A Study In Black

Daft Punk - Something About Us

I'm sitting in the shop immersed in dense summer hues of warmth and humidity.  The Poplar trees have begun sending their invasion force of seeds stealthily entering with the breeze.  I was listening to Kings of Leon's "Come Around Sundown" followed by CAKE's "Showroom of Compassion" when it finished.

Today marks Day One of a one month plus visual media fast (today through the end of June).  This is what I'm thinking about in the heat.  I'm "fasting" from movies, TV and video games.  This for a few reasons:

1.  I am so addicted to it that I barely make time for anything else.  I blew through all seven seasons of Star Trek: TNG in four  months, while keeping up with other current series (Fringe, Person of Interest - which I did drop when CBS ceased offering it streaming online).

2.  I NEED time with God.  My attitude, as I discovered in conversation with Him a few days ago, has been one of "God, you're in the way of my doing this."  I was feeling guilty because I should've been spending time in God's presence.  I don't like feeling guilty.  But, as it turns out, I was blaming God for the guilt, rather than recognizing my idolatry of VM.  I'd come to the end of the day and think, "Well, God, looks like there's no time left for you."  That needs to change.

3.  I feel....stupid.  I mean really stupid.  I'm having trouble concentrating, remembering things, recalling appropriate vocabulary when needed.  I search and search for a word, knowing it's in there somewhere, but I can't seem to find it.  I firmly believe this is tied to how much VM I have saturated my mind with.  I want to un-stupify myself.

Last night, while watching the season 3 finale of Star Trek: DS9 (I'm working my way through TNG, DS9 and Voyager - I'm not bothering with the original which I never really got into, or Enterprise which doesn't seem worth the time) when I realized that tomorrow (today) marks the start of the VM fast.  Anxiety crept right in and I wasn't sure if I could actually do it.  I genuinely am fearing withdrawal.  I'll more than likely get impatient with Alyssa as I begin this system flush, and I'll wonder what there is to do.

But I need it.  I really need it.

And the purpose of my writing all of this down is to reflect on this process.  Will it ultimately be a good thing?  What will I discover about God and about myself during this time?  Will I continue avoiding VM or will I return to the same habits once this is over?

Care to find out with me?

Just...Muggy

Sultry. It's a sultry day (thank you, "Throw Mama From The Train").

Only that's not true. That's wishful thinking. Sultry would be like listening to Joni Mitchell's album "Both Sides Now". Worn and charactered, mellowed, smooth with a bite you can feel comfortably from the other side of the glass. Sad and pained but wise and alluring.

But that is not today. Today is mostly just...muggy. Moist, humid without all that extra flavor. Not that I'm complaining. It just is. It's Kurt Cobain singing a slow ballad, maybe an old standard, with no musical accompanyment. Just his duldrum voice. It's interesting enough to listen to but I wouldn't put it on repeat.

Break time! (9:30 am)

And we're back. Instantly for you, 20 minutes for me.

You know what? Instead of writing just to write, which is what I am about to do, I think I'll just call it right here.

Shoot. Just found out I was somewhat responsible for the breaking of an expensive part of one of the machines.

Sigh.

Lord, Save Me From Myself

Jon Foreman - Fall (whole album)

It's a drab, dreary, wet day. Inside and out. after yet another evening of turning in a spoiled day to the head office, I've been reflecting this morning on the desert wasteland that May has been thus far. Only three and a half days left and I haven't much hope for an oasis. My mouth is uncomfortably dry and my soul is so overwhelmed and weighted. I'm no fool, I know it could be far worse, but it's still a trial I wouldn't mind circumventing.

But I know God is shaping me. So, while the heat is at times intense and my natural reaction is to get out quick, I shall be hopeful in Jesus and what He's working out. Heated metal is easier to shape.

Wow. That looks so good on paper, and sitting here on the screen, but, to be honest, I feel like King David in many of his psalms. So conflicted and torn between Heaven and Earth. Between God and myself.

One moment praising God for His grace, mercy and love. For pulling me out of judgment's flames and adopting me as His son while I was still his enemy. The next moment spitting in His face, believing in lies. Conspiring against Him with the enemy. Glorifying His name one minute and making Him out ot be a liar the next.

Beating my chest and grieving my brokenness, crying out to Heaven, "Lord, have mercy! What a wretched sinner I am! Who will save me from this body of death?" Having a heart that is being sanctified, converted, changed to the likeness of Christ, yet a flesh that remains distorted and broken. Mangled and faded from the effects of sin. Death.

Lord, save me from myself. You are trustworthy and faithful. How little I trust myself.

I'm a control freak. A liar. A murderer. I lust, cheat, covet. I'm full of pride and arrogance. I am an idolator, a glutton. I'm self centered and mean.

Thank God for Jesus. Those things, while I continue to struggle with them, do not define my identity. They are not who I am. I am His. Still broken, but being made whole.

Sigh. Check that against God's word; the Bible. If there's a conflict, His word wins.

So tired.

Sustain me, Father, I pray. Without your steady, unfailing hands I would be overcome.


p.s. (Yeah, I know, this isn't a letter...) Jon Foreman, if you ever read this, thank you for an honest, heart felt album. Praise music can seem so unrealistic and trite at times. So, really, thank you.

Perception is Not Reality

Before beginning this small piece of biographical literature (yes, technically you've already begun), you must know one thing. When I process the word "reality", I equate it with the word "truth", and consequently its finality. Reality's base word, real, gives it that kind of weight. Real, genuine, meaning not fake or fabricated. Truth.

I'm sitting at a lathe in the back of the shop, alone. I have the entire south wing to myself (and Jack on the infrequent occasions he's at the grinder on the far side of the room). Now that we can listen to music while we're working (a change that has been both unexpected and very welcomed), I've been taking full advantage. I try to push myself until at least coffee break (9:30) without music, or at least until 8:30.

I try to make sure any thoughts awaiting process, or prayers on my heart, are first taken care of. Otherwise the music becomes an involuntary distraction and then I get a backlog of thoughts and ideas. That stresses me out. I need time to think. I need time to process the reality of my life. To sort through the distracting emotions and desires, the inconsistensies and curiousities I've projected onto the fray.

And where better to go than the author of the book of truth Himself?

So we talk a lot, Jesus and I. He's that friend that's always with me, so it's not that we're talking about events because He was (is) there and already knows. It's more that I want to know what's really going on and what He's doing with it all.

Because there is truth; an absolute truth and He knows what it is.

My perception is not necessarily the reality of a situation. I was just talking with Alyssa on the phone and she gave me a great example. She has an illustration oriented book filled with all sorts of photographs of facial expressions. One in particular is a woman, who, all observations accounted for, is crying. That is how many would, and Alyssa did, perceive her.

To say that "perception is reality" is to say that reality, or truth, is relative. I might perceive the woman as laughing. Now, it is possible that both Alyssa and I are wrong. But we cannot both be right. Only one of our perceptions can be reality. The woman cannot be simultaneously laughing and crying. Yes, I know, I've laughed to the point of tears but that's not the kind of crying I'm talking about.

The author, who was present for during the photograph, stated that the woman is, in fact, laughing. Was Alyssa's perception unreasonable? Certainly not! The author even admits to it seeming the truth to himself. But was Alyssa's perception reality? No. It was wrong. It wasn't the truth.

There are those who will argue still and say truth is relative; there is no absolute truth. But that right there? That's a contradiction. If it were correct, it would itself be an absolute truth.

The author of Alyssa's book was there for the photograph and, though there are many possible perceptions of it, he conveyed to his readers the absolute truth of the situation. No matter how strongly you perceive her as doing otherwise, it does not change the fact that she is laughing.

One increasingly popular (at least I'm hearing about it more) misconception about God, among others, is that He cannot actually see into the future. That He cannot see around the bend in time. That He has no foreknowledge of things to come. But that's not the truth. It's a false perception.

You see, God is the author of the Bible (2 Timothy 3:16, 2 Peter 1:20-21) and, through it, conveys to us truths about Himself. From a broad perspective, the Old Testament is full of prophetic statements issued publicly by God through a prophet. There are many prophecies regarding Israel's future which all, through events of history, were proven true. God knew. Then there's the major prophetic message of the Old Testament. One is coming who will save and restore Irael (and the world), and who will rule over her: Jesus. The Messiah. Lord of Lords and King of Kings. And guess what? He came. God knew.

When God sent Moses to Pharaoh (Exodus 3:7-10), Moses asks of God, "Suppose I go to the Israelites and say to them, 'The God of your fathers has sent me to you,' and they ask me, 'What is his name?' Then what shall I tell them?" (Exodus 3:13). And God replies, "I am who I am . This is what you are to say to the Israelites: 'I AM has sent me to you.' " (Exodus 3:14). I love this name for God, which first appears here. He had no beginning and will have no end. He simply exists (though, I suppose "simply" is hardly the word). In the past, He is. In the present, He is. In the future, He is.

So thinking He doesn't know the future is a perception that proves to be false. God, the author of the Bible, our tangible source of truth, says otherwise (about Himself, mind you). If I were to ever write something about God that didn't agree with the Bible, I would be wrong. If you feel even God Himself is telling you something but it doesn't coincide with what the Bible, God's Word, teaches us, don't believe it for a second. Read it and know the truth. Know God. Ask and He will reveal Himself through Jesus and the work of the Holy Spirit.

The absolute truth.

Who Stole The Cookie From The Cookie Jar?

As the children played quietly in the various centers of their first grade room, Mrs. Ingle went over her lessons, perparing herself for the activities of the day. She liked to have materials ready for their fated uses, thereby simultaneously saving time and teaching the children the importance of organization.

She sat at the large, round table in the center of the room where daily lessons and art projects took place. She felt more connected to her students there than she did at her desk in the corner by the door. The table was a sort of apple red, something she always thought odd since it was the only one of its kind in the school; the rest were various faded browns. It was rumored that the teacher whose room it had been previously, and whom no one could now remember, had painted it with her class in a passionate reflection on individualism.

As Mrs. Ingle was thinking over the table's history, Johnathan shuffled into the room with his usual collection of school things.

"Good morning, Mrs. Ingle," he said politely as he transfered his things to his cubby.

"Good morning, Johnathan," she replied.

Johnathan always came in five minutes before class began. Mrs. Ingle enjoyed his consistent nature. She glanced at the clock on the far wall to see that he was right on time. He made his way over to the building blocks, his favorite center, where Sarah, Jackie and Michael were already playing.

One of Mrs. Ingle's joys of the day was watching the children at play. They were so innocent and it seemed the troubles of the world couldn't penetrate these walls. She found herself particularly joyful this morning and, wanting to share her good spirits, she clapped her hands twice to get the attention of the class.

Everyone looked up except Stephen. He was deaf.

Malcom poked Stephen's shoulder and pointed to Mrs. Ingle. Understanding the gesture, he smiled and immediately fixed his eyes upon her, ready to read her lips.

"Let's start with a fun game," said Mrs. Ingle. Chears rang out as the children made their way to the table, where all group games take place. "Does anyone know how to play 'Who Stole The Cookie From The Cookie Jar'?" Jackie's hand was the only response.

"Alright," said Mrs. Ingle, "watch and listen. Jackie and I will show you how to play and you can all join in when you understand."

Stephen was excited. He loved having to follow a conversation by ping-ponging his eyes between two people. And since it was already going to be a game, he was anticipating fun.

"Everyone ready?" asked Mrs. Ingle. Everyone nodded.

"Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?" she began. "Was it you?" She pointed at Jackie.

"But Mrs. Ingle, we don't have a cookie jar," said Sarah.

"Yes, I know, but we-"

"We could play 'Who Stole The Cookie From The Suggestion Box'!" yelled Erik, always trying to help.

"Who put a cookie in there in the first place?" asked Michael, thoroughly confused by such a strange course of action. "And how did they even get it through the paper slot?"

"Children," said Mrs. Ingle, attempting to refocus their attention.

"Maybe they were trying to suggest we have more cookies in the room," said Jessica.

"Or maybe more snack time," added Erik.

"I wish someone would put some new playground balls in the suggestion box," said George.

Mrs. Ingle clapped twice. Everyone stopped and looked at her, except Stephen. He was laughing and flailing his legs around thinking this was a great game. Sarah poked his shoulder. Stephen looked up anticipating the next round.

"Children," said Mrs. Ingle, "this is a game. It's fun and make-believe."

"Sounded real to me," said George.

"I don't see how ruining someone's reputation with accusations of theft is fun," added Jessica.

"I don't think I want Jackie borrowing my pencil anymore," wined Malcom.

Mrs. Ingle tried again. "Just listen to Jackie and I and see if you can catch on. This is only a game."

Stephen was ready.

"Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar? Was it you?" Mrs. Ingle pointed at Jackie again.

"Who, me?"

"She pointed right at you," said George sarcastically.

"Listen, please," said Mrs. Ingle. "Yes, you," she said pointing again at Jackie.

"Couldn't be," said Jackie.

"I can atest to that!" yelled Sarah. "She was with me in building blocks! She couldn't have!"

Mrs. Ingle was not stopping again. "Then who?" she asked Jackie, whose finger immediately pointed to Malcom.

"Who stole the cookie from the cookie jar?" asked Mrs. Ingle. "Was it you?" This time the inquiry was directed at Malcom. As soon as she pointed, he looked down at his feet and began to cry. Stephen smiled and poked Malcom's shoulder. This was a new part of the game, he thought.

"Jackie," said Mrs. Ingle, "please pick someone else." Jackie pointed at Johnathan.

"I don't think I should speak without my lawyer present." Johnathan wasn't taking any chances.

Mrs. Ingle was growing impatient. "Was it you?" Her finger was pointed at Michael. He pulled a sandwich bag out from his pocket. Inside was a single oatmeal raisin cookie.

"It's not mine," he said. "I'm just holding it for a friend."

All of the children gasped except Jessica who said, "No, no. The cookie we're looking for is chocolate chip."

"How do you know?" asked George. "Did you steal it?"

"No!" she yelled. "Mrs. Ingle said it was chocolate chip!"

"I said no such thing!" Mrs. Ingle retorted.

Alison, who had been patiently watching the case unfold, pointed at Stephen. "Maybe he stole it!"

Seeing the finger pointed at him, Stephen thought it was his turn. He laughed hysterically, flailed his legs around again and began pointing wildly at the other children, hoping he was winning.

"Oh sure," said George, "blame the deaf kid. Sounds like the desparate act of a guilty conscience."

"She couldn't have stolen it!" yelled Sarah. "She's left handed!"

"How do we know the culprit is right handed?" asked Jessica.

"Maybe that's how they got the cookie in the paper slot!" exclaimed Michael.

"So they took it from the cookie jar and then put it into the suggestion box," said Johnathan. "I think it's starting to make some sense."

"That means we have two thieves," said Jessica. "One stole it from the cookie jar, the other from the suggestion box."

"But the box is locked," said Erik, "and I don't think many people have access to the key. And how would they know the cookie had been placed in there anyway?"

"Sounds like an inside job," said Jessica.

Stephen was still pointing.

"Well someone stole it!" yelled George.

"Was it you, George?" asked Michael.

"No! I brought my own cookies; I don't need to steel the one from the cookie jar!"

The accusations of theft and contaminating the suggestion box continued into the afternoon, with everyone pointing and yelling all over the room. Finally, with no conclusion in sight, they all agreed to drop it.

At least until Johnathan noticed cookie crumbs under Mrs. Ingle's desk.

Post Lunch Anger

[This was written last week...I don't remember what day]

He moves his muscles in random, graceful directions. Pulling and pushing to extremes while his stomache attempts digestion of the lead weight now present within. Paing crashes against the canvas of a conversation, marking it with indiscernable figures of emotion. Red overtakes. Soaking deep into the woven fabric forming the rest of his day, or at least the next several hours. Work will not be as it was previous to this tension. An opportunity to amend will not present itself for what now seems like days.

You have to go now.

As if my intillect and alertness, generally more keen, were less aware. As if my decision to remain had been overlooked or neglected, or worse: Traded. My attempts to grasp the last bits of a fleeting smile, in hopes of rebuilding before the conclusion of this moment, the only of its kind, thwarted by five words and one punctuational end piece.

Hold on with me instead!

My strength subdued by such a seemingly insignificant grouping of words. A papercut of a sentence! My ice cream pushed out of the cone and onto the ground below. A saddened and withdrawn state I now find myself in. Or is it that I'm choosing to hold back because the line between master and tyrant has become blurred?

Oh, my dear, sweet Jesus! Show me where to step. Give my feet direction and my legs the strength to move them.

My Favorite Chair In The Shop

To the editor:

I'm sitting on my favorite chair in the shop having coffee and donuts with Jerry the ogre, writing about nothing because the thoughts that I'm thinking aren't ready to be writ.

It's a Friday. Capital F for Freedom; a weekend getaway for two in the lofty spaces and brick encased cubicles until Monday do us part. Lower case m for monotinous. Because not even Jerry likes Mondays.

Although, in its defense, I've grown accustomed to the few expectations that accompany the first of the five day waiting period. Freedom is far off, so little energy is directed toward its approach. I suppose it's that stowed anticipation that brings Monday to a close without much delay.

Moving on.

A heterogeneous compilation of thought in a variety of vocabulary, analogy and spaghetti. The male mind attempting at least a glance of that plate, functionally adorned with sauce and a meatball or two. Follow one strand and you'll inevitably find yourself shaking hands with the whole dish and returning to your first position. Understanding is present but limited.

She cannot even begin to attempt categorization and compartmentalization of the noodly mess. It is far too great a mass to undertake such an eternal project. Each is delicately and inoperably intertwined with the whole.

He cannot interrelate. To do so would be to disregard the organization, to remove the logic. To push his reasoned mind beyond boundaries, resulting in a catastrophic multi-system failure.

For the next portion of the tour, please put on your 3-D glasses, virtual reality gloves and one sock. You choose the foot.

Two birds were sitting on a fence by a railroad track. Both were hit by stray walnuts. Was that fair? One of the birds was blue and the other was ambidextrous. One of the walnuts was actually a Beagle. A few more alterations? The railroad track was trimmed with lace and the fence heard voices. That should do it.

This room was constructed in 1736 and stapled to the main house a month after its completion. It was designed for the soul purpose of housing Mr. Van Wumpit's couches. Being a superstitious man, he didn't want his furniture walking off unkempt for the neighbors to see. Who knows what aristocratic cleaning parties would ensue?

The remainder of this entry has moved.

You may now find it at:

100 East 42nd Street

New York, NY 10017