Rememorandom

Current Updates & Link Love

2012-02-01T11:58:00.000-06:00

(Because I haven't put a picture of Avonlea up here in a while.)

Keisha is blogging now. She's chronicling motherhood and Avonlea.
I bought my PE CERM12 manual the other day. Truly defines what a tome is. According to Amazon, it weighs 6.7 lbs and is 1552 pages. I'd guess closer to 10 lbs and 1600 pages. I'm already dreading the studying it's going to take to pass that darned test in October.

Oddly enough, this does not count as a book purchase for my 2012 Manifesto, as it's not really a book to read, per se, but a book for work. Kind of.

February is here and I'm making headway with my TBR. I've been doing a lot of comic book reading, but also quite a bit of STAR WARS novella work, too. All have been quick, fluffy reads. I should probably break that up for when I start The Brothers Karamazov, but I doubt that'll happen.
Anyone else use freegal through the library or Noisetrade? I've been getting a lot of top-quality, free songs of late.
I was asked to play guitar for a little concert at a coffee shop this Saturday night. Makes me a little nervy playing in public like that. I said sure, cause I just like setting challenges for myself and rising up and above mediocrity. Being out of my comfort zone is getting easier and easier in some areas...
Last Saturday we had a most amazing night of worship. A few weeks ago we were talking about things to do to become a more biblical church*. Worship is a lifestyle, and praising God should not be confined to only Sunday mornings. So we created WORSHIP 8:03. Our goal was to create an environment solely dedicated to worshiping God however you wanted. My part was playing guitar and helping lead worship on stage. We had 30-40 show up. There was an open communion. I think it's safe to say that there was a general spirit of unity and worship among us there. I know I loved it, just praising my Creator and Savior, thanking Him for His love and mercy. It was much needed. In fact, we're already planning our next one for March.
I was contacted about having one of my reviews used for promotional purposes. I said yes, and if it goes any farther, I'm sure I'll put it up here. Until then, I'll just stay hush-hush about which book.
Omelets are without a doubt the best breakfast food. Thankfully, Art of Manliness has put up a new article on how to make better omelets. (Sometimes mine are great, sometimes they look like a cat threw up in a skillet.) This is a companion to their most excellent "How to Make Better Eggs" post from a few months back.
I finished reading my chronological bible reading plan yesterday. Took eleven months. Here's the new one I'm starting tomorrow.
Much more going on, but I'll just keep all that quiet for now.

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*Yes, I realize that "church" in this sense goes directly against my principles. Nevertheless, it's another example of an English word that has multiple meanings and falls apart under minor scrutiny. In general, whenever I mean the "church" as the bride of Christ and a unified, global body, I prefer to write "Church." Whenever I mean a localized, unified body, I again prefer "Church." When I mean the building where the Church goes to, this I refer to as "church."

Daredevil 2.3 - Wake Up

2012-01-30T09:14:00.002-06:00

Wow. I knew Brian Michael Bendis was praised as a comic writer, and now I see why.Wake Up, Volume 2.3 of Daredevil, is deep and powerful. But as good as the writing was, the story was just as much artist David Mack's work as it was Bendis'.

Ben Urich is a Daily Bugle investigative journalist sent by J. Jonah Jameson to report on the "Crime of the Century." Instead, Ben stumbles upon something more important, at least to him, and that's the story of a boy named Timmy. Timmy is shocked into a catatonic state by witnessing something horrible. Something involving his missing dead-beat dad. Something about Daredevil. He spends his time in a hospital drawing comics and generally ignoring the world around him.

As Ben digs deeper, he begins to ache for Timmy and does everything in his power to help the boy. But what's more, Ben wants to know what's caused his pain.

I loved Wake Up, and it definitely is the best of the Daredevil comics so far. While not as flashy and showy as most superhero comics, and definitely nowhere near as light, it's a wonderfully drawn and written story. And ultimately we get to see more character development from Daredevil to Ben Urich, whom I'd never heard of.

I have to take a minute and address Mack's art. The styles are constantly changing, and the fluidity really adds to the mental state Timmy is in. Characters even look different from panel to panel. I'm tempted to say that this may be one of the best looking comics I've ever read, and that's saying something. It's obvious how much work Mack put into these four comics, as they're quite mesmerizing.

Daredevil 2.3: Wake Up pretty much stands on its own as a story. No prior knowledge of the Man Without Fear is needed, but it would add to the depth of the tale. Nevertheless, if you're itching to try a Daredevil comic, then I can easily recommend this 4-issue run. Here's to hoping Bendis can maintain this standard I've set for him.

EDIT: Even though I just read Volume 2.2 recently, I didn't make the connection that David Mack, the artist for Wake Up, was the writer for the fantastic Parts of a Hole. Looking back, it's easy to see Mack's influence on the storyline of Daredevil and Echo. Not only that, but Mack was the cover illustrator for those comics as well, which I thought were excellent. I'm going to have to keep my eyes open for this guy. He can write and draw...

Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror, a Review

2012-01-27T15:29:00.003-06:00

Christopher Priestley's Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror is the kind of book that begs to be read aloud, with a British accent, and in the dark of night sitting next to a roaring fire while an unnatural storm brews outside. This book is an anthology of ghost stories and cautionary tales, all told by the mysterious Uncle Montague to a rather dimwitted nephew, Edgar. Most leave you with a crooked smile after finishing.

Uncle Montague's home is filled with odd collectibles. An old brass telescope. A gilt frame. A small Indian ink drawing that may or may not move. These and more all have a story to tell, and not a one of them is happy. In fact, the words "ghastly" and "terrible" came to mind more than once.

Uncle Montague tells Edward ten tales over the course of the evening. All take place within the frame of Edward and Montague reclining near a fire place in Montague's moody home. Noises break into the frame, setting the stage for something else that may exist outside of the stories. Most of the tales feature young children as their protagonists, and because of this, the horrifying aspects of Montague's tales is multiplied.

Enhancing the book and each story is illustrations in the style of Edward Gorey's Gashlycrumb Tinies. In fact, the stories read as if they were directly inspired and lifted from one of Gorey's panels. David Roberts, however, is the illustrator for the book, and his work is so memorable that I can scarcely think about Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror without thinking of the delightful illustrations.

It's hard to pick a favorite story here, as all were great for one reason or another. I particularly enjoyed the ones below.

"The Demon Bench End" is truly horrible. Young Thomas Haynes is not really a very good boy. For all appearances he is, but truthfully, he's just as bad as anyone else. After a fateful street side encounter with a tinker, Thomas's life forever changes. Largely neglected by his father, Thomas stands idly by while his father and the tinker haggle. Eventually the family parts from the riffraff, but Thomas does not forget what he saw. For the tinker had something Thomas wants terribly bad, and he'll stop at nothing to get it.

"Winter Pruning" is one of the more twisted tales of Uncle Montague's. It's a very traditional child's story. There is an old blind witch that lives miserly at the top of a hill. All day long Old Mother Tallow stands out in her yard pruning her trees, mending the apples. Simon Hawkins, another young rapscallion if ever there was one, decides to sneak into Old Mother Tallow's house one day while she's outside. The witch is supposed to be rich, after all, and he was sick of stealing pennies from his mother's purse. One big score would be all he'd need.

"A Ghost Story" was probably the most lighthearted of the tales, and that could be partially why I liked it so much. Little Victoria Harcourt begrudgingly attends a family wedding, a horrible affair where rain and wind ruins the day. Victoria is mostly scorned by the other girls, and when her most loathsome of cousins Emily begins telling a ghost story, Victoria is almost ready to abandon all pretense of wanting to fit in. I don't want to say much about this story, but I did enjoy it immensely. I smiled like a baboon at the end.

In the end, every story in Uncle Montague's Tales of Terror was exactly what I was looking for. While some are better than others, all are perversely wicked. One can't help but feel a trifle ashamed at the outcomes of these tales, for smiling at the often demise of children. Priestley's stories fit into the vein of the Brothers Grimm, though not as fantastical or folky. There are lessons to be learned beneath these stories, making it a perfect book for adolescents and teens. Even so, Priestley offered a memorable book that's quick to read and perfect for when the Halloween mood strikes. I'll be adding the other installments, Tales of Terror from the Black Ship and Tales of Terror from the Tunnel's Mouth, to my TBR now.

Jeff VanderMeer's "The Situation" as a comic on Tor.com

2012-01-25T09:37:00.001-06:00

Possibly the most enjoyable read for me in 2011 was Jeff VanderMeer's The Third Bear. It blended weird with brilliant prose and wonder, and I think fondly of the book. Today, Jeff VanderMeer and Eric Orchard have released Part 1 of 3 collaboration to re-tell a short story from The Third Bear titled "The Situation." From my review,

"The Situation" is baffling. Part office-life, part post-apocalyptic, part Idon'thaveaclue, this story sealed the deal for me. I read it after reading "The Third Bear" (which I recommend you do as well, even though it doesn't follow the story in the layout of the book) and noticed a few coincidences that I could not ignore. I'm not sure at all how to describe what's going on in this story, but I highly recommend you read it.

The artwork by Orchard is phenomenal. It's style fits exactly how I imagined VanderMeer's world, capturing both the mood of the story and the horrifying beauty described therein. If you've not read VanderMeer's book, then you really should. It's so unlike anything else I've ever read. What's more, if you love good art and a captivating story, then check out Tor.com's "The Situation." No background knowledge is necessary to enjoy the tale, though it probably makes understanding it a little easier. I'm looking forward to seeing the remainder of the story.

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Images are from Tor.com, created by Eric Orchard. For more, follow the link here. And while you're at it, Ken Scholes' If Dragon's Mass Eve Be Cold and Clear was another excellent freebie posted up on Tor.com. Part post-apocalyptic, part haunting tale of hope, this story had Santa as a sword-wielding, Christ-like myth. I thought it would be silly. I was dead wrong. Just reminds me that I really need to read Scholes' novels, as I've been more than pleased with his shorts I've read.

About Google Music

2012-01-24T12:05:00.000-06:00

I've been using Google Music since it came out of Beta, and for the most part, I've been very pleased. Basically, it's a music streaming site that runs on cloud storage. It was cloud storage that I wanted to try, since Stewartland1 is turning 8 years obsolete this May, and Stewartland2 is only slightly younger. Because of this, memory is something of a problem, and I have a lot of music (around 50gigs or so). Thus, the cloud storage.

Google Music merges with your Google account and allows the user to listen to his or her music anywhere they can sign in (as long as flash is supported). That means that if I had a droid phone then I could listen anywhere. That also means that I could listen at work and at home without having thousands of songs taking up hard-drive space. This was my chief reason for signing up, well, that and my infatuation with Google's products.

I've been mostly pleased with my Google Music experience these last few months. The player links to a Google market where you can purchase songs and albums at competitive prices, ranging from FREE to whatever. I've not bought anything above $0.00, but what I've got from here has been good.

The only problems I've encountered have been listening at work. My computer at work is older than Stewartland1 and the internet connection isn't as good, so I get occasional freezes. Still, as long as I'm not doing anything too computationally intense, everything runs smoothly. The only other issue is the randomizer used seems pretty bland, especially when listening to just one artist.

Google Music is not a streaming radio like Pandora, unfortunately, and I think this would be one area Google could improve. Still, if you're on the go and have a droid, using Google Music seems like a smart idea. Or, if you're like me and have limited storage space, it's a no brainer. It does take some time to upload your music, but once it's there it's there for good. Currently you can upload 20,000 songs for free, with pricing starting above and beyond that.

Flash Fiction Friday: The Clean Man (A Study of Mostly Realism)

2012-01-20T13:45:00.000-06:00

THE MAN leaned back in his chair, cautious not to go too far. Wouldn't want the back to break after all. He idly wondered to which back he was referring, but then shrugged it off, not really caring. He picked up his coffee, bitter with only the slightest taste of artificial hazelnut cream somewhere in its black depths. Steam rose from the mug, hot and refreshing. Probably the only warm thing in the whole room, he thought. As he returned the cup to the table some liquid splashed over the side. Brown stains freckled paper. He winced at the accident, critical of himself for the mishap. He was a clean man. A tidy man. A man who took pride in organization and order. Accidents were things that happened to others, not to him.

Scowling at the drying stains, he blotted the coffee up with a folded paper towel. He could no longer reuse it, as was his custom. Paper towels were luxuries many could not afford. He, on the other hand, had stockpiled a basement full, affordable at the time in thanks to his wife's coupons and his cunning. A clean man must have towels, he thought. He glanced at the clock. 0741. The spill had altered his routine by a full minute. Not a problem to most, but he was a punctual man, leaving home at 0748 every day, arriving to work at 0759, and at his desk by 0800, usually beating his boss and everyone else to the scene.

He dropped the paper towel into the bin, frowning as it disappeared from sight. The man returned to the table and gathered the papers, organizing them neatly. He moved to his desk and placed them in their proper cribs. 0743. He had to go. He could already see the horrific traffic accident, detouring the roadways, pushing his arrival time back by several minutes, if not hours. If he was lucky, he thought, he would be in the crash, and then he would not have to endure the patronizing glares of tardiness. A perverse smile came unbidden at the grim thought.

The man topped off his coffee mug, filling to the prime place just below the rim of the cup. He screwed on the travel lid. I'd like to see you splash about now, he thought smugly. 0748. He really had to go. The man scooped up his jacket, throwing it on like a smooth and well-practiced machine. "Off," he said, and the overhead lights began to dim. As the door slid closed behind him, the man had a peculiar feeling of despair. He paused and did an inventory count. Lights. Phone. Wallet. Keys. Coffee. Something was different, he knew. Something was off.

The man arrived to work without accident. He quickened his pace as he entered the gates, ready to be in his seat and about business. The nagging sensation still poked at him mind that something had happened, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out what it was. The office was still dark. Good, he thought. "On." The lights remained unchanged. Frustrated, the man spoke again. "On, please." Nothing happened. He sighed, agitated, but did not let it deter him. Someone else would fix it. He was a clean man, not an electrician.

He thought nothing of it that his computer was already on and lit. On any normal day, the monitor would be awaiting his password entry. Today, however, the man was greeted with a different screen. Fingerprints smeared across the glass, greasy and yellowed. A rag was in a wad atop his keyboard, soiled and smelling of rot. The man stared in horror at the scene before him. Papers were everywhere, many torn to shreds or mutilated. His inkwell had been unstoppered and its contents poured onto his seat. A spasm worked its way to his left eye, twitching violently. The man's hand quivered and his coffee mug fell free, clanging on the ground below.

He wasn't sure how long he stood there. Time ceased to matter to him. His already fragile mind was now shattered into pieces too tiny to ever reassemble. The man's knees buckled, and he collapsed into a heap of broken bone, broken body, broken soul, and broken heart. They found him on Monday, two days later, still lying on the floor and talking to himself. People gossiped about his unusual habits and his horribly filthy desk. His clothes were dirty and his face unclean.

The thoughts made him sick to his stomach. 0744. He might have to drive a little faster today, he thought, scooping up his coat.

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Does this make any sense? Too vague? And how much is based on my own life?

Daredevil 2.2 - Parts of a Hole

2012-01-19T08:48:00.001-06:00

Straight on the spandex-heels of the introductory arc to the rebooted Daredevil franchise comes a much more improved arc titled Parts of a Hole. Parts of a Hole was written by David Mack, a different writer than the first arc. Joe Quesada still helms the pencils for illustrations.

From the onset, Parts of a Hole was better than Guardian Devil. Matt Murdock is still getting over the death of Karen Page and coming to grips with his fledgling law firm. We're also introduced to a new character, a beautiful young woman named Maya Lopez. Maya is uncannily similar to Matt, though she is deaf, while he is blind. Maya's father was murdered while she was young, and she has been on a quest for vengeance ever since. Gifted with a unique talent, an ability to mimic what she sees to a perfect form, she begins training in martial arts and various forms of combat, preparing for the day to finally bring down her father's killer. Her road leads her to Hell's Kitchen, where she meets Matt, and things change for them both.

I really liked this arc a lot better than the first. Can I say that enough? The story was more engaging, the characters more developed, and the action more interesting. Maya was a very interesting character to meet and watch develop. What's more, the Kingpin of Crime Wilson Fisk, Daredevil's archenemy, played a prominent role in the tale. As I mentioned on my review of Guardian Devil, I know very little about the Man without Fear, and even less about Kingpin. With Parts of a Hole we get to see some of Fisk's backstory and learn a bit about the man.

Volume 2.2 still has it's problems, however. I'm not sure why the writers feel the need to rehash Matt Murdock's tragic circumstances that led to him becoming Daredevil in nearly every issue. The only reason I can come up with is that a letter from the editor in one of the issues apologized for the sporadic publication times between comics, and from this I inferred that maybe the writer's thought that readers would need reminders. Even so, this is annoying and wastes space.

On the plus side, though, Quesada had some truly great artwork throughout this arc. I'm still not fond of the eyes and a few other things, but the art really shines when dealing with Maya. She has her own color motif and line styles/weights, and here it felt like Quesada was enjoying his work. (Maybe it's because he was drawing the female form?) So art is a definite improvement over Volume 2.1. Also, the cover illustrations were all rather snazzy, too.

Next up comes Volume 2.3, Wake Up. Brian Michael Bendis takes the writer's pen, and this is when Adam assures me that the series really starts to take off. But I no longer think I need his assurances. After the stunning conclusion to Parts of a Hole, I want to know what happens next. Consider me hooked.

Introducing the Revised Rememorandom

2012-01-13T11:15:00.001-06:00

In short, I've given Rememorandom the most extreme makeover its ever received. Ever since I've began blogging, my layout has always been similar. There have been a few changes here and there, but never anything like this. I've always stuck with a dark theme, liking the moody contrast of white text on dark backgrounds, with hints of green and grey lingering about.

After piddling around last night with Keisha on the possibility of her starting a blog, a spark wedged itself into my mind. I like change. It forces awkwardness and growth and learning. Even change for the worse can be fruitful. So, dear readers, any input? Any problems viewing on your home screens?

Bits & Pieces

I've not mentioned it before, but David Crowder Band's latest and final cd was released this week. I've been enamored. However, no review proper will be showing up here, at least not in the foreseeable future. No sir, a masterpiece as glorious as it deserves something else. I'm working on a review that I will be submitting for hopeful acceptance in the 2012 Spring Edition of TalyaWren, a zine crafted by fellow blogger and frequent commenter L and her family. This year's proceeds go to support Door to Grace, an Oregon mission that combats human trafficking.
Anyone else make use of Google Music? I've recently fell in love.
Today is Keisha's birthday. She turns 24, and is still growing in beauty with each passing day.
Sunday is my birthday. I'm still getting balder and beardier with each passing day.
I failed to mention that Avonlea sprouted teeth recently. Two, in fact. They're like tomahawk heads in her mouth, sharp and jagged. Such a cute thing, though.
Dunkin' Donuts moved into town. I've never had 'em before. Me, I've always been a Mom & Pop local bakery kind of guy. Nevertheless, I tried it out. Donuts tasted like they were a day or two old and came from Kroger. The coffee was pretty good, though.
First major snowfall yesterday. About an inch or so. Bitter cold.
Francis Chan continually blows my mind and challenges me.
No Skyrim updates. I've not played it all week, come to think of it. Still much to do, but not enough time to put in to another imaginary world.

Inheritance, a Review

2012-01-12T10:25:00.000-06:00

Say one thing for Christopher Paolini, say he finally finished his Inheritance Cycle. Beginning back in 2002 with Eragon, the series finally drew to a close nine years later with the release of Inheritance. Paolini started writing the story at age fifteen, which was probably about the age I was when I started reading the series. But as I matured, my tastes began to move away from clean, bland, cliched fantasy, and I lost interest in the tale of Alagaësia. By the time Brisingr came out--Book 3, 2008--I was a completely different Reader. My review (here) reflects this well. I was unsure whether or not I would even read the final volume.

As it goes, I did decide to read the concluding book to the Cycle, and I'm glad I did.

Inheritance begins after the Battle of Feinster, with the Varden deciding to march upon Urû'baen and finally confront Galbatorix. Alagaësia is a big country, and this march takes about 800 pages. Okay, I go too far. While the march takes a long time, there's a lot of different things going on between the beginning and the end. Eragon has some last minute things he needs to do and take care of. The Varden have a few "loyal" cities to crush before they reach the capital. And a lot of travel. And a lot of page filler. But still, much of the exposition and rising action are all pointing to Urû'baen, and the Reader can't help but trudge along.

Going into the novel, I had no doubts that Paolini's vanilla series would end with Galbatorix dead, I just didn't know how. Color me surprised when the affects of war and suffering started permeating throughout Paolini's writing. People were grieving and dying left and right, and the general confusion of war reigned. Add to that the growing promise of Galbatorix's power and the grittiness of a torture scene spread over several chapters. I still suspected, but at least I wasn't as sure as I had been. And oh, the torture scenes. I've read a few books with torture and interrogation in them, but Paolini's methodology and writing were excellent here.*

At times it felt like Paolini was struggling, and his tale suffered for it. In particular, the denouement was painful and incredibly long. I'm reminded of the multiple endings of Peter Jackson's Return of the King, except in a bad way. The climax was prolonged and simplistic, but overall pleasing. Sadly, the story continued on for many more pages after. I considered quitting, not knowing why there was so much closure, figuring it must have been hard for Paolini to write the end to this series that is by all rights his baby. He needed closure, and perhaps so did some of the ardent fans of the series. Unfortunately, resolution was a bit... lacking.

Also, like the previous novels, typical tropes and blatant knockoffs abound in this book. One cannot help but be reminded of Tolkien. However, Paolini is not alone here, and in fact there is a distinct subset of fantasy fiction that is very Tolkienesque. Personally, I like innovation, which Paolini has, but he didn't rely on it near enough. Having been a reader of SFF for most of my life, I'm familiar enough with these cliches to know that practically all SFF writers rely on them to some extent, and Paolini's use wasn't bad enough to be plagiarism, but it did have me groan a few times (especially at the very end of the novel). Another problem is the bland-to-lifeless characterization, especially Galbatorix. Truly, I laughed at Galbatorix's demeanor, presentation, and general being. His actions just didn't fit his reputation at all.

In the acknowledgments after the book, the author reveals that he has more stories to tell in Alagaësia. He admits to leaving some things unresolved and up-in-the-air (eg, Angela the Herbalist), and this was a slap in the face. She was possibly my favorite character, just due to her strangeness. (I have my ideas about her, but alas.) I seriously doubt I will be revisiting this world again of my own volition.

As a whole, the Inheritance Cycle is a very clean and approachable series that has impacted millions of readers around the world. It is a great introductory story that really captures what traditional, high epic fantasy is about, even if it staggers along its way. It lacks the depth and despair of Lord of the Rings, of course, but it has a certain depth of its own. (Yes, it is unfair to compare this to Tolkien, but on the same token, it's unfair to compare almost anything to Tolkien.) In my opinion, I can recommend Christopher Paolini's Inheritance Cycle to those curious about traditional fantasy, especially younger readers. There's dragons, elves, dwarfs, sword fights, magic, and a lot of fun to be found in these pages. For veterans of SFF, the series won't knock your socks off and may not even raise your pulse much, but the story is still an impressive (if mostly predictable) feat. Inheritance itself is better than Brisingr, but lacks the excitement of Eragon and Eldest. I had wished for something else in the final book, but it is what it is, and puts a fitting end on the story.

Inheritance Cycle Covers, by John Jude Palencar

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*As a rule, I generally dislike picking on an author's writing style. They are published, after all, and famous and rich and living the high life. Still, I'm compelled to point out that Paolini's writing seemed amateur throughout most of this book and Brisingr. (I don't recall enough about the first two to add them here.) His lack of pronoun usage bothered me, as I grow tired of paragraph upon paragraph following a similar structure. Pronouns are okay in my book. Another thing was his occasional bizarre word choices. It almost seemed like he had a thesaurus handy and just picked whatever came to mind, whether it fit or not. While this isn't necessarily a problem, it is worth mentioning, as I found it made the reading experience uneven and jagged.

Downton Abbey, Season 1

2012-01-07T21:08:00.002-06:00

I'm late to the party here, but still early enough to catch the premier of Season 2 tomorrow night. As a devout NPR listener, I'm equally devoted to PBS whenever it comes to television. For the last several weeks, a certain commercial kept playing, showcasing a series on Masterpiece called Downton Abbey. "This looks like something you'd like," I told Keisha, and she agreed, and that was that. But, as it goes, it wasn't, and over the course of time, I continued to hear more and more of this show. Capping it off was an interview on NPR's Here and Now with a critic who was lauding praises. They played a clip, it sounded intriguing, and I decided I wanted to watch it, too. Turns out that it was available on Netflix, and over a Friday night Saturday morning binge, Keisha and I watched the whole first season.

Downton Abbey is an early 20th century drama, featuring an incredibly talented cast, remarkable writing, beautiful set pieces, and a perfect score. The season begins with the sinking of the Titanic, where the heir to Downton Abbey perished, along with his family. This left the Earl of Grantham and Lord of the estate, Robert Crawley, in a predicament, as his only children are all girls. At the time, entailment still existed, and so the girls could not inherit. The remainder of the season deals with finding a suitor for Mary, the eldest daughter.

Simultaneously, the audience is given insight to the running of the estate and the considerable staff required to provide for the gentry. The ins-and-outs of the staff--a butler, a housekeeper, the Lord's valet, the Lady's maid, two footmen, three housemaids, and two kitchen staff--are the heart and soul of the show. Every character is important to the plot, filled with a backstory, and integral to the excitement and intrigue of Downton Abbey. Take Mr. Bates, for example. He is arguably my favorite character, and his handicap and unwillingness to reveal much of his past propels the plot, as well as the plotting of two eager staff-people. These two, Thomas the first footman and Misses O'Brien, are possibly the most detestable villains of any show I've watched in recent memory.

I do not intend to slight the nobles. On the contrary, as I very much enjoy the various plots concerning the staff, I also very much enjoy the plots concerning the Crawley family. Mary's quest for love/marriage is center here, and while I'm not much on gooey gooey stuff and lots of romance, the writers handled Mary very well. She was a character that I both liked and dislike, and that's a good thing. I also must give credit to the wonderful Maggie Smith a la the Dowager Countess and Robert's mother. She is wonderfully witty and a hoot when pinned against other characters. She provides a heavy moodiness to any situation she is in, and yet she's funny, especially when remarking on the modern technologies (swivel chairs and telephones to name two).

Honestly, I was surprised at how quickly I was caught up in the story. Generally this kind of stuff is more up Keisha's alley. Nevertheless, I was extremely impressed with everything about this show. It never dipped into ridiculousness, nor did it stray too far from the many themes it makes. Each actor is perfectly suited to their role, and each performs well above the norm.

I look forward to starting season two tomorrow night and getting back into the affairs of Downton Abbey. Truly, I'm eager to find out more about these people I've grown attached to and to see how much life will change in the coming years. If you've not watched this show, I cannot recommend it enough. It's available to watch online for free on PBS (here), as well as Netflix instant streaming.

By the Side of the Pale-Faced Moon

2012-01-04T16:50:00.000-06:00

I've found myself unable to sleep much these last few days. Is it myopia? Dystopia? Is it the paean and the clanging, and the tolling, throbbing, clangor of the bells bells bells bells bells? Maybe yes. Maybe not. Maybe porridge, sickly hot. Maybe sweat and beats and wrinkled sheets beneath my bed bed bed bed bed.

Hours crawl. Bioluminescent monsters stomp around in the living room, just out of mind, not out of sight. I cannot remember my dreams. I can remember my disappointments. And so I found myself awake and asea during the witching hour, garbed in synthetics and clothing born of labor, not love. Indeed, the only thing born of love was the toboggan* atop my barren head, wrought by the fingers of the girl I love. I found myself in the hinterlands, staring up at the sky, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Quadrantids. Alas, it was not to be.

Coffee consumed, and even its typical bitterness was as honey, though it frothed rabid for unknown reasons. I think on my goals for the year, for myself, for my family. Keisha and I have been steadily scaling down things for several months now, and our goal is to get even more simplistic**. It began when I decided to save money and cancel our satellite back in the summer of 2010. We traded a crazy bill for a cheap Netflix plan. And yet, after sixteen months of digital streaming, I've found myself more attracted to PBS and basic television, and those only on occasion. Sure, there are plenty of great shows available at my desires (Buffy!), but I'm loth to spend so much time in front of a monitor. A recent survey found that the average American spent 2.7 hrs/day watching tv, which equates to about six-weeks of non-stop, 24-hr viewing. And that's just tv alone. I dread thinking of computer usage...

So we both came to the conclusion that we're going to get rid of Netflix at Stewartland. By our reckoning, any movies/shows that we really want to see, we'll be able to get them from either the library or Redbox. In conjunction, we've scrapped much of our DVD shelves. Next up comes the bookshelves, I think. Because, I wonder, why hang on to these things? I'm not nostalgic. I'm not materialistic. So why keep them?

I would love to get to a point in my life where I have few things that I simply "have" to have. I remember reading this article about a family that limited itself on how many items each person could have. Seems like it was around a hundred or so, which included everything from socks to toothbrushes to kitchen gadgets. If you wanted something new, something else had to go. Part of me really likes this idea. This was one of the reasons why we limited the amounts of gifts Avonlea got for Christmas. From us, there were three, and we tried to convey this to the rest of the family, too. We don't want her to grow up overindulged and spoiled***.

Maybe it's that I'm getting older, though my dissatisfaction has been growing for a while now. I turn twenty-six next weekend. I wonder what I'm doing with my life. How am I making a difference, not only in my community around me, but in my family, too. Why am I content to spend so much time at home, with my nose in a book? Thank God that I only average about four hours per week with the PS3. I thank God that I don't have a smartphone. I'm tired of the sham of politics. I'm tired of the bickering in the church. I'm tired of the apathy of bosses. I'm tired of suburbia. I'm tired of the passivity of America. I want to be different. I serve a Jesus that was different, that was hated, that lived a radical-but-simple life. And I want to be more like Him.

It's a sort of Runic rhyme, really, to the tintinnabulation of the bells bells bells bells bells. I am forever thankful that I've been blessed with a house to keep me warm, a closet full of clothes, and five pairs of shoes. I have a job, while many do not. I have a car. Two, actually. I'm healthy. I could be much worse. I could be much much worse off. Am I stuck in idealistic youth? No, I think not. Am I held back by fear and trepidation and idleness? That remains to be seen. Here's to hoping 2012 is different.

----
* An apparent colloquialism of the Appalachia region. By toboggan, I mean a knit cap. I grew up calling these things toboggans, and didn't realize the discrepancy between the words until I was in college. I love Kentucky.

** I'm hesitant to use this buzz-word, but it best describes my ambitions.

*** Okay, we want to spoil her with love, not materials. I trust I make sense.

My Reading List: 2011 Edition

2011-12-29T10:44:00.000-06:00

(RSS & Email Readers, please go to the blog proper to see the visual aids and charts. This post makes more sense that way. Sorry for the inconvenience.)

-----

And so here we are again, dear Readers. Another year behind us, a bright, new shiny one just around the bend. As always, I've kept up with the general statistics of my reading life, because knowing this trivial information thrills my soul to no end. This year I read 47 books, a 35% decrease from 2010's 71 books. However, taking page numbers into the mix, I read ~15626 pages this year, which is just a 14% decrease from last years. Considering that I had a baby in June, I'd say that's pretty darned good.

If you'd like to look at the monster spreadsheet I keep that contains all of my statistical data, you can go here and browse around. The link should default you to the 2011 tab, but if not, just click the appropriate year at the bottom. This is my third year of running the sheet, and it's interesting to compare stats between the years, too.

Data

Oldest Book: In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote, 1965
Audio Books*: 7
Kindle Books: 7
Library Books: 23
2011 Books (Year Published): 10
Books Forsaken: 1 (In the Shadow of Swords, by Val Gunn)
From Publishers/Authors Received: 15
From Publishers/Authors Reviewed: 11
Most Popular Author: Mike Mignola and Alvin Schwartz
Most Popular Publisher: Dark Horse, Del Rey, and Waterbrook Multnomah (all with 5 books)
Busiest Month: January (8 reads)
Total Page Numbers: ~15,626
Average Book Score**: 3.63
Female/Male: 3/35

Like previous years, graphic novels and comics command a major portion of the year's reading. However, considering page counts, the graphic section accounts for only 2500 pages or so, a paltry 15%, as opposed to 28%. Nevertheless, the point of the graph is to display percentages based upon the number of books read, ignoring completely the thickness of the book. Because of my personal qualms with classifying a book in only one genre, plus my disdain at using "graphic novel" as an umbrella super-genre, I've broken down the data into a more sensible chart.

This chart makes a bit more sense, but I'm still not exactly comfortable with it. Books have far too many cross-genre aspects for me to qualify one novel as one thing over another. Still, I try, and for these charts, I've used the predominate genre (as determined by me) to populate the data fields.

It's fascinating to me to see how my reading habits have changed***. Five years ago, practically all of my reading was SFF and Graphic Novels. Non-fiction was laughable. Now, thanks to a few generous publishers and a more mature outlook in life, I read Christian Non-Fiction (which I deem as "Christian Thought") about as much as anything else. I've learned much from this experience, and I'm glad for it.

Favorites
Picking out my favorite book of the year is unfair. (The extreme fanboy in me screams Pat Rothfuss' The Wise Man's Fear.) There are several books I've read that I've ranked a 4 or higher on my scale, and truly all of those are recommendable. Nevertheless, below are the books I'd select as my favorite 2011 reads, linked to my review.

The Third Bear, by Jeff VanderMeer
Hellboy Volume 9: The Wild Hunt, by Mike Mignola
The Wise Man's Fear, by Patrick Rothfuss
Just Do Something, by Kevin DeYoung
I Am Not A Serial Killer, by Dan Wells
The Way of Kings, by Brandon Sanderson
House of Leaves, by Mark Z. Danielewski

If hard pressed, I'd possibly say that Jeff VanderMeer's The Third Bear is my favorite read of the year. From my review, I said,

There's really no good way to describe this book. It defies genres. It defies expectations and normal thinking, subverting tropes and typical story-telling methodology for something unique and unforgettable. There are some stories that, upon completion, I couldn't bring myself to describe coherently, even if the tale was spectacular. This holds true for many of the stories, the inability to put into words what you just read, but it only serves to make the reading experience all the better.

Seriously. It's the strangest book I've ever read, and I was mesmerized by it. Arguably, my favorite traditional SFF novel has to be The Wise Man's Fear. I've been on the Rothfuss train literally since the month his first novel came out, and I've not looked back. WMF was everything I wanted it to be, even if it was a bit winded. If we're thinking of life-changing books, Kevin DeYoung's Just Do Something rocked my world, shifting around how I thought about making choices and paths to travel in life. It was such an excellent (and short) read that I gave away copies just so others could read it and be free. The most unexpected book was Dan Wells' I Am Not A Serial Killer. Simply, I read it in about 5-hours. I could not put it down. It was fresh and fun and creepy and I'm ready to read the next book in the series.

As for disappointments, the Star Wars EU series Fate of the Jedi has been stagnant. Fortunately there are but two books left in the series, which will be finished up next year. I'm ready for the EU to get back to some good stuff, but alas, I don't have high hopes. I feel practically the same about Terry Brooks. His Bearers of the Black Staff was rather droll and unexciting, and I don't know whether or not I'll even finish the other half of the duology. I also managed to pick up a forsaken book from last year, The Great Hunt, and finish it, though I'm not sure why. It was better this year, but still held nothing to pull me back into The Wheel of Time. Finally, GRRM's Dance with Dragons was good, yes, but ultimately a let-down, too.

I'm also disappointed by the lack of diversity in the authors I read. Look at the F/M ratio. I shudder to think about ethnic diversity. Going out on a limb, I'm guessing the general author profile is a middle aged, white, educated, American male. I'd like to mix this up somehow.

Next year should be a most interesting year for books. I've laid down my 2012 Book Manifesto and firmly plan on sticking to it. This should help with my bland diversity somewhat, but it won't be a panacea. I also regret not getting to read The Alloy of Law, so I hopefully will get to that in 2012.

The year has been a slightly better than average year in reading. There were wonderful books, and there were not so wonderful. All in all, it's really a joy to read, and I do it because I love it. I'm glad to be able to share my recommendations to you fine folks that read the blog, and thanks for coming back to listen to what I have to say. If you've any questions about the data or my spreadsheet, ask away.

Now on to finishing up the still-reading and dive headlong into the TBR.
-----

* All audio books were borrowed through the library, and thus are included in the library numbers, too.
** This is an arithmetic average of the books based upon the GoodReads 5-star scale, modified for my use to include halfsies.
*** See the bottom chart in the spreadsheet for this graphic.

Daredevil Vol. 2.1 - Guardian Devil

2011-12-27T21:55:00.001-06:00

My friend Adam highly recommended the entire series run of Daredevil, Volume 2. From my understanding, Volume 1 had run stagnant after thirty-four years and 380 comics. Marvel decided to reboot the Man without Fear and start afresh. Anon, Kevin Smith was hired to write the first story arc for the new series, Guardian Devil, beginning in 1998. Volume 2 ran for 119 issues, and concluded with a 13-issue mini-run titled Shadowlands.

I'll be the first to say that my knowledge of Daredevil is very limited. Having read comics for most of my life, I've always considered the hero as a lesser compatriot of Marvel's bigger names: Spider-Man, Wolverine, Hulk, the Fantastic Four, the Avengers, and not to mention practically all of the X-Men. Daredevil just wasn't that interesting to me. Yet, on Adam's considerable recommendation (ending when he brought the entire run over to my house in a heavy, white box), I found myself with 131 comics to read.

Matt Murdock is an attorney by day and a red-leather-tights-wearing superhero by night. He's blind. He's intelligent. He struggles with his faith. After a freak accident as a teenager, where he saved the life of a pedestrian from an oncoming truck laden with nuclear waste (it's always nuclear something something) and lost his eyesight, his remaining senses were all heightened to uncanny levels.

The main plot of Guardian Devil revolves around an infant showing up in Murdock's law office. The mother drops the child off, claiming he's the Christ returned. Later, a mysterious man appears and tells Matt that the child is in fact the antichrist incarnate. Already conflicted, Murdock gets involved in a fight that spans from heaven to hell. Another important element to this arc was Murdock's relationship with his on-again, off-again flame Karen Page.

Up front Adam told me the series started off kind of boring. He was right. The first eight issues held me captivated enough to press on, but suffered from some weak text and poor illustrations. Don't get me wrong. The art was just fine, but I was turned off by the peculiar choices Joe Quesada made, especially when it came to eyes*. Every time I looked at a person's eyes I was turned off. They looked almost childish. This just didn't work with the tone of the story Smith was telling (and I'm already not much of a Smith fan).

Nevertheless, I press onward. So far Daredevil still sits in the shadows of my mind, but I'm anxious to see if he rises to prominence. If I'm judging based on Guardian Devil, I'd say no. But, for the life of me, I'll read this series if only to see what Adam's talking about.

*Generally. Note Bullseye's eye in the panel image above. It's swell. This, however, is not the norm.

I'm Sworn to Secrecy

2011-12-22T10:37:00.002-06:00

Since I keep a journal here on Rememorandom, I've got something very important to ramble on about.

Recall, earlier this year I was selected by the church body to become a deacon. I was humbled and after prayerful consideration, I accepted. The next step was to be tested, so to speak. Had to go to to a room filled with the current deacons and be questioned about my faith, doctrinal issues, those sorts of things. I wasn't expecting the interrogation I got, especially not the vitriol I received. After the whole fiasco, I was found to be lacking the spiritual maturity they required and was rejected. (To be fair, 8/12 of the men voted in my favor, though this majority did not meet the qualifications set in the church's bylaws.)

To be honest, I was hurt and angry. I was judgmental. I was disappointed. I was grieved. In my mind, I was more qualified to be a deacon than several of the men sitting in that room. I desired to impact the world, to impact the church, to love on people, to help, to go, to serve. These were the things that I didn't see the deacons doing. How dare they deny me? I contented myself saying that you didn't have to be a deacon to serve and that God was in control.

I've spent the last six months growing in leaps and bounds in my faith. My reliance on God has increased tenfold. My devotion to reading and studying the Word has grown exponentially. I've changed in my opinions on the dividing topics, growing even more firm in my beliefs about them. I'm convinced that the bible speaks very clearly and that their opinions are based on more than just the bible. But through all of my growth I've also layered myself in cynicism. My ability to trust has wavered. My faith in my local church has waned to non-existent. My righteous anger has simmered.

The sad thing is that this is so uncharacteristic of me that it's not funny. I'm an extremely happy optimist. I believe in the goodness of people to a point well past logic and reason. I'm not naive, I'm too much a Realist for that, but I'm hopeful. And yet, over these last few months, I've changed my outlook, and I hate it. I'm disappointed with myself and my scorn. I realize that I'm wanting people to be held to a higher standard when I myself am regressing. I'm expecting maturity from a group of people that have had very little rearing. Many are on the milk still, so to speak, and my expectations from them are unrealistic.

So I've resolved myself to do better. To think kinder. To love more. To pour myself out until I'm drained dry. If I'm wanting change, then let it be seen in me.

Flash forward to last night. Skipping all the details, I was selected to serve on the pastor search committee, and last night was my first meeting. (My church has been without a senior pastor for a long time now and tension is very high within the church. Perhaps this is part of the reason why there have been so many problems.) I received a packet of information, and among it was a sheet detailing the qualifications for its members. I inwardly chuckled at the first two: must be spiritually mature and must be respected by the church to be competent and responsible.

The irony of being qualified to select the next pastor for the church and yet being unqualified to be a deacon of said church is more than a little amusing.

So what's the point? The point is that I'm learning to rely on God more, to look to Him more, and to trust in Him. On the PSC I am bound to confidentiality, something that I intend on taking very seriously. Already after one meeting there are things that I would love to talk about and get off my shoulders, but I can't. To ramifications could be tremendous. Instead, I'll pray and look for guidance. And I also ask, dear Readers, that you hold me and my church up whenever it crosses your mind. I've a feeling that things are gonna be tough, but I've no doubts that God will reign supremely over everything.

Have a merry Christmas, everyone.

Not This Crap Again

2011-12-20T13:50:00.001-06:00

Oh what joy it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh!

And if that horse should, say, break its leg or stumble? Joy mayn't last long.

As some of you know, a little over a year ago I had some trying circumstances at work. Everyone was reduced to four-day weeks, effectively cutting everyone's pay by 20%. A few people were laid off and/or let go. Then paychecks started arriving late, sometimes very, very, very late. I continued working four-day weeks up until Avonlea was born, when some craziness happened and suddenly I was paid everything I was owed and put back on five-day weeks.

Avonlea is six-point-four months old now. No problems. Until today. "Paychecks are going to be late," I was told. "How late?" I ask. "Don't know." And I go and ask the President, who also doesn't know. "Not before Christmas, I guess," I say. "Nu-uh." Sigh. The most wonderful time of the year, indeed.

In addition, I've worked here at the MLC for two-and-a-half years now, and every year our insurance plan has changed. This year we had a $6k deductible and a $10k OOP. Rather high, I think. Consider: Keisha had an emergency C-section to deliver Avonlea, followed by a few days hospital stay; Keisha fell and had some x-rays and urgent care; Keisha and Avonlea had some routine medical stuff. Through all of this, we still haven't hit our deductible. But wait, there's more. Our new-and-improved plan, effective 1/1/2012, changes everything. Now we're looking forward to a $10k deductible and a $12k OOP!

If it sounds like I'm aggravated at the MLC, then you may be on to something. It's hard to have a passion to want to work if you don't feel valued. It's also hard when you get very little communication between the Chief Potentates and us brave peons. (Days can pass without so much as a "hullo.") Worst of all, it's hard to want to work when you're not getting paid. Dang it, I want to work and I want to be a good little boy and I want my money! Why is this so difficult?

I'm hoping/banking on getting paid next week. But whether I do or not, I'm not going to let it spoil my first Christmas with Avonlea and the last of my vacation time for the year. I'll get it when I get it. Until then, the Dude abides.

Post Script: The pun is intentional.

A 2012 Book Manifesto

2011-12-19T09:38:00.000-06:00

For 2012 I want to do something different. Something that will involve commitment and patience. Something that also will clear up a lot of the TBR pool. Something I've been thinking about (and alluded to) for a while now.

Declarations

I will not purchase any new/used books in 2012.***
I will read only from books I own or can attain freely (ie, library, friends, publishers, et al.)
I will will read only selections from my GoodReads To-Be-Read shelf (dated 12/31/11). This is currently visible on the right side-bar.

Reasons

I won't have to spend money on books. (Granted, I don't spend that much money on books as it is, but even so, in principle, I'm saving money.)
I can finally dwindle down my TBR pool and read things I've been putting off forever.
To see if I can actually do it. Self-discipline is a tool that needs to be used more, as its benefits are manifold.

Exceptions

I will continue to make my monthly trek to the comic shop and pick up the newest issue of Fables, as has been my wont for some time now.
I will purchase anything Pat Rothfuss releases, though the only possibility (to my knowledge) is a potential novella.
If I receive gift-cards to bookstores during the year, I will use them, as I'm not spending any of my money.
***If I get an amazing deal through my Kindle with Special Offers, then I'll likely gobble it up, as these offers are usually $1 or $2 for a book and not altogether common and I would be a fool to turn my nose to the offer.

Hopes

Finally read The Brothers Karamazov, 100 Years of Solitude, The Shadow of the Torturer, Peter & Max, and the multitude of random comics/graphic novels that have piled up. {own}
Finish the Fate of the Jedi series, as I have only two books left. {library}
Read a lot of Lovecraft during the RIP challenge for 2012 and possibly The Stand. {own}
Read The American Book of the Dead, which I received earlier this year but haven't had a chance to even start it yet. {own}
Continue getting free books from the few publishers I receive from, as well as possibly take on some new authors/publishers.
I hope Justin Cronin's sequel to The Passage comes out, and I also hope Peter Brett's third volume in the Painted Man series is released. {library}
The Alloy of Law? {library?}

There we are. This manifesto will be stored as a separate page under the appropriate tab above. Wish me luck. (This list is subject to change and edits throughout the year.)

Anyone else have any bookish goals for 2012?

Flash Fiction Friday: Waiting for the End

2011-12-15T16:21:00.001-06:00

The world was supposed to have ended by now. After the 2061 famine I thought for sure we were over. Ten billion people reduced to three-point-one. But we survived, somehow. Rebuilt. Then the year of the firestorms came, and then the plagues. And who can forget the ninth World War?

Still, through the many years, I can't tell that we're any closer to the end than we were back when there were seven habitable continents. After OmniBiotechnics came up with the Life 2.0 serum, we're now farther away than ever before. I've been walking this earth for four millenia and I like to think that things are better now, but I'm no longer sure. Death is a rumor created to keep us in line. The same is true with love. There's not been a recorded birth in three thousand years. I'm not sure I remember what a baby looks like. My days are spent sifting through forgotten tomes of ancient history, looking for prophecies in dead religions and bizarre cults. The Entertainment House wants to find something "new and exciting" to present to the populace, and where better to look than in the past? "There is nothing new under the sun," I read in one of these books, and I'm inclined to agree. From what I can tell, all of these religions point to some sort of Armageddon or some breaking of the earth. Something that finally wipes us all off of the face of the earth.

I think it's safe to say that they were all wrong.

---

Dear Adelith,

I know it's been over two hundred years since I last wrote, but I woke up this morning thinking about you and thought I might as well. How've you been? How's Averret doing? Does he ever ask about his papa? I imagine not. He was so little when I started my sentence that he probably doesn't even remember me. I hope you told him about all the good things that I did back before I screwed up. What House does he work in?

This is stupid. I'm not expecting you to write me back, and hell, I don't even know if this letter will find you, but if it does, I want you to know that I'm so sorry for everything I put you through. Had I known I would have received a life sentence I never would have got involved. You don't understand what it's like here, serving a life sentence when you're practically immortal. The boredom is maddening. The only new thing I see each day is a different color wall to my cell. Today it's a blue day. Tomorrow is black. Those are the worst. Reds are pretty bad, too. If there was any way I could off myself in here I'd do it in a heartbeat, but the guards are rather vigilant, especially to people like me.

I don't know why you were on my mind this morning, but you were, and I just wanted to let you know that I still love you, even after all these years. I think fondly of the days before the serum, when we were poor but happy. I hope life is everything you wanted it to be, Adelith. I love you with my whole heart.

-Pogue

---

Kee-yu dreamed of food. A rice paddy, vibrant green and teeming with millions upon millions of healthy grains. A gentle wind cooled her face, tussled her hair like Mama used to do when she was a child. She tasted rain in the wind. Uytugyo will provide, the shaman said. He always will. Kee-yu wondered where Uytugyo was when the monsters swarmed in and stole her mother away all those years ago.

She ambled through the paddy, fingers lightly touching the plants as she moved. The grains were full, and she idly plucked a kernel and popped it in her mouth. She made her way to the center of the field, stalks dancing all around her, bending and twirling with the wind. Far in the distance, just beyond the Blue Mountain, she could see smoke rising from the Dead City. You must never go there, Kee-yu. Never. The monsters live there and they will gobble you up if you wander too close.

A gentle kick pushed against her swollen belly. "You like the rice?" Kee-yu asked, gently rubbing her hand against the child's hidden body. The baby pushed back against her hand, and Kee-yu smiled.

-----

This piece is similarly inspired by my flash fic piece titled "Waiting for the Rain." Where that piece dealt Realistically with differing POVs as they waited for it to rain, this story offers three different POVs in a fantasy setting revolving around a series of futuristic events and an obvious leitmotif. Also, I presented this piece in 1st person, 2nd, and 3rd-limited, so as to stretch myself.

Dug Down Deep, a Review

2011-12-06T16:33:00.001-06:00

This isn't a book on systematic theology proper. It's more like a mixtape of biblical truth that I've found personally significant. Dug Down Deep is my reveling in theology in my own simple way--not too polished, sometimes awkward, less than scholarly, hopefully gracious and faithful. Even thought these are deep truths, I don't pretend to be swimming in the deep end of the pool. I'm splashing in the shallow end. But if my splashing can inspire you to dive in, I will have succeeded.

In 1997, Joshua Harris broke into the scene with his book on dating, appropriately titled I Kissed Dating Goodbye. I'd heard of it, but never had a desire to read it, nor anything else by this author. As I saw it, he was one of those Christian authors that wrote on one and only one subject matter, and it just happened to be one I was uninterested in. However, back in September I requested a copy of Harris' book on systematic theology called Dug Down Deep, primarily because of the book's style. Harris chose to tackle the subjects through transparent memoirs (as opposed to exhaustive biblical analysis), and I thought his journey sounded interesting.

In some ways, this book could have been written by Donald Miller (author of Blue Like Jazz, Searching for God Knows What, and several other books), as the tone of the author was very reminiscent. Harris begins Dug Down Deep with a thought-provoking question: what are you building your life on? He then goes on to talk about Jesus' parable in Matthew 7, comparing the man who built his house on the sand with the man who built his house on the more solid foundation: rock. Harris argues that building on the rock takes work, it takes some digging, but in the end, after the wind and the rain and the storms, the house remains standing. He explains,

In the past I thought the point was simply that being a Christian is better than not being a Christian. And I suppose on a very rudimentary level, that is what it means. But I never thought about the specifics of what digging down to the rock represents.

This was the impetus for the book. He grew up in the church and found himself lacking any biblical depth. He was familiar with theology, doctrine, orthodoxy, and the like, but at the same time, they meant very little to him. They were just old sounding words that old people used. For the remainder of the Dug Down Deep, Harris opens up with humbling honesty, explaining how he came to understand certain elements of theology. Some of the essays included are about the Father, the Son, the Spirit, the Word, sanctification, justification, the church, orthodoxy, and a few others. And if you're anything like me, some of those words sound boring (i.e., orthodoxy), but Harris points out (reasonably) that they shouldn't, and he explains why.

Knowledge doesn't have to be dry and lifeless. And when you think about it, exactly what is our alternative? Ignorance? Falsehood? We're either building our lives on the reality of what God is truly like and what he's about, or we're basing our lives on our own imagination and misconceptions. We're all theologians. The question is whether what we know about God is true.

When I finished Dug Down Deep, I had several passages highlighted and underlined. The chapter on sanctification is definitely worth the read, as I found it thoroughly fascinating and incredibly awe-inspiring. Another recommended chapter is the last one, where Harris writes on humble orthodoxy, bringing home the point of how crucial it is to remain humble in our lives. This is something I think many of us should read and take to heart, as pride is ever so subtle and we must be on guard. These are just two of the eleven chapters presented in the book, and all are well thought out and stimulating.

Dug Down Deep is a very accessible book. It offers deep thoughts and unfathomable truths about God and His character, but Harris attempts to explain them as clearly as he can. I think the book would be a great tool for new believers, but I think the impact would be even stronger with those who've walked with God for a while, especially the ones that have grown frustrated with their fellow believers or their own faith. Really, the book is relative even to those outside of the fold, those that have questions about life's journey and the roads we travel on. Overall, I really enjoyed Joshua Harris' Dug Down Deep. Maybe it's where I'm at in life, but Dug Down Deep resonated with me. I found it encouraging and refreshing, and I think it's a book that many people could read and get something out of it.

---
FTC Thingy: This book was provided to me free of charge from the publisher in exchange for an honest review. I received no goods other than the ebook, and had I been offered any other goods (like, say, chocolate chip cookies) I would have been tempted to take the bribe. Nevertheless, I wasn't offered, nor did I ask. As such, the opinion expressed in this review is entirely my own and has in no way been affected by my lack of receiving free, home-baked chocolate goodies.

Being Santa

2011-12-05T08:37:00.001-06:00

Saturday we did our Third Annual Nativity Project. (See here for how it started.) This year, we partnered with a local community center--the Neblett Center--that was much bigger than our previous venues. In addition to its increased size, the Neblett Center was also in a prime location, as it's near the heart of the poorer side of town.

Like previous years, our Sunday School class has been collecting gently used clothes and toys throughout the year. A week or two ago we all met up and sorted what we had, which subsequently filled a 10-ft. trailer to the max with some items left that wouldn't fit. Over the next week, our class received several more donations, but we also were given some anonymous monetary donations, too, totaling over $1600. So a second trailer was acquired (a 12-footer now) and again was filled to the brim with stuff left. Everything that couldn't fit was loaded into vehicles, and on last Friday, all of it was brought to the Neblett Center.

The Neblett Center is a after-school type facility for children & babies to go while parents work. It's not as big as an average elementary school, but it's still rather large, and our class was given the gym to setup in. It turned out that there were several kids still there, and they all watched with wonder as we bustled many, many boxes & bags in. Cheers of delight and excitement made the unloading process an absolute blessing.

Soon, all was unloaded, and then we began the daunting task of unpacking and organizing. We spent the next several hours piling items on top of tables and bleachers, and when we left, the gym was transformed. God provided so much for us this year to give that the previous years were as nothing compared to this. If we liquidated all the goods, I'd estimate we gave away well over $5k worth of things. Winter coats. Jeans. Shoes. Toys. Wrapping paper and gift boxes. And clothes and clothes and clothes.

Saturday morning came early, and we arrived at 7:30. A few small things were left to unpack and set out. But my day was going to be different. I wasn't going to get to be in the gym and help parents "shop" for their kids, for their families, and for themselves. (Note: A staggering number of people selflessly shopped for others, especially young siblings. They wanted to get gifts for their brother or sister, sometimes several, and not a thing for themselves. Amazing. Humbling.) I wasn't going to help go through the piles of clothes and look for certain sizes. No, my day was different. I was going to be Santa Claus.

Santa and Avonlea

We had a room off to the side for the kids to play and color in while their parents shopped. In the same room we set up a photo shoot for kids to get pictures with Santa. I donned the suit, took a seat, and experienced the wonderful joy (and occasional sadness) of being the Fat Man. Almost every child that entered got this glow on their face when they saw me. Some where bashful. Some were in awe. A few were terrified. One little girl ran up to me and jumped in my lap and put her arms around me and squeezed, saying "I'm so very happy to see you Santa Claus!" I think my heart grew enormous there. She kept sneaking peeks at me throughout the day, always smiling and blushing. For some, the magic of Christmas still exists. One boy, when asked what he wanted for Christmas, responded with "a belt." That was it. No toys or electronics or race cars. No, he only wanted a belt. Still, through everything, these kids got to see Santa and get a free picture taken with him. Hopefully they'll cherish that; I know I will.

By eleven o'clock, a lot of the stuff was gone. I had successfully sweated my last three hours away and Santa had left the building. By noon, the doors were closed and still a lot remained. We talked with the Neblett Center director and he said they'd like to keep all the stuff and bring it out again in a couple of days/weeks. He knew several people that couldn't make it on Saturday, plus he'd go door-to-door in the neighborhood and invite folks. He had a general idea of who the needy were. We eagerly agreed.

Now it's over. The event is exhausting and draining, but it's something so to behold. We started this ministry three years ago just trying to make a difference in people's lives. We wanted to show love to those in need and possibly provide Christmas to families that wouldn't have had one otherwise. God has blessed our class and this mission tremendously in these three years, and I suspect we've grown more from it than any of the receivers of gifts. We've already started planning next years, brainstorming on what worked and what didn't. We're thinking of ways to raise funds to get even more. God is a mighty God, and He delights in showing His love.

Slipstream of Consciousness

2011-12-01T14:00:00.001-06:00

I am a child of Icarus, aflame and agog, dancing through streets alive with Marker Men. They see me and point their skeletal fingers at me, bringing with their stares all the lights of heaven. Rudy jumps up from behind me, bayonet in hand, and gives me a sad little smile. His eyes change right before me, once as brown as an acorn in the hands of a dead squirrel in the mud, and now... nothing. There's no color but black, no reflection of light, only vacancy.

The Marker Men begin to swarm in on us and to my horror I see that Rudy is no longer Rudy but now one of them. He's chanting in their crazy language of only neologisms, never using the same phraseology more than once. Some call it newerspeak. I call it insane.

But there's a tree sprouting up, reaching through the concrete, up through the first floor, through the ceiling, through the floor above, ending below my chair. Thousands of tiny, winking LEDs blink in a somewhat familiar pattern. Their combined illumination pulls me away, into the music of Van Morrison as he pulls me into the mystic. "Beloved," says Toni Morrison, speaking in italics, bending my mind with her words. "You will never win a Pulitzer." And her teeth chomp down on me, breaking through my bones as sure as Stonehenge falling on me.

There's nothing, only the hum of the earth's natural harmonics, the rattle of one-hundred-thirty-thousand air conditioners, the chattering of a freezing child's baby teeth, the sploosh of blood coursing through seven-billion humans--all alive, somehow, but whether living or not is undecided--the sound of actually speaking the word onomatopoeia, wondering if it, too, grasps at straws or if it's just content at its almighty existence.

For it's onomatopoeia that reigns supreme when it comes to words. For all words, whether English, French, German, Italian, Spanish, Chinese (Mandarin), Tagalog, Polish, Korean, Chinese (Cantonese), Vietnamese, Portuguese, Japanese, Greek, Arabic, Hindi (Urdu), Russian, Yiddish, Thai (Laotian), Persian, French Creole, Armenian, Navaho, Hungarian, Hebrew, Dutch, Mon-khmer (Cambodian), Gujarathi, Ukrainian, Czech, Pennsylvania Dutch, Miao (Mmong), Norwegian, Slovak, Swedish, Serbocroatian, Kru, Rumanian, Lithuanian, Finnish, Panjabi, Formosan ,Croatian, Turkish, Ilocano, Bengali, Danish, Syriac, Samoan, Malayalam, Cajun, Amharic, or any of the other hundreds and hundreds of languages, they're all really just onomatopoeia. Right?

Tonight there is a party where we turn into sheets of paper and allow ourselves to experience the exhilarating life of flimsi. Some of us will be crumpled into tiny balls and thrown across the room. Some of us will be carefully folded and bent and made into glorious works of art. Some of us will be poked and stabbed with ink pens and markers. Some of us will be torn to shreds. Party party party! I hope there's Doritos there, but probably not.

Kittens mewl. Cats meow. Puppies yelp. Dogs growl. I may have a book review next week. I think my brain fizzled out. I need some sort of focus for weeks when I have nothing. I've never really been a fan of memes and the like. Maybe I'll just copy verbatim Dave's latest post and put it up here. I'm usually of the opinion that if I don't have anything of value to say/write, then why even post it at all? But then Cornelius Anton Scruzz (he insists that I only use his first name, but I insist otherwise. It's no trouble, Corn!), bless his soul, reminds me of one of Rememorandom's goals: journaling. [Aside: Cornelius Anton Scruzz has returned! Oh happy day. But, alas, Claudio Montezuma has been amiss for many days now. If you happen upon him, please send him my way.] So on I go, sitting, waiting, wishing. Are my eyes the color of Rudy's?

Was that? I think it was. By Jove, the Great Somnambulist and that time-traveling rogue Millard Filmore just flashed through my room. I've got to go find them. Some coffee, some tea, some Dew, and I'm set for the weekend. Hope yours is as adventurous as mine's bound to be.

Tiny Update

2011-11-29T11:24:00.001-06:00

November ends today. I've been so incredibly busy that I don't even know where to begin.

1. I received another rejection letter for a short story. They no longer sting as bad.
2. I baked two derby pies, following this recipe. First time I've ever made them, and they turned out great.
2b. Bourbon may possibly replace rum whenever I find a reason to imbibe.
3. Work work work work work.
4. Christmas tree is up and decorated. No outside lights yet. May not be this year.
5. The 4hr drive to Lambert's Cafe wasn't worth 4 hours. Maybe 2, possibly 3 even, but not 4. Not whenever you have a baby that doesn't like car rides. The food, on the other hand, was delicious.
6. My good friend Adam let me borrow the entire run of a Daredevil comic series, Volume 2, spanning over 130 issues between 1998 and 2009. I only know the barest minimum about the Man without Fear, but he assures me that they're brilliant comics (though he said the ending was terrible).
7. Skyrim progresses slowly but surely. What a massive tale...
7b. Not sure if I'm alone here or if this is normal, but a dragon totally landed inside the College of Winterhold, right in the quad, and the fight was pretty cool. I also had a dragon fight with some mammoths nearby, and apparently the mammoths were peeved at the dragon, cause they took over and slew the dragon.
8. Our annual class service project comes up this weekend. Much to do.

I've much to say, and yet I'm blank. Too scatterbrained at the moment. All the best!

The Voice NT, a Review

2011-11-17T13:08:00.001-06:00

I'm not sure if you've noticed, but oftentimes, the bible can come across as stuffy. Especially if you're reading an older translation. Conversely, there are many translations that are paraphrases, and while these are beneficial at times, they are also problematic, too. The Voice is unique in that it's a translation, not a paraphrase, and yet it reads similarly to a paraphrase. Or, as the publishers would put it:

While care has been taken to accurately translate the individual words from the original texts, careful attention to how the idioms of the original languages are understood in English has also been taken. But it doesn't stop there; The Voice considers the narrative links that help us to understand the drama and passion of story that is present in the original languages. The tone of the writing, the format of the page, and the directness of the dialog allows the tradition of passing down the biblical narrative to come through in The Voice.

I took a liking to The Voice when I was reading Chris Seay's Gospel According to Jesus. In that book, all of the quoted Scripture came from The Voice. I'd never heard of the translation before, but I loved the way it sounded. Now, as it turns out, Chris Seay is among the many contributors to the translation. In short, the allure of The Voice is that it's a translation made from a diverse group of translators, as opposed to wizened scholars who spend all their time in academia. In addition to scholars, translators include poets, musicians, story tellers, and other forms of art. These individuals all seek to maintain the original feeling of the Word, and in my opinion, The Voice reflects this passion.

One interesting formatting choice particularly caught my eye with The Voice. Whenever anyone speaks, the columns break like a script. We're given something like "Peter: ......" This works very well when you have a group people going around, back and forth. Typically, from my experience, most translations don't necessarily follow the "One Speaker Per Paragraph" rule.

Another interesting gem with this bible is that there are numerous study notes interspersed throughout the text. Some may be personal challenges, applications for life, or maybe just a clarification about something cultural that we may no understand. Whatever the case, these supplemental notes make The Voice even more practical for reading.

Similarly, there are also many supplemental words added to the main text as well. These words are indicated with italics and are added to help the Reader understand the events even better. On one hand, most of these italics could be treated as parentheticals and skipping them would not generally affect understanding. On the other hand, these italics are an integral part of what gives The Voice its identity. Some traditionalists/purists may scoff at these additions, claiming that the translators are adding to the Word. I don't think this is the case, but the possibility does exist.

Another thing I really liked was the word choice translators used for certain words. One example is logos. Typically, we read John 1 as "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God." While those behind The Voice appreciate this, they also feel like translating logos into Word doesn't quite grasp the full mmmph behind it. Many in our culture are desensitized, and something was chosen more active than Word. So we've got Voice. Christos is another great example, especially when you consider that so many people think Jesus' last name was Christ.

Currently, only the New Testament is available in this translation. It's a cheap paperback you can pick up at your local bookstore if you're interested, or you could also order online. Furthermore, if you're interested in sampling The Voice (and I think you should at least sample it), you can download a free chapter from the website (here). The entire bible will be available next Spring, and hopefully I'll be able to get my hands on a review copy. In the end, The Voice has not supplanted my beloved ESV, but it's definitely taken a spot within easy reach. It was designed to be read aloud, and this is obvious and useful for when Keisha and I do any reading.

FTC Thingy: This book was provided for free by Thomas Nelson Publishers via Booksneeze in exchange for my honest-to-goodness review. No moneys were traded. No stocks. No socks. No rocks. No gym memberships. And despite my constant pleas for accompanying cookies--oatmeal with raisins sounds good right about now--I've yet to receive any. One of these days...

A Photo-Story of Travel

2011-11-16T09:29:00.001-06:00

See Daddy, Mommy, and Baby.

They dress funny on Halloween.

There's Mommy and Baby who always seem to match...

And then there's sweet Daddy who makes your eyes need a scratch.

Baby is so happy; Baby is so swell...

Just look at her hair, growing so well!

The Family traveled to the Orchard of Great Apples.

And the Family tripped to the Pumpkin Patch in the Fall.

The Family watched Clint play football with tackles!

Daddy took Mommy to the Place of Engagement--a bench in a mall.

Travel makes Baby sleepy.

Listy Things

2011-11-16T08:25:00.001-06:00

1. Oh Shenandoah! I am your daughter. Prior to that, the prior pontificated the perfect diatribe against mean Mr. Mustard.

2. Having recently experienced funerals, this story about a funeral mishap had me rolling. Quite funny, quite short, and well worth the read.

3. Vacation creeps in on little cat's feet in just three more days. Not many plans but Skyrim, family, and a day-trip out to Missouri to eat at Lambert's. We've ne'er been there, but hear wonderful things.

4. Radiohead has a song called "Creep." According to my latest tweet, I "snagged some #Radiohead tix for the St. Louis show on 3/9/12. Color me ecstatic." I can't express how excited I am, as a Radiohead concert is one of my "dream concerts."

5. The previous point contained three sets of quote marks / double apostrophes.

6. An apostrophe is also a figure of speech that's best explained by referring to Point 1 (particularly the first six words) on this list.

7. I'm entertaining the idea of next year reading only books on my TBR and/or books I own and/or can get from the library. The only exception would be something drastic. I shall think on this more, and if I decide to do so, I should add some more books to my TBR 'ere December's end.

8. Christmas tree and decorations are going up ever-so-soon. I can't wait to see Avonlea's eyes soaking it all in.

9. I think I've mentioned it before, but not certain, but just to be clear, I completely deleted my Facebook account a few weeks/months ago. Tired of it and the mostly useless newsfeed, I now use G+ and, on the rare occasion, Twitter.

10. Realized last night that we've taken well over a thousand pictures of Avonlea since her birth. Wow.

11. Why does looking at pictures of food make you hungry? Wouldn't it be great that if looking at the bible we had the same feeling? I love reading the bible and thinking about its truths and having my mind exploded by God. More and more I realize how little we are, how tiny, how insignificant, and yet God still loves us and gives us significance. God, you are amazingly, indescribably, unfathomable, and I am so glad you are.

12. See what I did there? That's another example (cf. Points 6, 1).

13. I'm simultaneously reading a lot of different books at the moment. I am a multiple-book-reader-a-time, but this may be my record.

First Impressions: Skyrim

2011-11-14T09:06:00.001-06:00

[Warning: This could possibly be the nerdiest post I've ever written.]
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Oh, but how beautiful it is! The ragged peaks, the deep valleys, the shimmering falls. Everywhere you look in Skyrim you see the beauty of nature. But wait, is that a dragon? Oh lordy lordy.

So I wasn't planning on buying the fifth installment in the Elder Scrolls series, Skyrim, which released last Friday. Instead, and smartly, I went to the Redbox and actually rented the game. Whet my appetite, enjoy a weekend with my little brother-in-law immersed in a new game. Little did I know that the masters from Bethesda Studios were so devious.

My history with RPGs goes back to when I was a wee lad first discovering FFVII, which led to an unhealthy habit of staying up very late and saving/destroying imaginary worlds. This habit thrived throughout adolescence and the teenage years, and I spent a lot of time with them. Then came college and adulthood, where I (mostly) learned to relegate my time and act responsibly. Sure, I might have blown off a class or four whenever KotoR II came out, and Fable held me spellbound for way too many hours, but by and large, I was getting out of my RPG phase. My tastes were changing to something more active, less expansive, less turn-based.

The shift in preferences came with Fallout 3, a game my best friend purchased. I loved the open-world, non-linear style it offered, and behold, a new obsession was found. But it could last only so long, and soon college days ended and we moved several hundred miles apart. And a year or two passed without me playing much of antying. I bought FFXII, but only spent an hour or so with it. And all was well. Then along came a game called Oblivion, from the same company that made Fallout, and again my preferences were tingled.

I put a lot of hours into Oblivion. It was humongous, but it had its flaws. Fastforward to Fallout: New Vegas, which was/is definitely fun and immersive, but not as much as its predecessor. Fastforward another year, 11/11/11, and Skyrim is released. I'd read the buzz. Followed the videos. It looked great, but I didn't have the ummph to spend $60 on a new game, plus the time I knew I'd spend in it. So I rented it and kept it for two days. And in those days, escapism reigned, heroics flared, and Keisha tells me that I was smiling like a little kid.

I made myself a Wood Elf, complete with pointed ears, a thin nose, a dirty face, deep eye shadows, one dead eye, and oily, black hair. Named him Clögan Darkhair (original, I know, but Clint+Logan can only yield so much). I've a fondness for Sneak, Stealth, Theft, and the general skullduggery of a petty criminal when it comes to these games, yet I don't (rarely) kill innocent civilians. Still, the dark look suited us, and we were off.

The opening scene was wonderful, and I loved how you get the vantage point from the headblock after watching a fellow criminal get beheaded. I've been mesmerized by the enormous size of the world, made even more so by the 3d elements of mountains and caves. It's definitely the biggest game I've played, and likely the most beautiful video game world ever created. I've already done several side quests and feel like I've not even put a toe in the water yet. The game is much less glitchier than New Vegas (one of its major weaknesses), and so far I've only had one instance of freezing. The giants are intimidating, and I've foolishly fought and died many times over because of them. (Anyone (Dave, I'm guessing, is the only one down here) actually killed one yet?) Trolls are somewhat of a challenge, too, but I've got a slash-block-flee combo down that proves mostly effective.

In short, Skyrim seems to take Oblivion and put it to shame, and pretty much treats almost every other game similarly. I've never been more impressed by a game in all my years, and that's saying something.

I took Skyrim back to the Redbox yesterday. While at Walmart, I purchased a copy of the game for myself. I'm on vacation next week, so I'm hoping to get some time there, but Real World still takes priority. I have a lovely and wonderful wife that supported my decision in buying the game (Thanks!), and a beautiful daughter that still gets all my love. Still, Skyrim won't save itself.

Anyone else get this game yet?

Aftermath

2011-11-10T12:06:00.001-06:00

Monday brought with it heat and sun, despite it being November. Inside the funeral home it was simultaneously cold and hot. Family arrived an hour early. The parlor was opened and we were led inside. The body was in a casket at the front, clothed in simple, every day clothes. A thermal John Deere shirt. Jeans. A bandanna around the head. He looked good, and it was the first time I'd seen him since February.

The feeling of nothingness pressed on. I stood at the coffin and stared absently. Throughout the evening, many friends and family members showed up to offer condolences. For once, I was the recipient of awkward conversation and empty words. My life was instantly in dichotomy. One part of me was engaging in normal conversation with familiar people; the other part of me was slightly aggravated/annoyed. Still, I'm thankful for all the people that showed up.

A funeral is rarely pleasant, and this one was about as pleasant as a dentist's trip, just worse. I feel for ministers. Having to stand in front of a grieving family and others and make a eulogy has got to be hard, especially for people who die without knowing the Lord. For I believe with all of my heart that if someone does not have Jesus as their Savior then they are doomed to eternal hell. I have no idea the condition of my dad's heart before he died, nor can I begin to fathom how longsuffering God is. I do know that he was saved at a young age, but he lived a life of drugs and rebellion. What does that mean? I have no idea. The only comfort here is that I know that I am saved through Jesus' sacrifice and that I won't have to spend eternity apart from Him.

A dead body is cold. It's something any lover of fiction knows. I've been to many, many funerals, but never once have I touched a corpse (at least not to my knowledge). I hadn't planned on touching this one, either, and I resisted the urge until the final time I saw him. We all stood around the coffin, people crying and sobbing. My typical stoic demeanor dissolved at some point. Compelled beyond reason, I patted his crossed hands. Bone beneath loose skin. Dead muscle. And cold. Unnatural.

We all exited and waited in our vehicles until the coffin was loaded into the hearse. The cemetery was a few miles away. It was sunny and windy. A few final words were spoken and that was that. People scattered, and a few of us went back to Nana's house to eat and be together. While there, I leafed through a dozen photo albums and pulled out baby/kid pictures of me and Jake. I have seen very few pictures of our childhood, as most of them burned up when our house burned down, so this find was wonderful.

Now it's Thursday. I'm back to work again. It's good to be back to routine, but I'm exhausted. It's been a taxing few days, and I suspect I'll be tired for a few more before I balance out. I've got in a little reading time of late, but nothing substantial. I've also edited a flash fic piece and submitted it to an online 'zine. And I discovered a 4 volume, 8 cd set of great music at the library called the Anthology of American Folk Music, compiled by acclaimed folklorist Harry Smith.

I'm amazed at everyone's support. For the most part, I don't know any of you. Still, it's indescribable how loving and supportive the blogosphere is, and I thank every single one of you for the kind words/thoughts/prayers sent my way. Seriously.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

My Dad is Dead

2011-11-06T22:10:00.000-06:00

My Dad is dead. His body is laying in the basement of the local funeral home, going through the process of embalming and preparation for burial. Tomorrow, an 8'x3' hole will be dug in a tiny cemetery atop a tiny hill to bury a 6'-5" man. Well, he won't be buried until Tuesday, but I'm guessing the hole will be dug early. That was my responsibility. Going to the cemetery with the graveyard keeper, marking the plot, staking the ground.

I'm not sure how I feel. My relationship with my dad was pretty much nonexistent, and has been this way for the last few years. In the greater scope, it's been this way for most of my life. He and my mom divorced when I was but a babe. So I grew up without my "real dad" an active part in my life. We--my brother (Jake) and I--would go over nana's and see that side of my family every few weeks, but most of those memories are vague and blurry at best. I distinctly remember being disappointed in his usual absence whenever we were out nana's, but I also distinctly remember his usual presence whenever we were out there, too. He would go around singing or humming, hilarious, fun. Making sweet tea. Playing chess. Reading comics. These things, these positives, I have clearly inherited from him. I sing/hum almost constantly. I'm told that I'm a rather funny person. I (used to) make sweet tea (until my taste buds switched to preferring non-sweet).

But by and by, for most of my life, I've thought of my dad as a man who squandered what he had for drugs and alcohol. That was why mom and him divorced. I can remember him being buzzed, eyes glazed over, lethargic. He sometimes looked skeletal. These aren't things I like thinking about, nor do I necessarily like revealing them to the Internets, but they're truths that are responsible for me being the man I am today. From early on I resolved to be a better man than my dad, and now that I have a baby of my own, this ideal has been practiced for five-months strong.

I always intended to see him more. More than just Christmas and Thanksgiving and the occasional summer time, but I never got around to it. I could have called or visited, but I suppose that door swings both ways. Still, it is what it is. I was trying to think of the last time I saw him, which I guess was back in February, when we got together for Christmas at nana's. I don't remember anything special sticking out. Avonlea wasn't born yet. And that's another thing that's sad. He never met Avonlea. Ciara (my sister) showed him pictures of her on Facebook, and he loved looking at them, but in flesh & blood, the two never met.

It was odd, going out there. I got the call last night about 10pm. Nana was somewhere a few hours away, on her way home, asking me if I would go out to his house and wait with Ciara until she got in. I changed clothes and hurried down there, making the forty-minute trip in less than forty-minutes. There were two cops there when I pulled up, a white van belonging to the funeral home, a neighbor across the street, and my sister and two twin uncles. I hurried over and got in talking up the last few details with the funeral director. (Did we want him smooth-shaved? What time did we prefer to meet and go over the arrangements?) And we stood around in a huddle in the cold wind, dark night, confused, silent. Ciara said the cops wouldn't let her touch him.

Soon, the two funeral directors brought out the body. It was on a stretcher, covered with a brown, squared, simple quilt. I never saw his face, and I still haven't. I watched them roll him to the van and put him in. The cops came up and told us to lock up the place. Everyone left and we went in.

It was the first time I'd ever been there. A simple, old, dirty single-wide trailer. Aluminum foil in the windows for insulation. A weathered-but-comfortable couch. It was definitely the home of a bachelor. Pill bottles lay around, mostly empty. I gathered that more than a few people had been trying to get him to quit. I soaked it in, still feeling blank inside, headache pounding away. What am I supposed to think? How am I supposed to be feeling? There is no norm. Every situation is unique here.

Now, after a day of dealing with cemeteries, morticians, and family, everything is slowly settling in. Even so, I'm still confused, still uncertain. That's why this post exists. Writing, and blogging by extension, is the simplest way for me to put my thoughts to focus. It's personal, yes, but I'm an honest individual that believes transparency is healthy and good. And when you've stood in a room full of coffins, filled from wall to wall, all different but all similar, your thoughts are bound to be scrambled. It's late. I'm tired. There's still lots to do. Lots I don't know about. I do know that my dad loved me, and I think he knew that I loved him. I know that it hurts knowing that I didn't put forth more of an effort, and that's something I have to live with. I'm still working on me and this, and I'm sure I will be doing so for a while. Everybody has daddy issues, and they're influential in personal development. It's pure coincidence that I started a book last week on becoming a better father/husband and that my mind has been thinking about my dad more than normal these last few days. I was excited that Thanksgiving was coming up because he was finally going to get to see his only granddaughter. Not anymore.

I loved my dad, even though I was an absent son, even though he was an absent father. And now the potential for change and for a relationship is gone.

Flash Fiction Friday: Frost - A Myth

2011-11-04T11:53:00.000-05:00

(This one doesn't quite fit the Flash Fic definition, but it's close enough. Enjoy.)
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“It’s called hoarfrost,” Gwyneth said, scraping at the flakes between her lithe fingers. Fragile as cobweb, the clumped glob turned into powder at her touch, flitting through the garden air into oblivion.

“Whore’s frost? Is their ma’am a nightlady or summin?”

Gwyneth rolled her eyes. “Hoar. H-O-A-R. It means old, grey, white. The oldfolk thought the stuff looked like an old hag’s hair.”

Beatrice scratched at her moustachio, trying to look like she was in deep thought. If Gwyneth knew her twin--and she most certainly did--then she knew the girl wasn’t burning any brain cells. She was very likely thinking on roast pig and jammed tarts and spiced beers and boiled potatoes and most definitely not etymology. But like a good sister, Gwyneth suspended her disbelief for the sake of love. Just like she did about the girl’s unfortunate lip hair.

“Ah,” said Beatrice, smiling wide. “Cause she’s got the dandyruff. Makes sense.”

“Yes, sweet one, it’s the dandruff.” A wicked thought began pounding in her head, and before she knew it, Gwyneth was spilling lies. “Frost hasn’t always been white, Beat. You know that? No? Used to, back in 1603, I believe, frost was a brilliant gold color. Every morning men and women would wake up to a light dusting of gold, just lovely in the sunrise, and it was warm to the touch. But one day, Sir Edward Florent of Flora and his squire Peeping Joe from Boston went out and changed everything.”

“You’re lying.”

“Am not. GOD’S HONEST TRUTH IN ALL CAPS AM NOT. If I’m lying then He can just backspace and erase me out of existence and right off this page.”

Beatrice wrinkled her brow so heavily that Gwyneth thought the poor girl was turning into an ogre. Her eyes crossed and Gwyneth had to fight every urge in her body to resist slapping her simple sister. Not everyone understands meta, Father had said one night after a rousing game of lawn croquet. They were in the den, sipping on cognac and eggnog, enjoying stimulating conversation and dabbling in the meanings of it all. Beatrice had tried to keep up, but as always, her sister was ever so slow and Gwyneth had soon lost her patience. It was then that Father requested her out in the vestibule for a private conversation.

“Go on, then,” Beatrice said, enchanted. They sat on their favorite bench, its wrought-iron sides twisting and spiraling in no discernible pattern. It was one of the few things that they shared an interest in. Gwyneth fingered the tiny gargoyles perched on the armrests, collecting her thoughts.

“Okay, but only because you’re my sister. So, Sir Edward and Peeping Joe set out on a grand quest to find a mystical fount, the Font of Cheese or somesuch name, not really sure. Anyway, this fount was supposed to give all who drank from it a boon of unimaginable proportions. Many had quested for the Font, but none had ever found it.

“They traveled long months, over hill and under water, through cave and desert, until finally they happened upon an oracle. This oracle pointed them in the direction of the Font but sternly warned them not to ask for a boon, but only drink from its waters. They promised, but their fingers were crossed, so it didn’t really count, but the oracle didn’t know this, so she let them go. Then, two hours later, they found it. The Font of Cheese.

“It was massive. A hundred times larger than Fathers fondue, sweet, golden water flowed everywhere. And there at its mouth stood the hag. Bent with age, fattened from cheese, and uglier than the toadfaced boy, the hag scowled a one-toothed grin at the riders. ‘What brings ye here,’ she asked.

“‘We’ve come for the Font,’ said Sir Edward. The hag nodded. Why else would they’ve come? She knew what they were after, but for traditions sake, she had to make sure they were telling the truth. Honesty and all that.

“‘Aye, and you’ve found it, but stay the night first and in the morn I shall take thee to it.’ So they agreed, both being wearied from the road. And that night the hag--”

“Aha!” Beatrice interrupted. “So she is a nightlady then!”

Gwyneth gave her twin a thump on the thigh. “I’ve already told you no. No, she’s a hag, and an ugly one at that. She was a lady of ill repute, so to speak, just not like that.”

Beatrice winked at some imaginary joke. “Okay, Gwyn. Okay.”

Gwyneth sighed. “Don’t call me that. My name’s Gwyneth, not Gwyn. Do you want me to finish this story or not? I can just stop there if you’d rather.”

“No, no, go on. Sorry.”

“Good.” Gwyneth coughed. “Anyway, that night, while the two men slept, the hag wove a spell over them, and when they awoke their vision was changed. Instead of seeing the old woman, a beautiful and nubile maiden stood before them. ‘Erm, who’re you?’ asked Peeping Joe, stretching out the ache from his joints.”

“‘I’m Ilia, sir, guardian of the Font of Cheese.’

“‘What about the other woman?’ inquired Sir Edward, donning his cloak.

“‘Other woman, sir? There’s just me.’

“The two knights looked at one another and then exploded in laughter. ‘Aye, sure,’ said Peeping Joe. ‘Now you’re a wagonload better than that old ugly hag that met us here last night, I say. Wonder where she got off to?’

“The maiden shrugged. ‘Would you care for some breakfast?’ The two men were in a hurry to get to the fount, and Sir Edward thanked her kindly, but refused.

“‘Our breakfast will be from the flow of the Font, if you don’t mind.’ said Sir Edward.

“And so Ilia led the two men up a winding trail and to the outflow. All the while, Peeping Joe continued to ridicule the hag from the previous night, claiming he’d suffered a night terror on her account. To his credit, Sir Edward remained silent. At the banks, Ilia moved off to the side and rummaged around through an Amish cedar chest that just so happened to be there. Finally, she withdrew two ceramic mugs. On one, the mighty house seal of Flora was emblazoned, a one legged chicken atop the shoulders of an angry werebear; on the other, as proud as its partner, was a single birthday candle painted in pinks and baby blues. Silently, Ilia gave each their respected cup and motioned for them to dip and drink their fill.

“The two men knelt and dipped. The golden water filled the mugs, and each man quaffed the liquid. All at once, the veil lifted from Sir Edward’s eyes and he saw the hag for who she really was. Peeping Joe, though, remained under her spell, for his rudeness in the morning had irked the witch. ‘And now you each have a boon,’ said the hag.

“‘Mine’s simple, m’lady,’ said Peeping Joe. ‘I’d ask to remain here with you for all eternity. Your radiance is as glorious as the sun, if I may be so bold, and I’d be content just to remain here and to hold.’

“Sir Edward glared at his squire, troubled by the man’s sudden rhapsody of poetry. Poetry was nothing to trifle with, Sir Edward thought, though he did not correct his squire. Ilia nodded, smiling that horrible one-toothed grin. ‘And you?’ she asked, turning to Sir Edward.

“‘I’ll have your head, witch!’ And in a flash his sword was in his hand, steel glinting like fire in the golden light of the water. Peeping Joe bellowed a Noooo! The ceramic cups shattered on the cobbles. Ilia cocked her head and snickered. Sir Edward flew through the air, slashing wide, tearing through the hag’s aged neck. Off rolled her head, grin still on the face.

“Peeping Joe stopped, suddenly confused, for the witches spell ended as her lifeblood spilled out. Water bubbled and churned, and in the quiet morning a faint whisper fell from the bodiless head.”

Gwyneth stopped. She could almost hear Beatrice’s heart pounding. She licked her lips, suddenly regretting her lack of foresight. In the wintry air, her lips would be chapped for certain. After a respectable moment, Gwyneth continued.

“‘Accursed. A cursssse. A cursssssseee.’ And then she died. Immediately, the Font of Cheese lost its radiance, and the head again transformed, only now to that of an even more beautiful maiden than before. Filled with remorse, Sir Edward turned to his heartbroken squire.

“‘You must go and tell the world this tale, Peeping Joe. The consequences of my actions will be most severe.’”

“‘And what about you?’ asked the squire.”

“Sir Edward held out his soiled longsword, staring at the black blood on the blade. ‘Me? I shall bear my burden until I die. The Font is mine, and I must guard it. Now go.’

“And so squire Peeping Joe of Boston fled from the Font. The waters were white and silver now, their gold color long gone. He rode all day and night, stopping only when he couldn’t keep his eyes open any longer. And when he awoke the next morning, the frost was white.”

The two girls sat in silence for a second. Gwyneth smiled at her fancy. Beatrice was frowning, rubbing at her moustachio again. “Who was the nightlady?”

“Ah, see, Beat, now hers is a tragedy. She was once the fairest maiden in all the world, but a small-minded and heavy-handed stepfather put a curse on her, changing her from ideal to hideous. She ran away from home and lived alone all her years. Eventually she learned she, too, could do magicks, but by then she’d forgotten what her true face looked like.”

The Ten O’Clock Gong reverberated above, deep and sonorous. Beatrice shot up like she’d been struck by lightning. “Brunch, sister! I wonder if we’ll have poached eggs and marmalade pecans?”

“I don’t--” but Beatrice was already zooming down the hedgerow, moving as fast as her pudgy legs would carry her. Gwyneth yawned, rolled her eyes, and took off in pursuit.

-----

An attempt at humor, plus a fun myth for your weekend.

there's a monster in my belly, a poem

2011-11-01T07:48:00.002-05:00

there's a monster in my belly,

it's colored black and brown.

and every time i'm up about

i think it goes to town.

its claws are sharp and hairy,

they scratch around inside.

poke! screech. twang! snip.

they shear away my pride.

its eyes are always open,

like mine, they're green and blue.

they soak up their surroundings,

and take especial note of you.

its teeth are razor blades and thorns,

made for chomping right through stone.

i've been bitten a time or twelve,

though it's never hit a bone.

from time to time it travels,

but never far it goes,

just up the spine to my brain

or slithers way down to my toes.

i wish, i wish, i wish times three,

that this monster'd leave and let me be,

that it'd sneak off to a closet or under a bed,

and let me sleep and rest my head.

-------

My stomach hurts. Chronically. Keisha fell and hurt her neck a few days ago; she's been hardly able to turn her head. She chiropractered it up yesterday, and is going back again today. Hopefully she gets well soon.

Halloween was a success. Avonlea was most beautiful, I must say. She went as an artist. She even painted her own pieces, though she was no fan of dipping her hands or feet in the paints. Still, Mommy & Daddy insisted. We then framed each of the pieces on some colored poster boards. Then we took a black drape and taped up all the artwork. We created a sign that said "Museum de Avonlea." Keisha dressed up as a museum curator. I dressed up as an avant-garde art critic. I splatter painted a onesie and Avonlea wore it, black pants, a beret, and a penciled moustache. She was quite adorable, though she was not a fan of the 'stache being drawn on. All in all, Halloween was a success.

Happy Movember to all participants, as well as NoShave participants. And super happy NaNoWriMo to those brave souls. Perhaps next year I'll jump aboard again. We'll see.

Dream Lover, a Review

2011-10-28T10:17:00.000-05:00

One of the best things about blogging is the community. From my experience, most of the bloggers I've "met" are all friendly, professional, and bloody brilliant. It seems that everyone is erudite and capable. It's fun vicariously exploring different talents through the blogs of others, whether it's as a stay-at-home mom or an emigrant living in a haunted house somewhere in Scotland. You get all kinds of differences, and that's half of the beauty of the blogosphere.

In particular, I've mentioned fellow blogger Mattson Tomlin a time or two here on Rememorandom. The lad (I can say that, as he's four years my junior) attends SUNY Purchase for Film (according to his IMDB page), where he's finishing up his junior or senior year, I can't recall which. Anyway, I've been following Mattson for a few years now, and watching his films and ideas develop on his blog has been a real treat. His posts often seem like "behind the scene" special features on DVDs, and when you watch this stuff prior to watching a film, it gives one a completely different feeling.

Mattson used a Kickstarter project to fund the short film called Dream Lover. I kicked a buck, willing to support someone else's dreams, and then followed the many status updates Mattson posted intermittently. Then, to my surprise, I received an email yesterday telling me that Dream Lover was up and available to watch. So last night I lounged on the chaise, turned off the lights, put in earphones, and let the movie take me away.

To attempt to describe what Dream Lover is would be, in essence, like asking you to describe your dreams. While that may sound simple enough, then throw in the challenge of not only describing, but also conveying your thoughts and feelings during your dreams. Explain the why, the how. Heck, sometimes even the who and where is beyond words. This is a glimpse of Tomlin's 16-minute short, and I feel like the director/writer has done well in capturing a dream. It's ethereal. It's bizarre. It's ever-changing. There's horror, sex, death, and many other commonalities of Dream. Scenes are quick and fluid, and transitioning between them is handled with grace and feels natural.

All of that still does not describe what the film is about. And here's the dilemma. Like with anything worth value, there will be different interpretations, and Tomlin's Dream Lover is no different. People are definitely going to react differently, to get different things out of it. One may feel pity for Anderson, the lead actor (and played by the dapper Adam Griffith) who has either moved on in a relationship or not, while someone else may find him skeevy and calloused. Then there's the spurned-and-devilish Selene (played by Maria Rowene), the other main POV. Her development is as beautiful as it is frightening. And the third main player is Hera (Jenna D'Angelo), though she's more of a secondary character. Throw in the actual Greek myth of Selene and Endymion, and the film can take on a whole different meaning.

The sound effects of Dream Lover are perfect. They've definitely been loved on and tailored to each scene. The camera shots are all very-well done (I particularly liked the wide-angle shot of Young Anderson hiding under the bench), and even the sex scene was done with skill. The accompanying score at the end provided a haunting tune to close out the credits*, wrapping up a stirring little movie.

So the real question is what's to do now? I could talk about my thoughts, my feelings, but I also don't want to cross into spoilery. So instead I'll strongly recommend that you go to the Dream Lover site (here) and watch the film. It's 16-minutes long, nothing too taxing. It's free, too. (If it asks for a password, use "sweetdreams." And don't worry. Mattson wants as many people to watch it as possible; it's password-protected because of film festivals or something.) Furthermore, if you like it, be sure and let Mattson know, as well as any other people you'd care to share it with. Dream Lover is a great exploratory film about dreams, love, loss, and many other things, and you'd be sore pressed to miss it. It's also a perfect conclusion to this year's RIP, as horror is definitely present (a la monsters and confusion).

I believe in Mattson Tomlin. I've watched everything he's made available, except for Pit.A.Pat, whatever that is, and I see him going places. His vision is great. His skills are tremendous. His passion is obvious. So here's to you, Mr. Tomlin. Great work on Dream Lover. Now, I can't wait to get to the feature film of Solomon Grundy...

-----

*Yep, my name is in the credits. I'm assuming its the Kickstarter donors list.

In Your Head, In Your Head, Zombie

2011-10-27T11:27:00.000-05:00

[Note to the Reader: I recommend you clicking on the video first, letting it play while you read only if you've seen the video before. Otherwise, I recommend on watching the video with the song.]

Oh man, this song wedges itself down in there deep, nestling right in between "Mana Mana" and "Do Wacka Do." The Cranberries. What a killer song, and a traumatic video, too, I daresay. Plus, it's fitting for the season. The video definitely captures the violent history of Ireland.

I love the viral lyrics, especially how Dolores O'Riordan sings them. The heavy, steady bass-line pushes on continually, which is a metaphor all in itself. As for the simple electric riff at the intro, solo, and outro, it's effective and lingers long after its finished. And then there's the drums, beating and clashing, a perfect reminder of gunshot and clamor. Yes, this song is monumental and powerful, but its also got a super catchy rhythm that definitely gets stuck "in your head, in your head."

I finally finished A Dance With Dragons, and now I'm debating whether or not to review it. Is there a point to review Book Five of such an enormous series, where every word I say will be some type of spoiler for the previous four books? No, probably not. Dave is the only one who'd care. In short, though, I enjoyed the book, just not as much as the first three. Truly, it and AFFC could have been combined (as was the original plan) and condensed and the series would have been stronger for it. As it stands, I'm slightly disappointed in the way ADWD ended. Here's to hoping GRRM doesn't take as long with the next installment.

RIP VI is drawing to a close. If you've not done so, go check out Carl's RIP Review site (here) and browse through the 600+ reviews. I've put a few up myself, and should have one more before the thing winds to a close. RIP is a great place to find new blogs, new books, and read some great reviews for the RIP season. Many thanks to Carl for continuing to host this event.

Avonlea's first Halloween aproacheth. I shall endeavor to capture some memories with my memory capturing device.

Zombie. Zombie. Zombie-ie-ie-ie-ie-ooh-----

Nosferatu, a Review

2011-10-25T10:53:00.000-05:00

Nosferatu is widely acclaimed for being one of the scariest films of all time. With its iconic screen-shots, recognizable villain, lack of speech (i.e., a silent film), and word-of-mouth praise, I had some pre-conceived ideas about what to expect when I put the film on last night. Sadly, my expectations fell flat within minutes of the film's exposition. There are spoilers for those of you unfamiliar with Dracula or any other vampire story.

Nosferatu is essentially Dracula, though for legal reasons at the time, changes were made to avoid being sued. Chiefly, Count Dracula is now Count Orlok, a creeper that lives off in the "land of ghosts and thieves." A young real estate agent, and the film's protagonist, Hutter, has been given the task of securing deed work from Orlok to purchase a "beautiful and abandoned house" in the town. Hutter leaves his beloved, Ellen, and sets off. Needless to say, things go about how you'd expect, with only one additional plot element that I didn't see coming.

First off, before I begin deconstructing this film, an apology: I obviously am not the targeted audience and I've been too exposed to modern cinema to enjoy this movie. Others (perhaps fans of TCM and Expressionism) like and appreciate this movie. I don't. And I'll explain why.

To begin with, I'm not a fan of Expressionism theater*. I understand that it may have been useful for early 20th century folks, especially when so much was relied upon conveying through movement, but to me, it's just ridiculous. I can't fathom why the folks of the time cared for it, either. Real life is not Expressionistic. The over-exaggerated movements and absurd facial expressions belong in a comedy, not a horror. Most of the time I wanted to punch Hutter in the face for being so idiotic; I wanted to wipe the sycophantic smirk off of Knock's face; I wanted to slap some liberation into Ellen. Even Count Orlok, while relatively reserved compared to the rest of the cast, fell to this form. And as I said, this does not perpetuate horror, but comedy.

The next thing, and perhaps my biggest annoyance, was the score that accompanied the film. We watched the Netflix Instant version of Nosferatu, and the film had a slide at the beginning that said the score was added in 1991. I'm not sure who composed or played here**, or how this score compares to Hans Erdmann's original, but it was awful. It basically sounded like a young musician learning about synthesizers and keyboards decided to tinker around. Music rarely fit the scene, and half of it grew tedious after a few seconds of listening.

The third (and for brevity's sake, final) problem was the character's themselves. Hutter was an idiot. I don't know why he chose to act the way he did, but his actions were totally unforgivable. Consider the following:

At Orlok's eerie and abandoned manse, Hutter is cutting him a slice of bread. He cuts his finger accidentally. Immediately Orlok is at the man's side and attempts to suck the blood from his finger. Disturbed, Hutter backs away. All the way to a cozy chair beside a fireplace. Orlok, seconds later, suggests they sit and chat a while, and Hutter agrees. The idiot falls asleep. Then, the next day, he frolics around the estate, where he happens upon Orlok's sleeping body, that so happens to be in a coffin. Horrified, Hutter runs away to the safest place possible: his room, where he puts a cover over his head and cowers in terror. Good thing Orlok decided to leave for his new abandoned mansion, else I might have broken my tv.

What person is their right mind would do something like that? It's so bad that I had to offset the whole paragraph! Is Hutter supposed to be an imbecile? And another thing. Hutter brings a few books with him to read. They're necessary plot devices, and when he picks one up, a slide comes up to show the Viewer what he's reading. At one point, Hutter finishes his book and he slams it shut then hurls it to the floor. For no apparent reason other than to persuade the Viewer that that's how one ought to treat a book.

I could go on and on about my problems with the film, but I'll stop at three. There is a few commendable features, chiefly Orlok himself, that I found slightly enjoyable and somewhat creepy. Max Schreck played his part well, and the vampire's movements & actions were the only part of this movie that could qualify as horror. I particularly liked his slow walk and his disfigured face.

In the end, Nosferatu was a worthless movie to watch. Perhaps had I watched it fifty years ago. Perhaps had I muted the tv. Perhaps had I gouged my eyes out. But alas, I did watch it, and I can't really recommend it to you unless you're a silent film fan, or simply curious to see the seminal vampire movie. That said, there are other versions besides the one on Netflix, and mayhap they're better. I won't be investigating, though.

---------------

*Though it does often work well in a comedy.

**A Google search says there are two Netflix versions. One has a score created by the Silent Orchestra, which I believe is the one I watched. The other apparently is no better. [Source: here.]

Flash Fiction Friday: Medical Log Entry #16

2011-10-21T11:24:00.000-05:00

Medical Log Entry #16
Patient: John Doe

You would think that in the midst of certain Armageddon--global thermonuclear war, devastating pandemic, cybernetic revolution, and the African continental plate disappearing, to name a few--that one would be accustomed to expecting the unexpected. I, for one, am no stranger to the bizarre. After my stint in deep space, my mind’s been programmed to think well outside the bounds of normalcy. Add that to the thirty-one years with the Force, I’ve seen it all. But when Nilo called me up and told me I had to hurry home, that I just had to see this, I could tell from the tone of her voice that something unique was waiting for me.

Nilo and I first met at UMBRA back in 0-13. I was newblood, straight from the uni’s proud and ancient halls. Still had the naive shine in my eyes. Still thought the earth tilted at twenty-three degrees. Nilo was already an old hound by the time I showed up. She’d been immersed in the strange for half a millennium. Everybody who’s anybody knows who Nilo the Cyrene is. Her fame is known from here to the outer sectors. She practically wrote the book on modern criminal psychology, as well as how to deal with the ramifications.

Needless to say, I boarded the next transport home. Of course, home was currently over two hundred and forty-nine million miles away, past Mars, past what’s left of Moon, back in tiny little Harrison, Michigan, United States, Earth. Traveling near Mach 100, the trip would take over a third of a standard year. That’s a long time for someone to wait, I had told Nilo, but she assured me I would be fine as long as I left soon.

It was day eighteen when it happened. Our transport was careening at speeds approaching oblivion (though nowhere near the higher realm of the mighty c), but inside the Argo everything was relatively calm. I excused myself from a fascinating conversation about fungus with the delightful Dr. Dame Wolffa and made a bee-line for the privy. It was there, standing in front of the mirror and watching the recycled greywater gush from the faucet, that the Argo experienced turbulence. I staggered. My head hit the counter top. Something massive crashed into the transport and the entire world around me shook violently. I heard a few gasps from outside, but the door on the privy was sealed shut and refused to open. I banged, as if expecting that to do anything, and again the world shook. It was as if an earthquake was loosed upon us, though, as I said, we were many million miles away from Earth.

The interior lights cut off, plunging me into sudden darkness. A moment later the emergency lights flashed on, a bright orange EXIT sign illuminating above the door. “Not hardly,” I said, pulling again at the latch. Open sobbing now sounded from without. I heard prayers and pleadings. Then the shuttle shook again and something massive crashed into it, grinding it and everything within it into dust.

Everything turned into colors. Sounds. Tastes. Smells. Indigo from a rainbow. The shade of dead wheat. Mist from a waterfall. The brightness of Sun at daybreak. How keystrokes sound at high WPM. Iris milky white. Bland oatmeal on a summer’s luncheon. Nilo’s perfume the night we went to Cloisters. The saffron hue of her lipstick. Darkness, encircling and pulsing, my body spinning in a billion little pieces, each turning and rushing along with whatever carried it away. An old dirge of trumpets and cellos. The grey of sepulchers and the gold of crowns. Salt on springmelons. Her laughter at the cine. Her hand inside mine. Dark blood red after a gunshot. Sand grains beneath fingers within cake upon grass under covers pork insulafoam bone masks joy inside you ache love numbers algorithms infinitely complex knowing knowledge knowing nothing spinning spiraling spewing splicing splaying splintering fragmentslightblackhopelostfoundyou...

Life coalesced; meaning reared its head; every road I’ve ever traveled was before me; every choice I’ve ever made; every possibility of everything, past, present, future. I was dead, and I wasn’t. There was still work to be done. Something remaining for me. All of this and more I knew, as if the Almighty chose to give me a glimpse into His mind. There was terror and there was certainty. Above all there was love.

I awoke here at St. John’s Hospital. I’ve no idea of the date. Every time I ask I’m told something about something called “January,” whatever that means. The orderlies all shun me. I see hate in their eyes. Distrust. There is one I may be able to persuade to join me, for I see sympathy in him. Still, I am lost without my Nilo. No one claims to know her, and I’m beginning to question her existence myself. I am no longer confident of anything. They asked me to write this all down, and looking back at it I can’t discern fact from fiction. They are trying to help me, so they say, but to me it’s more like an interrogation. Nothing makes sense. I am confined but for my writing arm and my neck. So I write, day in, day out, hoping someday that I can look back over this and find the truth. I know it exists. I had it in my grasp as I rode the comet back to Earth. But eternal fire is not meant for human minds, and I now must pay the cost. One day I will recover, and when I do, I will flee from this place and find Nilo. Until then, I must have patience.

-----

Word Count: 938

-Written as an exercise in futility, plus, it's been a while.

Reconnaissance

2011-10-19T10:34:00.000-05:00

Monday morning. 5:15am. Cool. Sleepy. I go through the motions of my daily waking ritual, only now an hour earlier. I take up my travel gear, kiss the sleeping ones, and hit the road. Coffee, black, two creams, loathsome from McDonalds but open and cheap. I pull into the office at 5:50, unload and re-load into Mike's. We're on the road by ten after six.

---

The trip is shy of four hours. We drive in early morning bleariness. Traffic is dead. I may as well be. We hit a rest stop halfway to our destination. Temperature's dropped. I see my breath in the air. The road rumbles on as we roll west, away from my family, my home, and everybody I love. It is the first time I've left my daughter for this long, and I miss her already. But there's work to be had. We're explorers bound for a brave new world, or at least a different world than home. The Arch appears in the smoggy distance. East St. Louis, we have arrived.

---

I am no stranger to urban life. For five years I lived in Louisville, a relative metropolitan with a population in the millions. I had a few different residencies, one being in a house dubbed the Old Skank. The heat barely worked. Water was so hard that it was almost white coming out of the faucet. The cabinets were tilted and doors would close/open as per gravity's whims. To get in the tub you had to step over a two-foot wall. My car was broken into here. An attempted rape was stopped on the front porch just houses away. Yes, I know the seedy parts of the city, but all of this had nothing on our corner of heaven in East St. Louis. Windows and doors were barred; scores of houses were condemned; everything was in disrepair. But we weren't house hunting; no, we were looking at drainage structures, trying to see how the water was flowing in and around the intersection for our new project.

The stretch of road isn't very far, just a simple interchange with a bridge. There were around 30 culverts to inspect. To do this, we found these structures on our maps, then took pictures of them. If anything of special interest caught our eyes, we'd jot notes down, though this usually consisted of whether or not an inlet was grated and/or clogged. Occasionally we'd find some crazy outlet conditions, and one culvert took us several hundred feet into a mysterious woods filled with eroded banks and lethal briars. Ah, but it was nice to be outside, and Monday proved warm enough to need only short sleeves.

We worked hard, and by six o'clock, we were both tired. The hotel called; supper beckoned; sleep scratched. We relented. I brought my computer, aiming to get in some good writing time. I brought some books, eager to read. Alas, I was too sleepy. By ten-thirty I was out, missing Avonlea, missing Keisha, missing Kentucky.

---

I had a nightmare, for the first time in ages. I woke up at 4:40 with goosebumps. Someone was standing over me. I dreamed of demons, but I know not why.

---

6:30am. 41 degrees. Raining. I'd slept with the air conditioner on, so my room was icy. I hurried and dressed, packed, and headed down to see how awesome the breakfast would be. There was a waffle maker, so it was at least palatable. We ate breakfast and went over the plans while reruns of Charmed played across the screens above. There were a few more culverts to inspect, and since it had been storming, we'd look for some of the pipes we couldn't locate the previous day.

We worked through the rain, and by lunch my feet were thoroughly soaked. Tennis shoes were a bad idea, but I have no boots other than steel toes. Wet, cold, and hungry, we finished our reconnaissance. For lunch, Cracker Barrel had the fireplace lit. I changed clothes and cozied up to the flames. A hearty meatloaf later, we were on the road, returning home. Four hours later, the car was emptied, Rosebud was re-loaded, and I was home.

The collected data will be useful, as I'm starting on a new project. Basically the site visit makes our 2-d maps much more useful, especially now that I have an idea of how the water will flow after a rain event. When drawing drainage areas for watersheds, the USGS quad sheets are generally helpful, but aerials and real-world shots sometimes give a different result. Next comes the actual drainage analysis, the studying of ditch flows and culvert discharges. Should be interesting to see this go from start to finish.

A Night of Blacker Darkness, a Review

2011-10-14T08:20:00.000-05:00

"Do you ever wonder," said John idly, "why we call buildings 'buildings?' Are they in a state of constant construction? We should call them 'builts.'"

---

"Not like that," said John. "More tuneless, almost melancholy--like the whisper of a dying candle."
"I think it's safe to say that no one in this room knows what you're talking about."

A Night of Blacker Darkness, being the memoir of Frederick Whithers, is exactly what the subtitle says it is: a memoir. Who, you may ask, is Frederick Whithers? Mr. Whithers was a simple man of the early 19th century, who lived quite a simple life prior to his death, at least according to Mr. Bagsworth III's introduction. According to official records, Whithers died of consumption while serving a prison sentence for forgery. But if the memoir is to be believed, he faked his death, rose from his coffin, was spotted by a group of vampires who immediately proclaimed him the Great One, and had an unusual few days of pure farcical madness as he tried to lay stakes on a ninety-thousand pound inheritance.

To expound on this madness would, I fear, spoil the brilliance of Mr. Whithers' memoir. There is a great mystery lurking in the plot, drizzled with some fantastic humor so thick that one's willingness to suspend disbelief is almost challenged. Murphy's Law prevails often, it seems. The story is hilarious, and I had to stop reading a few times just so I could finish laughing. John ____* may be one of the funniest characters I've ever read, and his dialogue/musings always cracked me up.

I became aware of A Night of Blacker Darkness just a few weeks ago. While browsing Kindle book deals, I was looking through favorite authors, and this book came up. And being a fan of Dan Wells, the mastermind behind this fictitious memoir, and furthermore intrigued because this book is only available as an e-book, I decided to give it a go. I assure you, it's well worth the $5.

So what more can I say about this book? It's very well written, though there are a few errors throughout the pages, but not enough to derail the story. It's definitely macabre, as Frederick's post-prison journey takes him to graveyards, mortuaries, charnel houses, a ghoul's lair, a basement full of vampires, and many other random places throughout Bath and London. And while the story never crosses into all-out horror, there are traditional elements of horror present. To me, though, the delight came from the mystery mixing with the antics. Wells makes use of a few familiar tropes and creates a gem.

I could say much on this read, but so as to not potentially ruin anything, I'll say little else. If you have an e-reader, you really should read this book. It's short and can be read in a lazy afternoon. It'll have you laughing and have you intrigued. I can easily recommend it to genre fans, literary fans, people that like to laugh, people with e-readers, and fans of Young Frankenstein or Dracula Dead and Loving It. Better yet, go to Amazon and read the free sample (here). I heartily enjoyed A Night of Blacker Darkness, and I eagerly look forward to seeing what else Dan Wells has to offer.

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*This surname is intentionally blanked out by me, not in the book.

General Updates

2011-10-12T09:28:00.000-05:00

i see your bet and i raise you fifty more.

It's hard to believe that Avonlea is now over four months old. She had her appointment for shots and stuff on Monday, and it possibly was the most heartbreaking thing I've ever seen. The first round of shots from last month had nothing on this batch. After a general check up from the pediatrician, the nurse came in to give the immunizations. The first shot went in, Avonlea went from happy to total betrayal shock then to momentary silence to all-out screams in two seconds. Then came the second shot in the other leg and the poor baby somehow became even more pitiful. I really thought I was going to cry. There's something about that defenseless mewling that destroyed a small part of my soul, but I know it's for her good.

Prior to all of this, she was weighed and measured. Avonlea now weighs 9 lb, 6 oz, which puts her in the <5% on weight for babies her age. This is congruent with her 3 month weight, as well as birth. Length she is now in the <10%, so that's some improvement from the previous two measurements. Foreverthemore, the good doctor said she looks great, acts great, and is perfectly healthy.

We're expecting her to start picking up some weight, since we began supplementing her with actual baby food a week or two ago. Avonlea, like her daddy, loves green peas, though she's a touch messier than I am when she eats them. She's not overly fond of bananas, but carrots are proving delicious. The brown rice cereal is neither here nor there, but it's definitely filling, as evidenced by her sleeping through the night.

Sunday also turned out to be a wonderful day. I lazied on the couch all afternoon, watching the Colts screw up and lose, and Avonlea lay right there with me. This is a milestone, as Avonlea generally does not enjoy napping by daddy and usually begins crying almost instantly. (Oddly enough, she loves me rocking her to sleep and curls right up in my arms and drifts off pretty quickly.) Still, she fell asleep on my chest and it was perfect.

Saturday night was The Well. It was our first gathering. A group of us really just want to get deeper in our relationship with God, deeper in our worship, in our praise to Him, and more in touch with our brothers & sisters. We sang some songs, studied some Scripture, and glorified God in our quest to breathe His Word. It was refreshing and intentions were met.

at mom's house.

I've also been working on a short story that I plan on putting out here as a Writing Wednesday post. I have another one finished (though unedited) that is part of something much larger, something that's been in the works for a while now. NaNoWriMo is next month, and while that's the perfect catalyst to force me to spew some words and thoughts, it's also too hectic an event for me to commit to, especially now that we have Avonlea. I wish we had some sort of writer's group here in OBKY, or just some sort of pen pal like person that I could bounce ideas off and get my stuff ripped to shreds.

I'm finally starting on a new project at work. After two years of tweaking a project down at the Land Between the Lakes, it's nice to finally be staring at something new. What's more, this project is located in Illinois, relatively near St. Louis. Because of it being in a different state, there's a whole new set of guidelines to follow for design work that's different from Kentucky. While interesting and insightful, it's also tedious. Soon, though, I'll be into the work and eager to start.

Lot's going on. Maybe a book review Friday, and if not, then probably Monday.

In Cold Blood, a Review

2011-10-06T08:26:00.000-05:00

Holcomb, Kan., Nov. 15 [1959] (UPI) -- A wealthy wheat farmer, his wife and their two young children were found shot to death today in their home. They had been killed by shotgun blasts at close range after being bound and gagged ... There were no signs of a struggle, and nothing had been stolen. The telephone lines had been cut.—The New York Times

I'm hesitant to review Truman Capote's seminal true-crime novel In Cold Blood. How does one begin to review non-fiction, let alone true stories? I see the vanity of my opinion on the situation and want to run screaming the other way. But that curious part of me, that part buried in a metal box in the middle of my heart, twitches and pines for things it ought not. As I've mused time and again, I am inexplicably drawn to these things.

In Cold Blood is the account of the Clutter murders. The book is broken up into four sections and told through numerous Points-of-View. We watch Herb Clutter, kindly and genteel, make his way around Holcomb, conducting business for his family farm. We see sixteen-year-old Nancy Clutter's budding relationship with her high school boyfriend. We struggle with Mrs. Clutter and her bouts of depression, and son Kenyon (15) and his aspirations. We're told about the small town of Holcomb and its caring citizens, where Church is society, the diner is always busy, and idle talk spreads fast.

Beyond this, and the more intriguing parts of the book, we travel with Dick Hickock and Perry Smith, two parolees who ultimately murder four innocent people for the hope of a chance that Mr. Clutter kept a safe in his house, filled with at least ten thousand dollars. We learn of each man's upbringing, of their choices that landed them in jail, of their plans and goals, of their bitterness, and of their deaths. It's easy to pity them, to wish things better for them, but from the onset we're aware of their deed and their execution.

Capote is brilliant in building dread and suspense. Scenes change quickly, and since this is a journalistic approach, we see various sides of people/events. There is much to be said about the crime, the victims, the criminals, and the aftermath, and Capote adroitly handles it all.

Strikingly, the brutality of the crime (as well as the executions of Hickock, Smith, and some other men on Death Row) is done in a matter-of-fact way. Capote presents the scene with little fanfare, and this minimalism is chilling. The Reader is left as dazed and confused as the townsfolk of Holcomb were, and one can't help but press on to discover the true motive. Why? continually comes to mind. Emotion is poured into the book, though often it is reserved and professional, and this dichotomy makes for an oddly disturbing read.

In Cold Blood has been on my TBR shelf for a very long time, and I'm glad it's finally gone. I wanted to read it for RIP this year because this stuff is what truly defines horror to me. It's real and 100% possible, not like some phantom killer or haunted house. I tend to think that we've created ghost stories as an escape, preferring the supernatural to the perfectly natural. Because there are killers out there. People that torture, kidnap, rape, murder, assault, harass, antagonize. And who knows when someone could simply snap and massacre a shopping center or bookstore? It's scary enough to make me want to take my family and live in a bomb shelter, buried and out of sight, safe and secure. And when my mind starts roaming these uncomfortable corridors, I have to ask myself one question: what if you're the one to snap?

And it stops me. Cold. Because I'm human, just like Dick Hickock, Perry Smith, Herb Clutter, and everybody else. I'm no killer, but I could be. We all could be. We all have the potential. What keeps us held back is our self-control, or maybe our fear of prison and death. What keeps me back is my love for people, my love of life, made possible by the gospel of Jesus Christ. Without Him, I think I'd be some kind of messed up person, but I trust Him and His word that He'll never leave me or forsake me. But really, when you think about it, if you stand two people side-by-side, one a killer, the other not, and put them in identical clothes and ask someone to pick out the killer, there's no difference. Both are just simply people, and that's the most terrifying thing out there. We don't really know anyone...

[Note: After re-reading this, I realize how disturbing this post is, and I've considered simply deleting and starting over. But, as a purist, I find that path treacherous. Instead, I'll echo my previous line. I am enslaved to God and committed until I die, therefore I do not keep myself restrained from going out and murdering somebody. Instead, I deal with the more insidious sins, things like when Jesus said that being angry with your brother was basically wanting to kill him, and inward lust was the same thing as adultery, and pride--oh how I loathe thee!--that snakes its way into every aspect of my life. Yes, friends, I am perfectly sane (to my knowledge). Just trying to make my way in the world the same as the rest of ya.]

Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, a Review

2011-09-30T11:20:00.000-05:00

Perhaps the reason I've an affinity for dark & twisted art lies with a trio of books I read as a child. Alvin Schwartz is most known for his collection of folktales marketed towards children. His most famous books--Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, More Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark, and Scary Stories 3: More Tales to Chill Your Bones--were some of my most favorite reads as a lad, and when I recently happened upon my personal copy of SS3, I couldn't help but dive in. I went to the library and checked out the first two volumes (not sure why I only have the third?), then promptly drove home and leafed through the pages.

It's impossible to continue without acknowledging Stephen Gammell's defining artwork. In fact, I'm going out on a limb and saying that it's Gammell's work that makes this collection so cherished (and challenged*, for that matter). I love the loose, spindly, flowy lines that add an ethereal feel to each work. Everything has the tone of something horrific waiting to be loosed upon your mind. I would love to see Gammell do some Lovecraftian illustrations. Yes, it is Gammell's work that shines in these books, and they've no doubt affected my subconscious.

Allow me to wax on here. The illustrations are grotesque. Magnetic, whereby they repulse the reader, but attract as well. I feel as if Gammell has somehow captured the essence of a nightmare (or some hell) and then rendered it on us, and, in particular, young minds. Frankly I'm surprised these books are read by kids, as I can easily see them getting utterly creeped out and running for Mommy in the dead hours after midnight. Moreover, as I was rocking Avonlea to sleep the other night, I was reading the books and left them beside her crib after she went to sleep. Keisha brought them to me later as I was brushing my teeth and said, "You can't leave those in there. If I look over there and see 'em in the middle of the night I'd be freaked out."

I guess I would, too. I have this fleeting fear whenever I wake up during the night. With the thick shadows and eerie softglow lights, coupled with the fact that I'm not wearing my spectacles, everything is blurred and skewed. My mind deceives me. My eyes tell untruths and distortions. I see monsters and things unknown in the darkness, sinister and evil, things that would fit perfectly alongside these horrors Gammell's illustrated.

Still, there is more to these books than just the art. Schwartz writes in an easy to understand form, especially for children. To my understanding, the intention is for these things to be read aloud, and working with that assumption, these stories all do well. However, if one looks too closely as the sentences, well, one gets disappointed in the simplicity. It's anticlimactic at times, coming across as uninspired and flat out boring. This is not prevalent, nor is it epidemic, but the way these stories are told is very weak when compared with other folktales. (This seems fickle, as I'm comparing a children's book to adult, scholarly things, but what can I say?) Nevertheless, I did feel like Schwartz dropped the ball several times throughout these three books, but if you're reading them aloud, it's not too bad.

If we look at the folktales and urban legends themselves, then these three books are a treasure chest of them. Each tale spans from 1-3 pages (most falling at just over a page) in length, and because of that, there are a multitude of stories. Many are familiar things, things we all know, things our grandparents swear are true. But there are more than enough unfamiliar ones, too. And to me, digesting a "new" folktale, especially one that's been around for years, is like cream cheese icing on a carrot cake. Delicious.

I appreciate Schwartz listing a bibliography at the end of each book, as it's nice to be able to dig deeper (or see different tellings) for a story. When things are from oral tradition, Schwartz lists people involved, too, or areas he collected from. I also like how there are "alternate endings" or miscellany for the stories listed.

These three books are delightful little reads. There's no doubt that they're heavily responsible for my taking to folktales, as I read these books for the first time in elementary school, but they're also probably responsible for my weakness for dark art. I'm glad to have stumbled on my copy of SS3 the other day, and even more glad to find the library's copies were in the stacks and not checked out. Halloween is the perfect time to read these books, and the RIP challenge just makes it more pleasant. If you've never read the stories Schwartz tells, then you're missing out. But even more, if you've not had your heart stopped by Stephen Gammell's horrid illustrations, you're really missing out. I strongly recommend remedying this as soon as humanly possible.

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*Not only was this series the most challenged during the 1990s, it was also the 7th most challenged between 2000-2009. I'm assuming

Don't Check Your Brains at the Door, a Review

2011-09-28T09:26:00.001-05:00

Josh McDowell, like C.S. Lewis and Lee Strobel, had a problem with Christianity. As an agnostic, he set out writing a paper to disprove the Christian faith, which ultimately led to his inability to do so and his surrender to Christ. A renown apologist, McDowell, along with Bob Hostetler, produced a simple book of common questions for young Christians, a book titled Don't Check Your Brains at the Door. Originally released in 1992, I recently received an updated edition for a more modernized society.

Don't Check Your Brains is targeted for teens and young adults. The book is conversational and the tone is light and humorous, but it never loses its focus. Divided into six sections, the book covers myths about God, Jesus, the Bible, the Resurrection, Religion and Christianity, and Life & Happiness. There are forty-two 3-4 page chapters, and each chapter ends with a "Brain Food" application. The "Brain Food" stuff includes readings from the Bible and insights for practical living.

As an older Christian, and having read some more theological denser material (like Strobel's A Case for Christ), I wasn't blown away by anything I read. This, however, was not my intention in reading the book. I volunteer with the youth at church and I wanted to read it to see how I thought it would help high schoolers and middle schoolers. To this age group, as well as fledgling Christians, I think Don't Check Your Brains is a fantastic resource. It answers tough questions with Scripture, as well as establishes a seed to grow deeper in understanding God's Word.

I think this book is a great starting point for those that are clueless about their faith and why we believe things we believe. Many great questions/myths are addressed, such as New Age Thoughts, Wimpy Jesus, and God Grades on a Curve. These are but a few examples, and I think many of these myths will be encountered by the upcoming generations. In the end, Don't Check Your Brains at the Door is a simple and engaging book that should hold the attention of a younger audience, but also impart truth and evidence for common questions they may face. The book would fit perfectly with young and curious minds, and may just spark some thought in older ones as well.

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*FTC Thingy: This book was provided for free as an ebook download from Thomas Nelson Publishers and Booksneeze.com.

House of Leaves, a Review (Spoiler-Free)

2011-09-26T11:29:00.000-05:00

Little solace comes

to those who grieve

when thoughts keep drifting

as walls keep shifting

and this great blue world of ours

seems a house of leaves

moments before the wind. (p.563)"

Defining Mark Z. Danielewski's House of Leaves is like asking a five year old to describe the Riemann Hypothesis. House of Leaves is, on its fringes, a story about the Reader. In the Introduction by Johnny Truant, we're flat out told that what we're reading is a product from a manuscript he found in the room of a dead man named Zampanò. The manuscript, as it turns out, is a scholarly work based on a documentary Zampanò has become obsessed with: The Navidson Record. And if House of Leaves is about anything at all--its heart, its cornerstone, its foundation--then it's about The Navidson Record.

Will Navidson is a critically acclaimed photojournalist. Years of life spent away from his long-time partner Karen Green, a former cover model, and his two children, Chad and Daisy, has the Navidson family barreling towards non-existence. Will and Karen decide to purchase a quaint Virginia house and settle down and work on their family. Will seeks to finish his career with a simple documentary on their new lives in their new home. He installs video cameras throughout the house, motion sensors to pick up when activity is going on, and settles in for a calm retirement.

But everything does not go as planned. The house seems odd, and one day, for no apparent reason, Will and Karen discover a new closet situated outside their bedroom door. Baffled, Will gets the floor plans and begins going through measurements, confused. And when he discovers that the house measures larger on the inside than it does on the outside, the groundwork is laid for the rest of the "movie."

The Navidson Record is as tantalizing as it is terrifying. The house on Ash Tree Lane is creepy and dark. Navidson, an explorer at heart, sets out to understand the house and its unnerving black (and apparently unending) labyrinth of hallways that appears in its center.

Zampanò's manuscript exhaustively covers the film, from its subtle and serene beginnings to its haunting and stunning conclusion. His work is littered with footnotes, and as Truant tells us at the onset, many of these footnotes' references simply do not exist in real life. Keeping this in mind, the remainder of the manuscript makes for a fascinating exploration of the film, sometimes mind-numbingly so.

"As I discovered, there were reams and reams of it. Endless snarls of words, sometimes twisting into meaning, sometimes into nothing at all, frequently breaking apart, always branching off into other pieces I'd come across later--on old napkins, the tattered edges of an envelope, once even on the back of a postage stamp; everything and anything but empty; each fragment completely covered with the creep of years and years of ink pronouncements; layered, crossed out, amended; handwritten, typed; legible, illegible; impenetrable, lucid; torn, stained, scotch taped; some bits crisp and clean, others faded, burnt or folded and refolded so many times the creases have obliterated whole passages of god knows what--sense? truth? deceit? a legacy of prophecy or lunacy or nothing of the kind?, and in the end achieving, designating, describing, recreating--find your own words; I have no more; or plenty more but why? and all to tell--what?" (p.xvii)

But still yet, in an even further removed frame, the Reader understands (again, at the beginning of the novel, so as to keep SPOILER-FREE) that we're also reading Johnny Truant's annotations of Zampanò's manuscript. Truant's story begins in the Introduction, and as it unfolds throughout the footnotes, we discover how the manuscript affects him. Truant is a mesmerizing POV, as one of the first things he tells us is that he's unreliable. And as we read, both the manuscript and the footnotes, we're constantly left puzzling over what's been altered, if anything. This, as the Reader will undoubtedly understand, is disorienting and intentional. And as we come to understand Truant's background, especially concerning the Whalestoe Letters, what's real and what's not comes under even more scrutiny.

To me, the most interesting part of the book deals with the darkness inside the house. Danielewski a la Truant a la Zampanò paint a vivid picture of the blackness, the absence of light within the house.

"The walls are endlessly bare. Nothing hangs on them, nothing defines them. They are without texture. Even to the keenest eye or most sentient fingertip, they remain unreadable. You will never find a mark there. No trace survives. The walls obliterate everything. They are permanently absolved of all record. Oblique, forever obscure and unwritten. Behold the perfect pantheon of absence." (p.423)

I know what dark is. I live in the state with the largest cave system in the world. I've been to the depths of the earth and had the lights extinguished, propelled into absolute darkness, a blackness so thick that one can't help but despair. And yet, the darkness within the house seems darker. This has definitely played upon my mind at night as I've roamed the halls of my own house, and I confess to a quickened pulse a time or two.

Another part that must be addressed is the bizarre formats used. This was the primary reason I wanted to read the book, and after finishing, I enjoyed the way the book was presented. The Reader has to flip the book, turn it sideways, and go through mental hoops to read certain passages, but it definitely adds to the story. I read the full color edition, which is the author's preferred edition, as it includes over two-hundred pages of appendices, filled with more fascinating puzzle pieces (and if you read the book, I recommend following the instructions to see the Appendix before continuing on with the novel) and I can't imagine reading this book any other way.

So what is House of Leaves? It's a book containing four stories, one woven story, some spelled out more than others, some flat out ignored. It's meta. It's contained. It's puzzling. It's erudite, so keep a dictionary very close. It's compelling. It's tedious. It induces smiles and wicked grins, but groans and sighs. It's beautiful. It's art. It's a love story. It's disgusting and leaves one needing a bath. It's definitely not for the faint of heart or those offended by crude sex. It is a remarkable read, leaving the Reader satisfied and immediately ready to dive back in again to see what's missed, but at the same time worn down and betrayed. If Danielewski intended this, then he succeeded. I enjoyed House of Leaves immensely and would love to discuss it with someone (thankfully there are forums devoted to it). It's easy to recommend.

Disciple, a Review

2011-09-20T08:47:00.002-05:00

I selected Bill Clem's Disciple: Getting Your Identity from Jesus because I thought the book was about discipleship groups, mentors/mentees, etc. and practical applications for modern life. Instead, I found myself reading a book about what it means to be a Christian for the first 3/4 of the book. I almost get the feeling that Clem would prefer to use the word Disciple instead of Christian, though that is pure speculation. Nevertheless, Disciple proved to be a mostly interesting and thought provoking book.

Divided into 12 chapters, the book alternates between the biblical ideal of the chapter's topic (such as Community), followed by a chapter with how we've distorted it. I really enjoyed the layout like this, and as I progressed through the book it was obvious how much latter chapters built off the previous ones. I also liked that each chapter ended with a "homework assignment." Clem gives the reader Scripture to read and ponder over, and often challenges us to act on these verses.

As for the last chapters, this is really where practical thoughts on discipleship came up. I suppose a foundation must first be established before application can be described, and Clem definitely built off his groundwork.

The art of discipleship and mentoring is neglected by many today. Too often we distort the very definition of "disciple," thinking that it's a stagnant "relationship." We replace Jesus' Great Commission in Matthew 28, "Go and make disciples" with "Go and make converts." It's obvious Clem has a heart for loving on people and investing in them, and he backs this imperative with plenty of Scripture. He wants the reader to make disciples (as well as be discipled), not coverts.

All in all, I enjoyed a lot of what Bill Clem was saying in Disciple, and I think it would be especially helpful for young Christians. The first majority of the book reads as a sort of "Christian Essentials" text. I was more interested in the latter half, and indeed Clem has some worthwhile things to say there, though I wish this part were longer.

Radioactive Aardvark Nationality Domesticated Onslaught Metaphysical

2011-09-16T10:26:00.001-05:00

Are you hungry? Are you sick? Are you begging for some bread? She lived with a broken man, a cracked polystyrene man. I'm a creep. Apparently it's called ergodic literature, and I kind of dig it, but at the same it's rather exasperating. Maybe not exasperating. Maybe tedious. And sometimes it makes for a Day of Interest if you're up for it. But sometimes I'm not feeling it, and I'm left following the sentence as it winds its way across pages, over commas and semi-colons, but never a period, and I get lost somewhere along the way. Maybe you will, too.

Anthropomorphism, start!

She wasn't dead, but she was terminal. Stop whispering! She concocted a disease, a rather nasty one, that left her essentially brain dead. Stop shouting! At first I held out hope that she would recover, but she didn't, not even after she was supposedly healed. She crawled, yes, and ticked idly, but she stopped responding and turned blue then black then the lights just winked out and I left her for dead. I stole everything I could from her carcass, thanked her for being good, and then I went Kevorkian. I'm a wicked child.

Anthropomorphism stop!

First degree murder is premeditated and planned and done willfully. Second degree murder is not planned in advance. Voluntary manslaughter is murder by accident, maybe, possibly, if your lawyer's good enough or you're sincere enough. Involuntary manslaughter is purely unintentional. Do not cry out or hit the alarm, you know we're friends 'til we die. Suicide is self-murder, and can be rendered first degree, second, or manslaughter. Either way you turn, I'll be there. Open up your skull, I'll be there.

.wen sa doog sa (ylraen) s'ehs won dna ,yriaf doog a fo ecnatsissa eht htiw efil ot kcab thguorb saw ehS

See what I'm saying? It's tedious, but once you throw in a mystery, a monster, a thing, a hope, a promise, a chance, a sanatorium, a disaster, an eleven-year old, a foray into foreign language, then you start seeing that there is a purpose to it all, that the ergos one does to understand is intentional and disorienting and disemboweling (okay, I just made up that last bit), and the format is important, as much as a format can be.

As per Demitri Martin, saying I'm sorry and I apologize is pretty much the same thing. Unless you're at a funeral. I love the cold snap. I actually had to close the window last night and throw a quilt over us. Even the curs were lazy from the cold. Not-so-subtle-but-profoundly-strong-suggestion: Go to Tor.com (here) and read Kij Johnson's astonishing ultra-short story (like it's totally less than a thousand words, probably more like 500[edit: according to MSWord it's 1,254 {that's MCCLIV to any of you Ancient Romans that are roaming the Nets here, or wayward seventh graders for that matter}]) called "Ponies." Sit down. Stand up. Like, zomg that story was so gooood, and it's so fitting for the RIP challenge, and I really think you should read it and tell me what you think about it. Reckoner, take me with you.

Life rolls like a Bob Dylan, o'er choppy seas and serene lakes. All around me winds blow hard, but I myself am fine. It sucks seeing others maltreated. Anyone can play guitar. (Nice Dream) So I saw that Stephen King is releasing another Dark Tower book, this one called The Wind Through the Keyhole and set between Wizard and Glass and Wolves of the Calla. I can't decide how I feel about this one. Mostly indifference. I quite enjoyed that series, but at the same time it was also lacking in parts, especially there as the ka-tet drew near the Tower. Oy was one of my favorite characters. Myxomatosis. I may return to Mid-World, and I mayn't.

Anthropomorphism spoiler!

(It was the computer. Being dead and now quickened.)

I'm the kind of person that pretty much always sits on my left leg whenever I fold one up beneath my bottom to sit. For that matter, I almost always cross my left leg over my right. It just feels wrong going the other way. Remyxomatoxis.

The Well, it comes. And with it renewal and hope, but not in us, but in He who made us. A trip to the orchard tomorrow, where we'll steal apples from the trees and then pay for them, though probably the other way around, cause I don't want to set the world on fire, I just want to start a flame in your heart, and I don't really wanna get arrested, either, and I don't wanna wait for our lives to be over, and U don't have 2 be cool 2 rule my world. I'm pretty sure someone has replaced my coffee creamer with another creamer of the same design and bottle; instead of the flavor I was expecting this morning (white mocha), I got something oddly reminiscent of banana, a flavor that's universally acknowledged to be deplorable and loathsome to God and man. But I drink it, eyes darting, waiting to ensnare my assailant. Ever vigilant! Ex loganus.

The Way of Kings, a Review

2011-09-12T10:54:00.000-05:00

Beginning a ten book series can be daunting. It takes a kind of commitment that many of us just don't have the time for. It takes effort to stick with a single story for a decade, gobbling up installments every year or so. We're an impatient people, by and large, and waiting is something we loathe. Just look at the vitriol surrounding GRRM's prolonged release of A Dance with Dragons.

Nevertheless, Brandon Sanderson's The Way of Kings, Book One of The Stormlight Archive, delivers such an impressive story that it's impossible to resist. The hardcover spans over one thousand pages, but it's populated with beautiful internal artwork that goes right along with the story, not to mention the mesmerizing cover art.

TWoK is difficult to summarize succinctly. Roshar is a land wracked and ravaged by storms. These storms are ferocious and lethal, with winds and rain strong enough that to be caught out in them is to die. In part, these storms have shaped the geography, ecology, and sociology of the ten countries that make up Roshar. Some animals have developed rock-shells for protection. In some lands, the grass even recedes. The creatures and places of Roshar are as much a story as the main characters. It's obvious Sanderson has labored and put thought into his grand epic, and the thrill of experiencing these unusual settings is absolutely delightful.

But more than this, tWoK is a tight focused tale centering on a trio of characters. Kaladin, this novel's major POV character, has wanted to fight in the war on the Shattered Plains for years, and he's finally found himself there, though as a branded member of a bridge crew. Bridgemen are lower than slaves, especially the bridgemen of Sadeas' warcamp. To be a bridgeman is to have a death sentence. Dalinar Kholin, brother to the murdered king that started the war and uncle to the reigning king, is a man of honor and does thing the Old Ways. He will not let himself get entangled in the squabble of politics and quests for power, much to the chagrin of the other generals, and insists on doing things Right. But when Dalinar begins having vicious dreams during the highstorms, rumors circulate the warcamps that the Blackthorn is losing his mind. And Dalinar can't help but wonder the same. The third major player is Shallan, a girl who's family is plunged into impossible debt after the patriarch dies. Shallan decides to seek out Jasnah, the king's heretic sister, and steal her Soulcaster. She'll use the money to free her family, and possibly survive the quarreling houses. But the more Shallan learns about Jasnah, the more she begins to question her motives.

These three characters are the major players of tWoK, but they are by far not the only ones. Sanderson has crafted a dramatis personae filled with memorable characters, from the enigmatic Szeth-son-son-Vallano, a Truthless Shin and an angst-driven assassin, to the equally enigmatic Wit, who I'll keep silent about, to Adolin, Dalinar's up-and-coming heir apparent and established warrior on the Plains. Each person has a wealth of information and life in them, and I eagerly look forward to seeing them all develop over the course of the series.

Brandon Sanderson is widely known for his unique magic systems, and tWoK does not fail here. In fact, if you've read any other Sanderson, you'll certainly notice some similarities between the magic systems, but also some very original concepts, too. As this is Book One, there was a lot introduced, but also a lot of mystery left behind the magics waiting to be revealed.

I could go on and on about this book, and I really haven't scratched the surface. The Way of Kings is a solid first novel for a series. It wraps up a lot of things, not leaving too many cliff hangers, but not enough to lull the excitement, either. The stories about these characters--all of them, not just the three primaries--are amazing. Sanderson knows how to turn a phrase, as well as keep the reader turning pages, and the plot never dies down during this massive read. If you want a completely different epic fantasy, one that leaves you eager for the next volume and filled with a sense of wonder and awe, then I heartily recommend The Way of Kings. I'm invested for the duration of the series, and I cannot wait to see where Sanderson takes us.

Buried, a (film) Review

2011-09-09T09:16:00.002-05:00

I've watched the cursor blink several times now, waiting for me to somehow begin this post. And yet, after watching Rodrigo Cortés' 2010 thriller Buried, I don't know how to begin. A brief synopsis:

Paul Conroy (Ryan Reynolds) is an American truck driver working as a private contractor in Iraq. After one convoy trip goes wrong, Paul wakes up to discover that he's been buried alive in a wooden coffin. Armed with only a cell phone and a lighter, Paul begins a desperate struggle to have himself located and freed.

I wanted to watch Buried back when I first heard about it, primarily because of the risky gimmick. See, the entire film is really one long scene. The camera never leaves the coffin. This gives the audience a somewhat claustrophobic effect, though certainly nowhere near as strong as Conroy's. So when I settled in to watch Buried last night, I was expecting to be on the edge of my seat, and Rodrigo Cortés went well beyond my expectations.

Honestly I'm still struggling on how to come to grips with this film. I classify it as a suspense/horror movie, and of the worst possible kind. To me, scary isn't some ethereal monster lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce and devour. It's not demons and goblins boiling young children and feeding them in pies to trolls. No, to me, true horror is the possibility that an unsettling event could actually happen, and that's definitely the case with Buried. (That's also the reason why I detest torture-porn movies, because some psycho could actually watch, find inspiration, and act on what they've just seen, but that's tangential.)

What makes Buried even more frightening is that I personally have friends and family that are serving our country overseas. Some are military, but some are private contractors, working in war zones, just as Paul Conroy was. And that's part of why this film affected me so strongly.

So how to discuss the movie without spoiling anything? I've decided on a list of adjectives I felt throughout the film.

Emotional, of the heart-wrenching kind.
Disturbing, of the "what the heck's wrong with humanity?" kind.
Pulse-gripping, of the kind that grabs and doesn't let go.
Bleak, of the "help, I'm buried alive in a coffin somewhere in the Iraqi desert and I'm suffocating" kind.
Infuriating, of the "surely this kind of thing doesn't really happen but it probably does" kind.
Dreadful, of the full-of-dread kind.
Suspense, of the "how is this going to end?" kind.
Melancholy, of the "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" kind.

Truly, this movie kept me in full attention. As the film progresses, watching the character development has a staggering affect on the Viewer, and Reynolds performs superbly. The acting was convincing, the lighting believable, and the sounds as I would imagine. There was one part that was remarkably creepy, and another that was remarkably tear-jerking. The restrictions of filming solely in the coffin are smartly handled and felt by all, and I think the risk taken by Cortés paid off.

Buried is one of those movies that leaves you pondering well into the night, and then on into the next day. My only solace is knowing that the film is fiction. That's a comforting thought, and possibly the only one I have. Buried is not an easy film to watch, and the feeling after finishing is truly horrifying. This minimalist movie had a maximum affect on me, and I'd love to discuss it with someone. It's available now on Netflix Instant Streaming for those with a stout heart.

A Picture-Blog Story, Being of the Kind Not Generally Recommended for Children and/or Strictly Carnivores

2011-09-08T10:32:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time there was a plot of land. That's not the same thing as saying that the land had its own agenda and that it was full of scheming. There are plots of land like that, but this is not that kind of story. So if you want that kind of story, just pack your things and find yourself a different Source, cause this one ain't gonna yield to you, Mr.-Evil-Soils Person.

Anyway, it was a dark and stormy night one day and there was a plot of land 'neath the clouded, clear skies. Now the skies aren't duplicates, they just are. Jive? And on this land a man worked the ground and planted crops. He took his hoe and brutalized the faithless dirt. He garnered his seeds and spread them in the ground. He tapped into the vast reservoir beneath his property and watered the now victimized land, and in the end he saw that it was good. And when he finished there, he was so pleased with himself that he found another victim and assaulted it, too.

As los dias passed, the man watched his creation gingerly. The man was especially good at watching things gingerly, as his glorious mane atop his smooth head once was a radiant rojo. Alas, now only a beard of ruddy brown and auburn exists. But he watched his plots develop, exposition pouring out into conflicts, lecherous invaders fighting to overthrow the planted seeds and tended ground, the rising action cascading into a calamitous climax of angry fingers and wicked instruments, strewn dirt and black compost, an angry sol and a bitter, cloudless, rainless cielo.

An event so important to the story of the man, so life changing that it deserves to be boldfaced and underlined, happened upon him quite expectantly, though somehow altogether unexpected when it did. This event is intertwined with the plot of land, as it drew the man away from his plots for a time. Where once he cared (gingerly) and tended, his presence was suddenly gone, leaving the lone crops unprotected from the wretched invaders. And when he returned, his precious plots were overran and nigh vanquished. The invaders had won. In fury, the man threw himself at the plots, greedy fingers pulling anew, rending many of the new inhabitants to pieces for their sins. He fought valiantly, but the war had been decided and he had been defeated.

His heart left the plots then and he went off to spend his time with the aftermath of the aforementioned event. And the plots of land grew lonely. The sun burned fiercer. The clouds scoffed in their stingy pride. From time to time the man would remember his plots and tend to them with water and a fleeting, uninterested attempt of ousting.

And anon came the day of betrayal, when the man decided to once again victimize his subdued plots. He stole from their weakness great bulbs of onions, crooked limbs of carrots, balls of tomatoes, noses of squash, bells of peppers, and handfuls of herbs. The time of reckoning was at hand, and they were found in need. The man prepared his crops, baptizing them gently in the cool waters of Faucet. He lay them on the altar and then picked up the CutToTheBonePamperedChef Knife. And without a second thought, he began his slaughter. Ruthlessly, he also sacrificed the captured prisoners of potato and celery alongside his own beloved.

When the sacrifice was finished, the man coated the pieces with oil and pepper, a bit of salt, and a dab of butter. He then threw them in the wok and gave them over to the god of StoveTop Heat. Time passed, steam rose, the foreigner named Arroz was added, and the crops died again at this third betrayal.

After it was all over, the man partitioned out pieces of the sacrifice and filled two bowls. He then gave thanks to God for the food, handed one to his wife, and commenced the final betrayal.

fin.

Bloodlines, a Review

2011-09-07T09:44:00.000-05:00

Racism is not dead. Despite what you may think about the issue--from those that see our modern day America as a glorious fondue of ethnic delights to those that see through the smokescreen a bit too readily--racism is certainly not dead. For many of us, though, it is. We live in our content bubbles, satisfied with the status of ethnic diversity in America. Look at how far we've come, we say. Slavery abolished. Equal rights for all. Amen, and I'm thankful to God that we've come at least that far. But the question I raise, and one that John Piper points to in his latest book Bloodlines, is look how far we've still got to go.

Bloodlines is an engaging and provocative book. Piper, respected globally as a passionate man of God, sets out to show how racial harmony and embracing ethnic diversity are Biblically sound doctrines and ultimately glorifying to God. He takes on several of the modern controversies surrounding race and addresses everything with the Bible. Indeed, he steps up and writes with blunt passion, even when it's difficult to do so. But as he says,

This deeply felt sense of race as a continuing, painful, and pervasive issue in America means that talking about race continues to be difficult. The feelings run very deep and very high. If your skin is thin...hold your tongue. But holding our tongues does not usually advance understanding, deepen respect, warm the affections, or motivate action.

Yes, if we want change, if we want a greater respect of our fellow man, then we cannot hold our tongues, and thankfully Piper doesn't.

I think Bloodlines is an easy read, in that Piper is honest in his desire. He writes of growing up in South Carolina and of the racial sins he had to overcome, and only so by the blood of Jesus. And when he went into ministry he intentionally chose a region (Twin Cities area in Minnesota) that is one of the most ethnically diverse in the nation. He has lived there for over thirty years, passionate about diversity and harmony and exalting God. These things give credence to the points Piper raises, and hopefully many see his words as truth.

The book begins with Piper telling why he's wrote Bloodlines, and then he follows with several statistics and the current shape of racism in America. One of the most staggering statistics:

Homicide is the number one cause of death for black men between fifteen and twenty-nine years of age and has been for decades.

After the statistical dump, Piper then dives into many of the current theories and resources surrounding racism. I was ignorant of many of these names and sources, but Piper definitely was not. I found this bit fascinating, reading what many leading minds think about the "Whys" and "Hows" of racism.

The remainder of the book focuses on why a united people celebrating diversity and living peaceably is glorifying to God. Most of us are ignorant of our racism, and I suspect many of us would be appalled at ourselves if our secret thoughts were revealed. The blame is ours, but it's also the many generations before us. America has a dark history, one that misused Scripture to propel a false agenda that led to many sins, and we've still not recovered from this.

It's important to note that throughout everything, Piper never strays from the gospel of Jesus Christ. With a multitude of verses to back up his thesis, it's eye opening to see how uninvolved so many of us are. Racial harmony is not the most important issue for a person, but it is an issue that should be pursued by some. Piper feels this way, as do many members and staff at Bethlehem Baptist Church. Just read this article (How and Why Bethlehem Pursues Ethnic Diversity) to understand that.

Bloodlines is a thought-stirring book that brings up many strong arguments for why the fight against racism should be faced. While most of us don't feel like race is an issue to concern ourselves with, consider the following.

Since majority people don't think of themselves in terms of race, none of our dysfunctions is viewed as a racial dysfunction. When you are the majority ethnicity, nothing you do is ethnic. It's just the way it's done. When you are a minority, everything you do has color.

The words are true, and the implications staggering. We are all creatures of race. Whether majority or minority, we all share a common earthly bloodline, and that makes us all brothers and sisters. Praise God that we can all share a common heavenly bloodline, too, that of Jesus Christ, and it's only through His blood can we hope to have unity.

The Way of Kings Group Read: Conclusion

2011-09-05T02:41:00.000-05:00

Here we are at the end of the group read. Well, the relative end. This was my first experience with a group read, and I enjoyed it quite a bit, though it also caused some undue stress, too. Perhaps if the tome wasn't so massive that stress part wouldn't be there. With a twelve-week old daughter in the house, reading was often pushed aside to bedtime throughout the week and a two/three hour stint on the weekend. Even so, I felt like I was spending too much time in Sanderson's world and not enough in my own, and I think the pace of this group read was too rigorous for me, though honestly the natural breaks in the book made for perfect discussion sections.

Anyway, this week's questions are brought by Suey of It's All About Books. Like every week, you can also check the main read along page for other blog links.

In addition to the supplied questions, I've thrown up a few of my own at the end, musing aloud. There are also some supplemental links for any that are interested in such things.

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It seems like every main character had a little wrap up chapter in this section, with each section ending on a bit of a cliff hanger. What do you think? Do you appreciate these cliff hangers or do they make you crazy? Did you predict some of them, or have no idea they were coming? Did one of them stand out as most surprising?

There were enough conclusions to leave me satisfied, and enough cliffhangers to leave me eager. Cliffhangers don't bother me, and even less so when I think on how productive and meticulous Sanderson is.

I loved Dalinar's ending to his visions. He learned that God had been killed, for crying out loud! What does this mean to the religious people? And as for the Voidbringers being parshmen and Parshendi... holy cow. I knew there was something about the parshmen, but I couldn't quite figure out what. The King's horrible acts were also surprising, though his motivation uninspired. I did love how it was his notes we'd been reading. Out of everything, I'm surprised Dalinar is still alive, though there was no doubt that he was on a collision course with Szeth.

Did the book leave you with an overall satisfied feeling, or are you left with too many unanswered questions? If so, what are some of the questions bothering you the most?

I guess I kind of answered this above. What are the implications of God being dead? Does that mean that Jasnah's atheism is correct, but also incorrect, too? And what's the deal with Shadesmar? (See my thoughts on this at the bottom.) I'm also wondering why Syl dislikes the Shardblades and how the blades differ from the Dawnshards/Honorblades. And where the heck is Gaz?

After I finished the book, I immediately re-read the Prelude, and everything made more sense this time around.

What did you think of the book ending with a Wit chapter? Did you understand what he was trying to say? What does this chapter mean in relation to the rest of the series?

As I've mentioned before, the Hoid phenomenon is of particular fascination. Thus, I was on edge throughout the entire chapter. He basically seemed to be speaking in prophecy, telling the men to be ready for the Everstorm (or whatever it's called). I did find his speech slightly confusing, though, and I'm not sure I fully understand his logical conclusion. I'm sure he'll show up in latter books.

If someone asked you what this book is about... how would you answer them? In just two or three sentences!

The Way of Kings is a Brandon Sanderson novel. If you read a lot of fantasy, then you know who Sanderson is. If not, then you need to get your hands on everything this man's written. Then I would punch the person in the face for their ignorance...

The Way of Kings is an epic tale that's unlike any epic fantasy you've ever read. Magic is returning to the world, but with it comes terrible dangers that threaten the very existence of everyone in Roshar. If you want a story with realistic characters in an unforgettable setting, then this book is for you.

And finally (even though I suspect I know everyone’s answer) will you be reading the rest of this series? Will you be there the day it comes out? Or just whenever? Will you be recommending this to others?

Absolutely. I'll probably pre-order the Kindle edition and dive in as soon as I can. Then I'll likely pick up the beautiful hardcovers (when they're cheaper) throw them on the shelf just for completionist's sake.

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Brandon Sanderson has just uploaded the images from the books onto his website. Looking at these images makes me wonder the significance of the maps, as well as the grids of glyphpairs. There's no doubt Sanderson has painstakingly crafted a purposeful geography for Roshar, so I've been thinking about them. What do you all make of the maps/grids?

I'm guessing Shadesmar is the mirror opposite of Roshar. This makes sense considering symmetry is such an important part (and holy attribute) of Vorinism. If Roshar exists, then there must be an opposite realm, too, so maybe Shadesmar is un-Roshar? I'm particularly interested in the names on the Shadesmar map. The Seas of "Regret, Souls, and Lost Lights." (Notice that the physical location of these Seas directly correlate to the landmasses of Roshar. So where there's land in Roshar, there's water in Shadesmar, and we keep the balance.)

I'm equally intrigued about the Nexuses of Truth, Transition, and Imagination. A nexus is "A connection or series of connections linking two or more things." Considering what happened with Shallan, she told a Truth and then boom, she was in Shadesmar. Maybe these three nexuses are the ways into Shadesmar and the ways to Soulcasting.

As for the grids, they must represent the magic system somehow. Certain glyphpairs stand for certain powers, such as Lashing. We don't know which ones are what. What I'm wondering is how the two grids (assuming there are two distinct grids) are related.

Keeping symmetry in mind, I find the existence of a safehand being covered oddly disturbing. If every woman must keep her safehand covered (look at the illustration of the woman surrounding the maps), then no woman dresses symmetrically. Does this strike you as peculiar?

I think I may be reading too much into this one, but it still seems odd. I mean, for the most part, I assume nearly everybody dresses symmetrically (including us!), and throwing on one glove just throws the whole thing out of balance. It probably doesn't mean anything, but it's just odd considering the Alethi culture.

Brandon did a Q&A session on Goodreads back last year after the book was released. Reading through the questions generate some avenues of discussion. Some of my favorites:

Does the scene where Shallan is counting heartbeats mean what I think it means?

"It means what you think it means."

What happened to Gaz? After some character development he just vanishes in chapter 59 without further explanation. Will he be back on the next books?

"I'm planning for you to find out what happened to Gaz. There are sufficient clues that you can guess."

Will there be flashbacks for a different character in this next book?

"Yes. Each book will explore a different character in flashbacks, though Kaladin will also end up getting another book with flashbacks of his sometime down the line."

Final thoughts. If you've not read the Mistborn series, then I think you are missing out here. There are events of such magnitude that happen between the books that I cannot help but see their relation to one another. Any of you read the Mistborn trilogy? If not, I think you should before then next installment comes out for the Stormlight Archive. Sanderson's not worldbuilding, he's universebuilding...

R.I.P. VI

2011-08-31T09:12:00.000-05:00

Ah, September, you come in like a lusty youth and leave like an aged hag. Wait. It's still August. Erm...

Ah, August, your love is as unforgiving as an oven and a splash of grease from the griddle. Like your nefarious cousin July, your vendetta against humans of the Northern Hemisphere is uncalled for and bothersome. Would it be too much to ask for a reprieve? No? September, you say. Bah. If that's so, then I can wait another day. I'm sure the battle 'twixt the two of you will be heated (pun alert!) and fierce, but there's no doubt that September will prove victorious. And with her vict'ry comes Autumn.

Autumn, of course, brings about deep stirrings in the heart. The rush of summer dies (there are no dog days, alas) and the calming, dying, beautiful season of Fall begins. One cannot help but turn to books of a darker nature in these times, and this is where the R.eaders I.mbibing P.eril Challenge comes in. For the last five years, Carl has hosted this "challenge" for the purpose of enjoying the darker types of writing. Mystery. Suspense. Thrillers. Dark Fantasy. Horror. Gothic. Supernatural. The things that keep you up late at night, afraid to turn a page, but unable to stop.

Last year was the first time I participated in a RIP challenge, and it proved fun and contagious. There was no doubt I would be signing up again. Even without Carl's challenge, this is the season where this type of reading calls to me strongest.

I am officially signing up for Peril, the Second. The challenge is to read two books that meet the classifications (of which are widely variable). I intend on dipping into Poe or Lovecraft for some short stories, as well, and possibly some graphic novels, too. (Carl, methinks there should be a Peril, the Graphica or something...) With a new baby, I can't say for sure whether or not I'll meet the challenge, but I think it should be no problem.

To Be ~~Read~~ Imbibed

House of Leaves, by Mark Danielewski

In Cold Blood, by Truman Capote

The Walking Dead Volumes 11-14, by Robert Kirkman

House of Leaves has been on my TBR shelf for a double-plus long time. I'm a sucker for unique formats, and idly flipping through the book a few years back I knew I'd have to read it at some point. Likewise, Capote's In Cold Blood is such a defining work of art in the "true crime" genre that I've wanted to read it for a while. I suspect this will be the most horrifying of all that I read, knowing that the accounts therein are true and could very well happen again. I also hope to continue in Robert Kirkman's bleak-but-hopeful Walking Dead series, as it's been a while since I last dove into these waters.

If your heart has an affinity for the darker side and you'd like to join in the fun, you can check out Carl's post for a full set of instructions. Or, if you'd rather just read people's reviews and get some more books for your TBR pile, you can do that to.

The Way of Kings Group Read: Week Four

2011-08-29T09:49:00.000-05:00

The questions this week come from Kailana (her blog here). The main blog link is here.
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Lord have mercy what an amazing read this part was. It took everything in my power to stop at the beginning of Part Five and not look ahead. Of course, I'll probably finish the book tonight, but that's okay...

One thing that I have thinking about during the course of this book is what Brandon Sanderson is trying to say about religion. Jasnah is an atheist. Shallan believes, but is still trying to find herself. Dalinar believes strongly in the ‘Old Ways’. What do you think of this idea?

Religion is a common theme in all of Sanderson's fantasy novels, and it seems like I remember hearing Brandon mention something about how this is an important topic to him in an interview of old. For tWoK, I'm digging the religious tones. I love how vague everything is. The arguments between Jasnah and Shallan were both sound and logical, leaving the Almighty's existence up in the air. But there is so much more than Vorinism in Roshar, and it seems that these other "religions" have some credence to them, too. Our minds are inclined to thinking in absolutes and exclusions--there's either one thing or another, but not both--but this doesn't seem the case in Roshar. And that makes for some excellent plot elements.

The relationship between siblings is an important part of this book. Adolin has always been at the forefront of Dalinar’s two sons, but Renarin is important, too. What did you think of the two brothers? Going back a generation, what do think of Dalinar and our glimpses of his brother? Then there is Kaladin who joins the war to protect his brother and fails. And Jasnah whose brother is King. Or Shallan who puts herself in a dangerous situation to help her brothers out following her fathers’ death. What do you think of these relationships? Did any stick out for you?

Renarin and Adolin are the two that stick out the most. Both are young and malleable, and I'm intrigued at where they will end up. Somehow I don't see Renarin staying a sickly, weak lad throughout the whole series. (In honesty, for some reason I was expecting him to play a trump card after Dalinar's return and somehow be working with Sadeas, and I'm glad that didn't turn out.) I do love the brothers theme this book has, though, because I have a younger brother, and our relationship is strong, but it could definitely be stronger. So I enjoy reading the emotions and whatnot felt by these characters relating to their siblings.

Kaladin has been included in every section. Why do you think this was? Did you wish to have a break from him, or did you enjoy knowing he would be explored with every section?

I'm assuming it's because Kaladin is the central hero of the series(?), but it could just be that he had more ground he needed to cover in tWoK and won't be as prevalent in subsequent novels. Even so, his parts were definitely the most exciting, and I'm glad he's been in every section.

One of my favourite characters in the book is Syl. What do you think of her and her development throughout the course of this book?

Agreed. Syl's development has been fascinating. The fact that she knows so much stuff and yet cannot remember makes for good storytelling. And there's no doubt that the spren are heavily involved in the magics and whatnot of Roshar. It'll be cool to learn more about these quasi-visible creatures and how they fit into the big picture.

And, the big question, what do you think is going to happen in the last section? Any predictions?

This was why I stopped reading before the final section. I enjoy postulating. Looking back on the last two week's discussion, I assumed Dalinar would die. Now I'm no longer certain of this. Possibly some point down the road he will, but I was honestly expecting it here in the opening volume. (I'm glad I'm wrong... so far.) Even so, knowing that Szeth has a hit list of high names, Dalinar could very well be a target on that list, and I wouldn't be too shocked if he dies in the last part, especially since we know Szeth is in the final part.

I'm hoping Shallan continues her stay with Jasnah, but who knows what'll happen there. And as for Kaladin and his men, I don't think they'll be staying with Dalinar's troops for too long. (Well, maybe some bridgemen will, but surely Kaladin will go off for some sort of adventure.)

I can't wait to finish the last forty pages or so and see what kind of cliffhanger Sanderson's gonna leave us with.

Things About Logan (Part 5)

2011-08-24T09:15:00.001-05:00

It's been a long time since I've done one of these posts.

Part 1 is here. Part 2 is here. Part 3 is here. Part 3 (again) is here. Part 4 is here.

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i. I eat onions, though as a child I swore I never would.
iii. There is a thing called Transcendental Folk music. There is a band called Elephant Revival. I now own their second album.
v. I like my Kindle more than I ever imagined I would.
one. The line is drawn, the curse it is cast...
vii. Holding Avonlea and rocking her to sleep at night is one great joy that I cannot describe.
ix. Imagine the grossest thing you've ever done/had done to you. Now multiply that by around forty-six or so. Now throw in a dog and, uhm, doggy byproduct. Let's say that I win.
xi. I abandoned Facebook. My account's still open (for those that read Rememorandom there), but I'm not planning on coming back.
xiii. My faith has been challenged more this year than any year ever before, like I'm being refined in a forge fire. This is exciting, yet also un-fun.
two. The slow one now will later be fast...
xv. I'm pretty sure that there are no ugly characters in The Great Hunt. Everybody is uncannily beautiful.
xvii. A few weeks ago I took a razor blade to my head. Since then, I've repeated this process weekly. I love having a bald head. (Keisha does not.)
xix. I've got a stack of books to review from publishers/authors, and I don't have much time to devote to them at the moment.
three. As the present now will later be past...
xxi. Big meeting next week, kinda making me nervy, as they always do.
xxiii. I'm still reading the Fables comics, and it's the only one I actually take time to go to the comic shop and purchase.
xxv. Stella cut her cornea a while back, but it's mostly healed.
xxvii. I make my own trail mix. Holla.
four. The order is rapidly fadin'...
xxix. Currently reading The Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson, Bloodlines by John Piper, Don't Check Your Brains at the Door by Josh McDowell, the Book of Second Kings and Second Chronicles by God, and The Great Hunt by Robert Jordan. I'm starting A Dance With Dragons tomorrow, methinks.
xxxi. Sometimes I get emails from people asking me to review a book and I can tell that they've never spent any time on my blog. The insincerity is easy to spot. But sometimes I get respectful-and-sincere emails, where the sender at least pretends like they're trying. I'm much more likely to say yes with the latter.
xxxiii. That's a long Roman Numeral.
five. And the first one now will later be last...
xxxv. I love Monday Night Tennis league.
xxxvii. I wish OBKY was a bike-friendly city.
xxxix. Parentheses are definitely the best of the punctuation marks.
xli. The word ampersand (&) originates from us having an open-ended alphabet, concluding with "...X, Y, Z and per se and." This morphed to "...X, Y, and Z" somehow, and the & at the end dropped off. Fascinating.
six. Oh the times they are a-changin.
xliii. I've memorized over fifty verses of Scripture so far for 2011, putting me at about the halfway mark.
xlv. Skyrim is in the future, and so is the new Zelda game, but I shan't buy either, as gaming has practically ceased to exist. I've still not beat New Vegas...
xlvii. I make monstrous Excel sheets with lots of useful/useless information.
xlix. Seems like a good stopping point.

The Way of Kings Group Read: Week Three

2011-08-22T09:20:00.000-05:00

Forgive me for the lack of introduction, but let's jump straight to the root of the matter. If you'd like to read more responses to this week's questions, head to the main Group Read site (here). This week's questions come from Memory.

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"Books can store information better than we can--what we do that books cannot is interpret." (Page 462)

"He couldn't know how long it lasted; time had no meaning in this place of fury and tumult." (Page 520)

"Was it possible to do something horrible in the name of accomplishing something wonderful?" (Page 532)*

"It might be religion, but it still has to make sense." (Page 635)

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Part III reunites us with Shallan, who we haven't seen for a few hundred pages, and separates us from Dalinar and Adolin for a few hundred more. How do you feel about leaving characters behind for such long stretches? Did you lose any of your connection to them during the break?

The splitting of the characters is slightly frustrating, but not to the point where it's detrimental to my enjoyment of the story. I say frustrating because I'd like to stick with the characters longer and follow their story, but then at the same time, there's likely little-or-nothing going on with them at the times Sanderson gives us different POVs. Maybe he's just cutting out the redundant fluff that doesn't really add to the main story when he omits POVs?

So far, how would you compare this to other epic fantasies you've read? Does it remind you of any other series?

Compared with other epic fantasies I've read, Sanderson's world and tale is definitely fresh and unique. It defies many traditional cliches, but at the same time it resonates with the general "feeling" epic fantasy gives off. Oddly enough, the other books it reminds me of are also by Brandon Sanderson: Mistborn, Elantris, and Warbreaker. Nothing major really connects these, but the way Lashing works instantly brings to mind Vin Pushing and Pulling in Mistborn. The Shardblades remind me of the fascinating sword Nightblood in Warbreaker. And the glyphs (and symbolheads?) are bringing back imagery from Elantris and the language used there. I think this is more than mere coincidence, but I can't say why exactly.

How do you feel about the masculine and feminine arts? If you're female, do you think you'd be content to stick to scholarly pursuits, or would you rather do something physical, like go to war? If you're male, would you be willing to forgo learning to read, even if there were women around to read to you? What about the food? Does the spicy for men and sweet for women restriction fit your own tastes?

I love this part of the Alethi culture. It's reminiscent of our culture's history, but it's vastly different, too. Sexism doesn't seem to exist for the people, and yet to our liberated 21st century American minds, the whole thing screams its wrongness.

I say that I would be willing to shirk the soldiering life for a scholarly one, but I'm unsure whether or not I really would. It would have to depend on which nahn I was in, whether or not I was a lighteyes or darkeyes, and whether or not I wanted glory (which I can't see myself wanting) or simplicity. An ardent's life sounds appetizing, but I'm not sure how sinister these people are yet. I do find the dissolution of the masculine/feminine arts in the ardentia an interesting fact.

I picture a lot of the food like Indian foods. Curried, heavily spiced, and naan for bread. As it just so happens, I love Indian food, so this works for me. (Of course, I also love ice cream and chocolate chip cookies, and I would be sad not have these.)

Oh, I also think it's pretty clever that the women write their own subtext after a man's dictation. This opens the doors for all kinds of disagreements in the texts. (And I think it's obvious now that these opening bits of the chapters are coming from books Shallan/Jasnah/Someone is researching, and could very well be their own notes? I'm not sure if the death-quotes fit this category, but they could... The letter for Part Two doesn't, though, unless it's something one of them read?)

What do you think of the flashbacks to Kaladin's childhood?

At first I didn't care too much for them, but as they've progressed, I grew more and more intrigued. I love that Kaladin is a surgeon, trained in healing arts with a healer's mindset, and yet he's a renown warrior.

When I was reading the last few flashbacks, as time was drawing closer to the present, I kept waiting to see what would happen to Tien. It's amazing that Sanderson's not told exactly what went down, but we've enough of an idea that Tien's death utterly changed the young healer-soldier. And then when Kaladin faced down the Shardbearer! Breathtaking. I can't believe we've gone this long into the novel and just now found this out, but it's omission from Kaladin's thoughts imply truly how much he hates the lighteyes.

Do you have any theories yet as to where the story is headed? What do you most want to see in the last quarter of the book?

I've got theories a-plenty. Dalinar will die. I just don't see him living. Adolin will step into his place, possibly, or the young Kholin will have to leave the Shattered Plains for some reason. Dalinar's death could come by Szeth's hand (which seems possible), or it could come from Sadeas (which seems possible). Kaladin and his men will rise up, but like the times before, many of them will die, but Kaladin will escape. He may get some Shards by the end, and surely he'll end up working alongside Adolin at some point, where his opinions of lighteyes will have to change. Shallan will tell Jasnah about her visions before she leaves and the woman will allow Shallan to stay on because of her sight into whatever the symbolheads are. I have no clue about them, other than they're somehow connected to Soulcasting.

Odium reigns. This Odium must be the series' main antagonist, but I don't see it as a Dark Lord archetype, though I could be wrong. Odium may be using Szeth's new masters to accomplish its chaos and destruction of Roshar.

I am eager to see more Szeth, of course, but even more so eager to find out more about the symbolheads and about Kaladin's apparent use of Stormlight. Sadly, I don't think we'll get much more of Shallan until possibly the final part of the book. Kal, though. That'll be fun.

Miscellaneous thoughts: Kabsal's poisoning was an unexpected twist. Who was he working with? The deathspren are slightly terrifying. And what the heck's going on with these bridgemen? Teft and his mysterious knowledge of what Kaladin is. Sigzil (I think that's who it was) and his aversion to Worldsingers? And the one-armed crazy-happy Lopen? Jeez! Kaladin Stormblessed, indeed. Oh, and Kal's surviving the storm was rather exciting, too, I might add.

I'm really enjoying The Way of Kings. The book keeps me interested, and I really feel like we've only got the faintest notions of what's ahead of us. I see nine more books of great storytelling and beautiful worldbuilding.
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*I've noticed that this theme crops up in an awful lot of books and movies, and I suppose it's because it makes for compelling characters.

Deep Sorrow and a Hollow Heart

2011-08-16T11:38:00.000-05:00

Maybe it's from having just finished Ecclesiastes this morning that I find myself so burdened. The heaviness in my heart is real, and how to proceed is abstract. It's easy to look around and see the Church--that is the Bride of Christ, not the local building--failing in so many ways. In a sample of a hundred churches, one hundred of them will be filled with problems. Strife among brothers and sisters. Gossiping. Hatred. Pride. Lust. These are to be expected, as we're all still human and not yet made perfect, but the fact that there doesn't seem to be any desire to change is sickening.

Last night I was involved in a regional church meeting. Between the two counties involved, there were 56 churches represented, with 266 voters present. The issue was to decide whether or not to kick a church (Journey Fellowship) out of the association. Why? Because their building is used by the local PFLAG group. That's it. There is no relationship between the church and PFLAG other than the fact that the church allows their facility to be open and available. In effect, this church is saying Welcome, we love you, and we don't judge. In fact, the church goes on to profess "radical unconditional acceptance," something that many churches look down on.

Considering that the meeting even took place, I felt like the situation was already lose-lose. Instead of brothers and sisters of Jesus standing up and loving on one another, there was a meeting to disfellowship a church because they were loving on people. So in a crowd of 350+ people, displayed to media from here to far, I watched the Church fight*. It was civil, yes, but it felt to me an underlying wave of hatred and judgment. Speakers voiced their affirmation of the motion (to remove the church) and then speakers voiced their opposition (to keep the church in). Back and forth this went, passionate words flying from both sides, maintaining rules of order, borderline chaos, people "Amen-ing" and shaking their heads.

The call to vote came. Oddly, in order to vote we had to vote whether or not we could even commence with voting. Once that passed, someone called for secret ballot. This vote failed, and we then proceeded to stand up and cast our votes publicly. Of the 266 voters, 242 voted to disfellowship this church. The only ones that voted to keep them in was the representatives from the accused church and four of us from my church (so the other four from my church either didn't vote or voted in favor).

Then, awkwardly, the order of the meeting called for ballot tabulating time, because I suppose it was thought the vote would be secret ballot. So during this time, we sat uncomfortably aware of the results while pretending that we didn't know. A man led the congregation in a song, singing "People Need the Lord," and the words sounded hollow and fake. People need the Lord unless you're gay. People need the Lord but not all. People need the Lord but find Him outside the church. People need the Lord let's pretend like we love each other. People need the Lord let's all judge our brothers. People need the Lord....

The meeting adjourned soon after, people spreading like ants funneling through a crack in the wall. We talked to the reps from the now disfellowshipped church, telling them we appreciated what they were doing, offering prayer and encouragement.

This whole things is deeply disappointing on so many levels. It shows how fragile our Church is. It shows how far we've fallen. The fact that a church cannot have a support group is ridiculous. How is PFLAG any different than AA or any other accountability group**? I'm of the opinion that people don't like it when sins are public. We prefer keeping them to ourselves, sitting comfortably in our pews and silently looking down on everybody else. We're a white, middle-classed church, born to outdated traditions and indoctrinated with prejudices. We don't like it when our customs are rocked or when our cultures change. Thus, we're a dying, stagnant Church. We fail at reaching the lost because we can't get over their sins, all the while ignoring our own. We don't reach out and help people because we're lazy, uncaring, and satisfied with our own salvation. Last I checked, Jesus spent most of His time on earth with the less-than-reputable people, the whores and liars, the outcasts and abused. Instead, we want air-conditioned buildings, thirty-minute sermons, and clean and fake members. We don't want real. We want facades.

This is the state of Christianity today. It's to a point where a new word needs to be used for those of us that follow Jesus Christ and His teachings. The Church is called to love everyone, to reach the unsaved, to make disciples, to spread God's Gospel to the ends of the earth. How can we do that when our church's doors are closed? When the doors of the church are closed, the hearts of its members are, too. And if Christians are a close-hearted people, we've removed Jesus from our beliefs, and if that's the case, then I guess I'm not a Christian.

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*I imagine the Bride as an abused, delusional, schizophrenic, bi-polar bigot that spreads Her legs for anyone other than Her Husband. She's married to a Savior that died for everyone--chiefly Her--and yet She spends Her time with the World and Its thinking. She has a Husband that embodies love, but She prefers a world that spits on Her and slaps Her around.

**Just because a church building is used by a group does not mean that the church adheres to the group's philosophy. However, perception is everything, and people perceive that since Journey is allowing PFLAG to use its building that they believe all of PFLAG's tenets, regardless whether that's the case or not.

The Way of Kings Group Read: Week Two

2011-08-15T09:15:00.000-05:00

Very little in the way of an intro for this week. Carl, one of the best spoken gents on the internet, as well as proprietor of Stainless Steel Droppings, has taken helm of this week's questions. You can follow his blog here. Also feel free to check out the Read Along headquarters to see more responses.

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"Kaladin was like a moldy crust on a starving man's plate; not the first bite, but still doomed." (Page 263)

"A man's emotions are what define him, and control is the hallmark of true strength. To lack feeling is to be dead, but to act on every feeling s to be a child." (Page 377)

In a recent interview Brandon Sanderson mentioned that the interludes are meant to show us parts of the larger world since much of the action is focused in one or two places. What do you think of the first two sets of interludes? Any characters or situations stand out to you?

Szeth the Truthless is definitely one of the most interesting characters so far. His powers are fascinating, but the mystery that surrounds him--what exactly is a Truthless? why is he in the state he's in? who's he gonna kill next?--is pure brilliant. I feel quite sympathetic for him, but I'm not exactly sure why.

I'm equally fascinated by Hoid, a man who's only barely been mentioned thus far, during the first Interlude. Hoid is a unique character in Sanderson's cosmere, as he (or a man named Hoid) has appeared in all of Sanderson's original fantasy novels so far. Sanderson has hinted that his books all share the same universe, and I suppose that this Hoid is somehow more important than we currently know.

In small increments Brandon Sanderson is revealing the geology and ecology of Roshar. What are your thoughts on what has been revealed thus far?

The Shattered Plains are mesmerizing. I love the plateaus and how the armies cross them (bridges, poles, or jumping). The chasms make peril imminent for anyone forgetful or clumsy, even posing dangers to Shardbearers. This is a brilliant setting for the novel, methinks.

In particular I'm intrigued by the highstorms and the crem that falls with the rain. Professionally, I work with rainfall and flooding, and the fact that rain in Roshar is poisonous and heavily polluted is another brilliant world-feature of Way of Kings. I can imagine the stalactites forming on unkempt houses, or worse, sticking to a condemned man forced to weather a highstorm.

Other than that, there are so many minor tweaks that make Roshar what it is that I'm sure I keep forgetting things, picturing an Earth-like world as opposed to the one the story's actually in. Multiple moons. Rockbuds. Strange grass. Orange, blue, and purple wine! Craziness.

This second section of The Way of Kings featured two distinct story lines, those of Dalinar and of Kaladin. How do you feel this section of the book compares with the first section and what are your thoughts on either or both of these story lines?

No cabe duda, the second section blew the first one out of the water. The fight with the chasmfiend was thrilling (no pun intended). The politics of the warcamp intriguing. The visions of Dalinar baffling. And Kaladin's renewed zeal encouraging. Dalinar, and indirectly, Adolin, show one side of the war effort, and Kaladin shows the polar opposite. This dichotomy is well played and very informative to the reader.

In particular, Dalinar's visions make him another sympathetic character, though less so that Szeth. Sadly, I don't see him lasting much longer. His age (and his decision to abdicate to Adolin) all but beg someone to assassinate or duel him.

I also really liked Kal's flashback scenes. I love that he's a trained surgeon and that he's a gifted warrior. Again, the conflicting views and motives make for great storytelling.

In the interview set out earlier in the week Sanderson talked about the Stormlight Archive being a series about the return of magic. What are your thoughts on this, particularly in relation to the visions Dalinar is having during the highstorms?

I like this approach to fantasy. Typically we see magic dying off and leaving the lands, often relegated to arcane sciences and superstition. Here, magic definitely has birthed mythology, but also religion. The Heralds and the Radiants and Voidbringers are definitely magical, but so are the Shards and Soulcasting. People understand that these things are mystical, and while they're not prevalent, they're at least present.

Sanderson has an open door for where he can go with the return of magic. Perhaps more and more people will start having visions (like Dalinar, though to me he seems chosen for a reason), or more Shards will be found or the plethora of gemhearts will lead to more Soulcasters. Dalinar's visions must be foreshadowing, and if that's the shape of things to come, the rest of the book/series will be phenomenal.

There has been a change in this second section of the nature of the quotes prior to the beginning of each chapter. What are your thoughts on the opening lines featured in both sections of the book to this point?

I think everyone must have forgot about the pre-chapter quotes last week. I meant to say something, but it slipped my mind. Book One's quotes have me perplexed. Who is keeping these things recorded? Do all men and women get some sort of erratic "vision" when they die? Are they somehow related to the spren? Soulcasting? This, coupled with Kaladin hearing a dying bridgeman's last words, have me eager to find out the importance of these quotes.

Book Two's pre-quotes were in the form of a letter. I wasn't as intrigued by them, though they did offer some insight (albeit obfuscated and minuscule) to the world. I particularly liked the section written to the immortal recipient.

These quotes and letter will undoubtedly be important to the Stormlight Archive, I'm just not sure if we'll find out their significance in The Way of Kings.

In the questions for these first two sections we've talked about characters and the story lines and the world that Sanderson has created, but there are a lot of interesting flourishes and touches to The Way of Kings thus far (shardplate, spren, the actual "Way of Kings" book, highstorms, etc.). Talk about some of the non-character/non-setting things that you are finding either fascinating or annoying (or both) in the book thus far.

Like last week, the spren are still holding my attention. I cannot dismiss their importance in the grand scheme of things. Syl's fluttering insights and fuzzy memories seem to point to something, but what that something is I can't grasp.

I'm also very curious to learn more about Dalinar's purging of his wife's memory from his mind. How is this possible? And what implications does this have for the rest of the world? And, dang it, are the spren somehow involved here?

On spren, Axies the Collector and his hunt to find all the spren just whets my appetite. Does this Axies know Hoid? Are there beings that are charged to observe things throughout the worlds and archive them or something?

On Language and Words

2011-08-11T09:52:00.000-05:00

I have long been fascinated by language. It's complexity is mind-shattering, and yet it's simplicity is something most babies learn early on. Language is not confined to any one medium, and I'm of the opinion that anything that translates communication from one sender to a receiver makes use of language.

I suppose my love of language is in large part why I love to write (and read). Words are powerful. I mean, God created the cosmos with His Words. Man has created kings and queens from their fealty. Revolutions have sparked from concealed messages. There's no doubt that words are powerful. As a writer (I say that like I'm some sort of professional), I feel like I have a vast tapestry of words before me, waiting to be taken and abused. Often we use these words in traditional formats, obeying common grammatical rules and syntax. But personally, I prefer pushing the boundaries of what's deemed normal and play with the words I use. It's a you have to know the rules before you can break them mentality.

The English language is extremely interesting. A part of me loathes it with such a deep passion that at times I wish it did not exist. This is rare, but it happens. The majority of my thinking, though, is that I'm glad English is my native language, even if it is the American dialect. So many of our idioms make no sense when you put a second's thought in them. And the plethora of words that have multiple meanings is simply astounding. Off the cuff I'm sure I could come up with a score of 'em.

But the more and more I think about the language, the more I wish I had taken some sort of linguistics class in college. Studying etymology* and learning the down-and-dirty history of words would be of great benefit to the way my brain thinks. (For that matter, I wish that I had taken some sort of creative writing class, or a class on European folklore or something. Alas, the engineering school gave me no time for such trivialities.) The way language has refined itself over the course of history just sounds interesting to me.

And then there's the slew of problems with language. It's ultimately a flawed system, because humans are too complex, too intricate, for words to precisely portray our thoughts. To understand what I'm thinking, consider the example of simply defining words**.

faith: Complete trust or confidence in someone or something
confidence: The feeling or belief that one can rely on someone or something; firm trust
belief: An acceptance that a statement is true or that something exists
true: In accordance with fact or reality
fact: A thing that is indisputably the case
indisputable: Unable to be challenged or denied

I see these words and I think, okay, there are so many holes in the language here that we're really going out on a limb to even try and understand one another. Someone may be talking about faith, which generally we define as mentioned above. Biblically, faith is "the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." (Heb 11:1) However, as someone remarked on a blog*** I was reading yesterday, "Faith comes from the Greek word pistis which means “trusting in something for which you have seen the evidence.” Now if I read it like that, I essentially read something like

"Faith is trusting in something that I have seen the evidence...[and] the conviction of things not seen."

So, if I'm reading that correctly, faith is mutually exclusive. It's both somehow based on fact and visible evidence, and yet it's not. (Dichotomy, in particular, is something I find immensely frustrating and fascinating.) This is just one example of why language ultimately is untrustworthy.

Of course, there is no alternative. Until we can communicate via telepathy--and then our telepathy must be able to convey emotion and color and imagery and words and songs and an infinite number of other things--we will always have misunderstandings. It's the way of the world, I suppose.

I could go on and on here. In fact, I had a 3 page outline for a few different essays I had on language, but I'm not sure if I'll ever get to those. So I guess I'll just leave it here. Any thoughts?
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*I go to etymology sources often to get character names and/or creations when I write. FYI.
**Taken from the Google define search tool.
***As I said, I've no education in language, so I'm taking this guy at his word. Read that post if you want to read something to think about.

My First Hands-On Bible, a Review

2011-08-10T11:42:00.000-05:00

I reviewed the original Hands-On Bible a while back. In it, I concluded with this:

Overall, I really liked the Hands-On Bible. It's sleek design is attractive and fun looking, perfect for kids. The text is varying, using bold fonts and illustrations/side-boxes, which helps break up the monotonous look most bibles have (i.e. long blocks of unbroken text). While this bible is not a beginner's bible, it's clearly the next step after, and I think most young readers would enjoy reading through God's Word in this way. I also think the activities are a great asset to anyone working with kids, and I easily recommend this bible to anyone interested. [*Emphasis added and underlined.]

Basically, My First Hands-On Bible takes everything I loved in the original Hands-On Bible and changes it to the understanding of a preschooler. Instead of using paraphrasing for stories, actual scripture is used, taken from the NLT. In essence, this is a heavily abridged bible for preschoolers.

The illustrations are excellent and colorful, sure to attract young eyes looking for vibrant pictures. The activities throughout the stories are fun and easy, and most of them involve the use of basic items laying around the house. It's the combination of these two things that I like about My First Hands-On Bible. I think the idea is right, that actively engaging children in bible stories will help build an early foundation for life.

I also like how at the end of each story there are discussion questions, a prayer guide, an activity, and a Jesus Connection. The Jesus Connection relates how each story points to Christ, and this is another excellent thing for young minds to learn.

Overall, I'm just as impressed by My First Hands-On Bible as I was with the original. While my daughter is too young to participate in any of the activities (or really even understand any of the words I'm saying), she's nevertheless looking at captivating pictures and listening to God's Word. And when she's old enough to understand, I'm sure I'll still be using this very same bible.

FTC Thingy: Tyndale House Publishers gave me this book for free on account of me writing an honest review. Therefore, this review is honest. (Why would anyone publish anything but an honest review?) I received no monetary donations from this review, nor any other goods, like warm, gooey, home-baked cookies. Now if I were offered these things, I would not hesitate to say sure, go on and send 'em my way. Would that affect my review of the book? Nope. And that's honesty.

The Way of Kings Group Read: Week One

2011-08-08T08:52:00.003-05:00

I bought Brandon Sanderson's Way of Kings the week it came out, nigh on a year ago. The man writes excellent fantasy novels, with captivating characters, fascinating magic systems, and a well-paced plot. But for some reason, I never started the tome. Other books kept cropping up or something else came along that prevented me.

Now, though, with the help of a few other bloggers, I've joined in on a group read. Together, we'll explore Sanderson's seminal volume of The Stormlight Archive, and each week those of us participating will discuss what we've read, as well as any thoughts/theories we may have. If you want to get in on this group-read, it's not too late. Just head here and get yourself started.

Ibeeeg (of Polishing Mud Balls) has put together this weeks round of questions. The main group read-along blog, Polishing Mud Balls Read-Along Page, is here. Follow it for the rest of the bloggers taking part of this epic undertaking. Now, without further ado...

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Before I started reading The Way of Kings, I did have some thoughts on how I would like this story; did you? If you did, how is The Way of Kings actually comparing to those thoughts?

I had no fears of Sanderson letting me down. Everything of his that I've read--the Mistborn trilogy, Warbreaker, and Elantris--has been highly enjoyable. I remember Sanderson saying that The Stormlight Archive is his baby, that it's the story he's worked on the longest and has planned out for years. I was also intrigued by the up-front clarification that this is a ten volume series. If it's ten books each a thousand pages, that's quite an adventure that I could not afford to pass up. Plus, with Sanderson's killer work ethic and expediency at book releases, the time expected to wait between novels isn't too long. There was no way I'd miss this journey.

What do you think of the pace of this story? so far. And what do you think of the prose? Do you think the prose is too descriptive? Not descriptive enough? Give me your thoughts on the writing thus far.

The pacing has been quick. Very quick. The opening scene of the battle was breathtaking, and most of Kaladin's stuff has been so far, too. Shallan's scenes are more like a pot that's simmering, a bit slower, but definitely filled with enough to keep me curious.

The prose is lean, but not too much. Sanderson's descriptions are perfect for setting the tone that he's portraying. In battle, there's little description. In the lull times of traveling, there's more. For me, it's a perfect balance of a high, epic fantasy with the brisk pace of something lower.

What was your favorite part of this first section?

My favorite part so far (I'm up to 14% complete on my Kindle, or around pg 150) is either Kaladin's labor of carrying the bridge or the curious breaking of the Oathpact at the "Prelude" of the book. I felt like the bridge carrying ordeal was a grueling and horrifying experience, and the fact that Kaladin couldn't even see as he ran most of the way was wonderful. And yet I keep thinking back to the Prelude, curious from the characters and the plethora of questions unanswered.

Which character(s) do you find most interesting and why?

I'm really digging the spren. Fearspren. Windspren. Flamespren. Creationspren. Anticipationspren. Logicspren. So many different spren, and how they just appear at different events (whether seen or not) is just plain cool.

I'm also curious to see how Shallan will accomplish her goal of stealing the Soulcaster. Surely she and Kaladin are on a destination to meet. In all of Sanderson's works, his female protagonists are always characters I rally for. As of yet, I'm not necessarily pulling for Shallan, but I'm intrigued by her ambition (and her Memory magic(?)).

I also hope to see more of Szeth-son-son-Vallano. His assassination of the king in the prologue was awesome, and I don't think I fully understand the aftermath of the murder and the king's last words.

Kaladin, though, is definitely the most interesting person to read about right now. He seems like a genuine, stand-up kind of guy, and I'm assuming he'll be the series' hero. We'll see.

All right, what I really want to know is... what do you think of this book overall? so far. Are you finding the story easy to follow? Are you fascinated, interested? Is the book holding your attention? Are you Bored? Indifferent? Please share your overall thoughts.

Overall, I'm very pleased so far with the read. The story is fascinating and complex, and I think it'll be a book that I can re-read as the series progresses through the years and take away completely different thoughts. The unique environments and creatures are interesting; the magic, while currently vague, is nonetheless exciting. I've stayed up late reading quite a few nights already. I suppose the easiest way for me to say this is that I've put off reading GRRM's Dance with Dragons until September just so I could read Sanderson's work (and blog with a few others, too). If I weren't enjoying the book, I'd pick up Dance without a second thought. As it is, I've not even touched it.

J.R.R. Tolkien Christian Encounters, a Review

2011-08-01T09:31:00.001-05:00

The Christian Encounter series is a biographical series from Thomas Nelson Publishing House. The purpose of this series is to highlight the faith of each person presented. I am not a fan of biographies, having only read one my entire life (Bob Dylan) and not planning to read another. But then came along the chance to review the Christian Encounter book on J.R.R. Tolkien. Since the book was small and about someone I had more than a passing interest in, I decided to give it a go.

Mark Horne does an admiral job of highlighting Tolkien's life in just over 120 pages. The focus of the biography is to present readers with insight into Tolkien's life and the eventual development of his seminal works in the fantasy genre. Horne is quick to remind us that Tolkien was a believer in the Faith, but he never ventures more than that. Personally, I thought I would get to see more of Tolkien's faith in action, or at least some idea of how he believed. Instead, I'm reminded (more than once) that Tolkien was a "sincere" Roman Catholic, that he forced his wife to convert from Protestantism to Roman Catholicism, and that he raised his children in the Catholic church. One is left wondering what type of faith Tolkien really had. No doubt he believed, and Horne includes how Tolkien shared his faith with C.S. Lewis in hopes of convincing Lewis to abandon skepticism, but this about as much of the action as we get to see.

Instead, this brief biography spends a handful of pages for each era of Tolkien's life and reads like a Wikipedia article. We learn of his upbringing and his orphaning at an early age. We then follow Tolkien's examination process to gain entrance to school, and then further studies to become a professor at Oxford. We read about the Great War and its affects on Tolkien, and then suddenly we're diving through publishing and finishing his works. All in all, if one is not looking for depth (and truly, I can't say that I was), then this little book is great for a casual Sunday afternoon read. Its brevity is testament to that. But if one is looking for a more thorough examination of Tolkien's life, there are definitely more available biographies of the man out there. (Horne cites these quite often, and lists the books in the back of his work for further reading.)

All in all, it was an interesting experience to read about J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm still not much of a fan of biographies, but I didn't expect to be won over by this, either. If you're looking for some lite-Tolkien bio, Mark Horne's J.R.R. Tolkien in the Christian Encounter series is it. Otherwise, look for something deeper.

*FTC Thingy: This book was provided free of charge. Yep, I didn't have to pay for it. All I had to do was read it and write an honest review. I'm required by law to post this FTC Review Thingy for tax purposes or something. So I like to change it up every time I tack it onto the books I receive. I also like requesting baked goods, but as of yet, no one's obliged.

Letters

2011-07-27T12:03:00.001-05:00

Dear Readers,
I've written a short (~1300 words) story that I'm considering submitting for publication. It's a bit of dark fiction called "Black Sand." That said, if anyone has a few extra minutes on their hands and would like to do some editing/criticizing of my work, I'd gladly take you up on your offer. Let me know and I'll send you the doc for your perusal and/or red pens. My big worry is that it utilizes a common trope I've came across in a few different stories, but nevertheless, this was how I envisioned the work from the get-go. Some more eyes on it wouldn't be unappreciated...

Dear Music Lovers,
I've harped adoration and love for the Milk Carton Kids for several weeks now, and it thrills me to finally have some new music to listen to. Both of their albums are available for FREE on their website (here), or you can purchase them on itunes if you like. Truly if you appreciate excellent harmonies and "simple" music, then there's really no reason why you wouldn't like the MCKs. Heck, since the albums are free, there's really no reason why you shouldn't try them out. I prefer Retrospect to Prologue, but to each his own.

Dear Amazon,
I just bought a Kindle from you and I am ready for it to arrive at Stewartland. I debated long and hard before I decided to purchase your ubiquitous device, because I am such a lover of a traditional book's feel. Nevertheless, when I received a large gift card to use on your site I decided to get an e-reader, since the price was drastically reduced. And now, even though you're not yet in my possession, I'm giddy with the possibilities. I didn't know that I could check out e-books from the library until I started researching the Kindle. (Sure, the Kindle isn't technically supported yet, but it will be soon enough.)

Dear Health Insurance Company and Hospital Billing,
Could you please get on the same page? It's rather frustrating when you mess up an insurance claim filed months ago, which in turn affects every claim filed after it, and you've still not got it corrected. I don't mind, truly, but it's just aggravating explaining it to people that want their bills paid. Thanks!

Dear Monday Night Tennis,
I had a blast Monday night. The match I played in was probably the most fun I've had in tennis is a long time. Despite their age (I know one guy was 67 and another 69), they were loads better than many younger players on the courts that night. Indeed, playing with folks much more skilled than I is humbling, but I yearn for this, because that is the best way to improve my game. I hope the rest of the summer league proves as much fun as Monday did.

Dear Project,
When our relationship began I was but a fledgling engineer fresh out of academia. You were intimidating at first. Baffling, even. So I approached you hesitantly, like a young lover does his beloved. I worked on you, polishing you, converting you, making you presentable. And then I sent you off and the Commonwealth of Kentucky decided that they wanted to do things differently and so I returned to you. Intimidation wore down, and now all I feel for you is loathing and boredom. I long to be rid of you and onto brighter pastures, but I know that deep down, finishing you puts me without an imminent project to work on and I'll have to resume reading through Illinois Highway Drainage Design Manuals, for I have another young love blossoming over in the Land of Lincoln that will require my unwavering devotion for a time. But I am not through with you yet, sweet, wretched Project. Soon, yes, but not today.

Dear Garden,
You started o so prosperously, but this lack of rain has ruined you, I fear. The jalapenos and bells are doing great, but that's it, unless I count the weeds that have overtaken the onions. The green tomatoes have yet to turn red, and the squash is small and fickle. The herbs are managing, but I nourish them more than I do you, though it isn't your fault. I don't blame you that it's been so hot these last few weeks and that there's been little rain. Don't go thinking that. It's my fault that I don't treat you like you deserve, but let's face it. You're castes below my family. Sorry.

Dear Unnamed Independent Author,
I appreciate you contacting me to review your book, even though I declined it. Still, it gave my heart a great and heavy chuckle to see the letter addressed to Claudio, though I confess, it somewhat worries me, too. Thanks for the effort, though. (Note: Read the "Contact" tab to understand why this is funny.)

Sincerely all,
logankstewart

Desiring God, a Review

2011-07-26T08:41:00.001-05:00

John Piper's Desiring God is one of the most influential books in Christian non-fiction. First released in 1986, Piper burst into the scene with his radical idea of Christian Hedonism, a term specifically chosen. Now, twenty-five years later, Piper's fourth edition of Desiring God has found its way into my hands for review. I already owned the 3rd edition, though I had not progressed past Chapter One of the book. This time around, I made my way through Piper's elegant writing and beautiful theology.

Desiring God is a collection of ten essays, dealing with a different element in Christian lifestyle. Piper devotes a chapter each to happiness, conversion, worship, love, scripture, prayer, money, marriage, missions, and suffering. He also includes a thorough appendix and study guide in the back of the book to assist the reader.

As Piper says in the Introduction, the purpose of Desiring God is to help the reader understand how Christian Hedonism should not only be pursued, but that its pursuit is biblical and ultimately satisfying to God. Piper turns the Westminster Shorter Catechism on its head by substituting the word by in place of and, yielding the thesis for Desiring God:

The chief end of man is to glorify God by enjoying Him forever.

Much of Desiring God deconstructs modern thinking with clear biblical examples. Truly, Piper's desire to share his joy is not exhaustive, though it is rather thorough. There were times when I was scratching my head after re-reading a paragraph three times and still confused. Other times I was shaking my head and silently amen-ing. And more, the evidence as proposed by Piper does in fact seem biblical and liberating.

This book has not redefined my views as much as Kevin DeYoung's powerful Just Do Something did, but still, there is wisdom to be found in the pages. I can imagine a world filled with Christian Hedonists, running around and acting like Christians ought. I daresay that if more Christians acted like they ought--like the bible prescribes--and if more Christians had joy in their lives then we would have more people coming to God. To that end, Desiring God teaches a vital message.

A time or two it felt like Piper's firm belief in TULIP* (and his being a 5-point Calvinist, as much as I hate to use labels) was shining through his writing. It wasn't a pounding over the head as some are wont to do, and I do not fault Piper for letting his belief's influence his writing, though some surely do. As such, I care not one jot for Calvinism and Arminianism and I find this endless debate tiring and detrimental to the gospel Jesus preached. Thankfully this has very little to do with Piper's book.

In the end, Desiring God is an excellent book that has affected many, myself included. It would be a great book for a Sunday School class to discuss, or a discipleship group to meditate on. It's not an easy read, and it definitely requires a critical mind (and possibly a dictionary), but its teachings are worth the effort. Anything that pursues glorifying God is worth the effort, and if you're looking for some savvy non-fiction Christian thought, this book is perfect for you. Or, conversely, if you're curious about Christian Hedonism and its tenets, I can easily recommend John Piper's Desiring God.

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Piper explains at the end of the book how he receives no royalties from Desiring God and that any money made from it goes to a fund to further the gospel by providing various resources for free. A number is listed to contact Desiring God Ministries for free resources, including this book, as well as many others. Also, Desiring God can be read for free on the DGM website, or also downloaded as a pdf and/or ebook. Finally, as with other great books, if anyone would like my copy of Desiring God, shoot me an email or leave me a comment and I'll get the book to you.

Like Piper, anything I can do to help spread the good news of Jesus (and further glorify the Father) I will do, and I would love to give you this book to that end.

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*If you are not aware of this centuries old debate, then I don't recommend you educate yourself about it. It's ultimately disheartening and has caused way too much conflict within the world of Christianity.

FTC Thingy: The 25th Anniversary Edition of Desiring God was provided to me for free by the publisher in exchange for an honest review. I am not required to endorse the book, and my doing so was of my own volition. There was no hypnosis.

Wise Man's Fear Re-Read: Thoughts, Theories, Things

2011-07-20T11:03:00.001-05:00

This post is filled with spoilers, from both The Wise Man's Fear and The Name of the Wind. If you've not read both, then please, don't read this post.

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I've read Name of the Wind twice, and now I've read its sequel twice (and some parts thrice). The story is definitely better the second time. I've been thinking on some of the threads of the tale that Pat Rothfuss is weaving, as well as the implications for the Four Corners' future. Below are my thoughts. I would love to discuss any thoughts/theories you might have, either here on the blog, Facebook, or via email.

1. The pacing is improved this time around, though it's still tedious at times (Ademre, Faen). Still yet, I marveled over the cultures Rothfuss created, at how intricate and well developed they are.

Faen is beautifully described and at the same time mysterious and dark. I love how magicked the Fey are, even though we've only met Bast and Felurian. This causes them to be highly superstitious (not much different than those in Severen and Vintas), but their superstitions are probably based on fact as opposed to legend.
The Adem, on the other hand, are a simple people, yet highly philosophical. I am once again fascinated by their double-talk, at how important hand language is. This is still my least favorite part of the book, if only because there is very little going on. I feel like Caesura is vital to the overall story, especially given its bloody pedigree. Also, the Adem story of the Chandrian and their old names is definitely important, but I just wish it hadn't taken so long to get there.

2. Kvothe's parentage was particularly enthralling as I read. Having been turned on to the idea that Kvothe's mother was Natalia Lockless, sister to Meluan Lockless, I payed close attention to the parts when Kvothe spoke of his family. Now, I am fully convinced that Rothfuss is a cunning devil and that Tally is definitely Meluan's sister, thus making Kvothe part noble (and possibly a Lockless heir). Plus, he says that when he first met Meluan that she looked vaguely familiar (possibly like his mother, who's been deceased now for a few years). Meluan's resentment of the Ruh could be similar to Petunia's resentment of the magical world in Harry Potter; both sisters were jealous of their sibling for going off and enjoying life.

Consider the song Kvothe tells Sim and Will....

Dark Laurian, Arliden's wife,
Has a face like a blade of a knife
Has a voice like a prickledown burr
But can tally a sum like a moneylender.
My sweet Tally cannot cook.
But she keeps a tidy ledger-book
For all her faults I do confess
It's worth my life
To make my wife
Not tally a lot less

It doesn't seem like much, but given how cunning Pat is, read the last two lines aloud and it sounds similar to "To make my wife Natalia lot less", ergo, Natalia Lockless. That's why she shushes Arliden for his song, to keep her line a secret. See here for more on this fascinating theory.
The Loeclos box surely is made of Faen-magic/wood. It's smell is evocative to Kvothe and he vaguely remembers something, and I suppose it's reminiscent of the smell from his time with Felurian. He mentions time and again how his memory is muddled from his time there, so his recollection of the smell is muddled, too. Alveron, Meluan, and Kvothe discuss whether or not the contents of the box are precious. I find this word choice interesting, as it thematically relates to Denna (and her fear of being "boxed in"). What if the box opens simply with "Edro," the word for open Taborlin used, and Kvothe, too, when he jokingly opened the Maer's chest in the Eld. Kvothe didn't try it, I noticed.
Could Arliden also be more than meets the eye? Perhaps somehow Fey related/descended? He's a skilled musician/rhymer, something we know the Fey are. Or, possibly the Ruh are somehow related to the Fey? Not really sure about Arliden. But we do know that the Lockless family is very old, and so are the Ruh, and Kvothe being from both bloodlines could explain some of his peculiarities.

3. I also wondered about Denna's patron throughout this read. Where once I didn't care much about her patron (or her, for that matter), now I'm more than a bit curious. I suspect it to be Bredon, based in part on certain descriptions and certain actions. Both are apt dancers. Both enjoy games. Both enjoy their privacy. Plus, the Ctheah said Kvothe had met him, and this twist seems like the right twist (though it could also be the obvious choice and therefore not a likely possibility). Bredon seems kind, but he has a temper, too (like when Kvothe's distracted and not playing well), which would likely yield to him beating Denna whenever he's angry.

The first read Kvothe & Denna's relationship was annoying. Now, it's still annoying, but less so. Both are young and stupid. Neither come out and express themselves, explain their broken histories, or tell their life story. What a shame, too. If only they'd communicate then things could be so much better. (I'm thinking of Lost here.)
Bredon must be more than meets the eye. When Kvothe is going through the papers with rumors and whatnot on them, there are some rumors that Bredon does pagan rituals and has evil relations. Then, when Kvothe is preparing to leave Severen, he gives the papers over to Bredon, mentioning that the man may find them entertaining. This nonchalance seems too forced (perhaps I'm reading into it), but why else would Pat bring it up again? This could be a plot device for Bredon.
A final possibility is that Denna's patron could be none other than Cinder himself. There are some theories to this, and possibly even Bredon being Cinder (or related), but I'm not entirely convinced this is so. Still, this line from one of the last chapters caught my attention (while in Bast's POV): "Nothing but ash and cinder lay inside." With the two words juxtaposed, Rothfuss could be cleverly dropping hints. There's some weight to this, I think, but again, I'm not sold on this idea.

4. Pat overuses the word "speculative." This is nitpicking, but it's also grating, though I suspect unnoticed by Pat and/or his editor. I'm talking about "so-and-so gave you-know-who a speculative look" type sentences. These pop up all over the place. All over the place.

5. Another very interesting thing throughout this book is the role the moon plays. People swear by the ever-changing moon. They tell stories about the moon. Auri's appearance (and Denna's, too) seems related to whether or not the moon is out. Even the Fey regard it as something important. I didn't notice how often the word "moon" appears, but it's presence is overwhelming. This gives even more weight to the story about Jax and his stealing the moon.

Think of Elodin's question for Kvothe as he's going through the admissions process for the first time in Wise Man's Fear. Elodin asks, "Where does the moon go when it is no longer in our sky?" Elodin obviously knows much (Kvothe recalls Master Namer's eyes when he's in Faen and that they are similar to Felurian's), and his inane babbling turned out rather purposeful in the end. So is this question important? Maybe. Is it a subtle hint? Possibly.

6. We know the frame story, the story in the present, is a tragedy. Kvothe remarks to Bast that "we all know what kind of story this is." Something so catastrophic has happened to Kvothe that he no longer is himself, it's as if he's locked away a part of his name and has been rechristened as Kote. This tragedy is likely the death(s) of Denna and/or many other friends due to some rash action made by a foolish Kvothe. As such, this has me thinking about the conclusion of the book, of the trilogy. Will there be resolution? Yes, Rothfuss is too much a storyteller to not leave things unresolved, as stories must have endings. But will the ending be satisfying?

Remember when Kvothe tells the story of the old man and his search for food & fire? (Chapter 38, "Kernels of Truth") Sim (or Will, I cannot recall, but it sounds like Sim) is upset at the ending, claiming the story wasn't really a story at all. Sim asks Kvothe, "Why tell a story that's not entertaining?" Kvothe answers, "To help us remember. To teach us... things." I speculate that this is Pat foreshadowing the conclusion to The Kingkiller Chronicles. The ending may seem disappointing (or inconclusive), but that's not really the point. The point in Kvothe's story (to Chronicler and Bast, and the reader) is to teach us things, but it's also to help Kvothe remember who he was and who he still is.
Perhaps these books will end with Kote becoming Kvothe again and there will be more books where he puts to right his wrongs or something. This, I hope, will be the case. Pat has already said he's got more stories to tell in Kvothe's world. (As an aside, I wonder if Pat skipped over the ship wreck chapter to leave it open for a possible novella or short story some time down the road.)
On Kote becoming Kvothe, recall when Kvothe asks Elodin about what he thinks about a woman that keeps changing her name. Elodin reacts as if that's something terrible to do, and his reaction implies that it's entirely possible. Perhaps Kvothe changed his name to Kote for a time, though I think Kvothe is wanting to get out (such as when the hired soldiers fight the innkeeper and Kote remarks that he nearly forgot himself there for a moment).
Finally, could Kvothe have become an Amyr and made some choices that were for the greater good? We see his guilt over killing (bandits, false troupers), though they were for the greater good and justified. What if Kvothe became an Amyr and then found out the group was as sinister as the Chandrian and then abandoned his old self to become Kote? (Ironic that Kvothe changes his name to Kote, similar to Denna constantly changing her name to D-----.)

A lot of great discussion (and fodder for this post) can be found on the Rothfussians group on GoodReads, and also Jo Walton's exhaustive re-read of NOTW and WMF at Tor.com.

Again, I'd love any thoughts on Kvothe and his story if you've a ha'penny to spare.

The Heroes, a Review

2011-07-18T09:08:00.001-05:00

What is a hero? This is the central question driving Joe Abercrombie's latest novel, The Heroes, and coming from such a dark & gritty writer, where convolution and betrayal are paramount, it's a darned good question. The North, "united" under Black Dow's banner, and the Union forces, under the direction of Marshall Kroy, have convened on a small plot of land to wage war. The focus point is a large hill spotted with ancient stones appropriately called The Heroes, named after long dead legends of the North. War is the opportune time to discover heroics, but the question is from whom will they come?

The Heroes is filled with various POV characters. We have Crunden Craw, an aged Named Man who's spent his life as a straight-edge and is known for doing the "right" thing, whatever that's supposed to mean. Prince Calder, the youngest son of the recently murdered King of the North, is a notorious coward and an even more notorious schemer, and it's only a matter of time before he tries to take Skarling's Chair from Black Dow. There's also Beck, a young lad just old enough to take a weapon and enlist, with visions of glory and earning a name for himself. As for the Union soldiers, we have the disgraced Bremer dan Gorst, dispatched to observe the war for the King, though the brute of a man wants nothing more than to earn back his former rank and glory. There's Corporal Tunny, famed for his lackluster life as a soldier and his uncanny ability to turn profit, and who has little desire to rise above his self-interests. Finally there's Finree dan Brock, the only female POV, and the daughter of Marshall Kroy. Finree is manipulative and ambitious, but her marriage to a treacherous noble's son currently stands in her way.

Abercrombie is known for presenting flawed characters with a few good traits in them, and he keeps this up with The Heroes. I personally found the Northmen much more interesting, especially Craw and Calder. It's as hard for the reader to pick a side as it is for those involved in the affair, and I'm not sure which side I wanted to win the battle. This, again, is a very Abercrombian thing to do. Present the sides and muddy them all grey. Ambiguity runs amok here.

The Heroes is Abercrombie's fifth novel, and while it's not necessary to have read the previous works, I think you'd be missing out on some behind-the-scenes things that are likely important to the world of The First Law. Still yet, one could easily enjoy this book for what it is, and that's a fierce battle waged over the course of three days. This condensed timeline works great for Abercrombie, I think, because the sprawling tale that was Best Served Cold seemed to struggle under too much time.

This book was hilarious and dark, violent and oddly beautiful, thought-provoking and entertaining. It's Abercrombie at his finest, and yet I didn't enjoy it as much as The First Law. Part of the problem was that I just didn't care that much about the Union troops. Gorst was annoying, Finree disappointing, and Tunny just didn't have enough time for him. On the other hand, I really enjoyed the North parts, especially whenever the Bloody Nine's name popped up. Even Shivers, who I grew to dislike over the course of Best Served Cold, was fascinating here. Really the only time I enjoyed the Union pieces were when Bayaz was involved, and this only because it left me wanting to know more about what was going on between the First of the Magi and Ishri.

Abercrombie is at the top of his game with The Heroes. The book is fluid and well written. The action scenes are exciting. The implications of the book's thesis question are questionable throughout. It's a standalone novel that leaves me curious to see what's going to happen in Abercrombie's next book. (I believe he mentioned something with a "Western" flair on his blog. Interesting.) If you've never read Joe Abercrombie, I'd recommend starting with The Blade Itself, but you could just as easily pick this one up. It's a bloody book, but you wouldn't read a book about war and not expect otherwise. Especially not from someone as twisted and dark as Abercrombie. Highly enjoyable.

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Supplemental Thoughts (CONTAINS SPOILERS)
1. I genuinely wonder if Logen Ninefingers is still alive. It's been 8 years since The First Law. Part of me thinks the man has just settled down in some remote location in the North and has been living a life of ease ever since. Or maybe he's chasing Ferro, though I'd find that hard to imagine. Still, I suspect he's living.
2. What is going on between Bayaz and the Gurkish? Will we ever get to see this conflict played out? I do not trust Bayaz, but I also don't trust the Gurkish, either. Is there a good side here? Considering Abercrombie, I'd say "it's complicated," or, possibly just "no."
3. Shivers' killing blow to Dow in the circle was unexpected. I expected Calder to win, but not like that.
4. Wonder what the Snake of the Talins has been up to, and what's gonna happen in Styria come next book? Recalling Bayaz' "cannon" thing, I expect we may see firearms/artillery, though not many.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Pt 2), a Review

2011-07-15T08:58:00.002-05:00

I'm shrugging off routine here and throwing caution to the wind. SPOILERS imminent.

Call me old and crotchety, but there seemed to be a lot of rambunctious tweens at the cinema last night, eager to watch the Boy Who Lived face down He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and let victory triumph over evil. Costumed characters ran amok and I couldn't help but question why it is I find these midnight shows appealing. Nevertheless, apart from the expected sudden applause and the preternatural (and completely uncalled for) sobbing*, I had a good enough time watching the final Potter film.

The words that immediately come to mind are ruthless and expeditious. Where Part 1 served as exposition, Part 2 gives the viewer mere minutes of set-up before one is thrown into the action. We're reminded of Voldy baby stealing dead ole' Dumbledore's wand (a grave robber! my word, someone ought to teach that Riddle boy some manners) and Harry & the Gang are trying to seek and destroy those cursed horcruxes. The filmmakers give the audience little breathing room, and I daresay 90% of the film was action-filled and intense.

Acting is genuinely sublime all around, though I particularly enjoyed Ralph Fiennes (Voldemort), Alan Rickman (Snape), and Daniel Radcliffe (Harry). Truly I'm struggling to think of a bad performance. Throughout all eight of the movies these actors have grown with each other, and their synergy is a large part of why these films are so successful.

I can also attest that this was definitely the most visually stunning of the films. It is the only one with a 3-d counterpart, and although I chose not to watch it this way, it was nevertheless quite beautiful. Spells and enchantments of all colors. Gringotts' vaults and the dragon within. I didn't realize just how dark and bleak everything was until Harry used the pensieve, and then again when he went to King's Cross. Other than these two scenes, everything has a grim feel to it, and rightly it should.

As I mentioned earlier, there was entirely too much crying for my liking. I'm not joking when I say that the girl behind me started sobbing and sniffling when the WB logo came up at the very beginning of the movie, and she pretty much continued the rest of the way. Sure, when Sev died, that was sad, yes, but would I call it Sad-Enough-To-Cry-In-Public sad? No. And then seeing Fred & George for the first time, when they're both still alive, she cried again.... Grumble. Anyway, death, evil, and violence rule the screen here, and because of this there is a lot of sad & terrible things that happen. I admit, Severus's death was one of the more horrible death scenes I can remember, but I watched it wincing and stoic.

The final showdown between Harry & Voldemort was breathtaking. I rather enjoyed their in-flight fight. Heck, the battle for Hogwarts was pretty awesome all around. The school's grounds make for an excellent battlefield, and its spaces were utilized brilliantly.

If there's any wrong in Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Part 2) it's that it doesn't capture all of the subtlety and character development Rowling does in her books, but this is a flaw any book-turned-movie will have. There's only so much one can transpose.

There is so much that I could talk about when it comes to Harry Potter, and particularly when it comes to The Deathly Hallows. How each character is so rich and detailed. How Rowling deals with life lessons and serious themes. How I always stood by Severus and puzzled out the events 'ere they were told. How heartbreaking it is that Hedwig died so innocently and randomly (the same as many victims of the Battle). How truly loathsome Voldemort is, and yet pitiable, too. So much that I must cut myself off now or I may wax gibbous and never shut up.

On the whole, I wholeheartedly enjoyed this movie. It was the perfect conclusion to the epic series, and I think it captured the heart and spirit of what makes the books so darned good, and that's that friendship and love are far superior to immortality and prejudice. If you've somehow made it through your life without reading these books, then I'm sure my pleading won't get you over the hump, but you are robbing yourself of a wonderful journey. And, if you've not watched any of the film adaptations**, again, you cheat yourself, but especially more so now that Part 2 is out. It was a legendary film series capped with a satisfying and beautiful ending. I will miss these movies, but I don't see them going away for a long, long time.

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie, a Review

2011-07-13T16:51:00.000-05:00

Flavia de Luce is a complex little girl. Uncannily bright for an eleven year old, I daresay to the point where one must suspend disbelief, even, Flavia spends her days "playing" in her laboratory, creating terrible concoctions for her terrorizing older sisters, Ophelia and Daphne. The young chemist has a particular fondness for poisons, and when a dead body turns up in the cucumber patch of Buckshaw, Flavia decides to get to the bottom of the mystery.

What follows is a delightful adventure with a protagonist that's hard to forget. Flavia is both endearing for her strong will and pitiable for her too-advanced mind. She's sweet (usually when it's to her advantage), witty, well-read, far too clever, and hilarious. Her environs--1950s England--are masterfully detailed and the reader cannot help but feel whisked away.

Alan Bradley's Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie is well outside my normal genres. A mystery novel with various mysteries throughout, I heartily enjoyed puzzling through the book with Flavia. The tale wasn't too complex, and everything clearly made sense by the end. There were twists and turns a-plenty, and I can imagine nearly every reader would enjoy the plot & pacing.

A large part of the joy from this read is the fact that Bradley's prose is beautiful. The voice of the narrator is spot-on (as much as I can imagine the mind of an eleven year old girl), and from the start I easily slipped inside Flavia's head. Bradley's cast of characters is well suited to the story (if not a touch cliched), and I really enjoyed Flavia's sisters. Their antagonism of poor Flavia (and vice versa) was a highlight of the read.

I listened to the audio version of this book, as read by Jayne Entwistle, and this was possibly one of the best audio books I've ever read. The voice acting was vastly superior to many audio books, and Entwistle sounds exactly like a bratty little 11 year old would. Of course, the British-ness also makes this a fun listen-to, but it's definitely the narrator that shines. In fact, I enjoyed her reading so much that I played a bit of it for my wife, just so she could hear how great it was.

Two final notes, just in case you're not convinced of reading the book yet. One, it's quite funny. Flavia has a way with words that had me cracking up regularly. Two, Carl's review at Stainless Steel Droppings' and L's at Omphaloskepsis paint a much better review than I do, and just read their praise to see what I'm talking about.

If you're looking for a good mystery (I say good, but alas, with little experience with the genre I guess), Alan Bradley's Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie will definitely satisfy your appetite. It's one of those books that puts a smile on your face and keeps it there after you're finished. I easily recommend to anyone, but especially people with a fondness for old Britain, young & clever heroines, stamp collectors, and mystery enthusiasts.

Life is...

2011-07-11T11:04:00.001-05:00

Life is green poop, milky-white spit-up, and faint blue lines on a diaper indicating clear urine. It's a splotchy, ruddy face that changes from peach to red as it smiles and cries. It's the silver-brown eyes of Avonlea as she soaks in everything. It's staring at a black screen filled with fuchsia, lime, aqua, and lemon lines that represent delineated water sheds and their drainage areas. It's the mind-numbing snow white of an Excel background and the faint grey lines that separate individual shells. It's the red-hot temperatures in the haze of summer. It's the deep greens of a jalapeno plant and the dirty oranges of uprooted carrots, the daffodil yellows of squash and the crisp violets of petunias. It's the off-white paper and straight-edged text of The Heroes. It's the impossibly dark crimson of blood as it's freely given away routinely for no reason other than it's a good thing to do. It's the pale streetlights shining through midnight window blinds and the sunrise turning the sky into a melting pot of colors.

Life is a wonderful adventure and every person I encounter is a character in a book. I am blessed beyond reason, loved undeservedly, and filled with joy. I am blown away by a God of impossibilities and reminded with every color I see how great a Creator He is. Life is amazing and I would change nothing if I could.

Mini-Reviews: Edition, the First

2011-07-05T13:44:00.000-05:00

Crazy Heart: Highly acclaimed and brilliantly cast, the story of an old and nigh-forgotten country music star. Bad Blake once spent his days performing for thousands, and now he's lucky to get fifty at a bowling alley show. Jeff Bridges does amazing work in this film, singing many of the songs himself (and I suspect playing the guitar, too, though this is unverified). Bad is an alcoholic, and much of Crazy Heart deals with his problem. This was a stirring movie that I rather enjoyed.

Lord of the Rings Extended Trilogy Blu-Ray: With only a few extra features compared to the DVD trilogy, the blu-rays nevertheless look stunning in their high definition. Probably not worth it to the casual viewer, but definitely for the fans. Oh, and the box is shiny...

Alpocalypse: I've been a Weird Al fan since I was a wee lad. His were the first albums I e'er bought, if I remember correctly. His creativity always is great, and the fun, crisp music he produces is more often a hit than a miss. He's got some flops, but he's also got some gems, too, in his latest record. His take on Gaga is funny. His tribute to Charles Nelson Riley is sheer genius. And his soulful "Stop Forwarding that Crap to Me" had me giggling. So yeah, if you like Weird Al, you'll enjoy this, provided you can tolerate contemporary pop music.

Wise Man's Fear (Spoiler Free): I've been reading this aloud to Keisha for a while now, but I recently picked up the audio at the library and have been listening to it at work, too. I've been following along Jo Watson's Rothfuss Re-Read on Tor.com and I admit, I missed a lot the first time through. I've read NOTW twice, and keeping that in mind with things from WMF, it's like, wowzers. How did I miss this? It's so... obvious. I suppose I missed it cause Pat's just too darned clever.

Harry Potter: With the much anticipated conclusion to the epic HP film franchise on the outside edge of a span away, I've decided to re-watch the films. Keisha and I spent much of the long weekend nestled together on the couch watching the first six films (okay, we skipped PoA and GoF, but it's only cause we've seen them a bajillion times) and gearing up for TDH:Pt2. I confess, I cannot fathom why or how there are people that dislike the Boy Who Lived. These books have done so much for the reading world. So many people have been turned on to reading because of the books, and in my opinion, the films are beautiful to behold and fun to experience. Aye, they have their faults, but overall, each movie is wonderful.

ESV Study Bible: I got this bible when I thought I was going to become a deacon. I'd been putting it off until something else happened, cause frankly, I've got plenty of bibles. Even so, the ESV Study Bible is an excellent reference bible that has easily become my daily reading bible. It's thick and teeming with so much stuff that I don't often know where to look. In addition to the holy Word of God, there's a ton of footnotes, helpful maps, charts, and many other tools for deeper learning. There's also a couple hundred pages of essays and reference text spread throughout the bible and after Revelation. I'm really liking it.

Avonlea Brynn: My babe is growing growing growing quite well. She spends most of her days eating and pooping and sleeping and, lately, crying. I'm still amazed at her, honestly, and I'm sure I always will be.

Google+: Hmmm. Can't decide, really. It seems quite cool, actually. It's nowhere near as cluttered as Facebook, plus it's Google. It's basically like Facebook, but has no ads (yet) and only people that I care about (so far). Only thing I dislike is that I can't use "logankstewart" as my name, but I must use "Logan Stewart." Perchance that'll change. I can't make up my mind about this type of social media anyway.

Lunch: Ah yes, what a delicious meal. I had leftover bbq hamburgers and hotdogs and corn-on-the-cob from last night's 3rd Annual Stewartland Extravaganza. Oh, and sour cream & onion chips, too, with a mug o' Mello Yello to quench my thirst. Good stuff.