tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-68772932833400415552024-03-07T23:22:50.444-05:00endlessMicah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.comBlogger361125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-20203886748261630022011-11-11T02:03:00.001-05:002011-11-11T02:05:34.989-05:00The half-life is the time it takes for half the amount of a substance to decay.<div>Something like Zeno's paradox applies, where you can never get rid of all the substance because you'll always take away half of the remaining amount, but be left with half.</div><div>But it doesn't work out that way, because substances aren't infinitely divisible.</div><div>...Zeno's paradox doesn't work out either, but I'm not sure why.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-91432645741247180432011-11-10T00:32:00.002-05:002011-11-10T00:38:46.804-05:00two poemsNov 2nd<div><br /></div><div>Is nothing sacred?</div><div>And where, if not in this place</div><div>Do bared feet tread holy ground?</div><div>No one is afraid not to hear</div><div>"Remove your sandals, for the ground on which you stand is holy ground."</div><div>Is there so little ground</div><div>that so few must unlace their boots?</div><div>Or is it now, when we must wash each other's feet,</div><div>That the ground on which we stand is holy?</div><div><br /></div><div>Nov 3rd - Nov 9th</div><div><br /></div><div>The leaves are falling off of the trees</div><div>and</div><div>we spend our idle hours (of which there are few)</div><div>holding hands, together in the reading glen </div><div>in the place where</div><div>I first said that I kinda liked you</div><div>and</div><div>you told me I had an adorable face </div><div>and</div><div>I told you that I thought you were beautiful</div><div>and you told me to shut up</div><div>but your eyes shone like wet tortoise shells.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was back when we were seventeen</div><div>and</div><div>we were still scared of saying "I love you"</div><div>well</div><div>I'm still scared because you may think I'm nice</div><div>but I'm aware of my own volatility</div><div>so</div><div>for now, we'll satisfy ourselves with looks of</div><div>mutually held but un-communicated feeling.</div><div><br /></div><div>But you better watch yourself girl, because one of these days</div><div>I will probably get down on one knee</div><div>and</div><div>ask you a yes or no question</div><div>I'm telling you this now so that when that day comes</div><div>you won't be too surprised</div><div>you won't be flustered</div><div>and you'll have thought of an answer</div><div>and you'll say "Yes."</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-69573019175266685512011-10-10T01:33:00.003-04:002011-10-10T02:01:48.869-04:00Pop-Pop<div>The man I don't remember</div><div>Who forgot everything until he forgot how to live</div><div>Who wore a blue polo and smiled amid the sails</div><div>Who had a silver watch that was given to my father</div><div>Who forgot everything and is even now being forgotten</div><div>Heaven; I know his exit</div><div>But I are troubled with his later entrance.</div><div><br /></div><div>I who have one grandmother remaining to me</div><div>I who forget her husband, the man who forgot</div><div>I am too late.</div><div>What little immortality I could lend him he can no more receive.</div><div>The knowledge of him slips from me like his life and memory slipped from his body.</div><div>And soon no words will come to me in his name.</div><div><br /></div><div>When I am dead, Heaven, don't trouble yourself</div><div>Trouble with the living, whom you trouble.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-38846823528307562212011-08-22T21:42:00.002-04:002011-08-22T21:50:31.003-04:00The (my) problem with worshipI have a problem with worship.<div>
<br /></div><div>Not, like, in an "i object" sort of way. I just struggle to worship. There was a worship service tonight (at COLLEGE!); I stopped by for a little while, listened to some songs (great basist) and then left. I just. I just don't get worship. I never feel it.</div><div>
<br /></div><div>It always seems like worship is about feeling a certain way. Having this feeling and being moved by it: to close your eyes, to sway, clap, dance, jump, breath, praise God. And I never feel like that. I always stand, watching the performers and wincing when the lyrics become to repetitive. </div><div>
<br /></div><div>But maybe the problem is with me. Walking back from the worship service, I was thinking about it, and why it's always so hard for me to be in worship services. I think, maybe, it has something to do with the way I view God; and - deeper - with the kind of person I am (but, maybe they're not such different things). I try to understand things. That's what I do. I solve problems, I understand things. But you can't understand God, I know that. I've let go of that after years of trying. But I still automatically box the world into what I can understand. And that includes God. And a god that can fit inside my head isn't much worth worshiping.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-38929035615958249572011-07-29T07:14:00.003-04:002011-07-29T07:27:40.378-04:00I'm typing this in betwThI stopped being involved in politics at all for a while. Now, when there isn't any good music on the radio, I listen to NPR news on the way to work. Sometimes, if the news story is good, I won't check back for music. Anyway.<div><br /></div><div>This debt limit thing is crazy.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't understand it, I mean, it's a multifaceted and complex issue. Our debt sucks, though, and anyone can tell you that the longer you put off paying your bills, the worse things will be in the end. I don't know if what we're watching happen is the beginning of a financial reckoning for the United States. I wonder if anyone thought our debts would come due like this. I don't understand why the debate is over raising the debt ceiling. We did that in February, and our debts simply came due a little later. We still have to pay. We just can't borrow more. Maybe that's a good thing.</div><div><br /></div><div>And, meanwhile, we have two wars going on, wars that - if our airport's increasingly stringent and invasive security measures are any indication - don't make us any safer.</div><div><br /></div><div>The other thing is that our leaders are tossing around numbers like trillion as if they mean nothing. It's as if they can't scale their imagination. A trillion of anything is a lot. Multiple trillions is crazy.</div><div><br /></div><div>Why can't the government operate like a business? I mean, I'm not crazy, right? Every successful company operates at a profit. They pay their workers, their operating costs, their debts, and they have money left over. So, why can't the government? Why can't they charge (tax) for services (armies, schools, healthcare) and have money left over? That's not a stupid idea. I feel like the government gets used to bad business because they don't have to work for their paycheck. They just get it from taxpayers. Which is how it's supposed to work. But... don't act like you deserve my money. I'm only giving it to you because I expect you not to be a screw-up. Thanks to NPR radio, I am beginning to see what a foolish expectation that is.</div><div><br /></div><div>(PS. The Mountain Goats are sweet. Bright Eyes was meh.)</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-91847377941579655402011-06-29T21:59:00.008-04:002011-08-04T17:43:41.302-04:00The Underground (T.S. Eliot)On the underground and into the dark,<div>On the underground and into the dark,</div><div>Train's movin' but there ain't no sparks<br /><div>On the underground and into the dark.</div><div><br /></div><div>Slow Procession into the dark</div><div>on the underground a funeral march</div><div>They're all wonderin' is it me in the casket</div><div>but they know that it is so they're too scared to ask it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh my soul, shut up and see,</div><div>Whatever's comin', is it comin' for me?</div><div>They say "It's cancer, what'cha gonna' do now?, well</div><div>no one lives forever on the underground."</div><div><br />Oh my Lord, where are we now?</div><div>I think we made it but I don't know how.</div><div>One little step on your eternal stair, well</div><div>I think we made it but I don't know where.</div><div><br />They say it's somethin' but I wish I was sure</div><div>It isn't nothin' but I wish it was more</div><div>They say I'm young and I'll figure it out, but</div><div>I'm runnin' out of time on the underground.</div><div><br />(I'm never really going to finish this, but you can hear the rough audio <a href="http://lastingly.tumblr.com/post/8485762906/the-underground-t-s-eliot-an-original-song-by">here</a>)</div></div><div>(And i totally stole much of this from Arcade Fire's Antichrist Television Blues)</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-80050465163027867752011-06-25T20:13:00.003-04:002011-06-25T20:24:48.301-04:00poempost. toast. toast.In some way, I want to drive for a very long time.<div>And also. I want to sit in the backseat. </div><div>I feel like driving is introverted.</div><div>Paying attention to blinkers and brights.</div><div>Sometimes it's hard to do all those things with just one hand.</div><div>But I still like holding yours and driving.</div><div>The backseat, it's like a cocoon, like that Arcade Fire song,</div><div><i>I like the peace in the backseat</i>.</div><div>But right now I feel lonely, empty of the friends who live far away.</div><div>So I'd throw a bag together, put on that Bob Dylan mix Michael gave me...</div><div>And I'd drive... I don't know where. To Massachusetts, I guess.</div><div>(I think this was supposed to be a poem, but I guess I'm just writing now)</div><div>I'd drive to Oxford, MA, and walk through its streets wearing my Oxford hoodie.</div><div>I'd compare the libraries and the cathedrals - and if there aren't any cathedrals</div><div>(Are there any cathedrals in America? I feel we aren't reverent enough to hold any)</div><div>then I'll laugh and say, "Well, what was I expecting?"</div><div>And I won't have to answer that question, because I wasn't expecting anything, really.</div><div>Oxford, MA - geez, it's just somewhere to go, isn't it?</div><div>I'd do all that. But, who am I kidding, I wouldn't really.</div><div>But, someday, years from now, I'll look at my friends,</div><div>(I'll probably make friends at college)</div><div>And I'll ask, "did I ever have such good friends as I had in high school?</div><div>when we would dress in suits and read poetry and carry notebooks?"</div><div>then I'll laugh and say, "Well, what was I expecting?"</div><div>And, right now, I'm not sure what.</div><div><br /></div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-50334569105111181322011-05-28T20:56:00.008-04:002011-05-28T21:08:15.411-04:00<i>A man - unknown to me and so</i><div><i>A man without hypocrisy - </i></div><div><i>stands to pray.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Oh my dear God.</div><div>Could I ever become a man who</div><div>believed the same thing for forty years?</div><div>Will I ever be the man who sits for forty years?</div><div>Who prays before every meal</div><div>Who stands</div><div>And prays, "Our Father..."</div><div>Will I ever be the steady job</div><div>The white-shirt-blue-tie office worker?</div><div>Will I ever hold myself steady? </div><div>I have never feared to ask questions,</div><div>Until I am overwhelmed by them.</div><div>Have I thrown myself so deeply into myself</div><div>That I can never know who I am?</div><div>Will I turn, and turn upon myself</div><div>Like dough, kneading my thoughts into themselves</div><div>But never rising, never cresting,</div><div>Never asking <i>and</i> answering.</div><div>Answer me, these. And all others. </div><div>Until I see you and am answered by you.</div><div>I could never stop asking till then.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-37215691743619967982011-05-24T20:02:00.002-04:002011-05-24T20:05:49.884-04:00parelandra (or, a rainstorm on the way home from work)Stepping out from a little repetition,<div>I blink in the unexpected sunlight.</div><div>But I can smell the troubled air,</div><div>furrow my brow and sow.</div><div>Then, down the road, the clouds unburden themselves</div><div>washing against the windshield with a sound</div><div>- like lungs with pneumonia.</div><div>Until the earth breathes easy</div><div>and glows with newness.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-15848714908362602412011-05-13T22:04:00.003-04:002011-05-13T22:11:09.943-04:00I wrote my first check todayBeginning a long series of checks I make out to the government, I paid a speeding ticket.<div><br /></div><div>So I was driving to frisbee with my brothers in the car with me and we were laying down some sick beats. Jay was rapping and I wasn't paying much attention to either my speedometer or the cars in the other lane. Thus, I failed to notice the police car approaching until it was too late to reduce my speed to anything less than nineteen miles above the posted speed limit. Surprisingly, I handled it really well. Like. I didn't even swear.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, at frisbee, there was a quick turnover and I spotted an undefended player completely open in my endz0ne. I paused just long enough to mutter the f-word before taking off to cover him.</div><div><br /></div><div>What is it with competitive sports and making me swear? I feel like such a screw-up. The only time I ever use the f-word out loud is when I'm playing competitive sports.</div><div><br /></div><div>Following the policy of my soccer coach of two years ago, I later benched myself for the rest of the game on account of my profanity. I sat in the grass being bitten by mosquitos, watching everyone else play a game I love, and feeling like crying because I was having a really terrible evening emotionally. The weight of having to go home and tell my parents about getting a speeding ticket, as well as the unspoken shame of having failed once again to keep my language in check bore down on me like a train bears down on a stupid metaphor.</div><div><br /></div><div>I don't know how to stop this. Other than not playing frisbee. I'm so angry with myself.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-82622706857693770742011-05-07T21:54:00.002-04:002011-05-07T21:59:27.708-04:00Stand By MeI watched <i>Stand By Me, </i>directed by Rob Reiner, as part of my English final (I have to write an analysis) <div><br /></div><div>What is up with coming of age movies/books and swearing? I mean. Srsly.</div><div><br /></div><div>I read <i>Looking for Alaska,</i> by John Green, because I wanted to. And it had so much swearing and filth and crudity. And it seriously bothered me. I couldn't <i>relate</i> to it, but apparently other people can, because it won an award for young adult fiction. </div><div>So then, I watch <i>Stand By Me</i>, and it's gross! I mean. Twelve year old kids using the F-word and joking about sex and... ugh!</div><div><br /></div><div>Is this because I never went to public school? I don't want to ask, "am I missing something," but... am I missing something. Not missing out on something. Just. Why is it that in what are regarded as good coming of age stories, the kids swear like sailors and smoke and drink?</div><div><br /></div><div>It's probably because a movie about christian homeschoolers would be unbearably boring.</div><div>Oh. Wait. BJU made those.</div><div>They were.</div><div>That solves that problem, then.</div><div><br /></div><div>Peace, yo. </div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-6929060731317338842011-05-05T20:23:00.001-04:002011-05-05T20:24:44.811-04:00ShamelessSponsor me in a Walk for Life! Please. This Saturday. Auuugh!Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-9426761166713592942011-05-02T15:51:00.003-04:002011-05-02T16:00:29.082-04:00This post comes to you in three parts<i>Part one, pretentious poetry</i><br /><br />I shall spell my words one letter at a time<br />And my words will not be long, and I will not be long at them,<br />For my meaning betrays my aptitude<br />for using long words pretentiously<br />not 'cause you get them.<br />My verbal flourishes are flirtatious:<br />they want your attention, not your devotion.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Part two, child celebrities</span><br /><br />I saw the Black Eyed Peas perform. I don't like the Black Eyed Peas (well, I don't like their music. I haven't met them personally). But anyway, I was in St. Louis for a robotics competition and they had a free concert for teams, my friends were going, so I did (the evening was great, the actual concert was probably the only lame bit). Willow Smith opened for them.<br /><br />Okay, so she had some video with Jay-Z (I have no idea if that's how you spell it) where he was like, "Willow, where you at? This is it, World, meet Willow. Willow, meet world." And I can't help but think: she is not ready to meet the world.<br /><br />We are children. We are here to listen and learn. We do not speak until spoken to. We probably don't have anything valuable to contribute to the human conversation, and so we should remain silent. We are not ready to confront the world.<div><br /></div><div><i>Part three, I got a job at a paving company</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>And, y'know, that's kind of cool.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-2299399310869110552011-04-19T22:54:00.003-04:002011-04-19T22:55:51.281-04:00This is the first draft of a narrative essay I'm writing for my English class. It felt like a blog post, so I'll post it.When I stick my head out the window of a moving car, I hear classical music in the wind. Of course it has been years since I sat in the backseat and leaned my head out the window, trying to catch the summer green leaves that grew so close to the driveway leading up to my house. I sometimes wonder if it was the car radio - ever tuned to Classical 99.5 - that I heard. But always when I heard the strains of music in the rushing air, I would duck my head back into the car to compare the melodies. And always they were different. Not that I could ever be sure. When I heard music in the wind, it was impossible to hear clearly. It would come to me in snatches that slipped through my memory like the air slipping fast through my playful fingers. <br /><br />It seems the music never really left me, though. The fragmented symphonies I snatched from the wind are now parts of the songs I write. But something is always lost in translation. Like the wind imperfectly brought out the music inside my mind, my ability to write imperfectly puts down on paper the unearthly symphonies bottled in my brain. My childhood friend and band-mate, Andrew, a far more talented musician than I, is frustrated by the dissonant differences every time he tries plays the piano to the tune of the music in my head. But sometimes, if I tune my guitar just right and play in the key of C. If there are six voices around mine singing in four part harmony written by the brother who studies Latin and Economics in Michigan. If the bass walks its line like a drunk ballerina and the strings section sounds under the inexperienced hands of a pianist who hasn't played in four years and the drums play a four/four syncopated rhythm with a double bass hit. If all these things happen at once, one strain of the symphony comes bursting out like a butterfly kept too long in its chrysalis, wings wrinkled but soon spread and beautiful.<br /><br />The word "inspiration" in Greek literally means "breathed upon." Maybe it wasn't the music that meant so much, as ten year old me stuck his bowl-cut head out the window to grab at the branches of passing trees. Perhaps it was the wind. With every creative project I put myself into, the struggle is with translation. The struggle with words and their meanings, pigments, hues, and mental images conflicting, and the dissonance between the song I hear and the song I play. I am the sleepy scribe who mis-copied the document, I am the inattentive art student who did not notice the particular shade of green in the eyes of the model. I have two harmonica's, and no matter how hard I draw my bent breath through the second hole of either, the only sound produced is that of a train passing West. It is West because all my travels from home have always taken me West. West because that leads away from home, on to new and frightening things. Robert Penn Waren wrote, "West is where we all plan to go someday, it is where you go when the land gives out and the old field pines encroach. It is where you go when you get the letter saying flee, all is discovered.'"<br /><br />But in Andrew's basement, my voice straining and calloused fingers dancing to the rhythm of my heartbeat, I have never felt more at home. There is a connection, between finding home and seeing the wrinkled wings of a butterfly. The songs I hear have been inside me for so long, waiting their turn to boil over and out of me. My songs are about places - people - I call home. They are about the truth and uncertainty of watching the train pass West and knowing that it will soon be my train. For we all must go west, eventually. And when my time comes, I will stick my head out the window and sing into the wind the songs of home, so that in the car behind a child will hear me.Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-76425136718537952402011-04-14T14:22:00.002-04:002011-04-14T14:34:24.504-04:00When I run, I run East, into the sunrise<div>Because all my strayings have been to the open places of the West, but no matter how far I stray, home is always East.</div><div>When I I stick my head out the window of a moving car, I hear classical music playing</div><div>Because I was born with music in my heart and the symphonies of the wind reveal themselves to me - sparingly, because I can only barely catch them and never can hold them when I bring my feet back to the ground.</div><div>When I strum guitar, I break my strings</div><div>Because whenever the music in the air around me comes close to the music in my head, something happens to remind me that I can never be satisfied with the sounds of the earth - something happens to remind me that the sound I hear in the wind and the light I see in the East are echoes of the song I was made to sing, and the smile on my face and the jubilant tears in my eyes grow every moment the songs we sing come closer to that song.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-1945030465037808362011-04-12T17:06:00.003-04:002011-04-12T17:09:23.135-04:00Like children at hide-and-seek<div>God comes searching.</div><div>It is not a question if you will be found,</div><div>But when.</div><div>And so, with calculation</div><div>with study, guesses and double bluffs</div><div>having observed carefully the pitfalls of others</div><div>of those quickly discovered in obvious</div><div>ordinary places of rest,</div><div>I have constructed for myself a plan.</div><div>I have constructed for myself a hiding place.</div><div>Where even God is not present.</div><div>And in this place, I will be found last.</div><div>And then I'll be it.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-39301159565332357172011-04-12T11:16:00.002-04:002011-04-12T11:22:37.890-04:00Mumford & Sons defies hipstersThere is no point to this post.<div><br /></div><div>But, okay, so Mumford & Sons has been making music since 2007. I caught myself thinking, "I liked them way before they were at the Grammy's" and all that. But, c'mon, I was probably listening to them for less than a year before that happened (credit to becca and michael).</div><div>(becca for posting about them in Buzz, and michael for making me listen to Sigh No More at... regionals?)</div><div><br /></div><div>What are hipsters going to say? </div><div>"I liked their earlier stuff."</div><div>Yes. So did <i>everyone else.</i></div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-49450398936087979392011-04-09T21:49:00.002-04:002011-04-09T21:52:59.401-04:00There aren't that many things I want from life.<div>(That was a lie.)</div><div>As far as concerts go, there are - so far - three things I want.</div><div>I want another opportunity to see U2 live (the first one came before I was ready)</div><div>I want an opportunity to see Mumford & Sons live.</div><div>I want an opportunity to see Coldplay live.</div><div>(I already got to see Switchfoot live, and it was everything I dreamed it would be)</div><div><br /></div><div>What concerts do you dream of going to?</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-14435212000986965602011-04-06T13:33:00.002-04:002011-04-06T13:36:19.980-04:00Let these bodies kindle the sun.<div>We will burn so that others see the light.</div><div>Hey-diddle-diddle,</div><div>play the man, master riddle</div><div>and we'll light up a candle as burns through this night.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-27662996967493751602011-04-05T17:13:00.002-04:002011-04-05T17:19:07.793-04:00Yesterday, I got a terrible grade on my precalculus exam.<div><br /></div><div>I am very bad at math. I don't understand precalculus. I was doing okay until we got into verifying trigonometric identities, then my pace of understanding slowed while the pace of the course remained constant. Problem. I was in a bad mood yesterday, because I had gotten a terrible grade on my precalculus exam.</div><div><br /></div><div>My dad went shopping and forgot his wallet, so I drove forty minutes to bring him his wallet.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was walking out of Hanford's supermarket, grumpy and sullen, when a man walking with his daughter turned to me and said, "This is Grace, she just got straight A's today!" He was obviously very proud of his daughter's accomplishment, and he was telling me because he wanted the whole world to know. It was adorable. I quickly came back with, "That's awesome! Congratulations, Grace," smiled, and left.</div><div><br /></div><div>Briefly, I was mad at the girl for getting better grades than me. (she looked like she was twelve)</div><div><br /></div><div>Then, I just thought, "her name was Grace."</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-11732150105407728482011-03-18T22:38:00.002-04:002011-03-18T22:45:44.027-04:00I have Bon Iver's "Skinny Love" on repeatThere's something beautiful about turning pain into music.<div>Running away from a breakup - with a band, a girl, and (in his own words) himself.</div><div>Spending a winter with nothing to do but think and make music.</div><div>And, then, come spring... well, a terribly sad but terribly beautiful collection of songs shows itself.</div><div>Like flowers.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want... I want to turn the things I feel into music. Hayley says I can empathize with people. I want to turn that into songs (mostly, I feel like songs I write are about ideas. Thoughts, not feelings)</div><div><br /></div><div>I'm tired now, I think I'll go to bed. Look at the moon tonight, if you get a chance. It's whole.</div><div><br /></div><div>Goodnight, love.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-11609410244319320652011-03-18T21:36:00.000-04:002011-03-18T21:37:39.570-04:00I made another song that you can listen to <a href="http://lastingly.tumblr.com/post/3950787687/that-hideous-strength-an-original-song-by-micah">here</a>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-65642391874722696452011-03-16T22:43:00.003-04:002011-03-16T23:08:57.205-04:00Looking for AlaskaI love stories that make me cry.<div><br /></div><div>I read John Green's <i>Looking for Alaska</i> today, and it didn't make me cry.</div><div><br /></div><div>The book talks about a labyrinth of suffering, and getting out of it. Is death a way out? Is the loss of desire. Entropy happens, we know, we know that things fall apart. I don't remember when I learned that first. I think. I don't know, I watched the twin towers fall on TV. Brianna had a close friend called Elizabeth, they were so close until they were sixteen and Elizabeth started getting in trouble with boys and my dad told Bri not to be friends with her anymore, and Elizabeth called us and Bri - she still had the phone in her hand - she came into the kitchen where I was and my mom was and she said "The twin towers were hit by a plane! It's on TV!"</div><div><br /></div><div>We had school off the rest of the day. I remember that because I was glad I didn't have to do school any more that day, and we watched on the television and maybe that was the first time I remember thinking about buildings falling down. We called my dad in Japan and told him - his hotel was near the twin towers in Japan and he looked out the window when we told him "the twin towers fell down." and he told us that they hadn't, he could see them. I watched construction videos when I was a kid, they showed all kinds of thing being blown up. Always rock. piles of rock, piles of dirt being moved so a highway can go there or a house can go there. Always building up. I never understood that buildings could fall down until I saw the twin towers fall on TV while I was glad I didn't have to do school.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Beatrix Potter</i> makes me cry. I can't help but cry when Eoin McGregor's character dies. The <i>injustice </i>of the situation. Her parents force a separation, he gets sick, his sister sends her a letter and she rushes home only to find that he has died. Her only goodbye was the kiss of a lover looking forward to a happy return. Instead, she couldn't even go to his funeral, because no one but the sister and her parents knew that they were engaged.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>A Severe Mercy</i> makes me cry. Sheldon holds you, and he tells you that he is going to break your heart from the very beginning. And I resisted crying so many times leading up to Davey's death, but when it happened, when Sheldon was driving and wished more than anything to swerve off the road and end his life, I cried. The most beautiful death I've ever read about, I couldn't think of the unfairness until after, until Sheldon kept holding me as I cried and told me how it is to to hurt. The <i>injustice</i> of the situation. They had happy golden years, and still death is an injustice.</div><div><br /></div><div>Beatrix Potter goes to the country, she lives in the land and invests in the land and invests herself in the land and in her work and painting and finds healing. She comes out - not unbroken - but mended, and can still delight children. Sheldon lives alone, he... memorizes Davey, he remembers all of her and finds meaning in her death, grows to love God for taking her, a severe mercy. He comes out - not unbroken - but mended, and can still hold me. Miles Halter writes an essay, finds forgiveness and hope in the eternality of personhood. He comes out - not unbroken - but mended?</div><div><br /></div><div>I think about all the unfairness. But... you can't say they didn't get what they deserved. Actions have consequences, and unless you say that they did not act as they acted - did not do what they did - how can you say they did not get what they deserved? But then, I think, there are other people. For a moment I thought that only other people can hurt us. So we love our crooked neighbor with our crooked heart. But in Japan, an earthquake, a tsunami, and a nuclear reactor are hurting people. But. Well, it hurts more to lose a loved one than to lose yourself. To be swept up by a wave, to be crushed by a whale as the unhabitated beast travels on a thirty foot wave, is to exit the labyrinth and leave behind others to the pain of your leaving.</div><div><br /></div><div>Seeing the twin towers fall convinced me that things fall down.</div><div>Beatrix Potter convinced me that people fall down.</div><div>Sheldon convinced me that the highs and lows are a necessary part of personhood.</div><div>And John Green?</div><div>Well. He convinced me never to get drunk.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-75947410715070546952011-03-13T12:15:00.003-04:002011-03-13T12:27:41.605-04:00Meditations from Ash Wednesday (A few days late)<i>When Jesus came to the region of Caesarea Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say the Son of Man is?” They replied, “Some say John the Baptist; others say Elijah; and still others, Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” “But what about you?” he asked. “Who do you say I am?” Simon Peter answered, “You are the Messiah, the Son of the living God.” </i><div><i>~Matthew 16:13-16</i><div><br /></div><div><i>When they had finished eating, Jesus said to Simon Peter, “Simon son of John, do you love me more than these?”“Yes, Lord,” he said, “you know that I love you.” Jesus said, “Feed my lambs.” Again Jesus said, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” He answered, “Yes, Lord, you know that I love you.” Jesus said, “Take care of my sheep.” The third time he said to him, “Simon son of John, do you love me?” Peter was hurt because Jesus asked him the third time, “Do you love me?” He said, “Lord, you know all things...."</i></div><div><i>~John 21:15-17<span class="Apple-style-span" >a</span></i></div><div><br /></div><div>I used to think the business of living was to answer the first question. That no mater what else you do with your life, the only lasting thing would be how you answered that question.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I wonder if it is the second.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>"Will the veiled sister pray for</i></div><div><i>Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee,</i></div><div><i>Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between</i></div><div><i>Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait</i></div><div><i>In the darkness? Will the veiled sister pray</i></div><div><i>For the children at the gate</i></div><div><i>Who will not go away and cannot pray:</i></div><div><i>Pray for those who chose and oppose"</i></div></div><div><i>~from Ash Wednesday, by T.S. Eliot</i></div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6877293283340041555.post-5397238813308064992011-03-07T21:44:00.002-05:002011-03-07T21:54:23.255-05:00How being a sound guy ruined churchI hate being the sound guy.<div><br /></div><div>I keep my eyes open when people pray. I see everything that goes on, I see the keyboardist come up during the prayer, I change the lights and change the slides and only those with their eyes open (shame on them) see those things happen, but it's all right for me because I am the sound guy.</div><div><br /></div><div>We left that church.</div><div><br /></div><div>I've thought about the Orthodox church in Boston that I love so much. I wonder, I'm going to college, what if I found an Orthodox church there? I couldn't take communion, I'm a catechumen, not Orthodox. I couldn't take communion. And I wouldn't convert, not without my family (not yet)</div><div><br /></div><div>We're at a new church. I love the pastor. The music is okay. The people are real and frightening. I volunteered to help with sound because there's only one guy doing it each week and he does a great job but he likes to sit with his wife sometimes. And I remembered that I hate being the sound guy. Even when I'm not working sound, I look and listen for mistakes and I grit my teeth every time a slide is late or a mic isn't on. I grit my teeth in church. In church, I get frustrated and irritated. At my old church, communion was the worst when I was working sound. They would bring the bread and the grape juice up to us and we would just eat them and get back to our jobs. It wasn't the Blessed Sacrament, it was a formality that had to be endured. I feel bad for taking it now.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now I'm at a new church, and I write new songs that my band will never play.</div><div><br /></div><div>It looks like I'm going to Wheaton. I'm happy about that, it was my favorite college, but I was waiting for something to show me it was the right one to go to. Grove turned me into a transfer student because I'm taking online courses, so that kind of rules them out. And Hillsdale... well, I was all for it except that I visited and met all of Tim's friends and don't feel like I fit in there. And they don't have a chapel.</div><div><br /></div><div>I miss you.</div>Micah E.http://www.blogger.com/profile/04907206672766347150noreply@blogger.com2