Flux, Return, Aspire

I was a dream in passing,
While leaving off this life
(If only for a moment's rest
out of th' infernal strife.)

I mossied with the flowers,
Took in a fickle fair,
Then dressed myself in all the best:
Before my God laid bare.

And then came Now's damnation.
Now I'm back to here.
And only hope to live in peace,
and not eternal fear.

Story III

It was dark.

Dark, but blessedly silent. I was alone in the place of my dream's birth.

Now, I'm not sure if you're personally aware of that place in the dark where dreams come from; Cool and crisp to those senses that still seem to work though no body is attached to which they might belong. At least, that is how it feels when it is not filled with voices of damned souls. This place in the cool dark of your mind is an embodiment of potential growth when your mind and soul are healthy and whole. When that place is peaceful, then you are at peace while there.

I lay there in that dark nowhere for a moment just enjoying the sanctity of the pure essence around me. I was lost in the joy of green growing things of the soul that soak in the the sun and rain of Heaven when I became aware of a sound. It was almost a voice, but somehow beyond my hearing. Though I could not repeat the words, for I know them not, when I listened only to that sweet sound that whispered in the corners of my mind I had the distinct impression that I was being called...

... but not knowing the language, nor the speaker, I could not reply. So I simply lay and listened. I knew the voice was speaking to me, and I knew somehow that it belonged to a lovely person. I was quite flattered as I lay there and listened to this comforting voice. I thought that perhaps I had somehow regained the power to dream, and that this was just the way that my subconscious was welcoming me back. I was quite pleased with myself.

Then the voice stopped.

Before I had the time to wonder at this I found myself no longer in the cool darkness of my mind, but instead under the shadow of a great cliff that loomed not twenty feet from where I lay. The cliff shot up at a straight angle from the ground, and climbed to what seemed like painfully sharp and unwelcoming points a vast distance above me.

This by itself most unsettling. The image these cliffs presented was awe filled; the combination of height and angular settings of rock made it seem as though it was all just a moment away from coming down upon me in all fury and haste to force my life from my body after scaring me out of my wits. (Strange as this may sound, I assure you that you would have thought something similar if you had been there alone and without any idea of what the place was and why you were there.)

I closed my eyes as soon as I had possession of my wits again. You see I was quite confused as well as frightened. This was not the sort of place I often found myself when I dreamed. I almost never was afraid while I dreamed, and as this was most definitely the state that I was in I was most disoriented.

I decided to try and leave this place for another, so I thought of a lovely scene filled with autumn leaves and a happy tinkling stream with butterflies flitting about above it. I then sat up with my eyes closed, prepared myself as best I could for whatever would come next, and opened them to see...

... butterflies! Lovely butterflies flitting about a beautiful little valley. A beautiful little valley with a happy tinkling stream flowing through it... as it sat at the foot of the monstrous cliff, now spotted here and there with clumps of moss resting on the rocks that still threatened to topple and crush me to bits.

I was quite confused.

Faith: the basis of fiction

Myth, or fiction in general, has always struck me in to the core of my understanding as being a blessing from God. However, I've never really been able to say why.

But tonight as I started to drift off to sleep after reading a well written book I was gifted with a bit of understanding.

The making of a new story, of a myth of any sort, (and all fiction involves myth,) saves us from the sin of pride while allowing us to still honestly seek the truth. For a Christian author, (being a tool of God) writing can become a freeflow of divine knowledge of a sort. Not a perfect understanding, but general outline of how miraculous and yet informed and purposeful the happenings of life are. A likely story has more power to create faith than what we would call scientific fact, though you can "prove" the latter and not the former. Faith is based on what could be done, not on what we can make happen.

The likely story, or myth, allows us an insight into miracles, grace and true love that cannot be comprehened in any way by a scientific study; for a scientific study is centered not around Truth, but us knowing the Truth. We are the center of that study. Whereas myth allows us to lose ourselves in wonder after the ways that God could work. It takes away the possibility for pride because the story is not about us: it's about the miracles that created the story, and thus centered around the Creator Himself.

That is why I like myth. That is why fiction is my favourite flavour of literature. Because it is centered around God, and worthless if it is not based on His grace.

Thief

In the darkness before dawn the shadow may move,
in the darkness the soft foot may fall,
in the darkness the watcher may wait at a distance,
in the darkness he may climb the wall.

In the shadows the dog may stir in it's sleep,
in the shadows the masked man may kneel,
in the shadows the gloved hand may ruffle the fur,
in the shadows no threat may he feel.

In the darkness the window may open itself,
in the darkness a figure jumps high,
in the darkness that figure may slip through the house,
in the darkness that figure may sigh.

In the morning the husband may wake from his bed,
in the morning he'll walk down the hall,
in the morning he'll see a window lock broke,
in the morning he'll examine it all.

In the morning that husband will check the whole house,
in the morning, in search of a thief,
in the morning a wife will cry in distress,
in mourning, and then with relief.

In the morning a couple who once was dirt poor,
in the morning they'll find a great gift,
in the darkness the burden of debt that they bore,
that darkness a shadow did lift.

Bodhran Anyone?

Work was a bit slow today... but once I got home the relaxing really started as I tried (and failed most miserably) to imitate some of the sounds that John Joe Kelly creates on his bodhran in a video that I ran into today during one of those slow moments. This man is the best bodran player that I have ever witnessed! I want so dearly to see him live!

And it may be possible... he is in a band named Flook. And they do tour a bit... so it's possible... I may get to see a legend someday... wouldn't that be fun?

-Josh

Story II

Then the darkness came...

Now, when I say darkness I do not mean you to understand that it was always night. Nor that I went blind in the waking world. What I mean is that when I went to sleep, and was in that state where dreams are created I found myself to be incapable of creating them. It was as though a hand was holding back my ability to create in the dreamworld. Indeed, as time progressed and this occurred more and more often I decided that something was actually stopping me from dreaming.

I am not about to let something stop me from resting properly, so I did the only sensible thing: I changed my diet. As this failed to change anything at all, expect my experiences in the lieu, I started to pray about it instead.

And nothing happened.

Now, in the modern American Evangelical Church this is of little consequence. So I kept praying, expecting that some sin in my heart was getting in the way of my being a vessel of the Holy Spirit. I forgave everyone that I could think of. I kept myself from all the sins I knew. I stopped speeding. I said please and thank you. Nothing worked. My prayers and requests still seemed to get stuck in the walls of my room, echoing in the immeasurable void that separated me from my maker.

Then one frustrated night at a youth service I decided to ask my pastor to pray over me. I would not explain to him what it was that I wanted, I simply ask him to pray for me. I had decided that if this truly was a spiritual problem then the Lord would show him what he needed to know, and he would be given the words that needed to be said. I went forward after the service hoping for guidance and peace, though not at all sure I would find it.

I cannot say what I expected to happen, but I can say that it was not what occurred. When I went up to my pastor and asked for prayer he simply closed his eyes, placed his hand on my head and said, "Father, help your child to hear your voice clearly, and open his eyes."

I was, without a doubt, disappointed with my pastor. I had come to him in what could have been the crowning moment of spiritual revelation in my young adult life, and he had blown it. I consoled myself on the way home by telling myself that he was just having an off day, and that maybe if I did the same thing next week God would be able to work through him then. I soon arrived home, having never doubted that relying on someone else's spiritual life was my key to happiness and a good nights rest.

That night I slept very poorly.

No longer was there just darkness swallowing up my mind, but there were sounds in the darkness. Not voices. No, these resembled nothing made for communication. These were just sounds of horror. I cannot explain it properly. Just as pure silence can be the most distracting of noises, so these sounds told the most putrefying tales of torture and pain. Try though I did throughout that long darkness I could not wake myself from this hell. Though I had gone to bed late into the night, when I woke with the rising of the sun I was thankful for it.

It was that morning that I did the most sensible thing I've ever done in the entirety of my life: I got on my knees and prayed with the whole of my heart. I acknowledged that I was small, I confessed that I was a fool and I pleaded for forgiveness and help. I'd never felt like less of a person in my life, but I've discovered later in life that this is how one feels when being completely honest about oneself before God, and I've come to realize that this was the real moment of my conversion.

Do not doubt me, I had certainly believed in the existence of God before this morning. But who can say that when they first believed as a young adult that God existed that they understood just what it means to be completely below Him, and powerless in comparison to Him? If anyone can boast that they have been humbled in this manner since childhood then may God rain blessings down upon their head, but I am not such a one. I believed in a maker, in an ordainer, and in a fixer of my larger problems. And I took it on other's witness that the relationship between man and this maker could be a very personal one, but I had never experienced it myself. I respected this "God" fellow, but kept my distance. I had always preferred to say my prayers to Him, not converse with Him.

But now I was humbled. No longer the proud boy who mistook a pastor's blessing for empty words, yet I had no confidence to go on. I had been a fool and I knew it. So conversation with that Maker was beyond me.

The rest of that day was a miserable experience, as was the following night, for I would not let myself sleep for fear of the return of those evil sounds in the darkness of my mind. But by the next night it was too much for me; I found myself once more in the place where I used to create my dreams, the place where the darkness was.

[[: To Be Continued:]]

Story I

I awoke as I usually do: my senses telling stories of the time that I'd been away from my body, my mind slowly letting go of the adventures of the dreams that I love and hate with all of the passion in me.


I never wake without regretting it in some part of my heart. The world in which the rest of humanity acts just seems to pale in comparison to that which makes up my dreams. But then, few people have dreams like I do. At least, if anyone does have dreams like me they don't ever mention it...

Most folks, if you ask them about their most vivid dreams, will tell you of flying or standing in front of their old school mates in the buff, only to wake and find reality a calm comfort to their thin-stretched nerves. I've never really had that experience.

I wake to find the world a glaring nuisance. I want to return to my dreams, not because they're pleasant, but because I feel so much more real There. Not that There is any more real than Here, but, everything seems to mean more. Or maybe it's not that things mean more, but simply that it is easier to see what things mean There. Anyway, the world of my dreams just appeals so much more. It's a world that fills my soul with love and makes me fear for life itself in one fell swoop. In this world you get up and go to school or work, saying "Hellohowareyou?" to every person who makes eye contact with you and never once actually wonder what the answer is. If anyone says anything beyond "Fine,thankyou.Howareyou?" most folks hardly notice. But to ask a question without listening to the answer in that other world is folly. In that world that stretches beyond this reality there is a certain genuine nature to things that this place cannot compete with.

Because of this, falling asleep is much like waking from life to find that life is only the start of living. And waking is like being forced into rented dress clothes that are far too small for you. I can't move properly, and am afraid to test my limits for fear of breaking something on mistake, and being made to pay for it later.

But just what am I talking about? Here it is: I dream.

Nothing new to that I suppose, but I dream bigger and deeper and wider than most. I don't know how, and I'm not convinced that it's just all in my head. But when I sleep I dream. And when I dream I truly live. Nowadays anyway...

Once this wasn't the way of it. As a kid I knew my dreams were powerful, and I believed in the power of my dreams just like any other child. Nightmares were just as bad as things in reality if not worse. But most people grow out of that, and so I convinced myself as I grew up into adolescence that it was that same with me: my nightmares were a fantasy, the glorious dreams were fake. Perhaps it was because I was convinced of this that these manifestations of imagination and spiritual life left me. I started to dream dreams that everyone dreams: walking in fields, flying, being wealthy and having everyone like me for no reason. My dreams grew dull and pointless. Just like my mind and spirit.

Then the darkness came.

[[:To Be Continued:]]

On Good Tales I

I've been thinking quite a fair bit recently about what makes a good story. What elements in writing that I find most attractive and enveloping. And because I can't seem to come up with anything else to write about, I'm going to write about some of those thoughts.

Thought One: Swords

Swords are amazing. Bladed weapons in general are a personal favourite of mine and have been since I was a child. But the sword is the king of bladed weapons.

It has such a noble history. And so many diverse and useful qualities. One of the most basic weapons is a club, and very useful too it has been proved. But the sword one-ups it. Not only can you bash your opponent to a pulp with it, you can also debilitate and distract with the slightest touch!

And let us face the facts: swords just look elegant. They have the dangerous lines of serpents and the innocent boldness of a feather wrapped up in one wonderful shiny package.

And in the best of myths they play key roles. What would Aurthur be with out the magical Excalibur? Where would Aragorn be without Narsil/Anduril? I could go on for a long time. It seems that many authors have decided that their protagonist's and antagonist's alike would best be served by a sword.

And there just seems to be something in the blade...

The forging process seems to leave all sorts of opportunities in story-telling open. What is it made of? What went into it? Some authors go to great lengths telling of how the weapon is made, others resist the urge to go into details and just give vague descriptions. But the greatest leave it a mystery to be wondered after. Perhaps they will just hint at who may have made the sword, or that it's form is taken after a certain style... or say nothing at all. The reader is left to wonder, and wonder we do...

Also, there often is a spirit of morality about a blade. It seems to hold the very power of life in itself. It can take it away so very quickly that it cannot be held, or even gazed upon by a character without some moral judgment being made upon the them by either the author or the reader. The bestowal of a blade for use is the utmost honour, and the removal a portrayal of most extreme distrust.

Then there is the use of the blade. The motions of the wielder are capable of saying so much about their internal state. Smooth fluid motions can be a sign of either complete lack of emotion, or the most mature control of it. Wreck less anger is very easily portrayed by the opposite movements. Earnestness can be demonstrated in the energy and dedication of a stroke, and likewise a jovial heart in light deflections of attack and witty dialog thrown into the fray.

The mere presence of a sword in a storyline creates a world of possibility that has barely been scratched by this post.

However, just talking about it has given me some wonderful ideas for future works. So thank you all for being a good audience.

-Josh

Time Slips By...

And four more work weeks are left in the semester.

God help us.

But...
It's been raining! And the roses and irises have been blooming in the midst of it! It's just glorious to come home tired and worn out to the smell of rain and roses. And they look pretty nice too.

A Scalet Conglomerate of Coagulants

Blood

This may seem a strange topic for me to write on. But rest assured that I'm not really being morbid, just inquisitive. I keep getting cuts on my hands you see, either while working at Biola or here at home, so I've been experiencing blood once more in my life.

It's strange how little you see of it for awhile. When you're a kid you see it all the time. A skinned knee or elbow, a myriad of scratches from falling in a rosebush, dropping something on you toe, etcetera. But in this more adult world I seem to have stumbled into blood seems less constant. When you see it most it's time for extreme worry. Like in car accidents down at the corner of your street.

But as I said, I've been able to experience it this last month without needing the extreme worry for life that seems so often to accompany the sight nowadays.

It gets everywhere. You think you've washed it all off, but no. There's always one spot more that you haven't seen where it's dried. It seems to have an amazing knack for getting into the grooves of your hands.

It's pretty. Thicker than wine, but with so much more depth. Thinner than paint, but with so much more colour. You can almost see the water in the blood trying to escape and the coagulants trying to close up and protect the moment it's freed from the vein. Amazing stuff. And really really pretty. Liquid jewels created by God to protect and heal.

But when it's separated from the body, puddling or dripping on something other than skin... it's so sad. It serves no purpose but to speak of pain. It looks so mournful.

One art form that really seems to capture blood well is anime. I'm sure I've been influenced by it in my thinking.

For suffering there are just huge blotches of red drawn. Ex: a bent figure clutching their chest, a large and very liquid red puddle at their feet. It hurts just looking at them.

For sharp pain there are the sprays of blood from an open wound. Ex: a cut from a sword strike, either a thin spray of scarlet or (for really violent actions) a large fountain-like spray. It brings to mind the sharpness of the pain felt from a wound.

And then there's the most pretty kind. It's so rare, but beautiful. There is the kind that tries to show the purity and innocence of the person whose blood is being spilt. Let us say that once more the wound is done with a sword (perhaps it was a mis-stroke of some sort.) We will see the blade after it has passed through: bloodless but for perhaps a single drop at the tip. A look of despair will cross some one's face, either the person holding the sword or some onlooker. The one who has been cut will just look surprised and a little sad. A single drop of dark blood will well from the wound and fall away (oh so slowly!) As it falls the dark red droplet will curl and transform: it's motion will be drawn out and slow, sometimes the artist will even go so far as to have it become a butterfly like shape which slowly and with smooth reluctance flutters down to the ground to break into a dozen small droplets on the earth. I think the most beautiful version of this I ever saw was done with something very close to watercolours. It was amazing!

This last one (my favourite portrayal of bleeding) (golly that sounds strange!) seems to be the least realistic in a physical sense: blood does not make everything slow-motion. Blood does not become a butterfly and flutter to the ground. Violins do not always play when you bleed. But I still think there's something to it.

It may have to do with how immersed I am in the Biblical ideals of blood. It may have to do with my personal belief in those ideals. From the time I was a child I knew that blood was something special. After all, blood shaped my grandfather's life, and through him mine.

He was a pagan at first. Well, apparently for a good while he was. He knew the scriptures, had a good deal of instruction in them. But he was not convinced. How can blood was away sin?

Anyway, one day he was working in his garden and he cut his hand on accident. Apparently it was deep, for the blood welled all over the place.

If you've ever worked in a garden you know how dirty hands can really get. Dirt under your nails, in the grooves of your palms, working into you callouses, sneaking it's way up past your elbows...

Anyway, as Grandpa sat there looking at the blood welling from his palm and getting all over the place he realized that the blood was washing away all the dirt. Beneath the blood his hands were clean. And in the same way whoever was under that curtain of Christ's blood was clean as well.

A most clever and amazing bit of this is that when he went into the house shortly after (inspiration being great, but fainting from blood loss not desirable... after all, he WAS bleeding freely enough to wash his hands clean) and washed all of the blood off the cut was healed. As easily as that. Washed in blood, and finally healed of your wounds.

It's because of this ideal of blood that I like the latter anime. No, it's not a purely Christian view. It does not endow blood with amazing spiritually cleansing qualities. But it does hold to the beauty that is to be found in it. And that I appreciate.

Here's to the Black Rood, most honoured of all trees!

-Josh

Time on the Wing

Today I was plagued with a very bad headache, or rather, and pain that keeps reoccurring in the top of my neck finally overwhelmed me.

But that is not my topic today.

It was because of this headache that I stayed home from just about everything. I didn't go to Church, I didn't take a walk in the park, I didn't go out and enjoy the beautiful weather. Reading was even difficult as it puts strain on just the wrong part of my neck. So I ended up looking at old photo albums.

It's amazing what pictures can help you to remember. And it's interesting to see just what it is that moves you about them. For instance, it no longer hurts to look at pictures of me and my old girlfriends. I was no player, but there were a couple of them, and it's always been painful and frustrating to be reminded of those past relationships. But it doesn't anymore. I actually looked back on them and just remembered what very nice people they were. How they helped me through some very strange and awkward stages of my life and mostly didn't take advantage of them. Good people, all of them, and I'm actually grateful for the time we once had and glad that we're all still friends.

I looked back on several births, remembered being completely confused at my niece's birth, and crying silently in the corner of the delivery room for relief and joy and my nephew's. Having your family grow before your eyes is an amazing thing. And God has been so good and kind to us.

I watched as my sister's got married one by one. This was the most surprising of changes and feelings to work through. It hurt! It made me realize just how very alone I feel now, and have felt for several years. Please understand, I love my brothers-in-law. I could not love them more were they actually brothers of blood! But the marriages mark when my sister's lives became fused with someone else. When they left our small family and brought in an new one. So now we are larger, but more distant.

Jessica, I don't think I cried enough at your wedding. For Laurel's I knew a bit of what was coming, but I really hadn't a clue at yours. I miss you Jess. And you Rho.

I watched as my father turned gray. It startled me quite a bit actually. I turned on page and most of Dad's hair turned from almost black with a few streaks of pepper to almost completely white. He looked horrible! Then I realized that this was when he had started chemo for his cancer. A handful of pages later we celebrated him being cancer free, and his hair and face regained life. He never got that near-black hair back, though he did get a darker gray without so much white.

I watched and laughed as I experimented with my hair. I was amazed at the lithe muscle I put on during the freshman year of high school in cross country, and then the sheer bulk that I traded it for in senior year. I wondered where it all went.... I watched myself graduate from public high school, and start my career in college.

It's strange to be able to look back, and see, as though in a mirror, what you looked like. What a strange thing technology is! Every time I saw myself, and looked into the younger version of my own eyes I could see my old soul. I could see the beginnings of the next page's pictures. I could see the memories that had effected my choices of the day, I could see the moments that would change my life. I could see the mistakes I was about to make, the naive ideas I was working off of. And a lot of grace from God. Hindsight is 20-20 they say, well, with mine I see a lot of grace from God. And I'm thankful.

I wonder what I will see in a years time...

So...

It's been awhile since I've written anything new here, and for that I must apologize. You see, my life has taken a bit of a turn of late: I've become completely enamoured with a wonderful young lady.

Now, this may seem to pose no problem at all for the posting of blogs. But it does. My mind is not all that expansive, and generally only holds on to one topic at a time with much sucess. So as I'm often thinking of her or things directly related to her (such as different aspects of our relationship) I don't feel that I have the right to publish my thoughts. And really, after having spent so much time pondering such a God given wonder, how can you expect me to speak on any other subject with any clarity of thought at all?

The answer is simple: you cannot.

Thus, if you continue reading this post you ought to be aware that it may turn out to be complete gibberish. And as allowing yourself to keep reading this puts me in control of your thoughts for a short time, you may find yourself joining me in that gibberish within the confines of your very own head. Scary thought, eh?

That said, I think I will go to bed.

Goodnight.

-Josh