a legacy

I'm staring at a big tin box filled with tea leaves right now. I bought it at the market yesterday -- 200 grams of Twinings' Earl Grey, in the old labelling. I must say, it's the most beautiful box I've ever seen in my life (except for the big cardboard one that Audrey came in).

The top lid has a raised image of the Twinings coat of arms and, underneath it, reads, "Established 1706". 1706 -- that's three centuries ago. Three centuries of tea-blending tradition, all culminating in and contributing to this single box of leaves. Suddenly it doesn't seem so big anymore.

At that same market I happened to be looking for bagged tea as well. What I found, though, in the place of the familiar Twinings packaging that I'd grown up with, was something different -- something bizarre -- in the way that a new-age psycho-babbling charismatic congregation differs from the Holy Roman Church. The stark, plain label of ages past had been replaced by colour gradients and silhouettes of landscapes; and against this backdrop, titles and information were all vying for attention in a visual and aesthetic mess of sensations. Granted, the old packaging likely wasn't the original; but everything from its trichromatic scheme to the careful blazon of the Royal Charter to the unashamed use of center-aligned, capital lettering seemed to speak of more conservative roots. In comparison, this new packaging was a turnoff, and not the way that I wanted my tea experience to be visualized.

As it turned out, the tea didn't just look different: it tasted a bit differently as well. Kenny immediately picked up on it, and while I didn't necessarily share his enthusiasm, the bottom line was that it really was different. Different -- and yet, in the end, it was the same Earl Grey; the same full, vibrant, polyphonic blend of Ceylon and Darjeeling and teas from the Orient, the same rich aroma and flavour of bergamot, the same red-black hue that no amount of poor packaging could replace or diminish.

They appeal, but each to their own crowd. While the familiar strong taste of the former label is impossible for many to part with, the newer packaging and the lighter blend are likely meant to be more inviting to the new or casual drinker. It's a probable conclusion given that the change didn't occur with the boxed tea (at least, not to my observation) -- new or casual drinkers are likely to choose the simplicity of bags over the tedious ritual of straining leaves.

The beginnings of a new church are taking form within the old. As is likely the case with every generation, the institution of the past isn't to us the ideal way of the future. But that doesn't mean that it isn't the ideal way for others. The new service was never about what was wrong, and how to fix it; it was about what didn't work for us. No one should ever be so closed-minded as to believe that only one system can exist, or that only one way is the "true" way. This Church was established in 33 A.D; where we are now is the culmination of two thousand years of growth and exploration.

Those two thousand years include the last twenty. As much as the church of the past generation might not have "worked" for us, we can't deny that it affected us to change in some way, and we can't deny that it has been, and continues to be, as much a part of our heritage as any other. Every new change builds upon the last.

At any rate, I think it's what's inside the box that makes it appeal to me.

i am afraid

The Devil is a wily one, you cannot deny it; and from that very wretched beginning in Eden's hallowed walls, he has spoon-fed, fattened, and preyed on the pride and the uncertainty of our miserable souls. In our minds his presence is everywhere, pervading our thoughts, from the dark shadows cast by our doubts to the plain and visible that we so often ignore. He perches on our shoulders, eagerly awaiting opportunity; a look, a gesture, an unspoken word -- any chance to turn us against each other, any chance to turn our gaze inwards, to force us to rely on our own devices and not on any substantial heaven-sent power.

I'm caving in --

I am a slave to self-image. I care immensely about what people think of me, and how people percieve me, and whether or not people like me, whether or not I'm loved. As an inevitable product of that obsession, I have a near-psychotic insecurity about friends and friendship and human interaction in general. And as a result of that insecurity, I'm prone to letting the smallest things get to me and worry me and drag my spirit down into a cyclical pattern of self-destructive regret.

It's a problem, and I don't really know what to do about it. I also don't know the extent of its affect on my life. Is it why I've formed the relationships that I have now? Has it been a motivating factor behind a dream of full-time ministry? I'm almost afraid to ask myself those questions -- questions that were asked of me a year ago, to which I almost scoffed in response. A year can change a lot of things.

One thing a year can't change is the past, and how heavily it weighs on me and on my character in the present. I've made so many mistakes with people, and I haven't let myself let go of any of them. I find it impossibly hard to when it's entirely probable that my words and actions turned these people away from the church. I wish I could just control-Z what's been done -- ironically, the control key on my keyboard doesn't work anymore.

Why do the people I look up to seem so flawless? Why am I so incomplete and unfit for the role I'm trying to fill? Why can't I just be enough as I am? Why me to even begin with? Why not someone admirable, or someone reputable, or someone established, or someone knowledgeable, or someone strong, or someone accepting, or someone possessed by the Spirit of God and not by this Demon from hell? Why me?

I want to give up. I want to say to myself, "Look, these people hate me" or "I don't know what to do" or "This is a failure". I want to break away and fall back on an infallible fortress of utter solitude, where I've only myself to fear because nothing else is there. I want an easier world where everyone understands.

But this isn't real, and I've got a better excuse for myself.

bzzzzzzzzz

Clarissa, you are great :)

gray matters - part iii

I don't get it, I really don't. There might've been a time when I did -- but pages have turned, and the man I've become is nothing like the child I was before.

Strange as it is, I don't function in these absolutes anymore. I don't deal in dualities. I don't believe in good and evil. Black and white are only conceptual things to me, only useful in describing what's blacker and what's whiter than something else. I don't think in technicolour, either -- my soul is grayscale.

After all, what does it mean to say that something is wrong? Thou shalt not bear false witness, but she lives among the Israelites to this day; Thou shalt not kill, but he slew two hundred and the LORD was with him. Take no thought for your life, nor yet for your body, but the body is the Temple of Holy God himself. Suddenly the world isn't as polar as it used to be.

We've seen the black-and-white already, all of it, and it's of no use to us any longer. When will we stop trying to work out misleading half-truths and irrelevant half-answers? When will we stop going for the quick and easy, picture-perfect solutions that alternatively come in Bible-tract and acronym-bracelet form? When will we start thinking and reasoning instead of dictating?

Intimacy is for marriage and for marriage alone -- yes, we've heard it all before. But why not, if we feel that God is leading us to marriage? Or why do we resist our biological urges if this is the way we were created -- if this is the timeframe that God himself set in creation? Intimacy outside of marriage is wrong; but are we still loved by God even when our relationships aren't right? Is having an unrighteous romantic relationship any different or any worse than having an ungodly friendship? And if not, then why does the church treat it like it is?

These are the questions people are asking, and we don't want written answers; we want dialogue. We want comprehension. We want to know and believe instead of relying on a reflexive faith based on second-hand theology. And above all, we want love to take precedence over anything else -- over any differences in opinion or understanding. We want the church to be home and to be family, no matter what we do or think. And, in all honesty, there are times when it just doesn't feel that way.

We need change.

I'm not much of a praying man. I never was, not in the conventional sense. But if there's anything I feel inclined to pray for, it's this. I would give my proud heart and my megalomaniacal mind and my imperfect body and my incontinent soul to make it happen. Because if things remain the way they are, I am not going to last much longer.

When will tomorrow come?

off-key (the squire's tale)

A most peculiar tale I have to tell, one of queer sights and smells and of strange sprites and spells; a story that, by virtue of its disdain for reason, may be difficult to believe, and one which, in spite of this account I am to give, may well be impossible even to concieve. Yet, and against all doubt and suspicion, I will bear witness to this unnatural phenomenon, this most devilish absurdity, in its unabridged completion, and perhaps it will chance that you may find a shred of truth in the midst of this nonsense and mystery. It began with a quiet breakfast of milk-tea and raspberry turnovers, one which would have remained unremarkable, had not that turnover -- which I was now raising to my mouth to take a bite of -- broken the silence.
Times are changing.
"Indignity! Thou indecent, improper, impertinent, impudent, insolent imbecile! Involve thine infinitesimal intellect! I, the item of thine infatuation, am insipid and impalatable; insofar as thine indulgence is interested, I am insufficient! inedible! In addition, I am inculpable of any iniquity against thine individual integrity, and inasmuch as this I implore thee: involve me not in this inhumane ingurgitation of innocence!"

.sdrawkcab

It has been said in ages past that nothing is new under the sun; I herein declare that I sat under a cloud as I had this most anomalous experience. Needless to say, I was in a substantial degree of bewilderment; I turned over the turnover to inspect it for any hint of abnormality that would account for what I had heard, but found nothing extraordinary. This was a most distressing development. After a brief deliberation I resolved to eat it quickly, before it had a chance to speak again, and to forget the entire debacle thereafter; but as I raised it again to my mouth, this small, unimportant, insignificant pastry smote me with a grievous blow across the face.
Shout loud
"Dost thou not hear my words? Release me at once!" It seemed to go red about the face, if it could be said to have one.
What if nobody hears?
A most bizarre predicament; I lowered the flaky triangle and stared at it with a curious but serious intensity. "Are you not a raspberry turnover?"
Do you know who you are?
I was answered by a clear and audible scoff. "Thou small-minded mortal! Thou art asking for answers to questions that thou dost not understand." A most scornful and condescending raspberry turnover, this one. "Wouldst thou greet thine own kind with such irritant and irrelevant inquiries?"
Do you even care?
"No --"
Ain't nothing new under this sun
"Precisely! Keep thine indolent thoughts to thyself."
You are approximately this big.
"-- but you are clearly not my own kind."
I know, it's a lot to think about
"Hah!" The sound it now uttered was far less of a scoff than a sneer. "Have we a philosopher amongst us? Ought we to discuss the orientation of the stars, or the problem of evil, or the paradox of time? Perhaps the meaning of existence? Would such a meaningless, juvenile discourse tickle thy fancy? I tell thee truly: before Anaximander and Aristotle and Descartes were, I am."
But not everyone has this kind of liberty.
I was, by now, feeling less than amiable towards this foul-mouthed pastry. "Tell me, though it be another question," I asked: "What is to prevent me from dipping you into this cup of tea and eating you?"
Americana! Hail Americana!
A distraught wail informed me too late of the folly in making such a suggestion. "O deplorable machination! O vulgar and barbarous wretch! Thine own civility is to prevent thee, if there be anything left of it. To even imagine drowning me in that pagan sewage! Such is the fate of madeleines and lesser biscuits."
Nos morituri te salutamus
"And what is to distinguish them from you?" I asked as I brought the turnover dangerously close to my cup of tea, suspending it just inches above the surface of the liquid, in a manner perhaps familiar to most superheroes and their nemeses.
But this time around, you don't have to die
"Humanity," it replied with more than a touch of sour irony, "that same quality that thou lackest also. For whilst I contemplate the immense suffering of Creation, thou art content to turn thy back to the raging evils of this world and sup on pastries and tea. Thou hast no compassion, not even for thine own kind!"
Look at you now
"Or perhaps," said I, "there is more to be done with life than lamentation and regret. Perhaps there is no sin in joyously recieving what has been given."
You've sold your soul
"A most Epicurean worldview! If thou art the standard of thy people, Mankind is but a doomed and dying race!" Be it legless and immobile as it were, it seemed to pace back and forth in a violent but tempered rage, all the while muttering to itself of apostolic succession in incomprehensible tongues.
Your brain is soon to follow
I shook my head. "Moderation, not indulgence, and the one exercises reservation --"
This is all some kind of a game to you
"Do not speak to me of reservation! of right moral conduct! Lower beings such as thyself" -- these words it spat out with a marked tone of resentment -- "hath no conception of true ethics. Why dost thou lie? Why dost thou steal? Why dost thou betray thine own professed purposes? Thou art the inbred product of an inferior breed that understandeth only the meaning of pain and darkness and cala--"
This is all some kind of a joke.
It said no more, or at least I heard none of it any longer. Half of the pastry was already in my mouth; the other half, eagerly awaiting the same fate. And as I took a sip of my milk-and-sugar Darjeeling between bites, I could not help but smile inwardly. Raspberry turnovers taste much better with tea.
I assure you that the joke ends here.

lymphaticus

the door is locked the windows shut but there are shadows and down the hall i hear the footsteps of grudges and machinations that are coming closer closer closer and i must hide but there is nowhere to hide nowhere to turn nowhere to go except out this window and into the night where uncertain terrors undoubtedly abound and where i do not know the way but know only that it leads away from this death trap waiting to spring so it seems that it must be the only way and i must open this window and jump out but the ground below is so far away and i hear the footsteps still behind me coming ever closer than before and now there is a knock on the door and again and now a bang and now more banging and voices are shouting and cursing and telling me to die and i would like to listen and obey but i must escape but there is nowhere to turn and nowhere to go except out below into the pitch black or back from where i came where the banging is now louder than ever and the door crashes open and they are coming and i can feel their cold fingers around my neck and the ground is so far and the shadows are stretching and the night and black and cold and shadows and jump.

INVICTVS

AND THE SEVEN ANGELS WHICH HAD THE SEVEN TRUMPETS PREPARED THEMSELVES TO SOUND

buy/sell. show/tell. divide/conquer.
DIVIDE AND CONQUER.

Results 1 - 10 of about 4,960,000 for "meaning of life". (0.15 seconds)

Veni vidi vici
Vidi
We are the hollow men | For love of money
Let me be no nearer | For love of money
This is the dead land | For love of money
The eyes are not here | For love of money
Here we go round the prickly pear

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper.

Results 1 - 10 of about 3,520,000 for "how to make money". (0.20 seconds)

FIRE AND BRIMSTONE.

For love
For money
For love of money? BUY ONE GET ONE FREE.
Or for love of me
For love of cheap thrills and BUY ONE GET ONE FREE.
-- quick fixes and pills BUY ONE GET ONE FREE.
Maybe I should BUY ONE GET ONE FREE.
buy one BUY ONE GET ONE FREE.
and BUY ONE GET ONE FREE.
g BUY ONE GET ONE FREE.
BUY ONE GET ONE FREE.
Is there no other way for communication?
There is no escape

Results 1 - 10 of about 2,130,000 for "beauty tips". (0.15 seconds)

There is nowhere left to hide

Results 1 - 10 of about 9,340,000 for "celebrity news". (0.24 seconds)

Time has run out.

Results 1 - 10 of about 56,900,000 for "online dating". (0.17 seconds)

This is the end of the road.

I am the captain of my soul.

a frustration

Why do I always have to have a label? Why do I always need to be compared? I don't get it. I thought the point of adulthood was to get past these things, not to bring them to life in new and more destructive ways. It seems like I've graduated from a world of order as defined by athletic or intellectual or academic capability, and in its stead I've entered the pseudo-class structure of the capitalistic West. Neither is especially impressive, but I still feel as though I've taken a step backwards in civility.

Why am I always made to feel as if, in spite of all that I am as a person, I'm defined by a square inch of embroidery on my chest that makes or breaks my social image? Why does it matter how many bills are in my pocket? Why should people care about what I can and can't afford to do? How does that affect who I am, in any way?

I hate being judged, and I hate feeling as though I'm being judged. I hate having to think that I, on my own, am nothing; or that, until I can establish enough of a repertoire of my own achievements, I have to assume my father's good name and reputation and socio-economical standing. I hate knowing that people around me are valued, and I in relation to them, by the brand of clothing they wear or the frequency with which they shop or the expensive places they go to eat or the expensive toys they have to play with. I hate people who wear clothes or shop or eat out or have toys solely for that purpose.

The rich only get richer because the poor are buying into their crap and their products in a pointless attempt to one-up each other. If everyone were a little more mature, capitalism would be a lot more sensible. And yes, by poor, I mean you. It's remarkable how highly some people think of themselves these days.

I hate the hypocrisy of a church that condemns "materialism" on the one hand, and revels in it on the other. It's a large part of the reason why I avoid so many of you. I can't get along with kids and adults alike who think that they and I are only worth as much as our clothes.

the new church

By all accounts, I am the wrong person to be writing this. But there's a need, now, a VERY urgent one, and I will try to fulfill it.

A bit of a background: in the latter half of the 20th century, there's been a cultural shift that's been labeled as "post-modernism", which is -- to give a very basic definition -- a step into the abstract. Much of what goes on with post-modernism has to do with associations and relations rather than with objective identification. On that vein, the movement also stresses relativity in all shapes and forms. The Church of Christ, existing as part of the global culture that experienced the post-modern shift (although I think it was primarily the West that was affected), has been and is now experiencing the aftermath of that movement, and has attempted in recent years to accomodate it. Some have chosen to call this the "emergent" Church.

The very fact that the Church is trying to change raises issues of its own. Why are we "conforming to the world"? Why are we "trying to appease people"? But I don't see this as conformity or appeasement, in any sense of the word. Conformity and appeasement are marrying homosexual couples, or allowing abortion, or whatever other touchy issues churches have let up on in the past. They are the Church aligning itself with society. They are, actually, what the pre-emergent church looks like, what our church (NYCBC) looks like -- because in the latter half of the 20th century, when people were starting to ask serious questions and raise serious issues, the church tried to accomodate them by blowing up stained glass and pews and incorporating microphones and overhead projectors. We thought people were turned off by the old church, which they were, and so we sought to modernize it. We also modernized our attitudes into the present-day Sunday school/Teens Conference-style "I love you because Jesus loves you, let me try to answer all of your faith-related questions because I don't care about your regular life, as long as you're going to heaven", which, eventually, and with a lack of proper theological education (which was lost in an attempt, most likely, to appeal to the "unchurched"), evolved into "Here, take my Bible and go read it because I can't answer all of your questions, but I sure do hope you love Jesus, because I think it's a good thing".

The new Church isn't about that. Emergence isn't about trying to appease a new wave of people in a new era, just like we did in the past. This is about fulfilling the inevitable need that would arise in a situation like the one I just described. People need God in a way that's real to them, and the current church isn't fulfilling that need. There's clearly a difference between need and want, and regardless of how grey the want gets, when there's a need, the Church must act. This is the duty of the Church, and it's the reason it exists -- not to hold up a stagnant, compartmentalized view of faith like it has in the past 30 years, but to encompass Christianity and its entire context and history, including the present, and to adapt and grow accordingly. Obviously there are dangers in this sort of thinking, dangers of incorporating aspects of belief into our faith that don't belong there. But are we going to sit on our asses because there's risk and uncertainty in moving forward? I certainly hope not.

Emergence is about filling a need, and the need is real. The need is post-modern. The need is to be abstract, to relate rather than to identify and segregate; the need is for a holistic picture, one that encompasses centuries and millenia of God and his people. The need is for authenticity over accessibility, but the need is also for real lovingkindness over empty words and preaching. And what does that all mean and look like? It's art, and it's a story; it's conversations between people that mean more than small talk and gossip; it's a willingness to try new things, and to hear out new ideas rather than to annihilate them with the death ray of conservatism; it's recontextualization of Christianity, revisiting God in the past to worship him in amazing ways in the present; it's socially progressive activity that works hard to put a derailed societal mindset back on track; it's real relationships between real people, not putting on a facade of being hip or funny or well-off or likeable or miserable; it's a God-like love and acceptance that doesn't point fingers but embraces instead; it's teaching and preaching that's meaningful and applicable to life, that answers the questions that are being asked now and not ten years ago; it's a Church that above all integrates faith and life in one complete, cohesive unit -- because, after all, they should never be apart anyways.

For the record, the aesthetics haven't got anything to do with the core of the message. I think, though, at the same time, that that's the fatal flaw of the old church -- there's such a minimalist, iconoclastic approach to any aspect of faith (and that's how you get books like the Purpose-Driven Life) that we discount the beauty and symbolism of the physical. We don't light candles just for the sake of lighting candles, we light candles to symbolize something; to return to a more basic form of existence; to be humbled and in awe of the flame; to appreciate its representativeness of Christ's light in the darkness. We don't incorporate new instruments in musical worship just for the cool rock-star factor; we feel not only that we can relate and understand the music, but that we are also in some way sanctifying the secular and presenting it to God as our sacrifice. We don't kneel or paint images or participate in stations of the Cross just because they're new or fun or attractive things to do. There is meaning in each to the post-modern soul. But that's not the point -- the point is the need.

A lot of people don't see the need. A lot of people won't in the future. That's just the way of things, because the new Church isn't for everyone. That's why it's new -- if everyone felt the same way, we'd just be changing the old one instead of adding a new service and infrastructure. I don't believe that there's anything fundamentally wrong with either, but I do think that both need to exist, because I know of too many people, myself included, who have a need that has gone unfulfilled for too long. I'm at the same time more than willing to accept the fact that the majority of people like things the way they are. The need is there, but it's only for a certain kind, a certain breed of people, and it's natural that others won't understand it. It's also absolutely imperative that those people not try to stop it or change it or mold it in any way. Both sides of this dialogue need to accept the same facts to move forward.

That might be a hard pill to swallow for some. I get that. I've seen it before. I don't really see how else I can convince the doubters, other than to ask for trust and a bit of faith. The theology and philosophy behind the new Church continues to be developed. It's still in a lot of ways a new concept, after all. Maybe when it all comes to fruition locally, in our church, it'll cast a different light. That's my hope.

i am lost

Tell me, Madame Bovary; did you ever feel extraordinary?
Did you find what you were looking for
Or were you expecting a world to the contrary?
That world was one to which you had no right;
A world that never belonged to you
What was meant by those words, 'A time and a place'?
You showed us once; if we only knew.
The trees are green, but never for too long
The sun rises and the sun sets
We eat our fill, only to hunger again in the morning.

Tell me, Mark Antony; were you a man of jealousy?
You conquered the world in another man's name
And by your noble efforts, won another man's fame
But at every step you saw the opportune hour
And with every thought, felt the will to power
Did you ever think to seize
What should have been yours?
Were you afraid that you were wrong?
Was your loyalty too strong?
Or, perhaps, empire was never what you had on your mind.

Tell me, Saint Timothy; what led you to your ministry?
Was it love? Was it the need of love?
Was it necessity? or power? Desperation?
Or was it that most mysterious, metaphysical movement
The spin of the bars, the alignment of the stars,
The very voice of the Sovereign God Himself?
Tell me, Saint Timothy; how was it that you discerned
The weight on your conscience to be of God and not Man?
You were too young! you were too brash!
And their respect, you had not earned; and yet,
Somehow you knew that where you could not, God can.
What led you to your ministry?
Do tell me, Saint Timothy;
And show me what leads me to mine.

saturn, the bringer of old age

Pages are turning. Life has taken another unexpected twist, one that leads in an unfamiliar direction down a familiar path. I feel as though nineteen years of breathing air and sinning brutally have led me to this point. There are other roads and alternatives, but there's only one way for me to go. That muddled vision of adulthood is finally beginning to give itself shape and form.

I've tasted the bread and wine of salvation, and I've experienced first-hand the great miracle of "servanthood". If I can really call it that -- in my mind, the concept is too humanly flattering as a self-descriptor. Granted that in the process, we submit, whether it be to a human authority or to God, and it's therefore not an inaccurate description of the act; but really -- especially when it concerns God -- who are we to take any credit for what we do, by declaring our own humility? If we were to do that, we'd be our own masters, at least in part, and that's definitely not the definition of a servant. Anyways, that was a bit of a tangential thought: what I was trying to say is that I'm amazed at how imperfection is used so perfectly in the divine order of the universe.

You might've thought that the title of this post was a bit strange; it's the name of a piece from the Planets' suite. This is actually my favourite movement, which is odd, because to most it would seem like one of the least entertaining. It certainly doesn't start on an exciting note like some of the others do, and nor does it hold a pleasant or memorable melody like the rest. At parts, in fact, it just feels like a massive, ten-minute long collection of utter dissonance and mayhem.

I was sick for most of Monday. I love getting sick; clearly not because I'm masochistic or otherwise enjoy physical discomfort, but because when I'm sick my mother takes care of me. That's not to say that she doesn't take care of my on a regular basis, but I feel that it becomes even more apparent when I am sick. I believe that my mother is the most kind, most caring, and most gentle woman that ever lived. I love her food and I love that she takes out what I don't want to eat and I love her voice and I love to listen to her sing quietly to herself while she makes dinner. I love my mother very much.

When I'm sick, I'm also able to ask my father what to do. As some of you know, though, my father's faith in comfort medicine is very weak (although not without good cause: he recently told me that many "proven" medications take away symptoms temporarily, allowing them to return later with twice as much intensity; many sinus-clearing pills are like this; and this came up because I asked if I could take a sinus-clearing pill because I could not taste my dinner and was very sad), and so most of the time the advice is the same: rest and proper nutrition. Sometimes, though, we talk about medication, like how the cetirizine in Reactine is a less potent allergy-suppresant than the compounds in Claritin, and while I understand nothing of anything that he tells me in this regard, it makes me happy to know that my father is a learned man. I would like to be like him when I grow up.

My father was apparently something of a theologian in years past, and his father before him. My mother recently showed me books that they'd written in Japanese. Again, I could understand nothing about them, but it still made me happy. Sometimes I wonder if I'll be as good of a father, and if I'll be able to hand down all that I've learned and been given. Sometimes I wonder if I'll be able to raise my children in a moral way. Sometimes I wonder how I'll cope with a marriage that will, in any and all likelihood and possibility, be very different from that of my parents'.

The piece opens eerily, with clarinets and harp playing two notes in slow repetition, the harmonies hardly harmonizing, with the occasional support of the brass and the strings. Then the bass picks up a steady line of descending semitones, with the woodwinds, then the brass, then the strings all picking up on the same theme: each rises by several tones, then descends back down to where it began. A denouement is followed by a brief silence, which is broken when the trumpets sound and the woodwinds once more carry the same structural theme, only in a different key. Soon the harp and the lower strings join, then the brass, beginning with the trumpets, then the violins, then the timpani; by now the entire orchestra; and the piece builds to a dramatic conclusion when suddenly --

It's as though the trees grew their leaves overnight. It feels as if it was only yesterday that they were still bare and lifeless. Now, every morning, I wake up and look out the far window, where, from the perspective of my bed, less and less of the morning sky is visible with each passing day; where I could once see the rising sun, now a wall of green allows only the odd ray of red or yellow to pass through.

I really loved and enjoyed Saturday and Sunday. Thank you, Heidi and Kevin, for hanging out with us all the time, and for letting us share life with you. Thank you, Josh and Char, for still being our mentors and guides, and for being such incredibly loving, Christian people. Thank you, Kenny and Aly, for being like family and being open to so much, and for your understanding and your love. Thank you, Val, for all of the above, and for so much more: you add extra bars to the wireless network signal strength of my life.

Just when you'd expect the climax to hit its peak, the entire orchestra dissolves into an absolutely chaotic, unintelligible mess of noise and sounds. The strings and the trumpets play in conflicting time signatures, with the even more conflicting toll of a bell in the background. There's a sudden sense of feeling convicted and unsure, of feeling terrified and terrifying, of feeling proud and weak, of feeling distraught and serene, all at the same time. I think that's what I like most about this piece. It might sound psychotic, and it might sound terrible, but better that it does, because that's life. This is Holst's musical thesis on existence itself, and the paradox that it presents.

"For that one fraction of a second, you had open to you options you had never considered. That is the exploration that awaits you. Not mapping stars and studying nebulae, but charting the unknown possibilities -- of existence."

kite

Drink with me, to days gone by,
Sing with me the songs we knew,
At the shrine of friendship,
Never say 'Die'!
And may the wine of friendship
Never run dry!
Here's to me,
And here's to you...

We saw it coming; the bittersweet end to something so God-given and beautiful. We knew, didn't we?, that the brightest moments of our lives are the ones that come suddenly, unexpectedly, and leave just as quickly as they came, before we've had the time to enjoy them to their fullest -- because good times are inexhaustibly good, and given the opportunity we would revel in that goodness for an eternity -- and in leaving, contrast sharply with our darker and more difficult experiences, thus becoming all the more bright and memorable. And so, in order for it to have been something truly holy and worth remembering, it had to come to some sort of an end. Although, in most ways, this is just the beginning.

There are still so many things I would want to say. There are still so many things I have left to tell you. There are still so many things we haven't yet done. It seems, at times, like the cruel swing of the holy axe of Fate is striking again, denying what we've longed for most of our lives. I've got to admit that when I heard the news, I thought God was playing a really sick joke on us all. But then I think about all that's been said; about all that's been told, and all that's been done; and I realize that God isn't tearing down what we've worked so hard to find -- he's sanctifying this fortress of friendship that we've built between us.

Strange, new worlds are out there, ready to be explored. But there's also a world here at home that needs to be tended to. And it's here that our paths divide: you, eager to discover newness -- and in it, rediscover the old that was lost -- have taken to the skies; and I to the fields, to continue to reap what together we've sowed. You're going boldly, with hope on your side, and there's no better companion for a journey than hope. Somehow, though, I have the feeling that our paths will cross again in your great trek across the stars. This is my hope, and to it I'll cling tightly until the day it comes true.

Somewhere out there in a greener field, there's a kite tethered to the ground, waiting for the perfect breeze to carry it away. And the breeze is coming, a strong one, an erratic one, an unpredictable one, over that grassy horizon. I know it's uncertain, and I know there's a chance you'll crash to the ground; but what kind of people are we if we never take the risk and try to fly away? Your place isn't here on the ground anyways; it's up there, somewhere, with the birds and the clouds. So don't look back now, except to remind yourself of where you came from, because you've been waiting too long for things to change. Don't let your doubts or the doubts of others shake you. After all, who's to say where the wind will take you? Who's to say what it is will break you? I don't know which way the wind will blow...

Who's to know when the time has come around? I don't want to see you cry... but I know that this is not goodbye.

fuga

Save thy servant that trusts in thee.

Save thy servant,
O magnanimous God of heaven above
Blessèd Christ, save thy servant
Holy Spirit, descend like a dove
On this broken soul, this most urgent
Need of unmitigated love,
And save thy desperate servant.

Save thy servant
From the clutch of sin's great hold
From death and perdition and calamity
From the cold, save thy servant
Save thy servant that trusts in thee
And return him to the Shepherd's fold.

Save thy servant that trusts in thee;
Hear my plea! be merciful, O LORD,
With grace outpour'd; by this small confession
Absolve a greater transgression, and redeem this soul
Which Satan once stole; touch these cold lips
With burning coal; take my hand and lead me
To salvation.

Save thy servant, August God
Deliver me by the strength of thy power
And love, so deep, so far, so broad.
When hope is lost in that most infirm hour,
Omnipotent God, save thy wretched creation
And be unto me a mighty tower
From the face of my enemies; from temptation;
Grant holy fortitude when the will is weak
And deliver my soul from condign damnation.
Teach me when to speak and not to speak
O Holy Judge, show me the measure of morality!
Take this proud heart and flatten every peak
For I shy not away from thy decree
Rebuke me, my God, but do not forsake me
And save thy servant that trusts in thee.

Save thy servant, O God, that trusts in thee
Send help from thy holy place,
And from Sion deliver me.

Exáudiat nos omnípotens et miséricors Dóminus.

Amen.

have mercy

Lord, have mercy upon us
Christ, have mercy
Upon we who are lost in the blackest night
Who are burdened by the greatest plight
Upon we who have fallen from heaven's height
To the depths of lowest hell
Lord, have mercy upon us
Lord, have mercy

O God, the Father of Heaven,
Have mercy on us
O God, the Son, redeemer of the world,
Have mercy on us
O God, the Holy Spirit,
Have mercy on us

O Holy Trinity, Triune of the One God:
Have mercy on us.

For great is thy mercy
For great is
For great is thy mercy toward

All ye holy angels and archangels,
Pray for us
All ye holy apostles and evangelists,
Pray for us
All ye disciples of the Lord,
Pray for us

All ye holy, righteous, and elect of God:
Intercede for us.

O God, deliver us
We who are flawed, and prone to stray
From the path unfurl'd;
Have mercy on us.
Good Lord, deliver us
O Lamb of God, that takest away
The sins of the world;
Have mercy on us.

Save thy servant
Save thy servant that puts his trust in thee
Save thy sinner,
Save thy robber,
Save thy idolator,
Save thy murderer,
Save thy adulterer,
Save
Save thy servant.

Save thy servant
That puts his trust in thee
In thee
Save thy servant
Save me

Lord, have mercy on us
And let my cry come unto thee.

Selah.

a letter to søren

Sartre and I never stood on better terms. I must admit that I was once a skeptic, as though life were full of loftier intentions than this; but Man and Soul have here resigned to utter melancholy, and now I find that I have none else to turn to for guidance. Thus, and even as I write, I am making preparations to visit Copenhagen to see you.

Allow me to briefly explain the nature of my dyscrasia. I recently, and at long last, have found family in this world that has otherwise forsaken me; herein I have made my strongest fortress, a realm of infinite confidence and trust. In the past several months I have thus been blessed with such infinite outpour of love, such incessant and honest care, and such lovingly familiar acceptance that I feel at length I have grown accustomed, perhaps almost dependent, on it. Now, Fate turns her cruel wheel once more, and I feel as though what I sought so long to finally have now flies away as quickly as it came.

Yet such is not the point of my writing to you, as not all of those whom I have grown dearly to love are to move away, and since distant family still are and always will be family, and since to have this brief moment of joy is more than a sinful man could ask of his God. Rather I tell you this as the explanation of recent change that has affected the present state of my life, and now reveal to you my fear of what is to come; or rather, of what my life is doomed to return to -- the cold, sterile affections of strangers and shallow acquaintances. For before I had this family to confide in, I sought comfort in what means were available to me, which were few and easily exhausted; and these friends, who I once tried to hold close to my heart, now drive me away as though I am diseased, in favour of lesser people who seek only to be loved and not to love in return.

To think that familiar faces can so easily be made indistinguishable! To think that love is now a thing to be bought and stolen than to be given and recieved! "Guard your heart," someone once said to me, and spoken words were never wiser; but, as is the inevitable consequence of an empirical epistemology, the lesson is learned after the fact and after the fall. Thus, outside of the happiest days, which I have invariably spent with my dearest friends, I have been subject to such sensations of helplessness, inadequacy, and most prominently, betrayal, that I believe myself to be on the brink of insanity.

In such a mind as this I am coming to you now, that you may knight me and give me your blessing ere I fall once more. I fear greatly, however, that time is and has already run out.

Your dear and desperate friend,
Gustave.

music

Some of what I've been listening to lately, in a particular order:

Georg Friedrich Handel - The all-time favourite. Baroque has always been my favourite musical period -- partly because it's so exciting, partly because it's so majestic, partly because of how there are a million melodies and countermelodies that all weave flawlessly together, partly because of the harpsichord and organ, and partly just because. And, within the Baroque (or in any genre, for that matter), I can't think of anything else that moves my soul as much as Handel. In my mind, this is the music that resounds in heaven.

Johann Sebastian Bach - All-time second (I can't really say whether he's close or distant, because those tend to be relative terms). There's a lot to love about Bach, because I'd swear that he dabbled in everything that there was to dabble in. Anyways, his violin sonatas are my favourite; and of them, the second movement (Fuga) from Sonata No. 3 in C Major. I think I first heard it a really, really long time ago -- anyways, it evokes a really nostalgic kind of feeling. Kind of like Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring, which I also happen to love (and can now rock out [thanks for the sheet music Aly!] on Kenny's guitar/L&M and 12th Fret mandolins).

(On a bit of a tangential note: I've never used brackets inside of brackets in a post before. I wonder what happens when I have to follow a tertiary train of thought? [Well I guess the second brackets would be tertiary if the first brackets are already secondary, so what happens when I have to follow a quaternary train of thought?] Do I start using <>? Weird [and I suppose such questions ought to be directed towards the MLA].)

U2 - The Handel of rock. I love how Bono has this really operatic voice, and the Edge is doing a dozen things at once, and yet it all comes together in this really cohesive, coherent, identifiable package, just like Handel (as opposed to a lot of other composers, whose pieces really don't have any meaningful direction and so you can't tell one from the next). The lyrics are what really do it for me, though.

Gustav Holst - (disclaimer: I am not a loser) I had the Planets' suite going through my mind like background music while I was writing my Psych-100 exam last Friday. That's how much I love Holst. In terms of modern classical, he tops my list (because everyone else who's composed in the last 200 years has been either sleep-inducing [Saint-Saens] or psychotic [Bartok; did he spend his childhood in a deathcamp?]). Compare that to the Planets, of which Richard Capell called Mars the "most ferocious piece of music in existence".

W.A. Mozart - I think my favourite is the Requiem, but there are other parts that I like a lot too. But I've got to say that even someone like Mozart becomes a lot more enjoyable with Sir Neville Marriner and the Academy of St. Martin-in-the-Fields (sorry if that didn't really make any sense to you).

Keith Jarrett - The Koln concert is amazing. If you play the piano, you have to get a copy of it. Jazz piano is immeasurably better than classical piano anyways.

I've also been listening to a lot of Gregorian chant. It's amazingly powerful and quite captivating. I first thought to use it as studying music, but I found that I couldn't concentrate on my work. Then I thought to try to sleep to it, but that plan was even less effective. Gregorian chant has some really interesting pre-orchestral musical conventions going on, and I find that I can't help but stop what I'm doing and be fascinated by it.

words of wisdom

Excerpts from Herman Melville's Moby-Dick:

(The whaler recounts his experience of joining his friend, Queequeg, master harpooner and cannibalistic pagan, in worshipping a small wooden idol, on a Sunday after the latter has accompanied the former to church.)

I was a good Christian; born and bred in the bosom of the infallible Presbyterian Church. How then could I unite with this wild idolator in worshipping his piece of wood? But what is worship? thought I. Do you suppose now, Ishmael, that the magnanimous God of heaven and earth -- pagans and all included -- can possibly be jealous of an insignificant bit of black wood? Impossible! But what is worship? -- to do the will of God -- that is worship. And what is the will of God? -- to do to my fellow man what I would have my fellow man to do to me -- that is the will of God. Now, Queequeg is my fellow man. And what do I wish that this Queequeg would do for me? Why, unite with me in my particular Presbyterian form of worship. Consequently, I must then unite with him in this; ergo, I must turn idolator. So I kindled the shavings; helped prop up the innocent little idol; offered him burnt biscuit with Queequeg; salamed before him twice or thrice; kissed his nose; and that done, we undressed and went to bed, at peace with our own consciences and all the world.

--

(That same evening, the whaler and the savage share a room in a cramped inn.)

Upon opening my eyes then, and coming out of my own pleasant and self-created darkness into the imposed and coarse outer gloom of the unilluminated twelve-o'clock-at-night, I experienced a disagreeable revulsion. Nor did I at all object to the hint from Queequeg that perhaps it were best to strike a light, seeing that we were so wide awake; and besides he felt a strong desire to have a few quiet puffs from his Tomahawk. Be it said, that though I had felt such a strong repugnance to his smoking in the bed the night before, yet see how elastic our stiff prejudices grow when love comes to bend them. For now I liked nothing better than to have Queequeg smoking by me, even in bed, because he seemed to be full of such serene household joy then. I no more felt unduly concerned for the landlord's policy of insurance. I was only alive to the condensed confidential comfortableness of sharing a pipe and a blanket with a real friend. With our shaggy jackets drawn about our shoulders, we now passed the Tomahawk from one to the other, till slowly there grew over us a blue hanging tester of smoke, illuminated by the flame of the new-lit lamp.

--

(An excerpt from the sermon.)

'Shipmates, this book, containing only four chapters -- four yarns -- is one of the smallest strands in the mighty cable of the Scriptures. Yet what depths of the soul does Jonah's deep sea-line sound! what a pregnant lesson to us is this prophet! What a noble thing is that canticle in the fish's belly! How billow-like and boisterously grand! We feel the floods surging over us; we sound with him to the kelpy bottom of the waters; sea-weed and all the slime of the sea is about us! But what is this lesson that the book of Jonah teaches? Shipmates, it is a two-stranded lesson; a lesson to us all as sinful men, and a lesson to me as a pilot of the living God. As sinful men, it is a lesson to us all, because it is a story of the sin, hard-heartedness, suddenly awakened fears, the swift punishment, repentance, prayers, and finally the deliverance and joy of Jonah. As with all sinners among men, the sin of this son of Amittai was in his wilful disobedience of the command of God -- never mind now what that command was, or how conveyed - which he found a hard command. But all the things that God would have us do are hard for us to do -- remember that -- and hence, he oftener commands us than endeavors to persuade. And if we obey God, we must disobey ourselves; and it is in this disobeying ourselves, wherein the hardness of obeying God consists.'

--

(Another excerpt.)

'This, shipmates, this is that other lesson; and woe to that pilot of the living God who slights it. Woe to him whom this world charms from Gospel duty! Woe to him who seeks to pour oil upon the waters when God has brewed them into a gale! Woe to him who seeks to please rather than to appal! Woe to him whose good name is more to him than goodness! Woe to him who, in this world, courts not dishonor! Woe to him who would not be true, even though to be false were salvation! Yea, woe to him who, as the great Pilot Paul has it, while preaching to others is himself a castaway!'

He drooped and fell away from himself for a moment; then lifting his face to them again, showed a deep joy in his eyes, as he cried out with a heavenly enthusiasm, -- 'But oh! shipmates! on the starboard hand of every woe, there is a sure delight; and higher the top of that delight, than the bottom of the woe is deep. Is not the main-truck higher than the kelson is low? Delight is to him -- a far, far upward, and inward delight -- who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self. Delight is to him whose strong arms yet support him, when the ship of this base treacherous world has gone down beneath him. Delight is to him, who gives no quarter in the truth, and kills, burns, and destroys all sin though he pluck it out from under the robes of Senators and Judges. Delight, -- top-gallant delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, but the Lord his God, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to him, whom all the waves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob can never shake from this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and deliciousness will be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his final breath -- O Father! -- chiefly known to me by Thy rod -- mortal or immortal, here I die. I have striven to be Thine, more than to be this world's, or mine own. Yet this is nothing; I leave eternity to Thee; for what is man that he should live out the lifetime of his God?'

He said no more, but slowly waving a benediction, covered his face with his hands, and so remained, kneeling, till all the people had departed, and he was left alone in the place.

spring

Another season is past. Mother's roses are peeling back their cocoons to expose the soft bursts of red on their petals, and in the living room the orchids are budding with a quiet, unintrusive humility. Renewed vigor courses through the veins of the shisho in the backyard and the dormant branches of a Japanese maple in the front. A bee buzzes errantly between the panes of the far window; by the near one a cardinal, vibrantly red, perches on the roof of the garage. Through the open screen wafts the smokey aroma of barbeques and fireplaces burning, accompanied by a cool, damp evening breeze. Winter is dead once more; spring has come, and is running her course.

The clock is winding down. With the spasmodic, hyper-accelerated pace set by the school year now ending, I have the opportunity to embrace spring and summer in all their epicurean laziness. That being said, there's also much to do and much to take care of; a new conviction, a new direction, a new decision to be made. What to do? I've been given this choice before: to err on the side of caution, or to toss in my chips and take the road less travelled. Thinking back on the past, it seems pretty clear to me now that I, though there was a time when I thought of myself invariably as a risk-taker, have always chosen probability over possibility.

But maybe not this time. Maybe I'll take my chances and hope.