It was a grey day. Grey seas sang under grey skies as grey birds soared and swooped low over the quayside. The quayside and its surroundings were also rather grey, nary a pop of colour to be found in the piles of gear and containers that lay here and there. Even the people that scurried about in the casual confidence that comes with being where they belonged could be said to wear faces set in shades of grey. Now to describe a face as grey seems to call for a bit of radical interpretation, but I believe you know what I mean. We have all seen those faces set in the default mode whereupon we decide we won’t smile and ask how’s their day. So yes. To sum up, an air of general grey-ness seemed to dominate the landscape at the shore and it would not be a stretch to say that this grey-ness seemed to stretch further than the eye could see. Ever a soul has strayed near an area where in the process of quick transit through it is felt that the colour is being leached from it. Now one may quibble with such and feel that we are getting dangerously close to invalid metaphysical applications. I will not argue and simply move on and resume my narrative and let the words stated previously sink into your soul and perhaps when you are a little older you will understand.
So to resume? It was a grey day. And so as John approached the dock and lifted his eyes to the heavens, the sigh that issued forth was an echo of the sadness within as he sought in vain for a glimmer of hope. The grey-ness of the day did not entirely escape him but it also did not startle him, for he was similar enough in mood at the moment to feel as if it was only fitting for the day to shroud itself in mourning in sympathetic communion with his yearning soul. John did not entirely abandon hope. Rather, he abandoned the idea that the hope would be consummated at any near point. It was promised and he believed the promise. But how long until hope’s longing would be fulfilled? He put his hand in his jacket pocket and felt again the letter that contained the words he had already memorized. The weight of the paper in his hand felt good, a reminder that his sanity had not entirely fled. But had it begun to fray? He thought not, but sometimes he wondered. And the doubt gnawed at him. John’s eyes narrowed. Begone, ye foul thoughts. I believe.
And so John’s firm steps took him up to the longest and greatest dock, the one at which the great ships moored. He walked up the steps and then begun the long trek down. At the end of the dock he expected to find the answer. Or if not the answer, at least a reminder of that for which his life was pointed towards. The chill wind picked up as he stepped further away from shore and his mind wandered towards the events of earlier that morning. He would not think further of what had happened to Alex. He would not. Her tears tore at him.
Without realizing, John had navigated down the length of the great dock and was even now nearing the end. He went past the inspection offices and broke again into the open air. The wind plucked at his jacket and he pulled his collar closer. His eyes were wet for more than the shrieking of the wind. The gulls hovered close by, wondering if he had a snack for them. Alas, not today my friends. I have in my pocket crumbs of something more valuable than bread. And then John’s eyes picked out the bench at the end of the dock. Upon it was a girl in a scarf of red. She was there.
The Lighthouse at the Point
A lovely little Sunday afternoon here. Dani and I will shortly be venturing forth and enjoying(?) the unseasonable warmth of this mid-October day. But let me not complain too much about the weather! We still much enjoy getting out and about and walking the trails and seeing all the others that had the same idea as us. I don’t know what it is, but I really am so fascinated by all the little stories I see as I people-watch. So many others having their own little moments in the grand epochs that are their lives. And now I’m just getting ridiculous so let me cease.
I haven’t written a proper journal post in ever so long – not promising one now either, don’t get your hopes up – but in the midst of doing some journal maintenance, was reading a bunch of my posts from back in 2007. Fascinating and wonderful both to read back into the mind of 19/20 year-old James and even reconnect with the emotions from those days as those memories flowed back into my mind. One must be careful to not dwell overmuch on the past, but is it still not a good thing to think back now and again and reflect back on what has been and who one was and consider the many wonders that has led one to the present? I say so. Of course, I am notorious for backwards looking so please keep me honest and gently remind me now and again to face forward and press on to what lies ahead.
And see, I’ve turned from talking about my life into getting a bit ridiculously meta and examining what it is to read one’s past writings. Joy! I can’t wait for the moment eighteen years from now when I come back and re-read this entry! That will be…something.
Forward! I now sit on the couch and enjoy the rest that is only proper on a Sunday, but I think it is soon time to enjoy some of my other favourite Sunday activities, namely…cooking, walking and reading/writing. Hopefully in that order. Burrito prep is needed if Dani and I will have a satisfactory dinner so I suppose I’ll get started that on that shortly. And then of course walk time. Maybe not a long one, but even a 2 mile (our standard of late) will feel glorious even in this dense humidity. And following? There will be some reading, the writing I’m not sure of. I do feel a bit of sadness that I’ve not written lately, but that is my own fault.
My heart does burn within me and soon soon I must write. I’m currently pondering where I want to focus my writing energies. While I do so love writing my little poems and stories and dialogues and metaphysical musings, where am I going with all this? I write what I hope to be beautiful, but is it perhaps possible for me to focus my fire a bit more than it has been of late? We shall see. I’m not certain I’m cut out for long-form fiction, but perhaps I will give it a go. These are my thoughts now, all prayers appreciated.
Now that I’ve written far too much about far too many diverse topics, I shall sign off. If anyone reads this, I hope it doesn’t put them off reading me entirely. I wish I could say I’m usually less scattered than this but well…you know. Peace and love, my friends. Peace and love.
By You I Have Been Sustained
On this beautiful day reminiscent of great glories, allow me to post a bare few thoughts on my latest read.
64. Anne’s House of Dreams by L.M. Montgomery. A beautiful book. Reading this, I am struck by the feeling that this seems as if a labor of love for the author, one that she much enjoyed even as she indulged herself in writing about things of beauty and love and sorrow and loss. I could be wrong in that, but this definitely has the feel of a book the author wrote for herself. The language in this book rises to new heights and there are some passages in it which fairly soar. The colours are vivid, the imagery is soul-achingly beautiful, the emotions are almost more than the heart can bear. It may just be the time and place in which I am writing these words, but I found this book more poignant than ever. I imagine myself now sitting on the rocky shoreline with the sea spray in my face as I watch the sun set slowly over the grey horizon and I breathe deep of the scent of springtime’s bloom. I love this one.
Ketchup Time
A few thoughts on a few books. Happy Wednesday, dear friends, whatsoever this day may find you doing!
61. Scott Pilgrim & The Infinite Sadness by Bryan Lee O’Malley. This is still one of my favourites of the Scott Pilgrim series, I think. It’s melancholy and drama-filled and absurd and I love it so. Some truly lovely drawn panels and wonderfully sketched scenes. Natalie V will always be one of my favourite side characters in the series despite her villainy. And the vegan bits? Some all time moments for sheer ridiculous hilarity.
62. Scott Pilgrim Gets It Together by Bryan Lee O’Malley. I always forget about this volume but that said, it’s still a solid one. Scott is finally (almost) (semi) competent at being an adult (kinda?). He’s growing up before our eyes and it is wonderful to behold. I feel this volume is lighter on the drama than previous ones, which is not a bad thing. A breather before what is to come.
63. Anne of Windy Poplars by L.M. Montgomery. Another fine entry in the Anne series. It’s a bit of an odd duck, what with the conceit of the letter-writing-to-Gilbert and the very nature of the in-betweenness of it all. Yet there is still much charm and beauty to be found in this one as Anne gallivants about and gets in random adventures here and there and wins all to her side with her very Anne-ness. It’s almost too much at times yet the author decently lamp-shades such and provides some lovely complementing characters in Katherine Brooks and Rebecca Dew. Never will this one be my favourite yet it is still a good read.
And Books Were Opened
he picked up the book and flipped to the page
he knew most well
it had been held open at that spot many times
and this time no less did upon reading those lines
he had long ago memorized
his eyes began to fill
and as his eyes caressed those words
his thoughts flew to higher planes
and he thought of what it would be to those words one day hear
sometimes he doubted sometimes he feared
that he never would
yet he knew those for lies and said begone!
and recited the promises and verse
and clung to the truth he knew
that what he sought was not due to him for his worth
rather it was what another had done for him so long ago
as he spoke and bled and died upon this very earth
he knew it was because of what was done that day
in a real and literal fashion marked down in ink and blood
that he had a home built for him
a home built in a country far away yet now even his
so pilgrim boy he walked and walked rejoicing in the already
and looking forward for the not yet but soon to come
for the kingdom he sought was already blossoming within
and the sealed sign was his
as he abided in that life that had been so dearly bought
one with God and one with brothers and sisters alongside
and so that pilgrim trail he walked not alone
but ever onward he trod and trod
rejoicing in the joys of someday home
when he would look upon the face of God in Jesus Christ
and no longer doubt or fear or raise lament
instead he’d hear those words for which he’d
dreamed and wept and prayed and been kept secure
well done my good and faithful servant
and join would his praise with all the saints
and the choruses will be sung most fervent
and all will be well with his soul
no longer does his heart need bear the sword
for holy holy holy is the Lord
and we have met him at his table
come Lord Jesus come
let us rise and feast with you
Michigan
shoulders slumped she stands at the edge of the dock
at the opposite shore her eyes gaze and she prays
that soon the morning mist will clear
for now she wipes her eyes and cries
and asks oh god how did it come to this
not expecting an answer
so it surprises her when one comes a sudden
as she feels the vibration of her phone
in slow motion she pulls it out even as
her eyes stay locked on the choppy waves
she stands tall and answers
hello?
Autumn Thoughts
’tis a delight to sit and dwell and wonder on all the wondrous things that have gone before. Sometimes it is easy to fill one’s time with little errands here and there and hither and yon. Yet sometimes I find it better to take a breath and breathe in deep and dwell on what lies before me before it’s of sudden gone. I talk in rhyme when I cannot bear to give into mundanity and let all my thoughts run in prose. Yet can there not be beauty in plain speaking and in a turn of phrase that may not have a counterpoint but simply shyly stands alone? I think so. But sometimes I’m afraid of plain speaking or perhaps it’s just that I’m worried that my thoughts are vapid and reflecting on my lack of inner fire. I know it’s not true yet still my dreams groan. Perhaps I feel if one peels back the layers of my metaphors and the billowing tulle of all my words they’ll find a shocking lack of insight and that I just prattle on and on to fake my worth. Maybe it’s silly that even now I can be so self-protective and even paranoid in my lines. Or maybe not? Maybe I just fear that one will look down their nose at me and sneer and say look at this pretense and pomposity – it’s nothing more than wind and lies. Yet still I write and yet still my thoughts tumble over themselves like so many eager puppies at the county fair. Perhaps out of my desire to create nothing great will ever emerge. That would be tragic, one would think. Yet maybe not. For in this desire I have to create beauty in an ordered chaos of rhythm and word, does that not point to something greater than my heart can truly comprehend? I hope that still with my feeble offerings I may kneel and serve. I wonder. Is it silly that I’ve written so long now without actually saying much of note? I will allow it, this once. Just ignore all the times I’ve done it before. I feel that if I’m harsh and overly critical enough of myself, you all will have sympathy on me and with a hand on my shoulder say there, there. He’s been hard enough on himself, poor fellow, and he sees that he has naught of worth. No need to pile on. He is only a brute consciousness after all.
But a glimmer in my eye testifies otherwise. I lay planks of rotted wood across the stream aplenty, I know. Might I lay one or two noble branches, artless in their dress. Maybe an indrawn breath will testify I’ve succeeded. For me, fool that I am, I’m impressed. The fire burns within, low and true. I walk across this brook and breathe deep of fall’s sweet melodies. See how the early evening light falls upon the path now. I forget all else but the strong sweet song that fills this meadow. And I press on to that which lies before.
Mineshaft
I wanted to dance down to the seashore and look at the moon lit path across the waves. Yet the sky was stormy and thus the moon was hid and so why bother I told myself. But sometimes it’s lovely to walk down the beach in the pouring rain. The tears from heaven testify to a greater love than one has ever known and if I cry no one needs to know. For truly in a day and age such as this sorrow seems to be written on every face and I cannot wait at a bus stop without hearing some sad tale. Is the testimony of the current moment different from all those moments that came before I wonder. Or is it just a fact that all the moments from the past have been piled up in just so a fashion and in a moment when a match has been lit and dropped the bonfire pours smoke towards heaven in living analogue for the ephemeral nature of our collective memory? I think this is close to the truth. And thus I read and write and spend far too much metaphorical ink attempting to memorialize the thoughts and dreams of a single specimen of individuality. For reading links me to the past and present cries of man in ways that pluck the heart strings of my soul and reminds me that my thoughts are not so solitary as I sometimes think. Yes I take pleasure at times in feeling unique in my mode of expressing how I feel. Reading the words of others shakes me up in a way that’s needed and show me that I am not that special after all. Well, I am special. But not at the expense of the beauty of my fellow brothers and sisters. Remember that, remember the sacred witness of my brother who walks past me on the sidewalk and that he too bears the imprint of the divine. Remember that, harken to the true nature of my sister who rings me up at the grocery store, that she too points up to heaven with the very fact of her existence on this plane. I write and I write and I write. Oh I can’t help but write as I feel I burn up when I am not and that these words that pour out of me may be silly posturing, mere leaves on the breeze, yet still they are mine and mine alone. Only one other holds my hand as I write, and his hand is a scarred one. The scars on his hand remind me of divine love. I tremble as I think that this reality we see now is only a shade of the true. Someday we will see in brighter colors and hear in more vivid tones. Someday we will sing in purer voices and as I think on this now I tremble imagining my someday home. I consider those who are my true family, not just those who bear the resemblance because we have a common creator, but those brothers and sisters true who confess the truth of life and death and our resurrected God and cling to that common hope that someday all shall be made new. Why do I sometimes break down in silent tears when I ponder what it is to cross the ford to the other side and read of those brothers and sisters who have done so before me crying in joy at what lies ahead. It is far better than anything here, as has been so often said. Not for the absence of the sorrow that is now ever present in this tainted world in which we live. That is a piece, but only a small one. Rather I look forward to a shared meal with the one who has never stopped holding my hand. One day some day soon I pray I will break bread and drink wine with the one who was broken and bled for the salvation of my soul. Imagine that! I will be with my Lord Jesus and he will hold me even as now he knows me and finally I can truly say I’m home. Some day. Until then, I’ll treasure these walks on the beach in the light of rising sun. When shall the day of consummation be? I do not know. Only one does. But for now I’ll write these words and seal them with a kiss. See how the clouds break. See how the gulls wheel across the sky.
Morning Jazz
I think I should post one more book review because well…why not right? And I shall finally be caught up! At least for the moment that is.
60. The Story of Christianity – Volume 1: The Early Church to the Dawn of the Reformation by Justo L. Gonzalez. Church history has been calling my name lately, especially with so much reading of various Christology works and pondering on the growth and development of Christian thought. I knew I would pull this from the shelf and I finally couldn’t resist. It’s been some time since I read this one – believe it was 2015 when I first read it. I appreciated it then, especially for the insight into church history and the many details that I had never heard of until I read this book. Rereading this one, I found myself a bit more aware and knowledgeable of the broad strokes, but still found myself both encouraged and fascinated as I read. Not at all a book that will bore you, I found this one a page turner and one that I eagerly sought to read whenever I had a moment! That may say more about me, who knows. Anyway! This book – while massive – still felt a tad underbaked at times. It’s really more of a survey, which I suppose makes sense. How else are you going to pack 1500 years of history into one volume? Still many chapters I wished for more details and more development and this really only piqued my interest to find more books on the various characters and chapters of history that you’ll find in this tome. But I suppose I shouldn’t quibble too much. I would call this a very suitable primer to Christian history and I’m very glad I read this. Already have volume 2 on my coffee table ready to begin!
Subway Dreams
Some book thoughts this Friday evening. Be well, my friends.
57. God The Son Incarnate by Stephen Wellum. A wonderful text on Christology, meaty enough for any theology nerd yet still quite readable for a layperson such as myself. This book took a while to get through, but it was never a chore or struggle. I much enjoyed this one and it was oh so good for my soul to reflect on the person of the Son and dwell on his beauties and glory. I appreciated the author starting this book with a survey of the history of Christology and analyzing the change of paradigms up to the present day and making it clear how our epistemology will affect how we understand the person of Christ. The author is very grounded in a biblical epistemology, which I’m sure will annoy the modern rationalists, yet I appreciate the author taking the time to delve into the importance of epistemology and then proceeding into the wonderful subject of the person of Christ, starting with the testimony of the Bible itself, then proceeding with the unfolding of our understanding of the the divine Word as we work through the church age (and the various Christological controversies that resulted in a more clear and vivid picture of Christ – his person and nature). I will most certainly not start discussing some of what I learned. Suffice it to say it was extremely interesting, enabled me to have a better understanding of the history of Christology, and aided me in better acquainting myself with the orthodox understanding of who Christ is. I did not find anything to disagree with, but I did at times face statements and perspectives that were difficult to comprehend. I would be lying if I said I perfectly understood this subject (as I think anyone would). I love this book because it aided in my daily devotion and meditation on Christ and pointed me further and deeper into my worship of the eternal Son. All praise be to God!! It also for certain helped me add more books to my reading list, though I was gratified to see one that I have recently read – Macleod’s “Person of Christ” quoted myriads of times. I do believe Macleod’s book is simply phenomenal and one I enjoyed more for the richness of its language, even if it isn’t quite as dense or detailed as this tome. Anyway, I stray. Just know that this book is worth the price of admission if you are at all interested in the orthodox understanding of who Christ is or simply seeking to read a book that will encourage your soul as you meditate on the glories of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ. This is a beautiful book.
58. Scott Pilgrim’s Precious Little Life – Vol 1 by Bryan Lee O’Malley. Sometimes you just need a break from a dense and difficult work and so you turn to an easy and entertaining graphic novel. And Scott Pilgrim fits the bill. I enjoyed this re-read, as simple and silly as it is! Of course it helps having the movie in the back of my mind at all times, as I visualize that and hear the line readings in my head. This is nothing serious or insightful, just pure fun. And sometimes that’s ok.
59. Scott Pilgrim vs. the World – Vol 2 by Bryan Lee O’Malley. In the mood to continue my reacquaintance with Scott, I heartily enjoyed this read, especially because it delves into Scott’s past and gives a bit of his backstory (like his past with Kim!!). Also some great Knives bits and even a fun recipe and cooking interlude! I like this one. And question. Is it weird that I think Ramona is not the most interesting girl in this book? Or…even the second most interesting girl? For some reason, Kim and Knives were much more fascinating in this one. (and now I think ahead to Vol 3, where a certain Natalie V enters the scene). Anyway, this one was a fun quick read!
