Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Saturday, August 18, 2007
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.
Monday, July 30, 2007
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?
So, it turns out I'm visually a cross between Neo and the Unabomber.
Guh?
Saturday, July 14, 2007
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.
Monday, June 11, 2007
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.
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.
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/
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
[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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)