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| My parents gave me my dad's old clock that used to hang in our living room. It's about 40 years old, hand-crafted, wind-up analogue clock--pendulum, chimes, and all. Mom and dad stopped using it because, with their arthritis, they couldn't do the whole winding thing every 31 days--like clockwork.
Funny little simile, isn't it? what does it mean, really? Well, it's a reference to the numerous gears and cogs used in analogue clocks, of course, whether they be spring-wound or battery operated. For a lot of people, clocks aren't really that big of a deal. They exist, they tell time. They let you know when you're about to get out of class, they wake you up in the morning, and, if you happen to look at them at any other point in the day, they'll still be there, ticking away, however softly or mightily they may be, from a simple wall clock to the clock that houses London's Big Ben (mind, that's the bell, not the clock).
The thing is, though, that for me, clocks represent far more than simply a time-teller which sits on a wall or is strapped to a wrist. It serves as a symbol of something nigh as old as time, itself--human ingenuity. The power of humanity, the wondrous abilities and capacities of the mind. Every cog is another kink that had to be worked out for years, centuries, millenia, back to the clockwork theatres in ancient greece, all the way to my fancy little binary LED watch. Handmade clocks are a dying, if not dead ARTFORM; one that is, sadly, taken for granted, like so many other things, turned aside in the path of 'progress,' of convenience. Not only does the mass production of factory-designed clocks destroy the artisanal heritage of the world, it represents the downfall of art--beauty and craft, not only for their own sakes, but for the benefit of society. Art is something for which I proudly live, be it in the form of music, painting, writing, handcrafting, sculpting...the list goes on, ad infinitum.
When I hear my clock tick, I think of all the hours that were put into its creation, the flaws that represent, to me, my own humanity, the amazing physical properties of every piece within the clock. Often, the actual physics of why it works--springs storing energy, the resonant property of the chime, the momentum of the pendulum--lie unknown by the crafter, but they still become nigh perfection. A clock may be seen by many as yet another piece of cold, hard machinery, incapable of feeling, but for me, when I hear it chime every half hour, I feel at peace, I feel warm--knowing that I am much like a clock of God's own creation--so many small parts working together for a great whole, each slightly different from the next, meticulously hand-crafted by the Creator. Every tick and tock, reminding how much I, His creation, had as much love poured into me as the clocksmith poured into this clock, its hearbeat ticking away the precious moments of life.
Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.
Bliss.
I love clocks.
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| Why is it that, when a friend is in pain, I can write for them?
Why is it that when Sam's mother died, I immediately sat down and wrote two pieces for him?
Why is it that, at the most arbitrary times, I can find all the words and all the poetry in the world to save someone else from their own pain, their own feelings?
Why is it that, when someone else is hurting, or unsure, I can bring them all the comfort in the world?
Why is it that I can save someone from themselves, even when they don't realize who the culprit is?
Why is it that I can guard and protect and care for and love absolutely anyone in the world in as many different ways as they can ask?
Why is it that, when someone close to me is no longer with me, is no longer with this world, when I'm in need of the same care and comfort and salvation and protection I can give a thousand different people, I have none to give myself?
Now I need You and you--more than ever.
Bless your soul.
-For Emma Louisa Albertina Hau Williams (March 2, 1918 - March 5, 2006):
You were a saint in life, and shall ever remain. Rest in peace, Auntie.
I love you, and I miss you. | | |
| Day no. 2 in a row where I've felt, all day, like slamming my face,
repeatedly, into a slab of pavement. I love these days, they're
my favourites!
Yeah, I'm overly cynical, the last week or so. It happens, every
year, around St. Valentine's Day. It's never a good day, and I
would never want to 'celebrate' it as a holiday. It's not even
good enough to be called worthless, like Presidents' Day or some shit
like that--it's actually evil. Even Halloween gets more respect
from me than Feb. 14. Of course, I think, for Halloween, we
should just cut through the treacle and, rather than still going
through the stupid motions of costumes and trick-or-treating, we should
just have a centralised location in every town where the government
hands out one 5 lb. bag of shitty candy to every man, woman, or child
in the country. Fill out your form ahead of time, so they know
whether to give you regular, dark chocolate, or even low sugar for the
diabetics--NO LOW CARB CANDY FOR YOU PUSSIES ON ATKINS!!! EAT
YOUR DAMN CANDY AND ENJOY IT, YOU FAT BASTARDS!!!
However, St. Valentine's day has no point, whatsoever, outside of the
commercialisation of the single most powerful, yet often passive force
in the human universe--romantic love. I WILL NOT buy you flowers
on Valentine's Day, even if just to make a statement. I would,
however, probably get/do something for you (this is a generic,
non-specific 'you') maybe in a month leading up to it for the same
purpose as is marketed on that lowest of all Julian calendar days
because that's the kind of person I am. I love to show you how
much I care for you, but not at the expense of my own scruples. I
don't think that's terribly unreasonable. I HATE tradition for
the sake of tradition because it completely decimates the spirit of the
tradition. Maybe it's all because I've never had anyone on Feb.
14. I know at least part of it is, but I also know it's not all
solely bitterness. I'm sure I'm extra bitter this year, but I
have a right to be. I'll be over it right around 12:00AM, Wed.
Feb 15, as is the case every year. However, my cynicism shouldn't
be written off, simply because it is cynical.
I know I have some merit to this argument, I'm not the only one who
feels this way. If there were no real logical, academic,
emotional, psychological, or even UNLOGICAL basis or merit to it,
please shoot me down. For now, I'll
be spending Tuesday night, at least part of it, with Elliott at the Library, being single.
End of line.
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| We had our first annual taste test of the Jones Soda Holiday Pack tonight at work. Here's some excerpts (with the -ptuh) of another review, and what I thought, after my own harrowing experience:
First, the main course, Turkey and Gravy
"Now
joined by his four awful brothers, Dark Lord Turkey & Gravy has
returned to make your holiday season as putrid as possible. The aroma
is that of any storebought gravy mixed with Pine-Sol, while the soda's
color makes it well camouflaged in environments of organic sewage. Even
the label suggests terrible tales, featuring a boy staring at a wild
turkey in a way that just screams "I'm going to steal you, kill you and
juice you." The undefined leader of the Holiday Pack scared our taste
testing team far more than his subordinates..."
'The taste-testers would only agree to an inch-filled plastic cup's
worth, but I'm sitting here with a freshly opened case. I really want
to give each of the flavors a fair shake, so I'm going to sip 'em all a
few times before typing whatever insulting adjectives my fingers decide
to type. Having done that, I can safely say that "Turkey & Gravy"
does not
improve. You drink it once, it's awful. You drink it a dozen times,
it's still just as awful. Picture a really light gravy with a bunch of
dissolved Chocolate Riesens mixed in, and if you can somehow envision
this, add all of that to the strange taste one experiences when placing
their tongue on the action end of a 9-volt battery. The aftertaste is
the most critically panned aspect; it's like I went to the candy
museum, spotted the first ever produced Mary Jane candy, waited for the
security guard to tie his shoes and ate it. You'd have something worth
bragging about if you drank turkey soda, sure, but you're really not
looking to rinse and repeat.'
Really gross, but by FAR not the worst of the pack. It really did taste kinda like gravy at the end. The killer with most of the really bad ones isn't so much the smell (except for the Brussels Sprouts) or even the first taste (see previous entry), but the afters. After you swallow, you receive the most unsettling experience perhaps yet known to man: turkey soda vapours and burps.
Second, we had the entertaining, inoccuous and, honestly, pretty good, Cranberry sauce:
'Though
cranberry soda in of itself is an odd idea, we're all familiar with
cranberry juice and this doesn't seem the least bit horrifying. The
first clue that something had gone awry was the soda's color, a red
more shiny and bright than any red we'd seen before. Nothing this
red could be good for drinking. In appearance alone it was like the
liquid version of a big stop sign, but we refused to acknowledge these
warnings with anything more than passing interest because hey, we just
drank turkeys and beans and there was no way in Hell Cranberry Sauce
Soda would be worse. Indeed it wasn't the worst, but it wasn't very
good, either. Perhaps serving it lukewarm wasn't the best way to go, or
maybe the idea of cran-cola was flawed even in its inception.
Regardless, it was nice to close up shop on a cola that didn't inspire
nightmares.'
'Just
like last year, "Cranberry Sauce" is the least scary of the Jones Soda
Holiday Pack. It's much better chilled, but even at room temperature,
it didn't cause any of the taste-testers to make really weird pucker
faces that would've caused them to photography uglily. The soda's odor
is actually more faithful to real cranberries than anything Ocean Spray
produces, while the flavor itself is sadly less tart and more dumbed
down -- but not exactly "bad." If it was possible to make diet
cranberries, this is essentially what they'd taste like. Then again,
cranberry sauce is more sweet than sour, so I guess this one's fairly
close to the mark. The real downside of "Cranberry Sauce" soda is that
it doesn't give anyone a story to tell. If you drink turkey, you're
going to spend the next few hours telling everyone you drank turkey,
with the recipients of this dubious messaging making all sorts of
impressed faces. The same can't be said for "Cranberry Sauce." It's
just sorta...there.'
I used the rest of the stuff that we didn't test with to wash the horrible other flavours from my mouth to supress vomiting. This was something I could drink regularly, I think
Time to follow up with...eep...Wild Herb Stuffing:
'A
rarity even for the mad scientists at Jones Soda, "Wild Herb Stuffing"
actually tastes worse than it smells -- it's usually the other way
around. If you didn't read the label and just held your nose above the
bottle, you'd assume it to be some kind of fucked up butterscotch
flavor. Not something you'd grab at the deli, but not something that
called for the need to reconfirm your life insurance policy before
drinking it.
So, after passing around the bottle for what came to be known as the
"prep smell," the team felt they were ready. "Oh, this one's going to
be no prob," commented one taste-tester. To be honest, I was beginning
to feel foolish. I'd sold the Jones Soda Holiday Pack flavors as liquid
imps sent by Satan to ruin the holiday season, and the testers were
downing their poisons without any veritable signs of damnation. As I
poured the "Wild Herb Stuffing" soda, its lemonade color and rather
nice scent did nothing but aid my doubts. Turns out, it was all a ruse.
A clever disguise. "Herb Stuffing Soda" isn't merely unpleasant -- it's
the kind of thing you'd soak a rag with before cleaning rusty jewelry.
It is so unbelievably bad.'
I...can't add anything to that. It's the truth. Sadly, the worst was yet to come.
We had to swallow our pride and our stomachs, several times, and work up quite a lot of nerve to try this next one. Elliott's reaction was about the funniest thing I'd ever seen, which was appropriate, as we'd all just consumed the most disgusting thing EVER--Brussels Sprout & Prosciutto Soda:
'Now
that the team had experienced the true evil power Jones Soda wields,
they had their game faces on. I'd planned on offering them the "Pumpkin
Pie" flavor next, serving as a buffer between the Twin Powers of Liquid
Gross, but they themselves opted to save a less offensive flavor for
last. I admired their bravado, but knowing that Jones' vegetable sodas
were typically the worst of the lot, I turned and cackled. My pals were
in for some serious trouble.'
'"Brussels Sprout" replaces last year's "Green Bean Casserole," and
through the kind of dark magic powers usually reserved for
upright-walking bat monkeys, it tastes even worse. The green hue is
very much like what you'd expect from a soda based on Brussels sprout,
being much more "earthy" than any of the less murderous lime-flavored
concoctions souring up the big book of beverages. On all fronts, this
is the
definitive sickening soda of the 2005 Holiday Pack. It smells just as
disgusting as it tastes and it tastes just as disgusting as it looks.
The scent is the most overpowering of the entire collection, like a
filthy dog drowned in grape juice, dead and left to rot. With Jones
Soda, sometimes the smells are misleading. With "Brussels Sprout," not
at all. Nothing could smell this bad and be anything but this bad. The flavor literally made me choke, and this is coming from someone who eats chicken bones.'
I had to hold it in my mouth for a good ten seconds before I could force myself to swallow the evil, the horror, the pure, unadulterated VILE that was this soda. I hoped it would get better. I hoped it wouldn't be as bad as everyone's faces showed it to be. Then, I hoped I could keep it down and not upset my ulcer in the process. I succeeded on keeping it down--something that's a shining beacon of my own willpower. This stuff was naaaasty. Elliott had less than a quarter of an ounce, downed it before much could even touch his taste buds, but it was so bad he quickly turned and downed an entire bottle of water just to wash it away, like the stench of people in a mosh pit (this one might take three days, too). Poor guy looked like a dog searching for grass to eat. It kind of reminded me of the old bugs bunny cartoons where they would drink some potion or something really awful, and their faces would turn green, then purple, then plaid. I swear, there were stripes and checks to his face, by the end. The only thing I could think was 'WHY?!?!?!?!?!' It was like drinking a flat ham soda, mixed with the juice of a well-festered boil. Never again...until next year, probably.
Finally, the second least of the five true evils, Pumpkin pie:
'The
team wasn't very fond of "Pumpkin Pie," though now that I've had the
chance to revisit it with a clearer head, it's really not so bad. I
think they were just pissed that they'd saved the "best" flavor for
last and still had to soap their mouths clean after it. In reality,
"Pumpkin Pie" is sort of like an orange root beer. The aftertaste is a
bit too strong for my liking, but the fact that I can get
pumpkin-flavored anything down my throat is a good sign that it
isn't too disgusting or in any way life-threatening. What's really
amazing about these Jones Soda flavors are the colors -- I don't even
know what to call this one; it's not yellow and it's not orange, but
it's definitely pumpkin pie.'
It was very nutmeg, which, apparently, means pumpkin. However, even that didn't hit 'till it was gone, and WAY too strongly. All in all, gross. By far not the worst, but just...gross.
It was an experience I'll not soon foget, but one I'm not completely against trying again next year. I'm adventurous with my tastebuds. perhaps a torture junkie. But it was fun. My thanks to Jamie, Walter, Elliott, and Zainab for being relatively good sports.
Moving on:
~~~~~
Why do I always fall into these good Samaritan routines? I just wired $200 to an old friend who's down on her luck. I hope it was the right thing to do. I'll explain later.
| | |
| So church...yeah.
Maybe this week just wasn't a good week for it. I'll try again next week. I'll probably even give it 2 or 3 tries after that, if I still don't like it.
My problem is, I suppose, that I can rarely find a pastor (minister, chaplain, priest, lecturer, etc.) that I actually enjoy and/or agree with. I don't even necessarily have to agree with them, I just want to feel that i would be able to have an open discussion with them without being called names, chastized, or any of the other things that drove me and so many others from church in the first place. Going to a church building is simply unnecessary. Being a part of the Church, as a whole, means being a bride of Christ. It means loving Christ as He loves the Church (the people), and loving the people as the same. It means reaching out in discipleship and fellowship. Both of these can be found without church, and church can readily be found without discipleship and fellowship. I felt both those ideas most everywhere but in the actual sermon. Little annoyances like Boston saying the word God every three seconds while praying, the way I've heard other people use 'fucking'--as a placeholder (admittedly far more pleasant in the former than the latter, but kind of annoying, nonetheless) or the abysmal songs (as my mother calls them, 7-11 songs; seven words, fewer notes, repeated 11 times) aren't necessarily sacrifices, but they're things I'm willing to concede for good quality fellowship with 6 of my favourite people in the world (in order, Casey, Sas, Lori, Jason, Mike, Sam), and the greater POTENTIAL to grow in my personal relationship with God, and in my personal relationship with my best friends.
I, by no means, am, nor ever was, perfect in my responsibilities, but I never once lost faith in You. I may never find true comfort in a church building, but I have comfort in my faith, and in Your love. You give me strength when I am weak, You give me all I could ask for, and far more than I deserve, by default. I do the best I can to follow Your will, and to praise you at moment's notice. I find fellowship in places discounted by so many others. I turn to Your word, not often enough, but I want to work on that. You have given me so much in my life, and could easily not only take it away, but You could have never given it to me in the first place. You give me what I don't deserve, God, and I can do nothing but thank you and praise you for it. You help me through hard times, and, contrary to easier belief, I'm willing to open my eyes and heart and realise that Your help rarely comes in the form I could ever expect it. I love You, God, and lift my life, and my heart, my mind, and spirit to You. I'm sorry for where I've turned against Your will. I know I am forgiven, through the salvation of your Son, and You Yourself, in Jesus Christ. Thank You.
Amen.
My fellowship lies within all of you--all my friends who will sit down with me and speak, openly about our beliefs in God, our relationships with God; those who pray for me, and I pray for, each night. Even if the sermon, itself doesn't reach me in the way it's intended, I find my grace, I find my joy, with all of you. Don't worry about me for eternity. If you're uncertain of where I'll be when I die, you've only asked me the wrong questions.
For those of you who don't believe, for those who have been alienated, turned off, or even just plain pissed off by religion, church, and the members thereof, don't judge me for being a follower of God, any more than you want me to judge you for not being one. I don't care if it's in jest, it's not kosher. I'm open to discussion, but for you to discount my ideas and beliefs, then ask me to understand and sympathise with your point of view is simply hypocritical. Don't think me a wishy-washy, middle of the road Christian ("one of the good ones") who will really just go and say and do anything, but try to maintain a guise of humility and religion. I AM a Christian, I AM A FOLLOWER OF CHRIST. Don't mistake that. I have my own point of view, but I WILL stand up for what I believe, and will not put up, any further, with attacks on my beliefs or my character, due to said beliefs. If you want to know what they are, just ask. If you think I'm something else, you've asked the wrong questions, too.
End of line. | | |
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