Daredevil 2.3 - Wake Up

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

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

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

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)

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

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

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

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

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

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

(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.)

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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.
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* 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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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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

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

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

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!