Maternally Pensive II

Dear Mom,

Here we are again. A whole entire year has passed. I still love you and you're still my Mom. So that's good. It's not that I didn't expect you to still be my Mom. I'm just commenting on the reality of it, ok? So, stop being so uptight.

Anyway, I still think you're great. So I wrote you this poem. (The picture below.) I hope you know that it came from the very center of my heart. I especially love the food you make me and the things you do for me. For starters, I am a person who enjoys clean clothes. You take care of that for me. There's another reason I am appreciative towards you.

Also, I am fairly fond of life. And you devoted a solid nine months to making that dream come true for me. On top of that, you've spent the last 18 years not reversing that decision. In general, I have a lot to thank you for. So thanks, Mom! I love you.

You're a pretty great person. I'll spread that around. I'll tell random folks on the street. I'll tell some baker named Greg. I may even put in a good word with your boss. You know, I can help you out. I got connectionz. That's right. With a "z." Don't try to understand me. I am just too cool. But I get that from Dad.

Oh. I'm sorry. Did you expect me to say I got it from you because it's Mother's Day? How presumptuous of you. I hope you feel ashamed.

In all seriousness, you're the very best mom in the world. I don't even dislike you!

One last thing. Do you remember all those times you were painstakingly forcing me to go over my mistakes in school and figure out what I did wrong. You said I'd thank you someday in between dodging the angry glares and heavy objects I would toss your way. I said that would never happened. Well, it did. I'm thankful. So get your grins of triumph out. You get a free pass tonight. If you ever mention it again, you'll regret it. I have worse pictures to post on Facebook.

An Artist's Heart

I am not a photographer. I'm not a musician. Or a poet. I happen to be a person who takes pictures, plays instruments on occasion, and has been known to attempt poetry. Writing is my true love. Story-telling. Its the only activity that I would use as a description for me. I am a writer. I may not get money from it, but money does not make a writer. Nor does a writer make money. (*chuckles to self* See, that's funny because writers are usually poor.)

There's something about writing. Or indeed, any art at all. The creative process is where I find much of my joy in life. There's something about pouring your thoughts, heart, world-view, and opinions into something beautiful.

There's something strange about this thing called, "art." There are countless varieties of it. And it seems that few people excel at it, or even find it interesting. I think of art a little differently than most. Its creation. Pure and simple.

Most people don't seem to comprehend that. They think that the art of painting is about the science of mixing paints. Or that the art of writing is about the rules of grammar. And to be sure, those things are useful. Just as a hammer is useful when you need to put a nail through a 2 by 4.

Some realize that it goes deeper. Art is not merely the science behind it. There's, well, an art to it. There are certain guidelines. When taking pictures, find groups of three. When writing, its best not to kill the hero off half-way through the book. This too is useful. In the same way that knowing which end of the hammer is for whacking the nail.

But to say that art is merely the science behind it, or even the artistic guidelines, is to miss the point entirely. You can teach most anyone the rules of grammar. You could sit down with a beer-swigging, hairy man and explain to him why "swig" is a much stronger verb than "drink." But strong verbs and grammatically accurate sentences, do not a good story make. Nor does a 15- megapixel camera guarantee beautiful pictures. Clear ones, yes. Beautiful, not necessarily.

The difference between a picture and photography is the same as a difference between a book and a story.

The real thing that makes an artist is the urge to create. It's the pure desire. It consumes thoughts, time, and love. What ends up happening, with the best art, is a little window into the artist's heart. Art is a brief, limited glance at what one person finds beautiful. What they find attractive. What they love.

Maybe that's why artists don't care overly much about their appearance. They don't seem to mind if people see them as a slob. Not when strangers get the chance to see the deepest part of their hearts.

Maybe it's overly sappy. Maybe it doesn't make sense.

I'm willing to bet that anyone with a heart bent towards creation will get it. I have that heart. For better or worse. No matter where else my life takes me, I know it will involve writing. Everyday, I'll be chased and be chasing thoughts of stories and characters with tales to tell. It's what I love. It's me, simply and honestly.

I thank and praise my Lord Jesus Christ. He created me. And best of all, when He created me, He gave me the same love to create.

Of You All

Do ever feel like something snaps you out of weeks and weeks of dreaming through life? That's me today. My alarm clock has been going off and I've finally got up the nerve to stop hitting the snooze button. That's a metaphor, of course. In actuality, I eagerly anticipate the alarm going off each morning.

There have been several things to bring me to this point. Most notable has been a few verses I came across whilst studying my Bible. 2 Corinthians 2:3-4.

"And I wrote this same unto you, lest, when I came, I should have sorrow from them of whom I ought to rejoice, having confidence in you all, that my joy is the joy of you all. For out of much affliction and anguish of heart, I wrote unto you with many tears, not that ye should be grieved, but that ye might know the love which I have more abundantly unto you."

Paul is writing to a church with an ugly history of sin. He acknowledges their need to correct it. But there's something else in these verses. If you read the rest of the book and skipped these verses, you might get the impression that Paul is ministering to them grudgingly. With all the correction he is forced to teach them, it seems as if there's nothing terribly redeeming about this body of believers.


But if I'm being honest, most churches are like the church in Corinth. Mine included.


Paul didn't want his stay with them to be about dealing with sin. He wanted it to be joyful. So he attempted to correct some things before he even got there.


With a church so sickly and diseased, no one could blame Paul if he wrote them off as a hopeless cause. But that's not his heart. Their joy was his joy. Their sin caused him pain. He was bothered by it and even moved to tears. It pained him to have to correct this church. In other verses he states that he saw them as his children and it seems as though he acted like it too.


What can we learn from this? I don't think this attitude is only meant for a few saints like Paul, or even church leaders. I think this should be the attitude of every believer towards every other believer.


With the exception of a few, close friends, can we honestly say that the sin of other believers causes us "anguish of heart"? Does it? Or do we stand at a distance and shake our heads disapprovingly? All while hiding our own skeletons in our closets.


I'll confess, I fail miserably here. I'm content to leave others alone and be left alone. I'll stick to my friends, thank you. Maybe that's not right. All believers are my brothers and sisters. I rarely treat them as such. I inwardly scoff at them and their mistakes. I find some of their convictions silly. I don't bother to get to know them and figure out what trials they're facing.


I don't mean that God wants me to be everyone's best buddy. But maybe I should be more forthcoming with a genuine smile and more persistent about the times I pray for them. Even the people I don't like. I pray that God gives me the kind of heart that is able to treat them as if I were dealing with myself. Or even better, as if I were serving Him.


I don't think God is asking for anything new here. It's just love. Love isn't a calling for pastors and missionaries. Its a command for every believer. It's an order to love as Christ loved. And I have a hard time picturing my Lord and Savior distancing himself from people who are hurting and struggling through life. It's about time I act the same.

The Day I (Tetris)Battled a Fruit Ninja

A funny thing happened. (By "funny" I mean "hopelessly tragic") I got this odd urge to play Tetris. So like the go-getter that I am, I went on an excursion across the terrifying Interwebs. I googled it and found a free version, but it wasn't terribly good and boredom soon took me. 

Next, I wandered into the hostile jungle called Facebook Games. I found, "Tetris Battle" which was Tetris with a slight twist. All in all, I loved it. It was fast-paced and fun and I was fairly good. l beat most people who I played against. But I didn't just beat them. I stomped on their hopes and dreams as I marched past each one with my pet gerbil, Mockery, following behind.


Everything was going swimmingly. Steadily, I climbed up the ranks. I found myself waiting expectantly for my next chance to sneak a few rounds in. That's been my past few days.


It was glorious fun.


I had found a perfect outlet for my competitive desires. Like a fat kid who finds out that his long-lost uncle owns a bakery and he can eat pastries until he explodes, I was purely joyful. This outlet was even free from the clutches of a certain brother. This wasn't Minecraft or Call of Duty or Portal. Here was something I could be good at and not be shown up constantly.


*shakes head at self*


I overlooked one tiny detail. Meg. It turns out that Meg also likes Tetris. So she started playing it. In one round she had surpassed my record (the one that took hours of practice to attain) and get a higher ranking than me. Yup. There went my fun. With the speed of a ticked off hurricane, my sense of accomplishment was swept out of sight and lost to oblivion.


I'll admit, my heart broke.


I don't blame Meg. She just has this supernatural talent for playing "casual" games and making them seem to involve no effort at all. It's impressive, really. But for a guy who thought he had found his special talent, being shown up so handily is a crushing blow. I shouldn't have been surprised. This was the girl who doubled my record in Fruit Ninja after two attempts.


It was in my dejected musings that a thought occurred to me. There aren't many things I'm good at. Writing is one of them. And here I am, neglecting this, my one true passion. I mean, there aren't any trophies. No one's keeping score. Maybe that's one of the reasons I love writing so much. It isn't about being the best. It's purely about making the very best thing you can.


I'm gonna make this my outlet.


And bygoshbygolly, even if not a single soul reads this, it's gonna be incredible.

Or Else

To the friends and relatives of the oxen that I apprehended last weekend,

Hello there. My name is Gregarious Figglewip. You may call me Isaac. I prefer Isaac. As you may have guessed, your oxen have been abducted. If you inspected the scene of the crime you probably found my business card. I introduced myself there and informed you that Fritz and Roger had been "Ox-napped™"

I hope you don't hold this against me. I'm just a small business man trying to make a living. Nothing personal, ok?

If you want your oxen back, then all you need to do is follow this simple, 4-step plan. I call it the "Youshouldjustdoallofthiswithoutquestionunlessyouwantabulletthroughtheskullofyourlovedone" plan. 

The Youshouldjustdoallofthiswithoutquestionunlessyouwantabulletthroughtheskullof yourlovedone Plan

1. Throw away all of your boxes of minute rice.

2. Eat a croissant everyday at 2 AM, while standing in your neighbor's driveway and singing "The Final Countdown" as loudly as possible.

3. Bring $4.00 to the gas station with the broken down forklift out front and hand it to the handsome man with the expertly cultivated handlebar mustache. (Thats me!)

4. Using the light of the sun and a magnifying glass which I will provide, cook some bacon for me in the parking lot.

Thats really all you need to do. Do all of it exactly as I told you and you just might be snuggling with your oxen for an evening of Wheel of Fortune and eating potato chips by the end of next week.

It's been nice doing business with you. I hope we can do it again sometime.

If you have any questions, please call:

772-257-4501

- Gregarious "Isaac" Figglewip
 

Searching...

It's high time I begin to work on another Faces in Places post. *sighs* What with homework, work, a girlfriend, two novels dancing in my brain, and all the awesomeness I must spread throughout the world, I just don't see how I can do it all.

Well, first things first. I must find faces.

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.