Wednesday, December 03, 2008

Gasp! Novel excerpt!

In November, I participated in National Novel Writing Month, further damaging my claims to sanity. The idea behind NaNo is to start on November 1 with a blank page, and finish the month with 50,000 words of a novel. I made a weak start, gained some momentum mid-month, and, well...



I'm quite pleased with what I did accomplish, though. I don't know if I've ever written this much for a given story. Ever. I plan on finishing the story, too, once I've planned it out a little better. I haven't been writing new material for it for the past few days, but I will be.

In celebration, I'm posting excerpts from what I managed to crank out during NaNo. These represent the roughest of rough drafts, but that's a lot of what gets posted here anyway. Heh. As yet, the story has no title, and will henceforth be referred to by its codename, Heartbreaker. A few of you will recognize a character, a name, or a setting, here and there.

Please enjoy, and feel free to comment.

-


A gentle swelling of light, and a gradual crescendo of harp music, and Elaine Singer awoke. The soft white light of the wall panels spread over the room, soaking the coffee-and-milk tan covers, the small lampstand, the many-colored ensembles just visible through the slightly ajar closet door. It took her a solid ten seconds to realize she was awake, ten seconds of staring at the red behind her eyelids. Subtle, embedded speakers in the wall above her futon grew slowly louder, insistently spreading the mystic sound of plucked strings. A vague memory of dream drifted away from her on a mental breeze, replaced quickly by another image.

In her mind, she was choking a harpist. Singer half-growled, half-groaned, rolling onto her stomach and burying her quickly-waking eyes in the pillow. A strand of her short red hair flipped into her ear. Itchy.

Have to minimize movement. We're not waking up. Not right now. Just gotta... oh, hell. She reached up at swatted at her own rebellious hair, knowing the battle was lost. Singer rolled over with a huff, tugging the covers off half the bed. Her voice was groggy when she spoke. “House. What time is it?”

The harp music quieted for the house computer's response, in a factual, but pleasant male voice. “It is 8:45 am.”

“Why would I get up at 8:45 am?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes and trying to remember. Right. She had to finish her report on Schwartzsten for Fletcher before the meeting today. Because she had put it off until this morning so she and Suq wouldn't miss The Judicator last night. And it hadn't been that great an episode. She had no idea what they were doing with Starlight this season. He was supposed to become the next Judicator, they said that in the last season finale, but they kept-

She had almost fallen asleep again when she caught herself. “Mmn.” She had to get up. With one last sigh, she gathered her thoughts. Her mental focus slid into place, though a little slower than usual, since it was morning. Singer turned one hand palm-up under the covers. With a little ripple out from her hand, the covers lifted, nearly flat, until they were nearly grazing the ceiling. Singer sat up, popped her neck, and stood, slumping toward the bathroom. She let go her focus, and the blankets drifted down to the futon with a flop.

If she had a more consistent morning routine, maybe her mind wouldn't take so long to warm up. One of her mentors had insisted that was critical: being able to wake from a deep sleep and be at her telekinetic threshold a second later. Thus far, that ability hadn't exactly been mission-critical. Thus far, Elaine Singer had thoroughly enjoyed taking mid-afternoon and late-night assignments and letting the mornings drift away like fog.

The harp music was still going, and had followed her into the bathroom. The waterproof speakers were a little tinnier. If she had to be awake, she was going to actually wake up. “House. Playlist “punching the walls,” on random. Play.”

Per her settings, the volume ratcheted up three levels, and thundering drums and distorted electric cellos hammered the walls. That intro she knew. “Rending the Gates” by Praxis Maleficus. Good stuff.

One lingering shower later, Singer padded into the kitchen in her loose, broken-in jeans and a tank top that had once been black, and was now faded gray. Outside, only minimal traffic sounds, since the commuters had been at their desks for a little over an hour. The woosh-pop of flash welders echoed from the construction yard down the block into her apartment. The charged glass door leading to the minuscule patio was halfway opaque, tinting the bright city light down to a manageable shade. She peered out into the world and saw, ten stories down and eight blocks away, they were setting up for some sort of big event in Koral'ia Park.

Oh, right. Carpenter's rally. Knowing Carpenter's following, she'd probably be able to hear them across the distance. The man new how to draw a rabble. Which wasn't why she was voting against him, but it certainly didn't help his case with her.

A familiar, soft guitar line filled the kitchen, and the wallscreen by the cutting board lit up with an alert. Singer smiled. “House, answer it.”

A video window sprung open. On the other end of the call was a scaled blue face, with a line of tiny horns running up the nose ridge and over the hairless head. The eyes were a yellow-orange, with vertical pupils. It had the beginnings of a snout, which smiled with pointed carnivore teeth. It was wearing, she noticed, the t-shirt she had bought him last week.

“Morning, love,” said Suq. Suqarin Myssir. Her fiancé.

[more to come. thanks for reading.]

Monday, October 27, 2008

The Week Begins

Part of my usual walk from my blocks-distant parking spot to Chocolate Fish before work. At the coffee shop, I read the Bible and journal. During the walk in, I pray. Took a bit of my own advice today and was more deliberate in my prayers; more careful to worship along with my requests and troubles.

This morning, at least, it made the difference between overexaggerating my few problems and starting the day with peace and, of all things, optimism.

Wednesday, October 22, 2008

Multimedia message

I'm gonna attempt an actual blog post from my phone. Here goes.

Here I sit at Chocolate Fish Coffee once again. My plan to skip coffee a couple days a week is a go so far, but as you can see, I've lost the added benefit of saving money by picking up an iced white tea instead. On one hand, the tea is really tasty, and I'd rather not just mooch my favorite coffee shop's patio without buying something. On the other, I still need to grow my financial discipline. And every other kind, really.

It's doing me a lot of good to get outside. I'm expecting a scholarly paper on the horrible effects of fluorescent lights on the human soul to come out within the next few years. It's nice to emerge from the right-angled world of HR - gray with a few scant decorations. Whether I'm talking about the office or the profession, I'll leave to you.

Lately, I've been wishing I could write poetry. Whenever I try... hmm. It seems I'm out of room for text. Well, now I know. More soon, methinks.

Saturday, October 18, 2008

Friday, October 17, 2008

Monday, September 29, 2008

Dusk at Town and Country

I'm contemplating going to Jakarta, Indonesia over Christmas on a mission trip. Just met with some people at the Starbucks here to discuss details, possibilities. My mind is churning. It's nice to turn the corner and see something so beautiful.
I'm contemplating a couple things right now that seem like sheer stupidity on the surface. Unless they're not.

UPDATE: The current plan is to save the money I would have spent on Jakarta to pay down my debts so that I'm ready to transition from day job to ministry when the opportunity arises. One down.

Saturday, September 20, 2008

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Fixed

Twenty minutes and $160 later, bam. No problem. This is me endorsing Allied Glass, and their technician Sam in particular. Good show.

Smashed

My luck with cars continues as usual. Wonder what happened.

Thursday, July 31, 2008

Monday, June 16, 2008

Sunday, May 25, 2008

Monday, April 14, 2008

Thursday, March 27, 2008

Art?

Bus stop at Watt and I-80, back of a phone booth. Share. Huh.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Crunch

Two spaces away from my car, a tree fell on a truck. Minimal damage, but it wasn't going anywhere. I, however, was able to make it to my dinner with Jamie on time.

Monday, February 11, 2008

Paper clip sculpture. This does not necessarily suggest in much time i have on my hands.

Thursday, February 07, 2008

Black History Month means jambalaya at the calpers cafeteria. Amen to that.

Thursday, November 08, 2007

There have been a few comings and goings in HR lately. To say the least.

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Halloween in HR



For some odd reason, there's been this running bee motif in human resources, where I work. I guess it's all been building up to this.

The cute little red riding hood in the picture is a coworker's daughter. Aww.

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

Album Review: Nightwish's Dark Passion Play

Nightwish has changed since Once. But it's not as shocking a transition as you might think. The sudden departure of Tarja Turunen in 2005 was nothing short of traumatic for the fans – as well as the band, from the sound of the first two tracks of Dark Passion Play.

One signature element of a Nightwish album is an epic ballad, usually right near the end. Not this time. “The Poet and the Pendulum” opens the album with nearly fourteen minutes of exceptional, ruthless metal. Imagine "Planet Hell," but more. In the lyrics, we see the dark in Dark Passion Play. There are some disturbing moments in this song. It's noteworthy that Tuomas Holopanien, songwriter and keyboardist for the band, hauntingly describes his own death in “the year of our Lord 2005.” This is a song about uncertainty and suffering. Some of the imagery the lyricist invokes leaves me feeling uneasy. Undoubtedly, that was the aim. The song drives and pounds, swells, and releases with a slow, melodic outro.

Perhaps appropriately, new singer Anette Olzon is not the first voice we hear on the track, but she is the last. Let's get the inevitable comparisons out of the way. Right away, we notice Anette has more grit in her voice than Tarja ever did. She's definitely not an opera singer, nor does she attempt to be. She's different. But she's fantastic. She's versatile. Her voice is a crystal laser. She will destroy you if she must. She's not Tarja, and I'm okay with that. One track in, and I like where this is going.

But the last word on Tarja has not been spoken until track two, “Bye Bye Beautiful.” If the metal movements of the first track were driving, the beat of this track is just brutal. Pounding guitars give way to Anette's melodic verse, invoking Nightwish's old trick: lure 'em in with a siren song, then blast 'em with the chorus. By the time the drums hit, it's too late. Marco Hietala's in your face, killing you. It took a live concert and a Megadeth cover for me to learn to appreciate the bassist's vocals, but now, he's in rare form. His angry viking voice is only appropriate for the lyrics it hurls: "did you ever read what I wrote you / did you ever hear what I told you..." and so on. Don't worry. The song is actually more hopeful than it initally sounds. But at its end, the matter, for the moment is closed. Catharsis done. On to business, with "Amaranth."

We saw shades of Nighwish using pop elements in "Romanticide" and "Wish I Had an Angel." "Amaranth" is the logical conclusion. The orchestra is still in the background, but it's in a major key. The vocals still soar, but Anette actually vamps a little in there. Really, some of the little vocal touches she throws in make the song for me. Listen for that moment of gravel in the bridge, and the hint of a scream at the end. Mmm. The first two tracks speak to the past, and this one runs headlong into the new.

And then they throw "Cadence of Her Last Breath" in there, just to show us what Evanescence should have been. Honestly. It's like they sat Amy Lee down in the studio and said, "No no no, honey. Like this." Again, the orchestra is there, and hints of the choir. This is fully Nightwish. But in all reality, it's a really hard alternative song. I honestly think this song is on the CD just to prove they could do it.

Speaking of proving something, the next track is "Master Passion Greed." Question: has Marco ever had a song to himself and the choir? Hmm. If he did before this point, would it have worked as well? Turns out he's pretty versatile, too. Screaming, growling, generally menacing the audience, all the while thumping away on the bass. The tempo changes and expert, sparing use of the orchestra get me fired up. The song is rough overall, though, and the use of synth at the beginning is borderline awkward. Get past it, however, and you'll find an angry metal anthem worth listening to.

Eva: slow song. Pretty.

Sahara. Oh, my goodness. If at this point, you're wondering, "what happened to the Nightwish I knew and loved?" ...here they are. I don't care if the Arabian Nights took place nowhere near the Sahara. This may be my new favorite Nightwish song.

The album has more surprises in store, not least of which are a Celtic-style ballad and a gospel choir. No, that wasn't a typo. For the moment, I'll leave you to wonder, or listen for yourself.

Monday, October 01, 2007

Regime Change

There's been a slow revolution in my thinking. Not in the sense of a slow turning that ends up right where you started; I mean the Che Guevara sense. Revoluçion.

For years, I've been wrapped up in worry, convinced on some level that I have an important purpose for my life that I'll never be able to accomplish. I've looked into a calling I felt to enter the ministry, and the worry continued, perhaps with more focus. I looked at my own character and shook my head. No way.

In recent days, however, I've seen God at work - in me, no less. And now I have hope.

Furthermore, my readings in the Bible and other books, sermons at church, everything is pointing to a line of thought that blows my worries away. It goes like this: if God calls me to a course of action, my personal inadequacies will not prevent our victory. Lack of faith or open rebellion will. The question becomes not can I do it? but rather, what is God calling me to?

I don't need to know what I'll be doing in ten years. I don't need to plan out the rest of my life. Indeed, I can't. What I need to do is learn to recognize God's leading, and train myself to follow it the moment I hear. If I learn to do that, I can't lose. More and more, I believe it's actually possible. And slowly, I'm getting there.

Trusting God, and following Him moment by moment: this is the foundation of life.

Viva.

Friday, August 10, 2007

Hood cat


I back out my car, and Shadow doesn't seem to mind. He runs, though, as soon as i start moving forward.

Wednesday, July 25, 2007

Lookalikes?

Whether you think they look anything like me or not, this has gotta be one of the most bizarre groupings of people I've ever seen.



So, it turns out I'm visually a cross between Neo and the Unabomber.

Guh?

Saturday, July 14, 2007

I'm imagining a frantic, and very funny call for help: "where are you, sir?" / "THE CRAPPER!"

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Station 523 is active.

Life update: I've gone from living on my own in apartment 30, to rooming with Cody in apartment 50. Contact me for the rest of the address, if you like.

Tuesday, March 27, 2007

Cheering section

A little personal insight: I have very low expectations of myself.

God doesn't.

Two obvious facts that still seem like a revelation when you set them right out in the open. Which means I'm supposed to do something about them. I have some basic ideas to learn about my own responsibilities, to whom I am actually responsible, and how important my life really is. Not just to me.

Funny thing is, I have pretty high expectations of other people. I'm more optimistic, more hopeful. I expect them to thrive. My Christian friends, especially. An uphill battle though it may be, I expect them to fight well, and stay on the narrow path. My outlook for myself is more bleak. I expect to be stuck in the same nonsense for years to come.

Most often, that's not what I'd say out loud, or even think consciously. It's just that, perhaps, I've come to accept certain failings within myself, and started to think of them as part of the landscape. I don't think of habitual sins as temporary. I fail to recognize that they can be overcome.

Just because humanity is imperfect doesn't mean we can't make progress. It's possible. In fact, living in close proximity to God, there's hardly a choice.

I am always His student. But what I often miss is the fact that I am first and foremost His student. I should always be learning. Growing in mastery. For our sensei, our sifu, always has another trick up His sleeve. As good as we can get, He is always better. And He expects us to keep up with Him.

Thus, we live by grace, and we study the master. We imitate, emulate. We let His heart work in ours. And we never stop studying, or improving.

High expectations. Higher every day.

All this is said assuming God's love. He's crazy about us. When we stumble, He loves us. When we want to quit, He loves us. And when we push forward and train until we bleed, He still loves us.

Something (not just) to think about.

Monday, March 05, 2007

Barberism

My dear friend Brett Mynsted recently lost his father to cancer. In his honor, Brett is shaving his head for St. Baldrick's Foundation, which raises money to fight childhood cancer.

His site can be found here. Drop by, and consider donating to the shiny, bald cause.

Das Klown!

Beth was kind enough to draw this rendition of Zippy, this time in a more modern mode. I like it.

http://www.deviantart.com/deviation/50176612/

Saturday, January 06, 2007

God > everything

This morning, I was hit by Daniel 6:5.  A little background: at this point in his life, Daniel has seen at least two Babylonian kings on the throne, having himself been exiled from his homeland and sent to the royal palace to be trained as an advisor.  He's now been at this for a while, and his name is well-known in the court.  In fact, Daniel is the third highest official in Babylon, and Darius the Mede, the current king, is so impressed with him that he's thinking of promoting him even higher.

The other officials are less than pleased, and they start a conspiracy to bring Daniel down.  Problem is, Daniel has such integrity that they can't dig up any dirt on him.  So, in verse 5, they realize this:

"We will never find any basis for charges against this man Daniel unless is has something to do with the law of his God."

After years  of being surrounded by decadence, in a position of power, Daniel's only political weak spot is that he worships God above the king.  And the people around him know it.

That inspires me.  I want to live the kind of life that says, what that guy cares about, above all else, is what God wants.  To be that kind of example... man.

In case you're wondering, the conspiracy works.  In a way.  Read the rest of Daniel 6 for one of the coolest stories in the Old Testament.

Monday, December 25, 2006

and Omega.

His words will be full of ancient wisdom and boundless mercy.
But first,
he must learn to speak.

He shall strain against His cross, carrying up to Golgotha all our burdens.
But first,
he much learn to walk.

He shall live a perfect life, and die a perfect sacrifice.
Bur first,
he must be born.

One day, He shall cry out
"It is finished!"
and it shall be true.

But on this day,
this Christmas Day,
it begins.


Merry Christmas, one and all.

I have also reposted a certain Christmas story I wrote a few years ago on Nightsawake. Please enjoy.

And may God's immeasurable grace be always before you.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

God sighting, 12.19.2006

At the Jplus Architects Christmas party, I  got $150 cash in a gift exchange.  A fifty dollar bill, and a hundred dollar bill.  I assumed God was giving me some extra money to cover expenses.

Since my car had recently been stolen, it wasn't as easy to get down to the back to make a deposit.  So I didn't.  The money sat in an envelope on my desk for several days.  One evening, I finally put it in my wallet, intending to deposit it when I next stepped out to run errands.  Never quite made it to the bank, and in my wallet it stayed.

I made a small purchace at a local store, and asked if they could break a hundred.  Nope.  Oh, well.  Just checking.  Various other little expenses came up, and the fifty slowly disintegrated.  Easier to break.

Upon realizing one morning that I didn't have enough change to ride the bus, I stopped by the Schools Credit Union ATM on the ARC campus, to see if it would take my Wells Fargo card.  It did.  Got a twenty out, and wondered if I should go ahead and make the deposit from that ATM.  Uncertain of how that would work, I didn't.  The $100 bill sat in my wallet.

That day, a friend called me up.  Had an expense to cover, and the friend who had promised to loan him the money had fallen through.

He asked to borrow $100.

I smiled.

Monday, December 18, 2006

God, to the wretch

I thought this deserved a seperate post.  This verse came up in a conversation with my friend Jeremy, and I realized it fits in perfectly with my earlier post on self-loathing:

Godly sorrow brings repentance that leads to salvation and leaves no regret, but worldly sorrow brings death. See what this godly sorrow has produced in you: what earnestness, what eagerness to clear yourselves, what indignation, what alarm, what longing, what concern, what readiness to see justice done. At every point you have proved yourselves to be innocent in this matter.   -2 Corinthians 7:10-11 (emphasis mine)

If your conscience is bothering you, it's God speaking.  Take that guilt, and turn it toward repentance, and, having served its purpose, the guilt should by all means go away.

If you hate yourself, it's not God speaking.  Seek Him out, and He'll tell you.

Friday, December 15, 2006

The Juggler

"Do you know the difference between a jester and a clown?"

A trickle of blood dripped into Zippy's eye. He winced at the stinging pain, shaking his head and blinking rapidly. "Um... the clown's tied to a chair, and the jester's pacing back and forth, holding a knife?"

Arvhad halted in his tracks and threw Zippy a hard look. His left hand tossed and caught one of Zippy's throwing knives, casually. A heavy truck rumbled past the warehouse, awkward in the silence.

"I was referring to a more general sense," Arvhad said at last.

Zippy shook his head, leaning his head down. The blood dribbled, slowly and steadily, from the gash on his forehead to the concrete floor. The red, ink-like streak stood out starkly against Zippy's paper white skin.

"A jester," Arvhad began, resuming his pacing, "is a trusted advisor in disguise. He can say things to a king that no one else can. He can hide truth in jest, and say it straight into the king's ear. He has influence, but he wears a foolish mask."

"Or hat," Zippy smirked.

The bells on Arvhad's jester's cap rattled as he turned to his captive. "Precisely." Then, he took two swift steps forward and kicked Zippy in the chest. Zippy's breath left him in a whoosh as he tilted backwards, teetering past the point of balance and crashing to the floor. He flexed just in time to land on his elbows rather than his wrists. Bone-deep pain shot into his shoulders, and he clenched his teeth, straining against the zip-ties on his wrists and ankles.

"Now stop interrupting."

"Sorry. Please go on," Zippy wheezed.

The ratty black scarf hiding Arvhad's mouth shifted as he grinned, his eyes narrowing. "Thank you. So, a jester has influence on kings. A clown, however, has influence only on the handful of peasants that buy a ticket to the circus."

“See, I don't sell tickets, though,” Zippy said from the floor. He shifted his weight to avoid aggravating his bruises. “So I can reach a wider audience.”

“Very true,” said Arvhad, turning his pacing around the back of the chair. He stood over Zippy, looking upside down at his captive, still tossing and catching the dagger. Then, he stopped. Slowly, Arvhad shifted the dagger in his gloved hand, pinching the grip between his thumb and forefinger. He stretched out his arm, dangling the knife above his head, over the bridge of Zippy's nose. Zippy's eyes locked on the point of the blade.

“Perhaps,” said Arvhad, “you're more of a daredevil with clown makeup.”

Zippy's eyes never left the dagger. “Uh... maybe.”

“There are two things I associate with a daredevil, Zippy. The need to impress people...” Arvhad's hand drifted back and forth, the knife swiveling in his loose grip. “...and a death wish.” And as he said the words, he looked up from his captive, spread his fingers wide, and let go.

Zippy darted his head to the right, scooting the chair inches to the side. The dagger landed point-first, digging a chip from the concrete and clattering onto the floor. Arvhad looked down, unsurprised, as the dagger landed. Twisting his neck, Zippy could see the knife laying a few inches from his eye. He found himself breathing hard.

“And yet,” Arvhad was saying, “your survival instincts preserve you.”

Zippy craned his neck up, and could only barely see the jester. “I get a lot of practice.” His voice was unsteady when he spoke.

“Exactly. Exactly my point.” Arvhad folded his hands neatly in front of him and stared back at the clown. “Your life is in near-constant danger, because of choices you yourself make.”

“I...” Zippy realized he was breathing even harder, through gritted teeth. Angry, and getting angrier at the sound of the jester's voice. Shut up, he thought.

Arvhad turned as though he was about to start pacing again, then paused. He looked back toward his captive, clearly grinning behind his scarf. “It makes me wonder....”

Zippy's pulse raced. He looked over at the knife, and a thought occurred to him. He flexed his arms.

“My question is this,” said Arvhad, leaning forward subtly. “Why, O Razorclown, do you want to die so badly?”

The surge in adrenaline served him well. With a hard shove of his hands and a kick of his bound legs, Zippy rolled himself backwards, thrusting with his neck and shoulders to propel him over. He landed hard on his knees, gritting his teeth with the pain. Arvhad only had time to take a single running step before Zippy popped his hips. He rolled, chair and all, over his left shoulder, in perfect position for one hand up snatch up knife as he bowled into Arvhad's shins.

The jester toppled over the chair and landed hard on the blood-slick floor. Zippy rolled to a stop on his side, but only long enough to spin the knife in his fingers and saw twice at his bonds, cutting free his hands. Arvhad regained his feet and looked up just as Zippy, snarling with animal rage, with his ankles still bound to the chair, crouched on the toes of his boots and leapt forward, arms outstretched. The Razorclown's tackle drove Arvhad to the cold slab, stealing his wind. A loud jangle hit the air as the jester's head smashed against the concrete.

It was the last sound Arvhad heard before the blackness.

* * *

“Sir!” Kenzo was kneeling next to him.

Arvhad sat up sharply, and immediately saw spots. He clutched his head, blood-encrusted and sore at the back. “Nnn. Where is he?”

“The Razorclown, sir? Escaped. Jumped across the roofs.”

Arvhad stood, scooping up his hat and replacing it carefully on his head, covering his short blond hair. “Right. Who tied him up?”

“Sir, he-”

“Initially.”

“Oh, yes.” Kenzo thought for a moment, frowning. “Rocco.”

“Teach him how to restrain someone properly. Then have him train the rest of the men.” He looked over at the group of thugs just returning from their failed chase. Arvhad took a single, deep breath, then reached down and grabbed the chair, setting it upright. Calmly, he said to the men, “Get to your secondary assignments for the night. Training session later this week. Go.” And they went.

Kenzo sighed. “You want some guys after him?”

Gingerly, Arvhad touched the back of his head, wincing very slightly at the pain. “No. No, not tonight. May as well give him some time to stew.” The hidden smile came to his face again. “I touched a nerve.” He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket, and removed a small digital recorder. He pushed the button.

“Profile update. Zippy the Razorclown. Physically stronger and more capable even than expected. Aggressive response when probed about death wish. Given his background, likely candidate for childhood abuse... or... a-ha.

“Survivor's guilt.”
 

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Wretch.

Sometimes, I seriously hate myself.

I say this because, for one, it's the truth. It doesn't take much for me to get down on myself. One mistake, whether it's a minor verbal slip or a major lapse in judgment, and I'm growling at myself inwardly. When I give my best effort, and it isn't enough - or worse, my best effort only makes the situation worse - I want to punish myself for being such a screw-up.

The main reason I say this is because I've seen several of my friends post similar comments on their blogs, and I want them to know they're not alone. Not by far.

I have a lot to learn about how to love myself, particularly being able to forgive myself for mistakes. God is teaching me, and I'm slowly learning. It's not easy. As it turns out, there's a reason we sing Amazing Grace. The title of the song isn't "Well-Earned Grace." No such thing. It's amazing that God dispenses his grace to us, even though we mess up so very often.

Here's my problem: I focus so much on the "amazing" part, I miss the essence. Grace.

"Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous man, though for a good man someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us." -Paul, Romans 5:7-8

I do God a grave disservice by beating up on myself. The only place for guilt and shame in my life is as an indicator that it's time to repent. That's it. Learn, turn, and move on.

God's love is greater than my failings. In him, I have hope to learn from my errors and grow beyond my own miniscule power.

I'll be praying. That our attitudes toward ourselves won't hold us back. That our anger toward ourselves will be momentary and constructive. And that God himself will show us a love greater than our mistakes.

How sweet the sound.

Tuesday, November 14, 2006

Upcoming Releases (updated)

I'm excited. Today, I recorded my addition to the Pipeline Devotions podcast: a reading of the devotional I wrote for the Pipeline MySpace page. If you're interested, follow the link above and look for the episode entitled "The Purpose of Religion." Don't miss the other good stuff there, too.

Update: My devotioal is up on the Pipeline Devotions podcast! Follow the link above to subscribe, or just download individual episodes. All of this is free.

If you're listening to the podcasts, please also take the time to leave comments in the iTunes Music Store. Just navigate to the podcast's site in the store, and scroll down until you see "Customer Reviews." Click the little arrow to add your own feedback.

Saturday, November 11, 2006

The Razorclown Returns

Brainstorm:

[something with Zippy. setting?
(medieval/fantasy) (modern/urban fantasy) (futuristic/cyberpunk)
maybe a series of short stories of his different incarnations. that could be cool. but where to start? at the beginning, surely. so, fantasy it is.
doing what?
start en medias res. that's more fun than not.
but still, what's he doing? ooh! got one. fighting a dracolich and its zombie minions. and he takes it out with [edit for suspense]. heh.
probably wanna start with him in midair. having been whacked? dodging?
how long has he been fighting? i'm seeing it underground. that could work. ooh! a tomb with a big central chamber. perfect.

game on.]


Okay. No sword. No magic carpet. A few knives, a few dried herring, ten flasks of lamp oil, and the Gloves of Fish Ignition. And no one knows I'm here.

He lowered his shoulder, ramming past the shambling corpse blocking the narrow walk. A cloud of dust and dried skin puffed from the zombie as it spun about and tumbled stiffly over the edge. Zombies everywhere... Zippy shuddered and checked over his right shoulder, the path before him clear for ten paces. He squeaked and dived onto his stomach. The colossal, rotting claws swept over his head, scraping deep grooves in the stone wall behind him.

And that thing.

The dracolich roared in frustration, lurching forward to attack again. "Die, you accursed clown!"

"No!" Zippy shouted back. The undead dragon's half-decayed talons swept down from overhead, and he had half an instant to consider. And as he contemplated the thirty foot drop to the solid rock below, his instincts rolled him over and off the edge of the catwalk. The dracolich knocked a five-foot section of the wooden walkway into splinters, and Zippy spun sharply about in midair, raising an arm as the dragon's arm slammed into him. Zippy's head jerked hard, glancing of the monster's exposed bone. His vision sparking and his arm numb from the impact, he smashed against the dracolich's thigh and dropped the remaining ten feet to the ground, feet down. Expertly, the tucked and rolled, snapping back up to his feet and looking up at his enemy. His eyes blurred and the room swirled.

Naw, it's not worth the risk
, he decided three seconds too late.
The dracolich swung its gray-black head about, looking for its quarry. Dizzily, Zippy realized he had landed in a crowd of undead. No fewer than eight zombies stumbled toward him, dead arms outstretched. He shook his head, and only got dizzier.

The dracolich caught sight of him, and the two locked eyes.

Probably should have planned a little better, he thought for the thousandth time.

Even as he thought it, a zombie latched on to his backpack from behind. Zippy tugged, and its grip held firm.

"Perhaps you should have thought ahead, fool," the dracolich rumbled, smiling a jagged, malevolent smile.

"I was just thinking the - oh, no," Zippy said as he saw the dragon's mouth open wide, its head driving down for the fatal chomp. For the merest fraction of a moment, Zippy froze. Then, he swung his arms back and lunged forward, leaping out of his backpack's straps. The dracolich snapped shut its jaws, catching only the zombie and the backpack.

Zippy rolled over his right shoulder, springing back to a low, ready stance. The remaining zombies slowly turned toward him, and the dracolich whipped its reptile head about to face him, a broken shin bone protruding from its mouth. It ground its carnivore teeth together once, and, staring straight at Zippy, swallowed its mouthful.

To the dracolich's amazement, the clown's jaw dropped - not in fear, but in delight. "Wow," Zippy said, lifting one leather-gloved hand. "Thanks." And he snapped his fingers.

~


The Razorclown grinned and grabbed another biscuit, stuffing the entire pastry in his mouth. The barmaids waited as he chewed, eager to hear the rest of the story. After half a minute of chewing, he took a swig of coffee from his tankard and gulped down the lot. He turned back to his audience, smiling.

Silence.

"...what?" he asked.

"Well?" the farmer in the corner said. "How'd you beat the dragon?"

"I told you! I snapped my fingers!" Zippy said, holding up his hand. He wore leather gloves with the middle finger and the thumb cut off, along with an open patch on the palm. Emblazoned on the back was a curious design of a flaming fish with Xs for eyes.

The barkeep snapped his fingers. "There! I done the same! Sure ain't killed me no zombie dragon!"

Zippy shook his head. "Oh, simple townsfolk. Don't you remember? It ate my backpack!"

Silence.

"...which was full of fish..."

A gasp from the dark-haired barmaid, who nearly spilled the mug she was carrying. "And lamp oil!"

Zippy clapped his hands and pointed to her. "Someone buy her a cookie!"

The farmer in the back got it, and burst into racous laughter.

The barkeep lifted an eyebrow at Zippy, and finally, the Razorclown caved. He reached into his new backpack and pulled out a small salted fish with one hand. The other he held up for all to see.

"Behold, the Gloves of Fish Ignition, my second..." he thought for a moment, "...yeah, second most prized possession. One snap of the fingers, and any fish... bursts into flame!" And he snapped. The herring in his opposite hand was instantly engulfed in blue fire, sizzling and popping with heat. Zippy calmly dropped the fish into a nearby mug of beer, which emitted a short burst of steam and a very unpleasant odor.

"Now," Zippy continued, dusting off his hands, "What happens when ten flasks of lamp oil are suddenly ignited by ten pickled herring in a dracolich's throat?"

The laughter had already begun. The light-haired barmaid lifted a fair eyebrow, smirking. "You don't mean..."

"Yup." Zippy smirked back.

~


The dracolich barely had time to register its surprise before its head was propelled forcefully from its neck. Zippy yelped and leapt to the side as the smoking skull hurtled past him, crashing into the wall with an echoing crack! He looked back to see the dracolich's dead left eye staring at him. A glutteral sound escaped, somehow, from its mouth, and the head crumbled to dust. The dracolich's decapitated body fell to the stone floor, disintegrating on impact. A collective moan filled the cavern as the entire throng of zombies collapsed, the unclean magic animating them dispelled by the death of the caster.

Zippy stood still for a moment, surrounded by dust and corpses. The echoes faded, and the catacomb was silent.

Maybe, he thought, this story will get me some free goodies at the tavern.

He sneezed at the dust.

Wednesday, November 08, 2006

Behold!

What? A post? How is that possible?

Big news. The college group at my church has begun a podcast. I'm excited.

Check it out in the iTunes Music Store. Search for "Pipeline Ministries," and you'll find one with a black logo with little red stars. That's us. It's free, and full of good content: daily devotionals, mini-messages, and the lesson from that week's Sunday's Cool (don't blame me. i didn't name it).

Also, for more devotionals (some written by myself), audio and Pipeline news, check out our MySpace page. We're putting that blasted social networking site to good use!

Expect more soon on this particular site. Apparently, I'm supposed to be writing.

Thursday, April 27, 2006

A song isn’t just a song when it’s attached to a story.

People didn’t think of that when the first exiles arrived. They didn’t have much with them – didn’t have time to get anything together. We’d heard stories of how rich they were. How much money they spent on things they didn’t even need. “They’re fat and lazy,” my brother-in-law said once, “and they don’t even work for it.”

They definitely worked hard when they got to the city. Within the first two days, one family had a fruit stand up and running. I found out later that my aunt helped them find an old farmer to work with, a guy who needed help getting to the city and back. For the wage they got, they were doing him a favor.

I stopped by the fruit stand that first morning on the way to work. Bought an orange. Two things I’ll always remember about that first time I talked to them: one, the look on the mother’s face. I looked her in the eye as she handed me my change, and I could tell that she had been crying. But she smiled at me all the same, and wished me a good day.

Second, they were playing the radio.

Seemed like every time I went by a group of exiles, the radio was going. Our stations played their music a lot. It was more popular then than it is now. So they listened constantly. It’s like they drank it in, like they needed it. Once I saw an exile kid wearing these little headphones, and trying to hide something in his pocket, but he kept fiddling with it. It was one of those little pocket radios, an MP3. One of the guys from my work saw him and asked him what he had, and he took off.

I was walking back from work two weeks after the first exiles arrived, and the younger sister was running the fruit stand. Little brother was unloading crates of berries from the old farmer’s truck. She looked at me when I walked up, and tried to smile, but then, out of nowhere, she just broke down and started weeping. Mom rushed out and tried to calm her down, and then she was crying too. And then I realize, the song was playing on the radio.

I’d seen it happen before. That stupid song comes on, the one with the whiny girl singing about how bad she wants some guy back, the one with the thumpy bass and the annoying synth noises, and the exiles just break down. They can’t handle it. We made fun of them for it.

I had to know. “What is it,” I asked, “about that song?”

They both looked at me, for a moment, like they were going to come across the counter and strangle me. Then they realized that I just didn’t know. Mom put her arm around her daughter and looked me in the eye. Her voice was steady enough that I could understand her through her accent.

She said, “That song was playing when the city fell.”

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

I really enjoy putting together playlists. Something about establishing a mood with music, then elaborating on it. There's an element of storytelling there for me - I get a lot of story ideas while listening to music, and I always visualize action to go with a song.

Here's a CD I put together recently. I looked through my collection for different shades of alternative rock and assembled them into something of a flow. Expect other playlists in the future. But for tonight, DJ Razorclown presents:

One Alternative or Another

1) Akira Ymaoka, "I Want Love"
   from The Silent Hill 3 Official Soundtrack

2) Prime STH, "On the Inside"
   from Underneath the Surface

3) Bush, "Jesus Online"
   from The Science of Things

4) Switchfoot, "This is Your Life"
   from The Beautiful Letdown

5) The Wallflowers, "One Headlight"
   from Bringing Down the Horse

6) Maroon 5, "Harder to Breathe"
   from Songs About Jane

7) Green Day, Oasis, et. al., "Boulevard of Broken Songs"
   from www.partyben.com

8) Foo Fighters, "New Way Home"
   from The Colour and the Shape

9) Imani Coppola, "Legend of a Cowgirl"
   from Chupacabra

10) Incubus, "Stellar"
   from Make Yourself

11) Damien Jurado, "Ohio"
   from Rehearsals for Departure

12) Prime STH, "On the Inside"
   from Underneath the Surface

13) Stone Temple Pilots, "Trippin' on a Hole in a Paper Heart"
   from Thank You

14) Gorillaz, "5/4"
   from their self-titled CD

15) Fuel, "Walk the Sky"
   from Godzilla: The Album

16) The Refreshments, "Mekong"
   from Fizzy Fuzzy Big & Buzzy

17) Sarah McLachlan, "Possession (Live)"
   from Mirrorball

18) Bush, "Letting the Cables Sleep"
   from The Science of Things

19) Cold, "Sad Happy"
   from Year of the Spider

20) Akira Ymaoka, "I Want Love (Studio Mix)"
   from The Silent Hill 3 Original Soundtrack

Monday, April 10, 2006

For once, I have an excuse for not posting recently. Ironically enough, that reason is also a good occasion for a blog post. And thus, once again, I'm left without a defense.

I started working full-time at JPlus Architects last Tuesday. It's quite an adjustment to go from relative idleness to getting up at 6 am and working over eight hours... and loving it. My time feels more precious now, which I greatly appreciate. I know I've done something in a given day, though I have much to learn about my craft.

God continues to bless. Life is good.

More to come soon!

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

“You keep laughing at me,” she said, because I did. She was chuckling herself.

She had stories to tell, and I was glad to listen. She’d managed to pay for our coffee, as my female friends tended to do somehow, and there we sat - indoors in Adirondack chairs, tall coffee cups just short of spilling over. We’d last happened upon each other in the True Love Coffeehouse, not long before it evaporated. Even before then, it had been a while.

Kelly (her pseudonym for this post) and I had been friends in high school, and behold, we still were. She had lived in interesting, unforeseen ways since I last knew her well, and I struggled not to compare. I imagine myself to be an extraordinarily boring guy, when it comes right down to it, so I was more than content to listen. And as she told her stories, I laughed.

It always annoyed me in English class when irony was broken down and defined as juxtaposition: when expectation and reality are far removed from each other. But with Kelly and me, this was exactly the case. Our lives are completely dissimilar. The fact that we’re friends at all kind of baffles me, but I love it.

So, I laughed. And thankfully, she didn’t seem to mind. I hope she actually didn’t.

When she asked me what I’d been up to, I was fairly embarrassed to describe my life for the past couple of years. Whereas she has been working in politics, making contacts and advancing her career, I’ve been… well, certainly not doing that. Only recently have I found full time work, and that through a full-on conspiracy of the Holy Spirit. No kidding. The circumstances surrounding my employment are miraculous in their timing.

We talked about the times. About the various choices and circumstances that lead so many of our generation back to their parents’ houses (as I myself have done). About politics and economics. Briefly, about elephant tattoos. And we talked about old friends we had and hadn’t seen. More stories there, some wonderful, some downright depressing.

Eventually, we said goodbye for the evening. I waited for her to pull out of the narrow parking lot before I backed out of my space, still smiling. It had been a while since I had sat down and had a cup of coffee with an old friend, let alone Kelly. For all the nostalgia, the evening felt somehow new.

I worked an eight-hour day for the first time in a long time today. And I saw a dear friend I hadn’t caught up with in years.

There is a momentum shift at work in my life. I feel in plainly now. And I love it.

Praise God! who makes living worthwhile. Amen.

Thursday, March 30, 2006

Here’s the difference.

Man-made gods tend not to make too many demands (not always true, mind you, but a strong tendency nonetheless). Quite the other way around. It’s man that goes to the idol with demands, and sacrifices to appease. A little blood to grease the wheels, to keep the days carefree and the crops coming in. If things get tough, throw more blood on the altar. And if things don’t improve, maybe it’s time to find a new idol.

“When Jesus had finished saying these things, the crowds were amazed at his teaching, because he taught as one who had authority, and not as their teachers of the law.” –Matthew 7:28-29

Jesus, on the other hand, sets standards. Draws lines. He makes demands. He says he doesn’t want sacrifices, but obedience. As it turns out, he knows our hearts, our intentions… so we can’t appease him. We can’t get away with giving him lip service, because he knows when it’s just lip service.

Idols get any power they might have from belief. If no one worships them, they’re just another ugly little sculpture. This is not true of Jesus. He does not need anything. He is the author of the universe, and that will never change, no matter what we believe.

Yet, even though he does not need us, he loves us. To the point of death, and beyond, to life again. No graven image can claim that.

The difference is, Jesus is worthy of worship. Man-made gods are not.

Apparently, this is not as obvious as it should be.

Wednesday, March 29, 2006

I'm back.

Or, as Drake would say: "FINALLY! The Rock... eh, Brian... has come back to Sacramento!"

I'm currently staying at Mum's, in order to save up cash for a few months and then find a place to live.

For my new phone number, please contact me through e-mail (found on my Blogger profile), MySpace, or what have you.

Woot.

Thursday, March 09, 2006

I've posted a short prose poem at Nights Awake 2.0.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

On the WWE website is a little section called Foley is Blog. As it turns out, Mick Foley (see also his profile on WWE.com) is an excellent writer, and something of a humanitarian. I found the February 22nd entry to be particularly inspiring, and wanted to point it out. The entire entry is good, but check out the section under the heading Herma Grace.

Wednesday, February 15, 2006

I found this on Liesel's blog, and was intrigued. I've always been curious about what people really think of me. Not an uncommon thought, I'm sure. But this is an interesting device to discover just that.

Behold. The Interactive Johari Window and its counterpart, The Interactive Nohari Window.

If you decide to participate, perhaps the use of a nondescript, anonymous pseudonym would be in order. Something like "X1," so the next person can take "X2." That way, there will be no reservations about being totally honest. Just a thought.

Wednesday, January 25, 2006

I've made a couple posts over at Nightsawake 2.0. Be thou informed.

Also, I'm greatly enjoying Mark Buchanan's Your God is Too Safe, a well-put-together treatise on how wild, dangerous, and loving God really is. He is, you know. Thanks, Mum. Good Christmas gift.

And finally, Amanda has introduced me to a softer world, a very artful project indeed. Please, browse the archives and find your favorites.

Tuesday, January 24, 2006

I remember being advised to stay within the lines when I was coloring as a child. It’s not like anyone was trying to limit my creativity; it’s just that if you don’t stay within the lines, the picture is totally incoherent at the end. The lines blur under patches of color, and the image becomes something else.

Today, we in the modern West are presented with an increasingly abstract image. Long-familiar lines have become blurred and obscured.

The line between life and death – should it not be clear? – is disturbingly ambiguous. Medical technology permits us to prolong a failing pulse… indefinitely? How alive is the comatose woman, devastated by a car accident a decade ago, sustained only by life support? And who decides when to turn off the machines? Somewhere, there is a line between life and unlife, but where? As a nation, we still cannot agree on whether a pregnant mother carries within her an unborn child, or merely a fetus. The difference cannot be overemphasized.

Gender lines have been drawn and redrawn. A thousand maps exist, a thousand theories on who is who and why. I told a friend that I’d never met a transgender person, and she told me that I had, naming them. That, I realized, was why I’d had a problem figuring out whether they were male or female: they were in-between. Even for those who remain in their natural sex, gender roles are continually rejected and recast. Homosexuality moves into the mainstream, and the questions continue to pile up. What happens to parenting, or romance, or family, when male and female are all but interchangeable?

The private blurs more and more into the public. People worry about the prevalence of surveillance technology, the constant monitoring and tracking of their day to day lives. They then proceed to post deeply personal information – thoughts, gripes, vendettas – on the Internet. (I am sharply aware that this blog is accessible by a startling number of people throughout the world, but it seems that many bloggers are not.) While on the Internet, they can easily find descriptions, pictures, and video of the most explicit and intimate personal acts imaginable. Sex and more. This trend is reflected not only in the dark (and light) corners of the Internet, but in practically every other form of mass media. Is it permissiveness, or openness?

Truth and falsehood slip increasingly into obscurity. Spiritual beliefs have been assigned their own corner of reality: they cannot be right or wrong. Everyone believes what they believe, and everyone is right. Even if their beliefs contradict. I posed this question to a friend: if she didn’t believe in trucks, would she die if a truck hit her? “No,” she said. I hope she was an extreme example.

Change is afoot.

And the price? Confusion, at least, and on any number of levels. Loss of innocence. Some of our social experiments, I think, shall fail. All that remains to be seen is which, and how badly. Some, however will be great boons to society. I am cautiously optimistic about the advent of the blog, and the idea of bringing wide scale publishing to the masses. I think a certain level of openness on the subject of sexuality is quite healthy.

But when I read in the first chapter of Genesis about the Earth being formless and covered in darkness, I think of a world with no lines, no boundaries. Everything is permitted, supposedly. But the Holy Spirit still hovers over the face of the waters, eagerly awaiting the day when the darkness will be utterly removed, and the lines that have always been there will be undeniably clear.

Because in the end, some lines cannot be erased by man.

Wednesday, January 11, 2006

Every so often, there's a survey or somesuch making the blogging rounds that's worthwhile. The following is a list of questions you ask a music player set on random. Given my extensive iTunes playlist, I had to give it a shot.

In the end, it seems that iTunes is generally a poor oracle. I hope.

Here goes.

~ ~ ~


Q: What do you think of me, iTunes?
A: “A Stray Child” by Akira Ymaoka, from the Silent Hill 3 Official Soundtrack

Either I’m a street urchin, or I’m doomed to whack horrid abominations with a lead pipe. Cool.


Q: Will I have a happy life?
A: “Skyway” by the Replacements

Hmm. The song is about an imaginary transportation system. This does not bode well. And the girl gets away.

Q: What do my friends really think of me?
A: “P5hng Me A*wy” by Mike Shinoda and Stephen Richards, a remix of “Pushing Me Away” on Linkin Park’s Reanimated.

Oh, grand.


Q: Do people secretly lust after me?
A: “Tonight” by the Orange County Supertones

A song about the end of the world. So, maybe if I were the last man on Earth.

Q: What does [insert significant other] think of me?
A: “Technicolor Jackets” by Blood Has Been Shed

Whoa. A hardcore rock song. Whatever they feel, apparently they feel it strongly. The lyrics suggest that I have a lot to learn. About… something.

Q: How can I make myself happy?
A: “Stalker Goes to Babylon” by the Pillows

*laughter unto death*

Q: What should I do with my life?
A: “Good King Joy” by Trans-Siberian Orchestra, a medley of “Joy to the World,” “Good King Wenceslas,” and some blues action.

Make a joyful noise. On it.

Q: Why must life be so full of pain?
A: Track 2 on Nick Cates’ “Jesus Songs”

Amen. Heh. Y’all gotta hear Nick’s stuff. Ask me about Track 4 sometime.

Q: How can I maximize my pleasure during sex? (hey, it was on the list.)
A: “Until It Sleeps” by Metallica and the San Francisco Orchestra

*fighting back chuckles* Note not only the name of the song, but the fact that it’s fom a CD called S&M.

Q: Will I ever have children?
A: “H.” by Tool

If that’s the case, I hope not. Yeesh.

Q: Will I die happy?
A: “Prayer” by Disturbed

A resounding no.

Q: Can you give me some advice?
A: “Battle, Scene II” by the Black Mages

Cool. I’ll get my sword.

Q: Do you know where your children are?
A: “Ghost Love Score” by Nightwish

…kids! Time to come inside! KIDS? Uh, oh.
Good think I have my sword.


Q: What do you think happiness is?
A: “Sad Happy” by Cold

Dang, iTunes. You okay?

Q: What's your favorite fetish?
A: “Death Star Canteen” by Eddy Izzard

Turn-ons: Black plastic armor, asthma. (A Drake running gag.)

Thursday, December 29, 2005

For me, every day is Christmas. Though the official feast day has passed, Jesus continues to invade.

Today, a repost of a story I composed and put up last year. I hope it will remind you of miracles.

The First Noel, 2004


    The Hanukkah travel rush was over, and Bethlehem was quiet again. Hence, the corner where Ben Simon worked the graveyard shift hadn’t seen a car pass in ten minutes. He looked up from his English textbook and peered across the street, to the small booth where his friend Isaiah worked. They had both gotten late-night jobs at gas stations at about the same time, and frequently used faux company loyalty as an excuse to pick on each other. Diagonally across the intersection from Ben was a third gas station manned by Mordecai Steinberg. While Ben and Isaiah had the occasional squeegee fight in the middle of the empty road, Mo usually stuck to his booth dutifully, reading the Torah.

    Tonight was too cold for squeegee fighting, and the batteries had just run out in Ben’s Game Boy. His parents were mad at him for working on the Sabbath, and he had homework due on Monday.

    Ben was all but dozing off when someone knocked on his Plexiglas window. He started and sat up on his shop stool.

    “Sorry. What do you need?” Ben rubbed one eye with his palm as he looked up.

    Outside the window stood a young woman wearing a military dress uniform. She was all straight lines – vertical spine, squared shoulders, and perfect uniform creases. And yet her face was gentle, hinting at a smile. Ben had no doubt she could take him apart in a hand-to-hand fight, and no one would make fun of him for getting beaten up by a girl afterwards.

    Her eyes grabbed his, very pale and very clear, and she smiled. “What are you doing here?”

    All at once, the world burst open. Light poured through the dingy windows of the gas station, and left no shadow. Ben Simon’s ears popped, his eyes widened, and he threw up his hands in terror. The woman outside the window threw light like a pure white sun, her smile only growing wider.

    “Don’t be afraid!” she whispered to Ben. “I bring good news. The best news the world has ever heard. An hour ago, right here in Bethlehem, a Savior was born. The Messiah, Ben. Right here.”

    At her words, the fear began to drain away. Ben lowered his hands and looked at her. Her eyes were bright and full of joy, and they stole his breath away.

    The Messiah. Here.

    He found his breath, struggled to pull it in. “Wh-“

    “Not five blocks away. Down the street,” she said, lifting her arm to point, “you’ll find a newborn, wrapped in cloth. He’s in the laundry room of the hotel, lying in the sink.”

    Ben barely had time to picture the King of Kings in his makeshift cradle before the angel looked over her shoulder, laughing. A battalion of soldiers in the same uniform, burning brighter than the day, swept in on wings of gold and silver, filling the intersection and the surrounding streets. Their voices shook the walls of Ben’s booth as they shouted, “Hallelujah in the highest! Peace on Earth to the favored of God!” There voices were as joyous laughter, filled with love and zeal.

    The angel looked back to Ben, her wings unfolding like the sunrise. “Go, go!” she shouted giddily, and he lifted herself from the ground. Behind her followed the rest of the brilliant soldiers, shouting their chorus again and again. Moments later, the night was quiet again, and Ben could hear only his own riotous pulse. He stumbled out of his booth, staring at the sky, until he finally looked down to see Isaiah and Mordecai standing next to him.

    “You... you heard that. You saw it,” Ben stammered.

    “I know which hotel she meant,” Isaiah started, stealing glances at the stars. “We should... I mean, we’ve gotta- Mo! Wait!”

    Mordecai Steinberg had turned and run headlong back toward his gas station, pumping his arms like an Olympian. He spun about breathlessly and shouted back:

    “I’m getting my car! Don’t move!”

* * *


    “Fernando! Is it refreshing?”

    “Crap, I’ve got no bars. We hit a dead pocket... no! Wait, there it goes. What does it say?”

    “Turn around! Shaun, turn around!”

    The van halted sharply, and the young man and woman in the back braced themselves as best they could. Bina Zarafshar clutched at the notebook computer on her lap as the monitor swung forward and down. The cord running from the computer to their team’s cell phone snapped taught, and Bina caught her breath.

    “Ai!”

    Fernando noticed at the last second and pulled down his hand, slackening the cord. He chuckled nervously and sat down. “That was bad. Almost tugged it right off your lap.”

    “It’s okay. It’s fine. Wait. Did we-“

    “Yes, yes, we got dropped. But we’ve got good reception here. Good spot to reconnect.”

    Shaun parked the van and climbed into the back.

    “How close are we?”

    Bina looked to the chart. The latest data from the feed had been factored in, and the numbers were huge. Monumental.

    “Oh, we’re close.” She couldn’t help but laugh. They were almost on top of it. “Try turning right back at that last intersection.”

    Fernando nodded and grinned eagerly. “This is too good. Too good. You should redial now.”

    “Oh! Right.” Bina double-clicked the link to her ISP, and the cell phone began dialing. None of them considered the absurd charges they were racking up, connecting to the Internet through an international call. The signal shot through the atmosphere, and a few moments later, the connection was up again.

    “Good,” said Shaun. “You let me know if we get dropped again, okay?” His eyes grinned every bit as much as his mouth. He hopped back into the driver’s seat.

    “Of course. Just brake easier!” Bina looked back to her screen. She logged back into the University network, and the feed began again. “All right, we’re receiving data... yes, definitely turn right back at that intersection. The stream was almost off the chart right there.”

    “Let me see,” Fernando said, leaning in to see the screen. Bina turned it toward him, and he laughed aloud. The graph, which read “Divine Particle Density,” showed a spike in an already remarkably high, steady level at about the time they had passed the intersection.

    “When we show this to the Nobel committee,” Fernando smirked, “do you think they’ll mind the name ‘divine particle?’”

    “It’s as good a name as any for what they are,” Shaun shouted from the front, putting the van back in gear. He swung the vehicle around as fast as he dared and headed back along the road. “Tell me the convergence hasn’t moved.”

    Bina shouted back, “No, it hasn’t moved for hours! And it has to be in this town... where are we?”

    “Bethlehem!”

    “No, what country?”

    They all laughed. For all they sleep they had gotten in the past week of tracking and traveling, they should have been exhausted. But sleep was far from their minds.

* * *


    No one was doing laundry this late, thankfully. There was a slight draft from under the door, but other than that, the room was warm enough. Joseph leaned on the wall by the sink, sleeves rolled up, looking down at his son. He hadn’t stopped grinning for hours. He couldn’t help but think that there was a better place to put him, but he had dried out the basin well enough. And besides, the child had been sleeping peacefully since the doctor had left.

    Joseph sighed happily and threw a glance at Mary, who stirred on her cot. A few thin, dark curls still stuck to her wet forehead, and her face was still ever so slightly flushed. Joseph knelt by her side, by his wife’s side, and let himself just stare at her face. Her mouth was barely open, her breath steady and calm. A nice change of pace from... had it only been an hour ago? He shook his head in awe and smoothed Mary’s hair back from her face.

    “My God,” he breathed, “you’re amazing.”

    Her breath drew in sharply, and her eyes flickered open.

    “Oh! Did I wake you up? I’m sorry...”

    “No, no, it’s okay,” she said sleepily, squinting her eyes and stretching. “Is the baby still...”

    Joseph nodded. “Yeah. Still asleep in the... sink.” He chuckled despite himself.

    Mary smirked, shaking her head from her prone position. “The sink. Oi.” She slipped her hand into her husband’s, catching his eye. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

    Joseph squeezed her hand and held her gaze. He merely nodded, and leaned in to kiss her.

    It was then that the doorknob turned. The couple looked up sharply as a young man poked his head into the room.

    “Hello?” he said.

    “Hello,” Mary replied. There was suddenly no sleep in her voice, and she sat up on her cot.

    The young man was jostled forward by someone behind him. He stepped through the door, and two other teenagers followed, all scanning the room expectantly. They all wore blue uniforms with the logos of three different gas stations on their breast pockets. Their eyes settled on the sink in the corner at the same time. The one in the back gasped. “Is that... is the baby...?”

    Joseph threw his wife a confused look, and found her doing the same. “How do you...”

    “This way! It’s got to be right here!” came a woman’s voice from outside, speaking English.

    A moment later, three Americans burst into the laundry room, carrying a laptop hooked up to a cellular phone. They all wore wrinkled, lived-in shirts and jeans, and were watching the screen of the laptop with awe in their eyes. The only light-skinned one of the three, who had nothing in his hands, looked urgently to all those assembled in the small room.

    “Please, tell me one of you speaks English.”

     The three gas station attendants, Mary, and Joseph, all began speaking at the same time, in English.

    “Oh, thank God. Look, there’s a completely unique quantum event happening in this room, right here! We’ve been tracking it from America for the last nine months, and... what is it?”

    Bina had set down the laptop and walked over to the sink, almost in step with Ben. Joseph took a step toward them, but Mary put a hand on his arm. The Jew and the gentile peered over the edge of the basin.

    And there, wrapped in three of his father’s old t-shirts, was the child, his breath whistling softly through his nose. If peace were a child, it could be none other than this. Ben’s breath caught in his throat, and Bina’s eyes lit up.

    “It’s him.”

    “It’s a child,” Bina gasped.

    Joseph breathed deeply, still uncertain. “How did you know we...?”

    And all at once, the rest of the new arrivals realized that they had found what they were seeking. Suddenly they were all laughing in delight. Ben knelt by the sink, eyes locked on the Anointed One. Shaun grabbed Fernando by the shoulders, tears in his eyes. “A child! Of course it’s a child!” He turned to Mary and Joseph to explain just as Mo Steinberg did the same, and they launched into their stories as one.

    “Wait, wait, wait!” It was Ben, who only now looked back up from the sink-turned-cradle. He held up a hand for silence, and turned reverently to Mary and Joseph. “What is his name?”

    Mary met his gaze, slowly beginning to smile again. “His name is Joshua.”

    They all took in the name in silence. Fernando grinned and nodded in approval. “Joshua. Jésus in Spanish. It means...” His voice trailed off.

    Mary nodded with him. “The Lord saves.”

Sunday, December 25, 2005

Christmas Morning

It's been decided.
For a change of pace,
it will be the stars
that will shine down
on God.