thegreatknock

I have to leave for singles’ group in about an hour, but before I go, I feel an urge to tell a story. Here goes, from the top of my head…

The Mathematician and the Artist

In a room full of people he stands silent without mirth or grief in his eyes. He looks this way and that, calculating the faces of those around him, as if they were mathematical figures and not forms of flesh, he’s adding up this flirtacious blonde with that brawny fellow in the corner, dividing by the curly-haired girl who sits nearby with a soured jealous expression on her face. He watches others move in circles around the room until striking upon some conversational common denominator, into which they add their two cents, and then comes the art behind the math: will the semi-circle already present expand to allow the newcomer? and should they do so, will they now form a pleasant, healthy circle of talk, or will they create an oblong oval, complete with pregnant distance to express the mere politeness of their welcoming? He waits and calculates. The oval forms. He smiles.

Ah! Here’s a new one, just come into the room, a young man, around 20, smiling at several other young ones and occasionally coughing into his sleeve. The Mathematician watches and counts his steps–the young man of 20 sees an acquaintance and gives the manly nod in that direction, his friend is standing amid four or five pretty young ladies, shortest distance between two points, but the young man instead takes a rounded arc before joining the group–a subtle deception to hide his immediate and apparent interest in Girl #3. They’re talking now. You could keep time by the mild, amused laughter of Girl #3…one two three four–laughter–one two three four–giggle. Ridiculous.

The Mathematician cringes and turns toward his drink instead. He gazes into the plastic cup as bubbles form along the roof of his soda. He begins counting bubbles to avoid counting the moments of his loneliness. Thirteen, fourteen, twelve, seven, ten…

On and on he counts. That is, until she enters the room.

She pauses at the threshold, the room is full of wondrous strangers to her. She has never seen anything like them, so beautiful as they laugh and shine, console and mourn, smile and flirt. They move with ease and freedom (how free!), power and grace, and for all her stone and oils and watercolours, she knows she never shall make such a thing so soft, so strong, so fluid as these strangers are! She sees burning brilliant in their eyes what her paintings and sculptures would dare to name with simple sounds like “love” or “peace” or “friendship” or simply “life,” words too small to possess the divine light which blazes here! She is humbled as in the presence of Masterpieces. She longs to touch them as a child.

And so into the room she passes. Her movements are an art of their own, she carries her body with grace and breathy softness, simply adorned, swinging gently into the room of perfect unknowns. The lights of the room fall along her as if their glory were made for her, to bring her light. She walks in beauty, like the very first night, the only pure night of which all current nights are but an echo, the night in which stars became and released their glory, the moon grown as a newly birthed blossom in the sky. Oh yes, she walks in beauty.

The Mathematician sees her and Life escapes him a moment as she comes, he feels his heart skip a beat, one-TWO, one-TWO, everything’s fine, on–… time…space…a collision between zero and infinity, between Nothing and Everything, meet in a person who defies figures or laws–she is pure Imagination expanding his heart! …and then he remembers himself, and the beats resume.

But something is different. The silence in his heart has left–somehow this young woman has changed the regular clockwork beats from mere numbers into a song! He cannot conceive how it was done, he only knows it is. He moves and lives, he moves out of the lonely corner and to this piece of art, this Artist who has made music of his soul. He smiles again, now a sincere smile. The Mathematician meets the Artist.

Off to singles I go! (smile)

I have to leave for singles’ group in about an hour, but before I go, I feel an urge to tell a story.  Here goes, from the top of my head…

The Mathematician and the Artist

In a room full of people he stands silent without mirth or grief in his eyes.  He looks this way and that, calculating the faces of those around him, as if they were mathematical figures and not forms of flesh, he’s adding up this flirtacious blonde with that brawny fellow in the corner, dividing by the curly-haired girl who sits nearby with a soured jealous expression on her face. He watches others move in circles around the room until striking upon some conversational common denominator, into which they add their two cents, and then comes the art behind the math: will the semi-circle already present expand to allow the newcomer? and should they do so, will they now form a pleasant, healthy circle of talk, or will they create an oblong oval, complete with pregnant distance to express the mere politeness of their welcoming?  He waits and calculates.  The oval forms.  He smiles.

Ah!  Here’s a new one, just come into the room, a young man, around 20, smiling at several other young ones and occasionally coughing into his sleeve.  The Mathematician watches and counts his steps–the young man of 20 sees an acquaintance and gives the manly nod in that direction, his friend is standing amid four or five pretty young ladies, shortest distance between two points but the young man instead takes a rounded arc before joining the group–a subtle deception to hide his immediate and apparent interest in Girl #3.  They’re talking now.  You could keep time by the mild, amused laughter of Girl #3…one two three four–laughter–one two three four–giggle.  Ridiculous.

The Mathematician cringes and turns toward his drink instead.  He gazes into the plastic cup as bubbles form along the roof of his soda.  He begins counting bubbles to avoid counting the moments of his loneliness.  Thirteen, fourteen, twelve, seven, ten…

On and on he counts.  That is, until she enters the room. 

She pauses at the threshold, the room is full of wondrous strangers to her.  She has never seen anything like them, so beautiful as they laugh and shine, console and mourn, smile and flirt.  They move with ease and freedom (how free!), power and grace, and for all her stone and oils and watercolours, she knows she never shall make such a thing so soft, so strong, so fluid as these strangers are!  She sees burning brilliant in their eyes what her paintings and sculptures would dare to name with simple sounds like “love” or “peace” or “friendship” or simply “life,” words too small to possess the divine light which blazes here!  She is humbled as in the presence of Masterpieces.  She longs to touch them as a child.

And so into the room she passes.  Her movements are an art of their own, she carries her body with grace and breathy softness, simply adorned, swinging gently into the room of perfect unknowns.  The lights of the room fall along her as if their glory were made for her, to bring her light.  She walks in beauty, like the very first night, the only night of which all current nights are but an echo, the night in which stars became and released thier glory, the moon grown as a newly birthed blossom in the sky.  Oh yes, she walks in beauty.

The Mathematician sees her and Life escapes him a moment as she comes, he feels his heart skip a beat, one-TWO, one-TWO, everything’s fine, on–… time…space…a collision between zero and infinity, between Nothing and Everything, meet in a person who defies figures or laws–she is pure Imagination expanding his heart! …and then he remembers himself, and the beats resume.

But something is different.  The silence in his heart has left–somehow this young woman has changed the regular clockwork beats from mere numbers into a song!  He cannot conceive how it was done, he only knows it is.  He moves and lives, he moves out of the lonely corner and to this piece of art, this Artist who has made music of his soul.  He smiles again, now a sincere smile.  The Mathematician meets the Artist.

Off to singles I go! (smile)
                     
                                                                                                    CPW 5/21 = Bryan Ellis

Today, at long last, I presented my new curriculum to the educators and staff at WhyKnow. Well, I presented most of it, anyway–I discovered while browsing through the printed pages that there were plenty of gaps and missing references mixed in, which I distinctly or fuzzily remember promising myself I would “eventually get to.” Probably those all-nighters spent on it recently. Still, the work as a whole is looking pretty sharp, and now I get to turn my attention from composing text and activities, toward some of the practicals: fonts, graphics, etc. This should be fun. As to the intended font, I’m thinking Perpetua 13.

It suddenly strikes me as odd, this expression I have just used: “at long last.” Such a strange collection of terms is this–“at” gives the sense of arriving, which I certainly have (almost) done with this project, “long” describes duration (or so I’d assume…physical length doesn’t make much sense here)…but “last”? How does this apply? Did I manage to “last” or survive this long experience? Or does it imply finality?

Gosh, I sound boring (grin). It has been awhile since I let my imagination loose with creative writing, since this project has gobbled up most of my creativity in recent months, so I apologise for being so dry. In time, in time. It’s a pity, though, that I can’t scratch something fun out just now, for I have been reading Chesterton’s Orthodoxy lately and thinking much about faerie tales and the grace of imagination…

Again, give me a few weeks and perhaps I’ll be my clever self again (smile).

Where to begin…

I’m wondering what I should do with this blog. I began a blog about eighteen months ago on a rival site (xanga.com), encouraged others to join, and by now have quite a happy little colony of friends floating together there. But I have become less enamoured with the xanga tendency toward provocative pics in their banner ads, and rather prefer the simplistic forms here at blogspot. But this leaves me with a number of dilemmas:

1. Do I try to juggle two blogs at once? This seems audacious and overkill, to say the least.

2. Suppose I remove to this blog permanently. Should I then try to lure friends away from xanga to join me here? I know, I know–if I really love them, I’ll let them go, set them free…and if the love is real, they’ll fly to my Blogger side, right? Not that there is much benefit to bringing them here. Thus far, I haven’t discovered a way to create blogrings on this site, which would be rather helpful and communal in (one would hope) a positive way. Also, this site requires more ingenuity to manage, as one must dig into the lines of code oneself to make changes (xanga is far easier), and I fear most of my friends are almost as computer-inept as I. So.

3. If I try to maintain both, will I simply copy entries from one site to the other? Again, I cannot believe my words are so important to the world…and that sounds tedious for a guy like me. Even now, I can think back to some lovely entries on the other site and a happy sigh escapes me. I do so love to write…

Okay, it’s settled, then. I’m going to add slowly and quietly to this blog and still keep the old one for the sake of my constant companions there. We’ll see what ending comes of this…

BryanEllis did it…mostly by ground-thumping, then jumping around like a maniac.
The Tenth Challenge is complete.
Well done, my friend.

Oh, and…way to go, Jim Halpert!  Step on up to the plate, bro.

And who will be the CPW for the coming week?
Only time and opportunity will tell…

Let’s play a quick game–two of the statements below are true, and one is false.  See if you can figure out which is a lie…

1. I am wearing a pink t-shirt right now.
2. I went to bed at eight-thirty this morning, and slept till noon.
3. I am one foxy-looking fellow today.

As you make your guesses, remember: be kind.

I felt the need to share this piece of humble, brotherly encouragement before my little xanga hiatus. 

There are three female voices which have the strange but sweet effect on me for their beauty, purity, strength, and marvelous sense of command.  They command the air and tremble it in such ways, I cannot understand it.  It’s almost like one’s soul is given a voice in theirs (does that make sense?).  I am simply moved; I could listen to these three sing anything again and again.

The other two voices are that of Fleming from the old Fleming and John days, and Leigh Nash from Sixpence None the Richer.

Your songs are lovely, Claire (smile).  Thanks for the cd.  Za pravdu.

This site’s manager temporarily out of service.

The echo still resounded, “Let there be Light!”  This Light beyond all light which transports the soul from the black of evil to the bright shine of goodly glory had come, had spilled all over the earth and over the hearts of men, exposing all, radiating all, loving all, burning all.  Some seared souls arose against that Light and resolved themselves that this Light would have no part of them!  They shook angry fists to the heavens from which that great Light shone; they spewed blasphemous rage.  They sought to destroy the Light. 

With a sigh, the Light absorbed their derision and rejection.  The Light faded with the weight of infinite sorrow shrouding its glory moment by moment.  At last, the very Daylight died.  There was morning and there was evening: the first day.

Rage.  The earth itself did tremble and rupture, and the dead began to crawl from their graves.  Look!  Look to the heavy curtain of the universe, veiling all things from the unapproachable Light which would consume them!  The glorious Light, the Holy of holiest Light, which men could not enter lest they die–the marvelous Light did not kill the foolish trespassing Man, but true to the nature of Light, it only exposed the reality: that the trespassing Man was already dead!  The curtain sways as all things slip into tumultuous darkness, heaving groaning despairing dark.  The curtain sways, and suddenly is torn!  Men avert their eyes, lest they too die…fall to their knees, grieving that they should stand so close to the Holy Room…and then they raise their eyes.  They look, in faith, they look and can see as the Light wills them to see!

Silence elsewhere.  Men strike hands in sinful pledges, women seduce, children revolt, parents despise, fathers abuse, mothers tantrum, sons lust, daughters envy.  It is as any other day.  There was morning and there was evening: the second day.

Night passes and begins to ebb away.  A slow blue burns the edge of the horizon, burning itself into a watery light which creeps farther and farther heavenward, ascending as only the Light can ascend!  At the same moment, watery tears yet fall from the cheeks of those precious few who loved the Light which left them two days hence.  Will they be left alone in darkness?  Darkness still within them, darkness all around–O, will the Sun also rise?

Unknown to them, the earth again moved–this time, but a single great boulder, a stone which stood before the shadowy cave.  A hundred men who doubted the Light (but also doubted Death enough to stand as guards against the imperishable Light) look in awe for a moment and are struck down.  They lie as though dead. 

It is the breaking of the Dawn!  Light passes among them, and among many more, thousands upon thousands more, Light passes among you and I…the Light burns on, loves on, restores on, proclaims on, satisfies on, sears on, frightens on, rages on!  The Light remains and darkness cannot overwhelm Him!  O God!  What Light!

It was morning and it is forever morning: the Third Day.

Something about good stories makes me long to be the characters–heroic, simple, pure and plain, witty, just, true, beautiful.  I was reading Prince Caspian the other day and began to have that wish again, that I were such a young man as he, destined for a throne which I must fight to win from the hands of wicked men.  Surrounded by goodly men and brave, I would battle and calculate and consider and decide in every hour the acts of faith which would lead me thus (always humbly thankful that there is a great Lion standing tense nearby, dangerous in His goodness and eager that I should have the day’s victory).  What a difference comes to a man who knows he is meant for greatness…

(Even as I write, I wonder, can you follow my thinking when I say that this knowledge and greatness are no arrogant thing?  For a man may be truly great and all the while know He Who is greater still; a man may speak and act with supernatural authority, because he himself is under authority.  This is what I mean…)

…such a man may dare great things indeed!  But surely I do fight wickedness within that I might win the prize, and a part of that prize is a crown!  So I think of it–how would I live if I knew that I were one day to rule a great kingdom?  How would you?

I was wondering about this yesterday as I sat on a very large rock on Signal Mountain, looking out across the river valley, and my journal alone receives those thoughts, but here is a sum: we who belong in Christ, and are found in Him, we are also co-heirs with Him, and His promises are true which tell of the heaven and earth to come.  We are stewards and slaves of nature now, but then we shall be masters and kings!  Not gods but kings; kings and kingdoms are His and in His hands, and so shall we be, rulers of dominions and kings of kingdoms, and He shall be our King of kings!

Have you ever looked at life in such a way?  Perhaps not…it seems the stuff of egomaniacal cults or selfish religions, and I hope you understand I am not urging any man to embrace Christ for the sake of dominion.  Whenever I look out across great spaces of the earth, I am immediately struck by the complete sensation that I am both master of the earth (by God’s original command) and but a tiny, fallen creature in it!  God made man ruler over the earth; yet even the smallest of that earth’s boulders might dash my head to bits.  So we are weak: we do not come to Christ that we might have power of our own–truly we come as beggars and enemies of God, desperate beyond hope that we might only Live and delight in His power.

And still, God has plainly told us we shall reign with Christ that we might be blessed by this knowledge!  We shall never be as worms or microbes, nor the beasts of the field; we shall be kings and queens!  In the grand scheme, a king is still a very small thing, smaller probably than we even imagine…yet with a greatness, too, which our common days and common efforts rarely afford us.

By grace, look at your day today from the eyes of an heir apparent to a throne…

::Edit::  I had the privilege of spending a few hours with Claire this afternoon, just singing and playing some of our songs, recording them for a project she has in business class.  She was kind enough to let me ruin some of her songs (by dreadful drumming and other accompaniment–grin), but in all the songs sounded really awesome and she should be very proud!  If you have not had the pleasure of hearing her sing, you are totally missing out on a blessing from the Lord…I recommend you visit her page and pester her till she sings for you or sends you a cd.