The Imaginarium of J.M. Adkison

I am Going to Write Something Clever

2010-09-01T15:24:00.000-07:00

Something Clever.

There you have it.

I have written something clever, something mind-twisting, something jaw-dropping. Something crazy. Something thought-provoking.

Something no one has ever written before. Something revolutionary. Something strange. Something new. Something different. Something that will change your mind. Something that will change the world. Something that will inspire youthful, college-aged, easily-agitated and easily-fooled idealists. Something that will make old conservatives point fingers and cause their jowels to quiver in distaste. Something that will be discussed, debated, and disected for ages and ages to come.

Something that will be the first quote of a book. Something someone will use in a speech. Something that will be referenced to by this side or that to argue this side or that. Something that will be written on classroom walls in crayon and construction paper. Something that will be etched out in gold along the archways of ivy league gates. Something that will be written on a thousand headstones to come.

I have written something clever.

And what in the world is all this supposed to mean?!

(Cue rewinding noise, reality spins backwards, ugly lines flash across the television screen, people fall upwards, windows go from shattered to whole, my fingers backtrack across the keyboard...)

Now that I have officialy returned to the wonderful world of web logging, also known as blogging, I thought I would make my return by writing something clever. The Pun is intended.

Sitting in Chapel today, I listened to three older students lead chapel by not giving a sermon persay, but instead by reciting scripture, the Lord's Prayer, and several sayings and writings from famous writers on this side of the Fall of Rome. It was a great Chapel that kept the audience involved and was a really fresh change from the monotonous monotone mumblings that somehow meander their way onto the stage. The speakers were creative and innovative, something that sadly is not always a part of Chapel.

But as they were taking turns at the podium, reciting Isaiah, the Gospels, and a whole lot of other scripture that had to do with being asleep in sin and waking up in salvation, they also spouted off some poetry with darkness, light, and pop culture allusions. They recited several modern-ish writers who I enjoy, but one I did not-the dreaded Thoreau (gag me with a spoon and shoot me in the head and do not even think about saying the word "Walden"), who all had great works done that were insightful, inspiring, (in Thoreau's case, insipid) and...I'm having trouble thinking up a another postive word that starts with "ins" but anyway...really good. And also clever.

It is every writer's dream to be the next Shakespeare. Even if a writer does not say it is his or her dream, that he or she is but a modest dabbler in creative story-telling or an occasional participant of poetic pasttimes-he or she is lying to your face and you should probably stand back so you do not get your eyebrows burned off when the bolt of lightning smites him or her for committing such a sin.

We all want to be discovered. We all want to be loved. We all want to be famous. We want the movie deals. We want the red carpet papparazzi pandemonium. We want the rave reviews from L.A. Times, Washington Post, and Time magazine. We want the first five pages of our book dedicated to "Praise for (Insert your name here)". We want to see "From New York Times Best-Selling Author" written over every title of every book (of course nowadays they'll give that out to any author who has two sentences written on a page). We want to have that Oprah's Book Club sticker on our cover.

We all want the generations and generations of high-school students to come and moan and gnash their teeth because they have to read our glorified texts and reenact our epic lines. From wherever we end up in the afterlife, we want to look into the beforelife and see those same students tormenting themselves over ten-page papers that have to do with our metaphysical, existential, hyperquizzitistical (a word from my American Lit-class) ideals and how they relate to...well...anything our proud and devoted disciples (i.e. English teachers) want them to relate to.

And if you are reading this and are a writer and getting mad at me, sorry...but you know it's true. ;)

What, you don't think Shakespeare was soaking in the limelight at the Globe? Come on, Queen Elizabeth saw his plays, that's like Bush/Obama (whichever you prefer) saying to you "You really have talent." Those four words are the magic words every person in the entire world ever born and about to be born wants to hear. And no doubt about, I'm sure Shakespeare heard it a lot and probably was not the most humble man walking along the Thames.

But in order to achieve that fame. In order to be a great writer. In order to be a name high-school students dread to bear as English teachers post giant pictures of your oh-so contemplative face and 1930's England throw-back suit with crossed legs up on the wall. In order to be a name cast among the greats and listed at the top of the who's who list. In order to be known, you have to write something clever.

Sure it can come from your heart. It can be something you pull from the depths of your soul. I can be something that inspired you. It can be something that you hope inspires others. It can be something that makes you laugh, makes you cry, makes you scream. But it has to be clever. It has to be different. It has to be astonishing. Because otherwise, it's just another writing.

It's just another dream, just another story, just another whimsical notion, just another artist waiting to be called starving, just another J.K. Rowling wanna-be, just another stupid poem written by another stupid girl, just another ridiculous book written by another ridiculous boy, just another person wanting to change the world (it changes everyday-it is just a fad we haven't passed through yet), just a English student fancying himself a writer. Pa-lease!

It's just another story.

But it's only another writing to the world.

But not to God.

Wow! Now where did that come from?

This is not some writer-hating thing as you might have supposed. I am not one of those negative neds who are out to reveal the dark side of his art. Okay, maybe a little bit, but I'm trying to make a point.

God loves what we write as writers, when they come from our souls and hearts. I'm not talking about gossipy diary entries and bathroom vulgarities. I mean the real stuff, where tears stain the pages and the writings are kept hidden away for only you to see. But God does not like mysteries, that is why he is always revealing them.

When you cry out to God, when you rejoice with God, when you scream with God, even though you might not be aware you're doing it with God, He does and He loves it.

And the best part is-you do not have to put so much energy into writing "clever". He is not looking for a best-seller or the latest fad or even some radical, revolutionary essay with a well-thought thesis or bibliography. He needs no grammar, no supporting text, no footnotes, no standard, no cleverness. He only needs you and your words. To Him, your words that come from the core of your hear are far, far, far more beautiful than anything Shakespeare could conceive.

And who knows? When all is said and done, evil is gone, and the world is brand new again, he might decide to put the words you wrote the day you were baptized in the sky written in stars. Or He might display those words you wrote when you were asking Him for forgiveness and strength in sunshine along the clouds. Or He might take the words you wrote in celebration of a victory over sin and spell them out with a host bright angels brither than the stars and the sun and continually singing your name and God's over and over and over again.

So forget about the fame, the movie deals, the Oprah sticker, the New York Times Best-selling add-on (it's over-used anyway) and the tormented high-school students yet to come.

And write for God.

And then maybe the tormented high school students can come as a bonus.

Happier Tomorrows

2010-03-23T11:48:00.000-07:00

Alright, so I gave another chapel lesson today and I surprisingly spoke pretty well for having been sick and under the weather-though it was all mental weather considering it was a very nice day that day. The last time I was really quiet and my voice was awful. But today I used voice inflections and added a lot of soul into my sermon. The talk was cooking inside my brain while we were in Southern Italy, staying on the majestic shores and watching the sun rise on the land of romance. Needless to say, I was inspired.

So here it is...

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I was walking along a road one day. It was an absolutely gorgeous road, made with yellow bricks and lined with emerald-green trees. The sun was shining, the birds were singing, and my soul was just…happy.

Then, as night began to fall and the sun dropped out of sight, taking its warmth away with it, the road lost its yellow sheen and the trees became cold skeletons, surrounded by dead leaves.

The path became rocky and cracked, easy to stumble over and dangerous to cross. I fell so many times, but I continued to pick myself up, I continued to keep my eyes on the bright light at the end of the road.

But then the path turned from broken bricks and stumbling stones to red-hot coals, smoldering intensely before me, a stretch of pain and heat standing between me and Paradise.

I was already so tired, already so broken, already so tested, but I tried anyway. I took a step onto the hot coals, my foot and my soul screaming out in pain. I took another step, my heart felt ready to shatter.

I had already come so far, come so near. The prize was closer, but still so far. This was not the bed of roses I told it was. This was not the happy life I was told would be my reward for obedience. With every step I took, my faith slowly smoldered down to ashes.

Then I heard it, a soft giggle from among the trees, a clash of coins rolling into a golden pile, the trickle of delightful drink gurgling in a far stream, a sound of applause to the calling of my name, a whispered promise for happier tomorrows.

I turned my head and looked into the cold, dark, skeletal forest. I saw a beautiful woman in a red dress, beckoning me with a seductive smile. I saw piles of gold and dollars towering higher than the trees. I saw a stream of bubbling beverages, full of good times and no worries. I saw the flashes of paparazzi cameras, yearning to capture my face. I saw the promise for happier tomorrows.

My feet were scorched and tired, my soul was so tested, and my heart was ready to break, and I needed a reprieve, I needed an escape. This was not what I thought it was anyway, it was too much for someone I had never met.

So I stepped off the path.

I chased after the woman in the red dress. I grabbed at the money littering the ground. I drank in the delightful drink. I did what I had to in order to get my fame. I believed in the promises for happier tomorrows.
And for a time, it was blissful, it was happy, it was free. And the narrow, hard path was far behind, out of sight, out of mind. Life was good and I was living it up.

But the whole time I was empty. The whole time I was cold.

The lady in the red dress turned out to be nothing more than one night stands and dirty magazine pages. The money became dried leaves in my hands and was taken away when ever the wind picked up. The fountain of good times and no worries was a poison that numbed my brain and left me always dying of thirst. My fame lasted for only a few minutes and I was nothing more than so-last-year. I found that this forest of happier tomorrows was really a forest of guilty yesterdays.

And I was lost. I was cold. I was empty.

And so I wandered through my self-pity and sickly sorrow, waded through my mire of dirty pages, fake monopoly money, empty beer bottles, and own shame.

And I was empty. And cold.

And that is when I called his name. I called his name, weakly at first, then a shout at the end.

And he came. He was there in a flash. He was bright, happy, and warm. The cold fled away in his presence. The sorrow became happiness when he smiled. My emptiness was gone at his touch.

He pulled me out of my shame, out of my mess, out of my cold. He pulled me out with nail-pierced hands, hands that had been pierced for people like, for the ones who wander among the skeletal trees, who lose themselves within their own messes, for everyone else.

He guided me out of the forest and back to the path, back to the road of hot coals, and then he picked me up, put me on his back, and walked across the coals for me.

How many times have we heard this sermon? How many times have we learned this lesson? How many times have we heard countless other allegories?

How many times have we actually believed in it?

This walk we call Christianity is not always a bed of roses, or a yellow brick road. Sometimes it is a length of hot coals, ready to cook us alive.

And when the going gets touch, sin slips in, it offers us a break, a reprieve, a happier tomorrow. But once it gently takes your hand, flashes you a beautiful smile, it puts a noose around your neck and a black bag over head. And goes in for the kill.

Which is why we have to stay on the course and we have to be strong. Because tomorrow never comes and sin always breaks its promises.

Philipians 3:12-14 says…12Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. 13Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, 14I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

We are living in a long-distance relationship with God. He is in Heaven, we are on Earth. And sometimes we forget that Jesus died to make that long-distance shorter, to help us be nearer, even if that means picking us up and carrying us across hot coals.

So live for him, not for a guilty pleasure or quick-fix fortune. Be like Paul and don’t look back, keep your eye on the prize, never look back, because there are only guilty yesterdays behind you. But in front of you, at the end of this road called Christianity, is a golden today that will last for all eternity.

Oh the Places You'll Go

2010-03-06T07:15:00.000-08:00

So I survived free travel in one peace and my passport still in my pocket. I also managed to not completely burn off my entire account or get lost in the middle of Barcelona. It was a series of fortunate events that I still can't believe I got through without missing a train or forgetting something behind.

Basically, God was working overtime for our group.

Well I know many of you are interested in where I went and what I did, so I think I shall put a schedule of what we did day-by-day.

Monday Feb. 22
-Started the day off at the Villa by watching (and crying to) "Life is Beautiful". We then had to sit through a seemingly endless Humanities class. We left soon after lunch (my group consisted of four girls and two guys), walked down the hill, took a city bus, took the tram, then got on a train for Prato, Italy. It turned out that we had to take four trains just to get to a little town in Italy that a girl wanted to see. We took a train from Prato to Bologna, from there to somewhere else, then to Vicenza. We made it to our hostel at around 9:00 pm and since there was nothing to do in this town whatsoever except to see a theater, we decided to just chill in our room for the night.

Tuesday Feb. 23
-We checked out the hostel and went to the Teatro Olimpico, which is the first enclosed theater ever built (a theater major in our group really wanted to see it). After that we took a city bus for an hour to get to the train station, then had to wait another hour to get our train. From Vicenza we went to Venice, but only for an hour or so because we had to take a double-decker (yes a double-decker) charter bus to Villoch, Austria. We got to see the Alps and their snow-covered peaks on the drive. We made it to Villoch three hours later, then got on a train from Villock to Salzburg that took 2 hours. We made it to Salzburg and took a taxi to Germana Keppelar's, a sweet little bed and breakfast owned by this sweet, old Austrian woman, who waited up for us when we got in at around 10:00.

Wednesday Feb. 24
-We had a great breakfast at Frau Keppellar's and were picked up for our Sound of Music tour. The tour lasted for the first half of the day and was led by a really nice man who had some pretty corny jokes. After the Sound of Music tour we walked around Salzburg, taking in the scenery and looking for Mozart's home. We ate at great tavern, eating brautwurst and drinking Spetzy (coke mixed with orange juice and lemonade). After that we took another taxi back to our bed and breakfast.

Thursday Feb. 25
-Another great breakfast served by Frau Keppellar, we left Salzburg at 10:00 for Munich, arriving a half-hour later. We took another train to Rohrbac to drop off our bags with Curina (Katie's friend who was nice enough to let us stay with her). Katie and Natasha stayed with Curina, while Annette, Logan, Matt and I went back to Munich to catch a train to Fussen. Annette left to meet her fiancee at the airport and we ran into Sarah, Todd, Kathryn, Matt F., and Kendra (other people from our HUF group). We got on a 2 hour train to Fussen, took a quick bus ride up the hills, then a carriage ride up a Bavarian mountain, a walk on foot to Castle Neuchwanstein, the castle of my dreams! It was so gorgeous and majestic, as if it had been built purely by imagination. We walked down the mountain, got back on the bus, got back on the train, met back up with Annette and Jake (her fiancee), got on another train to Rohrbac, met up with Curina (who served a spaghetti dinner at her home), then took a drive to Tandem to meet Curina's friends and drink more Spetzy (I have no idea how to spell it).

Friday Feb. 26
-Left Curina's house early in the morning to catch a train from Munich to Hannover, then from Hannover to Osnabruk to meet Logan's family. Annette and Jake went to Prague, Katie stayed in Munich. Natasha, Matt, Logan and I were picked up by Logan's cousin Henning, who took us to his house and fed us a great dinner. We got in bed early after a long week.

Saturday Feb. 27
-Toured around Osnabruk, learning about Logan's heritage. Natasha, Matt and I got good food out of the deal.

Sunday Feb. 28
-Ate a great breakfast and a great lunch at Henning's and got on a train to Brussels, we got to ride first class on one leg of the trip there-I highly suggest you ride first class at least once in a free travel. We made it to Brussels at about 8:00 pm, grabbed some grape juice and made it to our hostel where we ate, talked and had communion.

Monday March 1
-Woke up late, met back up with Annette and Jake in the hostel lobby, and left to walk around the city. Brussels was blistering cold and all of the museums were cold, but we still had a great time. I had a waffle covered in nutella, then some Godiva chocolate and then some french fries covered in onions, ketchup and mayonnaise. That is seriously all I got to eat. We also saw the fountain of a little peeing boy called the Manneken Pis and went to see "The Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus". We spent the rest of the night walking around and talking.

Tuesday March 2
-Woke up very early and met in the lobby at 4:45 to catch a bus at 6:00 on the other side of the city. We had to take the creepy metro, made it to the bus just in time, then got to the airport just in time. We then made it onto our flight for Barcelona! We got to Barcelona-Gerona airport at about 11-ish am, where we had to take another charter bus into town. We checked into our hostel at about 1:00. The rest of the day was spent just walking around the city. It was a great day and we saw the huge soccer stadium and visited the Picasso Museum.

Wednesday March 3
-Slept in a little late after our long Tuesday, ate a brunch at around 11 am, visited a modern art museum that reinvigorated my hatred for modern art, walked around the shops and markets (most of which were closed because of rain), then went to the coast and had a hot chocolate at a mall on the beach. We then took the metro to a big, ugly, yet awesome church built by Gaudi that just astounded me with its weirdness. After the church we went to several parks and tried to find the Olympic stadium, but never did, but got some great views of the city. We then went to a really nice restaurant dressed in wrinkled cloths and smelling like death, but didn't care because we were craving legitimately good food.

Thursday March 4
-Our final day we got up at 3:30 am (I didn't even sleep that night)-in order to catch a 5:00 bus to the airport. We got on our 8:00 plane to Pisa, got on another bus, then finally made it back to wonderful Florence!

In the great words of Dr. Seuss, "Oh the places you'll go!"

So I Finally Saw It...

2010-03-01T10:34:00.001-08:00

So I am currently in Brussels, Belgium using a computer in the hostel lobby. Due to the fact that everything (from museums to fountains) is closed on Mondays-which is the only day we are here-we decided to go see a movie since a movie theater is located right across the street. Somehow, I got my friends to see "The Imaginarium of Dr. Parnassus". Yes, it is the same movie title that inspired the title of this blog.

For those of you who don't know what this movie is about, don't ask me because I still don't know. It was one of the strangest movies I have ever seen in my life-and I still don't know if I really liked it. The beginning of it was great and had all of things I loved in a good movie...then it went downhill around the middle-and by the end it was nearly unbearable. I do not think that I have ever seen a movie where I loved it in the beginning and hated it in the end.

Alright, so a little bit on what the movie was about...I think...

A thousand years ago there was a monk named Parnassus who led a brotherhood that constantly told a story every minute of every day and every night, and they believed that if they stopped telling this story the world would end. One day a dark rider comes to the monastery with a proposal for Parnassus. The dark rider turns out to be the devil who tries to kill Parnassus's faith by stealing the voices of all the monks. But Parnassus, even with the devil's tricks, is not swayed and is determined that the story is being told elsewhere in the world, just in another version. So the devil and Parnassus make a game to see who can sway more humans to stories and imagination or to vanities and feeble desires.

A thousand years later and Parnassus is still making debts with the devil, but living in a world where he is losing more than winning. Because of a deal done ages ago, any of Parnassus's children would belong to the devil once he or she reached 16 years. Parnassus's daughter, Valentina, is nearing 16 and the devil is ready to collect his due. But Parnassus is still determined to win the game. So he travels across the world in a make-shift stage and carriage, with his magic mirror that allows people to enter the Imaginarium, a world limited only by your imagination. Within the Imaginarium, Parnassus tries to point contestants in the right direction toward purity and fulfillment. But the devil is always waiting in the Imaginarium, ready to use the human's vice to deter them.

The Imaginarium is fantastic. But it is not a dream world seen in so many other movies where animals talk and wizards battle, this is a world where all of your hopes and dreams exist in surreal form, quickly followed by your nightmares and fears. It is a world of a human mind, containing both pure and impure thoughts, and sometimes you can't tell the difference between the two. Both the devil and Parnassus are able to manipulate the Imaginarium to their own ends, but the human decides to follow Parnassus or the devil.

The rest of the story unfolds when the theater troupe that travels with the mirror and Parnassus discover a mysterious man named Tony, who has many, many secrets of his own. Tony is a wild card that neither Parnassus or the devil expected, but use to keep the game going. As Valentina falls for Tony and her birthday nears, Parnassus must find a way to save his daughter's soul.

I enjoyed the surreal Imaginarium, which was full of amazing effects and wondrous scenes. But Tony ruined it all with his lack of imaginative skill and yearning to be rich and powerful, corrupting the Imaginarium-where the movie goes down hill.

While the movie overall was strange and hard to follow, and there were some subtle stabs at Christianity (film-makers nowadays have nothing better to do than make those sort of jabs-they think they are being different but just fitting a mold a thousand other filmmakers have fit into of the ages).

But the idea of a world where our imagination alone crafts the physics and limitations is amazing to me. It is a world where everything you want to happens, happens in a glorious instant. So, I think I'll keep the title.

Tell Me Your Story

2010-02-11T05:43:00.000-08:00

So today I gave my first chapel sermon here at HUF and it went pretty well, although I rushed it a little as I tend to do when speaking. But I think the lesson was well-received by the group. They told me they liked it anyway. I also had a cough and am getting a cold, so it wasn't my best sermon ever.

But here it is, I'm posting it really for my Mom, because I know she'll ask me to do it anyway. And I think of all the sermons I've done-this one is my favorite, even better than that sermon I did about superheroes.

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So you've just died.

You've kicked the can. You've taken your last breath. You've passed on from this world. You've already seen your whole life pass before your eyes. The fat lady has sung. Life is over and the hereafter has begun.

And so with that final breath, as Hamlet might say, you have shuffled off your mortal coil and await what dreams may come. You step out of your body, look down at a face that had once been yours and but no longer is, and you're a bit confused about what to do next.

That's when you see it: a long, dark tunnel that had not been there before. With little options to choose, you begin walking down this tunnel, to see a small light waiting for you at the end. As you creep down this tunnel, the light is getting brighter and brighter with every step. A bright, white light that is coming closer and closer.

As you near the light, you begin to hear singing. You hear singing that is both beautiful and frightening, both majestic and terrifying.

And then you reach the light at the end of the tunnel. A bright, glorious and blinding light that envelopes and consumes you. And when your eyes become used to the light, you find yourself somewhere else.

Within this light you see giant pillars rising up, as thick as mountains, supporting a ceiling thousands of feet away. You see golden clouds drifting between the great pillars, passing only to show visions of art and glory crafted by hands not human.

On the floor of this majestic hall, a hall so great and massive you could lose the Sistine Chapel and all the palaces of the world quite easily if you weren't careful, and between the pillars and beneath the clouds, stood a chorus of a million angels, singing their songs in a language you've never heard before, but somehow understand. They are each creatures of starry flames, thunderous voices and eclipsing eyes.

And all their eyes are on you.

And then, as you turn from the chorus of angels, you see Him. You see the source of the ethereal light, the light that is far superior to the thousand-foot pillars, to the strange songs, to the fiery choir. He is the source of light, the source of life. Sitting on a throne large than the earth, surrounded by beings of a hundred wings and a thousand faces, surrounded by kneeling saints and inferior crowns. He is the Being of glorious, untainted, pure light covered in robes made from bursting suns and interwoven stars. A circle of swirling galaxies revolve around His head, a head that is the very pinnacle of all existence. His face is too indescribable for meager words and mortal imagination to comprehend.

And He is looking at you.

He is looking at you with eyes as bright as the Milky Way and as deep as the chasm of space. He wears an expression of what appears to be curiosity, an expression that contains every emotion bestowed to man, and then some that weren't.

You cower beneath the Almighty's gaze with the sum of all fears, with a trembling of Old Testament proportions. You stand there without your clothes, without your riches, without your body. You are standing beneath His gaze naked and laid bare. Needless to say, if you still had pants, you'd have wet them.

And then something unexpected happens: a human steps out of the One and Only. He steps out from the sunny robes and shining face. It is a man of average height, with dark, Middle-Eastern skin, wearing white robes and bearing holes in his hands and feet.

He walks up to you, completely at peace in this terrifying place, with a small smile on his face and his fingers caressing the hole in his hand, as if absent-mindedly. He looks at you in the eye, and says in a voice that may or may not be familiar, "Tell me your story."

"Tell me your story."

Over Christmas break, I read a book called "A Million Miles in a Thousand Years" by Donald Miller, one of my favorite authors. In this book, I learned that we are all characters in an epic novel being written by God. This is a novel full of mystery, intrigue, adventure, action, horror, romance, heroic deeds, sacrifice, and true love. And we are all the main characters.

As John 1:1-5 says, "In the beginning was the Word, and the word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it."

Jesus is the Word of God and we are the stories that have been written with but that one word.

God expects us to live exciting lives, lives that involve leaving home and seeing the world, that involve taking risks and taking leaps of faith, that involves defying the odds and facing our giants.

I think that when we get to stand before God, He won't stack your good deeds against your bad ones. Or immediately raise His thumb to approve your entrance to Heaven or point it down to send you elsewhere. I think He'll ask us to tell our stories, our life stories down to every detail. After all, He is God, and you are naked, so you have nowhere to hide anything. You tell Him your life.

And how disappointing would it be to have to tell the Creator that you did not explore the world he created for exploring, to tell Him that you came across an obstacle, but did not have the faith to overcome it, to tell Him that you fought with sin, but did not defeat it. To tell Him that you gave into sin, and did not put up much of a fight.

Everybody loves a happy ending, including God.

And how disappointing would it be to tell God that He did not have a major role in your life's story, or that He was not even a part of it at all, even though He was the one who wrought your introduction.

So while you are here in Florence, and gallivanting across Europe, live adventurously, take those once-in-a-lifetime chances, close your eyes and take that great leap of faith.

And while you are living adventurously, live adventurously with God, make Him the main character of your own story, make Him the prologue, climax, and epilogue, make Him the title of every chapter.

So there you are, standing in Presence of the Almighty, at the feet of the Creator, among the angels and the saints, standing before the Christ Jesus, and you've been asked to tell your story.

So what is your story going to be?

What a Weekend!

2010-02-08T02:04:00.000-08:00

So I am currently in the midst of week 3 of my semester here in Florence and it seems like I've been here a whole lot longer-months even. And yet, at the same, strange time, I feel as if time is slipping by like sand caught in a dancing wind that blows around you, swirling about you majestically for a moment, then passes by, leaving only memories and things left jotted down in a journal. But I am nowhere near the end of my adventure, I still have Europe to see and the world to conquer.

But this weekend was perhaps one of the best weekends of my life-riding on the heels of that one special weekend I was crowned king of the Prom.

Friday began early as we all boarded our bus at 8:00 am and headed off for the large village of Lucca, which is one of those many towns within Europe that have been resentful of change and the buildings and roads and churches remain in the medieval ages. You will find no mega churches here or examples of humanity's genius from today. Lucca was nice town, I will admit, but the downpour of rain and the drafty, frostbitten churches and the lack of astonishing facts did not leave us with a good flavor in our mouths and a good memory in our heads. We were rather smitten to be gone from the town and head on towards the rest of the day.

The rest of the day brought Pisa, that legendary architectural mistake that has made every child who has seen its picture in a classroom and every adult lucky enough to visit it. I've probably seen more than a hundred pictures of Pisa in my life, a commonality in today's fast-pace world photography and print. But actually standing at the foot of this famous structure, seeing the angle it was leaning at, and just waiting for it to come crashing down, was unreal. However it was nowhere near as grand as actually climbing the tower it-self. It was one of the strangest things, entering the tower through a crooked door, climbing a spiral staircase that leaned to the left, or right depending on which way you're facing. And then you make it to the top, and you desperately cling to the railing when you see one side of the circular structure much lower than the other. It's one of those memories you will never forget.

I seem to be making a lot of those.

Saturday brought the chocolate and Albanians. After classes on Saturday (yes, we have classes on Saturday-and Sunday) a group of us went to a chocolate fair at the Santa Croce (one of Florence's numerous churches) Square. The place was an inner-ant-mound of excitement as Florentines and tourists alike flocked the white tents, itching to get their hands on the chocolate-covered oranges and cherries and gummy worms. I managed to get a nice brownie smothered in hot fudge. What a treat!

The night brought the Albanians. Currently, Italy is having an explosion of Albanian immigration-which I think is a good thing because Albanians now how to have a good time (I'm absolutely positive that Italians do too, it's just that they're more reserved than Albanians by a long shock). And with the Albanians came dancing. We all sat along the walls of a small room in the Florence Church of Christ, watching these young Europeans hop, skip and smile as they held hands and danced around the room, playing the music of their home. Then gradually, they would pull us in and teach us the dance.

The dances were easy and free, with room for improvisation. The Albanians simply took us by the hand and pulled us into a circle of laughter and twirls. The music was folksy and foreign, like something out of "My Big Fat Greek Wedding".

However, like all dance parties involving Americans, Cascada is going to get involved somehow. Especially when it comes to "Every time we touch". So naturally, I had a good time.

I don't know what it is about dancing, but it is one of my favorite gifts God gave us. And yes, I do believe dancing is a gift He gave us, just like singing, writing, athleticism, drama, public speaking, and health care. And like any of God's gifts, we can use it for good or bad. In the case of Saturday night, it was good. And it was fun.

No matter what anyone says, Harding kids do know how to have a good time, probably a better time than students at other schools, probably because we don't have illegal substances or consume beverages that cause extreme idiocy. And eventually it went from Cascada to Hadaway to Ke$ha. And I had a dance off with an Albanian, who may or may not have, gone easy on me. But whatever the outcome-it was fun.

Sunday brought a pot-luck. I know you actually don't spell pot-luck like "pot-luck" but for the sake of everyone else, I'll call it "pot-luck". The food was great and the compay even greater. I think friends make food taste better-that's probably false-but it does make meals more enjoyable. It's the little things of Italy as well that makes this trip grand. After the pot-luck we had a quick battle of the sexes pictionary game and some chili.

And then we went to the soccer-or futbol-whatever you want to call it- game and it was quiet an experience. When you think Americans are bad about their favorite sports teams and hating on their rivals, Italians are worse, much worse. It was Florence verses Rome, the purple and white verses the red and black...respectively.

I think since Italian cities no longer fight wars and try to conquer each other, they've turned to soccer as their outlet for violence, obscenity and hometown pride. But since Florence lost 1-0, the city was not a happy place.

Extreme sport-pride makes me angry and embarrassed to be sharing the same gender with these so-called "manly men". When you see grown men cursing their hearts out, pouring beer the color of urine down their gullets with the gluttony of a troll, pathetically living vicariously through the athletes they always dreamed to be, but somehow let a beer-belly get in their way, and have a temper-tantrum worthy of a two-year-old when something they have absolutely no control over whatsoever did not go their way. And boy, did I see that at the soccer game last night.

Now I'm not generalizing in anyway or saying all sports fans are like this-I would be an idiot to say that. But the way the men acted at the game last night absolutely revolted me. And I know similar actions take place in the States.

However, we were able to watch the Super Bowl last night here in the Villa, so my respect for sports fans lifted somewhat because there was no cussing or beer-drinking, although the coke we had tasted really funny....

But that is what happened to me this past weekend my faithful readers. It was a good weekend to lighten my spirits and make memories to last a lifetime.

Separated Only by Time

2010-01-31T11:29:00.001-08:00

One of the strangest, and most important, events in a person’s life is when he leaves home and departs for foreign worlds, the worlds unfamiliar and the worlds spoken of only in legend and tale. He leaves home for the worlds of great thinkers whose great thoughts became great actions, of creative minds that refused to be anything less than what they could conceive, and of those who shaped the figure of history with chisels and hammers. It is the boy leaving the farm to face the dragon and save the princess. It is the hobbit leaving his hole to destroy the evil ring. It is the girl tumbling down the rabbit hole in chase of a thing not from her world. It is the great adventure that comes only once in a lifetime; the adventure that takes you to where the legends exist and dreams come true. That is me. I am the boy discovering himself in the world far from home. I am the boy who has stumbled into the land of great thinkers, creative minds, and history-shapers.
Italy is a land full of ancient tales, absolute powers, and legends who refused to accept the limitations of a medieval mind. Italy was the center of the Roman Empire, the birthplace of the Renaissance, and the throne of Catholicism. Upon first arriving in Florence, which rivals Rome it-self in great history and immortal legends, I was slow to fully realize where I truly was. Disoriented by jet-lag and confused by culture-shock, I spent the first week trying to stay calm and keep one foot in front of the other. But I began to relax and only saw it in the light of today, a land no longer center of the world and sitting in the shadow of younger nations with lesser histories. I enjoyed the quaint, little medieval towns stuck in the past and the gelato that made my taste-buds sing in Gregorian chants, but it wasn’t until I came face to face with the work of Michelangelo that my “aha” moment slapped me in the face and told me to wake up and smell the Giglio.
Our group was touring the museum which sat in the shadow of the great Duomo, the Cathedral of Saint Mary of the Flower, and viewing the statues and artifacts that used to decorate the giant halls of the ancient church. The museum contained many works by Ghiberti, Brunelleschi, Donatello, and Michelangelo himself. The museum was nice and enjoyable, with a few statues that moderately held my interest, a few works of art that were weathered with age and no different than the thousands of other artifacts that decorated thousands of other churches. And then we turned a corner, climbed a flight of stairs, entered a small, circular room, and saw Michelangelo’s 3rd Pieta.
The 3rd Pieta was one of the last endeavors of the great Michelangelo. This Pieta, also know as the Deposition or the Lamentation over the Dead Christ, depicts the body of Christ being held by his mother, Mary, as well as Mary Magdalene and a hooded man who could be either Nicodemus or Joseph of Arimathea. This Pieta is special among the great artist’s works because he did not finish it. Because of an impurity in the marble, Michelangelo actually took a hammer to the construct and attacked it in a fit of rage.
It wasn’t until I was standing right in front of the statue, trying to get a clear picture of the work of art with my camera, did I discover that I was actually standing in the same room with something that the great artist himself had thought of, had begun, had sweated and labored over, had actually touched and morphed to fit his imagination. Our tour guide said that the face of the hooded man is actually believed to be a self-portrait of Michelangelo, looking sorrowfully down on the broken body of Christ. And so there I stood, gazing into the face of a man who had painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, had crafted the famous, and infamous, statue of David, and had astonished everyone from the Papacy to the Medicis to the world with his masterful skill.
Soon after we saw the Pieta, we went to a small room that had once been a courtyard. Our tour guide said that the very spot where we were standing had been the exact location where the David had been built. “Aha!” went my mind. I was standing where Michelangelo had stood, where he had worked, and where he had dreamed. The “Aha!” continued as I began to realize that this was merely the first of many encounters with sharing the same space with the legends of the past. I will be wandering the roads where fearsome Roman legions marched on their way to conquer the world; I will be walking along the footsteps of Cardinals and Popes; I will be touring through the great cities where kings ruled and history was made. I stood there, in the exact same spot where Michelangelo had once stood, sharing the same space, separated only by time.

A star left in another world

2010-01-28T05:17:00.000-08:00

Being in Italy is just like reaching the end of the rabbit hole, finding the other side of the looking glasss, getting tossed out of a magical twister, and reaching that world left of the north star and straight on till morning. Even though I am still existing on the same dimensional plane as America, I feel as if my home is another world away-and it basically is.

It is funny what Americans hang on to when they go overseas. I feel safe when I see that McDonalds on the side of the road, or sip that coke in the cafe, or see Charlize Theron's face on a billboard. We find comfort in the advertisements and propaganda and cultural icons of our homeworld -because they are the things that we have seen since we were too young to feed ourselves.

As Americans, we worship Hollywood as our pantheon of gods-yearning to see them, to touch them, to hear them say our names. And when they walk down the street, even when we don't particuarly like their movies or songs, we still scream their name. The tabloids are our holy scriptures, songs about partying all night, getting crazy, and single ladies have become our praises to wild life and fame. Our prophets sit in front of video cameras in suits and heels with tanned skin and too much eye-shaodw, sharing gossip and rumors and critisizing clothes. Our myths are not passed down by word of mouth or written in ancient tomes, but are put on the big screen, as long as you pay $6 to $12 for admission. We don't really want culture, we want pop-something to make our lives seem gilded and golden, like stars (but not the beautiful ones God created in the heavens). And when one of those stars falls, we want drama, we want gossip, we want excitment-we do not want to know that the stars really gleam as bright as we want them to. Whereas true stars gleam because they themselves choose to.

But to say that this is America is fiendishly revolting-because America is not pop, glitz, glam and cosmo girl. Those are invaders that wormed their way into culture by taking advantage of love-sick American girls. But my world is more than a giant logo atop a hill in L.A., it is the family living in ordinary suburbia that have dreams of, not grandeur, but reality. We dream to be among the true stars, the ones that shined all on their own and were not frivolous fads with the latest hit song. Instead, we have dreams of being nurses and saving lives, of being teachers and making sure the next generation is ready for life, of being biologists and discovering the plethora of little worlds that exist in everyday, of being writers and leaving behind words on a page that is kept within the nooks and cranies of dusty bookstores. We want to be the stars that don't need others to tell them that they are stars.

Living in the world of Brunelleschi, Leonardo Da Vinci, Galileo, Michelangelo, and countless others who decided that they were goinhg to be true stars, and now shine for near-eternity. America is still too young to contains those long-shining stars, but I think we still have a lot to offer the world, whether Europe likes it or not. And so here I am, trying to be a star, but the kind that does not shine on silver screens or billboard charts, but the kind that can tell God "I lived a story I am proud of, that changed a life and glorified You." In a world of strangers and strange places, God (who exists simultaneously in all worlds) loves to make the stars that love Him shine the brightest. And while the brightest might not be as well remembered as the David, God puts a whole lot more stock in them.

From a friend of mine...

2010-01-25T07:01:00.000-08:00

So I have a friend by the name of Kellum Tate who is a writer and is probably one of the very few people I know that has a mind as crazy as mine. The other day she posted a poem she wrote on her blog and I read it and it blew my mind. For those of you who do not follow her blog, you should, cause it is good.

Well here is the poem, and the link to her blog...

http://thesixteenthzephyr.wordpress.com

“The Seven Days of Creation”

I.

When God separated the light from the darkness, I wonder—

was it painful,

like the ripping of small intestines from the gut,

or wings plucked from the thorax of a housefly.

II.

Today, the world is an umbrella,

water above,

water below.

III.

In the hospital nursery, the attendant dims the lights.

Before she leaves for the night, the third baby on row five yawns,

tiny cherry mouth glistening like a red poppy after the dew,

the first poppy,

the first dew.

IV.

The universe is a lucky woman.

We boast of a strand of pearls but at her neck

cluster suns, cluster moons, cluster planets,

all forged from collisions and cataclysms

by her lover’s thousand-fingered hands.

V.

Fishermen bob in their skiffs a quarter after five,

their eyes alone watching as the fish jumps to reflect first sunlight,

scales now fluorescing coral like rose gold wedding rings,

now dripping scarlet rubies from the crush of the sea hawk’s talons.

Death begins so soon.

VI.

All day long, my dog sits at the window,

watching the goings-on of the neighborhood.

Her tails thumps the off-white carpet.

Look, she says in canine Morse code.

Mrs. Fairfax is checking her mail again.

It is good, oh,

it is so good.

VII.

Dust particles float inside the divinely snoring mouth.

The lungs exhale, and the motes dance, alive,

a solar system above the tonsils.

The lungs inhale, and the dust dies to drift in aimlessness again,

formless above the void.

It kinda puts it all into perspective...

Medicis, Maquerade Masks and More Madness

2010-01-22T14:16:00.000-08:00

So I have finally made it to beautiful Florence, Italy (or rather Firenze, Italia as it is more commonly known by the people who are common frequenters of it) after a too much time up in the air. Jan. 19th and 20th were some of the strangest days ever because they were meshed together by the jet lag. When I had landed in Italy and riding the 4 hour bus ride from Rome and thinking about "yesterday" it did not seem like yesterday. Instead, it seemed like I had an unusually long day in which the sun decided to take a nap while I was watching Harry Potter on the screen in front of me.

First off, the Villa is amazing. It is a little more cramped than I thought it would be, but it makes it all the better. The rooms are nice, the people are amazing and the food is fantastic. Right now it is nearing the end of Day 2 here at Harding University in Florence, and my we have had a full last two days.

Jan. 21-We went to Scandicci and toured the little town where the Villa is and I had my first cup of cappuccino (which was a mistake-even a little coffee can make something taste awful) and had 8 courses of pizza (each one with a different topping including french fries). Before dinner, however, we saw an old woman get hit by an Asian woman on a mo-ped. Man, did that little old woman scream and scream and scream. But I guess I would do the same. After dinner, a group of us went to Florence. We decided to kick off the first night by just going into the city by ourselves and walking the streets on our own. Along the way we saw the Duomo, the statue of Perseus holding the Medusa's head, and an opera singer standing on a street corner belting it out (oh and a musician singing James Taylor and the Beetles).)

Jan. 22-Florence again! We toured the city, listening to these handy, but extremely annoying, devices called whisperers that the director or tour guide speaks into. Really, it is just another thing to lose and pay way too much for. However, I did learn about the Medicis, one of the most famous families in history and how they basically ruled Florence-and they did it in style. Even though they were corrupt and mean, if it wasn't for them, Florence would not be the place it is today (plus Ponti Vochio would still be a pig-market, not a gold market). I finished the trip with a nice, small serving of gellato (spelling?)

So all in all, it's going well. I'm just ready to make new friends and get to know people I would never meet on campus otherwise. Oh well...

But to end this on a happy note, you can fully expect the Imaginarium to have a boost in creativity-and nothing boosts creativity like a good masquerade mask!!!

In Which the Imaginarium Goes Abroad

2010-01-18T14:41:00.000-08:00

Bonjurno faithful followers!

For those of you reading from Harding's main campus-I STINKEN" MISS YOU SO MUCH!-I hope you all will continue reading this and do not forget about me as I depart these lands for a world across the Great Atlantic where the evils of social healthcare hold sway and communists roam free-and where I am going to have the time of my life. Right now my heart is thumping so hard my other organs thinking of leading a revolt and staging a coup. I can only ask that my body keeps civil order while I am hundreds of miles over the Atlantic, listening to Josh Groban and hoping I don't sit next to a clown again (poor fellows are fun to watch, not to sit by).

Right now it is 5:49 pm on Monday the 18th of January, and tomorrow will be Tuesday the 19th of January, a day I have been waiting for ever since my mom grudgingly put down $300 for the sign-up fee. Pray the pilots are hyper and ready and no stupid flocks of geese come flying into our turbines-cause I would be so mad!

I'm hoping that I get a creativity boost while touring the giant museums and taking the trains and hoepfully getting to see the Pope (which, even though I'm not catholic, is still a big deal 'cause he's the Pope. Maybe he'll like me if I tell him my grandfather was raised catholic (just leave out the bit where he switched to protestantism). But oh boy if Italy is even half as cool as France was I am going to have a fit!

You know, being a frequent reader of young adult fiction where American youths are given items of strange powers that lead them on rip-roaring adventures into the hidden magical underbellies of the world, I'm gonna keep an eye out for any old shops with peculiar names that sell antiques that may or may not be meant to be sold to heirs of King Arthur, Merlin, Dumbeldore, David Copperfield and other fantasy heavy-weights. That or any pubs (mind you not to drink but to find a hidden wizarding world) under the name, the Leaky Cauldron. But I probably won't be going off with any peddlars saying there's a portal through another world in his wardrobe-because chances are he's a serial killer that keeps bodies in his cabinetry.

So keep me in your prayers as I go "galavanting" across Europe and as this Imaginarium goes to another country, who knows-I might even meet a girl!

Pocahontas...In Space!

2009-12-29T08:48:00.000-08:00

Alright so there I was, reading my dear friend Kellum's blog about this new movie...you might have heard about it...called Avatar. And I thought I would be unoriginal and write about it as well. May I say-it was amazing! Not just the visual effects, not just 3-D, and not just the I-MAX that I saw it in-I thought the movie was astounding.

But before you go see it, know this, I am pretty sure the movie is based on Pocahontas.

For those of you haven't seen this movie it is about a group military-trained soldiers and company bureaucrats (the English) who come from Earth and make a colony on another planet called Pandora (Pre-Colonial America), which is inhabited by scantily clad warrior tribes with blue skin and cerebral cord strands disguised as long hair-braids (the Native Americans) and they are called the Na'vi. The Na'vi have something the humans want, a rare mineral called obtanium (the gold the English think is all over the place). However, the Na'vi's home (a giant tree) is sitting right on top of the obtanium, and the humans want it. In an attempt to be diplomatic and keep the hippies on earth happy, they create Avatars for humans to use to get to know the Na'vi better. A human just lies in a pod, then his or her mind is transferred into a Na'vi clone body. There is one Avatar-using marine named Jake Sully (John Smith) who falls for the Na'vi princess, Neytiri (Pocahontas!!!). There is even a cruel military commander (Ratcliffe from the movie), a native desiring to marry the princess (Kocoum), and even an all-seeing, magical tree (Grandmother Willow).

If this isn't based on Pocahontas than you might as well say Christopher Paolini "accidentally" copied the story-line from Star Wars.

This movie had a lot of things most movies don't have today: a heart and soul to it. The characters were real and had their flaws. The movie wasn't just a mess of stupid, pointless graphics and annoying sex-apopeal. True the Na'vi could have worn a little more clothing-but they were aliens so no lust there.

This movie has gotten a lot of flack for being racist. If anything it is racist against white people-but I think James Cameron (the director) wanted to make the Na'vi look like indigineous people as we think of them so that we would make the connections. As for being overly "green", the movie did not have that "oh you are a stupid American because you drive a hummer and shop at Wal-Mart and don't recycle, so let's all go get dread-locks and discuss politics in dimmly-lit coffee houses." The movie was more about taking care of the planet because it takes care of you too.

I know there are lot of Christians who feel that we don't have a duty to take care of the world because this is not our home. Well, that's fooey. God still took time to create it and you should take care of it or you're saying "this isn't my mess to clean up and I don't care what happens to you beautifully-crafted oceans."

Sorry for going off on a tangent, but I think we do need to get a little more focused on keeping the enviroment clean and not bulldozing forests for another Starbucks.

The movie was great, and to you critics who review movies and gave it bad reviews-who gives a crap what you think?

Rain and Bad Romance

2009-12-08T09:46:00.000-08:00

So I'm sitting in the library writing this and listening to Lady Gaga's latest phenomenon-Bad Romance (right now it's at the french-speaking part). Oh, and I did I mention-it's raining...again.

I seemed to have developed a bad romance with rain. During my pre-Harding years, the rain was one of my great loves. The dark, sinister clouds crowding the sky, rumbling with thunder and frenzied electrons, hurling lightning bolts and sheets of water were enough to excite the imagination of any preadolescent. There was also another reason why I loved rain: no lacrosse. Lacrosse could not have picked a better season than the season of april showers and may flowers.

Rain is one of those epic/romantic settings God sent the world for love-lulled couples to kiss in and for dramatic scenes of good vs. evil facing off once and for all (Matrix Revolution anyone?)

Rain meant going outside, spinning around in the wet air, singing with the thunder and playing with lightning. But now , we have a bad romance.

Rain now means getting drenched on my way to class, trying to cross teacherous rivers of dirty water on my way to the cafeteria, having to change my shoes three times a day because they're sogging beyond repair. And Harding doesn't help any in that area. Thanks to our crudely made sidewalks and awful drainage system, Harding University quickly becomes the lost city of Atlantis, complete with currents that take you to your classes and mermaid ring ceremonies.

The sun has been hidden by darkness-but light always wins-I just hope it does soon and before I have to change shoes again.

Why oh why am I not Narnian?

2009-11-15T18:40:00.001-08:00

Once you get past the blood-thirsty ice queen, the murderous uncle, and the fact that a little girl gets lured too easilyt into the lair of a shirtless fawn-Narnia seems like a really nice place.

For one thing: talking animals
For two things: Castles-cool ones
For three things:Aslan
For four things: If you're human-you're basically king
For five things: No pesky internet classes

Right now I should be working on a massive project for my internet communications class (the biggest regret of my schedule). We're supposed to be designing an entire website. It could be fun-right? Wrong! We have to deal with the boring, hard stuff called HTML. HTML-hypertext markup language-is one persnickety old wench that doesn't work right if you forget a semicolon out of 1,000 lines of code. The fact that so much code goes into the simplest website makes my brain angry. Angry because humans seem to make everything so stinkin complex. Let's take medical/anatomy terms.

For example: "The major neuroendocrine control centre of malacostracans is the X-organ–sinus-gland complex, which lies in the eyestalk or in an equivalent part of the head in which the eyes are sessile."

Who comes up with stuff: robots? Nancy Pelosi? Lex Luthor?

Why can't you just name stuff short names, like: the foop, the zoob, the yaak, the nama, the Gooop. That would make the world a whole lot easier to understand. Life is short-we don't need long terms.

Back to Narnia and its lack of the internet (and modern technology)-yes, technology was supposed to make our lives easier (and yes I know without the internet and technology I would not be typing this right now), but it just gives us a chance to be busier. Now that we can see the world wide web on our cell phones-big corporations that use employees as fine cutlery to grab their food (money), can now keep feeding whenever they feel like and keep those utensils a workin'.

We love to be busy-and our bosses expect us to love it so much-we buy a pull-out mattress for our office. Sure-you have a nice window view of the city, but that doesn't come in handy when you're trying to get a nice sleep.

Narnia looks so pristine, so untouched, so peaceful. I can imagine myself relaxing in the castle tower having a deep theological discussion with a burmese python-actually, I hate pythons, perhaps my st. bernard Sweet Pea.

Which is why I want to be a writer. It is an occupation that can be done from anywhere: home, plane, train, river side, in a boat, in a mote, wearing a coat. By the shore, at the store, standing in an open door. Eating apples, drinking snapple, listening to old women cackle. Okay, maybe I'm getting out of hand-but a writer's life looks simplistic-no cubicles, no cruel upper management, no board meetings-just you, a piece of paper and your creativity.

And a castle in Narnia would be the perfect place for a masterpiece.

Three's a Crowd-Especially if you're a ghost

2009-11-03T16:18:00.000-08:00

This weekend, as every Harding student and alumnus (what a wierd word for a graduate) knows, was Homecoming. It was a happy scene of parents mingling with students on the sidewalks, high school-ers oggling the campus and football players getting ready for the best audience turn-out of the year (people won't leave after half-time, woo-hoo!). Oh, yeah, and it was also Halloween. So the students who are...more inclined in letting their more...expressive...sides show were using the holiday as another excuse to break out their sparkly capes, wear Death Eater-like hoods, and paint their faces like Tim Burton characters (although usually they don't really need an excuse-they were just able to blend in better with the little kids that dressed up like pirates). But the best part of the weekend, besides my wonderful Aunt and Uncle taking me out to dinner three days in a row!, was the homecoming musical-which was Scrooge (Christmas Carol with songs).

I would have to say that the Christmas Carol is one of those great holiday tales that never gets old, kinda like A Christmas Story, It's a Wonderful Life and any of those clay-mation old school films. I mean Scrooge has everything-romance, heart-break, suspence, horror, excitment, danceing, time-traveling,a quick peak into the after-life, a moral undermeaning of redemption and good Christmas spirit, with an unusually happy little boy with a limp leg that gets dished the corniest line in the play. What more could you want?

And boy, I didn't think first coming here, but Harding does know how to put on a show.

My favorite part in the Scrooge epic is the final ghost that comes to visit Scrooge when the clock strikes three. The ghost is silent, creepy, and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end whenever he decides to pop out of nowhere. Not only does he take Scrooge and the audience to the grave of poor Timy Tim, but also to Scrooge's grave and later to Hell it-self. However, I think even the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come pales (no pun intended) in comparrison to Jacob Marley, who was played by my old speech teacher Mr. Ritchie. Marley taunts Scrooge a bit, rattling his chains, moving a few objects, moaning through the air and making Scrooge's door-knocker do funny tricks. Then he appears, covered in chains and tries to engage in some friendly small talk about life, death, and taxes.

Oh, and he warns Scrooge about three ghosts that will come to show him the errors of his way.

Whoever came up with the idea of having Scrooge haunted by three ghosts and being scared into redemption must of have been one of those hellfire and brimstone kind of preachers-the ones that had their index finger firmly planted in a point and wore the constant expression of extreme constipation. But, I guess sometimes we need a finger jabbed our way and someone to yell at us to get our attention.

All in all, Scrooge becomes a nice guy and likes Christmas and we never know if Tiny Tim really dies or not.

Even though the Christmas Carol is a fictional-God does love to work in threes-He is a Trinity, which makes Him so much more interesting.

Hm. Just some thoughts running through my head.

Another quick post

2009-10-07T19:53:00.000-07:00

Hey guys, so I know I haven't been posting a lot lately, but...too bad. I am a college student devoted to his studies and I need my down time away from the technological world (you can thank my internet communications class for that). Anywho, here's another quick post. I am analyzing my own writing for my advnaced comp. class and I found this awesome quote by strunk and white, the masterminds behind...drum roll...THE ELEMENTS OF STYLE. And as I was drinking from their spring of writing genius, I discovered a few quotes.

Here they are...

"There is no satisfactory explanation to style, no infallible guide to good writing, no assurance that a person who thinks clearly will be able to write clearly, no key that unlocks the door, no inflexible rule by which writers may shape their course. Writers will often find themselves steering by stars that are disturbingly in motion."
...Which is why I love writing.

And another cool quote I read: "Writing is an act of faith, not a trick of grammar."

Breaking Jesus out of the formula

2009-09-24T17:34:00.000-07:00

Alright-so right now I am on a Donald Miller kick since I am doing this book review for Searching for God Knows What. Side Note: When I become an author, I hope people will one day say "so right now I am on this J.M. Adkison kick..."(that would be amazing). Anywho, I decided to put the review on my blog since I haven't been updating it much-but if you are going to read this-please read it at thelink.harding.edu that way I can get a lot of hits.

So here is the review, titled: Breaking Jesus out of the formula.

“Sometimes I feel as though I were born in a circus, come out of my mother’s womb like a man from a cannon, pitched toward the ceiling of the tent, all the doctors and nurses clapping in delight from the grandstands…My body falls back toward earth, the ground coming up quick, the center ring growing enormous beneath my falling weight. And this is precisely when it occurs to me that there is no net. As I wonder…Who is going to rescue me?”

And thus begins Donald Miller’s “Searching for God Knows What,” a radical book on freeing Jesus from a formulaic, rigid religion and the box we tend to put him in.
Donald Miller is not your average Christian author. In fact, Miller is about as odd and crazy-minded as writers come. This is not your grandmother’s sort of literature, unless your grandmother happens to be a bearded lady who can identify with Miller’s carnival-style parables. His first novel “Prayer and the Art of Volkswagen Maintenance”, came out in 2000, but was met with little success. Lucky for him, his next novel, “Blue Like Jazz: Nonreligious Thoughts on Christian Spirituality”, launched him into the New York Times best-seller list, which put him on the express lane out of anonymity. His next book to hit the scene was “Searching for God Knows What,” released in 2004.

Many may be wondering why someone would be writing a review for a book that came out five years ago, and that someone would respond that he was writing this review because not enough people know about it. “Searching for God Knows What” dares to ask the questions: What if the deepest longings of your heart were there for a reason? What if the Gospel of Jesus was not “safe” at all, but full of intrigue, passion−and romance? Not only does Miller try to take Jesus out of the box, he drenches the box in gasoline and lights it on fire afterwards.

Now what exactly is this “box”? The “box” is a set of limitations or formulas humans bind God to in order to make him fit comfortably in our nicely organized, daily scheduled lives. The box can be a formula that goes like this: a person struggles with life, some sort of calamity happens in this person’s life, and that calamity brings this person to Jesus. The end result is this person living happily ever after. It is the idea that coming to Christ is a step-by-step process taken out of the self-help book known as the Bible.

Yet, we all know life is actually a large collection of unknown variables waiting to disrupt perfectly planned schedules and as Miller so eloquently puts it: “It seems if there were a formula to fix life, Jesus would have told us what it was.”

Miller is in no sense attacking the institution of the church or Christianity. He is trying to get Christians to stop viewing God as a cuddly Santa Clause they can fit into their daily planners and see Him as an unpredictable being who wants his children to live outside their comfort boxes.

“I did’t have a relationship with God; I had a relationship with a system of simple ideas, certain prejudices, and a feeling that I and people who thought as I thought were right,” he says on page 31.

To say that Miller’s writing is “whimsical” would be nothing short of an under-statement. He writes with a dry sense of humor that is skilled in sending the reader into hysterics, making the reading both entertaining and enthralling. His ideas are quirky and very original, for example chapter seven is titled “Adam, Eve, and the Alien: How the Fall Makes You Feel” and chapter 14 is “The Gospel of Jesus: Why William Shakespeare Was a Prophet.”

One of the most attractive aspects to his writing is the simple fact Miller seems to write whatever pops into his head, and somehow brings these thoughts together to create a new way of looking at Christianity through an entirely different lens. However, this lens can often turn into a mind-whirling kaleidoscope as Miller is apt to lose you somewhere along his train of thought. Sometimes his ideas are so strange and random, you have trouble connecting the dots.

Yet, what really adds to the quality of this book is the genuineness the reader can sense in Miller’s writing. He does not pretend to be a all-knowing guru with the secrets to following God, he never fails to let Jesus have the lime light. He is just one eccentric man amongst a sea of people trying their hardest not to be eccentric, trying to make heads and tails of this art form called Christianity.

Read This!

2009-09-23T19:43:00.000-07:00

Alright-quickest blog ever-I know. But I am doing this book review for one of Donald Miller's books (don't know who he is? Then learn!) and I found this awesome quote:

"The most difficult lie I ever contended with is this: Life is a story about me."
-Donald Miller

Think about it.

Very Superstitious

2009-09-03T17:11:00.000-07:00

Alright, so I know I haven't blogged in, like, forever. But in case you didn't know, I've been a little busy with college life lately. Getting back into the groove a social life is hard work. Also, I wasn't really sure what to blog about. So, I got to thinking and pondered that age-old question "What interests me?"

And thus I came upon superstitions.

I find superstitions to be fascinating-I'm not superstitious my-self, but the fact that they exist fascinate me. What fascinates me is how strange corny they can be. For example, I once read in a legitimate history book on the medieval ages that mourners at a funeral made sure to keep black cats away from the coffin of their lost loved one. They feared if the cat ran across the coffin, then the corpse inside would spring back to life-but as a vampire! Put that in your oven, Stephanie Meyer!

But many of us have those little superstitions that we keep in our back pocket. For example: wearing a certain pair of dirty socks will win you the game, listening to a certain song will improve your writing, or the position of the stars and planets will control your love life. We all have those common superstitions-and even if we don't believe in them we at least acknowledge them-such as Friday the 13th, not walking under ladders and, oddly enough, the usefulness of bridesmaids. But you might often wonder-how on earth did we develop these superstitions? Well here is a list of how.

Friday the 13th-this day is almost considered something of a holiday or something, and even is look forward to. Hollywood and its horror films definitely help in notarizing this day. The origin of Friday the 13th actually lies within the Gospels. At the last supper, Judas was the 13th person attending the Passover meal. Jesus was crucified on a Friday. Folklore presumes that Adam and Eve were banished from the Garden of Eden on a Friday, the Floods came on a Friday, and unruly students praise Friday as the last day of the week.

Walking under ladders-Other than heavy objects falling on your head from a high-up ladder step, it is odd to think that walking under a simple tool for work can cause bad luck. Ladders, in case you didn't notice, create a triangle with the ground and the wall. The triangle symbolizes the Trinity, and walking through that triangle violates or agitates God or the spirits that "live" within the triangle. I did read that a simple way of repelling God's or the spirit's wrath is by crossing your fingers and making a sign of the cross as you walk under it-but since ladders aren't all that big in width, you might not have enough time.

Bridesmaids-Never thought weddings were superstitious? Think again, superstition practically invented these blissfully romantic events. In the olden days, when everyone from old Granny to little Jimmy feared the wrath of cantankerous, evil spirits that don't like it when the living are happy. The spirits have a sort of "It's my birthday and I can cry if I want to.." complex and enjoy making the living miserable. So, weddings, generally being festivities of happy occasion, are like magnets to these sort of ill-tempered ghosts. To stop the ungrateful dead from ruining the rather grateful living from having a good time, the Middle Age contemporaries invented the bridesmaid, which believe it or not, is not there to look pretty in front of everybody (but nowhere near as pretty as the bride). The bridesmaid is actually a decoy to distract the evil spirits from getting to the bride. Similarly, the groomsmen do the same thing. The veil is also suppose to hide the bride from the evil spirits. Hint to the evil spirits: Go for the one in the veil.

Breaking a mirror-We've all heard that breaking a mirror can cause seven years of bad luck. Well, here's why it would be seven years. During the olden days of witch hunts and Pope-control, people thought that looking in a mirror was looking at a reflection of your soul. By breaking the mirror, you for some reason harmed your soul. And it would take seven years for your soul to pull it-self back together. And with an injured soul, you would be easy for those nasty spirits mentioned back in the bridesmaid section.

Knock on wood-For some reason, this superstition has always annoyed me. It is so corny-with somebody going "Oh, knock on wood ha-ha." And I would always ask "what does that even mean?" Well, I found out. Back in the days before witch-hunts and Pope-control, a few tribes and nations believed gods lived in the trees. By knocking once on a tree-trunk, you asked for a favor. By knocking twice you said thank you. I still don't understand why people still say it.

Saying "Bless You"-This piece of superstition has actually earned its way into our culture's etiquette and good manners' file. Back in the good ol' Dark Ages, simple minded simpletons believed that when you sneezed, you were expelling demons from your soul. After you sneezed, you were congratulated with a "Bless you" and everybody thought you were really cool when you sneezed a lot. So, basically when allergy season came rolling around, the dorky kids with asthma were considered saints. However, when the Black Plague came skipping through town, the Pope mandated that people say "Bless you" because excessive sneezing was a sure sign you had the plague and you were about to die. So the dorky asthma kids go from sainthood to hospice care.

Hold your breath-So there is this one superstition that I followed for years when I was a kid. "Hold your breath when you go by a cemetery." It was more of a stupid kid's game than a superstition. It was actually rather bothersome cause I have several graves in my hometown area. And when your driving and you get stuck at a red light that is right next to a cemetery, you begin to ponder if this superstition is more trouble than its worth. Well, the origin of this one lies in the belief that the spirits of the dead wandering through the cemetery might hear you breathing, become jealous that you're still alive-and attack you. Sort of like the wedding scene-but unfortunately you can't keep a line of bridesmaids as decoys in the back of your car.

Even though we look back on the Medieval Ages as a time of stupidity, bloody wars and a bunch of dirty people living too close together-but you have to give them credit-without them we wouldn't have our very cool superstitions.

Dream Me Baby One More Time...

2009-07-21T07:16:00.000-07:00

Well its been a good month and a half since I last wrote anything-bit of a shoddy work for a blogger such as my-self-which isn't saying much at all since I just started blogging a few months ago. But now that I am home and my labtop is...once again...on the fritz, I must battle and duel my sisters for control of the home computer-and I usually lose.

Yet, the highly detestable and greatly ignoble sport of soccer does serve its purposes as my sisters are away at soccer camp. So here I am once again.

Summer has not been laxed in sufficiently supplying my brain with all sorts of oddities and perplexities during that time between sleep and awake. Or plainly put, I'm still having a whole lot of wierd dreams.

Let's take last night's phantasmagorical (not sure if it fits-but I love that word) adventure into the world of dreams. In this dream I had an older brother who was married and was expecting their first child. I believe my parents were on vacation and my sisters were nowhere to be seen (probably at soccer camp). I never did meet my brother's pregnant wife-she was always in the next room behind a closed door. I did get to see this older brother (which I have always wanted) and he looked a lot like Jim from the Office-so I am sort of wondering if Pam might be the expecting sister-in-law in the next room. Well, whoever the wife is-she is very old-fashioned and wants to have her baby in the house without any medications and no doctors-the sort of kind they had in olden days where they pretty much screamed the baby out of their womb. Oh, and this wife also wants a midwife.

So we hire a midwife. We hire Britney Spears.

Ms. Spears has decided to take some time off from creating her masterful music and instead delve into the craftmanship of midwifery. So, THE Britney Spears comes to live with us. I am showing her around the house, introducing her to the various garden patches and showing her the interstate that just so happens to be paved right in front of our house. As we watch the cars zoom by, the sun painting the sky red as it sets to light the rest of the world, we hear one of Britney's latest singles playing in a car that is driving by. I can't really remember what the song was-in fact-I don't think she has even sung it yet.

So I ask: "Is it wierd hearing your voice on the radio"

She answers: "It is always wierd."

We return to the house and sit on the couch watching my older brother make goofy faces and juggle various sets of china across the living room.

A Quick Game of Hurl-a-Squirrel

2009-06-01T07:12:00.000-07:00

Today is June 1st of 2009 and the time is 10:17 a.m.-do want to know how my first day of this warm, summer month started. With a sudden outburst of maniacal screaming from my mother downstairs. The sort of screaming you would expect to find in common places such as a horror movie, or Fear Factor, or a dark alleyway in Gotham City.

Well the screaming was coming from our sunroom (sorta like a second living room with skylights) and without my glasses, I ran down the hallway and down the stairs to find my mother screaming at something beneath the couch. She was jumping on the couch and screaming and hollering with her phone in hand with the other person still on the other line. Then I saw something, a brown, fuzzy flash dash from beneath the couch to beneath our little woodstove connected to our chimney.

Well needless to say, I began an outburst of screaming, hollering and jumping.

To better see what I was screaming at-I ran to go grab my glasses and ran back-to see my mother swatting a little squirrel with a broom. I grabbed the broom while she went to get the longed-stick duster. What followed was a frenzy of wacking and hitting and more screaming. There was a moment where the squirrel was trying to climb the chimney to get upstairs (which was a big no-no) and I hit with the broom so hard it began flying at us. Then using a combination of shear, awesome skill and too many hours watching Matrix movies, I spun the broom through the air and brought the sweeping end down upon the nasty little rodent, bringing it crashing down onto the floor and sent it cowering beneath the woodstove once more.

Now, let me take a moment to address the PETA activistists and general lovers of cute, cuddly woodland creatures. 1st-PETA-I don't care what you think you radical bunch of nudists. 2nd-I understand why some of you would sympathize with this little monstrosity covered in fur. However, there is a boundary between the indoors and the outdoors which very few animals should be allowed to cross-squirrels are one of them. Now, if you knew a squirrel was living in your house, would you just let it be and always have on your consious that you might just wake up one morning to find a little rodent sitting on your face or stalking you in the dead of night?

And if you heard the sounds it was making at my mother and I, you wouldn't think it was so sweet after all.

Well, after about twenty minutes of swatting the thing out of the fake tree (why we have a fake tree inside I will never know) and hitting it off the brick chimney. My mother tapped into her latten hunting abilities that comes from being born to a long line of woodland creature hunters. She ran to the garage and grabbed my old lacrosse stick then with a yell to even make William Wallace and his brave heart wet his kilt, she began to jab at the squirrel beneath the woodstove (I had moved the fake tree outside so it couldn't use it as a hiding spot). The squirrel, after much angry chattering and cussing us out in squirrel-language, dashed from beneath the woodstove only to find it-self cornered.

In a stunning climax, my mother trapped the squirrel beneath the lacrosse-stick's net, dragged it across the floor and hurled it outside. I ran, closed the door and locked it.

The terrifying ordeal was finished.

However, another terrifying thought had occured. The door to the backyard was not open, it had in fact blown open last Friday or Saturday. The squirrel had been spending the weekend in the Adkison abode. But had it been alone?

World Leaders Need a Reality Check

2009-05-16T17:37:00.000-07:00

So I've been hung up on this life dream of mine to become world dominator. It's been a dream of mine to rule the world since I was...well, young enough to say "bow before me" in a dramatic voice. As I grew older, sport athletes and Dinsey channel stars inspired me to hold on to that dream.

How did these celebrities inspire me, you might ask?

It was all because of their cheesy slogans.."Follow your dreams," "no dream is too big" and "don't let anybody say 'no'"- well, at the age of seven, I wanted to be two things...world dominator, or a famous stage magician. My reasoning with being a stage magician was that it was the closest I could get to doing magic while not being a pagan. However, I stunk at doing magic tricks (though I did love the capes) and I was terrible at shuffling cards, so I opted for world domination instead. Besides you get more publicity as a monarch than you do stage magician.

I remember laying in bed at night, dreaming of magnificent castles built just for me in Europe with the whole world attending my birthday party (which-at the age of seven-included huge pokemon decorations). I dreamt of standing before the U.N. with a golden laurel leaf crown on my head wearing a long flowing red cape and a whole lot of medals for pomp and circumstance. The U.N. would have to do what I told them and give me presents at every meeting. Yes, I know...it all seems a little egotistical-but when your seven you can dream as big as you want without any reprucusions.

Oh yeah, and I also dreamt of having a super-awesome robotic army with all sorts of laser weaponry and a profile of my face with laurel leaf crown (Roman Emperor style) on their chests-it was the ultimate peace keeping force.

I still like to dream about what it would be like to be world dominator. Just for those who think of me as a war-mongering despot-wanna-be, I have no intention of mongering any sort of war-in order to gain power I would simply hypnotize the U.N. and ask if I could have the world very nicely (perhaps do a little brainwashing here and there but nothing excessive). I've given up hope of world domination sadly and moved on to more "realistic" endeavors such as being a famous novelist. I guess there a whole lot of people out in there world who think having a world dominator would be a bad thing.

Anyway, you might be wondering what the title of this blog has to do with what I'm writing-well I was reading an article online the other day about what is called the Bilderberg Group-which is suspected of being a world council much different from the U.N. that meets behind closed doors and you have to be a Major V.I.P. to get into this club. Some suspect that it is controlling world-affairs.

This group was started in 1954 by some unheard-of Netherland Prince. It contains some very influential people, members of the U.S. Senate, European royalty and the guys from Google. To check out all of the famous people like Condoleeza Rice and Henry Kissinger who have been apart of it and for further reading check out http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1085589.html

So basically these people have been called the "kingmakers" of the world-some claim that the winner of the U.S. presidency was decided at last year's meeting in Virginia. Though that sounds a little far-fetched-these people do operate behind closed doors and do not allow press to cover their meetins-which throws a whole Empire full of speculation on their little get-togethers.

A few British news teams will be covering some of the meeting-but no U.S. teams, which really annoys me. Even if nothing really big is going on behind these closed doors. However, why would these government and corporate power-houses take time out of their busy schedules to meet with other busy government and corporate power-houses if it wasn't for something important. And they have the nerve to not let the public know what is going on-since they are power-houses, their decisions most likely affect us.

It makes me so mad that they have a club, like some sort of snobby country club for world leaders only so they can play with us like pawns while they sip champagne and use really fancy words like "postulate".

Well, kids who dream of being world dominators don't sit well as pawns.

At least, I hope not.

Anyway, it seems a whole lot goes on in our government that we have no clue about. Everything from CIA dealings to Area 51 to super soldiers to whether or not Elvis still lives. I just wish world leaders would ask 'What does the public want?" or say "Hmm, this is pretty important, we should let the whole world know about this."

I can see life as a public gorvernment figure being a tough life-but it's not like they tell you world leading is just fun and dandy in law school.

Oh, and since this is a political rant-I want to say something else-Obama is getting way too much positive publicity. NO president should be getting this much brown-nosing, not even from ABC. I mean, Bush didn't try to spend this money in his first year let alone get a multi-billion dollar plan going. Don't get me wrong, I think Obama is guy who has his heart in the right place and has the "making of greatness" or whatever-but can he please stop spending so much stinkin' money. And if he keeps taxing the rich too much, they're all gonna move away-cause their rich and they can do that.

Well, here's my little dose of politics for the blog-what blog wouldn't be complete without a little bit of politic-ness to spice it up.

Stuck

2009-05-10T18:52:00.001-07:00

An uneventful trip between airports is a wonderful trip. Generally, an eventful trip between airports is a terrible trip.

Well, I'm having an eventful trip.

I am currently sitting at Gate A18 at the Detroit Metro Airport waiting for a flight that will not come until 5:45 in the morning. Right now, it is 10:44 P.M.

My lay-over has become a sleep-over.

That is right my faithful readers, I missed my flight to Portland-the plane from Detroit to Portland left at 9:08, boarded at 8:38. I got here from Little Rock at 8:45, which was on one side of the airport. My gate was on the complete opposite side of the airport, naturally. So, I power-walked my way from one side of a major big city airport to the other, knocking into all sorts bystanders with my body covered in bags and pillows-I forgot all sorts etiquette and manners, I was like a bull and they bowling pins. My calves were screaming, my back was cramping and my breath was getting a little worse for wear. It was one of those moments I strongly wished I was into exercise and all that active stuff.

Well, as you can see, I still didn't make it. I will not be sleeping in my own blissful, wonderful, beloved bed tonight. I will not be waking up to the sweet, delectable aroma of fresh cinnamon rolls. I will not be sleeping in after a long week of finals. Instead, I shall be waking to the sound of an announcer making sure I do not leave items unattended or they will be considered deadly devices of destruction. I will be waking up to the chatter and gossip of airport workers who do not know the meaning of customer service. ( Side Note: Why do airport workers never, ever look happy to be at their jobs? Of course, if I worked in an airport, I probably wouldn't either.) I will be waking up at 5:00 a.m., to board a plane to Boston where I will be picked up to drive 2 hours to Portland.

Why does stuff like this always happen to me? Well, I can never say I lead a boring life.

And I must say, I feel strangely grown up. Sleeping over in airports is a businessman, adult sort of thing. I got my own flight together and everything and picked what city to go to and everything. I naturally went with which ever flight was the earliest and nearest to Portland. Adulthood seems to be giving previews, or should I say trailers, of what life will be like in a few years when I'm really on my own.

Being on your own isn't so bad. It is kind of weird sitting completely by your-self in a big terminal, watching the security drive by on their segways speed by. But, I've always been o.k. with solidarity. Don't get me wrong, I am a highly-social creature created for socializing, but I've gotten used to sitting by my-self. It reminds me of 8^th grade when I first moved to Maine-I sat by my-self at these big, round tables trying to not get noticed. Being the new kid sucks. Pure and simple, but it teaches you so many things, it stretches you in so many directions. Being the new kid makes you stronger. Being the new kid tears you out of your comfort zone and puts you in the Twilight Zone. You learn so much about yourself when you are in a world without friends.

Wow, I am really starting to sound depressing and melodramatic. Have no fears, I eventually made many, many, many good friends at Gorham High School and I am so glad I went there. It just took some getting used to. Hey, I started out eating alone and ended up being elected Prom King-what a weird, unexplainable world.

I guess what I really want to say is being on your own lets God have free reign. There are no others to distract, no one to tempt you, no one to interupt the connection. God did make us to be creatures of relationships, but He likes to have us all to Him-self from time to time-even if it means making you miss that plane ride home.

So, here I am, stuck in the Detroit Metro Airport for a whole night, mad at the world because McDonalds was out of fries when I went to eat dinner and really sad because there is a great Borders just on the other side of my gate, but is closed. And listening to Celine Dion isn't really helping. I'm also looking over at this Delta kiddy playland strongly tempted crawl inside one the plastic play houses and rest easy for the night-but that might not go so well with security. Let's see if I can find a nice, clean spot of carpet to relax on.

Well, here's to Life, and all the fun that comes with it.

The Bittersweet Ending

2009-05-06T22:26:00.000-07:00

The end has come. The end of the beginning. The end of what might possibly have been the greatest academic year of my life. The end of the beginning of my time at Harding University.

That's right folks, my freshman year has come to an end and, my goodness, it was EPIC!

Here are some highlights of this past epic year that will live forever on in the Life and Times of J.M. Adkison, in sorta-chronilogical order:

1.My good friends Eric Suddeath and Laura and Adam and Josh and a few other people going on stage for a very talented hypnotist, who had the super-strong Eric prancing around in a princess hat with a magic wand, had Jake giving birth to his best friend, Laura just smiling sweetly, and Josh translating what an alien-girl said in a perfect imitation of C-3PO.

2.Going to Heber with Devon, Rose, Laura and Brandon-jumping from a forty-foot cliff and convincing Devon and Rose to jump into the water in their clothes (they failed to bring swimsuits)

3.PLEDGE WEEK-'nuff said.

4.Getting into BOX-a little gift from God, giving me the brothers I never had but always wanted.

5.PTP Winter Semi-Formal with the dashing Emma Poe-dancing in the car to Cascada, trying to not knock down paintings in the museum, pondering why a picture of a line was $25,000, hangin' out at Sonic and of course...waiting to see zombies at the graveyard at midnight-but no such luck.

6.Going to Colette's grandparents' farm with Colette, Becca and Daniel-getting to chase peacocks, eat REALLY good food and feeding Big Momma (the cow).

7.Going to Daniel's house with a whole slew of rock-awesome people to help clean up the charming town of Padeucha, KY. Plus, we got to watch Space Jam.

8.The Valentines Day hike with Kellum and Co., which is a delightful menagerie of kind-spirited, but mentally warped homosapiens trying to redefine their respected realities (so, naturally, I fit right in). The hike was, for the lack of a better term, a BLAST!

9.Going to the Chi-O broomball function with the delightful Darah, much earlier in the year, to play on the highly-skilled Reindeer team. My antlers were complimentary of Spencers-right next to the weird costume section, which were not for Halloween I later found out.

10.But of course, the Natick Campaign-a fun-filled mission trip to Natick, Mass with a great group of people led by the legendary Jeremy Dagget. There are many words I could use to describe this trip-in fact would probably need a whole separate post for it-but I shall put it into sub-points.
a. Directing traffic-not an easy task with limited parking
b. Meals on Wheels excursion with a bright old man who drove like a maniac.
c. Pulling/Eating organic veggies for an organic farm.
d. Singing at a BILLION nursing homes
e. Freedom Trail in Boston
f. Three story Abercrombie and Fitch!!!
g. Ice Skating in Boston
h. Natick Youth Rally!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I. "I like...to catch them"

11. Repelling with Andrew (see Hanging By a Thread)

12. Dancing at the Daily Citizen-Yes, Harding kids do know how to dance!

13. The Rescue-spending the night in the parking lot at War Memorial Stadium for a good cause-go to the Invisible Children website to learn more about the Rescue.

14. And to finish it all off on a good note, winning the dance competition at the BOX spring formal-with my signature dance-"The Lotion"

15. Oh, and how could I forget, 5:00 dinners with the crew.

And thus, my year comes to an end-an end I never thought would really come. I am excited to go home, see the family and no longer worry about finals-but the ugly creature known as Distance will once again come between friends for three months. Good thing I've got a pretty good pack of friends up in Maine. But alas, Harding University and Gorham, ME are two places that will never collide.

Time seems to be stealing these great and epic moments, taking them from the present and giving them to the past.

Time is a cruel creature-it moans and slows when we ask it to move faster and then decides to make the great, epic moments become past rather than present in no time.
We enjoy the good times, but the good times are finite things that have short life spans.

Which is one of the reasons why Heaven will be so great. It is a single, epic moment preserved perfectly in the present, no past or future, just that blissful moment we ask to stay and does. Death is not there to kill those we love, sin is not there to defeat our joy and time and space is not there to keep these moments from flying by.

Heaven gives a whole new meaning to the term "BFF."

I guess that is why this is a bittersweet ending-leaving the glorious moments of Harding for the comfort and beauty of Maine summer.

Grumpy Wumpy was a Bear...

2009-04-27T19:21:00.000-07:00

There is a little saying that goes in my family when someone is strongly expressing their negative emotions. It goes like this..."Grumpy Wumpy was a bear, Grumpy Wumpy had no hair."

I could act like a high school English teacher and dig into this rhyme to find the deeper, existentialist purpose and how it relates to human passion, the Forbidden Fruit of the Knowledge of Good and Evil and the author's psychological instability created by an abusive home life, drug usage and hatred of society...but basically the rhyme means that being grumpy leads to more grumpiness, which will eventually lead to excessive hair loss.

Though when I went through middle school and my big-hair days (we all had them), my mom used to say "Grumpy Wumpy was a bear, Grumpy Wumpy had lots and lots of hair!"

Anyway, you might be wondering why I am writing about this wierd little house-hold rhyme. Well, I've been feeling excessively Grumpy Wumpy-ish today. VERY.

Perhaps its because I only got a few hours of sleep this weekend-and those precious hours of sleep I recieved was spent on rock ground in a damp sleeping bag. (For those of you who don't know-I'm high maintenance-call it a family curse or genetic trait, ask anyone in my family-we all are)

Today, everything just seemed to go wrong.

It all started with the swine flu-the latest epidemic in today's news. I wasn't sure what it was all about-but because of it I didn't let my-self eat any of the sausage, which just made my day bad right there.

Tangent: Why does the next mass-hysteria have to be called the "swine flu" that is so...anti-climactic. If there is going to be a plague that could potentially cause high death-tolls at least give humanity some sense of honor and call it something worthy of Hollywood. Such as the Neo-Black Plague, the Great Disease or the Apocalyptic Cold. Wouldn't just stink if humanity was killed off by something called the swine flu (no pun intended)

Back to me: So, since this morning-I've dealt with a boring breakfast, a really bad lunch (there were no buns for my burger and there was way too much peanut butter and no jelly (Kenzie-I feel your pain)), I had to study for a stats test, I had to take a stats test (which is never a rainbow in my day) and work on a really, really, really long and tedious photography project that caused me to nearly have a nervous break down in the computer lab today. As for that project, I got through half of the project, only to see the computer freeze up and quit when I tried to save-so I had to start all over.

And to top it all off-Heroes had a very anti-climactic season finale. Some cool things happened, but once again...Nathan died, again, Sylar survived, again, and Hiro lost his powers, again. Oh, and Claire's dad lied to her, again. And Allie Larter is back in the show after dying, again. I think the writers are just recycling their ideas, maybe they need another Writer's Protest to jog their creative juices 'cause the first season was AMAZING.

But alas-my day is still NOT over and I want it to be so much. Hopefully it will go better tomorrow.

Hopefully I'll put some more posts up.

To the Angel of the Church in Adkison write...

2009-04-20T21:39:00.000-07:00

Well, sorry about not having written anything in a really, really, really, really long time. There just hasn't been very much to write about as of late. Life was going alright, till this night (Monday night) when it all of the sudden went great!

Tonight we had our last social club meeting of the year. For those of you who don't know, I am in the social club Beta Omega Chi (BOX for short) and it is basically the greatest club/frat in the history of universities every where.

And tonight, they elected me Spiritual Life Director.

Not to sound really cheesy, but I am so honored.

I already have somewhat of a reputation as a preacher in the group. That is...a hellfire and brimstone preacher. I'll never forget that day on 3rd floor Keller during visitation week when I was told to yell out the loudest, fiercest and "brimstone-est" sermon I can holler. So, I cleared my throat and summoned the old, crazy-eyed hellfire preacher hidden deep inside of me, and I gave a quick sermon. I sermon that involved the usual: an urgent call to repentance, the unending agony of hell, the damnation of the lost and the fact that in the end, Satan's demonic, half-breed children will crawl up from the underworld to devour those not saved. And thus, I entered the club.

I thought the girl running on the sidewalk below looked like a person in need of a good, morbid sermon. She didn't come forward, but I like to think I planted a seed.

During pledge week, I was called on yet again to preach to the masses, this time, from the back seat of our former club president's car. So, I sat in the backseat, my head pocking out of the window, screaming out the greatest verses of Revelation. I was to preach all the way from Downtown Church of Christ back to Harding, which is only about a mile away-but it seemed to be so much longer. So much painfully longer. And what made it worse, we stopped at a red light.

So here I am, screaming at the top of my lungs about fire raining down from the heavens, demons popping out from the ground and the anti-christ jumping out on to the stage saying "Surprise"!!!! Luckily our most honorable president let me finish my sermon early because my voice was going and I was about to start coughing up blood.

And that is why I love BOX so much.

So, here I am, the Spiritual Life Director (which is no small position) for this amazing club. Boy, am I nervous. But, boy, do I feel ready. I just ask all of you guys reading this that ya'll pray for me next semester that I live up to the expectations of my club next year. I just pray that I don't mess this up. But, I don't think I will-'cause this little verse popped into my head.

"...for such a time as this..." from Esther.

Well, I don't know if it is that dramatic, but I know I got this position for a reason. And I'm going to fulfill that reason. Even if I do have to give a sermon or two on the seven-headed dragon and his evil babies if I have to. (ha-ha)

So, here I go.

P.S. In case you were wondering-this was my pledge name

(In dramatic, harsh voice)
TO THE ANGEL OF THE CHURCH IN ADKISON WRITE, THESE ARE THE WORDS OF HIM WHO HAS THE SHARP DOUBLE-EDGED SWORD, "I KNOW WHERE YOU LIVE". FROM THE BOOK OF JOHN MARK, CHAPTER TWO VERSES TWELVE THROUGH THIRTEEN.

Blood-Sucking Creeps that Prey on Young Girls...How Romantic

2009-04-05T21:21:00.000-07:00

It is a phenomenon that is sweeping the crowded shelves of every bookstore in the nation...in the world. It is a wide-spread mania that is driving causing girls to scream with delight. It is a fad that that has suddenly replaced the brave and bold Harry Potter with the dark and daring Edward Cullen.

This event is known as...well we all know it...as Twilight.

And where on earth has it come from? Besides the mind of a BYU graduate, it seemingly came out of thin air and instantly all the little girls are loving it-without any rhyme or reason. It sounds like something Disney would do, you know force something to become famous, whether the world likes it or not.

With the end of the epic Harry Potter series, young-adult fantasy authors clamored to take the throne that J.K. Rowling abdicated. And Stephanie Meyer came out of nowhere to seize it before experienced fantasy heavy-weights like Neil Gaiman or Garth Nix could make their claims. Sadly, Mrs. Meyer's novels aren't exactly as uni-gendered as Harry Potter was...sadly, it is ultimately one-sided...to young, tween to teen girls. Boy, now guys can't even peruse through the young-adult section without looking like their trying to find the next Twilight novel or one of its ridiculously-covered copy cats.

Which brings me to my next point-all of those stupid-looking books that have been copying Twilight's vampiric story-lines and dark romances. Their covers are stupid looking with teenage girls leaning against pale, sleek looking guys dressed in black but out-of-this-world-good-looking who are obviously vampires. It is the sort of things teen girls are going after now: lip-gloss, Hannah Montana music, Zac Efron movies and the blood-sucking un-dead.

Whatever happened to the days when vampires were purely gross and gruesome and reserved for Gothic people who try to file their teeth into fangs? I wonder how Gothic girls feel about their beloved Lords of the Night becoming adored by glitzy, giggling tween-agers? It's kinda like Hannah Montana doing a tour with Marylin Manson.

I wonder how many parents know that their children are reading about a young girl getting seduced by a blood-sucker who stalks her-and later impregnates her with a child that tries to eat its way out of her. Not so innocent as we thought-huh?

Well, at least the demon-baby wasn't born out of wedlock.

I've heard from several friends who have read the books-I even read a little bit of the first book on a rainy day (I was really bored and I wanted to know what all the hype was about)-and they all say that the main character Bella becomes super-hot AFTER she becomes a blood-sucker. The novels are also fraught with sexual undertones that are covered by Edward not wanting to "bite" Bella, but Bella kind of wants to be "bitten"-If you get my drift.

Hey what's better than spending eternity as an undead creature who has to drink blood to survive-as long as you get to spend it with the one you love?

Being seventeen forever isn't as fun as it sounds now is it?

I'm not one of those people who think that Stephanie Meyer is trying to corrupt the young girls in our society-I really don't think she is a bad person at all, but her novels aren't exactly as kid-friendly as we all want to believe.

It is really weird though-parents from every loop in the Bible Belt were up in arms against J.K. Rowling for her "satanic" series that taught kids witchcraft-when in fact she made up her own spells from Latin words-take Latin, you'll see what I mean. But I have not heard a single parent, besides my own mom, speak out against this dark, sexual and glittery-gothic series. At least J.K. Rowling didn't have sex in her books-excessive kissing yes-but no sex.

What I want to say is-if blood-sucking, cannibalism and the undead has suddenly become the new "hot", then our society is really going drain-in a very unexpected way. Perhaps its a Gothic ploy to make being pale the new tan.

Now that would be scary.

The Devil in the Laundry Mat

2009-03-29T19:29:00.000-07:00

The Devil's been in the laundry mat and I am mad as....AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!

I have been the victim of a robbery. A stupid, pointless robbery that never, ever should have happened.

I was doing my long-over-due laundry like any normal college student should. I was washing my own, personal clothes. Not waiting for other people to wash their clothes, then take them, but washing my own clothes for me to wear. I left the laundry mat to go study, then returned to put my five loads in the dries-left for dinner-went back to dry them again because the new driers were all used up and I had to use the old ones (which are stupid).

I went back to my room for a little Sunday R & R. Then, I went back to get my clothes and fold them up. Only, they were missing. Not all of my clothes, just the ones that really (oh so coincidentally) matter. My favorite, beloved, fashionably-awesome and very comfortable Hollister zip-up jacket had been stolen. I searched the laundry mat, ripping open washer machines, tearing through piles of clothes, ready to scream at the top of my lungs. I HATE THIEVES!

Those jackets were not just any old jackets-they were gifts from my mother-and gifts from your mother are not just gifts. My favorite, the red one, I had picked out for Christmas and I remember not being able to wear till Christmas. I HATE THIEVES!

Why me? Why my stuff? Why did they have to steal? Did they have nothing better to do? Did they suddenly forget they were at Harding-where this kind of stuff isn't suppose to happen? Why me? Why? Why? Why?

my first reaction was to rain down all sorts of misfortune unto whoever wronged me: ranging from facial-scarring skin diseases to economic failure to sterility. I was that mad. But, then I realized that that would border on occult pass-times so I decided that would not be the best release for my anger.

My next reaction was to call my sister, Abbie, who usually sits and pretends to pay attention to me when I rant-but she helps me get it off my chest. But the stupid time difference between here and Maine is an hour and so Abbie would already be asleep.

So I decided to blog my anger. Here's my rant Planet Earth and I'm mad as a hornet given a machine gun and hooked up on emotional steroids.

I realize its not the biggest thing to be mad about-but it's the whole invasion of privacy in a public place that gets me mad.

I'm trying to forgive my wrong-doers, but I just want to have my jackets back. My friends at Harding know-I wear them everywhere! Even if Fidel Castro himself were to show up at my door with my jackets-I would be his best friend.

But until then-it looks like that I'm going to have to fume for a while. And continue listening to Kelly Clarkson songs (she is good at singing while angry).

As a side note to my wrong-doer...If I see you on campus with my jacket-I am going to get you!!! Not only will I release my anger upon you for stealing my jacket, but I will unleash all the anger that's been building up at Ohio for forcing me to give up my accent, at all those kids in middle school who left me to sit by myself looking like an idiot, at Maine weather for forcing me to waste my and my family's good time by shoveling too many feet of snow, at the guy who built our house because it is already beginning to fall apart, at those idiotic African despots who are just evil, and at Marvel comics for killing off Captain America. AHHHHHHHHHHHH!

In short: I'll get you. When you least expect it.

Wow-that felt good to get off my chest!

Fashion Shows, Funny Prayers and Frebreezed Closets

2009-03-26T21:38:00.000-07:00

So, I went to a fashion show tonight. It was my second fashion show-the first one being the one I accidentally stumbled in on in that shopping mall in Paris. This fashion show was a lot better-I must say. For one, the clothes were 100x more modest. For two, it was for a great cause. For three, it wasn't playing bad, naughty music. For four, the clothes they were showing normal people could actually wear. For five, did I mention it was for a great cause.

The fashion show was put on by HUmanity. For those of who don't know, HUmanity is an organization here on campus that, at its core, works to make the world a better place. Besides having a very creative name (get it Harding University-er-Manity?, its been raising awareness about sweatshops and our favorite clothing brands that have been accused of using them. They have also begun a garden from which they will grow food to give to the poor-I think. They are also doing a lot of other cool things behind the scenes of the school.

The fashion show was to raise awareness about the sweatshop horrors going on in third-world countries. They showcased clothes that have been accused of being sweatshop manufactured and clothes that are 100% sewn out of "justice." The show also had several videos that informed the audience on the situation. Except, I'm not so sure how I feel about the whole underwear video. Something about recycled underwear just rubs me the wrong way (no pun intended).

Well, all the members of the show and all of the models did excellent jobs-even when faced with EXTREMELY disrespectful protesters who felt the need to interrupt one of the speaker's testimonies by throwing fliers into the air and screaming "for the children". The fliers were just a bunch of bogus information that nobody with a good, sane mind and caring heart would believe. But enough about them-they don't really matter. Back to the show.

Like a said before-the show was good. It kept me interested. However, I'm feeling a little overwhelmed. For one, I saw the Invisible Children documentary last night that was very inspiring and very moving. For two, its "Struggles of the Faith" in the Chapel and so testimonies are both depressing and uplifting. For three, I found out that sweatshops are still in existence and some of my favorite brands have been accused of using them. For four, my car broke down again and it is being a big pain in the rear. Needless to say, I've been on some emotional roller-coasters this week. And I'm not a big fan of roller-coasters.

And so I'm feeling like there are just too many problems in the world for anyone to handle. Child soldiers, sweatshops, world hunger, economic crises, global warming,human sex trafficking, the whole state of Northern & Central Africa in general, mass poverty, AIDS outbreaks, ever-present Middle East conflicts, genocides, potential nuclear wars...

And I just discovered on the Discovery Channel that wild hogs are growing freakishly larger and invading small southern towns.

Oh, crud.

So, what's a college student to do? I guess I could grow out dreadlocks, learn to drink coffee, debate politics in coffee houses with bongo-slapping urchins, start wearing itchy clothing made by Mayan seamstresses, permanently mold my right hand into making the peace symbol, and hold up signs with cunning slogans at protests. But, that's not really my personality. Besides, coffee makes me constipated and I don't have the cheek bone-structure for dreadlocks.

What I can do is pray about it.

And I don't mean lay in bed-offer up a quick "Oh, and God, please be with the abducted child soldiers in Africa" before I snooze off before an Amen. I mean I could seriously pray.

By praying seriously, I mean closing my-self in my closet, sitting on the nasty, febreeze-soaked floor and opening my mind to God. Whatever comes to mind-I pray about. A good friend of mine taught me that.

We can protest, boycott, kick and scream all we want. But if you want to save the world, and I mean the whole world, you've got to give to the only person who can save it. On our own, left to our own devices, humans will fail. It's a fact of life...a depressing and kind of maddening fact of life...but a fact of life none-the-less.

Stop asking "How can there be a good, All-Mighty God, when there is so much evil in the world?" and start asking "How can I stop pouting, roll up my sleeves and ask God to help me make the world a better place?"

Last night, I prayed one of my unusual prayers. I love unusual prayers-they are so un-churchy (P.S. I hate it when people use the term "and let it be a nourishment unto our bodies"-we're eating fried chicken and buttered rolls for crying out loud!). They are real-I think they're the kind of prayers God wants us to pray.

So, I prayed for God to give the missionaries in Africa miraculous powers. I asked God to give each and every one of them the power to heal, to protect those they are ministering from harm, and to really just make Africa a better place in general. And, as everybody knows, Africa could use a few miracles. And, I fully have faith that God will fulfill my requests. Because the true missionaries-those who are not faint of heart, but mighty in spirit, those who are willing to put their lives and the lives of their family members on the line for the sake of the Gospel-they will give glory to God and not boast about their gifts. And the Africans will see God still loves them.

I've prayed much weirder prayers-and they have come true-, mostly in ways I didn't expect.

So, if you're looking for a way to save the world and you're not quiet sure how to take that first step-start out by closing your-self in a dark closet and giving God an unusual prayer.

Burdened and Bent Over...Like Us

2009-03-24T16:35:00.000-07:00

The Maine winter is a harsh and cruel force of nature.

I don't really mean in the sense of fierce, white-out blizzards and devilish roads covered in ice, though we get plenty of those-I mean in the sense that winter lasts far too long. The soft, white blankets of snow that fall in November become like rough pillows that murderers use to smother sleeping victims as March rolls around. By the end of February, you're already sick of watching graceful snowfall.

Not exactly the sort of description one expects to hear about winter.

The worst part about winter has to be shoveling. Any teenager who lives in the North can tell a teenager in the South that snowfall is fun and games for all about two hours till you parents tell you to grab the shovel and get the snow off the back deck.

Then you've got another few hours of back-breaking work, digging through feet of snow, then through inches of solid ice. Not to mention its below zero. Oh, and you also have to clear out the gutters of ice-else when it rains the gutters will overflow and cause sheets of ice to form on the roof-which proceed to melt during winter and leak through into the house.

So much for a winter wonderland huh?

It happened one day while I was shoveling off the back deck. It was a snow day-which meant I had all day freed up to shovel. The snow was still falling in heavy blankets-or murderous pillows rather. We have a pretty large deck in the back that is notorious for building up foot upon foot upon foot of snow.

Covered head to toe in a warm, protective, but stiff, winter outfit, I kept shoveling and shoveling. My Mom will tell you she could hear my groaning and whining miles away. She's probably right. I am a notorious whiner.

I took a break to watch the snowfall. Even though I hated that it was falling so thickly and fast-it is still an event to be admired. Snowfall is one of those magical occurrences that seem to enchant the soul. There's also something about virgin snow that makes you stop and stare. The rolling hills of pure white, untouched and perfectly smooth with snow flakes. Needless to say, the snow cast me under its spell.

I dropped my shovel and headed for the woods behind my house.

The woods behind my house are both deep and vast. Even though I've lived in that house for nearly five years, I'm sure to get lost if I ran head straight into it without looking back.

They say you can find God better in the wilderness. As C.S. Lewis so eloquently put it "He's not a tame lion." I don't know if I went into the woods to find God, but I needed a break from shoveling and a forest in winter is not like a city in winter.

No matter what season, the woods are always beautiful.

So, I broke the virgin snow and went into the woods.

It was like that scene in the Chronicles of Narnia, when Lucy first stumbles into Narnia through the wardrobe. She finds herself in a forest lost in winter, a magical place that has taken her breath away.

The great pine trees stood like sleeping giants around me, covered head to root in white flakes fallen from the sky. The moment I step into their world, I am cut off from noisy suburbia and thrust into an untamed kingdom.

A little thing I like to do when I'm among those great, sleeping giants is to go under their branches and grab them by their skinny trunks. I give the trunk a firm shake...and then stand still as the snow collected atop the hundreds of branches up above fall down onto me like a waterfall.

My own little blizzard beneath a sleeping giant.

I wondered deeper into the woods, looking back every once in a while at the house to make sure it was still in sight. With everything covered in white, the woods are more lost than ever.

Wondering a little deeper, I thought about going back. I still had a whole lot of snow to shovel back at the deck.

Then I saw it.

There was a opening in the trees. A perfect circular meadow among the great, sleeping giants. In the center of this opening was a little tree. A little Christmas tree that could not have been taller than six or seven feet tall. It was like a scene built for a movie.

It was so burdened with heavy sheets of snow, it was completely bent over. The tip-top of the tree was nearly frozen to the ground.

Burdened and bent over...like us.

Nature is God's great allegory written out for all humanity to read.

The other trees surrounding the little one were so tall and straight, covered with snow but not bent over. They seemed a little too prideful about it. It was as if they were mocking the little tree, because he had failed to be so great as they were. Because he had given into the snow and would be forced to stay bent over.

Taking pity on the poor thing, I set to work clearing it of its burden. I shook it free of snow, swept it away with my hands, kicked at the ice-sickles, did whatever I could. Then I gave a good, strong pull and forced it back up straight. It stood up straight. But only for a few seconds.

The thing had been so used to being bent over, it began to fall back into its comfortable position. I grabbed at it again and pulled it back up, bending it the other way to keep it from falling over again. I pulled and pushed, heaved and and hoed, shook it free completely of snow. In the end it decided to stand upright.

Well the meaning in that is not a hard one to find.

I used to find myself like that little Christmas tree, burdened and bent over by the sin that never ceased to fall. Never ceased to quit. Never gave me a break. I began to hate those who stood so upright, high and mighty-living their perfect lives around me.

But even the sleeping giants have their own secrets-a lot of them fell in storms later that summer.

Then He came along, shaking the sin off trees by grabbing them by the trunk, by the soul. He saw me, shook off the sin, swept it away with his hands, kicked away the bad habits. But I was so used to old ways that I quickly fell over again. So, He rolled up his sleeves and set to work. He had to bend me a few other ways, near the point of breaking. It took me a while to stand up-but I did in the end.

Like I said before, nature is God's great allegory written out for all humanity to read.

Be brave, be a follower

2009-03-18T12:43:00.000-07:00

Hey faithful readers!

I just wanted to thank you guys so much for reading this blog-I feel quiet honored. Since I will hopefully be a journalist some day, I will need a big, complex blogsite with all the bells and whistles. It looks good on a resume. I just wanted to ask if ya'll wouldn't mind just putting your-self down as a follower (such as the list way down at the bottom) on the site so that when I do go to start interviewing for the job at Time Magazine-the interviewer can see just how many people are following. I would really appreciate it!!!
Thanks for reading,
J.M. Adkison

Hanging by a Thread (quite literally)

2009-03-17T14:45:00.000-07:00

Why is it-when ever I try something exciting out for the first time-something always goes wrong. It's as if the action I'm doing isn't exciting enough, something else has to happen. Something always so unexpected.

Let's take yesterday for instance.

So my good friend Andrew Fulks has been asking me to go repelling off cliffs with him for weeks now-and I've been turning him down-partly because I've got homework, partly because I was scared. Mostly because I am scared.

But, as I've said in a post before, I'm going to start throwing caution into the wind.

So, yesterday after dinner, Andrew asked me if I would like to go repelling with him and Amanda H.-I naturally said no at first-I really did have a lot of stats homework and a World Lit test coming up Wednesday, which I needed to study for. He repeatedly asked me-and I gave in. It was a nice day-way too nice to spend it inside a library. Besides, I have a life to live. Probability and Faust can wait.

And I went repelling with Andrew.

I've never done repelling before. Something about jumping down the face of a tall cliff with just a harness around your waist and way too much air separating you and the ground just did not appeal to me. But I'm sure it had to fun. Why else would Fulks do it nearly every day of his life?

We got to the cliffs at Wyldewood, specifically at the Riverside where the cliffs look over a nice, gray river. Andrew went down first-that way he could spot me when he got to the ground. Amanda said she would go after me so that she could check my harness was locked in tight. I was strapped in, had my carribeaner-thing locked up and the rope (which I found a little too thin) at my right side. Taking a deep breath, I walked backwards, put the heel of my foot on the ledge of the cliff and began to lean backwards.

Then I splipped.

Fortunately enough, there was a little ledge for me to fall onto. One of those ledges God probably put just to save clutzy fools like me. All was good, except that my shoe had decided to fall off and tumble over the cliff.

Andrew yelled up I would have to go down with just one foot. Perfect. Hadn't even finished my first repelling and I'm already doing tricks.

And so, I went over the next edge with just one foot. I did pretty well considering I had only shoe on.

I took baby steps down the cliff's scraggly and uneven face. Rough enough for their to be convenient little steps for my foot find. There was, however, a nice, flat surface that was just shear wall. And it was here that I discovered the convenient little knot in the rope.

A little knot that got me stuck on the face of a cliff.

This is the sort of unexpected happenings I talked about earlier.

So, there I was hanging by a thread, a thick thread, but a thread none the less, trying to un-knot a serious knot while trying not to look down. I did look down-I still had a good twenty feet to fall if I so chose to.

"You're gonna have to untie that knot!" yelled Andrew from below, who held the rope tight to make sure I wouldn't fall.

Great.

Here I am sitting on the face of a flat stone wall twenty feet in the air, having to untie a knot the size of my fist. Well, I didn't have many choices and freaking out was not a priority. So, I cracked my knuckles and grabbed the knot.

I worked at it and worked at it-I actually made some pretty good progress within just a few minutes. I saw the last bit of entwined rope and I knew I would be home free. With a quick prayer, I gave my last bit of strength to pulling the last bit of rope free.

I pulled it loose-and I began to plummet straight to the ground. Needless to say, I screamed.

That night I thanked the Lord for giving Andrew Fulks mad repelling skills-he felt the rope drop through his hands and grabbed a hold of it within a few seconds. The rope went still and my body stopped falling. For a second-I just kind of hung there, sprawled in the air with my arms out and my face looking to the sky. What a rush.

I made it down safe and easy, with only a minor rope-burn on my side and few cuts on my bare foot.

When I got down, Andrew asked if I liked to do it again.

The second time went with less surprises-which was fine by me.

Throwing caution into the wind is a lot harder than it looks

2009-03-05T19:41:00.000-08:00

So, I've been trying to stay up to my challenge that I presented at the end of "murdering mediocrity with a pen" and to tell the truth, its not going as well as I hoped. I think I'm one of those peoples that get caught up in these great and magnificent ideas and rave about it to the world in eloquent words, then I do nothing about it. I think I'm becoming a politician.

I am also one of those people who constantly, constantly, constantly think about what other people are thinking about me. Even when I pray, I shut my eyes real tight and get a concentrated look on my face, just in case there might be one person who has his/her eyes open and is trying to see what expression I'm wearing and whether or not I look like I'm genuinely praying-most of the time I am, but other times I'm not thinking about what God is thinking about me. I'm too concerned about looking so "Christian". Of course, God did not call us to look Christian. He calls us to be Holy. And being Holy is being set apart. And when you're set apart, you don't give a patooty about what other people think about you.

Let's take meals in the caf. for instance. On Tuesdays and Thursdays I usually eat lunch by myself because all of my friends have it at noon (F.Y.I. I hate eating lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays). Well, I've been having this feeling that since I have no one to talk to at these quiet, boring meals-I ought to start praying for my food before I start eating-just as I should before every meal like I did at home. But I didn't pray before in high school in the caf.-no one ever prays before their meal at high school-not even at most christian schools I think. So, why should this caf. be any different. Well, for one thing-my caf. just so happens to be owned and frequently visited by Christians. Anyway, I decided I might try and pray at today's meal. But I couldn't do it-not really anyway. I bowed my head, but just enough to look like I was just really intent on staring at my food. That, and my prayer lasted all of half a minute. Wow, that's dedication.

So, I'm not so good at throwing caution into the wind-in fact I'm pretty bad at it. I am one of those people who think things through at least three times before I do them-I analyze everything-just to make sure I don't get in trouble. I get crazy every now and then-but not to the point where people think I'm obnoxious (at least I hope no one thinks I'm obnoxious)or that someone will yell at me. That coupled with my super-sensitivity to what other people think of me creates a very self-conscientious person who is letting himself get in the way of living a wonderfully radical life.

Now I ask you-please pray for me as I try to throw caution into the wind.

A Great and Terrible Dream

2009-03-03T21:51:00.000-08:00

I had the weirdest dream last night...

That's how these tales usually go. For me, this phrase is a usual part of my morning. My sisters can both attest, I do have weird dreams-and if I don't tell someone about my dream than I will go crazy.

So, here I am telling the world about my dream.

A dream that was both great and terrible.

I can't really remember the beginning of the dream...I guess dreams really never have a beginning, they just begin somewhere in the middle of a story, randomly in the order of events. We all know a dream ends, but it doesn't finish. We always seem to cut them short by waking up. Who knows, would they even finish if we slept for a hundred years?

The first thing I remember was a church. An abandoned, ruined and decrepit church. I was digging for something in the dirt: a box. I found the box, but did not open it. Maybe I did open, but I have no idea what the content of the box was. Don't even ask me why I was digging for it.

Whatever the reasons were, I remember the feeling. I was scared and kept looking over my shoulder. I kept making sure they didn't find me. The character Wesley from the Princess Bride was keeping watch for me, making sure who ever I was afraid of didn't find me. At least, it was a man dressed in Wesley's black uniform, blond hair and black mask, with a black-gloved hand on the hilt of his saber. We were both afraid, but very brave for finding the box.

The world was like the church. Desolate. It was desert wastelands for as far as the eye could see. No life. No green. Just a whole lot of burnt dirt. I knew I was in a dystopia future earth.

A hovercraft picked me and my Princess Bride-fanatic-watchman up just outside of the church. A hovercraft much like the one in the Matrix series. But this would give that hovercraft a run for its money. The one of my dream looked battered and well-used on the outside, but it was much bigger on the inside than it was on the outside. On the inside was all sorts of high-tech gadgetry that was sleek, smart and cool. There were all sorts of smart-looking tech whizzes that were typing away at their computers. All of them were making sure we were not going to be found. I guess you could say rebels. Rebels against what? I'm not entirely sure.

I always make generalizations about my dreams-just to give them some sort of order. Perhaps it is stupid, trying to give a dream a sense of order when scientists say its just jumble of thoughts. But then why do dreams always seem to have a plot?

As the dream progressed, I learned who I was so afraid of. Invaders. Alien invaders. They came to our planet and seized control of it within a matter of minutes. The tech whizzes pull up massive screens onto the walls of this hovercraft. The kind of screens shown in a omni movie theater. Screens meant to shake you. And shake me they did.

One screen showed dark clouds rolling across the sky. Long, black towers descended from these clouds out of the air, slamming down into the ground below. The towers destroyed whatever was below them. The next screen showed the invaders themselves. They didn't look like aliens ought to look. They looked like humans, except that they were all eight, nine feet tall. Like the nephilim from the Bible. A brute, powerful and cunning race. The screen showed a nine-foot tall woman, who wore a black cloak, with a hood pulled over the top half of her face. She was old, very old. But you could tell she had some sort of authority. Her voice was grave, but stone cold. The screen showed her standing before the U.N., with others of her race standing behind her, also cloaked. They had taken over the world, the U.N. had surrendered.

The next screen showed their leader. A Julius Caesar-like character who stood looking straight into camera, with all sorts of pride and glory. He too was old, but instead of a black cloak he wore a white, billowing cloak. And no hood. He did wear a golden laurel leaf crown. He stood at, like, ten feet tall, at the foot of one of those dark towers. They had won, we had lost.

What was so weird-but this dream was so much more real than all of my other dreams. So much more vivid, but the screens were so strange. So real-looking. The last shot of the dream was that screen with the alien emperor, looking straight into the camera. All pride and glory. I also remember hearing a beeping noise-I think they had found us.

Then I woke up. Just how they always end.

Well, thanks for listening to me about my dreams.

Murdering Mediocrity with a Pen

2009-03-01T18:27:00.000-08:00

Satan loves a mediocre Christian.

That's what my mom always told me. I've even heard it from a few preachers. My mom tells me this line almost as much as she tells me I need to start working out more and stop eating junk food.

Satan loves a mediocre Christian.

It has such a weird ring to it. I mean, does Satan actually feel accomplished when he comes across a Christian defined as 'mediocre'?

Well, yes.

It's a scary thought. A very scary thought. How many of us Christians-those Christians who have grown up literally since birth in the church, knowing the hymns so well we could sing them backwards with our tongues tide in a knot, having recited John 3:16 so well that its lost the amazingly, spectacular power it has to inspire the exact opposite of what we know as 'mediocrity'.

So, here's another 3:16 verse that also preaches against mediocrity:
"But since you are like lukewarm water, neither hot nor cold, I will spit you out of my mouth!" (Revelation 3:16)

Lukewarm=Mediocrity. Hence, Satan loves a mediocre Christian. He wins your soul thanks to mediocrity.

Sometimes I hear friends who, like me, have grown up in the church their whole lives complain about how they wished that they hadn't been born into the church. That they had been converted later on in life. Converted by some sort of great and life-changing event that completely turned their world upside down. Something exciting. I think for those of us who have grown up going to church three times a week, going to a christian private school, or a living a combination of those two, we find our 'walk' with God to be not-so-exciting. Probably, because we're not really walking with God. We're moving our feet, but we're not going anywhere. Kinda like running in place. We go through all of these motions-sing the songs as loud as you can, have a perfect attendance record, bow your head and act like you're praying really hard, read the Bible, but don't actually listen to it.

We get so used to church and Christianity, that we actually get comfortable running in place. It's safe, easy and you don't know what really lies ahead, so you kinda hang back. It scares you. So you stay in one spot-safely living in mediocrity. Too bad you look like a complete idiot just running in place, while everyone else is off having grand adventures just a few feet ahead. We hear about the adventures, listen to them in church from the safety of our maroon pews, smiling at the wonders they've done and cry at their sorrow-filled tales. We even have dreams of going to those far away places, spreading God's word and being a Holy Warrior. Too bad we are so stinkin' comfy in our little boxes called mediocrity to do anything.

So, here I am. I feel like I'm running in place on the right road, but going nowhere. The grand adventure in sight, but too afraid to reach it. And its all because I've gotten stuck in this tight little box. I am very comfortable with my near-perfect chapel-attendance record, A+ in Bible and church-going attitude. Sitting in my little box of comforts, perfectly content to think that I've got my eternity packed and ready for an endless vacation. And yet, there are thousands upon thousands upon thousands living outside my box who are in possession of a one-way ticket to a place too terrifying to describe-a place that is literally God forsaken. And here I am, at Harding University where I have so many opportunities, and I've done so little about them. And before I know, that little box I've gotten so used to can become a lock-tight cage. A cage packaged and ready for an express lane to damnation.

So...How do I break free of mediocrity?

How do I break free of this little comfort zone I've gotten my-self into? I don't want to grow up into someone boring. Someone who is content to never leave the borders of a small, middle-of-nowhere town working at a desk job in a stuffy cubicle struggling to find meaning in my life. Someone who attends a local church only concerned with Sunday appearances, perfect attendances and sermons that make us feel all snuggly and warm in our little boxes. Now I don't know about you, but that sounds like hell.

What I want to do is write. I want write about anything and everything. I want the world to hear my voice in the black text lines of a white page. I want the world to hear me scream "HA-ZAA" in a best-seller, in a thousand different languages. I want to take the world by surprise, as art should and do. I want to travel to the corners of the world, see what wonders God has hidden in the deep places of his great, green earth. I don't want to just write fun fantasy novels that fit the way over-done Harry Potter/Lord of the Rings mold anymore. I want to write about the spectacular wonders of this reality. I want to write about God.

I don't want the world to see God as some white-bearded, ultra-conservative republican who sits way up in the clouds with an annoyed expression hurling lightning bolts to those who don't do what he wants. I want to show him like William P. Young does in the Shack. Not as simply the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. But as the Pappi, the Big Brother, and the Best-Friend. Someone who can rock your world, change your life, make things interesting. Keep in mind, he can still hurl lightning bolts if he feels like it. Luckily for us, he rarely ever feels like it. He would much rather hurl little love-notes and simple joys. It makes the world a better place.

I just have to keep in mind to write for God. Not for me. If I write for me, I become prideful. And, as everybody knows, pride comes before the fall. In fact, pride came before The Fall. It came before the Fall of Satan and his demons. Before the Fall of Adam and Eve. Before the Fall of Babel. The Fall of the Israelites in the Assyrian/Babylonian/Roman captivity. The Fall of the greatest empires. The Fall of countless human beings. Pride, as anyone can see, is much worse than mediocrity.

So, I've decided to murder mediocrity with a pen. I am going to bash its head with a keyboard. Blow it away in a whirl-wind of ink-stained papers. I have to leave fear and comfort in the dust. I've got to stop looking like an idiot and actually start running, instead of pretending. Every good story needs good material, good material needs great experience and a wild imagination. I think I've got the imagination-now I just need the experience.

Well, Reader, here's my challenge to you and me. Say no to simplicity. Stop reading the Bible and start listening to it. Quit mediocrity like a bad girl-friend and start flirting with danger, excitement, and adventure. Throw caution into the wind and let God catch you as you fall. Dare to be truly different.

Spider Man Slings to the Stage

2009-02-28T22:55:00.000-08:00

So, I was checking up on Marvel.Com, as I usually do everyday to get my fill of what's going on in the super hero universe (DCcomics.com gives you absolutelu nothing) and I found out something quiet interesting.
Not only will Spider Man be showing off his legendary web-slinging skills, but he'll also show the world just how well he can sing, on stage. On the big bad Broadway.
That's right, Spider Man is coming to Broadway and it WILL be a musical.

Title: Spider Man-Turn off the Dark

The story will follow the basic story line of Spider man's origin: dorky, little Peter Parker who gets bit by a radioactive spider and becomes one of the greatest super heroes known to man. It will include familiars like Uncle Ben, Aunt May, the lovely Mary Jane, as well as some new faces and new places. This is a musical based on the comic book series, not the movie.
And they are pulling out all of the stops for this new adventure. The musical will be directed by Julie Taymor, who directed The Lion King and Across the Universe. And then, there's Bono. Yes, the Bono. Bono is creating the songs and lyrics along the with the famous band, the Edge, to make this a masterpiece. Or at least something that will be remembered for a long time.
I can understand a lot of people being upset by this. A lot of comic fans who hate musicals and hate theaters. But then again, art is always about taking the the world by surprise. Though this is an extremely bold endeavor-I think they can pull it off. This show could very well be the next Wicked.
Now, what would be bad if the musical industry jump-started a band wagon and began making a whole slew of comic book musicals. Kinda like Hollywood is doing (which Hollywood can do). Another bad thing would be if Broadway decided to sex up Spider-man, kinda like their other shows, which would be an absolute abomination to the Spider-man name.
Well, good luck Broadway and please, please, please don't make it too corny.

Quotes from a Witty, Wise and Wonderful Writer

2009-02-26T21:28:00.000-08:00

I have never, ever heard one bad thing said about the brilliant and wise C.S. Lewis.
His ideas are just so great-and I would love to write just like he does-witty, wise and wonderfully.
I think if God has favorite writers-C.S. Lewis is one of them.
Here are some quotes that I absolutely love and I hope you do too.

-A man can no more diminish God's glory by refusing to worship Him than a lunatic can put out the sun by scribbling the word, 'darkness' on the walls of his cell.

-A man who is eating or lying with his wife or preparing to go to sleep in humility, thankfulness and temperance, is, by Christian standards, in an infinitely higher state than one who is listening to Bach or reading Plato in a state of pride.

-Education without values, as useful as it is, seems rather to make man a more clever devil.

-I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.

-If the whole universe has no meaning, we should never have found out that it has no meaning: just as, if there were no light in the universe and therefore no creatures with eyes, we should never know it was dark. Dark would be without meaning.

-If you look for truth, you may find comfort in the end; if you look for comfort you will not get either comfort or truth only soft soap and wishful thinking to begin, and in the end, despair.

-There are two kinds of people: those who say to God, "Thy will be done," and those to whom God says, "All right, then, have it your way."

-This is one of the miracles of love: It gives a power of seeing through its own enchantments and yet not being disenchanted.

-You can't get a cup of tea big enough or a book long enough to suit me.

-You don't have a soul. You are a Soul. You have a body.

And my personal favorite...

-Reason is the natural order of truth; but imagination is the organ of meaning.

Something Happier...Like Flying

2009-02-26T21:11:00.000-08:00

After writing the 300[reasons why I hate this movie] thought-rant, I felt like I need to write something a little more...happier.
Lately, I have been having the strongest impulse to just jump into the air, kicking my feet off the ground and throwing my arms out wide, and flying into the sky. Sometimes, the impulse is so strong, it seems that if I were to fly, it would be one of the most natural things in the world. As I walk from the cafeteria every night when its getting dark, I look up into the naked tree branches that look like snake fingers interweaving with one another and I can just imagine my-self soaring through them and up into the stars that are beginning to peak out as the sun is stepping over the horizon.
Now I've flown hundreds of times in airplanes-but I don't really count that as flying. That's just sitting in a cramped metal bus with wings attached, trying your best not to elbow the strange man sitting next to you. I do like it when you look out and see all of those great, mountainous clouds that the plane is flying near. However, it would be so much better to actually fly by yourself into those clouds at the speed of sound. Without a care in the world.
When I return to Maine for the summer, it would be so nice to just leap from my back porch, leap right across the Atlantic, and land smack dab in the middle of London. Or take an extra step into Paris. Or a few more to Venice. Or a big leap to Tokyo.
I've been having these urges so strongly lately that I even down-loaded Superman Returns-a movie I think could have been done a whole lot better-just to see somebody fly.
Its no wonder every time I see a shooting star, drop a penny into the fountain or notice the clock says 11:11, I wish "I had the powers of Superman."

300 [reasons why I hate this movie]

2009-02-26T14:48:00.001-08:00

I am not really going to write 300 reasons why I hate the movie 300-I don't have the time and really, I'll just make my-self more mad talking about it. Well, here I am, a young man of nineteen, who likes action movies and sweet special effects just as much as the next guy, but I'm going to say it: 300 is an epic piece of trash!!! It is nothing but a glamorized gore porn. Wow, it feels so good to say that and mom, I'm really sorry that I ever watched it. I was curious to see what all of the hype was about and I kept having guy-friends tell me that I'm not a man until I see this movie-well that's a load of bull.
Though the true battle of 300 was a noble effort to keep the Persians from entering Europe-the movie, in my opinion, was not so noble. The Spartans of this film were not my most favorite group of film characters: lets just say if I had a choice of being a Spartan or being a flying monkey from the Wizard of Oz-flying monkey hands down! When that movie came out-all my guy-friends wanted to be was a Spartan. Well, obviously they didn't notice the whole-eugenics-we-kill-the-weak-and-keep-the-strong mentality and that Spartans really did not run around in flowing red capes, just a pretty helmet and crimson loin-clothes that remind me of my red-ranger undies that I wore when I was five-but wore armor just as much as the next guy.
And another thing...The whole motivation behind the Spartans fighting the Persians was to preserve freedom and liberty for their fellow man. But I believe Sparta was just as enslaving as Persia (but not to the scale of Persians)-somebody check me on this-of course they did try to enslave Troy and that was just one big ugly mess.
Well, I am going to really MAN up and say that 300 is really nothing but something to satisfy our animal and crude desires that have no business being satisfied.
Thanks for listening to this latest thought-rant-I just had to speak up about this-it's been eating at me for the last few weeks.
P.S. That whole scene with the hunchback in Xerxes' tent-worst movie scene EVER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Dreaming at the speed of...way-to-fast

2009-02-25T19:12:00.000-08:00

So, one of my favorite movie paradoxes ever is in the first Chronicles of Narnia movie, where the Pevensie kids go to Narnia through the wardrobe and end up staying there as kings and queens for fifteen years. However, when they accidentally stumble upon their home-world again, they come tumbling out of the wardrobe at precisely same age as when they had entered the wardrobe fifteen years, or was it fifteen seconds, ago. Well, I've been having a sort of similar experience. I haven't been journeying to alternate worlds full of white witches, talking beavers and prophecies that just so happen to be about me-though I constantly wish something like that would happen-but I've been having dreams that seem to last hours, when in fact I've only been sleeping for five minutes.

Now here is the weird thing

I'm used to having weird dreams-very weird dreams-but I learned in psychology last semester that you only dream in R.E.M. sleep. which takes much longer to get to than a measly, five-minute in-between-classes nap. Lately, when I lay down on my bed after chapel to shut my eyes for a few minutes, I find my-self almost instantly caught in a dream-today I dreamed that I was riding a Great Dane through my house, though the dog continued to tell me to get off of him, I was stuck in my old high school library, trying to replace a motivation poster on the wall that had been knocked down, but the walls were already full of motivational posters and fliers for pointless school meetings, and then there was something, I think, about an inflatable monster trying to eat me. Now, I know getting to R.E.M. varies on time, but I shouldn't be getting there in just two minutes.

Well, its been causing me a little bit of distress-since I wake up thinking I've been asleep for hours and that I've missed all of my classes-only to find out I've been asleep for about six minutes. Thank you internal alarm clock.

Who knows-maybe in one of these weird dream states I'll be dreaming about Angels on the Moon like Thriving Ivory
Thanx for reading this thought rant!

A Doomsday Serenade

2009-02-25T18:02:00.000-08:00

You may ask, when the end of the world is nigh’
By what apocalyptic force was our demise?
What creatures of vile appeared, and did any brave man try
To reject the Beast’s ugly brand and reveal the devil’s disguise?
Twas’ it the spray can’s pretty perfumes that killed the sky?
The robot designed to serve man but rose up in furious war cry?
Or maybe the mushroom cloud that blotted the sun’s all-seeing eye?
Perhaps even more, the plague, which doomed all men to die?
You may now ask, on Armageddon’s daisy-covered field,
When trumpets sound and the last few moments you try to steal,
If humanity is ready to accept their judgment sealed,
And what regrets linger in their hearts-with a thorny feel?
But only tell yourself, when the sky is falling and the sea’s rising,
With every finale, comes an encore, which will be very surprising.