Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Ever After...
Perelandra
"My fear was now of another kind. I felt sure that the creature was what we call "good," but I wasn't sure whether I liked "goodness" so much as I had supposed. This is a very terrible experience. As long as what you are afraid of is something evil, you may still hope that the good may come to your rescue. But suppose you struggle through to the good and find that it also is dreadful? How if food ...itself turns out to be the very thing you can't eat, and home the very place you can't live, and your very comforter the person who makes you uncomfortable? Then, indeed, there is no rescue possible: the last card has been played." - Perelandra, C.S. Lewis
What I really love about this quote is how it expresses the dichotomy of the Christian faith. Despite being a Sci-Fi book, C.S. Lewis has managed to "get on with it" and highlight a very real and very sensible notion - that our God is composed of both love, of which we all find comfort, and holiness, of which we all find uncomfortable.
What I really love about this quote is how it expresses the dichotomy of the Christian faith. Despite being a Sci-Fi book, C.S. Lewis has managed to "get on with it" and highlight a very real and very sensible notion - that our God is composed of both love, of which we all find comfort, and holiness, of which we all find uncomfortable.
Tuesday, January 22, 2013
Oh Why, Oh Why?
In the 2012 Summer, I decided to take an Argumentative Writing coure. My assignment was to compose a Rogerian style essay about a controversial topic while incorporating elements from Shakespeare's Othello. It was perhaps the most difficult essay I had ever attempted. And I really do mean attempted because I didn't finish it. At two in the morning, I finished what I was willing to turn in: a pleading for a better grade than a zero. I never wrote the rogerian essay. Instead, I wrote a little essay about my life and what went wrong entitle Oh Why, Oh Why? I hope you enjoy the first part.
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Long ago, but not too long ago, if you happened to be walking down an old quiet street near a catholic hospital, you might have spied a child being born. It wasn't unusual for children to be born at a hospital, for most children are hardly born anywhere else, neither was it unusual for hospitals to have fraternity wards where babies are placed in incubators. But what would have been unusual was if you were were walking down an old quite street near a catholic hospital on this particular night. It was a Wednesday night, a work night, with no time to spare for late night excursions to local hopstitals. Instead, you might have been with friends or family members celebrating the fall of another great empire. With glasses filled high, you should have been celebrating as all Americans do. This was the year 1991, the fall of the Soviet Union, the great clamour after the wintry wars, the year a child was born in a catholic hospital.
For whatever happened to that child, from there to now, will not be told in every detail and in every way - heaven knows it would take almost twenty-two years. But what will be told is how unusual his life was, and how it became tangled, and perplexed, and every other sort of unpleasantness you could muster to the front of your imagination. For it began early one morning during his 5th grade year.
"Logan!... No reply... "Logan!" ... No reply... "Logan!" ... still no reply. His mother came in slamming open the door and ripping the binds nearly off their hinges. For an obscure reason, as we may all know the nasty habit of an unwilling spirit near a fragile device, the clock at the bed-side had malfunctioned during the night. The alarm didn't sound and he was late for school.
In shorter time than it takes an angry mother to count to three, Logan was sitting at the breakfast table looking like a tornado through the prairie land. But he was eathing without another worry. Surely the storm was at it's eye. Was there no bus-stop to which he would, shortly, be frantically running? Was there not a bus drive who brought doughnuts every Wednesday or a teacher at the other end of the transit system by which little people were kept to tight schedules and packed classrooms? Nay, the only transit system was his sppon and his bowl of cereal. And if you ask me, they were quite efficient.
By breakfast's end, Logan should have been sitting with is classmates preparing to share his dreams of becoming something when he became an adult. His previous classmates wanted to be lawyers and doctors and teachers and firefighters and policement and everything to do with great services for the common good. But not Logan. Logan wasn't at school today, nor any other day that year, because in his fifth grade year his mother began teaching at home.
In the 6th grade year, opening his father's chemistry book, he didn't want to be a lawyer or a doctor or a teacher or a firefighter or a policeman or anytihgn to do with great services for the commond good. Logan wanted to be a physicist or a chemist. And what naturally attraced his attention wasn't the beginning of his book, where the safe metals and metloids could be found, it was the back where chapters started with Nuclear. The more complex they were, the more he wanted to learn. The more dangerous they were, the more he wanted to master. Perahps, it was best he wasn't at a school with packed classrooms and tight schedules. Perhaps, a slip of a wrist or a push of a schedule would send more than enough wind to rattle a paper's edge - and all the doughnuts would be burnt as well. For whatever purpose he was not at school, he was learning at home in a most unusual way.
But promise is a promise and, when I promise not to tell every detail, I mean to keep it. There was a long span between his 6th grade year and his college summer class where he expanded his mind and learned how the world didn't work. He learned commerce and how to have business talks with representatives of multi-million dollar companies - of course, between highschool exams. He traveled the United States and learned about the Civil War by the sites he walked. But the comings and goings of adventure between his elementary and college education is succumbed with too much detail. It was unusual, yes, but his college summer class is where his life ceased to be unusual and became tangled, and perplexed, and ever other sort of unpleasantness you could muster to the front of your imagination. His summer college class was fraught with essays.
He was not longer awaken with spontaneous explosions from his door and his eye's seared by he sudden burst of light. No one was yelling his name or counting to three - no one was awake. Instead, a small device near his bed-side miraculously began to work. For, miraculously, was the only way to describe the working of that clock. The sound was that static screech between channels. It was broken without hope. But every morning at 5:30am, between Monday and Thursday, Logan slumped out of bed and crawled to the shower. Not even tornadoes dance at this time.
The shower brought no comfort. Slouching the corner, face to the wall, he would fancy catching the lasts bits of sleep or preparing for the upcoming class. On his desk, in his room, he knew the essay wasn't complete. He knew any mad attempt to finish the last lines would end in failure, he knew his time was up. His life had ceased being unusual and became tangled, and perplexed, and every other srot of unpleasantness you could muster to the front of your imagination at 6:30am. But this is the story of a child born in an old catholic hopsital, on a Wednesday night, the year a great empire fell.
As a student, I know what's it's like when you see another essay deadline. You don't see completion, you don't see victory. You see something dark, and cold, and long nights, and early mornings, and an endless spiral to insanity. In short, it is universally agreed by the student body that essays are the bane to good health. But this insignificant body of "soon-to-be's" aren't the only ones. They are not alone against college professors. There are legions of psychologists and neuroscientists who agree that sleep deprivation, the leading side-effect to essays, alter emotional balances, increase a human's probability of being violent (emtionally and, potentially, physically), reduce cognitive reflexes, and reduces overall retention.
(To be continued...)
----------
Long ago, but not too long ago, if you happened to be walking down an old quiet street near a catholic hospital, you might have spied a child being born. It wasn't unusual for children to be born at a hospital, for most children are hardly born anywhere else, neither was it unusual for hospitals to have fraternity wards where babies are placed in incubators. But what would have been unusual was if you were were walking down an old quite street near a catholic hospital on this particular night. It was a Wednesday night, a work night, with no time to spare for late night excursions to local hopstitals. Instead, you might have been with friends or family members celebrating the fall of another great empire. With glasses filled high, you should have been celebrating as all Americans do. This was the year 1991, the fall of the Soviet Union, the great clamour after the wintry wars, the year a child was born in a catholic hospital.
For whatever happened to that child, from there to now, will not be told in every detail and in every way - heaven knows it would take almost twenty-two years. But what will be told is how unusual his life was, and how it became tangled, and perplexed, and every other sort of unpleasantness you could muster to the front of your imagination. For it began early one morning during his 5th grade year.
"Logan!... No reply... "Logan!" ... No reply... "Logan!" ... still no reply. His mother came in slamming open the door and ripping the binds nearly off their hinges. For an obscure reason, as we may all know the nasty habit of an unwilling spirit near a fragile device, the clock at the bed-side had malfunctioned during the night. The alarm didn't sound and he was late for school.
In shorter time than it takes an angry mother to count to three, Logan was sitting at the breakfast table looking like a tornado through the prairie land. But he was eathing without another worry. Surely the storm was at it's eye. Was there no bus-stop to which he would, shortly, be frantically running? Was there not a bus drive who brought doughnuts every Wednesday or a teacher at the other end of the transit system by which little people were kept to tight schedules and packed classrooms? Nay, the only transit system was his sppon and his bowl of cereal. And if you ask me, they were quite efficient.
By breakfast's end, Logan should have been sitting with is classmates preparing to share his dreams of becoming something when he became an adult. His previous classmates wanted to be lawyers and doctors and teachers and firefighters and policement and everything to do with great services for the common good. But not Logan. Logan wasn't at school today, nor any other day that year, because in his fifth grade year his mother began teaching at home.
In the 6th grade year, opening his father's chemistry book, he didn't want to be a lawyer or a doctor or a teacher or a firefighter or a policeman or anytihgn to do with great services for the commond good. Logan wanted to be a physicist or a chemist. And what naturally attraced his attention wasn't the beginning of his book, where the safe metals and metloids could be found, it was the back where chapters started with Nuclear. The more complex they were, the more he wanted to learn. The more dangerous they were, the more he wanted to master. Perahps, it was best he wasn't at a school with packed classrooms and tight schedules. Perhaps, a slip of a wrist or a push of a schedule would send more than enough wind to rattle a paper's edge - and all the doughnuts would be burnt as well. For whatever purpose he was not at school, he was learning at home in a most unusual way.
But promise is a promise and, when I promise not to tell every detail, I mean to keep it. There was a long span between his 6th grade year and his college summer class where he expanded his mind and learned how the world didn't work. He learned commerce and how to have business talks with representatives of multi-million dollar companies - of course, between highschool exams. He traveled the United States and learned about the Civil War by the sites he walked. But the comings and goings of adventure between his elementary and college education is succumbed with too much detail. It was unusual, yes, but his college summer class is where his life ceased to be unusual and became tangled, and perplexed, and ever other sort of unpleasantness you could muster to the front of your imagination. His summer college class was fraught with essays.
He was not longer awaken with spontaneous explosions from his door and his eye's seared by he sudden burst of light. No one was yelling his name or counting to three - no one was awake. Instead, a small device near his bed-side miraculously began to work. For, miraculously, was the only way to describe the working of that clock. The sound was that static screech between channels. It was broken without hope. But every morning at 5:30am, between Monday and Thursday, Logan slumped out of bed and crawled to the shower. Not even tornadoes dance at this time.
The shower brought no comfort. Slouching the corner, face to the wall, he would fancy catching the lasts bits of sleep or preparing for the upcoming class. On his desk, in his room, he knew the essay wasn't complete. He knew any mad attempt to finish the last lines would end in failure, he knew his time was up. His life had ceased being unusual and became tangled, and perplexed, and every other srot of unpleasantness you could muster to the front of your imagination at 6:30am. But this is the story of a child born in an old catholic hopsital, on a Wednesday night, the year a great empire fell.
As a student, I know what's it's like when you see another essay deadline. You don't see completion, you don't see victory. You see something dark, and cold, and long nights, and early mornings, and an endless spiral to insanity. In short, it is universally agreed by the student body that essays are the bane to good health. But this insignificant body of "soon-to-be's" aren't the only ones. They are not alone against college professors. There are legions of psychologists and neuroscientists who agree that sleep deprivation, the leading side-effect to essays, alter emotional balances, increase a human's probability of being violent (emtionally and, potentially, physically), reduce cognitive reflexes, and reduces overall retention.
(To be continued...)
Monday, November 5, 2012
Simple Sadness ~ Why Readers Appreciate a Simply Sad Tale
I've always wanted to write a story about a young woman who had a late night dinner with Christ. A simple tale about child love and adult regret. But time has impaired me, so I intend to give it away as an example to a greater truth. Who knows, one day another may finish it for me.
The tale goes like this. A long time ago when America was younger, a time as C.S. Lewis described as having the most mouth watering candy around. A time where everything was a bit more beautiful because everything was a bit more central. A time Prayer was still in school and the farm-houses were still found in the rolling grasslands, but still a time not entirely worth describing because it would leave the reader too depressed to finish the story.
In this most common setting we find an even more common situation - a most unpleasant woman. She wore dresses that were too small and shoes that were too big. Her skin was too pale, even for distress, and her eyes wore a teary shroud. But everyone knew her for her golden hair. This was perhaps the only bright and most decent thing about her.
She would spend her days having tea with her self and spend nights cutting the memories from her arms. She loved her parents, and her love was killing her.
The night came where she slipped a note beneath her aunt's and uncle's door, swept down the stairs, out across the lawn, to sit at a table and wish the moon and the stars farewell. Smiling to herself, she knew she would seem them again. The table was prepped, the knife glinted in her hand. But death has a way to give a last word.
She was startled by the sound of crunching leaves. And before I describe anything more, I must say the conversation that passed between them is the only privacy allowed to my story. However, there is something I would like to share. Just before I drew the curtains on this shadowy tale, something was said. Something simple.
He saw here wrists. Each furrow strummed to the harmony of sorrow and pain. Each rivet burrowed to the cries of the heart.
"I just want it to stop." her eyes beginning to swell, " just for it to stop."
And the man reached forward, laying out both of his arms, "So do I." She saw the holes and began to cry."
Writing is a delicate matter. If you stress sadness, you only stress the readers. The truth is sad enough, there's no reason to tell anyone why it's sad.
The tale goes like this. A long time ago when America was younger, a time as C.S. Lewis described as having the most mouth watering candy around. A time where everything was a bit more beautiful because everything was a bit more central. A time Prayer was still in school and the farm-houses were still found in the rolling grasslands, but still a time not entirely worth describing because it would leave the reader too depressed to finish the story.
In this most common setting we find an even more common situation - a most unpleasant woman. She wore dresses that were too small and shoes that were too big. Her skin was too pale, even for distress, and her eyes wore a teary shroud. But everyone knew her for her golden hair. This was perhaps the only bright and most decent thing about her.
She would spend her days having tea with her self and spend nights cutting the memories from her arms. She loved her parents, and her love was killing her.
The night came where she slipped a note beneath her aunt's and uncle's door, swept down the stairs, out across the lawn, to sit at a table and wish the moon and the stars farewell. Smiling to herself, she knew she would seem them again. The table was prepped, the knife glinted in her hand. But death has a way to give a last word.
She was startled by the sound of crunching leaves. And before I describe anything more, I must say the conversation that passed between them is the only privacy allowed to my story. However, there is something I would like to share. Just before I drew the curtains on this shadowy tale, something was said. Something simple.
He saw here wrists. Each furrow strummed to the harmony of sorrow and pain. Each rivet burrowed to the cries of the heart.
"I just want it to stop." her eyes beginning to swell, " just for it to stop."
And the man reached forward, laying out both of his arms, "So do I." She saw the holes and began to cry."
Writing is a delicate matter. If you stress sadness, you only stress the readers. The truth is sad enough, there's no reason to tell anyone why it's sad.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Time, and again...
"The greatest teacher of economics is Time."
There are two are two images that come to mind when I think of time. First, a place. There is always a place in time. And too often people try to take it with them. Perhaps it was a moment with a child at a playground or a coversation with a friend over the phone. But when they take it, to relive again, they forget what made it beautiful is that it happend then and not now. What made it unforgettable was that it wasn't always there. And perhaps the greatest beauty is found in pain because it shows one cared. And the Second, a saturation. Time will cease to exist, but our memories will continue. Life is a gift of God, a constant revelation of His beauty and His creation. And when we remember these two things, I believe we begin to understand the Apostle Paul when he said, "To live is Christ, and to die is gain."
~ Emily Dickinson, Because I could not stop for Death
There are two are two images that come to mind when I think of time. First, a place. There is always a place in time. And too often people try to take it with them. Perhaps it was a moment with a child at a playground or a coversation with a friend over the phone. But when they take it, to relive again, they forget what made it beautiful is that it happend then and not now. What made it unforgettable was that it wasn't always there. And perhaps the greatest beauty is found in pain because it shows one cared. And the Second, a saturation. Time will cease to exist, but our memories will continue. Life is a gift of God, a constant revelation of His beauty and His creation. And when we remember these two things, I believe we begin to understand the Apostle Paul when he said, "To live is Christ, and to die is gain."
To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. What profit hath he that worketh in that wherein he laboureth? I have seen the travail, which God hath given to the sons of men to be exercised in it. He hath made every thing beautiful in his time: also he hath set the world in their heart, so that no man can find out the work that God maketh from the beginning to the end. I know that there is no good in them, but for a man to rejoice, and to do good in his life. And also that every man should eat and drink, and enjoy the good of all his labour, it is the gift of God.~ King Solomon, Ecclesiastæs
Because I could not stop for Death,He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labour, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school where children played,
Their lessons scarcely done;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then 'tis centuries; but each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Prince Charming ~ A Fairy Tale
A man once proclaimed Prince Charming doesn't exist. In the act of tearing down the exotic hedonist temple, he tried to do what no man has ever done - not even Prince Charming - to salvage the man without the soul. For it never once occured that there was such a thing as Prince Charming not because he failed to exist, but that he existed so often and so wonderfully it was inevitable. What I mean to say is this: the greatest attack on human virtue has come by the abolishment of Prince Charming and the desolation of Sleeping Beauty.
At the root of a problem there is always a conundrum of storytelling too quickly disimissed. In the story of Prince Charming we find a man facing a dragon that at every twist and turn is ready to consume his flesh and strip his bones. We find a man who cannot take, but must over-come. And in the darkest hour his triumph comes from an otherworldly commitment, a sprinkle of magic we're still puzzling our puzzler to understand. Prince Charming isn't charming because he's perfect, he's perfect because he is a prince and is still charming.
However, in the destruction of our consumate temple we have lost our prize, the pinnicle of our resolution: an unfeigned woman. Our humble beginnings brings us to humble endings. In the morning twilight we find a woman. Her beauty is unbudded, her virtue is unfelt, but her life is yet complete. As the prince sits by her side, stretching out to awaken her for the first time, he can only understand that while she is yet asleep her soul is the most wonderful creature he has ever known, and when she awakes her spirit will be forevermore.
But at the heart of every fairy tale is the paradox that ruined us all - That while we were yet sinners, Christ died. A commitment was fullfilled by otherworldly powers, sprinkled by magic that has puzzled our puzzler. And as the bride of Christ we wait, unfeigned, before the sacrifice of Christ. But perhaps the greatest tale we have ever told was Prince Charming and Sleeping Beauty. While we wait, we hope. And while we hope, we remember that everything worth keeping was never some thing but always virtue.
At the root of a problem there is always a conundrum of storytelling too quickly disimissed. In the story of Prince Charming we find a man facing a dragon that at every twist and turn is ready to consume his flesh and strip his bones. We find a man who cannot take, but must over-come. And in the darkest hour his triumph comes from an otherworldly commitment, a sprinkle of magic we're still puzzling our puzzler to understand. Prince Charming isn't charming because he's perfect, he's perfect because he is a prince and is still charming.
However, in the destruction of our consumate temple we have lost our prize, the pinnicle of our resolution: an unfeigned woman. Our humble beginnings brings us to humble endings. In the morning twilight we find a woman. Her beauty is unbudded, her virtue is unfelt, but her life is yet complete. As the prince sits by her side, stretching out to awaken her for the first time, he can only understand that while she is yet asleep her soul is the most wonderful creature he has ever known, and when she awakes her spirit will be forevermore.
But at the heart of every fairy tale is the paradox that ruined us all - That while we were yet sinners, Christ died. A commitment was fullfilled by otherworldly powers, sprinkled by magic that has puzzled our puzzler. And as the bride of Christ we wait, unfeigned, before the sacrifice of Christ. But perhaps the greatest tale we have ever told was Prince Charming and Sleeping Beauty. While we wait, we hope. And while we hope, we remember that everything worth keeping was never some thing but always virtue.
Sunday, August 26, 2012
A Late Night Journal Post ~ Aug. 26th 1:34am
Several nights ago, I was sitting at my desk wondering what my life would
become. It was quiet sad because life's greatest questions shouldn't
come after ever other possible endeavor: I had watched all my
favourite YouTube clips (which I must admit are few), my books didn't
quiet hit the spot (which is rare), and nobody was on facebook (By
now, I knew something was wrong). My brother was asleep and, as for
all I know, the only sounds were him sawing logs and a weird cat
screaming outside my bedroom window. It was a lonely night as I fiddled my
hands and stared at the ceiling.
But
then, this crazy idea stepped down into my room. So crazy, there's no
way I'm writing it down. I jumped out of my chair and began piecing
bits together. It was so true, but so unspeakable. So real, but so
bizarre. All at once it explained, but all at once it shrouded. That
night, I fell asleep wondering if my life could become something new.
A few
weeks later, a friend skyped me late at night. We had our typical
introductory remarks – jokes and what not. But suddenly, the
conversation became serious. He said he had a business plan for me.
And as I leaned back into my chair, my friend said, “I have this
crazy idea.”
It's weird how God works.
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