Dirgible Stamps pt 2

And in the compound, every word spoken echoed loudly off the harsh linges and square cut stone walls; even whispers reverberated. Within the insular environment of the compound, Dirgible’s home, sound was a commodity quickly losing value.It wasn’t that Survivors had lost all use for sound, it was just that... well, they didn’t seem to need it all that much anymore. Only the children laughed or giggled aloud, and Dirgible was no longer a child. He was proud of each surpressed outburst. Even now, he walked slowly and placed each foot just so, stepping lightly and moving silently. In the silence, everything was layered with the thin fabric of peace. And Dirgible Stamps’ parents were so proud of their son.

Child Sleeping

Words ache, as I give voice to the deep seated pain buried inside me. They are fleeting and brittle, cracking and fractured by unrest and mounting internal pressure. When finally I am unable to form words any longer, anguished groans fill this place. The sound of my woundedness is resonant and somber, brimming with near-tangible grief and fear and doubt. For a moment, I lay, hiding nothing, hesitantly opening myself. Suddenly and desperately, my pain feels the shock of exposure and I want it hidden once more. I want to shove it as far back within me as possible - but a sweet and gentle Presence stops my hand.With complete tenderness and utter care, the Presence holds my anguished beating heart cupped in His hands. As my splintered emotions pulse in His palms, they are reflected in His eyes; my sadness and the starved desperation I feel move across His face, flickering for scant moments before melting into tears rolling down His cheeks. The cotton soft warmth of love steals over me, filling my chest and abdomen, draining into my legs and glowing up my spine. I feel every other emotion fade with quiet exit gasps. My eyes droop and as the Presence engulfs me, I drift into the comfort of healing sleep.Like a child asleep in the arms of its Father, I slumber. With every slow breath, I am drawn closer to the heart of God.

Christmas Chaos

For me, Christmas has always meant chaos. It's always meant an exiting blur of wrapping paper, scribbled greeting cards, seasonal colours, parties, food, lights, decorted trees, and anticipation. It's always been that for me; looking back on all the Christmases that I can remember is like staring at a shifting and blurred mass of colour. As I look, memories emerge to clarity for a few moments beore blending smoothly into history once again.

Now, part of the holiday season that I love so much is the fast pace and near hectic schedule that I find myself self entrenched in every year without fail: it's become part of the season for me. And I also know that every year without fail, I'm going to hear some one 'soap-box' themselves to death campaigning against this. Whether it's via a blog, radio commercial, or a sermon, I'm confident that I will run across someone who declares brashly that we need to stop our busyness because the season is becoming too crammed with 'stuff' that we're forgetting (how I detest this phrase) 'the 'reason for the season''... I hate when people say that the seasonal mess of Christmas lights and good and presents distracts us from Jesus!

I LIKE the hecticness of my festivities!! I really honestly like the rushing from party to party. I sort of enjoy (in a sadistic and slightly masochistic way) tearing my hair out buying presents for Jeremy or Nathan - or Trevor, who is ridiculously difficult to buy for. Honestly, I feel that the craziness of my days leading up to Christmas actually props the significance of that Day up higher than it would have been otherwise.

You see, the busyness of my holidays comes to a screeching halt on Christmas Day; that day, December 25, stands out from all the rest. Amid the scrambling chaos, I kneel and allow the Star of Heaven to illuminate the focal point of my Christmas. It is in the midst of the busy Christmas - New Year's season that I understand most clearly and truly and deeply who the Prince of Peace is.

sparkles of brilliance, glimmers of genius

So, everyone, this week I had a cool conversation via Gmail chat. It was between a close friend of mine (Shawn) and me. you should look at shawn's blog. after you read this.

we got into some potentially DEEP stuff. It was all like, intellectual (sort of) well - you read it:

Me: are you able to do coffee this week, man? Shawn: yeah... when do you want to do it? Me: um. I'm pretty wide open this week. what about like, tomorrow, like sometime? like lunch? I could like, buy you lunch or something. Shawn: no way... you bought us dinner... we're even - tomorrow works for me Me: you can pay if you want. Shawn: no way... I don't have a $400 surplus just kidding it'll be a surprise Me: yah. i'm not laughing. Shawn: yes you are Me: eff you man. Shawn: your not making a good case for lunch. i wish I hadn't misspelled "your" Me: i don't even think i can respect you. Shawn: ... harsh Me: yah, well. Shawn: :( Me: (I'm feeling guilty, dammit!) Shawn: i'm gonna take you off my bff list that's what those emoticon tears mean Me: ah, eff that man! I wanna stay on the list! crap. my inner self is berating my outer self for such bumbling conversational skills. Shawn: but you totally redeemed with the endearing use of the word "bumbling" Me: brilliant...so, 11:30? 11:45? Shawn: sure... do you want me to meet you or do you want to meet me? Me: do you wanna do east side marios here at chinook? I love that place. Shawn: yeah, that place rocks! Me: OR!!! Shawn: or? Me: the pancake house up off crowchilde!!! crowchilde? Shawn: no "e" Me: yah... i figured. the proper spelling is like on every roadsign in the city. i sometimes type wrong. Shawn: that's okay... you use words like "bumbling" which covers a multitude of spelling sins Me: great. I actually think i'd rather do E S M. but I'm open. Shawn: I think I'm gonna have to agree... if for no other reason than Sara and I have promised F&J that our first time would be with them. Me: aaah. we had our first time with F&J this sunday. Shawn: nice Me: you're an honourable fellow. Shawn: well, I am a pastor you know Me: hey, did you ever read that "in the hall of stone" poem i wrote a while back? Shawn: yeah I did. it was great. Me: cool. i just wanted to make sure I'd exposed myself to you. (dirty!!) Shawn: that time was all you Me: yah, yah, i'm taking all the blame. Me: sometimes i write stuff and don't think of how it could be dirty. i mean, I totally expose myself when I write poetry. Poetic expression is an exercise in vulnerability, right? (of course, the 'dirty!!!' didn't help at all.) Shawn: absolutely, as is all artistic expression, but I feel like poetry is a little more naked, because you don't have plot, or colour, or melody to hide behind
it's just pure linguistic emotion Me: exactly. the weird thing is, with In the Hall of Stone, I totally didn't think I was writing a self expressing poem. but the more that i think about it, the more I realize it totally is. people can totally see things about me that I didn't realize they could... it's kind of like realizing that someone's been watching you shower. Shawn: hot. i mean i know what you mean - although I felt the self expressing vibes right away. well... actually, because I had just watched Lord of the Rings before reading it, I though of dwarves first... but THEN I felt the self expressing vibes. It's interesting how sometimes we are the last ones to become aware of what we're expressing in our art Me: yah, man. it's interesting - someone else who read the poem mentioned LOTR as well. one of the absolute cool things about art is that it's a window into who i am. i look through my own window into areas of my life that, often, i can't consciously see. Shawn: totally Shawn: in a lot of ways, art allows us to transcend the neurological limitations of our existence... it's seems like one of the only ways that we can truly step out of ourselves and see what we normally can't Me: exactly! which is why i'm so fascinated with the art that I've produced. So much of it is dark and a little disturbing. kind of makes me think i might be a freak. Shawn: i understand... you look at and think "where the hell does this stuff come from?" Me: completely. I totally had a huge conversation like this with Dorsey last evening. Shawn: by the way... sorry that we couldn't come to the Dogma party last night... Sara had a class and I was a guest speaker at it. We didn't get the message until we got home - [all that was a] side note...carry one ... what? carry ON... Me: i talked about how there's these deep seated 'forces' inside of me that shift and grind against one another - sort of like tectonic plates.
every once in a while, they jut through the surface of my conscious. then i'm like 'what the hell is that thing jutting into my conscious? why is it here?' it's messed sometimes. i really wish i could look at myself - the really real me, beneath my conscious level of operating. Shawn: oh... we have much to talk about... Neuropath. Eff, man. Me: i can imagine... hey i should go. Randy just home. what time are we going to meet? Shawn: how 'bout I meet you at your place at noon Me: sounds awesome. ps. would you mind if I posted this conversation on my blog? Shawn: go for it... just make me look better than I am Me: i'll do my best, but it's like trying to improve on some exquisite piece of art... like michaelangelo's 'David'. Shawn: that's not too hard to do... just give it a bigger dong or put clothes on him... either way Me: good chatting. as always. my life is full of fantastic people. Shawn: agreed. you're life is full of fantastic people, as is mine Me: everything's so slack... everything but you... Shawn: well said, my friend... well said Me: a little GP never hurt anyone. Shawn: never Me: adios, man. Shawn: bye

The Myth of the Cloak: anonymity vs transparency

For a long time, people have been saying that the internet would change everything - and it has. It really really has. In the last 20 years, connectivity between individuals has increased exponentially. The online forum for interaction has opened an infinite number of possibilities on an equally limitless number of stages: Online gaming, online shopping, online voting - heck, I just saw a billboard on the side of the road saying "report crime - online”. The internet is easily the single most influential network that humanity has ever seen. Our world is undergoing a radical grassroots shift, and we're making it up as we go.
From my perspective, I see that the worlds exploding online are challenging and redefining our concepts of the world we live in. The lines between the virtual world and the ‘real’ world are smudged and growing more faint. Our web -personas are blurring into our ‘real’ world personalities, and the events occurring in online universe are affecting life in the ‘real world’. In the midst of this technological supernova, I'm seeing elusive bits of something, subtle clues that point to a gradual shift in the formation of our identities.
I believe that part of the lure of online interaction is the ability to become whomever you want to be. Blanket anonymity can be incredibly empowering, and it is remarkably easy to construct an identity that can be as close or as far from 'reality' as you, the user, chooses. It is in the process of building a personality that we reveal to the world what is within us.
When we hide behind the anonymity that the internet affords us, we actually reveal who we really want to be and who we secretly are. When we are allowed to choose how we present ourselves, we end up revealing enormous amounts of information to anyone who sees us. Therein lies the beauty of online life; this is the allure of the anonymity found on the contoured landscape of the internet. The 'cloak of anonymity' isn't a cloak at all; it's a gateway into the soul.
When you have nothing to hide, when you live in a constant state of openness without the fear of reprisal, you live in freedom. You are empowered to be who you really are. Is this why the worlds opening up in cyberspace are being populated so quickly? Perhaps there is a sense of identity cultured in a multiplayer game. Perhaps the openness you can live with online cuts a sharp contrast to the lives full of charades and expectations and interpersonal walls that many of us slog through daily.
15 year old Brandon Crips from Ontario disappeared after his parents confiscated his XBOX 360 because of the inordinate amounts of time he spent playing Call of Duty 4 online. Perhaps the scariest thing about the story is that it was after the boy disappeared that the parents realized just how devastating their well-intentioned actions were for their teenage son. The scope of his online life was staggering: there were 200 contacts Brandon had gained through internet gameplay - and Brandon had been sharply removed from what had become his only social outlet. Whatever you think about online friendships, losing his entire network of peers all at once crushed Brandon, and he ran from his home never to return.
Obviously, I'm not close to the Brandon Crips situation at all, and I do not want to draw assumptions about either him or his family from a handful of articles scattered across the web. However, it is obvious that Brandon was snared by something in the online game, and whatever it was, it contributed to his eventual disappearance. You don't have to look very far to find other stories at least as sobering and provocative as this one. Dozens of families have been ripped apart because of addictions fostered online.
Whenever I'm reading articles like this one, I typically tune out at this point right here... Yah, yah, the internet's scary and terrible and addictive and - insert your adjective of choice here- , I get it. But honestly, that's not the point. While this situation does suggest certain things and a boy’s life has at best been put in jeopardy, I refuse to put myself in a position of judgement. I will not comment on whether or not blame should be laid at the feet of the online gaming machine.
It is only logical though, that if Brandon's identity had grown and shaped itself around his online game play, it becomes very easy to see just how tattered and shredded his concept of self would be without his game. While this situation is an anomaly, it serves as an exclamation mark on the growing situation of the blank canvas of online interaction as a central factor in the development of teen identity. What does this mean? Parts of me think that we won’t be able to see the full ramifications of this current trend until it plays itself out.
I do suspect that we’re going to see a ‘polarization’ in the agencies and organizations dealing with youth; I think that some agencies, unable to adjust or adapt their methods of reaching the growing number of web-centric youth, will fold. The agencies that do succeed in finding new ways of reaching this new generation will experience impressive growth.
Most of me, though, is not sure. I start getting confused when I try to figure out what’s going to happen. I delve deeper into this subject and it feels bottomless; there are so many factors that come to bear in this discussion.

Somebody smarter than me should do a study on this…

the cafeteria

Chicken and rice and brewing tea and sawdust were fantastic and delicious smells layering into one another in the clattering din and frenzy of the lunchroom. Tin plates rattled on the rough planked lunch tables and sounds from a dozen conversations around the room mashed together. In the cacophony, packs of little boys dashed, balancing tin plates heaped high with food, dodging little girls bunched and giggling and squealing. The only grown ups in sight were in the kitchen, behind the counter. They had bulging tummies and stringy thin hair, and the cooking fires flushed their faces red and dotted them with beads of sweat. More sweaty adults frantically spooned scoops of stew onto plates shoved at them while the queue of children waiting for their food chattered loudly.

dammit, we need direction!

I've been doing so much thinking lately; I spend a lot of time reading blogs online, listening to podcasts, writing fiction, and reflecting. I know that i have a lot of opinions and thoughts, but it feels so empty to just have them and not say something about what I believe. That being said, I've come to the conclusion that i need to be more intentional about developing my voice.

so, I've decided to ramp up the blogging - there'll be a lot more in the future. I also want to bring my creative thinking to bear in order to offer a more diverse presentation. That's code for 'I want to do something else cool, but I haven't thought of it yet." A blog is a perfect forum for sharpening my communication skills, but it's also at the mercy of my whim.

Unfortunately, the artist psyche often carries with it certain tendencies towards, um, relaxed commitment. I will grapple with this monster in order to bring to the readership (basically myself) a well thought and insightful commentary on the subject matter that I encounter.

my black

my black is sweet
lovely silent refuge from
scathing screaming light
from haunting pricking dreams
of running on freewheeling beaches
of standing on pinnacles
while windswept worlds
sprawl below.
My wakefulness is my retreat
into merciful dark
into my cool walled escape
into my dark barred comfort
I soothe my dreamy weary head
against cold lattice:
my steel cage
keeping it all at bay.

half a conversation, part 2

It's interesting that you mention Brother Lawrence and his book/collection of letters. I actually had to buy it for school a couple years ago, and i just started reading it again after posting yesterday. I also have a few Frank Laubach books... maybe i'll find those as well. I think I've had tiny glimpses of what it means to see God in everything - but like you said, Steve, it is hard. It's cutting against a grain that's been 23 years in the making...

I think that this whole concept is one of the things that makes our faith journey so unique in terms of other religions/belief structures around the world. Rather than withdrawing from life in search of enlightenment, I think that true Christianity involves completely engaging in every activity - all for the sake of maximum exposure to God's presence.

Being willing to see God in everything is almost a threatening idea. the truth is, it's easier for me to live 'life as usual' when I choose to believe that God isn't in the daily grind. If my frustration with other rush hour drivers or my devotion to my sports team or what I do with my empty Starbucks cup is devoid of 'spiritual' implication, then i am free to live an unexamined life. But the reality is that the more I open my eyes to His presence in every mundane 'insignificant' sector of my life, the more He can change me. And I'm all for change!!

BUT.
But. but. but. I hate doing hard stuff, I'll admit it - without shame. Ok, maybe a little bit of shame... I'm thinking that I really need all this 'Spaces' stuff.

Honest self-reflection kills me every time.

half a conversation, part 1

I have to say, I love the concept of 'faith your practice', but it's hard to think about this morning. ie:

- I just hung up with my cell phone provider; Bell Mobility's 3 year grip on my life is only 3 months in and I'm already frustrated. Apparently, Sirius Satellite Radio is not compatible the my HTC Touch, even though I'm paying for it. Nobody told me that when I bought the phone! Aargh!
- And my house is messy.
- And I don't have any clean socks right now.
- And my shirt doesn't match my pants.
- And it feels like unpacking after a move should probably be one of the first 'rings' of hell (see dante's inferno).
- And there are lots of other things going on that I don't really want to post on a public discussion forum.

There's a ton of stuff that could make this day miserable - and it's only 11:30 am.

Faithing my practice is no shining 'glory road' paved with insight and slick spirituality. It's dirty and oh so real.

the end

So, for the first time ever, I am holding in my hands a journal that is packed full. Absolutely spine-bustin' full. I'm so damn proud of this thing; it chronicles my life for the past nine months. And it's full.

It's over.

In the wake of the 3 Day Novel Contest

Oh man. So, this morning I ws journaling about the 3 Day Novel thang (see previous post). Here's what I wrote:

Entry #108 - September 3, 2008

...I still feel as though I didn't write it (the story). As my wife suggested, I feel less like a writer and more like a scribe. Scribes are only valuable or needed because they write down what someone else says. The greater the scribes ability to record exactly and accurately what he/she is told, the more they are used. I feel like a scribe for God. Which is humbling, cause I'm not really needed for the process. Anyone could be the scribe. That makes me glad right now, it sort of helps me understand the "Why Write?" question...

In addition, I feel like this experience opened a new window into God. It pushed me to a new level of understainding. through the contest and my 'scribing', I feel as though i met God in a new and profoundly intimate place.

Even now, I'm still reeling, wandering through an ethereal mental state. It was though my writing desk was set up in God's presence and I want to always be writing because I always want to sense Him in me. I can still feel the shadowy remnants of that special experience of Him adhering to my soul. His presence is still in me and its unreal.

re: 3 Day Novel Contest

Wow. The 31st Annual Three Day Novel Contest is now over. I'd been thinking towards it for weeks previous: I had plans, plot ideas and a strong grasp on a promising character. Then I decided the day before the contest began to throw it all away and do this thang blind.

I'm so glad.

The contest officially opened at 12:01 am Saturday morning; my plan was to crash at 6-ish friday night, wake up for 11: 30, shower then start writing. I definitely slept 'til 4:30 am. Crap. Oh well. I started writing, based off an image in my head and the words kept flowing. The next three days were one of the most ethereal experiences I've ever had. I wrote and wrote and wrote; by Monday at 4:30 pm I had 90 pages, 19000 words, and one of the most unexpected stories I've every written.

Unbelievable. And the craziest thing about it all is that I feel like I didn't write a word of it. I put my pen to the paper and followed the pictures in my mind. During the whole time, there was a part of my brain that just sat back and watched the words and phrases scrawl across the pages.

When it was all over, I was shocked/amazed/stunned. As I re-read the last bits of the story aloud to my wife, an upswell of emotion rocked me and I started to weep. Embedded in this story that I 'wrote' were themes and concepts and currents of meaning that I could not have produced on my own.

Let me recount another very odd experience that I believe is related to all of this. In my most recent semester at Bible College, a prof led the class through a spiritual practice that she called 'imaginite reading'. I was pretty skeptical and thought, 'ah, what the hell... I'll humour her." She began to read the story of Jesus and Peter on the beach, after Jesus has resurrected (John 21).
Over a back drop of ambient seaside noise, she instructed us to listen to her reading and imagine ourselves on the beach.

I kid you not - I'm a skeptical of this stuff as they come - I closed my eyes and I was there. Jesus was standing in front of me, asking "Josh, do you love me." I desperately wanted to say yes, but all of the things I'd ever done wrong rushed to my mind. I had to respond that I didn't deserve to answer yes. Without missing a beat, jesus answered, "Tell my story." I knew immediately what he meant.

Jesus wasn't telling me to go through the world telling people about him (that is a noble calling, but it's not mine), he was telling me that he would put stories in my head, and I was to write them down.

Sort of puts a new spin on my whole 3 Day Novel experience eh?

July 28

I'm really excited to be involved in IFTF's newest ARG (alternate reality game) called Superstruct... starting september 09. I discovered it through a blog that I subscribe to, Avantgame. The realm of ARG's can be remarkable intricate, though always fascinating. Do some research! You'll love it.

Josh

Entry #13

"7:13 am. The homey atmosphere of Starbucks... it's definitely worming its way up my list of favourite places to be." For a few moments, the pen lifted off the page. A wedding band flashed as the writer rubbed his hair flat. Propping his chin with a closed fist, he turned his face to the sun, absently considering the row of vehicles parked just a few feet away from his window.
He bit deep into an apple and munched thoughtfully. After a quick pause, he picked up the pen and again began to write. "Sometimes, I wonder about that. Maybe a coffee shop is a lame place to hang out alone. I mean this morning I spent a full five minutes talking with the barista about the best techniques for making great foam!" - another quick bite of apple and mouthful of vanilla-hazelnut latte- "I mean I'm not ashamed of it... I just remember making fun of people like me, back in my construction days, when I lived and died by an extra large triple triple from Timmy's."
The writer paused once more, surveying the coffee shop; most patron's were huddled in conversation in groups twos and threes. Not many were alone like him. His pen trailed ink in the lined journal once more.
"Maybe Starbucks works to be a gathering place, a place of community, even for those people who are alone. Starbucks is a community -centred organization..." As the writer continued, he could help but be distracted by the shadow of his pen leaping up off the page before touching down again as he began his next word. He mocked himself inside before continuing.
"7:34. I've been writing for exactly 21 minutes. Am I wasting my time?"

Entry #86

"Without the shedding of blood, there is no forgiveness of sin." The cathedral boomed responsive echoes."Without the shedding of blood, there is no forgiveness of sin. Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sin!"

Thunderous and terrible, the Holy Vicar's words thrummed into the minds of every man standing at rapt attention. No one dared move or shift slightly or blink - the Holy Vicar, consumed by his religious fervour, was both harsh and exacting. "Without the shedding of blood, there is no forgiveness of sin!"

The gathered crowd of men received this sinister sermon. It was always this, always this repetition of doom and bloodshed. It bordered on otherworldly: dim candle lit hall quaking with the Holy Vicar's message, always about blood and forgiveness and one's necessity for the other's existence. Every week, stoic men gathered, soldiers and temple guards, unflinching beneath the Holy Vicar's relentless tirade.

"Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sin! Without the shedding of blood there is NO FORGIVENESS OF SIN!" Those last words thudded home, churning within each listenere. This final refrain echoed, fragments rebounding high off of ancient stone arches.

The Holy Vicar blinked slowly, solemnly. Pages of the book before him whispered as he closed the massive tome and held it to his chest with withered hands. The men silently waited for the closing benediction. The Vicar stood, holding the book to his breast and glaring out over his followers. There was sin here: pulsing oozing black wickedness. There was purging in the days ahead. Yes, the vicar nodded to himself, there would be a cleansing for these faithless ones. He spoke one more word, his voice deep and gravelly.
"Amen."

In silence, the gathered men dispersed, holding their thoughts close. In many of the men, words still hung in their consciousness. shedding of blood. forgiveness. sin. They ran together in chaotic juxtaposition but they always landed on the Holy Vicar, the Bringer of God's Justice, the Administrator of Blessing.

Holy Vicar watched the men closely. They quivered under his rolling gaze, shaking with fear or love - or both. They were right to be gripped with fear. God's Appointed deserved the respect and cautious treatment that such emotion inspired.

The last man had left the cathedral. Holy Vicar moved with slow reverence, breathing a prayer and lighting incense burners. As the incense smouldered in the brass dishes and blue smoke curled heavenward, Holy Vicar knelt. In the hush, his whisper magnified hoarsely. "Almighty God, forgive me my many sins." The syllables lifted with the incense, filling the vaulted ceiling then fading. Deep quiet settled once more in the near empty chamber.

Holy Vicar raised his arms, the richly embroidered sleeves of his robes falling back to reveal criss-crossing scars. "Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sin." As the words passed out of his mouth, the bowed man dropped a scarred arm into the folds of his robe. He whispered again "Without the shedding of blood there is no forgiveness of sin." His hand emerged from within his robe clutching a dagger. He raised his arm once more, veins standing out thickly. This time, Holy Vicar shouted and brought the dagger in sweeping motion across the other arm. "WITHOUT THE SHEDDING OF BLOOD THERE IS NO FORGIVENESS OF SINS!"

Shuddering with the pain and consumed with fervour, the Holy Vicar bowed low, blood pooling under his left palm, draining from a deep gash in his forearm. He whispered again, "Almighty God, forgive me my many sins." In the darkened room, the only sounds were the heavy breaths from the Holy Vicar and a steady drip drip drip of spilt blood.

andrew in the morning

The phone was ringing. The bed was warm and the thought of movement was an unfriendly one indeed. The phone was ringing. Cool air from the window overhead heightened the comfort of this bed. Mmmmmm. It felt so good to streeeeetch. The phone was ringing.

Dammit! The phone was ringing.

Andrew sprang from the bed, his left foot tangling in the tousled covers while the rest of his body crashed to the floor. The phone was ringing. Andrew forced himself up out of the tossed comic books and discarded gaming mags, lurching towards the phone.

"mgh-ello?" Morning voice. Andrew cleared his throat.

Entry #87

The phone was ringing. The bed was warm and the thought of movement was an unfriendly one indeed. The phone was ringing. Cool air from the window overhead heightened the comfort of this bed. Mmmmmm. It felt so good to streeeeetch. The phone was ringing.

Dammit! The phone was ringing.

Percy/Andrew sprang from the bed, his left foot tangling in the tousled covers while the rest of his body crashed to the floor. The phone was ringing. Percy/Andrew forced himself up out of the tossed comic books and discarded gaming mags, lurching towards the phone.

"mgh-ello?" Morning voice. Percy/Andrew cleared his throat.

Re: melody2piano

Hey Everyone! Check out this sweet sweetness (Oh, you're not into that?)... No Seriously, though Melody2Piano is a cool blogger. Check out what she wrote: Watching Everyone Else Flying

the development of The Question

While reading 'Ender's Game' by Orson Scott Card, I was struck by how each of the main characters (Ender, Valentine, and Peter) responded to their abilities and power differently. Ender cultivated a sense of resentment towards the administration and Cause that led him to use his skill set towards a certain end. He eventually brought himself to a place where he preferred not having power.

Valentine allowed herself (and her power) to be manipulated according to the will of her older brother Peter. She knew exactly what she was doing and she knew exactly how her actions would support the intentions of the dark-minded Peter.

Peter unashamedly used his power to further his own interests. Selfish ambition - pure and simple. He used his ability to discern what people are most afraid of in order to create a culture that would look to himself for guidance. And, he succeeded!

Anyhow, after reading this (AMAZING!) book, I saw all the more clearly the important role of responsibility and maturity in managing my skillset. I suddenly experienced an intense and soul-heavy burden.

I know that books change the way people think. They change the way we look at ourselves and at the world. When people read books, they open themselves up to the ideals and notions of the writer. Even as I type this out, I am aware again of the 'power' that an author carries - the influence she or he exerts over the readers. I'm afraid to just empty my talent and efforts into a vacuum, without purpose or intent.

So then, Why Should I Write? What is the calling that echoes in my heart? Why Write? Honestly, this 'writer's calling' idea strikes me very close to home. I want it. I am pursuing it, uncovering it inside me. I feel like it is a hidden heirloom in a cluttered attic. I sense it there, just out of reach, awaiting my efforts to find it and hear what it would speak to me. For now though, this question burns in my mind:

"Joshua Gordon, why do you write?"