The Perfect Words Never Crossed My Mind...

Arrogant Innocence...?

2012-01-30T04:23:00.000-08:00

I stumbled upon this quote in Snow this afternoon:

There are two kinds of Communists: the arrogant ones, who enter the fray hoping to make men out of the people and bring progress to the nation; and the innocent ones, who get involved because they believe in equality and justice. The arrogant ones are obsessed with power; they presume to think for everyone; only bad can come of them. But the innocents? The only harm they do is to themselves. But that's all they ever wanted in the first place. They feel so guilty about the suffering of the poor , and are so keen to share it, that they make their lives miserable on purpose.

What an accurate quote.

Or is it?

The complete dichotomization of the two types is revealed well in history. We see the arrogant Communist leaders bent on progress to the point where the people become exploited and oppressed. We see the innocent Communist dreamers who believe in the words and ideas, and still defend Marx's ideas as unrealized in our history.

However, the quote leaves me wanting more. More substance, more nuance. It states that only arrogant Communists, who do not uphold, or even believe in, equality and justice, are the only ones who bring progress to their nations. This is problematic because innocent idealists can also bring progress to their nation - after all, Hoover lead the U.S. through World War I - and because in this quote, that the arrogant power-hungry men are Communists. These men are not Communists at all.

There is a line drawn here which connects the innocent and the masochistic. Innocence is equated with an inherent desire to live in suffering. I think the innocent yearn to empathize with the suffering - not to suffer to a point beyond hope themselves. People who believe in equality and justice above all do not want to bring themselves down to the level of the most impoverished sufferers, they want to bring those who are suffering out of their depravity and into some sort of harmony.

Right?

Or is the hope of true equality naïve to the fact that the only way humanity will ever be equal is in its ability to sin and its ability to suffer?

Yikes.

I like to believe that we are capable of bringing a morale and hope-filled equality that is based on Reason, Rights, and Righteousness. Does that make me an innocent Communist?

Which is my final problem with this excellent, thought-provoking quote. Both types of Communists defined here are capable of bringing nothing but pain to the world.

Let's remove the label Communists.

It's quite understandable that arrogant men who want nothing more than power will not bring good to their constituents, or the world. But to declare that innocent men who believe in equality and justice are only capable of bringing harm to themselves and creating suffering? I have a hard time buying that.

Maybe that makes me an innocent who believes in equality and justice.

But what does that make me?

Cause I Need You To Look Into Mine...

2012-01-29T02:04:00.000-08:00

We have some pretty awesome students on this trip.

Below is a video shot and edited by one of them, Keaton Hudson.

He did an awesome job.

Westmont In Istanbul - First 2 weeks from Keaton Hudson on Vimeo.

Sorry for posting two links with the same song, but hey, I guess it means that somebody heard my words.

A Day in the Life...

2012-01-25T12:43:00.000-08:00

I didn't really have a good plan for my last day in Istanbul [we are traveling the country from January 22nd to February 3]. Except for fish-bread.

Well, that's the literal translation, anyway. Fish-breads, or Balık Ekmek, are actually Mackerel sandwiches that are made fresh on one bank of the Golden Horn. You grab the sandwich straight from the grill master, who grabbed it straight from the fisherman. It's a bit of an Istanbul institution. So, I was sure to get one before I was out of there.

I woke up after sleeping in late and walked about two miles along the Bosporus. Stumbled upon some old churches from the Ottoman period. Found some intriguing and fun street art. Went out the wrong way from the underground pedestrian crossing. Was mesmerized by the row of fisherman along the bridge. Had trouble deciding which sandwich boat to buy from. But finally, I got my fish-bread.

It was delicious.

But it was only 1 o-clock by now. I had a long day ahead, and no plans. Naturally, this leads a man to do the one thing he can do when he has time to burn in a city. I started walking.

I didn't make it far.

I headed down. To the lower level of the bridge. It's covered with restaurants and hawkers. It's fun. And surreal to have your view interrupted by lots of fishing lines connected to poles forty feet above you. As I was walking, I decided that "gosh darnit, a beer sounded great right about now". So I stopped by one of the restaurants and ordered an overpriced Efes.

It was delicious.

And what a scene! How great to sit and sip while many pass by. To practice my Turkish with the waiter, and laugh with him at tourist who walk quickly by his doors. Then, I noticed a younger man walk by with a very nice camera. He looked me in the eyes. There was a sense that he wanted a companion, but it wasn't strong enough for me to take out my earphone.

He didn't make it far.

Two minutes later he walked by again. He asked me if the food was any good. I said 'yes, but probably overpriced. Though I haven't seen a menu'. "Can I join you?" he asked.

"Absolutely, brother!" came my response. I think it surprised me as much as him.

And so began our four hour conversation. He is a Canadian-born Pakistani-by-descent recently Master's-thesis-defending political scientist. He specialized in international relations, especially regarding Pakistan. He is a hockey fan. He is trying to balance various methods of communication - seeing the benefits of interconnectedness, but missing the real relation and conversation in personal correspondence. He is a travel fiend, and adores seeing the Fallen Empires of long ago. He is extremely personally interested in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, but would call himself "pro-understanding" and struggles with bringing people together rather than perpetuating narratives. He is grappling with his religion - and his fellow believers - trying to fight against truth being twisted in ways that crush its inherent value, or his religion being manipulated to harm others.

Can you see why we got along so well?

I think I may have met my Islamic doppleganger.

I hope our paths cross again.

Days of the Future-Past...

2012-01-25T12:14:00.000-08:00

I gave the following devotion to the group of Friday.

Past - Future - Present

Past
Think back to that far way time: 2011. Remember yourself innocently. Think of where you were.

-You were home. Soaking up your last few days in America.

-You had no idea what you could get for just two Lira.

-You didn't know the taste of fresh kebap.

-You had no idea what roasted chestnuts smell like. Or how annoying that smell could be.

-You had never seen the majesty of Justinian's great church.

-You hadn't heard the call to prayer minutes apart from church bells.

-You had no idea what "bomba gibiyum" or "lavabos nerede?" meant. Or how useful they would be.

-You probably had no idea what the inside of a mosque actually felt like.

-Or what Syriani church services were like.

-Or how hilly Istanbul really is.

-You hadn't seen the fire in a Turk's eyes when they talk about politics.

-Nor the slow measured words used when other words like "Armenian" or "Kurd" come up.

You've come far! 2012 has been an eventful year! You should be proud of how much you have been blessed to see in two weeks. But, before we continue.
Think back to 2011 again. Remember what you were actually feeling like on January 5th? You weren't focused on January 5th, you were thinking about where you would be on January 7th! Us Westerners are trained to focus-on-the-future.

Future
Speaking of the future, lets try another thought experiment. Clos your eyes and picture this:
-Golden. The sunset reflects off of the sea. Birds fly by and cry out against the ocean wind. You're surrounded by beauty - but Izmir is known for its beauty. [Izmir]
-Now imagine a stone amphitheater. You can see a Roman path to your right and the ocean in the distance. The marble is warn out and chilly - but it's alive. Long ago, a man from Tarsus orated his letter in this very theater. Can you hear his words? "And now you Gentiles have also heard the truth, the good news that God saves you. And when you believed in Christ, he identified you as His own - by giving you the Holy Spirit, whom he promised long ago." [Ephesus]
-Now imagine a strange ceremony. It's religious, and somehow relatable, yet it's untouchable. It's bizarrely romantic. It seems totally normal that one of the most famous poets would find many muses here. [Konya]
-Now imagine silence. Warmth. Laughter. The beach. Relaxation. Refreshment. Slow-ness. [Antalya]
-Now imagine rock. Lots of rock. But imagine soft rock - not like Enya or Sting or Ray LaMontagne - like easily malleable. So easily malleable there are caves all around. Interconnected caves. Cities, even. All underground. Now imagine going into one of these caves and looking up to see a dome decorated with paintings of Mary, Jesus, and many angels - then, you realize that this is a church - an actual, ancient, underground church. [Cappadocia]

OK, open your eyes.
Sounds good, doesn't it?
But don't get too carried away just yet. These next two weeks could be really hard. You could be sick of that person who snores on the bus. You could be sick of buses in general. You could just be sick. You could be experiencing your first wave of homesickness. The future is totally unknowable - and it's impossible for us to live future-oriented.
Eventually, our future-oriented emotions - excitement, nervousness, anxiety, fear - they all run out. They hit their expiration dates. Or, you become so enraptured with them that you forget what it's like to live without them.

Present
So, this is a challenge.
To me as much as it is to you - to live in the present. To dwell on what the call to prayer means for you right now. To commit that Turkish to memory instead of flushing it our of your head. To think about your friends on the streets of Istanbul, and not the ones on the streets of Santa Barbara. To talk with the person in this room who you still don't know. To look at the people on Istiklal - not the ground or the buildings, but the people. To get a Turk to tach you backgammon. To see how present God is in this room - and out in the streets.

I'm going to play a song , and for the five minutes it's playing, just live in the present. Be with your thoughts. Find meaning in the words, or just listen to the melody. But shed yourself of anything regarding excitement or worry about the future or longings for the past, and just be here.

This is the song I played:

Snow

2012-01-14T06:31:00.000-08:00

I am watching snow fall silently upon the streets ofIstanbul. The Silence of Snow… Thanks for giving that meaning, Pamuk. My typingis the only thing that can be heard apart from the occasional Turkishmurmuring. You see, the snow and heavy rain has cut the power in this littlecafé. The refrigerator, the kahve grinder, the oven – it’s all off. Powerless.Silent. These snowflakes are the biggest I’ve ever seen. They fall hard andfast, but their impact is totally unseen among the much more present rain.

The dance of this storm is quite like listening to asymphony. It will increase in speed and size; snowing hard and quick. Then,suddenly, it will slow to almost a strolling pace. Just a slight reminder ofthe bitter cold above.

The Bosporus is totally indistinguishable from the cloudsand fog. And Asia is completely invisible. It is over there. On the other sideof that bridge in the distance, that now looks like it ends midway over thewater. Only a few miles from the other continent, and yet it feels as far awayas if I were back in North America.

Without making a sound, the snow has separated continents,tamed the busyness of the city, and muzzled the bustling noises of 18 millionas they stand and watch.

How can one not love the snow?

Incense and Rose

2012-01-14T06:27:00.000-08:00

We timidly entered the foyer. Our whispers, despite our bestefforts, still reverberated off the cold and gray marble. Should we go in? The priest is singing Vespers. How improper would itbe to go in now? I don’t know…

Then, we were startled by a loud thud as the door behind usclosed. We looked at the shorter, dark-haired man heading our way. “Tamam? Acık?” We asked with our teenyknowledge of Turkish. “Evet. Evet” He replied and threw open the huge churchdoors.

The sound of vocal harmony flooded our ears as the grandeurof the sanctuary was revealed. Gold.Marble. Limestone. Silver. Massive columns and portraits. All twelve apostlesnumbered among uncountable Saints. The song, totally in Greek, meant nothing tous, except it was gorgeous. The divinity of the words was impossible to miss,despite not knowing more than 10 Greek words.

But all of those senses paled in comparison to the mostunmistakable marker that you are now in the presence of the Almighty: Incensefilled every corner as we sat, and prayed, in the Aya Trinada Greek OrthodoxChurch.

Our pace noticeable slowed as we stepped through the large,foreboding gates garnished with gilded Arabic calligraphy. Ok, do I take my shoes off now? Or should I wait. It’s Friday, should Igo in yet, or will I be shooed out during prayer? I don’t know…

Then, suddenly. Keaton opened the canvas flap into themosque. He immediately found the face he was looking for. “Hello! Merhada,Ibrahim!” The aged, mustached groundkeeper smiled wider than seemed possible.“Hudson! Hudson!” Ibrahim greeted Keaton in the traditional Turkish way, butdid it as if he was seeing his grandson again. Throwing open his arms, he didthe same to Peter and I.

We were given a tour of the impressive Tophane mosque. Theintricate painted tiles shone in the dim lights. Medallions with massive Arabicwords proudly presented the names of those holy forerunners. The only soundwere the occasional mumble of prayer and Ibrahim’s proud voice explaining, insome twisted Turkish-German-English the incredible history of the building. Wewere then left at the back sitting in awe of the domes, arches, and friezesleft by Mimar Sidan.

But all of those sensed paled in comparison to the mostunmistakable marker that you are now in the presence of the Almighty: Ibrahimreturned with a bottle of rose water and filled our cupped hands as we sat, andprayed in the Ali PaşaMosque.

Tabula Rasa...

2012-01-08T05:40:00.001-08:00

Well.

One week ago I stated to be lost and enraptured in a sense of Wonder. I'm not sure I was aware of how I would be completely unable to be in any other way!

The past week has been spent prepping for the students to come for their semester. After all, this is THEIR semester, not mine. You see, I thought that I knew Istanbul kinda-well. Like I had some bearing on what it was like. Perhaps I was 50% integrated into what this city was like.

Try 10%.Maybe.

My first encounter was to wander - just a bit - to try to get my bearings a little on my first morning. Not only was I completely wrong on where I thought I was, I had no clue at all as to where I was or where I would be going. Combine that with the fact that I had 0 internet access in my flat, and I was very thankful that the other leaders were coming to find ME, and not the other way around.
After breakfast and some walking, something hit me. I had seen absolutely nothing of what we were experiencing on that walk. When I was here last, I had spent the entire week on the other side of the Golden Horn (in Sultanahmet for you Istanbullions). I was in completely uncharted territory.Sweet :)So, being three steps behind where I thought I was; it became clear that it was time to follow, and not try to lead at'all. This was wise. For some reason, I can get around European/Middle Eastern cities with no problem once I can map them out a bit - completely contrary to American urban centers.

After about three days of relying totally on a map and others to guide me through the 20 minute walk from my flat to the rest of the group, I think that I've got it down. I think.

This week was filled with meetings. The language institute we're using. The university where we will be staying. The many wonderful people already here supporting our crazy little idea. Basically days were:

-Walk the city. Get bearings. Revel at street art.

-Meeting for breakfast - dicuss plans, current state of our idea, current state of Turkey - drink Turkish tea.

-Walk. Get bearings. Ride form of public transport. Marvel at the how gorgeous and new every bus/tram/metro is.

-Meeting for lunch - dicuss ideas, talk about current state of things - drink Turkish tea

-Walk. Remember that this city is actually built on hills and makes SFO look flat.

-Afternoon break - spent recapping at a café - drink Turkish tea

-Walk. See the lights turn on. Try to figure out how to get places in the dark.

-Meet for dinner - discuss at length where we are in plans, recap ideas - drink Turkish tea

-Walk home. Pace self to not look like a tourist. Think about maybe brewing a cup of tea.

Last night was nearly inexplicable. I thought I was over the butterflies after I got here. The whole ride to the airport to pick up the students I was giddy.

'Seriously. This is it. It all starts now. You've prepped for a whole year for this.'

How incredible it was to see them all come through the arrivals door - with every one of the bags to boot. Now THAT'S a miracle.Bringing students to their flats was just as incredible. I was filled with joy when they opened the door and were dumbfounded at how sweet these apartments are. There was nothing like standing on the roof and looking out at the Bosphorus with the 7 names you've read too many times, prayed for over and over, and graded the papers of. That is something special.

Finally - and more philosophically - something truly divine happened today. Dana and I have been preparing a scavenger hunt for the students to do for today (they are all currently out in Istanbul. Wide-eyed, I'm sure). We had a time for breakfast and were all talking about the night. We were keen to see how many of them would be wrecked by jetlag. Thankfully, they all said the same thing:

"I slept great! Didn't wake up till my alarm at 9! In fact, did anyone hear the call to prayer this morning? No? Huh, I wonder what it sounds like..."

As we were commissioning them and getting into our introduction for the semester, we took some time to pray. Out loud, the group spent about twenty minutes. It was beautiful - students and leaders alike, lifting little thoughts, concerns, and mostly praises up to the keeper of these good words. Then, suddenly, through our relative quiet, came the echoing sound of the Adhan. This gorgeous reminder that we were not alone in our prayers electrified the room. The feeling of awe from the students was palpable - even when the room had its collective head bowed.

It was, in a word: Mükemmel.

Wandering Wonder...?

2012-01-02T06:34:00.001-08:00

When I traveled to Europe two years ago, my wanderlust infected self reflected. Often.

One of the beautiful outcomes of this reflection was a need to redefine some of the more commonly reference virtues and emotions. I was wary that this practice was a one-off, but as I sat to journal for the first time in 2012, on my flight across the Atlantic, it happened again.

Wonderful.

"I almost feel as though my excitement has hit a wall. You can only maintain a future-oriented emotion for so long. It seems that anxiousness, nervousness, and excitement have expiration dates - or perhaps Fill To lines?Either way, I'm hoping that every emotion runs anew upon landing in London...

Wonder. Now that's a future-oriented emotion. But it never runs out.

Some people just lose wonder. Forget what it is - how it feels coarsing through your blood. Most, however, always send something of "wonder". Maybe the reason it can be sustained is due to the fact that wonder is not focused on the self.

Wonder, awe, marvel - these are all selfless emotions. They turn the gaze of the subject to an outside object. Nervousness, anxiety, excitement, on the other hand, are all intraspective. They may regard or incorporate other objects, but the focal point is on he self, and how the self experiences or acts.

How much more beautiful is wonder?It is Marvelous, Awesome, Wonderful.There it is then. That's it.A pledge:To live this trip inundated, insulated, and inebriated with a sense of wonder."

Pour the Concrete, and Bend the Rebar...

2011-12-15T14:47:00.000-08:00

We pick up the story a year later...

The personal, processing online journal version of a blog seems to have gone out of fashion. So naturally, I'm starting mine back up. Walking through the events of the past few days or hours or minutes through typing is meticulously therapeutic. It's a brutal way to view your life. Even if you don't publish the harshness, the misunderstood moments, the places where you see the dark side of yourself reflected in your memory, you have to relive them when you type. It isn't "fun", but it is so virtuous. Especially in times and places where you are far from those conversations during which you would usually stare yourself in the face.

And that's why this is back online.

It's a form of self therapy, it's a sketch pad, a drawing board, it's a way to keep people informed, and it's a shameless attempt at maintaining some form of creativity in my everyday life.

I'm excited to start writing again. To post a picture or two. To hear from someone an ocean away, reminding me that I use too many commas, try to reenact conversation too literally, or read too much into the little things. What can I say? It's a work in progress.

Time to start constructing...

These Paperbacks, They Know Their Age...

2010-12-29T18:32:00.000-08:00

Last night I stumbled upon a copy of Samuel Goodrich's

History of All Nations

A two-volume encyclopedia of the entire history of the entire world. And it was published in 1852.

I would have snatched those books up in a heartbeat if it weren't for the price. But that didn't stop me from snapping a few pictures of some of the best parts.

Obviously, my heritage was paramount. And Mr. Goodrich, being a good Briton, did not disappoint:

"The Irish distill whiskey from a barley in their own cottages, where they elude the vigilance of the local officers. What is thus illegally made is called potchen. This liquor was first known in Ireland by the name of usquebaugh (translates to: water or life). The use of it has been carried to great excess among the lower orders, who delight in all kinds of meetings which give them an opportunity of drinking together. To this propensity perhaps may be traced the custom of waking the dead. Whenever a poor person dies, the neighbors assemble to drink, smoke, and lament the departure of the deceased. This is a very ancient custom, and is regarded so indispensable , that a laborer whose relative has died, and whose children are running about half naked, will spend a month's wages in whiskey and tobacco for the men and women who come to the wake, which is often continued for two or three days, and nights. The intemperance of the Irish has, however, been somewhat checked by the exertions of Father Matthew."

Of course, there is another famous Irish pastime:

"They are generally destitute of that sober and steady spirit of enterprise which distinguishes the English. The love of combat seems to be a general infirmary. The Irish do not fight single-handed, but in bands, and on a great scale. When an individual imagines himself insulted, he goes round to his companions, friends, and townsmen, and collects a multitude, who make a joint attack on the offending party. This is their practice also in America. The light frailties of the Irish are vanity, loquacity, a readiness to speak as well as to act without deliberation, and a hurry and confusion of ideas which so often lead them to that particular sort of blunder called a bull."

And of course, in all my jolliness, I had to find something that almost brought a tear to my eye due to its sadness:

Gaza - Lying on the eastern shore of the Mediterranean, and at the southern extremity of Palestine, Gaza belonged to the Philistines, then to the Hebrews, then covered its liberties in the reigns of Jotham and [illegible], and was reconquered by Hezekiah. It was then subjected to the Chaldeans, who conquered Syria and Phonecia. They were masters of it when Alexander besieged, took, and destroyed it. Strabo says that "he rendered it a desert." He at least dismantled it. and another city, rose from its ruins, nearer to the sea.

It has since undergone many changes. The town stands three miles from the sea, and has an indefinite port. Its population is fifteen to sixteen thousand, and is engaged in part in the manufacture of cotton. Its position as a frontier town, the key of Palestine, serves its importance, and it is now the most populous of the cities of Palestine. A considerable number of Christians live here by themselves, in a particular part of the place. As Gaza stands on an eminence, it is considered picturesque by the number of fine minarets and spires, which rise majestically above the buildings."

Oh, the changes of 160 years...

'Meri-cuh.

2010-12-23T11:37:00.000-08:00

So if I dislike this with the entirety of both my religious and political selves, does that make me a bad Christian, or a bad American?

http://bosscreations.net/index.php/trees/new-the-christian-nation-christ-mas-tree.html

Oooh... I think it makes me gay, cause I'm definitely supposed to thoroughly enjoy this picture:

http://bosscreations.net/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/m/a/marsha_walter_reed.jpg

Ah yes, nothing says Christian Nation like a scantily clad, seductively posing, temptress.

Here's a gem from the About Us section:

Also, the history of our country is being rewritten to exclude it’s Christian heritage, our leaders are distancing themselves from Christianity, stating that we are NOT a Christian nation but we ARE one of the largest Muslim population countries in the world!? This has all led to a hostile environment toward Christians making it increasingly difficult for Christians to live in America without prejudice and without being persecuted for our beliefs. Our laws and government are ever increasingly becoming “Godless” as well. This is all having an alarming affect on the direction of the country. America is moving away from Christianity and toward communism, which is rooted in an atheist worldview/religion.

Fear. Fear all ye patriotic protestants.

There is so much I want to say, but really, Steven Colbert just says it a lot better:

http://www.colbertnation.com/the-colbert-report-videos/368380/december-13-2010/blitzkrieg-on-grinchitude---gretchen-carlson---christian-nation-christ-mas-tree

State Street Study...

2010-09-26T18:18:00.000-07:00

There was He.

Middle-aged, foreign, cultured and robust.

He sat on a rigid, unforgiving wooden street-side bench. It didn't look comfortable, but He didn't seem to mind.

He was focused, intense.

His fingers flashed and rattled across the brazen guitar strings.

It was obvious that He was an expert in the field of Spanish Guitar. He was playing so vividly that a large crowd of slack-jawed bystanders began to form.

His hands continued to strum, his melodies flowed, rose, and crashed, and His smile cracked.

There was She.

Young, haughty, glamorous and busy.

She walked on extreme, unnecessary heels. They didn't look comfortable, but it was in the name of "looking good".

She was preoccupied, elsewhere.

Her voice heightened over the obnoxious noise of some guy on a bench.

It was obvious that She was an expert in the field of Haute Couture. She was talking into her phone so loudly that a large crowd of bystanders began to stare.

Her mouth continued to run, Her words meshed, strained, and shivered, and Her pace quickened.

And there was I.

Silent, intrigued, captivated, and fascinated.

I sat on cold, harsh metal. It wasn't comfortable, but I couldn't pull my gaze away from the art in front of Me.

I was present, enraptured.

My interest piqued as I watched a potential exchange fizzle.

It was obvious that I was an expert in the field of Passive Observance. I was watching as She obliviously hurried by absolute beauty that a large crowd of bystanders noticed.

My thoughts continued to wander, and I debated stopping Her or paying Him, instead my ears perked, and I just kept listening.

Homemade Lebanese Pizza...

2010-09-15T14:21:00.001-07:00

Lebanese Pizza

Ingredients:

1 piece Pita bread (rosemary works quite well)

5 Kalamata olives

5 slices cucumber

3 baby bella mushrooms

1 fresh onion

1/2 tablespoon olive oil

1/4 teaspoon thyme

1 dash cili powder

1 dash black pepper

Homemade Hummus

(Note: this hummus recipe makes a lot more than is necessary for this recipe. Also, picture shows two pizzas, but ingredients listed are for one. Simply double amounts for best results.)

Directions:

1. Using the link above, make homemade hummus (ingredients: 1 19 oz. can garbonzo beans, 3 tbs Tahini paste, 2 tbs olive oil, 4 tbs lemon juice, 2 cloves garlic, 1 tsp salt, dash of Cumin)

2. Spread hummus over pita bread

3. Spread olives and cucumbers over pita

4. Sprinkle 1/5 tsp of thyme on pita

5. Chop onion (only use about 1/10 of onion) and mushrooms

6. Sauté mushrooms and onions in olive oil for about 2 minutes (until mushrooms are brown)

7. Add dash of chili powder, dash of black pepper, and rest of thyme to mushroom/onion mix

8. Spread mix over pita

9. Munch

I realize that this dish is not distinctly Lebanese nor is it actually pizza. But here's the deal, this is what I made myself for lunch (making up the recipe as I went), and it was just too good not to write down. So, if you happen to try this, let me know what you think of it! I'll be scarfing these more and more often.

Fahrenheit 451

2010-09-07T16:26:00.000-07:00

-To Terry Jones and the Dove World Outreach Center

For the non-German-speaking population, it reads:

"Where they burns books, they will end up reading bodies"

The plaque rests at the edge of Babelplatz in Berlin, the site of the Nazi book-burning rallies.

The quote was originally spoken by Henrich Heine in 1820

Friends Should Never Discuss Politics or Religion...

2010-08-09T16:32:00.000-07:00

So this is me discussing both:

http://rationalrevolution.wordpress.com/2010/08/09/mosque-at-ground-zero-getting-the-full-story/

I was honored to be asked by one of my best friends to write for his new blog. The project is meant to inform and open-the-eyes of the reader to push people to live smarter and fuller lives by understanding the world around them.

It took me a long time to figure out just what I wanted to put up, and then to write the actual article. That being said, I am really excited about the way it turned out, and I hope that it sends out the message that I was trying to portray.

Achtung, Baby...

2010-08-01T17:11:00.000-07:00

Simply to say,

The list on the left,

Constantly changing,

Is filled with friends,

Who incessantly inspire

And endlessly educate,

So go and gather,

All their wonderful words.

Then, recognize radically,

Just how much others matter.

At the Crossroads of Heaven and Hell...

2010-07-30T15:15:00.000-07:00

I listened as the words repeated in a haunting echo.

“Lay your body down. Lay your body down.”

Just as the chorus kicked in with a crescendo of volume, the screen saver jumped on.

And there they were. Little, rounded monuments.

The first photo to show up was a landscape shot of an English graveyard in Belgium.

The white gravestones were only offset by bright red roses.

Maybe my computer was trying to tell me something.

“Lay your body down. Lay your body down.”

Absalom! Absalom!...

2010-07-22T16:41:00.000-07:00

I was reading 2 Samuel today, in an attempt to actually be in the Word (huh... what a novel idea).

And I was struck. We think about how beautiful and striking literature is, and how well humans can write. But honestly, everyone is inspired by something.

Even pure irony can be inspired.

The son of David, no, not that Son of David, was named Absalom.

Absalom (or Avshalom) is Hebrew for "my father is Peace".

Absalom became enraged with his father and tried to overthrow the king of Israel in a violent coup.

Pure irony.

How completely inspiring.

Music Which is Almost a Religious Experience, Pastoral and Fervent...

2010-07-13T17:03:00.000-07:00

Sometimes you think you've found beauty.

'I could stare at this piece forever.' 'I will never get sick of that band.' 'That will always be my favorite play.'

But aesthetics, like the tide, is an ever-changing constant.

And sometimes, when the moon gives the ocean just the perfect extra, little gravitational shove, the ocean's essence becomes that much more unbelievable, that much more overwhelming, that much more beautiful.

So, just when you think you've found that beauty, something happens to redefine and reshape your definition of beauty. And like the moon to the ocean, it can be the most outlandish and opposite element added to that beauty that makes your heart smile.

But then you think to yourself 'Of course a serious gravitational pull would enhance the velocity and force of the ocean's movements!' and what you are really thinking is 'Of course adding the eloquence and valor of the French language would enhance the poetry and gravitas of British music!'

Sometimes you really have found beauty:

Mumford & Sons - The Banjolin Song / Awake my soul - A Take Away Show #105 from La Blogotheque on Vimeo.

All musical and genius, (c) La Blogotheque and Mumford & Sons.

All rambling musings, (c) Moi.

The Art of the Kill

2010-07-01T13:11:00.000-07:00

How do you kill a man?

No, how do you kill a near perfect man. A stand-up individual, whom everyone enjoys not because he is good at being social, but because he embodies good-ness. He's a shining beacon, a city on a hill. The lighthouse. So, respecting the forces of poetry and justice, how does this man need to die.

It has to be sudden. Unexpected. Goodness can't suffer. If goodness were to suffer, someone, somewhere, with just enough virtue in their sin-ridden heart would try to relieve that suffering and take his place. Someone would stop it. So it has to be quick and unforeseen.

Should it be a murder? Do you really allow one individual, one person to single handedly wipe righteousness from Earth? Despite the best attempts of the most evil men, no one person can carry that load. So a typical, not-so-uniquely-unrighteous could never kill virtue.

Besides, can mankind ultimately be responsible for destroying Good?

So then it has to be natural, something out of man's hands. Something, beyond human control. Beyond... human... natural. ? If it is nature that controls the destiny of goodness, who is controlling the natural? Ah. The supernatural.

No. God would not kill virtue.

An accident, then. Fortune can disrupt and de-rail any measure of integrity! Sometimes the breaks just don't go your way. But do you really want to cop-out? No one to blame but Fortune, no-one but bad luck?

Isn't that just saying that Fate had it in for Virtue? Isn't that the same as saying nature...or God... would destroy goodness.

No. It has to be human. We plucked the fruit. We're all Sons of Cain.

That's it!

We're all Sons of Cain! For all have fallen short...We're all responsible.

We killed Virtue.

The Death of Virtue: Part V

2010-07-01T12:51:00.000-07:00

His eyes throbbed from within their thin, dark lids. Lightening shot across from temple to nose. It had been one hell of a day.

Two new clients, getting chewed out by the overzealous and pompous boss, working on that obnoxious middle-aged man’s knee, and the ever-present-and-growing-load of paperwork. The interior of his car had never felt like such a haven.

He had basically marched out of work, forgetting - or maybe not forgetting - to say goodbye to his co-workers. The walk through the lobby and into the parking garage had become so typical he didn’t even remember taking the steps. All he wanted was that few-degrees-warmer-than-outside, two-shades-darker-inside, slightly-more-humid four-seat refuge.

He slumped down into the front seat, laid his head back on the headrest, closed his eyes and the front door at the same time, and stopped. That’s when he grabbed his eyelids and the electricity jumped from cranium to eyeball.

Somehow, he was completely uncomfortable and completely at peace at the same time.

But naturally, it was not meant to last more than a fleeting moment. His passenger seat began to rumble melodically as his cell phone rang its too-familiar New Message vibration. ‘Not now. Just don’t pick it up. Just let it be until you’re miles from here, back in your apartment, with your stomach full of food and beer, and midway through the soccer game’. But he couldn’t ignore it. Some innate force, something was simply taking over control of his right arm and causing him to reach across the center consol and underneath his coat. ‘Nope. Just drop it. Just let the phone go, and trade it for the car keys. Go ahead.’

His arm emerged from under the coat, and within his palm came that damn cell phone. ‘Fine’, his face showed his sour emotions to the empty car and rather vacant garage. He flipped the phone over in his hand and opened it up.

Message from Daniel

Click.

Call me soon as you can.

‘Daniel? I wonder what Danny wants.’ He pulled his left arm down from the window basin and shifted his weight forward. Hitting the Call Back button, he cleared his throat. The electronic ring from his phone echoed in his ear.

“Ah Mattie! Thanks for calling me back so fast, eh?”

“Sure thing, Danny. What’s going on? I haven’t heard from you in ages, cousin.” Matt knew something was just a little bit wrong.

“Well, it’s a bit strange, mate. Kind of a story. I walked into the coffeeshop about a half hour ago and this woman bumped into me. After I got my drink, I headed to leave when I saw this purse on one of the couches. “

“The shop huh? That teenager still ceaselessly almost-throwing-herself-at-you?”

“Uh.. What?” Daniel’s nervously planned storytelling stalled as Matt forced him to think “Yeah, Mattie, she’s still there”.

Matt noticed the harsh and complete stop in Daniel’s aura. Something had actually happened.

2010-07-01T12:23:00.000-07:00

If your strife strikes at your sleep

Remember spring swaps snow for leaves...

And to Think, I didn't Like Steinbeck Before This...

2010-06-14T12:23:00.000-07:00

I think the difference between a lie and a story is that a story utilizes the trappings and appearance of truth for the interest of the listener as well as of the teller. A story has in it neither gain nor loss. But a lie is a device for profit or escape. I suppose if that definition is strictly held to, then a writer of stories is a liar - if he is financially fortunate.

Maybe we all have in us a secret pond where evil and ugly things germinate and grow strong. But this culture is fenced, and the swimming brood climbs up only to fall back. Might it not be that in the dark pools of some men the evil grows strong enough to wriggle over the fence and swim free? Would not such a man be our monster, and are we not related to him in our hidden water? It would be absurd if we did not understand both angels and devils, since we invented them.

And this I believe: that the free, exploring mind of the individual human is the most valuable thing in the world. And this I would fight for: the freedom of the mind to take any direction it wishes, undirected. And this I must fight against: any idea, religion, or government which limits or destroys the individual. This is what I am and what I am about. I can understand why a system built a pattern must try to destroy the free mind, for that is one thing which can by inspection destroy such a system. Surely I can understand this, and I hate it and I will fight against it to preserve the one things that separates us from the uncreative beasts. If the glory can be killed, we are lost.

-East of Eden-

A Change, A Refresh, and An Update...

2010-06-06T18:14:00.000-07:00

Well... Things have certainly changed around here.

It was time.

I decided to do away with the barrenly simple, and replace it with a more complicated simple. The layout is relatively unchanged, but the site is a little more pleasing to the eye and definitely more compartmentalized, which was sorely needed.

Now... About these recent postings.

I've always adored writing. The passion for fiction and stories was buried as I grew up. I guess I was just too busy reading everybody else to remember to play to my passions. Writing in general flooded back into my life when I headed across the pond, and how welcome it was to simply let myself appear on a page again. Then, suddenly, and rather surprisingly, fiction entered life again too. I've done creative writing since middle school, and frankly, it's my favorite. It's too much fun.

Maybe I just like playing God and shaping characters in a world that I can manipulate. Maybe I am just a sucker for a good story. I like to think it's the latter.

So this story came bursting forth into my head, and onto three of four notebooks, my computer, and then eventually here. What's the point of putting it here? Feedback and edits.

I want help with this story.

It is a complicated mess of complicated characters with complicated pasts, futures, motivations, fears, and loves.

It needs all the guidance it can get, so I'd love your comments.

Right now, this story is simply characters. It's simply development. I'm trying to fall in love with these characters. So I'm exploring them and their reaction to an event. As for these updates, these are small and simply how each character hears of the event. There are still a few more to introduce, and then we'll go from there.

But until it progresses, I love your feedback and edits, and I'll leave with the seed that started it all...

The Death of Virtue: Part IV

2010-06-05T17:36:00.001-07:00

‘Well’ Daniel looked up at the ceiling in a symbolic gesture ‘You do work in mysterious ways, eh?’

John-Michael shot out of the oversized, underused black leather chair. He was breathing hard. Too hard. He had to rip air out of the atmosphere, just to get it into his lungs. He felt encased in a frigid sweat, with a pool near the small of his back. As his vision began to clear, and static was leaving his hearing, he remembered what woke him up.

It was just supposed to be a short nap. In fact, he wasn’t even intending to fall asleep. His apartment was dark. The wood floor echoed the dull and faded light. Combine that with the soft roar of the city beneath him, the warm tea within his arm’s length, and only mild interest in the magazine article, and he was destined to nod off. And nod off he did. John-Michael was fast asleep in that chair for nearly forty-five minutes.

That’s when he shot out of his slumber.

He was gasping and clutching at oxygen. His eyes darted around the room. “Where is that damn thing?” He was near panic, and had no idea why.

He got up out of the chair, every joint aching. Maybe that pain was from sleeping in a lounger, maybe it was the extreme amounts of adrenaline, endorphins, and testosterone squeezing through his bloodstream. He did nothing but stare at the floor, but in his head he was meticulously sifting through every object in the three-room apartment.

‘The briefcase? No, I never put it in there. Pants?’ He threw his hands into his pockets. Nothing but car keys and loose change. ‘The counter?’ Finally, his body moved with the reality in his head. His dark-tile, bar-style countertop was barren, minus the typical pile of bills, junk mail, and old subscriptions. ‘Where the hell did I-‘

As he neared the apex of frustration, he actually recognized what his eyes were staring at. The jacket. His feet flew to the wrought-iron coat rack hung in the entryway. His dark, pinstriped jacket ruffled as he rifled through the two outside pockets. He let out an audible sigh of relief as he pulled his much-sought-after cell phone from the inside breast pocket of the coat.

Unknowingly, he hung the jacket back on the peg, and turned back towards the leather chair. His fingers were already swimming across the buttons on the phone. Before he had reached the chair, before he even took more than five steps, he had opened the address book, found her name, and selected send message. John-Michael spun around and sat on the stretched out leather leg-rest. The digital glow of his phone glared off his face. The blank message was staring him down. He shook with a chill, gazing at the plastic and glass. All it read was:

New Message

To: Annie S.

The blank message was too much. His fingers said so much by not being able to type at all. He was paralyzed with fear.

Finally, his thumb broke its silence. But instead of typing what he wanted to say, it rebelliously clicked the Call button. Her normally comforting picture flashed. He cheeks filled with blood, his head with even for fear than before, and his entire being screamed “NO!”

She picked up too fast for him to run.

“J-M?” The words bounced around his hollow apartment. He couldn’t hear the sorrow in them.

“Hi… Hi Annie. How… How are you?” He tried to hide the uncertainty in his voice. ‘Why did I call her? This is too much. This is so stupid. This is-‘ His mind was speaking so fast, and so strongly, but his mouth refused to listen.

“I’m alright. It’s… It’s been a long day J-M. What’s going on, why did you call?”

“Annie. I’m sorry to bother you. Everything’s fine I just… I… Well, this is going to sound weird but is everything OK? I just woke up from a nap with the feeling that something terrible happened to you. I don’t know. Just please tell me I’m crazy and that you are just fine and this is a stupid feeling.”

Annie could not muster a single word. ‘No. No, no, no, no. I will not bear this news twice. This is not my place. This is not my role. NO!’

The utter lack of words from the phone made John-Michael’s hurt drop miles, deep into his stomach. Time simply halted, and while she was only searching for words for six seconds, he had been waiting for minutes.

“Oh God Annie. What happened?”

The Death of Virtue: Part III

2010-06-05T14:15:00.000-07:00

It all just hurt too much.

Crouched over the scattered coins, he didn’t really think anything of it. She looked upset. Her head was down, and he swore there were tears welling in her eyes. Plus she was nearly running, fiddling with her scarf on her way out. He wondered what made her so sad. As his thoughts burnt off into the atmosphere, he methodically picked up each and every nickel, dime, and penny. Still hunkered down, he counted them out in his gloved hand. Satisfied, with a smirk on his face, he rose and approached the bar.

“Afternoon, Jamie” His voice scraped out of his throat. The brogue came and went, as he spent longer and longer in the States, his Celtic accent faded.

“Hi Dan!” The teenage barista perked up as the patterned scarf, brown cap, and dark pea-coat-clad man greeted her.” She reached out her artificially tanned hand and took the exact change Dan handed her. “It must be real cold out there huh?”

“Aye, darlin’. It’s chilly. Rain’s coming down on-and-off, too.”

“So, is it pretty normal for guys to wear scarves like that when it’s cold out back where you’re from? Cause not so many guys can, you know, pull stuff like that off here”

Daniel smirked at the girl. ‘She’s a sweet girl. She really is.’ “Yeah, girl. It’s pretty normal.” His smile grew at he tried to keep his composure while answering the barista.

“Oh, that’s pretty cool, I guess.” She remarked as she capped the lid onto the steaming, clammy wax-covered paper cup, “Here you go Dan! Your medium London Fog. Have a great day, even in this bad weather!” She looked him in the eyes as she handed him the drink, and forced a smile that seemed just a bit too big to be authentic.

He took the cup from the counter, tipped it at her with a wink, and uttered a low thankye. Cramming his hand back into the stuffy leather gloves, he chuckled in his head ‘Yeah, sweet girl.’ He gripped his scarf, now well aware of its presence thanks to the test of masculinity delivered by an adolescent. Heading towards the door, a black object caught the corner of his eye.

The bag’s dark complexion completely contrasted the corporate attempt at chic of the suede dark-red couch. His thoughts flashed to the hurried and flustered woman who had slammed into him. ‘Oy… This is just what that poor soul needs’, he mused to himself approaching the handbag. He placed it on the wooden table, and opened the magnetic clasp.

“Do guys carry around purses over there too?” Jaime was wiping down the tables behind him. Smiling in self-confidence, satisfied with her unique, and bizarre flirtation. At first her voice startled him, and a chill of adrenaline surged like a wave up, down, and around his body. He was expecting a righteous customer to chastise his well-intentioned act. Jaime’s joking was welcome, even if it was another jab at his masculinity.

“Ah… No. Not quite.” He cleared his throat, realizing he had just been flustered by a coffeeshop employed teenager, “I think it’s you Americans who came up with this whole ‘man-purse’ ordeal, eh?” He mustered up a bit of charm, glanced from the side of his dark green irises, and shot the look towards Jaime. It worked, she blushed a bit, put her head down towards the table she was scrubbing, and scuffled back to the coffee bar. He turned back to his own table. There was a small sketchpad, a black leather-bound journal, and a ringed contact book. Daniel carefully took out the contact list. He foolishly rifled through some of the pages, looking for something but thinking about how futile this act actually was. The crisp, remarkably well-kept papers ended, and just when Daniel was about to close the book and place it back in the bag, he read the first name on the last page.

James Virtue. Ap # 42…

He stopped reading, as his brain came to a screeching halt. Nearly all involuntary actions became present in his consciousness. His heartbeat was massive, echoing throughout his body. Breathing just plain hurt. It was too slow, and his lungs seemed trapped inside his ribs, inside his chest, inside his jacket. He was unbelievably uncomfortable. ‘Well’ He looked up at the ceiling in a symbolic gesture ‘You do work in mysterious ways, eh?’

The Death of Virtue: Part II

2010-05-31T15:43:00.000-07:00

There it was again. Reality detached itself from his mind. Vertigo was all Peter knew. The impact of her words sent him careening. Except this time the words stuck with him. Reality was gone; all that was left was dizziness, burning, and those three words.

Annie could not get comfortable. The wooden coffeeshop chairs were harsh and unforgiving. She shifted her weight in every way possible, and yet her body ached. Annie knew it wasn’t the chair that made her so uncomfortable. Despite her best efforts, she could only look at the cold, ceramic table from under her clenched right hand. The phone line was silent, hollow.

Telling Peter the news was difficult. That was an understatement. Telling Peter was excruciating. The news was heavy enough, relaying it was a burden, but explaining to someone who rejects all ideas of hope and afterlife that one of their best friends was dead? That was near impossible. And yet, she knew she had to. Peter deserved to know.

And now he knew. She had done the most difficult part; she had played the messenger. So, why didn’t she feel any better? Why did her stomach still churn, her heart still ache, and her head still throb? The silence from the phone wasn’t relieving any of her anguish.

She was expecting him to take the news badly. They had known each other for nearly their entire lives. She was expecting tears, yelling, rejection, anger, even a hang up, but silence? The absolute void staring her in the face from the other end of the phone line was even more unbearable than the actual dialing of the phone. And that had taken her ten minutes. She just kept staring at the keypad, heart fluttering, palms sweating, and stomach nauseating. She ran through every scenario she could think of, every one of Peter’s typical reactions. But she never expected silence. And now she couldn’t handle it. She had to say something. Anything. Any noise would make this echoing, evil silence disappear.

“Peter. I am so so sorry. I’m sorry about James, I’m sorry it happened, I’m sorry you had to hear about this fro-“ Peter cut-off her hurried and unpolished apologies.

“ Yeah, Ann. Me too. Thanks for telling me. I guess we’ll probably be talking soon.” Then, nothing but the slow, measured beep of her phone telling her the call had ended. Annie looked at the screen. Contact: Peter R. Call time: 3:50. Three minutes, fifty seconds. That’s all it took.

Annie shook her head, sniffed and coughed, wiped her eyes with the back of her sweaty palm, and closed her phone. Nearly four minutes. It took her longer to order her coffee than to tell Peter that James had died. ‘God. I hate this’ The thought screamed in her head as she subconsciously threw her paper cup away and shuffled towards the door. With her head down and her mind a hundred thousand miles away, Annie didn’t even notice the man in front of her until she bashed straight into his left shoulder. Normally, Annie would have felt terrible. Normally, Annie would have stopped, apologized, helped to pick up the 3.36 in change that sprayed from his hand across the painted cement floor. Normally, Annie would have looked the man in his dark green eyes and tried to form any bit of human contact with the stranger.

But not today. Today was far from normal, and so was she. Annie hurried through the glass doors without even thinking of turning around to see the man whose path she had just interrupted hunkered over the floor, delicately picking up every coin. Her soul ached so badly, and her focus was so keen on contact with people far away and long gone, that she didn’t even notice the immediate, physical contact she had just initiated.

It all just hurt too much.

The Death of Virtue: Part 1

2010-05-18T22:53:00.000-07:00

His ears were ringing. No, they were burning. All he could hear was a sharp, popping noise. His ears felt like he was in the ocean, water pressure pushing on every micrometer of his eardrums, and coral was all he could hear.

He was staring at the carpeted staircase, but he couldn’t see anything. Somehow the fog had crept its way into his living room.

His hands were heavy, and too far away. His blood felt diluted and sluggish. His heart was an un-oiled engine, with every pump more difficult and more damaging than the last.

He hadn’t felt like this since the car crash.

Slowly, the ringing gave way to something else. A soft, but growing noise that hurt as it built upon itself. Reality was ripping its way back into his conscious. The noise culminated in a painful crescendo as he became aware of holding the phone to his ear again. Her words were like audible lightning, and her usually sweet voice seared as it left the clammy, black receiver.

“Peter? Peter did you hear me? Are you still there?” Earth regained its axis; gravity kicked back in; and oxygen flooded into his lungs once more. He was clutching the railing of those carpeted stairs; his body was holding itself up, but he had no idea how.

“…I’m here. Sorry. So sorry. Wait… What did you say? Please tell me I didn’t hear what I think you just told me. You’re kidding. You have to be. This is some sick joke. Annie, this isn’t funny. Stop it. Please tell me this I heard you wrong. Please tell me -“ The soul completely bypassing his brain, his words streamed out at hurricane force. Emotions sped past so quickly that his voice could not keep up the pace. It cracked and strained as he spat out syllables, sounds, anything. The silence coming from his phone was as hollow as the tightening in his gut. Then her words came crashing back with all the force of a sonic boom.

“Peter. I’m so sorry. Its… I…” Annie stopped. Words stumping her flustered brain. She breathed deeply. Reset herself, closed her eyes tightly, and tried to exhale without sighing, but couldn’t. The sorrow escaped her lungs, “James. James is…” She reset herself again. Her tear-stained palm involuntarily clutched to her forehead. She was freezing, shaking, and nauseous. Every mumbled sound felt like a scream, no matter how hard she tried to stay level and quiet. She could only smell the copper of blood and taste the salt of tears. “James is dead.”

Staring at a White, Blank Page...

2010-05-02T22:57:00.000-07:00

Inspiration.

It's kind of a funny word. It has such a positive connotation. It makes you think of muses, music, and melodies. Basically: Beauty.

But that's just the thing about inspiration. It never flourishes in beauty.

Inspiration only visits the dreamer when he's having nightmares.

The beauty only comes from the breakdown.

The real beauty, that is.

There is something. Some deep, dark, and hollow spot buried in every human. When it's struck, when something else, some inspiration, raps on its edges, it resonates. And it echoes within those hollow spots in others. And it's that rattle and hum that we call Beauty. Even Genius.

Somehow, we've managed to place our descriptions of the most hurtful, or most longing, or most destructive, at the very apex of our Beauty hierarchy.

We're enraptured with our own self-destruction.

Perhaps that's just sin.

So what's the point of all this melancholy macabre?

Simply to say that inspiration comes when life is here, at its fullest.

Sometimes that muse drops in on the Dreamer when he is clutching the sheets. Uncomfortably strewn across his bed. Neck back, ears clenched, and deep in a cold sweat. But other times she comes when he is sound in his sleep. His eyelids flickering from the rapid movements underneath. Sometimes inspiration reveals her gorgeous and demanding face when the Dreamer is overwhelmed in the well of information that is somehow coming from his own brain. Simply put: Inspiration is unpredictable. The only method of determining when she'll strike next is to know when she won't. And that's when the Dreamer is comfortable. When he is so far in his own sleep that he doesn't even dream.

After all, glass needs either fire or lightning to be formed.

In the Layman's terms: Busyness has served me well, there's a lot to write about as soon as I have the time to jot it down.

All We Need Is...

2010-04-03T15:53:00.000-07:00

While in Europe, I realized the incredible nature of the idea of Harmony. I became obsessed with the idea and defining it. After setting out a new definition of harmony, I realized that there are a decent amount of words and concepts that need a revamping. A re-defining.

I tried to redefine some of these words there, but it was of no use.

I think that I have just redefined another one of them.

I was talking long distance with a wonderful, brilliant friend, and I stumbled upon a new definition.

I think I'm going to write a book around these new definitions someday; make it a philosophical treatise. In light of that, here's my thesis on love:

Love - Humans don't just need joy. They deserve it. And they cannot be the continual source of it for others. Love is someone pushing the joy back into your life as you exude it. The problem is relying on someone enough to let them push joy into your life.
Joy, and consequently Love, are similar to energy. The energy of physics. Energy is not created naturally. The only method that nature or humans have of manipulating energy is transference. Siphoning it from one place and putting it into another. Joy is the virtuous equivalent of energy. Humans cannot make joy, and thus we cannot create love. We can only transfer it. There is no natural "source" of Joy or Love. But these virtues do exist. Thus, they must come from somewhere. They must originate from some place. If they cannot be created naturally, then they must be created supernaturally. Obviously, there is but one source of Joy or Love. Humans just have to figure out how to harness, manipulate, and transfer that energy.

2010-02-17T14:58:00.000-08:00

Christians are indistinguishable from other men either by nationality, language, or customs. They do not inhabit separate cities of their own, or speak a strange dialect, or follow some outlandish way of life...

With regard to dress, food and manner of life in general, they follow the customs of whatever city they have to be living in...

And yet there is something extraordinary about their lives. They live in their own countries as though they were only passing through. They play their full role as citizens, but labor under all the disabilities of aliens. Any country can be their homeland, but for them their homeland, wherever it may be, is a foreign country. Like others, they marry and have children, but they do not expose them.

They pass their days on earth, but a re citizens of heaven. Obedient to the laws, they live on a level that transcends the law.

Author unknown, quoted from Letter to Diogentus

Leviathan...

2010-02-03T22:18:00.000-08:00

Excerpt from Thomas Hobbes' Leviathan, page 263

Liberty and Necessity are Consistent; As in the

water, that hath not only liberty, but a necessity of

descending by the Channel: so likewise in the

Actions which men voluntarily doe; which (because

they proceed from their will) proceed from liberty;

and yet because every act of mans will, and every

desire, and inclination proceedeth from some cause,

and that another cause, which causes in a

continuall chaine (whose first link in the hand of

God the first of all causes) proceed from necessity.

So that to him that could see the connexion of

those causes, the necessity of all mens voluntary

actions, would appeare manifest. And therefore

God, that seeth, and disposeth all things, seeth also

that the liberty of man in doing what he will, is

accompanied with the necessity of doing that which

God will, & no more, nor lesse. For though men

may do many things, which God does not com-

mand, not is therefore Author of them; yet they

can have no passion, nor appetite any thing, of

which appetite Gods will is not the cause. And did

not his will assure the necessity of mans will, and

consequently of all that on mans will dependeth,

the liberty of men would be a contradiction, and

impediment to the omnipotence and liberty of God.

And this shall suffice, (as to the matter in hand) of that

naturall liberty, which only is properly called liberty.

I have a political theory class this semester, and we are reading some of the great minds of the Enlightenment and forward. I was excited about the book list, but the actual reading is rough. I have been putting my favorite quotes up on my twitter (@kuwalker) as they catch my eye.

But this one was different. The debate on Freewill vs Predestination has haunted me for quite some time. I've dismissed it for a while, calling it a "learn nothing" debate that only caused Christians to get mad at each other. Not exactly fruitful. Despite my efforts at cooling this debate, however, it popped its head up at various times whilst I was bounding across Europa. Then, just when I think I've escaped, who comes along with a wonderful quote that explains things rather nicely (albeit hard to read because of the Old English)?

Thomas Hobbes.

Oh Murphy's Law, you never fail.

Gestreikten durch Donner...

2010-01-25T18:49:00.000-08:00

Blitz.

It's a better word than "lightning".

Lightning just doesn't do it justice. Blitz has a certain sense of fear behind it. You can hear the power behind the harsh pronunciation of that borrowed word. The crack of the pure surge of electricity that will not be held in the ground in longer emanates from the "t-z" at the end of Blitz.

Whoever said that German was an ugly language clearly never heard it spoken correctly.

These two weeks have been a full-fledged blitzsturm. And I've been standing on top of a barren mountain.

The blitz cracked, smacked, flashed, burned, and fried. But now I'm left with only the clap of thunder.

Only the "klang des dunner".

I love thunderstorms.

Let It Snow...

2010-01-06T21:45:00.000-08:00

Weather.

Sometimes you need to be reminded that you that you are too busy. You are moving too fast. Your mind is in the left lane, and you miss the cities on the right.

Is it our society that pushes us to be too busy for our own good? Is it our constant need to pressure ourselves? Do we work better under pressure? Or are we scared to slow down and face ourselves?

Sometimes you have to hit a brick wall at 75 kilometers an hour. Sometimes you have to pop the airbag, unbuckle your seatbelt, bash open the broken door, stand on your wobbly and numb legs, rub your neck, observe the carnage, and then sigh. That big, unavoidable, relieving sigh.

Weather. Who would have guessed that weather would run you into a wall and make you slow down?

Louder, Louder, And We'll Run For Our Lives...

2009-12-29T14:57:00.000-08:00

'What's the deal? Suddenly you get home and can't write? It's like you just don't want to. I mean you have a lot of great thoughts, and you keep saying "I need to write that down", but you just don't. What is it? Laziness?
Busyness?
Absentmindedness?
Oh...
That's what it is...

Stagnancy.'

That's how I've been talking to myself recently. I've had all sorts of inspiration, all sorts of things to write down. I just haven't been actually doing it. Hopefully that starts to change a bit...

Here's one of my recent ponderings:

Alone?
We're never alone.
We don't know how to be alone. If we find ourselves with no-one around we fill the void with white earphones, LED glow, and the tick-tap of keys clacking. We refuse to be alone. We try every single thing we can to avoid sitting in our own thoughts. We try to overpower that still, small voice with loud beats and rhythms.
We're scared of being alone with ourselves.
We're terrified of listening to our own heads. We hear a lot of other outside things. But we're petrified of slowing down and miring ourselves in... ourselves.
Clearly, I need to be alone more.

It finally happened. The day after Christmas. After showing off the photos for one more time.
I missed it.
I didn't really know what I was going to miss. The last night I asked myself what I would long for, and nothing came to mind.
Then, a few days ago, I pictured myself on the streets of London, a crisp, cool air around and the dim, warm neon glowing in the distance.
I missed Europe.
I want to speak in French for a few days. I want to drink German coffee. I want to climb Turkish walls. Basically, my instincts are going crazy. My being is just calling out. It's saying MOVE! Get out of Dodge; abandon ship; flee for your life; "what do you do when a pistol-toting Nazi is walking towards you".

Yikes...

Have Myself A Home Life...

2009-12-17T15:51:00.000-08:00

The Irish say: You Never Can Quite Go Home Again...

I guess they're right... Kinda.

I mean, home still feels the same. It still feels as warm, comfortable, and kelly green (it's not actually green, but that's the color I associate with Home) as ever. But there's definitely something different.

Oh wait. I figured out what's different. Huh.

I was asked a couple times over the weekend while I was in Santa Barbara

"So, how have you changed?"

Talk about a loaded question. I kind of feel like that's a question I can't answer. It seems like the people who weren't with me on the trip, but are around me now should be the ones who should answer it. I mean, they're the ones who see the change. It's always striking how much people change when you don't see them for extended amounts of time. It's harder to see the difference when you grow with them, you know? Now, nothing against the people who ask that question. I love you for asking it, cause I need to figure out an answer...

I mean, I know that I've changed. I'm just still wrestling with the how part of the question. I definitely can't fully answer that now. And it'll be a while before I can. But, I do definitely know that I'm not going back. I mean, can you ever really go back? The Irish don't seem to think so.

Regardless of this moping/pondering, Home has been excellent. I feel so relaxed, so comfortable. So spread out. Europe has a certain feeling of crampedness... Us Americans are big, and we like our spaces to match. Colorado is crisp and bright. It's been cold, which has been amazing. Snow. Oh glorious snow. Finally.

I spent the weekend (give-or-take a few days) on the Coast. And it was like I was never gone. That's how you know true friends. You can ditch them for months, and then step right back into their lives and they'll pick things up from the last Save point. The weekend was filled with dancing, lights, neon, coffee, conversations,

(You don't really know how much you miss a person until you see them again. Heartache from missing a person is one thing, but it pales in comparison to the heart-overflow that comes when you meet that person face-to-face again and then sit for hours talking without boundaries with nothing but a table in between you)

pillowtalk, video games, laughter (such joyful laughter. Talk about the giggles), smoothies, California roads, food, handshakes, hugs, rain, smoke, boardgames, being surprised, not-being-surprised. I actually loved every minute of it.

I flew home and landed in snowy Denver at 6:00 sharp. My dad and I then sped the Colorado highway to the Pepsi Center for a 7:30 puck drop. At that point, all was right in the world.

It is so good to be home.

Some Turkish Delight...

2009-12-09T20:53:00.000-08:00

Istanbul. What a… strange… city. It is gorgeous. It is a lot of fun. It has some wonderful places to explore and offers great treasures. But it is still rather bizarre. The thing about Istanbul is that there is just no other place like it in the entire world. It really, truly feels like the meeting point between east and west. As our time in the city wore down, it seemed to accelerate. The last few days absolutely flew by. However, they left their memory mark. I don’t think I have ever seen a sunset like the one I saw from the roof of our hotel. It was kind of eerie to be at the same level as the calling balconies on the minarets. It does give a stunning view, though. As we left the city for the inner country, two of our professors and their daughters left us to go home early. Their third daughter has been battling a case in the U.S. immigration court, and they had to come back to settle the ordeal once and for all. The night before they left, I bought them all (the three professors and Kristin) a round of drinks. We ended up sitting and talking for about an hour. Naturally, we talked about parts of the trip, and people on the trip. It’s too much fun to get a professor’s opinion of students, let alone the opinion of professors who have been living with their students for three months. That interaction made me miss last year a bit. The whole RA position lets you in on so many different people’s views on the situation, and there’s something unique about an authority figure’s opinion. You just gotta love that.

Anyway, we left the city for the country. Landed in Cappadocia. Apparently, it’s pronounced cap-ah-doe-key-ah, we’ve been saying it wrong this whole time, and no one told us. It’s basically the Turkish version of Utah. Obviously, this entails some very cool things. Like churches built into the sides of mountains. Think Petra, but on a caveman scale. They also have things called “underground” cities. It’s a huge underground network of caves and tunnels. They were built by early Christians escaping persecution. We explored one of these cities for probably an hour. I was like a little kid. I was jumping off the trial, into random corners and unlit caves. At one point I had my head dangling out of a hole scaring people coming through a tunnel, at another I was talking through a small hole to a girl as the voice of God.

Basically, I had a real good time in Cappadocia.

We took off after two days in the desert and headed for the beach. We literally ended our semester with a vacation. We were beachside in a five-star resort on the Aegean coast. The town is called Kusadasi, and it’s Turkey’s Cancun.

We were there off-season, which is a real good thing. You could just feel how the streets would flood with drunken university students during high time. The only bad part of being there in the late fall was a closed hot tub. Course, the sauna, spa, and Turkish Bath made up for that ;) Like I said, it was a vacation. We spent four days poolside, spa side, and threw in just a hint of touring. I mean, seeing Ephesus was no big deal right? Sheesh… It’s going to be strange to read about these places in textbooks, and, well, the Bible, now. I mean, we stood on Mars Hill where Paul spoke to the Gentiles, and we sat in the Ephesian theater where he addressed the city.

That’ll bring the Bible to life, eh?

So, that was Turkey. One of my favorite stops on the trip. And once Turkey was over, we headed to…

Wait…

We headed home. Or rather, I headed home.

It’s over.

I'm Standing at the Crossroads, I believe I'm Sinking Down...

2009-11-29T04:39:00.001-08:00

We stopped by Greece. Literally. Did you know it's possible to treat a country like a fast food restaurant? Cause it definitely is. We landed, got on a tour bus, drove to the Acropolis, said hi, got back on the bus, drove around, got off the bus, and hopped on another flight.

Hey, Greece.

You were pretty darn cool. Athens looks like a lot of fun. And thanks for everything, like democracy, geometry, and philosophy. We appreciate it.

Love, Westmont College Europe Semester '09

After our little Greece tour (which really was cool albeit short. I mean, we stood on Mars Hill for Gentiles' sake), we were on our way to Istanbul. Welp... goodbye Western world, hello... um... well... something else?

On the flight, I got giddy. So did Sam, Lizzy MacRae, and Megan Woods. See, we have been waiting all semester to give our city presentation, on Istanbul. Lizzy and I were in rows across from each other (Side Note: Olympic Air? Very nice. Westmont basically had a plane to ourselves. I mean, I had a whole row to myself, as did about 10 other students. They also served a meal on a one hour flight, complete with a cookie run, and two drink runs. Gotta love government subsidized airlines. Take note, America), and our eyes were glued to the windows. When Istanbul became visible through the darkness and fog, we both turned to each other. We smiled, and then simultaneously mouthed the words: "Istanbul! What the...?"

We landed in a pretty darn modern airport, and I was already taken aback. Despite reading it various times over the semester, I had somehow forgotten that Turks use a Latin alphabet. I was expecting to see Arabic calligraphy everywhere, and I wasn't. My paradigm wanted something to be there that just was not... It was weird. We took a coach to our hotel. Yes... we have hotels while we're in Turkey. As in: room-service-bringing-turn-down-service-comfortable-bed-nice-shower-in-room-TV hotel rooms. Wow... what a welcome change. I mean, don't get me wrong, the hostel thing was fun while it lasted, but Merci Dieu for hotels.

The next morning we gave our presentation. You know those dreams you have where you wake up five minutes before you have to give a big speech and you're totally unprepared? Yeah, that actually happens. I forgot that we gained an hour from Italy, and so my alarm was set to go off fifteen minutes into my presentation. Thankfully, my roommate came in 5 minutes before class and woke me up. Let's just say that I gave my parts of the speech in Kent Hotel - Istanbul slippers. Definitely bringing those things home as a souvenir.

Then, we went out to the Crossroads. See, Turkey's not quite the West... but it's definitely not the East either. It's unique. I get woken up often to the Islamic Call to Prayer (which is absolutely beautiful, by the way.), but the streets and shops here feel totally Western. It is just blatantly obvious that this is a Middle Eastern culture (as in an honor/shame paradigm, mixed with some nomadic traditions) that has fallen in love with Western culture. I have been treated SO well by the Turkish locals. Everyone wants to know where I'm from, and they will come right out and talk to you, even if English is far from natural for them. This was most evident in the Grand Bazaar.

Which has a perfect name. It's grand (it makes the Mall of America look small), and it is bizarre. The shop owners all stand outside and lure you into their shops. But they're not pushy. Italians were pushy, they'd almost guilt you into eating at their restaurant. Turks are just nice. They've got a sense of humor too. I walked by a carpet shop, and the owner looked at me and said "Let me sell you something you don't need!". I gave him a thumbs up as I walked away belly laughing. I met a really kind Macedonian who let me custom build a hookah. I'm thoroughly pleased with it. The best story comes from the jewelry shop owner though. I was hanging out with Joy in the Bazaar, partially because I didn't want her to be alone in there. It is unbelievably easy to get lost in a place that has no readable signs and where every shop looks identical. Anyway, I was just hanging with the owner ("Your name is Kurt? Like Kurt Cobain? Oh, I like Nirvana. I listen to them in high school"), while Joy shopped ("Here, sir, you sit while lady shops. It's hard when woman shops for hours. I know"). We talked for probably a half-hour about quite a bit of things, including my major ("Politics? really? Well, then maybe you can be Kurt Bush. No! Wait...Kurt Obama, that's much better."). The funniest part of the conversation went like this though:

Shop-owner (I believe his name was Ashmet, but I could be wrong, he will be referred to as "A" from now on)

A: So... how long?

Me: ... (thinking) how long? what the..? ... What do you mean?

A: How long have you been married *pointing towards Joy*?

Me: hahahaha... oh! Well, actually we're not married.

A: Oh oh, boyfriend and girlfriend?

Me: No, no... we're just friends.

A: ... Really? *looks blankly at her. Looks back at me* ... *Looks at her again. Then to me again* Just friends?

Me: Heh heh, yup just friends...

So, now the running joke is that Joy and I are married (It was really fast, I know. Heck, we can't even remember the ceremony... or the engagement, for that matter).

Anyways, back to Turkey. We have done a good amount of touring. First of all, Mosques are beautiful. Seriously beautiful. The Blue Mosque is jaw-dropping. The Haghia Sofia is a breed of it's own. It's gorgeous as a church, it's impressive as a mosque, and as both it defines the history of this place so well. The Ottoman palace was greatly impressive, but it's blatantly obvious that you have been on Europe Semester when you're in the middle of a palace and you think Eh...I've seen better. Yikes. Just yikes.

The last little anecdote begins with a pun. We were in Turkey for Thanksgiving. It was perfect cause we got a little bit of Hungary as we flew over, just got a little bit of Greece, and then had our Turkey. Thanksgiving was interesting. Our dinner was a nice attempt. We had chicken shish kabob and french fries. Almost turkey and mashed potatoes, right? The real feast was after, when 12 of us went to a hookah/tea garden. We were all around tables, just sitting, laughing, talking, and enjoying each other. I got thankful there. A little culture shock made me grateful, that's cool. If you want some more info on this event, I ended up writing an essay on it. I'm not sure it's quite what the profs want, but even if it tanks in the grade category, it's one of the best essays I've ever written.

So...

That's been Byzantium so far... er, I mean Constantinople... ummm... Istanbul. Yeah, Istanbul, that's it. That's been Istanbul so far.

Return of the Empire...

2009-11-29T04:05:00.000-08:00

Earlier, I described it as "reading a book for the second time", and coming back to Rome was exactly that (Ironically, I finished my third book of the semester Dan Brown's The Lost Symbol in Rome. I've read over 1,200 pages on my own this semester. Hmm... maybe less textbook reading isn't a bad idea at all. Profs, take note). It was wonderful to be able to share some excellent sites with my friends this time. We stayed literally a block from Colosseum. That was rather epic. Seeing that ancient sports arena lit up at night makes the Staples Center look like a joke. I ended up at Trevi Fountain 3 of my 5 nights in Rome, and every time I ended up seeing my friend Joy. She corrected me on my mythology every time we were there. Thanks, Joyful. We're also now apparently married, but more on that later.

Trevi has a pretty magical feel to it. I mean it's these perfectly sculpted Roman gods erupting from marble slabs and the back of this building. But honestly, it was the people that made that place so cool. My friend Pecos showed up again in Rome. My only words for that were: "Yes. Please." He had just finished up his semester in Cortona, and he brought his friend John to join us on their way out. So we spent two days hanging out. The best part was at Trevi though. The five of us (John, Pecos, Sam E, and Justin D) all bought Cuban cigars, and then sat on top of one of the massive marble side railings. We puffed away, and a haze of smoke left our area and floated above all the tourists at Trevi. We just sat there; smoking and talking. We laughed hard, and even got deep into conversation. It was the ideal boys night out. Other people agreed, apparently. Sam spied 6 or 7 people set up their tripods and take some photos of us; feet dangling over the marble, stogies in hand, mid-laugh. I'm just waiting to see myself show up on some Italian anti-smoking billboard.

Having Pecos around was again a breath of fresh air. He's got this "life" thing down, and it's just plain fun to be around someone like that. You know?

I ended up at the Hard Rock Café twice during that span. It was pretty great. I haven't really let myself enjoy any of the American "exports" here in Europe (besides the occasional Starbucks), but this was just too refreshing. I actually felt at home with a massive burger in front of me. With loud music and ridiculous videos all around. With Free Refills. I didn't realize how precious those words actually are. The feeling of comfortability was absurd. It was just so relaxing to be in a place where I didn't have to be conscious of the fact that I was in a group of loud people speaking English. Course, the most ironic thing about all of this is that Hard Rock started in London...

So clearly, going back to Rome was great, but in order to get a better picture of it, there's a bit more. You have to top all of these little magic moments off with two more magical places: the Pantheon and the Forum. Pantheon is just darn impressive. Awe is literally ripped from your lungs when you stare at its dome. It actually does not make sense. Plus, it has a wonderful piazza in front of it. I brought some friends to dinner at one of the restaurants that my mom and I ended up at right out front of Pantheon, and had one of the best dinners of the trip so far.

The Forum is kind of indescribable. As I was walking over the uneven cobblestone, I literally felt like I was wearing a toga, on my way to Senate. Sheesh...what a nerd. Anyway, going through the roads of the Forum for a second time was my favorite tourist part of Rome. The first time I heard about X number of the ruins and former temples, and the second time I heard about totally different ones. Combining the knowledge from both times seriously brought those old roads to life. We also went inside the senate building this time. Yeah, inside the senate building. You know how we think? Our entire mindset, our paradigm? Yeah, that is because of the people in that building. Rome is responsible for our history, and I was standing in the room where history was written. Not the books of history, but the events. They came forth from that place.

I was standing among Titans...

Giving Thanks...

2009-11-26T14:23:00.000-08:00

Gratitude. It's an interesting emotion isn't it? It's hard to put into words, so... I'll let someone else do it for me. This is a song called Give Me Strength by Snow Patrol. It's on their new album Up To Now, and you actually need to get it. I know it's a bit emotional, but hey, I think it says it nicely:

I choked back tears today because I can’t begin to say how much you've shaped this boy,

these last ten years or more.

My friends we've seen it all, triumphs to drunken falls and our bones are broken still,

but our hearts are joined until,

time slips its tired hand into our tired hands we've years 'til that day

and so much more to say.

You give the strength to me, a strength I never had, I was a mess you see,

I'd lost the plot so bad, you dragged me up and out,

out of the darkest place, there's not a single doubt when I can see your faces.

My friends we've seen it all, when it made no sense at all,

you dare to light my path and found the beauty in the aftermath.

Let me hold you up like you held me up, it's too long to never say this,

you must know I've always thought,

You give the strength to me, a strength I never had,

I was a mess you see, I'd lost the plot so bad,

you dragged me up and out, out of the darkest place,

there's not a single doubt when I can see your faces.

You give the strength to me, a strength I never had,

I was a mess you see, I'd lost the plot so bad,

you dragged me up and out, out of the darkest place,

there's not a single doubt when I can see your faces.

Thanks, everybody.

Updates from Rome the Sequel and Turkey on their way... I promise

Ashes from the Inferno...

2009-11-19T14:09:00.000-08:00

Here's a bit more of the ashes left from the creative inferno.

This is a discription of a couple I saw on the Pitti Palazzo, which is my favorite part of Florence. Picture yourself in a sandstone courtyard that glows in a golden colour...
The young couple clutches. They embrace. It's hard to tell where her purple ends and his navy begins. He pulls away, setting up the timer on his digital camera. She poses, chin in hand, arm on knee. She pretends to be looking off into the distance. Her eyes may not be gazing at him, but he's all she sees. He gets up, comes over, and she pretends that he just entered her vision. He slides his hand under her chin, and pulls her face close to his. Their noses barely miss as love manifests in lips. Click...Flash. Never to be forgotten.

Young woman walks at a rapid pace. She throws one hand around; fluttering a piece of paper held tightly. She gesticulates, but the person on the phone can't see her desperate body language. She finds herself at a curb, not knowing where it came from. Her words slow, they become cold. She spins and sits simultanesouly. The words stop all together. Her head hangs, finding rest in the hand not holding the phone. Defeat eminates from the curb. She mutters three words.
Are. You. Sure?
Then she rises. The world seems to spin, but she isn't dizzy. She finds that rapid pace again. And goes back the way she came.

Here's my third attempt at poetry. Yeah, I know. It's real cheezy...

Fire-Fusing

What is searching for the spark?
Itìs not pursuing prefection.
It's not pining for peace.
It's not looking for love,
That's always in the wrong place.
It's really the mixing of music.
It's the tracking of a tempo.
The blending of beats,
It's rhyming rhythms; it's melding melodies.
It's called hunting for harmony.
It's about knoting knowledge,
Welding worries, and building beauty.
It's grafting graces,
Or fusing fires,
It's an integrated interlace.
It's about stitiching synchronicity;
It's hand-held heartbeats.
It's called hunting for harmony.

Sorry if there are various and numerous spelling and grammar errors here. I'm typing away on an Italian keyboard, so weird keys and placements, and no spell check. Course, I should mention that I'm typing in an internet café with a view of the moonlit Colloseum.

Ah... life is sweet.

Firenze is the Birthplace of the Renaissance After All...

2009-11-12T12:19:00.000-08:00

Over a week. Sheesh... I'm ashamed. Here's what's beautiful though: I've been writing a ton. Let's recap the past 8 days a little bit shall we?

Basically, for the first week, Florence sucked. Reasons: 1)It rained, a ton. And if you know me, you know that I love rain. However, I love snow more. I wanted snow. Bad. I got rain. A ton of rain. 2) Our residence is pretty cool, but it's also pretty cool. I mean seriously drafty. So, I was wet and cold, all the time. Yuck. 3) I just wanted to sleep, but my bed was really firm, and my pillow gave me wicked bad neck aches. 4) My bed was also a buffet. For bed bugs. I got eaten alive. I was symmetrical for a while. This also made sleeping not-so-good, as I would wake up due to extreme itchiness, and then couldn't go back to sleep because of visions of bed bugs danced in my head.

Ok, so combine all that into a week, and you get suck. Blech. It was no good. BUT I'm done whining. Which is why I called this entry renaissance, or rebirth, to the lay man.

Yesterday was the brutal day. I woke up at 5 in the morning, and couldn't get back to sleep. Shower was cold. Breakfast wasn't for two and a half hours. yikes. So, I got on the internet and talked with people from home. Ah, home. Those conversations were sparks, they got a bit of a fire going. I combined those sparks with a bit of oxygen in the form of Battle Studies (I got it early and it's incredible). Now, I had a fire. A serious creative fire. You know how artists always seem to be moody, brooding, angry, dirty, and overall just un-content?

I think that they do it on purpose.

It makes for GOOD inspiration.

I went on a writing tear. I think I doubled the amount of space taken up in my journal. Poems, lyrics, quips, creative stories, observations, you name it. It was sweet. Never been in a writing inferno before.

The problem is, that this writing tear completely changed my mood. I'm SO happy right now. I'm on a creative high. I mean, I wrote a poem an hour before our café night last night, and then read it cause I liked it enough (I also read the poem I wrote about Auschwitz [Apparently there's been some confusion, but I did write that poem down there] and the lyrics to the song Wheel.)

I also have a new bed. Thanks to my sympathetic professors, who came and helped me put my old bed into make-shift quarantine, got me a new one, and gave me Benadryl. Basically, I woke up to a totally new city. I went on a walk today, totally alone, and loved it.

I'm now currently trying to emulate my writing inferno, but it's not as easy as it was.

I'm enjoying the trouble though.

I like poetry for the first time in my life. I think I'm gonna keep writing it...

Here's my second attempt:

Spin

When does a cycle become a spiral?

After all, they're both a type of circle.

What if life is just an orbit?

What if this is all just another cog in the Karma machine?

Is it just a looped rhythm-beat?

Isn't getting dirty just another form of coming clean?

How do you stop a wave's ebbs and flows,

When even a ring's got it's highs and lows?

Do we always remember the sound,

of a boomerang coming back around?

Maybe we're not supposed to change our life-ring,

Maybe I'm thinking just a bit clearer,

Thinking a circle's just a wave on a mirror.

Senatus Populus Que Romanus...

2009-11-04T08:06:00.000-08:00

Rome. Wow, that’s a name with some history. Most of the places I’ve been going seem to have a history that begins around 1939. Maybe 1914. Rome began around 750. B.C.! There’s another one of those paradigm shifts I keep talking about. They tend to happen just when I think I’ve got my head around the world, you know?

I ventured on down to Rome about 2 weeks before my group, for a great reason.

Mama flew into town.

Over our 4-day break, we were able to travel basically where we wanted, and I was lucky enough to have my mom meet me out here in Italy. I hopped a flight from Praha to Roma. Took Czech Airlines. You’ve gotta love state-supported airlines, they treat you right. Traveling on my own was pretty nice. I do it enough in the States to have a good routine and some travel sense. The only drawback was having to actually think for myself instead of being a travel-sheep.

My first real encounter with Italy was the most stereotypical encounter I’ve had in Europe. I needed to grab a taxi from the train station to the hotel. I waited in line a bit, and then WHAM! Two Roman cabbies start yelling, gesticulating, turning red, and altogether being Italian. Here’s an excellent example of what I saw:

It was only after I got to the hotel that I could laugh.

It was so incredibly nice to see my mom. Not only was it a new yet familiar face (the first in 2 months), but it was my mama! I got to spend four relaxing days just seeing sites, walking at our own natural pace, and eating great food. Oh! And sleeping… I actually got to sleep a decent amount. That was a nice change of pace.

Rome was a pretty fascinating place, because really, it’s three cities.

First, it’s the modern-day capitol of Italy. I’ve spent a year hearing how far behind the Italian government is, and how muddled the bureaucracy is. Not to mention hearing about Berlusconi. American politics ain’t seen a guy like him. Couple that with the European stereotypes of Italians as lazy, loud, and rude, and I didn’t exactly have the best expectations for the Romans. Well, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Every single person we encountered was extremely nice. Waiters were perfectly willing to bend-over-backwards for their diners; tour guides were patient with stupid questions. I was flabbergasted. In a good way.

The second city is the medieval/renaissance city. This place is absolutely riddled with art. GOOD art. The Trevi Fountain is astounding. Strike that, all of the Bernini’s are astounding, especially Pluto and Persephone Wow… There are remnants of artistic masters on nearly every road.

Finally, Rome is the capitol of the Western world. You know that B.C. date that I threw out there? There’s a whole section of town dedicated to the remains of the Roman Empire. Now that’s history. I stood where Augustus ruled the world. Where Peter and Paul looked death in the eye. Where Nero burned Christians for light, and Constantine gave Christianity the last laugh. It’s kind of overwhelming to stand in those spots. It certainly makes one feel miniscule.

Oh!

And throw another country into that whole 3-city thing. The Vatican is impressive. I mean, really impressive. The whole city just exudes power. I was dumbstruck. A lot. The Sistine Chapel, St. Peter’s Basilica, and the Museums (including the School of Athens) are all they’re cracked up to be. The carry the power they deserve. However, it’s very easy to see how that church got caught up in its own glory and forgot its role as a conduit for glory. It is trying, though. Vatican II has definitely made its mark.

Rome is quite the city. I’m real excited to go back with the group soon. It’s going to be like reading a good book for a second time, you notice totally different things.

Leaving Rome was no fun. Saying by to Mama was a rather large bummer, I tried to get her to come to Florence with me, but she had to get back to the States to see Britty. What a lame reason… J I then hopped a 1½ hour train ride to Florence. I now know why people take the train.

However, first impressions of Florence were rough. It was raining pretty hard. I bought a dysfunctional map. Got lost. Walked a half hour in said rain. Got to the residence about 5 hours before I could check-in to a room. Accidentally got a café to open their kitchen for me. Went out back into the rain. Sat in the outside courtyard of the residence for about an hour. Got mistaken for a homeless person due to using my bag as a pillow and my fingerless gloves. Yikes.

Well… it can only get better from here, eh? I mean lunch was real good.

How does that song go again? “Always look on the bright side of life… do do, do do, do do, do do, do do”

That was the Roman Empire after all, right?

Czech-Bouncing

2009-11-04T08:01:00.000-08:00

Yup. They finally made me leave Germany for good. Dang. It’s ok though. Cool things lay ahead.

On our way out, we stopped in Dresden. I had low expectations. I thought ‘OK. It’s another World War II damaged city.’ I should have learned my lesson in Coventry.

This whole town was blitzed. Razed. I mean nothing left. Maybe three buildings, maybe. The British firebombed Dresden so hardcore it caused a “firestorm”. Basically, the whole town was burning at 1000° centigrade. The asphalt melted. In the process, St. Mary’s church was destroyed. Actually fully dismantled.

Thank God for rebuilding.

Before Dresden, Sacre Coure in Paris was my favorite church in the world. Not anymore.

The new St. May’s in Dresden, Germany takes the cake.

Before we entered, it was prefaced as a personification of resurrection (destroyed then rebuilt), perhaps this added to the beauty. It had just been rebuilt in 2006. You know when you enter anciten churches and you think ‘I wonder what this place felt like in its prime?’.

St. Mary’s is in its prime.

“Wow…” That’s all I can really say.

They call Prague the Paris of the East. I think I may like the East better. Everything from Berlin east has been phenomenal. Maybe its because it’s new for me, maybe it’s because I mesh with these cities better, or maybe it’s just being connected with the Aryan community, I dunno.

Regardless, Eastern Europe is incredible. The past 20 years have done it well.

Prague certainly feels 20. The metro didn’t even smell yet. The city itself is kind of a strange amalgamation. One can tell that these people haven’t self-ruled often. The medieval structures are all gothic and renaissance architecture, but they’ve been “baroqu-ed” (Gabriel-ism). Apparently, the Austria-Hungarian empire used Baroque architecture as a weapon in the counter-reformation against those rowdy, free-thinking protestants, The Austro-Hungarians rules until 1919. Then the Czechs got a bit of independence. They celebrated with a unique style of art. Art Nouveau was everywhere, and thus, Mucha was everywhere. That was awesome. I got to see an entire museum dedicated to my favorite artist. Definitely wouldn’t mind some Mucha hanging in my future residence.

Back to Czech history. They had their own country for 20 years. Then, the Nazis invade. Sweet. There goes all that Czech pride. So, no more neat art. Things just end up shot-up or blown-up. Then, in ’45, comes Communism. Most things stay shot-up or blown-up. Well, except for a massive Stalin statue (that eventually gets blown-up in the 50s). The poor Czechs don’t get their own place again until ’89.

Yeah, the year I was born.

3 of the countries I’ve been to are as old as I am. Maybe that’s why I like them so much.

Prague was definitely made better by Gabe’s presence. From teaching us to laugh at dumb tourists, to poking fun of couples at the castle gardens/discussing what a good date spot it is, to telling us what to do when a pistol-toting Nazi is walking towards you (RUN!), it just wouldn’t have been the same without him. Taking me out to a much-needed breakfast and discussing the information age/the 21^st Century/the future was just icing on the cake.

Cheers, Gabriel. Hope to see you soon.

Best site – Prague Castle/St. Vitar’s Best stained glass ever, and incredible views

Best food – Lebanese Group Dinner – It just kept coming, and it was all awesome.

Best pun – Gabe’s talk about the victims of the 2^nd Defenestration of Prague being the first bounced Czechs.

We Were in Eastern. Europe. ...

2009-10-31T12:03:00.000-07:00

I should probably preface that last entry by saying that the camps aren’t the only thing that is in Poland. We weren’t purely “horror-tourists”.

We stayed in Krakow for 3 nights. That is really a fantastic town. Basically, all of the unique and interesting things from Bruges are in Krakow, but they’re 10 times better. It’s also significantly cheaper. That’s the one advantage of traveling outside the EuroZone for sure. We had a map of the town with recommendations from Gabe on cool places. I tried to hit as many of his spots as I could. Started with an excellent Italian meal. I got the best mussels of my life in Poland. We moved onto a hookah bar from there serving some primo shisha. Not a bad night, eh?

We toured the city the next day and got to experience a rather tourist version of the Polish town. I found the pieces of information on Oskar Schindler, and the movie, really fascinating. I watched that movie for the first time just before heading to Europe with my family, so it was still fresh in my mind. Needless-to-say, standing in the filming spots was humbling. I spent that night on the internet talking with people from home and loving it. It was a perfect mental break, especially with the camps waiting the next morning.

Auschwitz-Birkenau was a sobering, awful, teaching, and otherwise overwhelming experience. The poem that I previously posted is really the only way I can describe the experience. I felt myself just hoping to get out of the place on multiple occasions, and only kept myself from breaking down by mentally repeating verses, or songs, or even God’s name.

Yeah… that was a pretty rough day.

Coming back after the camps was a totally different experience, though. For a bit, I had felt as though I was in some sort of a social funk. I think I just had the idea that the camps were coming up looming over my head and it was affecting me more than I knew. But after that day, I’ve felt much more as myself (besides being sick), and am enjoying my fellow travelers significantly more.

Now, I’m just reveling in my last three days in Berlin. Coming back here felt somehow like coming home. How’s that for eerie? There’s just so very much to enjoy about this city. Especially the people. Last night, Gabriel had us over to his flat to eat a massive Greek dinner and basically have something of a party. No, not a college-kid (emphasis on the “kid”) party, more like a yuppie party. Lots of talking, laughing, and sipping wine. That kind of a thing. Anyway, during the night, I got to talking to Gabe’s good mate, whose name I can’t spell due to its Germanity, who also happened to be the very talented guitar player from our Karaoke experience. He is just a stand-up guy. He must have asked me everything about our trip, and then always followed it up with a question about how it would affect me, or what I could take away from it. Pretty cool huh? After a decent amount of the group had gone back, Gabe gets everybody’s attention and says ‘hey, my mate who owns this really cool bar came over and asked if we wanted to come over. It’s a bar that’s in a flat building next door. It’s basically a speak-easy, there’s no advertising for it, and it’s just the size of a small flat. It’s also a haven for graffiti artists. Berlin’s been known for its graffiti, but you haven’t seen any have you? Well, this is the place where the art actually is. So, what’d ya say, you guys wanna come?’

So, I spent a significant amount of last night in an underground speak-easy graffiti bar in East Berlin.

There will not be a whole lot of times in my life where I will be able to say a sentence as cool as that one.

This was all written a bit ago, updates from Prague and Four-Day are on their way...

A Monument to All Our Sins...

2009-10-23T09:28:00.000-07:00

There is no flowing water

Save that which falls

From heavy hung heads

For no man there

Looks another in the eye.

Nuts and leaves carpet

Moss and mud

For there is no life that lives there

Even the flowers are weeds.

Nature knows where evil lain

Now

All that remains

Is mist and shadow

And a monument to all our sins.

Written after a visit to Auschwitz-Birkenau

Ich Bin Ein...

2009-10-21T15:11:00.000-07:00

I have to admit, I had high expectations for Berlin. I thought it was going to be really cool. I thought it would become close to my heart, like London or Paris or Boston or Denver. I thought I would see some history, thought it would be interesting.

I had no idea.

Berlin is [insert hyperbolic adjective that I actually mean here].

Let’s break down my expectations:

1. I thought it would be cool – So my idea of cool is probably rather similar to most college aged students idea of cool. It’s definitely pretty typical of Westmont’s idea of cool. Here’s the thing with Berlin: It’s as old as I am. Or, at least the Berlin that I am experiencing is my age. The wall fell 10 months after I was born. This city has been aging at the same pace as me. It’s going through the same growing pains and trends as me. So, Berlin feels like a twenty year old in city form. It has a fantastic nightlife, but it’s a renaissance-city (a la a renaissance-man, not as in Florence). Here’s an illustration of what I mean. My weekend was made up of going to an elegant Hookah bar that’s literally a block from my apartment, and then taking over a Karaoke bar with our entire group and our tour guide (yes, that’s Gabriel Fawcett for those of you who know and love him. He really is fantastic. And he can rock out.). A live band played, and you could sing in front of them. Such a cool concept. I didn’t end up on stage, but the guitar player and I became buds and we were feeding off each other’s energy. I came home with my ears ringing and my voice lost. At 3 AM. Sunday, we went to a ballet. (I love that juxtaposition) It was my first ever. I can’t say that I loved it, but I can’t say that I dislike it either. Basically, those people are all super athletic, and I was entertained. I was also falling asleep. So, there’s that… Honestly, that’s an ideal weekend for me. It just screams culture. College culture anyway.

2. I thought it would become close to my heart – I actually dug Berlin the moment I got off the coach. It was cold. Like really cold. Like two pairs of pants, a longsleeve, a sweater, a jacket, two pairs of socks, a beanie, and a scarf cold. If you know me, you know me and the Cold. Basically, we hang out. Upon getting here, I learned that the apartment I was to be staying in (I know! An apartment! Living in it has been a nice little glimpse into the future. Guess I’m destined to be a yuppie soon) is placed in the heart of East Berlin. As in, twenty years ago, it would have been state-housing. As in, there would have been 0 business in this part of the city. As in, I’m living behind the Iron Curtain. How’s that for a paradigm-shifter? ‘Course, that just made me love it more. This neighborhood, which, I might add, is smack-dab in the middle of the city, has become a bustling, hip center for young designers and artists; giving it an indescribably chic feel. Especially when you visualize the concrete, open-air prison it was just two decades ago. The most beautiful part of the location is that its also extremely close to the historic district/arts square/museum island. I didn’t realize that literally all of this was in the Soviet sector of the city. I walked all around the area today. I took back Berlin for myself tonight. And I enjoyed every step of it. I went out on my own, which was exactly what I needed, and ended up getting asked 4 different times to take out my earphones because random people thought I was German. As I stated in an earlier post, that’s a huge compliment. The walkabout helped clear my head, and it brought some revelations: About three-quarters of the way through my walk, I realized two things. First, Berlin reminds me of Denver. The market square that’s a block from my apartment could be modeled after Larimer Square. It’s not; but it could be. Secondly, as I was walking on my own under a covered museum walkway that is still riddled with World War II bullet holes from the Red Army, this thought entered my head:

This is why I’m here

3. I thought I would see some interesting history – In every part of Europe we’ve been so far, history has been real. I’m seeing what I’ve read about in texts books. But here, in Berlin, this is something different. I’m living in history. I feel like I’m swimming in it. I only have to walk ten feet outside of the apartment complex, and see the little Communist on the street lights to live history (on the street lights, the “man-crossing-the-street” symbol is a caricature of a hard working proletariat member telling you to stop or go. He’s called the Amplemann.). Of course, the city itself is just pure history. Usually, we’ve had to go to a museum or a site to be within history’s grasp. I literally walk five minutes and see the national church that was bombed out during the war and completely rebuilt. I can walk two more and be on Babelplatz. Where over 20,000 books met Fahrenheit 451. The Berlin Wall (or what’s left) is only two S-Bahn stops away. Hitler’s bunker is one more down the line. This city actually emits history. It’s eeking out of every pore. The people here fully embrace it, too. After the Wall fell, the youth lost their main canvas. Now, the city has become one. There is gorgeous graffiti everywhere. I feel like I actually can’t help but soak it all in.

It might be hard to leave here.

Nestling in the Netherlands...

2009-10-11T15:18:00.000-07:00

So…

Shall I tell you a story?

How about from a far away place?

OK?

Good. Here we go.

Bruges was very very nice again. It was a bit of a rest. Kind of. I knew things, and felt a bit more at home, but we still lived far from the city center, and the walk was always just as obnoxious. So I took advantage of the things that I knew, and some things that were new. There was a shopping festival in the city, and Bruges actually came alive. When we were first there, the city was quiet… and old. And I’m not talking about the buildings. We seemed to be the only people under 45 in the whole city. But this weekend was different. There were tons of people, the city actually felt crowded, and we were the perfect age. The festival brought a whole new element to Bruges, it made it so enjoyable. It also brought roadside stands. These stands brought Christmas gifts for my family, and the best bratwursts you’ve ever had. Mmmm… my mouth is watering right now, in a totally different country…

We left Bruges after four days. Our bus headed North-East. Destination: Amersfoort, the Netherlands. Now, you’re thinking Ok, thanks to that movie, I have at least heard of Bruges (Maybe). But Amersfoort? Why Amersfoort? For a wonderful, wonderful reason.

The bus was buzzing, even after a full travel day. Everyone was excited, and quite nervous. We were about to hear who had drafted us. Amersfoort is our homestay town. We were being adopted for four days, and we were just about to hear who had selected us. It really felt like the draft too. Kristin (former Westmonster, and trip money/lodging coordinator) was on the microphone at the front of the bus. She would read two names, then those two people would head on down the bus aisle. I swear she would say And with the Number One pick in the 2009 NHL Draft, the New York Islanders pick… and then the names. She went through about 14 people, all in pairs. Those of us who were left got more and more antsy. Then out come these words:

And our first single! This person is going to be on their own!

Welp…guess who that was? J Soon as I heard those words, I knew it was me. First impression: nerves. Then: excitement. I thought Well this will be a nice way to get some alone time. Now, I just have to meet my adoptees…

I trekked the Aisle Walk (now I know how Matt Duchene feels – yeah, I’m a hockey fan. You should be too. It’s more fun to watch then [insert the sport you like to watch here].)

I walked down the bus stairs into the cold Dutch rain and saw a taller man with a big smile on his face. From that moment, I knew I’d be good. We split a car back to the flat, and I was introduced to his wife, and her bright, spunky smile.

This is them: Arjen and Jacobien Karssenberg. They are incredibly nice. Call them up for your trip to Amersfoort, they’ll take good care of you.

We spent a lovely evening sipping coffee (the Dutch love coffee as much as me! Hooray! No more small French espresso shot-glasses. These people drink coffee like it’s water. Perfect.) and introducing ourselves. The Karssenbergs are very into gardening, reading, and board games. After talking, they showed me one of their board games, called Regenwormen (translation: Ringworms). It’s more pleasant than it sounds. A short little dice game, it was a perfect nightcap. Then I got to hop into an actual bed in an actual house.

The next day was spent almost entirely in Amsterdam. I had to depart from the Karssenbergs, and met up with the rest of the group. We took a coach into the city and hit the pavement at the speed of Usian Bolt. Two quick museums and two quick meals in 4 hours. Yikes. Then, back on the coach back towards Amersfoort. It is here that I will place a significant shoutout: Eric the coach-driver, you’re the man. He would grab the mic during drives and tell good stories about things we were seeing or even better, he’d drop jokes (my favorite: he gets on the mic and says: The red light district is exactly behind us now. I was there a few weeks ago, and I was looking around, when I saw a woman in a window. I went up to hear and asked ‘how much?’ She said ’50 Euro’ I looked at her and said ‘Hey, that’s pretty good for a double-paned window!’ Cue Rimshot). Then, as we came into the Parking Lot that would be our pickup/drop off point, Eric slams on the gas and starts pulling doughnuts. That’s right, full, 360 degree turns. In a tourist coach. I was in the back, and I swear I was at a 45 degree angle. Three times around, and then he cranked the wheel the other way, and we spun opposite. Sheesh… Eric rules.

I spent the evening at the flat with more great Karssenberg-conversations-and-coffee. Then another great night in a real bed.

Another Amster-day. Quick toured a semi-closed Red Light district. I was a bit underwhelmed. I think that I had got myself ready for something that it is not. Spent the rest of the day just around the town. It’s actually rather pleasant. Don’t let stereotypes fool you, Amsterdam can be beautiful and classy.

Returned to the flat on my own. The Karssenbergs were in the north of the Netherlands at a good friends wedding. That’s right. I had a European flat to myself. So what did I do? Only the things that any 20 year old would do.

Called home and then went to sleep.

Wow… Maybe I need to be more adventurous…

The weekend was spent completely with host families. So I was treated to an awesome driving tour of the Netherlands. Arjen is a great tour guide, and he showed me medieval Netherlands and the new land that was created less than 100 years ago. Now that's weird. The Dutch actually create land. Weird...but awesome.

The tour ended with a typical Dutch meal back at the flat and then me getting my butt kicked at Ticket to Ride. Thought I was at least kinda good at that game. Not so much.

Sunday was a slow day. A ten minute bike ride to church. I didn't realize how much I missed bike riding until hopping on one here. The service was excellent too. The sermon was well thought out and smartly delievered. Course it was in Dutch, so....

We then rode home, had lunch, and I took a wonderful two hour nap. Then, dinner, and more losing at board games. Hey, they were a ton of fun though. And they taught me how to play Settlers of Catan... or Kolonistas (I think that's spelled right).

Now... a quick last night in the heavenly bed, and off to Germany in the morning...

La Vie...Peut Etre En Rose, Peut Etre Pas...

2009-10-02T09:48:00.000-07:00

After a quick 4 Belgian days, we headed off towards France. No, let me change that. We headed for Paris. Yes, Paris. Oh yes, please.

I got really excited.

Paris is just great. But we only have 5 days! Will I be able to do everything I want to do in 5 days? That’s not long…

Well, see here’s the thing (see I told you we use it a lot!), Paris can be done in 5 days. If you do 13-15 hour days like we did. We actually didn’t have class for the entire time we were in France, so anything education was done via tour (see: Versailles, Louvre, Normandy tours). We had about 4 hours at both Versailles and the Louvre. Then we were free to leave when we wanted. The group I spent most of my time with in Paris ended up going to what seemed to be every single Arrondissement. We hit everything. And as a result, we didn’t sleep much. I haven’t been that tired since RAing. Yikes. But! On the plus side, my French is still functional! I can still conversate! I can understand really well, and I am understood…maybe half the time J It was awesome.

It’s funny. I didn’t recognize Paris too much when I first got there. We were pretty far to the South of the city, and nowhere near where I was the first time with my family. It was kind of unnerving. But then came time to catch a ride. We went down into the Metro station, and WHAM

France

I recognized Paris by the smell. No, it didn’t smell like urine, or something gross like that. It just smelled like France. I can describe it to you. Maybe I should have bottled up some Metro air to present to you when you inevitably question my sanity after I get back and talk to you. Then I would open the jar and say “Here. This is France.” They say that smell is the sense best tied to memory. I guess they’re right this time.

We made it up to Sacre Coure one of the evenings we were there. What an incredible place. It’s simply gorgeous. A white beacon of a church placed just atop a hill in the north of Paris, it seems to look down at the whole city. It reminds me of the Spire of Ecthalion in Minas Tirith (like LOTR shout out to Jay V., Ty F., and Lizzie Mc.). The inside just feels like a church should to me. You can try to continue your conversation once you are into the nave and chapel, but you won’t. It literally grasps the breath from your throat and yanks it from your lungs while your eyes are pulled upwards. (Saint Chapelle does the same thing. The stained glass there looks like gems glistening from their spots in the cave wall.) Simple stunning. I sat for a while and prayed; thanking Jesus for him and his sacrifice. I almost crossed myself afterwards, but decided against it. But really, if I had done it, would anyone have said anything? If I were to commit a small act because I felt like it sealed my conversation with the Lord well, would it have been wrong? I really don’t even know the answer. Any insight?

Then, on the outside of the church, there is a wonderful juxtaposition. Sacre Coure sits gleaming in its white splendor. In front of the church, upon its very steps, there is all sorts of humanity. Music played. Street performers juggling, dancing, and entertaining. Lovers cooing. Loners drinking. Venders hawking. You can’t help but smile as you turn to see the holy enthroned just above and out-of-reach from the people below. It really makes you think.

We made it to the top of the city about 4 times. Sacre Coure. L’Arc de Triomphe. Notre-Dame. La Tour Eiffel. It was after the second trip up stairs that I thought to myself: you can only take so many pictures of the Parisian skyline. On paper, and on screen, they really all do kind of look the same. So, I put down my lens, and just stopped.

Paris really is a beautiful city.

After the blistering pace of city life, we headed up and out to Normandy. A little bit more of the familiar, and some of the unknown. We stayed in an Abbey. It was just right. The rooms are converted from the original floor plan of the Abbey, so none of them really make that much sense. The building was pretty incredible though. I am finding that I am in awe of cities and country-sides here. Usually people are city people or country people. I thought that I was a city person, but I may not be. I can’t tell.

We spent a long Thursday touring World War II sites. Talk about a world trapped in a certain time. We went to the World War I sites in Belgium, and they felt the same way. Trapped in 1918 or 1944. Going back to the sites in Normandy was… different than I thought. They felt eerily similar. Yet not the same at all. I could tell that I was different more than the sites changing. My questioning of pride, patriotism, and citizenship has definitely shaped the way I perceive things. And I got a bit said about that. I certainly came away from the sites feeling proud of my country, and was unbelievably grateful for the sacrifices, but it took more time to get me there than I would have liked. That was disappointing.

Now…we’re back to Bruges. Time to wind down again. Time to settle. Back to the known. Back to things familiar.

When In Bruges...

2009-10-02T09:46:00.000-07:00

Bruges.

Where?

Wait…we’re staying in Bruges, Belgium?

Alright. What the heck. Give it a whirl, eh?

See, here’s the thing (<- this has become the official Europe Semester phrase). Bruges is really cool. It’s a town. Not quite a city, but not that small either. I’m not sure that this town has recognized it’s size yet. There is a massive, and I mean massive town square in the center of town. However, it is never filled. In fact, there are always too few people there. It’s strange. It always feels a little haunted…A little empty.

The town itself is an interesting mix. I think that most of Belgian culture is this way. An odd combination of Flemish, French, and plain European vibes emanate from the people. Bruges is in the Flemish speaking section of Belgium, so my French did absolutely 0 good. But, most everyone speaks English, and recognizes me to be an American, so I get addressed in English almost always. Take, for instance, the competing fry stands under the Belfry. I got to the front of the line and the guy looks at me and says “What do ya want?”. Right after serving a German couple, and before serving some British tourists. Kind of incredible, isn’t it? So were the fries. There’s something strange about Belgium. The people seem to live on a combination of French fries, chocolate, waffles, and beer; and yet, they are surprisingly healthy. Those people know hot to live eh?

They’re pretty darn nice too. On our last day there (well, until we got back today that is. Kinda confusing, I know. We went Bruges > Paris > Normandy >Bruges), my friend Joy and I sat on a bench looking at the river because we had missed the tourist boat ride that the rest of our group got on. We were talking when the 50-something-year-old woman sitting on the bench behind us interrupted. “Excuse me? You are from America yes?” We both turned and Joy engaged her. They ended up talking for about 15 minutes before the woman asked If we would join her for a drink. She ended up buying a Belgian beer for Joy, myself, and Corey. Just because we agreed to talk to her for what turned out to be about an hour and a half. I think I like the Belgians J

Ireland; Four More Attempts

2009-09-24T05:55:00.000-07:00

Hmm...shall we get into the real depths of the Emerald Isle?

Can I just reiterate how much I love that place.

First of all, we stayed in the Shire. No exaggeration. The Shire. It was incredible. I thoroughly enjoyed sitting and reveling in the green. It was such a stark contrast from the yellows, browns, and blacks that I have become accustomed to, sad as that thought is. We went shopping at a massive grocery store before we got to the Cottages and I bought as authentically as I could for the week. Let's just say that there is nothing like sitting on an ancient, creaky, wooden picnic table watching sheep on the side of the Mourne Mountains while slowly munching sausage, cheese, eggs, and soda bread, washed down with some Irish Breakfast tea.

It's easy to see God in moments like that. He must enjoy the Irish countryside as much as I did, because he seemed present everywhere. Especially at the monastery we had class at. The place was phenomenally beautiful. One of the only buildings I've ever seen and thought Ah! Contemporary architecture can be just as beautiful as architecture of old.

Then.

I went to a service there. (Yes, this is skipping a bit, but that's fine) It was lead collectively by the six monks who live at the Monastery. One would lead in the hymns, one had a sermon, one the reading of the Gospel. Each man demanded respect in his own unique way, and yet they worked together to make an enriching and powerful service. Think of it like a tapestry. The small pictures and designs can be intricate and beautiful, but the entire thing is what is breath-taking and majestic.

So, clearly, God lived in Rostrever. He was apparent everywhere, but there were places he seemed very far from.

We spent a day touring Belfast. Mainly in a bus, which took a bit away from the experience, but not much. I knew some of the history of the Troubles. I understood the division (mostly), and had heard of the murals and the violence. Really, I knew nothing. Everything I thought I knew was shot to hell when I stood under the Union Jack looking across the street to buildings covered in Green and Orange. When you stare face to face with a "peace wall" that has the names Israel, Palestine, Nicosia, and Berlin carved into it as its "sister places".

That will haunt you.

So will the murals. There are plenty of them. Around every street corner it seems. It's so strange to see something that honors men in black hoods with Kalashnikovs. It's even weirder to see that mural painted above a grocery store. And then to think that the very people the wore the masks because of live 2 blocks away, and are honored by their own loyal friends just the same.

Now, on top of all of that, do it in the name of religion.

But really, its not about the religion. Protestantism and Catholicism don't really have anything to do with it. It's all about politics.

There is some redemption in Belfast, though. There are glimmers of hope. The city itself is improving (read: rebuilding), and is on its economic feet. The Troubles have technically been over since 1998, and this is most apparent in the citizens. I had heard that the "new" generation (my generation) was trying to avoid the troubles. Trying to distance themselves from it all. I actually had an encounter that displayed this pretty well:

I was walking alone through the Belfast airport waiting for our flight out to Amsterdam (Yup, I jumped around again. This is not in chronological order at all. Think of it as a Tarintino movie). I was heading towards the airport coffeeshop (read previous posts to find out how much I enjoy these two things put together). A rather attractive Irish lass caught my attention by asking if I was interested in learning about the Bank of Ireland. I stumbled with my words at first. Originally, I was quite excited that a local thought that I was Irish, and then I realized that I was going to have to tell her I was from the States, and thus, I needed to have no accent (I pick them up extremely easily. Especially inflection. Especially when talking to locals. So this was rather difficult to do). So, I told her and her co-worker (who was later revealed to be her mother) that I couldn't exactly join the Bank of Ireland, and yada yada yada. We got to talking, mainly because people really want to know where you are from in the States if you talk with them. They didn't know Colorado, and the conversation turned into me trying to explain the difference between "mountain people" and "hillbillies". Oye. (there's a point to this, I swear). Then I was asked about why I was in Ireland (to study), if I had any Irish family (yes, to which I was told "oh yeah, all you Americans do"), and what I had seen in Belfast. At this point the mom left the kiosk we were talking at (relevant, I swear). The girl asked if I had seen "the murals, and all that stuff". I tried to be as polite and politically correct about it and just said yes, that I had. And that was it. She said something like "cool", and the conversation went on. A bit later, her mom returned, and proceeded to ask me the same question. Once again, I tried to be polite: "Yeah, we saw them on our tour".

"Well, which ones did you prefer? The Green ones, or the Red, White, and Blue ones?"

I froze. There was no real way to answer this question properly. I told her that I liked the Green ones better. I did this half trying to gauge which she would prefer herself, and half being honest (politically, I'm a bit more of a nationalist. I love Ireland so much I think it should just be its own entity completely. However, I understand the nationalistic point-of-view and its political necessity all the same. But I digress...). I chose wrong. She upturned her face and asked me why. I then realized I needed to save myself from looking like a stupid, knows-nothing-about-what-actually-happens-here American, and say something other than "I like those colors better", and I still hadn't quite caught her affiliation yet. So, naturally, I said something that made me look like a stupid, doesn't-know-anything-that-actually-happens-here American. I opened my mouth and out came "Well, the Green ones we saw were less violent than the Red, White, and Blue ones".

I got a Northern Irish death glare. Do yourself a favor and never, ever get one of these. She said "On no! That's totally backwards. Those Greens ones are so much worse." Welp. Nice going. Foot so far into mouth. She leaned in close and whispered "The Red, White, and Blue ones. Remember that." Then left. Yikes. I felt awful. I ended up apologizing later to her daughter "if I had said anything too offensive, or come across as an uninformed American", she assured me that everything was fine. I ended up seeing the mom later, and she was perfectly nice again (It was only later that I realized that I should have said that I liked the Greens better cause I am a fan of Celtic. That would have saved me some trouble).

Later, I realized that these two had perfectly epitomized the Troubles. The older generation not only cared about it enough, but she went out of her way to find out what I thought about it, and then proceeded to tell me how wrong I was. However, when it came to working, she pushed my uninformed opinion out of the way and was more than cordial again. The new generation didn't care about it at all. She just asked if I had seen the murals and then moved on. It's the classic "yeah, that's part of our past" mindset. It's incredible what you can glean from a simple airort conversation.

The Irish are a fascinating people.

Speaking of which (I promise this is almost over. éire just has a lot of good stories to offer.), let me flesh out Ned and the Five Attempts. The day before we went to Belfast, we traveled down to the Republic (see. Tarintino.). I was so excited. Dublin. Dublin! Giddy is an appropriate word. We go there and toured Kilmainham jail. Which is fascinating. You may recognize it from various U2 music videos or recordings, it has incredible acoustics. Then, we were on our own for the rest of the day.

Naturally, five of the guys headed quick for the Guinness Stockhouse. It was a really decent walk from where we were, which was perfect, because we got to see a good chunk of Dublin in a short amount of time. We went from the university area, to a shopping square, to churches, and finally to a rather depressed neighborhood before we reached the Stockhouse. I look back on this now as such a blessing, because most people only stayed around the shopping district. Then, the factory was lovely. Just a very well done tourist attraction. Top it off (literally and metaphorically) with the best view in Dublin. The top floor is called the Gravity Bar, where you can claim your "free" (with admission) pint straight from the brewery. 8 minutes from brew to glass.

So, take quite possibly the best beer you will ever have. Add four friends who are loving every second as much as you. Then finish with a 360 degree view of the town you've wanted to see your whole life. That, right there, is life.

Back to the Irish people. After the tour, we headed to a pub on the way back to the bus. We were treated exceptionally well. The owner of the bar (the previously mentioned Ned) sat us himself, asked us where we were from, and actually cared to listen to what we had to say. He took our orders, and had a witty, Irish quip for everything we said. Perfect. We, naturally, ordered Guinness with our meal. Ned then told us of how he had worked for the company for forty years before opening the pub we were then sitting at. Clearly the man knew his Guinness (I asked him if it comes straight from the factory. His reply: "Rolled it here meself this marnin'!" There's Irish humor for you). He taught us how to properly drink a Guinness. The first "attempt" as he called them, sips to us non-Irish, has to be "past the Harp". On Guinness pint glasses there is a logo with a harp right above it. According to Ned, your first sip should make it past that picture. Sip is an improper word really, gulp is probably more accurate. "You should feel it back there in the back of your throat". We all did. Then he said, "Alright lads, so if you wan' ta drink a Guinness properly, ya get 5 attempts total. That was the first." I thought maybe he was just trying to push more beer on us for profit, but when asked, he preserved that it was just the way the Irish do it. I gotta hand it to Ned, it really does make the Guinness better. Trusting an Irishman when it comes to alcohol is probably smart (or really stupid depending on the circumstances).

Sheesh...I am not succinct. 'Course, there was a lot to say about Ireland. I didn't even mention Tommy Sands (the bard of peace. He played a full three hours in my cottage. His daughter danced jigs. They played traditional songs, I sang along. It was heavenly. Just amazing.) There was a ton learned, and other things that I thought I knew that were shaken up. One thing I do know for sure though:

I'm going back. :)

éire...

2009-09-22T08:50:00.000-07:00

Wired again. Plugged in again. Online, and in the know.

Goodness...it's a strange experience to not know what the world is up to without you.

My only source of information for the past week was a Financial times....yesterday.

It was awesome.

I spent the last week in Ireland. The land of my dreams.

I loved every minute.

Quick rundown of events now, real update later.

Tuesday - 15.9

Flew from London to Belfast. Plane was cancelled so I spent most of the day in the airport. Nothing new for me. Got some good slow down time that set the pace for what was to come. Bought a new book. Life of Pi. Loving it so far. Got to Rostrever late at night.

Wednesday - 16.9

Took in surroundings. We lived in small cottages (reminiscent of small ski cabins). I took photos and enjoyed the rolling hills of the island. (Photos are up with locations tagged) Had class in local monastery. Went into the town during the afternoon, experienced a true Irish country pub. Listened to peer-made songs and poetry at night.

Thursday - 17.9

Same routine as day before. Except! Famous Irish singer/songwriter Tommy Sands came and played only for us. In my cottage. Thing of absolute beauty. Sung loudly to the tunes I knew :)

Friday - 18.9

Excursion to the Republic. Rostrever is located in Northern Ireland, and this was our only day in the actual Republic. I soaked it all in. Visited ruins and a tomb supposedly older than the Pyramids (take that Egypt...). Toured a Dublin jail. Broke off of the main group and headed to the Guinness factory with four other lads. Had an absolute blast. Got the best view in all of Dublin. Experienced a Dublin pub, courtesy of the pub owner (he taught us how to properly drink a Guinness). Returned to Rostrever.

Saturday - 20.9

Toured Belfast. Saw a war-torn city. Experienced destructive nationalism. Saw where I would align myself politically, socially, religiously, and footballishly.... Let the horror of the Troubles sink in. Prayed for Ireland. A lot. Landed on the coast. Stepped deep into the Irish Sea. Returned to the cottages. Celebrated a friends birthday (finally figured our just how to properly make a Carbomb ;).

Sunday - 21.9

Went to church at the Benedictine Catholic Monastery up the road. Thought about that service the rest of the day.

Monday - 22.9

Packed up. Headed to Amsterdam.

That was but a taste. The first gulp of the Beautiful Black. According to Ned (our Irish pub-owner [if you're ever in Dublin, go see Ned at the Pale. He'll treat you right]), that's all the way down past the harp on the pint glass. The next five attempts will come soon :)

Sláinte!

Please Just Take These Photos From My Hand...

2009-09-10T06:24:00.000-07:00

Based upon the wise council of a f riend, relative, and ally ;) I have put up all of my photos online! I am rebelling against the typical Facebook albums because I really don't do a lot of photos of people. But there are some cool things to see in there, I promise.

If you are looking at the albums, try using the Album Map feature. I tried to locate every picture as close to where it really is as I could. Ahh...technology.

Here!

I Like it in the City When the Air is Thick and Opaque...

2009-09-08T14:22:00.000-07:00

Back in London.

Yes. Please.

Love this town. Love it's feel.

Just dig it.

But I've said that already. Perhaps I should tell some tales why...
1. Locals are just great - There are quick-food-pick-up stores here, Pret A Manger. They're kinda a cool concept. Tons of pre-made, but fresh sandwiches and the like, just waiting for you to give them a home. You would like these places. There is one right by our classroom here in Holborn. One of the baristas is a really cool woman from Argentina. Her name is Barbara, very Spanish sounding. We started talking because of my accent (how's that for a paradigm shifter, eh?), and she likes Colorado a lot. We talked for probably ten minutes that day. Two weeks ago. I still get all of my coffee drinks for free there. Guess it pays off to go out on a limb and talk to a complete stranger. And with my rate of coffee consumption, it really pays off. See? Locals are just great.
2. Excellent Theater - Brits love plays. Not musicals necessarily, but plays. Straight up British plays. We've been to three so far. Tom Stoppard's Arcadia was our first, and it skyrocketed itself to the place of my favorite play ever. A comrade likened it to a theatrical Gilmore Girls... Quick paced, lightning wit, heavy cultural referencing, but with a bit of Quantum Physics and Philosophy thrown in there. I've since seen two different versions of Shakespeare's As You Like It. It's hysterical. I have a new appreciation for the bard. Go see something at the Globe. And do it as a groundling, just stand for the whole thing. It makes you truly appreciate theater.
3. Pubs - Really, that's enough said. I feel as though I was engineered to enjoy a pub. They have wonderful ambiance. Dark(er) lighting, with bold, solid colours and wood finishes. Then, they take this great ambiance, they open up the windows and doors, and they promote you taking their product (more on this later), outside! To enjoy in fresh air. How foreign is that? Then, they put on British music (which just. plain. rules. Go listen to: Franz Ferdinand, Adele, the Smiths, and Snow Patrol. Right now. This can wait.), BUT! they play it soft enough for you to have an engaging conversation. In fact, they promote conversation. Every person in a pub is talking. No one is looking around, scoping people out, or somewhere-else-in-their-mind. They're all right there, enjoying each other's company. It just forces you to have a good conversation. Or to make one with your local neighbor, who's bound to be just great (see above).
Pictures of London are to come...

Reconciliation...

2009-09-08T12:09:00.001-07:00

From rest immediately back to fervor.

On our way back to London, we stopped in the town of Coventry. Don't worry, I'd never heard of it either. We had a bit of an introduction by the profs as we wound our way into the town. It was bombed out during the Blitz in '41. And they took us specifically to the Coventry Cathedral. I wasn't expecting a ton (mostly because I hadn't been paying attention during the intro-lecture on the way in). We marched upon the Cathedral en masse, and I relized it might be a good place for pictures. Then we crossed the threshold, and I beheld something so much more.

Notice anything interesting about this photo? There's no roof on the church. It's been blown off for over 60 years. Here's a better look:

I passed through that threshold and was hit by an overwhelming force of reverence for this place and these people. This church was utterly destroyed. I mean dismantled. There was little left. Walls. Feet of pillars. Part of the alter. Window-frames. Some with glass still in them.

Sheesh.

Coventry is now called the City of Reconciliation. The citizens vowed to pursue reconciliation rather than revenge. They began their quest with the people of Dresden, Germany. Dresden was leveled by the British, mainly in revenge for Coventry. And then the people, the actual lifeblood of the city, they reached out their hands and helped pick their "enemies" off the ground.

I'm not sure how to express how I feel about this, but really, this is quite the example of God. This is how humanity should act.

Kinda gives you chills, eh?

And Then... Rest.

2009-09-03T06:59:00.000-07:00

I've spent the last few days in Birmingham, England. But not really in Birmingham (explanation later). If you don't know, B'ham, as it's called on highway street-signs, is a large industrial town North-West of London. It's a big town, and it feels a lot like Chicago. My friend, and current roommate, Sam, described it as concrete. Which is pretty accurate. Not only is there a ton of the stuff around, but for some reason Birmingham just feels concrete. Some big cities can feel warm, inviting, filled with reds, burgundies, mustards, neons, and welcoming, London is definitely this way. I think that may be my favorite city in the world. There's just something about it. Birmingham, on the other hand, is blue-white, reflective, cold, rigid, rutty, and bristly. I did not quite get comfortable there.

Although, we did stumble upon a market; this very multi-cultural, cheap, almost-flea-market area. I enjoyed that quite a bit. I found a Union Jack zippo, which is perfect for my incessant need to fiddle. I just flip it around, and open, and closed, and over and over; kinda like Pyro from X2. Without the teenage angst.

But! Most of our time has not been in the city. Quite contrarily, it has been in a small Quaker community just outside of town. Woodbrooke's population is small, and its median age dropped significantly when we arrived. It's kind of like a large bed-n-breakfast. Complete with a gorgeous garden in the back, a lake with boats, an unlimited supply of hot tea, homemade meals, and rain. Lots of rain. I love the rain. But it's keeping me from taking many pictures, so there may not be a very good feel for Birmingham on here.

This place has been so needed. There's just an overwhelming sense of peace. You will slow down and reconcile yourself with your surroundings here. There is no choice, it just happens. Which is so nice. And needed. I think I'll be ready to tackle 10 more days of London after this. I'm actually really excited about going back. Also, random, I have an excellent sense of direction in the city. How bizarre.

Anyway, more important things. Like God. It's quite difficult not to recognize Him here. It's not a human sense of peace that floods you while you're here. ' Course, the professors have set up this place to promote focus on God as well. We had the Theological Philosopher John Hick come speak to us a few days ago. It was an...interesting talk. His position is one that transcends most traditional religions and finds the truth (to live for, and love God, and live a compassionate life of selflessness) of the Ultimate Reality (God) is drafted in all the actual religions of the world. As a result, one does not have to follow the Way, Truth, and Life of Jesus to reach what humans are meant to do by becoming as close to the Ultimate Reality as possible (salvation and heaven). He is brilliant, and I found myself agreeing a lot with his points. He did an excellent job pointing out inconsistencies and false pretenses among our thinking, which was needed. However, I noticed how much of the class' responses were apologetic, on-the-offensive, "this is what the Bible says...", which was quite disappointing.

I think that there is a lot to Hick's point of view. It is impossible for us to judge just who among us will end up with God after this life, God reveals His truth in ways that are catered to our own understanding (so, His love can be found in places that one might not expect it to be in), and we should recognize the incredible achievements of anyone, not matter their religion. However, after fleshing things out with one of my professors (who is a former student of Hick's), I can see where I differ from him. I still think that Jesus is the incarnation of God who died for all our sins, and should be regarded and worshipped as such. And I think that ultimately, it is up to God to decide who will be with him at the end, not for us to guess.

God is also revealing himself through his own words (hmm...imagine that). The Chaplains are reading through the book of Isaiah, which has so far been incredible. It's amazing what deep and mind-blowing truths were revealed to a relatively insignificant group of settled wanderers in ancient Palestine ;) I'm so excited to continue this practice and to continue to find God in a place that I haven't before.

Oye... I need to learn conciseness...

London Through My Eyes...

2009-08-29T09:27:00.001-07:00

So, I was originally just going to make that last entry a photo-blog type entry. Then I got to editing my photos a bit with iPhoto, I know, nothing fancy. I might try to get my hands on something better...hmm....

Anyway, I started fooling around and realized that I lo

ved my little creations, but they were nothing like the originals, and you all would be like "gee... thanks for showing us... nothing". So, I'm putting up the edits, and some of the originals, but I'm devoting a whole entry to it...

I think this is the coolest name.

This is how London looked in 1934.

Yes, everything was taupe.

I believe that life should look like this whenever you find yourself in a place of historical significance...

This is the photo that made me decide that editing them is really an amazing thing. Here is the original:

I just love how the only real color in this picture is that deep black.

Don't swim in the Thames, kids!

Doesn't this look like something you'd see in a museum dated 1846?

Beware the Tower!

This man is either celebrating the end of a war...or Football.

The correct answer is B. I stole this from an Underground billboard.

"Look on my works, ye mighty

And despair!" - Rameses II

My little twist on possibly the coolest symbol of all time.

It's the Wanting to Know that Really Matters...

2009-08-29T08:00:00.000-07:00

I'm spending a lot of time at cafés. A lot. I'm 200 pages into the book that I started when I got here, and I read through the play we saw in its entirety the day before we saw it (It was an excellent production of a hysterical and brilliant play).

So you'd think that I would have spent more time blogging, right?

It's strange, I had a good long amount of time with WiFi and a computer yesterday, but I just did NOT want to write. I'm not sure what it was, or why I felt that way. But hopefully this entry will suffice.

Since you've last heard, quite a bit has occurred. (hmm..that'd make s good song lyric)

Class began the day after we got here. It has major potential. We basically cover whatever is relevant to where we are. So the day before we went to the British Museum, we covered its history. Here! Take a look.

The Museum was incredible. And quirky. Incredibly quirky. For being the British Museum, not much of it is British. The museum prides itself on being a World museum, displaying world civilizations near each other. It's quite the place.

<-This, is THE Rosetta Stone. Yeah, THAT Rosetta Stone.

After the museum, I went off on my own to a little café between our residence and the museum to read, get some coffee (I'm finding that I should really stick to tea while I'm here, though). While reading, I watched a lot of our group meander back, trying to absorb a bit of London. Some of them recognized me, others just walked by. Then one group of women kind of jumped when they noticed me.

"Oh! Gosh! I didn't realize that was you! You fit it so well!"

Well, that was pretty much the perfect compliment. I don't want to be a tourist here. I want to be as close to European as I can, so that woman basically gave me the "Mission Accomplished".

We've also gone to the British Library. Which I found fascinating. I don't think most of the group did, because we started at their main exhibit, a tribute to Henry VIII (he's big here right now, it's a significant anniversary of his reign. And then most people left. What a waste.

I found a small little exhibit called the Treasures of the British Library. Here are the highlights (sadly, without photos, they from upon them in this part of the Library):

The Magna Carta
Original, handwritten Beatles lyrics
One of the oldest Codexes of the Bible
Tons of original Shakespeare writings
Original illuminated texts from every religion (including some fascinating Hindu legends)
Pieces of DaVinci's astronomical sketchbook

Life outside of class has been just as exciting. There's something about sitting, talking in a pub with people you don't know that's just wonderful. I've done that quite a few of the nights so far. It's too enjoyable.

Last night was spent walking around Trafalgar-Whitehall-Parliament. Which, too me, is kind of like saying "Last night was spent walking around Cape Canaveral, Central Command at Houston, and... the Moon". So, that was pretty cool, I guess. :)

Past the Pizza Hut and Onward...

2009-08-26T13:31:00.000-07:00

Made it.

I’m here. But wait…what is here? I mean, I’ve made it to the place I’m staying at for a while. But it still doesn’t feel real. I almost feel like I shouldn’t be here. Almost like a visitor, or a tourist, or even an immigrant. Perhaps a refugee for learning… A culture refugee?

Hmm…clearly I’m a bit mixed up in my thoughts. There were a lot of question marks in that last paragraph. Maybe I need a bit of a recap.

Got on the flight no problem. Ended up in business class. Talk about a nice way to travel. I read, enjoyed myself, and slept like a baby. I did feel a bit bad though, one of my fellow Euro Semester buddies was on my flight. I tried to get her up in the “second class” with me, but alas, not one open seat.

I got to entertain a little girl who was sitting in the row in front of me in her backwards-facing car seat. That was great. She was a really good airplane child, only crying once. In fact, it was right when we needed to wake up too; she was my human alarm clock.

I got off the plane still in a bit of a morning fog, and walked to immigration. I had filled out my landing card except for the address of the place I was staying. I didn’t have a printed itinerary, and had no clue the actual address. The immigration employee was a crass and less-than-patient woman who decided I was just trying to annoy her. Apparently she was close to turning me around for the States. That would have been a nice start… Thankfully, Joy, my travelling companion, had her itinerary with her. I got it from her and the woman decided to completely change her tune. She went from bitingly bitter to a ray of sunshine faster than a French surrender. Welcome to Europe, mate.

Joy and I then spent a half hour on the Underground. Which is just great. I love the Tube. Then, it was a quick walk to our residence. The London School of Economics dormitory. Let’s just say that British dorms are a bit different than American. But I’m digging it. I have a room to myself for this week. Good thing I got a year of practice rooming by myself, or this would be rough.

Went on a 2 hour walk around Holborn (the “L” is silent by the way) with a few others and got lost in a big city. Now that’s a perfect start to things. We’re staying in the middle of a beautiful piece of London, so I will absolutely take some pictures soon. Good call on the camera, Mom. J

I don’t miss the States much, I love London. But I sure do miss the people already. J

Cheers, mates.

Every Journey has a Beginning...

2009-08-24T14:17:00.000-07:00

And this is mine....

Should be an interesting start to things. My flight looks...tight. As always, gotta make things interesting. Gonna be praying, hoping, and bartering my way onto this plane.

Good thing that I like airports right?

I can't say that I'm not nervous about this whole ordeal. But I'm really excited about it all as well. I guess I'm feeling my version of "anxiousness". 50% nervousness, 50% excited.

I'm anxious to go.

Especially when I look at what I'm going to be doing over the pond. Between schoolwork and being a Chaplain (I'm still not sure what they will look like), there will be a decent amount of things to keep me busy.

Well, no looking back now right? That's probably a good thing.

I can't get this Irish blessing out of my head, but I think that it's appropriate:

May the road rise up to meet you,

May the wind always be at your back,

The sun shine warm upon your face,

The rains fall soft upon your fields,

And until we meet again,

May God hold you in the hallow of his hand.

Grapevine Fires...

2009-08-14T12:06:00.000-07:00

When the wind picked up the fire spread

And the grapevines seemed left for dead

And the Northern sky looked like the end of days

The end of days

I woke up this morning, well, this noon, and I played some Death Cab while showering. I don't sing in my shower, I listen. It's much less humiliating....you should try it. While in the shower I looked outside through our frsoted glass. It was just a blank page of white. Immediately, I was transported to the Winter. It felt like there was a foot of snow covering everything. It was great, and strange at the same moment. I actually felt like it was mid-Winter and there was snow covering everything. Then I realized how much I miss the snow. It's been too long since I've witnessed and experienced a real snowstorm. I really hope we get some snow somewhere mid-continent next semester. I could use a day where the Northern sky looks like the end of days...

The wake-up call to a rented room

Sounded like an alarm of impending doom

To warn us it's only a matter of time

Before we all burn

Then I got lost in the song. My thoughts went from cold and snow to hot and fire. Fire. It's been awhile since I thought about it all. Usually when people ask or talk about it, I give the typical 'I can't really even describe it' response. But this time I actually got back into the emotion. How useless I felt in the gym; how mad I was at people believing they were heroes for coming into the gym and taking only their friends away, while people who needed to leave slept on a cold, hard floor; how proud I was of my guys for responding perfectly; how I was just fine with not having my stuff in the morning. Everything came flooding back. Wow...sometimes you can forget some emotions. I hadn't thought about anything from that fire for a while. Sometimes it might be good to remember just how you felt during crazy times. Maybe revisiting trauma is good every once and a while...

We bought some wine and some paper cups

Near your daughters school when we picked her up

And drove to a cemetery on a hill

On a hill

And we watched the plumes paint the sky gray

But she laughed and danced through the field of graves

And there I knew it would be alright

That everything would be alright

Would be alright

And the news reports on the radio

Said it was getting worse

As the ocean air fanned the flames

But I couldn't think

Of anywhere I would have rather been

To watch it all burn away

To burn away

And then I thought about the second fire. The second evacuation. The one that just wasn't going to happen. And then did. I remember just rejecting it. Thinking, 'I'm just not going to let this one happen'. Sitting on the deck of E, playing every song in my iTunes library with the word "Fire" in the title. And laughing. As we watched a massive plume of smoke engulf the sky on the other side of Santa Barbara. I wasn't being sadistic, far from it. I was just unwilling to let something like the fire happen again, so I was going to reject that it was actually happening. Then, it happened again. And I spent around a week as a refugee. Moving every night, unable to go home (It really wasn't that bad, I mean I was driving around in my car, but still). Then finding a beautiful piece of peace when our staff met. I know it was late, I know it was bad timing, and I know it was the day before graduation. But it was amazing. I really, honestly couldn't think of anywhere I would have rather been to watch it all burn away...

And the firemen worked in double shifts

With prayers for rain on their lips

And they knew it was only a matter of time

Trouble...

2009-08-05T14:08:00.001-07:00

So if you know me well, you know that I am in love with music.

Seriously, I've fallen for music.

I listen to as much of it as I can as often as I can. I quote lyrics a lot (almost as much as movies), and I find so much wisdom in the way other people arrange Latin letters.

Over the last year, I was exposed to Ray LaMontagne. Do you know him? If not, you should. And I mean know him. Almost in the Biblical sense. Almost.

My RA staff introduced him to me. Our relationship started of rocky. I thought he was just another indie hippie with a gravely voice. Then his new album came out Gospel in the Grain. And I dug it. I realized that he was darn talented, and he has a great wit (Meg White is awesome). But it's taken me most of the summer to realize that he is an excellent lyricist. There are few of them out there, and Ray is definitely one of them.

So please enjoy this piece of powerful prose:

How Come

Ray LaMontagne

off of his Trouble album

People on the street now

Faces long and grim

Souls are feeling heavy

And faith is growing thin

Fears are getting stronger

You can Feel them on the rise

Hopelessness got some by the throat you can see it in their eyes

I said how come

How come

Everybody on a shoestring

Everybody in a hole

Everybody on a big jetplane

crossing their fingers and toes

Government man spin his politics till he got you pinned

Everybody trying to reach out to each other

But they don't know where to begin

I said how come

I can't tell

the free world

from living hell

I said how come

How come

all I see

is a child of god

in misery

I said how come

the pistol now as prophet

The bullet some kind of lord and king

But pain is the only promise that this so called savior is going to bring

Love can be a liar

And justice can be a thief

And freedom can be an empty cup from which everybody want to drink

I said how come

I can't tell

the free world

from living hell

I said how come

How come

all i see

is a child of god

in misery

I said how come

Its just man killing man

Killing man

I don't understand

Its just man killing man

The Sculptor's Marble Sends Regards...

2009-08-04T11:00:00.000-07:00

I feel as though I am going to be posting about places a lot. That seems to be the trend. (As does lists...)

I'm an another one of those places that brings me peace. A coffeeshop. I love cafés. That will be an excellent part of Europe... sitting outside a café for hours. Why is that so taboo here? We get shooed out of our tables by waiters and bus boys because they want to make a bit more.

At diner the other night, there was a man playing an excellent acoustic set, and I was bantering with him for a while. My sister and mom left to walk back to the hotel, but I decided to stay for a few more songs. Apparently I was breaking the revered un-spoken rule of dine-pay-run, because I have never gotten so many looks in a restaurant before. Most were quizzical, as if people just couldn't wrap their heads around the fact that I was there just to listen. But some people, especially the wait staff, didn't share my appreciation for the guitarist, as evidenced by their less-than-pleasant glares. But hey, the music was good! Here's some of what he played:

(it's what I could remember, identify, and write down. And yes, it's another list)

-Layla - Clapton's Acoustic Version

-Cat's in the Cradle - Harry Chapin

-Pride & Joy - SRV

-Here Comes the Sun - The Beatles

-Wind Cries Mary - Jimi

-All Along the Watchtower - Jimi's Version (and he made this sound great! While trying to keep his voice down, and playing the electric solos on an acoustic)

-City of Angels - Red Hot Chili Peppers

-Old Man - Neil Young

-Melissa - Allman Brothers

See why I stayed for an encore? You should have been there.

Anyway, coffeeshops... I'm not sure what it is about the vibe; but I thoroughly enjoy it. Almost anywhere, I don't think that I have been in a café I didn't like. I mean, a Starbucks is a Starbucks, but there is still parts of it to enjoy. A local place is always the best though. Sometimes because of the coffee itself; always because of the people. Local shops have regulars, real regulars. And these people make for incredible people watching, and even better conversation. While I barista'd I had some of the most enjoyable conversations. Some of them maddened me, some of them made me chuckle after the fact, but I remember the majority of them because of the setting and the people themselves. I may not know them or their names, but that conversation is made because it was with them.

Before I go... I leave some recommendations. First, watch this:

http://www.youtube.com/user/ColdplayTV#play/uploads/0/BYtk1Z0UUuE

That has to be the best music video I've ever seen. Love every bit of it.

Secondly, go see (500) Days of Summer. I loved this movie. It's extremely well written, and it's presented better. It's got great wit, moments that make you smirk, and an excellent soundtrack. The script is spot-on. You can recognize many of the moments these characters experience in your own, and you resonate in wonderful harmony (or at least I did).

Single-serving Coffee, Single-serving Cream...

2009-07-25T00:18:00.000-07:00

Ah, the airport. It’s interesting to me that this place causes so much uneasiness in people. Is it strange that I find it peaceful? I find myself in a movie whenever I am at the aeroport. You know, one of those time lapse scenes, where the film’s main character is standing, or walking slowly. And everything else, usually cars or other people zooms by, indistinguishable. That main character, that focal point, is me. Except my focus is not on me. It’s on everyone else. All the hurried people…where do they all belong? It seems to me that it is an unspeakable faux pas to walk at a normal speed in the terminal. People look like the need their iPod armbands so they can keep up their pace, as they fly down the way, constantly searching for their gate. I find it all fascinating. So much so, that I do the opposite of the rest. I consciously try to walk slowly, or to not look at my boarding pass, or to not shuffle around while I’m in line. In fact, I try to be close to the last person in my boarding section. Because really, why do we rush to the door the moment we hear the words “United would like to welcome seating area 3 to board”? It’s incredible, I think that office workers would be so much more efficient if their bosses were airline ticket agents. They are an unquestionable authority; the last real gatekeepers in our age of tin-can carriages.

Isn’t it interesting though, that peace could come from a place of such hurriedness…such inconsiderateness? Other than respecting the ticket agent at the gate, I’m fairly certain that I’ve never seen one place bring out so much angst in people. It is as though that boarding pass entitles a person forget those around him are actual people. Or that the TSA worker is wanding people as fast as she can. Or that the flight attendant is not your personal slave; he does get paid, and its to save your life, not make it posh.

To me, an airport is like a car crash on the side of a highway. It captivating, and sorrowful. No matter what highway, no matter where it is, traffic slows to see just what happened. I just can’t take my eyes off of people in airports. No matter what state, or country; entitlement, inflated self-importance, and rudeness are the order of the day.

But somehow, I get peace here. That’s where my simile falls apart. I don’t get peace from car crashes. I’m not Tyler Durden. Although I have had many single-serving friends….

So airports, even though I am constantly reminded that we live in a fallen and broken world, are beacons of peace. Isn’t God strange? Peace in brokenness. Being reminded of goodness by witnessing selfishness. It’s one of those small wonders that I am glad I get to witness often.

Or maybe I’m just reading too much into it all…

Speaking of reading. I make a point to pick up Wired magazine in airports. It’s just the right size read for a trip. In the latest issue, there is an article called “The New Rules for Highly Evolved Humans – A Scientific Approach to 21^st-Century Predicaments” and it’s genius…

1. 1. It’s ok to kick out your Rock Band bassist if he sucks.

2. If your call drops, call back; no matter what.

3. Don’t Google-stalk before a first date. It can ruin chemistry.

4. Texting is OK while in the company of others; if you are trying to include your textee, not if you are trying to exclude your actual company.

5. If you can’t buy if online, feel free to Bittorent.

6. Never broadcast your relationship status.

7. Don’t lie with your Facebook photo.

8. Balance your media diet: 1 hour of gaming, ¾ hour microblogging, 1.25 hours social networking, 2.5 hours of news, and 3.5 of entertainment.

9. Online conversations are not all about you, so don’t dominate them all.

10. Friend your boss, but not your boss’s boss. Follow them both on Twitter.

11. Ignore your ex on Facebook.

12. Do not talk on the phone while using a urinal, but you can text.

13. Take your Bluetooth out of your ear when you’re not using it.

14. Choose the right ringtone.

15. Don’t Tweet or Blog anything that has more than half a million hits.

16. Delete unwanted posts from your Facebook wall.

17. Meet online friends in the real world. Bu beware, they will be weird.

18. Leave your Wi-Fi open

19. Seek out your coworkers on Facebook.

20. Exaggerate your salary on your online dating profile.

21. Be mindful of your personal electronic space.

22. There is no such thing as too many friends.

23. Don’t hesitate to haggle on Craigslist.

24. You can reinvent yourself online.

25. Never answer your phone in a movie theater.

26. Don’t work all the time. You will live to regret it.

27. Never unfollow someone just because they unfollowed you.

A Beginning, A List, And A Vow...

2009-07-19T01:20:00.001-07:00

I've realized lately how much healing comes from writing. I've also realized lately how much I enjoy my friends' blogs. So THIS, is the natural next step. I had a blog once...a long time ago. But this will be different. This is meant for me to post upon, not for others to read. This is something to enjoy. And so, I will begin it with a list I just wrote.

These are things I greatly enjoy. These are the things that bring some alien sense of warmth that you just have to release in the form of a small sigh and a knowing smile. These are the beautiful things in life. These are reasons to get excited for times to come, and reasons to cherish the past. These are things I greatly enjoy:

-God's beauty stopping me in my tracks.

-Landing in a new city.

-Female vocalists. Especially British female vocalists.

-Deep questions.

-Lyrics by Matthew Theissen, Ben Gibbard, Greta Salpeter, Brendon Urie, John Mayer, Justin Pierre, Gary Lightbody, Sloan Anderson, and John Foreman.

-Sipping a coffee while listening.

-Making puns.

-Not understanding music.

-Heated discussions with calming resolutions.

-The night.

-Seeing God in a situation.

-Memorizing a good quote, and then telling it to a friend.

-Sitting in an arena and yelling at something. Or someone.

-Rhythmic techno beats.

-Hashing out politics.

-Driving.

-History. Especially Russian history.

-Seeing God in a person.

-Knowing enough of a foreign language to understand someone else.

-Conversations that go much longer into the night than they should.

-Discovering foreign culture. -People who frequent coffeeshops.

-Reading.

-Knowing what is happening on the other side of an ocean.

-The movie theater.

-Live music.

-Watching hockey.

-Mulling over philosophy.

-Talking to God while walking by myself. Usually out loud.

-Cities.

-Driving fast on mountain roads.

-Rain.

-Swimming in the ocean.

-Being in the Colorado mountains during a snowfall.

-Turbulence on an airplane.

This beginning is a vow to record my thoughts, musings, revelations, and inspirations for the next, undefined piece of my life...