duh duh ding ding ding ding ding ding ding ding

So it's closing in on Halloween and that means candy corn, small children running around in the dark, college girls thinking that lingerie + animal ears = a halloween costume, desecrating large squash for art's sake, and nothing but gore flicks on television.

What does the the title of this entry have to do with gore flicks?

There has been a recent rash of scary gore filled movies that feature inbred, mutated, bible-bangin', cannibal hillbillies. Now, I take issue with this representation. I'm not the country boy I sometimes profess to be. I know plenty of these country folk and I love them. Second, why is there always a religious bent towards these cannibals? I know we profess to eat the body and drink the blood of Christ, but, seriously, come on in its just bland bread and grape juice.

Anyway, rather than blow up on this I leave you with the classic redneck thriller tune.

Bluegrass Imagination

Tonight I went to a free bluegrass concert. The band was named Buttermilk Revival and they were... ok. Don't get me wrong they weren't terrible we just left when they decided to play the same song twice near the end of their second set. Also, an ok night of bluegrass is better than what I would've done.

I guess what I like about bluegrass is that it transports me to a place I've never been, cannot go, ... and probably doesn't exist. The plink of the mandolin and the twang of the banjo take me to some far off dancehall with no air conditioning and squeaky wooden floors. The band's rhythm is driven by the thump of feet on the worn boards covered in saw dust. Dim lights can't hide the tired smiles of dancers in the trance of music. Young people rebelling with the now innocent sound of old-timey. Or maybe it's the gospel hymns sung by a family. Pop playing the guitar while Mom touches the piano. Sons and daughters picking a banjo or making a fiddle sing. The off-harmonies are overcome by the that sound that can only come from people who share blood and a love that is more than just a last name. There's a third image of many men and women sitting in a circle trading tunes. The old passing down to the young.

The closest I've come to this place was in a coffee shop in Radford, VA. A free-for-all picking. Old men cradled fiddle dusted white with the rosin of decades. A middle aged man played a mandolin with a neck polished dark and shiny from years of use. His speed did not match his age, fingers sprinting faster than my legs could run in my youth. In the corner, a young man or old boy sat picking a banjo with the skill of the old men, the prodigy. I've forgotten the name of this place, but, if I visit Radford again, I will find my way back to that coffee shop on a Monday night.

Maybe this is a product of who I am and where I live. I've always longed for a time not my own and its lifestyle. I guess since I'm a product of the North Georgia mountains and Cumberland Plateau, I have connected to bluegrass. If I had lived in Louisiana it would have been jazz and zydeco, Memphis would be the blues, New York would be... show tunes?

I don't know where this is going but I don't think this desire will stop or that my imagination will stop running whenever I hear this beautiful music, I will go to this place

Reflections on the Pig Flu

Wednesday night, I took a quick vote among friends as to how manly we were. The qualifier for this being who had been infected with swine flu. This, of course, would isolate only one member at the table.

Thursday morning, I wake up with a terrible back ache and the feeling of a dagger being thrust into my skull. Ok, no need to panic, I don't have the flu, just woke up feeling bad. So I got up and took a shower, because that can make you feel better. Nope, didn't work. I went back to bed. The rest of the day was spent in the fuzz of a 102 degree fever, in my bed. Donnie brought Tylenol, Abbie brought a thermometer to confirm what we already knew, and Ryan brought me a 6 inch sub. Of which I ate approximately 2 and a half inches. Then Jim sentenced me to my room.

That night was spent in the grips of fever and my HD Dolby 5.1 dream world. I resolved to be awake the next day to escape my dreams.

Friday was a better day. 99.3 But, still a day spent as a pariah. Watched "Garden State" and then quickly wound down.

Saturday morning I woke up with a 98.2. Ate lunch with Abbie. All that remains of the pig flu is a nasty cough and fatigue (as you can tell by the suffering writing at the end of this blog). I'll post more, but a quick thanks to all those who kept me alive these past three days.

namaste

vaya con Dios

Life's a flood

It's been 10 days since I've been here. Here being this blog, an ethereal place that can be anywhere now thanks to satellites. I've been here 5 years, here is Athens, first state-sponsored (socialism) center of learning. Named for that ancient, classic city of learning and open-thought. Where Paul conversed with religious men who wanted to honor even that which they were ignorant of. I've been here way too often in my short-life, and shorter-career.

Here is a place of fear and self-doubt that I'm "not supposed to be." What? Just because I'm training to work with the Church and for The King, why can't I be frustrated in my faith. Just because I'm "leading" people I can't have a moments doubt of what direction I'm going. Why am I not entitled to the same emotions and feelings everyone else has. People complain about clergy not knowing what it's like to live in this world. Where do we live, Mars? It seems some people believe the "church men" live on that red planet named for an imaginary warrior. Wouldn't my fears make you feel better now that I'm more like you? No!? People want someone who will kick against the goad with their face to the wind, screaming into the night with fearless bravery. Let me tell you, fear begets courage. Courage, bravery, reckless abandon: these are all words to describe fear that has been choked down into the gut where it rest in a bitter pit. It is ever present and ever painful. And, we are called to accept this because by it we remember the One who was afraid and followed through anyways.

This is picking up in the middle of the story and in the middle of a conversation I'm having with myself. So let's begin with the current story.

Before school resumed I had lunch with a student. He had posted on his Facebook page how much he hated Christians, Christianity, and church. OK, a lot of people hate church, fine. Join the rest of everyone, your not the first. Christianity is a bit of a stretch, in its form as "church," ok, that's just a repetition of the latter, as a moral system, maybe if you hate love. Christians though? Which ones? The televangelists, politicos, talking heads and hate-mongering sign-waving wack jobs? Me too. Or, the family that has loved you for the past two years and has desperately tried to connect to your life so that you won't have to endure alone? Because if you hate them, we have a problem, because you hate me, and I don't hate you. So we ate at the lovely Christian chicken cafe of the south. I thought it was ironic, but he didn't seem to notice. We conversed for a while and then I finally blurted out why I asked him to lunch. (I'm not good at beating around the bush.) He asked me if I wanted the answer he was giving or the truth. Well, that's not a good way to start a discussion. The answer was he was tired of the dogma. (Ok, time out. What do you think dogma is?) He defined dogma as the way people acted in church about stuff. That's not dogma, but I wasn't here to argue vocabulary. The truth, he then told me, was that he was homosexual, gay, other words that are synonyms. Wow, I haven't had a gay friend who wasn't a known homosexual when I met them, this was new. I told him I wasn't going to judge him or "straighten" him out, but others won't be so graceful. We left that table both carrying a secret that ticked like a bomb. Funny thing is, he still comes to our ministry now and again to maintatain relationships (remember that word).

Yesterday, he posted to his wall he was in a relationship with a guy in Maine. This elicited comments of "hmmmmm...", and "interesting." Also, his religious views have changed to "would you be willing to risk a relationship for them." "Them" being the religious views of the reader. What does this mean? Am I willing to talk to you even though you may violate some of my beliefs? If I did that I would be a lonley man with no friends who couldn't keep himself company. Or will I compromise my beliefs in order to remain you friend.

There are very few hills I will stake a flag and die upon. I may stake a flag, bellow, and fire artillery from one hill, but I will not die on it. But, with my religious views (terrible phrase, I'll post on that later), I will never give, because a Man died on hill for me. So, Kyle S. if following Christ and living for the King mean we cannot be friends, I'm sorry. I did not draw that line. If I am wrong and you still want to be a friend with differences between us, I want to be your friend.

And to the church-haters. The church sucks, we screwed up, I'm sorry. We do have moments where we try to help and they are often forgotten.

Acknowledge those hidden
namaste
vaya con Dios

So tonight I tried reading some of the mountain biking blogs. I used to subscribe to Backpacker magazine for all the trail descriptions and musings that come with prolonged seclusion. I guess the slow repetitive walking where scenes gradually rise to meet you over the next hill allow you to take your mind off your environment and ponder why you have even come to this beautiful, desolate, but lonely spot. 

Mountain biking lacks this. Your environment changes so quickly you barely realize it except you know you're dodging pine trees instead of oaks. But, you don't the time to reflect on how the pine smells or how long those oaks with their gnarly roots have been around and what history they've seen. No, when you're on a bike and bombing down a hill, your only thought is keep the rubber on the trail and shiny parts carrying the soft fleshy thing upright. It's hard to make the thousands of automatic miniscule adjustments philosophical when you're in the moment. Of course, you can make this about life and how there are many reactions that we blah blah blah...

I'm just saying mountain biking is an constant adrenaline fueled endeavor that is hard to describe. When you do it doesn't sound fun. "Aw man it was great, we hurtled down the hill dodging tree branches with our skull. We went so fast I was afraid to let go of the handlebar long enough to grab the break. Then we climbed a hill and my thighs were screaming at me. And then I had this great crash where I flipped over the bars and rolled out where I was sitting on the trail and my bike crashed into a tree." See doesn't sound like that much fun right. But, that wind in your face and you manipulating a machine that you control every aspect of. Even that fear of injury at every bump will keep on edge for the next few hours after the ride. 

So here's to Mountain Biking

namaste

vaya con Dios

Keelboats and Gouda Burgers

Sorry guys,

Monday was a nice day. I kayaked down the Broad River with other such blogstars as TCH, lp, and the notorious milkshake drinker, "Jim." Anyway as often happens when I am outdoors around few people my mind began to wander. And thanks to my soggy butt, I decide to stand on top of the sit-on-top project and use my paddle as a pole. Initially, I saw myself as a gondolier in Vienna. But, I realized my surroundings. Majestic pine and old hardwood trees leaning to sip from the Broad River that is choked with rock outcrops and blanketed with coarse sand. I stood on my kayak wearing not a beret, but a cheap Wal-Mart lid and thought of the freedom the old keelboatmen must have felt before steam and locomotion moved our goods to market. Of course, this daydream had a soundtrack. It was beautiful in the waning summer to relax with friends and spend some time out of doors.

That night, Abbie and I threw a small grill-out. Growing up, any holiday meant a special meal, and summer holidays meant grilling out. Last year, I was kind of depressed on Labor Day because no one I knew wanted to eat together. This year, I was determined to not let that happen. Grilling smoked gouda cheese burgers and corn on the cob, with sweet potato fries, and fried honey buns a la mode filled my apartment with such a complex bouquet that can only be matched with the laughter of friends. The next day, when I came home for lunch, the smell of smoke lingered when I opened the door, and I strained my ears to hear if the laughter my still be caught in the carpet and walls. Needless to say, I enjoy getting together and eating with friends. Quick thanks to Fiyaman and Mojo for finishing the burgers.

So, thanks for reading my wax poetic. I will redouble my efforts to post frequently.

Coop, since you're probably the only one still reading... have a good weekend, and I hope to see you soon.

namaste vaya con Dios

Meriwether Blogger

A couple of months ago I finished a Undaunted Courage, a biography of Meriwether Lewis. Probably the heaviest reading I've done in a while. It took close to 2 months to finish, reading it slow to somehow grasp the arduousness of the Lewis and Clark expedition. Much of the record comes from the journals kept by the captains and one private. Letters were a second source to gain insight on Capt. Lewis' life. I guess journals were more common in past times. And the messages from the post were valuable goods that brought news of loved ones' health, activities, and thoughts.

Today, a majority of our letters has been reduced to e-mails and facebook. They fly as electrons through processors and waves in the air. Your inbox becomes full and you delete it all. A text message can be instantly responded to. Facebook lets everyone who cares to look know what your status is. Why send a postcard from your adventure when you can just email the photos you've taken. Letter writing has been resigned to the hopless romantics. So, much of today's communication is lost, deleted because of the glut of information.

Journaling has taken on a new life though. This blog is a journal. Through it I relate my thoughts and you might be able to extrapolate what is happening in my life. This all so public information may never die. Unless the internet crashes. In a hundred years or more, the historians will be fishing through these blogs, try to figure out exactly who was the author to gain perspective of life as we entered the 21st century. They will sift through travel journals, political commentary, and social commentary to try to explain why we did or didn't destroy the environment, pass a bill or two, and why we drank so much caffeine. They will read one guy's blog about his affair with a Native American and then wonder why his wife left him. Maybe, they'll see a moral collapse amidst all of this data that is being stored, and wonder why we didn't see it ourselves since the words were right in front of us. Those generations will see a wistful people of non-absolutes in the name of political correctness, a disposable trendy culture that didn't bother to save correspondence and instead bank collective anonymous journals that recorded far out thoughts that no one reads or even matter.

namaste
vaya con Dios