In a doctor's office for 2.50 hours

I have little to do but observe people. There's a woman sitting a couple seats down from me. She looks like she could be in her late twenties, perhaps early thirties. She has three children with her. A baby girl stays perched in her arms, probably about 5 weeks old (I don't really know). She keeps pulling off the bracelets on her mother's wrist and throwing them to the floor. I never found out her name. "Seth, share the blocks with Eden." Seth is about five I think, Eden about three. She reads to them "Green Eggs and Ham." I remember this one. And then "The Cat and the Hat." I remember that one too. The mother is tired of reading stories to them. So they read to each other.

Seth and Eden are looking at a book full of animals. Seth is naming the animals for his little sister. This animal to the left is an. . .





eel.

And this:









Is an even bigger eel.

I love it. I can imagine myself reading to my little sister. I am six and she is three. I cannot read, but that really does not matter at all. Like Seth, I am an excellent interpreter of pictures. And I am quite confident in my assertions.

Or, the more likely scenario is that my sister is reading to me. Even as a three year-old my sister is quite brilliant. She says "And all these words are what they say" as she turns each page. There is no arguing with her logic. She does not like it when I say "uh huh." I must say, my sister's whims are really quite arbitrary. She would rather I just say "yeah." So I say "uh huh" a lot, just to get on her nerves (I really haven't changed much since then). And I pretend to not listen. So she says "Robbie, if you keep doing that then I'm not reading."

Ah, timeless.

I am continually amazed by Easter

So I learned a verb for Latin today. Shocking, I know. Anyhow, this verb is "pasc," and it means basically to bring livestock to food. Being the diligent (albeit ignorant) Lordship student that I am, I wondered if this was where we got "Pascha" from. Pascha, in case you don't know, is another name for Easter, used frequently in the Orthodox church. So I jumped to Google and typed in Pascha. According to OrthodoxWiki (which any Greek person can edit, so you know it's right), it's a transliteration from the Greek, which is transliterated from the Hebrew for Passover. Cool. Yet still I wonder. So I break out ye olde Whitaker's Words (a free Latin translator) and typed in Pascha. It popped up with "Easter, Passover." Yea, verily, this I knew. So I typed in "pasca" on a whim. Pasca means water mixed with vinegar, a traditional drink of Roman soldiers in the field and the drink of slaves. 

If your reaction at learning this is at all similar to mine, you're clapping hands over mouth in wonder. Because Easter is all of these. Easter is the new Pascha, the true Passover, when the blood of Christ, the Lamb of God, is poured out on us and protects us from judgment. It is the time of pascamur, when we are led like sheep to the manger, to eat of the Body that was placed there for us. It is when we remember that Christ drank pasca for us on the cross, when He took our place, the place of a slave, and drained the bitterness from our cup. Yet we also remember that He drank the pasca because He was the conquering Warrior, who was in the field because His work was not yet finished. 

Anyhow. Our God has an incredible way of tying things together. He is the Master Storyteller. 

Beach Walking- My newest assigned poem

I would have presented this poem at rhetoric declamations today, but I was sick (am sick). Therefore, I shall present it to you.

"Beach Walking"

I am walking across the Ft. Pickens buried road
With a kayak slung . . . DANG! on my shoulders
And a crab just took claw and it grabbed
My big foot so you must please forgive me.
I am lucky that no cars are going by me,
cause I dropped that big bulky friggin’ bark
And it landed right CRAP! on my other foot.
So I hobble fast across this barren beach.

It's obviously not a great poem or anything, but I am rather proud of the meter. It is anapestic, which means that it has three beats per foot going "unstressed, unstressed, stressed." The meter itself is almost like taking two steps and encountering something painful. I wouldn't want to use it in a relaxed poem, but it works well in this situation.

An update on my movements

So, I'm back into biking (as in bicycle, not motorcyle) now that it's spring. I've biked some 70-0dd miles over the last three days. I've found out some things. First, that the old man in the kilt also walks down the trail to Troy. This guy gets around. Second, Pit bulls like to hang out on the sides of the trail and scare its users. This is the second time I've been unnerved by the sight of a pit bull wandering free. The first time it was on the Chipman trail and I was even more afraid, because it looked like a mountain lion. Third, a gas station at the end of an eleven mile trail is a beautiful thing. Fourth(ly?), I shouldn't keep my phone in my pocket while I'm riding. It fell out and I thought I lost it for good, but someone picked it up and called the number my dad texted to it. It was quite providential. Finally, the Palouse is so beautiful. The hills just seem to roll on forever. It's quite a sight for a guy who is used to oceans and flatlands.

Well, that pretty much sums up my weekend. I hope yours was good too.

Chaining down the muse

I still haven't mastered the art of producing poetry on demand. Yeah, go ahead and tell me to produce a couplet. No problem. I'll produce something that is totally stupid, but is still totally a couplet. To the skeptics "You see this? Is anyone here prepared to argue that this is not in fact two lines that rhyme? I rest my case."

Couplets aren't that hard. You can mass-produce those little buggers. But you definitely can't tell me to produce a sonnet. Of course, sonnets don't come about naturally anyway. I've never been just sitting on my bed (my preferred poetry workstation) casually writing a poem and suddenly realize that, lo and behold, I've been writing a sonnet. "Well I'll be a monkey's uncle. Hey check this out - it's a sonnet! What should I call it?"

I am a self-motivated person. Which basically means that when I don't want to do something, I don't do it. What I need to do is realize that I really, deep down want to write a sonnet. There is nothing in the world I wish for more, than to write 14 lines -three quatrains and a couplet - in iambic pentameter using the rhyme scheme abab cdcd efef gg.

Oh well, the couplet will be easy.

P.S. Couplets can be hard if you do them right

What hurts the most

So, I made a rather bold resolution the other day. In a bizarre sort of reverse, mid-lent declaration the other day I have resolved to try to listen to more country music.

Now, those who know me well will know how much of a stretch this is. To my ears, the twangy whining/wheezing/wailing of a country singer is no more musical than nails on a chalkboard. I'm doing my best to fix this though. I recognize it as a gap in my musical palate. To this end, "Project Densensitisation" is underway.

The smart thing to do would to start with some "Southern rock." After all, rock is what I would consider to be my native genre. So, the natural transition would be to move into something that's a bit more southern but is still rock. It's sort of like easing your way into a freezing cold bit of water.

But that's not how I roll. I jump (headfirst when I know it won't kill me). Right now George Strait is singing something about Cowboys. Just a minute ago Kenny Chesney was saying something about how his wife (at any rate, the woman who hands him the jug of sweet tea) thinks his tractor is like, attractive(?). Right before that Rascall Flatts* was whining about something hurting really, really bad (the most in fact).

So I'm thinking. . .
- Yeah I guess cowboys have fun. Chasing the wind and all that jazz.
- Sure, I bet some women are attracted to tractors.
- What's that Rascall Flatts? Oh PLEASE. Stop the whining, will you? I really don't care how bad it hurts. The most, eh? OOOOO It can't be worse than what I'm suffering right now, listening to your whining. Like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer. . .

You know, I think I'm beginning to get acclamated. I can't say I like country music, but I have made progress. Now, instead of running away screaming, I just laugh at it. Seriously, this stuff is hilarious. What's even funnier than the actual music is the fact that I am listening to it. Me. I keep looking around to make sure I'm not actually sitting in Lone Star Steakhouse with waiters dancing around and tripping on the peanuts.

P.S. My apologies to any "Rascall" fans. *Cough* Bobby Lee.

*Incidentally, I have found this equation to be quite helpful in understanding this band:
Boy Band + Country= Rascall Flatts

I am back, like a famine.

Wow guys. I am sorry. I think it's been nearly a month since I posted anything. Yikes. And I dare to call myself a contributor to this blog! Anyhow, here I contribute.

1. I do have something of an excuse, as this is the first weekend in the last three or four weeks that I've had a functioning power cord for my laptop, so I've been bumming off of other people and therefore trying to cut things as short as possible.

2. Today was the first day Moscow broke 60 degrees!! Truly a red letter day, since it also marked the first day we've had a full day of sunlight! It was glorious. Two and a half hours of soccer make any day better, even, nay especially a day like this.

3. Want to read something that will blow your mind, change your life, and make you wonder where in the world you have been all these years? Try Surprised by Hope, by Bishop Tom Wright, or Heaven Misplaced, by Pastor Doug Wilson. We've got some work to do, people.

4. On a note that is not totally different, you can go here and see some other stuff by me. I'll be posting poetry, art, commonplaces, and some random ideas. Don't be fooled, though. It is but a sideshow, a halftime performance when compared to the Flabbergaster.

5. [a preview for #4...] A short poem I wrote recently. It's called the ocean. It's got some things going on with the rhythm and meter, so watch for that. It's also not just about water. In case you were wondering.

you know i always miss the ocean

on stormy days i miss its waves

and on the clear days too

cause three thousand miles are just

too many for my toes to trip

when we've just got a weekend.

i know the gut-punching sickness

that comes on darker nights

when i wake up and there you

aren't.

and how i've wished to weep

for now i know how it is to be alone

the slap of water in the sink,

any mirrored flash of light,

the frozen fountain in

-

the frozen square below

they all remind me of the ocean

and of the suns embrace

and loneliness loves to gnaw at my guts

its chewed all through my

heart

for you are gone so i'm not here;

pray God someday

that all of that will change

is this what earth feels like to heav'n

(now am i not absurd?)

but i say sometime in the sunlight

when on the highest crest of hills

when dancing with our life's true love

we long for what we do not know.

6. I have a fruit that I like now (don't read a lot into that statement; it's kind of a long and

somewhat embarrassing story that involves me not liking most fruits): the orange. It kind of makes my day.

7. What is it about the song Drift Away that makes anyone in the room sing along? I think it's kind of amazing how music does that to people.

8. One wonders if "sheds crystal shells" is not one of the best phrases in the English language. Props to Robert Frost.

9. People, this kind of makes my day. If you don't know where it's from, click here, and laugh.

10. Although it's not because of any of the typical pop culture reasons, College Spring Break is amazing. So are my grandmother's mashed potatoes, fried chicken, and biscuits and gravy. There is quite possibly a causal relationship there.

11. I broke the 10 item barrier. Rad. Now I look ridiculous and long-winded, instead of the usual, which would be just ridiculous. Oh well.

Let's pretend this is a diary. . .

. . . and that I am eight once again.

Yesterday I went on a bike ride. It was fun. I saw an old man in a kilt walking down the bike path. That was weird. I ate at Arby's because I was super hungry and it sounded good. I was right, it was really good. Then I went home and did nothing. Then I went to Ty's house and we cooked burgers. I ate a burger [yes, I did actually eat a burger] because they forced me to. Later, I felt a little sick because I haven't had red meat in a long time because it upsets my stomach.

[end diary]

The interesting thing about reading old diary entries is the perspective I get. In one sense a diary is good to help you remember something. Its mainly good, however, as a help to remember things in a certain way. For example, I remember when I was about eight (whenever I imagine myself really young I am always about eight) seeing a water moccasin in Georgia. It was somewhat sensational. So it made it into my diary with just the bare facts and the customary summary, "it was cool." Even more sensational I remember learning, approximately 11 years and 9 months ago, that my mom was going to have a baby. I just wrote something about how I hoped for a boy and Hannah hoped for a girl. Of course, it was a boy. Benjamin Edward Noland. Ben. His birthday is tomorrow, 11.


I was a different person then, and the world was a different place. I can never return to the time of 1997, or '98 or even fifteen minutes ago. When I remember things now, I can't help but remember as a 20 year old in college. Unless. . . I read it in that old diary. Then my mind is thrust into the unsteady pen of a freckly too-tall eight year old who hoped for a little brother. For a moment, I remember myself as the boy who wrote down those things.