MissingGoat

Natural Selection, Thou Shalt Die

2010-04-01T16:27:00.000-07:00

Environmentalism seems to me to be a fundamentally Christian position.

There is, of course the issue of Earth worship, and that as Christians, we should care for the world God has given us, not for its own sake, but because it has been delegated to us by God.

I just finished reading Darwin's Origin of Species, and it got me to thinking. Evolution (that is, Natural Selection) is an inherently Just philosophy: those who are successful (according to the standard of fitness) survive, while the losers die out. This is a universe that is run by works-righteousness/survival.

In environmentalism, however, we play God. Not as usurpers, but as representatives. God has given us this Earth as a responsibility. As delegates of Christ, and Lords of nature, we have been given the privilege of imitating our Lord, who extended his grace to us, in the face of ruthless Justice, by interrupting the course of Natural Selection.

Though justice and fitness are still essential elements of our administration of conservation of nature, we have the ability to fly in the face of species-wide death, and extend grace. Death, thou shalt die. Save the whales, save the owls, save the Panda bears. But not for their own sake (though they benefit from it), but for our own glorification, as executors of God's estate, and, ultimately, for His own glory.

Grassy Glory

2010-01-31T22:59:00.000-08:00

I wrote this little short story today, after an equally little brainstorming session. It's really only half-baked, so tell me what I should change if you have any suggestions. And, I would like to mention that the poem in this is not mine. It is Walt Whitman's.

A hazy summer world, obscured by heat and sun, airborne pollen, and a smudged bedroom window touched the vision of a fourteen-year-old boy with broken glasses, but received no response. Wilfred, more bookish than boyish, had turned his chair toward the wall, to shun the heaving breath of the outside world, the better to peruse Wordsworth's lines. His desk, and the window, stood to his left, his bed to his right, his door and closet behind him, and a wall, sparsely decorated as only a fourteen-year-old boy's wall can be, sat, staring in front of him. A slightly torn comic book cover featuring an early rendition of Captain America hung from a strip of scotch tape, next to a caricature of him and his sister from their family's Disneyland vacation the year before. There weren't any lights on in the room; the orange glow cast by the noonday sun and reflected by Wilfred's plain white walls covered the carpet and pages of his book, like Wilfred's thick winter quilt. It had been discarded that spring, and lay inert now, on the floor.

TO the garden, the world, anew ascending,
Potent mates, daughters, sons, preluding

Wilfred's eyes dropped, looking past the page, into its bleached wood grain white. And beyond his door, he heard his mom calling for him. “Willy! C'mon and mow the lawn!” Wilfred twisted his neck towards the window, looking through it at his street. Two little girls were playing hopscotch, and a ten-year old boy was catching crickets in the grass. The lawn didn't look too long. Maybe Wilfred could persuade his mother to let him off the hook. But, just across the street, a mower was running. A faint hum was all Wilfred could hear of the roar of the gas engine, as its fire devoured any blade of grass that had grown too proud. That clinched his fate. It was a clear day; the grass was dry, and the neighbors were already doing it. But Wilfred couldn't breathe. Just thinking about going outside into the haze and the sweaty air, becoming the agent of the slaughter of thousands of blades of grass, made his throat constrict. He heard the distant grumble of their neighbor's lawn-cutter, and the screams of the grass. Dropping his book Wilfred saw the marks his suddenly moist fingers had made on the pages. He stumbled towards his door, and down the stairs to the kitchen, hoping his mother wouldn't ask again, but only able to think of getting a glass of water before his throat became permanently stuck to itself. He reached the kitchen sink, and poured himself a cold drink. Wilfred emptied it into his mouth, grateful in the extreme for indoor plumbing. But as he turned around, an invisible shoelace tightened around his throat. His mother stood in the doorway, casually sweeping the floor. Without even looking at Wilfred she asked, “Are you going to do the lawn now, then?”
Wilfred stared at the side of her head, eyes wide in horror. He couldn't go out there. The pressure of the heavy, wet air leaning on his shoulders would kill him. But there was even more at stake. How could he take his own two hands, hands best suited to holding the dry pages of a book, and cut down the lives of a horde of faceless green children? But he knew there was no use in protesting. His mother would have her way; she always did. His room was clean, save for the quilt on the floor, his school work was finished. The lawn would be mowed. But those children would cry. And he would hear them.
Trudging toward the back woodshed, the September sun beat Wilfred's neck like a bullwhip. He cringed under its heat, feeling his skin burning and his muscles melting. He dragged the monstrous metal lawnmower from the tool shed, and pulled it to the front yard. And began cutting. It was an ancient guillotine, stained with the lymph of millions of souls past. And as the blades turned, the snapping and popping of the healthy grass filled Wilfred's ears, untempered by the roar of a motor, cutting off

The love, the life of their bodies, meaning and being.

Wilfred strained against the handles of the tyrannous old machine, wishing he could hold back and spare those he trod underfoot, but spurred on by duty. The cool moisture held in the green plants was spilled over and again, as the metal blade Wilfred urged forward split leaf from root, fiber from cell. The lawn was a graveyard, where the children of the dead eked out a living on the remnants of their fathers, reaching toward the hope of a sunny sky, but always stifled, broken, silenced. Again Wilfred's eyes glazed over, this time from the effort, the effort of silencing his soul as it cried out against the wholesale slaughter of so humble a people. Rain began to fall on Wilfred, thick, sticky black tar. It covered the grasses, burying them mercifully beneath a blanket of silence and obscurity. It blocked out the sun, turning it into a gray circle in the sky. It covered Wilfred's eyes, as his hands slipped from the mower's handle, and he slipped out of consciousness.

* * *
Wilfred awoke to a cool breeze caressing his face. He stirred, rustling the blanket of leaves he lay beneath. Reaching up to his eyes, he wiped the sleep from his vision, revealing several half-bare young maple trees standing around him. Wilfred sat up, wincing as his back creaked and groaned with the weight of a very long sleep. It was Autumn.

Curious, here behold my resurrection, after slumber;
The revolving cycles, in their wide sweep, have brought me again,
Amorous, mature—all beautiful to me—all wondrous

Wilfred looked around him, and saw the mower, right where he had dropped it during summer. But no longer was it a slick, oiled cutting mechanism; the ball bearings had rusted and the blade no longer turned. More time had passed than just a few weeks. Fourteen-year old Wilfred reached up to his face, encountering a long, scraggly beard. Looking in bewilderment past the wreckage of the lawn mower, Wilfred saw his house. The paint had peeled, a window was broken, the path up to the door was riddled with cracks. The abandoned house stood crumbling. And all around it, the grass stood tall. Wilfred rose to his feet, suddenly at peace.

My limbs, and the quivering fire that ever plays through them, for reasons, most wondrous;
Existing, I peer and penetrate still,
Content with the present—content with the past.

There was no death here; there never had been. The grass was not an oppressed people; it had simply bowed to its ruler. They had humbled themselves, deepening their roots all the time, and when the time came, they had sprung up higher than ever before. And they were free. The time of giving was over, they could finally grow tall and reach up towards the overcast sky, to the sun and the clear rain from which they derive their life. Wilfred brushed the leaves off his shoulders and walked towards the front door, to find some of his father's old razors. He had no qualms about shaving, for, though he was cutting their lives short, he was doing them no harm; he and his whiskers were no different from the grass.

By my side, or back of me, Eve following,
Or in front, and I following her just the same.

I think it'll look alright

2009-11-30T13:47:00.000-08:00

Here I am, sitting on the stairs to my apartment. It is 45 degrees in here, and I'm wearing a sweater. My roommates are all in class and will be for another ten minutes. I have finally managed to lock myself out of my own apartment. I knew it would happen eventually. The string I put on my key didn't even help. Because that string would ideally have to be connected to something. Like my neck. Or my ankle. That way, if I were shot, you could identify me by the key around my ankle. Or neck.

There is a broom in here with me. It is a fairly friendly broom. Tried to lick me when I came in. Barked at me a couple times. Likes a good back rub. Or a rub between its ears. I'm not totally sure where its ears are. Boy I hope whatever I'm scratching between are in fact its ears. It has yellow fronds. Straws? Whiskers? Not totally sure what you would call them. I would call them whiskers. Since obviously this broom seems to be some kind of dog who needs to be kissed by a princess. Or maybe another dog.

Thank God for internet. All else I have with me to keep me busy is a Latin book. With no Latin dictionary attached. I tried reading it for a while. But I am no longer doing so. I'm just not that good. So now I'm on my computer. But, ach, and finagle, my fingers are getting cold. They're seizing up. My body is getting cold. My legs are shaking. Funny how that works. Good thing my fingers don't shake when they get cold. You would likely be reading something more like ehsy hspprnd ehrn you puy yout lrgy hsnf obrt yo yhr tihhy onr kry. Try decoding that. There is a simple formula. It's a cooooooode. Also, if you end up able to decode it, it will tell you how to decode it. Fairly redundant. Circular even. But true. I'm the man behind the curtain. Or in this case, the blog. Hm. Blog curtains. I should add some...

I've been here about 2 hours now. Not long to wait.

Thanksgiving was good thanks. FIRST I hung out with Brijae. We watched Yes Man and put a fake mustache on her dad while he was asleep. SECOND I had Joe and Tyler over to play Age of Empires. Classic. Then Joe and I went to Carter's apartment and smoked pipes and played poker with Randy and Mark and his other roommates. Third (Caps lock gets tiring) (Not really) (okay well, it's a handy shortcut, but one more button to push), I watched a couple of chick flicks with the girls from my high school class. Some things never change. Not the chick flicks, them. FOURTH (the strenuous muscle activity of hitting CAPS LOCK generates body heat), my fam fam went over to my fam fam's house (immediate, then extended) for Thanksgiving dinner. We didn't pray. Grumpy. Plus, we don't really relate very well (GUFFAW)(we're relatives) so I just ended up sitting around waiting for us to leave. FIFTH Jon and I went to Bainbridge Island (Brainbidge?) to hang out with Emily and Al(l?)ie. Long drive. Tons of fun. Jon took the ferry back to S town. SIXTH my family went to my 'cousins'' house (they are but they really aren't) and played games all flippin day. SEVENTH I hitched a ride back to Moscow with Sarah. Then we went to Chuck's and watched up. Awesome awesome turtles. What a week. I am thankful. Even though, yes, my butt hurts. Stairs are not couches.

Well, I just got a call. From Noah. He has keys and feet, which is all it will take for him to get here in just about 15 minutes. Keep buttoned, friends.

The Thunder of Elephants

2009-11-19T17:48:00.000-08:00

I don't know about you all, but I really enjoyed this weeks Livy reading. I had wondered since 3rd grade how it could be that both Aeneas and Romulus founded Rome. Well, apparently, Romulus was a descendant of Aeneas, and he was the founder of the city itself. I learned so much about the history of Rome. It is rich and fascinating; the diversity of politics and mythology and drama is riveting. At least for me. My favorite part of it was the battle of Cannae in book 22, chapters 44-51. The way Livy described the battle and the men dying on the battlefield afterwards, the complete carnage of the event was so powerful, I decided to write a sonnet on it.

The clouds rolled back but thunder scorched the sky
And dust of war, as darkness grim and fell
Unmasked the hearts of men. They hoped to fly
But courage, honor, duty, led them well,

And strong was Hannibal their god and fear
And set was Paulus, Roman, fierce and firm,
And with him Varro, vi et arma near
In Cannae. Blood soon fed both grass and worm.

The Spaniards white and Gallics nude,
Along with beasts of Carthage madly struck
The shields of hastatorum nicked and crude
And taken, in the end, by fate and luck.

At first the clash of Zeus' bolts, and then,
Red land and gurgles quiet, undone men.

More Than Star Trek

2009-05-14T22:05:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I know I haven't posted here in a good long nice sweet good ol while. But it's hardly to have been helped. Well, it could have, I've actually been working on writing two different books in my free time. On is a choose your own adventure novel... On drugs. Just for fun. The other is a bit more serious and, well, you'll just have to read it when and if it ever comes out. Here's a sample of the choose your own adventure:

His shadowed, deformed face, hovering in your squishy brain, you reach the 13^th step, and manage not to trip, have a stroke, or experience any other kind of disaster. You shift all your groceries (paper, not plastic. Except when it's raining) to your left arm as you reach with your right arm into your left pocket to get your keys. This was not well thought out. You readjust and retry. Somehow, now that you are reaching with your left arm, your keys are in your right pocket. You readjust and retry again. That's better. You insert the key into the lock, and turn it. Behind the door, where you expected darkness, silence, and a slight damp musky smell, is light, non-silence, and the usual musk. You had almost forgotten! It's your birthday! It had occurred to you this morning, as you rolled, half asleep, out of bed. But once into your usual Tuesday routine, you didn't give it a second thought. Now you do. You look around, an astonished smile on your face (it wasn't expecting this), and see Jeremy, Lenny, and... well, Lenny. That's all your friends, really. You don't get out much.

Anyhow, that's what I've been up to the last few months, aside from a few life-altering events and working my tail off at NSA. But tomorrow is my last final for my freshman year. An exciting prospect. And you know what the end of freshman year means, right? Well, yes, a summer job (I'll likely be working in Alaska on a floating barge as a fish processor), sure, and, okay yeah less homework, though I'll be working on Latin over the summer and reading some theology, but what I really wanted to say the end of freshman year was about was, watching Star Trek at a cheap theatre with seats devoid of a reclining option. I don't mean to say that they don't recline (which would be quite reasonable); that's all they do. The entire movie was great, except for the fact that I was sitting in the lap of the guy behind me. And I wouldn't wish that on anyone.

But I would wish the movie on anyone. Well, maybe not anyone, but it was nifty, let me tell you. I went into it thinking hard. How did it compare to the old one? Was it modern? Was it postmodern? Were the Christian references effective or an excuse to get Christians to watch it?

Spoiler alert!

Well, where to start? The movie was excellent, but it was not Star Trek, at least not the original series. At least this is what I though at first. But let me just take you through my though process first. The original series was extremely Modern: there was a constant clash between Spock's Logic and Kirk's emotion, and Spock's Logic always seemed to win out. The older series essentially worshipped reason. Indeed, the very premise (to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before) is overtly Modern: it is centered on Man and his ability to find truth, effect meaningful change, and progress. Wheras, the new Star Trek was overtly Postmodern. The elder Spock at one point tells his younger self, "Just do whatever feels right." This is/are vulcan/s we're talking about. They don't say that. Diversity of races, inherent goodness (the Romulans were just peaceful miners gone bad), and existential self-finding were the themes of the new Star Trek. It was a complete departure from the original series in worldview and philosophy.

By the way, I feel I should mention here my biggest qualm with the movie, that is, their weak concession to Christianity. The original Captain was named Christopher, and he gave himself willingly to the Romulans and Nero (Rome) for his people. A beautiful portrayl of a Christ figure. But don't give them too much credit. Christ figures are hard to avoid, as they pop up all over history and literature. And this explicit Christian reference does not negate the overall postmodern (in other words, anti-orthodox Christian) bent of the movie.

Anyway, I maintain that despite the Postmodern point of view, it was perfectly in the spirit of the old series; even more so than if it had been made from a Modern point of view. And not only because of the perfect execution of the old jokes ("I'm givin it all she's got cap'n!" "I owe you one." "Set phasors to stun!" Crazy character development. Inconsistent sci-fi plot devices. Slutty space girls. Asking the deep questions. And all this was acheived perfectly, complemented by the cutting edge cinematography). The writers of the movie put in a very, very, very, very, very clever out. They're working in a paralell universe. Spock from the original show's universe comes back in time, with the Romulans, and changes some things. These things happen to shape the characters into adopting a postmodern mindset, rather than the modern one they had on the show. But remember, this is a divergent universe. So, instead of a prequel, we have a paralellquel on our hands. So, instead of doing violence to the characters, it is in perfect keeping with them. Spock is the catalyst to shaping their worldviews, as he comes back. Even the old Spock is not changed; he fully admits the need to change from Logic to existentialism.

So, my verdict is that this movie is BRILLIANT. It is perfectly consistent with the original, but steps beyond it in the biggest way possible. And in doing so, it has accurately described the progression of American and world culture from modernism to postmodernism. Now, of course you must remember that it does endorse Postmodernity, which is something Christians should shun. But, as long as you remember that it does not arrive at the complete answer, it is an amazing movie. Words really cannot describe. I'ma go buy it sometime. Woot.

Anyhoo, hope that wasn't too rambling for you. And thank you Charles and David for helping me develop my ideas on it a bit.

I think I'm going to go to bed now. It's been good.

Spheres of Existence

2008-11-23T22:56:00.000-08:00

Well, here I am, back home. Odd to call it home, though I suppose it is that. It is where I was raised, where I lived for 17 odd years, it has my parents and sister, the people who largely made me who I am. And yet, despite this 20 ton weight on the scales of my life, directing my history to my present self, it seems to have very little do do with me now. Yes, of course, I would be nothing without the Greater Seattle Area and the people contained therein. But if it all went out away, winked completely out of existence, I wouldn't disappear. I would carry on, as I always have, but with a different set of friends, geography, and general environment. I am an individual, and although I do carry everything I have ever seen and experienced inside of me, I am independent of those things. Don't get me wrong, of course I want to preserve those relationships at home; I'm not going to ditch my parents, friends, all that. But now I have something more than that spiderweb of relation. I am now a spider with multiple webs; Home to me is not just Woodinville Mom Dad Becky Providence Trinity YMCA anymore. Home is just as much Moscow Burnetts Anthony Jon David Steve Ashley Appel Wilson NSA Christ Church.

For eighteen years, I have been a worm living in an apple. I have made occasional venures outside, onto other limbs, visited other apples. But now I live in an entirely separate tree. I have crossed from my former home, using the mesh of connections between it and my new place. I've found a homey looking apple and settled in. How long I will stay, I cannot say. It could be only two years, or it could be the rest of my life. But it is my new home nonetheless. I do continue to commute between trees via the many branches that coincide between them. My dad's property in Kamiah. Maggie and Jerry Owen. The CREC. Caleb Halverson, the Hatchers, Gregg Kniss. Sarah Sakai. The connections between my two homes are many. It's mind-blowing how often they appear out of nowhere. The other night I was having dinner at some classmates' house, and it turned out that the lady they live with happens to have lived in Woodinville once upon a time.

That was quite a fun meal: Anthony, David, Jon and I, went to have dinner with Kathleen, Meg, and Ashley. Delicious chicken fried steak, potatoes, and ice cream. I didn't really know what to expect, but I do know we all had more fun than was expected. Maybe it would be a nice social night. By dinner's end, I was laughing uncontrollably. McMeg! Jon McBurnett! Why? McThursday! McPotatoes! Chicken Fried McSteak! McRidiculous! I dropped three knives. Two of them into a dish full of gravy, the third into my lap.

Anyway, before I get carried away, I wanted to ask, what is home? There are a lot of ways to think about it: the place you spend the most time, the place where the people you love most are, the people you love most themselves. I think I hold a slightly broader view of home than these. Home for me is the house in Woodinville, the Burnetts' House, Providence, the YMCA, NSA, One World Cafe, Moscow itself, Kamiah itself, the house near it. Obviously I have limited the examples to geographical places. But what makes each one a home? I honestly don't know. In each I am comfortable, familiar, content. But I don't mean to say that home is defined by emotions alone. If this was true, Rachel's house would be my home. The beach on Oahu would be my home. But these aren't my home. If I was in prison, would this be my home? In one sense, yes. But in another, no. I don't belong in prison. Nobody does, not even criminals. Sure, they are required to stay there, but there is somewhere for them, somewhere where they truly belong. All people, no matter their state belong with their family, with their life, with their God.

I'm at home, when I feel like I'm at home. Home is an extremely vague, subjective idea. There are countless meanings to it. So parents, don't take it hard when your college kids refer to their college dorm as home. Remember that no matter how much that dorm becomes a home to them, your house, your home will always be their home.

So here I am, at home. Ironic, innit, that I have a lot of homework to do? I really will be doing it at home! 400 miles from where it was assigned! It was a long drive. I got to know Alec a bit better though, so I'm quite pleased. I also finished reading the best book ever. No, no I don't think I'll tell you the title. You are not worthy to know. I am not worthy to know, in fact. Yet I do. Hm. I cuppose (like how I spelled that with a c?) I could make an exception. Flowers for Algernon. Yeah. Best book ever. I won't spoil it for you. I'll limit my summary to this: heart-wrenching. Mind-twisting. Gut-jerking. Amazing. There ya go. Nice lil book review eh? No, not really.

Last night was odd. Lately at school, I've been getting to know the Covenantal position on theology more and more. My parents were dispensationalists, but they sent me to a reformed school and we went to a reformed church. Now I'm attending a (very) reformed college. Last night I went to a thoroughly dispensationalist Bible study. We opened by singing popular folky Christian praise songs, with guitar accompaniment and not a scrap of sheet music. A short discussion would follow each song concerning which song would be sung next. I piped up and offered to teach them a Dr. Erb composition:

Praise the Lord all ye nations

Praise him all ye peoples

For his merciful kindness

Is great towards us

And the truth of the Lord endureth forever

Praise ye the Lord (3x)

What an immense contrast between that and what we had been singing. The rest of the evening went in a similar vein. We popped in a DVD of Chuck Missler on Genesis, in particular Genesis 13-20, concerning Abraham. The study was startlingly different from what I had become used to over the last few months. The key difference, if I have been paying attention to my classes, between Dispensationalism and Covenant theology is the emphasis on Israel. Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems that Dispensationalists consider Israel the real Israel, and the New Testament Church kind of a secondary Israel, while Covenantal theology maintains the inherent unity of God's plan for the world. That is, that the new Church is a continuation of Israel, it has inherited the same promises and continues in the same vein. I really don't know enough to carry on an intelligent conversation about this, but it was interesting to note this division, now that my eyes have been opened to it. Mr. Appel is amazing.

Wow I'm sleepy. I was about to go to bed, then this happened. Ah well. I'm excited for tomorrow. I get to take my sister to school, then go swimming at the Y. I'm going to see if I can get my old job back for December and January... make a little mula. Ah yes, speaking of mula, I intend to start donating plasma when I get back to Moscow. Apparently you get 60 dollars a week for watching 3 hours of tv. Woo! That is the job for me. I've been checking Craigslist a lot lately, looking for jobs as an artist of some sort. Speaking of artist (or maybe filmmaker :/) I think I'll leave you with everything after this colon:

http://www.facebook.com/video/video.php?v=41221466260

You've probably seen it.. ah well. Flibbertigibbet. I seem to be dissolving quickly into something less than a pseudophilosophical discussion of "home." Man that's a long word. No, not home. You footloop. Ha take out the r, and that becomes ridic. Why do people abbreviate like that? Seems a bit slothful and pntlss. Lk m! Cn tlk wth n vwls! Although you may not be able to read that. Y'know, it's true? I can talk with no vowels. All that come out of my mourth are sound waves. "Vowel" is only a name we give something otherwise indescribable, like sheep, or Thanksgiving turkey, or slithy toves. That reminds me. I'd like to wish you a great Thanksgiving. I'd like to, but I can't. Er, maybe I can. Well, the only way to find out is to try. Here goes: Gromp. Hm. I guess I can't.

Peeve my Pet

2008-11-16T15:20:00.000-08:00

Y'know what drives me up the wall? Aside from elevators, that is. Respiratory irregularity. Yeah. Y'know, mouth breathing, a squeaky nose. Now, I understand that this kind of thing can happen to the best of us, whether you use q-tips to clean out your nostrils or no. S'okay. I forgive you. But people that do it all the time? Yowza. If you're not talking, be silent. Don't moan quietly in your throat while working up to a weak cough. Don't breathe heavily through your nose. Don't half cough, half sniffle, and smack your lips. Sitting next to someone with this condition is mind-rending. All you can think about is sniffle, snark, smackle. It's infuriating, because what can you do? Ask them to stop breathing? That wouldn't go over well. All you can do is endure the grunts and groans. It's kinda like those people who talk really loud while wearing headphones. They don't know they're doing it, but everyone else does.

You know what else I hate? The old blue Cantus Christi's. They were like cornbread+a dehumidifier+the underneath of an old couch. I hate dry skin, and they just suck the moisture from my hands. Whenever I can, I get someone else to hold the book for me, cuz all I can do is grit my teeth. Speaking of which, that's super annoying too. There's this little girl at church with down's syndrome, who always sits just behind me. She grits her teeth aaaaall service. *squeak squeak* all service. Gnnnauhghh. I can't say anything, of course, because what can she or her parents do? I just feel sorry for her.

In addition to all that, I hate games. No, not games like scrabble or boggle or chess or risk or Age of Empires or counterstrike or Pac Man. No, I mean games like: "I think she likes me because she looked at me, and I like her too but I'm not sure if I should say anything because she might take it wrong and not like me, or if she doesn't like me, she wouldn't like me even more, and anyway, I'm not even sure if I like her, and if I do I don't know if I want her to like me, because if she liked me, I might not be able to change my mind and like someone else because I do like her and I would like her even more if she liked me but I don't think she does, or maybe she does cuz she's really nice, but nice isn't always a sign of liking people, though I do try to be nice cuz then people in general will like me and the girl I like might like me back and that would be nice." Geez man, just speak your mind. Of course there are times for tact, like when you wish you could tell your friend to just stop making gutteral tribal calls, but please, if you can, be honest and speak your mind. That's what I try to do. It's gotten me into trouble before now, but I think that it's worthwhile. If someone is going to hate you for what you said, then good riddance, there's more to you than all that, and they know it. And if someone is able to take you with all your foibles, then bully for that person!

Pet peeves are funny things. I was sitting at a table the other day, ripping paper for a game we were about to play. Anthony was sitting next to me gritting his teeth. He told me next day that ripping paper is one thing he can't stand. It hurts his mind. I apologized, then laughed at him. There's things that bug all of us. Some more than others. I'm pretty easy to please, except for the whole grunts thing. That I cannot stomach.

If I ever am doing something that drives you out of your mind, let me know. The last thing I want to do is violate anyone's personal bubble. We all deserve space, and sometimes, the sound of ripping paper is all it takes to pierce that bubble. Honestly, be honest. I can take it. I would far prefer one of my good friends telling me, "I hate you. Get out of my house," over their pretending to like me to be nice. Now, of course, use tact, be nice in telling me that you hate me. But I'd rather have few real relationships than a bunch of fake ones. Better yet, lots of real ones. If you have something to say to me, say it. Whatever it is, I'll probably forgive you. I can't hold a grudge very well. They're slippery little buggers.

2008-10-29T21:08:00.000-07:00

"It's only 9 o'clock!" the bottom left corner of my computer screen proclaims (because I am not one of those weird people who puts my toolbar on the top, or, God forbid, the sides of my screen) blissfully, as I shut my lordship book. 120 pages on baptism can get tiresome. Funny how clocks are so rarely used anymore. I don't even own one, personally (unless you count a stopwatch). Someone asks for the time, and you whip out your phone, or ipod/ipid/horrendouslylongname:mp3player, or mini fridge, or radioactive decay tattoo. But never a wristwatch. No. Our generation is too good for that. Don't want any sweaty wrists, now do we. I had a watch once. It was my mom's old watch. Then I got a phone. The watch was quickly discarded. The upside of all this, is I'm now surer than ever that I am, in fact, a paedobaptist. I also learned how to spell that right.

I still don't know how I did for last term. I'm on tenterhooks. But apparrently not as much as some people... I know I passed everything, and two classes pretty well. But I heard a lot of talk about dropping out, or at least dropping classes today, after Mr. Grieser handed back the Rhetoric papers and tests. It was a time of much weeping and gnashing of teeth for some. I feel for all of you who have fallen victim to the M.

What an exciting last few weeks it has been. Funny to see that sentence written without an exclamation mark. Here ya go :!. That's even funnier looking...

I came back from break a week and a half ago, which was well deserved after my monster of a first term at NSA. I got to see old friends (it was quite weird, as they were all still in high school. I felt so superior), and my sister and parents. I miss driving my sis to school. I also got to see my ex girlfriend, Brianna. That was quite nice, as we're still good friends. And we seem to have gotten the whole breakup thing sorted. Life is progressing, as lives are wont to do.

I returned to school beginning of last week, in a bit of a fog and depression, due to my catching a cold, among other events. But eventually I got past it. Just in time, too; The Party was on Friday. You know the one. The massive one. Well maybe you don't. My dad owns this place over in Kooskia, 160 acres of hills, trees, and ponds. Absolutely beautiful. Not only that either; we have a house and various other amenities. And every fall, we gather up a lot of dead wood and burn it. 30 foot burnpiles; 150 foot flames. Good stuff. So we invited everyone from NSA up for some adventure and very hot marshmallow burning. We shot guns (big guns; Matt Tucker was there), sang karaoke (of which I took no part), and various other things. Halverson and I went up on the mountain with the two Toyota Tacomas and went 4 wheeling on the killer gravel/dirt roads. Tons of fun. Nearly killed ourselves going up a hill I would not have attempted were it daylight. But we made it, so all the better.

I returned home, very tired (we were up late, and I didn't get my usual catch up weekend naps), and proceeded to get to work. I've been working pretty much non stop this week, catching up, and getting ahead. Phew. But I'm nearing the end of this week's work. There will be more next week, but thas hokay cuz I will have gotten some sleep by then. Here's what I did in the little free time I've had the last few days:

Here's a little comic I drew according to a joke I heard.

And this is my latest shirt design for Woot.com. I think I'm getting better!

Every week, I try to design a shirt for the weekly shirt contest at Woot. Mostly just for fun and practice, but it just so happens that if I win, they will print and sell my shirt and I'll get 2 dollars per shirt sold. Sweet deal. I'm up for it. Not only that, but you can help! Every week (if I actually get my butt in gear and do it), I'll post a link on my facebook status. Just follow that to vote! Unfortunately, you do have to sign up and buy at least one thing from the site before you can vote, but I'm sure that will be no problem, as their wares are most always delectable.

Don't get your knickers in a twist. I'm not planning to die soon. Though if I did, it might be a result of a combination of a) the difficulty of life, b) the confusing nature of life with others, and c) the infuriating nature of geometry. Integrals? Sure. Derivatives? Give me more! Addition? Please. Connect point A to point B? GET OUT. No really. Close the window right now. There is nothing left to look at. Bork.

Party Leech!

2008-10-16T21:41:00.001-07:00

So. Hokay. There is an actual purpose to this entry, though I have the strong feeling that it will deviate violently. Violent deviation. Sounds like something you might want to avoid meeting in an alley in the middle of the night, or that you would be fortunate to be able to drink. At any rate, it will happen, and I have the feeling that it already has.

The party leech was born approximately two months old, and will hopefully be putting on a significant growth spurt, transforming from a mere idea to an animation that hopefully will represent the pinaccle of my animation career thus far. His conception went like this: I had just moved to Moscow, and I was attending a lot parties, but hosting none of my own, seeing as I knew pretty much nobody there and didn't really have my own place. So I dubbed myself the "party leech" in a conversation with my housemate Jon. I liked the phrase, so I did a few drawings:

Here's Mr. Leech looking quite dejected.

And here are his many would-be friends, few of whom actually adopt him as their own. Poor Mr. Leech.

Here he is again, in four more incarnations of his proportions. His eyes went through a bit, as did his mouth and neck. Note he has eleven stripes... at least that's the idea... I dunno if I'll end up being consistent.

Here's where he eats breakfast!

And here is his grotty bathroom. I spared you the leech-toilet.

And finally, here's his sooty bedroom.

As you can see, the party leech lives in squalor. He really has nothing to live for, without friends. And of course that's absolutely true. So out he goes, to make some friends. But, as leeches are wont to do, he sucks the life out of parties, until he finds his kind of people. Mr. Leech takes up residence in a swamp with ticks and leeches and spiders, and no longer is forced to bruch his teeth in a bathroom filled with soot and ash. Why there is soot and ash, I do not know.

And now for something completely different.

I love Monty Python by the way; they're quite brilliant. Unfortunately, I haven't watched much of it lately. Gotta get on that. Tonight, instead of plopping down on the couch to watch MP, I actually got a life and had an olde friend over: Carter. He's a year ahead. Cool guy. Went down to his pad in Seattle. Amazingly cool roommates. And he has 8. We watched Japanese Binocular Football and had a grand old time. We walked down to get some bubble tea, and let me tell you, the U district is crazy. Apparently all the disreputable parsons (gangstas/pimps/hoes/gattwielders/grillbearers/hoods) hang out in front of Rite Aid and hand out candy. I'm kidding about the candy part, but not Rite Aid. We avoided them by walking on the other side of a bus stop. Clever trick, Carter. It's quite bizarre. Living in Moscow I have realized how different people there are than over here in Seattle. When I first moved to Moscow, I was taken aback because people were actually nice to me and were genuinely interested in me. I got into the habit of initiating conversation, and I quite liked the friendliness of people. Then I came back home and asked a cashier how their day had gone so far, and they ignored me! I was flabbergasted. Such different cultures so close together.

I do have some things I want to get to, believe it or not. First of all, I would like to share a quote with you that I heard in a song at one of JT's concerts (not by JT, someone else I can't remember his name): "The best days are always the bright ones and the bright ones are shooting like stars." I can't tell you how true this is. There have been very few times throughout my life that I have had more fun than my time in Moscow at NSA. I have learned tons, both from what the professors teach and from how they act, and enjoyed all of it, I have made great friends, and had unforgettable times with them. But the last two months have been the quickest of my life. It feels like only a few weeks since I told Ashley, "We should be friends," while lying on a gravel pile staring at the sky, watching for shooting stars. And I thought that this line related that sentiment in a beautiful, powerful way.

I think the field that I have gained the most experience in since moving to Moscow is not Latin, nor Theology, though I have learned things I never dreamed of in school, but in friendship. I am getting a firmer grip on life itself; the places of everything with reference to my ultimately serving God. And coming back to Washington has supplied me with yet another insight. They say, "absence makes the heart grow fonder." And of course that's true. I miss my Moscow friends, and I have had a crazy good time seeing all my friends from back here. But I realized that that maxim applies not only to personal relationships, but to community in general. This relates to what I said before about the rudeness of Seattlites and niceness of Moscovians. I think the reason for these attitudes in contributed to by the density of population. In Seattle, personal contact becomes a bad thing, because, wherever you are, you are buffeted on every side by countless strangers. You don't want to greet everyone, so you ignore them all. In Moscow, on the other hand, personal contact is naturally spaced throughout the day, and is thus much more comfortable, and enjoyable. And I quite like the Moscow attitude. Though I often ignore people myself. Something I need to work on. Be more social. Though I also want to hold on to my own whatever attitude. Stop analyzing, over analyzing. Rimbledeimble.

At least that's what I think.

Well the Dashboard Melted but We still have the Radio...

2008-10-13T16:42:00.000-07:00

Funny how that would be any consolation, seeing as your lap would be covered with hot sticky goo. This memorable phrase (which is actually a much less fitting title than another I was hoping to use, but can no longer remember) came to mind, not because I have been listening to Modest Mouse recently, though that certainly is true, but because I stumbled upon a bizarre piece of technology mere hours ago. Ironically, it was introduced to me by a girl, in my old high school class, Hayley, who, though better than her peers at working with co
mputers, often has to ask my help to plug in a projection system. And it blew my mind. Not that she had it, but that someone had actually bothered to invent such a thing. It was this: her ipod had the ability to broadcast radio waves, tuning them to a frequency unused by nearby radio stations. In this way, music can be broadcast without wires to your car radio. Now, I'm all for wireless and such, but this is going too far. Mp3's were created with the purpose in mind of being extremely compact, but very high quality. Car stereos are often critiqued for their sound quality, or lack of it. Now, you take both those elements and throw them out the window, by subjecting them to the rigors of radio transmission. Sure, it's only a foot or two distant, but even that degrades the sound to the point where some people would refuse to listen to it (I'm not one of those music snobs, thank God, but some people are). I don't even notice the difference between different speaker systems and I noticed this.

Aside from that, however, I quite enjoyed myself. Yes, I am home, for all of you who will likely not read this for another few months. I returned from college at NSA this weekend after probably the best term of school I have ever had. It was quite amazing. I keep telling people who ask me the incredibly common question, "How is college?" that it is very nice. I have read probably close to 4000 pages in the last two months, and am loving it. The teachers are brilliant and personable; Nate Wilson is a brilliant writer and rhetorician, and Mr. Appel is the most romantic man I have ever met. He teaches our Bible class, which we call Lordship, and he understands thoroughly, and has a true love for, his God and his life. He loves his wife with a love I can only hope to attain. Talking to him is an amzing experience, because I get to have a glimpse into what it means to be the perfect Christian. Now, of course he's not perfect, but he is probably the first person I would chose to be my role model.

My friends over there are pretty spiffin' too. I have several: Ashley, Anthony, Jon, Charles, Diana, Rebecca, Pete, Robin, David, Claire, Laurel, Halverson, Sauder, aaand I think I'm really tired of naming them all. Rest assured, I have many more than that, and I apologise to anyone not named. I love you too. Come give me a hug. There ya go.

Of course, I spend most of my time with Anthony, with whom I live, move, and have my being. He's quite into hip hop music and clothing, both of which I have qualms with. But we have good times together. We have the same classes, so we're always in the same place at the same time. And he always beats me into the shower. Blast you, Filicetti. I also spend a fair deal of time (fair being a relatively inequitable term in this context) with Ashley. As I mentioned before, she is a brilliant writer, and, I would like to add, that she is just as brilliant in person. She makes me laugh a fair bit (again with the inequity) and we share multiple tastes in various cultural phenomena, such as art, music, and catfish.

I have sitting at my right a small cardboard bowl of ice cream. It was my mom's birthday last night, and we had the priviledge of going to Mexican food and Cold Stone. Delicious. I got blueberry cheesecake with cookie dough in it. Tastes like Costco. Did I spell that right? meh. Funnily enough though, I didn't actually realize it was my mom's birthday until today... whoops. You see, I knew her special time was on October 12, but I was under the impression that yesterday was October 10. So, today, I went out to get her a gift for tomorrow, which I thought was yesterday, and when I got home, I realized my mistake and set it all straight. I bought me some construction paper and proceeded to cut it out and glue it together into a nice lil landscape that I knew she would appreciate:

So that's all straightened out. Hooray. I'm glad I could be here for her birthday; she misses me quite a lot. I'm her little, boy, off to go get an edumacation.

But I'm back. Here I am, sitting on the couch staring at my dog. Her name is Duchess. I call her duchy-kins, which amuses me because it sounds remarkably like "da chickens." Reminds me of the time that Claire put as her facebook status something along the lines of "Apparently I'm a stoat." I inquired, and a funny story ensued. She said "I missed out," to Laurel, her roommate, and Laurel, not understanding Claire's thick British Columbia accent, thought she had said "I'm a stoat." And thus was a miscommunication born. Claire often has funny statuses. A few weeks ago I noticed that she was wearing 2 inch heels when she arrived at school in the morning. She lives two miles from school and I was quite impressed that she walked all that distance in shoes I couldn't walk down stairs in, so I complemented her on her Herculean Ankles. You can imgine where that went.

So I'm not the suavest guy in the dictionary. Don't bedraggle me for what I may or may not be. An image just flashed into my head. When I was in Rome this summer, my group visited the Vatican. Now, to enter, you had to disarm. There were literally hundreds of pocketknives in the trashcans near the entrance. I almost went and dug them all out, but I thought better of it. Turns out I thought worse of it. I should have taken them. They would have made amazing souveniers...

I'm falling onto a bed of moist pine needles, in a land where the grass gently sways and the trees stand firm in the light summer breeze. For all you native English speakers, that means I'm going to visit all my Washington friends this week.

I'm sick of blogging already.

2008-10-08T11:55:00.000-07:00

Yessir, well, here's my new blog. Quite nice innit? Pretty basic; all I had to do was click 4 or 5 times, retype my password 8 times, and here I am. So don't expect too much. I'm sure at this juncture my blog looks pretty much identical to many others' blogs throughout this system, and no doubt others. No harm in starting with a good bit of fatalism. I intend to update this somewhat often, but no doubt it will fall by the wayside and I will forget it even existed before long, just like my forum (ha which seems to have ceased to exist) and my website, both of which I have not updated in months, perhaps even a year.

What will I do here? Well, I hope to emulate my good friends Ashley and Rachel in rattling off extended posts of brilliance and nonsense. I've been told I'm a good writer. What that actually means, I really don't know, because I don't feel like I could ever do what the aforementioned friends have done. At any rate, I'm here to try. Luckily I have some fallback, other than my brilliant wordsmithing. I'm into animation, so as I go along, I will occasionally post a link to my youtube channel if, in fact I have made a new short film or animation. Now, this is a nice idea, but I have a feeling that it will go pretty much nowhere. I haven't made a new film since early summer. I have ideas coming out the wazu, but I've not applied myself really to putting them through the paces of becoming visual art. However it may help to appease your wrath at my laziness, that I do have one more fallback. This is webcomics. For a few months, I've been reading brilliant webcomics like xkcd, drmcninja, cyanide and happiness, and more recently, exploding dog, and I have decided that I would quite enjoy it if I was as brilliant both with mind and with pen as these people happen to be. So I've given it a shot:

What do you think? I really don't know what I even think about them. I was inpired, what can I say. Though I wouldn't be surprised if people lauged at me about this. It's terribly emo. But that's how I felt yesterday. I promise, funny ones will come (assuming I actually keep this up). Ah well.

I do, really enjoy art. Pretty much any kind. Though I do usually stick to digital art, just cuz it's more accessible. I animate, and draw, as I have said, and I also have recently been trying to get into graphic design. Every thursday, woot.com has a t-shirt designing contest (which they call a shirt-off), and I enter it. I'll be posting links here, often, and I expect you to go over there and register! Do it! If I win, my shirt will be printed and sold, and I'll get 2 dollars per shirt! That's like next year's college tuition! This is the plan. I will find a puddle full of magic brilliant water somewhere, drink it, and make lots of money. I wish it were that easy. I suppose I'll just have to start actually working on whatever it is I do. I have a Lordship exam in about an hour and I've really not studied for it much at all. Oh well, what happens happens. I really need to get off my butt and make sure that I have a say in what happens happens happens.

I want a pet dog. I miss my pet dog. But I can't have pets here at the Burnett's. Dash and blast it. That's a phrase I quite like. I use it often, in contexts that may or may not make any sense. It could refer to someone dashing snuff and sneezing (blasting it), or running away from an explosion, or blowing up their cooking, etc. But I usually use it whenever something goes wrong. As is conventional. I am going to look up it's etymology.... That did not work out. I could find nothing. Blast. And you know what else, I have to vamoose shortly in order to get to school on time. Ah well, it comes with the territory. College. Really, it's fun. I've learned quite lots, and have made some excellente, or as one of them might put it, bueno friends. That's his word. He's not Mexican. No, not at all. I'm more Mexican than he is, due to my miniscule 'stache, and I'm not Mexican at all, as I'm sure you all know (if not, call me to schedule an appointment for me to tell you how non-mexican I really am). Adieu.