blast from the plast

We are fortunate to have a radio station out here that plays all the hits of my high school era. Hearing Trevor McNevan's voice for the nth time on Ignite107 (local Christian station), I was compelled to switch to said station (if you are wondering: here) and I was greeted by the coelacanth, Econoline Crush. It is appropriate to note that the 90's wizardry which begate such hits as "All That You Are" (albeit the Boomtang remix) was also around the time that I was in the minor car accident of which I am now reaping the rewards.

Today I received a surprisingly potent volleyball serve from a shnerps of a kid. Pow, the ricochet of pain spiking up my arm brought back the recent comment from my chiropractor, "...and you ARE reaching the magical age (of 30)." Magical? I wondered. Magical like a how a Ringwraith sucks your life-soul out of you magical? Hmm. This is something that needs some pondering.

I played hackysack with a couple of kids today as well. Apparently they remembered some off-the-cuff remark I had made about my past hackysacking days in high school(if only they would remember my course content just as well). Praise the Lord it was like riding a bike. I didn't look like a fool and we actually had a fun time kicking around during one of the morning breaks. They came to the staffroom at lunch begging for more kicks. But Crotchity Mr. P reared his head and told them to scram (my Chinese take-out leftovers were losing their warmth). They will be back, eventually (they incidentally lost the sack up on some obscure rafter in the gym). It's nice to build report.

Today was a good day.

I'll wear oven mitts

I received a note the other day from a student. It read "Sory Mr. P that I "lyed" to you". Of course, a big SIC applies, but the part I like best is the quotation marks around "lyed". The kid in question is a notorious one. He and I have had our bouts, but I'm really rooting for him. Seriously. He is dealing with one of the worst family situations. Not one created by poor choices, but more of a Job-crying-out-to-God situation. Having written '"lyed"' in the note is such a great example of this sly disrespect. It's so sneaky it makes me smile. Did he apologize? No. Do I care? No. I told him that I want him to succeed. I'm on his side. How much did he take from that? I have not a clue. He's just an angry little boy that's dealing with a lot of crap. I, unfortunately, will still have to check to make sure he is writing his homework down in his agenda every day at 3:30. I'll get my fingers nipped until June.

In Exile - by Thrice

I am an exile - a sojourner; a citizen of some other place. All I've seen is just a glimmer in a shadowy mirror, But I know one day I'll see face to face.

There seems to be a sort of excitement rippling through the MB conference. The topic of atonement has not only been the focus of the last MB Herald but also been the key subject for a number of recent sermons at our own church. I'm not going to tackle the theological debate here, but I must express my joy.

I am nomad - a wanderer; I have nowhere to lay my head down. There's no point in putting roots too deep when I'm moving on; I'm not settling for this unsettling town.

The wagging fingers of Sunday school teachers, camp councilors, and even one Bible school prof., although fading in my memory now, kept me down for so long. It wasn't until a fateful baptismal class, almost 10 years ago, that I realized my assurance of salvation. The revelation that Pastor Brad provided me is still so clear to me today. The Great Error, of course, is thinking that I can save myself. I never actually thought it in those words, but I surely thought that my deeds would swing the eternal balance at any given moment, known or unknown.

My heart is filled with songs of forever- of a city that endures, where all is made new. I know I don't belong here; I'll never call this place my home, I'm just passing through.

Jesus is the only way. The ONLY way. I don't mean the hippie peace-out-dude only way. It is what HE did. Continues to do. My salvation isn't dependent on I've done, aside from accepting Jesus's exchange for me. Why did it take so long for me to learn this? Gah, what I've been typing seems so elementary, so foundational, but so many Christians don't understand this. And I sure didn't for a very long time. Praise the Lord we're talking about it now.

I am pilgrim - a voyager. I won't rest until my lips touch the shore of the land that I've been longing for as long as I've lived, Where there'll be no pain or tears anymore.

the awkward years

I am smacking my lips. Raising an eyebrow. Squinting...trying to recall... that taste. Real Time wasn't great. It wasn't horrible either. The morale of the story, while poignant, beats you over the head like you are an ill-fated Dora the Explorer pinata. The gist (you'll get this from the back of the dvd case) is that Andy (Jay Baruchel, of Popular Mechanics for Kids) is up to his neck in gambling debt, Reuben (Randy Quaid with a phenomenal kiwi accent) is the hitman giving him one more hour to live. We watch, in real time (wink wink), their conversations as Andy laments his poor lot in life and as Reuben attempts to help Andy make peace before the hour is up. Carpe Diem! Considering the f-bomb was used more often than any vowel, I was surprised when Andy squeezed a couple of red eyes out of me. Who can help it with a bleak Hamilton Ontario backdrop, two broken -but likable- characters, and the tingling knock knock knocks of Death at the door. At one point in the movie, they end up in front of an elementary school. Each character tells a contrasting memory of their time in school. And in one case, he reveals that his experience had completely altered his life.
What kind of memories am I creating for my students? What seeds am I planting? I don't have much control over what they interpret and what choices they make, but I am part of the picture.

The Grade 7s still blow me away. They are so naive. So goofy. Buck teeth. Ungraceful swinging appendages. Squeaking excitement over the smallest things. Oh crap. I think I just described my old eHarmony profile. Their concern of all the 'swears' in Deadliest Catch is so cute. Man, they make me laugh. They are so innocent. So easy to awe.

It's interesting to see how the 7s also can be at completely different levels of development. One kid could be drawing a snake's maw with exquisite detail, the other is gripping their pencil with a fury only matched by a locked arm-wrestling bout between a man and a mother bear. Coordination is an afterthought as they stab, shake, wriggle their way across the page. The subsequent indentations of their drawings can be seen multiple pages into their Dollarama sketchpads. Like phantoms.

I love it.

Done.

What a weird summer. I had three goals: driveway, lawn, deck. Done. I kept busy the rest of the time. I will be honest and tell you that I am content with what I accomplished. My only resentment is towards the horrible weather...but that bitterness is beginning to feel like blasphemy. So I'll ease off. September is here. There is no stopping it. As usual it's a dunk in a cold lake. You inhale sharply, hold it. Clench. Prepare for the worst. My nightmares of poor classroom management started at the dawn of August, so my fluttered, whimpering, REM sleep has eased off since then. This year is filled with so many new things. New courses. Manage the yearbook committee. Help direct the musical. Begin fatherhood. The latter being the only consequential one. I feel too young to start. But when I do the math (...I'm an Art major remember)... it still doesn't add up. It just comes down to me feeling too young to start. The shoes ahead just will not, cannot, be filled by me alone. Whew. This morning, at church, when I stood with bowed head in mind-wandering prayer I was allowed a third person glimpse of my religiousness. There is ritual. I'll grant that. It looks strangely devout and robotic. I won't deny it. but as I agree with mewithoutyou's Every Thought a Thought of You, it isn't empty. Knowledge of a living God runs deep. Sap deep. As in a tree. Although I can be caught just standing still, it's still here, it doesn't leave. He gives me hope. Hope that learning will occur. Hope that I'll be a good father. Hope that I can use my gifts.

I'll update more.

off the top

The frustration with these "tough economic times" is that we live in such prosper, such grandeur, that we are filled to the gullet with knickknacks and gizmos. We, I should say I, sit, bloated and so busy with stuff that I cannot focus or prioritize. I skim. I read multiple books at a time. There is one on my bedside table (Steve Turner's Imagine: A Vision for Christians in the Arts), one on the dining table (Tony Campolo's Speaking My Mind), one on the coffeetable (Madeleine L'Engle's A Wind in the Door), and a host of others I don't dare to crack open until...later. I pick them up at different parts of my daily routine. Snippets of this and that tap at my mind, but I rarely indulge. There is too much other stuff to do. I itch with it. I itch to create. The part that really bothers me is that it isn't that I do not have ideas. I have plenty of ideas. They are my children. They are my kindred spirits. I create them and play with them as I close my eyes to sleep. Some vaporize in the morning, others have become shaggy live-ins so comfortable with their abode they walk around disheveled and in their pajamas. Once in a while they are booted from the nest and come into fruition. But then another hurdle presents itself: actual completion. Some ideas roost in my head, and I am sure they cringe as they imagine the day they will be left half-complete, on a shelf, like a broken toy. My wife has been great and practically dangles me by my feet jingling my ideas, like change, from my pockets. I subconsciously fight it however, disappointment looms and reminds me of my shortcomings, lack of practice (ooh the paradox!), time, and tools. It's dumb and it is a disease. "Real life" needs my attention now. That whole career-thing, sodding, building a deck, installing the knife magnet in the kitchen, etc etc. Yet, I'll skim over those too...

Rinse and Repeat.

Tid Bits: an artist (a Canadian artist, I might add), Michel Gagne, whom has plagued every Flight volume has created this. What a sweet symphony of his distinct style and old-school gaming.

And if this isn't a hotbed of creative interpretation and mystery. I don't know what is.

Next time

Orson Scott Card wrote a fantasy series about an alternate reality of the settlement of America. Infusing the legend and magic of First Nation mythos with his Mormon faith, he wrote a tall tale of a seventh son of a seventh son who was born with mysterious abilities, etc. The reader soon discovers that this boy has a certain death wish from the element of water. This results in almost constant near-drowning, falling icicles, and the like. Wherever this boy goes, water is somehow impeding his progress. A supernatural bummer. In regards to this, I have this same relationship with traffic. Maybe a nice U-bend in my front bike tire from my neighbour's car started this affliction, all I know is that whenever I step onto a street, regardless of where or when, cars en masse will appear. They will not necessarily bee-line it for my brittle, soft-tissue, body, but their presence is enough to increase the odds of me being crumpled under their tires. Of course, this could be a psychological case of Murphy's Law, but I am sure that the faceless embodyment of Traffic is somehow scheming to end my earth friendly commute to work. I'll keep my prone Jumping Stance at hand until then.

A few weeks ago, I had the privilege to MC my friend's wedding reception. After cluck-clucking the separating seams in my suit I realized I should probably find a replacement for my battle worn accouterment for this occasion. Flying standby so often had worn a hole its very soul, so off to TipTopTailors we went. Luckly, I found a sales associate who mirrored my stature and was thus able to avoid any poo pooing of my lanky frame and soon purchased a fitting regalia complete with custom shoulder pad to compensate for my asymmetry (I was reminded that one of my shoulders is defective in its height).

Soon, I was off enjoying an early Spring and Ikea. That night I finalized my obligatory anecdote for the Big Day, quite confident in its syntax, and went to bed. Requesting a teacher to be the MC of a wedding reception seems fitting. It gives the person a chance to be center stage and direct the oggling mass to its destination. A teacher's ego is quenched. However, once the reality of lack of control is realized, panic sets in. Having been handed a minute-by-minute itnerary by the father of the groom, I perused its minute detail as one does a soothing balm, but was soon told that it was more of a guide and that I should wait for my queues. My steering had become soggy, and nonresponsive. And it became more so when I talked into the microphone as I realized that I did not have since September 4th to create a respective bond with my audience. I genuinely had short spats of stare-down towards certain tables expecting their immediate and silent response. My badge had been stripped. I am too new of a teacher to know how to improv my power. As most of my melodramatic stories go; life continued. The soggy steering seemed to be sufficient and I was able to wobble my way to the launching of a garter with narry a problem.

It was a fun wedding. Maybe good weddings put a good vibe on the surrounding experiences, but overall, the weekend could not have gone better. I had good conversations, good times, and good meals with family and friends. Next time, I'll bring my better half.