The Wind That Blew Through Ever Vernal Gardens

Sitting down to right a post,

I thought about what mattered most

For me to write about.

I swiftly come to the conclusion

That it would merely cause confusion

If I tried to force it out.

For a topic to be good to me

It must come most naturally

And not be contrived and artificial.

Too much structure, too much planning

And you'll find your post is spanning

The lands of Bland and Superficial.

A poem, then, would be the key.

No structure in this post you'll see.

Because it just ends.

Like this.

Quiet Beauty

Tonight, and some of this morning too, I guess, I sat outside alone in the dark. You might think this is a very strange thing to do, and maybe it was. But I enjoyed it, and here's why: it was beautiful.

"Beautiful? What are you talking about? It was a cloudy, winter night. No stars, not leaves, no light." 

But there are many different kinds of beauty. Tonight, because it was cloudy, the trees stood out in stark silhouette against the clouds. I thought it was a very beautiful thing. It was very still, and very very quiet.

Then every so often, a light breeze would come through and stir the silhouettes. Gently they would rock, back and forth. The sound they made was the gentlest rustle, the kind that could only be made on a winter midnight. Beautiful to see. Beautiful to hear.

We live in a very beautiful world, you know that? Everyone knows about sunsets, sunrises, waterfalls, and mountain views, but how many other beautiful things are out there that we haven't seen? Quiet things, like watching bare trees dance against a cloudy winter sky, or the whisper of dry leaves in the wind.

The Artist who painted this world hid masterpieces everywhere.

A Masterpiece

I was in the woods for a few hours this afternoon and thought about writing a poem about it. But then I realized that the real poetry was being there. So if you want to read my poem, go outside.

Iron

You've heard the question, "What are friends for?" more times than you can count. Probably all of those times, it wasn't asked expecting an answer. But let's ask it for real. What are friends for? I know. I read it somewhere.

"A friend loveth at all times. And a brother is born for adversity."

Proverbs 17:17

That's what friends are for. That's what your brother, your family of God is for. A friend loveth at all times. Not just when you're feeling good and it's easy and convenient. But all of the time. No matter what. No matter what you say or do, they love you. But they especially love you when you are troubled, when the adversary has worn down your walls until they crumble and then kicks you while you're down. This is what your friends were born for. This is when they can truly step up and be more than people you talk to and see movies with. This is when they can be friends. True friends. This is when they can rally around you and hold you up, give you words of encouragment, advice, or just listen and say nothing at all. It's what they were born for!

What an amazing thought to know that there are people born to help you through your hard times.

But you think this brother of yours is pretty good? I read something else, too. About a friend that is closer than a brother. Because these friends you have, in spite of how wonderful they are, have one little flaw. They're human. They're sinners. That means they mess up sometimes. But this Friend...this Friend doesn't have that problem. You see, He's perfect. And even though you might run into something where even your closest friends are at a loss, this Friend always knows what to say. He always knows what to do. He knows everything. He cannot fail you. He's not the failing type. 

And as if Himself was not enough, He saw fit to give you the other friends that you have.

So the next time someone asks you what they're for, now you know.

Thank God for them.

Waterfalls Upsidedown

We human beings really are creatures of habit, aren't we? Take pants, for example. Now don't get caught up in the mindboggling question of exactly what a pant is and how we can have a pair of them (like underwear...and pair of underwear? I only have one on...and what forms of that word do you use? Pants makes sense. One pant, two pants, a pair of pants. But underwear? One underwear, two underwear, a pair of underwear? Underwears Underweari? Ok, I need to follow my own advice...)

And way, take pants. That's a figure of speach. If you have physically taken a pair of pants at this time, you can put them back. Especially if they don't belong to you. What I meant, you literal, pants-stealing person, was consider pants. I almost always put them on right leg first, then left leg. Always. It's just the way things are. But this morning, I did something very strange: I put them on left leg first! At first, I was scared. I didn't exactly know what was going on, it was all so strange and new. I felt off balance...disjointed. But, eventually I got over it. Everything started to feel alright. After all, putting your pants on left let first really isn't wrong, it's just different. I felt like my horizons had been expanded! Like I had subtley shifted my perception of life. What other strange and wonderful things would happen to me today? If just putting my pants on differently could have this sort of effect, what would happen if I brushed my teeth left-handed, or shaved with my eyes closed?

Later on, with toothpaste and blood all over my face, I reconsidered my decision to change up my morning routine in this way. I have decided to continue putting my pants on right leg first.

Completely Random

It is a little strange to think that since I learned how, I have never gone a day without walking. Everyday I have had fingers to move, I have moved every one of them. Since I have known how to talk, I have talked everyday. And since the very first moment I was alive, I haven't gone a day without seeing another person. Interesting...so if I spent an entire day alone, lying perfectly still and not saying anything, then I would have at least four firsts on my hands. Five really, since I have never spent a whole day lying down.

Not About the Election...At All

"On top of spaghetti,
all covered with cheese,
I lost my poor meatball
When somebody sneezed.
It rolled off the table,
And into the floor.
And then my poor meatball,
Just rolled out the door."

It was a very sad and traumatic experience, and I don't think I've quite gotten over it. Not even after my therapist suggested that I write this song about it to, how did he put it..."release my pent up negativity before it grew to dangerous levels and consumed me in a raging torrent of frustration, loss, and self-loathing" or something equally encouraging. My therapist is a bit of a drama queen. I really don't think he's doing much good either, because even after three years of therapy I still can't get over the loss of that meatball. Surely even the crappiest therapist would have helped a little by now, but I still feel the same. It's like it was only yesterday I was sitting at that table, the smell of spaghetti sauce heavy in the air and they put down in front of me a plate of the delicious noodles, covered with Parmesan like white gold. And there, right on top of all that delicious Italian goodness was the most glorious meatball I had ever laid eyes on. My mouth, which had already been watering, now seemed to be trying to outdo Niagara Falls. I was either going to have to eat that meatball now, or find a bucket. But it was not to be! Oh! Even thinking about it now brings tears to my eyes...I feel again the gut-wrenching sorrow and pain of loss as I watched, as if in slow motion, the most horrible tragedy unfold before me. My uncle Mortimer is extremely allergic to cashews. But there weren't any cashews there, so he had no excuse! He sneezed for no reason at all! It was as if all the cruel fates of the universe were conspiring at this one instant to keep me and my meatball from our gastronomical bliss...My uncle Mortimer was seated right across from me, and I could see it coming. A sniffle...a twitch...I could see how his face began to spasm and contort in ways that no human face should. It was like some hell-spawned demon had possessed him for this one act of unspeakable evil. Then the mighty rush of wind! Like a storm from the north it rushed on dark wings right towards my meatball...my poor meatball...My meatball which was borne aloft on that fierce wind and carried to its certain doom. In my weakness, I ducked out of the way as the meatball flew off its perch of spaghetti. Curse this body and its reactions! If only I had been stronger...if only I had stood my ground I could have saved it. But I cowered in the floor, paralyzed by shock and the inhumanity of it all, and all I could do was watch as my meatball bounced along the table, and came crashing to the floor. But even this was not the end! Not content to just have my meatball sullied with the contagions and filth of the ground, whatever evil forces were driving the events that day continued their foul mission, rolling the meatball across the ground and right out the door. Never to be seen again.
I hung my head.
And I wept.

Three long years since that day, and the wound feels as fresh as ever. Even writing this down like my therapist suggested has only made me feel worse. I lost a part of myself that day, and I do not think I will ever be whole again.

And What Have You Done for Me Lately?

And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin.
Jesus saith unto them, "Loose him, and let him go."
John 11:44

At the risk of overspiritualizing this, think about it with me for a moment. Isn't this what Christ has done for all of us? He brought us from death unto life. But not only did He do that, He didn't leave us wrapped up and bound in our old sins and ways. He freed us from them, and they have no power over us anymore unless we let them.
He loosed us, and let us go.
We are bound no more, so we are free to run to Him.

Right Now

I tried to watch some of the vice-presidential debates tonight. I kid you not, I had it on for maybe three minutes before I became too disgusted to watch any more. Just two more politicians babbling on about how great they are or how much they hate the current administration. No hard plans, to solutions to problems, just vague and empty promises. Where have all the statesmen gone? What happened to people who really want to serve their country and not themselves? Do you know what the average salary for a congressman is these days? Somewhere in the neighborhood of $169,000 a year. The Speaker for the House makes $217,000 a year. I know elections campaigns are expensive, but those are still some pretty big incentives. And, congress has the power to vote to increase their own salary. Wouldn't you try pretty hard to get a job that came with power, a great salary, and the potential to make as much money as you and your buddies want? Who cares if you make a difference or not? Just keep your head down and you're set for the next few years.
I've heard a lot of people say that it is impossible to be a part of this machine and not be corrupted by it. But where are the men like Daniel? He moved in the very highest circles of Babylonian power, stood in the presence of the king himself and held great influence in that land, but never once did he compromise his principles. He never wavered in his faith and devotion to what he knew to be right. Where are the men like that today? Are we all just afraid to stand up for anything? Afraid of our own strength? Afraid of persecution? Fear, fear, fear. I've had enough of it. It has paralyzed good men for far too long, and while we have sat idle, others have been busy and look at the mess we find ourselves in. But what difference could one man make? That's just the kind of attitude we need to get rid of! Look at Daniel again: one man, but in the right place at the right time changed the course of an empire! We don't know what influence we might have. But I will tell you this: if all we do is sit chained by fear, we will never know.


By the way, our government spends $271 billion a year on welfare.

Please Hold While We Connect You

A lot of times when someone says, "I'll pray for you." we just kind of shrug that off as something that good little Christians say to one another. But what are we really saying? Think of it this way: What if you were telling someone about a problem you were having, and they said, "Well, here, let me call the president for you, and I'll see what he can do." How would you feel about that? And yet, here we are praying to someone infinitely more wise and powerful than the president, and we think of it as no big deal, or as a last resort. Do we realize what we are doing? Do we see that we are bringing our case before the All-Powerful Ruler of the Universe? We have lost the awe in prayer.
But He told us to pray without ceasing, didn't He? Isn't it natural for something we do that often to lose some of its luster? I don't think it has to be. And that's ignoring the fact that none of us pray nearly as much as we should. We would just be in awe all the time. And why not? Our God is awe inspiring, and He never changes.
So prayer should be a mix of the awful and familiar. On the one hand, yes, we should never lose sight of the fact that when we pray we are approaching the Throne of God Himself. And He is there, listening. Actually listening. Right where you are right now, if you pray to Him, He will hear you. And He wants us to pray to Him, to talk to Him. So much so that He did indeed tell us to pray without ceasing. And He will always listen, and answer. I don't believe there is such a thing as an unanswered prayer. Just sometimes the answer is, "No." or maybe, "Wait." Just because you didn't get what you thought you wanted in the way that you thought you needed it right when you thought you had to have it doesn't mean that God didn't hear you.
But this mighty God, this great Judge, who said He was like a consuming fire, told us to come boldly before this Throne of Grace. That's because He is also the Great Shepard, our Father and Friend.
So talk to Him. He's there waiting on you. And He'll never miss your call.

The Green Tunnel

I live in Alabama. For all you crazy stalkers out there who read my blog, I just made finding me that much easier. But it still won't be very easy for reasons that will shortly be discussed. The name Alabama, we are told in our third grade Alabama History class, comes from some old Indian (or Native American, or whatever you want to call it) words. These are not always the same words, though, and they mean different things, things like "land of many rivers" or "thicket clearers" or, my personal favorite, "a thick mass of vegetation." This last definition is the one I will be going with, because I think it most accurately describes our state.
This morning, my sister's car was overheating. Yes, this is relevant, trust me. So she took my car to work, and I did what I could to fix her car. I then took it out for a road test. I think that's what they call it at garage's when they charge you for it. For interested parties, the car now works fine. Yay for checking fluids!
Allow me to digress a moment. We'll get back to the road test and thick masses of vegetation in a moment. When it comes to the relationship between car and driver, girls behave more like guys do in a relationship between man and woman. Namely, they do not like to communicate. Or rather, they do not communicate as often as they should. You have to get to know your car, and check up on it to see how it's doing. Just little things like checking the oil and coolant levels, or the tire pressure. These little acts of kindness can save you a lot of trouble down the road. But the attitude that most girls have towards their vehicle was expressed succinctly by a female friend of mine: "As long as it works, I don't care how or why." Imagine if this sort of attitude was carried over into human relationships? Without taking care of the little things to ensure that relationships continue to run smoothly, you're potentially setting yourself up for a major blowout down the road. Ok, I'm done. Back to the story.
So I was out on the road test. I took the car back to this great, winding back road that I know of that's very near our house. If I ever had a motorcycle, I would ride it back there all the time. Heck, I might buy a motorcycle just so I can ride it back there. But there was so much GREEN. Life grows fiercely in Alabama. Every inch of ground that's not yard or pavement has something growing and thriving in it. If you have ever done much tramping in the woods round about, then you know how often you come to a place where you simply cannot go any further forward because of how thick the plants are growing. I mean seriously, you leave a field unattended for a few weeks and you will come back to find a jungle! As I was driving along those back roads, I really did feel like I was driving through a green tunnel, what with the trees all growing so tall and wide and hanging over on each side of the road. I have often thought of Alabama as one big, thick mass of vegetation, with a few hollowed out spaces for people to live. This is fortunate, because when The Collapse comes, we can all run out into the woods and no one will be able to find us. Including you, creepy stalker.

To Lay the Burden Down

He watched the ships as the wind took them. The dock creaked under his feet as the water pushed the ships further and further from shore, far into the open sea, to be lost from sight until eyes on some foreign shore should see them. It was a lonely sight to watch a ship vanish to nothing.
"Will you also go away?"
He had not heard her come, but there she stood with her arms wrapped around her against the chill wind that blew from the sea. She was not looking at him, but instead was gazing out at the fast shrinking ships as he had been. And she was shivering. Idly he thought that he would have liked to provide her a cloak. Had he owned one. But as it stood now he had but the clothes on his back, the shoes on his feet, one sword, and nothing to offer the shivering woman beside him. Nothing to offer. Nothing. His eyes went back to the ships.
"I think I will." One galley remained at the docks, and as he spoke those words, he decided: he
would be on it when it too vanished from sight of these shores. And then he would meet those foreign eyes with sword in hand.
"Why? Can you tell me why you are going? Do you even know yourself?" She wasn't looking at the ships anymore. He didn't look, but he knew. He could feel her staring at his face, eyes rapidly searching for a hint of an answer before he gave one. You learned to watch the eyes in his line of work.
They give away so much. He knew why he was going, and he would tell her, but she wouldn't like it. No one ever did.
"The men in those ships are going to war, and I belong with them. Peace has come to this land, so it is high time that I left it. Peace leaves no room for a man like me. I must go where I can be most useful."
"There's more to life than war, you know." He was right. She didn't like it. She didn't understand. He didn't know why he had expected anything different.
"And I suppose you would tell a master sculptor that there is more to life than marble and
granite?"
"I would expect a master sculptor to know better."
"Not if he was truly devoted to his craft. To truly be a master of anything, you must pursue it
above all else."
"But why must you leave this time, to this war? Everyone knows you're already a master of
your...craft, or whatever it is you call it."
"Any sculptor who did not pick up his tools from time to time would hardly a sculptor, would
he?"

Guacomo! To the Ships!

How much snot is it possible for one human nose to contain?

"Eww, gross! Graham, are you seriously going to write a post about snot??"

Yes, yes I am.
I mean seriously, doesn't it ever strike you as odd that when you have a cold or something you just blow and blow and blow and blow and it still comes out! Yes, I know all about your happy little mucous glands that are constantly pumping out a steady supply of snot, but when those little suckers hop into overdrive, it nearly defies the imagination at the amount they can produce in so short a time. There seems to be no end to it. It's like you have the Eternal Fountain of Snot hidden away somewhere in your nasal cavity. You might even halfway expect some Spanish explorer to come looking for it.

"Senor Vierra, why have we come to this strange and frightening place? My clothes are all ruined now."

"Don't you know, Guacomo? We have come seeking the Eternal Fountain of Snot, to claim it in the name of the glorious Kingdom of Spain! Our names will stickily live on through all the ages!"

It is rather disconcerting to see the number of tissues that begin to pile up. Will your supply of snot outlast the supply of tissues? Of boxes of tissue? Of the very trees that are cut down and ground up in cruel and unusual ways just so that they can be made into tissues so you can have some other place besides your nose to put your snot???
Here's what I say: We need to stop looking into wind power, or nuclear power, or whatever, and start developing some kind of snot power. There's plenty of it to go around. And Al Gore sure would be happy. That's a green energy source if I ever saw one.

("Oh, Graham, that was a terrible joke..."
"I know, I know, I'm sorry, but I had to say it."
"No, you really didn't. I think everyone could have lived perfectly happy, productive, and pH balanced lives without reading that."
"Well, sorry. Who died and made you Joke Police?"
"Nobody has to die for you to be inducted into the Joke Police. You just fill out an application. Don't be so morbid...")

Sunlight and Thunder

What kind of God do we serve?
One who knows we will never be able to fully understand Him, but gave us a whole book about Himself because He wants us to try.
He is a God who loved us for no other reason than that He wanted to.
He is a perfect God, who loves with a perfect and boundless love. A love that is at once the simplest joy, and darkest mystery. Simple because it is pure. It is only love. He loves us because it pleases Him. He needs no other reason. We need no other reason. There could be no other reason. A mystery because we will never know why. We will never know why it pleases God to love the vilest thing in the universe.
But He does love us. He loves us and He wants us with Him. Not for an hour, or for a day, but for eternity. He loves us so much that He wasn't going to leave that in our hands. He knows us; knows us better than we will ever know ourselves. He knows what kind of a mess we would have made of things if He had left it up to us. No, He loved us so much that He came Himself. It was as though He said with His voice like many waters, "I will do this, and then it will be sure. I will do this, for there is none else. I will pay the price, because I love them."
So He came. And He died. The blood of God was shed for love. Perfect blood for perfect love. For you. For me.
He is a God who loved us enough that He even blesses us beyond eternity. As if the promise of being with Him forever was not enough, He sees fit to give us all things while we live here on this earth.
He is a God who does not bless us with just enough. He is too big for that. He will give and He will give, because there is no end of Him. He is always enough and infinitely more. How great is His love! How much He gives to us! And gives and gives. Why? Because He loves us. He seems determined to outlove everyone, to show that "I am God, and there is none like me." To show that no one can love like Him.
He is a God who sends cool breezes on a hot summer's day. Who paints a sunset every night for you, and a sunrise every morning. He made the sound of wind in the trees, and gave you the ears to hear it. He makes a girl's eyes sparkle like that when she laughs. He made the feel of cool grass on bare feet. He gave you friends to show you a pale echo of His love.
He is a God who loves us so much, that He is coming back to get us.
Coming Himself. Coming for all His children, who He loved so much He wrote their names in the very palms of His hands. And then those hands were pierced, and His blood covered those names. And then we were free.
What does He ask for all of this? It is simple. As simple and as daunting as the mountains and the sea.
He wants us to love Him back.

Happy...Something

So the post right below this one was the 5oth. That only took, what, three years? A nice average of something like 16.67 posts a year. About 1.38 posts per month. Although, as you can see (if you've bothered to look) the posting pattern has not been nearly that regular. It started off with a bang and then it came in sparks and fizzles. Then I became bored with the whole thing and gave it up; consigned it to a cold, lonely corner of the internet, alone, with only the flitting company of the occasional internet drifter, who only paused long enough to see that yes, the blog was still dead. Rather like those who passed by the ruins of Jerusalem all those years ago.
And then, suddenly, new life! But the landscape has changed. The neighbors moved away and someone built a nice coffee shoppe (see how much more sophisticated it looks when you spell it that way?) where their house used to be. Blogging is no longer the craze it once was. Gone are the days when one could expect ten or fifteen comments on a post. Now you are lucky to get two or three.
But perhaps this is not so bad. Yes, the blogging community is smaller now, but it seems to be closer knit group, a group that shares more than amusing anecdotes, but their thoughts about the universe and all of the interesting things happen in it. I am more pleased with those two or three comments, because the authors of those comments have said more than all fifteen of the other ones combined.
And have my posts changed to reflect this new enviroment? They have. I was reading my old posts (because I am that vain) and I was struck with how funny I used to be. Call me Pride, but seriously, I was pretty impressed with myself. I wondered why I couldn't write things like that anymore. Why wasn't I funny?
I guess the reason I don't write funny posts anymore is because of that change in enviroment. I'm not writing to please the masses any more. There aren't any masses to please, for one thing, but also, I really don't care if I get fifteen comments telling me how hilarious I am. I write more serious posts now because I want them to mean something. Yes, my old posts may tell you what to do when you are falling out of a plane and are on fire, but that's all there is to it. You will laugh and then promptly forget. You haven't had any thoughts provoked, you aren't encouraged to see things any differently. I think maybe that is why I don't write funny things any more. I want to do more than just make people laugh. I want to make them think.
Maybe, someday, I will find a way to be both funny and thought provoking. It is possible. I've seen it done.

The Things We Want, and Know We Cannot Have

It is easy to sit in judgment of you, knight; you whose love nearly brought down a kingdom. You loved each other, but it could not be. She was not yours. She was your king's. It is easy to sit and say that you should deny yourself, deny her, and carry on. But who has borne your burden? Who has faced that foe and lived? Love is strong as death, but does not death conquer all men? So does love conquer all men? Does it defeat your honor, your duty, your wisdom? It seemed it had defeated yours. But you did struggle, knight. You did battle. You fought to the last when you could fight no more. But is it a wonder you were defeated when you fought an enemy with the strength of death itself?

Just

So that everyone knows (all four of you who read my blog) the Sanctimonia story was written as a composition assignment in which we were to show that vice, when presented as virtue, can be attractive to good men, especially the ambitious ones. In its present form, the story has achieved this goal, in my opinion at least. Feel free to share your thoughts. I didn't really plan out what would happen afterwards, so I don't know whether I will lengthen it or not. It is, for its purpose, finished. But, who knows what the future may hold?
I know you were all just so anxious about that...

Oh, and here you go:

Something Funny.

Think About It...No, Really

One of the things that characterized the so-called Dark Ages was what seemed to be a blind faith in a corrupt church. The people of that time were perfectly willing to believe whatever the pope told them. They were content with not bothering to form their own opinions about matters and not putting forth the effort required to find out the truth. This is why one of the hallmarks of the Renaissance was a resurgence of free thinking: a throwing off of the shackles of a corrupt and oppressive church and thinking for oneself.
It seems that today we need a new Renaissance. Modern man has replaced the church of the Dark Age with the mass media of the Information Age. The unthinking masses blindly accept whatever the media chooses to feed them, not bothering to check the facts or peruse other sources, or even considering that the report is touched by bias. We need a new Renaissance. We need to break the chains of a corrupt and oppressive media and start taking a new interest in the world around us, and stop leting others do our thinking for us.
Forfeiting our right to think and form our own opinions only limits us. What was the consequence of the Dark Age mentality? Overspecialization. If you were a carpenter, you were a carpenter, as your father and probably his father before. If you were a soldier, that is all you were. you didn't bother yourself with the unwarlike things such as books or art. In the Renaissance, however, the idea of the "universal man" came with that era's freedom of thought. A man could, and was encouraged to develop as many skills and talents as he could. Witness Leonardo da Vinci: a great artist, yes, but also a brilliant scientist and inventor.
And what do we find today? The same overspecialization. And not just in a career sense. There are also the many social specialties we are burdened with. If you are a jock, you're a jock, and can hardly be expected to be very intelligent. You hang out with jocks, dress the way they should, and everyone is shocked when someone comes along who defies this social norm. If you are a "drama geek" you dress the part, you act the part, you associate with your fellow actors and listen to the kind of music and like the kind of movies everyone expects you to. Where does the stage end?
Freeing ourselves to think will be freeing ourselves to act and live as we believe we should, not how we think everyone expects us to because of what social caste we occupy. Free your mind.

Sanctimonia - Part II

Marcus shook free of his grasp. “Amulius! What is this about? What have you heard?”

Amulius quickly surveyed the deserted alleyway. “I think I may have an explanation for our friend Lucius’ behavior this morning.” The tone of Amulius’ voice told Marcus that this explanation could not be pleasant.

“Tell me.”

“After the mob was cleared, I lingered a while near the forum, still wondering over what had happened, hoping to find some clue as to why. It appears the gods heard me, Marcus, for I had not been there long before I saw Servetius, one of Lucius’ senators, hurrying towards a man who was skulking in the shadow of an alley like this one. I followed him stealthily, and blessed Mercury must have lent silence to my feet for I was not detected. When I was closer, I recognized the other man. And who do you think it was? It was one of those ruffians that charged out of the crowd and started the whole riot! And what do you Servetius was doing? He was paying him! Paying him!”

“That a Roman consul should resort to such bloody tricks to silence his rivals!” Marcus fumed. “Inciting a mob to strike them down! It is the height of dishonor, and I will make sure this is known by the entire city!”

“But Marcus, it is more than that. Servetius then said the man, ‘And you will get rest when the job is finished, for come tomorrow the great Lucius will be lord of this city, and in a more fit position to reward those who served him best.’ Then the man bowed and left, and so did I! I have come to find you, all the time fearing I was seen listening to Servetius. Marcus don’t you see what this means? Lucius will march on Rome!”

Marcus caught his breath as the full impact of Amulius’ words hit him. It could not be so. “March on Rome?” he asked in stunned disbelief. “No, Amulius. Surely the Senate will-“

“The Senate is his!” cried Amulius. “Steadily bought and paid for these past months. His last real opposition was removed today!”

“But the people-“

“Will be crushed by Lucius’ army. What chance do they have? His legions are encamped just outside the city, Marcus. He will march them through the gates tomorrow and then all hope will be lost. Rome will be conquered by her own son.” Amulius was silent and turned away, as though his own words had defeated any hope within him.

Marcus was silent as well, but his mind was a whirl of thought. Rome could not be conquered! No, Rome was the greatest of nations, the shining light to the rest of the world! If the Roman republic should die and in its place a dictator be raised, what champion would freedom have? No, Marcus would not allow the death of liberty while strength remained in his limbs to prevent it.

“Something must be done, Amulius.”

Amulius turned to him, a lost look on his face. “But what, Marcus? What can be done? We have no Senate, we have no legions, we do not even have our own guards! The balance seems stacked against us my friend, and the only way we could-“ Amulius stopped short, looking through Marcus as a thought was born in his mind.

“What, Amulius? Do you have an idea? Speak, man!”

Amulius looked at Marcus’ face, and then said very slowly, “If the legions have no leader, there will be none to lead the legions.”

Marcus blinked, not comprehending. “Amulius, this is no time for childish riddles! Do you have a plan or don’t you?”

Amulius’ voice was hard now. “Marcus, it will be very difficult for Lucius to march on Rome if he is dead.”

Silence fell between the two as that last word hung in the air. “Dead.” Murder! Marcus recoiled from the very thought. That Rome should be saved in such a fashion! “Amulius! Hear what you are saying! This would make us no better than Lucius himself! No better than common thugs and hired knives. No, there must be some other way.”

“No, Marcus, there is not.”

“I will not kill a Roman consul in cold blood, Amulius, and I won’t let you do it either.”

“But think, Marcus!” Amulius grabbed Marcus by the shoulders, his fingers digging into his skin. “Think how many will die if Lucius does not! Think of your wife, your children! Think of Rome! Will you let Rome die?”

Marcus shivered at hearing his own thoughts thrown back at him. It did not make him think any kindlier of the idea, and yet…and yet were there not things precious enough to protect by any means? Things in whose defense even murder would be justified?

“But the people will hate us as murderers.”

“No! They will hail us as saviors!”

Marcus Maxentius, Savior of Rome. It did have a nice sound. It was an honorable title, to be sure, one that would last down through the ages, and perhaps inspire other men to serve their country with honor. But was it worth it? Was saving a thousand lives worth ending one? Was saving freedom worth the spilling of blood? Will you let Rome die?

"Amulius, do you own a sword?"

Sanctimonia - Part I

It had been a busy day in the forum; busier than usual. While it was not uncommon for the senators there to hurl insults at each other and for the mob watching the proceedings to be somewhat roused, today there had been physical violence done. Marcus Maxentius, Roman senator, went over the scene again as he slowly made his way home from the forum.
The consul Lucius, newly returned from wars in Cilicia, had been speaking passionately as usual, making a ploy to increase his own power by suggesting, quite insistently, that three senators be expelled from the senate. These three had long been considered the strongest opposition to Lucius, and as the consul spoke, painting a vivid picture of his foes as little less than the ultimate debasement of human kind, his bought senators showed their approval, the people became caught up in his words. The atmosphere was so charged that when the three rose to defend themselves, a group of men rushed forward from the mob and proceeded to mercilessly beat them, the rest of the people soon following. It was several agonizing seconds before the senators could be pulled, bloodied and shaken, from the murderous crowd. And all this time Lucius had done nothing. He had simply stood and watched, and smiled. The senators were expelled.
Marcus had been shocked and confused. He had intended to speak in defense of the expelled senators, but what could one man do in the face of such a wild mass of humanity? And why would Lucius do such a thing? What was he trying to accomplish? Marcus knew the man bore no love for his political opponents, but to allow them to be beaten, even killed seemed vicious even for Lucius.
As Marcus was passing the baths, pondering these questions he heard a familiar voice calling his name. Turning, he saw his friend Amulius, a fellow senator, hurrying toward him with an urgent and worried expression on his face. When Amulius reached him, he grabbed his arm and whispered fiercly, “Marcus, grave news. But not here. Come.” And with that he was off down the street, Marcus barely able to keep up. Amulius walked as though he suspected he was being followed: glancing to the left and right, over his shoulder. Finally, he swerved into an alley and pulled Marcus in after him.

Remember

What a gift is life.

Decisions

The little boy stared forlornly at the litter of puppies rolling and playing behind the fence. One of them, with brown fur and a white tipped nose, bounded awkwardly up to the fence on too-large feet and stared back at the boy. The boy's frown slowly edged into a smile, and he reached down a hand to pet the dog. His tail wagging, the brown puppy permitted himself to be stroked a few times before running off to follow some new and exciting smell. The eyes of the boy followed the dog as he went, but then were attracted to another puppy, a solid black one, who came walking up and was duly petted until he too went about his puppyish business.
"Well, son," said the boy's father as he came walking up. "Have you decided which one you want?"
"Not yet, Dad. I'm still looking."
"Still looking? Son, we've been here for more than an hour. You've had plenty of time, so surely you know which one you want by now."
The boy turned to his father, his eyes full of tortured indecision.
"I don't know, Dad! I don't know! Do I have to pick just one?"
"Only one. But think," the father's comforting hand engulfed his young son's shoulder, "that one puppy will be just your own. Your one puppy to love and raise and train all yourself. Think how much fun you'll have! Why, if you had two, you could only have half as much fun with each of them. Better to have one real good dog."
Turning back to the fence, the boy grasped it in a death grip and swept his eyes over the furry, slobbery spectacle it contained. "But," the boy's voice was low and sad. "But if I pick just one, that means we have to leave all the other ones out here, right? And all the puppies are so nice, Dad. I think they would all be good pets."
"Well son, just pick your favorite."
"But Dad...I like them all."

Why Unicorns?

A good question. I don't know why I decided to write this about unicorns. This was written back when I thought I wanted to be a writer, and I was writing down all sorts of strange things. I think I just used all of the forms of the verb "write." Oh, wait, I missed one. So here's what I wrote.

Unicorns are, at their essence, quite grumpy creatures. You didn't know? Oh, I see. You've been put under the assumption that unicorns are grand, mysterious animals of a noble quality. Which they are, I suppose. A more apt description of a unicorn's character would be as follows: aloof, touchy, easily angered and offended, and just plain grumpy. And why not? If you had crowds of people constantly barging in on you at breakfast, lunch, or any other conceivable meal to "ooh" and "ahh" and point and stare or, much worse, try to saw your one and only horn off (it has healing properties, you know) wouldn't you be a bit on edge? Wouldn't you go to length to avoid those staring, unbearably intrusive crowds of people? Wouldn't you feel the least bit upset if, despite your best efforts, one of these crowds did manage to find you?
So we see that that the tales of the unicorn's majestic, enigmatic nature all derive from the beast's desire to avoid human contact. Or any type of contact for that matter. They just want to be left alone. I don't think that this was always the case, however. I have heard that there was a time when unicorns were positively gregarious. This, or course, was before humans came into the picture, and there really wasn't anyone else for unicorns to be gregarious to except other unicorns. I mean, there was the occasional satyr, centaur, or dragon (and these last were very occasional indeed) but back in those times most creatures kept themselves to themselves.
Gorfund was one such creature, a unicorn as I'm sure it doesn't surprise you to learn. Gorfund was as normal and average a young unicorn as you could possibly imagine. He had a glossy, white coat, glossy black eyes, and fine matching glossy gold hooves...


Of this tale, Dodger wrote no more.

A River With No Bridge

Those who reach for the stars most often receive naught but burned fingers for their trouble. And these are the lucky ones. Let us never forget the fact that stars are very, very far away, so it is a rare few indeed whose reach extends to the point of singed appendages. In light of this, is it even worth it to try? What would you want with a star anyways? What would you do if you reached one? Would you engage the star in polite conversation, or invite it to dinner or something? No. You would be too busy melting into your constituent elements. For let us never forget the fact that stars are very, very hot.
You really do not have much to offer a star. I doubt one would find you very entertaining. This is, of course, assuming that the star even notices that you are there. It is a fact that we should never forget that stars are very, very big. You are very small (regardless of how big you might consider yourself compared to other humans, you could take comfort in the thought that on the stellar scale, none of us nudge the needle past zero).
But whatever would you talk with the star about? "So, what color is your corona? Oh...you don't have a corona. Well, does your magnetic field ever feel like it's just not performing like it should? You don't have one of those either? ....So I guess there's no point asking how much gravitational force you exert, is there?" Not a very interesting conversation on the star's part. Your situations in life are too different.
Stars need other stars to give them what they need. You know, to hang out with and orbit and form constellations and explode in fantastic displays of fiery nuclear death. Star stuff. You can't give any of that to a star. Why reach? Burn your fingers on something nearer home.

Oh Really?

A word once spoken to the wind,
It is gone.
Do not strive to take it back.
Do not reach for it.
It has gone; it is fluid now,
And it will run through your hands like water.
The echoes, the ripples it leaves behind will sing through your mind,
But the word is gone.
Can you take a drop from the sea?
Can you sift a breath from the wind?
Can you bring back a word once spoken?

For Wilson

I just watched the movie Castaway. Call me crazy (and plenty of people have) but every time I see that movie or read Robinson Crusoe or something like that, I find myself wishing that I could be stranded on a desert island. Not to "get away from it all", but to survive. There's a part of me that wants to get out there, to test myself against the elements, to run around in a loin cloth and kill fish with a spear. Note that I said "test myself." I just noted it. Maybe it's some king of masculine ego thing that makes me feel the need to prove myself in the wild. I mean, I know the measure of a man is not how many things he can make out of a stalk of bamboo, but still, that feeling is there. I can't help but wonder if I would have what it takes to survive in that kind of situation, or would I be soft from pumping too many hours (and hours...and hours...let's be honest here) into this computer or into some other facet of my sedentary lifestyle? I mean seriously, how much time do I spend sitting down? It kind of makes me sick to think about it.
So if I all of a sudden go running off into the woods one day, you'll know what happened.

No One Left Behind

"And this is the Father's will which hath sent me, that of all which he hath given me I should lose nothing, but should raise it up again at the last day."

John 6:39

"My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me: And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand. My Father, which gave them me, is greater than all, and no man is able to pluck them out of my Father's hand. I and my Father are one."

John 10:27-30