In light of the fact that my entry into the Presidential Race is getting closer everyday, I thought I'd shed light on one of the most embarassing skeletons in my closet in the interest of Full Disclosure, so that when the Republican Dirty Tricks campaign begins against me in earnest, this will be old news to my supporters.
At one time, I considered myself something of a rock star.
No, its true.
As a writer, I sometimes call upon myself heretofore hidden talents that I've suddenly discovered I had and wish to share with the world. For instance, while writing my book, I discovered my heretofore hidden talent of Genetic Research Genius! Though, I admit, this talent was distracting to my ultimate goal of Entertainment Mogul and so I did not inform the CDC of my latent ability. In the case of the aforementioned skeleton, however, I discovered my hidden talent as a rock star/lyrical genius.
I have these characters, see, called Marvin and Ze Pink Paper Kups. They are the ultimate quintessential rock group with a silly name - masters of the rock universe. However, for the benefit of the imaginationless, I had to provide further evidence of their awesomeness for my readers, so I wrote a few of their songs... an entire album worth's actually. But as anyone knows whose ever written a song, you can't just write the incredibly awesome lyrics - a tune is also required. And so, I created an entire album's worth of awesome music for my characters who were masters of the rock universe. And, on occassion, I actually found myself humming along to these wonderful creations of mine.
Which brings me to the skeleton.
At one point, til too young to be able to blame alcohol for my temporary flight of fancy, I decided to actually create this album - physically - on a blank audio tape. I sat down in my basement with the microphone, the lyrics, and my incredible rock star voice, and I sang every single song on the album. In my head, I heard the screaming crowds and the swooning women and saw the Hell's Angels bodyguards throwing stage divers off the stage as fireworks exploded all around me and electric guitars blared. On the tape, however, is a low quality audio recording of me singing really bad lyrics with no backing music whatsoever.
And so, I decided to give the tape to a friend of mine to tell me what he thought. This guy was the nirvana of cool who actually had his own musical band at the time and would eventually go on to work on several Oscar nominated films, though not in the music field. I can't say whether my tape "cured" him of his rock star dreams, but they probably showed him the possibilities. Anyway, when I handed the tape to him and explained what it was, I remember the pitiful gaze he gave me - picture Simon about to lecture William Hung before his "Comeback" tour and you've got the approximate idea.
That look burst my bubble better than any actual comment could ever do. With one look, not having heard a single note of my rock star delusion, I knew what the world was going to think of my album. It suddenly became clear to me how insane my idea had been and how delusional I had been.
Um... unfortunately... I cannot confirm destruction of this tape, and thus its possible that somewhere out there this particular skeleton might exist. Let us hope for all of our sakes that my friend climbed to the top of Mt. Doom and chucked this evil tape into the fiery magma inside. Otherwise, hearing this audio deconstruction might just convince the world that it is one of the signs of the apocalypse to come.
Now, I am fully disclosed.
P.S. I still hum the tunes from time to time, however. I still think some of them are pretty catchy. ;)
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Monday, January 28, 2008
My Unofficial Girl Scout Cookie Badge
I was never a scout... at least, not officially. As a dutiful older brother, I helped my sister sell girl scout cookies (and eat them) when she was younger. As a dutiful older "Uncle", I help certain denizens of The Beach sell girl scout cookies (and eat them) here at work and elsewhere. All told, without any actual figures in front of me (like the U.S. Intelligence Community), I calculate that I've probably sold close to 20,000,000 boxes of girl scout cookies in my life time. And I've never once earned a Girl Scout Cookie Badge. I'm not lobbying for this honor... I'm just saying... I'm not sure what the cutoff is for earning your badge, but I think I've probably earned my badge by now.
I was watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, which, quite frankly, needs a title change since most people don't even remember the rather creepy Extreme Makeover upon which the title is based. Anyway, there was a scene in this week's episode where one of the designers turned up at a local school to help out a bunch of kids who were volunteering to clean up the school. My initial thought was, "What a bunch of nerds and extra-credit seekers! In the old days, the trouble-makers would have been forced to come in on their weekend and clean up the yard and the grafitti and their parents would have gladly seen that their youngsters complied with the "forced" labor because a) it would have gotten the trouble makers out of the house for a Saturday morning and afternoon, and b) a little hard work gives character. But now..."
I'm not quite sure when volunteerism was needed to get things like this done. I don't ever remember "volunteering" for anything when I was in grade school or Jr. High. I remember a vice-principal getting a bunch of us sixth graders to clean up the yard one class period in exchange for those "good citizenship" awards that usually came with free Giants Tickets, but we did that for obvious reasons (and we also got out of class for an hour ;) Then again, as bad as people complained back then about school budgets, there was usually money around to keep schools clean.
Nowadays, volunteerism is a requirement - which is a way, I think, to teach children the concept of an oxymoron. Most high school students must do a certain number of volunteer hours before they can graduate. I'm not sure if this is a teaching thing or simply a means to instill morality in our youth. The fact of the matter is that most kids end up doing the volunteer thing on their own - and I would venture to say that most youths are better at volunteering their time than most adults. This can only be good for our world, either way, but I find it oddly unpleasant to suggest that people MUST volunteer to help others less fortunate than themselves.
As adults we should set clear examples for our children that volunteerism isn't anything showy or flashy or something to be praised, but that it should be like cleaning your room, or washing the dishes, or doing our homework - something that needs to be done, no questions asked, and no rewards given.
Okay, maybe one award... something small, almost insignificant... a token really, a reminder of a job well done for, oh, say, twenty years of service and 2,000,000 boxes of cookies sold... something like a badge! ;)
I was watching Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, which, quite frankly, needs a title change since most people don't even remember the rather creepy Extreme Makeover upon which the title is based. Anyway, there was a scene in this week's episode where one of the designers turned up at a local school to help out a bunch of kids who were volunteering to clean up the school. My initial thought was, "What a bunch of nerds and extra-credit seekers! In the old days, the trouble-makers would have been forced to come in on their weekend and clean up the yard and the grafitti and their parents would have gladly seen that their youngsters complied with the "forced" labor because a) it would have gotten the trouble makers out of the house for a Saturday morning and afternoon, and b) a little hard work gives character. But now..."
I'm not quite sure when volunteerism was needed to get things like this done. I don't ever remember "volunteering" for anything when I was in grade school or Jr. High. I remember a vice-principal getting a bunch of us sixth graders to clean up the yard one class period in exchange for those "good citizenship" awards that usually came with free Giants Tickets, but we did that for obvious reasons (and we also got out of class for an hour ;) Then again, as bad as people complained back then about school budgets, there was usually money around to keep schools clean.
Nowadays, volunteerism is a requirement - which is a way, I think, to teach children the concept of an oxymoron. Most high school students must do a certain number of volunteer hours before they can graduate. I'm not sure if this is a teaching thing or simply a means to instill morality in our youth. The fact of the matter is that most kids end up doing the volunteer thing on their own - and I would venture to say that most youths are better at volunteering their time than most adults. This can only be good for our world, either way, but I find it oddly unpleasant to suggest that people MUST volunteer to help others less fortunate than themselves.
As adults we should set clear examples for our children that volunteerism isn't anything showy or flashy or something to be praised, but that it should be like cleaning your room, or washing the dishes, or doing our homework - something that needs to be done, no questions asked, and no rewards given.
Okay, maybe one award... something small, almost insignificant... a token really, a reminder of a job well done for, oh, say, twenty years of service and 2,000,000 boxes of cookies sold... something like a badge! ;)
Friday, January 25, 2008
Average Day
I realize in some of the blogs I write that I might create some sense of who I am in the subjects that I choose to write about. But I don't really blog about myself all that much. I tend to blog about things I've done or things I'm thinking or experiencing, but not really about me. So, it occurred to me that it might help people understand my blog if they understood a little bit more about me.
What follows, then, is a description of the average day in the life of me - in so much as any day can be average. What I will describe will be a typical work day, since I almost never blog on weekends.
I wake up at 7:00am. My radio alarm clock is set to KNBR68 - the local sports station. I'm not actually a big fan of the KNBR morning show, but I'm certain that they'll always wake me up. I usually lie in bed long enough to get the sports scores from the night before at the top of the hour sports update, then I sit up in bed and turn on my TV (a habit I formed in the days following 9-11) and watch about ten minutes of news. I use this time to focus my brain on the crawling news stories across the bottom of the screen. Since I have to focus my eyes as well as my attention, I find this a good excercise for the first thing in the morning.
After that I shower, shave, and get dressed, then stop and read the comics on my way out to the Ford Explorer. My commute into work is about 15 to 30 minutes depending on the traffic, but more typically on the 15 to 20 minute scale. My work is out by the airport and the hardest part is crossing the freeway to get to it. Once I'm across the freeway, it goes quickly.
I arrive at work and head up to my big spacious office where I turn on my computer and then go check the fax machine for overseas faxes. I grab a cuppa and then check e-mails, blogs, and other assorted news updates (Aintitcoolnews and a few Disney news feeds). By that point, I'm firmly ready to get to work.
I work in the morning until 10:30am and then I head out for a quick 15 minute break. If the sun is out, I take a 15 minute walk. If its raining or cold, I go out to my car, turn on the stereo, and read or write for 15 minutes. I like to read all sorts of books (also a good time to do homework) but I also write notes for my book, or whatever project happens to be in my mind at the time.
After my break, I come back and check my e-mails again and then work until lunch time. At lunch, I'm actually pretty flexible. It depends on the day. Sometimes I eat fast food, sometimes I walk, sometimes I write or read, or some combination of everything. During school, I often find my lunch hour devoted to running into school to pick up film equipment.
After lunch, I again check my e-mails before getting back to work. My work is mostly feast or famine. There are times, like the last couple of weeks, where I barely have a second to come up for air. I generate a lot of reports while I check stock levels, help the birthing process of new products, or oversee the testing of all our products for safety issues. I'm always at the beck and call of my two bosses (the President and Vice President) who drop new projects in my lap every single day. I work diligently on every project until they are done. But, honestly, after staring at spreadsheets for most of a day, I need a mental break every once in a while and I'll go walk around the building and catch up with my co-workers about once a day.
I take a second break around 3:30pm, and, again, walk or read depending on the weather. And then I work until closing at 5:00pm (or later, depending on the amount of work I'm doing).
Now, my real day begins. For the most part, what I consider a normal evening probably doesn't sound much different than what you consider a normal evening. I go home, change clothes, have dinner, and then watch TV or work on my various projects (write, website, film, etc...). The fact that I rarely ever get to do a "normal" evening should have no bearing on what I consider normal.
Lately, I've been filling my evenings with activities just about every night. In addition to class once a week, I also have the occasional basketball game, Church Choir rehearsal, and Youth Group to take up my time. And believe it or not, this is better than it was in the past. During the final stretch of my novel, I was writing about three to four hours a night. I'd get up from my computer screen stiff from the lack of movement.
In general, that's what I do most of the day. One creative idea chases another and often interupts more productive "work related" thoughts. If I'm not contemplating my novel or working on a new game for Youth Group or envisioning the next great filmic masterpiece, then I'm probably sussing out the problem in an incredibly complex spreadsheet formula. Indeed, I think one of the reasons I enjoy my job as much as I do is that in turning my hands and body over to the mindless drudgery of spreadsheets, I can leave my brain free to contemplate more important matters - like the dangers of immigration or how one might go about shutting down the internet. Some of these thoughts get hunted down and form the basis of many of my blog posts, so, in a sense, my blog posts are a snapshot of my brain at any given moment of the day. And as such, you can see that my concerns and thoughts are all over the board and invariably have nothing to do with spreadsheets.
My ego is hurt by the lack of star acclaim here at ICON. Its like a bad cliche of a Hollywood Agent whispering in my ear, "Will, you are the greatest writer of a generation. People should be adoring you. Why the heck are you stuck writing for this podunk little blog?" But the real me wants none of that. Fame is elusive mostly because I don't crave it. I'd much rather craft a great story and get little attention than craft a small story and get great attention. But when it comes to blogging, I use this blog to merely clear out the cockles of my brain, to empty it of passing thoughts and fleeting fancies and righteous indignation - all the useless things that come to my head during the day.
So that's my average day. And these are my average thoughts. I hope you have an above average weekend.
What follows, then, is a description of the average day in the life of me - in so much as any day can be average. What I will describe will be a typical work day, since I almost never blog on weekends.
I wake up at 7:00am. My radio alarm clock is set to KNBR68 - the local sports station. I'm not actually a big fan of the KNBR morning show, but I'm certain that they'll always wake me up. I usually lie in bed long enough to get the sports scores from the night before at the top of the hour sports update, then I sit up in bed and turn on my TV (a habit I formed in the days following 9-11) and watch about ten minutes of news. I use this time to focus my brain on the crawling news stories across the bottom of the screen. Since I have to focus my eyes as well as my attention, I find this a good excercise for the first thing in the morning.
After that I shower, shave, and get dressed, then stop and read the comics on my way out to the Ford Explorer. My commute into work is about 15 to 30 minutes depending on the traffic, but more typically on the 15 to 20 minute scale. My work is out by the airport and the hardest part is crossing the freeway to get to it. Once I'm across the freeway, it goes quickly.
I arrive at work and head up to my big spacious office where I turn on my computer and then go check the fax machine for overseas faxes. I grab a cuppa and then check e-mails, blogs, and other assorted news updates (Aintitcoolnews and a few Disney news feeds). By that point, I'm firmly ready to get to work.
I work in the morning until 10:30am and then I head out for a quick 15 minute break. If the sun is out, I take a 15 minute walk. If its raining or cold, I go out to my car, turn on the stereo, and read or write for 15 minutes. I like to read all sorts of books (also a good time to do homework) but I also write notes for my book, or whatever project happens to be in my mind at the time.
After my break, I come back and check my e-mails again and then work until lunch time. At lunch, I'm actually pretty flexible. It depends on the day. Sometimes I eat fast food, sometimes I walk, sometimes I write or read, or some combination of everything. During school, I often find my lunch hour devoted to running into school to pick up film equipment.
After lunch, I again check my e-mails before getting back to work. My work is mostly feast or famine. There are times, like the last couple of weeks, where I barely have a second to come up for air. I generate a lot of reports while I check stock levels, help the birthing process of new products, or oversee the testing of all our products for safety issues. I'm always at the beck and call of my two bosses (the President and Vice President) who drop new projects in my lap every single day. I work diligently on every project until they are done. But, honestly, after staring at spreadsheets for most of a day, I need a mental break every once in a while and I'll go walk around the building and catch up with my co-workers about once a day.
I take a second break around 3:30pm, and, again, walk or read depending on the weather. And then I work until closing at 5:00pm (or later, depending on the amount of work I'm doing).
Now, my real day begins. For the most part, what I consider a normal evening probably doesn't sound much different than what you consider a normal evening. I go home, change clothes, have dinner, and then watch TV or work on my various projects (write, website, film, etc...). The fact that I rarely ever get to do a "normal" evening should have no bearing on what I consider normal.
Lately, I've been filling my evenings with activities just about every night. In addition to class once a week, I also have the occasional basketball game, Church Choir rehearsal, and Youth Group to take up my time. And believe it or not, this is better than it was in the past. During the final stretch of my novel, I was writing about three to four hours a night. I'd get up from my computer screen stiff from the lack of movement.
In general, that's what I do most of the day. One creative idea chases another and often interupts more productive "work related" thoughts. If I'm not contemplating my novel or working on a new game for Youth Group or envisioning the next great filmic masterpiece, then I'm probably sussing out the problem in an incredibly complex spreadsheet formula. Indeed, I think one of the reasons I enjoy my job as much as I do is that in turning my hands and body over to the mindless drudgery of spreadsheets, I can leave my brain free to contemplate more important matters - like the dangers of immigration or how one might go about shutting down the internet. Some of these thoughts get hunted down and form the basis of many of my blog posts, so, in a sense, my blog posts are a snapshot of my brain at any given moment of the day. And as such, you can see that my concerns and thoughts are all over the board and invariably have nothing to do with spreadsheets.
My ego is hurt by the lack of star acclaim here at ICON. Its like a bad cliche of a Hollywood Agent whispering in my ear, "Will, you are the greatest writer of a generation. People should be adoring you. Why the heck are you stuck writing for this podunk little blog?" But the real me wants none of that. Fame is elusive mostly because I don't crave it. I'd much rather craft a great story and get little attention than craft a small story and get great attention. But when it comes to blogging, I use this blog to merely clear out the cockles of my brain, to empty it of passing thoughts and fleeting fancies and righteous indignation - all the useless things that come to my head during the day.
So that's my average day. And these are my average thoughts. I hope you have an above average weekend.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
Back in the saddle again...
Its been quiet here at ICON for the past couple of days because I've been engaged in Annual Sales Meetings and a new class and a Youth Group realignment and all sorts of other things. Despite my best efforts, I seem to be getting drawn right back into the sordid and busy world I just left. I was actually enjoying my semi-retirement. I was reading books, watching movies, catching up with people. But that's all fading back into obscurity again and I'm being drawn back into the rat race.
Every time I try to get out, they keep pulling me back in.
*sigh*
Oh well, I'll try to get back here with insightful commentary of the sort found regularly at The Beach, Hinterland, and Bittersweet. But first, I have to have some insights.
Back to the slog I go...
Every time I try to get out, they keep pulling me back in.
*sigh*
Oh well, I'll try to get back here with insightful commentary of the sort found regularly at The Beach, Hinterland, and Bittersweet. But first, I have to have some insights.
Back to the slog I go...
Monday, January 21, 2008
Clarity of Coincidences
As a prologue to this topic, here is what I think on issues of immigration - nothing. Honestly, the issue has never been very interesting to me. I am, like most Americans, completely unaffected by the issues. I don't see my tax dollars disappearing except once on April 15th, and if I ever had any control over those tax dollars, I would certainly stop funding wars that we have no business being involved in. I know my lettuce arrives. I know buildings get built. I know my theaters continued to be cleaned when I was the manager and I tried to talk to the janitors in English and Spanish but they seemed very insular (as well they might be if they were afraid of being deported every second). I once taught immigrant children to read as part of a mission trip and found the children to be... well, children. Children are children. Adults are adults. And we're all on this crazy merry go round called life. If I have any opinion on immigration, I think it would be that its terrible that people feel they have to come all this way just to provide food and clothes for their families, cause I know damn well I wouldn't want to do the kinds of jobs they're doing in order to get that food and those clothes.
So, to summarize, I have no opinion and I really don't think about immigration at all.
On Friday, then, I plopped in a DVD of Children of Men - a dystopian Sci-Fi thriller about a man who has to smuggle a pregnant woman out of England. In this dystopian future, however, aside from the lack of children, the biggest issue of the day seems to be immigration, or more pointedly, immigrants. As in, England doesn't want any. They round up any immigrants and ship them out of England (or force them into refugee camps). Suddenly, immigration appears on my radar. But in a mass entertainment format, I generally ignore it.
Still...
On Saturday, I am reading Leviticus and I come across a biblical passage, Leviticus 19:34... "34 The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt. I am the LORD your God." Now, at this point, I'm not making any connections. I'm just thinking to myself, yet another thing the Republicans seem to be forgetting. Here it is in black and white. Treat the aliens as native borns. I wonder how come I don't remember this passage.
On Sunday, my pastor is delivering his sermon on MLK and on the struggles of our denomination vis a vis Gay Rights. Last week, the San Francisco Presbytery narrowly agreed to move forward with the process of ordaining an openly lesbian pastor. This does not guarantee ordination, it simply guarantees that the process will continue (ultimately the decision will be reviewed by the national church). Within hours of the decision, however, our former pastor called to let us know that two churches in his presbytery were already resigning from the national church. All this is preamble to say that, suddenly, the sermon turned away from the issue of civil rights and church politics.
It seems that the Presbyterian Church's highest elected leader didn't seem phazed at all about the issue of lesbian pastors in her church. What she shared with our presbytery was a concern that in 40 years, the one issue people will look back on to see where we stood in our leadership was on the issue of immigration. She pointed out the irony that this nation fought a bloody civil war to keep a foreign population as a permanent work force, and now, more than a 100 years later, we're equally adamnant that we keep a foreign population from ever becoming a permanent work force. The sermon went on to remind us of what Leviticus says about the aliens living with you.
Okay, admittedly, I sat up and took notice. I'm kind of dense from time to time, but as a writer, I'm paid to take notice of things that continually get repeated - seemingly out of context of the rest of the story. Immigration means little or nothing to me, yet here, out of the clear blue, its mentioned to me three different times in one weekend. Clearly God has something He'd like for me to notice or think or feel, or something. The problem is, I'm just not getting it. I'm just too dense to figure it out. As Albert Brooks might say, "I'm just a little brain."
So, I'm not writing this to elicit responses on either side of the immigration issue, though I know some of you have strong opinions which you are free to repeat here, but merely because God has this tendency to tell us things that we aren't always ready to hear. I just wanted to say that I heard them, but I have no idea what they mean. I'm hoping that some sort of clarity of coincidences becomese evident in the near future.
So, to summarize, I have no opinion and I really don't think about immigration at all.
On Friday, then, I plopped in a DVD of Children of Men - a dystopian Sci-Fi thriller about a man who has to smuggle a pregnant woman out of England. In this dystopian future, however, aside from the lack of children, the biggest issue of the day seems to be immigration, or more pointedly, immigrants. As in, England doesn't want any. They round up any immigrants and ship them out of England (or force them into refugee camps). Suddenly, immigration appears on my radar. But in a mass entertainment format, I generally ignore it.
Still...
On Saturday, I am reading Leviticus and I come across a biblical passage, Leviticus 19:34... "34 The alien living with you must be treated as one of your native-born. Love him as yourself, for you were aliens in Egypt. I am the LORD your God." Now, at this point, I'm not making any connections. I'm just thinking to myself, yet another thing the Republicans seem to be forgetting. Here it is in black and white. Treat the aliens as native borns. I wonder how come I don't remember this passage.
On Sunday, my pastor is delivering his sermon on MLK and on the struggles of our denomination vis a vis Gay Rights. Last week, the San Francisco Presbytery narrowly agreed to move forward with the process of ordaining an openly lesbian pastor. This does not guarantee ordination, it simply guarantees that the process will continue (ultimately the decision will be reviewed by the national church). Within hours of the decision, however, our former pastor called to let us know that two churches in his presbytery were already resigning from the national church. All this is preamble to say that, suddenly, the sermon turned away from the issue of civil rights and church politics.
It seems that the Presbyterian Church's highest elected leader didn't seem phazed at all about the issue of lesbian pastors in her church. What she shared with our presbytery was a concern that in 40 years, the one issue people will look back on to see where we stood in our leadership was on the issue of immigration. She pointed out the irony that this nation fought a bloody civil war to keep a foreign population as a permanent work force, and now, more than a 100 years later, we're equally adamnant that we keep a foreign population from ever becoming a permanent work force. The sermon went on to remind us of what Leviticus says about the aliens living with you.
Okay, admittedly, I sat up and took notice. I'm kind of dense from time to time, but as a writer, I'm paid to take notice of things that continually get repeated - seemingly out of context of the rest of the story. Immigration means little or nothing to me, yet here, out of the clear blue, its mentioned to me three different times in one weekend. Clearly God has something He'd like for me to notice or think or feel, or something. The problem is, I'm just not getting it. I'm just too dense to figure it out. As Albert Brooks might say, "I'm just a little brain."
So, I'm not writing this to elicit responses on either side of the immigration issue, though I know some of you have strong opinions which you are free to repeat here, but merely because God has this tendency to tell us things that we aren't always ready to hear. I just wanted to say that I heard them, but I have no idea what they mean. I'm hoping that some sort of clarity of coincidences becomese evident in the near future.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
A Not So Ringing Endorsement
This morning I informed my Dad that I was planning to change one scene at the end of my book. I was about to explain why I was changing the scene and that the main reason had something to do with some changes I was making in the second book, when my Dad gave me that look of confusion and said, "Are we talking about the same book?"
"What?"
"I don't remember that scene."
"It was at the end of the book. You know... the climax?"
"Are you sure it was in there?"
I went and looked at my copy of the book, and it was there. Then I went and looked at his copy of the book, and it was there as well.
He looked at the pages and said, "Oh yes, now I remember. I thought the ending was appropriate."
Okay, on one hand I'm inclined to write off the entire review of my ending as something pre-Alzheimeresque. On the other hand, perhaps my ending is so bad that its quickly forgotten. Can you see what being a writer does to you? Its not that I've become paranoid, its that I've become prone to paranoia. I can't simply take the approach that one person didn't remember the ending, but that it's probably the person's fault. I have to take the approach that someone didn't remember the ending, therefore my book is a complete and utter failure and I have to rethink this entire writing thing (or fix the book, yet again).
Is it any wonder that so many writers end up in mental institutions? I swear I'm going to quote Billy Joel on the inside cover of my book whenever its published.
"Son, I believe this is killing me."
Piano Man
Billy Joel
"What?"
"I don't remember that scene."
"It was at the end of the book. You know... the climax?"
"Are you sure it was in there?"
I went and looked at my copy of the book, and it was there. Then I went and looked at his copy of the book, and it was there as well.
He looked at the pages and said, "Oh yes, now I remember. I thought the ending was appropriate."
Okay, on one hand I'm inclined to write off the entire review of my ending as something pre-Alzheimeresque. On the other hand, perhaps my ending is so bad that its quickly forgotten. Can you see what being a writer does to you? Its not that I've become paranoid, its that I've become prone to paranoia. I can't simply take the approach that one person didn't remember the ending, but that it's probably the person's fault. I have to take the approach that someone didn't remember the ending, therefore my book is a complete and utter failure and I have to rethink this entire writing thing (or fix the book, yet again).
Is it any wonder that so many writers end up in mental institutions? I swear I'm going to quote Billy Joel on the inside cover of my book whenever its published.
"Son, I believe this is killing me."
Piano Man
Billy Joel
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
1983 - The Last Part
I was reminiscing the last couple of days about the Youth Work Camp to Alamosa in 1983 because I've known for a few months now that God was leading me into new pastures (so to speak). I decided at the start of this Youth year that it was going to be my last as a Youth Leader. I think there is an inherent risk of burnout in this type of work and I wanted to go out on my own terms before I resented the kids and the church and while I could still look everyone in the eye as a friend and fellow Christian. But over the last couple of weeks, one thing has been nagging me - one last bit of unfinished business. I realized that there was one thing that could make me stay on as a youth leader for one more year - a youth work camp. And as I realized that, I also realized that this was something God wanted me to do. So, when I see the youth next (they're on a ski trip this weekend), I am going to propose the project to them with a time frame at least a year out (Next spring or summer) so that they have time to raise the necessary funds for such a trip. One way or the other, I'm still going to find new pastures, but I might be leaving on God's time and not my own.
The reason I'm thinking I need this much time is that I want to raise the funds the same way we did back in 1983 when, ironically, we had a much richer church. There are plenty of individuals who could donate the money for us to make the trip (and indeed we already have quite a coffer of funds for a mission trip dating back since before I arrived) but part of the experience of 1983 that sticks out in my mind was the fact that we earned the trip and that in the earning of the trip, we bonded as a group.
There were many fund raisers over the year from September until July when we left. Out biggest fund raisers were the Ice Cream Social (the first time we'd had one - it is still going strong) and the sale of Trip Stock. These stock certificates were the equivalent of one mile of the journey, and we sold hundreds and hundreds of shares to our congregation. But ice cream and stock aside, for the most part, we raised the funds with the sweat of our brow and the muscles in our backs.
We did lawn maintenance (mowing lawns, watering gardens, and weeding). We built a new retaining wall in a backyard (digging a ditch first and then hammering in a frame and pouring cement). We completely leveled an overgrown jungle (yard) and hauled tons of trees, plants, weeds, and other assorted garden garbage out to a giant dumpster. We tore down a garden shed/garage (now, that was FUN!) and hauled the remains to the trash. We did so many different fund raisers that by the time we arrived in Alamosa, we were an experienced work crew. If anything, the work we did in Alamosa was almost anti-climactic (though we did get to do roofing, which was cool when you're a teen).
To be honest, we never worked that hard again on any of the subsequent fund-raising efforts for any of the work camps. But that one year had a great impact on us, on our youth group, and on our church. To this day, I still hear from adults at the church asking me if we're going to be doing any "fund-raising" anytime soon because they have a yard that needs cleaning. They remember it as a good investment, but also as a community event that brought the whole church a little bit closer.
And that's what I want to bring to Lakeside once again before I "retire" and move on to whatever God has in store for me next. Of course, ultimately, its up to the youth. I'm not about to clear a yard myself. But I have a sneaky suspicion that He will have some input into their decision. We shall soon know.
The reason I'm thinking I need this much time is that I want to raise the funds the same way we did back in 1983 when, ironically, we had a much richer church. There are plenty of individuals who could donate the money for us to make the trip (and indeed we already have quite a coffer of funds for a mission trip dating back since before I arrived) but part of the experience of 1983 that sticks out in my mind was the fact that we earned the trip and that in the earning of the trip, we bonded as a group.
There were many fund raisers over the year from September until July when we left. Out biggest fund raisers were the Ice Cream Social (the first time we'd had one - it is still going strong) and the sale of Trip Stock. These stock certificates were the equivalent of one mile of the journey, and we sold hundreds and hundreds of shares to our congregation. But ice cream and stock aside, for the most part, we raised the funds with the sweat of our brow and the muscles in our backs.
We did lawn maintenance (mowing lawns, watering gardens, and weeding). We built a new retaining wall in a backyard (digging a ditch first and then hammering in a frame and pouring cement). We completely leveled an overgrown jungle (yard) and hauled tons of trees, plants, weeds, and other assorted garden garbage out to a giant dumpster. We tore down a garden shed/garage (now, that was FUN!) and hauled the remains to the trash. We did so many different fund raisers that by the time we arrived in Alamosa, we were an experienced work crew. If anything, the work we did in Alamosa was almost anti-climactic (though we did get to do roofing, which was cool when you're a teen).
To be honest, we never worked that hard again on any of the subsequent fund-raising efforts for any of the work camps. But that one year had a great impact on us, on our youth group, and on our church. To this day, I still hear from adults at the church asking me if we're going to be doing any "fund-raising" anytime soon because they have a yard that needs cleaning. They remember it as a good investment, but also as a community event that brought the whole church a little bit closer.
And that's what I want to bring to Lakeside once again before I "retire" and move on to whatever God has in store for me next. Of course, ultimately, its up to the youth. I'm not about to clear a yard myself. But I have a sneaky suspicion that He will have some input into their decision. We shall soon know.
Monday, January 14, 2008
1983 - Part One
It was actually the fall of 1982. We'd succesfully held a fund raiser for an African missionary by renting out a roller skating rink and collecting normal admission funds (selling hot dogs and drinks, etc...). As a youth group, we were excited by the prospect of the roller skating. The fund raising part of it was of some mild interest. We weren't very politically active at the time.
As I recall, the first I heard of the idea, was the following week. School had just started back into session and we were just getting our first youth group meetings underway. The money from the fund raiser was being counted and tallied in the upstairs kitchen of our church. Pastor Dave and Mark were there and Pastor Dave mentioned that he was thinking of taking us all on a work camp the following summer. At the time, I think the term work camp was in vogue as opposed to the term Mission Trip which I hear today. Mark looked up at Pastor Dave and said, "What's a work camp?" and Pastor Dave described it in very general terms. Mark was transfixed. "And we could go anywhere?" "Well, we'd have to raise the money." "But we could go anywhere?" "Well, they only have work camps in certain places. Did you want to see the catalog?"
Pastor Dave brought out the catalog. A flimsy paper thing that looked kind of like one of those local Used Car Trader things, only with pictures of local communities nationwide that needed God sent cheap labor. We thumbed through the catalog and immediately started naming off exotic sounding locations, Leadville, Indian Springs, Alamosa... and like that, we were hooked.
For the short term, after that, it was all we could talk about. The teens were just hooked on the idea of raising all this money and going some place, and working, and coming back. We didn't really care what we did when we got there, we just wanted to go. The romantic notion of the work camp was just too much for our imagination.
After about a month, we had narrowed the list to three locations - one about three hours from San Francisco, one in Nevada, and one all the way out in Colorado - Alamosa. From the moment the list was set, the youth decided to go to Colorado. Cost projections were steep. The amount of time it would take to get there and back was huge. But the glory of the adventure was what spurred us onward.
We had a big meeting with our parents and other concerned church members. During the meeting, the idea was presented. The locations were each explained. The costs involved were noted. And the concerns were each addressed. As I recall, everytime some adult tried to suggest something like, "Well, if they went to the one in California, what would be the time to travel?" Mark would sort of politely bat them down by reminding everyone that we were going to Alamosa. When finally the adults became exasperated and pointed out how much money it would cost and how many fund raisers the kids were going to have to do in order to achieve such a lofty goal, Mark said, "Don't worry. We're going to raise the money, no matter what it takes."
Though the other two possibilities remained on the board for another couple of months, from the moment the list was set, there was no doubt in our mind that this was the Alamosa Work Camp.
To be continued...
And now a few potshots at (or additions to) my faulty memory...
As I recall, the first I heard of the idea, was the following week. School had just started back into session and we were just getting our first youth group meetings underway. The money from the fund raiser was being counted and tallied in the upstairs kitchen of our church. Pastor Dave and Mark were there and Pastor Dave mentioned that he was thinking of taking us all on a work camp the following summer. At the time, I think the term work camp was in vogue as opposed to the term Mission Trip which I hear today. Mark looked up at Pastor Dave and said, "What's a work camp?" and Pastor Dave described it in very general terms. Mark was transfixed. "And we could go anywhere?" "Well, we'd have to raise the money." "But we could go anywhere?" "Well, they only have work camps in certain places. Did you want to see the catalog?"
Pastor Dave brought out the catalog. A flimsy paper thing that looked kind of like one of those local Used Car Trader things, only with pictures of local communities nationwide that needed God sent cheap labor. We thumbed through the catalog and immediately started naming off exotic sounding locations, Leadville, Indian Springs, Alamosa... and like that, we were hooked.
For the short term, after that, it was all we could talk about. The teens were just hooked on the idea of raising all this money and going some place, and working, and coming back. We didn't really care what we did when we got there, we just wanted to go. The romantic notion of the work camp was just too much for our imagination.
After about a month, we had narrowed the list to three locations - one about three hours from San Francisco, one in Nevada, and one all the way out in Colorado - Alamosa. From the moment the list was set, the youth decided to go to Colorado. Cost projections were steep. The amount of time it would take to get there and back was huge. But the glory of the adventure was what spurred us onward.
We had a big meeting with our parents and other concerned church members. During the meeting, the idea was presented. The locations were each explained. The costs involved were noted. And the concerns were each addressed. As I recall, everytime some adult tried to suggest something like, "Well, if they went to the one in California, what would be the time to travel?" Mark would sort of politely bat them down by reminding everyone that we were going to Alamosa. When finally the adults became exasperated and pointed out how much money it would cost and how many fund raisers the kids were going to have to do in order to achieve such a lofty goal, Mark said, "Don't worry. We're going to raise the money, no matter what it takes."
Though the other two possibilities remained on the board for another couple of months, from the moment the list was set, there was no doubt in our mind that this was the Alamosa Work Camp.
To be continued...
And now a few potshots at (or additions to) my faulty memory...
Friday, January 11, 2008
Optimistically Half Empty!
I can't remember how to spell optimistic (or is it optomistic, or optamistic?) Spelling rules, like grammar, might be some of the first things to be jettisoned somehow I feel this sentence needs to end with a run-on.
It occurred, which is another word I can never remember, to me to the other day that the first thing God seems to be doing to me in preparation for whatever might be next in my journies fantasticue is to empty me of all the accumulated stuff that I've built up inside me like barnacles on the bottom of an ocean going tug. Stupid things like spelling and worrying about other drivers and politics and tons and tons of things that weigh down on my face and drag my smile upside down are clogging my channels of well-being like that 200lb per square inch butter filled pastry that the french pastry chefs tried to use to kill Homer Simpson when he was a food critic. When I listen to my C.S. Lewis CD's and the professor talks about finding joy, I wonder what this joy thing might be, and whether I might have once glimpsed it at the end of a long dark tunnel.
So, I've been fighting the temptation to fill myself up on things that do not nourish. I've been looking for a water so pure that it doesn't just quench my thirst, but keeps me from ever being thirsty again. In the meantime, I have been emptying myself. Thus far, God has made it pretty easy.
First, He threw a nasty cold at me. Colds always have the same effect on me - they take away my appetite. I've actually come to find them as blessings in disguise in the last couple of years. So, I've been scraping by with next to nothing for the first week of 2008 so far.
Then, He took away all of my money. Well, more accurately, the Christmas chickens came home to roost in my pocketbook. My budget for January shrank to a decidedly scary $5.08. With no relief in sight, I've decided to stop spending money on frivilous things like food. Ironically, the last money I spent was on Atonement. Hmmm... After Atonement, I'm ready to begin sacrificing.
Okay, I've been too long in Leviticus.
Anyway, so far in 2008 I've been very good at emptying myself. Next, I think I'll empty my closets of useless clothes. The mothballs are overworked and there are actual people out there that might find my used clothing more useful than my hangers find them.
So, food, money, clothes, spelling... I'm pretty sure that's it for now. But then, I am only half empty. I plan to be 100% empty before too long and then look out!
P.S. One of the strange things about emptying oneself is that there is a constant pity party going on in my head (its one of the first things I've been trying to extract, but this party has claws!) It is utterly ridiculous considering the accomplishments I've just finished in the last month or so, but the party is blaring in the background nonetheless. I'm trying to ignore it, but at times, the disco ball spinning and the beat of the techno music is tempting and I find myself on the edge of the pity party, looking in, and wondering what it might be like to join. Its been a long time since I let out a good rousing, Woe is me! Either that, or I'm going to call the cops and tell them that this party has been going on too long and they need to come break it up. But I hate to be a party pooper.
It occurred, which is another word I can never remember, to me to the other day that the first thing God seems to be doing to me in preparation for whatever might be next in my journies fantasticue is to empty me of all the accumulated stuff that I've built up inside me like barnacles on the bottom of an ocean going tug. Stupid things like spelling and worrying about other drivers and politics and tons and tons of things that weigh down on my face and drag my smile upside down are clogging my channels of well-being like that 200lb per square inch butter filled pastry that the french pastry chefs tried to use to kill Homer Simpson when he was a food critic. When I listen to my C.S. Lewis CD's and the professor talks about finding joy, I wonder what this joy thing might be, and whether I might have once glimpsed it at the end of a long dark tunnel.
So, I've been fighting the temptation to fill myself up on things that do not nourish. I've been looking for a water so pure that it doesn't just quench my thirst, but keeps me from ever being thirsty again. In the meantime, I have been emptying myself. Thus far, God has made it pretty easy.
First, He threw a nasty cold at me. Colds always have the same effect on me - they take away my appetite. I've actually come to find them as blessings in disguise in the last couple of years. So, I've been scraping by with next to nothing for the first week of 2008 so far.
Then, He took away all of my money. Well, more accurately, the Christmas chickens came home to roost in my pocketbook. My budget for January shrank to a decidedly scary $5.08. With no relief in sight, I've decided to stop spending money on frivilous things like food. Ironically, the last money I spent was on Atonement. Hmmm... After Atonement, I'm ready to begin sacrificing.
Okay, I've been too long in Leviticus.
Anyway, so far in 2008 I've been very good at emptying myself. Next, I think I'll empty my closets of useless clothes. The mothballs are overworked and there are actual people out there that might find my used clothing more useful than my hangers find them.
So, food, money, clothes, spelling... I'm pretty sure that's it for now. But then, I am only half empty. I plan to be 100% empty before too long and then look out!
P.S. One of the strange things about emptying oneself is that there is a constant pity party going on in my head (its one of the first things I've been trying to extract, but this party has claws!) It is utterly ridiculous considering the accomplishments I've just finished in the last month or so, but the party is blaring in the background nonetheless. I'm trying to ignore it, but at times, the disco ball spinning and the beat of the techno music is tempting and I find myself on the edge of the pity party, looking in, and wondering what it might be like to join. Its been a long time since I let out a good rousing, Woe is me! Either that, or I'm going to call the cops and tell them that this party has been going on too long and they need to come break it up. But I hate to be a party pooper.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
ATONEMENT - Movie Review
If you get everything else right, but the story, does it make a good movie? That's the question I was left with after watching sure to be nominated Oscar contender Atonement last night.
The film's plot is basically a British melodrama, most of which you can easily gather from the film's movie trailer. Young Robbie, the gardener, is in love with Cecelia, the lovely young daughter of an aristocratic British family. Cecelia's sister, Briony, is a precocious wanna be writer, who also has a crush on Robbie. One day Briony sees something in the garden between Robbie and her sister that she misinterprets. A series of further misinterpretations follows leading to Briony accusing Robbie of a heinous crime. Robbie is sent to prison, but given an opportunity to clear his name by joining the Army and fighting in France (prior to Dunkirk). He and Cecelia spend the rest of the movie pining for one another while Briony grows up and comes to understand the mistake that she's made. I imagine the book is quite good and I wouldn't mind reading it someday, even knowing what happens.
The film is beautifully made which is both its blessing and its curse. There is some of the most exquisite cinematography in this film that I've seen in a long time, almost David Leanesque (Laurence of Arabia, Bridge on The River Kwai). One shot in particular should earn the film a Best Picture nomination - a nearly fourteen minute long single shot showing three soldiers walking along the beachfront in Dunkirk, filmed with a steadicam. Its a marvel of artistry and direction. Of course, this incredible scene left me thinking one deadly thing about the film, "That was nice, but it really didn't need to be there." The movie is a beautiful thing, but it is also incredibly narcissistic. It knows its beautiful and it can't help admiring itself whenever it gets a chance. Still, for pure artistry, I have not seen a better movie this year.
The biggest problem with the film, however, is probably its script adaption. There are scenes in this film and characters that seem to come out of nowhere, that make no sense whatsoever, and that are not well executed as a result. I'm certain that these scenes are probably in the book and were deemed necessary to the movie without also deeming the material that explained them necessary. For instance, there is a French character that appears about 2/3rds of the way into the film that seems to know Briony and her family, but then gets confused - leaving us wondering who this character is and what the heck he has to do with anything. He is never explained. He serves his "purpose" admirably, but he would have done that just as well had he been a complete stranger. And so we are left with nothing but confusion after this scene. This is simply a case where the script adaption of the book could have been much tighter.
So, the artistry could have been tighter and the narrative could have been tighter and that leaves one person to blame - the Director. I'm sorry. I don't normally heap abuse on Directors (and this is mild abuse at worst) but both of these are areas under the Director's control and responsibility.
Which brings me back to my initial question, can you make a good movie with story problems? I think in this case, yes. Despite its flaws, I found so much to marvel at during the watching that I found myself liking it. The sound design was incredible. The costumes were outstanding. The movie was beautiful to watch. And I did not see the ending coming, which to me is like the cherry on top of a sundae. But I will say that it was close... another half hour and the movie could have been a sequel to The English Patient, or, as I call it, Endless Patience. Overall, I definitely say, check this movie out.
The film's plot is basically a British melodrama, most of which you can easily gather from the film's movie trailer. Young Robbie, the gardener, is in love with Cecelia, the lovely young daughter of an aristocratic British family. Cecelia's sister, Briony, is a precocious wanna be writer, who also has a crush on Robbie. One day Briony sees something in the garden between Robbie and her sister that she misinterprets. A series of further misinterpretations follows leading to Briony accusing Robbie of a heinous crime. Robbie is sent to prison, but given an opportunity to clear his name by joining the Army and fighting in France (prior to Dunkirk). He and Cecelia spend the rest of the movie pining for one another while Briony grows up and comes to understand the mistake that she's made. I imagine the book is quite good and I wouldn't mind reading it someday, even knowing what happens.
The film is beautifully made which is both its blessing and its curse. There is some of the most exquisite cinematography in this film that I've seen in a long time, almost David Leanesque (Laurence of Arabia, Bridge on The River Kwai). One shot in particular should earn the film a Best Picture nomination - a nearly fourteen minute long single shot showing three soldiers walking along the beachfront in Dunkirk, filmed with a steadicam. Its a marvel of artistry and direction. Of course, this incredible scene left me thinking one deadly thing about the film, "That was nice, but it really didn't need to be there." The movie is a beautiful thing, but it is also incredibly narcissistic. It knows its beautiful and it can't help admiring itself whenever it gets a chance. Still, for pure artistry, I have not seen a better movie this year.
The biggest problem with the film, however, is probably its script adaption. There are scenes in this film and characters that seem to come out of nowhere, that make no sense whatsoever, and that are not well executed as a result. I'm certain that these scenes are probably in the book and were deemed necessary to the movie without also deeming the material that explained them necessary. For instance, there is a French character that appears about 2/3rds of the way into the film that seems to know Briony and her family, but then gets confused - leaving us wondering who this character is and what the heck he has to do with anything. He is never explained. He serves his "purpose" admirably, but he would have done that just as well had he been a complete stranger. And so we are left with nothing but confusion after this scene. This is simply a case where the script adaption of the book could have been much tighter.
So, the artistry could have been tighter and the narrative could have been tighter and that leaves one person to blame - the Director. I'm sorry. I don't normally heap abuse on Directors (and this is mild abuse at worst) but both of these are areas under the Director's control and responsibility.
Which brings me back to my initial question, can you make a good movie with story problems? I think in this case, yes. Despite its flaws, I found so much to marvel at during the watching that I found myself liking it. The sound design was incredible. The costumes were outstanding. The movie was beautiful to watch. And I did not see the ending coming, which to me is like the cherry on top of a sundae. But I will say that it was close... another half hour and the movie could have been a sequel to The English Patient, or, as I call it, Endless Patience. Overall, I definitely say, check this movie out.
Monday, January 07, 2008
A Leap Too Far
I'm expecting a response from Ariel, but the rest of you please chime in as well (especially Randal with his lawyer's logic). The reason, of course, that I want responses is that I want you all to point out the error in my thinking. Since the subject is C.S. Lewis - a man I admire and a Christian I trust - I am thinking that I must be wrong somewhere, but I'm not finding it.
To be fair to Lewis, I'm basing my blog post on a 12 part CD course on C.S. Lewis and his writings. To say that this course just scratches the surface is to say that someone telling you that 1 + 1 = 2 just scratches the surface of mathematics. So far, at least, the course has been mostly a review of his books and his apologetics.
That being said, here is my problem...
1) Lewis believes that our pursuit of joy and our knowledge of good presuppose that there is something more joyful that we can't grasp and more Good that we can't see (i.e. God) but that we still somehow know. I have no problem with this and the logic he uses to prove this seems compelling.
2) He then explains that Jesus must be who He says He is because otherwise He would be a liar or a lunatic. Again, I followed all of that, and I can't argue this point.
But here is where I find the problem - the leap from the first statement to the second.
Let me put it this way, the first statement relies on our own internal logic. We can grasp the fact that joy is something that we can never hold on to. We can understand the idea that our knowledge of Good must come from some place outside of the world because we know what right and wrong are and many of us have never ever read the Bible. Etc... So our own knowledge informs us about the idea of God. The second statement, however, relies on the words of Jesus Christ as written in the Bible. Without getting into the whole idea of the Bible and how it was written, we are still being asked to accept that the Bible is a definitive truth and that Jesus Christ is a definitive truth. If there was no Bible, wouldn't that negate Jesus Christ? You see, the first statement is something I can feel. The second statement relies on me knowing something of Jesus Christ. I can see mathematics at work because if you give me one apple and then hand me another one, I have two apples. Its something I intuitively grasp even if I don't know what it means (like the language we speak). Jesus isn't necessarily intuitive.
So, did Lewis make a Leap in Logic? Or did I miss something in his writings that points to the intuitiveness of Jesus Christ?
Now, that having been said and asked, and posited for ridicule, I am, of course, concerned with the whole reason my brain refuses to simply accept Lewis's argument. I know, intuitively, that I will never find "proof" of God, and yet I also know intuitively that God exists. Therefore, I sometimes wonder if logic and intelligence are the logs in my eye preventing me from seeing that which is clearly obvious if I were to just remove these darn things from my iris (which itches, by the way). Is intelligence a curse or a boon to human beings? I wonder what Lewis would say?
To be fair to Lewis, I'm basing my blog post on a 12 part CD course on C.S. Lewis and his writings. To say that this course just scratches the surface is to say that someone telling you that 1 + 1 = 2 just scratches the surface of mathematics. So far, at least, the course has been mostly a review of his books and his apologetics.
That being said, here is my problem...
1) Lewis believes that our pursuit of joy and our knowledge of good presuppose that there is something more joyful that we can't grasp and more Good that we can't see (i.e. God) but that we still somehow know. I have no problem with this and the logic he uses to prove this seems compelling.
2) He then explains that Jesus must be who He says He is because otherwise He would be a liar or a lunatic. Again, I followed all of that, and I can't argue this point.
But here is where I find the problem - the leap from the first statement to the second.
Let me put it this way, the first statement relies on our own internal logic. We can grasp the fact that joy is something that we can never hold on to. We can understand the idea that our knowledge of Good must come from some place outside of the world because we know what right and wrong are and many of us have never ever read the Bible. Etc... So our own knowledge informs us about the idea of God. The second statement, however, relies on the words of Jesus Christ as written in the Bible. Without getting into the whole idea of the Bible and how it was written, we are still being asked to accept that the Bible is a definitive truth and that Jesus Christ is a definitive truth. If there was no Bible, wouldn't that negate Jesus Christ? You see, the first statement is something I can feel. The second statement relies on me knowing something of Jesus Christ. I can see mathematics at work because if you give me one apple and then hand me another one, I have two apples. Its something I intuitively grasp even if I don't know what it means (like the language we speak). Jesus isn't necessarily intuitive.
So, did Lewis make a Leap in Logic? Or did I miss something in his writings that points to the intuitiveness of Jesus Christ?
Now, that having been said and asked, and posited for ridicule, I am, of course, concerned with the whole reason my brain refuses to simply accept Lewis's argument. I know, intuitively, that I will never find "proof" of God, and yet I also know intuitively that God exists. Therefore, I sometimes wonder if logic and intelligence are the logs in my eye preventing me from seeing that which is clearly obvious if I were to just remove these darn things from my iris (which itches, by the way). Is intelligence a curse or a boon to human beings? I wonder what Lewis would say?
Friday, January 04, 2008
Shoeless, Lewis, and Moses, Oh My!
Three gifts from three different people with three different tastes and all bring me closer to God. Now how's that for a Christmas season?
Having finished the book and school and all my other responsibilities, I have suddenly found time to focus again on myself and my own spiritual journey. But when you've been off the path for a while, you can find yourself Frodo-like in the midst of a landscape that offers you no clear direction to your ultimate objective. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the past couple of months, or perhaps the sheer weight of all that had transpired - I wasn't feeling particularly close to God. I found church to be boring. I found Youth Group, uninspiring. And I found my prayers lacking a certain conviction. I was looking around the landscape trying to figure out where the hell I was and I wasn't seeing any particular path out of those spiritual doldrums.
And then, on Tuesday, I opened up one of the DVD's my brother had gotten for me - Field of Dreams. We've all seen it. We all have it imprinted on our Man DNA. But, I admit, I hadn't seen it in a few years and while I hadn't forgotten the story or the characters or any of the lines of dialogue, I also hadn't felt its impact in a long time. I found myself weeping again at scenes like Costner and Moonlight Graham, and the kid stepping across the line to become a doctor. I found myself wondering along with Shoeless Joe whether this cornfield in Iowa wasn't some sort of Heaven. Baseball is God's sport, no doubt about it, and this movie always makes me long for a true Field of Dreams where we can all belong in a brotherhood and talk about things that truly matter (like OBP and RBI's ;) After watching this movie, I still didn't have any idea where I was, but I knew where I wanted to be. I had at least rediscovered my longing for God.
Then, on Wednesday, I opened up a set of 6 CD's my Dad had gotten for me - one of the World's Greatest Courses selections on The Life and Work of C.S. Lewis (Did you know he liked to be called Jack?) I listened intently to the first of 12 lectures, and then plunged right on in to the second lecture on his earliest works (Pilgrim's Regress, etc...) As the instructor explained the early life of C.S. Lewis and his understanding of Joy and how that lead to his becoming a Christian, I couldn't help but remember the Field of Dreams from the night before. Here was a longing so real that it could only point to something even more beautiful. I found myself wondering why I couldn't feel real joy over things in my own life.
And finally, last night, I opened up a book that Andy had given me - Walking The Bible - a story of one man's real life quest to walk in the footsteps of Moses and the early patriarchs of the Bible. I found the book fascinating and I couldn't put it down until I literally couldn't physically keep my eyes open any longer.
In the book, the author describes his approach to this quest - starting from a completely scientific and research oriented point of view. He admits that as he begins to do more and more research, he finds himself asking more and more questions of his own expectations and beliefs.
God doesn't give people quests to serve their own selfish needs. Ultimately, every personal quest becomes something more that we can all benefit from.
I don't know where I am, still, but I've got a feeling that the next few steps are going to take me in a direction I hadn't anticipated, and that somehow, it will all be for the benefit of God.
Having finished the book and school and all my other responsibilities, I have suddenly found time to focus again on myself and my own spiritual journey. But when you've been off the path for a while, you can find yourself Frodo-like in the midst of a landscape that offers you no clear direction to your ultimate objective. Perhaps it was the exhaustion of the past couple of months, or perhaps the sheer weight of all that had transpired - I wasn't feeling particularly close to God. I found church to be boring. I found Youth Group, uninspiring. And I found my prayers lacking a certain conviction. I was looking around the landscape trying to figure out where the hell I was and I wasn't seeing any particular path out of those spiritual doldrums.
And then, on Tuesday, I opened up one of the DVD's my brother had gotten for me - Field of Dreams. We've all seen it. We all have it imprinted on our Man DNA. But, I admit, I hadn't seen it in a few years and while I hadn't forgotten the story or the characters or any of the lines of dialogue, I also hadn't felt its impact in a long time. I found myself weeping again at scenes like Costner and Moonlight Graham, and the kid stepping across the line to become a doctor. I found myself wondering along with Shoeless Joe whether this cornfield in Iowa wasn't some sort of Heaven. Baseball is God's sport, no doubt about it, and this movie always makes me long for a true Field of Dreams where we can all belong in a brotherhood and talk about things that truly matter (like OBP and RBI's ;) After watching this movie, I still didn't have any idea where I was, but I knew where I wanted to be. I had at least rediscovered my longing for God.
Then, on Wednesday, I opened up a set of 6 CD's my Dad had gotten for me - one of the World's Greatest Courses selections on The Life and Work of C.S. Lewis (Did you know he liked to be called Jack?) I listened intently to the first of 12 lectures, and then plunged right on in to the second lecture on his earliest works (Pilgrim's Regress, etc...) As the instructor explained the early life of C.S. Lewis and his understanding of Joy and how that lead to his becoming a Christian, I couldn't help but remember the Field of Dreams from the night before. Here was a longing so real that it could only point to something even more beautiful. I found myself wondering why I couldn't feel real joy over things in my own life.
And finally, last night, I opened up a book that Andy had given me - Walking The Bible - a story of one man's real life quest to walk in the footsteps of Moses and the early patriarchs of the Bible. I found the book fascinating and I couldn't put it down until I literally couldn't physically keep my eyes open any longer.
In the book, the author describes his approach to this quest - starting from a completely scientific and research oriented point of view. He admits that as he begins to do more and more research, he finds himself asking more and more questions of his own expectations and beliefs.
God doesn't give people quests to serve their own selfish needs. Ultimately, every personal quest becomes something more that we can all benefit from.
I don't know where I am, still, but I've got a feeling that the next few steps are going to take me in a direction I hadn't anticipated, and that somehow, it will all be for the benefit of God.
Wednesday, January 02, 2008
A sports blog about writing?
Every October, my cross country coach would load up his camper shell backed truck with us gangly cross country runners and drive the short distance downhill from our campus to Golden Gate Park. Though it was good to spend time with other friendly runners, we also knew that this trip would be spent in serious discussion. Because after arriving at the Polo Grounds, we would begin to go over the San Francisco high school cross country course, step by step, transition by transition, pace by pace.
It would begin in the actual Polo Grounds - a half mile circle that we would traverse while our coach explained to us about how he wanted us to begin the race (Go out at your own pace. Do not try to be first, but try to be near first by the time you exit the Polo Grounds, etc...) Then we would pass under the outside horsetrack and into the park proper where we would start running the first outside stretch, tracing the curve of the polo grounds as we headed towards the first meadow. This stretch was always a little more difficult because Golden Gate Park is at a definite tilt, and so far we've been running flat. And when it got wet, especially, this was usually our first taste of a weathered course (i.e. Mud). As we ran along, our coach started to point out benchmarks, passing points, etc... And then down the short hill into the first meadow and across it (be sure to bypass any mud holes, he would say - a suggestion I would happily ignore for four years). Up the other side to the opposite side of the Polo Grounds, then a left turn to take us up the Park and east. This was the long uphill climb of the race.
We would run up the 3/4ths of a mile uphill spine of the course and then drop down another narrow hill to the backstop of a baseball diamond, around the baseball diamond, and up the second meadow to the big tree. Once around the big tree, we knew it was basically all down hill from there, and about 1.25 miles to go. Our coach would tell us that we had to start picking up the pace here. Down the other side of the meadow (some took the bike path, others the grass - either way was acceptable) and then back up a steep hill and then around a serious switchback and down another steephill right back on to the meadow. There was one last short hill after that, and then down through the first meadow again and back up and across the entrance to the Polo Grounds - opposite where we'd left it. After that, it was about 400 yards to the finish line. As we came off the steep hill, our coach would say that we really had to be going our fastest at that point, and that we should then save our final burst of speed until the finish line was less than 100 yards away and then sprint to the finish line.
Every year we went over this course and we knew it like the back of our hands. Then we would run the course about eight times a season, as well as practice on it another dozen or so times. By the time I was a senior, I had run the course close to 100 times and knew every intricate detail and nuance of its undulating path. I knew where to get an extra burst of speed. I knew how to run through the mud puddles without losing my shoes (thus bypassing all those slower runners who went around it). I knew where I could pass other runners and thoroughly demoralize them in the process. I knew all that, tucked away in my brain.
And yet, every single time out, I'd reach a point where I forgot all the strategy, all the plans, every skill I had, and every single bit of running I had ever known. I would toss it all to the wind and just run - feel the wind across my face, hear the pounding of my heart, feel the sting of sweat in my eyes, and push my legs forward like the drive wheels of a steam locomotive. At that moment, I stopped running and became a runner. I stopped thinking about running and just ran.
I reached that point with the novel. After four years and countless months of writing, notes, journals, plans, discussions, dialog, research, plotting, editing - I just reached down deep inside myself and stopped writing, and became a writer. It was pure guts, pure instinct, pure stamina that carried me to the end, and I crossed the finish line with nothing left inside me, having left it all behind somewhere in one of the endless meadows.
I have a tendency to plan things to death. At some point, I need to learn to let go and just be. All the strategy in the world won't help, if you don't go out there and run the race.
It would begin in the actual Polo Grounds - a half mile circle that we would traverse while our coach explained to us about how he wanted us to begin the race (Go out at your own pace. Do not try to be first, but try to be near first by the time you exit the Polo Grounds, etc...) Then we would pass under the outside horsetrack and into the park proper where we would start running the first outside stretch, tracing the curve of the polo grounds as we headed towards the first meadow. This stretch was always a little more difficult because Golden Gate Park is at a definite tilt, and so far we've been running flat. And when it got wet, especially, this was usually our first taste of a weathered course (i.e. Mud). As we ran along, our coach started to point out benchmarks, passing points, etc... And then down the short hill into the first meadow and across it (be sure to bypass any mud holes, he would say - a suggestion I would happily ignore for four years). Up the other side to the opposite side of the Polo Grounds, then a left turn to take us up the Park and east. This was the long uphill climb of the race.
We would run up the 3/4ths of a mile uphill spine of the course and then drop down another narrow hill to the backstop of a baseball diamond, around the baseball diamond, and up the second meadow to the big tree. Once around the big tree, we knew it was basically all down hill from there, and about 1.25 miles to go. Our coach would tell us that we had to start picking up the pace here. Down the other side of the meadow (some took the bike path, others the grass - either way was acceptable) and then back up a steep hill and then around a serious switchback and down another steephill right back on to the meadow. There was one last short hill after that, and then down through the first meadow again and back up and across the entrance to the Polo Grounds - opposite where we'd left it. After that, it was about 400 yards to the finish line. As we came off the steep hill, our coach would say that we really had to be going our fastest at that point, and that we should then save our final burst of speed until the finish line was less than 100 yards away and then sprint to the finish line.
Every year we went over this course and we knew it like the back of our hands. Then we would run the course about eight times a season, as well as practice on it another dozen or so times. By the time I was a senior, I had run the course close to 100 times and knew every intricate detail and nuance of its undulating path. I knew where to get an extra burst of speed. I knew how to run through the mud puddles without losing my shoes (thus bypassing all those slower runners who went around it). I knew where I could pass other runners and thoroughly demoralize them in the process. I knew all that, tucked away in my brain.
And yet, every single time out, I'd reach a point where I forgot all the strategy, all the plans, every skill I had, and every single bit of running I had ever known. I would toss it all to the wind and just run - feel the wind across my face, hear the pounding of my heart, feel the sting of sweat in my eyes, and push my legs forward like the drive wheels of a steam locomotive. At that moment, I stopped running and became a runner. I stopped thinking about running and just ran.
I reached that point with the novel. After four years and countless months of writing, notes, journals, plans, discussions, dialog, research, plotting, editing - I just reached down deep inside myself and stopped writing, and became a writer. It was pure guts, pure instinct, pure stamina that carried me to the end, and I crossed the finish line with nothing left inside me, having left it all behind somewhere in one of the endless meadows.
I have a tendency to plan things to death. At some point, I need to learn to let go and just be. All the strategy in the world won't help, if you don't go out there and run the race.
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