A week later, still a blubbering mess.

More of this

One Act

“…DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE SPAWNED, SIR? She is a spider. She is a diabolically devious as Medusa. Her capacity for compassion extends only as far as her immediate periphery. She uses her charm in the same way the Borgias used poison. Her wit is an epic in trivia. She conforms to civilized conduct with all the morality of a traffic light. Her empathy is as deep rooted as her mirror. The lip service she pays to the social amenities has all the sincerities of a Hindu kissing the Pope’s ring. She is a pot of poisoned honey…”

from the play "Integrity" by John Patrick.

I silently performed this at my desk. I would suffice in doing that for the rest of my life.

I'm in an Advanced Drama class this semester. I am assigned to pick out a one act play, cast and direct it. I have never directed before, so I am looking forward to something new. I picked a show written by the same man who wrote the monologue above called "Fettuccine". It's a fast paced argument of a play between a husband and wife over the welfare of their only son. I have been blessed to have made friends in the "drama scene" here at Moody and I already have three pristine actors in mind. Hopefully I'll be able to successfully direct them while at the same time have them direct themselves. If I were a wagering man, I would bet that this is going to be a great semester.

Whenever I am reading, especially a non-fiction textbook, if something is under-lined or in bold, my head voice yells it. 

Memories from the summer

9/11

Tuesday, September 11th, 2001. I was 10 years old in 4th grade at Jimtown Elementary School. I was in Mr. Miller's class working on a project that I don't remember, but I do remember that at around 9 AM, our Principal, Mr. Stout, came on to the loud speaker and called all the teachers and faculty members to the office. No one told the students that day about what was happening in New York. I see that they didn't want to frighten us, but I am somewhat embittered still.

I got off the bus at my house on CR 26 and walked in the door to find my mother with tear stains on her face and an abnormally worried look in her eyes. "Are you ok?" she asks. I am clueless. "Uhh, yeah. Can I have a snack?"

""Do you know about the attacks?"

"...uhm, what attacks? No I don't know about any attacks."

"Jess, there were two planes high-jacked and flown into the World Trade Center buildings in New York, and two others elsewhere."

I didn't quite grasp all that had happened. Maybe it was better that I didn't fully understand. You see, I kow more about Amillenialism and Postmillenialism and doctrines on the book of Revelation at that age than I kew about football or legos. I may have lost my mind in fear of the return of Christ. Yeah, fear. I didn't want to leave. I sometimes still don't. But that's another blog post.

Throughout that day we were, like every other capable American, glued to the TV. It was such a confusing and fearful day, and many more were to come. My dad came home later that night and proclaimed that "Gas was 5 dolla'gallon in Indi!" and I think we had visits from family, maybe not.

Days passed, then weeks, then months, a year, two years, etc. We are now two days from a decade passing since that interesting day. 10 years. I went from a weird little boy to an almost drinking adult in that time. Children of fallen heros and victims that were born on the day or near to it are the age that I was when the attacks happened. Mind blowing.

I am sitting here at my desk in Crowell Hall at Moody Bible Institute basically weeping at the pictures of all the destruction physically and emotionally. I don't know why this affects me so much. Maybe because heroism inspires me. Maybe i am just a sorry sobby sammy. Whatever it is, I am proud to be, not necessarily an american, but to be apart of a nation. A group of people that are communally affected by the same thing.

I wish I was more proud to be a Christ Follower. Our version of Spetember 11th happened when Christ was seemingly defeated by man at Golgotha. The discipes and everyone else who was in the community of believers was devestated, searching among the ruins for his clothes, hist likeness, anything that would bring him back to them. For three days that were at a worse place than those who have lost family and friends in 9/11. They lost GOD. Utter darkness was with them for that time.

Easter morning came, and we were refreshed. He has proven himself God and we are now rescued from that debris.

There is not a redeeming comparison for 9/11, unfortunately. I wish there was. Families of lost ones are still lost and in need of Easter. Everyone needs Easter. Pray for them.

"...A few weeks later, our dog got hit by a snowplow and I forgot all about the problem of names. Until college, when I learned to play the guitar, and, as an exercise, started writing songs (very poorly executed) in the same way that Henry Ford produced the automobile: assembly-line-style. I wrote songs for the days of the week (poor Monday!). Songs for the planets (poor Pluto!). Songs for the Apostles (poor Judas!). And, finally, when all else failed, I started a series of songs for names. [...] Each piece was a rhetorical, philosophical, musical rumination on all the possible names I had entertained years before when my parents had given me the one chance to change my own. Oh fates! I sang these songs in the privacy of my dorm room, behind closed doors, pillows and cushions stuffed in the air vents so no one would hear. And then I almost failed Latin class, my grades plummeted, my social life dissolved into ping pong tournaments in the residence halls, and, gradually, my interest in music (or anything divine, creative, fruitful, enriching) completely waned. I turned to beer. And cigarettes. And TV sitcoms. And candy bars. Oh well! A perfectly good youth wasted on junk food! That is, until a few months ago, when I came across some of the old name songs, stuffed onto tape cassettes, 4-track recorders, forgotten boxes, forgotten shelves, forgotten hard drives. It was like finding an old diary, or a high school yearbook, senior picture with lens flare and pockmarks, slightly cute and embarrassing. What was I thinking?"


Sufjan Stevens inspires me. 

Tear it All Down

I am about to leave for another year at school. My life is moving forward, I am changing. I come home to my house that I grew up in, and recognize it for only that. It is not my home now. My new home is wherever I lay my head down to sleep, wherever my closest friends are, wherever God takes me. 
This song talks about the past, anything and everything that they have experienced and how it has changed them. 
I guess my life growing up would then be this house that I am tearing down. Leaving it all behind, looking ahead.