21 December 2006

Some Late-Night Thinking

Last night at midnight I stretched out upon a sofa and turned the television on, flipping through stations until I landed on a PBS special which sounded interesting. They were examining Einstein's equation "e=mc2" by breaking down each element in the equation and giving a history of the most important scientists to develop those parts. For example, first they turned to Michael Faraday, the British scientist whose research gave rise to the notion that magnetism and electricity and other such forces are not entirely separate forces but are instead all related in the one concept of "energy." Then they turned to an 18th century Frenchman whose name I can't pronounce, who through intense exactness and calculation recognised that all mass is fixed--when something decays, its matter changes form, but if one were to add up all of the consequential substances, the total mass would exactly match the original amount (the example given--burn wood, and the mass of the smoke molecules, ashes, and so on, when added together, would equal exactly the mass of the original piece of wood). Here they talked about the universe as a "closed system" from which nothing truly enters or exits...and here I started falling asleep.

Don't get me wrong, I found the material fascinating, and I heard snatches of what followed in the next few minutes: the fact the "C" is used to represent the speed of light due to the Latin word "celeritas," meaning quickness or swift. Thought that was interesting.

But after I woke up half an hour later, to move to my bed, my head was in full turning, processing and analising several things at once. It was now early morning of the 21st, both in date and century, and so I wrote my thoughts down in the darkness of my bedroom. Some thoughts stemmed from my evening with friends playing cards and talking, other thoughts from the study of Hebrews I am undertaking, and still others regarding capillary attraction/capillarity, which is "the action by which the surface of a liquid where it is in contact with a solid is elevated or depressed depending upon the relative attraction of the molecules of the liquid for each other and for those of the solid" (how does that work?).

But I began to wonder too about the notion of the universe as a closed system. Is the universe truly a closed system? How would this correspond to a slowly expanding universe, if indeed it is expanding? But of course, I think of the fact that while seeds are planted and water is poured, it is God Who makes it grow, and it is God Who knits all men and women together in our mothers' wombs--does this not defy the "closed system"? Since I began working out again, I have gained fifteen pounds, seemingly of muscle--how would one compute the source of this mass gain? It seems as if Life defies the closed system...

P.S. Last week, during colder weather, I wrote the beginnings of a poem concerning wintertime, and now as the air has turned cool again (with rain, not snow--alas) I thought I would share the stanza with you...

O Winter, Thou silent memento mori
With breath as cold as Death doth breathe
To unmask trees both grim and hoary
'Til they with frozen fury seethe,
Now unmasketh me.

What do you think--should I keep working on it or let it fall?

12 December 2006

All We Need

I woke up this morning and lay in bed thinking for awhile, then eventually got up and shuffled off to the shower. While in the shower I started to sing, just one line coming out as a prayer: "You are all, all I need." And I realised that the repitition of the word "all" was not for effect, but instead the truth that I need more than just one person in this world.

This is where I began to wonder at how, often, we sing or speak of how so-and-so is the only person we need...and we do this in order to express "love." The dramatic man signs of how he needs his beloved, and only her, in order to live in this world. The love-stricken woman writes a note of romance to her lover, claiming she thinks or desires him and only him. Thus, by our singling out of this one creature or person against all others, we are making them "special" and this specialness we consider "love."

But that's not what love is. And that is not the truth of our need. We never need only one person, whetehr they be the sweetest, fairest, most lovely person in the world or not. Two cannot satisfy each other. You need more. Even spiritually this rings true, for God is three and all three my humanity has desperate need of. Need needs more than one...

03 November 2006


(In my dream from this morning, we had traveled long through many rooms and spaces, running from a vicious Enemy who had several times attacked us. At times I had fought the wicked one, and at times simply run on, thinking, Now I know how Frodo must have felt. I was very small and weak compared with the loathsome Thing which hounded us, but thankfully I was accompanied by a tall and mighty Guide and Friend. At last in our journey we came upon a great torrential river...the river looked like enormous sheets of hard paper torn and jagged, as if the water itself were coarse enough to cut a man to pieces and carry him far away in death to the Shadowy lands...yet there was nowhere else to go but forward...)

Standing beside the great rushing river in which many souls, I knew, had been lost, and with the great and evil Enemy close behind us, I stood now petrified with fear. How long I stood transfixed by the fierce water before us, I cannot say, but my Friend broke the silence.

"Simple one," said my Companion, "do you not know that it was I Who carried Abraham and your fathers through the Great River to safety beyond?"

His words were meant to give me courage and faith. I looked up at Him, then looked again at the raging torrent. Still fearful but trying to make a show of bravery, I gasped to Him in a small voice, "I go with You. Where is Your boat?"

He smiled that smile which is only His.

"Boat?" He asked.

(And I awoke.)

01 November 2006

A Sick Day

What does one write on a bleary-eyed day
when the wet sky is falling in pieces of grey
to efface the still-beautiful golden of Fall
and remind who it was
made green leaves turn away?

How does one smile when all Time must appall
so that hours are minutes and minutes are years
in which everything laughing as well makes you cry
till your eyes are both bleary
with undeclared tears?

Why must the blood in these mad veins run dry,
the liquid turn powder, the dust become air,
the Life become Death, in a moment made stale,
and Who makes it "Life"
and Who calls it "fair"?

O, Life, the first product bound never to fail,
invention of Promise, perpetuate Light--
Who can resist you, detain you, undo you,
But Who did invent you,
Ex nihilo, bright?

I'm not terribly pleased with that last stanza, but as I wasn't intending to write any verse at all, it shows some promise. I really only sat down to ponder what one might write when sitting home alone all day with a cold? I have had chicken noodle soup aplenty to cheer my soul, and have read a good deal today, but to be stuck at home is not fun today. Sadly, yesterday afternoon as this cold began its stealthy stalking within me, my car Sherrie also went out of commission. Unknown mechanical issues, and I was forced to have her towed to a garage in Collegedale which has yet to call me with the diagnosis. So I truly am stuck in the old apartment, with an old quilt and some old books and movies, and a very old dilemma: how to spend the sick day at home.

I'm not sure why I'm comforted even by the simple act of writing just now, but it certainly is true. I haven't really got anything to say, and probably shouldn't prevail upon your time by asking you to read aimless thoughts...wasteful, really. But the Lord bless you for wasting your time in sympathy for a sick friend (smile).

I know! Since I'm writing, I might as well be writing some thoughts for the Precept study...

10 October 2006

A Little Music

Okay, so I'm playing around with this blog to try putting music on it. I don't understand HTML very well, so when I visit my template I am forced to experiment until it seems to do something close to what I'd like. For example, below to the right I have added a small box which allows you to play a song I wrote and recorded with a simple microphone in my living room (I hope you enjoy!). I rather wanted to put more space between it and the sidebar above it, but I couldn't figure out how to do this without making blogger freak out and cast the song-box disdainfully to the floor of the webpage. Any hints from a more knowledgeable person?

Also, if you'll notice, I added a link in the sidebar labeled "My Music"--this link should take you to my xanga page, where I have uploaded three songs altogether. I would have put all three in song-boxes below, but when I tried this, it crammed them all together in unappealing fashion. So I gave up that idea.

Hope you all like the musical sampling. I'm thinking more and more about the idea of making a CD and selling it with Music for Missions...

**Edit** Just today I downloaded the beta version of Blogger, and my oh my, how easy it is now to add things! Thanks, Blogger! I added all three songs below. Good times.

24 August 2006

1 Samuel 14:6

"Then Jonathan said to the young man who bore his armor, 'Come, let us go over to the garrison of these uncircumcised; it may be that the Lord will work for us. For nothing restrains the Lord from saving by many or by few.' So his armorbearer said to him, 'Do all that is in your heart. Go then; here I am with you, according to your heart.'"

Are you so afraid of failure because you believe God only directs men into "successful" situations? Do you fear stepping out to ask the bold question, to dare the words of love, because you are unsure of winning the other heart? Is it the other person or yourself that you fear? Do you fear even your own desires, O saint? And are you using half-hearted prayers seeking "guidance" as a mask for your lack of faith in doing?

How many failures we have seen among the lives of biblical men and women, and yet God maintains His glory, His throne, His love. Is this a license for foolishness among God's people? Surely not! But we must have a greater, grander view of God's grace, and even of the grace among His people! Do other believers demand all answers and perfection from you? They should not, lest they forget the grace which also purchased them. The same honesty which requires that we sometimes speak the difficult things or confess the hard hurts and loves, is that honesty which compels every man in this prayer: "God, have mercy on me, a poor sinner." The poor in spirit are most honest. The poor in spirit may, in this life, lose out for the sake of that honesty, or may be damaged by their own truth-telling. But grace and deep affection are not lost or injured for the losing--neither the love of God in Christ Jesus nor the love of the fellow faithful are diminished!

"Who shall separate us from the love of Christ?...No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through Him who loved us!"
Have you become convinced that moving forward into an unknown will separate you from His love? The doubt which may accompany many great steps of faith is not sinful; faith itself both includes and overwhelms doubt. But we have promises beyond the small steps and assurances which no small doubtful, daring venture can drown. Therefore, walk bold, Christian! Who knows? It may be that the Lord will work for you, for He is not hindered by many or by few...

19 August 2006

The Voice a Woman Needs to Hear

Sometimes I notice the young women around me and I wonder, almost aloud: "What person is it in your life that, when this person tells you that you are a beautiful and lovely woman, you will really truly believe it and walk in that reality all the rest of your days?"

I know who, but I wonder if the women do.

14 August 2006

The Sea Wolf

I'm nearly finished with my first reading of Jack London's The Sea Wolf, and have found it quite a terrific find! I have long had an old copy of it on my shelves, a hand-me-down (of which I have many) from my parents, but had never read it. I confess, I'd never given much stock to London as a novelist, always believing him little more than a bitter naturalist and only a fair writer to boot. How wrong was I in my estimation! Much talent revealed in this novel, and philosophical pickings as well--Captain Larsen is perhaps the most complete and consistent atheist I've yet read in literature. Apparently, London's aim was to decry the Nietzschean Superman in Larsen, though he does not give full confidence either to the moralistic musings of the narrator of the tale. This narrator falls flat because his moralism gives no reckoning to a true God, and therefore has no absolute Author(ity) above it, behind it, or in it. Still, the debates between Van Weyden and Larsen are capital...

Above, a photograph of young London--mostly because I have yet to try putting a picture on this blog, and must prove that I can. Does this look like the face of a young man who played the parts of oyster pirate, national hobo, Yukon explorer, and frequent library patron in his young life?

27 July 2006

June Journaling

In our study of Ephesians during the Precept Boot Camps, we investigated the several passages speaking of the Stone, the Living Stone, the Chief Cornerstone--the Christ! The primary passages for these are found in Psalm 118:22, Isaiah 8:13-15, Isaiah 28:16, Matthew 21:42-44, and Romans 9:30-33. Reading these, I composed this verse...

O Christ, our Chief Stone
both tested and precious--
Be Thou our standard
of Life and of Love!
Break us to pieces--
then, Spirit, come seal us:
Make us Your Dwelling-place,
ne'er to remove!

If you will allow me, I'll share also a piece of my journal with you all. I pray it is not too personal! This is my journal entry from June 11, a Sunday morning in which long prayer led me to this heartfelt plea before the Lord:


In Your sanctuary sitting--
What, Lord, has my heart here brought?
Dread when joy is more befitting?
Fear when peace was dearly bought?

Might this poem become a hymn? Lord, in my spirit the words are true--You Who see my heart, know my attitude: I am relishing my discontent, I am longing to run away to search for You elsewhere, to find You in faces, eyes, hearts now unknown. Where would I go? Lord, You are everywhere! I would go, I am ever going to You. I would not, for Your Life, stand still for the sake of ease. May I run, Lord, and find You where I run?

Lord, the greatest passion I have ever felt in the Spirit rose within me when I was ministering to the believers both elderly and young in India--teaching from the Word. Now, Lord, I ask You--shall I always be looking back to those days and never pursue that passion more? I know that I am far fro ma perfect teacher, minister, or man...but, Jesus, I long like Spurgeon that You would light me on fire for the preaching and teaching of the Gospel! Burn me for it, even when I doubt! Mark me, seal me, release me...

And so I reach a boundary--for I cannot perceive how all You have given me in talents, passions, gifts or loves shall be fulfilled, employed, exercised and stretched-to-breaking in this place, this church. Imagination rings like a church-bell bellowing in a locked room, needing all the walls blasted away to ring loud in spacious places--and I fear that while the door remains locked and the walls stout, then I shall only see a piece of You as through a window, and in my life You shall be boxed, contained, having walls when You ought to explode in boundless glory! I want to know You boundless; I want to run and never find Your end! May I, Lord, run and find You unending and almighty, wherever my feet may go?

I feel tense like a dart fitted to the bow-string, awaiting release...but as I wait, these two things I will do: I will be devoted to You in obedience through prayer and reading the Word, that I might be near You, and I will reject comforts, deny myself ease and comfort while I live here, that I would know clearly that I do not remain for the sake of ease (for I know my casual temperament is tempted by such). These seem fitting resolutions--may it please You, Lord, to honour these by pointing where I will run!

This journal entry from June 11, the Lord is answering in ways strange but solid. Many praises to the living God...be eager, O my soul, and hunger and thirst for Him.

14 July 2006

Speech After Long Silence...

It has been, what, a month and days since last I wrote on here? Much has happened in this time, and I've been busied beyond the ability to chronicle here. And, in fact, much of my writing effort has gone into the final throes of the Why Know curriculum, which now is done. And so I write to you.

Where am I now, and who? What face do I
Observe within the glass, which was not there
Before? And who the Artists which apply
The paint and chisel, this face to appear?
I scrutinise the hurt, confusion, doubt,
And see a little boy where yesterday
A man had been, a man who was about
His father's happy business, come what may--
But now, some figure formed of human hands
Presents himself to me, uncertain of
The goodness and the grace by which men stand
Whose lives are typified by honest love--
I cannot comprehend him, nor he me,
This face I wish I were too blind to see...

I probably ought to have written on here a few days ago, when my mood was lighter, but today I come with doubt and confusion. My chief fear is that I am not connected with the Body well right now, as I haven't spent deep time with faithful friends for perhaps the past month. But this alongside so many changing things in my circumstances and life right now make me feel doubt.

And even as I write this--I know that I will allow my doubt to make me only more desperate for the power of the Holy Spirit within me. I am desperate for Christ, to see Him in His body and in me. May the strength of my confusion today be that strength which drives me toward Him.

Perhaps I will explain all these things more later, but for now this hope will do.

08 June 2006

...and Good Luck.

This evening I watched "Good Night, and Good Luck"--for those of you unfamiliar or out of country, this is a film treating the topics of McCarthyism and news ethics in the person of Edward R. Murrow, primarily. I cannot claim any awesome skill as a film critic (and I often marvel at how our nation seems peopled with simply millions upon millions of self-proclaimed media experts), so I shall only say that I very much enjoyed this movie and felt somewhat stirred by it.

Allow me to preface with the fact that I have spent the past several days researching and composing an essay on the pernicious influence of pornography, and the research alone left me quite frustrated (no pun intended). To hear the makers of pornographic media describe their liberty and their pure motivation of pleasing the demands of a hungry public, made me sick and angry together. Callous. Vile. Aberrant. Pitiful. Such are these men and (somehow this seems even more abhorrent) women. So much about this $57 billion per annum industry grieves my soul that I probably have not lines nor heart enough to type it here. I fear for the men and women involved in these videos or photographs, knowing how they abuse their Maker's image in it, and how there shall be accountability for us all. None shall be judged more harshly for this wickedness or that; it is enough to be judged, and that should make a hearty man tremble. I think too of Jesus' words regarding the person who causes a child of God to sin, and I think how right Edwards was--it is indeed a terrible thing.

It is right to attack wickedness with true words and the authority God gives to men who speak truth. So I shall simply say that the film this evening encouraged me of the power in strong words, ideas, and morality. We ought still be an effrontery to wicked men. We ought not shy away from terms such as "good" or "evil," exchanging them for shallow, bland ideas. Speak clearly, demand justice and honor, be bold. And let us prove ourselves good men and women.

03 June 2006

A Poem from the Pool-Side


cigarette stubs twisted, broken
all purpose burned away
lying in a box of sand
on display
eight and twenty
scalded and worn
kissed a dozen times
before being cast aside
every kiss drawing more away
dragging out
the breath of life
one lies dead and half-buried


A note on the poem: Sitting out by the community waters in a chaise lounge, I noticed beside me a small sand-box within which many wasted fags (in the British sense) lay mangled, broken, and abused. I began versing my observations of these victims of addiction (as you see the notes above), then came across the idea of their being kissed to death partway through the verse and concluded with that thought. There is more in this: I realised that as I am now 28 years old, perhaps I had written about myself and not that number of spent cigarettes, perhaps my heart through kisses is now spent, half-buried, both dead and alive...or perhaps this is not truly me, but is someone reading this. God, teach our hearts to love.

Further note: The structure of this poem involved more staggering of the lines (to a purpose), which I tried to accomplish using tabs while typing--but apparently Blogspot didn't like that idea and pushed everything to one side...ah well...

02 June 2006

I Talk of Dreams...

I awoke from some interesting dreams this morning--strange, too, since I had thought with a purpose last night about the fact that the human brain does much of its concrete learning while the person sleeps, taking knowledge gained right before bedtime and converting it into lasting memories while you and I slumber peacefully away (smile). So right before bed I thought on a number of interesting things PBS and the news had discovered for me.

My dreams weren't about any of those subjects, however. Instead, in my dream I was walking about what I knew to be a small Christian middle school where I was considering teaching eighth grade language arts. Apparently, I was playing hooky from wherever I had been assigned to teach with WhyKnow so that I might check out this possible alternate job. I spent some time with students in one classroom, and then, as they all went into a very deep auditorium (almost like a great well), I stepped outside the building debating whether I should take this job, whether I should call WhyKnow, and so on. I remember taking out my cell phone. I also remember thinking how, in visiting the students at this school (although they were very nice, as were the teachers I'd met), I would prefer to stick to my guns with the abstinence program rather than get back into teaching literature. In my dream decision-making, I debated the drop in salary such a move might mean, but also considered the fact that there may be fewer people able and equipped to teach literature than those able to teach the abstinence stuff, and how I might not squander any talents by going back to it...

In all, I awoke with clarity and sobriety. I hadn't received any confirmation about staying with the abstinence program this year, but this seems closer to it than anything else I've had (smile).

P.S. Oh, and in the dream the Lord also reminded me to fill out my mileage reports this afternoon, for the many schools I drove to in the past few months. Will it be too late for reimbursement? Who knows. Only it seemed something God gave me to do, so I shall.

27 May 2006


For a very long time now I have toyed with the notion of writing a musical. I hadn't any theme or storyline, really, I simply thought it would be enjoyable to compose some pretty songs for people to sing. It probably grew first from my aspiration to try my hand at composing some sweet orchestral music--I have always enjoyed classical music, listening to records of the "1812 Overture" since I was a little boy, and my grandfather composed a number of pieces for the organ (which he played), so I supposed the composing gene must run in the family. I think fuel was added to this fire a few years back when I attended my first opera: Madame Butterfly. So beautiful. I was stunned that humans could create such a thing.

Well, yesternight while driving home from something I began singing to myself the words of a questioning love-song, and it was then my mind fastened upon a potential story for my musical attempt. I thought of Psyche and Cupid, and especially the retelling in Lewis' Faces. Tell me, would that not open all kinds of beautiful, wondrous doors for exploration in song? I began playing with some of the questions and the dramatics involved, and jotted down a few lines toward a song (though by no means complete or certain):

(the woman lies next to her lover, a god who is shrouded in darkness...she has never been allowed to look on him, yet she longs to see him...she is holding a shaded lamp, debating whether she ought to break his command in order that she might see him...)

And how shall I adore a beauty I shall never see?
O, though my lover be a god, yet not enough for me...
I long to love him and in pledge to give my body free
But shall a heart be given where no loving gaze can be?
O light! Possess my love
O eyes, now make him mine
And may his beauty cast away all doubt within my mind!

(she breaks the lamp and light bursts across her sleeping husband and lover)

O god! My heart! My love! I cry--
I cannot look the more!
Such beauty here would dim the light which flows from heaven's door!
What wondrous locks curl at thy crown,
What fair and noble brow--
My mortal heart collapses, my breathing quickens now--
O god! Possess thy love
O master, make me thine
I am yours...

This part, of course, where Psyche breaks open her lamp to reveal the god sleeping beside her--the god she is about to lose. The story is marvelous and deeply dramatic, and I think would make a beautiful tragedy in song, not to mention some powerful spiritual meaning in it. Any thoughts from you all?

24 May 2006

A Friendly Warning

To the driver of the car I observed on the highway last night:

Let me guess--you have a wife, maybe a couple of children, but when you went shopping for a new family vehicle and you contemplated purchasing a minivan, something within you screamed, "No! That's way too domestic!" You're a rebel, right? You were born to be wild, or something like that. You felt the primal voice within rage against something so bulky and common and uncool as a minivan. And so, to silence that voice, you looked elsewhere.

I know, you still wanted to be hip, to be young, to drive something gruff and manly which recalled wilderness days of the hunter-gatherer lives of men. I understand completely. You're a stallion, man, and not even a family can tame you down. If you can't ride a motorcycle, you want everyone to know you would ride one.

But, my friend--and I hate to break this to you, truly I do--I have to say that no amount of Vols, Harley-Davidson, or "Fear This!" stickers, and no, not even the flames painted along her panels, will ever bestow upon your PT Cruiser the title of "cool."

19 May 2006

A Quick Story

I have to leave for singles' group in about an hour, but before I go, I feel an urge to tell a story. Here goes, from the top of my head...

The Mathematician and the Artist

In a room full of people he stands silent without mirth or grief in his eyes. He looks this way and that, calculating the faces of those around him, as if they were mathematical figures and not forms of flesh, he's adding up this flirtacious blonde with that brawny fellow in the corner, dividing by the curly-haired girl who sits nearby with a soured jealous expression on her face. He watches others move in circles around the room until striking upon some conversational common denominator, into which they add their two cents, and then comes the art behind the math: will the semi-circle already present expand to allow the newcomer? and should they do so, will they now form a pleasant, healthy circle of talk, or will they create an oblong oval, complete with pregnant distance to express the mere politeness of their welcoming? He waits and calculates. The oval forms. He smiles.

Ah! Here's a new one, just come into the room, a young man, around 20, smiling at several other young ones and occasionally coughing into his sleeve. The Mathematician watches and counts his steps--the young man of 20 sees an acquaintance and gives the manly nod in that direction, his friend is standing amid four or five pretty young ladies, shortest distance between two points, but the young man instead takes a rounded arc before joining the group--a subtle deception to hide his immediate and apparent interest in Girl #3. They're talking now. You could keep time by the mild, amused laughter of Girl #3...one two three four--laughter--one two three four--giggle. Ridiculous.

The Mathematician cringes and turns toward his drink instead. He gazes into the plastic cup as bubbles form along the roof of his soda. He begins counting bubbles to avoid counting the moments of his loneliness. Thirteen, fourteen, twelve, seven, ten...

On and on he counts. That is, until she enters the room.

She pauses at the threshold, the room is full of wondrous strangers to her. She has never seen anything like them, so beautiful as they laugh and shine, console and mourn, smile and flirt. They move with ease and freedom (how free!), power and grace, and for all her stone and oils and watercolours, she knows she never shall make such a thing so soft, so strong, so fluid as these strangers are! She sees burning brilliant in their eyes what her paintings and sculptures would dare to name with simple sounds like "love" or "peace" or "friendship" or simply "life," words too small to possess the divine light which blazes here! She is humbled as in the presence of Masterpieces. She longs to touch them as a child.

And so into the room she passes. Her movements are an art of their own, she carries her body with grace and breathy softness, simply adorned, swinging gently into the room of perfect unknowns. The lights of the room fall along her as if their glory were made for her, to bring her light. She walks in beauty, like the very first night, the only pure night of which all current nights are but an echo, the night in which stars became and released their glory, the moon grown as a newly birthed blossom in the sky. Oh yes, she walks in beauty.

The Mathematician sees her and Life escapes him a moment as she comes, he feels his heart skip a beat, one-TWO, one-TWO, everything's fine, on--... time...space...a collision between zero and infinity, between Nothing and Everything, meet in a person who defies figures or laws--she is pure Imagination expanding his heart! ...and then he remembers himself, and the beats resume.

But something is different. The silence in his heart has left--somehow this young woman has changed the regular clockwork beats from mere numbers into a song! He cannot conceive how it was done, he only knows it is. He moves and lives, he moves out of the lonely corner and to this piece of art, this Artist who has made music of his soul. He smiles again, now a sincere smile. The Mathematician meets the Artist.

Off to singles I go! (smile)

18 May 2006

At Long Last...

Today, at long last, I presented my new curriculum to the educators and staff at WhyKnow. Well, I presented most of it, anyway--I discovered while browsing through the printed pages that there were plenty of gaps and missing references mixed in, which I distinctly or fuzzily remember promising myself I would "eventually get to." Probably those all-nighters spent on it recently. Still, the work as a whole is looking pretty sharp, and now I get to turn my attention from composing text and activities, toward some of the practicals: fonts, graphics, etc. This should be fun. As to the intended font, I'm thinking Perpetua 13.

It suddenly strikes me as odd, this expression I have just used: "at long last." Such a strange collection of terms is this--"at" gives the sense of arriving, which I certainly have (almost) done with this project, "long" describes duration (or so I'd assume...physical length doesn't make much sense here)...but "last"? How does this apply? Did I manage to "last" or survive this long experience? Or does it imply finality?

Gosh, I sound boring (grin). It has been awhile since I let my imagination loose with creative writing, since this project has gobbled up most of my creativity in recent months, so I apologise for being so dry. In time, in time. It's a pity, though, that I can't scratch something fun out just now, for I have been reading Chesterton's Orthodoxy lately and thinking much about faerie tales and the grace of imagination...

Again, give me a few weeks and perhaps I'll be my clever self again (smile).

15 May 2006

The Weblog Transfer

Where to begin...

I'm wondering what I should do with this blog. I began a blog about eighteen months ago on a rival site (xanga.com), encouraged others to join, and by now have quite a happy little colony of friends floating together there. But I have become less enamoured with the xanga tendency toward provocative pics in their banner ads, and rather prefer the simplistic forms here at blogspot. But this leaves me with a number of dilemmas:

1. Do I try to juggle two blogs at once? This seems audacious and overkill, to say the least.

2. Suppose I remove to this blog permanently. Should I then try to lure friends away from xanga to join me here? I know, I know--if I really love them, I'll let them go, set them free...and if the love is real, they'll fly to my Blogger side, right? Not that there is much benefit to bringing them here. Thus far, I haven't discovered a way to create blogrings on this site, which would be rather helpful and communal in (one would hope) a positive way. Also, this site requires more ingenuity to manage, as one must dig into the lines of code oneself to make changes (xanga is far easier), and I fear most of my friends are almost as computer-inept as I. So.

3. If I try to maintain both, will I simply copy entries from one site to the other? Again, I cannot believe my words are so important to the world...and that sounds tedious for a guy like me. Even now, I can think back to some lovely entries on the other site and a happy sigh escapes me. I do so love to write...

Okay, it's settled, then. I'm going to add slowly and quietly to this blog and still keep the old one for the sake of my constant companions there. We'll see what ending comes of this...