Tuesday, February 5, 2013

Women of my future, do you know me well?
Will our children inside you swell?

On the front lines, where we nearly wed.
In the sick ward, where you made my bed.

I was nervous, but I stood my still
In the chapel where they baptised Will.
The cathedral where we said our vows
We were perishing. You had me aroused.

I don't want your sex.( )
I just want to feel like we're connected.

Saturday, July 14, 2012

I'm on tumblr now.


Saturday, July 7, 2012

So on Sunday, I stopped being in an almost two year long relationship. Then on Monday morning eight bajillion kids showed up at camp and I took care of fifteen of them all day and all night for a week.

Today is my day off, which is much needed. This week was one of most physically and emotionally taxing I've endured, and, like, it had nothing to do with breaking up with Melissa. It was just really hard to maintain an energetic and excited attitude for the kids without ever getting frustrated or angry with them. Anyway, I did it, it's over, and that statement applies to, like, lots of things.

I've been reading through the minor prophets, because they are amazing and I love learning about how freaking awesome and awe-inspiringly fearful God is right along with how good He is.

Who can stand before His indignation? Who can endure the burning of His anger? His wrath is poured our like fire and the rocks are broken up by Him. The Lord is good, and a stronghold in the day of trouble, and He knows those who take refuge in Him. (Nahum 1:6-7)

Friday, June 15, 2012

Okay, so I sort of missed a week.

2 Chronicles 16:8b-9a
Yet when you relied on the Lord, he delivered them into your hand. For the eyes of the Lord range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him.

I like this verse because it talkes about what sort of god God is. Sometimes, a lot of the time, I don't see the point in praying, I don't see why we ask for things because I've never seen God do anything to answer prayers. I've seen a conspiracy of circumstance answer prayer. Prayer is hope, it's an expression of honest desire, but it doesn't do anything. Sometimes, a lot of the time, I believe in a theistic or deistic god; a god who made the universe but doesn't interact with it any more. At least not like it used to.
I like this verse because it totally contradicts that. In Gatsby, the prevailing metaphor for God is that of eyes. Eyes that observe but don't do anything. And here, the scriptures tell us that, Yes, God has eyes that look, but those eyes are active, they run about and empower. This God isn't a mere observer.

And after the hit-and-run
Under the eyes of Dr. T.J. Eckleburg
Old Owl-Eyes knelt down
And began to administer CPR.

It's hard, though. Because the passage is talking about the reign of Asa, one of the kings of Judah. The seer delivers this message to him (in the above verse), and he gets so angry that he puts the guy in prison. And then he keeps reigning and oppressing the people. He gets a disease after three years, seeks the help of physicians, they can't help, and he dies five years after the seer. Then he gets a great tomb in his honor. It's like what the seer said didn't matter. Asa kept living his human-events sort of life and died in a very human-events sort of way. Where was the active God in that?


I got lifeguard certified this last week. It was pretty easy, actually. A lot of swimming though.

Amanda, at camp, went in for surgery a few days ago. The weird part is that I don't even know what's wrong with her. I think Leukemia, she was getting a bone-marrow transplant. She's responding well to medication, but she's in a lot of pain. The night before she left - and mind, I barely know her - I told her, "Don't die. Because that's scary." And she told me, "Yeah. You have no idea how scary."

I'm scared of dying. I don't think I'm really scared of death. But dying - it just seems like it's always such a painful, undignified process. Whenever I'm confronted with dying, I wonder why it's not me who's dying. I mean, I am dying. And I will die. But there seems to be much more of the random than the probable in deciding who dies when. Becca (camp becca) might lose her first grandparent. I've only got one left. There's all these statistics that say the average life expectancy is this much and the probability of surviving this disease is this much. If you've watched 50/50, tell me about it, I'm curious about whether or not I should watch it (no spoilers).

Anyway, all the randomness makes it hard to believe in a God who has a plan, and also makes me want to believe in a God who has a plan. I want to believe that every disease comes from preventable causes, and that if I don't smoke I won't get lung cancer, if I don't drink I won't have liver problems. I want to believe in easy realities, but I don't think those realities are accurate.

Thursday, May 31, 2012

These last three weeks have been a little tortuous, honestly. I need to be doing things, and there was altogether too much of not doing anything (although I did read a lot. But reading is something to rest from doing things, not a thing itself). Mercifully it all ends on Monday, when I'll be going on a week long mission trip to only the most exotic of destinations: Springfield, MA. Then training, and then my poorly paid but much anticipated summer job/ministry: working as a camp councilor. In the meantime, I'm going to the wedding of my friend Nathan, who is (IMHO) altogether too young to be getting married. I shall continue saying that people my age are too young to be getting married until I get married myself or a turn thirty (or perhaps twentysix).

A Farewell to Arms was just great, and the ending left me gutted and empty. I should have seen it coming, given the punchline-per-Hemingway's-style to "Why did the chicken cross the road?" (Answer: To die. Alone. In the rain.). It also commandeered some lyrics/poetry I had unfinished months before, which - though still unfinished - I will post.

Woman of my future, do you know me well?
Will our children inside you swell?
On the front lines where we made our bed,
In the sick room where you stroked my head,
I was nervous, but I stood my still.
In the chapel where they baptised Will,
I believed you when you kissed my lips.
I believed you then, I believed you then.

The other fragment I composed, and I'd be grateful your help with it (is that allowed?), is missing two lines.

I was given this time/So I will spend this time
Like a greedy child spending his allowance.
I'm not afraid of the dark/But I put my headphones on
Because oblivion is manifest in silence.
But the wheel will never stop its turning.
I believe in heaven/Or an upper-case-S Something
But I've never really known where I was going.

The trick, when you're reading and it's growing late, is knowing when to turn on the light. If you turn it on too late, you hurt your eyes with the dark and sudden bright. If you turn it on too early, the mixture of lamplight and daylight looks awful. 

Saturday, May 26, 2012

Whenever we're watching a movie with a little action in it, Stephen and Phoebe want to know who lives and who dies. Even if I haven't seen the movie before they'll ask, "Does he die?" I can understand that - you want to prepare yourself if a character you like is going to die. I don't help, I just say, "Of course he is," because everybody dies eventually. Still, though, that's a downright inconsiderate thing to say to a seven year old who just wants to know if the handsome but bumbling hero is going to survive this encounter and win the heart of the beautiful, gracious woman (spoiler: he does).

Promenades seem to be primarily concerned with a) dressing up really fancy so that b) you can take pictures of yourself looking fancy and then c) not wear your jacket for the rest of the evening because it's too hot. Also, dancing, which turned out to be fine because nobody knows how to dance. But it was on a boat and it was lovely to watch the sun set from the top deck. And then I stayed out so late that when I got home I made tea and watched the sun rise before going to sleep (for three hours and then getting up for church). It was fun.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Waiting for the kettle to boil in the dark but lightening kitchen,
Hours ago I was self-conscious in the sweating morass of hormones and human affection
(I mean the dance floor, where I totally killed it)
I can hear birds singing,
And driving home saw newspapermen refilling boxes.
I could have read yesterdays happenings before anyone else got a chance to
But all I want is a cup of tea to watch the sunrise with.

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

I read Brave New World, it didn't freak me out.
I read Catch-22, it was good.
I'm reading A Farewell to Arms, it is creative nonfiction, srsly.
I'm going to a prom on Friday which is weird because a) I was homeschooled b) I'm in college and c) I have no idea how one proms. Prom. Is that short for promenade? I don't know how to promenade, it freaks me out. I don't know how to dance either, which is even worse (I've been led to believe that dancing is central to promenading? Is that true? (If you've been to a promenade, please tell me how one acts at such an event)

This is an interim post, because my job won't start until June but I want to get into the habit of weekly blogging so that I make time for it when I don't have time.

Tuesday, May 8, 2012

I'm worried

I'm worried that I ran out of things to say a long time ago, and that I've been faking it ever since and gotten by because I read a lot and people aren't too good at spotting plagiarism when it comes to them with a smile and a shake of the head.
I'm worried that I don't care enough about God, about others, or about the world to really care about myself, and that when people discover how very little I car they'll stone me or tell me, "Get lost!" because studies in non-verbal communication reveal that people are awfully good at picking up on fakery, and if they don't feel cared for genuinely, they are genuinely alienated.
I'm worried that I'll pick up where I left of instead of starting out where I am now, miles ahead of that place, and that this will become some sort of cathartic confession again where I complain about how bad I am at writing and hope that the three people reading this will tell me, "Oh, stop, you're really good at writing." Because hearing that helps my egotism without helping me.
I'm worried that nobody will read this, and that this will become another introspective dead-end that dies for want of human connection, and that like all of the half filled notebooks and half finished song lyrics and poems this will fizzle out because words don't come to me out of nowhere, they come to me out of connection to others.

I'll have a summer job that gives me one day off every week.
One post a week, promise.
And no bullshit.

Wwhutdafrick? I'm blogging again.

I want to grow up, most of all, to be someone interesting. I want to be an adult with lots of books, who's read them all and can talk about them. I can give up my dreams of being a rock-star, or a poet, or an author. I'll settle for being a 9th grade algebra teacher, or a chemist, or an alchemist, or a wizard, but I want to be interesting. To me, first, and then to others. To me because I'd hate to be in my own company all the time if I was a bore, and others because I want to be surrounded by interesting people too - because they're interesting.