Captain's Blog

Just...Muggy

2009-06-29T17:20:00.001-05:00

Sultry. It's a sultry day (thank you, "Throw Mama From The Train").

Only that's not true. That's wishful thinking. Sultry would be like listening to Joni Mitchell's album "Both Sides Now". Worn and charactered, mellowed, smooth with a bite you can feel comfortably from the other side of the glass. Sad and pained but wise and alluring.

But that is not today. Today is mostly just...muggy. Moist, humid without all that extra flavor. Not that I'm complaining. It just is. It's Kurt Cobain singing a slow ballad, maybe an old standard, with no musical accompanyment. Just his duldrum voice. It's interesting enough to listen to but I wouldn't put it on repeat.

Break time! (9:30 am)

And we're back. Instantly for you, 20 minutes for me.

You know what? Instead of writing just to write, which is what I am about to do, I think I'll just call it right here.

Shoot. Just found out I was somewhat responsible for the breaking of an expensive part of one of the machines.

Sigh.

Lord, Save Me From Myself

2009-05-28T16:57:00.002-05:00

Jon Foreman - Fall (whole album)

It's a drab, dreary, wet day. Inside and out. after yet another evening of turning in a spoiled day to the head office, I've been reflecting this morning on the desert wasteland that May has been thus far. Only three and a half days left and I haven't much hope for an oasis. My mouth is uncomfortably dry and my soul is so overwhelmed and weighted. I'm no fool, I know it could be far worse, but it's still a trial I wouldn't mind circumventing.

But I know God is shaping me. So, while the heat is at times intense and my natural reaction is to get out quick, I shall be hopeful in Jesus and what He's working out. Heated metal is easier to shape.

Wow. That looks so good on paper, and sitting here on the screen, but, to be honest, I feel like King David in many of his psalms. So conflicted and torn between Heaven and Earth. Between God and myself.

One moment praising God for His grace, mercy and love. For pulling me out of judgment's flames and adopting me as His son while I was still his enemy. The next moment spitting in His face, believing in lies. Conspiring against Him with the enemy. Glorifying His name one minute and making Him out ot be a liar the next.

Beating my chest and grieving my brokenness, crying out to Heaven, "Lord, have mercy! What a wretched sinner I am! Who will save me from this body of death?" Having a heart that is being sanctified, converted, changed to the likeness of Christ, yet a flesh that remains distorted and broken. Mangled and faded from the effects of sin. Death.

Lord, save me from myself. You are trustworthy and faithful. How little I trust myself.

I'm a control freak. A liar. A murderer. I lust, cheat, covet. I'm full of pride and arrogance. I am an idolator, a glutton. I'm self centered and mean.

Thank God for Jesus. Those things, while I continue to struggle with them, do not define my identity. They are not who I am. I am His. Still broken, but being made whole.

Sigh. Check that against God's word; the Bible. If there's a conflict, His word wins.

So tired.

Sustain me, Father, I pray. Without your steady, unfailing hands I would be overcome.

p.s. (Yeah, I know, this isn't a letter...) Jon Foreman, if you ever read this, thank you for an honest, heart felt album. Praise music can seem so unrealistic and trite at times. So, really, thank you.

Perception is Not Reality

2007-12-04T21:55:00.000-05:00

Before beginning this small piece of biographical literature (yes, technically you've already begun), you must know one thing. When I process the word "reality", I equate it with the word "truth", and consequently its finality. Reality's base word, real, gives it that kind of weight. Real, genuine, meaning not fake or fabricated. Truth.

I'm sitting at a lathe in the back of the shop, alone. I have the entire south wing to myself (and Jack on the infrequent occasions he's at the grinder on the far side of the room). Now that we can listen to music while we're working (a change that has been both unexpected and very welcomed), I've been taking full advantage. I try to push myself until at least coffee break (9:30) without music, or at least until 8:30.

I try to make sure any thoughts awaiting process, or prayers on my heart, are first taken care of. Otherwise the music becomes an involuntary distraction and then I get a backlog of thoughts and ideas. That stresses me out. I need time to think. I need time to process the reality of my life. To sort through the distracting emotions and desires, the inconsistensies and curiousities I've projected onto the fray.

And where better to go than the author of the book of truth Himself?

So we talk a lot, Jesus and I. He's that friend that's always with me, so it's not that we're talking about events because He was (is) there and already knows. It's more that I want to know what's really going on and what He's doing with it all.

Because there is truth; an absolute truth and He knows what it is.

My perception is not necessarily the reality of a situation. I was just talking with Alyssa on the phone and she gave me a great example. She has an illustration oriented book filled with all sorts of photographs of facial expressions. One in particular is a woman, who, all observations accounted for, is crying. That is how many would, and Alyssa did, perceive her.

To say that "perception is reality" is to say that reality, or truth, is relative. I might perceive the woman as laughing. Now, it is possible that both Alyssa and I are wrong. But we cannot both be right. Only one of our perceptions can be reality. The woman cannot be simultaneously laughing and crying. Yes, I know, I've laughed to the point of tears but that's not the kind of crying I'm talking about.

The author, who was present for during the photograph, stated that the woman is, in fact, laughing. Was Alyssa's perception unreasonable? Certainly not! The author even admits to it seeming the truth to himself. But was Alyssa's perception reality? No. It was wrong. It wasn't the truth.

There are those who will argue still and say truth is relative; there is no absolute truth. But that right there? That's a contradiction. If it were correct, it would itself be an absolute truth.

The author of Alyssa's book was there for the photograph and, though there are many possible perceptions of it, he conveyed to his readers the absolute truth of the situation. No matter how strongly you perceive her as doing otherwise, it does not change the fact that she is laughing.

One increasingly popular (at least I'm hearing about it more) misconception about God, among others, is that He cannot actually see into the future. That He cannot see around the bend in time. That He has no foreknowledge of things to come. But that's not the truth. It's a false perception.

You see, God is the author of the Bible (2 Timothy 3:16, 2 Peter 1:20-21) and, through it, conveys to us truths about Himself. From a broad perspective, the Old Testament is full of prophetic statements issued publicly by God through a prophet. There are many prophecies regarding Israel's future which all, through events of history, were proven true. God knew. Then there's the major prophetic message of the Old Testament. One is coming who will save and restore Irael (and the world), and who will rule over her: Jesus. The Messiah. Lord of Lords and King of Kings. And guess what? He came. God knew.

When God sent Moses to Pharaoh (Exodus 3:7-10), Moses asks of God, "Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, 'The God of your fathers has sent me to you,' and they ask me, 'What is his name?' Then what shall I tell them?" (Exodus 3:13). And God replies, "I am who I am . This is what you are to say to the Israelites: 'I AM has sent me to you.' " (Exodus 3:14). I love this name for God, which first appears here. He had no beginning and will have no end. He simply exists (though, I suppose "simply" is hardly the word). In the past, He is. In the present, He is. In the future, He is.

So thinking He doesn't know the future is a perception that proves to be false. God, the author of the Bible, our tangible source of truth, says otherwise (about Himself, mind you). If I were to ever write something about God that didn't agree with the Bible, I would be wrong. If you feel even God Himself is telling you something but it doesn't coincide with what the Bible, God's Word, teaches us, don't believe it for a second. Read it and know the truth. Know God. Ask and He will reveal Himself through Jesus and the work of the Holy Spirit.

The absolute truth.

Who Stole The Cookie From The Cookie Jar?

2007-11-17T15:09:00.000-05:00

As the children played quietly in the various centers of their first grade room, Mrs. Ingle went over her lessons, perparing herself for the activities of the day. She liked to have materials ready for their fated uses, thereby simultaneously saving time and teaching the children the importance of organization.

She sat at the large, round table in the center of the room where daily lessons and art projects took place. She felt more connected to her students there than she did at her desk in the corner by the door. The table was a sort of apple red, something she always thought odd since it was the only one of its kind in the school; the rest were various faded browns. It was rumored that the teacher whose room it had been previously, and whom no one could now remember, had painted it with her class in a passionate reflection on individualism.

As Mrs. Ingle was thinking over the table's history, Johnathan shuffled into the room with his usual collection of school things.

"Good morning, Mrs. Ingle," he said politely as he transfered his things to his cubby.

"Good morning, Johnathan," she replied.

Johnathan always came in five minutes before class began. Mrs. Ingle enjoyed his consistent nature. She glanced at the clock on the far wall to see that he was right on time. He made his way over to the building blocks, his favorite center, where Sarah, Jackie and Michael were already playing.

One of Mrs. Ingle's joys of the day was watching the children at play. They were so innocent and it seemed the troubles of the world couldn't penetrate these walls. She found herself particularly joyful this morning and, wanting to share her good spirits, she clapped her hands twice to get the attention of the class.

Everyone looked up except Stephen. He was deaf.

Malcom poked Stephen's shoulder and pointed to Mrs. Ingle. Understanding the gesture, he smiled and immediately fixed his eyes upon her, ready to read her lips.

"Let's start with a fun game," said Mrs. Ingle. Chears rang out as the children made their way to the table, where all group games take place. "Does anyone know how to play 'Who Stole The Cookie From The Cookie Jar'?" Jackie's hand was the only response.

"Alright," said Mrs. Ingle, "watch and listen. Jackie and I will show you how to play and you can all join in when you understand."

Stephen was excited. He loved having to follow a conversation by ping-ponging his eyes between two people. And since it was already going to be a game, he was anticipating fun.

"Everyone ready?" asked Mrs. Ingle. Everyone nodded.

"Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?" she began. "Was it you?" She pointed at Jackie.

"But Mrs. Ingle, we don't have a cookie jar," said Sarah.

"Yes, I know, but we-"

"We could play 'Who Stole The Cookie From The Suggestion Box'!" yelled Erik, always trying to help.

"Who put a cookie in there in the first place?" asked Michael, thoroughly confused by such a strange course of action. "And how did they even get it through the paper slot?"

"Children," said Mrs. Ingle, attempting to refocus their attention.

"Maybe they were trying to suggest we have more cookies in the room," said Jessica.

"Or maybe more snack time," added Erik.

"I wish someone would put some new playground balls in the suggestion box," said George.

Mrs. Ingle clapped twice. Everyone stopped and looked at her, except Stephen. He was laughing and flailing his legs around thinking this was a great game. Sarah poked his shoulder. Stephen looked up anticipating the next round.

"Children," said Mrs. Ingle, "this is a game. It's fun and make-believe."

"Sounded real to me," said George.

"I don't see how ruining someone's reputation with accusations of theft is fun," added Jessica.

"I don't think I want Jackie borrowing my pencil anymore," wined Malcom.

Mrs. Ingle tried again. "Just listen to Jackie and I and see if you can catch on. This is only a game."

Stephen was ready.

"Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar? Was it you?" Mrs. Ingle pointed at Jackie again.

"Who, me?"

"She pointed right at you," said George sarcastically.

"Listen, please," said Mrs. Ingle. "Yes, you," she said pointing again at Jackie.

"Couldn't be," said Jackie.

"I can atest to that!" yelled Sarah. "She was with me in building blocks! She couldn't have!"

Mrs. Ingle was not stopping again. "Then who?" she asked Jackie, whose finger immediately pointed to Malcom.

"Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?" asked Mrs. Ingle. "Was it you?" This time the inquiry was directed at Malcom. As soon as she pointed, he looked down at his feet and began to cry. Stephen smiled and poked Malcom's shoulder. This was a new part of the game, he thought.

"Jackie," said Mrs. Ingle, "please pick someone else." Jackie pointed at Johnathan.

"I don't think I should speak without my lawyer present." Johnathan wasn't taking any chances.

Mrs. Ingle was growing impatient. "Was it you?" Her finger was pointed at Michael. He pulled a sandwich bag out from his pocket. Inside was a single oatmeal raisin cookie.

"It's not mine," he said. "I'm just holding it for a friend."

All of the children gasped except Jessica who said, "No, no. The cookie we're looking for is chocolate chip."

"How do you know?" asked George. "Did you steal it?"

"No!" she yelled. "Mrs. Ingle said it was chocolate chip!"

"I said no such thing!" Mrs. Ingle retorted.

Alison, who had been patiently watching the case unfold, pointed at Stephen. "Maybe he stole it!"

Seeing the finger pointed at him, Stephen thought it was his turn. He laughed hysterically, flailed his legs around again and began pointing wildly at the other children, hoping he was winning.

"Oh sure," said George, "blame the deaf kid. Sounds like the desparate act of a guilty conscience."

"She couldn't have stolen it!" yelled Sarah. "She's left handed!"

"How do we know the culprit is right handed?" asked Jessica.

"Maybe that's how they got the cookie in the paper slot!" exclaimed Michael.

"So they took it from the cookie jar and then put it into the suggestion box," said Johnathan. "I think it's starting to make some sense."

"That means we have two thieves," said Jessica. "One stole it from the cookie jar, the other from the suggestion box."

"But the box is locked," said Erik, "and I don't think many people have access to the key. And how would they know the cookie had been placed in there anyway?"

"Sounds like an inside job," said Jessica.

Stephen was still pointing.

"Well someone stole it!" yelled George.

"Was it you, George?" asked Michael.

"No! I brought my own cookies; I don't need to steel the one from the cookie jar!"

The accusations of theft and contaminating the suggestion box continued into the afternoon, with everyone pointing and yelling all over the room. Finally, with no conclusion in sight, they all agreed to drop it.

At least until Johnathan noticed cookie crumbs under Mrs. Ingle's desk.

Post Lunch Anger

2007-10-16T15:47:00.000-05:00

[This was written last week...I don't remember what day]

He moves his muscles in random, graceful directions. Pulling and pushing to extremes while his stomache attempts digestion of the lead weight now present within. Paing crashes against the canvas of a conversation, marking it with indiscernable figures of emotion. Red overtakes. Soaking deep into the woven fabric forming the rest of his day, or at least the next several hours. Work will not be as it was previous to this tension. An opportunity to amend will not present itself for what now seems like days.

You have to go now.

As if my intillect and alertness, generally more keen, were less aware. As if my decision to remain had been overlooked or neglected, or worse: Traded. My attempts to grasp the last bits of a fleeting smile, in hopes of rebuilding before the conclusion of this moment, the only of its kind, thwarted by five words and one punctuational end piece.

Hold on with me instead!

My strength subdued by such a seemingly insignificant grouping of words. A papercut of a sentence! My ice cream pushed out of the cone and onto the ground below. A saddened and withdrawn state I now find myself in. Or is it that I'm choosing to hold back because the line between master and tyrant has become blurred?

Oh, my dear, sweet Jesus! Show me where to step. Give my feet direction and my legs the strength to move them.

My Favorite Chair In The Shop

2007-10-16T15:16:00.000-05:00

To the editor:

I'm sitting on my favorite chair in the shop having coffee and donuts with Jerry the ogre, writing about nothing because the thoughts that I'm thinking aren't ready to be writ.

It's a Friday. Capital F for Freedom; a weekend getaway for two in the lofty spaces and brick encased cubicles until Monday do us part. Lower case m for monotinous. Because not even Jerry likes Mondays.

Although, in its defense, I've grown accustomed to the few expectations that accompany the first of the five day waiting period. Freedom is far off, so little energy is directed toward its approach. I suppose it's that stowed anticipation that brings Monday to a close without much delay.

Moving on.

A heterogeneous compilation of thought in a variety of vocabulary, analogy and spaghetti. The male mind attempting at least a glance of that plate, functionally adorned with sauce and a meatball or two. Follow one strand and you'll inevitably find yourself shaking hands with the whole dish and returning to your first position. Understanding is present but limited.

She cannot even begin to attempt categorization and compartmentalization of the noodly mess. It is far too great a mass to undertake such an eternal project. Each is delicately and inoperably intertwined with the whole.

He cannot interrelate. To do so would be to disregard the organization, to remove the logic. To push his reasoned mind beyond boundaries, resulting in a catastrophic multi-system failure.

For the next portion of the tour, please put on your 3-D glasses, virtual reality gloves and one sock. You choose the foot.

Two birds were sitting on a fence by a railroad track. Both were hit by stray walnuts. Was that fair? One of the birds was blue and the other was ambidextrous. One of the walnuts was actually a Beagle. A few more alterations? The railroad track was trimmed with lace and the fence heard voices. That should do it.

This room was constructed in 1736 and stapled to the main house a month after its completion. It was designed for the soul purpose of housing Mr. Van Wumpit's couches. Being a superstitious man, he didn't want his furniture walking off unkempt for the neighbors to see. Who knows what aristocratic cleaning parties would ensue?

The remainder of this entry has moved.

You may now find it at:

100 East 42nd Street

New York, NY 10017

What Value Hath A Post?

2007-10-15T22:15:00.000-05:00

Alyssa set out at the beginning of this semester to write or draw something in her artistic journal every day. Sometimes she simply puts something creative in that she accomplished during the day. The important part is that it's a daily practice.

I said I'd blog every day with her.

If you just laughed, I'm glad you caught that. No, I haven't been keeping up. But no, I'm not sad about it. To show remorse would mean that I regret not having done this daily, which I don't. It does sadden me that I haven't held to my word, especially as it was to Alyssa, but it does not sadden me to know I've given up some posting nights for other things. A conversation with Alyssa, for example, or a fun night with the guys followed by an immediate need for bed time.

Busy weekends, despite the need to rest, find me away from my laptop (and the internet for that matter). Responsibilities and random happenings of life. You see, as much as I love to write (and consequently, blog), it's not on the top of my priorities list. I would like to hone my skills but losing out on other parts of my day so that this can be accomplished just doesn't seem worth it. I'm not willing to make that kind of sacrifice.

I just don't want to allow blogging to have that much power over my time. To be in dire need of sleep some evening, or to have some responsibilities that must be attended to, but to put them aside to make sure some words are posted here.

Like right now. I'm really tired. I'm posting this because I can copy and paste it (I typed it up a week or two ago and it's been sitting on my desktop awaiting a publishing date). It's an entry that took little effort this evening. That helps me to get to sleep faster.

And that's what I need more tonight.

Lame, I know...

2007-10-02T22:20:00.000-05:00

It's been about two weeks since I've had enough of a machine run time that I could write. It's nice to have a few minutes back.

First thing I did: Read the Bible. Matthew 23, Seven Woes. I want to read about this murder of Zecheriah "between the temple and the altar" (NIV). Most of all, I miss spending time with my God. I want to read his letters and get to know him more. Deeply.

Second thing I did: Called Colleen at the church. I asked if I could borrow the projector and screen. Matt might bring over Halo 3 tonight. Oh yeah. It's Monday. "Guy's Night". I plan on returning it to a spiritual event soon. Koinonia (Acts 2:42, "fellowship"). A little pizza, maybe a beer and Halo 3. Mmm...guy time.

Third thing I did: You just read it.

Another Game of Boom!

2007-09-25T21:44:00.001-05:00

I know I wrote about this subject yesterday, but...

I ran up the stairs with two bags of groceries in my hand, past my brother's door, stopping only for a few seconds to yell, "Matt's here!" then down to my room. I grabbed my shotgun out of the closet as fast as I could then ran the groceries back down the hall and left them in the kitchen. I was so excited, I had carried them the whole way (I have to go by the kitchen to get to my room).

Tonight's game was the best so far.

I crept out the back door, crawling on the kitchen floor so Matt wouldn't see me through the windows in the front. Ben waited inside, hoping he could use the vacant rooms to his advantage. I, silently as I could, made my way around the house's entirety without one sighting. "Maybe he's going around the house the same way I am," I thought. He had seen me with the groceries before I disappeared into the basement, where he eventually snuck in. "Maybe if I stay..."

BOOM!

Ben's down. Now I know Matt's in the house. So I go back into the basement through the garage. The door into the house there is fortunately without obvious creeks. I used that to my advantage. So I waited at the bottom of the stairs, hoping he'd come down. His shadow came across the front door, silhouetted by the kitchen light. All was working to my benefit...until Ben joined him. "Crap," I thought. "Now I've got two of 'em." They conspired, within ear shot, to go outside, choosing the back door as their exit.

"I just might have a chance," I thought.

After I heard them leave, I made my way up to the kitchen where my mom was preparing dinner. I motioned a question, raising two fingers and pointing them both outside. "Are they both out there," I was asking. She peered out the door, under the guise of checking the laundry on the line, and shook her head. The coast was clear.

So out I went. I headed around the north side of the house and heard them in the garage. But if I went that way (north), they'd see me through the window. So I had to try south. I had just come around the corner when Matt popped out of the garage.

BOOM! BOOM!

We both got a shot off. No one's really sure who first. Ben came out after him.

BOOM! BOOM!

I shot first but if Matt had gotten the first shot of all, it wouldn't matter. Of course, Ben was already hit anyway from before so I suppose that doesn't matter in the least.

The game took a total of fifteen minutes (usually it takes two) and it leaked outside, which it's never done before. I'm sure, now that we've explored some previously undiscovered potential, we'll be doing it like this more often. It should be interesting, come winter.

Like I said, best so far.

It's A Toy, Relax

2007-09-24T21:52:00.000-05:00

Yes, I have indeed been neglecting this outlet.

Tonight was fairly uneventful except that I never left work. I mean, I left the building, but work followed me. I had about an hour of chill time between 3:30 (the end of my machining day) and 5:30 (the time I met Jeff and Eric to transport a slate pool table to our church youth room; it's new home). Now, if you're terrible at math and calculating time, you'll pass that sentence without a second thought. But if you're good at those things, or can at least crunch numbers, you'll notice there are, in fact, two hours there as opposed to the aforementioned one.

And well done. For there are indeed two.

But the thing is, there was enough between there that my actual down time was even less than one hour. For instance, I didn't leave the shop until 4:00, at which point my dad and I dropped off the company truck at Jack's house and spent some time looking at his new toy (an ultra-light; it's a hang glider with an engine). Didn't leave there until 4:20, stopped to pick up a sandwich and salad (my dad's with me at this point because the truck is back at Jack's), stopped at the bank, and finally made it home at around 4:45. Fifteen minutes until Matt shows up!

So I pull out my shotgun.

It's a toy, relax. We have this game where when Matt comes over, he tries to sneak up and shoot me before I can do the same to him. His is a toy too, relax. He carries a silenced .45, I carry a stockless pump-action shotgun. He'll come in the house and quietly make his way to wherever Ben or I are, and shoot us (again, pretend...seriously, relax). Or we'll get him first. Tonight, I got him. I knew he was coming in, so I hid in my parents' room while my mom opened the door. By the time he got down the hall and realized I wasn't in my room, I had already snuck up on him. BOOM!

It was pretend, he's still alive, relax!

My brother had called me at work about helping with the pool table. "Oh, and Matt's helping too," I said.

"Oh...can you do me a favor?" he asked.

"Yeah, what's up?"

"Can you hide my gun under the stairs to the deck and leave the back door open so I won't make any noise coming in the house? That way I can sneak up on him."

What a great plan! I did as he asked after I got home. My parents were eating out on that same deck when he arrived. He recruited my mom and she came down to my room asking a question she'd already asked me a while earlier. I thought it strange but said nothing. He followed her down the hall so his footsteps would be masked. Nice move. He was behind Matt without betraying his presence. BOOM!

Honestly, I'm done explaining the imagination of this game. If you haven't relaxed at this point, I can't help you.

After moving the pool table, which was fun, though challenging, we all had pizza out (except Jeff who had already eaten). And now I'm home. I want to take a shower.

So I will.

Less Than I'd Like

2007-09-18T20:23:00.000-05:00

I've got so many thoughts and so little energy. I just typed up two medium-sized emails (which for me is four to five paragraphs) and my mind is close to being shut down for the evening. Now that I think about it, I should go get ready for bed. Brush my teeth, put on my pajamas, crawl under the covers.

Alyssa will be calling me soon and I want to be ready when she does. While this week is certainly an improvement over the last (busy, busy schedule with no room for communication), it's still less than I'd like. We've time to talk here and there but still nothing of quality so far, save a shortened conversation over lunch yesterday.

So, no offense, but I'd rather be somewhere else right now.

Smuggling Laughter

2007-09-12T15:08:00.001-05:00

I'm slowly smuggling pens out of the office. So far this week--the only week I've taken up this practice--this is my second pen (the one I'm writing with*). It's an old pen, with "Jensen Machine Compa" (not a typo) inscribed in several different font sizes, styles and colors. I would presume it to be a sample pen from a company looking to make a profit in that niche. Specially designed pens to promote your business to whomever's hands they happen to fall into. I must say, I'm impressed. I think I'll look up this "Jensen Machine Compa" when I get home.

*[I'm writing this down on a graph pad, to be translated into type later, or now (depending on your perspective in time)]^

I'm taking the time to write all this while the jig borer (a Pratt & Whitney, probably from the 1950's or 60's) rhythmically churns out blue, spirally steel chips. But Adam, steel is silver. That's true, but these chips are being pulled away from the bearing hard and fast, which creates lots of friction. Friction creates heat, heat leads to the dark side. I mean heat causes (I don't know how) the chips to change color. Gold chips are pretty hot. But the really hot ones are beautiful. They come out in blues and purples. And the neatest thing is that the change is permanent. They stay that color.

Kind of like the way God changes us through trials. It's hot, but we come out blue abe beautiful. Maybe even a little spirally. Or maybe the chips come off to reveal the beautiful silver underneath (I'm working with heat-treated bearings which are deep red and black, so silver looks great when it appears), and the chips are junk that blocks that beauty. He makes something beautiful out of something ugly.

Which brings me to humor. Actually, not really, but I do want to talk about it.

Yesterday was filled with laughter. There was so much humor in my day, including (and you won't necessarily get it) stories of people getting caught in an updraft (while hang gliding or parachuting) which evolved into whales doing the same (the story, not the people). Then there was Shia Labeouf leaking the title for the new Indiana Jones movie. "Indiana Jones and the Missing Tuba".

I love to laugh. I love it even more so when it's shared. Alyss and I laugh a lot together. We love to play. To make things up or find the humor in something we're doing. We enjoy just being kids together. All be it two kids in love, but still kids. We like games that you play simply for the joy of playing a game. My heart is getting nice and warm thinking about all this. You know, like sitting by a fire under a blanket in the winter. This is a blessing with the weekdays going the way they have. Thirty second phone calls just to say what we're doing and that we have to go. So it's nice to think about laughing together. It's a huge gift from God. Or a small gift that's REALLY meaningful.

I think I'll stop there and hold onto this for a while.

^[Normally, any special notes marked by an asterisk, or that little cross, go at the end of a given piece of literature, like this. I just felt like being different, I guess.]

We're Already Back

2007-09-10T20:50:00.000-05:00

I always seem to be listening to deeper music when I'm feeling pensive. Tonight, for instance, my audible companion is Ben Folds. Right now he's on stage, backed up by John McCrea (of Cake), singing "Fred Jones Part 2". It's a sad song.

And I am sad. Sort of.

I had a rather lengthy conversation with my mom this evening, residual parts of which are still lingering. I won't go into detail over its subject, but it was a conversation over some things I've been pondering for a while. It was good to get them out. But there were also some things that require action, which I plan to take soon.

I also have had patchy conversations with Alyssa throughout the day. I left two voicemails during my morning "coffee break" (I don't drink coffee, I just enjoy a moment to sit and eat a snack or two). We exchanged few words at lunch, she distracted by a friend or two and I by some wild turkeys passing through the lot. Nothing after that until a missed phone call, I presume was placed just before the IVCF (Intervarsity Christian Fellowship) prayer meeting. No voicemail, so I don't know. [correction: There was a voicemail, I didn't notice it until later] Then another word or two when I called after the meeting had ended. Now she's somewhere between the meeting and getting ready for bed. But again, I don't know.

This past weekend was difficult as it left us very little time to connect with each other on that intimate level of communication. Sigh. The week prior had no time for us to connect at all, save a few patchy conversations. And that's where I find us again. At least from my perspective. There are so many things I want to talk to her about, things that happened last week and have already happened this week. Yet I feel that we'll once again find ourselves moving through the week with slight gaps for a word or two, which inevitably end up being business in subject (usually something about an evening's, or the weekend's, plans). Sigh. We're already back to the week.

And so, at 10:04 pm, I find myself alone with Ben Folds.

Can't Think Of A Better Title

2007-09-08T08:38:00.000-05:00

Oops, skipped two days.

Time? Effort? Applesauce? Whatever.

I'm sitting in front of the amazingly wide monitor on Alyssa's home computer. It's the "family" computer but considering each of the "kids" has their own, I consider it Alyssa's father's. So I suppose I'm sitting in front of Alyssa's father's computer. No wait, I am. I AM sitting in front of Alyssa's father's computer. And I'm also in his chair, at his desk, in his house.

Where am I going with this? Let's try something else.

Today I have the privilege of taking Emily's (Alyssa's sister) yearbook and senior photos. She asked me if I would do them, and though I was hesitant from a good chunk of time away from photography, I agreed. It'll be a good experience for me to get back into it and use that good eye God gave me. Yes, he gave me two, it's an expression. Right now I'm waiting for Emily to get ready, Alyssa to be done with her prayer time and breakfast to be eaten. I had some prayer time too but mine was far shorter than Alyssa's.

Perhaps it was that I didn't make myself more available to God so He gave me less to pray about. Or perhaps it was that I needed less time to get right with God (we are in two different relationships with Him after all). I don't know. But either way, she's been downstairs for a while and this is how I've been spending my time in the interim.

And wow is it going to be hot today. Another 90 degree afternoon. UGH!! I cannot WAIT for autumn's weather. Unfortunately, however, the trees have been changing since August. So the exquisite foliage portion of the fall won't be as brilliant as it was last year. But that's okay...I'm looking forward to the cool, crisp New England air.

Yeah, this entry's all over the place.

How about a story?

Two mice fell into a bucket of cream...no wait, that one's been done before. Something else, something else...hmm...Ah, yes...

The...oh shoot, everyone's ready now. Well, another time.

As Yourself

2007-09-05T20:32:00.000-05:00

Wow.

God's really been revealing a lot to me these past few days. I haven't the time or the space to type about them all. That, and I haven't told Alyssa yet. And since she's my #2 (second only to God), she is privy to anything personal before you (anyone reading this publicly available information). One thing, however, not being too personal shall here and now be conveyed.

Treat people the way you want to be treated.

Read it again. That's not what it says.

Treat your neighbor as yourself.

AS yourself. So the question is, how are you treating yourself? Because if you're trying to be perfect, you'll treat your neighbor as if they should be too. If you allow yourself room for error and forgiveness when the time comes, so your neighbor will find the same from you. And I've definitely seen this in action. Normally I expect myself to be a certain way and I find that I hold the same expectations to Alyssa and become upset when she doesn't meet them. Today, I forgave myself for screwing up. I gave myself room to breathe, relax, and just be me. And guess how I treated Alyssa? The same way. Treat your neighbor as yourself.

I learned something valuable today.

Marshmallow & Nutmeg

2007-09-04T20:23:00.000-05:00

I remember thinking something profound over dinner tonight, or perhaps on the way to the restaurant, but presently I can't recall what it was. I might want to carry with me a notebook of some kind, something small, to jot down random thoughts into. I remember it being rather good, too. Sigh.

I acquired two free glasses tonight. Every Tuesday night at Eli's, a brewery comes to sample their beers. If you order something on tap from the "special guest" brewery, and you're there early enough, you get a free glass with your beer (with the brewery's logo on it). This particular evening's brewery was Red Hook. I ordered two glasses of their seasonal (their autumn or harvest, I dont' remember what it's called). It was pretty good. And I got two glasses. A little piece of cool for the night.

Another noteworthy bit about Eli's is their sweet potato fries, which you can substitute for regular frieds for I think a dollar or two extra. And, if you ask, they'll bring you the special sweet dipping sauce with them. It's delicious. I found out it's merely marshmallow and nutmeg. Apparently the marshmallow is boiled, melted or liquified, or something like that, and the nutmeg is added in. WOW is it good. You should try it. Eli Cannon's, Middletown, CT.

I could certainly write more, yes, but I just fell asleep between the end of that previous paragraph and this sentence. So I think I'll go ahead with the plans that Alyssa and I made to get to bed early. Oh, I can't wait!

Just fell asleep again. I'd better go.

One Hundred Six

2007-09-03T19:49:00.000-05:00

106.

What in the world could you categorize with that number? Let's see...well, nothing that I know of. This is my 106th post, so I was hoping to find some uses for that particular three-digit combination. However, it seems that I'll have to find some other topic to foster.

Like my breath. Ugh. I've been eating these nacho chips from Trader Joe's called "...well, I don't know what they're called and I don't feel like getting the bag, so forget about it. But, despite my laziness, my breath still smells. Or at least the inside of my mouth tastes like I've got this salsa-esque film coating on everything. Yuck.

And yet I still eat them. What gives?

All this aside, I really should take my shower. It's my turn (Alyssa just got out). And after that, I've got to transfer some of my unnecessary items from her room to my car where they'll be readily available when I get home from work tomorrow. It's a long arm's reach from my house to here, so driving them home with me seemed like a better idea.

That being said...off I go.

A Jumble

2007-09-02T21:15:00.000-05:00

I'm letting the deep, sober melancholy of Ben Folds ("Not The Same", to shortly be followed by "One Down", off the album "Ben Folds Live") wash over the excitement of what was today. Not the birthday or new-born baby sort of excitement, but just the amount of things going on. Although, compared to previous seasons I've been through, today was rather mild.

I helped Alyssa and her crew move in new students to their various dorm rooms in select buildings. Really just one building, but she's worked in a few so perhaps, vicariously through her, I too did more than one building. Lots of big items to carry in. Boxes, TV's, X-Box 360's (no, not very big but perhaps a bit noteworthy...not that I'm an advocate for video game systems...I actually don't care for them much anymore) and the like.

Blah blah blah, monotonous details of the day. Something more creative, Adam. Please. Come on, you can do this. Seriously, try something better.

Maybe it's that I'm tired or maybe it's that I'm full of bison burger. Which, by the way, tasted a little musty. Like that old, pioneer smell. You know, those rooms that get sectioned off with velvet rope, containing all sorts of artifacts from Lewis and Clark's journey across the Louisiana Purchase, or an exhibit of canvas covers from wagon trains that made it through the West. That smell. Well, it tasted like that smell (at least a little).

Now I'm listening to Bill Frisell's "Coffaro's Theme" from the "Finding Forrester" soundtrack. Clearly, my mind is a jumble of mismatched thought.

Sigh.

A rabbit crossed the room to find himself alone against a backdrop of candlelit tears.

Figure that one out.

About A Paragraph

2007-09-01T22:21:00.000-05:00

If I were to type a paragraph about a paragraph, it might look something like this one. I'd consider speaking about punctuation and grammer, including the use of commas and periods. But I wouldn't get too in depth; certain punctuation probably wouldn't be used. Like a semicolon. It's a rarely pressed key. It's possible that I would also choose to touch on word selection and the importance of at least attempting to be succinct. It's less tedious. Some sentences might be short. Other sentences might be longer and more elaborative (perhaps even using parentheses to contain a quick thought or two). And, of course, these complete thoughts relating to the same general topic would be grouped together to form the paragraph itself.

That is, if I were to type a paragraph about a paragraph.

A Broken Yo-Yo

2007-08-31T23:59:00.000-05:00

As I look out the window to the night, newly fallen on campus, I remember. The trees flatten to fields and the dorms fall back and grow to mountains. A train, somewhere far off, whistles its evening serenade. I feel alone yet comforted by a presence beyond flesh. My Father has joined me in this moment, speaking through the various points of beauty that surround me. The clear night, the cooler air (a nice break from the summer's daylit breath), the lights, the trees, the mountains in shadow and the train, barely making itself known to me, so distant from it. And that smell. That pre-semester dorm room smell. So much more fresh than it was two months ago and so much quieter.

But it's all just a memory. As much as I'm enjoying this moment of nostalgia; a week in Colorado years ago with my youth group, it's still just a memory in pieces. Except the smell. The real, the here, the now, presents itself again wondering where my mind just went to. But I'm back again.

She's down the hall now, busy with things more important. I'm waiting impatiently. She wants to be done by midnight, there are things that will need her attention in the morning. It's 12:04 am now. The fluorescents need to rest too.

Sigh.

A less than expected beginning on my part, I know. But we'll see where tomorrow, and this month, will take us.

Beneath The Shady Limbs

2007-06-25T16:36:00.000-05:00

Oh, how I wish I had the time and thought to post something more exciting than this. I've much on my mind as of late (though, in all honest, when don't I?) and haven't had the time nor the energy to post anything.

Blah blah blah, more complaining, blah blah blah, a shy return to general thought.

I'm sitting in what would probably be considered the center of the University of Hartford. Geographically, it's more on the western side of campus but if that squirrel hopping along the sidewalk doesn't care, then neither do I.

Alyssa's in class. I have the great pleasure of her company for two weeks (one sadly over, this one fortunately remaining) as I am her ride to and from school. An enjoyable break against the humid backdrop of "summer vacation".

And now the guys (Joe and Matt) are here (several yards away in a parking lot, unaware of my presence on this bench beneath the shady limbs of a rather randomly branching Oak). We're off for a short hike to Hublein Tower.

Memories, I suppose.

I Could Hear The Milk

2007-05-10T06:18:00.000-05:00

It's quiet this morning.

So quiet, in fact, that I could hear the milk as it flowed and drained over my cereal to the bottom of the bowl.

My dad left for work about ten minutes ago. I could've gone in with him but I wanted to eat a good breakfast (Honey Bunches of Oats with Cinnamon Clusters), spend some time in prayer (just talking with my God) and simply enjoy the stillness of a quasi empty house. At least for a little while.

Ben, my brother, is in the process of waking up. His alarm, the only thing that interupts the quiet besides my laptop's cooling fan, will go off several times within the next half hour until he gets up with fifteen minutes left until the start of his work-day (it only takes him five minutes to drive in).

My mom's been gone for a little while. She's the only one that enters my room in the morning to ensure my consciousness. My favorite question she asks, as well as my dad when he ventures in on occasion, is, "Are you going to work today?" To me it seems odd. In my head I'm thinking, "Yeah...why wouldn't I?"

Although from my lack of punctuality as of late (by that I mean for the last several months) and my taking a day off here and there, I suppose there's some validity to the question. I'm working on getting in on time (he says, as he types on his laptop, already half an hour late). Being late hurts my Christian witness, I don't make as much money as I could (I'll need it later) and I'm sure Jack, the owner, doesn't appreciate it too much.

My ideal morning is getting up around 6:15 to spend some time in prayer and in the Bible before getting dressed and having breakfast and leaving by 6:45. Although now that summer's almost here, I'd like to start biking in. I'll save gas, my car's life, and my own health. As a bit of a side note, I also want to pay my bills on time. I'm really bad at it and I imagine my credit score to be less than desirable.

There goes Ben's alarm again. I'd better get going anyway, I just finished my last spoonful of the sweet milk left in the bowl after the cereal's mass migration to my stomache. I'm off to the hiss, clatter and rumble of the machine shop. My mind will be just as busy.

It was nice to have quiet for a little while.

Make That Not The Last

2007-03-09T18:23:00.000-05:00

Oh still and empty room
With companions
None but longing

The beauty you held
Aromas and feels
Still dissipating

Inhale and touch its last
With distance growing
And hearts as well

Though here I am
And there you are
He is with you always

And into His hands
I place you
Out of my own

Bless me He did
So unexpectedly
Through simple error

One last embrace
One last kiss
One last love's mention

Both mine and His
Though His prevails
And will keep you through all

Oh please, my God
My Creator, my heart's fulfiller
My sustainer, My provider

You are first
Now and always
But please if it be Your will

Make that not the last

In A Sky Of Tension

2007-02-13T00:27:00.000-05:00

The first of three breathing generations
Straining muscles of the heart
Pulling together a distant family
Its reality reaching you

Today could be final
Tomorrow could be too
But for now the day's events
Intermingle with unknown fate

A penny in the well
To bring my warmth to you
A small comfort
In the here and now (if only)

For now I am
Deaf and mute
In a sky of tension
Born of blind respect

Its very clouds moisten
These keys and bring
To life this expression
Within and without my tongue

No warning sign
Nor audible call to heed
But suddenly I find
Myself in the unknown

The unfamiliar

A sudden change of altitude
Rivets losing grip
Panels farewell the hull
Personal belongings merge with the night

Trust the captain I shall
Though every muscle in
Yearns to force out
And alter this event

I count the turn of the hour
In ticking and beating
And thoughts unceasing
For these are my companions

Were I to know the reason
For this sudden and unexpected
I could at least direct these
Sypanses firing away in the dark

But now I am adhered
To a lack of understanding
And a deep desire to leave
This room and enter yours

Finally it seems
Exhaustion wins out
But full yield unattained
Until peace doth find my soul

For The Lack Of Snow

2007-01-20T17:27:00.000-05:00

Fatboy Slim, "Praise You Like I Should"
previously, Dave Brubeck, "Give A Little Whistle" off of his fantastic album, "Dave Digs Disney"

The gap between entries has been steadily growing. Let's see if I can do something about that.

As I sit here, somewhat in the mood to dictate thoughts to my hands, I look for a subject and seem to be gravitating toward the bizarre weather we've been having here in New England. It's winter here. Well, sort of. Since the turn of the seasons (not the actual turn on December 21st, but the climate turn somewhere between November and December), we've had a week of cold weather, if that.

Most of our days have been at least in the 50's. One day a few weeks ago--a Saturday, I think--it was actually 70 out. Seventy degrees! This is January in New England. It's generally in the single digits by now. We've had a total of maybe an inch and a half of snow and that's only been in the past couple of days.

I had ventured over to the church with my brother to meet up with a few buddies to practice improv on Thursday night. We pulled into the parking lot and exited the car from our respective doors. In the light of the parking...well, light, were big, fat snowflakes silently pattering their way to the ground. I had to stop and simply stair at them for a little while, enjoying that which I had practically lost hope in. I really thought this winter would pass without a single snow.

But, Adam, how does a snowflake silently patter? I mean, if it's silent it doesn't make any noise. But if it "patters" then it does make noise. So what's the deal?

Good question, reader. Good question. You see, snow likes to be payed attention to. It doesn't beautifully drift its way to the ground under threat of melt simply to be ignored. If you're somewhere with lots of distractions, it knows. It will hit the ground without an ounce of audible expression. But, stand at a still and silent point in the universe and you find that...hey, snow does make a sound! It's very gentle though, so you must listen intently and enjoy the simplicity of its unimposing nature.

I really hope we get some more.