"I'm all ears!"

Communicating is hard work. Of course, all things that require reciprocity are hard work because everyone knows, from experience, that communication is listening and feedback. I can listen all I want, but you can only talk so much until you'd rather talk to a wall than to me. I can talk all I want, but you're not a wall!- you've got opinions too!

But this isn't always the case, sometimes people have different ways of communicating, and I don't mean that  one person prefers cuddling over home-cooked meals. No, really, I mean, consider this, my fellow geeks: does it bother you that some people will prefer the movie, as opposed to the book upon which its based?

I know that drives me mad.

Although I've learned that movies and books are two different medias. I will almost always prefer the media of a book, but a near-perfect example of appreciating both the movie and the book is Life of Pi. 

When the first advertisements for Life of Pi: The Movie were out I knew that regardless of its success or failure I was going to like this movie. Life of Pi: The Book is intensely descriptive, heavy with dialogue, and purposefully challenging. Life of Pi: The Book works for the very same reason Anna Karenina by Tolstoy works, for the same reason The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien works: because books can be of any length! 

But movies are generally limited to 1 1/2 to 3 hours in length. Any longer and most of the audience has lost interest and/or fallen asleep. (But trust me, I could watch a movie for that length of time and be fine.)

However much it bothers me that people can't appreciate the book-version as much as the movie-version, should it really bother me?

Even within the same medias, writers, directors, actors, etc. want to communicate with people outside their usual social group.

Christians/The religious want to convert non-believers/atheists.

Non-believers/atheists want to educate Christians/the religious.

Scientists want to instill sciencey-stuff into thespians.

Thespians want to convey powerful emotions to their audiences.

But, generally, Christians only reach Christians. Atheists only reach atheists. Scientists only reach scientists. Thespians only reach thespians. 

When a Christian, or an atheist, or a scientist, or a thespian writes a book, hoping that the book will help outsiders understand it doesn't usually work. I've worked at a bookstore long enough to know that people who are interested in business go only to the business section and nowhere else. I'd be hard-pressed to convince a customer interested in graphic novels to attempt a perusal into the local history section--frankly, it's just not what they're looking for.

I'd even be more hard-pressed to convince someone to read the Harry Potter books, if they only want to watch Harry Potter.

But frankly, some people are just more visual. 

So...how do writers communicate with movie-goers?

How do directors communicate with bookworms?

How do musicians communicate with scientists?

How do Christians communicate with the non-religious?

I don't know! 

But I'll try and be all ears for you!

I want to make more people read, but I'm only talking to people who already read. How can I communicate with non-readers?

Turn Life of Pi into a movie.

Sha-bam.

"You failed!"

I have my limits. I probably shouldn't jump off a building, believing I can fly. Probably not a good idea.

Me, personally- I'm not bulletproof.

You cut me, I'll bleed, just like you. Yeah, okay. That's normal. I'd probably panic more if you cut me and no blood came out--worried about what then is running through my veins if not blood...is this the Matrix?

But other than that I am pretty invincible. In a manner of speaking.

Today at brunch my friends and I discussed this awkward, in-between period of extended adolescence. (I hope it's not extended adolescence!) It's an odd stage. How does one show gratitude toward parents and family, yet insist that one should be independent?

Eh, it's pointless to over-diagnose this stage of my life.

Why even diagnose?!

Why can't I just keep going?

So, I have too many dreams. My one friend doesn't have any. It doesn't seem that either option proves productive, so our only option is to keep moving forward.

Perhaps this is preachy, or maybe I'm annoyingly positive, but if you let my perkiness stop you from pursuing your dreams, well, then, we are made of two different stuffs.

You're important. But you're not Atlas.

Garden Variety

Fears will always present themselves and unlike gardens, there's nothing I can lay down underneath the nutritious dirt, no newspaper, mesh, nothing that will keep a weed like fear from growing. And so what if weeds start to grow? Is there nothing more satisfying than pulling them up myself, personally uprooting the little buggers with my own hands: you see, I own my fears, not the other way around.

Although, you know, I'm not even sure I know what I'm growing. I really ought to label all the rows.

Hopefully, I've planted a garden variety of dreams.

Hopefully, I'll have planted ripe, juicy  red tomato-y dreams, alongside practical, sturdy brown potato; only to be complemented by the deep, warm purple eggplant. I could hardly do without the smooth, cool green cucumber, and I find it hard to believe that anyone wouldn't want to plant tart, distinct white onions, or the nutty, sweet orange carrot. Will I have the fun blueberries, strawberries; the exotic mangoes and grapes?

Hopefully, my garden will have basil, cilantro, mint and rosemary, thyme, dill, chives and coriander--I don't even know how to use these herbs--for what's life without flavor? (Can I grow spices?) I think I've also planted tulips, roses, maybe I've built a pond with water lilies floating at the water's edge, and koi swimming underneath--what's life without fragrance? 

Hopefully, I'll have built stone paths, and small ledges with a seat or two interrupting the pattern. Maybe I've a gazebo where I've mosaic'd the wood, hoping visitors would reach out to touch and find its hidden surprises--a diamond or two in the rough.

Well, now, I can't feel half as afraid now, can I?

And even if I did plant an entire field of corn in the hopes of planting different fruits and vegetables, what's to stop a lioness from hunting in it? 

"Secondhand Lions"

Glorified Tourists

I don't know much about where I live. At least, not all the little details. 

Me: Oh, and these are Brownstones!

Friend: Oh, what are they made out of?

Me: ...brown stones? Haha, I'm sure they're not all brown-colored. You can paint over stones.

But the little I do know seemed to suffice for our adventure last Saturday. That and our smartphones are embedded with GPS systems [:

Walking around the city, any city, you will always overhear conversations, and encounter strangers, find new holes-in-the-wall (or another Starbucks) especially when you're willing to get lost. There's nothing more enjoyable than walking about aimlessly, your only goal to enjoy the company you're with. What else do you need?

"Food."

Oh, well, that's a given! Good food always comes with good friends!

Now, if you find it necessary you'll have to forgive me for this next bit: I always forget that every adult used to be a child. 

How did I come to this thought?

Walking around the city, any city, you will always overhear conversations, and encounter strangers, find new holes-in-the-wall (or another Starbucks), and if you're not careful you'll forget that these conversations, strangers and holes-in-the-wall are someone else's familiar scene.  

It was really the strangers that struck me. They all were, at one point or another, an adorable baby learning to walk, to talk, to feed himself. I never forget that every child will become an adult. I forget that every adult used to be a child.

What's stopped our childlikeness?

Have we forgotten what it is to fly?

Have these city walls worn us down so that their previous glamour is now moldy and damp?

But the strangers I encountered: the homeless, the immigrants, emigrants; the tourists (not very much unlike me), the artists, the students, the runners; the commuters (everyone) they all wore expressions that I couldn't label for you. They stood there, alone or with a couple others, mostly with headphones on, stuck in their individual worlds; going about their day.

Were they as methodical as children?

Sometimes, I think everyone needs to be a tourist in their own hometown just so they can encounter some of the local mysticism, historicity: so that everyone can remember what it was like and, hopefully, be more grateful, for the privileges they now have. 

Yes, we all want to be remembered, but do we remember anyone?

I wish I knew more about Harlem's Brownstones. Well, then, I'll study up on them! That way the next time you follow me around I won't be a glorified tourist

glorified tourist definition :: one who resides in, but knows little to nothing about, tourist hot spots

(the term 'glorified' may also describe babysitters, cooks, etc.; any person who is familiar with, but not an expert in, said profession or   category)

I'll be your legitimate tour guide.

I imagine that if I know more about the area, more about its history and mysticism, I'll be more apt to remember its residents: rich and poor. These are my neighbors, after all. Don't I want to know my neighbors?

I could wander anywhere if you let me, and if you didn't mind my disappearing for a few hours because I promise you I will disappear if you don't wander with me. I may or may not find my way back to you, but whether I find you or don't I hope it won't bother you if I don't find you. 

Every day! All day?

About a month ago I told someone that I wasn't particularly fond of doing things daily. I'd somehow believed that doing things daily cheapens the thing done daily, the act done daily, but now, a month later, I regret saying that; I don't believe that at all. I don't think I even believed what I'd said when I'd said it! I just said it, hoping not to sound like some ritualistic lunatic. But when did one become a lunatic for rituals? Don't we all, in some sense, have rituals, daily or weekly or monthly or yearly? 

So then, why the rituals?

I don't know why anyone else does rituals, not really at least, but I've taken to rituals because they give me a sense of order amidst all the chaos. Haha, not that my life is very chaotic; things are fairly controlled [: my life isn't going down the toilet anytime soon, but I am aware that other lives are, frankly, going down the toilet. That other lives are chaotic, or misdirected or undirected, either by their own hands or someone else's; my life is nothing like that. 

I have a good life. 

I have no complaints. 

But I think my daily rituals, this sense of order amidst chaos, reminds me to be thankful that I have a good life  without complaints. 

I know that sympathy without action is pity (I don't know that action without sympathy is cold-heartedness), but what's this have to do with my simple, daily rituals? 

Whatever life may have for me or for others, chaotic or controlled, misery or happiness, we are all subject to chaos/control, misery/happiness in varying degrees: one's pain is no less than another's pain. Pain is pain is pain. One's happiness is no more than another's happiness. Happiness is happiness is happiness. 

You're probably wondering what my daily ritual is that suddenly helps me understand another's pain or happiness.

Hmm, I'm reading my Bible every day, relating to its characters whose troubles I hope never to endure, and whose pleasures make me green with envy. 

Reading my Bible daily puts me on edge. Going through the Psalms, the Pentateuch (the five five books of the Old Testament) and the Gospels (Matthew, Mark, Luke and John) put me on edge. Some days I feel so grateful for my life, and other days I wish I were born in another era because in spite of my good life without complaints I find that I am discontent. I am barely brave enough to tell someone I read the Bible every day without being ridiculed. Really? That person's opinion of me will only rock my world if she judges me for reading the Bible daily? And why do I even think she'll judge me?! 

This edge reminds me that I have no idea what's really going on. Whatever sympathy I have is kept in check by fear: what if my acts of blind faith produce negative consequences? What if my acts of thought-out faith produce negative consequences? What if I'm perceived as an arrogant fool? What if-? 

I'm afraid to let my daily habit of reading the Bible affect the rest of my day. 

It's like... When I read my Bible I sneak into a corner where I hide and feel safe. I stay in the corner for as long as I read my Bible and then leave that Bible in the corner when I'm done to go about the rest of my day. Aren't daily rituals, rituals in general, supposed to have a permanent, persuasive, indelible affect on my person? Isn't that why I practice daily rituals?

Isn't that why people exercise daily? So that they go from hiding their troubled spots to showing off their muscles? 

Aren't rituals supposed to be obvious progress?

Yes! Yes! I know! I denied that I enjoyed doing things daily because I was afraid of someone's opinion of me! I know that rituals put my life into perspective: I am taught what it means to be thankful for nothing and wary of Trojan horses. Yes, I read my Bible every day, but I only let it affect me during that hour or so. I hardly let that Bible reading, that perspective, affect the other twenty three hours of my day.

And that is incredibly unfortunate. 

Even outside of religion, it is always incredibly unfortunate when he is ashamed of what has given him everything so that he wants no more. Did not even Socrates' followers openly mourn his death sentence? 

I ashamedly mourn my Savior's death and he resurrected! Christ is not even dead anymore! 

Yet, I keep these things secret. 

What good are rituals if I don't let affect me? 

Psalm 51,17, "The sacrifices of God are a broken spirit;

a broken spirit and a contrite heart, O God,

you will not despise."

Very few of us have any understanding of the reason why Jesus Christ died. If sympathy is all that human beings need, then the Cross of Christ is an absurdity and there is absolutely no need for it. What the world needs is not “a little bit of love,” but major surgery.

When you find yourself face to face with a person who is spiritually lost, remind yourself of Jesus Christ on the cross. If that person can get to God in any other way, then the Cross of Christ is unnecessary. If you think you are helping lost people with your sympathy and understanding, you are a traitor to Jesus Christ. You must have a right-standing relationship with Him yourself, and pour your life out in helping others in His way— not in a human way that ignores God. The theme of the world’s religion today is to serve in a pleasant, non-confrontational manner.

But our only priority must be to present Jesus Christ crucified— to lift Him up all the time (see 1 Corinthians 2:2). Every belief that is not firmly rooted in the Cross of Christ will lead people astray. If the worker himself believes in Jesus Christ and is trusting in the reality of redemption, his words will be compelling to others. What is extremely important is for the worker’s simple relationship with Jesus Christ to be strong and growing. His usefulness to God depends on that, and that alone.

The calling of a New Testament worker is to expose sin and to reveal Jesus Christ as Savior. Consequently, he cannot always be charming and friendly, but must be willing to be stern to accomplish major surgery. We are sent by God to lift up Jesus Christ, not to give wonderfully beautiful speeches. We must be willing to examine others as deeply as God has examined us. We must also be sharply intent on sensing those Scripture passages that will drive the truth home, and then not be afraid to apply them. -Oswald Chamber's My Utmost For His Highest (December 20th)

If this is my year to be brave, I really need to stop being so afraid of people who might judge me. What a silly fear.

Okay. Moving on.

"So, Justine, how do you feel about doing things daily?"

"Oh! I'm glad you asked because, actually, I-."

Speaking of which, there is a man, Cesar Kuriyama, who records one second of every day of his life. Maybe I should do that too: a great reminder that every day is incredibly important.

"You're just saying that!"

A couple days ago I finally got my haircut, and since then I've received many compliments.

"Super cute haircut, really!"

"Oh! It's so different from what you had before! I love it!"

"So, you got a haircut? Oh. Looks nice."

Before the haircut I had my hair up in a ponytail and when my hair dresser took that first big snip my head suddenly felt ten times lighter. I bet I could jump off a building and start flying, if I really wanted to. I'll let you know how that turns out my next blog post.

But I'll be honest, I was kind of nervous about my new haircut. I've had it short before, yes, but not this short (it's a pixie cut). A barrage of self-consciousness thoughts invaded my mind palace (wink wink); I was suddenly worried if my face were too round, if I picked the right color hair dye or what if I was the only one that liked my haircut? For me, long hair is such a security blanket, and now that it's all so short I have nothing  to hide behind.

Right after my haircut I had work and one of my coworkers said to me: "When you walked into the break room I only saw the back of your head and thought, "Who is this person?" but then you turned around!- very nice! Is that a shade of red I see?"

And the only polite way to respond is, "Thank you."

Yet however much I consciously believe the compliments something rather subconscious (therefore deadly, thank you, Freud) tells me that these compliments aren't true. I mean, what else are these people supposed to say?

"So, you got a haircut? You want me to go get a paper bag with eye holes because that cut and color are offensive."

My subconscious screams, "They're just being nice! They don't want to hurt your feelings!"

My conscious will almost always submit to my subconscious...BUT NOT THIS TIME!

Whatever niceties my coworkers, family or friends give me I need to remember their sincerity...sincerities. (I'm a slave to parallelism.) My modesty and humility need not become false. There is a difference between accepting compliments and expecting compliments.

I'm no Helen of Troy (what do I want a thousand ships for?), but I'm also certainly not one of the Twits. Whatever beauty I do possess is kept in check by the occasional pimple or pair of jeans that shrunk folded up in the dresser drawer, a reminder that beauty needs to be preserved.

In the same way I catch the log in my eye before I poke out the speck in your eye, I need to remember my own beauty, my own value, before I can remember your beauty and value. After all, we are human: beautiful in our ordinariness.

http://work.theindigobunting.com/Face-Collages-1

the tenth plague

paint the blood upon the doorpost
and listen to the silence pass over you.

paint the blood upon the doorpost.
did it spatter across your dress?
did it stain the sand beneath your feet?
does its smell make you worry
or empower your faith?

blood? upon the doorpost?

what kind of salvation is this?

no swords?
no bows or arrows?
no armor?
no secret operations or assassinations?

we aren't making war?!

just 'paint the blood upon the doorpost', he says!

"paint the blood upon the doorpost;
you have nothing else to fear.
feast upon the sacrifice;
remember my great name.


"paint the blood upon the doorpost;
watch and be still.
my light to you is warmth,
to others, mighty steel.


"i, the LORD, shall save you.
i will pass over your homes.
your first child, i'll not take,
because i'll give you mine."




paint the blood upon the doorpost.
did you watch it dry?
did you watch it dry and stain
these wooden gates
where death was not allowed to enter?

death could have entered!-
death could have stolen your breath,
removed your heart
and stunned your eyes
making you as limp as the newborn lamb you could have chosen not to sacrifice!
for you are death's.

but YHWH took you back.
YHWH gave you life.
YHWH shunned death from you, though it did not seem right.




paint the blood upon the doorpost
and I will recognize you.

J. M. W. Turner's The Tenth Plague

Spring Forward

Regret and worry are very funny emotions. They like to keep a person busy but completely unproductive. The only things regret and worry produce are heart attacks, sleeplessness and indigestion.

Regret and worry like to make themselves, not only present, but very necessary. But since when've we humans ever considered heart attacks, sleeplessness and indigestion necessary?! If anything, they are great nuisances!

However, that does not make regret and worry any less absent from our lives--regret and worry are very good at disguising themselves as caution and love. 

Caution is fine! When it is used wisely: discernment. Unwisely? Fear.

Love is better! When given wisely: kindness, adoration, gratitude; things of the like. Unwisely? Infatuation.

We so easily justify our maniacal cautiousness and oppressive love. I so easily justify myself...

A couple nights ago I accidentally deleted both of my blogs.

"Accidentally?" you ask.

"Yes," I reply. "Very accidentally."

By deleting an e-mail account I unintentionally deleted the blogs. So upon deciding to alter a blog entry I discovered their premature nonexistence. My heart nearly stopped. I almost screamed. I sobbed, but immediately felt at ease. 

A very strange easiness.

I was oddly comforted by the fact that God knew this would happen and humanly speaking (although I know no other way to speak) that is a provocative statement in itself: You're okay- at ease with God's knowledge? Why didn't he-?

No. 

I am incredibly eased by God's foreknowledge.

I lost both of my blogs, one of which I'd had going for the better half of three years, but an hour after such a loss I made a new blog: this one. 

Whatever readers I did have, I need not worry how poorly they'll think of me. I also need not regret any of my lost entries. My thoughts are still mine, digital or mental. 

And besides, what a perfect time to start fresh! To spring forward!

No, I have no idea what it's like to worry about my next meal, or where I might sleep tonight.

I have no idea what it's like to be any criminal's hostage.

No idea what it's like to search for a kidnapped child.

But my God is King over all the earth.

If you'd suggest to me that the kind of people above have greater reason to worry or regret I would agree with you. But I've also known, or at least heard, of people who were made stronger by these situations. Who always understood that regret and worry, while inevitable, could be controlled. 

We need only move forward.

My life is much bigger than two blogs. 

Our lives are much bigger than our regrets and worries; we can triumph them without God, yes?- so how much more triumphant can we be with God?

Psalm 47.2--For the LORD, the Most High, is to be feared,a great king over all the earth.

Good morning [:

pebbles and stones: life or death.

because a few thrown pebbles
might annoy you more than one thrown giant stone.

a pebble can poke your eye,
cause it to bleed,
and you can't get to a sink quickly enough
to wash out the pebble
so,
potentially, you're blind in one eye for the rest of your life,
and everyone you know will call you Pirate Frankie behind your back.
to your face they'll call you by your name.
but behind your back it's Pirate Frankie.

even your tombstone will read Pirate Frankie,
what with your request to be buried with your silkworm silk eye patch
which you made yourself.

you're so proud of that eye patch.

a giant stone
will just completely obliterate you:
break all your bones and
your consciousness.

there's no potential eye-poking,
which means your eye won't bleed
which means you never needed the chance to wash out your eye
to wash out the pebble,
so now
there's no potential to be called Pirate Frankie behind your back.
you won't have ever made your own eye patch!
or its matching accessories!
and your tombstone will just have your name.
your real name.
but your DOB and DOD will be much closer together.

because when someone throws a giant stone at you?

you, my friend, are dead.