"You don't speak very good English, young lady."

I overheard one stranger say that to another in a bus terminal [today]. He had started making conversation a few moments earlier and, although I was scarcely listenening to what they were saying, I understood from intonation and body language in my periphery that the "young lady" and her baby-daddy were trying to be polite but not encouraging. Their discomfort was masked by said politeness with as much awkwardness and futility you'd find in trying to stuff a live but indifferent octopus into a mesh bag. (Picture it.) The presence of the baby, I think, was the excuse the stranger capitalized on to start a conversation. He "seemed harmless and nice enough" as most folks of this society would say. I call it frustrating but that is probably "just me". I react differently in most public settings. [Speaking of the word "just" I have a challenge to all you Christians out there who, every now and then, talk to Jesu or Big G: try lasting a month without using the word "just" in your prayers. Maybe that'll be effortess, maybe someone has "challenged" you like this before but I think this is a great word to start with in the pursuit of refining our language (especially when it's to someone who deserves to be spoken to with words well-chosen and well-used).] Either way, when he uttered the title of the post that man was dead serious and sounded almost like he was reprimanding this woman, as if he had the right to tell her what languages to learn and by how much she had failed in that endeavor. You don't say that to strangers, man, you don't say that. ugh... I should start carrying around/wearing boxing gloves all the time so I can punch inanimate things when anger takes cheap shots at me.
Although it's not completely logical, I would have loved to - in her position - retort, "How's your Chinese?"

my thoughts on the "queer-positive" church

It shouldn't exist. I think calling a church "queer-positive" is like calling the front entrance of a bar "negro-friendly". There should be no distinction for any establishment or church. These are my thoughts.

In other news, this is what I do when I'm out of school during the Christhams season... Yesterday's project was a Christmas tree (see previous post) and today I made a rather gaudy Christmas card for a (secret Japanese) friend of mine. Yes, the envelope is made from a paper bag and yes, I enjoyed cutting the triangular lip to complete the illusion of legitmacy.

Before this, I made some apple crisp out of what is certainly the largest apple I have ever seen. [See below.] Unfortunately, the smaller apple on your right in the photograph does not give a good idea of scale because it could certainly be a very tiny apple. However, it is not. It is an average-size Royal Gala apple (maybe slightly smaller than average) and the big Red Delicious was definitely about four inches tall and three inches in diameter (at its widest point). I've said it twice before and I'll say it again: that apple ate other apples. It is gargantuan. It scared/scares me. This is why I was forced to cut it into small pieces and bake it in hot oven....mwa hahah....

[For those who are interested, I did the slicey-slicey of the Gargantuan and half of the other apple. (Usually, you use 5-6 regular-people size apples but I wanted the challenge of making a mini-crisp out of the mother.) Drop your pommes in a baking dish (the 9x9" or 8x8" is cool) and pour a smidge of water over. After this, sprinkle two tablespoons of granulated sugar on.]

[After this, you probably wants to mix 1/2 cup rolled oats, 1/2 cup packed brown sugar, 1/4 cup flour and 1/2 tsp cinnamon. If I were you I'd be rather liberal with both the brown sugar and the cinnamon becuase those things have a kind of.... passionate relationship with apples. They pretty much need to be together, in copious amounts, as much as possible.]

[Add 1/4 cup of margarine (I went overboard because I was trying to bake from memory and thought I needed 1/2 cup. I stopped a little bit after I'd added half...). It oughta be crumbly but stick together jus a lil' bit, too. My hand does absolutely NOTHING for showing you the texture so just pretend it's there to prove that... I still have hands.]

[Bake your friend at 350oF for 30-35 minutes and then love it real nice like. I suggest the addition of ice cream. If you're a westerner, you'd probably pick vanilla which I think is absolutely a joke of a flavor BUT it does make sense in this context becuase you probably don't want to interfere with the apple crisp-o flavor at all.]

I think that's all I have to say for now. That... yea.

(This is what happened to the other half of the apple ----------------------------->

+cinnamon+syrup&icing sugar+great)

Retrospect (which should refer to eye-glasses from the '70s but unfortunately does not)

The past few days have been weird and generally unpleasant for me. I had fun tonight, playing one game of Cribbage and three games of Rummy 500 with Fish [I can admit that I lost three of those four games... I often enjoy loosing because it means I'm being challenged which is the whole point of competition] and I have [enjoyed] being without academic responsibilities. But still, I feel quite unsettled.
I am both genuinely ashamed and disgusted with my academic conduct this semester. I mean, sure, I'll get the credits (methinks) but I sell myself short way too often. I'm not sure if I'm using the right phrase there but I know that I need to stop shooting for the bare minimum. It is true, time and time again: as long as we are OK with being good, we will never be great. I wanna be great.
Yesterday I wrote my final two finals. How ironic is it that the class I love the most is the one I will probably do most poorly in? I honestly want to go talk to my professor and say, "Look, don't let my laziness be a disrespect to you. Don't think I am apathetic or uninterested in what you had to say; I am merely selfish and unwilling to do what I should do to reap the greatest benefits from your class." Man...I ... oh I don't even know what to say anymore. I don't think I can smile properly until my grades are up and I can see how .. well I can see the fruits of my "labor". Speaking of labor fruits, I made this Christmas tree this afternoon. It was fun and but I see now that I need to move the trunk to the right just a lil'. I am rather pleased with the finished product. I think I should stop writing. I think I'm in a state of penance. I think there was a guy who tore curtains in two, a guy who said worship in the mountain or the valley is all the same. He said there was now no condemnation for those who were in Him. There was a guy to which I gave my life but right now I'm just not feeling it. Yes, I can believe His promises and I can know that, at the end of the day, I'm safe. But that's me being content with goodness again. It's one thing to know that He is gracious but how do I reconcile the fact that I never seem to learn? How can I truly feel forgiven knowing that it is almost certain that I will make the same mistakes next semester? I need to believe on something different - that something will change. Ugh... the power of will power.. it's a beast! what to say, what to say...?

Reasons that I am Old

I just said, "I don't approve of luxury of any kind."

I'm old but... I stand by that statment.

Apparently I don't know my Bible very well because I have been having a great deal of trouble finding the Book of Magical Formulae.

je pense...

Smallville instills in me a very rare kind of sadness. It's like someone took all the stories from one newscast and explored each in depth (wrote a script, rehearsed and filmed it). When we watch the news, we walk away saying, "Ah- what's wrong with the world?" We all like to say how much of a corrupt and evil place this is and yet, without admitting that we are each evil and corrupt, the problem will never be adequately addressed (or even conceived of).

Clark and Lana are moving futher and further apart which is extremely painful to watch because they both love eachother without reservation [can I say that?] but one (huge) secret between them means they will never have true intimacy and can never be happy together. I am sad because I know Clark will never tell (he tried and something horrible ensued so now he's pretty much clammed-up forever, thinking there will be some alternative but secretly knowing there is not and that he is sending the relationship down the drain).

It's sad that there exist things like murder and suicide. It's sad that these things are rampant. It's sad that I call this "sad" and don't know where to go from there. Chloe was possessed by a girl who had allegedly commit suicide 10 years ago. The girl wanted retaliation on her murderer (for, you see, she had been forced to cut her wrists). Throughout the entire episode, the theme of which seemed to be mental illness, the part that I would call "saddest" was the whole unwritten, unintended part where everyone accepts as normal what happened. Dead people don't haunt you and make you slit your wrists. They don't call out to you from within walls and, when you "release" them, they don't possess your body to find their killer. And, and, and.. the other unbelievable things I could list but I won't. Even more outside this idea, what I am alarmed by or drawn to is the idea that people - i.e. the viewing audience - buy this stuff. People do not have a solid set of beliefs that can withstand tests of all kinds. People make so many allowances that, really, they have nothing left to stand on. It bothers me that the world is swallowing poisonous junk, bottle after bottle because it's never been able to say, "Oh I'm allergic to ammonia," or, "I'm lactose-intolerant," or, "I only drink on weekends." There is a vague understanding that liquids are necessary but nobody's willing to say a solid YES or a solid NO to certain things because that would require work! Who wants to stand up for what they believe in? Who wants to be ready to give a reason for the hope that they have? Who cares? Why can't I believe that Christmas is about spending time with family; that it's a "magical" time of year, that goodwill toward men is what makes the world go round? Why can't I believe in Christmas miracles and acts of selflessness that bring people back from the clutches of evil? "It's what's inside that counts." "You can do anything you put your mind to." "Be wary of Aquarius; today they will be bluntly critical with you." We, today, have the most extravagant spiritual salad I have ever seen. People have got CAR PARTS sitting atop their lettuce because they have no intention of telling ANY server, "No, thanks, I don't want any of that." You'd hurt their feelings. You'd be missing out. You'd need to explain yourself. You'd be closed-minded! You'd most certainly be uncomfortable, forced to tell someone how you don't think parmesan is appropriate for Greek. "Yea I understand that you're vegetarian but come on! It's anchovies - vegetarians eat fish, don't they? - in ranch dressing! You'll barely taste it. Pretend you didn't know. You can scrape the pieces out if you see them." (NO. I will not eat animal meat, end of story.) "Gosh, why are you such a tight-ass?"
It bothers me. THIS bothers me. It's amazing how "tolertant" we purport to be until someone throws Christianity up on the slab and everyone comes running with meat cleavers. I guess it's OK to oppress if you know the people you're oppressing are obliged to (a) keep quiet and (b) forgive you. [Are we? Are we really? If not, I've got things to say. I enjoyed Acts 16:37 for this reason.] But this is not today's beef, no. I really want the rest of the world to stop imbibing watered-down, happy-happy, sensible, non-confrontational theology (or spirituality). It's deadly and it's stupid... but it tastes great and it's available FREE OF CHARGE at every corner store you can find. (Heck, you don't even need a store - salesmen will come a-peddling to your doorstep!)

The question of the night:
What good does a blog post with many italicized words do? What are my wares and where do I peddle them? (Do I peddle?)

I am sick - revolted - by what I see but WHAT AM I DOING ABOUT IT? I'm about to prepare some banana bread for tomorrow, say my prayers and go to bed. Let me be a person of action. Perhaps a doer of the word and not just a hearer, even.

quotation station

Two from tonight:

Jon Stewart: Stephen what do you have for us?
Colbert: [Lists the 50 states of the U.S. in alphabetical order, timing himself] Twenty-two-point-eight seconds.
Jon Stewart: Wow ... is that some kind of record?
Colbert: No, I always do it in 22.8 seconds. I was just checking the stopwatch. [Reading:] 22.4? Piece of crap.

"No animals were hurt during the production of this episode. We tried but that d*** monkey was just too fast."
(Colbert)

It's official: I've got the hots for Darcy Tucker. It's been four years in the making and I finally admitted it to myself after I watched him circle following the opening goal in the ATL @ TOR game tonight. Man... I can't even describe it. ha

one thing that Christianity lacks

...is excuses. We can't make them for any of our behaviour and we certainly cannot make them about God, His character, His Word, His rules, His ways nor His Son.


In Philippians 4 are many verses that many Christians have heard quoted and over-quoted. This was one I wanted to grasp so I shrunk it:
"Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God," roughly translates to, "Do not worry - ask."

It is so very simple. What can possibly go wrong? What can we lack? What's the worst that could happen. He said ask, meaning that anything we need shall be supplied.

This means that the only decision any Christian ever needs to make is simply to say yes to God. He works every thing in us, around us, for us, for others through us, etc., etc. and if we can only step aside and continue saying yes to Him (decrease as He increases, so to speak) then we're golden. We almost seem useless, in a way. (but not!)

drawn in, emotionally

...I barely know what to say.

I feel many things but they all think they will be cheapened if I try to express them in words. I feel and I want to feel yet I am stuck.

drawn in

draw

I saw real moments and real harsh moments. I saw more than I can understand.
I see
I see, I think

I conclude (no)

I refuse to explain myself and I refuse to apologize.



what is it like? I was drawn in and I still feel like I'm (in) there but I don't know where "there" is anymore! now I waver in oblivion--is that it?

I almost walked away, too. I thought I'd abandon because things change.
this is starting to taste like a time I don't like. I don't like it. What happened to the days I wrote for the sake of writing? I miss.

craddle-robbing is for...... old people

I think that winter has arrived and I am more excited than forever.

I have often thought that I would like to be able to fit all of my possessions into one carryable bag. BUT, if that were possible, I would not have room for much else besides all of my music (because I refuse to throw that out). Music, Bibles and pens... I can see that being the entire itinerary. I might thing about getting a change of clothes. : Maybe I haven't planned this out. I think I am forgetting that, to be like this, I need to be constantly moving and rather well-funded.

somehow I..

too shocked to be hurt

We're reading a Gwendoyln Brooks poem that relies on its sonic qualities to put the reader in the place of the poem's subjects.
I was late for class because I was working on another assignment.
Apparently, the professor had asked the class to say the poem aloud to better grasp how the sound properties worked. Near the very end of the lecture (the part I was there for), he noted that speaking this poem is an especially uncomfortable thing to do - the class had just established that they were hesitant to recite aloud for fear of looking silly or getting things wrong - because it [applies] to a "constituency that, looking around the room now, we are not." And the Teaching Assistant directly in front of me sort of half-turned but didn't actually get his eyes around to me. (He had seen me come in late and was, apparently, the only person who knew I was in the room.)
My whole world just sort of shrank like a crumpled paper and then exploded back into form in a moment. I couldn't even feel myself blink because of the incredulity.

Now I must think --- if my professor had known I was there, would he have made the same comment and pointed me out? Would he have asked me to interpret? (I can see myself saying some regrettable things in response to this one...) Would he have said, "With the exception of one person, right, in a classroom of what?, right, - 60, 70 people?..." and continued on the same? (He interjects "right"s when he's externally processing something thick or delicate.) On the other hand, would he have not said anything at all? <-- that is the thought that scares me most, methinks. I have this intense, deep-seated fear and, I suppose, an inherent mistrust for large groups of exclusively white people. I'm sorry for that. I am sorry that I think this way. I need to change. What if he had made the exact same comment even if he had seen me in the classroom, ignoring my couleur? It boggles my mind to think that this was a moderately significant point in the course of this lecture that was essentially hinged on having a white majority class. (What is that?) Should his readings of texts not be independent of the people he lectures to? Maybe not. Maybe not, indeed; I'll leave that point alone.

I don't think I can even begin to touch upon the idea of "black language" and "white language" though the latter doesn't seem to exist. It seems to be the norm from which other "languages" deviate. What makes you think that blacks and whites are so different that we cannot speak the same language. Aside from localized slang, what is there? We're talking about subtext, aren't we? Are you saying that whites cannot read the Black Struggle? Can blacks read white language? Somehow I get the impression that we allegedly can. It's like, being segregated and oppressed, we were forced to create this series of knocks and clicks to communicate in the hull of a ship because only we know what's going on there. I'm making an analogy; I'm talking about our present-day ship. That's bogus.

When this poem was written (I think it was the 60s), I think the idea of being unable to read one another (blacks and whites, that is) was quite widely accepted. It's like..... hm. It may indeed have actually been a true phenomenon. But for seriously ------ this is not the 60s. I don't understand. I think we would get it (perhaps more especially in Guelph... maybe more so in upper years) if we weren't told that we could not understand by virtue of our race. That ain't right, that ain't right. It doesn't work that way.


arggh... I don't even know what I would say to this man, given the opportunity.

If I Had my Way...

my future vocation would be called "Artistic Scavenger." Done.

note to self:

Do not microwave hard-boiled eggs for more than 49 seconds.


[I heard the ceramic rattle on the glass microwave plate two seconds after the appliance had stopped running and I thought it was the bowl that had shattered. I was relieved but disturbed. I almost wish someone else could have been there because them laughing at me would have made the experience even more enjoyable. I don't understand eggs.]

battle scar gallactica

I was side-swiped by a malicious desk tonight. I was thrilled to see the bruise because, essentially, I don't bruise. I think it's fantawesome.

I have great respect for Billy Crystal. I watched "Comic Relief" a few weeks ago (from start to finish...that's four hours) and I have generally mixed feelings about it. However, what I think is worth dwelling on is my newfound appreciation and respect for the character (could we say moral fibre) for Mr Crystal. I mean, a) just producing (with Whoopi Goldberg and Robin Williams) such a program and doing so for the past 20 years is a great feat unto itself. I see that it's hard to resist patting yourself on the back, it's hard not to glory in your fame and it's hard not to accept the humanitarian award but I see something different with these three. Hosting a benefit for rebuilding New Orleans is not a career-builder, it's not. These three found eachother to be of like mind, way back in 87 (or was it 86?) and they put their money (time & energy) where their mouth was. I appreciate that. I appreciate people using their celebrity to help people that will never thank them, that may never meet them. I'm sad, I'm really very sad to see that so many people are enjoying their helpful ways and are stating and re-stating how wrong, tragic and unfair it is for a city to get its butt whooped by a hurricane and then be left to fix its own problems - that they implore their fellow men to give because their country needs them (because it's their country) and yet God isn't in it. How can you do something that seems to be so "good" and yet... is almost aimless or corrupt because it's not focussed on or dedicated to the Creator of the universe? I sad. But anyways... I can pray.

What made Mr Crystal stand out for me was the dramatic presentation he did. It was a first-person narrative of some elderly jazz musician who told the entire love story of he and his beloved New Orleans. Speaking of love, the way he recounted meeting his wife was to say that he saw her somewheres (say in a restaurant or such) and one smiled at the other... and they've been smiling at eachother these past forty years. (awwwww) [Side note: "forty" is the only number name whose letters are in alphabetical order. The only one! Does that boggle your mind like it does mine?] He started the act by playing some clarinet solo (melodious and lively, seemingly introducing his character). It was just Crystal alone on a HUGE stage, kind of up-stage right, faced away from the audience in a greyish suit and fedora under a blue spotlight. He finished playing and began to tell. During one part where he talked about playing clarinet, a little 12-year-old boy dance-walked and mock-played clarinet (i.e. he made no sound) behind Crystal dressed as a young vaudeville or minstrelsy performer. It was cute and impressive for its artistic merits.
I was impressed by how well Crystal had his NO accent down; it was obvious he had worked on it and it was certainly convincing. ---this is key: the fact that he worked ahead of time to be sure he had appropriated an accen well shows how seriously he took the entire production. I love people who see details through.
In one moment, he talked to Bush (which was an odd breaking out of time context) and suggested that the President stop the war for one day - just one day - and send the millions he is spending there to New Orleans. Just one day ... maybe two. The audience applauded at this and I was impressed by the fervor in his voice; he was clearly partially ad-libbing.
The act ended when four or five other musicians walked out behind Crystal and started to play some NO-sounding tune. He joined in on clarinet (and this is the moment that I realized Billy Crystal can indeed play the clarinet - another reason for me to respect him greatly; he needed to practice and learn that piece for all of the 3 minutes he played) and walked out with the men.

I must say... I love it.

I just saw the three hosts on some CNN special with Anderson Cooper and they were showing some footage from Crystal's trip in New Orleans, particularly the lone man in the ninth district is spending every day building his house all by himself. The man cooks with butane, sleeps on a bed that is mostly newspapers and for serious is alone for miles and miles. He has had the house since the 1940s and is very much unwilling to relinquish it. Billy Crystal tells the man's story (on video and in the CNN studio) with serious passion but not a trace of pity. It seems he simply wants the story to be told. After the clip, when Cooper asked him some specific-type quest about the man (whose name I seriously should have remembered..) and Crystal answers in full; he rattles off some facts that you can only collect if you have a vested interest. Crystal wasn't memorizing a list to appear compassionate but instead telling things about the life of someone he listened to and cares about.

hmm hmm hmm.
Did I pledge/donate any money? No. I wanted to (and still do) because there is a real and great need. I felt, though, that I was giving mostly because my emotions were being manipulated (and it seemed like a tangible way to say thank you for the hilarity of the comics) and that must be true, else I would have given before this. I wonder....
I wonder how many people outside the U.S. refuse to give because they think the richest country in the world should be able to take care of its own. Yea, sure, but shouldn't the richest countries in the world be able to take care of their own (own world, that is)? Shouldn't we? What's the difference? Borders need tearing down.