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.

Flood - Rush

Run, Run, it is all I ever do.
Fancy myself like the BBC's Doctor?
It takes more than merely that trait.
For he is good under pressure
And ever finds a way to save everyone.
I barely save myself in the course of a day.
Besides, as for my hair, it trends towards
The messiness of the jesting Smith,
Not the dashing cut of Tennant's kingly reign.

If I envision myself Nathaniel Ford from TNT's Leverage.
No, the description stops right there.
While I make last minute adjustments as well
His are like a chess game
(At which I hadn't the patience to excel).
No, mine are more akin to the delusions of Colin 'Chaos.'
Thinking I have it all sorted and failing nonetheless.
(Also, I haven't Wil Wheaton's legendary facial foliage).

Why should I think myself a writer?
Neil Gaiman's out of reach in offbeat imagination.
(His ideas have a flavor of an alternate world
Where the odd and everyday collide).
P.G. Wodehouse's plots are woven brilliance en masse.
(Though it is the same note 100 times over
The song feels pleasantly fresh).

No, I am happier enjoying others' work
and sittiing on the side of the pool
While my friends encourage me to jump
in and work out my own plots and paths.
Swimming lost its savor when so many
instructors told me I was doing it wrong -
I could stay above the water,
but not with grace and efficiency.

Why do my plots feel inhumane?
I don't like killing characters,
(it feels like a cheap cop-out on my
part - the character's death has to be
significant).
But I don't treat them as people either.
I am reluctant to take from my own life's
experiences, but am not learned enough
to make claims about another life.

The closest I come is Writeception -
Writing about writers writing characters.
It is horribly confusing who is telling the story.
If there is one thing I have learned from
the Dramatic Monologue style of poetry
It is that the narrator may not be trustworthy.
But, as you are observing events
through the speaker's eyes,
You must implicitly trust a little.

Is the Poet a puppetmaster behind the scenes?
Or a chronicler of small wonders in the day?
(Whether actually witnessed or imagined.)
Learned about the 'flaneur'
A french word ripe with meaning.
Describing a well off, intellectual who
Never buys things from stores.
He window shops and admires
But observes others participating
in the market system.

The flaneur is part of the scene,
but is really a parasite.
An attractive parasite,
but one nevertheless.
Poets are like that.
Can I be too?