Hello Again

Well well well . . . it has definitely been a while since I posted, although I suspect I wasn't missed a terrible lot. But, ironically, I have a lot I want to say but no words to say it. So, rather than bore with my own tedious ramblings, I'll let someone speak who is much more qualified than myself . . .

The day is done, and the darkness
Falls from the wings of Night
As a Feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight

I see the lights of the village
Gleam through the rain and the mist,
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me
That my soul cannot resist:

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only
As the mist resembles the rain

Come, read to me some poem
Some simple heartfelt lay
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not form the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time.

For, like strains of martial music
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor;
And tonight I long for rest

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care
And come like the bendediction
That follows after the prayer

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice
And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares, that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs
And as silently steal away.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I'm a melancholic, so sue me.

From the mouths of babes . . .

There is nothing that clears a frustrated mind quite like a little time spent at the happiest place on earth. I really cannot tell you how much I enjoy that little slice of Anaheim, and consequently I cannot tell you exactly what I find so enjoyable about Disneyland, but one of those factors definitely has to be listening to the conversations that kids have with each other, and wonder to myself if I was ever prone to the same leaps of logic that these children take on a regular basis. This example has to be my favorite from yesterday afternoon; two young boys, who have randomly met in line to get into Disneyland and who are both clutching stuffed animals, begin to discuss which of their stuffed animals would be victorious if they were ever to enter into a physical altercation. Boy #1 is holding a cheetah and Boy #2 is holding a dog, and their conversation went something like this . . .

Boy #1: RAaarrRgh!
Boy #2: Rooowff!!
Boy #1: There's no way a dog could beat a cheetah!! Cheetahs eat dogs for breakfast!


(A short period of silence ensues)


Boy #2: . . . Not a dog with SUPERPOWERS!!!!


If only all answers in life were so obvious.

Because good poetry should never be kept to oneself

To Will. H. Low.

Youth now flees on feathered foot.
Faint and fainter sounds the flute,
Rarer songs of gods; and still
Somewhere on the sunny hill,
Or along the winding stream,
Through the willows, flits a dream;
Flits, but shows a smiling face,
Flees, but with so quaint a grace,
None can choose to stay at home,
All must follow, all must roam.

This is unborn beauty: she
Now in air floats high and free,
Takes the sun and breaks the blue; --
Late with stooping pinion flew
Raking hedgerow trees, and wet
Her wing in silver streams, and set
Shining foot on temple roof:
Now again she flies aloof,
Coasting mountain clouds and kiss't
By the evening's amethyst.

In wet wood and miry lane,
Still we pant and pound in vain;
Still with leaden foot we chace
Waning pinion, fainting face;
Still with grey hair we stumble on,
Till, behold, the vision gone!
Where hath fleeting beauty led?
To the doorway of the dead.
Life is over, life was gay:
We have come the primrose way.
-Robert Louis Stevenson


Nothing much to add to this, but a resounding Wow! and one extra thought of mine; there are, in the whole of literature, very few pieces that evoke feelings from me as strongly as music does. This is one of those pieces.

And Ms. Cannon, if you ever read this, I finally did read Treasure Island, and it was fantastic. Although it is odd to think that the same man who wrote this also made these lines famous;

"Fifteen men on the dead man's chest
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!"

Go figure.

In which I dearly wish to be somewhere else

"Who can tell how scenes of peace and quietude sink into the minds of pain-worn dwellers in close and noisy places, and carry their own freshness, deep into their jaded hearts! Men who have lived in crowded, pent-up streets, through lives of toil: and never wished for change; men, to whom custom has indeed been second nature, and who have come almost to love each brick and stone that formed the narrow boundaries of their daily walks: even they, with the hand of death upon them, have been known to yearn at last for one short glimpse of Nature's face; and carried, far from the scenes of their old pains and pleasures, have seemed to pass at once into a new state of being, and crawling forth, from day to day, to some green sunny spot, they have had such memories wakened up within them by the mere sight of sky, and hill, and plain, and glistening water, that the foretaste of heaven itself has soothed their quick decline, and they have sunk into their tombs as peacefully as the sun: whose setting they watched from their lonely chamber-window but a few hours before: faded from their dim and feeble sight! The memories which peaceful country scenes call up, are not of this world, nor of its thoughts and hopes. Their gentle influence may teach us how to weave fresh garlands for the graves of those we loved: may purify our thoughts, and bear down before it old emnity and hatred; but beneat all this, there lingers, in the least reflective mind, a vague and half-formed conciousness of having held such feelings long before, in some remote and distant time; which calls upon solemn thoughts of distant times to come, and bends down pride and wordliness beneath it"
-Charles Dickens, Oliver Twist

I can think of few things more enjoyable than reading Dickens while listening to Vaughn Williams. But oh to read Dickens in the company of the rustling grass, with a friendly oak or amber looking over your shoulder! To listen to the melody of the wind as it tumbles over hillsides and rivers, rather than the sound that struggles out of my computer speakers! To look up from my book and see not the drab, off-white of my ceiling, but the deep and clear blue of a country sky!

And on a (somewhat) unrelated note . . .

They say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. It also makes one go a bit funny in the head.

Joy: A Post Easter Reflection

Easter has always been an interesting day for me, to say the least. I'm never entirely sure how to feel. Don't get me wrong, I will always be excited because of the risen Christ our Lord, but I for one, have a tendency to get so bogged down in Good Friday that sometimes it is difficult for me to rejoice in the fulfilment of my salvation. Realizing the enormity of Christ's sacrifice in relation to the enormity of my sin . . . I cannot fathom the grace that is given me. How underserving am I of his love? How pure and blameless the lamb that was slain for a dirty, ungrateful soul like me! My unworthiness, my sin, my iniquities cry out in the depths of my soul along with the Sanhedrin "CRUCIFY HIM!!" And yet Christ still dies in my stead? Now, these are not wrong things to feel; in fact, one of the biggest problems with modern Christianity is that most believers never come to this point. Without a realization of one's own depravity, the realization of Salvation does not seem like that big of a deal. But what is wrong with my situation, and with many others I have discussed this with, is that on Easter morning, instead of rejoicing in the resurrection, all I can see is my own unworthiness.

This is NOT the right response!! Christ did not die in order that we might feel guilty and undeserving for all eternity, he died that we might live!!!!! There is a time and a place for introspection, for the realization of sin and our need for the blood of Christ, but that is not the final realization we should come to. I think there comes a point where one needs to move from this place of despair to a place of Joy and Gratitude for the amazing grace we have been given.

That is what these past two days have taught me . . . that it is okay to be happy. We need not navel gaze our lives away. It is okay to enjoy a game of volleyball, to run across creeks in the only pair of pants you brought with you, to eat good food with good friends, to stop driving for the sole purpose of frolicking in a field to your hearts content, to try on silly clothes in vintage stores, to sing and make music into the night with people you hardly know, to sit on a dock and look at the stars with someone who is close to your heart, to have JOY in life!

And perhaps even to find joy in writing a term paper, or reading a philosopher who is way over your head . . . which I must go do now. Thank you Josh for the companionship and excitement, be it jumping around in grass or chopping down trees with swords, Dave for the music and the insight, Anna for your quiet diginity in putting up with three crazy boys in a small car, and Morielle for your passion and the light you bring to my life and wherever you walk.

If you can't fix him . . .

*DISCLAIMER: This blog contiains nothing definitive or even remotely intelligent; it is merely the excess musings of a very confused college student.

"Before anything else I declare that this youth, Alyosha, was in no sense a fanatic, nor even in my opinion at any rate a mystic at all. I shall state in advance my opinion; he was simply an early lover of mankind, and if he had struck out along the monastery road it was only because he had at that time made a strong impression on him and presented itself to him as, so to speak, an ideal of deliverance for his soul, straining as it was out of the murk of worldly hatred unto the lights of love."

"Add to this that he was in part a youth of our most recent times, that is to say honest by his very nature, demanding truth and justice, seeking and striving to believe in them and, having come to do so, demanding with all the power of his soul an immediate part in them, demanding a quick deed, with the unbending desire to sacrifice everything for that deed, even his life."
-The Brothers Karamozov, Fyodor Dostoyevsky

To tell you the truth, I'm getting very tired of these kinds of questions, but in light of my understanding of the Brothers K it is a question that needs to be asked; What shall we do with Alyosha? The question seems absurd to most people who have read the book, seeing as Alyosha is the one that we sympathize the most; he is the one who is trying to heal his family from all the dysfunction and madness that threatens to consume it. Of course he is less of a threat than the over-intellectual Ivan and the base-driven Mitya, right? Hmmmmmmmm. . . . maybe the answer is't as clear as one might think. Sure Mitya is the one who revels in his base pleasures, but who is he likely to harm by his actions? Besides the odd house servant, only himself. Ivan? Although he is unnervingly intelligent and could probably think circles around any other character in the book, this does not serve to his credit. All his rationale and philosophy leaves him alone in his house, raving mad, unable to do harm to, again, anyone but himself. But Alyosha . . . this is where things get interesting.

Most of this has been brought about when I learned that Dostoyevsky intended to write a sequel to his novel The Brothers Karamozov in which the Alyosha that we all know and love becomes a revolutionary (that is, he would have written it if he hadn't died first). Yes, our dear humble and religious minded Alyosha ends up a revolutionary. This, while it should not totally change your view of Alyosha, colors our perceptions of him, especially in regards to the passages listed above. This may serve to confuse even more, seeing as characteristics such as being an "early lover of mankind", and "demanding truth and justice" are not normally considered character flaws. These things are not necessarily dangerous, but can be within the right person. Why is Alyosha "this" person? Two things, the first of which is this; Dostoyevsky makes it painfully clear that Alyosha is on the religious path because it is what happened to make the strongest impression on him at the time, and he decided that this would be the instrument for the "deliverance of his soul". If socialism had gotten to him first, he would have been the most gung-ho socialist you ever set your beady little eyes on. What does this show us? That Alyosha is not in the monastery for the right reasons; he is an imressionable youth looking for relief for his soul. He is NOT looking for Christ. He may accept Christ as part of the deliverance of his soul, but not as the object of his worship. The Orthodoxy just happened to get ahold of him before anyone else did. And look what happens when his mentor Father Zosima dies; he jumps ship and decides to bury himself within that murk of worldy hatred he was trying to get away from. This leads us to our second problem; Alyosha is not in search of a changed life, which will inevitably take time. He is looking for a "quick deed", like a martyrdom, that will immediatley satiate his desire for truth and justice to be served. Sadly for Alyosha, this "quick deed" is nowhere to be found within the constructs of the Orthodoxy. Perhaps it is for that very reason that Father Zosima sends Alyosha out into the world, knowing full well that what he is seeking does not lie inside the walls of the monastery.

There is one last thing to consider here; Alyosha is described as a "lover of mankind", not a lover of men. The difference in wording is miniscule, but the difference has immense importance, because this is what makes Alyosha the perfect Revolutionary. When one is a lover of mankind, you are not necessarily a lover of individual men, but a lover of men as an idea. With this perspective, the sacrifice of individual men is allowable for the good of Man as a whole. So what is a young, impressionable, Russian youth with a desire for the quick enaction of truth and justice to do? The Orthodoxy can't help him because, again, it does not offer the quick enaction of truth and justice upon the masses. The prospect of Revolution, however, does. Christianity offers a lifetime of sanctification and slow progress of character. Revolution offers the chance to satisfy your desire for justice in the time it takes to pull the trigger of a pistol. Couple this with his love of "mankind", and you've got yourself a dyed-in-the-wool Bolshevik revolutionary.

So what can we do? We can't kill him before he does any damage, because then you become Alyosha, opting for the "quick deed" that satisfies your thirst for justice. We can't let him roam free, because then there is nothing to stop him. To quote Reynolds, "It's easier to exterminate the ruling class than kill Anastasia." Can we put him back in the monastery? Maybe, but what's to keep him there? Once he sees that the Orthodox can't give him truth and justice now, won't he just leave? Perhaps the question is how do we fix him . . . and to tell you the truth I have no idea if you actually can fix him. And where does that leave us? Is it enough to follow in his wake, doing damage control the best we can and as fast as we can? Is it enough to live the best we can and hope he stays clear of us and our children? I don't think that we can resign ourselves to that. But still . . . I have no answers (big surprise), only more questions and doubts. Ugh.


In other news . . . Morielle is amazing and it's okay that I can't figure this out. Take that Dostoyevsky.

In case you were wondering . . .

philandegg


PUQ has the egg!!!!!!!!!!

For better or worse . . .

If you know me, you probably know that I have a bit of a self-image problem/complex/thingamambob, and at times feel very uncomfortable in my own skin. In fact, at one point it was difficult for me to see anything of worth inside of myself. I am actually doing much better in this paranoid insecurity, but a few piercing insights from friends this semester have helped me to better see the damage this insecurity does not only to myself, but to my relationship with God. So, after much thought and contemplation, I think that it's time that I try to accept myself for who I am, for better or worse. I guess the next logical question is, who am I?

I, Philip Timothy Glenn, am . . .
-A sinner saved by Grace
-Slightly obsessed with root beer
-Made in the image of our Lord
-A loving and devoted fan of Charles Dickens
-Very obsessed with the Beatles
-Blessed with amazing friends that I don't deserve
-A bit of a hopeless romantic
-Not good for much oustide the areas of music and literature
-A fan of feeding and watching ducks in parks as the sun is starting to set
-A bit of a Tolkien freak (I've read the Silmarillion 3 times)
-In need of a haircut
-Terrible at bowling
-Desperately trying to be a good music major
-Scared of Vulnerability, with God and other people
-Trying to be a good friend

This is not a definitive list by any means, it's just what happened to come out at 3 in the morning. But, in an attempt to keep this relatively short, suffice to say I am trying to look at myself in the morning and say "Philip, you are by no means overly attractive or intelligent, but you are who you are, and that is okay"

An Oddly Introspective Morning

First, let me say that I am in no way talented in the art of writing poetry; I am about as wieldy with the english language as a garbage man with an English broadsword (translation: I no speak so good), but this morning necessitated a brush with the more creative side of writing. Thanks to the new system my Torrey mentor has instituted, I am forced to stay on schedule and hand in my pull questions every two weeks. I woke up with one to finish, and I figured I would bang it out in half an hour and head off to lunch. Then I looked at the question: "Following the pattern of Psalm 78, write a recollection of your own life to be passed on to the next generation". For those of you not familiar with this particular Psalm (there is no reason why you should be, although it is an interesting Psalm), it is for the most part a recollection of the unfaithfulness of Israel despite the demonstrated faithfuness and provision of the Lord. So there I sat, still shaking of the last vestiges of sleep, trying to take stock of my life so far. And not only my life, such as it is, but specifically my own weakness and unfaithfulness towards God.

Interestingly enough, it may have been just the thing I needed that morning. There is nothing like a reminder of your own shortcomings and bull-headedness to remind you of the grace and mercy of our most sovereign Lord. So, instead of writing another formulaic pull question, I decided to try my hand at Psalmistry (I really hope that is a word, or I shall be extremely embarassed). Ladies and Gentlemen, here is the fruit of my pathetic efforts:

"Give heed, friends, to my words
And I will speak of the steadfast love
Of the Father, and of the wayward actions
of a son; so that you may
Praise the Lord, your rock and salvation
with greater strength and understanding

He provided for his every need, from the
Beginning, and blessed him with life, family
And love.
But this son, proud even in his youth,
acknowledged his heavenly Father
in name only.
Instead of looking and seeing the hand of God
He saw only his own strength, frail and
feeble as it was, and did not give
Honor to the Lord for his steadfast love
and provision

And so the Lord’s anger was kindled against
His son, and He stretched out his hand
Striking his family with sickness and pain.
O how terrible the wrath of a
Jealous God! How perfect His judgement!
Still, even brought low by his pride, this son
Refused to let go, loving his freedom and
Trusting only in his own strength, rather than
The strength of He who parted the Red Sea,
He who struck down the armies of Pharaoh and
caused the mighty Nile to run red

Yet You, O Lord, in your unending and steadfast Love
Did not forsake your son and leave him
to wander in the wilderness for forever.
Just as You brought your chosen ones, the children
of Israel, into the promised land, You brought him back
To your side and directed each of his footsteps
in the way he should go.
Even when he walked in darkness, your hand was
There to guide and protect him
from those who wished him harm,
As a shepherd watches over even the least of his flock

You heard him, O Lord, when in the depths of his despair
he cried out to You, weeping in knowledge
Of his folly and his pride
and seeing the steadfast Love of the Lord, and
His guiding hand, even as he trudged
through the muck and mire of his iniquity
Who can know the extent of your wisdom, O Lord,
God of hosts,
Who can fathom your power? You who make
the mountains tremble with your voice,
You who make the seas boil and rage in your wrath?
Who can know the width and breadth of your Love?
Love enough to set aside your perfect judgement, and
Have mercy on those who cry out to you?
O friends, know that this is the Lord your God
And know that He is merciful
And just."
--Me


This dratted thing won't format it like I originally wanted, but regardless, I tried to be as honest with myself as I could. Perhaps we could all use a morning every once in a while to look back and see not only our own insufficiency, but the hand of the Father as well.

Someday

*DISCLAIMER: This next post consists of nothing but word vomit. Sadly, all vomit needs to be expelled sometime, so here goes . . .

"Man is a vast deep, whose hairs you, Lord, have numbered, and in you none can be lost. Yet it is easier to count his hairs than the passions and emotions of his heart"
-St. Augustine, Confessions

I'm trying not to make this sound like I'm complaining, but whenever anyone tries to scribble down their tangled thoughts on this subject it ends up sounding like it. So just to clarify: this is not a pity party. This is me laughing at myself. Sometimes I think there is a bright red stamp on my forehead that reads "I'm that nice guy that you will never think of seriously in a romantic way." People always say that someday, someone will come along who can look me in the eye and truthfully say they aren't settling for me, and then we can ride off into the sunset with James Taylor playing in the backgrond. The problem is that it's all a bunch of talk. Thus far, nothing in my experience in that area of life has even hinted at the possiblity of that happening. The human heart is a very very very interesting thing. I know that I don't need a girl in my life to make me happy, I do. I know that the only place for me to find the true rest that my soul is longing for is within the Lord God almighty who makes all things new according to his good pleasure. But while I am content and satisfied in that truth, some nights I just feel unspeakably lonely. I don't know what its like to be wanted, to be needed by another person. It sounds kind of selfish, but it is something that is common to all of us because we all are human. This feeling will probably by gone by the time I wake up for class, but let the records show that I, Philip Glenn, being of sound mind and character, would like that someday to come a bit sooner.

Vomiting terminated, and now back to our regularly scheduled programming . . .

Cheer up, kiddo

No matter how hard I try to get it done early, it is unavoidable that I will be doing my laundry at 2 in the morning. Methinks I must have offended the laundry goddess by wearing my jeans for longer than a week, but tonight she was extra surly, causing one of my dryer loads to be dripping wet at the end of the cycle. So, as long as I have another hour to kill . . .

Going to concerts has always been one of my favorite things to do, but due to my strange propensity for weird music I always am at the shows that not many people show up at. Every now and again I'll find someone else who wants to go see a Ska show or Bela Fleck and the Flectones, but those people are very few and far between. That is why going to the Mae concert was very interesting for me. Especially coming from a rudie background (that's what you call a kid who listens to ska FYI) I'm used to the strange and comforting cameraderie shared by most people at concerts. You're here to dance and have good time, and so am I, so lets get to it! But tonight was interesting; I've never been in a gym full of people more determined not to have a good time. For the first two bands there was barely a foot tapping, head nodding, or even a sign that these people were even listening to music. Just blank stares, and every once in a while a disgusted look at another concert-goer. I guess it's to be expected in a scene where your greatest aim is to care less than the person next to each other; put a thousand or so of them into a gym and the result is one very depressing sight.

Cheer up kids! Maybe if you look up every once in a while, you'll see that everyone else has to deal with the same crap that you have to.

Misdirected Ramblings from the afflicted

"You're a blowout on a birthday cake
and I'm a birthday candle"
-Ryan Adams

There's nothing like melancholy folk music to accentuate the unfortunate situation you find yourself in. Suffice it to say, I am sick, which is weird in itself. Because I don't get sick. I just don't. I honestly can't remember the last time I got sick; must've been junior year or something. And of course, I am stricken with this the week that Biola is performing an opera. There's nothing like a fit of coughing from the orchestra pit to ruin the drama of the magic flute. . .

"Where is Tamino?"
"He is here, to bid you a last Farewell."
"A la-"
(COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH)
"A last Far-"
(COUGH COUGH COUGH COUGH)

I think I'm doing a little better, thanks to the wonder that is Tylenol cold and sinus, but something is still bothering me. Maybe not one something, but a couple of somethings and I can't quite put my finger on it.

This whole thing could be another friendly reminder from the Big Guy upstairs that I'm not in charge of this life I'm trying to live, which to me is the scariest part about being sick. I can take all the medicine I want, but on some days nothing I do keeps me from coughing my lungs up. But it also reminds me that, in reality, I'm not in control of much anyway. I'm sure glad God knows what he's doing, because I sure as heck don't.

There's always that weird feeling that comes out of nowhere when you see a good friend finally happy with someone. You want to be happy for them, and you are, but for the most part it is a constant reminder that you have yet to find someone.

Music is one of the most powerful forces that moves the hearts and minds of men, right? Why, then, were many of those that created some of the most beautiful stuff so messed up? Why was Mozart, for lack of a better term, a pompous ass? Why was Lizst an egomaniac?
And, to change the focus for a bit, why did Chopin die of TB alone and miserable? Why did Beethoven, who singlehandedly brought music from classical to romantic, go deaf? Why did Nick Drake overdose on deppression medication before he was recongized for any of his work?

Why did Oedipus deserve anything that happened to him? Why do birds fly in V's and how the heck to they know to do it? Why do minor keys evoke sadness? Why do some people see animals in the clouds where some just see cumulus, nimbus, etc? Why do sunsets make us feel amazing and strangely sad at the same time?

This doesn't make much sense, I'm noticing, but no one said it would. So there.

What? More Poems? WHY???

Sorry for this, but I have yet another poem to post by one of my new favorite people; Billy Collins. I guess what is intriguing is to me is that he isn't as eloquent as some, and that he isn't as romantic as some; to quote a friend of mine on this subject, "It's not anything special... but its part of modern poetry that I like. I guess its the idea of looking at something perfectly normal with a different perspective...."

On Turning Ten

The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.

You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.

But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.

This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.

It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed.

--Billy Collins

Thank you Mr. Collins

The First Dream

The Wind is ghosting around the house tonight
and as I lean against the door of sleep
I begin to think about the first person to dream,
how quiet he must have seemed the next morning

as the others stood around the fire
draped in the skins of animals
talking to each other only in vowels,
for this was long before the invention of consonants.

He might have gone off by himself to sit
on a rock and look into the mist of a lake
as he tried to tell himself what had happened,
how he had gone somewhere without going,

how he had put his arms around the neck
of a beast that the others could touch
only after they had killed it with stones,
how he felt its breath on his bare neck.

Then again, the first dream could have come
to a woman, though she would behave,
I suppose, much the same way,
moving off by herself to be alone near water,

except that the curve of her young shoulders
and the tilt of her downcast head
would make her appear to be terribly alone,
and if you were there to notice this,

you might have gone down as the first person
to ever fall in love with the sadness of another.
--Billy Collins

I am normally wary of any modern poetry not written by Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein, but this poem has definitely given me the reassurance that someone out there still can write good poetry. And this isn't the only good one, so if you are as yet unaware of the wonderful poetry of Billy Collins (which I was up until this past wednesday) look him up. Now. It's not Yeats or Tennyson, but it's good. Damn good, pardon my french.

Cheers, Billy. Cheers indeed.

Washington, Rain, and Meditations on Trees

So, despite extreme weather conditions, I am alive and well in Washington. This is also the first time I'm posting something before midnight. I don't know if that is significant in any way, but it might mean I might be more coherent than I normally am in these candid, shocking, and wholly uninteresting insights into my tangled psyche.

It was definitely an interesting trip up, but between seeing a car flip over in front of us on the ice and almost losing my car trying to put chains on it, what has been the most interesting to me on this trip so far are my meditations on the tree's in Lindseys backyard.

I don't know why I decided to go outside onto her deck and stare at the trees, but I did. And it's kind of scary when you just let your thoughts wander wherever they please, with no intended point or destination. So here is where they went. There are mostly big, majestic Evergreen trees back there, but there are two dead maples in the middle of them all, and for a while I couldn't keep my eyes off them. Those two images of death in the middle of all this life was a little disconcerting. It might have been because of the lighting back there, or something weird going on in my head, but they looked frightened, almost like they were lifting their branches up to shield themselves from something. And there they stood, gnarled and bare. And there I stood, with the most random of thoughts coming into my head. It was like someone pressed play on an old VCR in my brain, and a fuzzy picture of my AP English teacher came up from the beginning of Seinor year, saying "One of the most important questions asked by all authors, from all cultures, and from all time periods is the question of "How do you face your own death?"

Thankfully, I've already worked through that morbid subject (very superficially, of course) in my last entry, so I won't bore you. I then turned my attention to the giant Firs towering above my head, and my strange talent for making random connections again surfaced, which of course means that my next thought was of J.R.R. Tolkien (hear me out on this one). Trees had a very special place in the mind of Tolkien, seen most vividly in his vision of the Ents in the Rings series; great and ancient beings, who have seen more years than we could ever hope to see. And I wondered what it was that these trees saw as they grew up here in the beautiful woods of Washington; what did these woods look like before houses were built, roads were paved, even before people ever arrived in these parts? What did these woods sound like, without the constant buzzing of lights, generators, and cars whizzing by, with nothing but the sounds of the wind rustling in the trees, the light patter of rain on the earth, and the babbling of little brooks, whispering their secrets for none to hear but the birds and the clear night sky? Call me nostalgic, but shivering out there in the cold, I hoped to God that there was still someplace where it was possible to hear and see something like that. It really reminded me of Dave Matthews (hooray again for random connections) talking about the inspirations behind some of his work; "I can remember sitting out on the edge of the Grand canyon, of course trying to distance yourself from the McDonalds that is peering out over the canyon with you, and Imagining the quiet there must have been, and the people that enjoyed it . . . "

Could any human endeavor ever come close to recreating even that simple view from the deck? Sure, they could come close; songs could be written, photos could be taken, paintings could be painted, sketches could be sketched, but could they recreate the same feelings that you have when you see the real thing with your own eyes and experience it firsthand? The cold on your skin, the smell of the pines, the light mist in the air?

I really doubt that anyone will be interested in reading this stuff, or if anyone reads this thing at all, but if you have suffered this far (whoever "you" happens to be), here's comes the point of all this crazy nonsense. There is something special about actually being among the wonders of God's creation that I forget much too quickly living in the concrete jungle of Los Angeles, and southern California in general. I'm going to make it a point to spend more time in that park outside school, sit on the swings, and take a break from the craziness of city life. You can join me if you want. I'm sure the trees and I would enjoy the company.

I wish . . .

Someone please make sure that this song is sung at my funeral:

DEAD MANS WILL
By: Iron and Wine/Calexico

Give this stone to my brother
Because we found it playing in the barnyard
Many years ago
Give this bone to my father
He'll remember hunting in the hills
When I was ten years old

May my love reach you all
I locked it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say its not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone

Give this string to my mother
It pulled the baby teeth she keeps
Inside the drawer
Give this ring to my lover
I was scared and stupid not to ask
For her hand long before

May my love reach you all
I lost it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say its not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone


I have no Idea why this song resonates with me so much, but I think there are times that everyone, be you a angst-ridden college student or a teamster, must contemplate his or her own mortality. I don't mean to be morbid, but the subject has been on my mind as of late, in no small part due to me listening to this song on repeat to help me sleep. The funny thing is, it keeps me awake, despite the soft folk stylings of Iron and wine, (which I highly recommend by the by). All I can think about is what it is that I have done with my life thus far, and all that still is left to be done.

Sometimes I think it would be interesting to have a George Bailey experience and see what would happen to the world you knew if you had never been born. What would my High School have looked like, what would Biola be like, what would my torrey group be like if I had never shown up? Would things be better? Worse? Or, in the worst possible scenario, would nothing have changed? What if I have had so little effect on the people around me that nothing is different? This isn't a pity-party or a desperate cry for attention on my part, but rather an honest question of myself.

So here I sit in my living room (which, incidentally, has become my living quarters for my stay at home due to the reposession of my old quarters by my dear, loving sister), asking myself a question to which I do not have the answer; What am I going to do about this? I suppose I could sit and mope about whether or not people see my contributions or my inability to articulate myself in any coherent manner when around members of the opposite sex, but I've tried that before, and all it does is cement your face into a permanent frown. So, as I have nothing better to do . . . I'll make a list (don't tell Reynolds!!!).

Things I would like to do with my life before I am dead and gone, serious or trivial
(This is not definitive, by any means, but it's a start)
1. Write a song that makes people cry
2. Live on the east coast
3. Show my parents they raised me right
4. Have a white christmas
5. Remember the wrath of God as well as his grace
6. Find a girl who isn't just settling for me
7. Try every single existing brew of Root Beer
8. Love the Lord more than I did the day before

I guess what I'm trying to say is best said in the song that I started with.

"May my love reach you all
I locked it in myself and buried it too long
Now that I've come to fall
Please say it's not too late
Now that I'm dead and gone"

Hopefully, Before I'm dead and gone

Blargh.

Blargh is word that I stole from Elina

And I just watched the entire 2nd season of 24 in 2 days. The situation being what it is, I feel wonderful and terrible due to a television headache.

Blargh.

I will say it again just to make sure you heard.

Blargh.

Why do I always put a space between lines like this?

Oh well.

Blargh.