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.

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...

Trashy Tuesdays, Goodbyes, Veni Vici, Poem Ending

As a joke, I invented a day called `Trashy Tuesdays` wherein the roommates and I (at least a few) watch silly shows, eat lazy food, and stay up too late. Today was perhaps the last `Trashy Tuesday` as the roommate who cherishes Trashy Tuesdays the most will be getting married three weekends from now, and is moving into his new apartment tomorrow.
Despite his short term as roommate, he carved his place into the group as both a gentleman and scholar. I'm not good with goodbyes, so I hope it is not one.

In sophomore year, our spiritual motif was fourfold: men of devotion, men of healing, men of purity, men of conquest. For each of us, A picked a piece. Mine was "men of conquest". Odd, it seemed, at the time. While both D and I could claim to be introverts, J and A tended more towards the extroverted side of the spectrum (A claims he's an introvert - puh). Honestly, the rest of the group mattered little in A's choices; it only mattered that he got healing.
However, mine may have turned into a more accurate statement than he could have imagined at the time. I'm a fairly competitive person. It used to be much worse. Some of my parent's favorite stories are when, as a child, I wouldn't play games with the other children until I knew how to win, and then they wouldn't play games with me because I won so easily.
In high school, I always managed to be better than anyone else at whatever competitive game I chose to excel at. If I craved success at a game, I made sure I was the best at it before long. This extended beyond games into academics as well. A particularly prideful girl always got the top grades in our preppy high school, and flaunted her superiority. So I started studying. Before long, I had her beat in all the classes we shared. Conquest. In college, A invited me to play a new game with him. At the beginning of the semester, I was getting trounced. By the end, my skills were beyond his.
When my blood was raised, the bait was laid, I threw everything of me in until victory was assured. Not just winning, but clearly conquering. Once I won, I no longer recognized the need to win anymore - I knew I could do it, why continue proving myself? I maintained this sentiment until easily my junior year of college. Living with A certainly tempered my competition. He nurtured my love for community, for enjoying competing with those I loved dearly. (my normal conquest invited far less camaraderie, let me tell you. People hate losing over and over) A was always the wiser, the lover not the fighter.
There are different types of competitors. First, there is the angry type: those who, on losing, start throwing controllers, raging, hitting people, and taking vengeance in ways external to the game (likely after realizing their in game vengeance is not forthcoming). There is the natural, a person who appears to excel at all activities.  Third are those who excel due to a love of excellence at a particular activity. These characteristics can certainly carry over, and are by no means mutually exclusive. Then there is my brand of competition: the patient, the scholar.
I was not a natural, nor an angry gamer, nor even necessarily a lover of the competition I chose. I generally thrived on the competition more than the activity that drove it. When I discovered whatever it was I was to compete at next, I dove into the deep end of research immediately. What did I need to know? What were all the rules? Could the rules be bent? What ruts were current players stuck in that were irrelevant? Could I alter the meta-game? What was the psychology of each of the players, and how could I take advantage of that? Theory-crafting was my game, in the most opaque of ways.


---- I don't remember how I was going to end this. So I'll duck out.



Last poem before bed - an almost devotional poem, though I suspect it could be used romantically, I've never had the occasion:

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.
~Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Now I'll go to sleep.

Weekend Words

I don't know what this weekend was. A beautiful mess? I spent all weekend at a wedding in SoCal for one of my very best of friends. Normally, I find time for writing every day.  This weekend was blessedly chaotic in artful and heart-wrenching ways. I laughed until my sides ached, cried salt towards the sea, regaled fairy tales of chandeliers into A's listening ears, was healed and lent healing, was broken and prayed for God's soothing, loved, lived, listened, thrived.
Words of poetry surrounded me surely as the ocean mighty, whose waves cried against my feet each dawning morning. Burgeoning words blossoming as first flowers after forest fires, violet, gold, and crimson in an efflorescent wildfire. And no time for journaling, for sewing seeds and reaping some glorious paean of writing following a nearly ideal weekend.
I'm bubbling over with words, but I can't even begin placing them down correctly. I'm shy on sleep, my metabolism bristled against my despairing circadian cycle and staunchly refused all food all weekend.  Every night, we stayed up late and shared a desperate joy, a last gift whose spiritual offering was not just for A, but was equally a gifting unto ourselves. I want to write. I want to shout and write poetry and scream and dance and live and run around in circles until I wear silly holes in the floor. My heart is ablaze with love, and where art thou now, brother?
Change is this: an end and a beginning. I craved an important piece of this ending, and an earnest christening of this new beginning (A actually broke a wine bottle in the car and spilled wine everywhere. There is some "christening" pun being made here, certainly, but I'm whistling innocently with measured nonchalance). Hugs and photographic memories, heart-wrenching words that followed me all weekend - I'm full of words and empty. I'll never find time for writing everything this weekend meant to me, and I suspect I couldn't. It meant everything to me, and always will. It was sanctified, a holy communion.
I wrote a couple of poems trying to capture my thoughts, and ended up with 6 broken haikus, 1 sonnet (Elizabethan), 1 free verse, 1-ish metric adventure, and nothing worth repeating that adequately captured my feelings as this weekend captured my heart.

These words have soared with me on my journey into normalcy, whatever that is, as another beautiful exemplar of this weekend. I don't know why I put them here. That's how cognizant I am of my current thought process.

The Prophet - Kahlil Gibran
Love has no other desire but to fulfill itself.
But if you love and must needs have desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that sings its melody to the night.
To know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate love's ecstasy;
To return home at eventide with gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for the beloved in your heart and a song of praise upon your lips.


And I come back, remembering two different worlds. Sagebrush and succulents, a saline seaside where sands and shores mingle, and roll uphill into a tanned and sunny world. Palms and aloes dominate the fauna, gulls, pigeons, turkey vultures, and herons the fowl. Adobe and sun-bleached or sandblaster woods are boxes leading into the hills above the ocean. The worlds as like as green and grey, and colored in like pallet, each in exquisite fashion.  The mightiness of the sea, here, in the southern lands, and the mountains, evergreens and trees, here, in the 45th, a green belt of verdant flora with scarce a pace of dirt between where brush or shrub clamber skyward, greeting the sun's harp strings. I would miss my world, though the greatness of theirs burns brightly in my heart. But when the mists roll in over the mountains, and the dewdrops trickle down tulip petals and along the efflorescent hydrangeas and rhododendrons, and each blade of grass prisms the light into tiny rainbow droplets - I know I am home.

Foxtail Moon

A long week, but it's over, and I'm rolling in single digits now. A foxtail moon rides the sky low, near the horizon in a dull, ember orange. Dreams cling close to earth this night, sleep light, for morning dawns not nigh. Fae is ever near when the moon's not half ours. Only a sliver sits here, gibbous there, and whether waxing, waning, a crimson moon bears its will in midnight tides.
It's a song, don't you see? A song singing itself from creation's morn until destruction's eve, and into fall. It's a siren song into love and devastation. A nail lune, fingers buried deep into the sky, a golden yellow lulling me to sleep.

Ramblings - Nothing to see here

Today, I worked deep into the night. It is possibly my ego that drove me into it, for my boss might have been understanding had I returned to work unfinished, with a plausible explanation as to why. However, having said it would be finished, I counted myself tethered to that statement. It is this industrial "ant" mentality that drives me along creative strains also, however. I cannot complain about the results.

It is a rambling night. I'm not certain I have anything worth saying, and I'm a wee bit exhausted (I finished all of the work things I had to do at 10 instead of 5). I suppose I can at least discuss a little bit of my marathon continuation. Still, quite successful in all avenues. There may be another stage of the race I previously neglected: the camel's bump, the peak of the bell-curve. I don't actually believe marathons quite work that way, with everything being downhill after the middle. I suspect they run more like stories, with a steady rising action leaning into a steep climactic climb, and then denouement! We've crossed the finish line after a bit of falling action and an excited leap towards the delimiting flag.

Still, there is something about the middle that is not unlike a story. Sometimes, when reading a particularly difficult or intense piece of literature, the beginning portion of the story is overwhelming. How will I ever make it to the end of if I struggle so heartily early on? But once you reach the middle, it is like walking a trail halfway up a mountain. If I've made it this far, is it not just the same distance back? Might as well keep going, because I've already shown I can make it this far, and giving up now seems ridiculous. It is past the stage of early abandonment. At least I have that, right?

I think it's definitely sleep time. I'm not certain I've said anything remotely intelligible, or of any form of utility. I hope and pray you are all sleeping well this night, however uncomfortably warm it is. May your dreams be sweet.

Pace

The previous subject of meter has drawn me into the contemplation of pace.  Where metric is measurement, pace is passing over the metric.  In writing, this is controllable through punctuation... or lengthy, drawn out, meticulous descriptions. Or concise sentences. These are, of course, the most obvious methods. More subtle patterns exist for stalling the reader in contemplation, or spurring a galloping, careening, may-day-crash of a denouement that thrills and cajoles the audience into the stomach of the tale.

Pace exists in everything. The tone, setting, rhythm, rhyme, metric - all forward the pace. And now, in this marathon, I've maintained a pace too great. I mentioned before, it is almost as if instead of simply running a race, I'm attempting to juggle flaming torches, paint the sunset, all whilst scampering barefoot along 26.2 miles. And I'm not in good shape. That analogy fails to explain that none of the parts are particularly difficult. It is more like I'm jogging ten miles while reading a book, dribbling a soccer ball, staring at the stars. On their own, each of these activities is trivial. Together, they emerge into a complicated multi-task, a juggling act. Perhaps that is the stem of my dreams.

There is a part in a difficult journey that may arise where the distance remaining is uncertain, and seems eternal.  Where mistakes are made, and each footfall wonders whether it's time for stopping, resting instead of running. It is at these moments where a simple man entertains heroism and cowardice. It is the tired pace. Halfway is almost here.

Blag

Paraskevidekatriaphobia. Even in our scientific age of enlightened logos, superstitions often interfere with our every day. The word (too long for typing again) above means a fear of a thirteenth of the month being a Friday. Superstitious much? Whether it is the concept of "beginner's luck" or knocking on wood, even our logical disbelief cannot retire these actions.  What is "luck" anyway?

I admit to a certain distrust of the concept of luck, having programmed enough to understand that "random" only means "you don't know enough to predict accurately".  Luck would have no existence in a world without misunderstandings. Not that limited knowledge is bad, yet from it we derive paranoia, anxiety, worries, terrors, fears. Many of our debilitating uncertainties stem from the mysterious unknown future.

One of the advantages of religion is the possession of faith. Everyone carries faith in some capacity, though perhaps religion possesses faith in the infinite to provide for the finite, divine providence for the weary and broken.  Hard weeks will come and go, but I know that salvation and grace exist, mercy and love are not unattainable.  I have not had hard weeks, though I suspect some are impending. Even now, I understand a bit of the words of James:

Consider it pure joy, my brothers and sisters, whenever you face trials of many kinds, because you know that the testing of your faith produces perseverance. Let perseverance finish its work so that you may be mature and complete, not lacking anything.

And when I'm frustrated and tired of people and events and work and things, I always let myself turn to my favorite verse:
Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. The Lord is near.

Let the games continue. Winter must pass before spring is born.

Travels and Travails

My most casual blag blather. 

Recently, I've engaged myself in a competition, though the only participant is myself - a trial of restraint, abstinence if you will. The adventure has several stages that I imagine may be generalized to many such odysseys, mental or physical in nature.  Though I have never run, nor even trained, for a marathon, I almost imagine the event in states.

In the first state, the runner trains. The length of this particular stage, existent or not, may significantly alter the difficulty of the others.  Enough training, and the actual trial, the marathon itself, might be softened, or annulled entirely.  For a marathon, the difficulty is exponentially more difficult without training, and, quite possibly, more unpleasant.

The second state I'm going to skip straight to the race itself. Since this is my metaphor, I can do what I want, right? While the first state is somewhat superfluous, I maintain it for explanation's sake. The next few stages all interact with the race entire.  

The race soon begins.  Spandex outfitted racers breathe in the crisp morning air and exhale in tiny clouds.  The sun glances through the trees, splitting dew into rainbows and slanting between buildings to strike the asphalt beneath your shoes. Every fiber of your being is enhanced, stretching, and goosebumps of excitement raise on your skin. In the great distance, a man with a showy pistol: a tip of the hat to traditional races, it fires no actual bullets. Still, as he raises it over his head, a shiver extends over your body, and the training sets in. It is time.

*BOOM*

Bear with me, I'm imagining this on the fly, and enjoying myself immensely in the invention. As the race begins, every muscle in your body rejoices. This is that for which you prepared, this is the glory of toil. You surge forward, perhaps with restraint, understanding the taxing nature of the trial, or perhaps knowing your full strength.  You are young, you are untethered, you are wild and free.

In the second stage of the race, several miles have passed, and the pace becomes steady, directed.  If your training was limited, perhaps already you face the punishment of short breath, lactic acid biting at your muscles with each stamping step.  Either way, the race has many miles remaining, and determination and love binds you, points you at the finish line. You race on.

These next stages, as perhaps all stages, possess aethereal boundaries.  Eventually, however, the body delves into its adrenaline and endorphin reserves, bearing off exhaustion in mental and physical faculties.  Some time, and distance, remains in the race, and each plodding pace is mechanical, exemplary of the love and dedication to the journey.  Still, it is the end of the race that drives you here, the expectation that only a couple peaks and valleys remain along the circuitous route.

Some of these states overlap, some might be spectral, or nonexistent for certain individuals, but certain aspects of these will apply in alternative adventures or instances in life perhaps.  The next stage is that last leg, the final stretch before the end. Every last reserve of energy kicks in, that idiomatic second wind, and perhaps a recursive joy from the race's beginning returns once more. There is joy, there is exhaustion, there is hope.

The last stage is the finish, the completion of the race and its aftermath. This stage I know exists, in some form or another.  There is, at least as far as I know, always an end in some capacity.  

How does this relate to me? I consider my particular trial not dissimilar to a mental marathon.  Let's evaluate my psyche, Cupid. The first stage is interesting, as my preparation was all incidental. This event was unplanned, and any training was likely a failed attempt to accomplish what I formally attempt now.  So, I don't consider myself adequately trained, though perhaps I cannot expect that any training would have been sufficient.

The second stage has past, and the nature of the beast produced interesting, and maybe minimal, quantities of joy. I almost imagine I skipped straight into the third stage, understanding the race's immense distance and dreading the difficult passage. In the third stage, I believe I may be stuck for much time. The eternity before me, only steps behind me, acid seeps into my mentality and burns at my muscles. I expect a false step might tumble me from the race.

The fourth stage is long ahead of me. I wonder if I might discover another stage as I continue my path.  Perhaps my biggest trial is that I chose too many tasks, too many trials at once.  I am not only running the marathon, but trying to learn to juggle, and learn Hebrew at the same time.  The flaming pins rotate clockwise, the letters jumble sinistral, my legs grumble forward. 

And the only thing that endures throughout all the stages is the hope. It twinkles like the stars, but always there, always bright, always guiding me in my chosen direction.  Isn't that what always drives us anyway? 

Sacred Inviolable

12.5%: a notable distance traveled, and many tracks and tricks remaining. Every railroad rut yields another, in a plodding towards eternity. What travails have I consigned my weeks to? Is this slippery justice? Lines were crossed, the sacred inviolable. This is penance for a milked crime, a trail of tears in illicit motions.  It is a grotesquerie I've harbored overlong.

The doctor has long exerted his influence over my transgressions, pressuring the infested, self-inflicted wound. Bitterly, a desperate penance has driven me into quietude, a beggary for concealment of iniquities long forgot.  Only he, the conniving doctor, knew my grievances, and I bought his silence dearly. In my great manse, in the rolling, wilderness hillsides of Scotland, a monstrous basement laboratory was carved into the bedrock, an elaborate, secret catacombs.  I doled out for the construction, as per the Doctor's every desire, and the honeycombing burrowed 'neath my home unseen, unknown. I stared away as they drilled, ashamed as I was of my own illicit behavior.

And the drilling stopped, one day, and life continued.

Then the screaming began.  I ignored it as best I could, the hellish wails beneath each inch of my estate.  What devilry was this? But I suspected my sin unpaid, and allowed the Doctor his work. It was the cruelest of purgatories. My servants disappeared, unsettled, for who can bear such nightmarish shrieks? Six months, I lived within that house torn asunder by devilry beneath.  Seven months I could take no more.
Within the center of the house sat a room like a disease, a monster at the heart of the earth. It was a dank room, musty, claustrophobic, and pitch. Dead center in the room, a tiny swivel-trapdoor opened into the complex beneath the manse. I'd never set foot here, not even in the room itself.
I rolled the stone trapdoor back, and a sulfuric smog rose into the room.  Lowering myself down, the smell strengthened, and an additional odor chafed at the edge of my nostrils, something organic, ghastly, and long dead. A dim light pulsated from the corridor beyond, casting a sickly glow. A low, ugly growl filled the basement dark, eerie and bestial.
What devilry was borne in this hellish place?

Day #3: Cache of a Lonely Dragon

For the road often wanders
as feet are want to do
while valuable thoughts it squanders
what 'long the road we knew


I've long grappled with my introversion and its debilitating charm that strangles me, comforts me, tethers and kindles my anger aflame.  It asphyxiates and cossets in equal portions, a mercurial dichotomy that oft leaves me incensed or blessedly at ease.  Is it only or is it lonely? Not lonely, I suspect, for my companions are many. No, it is more diabolical, an infernal poison seeping into my joints with a casual familiarity and a caustic finale.
Loneliness? No. I am a dragon, sitting atop a hoarded mountain of gold, capable of shifting into human form. Entering town, I stare agog at the destitution, the starvation and beggary. I ponderously place a half-penny into a mendicant's empty cup, trundling along the city square.  I speak with them, dine with them, and subsequently align with their thoughts, falling desperately in love with them. Yet I cannot share what I hoard alone.

Tired Two

The purpose of all this is, perhaps, misdirection - a dialectic in smoke and mirrors, if you will. Though likely this soliloquy will flounder on invisibly, its vague anonymity serves sufficient, all the same.  Day two draws nigh as night  washes over this countryside, climbing from deep in the valley, up the hillsides, until a cloak of twilight floods across the earth entire.  And I have arrived victorious, though vici not alone.
Today is a tired day, and tomorrow will compound the effect doubly, I'm sure. Yet though the path still stretches on towards forever, I pray my accountability is kept, my planted seeds carefully parceled over yielding, fertile ground.
I'm drawing near, as sunlight for tomorrow, and I pray you see the gold around the mountaintops and praise the Lord the morning draws ever nigh. For this is a tired two, and I can't bear the shame without hope, or the hope without pain.

Voyage of the Dawn Treader

I'm not much of a television person, and I suspect visual media mattered little in my psychological bloom.  What captured my interest most was literature.  As a child, my heroes were not like Disney princes or Star Wars' jedi, but characters like Ender Wiggin, King David, Benny from the Boxcar Children, and the Stainless Steel Rat.  I wanted the kindness and loyalty of Sam, or the wizard powers of Gandalf; the bravery of Peter Pevensie, or the charismatic wisdom of Ged. I expected, given my literary earnestness, I'd develop into a hero, not vapid like the beast-slaying princes of movies, but honest and true, as Taran Wanderer or Peter Pan.

I was wrong.

Biblical literature is full of fantastic stories, many of which may surprise the most conventional, conservative Christian.  One of my favorites is the story of David and Michal.  King Saul requests that David produce a hundred Philistine foreskins as dowry for Michal's hand in marriage.  David, pleased with the arrangement, kills two-hundred Philistines and returns with double the endowment. I'm not even certain whether I should be impressed, or disgusted, surely.

Would that I were such a hero! (Though I suspect such a prize, currently, would not garner much approval in American households) David's faithfulness to God is astounding - why is mine not so?  As such, I've dedicated fifty days towards a fast of my own, a fast in faithfulness and, perhaps, a desperate prayer. Let the games begin - or, as Sherlock might say, the game is afoot.

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly, because you tread on my dreams.
~Yeats

As the sun rises, and my journey ambles from night into day, perhaps this is the tale of:
Voyage of the Dawn Treader.