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The First Crusade

2008-06-28T19:33:00.000-07:00

Below, please find the second essay I have ever written for college. This is a treatise on the First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading, by Jonathan Riley-Smith. I'm hoping for at least an A...!

Perhaps of all the wars that have been fought throughout the centuries, none have sparked more debate, ignited more controversies, and have continued to influence cultures throughout the entire world to this day than the Crusades. For the purposes of this paper, however, what shall be discussed is the First Crusade which began in 1066 and ended in 1099, as covered by Jonathan Riley-Smith in his book The First Crusade and the Idea of Crusading.

As a former Marine and a veteran of Operation Iraqi Freedom, what interests the author of this essay is not the bloody battles, or the logistical concerns of the Crusaders, nor their tactics or their organization. Instead, what interests the author is the mental state of the Crusader. What brought them to the point of being willing to engage in a long, protracted campaign through harsh deserts and violent battles? Why were they so willing to fight the infidel? How was Pope Urban II able to raise such a large army so relatively quickly? According to Jonathan Riley-Smith, one must fully understand the political and spiritual mindset of the Frenchman during the century preceding the First Crusade.

Politically, much of France was in a state of near-anarchy following the collapse of the Carolingian Empire. Charles the Bald (843-877) assumed the westernmost kingdom, which also adopted the Romance language that eventually became French. This kingdom would eventually become the well from which the Church drew upon for the first Crusaders.
During the next two centuries, the Frankish kingdom would be beset by numerous invaders. The Muslims made incursions into Southern France, while the Magyars made forays into Eastern France. Perhaps the most fierce of all the invaders that beset France, however, were the Vikings. All of these battles whet the appetite of the Frankish knight for combat, and began to build among the Franks a martial attitude and society, centered around the castellan and the knight.

By the time these invasions began to trickle off, France had a widespread culture that was centered around violence. With no new expansionary wars to fight and no forthcoming invasions to ward off, Riley-Smith purports that the Frankish warriors turned inward, fighting amongst themselves. A large part of this was due to their appetite for destruction, to be sure. Another factor that contributed to their behavior was their keen desire for plundering and looting, and their desire to maintain their standards of living. So from their strongholds the castellans sent their knights out on numerous forays and raids in order to support their way of life and to sate their appetite for warfare.

A contributing factor to all this violence was the lack of a strong central government. The seat of France had very limited power. According to Riley-Smith, the king of France could only truly control only a small amount of territory around his seat of power; the rest of his country was rapidly descending into anarchy.

An indicator of this was that the term "Dominus", or "Lord", which had previously only been used in reference to God or the King, was soon being used in reference to the local garrison commanders (the castellans), who exacted taxes on their peasantry and upon any passerby who ventured into or through their territories. These castellans, who were Dukes, Earls, and Counts who were descended from the Carolingian officials, ignored the king to the point that they were refusing royal summons. These castellans were, in fact, the only authority that many men knew or respected. In effect, France was breaking up into a myriad of small, self-governed territories, with a powerless king presiding over all of them; or, perhaps, pretending to preside over these upstart castellans.

Besides attacking their neighboring peasantry and castellans, the knights also attacked clergymen, churches, and other religious institutions. Under this sort of anarchic society, the Church could not flourish. Whereby the king of France was powerless to affect this political state, the Church had the backbone and the clout to make this change a reality. Using the name of God as their authority and the presence of "piles of relics", the Church enacted the "Peace of God", which in effect was a sort of peace treaty between the Roman Catholic Church and the marauding knight. This peace called down the wrath of God Himself upon any knight or soldier who dared to break this peace. Using the Knight's sense of nobility and honor, the Church tried to coerce the knights to swear oaths to respect the Peace of God.

Despite the harsh words reserved for knights and soldiery in general, the Church was quietly building its own army, preparing to protect their own in the event that the Peace of God did not work out in the way that they had planned. The peace did hold, however, and soon the Church began a widespread building project that rivaled the ancient Roman building program. Soon, there was a church in nearly every village, and these churches were the basis for a widespread evangelism that brought many people into the Church; this sudden influx of people into the flock would soon be called upon to fight the infidel.

Meanwhile, the papacy began to introduce the idea that fighting for the Church was something to be desired and, in fact, was sanctioned by God. Pope Leo IX (1049-1054) was one of the first popes to begin developing this idea. After gaining the papacy, he raised a small military to put down his opponents. During this time he offered the remission of penance and the absolution of sins for serving in the papal army. At the same time he also began to nurture the idea of martyrdom, an idea which would help galvanize the Crusaders fifty years later.
Pope Nicholas II also used this Papal army to defend his papacy as well, and Pope Nicholas II was also the first Pope to grant the indulgence for war. Additionally he also gave the first banner to his military as a mark of Papal approval for military campaigns.

In truth it was Pope Gregory VII who was the impetus behind the idea of a "holy war." His unflinching commitment to Church reform and the Investment Conflict rapidly led to open conflict. Primarily, he used scholars and other supporters to begin researching whether or not God approved warfare; as his desire was to build an army to defend the Church it should come as no surprise that he found the evidence he was looking for, namely through the efforts of Anselm of Lucca. Anselm compiled the writings of St. Augustine of Hippo into a compendium that stated, uncompromisingly, that God not only approved of warfare, but at times commanded warfare.

Using this new-found spiritual authorization, the Church began a massive reformation of the Frankish knights and their castellans. Drawing from Anselm's compendium and from Old Testament scriptures, the Church began to pitch the idea of a "holy knight", urging them to follow the example of David and other warriors from scripture. Nearly twenty years before the First Crusade, the Pope and the Church began to exhort the people and use references such as the "knighthood of Christ", the "knights of Christ", or "knights of God" who fought in wars to defend the righteous and righteousness.

The third and final factor which helped to seed the ground for Crusaders were the chansons de gestem, which was intended for popular consumption and reflected popular tastes and ideals. The three features of the chansons that influenced the people were the role of Charlemagne as a good and great emperor who ruled over a golden age, a concern for war and the martial virtues of braver, fidelity, and honor combined with the love for traveling in knight errantry, and finally, the theme of Christian heroism in a battle for the faith against the infidel.

Thus, when Pope Urban II began to preach the Crusade in late 1095, he found that the seeds had been sewn amongst the Franks, and that the fields were ripe for the plucking. The combination of a culture that was centered around violence and had been indoctrinated into the ideas of martyrdom and a holy knighthood, all paved the way for providing soldiers for the First Crusade. Pope Urban II only had to reap the benefits of the labor of the Church reformers which had preceded him by nearly five decades.

A Mid-June Shot in the Arm

2008-06-18T22:32:00.000-07:00

Okay, so the song is a blast from the past (early 80's, I think) and the video is cheesy, but the lyrics are awesome; you just can't beat 'em. Pardon the pun.

Oh, on a side note, guess what I got for Father's Day...! You will never guess.

Anyhow, enjoy the movie and the song and the lyrics; I think that despite their age it is a poignant song and it has been a source of encouragement for me lately. And no, I am not THAT old; I think I was four when this song hit the charts!

Beat the System by
Petra

Caught in the undertow being swept downstream
Going against the flow seems like such a dream
Trying to hold your ground when you start to slide
Pressure to compromise comes from every side
Wise up, rise up

(Chorus) You can be more than a conqueror, you will never face defeat
You can dare to win by losing all, you can face the heat - dare to
Beat the System

On the assembly line trying to break the mold
Time to throw the wrench that will stop it cold
Going against the odds being the underdog
Dare to wield the sword that will slice the fog

You can go for it all
You can go for broke
You can turn the tide around
You can aim for the top
And take the lion's share
If you dare to hold your ground

Would you like some cheese with that Whine?

2008-06-11T11:50:00.000-07:00

Hello Reader,

I want to make a formal apology for being so scarce lately. Life has become very hectic on my end. Not that this is a bad thing; it is just another phase in my life, and to be frank with you, it is quite refreshing to be extremely busy.

A List

Art History, accelerated course (one semester in one month)

Introduction to Western Civilization, self-paced, accelerated course

Ace Hardware, full-time (usually 9am to 7pm)

Commercial Power Washing, minimum of six nights a month

Most importantly: My Family

It has been fun and interesting trying to juggle and balance everything. But it has left me very little time for anything else. I can promise you this, Reader: I am writing a sort of biography for my grandfather's 90th birthday, and when it is completed and given to him on his birthday (next weekend) I shall also post it here!

So, be kind, and keep dropping in, Reader. I have not forgotten about you, and I hope that you do not forget about me!

First Lines

2008-05-29T06:33:00.001-07:00

I love the first line in a book. As a reader, it is the line that grabs my attention, sticks the hook in my lip, and draws me in like a fisherman reeling in the largest whopper of his life. As a reader, if the first line does not reach out and grab me, then I find that the first chapter had better redeem itself. If not, I give the book about a hundred pages, and if I still do not "feel" what the author is trying to do, I nod in appreciation of what it took for the author to produce the book, then close it up and retire it to a shelf.

As an author, first lines intrigue me in a way that is hard to explain. Sometimes, I wonder just how it was that the author wrote such a line. Sometimes, it makes me feel a little inadequate as an author. I have spent some time simply writing first lines, trying to make them interesting and unique, but it is a skill that is more innate, I believe, than something that can be learned. One thing that I have noticed is, the first line of a book almost always ties in to the last lines of a book. They are interrelated, and inexplicably linked and by more than simply being sentences in the same book. Think about the first line of the bible: "In the beginning-" What is the last chapter of the bible about? A new beginning. C.S. Lewis put it perfectly when he wrote in the "Space Trilogy" that man has not truly had a chance to live yet, that this time period between Adam's fall and the soon second-coming of Christ is like the faltering steps of a child learning how to walk. Our hope rests not in an end to the world, but in the creation of a new reality, a new world... therefore we see how the first line ties into the last.

Anyhow, here are a few of my favorite "First Lines" from some of my favorite works.

"No one would have believed in the last years of the nineteenth century that this world was being watched keenly and closely by intelligences greater than man's and yet as mortal as his own; that as men busied themselves about their various concerns they were scrutinised and studied, perhaps almost as narrowly as a man with a microscope might scrutinise the transient creatures that swarm and multiply in a drop of water."

"In the week before their departure to Arrakis, when all the final scurrying about had reached a nearly unbearable frenzy, an old crone came to visit the mother of the boy, Paul."

"Call me Ishmael."

"As I left the railway station at Worchester and set out on the three-mile walk to Ransom's cottage, I reflected that no one on the platform could possibly guess the truth about the man I was going to visit."

"He lay on the brown, pine-needled floor of the forest, his chin on his folded arms, and high overhead the wind blew in the tops of the pine trees."

"It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness."

"The star vanished from the telescope in less time than a single human heartbeat."

"The year 1866 was signalised by a remarkable incident, a mysterious and inexplicable phenomenon, which doubtless no one has yet forgotten."

"Time was when the bar would have welcomed anyone from Zantiu-Braun's strategic security division, given him his first beer on the house and listened with keen admiration to his stories of life as it was lived oh so far differently out among the new colony planets."

"The last drops of the thundershower had hardly ceased falling when the Pedestrian stuffed his map into his pocket, settled his pack more comfortably on his tired shoulders, and stepped out from the shelter of a large chestnut tree into the middle of the road."

In Preparation for Memorial Day

2008-05-25T19:37:00.001-07:00

What's Hallowed Ground?
By Thomas Camprell

What's hallowed ground? Has earth
Its Maker meant not should be trod
By man, the image of his God,
Erect and free,
Unscourged by Superstition's rod
To bow the knee?

What hallows ground where heroes sleep?
'Tis not the sculptured piles you heap:
In dews that heavens far distant weep,
Their turf may bloom:
Or Genii twine beneath the deep
Their coral tomb.

But strew his ashes to the wind,
Whose sword or voice has saved mankind,-
And is he dead whose glorious mind
Lifts thine on high?
To live in hearts we leave behind,
Is not to die!

Is't death to fall for Freedom's right?-
He's dead alone that lacks her light!
And murder sullies, in heaven's sight,
The sword he draws:-
What can alone ennoble fight?-
A noble cause!

Give that: and welcome War to brace
Her drums and rend heaven's welken space!
The colors planted face to face
The charging cheer,
Tho Death's pale horse lead on the chase
Shall still be dear!

And place our trophies where men kneel
To Heaven! -but Heaven rebukes my zeal
The cause of truth and human weal,-
O God above!-
Transfer it from the sword's appeal
To peace and love!

Peace, love,- the cherubim that join
Their spread wings o'er devotion's shrine,-
Prayers sound in vain, and temples shine,
Where they are not:
The heart alone can make divine
Religion's spot!

What's hallowed ground? 'Tis what gives
birth
To sacred thoughts in souls of worth!
Peace! Independence! Truth! go forth
Earth's compass round;
And your high priesthood shall make earth
All hallowed ground!

Dedicated to all Americans who have perished in the heat of battle, thick and fierce; to those who have given their lives so that others may live in the way that they so choose, even should it dishonor their very memories; to those who have shed their lifeblood upon the blades and the bayonets and the screaming bullets and the ever-hungry teeth of War, who have fought so that Freedom may yet ring from the Mountaintops to the Valleys, from the Golden-hued Plains to the Storm-Tossed Coasts; Prithee, remember these gentle heroes who so willingly answered the clarion's call and ran toward the sound of the guns and the clamor of War, and let us NEVER FORGET, else they shall have died in vain.

Remember the 8,000 Patriots who died in the Revolutionary War.
Remember the 35 Marines and Sailors who died in the Barbary Pirates War.
Remember the 2,260 Patriots who died in the War of 1812.
Remember the 1,773 Patriots who died in the Mexican-American War.
Remember the 212,938 Union and Confederate Souls who died in the Civil War.
Remember the 385 Patriots who died in the Spanish-American War.
Remember the 37 Marines and Sailors who died in the Boxer Rebellion.
Remember the 53,402 Patriots who died in World War I.
Remember the 291,557 Patriots who died in World War II.
Remember the 33,746 Patriots who died in the Korean War.
Remember the 47,424 Patriots who died in the Vietnam War.
Remember the 256 Marines and Corpsmen who died in Beruit.
Remember the 148 Patriots who died in the Gulf War.
Remember the 29 Patriots who died in Somalia.
Remember the 310 Patriots who have died in Afghanistan.
Remember the 4,081 Patriots who have died in the Iraq War.
And Remember the Patriots who have died in the Wars and Struggles of our Nation not listed here.

For My 214 Brothers of 5th Marine Regiment
Who Have Borne The Battle
and Paid
The Ultimate Price For Our Freedoms.

For My Marine Brothers And Sisters
And All FMF Corpsmen
Who Have Died During
Operation Iraqi Freedom
May 2003 - Present

You Are Gone But Not Forgotten.

Semper Fidelis

Random Writing

2008-05-21T22:16:00.000-07:00

Sorry for not posting any more of The Veteran recently, but this popped into my head today and I have to get it out. More episodes of The Veteran shall be forthcoming.

David was sitting across from the stranger when the oddest feeling overtook him. He went from a casually aloof state to one of full mental alertness. There was nothing that the stranger was saying or doing that triggered the change; no balled fists, or angry statements, or quiet threats. The stranger did not even change the cadence of their speech or the tone of their voice. In fact, David was quite sure that the stranger did not even notice that he had suddenly shifted mental gears.

David had been slouching in his chair, casually stirring a cup of coffee with his free hand when the feeling came over him. Without making any sudden movements he gently laid the spoon down on the plate and rested his forearm horizontally on the table, with his elbow slightly bent and cocked so that if the need arose he could throw a rapid, heavy punch without having to pull his fist back to his ear. Mentally he relaxed every muscle in both of his arms, starting at the fingertips and working his way up the arm, until each of his arms felt as light as a feather, and instantly he knew that if he so chose, he could move his hands so quickly that they would be a blur. He did not rack his shoulders straight back, but let them rest naturally upon his spine, which he realized that he had unconsciously adjusted so that it was a literal pillar, a perfect column, running straight up and down. His feet, too, shifted, until both of them were resting flat on the floor, and once more he relaxed all the muscles throughout both of his legs, until they, too, felt lighter than air.

Oddly enough, David could feel his heart beat a little faster, pumping endorphins and adrenaline throughout his system, and his hearing and eyesight became more acute than they had been but moments before. The slight ache that David had felt in the back of his neck faded away, until there was no pain at all. Suddenly, it was impossible to look away from the strangers eyes, and he became aware of every nuance and gesture of the stranger, who had remained completely oblivious to the change that was sweeping over his conversant. His eyes bored into the strangers and he felt as though he were peering into his very soul and separating truth from falsehoods as they tripped from the strangers lips.

So heightened were Davids senses that when an insect managed to slip through a crack in the door landed on his arm, he could count each of the six legs that alit, ever so slightly, on his skin.

David knew that he was ready for anything. If the stranger gave the slightest indication of trying anything dangerous, he would move faster, swing harder, and connect with more kinetic energy and accuracy than the stranger ever could.

In fact, David knew at that particular moment in time, he was the most dangerous man in the room.

The stranger, however, remained completely unaware as to David's physiological and mental changes, and continued to natter on about nothing in particular. The minutes ticked away with David poised in a perfect state of readiness and the stranger still rattling on, until the stranger excused himself to use the restroom. David's head was on a swivel as he watched the man stride away and he knew, in his heart of hearts, that his heightened state was no accident; the stranger was an equally dangerous man.

Pain

2008-05-17T11:23:00.000-07:00

Reader, I really wanted to sit down and write today, and perhaps at some point later in the evening I shall eventually get to it. My original intention of sitting down in front of the computer was to sit down and write two or three segments of "The Veteran." However, my shoulder hurts so bad that it is blinding out and overriding any other "thing" that I really wish to do. So, I apologize. I think that I shall find my ice-pack and retreat to my bedroom to ice my shoulder and try to ignore the pain.

The Veteran Part III

2008-05-12T20:24:00.000-07:00

Sorry for taking so long to post something new, life has been busy. I also apologize for the brevity of this particular post. Stay tuned for the next installment, which I promise shall be longer!

It was close to midnight before The Veteran decided to get up from the corner of the mostly demolished building and start making his way across the city. He had no Central Neural Computer to tell the time -the Government made the implantation of the CNC's at puberty mandatory about thirty years ago- but years serving in the military for the Zealots, combined with decades of living on the streets of the City In The West had given The Veteran an innate sense of time that was more or less spot-on. As he slowly shuffled out of the ruined building he bid a silent farewell to the Cobbler and his Wife, while vowing to find the Others, or die trying.

He knew that by the time he eventually found the Others, the Government Rebuilding Corporation would have already razed the rest of Building 451 Block C and begun construction on something newer, shinier, and more technologically advanced. Inwardly, The Veteran knew that the building wouldn't remain shiny and new for very long; perhaps a day's worth of exposure to the pollution, grime, and nasty rain would stain the building with a dark patina. Inside of a week the "new" building would be indistinguishable from the rest of the City. It was like that all over, and a key reason to The Veterans' inability to stay locked in on any true locations; everything changed, but everything always looked the same. Only the monolithic ebon ziggurats that loomed for miles over the rest of the buildings served as landmarks, and even then the fact that they were identical to each other in orientation and construction served to make navigation without the CNC nearly impossible.

The Veteran knew that the ocean was in the west, but he had no way of finding the west. There were no longer any printed maps, no signposts, nothing; each citizen of the City In The West navigated using their CNCs. The Veteran remembered one of the campaigns he had fought in during the War of Absolution, where the Zealot's geosynchronous satellite navigating system had been shot out of space, leaving the ground troops without any satcom or GPS; he had led his small squad of soldiers to the objective point using the sun and a compass. Now, he had neither; even if he had struck out on his journey during the middle of the day, the sun was obscured by smog and rain clouds anyhow; the only way to truly tell night from day was the murky gray light that managed to filter its way through the miles of layers of cloud and smog.

The only thing that The Veteran had at his disposal was the slight idea that, perhaps, the reason the rain always came down at the same angle was because of the slight breeze that seemed to be the always-constant companion to the murk and the rain, and that the origin of the breeze was, in fact, the ocean itself. He had a distant childhood memory (even as he wondered whether the memory was his, or whether it was something he had made up) of visiting the ocean once, well before the War and the smog and the oppressive Government, back when his parents were both still alive and the world seemed innocent and happy.

He shook his head, clearing his mind of such thoughts, and finished picking his way out of the building. Once he was back in the alley, he took a quick mental inventory of himself, especially checking his pockets for the artificial lung. Once he was satisfied that his very few worldly possessions were still about his person, he exited the alley and went to stand in the middle of the street. The rain was still coming down in buckets from heaven, but he threw his hood back and began to turn in a slow circle, trying his best to discern which direction the breeze was coming from. The rain pelting on his face, though, ruined everything. He lingered for a few moments more, until he began to look suspicious, and then flipped his hood back up over his head and moved to the side of the street, where he huddled under a doorway, trying to decide what to try next.

His stomach rumbled, reminding him that he hadn't eaten in roughly 24 hours, and the more pressing concern of filling his belly caused him to abandon his mission, for now at least, and try to beg passerby for a food chit.

The Veteran: Part II

2008-05-08T20:25:00.000-07:00

Part Two of "The Veteran." Again, super-rough-draft, so be kind!

The Veteran waited four full hours before he slowly began to pull himself together. It took another ten full minutes for him to shake all the debris from his body and rise to a sitting position. Sometime during the firefight, if it could have been called that, his hood had fallen back and rain now plastered his long graying hair to his skull and turned all the dust from the building into mud. Shivering, he wrapped his tattered cloak tighter around his body and flipped the hood up over his head, trying to reclaim some of his lost body heat.

The brutal efficiency of the police disturbed him to no end. They hadn't even bothered to see if they had left anybody alive inside Building 451 Block C; the sheer amount of firepower at their disposal pretty much guaranteed that any occupants were now dead. Despair welled up inside of The Veteran, and he hugged his knees and started to cry again. Though no stranger to death, even senseless death, the occupants of the Cobbler's store had been the first people in decades who had shown him any sort of interest, although their relationship had gone much further than that. They took him in whenever he came by, allowing him to shower in their tiny recycler, feeding him a full meal, and chatting with him about current events... and history.

After all it was the Cobbler and his Wife, both octogenarians and quickly approaching their 90's, who had introduced him to The Way. Their kindness, forthrightness, and sheer implacability had struck him to his very core, and had awakened something inside of him that had been long dead. They had explained to him about The One that had come, all these many millennia ago, to atone and to reconcile the entirety of Humanity to Himself. Upon first meeting them he had been both absolutely enthralled and totally horrified, all interconnected, as though the two could never be separated. After all, he had fought on the losing side, and had spent the last forty years listening to the propaganda of the Government about the evils of Free Thought.

The only thing that had kept him returning, at first, was their kindness and their willingness to allow the vagrant Veteran to use their recycler and their kitchen table. Over time, he ceased debating, and simply started listening.

In retrospect, that was probably the wisest thing he had done in his entire life.

Now, he turned his sorrowful eyes upon the ruined building. Before its destruction it had been an ancient cinderblock-and-mortar building that had hunched forlornly between two taller and more modern constructs. The Cobbler and his Wife had rented out their floor from a rather cantankerous Vietnamese couple who ran an illegal cyber-sitting service from the floor above them; they spent hours jacked into The System, monitoring children in various households throughout the City In The West for the busy parents. The Veteran wiped a grimy hand over his eyes, trying to smear the tears away, even as he distantly wondered what all those children were doing now, for it was obvious that the Cantankerous Vietnamese, too, had perished in the police assault.

Slowly, he rose to his feet, wincing when pain shot up his leg. He checked it briefly, ensuring that he hadn't somehow been hit by all the gunfire, then gave a sort of half-hearted shrug when he remembered that it was his old wound, protesting after having to stay immobile in such a cramped position for so long. Rain continued to pour from the sky, grimy and putrid, and The Veteran paid it no mind as he began to pick his way into the debris field of the building. He had no doubts that The Cobbler and his Wife were dead, but he had a desire to at least look upon them one last time.

He picked his way through the streams of nasty rain pouring from the gaps in the roof and ceiling, courtesy of the gunfire, and over the puddles that had formed over the past several hours. His memory of the small building wasn't complete, but he eventually made his way into the back rooms, where their tiny living area was, and where he was sure they would have retreated to in their final seconds of life.

The Veteran cast about for a few moments, puffing on his artificial lung from the exertion of picking through the debris, until he spotted a partially-curled hand sticking out from under their splintered kitchen table. He began to select a route through the detritus to the hand, then paused: did he really want to see them this way? Or did he want to remember them as they were, kind and firm and merry and healthy? After a few more moments of hesitation he took the last few steps, moving around a fallen section of the roof and the half of the table, and found the body of the Cobblers Wife. Despite the horrible wounds in her chest she had the most peaceful, restful look on her face, and the serenity that she possessed even in the midst of her horrific death shook The Veteran once more, and he began to weep, sinking to his knees and clasping her other free hand in his.

Eventually The Veteran rose to his feet once more, coughing and sobbing, and looked about for the Cobbler himself. He wouldn't have been far; The Veteran knew that he would have died trying to protect his Wife. He turned around and there, partially pinned by the very fallen section of the roof that he had skirted earlier, The Veteran saw the Cobbler; he realized that he must have walked right past the elderly man, so intent was he upon seeing the owner of the hand that had stuck out from under the table.

Grief and horror and anger welled up inside The Veteran, and in mere seconds he was kneeling by the old Cobbler, holding the old man's head in his lap, stroking the wispy white hair with his own gnarled and grimy hands, choking back sobs. The old Cobbler looked as if he had simply fallen asleep, as if he had decided that this was the spot that was the best for a good, long nap. Except, The Veteran knew, he would not be waking up from this nap; at least, not on this Earthly plane.

As he knelt there weeping, a slight movement caught The Veteran's attention. For a split second he ignored it, until he realized that the movement was coming from the Cobbler's mouth. The Veteran stopped sobbing and bent close, to see if the old Cobbler was truly moving his lips, even as he knew that he was simply imagining that the Cobbler was still alive, that perhaps he was projecting his own wishes upon the corpse of the poor old man.

But, no; shock stunned The Veteran when he realized that, indeed, the lips of the Cobbler were moving. He placed his ear next to the man's mouth and held his breath.

"I knew you would come. Go... go tell the rest."

"What 'rest,'" The Veteran gasped, his voice gravelly and deep with grief and surprise. The Cobbler's mouth worked for an instant, before the rest of the words came out in one final gasp, as if he had fought to stay alive for this very moment in time.

"The others who follow The Way... you will find them at the Southern Wharf, near Pier 192A... look for the sign..."

With that, the Cobbler breathed his last. Too shocked to move, The Veteran simply sat with the Cobbler's head still in his lap, a mixture of grief and wonderment filling his chest. There were others? He wondered why the Cobbler hadn't shared this with him before now.

How long he sat there, holding the deceased man's head in his lap and stroking the wispy hair, he couldn't say; he knew that when he looked down, most of the Cobbler's hair was now grimy from The Veteran's own filthy hands. Dismayed at what he saw as the defilement of the body of his only friend, he gently laid the Cobbler's head onto the floor and slowly, painfully, tried to stand. Eventually he made it to his feet and, wheezing, he hobbled to a corner of the building that the rain hadn't begun to invade yet, and leaning up against the wall he slid back to the ground, kicking plaster and debris away from him as he did so.

There were Others! This news was as exciting as the deaths of the Cobbler and his Wife were appalling. "There are Others," The Veteran said aloud, startling himself with his own voice. It wasn't often that he spoke aloud to himself, but when he did it was usually to repeat one of the Cobbler's stories about The One to himself, to help him fall asleep when the dreams from the War of Absolution came and haunted him. Stories about The One were the only things to keep the dreams away. The Veteran shook his head, trying to gather his disjointed thoughts, and began to repeat the location that the Cobbler had given him over and over, until he was sure he had it memorized. His deepest fear, at this point, was forgetting the location of the Others. Then, he truly would be alone in the City In The West; then, all he would have to look forward to would be his eventual, slow death.

"The Southern Wharf. Pier 192A. Look for the sign," The Veteran said. He gave a firm nod, resolving that, first thing tomorrow, he would begin the journey to the Southern Wharf. Wherever that was.

A List

2008-05-07T21:56:00.000-07:00

I'm in a quirky mood tonight, so here is a (not so final) list of my favorite words, in no particular order.

Lase
Vaulted
Monolithic
Deus Ex Machina (covered elsewhere!)
Carved
Violet
Hewn
Flowing
Verdant
Defenestration (and/or defenestrate)
Canopy
Broad
Mezzanine
Cerulean
Imperturbable
Scythe
Zeitgeist
Omega
Alpha
Droning Tones and Melodies (not a word, more a phrase... but work with me here)
Atypical
Epic
Archetype
Convoluted
Emerald
Heraldic
Scheme
Gloom
Draught
Esoteric
Gloaming
Serenity
Symbiotic (or symbiote, whichever comes first)

More, I'm sure, will be forthcoming...

The Veteran

2008-05-05T21:13:00.000-07:00

Hey all... sorry for taking so long to post anything. Life's been awful busy on my end! Anyhow, I got home from work today and desperately had to write something. This is brand-spanking-new... so you are all the first to read this. I'm not sure where I'm going to go with it; maybe a short story, or a series of short stories. Perhaps, this could even be built into a novel. Like I said, I'm not positive where this is going. Either way, enjoy! Oh, and be kind... this is seriously rough-draft.

Dawn broke over the city, a cold and gloomy light filtering through the layers of smog that hovered constantly over the municipality. There was a threat of rain in the air… but when wasn't there? It was said that you could set your Central Neural Chrono by the rain. Though the sun was just rising, the City had never truly slept… perhaps, close to midnight, there had been a period where it could be said that it had slipped into a light doze, but never sleep.

Deep in the bowels of the inner city, beneath the towering black ziggurats that housed all the major departments of the Sun Conglomerate, below the several lanes of traffic, and almost hidden from sight, a figure wrapped a tattered and filthy cloak tighter around his frail shoulders and flipped the hood up over his head. His face was dark and creased with age and exposure to the pollution that cluttered the city from deep below the earth up to the very heavens; all but the most rich and famous bore some scars from the accumulated filth. He was a veteran of the War of Absolution, but very few knew that; in fact, there were times when even he forgot that he was a veteran.

Being on the losing side was never something to brag about.

He raised himself up from the piles of garbage that he had been dozing in, and a heavy cough wracked his frame. The Veteran tried to shrug it off, coughing heavily for a few moments, before giving in and pulling out a grimy artificial lung from his pocket and taking several deep breaths out of it. The fresh air quelled his rheumy cough for the time being and, shaking his head at the waste, he carefully folded the lung back up and stuffed it in his pocket. The lung had been a handout from SunCo, and he had managed to be one of the first in line that day; it was probably more luck than anything, he had simply been wandering past the distribution area when they opened the doors, but he was grateful for the lung. More than once it had put an end to his wracking cough. He knew, though, that the lung was nearing its use-by date, and The Veteran hoped that he could remember the exact location so he could get another when he ran out. He had a nagging fear that, unless he could gain a steady supply of artificial lungs, the cough would kill him.

It was funny, in an ironic sort of way; he should have died decades ago, during the War. A grenade had landed right next to him in the bunker that he and his squad-mates had taken refuge in, and The Veteran (he had been a SemiCorporal at the time) had frozen in panic; time seemed to stretch and compress, and before he could react in any way, one of his buddies threw himself atop the grenade, absorbing the full impact with his own body. The Veteran paused, trying to remember the name of the man who had sacrificed himself for his squad-mates; time and illness had stolen it from him, however.

Now, he eked out a meager existence in the bowels of the City In The West. Many hundreds of miles long and wide, there was no true center to the city, but if one could ever point their finger onto a plasma-map and say "This is the center," then he was there; more money and affluence flowed through this part of the City than any other. It was here that The Veteran begged for money so that he could buy a pint or so of broth and noodles; occasionally, he would splurge and buy a couple of ounces of rice. His mouth started watering, thinking about rice. Perhaps, today, I shall buy some rice, he thought.

He began to shuffle out of the side-alley. The Veteran had acquired a limp during the War, too… every now and then a shooting pain would jolt him out of his fog, lancing up from his right ankle all the way to his hip. He couldn't remember where he had received that wound; just another hazy memory, clustered in his skull with millions of other disjointed and half-remembered times. Just as he breached the alley, cold, fat raindrops began to fall from the murky sky.

The Veteran could remember a time when the rain would actually cleanse the sky, and bring with it a fresh smell in the air. Now, however, the rain came down oily and gray, and usually stirred up more unpleasant smells than it quelled. He was glad for his hood, and he limped with his shoulders hunched against the fetid liquid, heading toward the one area of The City that he had firmly entrenched in his mind.

It was the only part of The City that he truly knew by heart, and for good reason: it was the one place that he had learned how to truly live.

It was there that The Veteran had learned the true reason for the War of Absolution. Waged decades ago, the War had pitted the intellectual elite against the illiterate religious zealots. At the time, The Veteran had been very young and highly susceptible to influence, and had fought on the side of the zealots not truly understanding what the war had really been fought over. He was told that it was really about free speech, and about freedom of thought, and the freedom to choose. All he really knew, at the time, was that he was seventeen years old and willing to fight against something, and the Zealots had gotten to him first.

It was a shame, The Veteran reflected as he limped toward his goal, that the Zealots hadn't taken more time to explain to him what they truly meant by "freedom of thought." Oh, he still would have fought; if anything, he may have fought even harder. In the end, though, even The Veteran realized that it wouldn't have changed anything. The deck had been stacked against the Zealots from the beginning, and it was really only a matter of time before they were defeated and the leaders of the Zealots either executed or brainwashed.

Even today, The Veteran would catch glimpses on the Flimsies of the ancient leaders of the Zealots being trotted out by the government to rail against free thought. Every time that he saw them, a tear would leak from the corner of his eye; he knew that deep within their hearts, they would rather have been executed than turned into mindless zombies, spewing the filth of the Government.

As The Veteran limped down the crowded streets, he had to thread his way through the thick crowds that were gathering. Many of the folks had nothing better to do than simply walk the streets, looking for side work or causing trouble. A good number of the rest were on their way to or from their Government jobs, or were in their off-shifts, shopping for household goods or simply squandering their small stipends on random things.

Sirens wailed, drowning out the dull roar of the populace, and The Veteran ducked into an empty doorway and squatted down, becoming as small as possible. The chances that the sirens were meant for him were very slim, but he hadn't lived as long as he had by being lazy or rash. The police cruisers, however, were headed for a date with destiny elsewhere, and after the raucous sound of their sirens had faded into the background noise of the rest of the city, he climbed wearily back to his feet and continued on to his destination.

Several times along the way he had to stop and breath into his artificial lung, each time taking in only as much clean air as he needed before gently folding it back into his pocket. Worry crept into the back of his mind; he was needing the lung more and more. That was never a good sign.

It took him nearly twice as long as normal, but finally he glanced around, looking for the few landmarks that he had memorized; sure enough, there was the Android Repair Shop, right next door to the small mom-and-pop Cobbler. He ducked into the alleyway that was between the Cobblers and a Government-Approved Delicatessen and searched the wall on his right; between the third and fourth bricks, etched into the mortar, he found the symbol that he was looking for: <>< He knew he was on the right track.

The Veteran took a few tremulous breaths, then began to shuffle forward.

He hadn't taken four steps, however, before a blaring siren sounded off just behind him, along with several incredibly bright spotlights. Instinct took over and The Veteran fell to the ground, covering up with his cloak, as a booming voice drowned out all thought: "THE OCCUPANTS OF BUILDING 451 BLOCK C ARE UNDER ARREST FOR RELIGIOUS ZEALOTRY. YOU WILL EXIT WITH YOUR HANDS UP IMMEDIATELY: WE HAVE BEEN AUTHORIZED TO USE DEADLY FORCE."

Dread rose up in The Veteran's belly; for a moment, he wondered if he had been followed. However, he hadn't been arrested yet, nor had the police singled him out. They were directing their attention at the Cobblers.

A few tense moments ticked by, until a thin, querulous voice called out from the Cobbler's store. "You can kill my body, but you cannot kill my soul!"

"Ghost 'em," said the voice over the intercom, and immediately the air was filled with thousands of rounds of depleted uranium as the police opened fire. The Veteran hugged the ground, trying to crawl into the cement, as the air, already deadly, suddenly turned even more lethal. Dust and bits of mortar and stone rained down on The Veteran, pelting his body and causing him no small amount of pain; however, he remembered only too well what happened to soldiers who squirmed under fire, and so remained perfectly still under the assault.

The barrage continued for several minutes, until there was no way that any living being could be left alive inside the building; in fact, it was a sure thing that anybody behind or above Building 451 Block C was dead, too. The Veteran knew that the police would chalk it up to Zealot brutality, and that tomorrow he would see in the Flimsies about the vicious gun battle that took place between an outnumbered and gallant force of police and a ruthless and bloodthirsty band of Zealots.

Tears leaked from The Veterans eyes, leaving twin trails in the dust and muck that the City had deposited over the years. His only true friends in the world were now dead.

A Big Disappointment for Publishers Everywhere

2008-04-24T22:11:00.001-07:00

In late 2002, I was writing short stories for an online magazine, or e-zine, called WritersHood. At the time, I was extremely excited; I was working with an editor, and having my work critiqued by published authors and editors alike. It was thrilling. Then, in early 2003, I deployed to Kuwait (and subsequently Iraq), and forgot all about Writershood for the time. When I returned to the States, I had much more on my plate to worry about than trying to publish short stories online. By the time I remembered WritersHood, it had closed down; I wasn't crushed, but I was disappointed that I had lost my contacts withing the 'Hood.

Then, in October of last year, the original Science Fiction editor from WritersHood contacted me. He had been hunting me down (literally) for almost half a year, starting with my old military email address and working forward from there. Needless to say, I was both impressed with his acumen and implacability, and honored and humbled that he had kept my contact information in his "future contacts" list. He inquired as to whether I had any Science Fiction (some) or Fantasy (yes) novels that I was wanting to get published. I immediately ran all my novels by him, received the constructive criticism that I knew I had coming, and then started submitting my Fantasy works through his new employers. I was thrilled!

As all this was occurring, I threw out a general query as to whether or not there was anything that I could help him or his Publishing House do; yes, I had no formal education, but what I lack in book smarts I believe that I make up for in willingness to learn and a gung-ho attitude. Personally he had no use for me, but he suggested that I join the First Readers club. I accepted with great expectations: I was going to be in the front lines, the trenches so to speak, of a Publishing House, slogging through manuscripts, offering up those that were worthy to be scrutinized further by accomplished editors, and rejecting those that should never have seen the light of day in their current form. I would be separating the wheat from the chaff, so to speak, and I couldn't wait.

So far, out of the five novels that I have done a Readers Report on, I have recommended only one. It was phenomenal; I was hooked from the first sentence. The main character was believable, and what made him even more interesting, to me, is that he came across as a world-weary business man, but when he needed to, he could whip it on pretty good. I was very impressed with the amount of effort that the author put into this novel, and if it makes the final cut from the acquisition editors, you can rest assured that I will purchase the novel to add it to my library.

Then, there were some novels that I read that were good, but not good. There were little things about them that bothered me; for example in one novel there was a large cast of characters and a pretty good plot, but there was no depth to the characters, nothing to make you love or hate them, nothing to make you root for them; in short, I finished reading it because I don't like leaving things unfinished, not because I cared about the characters.

In another novel that ended up getting rejected, mostly everything was amazing; the plot was awesome, the characters believable and likable, the technology (it was a Science Fiction novel) was cool, even the spacecraft was well thought-out... but the antagonists were goofy. There's no better word for it. It was as if the author had put all of their attention into what they had thought to be most important, then flipped through a dictionary, and stabbed their finger down at a certain point and said, "yes, oh mighty spatula, you and all of your kind shall be my antagonists!" (The antagonist was not a spatula, but I am trying to protect the author should they stumble across my blog) This novel joined the growing list of polite "thanks, but no thanks" pile.

The last two manuscripts that I have had to read... well, the only word that could possibly suit them is bloodcurdling. One was so bad, I wished that I had never learned how to read. Aside from having a horrific plot, I felt as though the author himself did not even know where he was going, or what he was wanting to say. At one point, the only reason I knew that I was reading the same manuscript was because two of the side characters kept popping up. Aside from that, absolutely nothing else that was occurring had absolutely anything to do with anything in the rest of the manuscript. It has been said that "one million monkeys, typing on one million typewriters, for one million years, would rewrite the complete works of William Shakespeare." I'd argue that two million monkeys typing for thirty seconds would have been able to produce roughly the same quality of work that I had, unfortunately, volunteered to read.

The latest manuscript that I am laboring over is beginning to shape up along these lines. So far, even though the characters are living in the 22nd Century, they are still watching television and listening to radios. Call me old fashioned, but I'm hoping that we will have invented something way cooler than televisions by at least the year 2030.

Why am I telling you all of this?

I want to exhort any reader of my blog that is considering submitting any manuscript to any Publishing House: Do Not, under any circumstances, simply submit the first thing that you happen to pound out. Just because you have written a fiction-length manuscript does not mean that it is suitable fiction. Likewise, simply because one of your friends, or your mother, think that what you have written is "good," does not mean that it is suitable for submission to a House. A writer must hone their craft, read and re-read their manuscript, labor over it like a blacksmith labors over a sword, they must put their sweat and their blood into it, they must ponder it when they are forced to be away from their manuscript, and constantly be thinking and re-thinking their manuscript. When the writer thinks that they are finished, they must then turn to Page One and start all over again; the writer must know their work inside and out, backwards and forwards. The characters in the manuscript must become the writers best friends or their worst enemies; they should know their characters better than they know their family members, they must be able to tell you, at the drop of a hat, how their characters would respond in certain situations. I have seen writers smile when they think of something funny that one of their characters did in their manuscript; this, reader, is how one must write.

And, when the writer has poured themselves into that manuscript, when they believe that it is finally ready for submission, they must then ask a pivotal question: "Were I not me, would I read this?" That is the central query, and one that the writer alone cannot answer. At this point, the writer needs to begin soliciting their manuscript to anybody they know who would be willing to read it, with one giant disclaimer. The writer must tell their reader, "Do not tell me what you think I want to hear, tell me what you really think." If the writer truly knows their reader, and vice versa, then the reader will be brutally honest. And that is what the writer needs to hear, brutal honesty. However, if the writer is not ready for brutal honesty, then they need to put their manuscript away; forget about it. They need not begin to think about submission until they are ready for brutal honesty. If the writer cannot take constructive (and sometimes not so constructive) criticism, then the writer is in the wrong arena.

When all that is said and done, and the writer has taken constructive criticism, he or she must begin at Page One all over again. Read it through the eyes of their readers; they ought to look for basic spelling and grammar mistakes; look at things that caught their first-readers attention, and examine whether or not they ought to make the suggested changes that had been brought to their attention. The writer should read their manuscript all the way through; when they are finished, they should be excited not because they wrote a manuscript, but because the manuscript itself was engrossing, and invigorating, and exciting.

When the writer finally begins the submission process with any Publishing House, they should do so with the secure knowledge that what they are now submitting is the best manuscript that they could possibly produce.

Please, Writers of the World, do not slap together words that two million monkeys could pound out on two million typewriters over a time period of thirty seconds; put your heart and your soul into it. Publishing Houses everywhere will thank you, and you will be secure in the knowledge that, even if you end up being rejected, it wasn't because you didn't try your best.

Deus ex Machina, secundus secui

2008-04-22T12:06:00.000-07:00

In my original Deus ex Machina post, I had spoken about the entire human condition and the fate of the entire Human race. Due to our inherent nature, we are doomed to fail, doomed to death, and doomed to destruction. A Dystopian future looms in our collective horizon; squalor, teeming masses of sick and poor, war and death, catastrophes and ill-fated horror... all these are what awaits us, should we continue marching on the inexorable path that we have already laid our feet upon. As I stated before, though, there is a Deus ex Machina that awaits us; the Perfect Plot Twist, the real God on a Machine, awaits the perfect timing set forth by His Father to arrive.

All that said, though, I believe that within the Plot that is the Human Race, there has to be individual chapters to make up the entire Plot. I suppose that every human life is its own chapter, although that may not be the best analogy. Perhaps, we ought to look at the entire Plot as a giant tapestry, with individual lives acting as the threads in the tapestry. Robert Jordan wrote a little about this in his Wheel of Time series, but I don't believe that he touched on it as well as he could, nor do I believe that he approached this idea from a biblical standpoint. As we live with and interact with one another, more of the Plot is revealed, more of the Tapestry is woven, and as time progresses, entire themes are soon apparent within the Plot, and beautiful designs are shown on the Tapestry.

Reflecting on my life, I can see many themes and plot twists that have occurred at key moments. Remember: the key definition of deus ex machina is that it is an improbable character, artifact, device, or event that is introduced at the pivotal moment without which the character or main characters of a story cannot escape from. How many times within my own life have I been trapped in a corner, painted there by my own irrational behavior, only to be extracted by the deus ex machina of my life?

One example comes straight from the war, and is slightly amusing. During the Invasion of Iraq, we experienced the worst sandstorm that has been seen in Iraq in over fifty years; literally, it was called the Mother Of All Sandstorms, or the MOASS. We had set up a small Combat Operations Center during the previous night, to provide communications, tactical and logistical support to the lead battalion that was only a few miles up the road. Then, sometime during the night, the MOASS started up and the lead battalion was withdrawn to help provide security around our small COC. Later during the morning the wind was so bad that we had to tear down all of our antennas; none of my Marines were answering their radios, so I decided to trudge through the sandstorm to give the command verbally. By this time, the storm was so bad that I could barely see a foot in front of me; I had to follow the large, 26-Pair cable that linked the combined radio antennas to the radios down in the COC. I arrived at AntHill, gave the command, and started trudging back; however, I hadn't counted on my Marines being so technically proficient, nor as speedy as they ended up being. About half-way back to the COC, the hock-end of the 26-Pair cable went whizzing past me. There I was, standing in the middle of Iraq, smack-dab in between the Antenna Hill and the COC, about 200 yards from the literal front lines of the invasion, and stuck in the worst sandstorm in fifty years.

I tried to remain calm, but I'll be honest; there was a tinge of panic involved. I tried to walk in a straight line, but the wind was obviously blowing me off course. I walked for an undetermined time, then stopped, and just started praying. I know that I had walked past the COC. I could have walked less than three feet away from the tents, and I would have missed them because of the sandstorm! As I stood there praying, however, a noise caught my attention: incredibly, I heard something honking. My hand in front of my face to block out some of the grit that was trying to peel the skin from my face, I peered into the wall of sand; sure enough, I could also see a slight glow coming from the same direction as the horn.

I followed the light and the noise, and incredibly I stumbled across the very last Hummvee on the line... anything further than that vehicle, and I would have been walking in enemy territory, and probably would have been lost for quite some time. I could have even ended up as a Prisoner Of War.

But there was that Deus ex Machina that was introduced at exactly the right time.

What makes that story so very interesting is that I can see the plot twist as it occurred directly in my life, but how it directly affected 3,000 other Marines, as well. See, our Regimental Combat Team 5 was headed directly into an Iraqi Division-sized ambush; for those who don't know tactics or military lingo, a Division is significantly larger than a Regiment. If we had continued pushing forward at the same speed and intensity as we had been prior to the MOASS, we would have stumbled into a killing field. However, because of the MOASS, we halted all forward movement and Saddam grew impatient and started moving those units around, thus exposing them to our surveillance. We were able to locate and identify the Iraqi Division, and subsequently attack and destroy them, all because of this massive sandstorm. If we had continued on, the chances of RCT-5 making it out of that ambush fully intact were slim to none.

Deus ex Machina.

Another example is in my financial life. I started my power washing business in 2004, with a substantial amount of money and many great expectations. I built up a great client base, and by early 2007 the business had many awesome clients and a steady amount of money rolling in. By all standards, Marathon Pressure Systems was doing great. However, a series of calamities were awaiting me; some clients moved on. I tore the rotator cuff in my right shoulder, causing an excruciating amount of pain on a daily basis. I had a large maintenance expense that I didn't foresee. I suddenly owed a substantial amount of money to the IRS. In the middle of everything, gas prices were rising, we purchased a home and moved, and my shoulder continued to deteriorate. By the end of 2007, things had declined to the point that I had stopped taking incoming clients because of my shoulder, and the clients that I did have were not paying on time.

In January of 2008, I started a job search, to supplement the business. I applied all over the place, only to receive the same response: No education? No job. My lack of a college degree was limiting me to two or three basic occupations: Janitor. Construction Worker. Security Guard. People especially liked me as a Security Guard because of my military background; however, that just didn't cut the mustard, for me. I finally was accepted for an interview with the Tucson Police Department, as a police dispatcher. I wouldn't have to do any strenuous labor on my shoulder, and the pay was good.

I started counting on the TPD job to rescue me from my financial situation. As the interviews with TPD progressed, things in my life continued to regress. We missed a month's mortgage. We started paying our bills selectively, trying to juggle and balance them so that no one bill would get too bad. And the more this occurred, the more I was counting on TPD to rescue me. God was suddenly taking a back seat to the Tucson Police Department.

Last week, I received the news that the TPD was wanting to hire me... in August of 2008. August! I was crushed. There was no way that I could wait that long! Bills have been stacking up, I've been putting off creditors, my refrigerator has been getting more and more empty, and my shoulder has been getting worse and worse.

Where is my Deus ex Machina? There is no way I can rescue myself from this situation.

I know that the Plot Twist is coming. I can feel it, just over the horizon. I know, now, why the Deus ex Machina hasn't come into operation yet; it is because I thought I wouldn't need a Plot Twist. I thought I had the entire plot figured out, from beginning to end! How can I be rescued, unless I realize that I need rescuing? You can't save a drowning man, if he doesn't realize that he's drowning!

My Deus ex Machina is coming... I know it.

The Puppy

2008-04-21T05:18:00.000-07:00

I am a huge fan of Doberman Pinschers. The breed was originally developed by a German named Karl Friedrich Louis Doberman, who was a dog-catcher and a tax collector; since he traveled through many bandit-infested areas, he had the desire to "build" a perfect dog to help him through those rough patches of ground. I'm sure that after many trial and error tests, he came up with the finished product: The Doberman Pinscher, which he felt was the perfect combination of strength, loyalty, intelligence, and ferocity. Since then, they have been used as guard dogs, watch dogs, and police/military dogs.

In fact, the first true use of military dogs inside of the US Military occurred during World War II; the United States Marine Corps was, in fact, the first branch of the military to ever use dogs in combat. In fact it was the battle of Bouganville, in the Pacific Theater, on 1 November 1943, that was the first official use of dogs in combat. Dobermans were the official USMC War Dogs, and were used extensively throughout the Pacific campaign, fighting alongside their humans in the steaming jungles and the shell-torn beaches. During the campaign, it was common for Japanese sappers to sneak in, during the cover of night, to kill many Marines who were sleeping on the beaches. After the "Devil Dogs" were brought in, not a single Marine unit came under attack from the Japanese. Not only did they serve as sentries, but they also helped to find and neutralize snipers, booby traps, ambushes, and lead the attack on bunkers, pill boxes, spider holes, and dugouts, as well as scouted forward positions and occupied fighting holes with their owners at night.

Needless to say, the Doberman Pinscher proved their worth in WWII.

We adopted our first Dobie in 2005. Her name was originally Princess, but we changed it to Roxie; Princess just didn't seem to fit her. Yes, she was regal, and gorgeous, but certainly no "Princess." Names like that are reserved for Chihuahuas and Mini-Pins, not my 85 pound muscle with teeth!

She quickly worked her way into our hearts. Her calm demeanor, her steady nerves, her willingness to put herself on the line for us, as well as her loyal heart and loving manners all endeared her to us. On one occasion during a family walk, we were set upon by a stray mutt. The poor dog really didn't know what it was in for; in fact, he probably just wanted to check us out, give us all a friendly sniff, and head on his way. Roxie saw him coming, though, and threw a cross-body block that literally floored the mutt. She was on perfect alert; her muscles straining, her cropped ears at attention, an "I'm going to eat you" snarl on her face, and her nub of a tail pointing straight back; I'm telling you, she was intimidating, to me! After the mutt evacuated himself from the area, Roxie turned to look at us, a goofy look on her face, her nub wagging, as if to say "I took care of him for you, gang! I love you guys!" We slathered her with praise, hugs, and kisses.

I think the best part about Roxie is that she can go from 110% protection mode to 110% "love you" mode in an instant. Stranger at the door? She's on alert. Stranger ended up being a friend over with their infant son? She's all love, giving little Roxie kisses to the baby and allowing him to climb all over her. My 6 year old loves Roxie: he won't go out back to play unless she's with him. And when she's outside with him, she's on guard duty; she watches his every move, follows him around, and generally baby-sits. I've never, ever had to worry about my kids around Roxie.

All this said, earlier this year we decided that, since we loved Roxie so much, we should look into adopting another Doberman. To our delight, the same adoption agency that we got Roxie through had another Dobie pup up for adoption; he was a goofy Gus, with unclipped ears and long, lanky legs. The night we met him, we fell in love all over again; he was such a gangly little guy, all legs and ears; he found a moth, and was absolutely fascinated by the little insect, chasing it around, snapping at it, watching it flutter about... we were smitten. We took him home that night and introduced him to Roxie, who accepted him into "her" home with an open Dobie heart.

It didn't take long to realize that our new puppy, whom we dubbed "Bentley" was absolutely nothing like our other Dobie.

Where Roxie is steadfast, loyal, intelligent, fearless, and loving, Bentley is iffy at best, dumb as a rock, scared of everything, and loving only when he feels like it.

He's slowly adapting to the rest of the family, but I'm afraid that there's something dreadfully wrong with the poor guy. Oh, he's adorable; but he's also a complete dodo. The doorbell rings, and Roxie goes to work, alerting us that somebody is at the door and standing ready to devour them if they prove to be unfriendly. Bentley? He runs in circles chasing his nub of a tail. One of the kids makes a funny noise, and Roxie simply looks up to see what's going on, then resumes her nap. Bentley? He runs away. It's a sad day when a 6 year old armed with a squirt-bottle could break into my house and chase away my Doberman! He also has developed an inexplicable habit of sitting on the couch. I don't know how he managed to figure it out, or why it would even be comfortable to him, but he's done it; bottom on the couch, front paws on the floor. Ah!

The most worrisome of all his habits, though, is his incurable love for paper goods; specifically, napkins and tissues. Oh, he loves napkins and tissues, especially used napkins and tissues. To him a used tissue is like haute cuisine, which he instantly devours. If one were to observe Bentley on any given day, one would instantly recognize the crazed glint in his eye as he prowls the house looking for a stray tissue that is within his reach. Once it is discovered, the poor tissue stands no chance at all; it's toast! Meal times are the worst; we've trained him to not beg at the table, but more than once he's been observed slinking from chair to chair, snitching napkins from laps and quietly sucking them down like so much linguine. My favorite is when my wife tucks a spare tissue into her pocket, leaving a little ear of it hanging out for easy access. Bentley will sneak up alongside her and, with the precision and care that one would normally see with an eye surgeon or a rocket scientist, he teases the tissue from her pocket, then happily and proudly prances away to eat his treat in the privacy of his crate.

Ah, I suppose that he's still young; I know I did some odd things when I was young. I can only hope that Bentley outgrows his tissue-habit and starts fitting the Doberman description!

(Photos, top to bottom: Guam War Dog Memorial; Jedi Master Roxie in repose; Roxie frolicking in one of our summer monsoon puddles; Bentley sitting on the couch; Bentley scared of... the camera?)

Guarding the Mind

2008-04-20T11:54:00.000-07:00

In todays day and age, there are many different idioms, ideas, ideologies, isms, and methods within this cosmos (world) that have been developed for the sole purpose of tripping up the average Christ Follower. The funny thing is, there is nothing new under the sun: everything that we run up against today has been tried at least once before. The good news, when it comes to combating these myriad of isms, is that the methods for defeating these attacks are simple, timeless, and most importantly, have the ring of utter Truth.

The first way to defeat false philosophies is to keep our eyes upon Christ; He is the Head over everything, the Beginning and the End, the Alpha and the Omega; from Him we draw all of our Truth, all of our Strength, and all of our Wisdom. When we keep Him in focus and Him in the forefront of our lives, it becomes suddenly very difficult for any man to take his place. When I was a young Christ Follower, I went to a church here in Tucson that I called "Pastor X's Church." Was that really Pastor X's church? Was I going to church to hear Pastor X, or was I going to church to hear my Savior? Unfortunately for me at that time, I hadn't fully realized the distinction. The end result, of course, was that I ended up being disillusioned by Pastor X, because he is only a human being; he has feet of clay! The same is true of any cult or ism out there. Why follow a man, or a couple, or a family? Christ must be the head.

The second way to defeat a false ideology is to stay focused on bible-measured teaching. We need to keep the scriptures paramount. God's Word is to be our guide, our measuring stick, our magnifying glass for examining everything that comes our way. Why should we follow something that "sounds good?" There is an old saying, that holds true; if you stand for nothing, you'll fall for anything. When we aren't diligently searching the scriptures, when we aren't hearing the adequate and proper teachings of the scriptures, then we are left open to any wind of ideology or change that comes our way. How many Cults have said, "there is a better way," or "there is a new way," or, "there is something else." No: read your scripture. There needs be nothing else! Everything needed for understanding God, seeing the Father, learning of our Human Condition and the subsequent Cure, is contained within the Word of God.

The third way to defeat false doctrine and to keep strong, is to abound in Grace, and to not be bound by laws. Cults, doctrines, and any other religion will always give a list of do's and dont's. Do wear This. Don't eat That. Say This. Don't Say That. Do This Now. Don't Go There. A Real ____ Will Only Read This Type of Book... Now, truly there has to be a list, but it must align to Christ (see #1) and be found in scripture (see #2) and be taken in the proper context, proper grammar, and within the History of the Church. But everything else? My favorite fight with another Christian is about this: What To Wear To Church. Do you truly want to know what to wear to Church? Read Colossians 3:12: 12)Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience. 13)Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you. 14)And over all these virtues put on love, which binds them all together in perfect unity. Does it matter one iota if I should wear sandals or a suit to church? Absolutely not. Yet I have met, and argued with, men and women who believe that if I were truly regenerated by the Holy Spirit then I would dress a certain way. Reader, Following Christ has absolutely nothing to do with the outward appearance. Jesus' strongest words were reserved for the religious elitists of His day; 25 "Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. 26 Blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup and dish, and then the outside also will be clean. 27 "Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You are like whitewashed tombs, which look beautiful on the outside but on the inside are full of dead men's bones and everything unclean. 28 In the same way, on the outside you appear to people as righteous but on the inside you are full of hypocrisy and wickedness. (Matthew 23:25-28). I hate to break it to you, Reader, but the majority of American Christians that I run across fall into this category. It's one thing to adhere to the bible, to the Word of the Living God, and it's another to put your own social ideals, personal opinions, and "Church Culture" ahead of the King of Kings.

The fourth way to defend our hearts against ideologies is to remain Joyous, Authentic, and Balanced. This means putting away our plastic smile and our canned answers, our false glad-handing when we're at church. In a pissy mood? Say so! Our honesty will be refreshing to those we run across. Happy? Good! Be happy! As a Christ Follower we come across many hard spots in our lives; my pastor said today that every believer comes across their own Garden of Gethsemane moment (because we are being carved into the image of Christ... heavy words), so we aren't required to be over-the-top happy at all times; but neither are we to be dour, quiet, and have a sort of lamentation over our faith. One basic tenet of Following Christ is the joy in knowing that our sins are forgiven, that we have an Advocate in Heaven, and that one day we shall be seen as we truly are, and that the veil that has been drawn across our Humanity shall be withdrawn, and we shall live with Christ as our True King, as we were meant to live from the very beginning!!

So there you have it; the four guideposts to protecting ourselves from empty words of empty religions. Adhere to them; stick to them; and don't just take my own word for it, because I am simply a man, but examine it for yourself; open up a dialogue with God; do your own research. Come to your own conclusions. You won't be disappointed.

Technology

2008-04-16T09:56:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I wish that the computer had never been invented.

I wish that I could sit in a warm, comfortable room, with the sunlight streaming in through the window lighting up the millions of swirling dust-motes and with the sounds of a bucolic English countryside as the only interruption. My room would be finely appointed, without being gaudy; perhaps a well polished wood floor, with a large mahogany desk cluttered nicely about with half-written manuscripts, jotted notes, and a couple of ink pots. Whenever I would write by hand, I know that I would love the creamy, smooth feel of the paper and the way that my fountain pen glides over the medium; sometimes, the only thing that you would be able to hear in my office is the ticking of the ship's clock on the mantle and the scratch-scratch-scratch of my fountain pen on the smooth, creamy paper.

Directly behind me as I write at my desk is a window that opens up to an entirely different world. Perhaps, as I mentioned before, it would open upon the rolling lea of an English countryside, dotted about with large, verdant green trees. Or, perhaps, an entirely different vista; a slow moving, turgid river, or the waves of the Atlantic smashing with ceaseless brutality against the sandy shingle, or the gentle creaking of an old-growth forest; or, here in America, the limitless mountains of the Rockies, snow-capped even in summer, their fierce independence breathless in their majesty and their eye-bending beauty shouting "look at me" into the rest of the world.

At times while I scratch-scratch-scratch on the manuscripts, I would lay my pen aside and swivel my chair, steepling my fingers and simply staring out the window, marveling at the beauty of creation. My thoughts would run wild and free, roaming over worlds, territories, people and things that have never been created or visualized before. Or, perhaps, I would muse over more practical matters, such as how to pay for such a beautiful manse with such an incredible view.

After I had my manuscript written out on the creamy, smooth parchment, I would begin inserting paper into my typewriter, and my office would now be filled with an entirely new noise; the clacking of the keys, the smacking of the armature upon the paper. The inky smell of the typewriter would fill the room; it wouldn't be overpowering or unpleasant, but the casual visitor would notice it upon entering the room.

I would work long hours in my office, scratching with my fountain pen or typing with my typewriter; often, the sun would set and I would have to light my oil lamps, casting the room with a sort of soft, comforting light. During the winters, I would light a roaring fire in the fireplace, and I would often lose track of my writing to stare deeply into the crackling logs and the flames. Perhaps, I would pour myself a finger or two of scotch, and sit in front of the fire, swirling the beverage in my glass and contemplating the deeper meanings of what I was writing.

Instead, I'm stuck in the beginning of the 21st Century. So where are our flying cars?

The Professional

2008-04-15T02:56:00.000-07:00

(This is a tribute to all Marines of the past, the present, and the future. I speak of a Man, with the understanding that there are women who are also in harms way. However, in regards to my experience in the Marine Corps, I served solely with Men. Semper Fidelis, God Bless, and Welcome Home, my brothers.)

Under a foreign sky there is a man who stands ready to do harm on the behalf of his nation. His movements are spare, his manner neat. His body is a finely-tuned machine, trained in the arts of war and kept ready and strong by his own will. His hands are rough, those of a warrior; they have been clenched in anger and held steady under moments of intense crises. They move over his weapon with a deft assurance that one normally sees with less violent objects. He knows his weapon inside and out and he knows its limitations and the devastation that may be wrought from the muzzle of the weapon, and he shoulders the responsibility of carrying such an item with the knowledge that, for now, it must be used.

His heart is full of pride and faith in his brothers; too, he carries the memories of those who have fallen in the heat of combat everywhere he goes, and he has vowed to carry their memory to his own grave and beyond. With every beat of this noble heart he feels the intense weight of the realization that his brothers are relying upon him, even as he relies upon them. He will go to the ends of the earth for them, carry any burden for them, fight any battle for them, share his last meal with them, give them the last drop of his water, and share words of wisdom, courage, and humor with them.

His soul is firm and prepared for the work he has to do, brimming with the sort of courage that is oft misunderstood. Courage is not the absence of fear; it is not the ability to overcome the jitters,
to quell fear, or to conquer the desire to run. It is the ability to know what is, and is not, to be feared. For he knows that fearing death is useless; death comes to us all, whether in the cold, sterile halls of a nursing home or while making a last, desperate charge against a determined foe. Courage, to him, is fearing dishonor, for he knows that to lose his life but preserve his honor is the only thing within his power. To fear disgrace but not death, to fear dereliction but not duty; that is courage to one such as he. The truly courageous do not live in constant fear from morning to night. The truly courageous are calm because they know who they are. And this professional knows who he is.

His steely eyes reflect this knowledge that he carries in his soul for he has looked Death and Fear in the face, and overcome them both. Too, his eyes are older than most, for he has seen in a single day more than most see in their entire lifetime. He has watched his brothers die, he has seen his brothers triumph, and he has seen all this as he has labored alongside them in their tasks. He has seen naked vengeance in all its horrid forms; he has hated and he has loved, and he has wept when he has felt there were no more tears to give.

Where his feet tread, so too has his flag been. Upon his shoulders is the flag of his Nation, and he is the bearer of this Ensign and the adjudicator of his people. He carries the standard that has stood for freedom and justice, that is far older than he . Within that standard is the blood of all those who have gone before, who have fought in every clime and place, who have asked for naught in return for their willingness to shed blood for their Country, and he stands ready to carry that standard to the very gates of Hell itself, and beyond, should he be asked to do so.

He is that which entire libraries of tomes have been written about, that which poems and odes have been penned. In his veins flows the blood of a consummate professional, of a timeless warrior.

He Is A Marine.

(Photos, from top to bottom: Lance Corporal Dane Brown, Republic of Vietnam, 1964-1969; Sergeant E.A. Schrumpf, Iraq, 1997-2004; Gunnery Sergeant Mike Cheramie, Iraq, 1983-2003; Gunnery Sergeant Mike Anderson, Al Asad Iraq, 1992-Present; Myself, Sergeant, Iraq, 1999-2003)

Speechless

2008-04-14T15:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I feel Ancient.

I'm only 27 years old, but I feel like I'm going on 300.

My eyes have seen: Love, Hate, Joy, Sorrow, Peace, Patience, Frustration, Horror, Death, Dying, Killing, Fighting, Destruction, Holiness, Pain, Suffering, Torment, Endless Nights and Ceaseless Days, Pitch Black, Brilliant White, Kindness, Gentleness, War, Innocence, Guilt, Extreme Violence, Blood and the Shedding of Blood, Turmoil, Depravity, Tragedy, Tranquility, Fiercely fought battles and Moments of never-ending silence...

Should you ask me to comment on wars, rumors of wars, personal tragedies, political turmoil, global travesties, health issues, upheaval, and everything in between, I would have unending words to give you. Ask me: What Is One Of The Reasons Why You Think God Is Real?

Because only my King can cause me to be speechless.

Colossians 1:15-20 (New King James Version)

15) He is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn over all creation. 16) For by Him all things were created that are in heaven and that are on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or principalities or powers. All things were created through Him and for Him. 17) And He is before all things, and in Him all things consist. 18)And He is the head of the body, the church, who is the beginning, the firstborn from the dead, that in all things He may have preeminence. 19) For it pleased the Father that in Him all the fullness should dwell, 20) and by Him to reconcile all things to Himself, by Him, whether things on earth or things in heaven, having made peace through the blood of His cross.

Colossians 1:15-20 (The Message)

15 We look at this Son and see the God who cannot be seen. We look at this Son and see God's original purpose in everything created. 16 For everything, absolutely everything, above and below, visible and invisible, rank after rank after rank of angels - everything got started in him and finds its purpose in him. 17 He was there before any of it came into existence and holds it all together right up to this moment. 18 And when it comes to the church, he organizes and holds it together, like a head does a body. 19 So spacious is he, so roomy, that everything of God finds its proper place in him without crowding. 20 Not only that, but all the broken and dislocated pieces of the universe - people and things, animals and atoms - get properly fixed and fit together in vibrant harmonies, all because of his death, his blood that poured down from the Cross.

My King puts everything into perspective. He is the sum of every mathematical equation; He is the glue that holds our Universe together; He is the balance of every living creature; He is the sustaining force for all Life as we know it; He is the perfect One, timeless and unending; He is the perfect Song; He is the unrelenting Lover; He IS.

And who am I?

Jesus: Pale-faced wussy boy or Warrior of Warriors?

2008-04-12T09:54:00.000-07:00

I became a Christ-follower about halfway through my enlistment in the Marine Corps. One of the things that I had a hard time rectifying was how Jesus has always been portrayed: you know, Gentle Jesus, Meek and Mild.

When I returned from Iraq, I had even more issues with this image, and with my "box" that I had put around God. Preface: I was not an infantryman; I was a "Field Wireman," which I like to describe is like AT&T in the middle of nowhere. However, I was part of an infantry regiment, and partway through the invasion we were split up and I was given the task of providing communications in advance of the rest of the Regiment. This meant that I had to work very closely with the front-line battalion units, and the final result is that I saw a lot more action than most of my 5th Marine counterparts. I tell you this not to glorify myself; I know that there are Marine who saw/did much more than I ever did, and I won't hesitate to admit that. I am telling you this, however, so that you can understand where I'm coming from.

See, I had been operating under the assumption that a Christ-Follower is supposed to be some sort of push-over. You know, the weak, pale-faced "Christian" who gets bullied and simply smiles and takes it all. My experiences were quite different, to the point of actually seeking out the "bullies" and 'neutralizing' them, before they had the opportunity to attack. Therefore, when I returned to the States, I had this sort of self-imposed guilt that I carried around in me. Weak? I never perceived myself as physically weak in any way! Mentally weak? You're talking about the United States Marine Corps! We are not known for our weakness. And yet, there it was, in Matthew 5:5 "Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth." Coupled directly to that verse was the images of Christianity that are visible everywhere you go: Jesus, sitting in a pasture with little lambs and little kids gathered around him, a gentle smile on His face, His hair neatly trimmed, his beard in perfect proportion, His hands smooth and clean...

In short, I labored for years under the impression that Christ was weak, and therefore I had to be weak.

However, I learned later on the true definition of Meekness: it is the opposite of being out of control. It is not weakness, but supreme self-control empowered by the Holy Spirit.

One of the images that was used to educate me, was that of a wild stallion who, once he learns that his human will not harm him, allows the "cowboy" to put a harness on his neck and a saddle on his back. Can that horse, if he so chooses, kill the cowboy? Heck yeah! He could buck him off, trample him, kick him in the head, or dispatch him in any number of ways. Prior to the invention of the gasoline engine, the primary "tank" of warfare was... the horse! And for good reason, if you know anything about horses.

However properly trained, the horse submits to his master and does his bidding.

A better analogy that came to me was... me. Better, those like me. You know, Marines. From boot camp we are trained to kill; "This is my rifle. There are many like it, but this one is mine. It is my life. I must master it as I must master my life. Without me my rifle is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless. I must fire my rifle true. I must shoot straighter than the enemy who is trying to kill me. I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will. My rifle and I know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire, the noise of our burst, or the smoke we make. We know that it is the kills that count. We will kill. My rifle is human, even as I am human, because it is my life. Thus, I will learn it as a brother. I will learn its weaknesses, its strengths, its parts, its accessories, its sights and its barrel. I will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready. We will become part of each other. Before God I swear this creed. My rifle and I are the defenders of my country. We are the masters of our enemy. We are the saviors of my life. So be it, until victory is America's and there is no enemy, but Peace."

What other purpose does a Marine have? They teach us how to fight with our hands, our feet, our rifles, and most importantly, our minds. But, out of all the millions of Marines that have been trained, how many of us actually kill? A small fraction, I'm sure. Yet, we have all that power, all of that knowledge, at our disposal. What keeps each and every Marine that has ever been trained, from going out and killing folks? Discipline; meekness; power under control; self-restraint. We submit to the laws of the land, and to our Commanding Officers, and we act only when we have been ordered to do so.

In the same way, we are to submit to our master, and do His bidding. As believers we are under His control, and we obey His voice and His Hand. Are we any weaker because of this? Absolutely not, not any more than a Marine trained during times of peace is than a Marine trained during times of war. Our Perfect Example is that of Christ Jesus.

Think about the amount of absolute self-control and strength that Jesus had to have possessed, to be tortured to the point that He was no longer recognizable as a man (Isaiah 52:14 - Just as there were many who were appalled at him-- his appearance was so disfigured beyond that of any man and his form marred beyond human likeness--) and then have spikes driven through His hands and feet? We're talking about the CREATOR OF THE UNIVERSE, humbled and under control, doing as His Father commanded. In less time than it takes a human being to blink, Jesus could have reversed the roles, had ten thousand legions of angels hooking and jabbing, and have total control over the entire world. However, that wasn't in God's plan; so He obeyed, and kept His power in check. Was Jesus weak? Not by any stretch of the imagination!

Look at Revelation 19:11-21; we'll focus on 11-16 for now, but I urge you to read the entire passage: "11 I saw heaven standing open and there before me was a white horse, whose rider is called Faithful and True. With justice He judges and makes war. 12 His eyes are like blazing fire, and on His head are many crowns. He has a name written on Him that no one knows but He himself. 13 He is dressed in a robe dipped in blood, and His name is the Word of God. 14 The armies of heaven were following Him, riding on white horses and dressed in fine linen, white and clean. 15 Out of His mouth comes a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations. "He will rule them with an iron scepter." He treads the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God Almighty. 16 On His robe and on his thigh he has this name written: KING OF KING AND LORD OF LORDS"

Tell me... does that sound weak to you? Try this passage from Isaiah 63 on for size: "1 Who is this who comes from Edom, With dyed garments from Bozrah, This One who is glorious in His apparel, Traveling in the greatness of His strength?-- "I who speak in righteousness, mighty to save." 2 Why is Your apparel red, And Your garments like one who treads in the winepress? 3 "I have trodden the winepress alone, And from the peoples no one was with Me. For I have trodden them in My anger, And trampled them in My fury; Their blood is sprinkled upon My garments, And I have stained all My robes. 4 For the day of vengeance is in My heart, And the year of My redeemed has come. 5 I looked, but there was no one to help, And I wondered That there was no one to uphold; Therefore My own arm brought salvation for Me; And My own fury, it sustained Me. 6 I have trodden down the peoples in My anger, Made them drunk in My fury, And brought down their strength to the earth.""

I highly recommend reading all the way through Chapters 63-65 there in Isaiah. What a prophetic vision, what an image of our God, Who is mighty to be praised!! Who are we, that we have such a One who fights for us? Humbling, humbling, humbling. And I thought that Christians were supposed to be weak. No, not if we are truly made in God's image: remember, God has no form (John 4:24 -- God is Spirit, and those who worship Him must worship in spirit and truth.) so we know that our earthly bodies are a product of His amazing Imagination and Creativity. However, it is our attributes that are in His image, and our warrior nature is that of God's. (With the caveat that His nature is perfect, and our nature has been destroyed and muddied by sin).

This has brought me great comfort, when I look back on my life and especially my actions in Iraq. Also, it gives me great comfort, knowing that I do not follow and worship some massive wussy boy, but Elohay Mauzi - God Of My Strength.

Something Different

2008-04-11T09:44:00.000-07:00

I have a busy day ahead of me today, so I thought that for a change of pace I would post the prologue to a book that I'm beginning work on. It was inspired by the non-Christian band "Clutch," in their song "Guild of Mule Assassins." Yes, funny name for a song (and a band, for that matter...), but every time I hear it, that stupid song gets my creative juices flowing. I wrote the first few chapters when we were vacationing in Prague for Christmas, so Prague is literally woven into the fabric of this story. I really miss that place.

Okay, enough lamenting. Here you go:

Sir,

Please allow me to introduce myself. As department head for the University of Terra's Anthropology Department, I have had the privilege of scouring the universe for unique artifacts left behind by extra-terrestrials on colonized worlds. While our accomplishments and finds are few in number, those that we have found are earth-shattering and extraordinarily revealing about the universe that we live in.

Perhaps you recall the discovery of the religious stones on Altair VI? That was one of our most publicized projects that I personally oversaw.

Normally, when an artifact or a site is discovered, we have more than enough resources at our disposal to make accurate time/date stamps. There is also more than enough physical and observable evidence to make highly accurate suppositions about the races which left the artifacts behind.

However, recently we have uncovered an object that, for lack of a better phrase, has dumbfounded all of the collective expertise at our disposal.

After much discussion, my colleagues and I decided that you and your firm may be able to lend your services to our problem. Rest assured that your usual fee, plus any additional expenses that you may occur, will be covered by the University. It can be assumed, therefore, that you will have a so-called "blank check" to work with.

All that said, let me explain the scenario, and let you choose for yourself whether you'd like to take the case.

Roughly one solar year ago, a strange cylinder, measuring nearly one meter in length and about half as much in diameter, was discovered on Santos. It was buried thirty meters beneath the surface, and was found where construction was beginning on an Arcology. We were immediately contacted, and myself along with my usual team were dispatched with much anticipation.

We spent three months excavating the site. While we were unable to find any other artifacts, the cylinder was more than enough to occupy our attention. Once we were sure that there were no further artifacts, we brought the cylinder back to the University for analysis.

At first, it seemed as though the cylinder were empty. There were no discernible means of opening the cylinder, so after running several tests and scans to ensure that nothing inside would be damaged, I made the decision to have it cut open. Imagine our shock when, after opening the cylinder, we discovered a strange sort of data-storage device!

While we were unable at first to read the data contained on the device, we immediately hired a team of Terra's finest reverse-engineers to construct a device that would be able to read the data on the device. Our last task was to have the University’s A.I. translate everything into modern English.

I remember the day that we sat down to begin pouring over the data like it was yesterday.

As we started, I could scarcely believe what I was reading. A stunning, epic account unfolded before our very eyes. We sat, my team and I, transfixed for days, taking few breaks for personal comfort. What makes this account so incredible is that the beings and civilizations described are obviously human. At the end of the epic account, an incredible debate arose among us. Since it was impossible to date either the cylinder or the data device, we were left solely with the information contained on the device as evidence.

There are many among our colleagues who believe that the events that are described in the account took place many, many millenia ago. There are just as many colleagues who think that, through some as-yet-unknown phenomena, the information was somehow transported back in time to Santos, where it was buried by natural environmental means.

After much more debate, we are hoping that you and your team of forensic scientists can help shed some light on this issue. Perhaps you will notice something that my team and I have missed. I have attached the entire document with this message. Additionally, I also took the liberty of having an A.I. re-construct the entire account, so you may view it as a video, if you so wish. Of course, all translations have been made, so that you can wither watch or read in Modern English.

After you have reviewed the information, please take your time in replying as to whether or not you and your firm can aid us.

I look forward, with great anticipation, to receiving a response from you at your earliest convenience!

Deus ex Machina

2008-04-10T14:08:00.000-07:00

Deus ex machina... what a cool phrase. It wasn't until recently that I truly learned what the phrase meant. Prior to my learning the true definition of the phrase, I always thought that that deus ex machina referred to some really cool machine, like a massive robot with guns for hands that could fly through space and take over planets. "I'd like two deus ex machinas, please. Oh, and a large coke."

The true meaning of the phrase, however, stems from ancient Greek mythology and epic tragedies. Literally translated, it means "god from a machine;" perhaps a better translation is "god on a machine." The way it works, see, is that the characters are painted into some sort of corner, some sort of inescapable situation, and then an actor portraying one of the myriad of Greek gods are trotted out and lowered, literally, from a crane onto the stage to deliver the characters from their impending doom. More recently, the phrase involves some trigger, or perhaps even an item, that delivers characters in a story from their impending doom. An example is, in the movie The Fifth Element with Milla Jovovich and Bruce Willis (one of my faves), the entire universe is about to be destroyed by an otherworldly entity. The only thing standing between utter annihilation and life is Milla Jovovich's character, whose name is "Leeloo" and goes by the official title of "the Fifth Element;" she is billed as the 'perfect weapon,' and the only thing that can stop the destruction of Earth. However, by the end of the movie, she is unwilling to "activate" herself. Just when it seems as though there is no hope, the deus ex machina kicks in: Love. Bruce Willis' character, "Korben Dallas," expresses his love for Leeloo, thus 'activating' her and saving the universe.

Improbable? Yes. Handy? Of course!

In writing fiction-length novels and short stories, it seems really easy to sprinkle all sorts of "deus ex machinas" all over the place. Handy weapons here, characters there, and the occasional prod of Divine Intervention. In real life, though, is there really a Deus Ex Machina?

Think about the history of mankind. I'm going to ignore the evolutionists' theory of how life began (I will comment on evolution on a later blog, I'm sure), and focus solely on reality as I perceive it to be. Humor me.

Five to seven thousand years ago, God spoke the world into being. In six days, He created the heavens, the earth, the water and the sky, the stars and the sun, all of the beasts of the field and all of the birds of the air; the culminating act of His handiwork was the creation of Mankind.

However, at what I believe is the second most pivotal moment in history, the moment that defines Humanity, Adam and Eve failed.

Their sin was not that they ate a fruit. The fruit itself was not sinful, nor was it, I believe, in and of itself bad. It was a symbol, it was the linchpin, upon which the entire balance of Humanity would swing (on a side note, don't be mistaken; God was not surprised when Adam and Eve defied Him; He wasn't dismayed, the Trinity wasn't having an emergency meeting in Heaven trying to figure out what to do. Whether we can understand it or not, God knew that Adam and Eve would defy Him). See, it was the disobedience behind the act itself. All the other commands were not taxing to Adam and Eve, because they were commands that were good in their own eyes, as well. But the command to not eat the fruit, that was a command that would prove their love and obedience to God; would they obey Him, even though it was difficult and not eat the fruit, or would they disobey and do what was right in their own eyes?

Anybody who knows even the slightest bit of Christianity knows that Adam and Eve failed the one test, the one taxing commandment, and ate the fruit, thus plunging Man into a period of Darkness and Sin that has lasted even until this day, and for an unknown distance into the future.

Every evil, every sin, every bad thing that happens, has happened because of the Original Sin. Every war ever fought, throughout the history of Man, has been fought because of Sin. (Yes, even my war, the Iraq war, was fought because of Sin) Every murder, every sexual perversion, anything that is considered 'bad' and much more, all because of Sin.

If one had the ability to remove themselves from our time stream and look upon humanity as we were, prior to Christ's birth, they would see that there was absolutely no hope for Mankind. There was nothing to rescue us from the pit of our own design.

I wonder; had Christ never been born, would Man have self-destructed a long time ago? Even since His birth, wars have been fought in His name. I do not think that Jesus would ever have wanted any war fought in His name. Perhaps (and I'm just musing here, there's no real theology to back this up) Christ's birth, life, subsequent torture, death, and His resurrection, has only delayed our own self destruction.

Either way, as we read the news today, it is quite obvious that there is no hope for humanity. Political squabbles, interminable wars (and those are just the ones America is involved in, not to mention the other wars happening around the world as we speak), abortion, genocide, the manipulation of our genetic structure (I read the other day about how scientists had created a human/bovine embryo...!), the daily struggle to wipe out Free Thought and Reason and replace it with Forced Thought and Propaganda, the financial crises of the globe, the insane weather patterns (no believer in Global Warming here, but one must admit to the impending droughts of Southeastern and Western USA, as well as in other parts of the globe), the shortages of basic food, water, and housing in places such as Ghana, Kenya, Somalia, Haiti and in other places throughout the globe; all of these things, and no end in sight.

Is there any human being who will be able to rescue us from ourselves? Is there a single human soul, anywhere, that has The Perfect Solution to all of the world's problems? What about a combination of humans? Could a body of imperfect beings save any other body of imperfect beings? Perhaps the U.N.? Maybe America?

I'm a firm believer in a dystopian future. A Dystopia is the opposite of a Utopia. Should Man actually be able to last for another hundred or two hundred years, not much will have changed. Sure, technology will have continued to evolve (think: ipods in our heads!) but there will be no real solutions. The problems of today were the problems of yesterday, and shall be the problems of tomorrow, unless something changes.

I believe that there is, for lack of a better term, a deus ex machina looming on the horizon.

This "plot twist" defies all imagination, has no basis in the "reality" as we pathetic Humans seem to insist is true, and it will come at the moment when Humanity needs it most and expects it least.

This is a REAL God, not some actor with a mask, Whose only 'machine' was the Cross, and instead of being lowered down onto the stage of Humanity, He was lifted up as a sacrifice to appease His Father for all the sins of the entire world, of every single human being that has ever existed and will exist in futures to come. The bible says that one day, He will come, at the time that He is needed most, and rescue Humanity from itself. At that time, there will be a great reconciliation, and the bible says that "every knee shall bow and every tongue confess that Jesus Christ is Lord." Will every person be saved? No, unfortunately, not every person will be saved. But they will, eventually, have to admit that there is a God, and that His name is Jesus Christ.

After He has separated the sheep from the goats, there will be, for the first time since Adam and Eve ate of the fruit, Peace on Earth.

Don't you see, reader? We can write all the fiction we want, and place all sorts of improbable deus ex machina into the plot; we can create heroes who perform spectacular deeds, and invent weapons or tools of incredible power and usefulness, but none of them will ever measure up to the incredible "plot twist" that is God.

There is a plot twist coming, reader. Humanity cannot continue on the path that we are traveling upon for much longer. Somebody greater than ourselves must rescue us from this plot of endless doom and self-destruction that we are traveling upon, else there will be nothing left to save. We live in volatile times, with every headline bringing more and more doom and gloom into our homes. There is only one way to be saved; through Jesus Christ, the One and the Only, my King.

(Edit: My wife pointed out to me that my comments regarding the fruit could be taken out of context. Yes, I believe that there was a fruit; I believe in the literal translation and interpretation of the bible. If the bible had said that it was an airplane, I would believe it; that's just they way it has to be! My point about the fruit, however, is this: it could have been any item, any stipulation, or location, that God had put the commandment on. For example, He may have forbidden them to enter into a pond, or to not pet a certain animal. It wasn't the item that mattered, but the command.)

One of my Loves

2008-04-09T12:09:00.000-07:00

I have three true loves in my life. I'm sure that if my wife were to read that, and not progress any further, she would be quite upset with me! I'd end up sleeping in the garage. Seriously, though, I have three true loves in my life, although if I were to be much more specific and accurate, I suppose that the number would have to increase to five true loves. In order they are:
1) My King
2) My Wife
2a) My oldest Son
2b) My youngest Son
3) Writing

I love to write. I fancy myself as some sort of spectacularly underrated author, striving in the shadows for recognition. In reality, I bet the truth is closer to somebody who thinks much too highly of himself and his skill-set. My "idol," the author that I wish I would be able to study under, is C.S. Lewis. If I had 1/100th of his talent, I'd be a happy, happy man. Not only his writing talent, though, but his grasp of the deeper things in life, and his walk with God. I can't imagine how many hours, or days, that he spent in deep communion with the King.

For example, in one of my favorite books written by him, Perelandra, the protagonist is charged with saving a "new creation" from repeating the mistakes of Adam and Eve. Some of the dialogue that goes back and forth between the antagonist, the protagonist, and the "Eve" character is so convincing, that I wonder how he had managed to listen in on the original conversations between Eve and the Serpent. Of course, I'm not advocating that God told him anything, but I am saying that Lewis had a grasp on both the King, and the enemy, that I envy. In the end, of course, the protagonist has to abandon trying to fight the enemy with logic, and simply destroy him through brute strength. I won't ruin it for you, but of all the hundreds and hundreds of books that I've read over the years, the three books of the Space Trilogy (of which Perelandra is part) hold the top three positions of my "favorite books of all time" list.

As for my own writing, I must say that my skills, my interests, and the actual outcome of my writing has evolved over the years. As a young "tween" and then as a teen, I filled notebook after notebook with plenty of scribblings, late into the night when I should have been asleep. The subject material was wide-ranging, everything from "fan fiction," to combining certain "universes" and writing about how conflicts in those combined 'verses would work out, to some pretty original stuff. Then I joined the Marine Corps and not much writing happened, until a few months before I met my wife. We were out on a CAX (Combined Arms Exercise), out in 29 Palms California (one of the loveliest places on Earth), and I was on watch one night. It was very late at night, it was absolutely gorgeous (the weather, combined with the cloudless sky and the full moon), and I couldn't help but write. It was then that I started laying down the foundation for my first true Science Fiction work. Now, nearly 8 years later, I'm still working out the kinks. There's just certain things that bother me about the story. The plot is solid, as are the characters. In fact, if you were to ask me what I didn't like about it, I would be hard-pressed to find an answer for you. So, for now, it's on the back-burner, simmering in the corners of my mind as I try and figure out exactly where to go with it.

The other novels that I've been working on are Fantasy in genre. So far, they've been met with "critical" acclaim, meaning that my wife and friends love it. But they're supposed to, right? Seriously, though, the first novel in the series has actually made it past the first few hurdles of publishing! I'm quite surprised that it has made it that far. Right now, the acquisition editors are pitching it to Barnes and Noble, and other booksellsers. It's turned into a waiting game for me thus far, and I'm not sure how much more I can wait!

In reality, I guess I'm just trying to do that which I was created for. I've never been talented at anything else; singing, dancing, playing music, drawing, they were all busts for me. In the book of Matthew, chapter 25 verses 14-30, is the parable of the Talents. Now, I know that the actual "talent" that is spoken about in the passage is the term for a monetary wage, back in Jesus' day. However, I take the word quite literally, too. In the parable, there is a wise Man, a King, who goes on a trip to a far away land to receive a kingdom given in tribute. While He is gone, He gives a measure of money to each of three servants, and tells them to do something with it. As with all trips, this one has to end sometime, and eventually the King returns and asks the three servants what they did with the moolah that He left them. Servants One and Two were able to double the money that the King had given them. But Servant Three said these words: "Lord, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you have not sown, and gathering where you have not scattered seed. And I was afraid, and went and hid your talent in the ground. Look, there you have what is yours." Servant Three was paralyzed by his fear of his Master! I had to come to the realization that I could not be paralyzed by fear, or rejection. I had to take the talent that my King has given me, that of writing, and apply it.

Even if, in the long run, I am never published by a "real" publishing company, I hope that my writing skills will be able to be put to use to help further the kingdom of Heaven. I wonder though: how many other Talents do I have that I'm not using?

Odd, how things work out...

2008-04-08T15:13:00.000-07:00

As I was brushing my teeth last night in preparation for going to bed, I was struck with an incredible realization. My blog, as you can tell and I explained last night, is titled 45:1, for obvious reasons laid out in the text of my first post. However, as I sat on the edge of my bed thinking about what I had just realized, the similarities to what I had been struck with and what I intended of this blog were quite interesting.

It has been many, many years since I had read this book, but Fahrenheit 451 was what struck me last night.

Fahrenheit 451 is the temperature at which paper auto-ignites. Allusions were made to this book by good ol' Michael Moore with his 'documentary' on 9/11, titled "9-11 the temperature at which freedom burns." Trust me, the original book was much better than any garbage peddled by Moore.

In the book, 'firemen' travel around on the governments dime and burn things. They are, in fact, quite opposite to the 'firemen' of today, who are charged with putting out fires. No, the 'firemen' of the future are in fact censor men, and they hunt for and burn anything that could lead to free thought and expressive creations.

Interestingly enough, according to my research, Bradbury intended the novel to be a jab at television. Check out this quote (taken from wikipedia, sorry)

“In writing the short novel Fahrenheit 451 I thought I was describing a world that might evolve in four or five decades. But only a few weeks ago, in Beverly Hills one night, a husband and wife passed me, walking their dog. I stood staring after them, absolutely stunned. The woman held in one hand a small cigarette-package-sized radio, its antenna quivering. From this sprang tiny copper wires which ended in a dainty cone plugged into her right ear. There she was, oblivious to man and dog, listening to far winds and whispers and soap-opera cries, sleep-walking, helped up and down curbs by a husband who might just as well not have been there. This was not fiction.”

Tell me, is this not a picture of what we see every day, all day? How many people do you see walking down the street, plugged into their devices, plugged into a whole new "reality" but in fact, absolutely oblivious to the world around them?

There is a problem with being so plugged in to a separate reality. I believe that it desensitizes you to your fellow human beings, and to REALITY as it truly is. I spent some time in Iraq. It was my first extended period outside of the United States. Sure, I had gone to Mexico once or twice, but both Kuwait and Iraq were completely different than anything else I had ever seen. I mean, besides the fact that it was a war zone.

When the invasion started we crossed the border, going "Heavy Kinetic" all the way to Baghdad as our beloved Colonel "Fightin' Joe" Dunford exhorted. Along the way, I had the opportunity to interact with occasional civilians, and see how they lived. The abject poverty that many of them lived in was a slap in the face to me and all my cultured notions of what "reality" was truly like.

Coupled with the fighting and the killing the "human element" was something that, when I returned to the United States, made me very angry. I remember standing in a Starbucks, thirsty for my first real cup of coffee in many months, and hearing a woman squeal about how her latte wasn't hot enough. It was all I could do not to explode on her. Fresh in my mind was the family that lived in the dump, or the other family that was gathering water from an irrigation canal that doubled as a sewer. Would they have cared how hot their latte was? Or would they have been thankful to be in a climate-controlled building drinking something that was in a clean cup, with pure water and not contaminated with disease? What is reality?

Ray Bradbury's classic Fahrenhiet 451 was more prophetic than he may have realized. If, indeed, he wrote it to express his love of books, and of writing, and of free thought, and to decry the desensitization and brain-washing of the public from television and radio (and now, Internet), then if he is still alive today he must spend each day in a marveled daze at how we have turned out.

On an even grander scale is the fact that such a preferred isolationism, this sort of chosen hermitage among society, has also separated us from the One who, indeed, invented creativity and free-thought.

In our rush to buy the latest, the greatest, the most technological or the most convenient, we have (quietly, at first, and then with an outright middle-finger), shouldered out the King who is constantly calling for our attention. I remember, just a few weeks back, hiking in Bear Canyon, and marveling at the beauty of the place, and at the quiet and the solitude, and then glancing up at an on-coming hiker and seeing a dude who was plugged into his ipod and bobbing his head in time with the music, absolutely incognizant of the grandeur around him. Another time, my buddy Mike and I were hiking up near Bridal Wreath Falls, and encountered a gentleman who was having quite a heated conversation on his cellular phone, some six miles up and away into the wild. What is the purpose of these gadgets in such a place? Where one should be quiet, contemplative, instead they are filling those quiet moments with noise, clamor, with busy-ness and with action.

I believe that when people do this, they are doing it because they are afraid, afraid of hearing the quiet, gentle voice of the One who is constantly calling. Don't be mistaken: He may have created the Universe, He may be depicted as a Mighty Warrior (and we would be well off to remember that this isn't just a depiction), but He is also a gentleman, and He would never take by force that which He could receive through a gift. In scripture, it is said that He "Stands at the door and knocks..." He does not have a battering ram, He does not have an entry-model shotgun, ready to blast down the door to your heart, move in, and take over.

We can make the fatal mistake of drowning out the knocking of the King, by filling our lives with detritus and busy-work. I ask you, would it kill us to unplug? How hard would it be for any of us to remove our distractions, for even one hour a day. Do you jog in the mornings? Walk at night? Leave your mp3 player behind one day out of the week. Simply be silent. Enjoy creation. Listen for the King.

Getting back on track, all of the above is what ran through my head last night as I brushed my teeth. Psalm 45:1, what I am officially making my "life's verse," and what ended up being the title of my blog which, I hope, will end up being exhortations for us all to be free-thinkers, to delete censorship in our lives, to unplug from the television, the radio, mp3's, and the like, and to focus on the Creator, has a distinct correlation to Ray Bradbury's classic Fahrenheit 451.

I don't believe in coincidences. Do you?

Well Then

2008-04-08T00:19:00.000-07:00

Here it is, my first blog. It has been an odd sort of journey to reach this spot, this decision of creating a blog. As I tried to decide whether or not to blog, I was also thinking about all the things that I would "blog" about, and began to plot my assault on the blogging world; during the planning phase, I figured that I could go two routes: I could give a long and exhausting background of all my history, detailing even the most minute details of my childhood, and progressing upwards until this very moment in time. The other route I was considering would involve simply plunging you, the hapless reader, directly into the center of my life and let you figure everything out as I go along.

Being who I was created to be, I think that I shall opt for Option 2. Sorry.

I suppose that even if I do not give you an exhaustive history, I ought to at least explain the title of my blog. Psalm 45:1 reads: "My heart is overflowing with a good theme; I recite my composition concerning the King; My tongue is the pen of a ready writer."

My heart and my mind belongs to Another, One Who transcends the very fabric of this created sphere that we yet live upon. He is above our ways, His thoughts are above our thoughts, His mind is above our mind; with but a word He spoke time into being, and He fashioned you and He fashioned me. How can my heart not overflow? How can my compositions not concern the King? He gave me the tongue of a ready writer; I pray that my mind and my fingers are used for no other reason than to glorify the King who is worthy.

That, then, is why I have chosen 45:1 for the title of my Blog. During the course of our journey together, reader, I am sure that we shall cover quite a bit of territory. Do not expect to see perfection out of me, for that which I once was still has a tendency to raise his ugly head and lead a rebellion against the King. Surprisingly, I'm looking forward to this. I hope to see more of you around here, and I hope that you will come to enjoy my nonsensical style of writing, and the things that are put onto my heart and onto my mind.