Ah, Chris. What a guy. Who better to record the wild chronicles of his life than himself? Within these posts are stories and jokes, thoughts and wild conspiracy theories. As Chris grows and continues to view life as nothing more than an extended comedy sketch so will this blog continue recording the weirdness of the life led by one really epic guy.
I had 20 minutes to write this in my fiction class. I must admit, for only 20 minutes I'm pretty proud of it!
“He came a home with a freaking knife!”
“Honey,” he said, his eyes rolling at her turned back, “I don’t understand why you’re so upset! He’s a little boy, boys play with knives!”
“Did you see the knife? It’s huge!”
“Exactly! See, he was playing. It was his sword! Boys will be boys, you know?”
“I never played with knives when I was little!”
“You weren’t a little boy when you were little. Just because our son comes home with a oversized steak knife doesn’t mean he’ll grow up to be an axe-murderer!”
“Oh darling, if only you had seen him you might understand. It flipped out. It was one of those…whatchacallems…a switchblade!”
“See, that’s even less reason to worry! It has a built in sheath so he won’t get hurt by accident!”
“Oh, but darling he looks so intimidating with that leather jacket he’s been wearing lately.”
“He’s just trying to look cool. It’s a phase, he’ll grow out of it.”
“And what’s that A with a circle around it mean? That’s sewn right on the back. And there’s all these red circles with upside down stars in them too, what are those?”
“Oh, I don’t know dear. Probably just a fad. You know, kids these days come up with such funny games.”
“And have you see that thing he does with his friends? Whenever he sees them it looks like he makes some sort of sign language thing with his hands, you know? And they all do it. It looks like they’re making some sort of letters.”
“Oh that, it’s probably just from some TV show or something. You know, they’re so impressionable when they’re as young as him. It’s probably something from, what’s it called that the kids are supposed to be into? Pokemon? Is that still cool?”
“I don’t know. Maybe that’s it. I’m sorry, it just makes me nervous sometimes. He’s such a nice young boy though. I doubt we need to worry.”
“Yes honey, I agree, he’s probably the most respectable little 21 year old in the neighborhood. We should be proud.”
“Death solves all problems. No person, no problem.”-Josef Stalin
“Welcome. Please submit name and verification information before entrance, sir.” Staring irritably at the holographic face floating in front of him the man dug through his memory trying to remember everything he needed to know to get past the security checkpoint outside the hospital.
“Ares Vari, PhD., Md. Euthanasiologist, politician, lecturer. I.D. code 000042334,” said Ares slowly. The holographic head flickered and disappeared, indicating that he had again messed up his identification code. “Damn!” he grunted, punching the orange button just below the hologram projector, turning the system back on.
“Welcome,” said the effigy of a female receptionist. “Please submit name and verification information before entrance, sir.”
“Ares Vari,” spat Ares, “PhD., Md. Euthanasiologist, politician, lecturer.” Ares paused, glowering darkly at the hologram before continuing, “I.D. code 000024334.”
“Thank you, sir,” said the security system, “Welcome back. St. Kevorkian’s Hospital is glad to see one of our esteemed doctors back again.”
“Yeah, I know. I’m in a hurry!” Ares grunted futilely at the deaf hologram. “Open the damn door!” The door hissed as it slid open. Ares quickly strode in. “Dumb bitch security system,” he muttered. As Ares power walked into the hospital a young nurse ran up to him, her face contorted as she tried to hide her frustration.
“Dr. Vari, they’ve been waiting for an hour! Please follow me right this way, the crew is already all set up, and we have patients waiting for you.”
The nurse led Ares into a large room with a camera crew and lighting equipment set up around three beds and three Thanatrons. As Ares moved to look over his patients the man in charge of all the cameras motioned at him impatiently. Ignoring this Ares checked the Thanatrons, making sure everything was in working order.
“Dr. Vari, with all due respect, can we please start this already? We’ve already been waiting a long time, and…”
“I’m the fucking doctor here, techie,” snarled Ares. “We’ll start when I’m ready to start.” Taking a few more minutes Ares spitefully continued to check the Thanatrons and the straps holding his patients down to the beds. “Okay, we can start,” said Ares.
“Okay.” sighed the director, turning to his camera man he said, “This crazy old guy thinks just because this is a government propaganda vid he can treat me like this? If this wasn’t paying so well I would show that him that working for the government doesn’t make you God! Whatever, we go in 1…2…3, action!”
“Hello,” said Ares to the camera, “my name is Dr. Ares Vari, and I am a Euthanasiologist. Today I’m going to show you what I do. Here’s my first patient,” said Ares, walking over to the first bed, “a convict who received brain damage while being chased by the police for violating parole. Not only is he now a drain on society, but he’s been against us for most of his life.” Ares checked the IV once more before casually pressing the button on the Thanatron and saying, “Goodbye Mr. Convict, maybe now you’ll actually be of worth to us.”
“My next patient is a quadriplegic. Ironically enough this is the police officer who was chasing our now deceased convict. Breaking your neck is bad, Mr. Officer,” said Ares mockingly. “Now you’re a drain on society. Thank you for serving society for so long, but now you’ve lost your worth. Well, for your last gift from society, a good death—Euthanasia. Goodbye, Mr. Po’po.” Chuckling at his own little joke Ares pushed the button on the Thanatron.
“And now to my final patient for today…” Ares’ voice trailed off as he looked down at the 7 year old girl on the bed next to them. An unintelligible sound escaped her mouth as she smiled stupidly at the man about to take her life. You sicken me, thought Ares, I am the epitome of human intelligence and physical capacity. But you…I despise you.
“My final patient is this mentally retarded girl. Her parents have tried to hide her retardation, but of course it was apparent to us. The drain on society must end. This poor girl will never be able to give back to us, so for the greater good she’s going to have to go.” Ares looked with mock sadness at the girl, his lips curling slightly with the disdain he was fighting not to show. “Goodbye my darling little waste of society…” Ares sighed with relief as he once more pressed the button that would send liquid death in the veins of his “patient”.
*~*
As Ares opened the door to his apartment he saw his roommate and oldest friend half-dressed and leaning over their sink. The sound and smell of vomiting floated across the room. Ares frowned and wrinkled his nose in disgust.
“Seriously, Siegfried? You’re sick now? I have a big speech at Almagor University this afternoon. I need you to help me edit it. If I can’t depend on you at times like this…” Ares stopped in shock as Siegfried fell to the floor and started thrashing and foaming at the mouth, a wild look of fear in his eyes. Ares pulled his phone out of his pocket and quickly dialed the district med office. As he put the phone to his ear Siegfried thrashed and gargled loudly. “Shut the hell up!” yelled Ares. “I’ll deal with you in a minute!”
“Hello?” he said, “This is Dr. Ares Vari. My roommate seems to be violently ill. I need a team dispatched here immediately. Thank you.” Ares hung up the phone and ran over to Siegfried’s medkit, pulling out some restraining cords. Dragging Siegfried over to his bed Ares strapped him down.
“Damn it, I’m not as young as I used to be, and you’re not as thin and light. But you were about to smash your head in. God, the trouble you put me through, Siegfried, you dumb ass! Agh, whatever, the medics will be here soon.” As Ares watched, his friend’s spasms became less and less powerful, and his eyes began flickering between open and half shut. “What the hell Siegfried! Don’t fucking die on me now!” Spat Ares as he felt his friend’s faltering pulse, “I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but you’re not going to make it. It’s better for both of us if this ends now.”
Ares quickly crossed the room and opened the closet, picking up the Thanatron he used to show during lectures. He deftly connected the IV to Siegfried’s arm. Ares was surprised to see that the fear in Siegfried’s eyes didn’t decrease, but rather increased to panic. Through the white foam on his lips he squeezed a noise that sounded like the word, “No.”
“Don’t worry old friend,” said Ares matter-of-factly. “Death is the end. No more worries. You’re no use to society like this anyway. Besides, this is a good death. Ha, Euthanasia, remember?” As Ares pushed the button, sending the Saline, Sodium Thiopental, and lethal Potassium Chloride into his friend’s body he chuckled and remembered how he and Siegfried used to joke about the protestors who called them angels of death.
“We aren’t just angels of death,” Siegfried had said, “We’re the angels of good death! Doesn’t that make us angelic?” Both Ares and Siegfriend had laughed at the play on words. The word Euthanasia coming from the Greek word Eu, meaning good, and Thanatos, meaning death, they viewed themselves as advocates of good death, simply trying to relieve the pain of society and the world.
A few minutes of sadly reminiscent chuckling later the door burst open and 3 young medics in bright orange vests came in, looking around to see why they had been called. “He’s dead,” said Ares, “He was going to die slowly and painfully, so I euthanized him.” The medics stared at him in shock. One walked shakily over to Siegfried and felt for a pulse.
“He’s gone,” said the medic, “Do you have any idea what might have been killing him, Dr. Vari?”
“I have no idea,” said Ares, shrugging.
“Dr. Vari, I know this may be a bad time but…” the medic looked at his shoes nervously, “I went to Almagor University for med school. So, you’re something of an idol to me, Dr. Vari. How did you have the guts to found a school like Kevorkian U and then keep speaking about Euthanasia even when people like the IPLL…”
Staring in shock at the sensitivity of the young medic Ares snarled, “No, this is not a good time! I had the guts because I had good support from people like Siegfried, who is dead now, damn you.”
Ares sighed and then remembered his place. “Well, anyway, I’m giving a speech at your good old alma mater tonight if you’re interested, and…” Ares’ voice trailed off as he noticed something he should have noticed as soon as he entered the room. Lying on the floor next to his bed was a half eaten box of chocolates that seemed to have been dropped carelessly, most of the remaining chocolates having fallen out onto the floor. “He was poisoned” gasped Ares angrily.
Walking swiftly over to the box Ares picked up the envelope that had been carelessly dropped near it. Typed in a flowery font across the front it said, “To: Dr. Ares Vari, From: Society” Tearing it open Ares unfolded the piece of paper inside. On the paper in a considerably more somber font it said, “For Freedom and Life! Compliments of the IPLL.”
Throwing the paper on the floor and stomping on it Ares said, “I always find it ironic that the International Pro-Life League chooses to work through death. If they are so pro-life how can they also be so pro-my-death? You start out burning abortion clinics and killing abortionists and look what it leads to? Are they really working for life or for death? This is a blatant assassination attempt by some desperate and impotent terrorists, and I will not stand for it. My friend is dead, and it’s all due to those IPLL bastards!”
The medics listened in stunned shock to hear this distinguished looking politician in his fifties speaking so angrily and coarsely. “We-we’ll have those chocolates analyzed right away, Dr. Vari, and we’ll send his autopsy results to you immediately!” stammered the lead medic. As the medics began collecting the chocolate and preparing to take Siegfried’s body Ares went over to the body of his old friend. Leaning over him Ares whispered one final goodbye in his ear. “Farewell Siegfried. You’re more useful to society and me now than you ever were before. Thank you for dying. It was getting to be about time.”
With that said Ares straightened, thanked the medics, and left. This is fantastic, thought Ares, I’ll have to add this into my speech for tonight. This only makes my case stronger, you moronic protestors. You know nothing of politics, society, or the world. Tonight I will deliver you a fatal blow and strengthen my own case even further!
*~*
Ares’ mind was filled with mixed thoughts and feelings as he rode the Skytrain to Almagor University. Was what I did right? He thought, Siegfried seemed…scared. He never feared death, and he loved Euthanasia for society’s sake. I don’t understand. If Siegfried could be afraid, what of all the hundreds of other…Ares sighed deeply, just as he had every time doubt assaulted him. I’m doing the right thing, he reminded himself, I’m serving society. I’m saving our resources. Euthanasia is best for everyone. *~*
“Earlier today my dear old friend, Dr. Siegfried Phobos, had an attempt upon his life. He was dying slowly, obviously in terrible pain. So I was able to save him through euthanasia. But why was he dying in the first place? A few minutes ago I received the coroner’s report and the report on a box of chocolates that was mysteriously delivered to my room earlier today, delivered by the so-called International “Pro-Life” League. The chocolates were poisoned, and now my friend is dead. I was the target of these terrorists! This underground terrorist movement must be opposed! They have undermined the our government and society for too long! We cannot allow this to stand! They want to shut down our programs and damage society, but I say, ‘No!’ If these people get their way than, as we can see, death, not life, is the result!”
Ares paused, looking out across the auditorium, counting the nodding heads, looking out for the disapproving faces.“Our world resources are low and getting lower, and that’s why we need to forget pointless sentimentality and continue our program of Resource Conservation and…” Suddenly the doors of the auditorium were kicked open and the sound of automatic weapons fire drowned out the sound of Ares’ voice as five men in ski masks ran in, shooting randomly towards the podium. As Ares ducked beneath the podium he saw a grenade land several yards away. The last thing he heard was the sound of an explosion and shrapnel hitting all around him.
*~*
As Ares opened his eyes all he could see was the fuzzy glow of an industrial fluorescent light. He groaned loudly. As he tried to stretch his body he was shocked to get no response. He tried to sit up, and nothing happened. He tried to move his hands to examine his body, and then he realized he couldn’t feel his hands. In fact, he couldn’t feel his body at all! He groaned again, even more loudly this time.
Ares heard the sound of hurried footsteps and saw a grizzled face float into view. Turning his head to the left a few inches, which was as far as he could make it move, Ares saw the torso of a man in a white lab coat with a flashing laminated nametag that declared him to be “Dr. Smithers: Euthanasiologist, Euthanasia Center of New York.”
“Ahh, Dr. Ares Vari, it’s a pleasure to have you here today. It’s thanks to you that my profession exists, so it seems only fitting that my final patient before I retire would be you. I’m sure you realize where you are…” Ares turned to his the right and finally saw the Thanatron, The Death Machine. The three bags, one of Saline, one of Sodium Thiopental, and one of the lethal Potassium Chloride, dangling ominously from a grisly metal frame, leading to an IV attached to his arm.
His words were slurred when he spoke. “I shouldn’t die,” forced out Ares. “Society needs me!”
“Why would society need a quadriplegic like you?” sneered Dr. Smithers. “You can’t walk. You can’t carry things. You can’t really work. You’re simply a drain on society.”
Quadriplegic? thought Ares. The IPLL terrorists, and the grenade, and...oh God… “But I can still speak!” slurred Ares, “I can still think! What of my political influence? What of…”
“The cost of keeping you alive has already been a considerable drain on society,” sighed Dr. Smithers, “but our psychology department requested it, calling it an interesting opportunity to see whether your opinions would change once faced with the consequences of those opinions yourself.”
“I refuse to believe I’m useless,” Ares slurred on, “I have money. I can pay for my medical costs! That’s not a drain on society. That’s supporting it! I have the money!”
“Correction,” said Dr. Smithers mockingly, “You had money, but you’ve been in a coma for a month. The cost of keeping you alive has considerably drained your bank account.”
“How is that possible!” said Ares as vehemently as he could muster, “I had lots of money. I…”
“Here, let me show you a video,” said Dr. Smithers, a smile sliding onto his face as he got the remote control and prepared to turn on the video. “I think you’ll recognize it, considering who’s in it.”
Saying that, Dr. Smithers turned on the video and Ares saw a much younger version of himself standing behind a podium and passionately saying, “…Take quadriplegics for example. The average cost of care, depending on age at time of injury, needed to keep them alive for the rest of their lives is a million dollars, used to cover life support and other medical costs. This means our country, our society, is throwing away 5.6 billion dollars a year on people who can give us nothing, and who will die without ever giving us anything! It is for people like this that euthanasia is made. It’s people like this who need to be sacrificed for the betterment of society!” The sound of applause came from the TV, echoing ironically in Ares’ ears.
“Your words, Dr. Vari, not mine,” said Dr. Smithers. “I’m grateful for your contributions to society. You were almost as influential as the great Dr. Kevorkian himself, but now you are no longer useful.”
“Wait, no!” slurred Ares, “I’m alive! You can’t take that from me just because you think I’m worthless! That-that just feels wrong! What gives you the right to kill me?” Filled with panic Ares tried to move, even just a toe, to show that he wasn’t useless. Was this how Siegfriend was feeling? He thought, And all those others? Even the quadriplegics…like me.
“I can’t die!” Ares said as loudly as he could muster, “Don’t kill me! This isn’t a good death! I’m not ready. I’m afraid. I don’t want to die. I…”
“You don’t have a million dollars,” said Dr. Smithers scornfully, “and even if you did it would be wasted on you. Apparently you never even truly believed what you taught. On society’s behalf, goodbye, Dr. Vari.” With that Dr. Smithers pressed the button and walked away. As the Saline and then the Sodium Thiopental entered into his body through the IV Ares felt heavier, and heavier, until finally he fell asleep.
In my Fiction class I have tons of fun. We mostly do different exercises to help us with our writing. My favorite exercise that we did today was writing a bad story. This was to help us recognize that if we knew what a bad story was we could hopefully avoid some of those mistakes in our writing. So, I really liked my bad story, and I want to share it with you. I hope you enjoy it!
A Bad Story
Once upon a time the great hero was preparing for his epic quest. The world needed to be saved, and he was the only man who could do it, because he was a hero. The hero went on his quest to save the world and in order to save the world went out into the world. The hero traveled very far, and came to a land of far away land. In far away land the hero did heroic deeds, and was a good person. Everybody loved him.
Then the chickens attacked. Hordes of them. The hero displayed great heroism in his destruction of the foul fowl, but soon died. The world could not be saved, and the hero died in far away land. The princess mourned, and the dragon killed villagers.
Then the illegitimate son of the hero came forth and began a quest to save the world. The world was in need of saving, and only he was heroic enough to do it. He was a hero. The hero went to into the world that needed saving and traveled for a very long time. He soon came to quest land and rescued a damsel in distress. They lived happily ever after. Then the hero became a ninja and avenged his father by attacking the chickens with kunai and shuriken. But the chickens prevailed. And he died. The world was never saved.
Hey there, whoever you are who's bizarre enough to still be checking my blog when I haven't written in forever. Or people on FaceBook. Yeah, you probably see this too. Whatever. Either way, I've made a decision. I write a lot. I write all the time. I'm constantly writing. I'm a writing major maniac. I'm insane. I just write whenever I can. But none of you ever get to see that writing. So I've decided to start multitasking some of my writing. Just because I wrote something for a class doesn't mean I can't let you guys read it too. So from now on if I have a blog worthy piece of writing that I've done for class I'll put it on my blog! Aren't you happy? Now you might actually here from me every now and then. In fact, you may hear from me rather often! Hooray! Anyway, I'm going to post some of the writing I've done so far this year. Tell me what you think!
As I mentioned a few blog posts ago I’ve been reading John Leax’s book “Grace is Where I Live”. I’ve been reading it pretty inconsistently, just a bit here and there, but when I have read it I’ve quite enjoyed it. One of the things I’ve really enjoyed about it is that I can really relate to it a lot. Leax writes about being a developing writer and struggling with the difficulties of writing. One place where I feel very much akin to Leax is that when it comes to writing I simply cannot write in the genre and style I really most want to. Both Leax and I dream of writing good fiction, of writing fictitious stories with real meaning and powerful messages. Leax struggled with fiction and ended up primarily writing poetry, despite finally doing at least one good novel. I also struggle terribly with fiction, but rather than poetry I end up primarily doing this. Some would call it prose, others personal essays. I’ve always known it just as blogging, writing. But it seems my best writing is just straight prose about my thoughts and my life.
When I write prose it’s alive. At least I like to think so, and people read it so I guess it must have some gasping remnants of life in it. I find it easy to put life into my prose because I am alive, and the world I live in is alive, and the people and ideas I write about are alive, so if I wrote about my life, my world, and the things in that sphere of life than my writing just naturally comes alive. But when I write fiction I have to create life. There is no original life to draw on. I have people that were born in my mind and fed by my imagination, and a world, whether Earth or not, which exists only within my feeble brain. So it ends up being all scripted, sounding so fake and disgusting. How do Orson Scott Card, J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkien, and P.G. Wodehouse make their characters live? I also have so much trouble with writing with anything outside my experience. I can’t write about magic or machine guns when I’ve never used them. I can’t write about life in medieval world because I live in the modern one. In the end I just can’t write about someone unless I know them as well as myself, which leaves me trapped to write only about myself. Dang I’m selfish.
At the beginning of this post I spoke about Dr. Leax’s book “Grace is Where I Live” and now I’m going to quote from it a little, because I think he does a much better time of explaining some of this. In his essay “Telling Affirmation” Leax quotes Flannery O’Connor as saying that part of the problem with beginning fiction writers is that “They are apt to be reformers and to want to write because they are possessed not by a story but by the bare bones of some abstract notion. They are conscious of problems, not people…” I think that’s my problem. I want to write about the problem of the internal struggle between good and evil, about the choices that make us what we are. I want to fully explore what a human is and write the heights we can rise to and the depths we can fall to. I want to write about the problems of society, of corruption and naivety. I want to write about these things being overcome and broken. I have the bare bones of some notion and I want to write about it, and I want to write fiction, and I want that fiction to be enjoyable and meaningful and to make people think and to change their lives. I know these problems, but I don’t know people.
I don’t take criticism well. There are very few people who I can truly accept criticism from when it comes to writing, even if it does tick me off a little that I have to accept it. But one criticism which I have received both from one of the few professors at Houghton I accept criticism from and from Jenny (whose criticism I am most likely to be gracious about even though part of me still wants to think I’m perfect) is that I lack empathy. I wrote a lot last semester about Israel and Palestine and I wrote with cold logic. But I have two people saying that cold logic doesn’t leave room for the feelings of people, for the emotions of us unpredictable and fickle humans. Maybe logically what some of Israel’s actions are wrong, some downright war crimes. But they aren’t just doing it because they are evil people, because they really aren’t, they are doing it for human reasons. Those reasons may be wrong (this is highly debatable), but I need to have empathy, I need to be willing and able to see their reasons, understand those reasons, and try to see things from their point of view, regardless of how I personally feel. I need empathy.
Next semester I’m taking a fiction class. This should be interesting, because I really do struggle with fiction. I hope I’ll do well in that class. I think I will, as long as I work hard and really try to learn empathy and the skills needed for good fiction writing. I dream of writing a book that will have meaning, a story that people will enjoy. I hope I can make that dream come true. Well, at least I have a goal to work towards. And I’m not without hope. I have successfully written fiction once, if only once. It was a six page short story which I’ve kept pretty close to my heart ever since. Maybe someday I can write more fiction. Or maybe, like Leax, I will primarily be known for the style of writing that came naturally. Writing like this really does come naturally, and maybe I will someday publish some sort of prose non-fiction ramblings. It would be nice. By the way, act now and get a signed copy of my first book…once it’s published! ;-) That’s years in the future, but my oldest fans (all you crazy blog reading people) will definitely be honored. Yeah, I dream big. Anyway, that’s enough non-fiction personal essay prose for now, I think I’m going to go do something that won’t have me brooding on my lack of fiction writing ability…
I am an Officer’s Kid. I’m OK. I’m also more commonly known as an Officer’s Brat, or OB. Which reminds me of BO, but that’s a different subject. Anyway, what does that mean? Well, in its simplest form it means that my parents are Salvation Army Officers. But what does that actually mean in my life? Well, I have come to realize that I am a strange Officer’s Kid. The stereotypical OB is arrogant, spoiled, lazy, rebellious, falsely righteous, and counterproductive to their parents’ work. Despite the fact that I have probably been all these things during at least at one point in my life or another I seriously doubt that would be how most people who know me would describe me, yet I know too many OBs who give the title “brat” a new meaning. I don’t say all this to brag. I actually say all this just to point out that I’m not trying to say what an Officer’s Kid should be like, because the stereotype is already set and many would reject me from it, I’m just trying to say what it means in my life.
The biggest thing being an Officer’s Kid has done to change my life is to make me work. Until going to Houghton I never had a paid job in my life, and even at Houghton both my jobs are easy sitting jobs. But all my life I’ve worked with, not for, my parents. We moved recently and our new corps is kind of a mess. In some parts it’s just trashed (today I had a box I was about to add to the 120 I had already stacked when it fell apart because it was decomposing due to the fact that it had been sitting in a dirty wet corner so long…) and so we’ve been doing lots of cleaning and work. When I came home to Estonia for summer “vacation” I had some wild dreams about spending my time curled up with my laptop playing video games, and even having so much free time that I would rearrange my whole computer and external hard drive, and then because I would still be rolling in free time I would read books and sleep all day. My dreams never turn out to be true.
Of course pretty soon after returning to Estonia I had to start helping my family pack to move. None of it was MY stuff. I had already moved out and just had a couple of suitcases. But it had to be done, so I did it. Then we got to our new city, Narva, and we had to start unpacking, rearranging furniture, fixing broken furniture, etc., etc. Then we still hadn’t (and haven’t yet) finished that when we started on the corps. Cleaning room after room, emptying out so much stuff, hanging up and giving away clothes, carrying furniture up flights of stairs, doing whatever needed to be done. For a week and a half now every night I’ve gone to bed with my back hurting and woken up with it having gone from a flaring ache to more of dull ache which would flare up again by lunch time after a morning of work. It’s crazy. I’m tired. But why do I do it?
Some people have commented that this situation isn’t fair. Some of the stuff is family stuff, so maybe that’s a little more fair, but still. It’s not my stuff I was packing for Narva. It’s not my stuff I’m helping move and unpack now that we’re here. And this isn’t even where I live for more than a month or so and then I’m off to America. So some people would say that’s a little unfair. Now, the corps stuff is definitely just unfair. This isn’t my corps in any way, shape or form. I don’t know the people and I have no way of doing so because I don’t speak their language. I’m not a soldier of this corps and I never will be and I will never be here for long and there is no way any investment I make in this corps will ever pay off for me. I will never use these rooms I’m cleaning. In fact I’ll never get to see what they are used for once I’ve cleaned them. I’m not doing any work that will ever pay off for, or even have results seen by me. This is terribly unfair. This is supposed to by my summer vacation! I’m supposed to be spending all my time at the beach flirting and tanning, on my laptop gaming and surfing, or just lying around reading! So what the heck am I doing all this work for?
Well, when my parents first became officers and first started asking me to help them I considered it terrible slave labor and fought them to do as little work as possible. But as I’ve grown older I’ve started to have a slightly different perspective. I don’t do this work for me. I do this work for love. When I work I think of three loves that I work for, in order of importance to me. 1: I love God. If by doing all this terrible work and having my back hurt all the time I’m serving God I guess that’s worth it. I love God, and so I want to serve him, whether that be by sharing the gospel or by cleaning and moving boxes out of rooms that will be used for sharing the gospel or otherwise serving God than I’ll do it. 2: I love my parents. I really do. So if I can help them than I will. This only goes so far though. When somebody said my situation was unfair my mom said of course I was helping because I wouldn’t just sit at home and let my mother work so hard at the corps without help. I found this funny. I really would have no problem with sitting at home doing a second play through of Mass Effect while my mom slaved away doing her chosen work at her chosen profession where she has been called by God and gets paid. But loves 1 and 3 collaborate with my love for my parent’s to make me work. 3: I love The Salvation Army. I feel called to serve God. And at least at this point in my life I feel called to serve God through The Salvation Army. So I just love The Salvation Army. Salvationists are usually great people, and I really have a heart for the work the Army does. I just feel at home with the Army. Of course the Army has its flaws, and as an Officer’s Kid I know them better than I’d like to, but I still love it. So even though this technically isn’t my corps it’s still my Army. So, to serve God, my parents, and The Salvation Army I work.
Now I just realized one thing I should add. Earlier I typed “If by doing all this terrible work and having my back hurt all the time I’m serving God I guess I’m glad to do it.” I changed that to say it’s worth it because I realized that’s not true. I’m not always glad to do this work, not matter how much love I have. My back hurts, my arms ache, my whole body is physically tired, I’m not glad for any of that. But that’s why it’s called serving. If it needs to be done and if I love those who need it done then I’ll do it. I don’t have to enjoy it, but I’ll do it.
So anyway, this is probably the first blog post that I’ve been sort of asked to write. I wasn’t really asked to write it, I was just asked to get this message out, and I thought my blog would be the best way to do it. I think a lot of people could think about what they love and what they can do for that love. Well, I must be off now. I hope you’re glad I’m blogging again. I know I am.
Even though I have been whining about it for several months now I have realized that some of you may not have realized my change of location. If you never noticed me leaving Tallinn to go to Houghton then you’re WAY behind, but if you didn’t notice me returning to Tallinn only to move to Narva a month later than I guess I can forgive you, seeing as how I’ve only been negative and whiny about it up until this point and so haven’t thought it worth blogging about because it would just make the whole, if I may be so bold as to use the term, “blogosphere” so much more depressing by being filled with me fussing. Aren’t you glad that I’m kind and have waited until I had some nice stories to tell? So today I would like to tell you two tales. Not one tale of two cities, but two tales of one city. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but France is not involved, nor are there any revolutions in these tales. I’m sorry if I confused you, or if in fixing your confusion with my literary jokes I have instead simply confused you more or confused those not familiar with what I’m talking about. So anyway, on to my two tales.
The Tale of the Bridge and the Bombs
On a dark and stormy night, which just so happened to be last night, I went over to my friend Anneli’s house to play Age of Empires 2. Between my home and Anneli’s there is a foot bridge which crosses over a bunch of train tracks. It’s a big bridge, and I rather like it. Every time I walk on it I feel cooler just for being walking on a bridge. It’s a strange life I lead, but that’s just the way I feel. Anyway, because the rain was beginning to soak through my hoody and get my hair wet I bolted over the bridge, tightly clutching my towel covered laptop bag. The towel actually worked extraordinarily well in protecting my laptop bag, and when I arrived at Anneli’s I was please to see how dry my laptop bag was, despite the rain.
Six hours and eighteen minutes of mad back-and-forth combat, gloating, bragging, taunting, and shoving down snacks later Anneli and I decided to just end in a tie. It was an amazing game. Anneli’s strength is a nearly impenetrable defense, and she had designed her city to be very close in defensive design to that of Byzantium, whereas mine is an insane all out offense, and I had attacked like the golden horde. You can see how this could go on a while if neither of us truly got the upper hand. So after a little more chatting with Anneli I headed out to hear a terrifying noise.
Don’t mention 1941. I don’t like it. 1939 to 1943 were just especially bad years for Estonia, not to mention up until 1991. The Soviet Union, being the big jerk it was, occupied us for fifty years, starting right here in Narva. I live five minutes from the Russian border. If I get bored I can go make faces at Ivangorod, the Russian castle, or at random Russian men fishing in the river. Russia is literally a stone’s throw away. This city is 97% Russian, which is the cause of most of my whining. I don’t speak Russian. Also, I have become very patriotic. Not of America, of course. American “patriots” tend to irritate me. I feel very patriotic about Estonia, so I feel a little sore when it comes to Russia, Russians, the Russian language, Schweppes Ruscshian drink, all of it, but especially the idea of Russia invading. Remember Georgia? Remember T’bilisi? What T’bilisi? Exactly. So now that I live on the Russian border the last thing I want to hear are explosions…
As far as I can tell the only redeeming quality of the Russian city across the border is the Ivangorod castle, but last night even that high quality was negated. Some genius decided to set off fireworks right over the border. They looked nice, but as I stepped out of Anneli’s apartment building the echoing blasts of the fireworks sounded terribly like tank shells exploding, and the fizzling out of the fireworks sounded quite like machine gun and small arms fire. As I walked down the empty street the effect was disturbing. It felt as if the city had been evacuated and I got left behind, and now I could hear the sounds of the resistance trying to defend the border. All I could think was, “was this what it sounded like when they invaded the last two or three times?”
So that’s just some of what my life in Narva is like. That tale wasn’t as fun as I’m sure you might have liked, and the punch line was terribly unfunny, but I think sometimes in life the punch line just isn’t funny. Anyway, enough of that depressing anti-Russian crap that’s going to get me kidnapped and silenced. My next tale is considerably more entertaining, so I hope you’re happy.
The Tale of the Birds and the Book
One of the very nice things about where we live in Narva is the fact that we live 5 minutes from a nice playground. Though in Tallinn we lived 5 minutes from two nice playgrounds and 10 minutes from a very big and very nice and new playground it’s still quite wonderful to have a playground so close. Because Peter is an energetic young five year old the best remedy for his insane amounts of energy seems to be going to the playground, so I take him a lot. I also enjoy the opportunity to sit out in the fresh air and read, listen to music, or just sit and think. Lately I’ve been reading John Leax’s book, “Grace Is Where I Live” which is quite good, despite the fact that it makes me feel like a suck up to read a book written by the newly retired head of the Houghton Writing department.
So the other day I was sitting on the bench, enjoying the beautiful weather and the sound of kid’s playing while I read some inspirational things about being a Christian writer. Despite the fact that the book had completely engrossed me the birds seemed considerably less thrilled with it. I was sitting under a tree, and apparently I was directly under the favorite perching place of some pigeons. The pigeons, being quite intent on making me aware of their presence, defecated straight onto my book, only very narrowly missing my face. It took me a moment to understand what had gone whizzing past my face and why my book was suddenly disgusting, but once I did realize I kind of freaked out.
I realized pretty quickly that if I closed the book I would ruin it, but if I were to try to go home to clean it up I could not open the locks and doors without closing the book. This seeming dilemma turned out to be easily solved. While carefully cradling the open book in one hand I called home with the other, asking my sister to bring me tissues. Once my sister arrived with the tissues I commenced cleaning off my book, as well as gesturing angrily at the birds and making derogatory comments about them and their whole species.
This apparently touched a nerve in the pigeons, or maybe in the old Babushka, who I personally believe was Baba Yaga, because very quickly the birds decided to assault me again. It was a very well planned out maneuver, I’ll give them that. To my left, as I stared up into the tree making my insulting opinions known to the birds who had first attacked me, was an old woman with a bag of bread. On my right was a flock of pigeons, poised and ready to defend their honor.
As I was getting to a really good part in my tirade, the part where I comment on the quality of the eggs they hatched from, rather like we humans insult each other’s mothers, the Babushka A.K.A. Baba Yaga in disguise released a handful of bread crumbs. Within seconds the flock of birds on my right was all around me, flying straight past me to get to the bread crumbs. Being the manly man I am my response to this was to cover my head with my now clean book while spinning in a circle and shrilly screaming “Oh my God, Oh my God!” This of course drew some dirty looks from the Babushka and the parents at the playground, because when you see a man screaming in English at a flock of birds you know he’s either insane or American or both.
So anyway, I hope you enjoyed my tales. Life in Narva is very different, but overall it’s okay. But I just need to say one last thing. I don’t think the Estonian birds in Tallinn would have attacked me like that! It’s these darn Russian birds, they’re out to get me…
Sometimes I struggle with what seems the two realities in which I live. On the one hand I have the seeming “real” world. I have the laptop I’m typing on write now. I have my college education and textbooks that need to be paid. I have a life after college that needs to be figured out and planned for. On the other hand I have what might be called the “spiritual” world. I have my commitment to God. I have my desire to follow his calling. I have my faith that He will provide for my future. I feel like I have a great struggle between these two realities. I feel like I want to fully give myself to one or the other, but just can’t. Sometimes when I’m on FaceBook I browse the profiles of old friends, acquaintances, and crushes. Yes, I am that creepy. I see things on their profiles that make me think two things, both “there is a person enjoying their life!” and “there is somebody who has fallen away from God/never known Him at all.” I look at these people, and on the one hand I look at my life and I see how boring it is. When do I go to crazy parties? When do I have wild sex? When do I make out with beautiful women? When do I live selfishly and just enjoy life? On the other have I look at these people and I look at my life and I see how fulfilled my life should be. I have good friends that help me to live a good life. I have a wonderful and loving girlfriend who, even though we don’t have sex or even kiss, is amazingly caring and who I can talk to about absolutely anything. I see the way God takes care of me in little ways all the time, from just having safe travels to having the ability to go to a good college without a fear of too large a debt.
When I look over that last paragraph I just have one thought, one way of describing myself. I am a terrible ingrate. I have a wonderful life, not by my own doing by any means, but just because God loves me. Yet I don’t know what causes this ingratitude and this terrible struggle of discontentment. Maybe I’m just an ungrateful person, but I’d like to think not. I think sometimes, maybe most of the time, I focus far too much on what many would call the “real” world. I focus on the present. I focus on myself. I focus on what I can touch and feel and enjoy. Life is so much bigger than that. It’s terribly frustrating. I need a better focus. I need to look at what’s real, what’s important. But somehow I just can’t. I can’t see beyond today to see myself in three years, knowing that the struggles of today are worth it. I can’t see through to myself when I am truly a man, having found my calling and purpose. I can’t see through to myself when I am married. I can’t see through to the big picture, and it’s so frustrating. I know there’s a big picture, I know life is bigger than what I can see right now. It’s just that I don’t see it right now.
2nd Corinthians 4:17 and 18 say: “For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.” I know that this is true. It’s just so hard to truly live it in the day to day. What I see is temporary, but it’s all I see. What is unseen is eternal, but I don’t see that at all. Life is hard. But God is strong. I just need faith.
I haven’t blogged in a REALLY long time. In fact, I feel that it’s been too long. I hope to make blogging a regular habit again, but for the time being I’m not so sure that will happen, and allow me to explain why. I am a writer, and I have a deep primal urge to write. I don’t understand why I have such an urge to write, but I just have a great desire to put down my thoughts, feelings, and life experiences down in words. It’s a gift and a curse, because when I don’t have my laptop with me but I’m filled with desire to write then I try to hand write the thing and then I feel fussy because I hate hand writing things. But it’s also a gift because writing so improves my life. I used to fulfill these writing cravings through my blog, finding a sweet pleasure in every single post. But this summer have I not been writing? Has my writer’s spirit been killed? Not at all. I merely have had a different writing outlet. This summer I have been having almost daily e-mail correspondence with Jenny, my girlfriend. When writing her I write more than I would in my average blog post because I know she cares to read it. So, because I’m already writing about my thoughts, feelings, and life far more intimately and intricately than I normally would on my blog I just haven’t felt like blogging about anything.
But now I think it’s a habit I need to take up again. Last year when I was at Houghton I just couldn’t find time to blog, and I would only blog when I was in an extreme, either extremely triumphant or extremely morose. So now, in the interests of blogging regularly at Houghton, I would like to start that habit again now. Ideally I will start blogging daily, but I may have to work my way up to that. Anyway, I will definitely blog later about Mayerm and how my summer has gone, because my life has actually been pretty eventful and I am quite sad to know that you have been missing out on it. I need to fill you in! You must be going crazy! All my crazy screaming fans from here to Mars must have been having panic attacks thinking I was dead! Don’t worry fan girls, I’m still alive! But I have a girlfriend now, so I guess none of you have a chance anymore. Sorry. Anyway, I’ll write a lot more this summer, because I quite enjoy it and I know there are at least some people in the world who do too.
