Hegel, Moksha Yoga, Perception and Rollins

Bear with me while I take all of the above and attempt to cohesively unite them into a single, solid point. Maybe not a fully solid point, but they're all things I would like to elucidate on, so I'm assuming that they all have some sort of commonality.
Firstly, Hegel and yoga. The connection between the two isn't really anything to do with anything Hegel said and what is common in Yogi spiritualism, but rather the approach I take to both, specifically, my ability to understand how well I grasp either.
Today I was reading an overview of Hegel, and one of his points was that truth is subjective, and my first thoughts were "Well, either that's an objective statement, and inherently self-contradictory, or that point is also subjective and therefore doesn't actually have lasting merit, ergo it's not really worth worrying about." They weren't that concise, but that was the general thought process (I feel a need to point out how long the thought process took, as though the efficiency with which my brain connects ideas has some sort of merit, or is anything to take pride in. Silly me.).
After I had that, I felt a little bit uncomfortable with it. If I, an informal student of philosophy, can read the viewpoint of a fully recognized philosopher and find a flaw in it, it is much more likely that I don't understand it, than that the argument is in fact invalid. This reminded me of yoga, which is quite challenging. A lot of the poses are quite strenuous and moderately 'painful,' but one that I preferred was 'downward facing dog' because it was simple and a good resting place. As it turns out, I was doing it wrong (my butt was improperly positioned), and when I actually do it correctly, it's as stretching as all the other poses. As such, I realized that I can troubleshoot my way into most of the poses by just finding a way to get to the maximum amount of stretching. If it's difficult to maintain, it's probably correct.
I think my understanding of philosophy is correlative: if I can easily dismantle it, it's because I'm not dismantling the real thing. So I'm just dismantling my version of it, not the actual thing. So, if I can push myself into a position where I can defend and criticize a philosophical school with expertise and ease, then I'd say I have a much fuller grasp than simply criticizing.
An issue with Christianity these days is that it's desperate. It has a lot of criticism, because, well, it sucks. It's archaic and it's been twisted so thoroughly from the biblical basis that it's unrecognisable (or, conversely, the basis has been so twisted that finding it is like burning a house down then constructing the attic from the ashes; possible, just takes very interesting, non-linear thinking). Because it's so desperate for validation, a lot of Christianity seems predisposed to entertaining new notions and idea's to two ends: either so that it can support Christianity, or it can be disproved in a way that supports Christianity. Since other things exist to prove Christianity as right and valid and such, the actual point of these other works gets lost, and it all becomes a matter of appeasing an ideology. I'm not sure if this is something that most people would recognize or agree with, but it was certainly something I was implicitly taught to do.
Enter Rollins. In his book The Orthodox Heretic, he goes after the hypocrisy of the church right in the first chapter, and he does so very, very concisely. A lot of his work however, is incredibly academic, and his language matches it. So, for people who spend their lives doing other things (such as engineering or nuclear mechanics), his writing really isn't the easiest to get through. So, in summary, amazing points, heady language. Not verbose, simply thick.
However, in reading criticisms online, people don't go after his direct idea's about what Jesus was really advocating and how the church should be. They go after his theistic beliefs (and how unconcerned he is with advocating an absolute existence of god, or the resurrection as a historic event) or his use of language. Never the bits that are the actual point of his work. The critics have sought to understand only to the point where they can argue, and as such have missed the heart of his work.
I feel as though Rollins is cumulative, but to attempt to summarize I would say his basic message is more or less "Following Jesus makes a lot of sense, however, the majority of people who say they follow him don't, but it doesn't really matter what you say, it's how you act."
I have of course, skimmed over a lot (A LOT) of his theology and philosophy, but that seems to be an underlying theme through-out his work. But people ignore it, and go for the things that can be criticised (things, that with a proper understanding of Rollins, stop mattering, and as such, he doesn't bother to correct the critics).
I'm being presumptious, but I feel as though it's because his actual idea's are too uncomfortable for western Christianity to openly deal with; hence why 'celebrity' pastors like Mark Driscol and his ilk haven't publicly defamed him, because to do so would give him a wider audience. With Bell, a wider audience is fine because the paradigm he operates under is similar enough to Piper et al that Bell can be criticised and people can sleep comfortably.
Rollins though.
To simply say he is wrong is to miss the point, and to say he is wrong is to give him exposure to people who might agree with him and start acting off their convictions. A scary thought to those in power. A scary thought to anyone really. Imagine if we all lived not only in perfect alignment with our convictions, but if our convictions were in perfect alignment with what was right.
Sensational.

respectively i don't

Blue sky feel like maybe there’s something

Something not smothering, maybe slightly covering,

Like a burial cloth, or a blue sky at night

When there’s depth between the stars, but not too much

I don’t want to fall forever

Never would I have, nor have you

Understood what you have said, nor have i

Respectively

These words leave my mouth and travel through the byzantine

But it would seem they never make it through all the way

Is there a minotaur in your ear?

Following these dead waves as they pass from sound into silence heard only by neuron receptors that shoot off sparks in ways that I simply don’t understand

I don’t

And you don’t

See:

We’re all so scared that on some level we’re going to resemble the other next to us

And if a similarity breaks through and bleeds to the eyes of all around,

We’ll lose a piece of the esteem we beg for, starve for

There’s an art in becoming yourself, do it well enough they’ll want an encore

But what we fail to see:

In the words of whichever said it first, and whoever has yet to sing themselves to sleep by it:

I am me and you are

So can we admit that lonely exists?

It exists in a way that brings us together,

it exists in a way that rips us so far apart that Altar and Vega will feel consoled

Can we admit that somewhere in trying to define ‘me’ we lost ‘us,’

And that sometimes we’re too afraid of nothing to do anything about it,

I heard about a man who carried fear on his back, and mystically did something with it

I don’t believe it, but I love the idea

I don’t believe many things anymore, but I love the ideas

Concision and Verbosity

OF LATE, I've found myself thinking myself into paradoxical corners. Things like "there are no absolutes" and such pop up in my head, then it's sheer existence shoots itself down. I desire to arrive at conclusions that are clearly correct, yet I'm finding flaws in everything I think. Maybe because I'm too involved, but some people can give opinions and views on things, and when I mull them over in my head, they seem fool proof.
What am I missing that keeps me from being a god of ideas? Why can I not let brilliance flow from me like carbon dioxide.
I'm also noticing a divide between the people I know. It seems to be age related. I think those that are older have stopped, in spite of how much they will claim otherwise, searching. They have arrived. In many ways, their journey is over and now they are simply exploring where their minds have landed. But for me and my kind, my age at least, there is some desperation to our searching: not because we are longing for a place to stop, but because we are terrified there is one.
I understand it's impractical, but I want my thoughts to be infinite. I hate the idea of settling, of having a fixed thought process. I want to be able to shuffle between various philosophies, dance with the Greeks, laugh in Italian, banter in French, be drunk in German, soak all of the knowledge in.
But things seem to be so binary, and it's disheartening. As infinite as things are, they seem to be dualistic inherently. I want not the middle space, but the area away from the tension. I want to play the tension.
I want to never stop learning.
I want to write without resorting to pretty sounding sentences to mask the point that this is no longer neccesarily supportable, but simply enjoyable. Hopefully.

I desire concision, but the freedom to be verbose.

Metaperception

The idea of 'meta' is something that's been a mainstay in my brain for the last 8 months or so. More or less, it's the next degree of something within itself, so meta-conversation would be talking about talking, and meta-emotion would be how you feel about how you feel. A more common example is metadata, which is data about data (which could be the information about a song that is attached to it, such as artist, album, genre, etc).


I know a guy, and he is fascinating because of the apparent disconnect between how I view him, and how I think he views himself. Last week I was writing, and a friend offered that I write about someone I consider weaker than myself. Here's an excerpt of said writing exercise:

It was as though all of the things that most people consider helpful were inherently awful. His eyes would seem to show some sort of interest, and indeed his ears were perched in your direction, but they were not listening to the big picture. The grand scope of what was being said would be blotted out as he listened directly to the syntax, searching for that loophole that would allow him to take and de-construct what it was you had been saying. Inasmuch as he enjoyed this thoroughly, he had never stepped outside of his head since his first year of post-secondary education. He had never grown to realize that people do not, in fact, want to be proven wrong all the time; indeed, they usually hated him for it. Being so self-absorbed did not leave him times for those musings, and he contented himself by remembering all the brilliance that had spewed from his mouth, a roaring flood of sewer water. 
 Currently, a friend was trying to explain to him why the girl he had been so enamoured with for the last two months was, in fact, not the correct girl for him. He latched onto the word correct, and went on a very verbose, but substance lacking tirade about how ‘correct’ implied that there was an ‘incorrect’ girl for him, but that all relationships had the opportunity to work, if only those involved in the relationship would actively work towards it. He had, of course, ignored his own advice in the last three relationships he had been in, and had ended things as soon as the initial thrill was gone. “It’s just not worth working on if you don’t feel anything, you know?” He had shared with a friend at the bar after his latest relationship had dumped him and he tried desperately to rationalize it as something he wanted.


He was the kind of attractive that had to learn to be content with existing very heavily in the ‘cute’ arena. While there was a certain, slim degree of rugged sexiness in him, it emanated more from his smile, and orbited around the idea of something fun, as opposed to the powerhouse of raw, masculine sexuality that he considered himself. His height placed him squarely as slightly below average, and as such he had spent far too much time reading things he didn’t understand, trying to bulk up his brain to make up for the lack of physical strength he thought someone of his level of gorgeous should have. Not only did he not understand the texts he perused, he did not understand that he did not understand. Indeed, he thought he had an expert, natural grasp of transcendentalism, existentialism and a host of other ism’s that had far too many subtle nuances for someone as obtuse as him to grasp.
He was, however, perfectly amiable, and because he considered himself to be a scholar, he thought his words of wisdom would be beneficial for those going through issues, and so he listened attentively to people’s problems. People thought he was interested in them, not in expressing his self-assumed brilliance, and so they would often come to him with their struggles; this was only when these peoples real friends were predisposed with things such as performing CPR or climbing Vesuvius. He was not aware of this, and assumed that everyone loved his sage like advice (which he rarely gave, because after listening for thirty minutes about someone’s life, he was usually far too lost in thoughts of how excellent his response would be that he usually forgot to respond). People were unaware of this, and assumed he had a genuine interest, so the cycle persisted.

I'm aware my view of him isn't correct, in the same way that any view of anyone isn't correct. It can be grossly incorrect, but never perfectly correct (a paradox, but such is life). I like to think the disconnect between how I view him viewing himself and how he views himself and how he views me viewing him is where our relational awkwardness comes from. In my head, he views himself as some learned scholar who is a well of wisdom and advice, whereas I actually view him as a self-inflated pompous ass who doesn't know that he doesn't know too much. I feel as though he views me as an ignorant kid who thinks he knows too much, and has much to learn from him, and indeed, he probably could teach me things. Whether or not I care about them is a different story. 


Between heavily different metaperceptions of each other is such an interesting place to be. Not necessarily with him, but rather with people who have a bearing on my life, like parents and friends.This whole mess of perception, and how we perceive others perception of us is such an interesting realm. In all honesty, I find myself comfortable with people who I think think that I can help them, that I am interesting. If I think that someone thinks that I am boring, or silly, or over-thought, I don't have much of a desire to rectify their perception or prove myself to them. This isn't an absolute rule, but a generalization. I can think of a few relationships that don't operate from this paradigm, but also a lot that do. 


I suppose I could try operating under his presumed perception of me, and ask him for advice and wisdom, but I've heard his advice to others, and its not my cup o' tea. To have a relationship with him would involve a huge expenditure of patience. If I need a frustrating challenge, I'll pursue something with him. For now, there are other people to foster (see what I did there?). 


 There is no real thesis to this, but that's alright. I'm discovering that I use this blog mostly as a public journal that I can reread and use a reference for things that I was thinking and idea's I was working through. So, if someone else did read this, welcome to my mind (also, if you did read this, you are not the person I was talking about. I'm not someone he looks to for affirmation, so there's no reason for him to want me to want him, so he wouldn't have read this).

All This Time, I've Been Learning How To Die

It seems things are now so different for you and I Sometimes I sit and stare at you and wonder what the hell was going on last year And I wonder how the syntax of our motions ever aligned theres my waking and my resting mind, and maybe we rested together, but i can't imagine us working in harmony, no, our keys never match, or maybe we're both so locked to the perspectives we hold that the thought of ripping ourselves out of this angle hurts too much it hurts too much to follow through to reset this compass, find a new north and find a new 180 degrees so we stay in each others peripherals, unaware of who is where in each other do I rest where in you where you rest in me? Yesterday I was driving with a friend, going on about some quasi-meta-one-more-prefix-philosophical approach to spirituality, and she interrupted me with the comment that she loved how my walk with G-d was so focused on the intellectual side. I bristled. For two reasons. I responded that it wasn't a walk, it was a wrestling match. And then I didn't go into the emotional doubts that often masquerade themselves as intellectual issues, and are expressed as such, but in reality are anything but. Later on that night, I was talking to the husband over some surprisingly tasty McCafe products, and I extended the metaphor slightly; I realized I'm not wrestling with G-d per se: it's more of an intricately choreographed post-modern self-referential dance. At time's our steps seem out of place to the music, and the dancers tackle each other and fumble their way through simple steps. But these are planned to give more beauty and impact to whent the symphony swells and everything fits for a fleeting moment of sensory perfection. Then the chaos begins anew. Something else I enjoy about this metaphor is the difference between dancing and walking. In a walk, there is a destination, an external goal, and a measurable way of tracking success: we started here, we are going here, we are going this speed. In a dance, it's more of an internal journey for those watching, with no real discernibility towards success aside from general feelings or moods given off by the audience. The dancers express, and the watchers are moved (or unmoved) depending on the motions of those on the stage. I often feel like the things I deal with are only fully realized as overcome or worthwhile when they are shared with someone who responds. If I come up with a theory, or struggle with a concept and arrive at a workable end, but I don't share it with anyone, the entire process is incomplete. There is a certain catharsis and enjoyability to the struggle, but it's the sharing that gives it completion and meaning. Much like dance. A dancer may enjoy the freedom that seclusion affords, but the stage is where the magic happens, and the real soul is bared. And as such, that is how I feel I interact with G-d: a violent, twirling, dizzying, chaotic, beautiful, artistic, sensual yet measured mode of infinite expression and definition.

mewithoutYou - Every Thought A Thought Of You

My best friend recorded a cover of mwY's song Every Thought A Thought Of You. It's quite chill and fantastic. I definately recommend clicking the link below and checking it out:

http://bandplayscaleb.tumblr.com/post/8857019452/so-my-best-friend-recorded-a

Last Night

I got a job as a music reviewer, and last night when I was supposed to be reviewing an EP by Forest Swords (quite good, if you like ambient music), I wrote this instead:


I am never quite sure how to start a novel. I’ve tried, many times, but the words can only flow for so long before I realize I don’t have a plot. I get so lost in joy of the medium that I totally forget that there needs to be a meaning as well. Even now, in these self-aware meta ponderings, I have lost a sense of direction and meaning.

I want to create. Put forth something beautiful, something staggering. Something that will nudge a column that holds up your idea of self, and suddenly you’ll be unstable, ever so slightly. Not because it’s unnerving, or shocking, or disconcerting, because these days that’s the easy way out. No. I want to write something that will leave you lost simply because it is so beautiful the only way it can be experienced is through a loss of self, a death of what you know, and a rebirth of the way you view the world.

That is what I would like to do. But, while I am not at a loss for words, I am at a loss for what those words should be about. I have often heard it said that things are often heard to have been said, but I feel as though the idiom is a dying breed. These things we hear said, we’ve only read them; echoes of a decade that has moved into offices and cubicles. And us, this new generation, inheriting their figures of speech, their ideas on figure, their ideas on our ideas; often the power of a generation is spoken about, the potential, the ability to affect such change that the children us children give birth to will tell their children to be like us. We imagine ourselves to be models of the future: the superman. As did those before us, as will those after.

I’ve often heard it said that to the victor goes, not only the spoils, but also the history. But what of in the battle of self? You will inevitably win, and remember the war of becoming so very differently than it really was. And what of our rebellion against time? Nothing stops the hands of the clock, they massage their face in an endless cycle, and we are terrified voyeurs to it’s autoerotic leanings. Like children drinking rum, we’re all just toying with things we’re not old enough for. First substance, now ideas: We hold justice on such a lofty pedestal, but that’s all we seem to do. Hold it. Look at it. Sometimes we pick it up to see how it feels, but it usually just sits there.

Morality is the new adolescent. Everywhere, clustered, but entirely misunderstood.

I’ve decided into crafting adages. Writing is masturbation. Everything is masturbation.

An Odd Moment of Clarity and Contentment

I was just standing in my kitchen, washing down the lovingly combined tastes of nutella, peanut butter and banana, thinking about a recent development in one of my friendships, mulling over the dynamic of my small group, and staring out the window into total blackness, when I noticed that this random plant that my mother has hanging over the sink had a flower on it. Which was random, because I didn't know it could flower. What was really cool though, was that the flower was oozing nectar. There were little droplets of it.

And it smelled amazing.

And I just felt so happy. Standing there, thinking about how incredibly blessed I am by G-D's love, and the friends He's placed in my life. The quietness of life. The joy of the little things, like bananas and flowers and watching people interact with each other, and learning the answer to a question you resolved to never ask, and lists where the things listed start off as single nouns then graduate into full blown sentences. And meta-lists.

Just so content right now.

I'm going to go smell that flower some more.

If I Ever Make It Past the First Pages I'm Sure It Will Just Snowball

Something I started writing early this week before I got bored.

I think one of the saddest things about my life is that I never knew my parents. Maybe that isn’t too sad; there are enough bastards that the ubiquitous nature of it has destroyed the intensity of the tragedy.

No, what’s so incredibly depressing about my state is that both my parents are still alive. And together. Yet somehow I have missed out on knowing them. Ask me their names, I can tell you “Mac and Brenda,” ask me their professions and I will probably lie, mostly from embarrassment. Ask me any detail of their lives, and I could probably answer: when are their birthdays, what are their favorite colors, favorite fish, favorite shirts. But ask me if I know them, and I will change the subject so deftly that you wouldn’t even realize.

I have a necklace that I wear in the summer. It’s a coin that I cut the inside out of, and I attached it to a cord I stole from my mums jewelry dresser when I was younger. I feel as though when my parents die, that’s all I’ll have of them: things I took when I was younger. There was a time when we could’ve grown in each other, but I let it slip away. Now I return for family holidays, and we laugh and hug and give each other gifts, but it just feels like it’s all happening on TV. We’re all actors playing a part, with our little quirks and ticks that make us ‘us.’

So Frustrated

This week has been incredibly unhelpful, and an ambiguous blog will patch things up. Maybe.

Basically, I'm annoyed because I got what I desperately wanted like 3 years ago, and it sucks. Discontent breeds discontent.

I actually got a lot that I wanted, and it's annoying because it either a) does not bring the type of satisfaction I convinced myself it could, or b)the things I wanted have all combined into one disastrous amalgamation where I am not objectively doing anything wrong, but the outcome is horrendous.

What's worse is that I don't fully get it.

And I'm annoyed that I'm even writing this in the vain effort that you'll see it and have some useful advice.

I'll probably delete this, since personal issues belong with friends or in therapy, not online.

But I might keep it as a reference point.

Excerpt: "Pit or Tunnel"

Whilst engaging in some therapeutic writing today, this line came out:

People love writers, I could show this to the right people, say ''It’s all hyperbole" then sit in the security their admiration affords me

It's not quite as punchy or sensible outside of it's context, but it's so freeing to write for oneself with no intention of ever showing an audience. I'm sure once I've gotten sleep and go and reread it I'll think myself a crazy person that should be medicated, but for now, I rather like what I've done.

Velvet Drops like Love Sex , Elvis Stars Wins God

Rob Bell. Blah blah heretic blah blah new book blah blah John Piper blah blah Mars Hill.

I finished Love Wins a few weeks ago, and I thought that it was high time I took my thoughts to the interwebs to give the American people a piece of my mind.

After reading four of his books (Drops Like Stars, Velvet Elvis, Sex God and aforementioned Love Wins) , I've realized that my subjective view of him fits in perfectly with an objective truth:

Rob Bell is a raging hypocrite.

No more, no less.

There's at least one or two 'almost' paragraphs in each book that talk about 'restoring creation' and being 'stewards to creation.'

Yet

he insists

on writing, not like a normal human being

(I can only imagine the way his keyboard at home must look).

I expect every key is normal sized, save for the enter key.

Because he seems to press it

every

other

word.

Except he seems like the type to use a Mac, so it's the Return key that takes a beating. Either way, it doesn't mesh with his whole Pro Nature rambles; if he loved Earth that much, he wouldn't waste paper by spacing his words out so much.

End of story.

End of conversation.

Lets not even argue this because my opinion is the only one that is correct.

So

Are you

Really going to allow him to

Continue with this

Absolutely vile

(Satanic possibly)

Message?

Let's drag him into the streets and beat him mercilessly to save trees.

(Also, in order to fully appreciate this post, (especially if you don't know me) you might need to alter your perspective a bit.)

Christopher Nolan, Get Out Of My Head

This morning, over a half hour period of sleep, I had one of the most pointless dreams I have ever had.

I usually remember my dreams, and they are rather vivid and involve quite a bit stuff, but this most recent one was completely over the top. I keep a dream journal, and I usually can get most dreams down in a page and a half.

This one was 4 pages, of completely disconnected everything- it involved athletes, youth pastors both old and new, buildering, old women, a bathroom that was so small that the shower water ended up in the toilet bowl, a possible zombie apocalypse that turned out to be a baseball game, my inability to fly, european teenagers, a grocery store and parking lot in stouffville being transformed into a lovely meadow, and I could go on and on.

Around half an hour ago I was hit by an idea that has managed to quickly slide into the obsession area of my brain.

I can't remember the last time I've wanted something so badly that was so attainable and completely awesome.

My theory is that Leo DiCaprio hacked into my brain while I was asleep, shape-shifted his way through high school douchebags, good friends and the elderly in order to plant this idea in a dream within a dream within a dream.

Because it's scary how badly I want to do this.

As an interesting aside, in my dream I became aware I was dreaming, and I got anxious cuz I was like "I've been asleep for hours and wasted the whole day!" but then I was like "time is different in dreams. I could potentially stay here forever so long as I don't wake up."

This level of self-awareness was odd.

Darko and Listener

If you read this blog with any sense of slight consistency, you may have noticed I have an abiding endearment for a wee little band called The Chariot. I've seen them 3 times already, and I have plans to see them 3 more times this year.

At least.

Anyways, on their last full length, they had a delightful ditty entitled David De La Hoz, which featured a rather exquisite guest spot from some dude named Dan Smith. or thedancemyth, if you wanted to get twichnical.

Dan is part of a talk-music band called Listener.

I heard that Listener would be playing a house show in Toronto.

I like house shows.

I liked the one bit Dan did in David De La Hoz.

So I went.

So worth it.

I'm only posting one video, in which he performs aforementioned soliloquy from David, because these lines:

we can be on fire again you and i

say what you want

say what you mean

are constantly taking on new meaning to me every few weeks.

And on a totally unrelated note, introduced a friend to the bizarrity of Donnie Darko today, and the post movie conversation ended up on worship, in which I had the brilliant metaphorical moment that went along these lines:

Life is like a fish entrée, and the fish should be the way we live (and therefore worship) and worship music should be the little citrus wedges that compliment it. However, a lot of people get them mixed up, and treat the lemon (worship music) like the main course (main act of worship), and ignore the fish. So, while they may not get scurvy (I haven't developed this enough to determine what scurvy should be... any ideas?), they're missing out on the point of the entire thing: presenting their bodies as living testaments of what they believe.

The Sea Will Never Grow Old

i only want you to love me

so it can remain unrequited

just so i can know i can

at the core, always a boy, never grown up,

and what of this word

-love-

it's visual balance a foil to how to viscously it rocks the ships inside of me

yes, cut me open and no blood will spill, simply a deluge of salt water

merchant ships and war ships and fishing ships

all doing their business with God as the wind,

but some ships have holes

and some ships raise no sales

and some ships never left the harbor

and lay, rotten in the deep near my knees,.

And when the sun rises, sometimes it too is God,

but sometimes, it's her.

or her shadow.

I thought I worked you out of me!

beat you like an obnoxious slave,

kneaded you like a resilient knot,

and I have.

this sun bares not your face, but rather the place you opened up.

the void i would not have to have to fill,

had you not lived there once.

my face green from unsure legs on this turbulence,

oceans stirred at the thought of love

what then of seagulls?

my own insecurities?

screeching and begging and stealing scraps just to survive,

no,

no thats my confidences

see, while i am the sea, i'm primarily the wreckage strewn about my knees

And i think that by pulling you down we'll somehow trade places

you now with the barnacles and I,

in the wind and sun

in the wind and sun

tossed by the wind

and delighting in the sun

in the wind and sun

but,

life is a compass, not the sea

and i am the needle and the north

and there is my problem.

Orchestras

Tonight I had the feeling that the events leading up to where I was had been orchestrated. Things just fit together perfectly, everything, from ethereal things like emotions to more concrete things like physical bodies, where all in the exact right spot not just tonight but over the last few weeks.

I used the word orchestrated, and I started to think of the etymology (origin, basically) of the word. Well, I basically invented one, and it's probably correct.

I just thought of an orchestra- basically a large ensemble of musicians, all with their own small part to play, all of which work together in perfect harmony for the final effect of a symphony, a work of art.

I feel like God has been the orchestrator to the musicians of events that have been played over the last weeks, and I am the symphony. Or, I'm just being heavily moved by the symphony. Either way, it's awesome and I'm loving it. I'm understanding more, seeing more, trusting more, realizing that there is in fact MORE than what I've become accustomed to.

It's a breathtaking experience.

The Oscars and Vulnerability

I think I am very much like a computer in some regards. When there is too much going on, too many processes happening, too many systems running, I freeze and shut down.

And like a computer, I have a limited ability to help myself. I can defragment my mind, move everything to the proper shelf. Sometimes though, the problems are too deep for a simple reboot to solve, and I need external help.

I don't like external help.

It makes me feel vulnerable.

Vulnerability makes me want to throw up. Not that I think it's disgusting, but when I realize I'm in a vulnerable position, I feel the bile waiting for an opportunity to race up my throat and out my mouth, as if to punish it for making me vulnerable.

Vulnerability and vomit. So alliterate.

I put myself in a vulnerable position this weekend, and I'm still not sure why. I also was experiencing a system overload, so the two compounded have made for an interesting emotional cocktail.

I'm not sure how this fits in with the Academy Awards. I think they're just symbolic of the crowning achievements of escapism. The entire concept is actually a bit inane.

"Oh, lets give statues and prestige to people for doing something well."

That part makes sense.

"Lets broadcast it internationally because it will impact the lives of millions who are watching."

Wait, what?

There really is no reason to watch the Oscars, let alone cheer when a movie you like wins something, but still, we do.

I'm not even saying it's bad. Its just rather weird, all things considered.

Actually, considering that all things cannot be thought of, let alone thought about, it's probably not that weird.

I'm not sure where the point of this went.

I need a new OS.

23

Man:

"I felt for sure last night
At once we said goodbye
No one else will know these lonely dreams
No one else will know that part of me
Im still driving away
And Im sorry every day
I wont always love these selfish things
I wont always live...
Stop it...

It was my turn to decide
I knew this was our time
No one else will have me like you do
No one else will have me, only you"

God:

"Youll sit alone forever
If you wait for the right time
What are you hoping for?
Im here and now Im ready
Holding on tight
Dont give away the end
The one thing that stays mine"

Man:

"Amazing still it seems
Ill be 23
I wont always love what Ill never have
I wont always live in my regrets"

God: "

Youll sit alone forever
If you wait for the right time
What are you hoping for?
Im here and now Im ready
Holding on tight
Dont give away the end
The one thing that stays mine

Youll sit alone forever
If you wait for the right time
What are you hoping for?
Im here and now Im ready
Holding on tight
Dont give away the end
The one thing that stays mine... "

I was driving home today, and I put this song on because it sounds pretty, but I was listening to the lyrics and things kept standing out. I decided I might be able to commandeer it into a good worship song. I got home and looked up the full lyrics and was floored. These lines:

Im here and now Im ready
Holding on tight

just hit me so hard. It portrays the sheer tenderness that God has for us. This idea came up in a book called Abba's Child by Brennan Manning, and it talks about how God is tender for us. Manning uses the example of a child who brings their mother a bouquet of dandelions: Even though the gift is actually worthless, the parent adores it because of who it's from and what it represents.

I just love that so much. The best we can bring God is wilted dandelions, but he loves it and us.

mind. blown.

Cookies and Earth Tones

A friend wrote a guitar lick, so I wrote these lyrics to accompany it.

They don't fit the guitar line at all, but I like them so here they are:

I want the maps’ to the synapse between the wires in your brain

Because the way that you look is, well it’s really quite nice

And it’s making me mad, no not steaming,

I’m as cool as snow But your face really touched my heart,

I thought that you should know

Da da da

But can we take this back a few steps

Where you walked in the house, let me recount what happened next

See, time is relative, but it’s not my father, no it’s not my mum

It’s a brother teasing me when I just want to have fun

And I’d have like to have stared for as long as I could

But you just breezed to the bookshelf and left me by myself

Da da da

And while you stared at Wilde my mind was thinking thoughts

That I ought not to have thought, but you’re just too magical

So while I reigned in my desires, you walked away to another room

And I just followed at a distance wishing you’d turn around

But then you did and I made this sound

Uuuuuuuuh

You gave me a funny look and continued on your way

And I went back to my friends and there’s not much more to say

Some people just look too good to be true

But I’m still glad that I almost met you

Da da da

Da da da

Da da

The Call To Create

I've always considered myself an artist on some level. The sheer joy i get out of the creative process seemed like a strong enough indicator that it was something I should pursue.

Now I'm not so sure.

I have a friend who will remain nameless like all other friends on this blog. He has this really honest way about him, where spending time with him makes you like him, just because he's so thoroughly not under-handed. His honesty is also a touch annoying, because he sincerely thinks that he isn't talented at writing. His first attempts at songwriting blew mine out of the water.

And it makes me wonder: what if writing isn't my thing?

I was reading Great House by Nicole Krauss last night, and I was moved so very heavily, and I realized that there is no way I could ever move anyone that much with something I've written.

Recently I've been praying a lot about denying self and pride, and I'm starting to look at my motivations for wanting to create, and the more I look into it the more I realize it's about pride. I want affirmation, I want to be held in people's eyes as 'the artist,' or 'the writer.' And honestly, I'm sick of it. I want to find a way where what I make is made for the beauty of it.

But again, why make something slightly good with much effort when people can make excellent things with no effort?

I also guess I shouldn't be comparing myself to others and basing my decisions off their abilities, but it seems so apparent that some people just have natural abilities to do things with such grace and ease, whereas others are at their best, not very good.

I really don't know what conclusion I've reached. I'm not writing this as some self-pitying plea, hoping that people will tell me that I really am a good writer, because I realize I can write with some proficiency. But that's from years of writing and reading and immersing myself in this world. Others can just pick up a pen and craft things that people relate to at a gut level.

I need clarity. And Nutella. And milk.

To Dance

I really want to dance right now. Be it to The Chariot or Crystal Castles.

I don't even know if it's dancing I desire. I think it's just physical exertion of some sort.

Non-competitive mind you.

I've had 3 staggeringly good conversations over the last 3 days with 3 very different people on 3 very different topics, and I feel fresh. or refreshed. rejuvenated?

The first happened on Wednesday and was more of a collection of 'get-to-know-you' conversations that ranged from friends to free will verses divine pre-ordination. So honest and enjoyable.

I blame this person for my current uber-stoked outlook on life.

The next was last night/this morning, and it was mostly a dissection of a few select people and the way they interact with the world. So solid it was like being clobbered with a brick wall in the most positive way possible.

The 3rd was just an exchange of idea's with someone with whom I disagreed about on quite a few issues, but it was so civil that it had a quiet air of beauty to it.

Now then, I feel as tho if I don't have another epic conversation tomorrow I'll go into withdrawal.

Here's a photo that I like.

Has nothing to do with anything.

Stagnation and a Breakthrough

I often get into these little ruts- I see things the same way, I get listless and fidgety; If my hands were life it's like I'd be biting my nails.My sister asked me to paint her a picture for her room, and I've spent roughly the last 5 hours slaving over something that I am totally not content with. But I'm still happy. The creative act, the spirit of the thing; It puts me in a headspace unlike any other.

I think part of it is that every time I put time into a piece, I can see impro

vements. Eyes become a bit more sparkling, cheeks a bit more real, lips more ready for a kiss. I'm a long way from still-life, but I'm also so far away from where I was a year ago.

I'm calling him Henry for now.

I changed him a lot after this photo, but posts always look better with photos attached.

To quote mewithoutYou:

"I'm not the boy I once was, but I'm not the man I'll be"

And that really just sums up how I feel right now. I'm in that halfway stage, hopefully tipping further into man territory than back into boyhood, but only time will turn and tell.

Also, I can put my hair in a ponytail. Hollllaaa. Bits still fall out here and there, but I think by mid-March it should be good enough to wear in public.