Narrative.

The warm, cushioned scent of leather. The crinkle and swish of new pages, which have yet to be turned by human fingers. The rise of hope in my heart and the dread in my gut. All these things clamor for my attention as I pick up a new journal. Besides the outward aesthetics that I love so much, journals draw me to them. They look like ancient books. (At least, the good journals do. The silly, flower-encrusted ones hold no joy for my eyes.) I can't help but imagine some sailor holding it through rainstorms and sea-battles with fearsome pirates. I can see him scrawling coordinates, habits of the crew and captain, and details of all the luscious pirate beards he has managed to lay his eyes on.

There are stories in journals. Maybe some poetry, or a few lyrics may be penned from time to time. But, more than all this, I see myself in the brand new pages of a journal. I see weeks and months of my life just waiting to be put down and forced onto paper. I see triumphs and failures. I see laughter and tears, music and silence, love and fear. I see me. That both thrills my soul and makes me tremble. What if I write down a life-changing event? What if every day is filled with stories to tell, and adventures to share, and love to sing about? Or what if it's a massive disappointment?

What if I look back and see a time in my life where I didn't live as I should have? What if I merely survived? What if this journal is marred by my own mistakes? A journal is as dangerous as it is comforting. It grabs me and forces me to look around me. I can't stumble through life with my eyes closed. Not when everyday needs to be put down on paper. I need to look around. I can guarantee that there will be both good and bad things to be told. Things I'll regret and others I'll be proud of. It's one thing to write a story of my own imagination, where I decide the ups and downs and glorious triumph at the end. I'm not in control with this narrative. Only God is. It's just a tiny piece of the story He's telling, but it's also hugely important.

This is the story of how I learn to love Him with my life. And it's one I'll enjoy writing down.

Let me answer that by asking you this.

Sometimes I feel like I am alone and adrift in a tumultuous sea of uncertainty and loneliness. This is one of those times. I don't mean to complain. It's just that I feel as though there is a large, silent elephant in the room and I need to address it. And I will address it as "Sir."

Dear Sir Elephant In The Room Sir,

I must needs address you. It feels as though my blog is comprised of one elephantine single-sided conversation. And frankly, its more awkward than a man named Frank wearing a tuxedo on the beach. I'm not demanding comments on this blog. I'm merely noticing that there aren't many. Is it my fault, Elephant Sir? Am I uninteresting to the public masses? Is my commentary on life becoming geriatric in their minds? Have I lost the attentions of the people? There are too many questions and only one revolving trigger saxophone. Only one.

Sincerely,
-Hi_am The Nate

200% Chance of Showers.

My life has been hectic and crazed. I can't begin to describe and I won't, for fear of boring you into an eternal sleep. I will however recap briefly. *takes a deep breath*

High School Graduate. Christmas break. Surgery. College. Camera. Stuff.

There. That's all you need to know. I've been writing several things over this time, so do not fear. You'll see them eventually. I have a Kemenbarian Tale and a theological post both in the works, not to mention several songs dying to be written. I am just short on extra time lately. Maybe I'll find it in the coming weeks, maybe not. Be patient.


If you're interested in seeing what shenanigans I can get into with a camera go to my flickr. (
 http://www.flickr.com/photos/giraffidarian/)

Due to my recent surgery, I have to take twice daily showers. The new shower head we got is both useful, and most likely evil. It's great and I usually adore it. But every once in a while, it decides to betray my trust. For that, I hate it. Our old shower head would give you a few precious seconds to dodge out of the way, after you turned it on. Sure, it was tense. And yes, many a good man was lost to its icy streams, but you had a chance, dangit! Not so with this new shower.

Not even the nimblest of ninjas has time to leap before it unleashes hellish ice shards upon your innocent back. It's instantaneous. It's horrifying. The few times that I've forgotten about it's deadly grasp, I've regretted it. There isn't much worse than getting drenched with ice cold water before the sun has seen fit to peek its head above the horizon. It's just wrong, ok?

On the other hand, it does wake a man up. And goodness knows, I need the frosted jolt some mornings.