crashing

So, this is how it feels to be excepted from the fold of God. This is the ageless power that brought kings and beggars to their knees. This is the divine inferno and the fall of Man and the tenth plague and the Holocaust and the crucifixion and the Inquisition and the Final Advent and soul and conscience and disaster. This is the natural annihilation wrought upon the heart of the man who denies all causal and existential authority. This is the end of the road. This is life's final lifeless breath.

I was damned from the very beginning never to have what I wanted most. When I took it by force, I paid the price. This is the burden assigned to me, as to every creature of God. There is no other way. There is no other way. There is no other

I managed to crash without anyone knowing. I am alone, but reassured.

reprieve

Here's another wiretap into the inner workings of my mind and soul.

In case I was a bit ambiguous with my earlier post(s), I'm basically trying to think seriously about writing for a living. The options I'm more or less trying to weigh are, on the one hand, writing -- my art -- and on the other, a profession in law. Regardless of what people say, at the moment I don't believe that I can do both together and maintain my integrity. That may or may not change in the future, but for now I'm intent on setting myself on one of the two.

The reason for the clarification was a realization that I'd never really referred to it as "writing", and rather only as "art". It was a bit of a Joycean flair that I thought to adopt, moreso out of a sudden and unexpected sense of relation than as an appeal to a higher authority. I don't know, though, if I'm entirely right in calling it that. To me, art isn't the product, whether it be written or sung or shaped out of clay; I think that true art is the shape and character of the individual, and the medium that it comes through is a sort of secondary existence. Sure, the created art can be amazing and admirable and an entity of its own, but it's never wholly separate from its creator, and every creation is dependent on the artist for its existence. The value of the art is in its revelation of the artistic character. The most effective way, probably, to understand the whole concept would be to liken art to creation and the artist to God. ... yeah, doesn't sound so retarded anymore, now, does it?

I'm bothered by the faces that people present. I'm put off by the effort made by so many to project an image of lies, woven together to conceal the real thing. I especially don't get it when the facade is less likeable and less effective in a social setting than the truth. What's the sense in it? It only drives people away. If that were the objective, it'd make some sense, but I don't think it's humanly possible to want to segregate yourself from any and every other person. So, the inevitable conclusion is that there's some underlying cause behind all of this ridiculous behaviour. I don't really know what it could possibly be, but I know one thing is for certain: the lie doesn't help anyone.

There are a lot of things that are unnecessary, and should be undesirable, in life. A reputation is one of them -- I'm amazed at how many people still try on a regular basis to establish that they're rich or hip or deep and insightful or whitewashed (uh, when did that become a positive character trait?) or whatever else. I'm really glad it doesn't happen as often anymore, probably because I've started to choose my social interactions a lot more carefully, but it still does. It's kind of annoying, all the subliminal hints and slipped-in cues here and there, because it really does detract from the value of any conversation that might've been taking place. When it happens on a large scale, I like to imagine it as a game of poker, with a jackpot in the middle. Throughout the conversation different people toss in their chips, and the pot grows and grows to a ridiculous size until finally, with the right gesture or properly placed remark, one person wins it all. Then the next round starts. In my opinion, it's better to fold.

I honestly think I've gotten much better at refraining myself from joining in the who's-better competition. Not only do I care more about the people I'm around, but I'm able to keep myself and my moronic side in check most of the time. The times when I do get out of hand, I've found, are the times when I'm provoked. When people carry normal conversations with me, I'm fine and can get by without much difficulty; but when someone else initiates the comparison game with ME, I tend to lose it. I'm a really, really, really proud person, and I have a LOT of difficulty with people who try to compare themselves to me. I haven't quite figured a way around it yet, though -- which is part of the reason why I'm being so careful about who I'm around.

Exams are looming. I'd like them to be over with. Goldeneye tomorrow night, and massive amounts of rocking out the day after. It's a brief reprieve, but a much-needed one.

a portrait of the artist as a young man

The world is telling me I'm wrong. It's telling me that there's no light at the end of the tunnel, no reward at the end of the race; that the path I'm heading down leads into the black abyss of nothing and nowhere. It's giving me options, it's giving me choices, it's giving me everything I could possibly need to back out of certain disaster. It's doing everything it can to prevent me from making this choice.

Do I listen to its words of wisdom? Do I give up trying to believe in something that could never be? Do I take the safe route, the navigated course? Do I accept that, when the decision is six billion to one against, it's entirely likely that I'm the one who's wrong?

But how can I, when in my soul I know I'm right?

This is my living and fire-breathing Hell: to never be accepted, to never be allowed, to be neglected and condemned by the iron law of society; to be scorned and looked down on by lesser beings, subject to ridicule and degredation at the hands of the societal norm. This is the life that awaits me, should I choose it; the life of the artist, an existence of non-existence, an endless cycle of unrewarded and unappreciated effort. The irony is bitter to the last drop: "Cosi` s'osserva in me lo contrapasso!"

I feel like I'm turning my back on a legacy that I was meant to uphold. It's hard not to feel pressure when the NEJM and Lancet echo a father's name in their pages; it's hard not to feel like a failure when every relative is a renowned doctor or professor, or both. It's hard not to look at a brother in med school and a sister in a top journalism program and wonder what the hell I'm doing with my life.

It's hard not to feel like this is some kind of a cop-out, an evasion of the stress of graduate studies and a demanding but high-paying workplace. It's hard not to feel like a loser next to a girlfriend who aspires to be in law school, whose academic achievements are abysmally extensive and who seems to have set a course for the top of the social ladder. It's hard not to feel out of place in the midst of future doctors and politicians and scientists and Microsoft CEOs.

But I see no other way for me. I see no other place to turn. So, I'll do the only thing I know to be right. If the world collapses around me, the flesh will die with the assurance that the soul had the opportunity to live, and did.

grey

Sitting here, drinking Earl Grey with milk and sugar for the first time in months, I'm reminded of why I don't do this very often. It's the smell. Naturally, tea has an incredible aroma -- tea leaves are particularly susceptible to picking up scents, and Earl Grey is scented with bergamot, a kind of citrus fruit -- but with milk, all I can detect is a foul, pungent, distinctly dairy odour. I'm sure it has at least a little to do with the milk itself (I drink 3.25% homogenized), and it's probably made worse by the fact that the milk is warm, but it's still all in all a less-than-pleasant experience. The sugar doesn't help much, either, since it just adds a sickly-sweet twist to the already-nauseating smell. There's no trace of the delicately Baroque mingling of the different aromas of the blended leaves. Actually, the only image that I can associate with this smell is a goat's udder. Not even a cow's.

The taste of it is a similar experience, although it's at least bearable and somewhat satisfying, depending on the mood. Still, drinking the contents of this cup, I can only wonder to myself: where did the tea go? I don't feel like I'm drinking Earl Grey, I feel like I've concocted some blasphemous potion that belongs in a cauldron with newts' eyes and dogs' tongues. Even the look of it resembles some other-worldly solution, the deep shades of red and black having been annihilated by a monochromatic coat of brown. I can't help but feel a pang of guilt, smelling and tasting and staring at this perversion I've brewed. It's the sort of feeling that I'd imagine I'd have had if I had been one of those Spaniards landing in the Americas for the first time, or if I'd been a Visigoth riding into Rome, or if I'd been Mahmet II bringing the plague of incivility into the walls of hallowed St. Sophia -- that sense of being responsible for the utter destruction of something so pure and holy and beautiful, of bulldozing an entire way of life in favour of a lesser form of existence. It's a terrible and disturbing thought.

uplink (of the brain and soul)

In no particular order, here are some of the things that have been weighing my mind as of late (good thing we handy-dandy Protestants don't believe in excommunication):

Youth ministry is nothing like what I'd expected it to be. I graduated from Gilead eight months ago thinking that, to some extent or another, I hadn't really left at all, and that come springtime I'd be back to spending a fair number of my Friday nights having a consistent, direct relationship with the guys and girls there. I was really excited, going into first year, that I'd get to be a part of the growth that these kids experienced. Well, now it's almost May, the school year is almost over, and I can count on one hand the number of things I've done for Gilead. I'm frustrated (as if that's a surprise; I can again count on one hand the number of things that don't frustrate me about church these days), feeling directionless, and wondering if it was ever a good idea to get into this. I don't know any of the Gileadites outside of the relationships that I established while I was still in the fellowship -- actually, I feel like even those friendships have now grown stale and cold and distant. It's funny, because a while back someone else blogged about what I'd imagine was a similar experience; yet here we were, not even a year ago, complaining that there was a lack of counselors in the ministry. Maybe if we didn't turn them all off of serving? I don't know. Yeah, people have told me that I'm being selfishly demanding and that I need to just wait for the proper place and time. But the fact that I've been "serving" in Gilead for eight months and I don't even know what the title of my role there is? I was looking over a resume today and I had second thoughts about mentioning being a "counselor" under my volunteer experience (only reason I didn't change it was to spare any potential employers the agony of having to deal with the finer details of Baptist church politics). Maybe I'm asking for too much. Maybe wondering why my name isn't even on the Gilead site is sticking my nose into affairs that don't concern me. But I am FRUSTRATED. And I don't think I'll be coming back next year to deal with it.

Being in university has changed my experience of life, though. I've made a lot of new friends: some of those friendships are surface-level, the kind you wish you didn't have to deal with, but that inevitably come with prolonged exposure to any social context; and some are deeper and more meaningful than that. And yet I'm somehow apprehensive about a lot of them -- almost all of them, in fact -- and about their applicability to me. It's this mixed feeling of being wholly misunderstood on the one hand, and trying to fit into spaces that are already occupied on the other. I'm not exactly normal, after all, and so I'm hard-pressed to find anyone who even remotely shares an interest with me; and even if that weren't a problem for me (which it inevitably is, since whoever said that real friendships aren't determined by common interests was a common liar), people already have their established social structures and their friendships that they constantly return to. Case in point: I am aware of the fact that, very soon, several of the people whose friendships I've relied on heavily this year will become socially unavailable to me. Gosh, do I sound pathetic and self-absorbed? If I do, you've entirely missed the point, and I'd refer you to a post written by someone else, but unfortunately he archives by month, not by post.

On the flip side, I feel like I'm starting to find real friendships now. There are some people I love to hang out with, even if it's usually at the cost of my dignity, and there are others who're insightful and always great to talk to. There are a couple people who I can do both with, and who I feel really safe and able to be open around. It's a feeling I haven't had in forever -- actually, I'm not sure if I've ever felt this comfortable with people before (outside of Val) -- and I'm really glad that things worked out this way. Although the processed cheese and the bitter melon might've been the worst things that ever happened to me.

There's this stereotypical association between artists and the fringes of society. I'm increasingly becoming aware of the fact that I, as someone more inclined to invention than to convention and to poetry than to politics, exist on the fringe of a world dominated by the socio-culturally adept. Upon recent introspection I've come to discover that I just don't fit into the regular working world of taxis and paycheques and white shirts and "professionalism". Believe me when I say this: I am NOT trying to cop out of responsibility or "the crappy times in life/starting out by doing what you don't want to do"; I'm trying to come to terms with the fact that I'm just not made for this sort of thing. And as much as every idiot and his dog seems to love to tell me that there's no other way to get through life, I think indeed that I shall choose the life of the artist. Cheers to me if I wind up panhandling on Queen Street. I think I'd rather die than live a life of boredom anyways.

On that note, though, the moderately pampered and relatively well-provided-for side of me likes to interject. We do, after all, need monies to survive (a most unfortunate truth). Looking at what I've done and where I'm headed, both in the next three years and in the decades to come after that, I'm realizing that the future looks... bleak? no, that's not it; actually, it doesn't look like anything at all. It's just a confusing mess of uncertainties and endless possibilities for failure. Funny how someone blogged about this just recently, too. I really don't know which path I'm supposed to take, and where I'll wind up, and what I need to do to get through it and succeed. I wonder at how many opportunities I'll be given to back out, at how many alternate doors I'll be presented with. I have serious doubts about whether or not I'll stay true to my dream in the midst of all that this malignant world has to offer me.

One thing that I'm immeasurably excited for is our church, and where we're headed. I'm really glad that I could be a part of this, because I think we've waited long enough for change. On the other hand, I really hope that everyone can be adequately educated before the change takes place. I know how excitement has a way of turning into blindly unintelligent hype, and I have a real fear of this new church being undermined by the consumerist efforts of people who're just gonna be jumping onto the bandwagon. This new church, in my opinion, is not for the followers. The way I see it, it's for the people who want and who need to be proactive in their faith-driven lives. It's not a trendy new face to the same old structure; it's fundamentally and dramatically different from anything we've experienced before. I hope that in bringing it about, we're all able to uphold that standard, because if not, candles and rock music aren't going to cut it for me.

If you've ever seen Analyze This, and recall the scene at the end when Billy Crystal is dancing with his wife in their backyard next to a huge ornate fountain that the mob gave him as a gift, something similar is going on with the house across from ours. It's kind of funny (my mom made the analogy, and I find it to be very applicable; I commend her for her intuitiveness) because it's just this giant stone fountain with a statue of an angel on it, and it's bound to look pretty ridiculous once it's set up (although I guess I'll never see it if it's in their backyard). The house also recently put up a gate and has been constantly renovating and reworking things. The whole situation reminded me of the sorts of people who are obsessed with making themselves look higher and better than they actually are, by any means necessary: from the clothes they wear to the places they eat to the reported wealth of their parents to the gifts they get for people. Coincidentally, these are the sorts of people that I hate most. Of further coincidence, I happen to be one of these people, although I think I've improved by massive leaps and bounds in my ability to keep my mouth shut and my clothing tags to myself. Whenever I think about it, my mind always comes back to that eternally wise Bono-quote: God will not deal with the proud. It's an axiom I'll have to learn to live by.

the desultory revolution

"Regardez, Monsieur! La merde d'une vache."

- The last man standing (first to fall).

Where have all the good people gone?
I seem to recall, in some transitory recollection,
That at a time there were many;
Good men, strong men, who stood in protection
Of what they believed; and now, but any?
Only pretenders and hypocrites are aplenty.

In a raucous storm of conflicting opinions,
We stake out our own dominions;
And in bloodied fields of battles raging,
We rush to find wars to be waging.
Why?
Has the novelty of rebellion outstepped its purpose?
Should we meddle in affairs that we do not understand?
Is the measure of a man his ability to criticize?
Can there be any progress when the will becomes hard?
Have we accepted the ideas of others without question?
Do we have any basis for our particular stances?
Would it help if we began to think for ourselves?

Central to the existence of Man is truth,
The great philosophie; this pursuit of knowledge,
Of wisdom and goodness and the moral right.
But what do we know of truth?
What do we know of goodness?
What do we know of morality?
When our sense of right and wrong is auctioned away,
Bartered cheaply in exchange for an identity;
When what little insight we have is prone to sway
And to falter, at the hands of the majority,
What then is truth but the mask of a lie?

We ought to strive thus for truth and for justice
And not for la révolution populaire.
For what is the sense in fighting the fight of another?
And why should we strive when we do not care?
We are not simple mercenaries,
To be bought with the coin of social acceptance.
This carefully cultivated brain
And this God-given gift of a soul
Must be put to good use.

And for those who cannot find the truth,
You may be content to find instead a lie;
To wrap your lives about it, blindly, uncouth,
And make of yourselves a chicken pot pie.
Allow to cool --
Serves two, maybe three --
And enjoy! for by your stupidity
You have sold your soul to the bourgeoisie
And are entitled at least to such misery
As this.

Vive la révolution.

two years

I doubted my sanity when I saw you for the first time. How else could I have explained what I was seeing? I mean, relative to kids my age I was already an idealist, but even then I still knew that things never got this good. So when I saw you sitting a couple seats down from me on that sunny September afternoon, I simultaneously diagnosed myself with hallucinogenic psychosis, resolving to enjoy my delirium while it lasted (like the extraterrestrial spacecraft-landing or the chance encounter with Morgan Freeman that one experiences and marvels at the sight of, knowing fully well that none will believe the account of the sight afterwards). And when you caught me staring and you turned to look at me, and your rosy cheeks and bright eyes lit up in the most beautiful smile I'd ever seen, and ever have seen since, I forgot all about it.

I drowned in my sorrows when it came time to leave. There wasn't ever a comparable span of such marked and constant misery in my life. The summer and years that followed were a constant rewinding and replaying in my mind of everything that could've, that should've been, but wasn't. I still remember that last day, when I tried to say goodbye; you were already on your way home by the time I came outside. I tried to wave, and you waved back, but you were almost out of sight. There were so many things I'd wanted to say to you, and even if I hadn't been able to, I would've been content with hearing your sweet voice. Instead, I spent the next three years agonizing over the closure that I'd been robbed of.

I couldn't believe my eyes the next time I saw you, three full years later. You were still you, of course, but I couldn't have expected to run into you like that. The moment you stepped out of that coffee shop and saw me, I knew you hadn't changed. You screamed and ran back inside. I didn't quite know what to do or say. Regardless, it took me about half a second to decide that I still liked you. I guess I hadn't changed much either.

I must've been crazy when I told the world how I felt about you. I guess I always was one to take risks with things that mattered most. Yeah, it might've been a bit rash, and a bit excessive, and even a fair bit inappropriate. But it was the truth, and it was probably the most central struggle in my life until that point. Letting it out was how I'd hoped to let the past go, and focus on a different future -- after having known you and loved you for seven years, I finally felt like I could be at peace with it all. Instead, I found out that the feelings were mutual. What a beautiful day.

That was two years ago. Maybe we expected things to be perfect, and maybe everyone around us expected us to be perfect, too. Maybe they still do. This relationship has been a decade in the making, after all, and the history between us is nothing short of extensive. And have we lived up to it? We've had our bad moments and our sad moments, our fights and our failures. But the love has never stopped, and it's never died away; it's only grown, and it'll only continue to grow from here on out. Picture-perfect would've been boring, anyways, and a bit too much to ask for. At least we understand the meaning of it all just a little bit better now. Love is not the easy thing, but it sure as hell is the right thing. If there's one thing you've taught me since that September afternoon ten years ago, that's it. I thank God every day for bringing you into my life.

that girl, that girl, she's mine...

In a little while, surely you'll be mine,
In a little while, I'll be there,
In a little while, this hurt will hurt no more,
I'll be home, love...

When the night takes a deep breath
And the daylight has no air,
If I crawl, if I come crawling home,
Will you be there?

In a little while, I won't be blown by every breeze,
Friday night running to Sunday on my knees,
That girl, that girl, she's mine,
Well, I've known her since she was
A little girl with Spanish eyes,
When I saw her in a pram they pushed her by,
My, how you've grown,
Well, it's been a little while...

Slow down my beating heart...

A man dreams one day to fly,
A man takes a rocket ship into the sky,
He lives on a star that's dying in the night,
And follows in the trail, the scatter of light...

Slow down my beating heart,
Slowly, slowly, love...

Jesu, joy of man's desiring

Death --
Geth-semane;
Where an enemy
Found, by an olive tree,
And bound a wanted advèrsary,
Whose capture awarded a sizeable fee:
"Triginta argenteos, for your good deed";
And whose rapture gave Life to all those who believed.

And now I, who erewhile the happy Garden sung
By one man's disobedience lost, now sing
Recovered Paradise to all mankind,
By one man's firm obedience fully tried.

"Christ is risen --"

Jesu, joy of man's desiring,
Holy wisdom, Love most bright;
Drawn by Thee, our souls, aspiring,
Soar to uncreated Light.
Word of God, our flesh that fashioned,
With the fire of life impassioned,
Striving still to truth unknown,
Soaring, dying round Thy throne.

Through the way where hope is guiding,
Hark, what peaceful music rings;
Where the flock, in Thee confiding,
Drink of joy from deathless springs.
Theirs is beauty's fairest pleasure;
Theirs is wisdom's holiest treasure.
Thou dost ever lead Thine own
In the love of joys unknown.

"He is risen indeed."

until the end of the world

Haven't seen you in quite a while,
I was down the hold, just passing time
Last time we met, it was a low-lit room,
We were as close together as a bride and groom
We ate the food, we drank the wine,
Everybody having a good time,
Except you,
You were talking about the end of the world...

I took the money, I spiked your drink,
You miss too much these days if you stop to think
You led me on with those innocent eyes,
And you know I love the element of surprise
In the garden, I was playing the tart,
I kissed your lips and broke your heart
And you,
You were acting like it was the end of the world...

In my dream, I was drowning my sorrows,
But my sorrows, they'd learned to swim
Surrounding me, going down on me,
Spilling over the brim
Waves of regret and waves of joy,
I reached out for the one I'd tried to destroy
You, you said you'd wait,
Until the end of the world...

I.N.R.I.

IESVS NAZARENVS REX IVDAEORVM

A shudder; the chill of a morning wind slips its cold fingers through the air. Rays of sunlight, in their earliest hour, splash the high ground indiscriminately with harsh shades of red and black, as if to drench the entire hilltop in blood. The sobs of a woman nearby and the raucous banter of a ring of soldiers mask the fading patter of footsteps retreating down into the city. All else is silent save for the flapping of unscrolled paper, upon which the declaration is written.

JESUS OF NAZARETH, KING OF THE JEWS

Trails of fresh blood trace patterns across the dusty ground, mapping out a gradual progression from the foot of the hill. At some obscure point, amidst pools of blood and dirt, the paths digress in three distinct directions, each winding its way to the summit; where, casting pale shadows against the glare of the red sun, stand three tall, vertical beams, carved crudely of wood, each intersected by a second, shorter beam on a perpendicular angle. The paper title is transfixed by nails upon the central structure; and below it a man, whose marred and maimed body hardly seems to hold itself together, hangs suspended in like manner, hammered to both axes of the cross, his few garments flapping silently in unison with the rhythmless syncopation of the parchment bearing his name.

His wounds are many, cruel and deep. Bolts of iron, one driven into each upturned palm and another through his ankles, hold him fast to the posts. Much of his skin has been torn away, and his right side has been ripped apart by jagged lines of red, the undeniable mark of a flogging that his fixation upon the cross conceals. One of his arms, its shoulder being clearly dislocated, extends at an unnatural angle; the other is flayed to the bone at the tricep and seems on the verge of tearing apart. His face is red with blood, some gushing, some clotting into dark scabs, and the crown of thorns pressed on his brow carries bits of his flesh on its points. The lower half of his body has been subjected to a different sort of pain; and if his torso has at least the appearance of still being alive, by virtue of the blood it sheds, then his legs, which are bruised as black as gangrene, seem nothing short of death. Streams of blood flow down his arms and body, each a tributary issuing from a different wound; all converging in a single confluence, a river, pouring down the side of the cross, through the space between the vertical stipes and the wooden block supporting his feet; pooling at the foot of the grisly sight in a lake of red, where an uneven hole loosely holds the great pillar upright.

The despairing woman has grown quiet. A young man stands near her, speaking to her in a low voice. She wraps a woven shawl of vermillion about her shoulders and stands, droplets tracing their way down her cheeks, reflecting darkly, redly in the glow of the sun.

The ninth hour passes.

a chorus from the rock

It is hard for those who have never known persecution,
And who have never known a Christian,
To believe these tales of Christian persecution.
It is hard for those who live near a Bank
To doubt the security of their money.
It is hard for those who live near a Police Station
To believe in the triumph of violence.
Do you think that the Faith has conquered the World
And that lions no longer need keepers?
Do you need to be told that whatever has been, can still be?
Do you need to be told that even such modest attainments
As you can boast in the way of polite society
Will hardly survive the Faith to which they owe their significance?
Men! polish your teeth on rising and retiring;
Women! polish your fingernails:
You polish the tooth of the dog and the talon of the cat.
Why should men love the Church? Why should they love her laws?
She tells them of Life and Death, and of all that they would forget.
She is tender where they would be hard, and hard where they like to be soft.
She tells them of Evil and Sin, and other unpleasant facts.
They constantly try to escape
From the darkness outside and within
By dreaming of systems so perfect that no one will need to be good.
But the man that is will shadow
The man that pretends to be.
And the Son of Man was not crucified once for all,
The blood of the martyrs not shed once for all,
The lives of the Saints not given once for all:
But the Son of Man is crucified always
And there shall be Martyrs and Saints.
And if the blood of Martyrs is to flow on the steps
We must first build the steps;
And if the Temple is to be cast down
We must first build the Temple.

- T.S. Eliot, Choruses from 'The Rock' VI

a precursor

There was a home invasion and a subsequent shooting at Bayview and Steeles this morning. I'd imagine it was on Steele Valley -- for those of you who know my area, that's the one with Minas Morgul and all the other houses that I'd love to live in. Anyways, police swamped the place and the suspect(s?) fled. They haven't caught him (them?) yet, but it was big enough of a deal that they cordoned off the entire block, and even stopped traffic on Yonge street too.

I was (still am) home alone and was more or less asleep when my father called me this morning from the car to tell me to lock the doors. It was a bit unnerving, because there's never been a break-in this close to my house before (sorry to Scarborough folks). Obviously I wouldn't expect my house, out of the houses there are to choose from around here, to be broken into next. But it's still unsettling to know that it happened. My dad was like, "Be alert." I was like "okay" and have had a sword propped up against the wall beside me ever since.

A bit of a wakeup call, I guess. Holy Thursday for me doesn't necessarily translate into a special time of year for anyone else.

dies palmarum; or, THE ENTRY OF OUR LORD INTO JERUSALEM

Was it a day like today? I'd imagine that it was. After all, it must've been the same bright-blue sky overhead, the same bold sun casting pale shadows across dusty roads and golden sands, the same morning air that held its breath, in anxious but optimistic anticipation of a fresh unknown. On a day like today, there would've been no good reason to stay indoors, and the streets must've bustled with activity; tradesmen, businessmen, holy men -- none of them suspecting what was to come. But it was no fault of their own. On a day like today, no one could've forseen what the week ahead had in store.

How did it feel? You must've been apprehensive as you rode up to those great walls. Crowds of people, hundreds, thousands, were already waiting for you at the city gates, and as you came near they cheered as if you were Caesar himself, come home to Rome from conquest in Gaul. They spread their clothes on the road and waved palm branches before you, in shape and form befitting a triumphal march of the Imperators, and as you came down from the mountain they cried out, "Hosanna! Blessed is the King who comes in the name of יהוה." But even as they recieved you with open arms, you knew their hearts, and you knew what was coming.

Why did you do it? By every capacity of common sense and human morality, you should've stayed away. You should've lived in the countryside, or taken your wonderful message elsewhere, or looked after the people around you who needed care. There was no need to be radical, was there? You could still have accomplished so much. You'd still be remembered today. For anyone else, that would've been enough.

But not for you. It wasn't what you came to do. On a day like today, you entered the Holy Land to seal your fate -- and mine.

a new light?

In case you missed the news today, here was one of the highlights:

"JUDAS CAST IN NEW LIGHT
His name is synonymous with betrayal, but an ancient manuscript says he was only following the wishes of Jesus"

Uh, so, I wasn't expecting to see that in the paper, obviously. I had my initial reaction of "Oh my God, but not really, because for all I know I'll read this article and realize that my faith is in an incomplete system of belief, and then it won't be 'God' anymore." Was I ever wrong!

(Some background information: traditionally, Judas is believed to be one of the 12 apostles of Christ, in particular the one who betrayed him to Jewish authorities for a small sum of money, an act that ultimately led to Christ's crucifixion. This article is on a manuscript believed to have been written by Judas, or at least gives the account of the life of Christ from the perspective of Judas, and manages to introduce a whole host of new ideas into the realm of Christian belief.)

Not to shut down any dialogue about this thing, but I really don't see how a big outrage over this could be justified. That being said, it's most likely what's going to happen, so it's not like what I'm going to say will change the tide of anything. Which frees me up to speak my mind about it (and I assure you that I'm not being closed-minded -- I don't think).

Well, first things first: validity. And I'm obviously not going to try to prove through some scientific argument that it's a fraud. But I'll copy the paragraph that talks about its authenticity from the article, word for word, and tell you what I do have a problem with.

"The papyrus manuscript -- a form of paper made of dried water plants -- has been authenticated by radiocarbon dating, ink analysis and multispectral imaging. Leading scholars who have studied the content and linguistic style of the manuscript have verified its authenticity.

There is no doubt it is genuine, says Ehrman." (Ehrman, quoted earlier in the article, is the "chair of the Department of Religious Studies at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and an expert in the New Testament.")

Okay. So, obviously I'm not going to accept a life-altering insight because a random person in North Carolina tells me to in a sentence. Maybe I would at least consider it further if there were more details. But there aren't. I'm left to accept the Star's and Mr. Ehrman's information as absolute fact. Even though the manuscript was carbon-dated, there's no mention of exactly how old that dating revealed it to be. Thus, at this point, I can't accept it.

Why is its precise age important? Because there's a bit of a trick with this gospel, which is being dubbed the "Gospel of Judas". If he wrote it, then that should've happened around 80-100 AD, when the other earlier gospels were just beginning to emerge. But you see, there's this particular complication when it comes to Judas, that complication being that he sort of died right after his "betrayal" of Christ. All four gospels give an account of this. And if he really did die right away, then I don't think he would've had the chance to record an account or pass it on to anyone else.

Yes, I understand the argument that perspectives are skewed in particular ways, and that this gospel might've been rejected by the church simply because it went against the "popular" belief; thus there's no claim to be made against its authenticity in this way. But then there's no reason to accept the words of this new gospel as fact of any kind, either, and now we're stuck in an infinitely indecisive loop of "You can't be sure, so don't say it!" I'm more inclined to pick a side, and 4-against-1 seem like pretty good odds.

Not to mention that Judas' death is recorded in numerous other gospel accounts as well. Yes, that's right, other gospel accounts! This isn't the first. There are believed to be well over a hundred different gospels, authored by many people Christ interacted with. The most notable of these is probably the Gospel of Thomas, discovered with the Dead Sea scrolls in the 1940s (mind you, in the same language as this new gospel, and in a similar region). So, in many ways, the two are similar and can be compared, with the same arguments being made for and against. I make this comparison to save myself the trouble of having to spend much more time or space making my argument clear -- if you don't get it, check Wikipedia for the article on the Gospel of Thomas. Actually, for all I know, there'll already be a full wiki article on the Gospel of Judas by the time you read this. I marvel at the power and scope of Wikipedia.

The Gospel of Judas undermines so many fundamental theologies existent within the Christian faith. It would be impossible for me to accept it and still continue to believe in Christianity, in other words. Among other things it argues that the world was created by an evil, malignant spirit or demon, called a Demiurge (a claim also paralleled, mind you, in the gnosticism of the Gospel of Thomas). I once again have no interest in discussing the Demiurge (I'm late for school), but I'll leave you with the acknowledgement that I think it's utter bulls--t. I see no reason to believe it. Once again, you can wiki it for more information.

Everything I've said so far has probably sounded pretty hostile towards this whole issue. I'd like to take this time to assure you that I'm not. Am I worried about the ramifications of such a potently placed argument on the opinions of the masses of people who know naught to nothing about Christianity? Definitely. But I don't reject this as utter blasphemy that ought to be burned, nor do I discount the fact that it is an interesting find. I'm just a little baffled and a tad bit worried about the uproar that something like this might cause.

But doubtless that Dan Brown and his groupies, who constitute about 95% of the English-speaking Western world, are having an absolute ball over this right now. Let me hear it! "THE DA VINCI CODE: PART DEUX" / "MORE ANGELS AND MORE DEMONS THAN BEFORE". Sorry, this is in no way an attack on un-Christened "secular" popular culture from a cloistered, ultraconservative bigot. I just think it's turds in terms of literary value (and if it's insightful, it's only as it pertains to up-and-coming conspiracy theorists).

My final rejection of the gospel of Judas, though, is on the grounds of continuity of faith. And I believe I'm justified in this argument, because this is also the way that the Nicaean Council in the 4th century AD chose the canon for the Christian New Testament, picking three gospels (later adding the fourth) out of countless others. The issue at stake is still the same now as it was then, and it's not the establishment of some kind of flawless doctrine for the purpose of dominating a vast number of ignorant people; to the direct contrary, it's the search for truth within a sea of confusion and contradiction and deception. Our eyes tell us that the sun and stars orbit around us, but this is an observation we force ourselves to discard, with respect to and in favour of a higher truth. Logical thought and keen observation allow us to discern between appearance and reality, and while appearance still exists, we decide within ourselves what to accept and what not to accept. The same process must be undergone by faith.

And really, why mess with a system of belief that has, in two thousand years, yielded the most humanitarian system of morality ever to have existed?

of everyone

He's the embodiment of so much of what I despise, and yet, somehow, he's still like me in so many ways. Our friendship -- can it really be called friendship? -- revolves viciously in cycles of idiocy, ignorance, and general exasperation. As if that weren't enough, I actually have difficulty with his character, too; the way he talks, the way he acts (his table manners, for God's sake), the things he believes, the things he doesn't understand. It's like we were never meant to interact. I'm convinced it's some kind of a cosmic joke; I mean, the irony of it all is so ridiculous, and on so many levels. In fact, the only thing I'm convinced of more is that this is a testament to how terrible I really am as a human being.

She's been a part of the events of my life for as long as I can remember. I met her twelve and a half years ago -- that's a damned long time to get to know someone. And, as is the case with our relationship, it's also a damned long time not to get to know someone. In twelve years we've gone from young and unassuming to petty and mischievous, but we've never dared to have a solid friendship; and now we've come full circle. Who would've ever thought that the world would wind up the way it is now? But I couldn't be happier for you. And if it isn't somehow too late, I'd love to get to know you better.

He's blind to anything that doesn't have his name stamped on it, ego fills his empty skull like helium in a balloon, and he's a hypocrite like no other hypocrite before him. I mean, not living by what you profess to is one thing, but having the audacity to always find your own faults in other people and never in yourself? You always need to think of yourself as the best, and there's nothing I hate more about a person. Thus our friendship is a strained one, and in it we both wear masks of deception. I guess it's a given, though. The proud can never be friends with the proud.

She's one of my dearest friends, and only as of a few months ago at that; a very sweet friend, and an honest friend, one who I don't ever have to try to second-guess. In a short period of time I feel like I've grown a remarkably lengthy list of memories with her, and without her, plane rides and Sunday nights with makeshift dinners and TV reruns wouldn't be the same. But if there's one thing I appreciate most about her, it's her humanity -- not in the sense of her contributions to social causes, which themselves are many and quite remarkable, but with respect to her humanness, to her capacity to think and act and feel and impress on others. There's no other quality of character that reflects the scope of God to such an extent. If I have children, I hope they turn out like you.

He's the epitome of character, uniqueness, and artistry, at least within the scope of my social sphere. He's another of my dearest friends, although my correspondence with him has been a bit longer and more storied, and I admire him the most, not only for his talent but for the creative mind that lies beneath it. We're different in a lot of ways but absolutely identical in so many others, and because of it there's a certain feel of parallel between our lives. We ought to talk more over some tea, Earl Grey -- hot. I have so much to learn from and share with you.

She's lost. Not in the moronically cliched sense of having no certainty of the future, since that's true of all of us; to reuse the tired metaphor once more, we're all stranded on remote islands with no hope of ever escaping. The difference with her is that rather than accepting the circumstance, making a home out of what she has and living, she's almost unwilling to let go of her lostness and instead, miserably, goes on surviving. And so she's emotionally erratic, constantly aware of her own plight and loneliness when others have dealt with and moved beyond it. I'd want to help her in any capacity, but communication is decidedly difficult. She has a tendency to be selfishly manipulative. I, being incredibly selfish, cannot entertain such manipulation for very long. It's a shame, because the rest of her is better than that.

He's had one of the biggest influences on the way I turned out as a person. Our general mannerisms are the same, and I can see how my qualities grew from his. In fact, I think he affected almost everything about me, from how I do my hair and the shape of my handwriting to my love of Earl Grey, Star Wars and the Red Wings. As it happens I hardly know him, but somehow, at the same time, I know him as I know myself. One thing is for sure, especially come April when the Stanley Cup is securely in Steve Yzerman's hands: I owe him dearly for all that he's given to me. "Vous vous appelez mon frère."

She's love, she's grace, she's beauty incarnate. No single thought can contain all that there is to say about her, about how she moves and how she smiles and how she cries and how she sings softly to herself. I find solace in her, and with her I've no fear of the human things, as if the perversion of reality has no grip over our relationship, as if the entire world could turn to hell and we'd still have a piece of heaven between us. She allows me to be who I need to be, forgiving my fault and giving me the assurance that however many people I break from, I will never entirely be without friendship. By every strength and stretch of faith and logic, she's my perfect and only complement. And, every day, she reminds me of a truth that once was spoken: to love another person is to see the face of God.