Written on Sunday, put on hold for edit as I was dealing with other things.
I wake up, and the season’s changed. The unseasonable summer warmth is transformed into rainy cold. The wind is blowing.
My 7-year-old Mr. Boo, the early riser, is sitting quietly at the kitchen table. He is drinking tea and “playing chess,” mucking about with the pieces, while waiting for others to wake.
When he informs me he’s made tea, my first reaction is gratefulness that there’s tea. It doesn’t immediately occur to me to question my child’s competence with hot water. He baptized himself by kettle, pulling a dangling cord at Grandma’s house, when he was a toddler. The lesson has stuck.
Via Violet‘s Twitter, Canadian musicians Steve Bell and Fresh IE (yah, Winnipeg!) go eclectic/roots.
I’m not into social gospel doctrines, but those of you who know the missionary stories around here (one, two, three) will understand why this touches me. The real truth touching the planet’s ills is that if we’ve hoped in Christ for this life only, we’re of all men most to be pitied.
Listen close. Fresh sez: Creation groans for the manifestation. Men have been praying, waiting for that day of awaking.
For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of the archangel, and with the trumpet of God; and the dead in Christ shall rise first. Then we who are alive and remain shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air, and thus we shall always be with the Lord.
Therefore comfort one another with these words.
~1 Thess. 4:16-18
Besides, the boys got a groove. Crank it up, find a space and dance with me. No nonsense about excessive numbers of non-dexter pedal appendages. I can’t see you.
Since we’re getting hits on that post series again lately, gang, let’s throw in a note pointing back to the God-and-rape series, which ties in to themes of oppression, social justice and recurrent anti-biblical propaganda relating thereto. Scita > Scienda: Space for thinky things and daring to do a dance.
he weather has changed overnight–the unseasonable summer warmth vanished. The Wild Winds (so I’ve called them for many a year, spring and fall) are screaming down from the north-by-northwest, rattling and banging everything in the yard that isn’t tied down. Buffeting my one-ton truck on the highway as if it weren’t rock-solid. Two layered knits didn’t keep me comfortable, even in the shelter of the city; I have just now bought a coat and wondered why I didn’t pick it up last week when I first looked at it.
The yard thumps and groans as sagging farm architecture tastes its age. Night has swept in on a thick fist of cloud that flings itself outward into a blanket smothering silver half-moon and bright stars. Cold rains have been taunting and spitting all day.
It’s lovely. Home after an afternoon of Sibelius and Tchaikovsky, and an evening of Creation Ministries Australia speaker Rod Walsh. I am swept in the door by the fierce dark edge of time’s turning, and this–wind-tossed hair, cold-nipped face–this satisfies me. I can be at one with the season’s change: it’s not bent on evil, only highly unsedate in its obedience to the Maker.
I cocoon indoors, and I’m faced with everything I didn’t accomplish this year. In more ways than just the incredible amount of things that need fixing–the miraculous management skills to find the needed funding for this out-of-date Picasso-grunge structure we call our house also elude me.
I retreat to my desk in the corner, and I’m faced with everything I didn’t accomplish this year. This month. This week. Today.
This is very hard for me–to set goals and find myself making the choice to lay them aside or even just delay them. It provokes anger, it provokes resentment of whatever’s changed my plans or sapped my strength. It can be dangerous for my relationship to my God. Because sometimes, God changes our plans. Sometimes, God lets our strength be sapped in order to bring us to the end of ourselves. This is the ultimate challenge to a storm on legs.
nformation theory is a relatively new field, having its genesis with Claude Shannon in the late 1940′s. It’s a field of mathematics, but also engineering. It has a high level of application in computer technology, but recently has also been used to examine broader questions of information, nature and origins.
What is information, and what makes a correct methodology for exploring this relatively new field, characterized by one information scientist as “the third fundamental quantity” alongside matter and energy? 
I cannot think of a single shoulder I would lean on just now, as out of sorts as I am, which means it behooves me to smarten up and speak up.
Okay, deep breath, yada yada. So I’m trying really hard not to have a meltdown and cry like a girl, because I hate it when I do that. But the fact is that sometimes I need to, dang it!
I was raised on the implied value that girls wussing out and crying is a cop-out, playing to gender stereotypes. And I despise finding myself the kind of schmoo who goes whining to others when the end of the rope has been achieved.
When people go through trials together, they can find one of two things happening: Either they come away respecting and trusting each other more, or respecting and trusting each other less.
Right now I’m carrying a really heavy burden of not feeling much of a measure of respect and trust in a couple of my closest relationships. I can handle insane, I can handle busy. But that–that one thing–well, it breaks me down. It drains the energy and makes me want to give up trying.
And crawl in a hole and pull it in over my head and never talk to anyone or get anything done ever again. So, it behooves me to speak up, and at least try to get it out of my system.
Some time ago, I pointed out that my experiences are my children’s education to a great degree. And when there’s conversation in the comments section, they’re often looking over my shoulder.
For instance: Last week, the nine-year-old Tiger Lily’s questions centred around who was represented by each avatar. She wanted to know who the pointy-head was, and who the round pink face was. Continue reading
I’ve been interviewed, I mean, about reading and writing and things like that. Bit of a change from the usual. It’s up at the Lost Genre Guild blog. Big thank you to them for that.
Do you like to read the same genre as you write? What other genres interest you? Favourite authors?
I’ll read just about anything in limited doses. No particular genre affiliation that way. I’ve enjoyed Maeve Binchy, Angela Hunt, Beverly Lewis, Asimov, Tolkien, Anne McCaffrey, the Marcher Lord Press authors, international fiction.
The list of what I’m not interested in is much shorter to describe, longer to avoid on a bookstore shelf: formula American worldview, in novels where the plot and characters are forced into a two-dimensional mold by any given genre’s pulp formula requirements. That’s too many formulas. I’m not into math.
read the rest >>
It’s time to call in an expert. Mr. Cleese:
Thank you; I needed that.