No Original Thoughts

My life is an endless stream of music and movie quotes, shaken up inside my brain and poured out in some maniacal cocktail.

Listening to Jimmy Buffet, I am beginning to identify with his sense of social rejection. It seems like he's senses being identified as a social outsider, a reject, a lazy beach bum. In reality, he is different from the masses. His laid back, fetterless lifestyle no doubt infuriates those who have chosen confinement over carefree existence. Moving toward a more bohemian lifestyle as an artist, especially after a long trek through multiple career “pit stops,” his lyrics resonate with some of the thoughts within my heart.

I was supposed to have been a Jesuit priest or a naval academy grad
That was the way that my parents perceived me
Those were the plans that they had
But I couldn’t fit the part too dumb or too smart
Ain’t it funny how we all turned out
I guess we are the people our parents warned us about

You know I coulda worked the rigs when the money was big
Or hopped a freighter south to Trinidad
And when they tried to draft me I earned a college degree
Buyin’ time ’til things were not so bad
But then I got a guitar found a job in a bar
Playin’ acid rock ’til I was numb
Tell me where are the flashbacks they all warned us would come

Hey hey, Gardner McKay
Take us on the Leaky Tiki with you
Clear skies bound for shanghai
Sailing cross the ocean blue

We are the people there isn’t any doubt
We are the people they still can’t figure out
We are the people who love to sing twist and shout--Shake it up baby!
We are the people our parents warned us about
("We Are the People Our Parent's Warned Us About")

I got a school boy heart, a novelist eye
Stout sailor's legs and a license to fly
I came with nomad feet and some wandering toes
That walk up my longboard and hang off the nose

I suppose the need to focus never arose
So something like a Swiss army knife, that's my life
Frankenstein had nothing on this body of mine
The villagers still flockin' to see, to see me
Breaking free, breaking free

Cause I got a school boy heart, a novelist eye
Stout sailor's legs and a license to fly
I got a bartender's ear and beachcomber's style
Piratical nerve and a Vaudevillian style

I suspect I died in some cosmic shipwreck
With all hands spread all over the deck...what the heck
Then some kind of obscene and unscrupulous mind
Began to pick up what he could find
Added ice, shook me twice, rolled the dice

Now I got a school boy heart, a novelist eye
A sailor's legs and a license to fly
I got a native tongue from way down south
It sits in the cheek of my gulf coastal mouth
("School Boy Heart")

Some of the details are different, but I love the line "so something like a Swiss army knife...that's my life." I feel like a jack of all trades, but a master of none. It is both a blessing and a curse.

Still, as I leave mainstream society behind, it's nice to know Jimmy will provide the soundtrack for my new life.

Spring

"Four things on earth are small, yet they are extremely wise:
...a lizard can be caught with the hand, yet it is found in kings' palaces."
-Proverbs 30:28

The Mediterranean Gecko has returned to my doorway. I was in the studio tonight and, upon exiting, was greeted by him as he hung onto the glass of my screen door. Walking through the breezeway, I noticed another clinging to the rafters. These are the first I've seen since the fall, and surely the fact that there were two on one night must mean something. Spring has arrived and with the glowing green buds on the trees, the missing lizards return. As it says in Proverbs, they must be very wise, because I don't know where they went, and I don't know where they go when you chase them, but they make themselves an easy abode out of my home. The Proverb is proved even more true this early in the season, because it's very easy to catch these geckos, who are still rubbing the sleep out of their eyes. I read recently in "Walden" how Thoreau almost stepped on snakes in his woods in the early spring, as they were still trying to have the morning sun thaw out all the members of their bodies. So it is with my friends tonight. They are so sluggish that their usual lightning-fast quickness is still frozen inside them, and it's quite easy to reach out and touch them or catch them in your hands. I almost wanted to wake the boys so we could catch one together. But the spring is young. We'll have more nights for catching geckoes soon.

Love Song to the Rain

Gee, l'm glad it's raining
There's always somethin' to be thankful for
l'm awfully glad it's raining
'Cause no one sees your teardrops when it pours
And no one knows the thunder is your heartbreak in disguise
They think the rainy night's what put that sad look in your eyes
Sure, l'm glad it's raining
The gentle rhythm soothes the pain inside
l'm glad the stars aren't shinin'
A wounded warrior needs a place to hide
l thought l had found someone l could count on till the end
What they wanted was a hero all l needed was a friend
Gee, l'm glad it's raining
l hope the mornin' sun won't come up soon
As long as it keeps raining
No one knows my heart broke right in two
l thought l had found someone l could count on till the end
What they wanted was a hero all l needed was a friend
Sure, l'm glad it's raining
l'm awfully glad it's raining "

Hungover

"Okay, I have a hangover. Does anybody know what that means?"
"It means you're drunk."
"Wrong. It means I was drunk yesterday."

I only throw this in because I watched "School of Rock" today (seeking some inspiration for my own classroom) and laughed hysterically the whole way through.

But I am hungover.

I took a nap today from approximately 3:15-4:10. Not enough time to do any real good, but plenty of time to do some serious damage.


Now I'm trying to post something, and after 5 attempts on various topics, I realize I'm not capable of any significant thought thanks to my nap hangover. Instead of thinking, I only feel...and I feel bitter, depressed, apathetic, and lazy.

The world is a terrible place when I'm tired. Especially after I just wake up from a nap.

Subterfuge

Creeping through the ventilation shaft, the merceny paused to listen for any signs of detection. Hearing none, he pressed on to the core of the base. With one deft motion, he placed a tiny chip in the motherboard of the systems network which would eradicate all data from the better half of the past decade.
Stripping off all signs of the disguise he wore, the spy walked calmly out of the building.
"See you tomorrow, Jim," someone said to him.
"Sure...we'll see you then."

The Stranger

"Well we all have a face that we hide away forever
and we take them out and show ourselves when everyone has gone.
Some are satin, some are steel, some are silk, and some are leather
they're the faces of The Stranger but we love to try them on."

How well can you really know a person? Even if every intimate detail of their heart is laid bare, is their soul truly exposed? What if the "truth" flowing from their lips is the truth they want you to hear? Who has not had a conversation where you say the right things and express the right sentiments, and then walk from the room, stripping The Stranger off your face?

Do I fear to trust because I am untrustworthy? Do I doubt others because I have such grave doubts in myself? Is Jesus really in control? Is he strong enough to change me? Is he strong enough to save me from myself? If he has little effect in me, what effect can he produce in others?

Will I choose to discard The Stranger from my countenance? Will my exposed face produce faith and goodwill toward others? Will those who see the skull behind the mask stay the course, or turn away? Can I stay the course, regardless of how many Strangers surround me?

A Foot in the Door

This picture (with the blueish tint) was drawn by Charles Bargue. In my Atelier training I had to copy this picture exactly.

As for the success of this venture, I'll let you judge for yourself. My replica is at the top.

Where Do They All Come From

(Another bit from the archives. Perhaps appropos for Valentine's Day.)

She looked different than I expected.
First of all, she was a he. He sat in a two-person booth at Chili's, eating by himself .
My boys surrounded me. My wife sat across from me.
He had no book to read. Seemed to have no agenda in being there.
No one came to meet him.
"Maybe he likes 'alone time'," I thought to myself. I know I do at times.
My heart ached. "What if all his time is 'alone time'?"
I felt like asking him to join my family for the rest of his dinner.
And the music played, “All the lonely people…”

She showed up again. In fact she just kept popping up, but she always looked different.
Walking alone in a mall. Gazing silently at books in the library.
Sometimes looking sad, other times looking pained, other times, looking quite normal.
Yet each time I see her, there is a profound sadness in me, perhaps more than in them.
The refrain rings again "All the lonely people..."

Loneliness grips your heart and twists and squeezes until it's hard to breathe.
The hardest part is not the physical act, but wanting to breathe.
Who do I take in air for? Who will hear me if I exhale?
I looked within and found her.
"I'm sorry....who are you? Why are you here?"
"I'm Eleanor. I have no where else to go."
Surrounded by a sea of people; does anyone know me? Does anyone reach out to touch me?
"Where do they all come from?" I ask, and the music echoes, "All the lonely people."

Fruit of My Labor

A month of hard work has resulted in...a foot.

This picture shows an early stage in the process of completing my first Bargue Drawing in my Atelier training. If you can make out the faint image on the right, you're doing pretty good. I plan on taking a photo of the finished piece tomorrow, and I'll post it here soon. Stayed tuned for the website (hopefully coming soon).

Pink Cigars

(a little bit from the archives for all those yearning for some "uncoolness" in their lives)

Thoughts strike at weird and unexpected times/places. I was cleaning up dog urine from my carpet, and I thought how I can’t get enough of sin.
When I was little, I went to a Sunday School party and Ken and Charlotte Ruchtie’s house. They had ice cream sundaes there, but these were no ordinary sundaes. Oh no! They were pink sundaes. A scoop of pink ice cream. A pink cone for a hat. Pink bits of candy for eyes and mouth. It was a cute, pink clown sundae. I made it through the cone…and the candy…and the ice cream, but when I reached the bottom layer, the pink wafers forming the clown’s collar, well I began to recall feelings of illness from earlier in the day. The feelings became stronger, until they compelled me to the restroom. What landed in the toilet was a partially digested pink mess.
To this day I cannot eat anything pink.
(although yesterday I was eating cotton candy, and when I switched from blue to pink, I noticed I had no problems. Just an interesting sidebar).
I used to smoke cigars. Not that I really liked them all that much. But on special occasions I would light up a stogie. For one bachelor party, I joined my brother and a group of his friends on the Indiana dunes. It was a great night…hearing the guys tell stories about the group while sitting around the campfire. And all the while smoking cigars. Different kinds, different sizes, different tastes. Then the rain put an end to our evening. We went to bed and spent a soggy night. In the morning, we awoke to an overcast, cool day. My work schedule during those days was pretty typical: ride the L to work and eat breakfast at my desk when I got there. I usually packed a Tupperware full of cereal and a water bottle full of milk. For whatever reason, I did not eat my breakfast that Friday morning. This meant I had cereal and day old milk waiting for my on Saturday. Disregarding the soggy clothes, the lack of sleep, and the taste of wet socks in my mouth was probably stupid enough. But what I did next, I would not recommend to anyone. I reasoned that since the preceding day was cool, and the evening was cool, and the morning was cool, although the milk had not been a refrigerator, it could not have gotten too warm, and therefore it would not be too bad to use it on my cereal. It was Life cereal. I remember that because to this day I have trouble eating Life cereal. I can…it’s just not the joy it once was. But that’s not the point of the story. After eating the cereal we went to the lake. We tried to explore the dunes, but it was just too cold, and no one was dressed in preparation for the frigid temperature. Some genius amongst the group (and I wonder if it may even have been me) suggested we stay warm by running over the hills of sand. Like bright, educated college boys we did so, the wind whipping in our faces, tearing at our clothes and shooting ice right through our veins. It took approximately 36.2 seconds for the cocktail of little sleep, bad milk, racing and an evening of cigars to take its toll on me. I lay curled in the fetal position on the sand, moaning, coughing and spitting sock-tasting saliva onto the beach.
To this day I have problems lighting another cigar.
Why is it not the same with sin? Why can’t a horrible sin experience sever all ties and create a pink cigar barrier in my life? I’ve sinned in heinous ways. I’ve even tried to get a glut of sin to produce some kind of overdose, backlash-like effect, but it doesn’t work quite like pink or cigars. I’ve crushed my wife with my sin. I’ve wounded my sons. These facts are too overpowering to even think about. I believe that if I were cognizant of these things all the time I would be too overwhelmed to go on. But then the door is left open for repeating the same mistakes. I have found this to be true:
there is "pleasure in sin for a short time,” (Heb. 11:25) and
“like a dog returns to his vomit, so a fool returns to his folly.” (Prov. 26:11)
What is the key to remembering without being dismayed? The secret to recalling the pain in order to prevent future unpleasantness? How does one create a pink cigar barrier with sin?

What Are You Prepared To Do?

The Kingdom of God is on a forceful advance, and forceful men lay hold of it. (Matthew 11:12)

I will tell you 4 stories of 4 extraordinary men. My hope is that by the end of these tales, you will feel a bit of what I feel in my heart at this hour. Even more so, I hope the telling (and the fact that it is recorded here) will spur me on to further action, and greater commitment.

Eliot Ness was a Treasury Officer. More than being an officer of the law, he was a man of justice. It was his desire to bring Al Copone down. When he arrived in Chicago, his first efforts to topple the big-city boss were embarrassingly unsuccessful. After his initial, painful defeat, he threw a scrap of paper into the Chicago River and so began a relationship that would change his life. An old beat cop, Jim Malone, chided him for his littering, and in the course of their conversation proved himself to be an experienced, insightful, and above all, honest cop. Malone dismissed Ness's proposal to join him in his fight against Capone, but after many hours of thought, later came to Ness with a changed heart. Whisking Ness out of the police headquarters ("These walls have ears"), Malone escorted him to a nearby church. The conversation held there is profound on many levels, and shook Eliot Ness, and now shakes Jay Elliott.

Malone: You said you wanted to get Capone. Do you really wanna get him? You see what I'm saying is, what are you prepared to do?
Ness: Anything and everything in my power.
Malone: And THEN what are you prepared to do? If you open the can on these worms you must be prepared to go all the way because they're not gonna give up the fight until one of you is dead.
Ness: How do you do it then?
Malone: You wanna know how you do it? Here's how:they pull a knife, you pull a gun. He sends one of yours to the hospital, you send on of his to the morgue! That's the Chicago way, and that's how you get Capone! Now do you want to do that? Are you ready to do that?
Ness: I have sworn to capture this man with all legal powers at my disposal and I will do so.
Malone: Well the Lord hates a coward. Do you know what a blood oath is Mr. Ness?
Ness: Yes.
Malone: Good, cause you just took one.

There once was a man named Jason with tin ears, and even if he had a bucket, he would have been unable to carry a tune in it. Yet somewhere in his soul, he felt he should play the guitar. There were many nights when, after he had completed his school work, he would resolutely sit in his bedroom and pluck shaky chords on his guitar. In a matter of months, he could play simple songs. In time, he discovered not only musical ability in his fingers, but also in his voice. Out of sheet effort and practice, Jason became not just a singer and musician, but one who would lead others in song.

Kaiser Soze was a notorious theif. So much so that one fateful day, he came home to find his family being held captive by a group of murderous mobsters. Without describing the events of that grusome day in detail, let it be said that, "he showed these men of will what will really is."

Some people are born, and from their earliest days, they are declared to be wonders in music, in athletics, in academics, and in art. Jon was not one of these people. He reached his 20th year and suddenly thought to himself, "I would like to draw." Imagine sitting for hours and producing a work on the level of a junior high art student. The frustration was almost unbearable. He nearly quit. But instead of turning away, the times of despair fueled drawing sessions that would last for hours and hours. They prompted a two year period of intense artistic study. By force of will, Jon is now perhaps THE best artist I know personally.

Do you catch the familiar strain in each of these four lives? Will. I have two dear friends who, although seemingly lacking the "inherent ability" in art and music which I possess, have far surpassed me by will and determination. I love the quote from the film, "The Usual Suspects": "He showed these men of will what will really is." It speaks to me directly of the Scripture in Matthew 11:12: "the Kingdom of Heaven is on a forceful advance, and forceful men lay hold of it." Does this mean the Kingdom will be persecuted and warred against? Most likely. But also true, and I believe even more so, it carries the idea that those who strive with steely resolve to follow the King of Kings will most fully grasp the Kingdom. Consider the context. Jesus points to John the Baptist. He renounced (and I speak from a modern perspective) fashion, delicacies, comfort and fine living, norms of work and social interaction, and lived what would be considered the life of a madman in order to proclaim the coming of the Kingdom. He forcefully held onto the Kingdom, seeing that all else would slip away. He had resolve. He had determination to forsake all else for that high calling. "He showed these men of will what will really is."

It boggles my mind that Jason and Jon, both men of faith, along with their talent and passion, labored until they reached their goal, when, as Jon put it, "(they) didn't even show signs of promise." There are countless lives of resolve, from John the Baptist, to Abraham, (see Hebrews 11 for the list of those in between), from Jim Elliot to Elliot Ness, who challenge me to evaluate what it is I really want, what is really important, and mostly, what it is I am prepared to do to achieve such ends.

I have set my face toward being an artist. Not simply producing a mediocre sketch here or there, but being, thinking, working and living as an artist. It will require much sacrifice, and will greatly test my will. But before that, above that, I have been chosen to follow Christ. I responded to this high calling. And I was reminded this morning as I worshiped among the people of Irving Bible Church that I must steadfastly commit to my convictions, to caring, and to endurance until the coming of Christ. Artist. Theologian. Social activist. Expectant worshiper. I could be no happier than if these titles were authentic in my life. The question remains: "What are you prepared to do?"

It is easy to see Christ in many things, and I find him in the cathedral conversation between Malone and Ness. Christ, in a curious Scottish brogue, lays out the plan of discipleship, pointing out the inherent dangers, and asks if it is really my desire to follow him. With a meek, "Yes," he responds, "What are you prepared to do?" In a brutally poignant seen later in the film, "The Untouchables," Malone is ambushed and lays dying in the arms of Ness. Here too I find Jesus. In an act of supreme devotion and resolve, showing what will really is, he showed what he was prepared to endure for my sake. He stretched out dying to show what force would be required to take hold of the Kingdom. As Malone, I hear his last words stab into my heart: "What are you prepared to do?"

Lack of Posting

I anticipate that I won't be posting much here, as I am diving deep into art training. I will occasionally post on "Those Awake" (see the link) and I'll try to do something every so often here. I'd love to post pictures of what I'm working on (and hopefully there will be an art website up in the next few months), but we'll see. "So much time, so little to do....Wait, strike that; reverse it."

Age of Annonymity

Recently I returned a DVD case to a nearby Blockbuster Video store, but I forgot to return the disc inside that case. Today when I returned the movie itself, it occurred to me that there was no local, hometown video store attendant who would have been sure, based on his knowledge of me and my character, that the empty case was a mistake and the DVD was sure to follow. My grocier doesn't know me. My banker doesn't know me. To be honest, my pastor doesn't even really know me.
My first thought was that we live in a day and age, much the the information age, when being annonymous is more common (much like I spoke about in the post, "Bill Gates is the Man"). But to link my lack of connectedness to those around me directly to technology may be missing the point (although it may be a contributing factor).
My second thought was related to a discussion I had recently with my brother regarding the culture of different U.S. geographical regions: east coast, southern, mid-western, etc. It strikes me today, however, that different characteristics emerge on smaller levels (I could talk about Willard vs. Shelby, OH, but since few would understand, I'll look at a slightly broader group). Having lived in various states and various cities, I can conclude with reasonable certainty that, no matter where you are, there is a profound difference in lifestyle between town, suburb, and city. True, this may be a bit obvious, but I'm just now really thinking through it. The long and short of it is that if you live outside the town, the ability to be known diminishes radically. In a small town, everyone knows your business. In a suburb or city, you must make yourself known. You can gain connectedness, but it comes with greater effort (my writing even now seems like a self-indictment to me. Was I the one who was selfish and withdrawn? Did I not live with sufficient patterns and redundancy in order to be known? Did I live in the city, but not participate in the neighborhood---the metropolis' antedote to its massive size; the town within the city, if you will?).
I grew up in a town where a name carried significance. Bell. Highland. Stock. Medley. Asp. Your name, your family connection, meant something--it indicated who you were. Didn't get the DVD back in the case? Who returned it? If "Highland," it might be gone for ever, but if "Asp," it's sure to come in the next day or two. What does "Asp" mean in Keller, TX? Who is "Asp" and who knows the name?
So the third, and concluding thought, is that I may actually be longing for home. "You can't go home again," they say; but it seems so many of us long to surround ourselves with all the trappings of home so we feel like we're still there. Perhaps this is why so many of my peers stayed in Shelby after graduation, and why so many around the country and the world are born, grow, live and die and in one spot. Am I longing to be connected, be known and to make a difference? Or am I longing for small-town America, where life was so much simpler? Or am I longing for simplicity? How do you perceive it?

Backflips

Once, in high school, I asked a friend on the track team how to do a backflip. "You just have to go all out," was his only advice. Apparently, based on his instructions, the only thing necessary for doing such a gymnastic feat was commitment. All you have to do is sell out. It makes sense, I guess. You have to go for broke. Who wants to get into the middle of a rotation, only to bail out in mid-flight, flop awkwardly and break a neck?

I never did accomplish that feat back in my high school days. The counsel seemed too simple. It lacked tangible steps to follow through on to ensure success. All it called for was guts and determination. Back then, I wasn't really willing to risk my neck, so I never tried. I never failed, but then again, I never succeeded either.

I am learning to do backflips again. The dream of doing art full-time keeps bouncing around in my head. Now, providentially, I have had a friend placed in my path who could help me take this art dream to the next level. "You just have to go all out," is his only advice. But that means uncertainty, sacrifice, commitment, selling out, going for broke. It means wondering where money will come from to support a family. It means giving up on other enjoyable pasttimes (like blogging, for one). It means less energy as a result of strenuous output and less sleep-filled nights.

But this time I want to try. I want to succeed, but I think I'd even be willing to fail. I may land awkwardly and break my neck, but there's that brilliant chance that, if I tuck my legs tight enough, jump high enough and spin at the perfect rate, I could land gloriously.

My Home Companion

People are like plants.

As a kid, you shoot upward, and all thoughts and activities are focused in a single direction. It's all energy and growth, and single-minded attention. Though a child can't name it as such, his or her singular pursuit is, "things pleasing to me." It takes many forms, including sugar (or other manner of things which taste "yummy"), games and play (and all things "fun"), bright colors and pictures ("pretty"), happy stories ("funny"), and bouncy, syruppy music (for "singing" and "dancing").

As the stem grows, it doesn't seek to venture outside upright expansion. Ask a child to partake in steak, chess, PBS, independent films, lectures or sermons, or cultural music, they will flatly tell you, "I don't like that" (of course, they have countless ways to say the same thing: boring, yucky, etc.).

But when the plant has reached maturity, it suddenly branches out. Thoughts turn to reproduction, food production, and comfort (or "homeostasis" for all you scientists out there). Suddenly the plant is concerned for companionship, love, sex, home, job, income, and various pleasantries. Granted, these things were not absent from the tender shoot, just, perhaps, undefined and unrecognized.

It is still the quest for "things pleasing to me," but now satisfaction is found in so many new areas. In this branching process, the interests of the plant broaden. Now "yummy" is as much about cuisine as candy, "fun" ranges from simply watching people to creating a work of art, "pretty" gives way to beauty, which wears many faces, "funny" is more about wit and irony, and stories can be valued not only if they are entertaining, but also if they are important, interesting, troubling/moving, and even tragic. Learning is valued, even in the face of boredom. And an odd new category comes into being, showing the furthest spreading of life's limbs: nostalgia.

I can recall hating Neil Diamond on long car rides because he interupted my endless "Psalty the Singing Songbook" listening. Now I love Neil Diamond. I remember the days when I would have been put to sleep by public television or radio. I can easily say they are now my favorite channels on radio or tv.

Which brings me to my present post (took awhile, didn't it?). If you have the rare misfortune to hear Garrison Keillor as a child, your ears will bleed, your head will begin to expand and come dangerously close to explosion, and you will whine to your parents, "Why do we have to listen to this!!??" I know: I said it myself, and now I hear it from my own kids. The curiousity I am facing is why I love "The Prairie Home Companion" so much. I'm sure part of it is the fond memory of my parents which it stirs. However, I don't think my siblings would share the enthusiasm I have for the program. Something about sojourning in Minnesota on my own has made Lake Wobegon ("where all the men are strong, all the women are good looking, and all the children are above average") real in my heart. To hear Keilor's deep, soothing voice no longer lulls me into slumber but excites my memory of the frozen north, makes me laugh at the comical, generalized observations, and takes me back. When I was little, there was no "back". Forgive me for being a bit wowed by this. I can finally understand some of what my parents used to feel.

So now, every Saturday, I find my roots growing in an altogether new place. No longer do they sink down in front of the TV for Saturday morning cartoons. Instead they find me taking part in what I call, "the finest day of radio broadcasting ever" (Sputnik, on KTCU, FM 88.7, an alternative rock show, from 12:00-2:00; The Prairie Home Companion, NPR, FM 90.1, a variety show including old-fashioned storytelling and music, from 5:00-7:00; and, Thistle and Shamrock, a celtic music festival follwing on NPR).

Anyway, it is not so odd that I would grow into this sapling. After all, each plant springs from the seeds of its parents.

Cowardice

Definition: Ignoble fear in the face of danger or pain.

Allow me to rant for just a bit.

I was on my brother's blog reading about dead pigeons and thoroughly enjoying his self expression, when what should I run across, but an irritating post by an unknown assailant.

Maybe it's the brother defense in me (pick on him, you pick on me, too), maybe it's just a general distaste for cowards, but I was strangely and strongly irked by this comment.

I could not tell if it was meant to be funny, or harshly critical. Had I known the person who said it, such information might shed light on the spirit of the remark. But no..."Anonymous" did not have the courage to both have his/her ideas heard AND boldly proclaim he/she was the one saying them.

For all you "anonymouses" out there, find a back bone and use it. After all, if your thoughts have any merit (and certainly you think they do), the name of the individual spouting them should be attached. Without a name, it just seems like a pot-shot from a pansy poking at perfectly proud and prominenly named persons.

So there.

Borrowed Time

Each day is a mortgage on eternity
The span of a few hours is borrowed without collateral
A well-lived day seems a good return on time spent
Time is spent, or time is invested
Either way, the day is borrowed
Death is an exacting lender
An accounting must be made for the days used
And like figures on a tabulating machine
the days add up to what might account for a life
In the end the life must be paid to make up for the debt

Bill Gates is the Man

I took a class recently in which the conversation turned one evening to Bill Gates and his unfathomable riches. The instructor said that, unlike so many, Gates produced his wealth by trying to help others. In providing a product that revolutionized life and increased productivity, he made the world a better place, and consequently made a well-deserved fortune.

I am not writing to discuss the virtues or vices of Mr. Gates (personally, I think if a guy gives away billions of dollars annually, he can't be all bad), but rather his brainchild. While Bill Gates is not responsible for the invention of the computer, his Microsoft and Windows rapidly accelerated the accessibility of the computer to the common man. My instructor thought this to be a glowing accolade, but I'm not sure I agree.

At first, I think I was serving as devil's advocate, just to stir the pot and create some annimated conversation, but the more I was pressed on the point, the more my stance solidified in my mind. I told my instructor that computers aren't necessarily all that great. To say that the man to whom I directed my retort was outraged would be taking it too far, but shocked is certainly a good description. He simply could not fathom how the computer, and the Information Age it serves as harbinger for, could be anything but fantastic. I pointed out that it has become another chain to bind us with, another piece of property and another process to make us slaves. What has it made us more productive in doing? Does it add to the list, or help simplify to the essential?

So I've begun reading "Walden," again, and if you have not checked it out, you definitely should. A friend who was in the class also turned me on to Wendell Berry, and an interesting article he sent me can be found at http://www.tipiglen.dircon.co.uk/berrynot.html. Also, for a fine example of being bound by modern technology, see http://amsterdamasp.blogspot.com/2005/10/braham-lincoln.html, or look no further than these posts. I am intricately bound to the complex web (no pun intended) of technological revolution, for all it's blessings and curses. Yet I am longing to "simplify, simplify."

In the words of Sir Paul McCartney:
"If I ever get out of here, thought of giving it all away to a registered charity, if I ever get out of here."
What would the world be like if we all did that? Now that is a revolution.

Out and About

For those of you who have missed me, the computer is in the shop and our Internet is disconnected. I promise I will post more in the near future.

Are you kidding me?!

I'm creating a logo for Drew (really, for Jon) right now, and while I was looking for pictures of buffalo I found this. For those of you who may not be familiar, this is the world's largest buffalo, located in Jamestown, ND.
Jamestown is the home of my grandparents, and this image is an icon of my youth. I was shocked and delighted to discover this image, and I know you will be greatly enriched by the ability to see it yourself. It cannot compare to the real thing, however, and I highly recommend you go immediately to North Dakota to see it, if you have the means. Besides the buffalo, it really is a swinging place.