could have been.  George Macdonald once said, "God is easy to please, but hard to satisfy." In the introduction in which I read that, the author commented that God is happy with our progress so far, but sees our potential for what we COULD be.  However, I don't always see what shape my future might take, so my pity parties only hurt my chances that I refuse to acknowledge I have. If I wait too long, that opportunity of a future version of myself will fade, opening different outcomes and possibilities.

That is why I believe in open theism: It is much more exciting as a Creator to allow the work of your hands to play out to its own ends.  Oh, I could intervene along the way if I was in control, but only if necessary - for the observation of how the domino effects of the choices life-bearing creatures make must be entertaining for my Heavenly Father.  Oh how it must delight Him when one of His creation looks beyond their own circumstances and situation, & catches a glimpse of the larger picture.  Or when we declare our love and gratitude to Him for the wonderful gifts and tools He has given us to use in this beautiful sandbox of a world.

Sometimes, I make mistakes and ill choices' consequences must be weathered and lessons must be learned. As C.S. Lewis wrote: "Experience, that most brutal of teachers. But you learn, my God, how you learn."  Thought my choices may not always be optimal or well-reasoned, I shouldn't regret them once they are set.  I can only correct their damage after the fact, accept the scars I receive, and resolve to listen better and be wiser the next time something of the type happens.

Angels.  Messengers of the Most High. Soldiers in His Celestial Army.  Why should I expect that they should appear anthropomorphic? It is a smidge vain and egotistical to assume that God would be limited to our template of form and shape.  But, as a child, I am limited and finite in my musings of the abstract - I have to remind myself that I am a child of an imaginative Father.  He is Life, He is Creator, He is Sustainer. "All things were made by Him; and without Him was not any thing made that was made." John 1:3 "For of him, and through him, and to him, are all things: to whom be glory for ever. Amen." Romans 11:36.

So, I go through this life, this time that I am apportioned on Earth. May I be ever grateful for the span in which I have, the abilities and seasons at each stage.  I look for angels, but do not demand a sign and proof of their reality.  As  John L. Cooper of Skillet ends last track of the Comatose project. "Angels show up in the strangest of places." - Looking for Angels.

Time - Value

It is disappointing to have a divide between what I am learning about Finance and the real world situation.  At this point, interest rates are dismally low. I am earning perhaps .3% on my savings. While I hear this is a borrowers market, it is not a savers - I haven't anything for which I would need a loan quite yet.  Thus I stare at my bank account and sigh.  It is hard to save for the future when the future prospects of tying up capital are this pitiable.  Interest rates MUST go up from here, and I must wait for them to recover. Interest rates are based upon perception, and investors have been burned by the economy of late.  Those in charge of the federal interest rate are in a tight spot because the crisis caught our economy while it had low interest rates already.  Usually, lowering interest rates is a measure that allows an economy to recover, as cash flows are encouraged through investment in assets and expansion.

I dream of a 5% interest as illustrated in class. But, events are not allowing for this.  This reminds me of what a small, infinitesimal speck I am in the vast floods of people in the world.  Dave Barry once gave the illustration of an ant on a tire:  "The ant is aware – on a very basic level – that something large is there, but he cannot even dimly comprehend what this thing is, or the nature of his involvement with it. And if the truck starts moving, and the tire starts to roll, the ant will sense that something important is happening, but right up until he rolls around to the bottom and is squashed into a small black blot, the only distinct thought that will form in his tiny brain will be, and I quote, ‘Huh?’…"  This was concerning the relationship of men and women, but the scale feels the same between me and the vast complexity of our economy.

I know friends who play the stock market, but I don't trust its workings.  There is a reason why stockbrokers have a full time job - it is the ability to read trends, understand human behavior as different groups, comprehension of timing, size, and risk, as well as a knack for self-control for when to stop.

Anything can become addictive, I hope to be habitual on in proper behaviors.  I know that I overthink things, overdose and obsess over having everything available when I start.  I have a great desire for control over my life, and it scares me when that illusion is ripped apart at the seams-that-be (alternatively: seems-to-be).  I haven't a great amount of control, but what little measure I am given, I must learn to handle correctly.  For life doesn't halt for anyone, time is not reclaimable, and entropy only grows larger over time.

For each decision, there are consequences. There are probability trees to estimate the likelihood of an event occurring, but they are just that: educated guesses.  The variation depends on decisions made by others in similar veins to your own, as well as reactions to your decision from other people.  There are three types of people: Proactive, reactive, and refrainers.  The first two are initial motion and reaction, the last is the a conscious choice not to act. Oh how complicated things can be, it delights and confuses my mind.

God in heaven may look down at us and smile - how entertaining to watch us weave the patterns of life with the gifts and talents he gave us.  May I not squander the freedom and abilities I have, cultivate, and am learning to appreciate.

Valley - Purity

Beauty must be protected.

As a land is filled with life,
And with diverse species.
I look at this soil with a wistful sense of duty.
Though it is not mine,
nor do I feel a craving to claim it as such,
I desire to see its future claimant as worthy of its grandeur.
I know it is in good care now, as it flourishes
And brings a smile to my face with its liveliness.
I want to support it in my spirit,
Not because I have to do so,
but because I want the best for it.
The beauty stirs in me a longing to see
Its trends spread to neighboring lands.
It is a gentle reminder to pay notice
To the lands that are my duties now in this age of my life.
There will come a day when another will look on these,
Feel the same desire for the land,
And have a vision for how to grow it
with time & gentle care into its full potential.
Oh, how beautiful & wonderful it will be a witness to that day.
As Saint Irinious wrote, "The Glory of God is man fully alive."
I will sojourn & labor towards that day
Where I discover this greater duty arises,
And the vision be made clear.
I pray that the land responds well to my efforts
as I learn & grow in experience in the attempt.

Mirror - Image

I was thinking about images. One of my friends was in a picture. I asked when showing it to them - "Is that you?" "No," they replied, "I am not." I was confused, it looked as though it was a younger version with a different appearance, hair length, slightly younger shadow of who they were at the time. Before I could follow it up with a query as to whether the person in the photo was a relation, they clarified. "That was me, I am no longer that person. That image is not ME." 

I understood, but it was a different perspective on the matter than was customary. Photos are moments captured in time - their subjects change & shift in minor ways that cumulate into building them to a different person. Still it felt like semantics, maybe the person was trying to be clever or make a point. Perhaps both.

It caused me to consider &, as is my habit I squirreled it away in the garden of my mind, leaving it to be fertilized by ideas old & new.

One of these is the concept of mirrors. The concept of viewing your own reflection & recognizing it as yourself is a test of self-awareness & consciousness.  But mirrors are imperfect - they show a face, but it is in reverse.  I have to remind myself that the image's right eye is my left, it needs to be reflected upon others to show my full profile from all angles.  Yes, it is useful as a tool, but must be held as such. Images are imperfect, it takes a multitude of reflections to achieve a complete picture of yourself.

As I write this, my focus can refract into many directions & conclusions. I hope that my musings stir you to greater thought upon these, reaching conclusions I never dreamed. Maybe you don't think about this as an issue worth addressing - it is easier to accept it as a truth of life.

But I am not satisfied. I need to be provoked to thought, to progress, to action upon what weaknesses I see in my environment & myself. Too much of the time, I leave my thinking to others, outsourcing my opinions to those who have already studied & decided. I haven't gone through the process of experimenting on my own, discovering data, & understanding why the conclusions were made as they were.

Things are always moving, changing, revising. Yes, I can learn through the snapshotted views of others, but I should remember that only God knows the final truth. That should not faze me from pursuing a greater knowledge of Him & his creation. We are fearfully & wonderfully made in His image. While we are imperfect, there remains a shadow of our future perfection in Him. I will strive to be a clear glass, polished through his tempering, cleaned by His blood, reflecting His love & light to those around me. An image lasts but a moment, but the subject lasts eternal.

Nighttime - Musical

I am in my Junior year of college, and although I retain my honors status, my wits and wiles sometimes lie thin in getting work done.  I sat through three classes which were interconnected in a bloc today. The first was demanding of the above qualities, for the teacher delights on minimal hints as to the text, while encouraging application of the concepts in class exercises.
The second class is taught by a professor who is class interaction heavy - his view of the text is as a resource and wants his students to come to class prepared to engage with  logical progression in provide suggestions as to application of concepts.  The third is my favorite, not only because it is the last, but the professor is well-experienced and gives a broad homework question which is to be answered and brought to class to share.  This encourages collaboration with other students to thresh out potential details and structure for the answers as well as ingenuity and self-education in creating the individual solutions as distinctive. 

On the way outside the building, I notice the rain soaked landscape, the overcast sky.  It brings to mind the Reliant k lyric "Lately the weather has been so bi-polar , and consequently so have I." (High of 75, Mmhmm).  This wasn't one of the affected days, I was cheerful in the aftermath and delightedly scampered the empty streets of my downtown area.  My mother warns me that I will eventually be reckoned for my reckless attitude towards crosswalks & impatience to keep moving when I have somewhere to go.  I take joy in the feeling of the whistling wind as my backpack slaps in a side-to-side rhythm and my coat flares behind.  I was listening to a Nerdist podcast and picked up my pace during the 8-bit theme.  Electronic music is an effective pace-creator and motivator to prolong sprints.  The episode's content wasn't particularly interesting at times, but the overall effect of enthusiasm and amusement of Hardwick & company's banter was pleasant.

It helped to pass the time as I awaited public transport homeward - because parking at college is notoriously frustrating and it is cost effective to buy a discount pass from the University than paying for gasoline. I have more time than I have cash flows, so it is a trade-off that I recognize and accept.  I had G.K. Chesterton's "The club of queer trades" in my backpack, but didn't withdraw it as is my usual habit in deference to the still unfinished podcast.  The book is a collection of interconnected short stories with a reoccurring cast.  As with most of Chesterton, the story is a vehicle for the author's views of humanity in a greater point.  The tales are contrived, but cleverly and deftly so.  Even when I do not understand everything taking place, I want to learn quickly and thus pay greater notice to the words he chooses and themes upon which he expounds.

When I arrived home I had in mind to work ahead of my schoolwork tomorrow. My friends ran a simulation as part of a class and their scores were superior to my own experiences.  After retrying the parameters for forty-five minutes, I was no closer to solving the formula for how they had managed to accomplish the feat.  I scrolled through my twitter feed and happened across my internet friend @soldeglo announcing a BlogTV hangout.  As I had never attended one of the previous shows - I was late or without proper access, I determined to visit this one.

It was delightful, I enjoy this lady's perspective - she is insightful, thoughtful, talented, and has a beautiful perspective on life in general.  I don't recall how I first stumbled upon her channel, but I quickly became an avid follower.  She reminded me of my older sister by two years who I have ever adored and looked up to my life.  She was a peer, who laid voice to many thoughts that I hadn't put into words, admitted to thinking, or would have the skill to speak as she did.

I attach a great interest to other people and was soon hungering for more of her thoughts as her video blogs grew further and further apart.  It was like finding a new favorite author and reading their recent releases, only to run out of fresh material and start rooting around bookshops and libraries in search of their older works.  The difference here was that I was forced to view her as a real, tangible person who responded to my comments and thoughts, rather than an abstraction or ideal.  It is ironic that I hate the idea of putting people into simple categorical boxes, yet I often find myself doing it to people.  Nay, people are more like flowerpots - their roots run deeper and thoughts grow higher than I suspect, I can only focus on one portion at a time.  They are no less complex, but I hope that my self-awareness of this pratfall trains me to question it healthily and not reduce others, but build them up, supporting their work. 

I didn't want to be an aggressive stalker, but a curious observer as to what else Soldeglo held as an opinion and observation.  Tonight she and her sister played piano, did impressions, and sang duets.  It was charming and entertaining - it reminded me not to take my own family for granted.  My younger sisters are also interesting and warrant my attention.  (Often deserving more than I bestow, for I can be absent physically and mentally at times.).  The sisters showed love and sisterly inside jokes with one another.  While they may not always be on the best of terms - this was a treat and they enjoyed it thoroughly.  I wanted to thank them for allowing friends and strangers to view a window into their lives.  Jake Sidwell, by the username of Cohenism on YouTube, patrolled the text feed for his friend, kicking out the stranger strangers.  I was pleased at his diligence and learning slightly more about him.  Jake's work on YouTube is very well polished, he is studying the art of filmmaking and his finished products are a wonder to see.  I admire him as well, but he is slightly reclusive and restrained in his internet interactions at times and I respect him all the more for that.  His scripts are poetic and his speech eloquent in metaphor and associations - he has a gift for putting vague emotions and feelings into paragraphs that arrest the audience's attention and imagination.

I thank God for wonderful people like this, who remind & reinvigorate me as to the reason for living well.  There is a purpose and beauty behind all this environment of nature and creation of man.  I need times like these to refocus and glory in the moment I have, while it is still called today.

Conclusion - Inscribed

Kiley's Adventures, Part the Final.

"It's been 3 weeks," Rachel grumbled, "I have been pulled into being involved in a writer's nightmare - a place that looks & sounds like it would be a simply wonderful paradise. What we forget is all the work that has to go into constructing & supporting the infrastructure."  The TARDIS's holographic interface had been quiet until now. "There is always the exit route through Austen's rendezvous to consider." "What is that?" Rachel perked up, "Is that some Gallifreyan equation or protocol that solves this world's problem of Silence?" "No Scribe, it is the alternate destination which you deferred by coming here - Tea with Jane Austen the author. There now exists a probability problem in a time loop - You are not the Scribe unless Jane Austen  entitles you as such during your meeting. However, until you resolve this planet's menace of the Silence, the interference issues will not allow the egress functions to take effect."  "Why didn't you tell me about this before?" Rachel stopped her pacing. "I di-" the hologram started before Rachel facepalmed. "You did, didn't you - all those bloody error messages. I thought it was one of those quirky time travel issues, the obscure balancing act that the Doctor always has to keep track of in his eons old TARDIS. Only he has almost 1000 years of experience to match them. I am a horrible heroine. I just want to go home, write LBD episodes, hang with Kylie & MK in coffee shops and bars." 

Rachel straightened, "What if I never go see Jane? Then I will no longer be the Scribe who is supposed to solve the Silence problem."  "Inadvisable - I have run that scenario as you were suggesting it. The results are an 87% probability of you warping out of time altogether, 7% that you will hit an alternate universe, 4.67% of dimensional malfunction results in a timequake between streams, and 1.23% that we will explode from the strain of running against a hard patch of redundancy logic."  Rachel considered, "None of those options appears to be successful. What is the .10% remaining?" "General standard of margin of error in calculations. Even a core as sentiently skilled as I cannot prepare for every variable involved. You requested an adventure & a drink when we started this jump. Here lies your adventure - as stated on your interim planet's history. 'It is a bitter cup to drink, but it is the one I have chosen.'"  Rachel nodded. "So, no escaping this time? Why did I ever want to be the Doctor? I'll view episodes of the show in a whole new light after this." She walked over to the box of elephants, patting Dumbledwarf on the ear as she emptied the waste into a cone of crumpled manuscript. At least it was being useful for something.

From what Rachel surmised of the scattered conversations, the Silence was indefeatible - any time someone came up with a solution for eliminating the creature, its natural amnesiac defense wiped their short term memory - the notes to the solution were scattered among the reams of failures. The creature didn't appear hostile, only that its continued existence appeared to frustrate the inhabitants for some unlearned reason.  Tired, frustrated, and disheartened, most of the people lay as scattered as their work on the planet's surface, sleeping and wracking their brains for a solution.  Rachel walked over to Simeon, one of the believers in the Scribe movement. Leaning over, she tapped him on the shoulder to wake him from his nap.  "Hullo Sim, just so I understand this a little better, can you explain the Movement to me one more time? This go 'round, keep it short and to the point - all these other interviews have tended to be peppered with sob stories of previous failures."

Sim yawned, then brightened for a moment, "See, this place is a dream planet to which writers throughout the galaxy visit through their subconscious astral forms when they sleep.  Story logic is translated to dream logic over the journey." Looking up at Rachel, he noted her confusion. Sim swept the ground clear and used the other end of a pen in the dust. He illustrated a series of roughly circular points surrounding a larger central point. "When writers dream, their internal genius and creativity come here to play around with ideas in a solidified form." Sim drew lines radiating from to the central point. "When the issues concerning the writers are resolved here, the consciousness returns to the writer, translating back to story logic to be captured in narrative form back home." At this point, Rachel was skeptical of the reality, but curious as to how Simeon and the others rationalized this concept. "And if the problem isn't resolved?" She gestured at the general chaos. Sim gave a nod. "Sometimes, a problem baffling one writer becomes a parasite of their concentration, and the mind which brought it to life starts asking others how to resolve the issue. Things... Escalate as the problem isn't solved. Soon, it is too big for any of us to solve and without a resolution, we all become stuck here until it is. Thus the term 'Writer's Block' - we cannot return to our writers without a solution to whatever vexed them to travel here in the first place." Rachel smiled despite herself: What a fanciful concept. Still it was better than a lot of explanations for the term's origins. Sim continued, "That is what happened with the Silence. So while brainstorming, a group of us hit upon the idea that maybe some other writer could conjure up the Silence's bane. Thus the Scribe movement."

Rachel felt like this was about all the history she could take. Now for more practical matters. "So, what have you tried so far?" Sim frowned, "We tried standard combat measures and weapons - Its hands shock like a taser when engaged head on by one of us.  If we bring any offensive construct to confront it, the Silence has  a sort of 'negation field' which dissolves the object's corporeal density before it is a threat." "Have you tried talking to it?" Rachel asked. Sim laughed. "Sorry, that is such a girlish stereotype - I can't take it seriously." He paused wheezing. "No, we were not equally prone to the cliche - we tried. But no matter how much we bargain, plead, cajole, threaten, or reason - the thing just looks at us with those unsettlingly empty voids it has for eye sockets."  Rachel felt the beginnings of an idea, then fed it slowly with the reasons why she might have been brought here as the Scribe.  Throughout these weeks she had been asking the right question the wrong way: "Why her?"  She tested her hypothesis with a question. "You said it never replies at all?" "Yes!" Sim responded, yawning again, "Just stays silent." He chuckled sleepily at his own joke. "But that is it! You stupid, brilliant, literal-minded scribblers - It is silent because it was written to be that way. Why would a living breathing concept of Silence talk?"
"Thank you!" Rachel chortled as she dash-hopped away.

Rachel arrived near the TARDIS and looked around earnestly. "Oy! You! Silence!" She yelled, "Where are you? I am the freakin' Scribe for a reason and I think I know why!" She turned in a slow circle, only to find the creature 6 feet to her right. She focused on it.  It stood looking sad and expectant in its black jacketed suit, familiar with nothing  but attempts on its life and abuse. "You look lonely all by yourself, and I think that is the problem at hand. I may not know much about combat, but I do know about relationships and their problems. I am the queen of free shipping!" Rachel paused in her enthusiasm - somehow that had come out wrong. "So, anyway. You know what I never saw on Doctor Who? A female Silence. It figures that no writer on this planet ever thought of a solution that didn't involve punching away their problems. (Wait, that is another stereotype. Whatevs)."  Rachel drew her sonic sharpie and uncapped the end. Picking up a discarded tablet computer, she shipped with her sharpie as if her trip home depended on it. Blotting over the Ariel font on the screen with bold black strokes, she wrote the other half of the Silence into existence.

After she signed the endnote of her work, she looked up to glimpse the Silence embracing for the first time. The two negations cancelled each other out of existence on the dimensional plane.  The TARDIS door swung open behind her. "Ready for another adventure?" The interface inquired. Rachel limped in on her tweaked ankle. "I've had my fill of adventures, where the devil are my ruby slippers?"

Kiley - Sequential

[When we last left Rachel, she was exiting her TARDIS in search of a puppy sized elephant.  This is not where this story resumes.  Like Douglas Adams's short run on the writing staff of a certain British telly program which was quite popular in the 70's, some things are lost and unaired. The chronicle of how the elephants Rachel currently holds may someday resurface in a lonely thrift shop on Charon, but that might be addressed later.]


"Have I mentioned how much of a letdown these elephants are?" Rachel grumbled, poking one with her sonic sharpie. It jumped and landed with a charming *clump* in the hatbox, causing the second to whistle in its sleep.  The third puppy proboscidean was trapped in a cycle of trumpeting in a panicked fashion until it fainted and awoke again - Rachel's quickly decided this one would be MK's, so she named it Picante.  The lethargic specimen was Dumbledwarf, and the first unfortunate victim was Cumbersnout.  Rachel's initial period of delighted amusement had slowly diminished with the responsible reality of caring for the three's needs.  "This is why I don't have kids. Though it is kinda funny to toss their excrement into space, I wonder how science will explain THAT!" She smiled at the ridiculous notion. "Cosmic Elephants will make a great reality show on Discovery or something." "Scribe!" the onboard interface broke into her visions of episodic focuses and specials. "The temporal window for reconciling this temporal anomaly is dwindling rapidly. You should -." "HEY!" Rachel yelled, looking up at the holographic image. "I am the important adventurer here in a time machine that goes anywhere in the universe - You are the computer solvey thing that does all the calculations and nyan cat rainbows of science. I do my thing, you make sure I can keep doing it, kapisch? I click 'Don't send' or 'register later'."
"This is the twenty-third time this topic has been postponed, even for a Timelady of your reputation, this is most irregular." Rachel waved away the information, got up off the floor, then stopped. "What is my reputation? I forget sometimes. Is amnesia a side effect that came with the last regeneration?" "Negative," The core replied, "The origin of the condition which you are querying has a greater probability of stemming from alcohol intoxication on your base planet."  "Touche." Rachel smirked. "Speaking of which, I want to restock our supplies, it is a 'creative necessity.' Stop off at a planet or time that has an excellent beverage selection."  "There are three destinations which remain viable in my coordinate system - Tea with Jane Austen on Aug. 27, 1815; 'Charon's Trachea' on Pluto's orbital satellite, Stardate: Cellist-4561.7; or 'Unicorn Dreams' on Hubron in the Nether Days."  Rachel considered these. "Seeing that I HAVE to see Jane Austen eventually to receive this title personally, I'll do that later. I choose 'Unicorn Dreams'." The TARDIS sighed softly, condensing tendrils of resignation as the lighting pulsed rhythmically.
"Your destination, Scribe. Powering down to maximize geocentric pinpointing throughout the vortex entry areas. Protocol dictates that the traveler operate in a responsible and level-headed manner during this procedure. Internal opinion based on observation of your behavioral patterns over the course of your reactivation as a passenger indicate strongly that you will ignore this as a suggestion." "Thank you for your understanding. You're really great too."

As Rachel exited her time vehicle, the first impression she noticed was the Silence.  She ignored the taut air of tension and soon forgot it in the light of the next thing she noticed.  The ground was strewn with notebook paper, mechanical pencils, broken laptops, and highlighters.  There were people among the ruins, if they could be called as much, shells and shadows of higher life forms.  Rachel approached one despondent fellow and kicked him lightly on the shin. He moaned and looked up. "What is it? There's been only horrendous news in here, the more knowledge I have, the greater the burden of despair." "Do I even want to ask what your problem is?" She waited a beat out of a sense of courtesy - she had opened this dialogue by kicking him after all. "Are you new here or are you one of those delusional believers in the legend of the Scribe? You know that the Scribe's coming is as likely as black forest cake for everybody - 'tis but a deception!" Rachel, who had been thinking about taking her chances with some friendlier person, became interested. "How many people do you see believing in that stuff?" The man waved his hand, "Too many, even though the Scribe's predicted arrival date has come and gone three weeks.  This person is supposed to arrive and defeat the Silence that rules over this land.  Many have tried and failed to craft the solution to the problem.  It counters our best efforts, the words we sow have no space in which to grow and bear fruit.  We need to accept this barrenness - our writing utensils are worn down, our ends are left incomplete.  Those still in denial hold out hope that the Scribe will lead us out of this limbo."
Rachel began to understand, "Are you a writer?" The man laughed mirthlessly, "I used to be, we all did, but now our true colors are shown - we were nothing but pretenders. Who are we to believe we have something to say that can change anything? I dabbled in fiction, now I am converted to realism."
Rachel stared him down, "If you were an instrument, you would be a kazoo. Yeah, everyone is happy that you have something, but when you try to use it, all you really do is blow.  I don't really like your one note drone, so I'm going to talk to someone else. Keep on working at it, maybe one day you'll have something to trumpet about."  With her thoughts made clear, Rachel turned and walked away. She miscalculated a sheaf of notes, however, and turned her left ankle. "That is going to smart tomorrow. " She muttered, limping. "Nice way to exit stage right..."

[Note: Now that I am invested in this, I'll continue this in another post tomorrow. I haven't a set ending in mind, but I would hate to have my friend not succeed or something.  Be forewarned that I am afraid of happy endings - they feel like a cop-out on originality and sincerity to the reader.]

Kiley - FanFic

[Initial Disclaimer: I have had a bad history with short stories being taken for deeper meaning.  If you find any, be sure to tell me - maybe I can learn why my mind associates things the way it does. But, as the reading of things reveals just as much about the reader's perspective coming into the story, it might be your mirror instead. I don't understand the full meaning behind this phrase, it sounds good so I'll leave it intact]

{Introduction: This is inspired by my friend @RachelKiley from Twitter, who recently took a leave of absence for an undisclosed reason.  Her last tweet was, "Lighting Twitter on fire and watching it burn. See you in September, unless the smoke clears. #itwont" Although this appears to be on the surface a Joker/Green Day quote hybridization, I tend to overthink things to a fanciful degree and my mind ran with the following threads. I wish that most of it was accurate, or if nothing else, that Rachel derives some odd pleasure of having not only two Tumblr pages dedicated to her memory, but a rough fan fiction as well.}


It was yet another dark night at Casa de Kiley, and Rachel distracted herself by indulging in a non-canonical script.  Sighing contentedly, she reached to her left for her wine glass to further lubricate the gears of her imagination, only to notice it empty.  This was a problem - to get up and lose her train of thought's momentum, or go without the lovely co-authorship of the Muse of Alcoholic inspiration.  "Why is the wine always gone?" She sparrowed to herself.  Glancing reluctantly at the kitchen area twelve feet, five inches distant, she levered herself off the keyboard of her laptop, washing the room with the glow of the awakened screen.  As she made her brief pilgrimage, she tripped over something in the dimness of her apartment floor.  Hopping on one foot for balance, she grumbled, "Should probably clean up more often around here.  I'll do it on Saturday. Is this Tuesday night? I've never gotten the hang of-" She was interrupted by a sound of a sudden breeze sweeping through the room.  The faint outline of a box materialized, then faded.  Rachel's respiratory system skipped half a dozen beats, then resumed at double pace to compensate.  The noise began again, this time crescendoing in the box coming into focus, revealing itself to be... Brown in color? Apple rich nonetheless, but wasn't it supposed to be police blue? Rachel was quite put out by the oversight, but her curiosity was revived by when the doors hissed open.  "Welcome Scribe, your TARDIS is fueled & ready."

 Rachel, still clutching her empty wine glass, stepped inside.  There she found all the flashing lights and burbling noises a Gallifreyan could desire.  However, given that Rachel was of the human variety, these were seen as not nearly enough. Which brought her to the most pressing point on hand. "Where is the Doctor?"  Her eyes swept the interior, finally resting on a holographic image of a young woman.  "Are you injured?" The voice chirped politely, its features shifting to appropriate concern.  Rachel paused, "No, it's just that I expect the madman to come as a package deal with the box." "Who?" The image responded. "Yes! Exactly." Rachel filled in eagerly.  The glowing lady looked genuinely perplexed by this turn in the conversation, then rallied. "Please state the name of the subject in question to proceed." "Oh," Rachel said, shoulders resting. "I was rather hoping that you could tell me that. I would be the envy of all the Whovians on earth.  Something that only Alex Kingston, Steven Moffat, and now I would have known.  Maybe even Russell T. Davies too, but given Moffat's run on the show, it might have been changed since the 'Silence in the Library' in season 4. Wait, that was written by Moffat wasn't it. Hmm... Wonder if it is like an inheritance on the show through the years to pass from head writer to head writer."  Throughout this soliloquy, the holograph became blurred due to the amount of computation through its logic engines to provide answers.  Finding none to its satisfaction to be reputable sources, the hologram cleared its resolution with a hum and pressed forward. "Scribe, shall we begin our odyssey?"  "That is another thing - Why are you calling me that." Rachel waved her glass at the floating interface in a vaguely threatening manner. The machine replied dutifully. "It all will make sense two days from now when you meet Jane Austen and give her relationship suggestions for the characters in her novels. She will be amused by your twenty-first century ideas and grant you that title.  A future timeline version of you will think this to be an excellent honor and demand that her TARDIS call her that in all continuities, including this one."  "Wait, What?!" Rachel adjusted her glasses. "Hold up - Doesn't that mess with the 'wibbly wobbly timey wimey thing' with the time vortex as mentioned in 'Blink' by the 10th Doctor?" "Yes, but the future version of you was/is intoxicated at the moment of departure.  She/you decided that the novelty of introducing present you to your destiny is worth the risk of screwing continuity.  'Rules are made to be broken, and I have a TARDIS or whatever.' is/was your exact quote."  "Sounds about right," Rachel admitted, "First thing I want to do is capture my very own puppy sized elephant. I'll use it for the return of 'Lydia Bennet Diaries' as Mary Kate's new pet.  That will give the tumblr masses something to gif about.  Maybe John and Hank will want their own too.  So, when can we start?"  "Already arrived, in anticipation of your request.  Future you named it -" Rachel interrupted. "Please stop talking like that, you... whatever you are - This is my first time 'round and I don't want any spoilers!"

[Endnote: This seemed to be all I could be bothered to capture today. If Rachel likes it, I might continue along this vein. I only have a few ideas where I would like to go with this.  However, since I have never met her, I can only guess how Rachel would respond or what she would do with a TARDIS.]

"This is not how the World ends." - Jonathan Hickman; S.H.I.E.L.D. (2010)

Shadow - Eventide

I have been on an extended vacation lately, yet haven't left off my online activity.  I am a convert to the twitter persuasion of content for the moment. I see the cleaving of a metaphorical claymore with its limitations.  Some of the greatest writers were inspired by boundaries, for it allows a mind to stop exploring the "no edge" universe which Hank Green so aptly described the reaches of space.  Instead, it forces the hand to make the best of the area available to interaction and self-expression.  In short, an empty room is a matter of perspective.  To the ignorant it is a prison, but a creative and optimistic mind notes the opportunity to fill it with content & purpose.

As pertains to Twitter: Yes it is a medium that lends to stupidity, but at least it is boxed away into a mercifully small package of 140 characters.  It takes a meticulous and patient person to write what they mean in the same space.  If it requires more than one tweet to expound upon your subject, a succinct #hashtag will summarize the common thread between postings.  It is almost laughable when a rash person rants half cocked on a subject, because their paragraphs are taken more easily out of context.  Continuity is an important virtue to hold even more dearly when the stakes are so small and the potential is great.
While brevity may not always be the soul of wit, it is a highly prized virtue in a fast paced world.

The same can be said on an intellectual level.  I function better when I am not faced with many options.  I can stop calculating what additional routes might be available, in fact, some avenues close when not pursued in a timely manner.  I then must choose from a shortened menu of paths, and put all my energy behind the one I must undertake.  Joss Whedon's Avengers featured a villain who took this idea to the extreme.  Loki perceived that humanity had a history of following the example of others rather than blazing their own trails.  What he failed to ask himself honestly, was whether he was a person who was such an example worth emulating.  Further irony arises from the fact that Loki was the God of Mischief in the Norse mythos.  Instead of encouraging entropy and chaos from free will gone haywire, he had taken the opposite strategy of making humankind his unquestioning sheep.

I don't want to spoil Dark Knight Rises, only that it is a fitting end to the Nolan trilogy of the creation, fall, & conclusion of Bruce Wayne.  Nothing in Batman was admitted to be superhuman or supernatural, Nolan's vision was to turn a unblinking spotlight on the heights of nobility and hope depths of depravity & despair found in human behavior and simple choices.  The frightening part of the content of the movies is the basis for logic of the "villains," that these beliefs exist as seeds in the hearts of men, but that so few have the courage to stand for what is noble or the nerve to question social norms with a revolutionary philosophy.

The Avengers was star-powered lighthearted fun and thrills, leaving the theatre knowing that such characters will remain fixed in that universe.  The Dark Knight trilogy will not depart so easily from your subconscious, it raises questions as to "what would you have done?" and "do you have it in you to make such a decision? What compels you to action?"

Abdication - Selfishly

I have dug myself into a hole this morning. I am 0 for 2 in tasks that I was asked to perform.  My attitude is repulsive, I don't merit redemption.  So I rest in my pit and consider my next move.  Can I apologize for the wrongs I have done, strive to make them right?  Shall I put this behind me as if it had never happened, and press on in my day, learning from it without dwelling?

This is not about me. Though this blog is from my perspective.  I detest self-pity, especially when I am tempted to succumb to it.  Thanks be to the God who lifts our heads from looking at our problems.  I try to be too flippant, too clever, staying a step away from commitment.  The tasks that my heavenly father asks me to perform are simple, basic behavior.  Yet sometimes a stumble raises the question of whether we will ever walk.  If I could write a letter, it would be a plea for me not to lose appreciation for the moment. To know that each one is precious it can make or break a heart.

I am fearful of being the truer fool - the one who is blind to his own ignorance.  I have longed to be the ironic fool, the one who knows better but is willing to take the fall if needed.  I crave attention - the undivided focus of another person. Groups are more difficult to navigate - for there are multiple subjects, multiple ideas flying.  Self-abasement rises again in the past paragraph.  Please Lord, give me guidance.  "You kick against the pricks" is the answer.  When you calm down and stop fighting me, then work can be done.

I have been feeding my mind a steady dose of eye glitters and shimmers of fantasy, trying to escape from the gravity of reality.  It is a web of lies, constructed with the intent to draw the reader beyond a point of difficult return.  The surface grows stickier from the struggle.  I need to rest, to forgive and not fall prey.  My king? How can I bring glory to you if I will not pay heed to your orders?  I become a hazard to those around me - a distraction.

If I was on the other side of a post akin to this, I don't know how I would respond.  Silence is probably the just course of action - it speaks volumes about the scale of my place in a sea of faces.  For if you speak and counsel, I am gleeful that someone heard my cries and took time to respond.  But if I wallow, if I remain here, I am not.  How can you run from yourself? Escape from the box of personality you have crafted with your time, the habits you have cultivated and fertilized with effort and custom.  Christ, I truly need thee every hour, I pray that I entwine my life to yours. Your virtues displayed in Your word to come alive in my life.  I look in the gardens of others and see the beauty of their discipline and determination.  Live a life for which there is no occasion for shame and regret.

Eleventy - First

So, I have One-hundred and eleven posts written on this blog. A couple of which are private, so feel free to claim it faulty at this point if you counted them up. I enjoy patterns and numbers, the little significance and stories that I can attach to things. It endears them to me, simultaneously making them easier to remember and more interesting as well.

Sadly, I don't keep all the quirky facts and trivia on brainwave command as I once did. I collect things, as I have mentioned before. I don't remember my first collection (probably coins given to me, in which a dollar felt like wealth untold.) But I remember vividly one in particular when I was twelve-ish. My parents had kept nearly seven years of back issues of Reader's Digest, and I would scour them for interesting tidbits and anecdotes. Many of the ill-tasteful dross went over my head, but I loved amusements and learned small insights into the lives of celebrities and everyday heroes brought to light in the course of a few choice pages.

One lingering side effect of this endeavor is that I have become insufferable when listening to "jokes," I hear the opening and claim, 'Heard it already, the punchline is _____ or near it, correct?' (I wonder if I could use this fickle memory for more useful streams of knowledge, in schoolwork perhaps?). Among the stories I read in these pages, I recall at least three which I particularly liked.

The first was an article written by a former "dipper" or pickpocket. He told of his early training and entry into the trade. Some of the exercises he did were wrapping rubber bands around his fingers to flex, or picking up bricks by the corners using only two fingers. The tone of the article was precautionary, how to defend yourself from predators, especially cute kids who could be hiding a light-fingered knack behind an innocuous smile. He and his sister would work a mall, it was her job to distract the mark while he lifted the wallet, stripped the cash/cards, and returned the empty vessel into the owner's possession. He was caught one day when he was bored with a successful haul and wanted to do one more mark, a challenge this time. The lady had a leather zippered purse and he fumbled it up and was caught. Interesting seeing the game from the perspective of the other, profiteering side of the criminal bargain.

The second was the story of Will Shortz, the New York Times crossword editor and puzzlemaker extraordinaire. The man's story was a wonder - created his own field by the improvised major of studying the construction and history of puzzle-making in college. Mr. Shortz was just a fascinating fellow, I don't think myself alone in admiring his motivation, vision, and success.

The third I had in mind took me a couple of times through the reams of issues to appreciate - it concerned the mental state of a man who decided to stay awake for as long as he could endure. He wrote about his experiment in sleep-deprivation, and the delusions and daydreams which plagued him for the duration. At the beginning of the article, he described a dozed dream in which he was a laboratory rat running through a maze. He cannot stop, cannot rest, he must continue... I don't want that problem. I will go to bed now, just thought I should update this chronicle of my ramblings every so often.

Until the Muse lays me low with a disheartening mental blow,
I shall persevere to scribble my thoughts and make them so.
To manifest an gloriously novel idea on a page,
Only to be informed its origins stretched back to the Middle Age.
Sometimes I pause to query rhetorically, "Is there anything truly new under the sun?
Technology's progresses are merely rearranging of 'What are the limits as to what can be done?' "

Motivation - Muddled

I am human, I need. I started reading The Four Loves, by C.S. Lewis *pauses for applause to fade* (I know I do this fourth wall soliloquizing overmuch, but it aids in keeping the reality of this medium in mind.). People love C.S. Lewis - he is like the Ben Franklin of Christian quotes. The old joke is that, "People will accept your ideas more readily if you tell them Ben Franklin said it first." - David H. Comins.

It makes me wonder, "What is it about a man that makes people long to trust him, take him at his word? Can I someday be such a man?" I am sure that Clive Staples Lewis never dreamed of his lasting influence and impact on theology and thinking. Especially in his space trilogy - He wasn't the finest science fiction author, but utilized the medium to air out some of his more theoretical ideas and concepts. The end of Perelandra is beautitful, but out of reach of my comprehension, though it is well worth the attempt to wrap my mind around it. The brain wants for exercise, for challenges to arise and force it to reconsider or refortify firmly held beliefs.

Back to the main point with which I opened - Four Loves begins with the splitting of the concept into two fields - Need-love and Gift-love. God is Gift-love to us, giving without reserve out of the deeper wish for the wellbeing of another.

"[Do you think God cares to have me do his will? Is it anything to him?] I am sure of it. Why did He make you else? But it is not for the sake of being obeyed that He cares for it, but for the sake of serving you and making you blessed with His blessedness. He does not care for Himself, but about you." - George MacDonald.

As humans, we have Need-love for this Father figure, we are incomplete and unfulfilled without this gift of God. An example of Need-love is an injured or scared child in need of comfort of his or her mother - the craving for the knowledge that they are safe within their guardian's presence.

There are pleasures for humans. Ones in which there is a need to be satisfied - A drink of water when thirsty is counted deeply and thankfully. Lewis says that few men would ever take as much pleasure from water when they are satisfied as is. There is another appreciation-pleasure - one in which there was no need involved, but nevertheless contains a note of necessity of being enjoyed. Lewis uses the example of a wine taster whose palette is uniquely qualified and trained for fine wine. For the wine to be consumed on an ordinary man would not fulfill its full potential for being. The wine taster is able to take pleasure, nay, almost it is his duty to drink and experience the delicate, exquisiteness of the tumbler's contents. It is also the smell of a field on daily walk in the country, when the sun peeks out of the clouds, the wind picks up in the meadow with the scent of wildflowers carried in its wake. To not stop, and experience this unexpected moment of beauty is... well, to be unheard. Why should such a delightfully divine moment go to waste?

I have much to accomplish in this last week of school before spring break, and must rouse my motivation from its lethargy and use it to fuel my drive to finish well. I am to pause, soak in the wonder of the moment of life and vigor, then set my face as a flint and press forward for the glory of a man fully alive. We were made to work and reflect the image of our Father, of His love and creativity upon those around us. We are to be different, to shine with the knowledge that we are loved with the Gift-love of the Father, and can grant a portion to those in need. Rest in this Love, but take righteous action in Christ's Name. Thank you, My Lord, for this world which you have granted us, may I ever worship you with the work of My hands and the words upon my tongue. Thank you.

Considering - Value

I am not leaving the top of my blog with some half-dreamed story that I scribbled two weeks ago.

I have been considering the value of things lately, as I am taking two economic and one accounting course this semester. I have textbooks that my mother wants out of the house, but also wants a fair price. In Econ, I learned that the initial price already paid is a sunk cost - thus, it needs to be irrelevant to current decision making. What the books are right now are intangible costs, as they take up space in our household. Their existence and volume in the household is deadweight until they are read by another or used to prop something up.

The main point is that nothing is valueless - its existence spurs or halts productivity in some way. One of the cornerstones of economics is that resources should be used by the person/group that values them the most. I have decided that one of the first signs of responsibility is the realization that my time is no longer free, it is worth something. This has a dual, but unified, view of the word "free" - I cannot free up time as well as I could as a child, as my time could gain value by spending it in study or labor. I cannot read recreationally as much as I'd like, because I have schoolwork with which to keep pace or ahead, and small services around the household to ease my mother's workload.

The irony behind this statement is that I haven't even touched the fringes of the wonder, responsibility, maturity, and time constraints that will be demanded of me in the future. I know from the geologic Principle of Uniformitarianism that what is going on in the present has also taken place in the past. [Depressing though it may be for an author or musician who likes the refuge of hoping their work is original in its structure and styling, if not substance. :(].

I will one day look back on these college days with wistfulness of my current state of mind, body, and freedom. But, then, I pray that I rouse myself into the present, finding that I wouldn't trade those days for the beauty of the new day that God has given me, of the wisdom and experiences He has granted me along the way.

Surreal - Scene

In a dream of a similitude...

I was writing a paper for my class, and scribbled on the first draft, starting on the second. The deck was full of picnic tables and students. I saw an approachable fellow from another class and asked him if he minded proof reading my ideas. He agreed and I offered him both my drafts so he could see the clearer picture of my ideas and message. He deferred and chose to read the first with my notes. "It is messy, so bear that in mind when correcting my mistakes." I said.

I retreated to another table with friends. I dislike being present when my work is read, it makes me squeamish. The fellow plays with the pages, skim reading how many pages he will have to review, then flips back to the beginning. As he read, he made notes on a notebook. He grunts, groans, and chuckles, sometimes even snorts. Soon, he begins commenting out loud. "How is this idea supported? You would need to cite another who believes this. What an example here! I don't know how this pertains to the thesis. This idea is faulty.". He begins jotting notes that appear to construct a counter argument to my points. During one of my illustrations, he laughs out loud and starts narrating a first hand account that I never dreamed of doing, let alone writing in a school paper. The tale is a mock parallel of my perceived writing style and triviality of my points.

"So, I was going dancing the other night with my friends. Came across a place just down the way of Porphyria Alley and Night street. An Irish band kept time for a group of dancers, who made the floor rumble with the rhythm of their feet. My friends seemed to enjoy the atmosphere of the gathered revelers, while my focus was on the source of their merriment.
The lead singer treated the microphone like a friend who jilted him inexplicably last week, spitting passionate and colorful verses in a brogue that shifted the lyrical tones from old wounds to toughened leather love. Their lady drummer spun a rhythmic landscape from her fingers - in a moment they fluttered feather-soft before bringing an inner thrumming felt subsonically.
The violinist played with such controlled energy that it was a paradoxical precision of melodic strain and yearning. I was trapped between wishing the band to take a break so I could speak to them and the inner desire that they never stopped playing.
I don't recall the circumstances, but one of the girls in our group must have brought me out to the dance floor. It was there that I learned empirically the nuances of the reel, as a participant in its creation. Until then, I had thought myself a passive observer. Now, I have the revelation that no one can be passive - we all are a portion of some greater product. As I lifted my eyes up, the bagpipes were -".

The fellow finished his editing and walked over to my table, handing me my essay back. "It is my first draft of this response, so take it with a gram of molasses, a 'grain of salt' has lost its flavor to us all." Then he smiled and walked back to his own studies.

Quiver - Clash

If I had a quiver, I know what I would do.
I would craft myself some shafts, to test whether my aim be true.
But I would ever find that it stays the same.
I was not born an archer, Hunter is not my name.

If I had a sword, how proud I should be.
For every boy longs for a blade, knighthood bestowed while on their knees.
Alas I am still learning about the welded weight of steel.
I've yet to learn the power, to know which enemy is real.

If I had a harp, what a song I'd play.
I would strive for music, reminiscent of the dawn of day.
Sadly I haven't the patience to train in the art of song.
My hands won't concentrate, and I can't hear when a note rings wrong.

If I had your heart, I don't know what I'd do.
In that fragile organ, rests the essence of you.
I will guard it with all I am, striving to change my past.
You deserve better than imperfect me, so I will persevere at last.

If I had this life, in which to walk the mists
of Death waiting within the passage, of agony and bliss.
I know that this is not the end, a that there is a greater life to come.
But I choose to spend these days with you, until they are used and done.


Rather dedicated to John and Kels, until my time is realized. I observe from the absences and view with pleasure the beauty of life well lived. Until I emerge and take part in mine own dance.

Sidenote - Separation

This moment I cannot regain, nor can you. Am I really worth your time? How painfully self aware am I about this outlet and its usefulness? I have been stuck on the idea of time and its finiteness of late. (Non-intentional, but it is telling that I used a past-tense function of time to describe my thinking of it.). The amount of effort and thought I put into my work and school is valuable at this point in my life. People expect much of me if at all - I cannot afford to be the way I wish. If I were given a choice, I would want to be placed in a barely furnished room with the following items: a book, a notebook, and a supply of pencils. I would read the book in question and write out my thoughts on its meaning and inspiration to me.

“Everyone should always have two books with him, one to read and one to write in.” - Robert Louis Stevenson

However, Mr. Stevenson doesn't let the matter rest there - "Books are good enough in their own way, but they are a poor substitute for life."

Eventually, I would like to be visited by friends in my hypothetical room, and interact with them. It is truly a wonder to study oneself and how one functions, but it is ever more delightfully frustrating and joyfully marvelous to attempt to understand one's friends as well.

My reasoning is selfish - I appear unpracticed in the art of self-discipline and choices. Oh, choices are fun to make, but the consequences involved feature variables I could not have imagined nor for which I accounted. If I ever did get them all figured for a point in time, that window of opportunity would have passed and rendered my intensive work embarrassingly frivolous. No, it doesn't pay to be impulsive or obsessive in your actions, but ideally, to be adaptive to whatever does happen.

I tend to want to sample many things and finish none of them. I recall that Douglas Adams, one of my favorite authors, was notoriously late for deadlines in his life. He was a bit of a whimsical perfectionist who thought his work ever incomplete. In his five part trilogy, Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, he always wanted to tie the series. One of my friends noted that his books become more cynical and embittered as they were published. Personally, I am amazed at the nuances of his cleverness and the mind-bending complexity of Mostly Harmless's plot. But in the Neil Gaiman written biography of his life (Don't Panic), Adams's friends recall that he would have to be forcibly coerced and locked in a room for a week or two to get any work done on a deadline - He would never have it down on paper despite the repeated attempts of his publisher's pleadings.

Life would be so much easier without so many choices, and sometimes I wonder why God had to give me so many paths from which to choose. I sigh inwardly, wanting to take them all like the speaker in 'The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost. But, my heavenly Father has gifted me with the ability of free will, the spark behind the euphoria of triumphs and the sweeping mistakes of despair. I, as a adopted son of the Most High, must not falter, but press ever on forward for the glory of be-living of His Name.

Most of the things I say or think are unoriginal and culled from someone brighter or wiser than me, but I want to learn from the best and combine their beautiful elements into new arrangements and conclusions. This time, I may not regain or know the full import, but I am feeling my way towards a future full of possibility and hope.

As one friend once told me, "Time is never wasted." I had told myself for years that it was possible to do so, and had never seriously considered whether it was a false supposition. After a few semesters of college and economic courses, I was indoctrinated with the concept of opportunity cost - the cost of a decision to do something is the value derived from the next best alternative.

I refined my friend's thought into a private maxim, "Time is never wasted, though it can be ill-spent in an investment that does me little good. But just because I don't benefit directly from the consequences of my decision doesn't mean that no one will. Each action I take is a ripple effect and touches the lives of others. But, as I am not omnipotent, I will never realize the full scope - I can only be responsible for my actions and reactions to what others do."

May I cultivate self-discipline, patience, and joyfulness in my garden of virtues, that my fruit will be ripe for cross pollination.

*digs trench steadily*

Probably - Nevermind

How do I begin? I will post a call and response I scribbled to myself to try to thresh out my thought processes. If I do a transcribed page a day, I'll see how far it carries the spark plug of my inspiration for future postings. This is a conversation concerning myself as seen by two hypothetical observers of my behavior.

"Why does he fear?" - Q

He is unsure of himself, afraid of potential

"At times he glows with promise, though it tends to dim with inaction." - Q

Responsibility, that in a word - it both attracts and repels him. He desires neither the credit not the blame for his actions' consequences.

"And the stereotypical power that comes with responsibility?" - Q

Ah, that raises an interesting point - his desire is for self-discipline, as he considers himself to have an obsessive personality.

"Surely, he requests the aid of the Most High, Creator of the hearts and minds of men." - Q

He converses and inquires for direction, especially when working with his hands. When he is surrounded with passivity, he feels the need for action. But when given multiple choices, he is paralyzed by indecision.




Hmm... I wonder if this is either overtly vague or too specific. I won't know if anyone reads this anyway.