Packing, like modern art

To me, packing is a nuisance, that’s right, a royal pain. But, I will admit, it’s necessary.

I’m the type of packer who waits until the night before, stares at the closet for a concentrated forty minutes, then packs with the same determination as a fly escaping a swatter. My system, though deemed entirely too risky by my mother, as night before packing in her book is living on the wild side, is quite comfortable for me.

Actually, over the years my methods have become increasingly more…uh, lighthearted? Sure, we’ll call it that. I have taken to using trash bags, not the small ones, but a durable, sizable one. I simply toss all my “clutter” into the bags and drag them to my vehicle with a look of “will some strong guy come rescue my trembling feminine arms” written on my face. And though I end up completing the task entirely alone, packing up, especially for college, has become a form of modern art for me, in the sense that my clutter transporting has become a masterpiece.

But this semester I face a new issue: stuffing my “clutter” into two REI burnt orange duffels, each needing to weigh in at a meager (and I mean meager) 50 pounds—piety me. The straightener, the towel, the bedding, all too weighty to bring and will have to be purchased. As for the décor, that is far too frivolous for my expedition, and I suppose my beloved stuffed animals are luxury items I just won’t need. Friends, I’m down to the wire. At this moment I have about three piles of shirts and sweaters that could fill up one suitcase in its entirety—something has got to go. How many sweaters are too many sweaters? How much do I really love jewelry (a lot,) hmm, I’m going to have to downsize on the less important things first. One pair of Pj’s for four months? It could happen.

Someone, please, bring me a garbage bag, I want to do some modern art packing, this suitcase stuff is just not doing it for my creativity, or spatial issues for that matter. Six days until I leave and counting…wish the packing good luck, or rather, the packer.

Vienna waits for me:)

Slow down you crazy child
You're so ambitious for a juvenile
But then if you're so smart tell me why
Are you still so afraid?
Where's the fire, what's the hurry about?
You better cool it off before you burn it out
You got so much to do and only
So many hours in a day

But you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want
Or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through
When will you realize...Vienna waits for you

Slow down you're doing fine
You can't be everything you want to be
Before your time
Although it's so romantic on the borderline tonight (tonight)
Too bad but it's the life you lead
You're so ahead of yourself
That you forgot what you need
Though you can see when you're wrong
You know you can't always see when you're right(you're right)

You got your passion you got your pride
But don't you know that only fools are satisfied?
Dream on but don't imagine they'll all come true
When will you realize
Vienna waits for you

Slow down you crazy child
Take the phone off the hook and disappear for a while
It's alright you can afford to lose a day or two
When will you realize...
Vienna waits for you.

And you know that when the truth is told
That you can get what you want
Or you can just get old
You're gonna kick off before you even get halfway through

Why don't you realize...Vienna waits for you
When will you realize...Vienna waits for you

A Bullet Through Beauty

I like beautiful things. I don’t know whether this is a curse or a blessing, but regardless, it stands true.

Yesterday I was driving on a particularly scenic road and began reflecting on the concept that God does not make mistakes, and since we were made in his image, since the earth was created by his works, it infers that beauty is pleasing to God. Though when does this desire for beauty go too far?

In 1 Peter the concept of outward beauty having no measure to inward beauty is expressed so beautifully. And though I’ll be the first to admit I have a passion for jewelry and am divinely pleased when my outfit matches just right, I do recognize that in comparison to inward beauty this holds nothing. I do not say this because I know it’s right to say such things, I say this because I know it’s true; inward beauty is sincerely breathtaking, and upon each witnessing of such a fleet I confirm this even deeper.

I have met so many truly beautiful people, and I don’t mean broad white smiles or flawless skin, I mean…when it boils down to it, a truly humble person (though no one is perfectly humble.) To me, humility, among other godly attributes, is to be prized, and must be ever important to God.

Though I have stated all this, I fall back to the beginning once more: I like beautiful things, i.e., I want with every piece of my heart to be beautiful both inwardly and outwardly, and I find myself desiring this to such a level that I wonder what in my nature triggers this.

Maybe this is just a “Captivating” rooted idea, maybe my desire to be lovely is something that I feel entitled to, but rather should not dwell upon. Though, I will admit that most women, if not all, want to feel lovely on some substantial level. Just as men want to feel like warriors, or something like that (perhaps I’m falling into a “Wild at Heart” Pit.) Regardless, I think it’s so sad how some people can hit you where it hurts the most, and be fine with that. And I think when it comes to many women, a blow to our beauty seems to be fairly, if not entirely, brutal.

It is true that we should not dwell on our outward beauty, but at the same time, I feel that it displeases God equally to critically abash others outward beauty, particularly those of the female sort. I will attest to the truth that it is not easy being a girl, especially in such a materialistic culture, though surprisingly, I have found some of the harshest critics, not to bash Biola (because I love Biola,) right in the home turf. I suppose what it is that I’m trying to say, is that it isn’t easy to maintain nice hair, a flawless face and a stylish outfit (though to many this is not even outwardly enough,) and honestly, I don’t think that is a real measure of beauty. But regardless, many comments detour otherwise, suggesting that many people (male, and females are guilty of this as well,) think they deserve a level of attractiveness, and will dish out cutting comments in an attempt to secure this.

In conclusion, beauty is important, and I know it’s important to God as well, though his idea of beauty is rapidly different then ours. My prayer is that we learn to build each other up, rather then down, and that we are mindful of the way we evaluate others, as words have the power to really affect people, and beauty should be something treasured, not picked apart.

MY GRANDPA ROCKS!

God is good.

Sometimes I forget to just stop and think this. In my life God has been good, and what better way to attest to others his wonder, his glory and the very truth of Christianity, then by sharing how God is good in our lives. Sure, there are rough points, but I believe it's in the rough points that we see the depth of his love. Then in the high points, in those beautiful high points, we cannot forget him.

Right now I don't feel like complaining, I don't feel like worrying, I just want to bask in how good God really is.

Yes, the phrase may be ambiguous, but ambiguous be it. In its defense, the phrase "I love you" can be quite ambiguous, though its implications stand tall. Therefore, "God is good" may be frequently used in Christian circles, and in reality be a fairly board thing to say, though, in my opinion it's the broad effect of the phrase that gives it that infinite mystery, that undefinable wonder. So, in all its infinite treasure--God is good!

Johnny Cash "Walks the Line," I draw the line...

I absolutely detest loosing friends, I feel it’s not necessary, as friendship, in its essence is free, and to loose it, well, makes me ill.

The problem is there are some friends who take, take, take, and at times friendship requires giving. Some friends hurt you and they simply do not care, and since most would attest such characteristics add up to not really being a friend, it is advisable to let the fake friend go before they suck every piece of dignity from you. That’s the part I’d rather not partake it.

Though how long can a person allow themselves to be dragged along until they are forced to let go? A relationship takes two sides, and if one person has nothing to add, I suppose the friendship just withers.

Then, of course, there’s the spiritual concern. Love your neighbor, forgive others…the list of philanthropy continues. Though were these words meant in a way that requires the emptying of oneself for the sake of loving another who doesn’t care for us? In some senses yes, as Jesus did this with us, but in a Christian friendship I do believe there’s a line, and somewhere between the absence of dignity and the minor effects of self destruction the line becomes quite evident.

It’s just; I used to believe there was good in everyone, that a cold individual was a cover-up and that everyone surely felt. I’m not so sure anymore. I do however stand behind the idea of some sense of good in each individual, as being made in the image of God requires this, but the cold part, that’s the part that is becoming disappointingly true. Cold has no place in my logic, seeing that the idea of hurting others makes me distraught to such an extent that I often find myself replaying innocent conversations in my head in an attempt to qualify that I have a character that is sensitive and mindful. And though I fail at times, it is in my failure that I learn and grow, but the cold hearted seem to rest in a stagnate pool of self absorption and oblivion, rarely recognizing the pain they have caused others.

Upon establishing this, I further to say that people of that nature have no place in a friendship, as that kind of take only leaves a person worse off then the beginning of the friendship, and edification runs dry. Regardless, I continue to avidly detest the sole idea of the loss of friendship, but I suppose sometimes it’s the only way, and if it really is the only way (unless one’s inflicted with superpowers and can see another way) it must be God’s way.

Despite it all, I am so sorry. Hey, at least in Heaven we won’t loose friends.

~The storyteller extraordinar: my Grandpa

My grandpa is the single best storyteller I have ever met. I could sit on my grandparents canvas couch for endless hours and listen to his stories. He’ll talk about anything from how things used to be, to the way things should be, to the funky birds in Africa—it really doesn’t matter, because, to me, it’s all interesting.

When I was a kid he always had the best games to play. I remember I would crawl into my grandma and his bed on mornings after I had slept over, eager to snuggle between two of my favorite people. He would be watching some morning talk show, and I would lie quietly relishing every moment. As soon as a commercial would hit the screen, I would climb onto his knees, then when I least expected it, he would drop his knees, and I would squeal with sheer delight.

In the evenings he would watch his programs on TV, and when he looked good and snoozing I would waltz over (in my grandma’s floor length princess-worthy nighty,) crotch on the carpet and tie his work boots together. Then, I would sneakily steal his hanky out of his pocket and resume hiding it in the unsought corners of the house.

But the tables spun both ways, as my grandpa had tricks of his own. He would take my beloved Elmo stuffed animal (actually my Elmo that I claimed was spelt Almo) and would strap him to the fan with duck tape, then when I least suspected the kidnapping, he would crank the ceiling fan to full speed and tell me to look up: there barred to the cheap wooden slabs would be my little treasure spinning as violently as a Ritalin desperate kid in the Disneyland Teacups.

Every summer we’d go on a vacation, usually to the ocean, but sometimes to the Black Rock Dessert or some place way in what my grandparents called, the “boonies.” My grandpa would go out during the hot summer days and collect magnificent rocks then come back in the evenings and tell my grandma and I all sorts of stories.

Those were the days.

My grandma is…well, amazing, but I’ll save that for another post.

Part II: The Anti-Darcy (written by the request of Michelle)

The Anti-Darcy: the Victorian Literature version of the Anti-Christ, if you will—nothing short of a cad.

The Anti-Darcy can be found in the most unexpected of places, usually with some formal viscid to throw his suitors for a loop. Selfish, narcissistic, leaking with pride, his only amiable quality is reputation, which he compulsively seeks to repair, restore and relinquish, as his true identity must never be revealed.

Do not be afraid, Anti-Darcy’s are scarce; having such superhuman qualities like coldness at any cost, that no proper human could or would attain this. And though I advise the reader not to fear the Anti-Darcy, I will advise to be leery of the being because no bite can delve deeper.

Deceitful, single-minded and thoughtless, a step beyond aloof—character and respect hold no place in this form.

The only downfall is unlike Darcy, the Anti-Darcy is not fictional—not fictional at all…

D-A-R-C...Y? Because we want him.

What is it with the female obsession with Mr. Darcy? No one has actually seen Mr. Darcy, no one has actually spoken with Mr. Darcy, let’s face it, Mr. Darcy is fictional. But that does not stop the female force—no, on the contrary, it really only gives it room to grow, to idealize, to imagine, and pretty soon no man, in the romantic sense, can esteem to remotely comparable to the Mr. Darcy. Let’s face it, we are born with a male archetype, and just like the idea of good and evil being planted in us from day one, so is our idea of the male hero entirely compatible with Darcy.

What strikes me about Darcy is the fact that he is the trust of heroes, in really, a real life setting. It is not as though he scaled castles walls or floured the stormy sea to rescue his love and pursue world peace, but rather, he began as a rather stogy character stuck on himself, on his life, on his opinions—or so it seemed. But that all quickly changed as the story began to unfold.

First off, Mr. Darcy liked a girl not for her position in society, her looks, or even her charm, but really on the basis of disposition alone. He recognized that Elizabeth was different, that he could never tire of her, that her intellect was rapid and her thought original, it was her mind that caught him—now that is admirable.

Secondly, he was courageous. He chose to tell her all that he felt for her, risking a chance of rejection and a lower view in society. A true gentleman he proved to be, who was honest with both himself and others.

But then, the grand finale of it all, the “kicker,” if you will; Darcy overcame his most violent battle for the cause of love, he overcame pride. And with what courage he overcame it with. When Darcy found why Elizabeth was frustrated with him, instead of whining and complaining that it wasn’t his fault he proved it with nobility and fixed anything that he may have done with such a dignity he could not help but steal any girls heart. Darcy, an ordinarily prideful man, put aside his pride for the love of another, hence, demonstrating the power of love, and how great love makes a person better.

So, perhaps Darcy is fictional, but regardless, what women could resist. After all, how can you resist the perfect fictional man?