Today was Wednesday, which makes it special. Tuesday is typically when new music becomes available and Friday is when new films are presented in theaters. But Wednesday? That is when new comics stock the shelves of retailers. Collecting series is one of my current hobbies, and I enjoy the ability to patronize the intersection betwixt artwork and writing in the storytelling medium.
Of course, I could just buy picture books. But the plotting tends to be better in these offerings, even though it can run more expensively in the long run. (Pun intended.).
I saw that Kieron Gillen & Jamie McKelvie's Wicked & the Divine trade was available last week. It was beautifully designed: a white cover featuring a single feather quill aflame. Volume 1: Faust Act. Very clean and only $10 for the collection of 5 issues. I had already bought the individual issues from the same shop, and had pre-ordered this collection online.
However, I had not heard back from when it was being shipped. So I bought the book at the store today.
This raised many questions in my head. Why did I need the trade when I had bought it twice over already? Why haven't I even read the individual issues? Why wasn't the trade I ordered being shipped yet to me?
The answers are: Because it was there; The issues are equally as beautifully designed and I wanted the additional content featured at the backs of the issues for later reading, but not for the first go through; and Amazon is stubborn and publishers don't want to accommodate the giant online retailers' bullyish demands.
The point is, I like the creative team of Gillen & McKelvie, having followed them from other projects such as Phonogram and the Marvel:Now 15 issue run of Young Avengers. The pair of creators are innovative in their layouts, imaginative in their plotting, and clever in their execution.
But there is a greater issue involved, apt in irony or portent. Somehow, I had a creative reverence for the idea of them scripting this series concerning a pantheon of gods who are fated to rise like shooting stars and burn out brightly. I read the first issue over lunch and was delighted that my anticipation was met by the actuality of the content.
I wanted the issues because the covers were just wonderfully designed, but didn't want to open them. This, I realize, is idolatry: I have taken something that was intended to be read, and denying myself that use of it. They just sit in their protective plastic sheathes and look pretty. I have rendered them useless to me, it is a wasteful and foolish choice of action.
I have full knowledge of this, and yet I am disinclined to change my mind. This was not originally intended as an ironic performance of an object lesson, but it could be one now that it has happened. It is a metaphor and symptom of a greater habit of mine. I sometimes idolize and idealize people and things external to myself. Recognizing that I do not naturally have control over them, I categorize them within a mental box, resisting attempts for them to grow in purpose and direction. This is a type of weak control and ownership over the object, a smaller reflection of a greater reality.
First impressions stick with me because they are easier to remember and require less energy to maintain. As a resistance to this tendency to simplify things, I am even more delighted when people and things surprise me. This allows me to see them anew and reassess the dimensionality and potential abilities. I have to adjust my "box" and acknowledge that I have been limiting them in my mind.
Reverence is an attitude. But whether it is a healthy or a crippling one depends on how it is leveraged in relation to the object. If the object's usefulness to me is the focus of the reverence, it is idolatry. Sooner or later, it will disappoint me and there will be an uncomfortable period of wondering whether the fault is in the object or myself for trusting it to serve that purpose for me. It is a jealous and internal worship. If anyone else is perceived to lay claim to my use of the object's properties or claim better understanding of it, I become aggressively defensive and sensitive of my bond to it.
But there is a reverence which can be used for healthy purposes. When I focus instead on the object's relational usefulness to everything else, it converts into praise. I become an evangelist to everyone around me, seeing how much I enjoy the object, I believe everyone else's lives will be made better by acquaintance with it as well. I am open to new opinions and perspectives, because I want to have a greater understanding of its appeal. I want be able to explain its merits to everyone, the multiple layers of perspective and enlightenment. Every new piece of information and insight is a revelation to share.
I know that on a small scale, The Wicked & the Divine is just another comic. But it is one that I enjoy and through this enjoyment, I gain a greater goodwill that others might also find something that they will enjoy as much as I do. On a larger scale, I want my relationship with Christ to shine through in all that I do. My conduct and enthusiasm for His love and care for me, I want others to be as blessed as I.
But there are some people who look at comics and are prejudiced. It is a low art form; lots of capes; muscled men in tights and women as eye candy; wham pow bang; it is an expensive price tag for such a small thing; comics are for the immature who never grew up; and so forth.
It is a hard proposition to convince such people that they might be hasty in such judgments. Arguing with them that they are being wrong can make these people more stubborn and set in their ways. Without a relationship upon which to leverage trust, I would become just another passionate zealot to dismiss as irrelevant or even irritating.
The same principle can hold true with the concept of Christianity. People think that they understand it well enough already or that no one in their right mind can understand it because it is so much bologna. Preconceived notions about what religions are and what they mean can close people to different perspectives or ideas explaining who we are and what we can become.
Thoughts about religion and spirituality can be as messy as a comic book series with missing issues in between. Bits and pieces of scripture, commentaries, and theologies are stitched together, patched with scientific studies, philosophies, epigrams, and cosmological theories of everything. It is like putting Marvel and DC comics series next to each other and demanding that they make one streamlined continuity of logical plot. It is not that they are irreconcilable: rules in one universe can help you better interpret mysteries and points of confusion in the other. It is just that each universe has its rules and logic for how things are now and how they came to be.
Modern science is based in skepticism, that nothing is true unless it can be proven to be an accurate result for the majority of the time it is tested. But in order for science to be effective, some assumptions of constants and trustworthiness have to be in place. If the human mind itself is an unreliable or imperfect tool by which to measure other things, we as a race are screwed before we even had a chance. You have to have faith in something as a starting point, as an absolute by which you can measure all other things in comparison.
This is running long. I don't want my exercise in distilling the ideal of idolatry to idle away your time. I am grateful for you sticking around with me to the end. I hope that you encounter many things in your life that give you reverence for life and enthuse you to become an apologist in your own way. Good night.
Wednesday, November 19, 2014
Friday, October 10, 2014
Anniversary - Forth
I remembered that I had made an anniversary honoring post for my older sister and her husband. I told my sister that I would make an effort to make one this year as well.
I don't recall whether I have done it these past two years. Though I could easily check, I think that anything that spurs me to make an effort to write shouldn't be self-questioned. Therefore this superfluous introduction as I talk myself through this.
Four years. It doesn't seem that long ago to me. But it is wonderful and it makes me very happy to notice and know. Truth is, that I feel like I shall always be somewhat in her shadow, but I enjoy the shadows. It makes it ever so much easier to observe proceedings as they take place.
I have always admired her, and it gives me even more joy to know that she is in excellent hands. Her husband, John, is one of the finest fellows I have had the pleasure of knowing. When he began courting my sister, he asked my opinion on their relationship as her sibling. I replied that I had no such reservations, it baffles me that he considers me one of his best friends.
It is one of the highlights of my week whenever I get to see them, to way they interact and support one another is a beautiful thing to witness. They both have a knack for making work fun, of using whatever tools they have available to engineer a fun solution to any creeping possibility of boredom. They both go the extra mile in their efforts to add a personal touch to their projects. To make sure that those affected by the result are pleased as punch, whether they would ever notice WHO did the little things isn't as important as the things being done.
They are active, but are not so consumed by their schedule's demands to miss the opportunity for quiet moments. Kels and John have taught me many things, in games and in life. Whether it is a fond cribbage match, original Super Smash Bros. on the N64, or telling stories, their company puts me at ease.
I did not manage to raise a mug of coffee in salute, but was able to share bottles of IBC root beer with them earlier this week.
Traditions change as the people within them shift.
May they shift gears together for many more years, as they did in their manual Civic, until it becomes as instinctual as an automatic transmission in their current Intrigue.
I don't recall whether I have done it these past two years. Though I could easily check, I think that anything that spurs me to make an effort to write shouldn't be self-questioned. Therefore this superfluous introduction as I talk myself through this.
Four years. It doesn't seem that long ago to me. But it is wonderful and it makes me very happy to notice and know. Truth is, that I feel like I shall always be somewhat in her shadow, but I enjoy the shadows. It makes it ever so much easier to observe proceedings as they take place.
I have always admired her, and it gives me even more joy to know that she is in excellent hands. Her husband, John, is one of the finest fellows I have had the pleasure of knowing. When he began courting my sister, he asked my opinion on their relationship as her sibling. I replied that I had no such reservations, it baffles me that he considers me one of his best friends.
It is one of the highlights of my week whenever I get to see them, to way they interact and support one another is a beautiful thing to witness. They both have a knack for making work fun, of using whatever tools they have available to engineer a fun solution to any creeping possibility of boredom. They both go the extra mile in their efforts to add a personal touch to their projects. To make sure that those affected by the result are pleased as punch, whether they would ever notice WHO did the little things isn't as important as the things being done.
They are active, but are not so consumed by their schedule's demands to miss the opportunity for quiet moments. Kels and John have taught me many things, in games and in life. Whether it is a fond cribbage match, original Super Smash Bros. on the N64, or telling stories, their company puts me at ease.
I did not manage to raise a mug of coffee in salute, but was able to share bottles of IBC root beer with them earlier this week.
Traditions change as the people within them shift.
May they shift gears together for many more years, as they did in their manual Civic, until it becomes as instinctual as an automatic transmission in their current Intrigue.
Saturday, October 4, 2014
Classic - Class
This Saturday did not proceed as originally scheduled, but I enjoyed it for what it was anyway. I was just happy that my friends wanted to hang out with me all day. It started with a drive to visit my sister and brother-in-law, some of the best friends in my life. Once arrived, I caught up with a third friend who I hadn't seen in a couple of weeks. We all went to breakfast at a newly opened Chick-fil-a, telling stories about our week past and my sister regaled us with tales from childhood.
I admire her ability to recreate a memory - the words she chooses are descriptive and convey emotions very effectively. As a writing tutor at the university from which I graduated, one of her exercises involves free-writing early experiences from her life. As she brought these tales to light, I prompted her with suggestions and details to learn her perspective on the shared memories.
When we returned to her home, she sat down to commit these tales to paper, while I trailed her husband around their property. It was my task to take notes on tasks that he intended to finish before pre-winter cold settled in to make such activities inconvenient. At the end of the tour, my brother-in-law took his 3-wheeler out for a joyride and offered to let me take the reins. I had never piloted one of the contraptions before and he casually explained that the shifter was under the left foot, the rear brakes on the right foot, and the throttle was a thumb press to the right. I am not a natural multi-tasker, so I started out slowly, kicking it into first gear and tapping the throttle.
Did I mention I was standing up because the seat cover was loose and the exhaust pipe was therefore exposed? Yeah. There was that concern too.
I stutter-stepped up his gravel driveway and, when I reached the concrete, managed to execute a full turn and head back. It was something that my brother-in-law enjoys doing - introducing his friends to new experiences and watching their reactions. This 3-wheeler was his new toy and "one of his greatest recreational pleasures in life at the moment."
I headed back to the house, jittery from the short ride and the two cups of coffee I had drank over breakfast. My sister offered me another cup from a freshly pressed batch, and I drank it while reading X-Men: Schism by Jason Aaron and multiple artists & Sacrifice by Sam Humphries and Dalton Rose. I enjoy Aaron's writing because the dialogue often connects with my sense of humor & there are moments in the script that lent the mutant characters touches of humanity and dimension.
Humphries' tale required a little more attention on my part to understand what was going on in the story, but I enjoyed it as well for what it was. His take on Uncanny X-Force for Marvel was what introduced me to his work, piquing my curiosity enough to follow him to this independently published graphic novel. I listened to Humphries talk about this book for his interview with Kieron Gillen's podcast "Decompressed."
My third friend rejoined my sister and I in the house after popping back to his place for a change of clothes. He and I listened to my sister's updated accounting of childhood memoirs, one of which featured humor at my younger self's expense. I didn't mind: It was a good tale and I am not that child any longer. It made me laugh and my friend did as well, relating a similar experience from his family's memories.
As my sister returned to her writing, my friend sat down to a game of cribbage, which I lost. Then a game of golf - similar to polish poker, except with nine cards instead of six - which I lost as well. I smiled and congratulated him on his uncanny luck, then rushed off to meet another friend at his campus cafeteria for dinner. As he is an RA, he is responsible for the enforcement of no alcoholic beverages in the dormitories. I brought along a 6-pack of IBC Cream Soda bottles as a friendly gift to play with the spirit of the prohibition while technically not breaking it.
He was happy to see me, thanking me for my presents of the drinks and a mix-cd featuring mid-2000's pop songs from my music library, but even more so with my presence. He reciprocated on the second gift with a mix of his own. (As I listened to the first 6 tracks on my way home, it has a considerably more 60's-70's ballad pop aesthetic.)
As we talked over dinner, we quoted Mean Girls, G.K. Chesterton, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (mainly me as I am very fond of that movie), Princess Bride. I was taken aback when my friend mentioned he had only seen the last listed but once, and that was perhaps 9 years ago. Other friends greeted my friend as we ate, because he is a friendly sort of fellow and knows many people on campus.
As we walked back to his dormitory hall, we passed by a television... which happened to be playing the boulder scene from Princess Bride. I grinned at him and insisted that this was too coincidental an opportunity. Alas, I was that horrible person who got way too much enjoyment trying to quote every other line of dialogue, more often than not messing it up. (It had been a little while since I had last seen it as well.). An advertisement announced that Matilda was to be shown next week. My friend and I had discussed Roald Dahl's books over dinner, and I reminded him of the horrible plot elements from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I had been reading it to my two youngest sisters before bed and had learned from writer Patrick Rothfuss's take of its being a horrifying children's tale if read and taken seriously. (Rothfuss's review features some profanity, but is quite eye-opening and accurate.)
Although I have never seen the movie Matilda, I am very fond of Mara Wilson now that I follow her on Twitter. She is a wry and well-adjusted former child star who does not suffer fools lightly. And she plays the Faceless Old Woman who Secretly Lives in Your House in the podcast Welcome To Night Vale.
During a commercial break, I learned that my friend had performed in a talent show on campus and I complimented him on his snazzy style of piano-playing. My friend was pleased with my sentiment and told me that I didn't have to be so nice. I told him that "If I am not being 'too much,' I am not being enough." That made him laugh and he insisted on writing it down. I feel that way with most of my friends. I think that they are fantastic and am happy that I get to spend time with them.
After the Princess Bride ended with the words, "As you wish," the channel started The Sandlot. The only time I had seen that movie was with this friend, and it was after a poker night held at his house. I was satisfied with that being a one-time memory and it was getting late in the evening, so I bid my farewells and started homeward.
Good night, readers, good night...
I admire her ability to recreate a memory - the words she chooses are descriptive and convey emotions very effectively. As a writing tutor at the university from which I graduated, one of her exercises involves free-writing early experiences from her life. As she brought these tales to light, I prompted her with suggestions and details to learn her perspective on the shared memories.
When we returned to her home, she sat down to commit these tales to paper, while I trailed her husband around their property. It was my task to take notes on tasks that he intended to finish before pre-winter cold settled in to make such activities inconvenient. At the end of the tour, my brother-in-law took his 3-wheeler out for a joyride and offered to let me take the reins. I had never piloted one of the contraptions before and he casually explained that the shifter was under the left foot, the rear brakes on the right foot, and the throttle was a thumb press to the right. I am not a natural multi-tasker, so I started out slowly, kicking it into first gear and tapping the throttle.
Did I mention I was standing up because the seat cover was loose and the exhaust pipe was therefore exposed? Yeah. There was that concern too.
I stutter-stepped up his gravel driveway and, when I reached the concrete, managed to execute a full turn and head back. It was something that my brother-in-law enjoys doing - introducing his friends to new experiences and watching their reactions. This 3-wheeler was his new toy and "one of his greatest recreational pleasures in life at the moment."
I headed back to the house, jittery from the short ride and the two cups of coffee I had drank over breakfast. My sister offered me another cup from a freshly pressed batch, and I drank it while reading X-Men: Schism by Jason Aaron and multiple artists & Sacrifice by Sam Humphries and Dalton Rose. I enjoy Aaron's writing because the dialogue often connects with my sense of humor & there are moments in the script that lent the mutant characters touches of humanity and dimension.
Humphries' tale required a little more attention on my part to understand what was going on in the story, but I enjoyed it as well for what it was. His take on Uncanny X-Force for Marvel was what introduced me to his work, piquing my curiosity enough to follow him to this independently published graphic novel. I listened to Humphries talk about this book for his interview with Kieron Gillen's podcast "Decompressed."
My third friend rejoined my sister and I in the house after popping back to his place for a change of clothes. He and I listened to my sister's updated accounting of childhood memoirs, one of which featured humor at my younger self's expense. I didn't mind: It was a good tale and I am not that child any longer. It made me laugh and my friend did as well, relating a similar experience from his family's memories.
As my sister returned to her writing, my friend sat down to a game of cribbage, which I lost. Then a game of golf - similar to polish poker, except with nine cards instead of six - which I lost as well. I smiled and congratulated him on his uncanny luck, then rushed off to meet another friend at his campus cafeteria for dinner. As he is an RA, he is responsible for the enforcement of no alcoholic beverages in the dormitories. I brought along a 6-pack of IBC Cream Soda bottles as a friendly gift to play with the spirit of the prohibition while technically not breaking it.
He was happy to see me, thanking me for my presents of the drinks and a mix-cd featuring mid-2000's pop songs from my music library, but even more so with my presence. He reciprocated on the second gift with a mix of his own. (As I listened to the first 6 tracks on my way home, it has a considerably more 60's-70's ballad pop aesthetic.)
As we talked over dinner, we quoted Mean Girls, G.K. Chesterton, Scott Pilgrim vs. the World (mainly me as I am very fond of that movie), Princess Bride. I was taken aback when my friend mentioned he had only seen the last listed but once, and that was perhaps 9 years ago. Other friends greeted my friend as we ate, because he is a friendly sort of fellow and knows many people on campus.
As we walked back to his dormitory hall, we passed by a television... which happened to be playing the boulder scene from Princess Bride. I grinned at him and insisted that this was too coincidental an opportunity. Alas, I was that horrible person who got way too much enjoyment trying to quote every other line of dialogue, more often than not messing it up. (It had been a little while since I had last seen it as well.). An advertisement announced that Matilda was to be shown next week. My friend and I had discussed Roald Dahl's books over dinner, and I reminded him of the horrible plot elements from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I had been reading it to my two youngest sisters before bed and had learned from writer Patrick Rothfuss's take of its being a horrifying children's tale if read and taken seriously. (Rothfuss's review features some profanity, but is quite eye-opening and accurate.)
Although I have never seen the movie Matilda, I am very fond of Mara Wilson now that I follow her on Twitter. She is a wry and well-adjusted former child star who does not suffer fools lightly. And she plays the Faceless Old Woman who Secretly Lives in Your House in the podcast Welcome To Night Vale.
During a commercial break, I learned that my friend had performed in a talent show on campus and I complimented him on his snazzy style of piano-playing. My friend was pleased with my sentiment and told me that I didn't have to be so nice. I told him that "If I am not being 'too much,' I am not being enough." That made him laugh and he insisted on writing it down. I feel that way with most of my friends. I think that they are fantastic and am happy that I get to spend time with them.
After the Princess Bride ended with the words, "As you wish," the channel started The Sandlot. The only time I had seen that movie was with this friend, and it was after a poker night held at his house. I was satisfied with that being a one-time memory and it was getting late in the evening, so I bid my farewells and started homeward.
Good night, readers, good night...
Thursday, October 2, 2014
Boxer - Endings
As I have been working these past weeks, my mind dislodges previous memories and the impressions left behind are like little vulnerabilities. Not pain, but acute feeling in those areas, so I poke about in the memory wondering why it has come to light now. One of these is the memory of Boxer, the farm horse in Animal Farm by George Orwell. I don't typically reread books once completed, but Orwell makes a compelling argument to consider it on a case-by-case basis.
A revolution takes place on a farm, the pigs mastermind a plan to overthrow the yoke of their farmer and start their own government. As the book continues, the pigs gradually succumb to power's allure and become corrupted masters of their fellow creatures to a crueler degree than their former farmer. But it is worse because the pigs call this government "freedom" while enforcing psychological fear tactics, while before, animals knew they were slaves and did their jobs but were otherwise free.
Boxer is the farm horse who patiently endured the farmer's demands, but believes in the cause when the pigs propose this new government. His faith in the cause never wavers, even as the pigs go from making hiccup mistakes in government to outright treason of the original social contract. Whenever there is difficulty, Boxer repeats his mantra. "I must work harder." Boxer is a tragic character for many reasons, but is admirable all the same to me. Yes, he is being exploited, but I guess we all are in our own ways. I have my own deceptions which pain me to acknowledge. I want to grit my teeth and redouble my efforts instead of admitting weakness.
In the end, this character really sticks out as excellent in my mind, and though he isn't human, his flaws are altogether too much so. Animal Farm is a satire, an allegory, a modern day parable. It is many things. It is a story and the readers will each take away something different from the text. But there is a commonality of feeling and reference, though for varying reasons and amount of identification with the cast. I enjoy stories that connect with me emotionally and make me care about what happens to the character. Some ongoing stories I follow for the arc of one character.
To see what happens to them.
I am conflicted about endings, as they are a difficult thing to perform. They have no obligation to satisfy everyone, whether they be fictional or real life, but I can blame the writers in fiction. Perhaps they didn't give the justice I believed it should have been bestowed, but they owe nothing to their audience except to entertain their thoughts and attentions in exchange for time and money. Real life is trickier, as often I have no one to blame but myself for my lack of peace with any endings I encounter. Bitterness after the parting of ways with another, be they dead or dead to me. Bittersweet farewells as time was cut too short between diverging paths in life or death. But every so often, I have the grace to recognize an ending and enjoy it. The closing of a book after the final chapter (satisfying thump as I flip it over and sigh). The parting embrace of a friend as they go off to a new adventure (“For you shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace." - Isaiah 55:12. It lies in script above my back door at home).
And so many other smaller ones which I forget.
Until a time comes when my mind dislodges one of these memories, drifting like a fall breeze, and brings a smile to my face as it all comes full circle once more.
A revolution takes place on a farm, the pigs mastermind a plan to overthrow the yoke of their farmer and start their own government. As the book continues, the pigs gradually succumb to power's allure and become corrupted masters of their fellow creatures to a crueler degree than their former farmer. But it is worse because the pigs call this government "freedom" while enforcing psychological fear tactics, while before, animals knew they were slaves and did their jobs but were otherwise free.
Boxer is the farm horse who patiently endured the farmer's demands, but believes in the cause when the pigs propose this new government. His faith in the cause never wavers, even as the pigs go from making hiccup mistakes in government to outright treason of the original social contract. Whenever there is difficulty, Boxer repeats his mantra. "I must work harder." Boxer is a tragic character for many reasons, but is admirable all the same to me. Yes, he is being exploited, but I guess we all are in our own ways. I have my own deceptions which pain me to acknowledge. I want to grit my teeth and redouble my efforts instead of admitting weakness.
In the end, this character really sticks out as excellent in my mind, and though he isn't human, his flaws are altogether too much so. Animal Farm is a satire, an allegory, a modern day parable. It is many things. It is a story and the readers will each take away something different from the text. But there is a commonality of feeling and reference, though for varying reasons and amount of identification with the cast. I enjoy stories that connect with me emotionally and make me care about what happens to the character. Some ongoing stories I follow for the arc of one character.
To see what happens to them.
I am conflicted about endings, as they are a difficult thing to perform. They have no obligation to satisfy everyone, whether they be fictional or real life, but I can blame the writers in fiction. Perhaps they didn't give the justice I believed it should have been bestowed, but they owe nothing to their audience except to entertain their thoughts and attentions in exchange for time and money. Real life is trickier, as often I have no one to blame but myself for my lack of peace with any endings I encounter. Bitterness after the parting of ways with another, be they dead or dead to me. Bittersweet farewells as time was cut too short between diverging paths in life or death. But every so often, I have the grace to recognize an ending and enjoy it. The closing of a book after the final chapter (satisfying thump as I flip it over and sigh). The parting embrace of a friend as they go off to a new adventure (“For you shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace." - Isaiah 55:12. It lies in script above my back door at home).
And so many other smaller ones which I forget.
Until a time comes when my mind dislodges one of these memories, drifting like a fall breeze, and brings a smile to my face as it all comes full circle once more.
Wednesday, September 3, 2014
Walks - Bookshops
Today I used my lunch break to go for a walk in Bloomington. I was seeking out which way would lead to a Half Price Books, as I adore browsing their stores and this one is an Outlet, giving me visions of a larger storefront. (And, of course, a greater potential selection.).
However, it wasn't meant to be as I was unable to locate it on foot. That was only an excuse though, because my job requires little physical movement. The idea of searching town for such a place stirred me to a brisker trot.
I love being around books as some people love clothes shopping. I go to used bookstores like my friends go to Goodwill locations. There is a thrill of a rescuer, finding treasure from among a previous owner's castaway items. But once home, I don't always try the books on for size right away. They tend to sit on a shelf until I decide my mind and mood suit that offered adventure or educational opportunity.
I think in terms of examples relating things to other things, the relationships in between concepts and reality. It is how I perceive and contextualize the world. Clothes and food are nice, but my mind is even more hungry for new information and stories through which they shall be remembered for a time. My brain at any time is like a piece of paper - scrawled over and over with new markings on top of old. These newer ones are fresher and easier to focus upon and understand the workings, but the faded areas can still come to light when held up in the right time and place.
I checked the time. I had an hour for this walk and I had already used half of it. I walked into Caveat Emptor: Used and Rare Books. Ever since noticing it a few weeks back, I intended to use one of these breaks to explore the interior. Now an opportunity had arisen and I seized it.
The front area of the store had a cd rack, filled with a mish mash of albums I had never heard nor was likely to pick up from an ignorance of their nostalgic pull. The store looked like setting in a novel, not a storybook. Not perfectly laid out and clean, as there were faded and printed comic strips hanging on the ends of shelves, handwritten sectional signs to side rooms. A setting where time forgot to move for a while. Where books feel like they are awaiting the arrival of their prince or princess to wake them from long slumber. An area where treasures could be found alongside rare-for-a-reasons (Never caught on because there wasn't anything distinctively hooking the reader.) and bland, dust-jacketless books. Nothing caught my eye, but I admit I might have been blind to their value from my inexperience life and fine literature. One thing which made me smile with inward delight were the ladders on rails on one side of the shelves which reached ceiling level. I had never seen one of these systems in person. It made me think of Beauty and the Beast animated Disney film with Belle in the beginning bookstore scene. I restrained myself from hopping on one of them and riding it to the end of a line. I was dressed professionally - it would dishonor the uniform, myself, and most importantly: the books. There is something sacred about the written word in my mind's estimation.
Still, I knew what I was likely to like and asked if there were any books by G.K. Chesterton. The man behind the counter recognized the name and told me it wasn't likely: The man's books didn't stay on the shelves long even though he had been in the grave for the better part of the last century.
I was torn between being pleased and disappointed. The former because I was happy to know that I was not alone in enjoying his works, that people far more intelligent and experienced than I had a desire to pick it up. The displeasure arose from the fact of the lack. I had been hoping to discover an older edition of one of his books, something that I couldn't just order online for cheaper.
Part of the fun of going to secondhand shops is the story to accompany the story. Where and when I got something and how surprised and delighted I was to prosper in gleaning behind the main purchasers. Buying things online may be practical, but it is unromantic and clinical. Part of the reason I want to accumulate wealth stems from a desire to be a patron of bookstores. To be able to afford paying full price for works without a voice whispering that I am spending on books what I could have done on food, lodging, and transportation expenses.
I don't think I will escape it forever, but I should like to be a part of making sure such institutions survive into the next age of humanity. Books make me very happy, and I want to be supportive of people discovering the pleasure of literature in their own tastes and ways. Good night, I am tired.
However, it wasn't meant to be as I was unable to locate it on foot. That was only an excuse though, because my job requires little physical movement. The idea of searching town for such a place stirred me to a brisker trot.
I love being around books as some people love clothes shopping. I go to used bookstores like my friends go to Goodwill locations. There is a thrill of a rescuer, finding treasure from among a previous owner's castaway items. But once home, I don't always try the books on for size right away. They tend to sit on a shelf until I decide my mind and mood suit that offered adventure or educational opportunity.
I think in terms of examples relating things to other things, the relationships in between concepts and reality. It is how I perceive and contextualize the world. Clothes and food are nice, but my mind is even more hungry for new information and stories through which they shall be remembered for a time. My brain at any time is like a piece of paper - scrawled over and over with new markings on top of old. These newer ones are fresher and easier to focus upon and understand the workings, but the faded areas can still come to light when held up in the right time and place.
I checked the time. I had an hour for this walk and I had already used half of it. I walked into Caveat Emptor: Used and Rare Books. Ever since noticing it a few weeks back, I intended to use one of these breaks to explore the interior. Now an opportunity had arisen and I seized it.
The front area of the store had a cd rack, filled with a mish mash of albums I had never heard nor was likely to pick up from an ignorance of their nostalgic pull. The store looked like setting in a novel, not a storybook. Not perfectly laid out and clean, as there were faded and printed comic strips hanging on the ends of shelves, handwritten sectional signs to side rooms. A setting where time forgot to move for a while. Where books feel like they are awaiting the arrival of their prince or princess to wake them from long slumber. An area where treasures could be found alongside rare-for-a-reasons (Never caught on because there wasn't anything distinctively hooking the reader.) and bland, dust-jacketless books. Nothing caught my eye, but I admit I might have been blind to their value from my inexperience life and fine literature. One thing which made me smile with inward delight were the ladders on rails on one side of the shelves which reached ceiling level. I had never seen one of these systems in person. It made me think of Beauty and the Beast animated Disney film with Belle in the beginning bookstore scene. I restrained myself from hopping on one of them and riding it to the end of a line. I was dressed professionally - it would dishonor the uniform, myself, and most importantly: the books. There is something sacred about the written word in my mind's estimation.
Still, I knew what I was likely to like and asked if there were any books by G.K. Chesterton. The man behind the counter recognized the name and told me it wasn't likely: The man's books didn't stay on the shelves long even though he had been in the grave for the better part of the last century.
I was torn between being pleased and disappointed. The former because I was happy to know that I was not alone in enjoying his works, that people far more intelligent and experienced than I had a desire to pick it up. The displeasure arose from the fact of the lack. I had been hoping to discover an older edition of one of his books, something that I couldn't just order online for cheaper.
Part of the fun of going to secondhand shops is the story to accompany the story. Where and when I got something and how surprised and delighted I was to prosper in gleaning behind the main purchasers. Buying things online may be practical, but it is unromantic and clinical. Part of the reason I want to accumulate wealth stems from a desire to be a patron of bookstores. To be able to afford paying full price for works without a voice whispering that I am spending on books what I could have done on food, lodging, and transportation expenses.
I don't think I will escape it forever, but I should like to be a part of making sure such institutions survive into the next age of humanity. Books make me very happy, and I want to be supportive of people discovering the pleasure of literature in their own tastes and ways. Good night, I am tired.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
Rains - Oscillate
Last night I awoke to a storm outside my window. I was expecting an early start to my day, so I rolled over and checked my the time in the glow of my device and saw banner notifications from my social networks. I smiled, pleased that people responded to things I shared. Late night thoughts had an outlet at my fingertips, did I have anything I wanted to say? "Not really," I reflected as water fell against my window, lit by occasional bursts of lightning and punctuated by bass grumblings of thunder.
I am grateful to be alive and safe inside from the weather. I turn over and fall into a doze, knowing that I will need my rest or I will flag later on in the face of my day's demands. I keep on periodically checking how much time I have left before I need to dress for work. When that time comes, I stretch and stumble-hop to the door where I hung my clothes.
After I finish with that, I look up on my shelf for my bush hat. It is excellent shelter through days with heavy weather, whether it be the burning sun or chilling rain. I prefer the latter for many reasons. There is something cleansing about the rain. The sounds it makes whistling in the winds or shattering on the ground. Even the clap as it leaps back into the air in reaction to my footfalls. The earth drinks of heaven and remits back in evaporation what it cannot consume, a type of natural offering in the light of the sun's warmth.
There are cycles and I want to be on the positive wave of them, rising at their peaks and riding them to their depths. The joys in the highs and lows of life, wondering how it all rotates and returns to the start. Time changes the face of the world, the elements reshape where they contact. I am being renewed and learning what that means. Ever a new creature, dying every second and being resurrected on a microscopic level. The world is as it ever is, but my mind sorts out meanings and patterns, metaphors to better contextualize and understand how to respond to my environment and fellow organisms.
I am often slightly bothered by wondering who I am becoming exactly. It is easier not to think too hard about my future self's behavior, but to analyze my past actions and their consequences. Interpreting my patterns of habits and asking myself if I would like those attributes if they were to be found in someone else.
I pull away from my introspection in favor of focusing on the road ahead of me. Foster the People's album Torches plays softly from my stereo, the squeak of wipers sweeping the percussional beat of rain from my windshield. I flick the setting to double time, marveling in darkness at the pavement beneath, lit by the reflectors flashing past in the light of my headlamps. I know that roads were not always there, but for my lifetime they have been. I cannot quite picture a world untouched by these modern trailways connecting city to city. I wonder how long it would have taken me to get to my worksite in the absence of this conveyance method. What other means I might have used, what other work I might have taken if it had proved too arduous a trek.
Back to the task, I don't have to deal in fantasies. Reality is tricky enough without running these ghostly scenarios of what might have been, though it does reinforce appreciation for what I have when I am where I am. I am very thankful for all of these gifts I have been given in this age.
I pray for my friends and family, whispering petitions for their health, wellbeing, and growth between lyrics of the soundtrack to my commute. There are many songs I know about rain, though not as many about rainbows. One that I did not have on my playlist, but particularly springs to mind.
When the Rain Comes - Third Day.
"When the rain comes it seems that everyone has gone away.
When the night falls, you wonder if you shouldn't find someplace
To run and hide. Escape the pain. But hiding is such a lonely thing to do.
I can't stop the rain from falling down on you again.
I can't stop the rain, but I can hold you until it goes away.
When the rain comes you blame it on the things you have done.
When the storm fades, you know that rain must fall on everyone.
So rest awhile. It'll be alright: No one loves you like I do.
I can't stop the rain from falling down on you again.
I can't stop the rain, but I will hold you.
I can't stop the rain from falling down on you again.
I can't stop the rain, but I can hold you until it goes away.
When the rain comes, I will hold you."
If I had been in a different mood, a more contemplative and anxious desire would have reached for the song "Ready for the Storm." But that is another day. Right now I have the above song on my heart and a smile on my lips. The rain is a beautiful thing, sometimes terrifying in its fury and relentless in its intensity, but it is a part of my life. It would be the poorer without the blessing of a downpour. A reminder to look up at the clouds and know that there are things higher than myself.
I am grateful to be alive and safe inside from the weather. I turn over and fall into a doze, knowing that I will need my rest or I will flag later on in the face of my day's demands. I keep on periodically checking how much time I have left before I need to dress for work. When that time comes, I stretch and stumble-hop to the door where I hung my clothes.
After I finish with that, I look up on my shelf for my bush hat. It is excellent shelter through days with heavy weather, whether it be the burning sun or chilling rain. I prefer the latter for many reasons. There is something cleansing about the rain. The sounds it makes whistling in the winds or shattering on the ground. Even the clap as it leaps back into the air in reaction to my footfalls. The earth drinks of heaven and remits back in evaporation what it cannot consume, a type of natural offering in the light of the sun's warmth.
There are cycles and I want to be on the positive wave of them, rising at their peaks and riding them to their depths. The joys in the highs and lows of life, wondering how it all rotates and returns to the start. Time changes the face of the world, the elements reshape where they contact. I am being renewed and learning what that means. Ever a new creature, dying every second and being resurrected on a microscopic level. The world is as it ever is, but my mind sorts out meanings and patterns, metaphors to better contextualize and understand how to respond to my environment and fellow organisms.
I am often slightly bothered by wondering who I am becoming exactly. It is easier not to think too hard about my future self's behavior, but to analyze my past actions and their consequences. Interpreting my patterns of habits and asking myself if I would like those attributes if they were to be found in someone else.
I pull away from my introspection in favor of focusing on the road ahead of me. Foster the People's album Torches plays softly from my stereo, the squeak of wipers sweeping the percussional beat of rain from my windshield. I flick the setting to double time, marveling in darkness at the pavement beneath, lit by the reflectors flashing past in the light of my headlamps. I know that roads were not always there, but for my lifetime they have been. I cannot quite picture a world untouched by these modern trailways connecting city to city. I wonder how long it would have taken me to get to my worksite in the absence of this conveyance method. What other means I might have used, what other work I might have taken if it had proved too arduous a trek.
Back to the task, I don't have to deal in fantasies. Reality is tricky enough without running these ghostly scenarios of what might have been, though it does reinforce appreciation for what I have when I am where I am. I am very thankful for all of these gifts I have been given in this age.
I pray for my friends and family, whispering petitions for their health, wellbeing, and growth between lyrics of the soundtrack to my commute. There are many songs I know about rain, though not as many about rainbows. One that I did not have on my playlist, but particularly springs to mind.
When the Rain Comes - Third Day.
"When the rain comes it seems that everyone has gone away.
When the night falls, you wonder if you shouldn't find someplace
To run and hide. Escape the pain. But hiding is such a lonely thing to do.
I can't stop the rain from falling down on you again.
I can't stop the rain, but I can hold you until it goes away.
When the rain comes you blame it on the things you have done.
When the storm fades, you know that rain must fall on everyone.
So rest awhile. It'll be alright: No one loves you like I do.
I can't stop the rain from falling down on you again.
I can't stop the rain, but I will hold you.
I can't stop the rain from falling down on you again.
I can't stop the rain, but I can hold you until it goes away.
When the rain comes, I will hold you."
If I had been in a different mood, a more contemplative and anxious desire would have reached for the song "Ready for the Storm." But that is another day. Right now I have the above song on my heart and a smile on my lips. The rain is a beautiful thing, sometimes terrifying in its fury and relentless in its intensity, but it is a part of my life. It would be the poorer without the blessing of a downpour. A reminder to look up at the clouds and know that there are things higher than myself.
Tuesday, August 26, 2014
Haste - Pacing
For the past three weeks, I have been performing temporary data entry work at a location 42 miles from my home. Each morning, I get up early to the chiming of my device's alarm. Pick up a collared shirt, slacks, and tie off the doorknob in the dark. Sit down and put on my dress socks and shoes.
I am in my uniform for the day, tying off a simple knot in my tie. After my first day, I found that the others in my position level were not expected to wear ties. But I didn't want to come back the second day looking less professional, so it has become a touchstone. Something that I do to train myself in the habit of dressing up.
But what spurred me to write this is the curious practice of driving. After exiting my hometown, I hit a state road with a speed limit of 55-60 miles per hour. In my estimation, it is a reasonably lenient expectation. I want to just coast along in the left lane, going perhaps 5-7 miles above the speed limit for a cushion. My exit is a good 37 miles down the road, I don't have much need for hurry or changing lanes.
But each day, as I turn on to this road, I see cars taking the morning emptiness and routinely going 10-15 mph over the generous speed expectation. When I am gauging my car's position against theirs, I have the feeling that my car is moving slowly in their wake, but when glancing at my speedometer I wonder just how fast they are going. There is a temptation to match the flow of traffic pacing, not to look down and see where I stand in the law's reckoning.
I wonder further how this principle applies to other areas of life. Of how I sometimes feel like I am not making progress in comparison to those around me. I might not be paying attention to others who are measuring their behavior against mine and feeling bummed. I know that I am privileged in certain areas. I am grateful for the grace that has been given me, and I frequently pray about and remind myself not to squander such a gift.
There is a drive in me that wants to be more. It notices every fault I carry and mistake I make and pressures me with the suspicion that I could improve. This voice whispers if only I would focus and concentrate my energies on an area, I could excel and be an expert of sorts. But when I put my time and effort in one area above others, the others will fade accordingly to the drain on the attention placed in that one area.
It is a tricky thing to be alive and human. To be told that you have to be an A-level student, have a steady career path, a stable relationship, be well-informed person on current events, possess a presentable style and voice. There are days when I realize that I am not living up to my expectations. It is easy to be discouraged by this. But I have to take a deep breath, calm my mind and heart, and ask Christ. "How did you deal with this? How did you manage during your time on earth? What did you do with your time? How should I spend mine in bringing glory to Your name?"
As I get older, my knowledge of what I don't know keeps me humble. The knowledge that I can learn so much from everyone around me keeps me eager to help and learn in whatever way I can contribute. Balancing my life isn't easy, but I will focus on doing what I can with the options I have from moment to moment. I hope that the tools and skills I am creating, cultivating, and sharpening will prove useful down the road.
Until then, I will continue to rise early, array myself to face the day's demands, and try to enjoy the ride. Remembering that haste is a poor man's substitute to preparation in lead time and planning.
I am in my uniform for the day, tying off a simple knot in my tie. After my first day, I found that the others in my position level were not expected to wear ties. But I didn't want to come back the second day looking less professional, so it has become a touchstone. Something that I do to train myself in the habit of dressing up.
But what spurred me to write this is the curious practice of driving. After exiting my hometown, I hit a state road with a speed limit of 55-60 miles per hour. In my estimation, it is a reasonably lenient expectation. I want to just coast along in the left lane, going perhaps 5-7 miles above the speed limit for a cushion. My exit is a good 37 miles down the road, I don't have much need for hurry or changing lanes.
But each day, as I turn on to this road, I see cars taking the morning emptiness and routinely going 10-15 mph over the generous speed expectation. When I am gauging my car's position against theirs, I have the feeling that my car is moving slowly in their wake, but when glancing at my speedometer I wonder just how fast they are going. There is a temptation to match the flow of traffic pacing, not to look down and see where I stand in the law's reckoning.
I wonder further how this principle applies to other areas of life. Of how I sometimes feel like I am not making progress in comparison to those around me. I might not be paying attention to others who are measuring their behavior against mine and feeling bummed. I know that I am privileged in certain areas. I am grateful for the grace that has been given me, and I frequently pray about and remind myself not to squander such a gift.
There is a drive in me that wants to be more. It notices every fault I carry and mistake I make and pressures me with the suspicion that I could improve. This voice whispers if only I would focus and concentrate my energies on an area, I could excel and be an expert of sorts. But when I put my time and effort in one area above others, the others will fade accordingly to the drain on the attention placed in that one area.
It is a tricky thing to be alive and human. To be told that you have to be an A-level student, have a steady career path, a stable relationship, be well-informed person on current events, possess a presentable style and voice. There are days when I realize that I am not living up to my expectations. It is easy to be discouraged by this. But I have to take a deep breath, calm my mind and heart, and ask Christ. "How did you deal with this? How did you manage during your time on earth? What did you do with your time? How should I spend mine in bringing glory to Your name?"
As I get older, my knowledge of what I don't know keeps me humble. The knowledge that I can learn so much from everyone around me keeps me eager to help and learn in whatever way I can contribute. Balancing my life isn't easy, but I will focus on doing what I can with the options I have from moment to moment. I hope that the tools and skills I am creating, cultivating, and sharpening will prove useful down the road.
Until then, I will continue to rise early, array myself to face the day's demands, and try to enjoy the ride. Remembering that haste is a poor man's substitute to preparation in lead time and planning.
"Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest. I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all." - Ecclesiastes 9:10-11
Sunday, May 25, 2014
Everything - Aw[e]ful
Everything is awful, and you do not understand.
Look around the world, the thoughts that we command
Nothing is original, & everything’s been done.
Except the things that matter: those battles have not been
won.
Do you believe the news is factual? That is your opinion,
right?
I cannot say it is wrong. But I can boast that mine’s more
right.
Speaking of rights, do you know that you have none?
You sold away your privilege for security from smoking guns.
Not that guns are evil, but the concept of killing stands.
Who made you the judge and jury over the life of another
man?
And by the way about life? Why do you make a stand
About how and who a person loves and debate about
pro-choice?
If morals are not legally binding, and religion has no
voice,
What good is any notion of evil? Relativists could rejoice.
All actions and decisions of individuals defined by hazy
means.
If you do not know their life, no legitimate protest can be
seen.
Why do anything at all? You’ll be snared at any move.
Everything is awful. No matter what you do.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
Everything is aweful, and you do not understand.
Look around the world, the thoughts that we command.
We may not be original, but we do as best we can.
So many things matter to so many different people,
Their ends are not the same, but we are created equal.
There are problems, there is pain,
But such things cannot be evil.
I know that I can be as militant with words as with a gun,
I can choose to kill ambitions or
Defend others who are frozen in the sights of another one.
I must pick my battlegrounds carefully,
For I know when the fight have begun,
I am held responsible for the crossfire
Stray reports can injure by-standing daughters and sons.
I did not ask for this, but I have been given life.
I wish that others have a chance at the same
I want others to survive.
I do not know about how others will choose to live.
I am responsible for my own life, how much that I can give.
I am young today, but I know how short that will last.
I have hope that we’ll learn from the lessons of the past.
Everything is aweful and I wish you could understand.
I do all that I may become, who dares do more is a greater man.
Wednesday, March 5, 2014
Wesley - Work
I do not regret my sleeping patterns, yet I have a subconscious guilt about the hours I spend unconscious. Where is the line between slothfulness and sufficient satisfaction? It can vary from person to person. I heard of Charles Wesley's short hours of sleep, and in the selfsame article when cursorily confirming the exact hours, I uncovered this:
“A remarkable feature in Mr. Wesley's character, was his placability. Having an active, penetrating mind, his temper was naturally quick, and even tending to sharpness. The influence of religion, and the constant habit of patient thinking, had in a great measure, corrected this disposition. In general he preserved an air of sedateness and tranquility, which formed a striking contrast to the liveliness conspicuous in all his actions. Persecution, abuse, and injury, he bore from strangers, not only without anger, but without any apparent emotion; and what he said of himself was strictly true, that he had a great facility in forgiving injuries. No man was ever more free from jealousy or suspicion that Mr. Wesley, or laid himself more open to the impositions of others. Though his confidence was often abused, and circumstances sometimes took place which would have made almost any other man suspicious, yet he suspected no one; nor was it easy to convince him that any one had intentionally deceived him; and when facts had demonstrated that this was actually the case, he would allow no more than that it was so in that single instance. If the person acknowledged his fault, he believed him sincere, and would trust him again.” (Pulled from http://www.goforthall.org/articles/jw_bio.html).
Fascinating fellow, I need to learn that knack of patience and placability with people. It was a joint effort, in compliance to the service of his Savior, but I should pursue that discipline as well. To accept criticism and not aggressively defend my honest faults.
"Mr. Wesley was a most pertinacious adherent of the English establishment, and never dreamed of attempting the salvation of souls by preaching the gospel outside her church walls, until he was ruthlessly expelled from all her pulpits." (As above cited).
It appears that he did not seek the path that led him to where he ended up, but chose the avenue by the process of the elimination of other means. It reminds me of someone else in my life, who knew that something must be changed, but hadn't a clear vision on how, but a confidence in why they had to do it.
But this was the reason behind my initial inquiry:
"It may be asked, how was he able to accomplish so much? He improved every moment of every day to the very best advantage.
John Fletcher, who for some time was his traveling companion, says: “His diligence is matchless. Though oppressed with the weight of seventy years, and care of more than thirty thousand souls, he shames still, by his unabated zeal and immense labors, all young ministers of England, perhaps Christendom. He has generally blown the gospel trumpet and rode twenty miles before most of the professors, who despise his labors, have left their downy pillows. As he begins the day, the week, the year, so he concludes them, still intent upon extensive services for the glory of the Redeemer and the good of souls.”
In order to save time he, in the first place, ascertained how much sleep he needed; and when once settled, he never varied from it to the end of life. He arose at four o'clock in the morning, and retired at ten in the evening, never losing at any time, he says, ten minutes by wakefulness. The first hour of each day was devoted to private devotions; then every succeeding hour and moment were employed in earnest labor. His motto was, “Always in haste, but never in a hurry.” “I have,” he says, “no time to be in a hurry. Leisure and I have taken leave of each other.” (As above cited).
This is another tack for which I need reminding. To use every second, making it work for me. Excellence is not easy to attain. I need to aspire to greater levels rather than worry about the one on which I am on now. Thank you Lord, for your many servants, for the examples that they left, the testimonies of Your children's love for you. Let me not despise rest though, for You grant us that gift as well. Let me know moderation and the joy of life in all you have to offer.
“A remarkable feature in Mr. Wesley's character, was his placability. Having an active, penetrating mind, his temper was naturally quick, and even tending to sharpness. The influence of religion, and the constant habit of patient thinking, had in a great measure, corrected this disposition. In general he preserved an air of sedateness and tranquility, which formed a striking contrast to the liveliness conspicuous in all his actions. Persecution, abuse, and injury, he bore from strangers, not only without anger, but without any apparent emotion; and what he said of himself was strictly true, that he had a great facility in forgiving injuries. No man was ever more free from jealousy or suspicion that Mr. Wesley, or laid himself more open to the impositions of others. Though his confidence was often abused, and circumstances sometimes took place which would have made almost any other man suspicious, yet he suspected no one; nor was it easy to convince him that any one had intentionally deceived him; and when facts had demonstrated that this was actually the case, he would allow no more than that it was so in that single instance. If the person acknowledged his fault, he believed him sincere, and would trust him again.” (Pulled from http://www.goforthall.org/articles/jw_bio.html).
Fascinating fellow, I need to learn that knack of patience and placability with people. It was a joint effort, in compliance to the service of his Savior, but I should pursue that discipline as well. To accept criticism and not aggressively defend my honest faults.
"Mr. Wesley was a most pertinacious adherent of the English establishment, and never dreamed of attempting the salvation of souls by preaching the gospel outside her church walls, until he was ruthlessly expelled from all her pulpits." (As above cited).
It appears that he did not seek the path that led him to where he ended up, but chose the avenue by the process of the elimination of other means. It reminds me of someone else in my life, who knew that something must be changed, but hadn't a clear vision on how, but a confidence in why they had to do it.
But this was the reason behind my initial inquiry:
"It may be asked, how was he able to accomplish so much? He improved every moment of every day to the very best advantage.
John Fletcher, who for some time was his traveling companion, says: “His diligence is matchless. Though oppressed with the weight of seventy years, and care of more than thirty thousand souls, he shames still, by his unabated zeal and immense labors, all young ministers of England, perhaps Christendom. He has generally blown the gospel trumpet and rode twenty miles before most of the professors, who despise his labors, have left their downy pillows. As he begins the day, the week, the year, so he concludes them, still intent upon extensive services for the glory of the Redeemer and the good of souls.”
In order to save time he, in the first place, ascertained how much sleep he needed; and when once settled, he never varied from it to the end of life. He arose at four o'clock in the morning, and retired at ten in the evening, never losing at any time, he says, ten minutes by wakefulness. The first hour of each day was devoted to private devotions; then every succeeding hour and moment were employed in earnest labor. His motto was, “Always in haste, but never in a hurry.” “I have,” he says, “no time to be in a hurry. Leisure and I have taken leave of each other.” (As above cited).
This is another tack for which I need reminding. To use every second, making it work for me. Excellence is not easy to attain. I need to aspire to greater levels rather than worry about the one on which I am on now. Thank you Lord, for your many servants, for the examples that they left, the testimonies of Your children's love for you. Let me not despise rest though, for You grant us that gift as well. Let me know moderation and the joy of life in all you have to offer.
Saturday, January 25, 2014
Communication - Confusing
It would be laughable if it wasn't so frustrating.
Communication within my family is difficult precisely because of the imprecise assumptions about the flow of information around the house. It skips a few heads, we all nod and believe that we are on the same page, but are actually looking in different books.
Namely, there is the problem of my scheduling: I live my life in somewhat parallel to my family at this point. I only think to inform them of my tangentness in their plans when I expect them to intersect. Sometimes, I am surprised to discover that my participation in an activity is planned, but as my schedule is mostly free, (save the fixed points of college courses), it is usually amenable for me to be a part of those plans.
It is particularly ironic that given how available I am to communicating online, I appear to be the hardest to actually reach in the family. This paradox is not lost on my parents, and frustrates them when they do try to get in contact. I am not attempting to avoid their messages, but technology has lately failed me at key moments in the past week. They ask for solutions in which to better get through to me. I don't necessarily have better ideas, and if I make suggestions, I feel like they will ask me what I do with my time.
Time is a curious thing. I am not good at putting an accurate measurable valuation on it, but have no wish to waste others' use of it. The ways I choose to spend my time are sometimes frivolous and impulsive, but my madness keeps me sane for other, more important, moments. Truth is, that asking me whether something is worth my time or "of value" confuses me. Somehow, somewhere, somebody else can offer a price tag on my time. Those who do put a price tag on their time are subject to the judgment of others as to whether they would choose to pay for that person's attention to their problem.
But thoughts about how to begin down that path of evaluating my own value for services is a separate post for a separate time. When it comes down to details, it is difficult for me to justify me doing any individual action with financial or philosophical logic that it was the best choice available at the time.
(Well, except for the existential salvation that doing something creates meaning, which is absent from the choice of non-action, which is still something, but harder to quantify. Though often, there are moments in which I do wistfully wish to do nothing. It is a break and pause in which starting points in other directions can be taken. Staring into the abyss of doing nothing is enough to frighten somebody into leaving. Having to deal with pondering yourself and your life choices is akin to someone looking into the shadow they cast and trying to run faster, away from it into focusing on something else as a distraction.)
The above is why opening any philosophical door is dangerous. Once open, many unexpected guests wander through the portal and start to party in my head. It is not as easy to shut the door, be a buzzkill and tell them to shuffle off to the back of my brain until a better time comes. Perhaps in the middle of the night when I am helpless to affect anything on that cosmic scale.
Back to communication. That was the original spur to this post. Now you might have an idea of how frustrating it can be to get anything through to me. I cannot even write a blog post to my original point, get to the heart of the matter, and bow out with dignity. However, I do feel that this illustrates MY position much clearer than if I had taken the previous sentence's advice.
In the end, I want to be more conscientious about my intentions when concerning my family. I cannot assume that they know what is in my head, nor that something that I told one member of my family had been passed on to the rest. I have to pay careful heed that the people are aware of me as I am of them. To think of others rather than absently thinking that things will work out if everybody serves their own best interests. It may work in Adam Smith's idealized economic system at large, but in detail, the economics of human interaction are rife with complications and are delicately balanced.
Communication within my family is difficult precisely because of the imprecise assumptions about the flow of information around the house. It skips a few heads, we all nod and believe that we are on the same page, but are actually looking in different books.
Namely, there is the problem of my scheduling: I live my life in somewhat parallel to my family at this point. I only think to inform them of my tangentness in their plans when I expect them to intersect. Sometimes, I am surprised to discover that my participation in an activity is planned, but as my schedule is mostly free, (save the fixed points of college courses), it is usually amenable for me to be a part of those plans.
It is particularly ironic that given how available I am to communicating online, I appear to be the hardest to actually reach in the family. This paradox is not lost on my parents, and frustrates them when they do try to get in contact. I am not attempting to avoid their messages, but technology has lately failed me at key moments in the past week. They ask for solutions in which to better get through to me. I don't necessarily have better ideas, and if I make suggestions, I feel like they will ask me what I do with my time.
Time is a curious thing. I am not good at putting an accurate measurable valuation on it, but have no wish to waste others' use of it. The ways I choose to spend my time are sometimes frivolous and impulsive, but my madness keeps me sane for other, more important, moments. Truth is, that asking me whether something is worth my time or "of value" confuses me. Somehow, somewhere, somebody else can offer a price tag on my time. Those who do put a price tag on their time are subject to the judgment of others as to whether they would choose to pay for that person's attention to their problem.
But thoughts about how to begin down that path of evaluating my own value for services is a separate post for a separate time. When it comes down to details, it is difficult for me to justify me doing any individual action with financial or philosophical logic that it was the best choice available at the time.
(Well, except for the existential salvation that doing something creates meaning, which is absent from the choice of non-action, which is still something, but harder to quantify. Though often, there are moments in which I do wistfully wish to do nothing. It is a break and pause in which starting points in other directions can be taken. Staring into the abyss of doing nothing is enough to frighten somebody into leaving. Having to deal with pondering yourself and your life choices is akin to someone looking into the shadow they cast and trying to run faster, away from it into focusing on something else as a distraction.)
The above is why opening any philosophical door is dangerous. Once open, many unexpected guests wander through the portal and start to party in my head. It is not as easy to shut the door, be a buzzkill and tell them to shuffle off to the back of my brain until a better time comes. Perhaps in the middle of the night when I am helpless to affect anything on that cosmic scale.
Back to communication. That was the original spur to this post. Now you might have an idea of how frustrating it can be to get anything through to me. I cannot even write a blog post to my original point, get to the heart of the matter, and bow out with dignity. However, I do feel that this illustrates MY position much clearer than if I had taken the previous sentence's advice.
In the end, I want to be more conscientious about my intentions when concerning my family. I cannot assume that they know what is in my head, nor that something that I told one member of my family had been passed on to the rest. I have to pay careful heed that the people are aware of me as I am of them. To think of others rather than absently thinking that things will work out if everybody serves their own best interests. It may work in Adam Smith's idealized economic system at large, but in detail, the economics of human interaction are rife with complications and are delicately balanced.
Friday, January 24, 2014
Competition - Creation
My father loved competitive sports as a young man. In college, he taught one of his friends to play tennis. When the person started out, my dad critiqued him for hitting the ball too hard. The person responded, “I’ll get the placement down eventually, right now I want to learn how to hit with power.” And through work and practice, he did. Soon, he was beating my father, who is a finesse player rather than power. Not overwhelmingly, but effectively - his strategy had the potential to dominate and dictate my father’s reaction.
The point is control and proactiveness. I am studying business in my senior year as an accounting/finance major. One of my classes deals with strategy - being aware of the nature of the environment, narrowing the focus to accentuate strengths of myself and my team. Knowing what I want to do, and keeping track of the effectiveness of my actions, evaluating opportunities and choosing which fronts on which to compete.
Everything has a cost. To excel in everything will have a personal toll on my emotions, time, and patience. Most people pare down on commitments to maintain their sanity, imposing edges and frames to enclose a pretty picture. Such limitation is not cowardice, but a coping mechanism, a worldview by which they measure themselves against internal and external expectations. You can ALWAYS do more, but should you? Diminishing returns do apply - risks which are not worth the anticipated reward.
How much is enough? What will satisfy yourself? A good, honest day’s work, a feeling that I have accomplished something, made progress. Too much leisure is taxing as well, becoming a cage of a different kind. There is a balance between them. Leisure gives my mind an intangible reward in the form of a period of no obligations, a freedom to think and dream, listen and laugh. Work gives an outlet through which to apply the knowledge, make real the dreams, fund the leisure time with productivity. The weight of responsibility exercises my mind and body, testing my ingenuity to formulate solutions to issues.
I shouldn’t worry. Anxiety is good if it is a spur to press on rather than a barb which paralyzes decision making. But worrying about things I cannot change drains time from being expended towards things I can affect. Picking my battles, and realizing my position. I can be useful, I have to maintain a level head and be alert to opportunities in which to help.
Monday, January 6, 2014
Snow - Layers
Today was mainly spent in shoveling the snow from my family's drive every few hours. There was a steady fall all day, starting with heavier density and changing to lighter flakes by the end of the day. There is something of a lesson in shoveling snow from driveways. It is an obstacle that slowly accumulates, cutting off mobility and ability to drive and get places. It is not always fun, but it needs to be done or you will get nowhere. A little work applied consistently can maintain a feeling of progress and maintenance better than procrastination and an all-or-nothing effort at the end of the day.That said, the hours passed rather fast in between these sessions. I am contented to have a home by which I may shelter, food to munch upon, and hot drinks.
Oh, and a constructed a rather rough bloody snow angel sculpture. And a snow lizard, short lived as it was. Wings were hard to stick on the back of a snow sculpture, I got impatient after a few ambitious failures ended up on the ground.
I crocheted this hat. Very proud of it really.
Saturday, January 4, 2014
Munchkin - Madness
I didn't play it today, but one of my favorite game is Munchkin, by Steve Jackson Games. I have the Fu, Booty, and original sets by which to play it. (Aside: Do not buy the booty, it does not rock everywhere, the items are too specific and are ultimately frustrating, the classes almost irrelevant).
I mostly play the original set, with the Steed, Ranger, and Guild expansions. It is a card game of sorts in which there are two decks: Doors and Treasures. You start the game with 4 cards of each deck.
Doors have Monsters, classes, races, curses, steeds, hirelings, and a miscellany of other effects.
Races and classes modify your character's ability to progress in the quest to level 10.
Monsters are the primary means by which levels are gained, defeating them by adding your level number with the bonuses of items.
Treasures can grant your character items with combat bonuses to ease the transitions on the path to victory. A character can wear one set of headgear; footgear; armor, and use two hands.
The primary fun comes from the variations in the rules, as dictated by the script of the cards. For the winning level, you must defeat a monster, because some treasure cards grant an immediate level up. Alternatively, some items have a gold value printed along the bottom, selling a cumulative value of 1000 gold pieces is also acceptable for a level increase.
Each turn starts by the player flipping a door card face up. If it is a monster, the person must fight it. If it is not a monster card, the player has a choice between playing a monster card from their hand to fight, or accepting a face-down door to add to their hand. At the end of the chosen action, the player must reduce their hand to five cards: If there are other players with lower levels, the excess over five must be distributed to them as "charity." If the player is tied for or is the lowest level, the excess is discarded.
As aforementioned, the cards provide subversions and exceptions to these rules, or add additional abilities. Larger games are made more difficult, as the amount of cards available to undermine a player from successfully winning a combat for the last level will be numerous. Sometimes, a player can lose their vaulted position in the space of a turn. Or, a lowly player may ascend rapidly by using an overstocked "charity"-imbued hand from the beginning of a turn to play "Go Up level" cards and sell character-incompatible or redundant items.
Oh, and the item cards are irreverent and parody puns from dungeon-crawler games. It is a very enjoyable and competitive game.
I mostly play the original set, with the Steed, Ranger, and Guild expansions. It is a card game of sorts in which there are two decks: Doors and Treasures. You start the game with 4 cards of each deck.
Doors have Monsters, classes, races, curses, steeds, hirelings, and a miscellany of other effects.
Races and classes modify your character's ability to progress in the quest to level 10.
Monsters are the primary means by which levels are gained, defeating them by adding your level number with the bonuses of items.
Treasures can grant your character items with combat bonuses to ease the transitions on the path to victory. A character can wear one set of headgear; footgear; armor, and use two hands.
The primary fun comes from the variations in the rules, as dictated by the script of the cards. For the winning level, you must defeat a monster, because some treasure cards grant an immediate level up. Alternatively, some items have a gold value printed along the bottom, selling a cumulative value of 1000 gold pieces is also acceptable for a level increase.
Each turn starts by the player flipping a door card face up. If it is a monster, the person must fight it. If it is not a monster card, the player has a choice between playing a monster card from their hand to fight, or accepting a face-down door to add to their hand. At the end of the chosen action, the player must reduce their hand to five cards: If there are other players with lower levels, the excess over five must be distributed to them as "charity." If the player is tied for or is the lowest level, the excess is discarded.
As aforementioned, the cards provide subversions and exceptions to these rules, or add additional abilities. Larger games are made more difficult, as the amount of cards available to undermine a player from successfully winning a combat for the last level will be numerous. Sometimes, a player can lose their vaulted position in the space of a turn. Or, a lowly player may ascend rapidly by using an overstocked "charity"-imbued hand from the beginning of a turn to play "Go Up level" cards and sell character-incompatible or redundant items.
Oh, and the item cards are irreverent and parody puns from dungeon-crawler games. It is a very enjoyable and competitive game.
Friday, January 3, 2014
Secondary - Thought
This discipline is not proceeding as planned. Today started off nicely though, having a breakfast outing with my father and two younger siblings. My father lamented the loss of his hearing over the years, saying that he took it for granted for years, now he realizes more acutely the value through experiencing its fading. He smiled at the younger ones, remarking that they did not think of the future, entrusting their continued wellbeing to my mother and his care.
I value my time with my father; his insights are honed by years of experience and analysis. He doesn't care much for politics, but he does take care with people. It shows in his life and in his relationships, I admire him greatly as an example and influence. My education is confusing at times, as I realize that absolutes are no longer available. It isn't so much more a compass by which to steer a career course, but a series of quadrants by which to map out particular areas of emphasis and differentiation.
My father recognizes that his college experience was in a different world than the one I inhabit now. That jobs are not as readily available with a college degree, but are more competitive and encourage flexibility in commitment.
When I was homeschooled by my parents, they stressed the content of character above academic excellence. The focus was not in the quantity of achievements, but in the qualities of the person doing them.
I know that this is technically my own life to live, but I owe much of my motivation to not squandering the gifts which I have been give. I do not thank my family enough for the amount of time and love that they have lavished generously upon myself and my siblings. It is an honor and pleasure to be their son, and even when I feel faint and insecure about my future, I remind myself of the first chapter of Phillipians: "I thank my God every time I remember you. 4 In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy 5 because of your partnership in the gospel from the first dayuntil now, 6 being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."
My parents have lived their lives in an effort to embody these and many other words. I want to be a living testimony of the good news and grace which have been bestowed upon me. To reflect upon it and refract it in my actions. May the Lord grant me the strength to carry on, and the courage to stand firm.
I value my time with my father; his insights are honed by years of experience and analysis. He doesn't care much for politics, but he does take care with people. It shows in his life and in his relationships, I admire him greatly as an example and influence. My education is confusing at times, as I realize that absolutes are no longer available. It isn't so much more a compass by which to steer a career course, but a series of quadrants by which to map out particular areas of emphasis and differentiation.
My father recognizes that his college experience was in a different world than the one I inhabit now. That jobs are not as readily available with a college degree, but are more competitive and encourage flexibility in commitment.
When I was homeschooled by my parents, they stressed the content of character above academic excellence. The focus was not in the quantity of achievements, but in the qualities of the person doing them.
I know that this is technically my own life to live, but I owe much of my motivation to not squandering the gifts which I have been give. I do not thank my family enough for the amount of time and love that they have lavished generously upon myself and my siblings. It is an honor and pleasure to be their son, and even when I feel faint and insecure about my future, I remind myself of the first chapter of Phillipians: "I thank my God every time I remember you. 4 In all my prayers for all of you, I always pray with joy 5 because of your partnership in the gospel from the first dayuntil now, 6 being confident of this, that he who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion until the day of Christ Jesus."
My parents have lived their lives in an effort to embody these and many other words. I want to be a living testimony of the good news and grace which have been bestowed upon me. To reflect upon it and refract it in my actions. May the Lord grant me the strength to carry on, and the courage to stand firm.
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