Why I'm not a Religionist, IV

Continuing on the premise of the ending thoughts of the last WINAR I wrote . . .

When I don't love Jesus as much as I should, I turn to religion to fill me up.

Maybe that's why Jesus never implicitly preached a sermon on the state of the dead. He confused people when he talked about Jairus' daughter being asleep, but he never went into the nitty-gritty.

Maybe that's why Jesus never implicitly preached a sermon on the relevance and infallibility of the Torah. He quoted it and used it profusely, but he never defended it in a sermon.

Maybe that's why when I, feeling empty inside and maybe a little wanting, look at how I went over the amount of worships I was supposed to go to this semester and feel good about myself.

Maybe that's why I don't always feel the urge to go out and preach (scary, huh?).

Maybe that's why I don't know what I would say to people I meet in the street.

P. Herrera was walking down an interstate to the next town looking for a mechanic because his truck was broken. My dad and I gave him a lift. Yet in all the time he was in the car with us I never mentioned Jesus. On one hand I felt good about this "good deed," but on the other--was he able to figure out I am a Christian?

Or the time I gave some cereal to some people stranded on the road, or the time I put money in the bin of a raggedy-tobacco-smelling-bell-ringing Salvation Army volunteer when I was with my friends--do they and people that saw that know that I'm a Christian?

I came to the conclusion that I'm not going to call myself a Christian anymore, because that is a label that others should bestow on me. Plenty of "Christians" have muddied Jesus' name, myself included.

But when I love Jesus, for real love Jesus, I won't need to turn to my good deeds checklist or my Bible verses known or my attendance to round-table discussions and seminars.

I'm not saying I won't need to know the state of the dead or other doctrine, but it would now be easier for me to know what to say.

Because I won't be trying to convert them.

Because I won't be trying to check off doctrines taught to that person.

Because I won't be trying to enslave them in my personal religious system.

Because I won't be reading a script of what I should say when the door opens.

Because I won't have anything to say, rather God will speak through my love for Him translated into what I do for them, not out of obligation or to make myself feel good, will set them free from the chains they have, be it poverty, hunger, depression, friendlessness, or even making a perfectly happy person feeling good about themselves.

It would set me free, too, from trying to conform to my personal religious system.

From trying to convert others.

From making service a burden.

From reading a script of what to say when the person rejects the cookbook.

From the realization that I do not feel the urge to go out and preach because I am preaching with my actions.

Or maybe I'm just crazy.

Not much to say. . .until now.

It has been 14 days since I last posted anything, and the last post was me killing time in between assignments. The one before took two seconds to write. And the one before was a poem I wrote on that painting that I had to turn in to my Arts and Ideas class. So it's been a while since I've posted anything substantial originally for this blog . . . although only Elena and my dad would have noticed anyway.

Still, I have had entirely too much to do over the past three weeks, and now that I finished that I began to recharge. As I promised myself, I bought myself a book now that the semester is over. I couldn't choose between Crime and Punishment and Les Miserables, so at random I got Les Mis. I have started both of these before but never finished them.

I have all of a sudden have become aware of a major movie/musical based on Les Mis coming out on Christmas day. This gave me an idea.

I have challenged myself to finish all 1462 pages of Les Mis before the movie is scheduled to come out, so here I go. Wish me luck!

Once again . . .(or, Random Rant, VII)

. . . nearing the end of the semester, I find that what I had planned out didn't go the way I thought it would.

Still, I know I accomplished more than I set out to. Honestly, the fact that everything didn't go as expected is sobering and necessary. As I've said before, I tend to dream a little big, and while there's no problem with that my dreams are--more often than not--leaning towards the "un-realistic" side.

Since they are a bit unreal, it gives me the opportunity to see how the real stuff happens before my very eyes, sometimes even better than I had imagined in my huge dream.

As this is being written, I am in my office waiting for an update on the design of the last Clocktower of the semester. My phone's just about dead, I got locked out of my office for the umpteenth time (when I finally got my door opened again, my keys were sitting there on my desk, almost non-chalantly), and just pondering as I peruse my Facebook feed and (unconsciously) listen to Coldplay's "Green Eyes".

 Also subconsciously, until now, I've been making good use of a stress ball in shape of a person I acquired yesterday. Poor thing was white, but now is yellow. I'm not sure why, I cleaned it off with a Clorox wipe and it got worse. At least it's not my hands that made it yellow.

One of those times...

when all I've ever read, on any subject, cannot help me one bit.
haha

On Seeing Jean Georges Vibert's "The Grasshopper and the Ant"

Warmer months have gone
Three months since I last had a merry time
And too long 'til I will be able to again.

I never had none,
And what I had, whatever dime,
The ant came and called it a gain.

The lyre kept me alive
Gave me clothes upon my back
The ant came and called it indolence.

Now with feet trembling and stomach empty
A fat ant do I search out for help
And dance he bids me!

Thanksgiving (or, Black Friday)

Why is it that the day after Thanksgiving day, the day we give give thanks for all that we have, there's a day set apart to camping out in front of stores to buy that which we don't need?

Kitchen Slam Poetry

How 'bout that?
Man, I love home.

Two days ago I sat in the kitchen, re-reading Steinbeck's The Winter of our Discontent as everyone slowed down and got ready for bed. My dad sat across the table from me and said, "That poem you had on your blog last time, the one by Miguel Otero Silva, I loved it!"

I agreed and wondered where the conversation would go next; I can never tell. I made sure I knew what page number I left off in and closed the book.

He continued, "For a long time, I regarded Neruda's Poem #20 as the best to explain that feeling, but Silva blew him away."

"Yeah," I responded, "I love the message."

"Where did you find it?"

"There were like two lines that were on the movie The Motorcycle Diaries, and I just had to find the rest."

"You should translate it. So that girls here know what it says."

It hadn't occurred to me, that not only girls but anyone reading it that didn't know Spanish would be lost. He continued, "Have you ever heard Testamento Gaucho (A Gaucho's Will)?"

"No," I replied. He then started reciting it by memory. I thought to myself, so cool! He hasn't seen it in years! I quickly googled it on my phone, and gave it to him so he could recite it more accurately.

What followed was an hour of poetry, back-and-forth, between my dad and me. It was beautiful.

The only reason we finished was because my dad had to work. I wished he didn't.

On the Road Again...

Over the last three days I've been on the road for 26 hours, going to my new home and running errands, even feeding some people in need.

There's really not much to say.

Except of course, that these are the times when there is most to say. I just can't put it in words.

I saw my people.
I hadn't seen them in a long time,
and I probably couldn't recognize one just by looking at them.
I saw my people,
and it did good.
They sing while speaking,
the tune of the everspring country--
I hadn't heard it in a while yet I heard it and I knew it was me.
I saw my people,
and immediately knew we were all one.
Friends were made in a matter of seconds,
I know I will never ever see them again,
but I saw it in their eyes,
the same struggle I go through.
I saw my people, and I saw myself.
I looked in their eyes and saw battles,
I saw resilience,
and an ever present smile.
I saw my people.

A revolution without dancing is a revolution not worth having

Looking for answers (this question remains unanswered. . .)

Photo from February. I have yet to get a satisfactory answer from a professor. Courtesy Richard Young.

Since my opinion matters the least . . .

I will go on and say it anyway.

There's a bumper sticker that says, "God is not a Republican. Or a Democrat."

For a long time I considered myself a democrat, in line with the rest of my demographic: hispanic immigrant student. However, as a Christian, I found I hold many of the same views a republican does. Even more eye-opening still was the fact that socialism appealed to me a lot, so much so that I have told some people that I am, in fact a socialist.

Socialist does not mean "Communist," communism being one of the twigs in the branch of Socialism in the tree of ideologies. But being the editor of a newspaper has finally given me what I am.

I am a radical progressive lover.

Radical, in the sense that I go back to the root for the foundation. (Radical means root, that's why the symbol for "square root" in math is called a radical. But you already knew that, because only my dad reads these . . .) hence my similar views to republicans.

Progressive in that I believe that new solutions should be found to problems that simply require new solutions. Putting fires out with buckets of water provided by a line of concerned citizens just doesn't cut it anymore. These would be my democratic leanings.

Lover in that I believe that everyone deserves the same chances, not by entitlement but because, as humans, we all have inherent needs that need to be met. These are my Socialist leanings.

When this political issue of the newspaper was finally printed and I distributed it, one of my writers (Obama supporter) asked me what party I liked best, and I said, "I dislike both parties. I believe in 'sell everything, give it to the poor.' Some might say that's Socialism, but I don't mind."

The problem with the parties is that all of them, from the far-right Tea Party to the far-left Communists, all work nicely on paper.

However, Jesus' view is the only one that gives back.

There is a huge argument about how big the government should be; in Jesus' method, everyone is the same.

Not Socialism, because there wealth is redistributed (give to the poor) but everything else is confiscated by the government (not exactly selling everything, the government keeps the spoils.) However, in Jesus method, it is the rulers who sell everything--the re-distribution starts at the top.

If all the poor have all the rich people's riches, then we see it as the exact opposite from where we started. All of a sudden, the now rich are now to give all to the poor. This creates an equality based on "let me help you meet your needs" instead of "I'll keep everything, everyone survive on the necessary."

There is also no need for the Democratic/Republican capitalism, the system in which only the strong will survive.

The only way to live is to love one another, like Jesus did with us. He is our King, yet He wants to share with us the experience of eternity. He is the ruler, yet He gave it all so that we may have it (and we give it to those who don't have it, and so on).

In short, I don't hate politics, I despise selfish people.

Random Rant VI

Today in like an hour from this posting the Disaster Response Teams will deploy to the East Coast to help relief efforts after Hurricane Sandy.

I wish with my entire heart I was going.

I did my best to help out in my branch of journalism, but they (people at the top) decided there was no room for me.

I had attended the Emergency Operations Center briefings and taken pictures and gotten quotes for possible articles, and ended up updating a whiteboard with the latest on the Hurricane.

All this got me thinking about the time when I will be doing this for a living.

I will be exhausted pretty much all of the time, but I think in the end the rewards will outweigh the sacrifices.

Then, it took me to when I will have decided enough is enough. I'm not sure I want to do conflict zone/disaster journalism for the rest of my life. This is a highly demanding field, and I'm not sure I want to pursue it until I retire. I have the odd feeling I would end up like Ernie Pyle . . .

I've always had a dream of living where I can see the stars, up in a mountain somewhere. This was my goal when I was still pursuing a missionary doctor role.

Still, I really want to be able to do that. I want to live where the pace of life is slower, where at night my view of stars will be unhindered by city lights.

I don't know. Sometimes I dream too big.

De la pluma inconforme de Miguel Otero Silva

Encrucijada

Nos separaba de la calle
el cristal empañado de lluvia.
Yo estaba lejos del mundo,
hoja caída en el remanso de su llanto.

Ella era menuda y tierna
y se hacía más menuda entre mis brazos
y más tierna bajo mis ojos.

Entre nosotros y la calle
y la lluvia y el cristal de la ventana
eran dos abismos de plata.

La vida estaba allí naufragando en sus ojos
la belleza dormía en sus senos perfumados
la luz -toda la luz- se me daba en su boca
la humanidad - mi humanidad - era ella.

Más allá del cristal
más allá de la lluvia
pasaron...

Yo separé los ojos de los ojos de ella
para verlos pasar.

Marchaban chapoteando en el barro
los pies descalzos.
Desfilaban los rostros anochecidos de hambre.
Y las manos encallecidas de miseria
y las almas curvadas de injusticia
y las voces amanecidas de odio
desfilaban los pies descalzos.

Iba la madre con el hijo al cuadril
y el anciano rumoreando penas.
Y el mozo flameando la bandera,
iban de frente hacia la vida
armoniosamente rebeldes.

No sé si me lo gritaron ellos
o si me lo grité yo mismo.
Pero en las filas, de los que pasaban
estaban mi puesto, mi bandera y mi grito.

El cristal empañado de lluvia
esfumaba los rasgos de la calle
por donde pasaban los míos.
Volví los ojos hacia ella
que se hacia casi yo entre mis brazos
y le dije:

-Me llaman los que pasan.

Sus ojos empañados
me separaban de su alma
como el cristal con lluvia
me separaba de la calle.

Me dijo lentamente:
-No te vayas.

Y se hizo más menuda entre mis brazos
y me ofreció su boca palpitante
y sentí junto a mí, temblorosos sus senos.

Yo escuchaba chapotear en el barro
los pies descalzos
y presentía los rostros anochecidos
de hambre.

Mi corazón fue un péndulo entre
ella y la calle...

Y no sé con qué fuerza me libré
de sus ojos
me zafé de sus brazos.
Ella quedó nublando de lágrimas
su angustia.

Tras de la lluvia y del cristal
pero incapaz para gritarme:
-¡Espérame! ¡Yo me marcho contigo! 

Genuine

I turned in my mid-term to my teacher and with that burden off my shoulders I headed to the caf, where I would sit behind a table and try to get people to write letters.

Who writes letters anymore? Well, apparently, my college's Amnesty International chapter still believes in the trusty quill and parchment.

I sat down and decided the best way to convince others was to write one myself and do what teachers call "lead by example." I read the info sheet on who we were writing to and it turned out to be a pastor in Nepal who was receiving death threats from sex trafficking rings he had been busting. All the info sheet asked was to send him a word of encouragement.

That seems doable, right? All it takes is two sentences to encourage the guy.

Granted, both Ben--who was also helping at the table--and I wrote long letters, but that's because we were sitting there for a couple of hours and had time to go deeper.

Still, I was not expecting the responses we got from people.

To be fair, our pitch could have been different: when someone walked by we would ask "Would you like to write a letter?" and for the most part we got blank faces and had to explain. We changed tactics a couple of times and that made it better--a bit.

There rose different groups of people, though, and it was interesting to step into the psychology major's shoes and analyze the students.

Our favorite were the ones who stopped and wrote long letters. These were the vast minority of the people. Only like two or three actually wrote more than a paragraph, and it was good seeing them stop and take time to thank/encourage someone else for something that does not impact them in any relevant way whatsoever.

There were the students who stopped and wrote two sentences. These were the vast majority of people who actually wrote. Maybe in a rush, whether a genuine rush or just a rush to sit with their friends it doesn't matter, but they made the time to write the two sentences.

Then were the ones that said they would...later. Only one person who said they would later actually did come back later and wrote.

Then, there were the creative deniers. These were the ones who never actually said no, but between jokes and excuses they left and never wrote anything. One, for example, was the campus chaplain. When we asked him to write a letter, he said "Of course not!" in a sarcastic tone and laughed. Then he walked away. The most creative was a guy who made a movie script, essentially. He made a plan to stop whoever it was that was sending the threats using only a machete and other "household" items. Then he left.

Then there were the straight up deniers. Also in this category (sadly, all of them) were the Bible holders. I'm serious when all the ones who routinely carry their Bible and hold impromptu worships (some were holding the Bible at that moment) all said no. No questions asked. When we asked "Hey, do you want to help us out encouraging a pastor?" or "Would you like to write a letter to someone who needs it?" They all looked away, never stopped walking, and said, "No, not today." Of course, there were other people who did that, too.

The saddest group were the ones with illegitimate excuses. Like, "I'm hungry, though." Or, "I don't know this guy." We got more of those than you might think. This group was the vast majority.

Then, there were the ones with legitimate excuses. This is mid-term week, so when someone said "I'm headed to a test/study group," we let them pass.

Last, were the ones who were honest. They looked at us and said, "Honestly, no. I don't want to right now." Although they were denying us, I was thankful they were honest and was refreshed at their not trying to make an excuse as to why  not.

I thought it was interesting, so I thought I would share. Assuming, of course, you're still reading this . . .

Not that I get tons of mail . . .

. . . but the reason why I didn't get any today isn't because no one loves me.

It was the day to celebrate that ill-fated Italian cartographer/dreamer Cristoforo Colombo. Yes, his achievement in reaching this continent for the first time since the Vikings was great, and thanks to him I now know Spanish and English.

Still, I wish I had been taught the languages of the earth, those that were there before the invasion. I wish the sole purpose of the voyage was not as selfish as getting rich and getting the crown rich. I wish those pseudo-christians would have never "converted" and force-volunteered the indigenous into slavery. I wish they would have never thought they were superior because of the color of their skin or a worthless last name.

I'll pretend that the reason I didn't get my mail today--and the reason I got free pie at school today--was the Canadian Thanksgiving.

Thank you, Mr. Colombo, thanks.

Reality check: A bit of birthday sobriety

It's my birthday today, and I am blessed to have lived 20 years.

Sometimes I complain too much, and look down on the people who obviously have not had it as hard as I, and I feel justified--for a while anyway.

So today, I watched a documentary called Behind Forgotten Eyes.

Just like every single time I see something of the like I vow to not complain again. Hopefully this time I actually come through with it.

It's the story of women who were taken as sex slaves during World War II to help "comfort" Japanese soldiers and to cut down on STIs spread by the Japanese raping of women prisoners.

Their stories are horrible, and it broke my heart to hear that they feel ashamed about what other people did to them.

Korean women, the vast majority of the over 200,000 women taken, have asked the Japanese government for some kind of compensation and apology.
To add insult to injury, Japanese officials refuse to believe that this ever happened, and if it did, the treaty made at the end of the war set everything even.

The Japanese government made a charity which received donations that totaled to $20,000 per woman, but some women did not want the money because the government never gave a cent. For all they knew, the money could come from Korean homes as well.

Although efforts are being made to make this an international issue, no clear end is in sight as the official history still doesn't acknowledge the trespasses.

Oh yeah, the women recruited were from 14-18 years of age.

Just like every single time I see something of the like I vow to not complain again. Hopefully this time I actually come through with it.

Jimmy Needham's message to Union

I was nervous: it was the third time I had talked to the guy and I hoped he didn't think I was some kind of lunatic fanatic. Finally, I decided to use the journalist card.

"Hey, uh, I'm the editor of the Clo--uh, school newspaper here, and I was wondering if I could get a few quotes?" I held my breath.

"Sure," he said as I breathed out in relief. "Let's go to the green room."

I had forgotten what I wanted to ask him, so I quickly formulated a question to buy time. Thankfully, he took out a bag of Teddy Grahams.

"All that singing gives me the munchies," he said and tore into the bag. He looked at me and offered one, and I shook my head no. I was planning to go to Buell's place for cinnamon rolls later and I've been attempting to work out with some frequency.

I still couldn't remember the question, and I hadn't worded the new one just right, so I made some small talk on guitars and music and even offered him some southern chicken from my house. Then I remembered what I wanted to ask him, but my new question seemed better.

Jimmy swallowed. "Okay, shoot."

"Okay, if you wanted to leave Union with a message, other than the one you just gave, what would it be?"

He stopped chewing, looked down at the floor, and breathed in deeply. Then there was silence for a couple of seconds.

"When I first heard the good news, I was caught in legalism. I wanted everything to be just right, and if I failed, I felt like it was the end of the world. Now, being a parent twice and over the years, I have learned that God likes my baby steps.
"I love my baby's steps, and I hate it when she falls, but I understand that she can't run yet. God is the same with me; He wants to see me running eventually, but He's not in a rush. He loves my baby steps.
"So what I would tell Union is, remember that God likes your baby steps. He likes to pick you up when you fall. He loves your baby steps."

I thanked him and walked away. Jimmy Needham had just preached to me twice in one night.

Because "Jesus" is a verb, not a noun

I agree that the Bible is to be read constantly and studied and searched thoroughly. If nothing is done to carry out and share what we learn, let me tell you this: you can summarize the Bible in "love." Now go and practice it.

Alex Haley's Roots...not quite, though

I had already begun to feel alienated in my hometown.

However, as they say, you don't know what you have until you lose it.

I came to the US at the age of seven. I lived in the same town up until I came to Lincoln for college, but I still went and spent any vacations I could back in that little ol' Texas town.
So for all intents and purposes, Keene was my hometown: where I grew up, had my first crush, broke my first bone, made friendships that I still hold dear, and became a sort of celebrity--appearing in the newspaper almost weekly for four months out of the year in my singlet and short running shorts.
I know those streets forwards and backwards. I ran them virtually every day for six years. I accumulated enough mileage on my legs and those paved roads to go to California and back. I can truly say I know those streets.

After high school, it didn't feel the same. All my friends had gone and I no longer ran so devotedly.  The place was full of people I did not know.

Still, it was home. Somehow.

Now that my parents found a job in a city five hours away, I know that I will very rarely ever again go back to that speck on the Texas map. What's more sad is that I never got to say good bye to the house, to those streets, to my school, to the few friends still there.

While I am a Guatemalan and will always be proud to be from there, my roots are in Keene. If I went back to Guatemala I would have no friends, and I would not know the streets.

Same in the new place. I do not know ANYTHING.

I remember talking rather prophetically to some friends about how life goes on. I said during that interchange, "I don't plan on living in Lincoln, but I can see myself living here if I got a job or something like that."

Now, I see that Lincoln is my new home. I don't really like the sound of that, but it's the only place where I have friends. The only thing that is missing is my family.

Needless to say, I've been homesick--the move has aggravated it, because I won't return--and I've been missing my mom's hugs and cooking, my little sister's inside jokes, my brother's insanity, and my dad's late night chats.

I feel very sad, but not really. It's a hard thing to express.

From Good 'Ol Diogenes

One original thought is worth a thousand mindless quotings.

A Day in the Life. . .

Not in any way similar to the Beatles song of the same name.

This school year, the days blur into each other because they are connected so closely. It's really a hard concept to grasp, but then again my brain is always thinking in ways I can't explain well, so here goes.

Monday, Tuesday, Thursday and Friday I wake up roughly at 10:30 in the morning. While this may seem like sleeping in to most people, most people don't go to sleep around 3:30-4ish in the morning. I do all the necessary hygiene procedures and (maybe) grab breakfast. If I don't have milk, I probably won't eat breakfast.

Then I head to my office and check my emails for anything that might be of pressing importance. Usually, there are a couple late articles and pictures I read through. Then I head to class.

After classes, I usually head to my office and depending on the day I do different tasks.

Being Clocktower editor means that I had to do the following:

Interview and hire staff. Call and preside over weekly meetings, coming up with an agenda of issues that have to be addressed and any information that may be pertinent, usually running for 30 minutes and maybe more. Read through all the articles, send them to my editors and wait for them to come back to me so I can do further edits. Make sure pictures are taken and submitted with the articles. Keep up with the social networks (of which the traffic has increased 600% since I came in--not to brag or anything) and oversee the layout process. Send the layout draft to proofreader, proofread it myself, send the final proof for approval to my sponsors, and submit the final proof to the press. Then I have to collect old issues, count them, package them, and write down any change in readership. Pick up printed issues and organize them for distribution. Oversee the distribution in two of the five places the issues are placed, and distribute them in the other three. Since I am a part of ASB, it also means I have to attend weekly meetings and help with the Saturday night events. Repeat the process.

Then I do homework and usually find time to read a bit for leisure or get some Decaf Guatemalan coffee from the Mill.

I'm telling you, the Thursday night worships really help me refuel, and now see the importance of attending Wednesday meetings in the future. Playing music also helps, but I have to do it with other people.

When I'm finally home, it's usually 11:30. I read a bit, and try to go to sleep. I have a hard time falling asleep so I get ahead on homework (I haven't had much homework the past couple of weeks due to going ahead) and toss and turn in my bed.

Then, I do it all over again.

"It's sad. . ."

One afternoon, I was walking back to my house from my office. My friend Joe was walking towards the administration building, so for part of the way we walked together. 

We were both staring down at our phones, checking text messages and such, when Joe looks up and says, "It's sad, right?"

I wasn't paying much attention, so I said "What?" before I realized I knew what he said. "Oh, what's sad?"

"What technology makes us. Staring down at a phone all day." 

I smiled and humphed. "Yeah, crazy."

That's as far as our conversation went. He went into the building and I headed on for home. I put my phone away and decided to just listen. Try and see how many things I could hear. The wind rustling the leaves, the cars on the street, the footsteps, crickets, a couple of birds, the lawn sprinklers, some conversations, a grasshopper flying--all of a sudden, so much more became alive.

Epic dialogue from the horribly bad movie "The Dictator"

Why are you guys so anti-dictatorship? Imagine if America was a dictatorship! You could let 1% of the people have all the nation’s wealth. You could help your rich friends get richer by cutting their taxes and bailing them out when they gamble and lose. You could ignore the needs of the poor for health-care and education. Your media would appear free; but would secretly be controlled by one person and his family. You could wire-tape phones. You could torture foreign prisoners. You could have rigged elections. You could lie about why you go to war. You could fill your prisons with one particular racial group and no one would complain. You could use the media to scare the people into supporting policies that are against their interests. I knew this is hard for you Americans to imagine, but please: try!

I in no way endorse this movie, but this last line almost made it worthwhile. But it didn't.

I didn't want to get into this. . .

The last thing on my mind was writing a September 11 post, for many reasons. Especially since I haven't written anything in a while, this was the last thing I wanted to do my comeback with.

However, everyone in the school seems to be "remembering" September 11. So here goes my two cents.

I agree with the fact that the act was horrible, and that civilians should never have to pay the cost of an intellectual war as this one is. But what gets to me is the fact that the entire war on terror was based on the foundation of fighting fire with fire.

How hard is it to turn the other cheek? I have yet to experience a situation in which I'm forced to decide  between "justified" defense or turning the other cheek.

Judging by the way that entire nations' armies are mobilized all the time, it must be pretty hard.

I think it's important to remember to turn the other cheek. That way, we don't fall into the never-ending barrage of wounds that we have to "pay back." Getting even, as they say.

I like what Gandhi said, "An eye for an eye will just make the whole world blind."

Let's remember September 11, but let's not forget Darfur, Afghanistan, Iraq, Vietnam, racial inequality in all countries, Nepal, Myanmar, Tiananmen Square, both world wars, colonization and genocide against natives in their respective territories and empires, imperialism . . .

From the Extraordinary Mind of C.S. Lewis, V

There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations--these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit - immortal horrors or everlasting splendours. This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of the kind (and it is, in fact, the merriest kind) which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously - no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. And our charity must be real and costly love, with deep feeling for the sins in spite of which we love the sinners - no mere tolerance, or indulgence which parodies love as flippancy parodies merriment. Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbour, he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ vere latitat, the glorifier and the glorified, Glory Himself, is truly hidden.

C.S. Lewis: The Weight of Glory

Epic moment from Charlie Chaplin

Wasabi Peas and Water

Moving out is tough, and I wish that after all I've been through it wouldn't affect me as much. Nope, it's still pretty hard leaving behind all family connections and relying 100% on God's leading and care through friends I surround myself with.

I've been blessed with a house full of friends, and a couple of other friends have already come over to my house for dinner and still others have invited me to stay over at their rooms in the dorm (I only accepted one of those invitations, the other wasn't possible at the time).

I look back at the past two years and see how different it has been every time. The first year, I was only 17 going on 18 and already taking care of myself, in less than favorable but constructive conditions. The second year I didn't go through loneliness and the feeling that I had to fight it out on my own, but a lot of mental games about how the future was going to play out. So far this year, I am not lonely and the future isn't as daunting, I'm just eager--verging on anxious--for the future to become the present.

To help pass the time, I loove to read. I am currently on pace to finish Mr. President by Friday, and I also went to Barnes and Noble and got myself a rather cheap collection of all 37 works of Shakespeare and have started The Comedy of Errors.

Still, the tap water doesn't taste too great (better than Keene's, worse than the Dorms) and I have craved Wasabi Peas for two years now and have only indulged said craving no more than 3 times. So I went to the gas station and bought a huge bottle of water and found wasabi peas, but alas, no one to share them with. I guess next time I'll go when everyone else is awake, or at least when some family member is here to share with. 

Why I'm not a Religionist, III

Many things just clicked in my mind.

Religion, as it is practiced today, is very egocentric.

We are always told to be perfect, to search ourselves for any sins I might hide away, witness to others and in effect, earn our way to heaven. Except we're told heaven can't be earned, just accepted.

Now, I'm not leaning towards Calvinism which states that, since Jesus forgave us all, it doesn't matter how I live down here because heaven is mine already. However, it seems to me that what we are told to do and how heaven fits into picture doesn't quite add up. No matter how preachers rephrase it, they all ask us to not sin again, effectively earning God's good graces--but heaven isn't earned. That does not make any sense at all.

In searching myself, going as a missionary somewhere way out of my comfort zone and baptizing, teaching, and what not all seems as items on a checklist of sorts. Let me give you an example.

At my workplace this summer, a group came in after three weeks in an exotic land leading an evangelistic series.The leaders of the group informed us of the goals they had set themselves and then told a couple of personal stories. Most of the people on the group were teenagers, leaving behind the comfort of the first world and headed towards what seemed to them the eight millionth world--but ended up being the first world anyway. Just because it was a third world country didn't take away from the fact that the city they went to was highly civilized, but that's beside the point.

They were there to help the church meet its goal of 1000 baptisms in the first semester of the year. They were behind, but there went the pimply teens to help save the day. And indeed, thanks to those pimply teens, many people were baptized and the goal was met. But what struck me wasn't their "success" rate, rather what they deemed a "success."

The leaders, a man with a Franciscan spot on his head and a woman with a strange adherence to her 50s hairdo, took turns interrupting each other as they told the story as vividly as they could. Then, they got to the point where they told the story of a boy who went through a low spot in his week preaching. According to them, the poor boy did not participate in social activities as energized as the rest of them. He went to his room early for bed. Then, the man said something amazing and awful all at the same time: the source of the boy's low mood was a lack of people who stood up or came to the stage when he made a calling. His mood only lifted when he finally got people to answer those callings.

What's wrong with that, you may ask? Simple. His gauge for success was a number. His goal there, like the goal set by their hosts, was to baptize a certain number of people, to add to their tally. If it is not met, that is a failure.

Again, I'm not trying to say that baptizing is wrong, but what I'm saying is that how many we baptize should never be our main goal. This leads to selfishness. I'm not baptizing primarily to save lives, but to fulfill our homework assignment.

When we do fail, especially repeatedly, we hate it.

We're told we need to keep a certain day, abstain from this, do the other thing perfectly, collect souls, but we forget that  the only thing God has explicitly asked of us repeatedly is to love mercy, do justice, and walk humbly with Him, as told in Micah 6:8.

I heard the story of two young people who have almost given up on religion because they feel unworthy. They have admitted that they would accept God's decision to leave them behind if and when he came to take us to heaven with no problems. Why is that? They have failed according to the modern religious standards.

They have sinned the same sin over and over and over again and apparently God has not saved them. Church only exacerbates things when someone boasts humbly of their achievements. Money has not come when they need it, even if a single tithe has not gone unpaid in years. What is missing?

Let's go back to the real religion, in James 1:27. What does it say? To me, its the pinnacle of unselfishness.

I suffer from a mild case of insomnia sometimes, and once I asked my dad (he gets these too) how to deal with them. He told me, "start praying for everyone on your prayer list." I was astonished. Not to mention amazed at how well it worked--not that praying for others is boring and makes you go to sleep, but the fact that I'm no longer focusing on my problems but on others' needs gives me peace because I see that my problems are in fact puny.

All this is liberating. All of a sudden, there is no checklist. I do things because I love doing the right thing and helping others. I no longer count the people who I've baptized/converted, but make sure all those who I might have contact with might have come away with something they didn't before, and it doesn't have to be a religion they didn't have before. Maybe, just maybe, that person is the one who baptizes me.

Seems fitting that I'm listening to "Be Set Free" by Josh Garrels right now.
http://joshgarrels.bandcamp.com/track/be-set-free

What writer's block feels like

This is what writer's block feels like.

Let's pretend the asterisks (*) represent a logical idea when arranged in a line six characters long and that numbers are more ideas (that are logical in a line six characters long) and that letters are other ideas (same as the others) and the rest of this post is my brain.

8f*f*5f*f5*hd*t5hs*s*5h*5b*hs*h*s*hs*5h5s5h*s5hs*5h5df*5h*sh5s*5h*s*h5sh55h5sh5*sdh5*s5h*sh5*s5f*5s*f5h*sf5h*s5fh*s5f*h5sf*h5s*f5h*5sf5h*sf5*s5df*h5*s5f*h*s5f*5h*s5h*5sf*5h*s5*h5*s5*h*sh*s5hs*h*sdf*s5h*s*f**s5h*sf5*s5f*h5f5h5f*s5hs*f5s*f5h*s5f*hs*f5h5s*f5hs*f*sh5s*f5hs*f5sh*hs*f5hs

I have no idea where to start and where to finish, but ideas are everywhere.

From the Drunk albeit Genius Imagination of Shakespeare, III

'Tis too much proved -- that with devotion's visage and pious actions we do sugar o'er the devil himself.

Lord Polonius, Hamlet Act III Scene i

From the most confusing movie ever, the Never Ending Story

Confronted by their true selves, most men run away screaming!

Has the Dream been Deferred?, IV (or, the issue of Opportunity)

The Hollywood ideal, an NPR report I heard declared, that the American dream is having money, a big house, a family, and pretty much everything we want, is true. At least for the old-school foreign movie directors that came and got rich. Even the actors portraying a person in pursuit of that dream, be it achieving it or failing to get it, get paid millions of dollars to play the part. Why can't the rest of us get that?

Honestly, I'm not sure it is real.

Again, the ideal of opportunity came thanks to how conceited this country was (is). Promises to foreigners--shoot, also given to evicted Oklahoma farmers to head into California--presented a white lie. Were there jobs in California? Yes. Was it the type of job they marketed? Kind of. Were the workers going to get the benefits promised? No.

The same for modern advertisement. Is the situation in the U.S. better than any given third world country? Yes. Are there more jobs here than there? Yes. Is the pay higher? Yes. Can anyone get those jobs? No.

Recently, I applied for and was given an internship position. The organization is pretty bureaucratic--and it had never been as apparent as now. "You know so-and-so?" I was asked. I answered with a smile, "Yes, I'm related to so-and-so." My boss then declared, "That contact was a pretty big reason why you are here."

I was taken aback. I have not spoken to this particular distant relative in a long time, and it made me wonder if I would have been able to get the internship without that relationship--even if my skills would have been greater.

There are so many jobs out there that require previous experience it is almost impossible to get that experience. Confused? So am I.

Truth is, opportunity does not knock once anymore. Well it does, but only to certain people.

Statistically (statistics are very depressing, by the way), women still get paid less than men do, even if the position is the same and the output is greater. Racial discrimination still exists . . . but I'm not going to get into that right now.

The problem isn't that the job market is licking its wounds, although that certainly hurts prospects. No, even when a bear economy was the last thing in Wall Street's mind an inequality has existed. I dare say that in times of apparent plenty is when the gap between social classes widens.

The solution? Don't make me laugh.

The only solution is straight socialism--at least the concept. Put it into effect . . . and that doesn't work either.

So what are we to do? Endure. And stop lying. Stop trying to bring more opportunists and needy people to this "land of plenty" when the "plenty" is not for everyone. It's only offered to the elite. The rest of us are never good enough.

Maybe we can learn something from the Ivy League schools: they do not offer merit-based scholarships anymore. All scholarships are need based.

This is all very confusing.

Words of Wisdom from my Papa, II

The most terrible greediness: not being willing to love.

(Last day) On the Job

214.5 hours, seven weeks, two articles and a cover story later, it is my last day at my summer internship.

It has been great: I've learned how much work it takes to push out a monthly magazine, I've seen a cover photo shoot, and I've interviewed two people for a total of 3 hours worth of interview time. I've attended countless luncheons (they had a luncheon for pretty much anything vaguely worth celebrating)  and two emergency management meetings.

It was nothing I expected and everything I needed.

Still, the fact that I just now, on my last day, discovered the kitchen and the pantry, does put a damper on things.

From the French Pre-Revolution Revolutionary Monk François Fénelon's pen (say that five times fast!)

If the riches of the Indies, or the crowns of all the kingdoms of Europe, were laid at my feet in exchange for my love of reading, I would spurn them all.

From the Unbelievably Colossal Heart of Mother Teresa, II

"The most terrible poverty is loneliness and the feeling of being unloved."


Have I made anyone smile today?

Acts. . .

. . . go read it. Best book in the Bible.

Dr. Luke is legitimate.

Flabbergasted

Watch Moment of Impact: Jungle on PBS. See more from Nature.

For the child in me. . .

The most epic playground of all time. How about some playground tag?

Astro"nut"

I've always been a bit of a star nerd. . . don't hate. I find the night sky inspiring, and it always leaves me awe-struck. Click on them to see them bigger.

Good Ol' Scorpius, seen from West Texas, in Possum Kingdom Lake, the year before the forest fire burnt half of the park to the ground.

This is picture is one of the best from my early days. Here, we see the Milky Way Galaxy, in a manner I didn't believe was possible with a Canon 20D.

En casa de mis abuelitos. . .

I have always loved going to my grandparents' house.

I am blessed to have all four grandparents alive, and two great-grandmothers alive as well. Actually, not more than eight years ago I still had four great-grandparents alive, and was fortunate enough to have met them.

However, it has been rare to have both sets of grandparents within reasonable distance at the same time.

When I was still in Guatemala, my mom's side of the family was the one we saw a whole lot. The last couple months, my grandparents would come have sabbath lunch with my family every sabbath. My grandma would make her amazing manjar de leche, and boy, it was the highlight of my sabbath.

When I moved to the US, it was my dad's side of the family that we saw more often. Very often on Sabbaths we go eat to their place, and my grandma makes the very best cornbread this side of the galaxy (even some Unionites privileged enough to have tried it say it's the best--and we're in Corn Nation itself!).

Still, it's not the cooking that makes my grandparents special--that's the bonus.

Back in Guatemala, my brother and I (the only ones old enough to thoroughly enjoy them spoiling us) would relish every chance we got at staying over. My grandma, whom we call "Yaya," on top of her food, would buy us anything we wanted--much to the chagrin of my parents. She also made the trip from Guatemala to the States multiple times just for us. My grandpa, "Tata," has the best jokes I've ever heard, also made the trip to see us a couple of times, would always be watching the coolest shows on TV, and it is largely because of him that I follow all the sports I do, from Formula 1 to Tennis to Football (real football) and American Football to basketball to. . .

Here in the States, my grandpa, "Chuski," is a pretty cool person also. He might be pushing the age envelope a bit but seems as if no one told him he's supposed to be old. He still goes on long bike rides in his specialized bikes, rides a motorcycle, and occasionally races someone with his BMW from stop light to stop light. Hehehe
My grandma, "Abuelita," is full with wisdom. I've never received bad advice from her, and I've never seen anyone study their Bible more than her. And, she makes the best cornbread. . .Recently, someone asked her whether it was sweeter being a mom or a grandmother, and she replied that they are two different things but being a grandmother is sweeter.

Sweetest of all, I think, is being a grandson.

From the Drunk albeit Genius Imagination of Shakespeare, II

Care I for the limb, the thews, the stature, bulk and big assemblance of a man? Give me his spirit.

-Henry IV, part 2

Has the Dream been Deferred?, III (or, The question of Freedom)

The United States has always held high their heads when it comes to freedom. Over and over again, phrases such as "freedom is not free" and "this is a free country" are overused--both positively and negatively. When I was a kid, the Pledge of Allegiance was recited every morning before classes began at my school. The last line reads, "with liberty and justice for all." Now, I'm not about to praise or bash the judiciary system, just comment on the liberty part of this question.

Maybe a quick history lesson will help us see why the U.S. has loved this moniker.

The year is 1776 and the United States is only a few days old. The document that rebelled against the "cheeky brits" read, "we hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal." But did Thomas Jefferson and the committee really mean it? Sure they did. They had just been through "taxation without representation," and since they, too, were British subjects and also humans, they deserved seats in Parliament, right? Or at least some say in the laws made that would impact them.

However, they felt that the crown and that Parliament were not treating them equally as British citizens, hence the outrage and the declaration of their right as "equal" citizens. Did they mean everyone? Sadly, no. There were "objects" who weren't British or American citizens. They were property.

Everyone points at the South when slavery of the black people comes to mind, but it is very important to note that Abraham Lincoln's Emancipation Proclamation freed all slaves in the Confederate states, while states like Missouri which stayed loyal to the Union weren't under the law, so slaves in the North were the last to be freed.1 Thus, slavery was added on to independence and the five constitutional freedoms as beacons of the liberty this nation supported.

Slavery has always been a hot issue, and now that it seems as if it is finally out of the question is the time that it should be reconsidered. Slavery still exists in this nation.

Of the approximated 27 million slaves around the world, there are approximately between 14,500 and 17,500 slaves in the U.S. right now. (All these numbers are approximate; there could be more, there could be less--although the latter is highly unlikely.)

They are those who do the work we do not want to do ourselves. Those who we hire for minimal pay because they need the money and we need the product. Those who satisfy our filthiest passions. Slaves do not have to work for free, they are all who we exploit without giving them what they deserve. I will let you be the judge on that yourself.

Going on the basic definition of slavery, (works for free under horrible conditions), I decided I didn't have anyone mowing my lawn, working my fields, or doing anything for me that I knew of. No one, except for my parents washing my dishes (not all the time, I have been getting better but still need to improve). Ah, but what about those things I don't know about? Look at the tag of the clothes you're wearing right now. Where was it made? Does it say it was made under fair trade and slave free regulations?

I went to slaveryfootprint.org. Here, you answer some questions about what you have, material, edible, and even hobbies (including clothes and soap and my bike and everything I own, really). Then, a number shows up at how much slaves could be working for you right now--making your socks and medicine. I had 27 slaves working for me.

If this really was a free country, focused on liberating people (Operation ___ Freedom, anyone?), why don't we do something about this? It seems to me we are all too happy to promote freedom slogans on a t-shirt that was available in cheap bulk pricing because a child slaved away his day making it.

What about things I do control? Maybe this is more of a personal slavery issue. Am I a slave to the luxuries that the child in a sweatshop gives me? I enslave him because I am a slave to the product. What do I spend my time on, what am I a slave of? Is it hurting just me, or maybe those around me as well?

End slavery and begin freedom! Slavery is a problem, both to people being exploited in the U.S. and abroad and to people like you and me, who are addicted to smartphones, cars, silk, sex, cosmetics, medicines, social networks. . .

I could go on about how there are those who have no voice, how there are things the press isn't allowed to publish, how women cannot get the same pay as men in equivalent jobs. The list is frankly too long. When will freedom be achieved? Maybe the question should be, can it be achieved?

Maybe freedom means something more. Maybe freedom begins when I decide slavery ends. My slavery. Their slavery. My unfairness. Their unfairness. My prejudice. Their prejudice.

Freedom, forever, for all.

1http://www.greatamericanhistory.net/amendment.htm
2http://www.freetheslaves.net/Document.Doc?id=69

You know you're in Texas when. . .

I can't go running at 8:45 at night because the temperature is still in the triple digits.

Venus Transit

It's that dot in the middle of the bright thing (sun). Last time it'll happen until 2117.

Makin' that Honey

Busy little bee caught in the act on a rose in...either Nebraska or Texas.

Fruit Flies

I hate those little bugs. And flies. And mosquitoes. THEY NEVER STOP ANNOYING ME.

It's as if God created them because He wanted to teach humans a lesson. . .
. . .did He?

Maybe I should be as persistent as a little mosquito on my ear, try as hard as a fruit fly tries to steal my banana, and not give up as much as a fly flies through the same route fifteen times before I come close to killing it.

I don't know. Either way, those little guys are really pesky.

Has the Dream been Deferred?, II (or, What Exactly Is the American Dream?)

All right, let's make this clear. America is a continent, not a country. This is the United States of America, not United States and America. Why is this necessary? The American dream, whatever it is, starts out on the wrong foot--it should be called the United States dream, or something to that effect. Saying it is the American Dream immediately includes all the countries in the continent, some whose nightmares people flee in search of the dream.

So what is this, uh, dream? Maybe the best way to see the "official" dream is by its "official" definition. Still, this is by far the hardest definition I've had to find.

According to what I found, it is the social ideas such as equality, democracy, material prosperity, freedom, opportunity, and a life of personal happiness and material comfort. Sounds dreamy, doesn't it? I can't help noticing how all of this, as laudable as it sounds, is a little too far-fetched.

Equality: When has the United States ever had equality? As much as they wish they have, it has never been true. Without going into racial issues, white, citizen women still don't earn as much as men in the same position.

Democracy: Probably one of the only example of a somewhat alive democracy in the world, the United States isn't a complete democracy either--the majority vote never wins any issue, it is the state votes with most power that wins. Welcome to a Republic.

Material prosperity/comfort: There's a picture I'll never forget: a line of people in a soup and bread line in front of a billboard featuring a family of four, all smiling, in a car. While material goods abound in the States, happiness does not. Divorce, Obesity, and Suicide (the eleventh cause of death) are rampant, and one begins to wonder if maybe all this "stuff" has anything to do with it.

Freedom: Freedom has always been a label the States has had, but at one point slavery was legal and now that it isn't there are still slaves in this country.

Opportunity: Yes, there is opportunity--available to all who meet certain requirements. Requirements that only certain people are able to meet. I was told at my workplace that it was my contacts, not my abilities, that got me the job.

Now don't get me wrong, and I can see why you might. All this sounds like I am bashing this horribly, but I, too, am here in search of that dream. What I want to do is to figure out exactly what it is I am looking for, to be able to set realistic goals and avoid falling for mere scams. Google's first result for the American Dream? A Real Estate website.

Has the Dream been Deferred?, I (or From Langston Hughes' Inspired Pen, II)

I, too, sing America.

I am the darker brother.
They send me to eat in the kitchen
When company comes,
But I laugh,
And eat well,
And grow strong.

Tomorrow,
I'll be at the table
When company comes.
Nobody'll dare
Say to me,
"Eat in the kitchen,"
Then.

Besides, 
They'll see how beautiful I am
And be ashamed--

I, too, am America.

Where this is going. . .

I don't know if you've noticed (noticing means you've been reading, and if you haven't, then. . . you're not reading this either. . .) but in between my posts I also have posts in "series" of sorts. There's the author series, and all authors I quote here have theirs. There are also the Random Rant series, the Why I'm not a Religionist series, and others.

Well, I'm working on a new series, "Has the Dream been Deferred?", in which I will try to define what the American Dream is--from my point of view. I've been working on essays of this since high school, so some of these old essays might resurface here.

Also, the Book Updates will start coming thick and fast as I try to finish the book's first draft by January, hopefully before that.

and of course, a couple of the other series and other unattached posts as well.

Here goes nothing!

From the Extraordinary Mind of C.S. Lewis, IV (or, Screwtape)

The Screwtape letters was the book he least enjoyed writing, although it was the easiest for him. For me, it was an easy read, but a disturbing one at that. The book deals with the reality sometimes I pretend doesn't exist--there are demons right now, plotting my downfall very carefully.

Here is the sequel Lewis never wanted to write, but wrote anyway. I highly recommend it.

http://www.saturdayeveningpost.com/wp-content/uploads/satevepost/screwtape-proposes-a-toast-SEP.pdf

Pocket Guitar

I love playing the piano. It is really hard to carry one around, though, so a piano isn't always handy.
Guitars are much more portable, and this makes for easy playing everywhere. Except when you need room in the car but the guitar is taking the place of a child and a half.
Then, there are pocket guitars.

Well, they're really not that small, but they're tiny. About two ukuleles put together, maybe. And I have two--one I still have to repair, and one I've had for a long time.The sound isn't all that amazing, but I can fit it in my bed with no problems at all.

Today, I grabbed it, laid down with a pillow below my head and another covering my eyes and played some songs off my Christian playlist--for a long time. It felt good, it was almost like a nap . . . but not really. I was awake playing music, but somehow I thoroughly enjoyed it. I hope God didn't mind my singing too much, and instead focused on the little pocket guitar.

Because sometimes, less is more

I just listened to Tchaikovsky's symphony no. 6 for the sixth time, and it beats all modern music--hands down.

Of course, these works do carry more than the average modern song, with their full orchestra and choirs and grandeur--but somehow, they can be underrated by how overrated they are portrayed.

When I finally do get around to listening to a full symphony, and not just selections and movements, I realize that the composers were geniuses, and all of them artists in the purest sense of the word. They created whole worlds in their heads in the same way authors and painters did--except they did it with music, the epitome of emotion.

Hmmm.

It's like poetry, without words.

Beethoven's fifth, and ninth.
Mozart's Requiem
Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake and 6th.

Some of my favorites. Listen to them and close your eyes. 

Crashing through Life with seat belt hands, one accident away from a miracle . . .

Listener
SEATBELT HANDS (dame eyola)
She's the kind of lady that calls everybody baby
honey, sugar, sweetie, she's always making friends
and she keeps us all locked outside her thick leather skin
she always starts with a smile, it's small and butter yellow
but easier than a handshake, doesn't like her hands touched
she tans alot, gets burnt alot smoking through the cartons
but then gets put out so much, she's considered a bargain
she was born on the fourth of july with her hand on her heart
loves america, & being patronized, no one ever told her to guard her heart
she was an angel for halloween once, but never again
and for christmas ever year she's haunted by demons
they always tell her they love her.
she used to believe in innocence until she lost it
and spent a long summer, riding the trains
she has cats and collectors plates to keep her sane
watching TV in her favorite chair...both of which are rented
she's alone, and surrounds herself with loners
her life is a loan, lent out to anyone who will own her
waiting for the night to sweep her off her feet, while she mops the bathroom floor
hoping for a winning ticket or a man to treat her right
but they're both a gamble and she's been a loser all her life
and if she had a nickel for every time she's been punched and kicked
she'd put it together with her camel cash, try to buy some happiness
they always tell her they love her, but then they take something from her.
she would always show us her dreams
they were crumpled up like leaves from holding on too tight
scattered in her shoebox coffin on the cardboard walls covered in butterflies
she's got love in her heart for her babies, and hope in her mind for tomorrow
and blood on her hands that only she sees, holding the last bit of time that's borrowed
but you never know where that heart has been, and we'll never know how hard it's been
I wanna cut open my chest and let her in, but that won’t fix what needs to mend
and she stands there unlit cigarette in hand
filling up that empty hole with anything that’ll pour
insides hanging out like a flare, warning.
there’s beauty in that pain, can you see it?
she’s crashing through life with seat belt hands
one accident away from a miracle
and there’s an honesty there, but I can’t take it all in
she hides the worst of it in the wrinkles
that’s the ache you get when there’s no where else to go.
and she’s got no where else to go, she doesn’t want to go there.
so I promise I’ll go with her.

Book Update, V

I have been taking some time off as I read other works which I think might help me with this book. As soon as I finish Mr. President by Miguel Angel Asturias I will begin work on the book again.
I have done a couple of changes on the outline as well, so still working out the kinks. =)

Oldie but Goodie

Tired of "TV dinner" contemporary christian music, I didn't look for any new Christian music for a long time. I felt I heard the same things over and over again and it all felt so empty. It reminded me of a sopapilla, covered in sugar and delicious for a few seconds, then giving away to a hollow center.
Then I heard Over Oceans by Josh Garrels and loved its rawness and originality. When Love & War & the Sea in Between came out, it instantly revitalized my listening--and playing in services. Not only did it make Josh Garrels my favorite artist in any genre, but it gave me some rich food with which to fuel my spiritual walk.
Love & War & the Sea in Between changed the way I write to God now, feeling I can be blunt and raw and down-to-earth, instead of airy and full of nothing (as uplifting "Breathe" was at first, the lyrics seem a bit, well, cliche and repetitive), like empty carbs in a sopapilla. Essentially, it brought down my relationship with God to personal terms, where my shortcomings loom large, my guilt is put in his hands, and his salvation feels delicious.

This is a song from "Over Oceans," called Decision.

 

On the Job

About 8 hours away from completing my first full work-week in my life, I now realize that I didn't know what I was getting in to. Maybe I had an idea, because I almost didn't want to get hired. I was split between getting valuable experience and time in and getting the summer off after a very busy and stressful year.

I was given a small office that everyone in the floor uses as storage. I rearranged a couple of things and made it a bit more mine, but my little cave here got me thinking about how much I'll like having my own office next year at the Clocktower.

Still, I think I've gotten used to working. It's exactly like doing my homework back in school, editing articles and papers and writing articles and papers--for 8 hours. This makes me even more sure that, after my stint with the Clocktower next year and possibly the year after, I do NOT want to be a newspaper editor. My dream of being a solo-journalist in conflict zones just got a lot more vivid.

And the fact that Microsoft Word, PublAssist, and the other word processing programs I use insist on changing my last name to "Colanders" makes me nuts.

Still, my third floor window isn't all that bad.

Announcement

I'm getting back into competitive running again. I won't take it as seriously as I did when I was in high school, but I'll do my best to run as much as I can without it overtaking my life. This summer I will have a job, so my sleep schedule would be perfect for running anyway. I will try to get in good shape by the time school starts, use the Triathlon 5k as a benchmark, and if all goes well I will train for the half marathon in Lincoln held at the end of the school year.
The half marathon is kinda pricey, so I will probably run unattached, but it will be great as I train for the 2014 Marathon.



Hopefully.

Why I'm Not a Religionist, II

I feel inspired right now, so bear with me here . . .

(I refer to some concepts I talked about in part one . . . )
Every time I talk with my dad I come away with something new.
I had been sharing my personal concern as to how I can give more in service to those around me. I feel as if I talk about this subject a lot but almost never actually act on it--a hypocrite, as they say. During the conversation, he reminded me of his motto while he was out in a mountain as a "bush" doctor (I guess technically it would be a "mount" doctor . . . ), Isaiah 58. Isaiah demands of Israelites true fasting, a major part of their religion. God asks them to share their bread with the hungry, clothe the naked, set loose the yoke of oppression and so on and so on. I've heard Biblical commands and secular calls to action similar to these more times than I care to count--if I had a penny for every time someone mentions "world hunger" or "world peace" . . .
I agreed with the passage, and he obviously did too. But then he gave me the one of the toughest questions he has ever presented me with: "What do you do when you have absolutely nothing. I mean, imagine, if you have no bread--not even for yourself--what are you supposed to give?"
It seemed like a question with an obvious answer, but at the moment I stumbled, muttered a few unintelligible words, and shot him a blank stare.
He went on ruthlessly. "What if what you have isn't yours--maybe you're in debt, or it's borrowed. What then? What do you give?"
He didn't know it at the time, but that question kept me up a couple of nights.
I had the same conversation with my uncle. He gave me the "obvious" answer: you can't give what you don't have. He said, "Sometimes you have to be content with doing your part, what you can do. Maybe your job is only to plant a seed, and then it is someone else who has the responsibility of caring for that person. Peter and John told the man at the gate that they could only give him what they had: Jesus Christ. Maybe that's what you have to do. Your part."
I couldn't help but almost feeling sorry for the man at the gate. They healed him, gave him Jesus, but what about the next day? He was still poor, and most likely now he was a healthy beggar--a beggar, nonetheless.
Recently, the sabbath school lesson has been all about evangelism, and, admittedly, I haven't studied it as I should. Still, I have sat in some classes and noted that the same concept my uncle brought up is the one that got brought up in classes as the main idea: We all have a part to do, and we can't do it all, of course, so we have to be content with planting the seed and letting God do the rest.
Here is where this and I disagree.
What my uncle forgot about the story is that Peter and John didn't just give the man what they had, but also connected him. Let me explain.
We all have a part to do, and we can't do it all, of course, so we have to be content with planting the seed and letting God do the rest. This has got to be the biggest cop-out we Christians make. We use passages like ones found in Luke 10 (where it talks about workers and the harvest) and I Corinthians 12 (where it talks about the body of Christ and the functions everyone has) to say "see, I am not endowed with being a great preacher. All I can do is plant the seed." But that is selfish.
Paul continues in chapter 13 to simplify what he was on about in chapter 12. His easier version? Love. Love is kind, love is faithful. . .
Love is not selfish.
When I tell myself "This is all I am supposed to do," I keep the command benefiting me. Alas, I'm not the one that is chiefly benefited from spreading the gospel, it should be the receiver.
The key is in connecting.
When I have no more to give, I shouldn't say, "Here you go, Jesus" and hand the poor man or woman a Bible, praying that God will use it to change someone's life, be it the poor man or whoever reads it because of him. All too often we are content with handing out literature in the "hope" that it will change someone, and then we wash our hands and say "I did my part, everything else belongs to the Lord and whoever will harvest it."
That is selfish.
What we should be doing is connecting (yes, this is the billionth time I say it) the person with the one who has the ability to keep going. As in, providing the homeless man not with the food I don't have, but with the address of the local shelter, all the while sharing Jesus with him. I give him what I have, Jesus, and connect him with what I don't: shelter, food, clothing.
When Jesus told the 72 he sent out to spread the gospel, “The harvest is plentiful, but the workers are few. Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field" he didn't say "ask the Lord of the harvest to send out planters or sowers. He said workers. It is us who are in charge of the harvest, that is to say, the growing has already been done. It is noteworthy that while Jesus is still talking to the 72, he tells the story of the Good Samaritan. Coincidence? I think not.
The good Samaritan did not just bandage the man or give him food and said, "That is all I can do, and all I am sent to do." Actually, that is what the other people before him had done. No, he did what he could, and then connected him with the innkeeper, who had everything else the Samaritan could not provide.
What is the meaning of all this?
I hate the modern definition of religion. It only requires us to do what we must, because we have to, and not a bit more. By definition, it restrains us.
The true religion, worship, tells us to do love God with all our innards and our neighbor (those whom we have to share Jesus love with) the same way we love ourselves. (Said one of my teachers,"If you don't respect yourself, respect the rest of us anyway! You can't get out of [Class] Rule #1 on a technicality.")
I should not be content with handing out a flyer and letting God do the rest. Has He done it in the past? Yes. Can He do it still? Yes. But that's not the point. God sometimes blesses things he does not approve. Hence, Israel got their kings, Solomon, son of an illegitimate wife, became king, and so on and so forth. But why rely on that when we can do it with His help? He didn't just do what He had to do, He also connected us with Him through His Spirit.
This is what I believe defines our commission.
True Religion.
True Worship. 

100 (or, From Harlem Renaissance's own Zora Neale Hurston)

Is the 100th post a milestone?
If anything, I wonder if I should continue now. I made this blog to practice my writing, and, quite frankly, I'm not sure it has helped much (I think I posted more things that I didn't write than things I did). Either way, I thought I might celebrate this momentous post with nothing auspicious, just something else I didn't write--but oh boy, do I love it. From the stupendous Their Eyes Were Watching God:

"Don’t care how good anybody could play a harp, God would rather to hear a guitar."

Wisdom from Calvin and Hobbes, IV

Old Habits . . .

 . . . are very hard to start again. At least the good ones.

I used to run every morning and if I could sneak it in at the evenings also. If you happened to be in my hometown during my high school years, you probably saw a lunatic boy running aimlessly around the "duck pond" and streets--be it in the summer's heat, winter's coolness, day or night sun or rain.

But that was two years ago.

Recently I noticed an alarming sign of onset obesity: I could no longer fit in a pair of pants. I decided it was time to pick up running again. Goodness gracious, Mission Impossible 5. Running three miles is still pretty quick, but I feel dead at the end.

Here's to an active summer. (Hopefully.)

The Art of Cooking Out

You can read what Pablo Neruda had to say about this subject in his "Ode to an Onion."

The secret is in the wrist, just as in everything in the kitchen. Here's my "fool"-proof guide to a successful barbeque (substitute veggie meat in lieu of any carcass if you do not enjoy munching on dead animals):

1. Pick a grill or place your mobile grill in a shady place, so you don't end up grilled yourself.
2. Pour a generous amount of lighter fluid in the base of the grill, ensuring an even burn below.
3. Get a good brand of charcoal. Cheap charcoal deceives you by burning fast . . . and then it's gone.
4. Don't pile on too much charcoal. Trust me, you don't want to look down at your arm and notice that half of your arm hairs are charred. . .
5. Make sure your meat is well tenderized, about six hours before the actual cooking. If not, you might as well save time and buy Jerky.
6. When you place your meat on the grill, make sure they are close to the middle, and DON'T overcook. If not, might as well buy Jerky.
7. Make sure there is enough meat for EVERYONE. People turn into mindless meat eating monsters really easily.
8. For you vegetarians making a Portobello mushroom instead, cook gills up for Seven minutes, drain, turn over and cook gills down for five minutes. Any less and you might as well pick a fresh mushroom. Any more and you might as well eat some of the charcoal.
9. If you for some reason skipped number 1, apply sunscreen. You're probably feeling the sun right about now.
10. Hey, only turn the meat once. I don't know if you already turned it, and if you haven't, not yet. Not until this side is cooked right. Like a pancake. If you turn many times, might as well buy Jerky.
11. The fire is perfect for cooking other things, too. Grill chicken, veggies, wrap potatoes in aluminum foil and make "baked" potatoes, and if you don't watch out, you can end up with grilled fingers.
12. Make sure you have a covered container to put the meat in, and a flyswatter close by. Those are pesky bugs. . .
13. If you didn't follow number 1, put a cap on. Your nose will thank you later.
14. Keep water close by. The heat of the sun plus the grill is overwhelming. Especially if you didn't remember number 1.
15. Remember number 6 for the other side of the meat as well!
16. Poke and fan the coals regularly. If not, your food won't cook evenly and it will take ten years to cook.
17. Serve (and eat!) hot. If not, might as well buy Jerky.

Words of Wisdom from my Papa

El que no sabe que vive para los demas no ha aprendido a vivir.

They who know not that they live for others has not learned to live.

From the Extraordinary Mind of C.S. Lewis, III

We were made not primarily that we may love God (though we were made for that too) but that God may love us . . .

The Problem of Pain, Ch. 3

Finally, the Documentary I Waited For For So Long . . .

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZBit-LYz0Y&feature=fvwrel

The Moon is Down

One of the best short novels I've ever read. Not surprisingly, it's Steinbeck.

"It is impossible to break man’s spirit permanently."

Growing Pains

 Some of my closest High School friends got together at a small restaurant in the next town to catch up. Some showed up in brand new shiny cars, others in that same clunker from high school, and still some of us still asked for a ride. It had been almost two years since I had seen some of them, but we picked up right where we left off: the same jokes, the same grudges. It was great.

We talked about what we had been up to all that time: new relationships, broken relationships, failed classes, changes in majors, and new-found bacchanalian inclinations. I ate one of the biggest burgers in my life, and after a group picture we headed back to one of our houses. Parking was not found easily, the overgrown shiny cars did not fit in the little driveway. Inside they joked at how they all were within months of being fully recognized as adults and I was still years away . . .

I left rather early, and later went to my old high school on assignment from the local paper ($30 don't hurt) and saw how much it had changed. An old building demolished, open spaces and fields now held buildings, and the students all looked like, well, children.

Weird.

Later that night, my brother and sister and I shared some stories of old. We went on for a couple of hours, and all I could think of was man, when I'm old, I'm gonna be one of those old people that don't shut up.

From the Amazing Brain of Mark Twain, II (or, This is going on my office wall next year)

I am not the editor of a newspaper and shall always try do to right and be good so that God will not make me one.

Sad but True (or, From the Pen of John Steinbeck, VI)

No one wants advice, only corroboration.

Sportsman's Woes

Writing this is taking longer than usual.
Now, I'm not all that great in typing, but I can hold my own when it comes down to it. What's keeping me at under fifty words per minute right now is one finger.

I don't know how many times I have to tell myself I'm not going to play basketball again. Ever since I quit the team in exchange for running my freshman year of High School, I have gotten hurt almost every single time I step on that court. I don't know why I keep playing, I'm not good at all.

Either way, after coming home for the summer, I challenged my brother to a tennis match. I took advantage of all the playing I've done at school the past few months to finally beat him at something. I'm not very good at tennis either, but I'm better than my brother--okay, he probably never plays. So it was unfair, and sure enough, my ego was boosted for a while and I felt good about myself after winning without dropping a set.

The next day the tables were turned.
He challenged me to a game of basketball, and I knew he was trying to get back at me after the night before. I accepted the challenge, and regretted it almost instantly. He went on to a 134568145-1 point run against me, and I was feeling as though it was all revenge.

Then, he shot it and missed, hitting the rim. This rim we were playing at has got to be the stiffest rim in the world, so when the ball hit it ricocheted back towards my face at two and a half times the speed of light. I managed to put my left hand up and the next thing I knew my pinky felt like it had been laid in the path of a train. I quickly pulled it just in case it was dislocated, and thankfully it wasn't, so I tried shaking it off, but it bothered me. Two minutes later it had turned a weird shade of green. Two minutes after it was swelling, and by the time the game had ended and home was in sight, it had grown to twice the size of a normal giant's thumb.

Ever since then, I have been miserably denied any movement with my pinky, and this puts the tip of my ring finger out of order as well, courtesy of the shared tendon.

I guess it just comes with trying to be athletic. Like a friend told me, "Silly Pablo, don't play if you don't know how." She followed that up with a ":)". Not cool. But I guess she was right. So for the billionth-and-one time, I'm not going to play basketball again!

Momma/Mama/Mami/Mum

To say that she is the best mom in the world would be cliché.

To say that she is the best mom in the world would be the truth.

713

I don't want to move out of my dorm room.
Yes, I want to go home, but there's something about this room that I wish I could take with me. Maybe because I have such a nice view--both sunsets and the shimmering city at night--I want to stay. Or because the friends I have on seventh floor are like family.
Next year I will be off-campus again, and while this time I will be ten steps away from the college (as opposed to half a mile my freshman year) I won't have that dorm family feel. Almost thirty people in seventh floor, and every floor below me as well. One huge family. The only place that's felt like home since I left for college two years ago.
I won't miss Aron being noisy in the wee hours of the morning or going to sleep extra early, condemning me to silence; or when the elevator did not work and I had to climb all those stairs. Or the noisy people on the other side of the hall blasting hip hop music at 3:30 in the morning.
I will miss random people coming in and chilling. I will miss pestering my suitemate and pranking my RA. I will miss crashing in others' rooms for a night, or during a break watching movies all night--at least until I fell asleep, everyone else kept watching.
I don't want to move out.

Book Update, IV

This is so hard on my mind.

I don't know why, but when I work on Carlos' story, I feel very tired after I finally decide to go to bed--and it's not because it's 1:30. I feel spent.

I decided that what keeps me up eight out of seven nights a week is some form of insomnia. My mind just won't stop, and I wish it did. It only gets worse after I work on this book.

Summer's almost here, hopefully I'll have more time/less effects writing then.

The Prologue and the first two chapters are finished.

From the Very Interesting Mind of Hunter S. Thompson

Human beings are the only creatures on Earth that claim a god and the only living thing that behaves like it hasn't got one.

Ladies and Gentlemen . . .

The class I loved the best this year is also the class I have my lowest grade on.

Dr. Fitts has managed to deliver a class in which I truly have a love/hate relationship with. Modern Western Literature has me drooling over the poems and essays and stories while at the same time wishing for death when writing essays. Let me explain.

After my brain is blown reading Keats or Yeats or Lorca or Borowski, I read it again when I get back to my room. I can't help but feeling small and insignificant against the amazing minds behind these works. Many of these writers only fuel my wish to change the world--for example, Lorca was one of Che Guevara's main insipirations. Now I don't want to create a bloody revolution, but that is another story. . .

Part of the class assignments is writing an essay over one of the authors. This is where it gets hairy: you have to have the essay exactly like Dr. Fitts wants it--it's almost as if he is the one writing the essay for you. Which I don't like. Which is probably why I have only got one "A" essay this semester.

Regardless of how much I love/hate the class, what kept me from dropping the class was the sheer beauty of the literature I read. Some of it was downright shocking. Keats' odes, Yeats' Easter 1916, Franz Kafka's Metamorphosis, Flaubert's Un Coeur Simple, and many many more all stayed deeply rooted in my mind.

The latest thing we read was Tadeusz Borowski's Ladies and Gentlemen, to the Gas Chamber. I had already told myself I was not going to read any more Holocaust books--I had read too many. By the time I was in 8th grade I had already read the likes of Anne Frank and Elie Wiesel's Night, and I felt like my humanity was scarred enough. But this work by Borowski is written in an objective journalistic style, and all long I could not take my eyes off of it. I am pained.

I cannot wait to get out on the field and report and awaken some consciences. I feel like humans would be more understanding and more peaceful if we only stopped to understand the people that are affected by our decisions. Just stop . . . and understand.