» 1.30.2004
scene from my back fence...
» 1.29.2004
here fishy fishy...
» 1.28.2004
lost in winter...
the grill waits idle
flames well hidden
curled within the tank
the silver gauge ready
black notches on white
red needle shouting silent
perched boldly below 1
he's not meant for this
low within himself
he craves a blazing affair
an imprecise instrument
made for warmer employ
to judge the passion of flames
to report their motion and dance
he knows only five words
a five number vocabulary
not the high languages
of Fahrenheit and Celsius
not the language of ice
heap up around him
making the landscape strange
» 1.27.2004
two'fer tuesday: high contrast...
{ Chilly Grill : 10 votes }
{ Impression : 9 votes }
[ Voting is closed. ]
{ Chilly Grill : 10 votes }
{ Impression : 9 votes }
[ Voting is closed. ]
» 1.26.2004
when not to fast forward, take two...
This is a world of the DVR, the TiVo, the digital cable Movies-On-Demand. We get our entertainment how we want it, when we want it. It was said that Necessity is the mother of Invention, and that certainly sounds true enough. But if Necessity is Invention's mother, then Convenience is it's wet-nurse. Necessity gives us the electric stove. Convenience gives us the microwave oven.
I don't mean to jump up on the bandwagon with those who hate our American culture. We have it good here, and I recognize that, I appreciate it and celebrate it. I have twice visited the third world. I've seen what it means to live without. And while those who live without can and do live with joy, it's nice to have.
Currently, my favorite television show is scheduled to air on Wednesday nights at the same time I'm leading worship for the church youth group. Not a problem. While we don't drop the extra ten spot for the cable box with DVR, we do have a VCR. The tape has been recorded over so many times that I'm sure it's beginning to wear through, but it works.
While watching each weeks new episode, it never fails that I forget that I'm watching the previously recorded and not the broadcast feed. "You can skip the commercials, you know" my lovely bride mocks from love seat. Yeah. I know. But I'm used to a certain rhythm when I watch t.v. Commercials give me time to stretch, grab a drink, make relief. Last Wednesday each commercial break gave me another few minutes to enjoy the company of my son undistracted. Fast-forward? No thanks...
This is a world of the DVR, the TiVo, the digital cable Movies-On-Demand. We get our entertainment how we want it, when we want it. It was said that Necessity is the mother of Invention, and that certainly sounds true enough. But if Necessity is Invention's mother, then Convenience is it's wet-nurse. Necessity gives us the electric stove. Convenience gives us the microwave oven.
I don't mean to jump up on the bandwagon with those who hate our American culture. We have it good here, and I recognize that, I appreciate it and celebrate it. I have twice visited the third world. I've seen what it means to live without. And while those who live without can and do live with joy, it's nice to have.
Currently, my favorite television show is scheduled to air on Wednesday nights at the same time I'm leading worship for the church youth group. Not a problem. While we don't drop the extra ten spot for the cable box with DVR, we do have a VCR. The tape has been recorded over so many times that I'm sure it's beginning to wear through, but it works.
While watching each weeks new episode, it never fails that I forget that I'm watching the previously recorded and not the broadcast feed. "You can skip the commercials, you know" my lovely bride mocks from love seat. Yeah. I know. But I'm used to a certain rhythm when I watch t.v. Commercials give me time to stretch, grab a drink, make relief. Last Wednesday each commercial break gave me another few minutes to enjoy the company of my son undistracted. Fast-forward? No thanks...
» 1.25.2004
where you been at?...
Ok, so I've not posted in three days.... Yes, that does make me a loser, and I'm genuinely sorry. Where have I been? What has been so important? Some of this, a little more of this (thanks so much for that little addiction, Khanh), and a whole lot of zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....
Just for you, my dedicated readers (all both of you), I'm going to go back and fill in the days I missed. Again, my apologies...
Ok, so I've not posted in three days.... Yes, that does make me a loser, and I'm genuinely sorry. Where have I been? What has been so important? Some of this, a little more of this (thanks so much for that little addiction, Khanh), and a whole lot of zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz....
Just for you, my dedicated readers (all both of you), I'm going to go back and fill in the days I missed. Again, my apologies...
» 1.24.2004
lazy saturday morning...
» 1.23.2004
not bad for seven weeks...
Today* I got a lunch-time phone call from the wife. Coleman had just finished his bath and she was calling to ask if I was the one who called while he was splashing around and peeing on her arm. I wasn't, of course, because I was, of course, very busy doing work, because, of course, I'm always doing work at work. Of course. Anyway, the meat of the conversation flowed something like this:
"Coleman just had his bath."
"Did he have fun."
"Yeah. He was a good baby. You wanna say hello to daddy? Here's your daddy." I could hear him cooing as she puts the phone to his face.
"Hey little boy. Whatcha'doin'?" I asked.
The next sound to hit my ear was the most perfectly formed and distinctly sounded "Hey!" Jennifer about dropped the boy and the phone.
Now, I have no delusions that his babbling was in any way a deliberate attempt at communication, but it certainly makes it tough concentrate during the remaining four hours of work.
* This was written on Sunday, but pretend it was written Friday night where I posted it.
Today* I got a lunch-time phone call from the wife. Coleman had just finished his bath and she was calling to ask if I was the one who called while he was splashing around and peeing on her arm. I wasn't, of course, because I was, of course, very busy doing work, because, of course, I'm always doing work at work. Of course. Anyway, the meat of the conversation flowed something like this:
"Coleman just had his bath."
"Did he have fun."
"Yeah. He was a good baby. You wanna say hello to daddy? Here's your daddy." I could hear him cooing as she puts the phone to his face.
"Hey little boy. Whatcha'doin'?" I asked.
The next sound to hit my ear was the most perfectly formed and distinctly sounded "Hey!" Jennifer about dropped the boy and the phone.
Now, I have no delusions that his babbling was in any way a deliberate attempt at communication, but it certainly makes it tough concentrate during the remaining four hours of work.
* This was written on Sunday, but pretend it was written Friday night where I posted it.
» 1.22.2004
when not to fast forward...
I know exactly what I want to say. I've thought out this post completely from opening line to the final point. I do that for most things I write. I think over them for ever. I'll write, then rewrite, then rewrite again, all in my head before I ever sit down to the pen or keyboard. This time was no different. I've been mulling over what I wanted to say for the last three hours. And let me tell you, the last line turned out better than I thought, a line I could frame and hang on my study wall. Art. Beauty. Perfection? No, not even close, but no one here expects perfect.
So tonight's post has been written. Mentally, anyway. Unfortunately, I've been watching the T.V. for the last 10 minutes and didn't hear a word that was said. Not a word. It seems my brain has shut down. Some people call Wednesdays ‘hump' day, presumably because it's the middle of the week and it's all down hill from here. I call this hump day over...
I know exactly what I want to say. I've thought out this post completely from opening line to the final point. I do that for most things I write. I think over them for ever. I'll write, then rewrite, then rewrite again, all in my head before I ever sit down to the pen or keyboard. This time was no different. I've been mulling over what I wanted to say for the last three hours. And let me tell you, the last line turned out better than I thought, a line I could frame and hang on my study wall. Art. Beauty. Perfection? No, not even close, but no one here expects perfect.
So tonight's post has been written. Mentally, anyway. Unfortunately, I've been watching the T.V. for the last 10 minutes and didn't hear a word that was said. Not a word. It seems my brain has shut down. Some people call Wednesdays ‘hump' day, presumably because it's the middle of the week and it's all down hill from here. I call this hump day over...
» 1.21.2004
what do you say about a fire hydrant?
I am thankful that the shape of the fire hydrant hasn't changed much in the many years that it has been a fixture in American Culture. I am grateful that society has not felt the need or desire to update it or modernize it too quickly. As new houses with shapely new cars parked in their garages pop up in new neighborhoods it is a comfort for me to know that every 500 feet or so the fire hydrant stands its age old vigil--unchanged in shape, color or purpose. Unless we're walking our dog we don't notice it very often do we? Perhaps that is part of its legacy. Its ability to remain unobvious is the key to its stylistic longevity. Perhaps.
Truthfully I believe we don't want it to change. We have allowed its utilitarian aesthetic to become part of our culture. It represents an infrastructure built with our safety in mind. It is a symbol of heroes. And it stirs something inside of us that gives us peace and makes us more comfortable. Peace like the site of untouched snow. Comfort like the smell of freshly roasted coffee beans.
» 1.20.2004
two'fer tuesday: hot and cold...
{ Coffee Cascade : 3 votes }
{ Snow Hydrant : 14 votes }
[voting closed. coffee got spanked... ]
After you vote, you might want to check out the ten new photos in Autochrome.
{ Coffee Cascade : 3 votes }
{ Snow Hydrant : 14 votes }
[voting closed. coffee got spanked... ]
After you vote, you might want to check out the ten new photos in Autochrome.
» 1.19.2004
who's version did you read?...
Melissa has, of late, been taken by a fear that affects every writer, professional or not, at some point in their life. Some simply call it writer's block, but it really is a fear that nothing new remains for the writer to pen. Often, a writer's sense of self is bound with in the lines they scribble across the page. It is quite painful to imagine another writer has recorded the very thoughts with which a writer defines herself with the very same words she would have chosen for herself. The greater fear is that there is nothing left in the world to say, that there is no original thoughts to be expressed.
I'm not sure I believe that everything has been written already. I'm not quite ready to believe that every sentence I type has been unintentionally plagiarized. I'm just not. But if it is, what does it matter? I still have to write what I'm thinking. I have no choice. These thoughts exist and if I don't record them, who will? Someone? Somewhere? Sure. Fine. But will they be written by someone you know? Will you be likely to read them? No, probably not. All these words may have been written exactly as I have written them by another author. But he didn't have my audience and that makes all the difference.
Melissa has, of late, been taken by a fear that affects every writer, professional or not, at some point in their life. Some simply call it writer's block, but it really is a fear that nothing new remains for the writer to pen. Often, a writer's sense of self is bound with in the lines they scribble across the page. It is quite painful to imagine another writer has recorded the very thoughts with which a writer defines herself with the very same words she would have chosen for herself. The greater fear is that there is nothing left in the world to say, that there is no original thoughts to be expressed.
I'm not sure I believe that everything has been written already. I'm not quite ready to believe that every sentence I type has been unintentionally plagiarized. I'm just not. But if it is, what does it matter? I still have to write what I'm thinking. I have no choice. These thoughts exist and if I don't record them, who will? Someone? Somewhere? Sure. Fine. But will they be written by someone you know? Will you be likely to read them? No, probably not. All these words may have been written exactly as I have written them by another author. But he didn't have my audience and that makes all the difference.
» 1.18.2004
grandma blake's first visit...
» 1.16.2004
fresh roasted coffee...
» 1.15.2004
smile pretty for the camera...
» 1.14.2004
death of a snowdude...
He lasted longer than I thought he would perched there in the middle of my open tailgate. As he began to melt, his Jelly Belly features devolved into the snow around him, leaving just a hint of their color in the sockets. By commute time Monday morning, he was missing his twig mouth as well.
Before leaving for work, I adjusted the rearview mirror to keep an eye on him. I backed slowly from the drive, turned the corner and timidly hit the accelerator. Coming out of the subdivision, right in front of old man Buffaloe's horse barn, his right arm went missing.
He survived Capital Blvd much better than I expected. It wasn't until the I-440 overpass that the speed and wind combined to make a vortex strong enough to my poor, delicate creation. One final gust and his head leaped from his shoulders and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces of discolored ice. He was gone. His name was Willy Snowman.
He lasted longer than I thought he would perched there in the middle of my open tailgate. As he began to melt, his Jelly Belly features devolved into the snow around him, leaving just a hint of their color in the sockets. By commute time Monday morning, he was missing his twig mouth as well.
Before leaving for work, I adjusted the rearview mirror to keep an eye on him. I backed slowly from the drive, turned the corner and timidly hit the accelerator. Coming out of the subdivision, right in front of old man Buffaloe's horse barn, his right arm went missing.
He survived Capital Blvd much better than I expected. It wasn't until the I-440 overpass that the speed and wind combined to make a vortex strong enough to my poor, delicate creation. One final gust and his head leaped from his shoulders and shattered into a thousand tiny pieces of discolored ice. He was gone. His name was Willy Snowman.
» 1.12.2004
two'fer tuesday: scenes from an s10...
{ Snow Dude : 9 votes }
{ Sunset Mirror : 6 votes }
[ polls close at 11pm est folks. voting is now closed. ]
{ Snow Dude : 9 votes }
{ Sunset Mirror : 6 votes }
[ polls close at 11pm est folks. voting is now closed. ]
trails...
Despite my disdain of cold weather, the day after snowfall is a beautiful sight. The dusted covering of the ground, pure white and uniform. The white snow on bare limbs that highlight the lines of the trees. The way the sun breaks through grey clouds to dance on icicles like diamonds. All at once simply beautiful and deceptively revealing.
The greatest dread for me on snowfall morning is the first venture out to disturb the pristine cover. The snow is both revealing and unforgiving. It is a carbon paper of footprints. It is write-once. It is a one time use camera. Take your pictures quickly, because in moving out to frame the shot ahead, you trample the shot behind.
This is life, is it not? Every step into the snow reveals our direction, just as every decision we make reveals our every intention and motivation. Once the step is taken, once the choice has been made, the ground is marred. You may change directions, even follow your footprints step for step backwards to the point of crisis, but the old path remains visible. The evidence lingers to remind us that each misstep, each rash choice, changes forever the landscape of our lives.
Despite my disdain of cold weather, the day after snowfall is a beautiful sight. The dusted covering of the ground, pure white and uniform. The white snow on bare limbs that highlight the lines of the trees. The way the sun breaks through grey clouds to dance on icicles like diamonds. All at once simply beautiful and deceptively revealing.
The greatest dread for me on snowfall morning is the first venture out to disturb the pristine cover. The snow is both revealing and unforgiving. It is a carbon paper of footprints. It is write-once. It is a one time use camera. Take your pictures quickly, because in moving out to frame the shot ahead, you trample the shot behind.
This is life, is it not? Every step into the snow reveals our direction, just as every decision we make reveals our every intention and motivation. Once the step is taken, once the choice has been made, the ground is marred. You may change directions, even follow your footprints step for step backwards to the point of crisis, but the old path remains visible. The evidence lingers to remind us that each misstep, each rash choice, changes forever the landscape of our lives.
» 1.9.2004
free for cheap...
In light of the previous post, I realized it's time to get some things done that I've been putting off for one reason or another. One of the many items on this herculean list is to finally record a decent cd that I can sell at shows. Something of a nice, slightly better than demo quality EP for people to take home and enjoy, ponder, or ridicule.
In order to accomplish this task, however, I need to purchase a higher quality microphone. I have money from Christmas set aside for just this, but the mic I would like is a bit higher priced than the cash reserves. This is where you come in, obviously.
Now I'm not just going to beg for charitable donations, because that would be lame. What I am going to do is this: to everyone who sends me a $5 dollar donation to the mic fund, I will send a 4 song low quality demo CD from this lovely stack of blanks above. Those beautiful souls who contribute $10 (or more?!) will receive bonus material on their CD recorded solely for them. This could be photos, or recorded messages, or even silly, made up songs. You never know, but you might get some of each. It'll just depend on my mood.
There you have it folks, a real genuine, one of a kind gem of a deal. Anyone interested? If so,drop me a comment and I'll let you know where to send your contribution hit the Donate button on the right.
In light of the previous post, I realized it's time to get some things done that I've been putting off for one reason or another. One of the many items on this herculean list is to finally record a decent cd that I can sell at shows. Something of a nice, slightly better than demo quality EP for people to take home and enjoy, ponder, or ridicule.
In order to accomplish this task, however, I need to purchase a higher quality microphone. I have money from Christmas set aside for just this, but the mic I would like is a bit higher priced than the cash reserves. This is where you come in, obviously.
Now I'm not just going to beg for charitable donations, because that would be lame. What I am going to do is this: to everyone who sends me a $5 dollar donation to the mic fund, I will send a 4 song low quality demo CD from this lovely stack of blanks above. Those beautiful souls who contribute $10 (or more?!) will receive bonus material on their CD recorded solely for them. This could be photos, or recorded messages, or even silly, made up songs. You never know, but you might get some of each. It'll just depend on my mood.
There you have it folks, a real genuine, one of a kind gem of a deal. Anyone interested? If so,
exult in monotony...
I think what I?m in need of is a new routine. The old one worked wonders in it?s time, but all good things (and all bad things, for that matter) must come to an end. Nothing is constant but the constant changing. The major factor in contentment is adaptation, the ability to roll with the punches. Movement defines life. If you?re not moving, then you are, by necessity, dead.
This is not to suggest that contentment or purpose can be found simply in the changing. Chesterton wrote that ?change is about the narrowest and hardest groove a man can get into.? You cannot become better than you are if your entire purpose is simply to continue to change. The transformation cannot be the focus of life, otherwise you be come listless and desultory.
No. Change is not the focus. It?s simply the inevitability of life. And it takes discipline to control that change, to move it into a direction of growth, betterment, sanctification. And discipline requires routine and persistence. Life is found in routine.
My favorite passage from Chesterton's Orthodoxy is this:
I know I have a long way to go, but a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, right? Here?s to the journey. I hope you join me.
I think what I?m in need of is a new routine. The old one worked wonders in it?s time, but all good things (and all bad things, for that matter) must come to an end. Nothing is constant but the constant changing. The major factor in contentment is adaptation, the ability to roll with the punches. Movement defines life. If you?re not moving, then you are, by necessity, dead.
This is not to suggest that contentment or purpose can be found simply in the changing. Chesterton wrote that ?change is about the narrowest and hardest groove a man can get into.? You cannot become better than you are if your entire purpose is simply to continue to change. The transformation cannot be the focus of life, otherwise you be come listless and desultory.
No. Change is not the focus. It?s simply the inevitability of life. And it takes discipline to control that change, to move it into a direction of growth, betterment, sanctification. And discipline requires routine and persistence. Life is found in routine.
My favorite passage from Chesterton's Orthodoxy is this:
Now, to put the matter in a popular phrase, it might be true that the sun rises regularly because he never gets tired of rising. His routine might be due, not to a lifelessness, but to a rush of life. The thing I mean can be seen, for instance, in children, when they find some game or joke that they specially enjoy. A child kicks his legs rhythmically through excess, not absence, of life. Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, "Do it again"; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, "Do it again" to the sun; and every evening, "Do it again" to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.I know that I grow older daily. That my life ebbs and flows out of this body as steady as the air flows from my lungs. But I desire to know the joy of childish repetition. I long to remember the excess of youth. This is what it means to come to Christ as a child, to find such joy and delight in God's 'monotony.'
I know I have a long way to go, but a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step, right? Here?s to the journey. I hope you join me.
» 1.8.2004
feast and/or famine...
Seems to me like the zu has been full of everything and nothing lately. Looking back at the posts and there was only a couple lonely lines of text on the whole main page. And on a day when I'm linked to by one of the most prolific denizens of the blogosphere. Great. Way to put my best foot forward for all the first (and probably only) time guests. Seems like the only really interesting posts since I returned from blogvacation were the lady beetle and a post I started writing when the boy decided it was moving day... Three weeks and only two good posts. Lame.
Still... I can't complain too much. A lot has happened in the last month. Just not quality sleep, unfortunately, and that has certainly been a factor here. I guess it's just time to make adjustments to my routine. I'll have to find a new time during the day to write, because my late evenings have been consumed by infinitely more important matters. I completely understand how Jason feels right now. Sometimes you must stop writing about life and simply live it.
Seems to me like the zu has been full of everything and nothing lately. Looking back at the posts and there was only a couple lonely lines of text on the whole main page. And on a day when I'm linked to by one of the most prolific denizens of the blogosphere. Great. Way to put my best foot forward for all the first (and probably only) time guests. Seems like the only really interesting posts since I returned from blogvacation were the lady beetle and a post I started writing when the boy decided it was moving day... Three weeks and only two good posts. Lame.
Still... I can't complain too much. A lot has happened in the last month. Just not quality sleep, unfortunately, and that has certainly been a factor here. I guess it's just time to make adjustments to my routine. I'll have to find a new time during the day to write, because my late evenings have been consumed by infinitely more important matters. I completely understand how Jason feels right now. Sometimes you must stop writing about life and simply live it.
» 1.7.2004
instalanche...
Holy Hanna! I've been linked by the professor over at InstaPundit! Welcome Insta-Fans... While you're here, be sure to check out the photography gallery Autochrome and the pictures of my month old son Coleman.
UPDATE: A graph of traffic yesterday broken down by hour of the day:
salad master...
the story, obviously, will be late...
the story, obviously, will be late...
» 1.6.2004
two'fer tuesday: up close...
{ Pegged : 2 votes }
{ Pre-Salad : 11 votes }
[ as always, voting ends at 11 pm... voting's closed. ]
{ Pegged : 2 votes }
{ Pre-Salad : 11 votes }
[ as always, voting ends at 11 pm... voting's closed. ]
» 1.5.2004
one month old and still cute...
» 1.4.2004
it's finally done...
96 CDs per shelf X 14 shelves = storage for 1344 CDs and 1 massive migrane...
And yes, It's full...
96 CDs per shelf X 14 shelves = storage for 1344 CDs and 1 massive migrane...
And yes, It's full...
» 1.1.2004
little party animal...
