What Wouldn't Jesus Do?

In our Western culture, we have developed a strange inverted morality. What is dangerous in secular culture is doubly pernicious within Christianity. We wear bracelets on our wrists which read “WWJD,” of course standing for “What Wouldn’t Jesus Do?” 

What’s that? You don’t think that negative suffix is there? Perhaps not officially, but in practice it absolutely is. We’ve developed a mindset in which our decisions are based not on doing what is right but on doing what is not wrong. 

Let me explain this by way of example: Jesus tells us to love our neighbors(1) as ourselves. So what do we do? Well, we don’t gossip about our neighbors, etc, all the way down to not allowing our dog to defecate in our neighbors’ yard. But love is not a passive thing. We think we’re loving our neighbors (we’ll not even go into the “as ourselves,” since we fall so far short even without unpacking that), when in actuality all we’re doing is avoiding maliciousness toward our neighbors. Several years ago my friend Jesse pointed out to me that the opposite of love is not hate, but apathy. Though I’ve heard this many times since, that first time has never left my brain. And in this scenario this is exactly what we see. 

Avoiding sin is not righteousness. So should we continue to sin that grace may abound? God forbid (see Romans 8). But at the same time, avoiding sin is morally neutral. Righteousness is righteous. Perhaps, instead of not gossiping about our neighbors, we should bake them cookies or mow their lawn. 

Don’t get me wrong: the gospel is certainly not a list of dos and don’ts. This being said, we see, especially in the Old Testament, references to joy in the law and the commandments of the Lord. Psalm 119, the longest chapter in the Bible, is all about David’s delight in the law of the LORD. I am taken aback by v. 18, as it is so outside of my traditional mindset:
Open my eyes, that I may behold
Wondrous things out of your law. 
The law is certainly not the first place I would think to look for wondrous things. And yet that’s where David goes. 

I’m certainly not saying that morality is more important than grace. The gospel is not about being a good person. We should not become better us, because better us still sucks. But at the same time, we will be known by our fruits. This is not a conclusion. These are just some thoughts I had today. Dialogue? 

(1) I realize that Jesus goes on to explain that our neighbors are not just the people whom we live next to. However, for the sake of the illustration I am going to take neighbors literally. The points are still applicable as we expand the metaphor. 

In our Western culture, we have developed a strange inverted morality. What is dangerous in secular culture is doubly pernicious within Christianity. We wear bracelets on our wrists which read “WWJD,” of course standing for “What Wouldn’t Jesus Do?” 

What’s that? You don’t think that negative suffix is there? Perhaps not officially, but in practice it absolutely is. We’ve developed a mindset in which our decisions are based not on doing what is right but on doing what is not wrong. 

Let me explain this by way of example: Jesus tells us to love our neighbors(1) as ourselves. So what do we do? Well, we don’t gossip about our neighbors, etc, all the way down to not allowing our dog to defecate in our neighbors’ yard. But love is not a passive thing. We think we’re loving our neighbors (we’ll not even go into the “as ourselves,” since we fall so far short even without unpacking that), when in actuality all we’re doing is avoiding maliciousness toward our neighbors. Several years ago my friend Jesse pointed out to me that the opposite of love is not hate, but apathy. Though I’ve heard this many times since, that first time has never left my brain. And in this scenario this is exactly what we see. 

Avoiding sin is not righteousness. So should we continue to sin that grace may abound? God forbid (see Romans 8). But at the same time, avoiding sin is morally neutral. Righteousness is righteous. Perhaps, instead of not gossiping about our neighbors, we should bake them cookies or mow their lawn. 

Don’t get me wrong: the gospel is certainly not a list of dos and don’ts. This being said, we see, especially in the Old Testament, references to joy in the law and the commandments of the Lord. Psalm 119, the longest chapter in the Bible, is all about David’s delight in the law of the LORD. I am taken aback by v. 18, as it is so outside of my traditional mindset:
Open my eyes, that I may behold
Wondrous things out of your law. 
The law is certainly not the first place I would think to look for wondrous things. And yet that’s where David goes. 

I’m certainly not saying that morality is more important than grace. The gospel is not about being a good person. We should not become better us, because better us still sucks. But at the same time, we will be known by our fruits. This is not a conclusion. These are just some thoughts I had today. Dialogue? 

(1) I realize that Jesus goes on to explain that our neighbors are not just the people whom we live next to. However, for the sake of the illustration I am going to take neighbors literally. The points are still applicable as we expand the metaphor. 

What Wouldn't Jesus Do?

Read On, My Wayward Son

I just checked my stats. I've assumed for some time that no one reads this. I got 14 page views last week. I guess people do read this.

This assumption has been my primary reason for not updating more. After all, why post if no one will read? I'm not saying it has kept me from writing. It has merely kept things away from the blarg. So I guess now I should blarg away. Starting tomorrow.

By the way, does anyone know of a good (preferrably free) iPhone app from which to blarg?

I just checked my stats. I've assumed for some time that no one reads this. I got 14 page views last week. I guess people do read this.

This assumption has been my primary reason for not updating more. After all, why post if no one will read? I'm not saying it has kept me from writing. It has merely kept things away from the blarg. So I guess now I should blarg away. Starting tomorrow.

By the way, does anyone know of a good (preferrably free) iPhone app from which to blarg?

Read On, My Wayward Son

The Christmas Poem

Every year I write a Christmas poem. I just finished a draft of this year's poem, and I'm quite happy with the way that it is going thus far.

I feel it is an odd thing to do, writing a Christmas poem, as I don't celebrate holidays. However, I do celebrate th birth of Christ the savior. I strive to celebrate this every day so that I don't need a specific day. Christ is not for one day a year, or even one a week. He is not a fashion or fad, nor does he have a point when he becomes irrelevant. He is the living Word of God, come down from Heaven.

I write this not to guilt you about celebrating a holiday, but to remind myself of these truths. God is good, but I'm forgetful.

Every year I write a Christmas poem. I just finished a draft of this year's poem, and I'm quite happy with the way that it is going thus far.

I feel it is an odd thing to do, writing a Christmas poem, as I don't celebrate holidays. However, I do celebrate th birth of Christ the savior. I strive to celebrate this every day so that I don't need a specific day. Christ is not for one day a year, or even one a week. He is not a fashion or fad, nor does he have a point when he becomes irrelevant. He is the living Word of God, come down from Heaven.

I write this not to guilt you about celebrating a holiday, but to remind myself of these truths. God is good, but I'm forgetful.

The Christmas Poem

The Ladder

I wrote this last Tuesday, so one week ago today. Since then I've been having difficulties with my internet connection and have as such been unable to post. Enjoy.
-----------
Today was a day like any other. I got up this morning and went to work. I went to my second job, which I only do one day a week, but it was still the same old get up and go to work.

I get to work to find that yesterday began a lot of rearrangement of the shirt store that I work at. We are discontinuing several designs, so the designs on the wall needed to be moved around to compensate for the open spaces. This got to be my job.

The shirt store has pretty high ceilings. This meant that rearranging the higher shirts involved the use of a ladder that I believe to have been 16 feet. This is quite high, almost three times my height. Initially I was afraid, but the fear quickly abated as I moved the shirts around, gradually leaning more and placing more trust in the ladder. 

Occasionally the ladder shimmied.  With each shimmy, my confidence grew: it had happened before, so what was one more time?

After about an hour, my theory quickly developed a hole. As I leaned out to move something, I felt the ladder shimmy. This time, however, it did not stop at a shimmy. It was not a leg skimming across the floor to find 4 points that were in the same plane, as opposed to the three with the wobbly fourth leg. It was not even a warning that I needed to get down. No, I was near the top of the ladder, and it was coming down.

When I felt this, I knew I had to get down. I started climbing. Four rungs in, I realized this was not working: instead of getting down, I was riding the ladder to the floor. It was absolutely falling faster than I was descending. Without even realize what I was doing, I jumped. About 3 feet in front of me was a shirt press with 400˚ metal; a few inches to my right lied a corner; to my right, metal hangers.

As I was landing, I was also trying to catch the ladder. Somehow, by the grace of God, I landed on my feet. My knee bumped the side of the ladder on the way down, and I got a small scratch on my wrist from the counter. I was otherwise unscathed.

My boss, who saw the whole thing happen, is freaking out. He makes sure I'm ok, and then says, "You landed on your feet." Until he said this, I hadn't even realized I had landed on my feet. He kept repeating, "You landed on your feet." He was every bit as amazed by this as I was.

He yelled to the back and let everyone know I was ok. For the rest of the day, I made sure I had the ladder all the way open and the locks on the ladder engaged. It was an awesome showcase of God's grace, but I also know not to put God to the test.

In case you're wondering, I didn't catch the ladder.
Today was a day like any other. I got up this morning and went to work. I went to my second job, which I only do one day a week, but it was still the same old get up and go to work.

I get to work to find that yesterday began a lot of rearrangement of the shirt store that I work at. We are discontinuing several designs, so the designs on the wall needed to be moved around to compensate for the open spaces. This got to be my job.

The shirt store has pretty high ceilings. This meant that rearranging the higher shirts involved the use of a ladder that I believe to have been 16 feet. This is quite high, almost three times my height. Initially I was afraid, but the fear quickly abated as I moved the shirts around, gradually leaning more and placing more trust in the ladder. 

Occasionally the ladder shimmied.  With each shimmy, my confidence grew: it had happened before, so what was one more time?

After about an hour, my theory quickly developed a hole. As I leaned out to move something, I felt the ladder shimmy. This time, however, it did not stop at a shimmy. It was not a leg skimming across the floor to find 4 points that were in the same plane, as opposed to the three with the wobbly fourth leg. It was not even a warning that I needed to get down. No, I was near the top of the ladder, and it was coming down.

When I felt this, I knew I had to get down. I started climbing. Four rungs in, I realized this was not working: instead of getting down, I was riding the ladder to the floor. It was absolutely falling faster than I was descending. Without even realize what I was doing, I jumped. About 3 feet in front of me was a shirt press with 400˚ metal; a few inches to my right lied a corner; to my right, metal hangers.

As I was landing, I was also trying to catch the ladder. Somehow, by the grace of God, I landed on my feet. My knee bumped the side of the ladder on the way down, and I got a small scratch on my wrist from the counter. I was otherwise unscathed.

My boss, who saw the whole thing happen, is freaking out. He makes sure I'm ok, and then says, "You landed on your feet." Until he said this, I hadn't even realized I had landed on my feet. He kept repeating, "You landed on your feet." He was every bit as amazed by this as I was.

He yelled to the back and let everyone know I was ok. For the rest of the day, I made sure I had the ladder all the way open and the locks on the ladder engaged. It was an awesome showcase of God's grace, but I also know not to put God to the test.

In case you're wondering, I didn't catch the ladder.

I wrote this last Tuesday, so one week ago today. Since then I've been having difficulties with my internet connection and have as such been unable to post. Enjoy.
-----------
Today was a day like any other. I got up this morning and went to work. I went to my second job, which I only do one day a week, but it was still the same old get up and go to work.

I get to work to find that yesterday began a lot of rearrangement of the shirt store that I work at. We are discontinuing several designs, so the designs on the wall needed to be moved around to compensate for the open spaces. This got to be my job.

The shirt store has pretty high ceilings. This meant that rearranging the higher shirts involved the use of a ladder that I believe to have been 16 feet. This is quite high, almost three times my height. Initially I was afraid, but the fear quickly abated as I moved the shirts around, gradually leaning more and placing more trust in the ladder. 

Occasionally the ladder shimmied.  With each shimmy, my confidence grew: it had happened before, so what was one more time?

After about an hour, my theory quickly developed a hole. As I leaned out to move something, I felt the ladder shimmy. This time, however, it did not stop at a shimmy. It was not a leg skimming across the floor to find 4 points that were in the same plane, as opposed to the three with the wobbly fourth leg. It was not even a warning that I needed to get down. No, I was near the top of the ladder, and it was coming down.

When I felt this, I knew I had to get down. I started climbing. Four rungs in, I realized this was not working: instead of getting down, I was riding the ladder to the floor. It was absolutely falling faster than I was descending. Without even realize what I was doing, I jumped. About 3 feet in front of me was a shirt press with 400˚ metal; a few inches to my right lied a corner; to my right, metal hangers.

As I was landing, I was also trying to catch the ladder. Somehow, by the grace of God, I landed on my feet. My knee bumped the side of the ladder on the way down, and I got a small scratch on my wrist from the counter. I was otherwise unscathed.

My boss, who saw the whole thing happen, is freaking out. He makes sure I'm ok, and then says, "You landed on your feet." Until he said this, I hadn't even realized I had landed on my feet. He kept repeating, "You landed on your feet." He was every bit as amazed by this as I was.

He yelled to the back and let everyone know I was ok. For the rest of the day, I made sure I had the ladder all the way open and the locks on the ladder engaged. It was an awesome showcase of God's grace, but I also know not to put God to the test.

In case you're wondering, I didn't catch the ladder.
Today was a day like any other. I got up this morning and went to work. I went to my second job, which I only do one day a week, but it was still the same old get up and go to work.

I get to work to find that yesterday began a lot of rearrangement of the shirt store that I work at. We are discontinuing several designs, so the designs on the wall needed to be moved around to compensate for the open spaces. This got to be my job.

The shirt store has pretty high ceilings. This meant that rearranging the higher shirts involved the use of a ladder that I believe to have been 16 feet. This is quite high, almost three times my height. Initially I was afraid, but the fear quickly abated as I moved the shirts around, gradually leaning more and placing more trust in the ladder. 

Occasionally the ladder shimmied.  With each shimmy, my confidence grew: it had happened before, so what was one more time?

After about an hour, my theory quickly developed a hole. As I leaned out to move something, I felt the ladder shimmy. This time, however, it did not stop at a shimmy. It was not a leg skimming across the floor to find 4 points that were in the same plane, as opposed to the three with the wobbly fourth leg. It was not even a warning that I needed to get down. No, I was near the top of the ladder, and it was coming down.

When I felt this, I knew I had to get down. I started climbing. Four rungs in, I realized this was not working: instead of getting down, I was riding the ladder to the floor. It was absolutely falling faster than I was descending. Without even realize what I was doing, I jumped. About 3 feet in front of me was a shirt press with 400˚ metal; a few inches to my right lied a corner; to my right, metal hangers.

As I was landing, I was also trying to catch the ladder. Somehow, by the grace of God, I landed on my feet. My knee bumped the side of the ladder on the way down, and I got a small scratch on my wrist from the counter. I was otherwise unscathed.

My boss, who saw the whole thing happen, is freaking out. He makes sure I'm ok, and then says, "You landed on your feet." Until he said this, I hadn't even realized I had landed on my feet. He kept repeating, "You landed on your feet." He was every bit as amazed by this as I was.

He yelled to the back and let everyone know I was ok. For the rest of the day, I made sure I had the ladder all the way open and the locks on the ladder engaged. It was an awesome showcase of God's grace, but I also know not to put God to the test.

In case you're wondering, I didn't catch the ladder.

The Ladder

The Night I Met Adam Savage

Last night was a pretty normal evening. After work I got on the light rail to go home, just like I always do. I sat there, playing Sudoku or reading the New York Times or Jailbird by Kurt Vonnegut. I can’t recall which, but these are the things I do on the light rail. I was somewhat engrossed in my activity for a few stops. Then I randomly looked up.

Seated about 10 feet in front of me I noticed that Adam Savage had gotten on the train. Adam is the kind of celebrity who can go out in public without being mobbed, but is often recognized. In many ways he’s a local celebrity. However, his locality is not physical: it is in the hearts and minds of nerds, geeks, and other science fans wherever they may be found. Adam is sitting there, by himself, reading. He reads books, like a real person. He also takes public transportation. In my mind, Adam is a serious celebrity, just like Wil Wheaton, MC Frontalot, or T.M. Maple. Yes, I really am that much of a nerd.

So what do I do? I don’t want to go fanboy. I’ve been on both sides of this strangely, and neither is desirable. I also don’t want to let this opportunity pass me by. After all, this would be a much less intersting post if the title were “The Night I Almost Met Adam Savage.”

I make my decision. I have about 4 more stops before I get off, which gives me sufficient time to choose the perfect 2-3 sentences. I’ll go over to him, as I’m getting off the train, and say these sentences. It’s not overbearing, but it’s there. “Excuse me, Mr. Savage? I just wanted to thank you for Mythbusters. You’ve answered so many of my questions in a way that I find both entertaining and informative.” Something like that.

Nervousness builds as we approach Beacon Hill Station, where I’ll be departing after speaking my peace to Adam. If I see him stand up to leave before Beacon Hill, I’ll have to make my move early, but why would he get off at SoDo or Stadium Station? And as I hoped, he didn’t. No one ever does this time of night. We enter the tunnel to Beacon Hill Station. I stand up and take a deep breath. I approach Adam, hereafter addressed as “Mr. Savage” (the way in which I chose to address him).

I walk toward Mr. Savage. I’m about 3 feet away, past the door through which I will be exiting. I’m at the point of no return, or at least no non-awkward return. Mr. Savage looks up at me. Myth busted.

What myth? The myth that this was Adam Savage. He wasn’t. He wasn’t Adam Savage at all. He was a balding redheaded gentleman who bore a resemblance to him, but was indeed not him at all. Sometimes you can’t believe everything you see.

Last night was a pretty normal evening. After work I got on the light rail to go home, just like I always do. I sat there, playing Sudoku or reading the New York Times or Jailbird by Kurt Vonnegut. I can’t recall which, but these are the things I do on the light rail. I was somewhat engrossed in my activity for a few stops. Then I randomly looked up.

Seated about 10 feet in front of me I noticed that Adam Savage had gotten on the train. Adam is the kind of celebrity who can go out in public without being mobbed, but is often recognized. In many ways he’s a local celebrity. However, his locality is not physical: it is in the hearts and minds of nerds, geeks, and other science fans wherever they may be found. Adam is sitting there, by himself, reading. He reads books, like a real person. He also takes public transportation. In my mind, Adam is a serious celebrity, just like Wil Wheaton, MC Frontalot, or T.M. Maple. Yes, I really am that much of a nerd.

So what do I do? I don’t want to go fanboy. I’ve been on both sides of this strangely, and neither is desirable. I also don’t want to let this opportunity pass me by. After all, this would be a much less intersting post if the title were “The Night I Almost Met Adam Savage.”

I make my decision. I have about 4 more stops before I get off, which gives me sufficient time to choose the perfect 2-3 sentences. I’ll go over to him, as I’m getting off the train, and say these sentences. It’s not overbearing, but it’s there. “Excuse me, Mr. Savage? I just wanted to thank you for Mythbusters. You’ve answered so many of my questions in a way that I find both entertaining and informative.” Something like that.

Nervousness builds as we approach Beacon Hill Station, where I’ll be departing after speaking my peace to Adam. If I see him stand up to leave before Beacon Hill, I’ll have to make my move early, but why would he get off at SoDo or Stadium Station? And as I hoped, he didn’t. No one ever does this time of night. We enter the tunnel to Beacon Hill Station. I stand up and take a deep breath. I approach Adam, hereafter addressed as “Mr. Savage” (the way in which I chose to address him).

I walk toward Mr. Savage. I’m about 3 feet away, past the door through which I will be exiting. I’m at the point of no return, or at least no non-awkward return. Mr. Savage looks up at me. Myth busted.

What myth? The myth that this was Adam Savage. He wasn’t. He wasn’t Adam Savage at all. He was a balding redheaded gentleman who bore a resemblance to him, but was indeed not him at all. Sometimes you can’t believe everything you see.

The Night I Met Adam Savage

Just a Brief Thought

Tonight I was holding a little girl at church, about one and a half years old. She generally cries when I hold her, but tonight she decided it was ok. There was initial crying, but it quickly subsided. She was unsure that she liked me, but I kept putting on music, so everything was ok. She was playing with my hair, when suddenly she came to a realization: there is hair on my face!

Tug, tug: it's real. She pulled at it and ran her fingers through it. She smiled. It's the first time she's ever smiled while I was holding her. And it was one of the greatest moments of my life.

Tonight I was holding a little girl at church, about one and a half years old. She generally cries when I hold her, but tonight she decided it was ok. There was initial crying, but it quickly subsided. She was unsure that she liked me, but I kept putting on music, so everything was ok. She was playing with my hair, when suddenly she came to a realization: there is hair on my face!

Tug, tug: it's real. She pulled at it and ran her fingers through it. She smiled. It's the first time she's ever smiled while I was holding her. And it was one of the greatest moments of my life.

Just a Brief Thought

I thought I did this already...

Really? I didn't post about my hiatus? Odd. Anyway, about a month and a half ago, I decided to take a hiatus from some things, which directly lead to not blogging. I need to reanalyze my entire life. Things are complicated (as always), and I haven't analyzed everything in entirely too long. I still have a goals list from 2, almost 3, years ago.

I still haven't done it. But I need to. So much to learn, even more unlearn; that's life.

It's not to say I won't post until it's done, but probably not. It's not a time to be putting things out before the world. That's all. Sorry to all my non-existent readers.

Really? I didn't post about my hiatus? Odd. Anyway, about a month and a half ago, I decided to take a hiatus from some things, which directly lead to not blogging. I need to reanalyze my entire life. Things are complicated (as always), and I haven't analyzed everything in entirely too long. I still have a goals list from 2, almost 3, years ago.

I still haven't done it. But I need to. So much to learn, even more unlearn; that's life.

It's not to say I won't post until it's done, but probably not. It's not a time to be putting things out before the world. That's all. Sorry to all my non-existent readers.

I thought I did this already...

Wile E. Coyote Brushes His Teeth

The following is inspired by a string of comments on a picture on facebook a few days ago. I opened a document and typed the following before going to bed:

Describe the contraption Wile E. Coyote would use to brush his teeth.

What appears below is what I eventually wrote. It was a very interesting writing exercise, as it forced me to do my best to put into words a series of visual jokes, as well as to picture something as someone else would create it. Enjoy.

A large truck drives onto the scene. We can’t be quite sure what is inside the truck, but painted on the side are four letters: ACME. The truck squeals at it stops quite suddenly. The desert dust flies in a cloud. The back door opens, and a box falls out. As soon as the box hits the ground, the truck drives away. The same four letters are oversprayed on the side of the box: ACME.

Suddenly we see Wile E. Coyote (Gingivitis preventius) run over to the box, excited for its contents. Most likely this is another crazy scheme to catch the Road Runner (Dentus nilius). As Wile E. Coyote pries the top off the box, a large toothbrush pops out, attached to a spring. Apparently oral hygiene is as important for predators in the animal kingdom as it is for humans. After all, you wouldn’t want to walk around all day with small land animals stuck between your teeth. Out of the box our carnivorous friend pulls a remote control.

Wile E. puts the oversized toothbrush in his mouth and pushes the large red button on the remote, which is also the only button. The toothbrush moves quite vigourously, up and down, as well as in tiny circles, cleaning Wile E.’s teeth in the manner recommended by most dentists. Healthy teeth are important, and 4 out of 5 siwwy wabbits recommend a device similar to this one.

On the horizon, we can see another sizable cloud of dust. As of yet, we cannot tell what said cloud is, but it’s rapidly approaching us, so we’re about to find out. The distinctive “Beep, beep!” of Road Runner resounds throughout the mountainous desert.

As he runs past us, the box from which the toothbrush is extruding is thrust into the air by the force of Road Runner’s zooming past. As it is directly above Wile E.’s head, the box seems to lose it’s momentum and fall straight down. The toothbrush as well as the spring are forced down Wile E.’s throat. He is smashed as flat as a pancake when the box continues down on him, but he soon bounces back into shape, up and down like an accordion as the spring expands and contracts. Dazed by this interaction, Wile E. tries to walk it off, still doing his accordion-esque Danse Macabre. Unfortunately, our friend is in such pain that he fails to notice as he walks off the edge of the cliff on which he was brushing his teeth. Only moments after he falls, the sound of rock cracking can be heard, as the cliff for no apparent reason breaks and falls on top of our coyote friend.

This may seem like an extraordinary event, but this is the everyday life of a coyote who uses ACME products to try to catch a bird. All he wants is a meal. Is that really so much to ask?

The following is inspired by a string of comments on a picture on facebook a few days ago. I opened a document and typed the following before going to bed:

Describe the contraption Wile E. Coyote would use to brush his teeth.

What appears below is what I eventually wrote. It was a very interesting writing exercise, as it forced me to do my best to put into words a series of visual jokes, as well as to picture something as someone else would create it. Enjoy.

A large truck drives onto the scene. We can’t be quite sure what is inside the truck, but painted on the side are four letters: ACME. The truck squeals at it stops quite suddenly. The desert dust flies in a cloud. The back door opens, and a box falls out. As soon as the box hits the ground, the truck drives away. The same four letters are oversprayed on the side of the box: ACME.

Suddenly we see Wile E. Coyote (Gingivitis preventius) run over to the box, excited for its contents. Most likely this is another crazy scheme to catch the Road Runner (Dentus nilius). As Wile E. Coyote pries the top off the box, a large toothbrush pops out, attached to a spring. Apparently oral hygiene is as important for predators in the animal kingdom as it is for humans. After all, you wouldn’t want to walk around all day with small land animals stuck between your teeth. Out of the box our carnivorous friend pulls a remote control.

Wile E. puts the oversized toothbrush in his mouth and pushes the large red button on the remote, which is also the only button. The toothbrush moves quite vigourously, up and down, as well as in tiny circles, cleaning Wile E.’s teeth in the manner recommended by most dentists. Healthy teeth are important, and 4 out of 5 siwwy wabbits recommend a device similar to this one.

On the horizon, we can see another sizable cloud of dust. As of yet, we cannot tell what said cloud is, but it’s rapidly approaching us, so we’re about to find out. The distinctive “Beep, beep!” of Road Runner resounds throughout the mountainous desert.

As he runs past us, the box from which the toothbrush is extruding is thrust into the air by the force of Road Runner’s zooming past. As it is directly above Wile E.’s head, the box seems to lose it’s momentum and fall straight down. The toothbrush as well as the spring are forced down Wile E.’s throat. He is smashed as flat as a pancake when the box continues down on him, but he soon bounces back into shape, up and down like an accordion as the spring expands and contracts. Dazed by this interaction, Wile E. tries to walk it off, still doing his accordion-esque Danse Macabre. Unfortunately, our friend is in such pain that he fails to notice as he walks off the edge of the cliff on which he was brushing his teeth. Only moments after he falls, the sound of rock cracking can be heard, as the cliff for no apparent reason breaks and falls on top of our coyote friend.

This may seem like an extraordinary event, but this is the everyday life of a coyote who uses ACME products to try to catch a bird. All he wants is a meal. Is that really so much to ask?

Wile E. Coyote Brushes His Teeth

Alarm

When I started this blog, it was intended to be a place for me to post things that I've written, and nothing else. Obviously, this is not what I have done. Anyway, here is that:

This isn't cause for
alarm,
but I'll still sound
it
quite loudly,

and those around
will all listen devoutly,

in hopes that this
isn't like the rest:
not just another test,
but an actual
matter of fact
instructions-will-follow
emergency.

But there will be no
instructions:
only destruction
of logic,
as I sit at home,
overthinking,
and blinking
in Morse
code:

. . .
- - -
. . .

When I started this blog, it was intended to be a place for me to post things that I've written, and nothing else. Obviously, this is not what I have done. Anyway, here is that:

This isn't cause for
alarm,
but I'll still sound
it
quite loudly,

and those around
will all listen devoutly,

in hopes that this
isn't like the rest:
not just another test,
but an actual
matter of fact
instructions-will-follow
emergency.

But there will be no
instructions:
only destruction
of logic,
as I sit at home,
overthinking,
and blinking
in Morse
code:

. . .
- - -
. . .

Alarm

On Paradelles

There are many difficult forms of poetry that we have taken from ancient France. Rondeau may not be that difficult, but we up the ante a bit with the villanelle, and writing a quality sestina is quite a challenge, or at least an exercise. Scarcely though will one find a form anywhere that is nearly as difficult as a paradelle.

Paradelles are 24 lines long. They consist of 4 six-line stanzas (sextets). In each of the first 3 stanza, line 1 and 2 are identical, as are lines 3 and 4. Lines 5 and 6 are then a rearrangement of the words from lines 1 and 3. The final sextet is a rearranging of lines 1 and 3 of the 3 previous stanzas.

This is often regarded as one of the most difficult forms to write. Scarcely will a poet undertake this task. Too often when they do, the poem ends up looking like "Paradelle for Susan," by Billy Collins, the last line of which reads as follows:

Darken the mountain, time and find was my into it was with to to.

Awkward. Collins received a lot of criticism over this. It was generally regarded as his taking an ancient form which he did not understand and trying to use it.

There is only one problem with this: a paradelle is not actually an ancient French form. As a matter of fact, "Paradelle for Susan" was the very first paradelle ever written, way back in 1998. It was invented by Billy Collins as a means of criticizing the way in which some poets cling to form to their own detriment(1). However, it was believed to be an ancient French form because of a footnote to the poem (I believe the only footnote in Picnic Lightning), which begins as follows:

NOTE: The paradelle is one of the more demanding French fixed forms, first appearing in the langue d'oc love poetry of the eleventh century.

Since the publication of "Paradelle for Susan," there have been a few paradelles written that actually use the form to create a good poem. An anthology of paradelles has even been released. This ancient French form has a very interesting 12-year history.

I have a project. I considered writing a paradelle, but decided against it. I'm not saying I never will. However, that is not the nature of this project. This project is heavily inspired by the word rearrangement of the paradelle with the parallelism of train tracks. The poem will consist of 2 parts (this may or may not mean 2 stanzas), each consisting of the exact same words rearranged. Further, the 2 parts are going to be opposite sides of the coin, depicting the same thing in 2 different ways.

Long term, I want to reach 54 words. Thus far I've written one, a whopping 15 words. This poem is called "First Date." It brings us first romance and idealism, then awkwardness and the desire to focus on everything but the date(2).

Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, "First Date."

You and I.
The date.
The chairs and the table.
Under the surface? A mystery…

Table and chairs date under a surface mystery.
The you. The I.
And the the.


1 Sometimes a change of form can be a good thing. One cannot help of thinking of Frost's discussion of whether or not to take his own life in that snowy meadow one evening, and his final decision not to which is offset by his change of meter. Collins recognized this, one of the many reasons he is my favorite living poet, if not my absolute favorite poet.
2 Obviously, I've never experienced this second half, as I'm never awkward at all. Or else I've never experienced either part because I can't get a date. Either way, I think I understand the concept.

There are many difficult forms of poetry that we have taken from ancient France. Rondeau may not be that difficult, but we up the ante a bit with the villanelle, and writing a quality sestina is quite a challenge, or at least an exercise. Scarcely though will one find a form anywhere that is nearly as difficult as a paradelle.

Paradelles are 24 lines long. They consist of 4 six-line stanzas (sextets). In each of the first 3 stanza, line 1 and 2 are identical, as are lines 3 and 4. Lines 5 and 6 are then a rearrangement of the words from lines 1 and 3. The final sextet is a rearranging of lines 1 and 3 of the 3 previous stanzas.

This is often regarded as one of the most difficult forms to write. Scarcely will a poet undertake this task. Too often when they do, the poem ends up looking like "Paradelle for Susan," by Billy Collins, the last line of which reads as follows:

Darken the mountain, time and find was my into it was with to to.

Awkward. Collins received a lot of criticism over this. It was generally regarded as his taking an ancient form which he did not understand and trying to use it.

There is only one problem with this: a paradelle is not actually an ancient French form. As a matter of fact, "Paradelle for Susan" was the very first paradelle ever written, way back in 1998. It was invented by Billy Collins as a means of criticizing the way in which some poets cling to form to their own detriment(1). However, it was believed to be an ancient French form because of a footnote to the poem (I believe the only footnote in Picnic Lightning), which begins as follows:

NOTE: The paradelle is one of the more demanding French fixed forms, first appearing in the langue d'oc love poetry of the eleventh century.

Since the publication of "Paradelle for Susan," there have been a few paradelles written that actually use the form to create a good poem. An anthology of paradelles has even been released. This ancient French form has a very interesting 12-year history.

I have a project. I considered writing a paradelle, but decided against it. I'm not saying I never will. However, that is not the nature of this project. This project is heavily inspired by the word rearrangement of the paradelle with the parallelism of train tracks. The poem will consist of 2 parts (this may or may not mean 2 stanzas), each consisting of the exact same words rearranged. Further, the 2 parts are going to be opposite sides of the coin, depicting the same thing in 2 different ways.

Long term, I want to reach 54 words. Thus far I've written one, a whopping 15 words. This poem is called "First Date." It brings us first romance and idealism, then awkwardness and the desire to focus on everything but the date(2).

Ladies and gentlemen, without further ado, "First Date."

You and I.
The date.
The chairs and the table.
Under the surface? A mystery…

Table and chairs date under a surface mystery.
The you. The I.
And the the.


1 Sometimes a change of form can be a good thing. One cannot help of thinking of Frost's discussion of whether or not to take his own life in that snowy meadow one evening, and his final decision not to which is offset by his change of meter. Collins recognized this, one of the many reasons he is my favorite living poet, if not my absolute favorite poet.
2 Obviously, I've never experienced this second half, as I'm never awkward at all. Or else I've never experienced either part because I can't get a date. Either way, I think I understand the concept.

On Paradelles

Professional

It's always amazing to me to talk to professional artists. Yes, there are a few artists who make a living by sellng a few paintings for massive amounts of money or selling myraids of CDs. However, I'm recently discovering that most professional artists are out there, on the streets, working over it for 8 (or more) hours per day.

Perhaps Seattle is unique in this: I don't feel like there are a lot of cities in this country where busker is a respectable job, nor something you could even consider making a living doing. However, I know several people who do so. About 2 years ago I met a man who was selling his novel on the street. It did not appeal to me personally (I found the concept not that interesting), so I did not buy it. However, I found out today that he makes at least enough money to pay his rent, which is substantian considering the neighborhood in which he lives.

It seems to me that all of these people had to one day make a decision: they had to quit their job and become a professional artist. I once asked Busker King Emery Carl what he did when he didn't get enough tips. He responded, "Some days, you just don't eat." In the description of one of his youtube videos, Emery Carl says, "sometimes you don't go to work because it's fun or easy, sometimes you just have to get it done."

Perhaps I'm just not committed enough. Sure, I've been doing some promotion work. I've been keeping this blog, and there is another store about to start carrying my book soon. But I've yet to be actually out there, performing on the street. I've just recently started networking. Being an artist is about being an entrepeneur.

All this being said, I alsoneed to constantly remind myself of the goal: the goal is not to be a professional artist. It is not to make money nor to be famous. The goal is to bring glory to God, the very purpose for which I was created. If I'm poet laureate of the world and richer than Warren Buffet but it's all for me, I'm a failure. If I'm glorifying God with the gifts that he gave me but I live on the street, I'm a success. Wretched man that I am: I've got a long way to go.

It's always amazing to me to talk to professional artists. Yes, there are a few artists who make a living by sellng a few paintings for massive amounts of money or selling myraids of CDs. However, I'm recently discovering that most professional artists are out there, on the streets, working over it for 8 (or more) hours per day.

Perhaps Seattle is unique in this: I don't feel like there are a lot of cities in this country where busker is a respectable job, nor something you could even consider making a living doing. However, I know several people who do so. About 2 years ago I met a man who was selling his novel on the street. It did not appeal to me personally (I found the concept not that interesting), so I did not buy it. However, I found out today that he makes at least enough money to pay his rent, which is substantian considering the neighborhood in which he lives.

It seems to me that all of these people had to one day make a decision: they had to quit their job and become a professional artist. I once asked Busker King Emery Carl what he did when he didn't get enough tips. He responded, "Some days, you just don't eat." In the description of one of his youtube videos, Emery Carl says, "sometimes you don't go to work because it's fun or easy, sometimes you just have to get it done."

Perhaps I'm just not committed enough. Sure, I've been doing some promotion work. I've been keeping this blog, and there is another store about to start carrying my book soon. But I've yet to be actually out there, performing on the street. I've just recently started networking. Being an artist is about being an entrepeneur.

All this being said, I alsoneed to constantly remind myself of the goal: the goal is not to be a professional artist. It is not to make money nor to be famous. The goal is to bring glory to God, the very purpose for which I was created. If I'm poet laureate of the world and richer than Warren Buffet but it's all for me, I'm a failure. If I'm glorifying God with the gifts that he gave me but I live on the street, I'm a success. Wretched man that I am: I've got a long way to go.

Professional

The Nature of Art

Last night at church, Pastor Tim was talking about (among a lot of other things...it was a great sermon) using our gifts to praise God and reach people for him. The purpse for which he gave us said gifts is the bring about his glory. After church I had a conversation with a friend about the sermon, and it turns out that we took away many of the same things from it. Both being antisocial artists, we both had some realizations about the way we're using our gifts.

But I think this is absolutely a case in which each answer leads to more questions: what does it look like to use writing and painting to God's glory? Where should I be using these gifts? Is this really what God wants me doing, or should I be using other gifts right now instead (and more correctly stated, where is the balance)? The list goes on.

Tomorrow I plan to busk. Thursday I'm performing at a show something I wrote.  A store is about to start carrying my book (probably/hopefully). But what else? I don't know.

A few years ago I read an article in CCM (certainly not a magazine I read regularly) in which the vocalist from Switchfoot said, "A Christian artist does more than paint crosses." I was later told that this was actually a quote from Frank Schaeffer. Whatever the source, it raises some interesting questions: I mean, what DOES a Christian artist do? The obvious, general, overarching answer is simple: create art to glorify God. However, it's difficult to determine what this looks like on an artist to artist basis.

What I mean is this: what makes the art of Thomas Kinkade better than that of Damon Conklin? I have nothing against Thomas Kinkade. I've never met him, so I can't speak of him as a person. Regardless, I certainly don't like his position as patron saint of Christian bookstores. As for Damon, I go to church with him and know that he sees incarnation in his art. Not only that, but my neighbor mentioned to me on Saturday that when he went to Supergenius to get his tattoo and saw Damon's art, he saw incarnation. It's visible to others.

I think that's one of the biggest parts: Christianity is not exclusively between you and God, but also about community. If people only see you and not God, you're doing something wrong.

Last night at church, Pastor Tim was talking about (among a lot of other things...it was a great sermon) using our gifts to praise God and reach people for him. The purpse for which he gave us said gifts is the bring about his glory. After church I had a conversation with a friend about the sermon, and it turns out that we took away many of the same things from it. Both being antisocial artists, we both had some realizations about the way we're using our gifts.

But I think this is absolutely a case in which each answer leads to more questions: what does it look like to use writing and painting to God's glory? Where should I be using these gifts? Is this really what God wants me doing, or should I be using other gifts right now instead (and more correctly stated, where is the balance)? The list goes on.

Tomorrow I plan to busk. Thursday I'm performing at a show something I wrote.  A store is about to start carrying my book (probably/hopefully). But what else? I don't know.

A few years ago I read an article in CCM (certainly not a magazine I read regularly) in which the vocalist from Switchfoot said, "A Christian artist does more than paint crosses." I was later told that this was actually a quote from Frank Schaeffer. Whatever the source, it raises some interesting questions: I mean, what DOES a Christian artist do? The obvious, general, overarching answer is simple: create art to glorify God. However, it's difficult to determine what this looks like on an artist to artist basis.

What I mean is this: what makes the art of Thomas Kinkade better than that of Damon Conklin? I have nothing against Thomas Kinkade. I've never met him, so I can't speak of him as a person. Regardless, I certainly don't like his position as patron saint of Christian bookstores. As for Damon, I go to church with him and know that he sees incarnation in his art. Not only that, but my neighbor mentioned to me on Saturday that when he went to Supergenius to get his tattoo and saw Damon's art, he saw incarnation. It's visible to others.

I think that's one of the biggest parts: Christianity is not exclusively between you and God, but also about community. If people only see you and not God, you're doing something wrong.

The Nature of Art

Amuse the Muse, Avoid the Noid

I feel quite awkward writing this post. There are several reasons for this. Firstly, I've had and continue to have many ideas, but nothing has appeared here. That really doesn't matter, as I have of yet given this link to exactly zero people. But also I feel awkward because I feel like this is a strange post: if someone else told me this same story, I'd not believe them. At the same time, I swear it's true. 

How do you tell someone that she is your muse? I mean, I know how to tell someone that. I've said it many times. But I've only ever said it to girls whom I liked.

However, this time is different. I don't even know this girl. I mean, I've talked to her several times, but always only for 15-30 seconds at a time. She always laughs, and I feel mused. But that's it. 

I'm not saying I'm actually going to tell her. I'm just thinking about it. Not thinking about telling her, but thinking about what this whole concept would look like. 

Oh, and as for the Noid, I've been eating frozen pizza because it's cheaper. The noid is not interested in that. 

I feel quite awkward writing this post. There are several reasons for this. Firstly, I've had and continue to have many ideas, but nothing has appeared here. That really doesn't matter, as I have of yet given this link to exactly zero people. But also I feel awkward because I feel like this is a strange post: if someone else told me this same story, I'd not believe them. At the same time, I swear it's true. 

How do you tell someone that she is your muse? I mean, I know how to tell someone that. I've said it many times. But I've only ever said it to girls whom I liked.

However, this time is different. I don't even know this girl. I mean, I've talked to her several times, but always only for 15-30 seconds at a time. She always laughs, and I feel mused. But that's it. 

I'm not saying I'm actually going to tell her. I'm just thinking about it. Not thinking about telling her, but thinking about what this whole concept would look like. 

Oh, and as for the Noid, I've been eating frozen pizza because it's cheaper. The noid is not interested in that. 

Amuse the Muse, Avoid the Noid

The Mandatory First Post

So here it is: post #1. It's time to write. This is something different. This time, it's about writing. And writing is an act of worship. 

A friend recently asked me if I was posting poetry somewhere. The answer, unfortunately, was no. At that point, I knew I had to do something. So I immediately decided I had to start one. Then, I waited several months. This was not because I  was contemplating it, but because I just didn't do it. 

For the last week and a half, I've been considerring social media and the implications of such, as well as relationships. I guess ultimately this is about not just posting poetry, but also having people comment. 

I'm listening right now to Gary Vaynerchuk at Rails Conference. In a lot of ways, he's the reason I'm just posting poetry. After all, there are many things about which more people will read. I could make some advertising money writing about things people are more broadly interested in. But writing is important to me. 

Please read and comment. I was going to say enjoy, but that's up to you. I hope you do, but I'm ok if you don't. Let's talk about it. 

If one person follows you and gives a crap about what you say, you should be ridiculously happy. -Gary Vaynerchuk

So here it is: post #1. It's time to write. This is something different. This time, it's about writing. And writing is an act of worship. 

A friend recently asked me if I was posting poetry somewhere. The answer, unfortunately, was no. At that point, I knew I had to do something. So I immediately decided I had to start one. Then, I waited several months. This was not because I  was contemplating it, but because I just didn't do it. 

For the last week and a half, I've been considerring social media and the implications of such, as well as relationships. I guess ultimately this is about not just posting poetry, but also having people comment. 

I'm listening right now to Gary Vaynerchuk at Rails Conference. In a lot of ways, he's the reason I'm just posting poetry. After all, there are many things about which more people will read. I could make some advertising money writing about things people are more broadly interested in. But writing is important to me. 

Please read and comment. I was going to say enjoy, but that's up to you. I hope you do, but I'm ok if you don't. Let's talk about it. 

If one person follows you and gives a crap about what you say, you should be ridiculously happy. -Gary Vaynerchuk

The Mandatory First Post