muse

There have been a few times recently when watching a movie or reading a book when I feel as though I see my life in a clear light—it’s as if for a second the fog clears, nakedly exposing what the heck my life is. I envy those inspirational stories of people my age who pursue justice, hang out with the poor, seek truth, and fight for answers in far away countries. And it leads me to wonder if what I am doing with my life is in any way accomplishing or leading towards any kind of common good. Or have I become diluted by vain N. American promises and ideals, have I forgot the people I met in impoverished countries, their justice and their need for truth, have I narrowed my mind to the mundane, do I only care only for myself. In these moments there is a strong sensation of discontent—my life does not align with my virtues. But how can ones life be judged if not by his virtues? It is the few and far between who seek virtuous living, and even then it is mostly a conscience-appeasing living which attempts to amend the conflict between personal interests and virtuous living via justification and philosophical summersaults. One such summersault that I’ve been thinking bout recently is the quote “Don't ask what the world needs. Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it. Because what the world needs is people who have come alive.” Many selfish things make people feel alive, but do they come alive doing those things? Is not true life found in the pursuit of service to others so that we can “come alive”?
Temporal, immediate satisfaction: search for thing to come alive = come alive = help other people

But, does “coming alive” give us eternal meaning? I would argue that in order for a finite being to have purpose, it must have infinite meaning. If a finite being is without infinite meaning, it is aimless and in search of temporary solutions to simulate purpose in order to convince the person that life is still worth living.
Goal focused, satisfaction in journey: Search for infinite meaning = by helping others = infinite meaning

I suggest that this is the finest goal; to lead life in the pursuit of infinite meaning—this can mean hanging with the poor, seeking truth, pursuing justice, talking with that kid, or fighting for answers in far away countries. There is no worse fate that I can think of other than laying on my death bed with a mind full of regrets that I had spent my life on temporal acquisitions instead of just doing something.

I think that made sense...

consequences

"Avalanches are like the STD's of backcountry skiing, they make you shudder and say 'mmm...maybe not'"

breast du poulet

Given the variety of notable, yet minor events happening at this time in my life, the following is a chapter by chapter “recap” on my thoughts, feelings, epiphanies and monsters.

-----------------------------------Scary------------------------------------------

Old single lady syndrome—I thought this happened only in the movies, but apparently not; they talk to themselves and their pets constantly, they do not let the pets leave their sight on pain of being reprimanded and slapped. Snoopy—they drink my milk when I am gone. After suspicions of said thievery, I preformed a controlled test which involved a lady, my milk, and my absence. My hypothesis was proved when the milk had less volume upon my return. Left over phobia—ladies such as this periodically throw away my left over food for concern of food poisoning. Stingy—in order to save money, some ladies have been known to turn the boiler off and claim that it is broken—scary.

------------------------------------Boring----------------------------------------

Today in Chapel I had an epiphany—worship sessions have not changed their songs since I was in 8th grade. Its like a musical testament to Saint Monotony. Anabaptist Theology—it’s a class, but it shouldn’t be. The locals refer to this class as crap-abaptist crap-pology due to their lower intestinal reaction upon entering the classroom.

------------------------------------Amazing--------------------------------------

This week I have seen the sun every day. As if trying to remember a dream, no one could quite pin-point exactly what that big yellow ball in the sky was, but after it was turned into a corporate money making scheme everyone remembered—the sun. (kind of like how no one would remember valentines day if it wasn’t a corporate scheme to sell chocolate, produce cavities, and improve the toothpaste industry (at this point I would like to add that toothpaste itself is a corporate scam—you don’t need it to clean your teeth)).

------------------------------------Fantastic-------------------------------------

Three nights ago I had a dream I was trying to sleep on an airplane with turbulence that could have out put the Pakistan earthquake to shame. Things were falling from the storage containers, women were screaming, children were crying, I was bouncing up and down and couldn’t manage to find my seat belt. Then I woke up and realized that I was not at 36,000ft going 600mph, no, I was in a trailer in a wind storm. The wind actually pushed the trailer about 2 inches—fantastic.

-----------------------------------Realization------------------------------------

I will never be a janitor. Ever again. Ever. On pain of a vacuumy, moppy death—so help me.

------------------------------------Mystery---------------------------------------

I live next to a chicken factory, truckloads of chickens go in but never come out. Where do they go? And if they do actually turn into chicken boob (a colloquialism for “Breast du Poulet”, which is French for “Chicky ala Dead”, which is upper class way of saying, “Chicken Breast”), what kind of systematic killing machine has some carnivoreistic crazy scientist developed to kill thousands of chickens within the space of hours—a mystery on par with microwave ovens and library ladies-why are they still walking when they died 50 years ago? We’ll answer that in our next edition of "Old Peole: Useless to society or good for making cookies out of?"

post marital medusa

Some of the most unhappy looking people I’ve ever seen in my life are married women between the ages of 25-32. It’s like someone gave them horns and a spiky tail as a wedding gift. These women have typically stopped participating in the following list of female social norms: wearing make up, smiling, having manners, smelling good, and being fun at all. I can understand that once one is married one can “let go” and “do what you want”, but this is ridiculous. I know one such post-marital Medusa(or PMM for short) that works with me occasionally in the cafeteria. No such single person funeral procession has ever been seen but by this woman’s forlorn frown and uncivilized manner, when she looks at me my friends, pure evil. Just yesterday when cleaning the cafeteria at 7:00am, tunes blasting to encourage my eyes to stay open, this PMM barges in late to work, walks straight to the stereo and turns it off. This may seem of no consequence to you who do not clean floors for a living, but a janitor without a jig is like Paris without love. Under normal circumstances I would say something but for fear of this PMM’s snake-like paralyzing look nothing was said. I thought married people were supposed to be happy, but I suppose that happiness is directed only to one person leaving all others out. Thus, the PMM’s spouse is diluted to thinking that she is nice to everyone while little does he know that she is in fact the present day incarnation of Medusa herself. Maybe I should call up some spiritual Bible school people to help me cast this demon of post-marital Medusa while she’s not looking.

pistol and ball

There are no happy seasonal events (save for that debauched tradition of Valentines Day, which is no tradition at all other than to fatten your loved ones up so you can convince them to go on a diet with you later...a cunning scheme ladies), there is constant grayness, dankness, boredom, and a thick sense of molasses in the air. Indeed, the cursed molasses of the doldrums is nigh and what action have we but to run for the coffee shops...only to arrive with soggy shoes. In the last month I have seen the sun twice, each time a momentous occasion; children danced in the streets, drivers complained because they had misplaced their sun-glasses, and I went out and read Moby Dick in that hallowed sunlight—its wisdom echoed to my soul. May this be an encouragement to you my Northwestern countrymen and Lower Mainland friends.
"Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially when my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it time to get to the sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for a pistol and ball."
And so I head for the sea tomorrow, be it rain or blazing rain, I hope a trip to the sea will awaken my soul and dry out my spirits.
Kyrie eleison

McDonalds artillery mount

Forgive me friends, I do not mean to talk about the same thing every blog but this I cannot keep within myself any longer. But 1 day after I composed my previous post the bicycle war reached its apex. One unsuspectingly rainy night at a late hour, I was biking to my trailer when in front of my face flew a McDonald's cup full of water. Thrown out the window of some merciless young city-slickers' car for comical pleasure and a good stroke of his personal ego. But yes, I laughed inside for even though he had no doubt aimed for my head, he missed by naught more than ten hands. Unsuspecting further attacks I laughed and shook my fist at the young "yahoo" but as I did so another barrage of fully loaded McDonalds cups, this time from more experienced artillerymen, came careening through the air, closing fast upon my dry position. Still shaking my fist and rejoicing, out of the corner of my eye I saw the fateful words "im loven it" etched in red on a white paper cup. No sooner had I noticed the cup than I felt the sensation of a million water molecules slowly and tortuously finding its path down my shirt and across my jeans. The rage of a thousands suns slowly arose in my chest and I gave the speeding McDonalds artillery mount the worst insult I could conjure. But alas, how futile! Surely little green car, we shall meet again. And when that time comes, I shall brandish my key and I shall cast revenge on your car in the form of a vandalous, paint-less scratch segmenting from trunk to hood. Then the innards of your car will surely fall out and I will feast upon the contents thereout, as my forefathers did upon your forefathers bones centuries ago, and it shall taste as honey to my lips.

canadian white trash

As many of you know, I am by no means what you would call, an “adrenaline junky” or “an idiot bent on self destruction”, but it seems that a certain amount of masochistic risk taking must be involved if one is to become a good skier. Just a few days ago atop Whistler ski resort, I was faced with a decision that I believe will affect the rest of my skiing career. The choices concerning my decision on whether or not to attempt a double-black diamond were as follows: 1. To heed my primal sense of self-preservation and establish myself as a platinum member of the “survival of the fittest club". (i.e. One cannot be fit if he is not alive) or 2. Heed my other cave-man desire to impress the female kind of my species, wooing them to myself by via impressive stunts, have them bear my babies and foster miniature versions of myself in order to abate a feeling of self-worthlessness and bolster my ego. Despite the fact that the only person I was skiing with was a fifty year-old man, I still felt the call of a man, yes, the call to go full fledged into the face of senseless danger. Thus, I stood hundreds of meters above the tiny specks of skiers below armed only with my neon purple and green, 1970’s, 195cm Elan skis, with straight edges as dull as a spatula, wondering how in blazes I would descend this rock speckled sea of deceivingly innocent looking snow, down back into the land of the living. The feeling is similar to that one feels when standing atop a 50ft bridge contemplating the meaning of jumping off into the water below—the feeling that these moments will define the rest of your life, and one bad move will mess everything up. But one hour later when I got to the bottom of that bad boy, I realize why I like skiing so much. It’s the same reason I like hitching, jumping off tall scary things (only under peer pressure of course), and talking to my sister-in-law; because I have a death wish written on my forehead (I love you candie!). Well actually, I do it because in those times one can feel life—it becomes a tangible reality of which none is wasted, it is something un-tame and unsafe. It breaks all logic and nursery rhymes we have been taught to uphold; it is a risk.

In other news, I have officially achieved the status of “white trash”. I am pleased to announce that I now live out of a trailer, and in order to live up to the stereo type, I also walk around in a wife beater, boxers, and carry around a can of beer as if it were my unborn child. I have even learned to ask my neighbors if they have any road kill I could have for dinner—despite my valiant attempts, a road-kill dinner has yet to be achieved.

One of my greatest joys so far in Canada has been biking to and from school. It’s actually quite ridiculous because no one knows how to treat a biker. When I ride on the road I get honked at even if there are no other cars on the two lane road. Either that, or what Michel Moor describes as “the friendliest people in the world” when referring to Canadians, (even on bible school campus Michel Moor is quoted more than the Bible and C.S. Lewis combined. I’m beginning to think that maybe there should be a Michel Moor Bible with his words in red—Canadians would appreciate that) give me a drive-by lecture, which consists of something like the following: “SIDE Waaaaaaaaalk!!!” Or a drive-by hint: they go out of the way to splash me by driving straight through a mud puddle right next to me—definitely below the belt. But when I go on side walks, other pedestrians treat me like some roaring military tank charging through at top speeds destroying everything as I pass. Children hide behind parents, parents behind telephone poles, adults will step into the bushes to let me pass. Other bikers will even stop, pick up their bikes, move to the side of the sidewalk, and wait for my tank to go though. It actually makes me self-conscious; do I have a scary face when I bike? Do I look like I’m about to steal a purse or small children? My friends here think I’m it some kind of macho man for biking 15 minutes to school. The concept is as foreign to them as busses, geography, tan-lines, and warm climates.