Neuron Deficiency: A Quasi-Serious Study of Stuff.

Why Don't You Go Outside or Something?

2009-04-15T16:20:00.000-07:00

A light sweat drips down my cheeks as I head down into the trees from the mountain peak. I've just spent a satisfying hour picking my way up the rocky slopes of Mount Finlayson, clambering over boulders, the hot afternoon sun beating down on me, lighting the surrounding environment ablaze in all its brilliant beauty. The world is beautiful. A sculpture of God's magnificence. He paints the world in broad strokes of green and brown, a dash of yellow and purple, a streak of blue. All around us He molds such unique beauty, every stone or leaf its own singular expression of His creativity, as if to shout, "Here I am, look what I've done for you." That He should allow us to live in this world, experience it, touch it, see it, smell it, feel ourselves and it in perfect interaction, a perfection far greater than our narrow and selfishly defined ideas of "imperfection," is one of His greatest gifts to us. My feet step heavily, my body tired and thirsty, the heat and the rough trail a hindrance, a challenge: the perfect God experience of the imperfect human experience. My mind is elsewhere.

It's on my approaching exam. The one I haven't studied for. Not the one tomorrow, I've done plenty of studying for that one. My philosophy of mind exam on Saturday night (I've been thinking about becoming a Seventh Day Adventist just so I can get out of writing exams scheduled on Saturday by claiming Religious discrimination). I really should be studying for it rather than being out here. If I don't I'll probably only end up with a B (or worse), rather than an A- or better to keep myself up to that oh so wondrous A average that's oh so important to me. Then it hits me.

I don't care.

Really, I don't care. It's my last exam of my entire undergraduate career, in a course that has no bearing on my career. Who cares if I don't get that A on this one? I don't. I doubt an employer would. The exam is going to happen whether or not I'm prepared for it, and then it will be over. Is it really worth my time to put my life on hold just for two hours of writing and a stupid letter?

That's not to say I don't find the material interesting or engaging. But spending the whole day holed up in my room, reading and re-writing notes till my eyes and brain are dry is hardly what I would call, "engaging." Sure I could spend hours pouring over the opinions of a bunch of self important (though admittedly very intelligent) guys who decided that their definition of the way the world works is the right one (because it makes sense... wait... isn't that what faith is about... but I digress). I could learn all the pretentious and needlessly complex terms created by a bunch of folks who wanted to make their "science" exclusive. I could spend hours reading about how no one knows how to physically define the conscious experience (yet don't want to throw it out because "they experience it," so it must be real... sound familiar?) Or, I could simply enjoy HAVING a conscious experience.

So often we're more concerned with defining experiences: recalling them, recording them. We spend our moments trying to keep the important bits in our head, to recall or retell them later, rather than just experiencing and appreciating those moments for what they give us at that very moment. Through science and mathematics we can develop the most intricate and accurate models of the word's complex workings: weather systems, particle interaction, the physical interplay between light and matter in a sunset, all are definable and quantifiably describable. A team of engineers may design the perfect race car, performing thousands of design calculations and creating hundreds of computer models. Within all that they can obtain the specifications, every minute detail, for building the perfect race car. Yet they've no more (and less so) made a race car than a father and son have on a Saturday afternoon using some plywood and and an old lawnmower.

Often, I think, we forget to simply have experiences, to feel things. Who cares why or how we experience it, or what it is? Just be content that it exists and that we get to experience it. We are too content, even obsessed with, representations of the world. A set of ideas and characters are useless if not written down in a book. A set of notes alone does not make a song, or we would have no need for singers or instruments. A script alone does not make a movie, or we would have no need for directors, actors, cinematographers or special effects wizes. These are all experiences that must be... ahem... experienced. What good is a book that is never written nor read, a song that is never sung nor heard, a movie that is never filmed nor watched?

So I say good riddance to this incessant pursuit of "knowledge." Sure there is an important need for a deeper understanding of the workings of God's world. There is awe to be found there too. But I'd much rather feel it than just read about it. Besides, what good are watching the DVD extras if you haven't first seen the movie itself?

Walk of Faith or Survival of the Selfish?

2009-04-12T22:59:00.000-07:00

I finished reading Cormac McCarthy’s The Road (are novels italicised or underlined?) a couple days ago. In it, a father and son slowly make their way across the ashen remains of the United States of America, heading toward the sea, “carrying the fire,” as the father tells his son. They are the “good guys,” and everyone else is held up to suspicion as a “bad guy,” and most are—horrific suggestions of cannibalism and accounts of mankind at its worst abound in the book. A clear sense of hope drives the two forward, each sustained by the other, fellowship, friendship, father and son ship (ships seem like the place to be for community these days). They pick their way across the land—lightless and lifeless—with the simple hope that something better lies ahead. Their journey is an inspired illustration of hope and love in uncertain times, when the world around them has collapsed into a selfish bid for survival, human dignity be damned.

Yet, ever so often they come across other “good guys:” A shuffling victim of a lightning strike, his flesh burnt; a blind old man; a desperate thief. Maybe they’re “lost guys?” There is reluctance on the part of the father to help these people. They ignore the man struck by lightning, and strip the thief not only of what he stole from them, but the clothes off his back. Even the old man, whom they feed and spend the night with at the behest of the boy, is left to fend for himself, too slow to keep up with them. Why should they help them? In such desperate times, it’s every man for himself, right? Their provisions are nearly non-existent, why waste them on another sole, especially one who is sure to die?

I wonder how often we as Christians act like this. We push on through this life of troubles with the hope and faith that beyond God has prepared something much greater for us. We carry the fire of God’s torch, proclaiming to be the “good guys.” Yet, when we come across the lost ones, we ignore them. Why should we let them hinder our Journey? It’s easier just to pass them by—maybe drop them a Bible or a few encouraging, or worse, reproachful, Scripture passages.

I wonder how often on my Journey to draw closer to God, do I come across those who are lost on their way (as if I too am not always lost), and ignore them, even strip them down in my mind, because I won’t let anyone or anything stop me from achieving full righteousness in the eyes of God; anyone or anything but myself of course, I’m happy to cease that Journey if I think I can survive off a nice distraction for a while (The father and son spend days stopped at an underground bunker, feeding on the abundant, preserved food they find there).

In the end, how am I any better than the “bad guys?” They commit terrible acts in a selfish bid for survival, but so do I. I selfishly ignore those I might give aid to, just so I can make it to where I believe God wants me to be, afraid I might not survive the Journey otherwise. As a self ascribed “good guy,” my Destination and Journey may be right, but my conduct is just as reproachful. But then who am I to suppose God wants me to be somewhere else on this Journey? Should I be closer to, or even at the end? Is there an end? Maybe I’m right where God wants me to be. If my faith is true, God will ensure the safe end to my Journey. Maybe He wants me to stop and water the roses.

The Engineer's Poem

2009-02-11T17:02:00.000-08:00

Elasticity,

It governs this city.

Our Buildings,

Our Bridges

Tower around us,

Monotonous.

Pushed towards the edges,

Of our world.

Covering it all.

Built up around principles

Trusted and proven,

A web of cables and beams,

Of welded seams,

Woven

About a concrete canvas.

Tension and compression hold it in balance.

A delicate dance

To avoid the Fall.

We are elastic.

It defines us,

Our feeble flesh

Like a rickety old sign

Pointing the way to our end.

Lasting only by our own stubborn design.

We bear our loads,

And spring back.

Never understanding fully

Their impact,

Their weight.

We feel their pull,

And ignore the cracks.

Like the force at a node,

We approximate our Fate.

With approximations numerical,

We do our best to understand.

The strain,

The pain.

We feel the stress of this dying land

Yet we do not yield even a fraction.

By Newton’s Third we resist

Action and reaction.

Not realising it is by our own stubbornness

That these forces still exist

So to you we call,

The great designer.

Tear down this city,

With its cold steel walls.

We pray that we no longer resist you

In those moments when you untwist us

Shape us

Form us.

Bend us.

Deform us,

With plasticity.

Part 3: The Human

2009-01-23T19:19:00.000-08:00

I close my eyes. The sounds whir around my head, through my head. The rustle of leaves swoops down from somewhere behind. The soft, low hum of the wind swirls and dances around me, wrapping me in a cool cocoon. The cracking and snapping of twigs and sticks clambers up my legs, up my body, and writhes its way into my ears. I shudder. A bird chirps. Somewhere in the distance I hear the lonely drone of a car as it winds its way down the road. My heart skips, then stumbles. I listen carefully, but the rumbling sound of the engine seems to come from every direction. I squeeze my eyes shut tighter— listening, thinking, concentrating. I open my eyes again. I’m still lost.

It’s all my fault, of course. No one told me to go check out the new hiking trail, if you can even call it that, on my own. I’m sure if I even told anyone where I was going, they’d have told me not to go alone. But why would I want someone else to be co-explorer of MY trail? I found the thing. Besides, I like going on my own. It lets me think. I don’t have to listen to someone else blabber on about who cares what. It’s just me and my mind. I like it that way. I get along with myself, for the most part.

Now look where the stupid thing has gotten me. Well, actually, I have no idea where it’s gotten me. I’m lost. That’s the whole point of being lost. You don’t know where you are. I decide to run haphazardly around a bit. I see people doing it in the movies all the time when they’re lost in the forest. I think it must be some sort of reverse psychology tactic on the space time continuum; make it think you’re trying to get more lost, that it ends up letting you get un-lost. Of course, it never seems to work for those people in the movies. They usually run around randomly until they fall down a steep embankment, only to pull their faces out of the mud at the bottom to find that they’re even more screwed than before. But then again, I’ve already gotten my self lost in the forest alone, so you can’t be expecting any rational thought on my part at this point.

I sprint through the forest at full tilt. Actually, I’m pretty much upright with little tilt to my body, except the times when I need to duck under a low hanging tree branch, but only the big ones. Twigs and small branches whip my face. I squint my eyes as the branches claw and tear at my skin, stinging with an acute pain. But my mind is oblivious to it, focusing on one thing—nothing. I’m lost now in my own mind, unconsciously striding through the trees, the thick ferns brushing my bare legs.

My mind is dark. Nothing flows through it. All thought is gone. I’m running on pure instinct. The whole forest twists and sighs around me. My vision flashes between the empty darkness of my mind, and the incomprehensible greens and browns, and splashes of soft white streams, of my blurred vision. I feel the ground underneath growing soft, wet. I know what’s coming. I try to stop, but I’m no longer in control of my legs. I slip.

One moment, the world is racing around me; the next, I’m staring into the mud. I pull myself up, my legs trembling. I rub my hand on my shorts, smearing the remains of a beetle into them. My vision narrows as the trees around me slowly stop spinning. In front of me lies a great log.

The log stretches, for miles it seems, in either direction. It looks squished, sagging under its own weight, the remains of a once great tree, humbled by the invisible, the formless, gravity. Its once thick bark covering is now gone, long since rotted away. I lean against it to rest and it caves in under my weight, its soft inside crumpling into a powder of dusty wood. I pull my hand out of the stinking corpse of the tree.

Along its top, a little ways down from where I stand, I see a flash of bluish purple. I hobble over, my ankle still hurting from my fall. I hadn’t really noticed it until now. As I draw closer a myriad of colour bursts from the top of the fallen tree. Purple, blue and yellow flowers blossom forth, their roots digging deep in the trees great well of nutrients. The greens—some soft and pale, others vivid and bright, still others dark yet no less beautiful—of ferns, ivies, and other plants (I’m not a botanist, I’m doing the best I can here) clothe the rotting tree. Simply put, it’s beautiful. From the very top of the tree I see a new one growing. A small sapling has sprung up from the bruised and broken side of its fallen brother. And beyond this little tree I see it. A sign, it reads:

Lord Nebby The Giant: Worlds Tallest Tree.

And beyond the sign, lies a well marked trail.

Part Two: The Beetle

2009-01-11T00:08:00.000-08:00

She squinted her eyes in the darkness, peering into the distance through the mist, towards it. The spire stretched upward, silhouetted, obscured, its shape shifting behind the veiled layers of fog as they lazily glided back and forth. Its top disappeared into the dark clouds, unimpeded by their oppressive weight as they hung low over the world; an occasional flash of light; a sudden, intense glow from within their depths and a low growl to remind all of their power.

She lurched sideways, caught by a sudden blast of wind. Another grabbed her, an invisible hand, crushing her in a fist of competing air pressures, and tossed her spiralling downward. Her mind reeled as she struggled to regain control. Below the sea of green seemed to rise, clawing its way up towards her, long fingers thrashing back and forth, grasping wildly at the air. The waves danced and undulated, one moment together, almost hypnotic, the next in unruly discord, choreographed by their temperamental conductor, sending up a green spray, needle like, that danced in his arms before being let loose, and dropping down beneath their swaying tips. Another gust caught her, heaving her upward. She looked down, the green fingers softly screaming in protest as she was pulled upward back into the sky, away from them.

A pocket of still air gave her a momentary chance to regain control, and she pressed forward again, flying toward the spire. She kept her eyes fixed on it. At this distance it seemed to stand motionless, unaffected by the tumultuous weather. It stood upright and proud, like a militant commander, above an endless mass of marching soldiers below, the winds carrying his command through the thick air. She faltered, she feared him, but knew she must take refuge from the weather. If she could reach the spire she knew the illusion would slip away, for that’s all she feared, and she could find respite there from the winds.

Something flashed by her, disappearing into the green mass below. Another hurtled down in front of her; another grazed her wing, sending up a cold mist, as it plunged downward. Suddenly, with a brilliant flash and a great shout, the clouds above exploded, sending out a burst of shimmering, transparent flak. She flung herself from side to side, diving then climbing sharply again, dodging the bits of falling cloud. They whizzed by, one after another, on top of another, encasing her, trapping her in a cage of shifting bars. Another flash of light from above— the plummeting crystal orbs surrounding her caught the light, spraying it outward again, blinding her. Her body shook violently as one struck her. Cold, wet, she spiralled downward. Her muscles tensed as her wings quickened their pace, beating with a more hurried thrumming. She regained control once again.

The spire loomed closer now, she was nearly there. Through the mist and rain she could make out his features better now. Like thousands of twisted, ugly arms, his branches jutted out in all directions, covered in needles like course hair. Water cascaded down his gnarled bark. She hurtled herself inward, taking refuge under a branch, huddled close against his trunk. He shook angrily, throwing her off. She tumbled downward, the wind violently shaking his branches all around her. They swung at her, grabbing, striking, and throwing her to the ground. She struck the dirt of the forest floor. Picking herself up, she crawled towards one of his roots, slipping underneath it as it burst from the ground, arching upward, before plunging back down into the muddied earth.

She dug, all six limbs ripping up dirt and rotting plant as she tunnelled beneath the root. Deeper and deeper she clawed her way into the earth, trying to escape the violent wind and rain. She heard him moan indifferently from above, insensitive to her plight. She felt a cold rush as rain water flooded her tunnel, engulfing her in a wet, soggy quagmire. The water seeped through the dirt all around her, softening it, loosening it.

He moaned louder now, staggering sideways. She could feel the earth around her opening up slightly. More rain rushed in, tearing apart his foot hold. Then, almost silently, he began to fall. The earth loosed its grip on his roots. Slowly the great beast stumbled, striking the ground with a deafening THUD!

Part One: The Tree

2009-01-07T19:17:00.000-08:00

He stood in the middle of the forest. Well, generally speaking it was the middle. The borders of the forest traced a decidedly irregular shape, so geometrically (or would that be geographically?) speaking it would be near impossible to define the exact middle (or centre) of the forest without resorting to some nasty calculus and making some assumptions regarding the shape of the forest... but I digress... what I mean is that he was nowhere near any of the borders of the forest, of which technically there is only one, which encompasses the forest in an irregular shape as previously mentioned, but I thought I'd remind you anyway. He was The Tree. Not the Tree, with 'the' beginning with a lowercase 't,' but The Tree, with an upper case 'T' beginning the word 'The' (and the word 'Tree' for that matter). Kind of like how we call really cool people in our society, 'The Man," or, "The Woman (Okay that one's a bit awkward sounding... not that women can't be cool)." Yes he was The Tree (in case you missed its mention the first couple times, or for that matter didn't read the title); tall and powerful, he stood above the surrounding trees... and bushes, though I'm sure that's obvious to most people's immaginations (though the alternative might make for some pretty cool visuals... but I shant go there).

His (or her... but I won't get into discussions of tree sexuality here) roots stretched deep into the earth, penetrating the soft soil, clawing their way around the roots of the surrounding flora, and squeezed through the crevaces in the bedrock before anchoring themselves to said bedrock. Near his base-- which might cleverly be refered to as his butt in a bit of low-brow, messed up, metaphoric analogy funny making, but I'm not going to go there, oh wait I just did-- his immense trunk, with its thick knobly bark, made for a nice photo spot for someone wishing to show of the massiveness of the trunk by having herself attempt to hug the tree by unsuccessfulling wrapping her arms around it; it tappered gradually upward towards a blunted point at his peak, hundreds of feet above the forest floor. His boughs, some long and twisted, other short and the opposite of twisted, some medium length and somewhere in between twisted and not twisted in which it really comes down to a matter of personal judgment as to the degree of twistyness to define them as twisted or not, and others falling into some other category defining their dimensions and orientations jutted out from his trunk in all directions except one; given that his trunk could more or less be described as having a circular cross-section, there are in effect, an infinite number of directions from which his boughs could jutt out in, and thus it follows that there must be at least one direction in which the boughs do not jutt out since they can only jutt out in a finite number of directions.

Yes, he was a formidible tree. He looked just like all the other trees, and in fact was just like them in every way with regards to function and internal chemical processes. Yet, he was taller, bigger and wiser (metaphorically speaking, or so one might use that as a way to stereotype his prodigious grandeur) than all the other trees, and so was better than them for it. He was master of the forest-- watchtree and protector. If it were not for his presense, those nasty humans, with their blunt teeth, scrawny arms and manicured fingernails would have long ago invaded the forest and stripped it of its natural and percieved supernatural beauty to put up another shopping mall or some other waste of space and money. But thanks to his massive size, and some arbitrary human law derived from our own vanity that size does matter and thus we must protect things that are really big because they're somehow "special," the men were kept at bay, and so both himself and the surrounding forest were protected, not that he needed the other trees around; though they did make for nice, if slightly anemic, company.

Nothing could ruin him, destroy him, bring him down. He snickered as the wind rustled his needles (did I forget to mention, he's a coniferous tree), in its feeble attempt to blow him over. He was imovable, impenetrable, and immobile. He was the greatest tree in all the forest; he knew it, and all others did as well.

Beyond the Atmosphere

2008-04-09T18:44:00.000-07:00

I stood staring up at the spaceship for the longest time. Wondering if I should board. Lost, frightened in the ominous shadow, cast by its immense egg shaped body, blocking out the sun. Dare I take the risk and climb that great metal staircase up to that tiny door situated somewhere high, itself already lost in the clouds, up on its sleek body, the only blemish on an otherwise perfectly aerodynamic piece of engineering wonder. I was afraid of that long tiring climb. Would I make it? Or would the seemingly endless trudge, my feet clanking monotonously against the grated metal of the steps, one at a time, upwards get the best of me? I was afraid I would fail to ever reach what I longed for... to blast off.

And if I did, would I have survived even that? Though would it really have been safer to remain on the ground, caught forever in gravity's dependable, yet static pull. I stood staring forward at the four great fins, reaching outward, curving down to the ground to support the great mass of the ship with a might that belied their delicately thin appearance, and encompassed in their midst, coddled in their grasp, sat the boosters, a conical trinity of dormant power, hissing quietly among themselves, ready at any moment to explode, belching out their deadly mixture of hydrogen and oxygen. Would it really be safer to remain?

And now I sit in the ship, apprehensive of where we will go. Questions of space and time rip through my mind as the ship raises itself slowly, cautiously from the earth. As it pulls out of the atmosphere, I feel the last remnants of gravity slowly fading, and find I am just as lost and confused in this new world, where up is down and down is no where to be found.

Where is this ship headed, to what great unknown system is it bound? I do not trust myself at the stick, at the helm. I cannot guide this immense beast alone, through bright, gaseous nebulae; past slowly dying dwarfs; through the vast empty blackness; toward dry, desolate, sulphurous planets; or those abundant in water and life. Surely I would pilot this thing, in an attempt to reach the stars, straight into a black hole, the smoldering remains of the only star I could ever hope to reach of my own volition. But then I realise, I am merely a passenger aboard this ship. In front of us He sits, in His Captain's chair. He is Pilot, Navigator, and even Flight Attendant, guiding this ship where He pleases. And though He may not take us where we like sometimes, we can be sure these engines will never falter, for He designed them as well.

2008-04-04T19:09:00.001-07:00

Sometimes God places the most Beautiful things in the lowest of places...

2008-03-31T19:15:00.000-07:00

I actually wrote this in the summer but never got around to uploading it until now. Kind of odd I guess, but I figured I hadn't said much lately.

***********************************************************

A short walk from where I live there lies a small secluded spot. The patch of tall marshy grasses along the creek is only accessible by crossing on a fallen tree and traversing up stream about 20 meters or so along a narrow path through the trees.

The place is always quiet, so I go there often to sit and think, or listen, or watch the water foul. There's a couple of mallards there. A male and female swimming together. I believe they had ducklings recently, though I didn't see them this last time I came. There's also those ducks with the big heads that like to dive under water; I forget what they're called (not that I ever knew). Bright red dragonflies flit about along the tops of the grasses, and fish (trout?) are often seen breaking the surface in a flurry of silver flashes as they catch insects mid-air.

Sadly, all around this sanctuary are signs of our modern and often reckless and domineering human existence. The buzz of traffic on the highway nearby can be heard. Various coloured markers can be seen hanging from tree branches; what they signify, I know not, but fear the worst; I pray the oft needed but sadly destructive hands of housing development should never find this place. It would be a shame to see such prime water front property marred by a couple of houses. The creek itself passes in a large concrete culvert under the highway from the hospital on the other side, and the tractor trimmed grass of a large dog park and walking path lie just on the other side of the narrow band of trees that lines the opposite bank.

Yet, despite the close proximity of these human influences, the creatures here seem hardly perturbed by any of it. There's a wildness about them. Upon my approach the ducks and mallards swim hastily away, hiding under the low hanging branches of a tree that graze the surface of the water. Eventually, they grow less weary of my presence and reemerge from hiding; still they try to avoid and ignore me. This is of course in contrast to a place like Beacon Hill Park where the ducks swarm you hoping for food.

I often wish I could be like these animals, and this place. Always safe and secluded in a quiet sanctuary. The self-destructive modern human society all around, yet somehow unable to fully penetrate. To be always aware of it yet never corrupted and drawn up into it. To be able to always live the life God created me to live, allowing others in to share some of the experience, yet still weary of them should they attempt to tear down my heart and rebuild it into a cold mechanical pump of secular sludge and waste, turning my life from a Godly Sanctuary into a Devilish Suburbia.

Tokyo... 2

2008-02-09T17:44:00.001-08:00

Tokyo... 1

2008-02-09T17:07:00.001-08:00

Snowy Day

2008-01-29T22:03:00.001-08:00

Dreams

2008-01-22T19:41:00.000-08:00

I am awake.

****

Almost instantly my mind turns on. My eyes shoot open. It takes me a moment to notice the high pitch whine emanating from my night stand. As my senses manage to recollect themselves, I reach over and gently hit the snooze button, flicking the alarm switch to the off position in one deft motion. I stare blinking (if that's at all possible) at the clock momentarily. I roll over and fling off the blankets and sheets, swing my legs around, and firmly plant my feet on the carpet. I close my eyes as I lift my body from the bed.

****

I open my eyes. I'm in the kitchen, pouring myself a glass of orange juice. I sit down, and begin to slowly nibble my cheerios.

****

Seconds later I slam down my glass of milk, empty, onto the table. Remnants of an egg shell remain on my plate, the last of its keep washed down with my sweet apple juice. I glance over at the clock on the microwave. The time reads 7:30. My eyes shoot up from the watch on my arm; I've missed my bus to school.

****

I rush up stairs again, and start the shower running. I'll have to be quick this morning. I head into my room to find my books lying open on my desk. A half unwritten paper sits surrounded by half complete math problems. Shoot! I knew I forgot to do... everything... the night before. No matter though, I need to get in the shower before...

****

... honk... honk... honk.... The sound of car horns comes from all around. Don't the drivers realize that honking at the cars in front isn't going to help them go any faster or farther? My mind fusses over the sheer incompetent impatience of my fellow road users, as well as the fact that I too am stuck in traffic and late for school. At least I no longer have to take that stupid bus.

****

I burst through the doors of my class and am met by silence... silence and the soft, frantic scribbling of pens and pencils. The tops of eight dozen heads stare down at me, the faces of my classmates bowed in prayer... but not prayer (though I'm sure some of them may have been)...

****

... &#^*# ()#*() *@#&*^... I utter a few curse words under my breath. How could I have forgotten I had a midterm today. I sit down and the professor hands me a test paper. I reach into my backpack and pull out a pencil. It has no lead. So I pull out a pen. It has no ink. I borrow half a dull pencil from my neighbor and begin writing. Hurriedly, I write down my answers-- answers to question I've never seen before, about topics I've never studied, for a class I've never been in.

****

I find myself staring at a blank page. How am I supposed to write a 4 page essay on a book I've never even heard of?

****

At least when this is over I'll get to go the zoo, if my brother ever gets out of the shower that is. He's been in there for hours now.

****

I really hope we don't miss our flight.

****

Two wide, thin, slivers of light pierce through either side of my venetian blinds, slicing through the darkness, casting dim shadows across the walls of my room.

****

It is Saturday morning, and yes, I really am awake.

Such are my dreams always. They are nightmares really. And for some reason it always makes me feel depressed. Why must I always dream of normal life gone awry? Is my imagination dead? Am I so consumed by this mundane day to day life of mine that the most frightening thing my mind can develop is a slightly confusing, non sequitur version of a really shitty day in said mundane life?

Am I the only one? Did Tolkien dream of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit, or merely of forgetting where he left those pages Of Herbs and Stewed Rabbit? Does Crichton dream of his Lost World or of simply being lost in this world (or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for that matter)? Was it Samuel L. Clemens of Mark Twain who dreamt while he slept?

Where are the fantastic monsters, or physics altering events of my childhood dreams? Those wild, strange, almost indescribable.... I can't even bring my brain in its wakeful and alert state to describe what came so naturally as a child.

Knowledge and useless facts have heaved asunder the roots of my creativity. My imagination lies dead, in its place stand reason, logic and cynicism, useful yet depressing tools of adulthood.

Prisons

2008-01-20T20:36:00.000-08:00

Recently I've come to wonder at our freedom. We've been granted an immense amount of it. We can go where we like. We can say what we like. We can even be whoever we choose. Yet, we often choose to waive such freedoms.

I could live anywhere, yet for some reason I choose to stay within the boundaries of my house, venturing out only to ascertain certain things crucial to my survival, only to subsequently retreat back to the safety of my abode.

I could say things that I feel passionate about, or speak my mind about anything I should like to. Yet I don't for fear of what others may think or that they may disagree. The same applies to who I choose to be, or more precisely, who I choose to present myself as being.

I find we often create our own prisons in which we can safely reside. Within the walls of our cell we cram everything that we are, keeping it safe behind locked bars away from the rest of the world. This can be rather stifling, trapped as we are along with all these thoughts, feelings, opinions, emotions and character traits.

There is of course some overlap. Certain times where our own thoughts and ideas match those of others. And so we feel comfortable inviting such people into that part of our cell to share with them things that we know they will approve of. But we never choose to allow them to venture beyond, to let them see things about us they may not wholly like, or let them truly see and understand who we are. Likewise, when invited into other's cells, we fear too venture to far beyond. We fear we may come across things that negatively impact our perceptions of them, or that we may find things that challenge our own ideas and ways of thinking or living.

God has given us one of the greatest gifts of all. The freedom to express ourselves, even if such expression is contrary to what He wants of us. But we often choose to lock ourselves away, attempting to hide our faults from others and even from Him, though the latter is a rather fruitless pursuit. And so we never allow Him or others the chance to help us grow or better ourselves. Instead we are content to remain safely within our own little prisons, lonely and bored, never truly sharing in fellowship with the Lord or our fellow man (or woman for those types who aren't satisfied by the use of man as a general reference to all people).

Current Status: High...

2007-10-22T22:30:00.000-07:00

An expression of my emotions and feelings... foreshadowed by creation.
On the journey home... to news proclaiming His provision.

Signs of Intelligence

2007-09-13T21:49:00.001-07:00

I walk briskly down the trail. To my left the dense undergrowth and trees separate me from the railroad tracks that run parallel. To my right I catch glimpses of the setting sun reflecting from the ocean's surface through the trees scattered about the steep embankment that leads down to the the shore. High tide has forced the calm water of the inlet as far as it can, right up to the bottom of this natural wall. The overgrown underbrush passively scratches my bare legs as I duck under the giant trunk of an arbutus tree as it reaches horizontally across the path towards the sunlight. Then, to my right, down at the water's edge below I hear it.

It's a gentle and steady striking noise, almost like a drum being hit in time. It's deliberate, the sound of something or someone working purposefully towards some goal or end. I crane my neck, looking down the slope to find the source. There is a path down through the trees to the beach. I imagine a gull or a crow below, repeatedly striking a clam against a rock or piece of driftwood, trying to get at the meat within. Maybe it's geese, I've seen them here before, a whole family in fact, though I think the little ones would be almost fully gown by now. I imagine it might be a person, doing God knows what.

I make my way carefully down toward the water, careful not to frighten off the mysterious percussionist. I stop partway down, and try to see if I can see from there what I seek to see. I hesitate; should I turn back and continue on my way down the path? I'm nervous it might be a person. Nervous that I might stumble out of the trees onto the little remaining beach only to be face to face with him, staring stupidly, possibly disrupting him in his bout for peace and sanctuary. I like to avoid such human contact, it's awkward. But the rhythmic call of the sound beckons me onward.

I make my way onto the small patch of grass that lines very edge of the beach. I look over to my right. I see nothing. Yet the sound continues. I look around desperately. Maybe it's farther down the beach than I thought?

Then I see it. The water gently laps against a small log, no more than three or four feet long and about five inches in diameter. Repeatedly, consistently, the water forces the log up against the sand and rocks.

Thump... Thump... Thump...

The waves beat the log in time with my sinking heart as disappointment settles in. All this time seeking the truth, hoping to find something, someone, and I have come up short. There is nothing there. No creative drummer, no persistent intelligent labourer, nothing, only the mindless, repetitive surge of the ocean. I'd read to much into what I heard. I'd taken what little information had been ascertained by my senses and extrapolated it into things, creatures, or people that were never there. I'd clambered down the narrow path through the trees, stepping out into the open, only to find I'll never discover what I've been searching, waiting, hoping for, because it never existed, save for in my mind.

Then again... maybe not... Do things cease to exist simply because I can not see them? Surely this creature never existed, but does that mean there is nothing there in the methodical movement of the ocean as it beats its drum along with the rest of the Creation Symphony? I heard the song, and while I sought to find a musician on the sands below, instead I found an instrument, diligently playing its part. I came looking for the workings of something of this world, but now come away reminded of the work of something out of this world.

Sombrio Beach and Juan de Fuca Trail

2007-07-17T23:35:00.000-07:00

Instruments of Creation

2007-07-17T22:05:00.000-07:00

I sit silently behind the old log. Washed up on the shores of the beach by waves of unimaginable might years ago. I sit listening. Listening to the water gently lapping the shore. Listening to the robin flitting through the salal and salmon berry bushes. Listening to the flies chasing one another about my head. Listening for God. I wait attentively, meditating, praying for His fellowship.

But I'm distracted. I scratch a mosquito bite (one of many) on my arm. What's the point of such things? They are a nuisance we should have done away with years ago, purged from this earth. Insignificant little vermin they are. Useless and pointless, their high pitched whine torments us. Why do such things exist?

I remember taking band in high school. When first learning a piece of music we'd gloss over the finer details-- the changes in dynamics, a Glissando or a Sforzando or a Trill, Legato or Staccato. We merely played each note. All other things seemed insignificant. To our developing musical skills, they were an unimportant annoyance.

But as we got better at playing the notes, we began to add in all these little "annoyances." Slowly the song would grow in richness and beauty. What we once thought no one would miss, now added a whole new depth to the piece.

In the same way, the mosquito is like this. It may seem pointless and useless. But when played in the Grand Orchestra of God's creation, they add to the beauty and depth of God's Symphony. We may feel like no one would miss them if they aren't there, but abolish them from the earth and, like that note sans Sforzando, everything becomes a little bit dull and boring.

And what about those nasty bites? Surely God could have done away with that nasty trait long ago in the evolutionary time line? But then, the female mosquito must consume blood to reproduce.

I look down at my arm again, the ghastly bites covering it. I no longer view myself as a victim. I am in communion with God's creation. I am not apart from the rest of Creation, but a part of it. It's not me versus the elements, but me with them. From each bite God will lovingly mold hundreds of new mosquito larvae, each one significant in His eyes.

To think that God would use us in such a way. That our bodies could be so instrumental in bringing forth a wonderful part of his Grand Creation Symphony. We are all part of God's Orchestra, and by playing together, not as individual instruments or parts or even notes, but as one, our lives and roles on this planet, no matter how insignificant they may seem, weaving about one another under the direction of the Great Conductor, we can make truly beautiful music. Kind of makes the itching seem a little insignificant doesn't it?

Swan Sea

2007-05-23T13:32:00.001-07:00

Light the way to thee,
I'm lost upon the sea,
light the way to thee.

Bring me to your shore,
where I will hurt no more,
light the way to thee.

I wanna sail on to you.
Follow you down.
Carry my broken frame
from this saddest shore.

I'm begging darling, please,
crawling on my knees,
light the way to thee.

I've sang this song before,
broken, on a troubled shore,
light the way to thee.

I wanna sail on to you.
Follow you down.
Carry my broken frame
from this saddest shore.

Light the way to thee,
I'm lost upon this sea,
light the way to thee.

I'm begging for your shore,
where I will hurt no more.
Light the way to thee.

I wanna sail on to you.
Follow you down.
Carry my broken frame
from this saddest shore.

On the Swan Sea ,
from the saddest shore
On the Swan Sea,
from the saddest shore,

I sang this song before.
I sang this song before,
on the Swan Sea ,
from the saddest… the saddest shore

~The Violet Burning

Log...muscles....chain

2007-05-05T21:48:00.000-07:00

Words of Encouragement (and an unrelated photo)

2007-04-28T12:01:00.000-07:00

That moment of quite uncertainty,

Of fearful anticipation

As your world comes falling in on you.

You fear the end,

The end of your dreams,

Your hopes,

The life you've laid out for yourself,

The life you love.

But do not fear.

As the Angel said to Mary,

"Do not be afraid."

Remember that He loves you.

That whatever may befall you in this life,

He will be there,

To guide you,

To lead you,

Down the path you were meant to tread,

Sometimes through cold mountain passes

Or dense inescapable forests.

But do not fear,

For beyond lies hope.

A cool spring in an empty desert.

Like the beautiful vista from a top a mountain,

He promises you His love,

His ever present hand guides you

Up the endless rock face.

That you may one day reach the summit,

And peer out above the world in awe of His majesty.

That you may look back along the paths you trod.

The paths you trod alone.

The paths you trod at His side.

In His arms,

Or dragged kicking and screaming.

That you may look back on the paths you trod...

And laugh.

Laugh that you ever found such things hard or difficult,

Or impossible.

For every time you made your own path

Every time you were lost or alone

He was there.

He is always here...

More Photos

2007-04-18T16:37:00.000-07:00

Mostly Water-ee Type Photos

2007-03-28T00:22:00.000-07:00

Precipitous Phobic Pondering

2007-02-20T11:36:00.000-08:00

I love the rain. It's cool, refreshing, and brilliant fun to be out in on a miserable afternoon. I'm sure more than a few people thought me strange the other day; seeing me out in the pouring rain with neither hood nor umbrella, not bothering to circumvent the puddles in my path, opting instead to traverse right through them, stopping on occasion in the smaller ones to make a big splash.

I've never understood why people hate the rain. After all, it's only water. We drink it, are bodies are mostly made of it, we'll even jump from great heights into large bodies of it. Yet we fear a few drops falling from the sky?

"Oh, but it makes everything feel miserable," people will say. But of course it will if you spend all day cooped up inside, afraid to go out, lest you get a bit wet. It's not the rain that makes us miserable, it's our unwillingness to do anything when it's around.

And when we do go outside, we bundle up. We throw on layers of extra clothing, and pull out a massive umbrella. Are we so afraid of a little refreshing water, that we need to shield our entire bodies from its aerial onslaught. Granted one might get sick from being out too long and getting too wet, but don't let that stop you from experiencing such a wonderful gift.

I believe the reason we get sick, is because of all the evil in the world. But why should we have to fear what is good, because sin has tainted it? We are afraid to experience the harmless, even beautiful and wonderful things God has given us, because our own sin might cause something bad to happen to us.

So I say, "So what if I get a little sick." What some may view as a battle, I view as training; strengthening my body against the harshness of our environment. I'm not going to subscribe to the devils fear tactics; I will not hide and shield myself from the good things of this world because he has left his mark on them. Should we avoid art and photography because of playboy. Should we never watch movies, or TV, or listen to music because of Pornography, Reality TV, and (c)rap "music." Just because so much shit has begun to permeate into the good things of this world, does not mean we should avoid those things outright. Instead we should seek to reclaim them; salvage the good back from these gifts God has given us.

Maybe if we all took the time to enjoy the rain, splash in a few puddles, and get a bit wet, we'd see that there really is nothing to fear. God gave us the rain, let's enjoy it.

Born Again!!... and again... and again... and again...

2006-12-07T22:36:00.000-08:00

Attending a new church over these past few months has brought forth some things that one is hardly confronted with when attending the same church since birth. Upon coming to my new temporary church and meeting people, they began to ask me when I became a Christian.

I could not answer them.

I would say things like, "Oh you know... there was this time a while back... when I felt like becoming one... so I did." The thing is though, what exactly does it mean to "become" a Christian? I had never been faced with this question before. Attending the same Church since birth, people just naturally assumed I was "christian" and never gave it a second thought.

So how does a "christian" become a Christian then. Is it through a pledge-- an acceptance of a certain doctrine. Is it through a traditional ceremony like baptism or profession of faith. Possibly, but those are just vehicles through which one publicly and symbolically expresses his desire for God-- for God's involvement in his life. So then, to become Christian one must accept Jesus into his heart-- into his life.

It seems though, that over the years, I've done this countless times. Each time accepting God for different reasons.

In my early childhood, because I grew up with Christian parents and because they told me to in Sunday School. Not much to say here. Basically a sucker for institutionalization.

In elementary school because my friend(s) said they were. Pier pressure anyone?

In high school, because that's the customary age at which a young "christian" does his profession of faith. Merely for ceremonial reasons and tradition. It felt real and sincere at the time, and maybe it was, but any any lasting effect of this "change" drowned out after the initial celebration faded away. I was the same person, only now I'd been to some classes and told a bunch of people who already knew me I loved Jesus. Same me, only formally a Christian now.

Then of course there's now. Having moved away from Christian School and into University and the world beyond, I've begun again to feel compelled to give my Heart over to Jesus. This time for protection. Wishing him to safe guard it from the evil that besets me. The corruption of the secular world seeks to draw me eternally away from him. I cannot hold on. Alone I cannot stay this course-- hold my Heart in place. I need Him to do it. I need him to protect my Heart, so that my eyes may see the world, but my Heart may not absorb it. I wish to see the brokenness of this world, but not be consumed into it. Only He, at this time, can safeguard my Heart. I feel I need him too, from the brokenness I see in this world. Having stepped over the threshold from my Christian Cottage into the surrounding Secular Wasteland, I've seen the terribleness of this society we live in. A society in need of God. A society that, if I am to live in it, requires my acceptance of God now more than ever.

Will this time be THE time? Were any of those previous times THAT time? I've never not believed in God, I've always trusted in Him-- in the path He'd lay out for me. Yet I never had that one pivotal moment all people who become Christians are "supposed" to experience. Should I have one of those? Is that the way it's always supposed to work? I suppose I may find out some time. But until then I must give my self up one more time

I lay my Heart bare at your doorstep oh Lord. I come knocking-- rapping at the door to your safe haven. Keep my Heart safe, and carry my Soul down Your Holy path as this flesh travels the roads that court Hades. Though I cling precariously to these last remaining threads linking me to my previous life, hold me steadfast Lord. Do not let me fall off this precipice into the swirling waters of this society, to have my head crushed against these boulders-- these stones of empty satisfaction. I give up Lord. Hold onto me Lord, because only You can.

Pictures

2006-06-14T20:12:00.000-07:00

[Insert random spiritual and thought provoking comments relating to above photos here]

Sorry, but schools got me too stuck in "right brain" mode to say anything interesting right now. I can tell you Phasor value of the current through a 10 microFarad capacitor hooked up to an sinusoidal voltage source of amplitude 5 Volts, frequency of 5kHz and phase angle of pi/6 radians.... -0.5<4pi/6, w = 10kpi rad/s

Random Ponderings that May be Right or May be Left (i.e. your gonna burn in Hell with all the other liberal heathens!!!...REPENT!)

2006-05-22T21:00:00.000-07:00

How great is God? I think that is something we can never fully understand here on this earth. I believe we tend to constrict our understanding of God to the limits of our physical understanding on things. We take the idea that Man is made in the image of God and flip it, creating God in our image of man. But our image of man is limited. Rather we need to imagine God as something much greater than our own physical viewpoint of who we are. Then does this mean that, since Man is created in the image of God, there is much more to us then what we physically define to be man? In away, yes. God is far Greater and far more Amazing than man, and by looking beyond our physical selves, we can get a glimpse of the Greatness in Whose image Man was created. There is more to God than man can understand, and there is more to Man than man can understand because we are made in the image of God. That’s not to say that we ourselves are gods, but that we possess a spiritual side that goes beyond our limited physical definition of man. As God’s creation, we are perfect. But we can’t achieve perfection on our own. Adam and Eve tried it; they took the forbidden fruit believing it would make them like God. We too, try in our own ways to achieve perfection outside of God. But we fail miserably, because the only way to achieve perfection is through God, because only He is perfect.

Thirsty

2006-05-07T18:51:00.000-07:00

I remember walking by a pop machine one time. Actually, I've walked by quite a few machines of the dispensing variety (loaded with sugar or otherwise). But this particular machine led rise to an epiphany that has been plaguing my mind since my footsteps traversed beneath the shadow of cold red machine with its ominous product placement, waking me late at night to a cool sweat and a million pseudo-religious thoughts ripping through my mind, numbing my brain. As I recall, I walked by the machine rather nonchalantly. As I passed by however, I glanced over at it. Immediately I began to feel increasingly thirsty; I wanted some coke (no not the illegal stuff). Upon further inspection, I found that it wasn’t the big red coke label on the machine that made me thirsty, nor the hip and moderately sexy looking (at least I think they were, nobody uses ugly people in advertising) young people holding up some pop cans (which is odd because I think this machine sold bottles, not cans). It was the numerous images of tiny water droplets that covered the big red coke label. What I really wanted was cool, clear and pure Dihydrogen monoxide. Instead, my mind had been tricked into wanting what the much more prominent coke label was offering; a false solution to what I really desired.
So to, do we often desire certain other things. Unfortunately, things like wealth, lust and sex (of the let’s screw everybody cause it feels good variety) rear their ugly heads, offering themselves as a solution to our needs. We feel that these are the things that will quench our thirsts and desires. In actuality however, what we really need and desire are happiness, joy and companionship. I wonder where we could get those things...? Anywho, I guess it just seems like the world is offering quick, easy, seemingly good (tasting or otherwise) solutions to the emptyness in our lives... and they make us go pee too (there might be a deep metaphor in there somewhere).

The Adventures of Pearman

2006-04-11T22:11:00.000-07:00

The Adventures of Pearman
Volume 1: Pearman and a Bunch of Random Events

Pearman was indeed a pear, as is obviously implied by the former half of his name. However, contrary to the possibility of popular belief arising from the presence of the latter half of his name, he was not a man. For one can not be both a man and a pear, and if the reader were to suggest that he could be some kind of man/pear hybrid creature, he would be thoroughly incorrect. The possibility of a part-man part-pear creature (although Pearman's name is whole pear and whole man) is completely improbable due to our society's current genetic knowledge and the fact that it's just plain creepy. So, without further argument, it shall be declared by the author, who is omniscient concerning the events of the story, that Pearman is completely a pear. Furthermore, the presence of the word 'man' in his name simply exists to personify human qualities into his character, thus allowing the reader some type of emotional attachment to the character. After all, who in his right mind would find an emotional attachment to a pear, but with a pearman, the possibilities of an engaging emotional story are endless.

Yes, he was pear (see previous paragraph if you wish to think otherwise), and like all pears, he hung from a branch of, none other than, a pear tree. As the bright afternoon sun cast its rays across Peaman's skin, he peered-- in whatever way is possible for a pear to do so, since they lack the sensory means for sight-- down to the grass below. The sound of crickets chirping loudly in the grass filled his nonexistent sound receptor organs (once again it's just personification. How else did you think I'd get you to care for this little guy?). Drips of morning dew (which apparently still remain well into the afternoon in this story) slid down Pearman's skin, and although he couldn't feel them, we'll pretend he could.

Suddenly, a harsh turbulent wind blew through Pearman's tree, shaking him violently in his perch. Actually, it was only a wimpy little puff of wind from a butterfly passing by. However, combining the effects of the Butterfly Effect and the fact that Pearman measured a mere 3.6423456 inches in length, it sure felt harsh and turbulent, and so the wind was successful in separating Pearman from his branch. Pearman plummeted to the ground. His metaphorically implied heart filled with grief at the loss of his stalk during the separation, for he now measured only 3.14159265 inches in length. He struck the ground forcefully, sending a shudder throughout his body. He wasn't the only pear to fall from the tree that day, nor even that moment. However, none of these pears was a pearman, nor did any of their names end in woman, nor boy, nor girl, nor dog, nor cat, nor uncle, nor even president; nobody cares what happens to them. In fact, just in case you do care (weird freak), three were eaten by wasps, two were stepped on, and the remaining 144 000 are now in a jar (or twenty thousand jars maybe) of Pearsauce in stores wherever Pearsauce is sold.

Anyway, Pearman was now on the ground. Except for a few bruises he was unharmed and in perfect eating condition (No foreshadowing there whatsoever. Nope, no foreshadowing implied at all). Had he a brain, he might have thought about walking around to explore his surroundings. If this was true, and had he also the means of walking, he would have discovered that he now lay on the freshly cut grass of the backyard of a fairly new house in the suburbs of some North American city (or quite possibly North Pakistan). He would have noticed how green the grass was and all the worms and insects and other creatures that scare your grandma. Alas, he possessed none of these abilities and was completely indifferent to his surroundings. Coincidentally, he also knew nothing of the recent events that delivered him to his new environment. And so Pearman rested in the grass awaiting the next great adventure that fate would deal him.

Fortunately for Pearman, and the reader for that matter, fate was no couch potato who never got off its lazy arse. She (what did you expect, I said it WASN’T a lazy couch potato) had already cooked up (yet another reason why it’s a girl) a nice steaming plate of fun for Pearman.

While Pearman sat on the ground, he was oblivious to the frolicking insects around him. They playfully… umm… er… played, in the dirt. Ladybugs playing hide and seek with aphids, a group of fifty ants play-fighting with a grasshopper, two nearby squirrels playing piggy back, and all manner of dumbed down, sugarcoated backyard events occurred around an ignorant Pearman. Then, without warning, a loud thump was heard in the not too distant distance. Then another, this time exactly two feet four inches closer. Then another was heard, this time even closer. Upon hearing this approaching danger, the creatures were quick to scurry into hiding. Not Pearman though. Like all great literary protagonists, he stood his ground. The approaching man (those thumps were his footsteps) slowly grew closer to Pearman. With every step came another deafening thump that in any Oxford (or equivalent) Thump-English Dictionary meant impending doom for our little hero. The man’s foot had now landed right next to Pearman. The next moment Pearman was almost spontaneously launched into the air. It seems the man suffered from SKS (Spontaneous Kicking Syndrome) and forgot to pick up his prescribed medication from the Wal-Mart pharmacy that morning. At any rate, Pearman was now airborne. Moreover, like all aerodynamically contoured pears, he was airborne for a conveniently long period of time. Thus the author is afforded many paragraphs to describe the lengthy flight. Only a long flight such as that of Pearman can allow the author to write an extensive sub plot on the flight of the little fruit. Therefore the length of the story can be effectively augmented bringing it closer to epic novel proportions. SPLAT! Pearman’s flight was unfortunately cut short by gravity.

Dun Da Da Daaa (musical introduction)
Choose Your Own Pearman Adventure

Thanks to the latest in storytelling technology, the author of this story was able to develop a new, more involving storytelling technique. Just read on and I’m sure you’ll understand.

Pearman now…

If you wish to choose, "…rested on a frozen lake." your adventure continues on the next page.
If you would like Pearman to have, "…landed on a steep embankment." you will find out what happens on the page after the next page.
And if you want Pearman’s adventure to have continued such that he, "…ended up bobbing up and down in a river." go to the page after the page after the next page.

Now that wasn’t too hard was it? If you’re still confused, don’t worry, most people like you have trouble with this sort of thing. In fact, I haven’t met a cerebrum-deprived dimwit who could do one of these. So don’t fret, you’re not a loner among your kind.

____________________________

Pearman now rested on a frozen lake. Just like all frozen lakes during a sunny afternoon in the middle of summer, it was far from frozen. As a direct result, Pearman actually bobbed up and down in the calm waves in the middle of a lake.
Go to the page after the page after next page to see what happens next.

_______________________

Pearman now landed on a steep embankment. Despite this little hindrance, gravity continued to work its magic and pulled him down the slope and into the lake below.

Go to the page after the next to find out what happens next.

_____________________

Pearman now ended up bobbing up and down in a river. The swift current of the river swept him downstream and into an unfrozen lake.

Go to the next page to find out what happens next.

_____________________

Pearman was now bobbing up and down in a lake (in case you didn’t know that already). He was either in the middle, near a steep embankment by the shore, or near the mouth of a swift river that flowed into the lake. However, location isn’t important, so I’ll just say he was in the lake. Unfortunately for Pearman (or anyone else stranded in the middle of the lake for that matter) the lake was populated by a flock of five hundred geese. As is known to anyone who has spent his entire life studying the eating habits of geese, geese enjoy a nice juicy pear every summer afternoon around 3:00. Since it was only 2:30, Pearman’s presence was almost completely unknown to the geese. I say almost because one young, uninformed gosling did notice Pearman, and was feeling quite hungry I might add. Fish and Game quickly reprimanded him for conspiracy to mess with the laws of nature. So Pearman continued to bob up and down in the lkae (spelling error), completely unaware of his liquid surroundings and the fact that his current adventure had no plot as of yet.

At this point it shall be assumed that Pearman’s imaginary mind was beginning to feel, in the most imaginary sort of way, homesick. He longed, not really, for his old pear tree. He felt, in such away that only personified pear emotions can feel, that he must return to his previous place of residence. How he would do so, he knew not. For being a pear, he had no brain beyond the metaphorically personified implications of one formulated by the author. As is known to all Neurologists, a brain is required for knowing. Thus, Pearman’s lack of any sort of tangible gray matter (or white matter) prevented him from knowing how he would reach his perceived destination. Which, we’re only pretending he longed to reach. And how he did long for his home. He longed for the birds singing to the rising sun, both of which he never heard nor saw. He longed for the cool shade of his tree’s foliage and how it danced (Pearman’s not the only object being personified in this story) like little green people, that happen to look nothing like people, in the soft wind. As Pearman longed for his home, he slowly drifted across the lake till the gentle propagation of wavelets stemming from the centre of the lake forced him up onto the opposite shore. What it was opposite of is still unknown since he started out more or less in the center of the lake. With one final push of the waves, Pearman’s oblong shaped body was thrust up onto the sandy shore.

People populated the beach. Swimmers, bathers and suntaners of various sizes, in various sizes of bathing suits, covered the beach. If Pearman could see, he would have noticed that many of these people, in an attempted to mimic the standards of beauty, aesthetic appeal, and overall hotness (that state that more skin showing is equivalent to more perceivable attractiveness) set forth by the media and various modeling agencies worldwide, did not seem to match their bathing suits in terms of size. Weight challenged people in Speedos aside, Pearman, seemed to be enjoying his time relaxing on the beach. Unencumbered by any sort of bathing suit, he must be really attractive (can you say upcoming romance?), the suns rays quickly dried him off.

The sound of little feet walking across the sand grew louder as the source approached Pearman. The source was non-other than Giant Gary; a three hundred pound, 7 foot tall, 5 foot wide (or is it the other way round), Frenchman. Well, actually, the source was his unusually small feet. Nonetheless, he seemed to have a keen interest in all things pear; so naturally he was drawn to Pearman. He stood staring down at Pearman, wondering how a pear could have ended up there. Then, slowly he bent forward, his oversized-- and overexposed-- hind section basking in the sun as he did so. He clasped a large, stubby fingered hand around Pearman, and lifted him off the ground. Giant Gary stared bewildered at Pearman. Never before had he seen such a fine specimen. Silence issued forth from his gaping mouth, as well as large amounts of drool. As his synapses began firing again, Gary’s vacant stare disappeared and he happily placed Pearman in his pocket and continued to walk down the beach.

The ride in the pocket of Giant Gary was not a pleasing one. Pearman was constantly thrown up and down in the pocket as Gary bounded across the sand. Little did Pearman know that each rising and falling in the pocket meant Gary had taken another step closer to his house, where he had planed a blind date with a pearsauce maker for Pearman (both Pearman and the pearsauce maker had no eyes, so technically it really was a blind date).

Giant Gary’s house was like an old Nazi concentration camp, a concentration camp for pears that is. Hundreds of thousands of pears filled the cramped shelves and cupboards of his rundown, ill cared for shack. Each passing day ate away at the lives of these poor, captive fruit. For the inevitable day approached when they would be taken up by their captor, crushed beneath his blunted incisors, sucked down his esophagus into the acidity of his gut, broken down by enzymes, passed through his intestinal tract until finally…well, go read a Biology text book why don’t you. Yet amidst all the pain, suffering, and pearocide (clever pun on genocide), these pears where oblivious to it all. So, like all the extras in a war movie, their deaths are just gory eye candy. But not Pearman, no, definitely not Pearman. For, at least in the context of this story, Pearman possessed human qualities. And as such, like any pear with human qualities, he feared being eaten. Unfortunately for him, Gary was quite fond of his new discovery (Pearman) and decided he’d eat him the moment he got home. Thus the stage was set for the greatest showdown of all time, between Pearman, and Giant Gary’s pearsauce maker.

Pearman’s non-present eyes stared across the dusty counter at his foe, and she stared back. A soft breeze blew across the arena, but all else was still. Slowly each reached a personified hand down towards his/her (go political correctness) imaginary waste, where, if this truly were a western, a nicely holstered revolver would reside. Furthermore, there’d be lots of sly dialog between our protagonist and antagonist about the counter top not being big enough for the both of them, even though it really was. Alas, since neither a pear nor a pearsauce maker—which is really just a fancy blender that’s been cleverly marketed (and sold to suckers, like Gary, over those annoying TV infomercials)--have the ability to act out a western style gun fight, both really just sat on the counter top awaiting Gary’s intervention. Suddenly and without warning, or quite possibly suddenly and with warning, or maybe even anticipated and without warning, Gary’s hand curled its stubby fingers around Pearman’s body. Pearman attempted to squirm out of Gary’s grasp, but due to Gary’s tenacious grip, and the fact that he lacked any physical or muscular means to squirm, he remained firmly trapped. Slowly, well actually quite quickly, but how else is this story going to build dramatic tension, Gary's hand brought Pearman closer to the whirling blades of the Pearsauce maker.

In an instant Gary loosed his grip, freeing Pearman to the forces of gravity. The keen edge of the pearsauce maker’s blades beckoned menacingly as they whirled violently, slicing through the air, inviting Pearman to certain doom. Is this the end of Pearman? Has he reached his climax? Will he ever traverse the summit of this tale’s plot line and enjoy the sweet conclusion of a denouement, or will he be impaled on the abrupt point of an anti-climax? Tune in next week to fin…Whoops, seems this story has shifted into Retarded Saturday Morning Cartoon gear, I guess we better shift back.

"I’m sorry Pearman," sniffed the remorseful voice of the Pearsauce maker.
Tears welling up in the bottom of his eyes Pearman replied, "That’s alright, you didn’t mean to try to slice me up into a million pieces of indefinable shape and varying hardness."

"Can we still be friends?"

"Of course, you know I’d never turn my back on a friend like you."
It had been a heartbreaking half hour, but now Pearman and the pearsauce maker embraced in a gentle hug, both holding back tears of happiness at the restoration of their friendship; a sappy Backstreet Boys song played quietly in the background as the credits began rolling up the scree… We sincerely apologize for this brief layaway in After School Special Land, we will return to your regular programming in a moment.

Pearman grasped the blades of the pearsauce maker firmly, wrenching them violently onto the soft, down, duvet covers. His eyes full of lust, his stalk hard and sti… moving on now.

Several genera shifts later…

Pearman dropped towards the blades like a rock, or like any falling object for that matter, if you neglect air friction. Suddenly, time seemed to stand still. Aside from the inherent and undeniably cool visual feast to be gained, the ingenious inclusion of bullet time afforded Pearman with enough time to think through an escape from his dire circumstances. Well, actually, it just provides the author with a device, and justification, to pretend Pearman was thinking through his current situation methodically. In reality he had given in entirely to the influences of gravity and those around him. Poor little guy, I guess his heart just couldn’t take the strain.

He might have let out a terrible cry of fear and lose as space-time returned to its natural quantum state and the whirring blades resumed their maniacal pirouette. His inanimate little body continued its silent descent towards an inevitably violent, skin tearing, bone crushing, pear blood and guts everywhere, with the possible inclusion of partial decapitation death.

The first of the painfully sharp blades began its incision. Its keen edge tore through his flesh, his inner juices slowly seeping out as a wave of pain drenched him in agony. Unhindered, the blade continued its journey to the centre of Pearman, eating its way through his very core. Then, when he was all but transected… he woke up.

It had all been a dream, a huge copout by the author to end the story. Everything you’ve read up until now never really happened. So forget about it. No SKS man, no geese, no Fat Gary (thank God), and no pearsauce maker. And Pearman lived happily ever after, in case you wanted to know.

The End

Yup, it's over. Don't you feel like a better person, like you've grow mentally, physically and maybe a bit spiritually, now that you've dedicated a part of your life to the epic tale of Pearman?

You're still hear? The story ended like 50 lines ago.

Listen buddy! It's over! Get over it! MOVE...ON!

ARRRRRRRGGGGG @$)#()$(#)@) @)#()(%__)_@_)!*!&&amp;amp;@&#

EVILution VS Unintelligent Design

2006-04-07T20:03:00.000-07:00

As many of you don't know, I'm a big fan of science: biology, chemistry, physics, engineering, astrology, alchemy...okay, well maybe not those last two. However, I'm also a Christian and believe that the Universe was created by, surprise surprise, God (I know some of you probably thought I was gonna blame the Universe's creation on Lord Ulrich, supreme leader of all German Speaking Aquatic Humanoid species in the Andromeda Galaxy, but you are quite wrong). It seems though, for those of you who never paid attention in... well... just haven't been paying attention at all your whole lives, that there is considerable tension between Science and Religion. Non-Christian Scientists tend to view their Christian counter parts as crackpots with zero scientific merit to their theories. And the Christian Creationists who believe in intelligent design, they believe evolution to be the root of all evil and a direct assault against the existence of God. In short, Creationists believe:

The Lord created the earth in six days. No more. No less. Six shalt be the days He shalt have created, and the days of the creating shall be Six. Seven days shalt He not have created, nor either did he create in five days, excepting that he then proceeded to day six. Eight days is right out. Once the day six, being the sixth day, was reached, then, rested he on the seventh day, and the Earth, which, being good in his sight, snuffed it.

And the evolutionists, well, they believe the Universe began with some sort of Big Bang. I think that maybe God lit one of his farts or something. I’m not really sure how that resulted in life though; no one’s really bothered to explain it to me beyond the fact that there was a really big explosion and all this life came out of nowhere. Maybe that’s why they keep blowing crap up in Iraq?

What do I believe then? I guess I’d consider myself a Theistic Evolutionist. In other words, God used evolution to create (and he continues to use it) the world and the creatures that inhabit it. How can I believe a theory supported by those sinners, those Evil, heartless, on a Highway to Hell Atheists? Simple, their theory doesn’t make sense without the presence of an intelligent designer. The signs, after all, are all around us. Patterns in biology, like how flowers usually have 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, 34 or 55 petals. Notice how each number is the sum of the two preceding it. They are Fibonacci numbers (the sequence actually starts at 1, then 2, then 3…). And what about Newton and those little maxims he devised, the three laws of physics? Every thing doesn’t just follow a set of rules unwaveringly all the time. And laws don’t just appear out of know where. Something has to bring order and direction to this Universe. I once heard a pastor say, "A tornado doesn’t just blow through ha scrap yard and a 747 pops out (maybe a Cessna though, he didn’t quite clarify what a tornado is capable of doing given a few thousand tons of scrap metal)."

Then we have evolution itself. In order for evolution work, a gene mutation must occur that gives a creature’s offspring a marked advantage over the others of its species. Seems simple enough. Except there’s just one problem, many gene mutations are neutral and most others result in a disadvantage: cystic fibrosis or cancer to name a couple. The actual chances of a positive gene mutation, that actually gives a considerable advantage, are like a billion to one (or something like that, I couldn’t actually find correct statistics). Kind of makes you wonder why evolutionists don’t play the lottery more often. But then there’s God. I believe that God, whenever he wants to, reaches down and creates a positive mutation. Slowly, through the millennia, he has altered and changed his creation. It’s no more perfect then it was when he first created it, but it’s no less perfect either. Like an artist, he continues to create, continues to surprise us with his craft.

I don’t believe everything evolution teaches though. I don’t believe man came from apes. I think most of the evolution is minor. God changes the minor details in creation to help it cope with the world that we keep screwing around with and changing. Like those white moths that reproduced dark offspring so they could hide better against the soot-covered trees and walls of 19th century industrialized England. Of course, God probably also goes all out every once in a while and creates what is basically a whole new species (dinosaurs to birds maybe?).

Then there’s the Bible itself. It pretty clearly states that God created the Heavens and the Earth in six days and rested on the seventh. But then, is it really a literal description of the creation, or just a poetic declaration that God created the world? The seven days just drawing a parallel to the seven days of the week and the reason for resting on the Sabbath. I think the important thing to realize is that the Bible is not a scientific text. It’s meant to teach us, meant to show us the truth of who Jesus is, who we are, and the lives God wants us to lead. Besides, Moses could have began Genesis like this:

In the beginning, God Created the Monerans and the Prokaryotes. Now the Nucleus was without form, and the DNA was hovering in the bodies of cytoplasm.

Sure it makes complete sense today, but back then the Israelites would have been like, "What the &^%# are you talking about Moses. I mean, come on. We put up with your whole God wants us to walk around in this freaking desert for 40 years, but this? DNA, what does that stand for? Do Not Ask? Sorry man, but even the golden calf made more sense then this." Sure wouldn’t do much for God’s credibility back then.

The same is happening now too. In this we humans know everything and don’t need a God world people look at Genesis and wonder, "What the hell, this makes absolutely no sense." It’s too bad really. If only we could all see God’s presence in his creation. People say us Christians follow blindly, but then, everyone’s already blind anyway.

I could be wrong though. He could have done it in six days. He could have done it in a second and not rested at all. I just don’t think it really matters how He did it. It only matters THAT He did it, that it was beautiful and that He sent his only son to die for our sins. I just wanted to back up my own beliefs.

Why You Should Not Keep A Blog

2006-04-04T23:00:00.000-07:00

The Blog are large carnivorous reptilian like creatures that inhabit the swampy shallows of Lake Ip on the planet Webb of the Cite galaxy. Measuring 10 to 15 feet in length, they have a thick scaly hide and are characterized by a ridge of feathers running along the spine from the shoulders to the tip of the tail. Their main diet consists of the flying bat-like creatures, the Javvas. Using sticky pods produced in a bulbous sac on the end of the tail, they knock the Javvas out of the sky using a technique called Pod-Casting. Many humanoid civilizations throughout the Universe have tried to keep Blogs as domestic creatures, but all have failed. The most successful (if you can even call it that) attempt to domesticate Blogs was by the people of planet Cirvor, the Cirves. Unfortunately they could not handle the Blog’s high food demands and the civilization collapsed when the Blog’s Pod-Casting destroyed their main source of energy, the radioactive crystal known as the Bant-Withe. Since this incident, the Galactic Council has deemed it illegal to keep a Blog.

Fearless Fun

2006-04-02T15:47:00.000-07:00

I used to SUCK at skiing. I'm better now, and can ski pretty much anything as long as it's more or less devoid of moguls (my ability to maneuver those things is a whole other story). Still to most people I probably look like an uncoordinated orangutan rocketing down the mountainside flailing wildly at every little unexpected bump. Still, there was a time when I really truly was a poor skier. I would slalom back and forth perpendicular to the run: back and forth, back and forth, back and forth… ad nauseam. Suffice to say, I was a horizontal skier; how I managed any sort of vertical motion at all is still a mystery to me. My problem was that I was afraid. I was even afraid to turn around after traversing across the entire run; this nearly led to some very intimate moments with the tree line on a number of occasions. I feared that if I pointed the tips of my skis downhill I would achieve a velocity so great that my meager skills and sloth like ability to react wouldn’t be able to maneuver me around the many obstacles that litter the ski hill: other skiers, snowboarders, lift poles, trees, snow banks, the occasional misplaced glove; anything and everything was a constant threat to my continued existence as I made my way down the hill. I eventually did get better though, as my skills improved. Yet, I was still afraid of going to fast or losing control.
That all changed about 2 months ago. I was enjoying a leisurely, safe, controlled, SLOW time on the hill with my brother (one of those I’m invincible and possess super human skill in all sports types). The day was going like it always did. He would race down the hill, stop, wait a few minutes for me to creep, stumble, or roll down the hill to his position, and then he’d race down the next section of mountain. Then, he challenged me to a race. It wasn’t a particularly treacherous hill, just a short, easy black diamond run followed by a long flat traverse section with a few narrow (difficult to slalom in) steep sections. I warily accepted his challenge and a few seconds later we were heading down the mountain. To my surprise, I was hardly turning at all. I shot straight down the black diamond run in seconds and safely made the left turn onto the traverse where I was able, despite my high velocity, to dodge the many people that usually populate the traverse. I had finally faced my fear of going fast and managed to attain a confidence in my abilities I never had before. The strangest part was that I enjoyed it. I had always figured going fast was no fun, that it took to much effort, and that if I ever took the risk I’d just end up reverting to my old slow ways again. Instead, it was purely exhilarating.
I think we tend to follow the same slow, safe path in our walks with God. We fear failing and are afraid to take any leaps of faith. We are afraid that if we just let go and take some risks, we’ll loose control. So, we just end up going nowhere. What we don’t realize is that God is always in control, and if we fall, He will keeps us safe like the soft powdery snow has done for me during my countless wipeouts on the mountain side. And if we do let go, and trust that He will guide us safely down the seemingly treacherous slopes and terrain we encounter in our lives, we will experience life in a whole new way. No longer dull and monotonous, God will take our lives down a much more exciting path. All we have to do is be a little fearless and have faith that he will guide us around the obstacles that are put in our way. God is a double black diamond skier (if he’s a snowboarder I’ll personally convert to Jim Jonesism) who knows each and every run on the mountain.

Welcome My Fellow Silicon Based Lifeforms.

2006-03-19T19:05:00.000-08:00

Who am I? I can't say. Well actually, I really can. But I'm not going to. My anonymity will remain as such. My real name is Daryl (Crap!! so much for anonymity). Anyway, here I am known as Pearman. Why? Well it’s quite simple really. You see, pears grow on trees, and I don’t. This fact, combined with the evidence in many scientific texts that pears aren’t round, you can see why I have adopted this online moniker. Well, actually, Pearman is a character in a story a friend and I wrote one summer. He may still have it but I’m not really sure. It probably burned up in the Great Chicago Fire or something along those lines. Why did I adopt such a name then and not he? Well, my last name happens to mean pear tree in some long forgotten foreign language. So I took it, and now it’s mine. I wrote another story about this character too and might post it up here if demand exceeds my mental capacity to resist blinking lights. Anywho, enjoy my blog… or else.