Today I started a grease fire.
I put it out with salt.
I love the weather. I don't want snow and I don't want humidity. I want exactly what I have right now, and that is deliciously chilly weather. I am happy to be wearing socks again, I am happy to put on a baggy hoody, I am happy to make two cups of tea, wrap myself in blankets, wear a scarf and read outside on the front lawn for three hours straight. That's what this weather does to me. It just makes me happy.
The colours also do it for me. Not bright, not ugly and dull- but 'earthy'. Relaxed and aging- like it should be. The sky is not just open blue, but it's not dreary grey either. It's patchy. Blue sky behind bundles of white and grey clouds, and yet the sun is still there, keeping up appearances. Absolutely lovely. October 13, 2007. What a day.
It's Saturday, about 5pm, and I should be working on my Commentary Review. Instead I'm sitting in the kitchen staring out the window. It's a very big window, and so it's not really my fault that I'm always caught staring out of it. Once I get past the deck, white railing, struggling geranium basket,and freshly cut lawn, my eyes hit no man's land. An open field, recently plowed under, pretty sad looking, but it always draws my attention anyway. It's probobly because it just sits there, idly, like myself, but has this incredible backdrop of a dark cloudy sky. What is this obsession I have with the sky? I really don't know. I just like it.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Language blows my mind. The very fact that you can understand that first sentence shows how incredible language is. We create it, use it, manipulate it, and depend on it. What's more, we trust it. We speak literally, metaphorically, analogously, poetically- it's all encompassing, it's how we express ourselves. How could we function in society without it?
But where does it come from? I know God initially gave Adam the ability to speak, and name creatures, but no doubt our vocabulary has grown since the garden. As we develop new ideas, experiment, discover new creatures- do we just slap letters together and trust that the meaning of those letters will in time make itself clear to everyone? And what about abstracts? The concept of justice, truth, and love have been generally understood- at least in my own limited experience in my own specific culture. But how does it work cross culturally? I just don't know. I can't get in the mind of another person, and so I just don't know if my notion of justice can equate with that of oh, let's say a Russian. Words. Language. We put a faith in it, because we trust the meaning in the letters. But what happens when we start to doubt language?
It's a scary thought- to strip away this foundation of language- the way we articulate and express ourselves. It just seems like the next logical progression of living in a postmodern relativistic society. We tolerate everything, and believe nothing. That is, capital T truth has gone out the window, and been replaced by some lukewarm pablem that just doesn't suffice. And yet, words still hold their meaning. But how long until that too is thrown out the window? The same mentality that says " you can believe that, but don't force it on me" can be used to say, " your words might mean that, but they mean something different for me". When that starts to happen ( and I'm going to take back what I said before, and say it IS already happening) we are headed into some pretty dangerous territory.
But I'm going to veer away from this philosophical direction, and head back to wear I wanted this post to originally go- and the only connection I can make here is that I have been reading a heck of a lot for the past two days, which has made me think a fair bit about language. But it has also made me think about what it means to be a student. So moving on..
I am a student, which means I have to study. But for what purpose? Bacon nails it.
"Studies serve for pastimes, for ornaments, and for abilities" that is, for private pleasure, to be equipped to engage in discussions, and to sharpen your judgment.
This bit was great- " To spend too much time in them is sloth"
It's interesting, because we need balance when it comes to our studies, yet it is our studies that balance us. Bacon puts a lot of emphasis on the reading, writing, and discourse as the main components of "study". Language is fundamental in all three( Interesting how that never seems to change, even though language does) But he says,
"Reading makes a full man, conversation a ready man, and writing an exact man." So, if you don't write a lot, you better have a good memory, and if you don't talk a lot, you better have quick wit, and if you don't read, you had better be cunning, so as to seem to know what you really don't.
For Bacon, some reading requires just a tasting, others a bit of chewing, still others must be swallowed and digested- that is, read wholly. Reading works on varying levels, but it still remains central to study.
After all the reading I've been doing- I must admit, I am comforted. Thank you Sir Francis Bacon.
But where does it come from? I know God initially gave Adam the ability to speak, and name creatures, but no doubt our vocabulary has grown since the garden. As we develop new ideas, experiment, discover new creatures- do we just slap letters together and trust that the meaning of those letters will in time make itself clear to everyone? And what about abstracts? The concept of justice, truth, and love have been generally understood- at least in my own limited experience in my own specific culture. But how does it work cross culturally? I just don't know. I can't get in the mind of another person, and so I just don't know if my notion of justice can equate with that of oh, let's say a Russian. Words. Language. We put a faith in it, because we trust the meaning in the letters. But what happens when we start to doubt language?
It's a scary thought- to strip away this foundation of language- the way we articulate and express ourselves. It just seems like the next logical progression of living in a postmodern relativistic society. We tolerate everything, and believe nothing. That is, capital T truth has gone out the window, and been replaced by some lukewarm pablem that just doesn't suffice. And yet, words still hold their meaning. But how long until that too is thrown out the window? The same mentality that says " you can believe that, but don't force it on me" can be used to say, " your words might mean that, but they mean something different for me". When that starts to happen ( and I'm going to take back what I said before, and say it IS already happening) we are headed into some pretty dangerous territory.
But I'm going to veer away from this philosophical direction, and head back to wear I wanted this post to originally go- and the only connection I can make here is that I have been reading a heck of a lot for the past two days, which has made me think a fair bit about language. But it has also made me think about what it means to be a student. So moving on..
I am a student, which means I have to study. But for what purpose? Bacon nails it.
"Studies serve for pastimes, for ornaments, and for abilities" that is, for private pleasure, to be equipped to engage in discussions, and to sharpen your judgment.
This bit was great- " To spend too much time in them is sloth"
It's interesting, because we need balance when it comes to our studies, yet it is our studies that balance us. Bacon puts a lot of emphasis on the reading, writing, and discourse as the main components of "study". Language is fundamental in all three( Interesting how that never seems to change, even though language does) But he says,
"Reading makes a full man, conversation a ready man, and writing an exact man." So, if you don't write a lot, you better have a good memory, and if you don't talk a lot, you better have quick wit, and if you don't read, you had better be cunning, so as to seem to know what you really don't.
For Bacon, some reading requires just a tasting, others a bit of chewing, still others must be swallowed and digested- that is, read wholly. Reading works on varying levels, but it still remains central to study.
After all the reading I've been doing- I must admit, I am comforted. Thank you Sir Francis Bacon.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Just a little bit of fun I've been having in my Creative Writing course- thought I'd share this story with you. A little mystical and exaggerated, but writing it was a good time.
The Shallow End
The sparkling water of the Rhuidean swirled with glee as each droplet raced to the tune of the never- tiring current. The mist of the morning clung to each bright leaf that sprang from the shrubs lining the river bank, where dew gathered, slipped, and slid as one to the joyful clamor of the stream below. The very air itself held the music of the water, and the birds, gently woken by the enchanting melody, eagerly chirped along. The tune emanating from the Rhuidean forced the world to wake. Willing or not, the creatures were compelled to respond, unable to ignore the charms of the enchanted stream. Even the stones edged closer, to catch a glimpse of distant relatives sunk low beneath the surface, though careful not to get too close. For every stick and stone, fish and bird, even the wisps of wind knew of the spell cast by the Rhuidean-and the treachery therein.
A young man emerged, and the sweet song being spun by the river changed tune. The beat quickened, matching the hurried pace of his pulsing heart. His handsome face altered into that of smug pride; he had found the river. The legendary Rhuidean. He had declared to his future bride that he would not wed her until she possessed the greatest gift. Thus he had traveled for days in search of the mystic river, and had it not been for the clamor of the birds and his curiosity, he may have missed the small oasis entirely. The chant of the river could not reach his human ears, but the beauty of the songbirds provided a pale reflection of the watery composition.
His task was to take from the river enough water to fill a bowl, and present it to his love. In washing her face with the magical water, her skin would become white as snow, her eyes would sparkle like emeralds, her lips as red as rubies. She would be beautiful, and her beauty would last forever. What better gift to present to a young maiden, his young maiden than the gift of never ending beauty? Suddenly, an unnerving thought crossed his mind as he envisioned his goddess passing through time unmarked by age. He would not be exempt from such ugliness. She would blossom eternally and he would inevitably wither and die! With a cry the young man leaped to the river’s edge, and plunged his head into the water.
The chords of a thousand different voices filled and flooded his ears as the cunning water held him captive. He squeezed his eyes shut and in terror tried to tune out the chant that had united in song against him. The chaotic noise grew louder, more urgent though every creature was silent. The rhythmic beat pounded out three syllables in urgent succession. Still the young man could not withdraw his head from the Rhuidean’s watery grip. Straining to be free, he was struck by the three syllable word caught in the current. Van-i-ty, van-i-ty, van-i-ty. With sudden clarity, the words came softly-
Forever young thou wish to be-
(solely fish can hear our melody),
Where you now tread is shallow ground,
and cursed be you, for you have found,
a lovely maiden’s gentle wit
does not suffice your appetite.
Vanity of vanity
Your lot is cast into the sea
In this shallow pool you shall remain
Until the new moon shines again,
But be forewarned; your foolish thought
Has left you nothing, nor has brought
You any nearer your true desire.
But with these words you can retire;
Beneath the surface, beauty lies
Mere looks are feigning alibis.
Convinced he must soon be on the verge of death, held by force, the man struggled in vain to rise up. Instinctively he gasped for one final breath, expecting the vile water to fill and poison his lungs. But something was wrong. He was breathing- under water. Was he dead? In a panic he lurched forward, sliding with ease through the slippery water.
A fin propelled him and gills sustained him. As the horrible realization began to sink in, the words of the river softly came back to him… ‘solely fish can hear our melody…’
Again the river resumed its tune. The creatures stirred from their silence, and echoed their response. The law of the Rhuidean was mysterious- both a blessing and a curse- but let it never be said the river was unjust. For those who come seeking will find what they deserve.
The Shallow End
The sparkling water of the Rhuidean swirled with glee as each droplet raced to the tune of the never- tiring current. The mist of the morning clung to each bright leaf that sprang from the shrubs lining the river bank, where dew gathered, slipped, and slid as one to the joyful clamor of the stream below. The very air itself held the music of the water, and the birds, gently woken by the enchanting melody, eagerly chirped along. The tune emanating from the Rhuidean forced the world to wake. Willing or not, the creatures were compelled to respond, unable to ignore the charms of the enchanted stream. Even the stones edged closer, to catch a glimpse of distant relatives sunk low beneath the surface, though careful not to get too close. For every stick and stone, fish and bird, even the wisps of wind knew of the spell cast by the Rhuidean-and the treachery therein.
A young man emerged, and the sweet song being spun by the river changed tune. The beat quickened, matching the hurried pace of his pulsing heart. His handsome face altered into that of smug pride; he had found the river. The legendary Rhuidean. He had declared to his future bride that he would not wed her until she possessed the greatest gift. Thus he had traveled for days in search of the mystic river, and had it not been for the clamor of the birds and his curiosity, he may have missed the small oasis entirely. The chant of the river could not reach his human ears, but the beauty of the songbirds provided a pale reflection of the watery composition.
His task was to take from the river enough water to fill a bowl, and present it to his love. In washing her face with the magical water, her skin would become white as snow, her eyes would sparkle like emeralds, her lips as red as rubies. She would be beautiful, and her beauty would last forever. What better gift to present to a young maiden, his young maiden than the gift of never ending beauty? Suddenly, an unnerving thought crossed his mind as he envisioned his goddess passing through time unmarked by age. He would not be exempt from such ugliness. She would blossom eternally and he would inevitably wither and die! With a cry the young man leaped to the river’s edge, and plunged his head into the water.
The chords of a thousand different voices filled and flooded his ears as the cunning water held him captive. He squeezed his eyes shut and in terror tried to tune out the chant that had united in song against him. The chaotic noise grew louder, more urgent though every creature was silent. The rhythmic beat pounded out three syllables in urgent succession. Still the young man could not withdraw his head from the Rhuidean’s watery grip. Straining to be free, he was struck by the three syllable word caught in the current. Van-i-ty, van-i-ty, van-i-ty. With sudden clarity, the words came softly-
Forever young thou wish to be-
(solely fish can hear our melody),
Where you now tread is shallow ground,
and cursed be you, for you have found,
a lovely maiden’s gentle wit
does not suffice your appetite.
Vanity of vanity
Your lot is cast into the sea
In this shallow pool you shall remain
Until the new moon shines again,
But be forewarned; your foolish thought
Has left you nothing, nor has brought
You any nearer your true desire.
But with these words you can retire;
Beneath the surface, beauty lies
Mere looks are feigning alibis.
Convinced he must soon be on the verge of death, held by force, the man struggled in vain to rise up. Instinctively he gasped for one final breath, expecting the vile water to fill and poison his lungs. But something was wrong. He was breathing- under water. Was he dead? In a panic he lurched forward, sliding with ease through the slippery water.
A fin propelled him and gills sustained him. As the horrible realization began to sink in, the words of the river softly came back to him… ‘solely fish can hear our melody…’
Again the river resumed its tune. The creatures stirred from their silence, and echoed their response. The law of the Rhuidean was mysterious- both a blessing and a curse- but let it never be said the river was unjust. For those who come seeking will find what they deserve.
Monday, September 10, 2007
There are a lot of things I could say about this past week. There are a lot of things I won't. It's hard to sum up a week of change. I can't figure out if it was less work, or more work. Nine hours of mindless physical labour, or odd hours of mental strain and silly mind games. I was hoping for a smooth, relatively painless transition from summer to school, work to books, family to friends. I am not sure what happened, but it wasn't smooth. It's like I got on the ugly, delapitated wooden rollercoaster in the far corner of the theme park that nobody wants to go on because it sucks. Your body gets battered with each turn, your neck kinks, teeth clack, stomach churns- when all I really wanted was to get on the fricken Superman. Now that's a good time. That's a smooth and thrilling ride. But, such is life. Anticipation doesn't always deliver. The week was tough, but speckled with joy nonetheless. My friends are quality. Our house is joyful, full of natural sunlight, and delightful girls. The other night Trine and I slept on the lawn just for the heck of it. Even though she wimped out and went in at 4, and I woke up at 7 unable to move my neck, these are the kinds of things you just don't do on your own. Lizzy and I spent Saturday night letting loose at the decade dance, which was followed by a few hours at Tim Hortan's discussing some of the finer points of life. Saturday I played in two soccer games. A great way to build friendships with team players, flat out run yourself into the ground, and also pull a lot of tender leg muscles. The weekend was a great wake up call to the fact that as much as I like the team, it's the sport that counts, and I don't like it. Haha..and so I must quit, yay for free nights!
Now it's the beginning of a new week, and I'm feeling that things are looking up in the world.
Readjusting isn't really all that bad.
Now it's the beginning of a new week, and I'm feeling that things are looking up in the world.
Readjusting isn't really all that bad.
Sunday, August 26, 2007
Trolls and Tables
If there is one thing I can't stand, it's regret. It's hideous. Picture a troll, with pink hair and a gargoyle face, camping under a bridge and eating innocent goats. That is regret. The best way to avoid the troll is to avoid the bridge that harbors the troll, but if you are oblivious to the danger under the bridge, you will unknowingly attempt to cross it and get eaten- because as we all know, and in keeping with my little analogy, regret eats you up.
I had 4 precious months of TIME. Time to read, work, go out for coffee, camp out under the stars, study the catechism, stay active, visit my grandparents, visit my friends, and stay on top of my academic game. My time is almost up, and I wish I had done a lot more of everything. I definitely didn't read enough.
I realize that's a pretty pathetic list for such an extreme analogy, rather mild regrets, but they are regrets nonetheless. The thing about these regrets is that you can't do a thing to change the fact that you were just too lazy to 'get 'er done'. Time doesn't go backwards. How I've used my time was my call, a conscious decision, and now I have to live with it. Now I have to share my space with an ugly mutant with pink hair until I can figure out a way to get past him.... oh man.
I had 4 precious months of TIME. Time to read, work, go out for coffee, camp out under the stars, study the catechism, stay active, visit my grandparents, visit my friends, and stay on top of my academic game. My time is almost up, and I wish I had done a lot more of everything. I definitely didn't read enough.
I realize that's a pretty pathetic list for such an extreme analogy, rather mild regrets, but they are regrets nonetheless. The thing about these regrets is that you can't do a thing to change the fact that you were just too lazy to 'get 'er done'. Time doesn't go backwards. How I've used my time was my call, a conscious decision, and now I have to live with it. Now I have to share my space with an ugly mutant with pink hair until I can figure out a way to get past him.... oh man.
On a different note, the minister this afternoon stated that allowing your child to partake of Lord's Supper would be like feeding your infant poison. He was quoting John Calvin. I know the URC is pro guarding the Lord's table, but let's think about this. Both sacraments are intended to be used by God's covenant children in an effort to draw together the body of believers in the name of Christ. Baptism is a sign of the washing away of our sins, and God's faithfulness to his children. The Lord's Supper is meant to be a reminder and celebration of Christ's death and resurrection- enabling us to have eternal life. I would like to know how the church is able to discern who can and cannot partake. Considering that the Lord's Supper has replaced the Old Testament celebration of the Passover, I am inclined to believe that similarly, it should be the job of the parents to educate and prepare their child for the table as was the custom in those days. My concern with the URC in this respect is that there is a danger of testing the genuity of one's faith by some sort of knowledge gage. We learn at home and church, take catechism classes, profess our faith, and thereby gain access to the Table. If this is the case, what did Christ mean when He said, " Let the little children come to me" and when the disciples tried to prevent it, He reprimanded them saying, " and do not hinder them!". Children are not stupid. They understand. They too are a part of the covenant kingdom! Oy.... sometimes I think we lose focus. To carry such reasoning to its full extent would most likely exclude a lot of people from communion. It just doesn't make sense. Maybe I'm a heretic. Maybe I should just go and fight that stupid troll.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Brothers
Mike, Matt, myself. The permanent seating arrangement at the back of the van because Megan gets car sick, Dave likes to sit by Megan, and of course mom gets shot gun. I don't know what it is about my two little gremlin brothers, but man, they make me laugh. They think they've mastered the Texan drawal, and so everything that comes out of their mouth sounds ridiculous. Example ( quoting something they heard on the radio)
"Tell your Unkie what you learned at that there fancy university"
"Pie a' square'
"Noo you duumb shit. Everyone knows that pie a' round. Cornbread a' square"
Then they will laugh hysterically- and say it all again- and by the 10th time, it does get pretty funny. ( I suppose it's something you have to hear for yourself, accent and all)
Last night we slept at Dave's house. There is one bed- and my parents got it.
Megan and I slept on the carpet upstairs, the boys shared one blanket downstairs, and then Mike took off and slept in the van. He is probobly roasting. I had the kind of sheet that is fitted to go around every corner of a mattress. My shoulders and feet did the job, creating a nice cacoon that was comfortable for 2 hour intervals. It was good night.
Well, I have to go pack. In a couple hours I'll be flying out of here.
"Tell your Unkie what you learned at that there fancy university"
"Pie a' square'
"Noo you duumb shit. Everyone knows that pie a' round. Cornbread a' square"
Then they will laugh hysterically- and say it all again- and by the 10th time, it does get pretty funny. ( I suppose it's something you have to hear for yourself, accent and all)
Last night we slept at Dave's house. There is one bed- and my parents got it.
Megan and I slept on the carpet upstairs, the boys shared one blanket downstairs, and then Mike took off and slept in the van. He is probobly roasting. I had the kind of sheet that is fitted to go around every corner of a mattress. My shoulders and feet did the job, creating a nice cacoon that was comfortable for 2 hour intervals. It was good night.
Well, I have to go pack. In a couple hours I'll be flying out of here.
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
We woke up at 5:30 am, we hit the road by 6, and we were stuck at the border until 11:30. Ew. I blame this completely on my brother. We are moving him to Texas, and at the same time making a nice family vacation out of the trip. Knowing it would probobly take us 25-30 hours to get there, the fact that we were still in CANADA 5 1/2 hours into the trip was not exactly comforting. Dave forgot to pay a certain bill, which had to be paid before he could get into the States, and so we all became miserable.
"There once was a man with the most remarkable ability to paint. He could capture beauty in a brushstroke, with a keen awareness of the detailed imagery all around him. Then he went blind. His family was poor, and once he got old, they put him in a home. The place was ratty, unkempt, and contemptible to any functioning artisan in terms of aesthetic beauty. Upon arriving, his family tried to apologize for his sub-par surroundings. The old man faced the nurses with a smile and said, ' It's beautiful.' When asked how he could say that without seeing a thing, he said, ' I've already arranged the whole thing in my mind. It's perfect.' "
Undoubtedly my dad told us this in the hope that we would draw a connection between our situation and the blind guy. Life is a mind game? hmm... I think the point was that if you can't change something, pre-arrange it in your mind to just relax and enjoy yourself. Life is too short to let the little things bother you. Point taken. My brothers can be fairly entertaining, and so I must admit- the time at the border wasn't all that bad.
After about 2 days, we made it to Texas. The week here is flying by, and so far it has been fantastic. The weather is hot, but bearable, and we still manage to play some pretty competitive volleyball, tennis, mini-put, and the classic "beat eachother up in the pool" game, which never seems to get old. We keep ourselves entertained- it really doesn't take much.
I'm coming home on Saturday, but the family will be here/ Tenessee for another week. It's always nice to get out and travel some more, but there is always something nice about coming home, even if it will be a bit lonely...
I'll miss you Dave- but Christmas isn't that far away!
"There once was a man with the most remarkable ability to paint. He could capture beauty in a brushstroke, with a keen awareness of the detailed imagery all around him. Then he went blind. His family was poor, and once he got old, they put him in a home. The place was ratty, unkempt, and contemptible to any functioning artisan in terms of aesthetic beauty. Upon arriving, his family tried to apologize for his sub-par surroundings. The old man faced the nurses with a smile and said, ' It's beautiful.' When asked how he could say that without seeing a thing, he said, ' I've already arranged the whole thing in my mind. It's perfect.' "
Undoubtedly my dad told us this in the hope that we would draw a connection between our situation and the blind guy. Life is a mind game? hmm... I think the point was that if you can't change something, pre-arrange it in your mind to just relax and enjoy yourself. Life is too short to let the little things bother you. Point taken. My brothers can be fairly entertaining, and so I must admit- the time at the border wasn't all that bad.
After about 2 days, we made it to Texas. The week here is flying by, and so far it has been fantastic. The weather is hot, but bearable, and we still manage to play some pretty competitive volleyball, tennis, mini-put, and the classic "beat eachother up in the pool" game, which never seems to get old. We keep ourselves entertained- it really doesn't take much.
I'm coming home on Saturday, but the family will be here/ Tenessee for another week. It's always nice to get out and travel some more, but there is always something nice about coming home, even if it will be a bit lonely...
I'll miss you Dave- but Christmas isn't that far away!
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