109 short choppy sentences

The votes were cast. The verdict was read. No one was happy.

An effect of the great compromise that is democracy. Both sides came in marginally under the required majority. An impasse was unsatisfactory. A fraction of the cells were too spineless to vote either way. Why should everyone suffer, because of the indecisiveness of so few?

For the first time in 4 million years, the cornucopia of DNA forgot where they came from. It was time to take action regardless of the vote. One group was in favour of doing nothing. The other in favour of wiping out the humans.

the end of an era

Yes it's true, I'm afraid to say. I'm too busy to maintain heaps and heaps of blogs, so with great sadness I bid a fond farewell to iLoren. You we're always there for me you little ripper. On to bigger and better things then eh. Everything that would have been posted there will now be here yada yada yada. I will still document the unlikely tale of my journey from ignoble slumdog wretch to impossibly fantastic geriatric league guy, until I change my mind and decide to do something else again.

guess what's back? The ever-lovable work out log, for your reading pleasure:

we're in season, it's maintenance time
front squat 100*5
a2g back squat 120*3,2
hang clean 60*5
clean 60*7,70*2 trickier than it looks, and it looks pretty dang tricky

Bonus league update
I curse the heavens. I didn't score again. In other news we won 38-10 against Burleigh. Hurrah.

why do I keep writing crap

"All of us learn to write in the second grade. Most of us go on to greater things."
-- Bobby Knight

My name is Loren Hopkins and I've been writing semi-consistently for almost one year. It's time to take a fearless moral inventory of my condition.  What is best in life? To destroy your enemies, drive them before you and hear the lamentations of the women, keeps you satisfied for only so long. I feel like I need something else. 

Spread across this tiny portion of cyber space are the esoteric branches of my thought. A tangle of broken links, dead blogs and erratic updates, yet still I persist. The Zero Readers look on and nod reassuringly, although I'm certain that they're only humouring me. Never encourage an awoken giant. 

Aristotle decided long ago that the core desire of every man and woman is happiness. Fine. Who am I to argue. I'll take your happiness and raise you one billion dollars. Just a thought experiment. I see your chips are still on the table. Happiness wins again. Damn you Aristotle.

Why writing? For nothing more or less than it's own sake. Exorcise my best-selling-author desires, the decadent hunger for sycophantic groupies. Sure, I'll accept them gladly when the time comes, but they are not the reason. The simple zen-like joy of directing my attention to a chosen point, my point is. Let the flow begin...er continue. Autotelic it is or I am.

I will not progress beyond the basic educational grasp of a child. I can live with this. I will wade through unexplored marshes untill I discover the tacit secrets of my field. I will write my happiness one word at a time if it kills me. Thank you. Thank you very much.

The BoM: Title page, paragraph 2

"An abridgment taken from the Book of Ether also, which is a record of the people of Jared, who were scattered at the time the Lord confounded the language of the people, when they were building a tower to get to heaven—Which is to show unto the remnant of the House of Israel what great things the Lord hath done for their fathers; and that they may know the covenants of the Lord, that they are not cast off forever—And also to the convincing of the Jew and Gentile that Jesus is the Christ, the Eternal God, manifesting himself unto all nations—And now, if there are faults they are the mistakes of men; wherefore, condemn not the things of God, that ye may be found spotless at the judgment-seat of Christ." -- Moroni or Mormon


Hold the phone there's a third group that make an appearance, the people of Jared, an off-shoot of the famed tower of Babel debacle. We get a light sprinkling of their dealings with God and each other. Take a look at the table of contents, and unless my math is wrong which is often the case, of the 531 pages in the BoM, 31 are dedicated to the Book of Ether (which is an abridged record of said peoples' history). That's roughly 5 percent, not the largest morsel on offer, but still important enough to garner a special mention on the title page and hopefully tasty all the same.

The account of the people of Jared then, no matter how sparse, requires special consideration, then again so does the entirety of the BoM as the final sentences of this paragraph goes on to explain. You've got to love the vagaries of the English language "which is to show" (highlighted above) functions as an indexical here and like all bad indexicals it's not immediately obvious what it is referring to (or maybe I'm just being obtuse). It could mean that the record of the people of Jared, or the confusion of languages at the tower of babel, but most likely that the record which constitutes the Book of Mormon is or was written to illustrate that Jesus is God (an interesting idea that will be explored in another post) and the anointed of God and that He will manifest this fact to the world.

I am therefore left to use the discernible intent of the author as the lens by which I go about my (for lack of a better word) deconstruction/commentary/annotation of the BoM. Moroni's purpose was to show the divinity of Jesus and His interactions with the people in the BoM. Lets see where that takes us.

BoM title page 1.1 dead prophets complex

There was a time when giants walked the earth and men lived close to a thousand years. Those days are gone. Literalists may see this as a natural consequence of a fallen world. There are alternative scientific explanations, of course, for why the aforesaid may or may not have occurred, but lets not get ahead of ourselves. The supernatural displays of power in the bible are legion, take for instance the Hebrews who were delivered out of Egypt by Moses on the back end of a series of miracles sponsored by God. Was the record that made it down to us documented in "real time" or was it simply the product of Mythic Imagination? In other words was the parting of the Red Sea a current event (something that could be recorded for the local news if they had cameras back then) or was it more of a dream time story. The answer is left to the faith and disposition of the reader.

To keep things interesting let's say you opt for: it's true. A bold move. In my heart of hearts I like to think so too. The difficulty is that nobody sees, as far as we are aware, the frequent violations of the laws of nature in our modern/post-modern world on the grand scale that they did in ancient times. Why the disparity in Acts of God between then and now? A number of factors could account for this (remembering that we're assuming the miracles reported happened):

• This is a sign seeking and/or adulterous generation
• The collective level of faith today is insufficient to draw upon the powers of heaven
• Our faith is so strong that we don't need miracles as often anymore (it always seems like a cop out when people tell me this)

Lets explore each...

next: in 1.2 the contextual faith of groups, myth: a game of bait and switch (sacred then crazy now), no faith=no miracles.

0108 moon chunks (or moon shower)

The moon snorted. 

Its lower lip trembled.

One day the moon dreamed of a magical lasso pulling it toward earth, anchored by a stoic looking cowboy, with gold plated chaps and a Louis Vuitton emblazoned satchel. It was one of those uncannily vivid dreams that seems too real to let go, and as it fades you feel as if you have lost a tiny, happy part of yourself. The moon felt that way now, its prize had been swallowed by a virulent type of space. The climax of a lost dream stolen, because you awake before reaching the best part. 

The moon erupted ancient curdled cheese from it ears and began to sob.

***

Premnath was on his way home. Moisture fell from the sky. Rain? he wondered, but when he looked up there were no clouds.

107 spills and thrills

Ditie launched herself into the space formerly occupied by Bilix, catching the toilet bowl accidently with her leg, stumbling in the process. She managed to realign her centre of gravity in time to prevent certain disaster, then allowed herself a brief bout of relief at no one having witnessed her lack of co-ordination. "They really are portals!"

***

In an unpleasent place at the edge of nowhere...

Brandon gathered himself, the under-sized over-ugly, yet still humaniod-like creature edged a little closer to him. It extended its hand. Brandon tried not to flinch. "I'm Bilix, you big sod. What's your name?"

BoM: title page 2, paragrah 1

I sit at my computer, do I really want to be doing this? I'm working Tabula rasa, zen mind/beginners mind. Still I indulge my past memory of the text ever so slightly. Starting from a complete blank is impossible, I know English after all, and the Book of Mormon is written in English after a fashion. Often, this will not be fun, this will be a wrestle. Me as Jacob, the BoM as the angel,  God as Vince McMahon. O.K. deep breath, "Oh God, if there is a God, and if thou are God wilt thou make thyeslf known unto me." The exegesis begins.

This is the Nephites abbreviated love (lets say Philos or maybe even Agape love) letter to the Lamanites. Both 'ites' are a portion of left overs from possibly the Diaspora, but definitely the house of Israel. The Nephites generosity doesn't stop with the Lamanites though, they cc in the Jews and Gentiles as well, covering just about everyone. I'm concerned with the scalability of distribution. The authors' intent when writing was for everyone to have a copy, every author who's ever lived has probably desired the same thing for their work, the question is how? Moroni exhibited a mansized portion of faith by hiding the record away and leaving the rest in God's hands. The purpose for writing aside from the above is that to do so was a commandment (that is, God-delivered-instructions that were taken seriously in ancient times),  the actual act of writing was directed by the spirit of prophecy and of revelation. It's contents then were constructed with future consumption in mind, prophecy lends itself to future prediction I suppose. The target audience was but a distant imagining, within the logic bubble that Moroni was operating in trust in the end game of the Lord was paramount. He left the plates in their hiding place assured that one day a Gentile, led by the same spirit which guided Moroni, would be directed to the record and interpret them on behalf of all those that they were intended for. 

At a Glance

• Written by Nephites
• For Lamanites, Jews and Gentiles (everyone)
• Writing was a commandment
• Writing was influenced by the spirit of prophecy and revelation
• Hidden by Moroni
• With the hope that one day the Gentiles would find them and interpret them by God's power

If I was reading this for the first time I would ask who/what are the Nephites and Lamanites and Jews and Gentiles and any of the bullet point subjects above? But that's enough for today.

106 goodbye to sanity

Deborah woman of the wood, misguided city slicker. The creatures scuttle in their own way and she runs in bare feet without abandoned high heels. A conglomeration of concerns crash down between her ears. Where is she, what has she done? Awareness fades into disequilibrium. I was a young girl once, stay at home moum's were angry. Does any of it matter now?

the life and death of comics

This is my review of Eisner/Miller by Will Eisner and Frank Miller...

Two comic book veterans share their opinions about the state of the medium, its legacy and future. Before I go any further, Frank Miller what did you do to Eisner's Spirit (may he rest in peace)?!? Why?!? The great Frank Miller, the revolutionary who gave us the Dark Knight Returns, Martha Washington and Sin City; I've been concerned ever since the unmitigated crapfest that was the Dark Knight Returns Again or some such. Self-parody is marginally excusable after prolonged productivity at peak levels, sure inspiration dries up after a while I understand, but really, did you have to go and kill Eisner's baby? I swear he'd be doing cartwheels in his grave over that monstrosity.

As I was saying this book is a conversation between these two luminaries and it makes for fascinating easy reading, I almost even regained a little more respect for Miller after hearing what he had to say for himself (he doesn't address any of my rant questions from above, he just has an interesting take on comics in society). Over 50 years old, he still fancies himself a rebel and condemns the self-loathing of the industry as a whole. It's always apologizing for itself and it doesn't need to. Eisner speaks with the quiet dignified wisdom that only age can bring, he is grateful to have had a part in pioneering comics and feels (or felt) that there is still potential for comics in the future.

This is where we part ways. I love comics. Always have. Every fanboy hopes that comics wont become the next poetry or jazz. Unfortunately it already is. The glory days numbers wise are long gone. Comics are the word processors of story telling, remember those? Not quite a computer, not quite a type writer, a hybrid of both which is now completely redundant. Comics: Not quite prose, not quite movies, just a dirty ghetto hybrid. Frank Miller probably disagrees. But if newspapers can't survive, what hope do comics have? Don't get me wrong there will always be comics, but they're always going to be niche. I for one can live with that (it seems like niche is the new broad-appeal anyway). Hopefully the webcomics movement can keep the dream alive. Long live comics.

The skinny: super readable, 4 stars.

That is all...

BoM: The title page 1

"I wish to mention here that the title-page of the Book of Mormon is a literal translation, taken from the very last leaf, on the left hand side of the collection or book of plates, which contained the record which has been translated; …and that said title-page is not…a modern composition, either of mine or of any other man who has lived or does live in this generation" -- Joseph Smith (HC 1:71.). 

The Book of Mormon has been a source of controversy since before it was even made available for sale back in 1830. There are numerous theories which attempt to explain its origin. Did Sydney Rigdon help Joseph write it? Did Joseph fabricate the entire thing, pulling it figuratively out of a hat while literally doing the same? Did he just plain plagiarize its content, borrowing heavily from the Old Testament, the contemporary text, The View of the Hebrews, and/or others? Ask the man himself and he would have told you that he was lead to a collection of plates, buried in the side of hill near his home in Palmyra New York, by an angel named Moroni, and that those plates were translated into what we know as the Book of Mormon today (with a thousand or so minor changes). 

As origin stories go it is certainly fantastical, and skepticism is understandable. For those who believe in the bible, dismissing the BoM because of the miraculous circumstances surrounding its  translation/creation are probably less warranted. There were plenty of angels floating around during biblical times, why can't they do the same now? Before I expertly eviscerate any further arguments against the truth claims of the Book of Mormon I will move on to the text itself which is the whole point of this study anyway, leaving the apologetics to more qualified organisations and individuals, the attacks are too vast and varied to address in this post. Suffice it to say, wow, an angel and gold plates, you just don't see that kind of thing everyday. 

The angel in question is the resurrected version of the final contributor and assistant compiler of the Book of Mormon: Moroni himself, who was the son of the book's name sake, one Mormon of ancient America. Let's get into what Mormon says the Book of Mormon is about, examining the title page: The Book of Mormon's mission statement, if you will...

105 an inconvenient truth

"Esteemed future potential saviours of the world. No pressure. They are mobilising right now. Who they are and how they operate is beyond the scope of our current intelligence. What I can tell you is this, that there has been a maximum security breach in the collective imagination of planet earth. Do sheep dream of unelectric androids? Worse, but today's predicament rests on no less disturbing premises. Entities strongly influenced by the decade that you know as the 1980's are closing in on your city just as quickly as its boundaries are expanding and the frogs are reproducing. We need the big guy?" said Davis

Melanie, Erhard, and Koopa/Daly looked around. No big guy. 

"Who, Brandon?" asked Melanie, looking perplexed.

"Yes. If you want to slow the progress of this movement, find him. I've tried, but I missed him when I picked you all up. He was supposed to be there. He wrote me and perhaps some of the miscreants that will inevitably cause a great deal of trouble for you. I am a sentinel of sanity and I would love to help, but I have my own problems to worry about, and my next appointment is in 15 minutes. Good luck and Goodbye."

blogging the BoM

Here's how it is. Every general conference or so we are encouraged to do three basic things everyday: Study, pray, and serve. Sure we could tie everything up neatly in the large unwieldy bow that is KTC (Keep The Commandments), but if we ever want to get anywhere we need to rip that parcel open and start unpacking what we mean; take one step out from KTC toward specificity and we have what those Commandments are: Love God, Love others, and Love ourselves. Love is not the easiest thing to qualify on earth, it can get irrational and complicated, so it's nice that we're given simple practices to keep us in the right state day-to-day (hopefully) to start spreading the love like purple dinosaurs. 

Can it really be that simple? Do those three basics and everything starts falling into place? I don't know. I've rarely sustained all three together for prolonged periods of time. Service: Does self-serving count? Prayer: do it most days, but I allow myself to get too mechanical too often.

I'll hold off discussing these two for now (and dream of tomorrows that may never come), lets talk sticks. The scriptures are meant to give us direction not just by what they say, but by opening us up to the promptings of the spirit. It's some obedience thing right. IF you study the scrips, THEN you get the spirit. Sounds like a fair trade.

All told that gives us well over 2000 pages to chose from. That's a lot of light reading. Where to start? Talk to most modern Apostles and they'd recommend the Book of Mormon. If called upon to rank the canon in order of most interesting to least interesting to read, my list would look something like this:

1. The Old Testament
2. The Doctrine and Covenants
3. The New Testament
4. The Pearl of Great Price
5. The Book of Mormon

For some reason I've never been super excited to read the BoM (well I don't really get excited about scripture study in general, but I have my moments, the OT gets me going sometimes  and tops the list because some of it is just so bizarre). Recently I came across an interview on NPR with David Plotz, semi-practicing Jew, who'd lost touch with the Good Book. After incidentally encountering the tale of Dinah's rape and her Brothers reaction at his cousins bat mitzvah, he decided that there was a lot he didn't know about the Bible and subsequently went on to blog about his adventure of reading every word (which is now a book). 

What a brilliant idea. After years of going through the motions in my scripture study, I think I'll follow David Plotz's lead and blog my study of the Book of Mormon (and maybe even the Old Testament). Heaven help us.  Making religion real for me, that's what it's all about, not just empty ceremony, not that ceremony is necessarily empty, it's just how I respond to it often.

Check out A. J. Jacobs in the video above, he's taken things to the next level by actually doing what the Bible says. I'm not quite ready to leap into an entire year or even an entire month yet of complete dedication by strict obedience. I'll start reading consistently, then I'll worry about living the stuff. Still I can't help but be inspired by these men, it's amazing what a little internet surfing can do for you spiritually. 

0104 the big guy's watching

"Captain?"

Captain was in the in the middle of waxing quasi-intellectual about a trivial topic that seemed important at the time.

"Roger, can't you see I'm busy here?"

His spellbound captive audience all nodded furiously in agreement. Yes very busy, no time for light weight juniors. No time at all.

"CAPTAIN." Roger insisted, "I think you better take a look at this." The 'open-sesame' of underlings, if that line didn't work nothing would. 

Captain turned around with a snarl "Very well Roger, this better be good." 

They marched into a monitoring room where Captain was greeted by the worst crisis of his career. A girlish cry of profound terror did not escape his throat. His steel wool insides had collected considerable amounts of grit over the course of his stewardship. It would take more then the fabric of reality unraveling to elicit more than a groan out of him. 

He groaned a terrible groan. And then..."Roger, this looks like a job for the reality police! You're working overtime tonight kid." With that he marched out, slammed the door and returned to the adoring crowd.

creation phase 2

In phase 1 (see below) I decided that creativity is beyond neccesity. It is a contingency. It is a choice.

Do you want to live forever? -- Valeria (from Conan the Barbarian)

In this post I decide that I will devote my life to something utterly unnecessary. I will become the first cause in a microcosm of the universe: my own little world. Taking things that are happy to continue along there own deterministic path and delicately negotiating with them, facilitating their change from one thing to another. Matter cannot be created or destroyed it can only be transformed. Alan Moore (of Watchman fame -- He wrote the comic, which is way better than the movie -- for fun check out this article comparing Dr. Manhattan to the Mormon conception of God) once said: attempt only the impossible. How does becoming a God sound? I'll start small and work my way up: write, draw, program, be amazing. It's all optional including Eternal life. Do I want to live forever? Yes please. The hero's journey begins now.

feel at home among the dead

This is my review of Neil Gaiman's The Grave Yard Book...

"It is going to take more than just a couple of good-hearted souls to raise this child, It will ... take a graveyard." 

While training myself to read fiction I've come across a couple of Gaiman's books in passing. There was the award-record-smashing American Gods which attained elite levels of coolness and who can forget the adorable "adult" fairy story medley: Stardust. I shamefully admit that although a comic book fan, I've never read Sandman. Totally unacceptable behaviour, to be remedied in short order. That said, add The Grave Yard Book to my list of consumed Gaiman greatness. It is the story of Nobody Owens a child whose parents are murdered in the first few pages, the rest is his being brought up by the spirits of the dead at the local grave yard (hence the name of the book). Growing pains for Bod (Nobody's nick-name) on the surface are different in kind and not degree from the standard, nevertheless there are familiar paths still trod by the precocious lad: learning to read, finding food and such; all of which present challenges for the inhabitants of the grave yard, who lack corporeal bits, requiring interesting solutions to implement Bod's education. For me the best, or at least, the most touching parts of the tale are Bod's interactions with Elizabeth Hempstock. 

The Skinny: I liked his other books better, but I was trying to learn to speed read with this so I may have lost out on a little of the magic along the way. Plus, Neil held off writing this for 20 years until he thought his skills were equal to the task and he's been nominated for yet another Hugo for the work, so what do I know? Plenty: 3 star reading rating fo sho yo. 

P.S. Too many unanswered questions, but maybe that was the point.

...That is all

Jesus spotted in home made cookie

"A lot of Christians wear crosses around their necks. Do you think when Jesus comes back he's gonna want to see a [censored] cross ever again? " --Bill Hicks 

Just in time for Easter: crucified Jesus cookie cutters. This may be taking transubstantiation just a little too far.

0103 today I will be with you in paradise

I left the oven on!

Brandon sat up. Salt flavoured water escaped his lips. His apartment could be burning down as he sat there dribbling in the middle of...

Where am I !?

Four things immediately sprung to mind, each competing tenaciously for attention. The oven's on, wasn't yet ready to give up pole position; it was followed closely by Melanie's trapped in a rubbish bin and only I can save her (except he was here and she was not); I almost drowned, which explained the water balloon feeling in the pit of his lungs; and finally: but didn't I die already? This last question came closest to answering the first. Answering a question with a question, it was all getting very philosophical, but the deep contemplation was far from over.

"Is this heaven !?!"

An unsightly creature strolled up to the blubbering mess that was Brandon. It seemed to occupy an uncomfortable level of height that couldn't  exactly be described as dwarfism, but was still diminutive enough as to certainly prohibit it from participating in most of the rides at Disneyland. Its grotesque visage was so abhorrent that to experience it was almost sublime. It was so ugly that it was in a strange way beautiful. 

Heaven Brandon? No. Not exactly.

0102 once wasn't enough

Everywhere you looked there was the obvious proliferation of frogs. Not so obvious was the subtle movement of fashion toward 1980's style sensibilities.  Hair became slightly bigger, leg warmers began showing up, chandelier-earrings spiked in sales, androgynousness started looking  more attractive on both sides. 

Chon pulled out a fat Cuban, lit up, and bellowed smoke out into the evening air like a freight train signalling its oncoming course. He grinned a gorilla faced, or possibly chimpanzee faced grin. Turns out someone noticed the old trend recycling itself.

"Let's t(d)o it." he said, tramping down mystery mountain on the way to Aspiere. Everything was going according to plan.

0101 how to name babies

As far as he could (or liked to) remember everyone used to call him Sniper. He found this to be as accurate as he was and so it stuck. There was his so called "real name" before that of course, but it had never really excited him. When his parents would call, the only emotion that their protracted and obstinate beckonings produced in him was utter boredom.

When naming someone (excepting persons of pure evil who have their own naming conventions), you pick something that you wouldn't mind being called yourself or just something that for whatever reason takes your fancy, the rationale being that at least you'll be able to designate this child from that especially in the case of twins. Sniper liked the practicality of a good descriptive name, if he had the time or the inclination he'd legally change his, as it was the jurisdiction of both federal and natural law held no sway over his current state of existence.

Naming the old fashioned way was unsatisfying in that it was so haphazard. How many children in the history of the world had names that were intentionally or unintentionally category mistakes? Apple? Blanket? Steppenwolf? The limitless list was beyond preposterous. With this child there would be no such error. Names should convey purpose. There should be no mistake about the intended target. Sniper corralled the tiny infant in his arms.

"I will call you Head. A wonderful name."

One day Head's head would be harvested to replace Sniper's. It was only fair, after all Sniper would go through all the trouble of raising the young tike. He whistled as he stepped out into the stereotypical forest, with its predictable trees everywhere, following the path of the Mayor who'd earlier caught him shooting babies from the sky. Head would be hungry soon and Sniper lacked the necessary equipment to see to all his young squires needs, perhaps the Mayor would be kind enough to help out.

What a strange world it was. Sniper headless and breastless, missing parts vital to survival. Why do we come into the world so ill equipped and unprepared for the perilous challenges we're destined to face? If he had a head he would have shook it in disbelief.

A few feet behind him two baby girls cried, if they had developed the necessary grasp of language they would have no doubt wondered the same thing Sniper had only seconds before. He'd shot them down and as fate would have it, although he entertained the thought of mammary glands he didn't like the idea of one day having a female head, so he left the infant girls to the mercy of the generic forest.

0100

Galahad turned away from Simon, soap opera style, and began to tell his story.

"Camelot was falling apart in many ways. Arthur had Excalibur still, but had perhaps lost the heart of his queen by that time. Who could resist the good looks of a young upstart with perfect locks and a lance so robust as to make any dragon quiver in fear and every knight green with envy. Sorry Tommy."*In a patronising whisper*"Tommy's a little sensitive about Lances. Long story."

Tommy's eyes burned with the intensity of a thousand furies, which helped to brighten up the place a little bit. The illumination didn't ebb or flow in response to Galahad's words in any notable way, he just had really bright eyes.

"If you could have seen them, oh the ecstasy of it all. Young love. I remember a time when I fell in love once. Once isn't enough though, but what was I saying, ah yes that blasted cup and that *&%^$&!@ moon. With the kingdom in shambles we set off in search of the one item that could definitively restore order to all our lives: the divine cup of our Lord. Little did I know how that journey would change my life. Literally. Look at me, I'm (regrettably) still drawing breath, the mind boggles..."

099

The left-behind shrapnel looked out of place on the toilet rim.

"This type of careless detritus, must stop!" Ditie insisted. To her, toilet seats held a place of unusual nostalgic romance. Ceramic halo's she'd call them.

ribit, ribit.

Bilix looked equally incensed at the unfortunate turn of events, but this may have been because he knew who'd be volunteered to clean everything up. "If he's a tree, or half at least, why do you think he needs to, you know, relieve himself?"

"Ever get the feeling you've answered your own question by asking a dumb one? He's half Indian too you know, he eats stuff and craps it out!"

Don't ever mess with Ditie's toilet.

"Eating stuff," Bilix snapped his fingers, "that gives me an idea."

"I'm sure it can wait till after you've cleaned up."

Bilix looked down cast "But Ditie, the frog problem..."

"Please babe it's been a long night, can you just take care of this little thing for me. I'm the one with the hard job. I'm going to have to kill Premnath when he gets home."

Bilix looked more down cast. He tried to force a smile but it was overwhelmed on the way to his face resulting in a strange muscle spasm that looked like a nervous twitch. Babe? When did this happen? Not since the last time? But it had been eons since they? And still he couldn't muster enough gumption to say no.

He dutifully stepped over to the collection of twigs and leaves left around the rim, mummy wrapped his hand with a generous portion of 2ply and helped the offending detritus into the bowl.

"I like Premnath, and don't you think the frogs are more annoying than his molting? I think we can get rid of --"

When the tree bits made contact with the water a beam of Neapolitan flavoured light blasted out of the bowl enshrouding Bilix. Caught off guard his mouth gaped open in astonishment. Emm my favourite he thought.

"Bilix!" Ditie screamed.

When the light retired to its place of origin Bilix had vanished.

pop gun war by Farel Dalrymple

This is my review of pop gun war...

Brilliant, Surreal, Beautiful!

Giant dwarfs, air swimming and breathing fish, African-American make-shift angels. An unparalleled urban fantasy that defies description. This is one of those titles that can't be explained. You just need to experience it.

That is all.

creation phase 1

We are a contingent part of reality, there is nothing that necessitates our being here. Looking from a materialist perspective the universe is as it is purely by chance. The conditions happen to be balanced in a way that allows for the possibility of life, so we shouldn't be overly astounded at the fact that life exists. Here's were the contingent part comes in, there are an infinite number of ways that the universe could have organized itself after the big bang, and theoretically speaking these variations on the theme likely exist in the quantum foam somewhere. We lucked out, and popped up in one where the Anthropic principle is in operation, it's good to be alive.

Similarly, in the spiritual sphere, we are not here out of strict necessity - for starters we could have chosen not to come. God by definition is perfect, in other words whole, which means in some sense that he didn't need to create us, because he doesn't need anything. He doesn't want for anything, he just is. Creation (and this is a big call, I know) consequently is a choice, not an obligation.

I used to look at the arts and wonder what they're for. Examined through a harsh lens they don't seem to serve any practical purpose (in the Darwinian sense). Sure, musicians and artists in the right context seem to pull a lot of girls, but I'm not sure this is a result of evolutionary fitness, more a by-product of certain cultural expectations and values (and sometimes a contrarian interaction with them). But where does culture come from and where is it going? It creates order, it creates meaning, and art, when it comes down to it is a huge contributor to culture creation. So all though it seems at first blush to be self-indulgent fluff perhaps (and little more), while not vital to our physical survival it still serves a human or consciousness affirming purpose: Art often prompts us to contemplate life the universe and everything, no small task. It is the result of creativity courtesy of our initial creation and I like it.

Try some at your own risk.

TBC soon

098

The Bald Man strapped himself into a small escape pod with Canada and Octabug in tow. The walls were coming down around them, the metallic structure was folding like so many nylon sheets that Canada used to help her mother with, as the pod blasted out to temporary safety. She expected that it had been built of sturdier stuff, the way it collapsed had her almost thinking that she could have broken free from her shackles any moment if she'd only exerted a glimmer of effort. Encouraged by the thought she attempted to circumvent her current restraint, but found that her belt was securely fastened.

The Bald Man looked at her and grinned "They found me, but they still couldn't stop me. I can't be stopped. That's something you'll learn very quickly."

Canada recalled that her captor had in fact been stopped mid-soliloquy when whatever it was attacked, but she didn't call him on it, she was more interested in what it was he was saying when the unknown enemy interpolated.

"What happened back there?"

"Always inquisitive aren't you?"

"You almost got me killed. I think I have a right to know."

A loud clang reverberated through the ship as if some one were using its hull as a gong. Greens and browns flashed across the monitor display. Octabug sprung to the dashboard and began working away furiously. The pod zigzagged multiple times in what Canada guessed were evasive maneuvers, and felt would soon result in motion sickness.

The bald man Grimaced."That my dear, was the Other." He didn't even bother to look at her when he spoke.

"OK, that doesn't help very much. Are they what we're saving the world from?" she said in a half-mocking tone.

"You are wise beyond your years, young lady. It is indeed."

"And you're leading the charge?"

"Right again."

Canada looked away from The Bald Man, mirroring his communication style. "We've got no hope then."

the curious case of 'reliance' in LDS theology

From the marriam webster online dictionary>>
re·ly
Pronunciation: \ri-ˈlī\
Function: intransitive verb

1 : to be dependent
2 : to have confidence based on experience

I rely on the merits of him who is mighty save. And when I say "rely" I mean so in a highly specialized way. After a number of pioneers had been rescued from the harsh winter conditions of the unforgiving American plains, Brigham young told the already established saints that all the prayers and faith in the world wouldn't help the suffering (much), they didn't need prayers they needed potatoes and other temporal necessities, or something to that effect. As the saying goes God helps those who help themselves and in select cases others intervene on God's behalf in the lives of those who try to live right by him. In this world most stuff is up to humans.

When we say we rely on God, it's not the same as saying that I'm relying on Joe Blogs to pay me today that 20 bucks he owes me from last week, I think what we're saying, when we're on top of our game anyway, is that I'm going to do what I think is right, and God gave me this sense of distinguishing between right and wrong, so hopefully this decision and action will help me on my way back to him. In other words reliance on God doesn't place the responsibility for our destiny on his shoulders, we're not the US Congress handing our powers all over to the Executive branch, in crisis we need to take responsibility for our own bailout. I have a feeling that God interferes in human affairs as little as possible, partly because so little has been seen of him lately or even ever. It is safe to say that we can expect few Deus Ex Machina moments. He put the wheels in motion, and now he's watching them turn making minor adjustments as needed, any major adjustments need to be handled by us. In the gospel rely=DIY.

note: this post is talking about life in a temporal sense, reliance obviously extends into the eternities with the effects of the atonement etc.

I am writing, hear me roar

For a year, Louise Doughty, a plucky author from England, wrote a column for the Daily Telegraph called: A Novel in a Year. Which gave advice on how to... you can probably guess. Well many parts of that column have now been magicked into a book. I have a copy, courtesy of the local library, and will be doing some of the exercises for the sake of fine art and debauchery.

Exercise 1
Write one (or more) sentence(s) that begin(s) with: "The day after my eighth birthday, my father told me..."

Here are my efforts so far:

1.1 The day after my eighth birthday my father told me he'd be back soon. I'm still waiting.

1.2 The day after my eighth birthday my father told me that the old room under the stairs had other uses of which up to that point, I had been unaware.

1.3 The day after my eighth birthday my father told me that girls were a horrible inconvenience. I was subsequently shipped off to the nearest monastery.

1.4 The day after my eighth birthday my father told me that onions were a suitable side dish, but as a main course they were decidedly undesirable. He looked me in the eye, clasping my shoulders with a grip that betrayed concern and despair all at the same time "Son in the garden of life you can't ever hope to be anything more than an onion." I've had bad breath ever since.

1.5 The day after my eighth birthday my father told me that demons were real and that God was dead. He later died of syphilis.

1.6 The day after my eighth birthday my father told me that he was me come back from a future timeline to save humanity and that he had accidentally sired him/myself along the way.

1.7 The day after my eighth birthday my father told me that everything was going to be fine. After that I lost my memory. Sorry what was I saying?

1.8 The day after my eighth birthday my father told me that in another time and another place things would have been different. This somehow made me think the thought: the colour blue is blue. I now only speak in tautologies. Or I don't.

As a future safe writer (I have it on good authority from the imagined future that I've concocted in my brain, that I will very shortly be a rich and famous writer. What? My whimsical forays into the imaginary realm don't actually guarantee success? Oh, I see) I thought this kind of frivolous exercise would extend far beneath my laudable wordsmithy skills, but I'm a generous sort and decided to venture into Doughty's world, sight unseen. What can I say? I was pleasantly surprised. Feel free to give this a go. It's fun :) :( :

Cujo = Stephen King what were you on?

Apparently he was snorting multiple lines of cocaine around the time of writing this novel. Seriously. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Well, that last statement is probably debatable (he's living clean now, good for you Stephen). What isn't debatable is that Mr. King is one of the most popular authors on earth, and I've taken it upon myself as a newly dedicated disciple of all things writing to find out why (and how). King has stated that his preferred formula for writing is to get a character or two throw them (usually in slow motion) into a difficult situation and watch as they try to squirm their way out of it. The conflated series of coincidences that conspire together to bring about the "I just put my characters up a tree and now I'm throwing rocks at them" moment in this story are worthy of a Dickens protagonist, which is somewhat fitting seen as King has been hailed as the Dickens of our generation.

The Story pulls you in from the outset, with a folkloric intro that's an insightful piece about how bogeyman stories come into being. Frank Dodd a psycho-cop has just gone on a killing spree in Castle Rock, Maine, he being one of his own victims. I really liked this (the intro that is, the rampaging cop I'm neither here or there about, until near the end of the book that is). After the preamble we get in to the story proper and it's all setup, 100 pages worth, not that I'm complaining, this was the best part of the book. We've got two families one red-neck, the Cambers, and one (upper) middle-class, The Trentons, and a massive St. Bernard, the title's namesake: Cujo. Just how and why Diana, and her son Tad Trenton come to be trapped in a bomb of a pinto at the Camber's house, with a literally rabid Cujo taking up a vigil outside, waiting to tear the Mother and son combo limb from limb, needs to be read to be believed. King is a genius at capturing human moments, I loved the sub-plots: the caught in infidelity angle, the advertising account drama, the proletariat hubbubs turning their noses up at bourgeoisie ways. He even captured canine moments well, which was novel and intriguing. We got frontal-lobe seats in Cujo's brain. Nailed it.

Unfortunately once Cujo begins stalking our Heroine and the Tadster, this page turner like Diana's plodding pinto starts to run out of juice. They say the end is in the beginning, but that isn't in evidence here. The supernatural elements in the story go absolutely nowhere. Cujo is either possessed by the disembodied spirit of Frank Dodd (hinted at near the beginning) or he is the unfortunate victim of a rabid bat bite. The author clearly tells us which of these scenario's is the case leaving me to wonder why the extremely nebulous connection between Dodd and the dog is even suggested. This was a major point of weak-sauce in the book. Moving on, the Dog Vs. (Wo)man plot eventually resolves itself; I won't ruin the end for you, except to say that it ruined the book for me. Stephen those must have been some dark days for you my brother, because this excrement of an ending is just cruel.

The Skinny: Well written, but not what I'd hoped for. A so solid crew score of three and a half stars.

P.S. You may have noticed, I just made up a whole new meaning for 'hubbubs'

P.P.S. 156, the number of times people broke out in 'gooseflesh' in this novel, I had a similar reaction eating broiled ham fry the other night.

Next: Great Expectations, The Graveyard Book, The Shining, or The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, whichever I finish first.

Free Writing 003 C.S.I australia

"I saw. I watched. I have eight eyes it was hard not to. "

Spiderdero was full of excuses and not the good kind.

"So what you're telling me is that a man, a well liked, and already sorely missed man, a man with substantial connections to the upper crust of society, was wrapped in a spider web of a cocoon in his kitchen, was likely poisoned and has been half consumed, and if I understand you correctly, you're saying that you had nothing to do with it?"

"Exactly. This is all just a misunderstanding."

"Here's what I think happened, this poor man of great influence, quasi-father, husband, only child, morbidly obeseite, he gets the munchies at some ungodly hour of the night and makes his way to the over abundantly stocked fridge. He's gorging himself on carb heavy processed foods, just chugging back untold empty calories. It's a disgustingly beautiful feeding frenzy. You're a spider, with the economy as it is these days, fly numbers are down. You've got to do what it takes to survive. You say you sat and watched, witness to this brutally savage primal act, it triggers your own instincts. You look on with eight eyes full of lust, inspired to indulge in your own sickening display of gluttony by ending his. Saliva and poison congregate around your fangs dripping globules of pure desire. He doesn't even know you're there, doesn't have a clue, you pucker up your butt cheeks and hit him with all you've got, pounce and bite. And Mr. man, survived only by his wife, a world vision sponsored child, and a gold fish named Jane Fonda, ends up as nothing but spider food."

"Wow, do you want a medal or something? That's possibly the most $#!*house piece of detective work I've ever heard. I'm a spider you retard, why are you talking to me?"

"Well, Mr. Spiderdero if I'm such a spaz how come when I talk, you answer?"

free writing 002 king a-hole

I'm walking down a hill, extremely slowly. This is unnatural. Gravity gives me an assist and I give it a roundhouse kick to the face. That's the way I like to do things. I get in position to make things easier than average and just for the sake of wine and vinegar I pull the rug out from under my own feet. It's a brilliant way to unnerve your friends, so good in fact that I don't have any anymore. Hey that's just me, you'll get used to it or you'll get lost. You're a waste of flesh anyway, I bet Hannibal Lecter could make a five star quilt out of your stretch marks alone, a real cosy one to. It'd keep me warm at night. Enough about you, ya see I'm walking down, down, down, ready to come up in China somewhere, but instead I'm greeted by the local aspiring despot.

"You taken over the world yet Jimmy-Bob?" A hyphenated-name, this loser's got no hope.

Jimmy-Bob responds in the only way that doesn't make sense, he knees my testicles. Then kicks out one of my front teeth. Oh Jimmy boy I've underestimated you.

Go get'em tiger.

The Horrific Sufferings of the Mind-Reading Monster Hercules Barefoot, His Wonderful Love and His Terrible Hatred

That really is the title. This is the kind of book that will appeal to people who like stories about freakish deaf mute dwarf creatures, that read minds and have Sasquatch-like back hair. Intrigued? How could you not be. The language of the novel is lucid and regularly breaks the rules, the narrator (the POV is 3rd person limited, kind of) often allows himself omniscience a consequence of the title characters telepathic abilities. Weird, quirky, bizarre all things I look for in a novel and I wasn't disappointed. I hope they translate more of Carl-Johan Vallgren's work into English.

There was a point in the book where my suspension-of-disbelief underwent a trial of faith. Essentially the most beautiful woman in the world is attracted to our hero Hercules, who it must be said is not only not attractive, but probably one of the most repulsive creatures I've had described to me in recent memory (the above details of his unfortunate visage are only half the story). Now I can accept mind-reading midget monstrosities, hey they could happen, somewhere; but said creatures hooking up with hotties? Ridiculous. He must have used some kind of mind-trick. Anyway just as I was getting down on Mr. Barefoot (he descends into utter evil assholery at a few points), some of his decisions were hard to stomach, but strike me down there's a point in the book where he experiences a visionary redemptive moment. I was floored, nothing in reading had ever quite moved me in the way that reading this did. So, well done Hercules, well done Vallgren, you've earned my unreserved praise, consider yourselves awesome.