Today in the United States many people are partaking in a boycott of major businesses as a protest against the policies of the current administration and the preemptive acquiescence of these mega-corporations. With that in mind, and Ash Wednesday just around the corner, I’d like to give the religious folks out there an idea. The Lenten boycott.

Why

Participating in a boycott of this nature during Lent is a fitting activity because it aligns with the focus of the season. Sacrifice, social justice, and self-discipline. It’s a traditional time for Christians to practice fasting, prayer, and almsgiving, all focused on encouraging a deeper relationship with God. Lets look at some of these aspects and how they align with a boycott.

Solidarity with the oppressed

Jesus’ suffering and call to care for the marginalized is at the heart of the Lenten spirit. Responding to unethical practices as they apply to unfair labor, environmental harm, and human rights abuses is a way to express personal commitment to justice.

Sacrifice

Boycotting companies and products that are a major cornerstone of the modern way of life will mean giving up convenience and comfort. That mirrors the spirit of self-denial and fasting, and does it in a way that the Gospel on Ash Wednesday promotes: in your home, in secret.

Almsgiving

Instead of the money spent on these boycotted companies, needs can be met from local businesses. Where there is no need to replace, the difference in spending can be sent to charities working against these same challenges that are being felt by your community.

Repentance

Boycotts of this nature are a personal fight against systemic injustice and that can be a sign of personal repentance for past complicity. It’s a step toward spiritual growth.

Does it matter?

But does it actually make a difference? Your quiet protest, a boycott in your own home, isn’t going to make a blip on the balance sheets for Walmart or Amazon, right?

Except it does have an impact in many other ways. Lets first address your own spiritual growth and personal integrity. This matters to your soul. That alone makes it worth doing, and certainly more-so than giving up chocolate for a few weeks. It’s also an activity that will constantly reorient you toward societal need. You’re choosing day-in-day-out to align your spending with your values, even if nobody else is doing it.

Your efforts will support small and local businesses. Redirecting money from these large corporations to those in your community who may be feeling the need more than ever matters so much. It strengthens our communities and bonds. It also promotes ethical, sustainable commerce.

Those internal changes, the quiet action, might also be an inspiration to those close to you. Small actions shared in quiet conversations might encourage friends or family to reflect on their own habits. And that action, even symbolic, makes a statement. One person’s refusal to participate in unethical action is an act of conscience that can have powerful spiritual shockwaves.

Finally, it’s a way to build a muscle. Lent is temporary, but how many Lenten sacrifices have become life-long habits for people later? These 40 days can form a pattern for mindful spending that will last beyond the season and encourage you to continue growing. Even if nobody joins you, your actions reflect your values, and that effort will lead to more.

How?

But how do you do it? Even if you wanted to, is it just not going on Amazon? Do you need to cancel subscriptions?

Here’s what I recommend:

1. Define your boundaries - What type of s pending do you want to avoid? Fast-food, chain stores, online retail? Are there exceptions you need?
2. Shop local - Groceries from farmers markets and co-ops. Local restaurants. Thrift stores. Local artists. Use local service merchants.
3. Use cash - Withdraw money each week to hold yourself to a budget. Needing to pay with your hands keeps your spending local.
4. Reduce - What can you give up completely? What can you make at home? What can you do that’s free instead? Dust off those board games and invite your friends over.
5. Avoid delivery - If you do need something, go to the local shop. If you don’t have the energy to go out, don’t get it!
6. Think about your transportation - If you can reduce your reliance on gas, that would be amazing. Can you work remote? Can you take public transit? Carpool? Can you do these changes some of the time if you can’t do it all the time?
7. Build community - What can you trade or lend with friends instead of purchasing. Chat with your friends about media collections. What movies and books do you have that you can “shop” from each other? What about swap meets? If you don’t know what’s going on in your area and what’s available, call the library and ask a librarian. They know EVERYTHING.

This is an opportunity, not a command. If some of this appeals to you and your spirituality then I hope you give it a try. If you aren’t Christian or don’t participate in Lent, these actions may still be worth exploring. Give it some thought. Ash Wednesday is just around the corner.

Plex is a home media platform which lets you catalog and manage your media. That is, your TV and movies, music, and some other stuff. It’s pretty smart. It knows about show seasons, airdates, organizes everything for you into your own personal Netflix-style environment. You can then watch that stuff on your computer, or with their apps available on smart TVs and game systems, on your TV.

There’s also a mobile app for Apple and Android devices. You can stream to your phone. And if you’re not home, you can stream it on your laptop while you’re at a comfy hotel.

Oh, and if you have friends on the platform, you can open up your media library to them, so they can also stream your shows and films, or listen to your music. And since they use their own account it will track their progress for them, and not bother you and yours.

You get where this is going? It’s pretty awesome. There’s some other software that does this too, notably Jellyfin, an open-source project that’s very similar. But Plex is the current king, and it has some really killer features I won’t get into in this post.

What I wanted to document a little bit here, on my non-technical blog, is the rather ridiculous setup I have for acquiring media. Lets just say right away that everything else I describe below is to acquire digital copies of things I own in physical format already. Got it? Cool. Just pretend with me and we’ll move along.

Lets pretend that I wanted to find a digital backup copy of Batman (1989) to go along with my VHS tape. It’ll be easier to watch it streaming to my phone that way. There’s a lot of ways to acquire that online, the most popular being torrent sites. I could search around for a torrent site, search for the movie, and hope the version I get looks like it’s good quality and it’s a decent file size. But that’s a lot of work! What if it’s not on the first torrent site? What if it is, but only in a low quality? Or the filesize is too big. Or it’s in French? This stuff happens all the time, and it’s annoying. Finding stuff is hard. I’ve just been talking about films, but imagine TV shows. How do you know when a new episode comes out? Finally, there’s other ways besides torrents to find things and they have their own challenges.

So what do I do? I use Prowlarr, an index manager. It’s entire purpose is to search stuff for me according to rules I set up. I tell it the quality I want (DVD is good enough for me. I don’t need Bluray). I tell it the language I want (original, no dubs). I tell it a list of a bunch of torrent sites it can look at, and other places too. It gets to be very smart for me so when I tell it to find something it can do it automatically. Cool, right?

It’s a start. That’s fine for searching, but how do I know what to search for? For TV shows I have another program called Sonarr and for films one called Radarr. They’re trackers. I tell them I want to watch the Golden Girls, and they tell Prowlarr all about the episodes to go search for. Or I tell Radarr that I want to see the newest Godzilla film (which I will totally own already!) and it watches for when it is released on video or streaming so it can tell Prowlarr to begin the search.

So that’s it, right? Well, no. Now we’re tracking and we’re searching, but we’re not ahem acquiring just yet. I need some downloaders for that. I won’t bore you with the names, but yes, a torrent program is involved, as is another technology that I’m not even going to try to explain here except to say it’s more than a decade older than the world wide web. There’s a lot of tech stuff that goes into this part of the puzzle, and it’s pretty boring. Just trust me, they take the info Prowlarr finds and actually uses that to download things.

And then we’re done! Nah… See, Sonarr and Radarr then can tell the downloader information to rename the file and sort it right into my Plex library. Pretty names, folder structures, etc. Everything is nice and organized, and Plex is automatically updated. Huzzah!

So we’re—hold your horses! I said earlier I like original language things. That means I’m going to need subtitles. And that means I need something to go search and fetch those for me. This is yet another program called Bazarr. It’s configured with the language I want and it integrates with Radarr and Sonarr to automatically queue up things that they download. Subtitles also get shoved into Plex, and we’re finally good to go.

Except, how do I tell these tools what I want to add later on? There’s a few tricks here. Sonarr and Radarr can be set up so that anything I add to my “Watchlist” in Plex will get added to their queue. I also use a website called Trakt to track my watching habits and rate things. It’s like letterboxed does for movies, but it works for both movies and TV shows. I tell Sonarr and Radarr that anything in my Trakt “To watch list” should get queued up too.

So there we have it. I can just tell my media library what I want and it’ll show up automatically for me. Nice, right?

But!!! What if you’re my friend and you want something to be in my collection that you can see? Well, I have one last tool called Overseer that integrates with … well everything above. It’s a discovery tool, and you can log into my copy of it via your Plex login, if you have access to my Plex. Then it does some cool magic. It looks at your Plex watch history on my server and offers a discovery service. It’ll recommend things based on your history. If you want something you can click it to request it. That can be set up to send me the request to approve, or just auto-approve. From there it’s just like I had added it myself. Into the queue and onto Plex.

It’s a pretty silly level of setup, and everything beyond “install plex” is not for the non-technical person. It’s a fun set of toys to me, and I get a kick out of the notifications I get–HOLD YOUR HORSES!! Notifications!

Right, so all those tools are working quietly in the background of my computer, but how do I know what’s going on? They all integrate with a number of notification systems, from email to whatsapp to my choice, Pushbullet. I have Pushbullet set up on my computer and phone, and whenever one of these systems does a thing, it lets me know with a push notification everywhere.

Right, so I get a kick out of those notifications. They make me feel all fancy.

See the original challenge post.

The Rules

There are 52 categories. The goal is to watch any Criterion released film based on the categories below between 1/1/25-12/31/25. Your choices can be any films released by Criterion on 4K, Blu-ray, DVD, VHS, Laserdisc, or ones that have been featured on The Criterion Channel streaming service.

The films can be watched daily, weekly, or monthly, and in any order! Watch them at your own pace, but remember you have to finish by 12/31/25.

Categories & My Picks

I’m going to take the theme to the limit and attempt to watch only films I’ve never seen before.

1. Watch a film from the CC40 Boxset

Jules & Jim (1962)

This one is a bit of a cheat since my film club is already watching it this month. But hey, I’m starting a few weeks late. I need to catch up.

2. Watch a film from the year you were born

Seems Like Old Times (1980)

This was a struggle. I found a list of the top 100 films from 1980 and I’ve seen almost all of them. Chevy Chase felt very 1980, and a comedy appeals. I suspect I won’t get too many more of those in this list.

3. Directed by Robert Altman

The Player (1992)

I really disliked my Nashville watching experience in film class in college. I dreaded another super-70s Altman, so I went with this from the 90s.

4. Watch a film that would be your first choice in the Criterion Closet

Barry Lyndon (1975)

This has been on my list forever and I’ve never gotten to it. I hear it’s the favorite Kubrick for many people. I hope to be in that club.

5. Great Soundtracks

Thief (1981)

I’ve seen a lot in this category. James Caan’s look on the cover makes me think the music is going to be pretty solid.

6. John Turturro’s Adventures in Moviegoing

Divorzio all’italiana (1961)

The description makes this sound like it’s gonna be a good watch. Critique of Italian social norms and the disconnect from morality. Neat!

7. 1920s

Speedy (1928)

This sounds like it has all the hallmarks of a good time.

8. Watch a film that will be added to the physical collection in 2025

Ugetsu (1953)

One of the filmmakers that influenced Kurosawa? Sure thing!

9. 1930s

Zero for Conduct (1933)

Vigo’s only feature film.

10. Andrew Garfield’s Closet Picks

The Red Shoes (1948)

This one is already waiting on my Plex server. So many five-star ratings all over it.

11. 1940s

Gaslight (1946)

I’ve also been sitting on this one waiting to watch it with a friend. We keep forgetting and forgetting. Now is the time.

12. Celine Song’s Top 10

Pina (2011)

I adore Wim Wenders, so I’m willing to take a ride with him to places I normally wouldn’t. A documentary about a choreographer? Sure!

13. 1950s

Night of the Hunter (1955)

Film noir horror? Yes please.

14. Watch a film from the Criterion Channel’s all time favorites lists

Godland (2022)

An Iceland film? How did I miss this one? Sounds fantastic.

15. 1960s

Persona (1966)

Bergman playing with visual poetry.

16. Watch a film that is currently out of print from the physical collection

Forbidden Games (1952)

The cover image caught my attention. I know nothing about this one.

17. 1970s

Aguirre: The Wrath of God (1972)

Herzog plus grueling on-location shoot that put strains on the cast and production. It’s going to be an experience.

18. William Friedkin’s Closet Picks

All That Money Can Buy (1941)

Faust!

19. 1980s

Streetwise (1984)

This year my film club has a focus on documentaries. I may be able to work this one into one of our months. It looks to capture the feeling of gen X in a really visceral way, through the lost runaways in Seattle. Latchkey without a home to go back to.

20. Spine #451-499

The Spy Who Came in from the Cold (1965)

I really enjoyed the John le Carré book. I’m curious how this b+w film will take on the story.

21. 1990s

Raise the Red Lantern (1991)

I found a Rotten Tomatoes list of the top 140 films of the decade and there were only 4 I haven’t seen already. Yikes!

22. Documentary

20 Feet From Stardom (2013)

This sounds really engaging. A tribute to backup singers. I love things that shine a spotlight on the underappreciated.

23. 2000s

A Prophet (2009)

French gangster film, and the highest rated of the decade I haven’t seen.

24. Janus Contemporaries

Tori et Lokita (2022)

I think this one is gonna break me.

25. 2010s

A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood (2019)

Mr Rodgers! Except not. It’s the story of Lloyd Vogel and we intersect with Mr. Rodgers throughout. I just watched this one last weekend and it was so beautiful. Many tears were shed and I love everything about what Mr. Rogers stood for even more now.

26. Bill Hader’s Second Closet Picks

Petite Maman (2021)

Coming to terms with loss, familial ties, and a sense of freedom from existential sadness. Can’t wait.

27. 2020s

TÁR (2022)

I missed this when all my friends were watching and loving it. Time to catch up.

28. Noir and Neonoir

Leave Her to Heaven (1945)

I have seen so many noir films and loved them all. This one isn’t in my collection, but had a cool poster.

29. All Time Top Criterion Closet Picks

Harakiri (1962)

There are so many Godzilla films in this list that I wish I could pick, but I’ve watched them all with my son. So instead I’ll pick something else from Japan.

30. Criterion Releases Never Picked in the Closet

The Third Man (1949)

This has been sitting in my collection for a really long time and it’s a shame I haven’t gotten to it yet.

31. North American film

Birdman (2014)

This looks really good and I meant to see it years ago.

32. Ayo Edebiri’s Closet Picks

High and Low (1963)

Kurosawa and Mifune. How can you go wrong?

33. Wim Wenders’ Adventures in Moviegoing

The Munekata Sisters (1950)

An Ozu film.

34. South American film

No (2012)

Fighting a dictator with joy. I think I could use this right now.

35. Random Number Generator (Google random number generator, set values from 1 to whatever number Criterion has listed last here. This number will change as more releases are announced so please keep up to date by using the link I have provided as I will not be updating each time Criterion makes announcements. Watch whatever movie corresponds to the spine number you are given.)

Drylongso (1998)

Random number 1190

36. AAPI Filmmakers

Man Push Cart (2005)

The concept caught my eye.

37. Watch a film shorter than 80 minutes

Bad Black (2016)

So difficult to get films from Africa in these things. This looks wild. Low budget action comedy!

38. European film

8½ (1963)

It’s time I watch this classic.

39. Cult Movies

Ganja & Hess (1973)

I actually have this sitting in my collection already. It looks glorious.

40. Isabella Rossellini’s Adventures in Moviegoing

La Strada (1954)

Fellini in a beauty & the beast interpretation? Sounds intriguing.

41. Winona Ryder’s Closet Picks

The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (1976)

The description didn’t interest me at all, but it’s in Winona’s list, so I’m going for it.

42. African film

Tsotsi (2005)

I went down this path looking for good African films last year. This is one I haven’t gotten to yet but has solid reviews.

43. John Carpenter’s Top 10

Only Angels Have Wings (1939)

The review I read sold me.

44. Horror

The Innocents (1961)

Gothic horror at its finest!

45. Asian film

Yi Yi (2000)

A bunch of people on Reddit say it’s their favorite of all time. Gotta trust the strangers.

46. Dark Comedies

The Worst Person in the World (2021)

I almost picked this for another category. It looks great.

47. Rachel Kushner’s Adventures in Moviegoing

The Man Who Fell to Earth (1976)

Lets be honest. This is for David Bowie.

48. Australian film

Chopper (2000)

I’ve long had this on my list of quintessential Aussie films to watch. It’s waiting for me on Plex already.

49. Female Filmmakers

Smooth Talk (1985)

This was the most extreme 80s cover image I’ve ever seen. It looks like it should be a Hall & Oates album. Yes, I’m picking this because of a silly picture. Maybe it’ll be good too.

50. Ben Wheatley’s Closet Picks

Rumble Fish (1983)

Ahh! All the Zatoichi films, but I’ve already binged them. Curses. That would have been fun. I’ve seen most of these on the list, actually. My choices were this or Sweet Smell of Success (1957). I’m going with the 80s gang wars.

51. A film by a director whose work you have not seen before

Ishtar (1987)

This is a really hard category. How do you even find directors you haven’t seen before? What do I search? I went with women directors, found Elaine May, and thought I had a winner. But it looks like her best rated stuff she didn’t direct, but instead wrote. I was reading the list aloud and Leah said, “Ishtar was directed by a woman? Wasn’t that one of the worst films ever made? You have to pick that one.” So here we are.

52. Watch any Criterion film from your watchlist

Night on Earth (1991)

I don’t use Letterboxed, but I do have a watchlist on Plex & Trakt!

Well then. That was a lot. It took me almost 3 hours to put that together. Yikes! Part of me wanted to add in thumbnails of each of the films to this post, and maybe make a nice cover image to share, but I’m spent. Time to get watching!

In the late 90s I had a website called “A Film A Day” where I tried to review 365 films in a year. It ran for two full years and I achieved my goal both times. Sadly, it expired and it was not indexed by the Wayback Machine so it’s lost to time. It is one of my two great data losses and I’m still sad about it.

On the website, every one of my film reviews was a 5-star review. The goal of the review text was to inform the reader how they should prepare, mentally and physically, so as to enjoy a 5-star experience from the film. Should you watch something else first? Do you need extra snacks? Should this only be seen with close friends while very, very drunk? Do you need to imagine you’re a knight from medieval Europe who has stumbled through time into the theater and are witnessing what can only be a wizard’s masquerade?

Earlier tonight I was discussing a critic review of a holiday concert here in Iceland. The reviewer lambasted the concert just as they had done to several other high profile ones recently. In looking a bit deeper, it seems the general take that can be expected.

Learning that wasn’t a surprise. It happens a lot, not just in professional circles. It’s easy to find something to criticize even if it’s not objectively real. There’s enough subjective moments of anything that they are open doorways to a scathing critique. Is the criticism even something the author believes, or might this be an easy way to maintain authority in a cultural space? Might this be a learned behavior from a career that rewards being loud? Whatever the impetus, I’ll call it what it is: lazy.

Don’t tell me why this Star Wars show fails to live up to the expectations of your deified childhood experience. Tell me how to recreate that experience when I go see it. I challenge you as one who has done it. Don’t cop out and claim the high ground of taste. Use that sensitivity, that finely tuned instrument, and direct the rest of us how to maximize our experiences.

Is this film intended to make me feel sad, to fall in love, to forget my feet are on the ground? Surely your exceptional background in the subject matter makes you more equipped than anyone to be a guide on that journey. So do it.

We are faced with a historically inconceivable amount of suffering in our lives thanks to the torrent of information reaching us every moment. Our cultivated spaces for art and entertainment are the products of so much human effort to climb out of that mire and share a connection with one another. If you stand in the way of that by critiquing that effort without providing us a better means to appreciate it you are subtracting from the human experience.

I give that two thumbs down.

It’s Christmas time again and with that comes so many wonderful cozy traditions. Here in the Tomasino house we have built a number of our own special family moments from setting up the tree to our Christmas buffet dinner. Several of these traditions are things we’ve adopted from the locals since moving to Iceland.

One of the most famous of these is called Jólabókaflóð (Yo-la-bokh-ah-floth), or “Christmas Book Flood.” You may have heard of this one in social media from posts like this:

People like to ask me if this is a real thing all the time. And the answer is, yeah… sorta.

• Do Icelanders give books as gifts? Often, yes.
• Do Icelanders open these books on Christmas eve? Yes.
• Do they read and have chocolate? Yes.
• Do they isolate themselves doing so? No. That would be very rude.

But the story is a bit more complex.

First of all, Icelanders celebrate Christmas on Christmas Eve! It’s not a midnight thing, either. A lot of families get together, dress nice, have dinner, and then open gifts. So “giving gifts of books on Christmas Eve” is actually just giving books as Christmas gifts. This is also why it would be weird and rude for people to wander off and read alone all night. This is a family occasion. Will grandma pick up her new book at some point? Probably. But it’s not really accurate to call it part of tradition.

Chocolates are also a common Christmas treat, whether gifted or not. So why not enjoy your new book with some chocolates.

Now that might make it seem like this isn’t really a special tradition at all. Lots of people give books for Christmas. Is this just a meme after-all?

Well, no… sorta.

Following Iceland’s independence in 1944 and wartime rationing, books became a popular gift. They were still being produced abundantly and were affordable, and Iceland has a long literacy tradition. The publishing industry noted this habit and arranged a season of newly published works to “flood” the market for the holiday. There’s even a seasonal catalog called Bókatíðindi every year highlighting all the new books.

This was the original Jólabókaflóð, an industry term.

So where did the meme come from then? It looks like it was picked up in the UK around 2015 as an expansion of the industry book flood idea, but then encouraged as a new model tradition through a series of blog posts. The thing is, the idea isn’t far off from reality, it’s mostly just the context and framing.

So where does that leave us?

Well, at the Tomasino house we fell in love with the idea. Not the reality, per se, since we celebrate Christmas on Christmas morning, and we don’t have an extended family to join here with a fancy dinner. Instead, we take the meme at face value and embrace it because it’s fun! We each exchange one special book gift for each other and some chocolate, and then we settle in and start our books while we listen to Christmas records. It’s intensely cozy and we all look forward to it.

So there you have it. It’s celebrated per the meme in at least one house in Iceland. You can share on social media with confidence.

I begin by removing all the keycaps and revealing the switches. This is a mechanical keyboard. The Das Keyboard 4C, technically. I’ve got blank keycaps on it. That’s why you can’t see any of the letters. I do have a pretty little white rabbit on my escape key, though. It’s cute. You’ll see it down below.

Oh gross. Look at all that dust and hair that’s accumulated under the keys. I was beginning to have problems hitting certain keys. That’s a sure sign it’s time for a cleaning.

Hair and skin bits and everything else…yuck.

I started by shaking out what I could. I don’t have any compressed air at home, unfortunately. That would have helped this phase quite a bit. Instead I used some patience and a toothbrush.

This keyboard has deep wells under the plate where dust can hide. So I had no choice but to unscrew the plate. It was dirty too.

Once that was revealed I cleaned everything more with the toothbrush. Then I used a q-tip and some rubbing alcohol to get up the last of the grime between the switches. Looks nice now, doesn’t it?

And with the plate back on it looks almost new.

While this was going on I was soaking the keycaps in warm soapy water. Time to dry them off. Now if I can just remember which goes where…

There we go. I’ve shuffled around the keys on each row, but you can’t really move them between rows without things getting weird. Keycaps have different angles for each row, you see. You can see some are shinier than others thanks to my hand oils typing on them all the time. A little shuffle will distribute the love.

Tada! And we’re ready to type again.

Comic books have evolved through ages of their own. Beginning with the Golden Age, when heroes were good and they triumphed over evil in uncomplicated narratives. The characters had little in the way of personality, but they carried strong identifying symbolism. Superman is created as an immigrant fable, coming to this new land and embodying all its best principles. Batman grabbed the zeitgeist of the detective novel and revenge stories of the 1930s and embraced the emerging post modernism. It borrowed style from the popular Zorro, and the dark ethos of The Shadow. The result is a mishmash of popularism that counter-balances Superman’s modernism and fills the gaps left over.

From the beginning, sequential art was designed to pull together art and interest from far and wide and craft it into something compelling.

So as the genre grew up, so did the sophistication. The Silver Age is born of Marvel and Stan Lee’s Spider-Man. A playful writer, Stan sought to inject a bit of real life into the stories, to ground his characters and make them more relatable. The result is a much more rounded personality with depth, challenges, struggle and triumph. Whether it is the drama of high school, or the family bickering of the Fantastic Four, superheroes are humanized in this phase.

In the early 1970s comics take a turn toward the dark with the death of Gwen Stacy, a love interest of Spiderman who he’s unable to save. This typically denotes the birth of the Bronze Age, where stories expand upon the reality of the Silver Age by focusing on societal issues like racism. Once indefatigable ideas were able to be bucked and counter-culture begins to be embraced. We see the rise of minority superheroes, horror comics (as the Comics Code is relaxed), and the embracing of non-superhero comic stories as the genre diversified.

Not to be out-darked, Alan Moore’s The Watchmen comes along in the 80s and with it the Modern Age. Independent comics flourish. Characters are rewritten and relaunched. The industry is almost wholly revised to the new sensibilities of their audience.

Here we also see the development of the X-Men franchise. More than a single storyline, this included a number of spin off series like X-Force, X-Factor, Excalibur, Wolverine, and New Mutants. And these series didn’t operate independently, but would have continuous cross overs, or X-overs, with one another. The network of interconnected stories became increasingly complex and sales skyrocketed. Fandom would dive deep in this new complexity.

Other series and companies saw this success and sought to copy the pattern. DC built up its own universe. At its peak one needed to read five different Superman comic series to keep up on the single narrative.

A new larger universe picture began to be painted with these overlapping stories and for the first time we began to see massive events impact multiple stories at once. Apocalypse, Dark Phoenix, Infinity Wars, Flashpoint, Crisis on Infinite Earths. These massive ideas promulgate through the ecosystem building into things far larger than their individual parts. Following along takes patience, care, and often extended arguments in comic shops over interpretations.

Meanwhile, this evolution was being shadowed by another medium. Comic book film adaptations, specifically superhero adaptations, wanted to cash in on the success of the comic book popularity, but would continue to struggle to do so for decades.

At first, it seems like an easy transition from comic to screen. Bob Kane put it, “Comic books and films are both highly visual media, the comic book panel a condensed version of a film frame." But success was far from guaranteed.

In the very early days there were almost no commercially successful comic book adaptations to film. There were a few minor gems that appealed to specialty hobbyist, but nothing notable for the mass public.

In 1978 Richard Donner’s Superman marks the first wide-spread success. It’s quickly followed by Superman II, and then the series falls off into poor reception. In the same year as Superman II, Marvel tried to release a Spider-Man film (made up of a 2-parter from a short lived TV series), Spider-Man: The Dragon’s Challenge. It’s awful.

Thus is the pattern for the 80s and 90s. A film will stand out as pretty good, only to be drowned in dozens of half-hearted adaptations that feel phoned-in. Supergirl, The Punisher, Tim Burton’s Batman and follow-ups, The Rocketeer, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, Darkman, Blankman, The Shadow, Judge Dredd, Tank Girl, The Fantastic Four, Spawn, Men in Black, Blade, The Crow, Daredevil, The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, Fantastic Four again!, Elektra, Constantine, Catwoman, Hellboy, Ghost Rider, and the list goes on and on.

These films would occasionally hit and tell a simple story in a compelling way. More often than not they’d be panned by audiences and fans alike. Why? Sometimes the adaptation wouldn’t hold true to the comic, or would misrepresent the character. Sometimes they’d feel the need to inject juvenile humor or cringe-worthy cheesiness because of this idea that comic books are for kids, and that’s what they’ll like. Sometimes it seems earnest, but the technology wasn’t there, or the acting, or the script.

None of these films could really capture the essence of Modern Age comics, though, because they lacked the time and framework to tell the bigger story. Most superhero films would focus on an origin story first. It was easy to tell and provided a reliable model for a beginning, middle, and end. And then the follow up films would try packing in villains to make up for a lack of character development and fall flat.

We see this with each of the first two Spiderman series. We see it with Superman and with Batman. Even the first run of the X-Men follows this pattern. We finally start to see some exceptions in the late 2000s, though.

Christopher Nolan’s Dark Knight trilogy starting in 2008 manages to complete itself without falling on its face. We still have other films trickling in beyond that time: the second Spider-Man series, Green Hornet, Green Lantern, Kick-Ass, more X-Men. But that 2008 date started the transition point.

Because also in 2008 is Iron Man, notable for being the start of the Marvel Cinematic Universe. We see in a post-credit scene a hint of things to come in mentioning the Avengers Initiative. While the next several films will still be stand-alone origin stories for various superheroes, comic audiences familiar with Modern Age comics know what Marvel is building, and they begin to show their support for it.

For the first time on screen we see a hint of the macro-storyline, a film of films, a storyline that embraces multiple storylines like we’ve known in print for the last 30 years and which nobody has ever believed possible to see brought to the big screen. Audiences would never go for it, right? It’s such a crazy idea that you’d need to see these five films before you could enjoy this new one. Studios would never limit their audience in that way, so there’s no chance we’ll see that sort of adaptation.

And so when the Avengers take the big screen it’s a jaw-dropping moment of realization for the comic nerd. It is possible, it is happening, and these really niche things that have been a private joy and often public ridicule is now being embraced in the mainstream. This is uplifting and it is cathartic.

And it continues! Twenty one films lead up to Avengers: Endgame. That’s like saying you need to see every James Bond film every made to enjoy Casino Royale. It’s utterly ridiculous!

And boy do people hate it. Or rather, they love to hate on it. Now that this is a successful franchise it is ripe for criticism. “All the films are the same.” “It’s not art, it’s not cinema.” “Everything is being Marvelified.”

And is it true? Well, in some fashion it has truth in it. Studios see an impressive model based on existing intellectual property and want to do that themselves. They all want a cinematic universe. What an unbelievable cash cow!

But DC’s continued struggle to get off the ground proves it’s not that simple. People aren’t automatically going to get behind a comic book universe just because it’s there. They want good stories, and for the most part that’s what Marvel has delivered. They managed to move beyond the origin stories to tell new, interesting, compelling tales. They looked to their history and leaned into social commentary of the Bronze and Modern Ages. They build up toward the macro-story for punctuation in what would otherwise seem and endless plodding of films. Now there are Phases discussed. Each film and TV show must stand on its own, but also can rely on the macro story to pull in audiences that might otherwise not care. How many people had ever heard of these new comic characters that now get their own TV series?

Compelling stories get us there. Marvel has had literal decades to build them in print form. They know what their fans liked and didn’t like. They see opportunities to bring these to life, to give them a modern twist (like comics have always done since the start). They continue to evolve and do new things, and for that reason I’m still a fan.

What about when a show falls flat? Or a film? Well, that’s too bad. I didn’t enjoy it as much as I could have. But it’s not necessarily a harbinger of doom for the whole franchise. If Ant Man 35: The Kitty Saucer doesn’t blow away audiences there’s a lot of momentum built that people are invested in and will stick around for. Is it possible for the whole thing to come crashing down one day? Oh certainly! But there’s still good stories to tell. There’s new ground to walk and things to see brought to the screen.

And yeah, when I watch a film that required 13 TV series and 44 films of pre-viewing before I get the inside joke in the post-credit scene, that comic book nerd in his 6th grade comic book club is cheering his head off inside my soul. This is awesome, and I feel no shame in enjoying it.

REGOs and Greenwashing

I recently had a nice discussion with my hackerspace about Renewable Energy Guarantees of Origin (REGO) and Iceland’s role in the scheme. For those of you unfamiliar, REGOs are certificates that prove that a certain amount of electricity has been generated from renewable sources. They are issued by regulatory bodies and can be traded between energy suppliers and consumers to demonstrate compliance with renewable energy targets.

The goal of REGOs is to provide transparency and accountability in the renewable energy market, ensuring that consumers can make informed choices about the source of their electricity.

You could consider them a next-generation implementation of carbon credits. Previously the voluntary carbon market (VCM) proved to be incredibly unreliable and unregulated. John Oliver had a vicious takedown of carbon credits a while back. It’s a great watch.

REGOs are an improvement on that scheme, relying on a regulated body, and with source-origin proofs. You can be sure that the energy really was generated from a valid source, not just a forest someone promised not to intentionally burn down.

There are issues with REGOs, though. In practice they started with a hint of promise, but have become little better than green-washing of late. There are three main issues:

• To be beneficial, they must be “additional”
• Funding should lead to further investment in green energy
• Cannot double-count the credits

REGOs fail bady at all three.

First, the idea of additionality is that reductions or production would not have occurred without this market. If the program is not additional, then offsetting/crediting rather than directly reducing emmissions can actually worsen the effects of climate change. To be additional, the ability to purchase carbon offsets or certificate must be a deciding factor in whether or not it will be implemented. By their nature, REGOs are an after-the-fact market. There is no additonality at work.

Second, the money being paid to the producers of the original green energy have no limitations on what they do with the money. This is great for the recipient, of course. We in Iceland pull in lots of money through the scheme and can do whatever we want with it. But that money, the entire market worth, is therefore not going intentionally toward fighting climate change. If anything we are taking money that could have been invested in climate action away from it.

And third, it’s very easy to double-count the credits themselves. Iceland is 100% renewable, right? Well, legally-speaking, no. We sold those credits to foreign energy producers. Now Iceland can’t claim it’s green. There is no enforcement, though. Some people will claim it regardless of the legal facts. And others, more frustratingly, will point out that while we aren’t legally green, all of the energy produced domestically is green. Semantics, right?

What a company buys with REGOs is the reputation of a green energy producer, but that reputation doesn’t go away for the source. At least not in any way that matters. This makes it really tempting for places like Iceland to jump in with both feet. Of course we could use more money coming in. But what damage are we doing to environmental efforts in the process.

And what about the costs incurred by the company buying these credits? Surely this is driving up their prices and making green energy more attractive as an alternative, right? Well, not really. In practice the money gets trickled down (in the bad way) and costs rise for individuals. There may not be an alternative choice in their market. Often what we see is that the power producer will simply offer a green choice at a markup, and then whatever costs are incurred from customers making that choice, they will apply the markup difference to buying the credits to fulfill it. Thereby they have changed nothing about their operations at all, no investments or reductions are made, and the company seems to be offering a green solution to those who want to pay for it.

Everyone wins! Except the planet.

So what is the alternative?

I think we’re on the best track we can be with the world structured as it is. There is zero desire to introduce a pan-European tariff scheme, especially among politicians already wary of federalism. Sovereignty must rain supreme here, and that’s dealing with countries that have an established shared political landscape. How much harder it will be to rope in East Asia or the United States in the mix.

For better or worse (it’s worse) we’re probably stuck with action on the commercial level. So what can we do. VCMs were a disaster. REGOs are turning out not much better. Do we toss the whole thing out? I don’t think so, not quite yet anyway. I think we’re on the right track, but we need to be vigilant and constantly shore up the holes in the plans we implement. Businesses are savvy and they will try to exploit any holes they find. We mustn’t give in to thinking a solution is a one-and-done. It will take patching.

So what could we patch first? I have a potential solution for the first two failings of REGOs: carbon loans.

Rather than purchasing carbon offsets or certificates for energy units, those units can be taken on loan, with interest. This would require a continued regulatory body involved to validate the process. If a company wanted to purchase 100 units of carbon certificates, they would state their intention to take them on loan from a producer with certified origin certificates available. So far this is the same as REGOs. There is a limited fund available based on the currently produced green energy market. It isn’t speculative, and it’s all regulated and verifiable.

The difference is, no money is paid to the origin producer at that time. Instead, the value of that transaction is on loan, with interest, to the dirty energy producer. Payment of that loan must happen through green energy investment or by additive reduction in their own emmisions. And here we need the second part of the regulation. These entities need to be reviewed and approved by the same body who regulates the source certificates. This is to avoid the scams we see in the VCM market.

It’s a hybrid model of VCMs and REGOs, basically, with interest. The hope here is that the cost of these purchases can be lowered by acting locally on themselves first. Why give the money away when you can lower your own emissions and spend less?

Is it perfect, oh definitely not. Are there issues, probably! It doesn’t actually bring in money for the origin certificate folks. Who knows, maybe they get the interest in exchange for a role as regulators proving that the loans have been paid off? I’m not sure. What it does do is encourage spending on new additive efforts and focuses the money in green directions. That’s a marked improvement over the current scheme.

Yes, it’s quite yummy. The blóðmör especially is tasty the next day when reheated with a bit of sugar on top.

The Rings of Power has wrapped up its first season and my friends are sharing their joy with one another. They’ve longed to return to Middle Earth for years, and the show’s aesthetic and simple good vs evil are a welcome change from the grimdark that pervades fantasy in the twenty-first century.

So it came as a shock when a review in the Guardian dropped with the title, “Now it’s over, let’s come out and say it: The Rings of Power was a stinker”.

There has long been an adage online which springs immediately to mind: Don’t read the comments. The internet is filled with vitriol oozing from every pore and comments are the zits ready to pop.

But what about a critic review? That’s clearly not the same thing as the ravings of the masses, right?

What is a review?

Perhaps we should start by asking ourselves for a definition of a review. Is it really so different from an internet comment? Is it more than a random opinion?

Queen’s University Library has this to say:

[…] reviews are written for the general public by usually journalists or other non-academics and appear in newspapers, magazines or online around the time the [work] is released […]. Their purpose is to describe the plot, characters, director, etc in order to help determine whether or not a [work] should be seen.

What I like most about this definition is the given purpose. This is not just an opinion by a journalist or non-academic, but a work intended to inform, and in some cases, persuade a reader whether to watch or read something.

To be informed

Do we need to be informed? Do we need to be persuaded?

If we’re about to go to see a film in a theater where we will spend up to $20 on a ticket and take out a small loan to afford popcorn and a drink, well then having some guidance seems warranted. In theory, reading a review could save you a lot of time and money.

But what about a TV show on a streaming service you already have access to? What are we saving now? Time, surely. Spend an hour watching the pilot or spend a few minutes reading an opinion in the paper. Or more accurately, spend 10 minutes trying out that new show before deciding to abandon it or not… The choice is yours!

What about my opinion?

Except the decision isn’t as binary as that. We have to assume that the critic gets it right or the math no longer works. We have many historical examples where all the major critics misjudged a film, loving it when audiences panned it, or shunning it before it turned out to be The Shining, or Psycho, or Predator, or Scarface. (Yes, all had terrible critical reviews at release).

If we look at reviewers individually and not as a whole the norm is to find critics with differing opinions. Did you trust the right opinion? The worst film you’ve ever seen? Someone liked it.

And what if, by some miracle, you are the odd-man-out? What if you enjoy something that most others didn’t? Take a thought for just a moment and you’ll come up with your own example of something that’s a “guilty pleasure” or that you cherish despite the criticism. What if you had listened to a reviewer and never experienced it? What would you have lost? How much greater is that loss than the time given to trying it?

Not worth the time

The cost-benefit analysis of reviews doesn’t add up. Taking for granted that the writing is genuine and not designed to score mass readership through hot takes and a clickbait title, the chances of a review accurately representing the opinion you yourself will have after watching or reading something isn’t high enough.

Conversely, reading something in advance risks undermining your ability to fully enjoy the work. It could contain spoilers, directly undermining a great reveal like in Fight Club or the Sixth Sense. It could spell out something explicitly we are meant to have held in suspense until later. All too often these reviews lose the focus of their purpose and treat their task as if they are meant to dissect and disassemble rather than inform. They want to enter the realm of criticism rather than review.

Queen’s University Library describes criticism thusly:

[…] criticism is the study, interpretation and evaluation of a [work] with regard to issues such as historical context, theory or technical analysis. […] criticism is written by academics and is published in books or scholarly journals. It may sometimes address a specific aspect of a [work] or focus on the work of a particular director or genre. Critical reviews may be published many years after a [work] is released.

Clearly the reviewer of The Rings of Power wanted very much to be doing this task instead, but without the rigor of scientific scrutiny, peer-review, or publisher validation.

Ignorance is bliss

I don’t believe we have a need to engage with reviews. Entering a viewing experience ignorant of the details offers you the unique experience of seeing something for the first time without bias. You can never experience this again. You can’t unlearn what you have learned, unspoil the big surprise, and you cannot shake the voice of criticism you read before sitting in front of your screen. It will be there whispering in your ear telling you that the accent isn’t very good, or these set pieces aren’t accurate to the time period.

What does this bring you? You will not enjoy a film or TV show more if you had read that review first. But you might enjoy it less.

And if you really enjoyed the show you just watched, why would you open up that experience to being undermined? Take your bliss, enjoy it, and go watch something else instead. Let the vitriol of reviewers go. Be at peace.

What is happening?

A lot of information is being spread around about the dangers of period tracker data in the wake of Roe v Wade being overturned, and with good reason. Some state legislatures are investigating a troublesome and vaguely defined area of law: whether you can be charged with a crime in one state for activity that takes place in another. For example, if Texas criminalizes activity seeking or aiding an abortion, then people who travel to another state where the activity is illegal could still be charged in Texas for aiding that effort.

Will that type of legal stance hold up in court? Unfortunately it seems likely to do so because of the specific nature of the abortion issue rather than on purely legal merits. The domain of states rights ends at the state borders constitutionally, but there’s precedent to upset that balance. An example would be the way international law is applied to US citizens when abroad. Traveling to another country to commit an act that is illegal in the United States remains a crime, even if that act is legal in the country it occurs in. This is commonly applied to underage sexual activity in places like Thailand, and it paints a clear picture for how states can apply the same logic to their own residents.

What about period trackers?

So why the fuss over period trackers? The primary reason is that these apps are not made for those who menstruate, but for marketers. Their primary purpose is to harvest data that can be shared with third parties for marketing purposes. Users trade their private behavioral and health information for a service that helps them to understand their own reproductive health and plan around it. This is not the model for just a couple of these apps, either. This is the standard reason they exist and the model of revenue they use for justification for investors. User data IS the product.

But what about [specific app]?

But what about that app that I saw shared on Facebook? They had a powerful message that it’s run by and for women. Or maybe there was a signed commitment to never sell our personal data. This one says they’re based in Germany, so the data is safe, right?

No. If your data is being collected it is not safe. Period.

What about that company run by women? Surely they care about keeping other women safe. They probably do, at least on some level. These types of stances are often taken from an ethical position of individuals who actually believe in their cause, but they make promises that are incomplete, ignorant of the challenges, or otherwise fail to align with what readers take away.

A company run by women has the same goal as a company run by men: make a profit, ensure its continuation, and grow. In the case of a non-profit there may be some wiggle room in there, but the business exists to do business.

But they promised to never sell my data! And in some cases that may be true, to a degree. They may not be selling your data directly to a data broker, but instead they will provide that data to a third party company to analyze and allow for targeted advertising. They technically didn’t sell it. They sold the byproduct of the data, which is a distinction without worth for the end user. Your data is still flowing around to groups you have no awareness of and used in countless ways.

But it gets worse. These privacy policies are easily changed and amended. It just takes one new employee to come on board and point at the untapped revenue streams for a few words to change in that policy. You may get a notification that terms of use have changed, or not. It doesn’t matter because no one reads them. And just that fast now your data is with a broker too.

What is the real danger?

Data brokers, third party data agreements, and all the other nasty “user data is the product” ecosystem issues are terrible, but that’s not a unique issue for reproductive health. These problems exist in every facet of our lives, and not just online. We should address these in a broader sense as a society and soon, but today we have a more pressing threat.

Data that is housed by a company is subject to law enforcement demands for information. Yes, even those in Europe. It doesn’t matter how good their privacy policy is, or what values they stand for. When a warrant comes in, they’re going to hand over that information. And that information can be incredibly invasive. These apps don’t just track the data you enter but the metadata as well. They know when you use them, where you were (thanks to phone GPS). Those third party data agreements can pull in even more information into that profile as data points are matched up. And all of this can be harvested by a law enforcement agency that is specifically looking to target you.

The fact is, most of the period tracking apps are actively harmful in the data they collect and share, and the few that pretend otherwise aren’t really any better. And almost none of them are effective in any way against law enforcement misuse of your private info.

So how do you protect against that?

The only way to prevent the seizure of your private data from a company is to not provide that data in the first place. That means either not using these tools at all, or using tools that do not store information anywhere but on your local device (your phone).

Drip is one such app. It is completely open-source with the source code available to be inspected by the community, improved upon, and issues to be publicly logged. It stores all data locally on your device and transmits nothing to a central cloud server. It gets funding from donations and contributions from the community of programmers worldwide. There is no advertising and your data is not the product.

Drip is currently available only on Android, but there is a projected iOS app version due in August of 2022.

Euki is another app that keeps the data on your device. It is available in English and Spanish on iOS and Android. Some of the more popular period tracking prediction features available in other apps aren’t to be found in this one, but safety should be a bigger concern these days.

You can read more about these apps and others in this consumer reports review of several period tracker apps and their privacy.

Be safe, protect your data.

What follows here is not a response to the church’s stance on abortion but rather a reflection upon the idea of withholding communion due to mortal sins, where that comes from, and whether it is in keeping with what we see in Jesus teaching.

Catechism & Canon Law

Let’s start by reviewing what the official Church documents have to say on the matter:

Catechism of the Catholic Church (Second Edition) ¶ 1861 - Mortal sin is a radical possibility of human freedom, as is love itself. It results in the loss of charity and the privation of sanctifying grace, that is, of the state of grace. If it is not redeemed by repentance and God’s forgiveness, it causes exclusion from Christ’s kingdom and the eternal death of hell, for our freedom has the power to make choices for ever, with no turning back. However, although we can judge that an act is in itself a grave offense, we must entrust judgment of persons to the justice and mercy of God.

First, we see established that a mortal sin creates a barrier from grace and that it the act of the human being in choosing this barrier through their actions by means of their free will.

Catechism of the Catholic Church (Second Edition) ¶ 1382 - … But the celebration of the Eucharistic sacrifice is wholly directed toward the intimate union of the faithful with Christ through communion. To receive communion is to receive Christ himself who has offered himself for us.

Catechism of the Catholic Church (Second Edition) ¶ 1395 - The Eucharist is not ordered to the forgiveness of mortal sins — that is proper to the sacrament of Reconciliation. The Eucharist is properly the sacrament of those who are in full communion with the Church

And here we establish that the purpose of Communion is not the same as Confession.

Code of Canon Law 916 - A person who is conscious of grave sin is not to celebrate Mass or receive the body of the Lord without previous sacramental confession unless there is a grave reason and there is no opportunity to confess; in this case the person is to remember the obligation to make an act of perfect contrition which includes the resolution of confessing as soon as possible.

And here, a person who is in this state knowingly is not to receive communion until it has been resolved.

Origins

But why? For that we need to start with St. Paul in his first letter to the Corinthians.

1 Cor. 11:28-29 - A person should examine himself, and so eat the bread and drink the cup. For anyone who eats and drinks without discerning the body, eats and drinks judgment on himself.

Here Paul asserts that to partake in the Eucharist without acknowledging and accepting it as the true presence of Christ (transubstantiation) is in itself a sin.

Or is that what he said?

Others would later argue (and indeed many Protestant faiths would assert) that he is speaking of grace, not transubstantiation. To accept communion without the state of grace is a sin. That is the axiom. That is the cornerstone of the argument in the catechism and in canon law.

But is it correct?

Paul is a Pharisee

According to the Acts of the Apostles, Paul is a Pharisee. He was not just a passive member of that community, either. He was actively persecuting early Christians, including approving the execution of St. Stephen. He was one of the Pharisees, infamously legalistic, with insistence on the binding force of oral tradition. Upon his conversion his tenets of faith were changed, but not his approach to it. He continued to be legalistic in his interpretations and edicts on how Christians should live. In his letter to the Corinthians we see it in full force.

But therein lies the problem. This may be how Paul writes his letters and encourages the church to act, but it is not in accord with how Jesus taught. We see early and often Jesus attacking the Pharisee view of faith because their legalism was blinding them from God.

Matthew 23:4 - They tie up heavy, cumbersome loads and put them on other people’s shoulders, but they themselves are not willing to lift a finger to move them

Matthew 23:13 - Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You shut the door of the kingdom of heaven in people’s faces. You yourselves do not enter, nor will you let those enter who are trying to”

Mathew 23:23–26 - Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cumin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former. You blind guides! You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel. Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. Blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup and dish, and then the outside also will be clean.

And earlier, and in general still applying to the same issues.

Matthew 15.7-9 - You hypocrites! Well did Isaiah prophesy of you, when he said: “This people honors me with their lips, but their heart is far from me; in vain do they worship me, teaching as doctrines the commandments of men”

Jesus is about compassion

Mark 2:17 - When Jesus heard this, he told them, “Healthy people don’t need a doctor—sick people do. I have not come to call those who are righteous, but those who are sinners.”

Jesus’ message throughout the Gospels is one of redemption and compassion. He has come for the sinners. He sits with them, welcomes them. He seeks to heal them through his presence.

Why, then, would Jesus want his true presence in the Eucharist kept from sinners? Why would his ongoing gift given to all peoples for the rest of time somehow preclude the very group he came to call?

I mean, really, I should stop the article here. That alone is the entire rebuttal. But I digress.

Paul is fallible

Jesus Christ lived a sinless life, but his followers did not. We see in the gospels repeated stories of the apostles falling short, making mistakes and failures. When the holy spirit descended upon the disciples and made them witnesses, they were not granted infallibility. No more were the apostles, who became their leaders.

In the scriptures we see the apostles rebuke each other! We see mistakes first-hand. These were men, not divine. And while the Bible has divine inspiration we see clearly that mistakes are made. Yes, mistakes! Misunderstandings of the authors about the nature of customs, disputes as to family trees, and plenty more. Inspired, but written by men.

Paul persecuted Christians before his conversion. He was capable of being wrong.

Rebuttals

So where does that leave us? I would suggest that the basis for the doctrine preventing communion due to mortal sin is flatly incorrect. It was legalism applied where it needn’t and at the direct contradiction to Jesus’ will. Moreover, it ignores our warning time and time again to not be judges ourselves but to leave that to God.

Pope Francis wrote in his apostolic exhortation Amoris laetitae, about couples in situations of divorce or those in civil but invalid remarriages:

Because of forms of conditioning and mitigating factors, it is possible that in an objective situation of sin – which may not be subjectively culpable, or fully such – a person can be living in God’s grace, can love and can also grow in the life of grace and charity, while receiving the Church’s help to this end.

And in a footnote added:

in certain cases, this can include the help of the Sacraments.

Here we are dealing with the subject of divorced and remarried Catholics, which by the Code of Canon Law have been therefore living in a relationship of sexual union with a person whom the Church does not regard to be their spouse. This has qualified as a state of mortal sin and precluded them from communion in the past.

Pope John Paul II wrote in his apostolic exhortation, Familiaris Consortio, quite the opposite:

The Church reaffirms her practice, which is based upon Sacred Scripture, of not admitting to Eucharistic Communion divorced persons who have remarried. They are unable to be admitted thereto from the fact that their state and condition of life objectively contradict that union of love between Christ and the Church which is signified and effected by the Eucharist. Besides this, there is another special pastoral reason: if these people were admitted to the Eucharist, the faithful would be led into error and confusion regarding the Church’s teaching about the indissolubility of marriage.

Here we find disagreement from the very top of the Church, and that split is echoed in the conferences of bishops around the world. Some take the traditional view of JP2, others suggest we interpret Francis through those older documents, while some embrace the charity of Francis’ words.

This fascinating idea he presents, that the situation can be objectively sinful, but not subjectively culpable, is a very deep channel of ethics to explore. I could argue specific examples to try and illustrate what that might look like, but it is irrelevant. The mere possibility itself is enough here to remind us of a key sentence in CCC ¶ 1861: “However, although we can judge that an act is in itself a grave offense, we must entrust judgment of persons to the justice and mercy of God.”

Do we judge? Do we determine legalistically like the Pharisees that another human being is unworthy of communion with the Lord? Do we forgo charity and faith and imagine that God’s power is somehow not strong enough to work through communion if a person is stained by sin? Do we somehow imagine that communion with the Lord could make things worse somehow?

Punitive measures

No, the truth is not that at all. This is a punitive measure, despite doctrinal warnings against that, despite bishops repeatedly saying that these are “medicinal” measures, not punitive. But that simply cannot be. They are used as symbols to warn the masses and demonstrate just action. They are not actions taken in private for the benefit of the soul of the individual, but public shaming to herd the flock with a whip instead of a call.

This is not the way of Christ. The Eucharist should not be withheld from anyone willing to take it.

By old tradition, kids used to make colorful sticks with colored paper called bolludagsvöndur (bun day wands) and then wack their parents with them. In one story I heard it told that the kids would wack the parents in bed on the morning of bolludagur and however many wacks they got in before the parents got out of bed was the number of bollur they got to eat. I’m not sure how accurate that story is, and that particular tradition seems to have been left in the past. Shocking, I know.

Bolludagsbollur or bollur are a cream-bun pastry made from chocolate or caramel-topped choux pastry (pâte à choux) and filled with whipped cream and jam. There are many varieties and variations, though, and some shops get quite elaborate with their offerings. Many people choose to assemble their bollur at home, purchasing the choux buns from the grocery store or bakery and filling them with their own favorite fillings and toppings.

That has been our method in the past, but this year I decided to put in a bit more effort and create the bollur from scratch. Now I should preface the rest of this post with the disclaimer: I like to cook, but I’m not much of a baker. Still, I gave it my best try.

I started by looking online at various recipes for the buns. There’s a few varieties I found, but most seem to agree on water, milk, butter, salt, sugar, all-purpose flour, and eggs. That’s all stuff I have, so I figured I’m in good shape. I made sure to measure everything by weight and followed the first recipe to the letter.

Sadly, it turns out that recipe was missing a few important letters. As you may be able to see in the picture above, my dough was much too liquidy at first. I couldn’t understand why, since I’d measured by weight. Thankfully I knew that this step was effectively just making choux, so I abandoned my bollur recipes and switched to those and quickly found my issue. My recipe called for four eggs, added one at a time and worked into the dough. What it failed to say was that depending on the size of your eggs, you may only need 2 or 3. It’s all about the consistency.

It was too late to go backwards, and my choux research warned against just tossing in more flour. Instead I made another half-batch of the dough with zero eggs and blended it with the original mixture. Finally my consistency was good and I was ready to pipe it onto my pans.

I’m not a baker. I don’t have piping tools. What I do have is zip-lock bags. I squeezed all my batter into a bag and snipped the tip and it worked just fine.

My original recipe called for the buns to be baked at 375°F or 190°C for 35 minutes. My choux recipe also had similar instructions, but for 30 minutes, and recommended venting out the steam regularly and poking the tops with a toothpick to let steam loose at the end. I followed the 190°C for 30 minutes instruction but had to pull them out after 25 minutes because they were beginning to burn. Perhaps it’s my oven that’s the issue, but I think 190°C was simply too hot. The insides really did need that last 5 minutes to fully bake, but it would have burned the outside to a crisp. Next time I’ll try 170°C and give them a little longer in the oven.

Because the insides were undercooked, they did the expected thing and sunk down flat. Without a crispy inner structure to hold them up this is a common problem. Thankfully by pulling them out at 25 minutes they remained edible.

This was the least-sunken in of the buns. Not too bad, but I hope to improve next time.

Leah ran out to grab some powdered sugar for the whipped cream, and while she did so she also grabbed a set of store-bought buns as backup in case mine turned out to be terrible. I tossed some chocolate chips in a porcelain bowl as a double-boiler and then we dipped all the buns in for their topping.

Finally it was time to stuff them full of freshly whipped cream and a bit of jam. We use rhubarb jam in ours, but it’s a personal preference thing. In the picture above the store-bought buns are on the left and my homemade ones are on the right. Once they were all stuffed the difference isn’t so clear.

Now we were ready for the taste test. I made one of each type for Wit, Leah, and myself. The final verdict: homemade tastes better, even if they were less fluffy.

Victory!

Since this is a holiday geared toward the special “men of the house”, there are a number of interesting traditions that have grown up around it. Some of these traditions are somewhat confusing; a man is supposed to climb into his pants with only one leg, letting the other drag behind him, then hop throughout his house in a sign of… well, I’m not sure what that’s supposed to signify. These days we see celebrations a bit more in keeping with our culture. It’s a day for special treatment and pampering of the men in our lives.

Leah and Wit bought me a bar of chocolate and a bouquet of flowers to celebrate the day. Leah also asked me what special meal I’d like prepared for my faux-Þorrablót.

What is Þorrablót, you ask? Why that’s a traditional midwinter feast held at the start of Þorri to usher in the coldest month of the year. Þorri is absolutely jam-packed with feasts and celebrations, to be honest. It’s not surprising, though, if you imagine the small farm community packed into their turf home huddled down trying to survive the harshest season. Best to mix it up with celebrations, drinking, feasting, and anything else to distract you.

The Þorrablót feast is full of traditional delicacies, or horrors, depending on your disposition. They are all foods of survival in this unforgiving landscape, and still welcomed with joy in many households. Some of the dishes you could expect to see are meats (pickled or salted, smoked, or dried) such as Hangikjöt or “hanged meat”, svíð or seared lamb’s skull, hrútspungar or ram testicles, slátur or blood sausage, harðfiskur or dried fish, and treats like Icelandic rye bread. (Side note: I made slátur with a friend’s family before Christmas and it’s quite good. It’s like haggis.)

Now before you get excited about the awesome foods above, we didn’t do much of that ourselves this year. While I wouldn’t say no to any of it myself, Leah and Wit are not quite as welcoming. Instead I suggested we have meatloaf for dinner! Leah makes an excellent recipe and it felt “meaty” enough to fit the holiday in spirit. Besides, I’m the man of the house so it’s my decision, right? 🙂

Sadly we also learned this morning of the passing of the musician, Meatloaf.

Rest in peace, big guy. His name is Robert Paulson.

Iceland “beat” the first wave quickly. People were respectful of the instructions coming from the leaders here and the distancing rules worked. We had an extended period with no domestic infection at all and so it was decided to begin reopening borders. This has been happening slowly, phasing in more and more locations and with various types of border screening. We knew that this would bring infection, but the hope was to be able to quickly identify and contain it when that happened.

More recently that control has slipped and we’re witnessing a domestic spread that’s not fully contained. Icelanders returning from abroad seem to be the biggest issue as they meet friends and family and interact much more with the community than tourists. We now have infections in several regions that have been verified to be the same strain and coming from a single source, but that source hasn’t been found.

Our numbers are back up to about ~121 infected and many more in quarantine. The new travel rules say that everyone entering Iceland will need to be tested twice and stay in quarantine for several days between the tests. Sometimes if you are newly infected you can test negative but still transmit the disease. Thus, if we test you and you are negative we test you again 5 days later and it should show positive if you were one of those sneaky cases. Also we’re back to the 2-meter rule and for the first time ever we have a public mask order in effect if you are in a public place where you can’t maintain 2-meters distance.

This time around the locals aren’t playing along as well as they could, sadly. There’s quite a few incidents of people having little parties and such, and each time it’s creating little outbreaks. It’s nowhere near as bad as the US is, though. I’m confident we’ll get through this latest iteration soon.

Sadly, there were a few people who broke quarantine and spread the infection, while travelers coming through Austria brought in a new pathway for transmission. Little by little the infection rate has grown until today we reached 330 infected. So far our only death is a tourist who was infected abroad and traveled into the country. Only three others are hospitalized, while many remain in quarantine and the nation as a whole respects a ban on public assembly.

In this post I want to take a few minutes to explain how things are being handled here and why I’m proud of the actions in this small nation.

First, I mentioned that we are under a public assembly ban. That officially went into affect on Monday morning this week, though many had already been self-isolating. For us that means that we shouldn’t gather into groups of more than 100 people, and we are encouraged to avoid more than 10 in proximity. When we do encounter others it should be at a distance of two meters.

This should all sound familiar as it’s the same instructions we’re seeing around most of the world. Most business that can do so have employees working from home. We still have construction crews doing their jobs. Our primary school is still open (more on that in a bit).

The public has been very well informed throughout every part of this process. Our government has a daily press conference to update the country on the situation, including figures, plans, updates to instructions for the people, and so on. Unlike some other leaders who can’t keep their hands to themselves the conferences here involve everyone sitting at a table with their own personal microphone. Questions are asked, information shared, and that information has been consistent. In fact, if you want to check any of the information for yourself you can pop over to https://covid.is and see for yourself. That little flag icon in the corner is a dropdown and you can use the British flag for English. (The graphics on this post are screenshots from that page)

There are a few schools which have closed, and each area is dealing with the specifics in their own way. As you can see from the above image, there’s data available region by region. (The numbers can all be found at covid.is)

Here in Mosfellsbær, the primary school at Helgafellsskóli put out inquiries to all the parents to see if they were affected by isolation or quarantine, and whether they intended to send their children to school. Based on those responses they closed the school for one day to have all the staff put together a plan of action. That was Monday. Later that day we got word back of the plan during this pandemic:

The first, third, and fifth grades will go to school on dates that are odd in number, while the second and fourth grades go on even dates. Within each grade the students have been split into smaller groups (A, B, C, etc). Each group of each grade is given a specific time when school starts and ends, and a specific door through which they will enter and exit. These are staggered and arranged so that the groups do not cross each other’s paths. They play in isolated areas. They have separate bathrooms. And the school is completely disinfected every night.

To supplement the teaching, extra assignments are sent home with the kids to work on with parents during their off days. Those children who are unable to come to school at all are given learning packets with daily lesson plans and assignments that can be used by the parents.

This is one specific example of the detail of thought that’s being put into things. Teachers are incredibly well respected here, and deservedly so. They are brilliant and go through extensive training to gain their positions. Iceland is routinely in the top five educational systems worldwide year after year. We’ve seen that first hand with how Wit is responding to things, even in a foreign language.

Iceland is treating things seriously. In addition to public safety, they’re actively researching the virus and tracking its progression. A local genetics company, deCODE, has been performing full genome sequencing on the volunteer population of Iceland in addition to those infected. If you look at that graph at the top you can see how fast they are too. They’re able to fully sequence the genome of an individual in a matter of hours, and they’re looking not only for incidence rates, but also for signs of mutation. The data coming out will help researchers across the globe. Oh, did I mention that deCODE is doing all this for free? Yeah, they’re eating the costs.

When deCODE offered their help, the government actually turned them down at first. There was the not-quite-totally-altruistic nature that they would quickly be gathering a ton of data that would be invaluable to them as a private company after the fact, but also there was concern about the process and they wanted to follow all the specific health rules that the government is bound to. That only lasted one day, though, and they came to a common ground and things have rapidly been increasing ever since.

And what about the health care system? Well, it was obvious from the start that this pandemic has the potential to spike cases and overload things. It also threatens to infect those same caregivers we rely upon. So, wisely, a call was put out for volunteers with experience to step up as backup workers.

Well, they got them! A ton of people, including many retired workers, volunteered. The same goes for emergency crews, drivers, police, and so on. A Facebook group was started where people can volunteer to pick up groceries or do other helpful work for those stuck in isolation and quarantine. It gained thousands of volunteers in just hours.

The people here have a common goal. They have had a common message of the seriousness of this situation from the start. People are respectful, helpful to one another, and will make it through this as well as possible.

The economic factors will obviously impact the nation for some time to come, but there are many tools at the disposal of the government. The crash in 2008 proved to the locals that they can get through those tough times and flourish. The people are prepared.

And finally, let me share this one last graph. I know there’s a lot of people still saying this is a condition which is worst on the elderly, those with suppressed immune systems and those with underlying conditions. Well, yes, but that’s true of just about every disease. That should not make you think you are safe because you’re young. Even if you ignore the absolutely essential fact that you could infect those more susceptible than yourself, just being young will not necessarily protect you.

Be safe, and wash your hands.

The storm season isn’t over yet, either. Just today we got word that we can expect a cyclone on Friday. The Reykjavík Grapevine has had a hard time keeping up with all of this wintry activity.

It’s not always wintery-doom here though. Some days it’s clear with beautiful blue skies. The wind may or may not be lying in wait around the corner ready to pounce on you, though. You never can tell.

There’s a term for that here, actually. Gluggiveður (Window Weather) is pretty common. Looking outside from the cozy heated apartment it can seem like a perfect day to go for a walk. Step outside and the needles slam into your face. Lovely!

There have been a few breaks here and there, thankfully. We’ve made it out and about a few times, and Wit’s school has only had a single day when it closed. There’s been a lot of cultural activities that we could have taken advantage of as well, but we seem to be on some unlucky timing with sicknesses in that regard. This past weekend was a winter lights festival downtown that we were hoping to enjoy, but Wit picked up the flu on Thursday and has been shut in ever since.

The biggest bit of poor timing was at the beginning of January when I had scheduled a trip back to the US for a work meeting (and delicious wings). The weather started to turn bad in the morning as I walked my way up to the center of Mosfellsbær to catch an airport shuttle. The wind and snow started picking up, but I made it all the way to the airport without incident. I breezed through security (thanks EU passport!) and was snacking at the gate with my Kindle and watching out the window as things got crazy.

There was a winter storm coming in, a big one. It was a red warning in the north of Iceland, but it wasn’t supposed to hit hard until the evening. Within 30 minutes of my sitting down, this is what the airport windows looked like:

The good folks at Keflavík airport were trying hard to get people out of there before things got really bad. They braved the winds to load our bags and had the crews standing by waiting for a break in the winds so they could take off. One plane did make it out, but then the delays began.

First thirty minutes, than an hour, then two. It was just getting worse outside all the time. We got word that the roads to and from the Airport had shut down just before they announced that all flights were canceled.

There was a nice mad rush to rebook leading to this epic line. I waited in this for about 4 hours that night and equally long for my bags to get rescued off the planes which were stranded outside where no workers could get to them because of the weather. The next day I eventually made my way back home, but sadly without delicious wings.

We’re ready to get out of the house and do something. With luck sickness and weather will align some day soon.

I would be remiss to begin with anything but the famous pylsa, or Icelandic hot dog. These gems are not your typical ballpark weiner, but are in fact a perfect blend of beef, lamb, and pork with a semi-crunchy casing. They’re usually boiled, but you can find them grilled as well.

Hot dog stands can be found all over, even in gas stations, and they’re all quite good. One famous hot dog stand is downtown in Reykjavík, near Harpa concert hall. It can boast US presidents as customers! Seriously, these are good dogs.

Don’t just get them with the typical American toppings, though. Here you want to try them með öllu, or “with everything”. Everything in this case consists of crunchy onions and raw onions, a special pylsa mustard, remoulade, and yes, ketchup. They are just divine.

Icelanders eat a lot of fish and potatoes, not necessarily together. But this dish, plokkfiskur, is a blend of both. It’s a traditional family meal that uses up leftovers that have been cooked earlier in the week. Of course, you can just make it for its own sake if you’re anything like me and absolutely in love with the hearty warmth it fills you with.

The picture above is the plokkfiskur available at Café Loki. This restaurant is famous for serving traditional Icelandic fare. If you stop by I recommend the pickled herring and the rye bread ice cream. Delicious!

But lets go back to the plokkfiskur for a minute. The meal is pretty simple: about half is white fish, often haddock, and the other half is boiled potatoes. These are mashed and cooked together with a creamy sauce made of milk & butter, and then everything is seasoned with a liberal amount (read ALL) of white pepper. Some recipes will add in cheese or sprinkle it on top and bake the dish to give it that lovely crust.

Like Italian families and their sauce recipes, plokkfiskur has a lot of variety based on how each person’s grandmother made it. That made looking up recipes a little bit tricky at first. Deciding where to start took some navigating, but I decided to keep it simple.

I’ve made my own plokkfiskur a handful of times now and have begun tweaking it to my own family’s preferences. They like a bit more potato than fish and our seasoning mix has evolved. We have also decided that our homemade dish can only be served with a specific brand of rye bread. Anything less is just not worth it.

“Rye Bread?” you may be asking yourself. Well, whatever you’re imagining, it’s not that. The rye bread here has a very interesting history going back to the time of Danish rule when trade to Iceland was minimal. Getting good grain here was very difficult. Instead, Denmark sent its surplus of rye and Icelanders just had to make the best of it. What they created was as unique as the landscape.

Icelandic rye bread is baked in the earth near hot springs where it bakes for 24 hours. The result is dense and moist and nearly a cake. When you spread the local butter on it and take a bite, be careful. You can finish that whole loaf before you know it.

Now I could link my favorite rye bread brand here and tell you, but I already have a hard enough time getting it at the grocery store. It sells out so fast!

If you want to learn more about cool Icelandic dishes that came about because of the poverty and isolation of the country, read about laufabrauð.

The pancakes in Scandinavia are basically crepes. They’re these thin bits of deliciousness that dissolves on your tongue. Many of the ice cream shops also sell sweet and savory crepes. Now I’m craving one with Nutella. See what you’ve done?

Also on the topic of treats, I can’t forget to mention skyr. This has finally made its way to the US thanks to Siggi’s brand. You can probably find it in your yogurt isle.

Skyr is less sweet than yogurt, even less-so than greek yogurt. It’s also extremely thick and hearty. It’s packed full of protein and will kill those hunger pangs quickly. One can imagine it was useful here in the old days.

Also, fun-fact, skyr is technically a cheese!

There’s so many amazing foods here that we’re still exploring. I’ve yet to try eating the boiled lamb head, and I haven’t found a good place to try Slátur, blood pudding. The rotted shark is pretty gross, but the dried fish is quite tasty with butter.

We are making our way through the things we see in the grocery store and making note of the blind successes. The picture above is one of those. It’s a rather inexpensive frozen fish with some sort of reddish breading. The kid likes it, and with a bit of pítusósa on top, we do too. (If any Icelanders are reading this and can tell me exactly what it’s called I’d appreciate it.)

In many ways the fare here reminds me most of Tuscany. The focus on making simple things excellent is clear. Modern day Iceland does have some very fancy places to try out high-end cuisine, but I wouldn’t dismiss the simple ones.

Today I needed to peel the boy away from his tablet and Minecraft, so I tossed on some boots and a light jacket and we went to explore the mountain behind our apartment, Helgafell.

Helgafell means “Holy Mountain” and is pronounced like Helga-Fel-tlch, where that last sound happens in the back corner of your mouth. His school is named after the mountain: Helgafellsskóli or Holy Mountain School.

The mountain isn’t very big, and the hike is supposedly quite easy, but we weren’t planning on actually going for the summit today. I knew the trail-head from the northern side of the mountain was up a road near the apartment and I wanted to find it for a future hike. Wit thought that was a nice idea too, “but maybe we can go up it a little bit to see what it’s like.”

The roads to get there weren’t quite as finished as we’d expected. As I mentioned before, our neighborhood is still under a lot of construction. In fact, Leah looked at Google Maps from just a couple years ago and the entire area is undeveloped. This town basically doubled in size over the last 3 years. And so, the street we were traveling down was no different. We had to do a bit of climbing through a road being constructed to make it to the main gravel road that goes past the mountain.

Wit entertained himself by collecting white rocks on the way, and before we knew it we had found the trail-head. I wasn’t completely sure it was the right spot at first because although I could see a path clearly on the mountain itself, there wasn’t a clear way to it from the road. We did about 50 meters overland, avoiding the sensitive moss, and made our way anyway.

The next worry was the trail disappearing halfway up the northern face. I suspected that we’d probably hit a switchback that we couldn’t see from our angle, but I also wasn’t planning on going that high. The energetic boy had different plans though. “This is easy, dad,” became the battle-cry from the little one as I huffed and puffed my way along.

I actually had to stop for a few minutes at the first false-summit to let my heart calm down. It’s sad since the path was so short and easy, but I’m not letting pride get to me. I sat and looked out over the valley of Mosfellsbær and Wit joined me to comment on the cars looking like ants. Eventually I was ready to finish the trek to the top. From there we had fun on the super-squishy moss covered rocks, like little mattresses. The space was beautiful, even on an overcast day. Wit was really enjoying himself.

We’d talked on the way about how to travel on a trail safely and how to avoid hurting the mountain. I’d told him what my dad always taught me, “you only get one chance.” It was a phrase he’d use whenever we talked about something that could prove fatal if something went wrong. And so in those terms I explained why it’s important to stay away from edges, even if they look secure. He listened well and took heed, and learned how to identify trail warnings.

The path we took had a few steep inclines, including one that ran along with a small creek filled with tiny pebbles. I gave it a sour face on the way up knowing what a pain it was going to be coming back down. It didn’t disappoint either.

But first we had one errand to run. We often look out our back window at home and watch the animal life on the mountain. We have our birding field guide there and a pair of binoculars. And so, with a little careful plodding, we made our way to the western ledge that looks down on our street.

I called Leah and told her to come outside so we could wave to her. She grabbed the binoculars and saw us up top and we saw her way down below.

After that it was time to head back home. The way down was pretty rough. The trail was extremely slippery, especially the wet part, and steep. There was no vegetation to hold for assistance, so we just did our best. I led the way in case Wit slid, so I could catch him. He learned the lesson that when you slide it’s easiest just to sit down.

When we reached the bottom my knees and thighs were aflame and the boy was covered in mud, as is only proper. He was smiling all the way home, though. It was his first real hike and his first mountain and he loved it.

This past weekend was Culture Day, an affair more spread out around the city but not much less popular.

We took the bus downtown for each event, giving us a little more practice in those transfers and a feel for timing. The bus system in Iceland is quite nice, very regular, and emission free. They use a mixture of electric and hydrogen-fueled buses here.

Once we got downtown we found our way into the crowds quickly. Wit rode on my shoulders for much of the actual Pride Day parade, giving him a nice view of the rainbow road. At the start of the Pride celebrations they paint a major shopping street for a few blocks. Looking up the street along the rainbow you can see Hallgrímskirkja in the distance.

We dug through the crowds and made our way to the Pond, a popular spot in the heart of 101 Reykjavík. Leah and Wit posed for some pictures and we went looking for food.

Eventually we made our way to the concert area and discovered a lovely shady spot with big rocks that the kids enjoyed jumping across. It’s now the boy’s favorite place in the city and we have to drag him out every time we leave.

The people at Pride day were joyous and friendly.

On Culture Day the trip downtown started much the same. The buses were free for the day, which meant they were packed tight. Even so, it was a lively atmosphere. A large man sat next to me on the bus and got a phone call. Here’s how that exchange went:

“Hallo?”

“Já.”

“Já.”

“Já.”

Repeat 147 more times.

“Takk. Bless.”

I think I’m ready for that level of Icelandic.

In the city there were too many events happening all over for us to possibly see more than a handful. Many people were opening their homes to strangers for coffee and waffles. Coffee is big here. There’s even a special phrase: kaffi og meððí, where meððí is a catch-all term for anything that goes well with coffee.

We got our kaffi later on at my favorite place in town, Mokka Kaffi. But before that we started by going to the Culture House and painting monsters!

There was a lovely little crowd and we were provided watercolors and straws to blow the paint around, crayons, pens & pencils. Wit got into it and we all made some fun pieces. We may have to go back and check the place out again another day. There’s a whole museum there with Icelandic history.

In that downtown area were street performers from the circus, some period-player vikings holding mock battles, a ton of music, and even some free food. I managed to grab some free hot dogs. There was a soup as well, but we never made our way to the tent.

These outings have been great fun and very tiring. We’re getting so much walking in around the city, and gaining confidence on the buses.

This weekend will have yet another festival. This time it will be in our local town of Mosfellsbær. Stay tuned for more shenanigans.

When we first got the approval on our rental in Mosfellsbær, I rushed into the municipality website to get him registered for school. Thankfully that process was as easy as filling out a form online. I put in our kennitala, or Icelandic social security numbers, and entered a few bits of extra info. I was able to log in to the site using IceKey, which is a sort of governmentally provided single-signon that connects back to your kennitala.

I don’t think I’ve covered just how awesome the kennitala is. I may have mentioned before that when I got our phone service I went into the store, gave my kennitala, and walked out minutes later with service. There was no contract or payment needed. When I pay my rent I don’t have to log into a weird site or deal with 3rd party payment processors. All of it is integrated. Once I got a bank account in Iceland (with Landsbankinn), my kennitala was connected to the bank. Now people can send me bills directly to my bank by using my ID number. It’s not just for businesses either. When our landlord’s teenage cousin came by to help us carry in some heavy furniture and I wanted to send him some money to thank him, I entered his kennitala into the bank and did a transfer. Today I signed the electricity into my name and guess what… I didn’t have to log in or provide any details to that company either. They knew I lived here because my kennitala has me registered at this address. They’ll bill me automatically through my bank. Everything “just works” and it’s incredible.

But enough about kennitala awesomeness. Lets get back to the school!

Wit will be attending a brand new school in Mosfellsbær called Helgafellsskóli. It’s actually not done being built yet, but the important stuff is in place. Here’s a picture of the exterior.

Like most architecture in Iceland there’s a brutalist façade that belies the warmth within. There’s a clear metaphor for Icelanders in general here, but we’ll dive into that in another post. The principal focus of exterior design is to stand up well against harsh weather, especially wind and cold. There’s also a distinct lack of lumber on the island, so it’s rare to see a lot of it used in external construction or even in framing where concrete and steel can serve the purpose more thoroughly. The results are pretty impressive once you live inside for a bit. While we were in the school there were hordes of construction vehicles outside continuing work on the landscaping, playgrounds, and neighboring apartment buildings. We heard none of it. Not a single shake or beep.

It’s the same in our apartment. Crews are actively building new buildings on either side of ours, and landscaping is being done behind our bedroom window about 5 meters away. Once we close the windows none of that exists.

Inside the school things are sparse in the Nordic style. Some of the hallways made me think of eastern Europe, but being in the space in person tells a different story. The building is warm and purpose-oriented. There are thoughts to the placement of things. There were also warm smiles to greet us in the form of the school principal and two of Wit’s three teachers.

His class is a bit over 30 students making up the whole of the second grade. To facilitate this there is a head teacher and two assistant teachers. On many days all three will be present, while on others only two. They have a large room with many different areas set aside for different types of activities.

Later this month they’ll begin their swim lessons as well. His class will go on Thursdays to the pool to practice their skills. This is a part of public education when you live on an island. He’s quite excited about it.

We’ll hear more about the structure of his days in the weeks ahead, but from what we could gather there are two recess times a day, lunch, snack, and significant time between lessons to unwind. The days are shorter than in the US system as well. Even so, Iceland is consistently ranked in the top 5 education systems in the world. I’m eager to see it in action.

Wit’s education will be in Icelandic. As of today he knows how to say “yes, “no”, and “my name is Wit.” His teachers assure us that he’ll learn quickly, and I have little doubt. I tell him each night that the most important thing is for him to be kind and patient. He’s bright and his charm will warm him to the other students. They’ll help him with his language skills as he will help them with their English.

Students in Iceland begin learning English in year 3, so the kids in his class have not yet had any formal training in it. Still, both TV and online gaming have had a big impact on them and they’re sure to know a decent number of words to get along.

The school may not be finished yet, but it’s coming along quickly. The full playground will open in another 3-4 weeks, but there are plenty of areas already in use. Once things are all in place I’ll be sure to take more pictures. Today was overcast and a little rainy which seems to add to the gloomy photos. It really is charming.

It’s also across the street. Did I mention that before? Right now we have to walk all the way around the block to get to the entrance due to the construction but that will change in the months ahead. Wit will be able to cross the street and go right in. It won’t be long before he’s off to and from school without any help.

The freedom of movement for kids is definitely a shock here. I’ve seen kids of 8 riding the bus alone. Hordes of littler ones wander down the streets in play together. It is, honestly, like the way things used to be in the US before helicopter parenting took over. I’m so glad we can offer him this experience. In return, maybe he’ll help us with our Icelandic.

Wit, Leah and I hopped on a bus this afternoon and traveled out to Mosfellsbær. We stopped in town and hit up the grocery store to grab a few essentials (toilet paper, soap, a little towel) so that we could function. We’re not moving in properly until Monday, but we got the keys from the landlord and took a tour of the place all put together.

There are a few remaining items to get sorted, as the whole building is brand new. We don’t have our light fixtures installed in the ceilings yet, and there’s still some masonry work being done outside. Everything inside works, though.

Our container from the United States has also arrived in Iceland. It’s currently working its way through customs, and we hope to get it delivered to the apartment very soon. Unfortunately, we don’t have anyone lined up to help us move things in from the container when it gets here. Maybe Leah will have some time to look into that.

Tomorrow she’s heading to IKEA to secure Wit a new loft bed and a couple foam mattresses for us while we wait for the container to arrive. We may be living in a very empty place for a few days next week. Yikes!

We’re also going to be shopping for a washer and dryer to install in the apartment. Most apartments don’t come with appliances at all. This one was great in that it had a refrigerator and stove and dishwasher already installed. The only things remaining are the washer and dryer. The building plumber is also on-hand to help with installations.

You can all look forward to some new pictures once things get settled in place. Bless bless!

Spoilers! We didn’t see a whale. That’s okay, though. We will have plenty of opportunity to try again since we live here now. This company also has an operating base out of the northern city of Akureyri. The whales up there are more varied and almost always appear. It could be a great trip next summer. Then again, we may go to Húsavík and take one of the sailing tours instead. It all depends on what’s allowed for Wit’s age. We’ll definitely find whales one way or another.

While we didn’t see any whales that doesn’t mean the trip was a total waste. We hopped on board the boat after a quick burger at the harbor. It was spacious with a large galley lounge where you could get snacks and drinks. We claimed a comfy table in that zone for our bag of coats and settled in. In just a few minutes we were underway and Wit was eager to go up on deck. Over the course of the three hours at sea he got plenty of practice on how to navigate ladders on a boat and how to terrify his dad by running ahead. Somehow we all managed to survive.

The air cooled quickly and our coats were a perfect choice. The boat has jumpsuit-floatation gear you can wear if you’re very cold, and kids all have to wear a life-vest the whole time (no complaints from me). My lopapeysa and Leah’s coat were enough for us, though. When we did get a little chilly, we just moved to the sunny side and warmed up.

While there were no whales to be seen, we had plenty of bird visitors. The most notable was a group of Northern Fulmars who rode our wake and would fly quick buzzing passes in front of our ready cameras. They seemed pretty friendly but be warned! When threatened their defense mechanism is to vomit on their attacker. Ew.

We also saw a bunch of tiny puffins flying around. They move in groups and very low to the waves. They’re also extremely fast, moving around 50mph. They’re scared of the boats and stayed too far for a good picture. Wit was pleased to see them, though.

Eventually we made our way back to land and decided to get a bite to eat downtown before we headed home. While strolling up from the harbor we came across some fantastic street art, for which Reykjavík is famous. This stuff is all around town and it really brightens up the place. While some homes and roofs are bright colors, most of the external facades in the city are gray concrete. Splashes of art breath in life.

We thought about going back to a little Italian restaurant that Leah liked from a previous visit, but once we reached it the place was packed with tourists. There’s a lot of options in the downtown area, though, so we kept walking. After more debate and searching I recommended a Pakistani place called Shalimar. To my surprise, Wit actually seemed interested once I described the food and told him he’d be trying something new. Leah was hesitant at first because she dislikes curry (I told her there were other things than curry), but she doesn’t like to dissuade Wit when he’s feeling adventurous. We went in and had an absolutely incredible meal.

My lamb saagwala was so filling I barely managed to get it all down. We got some naan, a mango lassi, and a nice selection of chicken dishes too. The staff were very friendly and we had the place mostly to ourselves. Eventually a couple locals came in, obviously knowing it for the gem it is. I think we’ll go back there again sometime.

Wit made a friend! To be more precise he has made several friends recently at the playground. Some of the children know some English from TV and are excited to talk and play using it. Others, like the boy who lives upstairs, speak no English at all. That hasn’t stopped him from becoming a fast friend of our boy.

As soon as Wit gets up in the morning he is in a blur of excitement to eat breakfast and get changed so he can go outside and play. This is one of the first cultural changes for us that I’ve been looking forward to. There is so much less hovering in the parenting here, it reminds me of what life was like when I was young. Wit and the other six year old head out together and explore the nearby area. They stick close to the house we’re staying in and don’t go into the street, but they do sometimes wander a bit further away in search of one of the many neighborhood cats.

There are so many of them around here and it’s simply wonderful. The closest neighboring cat is Mongo. He pops by each day to entertain the boys and get some petting.

This is definitely a cat-centric city and I’m cool with that. Cat’s have a natural Icelandic vibe to them. That is to say, they’re pretty laid back, not in much of a hurry to be anywhere in particular, and secure doing whatever they’re doing. It’s an attitude that we’ve found in pretty much everyone we’ve dealt with so far, whether at the Registers office, in looking at rental properties, going to restaurants, or meeting neighbors.

When we go to the park and meet other kids and their parents it is most apparent in contrast to the same situation in the states. Perhaps it is different for Leah, but in the US, when I would go to a playground with Wit other adults would be standoffish and act as if it were odd that I were there. Here there is a great diversity of mothers and fathers with kids playing, and everyone is happy to dive in and help with each others little ones. I helped lift some kids onto the zip-line in the park and others did the same for Wit. Parents are easy to talk to and happy to share a smile or chat. It’s just… easy.

That should be the theme of our time here. I am at-ease. I saw a book in a bookstore/coffeehouse (I typed kaffihús first, oops) yesterday titled “I want to be calm.” It made me laugh out loud in the store! How could anyone be here and need that book?

The few things that were remaining to stress me out are wrapping up. On Friday we met with our landlord and signed our rental agreement. She was a lovely woman who leases some apartments as a side business. In her day job she’s a leadership coach with international reach. She was sweet and had a friend from Germany with her who was also a joy to meet.

We spent a few minutes in her office chatting and then signed our agreement. The rental paperwork requires a pair of witnesses and we didn’t have anyone else with us, so she grabbed a couple of people from the floor below us, which just happens to be the office of a film studio. So, that’s how it happened that a witness on my rental application is one of the most famous film directors in Iceland today, Baldvin Z!

Tomorrow we will take that paperwork and the rest of our collection to the immigration office and put in the request for Leah’s residency. Sometime next week we’ll get the keys to our new apartment and start planning how to survive until our shipping container arrives with our beds.

No worries, though. þetta reddast, as the locals say.

We have an apartment!

After a whirlwind weekend of apartment hunting we somehow managed to get extremely lucky. We traveled to pretty much every corner of Reykjavík and its neighboring municipalities and saw so many places my head is a blur. By far the most impressive unit was in Mosfellsbær, one of the furthest areas from downtown and one of our top picks. It’s the garden town of the capital area and it didn’t disappoint. But first, let me tell you about the apartment.

It’s a whopping 135 square meters, or over 1430 square feet, which is just enormous for a place in this city. It’s got three bedrooms, a living room, kitchen with island, big bathroom, big washroom, and an extra hallway-nook-office thing. There’s plenty of storage in the basement and a private garage (not that we have a car). We’re on the first floor and have a little patio garden, and the building is literally across the street from Wit’s school. How amazing is that?

The entire area is overrun by new construction. We couldn’t count the number of apartment buildings going up, and from what we hear that’s been the case for the last few years.

After seeing the apartment we walked down the hill to Álafoss, the birthplace of the Icelandic wool industry. It’s a beautiful little corner spot with a knife maker and wool shop. It’s basically heaven for Leah. Continuing down the trails brought us through a garden setting and nature walk, past playgrounds, and eventually a sports complex and pool. We trudged up a hill and found ourselves in the heart of Mosfellbær. It’s definitely walkable, but when we’re lazy or the weather is bad the bus service in the area is still really good.

Mosfellsbær is surrounded by mountains and hills ripe for hiking. There’s trails everywhere, horse riding nearby, and it’s a hop, skip, and a jump from the sea. It should provide a great backdrop for the next few years.

I’ll have my rental agreement in hand in the next day or two and we’ll be able to move our things in sometime next week. It’s just in time since the container is getting on the boat this weekend.

Next up, Leah’s immigration paperwork, Wit’s school, and…

Who knows‽

There’s a list of things we need to do still before we’re officially settled in:

• Find an apartment for long-term rent
• Register Leah with immigration
• Register Wit in school
• Join some community stuff (pool, etc)

The first thing on the list is the most important one, and the biggest source of stress for me. There’s not a lot of available rental properties in the country and they each have multiple people trying to rent them. This means that landlords don’t need to be in a hurry and they can wait for someone they connect with to come along.

We’ve seen a handful of places in person now, and showed interest in two, but haven’t gotten the agreement on either. In one case there wasn’t much chemistry between us and the owners. With the other apartment we hit it off really well and we thought it was going to happen. Unfortunately that owner was working with a friend that runs a rental service and they had already established an agreement with someone else. The good news is that we made a friend in that owner and he’s asking around with others to help us search.

This weekend we will go see one property, and another on Monday. I really hope we find something and nail it down soon. Once we have an agreement on paper we can get Leah’s process going and tell the shipping company to send the container.

Speaking of the container, we probably have too much stuff. There’s not many places in our price range that exceed 100 square meters, and that doesn’t leave much room for American junk. Bedrooms are really designed for just the bed here too. We’ll be lucky to find a place that can fit our king-sized mattress, but I’m pretty sure we have no hope of fitting Wit’s full-sized bed in his room. The kid rooms are like closets. We’re thinking of getting him a loft twin so he has more room to play in the bedroom. They do home delivery, so that should be pretty easy.

Another change with rental properties here is the appliances. Most rental properties will have a fridge in them (not all), but they usually just provide hookups for washers & dryers, and in many cases dishwashers. The renters are expected to buy their own or move them to their new place. That’s pretty neat. Our new friend says he knows some people and places that can get us good deals once we get to that stage.

Lets you get confused, we haven’t just been sitting around these past two weeks. In addition to the apartment search we’ve also learned to use the bus system quite well, and have purchased a bus pass for the year that Leah and I can share. That makes it very easy to take a quick jaunt here and there. The bus system is very friendly, and the app shows real-time trackers on every bus.

We also got new SIM cards for our phones! This one took over a week because our IDs weren’t showing up in the phone company database. I stopped by the Vodafone store in the mall every couple days to check in, but it took until this past Tuesday for a “yes”. Once we did show up the experience of getting a phone plan was quite weird. They asked me for my kennitala and that was pretty much it. I got to pick out our numbers and they handed me the SIMS. I didn’t have to pay for anything or fill out any forms. The national ID system is tied in with everything so it’s simple.

I also set up a bank account, which is probably why things are so easy. Once you do, people can send you documents and bills directly to your bank via the kennitala. That’s the good stuff right there. The not-so-good stuff is Wells Fargo being a useless pile of crap. I struggled for days to get a proper international wire transfer going but they had a million limits in place. I called, I chatted, and eventually I wrote myself a check and moved the money to USAA, a real bank that knows what they’re doing. After that transferring money to my Icelandic account was a breeze. I think I’m probably going to close down the Wells Fargo account now. There’s no point in keeping a bank I can’t access.

Alright, lets get the weekend going! Tomorrow we’re heading to one of the area pools. We haven’t settled on which one yet, but it’s going to be epic. Wish us luck on the apartment hunt!

During the process of applying for citizenship (jure sanguinis), the Italian consulate charged a few hundred dollars at one point for an application fee. Otherwise everything I’ve requested or done with Italy has been free of charge. All of our documents that we’ve requested have been free. All copies of things mailed around have been free.

Similarly, the government services in Iceland seem to be free as well. Processing our residency had no charge. It didn’t strike me as odd until I compared it mentally with things in the United States. Everything in the US costs money. Remarkably, the charges for government services are often also taxed, which is worthy of an eyebrow raise. Just picking up a drivers license in Pennsylvania required going to a bunch of different places to get emissions tests (fee), inspection (fee), registration (fee).

Regardless, today we dropped off our rental car and tested out the bus system. Stræto is the bus line here. The word means “bus” literally. Iceland does that a lot. It’s pretty cute. We dropped off the car, popped into a Whale Museum with life-size models of whales that was just awesome, then hoofed it around the downtown area for an hour or two just getting lost and seeing what we could. The idea was that we’d stumble into dinner somewhere and then use the bus to get home.

We ended up getting a fancy dinner at Food Cellar (Matakjallarinn). I had an absolutely astounding fish soup there. No pictures, sadly. The sad reality of life in Iceland is that certain things are just too expensive. Eating dinner out at a restaurant is easily 3 times the cost it is in the United States. While super market shopping is fairly close to what you’d expect at an upscale organic market, the dining scene has simply run-away with costs. We roughly estimate that we can go out and eat about once a week and stay on par with what we spent in Pennsylvania.

That’s not necessarily a bad thing for us. Leah and I both had struggles with holding back on the impulse eating that fast-food affords. Now we plan more carefully and our budget will help hold us to that. Having no car and walking more is also sure to help.

After the dinner we popped onto the #6 bus and were back at our airbnb in about 5 minutes. It was simple and the Stræto app on our phones made it doubly so.

This evening I started on some freelance work and Leah busted out her travel yarn. We’re settling in well. It’s now almost 1 a.m. and I’m about to sleep. The night is about as dark as it’s going to get for this time of year. It’s just dark enough that most cars on the roads will have their headlights on, but not so dark you couldn’t read on the porch. Wild stuff.

I’m sitting at a beautiful airbnb in Reykjavík across from my fabulous wife while my son flips through some activity books on the couch. We’re all tired, sweaty, hungry, and did I mention tired? Above all, though, we’re Icelandic residents. (Well, 2/3)

Two weeks ago things really hit their stride. As I talked about in my last post, we had the apartment packed up and coordinated a fancy-dance of movers from our storage unit to the apartment to a shipping container. Remarkably, the timing all worked perfectly and we made it happen. The majority of our household goods are in a container up in Saco, Maine waiting until later in the month to ship to Iceland. By that time we hope to have an apartment rented where we can get things delivered.

After the packing shenanigans we spent a night with friends and then a few more nights cleaning out the apartment. Giving back those keys felt like more of a milestone than the packing did, somehow. We also sold my car to a friend and sold my wife’s lease back to the dealership, though at some cost. That wasn’t great, but it’s done.

Finally, we all went to see Toy Story 4 with friends to celebrate a birthday for my godson. It was cute. We couldn’t stick around much afterward, though. Saturday morning started the trek to Calabash.

For our first leg of the drive we went down to Washington, DC and met up with an old college friend, Doug, and his family. I haven’t seen Doug since I left Indiana, so that was a real treat. We caught up on his life and ours and had some insanely good food at the Silver Diner. On full tummys we loaded back up and drove on.

In the end we spent about 13 hours on the road getting to my parent’s house. We made it early enough to spend a little time with them that night in addition to the next day. It was too short a visit, but it’s all that could be squeezed in, unfortunately. It was good to see Mom and Dad and let Wit play with them a bit.

The following Monday we made our way to Charlotte and rented a long-term storage unit. It’s a pretty cool one that’s inside these long hallways that all look the same. When our shipping pod showed up the next day everything fit nicely. We spent a few days saying goodbye to friends and family there as well, including a nice party with most of Leah’s family.

On June 30th we were finally ready for the big trip. I’m a little bit crazy when I travel so we ended up at the airport about 5 hours early and squatted in line at the Jet Blue counter in Charlotte. Our first flight was at 4 p.m. taking us to Boston where we’d then have a 2-hour layover and then a 5 hour flight to Keflavík. An hour and a half later, once the counter opened, we found out that big bag was too heavy to be allowed on IcelandAir’s plane at all! OH NOES. So we sat there in the middle of the check-in area and swapped heavy things around between bags to even out the weight. We had a small upcharge for the heavy bag, but we were moving again. Sadly, our plan to bring Wit’s car booster seat was for naught as it was too wide for the throw-away bag we’d prepared for it. I hope some lucky person at the Enterprise car rental in Charlotte picked it up.

The flights themselves were a blur. Wit and Leah got a bit of sleep in on the longer flight, and the attendants were cool. I love IcelandAir.

6 a.m., July 1st we touched down in Keflavík. We haven’t been to that airport in 3 years and boy has it grow up. It’s easily the best airport I’ve even been to. The bathroom is made up of individual private rooms. The sinks have the water, soap, and dyson dryer thing all integrated in one spot. You put your hands in the middle to wash and move them outward to the side and they dry. It’s magic. Next up, customs…

I prepped our brand new Italian passports and we walked into the EU line, which was totally empty. As we approached the self-check-in kiosk a security worker waved us through the family line. We walked up to the window, showed our passports and got a “Welcome to Iceland” about 3 seconds later. That was easy!

Since we had so many bags and aren’t too familiar with the bus system we decided to rent a car for a few days to get settled. Car rentals in Iceland are mostly manual transmissions, with the automatics costing much, much more. The thing is, I drove my friend’s stick shift in high school a few times and that’s about it. Wow do I suck at it. I stalled about 11 times getting it around to pick up Leah and Wit but then I managed to make it all the way from the airport to the Residency Office without stalling again.

Living in Iceland as an EU citizen requires that we register with the Residency Office. There’s an online form with a bunch of documents needed that we filled out from Charlotte, but the real processing doesn’t happen until you show up in person. We got to the office around 8:30 and they opened at 9, so we camped out at the door. It’s a good thing, too. When the door opened there were about 25 people in line behind us.

We met with a nice woman at the counter who asked for a few things that we had also prepared. She scanned a few docs and got Leah to sign a letter and we were done. The biggest hurdle, and the one that had me the most worried, was over. Despite the aid of a lawyer and checking the document requirements a hundred times I still worried we were going to show up and they were going to say “no.” What a relief. As we were leaving they informed us that in a few days we’d be getting an email about the results.

I called out host at the airbnb and he said the place was ready so we went straight over to decompress. A few days passed…and by that I mean an hour. That’s right, 1 hour later we got the emails with our kennitala. Wit and I are officially residents of Iceland.

For the rest of day one we had some snacks, took a nap, walked to the local supermarket and got a few bits to survive. We cooked dinner and walked through the park. Wit discovered a playground filled with kids and families having cookouts so we hung around and helped him play. They even had a zip-line.

It’s now 9 p.m. and Wit is getting a bath before we send him off to bed. We’re all still extremely tired from the travel but we’re relieved to have the hardest parts behind us. I think I’m going to sleep damn well tonight.

With one month to go before we hop on the plane to Iceland our days seem mostly filled with nervous anxiety and panic over how much stuff we still need to purge. The move dates are all set and we’ve got our hotel stays lined up. My lawyer seems confident we have everything to satisfy Iceland’s residency requirement, and yet I still worry about what we’ll do if we get there and run into a problem. Stress eating is in full swing, and that doesn’t help the mood either.

In work news, my current company has figured out a way to let me continue to do work for them as an independent vendor. It would be a part time affair, and slowly drop off over time, but it could provide a nice source of income during the first few months while we get settled. I think finding a job will be much easier once we’ve found our way around and the summer crowds die down a bit.

Pretty much every moment from now until we leave is scheduled with some sort of activity. I guess staying busy will help keep our mind off the stress. I have two more weeks of work to focus on first. Then, that following weekend, we do one more purge pass on the storage unit and get ready for the packers to arrive on Monday. The apartment will get all boxed up except for our beds. Then, Tuesday morning it’s load-load-load! We crash that night with some friends and then check in to a hotel on Wednesday-Friday nights. Wednesday & Thursday are for offloading the last of our things, including the cars, and cleaning out the apartment. Friday we do a small bit of relaxing with friends for a birthday party then get an early nights sleep. That Saturday we hop in the rental car and head south to see my parents.

The next week will involve spending some time with family and getting the storage unit loaded up with the goods we’re not shipping to Iceland. With that out of the way, we’ll be all ready to hop on a plane in Charlotte, fly up to Boston for a nice little layover, and then off to a new life overseas.

Once we arrive in Iceland there’s much, much more to be figured out still. We haven’t decided if we’ll try to rent a car for a couple days to get settled, or if we’ll take the bus in to Reykjavík. We’ll need to hit the residency office and immigration offices right away to get our paperwork moving. Hopefully that will happen quickly and we’ll have what we need to rent an apartment. We have no idea when our container will arrive in Iceland or how long we’ll need to store it or what we need to do to clear customs. There’s so much stuff that everyone tells us is no big deal because they do it all the time, but we’re totally in the dark. I just hope we can overcome the hurdles and get settled.

Once we have a place to live and I’m doing contract work and bringing in a bit of money, we can focus on the next things. Budgets, school enrollment, furnishings, and adventures. I wish we could just fast-forward to that phase.

We’re just under 2 months away from the big move to Iceland. The last five have gone by so quickly, but we’ve also managed to do a lot of planning in that time. We hired a lawyer in Iceland to help make sure we’re doing everything properly. That’s been quite a stress relief. We also have contracted with an international shipping company to handle getting a container of our stuff across the sea. We’re not moving everything, though, so that means we also have another moving company contracted to help us with the packing and loading, and to take the remainder of our things down to Charlotte where we’ll store them close by my wife’s family. Our thinking is that when we come to visit we’ll be able to get at that stuff if we need to, or they can do it on our behalf in a pinch.

My son finishes school and I finish my last day in the office on June 14th. After that we’ve got a handful of days to get prepped to pack, pack everything into boxes, merge the contents of our storage unit back into the apartment, move everything going to Iceland onto a container that will travel there via Maine, load the rest onto a moving truck headed to Charlotte (and secure storage in Charlotte), trade in my wife’s lease to the local dealership, sell my car to a friend, rent a car and drive to North Carolina to say goodbyes to my parents and my wife’s family, board a plane in Charlotte and fly to Iceland via Boston. Whew!

Once we arrive we will trade one rush for another. We’ll have started our application for residency online just before we fly there, and after arriving we’ll have to follow up with an in-person visit to the Residency Office to provide the rest of our documents in paper form. I’m still waiting on a few things from both the Pennsylvania State Department (apostilles) and Italy (paper copies of birth and marriage certs). We’ll need to prove we have health insurance coverage for the next 6 months (thanks Cigna) and that we can support ourselves financially (thanks, house sale) and we’ll need to get some health screenings too. That should be it, though, for my residency application, and my son’s.

But that’s not all! My wife is still coming over as a US citizen, not an Italian one, so her immigration is contingent on my residency. Once my part is done we’ll handle hers with more paperwork fun. Also, I should be getting a kennitala (Icelandic social security number) somewhere along the way. With that number I’ll be able to open a local bank account and, most importantly, rent an apartment.

You see, we only have a place to stay for the month of July! Eek! We got a super expensive airbnb rental in the heart of the city for the month and I’m hopeful that it’ll be long enough for us to get through the rush of paperwork and find a long term rental. If not, we have an emergency fallback through housing that our lawyer can help us with, but I really hope it doesn’t come to that.

We don’t know the timing on the shipping of our goods yet, so I’m not sure when that container will arrive at customs or whether we’ll need to be there in person to greet it. And we still need to arrange delivery of the container to our apartment or storage temporarily until we find an apartment.

Then, after we have a place to live and stuff upon which to sleep, we’ll need to figure out my son’s school situation. He’ll be going to public school in the municipality where we move, likely Kópavogur. What are the rules for that, processes, forms, etc? No idea.

My mom laughs about all this work we’re doing. She watches House Hunters International and sees people that just up-and-move to another country. It looks so easy. Similarly, there’s the old chorus of people who chant at protesting crowds, “if you don’t like it, move to another country!” I seriously wish it were so easy to just do it like that. If I didn’t have Italian citizenship already, this process would become incredibly more difficult.

As it is, we’re in pretty good shape with just a few boxes left to check and fees to pay. I won’t lie; this is expensive. Physical moving of “stuff” alone is going to cost over $15k with all the parts considered. Add in airfare, a month-long Airbnb in Reykjavík in July, and so on… yeah, it’s not cheap. Thanks again, house sale!

I took a picture of my son lying in bed dreaming his last dreams here. He’s only ever known this home and all its space. The apartment will be a big change for him. He’s got the magical flexibility of youth on his side. I just hope he stays as kind and joyful as he is now.

For the next seven months we’ll be preparing for the move out of the country. All the major hurdles have been overcome and now it’s just a matter of doing the work. This summer, God willing, we’ll be living in Iceland.

I’ve played with R and Julia programming languages in the past to broaden my own capabilities in data science. Our tool sets are powerful now, even for casual programmers and researchers. I can dig around and find data sets to dig through when given a problem, but I suffer from a horrible writers-block-like sense when facing the blank page. When practicing my programming skills, which project should I take on? Do I do something that can help the world? Do I dig through crime statistics or weather figures or use infrared data on fields to cross-reference rainfall and identify vegetation at risk for drought?

I wish there were a place online where data science hobbyists could grab an open question and submit back their analyses via literate programming. I imagine a place like Github where collaborative people can “Pull Request” their work back up to the list and have it appear as one of several attempts at a solution. We could compare between the different solutions and the comment systems would allow deeper commentary and question perhaps even resulting in a new line of inquiry.

I’m writing this here in hopes that by putting it out into the “ether” the idea will promulgate and find root in reality. I certainly don’t have the time or energy to dedicate to building such an ecosystem myself. You, reading this now, should go do it for me. I’ll totally use it.

Somewhere in the early 2000s, Denny’s (the breakfast-style restaurant that’s not really a diner but wants to be) sported a Guess Who place mat. My friends and I took the opportunity to dust off an old house-rule that makes the game actually fun for adults.

You are not allowed to ask questions about physical appearance.

That’s the crux of it! That little change takes the game from elementary school to party time. Very quickly your questions devolve into abstract philosophy, profiling, and silliness.

Take a look at the board below:

One look at Megan and it’s obvious that she lost her other earring in a torrid love affair with Sir Alec Guinness. Chris and Daniel are each other’s imaginary friends. Zachary… he loves you.

Ask your opponent if their character is a Republican, or if they have a secret shrine to Taylor Swift in their closet. On the one hand it’s possible that you’ll disagree on some point or another, but it’s actually pretty rare. More likely you’ll end up like Josh and I did, developing intricate and intertwining backstories for every character that reveal the complex plotting of evil masterminds. In our game, a large number of these people are dead now. Some of natural causes, some of imagination, and poor Rachel who died of cancer complicated by bullets.

Grab the image above and email it to a friend and start a game today!

Earlier this month my letter came from the Italian consulate officially congratulating me on my citizenship (and my son’s). It was such an amazing feeling to finally complete the process. It’s been so long in the making I’m not really sure how to celebrate. Nothing seems sufficient.

I took pictures and shared them on social media, texted my mom and my sister, did a little jig, and kissed the wife. I should probably hire a sky-writer or a mariachi band or something.

Next up we have an appointment in early September at the consulate to get our passports and codice fiscale (like an Italian social security number). After that the world is our oyster!

But seriously, there’s a few things to follow up with. For one, my wife can get citizenship as well via marriage, but we’re not 100% sure if that’s necessary or desirable. Mainly it comes down to whether she’d have to give up her US citizenship in the process. If it were me, I’d be all in for that, but she wants to keep hers. We’ll ask the consulate when we visit in a couple weeks.

After that we’re starting online skype lessons in Icelandic. I want to be able to “get by” with my language skills before heading over. My expectation is that with about 6 months hard work I can get there. Meanwhile we’re putting our house up on the market. Once that sells we’ll rent for a few months before making the big move.

Currently my plan is to work a few months once we’re in the apartment and give my son a chance to finish up his school year, or at least half the year. Then I’ll see if my company is willing to keep me on remote in Iceland or if I’ll need to resign. If I do resign, I’ll move over to Reykjavik myself and put in the paperwork to stay while looking for work. The job market for tech workers is pretty solid, and I’m confident I’ll be able to find something, especially as the company won’t need to sponsor me for a work visa since I’ll be coming in as part of the Schengen Agreement.

Once work is established I can file for residency for the first year and the rest of the family can come join me. I’ll need to file once a year for each year for the first four years before I can get permanent residency.

The website information on immigration to Iceland is pretty good. I think the only hurdle to decide upon at this point is the health insurance stuff. If I were to move to Italy I can join the national health plan, but I don’t think I can do that when moving direct to Iceland. I will probably be fine after the first 6 months, but during that initial period I might need to pay out of pocket for health coverage. More to research!

There’s a lot of next steps, but they’re all that… “NEXT”. I can finally close the chapter on this first effort. My son has dual citizenship and that’s the big accomplishment I’ve been hoping for. Seventeen years, what a ride!

Amazon Fulfillment does not offer a vacation hold for package delivery.

The Full Story

We recently took a two week vacation to see family. Like any responsible adult I made sure to put a vacation hold on my mail delivery with USPS. I also went ahead and did the same with UPS and FedEx knowing that it is the holiday season and people would be shipping presents to us. In fact, I knew we had a few Amazon deliveries coming while we were going to be away.

In the past our Amazon deliveries have been primarily handled by UPS. If the item is bulky, sensitive, or needed Sunday delivery, then we might see the anonymous cars of “Fulfillment by Amazon”. We didn’t have any of these types of packages planned, so I didn’t think twice about them.

A week and a half into our vacation I received a delivery notification from Amazon. This isn’t unusual. I learned last year that while we had vacation holds in place, Amazon packages delivered via UPS were marked as “delivered” when they reached the holding facility. I would have assumed this was the case once again except Amazon added a new feature. For deliveries handled by Amazon Fulfillment, they now take a picture of your package on your porch! How convenient!

I was surprised to see my package sitting in plain sight in front of my door. That’s not supposed to happen with all these holds. But wait, why were there other boxes on the porch? It turns out that for this holiday season Amazon Fulfillment was the primary deliverer of packages to my address. In fact, during that week and a half absence they had managed to drop 13 boxes in front of my door. Some of these were planned deliveries. Others were gifts purchased from my son’s Christmas wish-list.

I called Amazon to figure out what was going on. It took a while to get an actual phone number for Amazon Fulfillment, and I was greeted by a very pleasant service desk representative. She tried her best to be helpful and figure out along with me what could be done.

You see, I don’t want to leave 13 packages on my front porch for two weeks. That sort of thing is pretty stupid. It’s a great way to get packages stolen. It’s also a great way to advertise to thieves that we weren’t home for an extended period of time. The Washington Post recently wrote a comprehensive article on the increasing prevalence of package theft and the accompanying dangers. This is a real problem!

I want a vacation hold to be just that. Hold my packages from delivery. That includes packages I order myself and those that others might be sending me. Every other major logistics company has solved this problem with the elegantly simple solution of a vacation hold, but Amazon hasn’t figured that out. After repeatedly escalating my calls with Amazon Fulfillment I was informed time and time again that they do not offer any mechanism to temporarily place a hold on deliveries to your address.

Amazon’s solution is their highly suspect, big-brother “smart door” that should let Amazon drop packages inside. Even if the offering was a good one and didn’t raise a thousand privacy flags, I still don’t see how me paying Amazon more money is a solution to a problem they caused.

I asked Amazon if I could put a flag on my account to never use Amazon Fulfillment again so I could be free of this hassle. Apparently they can’t do that either. What they finally did for me was to “deprioritize” Amazon Fulfillment. When I am shipping a package via Amazon they determine which carrier to use through some esoteric system. My settings now deprioritize that one option, theoretically. That change will apparently take 3 weeks to go into effect and I have no way of verifying how effective it is.

One of the most frustrating things about all this is that even that setting will have no effect on items that others ship to my house. My prioritization is part of my Amazon account, not tied to my delivery address.

Amazon is built on innovation. They can offer two day delivery, sometimes faster. They take pictures of your delivered items on your porch. They can even deliver by drone in some situations. What they can’t do is hold your damned mail.

It’s not as simple a process as it seems, though. In order to prove this very basic fact, you need an overwhelming amount of paperwork to prove each point. In my case, my great-grandfather on my father’s monther’s side is the ancestor I’m referencing for my application (dad’s mom’s dad). To prove my claim I needed to provide the Italian Consulate in Philadelphia with the following:

• Great-grandpa’s birth certificate from Italy
• Great-grandpa’s death certificate
• Great-grandpa’s marriage license
• Great-grandpa’s naturalization certificate
• Grandma’s long-form birth certificate
• Grandma’s notarized application form
• Grandma’s marriage license
• Grandma’s ID
• Dad’s long-form birth certificate
• Dad’s notarized application form
• Dad’s marriage license
• Dad’s ID
• My long-form birth certificate
• My notarized application form
• My notarized declaration as applicant
• My statement of commune declaration
• My marriage certificate
• My marriage license
• My ID
• Translations of every above document to Italian
• Apostille’s (international notarization via State Department) for each document above

Once I had all of that done, I was able to schedule an appointment with the consulate to submit my application. The consulate gets a lot of requests for a lot of reasons, so when I finally made my appointment the date I was given was a full year away.

I went to my appointment a year later with everything in hand, confident I was ready to go. Unfortunately I was missing a couple things at the time.

1. My Grandmother’s ID was needed
2. My birth certificate from Virginia listed my county, but not the city of birth. This was a change in the format of the VA document years ago and took a really long time to get past. In the end, I just needed the long-form birth certificate, but it took me 4 separate document requests to the VA special requests division to get it.
3. Finally, there was a big issue with the name of my great-grandfather. You see, it’s very common in my family to have a given name and go by a completely different one. In the case of my great-grandfather, his name was Vincenzo DiMartino, and he went by the name James. In fact, I’m named after him! This made for some awkward paperwork, though. He is listed by one name or the other, or various spellings (he wasn’t literate when he immigrated) or a combination on various documents.

I left the application appointment with next steps. I took care of #1 very quickly, and as I mentioned before #2 took a little trial and error. #3 was the big problem. I didn’t have a clear path to prove my great-grandfather was the same person by all these different names. I could point to census records that listed him and his family members under various spellings at the same location in subsequent years. I thought that was a good angle. But there is no official way to get the US government to make a statement supporting that fact. There’s no body to go to with the power to officially say, “of course it’s the same guy.”

I was working through my local congressman’s office to try and get before a judge to make a sworn testimony to that effect when the consulate told me to hold. They said they were no longer going to accept that type of statement as proof of the name discrepancy any longer. I was obviously worried that this would be the end of my process, but in the end they dropped the need completely. I think they ran into enough of the same problem that they realized a bit of common sense could connect the dots.

This took me to September of 2015, when I thought my application was ready to go. The consulate reached out one last time to tell me they were missing my marriage license. I thought they were misunderstanding the difference between PA’s marriage license and certificate and I emailed them to explain that proof of marriage in this state is done via the certificate, which I included in my file. I figured that was the end of the story as I heard nothing back, and we were off to the races! Well, the very slow races as I waited to hear a response from Italy.

Fast forward two years and a couple of “check-in” emails. Italy doesn’t provide status updates on files, so I continued to think things were going ahead normally, but slowly. This past week I was finally able to connect with someone at the consulate who informed me that my file was inactive because they were missing the marriage license! OH NO!

I emailed them again about the certificate thing, with some helpful links and whatnot, when I got back the most helpful sentence from the consulate in years: “We require both.”

There it is! I have been waiting around for no good reason thinking things were moving. Now that I have that last bit of clarity, I reached out to the Office of Clerks and the Office of something else at my county seat with an explanation of what I needed and they were incredibly helpful. I have the document on its way to me now. Once that arrives I’ll get it translated to Italian, send it to get an apostille attached, and submit down to the consulate.

This should be the final step before “The Long Wait” part two. Wish me luck.

It’s frustrating because I know what I need to do in order to shed the pounds. I even enjoy the process. I relish it. Everything becomes easier, from tying my shoes to walking up the stairs. People compliment me and cheer me on. I have energy and focus and unusually steady emotional health. So why is it so difficult?

Here’s what works for me:

1. I have to wake up early. Usually this is 6:00 or thereabouts.
2. I have to go for a walk right away. It doesn’t have to be extremely long, but it can’t be a little jaunt around the house either. Two miles seems to work well.
3. I have to eat a ketogenic diet (extremely low-carb, high fat, moderate protein). This provides me the regular energy, mental clarity, and helps shed fat over muscle as I lose weight.
4. I have to eat a caloric deficit. This can be aggressive or relaxed, but I need to keep the calories low.
5. I have to track my food & exercise. It’s easy to slip out of good habits if I let myself.

That’s it. I don’t need a massive exercise plan or anything. No special equipment needs to crowd my house. When I do these things and stick with it, weight falls away and I feel amazing. I talk too much about how awesome ketosis is, about the dangers of carb addiction, and bore everyone to death. It’s fantastic.

But here I am, still fat. It’s so easy to fall out of habit #1, which means I don’t have time for #2, and then really, what’s the point of #3-5? That’s the way my thinking goes, anyway. So instead of being good and sticking with the plan, I go to the deli and get a sandwich… and maybe a candy bar to go with it. Or I get some fast food, always too much, and chow down. I sit all day at a computer and do nothing except expand. It’s gross.

I suppose this post is another call to myself to snap out of the funk and get moving again. It’s more than getting the will power primed, though. There’s a psychological aspect at play that is dark and troubling in all of this. I see it, but I can’t name it. Will I overcome? Time will tell.

The delay is frustrating. It’s especially difficult since Italy does not provide any sort of status update on the application. We submitted our final paperwork in September of 2015 and have heard nothing from the consulate since then. I anticipate that we should hear back before the two year mark, but I have no way of telling for sure.

While we wait, we’ve started entertaining other options as well. The political climate in the US is putting pressure on us to get out sooner rather than later. Waiting for the perfect situation of Iceland is still on the table, but as other opportunities arise we’re acting. Most recently Leah found an excellent lead in New Zealand through a program called LookSee. Wellington, New Zealand is offering free visits for 100 tech professionals from around the globe to come and interview and experience what the city has to offer. I filled out the application right away.

New Zealand isn’t our perfect choice, but that’s mostly because of the distance to the family back in the states. Iceland is a quick flight that we could talk family into taking. Flying around the world is a bit harder. Outside of the distance, though, New Zealand offers so much of the same things we love about Iceland: endless natural beauty, distance from too many humans, peaceful culture, and good schools.

Being selected as one of the 100 is a long-shot, but I hope it happens. If New Zealand is a 98/100 instead of a 100/100, the timing more than makes up for the difference.

Stoicism is a school of Hellenistic philosophy founded in Athens by Zeno of Citium in the early 3rd century BC. The Stoics taught that destructive emotions resulted from errors in judgment, of the active relationship between cosmic determinism and human freedom, and the belief that it is virtuous to maintain a will that is in accord with nature. Because of this, the Stoics presented their philosophy as a way of life, and they thought that the best indication of an individual’s philosophy was not what a person said but how that person behaved. To live a good life, one had to understand the rules of the natural order since they taught that everything was rooted in nature. Later Stoics—such as Seneca and Epictetus—emphasized that, because “virtue is sufficient for happiness”, a sage was immune to misfortune.

For me it boils down to this:

• Stoicism is a philosophy for life that values behavior over theory
• People are called to “do human work” and be the best at it that they can be
• Use your power of reason to stay in harmony with this purpose
• Focus your energy on what is fully in your control (ie, your thoughts and reactions, not things themselves)
• Things not in your control can be preferred or not preferred, such as your health or wealth, but you shouldn’t attach happiness to them
• Finally: Living this virtuous life is sufficient for tranquility

There’s so many parallels to Buddhism and other eastern philosophies. In fact, that’s how I found my way to where I am. I found some parts of Zen beautiful and resonating, but so much more seemed unnecessary or arbitrary. Perhaps it is my western upbringing that ultimately lead me back to western philosophy, or perhaps it was just a natural fit.

Regardless, the value I find in it is huge.

StoicCon 2016

This past Saturday I attended a conference in New York on Stoicism called Stoicon 2016. In one of the first lectures it was pointed out that we were participating in the largest gathering of stoics in the history of the world. What a powerful realization that is, and what a connection it inspires back to those ancients like Zeno, Seneca, and Epictetus.

The content was fantastic and it was incredible getting to meet so many of the people whose work I read and admire. Knowing there’s the greater community of like-minded people out there is just so reaffirming.

Stoic Week

Of course, going to lectures that are so informative and energizing is also a fantastic way to get motivated for a bigger challenge, like this year’s Stoic Week.

Stoic Week is introduced on the Modern Stoicism website as:

Stoic Week is an annual event aimed at encouraging public engagement with classical Stoic philosophy, by applying Stoic ideas and practices to the challenges of modern living. It is international and takes place online: anyone can take part. Stoic Week is now in its fifth consecutive year and has grown steadily in popularity year on year. It is organized by a multi-disciplinary team called Stoicism Today.

Participants use the workbook provided to guide meditations and exercises throughout the week. These are all guided by stoic thought, reference the foundational authors’ writings, and explore techniques they espoused.

It’s day two and I’m really enjoying the experience so far. I’ll be sharing more thoughts in a retrospective at the end of the week.

Update March 6th, 2017

Did I say I’d give an update at the end of the week? Well, that certainly didn’t happen. Honestly, I wasn’t able to stick to the workbook for the entire week due to … I’m not even sure anymore. It was probably work, but I can’t say for certain. I do know that I enjoyed every bit of the effort I put in.

Since StoicCon I keep a copy of one of the stoic texts with me in my work bag. Each day–or very nearly–I try to read a little bit and use it as a meditation for that day. Meditations and the Enchiridion are my favorites for this purpose. The style of the writing works well for quick-hit meditation.

A cord-cutter’s life

The cord-cutter movement is growing quickly and with good reason. Cable TV is an outdated model that forces an obnoxious number of interruptions into your entertainment. It serves content on its schedule, not yours. It’s expensive. The vast majority of what is offered to you isn’t something you want at all.

Cord-cutting is a term usually reserved for discussions of TV service or in some small cases dropping of land-line phone service in favor of just a cell phone. In my latest experiment I’m going to take it a step further. What if we looked at cell phone service the in the same way? What is it that you really want or need on your terms?

The service-less phone

When it comes to my cell phone I am in that class of users that annoys phone companies offering unlimited data. I routinely use 20GB or more monthly through a variety of channels: video watching, remotely controlling systems, transferring files between machines, and so on. I like to think of myself as a power user in that regard, and so unlimited data is an absolute requirement for me. This has led me to choose and stay with Sprint for most of my adult life.

Sprint has one of the poorest coverage areas and slowest services, but they offer the best deal in unlimited data. Until you cross the 23GB mark, you get full LTE service. After that, you get lower priority service, though not necessarily throttled. It is, sadly, the best offer in the US at present. It also costs a lot of money. $79/month + upcharge for smart-phone, etc. For my wife and I, that means we pay around $175US/month.

Now here’s the thing, most of what comes with that charge are things I don’t really want. I don’t need unlimited texting or unlimited talk time. I use both to a moderate degree, but I have also been a long time Google Voice user, which offers both voice and text for free. The Sprint add-on apps are more burden than boon, and I root my phones for the purpose of removing the bloatware.

So what if I take the cord-cutter approach to my cell phone? What I really want is data, unlimited amounts of it. I don’t need the rest because I have other solves. What are my options?

The experiment

Starting next week I’m going to be piloting a personal experiment in “cord”-cutting. There’s not really a cord involved, but you get the idea, right? The key to my plan is to replace normal phone functions with free or cheaper replacements.

Skype

Skype currently offers the best voice quality over an internet connection. It is also incredibly cheap to use as a phone replacement. The cost of Skype-in numbers is about $30/year with their promotional rates. That’s $2.50/month! Your friends can dial that number and Skype answers on your computer or phone. When you dial out using Skype you’ll need a subscription for that as well. To call the US and Canada it’s an additional $2.99/month, bringing our grand total Skype cost up to the whopping $5.49/month.

Google Voice

I mentioned earlier that I’m a Google Voice user. This service is free from Google and allows you to do things like make domestic calls for free or send free text messages. The interface isn’t the best, but it does give you access to create a phone number and have calls and texts to that number forward elsewhere. Since I’ve been using this for so long, this is the number everyone knows to reach me. I’ve set this to forward to my Skype In number, and Skype is set up to show my Google Voice in caller IDs when I call others. In effect, to the outside world I can use Skype and it looks like I’m using my cell phone.

YourKarma

The final piece to the puzzle is an internet connection. Skype is great, but when you’re out and about you can’t rely on having a WiFi connection to tether to. At work and home, sure, there’s probably reliable internet, but what about in the car, or at the mall, or wherever humans go these days? It was time to bite the bullet and find a WiFi hotspot that could deliver on solid connectivity at a reasonable price for the data. I settled on YourKarma for this experiment.

The Karma hotspot offers 4G LTE using the Sprint network, which gives me the same level of coverage I’m used to, but at a significantly lower rate. See, I want unlimited data overall, but not necessarily while I’m at the park or on a drive. With Karma I get a certain amount of data for a fixed fee. I’m starting with 5GB for $40/month. If there’s unused data at the end of the month, you keep it. Your data doesn’t expire.

The Karma hotspot is also interesting because you can’t lock it down for just yourself. It’s designed to be a public hotspot. Others aren’t using your 5GB, but they are piggybacking on your overall bandwidth. In return, Karma gives you a 100mb boost when someone else connects to your device.

I plan to carry the hotspot with me at all times in my bag, probably permanently plugged into my fantastic backup battery to extend the life to near-permanent levels.

If this sounds interesting to you, you can use my YourKarma link to get $10 off for yourself.

The plan

I’m not cutting off Sprint just yet. I’ll be running in Airplane mode with WiFi enabled for the next month or two getting a feel for the rough spots before I go all-in. I expect some dropped calls and awkwardness here and there, but for the grand total bill of $45.49/month I think I can deal.

Update March 6, 2017

Well that plan didn’t last long. Once the Karma arrived I gave the no-phone thing a solid two weeks of trial before I had to abandon the project. Why? Mobile hotspots do not deliver reliable, fast internet access. They may claim to do so, they may have numbers that suggest it’s true, but it just doesn’t work in practice. I was not able to maintain a Skype call or Google Voice on that connection for any length of time. Often my coverage would vanish completely in the same location it had worked previously. All-in-all, the technology wasn’t up to the challenge.

In case you’re wondering, I have since migrated over to Google’s Project Fi. It’s a pretty sweet service which I’ve been more than happy with.

I have a problem. Nobody will play Clue with me. Yes, I’m talking about the Hasbro board game that you probably haven’t played in 15 years. It’s one of my childhood favorites, but none of my friends will touch it with a ten foot pole.

It’s not their fault, though. You see, while I was growing up we would play Clue as a family. It was usually just me, my sister and my mom. When we would talk Dad into playing, he would always beat us by solving the puzzle in the first few rounds, long before the rest of us could get close. It was that experience, knowing that I was playing the game wrong, that led me to a better way (read: more annoying) way of playing.

Before I knew it, I was solving the puzzle on the first turn, often before some people had even taken a turn. My friends took the obvious recourse and now we play games like Settlers of Catan, or Republic of Rome, or Dixit. Alas, all my strategy was for naught.

So why talk about it now? Why bring it up? It’s indicative of a greater idea, as all good life metaphors are.

The idea that you can change how you play a game, or do some task, and it can break all sense of competition. Suddenly you are no longer on an even playing field. You win, not just occasionally, but always!

The metaphor is all around us. Take the NSA as a great example in the media right now. They changed the game by doing what few suspected was possible or plausible. Their reach provided them a level of power that cannot be matched across the globe. But what happened when people discovered their secret? Nobody wants to play their game anymore.

Maybe it’s a stretch, but I see the pattern a lot. Sometimes it’s in a field where advantage is positive, like a business offering something others can’t touch. Other times it’s creepy government dudes watching you on your webcam.

So what about me and my love of Clue? Could I go back to playing it the old fashioned way? I suppose it’s possible, but then the temptation to use more advanced strategies would be powerful, and there would be nothing there to stop me. Would my friends even trust that I’d play that way? Probably not. They know me too well.

Instead, I have to accept that I’ll probably rarely have the opportunity to play Clue again. If I want enjoyment from it then I’ll have to find another approach. To that end, I’m going to share a few of my Clue techniques so anyone who reads this can enjoy ruining a childhood game on their own.

Warning: If you try the following techniques you will probably be ridiculed and shunned by all Clue-lovers around you.

Lesson 1: The score sheet is useless.

The little sheet that comes with the game of Clue (seen above) is severely lacking. In the Master Edition game, at least, they give you some blank space to the side for “notes”. That’s what you really need: some blank paper. Any old blank paper will do. You can keep your score sheet as well and use it to tick off some discoveries, just not in the way the game makers expected.

Lesson 2: Note everything

The hardest thing to grasp is that everything you hear around the table is helpful, not just the questions you ask. If the player to your left makes an accusation and that accusation is answered by another player before you, you’ve gained incredible insights into both players hands. Lets look at an illustration:

In this game, to my left is Chris, across from me is Josh, and to my right is Dan. In my notes I refer to us as T, C, J, and D to save space. In fact, I’m such a fan of saving space (I hate writing by hand) that I use letters to represent the people and objects in Clue as well: M - Col. Mustard, P - Prof. Plum, K - Mrs. Peacock, and so on. I use two-letter abbreviations for the weapons: Kn - Knife, Ca - Candlestick, etc. And finally, I just number the rooms cause there’s so many of them: 1 - Hall, 2 - Lounge.

This codifying is completely unnecessary to the strategy, but it makes for concise notes, and it’s hard to read when someone sneaks a peek at your sheet. If you’re a fast writer, by all means feel free to write out the full names of things. I won’t stop you.

Using my codes, I make notes of everyones accusations in a vertical column in my notes, like this:

C ( S, Kn, 1 )

In this example, Chris made an accusation that Ms. Scarlet used the Knife in the Hall.

When someone responds to the accusation, I note who they are and any possible answers they gave:

C ( S, Kn, 1 ) -> D ( S, -, 1)

In this example, Dan is the one who responded to the accusation. He possibly showed Chris either Ms. Scarlet, or the Hall. I know he didn’t show Chris the Knife, because I have it!

So what did this teach me? Well, now I know that Dan has one of two items, but I also know that Josh, who came between them, definitely does NOT have either Ms. Scarlet or the Hall. I note this as well to finish my line:

C ( S, Kn, 1 ) -> D ( S, -, 1 ) = J ( !S, -, !1 )

My notation is sort of programming based, but really I’m just trying to show negatives with “!” symbols. Again, everything is concise.

Lesson 3: Logic

Now that I have a broad array of data, it’s important that I review it after each accusation, not just on my own turn. Knowing that Dan has either or both of Ms. Scarlet and the Hall, I can try to see if either of those cards pops up as being held by a different player. If so, I can cross them off as being Dan’s. Through a process of elimination I you can find an amazing amount of information without it being your turn at all. This is also where I bring the score sheet into play. I like to use all the columns, one for each player, and the final column for the solution. In each player’s column I mark down a “*” if I know they have that card, and I mark down a “-” if I know they don’t have it. In the final column, I mark off a “-” if I know someone has the card. The final column will quickly sort itself down to just a couple remaining options.

Lesson 4: Trickery

When making an accusation yourself, it’s almost always better to guess one or two items that you already have, especially when trying to narrow down a category to a specific person, place or thing. You can also use what you know about people to tailor your accusation. If I know Dan has the Hall, but not Ms. Scarlet, I can guess both to see if Chris is secretly holding the Scarlet card. If not, I just solved a third of the puzzle, but nobody else knows this because Dan will show me the Hall when the question gets to him. In short, use what you know in creative ways to stay unpredictable.

Lesson 5: Always show the same card

This final bit is a small thing, but it can have big implications. If you’ve been forced to reveal a card, say, the Knife, then go out of your way to show that same card again and again, especially to the same person. If you are holding two cards from someones guess, but always show the same one, that’s a bit of misinformation that is easy for others to overlook. It makes things a bit harder on the other players

Well, that’s it. Try out that the techniques and you’ll beat the pants off your friends and ruin a decent kids game. Of course, you can use the strategies and let the game linger a bit if you want, too. Maybe people won’t notice and you can become the world’s first Clue shark. How lame would that be?

I just looked to the side and noticed the pile of stuff building up on the corner of my desk. What an interesting collection it was. Through no particular effort on my part, I’d put together a little collage of myself. I thought it was pretty neat, anyway.

I wonder if other people have similar things creeping up around them. Maybe not on the desk, but on a nightstand or counter corner. Maybe some people have a drawer. I’m just curious about the accidental types, though. I know we design enough stuff around our interests on purpose. I think these haphazard ones are pretty special, though. They’re more intimate and natural.

That’s enough of a rant. For the curious I’ll put a little list below of the items in the picture, starting on the left and spiraling in clockwise.

• A stapler (I started with the boring thing)
• A picture of me and my best friend, Kristin, in high school
• A moleskine notebook: holds story ideas, numbers, scratch math, a picture of a horse head, other notes
• Idae Notebook: nearly indestructible, waterproof outdoor notebook
• Portable scanner to digitize everything
• (Top) Box and pipe tobacco
• Book of Christian Prayer: Kinda a condensed Liturgy of the Hours
• Saint Paul’s Daily Missal: For when I can’t get to church
• (Obscured) Box holding my sextant
• Some additional papers for my preparation for Italian Citizenship
• A glass fountain pen
• Private Reserve fountain ink from Indiana
• (Obscured) 750GB secure external hard drive
• Assorted USB cables
• My Galdalf pipe
• A microphone
• Not pictured because this wasn’t staged: role playing game rulebook and/or dice

I haven’t written in a little while, so I thought it would be a good opportunity to give some background on things that have happened, and where I would like to see life going for a while ahead. First of all, I met a wonderful woman shortly after leaving the Jesuits, and we’ve had a really amazing adventure in the short time we’ve been together. We got engaged in Florence in the Bobali Gardens. We bought a house in Bucks County, PA, right on the historic Delaware Canal. We also had a baby! His name is Wit, and he’s just as fantastic as I could have ever hoped.

That’s a lot for a year and change, and we’re looking forward to a little bit of quiet in the time ahead. At least, we don’t want to try to squeeze any more giant life changes in this year, if we can avoid it. I think out next big journey won’t happen for another 4-5 years, in fact.

You see, we really want to move to Iceland.

It’s not as simple as it sounds. Well, I’m not sure you were thinking it was simple at all, actually… but I was at first. People talk about leaving the country all the time, but it’s really a complicated thing to do. Perhaps going to Canada isn’t as bad, but I’m not sure. I didn’t really want to go to Canada, so I haven’t looked into it. Iceland is going to be a chore, but hopefully worth all the time and effort.

I’m going to try to share our experiences in the expatriate path here on my blog. Maybe someone else will find it helpful in the future. If not, it’ll make a good story to look back on, I’m sure. So, without further ado…

The first part of my plan involves becoming an Italian citizen. You see, Italy has this really amazing thing called Jure Sanguinis that allows you to get dual citizenship if you can trace your ancestry back in a certain way. There’s some fairly complex rules to it, but in brief it says that if your immigrant ancestor had kids before he or she became an American citizen, then the kids were technically born as Italian citizens (according to Italy), and you are eligible to claim Italian citizenship as their descendant. Did that make sense? If not, pop over to the link and read all about it.

It works out for me very well since my great-grandpa came over to this country and had my grandmother before he became naturalized. She passed the Italian-ness on to my dad, and thus to me. Now, all I have to do is get 10 billion documents, get them signed, translated, apostille’s attached (kind of an international notorization), and take everything to the Italian consulate. Then, in another year or so when I can finally get an appointment, I can theoretically file for Italian citizenship. Once that goes through, I can get an Italian passport, a briefcase full of foreign currency and pretend I’m a secret agent. Or at least, I can get through European Customs a lot faster.

What it means for Iceland is that I’ll be a member of the European Economic Area and a Schengen state, which means I can move there without having to have a job first and apply for a special visa. In fact, once I get a job there, I don’t need to do any really special paperwork at all. I just prove residency and BLAM! I’m done! (Not really, but compared to moving as a US citizen, it feels like it)

So, that’s the current plan. I’d love to have my Italian citizenship for more than just moving to Iceland, but what a great benefit it will bring. We’re hoping we can figure out a method of moving before Wit enters school. We’ll see how things develop, though. I’ve got a long history of big plans that go completely awry.

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

Xanth was the first series of books that caught my attention as a child, and I have Piers Anthony to thank for my love of reading today. I read nearly twenty of the books before moving on to more advanced fantasy series. What is most remarkable about all of that to me, however, is that I don’t remember once thinking how horrifically sexist the books are!

It’s hard to talk about the magic of Xanth and the great and interesting talents of its people because the book is overwhelmed with things like a mock rape trial, observations about the uselessness, deception, and irrelevancy of women, and downright shameful reduction of women’s role in society and men’s lives as objects. I am not a vocal advocate for women’s issues, and I’m very often turned off by liberation or empowerment propaganda, but in the face of outright misogynistic vitriol I cannot help but take a stand. It is one thing to discuss the differences of the sexes, their relative strengths and weaknesses, and even allow for some socio-historical context to influence the characters in a fantasy setting; but Piers Anthony goes way beyond that at every turn. The book somehow makes a claim to be about the worth of a person being judged by doing the right and just thing even when faced with unjust situations. Yet it takes a pause in the very beginning of the main character’s adventure to have a completely pointless aside where in the guise of a legal proceeding he dismisses the entire concept of date rape as being ridiculous. He outright claims that a beautiful and smart woman must be inherently evil, and that it is only natural for a man to want a woman of both intelligence and beauty, but not at the same time. These things overshadow every aspect of the fantasy story being told. I can’t even begin to talk about the story’s tales of companionship, illusion, history, or growth. They all take a back seat to one man’s disgusting vision.

As my own son grows, I had planned on offering up this series to him at an early age in hopes of capturing his interest in reading. You can be sure that won’t be happening. No boy should grow up thinking these kinds of thoughts about women. No good and just actions can come of it.

View all my reviews

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

This was hands down one of the very best technical books I’ve ever had the pleasure to read. Drew Neil has found a way to organize the book into a tip format without making it lose focus or seem endlessly unimaginative. Rather, by organizing the tips into themes, he gives the editor itself structure where before there was only the grey void of endless features.

I was an intermediate vim user before this book. It was my primary editor, and I used navigation keys and some basic yank and put operations regularly. I knew how to jump to lines, zip between words, and some mediocre regular expressions. After having read this book, I don’t bother opening up gvim or macvim anymore. I’m so comfortable working without the mouse, I prefer to keep myself in the console all the time. My speed has increased dramatically, as has my confidence. I participated in vimgolf for the first time just last week.

If you are a vim user with a strong basic understanding, this book is for you. Don’t pick it up if you are brand new to the editor, though. Complete the vimtutor first and give it some time to sink in.

Wouldn’t you know it… Just this short review was incredibly painful to write since I’m not using my favorite text editor. What a snob I’ve become!

View all my reviews

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

I had to take a few days to think about how I should review this book. I received it in a Goodreads Giveaway, which I entered based almost entirely on the cover design and title. I knew nothing of the subject matter or format and that would have greatly affected my desire to pick it up in the first place.

Next, I should be clear that my rating is, and must be, true to my own experience in reading the book. It does not necessarily depict the independent value or quality of the writing, the impact of the themes or subjects, or any other fancy writing concepts. On Goodreads, two stars means, “It was ok,” and that is exactly how I felt after reading it. I suspect that those who pick this book up based on its content with an honest desire and interest in it will find the book much more enjoyable.

The format is also very hard to critique. This is a collection of extremely short stories. Some are no more than a single scene. It felt, at times, like the author was sharing a bunch of writing experiments with us. I can’t very well critique them on lack of character development or anything like that because that’s not the form of writing we’re dealing with. For what they are, they are very well written. In a few stories the use of the second person perspective is a bit annoying and feels like the type of gimmick I’d expect from a college-level writing class.

There are a few moments of clear inspired writing in here, which is commendable. My overall impression was that of a small art exhibit in a big city, which spends more effort on being different and niche than on the craft itself.

The jacket notes mention that Ms. Matthews is currently writing a novel. I’d be interested in reading that to see how she handles the larger work and the many aspects of writing that come with it.

View all my reviews

It’s become somewhat of the popular joke to have a post about Zombie Survival these days, so I guess I’ll toss my two-cents into the fray. Personally, I’ve never been much concerned with the Zombie menace, but there many other possible scenarios out there that call for readiness in the face of limited resources, disrupted public services, and downright chaos. With that (and an impending hurricane) in mind, I’d like to share my personal emergency kit with you all.

Let me first preface this by saying that this is far from everything I have prepared in case of emergency. Rather, this represents my “grab bags” of absolute essentials that we would take with us in case of a zero-warning evacuation or similar event. Were we limited to traveling only on foot, I might drop an item or two (dutch oven). Were we given a few minutes and the ability to take the car, I might add a few heavier things.

I have also omitted almost all of my clothing from this kit, mainly because I didn’t want to go digging around in my closet. If you decide to mimic this, or use it for inspiration, just use some basic common sense in your clothing choices: layers, avoid cotton, pack light, bring extra socks.

This list follows the pictures from the top left, downward in columns, to the bottom right. The item headings are all links where you can find these items for purchase.

MTM Survivor Dry Box with O-Ring Seal

This box is the core to my medical kit. It is waterproof, tough-as-hell, and bright orange to find it quick in a hurry. It even has a handy little compass on the top. How quaint!

Adventure Medical Kits Trauma Packwith QuikClot

For serious trauma like gunshot wounds or tree branches through your chest, you need more than a band-aid. While the need may be uncommon, having this cheap little pack might just save your life, or the life of someone you love. It takes up very little space, too.

Quake Kare Emergency Thermal Blankets (4 Pack)

I hope to never have to need this level of extra thermals, but for an ounce and the tiniest bit of space, these provide us a “blanket” of security. Terrible joke, I know.

OtterBox 1000 Series Waterproof Case

These are my waterproof cases within the waterproof case. If there’s one thing you never, ever want to get wet, it’s your emergency bandages and medicines. This extra level of protection is absolutely imperative in my opinion. Also, if you have anything really sensitive that needs to stay dry, toss it in one of these. I find that three of them are enough to fit the Medique kit below.

Medique 40061 First Aid Kit, 61-Piece

This handy medical kit has it all, short of a hospital, anyway. If you think you’ll have a need for extras of a particular thing, don’t hesitate. If there’s one area you shouldn’t skimp, it’s first aid. If you’re using this as your household first aid kit, remember to replenish items as you use them. You don’t want to get trapped without any bandages because you “just haven’t made it back to CVS yet.”

Etón FR160R Microlink Self-Powered AM/FM/NOAA Weather Radio with Flashlight, Solar Power and Cell Phone Charger (Red)

This thing is a beast. I charged it with the hand crank for just over ten seconds and then sat listening to the radio all day long. If you plan on staying in touch with the outside world (or at least informed), having a backup radio with NOAA stations is important. Besides, this little guy will charge your cellphone too!

Rothco 550lb. Type III Nylon Paracord

I’m an Eagle Scout, and thus I never feel lost if I have a good length of rope. Paracord is extremely strong for its size, but it packs down light and tight. Use it for everything and everything from a clothesline to animal traps in the worst of situations.

3M Scotch Heavy Duty All-Weather Duct Tape, 1.88-Inch by 45-Yard, 1-Pack (2245)

Don’t settle for the cheap duct tape. Get the good outdoor all-weather stuff. One roll should be more than enough to patch things up, bandage you up, make a stretcher, or any number of other tasks.

Hand Axe

If your kit needs to help you out past a day or two, being able to work with the natural resources around you is imperative. Chop up some downed branches for a fire. Clear a space for your family. Make some posts for hanging a trash bag (instant trash bin). Be creative and live in outdoor luxury with this.

Chainmate CM-24SSP 24-Inch Survival Pocket Chain Saw With Pouch

If you find yourself working with tough wood that needs clearing, having the right tools makes all the difference. Your hatchet can do a lot, but sometimes its nice to have a saw too. This thing is tiny and super light. Add it to the bag and then hope you don’t need it.

ADC Medicut Shears, 7-1/4"

Most scissors are weak and useless when it comes to anything other than wrapping paper. These things have some real power, and they’ll get the job done again and again. You can even sharpen them!

Snow Peak Titanium Spork

Ok, there’s really no reason for this at all. I just love having a titanium spork on the list. Sue me.

Entrenching Tool

My advice for survival scenarios: Learn how to make a latrine. Seriously. It’ll take you five minutes to watch a video on youtube and it will make your outdoor living much, much easier.

Leatherman

While I wouldn’t rely on one of these guys solo, having all the little tools is a help. Supplement your main knife with any old Leatherman model to add versatility.

Beretta Airlight II Tactical Knife, 30% Serrated 2.25" Skeleton Blade

I’m a bit of a knife junkie. Beretta makes a killer folding knife. If you have a solid blade like the Mora Classic below, this isn’t exactly necessary, but you can think of it as a backup if that makes you feel better. You certainly don’t want to end up bladeless. These are your primary tools of survival.

Smith’s PP1 Pocket Pal Multifunction Sharpener

A dull knife is almost as bad as no knife. If you’re going to be using them… really using them, keep them sharp. This will also help you in cases of accidental cuts. A clean cut heals much faster and with less chance of infection.

Potable Aqua Water Treatment Tablets

Clean water is absolutely essential to survival. There are a ton of options available thanks to fancy technologies these days. Get a filter pump or some sort of reverse osmosis device and live like kings. Just make sure to grab some iodine tablets as a backup. Filters break sometimes. These might make your water taste tinny, but you’ll live. (Side note: you can also use bleach to purify water!)

Petzl E97 Tikka Plus 2 Headlamp

In the redundancy department, along with your knives, add light to the list. A headlamp will keep your hands free to do work. They last a really long time with LEDs.

Gerber Infinity Ultra Task Light

Bring a flashlight, but not one with huge, honkin’ D batteries. They’re harder to find replacements than AA, and much heavier.

Bic Lighters

Don’t buy them from this link. Get them at your local store for next to nothing. Have a few handy, along with some matches in your dry-box, just in case. And while you’re watching survival videos on how to make latrines, you might as well learn to make a fire too. Don’t rely on watching as knowing, though. Give it some practice before you need the skill.

Mora Sweden Classic #1 Red Wood Handle Carbon Steel Knife

Very few knives are better than this one. At 15$, you can afford to get extras too. Treat them well: sharpened, oiled, not chipped. They’ll last a lifetime.

Folding Camp Saw

Another backup for your chainsaw. Or maybe the chainsaw is the backup. If you’re going to stay outdoors for any length of time, bring a saw.

Datrex 3600 Emergency Food Bar

You’ll notice I haven’t put much in the way of food on this list. That’s because you should spend some time learning your local edibles before you need them. Learn what berries you can eat, and also what animals are in your area. Learn to make a snare. Don’t bother wasting time hunting deer unless you already have all the gear and experience. Set snares around your camp instead. It’s more reliable. If all else fails, these emergency food bars are good for up to 5 years and pack enough calories to keep you going for a long, long time.

Camelbak or Platypus

You’re going to need water containers. Have a variety, but don’t keep them all filled up. Learn to treat your water so you don’t have to carry it all with you. Carry the empty containers with a minimum amount of water for drinking as you travel, then fill them up when you stop, treat them, and save yourself the weight. 1 liter of water weights about 1kg. That adds up quick.

Youngstown Glove 05-3080-70-L General Utility Lined with KEVLAR Glove Large, Gray

The most common place to injure yourself working in survival situations is on your hands. Protect them with more than a pair of designer cotton gloves. These guys have Kevlar on the insides and outsides of your hands. Fantastic, and worth the price. Test them out with some yard work and you’ll see what I mean.

Backpacker Poncho

Get a poncho that will keep you and your stuff dry.

Gossamer Gear Mariposa Ultralight Backpack

Pack choices are a highly personal decision. I’m an ultra-light backpacker, so this relatively cheap bag from Gossamer Gear is a fantastic fit for me. The one pictured is a slightly older model than the link. Remember, you may need to carry your emergency gear at some point. You can’t just rely on the car to get you everywhere. Plan ahead for the un-fun possibilities.

Minus33 100% Merino Wool Base Layer 703 LightWeight Short Sleeve Crew Neck Top

I don’t want to go over clothing too much, but let me make a brief mention about the basics here. Pack in layers: base layer, mid layer, outer layer, insulation. Avoid cotton or other fabrics that won’t hold your heat when wet. You might spend some time being dirty. That’s ok. Pick things that you can wear again and again and that will hold together. Quality over quantity here.

Lodge Logic Dutch Oven with Loop Handles

This luxury will probably the first thing to be left behind if we have to set out on foot. It’s damn heavy, but what a versatile cooking tool. It works in your oven, in your fireplace, or on a campfire. It cleans up with a quick rinse and is ready to go again. Pure camping-cooking heaven.

Outdoor Research Wind Pro Balaclava

Leave the baseball cap. Dress for function, not form. This will keep you warm, and that’s what’s really important.

Spectra® Braided Cord 1050lb test - Heavy Duty Speargun Line - (1/8"DIA x 100ft LEN)

This cord is great for any number of uses, but it is in the kit especially for hanging a bear-bag. I use the PCT method myself, so I have the tools to fit it. In a pinch, though, you can get away with just a bag and line. Wildlife have incredible senses of smells. Remember, if you are outside, you don’t have walls keeping your food and gear safe. Be wary and hang your food.

Stuff Sacks (Bear Bag, etc)

To go along with the line above, these stuff sacks from zpacks are wonderful. They weigh almost nothing and are very sturdy.

Tempest Tent

There’s a lot of ways to make a shelter outdoors. This is a pretty hardcore 4-season lightweight tent. It’s not the cheapest solution, nor the best in all situations. I use it for a variety of camping conditions outside of my emergency kit. If you aren’t much of an outdoorsman, there’s probably a better shelter for you. Ask around at Gander Mtn or REI, or bug your local scouts when they try to sell you popcorn.

Littlbug Junior Stove

There’s a lot of stove options for the backcountry. White gas, kerosene, etc, are all valid. This “stove” is little more than a wind-shield and chimney for a tiny wood fire. It fits in my ultra-light model. If you know how to make a fire, this might work for you. If you get something more fancy, have a backup, and make sure you have plenty of fuel.

Snow Peak Ti-Mini Solo Combo Cook Set

Have something to heat up water. In survival situations, many times “cooking” literally means, “add hot water”. Heat to purify. Heat to rehydrate. Heat!

Snow Peak Ti-Double H600 Stacking Mug

This mug stacks nicely with the cookset above, so I have a pot for heating the water, and a cup for eating. It keeps my cooking pot clean.

Z Lite Mattress

Sleeping on the ground can be rough. Go easy on your back with a little layer. More importantly, get some insulation between your body and the ground. The earth will suck the heat right out of you.

Jacks-R-Better Sierra Sniveler

I have horrible restless leg syndrome, and most sleeping bags feel like a coffin to me. A nice power-down quilt gives me the warmth I need at night without the restrictive footbox. Pick whatever works for you. The single most dangerous thing when you are forced to sleep outside is exposure. You will die from exposure in a single night. Make sure you have good shelter before you even worry about water or food.

waterBOB Emergency Drinking Water Storage

This is not pictured, but very handy. If you are going to be staying in your house without power for a while, toss this into your bathtub and fill it up right away. 100 gallons of water will last you a while. Purify it to drink, grab a bucket and pour it in the back of your toilet to flush it manually, clean yourself up. Just remember to be more conservative if you are unlikely to have help or power restored in the near future. It may have to last a while.

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

This book started out very strong for me. I loved the author’s voice and his subject matter. I read the first half of the book in one sitting, but then upon taking it up again, I faltered. I didn’t feel a strong appeal in going back, and I really didn’t feel like it was important to finish. There is a bit of a parallel there between my reading and Bryson’s hiking, I suppose. It was a good trip down memory lane, recalling my own adventures on the trail. It was interesting to read about some of the history as well. In the end, though, the story just didn’t have that spark that kept me asking, “what happens next?”

View all my reviews

Last night at exactly 5:14:39 UTC, the latest NASA project touched down on the surface of Mars. The Curiosity rover is a mobile science lab that will travel the planet looking for signs of previous life. It’s a big mission and has already begun to capture the imagination of the world.

If we (notice how I include myself in this effort) manage to find evidence of extraterrestrial life, it will represent the single greatest scientific discovery in the history of mankind. There’s no exaggeration there. It will be the biggest news ever. We’re not talking about intelligent life, here, obviously. They’re not even looking for living things themselves yet. This search is all about finding the building-blocks that support life. That, if found, will be enough to warrant this a huge success.

But lets take a moment to allow ourselves to wonder, to dream, and to be inspired. It’s not a popular thing these days when we celebrate cynicism and doubt, but I guarantee it won’t hurt. What would tomorrow feel like if we knew, not just suspected, that we weren’t the only life in the solar system, let alone the universe. For some, I imagine, it will bring a moment of profound perspective, much like the Total Perspective Vortex of Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. For others it will probably be a platform for pride, obviously (to them) verifying whatever belief they espouse. For all, it will bring a change; and, I’d hope, it will bring us together.

In the meantime, I want to congratulate NASA and thank them. It gives me incredible consolation to remember that despite our problems in this country and in this world, we can bring together the amazing talents and minds of that team and give them the necessary resources to work wonders. We need people like that. We need faith that such things can happen. And we need their contributions if we are ever to hope to spread our wings beyond this tiny blue dot.

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Short review: I loved it.

Long review: Gaiman’s skill at storytelling, the piece that makes his comics and books such a success, is his voice. I mentioned before that his book, “American Gods” was one I didn’t like, but I respected him a lot as a writer. Stardust shows why. His tone and voice as a writer walk a very specific and wonderful line between humorous fantasy and serious realism. I liken it to the move “The Princess Bride”. Everyone knows the movie is a comedy, but the tone treats its subject seriously… and that’s the magic.

Stardust is a romantic fantasy filled with unicorns, fallen stars, witches and princes. At the same time, it is a quirksome coming of age story. The writing is strong. The characters are interesting. The adventure isn’t cliche or the same old expected fare. With all that going for it the real gem, as I said, is the voice.

View all my reviews

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

It’s sad to say, but this book just bored me. I usually like Neil Gaiman’s stories, so don’t read this as an attack on his talent or anything, but sometimes individual works just don’t connect.

In this case, American Gods felt aimless, detached, and more than a little pointless. Not only did the big concepts fail to land, but the little stuff as well. It’s one thing when you have a book like Neverwhere where a few of the characters are insanely quirky because it’s balanced out by the “straight man”. Unfortunately, Shadow is a terrible straight man. He doesn’t question, he doesn’t speak for the reader, he just follows along moving from story segment to story segment (note I don’t call them plot points as most everything in here is useless to the overall plot.)

Nope, it just didn’t work for me.

View all my reviews

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

I don’t feel like spending a long time tearing this book apart, so I’ll just say it briefly. The writing is just very poor.

“All of a sudden” and its like are overused. The drama is summarized and told rather than shown. The characters are flat and seem to be the author’s favorite D&D personas, not real people. Descriptions are filled with mad-lib-esque adjectives of a poor, and often repetitive, nature. Nothing pops.

I’ll be honest. I picked it up because of the cover art, and it just wasn’t worth it.

View all my reviews

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I picked this up for free from the Amazon Lending Library. I recently read Night Circus and thought I might enjoy one more circus related book before I head back into genre fiction once again.

The writing was solid, the characters each believable and likable, and the story interesting. The book’s strength came from a wonderfully researched circus train and a dismally realistic portrayal of the despair of old age. Each world grounded the other in reality and made this story something special.

View all my reviews

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

Tigran Petrosian, the Iron Tigran, is undoubtedly one of the greatest defensive chess grand masters of all time. His tenure as World Champion for six years gave credence to his unique style and temperament as a true fighting one. He was brilliant yet understated, daring yet underestimated, powerful yet humble. His play was an art, a science, and a way of life; and this book shows all of these qualities beautifully.

Mr. Vasiliev’s expertly navigates through Petrosian’s personal and professional life with the rare quality of a man comfortable in the world and over the table. He pairs his interesting and dynamic historical accounts with expert chess analysis of some of Petrosian’s greatest and most important chess games. A small warning is due here, as the games are in descriptive notation, which may represent a challenge for some readers. Still, the games are wonderfully analyzed with only occasional jaunts into alternate lines. He lets the positions speak for themselves most often.

The final chapter, written by Petrosian himself, is a fantastic way to wrap up the biography. In hearing his own analysis of the candidates series, the strange occurrences over the table with Fischer, his evaluation of Spassky, and his thoughts on the future of chess, we get a glimpse into the truth of Vasiliev’s depiction. The champion’s humor, depth of thought, and most of all, humility, are all clearly present and alive. What a gift to read and experience.

Beyond the simple historic content of the book, I was amazed by the strength of the author’s arguments for Petrosian’s style as more than valid, but “correct” for his temperament. Again and again in the words of Petrosian and his peers we hear the same message, that it is important to play chess as yourself. His greatest victories were along these lines. The psychological game, the positional game, the art of defense, brilliance of strategy, and the underlying power of a tactical mind all in their unique alignment are what made this champion. To play otherwise would go against his nature and lead only to disaster (as is shown in some games in his youth). What a fantastic find.

View all my reviews

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

I bought this book with the intention of building up a little library of children’s stories for my kids. Along with The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, I also purchased The Monkey With a Notion (not listed on Goodreads), and a first edition Where the Wild Things Are. I’d like to gather up all the classic fairy tales used in Disney movies so (s)he has a nice foundation.

As far as The Wizard of Oz is concerned, I found it very interesting that Mr. Baum decided to create such a rich fantasy story with no apparent lesson at all. He addresses this in the introduction to the book as being a conscious decision. He explains, the fairy tales of the past were riddled with horror and consequence in order to impart some moral lesson. However, in this “modern” age, moral education is so pervasive, he felt these tactics were unnecessary, and instead sought to provide a purely entertaining story. I would love to share his views on modern education, but I very much doubt that anyone could honestly claim our age imparts such strong moral convictions anymore.

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz brought me the most enjoyment in finding where it diverged from the film, for instance, when the Wicked Witch of the West is defeated about halfway through the book. Such interesting changes from the familiar are entertaining, but I wonder how they will appeal to a young child. Perhaps I expect too much from it, though. In a child’s world, when heroes encounter a problem, they solve that one and move on. There need be no more complexity than that. They won’t care to go searching for a deeper meaning in the Scarecrow or Lion. Perhaps it is enough after all.

View all my reviews

My rating: 1 of 5 stars

I love eastern philosophy. I really love chess. One would figure that this book would hit some magical combo-zone and have me praising and sharing it with all my friends. Unfortunately, The Tao of Chess fails on the most important parts.

I’ll admit it, the premise is fantastic. I’ve felt for a while that chess carries enough complexity to warrant numerous metaphors worthy of contemplation. In fact, I’ve already begun picking apart aspects of chess to use as a martial arts structure in my novel. Perhaps this is the same line of thinking that lead Peter Kurzdorfer to write this book. Honestly, I think the idea can work well, he just didn’t pull it off here.

You see, Mr. Kurzdorfer writes as a man who knows his chess aphorisms well, as a player who can show you games to illustrate a point, as a Master of the game. What he does not do is write as a student of Tao.

Each of the 200 chess “principles” is followed by a short explanation. Often he cites a game to illustrate the reasoning behind it. Finally, the author gives us a sentence or two attempting to connect the chess principle into real life. Unfortunately, these connections are shallow at best, often completely missing the point. Rather than spend a few paragraphs describing the emotional state of the game, the psychology of position, the depth and beauty of the constant ebb-and-flow that makes up every single game, he chose to say things like, “Successful people go after what they want, and in that they resemble successful rooks. Unsuccessful people don’t go after what they want nor do they freely interact with others. In that way, they resemble unsuccessful rooks.”

Not only does this type of insight fail to capture anything worthwhile that might arise from the chess principle of placing rooks on open files, (No mention of clearing your paths before putting your strongest forward efforts into something? How about the idea of looking for openings and opportunities to strike fully? Or maybe you can think of it less aggressively as an acknowledgement of your most peaceful path.) he instead chooses to blurt out a ridiculous claim that has no basis in anything. Unsuccessful people don’t interact freely with others? What on earth is that about? It’s meaningless and downright wrong.

Perhaps if he had titled this book: The Superficial Life Metaphors of Chess, I would have been more satisfied. Though I’d be hard pressed to find even that level of usefulness in here.

View all my reviews

My rating: 4 of 5 stars

This was my first Agatha Christie novel and what a wonderful read it was. Ms Christie’s firm command of her characters was clear even in this early work. Their hopes, fears and secrets were all plotted carefully and executed magnificently. While the ancillary actors may have not displayed much growth in this novel, it was clear that type of writing was firmly in her skill-set by the subtle method used on her narrator. Enough can’t be said about the life she breathes into her characters–no small achievement with them being so damned British.

If her characters popped, then her twisted plots soared. Every twist aimed toward another possible suspect, sometimes two. She had no fear at insinuating guilt in the most innocent of characters, either. I’ll admit freely that she tricked me thoroughly, and by the end I was as surprised as the narrator to learn the truth. What a marvelous thing to find in a work from 1920 that a modern reader can still find himself lost in her world and unable to deduce the secrets before they are finally revealed. It was no matter of author trickery, either. I will say this, the facts were all present. If I were capable of the feats of logic and patience of Hercule Poirot, I too would have solved the crime.

I will certainly be continuing on with these books!

View all my reviews

My rating: 3 of 5 stars

This hasn’t been a great year in the reading department so far. Jenny Pox, by J. L. Bryan, was really the first book of 2012 that I enjoyed. I wouldn’t call it a great book, and I probably won’t continue the series, but it was solid and entertaining.

The story is about a remarkable and unfortunate girl named Jenny Morton who has a terrible super-power. Everything she touches becomes infected and dies. This earns her the nickname Jenny Pox for a short while, and then Jenny Mittens after she learns to live her life covered up from head to toe, even on the warmest days.

Jenny grows up in a small town in South Carolina complete with all the fixin’s that you’d imagine the setting to have. Her chief antagonist, Ashleigh Gooding, is the preacher’s daughter, class president, cheer captain, and total sociopath. Life is hard for Jenny Morton, and Ashleigh seems to take pleasure in making it harder.

As the story grows, Jenny and the reader learn more about her powers and the existence of other powers in the world. Mixed up in all this fantasy is a pretty straight forward story of bullying and harassment mixed with a dash of falling in love.

The ending delivers pretty much exactly what you’re hoping for as you read the whole book. There is a little too much exposition right at the very end for my tastes. It seemed more like the author wants you to know that he really thought about the origin story of these powers and how it all ties together, even though it really didn’t come up at all in the book. Still, it does open the story nicely for a series of sequels.

The actual writing of the novel wasn’t particularly noteworthy. The two main protagonists did show a bit of growth in their arcs, though the rest of the cast seemed pretty much to follow their template for the whole story. The pacing was good, and the action was horrifically descriptive.

I don’t want to give away too much, so I’ll put it this way: if you enjoyed Carrie, read this book.

View all my reviews

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

(I’m going to murder Goodreads for just deleting the huge, detailed review I just wrote. Let’s see if I have the patience to do this again)

City of Bones, the first Mortal Instruments novel, is about as unremarkable as anything I’ve read in the past five years. The characters are flat, the plots are lifted from well known tropes (and implemented ungracefully), the descriptions are hammy and ill-timed, and the narrative voice will convince you that your author would rather be nerding-out watching anime than really writing a book.

The main character, Clary, is prototypically insecure as a regular mortal thrust into a magical world that’s all new and shiny. The concept makes you roll your eyes, and it only gets worse from there. What surprises lay in store for our young heroine? Will there be a love triangle? Perhaps someone will betray her, or maybe someone will reveal that they aren’t who they claimed to be? Yeah, you’ll see it all coming a mile away, and you won’t really care.

The main supporting male lead, Jace, is a fantastic example of an author falling in love with her character. If I read one more paragraph about how amazing and infinitely talented he was, despite being a tormented bad-boy who must be forgiven his caustic personality, I think I might have hurled.

All-in-all, City of Bones is formulaic, mediocre, and boring. It reads at a young-adult level, so perhaps that audience will be more taken in by it. For myself, I will not be continuing the series.

View all my reviews

When I was in boot camp we weren’t allowed to drink things while walking. You could drink your water, sure. You could walk around (albeit at right angles), but you couldn’t do the two things together. I seem to remember someone asking why to a muttered response about preventing accidents. Whether it had a reason or not, it was one of the parts of our culture there.

I bring it up because a few minutes ago I was filling up my water bottle by the office sink. I screwed the cap back on top and went to take a drink when it hit me: I was walking. There I was, deep in thought about some project or another, when I experienced “Navius-Interruptus”. I was standing again in the mess during service week, wearing my utilities and feeling less than clean. How strange.

We had a million of these little rules. How many more will creep up on me over the years? It took half a decade to stop walking in step with everyone around me. I imagine it will always feel weird to take a drink while walking now. Old habits die hard, even the silly ones.

My time was pretty uninteresting. I never went to sea. I served in Goose Creek, SC for a little over a year. My biggest highlight was getting injured during training and spending about 7 months on medical hold waiting for the results of a physical evaluation board. Eventually I was discharged honorably to my great relief.

Boot camp was absolutely horrible for me. For some of the guys who were in better shape, I think it seemed a bit of a joke. Not for me, though. I dropped from about 230lbs to 170lbs in those three months. It’s also where I broke both tibias, torn my ACL and meniscus. The docs gave me motrin and told me to drink more water. Take that as a lesson, NFL players.

Anyway, my service was pretty unremarkable, but I was there. The time I spent in South Carolina after basic training was pretty great. My short time in A-School introduced me to some wonderful new friends, and studying to be a Nuclear Engineer was pretty awesome. Wearing my uniform to my sister’s wedding was incredible, too. It was all the joys and none of the danger, I suppose.

These days, I still collect my disability from the VA and I’m a member of the American Legion. Would I have died for my country? I never had the opportunity to find out for real, but the pride I felt at basic training graduation still lingers with me. I like to think I’d have kept with my oath in times of trouble, but we really never know until the moment happens. Anyway…

To all those out there who served quietly like I did, and to those who really carry the burden of military service, and especially to those who didn’t make it back, have a happy Veteran’s Day, and thank you all.

I guess that’s all natural. It doesn’t make it any less disconcerting, though. How is that such a common feeling? Why are we all so comfortable and accepting of things being so universally unintelligible. Why doesn’t it bother me that I can still be totally confused at nothing.

It’s something about us, I think. We’re all talk about how we struggle against the unknown. Our curiosity drives us all toward some make believe higher whatever– but does it really? Do we really? I think we love the unknown. I think we crave it.

Maybe I just feel the need to project some of that mystery where there isn’t any. Maybe it’s the shock of things being too simple. Maybe I’m just tired and I should stop ranting about nothing. Maybe I should go pick up the phone.

A shrub named Synsepalum dulcificum produces berries that have been dubbed “Miracle Fruit”. A chemical in them, called Miraculin (yeah, I’m serious) reacts with the tongue when you chew on the pulp, and bonds to the taste buds for about an hour. For that duration, when you eat something sour, your taste buds interpret it as sweet. There’s a little more to it than that, but it’s the gist. Magic!

The particular product I found, mberry, is a tablet made from the berry. You let the tablet dissolve over your tongue for about a minute and you get the same effects as chewing on the fruit. I had been wanting to try it out for a while, but I was hesitant to really spend any money on what was probably a big fake. Well, when Woot.com had a deal, selling 20 tablets for $10, I said, “Worth it!”

So today we gave them a try after lunch. Every article I’ve read has been completely accurate. They are completely amazing. It’s not a subtle effect at all.

Here’s a few highlights from what I’ve tried so far:

• Maple Syrup - My #1 favorite so far. You can taste so much depth in it, it’s mind blowing.
• Balsalmic Vinegar - It’s like you want to drink it by the glass. I don’t know what it tastes like, but I want more.
• Lemons - This classic miracle fruit treat really is amazing. They’re like candy. You’ll tear into them and feel bad before you realize that you’re eating a lemon.
• Hot sauce - Apply directly to tongue. You’ll thank me.
• Hummus - Sort of like peanut butter.
• Tequila - The cheaper the better. This smooths it out and makes for a happy friday afternoon at work. You’ll think you’re drinking top shelf stuff.

There’s a lot more we tried, and some were impressive, but there’s also surprising tastes that are terrible. Whatever you do, don’t try Jagermeister. Just don’t do it.

Has anyone else tried these things? Share your stories!

Live each season as it passes; breathe the air, drink the drink, taste the fruit, and resign yourself to the influences of each.

- Henry David Thoreau - Journal (Aug. 23, 1853)

Every quarter year or so I am assailed by the same seasonal misconception. It’s one of those things that seems so obvious to me that I’m again and again shocked that nobody else seems to have noticed. Your seasons are all off by 45 days.

Today people are celebrating the Summer Solstice and across the internet I’m hearing the same thing. Folks are wishing each other a happy “first day of summer”. But what’s this? It’s not the first day of summer, you say? That’s right, we are 45 days into summer already.

See, I think the problem is that people only ever learned the names of the seasonal midpoints growing up. The equinoxes and the solstices are the days which mark out halfway progression through each season. The summer solstice was, in fact, called “midsummer” for most of its existence. Remember that little play, “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”?

So with people only knowing four days, they just lazily made those the “first” days of each season. That’s my theory at least. Unfortunately, we already have days for that! The first day of summer was called Beltane, or May Day. The first day of winter was called Samhain (pronounced Soh-win). The first day of Spring: Imbolc. The first day of Autumn: “Lammas, or Lughnasadh (pronounced Lunasa). We have holidays for” all of these events!

The thing that really frustrates me is how these days are tossed on the pile as pagan holidays. They might have names that stretch back to some of that, sure, but only because they are first and foremost Earth holidays. If we celebrate the solstice it is no different than celebrating Imbolc. In fact, one of the last places you can find these days really celebrated outside of your local teen-age, Wiccan slumber party is in the Catholic Church calendar! The names may be different, but the celebrations are all there. Imbolc is Candlemas. Samhain is All Saints’ Eve. See?

Here’s the list, for quick reference:

There’s been a lot of talk lately about “The Cloud”. There’s lots of new products out there touting their ability to store your info in it, move all your applications to it, make your life better through it. I wanted to post this really quick message to dispel some myths.

First, the term “The Cloud” is almost meaningless now. Advertisers have stretched its definition to the point where it’s basically synonymous with “The Internet”. Second, all these Cloud Apps you hear about: they’re websites. Yup, that’s all. Finally, despite the annoying rebranding, “The Cloud” (in its original meaning) is actually very useful. One of the biggest uses you can all take advantage of right now is storage space on the cloud.

Cloud storage is, like any cloud app, a website. There are many to choose from, and there’s no reason to choose just one. Below is a list of websites that offer free space to store your stuff. My favorites are listed first. It doesn’t matter what operating system you use, how old your computer is, or what browser you’re using (unless it’s IE6). Pop over, sign up, reap the benefits of having your files backed up online, easily shared or secured, and synced between all your computers (even at work).

Remember, all of these offer a “free” option. If you don’t see it at first, keep looking. Some of them like to hide the link or make it smaller than the pay links.

• DropBox - 2.25GB, Easy referrals up to 16GB
• iDrive - 5GB, Easy referrals up to 50GB
• SugarSync - 5GB, Easy referrals increase storage: No limit
• SkyDrive - 25GB, 25MB File size limit
• Amazon Cloud Drive - 5GB, Amazon purchased music doesn’t take up space
• Box.net - 5GB, 25MB File size limit
• MiMedia - 7GB, Weird referral system
• ADrive - 50GB, Web UI only, no client
• Badongo - Unlimited Space, 90 Day file limit, not secure)

“Is that the freedom, then? To choose to stand?”

“No, child. That’s the control. It’s the deepest lie of all.”

“But if I want to stand–”

“Expressing your wants, bringing them to action, that’s not freedom. That’s no different than the chair at all. The chair wants to be a chair, and so it is. You want to stand, and so you do. You are an object, Olwen. You are animated, but just an object.”

“Then where is the freedom? Why did you bring me here?”

“I didn’t bring you. You brought yourself without even knowing it. You didn’t want it, but you chose it. You broke the cycle that captures us all.”

Olwen opened her mouth to ask another question, but couldn’t find the words. Nothing made sense. Why did the Oracle have to talk in riddles? Why wouldn’t she just say what she had to say and be done with it.

“You are the freedom, Olwen. You are the one that breaks the rules.”

“What rules, what are you talking about. What is this place?”

“The rules of existence. The energy that binds us all into our place. Each thing, each place, each person is trapped in the cycle to live their lives as a series of experience and decision, always repeating, endlessly driving us toward the single path. This place is the present, it is now, and we’re all caught in the middle of it. There is no escape for us, but for you…”

Olwen stood, she took a step, then another, and stopped. Halfway to Veduna, the Oracle of the Monastiraki. Halfway to living out the words she spoke. Halfway to touching her and fulfilling a need that she didn’t even notice growing. “You used the Expression on me?”

“We all use it, child. Every action has repercussions on everything else. If I ask you if you’d like a cup of wine, I’ve manipulated you. A second earlier there was no decision to make, and now there is. My will expressed on you, don’t you see? We’re all connected by it. It’s an infinite web of cause and effect, choice and counter.”

“But I could chose either way. I have the freedom!” she challenged.

“But Olwen,” a pause, “you will only chose one.” The idea spun around in her like a whirlwind. Once choice made, one path, always, no matter how complex the situation there would be only one outcome.

“The one path… it is time, then? We can only make one choice and no matter what we chose, we’re always in that same thread.”

Veduna only smiled that twist of lips again. Satisfaction covered her body and it made her slender form sway with serpentine grace. Her every motion enthralled and Olwen felt the sharp thorns of the desire for her once again. Two steps away, just two steps.

Olwen’s slipper slid over the stone floor, tracing a long line in the dust. She stopped again, but only with a great force of will.

“Child, whether you fight it or not it doesn’t matter. Your path is set, your destiny written. There is no escape from your own future. You may as well live it as it pleases you. Anything else is meaningless.”

There was more to her words, though. Olwen sensed it inside, buried amongst the syllables. What wasn’t she saying? Why all this talk about destiny. The Oracle could see the future; that’s what the Monastiraki said. She was a prophet like the Queens of old. She knew everything, didn’t she? She saw what would come. But if she knew the future, couldn’t she do something different? Ideas fell into place like the blocks Hefin would set up on the floor when they were children. Tilt the first and they’d all fall, one after another.

“What if you change the path? What if you see what’s coming and do something else?” Veduna’s smile faded. Her eyes went hard with a squint that could bore through iron. Or maybe just through my mind, she thought in a panic. Quickly, she flashed back to the exercises Michael had taught them, the primitive defenses that she’d barely been able to muster in complete silence. To protect a mind isn’t like defending a castle, it’s like dodging the wind; whatever that meant. Still, she had to try.

Olwen dropped her thoughts from her mind and focused on something familiar and unchanging. She saw the image of the stars from her picture book, the long boot of Ilia, the stone it kicks. She pictured the lines between the stars that drew the shapes and lost herself in the darkness of it all. The familiar calm took over and she felt the foreign presence of Veduna’s mind lose her in the depths. In just a moment, her mind was clear and empty.

The Oracle was definitely not smiling now. Olwen’s fears melted away, though. She was safe in her mind. She was alone again at last.

No, not alone, Olwen, a voice rasped in her mind. Never alone. A woman’s voice filled her mind as clear as her own, so familiar, so ancient, and so deeply lost. It churned her stomach like she was back on the Stargazer, tossing in the waves. With another quick cleansing of her mind, she pushed deeper into her calm center, like a living dream.

Only this time, the voice was even more clear. Veduna will kill you if she can’t control you. She’s afraid of your power. She’s afraid you can change the things to come. She can only see the results, never the causes. No matter how she tries, she can’t change what’s coming. But you, you can do anything. You hold all the threads, Olwen.

Who are you? Olwen thought back.

“If someone could change the future, Olwen, they’d challenge the greatest power to have ever existed. Whose plan do you think enslaves us all? Who is the master of your destiny?”

“You mean God plays us all like puppets?”

“I mean if you try to act out your free will, you are just confirming the path he has laid out all along. There’s no altering it. There is no change. You, Olwen, are no different from the chair after all.”

Olwen could sense the lie. She was holding something back, something very important. “But you can see it, see what’s coming. All you’d need is someone who could see the causes, read them and manipulate them. You need an Expressionist. You need a Mage!”

“No mage can see what I see, and it would take all of my power and theirs. But the creator planned on that. He saw that we might fight him at some point, and so he only gave us part of the tools, and no way to work together. Nobody is all things. Nobody can be an Oracle, an Expressionist, and the Hierophant all at once.”

“The Hierophant? Is that like a mage?”

“Oh, child. Hasn’t your poor Connor boy told you anything? Hasn’t he told you why you’re here with him, why they dragged you out of the city that night? Hasn’t the Order revealed anything?”

“They rescued me,” Olwen protested.

“They kidnapped you.”

“No! Michael saved my life, and the others as well. He’s just trying to keep me safe, to get us–”

“Back to the rest of the Order? And what then, child. Didn’t he tell you what you carry inside you? Didn’t he tell you just who lies in the darkness of your dreams?”

Kill her. She knows I’m here.

“What are you talking about? I thought this was about freedom.” Olwen stepped closer and immediately cursed herself. Her slight body pressed lightly against Veduna’s voluptuous figure. She could feel the heat off the older woman and it was intoxicating.

Kill her before she takes you. There are only moments, Olwen. She’s more dangerous than you realize. Olwen fought the voice inside, shaking her head clear.

“I… What is freedom?”

“It is to embrace the path, to make it fully your own, and to chose it instead of letting it chose you.”

Bullshit. She’s selling you on slavery. Don’t let her pull you in. Clear your mind. Force her out!

“Let me in and I’ll show you.”

Olwen was torn. Everything was swimming as she became more and more light-headed. There were too many things here, too many options. But what was it Veduna had said? There is only one choice we make. One choice to the future. The words were confusing and Olwen was having trouble keeping them straight in her head. Too many ideas, too many things to remember, and these strangers knocking on the doors to her mind. It was so distracting, so tiring. She just wanted to lay down, or into the Oracle’s arms.

Olwen. Don’t let go. Push her out, you must! The mysterious voice said.

“I can’t do it,” she responded to the voice aloud.

“Just let the sleep take you,” Veduna said. She thought the comment was for her.

“I can’t keep it straight. It’s too much. I just want to rest… to let her take over.”

“Yes, that’s it, sleep.” Yes, Olwen, just like before. Let me free.

“You will watch over me while I rest?” Olwen’t voice was tired, at the edge of exhaustion. Somewhere inside she knew it was a tool of the Expression. Veduna was trying to lower her defenses, to break down her walls. Somewhere inside the knowledge was as clear as day. After-all, it’s just the sort of thing Susan would have done.

“Susan?” Olwen asked.

Veduna’s eyes shot wide with panic. “What did you say?”

“Susan, take care of me,” and with that last thought, the darkness took over. A darkness named Susan Browne. Don’t worry, child. I’ll protect us both.

Nearby in the camp at the base of Mount Oros-Deinos, Korvaluvoroslano as it’s called by the natives, the fires were just being built up as twilight descended in the mountains. People were busy preparing meals, tending to camp tasks, caring for horses, cleaning, feeding, and all the other little crafts that make a people a society. Each person was about their own little duty except the Clerics. Members of the Order didn’t bother with camp work, but right about now Michael was seriously considering it. These mountains were cold, even in summer, and doing nothing but sit on a log was a quick way to freeze. He thought about helping to carry some of the supplies up from camp to their wagons for restocking when everything changed.

Thunder struck like a thousand cannons loosed at once all around him. The air slammed into his chest and a moment later he was on his back in a snow drift six feet away. The taste of sulfur filled his nostrils, but that was the only sense that seemed to be working. Everything was blinded and silenced from the blast. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and ran a finger to his ear with the other. Blood returned on both hands. Something had gone horribly wrong, and he had a feeling who was behind it.

In the ruined crater of what was once the tallest mountain, Susan Brown brushed off the soot from her dress and took a moment to admire the young body she now controlled. Lithe, but weak. Pretty in a plain way. It would do nicely.

breath comes slowly, waiting eager to rush in, desperate to reach you, to touch the deepness inside, so far so close to me, hope! maddeningly desired, lost in time, all will come not soon enough, i gasp…

Two days ago, I spent the evening contemplating the connection between the soul and God. The thought process began that afternoon while I was running at the gym. While listening to an audio-lecture^1^ about Saint Augustine on my iPod, the author brought up the Platonists’ concept of the inner world and began comparing it to John Locke’s philosophies, and finally discussing Augustine’s conclusions on the subject. The lecture really stuck with me and led me to some long overdue decisions.

The single greatest barrier between me and Catholicism has been Jesus; his validity, his divinity, and his relation to God. That is to say, I have had a very hard time believing in the doctrine of the Trinity, and while it has not kept me away from the Church per se, is has kept me from making a permanent commitment in the manner to which I feel called.

Without believing firmly that Christ is the path to salvation, indeed, without believing that Christ is himself God in every essence of being, it would have been hypocrisy to commit myself to a life of that teaching. Even more-so, it would have driven a wedge of lies into a place already tender with doubt. So for the past few years, I have avoided the commit-of Christ, I wanted it very much. I prayed as often as I could for God to steal away the doubts in my mind, to solidify my faith. In the end, each night I was assailed by my uncertainty and disappointment.

The problem I had with faith was that of rationality. Despite everything I have read^2^ and everything I’ve been taught, I still find it difficult to respect the numinous irrationality of God. My search has been with the empiricism of mysticism and the rationality of logic; and while my greatest triumphs of faith have always come from those moments when I, in my creature-consciousness, feel my place juxtaposed against my creator to be proclaiming my unworthiness with greater truth that can be known to mankind, after the fleeting moment of hierophany fades, I breathe deeply and again make the false attempts to puzzle out the unspeakable mysteries with inadequate tools.

It was most certainly a gift of God’s grace that led me down the path that day in the gym. The lecture was able to put some things into perspective that had long been out of place in my mind, and this reasoning led me down that same path of logic, but this time it led me with the open heart and compassion necessary to understand and believe. Here is the path:

John Locke envisioned our mind as a dark room in which we sit alone. There are no windows or doors in this room, at least not that can be used to look outside. Instead, there is a small lens that lets light trickle in and form a picture on the opposite wall. In this camera obscura, literally “dark chamber,” we interact only with this image reflected on the wall. We do not see the true object, only a reflection.

This argument reminded me at once of Plato’s Allegory of the Cave in which our entire world seemed to be nothing but shadows dancing on the wall, while in reality^3^ (or in the ideal reality, I should say) the world was filled with real creatures who were walking in front of a fire and casting those long shadows. The Platonists built upon that allegory in their further discussions of the inner self. The ideal world is like a giant crystal sphere, they thought, holding in it all the perfection of Truth. Our minds are tiny faces on the surface of this sphere, perpetually looking outward from it.

Augustine knew the Platonist teachings very well and worked hard at integrating these philosophies with the beliefs of the Church in his day. He saw this sphere as an obvious symbol of God, but it was incomplete. The ideal world is not God, but rather like the heavens that surround him. God is, after-all, indivisible, he is One. And so Augustine saw the picture a little more clearly than those who came before him. In this newer metaphor, God is the single point from which all of the sphere is derived. He is inconceivable, immeasurable, and unique. Around him he is surrounded by the world of the ideal or perfected bodies^4^. On the surface of the sphere are tiny individual spheres. These are the spheres of our souls. In each of these is a small window that glances back into the greater sacred, but we are isolated from it, floating on the surface. This was the key for me to understanding why Christ came to us, why God would not just enter the physical world as God the Father, and why we had a need for the Holy Spirit.

The first question I asked myself when I heard Augustine’s idea of these metaphorical sacred spheres was why can’t we gain access to God by studying those windows in each of our souls? Just as some people believe, couldn’t we gain access to heaven by acting right and looking inward? But that question overlooked a very basic problem, or perhaps a more basic question that needed to be asked. Why aren’t we in that inner sphere already? What has kept us on the surface? That answer, as Augustine found it, was sin.

When the first man sinned in the garden^5^, he sinned for all mankind. He broke the special bond that had connected us with all of the perfect things next to God. He ruined the possibility that we could lead a perfect life. And in doing so, he justifiably damned us all to leave God’s presence. Why, then, did Jesus Christ come and die for our sins? That answer now seems quite self-explanatory. And what tools were granted to us that we could avoid the pitfalls of being human? The grace of God is in each of us, asking a simple two-fold task. Love God with all your heart, and Love your neighbor as you love yourself.

It is that love and compassion that truly makes us a part of Christ’s Body, the Church. It is that Body that is forgiven its sin and has a chance of salvation. All of the logic of it seems very clear to me in using that analogy, but on its own it is still empty of the emotional quality of faith. However, as I meditated over the image of the sphere of God, our souls dancing on its surface, of Jesus–whose essence always was in that great, eternal sphere–being born into our profane little world to forgive a lost people and offer them the chance to come home, of God’s mercy and His presence, that is when I finally felt at peace. I was no longer meditating over those things in doubt or theory. They were a part of me like the air I breathe, as surely true as anything can be.

I prayed to God that my doubts would be taken away and replaced by faith. Two days ago, God answered my prayers.

1. The audio-lecture I refer to is by Professor Philip Carey.
2. In particular, Das Heilige (The Idea of the Holy) by Rudolf Otto, and The Sacred and the Profane by Mircae Eliade, which are referenced here.
3. It should be clarified that the ideal world might not be that single step back from the cave wall, but perhaps an infinite number of such revelations. The concept is the same, in any case, that there is a perfected reality, though it may not exist in our physical world. Professor Philip Carey makes an excellent allusion to it in his metaphor of the Pythagorean triangle.
4. The term “bodies” is inaccurate as the things in this sphere do not have an only “physical” body.
5. This as well may be a metaphorical story that is suggestive of man’s development from unconscious creature to self-awareness, when the we first became capable of pride-the original sin. It is, in that context, a sin that is shared by all people and entwined in the very essence of what it is to be human.

Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.

- Hebrews 11:1

Faith is the realization of what is hoped for and evidence of things not seen.

- New American Bible (NAB)

Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see.

- New International Version (NIV)

I love this reading. It’s the most direct explanation of faith in the New Testament, and though it’s not meant to be a precise definition, per se, it teaches us something remarkably important about it. Faith is more than an on/off switch. It is more than whether you think God is real or not. Faith is not a synonym of belief.

Faith is a gift and it’s a response. It is a mystical part of us that forms up around our hope and orients on the awesome. It is our ground-work, the foundation upon which we walk. It is the strength upon which we build up our belief, because it allows us to look at the numinous, the ineffable, and give us the strength of will to answer yes. It is God’s hand reaching down to us and saying, “It’s okay to believe.”

I think that’s what I love most about faith. It doesn’t come from us. It, like all of our great gifts, comes from God. We are asked to take it, be thankful for it, and offer it back to him. When we don’t have faith, what we’re really doing is turning away that gift, and that, in a nutshell, is true free will. God offers us something and we can choose to accept it or not. The rest of what we call freedom is an illusion, but I’ll write more on that another day.

The key term that causes such a differentiation in the translation of this verse is the Greek word “hypostasis”. A much more in-depth analysis of the various translations is available here.

No passion so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.

- Edmund Burke - On the Sublime and Beautiful (1757)

When Burke began writing about the sublime, he offered a wonderful new delineation. It was his observation that while beauty comes from the appreciate of aesthetics, the sublime comes from our abject fears, especially our fears of things that can kill us. Terror, he said, is akin to pain in our minds. It anticipates it and so experiences a shadow of what pain is. I suppose one could say that in anticipation of death we experience a little bit of that death. Oh wait… someone did say that!

Cowards die many times before their deaths

The valiant never taste of death but once.

- William Shakespeare - Julius Ceasar (1599)

One day when I was in boot camp, our division went down to the pool area for swim training. There were a number of different things we were going to practice once we got wet, not the least of which was the invaluable skill of not drowning; but before we could press on to the details, we had to get in the water. The pool had a diving platform over the deep end. I couldn’t say exactly how high it was, though I’m certain that memory over time has increased the height by no small margin. Still, I clearly remember being intimidated at the first sight. It was big, no fooling around.

The instructors explained what was about to happen to us as we stripped into our bathing suits. The divisions were lined up heel to toe in that familiar Navy fashion, each recruits back pressing uncomfortably close to the chest behind him. We formed a long sinuous line around the pool and up to the long ladder of the platform. Someone had thought to turn out most of the lights in the building, turning the water into a strange black unknown. A spot light shined down on the tip of the platform, though, bathing it in a yellowish light that called out the dust more than illuminating anything interesting. We stood there, carefully focusing our eyes on nothing in particular. As one of the lucky guys with glasses, I found myself even more blind than usual, having had to leave them back on the pile of clothes to my side. My entire world was reduced to a sweat stained white t-shirt in front of me, and the hazy, bright heat of the lamp far overhead.

My nervousness started climbing up into my throat as I took each step on the ladder. Step, choke, step, choke. As I reached the top, things took on a whole new reality. The ground was different here. It was roughly textured, like grated asphalt or maybe one of those rocks people use to exfoliate. The platform felt solid enough, even though we were so high. There were more instructors up here too. They split our thin line into several, each as tightly grouped as before. I thought we looked like the heads of a hydra, reaching out over the water like gaping jaws.

Up ahead of me, four recruits stood in my line leading up to the illuminated edge. The one in front took a step forward until his feet were as far as they could go. To his sides, another five were in step with him. The line reminded me strikingly of gallows. A sharp command sounded out from an instructor too near to be anywhere but the platform, but seemingly invisible as he stood just outside of the light. “Go!” he shouted, and the men stepped forward into oblivion.

The giant hall was not made for normal acoustics. Sounds ricocheted off the metal walls again and again while each splash and command stretched on forever. The line pressed forward. My heart was thundering so loud that I thought it must be echoing off the walls too. We stepped forward. Another vague splash and the air was empty. The little group of men in front of me shortened dangerously while I tried to come to grips with what was about to happen.

I was instructed on what to do. I knew how to cross my arms, how to position my feet, and where my hands should rest. I knew that once I hit the water I would need to swim forward and find my group, buddy up and distribute the PFDs so we could all stay afloat. I knew somewhere in my mind that Navy Seals were lurking down below in the water, waiting for poorly conditioned recruits to kick when they shouldn’t, or splash too much. They were waiting like sharks in the water, there to teach us a lesson. Somewhere in all my thinking, a few more splashes were heard.

The last body in front of me disappeared into the darkness and left behind that bright spot light glaring into my eyes. I could see the edge of the platform. I could feel the rough stone on my feet, gripping. A command was uttered and I stepped up to the edge, my toes hanging off into the darkness. I didn’t look down; there was no point. I knew already that it would just be darkness and sounds.

In my head, my mind raced with thoughts, trying to catch up with what was happening. Things were moving too quickly. I wasn’t ready to go yet. My throat was solid and my chest weighed down with a heavy feeling I couldn’t understand. I could feel the breathing of the recruit behind me, and I wanted to step to the side, look around, catch my breath, ask for a minute, do anything.

“Go!”

My hands crossed, gripping my shirt and my nose. My feet stepped. I was falling. But no, that wasn’t right, I was still protesting, trying to find my place, to center my fear and deal with it. I needed to get it in check before I could…

Splash!

The water was cold and it hit like the shock from an old wool blanket. I shot back up into the air and took a gasping breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding. It was over.

It took me a while to understand how my body could act on one set of signals from my brain while the rest was so overly concerned with meaningless things like fear. My arms and legs did what they were told to do. They did it without a pause, without doubt, and without error. They did it without the fear that was all pervasive in my mind.

When Burke talks about the sublime sense of terror, of feeling ones own mortality, I think he only halfway addresses the origins of that psychology. There is obviously a great meaning in the way our animal fears can plague us. We can be shaken to the core, go pale as a ghost, or just let our jaws drop. I don’t think that’s enough of the story, though. It doesn’t address that other part of us.

That night on the platform, I was told what to do, but I hadn’t been trained at it. It was no mere reflex of action. It was not a conditioning to follow orders when they came from that self-confident voice. It was a spark of control over the uncontrollable that had come to me through pain, practice, and the knowledge that fear was no longer useful. I find something of the sublime in that and wonder at its meaning and place in my future life. Will I have cause for it one day?

In 1995 Mars, Inc. (hereafter referred to as Evil-Inc) ran a sneaky contest inviting the public (hereafter referred to as The Great Douchery) to choose a new color M&M. What Evil-Inc failed to mention to the Great Douchery was that this new color was slated to replace, nay, destroy the sacred Ambrosia!

This wasn’t the first time a tragedy struck M&M colors, of course. In 1976, there was a scare around the use of amaranth (Red Dye #2) in lots of foods. It was discovered to be a carcinogen and awareness by the Great Douchery swept across the land picking fights with all the red foods they could find. Never mind that M&Ms didn’t use amaranth to begin with, Evil-Inc decided it was best to cut them out anyway. You may be saying to yourself, “but there are red M&Ms now!” You’re right of course. They brought them back years later and started using Allura Red AC (Red Dye #40) as the new dye (which, consequently, is banned in several European countries due to potential health risks).

What’s worse is that when the red M&Ms were stolen away, they were replaced by an awful orange M&M. Our poor tan M&Ms, Ambrosia if you will, suddenly found themselves threatened not only by the dark brown, but suddenly a new similar color. Their uniqueness slipped even further. Still, Ambrosia stood strong for many years. In fact, some very resourceful candy-nerds did some shady measurements which suggest that prior to the contest in 1995, tan M&Ms accounted for over 30% of the entire bag. What they lost in individuality, they made up with gusto in presence.

Still, all of this was not enough to save them. The evil Blue M&M was born and lovely Ambrosia was lost to time.

At this point, you might be asking yourself, “what does all this have to do with anything?” If you are, you obviously don’t understand the awesomeness of the Tan M&Ms. They were the softest, most natural of all the colors. They didn’t offend or demand attention with their brightness. The question should be, how can this not bother you?

Perhaps I’m overly sensitive to my snack foods. Maybe that’s why I’m the only one that seems to have noticed Count Chocula changed its recipe in the mid 90’s. Yes, I was still eating it in high school; got a problem with that? Anyway, I think someone needs to take a stand on these issues. Some things are worth fighting for!

I will not eat blue M&Ms. My respect for Ambrosia is strong enough for that at least. Who’s with me?

PS: I apologize to anyone who mistakenly thought this post was going to be in any way related to the DC Comics superhero of the same name. Though, in retrospect, he is also downright awful. I think I’ll boycott him too.

Deus caritas est. (God is love)

- 1 John 4:16

Theologians talk about caritas, or agapē, when they talk about God’s love for us. It’s an overwhelming, pure, unlimited kindness that goes beyond romance or want or even need. It is what first Corinthians talks about when it says it isn’t boastful, it isn’t proud. It’s the type of love, in particular, that religious are to seek in their relationships with, well, everyone.

It’s still hard for me to find that type of love, even (or especially) in relationships I’ve had for a long time. Maybe that makes it harder, though. When I have a certain type of love for someone already, it is so much more difficult to shift that into caritas, into charity. Romantic love, especially, screams at me saying that it is more important, or deeper than charity, that it deserves to be respected and explored. I know in my mind that’s not all true, that it gets a part of its strength from its self-serving nature. Still, the difficulty remains. It’s a struggle I don’t foresee becoming any easier with time.

It may not be easy, but when it comes I feel it more strongly than anything else. I know that if any of my tiny loves compare to it, it is only as a shadow cast along a wall in passing. God’s love is enormous and subtle, and it provokes such awe and clarity that it wakes us up from our petty dreams to point us in a direction and say with the clear clarion only available to angels, “Here it is! Here I am!”

Still, even with the experience in my pocket, there are days when I fall for the old habits. I want love, not just to love. It’s inescapable, even if it weren’t broadcast across our culture in blazing lights. That want is human as well, and I don’t think I can necessarily call it wrong. Though the selfless love may be altruistic and divine, and thus qualitatively better, that doesn’t diminish the greatness that comes from being loved by another person. Just because one thing is infinitely good, infinity minus one is still increasing without bounds. (There’s a cardinality vs. cardinals joke in there somewhere, but my math nerd skills aren’t up to it)

I know what I should do. I know that I need to bridge those gaps and put things in the right perspective. Times will come in the future where I’ll experience this same dilemma and I should put in the practice now at developing those relationships into a love that is healthy for celibacy. Based on what I’m experiencing so far, I’d say it’s a slow process.

Of course, I can’t turn a blind eye to romantic relationships. Even though it’s not the path I’m headed down, I already find myself counseling other people on theirs. I typically take the position of offering up my mistakes as a guide for things they might want to avoid, but that’s only really appropriate for surface level advice. So many friends are coming to me these days with worries about finding a love in which to share their life. I guess with all of us hitting our 30s, they’re beginning to wonder why life hasn’t fallen into place like they expected. But that’s the key, isn’t it? Life is never what we expected. How many of us can look back at our 8th grade yearbook, slide our finger down to the “What do you want to do when you grow up?” line, read off our grand plans and say honestly, “Yup, I nailed it.” How many of us planned out our futures when we left for college? How many of us are even in the same career as when we began? These are just the mechanical things of the day to day. They are jobs, homes, cars. How much more complex and unpredictable is love!

Even though it’s unpredictable, and life takes us on twists, that doesn’t help people who feel left behind, who feel alone. I want to say, “of course you’ll find someone!” I want to tell them that it will work out better than they could have planned, but that’s not the way of life, and it’s not the way of God. He challenges us at every turn. The better we are at things, the more skilled or talented, the more the challenges become. He never abandons us, but he doesn’t make it easy.

It’s tempting to take a break from your life and look to the side, at the lives of others passing by like cars on a highway. It’s tempting to look and say, “look how easy they have it! They’re in the carpool lane and it’s moving so quick.” We so rarely see their challenges, though. We trick ourselves into simple habits, like pretending that if we could only have this one thing, all of life would be okay. That’s never the case, though, is it?

More often than not, I think my friends will find the love they’re looking for. It might happen soon, or not for many years. Most will find it. There is another group, though, who may not. That’s the big conspiracy of our modern world. That’s the horror movie too scary for the big screen. What happens to the people who never find a romance to last the rest of their lives?

They live and love anyway.

That’s the big secret. God doesn’t call us all to married life! Just as he doesn’t call everyone to religious life, just as he doesn’t give us all the same gifts and passions. And that’s okay.

I know we all want it, but the wanting isn’t love in itself. The wanting is just the self crying out at the outrage of not having what others have. There is still love available for everyone, even if it isn’t romantic love. Don’t be fooled into thinking it’s anything less than romance, either. It is far more grace-filled and awe-inspiring. It is the love that creates worlds!

Whether you’re one of those people who has already found your special love, one who is still looking and will discover it soon, or one of us who will live by the love of charity and fill your life with the friendship of many, God’s love is there for every single person, without exception. It’s even there for us screw-ups who misuse it, abuse it, and fail to spot it when we should be on our knees thanking heaven. It’s there for sinners and saints alike.

Let all that you do be done in love.

- 1 Corinthians 16:14

There are a number of books I should be reading right now that could help me prepare, but instead I’ve been bingeing the Dresden series. It’s really started getting good and I’m just tearing through them so fast that it’s really satisfying, but I think it has contributed to my present situation. Normally I institute a very strict policy for myself that I can read only one fantasy novel between my non-fiction books. This keeps me from going off the deep end and losing myself into rich series, like I did with the Wheel of Time back at Rowan. I’ve let myself become lax, and that will have to change.

As soon as I finish reading the 9th book in the series, I’ll be jumping back into The First Jesuits, which is incredibly interesting, but reads like an encyclopedia. Still, it is one of the books I’m supposed to be reading in preparation for entrance day, and I’ve let it slide now for too long.

What about you folks out there? Is there something going on that you’ve lost sight of, something you need to refocus, to stay on target?

That’s the biggest problem I have with gnostic ideas. It’s not that there isn’t anything to be learned by classifying and delineating, but when we attribute individual value and stop seeing our bodies as part of our souls and vice versa, we stop seeing the entire person. More than that, we stop seeing each other.

There is no path to God through the soul alone. You can’t shed this flesh and ride your spirit alone up to the heavens. The body is not an anchor weighing you down. It is not a prison. All these ideas, they make us see ourselves in such a dark way, as if the only thing of worth were buried beneath a dirty mask. It’s a wonder how people survived with those thoughts at all!

Theology is a little beyond me tonight. It’s late and I’m only up because of an ill-advised nap this afternoon. In a few minutes I’ll be back in bed letting my slumbering mind take me on silly journeys where my cat is the conductor of an illegal space-train. I guess I just needed to get that thought out of my head.

And He began telling this parable: “A man had a fig tree which had been planted in his vineyard; and he came looking for fruit on it and did not find any.

“And he said to the vineyard-keeper, ‘Behold, for three years I have come looking for fruit on this fig tree without finding any. Cut it down! Why does it even use up the ground?’

“And he answered and said to him, ‘Let it alone, sir, for this year too, until I dig around it and put in fertilizer; and if it bears fruit next year, fine; but if not, cut it down.’”

- Luke 13:6-9 (The Parable of the Fig Tree)

Some of the people I’ve met recently can point to one or two parables or passages in the Bible and say, “Look at that! That is where I found God’s purpose for me!” I’m not sure I ever saw a message so personal or clear in any particular thing. I identify with a lot of different biblical stories. As most of you know, I like to make a lot of analogies and find metaphor in just about everything that crosses my path. Maybe that has kept me from developing a special bond with any one thing; there’s too much to choose from.

The parable of the fig tree, though, has long managed to fall into a special category, or perhaps I should say a lack of category. It’s not that I don’t understand it, and it’s not that I can’t place its meaning in my life. The fig tree has some other element to it, an element of the numinous, ineffable sacred. I suppose, if you allow me to personify it a bit, the parable is like a man facing away from me. I know he is a man. I see what he is about and what he is doing, but his face is hidden.

A few minutes ago, I experienced a totally cheesy, totally predictable twist. At least, that’s how I’d describe it if my life were a movie. As I read the passage again that person/parable turned around to face me and there I was, staring back at myself. I told you it was predictable!

I’ve been learning to pray by placing myself in the scenes, becoming the actors, becoming onlookers, really being there. I have no idea why I never put myself into the position of that tree before, but the moment I realized it things woke up inside me.

How do I see myself? Am I worthy of being saved? How much longer can I go on “bearing no fruit”? If I am tended to, if I make the right decisions and respond to what my vineyard-keeper is trying to sow in my life, will I have a real worth? What is my fruit? It is love (caritas), obviously! Charity is the fruit that becomes the seed, that grows and spreads and falls again and again… The questions, the metaphors, they go on and on until I catch myself shaking my head back and forth in wonder at the blindness of a moment ago, of a lifetime ago.

This is what contemplative prayer is. It is waking up. It is suddenly having words stop being words in such a profound way that you shake your head at your former self, wondering how you could have ever been that person. It is waking up in a moment and knowing, just knowing, that you are making the right decision.

On that note, I received word that I have been accepted to enter the tri-state novitiate for the Maryland, New York, and New England Provinces of the Society of Jesus this summer.

The letter represents a culmination of a decade of discernment, countless hours of writing, of reading, and prayer; and yet this is just another beginning. It is a milestone, a thing to be celebrated with joy and excitement, but I can’t fool myself into thinking I have really accomplished anything yet. I still stare at my branches and see no fruit. Maybe this represents buds?

I try more and more every day to live my life like I am fully in bloom, to share the love and faith and my sense of joy in the Lord. Soon I will have more support in that respect than I’ve ever known. I will also have people pushing me (and pulling me, I’m sure) to do more, to be more, to grow in that relationship of faith. The idea is so amazing, I can’t even come up with a pretty metaphor!

New things are on the horizon. I love new things.

To those of you who have been praying for me, thank you so much for absolutely everything. If you have a moment, join me in praying for the other (currently anonymous) souls who are still in the long discernment/application process. God bless!

There’s been a lot of questions about the vows in particular. How do I see poverty, chastity, and obedience? What do they really mean, and why are they so fundamental? How do I see myself living them? What is it about my call that feels particularly fitting to the Jesuits?

Like I said, I feel talked out. These are easy questions, but the answers are not short and simple. It takes time to explain fully the reasons I see obedience as the cornerstone of an active faith, to split apart the different forms it takes in our lives and differentiate and explain the necessity of each. I can’t rely on theological answers like that anyway. Instead, it takes even more time to convey the sense of helpless panic that hit me in the Navy, where I had no control over my life or death and the only choice I had in the morning was which of the same uniform to put on. How long does it take me to show how that helplessness transformed into a peace and a beauty of simplicity and acceptance. How long it takes to demonstrate how all these little moments in my life when I have stopped thinking and planning ad infinitum and simply listened with an open heart… Moments of obedience to God are easy to recall, but never simple to explain.

There’s no quick way to talk about how living in poverty is more than a simple rule for emulating the life of Christ, or how it brings a closer relationship to the poor, suffering, and meek in the world, or even how removing the clutter from your life removes the noisy barriers that keep you from hearing God’s whispers like Elijah. Indeed, to really explain my personal relationship to the vow, I need to talk about my time in Alaska, my constant yearning for movement, the deep quiet of meditation I find in long car rides or sitting alone in an empty room. It takes so many words to draw these pictures and make them accessible and clear enough that they can be felt. How can I make you feel the amazing power of Grace that fills me until I am overflowing with the essence of everything, the mystical numinous power that terrifies me into awareness of my smallness and yet embraces me with a personal affection more powerful than any single love. Or how I see the shadow of a flower draping across newly fallen snow, and it is a metaphor for the calling I feel. Unencumbered. Profound. Draw me a haiku that can bring that depth in 17 syllables.

And there is the ever present question of sexuality, as pervasive in interviews as it is in society. Where do I begin to talk about celibacy and its neighbor chastity? Do I repeat them the go-to reply of religious, that living the life doesn’t make you love less, but opens you up to love everyone even more? It is true, but again it is only part of an answer. It is the answer of the Church explaining a doctrine, not of a person explaining a call. Why am I called to celibacy? Because God has shown me that is the type of Love I excel at and find true grace in. I am not just a bad boyfriend and a good friend, it is deeper than that. I am called to celibacy because I have an affinity and natural skill at it. Sexuality and individual romantic love doesn’t bring me closer to God the way it does so many people. But it’s also hard to explain, as you can probably see already. It takes time and energy and a deeply reflective emotional examination that pulls and pulls at you. It’s exhausting.

So, as I said, I’m a little talked out these days. So in closing, let me just say: things looking good, need sleep, prayers welcome.

[It] is not knowing much, but realizing and relishing things interiorly, that contents and satisfies the soul.

- St. Ignatius Loyola - Spiritual Exercises, Second Annotation (1522-1524)

A week ago I met with the Vocation Director for the Society of Jesus. The interview was long, incredibly personal, and quite draining on both of us; but in the end he invited me to continue my application for the Novitiate. Now I have approximately four weeks to complete another 5 interviews, arrange for 5 letters of reference, get a physical, dental exam, ophthalmologist exam, transcripts from everywhere, military service records, church records, a psychological evaluation, and a partridge in a pear tree. How am I taking it? I’m glowing with excitement.

This past week has been a blur of scheduling, e-mailing, phone conversations, distracted prayers, and insomnia. It’s been a long time since the excitement of good things has kept me from sleep. I’ve missed it.

Tonight, a friend from Atlanta talked to me about patience. He’s doing a study on it that sounds fascinating. He said something very important to me that reaffirmed what I’ve been feeling through the discernment so far, and what I’ve been feeling more than ever since that meeting last week. He said, “a patience person is an active person…active in standing either against something…or in the face of something.”

It’s the active part that resonates so well right now. This application has certainly not been something to passively let happen. The Jesuits have all been very up-front with me that to get through this process in the right mind to move forward, I need to keep up my prayer life and spirituality. I think that might be the action of patience my friend was referring to—actively standing (or praying) in the face of the challenge of constant discernment, interviews, and paperwork.

There is a certain quietness that comes from it, though, that reminds me of the sense of calm, passive patience I’m used to. Rather than being the core of the virtue, though, I’m beginning to see it more as the result.

The remarkable thing is how the process has done more than just force me to consider my call. It’s already begun changing my behavior, readying me for a life to come. A lot of close people have started remarking about the changes, and the support has been amazing. Whether from close people now or those far into my past, all the prayers and sentiments give me strength.

My choice to live my call is a continuous struggle to make the right decisions, the decisions to follow what the Spirit is asking of me each and every day. They are hard choices sometimes, taking me farther away from the familiar and sometimes hedonistic past experiences and out on to a limb where I am surprisingly exposed. That’s where God likes to keep me, though. It’s part of the humility I’m always learning more about. When we are exposed, weakened, without comfort, it is easiest to turn to Christ for assistance. “Again I say to you, it is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of God.” (Mt. 19:24)

These next four weeks will be difficult to schedule, but they will also be spiritually full. Every day I learn something new about myself and my relationships with those around me. Spiritual indifference comes a little closer. Contemplative prayer becomes more natural. Some people call the application the true Jesuit postulancy, and I can see why.

As always, please keep me in your prayers. I’m praying for you too.

Mine eyes will ne’re behold which my heart dost see so clearly inward stirs this passion deep, benighting leading my path away from all and to my love I reach out for thee and pray your hand be there to welcome mine your light to illum where my light be spent for my soul is sore

- Carl Reiner - “The Life and Love of Joe Coogan”, of The Dick Van Dyke Show (1964)

I’ve been doing a lot of spiritual reading lately, the sort that makes its way into your daydreams and forms elaborate connective metaphors with everything around you. It becomes easy to see the way all the patterns in your life add up in simple, elegant equations to one another, and tempting to let those harmonies overwhelm your concept of God. It’s easy to think of God as the connective force, or the connections themselves, or maybe just a power moving behind them. It’s a part of so many spiritualities, and it feels so right; but in living with these sorts of thoughts for so long, I’ve come to find it somehow shallow. God is so much more than that.

One of the most basic concepts in Ignatian Spirituality (that is, the spirituality of St. Ignatius Loyola) is the ability to discern God’s active hand in our lives through discerning the spirits. Does this spirit, this concept / act / path in life, lead you closer to God, unite you with the virtues of faith, hope, and love? Or does this spirit lead you someplace else? It’s not a matter of whether thinking about something makes you happy or sad, righteous or indignant, but rather about how it interacts with your soul.

When I am filling my nights with spiritual reading and my thoughts are on my own discernment, the role of Jesus and his sacraments in my life, and looking for God in all things, that’s exactly what I find: God in all things. I see him in the way a conversation suddenly turns, or in the way a new friend opens up to me unexpectedly. He’s there when I drive to work and when I’m remembering each of my friends in my prayers. His presence is more than just with me, though, it’s active and guiding if I pay attention. It leads me to things and away from others. Sometimes, like it has been in the sense of my discernment to religious life, it is “leading my path away from all, and too my love,” as the poem says.

Jillian of Norwich says in her own spiritual writings that we are closer to God than we are to our own Spirit. It is because our spirit is made of and by God, not of the earthly things like our bodies. The only way we can come to know our spirit is by first coming to know God. In the view of Ignatian Spirituality, that makes such beautiful sense. It is the way of God to illuminate his path for us through reason and faith together, and so what better way to come to know ourselves as well?

Which brings me to this past Monday night. I had mass and dinner with the Jesuit community at the Arrupe House in Philadelphia, and a wonderful discussion afterward about St. Ignatius’ spirituality. We were talking about these very things and I asked them something that had been on my mind. In the Examen, the daily practice of prayerful reflection on the day to discern God’s presence and direction, I told them I found it easy to spot God’s active and guiding hand in the big moments of my life, like joining the Navy, moving from one place to the next, or volunteering for certain things; but at the end of a day when I did nothing but work from my chair at home, write a blog post, draw a map for a D&D game, and watch some Hulu, how do you sense God’s presence? One of the priests talked a bit about his own experiences in the Examen and described something wonderfully helpful to me. He said he spends his time trying to find the “scent of God.” He doesn’t look at the actions, necessarily, but for something else. He looks for an element of presence in his day via a different sense than scrolling through your day like it’s on Tivo. To sense a scent requires a different tactic, more passive than active, an opening of yourself to the things in the air around you. When I think of it, I want to close my eyes and think of nothing but the deep inhalation and the questing search for something I know is there. It’s not a game of Where’s Waldo.

Tonight as I settled down to do the Examen, I kept this idea in my mind. I sense God’s presence in the little conversations I had over instant messenger, and in the choices of my reading, but there was something more. A general scent of God being with me, encouraging and guiding despite the lack of decision making. He was there with me in force, though no force was necessary. He was filling me up, illuminating my benighted soul at the very moment while I watched a simple episode of the Dick Van Dyke show on Hulu. When the plot revealed that Laura’s long-lost love, her boyfriend before Rob, was now a priest, I saw it in his light. And finally, when she realized that all those love poems he had sent her were not about her at all, but were about God, it was that sense of loving companionship that I was already experiencing that brought me tears.

So yes, in a way I do see God as the connecting force between everything I experience, and as a guide in that journey, but I also see him as a light of insight into who I really am, a companion on my constant pilgrimage, a teacher, father, friend, and confessor. He is all these things and so much more! I guess it’s like I told the Jesuits on Monday. Sometimes sensing his presence is pretty easy.

Fellow blogger, Elizabeth Esther from “Kids, Twins, and Laundry Bins” is hosting a special Saturday Evening Blog Post where people are asked to submit their favorite blog entry from 2009. I chose The Most Beautiful Thing in the World. What will you pick? Pop on over here and make your choice.

His mouth moves silently, stretching over the playful shapes and hiding a hint of smile. A bit of dust from the road kicks up until he can taste it on his tongue. It’s sour. The smile turns to a grimace but his legs don’t stop. The march continues.

Damp air reminds him of the river nearby, and to be watchful for slick rocks. Slowly, like a great behemoth set into motion after eons of corroded stillness, his eyes drift up from his feet and see his trail. He’s seen it before—rocks, trees, flora and insects—maybe not here exactly, but it’s all the same. The sun sprays its light across the verdant sea, callously optimistic in its glimmer, indifferent to precision or purpose, all-encompassing and definitive. A frame of trees—spruce or pine or some such weald—envelops a painting brought to life. Colors fall out of the sky and pour across the ground, highlighting every shrub and brush as if it were a quotation to be noted and studied. The vale is completely still but for the fluttering of the tiniest wings, flashes of bright yellow over indigo and violet. Pristine silence pounds the earth in altitonal crescendos, as if Peace were trying to punch him in the face. He’s seen it all before.

Eyes are spared a moments energy then fall back to rest in their place. The march continues. Lemonberry Shantyball wraps its delicate phonemes in transcendent colors as it wiggles its way back into his head.

I came to an odd place in my reflection where it didn’t seem right to pray for his soul as I might pray for a stranger, and it also didn’t feel right to pray in the personal way I do for friends and family. It’s not that I think he deserves more or less than anyone else, but rather that it’s important for me to face prayer openly, honestly, and in the correct way for each situation. It is that right fit that was eluding me.

As is has been said (and I totally forget by whom), “to find something, you must stop looking for it.” It was the case again for me. I stopped fretting over the issue and sat down to watch an episode of Northern Exposure on my computer. Now, I’ve spoken here before about my love of that particular show and the great wealth of wisdom I find in its characters, and tonight was no different. I quite randomly chose an episode from the fourth season entitled, Kaddish for Uncle Manny. It’s the story about the main character Joel Fleischman learning the news of his uncle Manny’s death. Saying the prayer of mourning—Kaddish—requires him to have a ten Jewish men—a minyan—present with him. The town comes together and begins the massive search across Alaska for ten Jews to help out.

The real powerful moment, though, happens right at the very end. In the final scene when Joel stands in front of his community and asks them all to be witnesses to his prayer even though they aren’t Jewish and didn’t know his uncle. He says to them “Maybe when I say the Kaddish, you can think about someone in your own life who you loved and feel free to say a prayer in your own way if you like.” Then he begins to pray and you can see on each of their faces that the connection has been made.

Kaddish is a prayer for the sanctification of God’s holy name. Sanctification. The term is translated from the Greek word ἅγιος (hagios), meaning sacred. It is also sometimes translated as holiness, purity, or separateness. It is this last term that brings out the true meaning in the term. Separateness, finding its root in God’s infinite separation from all things evil, but speaking most plainly about our separation from God as creatures, and our call to separate ourselves from sin as sons and daughters of Adam. It is a beautiful prayer to God, and one will notice the remarkable absence of any language about death, loss of life, or mourning.

יִתְגַּדַּל וְיִתְקַדַּשׁ שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא.
בְּעָלְמָא דִּי בְרָא כִרְעוּתֵהּ
וְיַמְלִיךְ מַלְכוּתֵהּ
וְיַצְמַח פֻּרְקָנֵהּ וִיקָרֵב(קיץ) מְשִׁיחֵהּ
בְּחַיֵּיכוֹן וּבְיוֹמֵיכוֹן
וּבְחַיֵּי דְכָל בֵּית יִשְׂרָאֵל
בַּעֲגָלָא וּבִזְמַן קָרִיב. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן
יְהֵא שְׁמֵהּ רַבָּא מְבָרַךְ
לְעָלַם וּלְעָלְמֵי עָלְמַיָּא
יִתְבָּרַךְ וְיִשְׁתַּבַּח וְיִתְפָּאַר וְיִתְרוֹמַם
וְיִתְנַשֵּׂא וְיִתְהַדָּר וְיִתְעַלֶּה וְיִתְהַלָּל
שְׁמֵהּ דְקֻדְשָׁא בְּרִיךְ הוּא.
לְעֵלָּא (לְעֵלָּא מִכָּל) מִן כָּל בִּרְכָתָא
וְשִׁירָתָא תֻּשְׁבְּחָתָא וְנֶחֱמָתָא
דַּאֲמִירָן בְּעָלְמָא. וְאִמְרוּ אָמֵן

May the great Name of God be exalted and sanctified, throughout the world, which he has created according to his will. May his Kingship be established in your lifetime and in your days, and in the lifetime of the entire household of Israel, swiftly and in the near future; Amen.

May his great name be blessed, forever and ever.

Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, honored elevated and lauded be the Name of the holy one, Blessed is he—above and beyond any blessings and hymns, Praises and consolations which are uttered in the world; Amen. May there be abundant peace from Heaven, and life, upon us and upon all Israel; Amen.

He who makes peace in his high holy places, may he bring peace upon us, and upon all Israel; Amen.

(Listen to Joel Fleischman (Rob Marrow) say the Kaddish for Uncle Manny.)

When I listened to that prayer at the end of the episode, I took Joel’s advice. I let my mind go from my uncle to those I’ve known more intimately, those who I’ve loved and lost. I thought of my maternal grandparents mostly, and their spirit of goodness that filled my life for so long. My grandma in particular, in whom I see a personal saint, one to be emulated for her devotion to Christ. I don’t know Hebrew, but I know the meaning of the words. I prayed to God and to the beautiful, eternal sanctification of his name, the origins of the Word, and the ultimate love (caritas) that sustains all life and gives everything meaning. I thought of my grandma, and my grandpa, and there in the distance along with a fading mental image of his face, I prayed with and for my uncle. He and all of them are swept up in the prayerful movement of my heart to God, filled with the loving words and thoughts present in the Kaddish, and given the personal strength added by the thoughts of those closest to me.

I will think fondly of my uncle now, and remember him along with the others until it is my own turn to go to God. Now, like Joel Fleischman, I invite you to pray along in your own way as you think about those whom you have loved.

- Jeremiah 33:14

Advent, from the Latin verb advenire—’to come’ or adventus—‘an arrival’. It is a season of waiting and preparation, but its real significance seems to fade into the background for many of us when faced with the imminent Christmas holiday. The sombre celebrations we have at mass, the simple decorations and quiet anticipatory spirit don’t mesh with the manic energy of holiday shopping, fourth quarter work binges, and family trips. We are entering a season that calls upon us for extra vigilance, yet we find ourselves perhaps less aware of the happenings around us than ever.

What is it we’re celebrating, anyway? Why do we call out the time before Christmas like this, or why do we call out the Lenten time before Easter? Wouldn’t it be easier on us to simply get together on Christmas morning with our families and friends and give gifts? What’s with all the anticipation?

Moreover, I will give you a new heart and put a new spirit within you; and I will remove the heart of stone from your flesh and give you a heart of flesh.

- Ezekiel 36:26

The promises of God to his people Israel go back to the earliest books of the Bible. Through all the scriptures of the old testament we hear the prophets speak again and again of the fulfillment of these promises. As the poor, enslaved people fled into the desert and wandered for years and years, they lived and thrived upon the promises of God. For generations, through strife with enemies from abroad and disturbingly misguided actions from within their own numbers, they continued to preserver, waiting for the promised days to come. They chose their first king and watched as his love for glory almost destroyed them, but God’s promises still held true. With the new king raises a great house, one that would survive for 41 more generations (or 27 according to Matthew) before the fulfillment of God’s promise.

These weren’t empty years for Israel. They weren’t just opening acts to the main event. These hundreds of years were filled by real lives, real suffering and real joy. Their hope for the future was real, and their vigilance was strong. From Ezekiel to Jeremiah to Luke, the sense of anticipation is so powerful you can feel it in their words.

Advent is a symbol, but it is not just a red (or purple, if you will) carpet leading to Christmas. It is a symbol of Israel and their long history of faith, hope, and watchfulness.

Therefore the Lord Himself will give you a sign: Behold, a virgin will be with child and bear a son, and she will call His name Immanuel.

- Isaiah 7:14

Read carefully the lines of my favorite Christmas hymn and see if you can find Advent’s powerful sense union and anticipation.

Oh, come, oh, come, Emmanuel, And ransom captive Israel, That mourns in lonely exile here Until the Son of God appear. Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to you, O Israel!

Oh, come, our Wisdom from on high, Who ordered all things mightily; To us the path of knowledge show, and teach us in her ways to go. Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to you, O Israel!

Oh, come, oh, come, our Lord of might, Who to your tribes on Sinai’s height In ancient times gave holy law, In cloud and majesty and awe. Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to you, O Israel!

Oh, come O Rod of Jesse’s stem, From ev’ry foe deliver them That trust your mighty pow’r to save; Bring them in vict’ry through the grave. Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to you, O Israel!

Oh, come, O Key of David, come, And open wide our heav’nly home; Make safe the way that leads on high, And close the path to misery. Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to you, O Israel!

Oh, come, our Dayspring from on high, And cheer us by your drawing nigh, Disperse the gloomy clouds of night, And death’s dark shadows put to flight. Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to you, O Israel!

Oh, come, Desire of nations, bind In one the hearts of all mankind; Oh, bid our sad divisions cease, And be yourself our King of Peace. Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel Shall come to you, O Israel!

- Veni, Veni Emmanuel or O Come, O Come Emmanuel (12th-13th century) translation by John Neal

Jesus set the book of nature before me and I saw that all the flowers He has created are lovely. The splendor of the rose and the whiteness of the lily do not rob the little violet of its scent nor the daisy of its simple charm. I realized that if every tiny flower wanted to be a rose, spring would lose its loveliness and there would be no wildflowers to make the meadows gay.

It is just the same in the world of souls – which is the garden of Jesus. He has created the great saints who are like the lilies and the roses, but He has also created much lesser saints and they must be content to be the daisies or the violets which rejoice his eyes whenever He glances down. Perfection consists in doing His will, in being that which He wants us to be.

- St. Thérèse of Lisieux - Story of a Soul (1898)

There’s something to be said for feeling special. We think of it as a good thing, that special denotes a value above ordinaray, above normal. Parents tell their children, teachers tell their students, bosses tell employees. They say, “Develop pride in yourself,” though not usually with those words. We think of it as a good thing.

Ask a group of people to raise their hand if they think they’re an above-average driver. In that fictitious crowd, will half the hands remain still? Will the number be even close? We are all affected by this sense of unreality we project on ourselves and others. We are the exception, the unique ones, worth more than the others and deserving of more.

But what about those hands? If so many are raised, what does that mean? Are we all above average? Are we all special? Some people will tell you that’s it exactly! We are all unique and beautiful and special in our own way, but then what does “special” even mean? Words become devoid of meaning and semantics takes the reins.

These days even mentioning alternatives is offensive. To say that yes, some people are not special, that they are just regular average Joe’s seems to raise up hackles. Or worse, think about how you feel when you read this sentence: Some people are better than others.

Ready to leave an angry comment yet? What is it about the idea of (in)equality that offends our sensibilities so deeply to elicit such a primal reaction? I didn’t even qualify my statement by defining what I meant by better. I could have been talking about some people being better at balancing on a high-wire, but it didn’t matter. It’s not simply a matter of me being wrong. If I had said, “There’s no such thing as a person over six feet tall,” people would dismiss it as uninformed and ridiculous. No, with this question there is something more invested. Why do you think this is? Why is it okay to call someone special as long as everyone is special, but not to say that everyone is the same, or that one person is better than another.

I look upon myself as a weak little bird, with only a light down as covering. I am not an eagle, but I have only an eagle’s eyes and heart. In spite of my extreme littleness I still dare to gaze upon the Divine Sun, the Sun of Love, and my heart feels within it all the aspirations of an Eagle…

- Ibid

I don’t want this post to turn into a big diatribe about the modern cause for equality vs. the pedagogy of uniqueness and individuality. I recognize that these are necessary and positive things in many arenas. Certainly understanding the innate equality of rights of all human beings is important just as is developing children that can act with confidence. Instead, I want to focus on the specific question of individual self-value.

By self-value, I don’t necessarily mean self-esteem. I mean the understanding of the deep, natural value of a human life. These are indistinguishable from one another. These are equal, and like St. Thérèse says, they are all important. Some lives burn bright, some muddle through life dimly, but they’re all part of God’s plan. Even the littlest birds can sing a beautiful song. This young saint, in her early 20s at the time of her death, never accomplished great things. She never traveled. She wasn’t martyred. She simply lived life’s little moments and found God in them. This simple girl, who was certainly not special for her time, is now one of only three women to be called Doctor of the Church.

I was dished out an extra helping of pride as a child, and I clung to it dearly as I grew older. Long after I’d put away my stuffed camel (never had a teddy-bear), I still had the comfort of knowing in my heart that I was special. I deserved more from life and I was going to see that it came to me, no matter the cost. It’s a sense of entitlement that I see in a lot of people and groups around me. Perhaps because I know it so intimately, it fills me with anger when I recognize it now. I see my own weakness and ignorance in others, and I want to scream, “Look at my weaknesses!”

And He has said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.” Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me.

- 2 Corinthians 12:9

It’s okay to want two kids in the suburbs. You can still face the challenge of God in every little thing you do. Lets be honest, it might not be special, but that doesn’t make it worth less than any other great achievement. You don’t have to be a movie star or own a powerful company, and you don’t have to be a saint. Just don’t be tempted by pride, not even false pride.

The only oddity one could fix was that his nose, which was otherwise of a good shape, was just slightly turned sideways at the tip; as if when it was soft it had been tapped on one side with a toy hammer. The thing was hardly a deformity; yet I cannot tell you what a living nightmare it was to me. As he stood there in the sunset-stained water, he affected me as some hellish sea-monster just risen roaring out of a sea like blood. I don’t know why a touch on the nose should affect my imagination so much. I think it seemed as if he could move his nose like a finger. And as if he had just that moment moved it.

- G.K. Chesterton - The Wisdom of Father Brown (1914)

When I was very young, my great-uncle Oscar showed me a magic trick. He gripped his left thumb firmly in his right hand and then pulled. The tip of his thumb slid right off and floated there for a moment before reattaching. My childhood world of simple rules exploded. I was terrified and shaken. Fingers were removable. What else didn’t I know? What other things were possible?

I look back at the little boy and laugh now about how firmly I believed in his little trick, but that feeling of suddenly not understanding the world around you has stayed with me. In some of the more profound moments of learning it crept back into the forefront.

I was sitting in 6th grade science class when I casually flipped through my text book. In the opening paragraph of the new chapter we were beginning was a fairly innocuous little sentence mentioned in passing without a further note. It said just before the paragraph break, that as you approach objects of intense gravity, time slows down. Let me say that again. Time slows down. Imagine yourself in sixth grade suddenly realizing that time isn’t the constant, ever-flowing march of inevitability that you thought it was. More than a removable thumb, this idea pulled me out of my comfort zone and tossed me into a spiral of questioning, doubting, and disbelief.

The textbook never mentioned it again; how’s that for teasing? Luckily my teacher shed some light on the subject. He told us about Einstein and the idea of relativity. Things became a little more settled in my head when I could grasp this amazing mystical idea in some frame of reference. It allowed me to suspend my uncertainty long enough to recognize the truth. It allowed me to experience something so horrifyingly “other”, but not fear it or let my imagination twist it into something gruesome.

In this idea originated the plan of the “Lyrical Ballads”; in which it was agreed, that my endeavours should be directed to persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic; yet so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith. Mr. Wordsworth, on the other hand, was to propose to himself as his object, to give the charm of novelty to things of every day, and to excite a feeling analogous to the supernatural, by awakening the mind’s attention from the lethargy of custom, and directing it to the loveliness and the wonders of the world before us; an inexhaustible treasure, but for which, in consequence of the film of familiarity and selfish solicitude we have eyes, yet see not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor understand.

- Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Biographia Literaria (1817)

In Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s book, The Black Swan, the author talks about things he calls Black Swan Events. They are the outlying, improbable events that turn things upside down. In the 17th century, it was common knowledge that “all swans are white,” so much so that the term, “black swan,” became synonymous with something that was impossible and couldn’t exist. How shocking was it for those people when, in the 18th century, black swans were discovered in Western Australia? What had been a term for the impossible was instantly transformed into an argument against the impossible, or perhaps to keep your eyes open to the possibility of the improbable.

Taleb is concerned with the practical implications of these events, of how they might affect banks, or politics. His talks focus on the true events, like learning that time is relative. He values these as either negative or positive based on their impact to a particular group of people. But what about the false events, the events like my great uncle’s thumb popping off his hand suddenly. The impact is no less profound, even if it is only an illusion or shadow of truth. In its falsehood it still affects and influences. It still strikes with a profound sense of surprise. Afterward, the effect can still be rationalized by hindsight and even expected, even if that rationalization determines the deception. It fits the same rules for a Black Swan Event, and it itself may be positive or negative. What value can we find in these?

What about you? What moments were so profound to you that it shattered your understanding of the world? Was it a real event, or a trick? Was it in life or in literature? Was it in a classroom or in a movie?

Of all those boulevards blurred into the sunset There’s one (I know not which) that I have strolled Across for the last time without a care, And unaware of what it was, controlled

By One who predesigns almighty norms, All laws and a strict scale in secrecy For dreams and shadows, formulas and forms Which are the texture of our tapestry.

If all things have a limit and a length, A final moment and a nevermore, Then who shall let us know upon whose house We have unwittingly now sealed the door?

Through the bleached window night withdraws again And, in the jumbled stack of books that shed A craze of shadows on the hazy table, There shall be one that must be left unread.

Out in the south stands more than one worn gate There with its cactus and cemented urns Whose entry is forbidden to my feet As in a lithograph. Nothing returns:

You’ve bolted shut a certain door forever; A mirror waits in vain, expecting you; The crossroads seem to lie unbarred before you But four-faced Janus watches what you do.

Among your many memories is one Which has been lost to you forevermore; They will not see you by that fountain nor Beneath the yellow moon, or the white sun.

Your voice shall never come to what the Persian Said in his tongue of roses, wine and birds, When under dusk before the light is scattered You wish to say some unforgettable words.

The ceaseless Rhône? My European lake? That yesterday I hunch upon today Will be erased as Carthage by the Romans Whose salt and fire it could not hold at bay.

Here in the dawn I hear a multitude, A murmur fading out of mind and ear. They have forgotten me who used to love me. Borges and Space and Time have left me here.

- Jorge Luis Borges - Limits (1958) (Amazing translation by A.Z.F.)

I’ve always been a believer in predetermination. There is one future for every single one of us, and it is known to God. How can I be so sure? It’s easy! Not one of us is a time traveler. That’s it. That’s all the explanation necessary. Sure, things would get much more complex if we suddenly figured out how to leap back in time, but since that’s not the case I can sum up my argument neatly with a bow.

Every one of us will make choices, face events outside our control, try to be spontaneous, but it all amounts to the same thing. We each live our single thread of decisions from the moment we are conceived to the moment we pass away. That single thread is as straight as an arrow to Mr. Time, despite all our scheming and philosophizing. No matter how hard we try, we never branch, split, knot, or fray.

But what about those paths not taken. The limits of our lives enable us to see life from one long road, and though we can sometimes glimpse at turns we didn’t take and see hints of signs and life around the corner, before long we’ve moved on. Sometimes that’s a sad thing and sometimes it isn’t.

That’s what I love about this poem. Unlike some of the things I’ve written about loss and being unable to go back to those earlier days, there isn’t such a clear claim to the value of the limit—whether it is good or bad. Maybe here and there is a tinge of regret or nostalgia, but only so much as to acknowledge that natural sorrow of mortality. Moreover, there is the sense of inevitability and acceptance. Nothing expresses the idea of our linear existence quite like these lines, “The crossroads seem to lie unbarred before you/But four-faced Janus watches what you do.”

I come back to thoughts like this when I face life-changing decisions. To choose A or B? There is a thrill in it when you keep the grand idea of predetermination in mind. Whatever you choose will have been your destiny. It will have been because it is, and it is because you chose it. That is exciting indeed. It gives me a comfort knowing that my choices will all add up to a single thread in the end and that it will be woven flawlessly into the tapestry of the world. Even when I’m feeling empty and alone that sort of thinking can remind me of just how connected I really am, not just to other people, but to the entire course of history.

It may be that time is a limit, but I find it to be a blessing and a grace. Given the option, I think I would kindly decline a trip in the Delorian.

Do not lie to one another, since you laid aside the old self with its evil practices, and have put on the new self who is being renewed to a true knowledge according to the image of the One who created him–a renewal in which there is no distinction between Greek and Jew, circumcised and uncircumcised, barbarian, Scythian, slave and freeman, but Christ is all, and in all. So, as those who have been chosen of God, holy and beloved, put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience; bearing with one another, and forgiving each other, whoever has a complaint against anyone; just as the Lord forgave you, so also should you.

Beyond all these things put on love, which is the perfect bond of unity. Let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body; and be thankful. Let the word of Christ richly dwell within you, with all wisdom teaching and admonishing one another with psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with thankfulness in your hearts to God. Whatever you do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks through Him to God the Father.

- Colossians 3:9-17

I’ve been thinking a lot about the book Priestly Virtues, which I quoted a while back. In it, Rev. O’Keefe talks a length about St. Thomas Aquinas and the ways in which we develop our sense of virtue and form ourselves into whom we want to be. We bring about change in ourselves through our own actions, and through the grace of God, but also through the relationships we have with our friends and family. In a very real sense this community is a part of us, and we of it.

There was a time when I didn’t see how my “community” could help me be the person I feel called to be. If I couldn’t see the values in them, how would they be reflected back in my own life? So I learned to emulate, or at least admire, the hermits who find their path to God through grace and faith alone, without the aid of other people. I wrapped myself up in my solitude and found it thrillingly conducive to prayer and growth.

As much as I love solitude, though, I’ve become aware that my lack of community with regard to my spiritual growth and discernment has its costs. There are the obvious problems. I tend to stagnate and remain fixed on one aspect of my discernment without noticing the graces moving past me. Sometimes I talk myself into behavior that I know is contrary to what I should be doing. I may walk the line too much, but these aren’t my only problems. It seems that without realizing it, I’ve become stir-crazy.

I met with the Vocation Director of the New York and Maryland Provinces of the Society of Jesus last weekend. I was so nervous while I took the train up to New York. My mind kept jumping back and forth between extremes. On the one hand, I was hoping that he would ask me to begin the application process, to begin writing my spiritual autobiography (which is the first step in the process), and give me some guidance on what to do next. On the other hand, I also had the irrational fears that he’d tell me I wasn’t right for the Society, that I wouldn’t make a good Jesuit and should do something else. It was a silly thought, but a fear that was present nonetheless. Moreover, there were the insidious middle-thoughts. Maybe he would tell me that I should wait another few years to apply. Maybe he would tell me that I should look more into the Dominicans. Maybe maybe maybe.

When we finally sat down to talk, my nervousness made me jumpy. I talked way too much, rambled, and before I knew it I was talking about all sorts of odd-ball theological topics. At one point I made the random exclamation that I didn’t like evangelical language because it seemed unnatural and creates a separation for me between faith and daily living. After-all, I’ve never used the word “rejoice” in normal conversation. Why would I use it in prayer or worship?

The Director was great, though. He laughed with me at my randomness and was in good spirits throughout our lunch-talk. In the end, he asked me to begin my autobiography after all. All my worries were for nothing, but the meeting revealed something important to me. I was so eager for someone to talk to about theology, philosophy and discernment that I jumped all over the poor man at any opening he gave me. My desire for community has been bottled up, corked, and fermented for too long. I need to let it air before my insides turn to vinegar.

So in the next few weeks, while I begin crafting my essay, I’ll also be trying to reach out more and talk about the topics that interest me. I’ll try to take more trips to St. Joe’s and meet with the Jesuits there. I’ll try to involve my friends and family more and talk about things.

The people in my life aren’t like they used to be. They’re good people and the virtue that can develop from living and sharing with them fits right in line with what Rev. O’Keefe was talking about in his book. Who knows, maybe next time I go to New York, I won’t horribly embarrass myself either.

It was at one of these holidays when I first noticed my Grandpa’s thumb shaking. He placed his fork back on his plate as he chewed on some stuffing, placed his hand on the table, but his thumb didn’t stop moving. It shook back and forth, back and forth. Somewhere in my childhood brain I filed it away as something that “just happens to old people.”

We didn’t know about Parkinson’s Disease, or at least I didn’t. His hand trembles were just part of who he was, as was the way he slowed down as the years went by. That’s a normal thing to expect with the years, right? I just imagined that his frailty was a natural progression and there was nothing to be done about it.

Before too long, he couldn’t drive anymore. Whether it was his shaking or the way his limbs didn’t listen to him anymore, I’m not sure. He’d try to get up from a chair and his legs wouldn’t respond. I’d pull his arms to get him started and I’d see the struggle on his face, the struggle to regain control of his body. Grandma would help him up the stairs, a step at a time and with a good grip on the rail. He worked less in the garden, took less trips out. The frailty worked over him and little by little took his freedom. But to me it was just the cost of age, the cost of a long life, and I never questioned it.

Until my Grandma died.

It happened at night, when they were going to bed. She complained of chest pains and he knew right away what was happening. That’s when my Grandpa did what I never imagined he was capable of doing. He lifted her from the bed and carried her down the stairs. He carried her to the car. He drove to the hospital. He picked my Grandma up again and walked her into the cardiac ward and called out for Myrna, my brother-in-law’s aunt who worked there as a nurse. From the depths of his soul he pulled the strength and control to do all these things in the moment they were needed.

Sadly, it wasn’t enough to save her that night. God took an amazing woman years before we ever thought she’d go. My Grandpa was left alone.

In a short time he moved into an assisted living home and found a new doctor for his parkinson’s. The new medications pulled him out of the molasses and let his limbs free. In those visits I saw the familiar guise of the disease with its rocking, shaking, endless movement. It was very far progressed and we all knew there wasn’t a lot of time left.

We went to church with him in the home’s little chapel. The priest walked in and Grandpa sat down near the front, in the section where he and his wife would have sat at their own church years before. He no sooner sat than the quakes settled and he was the familiar Grandpa from my childhood Thanksgivings. No shaking, no movement, just his eyes closed in prayer.

I don’t know if he was with her or with God. Perhaps both. His peace was so deep that not even the disease could stir him. There in the presence of God, a simple act of worship did what no drugs could do, if only for a little while.

A few years later I made the drive back to Ohio when my Mom told me he was in his last few days. I saw him there in the bed, the disease having wasted him away. He weighed half of what he used to, with morphine dripping into his arm and labored breathing. He was so weak, so parched. It wasn’t what I wanted to remember.

I didn’t stay that night. I drove back home. There was no need for me to see it happen. I prayed from afar.

My father’s parents, now in their late 80s, are dealing with the problems of advanced age. My Grandma says she doesn’t have much time. She’s been saying it for years, we all joke, but lately the jokes haven’t had the same strength in them. I talk to her about dying and with a shaky voice, she tells me that she’s scared. She’s scared to leave all the people she loves, the family, the friends. She knows that she’ll be with her other family soon, her parents, her brothers and sisters, but still she’s afraid of what’s to come.

I know I’ll miss her when it finally happens, but it doesn’t scare me like it used to. When Grandpa carried my Grandma down the stairs and rushed her to the hospital, he gave me a glimpse of something so deep in his spirit, something so rare in all of us, that it’s only ever seen in glimpses or in stories. When he sat down in that church and I saw the strength of it overwhelm the wasting disease that would eventually take his life, I knew what that power was. One day my other Grandma will leave this world, just as my Grandpa, my parents, sister, and even I will go; but I know, I believe, that there’s nothing to fear in it. As sad as I’ll be to lose them in this life, I’ll be so much happier inside to know that all their suffering and limitations have been stripped away and that they are in the presence of God in the full strength of their spirit.

I pretend not to teach, but to inquire; and therefore cannot but confess here again,–that external and internal sensation are the only passages I can find of knowledge to the understanding. These alone, as far as I can discover, are the windows by which light is let into this DARK ROOM. For, methinks, the understanding is not much unlike a closet wholly shut from light, with only some little openings left, to let in external visible resemblances, or ideas of things without: which, would they but stay there, and lie so orderly as to be found upon occasion, it would very much resemble the understanding of a man, in reference to all objects of sight, and the ideas of them.

- John Locke - Essay Concerning Humane Understanding (II,XI,17) (1690)

Locke’s understanding of our existence was likened to a dark closet with only pinholes and door cracks to let in light. These, he gathered, could be likened to our perceptions of things via the various senses we have at our disposal; the five physical senses, and the innumerable mental and spiritual senses that define our inner reactions and predilections. To me, this sense of the world always triggers memories of Plato’s allegory of the cave. Everything we can know and understand is just a reflection on the wall of some perfect nous that is forever out of reach.

Neoplatonists later built upon the image in their dissection of the order of the heavens and used it to define many levels of the gods that were known to them. The Demiurge, hyper-cosmic and cosmic gods, and of course, the “One” were all built into their mythos by way of this logic. Who knew that describing perfection could become so complex.

Plotinus, one of the most famous neoplatonists, had a particular visual analogy used to describe the celestial spheres and explain our relationship to the sacred that stands out quite clearly in my memory. Our world is a great crystal sphere in which each person is a single facet facing outward toward the void. Deep within that sphere is a world filled with perfect beings, and at the very center, God. Of course he doesn’t use those terms. In fact, in my inprecise memory I think it might have been St. Augustine that made the connection to God. Somewhere in that metaphor I lose track of what was Plotinus, what Augustine, what Locke, and what parts come from the other floating bits of disconnected philosophy that make up my daydreams.

In my conjoined vision, I see the light from God pouring outward through the sphere. The perfect bodies in the center let that light fill them and pass through unbiased to us, but we, the imperfect children are turned away. We watch the outer world with rapt attention and marvel at our shadows. The world for us becomes this dancing puppet theater of shadows on the wall even as we are bathed in God’s light.

It’s an incomplete vision, but a helpful one. I’ve used it time and time again to put certain theological questions into perspective. In fact, it was instrumental in helping me come to terms with and believe in the doctrine of the trinity.

In the light of my recent discernment, the metaphor has become a tool to help me in the Jesuit way of finding God in everyday life. I try to see it not in an abstract way of floating in space, but rather to picture this physical space that I embody as the my facet on the crystal. All directions for me on this world are outward from the sphere, and everything I see is a reflection upon creation. I imagine that to look inside and past myself is like trying to turn around and glimpse back into the crystal, toward heaven. I try it at times but often find myself standing in the way. Though, some places have been more successful than others.

Resurrection Bay in Seward, Alaska, was one of the most beautiful and thought provoking places I’ve ever been. I found the opportunity to kayak on the bay twice while I lived up there, and both times were filled with lengthy introspective trips across my metaphorical celestial sphere. At first I thought it was just the natural beauty and unending wilderness that surrounds everything that put me into that mood and let me step out of the way and feel God’s presence wash over my face. In retrospect, I think the act of kayaking may have had a much larger place in that equation that I originally thought.

Skimming across the surface of the water, glancing into the depths, gently dipping my fingertips; on a kayak the metaphor seems more real than the physical world. I squint into the sky and watch an eagle floating in place on invisible currents. Even without the paddle in the water I can feel the pull of my own currents. On that great surface there isn’t a need to close my eyes to picture the crystal anymore.

In the waking dream, floating on my tiny vessel, the world is alive with signs and omens. The eagle is more than a bird. Each body becomes perfect, and my sense of God is omnipresent.

I really like kayaking!

In doing the examen, even with my horrible irregularity, I’ve noticed that it’s not hard for me to pick out a lot of sinfulness. In fact, on any average day I’d say I could take down 5 of the 7 deadly sins (in thought if not in action). It’s not something I’m proud of, quite the contrary. It’s a difficult thing to face each time I do it, but each examen brings a new opportunity to change and grow. That’s what it’s all about, right?

But that’s not what this post is all about. This post is about something else, something I wasn’t expecting in these last few weeks. I’ve been putting off writing this post specifically because in my recent examen experiences I’ve noticed a new sin brewing in me. Wrath.

I’m not a hateful person, and though I enjoy awesome, mindless action films like the next guy, and though I really enjoy fantasy novels and role playing games, I am not an altogether violent person. I’m find martial arts fascinating, the art of fencing, in particular, but not for its violence as much as its skill and technique. It’s the same with shooting; I enjoy it for the meditative focus and skill, not for the violence.

The past few weeks, though, I’ve been having a lot of trouble with truly violent, angry feelings. It’s all wrapped up in the drama of this latest move to Pennsylvania. I hired a local mover to take my things up here, and it’s turned quite disastrous. I’d rather not go into details since it only seems to rile me up. Needless-to-say, the movers have been the target of all that rage.

Now I know it doesn’t help anything to be so angry. I’m not making the situation better and I’m certainly not making myself feel any better. In fact, all that anger inevitably turns itself inward and gives me a big stomach ache.

When I was younger, I didn’t have any control over it, and I would lash out, speak out, get into fights, or any number of destructive things. As I got older I learned to hold back, but not in a healthy way. Like many people, it became natural to just bottle it up and press it down, smothering the anger with self control. It seems like a functional method at first glance, but it has its cost. All that rage doesn’t just go away when I hold it in. Like any strong emotion bottled up, it eats at you from the inside. Bottled up worry gave my mom ulcers. Not good stuff. There’s also the matter of what happens when the feelings boil over. What happens when you can hold any more inside? I think we’ve all experienced explosions like that before.

The past couple weeks have had me trying new things with my anger. I tried praying about it in my normal ways, but the emotions kept me from focusing. So I tried saying the Rosary and actually found some decent relief in it. It’s like my spiritual director in Atlanta told me not so long ago, when you don’t have the energy to pray anything else, sometimes a memorized prayer is exactly what you need.

I’ll keep doing what I can to let the feelings pass back out of me. I keep telling them they’re not welcome here anymore. Anger is stubborn, though. It doesn’t like to listen to logic.

Somewhere nearby a heart beat steadily with silent rhythm. Each percussive throb felt infinitesimally through the deep currents of air that linked them by blood, its sweet cadence calling to him.

Blood, vilely profane and alluring in its concupiscent vivacity. Blood, tantalizing, forbidden, safeguarded beneath lusciously corpulent flesh. But no, not a delicacy cured in spices, the salty taste is just diaphoretic nervousness, human and natural. A nervousness deserved. A nervousness earned by nights like this.

In the mists light doesn’t touch the flesh, doesn’t reflect off turgid irises or the enamel of teeth. The light knows to keep to itself and haunt its own corner of the world. The mists belong to something else.

The palpitations grew stronger as passing zephyrs carried with them the hint of iron and danger. Disgust filled his throat with bile even while the temptation grew hot in his eyes. Covet, want, need, thirst; and the seductiveness was everything. Understanding fell away and with it the revulsion. At last, minacity had met moment in lustful surrender.

Somewhere in the mists, lips parted for a lovers embrace while far overhead, a full moon smoldered.

‘You, Little Traveler! You made the journey, the Long Journey. You now know the things I have yet to know. You, Little Traveler! You were given a name, a true name in my father’s lodge. Good Medicine, Little Traveler! You are truly a Paddle Person, a Paddle-to-the-Sea!’

    - Holling Clancy Holling - Paddle-To-The-Sea (1941)

Thomas Merton’s great work, Thoughts in Solitude, begins with the powerfully direct assertion that, “[t]here is no greater disaster in the spiritual life than to be immersed in unreality, for life is maintained and nourished in us by our vital relation with realities outside and above us.” His concept of reality is quite different than many of ours, though. It is the type of hyper-reality, the super-reality, or magical realism, that fills up our spiritual cups in a way that no mere materialism can manifest. Merton’s reality is God.

Reality and unreality, the Sacred and the Profane, these dichotomies are revealed to me relentlessly as I philosophize and study my nights away, but that’s nothing new. The unassuming children’s classic, Paddle-To-The-Sea, may be my earliest memory–my earliest glimpse of understanding–of this natural dualism. It was in the words of the little Indian boy, at last grown to take his father’s role in life that pinned the understanding into my heart.

The child and the old man, they understood the role the Spirit played in the journey of the Paddle Person, and they let me understand it too, even as young as I was. His father’s traps waited for him, just as the day-to-day things in my life wait for me as I go to sleep each night and wake again. The true path, the one he wanted to live, the one with the adventures, began with the Sun Spirit melting the snow on that bank. That was his reality and he never forgot it.

When I read the story as a boy I carved my own wooden boat. My dad helped me write the familiar words on the bottom. “Please put me back in the water.” I don’t recall if we ever set the boat in a stream; that wasn’t the point. Even at that age, before I could fully understand what it all meant, I felt a call to float down stream and have my own adventures with nothing to guide me but “a tin rudder to keep it headed forward, and a lump of lead for ballast.”

Not everyone finds themselves called to set out on the rivers and streams. Some are called to help, to keep an eye out for those travelling along. There are as many callings as there are people. For some of us, all we can hope to do is build our toys and keep them in our memory. I never identified with the little boy in the story, though. I was always the Paddle Person.

    - Gabriel Garcia Marquez - One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967)

There is an insatiable restlessness that slowly creeps up my spine as a change nears. Like the flight or fight response that evolutionists tout as the basic behavior of fear, my nerves tense in anticipation of something soon to come. They are ready, even if the rest of me isn’t, for that unknowable future that will befall at any moment. Yet I have to wonder about this unease and its usefulness. Is it helpful to me? Does it provide some security to be on guard, excited, or otherwise energized?

The important things are done. My life is tidy, the various threads in order. There is nothing to provoke this nervousness, but still it comes. It forces my mind to parallels and analogies, of times, in particular, that I wasn’t so prepared for the same.

Things take the shape of a great cloud of doom that approaches from the West, and I, fatigued, broken, struggle to run away on legs too short and insufficient. Foliage tears at my feet, grasping my ankles, pulling me to the ground again and again; all the while I know that the running is hopeless. Even if there were a destination, that cloud will overtake me long before I make my way anywhere important.

And it is at times like these of fearful clarity that I recognize what it is that terrifies me so much as to drive all logic and planning away and leave me shaking, unable to concentrate or breathe deeply. I fear that small spark of mortality to which I cling with endless pride and selfishness. It is a fear not of letting go, but of being unable to do so. What if I cannot surrender myself to this? What if the temptations of flesh or food, of rest and rain, of any and everything, of this world cannot be broken? There I see condemnation, failure.

So I run, careful to cut the ties with my planning and organization, careful to avoid the connections that might bind me immutably to this place or these people. After-all, wasn’t it St. Augustine who said, “Complete abstinence is easier than perfect moderation.” Let me be away from all things and let my time here be short, for I am not strong enough to keep there long.

Of course, the panic settles after a few deep breaths and I remember that I’m not alone. There’s no fear in being too weak to go through this alone. God is with me, hand-in-hand. I can grasp for His strength and it is always there ready to lift me up and past these fears. It is a battle won in His service, not with guns and swords, but with an open and steady heart that gives itself over rather than being its own keeper.

The fear remains, but I don’t shake now. My hands are held steady and I am ready again to take a step forward, and another, until my time does come. Sometimes the simplest decisions are the most important, and the most difficult. The decision to wake up each day and say to Him, “Yes, I still believe,” is sometimes all I can bear to give, and it has to be enough.

Childe Hassam - Cliff Rock - Appledore, 1903

There was no landing here. The river was wild and the rocks sharp. To leave the safety of the captain’s narrow path would mean death for all of them. It wasn’t the cliffs jutting up high into the air on either side that they were watching with such fearful vigilance. No, the river ran wide with plenty of room to maneuver. The real worry was the shallow rocks lurking just below, invisible, like diamonds in a pool; they were scattered pins dropped in a carpet, threatening to prick from the quiet, murky depths.

Mary Shepard Greene Blumenschein - Louisa Fletcher, 1912

She stepped back against the curtained wall for added support. Her hands were trembling slightly still from the excitement of it all. He was handsome, yes, but he was something more. He engaged her. He was direct. She was an equal.

His eyes spoke of a hidden power, like a wild lion buried under his gentlemen demure. She wanted him, that was no doubt, but she wanted more. She wanted him to release that power on her, to be controlled or uncontrolled, to be an animal.

Thoughts came rushing in such a torrent of feeling that her breath began to tremble. She beamed wild eyes across the room at the back of his head, begging in her mind that he would turn around and acknowledge her once again. Her hand slid along the curtain behind her and a sensual smile crept to her lips. She would catch him. It was one predator to another.

As he slowly turned to look once more in her direction, her heart sighed through her eyes with romance and suspense. She would have him.

That blooms for just one hour.

    - Ray Bradbury - All Summer in a Day

We sneaked up to the roof to share a cigarette. I didn’t smoke–or hadn’t tried it before–but I wanted to be with her. She took a long drag off a Virginia Slim, its delicate form a manufactured homage to her fingers, her lips, her eyes, which closed sweetly to shut out the world as they savored the flavor of the moment before parting again only to let her treasure lift away on her breath, soft as the touch of a ghost and twice as chilling. She breathed for both of us while I stood motionless, afraid to disturb the air. Her eyes flashed up at me standing astride the doorway. They were hungry.

My first taste of cigarette smoke was filtered by her lungs and drawn through her lips, sweet and ashen, evoking images of vampires and other morbid, sexual beings; a clear contrast against the brilliant summer sun cutting in through the rooftop doorway. Instead, I thought to myself, I should think her a spirit. The mist climbed its way around her head and through her hair–still damp from the pool and ruffled from my hands–where it all became lost again in the haze of too much or too little light. I thought that if I looked away she might fade completely and leave me only the taste on my lips by which to remember her.

The waves softly rolled down the shore some distance below us, but all we could see was the brilliant sun, a few feet of stony roof and an endless sea beckoning in the hypnotic way of great distances and heights. My stomach pined with the urge to let go and step into the abyss, wondering if I might be caught in that vapor as well and become like her, only half real and magical.

We took too long to meet, she said. We’d wasted all our time with flirting and wondering, daydreaming about what might be. Now that we were together, it was already over; too much to say, to much to be done, and neither of us had the stomach for it. We kissed.

The next day I sat the long drive home in silence. I let the sun wash over me as I stared at it as directly as I could manage. Vision slowly burned away and I was blind again and with her once more. She was the ghost of light and dust, and I was still so as to not disturb. With a deep breath I breathed her in, and for a moment tasted sweet ash before it turned to salt and spread to my eyes.

Too much time wasted; too much dreaming and not enough living? Was it all just time locked away in a closet, staring at the summer through a crack in the door locked by my own hand? That day it seemed that way and more. After all, it was the end of something beautiful before it had begun, but distance cultures wisdom and perspective gathers peace. She is a ghost, part of the past, with no purpose but to haunt. The other, the one with the real lips that press gently and smile at children, drove away that same day dealing with her own ghosts.

There is beauty there, and love of a sort. For all of that I am thankful.

    - Joshua 6:20-24

Today is the Feast of Saint Barnabas, Apostle, Martyr, and all around good guy. In the Office for his feast day, I read a familiar passage of the Book of Joshua that details the conquest of the city of Jericho. On the one hand, it’s a story that’s very much in the style of Joshua; Israel swoops in and with the assistance of God and lead by the arc of the covenant, succeeds in battle and takes the land. On the other hand, this particular passage also serves a great purpose in the metaphor of both conversion and Armageddon.

The conversion metaphor was most interesting to me as I spent time with the reading. After-all, it has the most direct relationship to my own life. You see, the first thing the Israelites did when they approached Jericho was to send in spies. These men found their way to Rahab’s home, as it was connected to the outer walls of the city and gave them access inside. When the guards came around looking for them, Rahab hid them and misled the guards. She knew what was coming and chose to help the Israelites in exchange for her life and her family’s. In this way, she acted like the spark of grace inside each of us which opens our back door and allows the Holy Spirit to sneak inside (One might say, “Like a thief in the night”).

The seeds were planted, then, and the conquest was only a matter of time. When Joshua was instructed by the captain of the Lord’s host as to how to attack, it wasn’t by storming the walls or starving them out by a siege. After seven days of marching his men around the city, blowing their rams horns (Another reference to the trumpets of Revelation to come?), his men let out a yell. At the sound, the walls of Jericho fell and every creature inside was killed. Only Rahab and her relatives were spared. This part more than any other fits my personal experience.

For years I’d closed myself off to Christianity and sought answers anywhere else. Through all that time, though, the Spirit was at work inside me, preparing for the day. When it finally came, it was with trumpet blares and screaming, at least in metaphor. In an instant all my walls against faith were gone, crumbled to dust, and in a wave I watched as all those useless, misguided thoughts and searching were destroyed. All that was left was that single spark of faith that couldn’t be doused. Suddenly, my faith was alone in me and there was no denying it. Catholicism set the old me ablaze and a new nation was formed.

I think it’s for this reason that the reading was chosen for Barnabas' feast. He was, after all, a great missionary and along with St. Paul, was probably most responsible for bringing Christianity to the gentiles. St. Luke, normally quiet on his personal opinions of others, said of Barnabas “he was a good man, full of the Holy Ghost and of Faith”. That “good” quality, his immutable accepting of people and hope for their inclusion in the faith led him to not only sponsor Saul of Tarsis (St. Paul) into the Church when others were wary of him for how intensely he had persecuted them previously, but also to defend and include his cousin John Mark (later the Evangelist) when Paul would accuse him of desertion.

The story of Jericho is certainly an interesting reading, and there’s so much more that could be said about it. That’s the way of scripture, though.

When I first tried it out, I had the inflated hopes of a child with a new fancy toy. I signed up for the interactive Sleep Coaching, monitored and scrutinized every line on all my various charts, and was generally annoying to all my friends. Things were new and cool and I couldn’t get enough of them.

So what about now? It’s been about a month since I started using my Zeo, how are things going these days? Well, I’ll be honest. Things are pretty great. I’m not obsessing about every little curve anymore, but I do make sure to note my ZQ (that’s Sleep Quality, folks) each morning, and every few days I take some time to review my time in each stage of sleep, how many full cycles I get in the night, and make sure to properly punish the cat for waking me up so much during the night.

I don’t fill out my sleep journal every day, but even without all the data it provides, I have still learned a lot. Stephan Fabregas says, “If you can measure it, you can manage it,” and he’s really hit the nail on the head. I thought the most valuable feature of my Zeo was going to be the SmartWake feature when I first started using it, and don’t get me wrong, it’s fantastic. Perhaps more importantly, though, I’ve learned about some depressing trends in how I treat my body and my sleep during the work week. I see ZQ scores in the 40s and 50s all week long, and then bask in the glory of a 130 on Saturday. It just isn’t healthy in the long run.

I’ve already begun changing some things. Zeo makes me more accountable to myself, and that’s a good thing.

On a side note, just yesterday morning I found myself starting to wake up and cursing in my half-conscious state. I knew I was going to trigger the SmartWake if I woke up any further, and then my glorious night of sleep would end. Lo and behold, my pretty little alarm jingle started a moment later. Curse you, Zeo. You’re just too smart.

    - Mother Teresa, Letter to Rev. Michael van der Peet (1979)

I was just reading a wonderful post from Jennifer over at The Conversion Diary, and it got me thinking about my own journey back to a Christian spiritual life. Her post was in reference to the abundance of press surrounding the book Mother Teresa: Come Be My Light, and the Time magazine article that followed it. The book and article talk in depth about the 50 year “spiritual crisis” that coursed through the life of the famous nun.

Teresa’s “dark night of the soul”, a term for the time of spiritual loneliness and desolation as coined by St. John of the Cross, is a very common thing for people of faith. Pope Benedict XVI calls this time the “monotonous desert path” that each of us is called to walk at some time or another (more on that here).

For Jennifer, she faced one of these deserts almost as soon as she came to the church. My conversion (return to the church might be a better term) went much the same way. There came a point when I believed with my mind, but couldn’t feel it in my heart. I threw myself into everything I could to try and force that feeling but it didn’t come. In fact, I’ll admit to being quite thankful that I went through that process while I was away in the Navy. It saved me a lot of embarrassment with old friends who would have surely rolled their eyes to see me trying to be so “holy”. Luckily, the phase came to an end as I was forced to face what I was really doing.

I was approaching faith in the wrong way. In fact, I was approaching it in several wrong ways all at once.

First, I was trying to force God into my life through “right living”. If I lived the right way, I thought that would bring him into the light and get me a good look at him. The argument for and against justification has a long history in the church, but I was still too green to even be aware of it. All I knew in my infancy was that I wanted to feel faith in my bones, and the fastest path I could think of was to emulate the people I saw as being the most holy. I still think there’s elements of a good idea in there somewhere, but I was still a long way from “getting it”.

Second, I was trying to win at faith. I think this is a really common problem with converts to any faith. Its frightening being new in a faith, even one you’ve been raised in. There’s a tendency for people in that position to overreach, to try to be the best and take it all on at once. Maybe they’re trying to prove that they belong, or maybe they’re trying to play catch up to all those others who have lived with their faith for so long. I think that many, like me, were jumping into religion by clinging to the oldest of the deadly sins, pride. I was prideful in my old life, so I didn’t even think about it in this new one. I wanted to be the best Christian, the best Catholic. It seems pretty silly now.

Third, and finally, I wanted my faith to fit my life, not the other way around. I thought that I could own it, and control it, by choosing these things that I did and the people I spent time with. I could make my life strong in faith by my own will. It was another failing to pride, but a more subtle one that the other. This particular hang-up of mine hasn’t gone away completely. I still keep a constant vigil in my prayer life to make sure I’m not falling prey to the temptations of being my own voice of God.

Obviously, my first crack at being religious was totally unsuccessful. God didn’t appear in my prayers or speak to me in those long nights of Eucharistic adoration. I didn’t win the award for “best Catholic” or manage to wrangle church life into my already packed schedule. In fact, I failed in just about every respect possible.

I think that is part of the blessing of faith, though. God knows better than to come to us on our terms. It would teach us the wrong lessons about faith and about what it means to believe. I needed to learn that I wasn’t the center of the universe, and that I couldn’t make God come to me any more than I can make the stars move. When I stopped talking and started listening, things became a lot easier, but that’s another story.

In a way, I think coming to my own faith through that long dry desert (of my own making) taught me a fundamental lesson. There are blessings in all the ways we try to find God. Even banging my head against a wall, as it were, was an important step in my formation. I had to make those mistakes.

I was putting way too much effort in all the wrong places. My focus was on going and doing when it needed to be on being and believing. That was Jesus’ instruction and the simplicity with which he left us. Though there will be times when our spirit may be dry and lonely, though we might face our own dark crises where God seems miles away, though some days our prayers may seem empty, these are just temporary exhaustions. We have the instruction to make our way back. All it takes is a strength of faith to continue believing.

Even St. John of the Cross, the man who coined the familiar term, knew that just because we might find ourselves in darkness on occasion, that was no reason to give up or listen to our doubts. They are, perhaps, a good time to reflect and make sure we haven’t let our lives run ahead of our faith. God knows that even Mother Theresa needed those times.

The Westclox Model #22651 is a powerhouse in a tiny box. I’m fairly certain the alarm can banish demons. It certainly did the trick of waking me up in the morning.

I kept that alarm clock by my side for the next nine years. Very slowly over that time I have found myself becoming a little less startled in the morning and more willing to risk the snooze button. Still, it has remained an incredibly effective device, that is, until I dropped it eight feet onto my hardwood floors.

The alarm still sounded, but the clock itself was only visible from one small angle when you tilt the clock back 80 degrees. It made a nice audible crunchy sound when you click the buttons, too. It was pretty obvious. I needed a new clock.

So after all these years I found myself searching around for a new alarm clock online. I figured, if my last one lasted almost a decade, I should spend the time and pick one that is worth having around for a while. I researched different alarm types, clock radios, water proof ones, traditional bells, clocks that work with your computer, and a few crazy ones that wake you up with bright lights instead of sound. Then I found Zeo.

The Zeo is a different class of alarm clock altogether. With a sporty fabric headband, this device monitors you brain activity while you sleep and gives you detailed readouts about your night of rest. It distinguishes between REM, light, and deep sleep, and even tells you how many times you woke up in the night, and for how long. It gives you extra information too, like how long it took you to fall asleep, the total time you spent sawing logs, and tracks trends over time. Most importantly is has an amazing feature called Smart-Wake that wakes you up at the optimal time in your sleep cycle so that you feel the most rested in the morning. You give the clock a range of times in the morning and if it detects you entering a lighter sleep phase, the alarm will go off quietly and slowly increase volume to ease you awake. It’s amazing.

[][]

In the morning, you can pop the SD card out of the clock and sync it up to their [website][] and track all of your sleep data online. They’ve got a sleep coach e-mail program that I haven’t tried yet and a really cool interactive sleep journal so you can make notes of environmental distractions (I’m looking at you, Sniffles), reasons for waking up during the night, or other sleep information.

The website and device are wonderfully designed and relatively simple to use. Their sleep tracker website uses an Adobe Flex site with wonderful, pretty charting tools. And the alarm sounds are soothing, but unique enough to wake you up rather than put you to sleep.

The downside is the price. It’s a $399 alarm clock, when you get right down to it, but if you’re like me and you love unique tech gadgets, or you’re like me and have a horrible sleep schedule and can use a little more information, it might be worth the investment. If I can make this clock last for the next ten years, I won’t be complaining. In the meantime, I’ve only used it the one night so far, so there isn’t much data to review yet. I’ll tell you one thing, though. The chart above is my actual sleep results from last night. That little bit of “wake” time on the right was when my cat jumped on my head. This Zeo thing definitely does its job. Oh, and click the image for a screenshot of the full web application.

Sleep well!

[]: https://blog.tomasino.org/images/zeo-chart-full.png [website]: https://www.myzeo.com

inflated again and again

by processed and salient memories

constructed, shaped

by the careful planning of

passing time

Inside you are the outside

formless, grand

without regard to decency

or privacy, self, tact

without regret

without

But outside, here inside

welcoming small with affection 

and smiles over history and loss

there is something of the vastness

the incalculable infinite

gone

Now in this whole

the giant wanes

to a tiny cup, a thimble

which holds the barest drop

of half a tear

forgotten

Not by so many

as by us few

who held it

who shed it

together with you

before

So, myself

without will to admission

or words of expression

fail to measure so tiny a cup

without precaution or

reflection

Knowing and knowing

memory and moment

the ineffable essence of one true tear

though bolstered and brocaded

is undeniable

true

You are a giant

in all ways and means

built twice, or once, or taken apart

to happy thoughts, to tears

though some forgotten

true

Not only do I save a ton of money on gas (the scooter gets 100mpg) but I can also sneak over to Sacred Heart Church during lunch for daily mass. I kicked off the season in style today by showing up in my Nintendo t-shirt. I only realized how I was dressed when I got to the door. Oops! But as soon as I sat down, I forgot all about it and relaxed. I decided that the bit of time before mass began would be a great time to start working on the contemplative prayer I’ve been reading about in my new book, Armchair Mystic. The vocation director of the Maryland/New York Provinces sent it to me with a few other books to help me stay focused while I’m working my way north.

The book, by Mark E. Thibodeaux, SJ, is a great introduction to contemplative–that means wordless–prayer. I’ve only had it a few days but it’s been a struggle to put down. I know I should take it slow and practice the things I’m reading for a while before I rush on, but the writing is so friendly and the topic is so intriguing. Some of the recent exercises I’ve read remind me so much of the guided meditation I used to do back in the day. It’s wonderful how the author has managed to pull in so many ideas from so many places and still make the book seem like a consistent process and idea. I’ll have to write more about it when I finish reading.

So back in the church I was sitting in the pew working in vain to silence my mind and let God pull me into his presence more fully when all these thoughts came flooding into me. Just like I learned a long time ago, I let the thoughts come and gently flow back out of me, trying to maintain an empty, silent state. It was working well until I got wrapped up in the joy of being in church again on a weekday. It has been so long since I’ve been to daily mass I’d forgotten about how much it lifts my spirits for the rest of the day. The thoughts were so happy, in fact, that I decided to put off trying to empty my mind for contemplative prayer for another day. I just wanted to bask in that feeling a little longer.

I’m looking forward to this season as my time in Atlanta draws to a close. It’s not a bad city no matter how much I complain. It might not be the right one for me, but I can see why people would like it here. There’s a lot of great people I’m going to miss, but I’m hopeful that we’ll be able to stay in touch.

This little book, by Ron Hansen, is a story of a small community of cloistered nuns during the early 1900s who are about to face their greatest challenge. Their typically quiet, simple lives are turned upside down when a young novice, Mariette, joins them and claims to have had a vision of Jesus. To some she seems a saint growing before their eyes, to others she is a deceitful flirt who takes pleasure in the attention her holiness garners. Which side of her do you see as you read the story? That is the question the author leaves his readers.

I first heard about this book when I read a blog post on A Nun’s Life about a local theater group who performed the book as a play. It sounded interesting, so I jumped on Amazon immediately to buy a copy. I was a little upset they had no Kindle version, but I made due with the paperback. Besides, now I have a book to give away to someone else who wants to read it. Maybe Kenn.

Now before I begin critiquing the book, let me first say that it was a wonderful story. The characters had a life to them and there was an element of truth to both points of view. Mr. Hansen seems to have a wonderful writing talent and some of his imagery was almost poignant. All-in-all, the book was a great success, and I’m glad I read it.

There were, however, a few things that bothered me a great deal. The first is a general complaint about a lot of modern writers I’ve read recently. Several times throughout this book, Mr. Hansen chose to describe a scene and create a sense of emotion by the way his sentences were displayed rather than with their content. I accept that sentence structure can play an important role in the pacing of the story, but taken to this extreme it reminded me of a similar practice in Cormac McCarthy’s The Road. With the sentences written in near bullet-points, the stacatto rhythm was meant to convey a sense of silence, tranquility, and serenity, but with an undercurrent of tension. It does accomplish its task, but the cost to me as a reader is huge. The writing style also serves to take me completely out of the story, becoming more aware of the words on the page and less aware of the scene as a whole. It leaves me wondering why these authors, who are incredibly talented and can write amazing descriptive scenery, are flocking towards tricks of formatting. More than anything, I feel as if the style robbed me of a great wealth of description. Even now, after having read the book, while i can picture a few main characters and a room or two, I’m at a general loss for what the rest of the world looks like. While the moral and religious conflicts may stick with me for a time, I’m certain that I will have soon forgotten any imagery herein.

Finally, I must protest about the ending. Perhaps it is the American in me, but I wanted more resolution. I understand that the book had to keep things up in the air, and I’m fine with that, but the way the ending played out seemed less to bring the tension to a head than it did to deflate it and fizzle away. I’ll leave my complaint on this point with that statement. Anything more may spoil the reading experience for others.

So, in closing, I would recommend this book to anyone interested in the subject matter. If you’re not enticed by the wonders of cloistered life or the mystery of a religious calling, or if you think a story about a nun who may or may not have had a visitation from Christ is not very interesting, you’ll want to pass this one by. Enjoy!

Amazon Link

    - Svetasvatara Upanishad, Part I - Juan Mascaro, Translation (1967)

This is one of my favorite passages from any religious text. The Upanishads are all exceedingly beautiful, but this one short segment so well summarizes the idea of hierophany—of joining with the Sacred in a moment of transcendence—that I always keep it close by. There are days when it’s hard to pray at all, let alone feel that beautiful connection with God. At those times when faith is a dry desert I fall back on poetry. The written word can put me in an empathetic mood so easily it often helps me find my way back. Can you feel it when you read that quote? Doesn’t it call to something familiar inside you and beg you to share in the memory of that experience?

Despite the wonderful strides I’ve been making in my discernment, the spiritually dry days still come. I wake up late for work and rush without breakfast or prayer. I come home late and exhausted and all I want to do is sit and watch Hulu and eat pizza. There are days when I feel like there’s no energy left for God. I know I’m being ridiculous, of course. I know that I’d feel better if I made the time, but some days my quest for motivation fails.

My spiritual director reassures me it happens to everyone, and that while I’m still in this lifestyle I’m going to find it particularly difficult to find the time here and there for prayer. He says that when you live a life structured around it, things come a little easier. Its certainly a relief to think that one day I might live a life where the feeling they talk about in the Upanishads will be a daily occurrence.

I’ve been looking for that connection to the world of the Spirit for a long time, much longer than my present discernment. Even in the really early days before I turned away from the church, it was the most beautiful thing I could want. After I started looking at other religions it remained with me as a common theme pulling them all together. It was there when I looked at Judaism, Islam, and the Bahá’í Faith. When I studied Gnosticism, Kabbalah, Sufism, and Tantra, it was there. Through Buddhism, Hindu and Jainism, uniting with the sacred held it together. Confucianism, Shinto, Taoism, the same. Even when I looked at Sami, Tadibya, Tengrism, Leni Lenape myths, and all the wonderful Neopagan interbreeding branches, there was my familiar friend.

With all of that searching, it took me so long to finally come back to where I had started. It took me going away, falling and failing, scraping deeper into everything I could find only to see reflections of what I already had. Finally, when I was forced to stop thinking and searching and I just started listening and being, I finally felt a call to that Third World that spoke to me. It called me instead of waiting for me to seek it out.

So now when I have a dry spell, I look back on one of those many sacred texts I’ve read and enjoyed for their beauty of language and idea and I let them return me to the mindset of faith, not because I found a particular truth in them, but because they were so integral to the journey that opened my eyes to the call I’d had all along.

After I write my own posts, I click the publish button right away. Only then do I go back and proof them, fixing spelling errors (if I manage to catch them) or rewording a sentence here and there. It should surprise no one that while I’m reading my own writing I can’t help but compare my own style and tone to those other blogs I read. Most of the time I’m self-conscious, wondering why I can’t be funnier or more positive. I always seem to be dragging readers through my struggles and pains and failures. I worry about that at times.

It’s not all self-criticism, of course. I think I have my own strengths in writing. I feel pretty happy with my sense of description and ability to set a scene, for instance.

But I’m curious what the rest of you think. Do you notice a big difference between your writing and mine, or between different things you read? Do you relate to one better than the other? Do you see a problem with one more than the other? Do you have anything to say about any of this?

I’m not really sure where I’m going with these comparisons. I’m certainly not going to try to turn my blog into something its not. I suppose it’s just curiosity. That and I haven’t seen any comments in a while. (I’m looking at you on this one!) So this is my not-so-subtle way of trying to get some dialogue started.

What are your opinions?

In our talk, though, we also discussed things I felt were a hindrance to my discernment. Specifically, we talked about canon that would preclude me from religious life. Of course, my mind immediately went to the one sin I keep asking forgiveness for at every confession. It took some faith in that moment, but I told him about it, worried about what he might say. I tried my best to explain it in our brief talk and put things into perspective. I also tried to be as honest as I could be. In the end he made it clear that it wasn’t one of those situations I’d feared. It wouldn’t stop me from serving.

At first I couldn’t help but smile. It was, after all, the very event that brought me back to faith. If not directly or immediately, eventually by the way my life changed because of it. It seems an odd path that God would have me walk if it brought me to this faith and accepting this calling only to turn me away at the end. Luckily my fears were unnecessary. Things can still move forward despite my past.

But it didn’t end there. After the fleeting moment of joy, I felt like I had opened up an old wound. The guilt and shame and depression were still there beneath the surface with their familiar taint. Everything they touch turns cold and bitter. It took a vast life-changing decision to join the Navy to calm them down and put me back in control of myself. It took the physical pain and suffering to take me away from the emotional pain I felt.

I asked for it, you know. I wanted that pain and suffering. I prayed for it without knowing it. I asked Christ to give me the suffering I deserved, and it came. It came and it changed me. When I found myself in a position where all I knew was pain and there was no hope of anything else, I found the strength to push forward.

I remember that last run in Battle Stations, on the final night of training in boot camp. My broken legs were in searing pain. My feet covered in blisters. My lungs burned with a fire that said I had nothing left to give. My body was in shock from suffocating a few hours earlier in “mass casualties”. Still, with a sea-bag on my back and a mile between me and the end, I knew that there was absolutely nothing this world could bring against me that I couldn’t face and conquer. Not my body, not my mind, certainly not a few extra pounds on my back. In that moment when everything in my life was pulled down around me, there was nothing left but to finish. I was able to put it behind me then, just far enough to move forward. That’s what I still do today.

Still, no matter what I have done or what I will do, I will live with a mistake that scars across my past. I will never forget it, I will never feel release from the sadness it brings. But, as the Brother said to me tonight, I have to move on and do what I am called to do and not let the past rule my life.

I don’t talk about what happened. I feel the pain and live with it well enough on my own. Still, I will continue to confess it and continue to ask for the grace to move on, and when I feel that familiar pain in my knees, I thank the Lord.

I stretch and shimmy out of the bag careful to keep any bare skin on the warm cloth parts and away from the vinyl tent floor which might or might not be soaked through with ground water. The air is crisp still, so I’m quick in throwing on a shirt and pants. I pull a pair of socks from deep in the sleeping bag. For the last few trips I’ve learned to keep them there so they’ll be warm in the morning. Morning warmth is rare.

I tell people I’m always hot, and it’s true for the most part. My body does run warm, especially at night. Its difficult to find a comfortable position in a bed with sheets, let alone a constrictive sleeping bag. But somewhere in the night, or perhaps the early morning, that heat seeps out of me. When I wake up in those first moments I am cold. With the exception of being sick, its the only time I ever really feel cold.

I unzip the flap to the tent and reach out for my boots which have hopefully stayed dry beneath the rain fly. Its awkward positioning myself to step up into them, but my bladder cannot be ignored. I don’t bother tightening the laces yet; that can wait for later. I shuffle in too few layers over to the woods to relieve myself, all the while shivering with the cold, sticky feeling of morning dew. It’s too early to wash up even if there were a stream nearby so I do what I can and wipe my face on the inside of my shirt, trying to rub off the feeling of night. It never works.

The fire is out. Not even coals are left. We’ll use our stoves for breakfast. Putting the fire back out would take too long and we have a lot of distance to cover today. Still, the fire would force away the chill. The smoke would offer a welcome change to the smell of mildew and unwashed bodies. Nearby, someone coughs in their tent.

I wander around the camp a bit, avoiding breaking down the tent just yet. My hands are numb and not functioning well just yet. They’ll need time to wake. So I stretch my legs and look around.

The camp isn’t in a valley, per se, but more of a saddle before the next peak. Our trail hit a moraine late in the day so we decided to hike around. I didn’t really like the spot we chose, but it was late and I was out voted. The wood here is mostly ponderosa and apache pine which smell like old root beer to me. They tell me it smells like vanilla. Perhaps it’s just too early to tell.

Everything is cast in a pale, gray light that seems less like dawn and more like the night got bored and floated away. We eat breakfast in that shell of light. No one speaks. Slowly we break camp. The condensation on my tent pools as I roll it and strap it to my pack. It will be dank tonight. Finally I kneel to tighten my laces and feel every hot spot on my foot ache with the knowledge of what is about to come. With a great heave, my pack slides onto my shoulders. Someone decides to hike along the side of the mountain until we catch the trail again. I’m a slow hiker, so they put me on point to keep us together.

The ground is all wet needles and shrub grass. We hold saplings for support and hop from tree to tree. Every few hundred feet someone loses their footing and glissades down below. It isn’t long before we have two rows marching together. I keep my footing this day and stay with the high group. Still no one speaks.

The time stretches on like it can only do in the wilderness. It has been only, perhaps, thirty minutes, but it might have been days. My body, still sticky with cold and soot and grime, is in autopilot. My mind is back in the tent struggling between the heat and the chill. We are all lost in our heads. Then it comes.

Without a hint of gradation, without any preface at all, the sun is in my eyes. A great wave of warmth slams against my face and the chill that seemed to creep from my bones is banished in an instant. The high line stops hiking. We soak in the light and open our eyes for the first time. Here, off the trail, halfway up the mountain I can see everything. The light shines across the landscape with a flood of color and vibrancy that reveals the hidden treasures we’ve been moving through. Everything is alive, pulsating, breathing with the wind. Everything is aflame with the sun.

But there, below us not 20 feet away is the low line, still shambling along half asleep. No one speaks. I look to our line and they look to me. No one speaks.

Now I am seeing my mistakes echoed in the life of someone close. For her the pain is real, it is now, it is everything; and whenever I talk to her about it, I can’t help but feeling the empathy rise to confront me. When I took advantage or acted without consideration and compassion in my past it caused this same pain in others. It’s something I still ask forgiveness for.

But seeking forgiveness implies a distance, or at least an end. Can I ask forgiveness for something I still find myself doing. Can I pull myself away from who I am and ask forgiveness as if I am already the person I want to be? Perhaps the answer is yes, and in doing so I take a step toward changing, or perhaps the answer is no, the seeking of forgiveness without change is a fallacy and imitation of repentance. I’ve thought on it a lot recently, and it led me to a decision.

What kind of person am I to spend my time pondering the value of my own inaction when there is someone close to me who is suffering from that same type of disconnection. What kind of friend offers nothing but the occasional kind word when there is someone in honest need. So for that, I ask more forgiveness and seek to change. Perhaps I’ll wonder about the merits of this little circular path later.

For now I want to address and offer what little insight I can as an antagonist to so many. Maybe she’ll find something in this to be of real value, and if not, maybe one of the other few who read this will. If nothing else, let me make an honest try at being the person I want to be instead of philosophizing.

I’ve been blessed to be loved by a few wonderful people. Some of these are still in my life in some positive way, and I hope I have a similar role in theirs, but there are others whom I have cut out, or who have cut out me with great effect. In this group who has gone off in different directions there are a few who cared for me so much, that when I, in my indifference, acted without regard to that feeling, I did more than bruise. Still others–and these are my true shame–I hurt in this fashion on purpose, knowing that their feelings would make the sting that much more powerful.

In all of this I was wrong. I acted horribly and hurt people sometimes just to see them hurt. All of that pain was my fault. It wasn’t the people who loved me who are to blame, but it is they who suffered. I need to make that point perfectly clear. I can’t claim ignorance in any case, even those caused by indifference. I am responsible.

And so, for you reading, it’s not your fault.

The world is full of people who will take advantage of us in our most vulnerable moments. These people, like me, will hopefully find the opportunity to see their errors and work to change. In the meantime, though, all of us should seek to find the strength in ourselves to turn away from these actions and seek out people with the respect to treat us as we are. Though we may love and want someone with all our heart and all our being and all the force we can muster, when we are not respected and treated with love we absolutely must take a stand. Stop that very moment and say to the person, say to me, “You treat me like I’m not human, not worthy of your love.” And there, in that moment, look into their eyes and see if you see it. Is the love there and overlooked, or is it something else. Is it power to be used.

When I was young, I was trusting and was hurt too. We all go through something similar, but its in the way we handle these situations that proves to us who we really are. I was a person scared to be without power, and so I took on the same role as the person who hurt me. It has been one of the harder things about myself that I’ve had to face so far in my meditations.

Our lives are made up of moments like these where we can suddenly find ourselves being cruel and jaded, weak and dependent, prideful and full of vengeance, or perhaps even strong and noble. Sometimes we fall down. Sometimes we stand up.

There’s a beauty though, just beneath the surface of things. It is a beauty of their being that has nothing to do with action or power or even love. It is a beauty of existence and relationship that can be likened to the fearful beauty we feel when we consider the implausibility of our own existence, the unlikelihood of being here with each other.

It’s the type of stillness of being that is so beautiful that it makes a kitchen sink seem filled with such wonder that it takes on the metaphoric mist of heaven. It makes a flower seem more than a collection of petals and stem. It makes a man or woman who treats us badly as an unfortunate soul who just doesn’t see it all. It makes us fall to our knees as we are overcome with all of it. The stillness is everything. The silence is awe.

In those times when things in my life seem so dark that they become poems with sinister rhyming couplets, and the songs on the radio have all subscribed to the news-feeds of my life, that’s the time when I force myself to look at it. That’s when I look past all of the endless painful situations I have caused and that I have faced because of others and all I see is the infinite improbability of creation unraveling in such pristine, perfect spirals of chance and being, all roads of fate and time across the universe converging their energies on a cosmic scale. And there, in the midst of all of this fantastic beauty is the most beautiful thing in the world. You.

Just because I’m trying to be open to the call doesn’t mean I’m going to sit around waiting for things to fall in my lap, though. As much as I try to just listen in prayer instead of talking my head off with all the things I want to do and want to be, I understand that God will not live my life for me. So this summer, in July, I intend to move up to Pennsylvania and begin the application process to join the Jesuits. I’ve updated my portfolio site at jamestomasino.com and am actively seeking a job or contract that will pay the bills for the next year while I prepare. I’m making strides to keep in constant communication with the Maryland Province of the Society of Jesus as well, and trying hard to keep myself grounded in daily prayer; though that part continues to be a struggle with the work schedule of late. I know that entering the novitiate and heading towards seminary isn’t a decision, but a continuation of my discernment, and that distinction gives me faith that it is not my will stepping on my call, but rather a slow process of active listening leading me on a path. Whether it takes me through it all to ordination or leads me through a few years of growth in my faith before telling me something else is right, this next step seems to be what I am called toward.

Even my parents have become more supportive in the process. I was wary of telling them at first, to be honest. Though I was raised Catholic, our church life was never anything extraordinary. We went on Sundays, when I could be dragged, and went home after. There was very little involvement beyond the basics. My parents have always been very supportive, though, even when I tell them I want to do something crazy, like join the Navy, so it shouldn’t have surprised me when my mom called and told me she’d talked to a Franciscan from their parish about me. She understands things better now, I think; and as she talks to more people about it, she’s been finding more and more friends who have relatives in religious life. I think that’s been important to her so that the whole thing can be grounded in the world we know.

For my dad, the focus has been a little different. He’s always wanted me to be self sufficient, especially financially. So when I told him that I was looking at religious life, I think he was probably a little disappointed on that front. He too, however, has been growing more supportive, or at least less opposed. He hasn’t offered any of his customary “suggestions” that I look into something else, so I take that to be a very good sign.

I’ve had a rougher time with some of my friends who have known me a long time. I don’t blame them for not seeing it in me, though. I have never been one to talk about faith with my friends, so it must seem pretty odd or sudden for many of them. It’s a habit I’m trying to work on, though, with the people around me now. It’s like Thomas Moore said, you should develop virtues until they become habit.

So while I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, I am excited for it. God’s path for me will take time to understand, and I can accept that. I’ll do what I can to keep moving forward, and with the help of friends and family, I’ll do my best to be my best at whatever it is I am supposed to do. (Try saying that three times fast.)

I’ve been working on my story a lot recently, though not so much to keep Kenn from making fun of me. I spent most of the plane ride from Salt Lake City jotting down note after note about my characters. It was deeply invigorating. A boy across the aisle kept trying to peek at what I was writing. The whole experience put a smile on my face.

Best of all, none of it seems like a waste of time. There were days not long ago when I would spend all my energy writing only to see the results and toss them away. Looking back I can probably blame those days on my own impatience; taking up the pen when I should have continued working on the structure. Still, I think I need both types of writing to survive the creative process. It’s a truly amazing feeling when I write so much and feel the story developing and flushing out, but I don’t think I’d have the will power to stick with it unless I occasionally write from the hip, even knowing that the product will amount to less than the effort.

Lately my focus has been on completing the backstory of my book. With the first draft of the outline complete it’s been a lot easier than I expected. I let my mind and pen wander across the pages of a moleskine for a few hours and it’s like the characters write themselves. Before my plane ride, the father of my main character was a shell whose only purpose in the plot was to die. Now he has a rich history that entwines not only with the core characters, but also manages to influence how I handle trade and business in the area, how I treat foreign immigrants, and what roles are defined for the class system in the southern province of a major country. It’s not so much that I wrote his story, it’s that a gray blob of plot became vibrant and alive.

I think that’s the way it must be for authors who write as they go. The discovery of what happens next and how it relates to what has come before must feel as exciting and motivating as filling in my outline. I used to wish I could write that way, but perhaps planning and outlining isn’t so devoid of the vigor itself.

I should get back to it now. I just wanted to share some of the excitement I was feeling while it was still fresh.

    - Sister Lauren Franko O.P. - Radical Love

My very first journal was a dark green book with thick lined pages that reminded me of the old composition books from grade school. The paper was acidic and cramped my hand quickly, so I didn’t really enjoy the act of writing as much as I’ve come to since. Despite its shortcomings, it was the first book I filled with my thoughts and aspirations. For that reason alone I imagined I’d never get rid of it. I went back and read it a few times. Most of it made me cringe with shame and wonder at how young I seemed, but there were the occasional pockets of insight.

It was only page two or three in the book when I made a dramatic claim about life. I set myself on a path in it with vigor, purpose, and resolve. I had made up my mind and would press forward. Then I turned the page. There, in the very next entry, I read and remembered how everything had gone immediately wrong. Not only had my plan not worked out, it hadn’t even begun. Life chose another path for me and I was left with no say at all.

Now I don’t want to complain about how things didn’t work out as I’d planned. In fact, things went much better than I could have ever hoped! The point was, my decision had much less influence on my life than I ever expected.

When we grow up, we imagine that we are the masters of our own fate. We are told we can do anything, be anything, as long as we strive for it with our hearts and work for it with our minds. But that’s not exactly true. For some of us, opportunity doesn’t present itself, and no manner of application, study, planning, or vigor will get us to where we dream. It’s not something to be depressed about, though, and I hope no one takes it that way. The truth is much more beautiful.

You see, people are different. Saying that will probably get me in trouble with some people, but it’s the truth. Some of us are smarter than others. Some of us have more wealth, access to better education, or just access to running water. Some of us are born in a ditch and die there before we can learn that there are people a hundred miles away living in metal buildings that stretch higher than the clouds. And some of us are born to such comfort and privilege that we never bother to learn that there are people a mile away starving in a gutter.

We can plan and try all we want, but our lots in life are as varied as we are. We can strive to be more, to become successful, or even powerful, but not “anything”. It’s okay, though. You see, it’s not our ambition that makes us great. It’s not our struggle to be the most powerful or adventurous that is even most important. When we tell our children they can be anything they want to be we are leaving out a very important piece of the equation. We have left out what we are called to be.

My first journal taught me that just because something wasn’t my plan, it doesn’t mean it is bad. It may be even better! The difficult part is accepting that possibility.

A monk once told me that he believed God didn’t call people to things they didn’t like or want on some level. I’m not sure liking or disliking it has very much to do with the equation. Sometimes God calls us to difficult lives, or lives of pain and suffering, but even these lives are for a reason. I believe, though, that God calls us to be what will make us the best possible us, whether it is in an office in America or a farm in Cambodia.

So what does all this mean to me now? In the face of yet another “plan”, I am left wondering whether I am relying too much on myself and not enough on whom I should. After all, if I just shut up for a minute, it’s perfectly clear what he’s saying. Ten years ago I didn’t want to hear it. Five years ago I thought I had better plans of my own. Three years ago I thought I could listen, but on my own terms. How long is it going to take before I realize that some things aren’t really in my control? How long until I accept and stop with the bull-headed selfish wishes of childhood?

And [Christ] showed me that it was His great desire of being loved by men and of withdrawing them from the path of ruin that made Him form the design of manifesting His Heart to men, with all the treasures of love, of mercy, of grace, of sanctification and salvation which it contains, in order that those who desire to render Him and procure Him all the honour and love possible, might themselves be abundantly enriched with those divine treasures of which His heart is the source.

    - St. Margaret Mary Alacoque - Revelations of Our Lord to St. Mary Margaret Alacoque (1673-4)

    - Edward Morgan Forster - Aspects of the Novel (1927)

Last year I talked about trying out NaNoWriMo in my blog. It turned out to be a wonderful challenge for Kenn, who is still working hard on his book and loving it. I, on the other hand, managed to pack enough trips and work into the month that I barely even started my own novel. It was a pretty pitiful showing, honestly. I think I managed about 5,500 words out of the 50,000 word goal. But I don’t feel too bad about the loss. It was a gamble to begin with, knowing my own writing process, and it did give me some valuable insights into my story’s background and outline.

I’ve read a lot of blogs, books, and articles where authors explain their methods of writing. Some, like Maria V. Snyder write from the hip, coming up with each piece of the story as it unfolds. For them, writing is as much a process of discovering what happened next as it is for the reader. For other authors, a novel requires a lot of planning, organization, maps, outlines, reworking, and sticky-notes. I definitely fall into the later category.

My story is about a woman who makes a fatal mistake because of her pride, and is faced with the option of dying knowing she has failed her people, or sacrificing her soul to save them. The book starts with her sacrifice. From there the story is very much an adventure with a race against time. Typical of epic fantasy, there are a lot of interwoven plots and character backgrounds. Also typical of the genre, things rarely go according to plan.

Originally, when I started writing this story years ago, it was far from fantasy. It was the story of a girl growing up in Pittsburgh during the Great Depression. There were mystical elements to it, but I wanted to stay away from genre work so badly, I fought against it anywhere I could. At the time, I wanted to see it in the literature section, not the sci-fi/fantasy section of my bookstore. Time has made that distinction much less important. In fact, I don’t think I’d be too upset if it never sees publication. These days, the story is much more about writing it for myself, not that I’d complain if someone wanted to put it out there.

So much has changed from that original story. The main character’s names have shifted, as well as the setting and even the main plot. Whatever their names, though, the characters remain the same in their core. The young girl who is our heroine still has the dark streak in her that risks turning her into the anti-hero. The brooding boy that accompanies her still makes the same adolescent mistakes that keeps him in his familiar cloud of problems. The older gentleman, who everyone goes to with the problems of the world, has that same arrogance that lead his student down the dark path that put the plot in motion. So even with all the changes and growth, I still feel it is the same fundamental story. It is, perhaps, just a little bit less personal now.

So why is it on my mind today? Well, recently I found the time to finish the first complete draft of my outline. Every chapter is in place with a rough description of the action for each main character, with notes on point-of-view and notes on character development. Next up is a complete outline of each character’s development throughout the book. Then I’ll go through a revision of each of these, and begin writing.

Maybe I’m not quite where Kenn is, but I’m feeling very good about writing. I’m not looking toward finishing, but beginning, expanding, and opening out.

In this apartment my bed is lofted about 5.5 feet. It provides a very snug spot for me to slide in at night, especially with the ceiling fan being so close. In a way it reminds me of my Navy times, some had, some that I would have had. The little sleeve of space is just like a ship berth.

I’ve always liked little spaces. When I was a little kid, my dad built me little fort areas under the basement stairs. In my first two houses they offered me a small bit of isolation in which to feel totally secure and alone. I dreamed stories and lives in those forts. To me, it makes sense when I draw associations between those old forts and this bed I’m on my way to. The dreams are even the same.

When the correlation game begins to play in my mind, it’s difficult to stop it. After I remember the fort under the stairs, or the solitude and strength found in a tent in the wilderness, or the cells in the monastery in southern Indiana, I begin to see that same sacred space in my own mind. It is there, hidden behind the bright smile or the laughing eyes, or perhaps the tired brow and snapping teeth. Inside that space is a secluded refuge where the gusty winds of life are filtered down to a soft scent on a breeze and the confusions of society are reduced to spiraling self-absorbed thoughts of the divine.

It is as peaceful as any closet and as protected. From inside, I let open the screen door to allow in the Chopin in my headset, careful to leave out the strange noises of the cat near my door. I draw a deep breath and let my mind wander on the thought that in so many places in this very moment, there are so many others in their sacred space as well.

It was one of the first topics of discussion in Eliade’s The Sacred and the Profane, when his treatise on comparative religion espoused the great similarities in the treatment of a sacred space. There were so many powerful shared properties, from the axis mundi to the discussion on microcosmic connotations for the super-space of our existence. And it makes logical sense why it would be so important to so many cultures throughout the ages.

Our understanding of space lies outside our sociological learned behaviors. It is a core emotion granted to us from the beginning. No matter how outgoing, inquisitive or friendly, we each value our moments of isolation. Even if those moments are only a breath in length, they give us strength and resolve. They give us rest.

When I was little I built forts. I played under the stairs, or connected cardboard boxes. I hung sheets from bunk beds and stacked cushions in corners. Sometimes I would invite friends in, just sometimes. These days my cat shares my newest fort with me. He’s climbing up there now, letting me know in his not-so-subtle way that I’m taking too long at the keyboard.

In any matter, I recognize that I’m a person who values and loves his alone time. It is the source of the true me and the place to which he returns every night. It is beautiful and powerful. And you’re all invited.

I went for a ride around the city on my scooter today. The cold was bitter after the warm spell of the last few days. Even so, it was invigorating and filled me with its deep mystery.

Winter is the only time of year that does that for me, fills me up with secrets that have no name. Just walking in it, being part of it, makes me more whole than before. When I was in Alaska the feel of snow crunching under my boots was the only sound all around me. Snow piled up waste or shoulder high from plows long passed acted like buffers to the rest of the world, and in those moments walking this way or that way everything became internalized. The steps I was taking were in me, headed somewhere unknown. Every journey, whether to a store or mailbox, was a journey of the soul.

It was that automatic, intrinsic internalism of the dark months that I fell in love with as a child. Every year they come back, romantically calling to me to step outside and visit myself again. And, like nature’s antithesis to hibernation, I come out of my warm hole and wake up for the first time, every time. The stinging air on my cheeks, the cramping fingertips, the taste and smell of the world all beckon me forward. They pull me out in no particular direction, but with such amazing security and passion that creativity drips off of my fingers and tongue without trying.

Winter is my writing time. It is my time of reflection and inspiration. It is a time of such powerful action that even sitting in a chair by a fire is an activity bursting with energy; energy of the spirit.

    → Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger (Now, Pope Benedict XVI) - Jesus of Nazareth (2007)

Pope Benedict must know me very well, indeed. The lustful exuberance with which I jump into things inevitably fades and I’m left with the dreary dolldrums of day to day life again. What lasts in the face of that? For years my technique has been to start as many projects as possible knowing that most will be thrown to the wayside after a few days, a week, maybe a month if I’m lucky. But the hope was that with many tries, some would occasionally stick and become a part of me. They would weasel their way into my life and become a normal thing, something I didn’t have to think about. The worst part is, it works.

I can think back on all the ridiculous projects I’ve started and stopped before they had even really begun, and interspersed among them are little gems that I still follow through with today. These rare pieces of my life give me a hope that more will come and that I’ll find life fulfilling in this way. The little choices that stick, like spaghetti dripping down the wall, become my life. When I think about it directly, though, it depresses me.

Why is it that I can be so accepting of so much failure. Yes, it is a failure each and every time, if of nothing else than my own will power to stay on task. I certainly ask to much of myself, but that is not an excuse; it is more of a second issue to address. Every time I stop writing my novel, or fail to do a lesson in my Italian book, or skip a trip to the gym, or put off building my next portfolio site, or any number of other little jobs I’ve assigned myself, I have failed. I have watched the initial enthusiasm fade away and lost the patience to measure each day in the desert so that I could complete the journey. Certainly, some of the tasks are no big loss in the grand scheme of things, but that also isn’t the point. The point is my lack of perseverantia. And the real fear is will this lacking in myself also rear its head in my religious life.

I can accept the many little daily failures because they don’t mean so much to me. If I go to the grave having never learned to properly speak a foreign language, it won’t be the symbol of my total failure in life. If, however, I try–if I pursue that call that comes from outside myself and my own weakness of character and will keeps me from fulfilling my duty, I don’t know that I would be able to forgive myself. I would hope that my investment of soul, energy, and love would carry it through the difficult days, but my little testing attempts have not gone well.

I try very hard to pray daily, whether it is the Divine Office, a Rosary, reading the daily mass, or at the very least well intentioned prayers of reverence and hope for friends and family. Even with this simple task I look back at the months gone by and see long stretches of time that are empty of any spiritual life. I try to tell myself that living a full life with others around who are living as I know I should will help me stay on task, but how can I know? Is this another step in faith, to trust that I’ll find the spirit to carry on as the Pope says? Most likely, but it is still frightening.

There’s so much I want from life, and there’s so much I know I should be doing. These two things are not always the same list, but in the case of religious life, I think they are. I just wish I wasn’t so terrified of failure. I suppose it does at least prove its worth to me, though.

Pope Benedict says that this sense of perseverance of faith comes from being one in essence with Jesus in all of the little ways he taught us. As it says in the Gospel of Thomas, “Whoever drinks from my mouth shall become as I am.” It carries the same message of John’s Gospel that while Christ is the vine, we are connected to it, one with it and him. Though he doesn’t use St. Paul’s “Body of Christ” terminology, the metaphor is obvious. By being one in the body with him, as a Church, we find the strength of God in ourselves, through the Holy Spirit. But I don’t want to get preachy here. I suppose my point is that it all makes sense both logically and in the numious way that God can’t make sense.

I guess it all comes down to choice. God, like any human father, asks things of us, but he gave us the power to say no if we want. We can live out our lives ignoring what he asks of us. We can live for ourselves and for the riches and treasures we can scoop together in our brief time here. We can put our value in life itself and seek to extend it as long as possible and experience as much of the world as we can. We can enjoy all the pleasures granted to us; but in the end, when God looks at his vine and calls on his servants to give up to him what is his, what he allows us to tend to and care for, what type of wine will we offer him?

Grant me. Father, a servant’s place.

    - Christina Rossetti - A Prodigal Son (1902)

My favorite part of the story of the Prodigal Son is the understanding the father has of the situations that his son has been through which are never spoken. He knows that he has journeyed, seen amazing and horrible things, fallen to the lowest depths, and there, alone, made the choice to come back. We wonder, then, about the other son who stayed with his father the whole time. Did he stay out of love and understanding, or out of fear for what was out there? Did he choose his path because of love or because of selfishness? I really don’t know for sure, but the parallels are clear to me. I see myself in both of those sons at times. It’s long past time to follow the path of the prodigal son. You can’t half-deny God, it doesn’t make any sense.

It confuses me more than anything when I see people who know and accept that God is real, but don’t act like it. How can you know it is true and at the same time deny the implications? How, if you know you are asked to do something, can you say no? How long can you wander the earth for your own reasons with your own small interests in the face of that?

In other news, I wrote a riddle today for a friend. I got her a little present for Christmas and she wanted a hint at what it could be. I spent a little time looking online for something decent but there’s so few quality riddles there. Instead, I did a little research, opened up a rhyming dictionary and made the following:

I talked to some others and they agree that it’s a ridiculously hard riddle. If you want to try it out, I recommend using Google to help. And keep in mind that the answer is still only a hint at what the present is. I wasn’t going to give it away.

    - Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner - The Gilded Age (1873)

What line separates the personal me from the public me? Is it even a line? Does it move around? I say so much on here but even that is in vague riddles half the time. And why? Other people ask me why, I ask myself as well, but there is no real answer. I’m not comfortable. I don’t like other people to know things. They can use that knowledge then. They could tell more people I don’t want to know and everything could spread. Am I hiding something? Sure, I’m hiding lots, but nothing specific. I don’t have a secret book in my closet of all my dirty history or anything. It’s everything all at once.

Of the seven muses of ancient Greece it seems fitting that the singing goddess Melpomene would become known as the muse of tragedy. Even so long ago it was obvious that the inspiration of song, dance, and literature stems from this same fountain. I see no reason for it to be different for me, or for anyone.

My inspired moments most often have their roots in a sort of melancholy which alternates between the preponderously mundane and the factitiously contrived. Regardless of earnestness or pretense, the resultant state of interminable woe regularly leads toward a steady stream of artistic creation galvanized into being by what Twain refers to as a “storm-swept desolation”. Some nights, like tonight, I find it difficult to rest, not because of any particular dysphoria or anguish, but rather in response to my own reverberation to this state. The muse strikes with such force, such potency, that I am exhausted of any inclination towards any real production. Instead I am left with something akin to a metacognative rambling on the nature of my own… nature. Perhaps it’s simply a contradiction of my own fatigue and obstinacy.

Whatever the rationale, it’s clear that I am not alone in this consideration. It was, indeed, just such a time when Twain’s character finally heard the muse clear enough to let go of her clouded countenance and put the last remnants of her old life to the flame. Melpomene’s song is, after all, quite intoxicating.

In infinite remorse of soul.

All sin was of my sinning, all

Atoning mine, and mine the gall

Of all regret. Mine was the weight

Of every brooded wrong, the hate

That stood behind each envious thrust,

Mine every greed, mine every lust.

And all the while for every grief,

Each suffering, I craved relief

With individual desire, –

Craved all in vain! And felt fierce fire

About a thousand people crawl;

Perished with each, – then mourned for all!

    - Edna St. Vincent Millay - Excerpt from Renascence (1917)

Atonement is an act of reparation made for the goal of reconciliation. I’ve had more than my share of things to ask forgiveness for.

    - Leonard Bernstein

Every year for the past ten years I’ve toyed with the idea of finishing my novel. My poor plot outline has changed so many times, been scraped and begun anew, that I never seemed to be making any forward progress. My characters gained a little more depth, my world became a little more colorful and full of history, but the story always hovered around chapter one.

I sat down and wrote out chapter one a few times, sharing it with a few people, taking criticism and editing away. My biggest problem was that I’m not a from-the-hip author. I need planning, careful outlining, character sketches and biographies, country histories and cultural overviews. I need to know the staple products in the region and justify the existence of rivers with the rainfall and terrain in the area. I need to draw up charts of flood cycles, crop infestations, wind directions and migratory patterns. I need to know everything before I can do anything.

And so for the past ten years I’ve struggled to get anywhere in my novel because I can’t get everywhere. This year, though, I’m done. My outline is nearing completion and my world is in a clear enough state that I’m comfortable guessing my way through the rest. I know that the natives of the Monastiraki mountain range subside on staple crops of olives and wheat, and use the two together in a olive liquor that will take the hair off an ox. And I know about the various tides of the Ioma river that spans a distance that would run from Moscow to Johanasburg. All of this I know and it will have to be enough.

Next month is the tenth anniversary of NaNoWriMo. That’s the National Novel Writing Month, for those not in the know. The goal of the event is to write 50,000 words in 30 days. That’s 1667 words a day, or about 3 pages in Word. The timeline is aggressive because that’s what authors really need. I know as well as the next writer how easy it is to get wrapped up in editing as you go. You write a sentence, then rewrite it for hours until it’s perfect. With NaNoWriMo, that’s just not an option.

No time for distractions, for checking e-mail, reading blogs, learning to speak Portugese, or how to tame wild ferrets. No time for procrastination, saying, “I’ll work on this tomorrow, or this weekend.” No time for excuses.

50,000 words won’t finish my book. It will get me a good chunk of the way there, though, and that’s what’s important. Whether I finish or not, at the end of November, I’ll have crossed that difficult chapter two mark and I wont look back.

If any other aspiring authors are out there and want to join me, you can add me as a buddy on the NaNoWriMo site. My username is “jamestomasino”. Good luck, and pray for me!

    - Mary Poppins

Tomorrow I set sail for Brighton, UK, to attend an Adobe Flash conference called Flash on the Beach. My wonderful company has a program called Professional Development in which employees are given a percentage of their base salary as a bonus to be used on conferences, seminars, training, books, or any other activity that contributes to their growth in their field. What this means for me is that I get to attend one of the premiere Flash events on the company dime. There’s no better way to travel than free.

I’m so looking forward to the conference not only for the sessions, but also for the networking and the time I’ll be spending touring around Brighton and London. See, I’ve decided to extend the trip an extra few days and pop over to the capital for some sight-seeing and maybe a game. In typical Tomasino fashion, I’ve got nothing at all planned for those extra days, not even a hotel in mind. Depending on my mood, I may try to take in a show in the West End, or I may throw it all to the wind and pop over to Paris. We’ll see how it goes.

I wish every job had opportunities like this. I hope I get to see some churches.

    - Thomas Fuller - Gnomologia: Adagies & Proverbs (1732)

Back as the millennium came to a close, my friends and I had a lot of good humored conversations about the end of the world as we know it. We talked about what it would be like, all the great things, all the terrible things, and what we would do if we survived. It wasn’t uncommon then, or even now, to talk about these things, but most of the time it’s done with an air of jest while we hold firm to the belief that our society is impregnable, and that we cannot fall back to the dark times that came before.

But the fact is, our civilization can fall. History has proven this again and again, and we would be wise not to let our pride convince us otherwise. While most people take the path of blissful self-deception, fate favors the prepared.

The possible causes of such a future are numerous, diverse, and lead to different potential problems. While fifty years ago it may have seemed likely that a large scale nuclear war would be the end of us all, today the cause seems much more likely to be economic. Terrorism is still a potential, but a new depression would do the job just as thoroughly and leave the cities untouched. So how do you prepare for anything?

For me, the answer was to prepare for the worst physical destruction possible. The plan for an attack of that magnitude would be simple: get away from largely populated areas to an area of little strategic or political value, but one that would serve a small community well. My solution: “Devil’s Tower, Wyoming.”

In the worst possible situation, the majority of this country would be uninhabitable, but select pockets of land would manage to stay untouched. Devil’s Tower is one of these places. Located in north-eastern Wyoming, America’s first national monument is outside of the nuclear blast zones and sits comfortably out of the path of the fallout. Obviously, the remote location would also serve well as protection from biological attacks, or even from hording riots in an economic crisis. Most importantly, the land is fertile and accessible with plenty of publicly available maps, trails, and roads, but it is not a highly sought after resource.

Besides the location itself, the most important issue that would confront survival in a post-apocalyptic world is the ill-preparedness of the survivors. Most of us haven’t grown up in a world where we are responsible for our own basic needs. Food is easily accessible without knowing how to grow it, hunt it, or trap it. Shelters are built for us. How many people in 10 can honestly say they know how to build a fire in the woods without a lighter or a match? How many people in 10 can make rope from grass, weeds, or bark? How many people know what plants in their area are edible? The answers are fairly depressing. We’ve become incapable of maintaining our own basic survival.

So in that vein, I invite all of you, my few readers, to join me at the tower in this “just in case” situation. Together, with our skills and knowledge combined, we stand a much better chance of survival than we would alone.

Though it may seem unnecessary or silly right now, talk with your family and friends. Mention that there is a plan, just in case. Let everyone know, if things fall apart, you have a place to go. Don’t waste time trying to search around other cities for each other. Just grab your emergency supplies (you have these set aside, right?) and head to the tower.

Here’s a few resources to toss in your emergency kit to get it started. Good luck, and I hope I never have to see the monument in person.

• Devils Tower Relief Map
• Devils Tower Area Map
• Devils Tower Trail Map
• North-eastern Wyoming Map

Each place is rarely one extreme or the other. For the most part, every city or town has its mix. In Boston, for instance, I was struck at once by the beauty and life of the place, but it was overshadowed by a frightening sense of entitlement and, dare I say it, snobbery. Most of the others have that type of balance as well.

It’s a rare city that makes me feel either totally welcomed or totally alienated, though recently Atlanta has been threatening to fall into the later category. Each day I find myself acting a little more cynacal or a little more angry. This next year will definitely be the last one here.

Luckily, there are some good people here to keep me distracted from the overwhelming amount of filth and degradation. Good people are worth an extra year, I think.

What surprised me most about my Franciscan endeavor wasn’t the difficulty in cutting the strings, but the way my mind and body were at ease the moment each piece went away. Obviously it’s hard to give away that picture given to you by your father, or the dresser you’ve used since you were three years old, but once they are gone and out of sight, there isn’t an overwhelming sense of guilt like I suspected would fill the void. Perhaps it was the constant intercession of my interior dialogue reminding me that these things are not the love I feel for those close to me, they are only reflections, signs, stuff. You can’t take any of it with you anyway. The mantra was helpful, for sure, but I think the clean feeling has more to do with my own desire for a clean slate (read: conscience) than more free space.

Let me diverge for a moment:

When people asked me why I was giving things away, I had a number of answers. “I’m planning on moving to Europe soon, so I want to minimize what I have to put in storage,” was my most popular response. It fit that nitch of both truthful and incomplete while seeming to satisfy the curiosity of whoever had confronted me. You see, questions are complex things. When someone asks me, “What did you do last night?” I hear, “I want to know what interesting things you are willing to share with me about your activities last night.” They look similar, but they are certainly not the same. For one thing, my answer is totally dependent on who is asking the question. Do I know you? Are we friends? Can I confide in you confidently and openly? Then, of course, there’s a matter of what you would find interesting. Do I tell you all about the time I spent practicing typing to keep my speed up, or maybe about the time spent petting my cat? Unless you’re into that sort of thing, I’d probably keep it to myself. So what do I share then? I could tell you that I watched some obscure 80’s drama online and that you should watch it too. I could tell you that I daydreamed about writing things for my book or that I spent a few minutes planning out a board game idea I’m working on. Or I could tell you that my mind wandered back to a moment in my life that I’m totally ashamed of and that makes me fearful of my own redemption. There’s so much in every question. It’s never black and white… unless it’s a geometry test. Then I’m pretty sure it’s black and white.

Anyway, now that summer has come to a close, I’ll be jumping back into my winter hobbies. No, not cross-country skiing; as much as I love it, there’s no snow here! I’ll go back to working on my book or other stories. I’ll write more in this blog too. Winter is my season of introspection, I suppose. What better time to be writing.

At first, the thought was that I would simplify by getting rid of a few highly annoying items, things that are big, cumbersome, and meaningless to me. So, I made a list. It’s hard to describe all your possessions in that way, expendable or essential. If you get nothing else out of this post, I would recommend making that list. You’ll be amazed at the results.

Once I had my list in hand, I realized right away that it wasn’t enough. I really want to cut down on the clutter, but the things I most want to shed were gifts or heirlooms, sure-in’s for the essential list. Not a good start.

So I tried again, this time choosing to ignore the meaning of the item, and instead picking things purely by function. I kept my bed - I like a good night’s sleep - the large metal rack, my laptop, my kindle, my keyboard, and my kitchen junk. Everything else is truly expendable. But I digress.

At the core of all of this is a simple assertion, that the accumulation of possessions is not only unnecessary, it’s harmful to how I want to live. The reasons are simple. I’m nomadic, and as such, I move fairly often. The more stuff, the more expensive it is to move. Also, it requires me to find bigger and bigger apartments, to fit all my extra stuff. I haven’t gotten any bigger - not too much, anyway - so it doesn’t make a lot of sense why I need a bigger place. Thirdly, when my possessions clutter my life, there is a large psychological cost (there’s a lot more that could be said on this point, but I’ll save it for another time). And finally, I get wrapped up in these emotional attachments to certain items because of their history. The result is a bit of a three-way Catch-22, where I’m unhappy that my apartment is too small for all my clutter, I’m unhappy that I have so much useless stuff, and I’m unhappy because I can’t get rid of sentimental things and new ones keep appearing.

So once I decided that I was going to get rid of my stuff, the question became, how much should I keep. My religious aspirations aside, in living my life for the day-to-day, I put a value on what it was I really needed to keep me mentally, physically, and spiritually happy. The result was an overwhelming, “Less is more.”

The best decision I made on this front in Alaska was to get rid of my internet access. I let that slide when I moved to Atlanta due to some pressures from distant friends, but the result has made it all the more clear that I can’t be trusted to budget my time properly as long as I have this persistent connection. In a similar vein, there are lots of other habits I have around my apartment that lead to time-wasting, messiness, and generally bad living conditions. I’m going to need to take care of all of these.

The next step for me was to evaluate certain special collections or objects. What do I do with all my books, for instance? At first, I thought I would just do the same process of identifying the books I wanted to keep and shedding the rest, but I’m a pack rat. The behavior was passed down from my Dad, and it’s alive and well in me. The only way to shed the books is all or nothing. The same goes for lots of other things: “records, DVDs, CDs, etc. To go from having a lot to having a” little, you must purge.

I won’t lie. It’s emotional. It’s frightening to think of the amount of money I’ve poured into all these things, and to think that I’m going to give them away or sell them for next to nothing. In the end, I believe it’s worth the cost to simplify. The lesson having been learned, I’ll hope to avoid this same problem in the future.

So, to reiterate, I’m getting rid of all my stuff. If there are any of you out there who want something I have, please let me know. I’m terrible about shipping things, and it’s an extra expense I’d like to avoid, but if you can pick things up and take them away, they’re yours.

Here’s a brief list of items that will be going: books, movies, music, game systems, clothes, instruments, accessories, computers and other hardware, random electronics, and much more. Give me a call if you want something.

One of the greatest things about my Kindle is the ability to wirelessly browse Amazon’s store, decide I want to read a book, purchase and download it, and begin reading immediately. This was the case with Poison Study, by Maria V. Snyder.

Ms. Synder, a former meteorologist, became a career author in 1995 when this, her first book, was published. She’s a self-described “Pantser,” or someone who writes from the seat of her pants. Her novels are written from start to finish with her plot twists and surprises developing for her as well as her readers on-the-fly. It’s a technique that some authors can follow to excellent results, while others flail about and fall on their face. Luckily for Ms. Snyder, she is in the former tags.

The main character of the story, Yelena, begins the book locked in a dungeon awaiting her execution for the murder of her former lord when she is offered a choice, become the new food-taster for the Commander or face the noose. Yelena makes the obvious choice and all manner of subterfuge, assassination attempts, magic, swordplay, and betrayals commence. The book picks up your attention quickly–a rarity these days in the fantasy world–and doesn’t let go until the final page. Ms. Snyder’s ability to weave complex character motivations and give a sense of a living, breathing person are her greatest attributes. Her plots, while simple, are carried on by the vibrance of the characters and the ever-developing world around them.

After laying down this first book in her “Study” series, I can say with some confidence that I’ll be reading the sequel very soon. For those of you looking for a quick fantasy book filled with adventure, danger, magic, and of course poisons, this book will fit the bill nicely. I recommend reading it with a cup of hot tea you made yourself, just to be safe.

Amazon Link

    - Hebrews 11:1 - Translation from the encyclical “Saved In Hope (Spe Salvi)” by Pope Benedict XVI

Last night I read paragraph 7 of Pope Benedict’s encyclical several times, catching new insights each time and repeatedly kicking myself for missing so much. People have called the current Pope bookish, but I don’t think that quite covers it. A year or so ago, I picked up a few of his books written in his Cardinal days, one of which was Many Religions, One Covenant: Israel, the Church, and the World. I remember clearly that night which I read the chapter titled, “The Christian Faith and the Mystical Religions.” Afterwards, putting the book down, I felt a great connection to the Pope through his acceptance and his support of a metaphysical study of God. I learned from that short chapter that the Pope is more than bookish, he is deeply mystical and philosophical.

In the above quote from “Spe Salvi,” he chooses carefully to leave the word “hypostasis” untranslated, commenting briefly on the trouble it has caused biblical exegetes over the years. Indeed, in comparing the translations of that same passage by Martin Luther and by Thomas Aquinas, we see two very different interpretations. It was fitting that he would choose such a contentious passage for the organizing statement of his second encyclical. Not only does he bring it the fruit of his years of study and inspection, but he draws out of it a wealth of meaning beyond the points brought up by biblical scholars of the past. His evaluations go beyond literal translations and comparisons of grammatical structures. For Pope Benedict, the topic of Faith is not a question of semantics, it’s a question of metaphysics.

As I’ve mentioned previously, for St. Aquinas, the spiritual realm of faith as a virtue was a habitual and abiding disposition, granted to us through God’s grace, and practiced through repetition and the power of our will. Martin Luther, on the other hand, who was admittedly never a big fan of the Letter to the Hebrews, read the words to say that faith was “standing firm in what one hopes, being convinced of what one does not see.” (ibid.)

While both ideas are insightful and helpful towards spiritual understanding, they are quite different. Two differing lessons taken from the same sentence. What is it then, that makes up faith? Is it a habitual disposition, granted by grace? Is it the will’s power to stand firm to things we hope? Benedict explains that they each have a part of the truth.

Hope, as he explains, implies the desire for something to come. It is a focus on the future. Obviously, it makes no sense for us to hope things will happen in the past. Our hopes are undeniably focused forward, but faith brings something more to the equation. “Hypostasis,” a word meaning “substance” and so much more, leads the translation to suggest that faith is not a disposition of the subject, as Martin Luther suggests, nor is it simply a property of our disposition as Aquinas put forth. Faith is a wholly unique substance that replies to the concept of hope and provides a proof for things which we cannot see.

Faith, then, is a response to hope–granted by Grace, yes–that allows us to live our lives of hope today, rather than just for the future. We do not close our eyes to the world around us and say things like, “Judgement day will come, and God’s plan will be completed, so we can just sit on our butts until it happens.” We understand through faith that the things to come are already here, in part, through our faith. Christians understand that it is not the possessions we have in this profane life that define us, but the possessions we claim in our sacred lives, reflections of that everlasting life to come. It sounds simple when you word it that way, but metaphysically speaking, it is profound.

As I re-read this paragraph again and again, I get more and more out of it. That is quite a legacy for a bookish mystic, after-all.

For us who contemplate these figures, their way of acting and living is de facto a “proof” that the things to come, the promise of Christ, are not only a reality that we await, but a real presence: he is truly the “philosopher” and the “shepherd” who shows us what life is and where it is to be found.

    - Ibid.

At the turn of the 20th century, Henry Cowling published this fine little book (about 70 pages) as an autobiography of his life as a young sailor boy in the Royal Navy and the journeys that led him towards the Baptist ministry. Mr. Cowling, while not an author by trade, still manages to conjure up a vivid picture of his life in those sea-faring times.

The short volume covers Mr. Cowling’s life from a young child dreaming of a life at sea to the moment, years later, when his family petitioned to buy him out of his remaining service so he could enter seminary. His life, while not remarkable in any particular way, had many moments the reader could admire and enjoy in the light of sympathy and empathy. In one particularly insightful passage, the author describes how his life’s ambition of joining the Royal Navy went from a barely containable excitement to an overwhelming, fearful dread in the matter of a few steps along the gang-plank. It was passages like this one, where the true timbre of the author’s character shown forth in an all-too-real and all-too-familiar way that made the old book accessible.

Though there were enjoyable parts, and altogether the story was illuminating, I found myself rather thankful of the books brevity. The stories of life at sea for a young man who had not yet achieved the rank of Ordinary Seaman were interesting indeed, but there is only so much that can be said of these few years of non-ficticious journeys.

For those of you who might be interested in a realistic image of what life was like at sea at the turn of the century on boats powered by steam and sail, this quick, little book might be just what the doctor ordered. Read it with a nice cup of tea.

ManyBooks.net Link

I’d like to start off by saying I’m a sucker for a good fantasy book. You can call it a weakness, or a predilection, or preference, and I won’t argue with you. Since my dad brought home my first Piers Anthony book when I was a child, reading about sword and sorcery has always made me smile.

Of course my love of the genre does not necessarily translate to my love of a particular book. I’ve read enough epic fantasy stories to find many cliché, obtuse, obvious, or the dreaded fan-boy driveling of an author who is obsessed with their old Dungeons and Dragons characters.

When I picked up A Game of Thrones, I knew straight away it wasn’t going to be one of those amateur pieces. At the same time, though, I recognized right away that George R.R. Martin was in no hurry to rush into the action.

In much the same way as The Wheel of Time, the book began laboriously slow. I admit it took me more than a few tries to finally push through to the end. In fact, with many of these epic stories that are planned to be a series from the start, much of the first book is just set-up, character development, setting and mechanics development, or training to get you in the habit of reading lots of silly names. For A Game of Thrones, there was plenty of that last part.

By the time I had reached the halfway point of the book, I was ready to call it quits on the series. Nothing much had happened and I wasn’t very attached to any of the characters. One of my biggest complaints was that the author seemed to give each of his chapters only a single scene that when concluded would inevitably end with a cliffhanger and a switch to a new point of view. The result was that as each chapter ended I found myself just settling in to that character, only to be jolted over to a new one.

The quick character swaps eventually lost their sting as I took them in the stride of the greater story. Once the hand-full of cast members were established, Martin’s chapter technique seemed fitting. When a chapter ended and a new one began with the new character’s name printed in bolded letters as a title, I would smile and look forward to picking up where we had left off a few chapters earlier.

As my progress reached about 70%, I hit the ‘hook’ as I like to call it. That is the moment when the story has you so fully invested, finishing is no longer in question. 70% might be a new record for leisure in the fantasy setting, one that I’m not sure Martin should be proud of. It seems a bit excessive for anyone but the most invested reader.

Aside from the lengthy introductions, this book did have its charms. It is rare to find an author so comfortable with killing off his characters. The result is a very gritty world where showing any mercy leads to tragic death. Perhaps it isn’t the most upbeat message, but as one character explains, “When you play the game of thrones, you win or you die.”

Martin’s characters are colorful, dynamic, capable of learning and growing yet still subject to their core qualities and weaknesses. Concepts like honor and duty are double-edged swords, as likely to lead to impossible and dire situations as they are to glory. It is not a book of fairytales where the valiant always win, but somehow it does leave you with a sense of hope. Perhaps it’s just hope that all of the books in the series won’t be so dark.

All in all, my biggest complaint was also my biggest distraction from the characters and plot. The sexuality in certain scenes burst forth in an often awkward or haphazard way, both graphic and violent. While some might try to argue that it supported and expanded on the bitter settings and grizzly characters, I believe these parts of the book were little more than the author’s frustrations passing onto the page. After the hundredth rape, I felt less convinced that the men of this world had different values than me than I felt sure that the author had a bad date-night.

After several reading attempts, a long period of development, surprising deaths, beautiful battles, raunchy sex, despicable characters and epic cliffhangers, A Game of Thrones left me with a positive feeling for the rest of the series. While I wont be running out to pick up the sequel today, it will be on my short list for the future. With any luck the author found a nice stable relationship before he penned book 2.

Amazon Link

    - Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. - The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table (1858)

Long before hyper-modern forms of travel enabled us to escape to a new life or a new world in the blink of an eye, the overwhelming desire to leave, to travel, to explore, boiled the blood of many men. Passion du voyage, reislust, mehetnék, λαχτάρα για ταξίδια, страсть к путешествиям, wanderlust; the words carry the same feeling in every language, but I believe it is the German word ‘fernweh’ that speaks most linguistically true. As heimweh is the word for ‘homesick’, so fernweh, then, is that same longing feeling for another, unknown place. It is a farsickness.

Perhaps the why’s of wanderlust aren’t as important as they once were to me. I’ve come to know the feeling as a part of me. At times it is quiet, waiting, letting me enjoy a place or people. At times it grows restless and I know it’s time to go. Even in those quiet times, though, I am aware of it like I am aware of the gasoline in my car. I know one day the tank will run dry and I must be ready. That readiness is something that’s grown over time.

As a child, the choice to stay or go was never mine. I remember times when my parents’ jobs would force us to pick up and head to a new city, and it was frightening. I didn’t want to leave my friends, my home, my school. I don’t know if the lust wasn’t in me yet, if I hadn’t come to understand it, or if I was blissfully ignorant because of my lack of control. Whatever the reason, those times ended with high school.

In college I took drives, many drives. The need to get away grew stronger all the time and I didn’t know what else to do. I packed up the car with snacks, if I had that much forethought, and started driving. The roads took me where they willed.

Once, I remember crossing the endlessly flat, barren terrain of Nebraska. A rail-road ran alongside of my car. Slowly I passed by a train, only to stop and fill up my tank and watch the train pass me by again. I think that is when I understood.

Every now and then we throw an old schoolmate over the stern with a string of thought tied to him, and look–I am afraid with a kind of luxurious and sanctimonious compassion–to see the rate at which the string reels off, while he lies there bobbing up and down, poor fellow! and we are dashing along with the white foam and bright sparkle at our bows;–the ruffled bosom of prosperity and progress, with a sprig of diamonds stuck in it! But this is only the sentimental side of the matter; for grow we must, if we outgrow all that we love.

    - Ibid.

Over the years, I’ve grown better at moving on. I’ve learned how to pick up any stray roots I’ve lain, organize my life and possessions, plot a course and set sail. It’s never been a sad thing, for me at least, to leave a place. I know I take so much from each stop on my journey, from each person I’ve met and story I’ve heard. The experiences fill me with joy and strengthen my faith, not only in God, but in human beings. It’s allowed me the distinct opportunity to share in the lives of hundreds of fine people, some of whom I will not see again. Regardless, they are a part of me now.

At times I look back on those people and compare myself, judging whether I’ve made any real progress or not. Like Mr. Holmes says, “…we cannot help instituting comparisons between our present and former selves by the aid of those who were what we were, but are not what we are.” It is not a point of pride, or a means of looking down on the others. The true comparison is against our former selves. When the wind changes, am I a better person than I was?

Wanderlust is not the why. It is not the how or even the what. It is a spark inside that calls for change, but it is the change itself that is the message. What do we want from our new place and people? Who does it serve? What can we do to make it better, make ourselves better? In all my traveling, that is the most important lesson I’ve learned. I know of no better way to prepare for the journey.

Lee Strobel’s book shows a heavy influence from his time as a journalist, an influence he makes no attempt to deny or diminish. This book, like his others in his “The Case for…” series, relies heavily upon the reasoning and logical deduction he learned as a reporter with the Chicago Tribune. So it came as no surprise when he logically ordered the interviews and chapters around eight organizing questions, or “The Big 8” as he calls them. These questions represent to Mr. Strobel the most convincing arguments against faith in Christianity.

1. If there’s a loving God, why does this pain-wracked world groan under so much suffering and evil?
2. If the miracles of God contradict science, then how can any rational person believe that they’re true?
3. If God is morally pure, how can he sanction the slaughter of innocent children as the Old Testament says he did?
4. If God cares about the people he created, how could he consign so many of them to an eternity of torture in hell just because they didn’t believe the right things about him?
5. If Jesus is the only way to heaven, then what about the millions of people who have never heard of him?
6. If God really created the universe, why does the evidence of science compel so many to conclude that the unguided process of evolution accounts for life?
7. If God is the ultimate overseer of the church, why has it been rife with hypocrisy and brutality throughout the ages?
8. If I’m still plagued by doubts, then is it still possible to be a Christian?

As a journalist as his core, Mr. Strobel doesn’t seek to answer these questions on his own, or even summarize other answers from journals, periodicals, and books. He interviews experts in the christian community who have particular familiarity with each question. The author then becomes a voice of the questioner, the doubter, and at times the atheist, who argues against Christianity with the sense of truth that comes from a person who was indeed once an atheist himself.

The authors antidotes about his own path to faith and the parallels he shared with the book he is authoring is a helpful guide and a binding force to what might have otherwise been disjointed apologetic interviews with top christian leaders. As the organizing questions keep the book on target, Lee’s own sub-plot of searching for answers keeps the book together as a unit.

I would recommend this book to anyone who is looking for help in their own faith journey. It is not, however, a book of solid apologetics to be brandished at the nearest atheist in hopes of conversion. There are plenty of mixed messages inside, including a strong position that those who don’t want to believe will not believe. Overall, the author makes excellent points that “the Big 8” lose their venom when tackled one by one, and when taken as a whole, the evidence for faith is overwhelming.

Amazon Link

    - Rev. Mark O’Keefe, OSB - Priestly Virtues: Reflections on the Moral Virtues in the Life of the Priest (2000)

At the suggestion of a close friend, I’ve been reading [The Case for Faith: “A Journalist Investigates the Toughest Objections to” Christianity][], by Lee Strobel. In one chapter, an interviewee makes an excellent point about people who have doubts that keep them from embracing their faith. The claim was that for many people, doubts are a way of justifying an underlying desire not to believe, because the cost associated with faith is so high.

Now, I should say right away that the statement was made in a setting of appropriate context and sounds much harsher taken on its own. I’ll also say, as it is said in the book, that it is not necessarily the case for everyone. I wanted to bring it up, not as a way of creating argument, but as a way of shining some light on my own situation.

Personally, I used to find it very hard to accept my faith completely because of a few fundamental questions that still lingered in the back of my mind. These days, I see those lingering questions as being more and more helpful towards me solidly moving forward with my discernment, but it wasn’t always so. For a very long time, the questions of faith were a barrier keeping me from everything, even from sitting in a church. But as I look back upon those times and truly evaluate what I was feeling, I have to agree with the book. I was scared to let go of my comfortable life, free from the demands that faith brings with it.

You see, Aquinas was right about virtues being a habitual state, but he also teaches the same about vice. My life, especially my teen years, had grown deeply in vice; so much so that the very foundation of my thought processes and even dreams were centered in them. I fell very low for a time, if not in a material sense, then certainly in a spiritual one. I was a habitually drawn to make the bad decision. It was easier and required less and less internal deliberation. And faith, poor self-effacing faith, was a powerful threat to that way of living.

So I asked myself, “Do I want to believe?” I asked, “Can I let myself believe?” And still, “Is belief worth it.” A funny thing happened when I did that. I realized that by asking the question, I had admitted to myself that my faith existed already, that I was suppressing it, hiding away from the guilt. It wasn’t pretty.

Even these days, as I know I’ve moved forward a great deal, I still see the sense of habitual vice in me. I’m a long way from the place where good decisions are easy and simple, but I have accepted that I want to be that way one day. Aquinas also said, if you lack a clear understanding of what should be done in a particular situation, look to the example of the virtuous person. Lucky for me, I have several of them as friends.

Most of the stores weren’t very inviting; either selling kids clothes or personal electrolysis kits. We had a little fun in the EB Games, but as our game systems are mostly modded, we weren’t really planning on buying anything.

Then we came to the Apple Store. It was a glorious, pearly haven of electronic goodness, bountiful in innovation and style. Behind the counter, the Apple Geniuses were hard at work training and explaining all the latest Mac concepts to the shoppers. Stepping inside, we could feel the excitement. Customers swarmed around iPod touches, MacBooks, new iMacs, and of course, the new MacBook Air.

It was our first time seeing the device in person. The commercials had been a big hit, showing how thing and elegant the design was, but I wasn’t impressed. To me, thin meant fragile, stripped-down, even backwards. Then we touched it.

I knew I was wrong right away. As I lifted the unit, I was as impressed by how sturdy and solid it felt as I was by how little it weighed. Gone were the days when the screen wobbles as you walk the laptop around. The hinges held tightly as I closed and reopened it, noticing another nice surprise. Apple had also removed the annoying push-button to open the laptop. On my 12" PowerBook at home, that very switch has recently being giving me problems. On the Air, you just lift from the recessed notch and it’s done.

With the outside examined, I wanted to put it to the real test. As I moved my hand to the touchpad, I paused. It had been enlargened to a big comfortable size. I could barely keep my excitement in. I’d been dying to try this out for a while. Opening safari, I went to the first webpage I could think of, this blog, and pinched my fingers together. Instantly, the text size shrunk. I spread my fingers out and the text grew. Multi-touch touch-pads may be the coolest thing since the hotdog was invented.

Plopping my thick fingers onto the keyboard, I was in for another surprise. The new keyboard design was fantastic! Rather than the shoddy loose keyboard faceplate of the old PowerBook models, the Air had a solid metal faceplate with large, unencumbered buttons rising up. No tapered sides or miniature footprint here; this keyboard was solid, easy to use, and comfortable.

I loved the keyboard so much, I wanted one right then and there. I couldn’t afford the 1799$ pricetag of the Air, though, so I went the easy route. I picked up the Apple Wireless Keyboard for use on my PC at home.

Without going into too many details, let me just say it’s amazing. The smallest footprint you can imagine, with the feel of a full-size keyboard. As I type this blog entry out on a big, clunky, monster of an HP keyboard, my fingers feel dirty. They crave the AWK even now.

Setup had a cost, though. While I’m certain that integrating with a Mac would have been simple, doing so with a PC had a few problems.

First, setting up the bluetooth connection was really problematic. I purchased the Kensington Bluetooth USB Adapter 2.0 from Best Buy on the way home. I followed the installation instructions, set up the Bluetooth device, and turned on the Keyboard. My Bluetooth configuration picked up the keyboard right away and knew exactly what it was, but when I went to handshake and share pass-key to connect, the problem was apparent. The screen told me to type in the PIN number on my keyboard and press Enter, but there was no PIN number on the screen. After some searching online, I found more information on this forum.

In the end, the solutions they presented helped lead me to my own solution, even if they didn’t work as stated. I downloaded an old version of the Wildcomm Drivers (v. 1.4.2.10), as they suggested at one point in the forum. The order in which I installed things was important. After a few errors, I uninstalled everything and did the following. I installed the old Wildcomm Drivers. Then when it asked me to plug in my Bluetooth device, I plugged in the USB adapter. It popped up asking for a driver. At that point, I had Windows search the driver CD for the correct driver. When it finished installing, the Wildcomm install also finished. After a reboot, I turned on the Keyboard and told Windows to supply the PIN itself. Voila!

If that wasn’t crazy enough, I had a new problem. The FN button wouldn’t work. That made it very difficult to perform a CTRL-ALT-Delete. After a few more forums, I found the solution via the utility, AutoHotKey. I started with someone’s prefabricated “Apple Wireless Keyboard” script, and edited it to make the eject button into a delete button, which was my preference. Now not only can I CTRL-ALT-Delete, but the keyboards media keys work with Winamp too!

All in all, I’d say the keyboard is downright fantastic. If you don’t mind messing with firmware and drivers a bit, or installing and scripting some fancy hot-keys, this keyboard might be a good fit for you too.

For me, the hardest thing about ending a long relationship is not the physical separation or loss of intimacy, but the loss of a confidant and counselor. It is that special person above all others who you turn to with problems and complaints, joys and victories, and above all, heartache. So it is quite inevitable that when that greatest loss comes, the sword is felt as strongly when striking as when it is pulled away, revealing the hole in its stead.

My first post addressed the confusion and loneliness I was feeling then. It was a pain that was not shareable, but not because there was any uniqueness to it. Most of my friends have felt it before and would certainly have sympathized with me, offering comfort and companionship. That very reaction, though, was why the feelings were not shareable for me. As I put it in that first post, “just let the damned compassion die away and give me someone who will wallow with me and tell me that they ’empathize’ instead of ‘sympathize’. It can’t be that hard to find a person who would rather cry with me than console me.”

Of course, that was only the half-truth that I could cry out in the pain of the moment. In truth, the real reason I didn’t want a comforting friend was because of what it would mean for the relationship that had ended. To turn to another friend in that moment, away from the loving confidence of her in whom I had trusted for years, was as sure a sign of the end of things as anything could be. It was as simple as that. I wasn’t ready to let it go.

So the fifteen entries went by, each darker than the last, each one seeking some new me on the other side of grief. In the two months I wrote, new friends and commentors gathered. I shared with them, the strangers, what I couldn’t share with my friends. I poured out detail after detail, condemnation and prostration, and in the end I was empty. The pain was there, floating with me as fresh as ever, but the despair had moved on.

There was no goodbye message in my last post. It, just like the others, was an impassioned tirade on the fallacies of my actions and the entirety of sexuality in my being. But, in the last few words, there was a hint of a new beginning, or at least a new resolution as I continued the ongoing journey I had begun long before.

In those few months I lived a secret life. I survived on the empathy of strangers and the bitter resentment of my own weaknesses. In those last moments, I fittingly closed a dark chapter in my life with dark, harsh words. It was not a time I am proud of, but it did bring me to some helpful discoveries.

A very dear friend once told me that I am an excellent friend, but a terrible boyfriend. It was never so true as it was with that one relationship. I had all the possibilities one could hope for, and none of the integrity to fight for it. Looking at those times and my other relationships that have fallen for similar reasons, it is hard to dispute the truth.

Some of us are called to lives of companionship, of marriage and family. Some of us are called to remain single, unattached, and free for service.

Were I able to treat those intimate relationships with the same love and affection that I have for my close friends, my calling would be far more difficult. Perhaps it is just another example of how God calls us to good things even through our faults.

The Ignatius House runs silent, reflective retreats on weekends throughout the year. Some of those weekends are themed, where every few hours a priest will give a brief talk about the faith as it relates to both the chosen theme and St. Ignatius’ Spiritual Exercises. The talks last thirty minutes or so, and then everyone is let loose to wander the grounds, both inside and out, in search of peaceful reflection on the topics. Sometimes that peace comes sitting in a fluffy chair in the library, while other times it strikes you suddenly in the middle of a trail leading down to the river. One thing I’m fairly confident about, though, is that it did strike all of us that were there.

Before the retreat kicks off, there is an informal gathering where people introduce themselves and share tidbits of their lives over cookies. It’s a friendly meeting, but you can tell that almost everyone is anxious to get on with the silence and enter their own mini-worlds. When the bell rang that signaled the beginning, there was a palpable weight that lifted and at the same time settled over everything. I remember clearly the reaction of a Methodist woman who was very unsure of the whole enterprise when that tiny ringing began. Her eyes widened and searched around the room, then, seeing everyone’s eyes turning inward, she smiled a broad grin and closed hers.

I’ve described the first day’s silence as a weight, like a foreign presence that sits on top of everything. You are keenly aware of it, careful not to disturb it, and anxious of the hows, whens, and whats of everything around you. The first few hours, my head raced with things I wanted to say, or ask, or mumble. I mentally ordered them, filed away for safe keeping until later when we could speak to each other again. It was daunting, thinking of how much I had to remember for the whole weekend. I even toyed with the idea of writing down all my thoughts and questions for later. And then we had our first lecture.

The topic was very apt, about Jesus’ love for us, and welcoming of us. It was an excellent introduction to the weekend filled with as many questions as it was pleasantries. By the time the old Jesuit had finished his little talk, I had forgotten my questions from earlier. In their place was a warm fuzzy feeling, like I wasn’t really there, in that place, in that chair, in the midst of strangers. I was on the first steps of a long journey and there was no one on the road but myself. I went to sleep early that night, dreamed heavily, and woke late. In the morning, things had changed already.

Besides the nagging questions of faith I was having, and the amazing clarity and speed at which I was addressing them, there were other things floating through my mind; like a meta cognitive awareness of my own learning, and a recognition of the spirituality of the place as a whole, outside of the realm of the people, statues, and paths carved all around. I found a leaf hanging ten feet below a branch from a single thread of a spider’s web. Plucking it free, I placed it into my journal with a smile. So much meaning comes from such little places when the silence is upon you.

That second day, the silence was a part of me. The stranger that had oppressed my speech yesterday had settled into me in the night. When the third day came, and the bell rang again signaling the end of the silence, it was a long breath before anyone bothered to speak up. When the words came out, they were quiet, like they didn’t want to break that tentative thread that held each of us in that place. We could feel ourselves suspended by a thread.

On the drive home, I left the radio turned off. I took long winding roads and several purposeful wrong turns. I was scared that silence would be gone the instant I was back in my old world again.

This summer, I’ll be taking a week-long retreat instead of the short weekend one. Instead of lectures every few hours, this retreat is individually guided, meaning I’ll meet with my spiritual director once a day and spend the rest of the time in silent meditation. My fear this time is not that I wont want to leave, but that I wont be able to.

My discernment is not an endless process. It leads somewhere tangible. Some day or another I’ll take that step, and places like the Ignatius House make me feel that the moment is very close indeed.

    - Emil Ruder - Typography: A Manual of Design (1981)

To convey information in writing, that is the one plain duty, and the one most easily forgotten. It’s the art that overwhelms us and distracts us from our responsibilities. It’s the art that tempts our pride with possibilities of greatness, or happiness, or uniqueness. In the end, our simplest duties are forgotten and we are left feeling lost. The line, the shape, the curve, balance and contrast, division and surface: the possibilities are endless and distant. Each of us feels the limitations of our tools. We complain that they hold us back, that we aren’t free to express ourselves, but we know that we are only part of a vast machine. We are a small part, putting our stamp where we can, marking our names here or there. The tools are our guides, to keep us close to the task at hand. The message would be lost in possibilities even faster were we free of those few remaining constraints.

Design is like the stars. The beauty is undeniable, but the distance is vast. A glint of light, barely understood, further than we can imagine from our beings, but with a poetry that pulls at us from all sides. The gravity can be felt in our dreams.

As our ships strive endlessly forward into darkness, we spare a passing thought that our engines may sparkle like stars for those we left behind.

In that brief moment when I ceased to be me, when I was empty and void as much physically as mentally, something changed in me. Some deep question that I had thought I would never answer was answered. It was like I found some tiny piece of a puzzle so large, I’d never be able to see it all at once. But just having the one piece proved there was a puzzle. And so, before I did jumping jacks, I was Agnostic, and after I did them, I was Catholic again.

It’s a simple way to put it. It suggests that all in one moment, I was converted from not believing to believing; in the blink of an eye, I found God. That’s not the way of it at all, though. In fact, my division already called me Reverend long before those jumping jacks. I led the nightly prayer just after lights out. I was the one people confided in.

So what changed, then? I didn’t find God in that moment. I didn’t recognize or necessarily believe in the divinity of Christ, yet. I had always been interested in religions, especially in Gnosticism, and metaphysics. This was different, though. Something changed the Sacred from an aspect of my intellectual desire, manifested through the numinous, and experienced through hierophany to a totally inhabited presence around and with me. And most importantly, I felt it very strongly.

It was strong enough, in fact, that I felt the need to explain to my old friends as soon as I talked to them. I told them I considered myself Christian again, setting it up before them like a sign they could either accept or walk away from. Despite all of my previous observations on converts and the ridiculous over-zealous acceptance and implementation of their new faiths, I walked right into the same trappings. I am a little embarrassed now about that time, but I think it’s necessary for some people.

So this strong presence was upon me, and somehow I knew it was God, and I knew what the message was. It was as clear as day, but totally inexpressible in words. I was called to something, I had a vocation. I didn’t know what it meant, precisely, and even now I still see only tiny pieces of the puzzle. I assume it will always be like that.

Part of me always expected that the Saints felt something overwhelming and precise when they had their revelatory moments. Something in them should have snapped and separated the one day sinner to the new day saint. I always thought that was how things happened, quick and absolute, like in Bible stories. But even those stories didn’t happen overnight. Long years of oral tradition may have made them seem that way, but things always seem to have taken their time.

As an example, though not Biblical, Saint Ignatius Loyola was a soldier in the army when on May 20th, 1521, in the citadel of Pampeluna, a cannonball passed between his legs, crushing the bone and muscle. While he was recovering from his wounds (a process that nearly killed him) he read the stories of Christ. After a long time, the true message was finally revealed to him and he realized that he had been living for the things of this world, but he was being called to live for the eternal. From the story, it sounds like there and then he was a changed and holy person, destined to become a saint, but that’s only the beginning. Just like me, Ignatius found his calling while he was injured in the military, and just like me, he had no idea what to do with the knowledge when he left. He traveled to Jerusalem and back again and to all manner of places for six years before he decided to seek formal education. During those years, he starved himself next to death in hope of finding revelation of God’s intentions for him. He ran wherever he felt called and did whatever he could. In the end, time and prayer brought understanding. Later, St. Ignatius would organize that time of careful reflection and self examination into his Book of the Spiritual Exercises.

If God causes you to suffer much, it is a sign that He has great designs for you, and that He certainly intends to make you a saint. And if you wish to become a great saint, entreat Him yourself to give you much opportunity for suffering; for there is no wood better to kindle the fire of holy love than the wood of the cross, which Christ used for His own great sacrifice of boundless charity.

    - Saint Ignatius Loyola - The testament of Ignatius Loyola, being sundry acts of our Father Ignatius, under God, the first founder of the Society of Jesus, taken down from the Saint’s own lips by Luis Gonzales (1900)

It’s refreshing to be back in the South again. There are some quirks of speech and personality here that I find a little annoying, but on the whole the place is a sunshine filled break from my last rural stop. Alaska was definitely my favorite place to live so far, touting both an incredible wilderness, local culture, and a few diners, but there is something to be said for being connected to the rest of the world. It’s nice to know that my best friends are only a drive away, rather than an all day flight.

My job here is also great. I learned a whole lot working at Pango Media about web design and development, and also about the process of working in a small consultancy with quick turn-around times and tight budgets. The experience at a large firm like Moxie Interactive is the exact opposite. I am protected from the wrath and flightiness of clients by my art directors and project managers. My tasks are well documented, and I have a support structure of peers and colleagues whose knowledge of flash and interactive design is on par with my own. When a problem arises, it’s good to know I have someone to turn to.

In the grand scheme of my educational pursuits, Georgia looks like it’s going to be a great resource, too. The path towards the first Tomasino doctorate seems to have revealed itself in two distinct options. I’m still debating which to take, or whether doing both is an option. I think it will probably involve a long talk with my family for some guidance in the near future.

That being said, my direction towards the Church has never been stronger. I’ve done some private writing for myself to flush out some ideas and issues I’ve been tossing around in my head. I feel much clearer these days than ever before. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been discerning for seven years now. The time has just flown by, but I suppose all those years were necessary to take me from where I was to where I am now. It took a very long time before I could have a conversation about it with my parents or even Kristin. There are still friends that I haven’t told directly, though I’m pretty sure nobody is really in the dark anymore.

Looking back, when I first felt a call, I thought I could follow it in my own way. It was silly, really, to think that I was in charge of any of it, but that is my way. Mankind’s original and greatest sin is pride, and it is very strong in me. Little by little, I’ve come to the realization that I’m called to more than I want to give, but that’s the way of God’s call. I am not God, and it’s not my will that is the most important thing. A few years ago, when I went to the seminary, I thought that I could follow the path of a diocesan priest where I could continue to make some money, save up, do some freelance work, maybe secure myself a comfortable living. But God gave me a wanderlust that is more powerful than even my own pride. He knew that I couldn’t stay in one place long enough to join a diocese. He knew that the itch would prevent me from halfway following his call. The tingling I feel will take me all the way. I know holy orders are in my future, and now after seven years of trying to figure out just how I am going to deal with it, I can say with some measure of self-assuredness that it doesn’t matter. My part in the whole thing is so tiny, so insignificant, that in the end it doesn’t matter at all. God has set a path for me, and I’m going to follow it, whether I like it or not.

I have a whole lot more to say about all that, but I think I’ll wait for another post.

If I do end up living in Georgia, I think the heat will be less of an issue than I worried about. With the plentiful air conditioning everywhere, the wonderful public transit system, and the close proximity of all the wonderful places that don’t exist in Alaska, surviving in the city seems pretty easy.

All in all, it was great to see where Markus lives and to meet Natalie. She’s really sweet and even leant me the use of her horrible nostril-washing device. Hanging out on rooftops, skipping around in high-class grocery stores, chowing down on apple-pie and installing useless gizmos on other people’s laptops is how weekends are meant to be spent. And wherever life takes me, I hope it has a parks like Atlanta (ugly ducks and all).

    - W. James - The Varieties of Religious Experience (1902)

Last night I was taking more notes on Rudolf Otto’s book, The Idea of the Holy, when I came upon this quote from William James’ work. It is the quote of a clergyman taken from the manuscripts of Edwin D. Starbuck, of Stanford University. It’s quite the path leading back to the original quote, but it summed up so much that I wanted to say that I had to track it down. In all the researching I’ve been doing both for my book that I toy with endlessly and for my own personal discernment, I keep running into the same themes again and again; themes of heirophany that speak to me on a very personal level.

The root of my religious choices have been a series of experiences that I thought were unique for a very long time. When I was in Jr. High School, I found it hard to believe that other people could have similar feelings, or experience what I was experiencing. These days, I seem to have the opposite problem. Having found so many similar people in my life, I find it hard to comprehend those people who have never felt the feeling of religious ecstasy, witnessed the mysterium tremendum, or come face to face with the ineffible truth of their being, “I am nothing, YOU are everything.”

The story is amazing in its detail of her tribulations. The author of the article put it well when he compared her trek to that of Hercules facing his twelve trials. Through her epic journey, she was tossed against the shores for hours at a time, hit by a car on her bike, forced up 18 degree inclines for miles on end, and forced to land to avoid the devastation from Hurricanes Rita and Katrina. The pitfalls seemed endless, but she persevered.

The most fascinating part for me was her reasoning, her driving force that made her get up and force herself forward. I was surprised to find that I had it backwards. The expedition wasn’t an adventure, it was an escape; a long, painful escape from the pain of [losing her fiancée][] and her brother.

I put myself in her shoes (or kayak) and wonder if that strength is in me. Could I do what she did? With training and time, maybe, maybe not. I think I give myself over to the world in different ways, though. Her technique to find herself was to go looking, to force herself forward, though the next wave, over the next mile, up the next hill. For me it is a matter of stripping away each piece until there is nothing left but me. When I am most alone and empty, I am most me.

[Renata Chlumska]: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Renata_Chlumska [losing her fiancée]: https://www.k2news.com/kropp.htm

Tonight I set myself a few specific tasks to accomplish. I thought I’d be done with everything by the early afternoon and I could go do something fun, or maybe just work out. Instead, I’m still sitting in my office at 10:15, writing a blog post as another print job inevitably fails. I am frustrated.

Sometimes it feels like part of growing up is running into more and more of those tough decisions that aren’t automatic. For instance, each of the times I get that wanderlust itching me forward to a new city, the automatic choice is harder and harder. Do I go to Alaska? Do I go to Italy, to Toronto, to India? What about a pH.D.? Is it time yet, or should I do more industry work. Or the more recent: Do I move back to Indiana and start teaching?

On some level, I feel all important decisions have a bias in them. Nature or God has a built in suggestion, but it gets harder and harder to just choose it and be done. Still, the decisions are all singular ones. Given time, you overcome. But what happens when the problems complicate one another, though?

Do I move forward in a relationship that is good, if a bit scary, because that is the way the choice is leaning? On the one hand, it involves a lot of other good things, such as teaching, moving back where I have already made friends (and enemies), finishing my pH.D., and an assortment of other bonuses that are equally unrelated to the actual relationship. Things would change, but is it so bad? Well, my wanderlust would be hindered greatly–a problem that doesn’t seem too bad now, but can cause big issues down the line. Also, the selfish track of life takes a big hit. Perhaps the oddest conflict is the religious one, though.

I’ve basically put my seminary thoughts on pause while I’ve debated on this issue. The real complication comes from the way I ask the question: Do I give up the seminary for a relationship, or do I give up a relationship for the seminary? Each question, asked separately seems to lean towards yes. It is right to sacrifice.

I’ve been avoiding this conversation for a while as I’ve tried to figure things out on my own. Unfortunately, this decision isn’t making itself. All of the choices I’m making here are in a path to put off the choice. I choose not to rent an apartment from my boss that, while nicer than my current one, would tie me to this state for six months to a year. That choice would force my hand in others, were I to make it. So I choose to stay where I am, giving myself more time to try and choose Indiana, to talk myself into it.

Is that really the best thing for me, for her? I know the choice should be automatic, and were it not for the questions of self, nature, and God, it truly would be. I could like that life I see for myself with her. I could get past the headaches and frustrations that will accompany it. I can ground myself in a place and plant roots. The choice of standing up and saying definitively “Yes!” is the problem.

So I bend the rules as best I can. I make choices that will make the big one easier. I send e-mails and resumes around, fishing for opportunity, for invitation. And if these things provide me with a way back there, with a job and an opportunity to better myself, then one of my blocks crumbles out of the way. If I convince her that I’ll need to move around, that staying still in the same place for more than 6 years or so will crush my spirit, and if she understand and accepts this, that is another block crumbling.

There are many little choices I make because I’m not strong enough to just make the big one. I play the non-committal game because I am scared that if I choose too abruptly, or without comment, that I will regret, blame, or at worse, resent her for it. Time has been my friend in this, as is the distance of Alaska. I face these issues on my own as I need to, without interruption or distraction. I just wish things were easier.

I forget about more ideas than I remember, and those that get followed through to the end are unique indeed. It’s not that I intend to let all these things slip through the cracks. Rather, I don’t have a good way to track them all, invest balanced amounts of time, and see real progress made.

Until recently, the biggest blame for that has been the internet. I would come home from work and sit down in front of the laptop. Usually I’d get as far as opening up a website I was working on, or pulling up a google result on woodcarving. Perhaps, if I were really inspired, I would even code a few lines of a program before the inevitable sloth overtook me. The television would come on, and I would open up an instant messenger. Thirteen chat windows and an evening of television later, the clock would let me know in alarming terms that I’d wasted another opportunity.

A few days ago, I gave up my internet connection at home. I took back the modem in hopes of breaking my time-wasting addiction. I can only hope I can avoid the same pitfalls with television or whatever else catches my eye.

More than anything, I need some sort of repository to keep track of all of my hobbies, their statuses, and how much time I’ve invested recently. It’s a project in itself, of course. Time will tell if I’m ever able to finish that one.

    - Revelations 4:7

While working on my book tonight I fell back onto a popular theme of mine. My mind started rambling over the idea of the hero’s journey, Joseph Campbell, and eventually (and inevitably) the Tarot.

It’s been a really long time since I’ve done any Tarot readings of any note, but I suppose it’s one of those things that will never leave me. Whenever a friend I know starts learning, a part of me wants to cry out, “That’s what I used to do!” Or perhaps I want to just dig out a deck and show them what it’s all about. More than likely I am feeling that deep urge within me to jump into the spotlight and show the world what I can do. That’s not what I want to be like, though, and I quickly fight back the urge.

I imagine things like this happen for other people too. Sometimes I feel a deep guilt that underneath it all, I’m just a selfish person wanting attention. That’s not why I learned what I learned. That’s not why I practiced it. That’s not even why I taught people. So why now, after all this time, is my only motivation showing off?

Perhaps it’s a sign of growth that I’m aware of it now. Maybe I was like this before, but the guilt wasn’t there to illuminate me. I doubt it, though.

Tonight, anyway, the motivation wasn’t ego. I looked over the first few chapters of my book and realized that I had finally begun the story of the Major Arcana in a way that wasn’t obvious or ostentatious. It was almost refreshing to look at my work and not feel completely inadequate or predictable. Of course, I can’t say for certain that I’ll feel the same way in the morning.

I hope that the Tarot helps me to add strength and clarity to the book. The story is about a fool’s journey through the world of the occult, after all. It’s fitting.

    - Genesis

Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, a day of repentance before God. It marked the beginning of the Lenten season, which runs 40 days until the Easter Vigil. Traditionally, every day during this period was a ritual fasting day in which Catholics would abstain from eating meat. More recently, the practice is only held on Ash Wednesday, Good Friday, and all of the Fridays of the Lenten season.

As with all important days of repentance and fasting, the day is not without meaning. The ashes scored across foreheads around the world today harkens back to the bible when the early Jewish prophets would put on sackcloth and roll in the ashes (Jer 6:26, Is 58:5, Dn 9:3). The act was one of self-sacrifice as a way of atoning, or of penance. Today we don’t wear sackcloth or roll around, but the ashes we wear on our forehead carry the same symbolism.

The most vital part of this day is not the act of wearing ashes, or sackcloth, or even of fasting. It is the inner repentance, which these things symbolize. The true abstinence comes from within us and is only externalized in part through our ritual and rite.

This season is a time of atonement. It is a time to thank God, and to look closely at ourselves and examine what we find there. To lay naked before Him, covering our sins with nothing but ash and sackcloth, prostrated and cleansed as we can be, we ask forgiveness. It is a powerful day.

I brought everything home and quickly put it all together. I was ready for a few configuration headaches, so I didn’t sweat anything when nothing worked the first time. I tried again, and again, and again. Finally I gave up for the night. I spent most of that weekend and several software installs before the system was finally up and running.

The aftermath wasn’t pretty. When I looked back at everything I did, I was left with three dead hard drives and not a single piece of hardware from the original system. At least I had a powerful and stable machine, right? Wrong.

Nearly immediately, the crashing began. It started during certain gaming sessions. I would be playing EVE, or City of Heroes, and then BLAM! The black screen would appear and my system would reboot. Of course I thought the problem was my video card. So the testing began.

Much time and effort was spent on forums and downloading new drivers. In the end, benchmarks and hardware tests were run and no errors were found. That’s when the real troubles began. The computer began restarting when I wasn’t in games. First it was during video encodes, and then when I was watching movies, and finally, when I was doing nothing at all.

So my computer-centric brain has settled on the thought that the problem lies in either my RAM (most likely) or the CPU. I could test these things quite easily. I even have the software to test the RAM. But something has happened over the past few months of problems. I stopped caring.

I disabled my internet access recently. I stopped playing video games. When I go home, I don’t want to touch the computer, let alone troubleshoot its seemingly endless hardware problems. I’m just burnt out. I have no dillusions that I’ll stay this way forever, but for the moment, I couldn’t care less if my computer works tonight or ever. My only guilt in all this is the wasted money invested in a new system. I guess that’s the way these things go, though. Given time, you get bored of everything, right?

1. The permalinks should be taken from the original RSS source
2. Only the proper article should be displayed
3. The article should be styled just like the normal RSS page, theoretically using the same XSLT and/or CSS

Thanks to XPath, PHP, and SimpleXML I was able to make it work without too many problems. In fact, I wasted most of my time trying to find a Python solution. Unfortunately, the built-in Python XML API doesn’t have XPath support (at least not that I could find). And while there are many Python XML libraries I could have chosen to fill in the gaps, I had a heck of a timei trying to install them. Eventually I fell back on PHP.

I’ll keep looking for more Python solutions when I have time, but this works pretty well for now. It looks like all that is left for this blog is a good method for doing comments. If anyone knows how other RSS feeds handle those, please fill me in.

Web browser support is still inconsistent, but I’m working on it. The blog shows up properly in Firefox 1.5 and 2.0, and Opera. If you disable your overpowering RSS reader built into Safari, it renders properly there as well. I’ll be testing IE in a bit. Next I need to make an XSLT that renders the permalinked pages. Then comments!

Now, I pick up a lot of hobbies. Many of those I happily abandon after a few tries, but 200 yards was not going to be my breaking point. So last night, I suited up again and met up with Emmy to try again. This time I had an experienced cross country skier with me to show me the ropes. We made some good progress on fairly flat terrain for about 45 minutes. I’m really happy about that.

By the end of the run, I was starting to get sloppy because I was so tired. However, I picked up some better form and made some great progress. I think I’m going to enjoy this sport.

Well, this time, I’m trying something new. Since I haven’t found any public blogs out there that I really enjoy, I’ve decided to make my own. And how am I going to do that? Simple! I’m doing it by hand. I’m going to write all the code for the RSS feed right here in .

I figured, most people don’t read blogs on the actual blog site, especially not mine. So there’s no reason for me to make a whole GUI for it. Instead, I’ll write the RSS feed. Eventually, if I get around to it, I’ll write the code to “perma-link” these posts, and maybe even enable comments. For now, enjoy the texty goodness.

A week and change later, we stared into our hole dug with only as much enthusiasm as we could muster in the short sessions devoted before trekking into the woods on trips of discovery. For a moment as we stared we thought the dangerous thoughts of those who have learned the doomed lesson of giving up. We contemplated how easily we could stretch our legs and busy ourselves with something more charming, such as pushing down dead trees or throwing rocks.

We eventually completed the pond, which included a pump and bacterial filter system run through a six tier waterfall that fed into the thousand gallon reservoir littered with koi and goldfish. We learned to line the pond, affixed a charming rock garden around it, complete with japanese hanging lanterns and a stone bench. By the winter, the pond was a beautiful addition to the house.

I can still recall our surprise in winter as the pond first froze over. we punctured small holes in the ice, worried about the fate of the fish. days later, our small holes had blossomed into ice funnels standing as high as six inches off the surface. that was sign enough for us that everything would be fine again by spring.

The fish survived. The pond still stands, but it has lost some magic over the years. I can still see it if I visit, but that sense of creation, of destruction, of love… has faded, like a shadow, like a forgotten bruise.

My girlfriend and I snuck out in the middle of winter, deep in the freeze, to trudge through the snow and find an old bridge she knew. To call it cold was to call that ghostly orb taunting us from low above the trees a pretty moon. There was something treacherous in the air. Had I been a more instinctual animal, it would have been a good night to stay low in my hovel and bide my time for fairer weather. These choices are not our own when girlfriends find their way to romantic ideas.

We stood on the bridge overlooking the solid lake. She mentioned that she used to ice skate and I let the memory pass right through me, giving it no place to rest in my mind. Her breath was solid and I could smell the coffee stained upon it. Her wool coat scraped against my skin as her familiar hair crept its way into the corner of my mouth choking me. I was frozen, sickly, and drowning in morbid thoughts of the night. I was in love.

We made love briefly on the snowy bridge. It was unpleasant but thankfully short-lived. She would call it romantic and smile at me, but I knew she felt the night as well. Had something between us changed?

Sometime during the walk back I noticed a bruise on her neck. I thought that it was my doing and I held my tongue. Perhaps I was scared to let her know I had hurt her, perhaps I feared the night’s warnings. I wouldn’t find out for almost a decade from where the bruise had really come. By that time, our spring had come and with it, new life and new loves.

the tragedy of sexual intercourse is the perpetual virginity of the soul.
(william b. yeats)

when i was a child, i dreamed of life as a game being played all around me. someone–the scorekeeper–was keeping close tabs on me, or perhaps on all of us. when i kept quiet and in my own head, i could break ahead of the curve and be prepared for the new things life would bring. i felt like i was ever so slightly smarter than life expected me to be, and so, with proper planning and a great deal of self-control i could surprise life.

my life over the past ten years had been particularly prurient. life and relationships have been guided by my salacious desires much more than anything else. it’s been the cause of much of my pain and suffering, and yet i still fall prey to its beckoning.

when i was a boy, i had a dream that one day sex would awaken me from this game. i would be there, in the moment, and suddenly i would be turned around, as if for all my life i was a separate person held to a mask. in that mask was my life and i was pressed to it so closely that i couldn’t pull back. or perhaps the process of being born into this life lost that memory, and so i am stuck here because of my ignorance. would death release the mask? would sex?

o, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,
to drown me in thy sister's flood of tears.
(excerpt from the comedy of errors)

and so i try once again to elude the lubricious siren’s call. each day is a new test, and unlike odysseus, i have no mast on which to bind myself back.

years ago in the late summertime, while the trees were signaling their fiery warnings of approaching winter and the lingering calm away from school had dulled to a dreary relaxation, my friend and i took it upon ourselves to build an ornamental pond in his backyard. given the philosophical choice, though unbeknownst to us at the time, we quickly abandoned thoughts of a constructionist nature wherein we would begin by building the structures surrounding the pond, and instead found great delight for no less than a week in digging a gaping hole into the landscape behind his house perhaps fifty yards away. in our ignorant way of confusing construction and destruction, we set to work with vigor, tearing up roots and rocks, dirt and soul. perhaps we were lucky that it didn’t rain and make our jobs more difficult.

my girlfriend and i snuck out in the middle of winter, deep in the freeze, to trudge through the snow and find an old bridge she knew. to call it cold was to call that ghostly orb taunting us from low above the trees a pretty moon. there was something treacherous in the air. had i been a more instinctual animal, it would have been a good night to stay low in my hovel and bide my time for fairer weather. these choices are not our own when girlfriends find their way to romantic ideas.

a week and change later, we stared into our hole dug with only as much enthusiasm as we could muster in the short sessions devoted before trekking into the woods on trips of discovery. for a moment as we stared we thought the dangerous thoughts of those who have learned the doomed lesson of giving up. we contemplated how easily we could stretch our legs and busy ourselves with something more charming, such as pushing down dead trees or throwing rocks.

we stood on the bridge overlooking the solid lake. she mentioned that she used to ice skate and i let the memory pass right through me, giving it no place to rest in my mind. her breath was solid and i could smell the coffee stained upon it. her wool coat scraped against my skin as her familiar hair crept its way into the corner of my mouth choking me. i was frozen, sickly, and drowning in morbid thoughts of the night. i was in love.

we eventually completed the pond, which included a pump and bacterial filter system run through a six tier waterfall that fed into the thousand gallon reservoir littered with koi and goldfish. We learned to line the pond, affixed a charming rock garden around it, complete with japanese hanging lanterns and a stone bench. by the winter, the pond was a beautiful addition to the house.

we made love briefly on the snowy bridge. it was unpleasant but thankfully short-lived. she would call it romantic and smile at me, but i knew she felt the night as well. had something between us changed?

i can still recall our surprise in winter as the pond first froze over. we punctured small holes in the ice, worried about the fate of the fish. days later, our small holes had blossomed into ice funnels standing as high as six inches off the surface. that was sign enough for us that everything would be fine again by spring.

sometime during the walk back i noticed a bruise on her neck. i thought that it was my doing and I held my tongue. perhaps i was scared to let her know i had hurt her, perhaps i feared the night’s warnings. i wouldn’t find out for almost a decade from where the bruise had really come. By that time, our spring had come and with it, new life and new loves.

the fish survived. the pond still stands, but it has lost some magic over the years. i can still see it if i visit, but that sense of creation, of destruction, of love… has faded, like a shadow, like a forgotten bruise.

today was my birthday. twenty-six years old. i’m reminded of those years during my teens when i was either away at summer camp, on a trip somewhere, or later, in boot camp; those were the years i somehow missed my birthday. it passed by and there was no change. for me birthdays are a time to take stock of the world around me, to remind myself of the passage of time and my growth through it. i sit on my floor, look out at the midnight bright sky, and i remember those places i have been on my previous birthdays.

i was standing on an bridge rusted to look like coral. i watched the creek jump across the rocks a few feet below and feeling the fear of warning. it was only a week ago that we’d left for the hike. a week of ups and downs, rain and pain, that seemed to stretch will-power if not sanity. i wasn’t ready for it, yet. i was unprepared and recently warned. she told me to be careful, that she felt something might happen. and so i stared at the water, careful when crossing each way, careful not to slip on the grates, not to fall over the railingless edge, onto the smooth bare rocks below. i tested the weight of my pack, centered my gravity, and marched slowly. a day later one friend had a broken leg and another hypothermia. perhaps it was a birthday present.

the days are long here. birthdays are even longer.

i’ve found so many ways to herd myself forward over the past two years. everytime i turn around i see another way to motivate myself even if it is only for a day. my gypsy blood has pulled me all the way to alaska; a farther spot is hard to find.

i’m walking down a path through the woods at camp ockanickon. night is deep around us, nearing 10 o’clock. we each wear our darkest clothes and black makeup to blend into the woods more deeply. we walk calmly off the trail of the haunted hayride, out of earshot, but even so we talk in hushed tones careful not to disturb the fragrance of silence around us. the stillness in the woods is like the fifth member of our party. it is a tangible force, and its presence makes us all feel at ease. they talk about how we are our own shadows, how if we stand still and hold our breaths we are no more alive than the wind. i smell the wind and catch the scent of burnt coffee.

at the edge of civilization i toil by day in the drudgery of multimedia. it is my burden, though it can hardly be called that. the work is enjoyable, the time not a waste. and yet i know that i would never spend my time there were i given an option. i would be standing in the woods with friends deep at night. we would tell ghost stories and scare ourselves with the horrors we paint. we would press close together in the cool air, smell each other, touch each other, and be at peace.

someone had buried an old mattress, lain a carpet over it and scattered dirt and brush to hide the evidence. we all tripped but none of us fell. the ground recoiled and we bounced, giddy and smiling only seconds after the panic. we looked into each others eyes, seeing only the glints off of torches nearby. we wanted to call each other chicken, to laugh forever. i wanted to scream my inhibitions away. to love, to kiss. i wanted to stay and jump on the mattress. someone was coming, though, and the alert was called. we giggled and vanished into the brush by a creek. we watched a young couple escaping off of the hayride wander their way back to the entrance. they were alone, we were the wind. they smiled, they laughed, they loved. and then they stepped on the mattress.

this place will be a respite. i will force it that way. i have given myself over to goals and lists as usual. i want to do everything, but i will be happy if i do any of them. one day i will leave this place. i know this even though i have just arrived. i know this and i accept it. i am a gypsy.

    - Plato - Timaeus (360BCE)

It seems like something out of biblical scriptures. With all the talk of flooding and devastation, and yet there it is on the news covered channel to channel. Today the news isn’t about a mythical island of 10,000 years ago but rather a popular place of parties, drinking, and fun. It’s like having the heavens rain brimstone upon Disneyland.

I’m not upset, though. It is unfortunate that all of those homes are lost and people displaced, but I have to admit I’ve never been a fan of New Orleans. Perhaps the distaste comes from my Navy time; after all, most of boot camp was spent around so-called Cajuns. It is a learned behavior, wherever it comes from. I suppose that should be a consolation.

Somehow this whole event has me smiling. Mother Earth took a step forward a few years ago with a blast called tsunami to remind us all that we’re not as high and mighty as we’d like to believe. Human beings have far from conquered this planet. While that message was certainly clear in the East, having this slight echo as a reminder on our western shores should help bring that into perspective. I suppose it is a relief to me that the Earth is so comfortable slapping us back after those years of torment. It feels like a parent delivering retribution onto a naughty sibling.

Whether 360BCE or 2005CE, we’re all on the same little planet dealing with the same problems. In all that time, we haven’t changed at all in the eyes of nature. Though, perhaps we have a bit more waste.

To any foreigner listening to these prayers, should he understand their language, he would hear words very similar to those of the Judeo-Christian rites. They pray to the will of an all-powerful creator whom they hope to join in the afterlife in the spirit-world, should their actions on this Earth dictate them worthy. They acknowledge the powers of the Earth and the spirits as being granted by the single creator, and part of his will. Even their talks of morality seem word for word.

And so, in this hut in the middle of the forest, buried amongst the hills and valleys of Northeastern America, this great culture built their churches as a gateway to the Sacred truth, just as people around the world build their own churches for the same purpose. We all need our sacred spaces, whether they be towers or huts, or quiet apartments in bustling cities. Like all symbols, we find a connection to something greater; perhaps a metaphor for that greater power.

Several nights ago, I dreamt of a vivid house, gothic architecture with baroque scroll-work on the wooden door frames. I spent a long time in the house that night, learning all the secret passages and hidden creaks. Unlike most of my pleasant dreams, the memories stayed around with me of this old house. I could smell the dust in the air, the wavy way the light passed through the old deformed glass, the cool touch of the bare wood against my feet, and the warmth of the evening light across my face.

I kept thinking about the house over the last few days, exploring it with my mind on long drives, or while I daydream. I search through each of the rooms in turn, leaving no shelf unbrushed, no crack unnoticed. Only recently, I’ve begun to start adding things, flowers, furniture, etc. I am fixing it up like an old house waiting for my attention. I take my time with it, carefully paying attention to each room. And now, after it is becoming a regular place for my thoughts, I’ve begun to file them away. I place those memories of childhood sports into the spare bedroom closet, organizing them by year and by sport. My ex-girlfriends have shelf space in the great foyer, each with a subtle shrine. My seventh grade math class lives in a shoebox beside the exit to the roof-garden, next to my cutting shears.

A place for each thought, and each thought in its place. My mind is slowly structuring itself, like a good spring cleaning. I don’t know where the motivation came from, but it feels right. The house is more than a way to keep my thoughts in place, though. It is a sacred thing, like my meditations feel. When I am there, I am in prayer, supplication, and prostration. It is a good place for me.

In grade school I had a health class teacher of the sort we all know. He wasn’t a popular teacher at all. In fact, he was one of those people you look back upon and cringe at how horrible his life must have been. No one respected him, not the students, not other teachers, no one. But he was always there and he always did his job. It was from his lips that I first learned the term “self esteem” and all that it implies. In one of my most powerful memories of that time, I recall him telling us that he had only two friends. He said he knew many people and was friendly with them, but he had only two friends that he would carry for the rest of his life. I used to think that was sad, an echo of the poor man he was in spirit. Lately I’ve come to understand how lucky he is.

Like those stormy seas or giant turtles, perhaps, friendships float by us all the time. We are fated to cross paths with so many in a lifetime that it is our devoir to forget more than we recall. Maybe this makes those special people all the more special, though. Those islands we find in our vast oceans are our navigation points, our anchors, our vacations at times. Mainly they are the real adventures for us to explore ourselves.

I think that poor despised teacher of mine had something really good going for him back then. Though I had nothing but pity, he didn’t need even that from me. He had his waypoints, his islands. And though there were only two of them, that’s more than enough to make the whole journey worth it.

It’s a well known fact to most people that I am luckier than the average person. Given fair odds, my coin will land on heads much more than one might expect. So when I take stock of my life and find four islands already, it doesn’t surprise me greatly.

Three of those islands are married now and the fourth claims she never will be. It fills me with joy to see them all so happy. One of my close friends had a child yesterday. Technically I believe the date was the 16th when the baby boy finally joined the world. In this miracle, I see the reflection of my own life and smile at the brilliant harmony of it all. No matter what ills befall us all in the future, we have those people we love. Nothing, not death or fights or bad cooking can take that away from us. They are islands and they aren’t going anywhere, like it or not.

Mother of this unfathomable world!
Favor my solemn song, for I have loved
Thee ever, and thee only; I have watched
Thy shadow, and the darkness of thy steps,
And my heart ever gazes on the depth
Of thy deep mysteries. I have made my bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won from thee,
Hoping to still these obstinate questionings
Of thee and thine, by forcing some lone ghost,
Thy messenger, to render up the tale
Of what we are. In lone and silent hours,
When night makes a weird sound of its own stillness,
Like an inspired and desperate alchemist
Staking his very life on some dark hope,
Have I mixed awful talk and asking looks
With my most innocent love, until strange tears,
Uniting with those breathless kisses, made
Such magic as compels the charmèd night
To render up thy charge; and, though ne'er yet
Thou hast unveiled thy inmost sanctuary,
Enough from incommunicable dream,
And twilight phantasms, and deep noonday thought,
Has shone within me, that serenely now
And moveless, as a long-forgotten lyre
Suspended in the solitary dome
Of some mysterious and deserted fane,
I wait thy breath, Great Parent, that my strain
May modulate with murmurs of the air,
And motions of the forests and the sea,
And voice of living beings, and woven hymns
Of night and day, and the deep heart of man.

    - Percy Bysshe Shelly - Alastor! or The Spirit of Solitude (1815)

The beauty of solitude is not all encompassing, though. Many of us crave the human touch to fill the voids we find in ourselves. The searching can be awful lonely, after all. So we touch each other, hold each other, cradle together for warmth. In a moment’s peace we seek our communion only to step back into the comfort of each other after our trailblazing is finished. It is only the bravest, or perhaps most helpless of us that ever really gets away. But the beauty of human beings is that spark of French philosophy that has touched our age so brilliantly, like a flashlight in a deep cave. In our existential way of being, we are all only our own unique lives, each responsible in our own ways. And so we watch each life as an experiment for the group, with blameless regard for those around us, and in complete awe of their successes. When Whitman wrote “Leaves of Grass” and championed his unique strand of existence, it shone like a beacon. We all must be reminded of our place in the world and that no one else can live our lives for us.

My lovers suffocate me,
Crowding my lips, thick in the pores of my skin,
Jostling me through streets and public halls,coming
    naked to me at night,
Crying by day, Ahoy! from the rocks of the river,
    swinging and chirping over my head,
Calling my name from the
flower-beds, vines, tangled
    underbrush,
Lighting on every moment of my life,
Bussing my body with soft balsamic busses,
Noiselessly passing handfuls out of their hearts and
    giving them to be mine.

Old age superbly rising! O welcome, ineffable grace
    of dying days!
Every condition promulges not only itself,
    it promulges what grows after and out of itself,
And the dark hush promulges as much as any.

    - Whitman

Whether alone or in a crowd, we are all unique as snowflakes. And as snow we clump willingly together, packed in by the pressure of those around us. The glimmers of light are still there, though, and those brilliant flakes remind us of our important paths yet to come.

Has it always been this way? Have I ever lived in a place where I could settle enough to enjoy the existence? I have, several times, but not in a home per se. I found the simple joy of now in the blades of grass brushing my bare feet as I walked, or the smell of sweet spring in the dewy air as I broke camp for another day of hiking. In nature I found something I couldn’t anywhere else, the present. As I leave my apartment each day and take the brief walk to my car, my mind floats back to the days in the woods walking over sandy trails, blazing a rocky one, or cutting across a stream, pausing to stare up its glorious length in awe. I drank in that stream and it became a part of me. As Chief Seattle said in his letter to Lincoln in 1852, “The rivers are our brothers. They quench our thirst.” It is not just a physical thirst. I’ve always understood the Earth as a spiritual place where everything is sacred.

“We are part of the earth as it is part of us. The perfumed flowers are our sisters. The bear, the deer, the great eagle these are our brothers. The rocky crests, the juices in the meadow, the body heat of the pony, and man, all belong to the same family. The shining water that moves in the streams and rivers is not just water, but the blood of our ancestors.” (ibid)

Whitman’s charge, “O lands! O all so dear to me - what you are, I become part of that, whatever it is,” speaks the oath more clearly and poetically than I can dream. In those moments of pure “now” I feel securely and utterly part of the world. I am not a driving force of the web, but a simple strand of it. Though I may manipulate, change, affect, grow, it is all part of that web’s design. As a priest once told me, “How can a person have a plan that is not God’s, when we are all part of Him?”

I heard the words again today. “Whether you are here for four years for four weeks, you are here now. Be here.” Not quite the words of a poet, priest or chief this time, though his character has no end of quoting such people. Instead, it was the sublime wisdom of the character “Chris” from Northern Exposure. He was always a guide in the show, and he managed to speak his mind again. Why his words, written in the guise of a fictional show should resonate more deeply than an established educator and artist is beyond me. There are no bounds to the complexities of the human psyche.

So again, I will refocus. I push myself to live in the now and not preoccupy myself with the uncertainties of the future. That time will always become the now; the only time it is truly important. Somehow, though, I know that I will continue in the ways I always have to a point. Part of me, a very big part of me, has always been a dreamer. That part will always be more concerned about the possible than the present. Sometimes, though, that can be its own spiritualism. Then the question can always be raised–

“Do I contradict myself? Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes.” - W. Whitman

The past is always more simple. There was only one way in, and there is only one way out. All roads lead to now. If two roads diverge in that yellow wood, there is only one traveled. Does it make a difference how the past went besides that it brought you here? Does it make a difference where we came from as long as we are who we are now? If there was no past and we were in the now, what would be different? Why not erase the whole damn thing?

And yet, in the face of the abstract and its etch-a-sketch quality, I’m wary to shake it up just yet. There’s that tiny bit of past that makes up for the whole thing… those memories you remember with the fondness called “missing.” In the meal of life, those fond memories are like the cashews in the jar of mixed nuts (testagina); never enough, but they always keep you digging. They are so insignificant, and yet rule you even today in the most mundane of things.

I miss the poetry nights with open mics and high school crowds that don’t know Rimbaud from Rambo. I miss the days when squinting your eyes and swaying with the beat of your impromptu slam made you deep and mysterious. I miss when coffee was transcendental.

I drink mine black now, as plain and strong as can be. Sometimes I think it’s like moving on to a stronger drug; the heroin of baristas. I shoot up looking for that age-old fix that time has glorified and life has tainted. Swirling in the black cup I see a web of people, places and sex that I can never let go and never find again. There are no battles across a chessboard at 4am these days. There is no sand to draw the line in, to demand of the lost boys to stand with Pan. There is no going back to memory, to childhood wonder. It is the most powerful of all magics, and the most fleeting.

I scribble down my frustrations in a pen low on ink, hoping the tearing paper will soak up what I can’t squeeze into my poetry. It is all a spell, a magic cast upon the page, buried in the chanting words, in the action of the pen and paper, and present in the mind of the reader. It is powerful, adept, refined, and empty. There are no readers anymore. Like a tree in the woods, the great oaks grew tall for no reason. As soon as the branches were out of reach, the children stopped playing. And now it falls, without a sound.

When we are children, we think childish thoughts. When we became men, we lost that power, but gained a new friend. The best friend of all old men: “memory.”

What line separates the personal me from the public me? Is it even a line? Does it move around? I say so much on here but even that is in vague riddles half the time. And why? Other people ask me why, I ask myself as well, but there is no real answer. I’m not comfortable. I don’t like other people to know things. They can use that knowledge then. They could tell more people I don’t want to know and everything could spread. Am I hiding something? Sure, I’m hiding lots, but nothing specific. I don’t have a secret book in my closet of all my dirty history or anything. It’s everything all at once.

Some people are so happy to tell your their life stories in five minutes. Others claim no secrets at all and say that everything they do they wear on their shoulder. But most of us hide. We are wary to share our pasts because of the hurt they caused us or others, or the fears we have about how others will perceive us. I’m a little of all of that, and a little of something different. I enjoy the mystery. I enjoy the private life, knowing that others don’t know me. It makes me smile when I’m in bed at night and I think about all those secrets bottled up inside. Is that a secret in itself?

I was at a wake yesterday. A lot of things run through your mind when standing in front of a coffin, looking at the deceased body of someone you once knew alive. I like to imagine that they are all the same thoughts. That everyone thinks the same few things. Maybe something like:

• What will I look like when I’m gone
• Will I even care?
• Will other people think the same thing when they look at me?
• How will they remember me at my wake?

The list isn’t really that large. There is, of course, a good deal of memory of the deceased. Thoughts, wishes, prayers to that person. And the rest, I feel, must be very self-centered. Perhaps it’s just me and my selfish ways. But maybe it’s all of us, like I imagine.

I don’t fear my secrets after death. Letting them die with me will be just fine with me. All those people who entrusted things to me, all of those moments in my life, all gone. It’s a beautiful things, really. How much can people really remember about you, anyway? I’d much rather take things to the grave then let the world digest upon scraps, taking only the barest of interests. Does that make sense? Selfish again. They’re mine, my secrets, and I’ll keep them forever.

But the end will decide. We’ll see what I do, how I fare, and who I tell. It’s a short list so far.

“There are two kinds of people in Alaska: those who were born here and those who come here to escape something.”

Sometimes the past comes back, not in a hurtful way, not in a manner of sublime sadness, or even in a way of longing. It just comes back when you don’t expect it and says hello. I imagine myself opening the door to my apartment looking outside and seeing my old house in Maryland or a sandy trail in Jersey, or a frozen bridge in tabernacle. It’s not that it’s surprising necessarily. just definitely unexpected.

How can I explain some people in my life? Years go by and rather than get less important, some individuals seem to get bigger, more full of meaning and relevancy. Old yearnings transform into complex criteria for future relationships and the most painful moments become the most valued. In this, still, there are fires burning deep inside that warm me to my core where once they burned me deeply. Is it the same when a beaten child finds a sense of comfort in it?

So the past wrote me, as it was. Soft underbelly… When I think back, I can’t remember more than two times that I ever found weakness in those eyes. Perhaps that was one of my early faults. I’ve become a much stronger person since, but even so, it’s nice to be offered a sign of weakness. It’s comforting.

So I’m an addict born of my early pains. I’d like to think we all are, but that’s wishful thinking and I’m anything but an optimist. I will talk to her, and she will lose something for that. Maybe I will help her and she will get something from it, or maybe life will take a direction I don’t foresee. I’d like to believe that can happen in a good way.

The crux of it is that my life is defined by people. A very short list of people. And at the top of that list is one person who, through no fault of her own, I find both intoxicating and nauseating. The best mental image in my mind is of her smile, and yet I’ve never known such pain as that very same moment. It is these complex feelings that make up me, as James at least. As for the rest of me, well… that’s a whole different post altogether, and one I don’t expect will come out anytime soon.

New York was finally destroyed in a miraculous blast. It was like the buildings were suddenly candle flames blown into nothing but ash and memory. The whole moment was over in a flash of an eye and all that was left was the grey of loss. The city, once filled with vibrant colors, lights, ambition and power was now an empty shell, like the creature who lived there had stepped out, leaving behind only this floating husk upon the earth.

I remember sitting in a pub, days before, after the first wave hit. A few blocks to the East had taken the brunt of the damage, but even here, in the heart of the city the signs of the water were clear. Debris filled the streets. People didn’t drive anymore, the abandoned cars filling the roads made it impossible. Inside the pub, I went to order my usual, but the waiter made excuses. Glancing around, the place was bustling with people in every corner. Where they didn’t have enough seats, the management had put up collapsible tables and folding chairs. Everywhere people came out to eat. Whether it was an escape from the memory of what had happened, or perhaps they had lost the ability to cook at home, whatever the reason, from here to Chelsea every restaurant was filled with people. The waiter looked anxiously at me, ordering a meal that took long preparation time. “Just a Guinness, then.”

The hours were getting closer, I knew. I could feel the pre-tremors of the next warning, of the next sign. People were oblivious, walking in fear of another tidal wave, more of what had already happened. I knew, however, that it was only the beginning. It was a precursor to what would come. Soon, everyone would see the end.

I didn’t say anything to anyone. Perhaps it was part of the unspoken arrangement that let me knew what was to come. I couldn’t tell, and I couldn’t leave. I was tied to this place until the end. I would feel the pain of a city dying. Of a city already dead. The faces in the crowd were masks upon masks. No one talked about the wave. No one talked about the damage. They talked of theatre, of bands and music, of dancing, of drinking and dirty jokes. The eyes of the room saw nothing. Emptiness filled them like a void threatening to engulf the world before it had time to turn on itself. Everyone was a piece of this death. It was their arrogance, their blindness, their lack of faith. They thought the world was theirs, but it would show them otherwise.

The days were filled with omens. Earthquakes, insects, heat waves and hail in the same afternoon. When the fog settled over the city, so thick it stuck to your skin, clung to you like it was trying to suffocate you, to hold you embraced and touch your lips, to draw out that last bit of life left inside, the city called it a relief. Though they must have felt it inside by then, they were already empty. It was too late to change, too late to admit they were wrong. The twinge each person felt that day was a subtle remorse, and echo of God’s sadness, perhaps. The earth held itself huddled by the fire of the sun, trying to warm away the unbearable cold, too ethereal to be felt by these people, yet somehow present in each of them. It was as if they were the cold itself, chilling the earth, God, the very spirit of life.

When the moment came every knew. They stopped, in their cabs, in the schools, restaurants, clubs, bars, bedrooms and bathtubs. They stopped and looked up, whether inside or out, and they saw. No ceiling, rooftop or subway could block their vision. No mortal structure had the power to block out that light. It fell slowly, unbearably slowly, and caused such anticipation that more than one New Yorker felt the familiar tingle of watching the new year’s ball drop. They cried out, silently, for the light to touch them, forgetting for that last instant their insolence, pettiness, sarcasm and scorn. They cried out, silently, and were forever silent.

A young man walking in the airport cried a single tear, thinking of his sister across the sea. An old woman, too pained from arthritis to crane her neck, sobbed without sound as she thought of her grandchildren a few blocks away. A lawyer sitting on stone steps with a sandwich and her briefcase let her livelihood fall to the ground and lowered her face. In an instant it was done.

Squeezing through tight spaces in life drags things out of you that you never knew you had. The same can be said for floating through those great open stretches that demand nothing. It’s a different type of discovery, of challenges, but that’s what life is about. The differences from situation to situation make us who we are, or at least determine how we deal with the world. Some people can fly through the tough times and drag listlessly in the freebie moments. Others are the opposite, of course. I think I deal moderately well with each. I get very stressed when workloads get beyond me, but I think I get equally stressed (in a different way) when I have nothing at all to do but wonder.

I need some time to myself. Not this moment, but in the near future. A few days maybe, a month, a year. Something. I need to shut myself away in my bedroom, read a few books, listen to good music, and not speak. Meditative, regenerative… just a break. There’s been too much thinking going on and not enough growth.

Somewhere between busy and empty is a place where I exist, “be”, and accomplish dreams. It won’t be found on a computer, or in a school, or at a job, or in a cup of coffee. It could be found in a garden, a subway car, or a bathhouse in Rome. Or on a trail, with a dead leaf in one hand, a sigh ready in pocket, or a steak-knife in hand. Zen is such an odd idea, but it fits what I mean sometimes.

The other night, a piano practice room was open on the third floor of the IT building. I was in there for a bit with a few people. I played a lot of fun things on that piano. Well tuned is nice. When I was alone, in those moments between visitations, I played things I didn’t think I’d play ever again. A song I wrote a long time ago. Not very good or anything, but a very meaningful tune. It was a song of leaving, of endings and changes. Like the hanged man it dangles with a force of both dread and anticipation. I played it on the verge of tears, remembering those feelings I’ve lost since I wrote it. Hoe much love did I have bottled in me that created that piece. How is it that it’s remained inside so tightly, so deeply buried, that it can burst forth again with the same vigor yet be completely dormant for so long? What does that mean for love? What does it mean about me?

The slow days bring on memories or fears. Worry drowns out the relaxation, saturates it, and leaves a swampland where green fields were imagined. One day there will be a happy medium between the dirty city gutters of crunch-time and the spoiled earth of this wasteland. It’s already there… buried deep, silent, powerful and anonymous.

In a little bit of time, I’ll have finished my undergraduate degree and with it, all of the expectations of schooling anyone has ever had for me. In essence, this means I will be free to do whatever I please without any pressure from family or friends. Of course, that isn’t completely accurate. I’m a smart guy, I’ve done well here, and so people do expect me to go to graduate school. It’s not like I don’t want to, either. I think graduate school could be really fun and give me a lot of time to do projects I would like to do. I have scripts I’d like to write. I’d like to work on publication in some academic journals. I’d like to do all those things that make you respectable in the academic community. All of that really intrigues me.

So why am I bitching about where I am going to be next. Why do I still feel the itch to move on if I’m happy here. Well, happy isn’t the best word. I’m satisfied here, certainly. I can breathe a bit. Life isn’t too fast like in other places. I am no overwhelmed by anything at the moment. In fact, I’m doing better than a lot of people. But satisfaction does not make me want to stay. I fear that even if I were incredibly satisfied by what I was doing I would still feel the urge to go.

I am a Gypsy. I have Romani blood coursing through my veins and I’ve given a lot of thought to what that means for me. I’m a very spiritual person and I take into consideration mystical meanings and consequences for nearly everything I come into touch with. Speaking along these terms for that blood I spoke of, I feel that it is inherent in me spiritually as well as genetically to desire a nomadic existence. We are creatures of tendency and routine. When we do something often, it becomes ingrained with us. If it is something important to our survival, that imprint is often passed to our children and to their children. It becomes part of the living spirit of a people to follow these methods. It could be theorized it may have some part in evolution as well, but the science of a thing is less important to me than the spirit of it. I can explain the spirit, justify it in my mind, without expensive equipment and years of research. So when I say that I am a Gypsy, I don’t mean that as a simple metaphor.

Josh has his theories on people, their paths and success in life. It’s not an uncommon view, that we each have a path we should be on, and if we work along that path, or near it, we will be happier/do better/be successful/be awesome. He thinks my path is a very random one, where I made odd decisions and move from place to place all the time. I’m inclined to agree. I am not happy “here”. I don’t mean Indiana. I’m just not happy where I am. I can be for a little while, but I need to move on. Can I justify graduate school to myself as moving on? Maybe for a few weeks I’ll be able to, but certainly not for the entire year and a half. So what after that? Will I fold and move to Alaska?

My friends have left me a lot of great responses on my last journal entry about this very topic. All of them seem to feel it’s most important to do what makes me happiest, which I can’t argue with. Does the adage apply to me, though? Does it apply to a life of constant change? It’s hard to justify throwing away good opportunities over and over again to jump off a cliff.

But that is me. That is what I do. I jump again and again, even when I try hard not to.

I remember years ago, I was in a club, Haven, or Asylum, or one of those Philly clubs that was around briefly that I used to hit pretty often. I ran into a friend there I hadn’t seen in a long time. She and I kept looking at each other all night from far away. We looked so familiar to each other, but when you haven’t seen someone in a long time, seeing them in a completely new setting makes it difficult to put together faces and names. Towards the end of the night, she came over to me. I was sitting on a red velvet couch in this heavily smokey red room trimmed by chrome, mirrors and hanging strips of black velvet. It was the inspiration, decor-wise, for my bedroom. She stood near me for a minute and then she sat down near me in a chair. She started fanning herself with this advertisement for a local DJ. Her dress was long, a style which I enjoyed that lasted only a month or so at the clubs. She looked away from me deliberately, perhaps waiting for me to recognize her. I didn’t, of course. My memory was terrible even then. She talked to me later that night as we were both leaving. She said she was scared to talk to me because she wasn’t sure I was there. In the red light at the club, she said I tended to fade into the light a bit too much. She was on drugs, of course, but it made me smile.

That moment we shared was enough for me to trigger a desire. I got a feeling in my head, an itch, an opportunity. We drove to New York that night. Her car. Her room was bathed in red too. That’s when I first discovered that a woman’s skin is most beautiful in red light.

It’s hard to know what the right thing is when the right thing for so many people is different than yours. My life is a string of random incidents, events strewn together haphazardly. I see each moment like an impressionists painting, more the feeling of the moment than the moment itself. It wears on me. “It wears, sir, as it grows.”

I am staring out of my own portrait these days. My world is becoming so saturated with the same things day in and day out that I’m ready to burst. It is new media, it is working on projects I don’t feel more than a passing interest in, it is surrounding myself by people whose interests fulfil only one of my own. Most of all, it is this place.

I hate being stagnant more than almost anything else. It get this itch, perhaps my gypsy itch, that propels me to leave, to walk away and change to a new life. Every day it gets harder. Every day I feel like I’ve sunk into the mud a bit more.

So now I am looking beyond. Not in the excited way of expectation. Not in the interested way of philosophy. I’m looking ahead in the yearning way, the way that nearly brings me to tears, the way that is so frustrated, so amazingly antagonized that I can do nothing but sit and stare. It’s like I’ve already given up.

Tonight I was quiet. Less talkative than normal. I was made to notice because of what a friend of mine told me. I can’t keep up the energy to talk most of the time. I am way too tired. Like now. I am exhausted, utterly, waiting for something to change. Bed tonight will bring no comfort in the grand scheme of my life, but at least I won’t be yawning.

Someone tell me why I didn’t study religion and mysticism in college? Someone tell me why I, a person who values his individuality, his freedoms, and his sense of being alone more than anything… someone tell me why I feel like I want someone to lay against at night. It doesn’t make sense. People never do.

When I drive late at night, I tend to retreat into my head. I guess I retreat into my head just about all the time, but it is especially true when I drive at night. On the way back from my parents house tonight, I was driving Josh back with me, but we didn’t say much at all. I was looking at the stars above the treetops and the strange lights of the moon cast across the urban settings. It made the whole thing seem really out of wack. I felt like I was way out of the world, far back in my head in some place where nothing would ever touch me again. It was comforting and disturbing, at the same time. Not at all like normal meditation for me.

The last time I remember this disconnection, the one that wasn’t completely pleasant, is from late October my junior year of high school. It was the time when I worked at the haunted hayride with Colleen and Stephanie. Come to think of it, that might have been my sophomore year. Who knows. The point is, I was walking through the woods and completely out of my head, out of control, out of my mind. I was dancing around campfires one minute, crouching in the cold wet grass the next and for some reason that was the entire world for me. There was nothing outside of that camp, outside of the hayride. Such an odd place to find yourself, as the final haunting grounds. I wonder if it might be some manner of afterlife for someone.

I guess it’s normal to have moments like that. Maybe the turkey overload did something to me tonight. Maybe all the triptofan was flowing in my blood and made me a little too lucid. That’s what it felt like, a lucid dream. Not quite real, but real enough to claim it is. I should have shrunk myself or started flying when I had the chance. Instead, I am blindfolded with earplugs typing this entry. I’ll go back and format it in a minute and correct my spelling. I can’t stand when I do a sloppy job these days. Gah… what horrible rambling.

To the point? I swear sometimes that life is too complex for its now good. I wonder if I am meant to really do it like other people. I don’t think I want to, and sometimes I doubt if I really can. It’s depressing. I want to get a house-husband job or something on occasion so I wont have to worry about the hustle and bustle. I want to focus on one thing at a time, on loving and being loved (I just listened to Nature Boy as performed by Nat King Cole), or just being. I want to rest my eyes, meditate away the hours, and feel that my life was spent doing more than following suit. I don’t think people are suited for this job. For this illegitimate spirit-drain. Ugh. I want to retreat sometimes from it all. I want to retreat most times.

I want to be a father one day. I want to raise children and teach them what I’ve learned and set them off to make their own mistakes. I want all that stuff, but not work, not dancing at clubs or buying sheek clothes, a new car, or daycare. I don’t want to worry about flossing, or flavored ice-cream. I most certainly don’t want to worry about “work”. I think I’d be happy doing what Lemieux is doing sometimes. It may be a lot of so-called work, but it’s honest. It’s doing physical movements, exploring, guiding, teaching. I don’t want my life to be constrained to this chair and this machine. I feel like to do so would make all my time here pointless. I think I’m just repeating Markus’ complaints, but I feel them very strongly too.

I guess I just want to make the decision soon. Do I really do this stuff? Or just use the education and do something simple. I know what my guidelines say. I hope I can listen to them.

When I was a little boy, I was scared of the basement. I was terrified of nothing in particular. I didn’t fear people under the stairs or aliens or a boogey-man. I feared the basement itself.

I wasn’t alone, though. I had a stuffed camel that protected me. His name is camel and he still lives up on the top shelf in my room. Camel didn’t have a personality attached to him or anything. He didn’t talk to me. He was just a stuffed animal that for some reason made it okay to go in the basement.

So, one day I got a plan to stop fearing the basement. It wasn’t a brilliant plan, since I was still very young, but it did work. I decided instead of being scared of the basement, I’d make it scared of me. So I made myself frightening, dangerous, deadly. It was all in my head, of course, but it changed everything. I could go into the basement without any fear at all. The whole basement would hold its breath as I passed by, hoping not to draw my wrath.

But the idea didn’t end there. It became natural for me. When I would be afraid of anything, inside I would change to become frightening to it instead.

Tonight, a old acquaintance IM’ed me quite out of the blue. We talked, much more freely than usual. She asked, “Why did you like to hurt people in relationships?” And I told her, “I didn’t want to be afraid of the basement.”

I suppose it’s too late to find people online much anymore. The ones I am talking to are either too tired or too enraged in their own affairs to care much for philosophy, eternity, or peace. That’s alright with me, though. I’m too far inside my own head to be of much use in that interpersonal ether anyway. There is a story of a monk fresh in my mind that is distracting me from the real world. Perhaps it is the real world breaking through that false busy-bee drama.

There was a monk, long ago, who was loved by all the other monks for his happiness. From waking till sleep this monk would smile and laugh. When others were sad or angry, he would still smile and laugh. In fact, none of the other monks had ever seen him sad or upset. So one day, when the monk was dying, laying in his bed and still laughing all the while, a young monk asked him, “How is it that you are so happy? Especially now, when we are so sad to be losing you?” And the old happy monk looked at the young boy and smiled his warm smile and said to him, “When I was a very young boy, I was sad. And when I saw an old monk smiling and laughing and going on, I asked him how it was that he was so happy all the time, and he told me, ‘I choose to be’. From that day I understood. When I wake up each morning, before I am sad or happy or angry, I decide at that moment how I want today to be. Will I be angry, upset, melancholy? Or will I choose to be happy that day. And so, I choose to be happy, every day.” With those words, the old monk died, a smile still on his face.

Sometimes, most of the time, I wish I could be that old monk. I wish I had that sense of self awareness in the mornings, that I could make a decision like that. I wish I knew when I was becoming sad that if I wanted to, I could choose to be happy. I wish I was that smiling, loving monk. I love my melancholy too much, however. I revel in that sadness. I find the dreary dream-state to be a comfort, like an old blanket. And it triggers such wonderful ideas in my mind, such creativity that I find fruition in it as well. If sadness had nothing for me, if it were always unwanted, perhaps it would be easier to choose a happy path.

When I broke up with Jen, long long ago, I didn’t have a good reason for doing it. I had thought earlier that perhaps I hadn’t meant to date her. I thought that perhaps it was to be closer to Colleen. Was that such a horrible idea? I think I felt guilty that it was. Did I love Jen, certainly. Did that justify why I initially started dating her? The guilt said nothing could justify that, no matter how I felt. So I ended things with her, without real reason, completely out of the blue. I found solace soon after with another, and the matter was lost to the past. It was over before I had to worry about whether I was right or wrong. She was no longer my problem. Others took her place. But since then, I have looked back. The smoke long cleared, the way is easy to see the mistakes and to judge them. I was not justified to end things, but nor was I to start them. The problems I caused with that selfishness were large and came back to bite me often and painfully, but there were good things as well. So many good things. The other night I found a book of poetry of hers that she gave me towards the end of our relationship. I read each of the poems, loved them, and let them go.

But I fell...
Deeper and deeper into the folds,
Further into the flame.
You love fire better than I,
I wish I had your eyes again.

I wish I had a great many things,
Things fashioned of oceans and air,
That I could wrap these moments in
So I could remember I was there.
Oh the colors, All the colors,
That tempt my weary mind
To the place beneath your glaciers
That you would never find.
I long to be its queen once more;
A rank yet to be touched,
Until I step down from my throne
In dreams of forever and such.
And these dreams refuse to leave me,
Threatening a thaw,
Allowing you to see me
In springtime's hungry maw.
Regard me as a statue,
Abhor my seething cold,
Just don't forget I dreamed of you,
Though I'm too hard to hold.

Deeper and deeper into the folds,
Farther into the flame.
You love fire better than I,
I wish I had your eyes again.

    - Jen Kennedy (March 16, 1997)

I really do wish there were someone around to talk to in these late night hours. It’s traditionally been the role of my girlfriend through my years. Perhaps that is a special requirement I have: late night conversationist. I could certainly use it these days. Maybe journals are filling that role. I think it might be nice to hear back from her sometime, though. Is that a feature to request on their boards? Anyway, these curtains are pulled back, or drawn forward, whichever way you look at it. I am vividly here, yet distant and aware. Meditative is the real name for it, but I don’t think this state was meant for what I do in it. Somewhere, an old monk is rolling over in his grave. That is just my way, though. I love the melancholy feelings. I choose them far too often. I prefer to relive my mistakes than to let go of them. I take pleasure in revisiting those painful moments. They are the fragments of my scrapbook surrounded by stars and stickers. Is it so wrong? Perhaps. I’d rather not forget.

I wish I had your eyes again.

I’ve had many opportunities to be cruel. I’ve taken most of them and proven my lack of “good” on many occasions. Betrayals, deceits, the whole lot. Someone told me once that I am wonderful to my friends, terrible to my girlfriends, and horrific to those I’m indifferent to. I understand I can be despicable at times, annoying constantly, and mean with regularity. I don’t mind these things too much. My friends still enjoy my company. However, I can look back and feel guilt for those people whom I’ve slighted wrongly. Those who might have become my closest of friends had I given them the opportunity. People who may have even loved me.

I have very animalistic concerns when it comes to partners; concerns which I’ve tried to overlook with many of my girlfriends, and which I can subjugate given enough time and energy. Even so, they are built into me deeply, and come into my mind often when appropriate. I’m sure it is based upon a care that my children will be as healthy as possible, and that should be a positive thing, but I have a nagging feeling that to voice my care for the unblemished health of my partner to others would seem taboo. When I meet a girl who has a family history of cancer, or heart disease, or short lifespan, headaches, bone disorders, skin ailments, or any other problem which may have a root in genetics I get standoffish. I worry about adding more problems into my bloodline that I already have.

She was one of the reasons I went to Rowan, though I suppose you could say it was for her ideals. Her group, her friends, the whole lot, seemed like the perfect place for me to seek out next. By the time I got there, though, I had all but forgotten. We found each other later, in many ways. In ways that neither of us had expected, or even desired, in the past. We were growing closer, something which is often considered a good sign, but there were problems.

She had problems, as I said. She wasn’t an immaculate specimen by any stretch of the word. In fact, she may have been the single most unhealthy woman I’d ever been with. Had modern technologies and medicines not been present, she surely wouldn’t have been living and interacting with me at that moment. And so, with those worries in mind, I severed the problem before it arrived. I ended things before they were started, no matter how good they could have been. A compatible match psychologically, personally, and emotionally we were, but physically, the worry was too great for me.

Did I tell her this? Did I share my very real concern with her and let her know that I had reasons for not wanting things to go farther? Of course not. Somewhere inside I justified myself by thinking that she wouldn’t want to hear so honest a comment from me, knowing that she would always live with her health, and having to fear that there were others out there like myself who would turn away from a good thing simply for that reason. I just vanished. I said nothing and that was the end of the story. Guilt built up, of course. But I have never contacted her since, nor will I. When I make a mistake, I like to live with it forever. A bit of masochism perhaps. Maybe like the whip of a monk, it is a bit of pain I keep around to remind myself of my sins.

I think, sometimes, that the reason I fought so hard to accept other girlfriend’s health issues was because of that girl. I didn’t want to give up another opportunity for my selfishness. I’m not sure how I stand on the issue now, though. Perhaps I’ll meet someone really healthy and I wont have to worry about it anymore.

Here’s hoping for that impeccable luck of mine to pan out a few more times.

when it comes time to sever the ties that bind us, i am more than willing on most any occasion. this time it isn’t mine to sever, at least, not directly. but that isn’t important. the important thing has nothing to do with other people, but everything to do with myself.

i take off my glasses at night.there is nothing quite so accurate about me as that. i’ve always seen better (not clearer) without them. i suppose people might see me better that way as well. i wasn’t meant to see things clearly, crisply. i was meant to view the world through a haze of insubstantial forms, echoed by colors my mind generates from unknown sources. i am meant to see the halo’s of light drifting around everything. if i lived long ago, or in a world without science, that is what i would see. my days would be short and filled with a focus on other things besides sight.

i feel so empty, so alone sometimes. i read journals of people i’ve taken off my list and hope to see some mention of myself. i listen in on conversations and hope to find relation. i don’t know what i want. maybe just an escape.

i am torn between so many desires, i can’t find my way to logic or rest. i will sleep and wake, and perhaps be a bit more clear.

i think there are too many things in my days. they keep me from being truly happy. in my mind, i want to spend an afternoon watching a flower, or an evening with my feet in the cool waters of a stream. i want to sit still on my floor, letting the moonlight drape across my body. i don’t think of these things as lazy. i don’t think of them as inaction. they would be the greatest, most pure action i could ever do. the perfect experience.

i envy the monks and friars who can experience the life of a cloister. devotion to that way of life above all other things. i envy the lifestyle, the purity and passion in it all. i don’t believe in the same dogma, though. i would love to press myself into holy orders, but it’s a touch beyond ironic. i would not live that way for god. i wouldn’t do it for the church. i would do it for me. i want the life to flower. rushing from thing to thing in my life is too hectic. there is no direction because there is no goal. if i could put on the robes, even for a few months, and let go of the world, of my connections and distractions and really listen to a sunset, taste a rainfall, drown in silence, i imagine i would be at peace.

there is too much in my life. too much furnature, too many books, too much sound and light and coffee. too much oxygen. far, far too many people.

in the navy, people called me reverend. they never asked what religion i was, or what my beliefs were because it wasn’t important. to them, i was a conduit through which they could express their own spirituality in comfort. if i said a prayer with them, they bowed their heads and felt it deeply. if i asked them what their problems were, it was a confession. that freedom for them was the most appropriate action for me. i was beyond my best, i was in my path. it wasn’t about religion. it was about spirituality and about the soul.

william penn once said, “true silence is the rest of the mind, and is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment.” i’ve been without true silence for so long, i’m beginning to forget the sound. even in my meditations it is getting harder and harder to quiet myself. i’ve never been in that position before, and it frightens me. it makes me want to take action, any action, to try and solve my situation. the future is vague.

fridays have been relaxing days for me recently. they are my days when i lay back and let everything go forward without me. i get little to nothing accomplished and never fault myself for it. saturday and sunday can be given over to hard work, but not my fridays. i will lay in bed, watch movies, television, listen to music, download exciting things and chat with people online. i love my fridays, even if they are too short.

when i came to indiana it was a short stop, in my mind, on the road to better things. i was here for a year, two at the most, then i’d be back to the east coast. i would meet up with those people who i was closest to, and we, with our new found degrees, would make a living there. we would play games together, hang out at bars and diners, and stay up into the night having talks about random movies. when i came to indiana, there was a different future ahead of me. it was a future in new jersey. it was a future with special people. that future is a memory now.

we all need our breaks. we need them especially if we are pushing ourselves beyond our normal limits. i’ve been pushing so hard for the past year i can barely look down and recognize my own body. i’ve taken a record number of credits in a semester, argued and pleaded with professors to let me take classes that weren’t even being offered. i have gone weeks without sleep. i’ve turned a second-rate laptop lab into a high-powered rendering farm because of absolute necessity. i’ve given debates, speeches, presentations, and reports in front of officials and administration i’ve never met nor heard of before. i most certainly need a break, but it wont happen. i’ll get a breather in a few weeks. it will be a stint between semesters, but nothing more. i gave myself over to this promise of completing the impossible, and for what? for a promise of a future that vanished while i was off to war.

i have never been dependable. i disappear all too often. i don’t get things done all the time. i take on more than i can chew. all of these things define me to people. no matter that i can accomplish ten times that of another person. pay no heed to the fact that i will literally destroy myself to get a project complete in the face of insurmountable odds. i crack. that’s all there is to it. it is all irrelevant. i am who i am. i will try too hard in some places and not hard enough in others. and some people will hold that against me forever.

i could write about all of this all day long. sometimes i think it would be helpful to do it. the way my mind works, i must spend half the day thinking the depressing thought that all of this is for nothing. i look in the eyes of people i know here, i see promise, hope, compassion, and a genuine plan that someday their lives will be better than they are today. they make decisions on that assumption. they choose who to spend time with, who to ignore, what drama to bitch about, and what lifestyle to live all based on that same optimism. i can’t spend too much time in that world. i constantly need an escape, back in my room, away and alone. i need to revitalize my own sense of being by brushing them all away. i wash my hands all the time, but my palms still sweat this blood.

i went downtown today. there is a pizza place on the outskirts of my familiar area that people were going to. they called me from the parking lot and told me to join them, even though it is a half hour away. i got dressed and joined them. after all, today is one of their birthdays. they were done eating by the time i arrived. we talked for a few minutes. i watched them play in the arcade for a few more minutes. then we left. i asked them what they were doing, but they had no farther plans. and so i went home.

there really isn’t anything i’m working towards anymore. i wanted to teach, but it is growing stale. i wanted to learn about fun exciting things, like video games, but it is wearing on me too. i wanted a life of love and companionship. it will come back to me, i’m sure, but today it is so far, it might as well be a star.

i slept early the past two nights. i slept early and woke up early. it was cleansing, cathartic. i hoped to do it more, but i stayed up late tonight talking. it was worth it, of course. any time you can trade sleep for secrets it is worth it. and the secrets i learned were good ones too. but i’ve always been a very solemn secret keeper, so i wont go into it more, not even on here (my secret & private journal).

i can recall the way she smelled in the car as soon as i sat down. the aroma was strongest on her hands, in her palms and wrists. i made some comment about palm reading and she let me examine them closely. i inhaled deeply, taking her farther and farther inside. she was floating there, smokey like a campfire, raw and emotional like a sweaty dream. she wore “rain” but i never smelled it. i bought the scent once to see if it would bring back memories. her smell was different. it was the natural smell of her body. her sister had a similar one, but never again have i smelled hers exactly.

despite secrets, pain continues. the more recent past is moving on quickly. the terms she already bestows on her new interest disgusts me, but i turn my head. she is gone for good. i wont speak with her again. that decision was the hardest.

in the wintertime we woke up early one day. school started at 7:20 normally, but that day we started 2 hours late. we took the opportunity. each of us woke up at 4:30, and i was picked up by 5. we toyed with the idea of an early morning diner, and later stopped off for coffee before classes began, but at first nature was calling us. we drove to the local branch library, small and unsatisfying in itself, it held the doorway to a park hidden in the trees. we knew about it, each of us, from different places. that was the first and only time we stopped there. we walked to a small stone bridge a quarter-mile inside the forest and sat on the edge overlooking a small waterfall. back then there were no railings on the bridge. we lay against the cold cement and bundled ourselves in our coats and against each other. her smell was strong, and so was the other’s. i was in the middle, soaking them in like the cold dampness all around me. i wont recall again what was said, what jokes were passed, or what people we talked about. i don’t recall ever opening my mouth. i remember the haze over the water, the early morning sounds of winter, and most of all, the smell of cold damp air mixed with the essence of those two who were closest to me in the world.

there are fond memories of all of them. they haunt me like uncountable ghosts, settling on my arm and revealing my lamentations. i used to cry myself to sleep every night, and vomit every morning. my sickness used to be skin deep.

last night i needed something creative to come out of me. i’ve been on the computer too much, doing too much, awake, just too much. i went to walmart and bought cheap watercolors, a palette and brushes and some very cheap paper. this is the result of the first one. i’m not very good with watercolors, but they are so wonderful to play with. i love the feeling they give in my hands and i love how they force themselves to come out.

in high school we played with watercolors. it was my worst medium and very frustrating. later i had help from a friend that showed me you could just use the paint differently than we’d be taught and have more control and fun. i still wasn’t very good, but i was albe to keep the paint on the canvas. it made me smile, then.

i think there will be more of these. maybe with digital emphasis, maybe without. it’s all in the air right now.

i had an idea for something creative. a comic-styled story with digital art, watercolor and pen & ink. the story would be about fate, elements, love, and above all, silence. i’ll continue working on it and perhaps this watercolor stuff will work out and be usable.

why do we do the things we do? a few hours ago, a friend left a message on my IM telling me that she had run into a very old friend of mine whom i haven’t talked to in over three years. she left me the other girl’s e-mail address too. i must have sat there staring at it for a solid five minutes before i could do anything.

when i met her in 1994, she was in the library at my high school. i can’t recall what book she had in her hands, but i can remember her face. that has always been important to me, since i don’t remember faces very well. she and her boyfriend were often around the library after that, and i made it a point to say hello when i saw them. i didn’t know her name yet, or anything about her, but that would change.

after a long debate with myself, i copied the address into my contacts folder in outlook… just in case. i stared at it there for another minute, though. it had been so long, i wasn’t sure i wanted it at this point. i had been quite happy out of contact, but these days are different. single again, and lacking in close friends, my desire for someone worthwhile in contact is strong. a weakness, perhaps.

in the fall, my sophomore year, i had a trip planned to borders (the bookstore) to see a local band play. a new friend from school said she’d take me there since she just got a car. she was older by a few years. when the car pulled into my driveway there were already four people in it. as i slid inside, i found myself squished against her, the mystery girl from the library. i can remember her smell, thick and bitter like dried coffee. i never knew anyone to have that smell, not even her sister.

i had wasted so much on that family, on her and her sister both. time, energy, love, all of it. i weighed and measured, and found it wasn’t worth it to continue. some loves aren’t meant to be, no matter how intense. i wanted to get away from them both, to push them into oblivion and never speak again. then, magically, randomly, her address is in my hands.

time grew my attraction for her, blossomed and refined it until i was ready to burst. and then, the twist of all fates put me into a relationship with her sister. i never desired it, not from the start. she was a watered down version, a second rate copy, struggling to be as wonderful, powerful, magical. don’t get me wrong, though. she was a fantastic girl, but it was comparing the moon to a photograph. why did i continue? why didn’t i stop it? i look at myself from that time and see another person. i have no access to the memories, thoughts, decisions. i see the actions and pity them, then pity myself.

i sent the e-mail a short while ago. it wasn’t flattering, nor powerful or even eloquent. it was a struggle to write and a struggle to click send. she will find no pleasure in reading it, but perhaps find a hint of my regrets, of my pain. i could have approached her differently. i could have worked my way back into her life. it was masochistic enough to send the mail as it was, let alone to have burrowed my way in the filth of that pain. perhaps that masochism will prove cathartic. or perhaps it will prove deadly.

i wonder if alcoholism is really a bad thing. i wonder because i fear there isn’t anything worth being sober for. my fears and anxieties materialize in mixed company, amidst a bar and karaoke with aquaintances. i sang a duet tonight only to be reminded of those i wish i’d left behind in highschool. i scream to myself to let loose from this immaturity and to cling to some hope of redemption through intellecutalism. instead, i am tempted to waste more time and spend more energy with those whom i left in the past long ago. i didn’t know them then, nor were they at my level, but none-the-less, they wait in my past for me now.

singing tonight was liberating, but not in the traditional sense. the music didn’t let me free, nor did the lyrics, but rather the atmosphere of the night. surrounded by smoking drunks and hopeful entertainers, i let loose of my cares, not on the level of embarrasment, but on the level of humanity. now i sit, caring not who spys me alone in my room, naked to the world.

i am torn between responsibility, possibility, and desire. two whom i fear might get together draw closer every day. i fear the relationship as i might fear a root canal, and yet i say little. they desire each other on some unknowing level, drawn towards disaster and pain. i know the truth, see it coming, and yet i am in no position to help them. do i know either well enough to stand up for it anyway? probably not. the pain will certainly help at least one. the other is too artistic and independant to suffer much. illogically, i worry.

free me from this hassle of mediocrity. let me return to a strong relationship with someone who understands me, who cares for me, and who values me for who i am. let me understand her importance too. and most of all, let us not argue in the pittance of conflict, but see eye-to-eye through the difficulties of life and struggle together. let me have a partner worthy of my admiration.

i am sick of the past, yet it haunts me with possibilities. i may call her again, but i wont say what i might say. let time take its path.

sitting in a cozy coffeehouse sipping down my favorite droughts and chatting over philosophy seems like a dream to me now, but not long ago that was how i lived my days. i can remember sitting with friends and playing go or chess and discussing philosophy, history, and fantasy. anything is fair game over a cup of java, especially when your greatest true worry is about the person you’re with. maybe it was a time of innocence for me, but that is irrelevant. it was my golden time, and that which i will fight to get back to.

people argued over whether destiny was real, or whether we had an infinite number of possibilities. i used to say it didn’t matter, since we would invariably choose only one path, and that path would become our past. i enjoyed the thought that destiny was there, but it was you that created it. i suppose the question we should have asked is whether that destiny had a set plan for us; i should have wondered whether our futures had a purpose. perhaps that is what some people think of as destiny after all.

a coffeehouse, like a bookstore, has certain types of people, and while varied in themselves, you can expect the same varying groups at almost any place you go to. the same is true of many things, i suppose. i can always find my past when i visit a diner in the middle of the night. and i can always see myself when i glance between the shelves of the metaphysical section, even if it is bare. just the other day i walked through the shelves at a local bookstore and noticed the smell immediately. although the rest of the store had the smell of new bindings and clean shelves, that small metaphysical section spelled heavily of patchouli. it brought a smile to me.

patchouli is one of very few scents that always bring back sweet memories. with white musk, the other fragrance, i’m transported back into a blue haze of happy thoughts. the scents were people to me at first, and then groups, and now they represent a time. i see individuals at there best and recall my best moments with them. i smell the hair of a girl i loved, the aroma of my friends car, the inside of my favorite hat, and a trip to the shore early in the middle of the night.

there is not time like the past, for it will always be there ever unchanging. it, unlike the future or present, will grow more wondrous and happy with time as the bad memories fade and leave only the happy thoughts. no, it is most certain that you can never go back there, and would never want to either, because to go back to the past would make it so much less. the past is flawless.

it seems so ridiculous to write a story of my day by day here, knowing no one is reading but me. i most certainly know what happened today, and frankly, in five years when i look back i definitely wont care. what i may care about, though, is how i was feeling around this time. i probably wont bother to even read a post about who said what to whom, nor will my attention be grabbed by the assortment of foods i was sucking down when my daily drama occurred.

i’m listening to a lot of folk music, old blues, and some ethereal (soundtrack-like) electronica. while not important in itself, it represents what i’m feeling and how my soul wants to cry out. art is an important gauge for me. it tells me how i am, and whether i should be concerned.

why do i do this? what possesses me, or drives the need in me, to write a journal out in public? i have plenty of paper journals where i could spill my mind and bottle it up again on a shelf, but they don’t feel freeing or helpful anymore. this is different somehow. there is a subtle relief in the possibility of someone pushing the random journal button and finding my self-commentary, reading it, and finding a connection. perhaps it’s a silly dream, like believing that a song could change the world, or maybe it’s just a crazy hope that there are still people out there who believe i’m worth their time.

this isn’t the first time i’ve had a livejournal. i have another that has a fairly large friends group and gets reliable responses. it’s not helpful either anymore. i write my day to days there, update silly things for friends i run into daily, and respond with witty cynicism to their entries. it all seems pointless though, being that we talk so often anyway. i know all the stuff they’re going to write about from talking with them in person or on the phone. sure there are a few exceptions, but those are mostly fringe friends or “friends of friends” who i’m not interested in very much anyway. i really want to spill my blood over the keyboard, but those people who listen right now are all the same. they’ll respond with concern and offer suggestions to make me feel better, just like is expected of them.

the thing is, i’m not looking for pity or attention. i don’t really care much for either of those. that’s one of the reasons i’m starting this journal instead of just writing it in my other one. i want anonymous companionship. i want whatever the internet can give me akin to a cheap one night stand, or even a silent mistress. just let the damned compassion die away and give me someone who will wallow with me and tell me that they “empathize” instead of “sympathize”. it can’t be that hard to find a person who would rather cry with me than console me.

`I’m sure I’m not Ada,’ she said, `for her hair goes in such long ringlets, and mine doesn’t go in ringlets at all; and I’m sure I can’t be Mabel, for I know all sorts of things, and she, oh! she knows such a very little! Besides, SHE’S she, and I’m I, and–oh dear, how puzzling it all is! I’ll try if I know all the things I used to know. Let me see: four times five is twelve, and four times six is thirteen, and four times seven is–oh dear! I shall never get to twenty at that rate! However, the Multiplication Table doesn’t signify: let’s try Geography. London is the capital of Paris, and Paris is the capital of Rome, and Rome–no, THAT’S all wrong, I’m certain! I must have been changed for Mabel! I’ll try and say “How doth the little– “’ and she crossed her hands on her lap as if she were saying lessons, and began to repeat it, but her voice sounded hoarse and strange, and the words did not come the same as they used to do:–

`How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

`How cheerfully he seems to grin,
How neatly spread his claws,
And welcome little fishes in
With gently smiling jaws!'

`I’m sure those are not the right words,’ said poor Alice, and her eyes filled with tears again as she went on, `I must be Mabel after all, and I shall have to go and live in that poky little house, and have next to no toys to play with, and oh! ever so many lessons to learn! No, I’ve made up my mind about it; if I’m Mabel, I’ll stay down here! It’ll be no use their putting their heads down and saying “Come up again, dear!” I shall only look up and say “Who am I then? Tell me that first, and then, if I like being that person, I’ll come up: if not, I’ll stay down here till I’m somebody else”–but, oh dear!’ cried Alice, with a sudden burst of tears, `I do wish they WOULD put their heads down! I am so VERY tired of being all alone here!'

In this section, Alice is beginning to doubt who she is. She wonders if she is, in fact, someone other than herself specifically… not just a different person in general. In the end, she decides that she must be Mabel, a less intelligent friend of hers. Now, there are other sections I could quote you, about how Alice farther suggests that she might be more than one person… such as a part where she remembers trying to box her own ears for cheating against herself in a game of croquet, but this first quote is the most important. In particular, pay attention to the line: ““I’ve made up my mind about it; if I’m Mabel, I’ll stay down” here!”. It has always been my thought that in the two person dichotomy of Alice, there is a split between the real world personality of Alice, and the wonderland personality of Mabel. Mabel is, in fact, the personality that stays, and not only interacts, but eventually controls wonderland. She is beyond control of even the Queen, and later, when she goes through the looking glass, not even the jabberwocky can pose a threat to her. Mabel is the power in Alice, a power which exists and resides permanently within the fantasy. It is her real strength, despite its containment within her psyche. It is an inner strength, a true inner strength personified, and while it is less intelligent than herself, it has a common sense that overwhelms the logical, the mundane, and sees past the predictability of a simple nursery rhyme. Mabel saw beyond all of it to a super-normal place where the innermost childish logic rang true, her desires became powerful potions… spells even, and the magic of her dreams was completely reality. Mabel’s power was in her imagination, but for her it was more than that. It was truth… mystical truth.

One day, I’d love to put all of this into a story… a book perhaps, or just a short fiction. I dunno… it’s one of those few original ideas I have that no one else seems to have noticed yet. Weird I guess. I never gave it a whole lot of thought before, beyond the basics. I guess the timing of it with Erin made it pop out at me. So… yeah. It’s halfway a commentary on how I feel these days, but I thought it might be a good story for this journal too.

Scripture quotations taken from the New American Standard Bible® Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation Used by permission.

• St. Ignatius Loyola – Spiritual Exercises, Second Annotation (1522-1524)
• O Come, O Come Emmanuel translation by John Neal
• St. Thérèse of Lisieux – Story of a Soul (1898)
• Mother Teresa, Letter to Rev. Michael van der Peet (1979)
• Saint John of the Cross - Dark Night I (1578-1579)
• Sister Lauren Franko O.P. - Radical Love (2009)
• Starhawk (Miriam Simos) - The Spiral Dance (1979)
• Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger (Now, Pope Benedict XVI) - Jesus of Nazareth (2007)
• Pope Benedict XVI - Saved In Hope (Spe Salvi) (2007)
• Rev. Mark O’Keefe, OSB - Priestly Virtues: Reflections on the Moral Virtues in the Life of the Priest (2000)
• Svetasvatara Upanishads - Juan Mascaro, Translation (1967)

Other Quotation Sources

• Aristotle as paraphrased by Sir Thomas Heath - Euclid’s “Elements”, Vol. I (~300BC)
• Voltaire - A Philosophical Dictionary (1764)
• Edmund Burke – On the Sublime and Beautiful (1757)
• William Shakespeare – Julius Ceasar (1599)
• Carl Reiner – “The Life and Love of Joe Coogan“, of The Dick Van Dyke Show (1964)
• Jorge Luis Borges – Limits (1958)
• John Locke – Essay Concerning Humane Understanding (II,XI,17) (1690)
• Holling Clancy Holling – Paddle-To-The-Sea (1941)
• Thomas Merton - Thoughts in Solitude (1956)
• Gabriel Garcia Marquez – One Hundred Years of Solitude (1967)
• Tracy Chapman - Fast Car (1988)
• Frank Darabont (Screenplay) – The Shawshank Redemption (1994)
• Ray Bradbury – All Summer in a Day (1954)
• Anaïs Nin - The Diary of Anaïs Nin, vol. I (1966)
• Lawrence Sail - Out of Silence (1995)Anaïs Nin - The Diary of Anaïs Nin, vol. I (1966)
• Edward Morgan Forster - Aspects of the Novel (1927)
• Andrew Wyeth - Quoted in an interview by Richard Meryman published in The Art Of Andrew Wyeth by Wanda M. Corn (1973)
• Christina Rossetti - A Prodigal Son (1902)
• Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner - The Gilded Age (1873)
• Edna St. Vincent Millay - Excerpt from Renascence (1917)
• Bill Walsh & Don DaGradi - Mary Poppins (Film) (1964)
• Thomas Fuller - Gnomologia: Adagies & Proverbs (1732)
• Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. - The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table (1858)
• Emil Ruder - Typography: A Manual of Design (1981)
• Christina Rossetti - De Profundis (1890)Emil Ruder - Typography: A Manual of Design (1981)
• William James - The Varieties of Religious Experience (1902)
• Plato - Timaeus (360BC)
• Percy Bysshe Shelly - Alastor! or The Spirit of Solitude (1815)
• Walt Whitman - Song of Myself (1856, 1860)
• Walt Whitman - Quotation from unknown sourceWalt Whitman - Song of Myself (1856, 1860)
• Chief Seattle - Letter to President Lincoln (1852)
• Jen Kennedy - Untitled (March 16, 1997)
• W.B. Yeats - Keats and Embarrassment (1949), Quoted in Christopher Ricks (1976)
• William Shakespeare - The Comedy of Errors (1592 - 1594)
• Lewis Carroll - Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland (1865)

• Cosmic Voyage
• God in All Things
• A Critical Hit
• Going Medieval

Do you have other suggestions? Send me a note.