Pictures!

A good, kind, and very talented gent named Scot Huber took pictures for us at the wedding, and here are a few of his favourites!

Hitched

I've gone and been hitched to this lovely lady! Isn't she beautiful!?! And kind, and funny, and generous, and ... oh, so many more marvelous and good things! God a blessed us both in each other, and we are very very thankful.

Frankly, we're both still in such a state from the wedding that we're a bit silly over it. I of course cannot speak for all the guests, but the whole event was just a joy for Anna and I. Our families came together and put on such a fun bash! And with so many close friends helping out with music and lights, food and more food, and more music, and signs and favors and decorations, and bouquets and photos... it was a night to remember, and an event worth celebrating all on it's own! We were so honored and thrilled beyond expression to be there, and to be so loved by all of the people in our lives. It was fantastic.

Anyway, I just thought I'd post and let the world know that my love and I are married, and overjoyed at the prospect of the rest of our lives together.

-Josh

Spin World, Spin On!

I have been inspired to post by my sisters, who have been so instrumental in my life and development.

I just came home from a movie which may be one more step in either direction for our culture: a step up and in, or down and out. It is artfully done, a remarkably accurate transfer from the pages of a comic to the walls of the worlds movie theaters. But for all that work of actors and writers, camera men, digital artists, musicians and other creative professionals all it is is a mirror. A very shiny mirror.

Both of my sisters posted on their present lives, both works dealing with their hopes and dreams. One speaking with hope about what she sees just around the corner: a relief from restrictions and a bit more freedom and support. The other writes about hopes and dreams still yet to be thrown into motion. The latter was not quite such a joyful and excited post, the realization of her dreams are a bit farther away. Still, I think they are no less solid than anything else in the world that surrounds her.

But all my certainty is for naught if I don't tell her of it.
So here goes:

Dear sister and first of friends,

You are right. All my studies in Psychology and human development reveal the same fact. We are amazingly powerful and distinctly fragile beings. Very few of us are aware of it, and often we hurt ourselves because of that. One little thing can break us; one wrong judgment can throw us off of our straight and narrow path. We do live on the edge of a knife, and that blade is so sharp it often tears through the fabric of our lives without our even knowing it.

But.
But our lives are also in constant motion. We do not stand still for even a moment, we are always moving toward a goal. And as we run we adjust our course as we grow more focused upon that goal. Just as a wheel grows harder to turn as it's momentum grows, so too we resist the forces that try and throw us off course.

You've mountain-biked, you know this principle. Dad taught us when we first started on the trails: "Pick a line and follow it, the bike can take you over more than you think it can." And as a runner you should have learned that it wasn't really the bike that took us over those rough trails, it was the momentum. Our momentum. We made it, purposed it for taking us down the line, to achieve our goals. And it took us there.

So, dear Sis', just keep going. You are fragile, but the purpose that God has gifted you with, which is found in your never faltering desire to achieve His goals, makes you infinitely powerful so long as you run for Him. And you do, so fear not and keep on keeping on. Your prized dreams await you!



That said, one last word on the film I watched today: it is a marvelous and creative work. A professional and masterful reflection on our society and what we have and may make of ourselves. A very shiny mirror held in the hand of a barbarian running at full tilt, not knowing where he's headed. The mirror is worthless if it cannot make that barbarian pause in mid-step and take a second look at himself.

If this film does not cause us to collectively pause and check were our society is taking us then it is as worthless as a pile of shattered glass and broken metal: a broken mirror, tossed aside by a mindless brute heading blindly towards ruin. Quite useless.




7I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith. 8Now there is in store for me the crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous Judge, will award to me on that day—and not only to me, but also to all who have longed for his appearing

-2 Timothy 4z;7-10

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

Comfort food? I'm not so sure...

But I do know that this stuff tastes great! Even when I have a cold and am not tasting quite as well as usual.

For now, that is all.

Goodnight everybody!

Obey the fist!

Today I took a fairly hard test. It was the culmination of several days worth of studying, and I think I did fairly well. I hope so anyway.

Anywho, as a result of this intensive studying, and it just generally being the time of the semester when a collegiate student is likely to have a fried brain, I do declare it Invader Zim watching season! Yes folks, it is time (when you have time that you don't need to be wasting in some other foolish pursuit, such as education) to revel in the mystery that is Zim, the wonder that is Gir, and the marvelous and murderous, silly and stupid, odd and odder thing that is this show. Be amazed. Be disgusted. Be a potato. Spud.

"Dumb like a moose Dib. Dumb like a MOOSE!!!"

Heaven help us as we try to become educated.

-Josh

Differential Diagnosis... Or not

"I've been hanging around this town for too long!" -Counting Crows, Hanginaround

So as I was doing dishes tonight, listening to a secular mix on my iPod, wearing my American Eagle jeans, it occured to me that all folks are really trying to escape what is usually called "reality," and put themselves back in that wonderful better thing that is usually called "the ideal." (Some of us crazy Christians would call it trying to get back to a sinless state, or to defeat the whole mess created by original sin.)

I've been reading and re-reading Dante's Comedy, so forgive me for reguretating what has been going through my head, but it's interesting stuff! Really!

The people in the inferno (Hell) are completely involved in their desires. These are the sinners, the theives, murderers, adulterers and traitors. They are punished each according to what they've done. They are, essentially, stuck with what they spent their life chasing after. The folks in purgatory are still in the process of getting to what they desired (and still desire.) The folks in Heaven has it and are content.

But back to the beginning of this bit of nonsense. It occured to me as I was washing the very pretty plates that my family eats off of and listening to some very well crafted music while wearing comfortable and good-looking clothes that Dante's way of explaining punishment and the eternal really makes quite a bit of sense. Even if we only take the Comedy as a commentary on the life of the everyman it works. How many people do you see who get involved in the good of just one thing? One person is obsessed with music, another with gaining money, another with the beauty of their own person or their spouse's. All our culture and economy is based on ecouraging and growing our own personal "ideal." Of comforting ourselves with what most appeals to us. But why do we need this comfort? Why are we so uncomfortable?

Why do we bury ourselves in pop-music and low art? Movies, magazines, store bought clothes and novellas? And TV... don't even get me started. That just gives it all away...

For example: This last week and a half I've been dealing with a minor health problem. A bit distressing in itself, but getting the proper treatment for the condition is almost as annoying as the thing itself. So what have I done to deal with this? Well, I've worked, I've read and I've talked about it with the ones I love. But at the end of the day, I watch House. Yes, to deal with my residual sadness at my present fallen state I numb myself with a sarcastic and medically complex TV show. Sound about right? Sure, it's not that bad in my case. I've talked to people about it, I've worked out the actual problem and taken care of the situation. I'm not ignoring anything, but I still use a TV show to just forget about it for awhile. I take an easy way out of the experience of living in my fallen state, because I just don't want to deal with it. So I don't.

So I did a bit of the secular thing. I dealt with what needed to be dealt with and then I ignored the rest. I'd like to think I did something a bit more emotionally and cognitively healthy than that sounds, but still, it's about right. I escaped the world around me by focusing on something else. Some small good. "But wait! Aren't we as Christians supposed to not have our focus in this world, but on a better one?" you might ask. "So wasn't that a good thing?"

No. The answer is no. We're not supposed to focus on "a good." We're supposed to focus on THE GOOD. As in God. And by focusing on God we're supposed to be able to deal with the present fallen world better than a non-Christian. You can't deal with the world properly if you aren't able to live in the world around you. It's a balancing act. You have to focus on God, and work in the world. Too often you find Christians who only get one part of that. They either only focus on looking for God, or they only focus on living in this cesspool. The same with non-Christians, except instead of looking for God they just look for more of their favourite flavour of good.

So, is this just our reaction to our fallen world? Is this what was meant when we find that we are to be in the world, but not of it? That our escape from the reality (or rather the non-reality) of sin should be the Divine? And only through focusing on God we reach that good that everyone is striving for, and thus understand what is really wrong with the fallen world and so come to a better understanding of how to live in it? Trippy...

Mad About You

So lately I've been rather tired. And I'm not altogether sure why. I've found this to be a bit disconcerting. Usually when I'm tired I'm plagued with thoughts like "Next time I really need to go home after the third hour of Halo," or "Well, if you wait to the last minute to read a book for class you don't get to sleep... ever," or "That's it! Forget about fitness! I'll just eat asparagus and kumquats for the rest of my life and not worry about how I look, or feel, or smell and die young! But happy!" However this time I'm just left thinking "I'm tired. This sucks. Huh."

However, today I think I may have had an epiphany: I've been around a great many people for the last two weeks. A great many. I can't remember the last time I had a few hours to myself to just be quiet. I've been too busy helping folks and reading and moving things and working and being with my friends that I haven't seen and my girlfriend whom I'm so enamored with to take any time just for me to stop. These are all good things (some exceedingly more enjoyable than others, but all good) however if I don't stop in between to simply be silent, rest and be then I'm just going to fall to pieces. Interesting little pieces that somehow just don't fit right when you try and put them back together because they're missing something: sanity.

So in the light of this enlightenment I've taken the rest of today to be mostly alone. I've mown and trimmed the lawn. I've trimmed the trees. I've washed the dogs and myself(not at the same time or with the same soap.) I've used food to convince the dogs that I'm not evil for giving them baths. I've exercised and eaten dinner, read a bit and watched an hour of my favourite sitcom that is no longer running, (hence the title of this blog) and now I think I'm going to do a bit of laundering and then go to bed. But all of this I have done mostly in silence. What I really want to do is drive up to the mountains or to Morro Bay and sit and watch the sun set, then watch the stars come out and take a walk by the light of them in some bit of wilderness by myself, but I think I'll be able to make do with just maintaining silence. We'll see if it helps. Good night everybody!

-Josh

Behold the View!

I have been on a wonderful vacation! I now have piles of things to catch up on, but there is no beating the wonderful time that I just had!

I love camping, and camping with wonderful people is even better than camping by oneself. I imagine that it certainly beats camping with people that one does not like!

I went with the family of my dear girlfriend to Shaver Lake and a splendid time was had! Except for contracting a bit of a stomach bug it was a whole and enjoyable experience. There were fire and games, sun and swimming, fishing and boats, hikes and plenty of time to read good books! The food seemed to be of the best sort, but since I was not well and did not eat nearly as much as I normally do I'm afraid I cannot comment on it correctly. It looked wonderful.

I could very easily go into a long description of far too many things that happened; but since most of you weren't there you probably wouldn't want to hear all about the times that were had, and are probably content with the brief descriptions that I gave above. So to keep things short I shall simply say this: it was wonderful.

Coming back into the city hurt. As the trees disappeared and the buildings got more and more uniform my heart sank. My only consolations are that I may still keep the company from time to time of the wonderful people I was with, and that I will someday return to the mountains. The worst part of vacation is the bit where it stops.

But here are pictures. Enjoy.





Post Photo Script: I can't believe that I failed to mention what a heart-rendingly beautiful, witty, caring and wonderfully intelligent and godly person my girlfriend is. It borders on great calamity that I should get to spend so much time with and around her, and then be forced back into the drudgery that is this distance, even if it is a mere matter of miles.

*here I heave a sigh and then slowly smile*

But it was wonderful.

-Josh