Sunday, October 26, 2008

Cute-ness and Cut-ness

Why didn't anyone tell me that the vocalist for Paramore is totally A-dorable! Goodness, I'm sort of in love.

In other news, I finally got a damn haircut. I only have awkward camera phone pics, but I'll share one.

This and an H&M debacle friday made for a Jon to take the town with.

Wonder why I stayed in tonight...

*update* Hayley Williams is a Christian and she's Straight Edge...eep! *update*

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Wise Words

"And let me thank you and let me say from my heart; please engage in the things we're talking about. Don't give up on mass culture. Contribute to it. Break your heart in trying to make it better instead of standing outside it. Our species is in a fight for it's life. Nobody says that the decision is going go one way or the other. So put your bodies and spirits up. It's not that we don't have a vote anymore. It's that we're voting in the wrong election. Come and vote with me."

David Milch @ MIT on April 20th, 2006

Monday, October 13, 2008

The Boy The King Loved (Pt. 3.5)

The King looked at the man oddly and said,"Your son will come under my care and schooling, but he must come today. If you cannot part with him immediately, I fear you will lose your conviction in the days to come and snatch him from his tutors in my considerable libraries."

"Of course," the former monk replied, bowing deeply to the King. "Let me fetch him from chopping the firewood and he will be your ward. My wife and I will be comforted and cared for by the knowing that our boy is beloved by the King."

"I have no doubt, for you seem to be a man of strong character, firm will and mirthful spirit. It is on my honor that your boy will come to greatness behind my walls." The king said, touching the sleeve of the humble mathematician.

"Neither have I any doubt of your promise," tumbled from the man, now evidently startled by the King's touch. "May your servant go and fetch the boy?"

"Go, but do not have him pack any of his things. All he needs will be provided," the King finished, thinking, " If it were not so cold on this autumn day, I would have him come to us in his tunic alone, without even sandals. But the frost hardens the soil and the boy will become ill if I indulge myself in such overt ritual."

The boy was fetched. Hugging his mother and father about the neck, he swore to give his best for the service of the Kingdom and the honor of their family. Then, as he passed through the meager garden and back woods of his parent's land, he snatched the hatchet from a stump where the wood was chopped. It's blade was rusted in spots and the handle was wrapped only in a rough twine older than he was. He folded it into a piece of bed-cloth he carried his daily lunch of cheese, rough country bread and an apple in most days. Tucking his only momento of childhood labor under his arm, he trotted off for the courts of the king.

The boy was surprised how little he already missed the way things had been and how terribly light his being felt about him.

Saturday, October 11, 2008

Existential Exfoliation

This is all about something so small; I went out with fun people last night and I just wasn't very much fun. At moments, I was downright unpleasant. I'm an unlovely creature at times.

In general, people are really kind to me. I'm not often as generous, in general. Especially behind the eyes.

We're all just really scared I think. Scared that things are going to fall apart around us. Scared of the truth of things. Scared of how we feel and think. Scared of what everyone else feels and thinks.

How will I ever balance my enthusiasm with kindness? Why is apologizing for the small-but-important things the hardest? Because it re-opens wounds not considered big enough to be worth the hassle?

Today I'm going to take a big, deep breath. All of it just is what it is; which for the most part is really, wildly, immensely good. Let the dead skin slough off in its own time.

On a tangentially related note: You should probably buy Panic At The Disco's newer album "Pretty. Odd." It's relentlessly cheerful and exactly as advertised. Petty. Odd.



I'll try to write another installment for The Boy The King Loved tomorrow.

Godspeed.

Friday, October 10, 2008

Attraction Misapprehension

That's the second time a stranger has thought I'm gay at 80's Dance Night.

(and no, its not at a gay bar)

The first time it was some crazy chick who patted me on the ass after I said I was straight...and then tonight she grabbed my ass again and then stared at me awkwardly. Later, she yelled something over the music about me not overdoing it w/ "some B.U. bitches." I have no idea what in the world that was about.

However, tonight it was a shy hipster boy who thought I was cute and wanted to know if I was single, which is SO flattering.

But yeah, that's twice now...I can only figure it's because a) I'm dancing pretty much continuously, b) I usually dress kind of nice and c) I'm not awkwardly invading the space of women I don't know.

Can't a straight dude just want to dance to Michael Jackson for a few hours on a thursday?

(I can practically hear you whispering "no" to yourselves. Don't be so close minded.)

Wednesday, October 8, 2008

Regularly Scheduled Recollections

I'll interrupt our story for the moment.

I baked cookies. They are peanut butter and decadent. Or, as I told someone, they are peanut butter, with an emphasis on the butter. Mixing the batter by hand is way more work than it is worth, which may be exactly why it's the only way worth doing it. I'll share if you ask, though if you live far away, I doubt they'll ship well. They are too delicate an amalgamation of sugar, butter and a tid-bit of flour. Lo siento.

I ditched class for the first time here. I don't want to give my reasoning, because I ignored it anyways and went out to play pool and eat french fries. Now my tomorrow is a bit of a disaster. At least I get done sort of early; 4:15pm and I can disappear if I want to.

I've been given a great opportunity to work into a more systematic thought some of the scattered insights about Christianity and Christian Faith. I spent most of my day writing about why thinking of Christianity understood as a "world view" is bad for Christianity. Tomorrow, if I have it in me, I'll write about what it might be if not a "world view."

None of that is homework. Oy.

Thank you, God, for: Prayers in the shower, fall chill, unhealthy sandwiches, long-time-no-see phone calls with friends, Oreos (whole box or not), paisley ties, youthful arrogance, brunettes with big pretty eyes, Fyodor Dostoevsky (ignored or not), new jobs, The Mars Volta and sunlight.

Tuesday, October 7, 2008

The Boy The King Loved (Pt. 3)

The Origins of the Beloved Boy
Under safer times, the King had taken to meeting with groups of merchants, trades-people and farmers. They would bring complaints sometimes, but more often mere suggestions for how things might go more smoothly between king and subject. Some of these were naïve in the way that only peasants sure of their craft and little else can be naïve. A few were quite insightful and were acted upon swiftly. An arrangement, for example, allowing for tribute proportionate to surplus kept the kingdom’s granaries full and the farmers un-harassed during lean years. It furthermore made the king a powerful (though well liked) benefactor of surrounding hamlets and villages in such times. The surrounding peasants and a few of his own more grateful subjects took to calling him “King Joseph” for a time, though that was a reference to Jacob’s biblical son and not the King’s true name.
The peasant source of this fine policy was not at all a farmer, incidentally. The man had been a monk at one point, though few people of the city knew this. Now he worked only a little, as he was almost blind, presumably from copying manuscripts in the near-dark. His work carried no theme or purpose. Just this or that to augment the money his tall, slender wife made as a mid-wife. They had neither wealth nor prestige, and so his place at a meeting with the king had been come-upon very much by accident.
A shepherd, whose fence he had helped mend, was impressed by his considerable skill with mathematics, though the man lacked sight with which to write down complicated procedures. The man performed them in his head, as it were. The shepherd, aware of the pending discussion with the monarch, invited the modest, blind mathematician. It was his formula that, in the end, would be implemented to assure a just proportionality of tribute from fat years to lean. Everyone at the meeting remarked at the simultaneous genius and practical accessibility of the formula. Those men of lesser character among them went away saying to themselves, “why, I could have thought of such a thing! If only I had!”
The King, grateful for such a practical solution to this problem, offered to the former monk any service he required, within reason. Was there some quandary or trouble haunting the man or his kin? Was there a debt in need of payment? Some definite but serious issue in need of solving? The sightless man spoke as soon as the King had offered.
“My son is clever, but in need of schooling. He knows some letters already, though he lacks my facility with maths,” he said without any evident shyness at acknowledging his talent with numbers. “In my home, his talent will be squandered. He only chops wood and stokes the fire while his mother and I labor as well. On quiet nights I try to teach him some, but it wil come to nothing, I am sure. The court has men of letters who could tutor him, of this I am sure. Would the King value his learning and take him into his heart and home?” He continued with a chuckle “and indeed, into the Kings considerable library?”

Monday, October 6, 2008

The Boy The King Loved (Pt. 2)

The East-Facing Window
The east-facing window, through which the sun had once rose and which was now hidden behind the weight of misplaced tapestry, portrayed an ancient tale of courage. So it was told, a mild local blacksmith had fashioned a great sword. The sword was told to be larger than any man could wield in battle unless he were quite a giant. The man, an heirless widower, crafted it for many years, but only after his paid work was finished and no other matter commanded his attention. Indeed, its manufacture took many years. No one within the gates knew what purpose lay in the construction of such an instrument. Some suggested it was ceremonial, a gift to the King in the place of an heir to continue tribute to the monarch. Indeed, the local man was said to be quite noble in his disposition and loyal in his character. And, indeed, such a ceremonial act from a poor man with no family might have seemed a fitting final labor.
In the autumn of his final year, the quiet tradesman dragged his giant’s sword into the city’s field, at that time left for its Sabbatical rest. In the rolled dirt and browning grass he parked the sled that carried his over-built weapon. He stood over the field and his sword for a day and a night. On the dawn of the second day, a particularly clear chill fell upon the land. Every surface glittered with an infinity of jeweled dew, frozen into frost. The colors of the fall-turned trees refracted each a thousand times and the tall city gates shimmered an iron shimmer. The cloak of our simple worker was itself stiff with ice and his well-kempt beard too. Everything lay frozen, both in matter and in time.
Our simple worker crouched as slowly as anyone had seen his already deft form move. His leather-gloved hands wrapped around the immense handle of the weapon at his feet, one at the lowest point and the other at the top-most. With a groan that shook the ice from every surface, the field suddenly cleaved and coughed up a rich and foul earth which met and intermingled the falling frost. The air was, for that moment, like breathing diamonds from coal.
From beneath the ruptured earth, a hulking form of mud and stone rose up. Its teeth of granite ringed its gaping maw that snatched open fiercely and its eyeless skull lurched forth from the fruitless soil. Simultaneously, a whirling fan of steel shirked its sheeth of crystal frost and lept from its sled. The meager blacksmith’s cloak exploded from his back into a doubled halo of shattered ice as he swung his mighty creation. It’s profound blade cracked through the lower jaw of the earthen nemesis, showering splintered stone across the view. It’s green-black life-blood poured from this wound a stench across the open earth
A rumble escaped the living soil and the steel-worker’s blade hung for a moment in the air upon its second pass. Half of its full length crashed into the crown of the lurking monster and lodged there mightily. The earth sunk beneath the feet of the blacksmith, but he relinquished his creation not. The soil quivered a moment and then fell away all together, swallowing first his blade and then, with it, the swords creator. Only his cloak remained and the sled.
Or so it was told. Indeed, so it was memorialized in colored glass and lead behind a time-dulled tapestry portraying some battle or another.

Sunday, October 5, 2008

The Boy The King Loved

and now a story. It's a bit of a medieval fantasy, which is peculiar from me, since I usually don't like to read or write that kind of thing. I'll post it here in installments. We'll see if it ever gets finished.
There was a boy beloved by the King. Indeed, beloved so much the more because he was not the King’s own kin. The child was not much of a boy, but kind enough that one noticed so almost straight away. He was at turns talkative to a fault or taciturn without explanation. He was sturdily built but carried himself as though he fancied himself less imposing in stature. He would sometimes be scolded by his tutor for crossing his legs knee-over-knee.
“A man rests an ankle crosswise his opposing knee, son. Let no one mistake you for an effeminate,” the tutor would chide. Yet when safe from the reach of his tutor's swat, the boy would fold his right leg over left, tucking his elbows into his sides and folding his hands atop his doubled knees. His shoulders would slouch and he would glance up to whomever he was speaking with a steady gaze that hinted at gentleness. Or perhaps some unnamed and latent guilt felt at some existential culpability. It was this amalgamation of guilt and gentleness the King loved most.
The Kingdom in that time was dangerous, over run with shameless men who scoffed at the law. They harmed the weak and fled the authority of the monarchy, living in tents outside the city walls. The King would often sit quietly in the darkness. His solemn eyes glimmering with some small, mysterious hope his creased forehead did not betray. He would eat only salted meats and country breads. He would drink only the most meager portion of wine diluted immensely with water. Clear nights when the moon was out, the King would take the air on the parapet. The King seemed to swell beneath the moon. So much more so did he shrink back from the sun’s direct glare.
Huge, ancient, and heavy tapestries were hung across the glorious and likewise-ancient stained glass of the King’s court. The walls, where they had previously hung, stood bare. The special awkwardness resulting of the misplaced tapestries took on a tremulous menace as the vague twilight shadows crept across the space as hours lulled by in silence. The jester would yawn. The cup-bearer would sip drunkenly from the King’s chalice in some shadowed doorway. The Queen, perpetually pursued by a draft, would recline near her husband. Her lap would bear a fine quilt. The quilt would rest atop many knit blankets nesting about her knees, like a doll reclining among scarves. The knit blankets were of the kind the Queen remembered from her youth.