I watched a drunk girl dance with a couple of guys last night.

It was a little like anebriated pinball...the men stood as two rubber bumpers, one in front of her and one behind, and she dully bounced between them like a pinball might if it had a few too many and turned to Jell-O. (There's a mixed metaphor if I've ever seen one). Her eyes were 70% closed the whole time, and she had the half-smile of a dental patient just before he succumbs the anesthetic cocktail. It was that look...that face that got me. It was a spooky mix of distance and relief, and I suspect that the former caused the latter.

Please don't hear this as a judgement thing...I have spent many nights in just such a state, and I enjoyed most of them. It's just that...for whatever reason, as I stood next to a couple of my friends at a tavern last night, I noticed this trio, and I felt bad. I didn't feel pity for them...I didn't feel like I needed to throw a Bible at their heads and offer them saving grace right there next to the subbed-out speakers blaring Eminem. I felt bad that, lots of the time, this feels like the best that things can get.

Our salon commercials talk about "escape." Our vacation packages are called "getaways." Our bath bottles advertise that with their products you can "slip away" into a bubbly abyss. It seems that the best thing we can hope for is to not be where we are. We want to get out of our heads...to get out of our bodies...to feel less...to be lighter, to diminish.

What are we escaping from? Why have we been created to inhabit our bodies and carry about our brains, only to wish nothing more than to relieve ourselves of each? Why do I want the same thing?

I want more for our species than to hope for non-existence. Though that may be our end, it bothers me that escape...numbness...seems to be a highly desireable and heavily marketed quality. I want to hope for a true consciousness marked by presence, not by absence.

Do you remember that scene in Fight Club where Tyler pours lye on Jack's hand...and forces him to keep present to the pain? I wonder if this is where they were headed with that.

Peace,
Justin

Sometimes it's the art that gets me, and sometimes it's the palette.

I don't know if you ever have these palette wonder experiences...but I imagine all of us do...and I love them. I was sitting in my living room yesterday, remarkably underwhelmed, and zoning out to what I remember as "Nanny 911," but what may well have been some other banal waste of my time, such as "Meet Your New Mommy," "Survivor: Vanuatu," or "Cold Case." As my brain steam-bathed luxiuriously in its color-stim stew, a commercial for shampoo came on. A blond woman hocking the latest innovation in personal home hair solutions used the word "soothing." I love that word. It is an emotional onomatopoeia...its very sound makes me feel what it denotes. The word is thick like whole milk, and warm like tomato soup. I wore it as a sweater for a second or two, and then marveled at its effect on me. And then I realized...that was just the one word.

Here's where I'm headed with this: we have many, many, many words. My delight in the word "soothing" was pleasant, but the palette wonder came in the overwhelming reality that I have so many more words to choose from. Did you ever go down into your grandma's basement and find that ancient stack of National Geographics? Did you pick one out (probably from the middle), and open it to find a beautiful, exotic photo on the page before you? That was the art. Then, did you step back and realize that each of those yellow magazine spines with black print sitting in front of you meant another whole collection of such beauty? That was the palette. I love that feeling...it's overwhelming...it's immersive...and it feels reverent.

It works in libraries for me. It works with colors. It works with music. I love that feeling.

It's nice to post again.

Peace,
Justin

I haven't had much to say lately...

...it's one of the most written-about topics by novelists, columnists and, in time I imagine, bloggers. It's that feeling that, regardless of how much is going on in your head, on your radio, in your life...that you've got no way to get it down on paper. Writer's block.

Fortunately, I have no deadlines, no fans, no J. Jonah Jamieson standing over me barking, "Where's that copy I asked you for?"

Which is nice.

I look forward to having more to write about.

Peace,
Justin

An old friend wrote to me this weekend...

To be precise, she's not really old...she's 25...and at my age it's not safe to call anybody "an old friend," as when I'm 65 I won't have any proper way to describe friends who really have held out that long. Either way, this old friend has recently married a bearded fellow with a gift for writing named Ben, and she wrote to tell me that Ben recently won a writing contest in Nashville. Ben wrote about what it was like to meet his hero, Mr. Tobias Wolff.

(By the way, that was first time I've inserted a link in HTML code. It feels a little bit like going on the big-boy potty).

In his piece, Ben asked, "What is it about our encounters with people we idolize that reduces us to nimrods?"

Another gifted writer, Dave Barry, asked the same question when he spoke at Miami. He told us of the time he ran into Barbara Bush at an important socialite function, and the best thing he could think of to say to then First Lady was, "I shop at the same grocery store as your son." Her reply was simply, "oh."

I relay this to you because I, too, have been inflicted with idol-proximity-nimrod-tongue. For me, it struck when I had the chance to meet my favorite band-leader on the planet, Mr. Bela Fleck. (Say "BAY-lah"...I would have put the accent in the right place, but that would be akin to not only using the big boy potty but also finding a way to engineer it to use 25% less water without a loss in functionality).

I was just outside of Nashville, in the wooded beauty of Montgomery-Belle State Park, where Victor Wooten was holding his first Bass-Nature Camp. I was reporting on the camp for NPR (a thin excuse to spend a few days with the best bass player I've ever heard), and on the third day, Victor invited his bandmates from the Flecktones to join the campers for a jam session. Bela showed up, banjo in tow, and sat down for a bit of lunch (root soup, as I recall...it's only marginally better than it sounds). Bela Fleck, my hero...sitting just a few feet away all by himself at a picnic table. What's a musical sycophant like me to do?

I did the only thing that made any sense...I got myself a bowl of root soup and sat down across from him. With my hands trembling and my breath in short, deliberately quiet spurts, I sat down next to Bela Freaking Fleck and His Freaking Bowl of Freaking Root Soup. Holy crap...how can I eat? What if I spill a little? What if I dribble soup on my shirt? What if I miss my mouth entirely with my spoon and accidentally render the best banjo player in the world blind in both eyes? I focused a great deal of energy on getting my spoon into the soup and DIRECTLY into my mouth, so as not to allow that fiendish soup the opportunity to run. I was doing pretty well...too well, in fact, as I was concentrating solely on the soup, and not communicating with Bela Freaking Fleck.

I had to say something...but what? I mean, what do you say to the guy that you've been waiting for years to say something to? Shoot...I've had plenty of time to think about this...WHY DIDN'T I COME UP WITH SOME WITTY REMARK? I had eight hours in the car on the way down...certainly something very funny rhymes with "banjo," and fits the limerick meter. Damn...time is wasting...quick...come up with something...Justin, you've got to have something unique to offer...something that nobody else could possibly offer...

...something totally unique...

...something regional, perhaps...or indigenous to Cincinnati...

...OF COURSE! PIE! Why yes...that's it indeed! I've never had a pie better (or taller) than the Banana Coconut Cream Pecan Pie that Cherrington's used to make....and I know the owner! Why, I could even provide such a pie for Mr. Fleck, should his discriminating tastes require it! Why yes, that's perfect...I'll have a pie sent to him. Next time he's in Cincinnati, I'll have a Banana Coconut Cream Pecan Pie sent to the good boys of the Flecktones, for them to eat and enjoy! Victory is mine!

Wait...no...there's still one obstacle. How do I voice this? How do I give voice to this singular act of generosity that I intend to offer to the world's best banjo player? Why, Justin, just get straight to the point! Certainly nobody wants to delay the acquisition of PIE! Yes, that's it...just offer it.

(To unabashedly borrow a literary device from Mr. Ben Vore): BACK TO THE ROOT SOUP TABLE:

Nothing has been said for a good 45 seconds now. I've been slurping my soup as Bela Fleck slurps his. Not a word spoken....but now I've got a plan. To break the silence, I present my first words to my musical hero....


"...Hey Bela?"

"Yeah?"

"....umm....do you like pie?"



Bela stares at me with a bizarre mixture of heard-from-stupid-drooling-fans-a-million-times jadedness and did-he-just-ask-me-if-I-liked-pie novelty. He answers...

"Sure...yeah, I guess."

Now what? Man, THROW OUT YOUR OFFER! WHO IN HIS RIGHT MIND WOULD TURN DOWN FREE PIE?

But wait...what if he doesn't like coconut. It's a pretty divisive fruit, coconut. It's why Mounds haven't really hit the mainstream. What if he doesn't like it...this whole pie venture hinges on the coconut now...and you can't afford to lose the sale on the coconut element.

But...without the coconut, what have you got? Everybody has had a banana cream pie...and pecan crust is standard pie-foundation. It's the COCONUT that unlocks the Pie-ey goodness...damn you, controversial coconut! I've got nothing to offer this guy. I have nothing to offer!

So, I replied.

"OK...great."

Then, I picked up my bowl of root soup, and walked away.



This marks my last substantial encounter with Bela Fleck. It may very well come to pass that either Bela or I will pass away some day, never having improved on our pie conversation. We will never break the post-pie barrier...never jump over the hurdle that I erected with my nimrod-mouthed pieatribe.

...and I'm certain that Mr. Bela Fleck will be the lesser for it.

Peace,
Justin

I am conducting a highly scientific research experiment, and I will require your support.

I am writing to solicit your donations to a grant that will fund my highly scientific research experiment. My experiment is already in progress, so a portion of the grant will reimburse me for charges incurred in its exercise. My highly scientific research experiment is very cost-effective, and may change the future of medicine, technology and the consumer home plastics industry.

If you are not already convinced to contribute, let me explain my highly scientific research experiment:

Eighteen months ago, I began a specimen collection. My collection consists of various sizes, shapes and colors of Rubbermaid and Tupperware, which, at one point or another, each housed leftovers of a meal that my wife made. Each of these specimen containers was transported to the church where I work, and left in highly scientific refridgeration for about four hours, next to some cans of Diet Rite and an old half-eaten Wendy's salad. Then, right around noon on the day they were introduced into the church environment, they were removed from refridgeration, had the lid removed to expose the specimen to the elements, and the large majority of contents were shoveled into my mouth. Chew, swallow, digest. We will no longer follow the story of these particular contents, as they are scientifically irrelevant, and had a rather nasty end.

The remainder of the specimen...that is to say, those morsels which were stuck to the side of the container, huddled together along the bottom of the container, or were just too plentiful to eat...were then re-sealed in the container, and the container was left on my desk for the rest of the afternoon, (often with the plastic fork I had used...just a reminder to the remaining morsels not to try anything funny).

This is where things get really scientific...

After a day or so, I would, in a highly scientific manner, get disgusted by the mostly-eaten leftovers sitting on my desk in a tinted polypropylene container. I would then, with great care and precision, move said container into a large pile of similar containers, which grew ever larger in the corner of my office. I would then, with equal care and precision, tell my wife that I fully intended to take them home and wash them, and do so with a straight face. (Environmentalists are always trying to thwart scientific innovation).

After several months of such behavior, my specimen collection was complete...each container exhibiting a different stage of bacterial and fungal growth. It was at this point that we moved into stage 2...or the "Chrysalis" stage. Annoyed by the ever-growing pile of multi-colored specimen containers, I brought a large cardboard box to work, piled all of the specimen containers in, and drove home with my windows open. Upon arriving at home (and being harshly lobbied by the environmentalists to shut down the experiment and clean up the site), I highly scientifically snuck the cardboard box around to the side of the house, closed it up, and taped it shut. Thus begins the Chrysalis stage, and this is where you come in.

I am seeking reimbursement for the cardboard box (40 cents), the tape (1 cent) and the various specimen containers (25 dollars). I am also seeking adequate funds to pacify the environmentalists (pretty earrings = $39.95), so that the experiment may continue. I will also require 1lb (one pound) of Chuck Roast Sumatran Blend coffee ($7.95), a well-padded lawn chair ($15) and a good book about glass blowing or interpersonal conflict ($7-$10), in order that I might sit and observe the progress of the Chrysalis stage. Finally, I will require the sum of $200 for a three-day-stay at the Red Roof Inn down the street when the environmentalist faction decides that until I get that mess cleaned up, I can no longer live at home.

Thank you for your support. I look forward to receiving your checks, made out to me, in the mail or by PayPal. I thank you...and the future of technology thanks you.

Peace,
Justin

I have decided to open up an electronics store.

...but not just any electronics store. The most EXPENSIVE of all electronics stores. It'll be called PriceyWires, and we will charge 15% more than our competitors. We will mark up EVERYTHING, and unashamedly add extra taxes and fees at every turn. Our prices will soar over those of Circuit City, Best Buy and H.H. Gregg, and we'll have the biggest, fanciest price tags on the market.

...and the people will come.

"Why?" you ask? Well, because of my special innovation in consumer electronics retailing: I'm going to call it "Customer Service," and it's going to take the nation by storm. Here's how it will work:
1. You will enter through the gigantic sliding PriceyWires doors, and you will see uniformed sales people all over the sales floor, waiting to talk with any customers who might need assistance
2. All sales people will be required to pass a basic skills test, which will include arduous criteria such as "Must be over 14," "Must have a basic command of the English language" and "Must be able to competently identify and understand the products you are selling."
3. Our sales people will be paid solely on a commission-based basis, and will therefore be more motivated to help customers choose products. Also, a series of genital-and-car-battery-based punishments will be incurred if salesperson stands and talks to other salesperson while local church video guy stands 16 inches away, waiting for a simple answer to a very basic question about an audio adapter. (Scenario may be adapted for various situations).

I know, it's crazy...but I think it just may work. My thought is this: deep down, people really want to be treated promptly and with respect and knowledgeability when they go to purchase thousands of dollars in electronics equipment. Despite the popular notion in consumer electronics, I think that, in their heart of hearts, people actually want to be well informed by a competent sales associate when they make major purchases.

Yessir, this "customer service" thing will sweep the world.

Peace,
Justin

P.S. - Yes, this post demonstrates the exact lack of perspective on my part that I wrote about a few weeks ago...but man, dude just needed a headset for his phone, man.

I've seen many an American walking around today with an "I voted today!" sticker stuck to his or her chest.

Most of them look happy. That may be for one of two reasons:
1. Participating in the single most powerful act of democracy available to the individual fills their hearts with pride, consequently filling their faces with smile.
2. They like stickers as much as the rest of us.

I am guessing the majority would agree with #1. I, myself, am not so happy about the whole thing. Don't get me wrong...I love voting...sharing my opinion is among my favorite pastimes, as evidenced by my blog, my epinions account, and my ever-shrinking pool of sympathetic friends. I think that the ability to vote is to democracy what the Resurrection is to Christianity and what the brown-sugar apples are to Boston Market. My problem is that the system allowed me to vote for one of three people: 1. An intellectual Lilliputian with an ideology that seems more based on loosely Christian hunches than on hard facts, 2. SuperChin, the six-foot-three New England Python with a sharp wit, a forked tongue, and enough vague promises to make Herbert Hoover blush, and 3. A whole bunch of write-ins that nobody has ever heard of and who don't include the only guy I could stand to vote for four years ago: Ralph Nader.

It amazes me that, out of the 260 million Americans who make hot dogs and run banks pick up trash and provide versatile furniture solutions for modern living, THIS is the best we can come up with. All of all the men, women and brighter squirrels in this country, these two guys are the best we can think of to run the country. At the risk of being too forward, I think that should bother you too.

It's frustrating to think that I am left with the option to vote for one of two men that I don't like to have more political power than anyone else on the planet.

But...I made my vote. And no, I'm not telling you who I voted for. I want to keep the few blog-readers that I have. :)

Peace,
Justin

I think I'm still in that phase where swearing is a novelty.

Which is odd, considering a do a fair amount of it. I think the trick there is to hang around people who will probably be offended by it, then try your best not to do it around them. That way, it feels naughtier when you do...hence, the novelty.

Speaking of offensive...I'd like to get gross for a minute. In my last entry, Ryan Cook (brilliant writer, at c-change.blogspot.com) asked why peeing on a campfire is an act of aggression. Well...it just so happens...

An acquaintence of mine challenged me to do something very bizarre yesterday...he challenged me to pee in public. It wasn't some sick exhibitionist thing, as far as I know...and if it was, I can't wait for justinpeesonatree.com to go public...it was a response to this issue of male aggression. If you're missing the connection there, you're remarkably close to being me 15 hours ago. We got to talking about aggression (seems to be the topic de mode this week) and how I'm beginning to think that it's generally oppressed in an unhealthy way in most modern American males. So we got into it, and I told him that it seems wrong to me to show aggression in public, regardless of how morally "OK" I feel like natural male aggression is. I told him it just seems socially wrong...I don't want to be that guy. So, he challenged me to pee in public. He said that he thinks that peeing is an aggressive action (hence, he suggested, terms like "pissed off" and "piss on you"), and that if I didn't feel comfortable starting a fight with someone, that I should try peeing in public. You know, like on a tree, or a curb, or a building, or a schnauzer who is peeing on a car tire (just for the poetic justice). He said it would be an aggressive action. I said it would be public indecency. He said take a risk, do it in the dark, go in my backyard if I'm afraid of going somewhere else. I told him that I don't care for him much anymore. He said it would be freeing.

As I left my acquaintence's place, I really started pondering on this ridiculous idea. Then, on the way out, I very seriously considered peeing on his Honda. Then, in a gracious blessing of social suppression, I decided not to. But I did decide two things:

1. I need to make better acquaintances.
2. I need to think about this more...there might be something to this.

Have you ever read Alexander Pope? Jonathan Swift? These guys seemed to be obsessed with peeing...I wonder if it could be a...umm...something? I dunno...that's why they won't let me shrink heads.

Gotta run.

Peace,
Justin

Is it possible that the males of our species were built to be aggressive?

I know, I know, the term aggressive brings to mind some nasty images of overbearing, in-your-face, testosterone-driven muscleheads with necks like tree trunks and IQ's like...well...tree trunks. But the agression that I'm referring to is not so mean-spirited...in fact, it's not mean-spirited at all...it's just energy. It's tension; kinetic strain. It's the reason your shoulders never droop in complete relaxation while you're in a crowded bar; it's the reason you suck in your chest when you're opening the door for your wife or girlfriend, and it's the reason that they put mirrors behind bars...it's the sense that it's somehow your job to keep things safe and protected for those you care about. I wonder if it's innate...built into guys from the beginning, by an Author who actually made men and women different for a reason, and who knew what He was doing when He gave women the abillity to produce food from their bodies and men the ability to lift heavy stuff and fight without self-preservation instinct when loved ones are threatened.

I hate to sound like a traditionalist here, but I wonder if there's a reason why men are built to have bigger, stronger upper bodies, broader shoulders and larger forearms. Could it be because we are meant to lift, press, pivot and grip things...like stones, bundles of wood and even the arms or throats of our attackers?

Here's where I'm going with this...

I wonder if our effort to civilize and, in many senses, androgenize both men and women in our quest for fairness and equality has repressed some very good, healthy and natural aggression instincts in men. I'm certainly not the first person to have this thought...there have been books written about the topic...but I'm the first person who had this thought that also knew the password to my blog, so it ends up here. I wonder what would happen if men had healthy outlets for their agression, and if such agression were not stigmatized as being brutish, uncivilized and shallow. What if we really had clubs where guys could go to beat each other up, without any personal agenda or fear of lawsuits...what if boxing were taught in gym classes...what if there were rooms in every office building that were just full of garage-sale items that you could break against other garage-sale items? Yelling at your spouse, chewing out your co-workers and beating your kids is NOT healthy aggression...what if we sanctioned healthy aggression for guys in the workplace, in the home...perhaps even in the classroom?

OK, I'm done playing social theorist...let's face it, I'm just not that good at it. But I am good at growling deeply, which I am going to do for the next ten minutes, followed by a round of belching and a good pee on a campfire.

Peace,
Justin

P.S. - See: "Fight Club" See: "Wild At Heart" --> (The book, not the Lynch movie)

What would you write if you knew no one was going to read it?

(This isn't a Buddhist meditation question or a Tim McGraw song...it's not even rhetorical...try it).

I don't mean nobody like "put it on the web, but nobody ever reads my blog anyway" nobody...I mean like, sit down with a piece of paper, a book of matches and a decent metal trashcan and write knowing that you are going to tear up the pieces and burn them as soon as the ink is dry. You would have to COMMIT to doing so...it's not a matter of, "if I write something I don't like," or "if I write something secretive"...regardless of how great it is, how profound it is, and whether or not it contains the first working formula for perputual motion powered by a renewable energy source...you HAVE to burn it.

When I was in college, Miami University had their liberal arts requirements grouped into an all-student mandate known as the "Miami Plan" (a beast which I am told is now extinct at MU), which demanded that, before graduation, all students must take a certain outrageous number of hours of classes outside any of their major or minor classes. It was because of this Miami Plan that I took a class called, "Indian Art and Contexts," taught by a very smart little man who looked not entirely unlike what I imagine your uncle the accountant looks like. In this class, we were taught about the process of producing so-called "Sand Mandalas," which are basically incredibly complex and beautiful circular designs created from tiny bits of colored sand on a clay tray. The monks who created these mandalas would place each piece of sand, one by one, into place on these designs, beginning with the end in mind, and often spending more than a year on one design.

Here's the cool part...

When the design was complete...when every piece of sand had been placed correctly and this perfect design was finally done...the monks would blow on the design. Yup, just inhale-exhale-destroymandala. They didn't show it to anyone, they didn't take a picture of it, they didn't record its beauty and they sure as heck didn't schlak the thing and hang it on the fridge. They stared at it for a second, and then blew it away. Then, they started over.

This, my friends is the definition of futility, no? (See: Ecclesiastes). All that time, all that care...all that effort, for what?

I am tremendously inspired by this concept. How much of what I do is meant to be showcased? How much of my internal motivation is based on the social system of rewards of praise and punishments of scorn? What would my life, my writing, my work, my words look like if I knew no one else would ever be able to see them?

I sat down and wrote this way not long ago. It was two in the morning, and I couldn't sleep...and worse, I couldn't sleep because my brain was filled with so many different thoughts that I feared rupture if I didn't get something out. So, I sat down to write...and I planned to destroy it immediately after. My plan was: write until I had expelled all of this stuff (which felt toxic, to be honest), then click "close" and, when it asked me to save, click "no." Just lose it into cyberspace. No record, no backup, no nuthin'.

I will not tell you what I wrote. I mean...I guess that's kinda the point. But I highly recommend, if you find writing to be purgative or cathartic, to try this.

Peace,
Justin

Here are three poems I wrote yesterday, during an interminable Information Technologies meeting...I scrawled 'em on a notepad...

...this is what I do in lieu of paying attention.


An Ode to VineNet (our new web-based info database)

A database enhancement
On the bit-parity road
A cybernet enchantment
In HTML code
A binary bonanza
(I owe…I owe…I owe)
A churchwide expedition
(Though this training’s rather slow).

 

Untitled IT Training Poem
(spoken to the rhythm of “The Raven”)

Once upon a Tuesday’s training
(The sky was gray, but not quite raining)
I sat in silence, almost profaning
Due to lack of stimuli.

The projector sat, its fan a humming
My mouth was open, my nose was running
Each long instruction was mind-numbing
An anesthetic diatribe.


A Love Memo to Copy Girl
(It should be noted that there is no "copy girl;" I just got inspired by the lighting and the concept of a "love memo")

You look different in the sunshine
The overhead fluorescents
Blanch your skin to office white
A copy-paper countenance
Facisimilied, facsimilied.
What’s left recalls your essence
In toner pointillism


 


 Peace,
Justin


 

The following is a story without a moral...

Yesterday, I tried to set up the "Sky Chair" that Stacy bought at the Renaisannce Fair. For those of you not famliar with the latest in sitting technology (you didn't get this month's copy of Sit Mag?), the Sky Chair is basically a bunch of vinyl strung between heavy nylon cords, and separated by big wooden dowels meant to give your butt a place to go. For more info, see http://www.skychair.com/chair.htm and you too will be amazed by the ingenuity of this product, and by how daggone much it can cost to buy a bunch of nylon rope and vinyl strung together.

The Sky Chair comes complete with an eyebolt with a good eight inches of threading, and the girth of a sewer pipe, meant for hanging in your favorite eaves or tree. It occured to me that I'd love to hang it on the front porch. Wait...let me rephrase that...it occured to Stacy that I'd love to hang it on the front porch. Unfortunately, our front porch eaves are concealed by white aluminum siding, which gives me no indication of where the support joists are. So, being the responsible and protective husband that I am, I took a random guess at where it MIGHT be, drilled a hole, screwed in the eyebolt, hung the chair...and invited Stacy out for a sit. It took about eight seconds for the weight of a human in the chair to rip the plywood out of the roof, pull the nails out of the nearby support joist, and to send the aluminum siding and the chair (complete with passenger) to the concrete floor of my porch. Besides being horribly suprising to Stacy, it was the funniest thing I've seen in weeks. (No worries, we only hung the chair a few inches from the ground, in case such an event would occur...and the siding is very light, being made of aluminum and all). Eight seconds after I had hung our ideal sitting solution for the modern home, I now had an sizeable restoration project on my hands, and a wife with a sore coxyx. (Say it out loud, it's fun).

I managed to hammer the support plywood back in, attach it to the joist, bend the aluminum back into place and...after a couple of guesses, drilled a hole right into the support joist, where the chair now hangs. Stacy, in an act of courage and a symbolic middle finger to classical conditioning, got back in the chair to test it. It held her...and it held me...and that's a feat.

We now have a teriffic sky chair which, assuming nobody steals it this afternoon, will provide hours of floating sittiness for me later today. And, we have some extra ventilation in our porch roof.

This concludes a story without a moral.

Peace,
Justin

I think I take my sanity for granted.

Have you seen "A Beautiful Mind?" A friend of mine this morning commented how spooky it is to think that even after John Nash underwent treatment, took the drugs, and went back to teaching...he still had that little kid and that college buddy following him around, despite the fact that he "knew" that neither existed. It's a reminder that just because someone with a mental illness has learned to deal with it doesn't mean it's gone. I suppose that shouldn't be so hard to believe...certainly the mobile and fully-capable folks who have found ways to overcome the obstacles brought on by their paralyis still sit in those wheelchairs every day...I guess I just figured that once you licked a mental illness...it was done. It's like, "well, now I know what reality is, so I don't ever have to think otherwise again." But it doesn't work that way.

A friend of mine was recently re-institutionalized with troubles relating to severe bi-polar disorder. He is a fantastic guy, and seems to be extremely intelligent and well-intentioned. He just can't seem to beat this thing. It's hard to watch, and I am confident that it is infinitely harder to have...especially if you don't believe you have a problem.

I am going to visit him today. It will be my first time visiting an inpatient psychiatric ward in a hospital. I've seen too many movies (e.g. "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest" and "Silence of the Lambs") to have a positive image of such places, but I'm certain the reality is far more manageable than my imagination. And besides...at least I can leave.

I hope for my friend's sake that these doctors are good, and that the therapy and medicine works. It's hard to watch such a brilliant mind get held in check by such a disease.

Sorry for the downer...I'll write again soon.

Peace,
Justin

A little kindness goes a long way...

I may be the worst employee of Vineyard Community Church when it comes to showing people God's love in practical ways. To me, SE is a great idea, and I'd love to hand out Cokes when the church provides them, but darnit it I'm gonna drop my own money on stuff just to GIVE IT AWAY. (OK, you can see the disturbing lack of reciprocity here if you read my earlier posts about the team of people who came and painted my house). But the other day, I tried something new, and I want to tell you about it.

I was at Great Clips (stop snickering, I had a coupon and its better than cutting it myself) getting a haircut while Stacy shopped at Meijer a couple of weeks ago. First off, may I tell you that they have installed a Great Clips right in freaking Meijer store...right next to the US Bank. Now you can take out $200 and walk out with bananas, pants, wine and a decent hair cut, all in the same hour. This is good because I was just thinking about how difficult our culture makes impulse buying now and days. Anyhow, I can't argue with the convenience...so I went in, picked up the obligatory copy of the only male magazine they had (Forbes, if you're counting), and started reading. Several minutes into my wait, a fella in bright blue hospital scrubs came in, talking rapidly on his cell phone about all kinds of medical jazz. I figured he was either a hospital doc inbetween procedures, or a very well-read mental patient who is apparently skilled with a lockpick. I asked (more politely than I've written above) and he told me he was (and presumably still is) a surgeon at Good Sam. He had just ended a long shift, and came in for a haircut. That was the end of my conversation with Surgeon Jeff (I can only assume that's his name), and I suspect it will be the last time I'll talk with him. But that wasn't the end of my relationship with him.

In the middle of getting my haircut by a young woman who smelled of cigarettes and sticky-fingered watermelon hairspray, I felt compelled to buy the guy's haircut. Don't applaud yet, it's the first generous thing I've done in a really long time, and I have had every reason to exhibit generosity in the meanwhile. Point is, I paid for the guy's haircut without him knowing it, and left. The last thing I ever saw of Surgeon Jeff was the duck-tailed back of his neck as his stylist trimmed away at his reckless sideburns.

Here's the good part: I thought about Surgeon Jeff the whole way home. In fact, I couldn't stop smiling. Really...I looked like an idiot...I kept smiling. This isn't "Chicken Soup for the Soul;" I didn't run into Jeff later or get a letter from him saying that he was going to shoot his dog when he got home until he got that free haircut...I just walked away and couldn't stop smiling. In fact, I went to bed really happy. Here's the amazing part...when I woke up the next morning, I thought about Surgeon Jeff. He was my first thought of the morning. My first thought upon hearing Jerry Thomas interrupt my peaceful slumber was, "I wonder what that doctor is doing this morning?" I wondered about him...I thought about his life...about his haircut...I even worried a little about him. I worried that maybe he didn't sleep well the night before, or that maybe while I slept he was awakened by his beeper, calling him to some late-night operation. I wondered if maybe he saved somebody's life, or that maybe he had a nice dinner. This sounds stupid...but I really cared about Surgeon Jeff. Like, more than I care about most people. For once, I didn't wake up thinking about myself...I didn't think about how much I had to do that day, or how badly I needed to pee, or why my throat hurt from sleeping with the fan on, or how I want to sleep more than I work or something dumb like that. For once, I thought about somebody else...I thought about Jeff.

This is something Steve Sjogren figured out a long time ago. (I don't know how to create HTML links, so copy and paste http://www.stevesjogren.com and http://www.servantevangelism.com for more info). Dave Workman seems to have this one down to a science too...but I'm still figuring it out. Get this: when you focus on other people, you don't spend so much time worrying about yourself. (BTW, I do know how to make italics in HTML, so there). Seems pretty simple, doesn't it? When you are outward focused you are not inward focused. I, Justin, the Master of the Obvious, am just beginning to get this little revelation.

So, pay for someone's haircut today. Or their McDonalds. And walk away. Don't ask them how they enjoyed being served. Don't ask them how their free cheeseburger was. Just walk away. Or drive away. And spend the rest of your day wondering what their life was like before they got in line before you at Great Clips or McDonalds, and wonder what may have changed.

Thanks, Steve and Dave.

Peace,
Justin

There are too many good albums out there to listen to bad music.

I could understand listening to uninspired pop stuff if there was nothing else on...but there are thousands of amazing musicians out there who are playing their souls out each weekend in tiny clubs and smokey bars...and many of them have put out CD's, some even hitting the big-time. I'm by no means a musical connoisseur...my CD collection could fit in a medium-sized suitcase and features such why-do-I-own-these favorites as Boyz II Men (the Christmas album), Extreme I, and some spooky Reba McEntire album that Stacy brought with her when we got married.

I'm not saying a person ought to agree with ME on what good music is...it's just a matter of how that music makes a person think or feel. If for you, listening to "Achy Breaky Heart" and "Bye Bye Bye" in succession makes you well up with powerful memories of your best high school friends, then it means two things: 1. To you, that is good music and certainly worth listening to... and, 2. You went to high school in bustling urb of Marmet, West Virginia.

I think that music was a very intentional gift from the Author, and I think it was intended to do a lot of the same things sex does, but without all the bother of relationships and commitment. (Come to think of it, sex seems to have evolved into something a lot like sex, but without all of the bother of relationships and commitment). Music stirs your emotions, moves your body, activates your sense of love, inpsires your soul to something bigger, changes the cadence of your pulse, and allows you to bond with someone (or a group of people) in a truly carnal and animalistic way that, for some reason, also seems to transcend your flesh to something ethereal.

For what it's worth, here are a few bands that I've been given as gifts from people much more tuned-in to good music than I am...I highly recommend checking them out. (Special thanks to Donna and Lee for the recommendations).

1. Lyle Lovett - I just got turned on to Lyle about six months ago, and he has been playing consistently on my iTunes ever since. He's a gifted songwriter, a decent singer, and has a classy country back-up band that will leave you wondering what a snare drum tastes like and where you can buy a bigger hat.

2. Alison Brown - A banjo prodigy, Alison Brown won the Canadian Banjo Tournament at age 12. Her band, the Alison Brown Quartet, is an amazing combo that toes the line (which I had no idea existed) between bluegrass and contemporary jazz with such clean and technically perfect style...it's the perfect blend of live switched-on creative energy and studio-style perfection. For starters, check out her "Replay" album. I listened to nothing else for the first two weeks after I got it.

3. Eminem - I won't ramble on about Eminem, because I've done so in this blog already. If you want to know why I love Em, check out my very first blog entry.

4. Squirrel Nut Zippers - Their song "Hell" did pretty well a few years back...but don't let the timing fool ya. This band was more than just a flash in America's Swing Phase pan. The recording techinques are more than a little reminiscent of the ancient swing albums I used to play at WMUB, but the sound is very new, and very strong. I can honestly say I've never heard anything like them.

5. Chris Isaac - I don't know where my head was when Chris topped the charts with "I Wanna Fall In Love With You," but I missed the whole Chris Isaac thing at the time. It's a shame...because he is fantastic. Chris Isaac oscillates between Elvis-y low warbling and sky-high falsettos, and pulls it off with class and a smart swagger that Elvis might even envy. Were he not dead, of course.

6. Southern Culture on the Skids - Man, all I can say is wow. Ripping tubey guitar-led melodies accompany clever and playful lyrics, and the overall sound blends GE Smith, Jimmy Buffett and Primus. I was given these guys and Los Lonely Boys around the same time, and they have taken turns motivating my caucasian butt to groove ever since.

7. Over the Rhine - Karin Bergquist and Linford Detweiler's 14-year relationship with the people of Cincinnati has produced some of the best music that I've ever heard come out of this fair city. Their style seems to shift a little between each album, from folky to adult contemporary to rock n' roll to even a bit country. Karin's voice is a musical gem, and I hope it will go down among thems that know as one of the most unique and powerful voices of our time.

I'll list more soon...I've got to get some work done.

Peace,
Justin

It's blog, it's blog...it's better than bad, it's good!

If you have tuned in to the radio on the drive home any time in the last couple of weeks...or if you have turned on your TV after dinner...or if you accidentally passed by a newstand on your way to Baskin Robbins...or if you have really really electromagnetically-receptive braces on your teeth...you have no doubt heard the controversy surrounding John Kerry and the Swift Boat Veterans for Truth.

For those of you whose only media exposure happens when you sit down on that damp stack of National Geographics in your cellar, I'll fill ya in. Senator Kerry is mad because a group of former Vietnam vets who operated boats very much like the one the good Senator operated in 'Nam have released two commercials suggesting that Kerry's war record is suspicious, and his medals undeserved.

Senator Kerry asked President Bush to condemn the commercials because, as he claims, they are outright lies. President Bush responds by saying that he condemns all political advertising that has been paid for by independently-funded mini-corps with private no-limit sponsorships. In short, he dodges the question. Then Kerry gets mad, and goes on national TV for weeks demanding that the President condemns the adds. Then Bush gets mad and retorts that he, in fact, has been the victim of falsified advertising, so Senator Kerry isn't the only one. Then Senator Kerry takes President Bush's shiny red fire truck away from him. Then President Bush throws sand in Senator Kerry's hair, and un-invites him for life from his birthday parties. Then Senator Kerry cries and goes and tells on President Bush and they both get put down for a nap.

Here's the thing...

For the love of all that is good and right, shut up about all of this, guys.

We are a country in the middle of a war with a foreign militias who, by all accounts, still have control over a large part of their country and have killed a whole lot of young Americans. We may not know why we're there, and we may have even been tricked into going...Lord knows I don't have the answers there...but we're there. We're also running out of oil, punching a hole in the sky, firing teachers, breathing smog, running short on Social Security, laying off factory workers, and, if Jerry Springer is to be believed, kissing our siblings. There's a lot going on in this country, and very little of it has to do with whether John Kerry got shot ENOUGH to merit a purple heart.

Maybe he did, maybe he didn't. Maybe George Bush is a draft dodger and maybe he ain't. Maybe George Bush lied to get us into Iraq and maybe Teresa Heinz-Kerry is a man...but either way, I'm not very interested in voting for either of these two petulant, childish professional pontificators. I am ashamed of our candidates and I am embarrased to listen to the BBC reports at night and hear what the British people are hearing. The last thing we need is more bad press across the world...and hear we are...bickering over two 30-second commercials.

Sigh. Once again this year, I plan to cast my vote for one of the following tickets:
1. McCain / Cuomo
2. Uecker / Madden
3. Bartles / Jaymes
4. Lavigne / Spears

Peace,
Justin

I can't speak for the rest of humanity (not until they elect me emperor, anyway), but I think my attitude is marked by a drastic lack of perspective.

I listened to Tim Sanders, the Leadership Coach for Yahoo!, Inc. this week at the Willow Creek Leadership Summit. Sanders talked about the concept of the "scarcity mentality," and, while he spoke specifically as it applied to business, I couldn't help but feel that a little futher from my back pocket and a little closer to my thorassic cavity. In a world where eight minutes of every half-hour show (that's 26% of your TV-time) are spent telling me what I should buy and why I'm not complete without it, I've come to believe that I'm operating in scarcity. Despite the full refrigerator, the chest of clothes and the two cars parked in the driveway, I wake up in the morning and wonder how I'm possibly going to make it. I put on my Levi's, shave with my Mach 3, down my Diet Coke, hop into my Toyota, turn down my Aiwa as I talk on my Nokia and sip on my Starbucks, and I wonder how the heck I am going to make it for another day.

And I present to you, ladies and gentlemen, what we call a drastic lack of perpective.

I have more in my life than 90% of people on this planet will ever know...as Tim Sanders said it, "when you are pondering your misery over lunch and you bite into your sandwich and there's meat in it...you've just entered the very small minority of fortunates." It's freeing to know to actively realize that I have never once not had food when I needed it...not once. The closest I came was when we went sledding in Jr. High and we were out there for several hours and I had forgotten to eat breakfast and my stomach began to hurt because I was hungry but there was no food around for miles and good god what are we going to do? Fortunately, I found a tin of string fries in the back of Neal Kennedy's station wagon on the way home. Crisis averted.

In Matthew 10, Jesus says, "Are not two sparrows sold for a penny ? Yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from the will of your Father. And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered. So don't be afraid; you are worth more than many sparrows." I needn't worry about dying of hunger...the odds are that an upper-middle class American guy with a college education is most likely not going to starve to death...and even if I were to face some extreme financial downfall, I have Biblical assurance that God is still looking out for me. So why all the worry? I dunno...perhaps our lives of luxury have left us without any REAL corporal challenges to face, so we're making them up. I doubt it, though...I think we're just convinced by every newspaper, billboard, nightly news program and commercial that we are constantly in jepoardy. And I think I'm starting to resent that...

Peace,
Justin

I met up with an old friend last night...

My buddy Andrew came in from Washington, DC to visit. He's a something-or-other for the State Department. I really have no idea what he does, but I know he does it in a tie and it usually involves lots of limousines and trips to Europe. I think he's pretty darn important out there, but it's hard to tell, because I work at a church and most people who wear ties look really important to me.

What really struck me last night, apart from how bizarrely compatible Warsteiner and Diet Coke can be when sipped in quick succession, is a story that Andrew told me about meeting the Pope. Now, I'll give you, most stories about your friends meeting the Pope are memorable. Especially when they're more Catholic than India is crowded. But this one struck me for more than just it's characters...

Andrew told me that the Pope was supposed to meet the President and about a dozen important Washington mucky-mucks, and that it was Andrew's job to help coordinate the thing. He said that all of the mucky-mucks went up to the Pope as a couple dozen Bush staffers and a whole bunch of media folk looked on, snapped pictures, etc. When everybody was through the line, they were supposed to close up shop...but the Pope said he would like to meet everybody else in the room. That meant that Andrew, all of his fellow Bush folk and State Dept. folk, and even the camera guys, boom operators and sound techs all got to go up and shake the hand of Pope John Paul II.

Can you IMAGINE how busy the Pope is? I struggle to get my videos back to Blockbuster on time because "I'm just too busy." I struggle to mow the lawn on time because "I've just got so much going on." This is the freaking POPE, and he stopped to let anyone who was interested come up and meet him. Have you ever thought YOU were too important to stand around talking to somebody? I know I have, and I'm ashamed of it. Every week after church Dave Workman stands on stage and listens to and prays for anybody who wants to talk to him. After every show the good folks of Bela Fleck and the Flecktones sit at the edge of the stage for as long as it takes for every interested fan to come up and talk to them for as long as he or she pleases. And now, I learn that the Pope has time to sit and meet the American camera guys and State Dept members who will forever remember this once-in-a-lifetime encounter.

At the Vineyard, part of the mission statement is that we run a place where "everybody gets to play." Sometimes I get frustrated because I get "interrupted" by people who want to hear more, learn more, stand around and talk. Dave once said that people are NEVER an interruption...that we are in the business of people, and that changed lives are our only dividend.

It's yet another thing to add to the list of things that the Pope knows and that I have yet to really learn.

Peace,
Justin

You know what's better than working?

Vacation.

OK, so it wasn't much of a riddle...but it's true. Vacation is, in fact, better than working. At least for about five days.

Stacy and I spent the last five days driving all over Ohio looking at trees and cows and Rock-and-Roll-Hall-of-Fames. May I share my observations with you?
1a. If you ever find yourself in the middle of butt-nowhere Ohio because you can't seem to find the major interstate that you were on only fifteen minutes previously, by all means, have lunch at Miller's Eats in Findlay. They have a great open-faced roast-beef platter, the wallpaper makes you feel like you're in Pleasantville, and, just as you might expect, the apple pie tastes great and the waitress calls you "honey." Stand-aside, Johnny Rockets, this is the real thing.
1b. It just occured to me, that the "real thing" that we're looking for when we want to sit in an authentic country lunch counter is actually nothing at all like MY real life. That's what makes it so appealing. Nobody wants to have real life all the time, we want to experience somebody else's authentic life for a little while...that's what quaint is. Stacy could tell you the other side of the story of small-town Ohio, but that's a topic for another post.
2. The Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is worth seeing once. Just once. Give yourself about three-and-a-half hours...you won't need much more than that...and that's only if you REALLY like looking at Jimi Hendrix's guitars and sketchings on hotel napkins. Otherwise, make it three hours even. There was some cool stuff in there (Michael Jackson's "Billy Jean" costume was probably my favorite item), and Over the Rhine even got a mention, which was cool. The staff was kind of surly for some reason (I suppose hearing the first fifteen seconds of "Purple Haze" 590 times a day will do that to ya), but there was enough interesting stuff in there to keep you occupied for a couple of hours.
3. Sitting and reading next to your wife, who is also sitting and reading, really does constitute quality time in my book. We would annoy each other every couple of minutes by reading a clever line or a poetic phrase out of our respective books, but that made it all the more togethery. I read "Stiff" by Mary Roach (a brief look at the history of how humanity has treated our dead, coupled with a lot of very funny anecdotes about the 'curious lives of cadavers' now) and "The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon" by Stephen King (I always read Stephen King on vacation...it gives my brain a break). Stacy read "Running With Scissors," by Augusten Burroughs, a hilarious and yet deeply disturbing memoir about Burroughs' adolesence, spent with his neurotic narcisist of a mother and her bat-turd crazy psychologist. We shared our laughs together, and it was really very cool to learn more about her by what in the book she bothered to comment about. I like learning her this way, and I hope to do more of it soon...first, someone mail me a gift certificate to Borders, please.
4. Driving can be really very relaxing if you let it. Driving sucks when you have to get to the dentist by 1:00, or when you are trying to hit Starbucks before your morning meeting. But it's actually really fun when your only goal for the day is to get to Cleveland, and you've got nine hours to figure out how. Breathe in the cow-air, breathe out the your email inbox. Breathe in the air-conditioner vapor, breathe out the end-of-the-day-with-a-headache haze. Then, drive like you've got nowhere to be.
5. Hot-tubs, while microbiologically speaking can be a very busy place, make me feel like I'm very wealthy and have very little to do. I think I love them.

I look forward to writing more soon...for now, I'm running off to help a friend paint the garage...something I don't know how excited I would be to do, had I not experienced such rampant kindness when Stacy and I moved in to our house...all of a sudden "Pay It Forward" makes more sense. Though, unfortunately, that doesn't make it any better of a film.

Peace,
Justin

Just a quick note...

I think spitting on Lance Armstrong is a really cruddy thing to do.

No, I'm not accusing you directly of actually spitting on Lance Armstrong (though shame on you if you have), I'm referring to a bit of news I heard this morning. The report said that many native French attenders of the Tour de France have spit on Mr. Armstrong as he climbs the treacherous sixth leg through the French Alps. The report said that the small pathways are packed with fans who are, at times, only a couple of feet away from the athletes, and that Lance had taken quite a few good dollops of French saliva to the cheek during this leg. (Lance Armstrong is, by the way, leading the Tour de France at the time of this blog entry).

Now, I'm not a super political guy. I tend to think George Bush is a bit of a dimwit (by world leader standards), and something about John Kerry makes me feel like I need to take a shower. I must concede, however, that I am wholly underinformed on each, and I'm one of those jerks that tends to rely on my "gut feeling." So, this isn't a political tirade against the French.

There is, however, something inherently nasty about spitting on a person simply because they're from another country. I wouldn't do it to a Frenchman, a Turk, an Iraqi, a Canadian or a Swede. This makes me mad at French people, and now I start to get political. I get mad because a few French morons spit on a five-time-in-a-row Tour de France winner...then I get mad because I remember a lot of people I know telling me that France bails out of every war worth fighting. Then I get really mad when I hear people tell me that the French have tried to exhume the bodies of American soldiers buried in France WHILE FIGHTING TO KEEP IT FREE, because they don't want Americans on their soil. That may not be true, but I've seen enough desecratioin of American graves in American miliatry cemetaries in France to make me believe it might be. Then I get really really mad when I think of Celine Dion who, given, isn't French but French Canadian, which puts her in league with Alex Trebek, and isn't that worse?

So, all this to say, I'm mad at the French today. I hope I don't stay that way...it's certainly ironic that I would call THEM racists for spitting on my bike rider, and then get mad a whole country full of people. But I thought a little self-disclosure was in order.

--

Also, we had a wicked storm in Cincy last night. I've never seen CONTINUOUS lightning. I'm not kidding, and I'm barely exaggerating. It went for more than an hour CONTINUOUSLY...no waiting between flashes....it was like staring down the runway at the latest fashion debut while the shutters around you snapped continuously. Very bizarre. Scary, really. I almost went to the basement.

Peace,
Justin

Who knew Neil Diamond could draw such a crowd?
 
I had the good fortune of attending the bar debut of Cincinnati's shining musical precious, Forever Diamond...as far as I know, the only Neil Diamond tribute band currently wowing Cincy.  Alright, let's be honest...it's a little hard to admit to a room full of co-workers that you plan to spend your Saturday night watching a Neil Diamond cover band, but the truth is, it rocked.  Seriously, it was a fantastic show...Top Cat's was packed, and by the end of it the crowd was shouting "One more song!  One more song!"  Who knew Neil wrote so much fun music?  It's all four chords and cheesy lyrics...but the spirit of Neil was in the room that night (not the ghost of Neil...just his rockin'-out spirit.  Neil's not dead...he's just in Vegas), and his music got a couple hundred people dancing for a solid three hours.
 
--
 
I think it's easy to spend a lot of time waiting for that next thing.  Now, like every other blog entry of mine, I'm just mulling over a bit of dime-store self-examination, but bear with me.  Stacy and I spent the bulk of this afternoon running to various home stores to buy that next perfect item for the new digs.  We found a tiny picture of a Calla Lilly inside of an oversized white frame...ding.  We found candles that happen to perfectly match the dining room walls...ding.  We found brushed nickel toilet paper holders for 50% off...ding.  And, at the end of the evening, as I sat on my front porch and watched the rest of Norwood just sort of sit there and watch me from their porches, I actually thought, "Man...if only I had those last few pieces to assemble the dining room table.  Then this thing would really come together."  After an entire day of terrific finds, unbelievable bargains and more than a few Home Depot receipts wedged between my palm pilot and my still-warm credit cards, I had lack of perspective enough to believe that a few pieces of metal would really make me happy.
 
I am blessed beyond my ability to comprehend it.  I live in a wealth that five out of the six billion people on this planet will never even see, much less experience first hand.  I eat without concern for my supply, I sleep without concern for my safety and I love Stacy recklessly.  My water is clean, my clothes are laundered, and my bank account always has enough to cover my gas money.  I eat out, I change my guitar strings regularly and I saw Spider-Man 2 without wondering for a moment how I would cover the ticket.  I have no idea what it is to truly want for resources, support or companionship.  I have more than I will ever understand, and I know that.
 
So what is it about being human that makes me so ridiculously ungrateful?  Why is it considered human to ignore all the amazing stuff in your life and focus on the negative, be they trite or profound?  Did the Author create us as short-sighted, ungrateful beings...or did we pick that one out on our own?  My true pain was a high-school heartbreak...my true pain was a friend's betrayal... ..have I experienced true pain?  I can't help but feel like, some day, unless I learn to know what it is to be content with what I have, that God will subject me to true pain to help me know what I have lost.  I feel like, some day, the BIG ONE is going to come, and it is going to test the limits of my endurance...that the only way I can circumvent this impending trial is to first learn to love what I have while I have it, and preclude my need for such an experience.
 
Maybe God doesn't work that way any more.  I hope He does...but I hope I can beat Him to it.
 
Peace,
Justin

Andy, I hope you can get some sleep... :)

At the risk of sounding a bit like a crabby old man, get this:

The good folks at Cincinnati Gas and Electric gave me a four hour window in which they would be showing up at my old apartment to read the meter, that I might no longer be paying for electricity at a dwelling in which I no longer reside. So...four hours, fair enough. The CG&E guy calls me at the tail end of that four hours, and tells me to be at my old apartment in twenty minutes, or he was leaving. So, I got in the car, and raced over to the old apartment. When I got there, a man who was bearded, surly and a little long in the tooth told me that he had been waiting patiently for three minutes, and was not allowed to wait more than five. "Good," I reassured him, "because I am here, so that should end any anxiety about having to wait for me to come." I got to the front door of my old apartment, and perused my key ring to find entrance to ol' place. Oops...I don't have that key anymore...I gave it back to my landlord when I moved out of the apartment. I told the service technician to hang on for a moment, dialed my landlord (who lives right down the street from the old apartment) and asked him to please bring the key over. My landlord said he would be there in two minutes.

...this is where the story gets interesting.

I hung up the phone (an antiquated expression, I suppose...I really hit "off" and shoved it back in my front pocket) and told the service technician that our relief would come in two minutes, and that my landlord would admit us into the building, that the service tech might spend the good four-and-a-half seconds it takes to read my meter.

"Sorry," ol' Beardo said, "can't wait that long." He started to move towards his truck.

"You're kidding," I told him, polite as ever. "I mean, you're seriously joking, right? He'll be here in two minutes."

"Nope, sorry. Can't wait any longer."

"But you drove all the way out here...you sat outside for that [grueling] three minutes before I got here...we walked to my front door...you can't wait two minutes for my landlord to bring the key?"

"Sorry. That's the rules." He shuffled away and got into his truck, as I unleashed the first profanity I've spoken above 20 dB in many years. I didn't curse at him...I just cursed at the air. At God, perhaps..."what kind of God allows such injustices to go on," I wondered as I stood on my posh American ex-apartment lawn with my fat American belly hanging over my white guy American chinos.

I ran over to his truck. "Wait," I said, "it took us a minute just now...one more minute and he'll be here...you don't have to race off, do you? I mean, I waited four hours, and I'll have to set another appointment and wait for more hours, not to mention all the electricty costs I'll incur in the meantime. Where do you have to race off to?"

"I've got to do one across the street," he replied, as if this wasn't the most absurd thing he was going to have said all week. The scary thing was, perhaps it wasn't.

"ACROSS THE STREET?" I replied. "Great! Then you can just pop over when you're done...I will have had the door unlocked for a good five minutes by then...no waiting...no waiting at all! Just walk in, read, and walk out!"

"Sorry," he said, with a straight face. "Can't do it. I already put you down in our computer as a no-show."

"Well, can you un-put it?" I wasn't sure this was a word, but I think Beardo and I were speaking the same language.

"Sorry," he said. He uttered that word with the practiced recitation of a master. "It's already down at Central." With that, Beardo put his car into reverse, backed into the driveway across the street, and went to work.

..I'm certain the guy across the street had his key ready.



Peace,
Justin

I've had a bit of blogger's block lately...

..it's interesting, I've felt the collective weight of you, my .07 adoring fans, before writing...and I've wanted to write stuff that's interesting to you.

But in lieu of anything you might be interested in, let me tell you where my interests have been lying:

1. I saw "Big Fish." Please go see it...see it on a big TV. If you don't have a big TV, go to Circuit City and ask if you can put it in one of their DVD players attached to a big TV. They're cool like that. "Big Fish" is Tim Burton's magnum opus...a beautiful and at times surreal movie about one man's life and the stories he told about it. Stacy and I talked about it quite a bit afterward...I'm not sure...but I think it's about storytelling. More specifically, I think it's about trying to balance the facts of one's life (not the Blaire and Tootie kind...the "what actually happened" kind) with the emotions that one experienced. It's a strange paradox that I think every person goes through. If I were to tell you the story of how Stacy and I met and what that first year was like...and someday I might...I would be recounting to you the facts, with the best descriptive words I can muster. But the truth is, even if I had John Updike and Flannery O'Connor co-write the story of when Stacy and I met, and they told you the real God's-honest truth of what happened, what you would feel would be, at best, 5% of what I felt and what she felt. It's not because we're more equipped to understand true love than anybody else, but it rather highlights that paradoxical disparity: the way YOU feel about what you experienced and the way OTHERS feel about what you experienced will never be the same. I couldn't possibly describe the indescribable magic that occured when Stacy and I would sit on front porch of Emerson hall or dance in the rain that first night...it would sound, well...sweet at best, mundane at worst. But I KNOW what I felt, I just can't pass that along to you.

That's why we embellish. That's why we tell tall tales. That's why we have "fish stories." They're not lies...they're just descriptions of what it FELT like when reality happened, not a description of the events which comprised it. That's what I think Tim Burton was trying to say with "Big Fish." If you look at his films...they're all tall tales...a young boy and his giant peach, a nerd and his magic bicycle, a man and his scissor hands, two kids and a witch in a candy house, a surly spirit tries to get two ghosts to call him back from Hell...and on and on. Mr. Burton is a storyteller who specializes in tall tales...in fish stories...and this movie was, I think, his chance to defend the ancient practice of embellishment...not as a form of trickery or falsification, but as a means of expressing the very real but intangible that happens in each life.


2. I also saw Spiderman 2, and it's got me pondering. I've been trying to understand how we're supposed to deal with the various "absolutes" that our culture tells us we must live and die for. I agree that it is quite possible that there is an absolute in the world which, by any means and to any end, each person must uncompromisingly seek. Those are the heroes in our fairy tales, our movies, our literature, our poems and our songs...those who are true to their absolute. For William Wallace, it was freedom; for Forrest Gump, it was Jenny; for Wallace and Gromit, it was those tricky mechanical trousers. For Peter Parker, it's Mary Jane, but for Spider-Man, it's justice. That's where the tricky part comes up. What ARE we supposed to live and die for?
Bear in mind, I'm not exactly asking for the meaning of life here. (You'll mostly find that on Randy Bohlender's blog, and he's probably right). I'm asking, what is it that we're supposed to never compromise, now matter how much is offered us, how high the pain level gets, or how much we wish to exchange it for something else. Do we believe those who say:
"Love is all there is?"
"In the end, only Kindness matters?"
"Never sacrifice your Dreams?"
"To thine own Self, be true?"
"Love the Lord your God?"
"Never compromise your Integrity?"
"Follow your Heart?"
"Country first...semper fidelis."

What is my hard-line, never compromise, plumb-line for my life? Should I never sacrifice anything at the expense of my love for Stacy? Or should I even sacrifice that for my love for God? What if I am drafted, should I go to jail because my love for God means I refuse to follow his commandment to not kill, thereby superceding my love for Country? What if my love for my Country means I will have to bomb a suppposed "safe-house" which I know contains children...should I then sacrifice my Integrity? What if my Integrity supercedes my desire to show Kindness when a female friend who calls with a desparate need to talk...not romantically, but merely because I'm the best friend she has? What if my heart for Kindness overrules my love for Stacy, and I choose to stay on that phone and help her?

I'd love to believe that the Bible has a very clean and clear explanation on how, if you love God, you will also be following all of these other things. But I don't think that's true. Please prove me wrong. I think these things are, for the most part, mutually exclusive...what the Bible DOES say is that "you cannot serve two masters;" and so my question remains: which master am I to serve? The Bible says it should be God...does that mean, once again, that I may sacrifice all of the other things at any and all times if I think it serves God? That may cause some serious trouble in my marriage...between the rampant 90% tithe and the six days a week I spend fasting at the church and serving the poor, I may not love my wife very effectively.

I'm stuck on this one...anybody got any help?

Thanks for reading.

Peace,
Justin

At some point, you gotta slow down...

America is ridiculous about working, I think. It has been said of Americans that we are lazy and fat...I'll give the nay-sayers the latter, but I certainly don't think Americans are lazy. In fact, I think we are way too focused on our jobs. I think we spend too much time at our occupations, and too little time doing whatever it is that makes us feel truly alive. True, you have to pay the bills...and your job should expect you to work hard while you're there...but if your central life occupation is that thing you do for money, you're missing it. I'm missing it, I think. Quite a lot.

I've been working on the house quite a bit. It's envigorating for me...it's energizing (save for the fourteen trips a day to Home Depot). Do you know what I like most about it? It feels like I'm doing something that really matters, you know? That's permanent...or at least semi-permanent. The trouble with work at work is that there's always more...there's a continuous stream of it; as soon as you're finished with one piece, you're on to the next. I don't feel that way when I'm working on the house. I feel like, "That screw that I just screwed into the wall will be there for years...it will be there until I choose to change it." The paint, the sanding, the hinges, the doors, the closet racks...they will all be there for quite some time. I like that. It feels like I'm really getting something done.

...but at some point, you gotta slow down and enjoy it. I've gotta stop for little chunks of time and enjoy it. How many 40-year-old professionals have died of a two-artery coronary before they've stopped to enjoy what they've worked for all that time? I don't want to end up there. I want to enjoy life now, and stop putting off celebrating all the crap we already have.

I think tonight I may go home and sit on the couch and stare at my unfinished floor, my uncovered walls, and the china hutch I've yet to put back in the right place...and I will drink a beer and I will choose to enjoy it.

Peace,
Justin

If I had it to do over again, I would laugh with Stacy more.

I’ve been married for nigh two years now, and as I look back on these quick eight seasons, I wish I would have laughed more with Stacy. It’s not a morbid regret thing or a guilt thing…I’m just trying to beat myself to the whole regret process. I heard Allan Fuller give a talk yesterday entitled, “10 Things I Wish I Knew When I Was 16” to a captive audience of teenagers. It was surreal to hear a man who is double the age of his audience try to forewarn them of what they may someday regret. I know people did it to me when I was 16, too…and I didn’t listen to them, for the most part. So, now, I figure, I’ll beat myself to it by about 14 years, and hopefully begin to correct whatever it is I would have regretted at age 38.

All that to this…I wish I would have laughed more with Stacy during these last two years. She is a very funny person…very clever, I think. I may just think that because we have similar senses of humor…but, regardless, I think she’s hilarious. We’ve had a few “big winners” as we call them…some funny moment that makes you laugh until you cry until you hurt until you have to force yourself to inhale. Then, ten minutes after you started, your still enjoying those uncontrollable stalling giggles that troll around your diaphragm like an old boat engine. Those big winners are unforgettable, and I wish I had more of them. I wish I had spent more time being silly. I’m not sure how to accomplish that, exactly…the world’s a busy place and irreverent silliness with your spouse doesn’t fit well into your average salaried position…but I wish I would have found a way. I suppose it’s sort of like saying, “I wish I would have made twice as much money for the same job,” I mean, it would have been great, but I’m not sure how to make that happen. How do I let go of tension? How to I choose to be jovial? Is it a matter of ignoring all the things that sit, immovable, in your shoulders and lower back like Scottish fare sits in your stomach? Is it a matter of seeing a masseuse, an acupuncturist, a prayer practitioner, drinking more tea, drinking less coffee, scenting my pillow like lilacs and buying softer towels? Do I learn meditation, practice my breathing, and create a mantra? I want to laugh more with Stacy…she’s very funny and it’s one of the things we do best…but I’m not sure how to let go enough to do it.

Here’s a joke that make me laugh out loud…maybe it will do the same for you:
…what did the zero say to the eight?
…nice belt.

…….hehehehe….
…she likes that one.

Peace,
Justin

As Stacy and I prepare for our big move three miles away from our current home, re-locating to the beautiful suburb of Norwood, we find ourselves opening up boxes that we haven't opened since we packed them to move in to our apartment two years ago. Do you have boxes like that in your home? I hope so...I'd hate to think we're the only people on the planet who would go two whole years without ever unpacking a few boxes. As I unpacked the stack of boxes in my basement, I found the huge box that I have been lugging from dorm room to dorm room, apartment to apartment ever since I graduated from high school. It is filled with all of my various high school memorabilia...pictures, newspaper clippings, awards...and hundreds of notes. Notes from my friends, notes from the girl I had an ignorantly sweet crush on for four years, notes from my parents, teachers and classmates...and a few dozen notes from the two girls I dated before I met Stacy. It was these notes that got to me the most.

You know what struck me the most about these notes from these high-school flames? How incredibly passionate about each of these two [then] girls when I was in high school, and how not passionate I am now. I welled up with tears on several occasions as I read...not mourning the way my relationships with these girls worked out...God knows I got the best of all things...but simply sentimentally reminiscing. I relived four years of powerful living in the course of about an hour...that'll git ya every time. I realized how far away that time seemed. So much has changed for me in the last seven years...so many good things have happened (Stacy being the top of the list there), and I've been hurt and humbled enough to begin to realize how much more I need to be hurt and humbled before I really begin to know much of anything.


Reading these old notes was like sitting for an hour with a young man I've known for a long, long time, but can barely identify with. Even though he is only seven years my junior, I feel quite removed from this guy...I love him; I find him charming, well-spoken, and a lot more handsome than I am, (though I will concede that I mostly like him because we think and talk the same way), but I don't know that I could be great friends with him. He is insecure, he is overzealous, and he is quite needy. He fancies himself very smart, I think, and unfortunately, I get a sense that he doesn't realize that there is an entire world full of people much smarter and more charasmatic than he is, each running around with bigger ideas and better words to express them. He is idealistic to a fault, and seems to have his entire world built on the premise that, in the end, everything fits some kind of order that he will eventually find or be given. I love his enthusiasm, though, and I am enamored with his belief that, for whatever reason, he was built to do something amazing. I want to believe him...I still do believe him a bit, I think...there's something about the young guy that I see in these letters that makes me believe he may be the Owen Meany for his community...that he may be the guy who does something truly powerful. But I'm afraid for him, because he doesn't seem to get that as long he keeps trying to be that guy, he will fail. I want to grab him and shake him and say, "don't ever lose your belief that you will be amazing...but you HAVE to know that you cannot MAKE yourself amazing; you must choose to be thoroughly good, and you will be used for something amazing." Most of all, I want to remind him that he has everything left to learn...that he always will.

Of course, I would have learned nothing if I didn't sit in front of all those notes, looking back at that guy...and wondered what 32-year-old Justin would want to shake me and tell me right now.

Sigh.

Peace,
Justin

Long time, no blog...sometimes it seems like life gets in the way of what I love and feel most alive doing.

For two years now, I've been working in a giant building with the layout of a high school and the color of weak chocolate milk...every day when I walk through the South entrance I see, etched into the wall of the building in lower-case Zurich, "small things done with great love will change the world." And I think I have always believed that...I think I believed it in the same way that I believe that God lives inside of us and that water is composed of hydrogen and oxygen. I've never seen God in me...I've seen his dark counterpart, I think, but I have a hard time remembering when anything I've done has reflected the presence of The Author in me...I've never noticed the oxygen in my water sneaking out from behind its hydrogen curtain...but for some reason I think I believe both of these things. Likewise, it always made sense to me that, if we do enough small acts of kindness and TRULY do it out of love for humanity, we will eventually change the world. But I don't know that, since I've been here, I've experienced and internalized it well enough to REALLY know what it means.

...until this week...

This week, an entire small group from the Norwood area (and more than a few other Norwoodians I'm acquainted with) showed up at our new house, paintbrushes and rollers in hand, and spent the entire evening painting our little piece of the 'wood. We offered no money, our pizza selection was weak, and I'm not that good at expressing gratitude...but it didn't matter. They showed up because they wanted to love on us. We had two guys there who had never met us in their entire lives, but simply wanted to welcome a newcomer to Norwood. They worked their butts off...Mark painted the entire living room with a faux finish all by himself; Brooke, Angela and Sean got down on all fours and pulled at old rusty nails and staples in our floor until every one was gone (Brooke even sustained a puncture wound in the process), Matt and Angela sat in our hot upstairs and painted that same weak chocolate milk color on our hallway plaster, Aaron and Brooke cashmered the entire foyer, Dana taught us to paint, Donna and Leslie put a strong coat of Spanish Tile (Porter term for red) on our walls, Sean slaved on every nook in the kitchen...I'm sure I'm leaving more out...I'm overwhelmed as I think about it. This was no small thing...this was six hours spent in the hot confines of an old Norwood row house with oil paint and splintery dusty floors...but it was done with great love. No complaints...no bailing out...just hard work, done without boasting or apology. These people were SERVING selflessly, loving me and Stacy in a way that I'm not sure I understand, but I know I feel. It felt like God for a second...like Love incarnate, working itself out in front of me.

I didn't sleep well that night. It was an insomnia of gratitude and, more than that, total bewilderment. What do you do when you receive that kind of service, and you have done absolutely nothing to earn it? How do you process that? Our world is one based on the basic premise of cause and effect...even things we can't explain are chalked up to some sort of causual relationship that we simply haven't figured out yet...hence, the theory of evolution, the theory of the big bang, the theory of relativity. So, how do you accept it when you receive a gift that you can be certain you have done absolutely nothing to earn? It doesn't fit what I know, it doesn't fit what the world seems to operate on: it doesn't fit causality.

I don't understand it, but this week I've been trying to learn what a difference true selfless kindness makes. Small things done with great love really will change the world...I think I truly see that for the first time. The amazing thing about this whole concept of serving other people to introduce them to the Lavish Almighty is that the connection between experiencing the bewilderment of being served in a small way without earning it and being served in an eternal way without earning it is natural...almost innate. The story of Jesus makes more sense to me today than it did a week ago...the story of God's insanely persistent love for us makes more sense to me...because of paint, rollers, and the incredibly selfless six hours given me by a small group from Norwood.

This is a sleeplessness I will gladly endure.

Peace,
Justin

At the risk of getting all spiritual...

...I was proud of my church this weekend. The Cincy Vineyard took an entire celebration to invite people to be healed from any destruction in their lives relating to sex. That is to say, sexual abuse, sexual infidelity, lack of marital sex, fear of sex, abortion, homosexuality and pain related to the persecution of homosexuals, sexual addiction, pornographic addiction, etc. If you'd like to see it, check out vccproductions.com, and click on this weekend's date.

Sexuality is a tricky thing. Forgive the strange request...but try this: take your hand and put it flat on the computer desk in front of you. It's OK, lift the mousepad out of the way and put your dominant hand in the dustless rounded rectangle it leaves behind. Now, lift only your index finger. Put it back down. Now, while your mom's not looking, lift only your middle finger. Put it down, and try your thumb...then your pinky. Now...with all fingers down flat against the desk, lift your ring finger as high as you can. Weird, huh? It's not going to move much...I don't know why, in all of His infinite silliness, God chose to link that one to your hand more securely than the others...I don't know why He decided these metacarpals should be the ones most firmly connected to the carpals, but, man, they are. For whatever reason, and I'm not sure that I know what that reason is, it seems like God inexorably linked our sexuality to our souls in a similar way. Sex moves your soul, for better or for worse, in a way that your dreams do not...that your music, no matter how powerful it may be, does not...in a way that all of your possessions and your favorite wishes do not. Sex can elate you, it can drive you, it can ruin you. Sexual feelings prompt frenzy, murder, love, creativity, spite, shame, physical energy, superhuman endurance, art of all kinds; all the things that make being human so freaking human. At times, I wonder if it is our primary motivator...above religion, politics and money. All I know is that I've seen evidence of incredible sexual content in the greatest religious art I studied in college, and that even the most transcendental of Eastern religions we studied was ripe with human sexuality. It shows up in architecture, in academic scholarship, in the shape of our shampoo bottles, in the greatest books ever written, and in the papers every morning. Sex moves us, and I think it moves us because it's built to move us. Our souls are designed to be heavily shaped by sex, I think, and to shape sex in return.

That's where the problem comes. We tell each other that, with certain exceptions of age and mental capacity, it is our basic right to have sexual interaction whenever and however, as long as it is between consenting humans and does not adversely impact non-consentors nearby. (And, as far as government intervention is concerned, I agree). But, when you come down to it, your soul comes into play. I'm not talking about eternal damnation or the "condition of your soul" as Brother Jed at the corner of Patterson and Spring in Oxford might concern himself with...but rather, the health and well being of your very essence. If, indeed, there is a Sculptor who carved each of us out with a certain design, and if, indeed He designed our sexuality to be an intensely powerful means of uniting souls, then it behooves us to put one simple parameter on our sexuality: are we doing with it what the Sculptor designed it to do?

I can't answer that for others very well...I don't think I understand it well enough yet. But I know it well enough for myself. I know when I'm approaching my own sexuality wrong...it hurts, and it grinds menacingly at my soul like a clutch dropped on over-reved engine. Even better, I know when I'm doing it right...I know because nothing makes me feel more connected to Stacy. Nothing feels more right and nothing feels more powerful. That uniting of souls feels like everything I've ever loved in one perfect moment..sounds idyllic and silly, I guess...but I think there's something to the concept that enlightenment is acheived fleetingly at the moment of sexual climax...at least, when it's achieved by the design of the Sculptor.

I hope some folks were able to get some healing at VCC this weekend. I really hope so, in fact. I've been thinking about it for four days now...praying that those souls that still ache profoundly from some sexual wound would begin to feel relief. This stuff matters too much. It's too good; too powerful to be wrong for a lifetime.

Peace,
Justin

I had an idea this morning...

We should have an all car-accidents public television station. I know, it sounds morbid and exploitative, and it probably is, but we could have some rules about it. No blood. No serious injuries. No death. Just heavy-duty fender-benders. I know people would watch...in fact, advertising could be sold at a premium, and the money used to pay production costs. Non-profit here...it's all in the public interest. The benefits to society are many, but my top three are as follows:

1. It would put an end to "rubbernecking." This morning, on I-71, there was an accident on the Northbound side. Northbound traffic stopped for the most part, and for a good reason: there was a pile of car sitting in the center lane, later moved to the berm. The problem was that traffic also slowed, almost to a halt, on the Southbound side. Why? Because people wanted to see what a car accident looks like. Well, heck, man, let's show 'em! Once you've seen a few hundred on TV, you won't bother to slow down for the one on the road; it's probably not nearly as interesting as that five-car that aired last night!

2. It would dissuade drivers from driving recklessly. On a channel dedicated to car accidents, you're going to have plenty of time for commentary. Perhaps even play-by-play. "There she is, talking on her cell phone...she looks distracted...she's putting on some lipstick...and OH! OH MY GOODNESS! WOW, THE AIRBAGS WERE ALL OUT ON THAT ONE!" People will begin to see patterns. They'll notice the statistical correlative between eating lunch while driving and eating airbag. And, with time, people will begin to understand that you can't necessarily do your taxes and get your '98 Sunfire to work at the same time.

3. In the ever-growing quest to gather more and better video footage, cameras would be installed in busy intersections. These cameras would not be the type to catch speeders (let's face it, I'm no masochist), which require lightning-fast shutters and a dramatic zoom-in on the cars, but rather would be HD cameras, mounted, let's say, two per intersection, which track movement and follow cars, just waiting for their chance to capture that evening's prime-time moment. Why would this be a bonus to society? These cameras would provide very clear evidence in post-accident court proceedings, which would dramatically reduce the time and personell necessary to conduct these proceedings, saving tremendous amounts of resources for our already over-burdened court system. As a side-bonus, these cameras could also be used to track stolen cars, fleeing vehicles, and even spot panhandlers and grifters before they can hit their marks.

We're talking about cheap production, high-interest public television programming. Once you install the cameras and the monitoring system, hire a few monitors and an editor or two, you're almost finished. Car companies, brake companies, collision repair services would fall over each other to get time on this network. Each car would vie to be the "safest car on the road," with their accidents clearly showing their side-impact crumple zones, all-passenger airbags, and anti-lock anti-skid brakes. The ratings would be huge, the advertising lucrative, and the system would pay for itself.

This is the future of television.

Peace,
Justin

Here's a line from a poem that Edgar Allen Poe wrote...I quoted it in an earlier post, but it got stuck in my head this morning, so I'll quote it again to get it out...

"Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore..."

Say it out loud. Not just whispering it over the edge of your lips, as if just giving voice to the in-your-head reading...actually say it, as if you were telling the story of a bird whose very face turns your morose wonderings into a smile. Say it out loud again, and listen to the rythym of the thing...

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore...

/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/ ... it's what the English majors call trochaic octameter (pronounced tro-KAY-ick ock-TAH-meh-ter). It rolls, it kinda chugs along, and almost seems to build up speed in that sentence.

BY the GRAVE and STERN deCORum OF the COUNTenANCE it WORE. It's a marching, driving rythym. It's eight beats, almost like the "four on the floor" (thanks, Robbie, for the term) kick drum driving through two rock-and-roll measures. You could set music to this...heck, you could almost set a clock to it.

Can you imagine if we spoke like this...if we argued like this, philosophised like this, ordered our pizzas like this?

STERNS: Time itself just marches onward, driving us a tad bit closer, leaving us a wee bit colder than ever we had been before.
FOSTER: But time alone defies the present, past is just a reminiscent light from all we wished that isn't ever as we'd wish it were.

COLLEGE GUY: Pizza guy, my cheese is melting, all the sausage looks so tempting, the ripe anchovies that you sent me send the great drift wafting o'er.
PIZZA GUY: Harry, man, I love to hear it but I cannot help but fear that you may in haste have come too near it, for it's inverted in your floor.

OK, so it's not Shakespeare, but it's fun. It makes me wonder about how we're built...how we're pieced together by the Great Author. Is it cultural that we're built ready for a 4/4 rythym or that the end of each line of trochaic octets makes your gut pull forward, expecting the next? Is it conditioning that, for whatever reason, makes the 7/8 meter seem unfinished, or the "near rhyme" largely unsatisfying? Is it years of plugging through Dr. Suess and Shel Silverstein that make internal rhyme appealing, but too much internal rhyme feel contrived (no matter how natural the phrasing is, it seems)? I dunno...I feel like we're just built for it. I feel like our words, our music, our buildings, our paintings aren't so much CREATING art as reflecting it, in all of its divine pre-existence. When I write even the silly lines of verse above, there's something inside of me that is deeply gratified by finishing each line, by clearing the rythym out so I can start over, by reading it out loud and, regardless of its meaning (or lack thereof), feeling it out as its organized color leaves my mouth and circles around to my ears.

But, I may just be in one of those artistic moods. Maybe tomorrow I'll be on a mathematical kick...or maybe just hungry for pizza.

Peace,
Justin