Cheap entertainment.

Lark News: Read if you dare.

What can I say? It made me laugh.

(Thanks Matthew.)

Grace and peace.

I hope all of our American friends had a blessed Thanksgiving. Ours was wonderful, spent with the Leonards, Elise's dad's siblings and relations. And to all, American and Canadian and otherwise, I wish a joy-filled Christmas season. On the day of (or very near it), I will be glad to say "Christ is born: glorify Him!"

Ritual.

Coffee for Elise and I is a ritual. I prepare it carefully and with precision to produce the finest americanos known to man. We enjoy our coffee, mine with cream, Elise's with cream and sugar, sometimes with chocolate or something else sweet and rich, at least once a day.

Coffee is a ritual for many still. We all have various rituals, usually without even realizing it. This doesn't make us a ritualistic people automatically. Ritualism results when the rituals themselves are truth or an end, as opposed to a means to discover or experience truth. We worship, live, be with actions and motions: to worship the movements themselves becomes idolatry.

This has all become a reality in my mind only since becoming an Orthodox Christian. Praise God for showing me the light.

What you all must know.

For those who are still confused: All of my blog postings are still here, but you must click on the various months (sidebar to right, scroll down) to see most of them because the homepage contains only ten of the most recent.

All for now.

"Earth's the right place for love:"

"I don't know where it's likely to go better."

Robert Frost, from "Birches."

Ten per page, please; and a word about poetry.

Yes, V. My blog is limited to (I think) ten posts per home page. If you would like to see all of November (for instance), click on the November 2005 link.

I've been into Robert Frost lately -- er, that is, since yesterday. I picked up a copy of "You Come Too," a collection of Frost poems geared at younger readers. In terms of poetry, I'm an infant. Robert Frost is the perfect pre-school teacher for the world of poetry. Still, this doesn't mean he is a shallow poet. His poems contain a first impression of the natural world, which is cause enough for celebration. There is a depth there as well, though it may be difficult to discover. But I've discovered that the beauty of poetry is first of the sounds, cadences and rhythms present in the words. Deeper meanings can be gleaned and fathomed afterwards.

See above for a lovely Robert Frost quote, right for a link to his poetry, and below for some poems I read that were simply beautiful.

Poems of Frost.

Blueberries
Birches
A Young Birch
Acquainted with the Night
Christmas Tree
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
Going for Water
After Apple-Picking
The Exposed Nest
A Patch of Old Snow

Try these musings.

Below you will see and (I hope) read. Also: more pictures (encore!).

There is nothing like.

First: An early line drawing of J. Actually, late. Early would be like less than two for him.


Now: Es. doing her best actress-slash-model pose.


And here: Is us. El. and me, so happy. Taken by J., by the way.


Be sure to click on pic to see a big version!

This blogging thing.

Seems kind of stupid to me. What I really want is for people to read about highly fascinating life and say "Wow, Isaiah, your life is so damn interesting. I want to write a book about you or something."

It is all so stupid because my real desire to communicate with people over long distances, creating some kind of cyber-community which is so god-awful ridiculous it almost induces vomiting.

I spend very little time on the internet because we don't have it at home. I do all of this blogging at library computers (mostly Wheaton College, where I'm not even a student).

I think about how I'm probably inadvertently and apathetically helping develop Big Brother. That scares me a little so I try not to think about it.

I man commented, one I've never met and probably never will and said "Hm, coffee and autism: I like your thinking."

Autism? Maybe. More like Asperger's Symdrome, which explains my feeling like I'm in my own lonely little world.

Who will ever read this? Why do I care so much? What will it ever do to change this fallen world?

I crave only friends. Real ones. Flesh and blood.

But sometimes I feel that way about Jesus.

On taste (mis)pairings.

Elise made a delicious homemade pizza last night. I bought a delicious beer, a Hefeweizen from Trader Joe’s. I took a draught from the beer first. Delicious! I love weissbeers. So unique. Then I tried some pizza. Good, good. But why does it taste like banana to me? Elise wondered the same thing, after hearing my comment (which I did not give until she pried). Then I took another sip from the beer: Ah: so that’s why it tastes a little off: my beer tastes like banana. Fascinating.

Captive.

It is. It just is. Probably the best and only word to describe Ravel’s “Boléro” is to call it orgasmic. It is one of the great compositions of all time. A single theme repeated over and over, with only slight variation each time, always with greater intensity than the last time. I suppose acts like Godspeed You Black Emperor!, Sigur Rós, and Radiohead take many of their cues from that single composition, Boléro, whether intentionally, inspirationally or simply because it has affected the world of western music from that point on. It was composed in 1928 and featured in a really bad movie (so I’ve heard) called 10 starring Bo Derek and Dudley Moore. I first gave it a serious listen sometime after Elise and I got married. We both agreed that it was highly orgasmic. And oh-so tastefully composed and performed.

It was brought to my attention again by an article in Wired magazine. The article was written by a man who is working to perfect the computer programming of cochlear implants, which he himself has. They are meant for those who have lost all hearing. Every since he was 15, when his hearing was there yet in need of hearing aids, the music of “Boléro” touched him in a way that other compositions had not. His cochlear implant, gotten after he lost all hearing, allows him to converse with friends and co-workers, etc. The music of Ravel, however, is tasteless and monochrome with his new computer-age hearing aid. It is his desire to hear and experience “Boléro” in the same way as when he still had hearing.

So I just had to go listen to the composition again (for the first time), and I suddenly remembered why it is of such sublime beauty. One theme, lasting a little less than a minute, repeated over and over with slight variation and increase of dynamics, yet captivating for every second of its 15+ minutes. 1928 was the date of composition: it was the birth of minimalism.

"Golden" rules.

Just published: my ode to coffee and caffeine, "Logical addictions." Also, more on special education.

Sorry that I haven't been looking at your various blogs. I haven't gotten much time on internet lately. I realize that if I expect others to read my ramblings and further pontificate, I should do the say to them (the Golden Rule). But I fall short.

Other stuff: autism. I've been reading about it lately. Interesting. I'm worried that I'm borderline autistic. I just mentioned The Idiot by Dostoyevsky. About a Prince who is seen as an "idiot" meaning that he stood off from society in his own world. Autistic people either don't know or misinterpret the social values making them seem like freaks or geeks. But perhaps many, like myself, are well aware of them, but refuse to obey/follow/practice them because of some made-up or deeply-entrenched moral standard. Perhaps we should ask them sometime.

All for now.

My own little world.

Today: more discussion on teaching in special education. I mentioned that I have gotten some recent experience in being an aide for the field of special education, and also that I have enjoyed it and see its benefit to me and to the world. But a comment from a friend (see "Glamour.") was an excellent word on the tendency to act like a kind of saviour to the world for befriending and helping those who are friendless and helpless. I should not say anything at this moment simply because I will start sounding like I have answers, etc, which I don't. (And already this post is sounding incoherent.)

I returned again to a school where I was an aide in a Developmental Learning Program. Why the strong desire to return? for that is what I had. I don't know. Maybe because it felt like being with and educating my own kids.

Dostoyevsky's The Idiot addresses the issue of being with children and the importance of treating them with dignity as you would any adult. Children can teach us more, perhaps, than we can teach them. I would say this is true also of developmentally disabled adults (who act like they are seven) and kids (who act even younger still).

The point is, we can learn much from them. I guess I have nothing more to say right now. My desire is that I could start conversation and discussion, but that is probably wishful thinking. In a year and five years I'll look back at this writing and realize how little I knew then -- and how much I've grown since -- and how much I still have yet to learn.

Glamour.

Rewarding day. I'm discovering a job that I feel contributes to a better society. Somehow I don't feel that as much working at Starbucks. I have a feeling that it would seem that way working any corporate or business job. Obviously there is a need for all kinds of laborers in our society, and in any society, and that justifies their necessity. But if I am to get paid and make a living, as it were, the world of education seems so valuable to me.

Today I worked with three autistic kids, a couple of wheelchair/non-verbal kids and a lovely boy with dark curls that had some undefined problem. They were all too beautiful. And it was so easy to love them and be with them and work with them. It is not a glamourous job, but so worth it in the end, I'm sure.

I've done much special education over the past two months, and will likely do much more. I didn't think it was something I'd enjoy and feel comfortable with. But it is. I have much love and respect for Daniel, my brother-in-law, whenever I am doing this. I feel that I can relate to his experience and his heart.

A little choked up at the thought of it. I'm brought to tears nearly with many interactions I have with these kids. And someone needs to love them. So why not me?

Logical addictions.

Ahh... Coffee. A new perspective on life. Dragging horribly mid-shift, whether substitute teaching or at my personal caffeine service station, Starbucks, coffee does do the job. So I’m admitting here: I am a hopeless addict. Or I am getting old. Or both.

When I was a little younger, and much more naive, I scoffed at grown-ups’ inability to abstain from coffee (and for those that cannot stomach coffee, Diet Coke will do). Well, I have not taken to drinking countless cups of weak drip coffee throughout the day no matter its source, as is my parents custom. Somehow my uncompromised taste for quality trumps the need for caffeine. This means I stay away from soda drinks too. Instead, my poison comes in the form of watered-down espresso–otherwise known as “café americano–laced with cream. Occasionally I’ll have the iced version. At home, I make the occasional french press; at work, I’ll grab the readily available drip-brewed cup. It makes a difference during the day.

Can I hear an “Amen!”?

Last of the Nite.

Lots to see here. Five posts not counting this one. Scroll down and try to be amused.

Trip Hop.

Someday, perhaps, this lovely dear will contribute something. God, she can write a helluva lot better than me. I'm such a hack next to her magic and charm of pen and paper. Elise says "Hello" to all.

Total Art.

Kimberley, at your request. Okay, it ain't a story, but as they say, "A picture says a thousand..." Jude not only composed the picture, he also photographed it himself. I'm proud of that boy. This posting is at Nick's request as well, actually. He commissioned Jude's recent artwork. Enjoy!

Rememberment

Didn’t like Erasmus - a fellow Dutchman - before today. I thought he was just some ruthless proto-Protestant. Today I read something about him that inspired me to greater holiness. In the book All Saints: Daily Reflections on Saints, Prophets, and Witnesses for Our Time, Robert Ellsberg gives some delicious quotes. As is the theme of the entire book, the short biography highlights the virtues of pacificism, social justice and charity to the poor and outcast.

Ellsberg specifically mentions Erasmus’ writings on war and peace, which were prophetic of the times to come: the war of Catholics versus Reformers and Lutherans, the in-fighting of the inevitable Protestant subdivisions.

Erasmus comments on Christ’s commmand “Let him who has no sword sell his mantle and buy one”: “As if Christ, who taught nothing but patience and meekness, meant the sword used by bandits and murderers rather than the sword of the spirit.”

Ellsberg writes that “above all, Erasmus could not abide the effort to reconcile violence with the spirit of Christ.” He then quotes Erasmus: “How can you say Our Father if you plunge steel into the guts of your brother? Christ compared himself to a hen: Christians behave like hawks. Christ was a shepherd of sheep: Christians tear each other like wolves.”

Protestants of today tend to look back to Erasmus as a kind of pre-reformer, but he never left the Church, meaning the Roman Catholic Church. He despised the schism that he saw happening as a result of Luther’s attempts at reformation. In this sense, he was truly Orthodox. Those called Protestant might be the same if they had not insisted on dismembering themselves and declaring war on the very body from which they came.

* * *

It is not my intention with this short reflection to further divide. I have many friends who are Orthodox, like myself, and many who are Protestant, which I was formerly. I only wish to root out the Truth for what it is and bring harmony amongst the schism to the point of even erasing it. Perhaps this is unattainable. But one thing I know: love covers a multitude of wrongs. If only we could attain to the true love of Christ. I forget this in much of my life. It comes easiest here at home with those that are my very blood and breath: Elise, Jude, Esmé. But even here I struggle. I must remember to live at peace with all of my brethren, whomever I interact with, whether Christian or not. If I am the only “little Christ” they ever know, so be it. But let me not be accused of bearing nothing of Christ’s indelible impression.

A Rush of Blood to the Ears.

Sadly, music has become my consuming passion. It is spiritual, religious even, a kind of holy and innocent drug. A little distorted electric guitar is always good to give relief. For Jude it is license to get a little crazy. But then, the other day he sat peacefully on my lap while we cranked Rage Against The Machine. Maybe he is learning my art/religion.

One of my favorite car jams is Neil Young’s After The Goldrush. This album was unknown to me when I first acquired the tape. It was one of many tapes inherited from Stephen and Stephanie, a parting gift before we left Vancouver. A tape deck was the only audio medium available in our two-tone blue Vanagon (‘83, round headlights, air-cooled edition). So Stephen let us take his old tapes. After The Goldrush was in there, but we didn’t know its significance. Fortunately we bought a car (to replace the ill-fated Vanagon, bless its heart) that also had a tape deck and no CD player. So, driving around, tapes were the only option.

Neil Young’s critically-best album, made in 1970 during his CSNY days, became an instant favorite to me. I still love it about a year later. I have since - and recently - discovered his other opuses. But there is a special quality to After The Goldrush that makes it so conducive to jamming in the car. I think it will be part of heaven’s soundtrack.

Electronic Memories.

Was drawn away from surgically cutting a plastic grocery. When finished, it will be two or three rectangular pieces used for covering up sourdough sponge and bread. It can wait. I needed to write.

Lately I’ve been typing entries directly on the blog, which I can only do when at a library and, when the opportunity presents itself, during downtime at a school where I’m subbing. But this entry is typed up at home. Started as an Apple Works document. Really, it started in my head, was transferred to my fingers, which feverishly yet thoughtfully pecked it out on the keyboard, which in turn displayed these very words.

Funny how I am reluctant to write up entries at home, when they can be easily transferred to an internet-ready computer. But maybe it is because when I get that chance, even if it is just an hour or two later, I’ll read the entry realizing how stupid, how trite it sounds. With the internet at my fingertips, I can spontaneously write my thoughts and then rashly publish it on the blog for the world to see. Still, either way it is possible to go back later and edit – or remove entirely – a dissatisfactory blog.

When it is erased forever, does this mean the thoughts no longer exist? No, for they continue to exist in the minds of those that have already read, and in my mind as well. Sure, there is no documentable evidence, but it is a memory: therefore it is real.

Out of the hole.

At a computer in a fifth-grade classroom. The li'l ones are away for lunch and recess. Nothing but good news for how it's been going (new career?). This is my first time subbing a class that stays all day (otherwise I've only subbed middle school and high school one-subject rotation).

Normally I'm not afforded the opportunity to write during the day (when subbing), so this is a true privilege.

Last thought: please see comments in "Cutting myself" and "Notes (3)" for responses to your comments.

More sooner or later.