Hours spent carefully culling difficult but fruitful texts.

If you suggest a work of popular fiction, I find myself asking...."is there a movie?"

May I never be so smug in the slack tension of academic comfort and electro-grunge populism that I publish paragraphs like:

Distress^TM On Tag

Tune-in to the rhythm of the Hive. Gainlevels fluctuate and balance between the racks: digital greens, the soylent ganja of the Artsifarian Order, cinder into plastic smog. Streetside, the atmosphere is acrid with Antipodean ersatz, the feature-points of Bizarro proles, ranks of working-class pants shilled to the vicariously second-hand.

Whoops.

slowly into words, converge and junket into my mind, funded by the prospects of impending education. Writing returns, one sentence at a time. Like this:

Trade marks pass through memory of time like frames from a disjointed flipbook, the hash maps of aggregation and decay. The Man's couture is a harlequin patchwork, the hallucinogenic collage of some illusive financial dream.

Almost exactly one month from now, I board a plane headed for the London Heathrow Airport and bid my native land farewell.

I have much to complete before arriving at Cambridge, and time is short. So I am calling a moratorium on (almost) all goodbyes and other social interaction until just before I leave. I'm going to have to say no to any events I do not initiate. It's a hard choice to make, but it's necessary.

I have always felt the hounds of time nipping at my heels, and never more so than now. Sigh.

We made it! 32.5 miles! (we were running late and cut off 1.5 miles, which turned out to be a pretty wise idea.

The hike was a great test for my brand new Canon Powershot S3 IS. The camera is marvelous (photos on flickr).

Today and I, my father and I attempt a 34 mile day hike along one of the legs of the Appalachian trail. We don't know if we have the endurance or the muscle (or the rest -- it's 3:51 A.M. eep!) to pull it off. But it's a good challenge, and it's reasonably possible.

Here we go!

Phrases, the fragments of stifled fantasies, flutter and drift from the atmosphere of my informal thoughts like unfinished faces, the phantoms of friendships never quite begun.

Brief feelings unfurl, fade, and disappear. In the vacuum, filaments of life blaze free, then unglow their fire.

If only...

Only there is no if.

I used to think that hypothetical ethical questions about extreme cases or large-scale problems mattered. I used to think that they help us answer the everyday questions.

I was wrong.

A few weeks aog, I solemnly announced to some close friends that I, at some time in my life, am highly likely to commit some form of treason against the United States of America.

They were, of course, quite surprised. Their surprise melted into interest when I stated that since

1. the definition of treason includes giving aid and comfort to the enemies of the United States and
2. as a Christian, I am dedicated to giving comfort and aid to all people, as if I were doing it to Christ.
3. Thus: if I come across people who are enemies of the United States, my duty to God is to care for their spiritual and physical needs.

The topic moved on to pacifism, and again, I suggested that it would be unwise for me to kill an attacker in self-defense, since I don't know the state of his/her soul.

As I drove home that evening, I was strongly rebuked by the Holy Spirit. Why had I said those things? For the growth of my friends? No. It was from pride, that they might think me a more loving person, and for the entertainment of a good argument/discussion.

"But it's true!" I protested.

"That may be so," the voice of righteousness replied, "but do you truly love others?"

I thought for a while.

Then I saw the important truth. Whether or not I am willing to inconvenience my country for the good all people, I have not been willing enough to inconvenience myself for the good of others.

It may be true that I might embrace death so an attacker might live. I might respond well in extreme situations. But such hypothetical questions distract me from the reality of my daily sins, of the times I am not willing to give up desires, accomplishments, or routines to meet the deep needs of those around me.

I apologized to my friends, and I apologize to you.

Growing up, I was always the quiet one, the melancholy, overweight, forgetful child who was sensitive but irresponsible. I cultivated bad habits. I ate too much. I was frequently told that I didn't have what it takes, that my personality type or my character didn't match the needs of a world which demands excellence.

I have never liked to be pigeonholed.

On this monday morning, I feel so very far away from home. During college, I learned much about noting details, of getting things done, of reaching accomplishment. I can go to meetings, make plans, and find a way to achieve. I have been trusted with the time and money of others, and I have done my best to administer such trusts with care. Somehow, the things I touch seem to succeed.

What happened to the little boy? Somewhere along the way, I wiped my eyes, dried my nose, and got to work. But have I also lost my capacity for delight?