Today I went to Italy-for lunch.
No reason, really. I guess I just finally decided to follow the advice of my friends and do something ridiculous. It had been a typically frustrating morning at work and I needed to escape. Not from work, or the state, or even the country. I needed to get off this continent. So I did. Informing my boss that I was going to lunch, I drove to the bank, checked my accounts and went to Italy. Wonder of wonders, there were no long lines at the airport, no smartalek security people. Noone on the plane fell asleep on my shoulder or drunk themselves silly. Just smooth sailing. The moment I arrived in Naples, I went straight to the local outdoor market. It was incredible. I walked amidst bustling locals, wandering tourists, and countless entertainers as I shopped. My carefree perusing took nearly an hour as I located the finest Italian bread I could find, a brick of excellent cheese, and seven perfectly ripened tomatoes-still on the vine! I found a quiet spot in the Parco Castello and relaxed as I enjoyed my feast and observed the passerbys. Couples walked by hand-in-hand, whispering to each other in beautiful Italian and breaking out in occasional soft laughter, business people strode hurriedly to get someplace where they felt important, mothers and children strolled in the shade, and I sat in the middle of it all. I shared some of my lunch with an old man who didn't say much-just that he thought it fine of me to visit. He suggested that I try some of the excellent wine he'd been making for over 80 years and I eagerly accepted the invitation. But his daughter soon came to collect him and I gathered from her apologetic glances that there probably wasn't any wine. I settled for a White Zinfandel from the vineyard just adjacent to the park. Fantastic stuff. The breeze off the sea tinged the air with just a pinch of salt, energizing and inspiring me at the same time. I never wanted to leave that moment. Just to hold on and relish the peace.
Finally I collected myself enough to realize it was past time to return where I belonged. So I carefully wrapped my Safeway brand cheese, bagged the 99 cent, day-old French bread, closed the lid to the plastic carton of tamatoes, and crushed my Coke can. With a sigh, I jumped off the stage in the abandoned auditorium, put my food in the fridge, grabbed a mop, and went back to work.
8.31.2004
8.30.2004
And so I write.
Music moves the soul. The written word conjurs up a picture more vivid and powerful then a thousand spoken. These two fantastic arts offer themselves to the masses, daring anyone to try and master them. Countless have attempted and all have failed, though a very few learn to speak through them. These select have learned to communicate in the language of angels. Through lines on a page or notes on a staff, they speak straight to the soul of man, moving him beyond anything else on this earth. One of my greatest hopes is to one day simply have studied the ways of music and the written word enough to offer just some little contribution.
When I sit to tinker on a piano, I always hope that an ear is better for catching the sound of my playing. Music frustrates me as I am never satisfied with the skill level I am at, and since it does not come naturally to me, my efforts to improve often end frustratingly quickly. My family is musical, my sister has always played piano well and my brother is skilled at both piano and guitar. It has always seemed to me that music comes naturally to them-they don't have to work as much at it to play well while I have been pounding out Chariots of Fire for the last three years. Likely, I am wrong and where they are is a result of countless hours of diligent work and practice over many years. Nevertheless, the fact remains that I am the least musically talented of the three children in my family, and also the most musical when it comes to listening. I love it all. Classical, alternative, skaw, swing, techno, pop, rock, christian, even the occasional clean hip hop or rap is welcome to these ears. Music is an incredible gift, blessing both those with the talent to make it and those fortunate enough to hear it.
Most often, I resort to writing. For people to read my words and shed tears, laugh, be challenged to think, and most of all catch a glimpse of the life and love of Christ-this is my dream. One of the cool things about writing is that, unless you lock everything away in a box and stuff it under your bed, you never know who might read it and be touched by it. Over the past few months, my greatest struggle in writing has been to find my own voice. It seems a simple problem, perhaps even ridiculous to those writers more accomplished or entirely devoid of any voice of their own. My personality naturally 'mirrors' what is around me-whether so I feel more secure or as a defensive measure, I don't know. For example, two weeks ago I was talking with an Englishman. Within 3 minutes I was butchering his accent as I unintentionally began speaking like him. So what do I sound like? What is me? Is this me? More then likely, I spend entirely too much time thinking about it and entirely not enough time discovering it. Life is a chaotic journey which seems intent on confusing me at every turn-writing helps me both understand and escape it. When I write, I feel more connected and more appreciative of the events in my life and the people around me. Yet even now I worry about this blog and whether it has any actual relevance. Does anybody really care about the musical talent in my family? Or that I think writing is important? Who wants to hear about my ten minute encounter with an Englishman? Probably noone. But that's alright, because I have learned just in writing this blog. Nothing is a waste as long as I learn from it. No job too boring, no day too long, no people too annoying. No waste. Just learning. And so I press on. Though my pen is often motionless either from lack of time or effort, it is forgiving enough. I write for me. I write for God. And so I write.
When I sit to tinker on a piano, I always hope that an ear is better for catching the sound of my playing. Music frustrates me as I am never satisfied with the skill level I am at, and since it does not come naturally to me, my efforts to improve often end frustratingly quickly. My family is musical, my sister has always played piano well and my brother is skilled at both piano and guitar. It has always seemed to me that music comes naturally to them-they don't have to work as much at it to play well while I have been pounding out Chariots of Fire for the last three years. Likely, I am wrong and where they are is a result of countless hours of diligent work and practice over many years. Nevertheless, the fact remains that I am the least musically talented of the three children in my family, and also the most musical when it comes to listening. I love it all. Classical, alternative, skaw, swing, techno, pop, rock, christian, even the occasional clean hip hop or rap is welcome to these ears. Music is an incredible gift, blessing both those with the talent to make it and those fortunate enough to hear it.
Most often, I resort to writing. For people to read my words and shed tears, laugh, be challenged to think, and most of all catch a glimpse of the life and love of Christ-this is my dream. One of the cool things about writing is that, unless you lock everything away in a box and stuff it under your bed, you never know who might read it and be touched by it. Over the past few months, my greatest struggle in writing has been to find my own voice. It seems a simple problem, perhaps even ridiculous to those writers more accomplished or entirely devoid of any voice of their own. My personality naturally 'mirrors' what is around me-whether so I feel more secure or as a defensive measure, I don't know. For example, two weeks ago I was talking with an Englishman. Within 3 minutes I was butchering his accent as I unintentionally began speaking like him. So what do I sound like? What is me? Is this me? More then likely, I spend entirely too much time thinking about it and entirely not enough time discovering it. Life is a chaotic journey which seems intent on confusing me at every turn-writing helps me both understand and escape it. When I write, I feel more connected and more appreciative of the events in my life and the people around me. Yet even now I worry about this blog and whether it has any actual relevance. Does anybody really care about the musical talent in my family? Or that I think writing is important? Who wants to hear about my ten minute encounter with an Englishman? Probably noone. But that's alright, because I have learned just in writing this blog. Nothing is a waste as long as I learn from it. No job too boring, no day too long, no people too annoying. No waste. Just learning. And so I press on. Though my pen is often motionless either from lack of time or effort, it is forgiving enough. I write for me. I write for God. And so I write.
8.25.2004
Stickmen
a paper, pen, a hand of sticks,
writes a picture for noone.
burning ink, time, and candle wicks,
hoping for the applause of some.
i look around and hear stick hands,
but stick hands belong to stick men,
if I long for the roar of much applause,
then i chase nothing, yet again.
we are all stick men,
so simple compared to one who draws.
the One who pens this story lets us live.
to His stickmen He chose to give:
freedom, life, love,
forgiveness, grace, mercy-
then why do I seek approval from simple men?
what does this paper have to offer?
this paper will burn,
its smoke will sting my eyes,
the cheers will turn to snapping,
of sticks in fire that never dies.
my stick hand belongs to a stick man,
and i too am on a page,
so who am i to withold the Artist's love and grace?
i must learn to serve the artist first,
His pen directs my path.
He breathes life into these worn-out sticks,
and stickmen will see at last.
writes a picture for noone.
burning ink, time, and candle wicks,
hoping for the applause of some.
i look around and hear stick hands,
but stick hands belong to stick men,
if I long for the roar of much applause,
then i chase nothing, yet again.
we are all stick men,
so simple compared to one who draws.
the One who pens this story lets us live.
to His stickmen He chose to give:
freedom, life, love,
forgiveness, grace, mercy-
then why do I seek approval from simple men?
what does this paper have to offer?
this paper will burn,
its smoke will sting my eyes,
the cheers will turn to snapping,
of sticks in fire that never dies.
my stick hand belongs to a stick man,
and i too am on a page,
so who am i to withold the Artist's love and grace?
i must learn to serve the artist first,
His pen directs my path.
He breathes life into these worn-out sticks,
and stickmen will see at last.
8.23.2004
I Remember
Memories haunt me. Sometimes they keep their distance; at others they are painfully close. Do not misunderstand me. I do not have a good memory-it is quite poor compared to most people, I am sure. Yet, when I hear Dare You to Move by Switchfoot, I go back to February, 2004, sitting on the railing of my cabin deck with two of my six roommates. As I sit in traffic waiting for a red light to turn green, I am swept back to sitting on a ferry, laughing with friends and making innocent mischief to pass the time. The memories of my past year are beautifully bittersweet, and to dwell on them is only to prolong the agony of a time gone and people I can no longer reach. Still I cannot resist this painful pleasure, and though I feel the bitterness of wishing for the past-it is sweet to remember the blessings.
I remember the big, rusty, noisy ferry that bore us to our beloved Thetis Island. I remember the ferry employees, who I was convinced had the dullest job in the world, and the seating area which was always too hot unless it was winter, of course, then it was far too cold. No matter what the weather, I almost always found myself leaning over the railing, mindlessly watching the water go by. Occasionally, a thought along the lines of, “I wonder how deep the ocean is here” interrupted my blissful silence, but thankfully these were rare moments. I remember the rumble of the engines beneath my feet, the gentle rolling and crashing as the big boat lurched over the occasional swell. I remember games of hackey sack, the fun heightened by the possibility off that one fated kick which would send the ball of bean-filled fabric over the side and into the sea. I remember how I felt so much at home when the rolling green lawns of Capernwray came into view. That white Tudor mansion, the cabins tucked away into the woods, and the fine mist over the cow pastures is still a perfect picture of paradise in and yet away from, this world.
I remember six perfectly imperfect roommates with different personalities, interests, and dreams but only one purpose: to love God and love others. I remember how much each one of them meant to me, and how badly I wanted to show that I loved them. I remember rules (and laws) broken, 10:30 curfews stretched till one, and long conversations about everything from life and love to trucks and hot tubs. I remember wrestling matches, poker games, the disgusting noises Jeremy makes when he wakes up, and how Keith got up at 7:25 and still managed to attend 7:30 breakfast, somehow able to shower, dress, and take a nap along the way. I remember fifty dollars that bought an old, red, riding lawn mower which allowed us to spend countless hours disturbing the peace, damaging property, and endangering our own lives. I remember longboarding until dark and making ‘just one more run’ down the hill, and how it resulted in a night at the hospital doting over my roomate’s separated shoulder and stitched face. I remember a toilet which refused to work properly, a dysfunctional shower, and a sink which served as a hand-washing-toothpaste-spitting-shaving-kitchen-cooking-macaroni-mayhem facility. I remember a weathere3d, green chair which cost only eight dollars at a flea market. We were so proud of our green chair, though if anyone kept count, they would find it held many more piles of clothes over the year then it did bodies.
I remember the truth of Christ proclaimed every day. I remember nights spent alone with God, struggling to hear Him through the walls I had built. I recall trying to stamp out His promise of peace and rest, while at the same time desiring it above all else. I remember His faithfulness in the midst of my faithlessness. I remember playing football in the rain, lifting weights in a barn, listening to Coldplay during a storm, and the pride I felt when there was a coveted letter from home in my mailbox. I remember graduation. One by one our names were called, verses read and hands shaken. Joy mixed with tears as some left that night. I remember one last sunrise over the ocean, a blur of goodbyes, tears, hugs, and promises to write. I remember stepping onto that big, rusty, noisy ferry one last time. As we pulled away from the dock, I looked back at my beloved Thetis Island, beautiful Capernwray, home sweet home. Numbly I wished I could start it all over again, but it was finished. I wanted to meet my friends again for the first time, to gaze wonderingly into the face of Jesus as I first begin to really love Him. I wish for one more workday, one more night laughing at ourselves, and playing games too stupid to ever play again. I remember a year that is unforgettable and forever sealed in my mind and heart, people who have impacted me beyond imagination, and a God who worked despite me to bring me to Himself and show me how to love.
I remember the big, rusty, noisy ferry that bore us to our beloved Thetis Island. I remember the ferry employees, who I was convinced had the dullest job in the world, and the seating area which was always too hot unless it was winter, of course, then it was far too cold. No matter what the weather, I almost always found myself leaning over the railing, mindlessly watching the water go by. Occasionally, a thought along the lines of, “I wonder how deep the ocean is here” interrupted my blissful silence, but thankfully these were rare moments. I remember the rumble of the engines beneath my feet, the gentle rolling and crashing as the big boat lurched over the occasional swell. I remember games of hackey sack, the fun heightened by the possibility off that one fated kick which would send the ball of bean-filled fabric over the side and into the sea. I remember how I felt so much at home when the rolling green lawns of Capernwray came into view. That white Tudor mansion, the cabins tucked away into the woods, and the fine mist over the cow pastures is still a perfect picture of paradise in and yet away from, this world.
I remember six perfectly imperfect roommates with different personalities, interests, and dreams but only one purpose: to love God and love others. I remember how much each one of them meant to me, and how badly I wanted to show that I loved them. I remember rules (and laws) broken, 10:30 curfews stretched till one, and long conversations about everything from life and love to trucks and hot tubs. I remember wrestling matches, poker games, the disgusting noises Jeremy makes when he wakes up, and how Keith got up at 7:25 and still managed to attend 7:30 breakfast, somehow able to shower, dress, and take a nap along the way. I remember fifty dollars that bought an old, red, riding lawn mower which allowed us to spend countless hours disturbing the peace, damaging property, and endangering our own lives. I remember longboarding until dark and making ‘just one more run’ down the hill, and how it resulted in a night at the hospital doting over my roomate’s separated shoulder and stitched face. I remember a toilet which refused to work properly, a dysfunctional shower, and a sink which served as a hand-washing-toothpaste-spitting-shaving-kitchen-cooking-macaroni-mayhem facility. I remember a weathere3d, green chair which cost only eight dollars at a flea market. We were so proud of our green chair, though if anyone kept count, they would find it held many more piles of clothes over the year then it did bodies.
I remember the truth of Christ proclaimed every day. I remember nights spent alone with God, struggling to hear Him through the walls I had built. I recall trying to stamp out His promise of peace and rest, while at the same time desiring it above all else. I remember His faithfulness in the midst of my faithlessness. I remember playing football in the rain, lifting weights in a barn, listening to Coldplay during a storm, and the pride I felt when there was a coveted letter from home in my mailbox. I remember graduation. One by one our names were called, verses read and hands shaken. Joy mixed with tears as some left that night. I remember one last sunrise over the ocean, a blur of goodbyes, tears, hugs, and promises to write. I remember stepping onto that big, rusty, noisy ferry one last time. As we pulled away from the dock, I looked back at my beloved Thetis Island, beautiful Capernwray, home sweet home. Numbly I wished I could start it all over again, but it was finished. I wanted to meet my friends again for the first time, to gaze wonderingly into the face of Jesus as I first begin to really love Him. I wish for one more workday, one more night laughing at ourselves, and playing games too stupid to ever play again. I remember a year that is unforgettable and forever sealed in my mind and heart, people who have impacted me beyond imagination, and a God who worked despite me to bring me to Himself and show me how to love.
8.18.2004
The Philosophies of Chewing Gum
An essay from beginning of summer. More for content then current relevance. Such deep topics. :)
My Piece of Gum
I will begin by describing my surroundings. More as an exercise to get my own thoughts flowing as opposed to providing any real benefit to the piece. It's a drab office, complete with standard white walls (textured to provide some minimal visual stimulation), desk of the wrap-around sort, three black file cabinets, a table surrounded by three chairs, bookcase, computer and an abnormally large calendar which threatens to schedule my life from now until next July with frighteningly aggressive efficiency. I am sure that the light colors of the carpet were intended to have a soft, calming effect on agitated office dwellers, but years of use and neglect have turned it into a minor eyesore. I sit in this office which is not my own, slumping in someone else's chair, which provides far too much lumbar support to be comfortable, typing a nonsensical message on a stranger's computer. Life is good.
Perhaps one of the most important accessories of both the social and work conscious professional is the stick of gum. I am currently chewing on a full stick of Wrigley's Winterfresh gum, color blue. Two hours have passed as I absentmindedly chew, nibble, mash, and blow bubbles with this marvelous creation. I know nothing about the origin of gum, how it is made, or the history of its consumption by the human race. I suppose I should delve into details and attempt to produce some fact or humorous tidbit that would make this post worthwhile. Sorry to disappoint, though I am happy to submit my own theories on this sticky subject. Gum was rationed during my younger years, banned from school as I came of age, and is eternally surrounded by rules which seem determined to hinder my enjoyment of gum as much as possible. Until about the age of ten, the amount of gum I was allowed to enjoy at one time was limited to one-half of a standard stick of Carefree Sugarless Gum. Needless to say, half a stick of gum hardly met my needs, sugarless gum no less! Thinking I had found a loophole in the law, I simply took multiple one-half segments, generally spaced at five minute intervals, thus satiating my cravings with a clear conscience. Certaintly one of the most well known rules governing gum usage is that old sobscenity familiar to so many youngsters the world over: "Chew with your mouth closed." It is not that I disagree with the essence of the rule. By all means, good manners should be observed whenever possible and convenient. It's just that I never found a way to operate my jaw correctly on the hideously large amount of gum I required and be able to keep my mouth closed at the same time. Naturally, sacrifices had to be made and I was branded as a rude child early on. Finally, I view gum as something of a symbol of rebellion to be relished by young people. I believe the majority of schools do not allow their students to chew gum in class. This, one of the last bastions of childhood, so cruely ripped from the grasp of the next generation. Chewing gum becomes one more way to stick it to the man, while freshening breath and destroying tooth enamel. So go ahead, friends. Chew your gum loudly and with reckless abandon, stick it to the man as you carelessly toss your used Wrigley's on a sidewalk where someone is sure to step on it. Indulge and blow a bubble of delicious Bazooka in English class, and as you have the odacity to munch on a stick of Carefree during a visit to the dentist, remind him with a smile that it's sugarless! O, and always remember--I like gum.
My Piece of Gum
I will begin by describing my surroundings. More as an exercise to get my own thoughts flowing as opposed to providing any real benefit to the piece. It's a drab office, complete with standard white walls (textured to provide some minimal visual stimulation), desk of the wrap-around sort, three black file cabinets, a table surrounded by three chairs, bookcase, computer and an abnormally large calendar which threatens to schedule my life from now until next July with frighteningly aggressive efficiency. I am sure that the light colors of the carpet were intended to have a soft, calming effect on agitated office dwellers, but years of use and neglect have turned it into a minor eyesore. I sit in this office which is not my own, slumping in someone else's chair, which provides far too much lumbar support to be comfortable, typing a nonsensical message on a stranger's computer. Life is good.
Perhaps one of the most important accessories of both the social and work conscious professional is the stick of gum. I am currently chewing on a full stick of Wrigley's Winterfresh gum, color blue. Two hours have passed as I absentmindedly chew, nibble, mash, and blow bubbles with this marvelous creation. I know nothing about the origin of gum, how it is made, or the history of its consumption by the human race. I suppose I should delve into details and attempt to produce some fact or humorous tidbit that would make this post worthwhile. Sorry to disappoint, though I am happy to submit my own theories on this sticky subject. Gum was rationed during my younger years, banned from school as I came of age, and is eternally surrounded by rules which seem determined to hinder my enjoyment of gum as much as possible. Until about the age of ten, the amount of gum I was allowed to enjoy at one time was limited to one-half of a standard stick of Carefree Sugarless Gum. Needless to say, half a stick of gum hardly met my needs, sugarless gum no less! Thinking I had found a loophole in the law, I simply took multiple one-half segments, generally spaced at five minute intervals, thus satiating my cravings with a clear conscience. Certaintly one of the most well known rules governing gum usage is that old sobscenity familiar to so many youngsters the world over: "Chew with your mouth closed." It is not that I disagree with the essence of the rule. By all means, good manners should be observed whenever possible and convenient. It's just that I never found a way to operate my jaw correctly on the hideously large amount of gum I required and be able to keep my mouth closed at the same time. Naturally, sacrifices had to be made and I was branded as a rude child early on. Finally, I view gum as something of a symbol of rebellion to be relished by young people. I believe the majority of schools do not allow their students to chew gum in class. This, one of the last bastions of childhood, so cruely ripped from the grasp of the next generation. Chewing gum becomes one more way to stick it to the man, while freshening breath and destroying tooth enamel. So go ahead, friends. Chew your gum loudly and with reckless abandon, stick it to the man as you carelessly toss your used Wrigley's on a sidewalk where someone is sure to step on it. Indulge and blow a bubble of delicious Bazooka in English class, and as you have the odacity to munch on a stick of Carefree during a visit to the dentist, remind him with a smile that it's sugarless! O, and always remember--I like gum.
8.17.2004
A Death
Tonight I received the news that Jeff, a friend I went to Bible school with, died with his father in a car accident today. I feel a blur of sadness, soberness, and confusion; but something in me refuses to accept it. Somewhere in my soul I feel the unnaturalness of death, that this isn't supposed to happen, it's not real. My mind understands that a terrible event has happened, but my heart recoils at the thought. I have no words. I have no prayers. Thank you, God, that You reads our hearts and not our words, because I have none.
the road is narrow,
but it winds.
these wings are broken,
but they still fly.
the hill is high
but not too steep.
these eyes are closed,
but do not sleep.
if broken wings still fly,
and two closed eyes can see,
i look at you with questions,
of what this life might be.
the answer comes despite the things,
which rise up in the way,
and we fly on broken wings,
tho tears may fall today.
the room is cold,
but you stay,
the hurt is real,
you don't feel the pain.
this place is dark,
but you will be my light.
the day is dark and heavy,
but we fly on broken wings.
the road is narrow,
but it winds.
these wings are broken,
but they still fly.
the hill is high
but not too steep.
these eyes are closed,
but do not sleep.
if broken wings still fly,
and two closed eyes can see,
i look at you with questions,
of what this life might be.
the answer comes despite the things,
which rise up in the way,
and we fly on broken wings,
tho tears may fall today.
the room is cold,
but you stay,
the hurt is real,
you don't feel the pain.
this place is dark,
but you will be my light.
the day is dark and heavy,
but we fly on broken wings.
8.16.2004
New Beginnings
"Every new beginning is some other new beginnings end." Words from a song or quote I believe. I suppose I should say something profound to kick off my blog, the success of which is doubtful. What do I intend to accomplish with this blog? To become a better writer, express myself clearly, and above all to have an avenue I can vent in with reckless abandon. Blogging is like freelance writing with publications that have to print me. It's wonderful that way. As a byproduct, any wandering eye is allowed a glimpse into my boring, overly uneventful life. Frankly, I pity them. However, I begin in the name of writing, alliteration, rhyme, and with a tip of my hat to better writers like Galen Sanford, Sharon Barbour, Brian Lowen, and a few others who inspire me to take up my pen and press on through the madness of writing.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)