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

The Rock Beneath the Sea

Is love deeper than a feeling? It is, I think. For, at its essence, love is not really a feeling at all, but a choice. Certain other feelings arise out of love: affection, devotion, desire, but these are not love; these are emotions, and they are as changing and inconstant as a sea: raging in a violent storm on one day, barely the whisper of a breeze the next.
But love, true love is not a sea or a storm. Love is the rock, the earth above which these transient weathers fly. Steady, immovable, it endures the ebb and flow of the passions. Love is the choice, the declaration saying, "I will honor and care for you in spite of all my changing feelings, not because of them."

The Wheels on the Bus

Let's talk about trust in human relationships.
Observe:
When you find out that someone likes/has a thing for/is infatuated with/whateveryouwanttocallit you, you can no longer trust that person. "But wait, isn't that sort of backwards?" you may ask "Wouldn't you know you would be able to trust him/her because they have feelings for you and would never want to betray you?" You would think so. But that's not what happens. You can no longer tell this person anything. Why? Because they are paying attention. When next you unburden yourself to them, everything you say will be weighed, meticulously examined, and, worst of all, remembered. You see, normally when you speak to a friend about an emotionally confusing issue, they will kindly listen to what you have to say (because they're nice people), nod in all the right places, and then promptly forget the whole thing. That's the way these things are supposed to work. It preserves the Circle of Trust. Since the issue was forgotten, it cannot be spread abroad. But, if the person you are using as a sounding board happens to like you (that way) then they will constantly be evaluating your comments, thinking "Ok, how does this apply to me? Is he talking about me there? How can I use this?" Do you see what happened? All of a sudden your problem is not about you anymore. It's about them. And, since it's their problem, the next time they feel the need to talk, they will have no reservations whatsover in divulging what you told them in confidence. It's not that they do it maliciously, it's just that they no longer perceive it as being your secret.
So, the best thing to do when you learn that a person to whom you have been pouring out your soul is enjoying that soul-pouring a bit too much, is to break contact. I don't mean totally exclude them, just don't let them be your secret keeper anymore. Then, go find someone who you have absolutely zero chances with, or better yet, someone already in a relationship, and use them as your go-to person. However, be careful in this step. If you are particularly good-looking, or charming, or a combination of the two, then when you open up and show your vulnerable side, you may end up creating "feelings" in the person you are sharing your innermost self with.
And then you're back to the same problem you started out with.














(Note: The above post was written tongue-in-cheek, and the reader is discouraged from making in life/relationship altering decisions based upon it.)

Libria anyone?

An Excerpt From
Suffer the Aged to Come
by Jeff Carrol

Peace is an illusion. It is a mad dream propagated by those who refuse to awaken to the reality that so long as man exists, so will war. The brief peaces that give these dreamers their false hope are just that: brief peaces; short intervals between bloodshed; a moment to catch one's breath before plunging back into the fray. Are the ones who advocate a world at peace blind? Can they not see that our world, the real world, is a world of conflict? Are they deaf to the sounds of war that rage unchecked day after day? A fool's dream, this world peace. Oh, a noble aspiration, to be sure, but unattainable. Why? The chief problem is man. We are creatures of emotion; driven by them. It is not cold reason or logic that we answer to, but the volatile heart of man. Anger, ambition, fear, these are the spurs that drive us to conflict; these are the sparks that light war's flame. These emotions are ingrained in every human being. They are universal; inescapable. The day you can stop our emotions is the day you can stop war.

This Is

For those nursing long-distance relationships, something to ponder:

Distance does not allow imperfections.

Italy Pics Part II (yes, there is actually a part II)

Sorry this took so long, but no one mentioned how darned bothersome it is to upload a bunch of pictures onto Blogger. Since posting the last batch, I've been just putting it off and putting it off...but, here it is now. These pictures are from Sorrento, Pompeii, and then there are a fmore of Rome. Enjoy.



That's Sorrento. Quite possibly the most beautiful place I've ever been.


Here's how we got down to the water.



And this is what we saw.






Pompeii.



I believe the literal translation was "Maximus was here."









This is how well preserved this place is.



Pompeii's killer: Vesuvius.

Back in Rome now. The Pantheon.

I really like the light in this picture.

The Trevi fountain.