Stargazing Friday, Oct 31 2008

Stargazing (stahr-geyz-ing) v:

A dark only achieved by isolation. A light that skips the eye to touch the mind. Silver infinity tacked in pieces onto black velvet; ripples frozen in the depths of space. An understanding of one’s smallness in the universe; the perspective of a grain of sand on a beach, or a drop in the sea. A vastness that escapes the limit of the consciousness; a pinhead’s area view of eternity. A peace that by its very nature passes understanding. An acceptance that one is not the revolving center of the universe. An increasing embrace of natural dark; by turns, a loathing of man-made luminescence. A thirst for real perspective; a quietude that bends itself to truth. An intimacy between one’s self and the Creator of the universe. A depth of life that can only be imperfectly imitated in the light of day. A wish for every hope and dream suddenly seen as reasonable.

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Lost Thursday, Oct 30 2008

Becken found her sitting in the empty office on one of the corner couches. She didn’t move as he drew closer. Her eyes were open, staring into space, blank with the vision that comes from looking inside your own head. As far as he was concerned, Ano had already seen more of the inside of her mind than was really healthy.

Becken slowly sat beside her, the couch dipping slightly with his weight. He stayed silent, feeling the relief of settling into old rhythms. He’d missed her–more than he’d ever admit, probably even to himself.

For a long time they sat there silent, Ano staring off into the stars and Becken watching her from the corner of his eye. It was a routine that rang familiar from times long ago.

To a man that had never had one before, this felt like home.

Finally, he spoke, quiet enough to be to himself, even though it was to her. “Where were you?”

Her eyes were still vacant, and her voice was distant when she answered, “Remember where we met?”

“‘Course.” The apparent non-sequiter didn’t worry him. She was building up to something, and he let her.

“You weren’t there,” she said.

Becken’s brow furrowed as he half-turned to face her fully on the couch. “I wasn’t there when we met?”

“Not this time.”

He stared at her. “Now you’ve lost me.” That wasn’t an easy task, especially for her. His remark seemed to bring her out of herself a little, and she looked at him for the first time, if only fleetingly.

“I lost everyone,” she sighed. “I woke up in my old place–remember, that terrible room I had in the mining colony when we first met? And I had that awful old haircut. It was like the last 20 Cycles had never happened.”

Becken took a moment to process that. It wasn’t a pretty thought; most days, he tried to forget anything that didn’t have to do with the last 20 Cycles. He had a feeling Ano was the same way.

She continued, her voice getting stronger as she went. “So I went looking for you all. That street we found Tri in, that cafe where I bumped into Elim. Paradise wasn’t here, so I didn’t even know where to look to find Jenny.” At long last her troubled gaze came to meet his, and this time it held as her voice softened. “And then I went to Traxton, to the dock, and I told myself that if you weren’t there, I was giving up.”

She shook her head like she couldn’t believe what she was saying. “I stood right there where we ran into each other, and I just waited for something to happen.”

He knew what was coming now. His head was swimming a little from the implications of what she was saying. “Nothing did.”

“Nothing did,” she agreed. At long last her eyes cleared, and Becken saw her, maybe for the first time. And also for the first time, he saw himself reflected back, and he suddenly understood deep in his chest that this, here with her, really was home. She looked away, slightly sheepish, but her words still resonated in Becken’s chest. “That was all it took. I just…I gave up. It’s a scary thing, to get lost in your own head. If you hadn’t come for me, I don’t know what–” she couldn’t finish the sentence. Becken was glad; he didn’t want to hear what she would have said.

The large man leaned back, absorbing all of this. She’d said more than either of them had ever dared to over the course of their time together. He found himself glad that she had. “Glad it wasn’t me,” he rumbled.

She glanced over at him, understanding on her face. Despite the fact that they never talked about their pasts, Ano knew him better than anyone else. They both knew he would have ended up drinking himself into a virtual oblivion. Even seventeen Cycles of sober wouldn’t have protected him from life crumbling down around him.

Not for the first time, Becken decided that Ano was the stronger of the two of them, no matter how much muscle he had.

Ano’s brain was on a different track. Her eyes traced his face again with evident fondness. “Thank you.”

He tilted his head to look at her. “For what?”

She shrugged a little. “Nothing. Coming after me. Everything.”

For the second time in their history, Becken held out his hand to Ano, this Almarian that looked at him instead of through him. She took it, but this time he didn’t shake it. He just held it.

They sat there in the dark, hands joined, and Becken felt a sense of peace that was so alien is almost startled him.

“Welcome home,” he murmered.

Ano didn’t answer. Her eyes were closed, her breathing even.

Becken held her hand and watched her sleep.

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Boredom Wednesday, Oct 29 2008

This was my first attempt at a new writing game I started playing with myself this summer, in which I picked a random word and took one notebook page to define it, mostly with random metaphors and mental pictures.

Boredom (bawr-duhm), n:

A heavy silence; molasses on the soul that makes life move slower, crawl, stop. A dull tingle of muted action; motivation and energy dulled into a weary slumber, pin-pricking on the mind at the climax of an unknown dream. A distant sunset, glory gone, color faded to a languid twilight. A stupor of the spirit. A circling of the mind; a reliving of the folds and creases of history with no context other than the pointless present. A lack of luster; a state of lucidity that is only achieved by living in the agonizingly slow moment of the breath, the heartbeat. A disillusionment of life’s enjoyments; a detachment from the vibrancy of meaningful existence. A helplessness born of continual waiting; a state of being without hope, destination, company, or vision. A tint upon the mind that turns the world to gray, unmoving mud.

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Theater Scribblings Tuesday, Oct 28 2008

These are just some random thoughts that I scribbled on the back of an envelope while I waited in the lobby of a theater before a play in which a friend of mine was acting. Fortunately, I was sitting with a friend who recognized the look I get on my face when I suddenly have the need to write something (I didn’t even know I had that look until she told me), and offered me both a pen and the envelope. Now that is true friendship. Reading it again recently, I realized that I kind of like it.

“There is a kind of magnetism in the production of a play.

It is the potent power of pretend; it is the high of seeing our inner life acted out before our eyes.

Indeed, theater is a natural expression of the human mind, for it is the very picture we seek to conjure into being from written word or music.

It is the mind, the dream, the very thought of a man (and if done correctly, all men) transposed by flesh and blood.

And to the artist, drama on stage is perhaps the greatest challenge, for it involves all the senses of both actor and audience.

To sincerely and powerfully present a play, the written words, the scenery, the costumes, the heart and mind of the actor, must all align in something both profoundly physical and innately spiritual.

To what cause, then?
To inspire, amuse, astonish, even to anger and infuriate the race of man.

To show his vices as well as his beauties, his pains and exaltations.

Theater frames the mind of man by showing him a facet of himself, whether to praise or condemn.

To be on stage, then, is to be the instrument of change within humanity itself.

So, dear actor, choose what type and class of change you will wreak upon your own society

with the utmost care and caution.”

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An Adult’s Perspective of Absolutes Monday, Oct 27 2008

The more of the world I see, the more I am struck by the sheer absurdness of those “hollow philosophies” that Paul warns us of in Scripture. The very principle of a relativistic mindset–indeed, any philosophy that is not founded on the absolutes of Scripture–is not only illogical, but completely un-natural.

The world itself, as far as I can tell, is run on absolutes. Without them, nothing works. Societal norms, laws, even personal happiness, are all servants to some kind of absolute standard, whether of rightness or goodness or something else. Even language itself is absolutist by nature, relying on constant definitions outside of each person’s individual emotional attachment to words.

I am continually more aware that by denying the presence of absolute truths based on a God outside of this universe (and even if I know about them, refusing to act on them as if they are real), I am essentially acting like a spoiled, dillusional child. While I sit in a corner and scream at the tops of my lungs in hopes of making the world bend to my will (even though any adult could tell me that it won’t), God stands there looking at me as the kind, patient Father that He is.

“If only she would accept the way things are, and act accordingly,” He must say, “then she could finally start growing up, and leave these temper tantrums behind.” What parent hasn’t wished that for their child?

And yet we men as a whole have consistantly chosen the childish temper-tantrums of postmodernism, pantheism, humanism, and relativism. How very much like toddlers we are! How naive and childish must we seem to God as we strive against the natural, undeniable reality of life merely because it causes us some discomfort in our self-centered views.

Only now have I started to understand even an inkling of that promise, “The truth shall set you free”. There is no gauruntee of comfort there; the truth does not make things happy or event pleasant. And yet it does!

Is there not joy in leaving those empty philosophies of the world in favor of a more “adult” view of the world? What child does not, over course of time, realize how much better off he is in his understanding once he has matured? Is there not happiness and pleasantness in growing closer to the heart of one’s Creator, and of having true purpose and meaning?

This, then, is the freedom that truth gives us: the freedom of perspective, of disregarding those vain philosophies that would take us captive and keep us forever screaming in the corner.

I realize it is high time that I listen to my Father and stop throwing temper tantrums of fake philosophy, whether by believing them or acting like I do.

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