Edge of the World Thursdays

It may have taken a year, a season, it may have taken only minutes, but the boy decided, eventually, the string was to be pulled. It was not fear that stayed his hands, not precisely, but the mysticism. Was it better imagining what might happen? If the stars might fall behind a curtain of night, or the sky itself collapse; or if the earth would become the heavens, the heavens the earth, and they might all traipse along island clouds. Would the angels corral in chorus to this world on the rings of a bell, or demons rise from the gaping maws of hell?  Would the world curl into a ball, like a giant rolypoly? Or would the world's edge be drawn back, and whole new lands unveiled to explore? What stayed the boy's hand equally was the disappointing outcomes he conjured in his imagination. What if nothing happened? Or what if the string itself fell, and disappeared off the edge of the world, and he could no longer gaze upon its illustrious glamour? What if it crumbled to ash in his hands? Perhaps it was a fear of a sort, but not of his fellow's punishment.

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Today was an odd day. Working at home invites a certain freedom, and a certain punishment. If you have roommates, they immediately assume you are free for discussions, for chores, for having your workspace waltzed in upon - today, a general house-cleaning took place while I worked, and my work environ was encompassed by sweeping, a roommate walking in and boasting at having cleaned another room, with each room cleaned, bathrooms that had to be used between-cleans. I alternated between music and audio-books, and, thankfully, today was not filled with difficult problem-solving (put-out-fires-thursdays). I did get some good reading and writing in (are all my friends gone this week?) after work until I was passively booted from the house when that same roommate invited a girl over for dinner.
Needless to say, I'm thankful it's nearly Friday. I'm visiting the family soon, and I could not be more excited.

The Most Telling Move

Late. On a day of complete freedom, with few predetermined appointments, I still failed in running until far too late into the evening, and thus haven't started writing, reading, or preparing for work tomorrow as yet. I went to a games store (and bought a card game - I haven't done that in some time), went to a used bookstore (and bought only 3 books. What restraint!), played some disc golf, read a bit of Everything is Illuminated, skyped the guys, ate dinner, played a board game that lasted all night, and only just now finished running in the light drizzle for a while.
In other bright news, I fixed my desktop drivers and wireless such that I can use it again (I can work on dual screens instead of lappy386 all the time). A pleasant day. As I was running and listening to my audio book (best way to run ever), I was contemplating subtlety and cunning. When I compete, I often pick what I deem the most effective strategy. I know some people who always play aggressive, always play sneaky, always play through knowledge. I pick the most effective strategy, whatever it happens to be, and mold my tendencies into that strategy. Yet, if I had to select my favorite, cunning was always my preferred method of conquest - winning through intelligent process and careful analysis.
I enjoy games, but I enjoy them far less than people, now. This was not always so. And in the games today, as I lost and my opponents asked me how my horrible game felt (they are competitive sometimes in a bad way. I was there once), I simply smiled and said, "It's good to be outside with friends." They had no response. In the greater game, I made a move they could not counter with their existing strategies, and it captured their hearts a bit. Sneaky? Perhaps. But a good move, I'd like to think. I've made another move today, the most telling one, perhaps. Now we just have to wait and see whom it heals, and whom it breaks.

A friend of mine's mother may be dying soon. Pray for them, and her. And everyone else. I've a tough decision to make here soon, so pray I make the wise one. Lord, please help me make the right one.

Precipice

Before the strength of man's conviction twisted the earth into a sphere, there was a village at the end of the world. Built into the basalt cliffs on the shores of earth's edge, it sat and watched and waited until such time as it was needed no more. The village had long past been named Rope, for that is what it guarded and waited upon.

Waves still washed up against the shore from an ocean only paces wide, and a blackness lay beyond, deep and dark as before-time. At the furthest point of the beach against the precipice of the world, an arm's length over the water into the great void, there was a rope, or perhaps a string. It hung from the heavens, falling between the stars, and in neither night nor day could you see its end, but it shimmered as gossamer in the daylight, and as opals in the night, an ever-shifting glimmer of light. It was a single strand, and none in the village knew its purpose, many thinking it was simply a portion of the frayed edge of the world. Beneath the rope, on the barest edge of the shore, sat a boy. He was from the village, though it had been some time since he was of the village. He was forbidden to approach the string, but no matter the punishment or the confinement, the next morning he was always discovered on the beach once more, staring up at the gossamer thread.

Well, that needs some editing. I shouldn't have written stream of consciousness when I'm this sleepy. Shikata ga nai. Today was an odd day, and one whose conclusion has left me more exhausted than feels warranted. There are some days where, when working, you simply do not know what to do. No projects are given, no direction is pointed out, no tasks are available, but you cannot go anywhere. I read a graphic novel (Endless Nights) and a little bit of Everything is Illuminated and wrote some journal while hours of uneasy nothingness teetered on by. Less than a week until I visit...home? Whatever it is, I'm excited to see my parents and siblings. It's been too long.

I also wrote a crazy essay on feminism after loving Scalzi's post, and agonized over whether I can be Christ's hands of healing. Not always, it seems. Not always, I'm afraid.

Betwixt the Paths

I used to be tragically shy, the kind of child hiding behind his mother's legs, whimpering and crying to go home. During these times, I harbored within all my thoughts. When asked about my day, I explained, perfunctorily, each of the necessary events without associated thoughts. In high school, the limited pool of students in the preppy school meant that I was swiftly relegated into the unpopular sphere of social strata. I did not climb clear of that then, for my relationships in-school were kept at careful distance. I said enough to prevent my abuse, for bullies found my small size easy pickings. Sometimes I succeeded, sometimes I did not.

But as I changed the rules; the game changed me. In college, I eventually learned (through persistent roommates and friends) to shed my skin, entire. I rarely did, but occasionally, when it suited me, I unloaded my heart unto those willing listeners, asking for assistance and guidance. I valued their opinions in lieu of my own. I'd not yet understood the golden means, the Aristotelian balance of valuing my own experience in measure with that of others.

Then, the most recent game, the game that stretched my everything, the trial of tears, triumph, and terror. With every day, the game's parameters changed, the strategy and purposes changed, all in dicey whimsy. Everything was in a flux, and I rolled through my experience in a regressive fashion: telling no one anything, telling everyone everything and following their rules, trying a balance, and cycling around again and again. I listened to advice even though it was my game, and as I changed, bent, broke, remade, burned through rules and transformed the game in a chaotic evolution, I realized I was defeating myself. It was my game, and the only true opponent I faced was myself. I've long assumed the belief that the only person I struggle to beat, given enough persistence and motivation, is myself. No matter how advanced my strategy, I always find ways to foil my own stratagem. 

I've re-learned much in this game. I've learned and relearned these things all my life, and I suspect I will never stop learning them.  I've learned to listen and to sequester my feelings in their appropriate times and places. I've learned to fail, and stand back up. I've learned to hope and believe when in a dark valley. I've learned to pray for others when I'm suffering. I've learned to love others all the more, knowing that we are all humans here. I've learned how necessary praise is in the brightest of places and in the darkest. I've learned thankfulness and kindness. I've relearned all these things and more, betwixt the paths.

This actually is not where I was originally going.... pending...

Mostly Harmless Days - Don't Panic

Work has been crazy this week. My boss asked me to finish something before work finished yesterday at 4:30, expecting me to finish before 5. He said it was pivotal. I worked until 6:30. Today, while scraping the internet (parsing: my job has me writing internet crawlers that nibble information from school websites), a whole series of schools banned us for hammering their sites. Needless to say, my boss was displeased in the same way bees dislike having their hive punched in the face. Not my fault, but there wasn't anyone else to blame, either.
On top of that, several schools broke unaccountably, and fingers are pointed. But, strangely enough, I'm feeling pretty good. I think I have the best of all possible friends. Last night, a couple of my best friends made me dinner (since I got off work so late, I didn't have time to make it), watched a movie with me (Sherlock Holmes), loved on me etc. I'm incredibly grateful for their care. Matthew tried calling me 3 times in a row to find out how I've been doing - though I ignored all three calls because he tends to call me at the busiest times... suspicious, Matthew, suspicious. Skype with A tonight, with Ben soon (Wednesday? Remind me), dinner with C and M on Wednesday and a morning with P on Wednesday morning. Thursday, dinner with AH, Friday soccer. I definitely have the best of friends.
I'm not certain why I'm reminded of Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy on such days, but I am. Perhaps it is because the levity can be so valuable when your boss is miffed. Plus, I don't work Wednesdays, and know I've only hours to go until a fabulous tomorrow (and a fabulous tonight skyping A)

Narrative - myths and frogs (snippets)

Two different characters at different points of existential angst. In one of the stories, the character may or may not be somewhat... magical? The first character is a bit unsettled, and oscillating between... well... ideas.

(written in a stream of consciousness style - apologies for typos. I was house-sitting and enjoying the air-conditioned house and just kept typing. Both are, of course, unfinished)

Story #1 Excerpt:
It could not have been worse for me, had she died. No. Dying is closure: an comprehensible finality. Death is easier. The reason I surrendered my comfortable existence grew from that nervous uncertainty, that fear stranger yet than the afterlife.
There is a land, they say, worse by far than death. A place to where a person once removed is forgotten. They become holes within the memories of lovers and friends and family. Like phantom limb itches, those fleeting memories cannot be dredged to the surface, yet eternally yearn to be remembered. Within this deathly limbo of pale fog, those taken wander aimlessly, screaming to be remembered, until they no longer know even themselves. They begin to lose their faces, turning grey and transparent, indistinguishable from ashes and mists swirling in that misty region. I could not bear the thought of her ending there.
Sometimes, I wish – no, believe, that life revolves around miracles like punch lines. The divine weaves elaborate victories from traumatic, climactic swellings. Life always seems to involve treacherous climbs up impossible and unlikely hills or mountains, a trying task, to find saving grace caught in the thicket at the summit, and the most gorgeous panorama of sky and trees and rivers and the journey taken: a journey worth the ending. I argue life without climbing through trials and tribulations towards heaven is like living in grey rooms with grey cushioned walls: safe, yet slowly suicidal.
For these very reasons and stranger subconscious beckonings, I sold my serenity for a battlefield. You’ll never find an oasis without a desert, or a summit without a mountain. And you’ll certainly never find true love in only introspection.

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-- following story would be 60% better with pictures. Matthew: draw some on paint and send them my way --

In the middle of a vast forest sat a walrus, and he was lost. So lost, in fact, was this walrus that he knew it not, but it itched behind his whiskers something fierce. As he sat beside his frog-filled pond, he couldn't but imagine this was not his lot. Harold's Pond, he called it, for he was Harold, and it was his pond. As the sun belly-crawled its way into the sky, Harold still couldn't divest the feeling that he belonged elsewhere.
Croaakck the frogs and toads garbled, hopping on their lily-pads and puffing out their chests in morning greeting.
"Good Morning, Fellows," bellowed Harold in his bluskery voice. Peering at his face in the pond, he brushed back his whiskers and wrinkled his nose, staring wistfully at the rippling sky.
"Top of the morning, Harold," the frogs ribbitted in reply.
They sat quietly, slowly contemplating the sun flickering through the breezy trees. Harold felt a new feeling surging through him, a movement, and even his whiskers hummed in expectation.
"Has Any Of You Ever Believed In Anything... More?" Harold rumbled, his voice echoing across the waters.
The frogs kvakked, berping in confusing.
"Thought Not," Harold grumbled. But Harold knew, in his ample gut, there was more, and today, he wanted to see it. And so, with considerable girth, Harold gathered a sack of his things and set off for the sage of the forest. If anyone knew what life was missing, surely the sage would know.
Harold had never seen the sage. Harold had never even left his glade. But everyone in the forest knew the sage had answers, and answers were what Harold needed.

(continued tomorrow?)

zen and not-zen words. mostly not.
don't walk when you should run
or jog when laying down
sometimes close your eyes to remember
the color of the sun
shut the blinds and realize the beauty outside home
stomp through puddles, 
or barefoot through muddy meadows
and cleanse your heart anon
fall in love, it may only offer once
dance the dares of distant dreams
until your end, the adventure's ne'er done
follow me, truly we are better two than one
and listen, closely dear, 
to the waves of a life begun



I missed two days of blog-writing on this most hectic of weekends. Thankfully my journal suffered not. On Thursday night, I was notified that a bachelor party would be taking place at my house, and one of my roommates was hosting. J was already leaving for Idaho with his girlfriend, so that meant I was stuck entertaining myself. Thankfully, soccer exists. Even then, arriving home at ten meant that I was arriving just as the roommates decided to step it up a notch in alcohol. I said my hellos and then sequestered myself away in my room. I did steal some pico de gallo and chips first. The revelry on the other side of my door was vaguely obnoxious, and managed to make both reading and writing difficult. I don't know how I managed sleep; I suspect it was divine providence.
The next morning, I picked blackberries and then scampered to a wedding, and another, and then returned home to bake a swift cobbler before crashing. Sunday I enjoyed a leisurely morning, went to church, and then went to A's Oregon reception. The wedding reception lasted from 1-3 according to the invite. I got back home at 10pm. I love those people.

Old Spontaneity and Taxing Mondays

Some days cost more than others, and, when finished, I just want to run out into the sun and capture its rejuvenating rays. It was a day steeped in memories, without occasion for fully fleshing them out. I often wish writing was my current vocation, though I've much practice remaining before such time.

Following work, I biked to Freddies, grabbed a bunch of veggies, and biked home to make a vegetable-medley curry. No one was home, so while I ate, I played a solitaire game of bananagrams. 

I could probably play that forever and it might never get old. (though I did make one mistake: qiut is not quit)

~Storybook Princess~

Once upon a time, I fell in love with a princess

Not for her tresses, or dresses or wealth

Not for her smiles, perfect and white

Nor for sweet silence, beneath perfect starlight

Nay, though I’d love these, and more I am sure

But this storybook princess I never quite saw

For she lived in a tale, a world of her own

Lonely and sad, beautiful but alone

Surrounded by suitors, greedy and insane

Desiring her beauty, wealth or her name

Yet I fell in love with the words that she said

The air that she breathed, the paths that she tread

Some strange sort of magic, made of love and divine

Carried her words from her world into mine

And my world into hers as I read her sweet tale

As she scorned every suitor, even princes did fail

Every night by candlelight I dreamed in her land

Adventures we’d have, across warm desert sands

Forests and seas, clasping our hands

Always hoping and praying this night may not end

I fall fast asleep book cradled in arms

Praying she slept, my words cradled in heart

Until one fateful day, dream we gained what we sought

To come close together and never need part

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I wrote this poem years ago, when I wrote an amusing personal essay on something literary or other. I remember thinking, why would I fall in love with a princess when I could fall in love with a librarian or an explorer (I'll probably marry Carmen Sandiego when I find her - I suspect that name is really just an alias for Irene Adler, though). I was going through my old poetry, and thought this one charming. It fits in nicely with the thematic elements of the book I'm reading.  (I'm no poet, so forgive its lack of artistic merit)

Right now, all of my reading is geared towards my next piece. I was considering, at first, writing a mythos, but I'm contemplating something a bit out of my comfort zone: a mystery. I used to love watching mystery shows with my mother, even when they scared me as a child: Perry Mason, Matlock, Diagnosis Murder (the scary one of the three). I love the Sherlockian method wherein, through intellect and careful study of relevant information, a solution is intuited, however unlikely. I considered, after reading this poem (which is why it's here, however embarassing), whether I might consider writing a piece like the hallowed hunt - a mystery set in a fantasy world.

I also considered writing a piece in chapter snippets, like the Count of Monte Cristo, and every day for NaNoWriMo just publishing that day's snippet here. I'm excited, though. Another entry, full of digressions. Maybe this justifies more sleep.

All over the place and nowhere useful (+Ragnorak Editing)

It was a silent weekend, perhaps a necessary one. I went on a walk, biked around a while, wrote at a small park where a small stream ran past a couple of picnic tables and a candy purple playground. Every other weekend until early September contains at least one wedding event, so the relaxation should compose me - but all I wanted was another delightful wedding.
I woke up early, wrote later into twilight than desired, played soccer with a boisterous bunch, visited some coffee shops for tea, writing, and reading, went to church, talked on the phone to distant friends, talked on skype to other distant friends, watched a show with roommates, picked roommate and his girlfriend up at the airport - all this, and I felt like nothing happened. I'm ready for a weekend adventure: backpacking, hiking in the woods, weddings, climbing a mountain, kayaking down a river with friends, canoeing on a lake, more soccer. Sometimes it feels like, what with the weddings and general busyness, everyone's lives are leaving me behind, so they've no time for stories anymore. I always want time for stories.

Today's sermon was on the topic of fear, something which everyone, at some juncture, interacts with: anxiety, stress, panic attacks and so on. With the amount of times God says: "do not be afraid" or "be anxious for nothing", one might expect Christians would possess greater skill against these debilitating psychological foes. Often, we do not. I don't consider myself an anxious person. Work is friendly, my friends are kind, even intense social situations often don't stress me out so much as making me step back, and evaluate from a different vantage.
There are some things that I do fear, one of which I even ran away from this very weekend. I'm still working those out. I remember as a kid dealing with fear as though I was a protagonist in a fairy tale. Nothing could really hurt me (this is not a Game of Thrones tale), as I knew the hero of the story would prevail in the end. You'd think I'd be a fearless child with that, but I was quite shy of people. I felt like it wasn't the hero's lot to die, but he could be tortured by uncomfortable scenarios. I suppose it is safe to say that once in a trial, I felt less fear than before. That's often the truth of things though, isn't it? Sometimes, the unknowing is the most intimidating portion. It's amazing how mystery can be both unnerving and fantastic. In the case of the northern lights, which I saw just a while past, I find myself more fascinated by the mystery of the event than the knowing. But other things, darkness, public speaking, spiders under the bed - the unnerving unknowing can be more frightening than the thing itself.

Just another throwaway post, huh? I'm well beyond the tl;dr portion of this mental surgery. I'm in that stupor before sleep, that unsleeping dreamy territory well before true unconsciousness. I should stop, while I'm behind.

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Mid-height and not a penny more, with a penny-colored nest of hair, and penny eyes, and he wasn't worth scarce a penny in a fight.  Yet it was this man who threatened the world with apocalypse. This man, with eyeglasses precariously perched on nose, fingertips pattering as raindrops across a keyboard, was about to destroy the world in a flood, a flood of media silence.  Discarded pizza boxes and crumpled soda cans carpeted, and stained, the floor.  Jak’s only focus was the computer screens, the array of eight screens, on which highlighted code scrolled in tropical-candy colors on a black background as Jak prepared his worm, the greatest worm of all time. He called the program Jörmungandr, and tonight it was ready.

                It was genius, he suspected, a titanic achievement.  It systematically destroyed media outlets from the highest level down, leaving all vital functionality until the end such that each increasing level of chaos was captured perfectly as phones, television, radio, and eventually the internet itself disappeared in a whisper, and the world erupted in a bang.  His finger hovered over the button from whence Armageddon would commence. It was the ultimate prank, he thought with a wicked grin, his ultimate prank.  The world would remember him for this, oh certainly, if they ever found out who did it.

                He pressed the button.

               

                An ancient wood hides from searching eyes, under the sea.  Eldritch and petrified, it still silent sits, shamelessly pacified. Before Atlantis was even dreamed, a glade formed inside spherical reef, a punishment, eternal grief. The water hung at neck level, always neck level, clear as a mirror.  Grapes and ambrosia hovered scarcely out of reach, his fingertips brushing the leaves on his highest leaps.  The glade  was edenic, full of crystal waters and abundant fruits, though he despised its… tantalizing, elusive deceit.

                The almost god still reached when the branches swooped close, still dipped his head for a drink, and the fruit and waters receded. Famished, agonizingly parched, the ab-god waited, not patient, not passively.  The bowels of the earth, hell and hades, were not his alone.  Another’s anguish resonated from the deeps, troubling the earth in violent sweeps.

                But today, while the fire in his gut seethed in unremitting pain, a great power hurricaned through the glade, blasting the ab-god from his feet.  A great light, an aura of flashing pain struck him in his temples, and he saw:

                A cavern, pitch and drab, pockmarked with caustic holes.  Around a great stalactite was wrapped an eternal serpent, mouth hissing wide and dripping with sizzling venom.  Beneath, on a circular platform lay a god on an altar, bound in entrails beneath the serpent. From above, the serpent’s venom dripped towards his face, only impeded by a tiny, ceramic bowl, held by a silent, patient woman.  The god cursed the woman, and still she faithfully protected his face, until the bowl was filled and she carried it to the edge and spilled it into the vast, cavern depths. 

                And suddenly, the cave rippled with power, and the god’s eyes widened with surprise.  In a sudden feat of strength, the entrails were snapped apart, and the god was in the cavern no more.

                When the ab-god awoke in his glade, he was not alone. Another stood in the water beside him, bowl in hand.  The god proffered him the bowl with a broad, mischievous smile. The bowl was filled with water, and for a bowl of water, the ab-god would have sold his very soul. 

Walking the Week

The word of the LORD came to me: "What do you see, Jeremiah?" "I see the branch of an almond tree," I replied.

The Lord said to me, "You have seen correctly, for I am watching to see that my word is fulfilled."

One of my father’s favorite Bible fun-facts is that God is a punster.  I remember loving this, and probably telling all my elementary school friends.  Even as a child, maybe particularly as a child, I had a greater aptitude than normal for levity. Sometimes we need levity.  Perhaps because of this penchant for the comic, I find I am rarely a stressed out personality. Not many things actually bear down on me (I actually imagined a bear falling from the sky, hitchhiker’s guide to the galaxy style), or cause me undue angst. This isn't to say there are no chinks in my armored psyche, but that most trials I slide through without panic.

This past weekend, I swallowed stress, consuming like a fire.  I kept trying to burn up more stress that A possessed, hoping to bear the load on his back, and provide him some healing warmth in return.  Upon my return, my body was not ready for the abrupt cessation of anxiety, and panicked. I spent all day wandering the house, likely burning miles of useless meandering into the floors in circles, loops, or aimless pathing. I couldn't even sit still for five minutes without standing up and racing around my imaginary track. With the amount of in-house speed-walking I managed, I’m certain I walked at least 10 miles, spending nearly 8 hours of work walking around the house, killing energy I did not possess. For the worst part of this was, I couldn't eat. I ate 3 bites of cereal, 4 blueberries, half of half a bean burrito (yes, a quarter), and a couple bites of an apple.  My general thought pattern was, “Lord, please Lord, help me crash, help me eat, what’s going on, why can’t I stop, why can’t I even eat blueberries?”

That last question is important. I can always eat blueberries.

Then I crashed.

Today was different. I slept almost a full 9 hours before waking up, and an entire restful day stretched out ahead of me: no work. My car was broken from this weekend of travel, and needed significant brake repair, and so I drove my car to Les Schwab, and asked them how long it would take for fixing.  They said by 11 o’clock in the morning (2 hours) they would call me. So I walked the 20 minutes to Chapters Coffee, and sat down to read, write, relax my day away. If my car had not been broken, I might have been half tempted to drive to my favorite mountain and spend the day praying at the peak.

But my car was broken. The point is moot.

I read for a while, wrote for a while, and, come 11, decided I might go on a walk until they called me. So I walked up College towards my church, and past it towards the playground. It was a sunny summer day (90 degrees, brilliant blue sky), and children were everywhere.  I would have stopped and enjoyed the sunshine for a while, but apparently the park was being renovated, and construction noises and voices drown the environmental ambiance and destroyed the serenity of the park. I walked on.

                I traipsed up and down the street 4 times, advancing a block uptown each time, simply looking at the houses and yards, charmed at Newberg’s cute lawns and diversity of homes.  It was now 11:20, and still no phone call. No problem, these places are always delayed, correct? So I walked into the disc golf park and lay down for a bit, reading some more beneath an umbrella pine with long, fuzzy needles, the sunlight streaking through its branches in strings. The small valley of the park was filled with a beautiful yellow-green grass under the firs lining the edges of the creek snaking through the park.  The rhododendrons and small shrubbery guarding the path on my right were golden in the nearly noon rays, and everything was awash in light - even the creek mirrored brightly from my hilltop vantage.

                Another half hour passed, and still no call. No matter. The day is lovely, and I’m getting hungry. I’ll walked the 20 minutes to Les Schwab and checked in, asking how much longer it might be until they checked my brakes.  They were not sure, but they hoped another couple of slots opened up in the shop soon enough. Maybe an hour?

                Longer than I’d hoped. I was rather expecting a Sabbath nap to fully heal myself regarding sleep, but maybe I would just get a late nap? Might as well enjoy the day, right? I walked to Fred Meyer, and took a long route, taking me nearly half an hour. Once there, I bought some light lunch: an apple, some juice, some carbs, and cashed a check. While eating, I began wandering back towards Les Schwab, assuming by the time I arrived, surely they would be checking out my car. 

                I arrived back at Les Schwab shortly after 1, and they said it would certainly be less than two hours until they could check out my car and determine what might be the matter. Not even fix it; investigate to see what needed to be fixed. Well, good times. I was stuck anyway, so I figured I might as well walk around some more. I walked from there to my last place of residence, and wandered around in that neighborhood for a little before walking back towards hoover park. After a while more of walking, they called me at 3, saying they’d checked out my car and it would be a little over an hour until it was fixed. I lay down for a while in the green grass, watching the turtledoves and starlings. After a half hour or so, I got up and began the trek back towards Les Schwab.  It was now 4, about an hour after the call, and they were still putting the final touch-ups on my car. Soon enough, I paid and left.

All the while, I could not get my mind off my mountain. How much more exciting would it have been to walk a mountain instead of 10 miles of small-town? I wish I had pictures of the mountain-top vista for contemplating now, but the only time I ever brought a camera, all I could photograph from the peak was the tops of the clouds beneath me. Soon enough, mountain, you will be mine.

I feel a lot better now: a number of full, giant meals behind me, sleep, a mountain of plums, figs, and apples in the fridge. I’m ready for the week now – unstressed and prepared for conquest. With God on my side, I’m unstoppable.

Kahlil Gibran

When you love you should not say,

"God is in my heart," but rather,

"I am in the heart of God."

And think not you can direct the course of love, for love, if it finds you worthy, directs your course