so there he goes singing the gospel again

"and I could write a song a hundred miles long
Well that’s where I belong and you belong with me
The streets you’re walking on, a thousand houses long
Well that’s where I belong and you belong with me
Oh what good is it to live with nothing left to give
Forget but not forgive, not loving all you see
Oh the streets you’re walking on a thousand houses long
Well that’s where I belong and you belong with me
Not swallowed in the sea

You belong with me, not swallowed in the sea
Yeah you belong with me

Not swallowed in the sea."

Coldplay

Why I Love The Brits (And Their Distant Cousins, The Aussies)

they write (and speak) like this:

"the difficulty is remembering not to be miserable."

I'm totally changing my name to Clive.

It's Called, "I Got Out Of Bed And Didn't Want To Work Out."

1. "Sheep Go To Heaven," Cake
2. "Loser," Beck
3. "Grace Cathedral Hill," The Decemberists
4. "Anna Begins," Counting Crows
5. "Cool," Gwen Stefani
6. "Foggy Mountain Breakdown," Lester Flatt & Earl Scruggs
7. "Hotel California," Gypsy Kings
8. "Better Days," Goo Goo Dolls
9. "Weapon of Choice," Fatboy Slim
10. "Say It Right," Nelly Furtado
11. "Alcohol (Live on St. Patrick's Day)," Dropkick Murphies
12. "What's Left Of The Flag," Flogging Molly
13. "There Goes My Hero," Foo Fighters

---edit---

in the process of rambling through old drafts of unpublished posts (let that mystery dig around in your curiousity for a while) two things happened:

a) i found a draft from last June about travel and transience that i subsequently published...

b) and i realized that i've been living in Houghton for a solid year now. i guess it's time to celebrate my one-year anniversary as a bona-fide community member. who's bringing the booze?

which led to a realization: what a great journey.

which led to a smile.

:)

I just did something very important. And it feels good.





"aaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh" goes the long-overdue release of tension.





Now if only those motorcycle parts would come in the mail.

50$ and 3 days later--I kinda fixed it so that it's worse now.

From "The Biker's Dictionary:"

PMS: No, not that kind, although the symptoms can be surprisingly similar. Parked Motorcycle Syndrome. Common to those of us stupid enough to live where the evil white crap falls. Can also be caused by wrecks, breakdowns, loss of license, or an avalanche of obligations that get in the way of one's riding time. Symptoms include depression, irritability, serious post-ho'ing, and, every so often, a multi-state killing spree.

[sigh]waiting for o-rings to make it all better.

1. Ben Folds is the man.

2. The Aviator is a bad movie to miss the first half hour of.

3. I wish I had a shotgun.

4. Just when you think you have one reliable, fun, open, and honest relationship in your life, your motorcycle goes and voids an entire tank of gas all over the porch for no apparent reason and [Newsies moment] "we're off/to the workbench again!"

5. Except I have no workbench. And no screwdrivers. And no can opener or spatula...I do really miss my housemates.

7. It's a beautiful day.

8. I'm watching Brick tonight.

9. I can't wait for the next "Scrubs" DVD to show up in my mailbox. Hooray Netflix! Soon I will be able to perfectly channel Dr. Perry Cox. Then maybe I can find my own special psychotically charming woman.

hmmmm.

I seem to have slowly lost my blogwriting muse. And I don't have any interesting pictures to post. I need to be re-inspired. Mainly, sunshine and thoughts of motorcycle ownership are inspiring me tonight. Tomorrow it will be thoughts of sleep. After that...thoughts of what exactly "next" is and when to start doing it.

Here's the job description I wish I met the requirements for:

link to site of mystery

In the meantime, it's another all-nighter keeping Houghton safe so all those students can study for their finals...


-----------------

Ooooh! Ooooh! Something to post!

"Tanzania, once dubbed the 'man-eat-nothing' society by its East African neighbours to reflect its socialist leanings, is now outperforming both Kenya and Uganda and is set to increase the growth gap over the next decade. A large measure of its ongoing economic progress can be attributed to political stability (on the mainland) and, a so far, incorruptible top leadership. The former president, Benjamin Mkapa stepped down after two terms as demanded by the constitution and the country's new leader, Jakaya Kikwete was the natural heir. But Kikwete, writes Ahmed Rajab, editor of Africa Analysis, has his own firm views and while he might not rock the boat too roughly, he is likely to sharpen the country's economic direction."

-Ahmed Rajad, in African Business

Notable Event: an African leader aceding to term limits. Sweet! Go Tanzania!

I am SOOO Birthday!

My birthday present(s)!













A sunset from the sunset-dude, a road trip from the road trip girl!






she looks and smells gorgeous after four showerless days living out of a hatchback...




i look and smell differently after four showerless days living out of a hatchback! but(t), I get to wear these awesome birthday-handed-me-down my-very-first-pair-of-Carhartt's beefy-man-pants. Yeah Dan Sahli!





The New River Gorge, West Virginia--Western Hemisphere's Largest Arch Bridge. And more sunshine than we have in Western New York, where it has decided to snow. All weekend.






Happy Birthday to Me!











OH--and we went and saw the Decemberists in concert. The amazing lady accordion-player, as well as several other musicians, were consumed by a sea monster during the finale. Really. They rock out...with sea shanties.

[party in da club/sumthin sumthin dub/hammana hammana shlub...]

So. You have no excuse. You have facebook, and it reminds you that my birthday is in less than eleven hours, and I will finally be able to sing Switchfoot's "Twenty-Four" legitimately. With gusto. On the quad.

You know I'll do it.

So. Here's my Birthday wish list:

1. World Peace
2. Gladitorial Games in my honor
3. Personal, lie-detector mediated interview days with all major Presidential candidates.
4. A dog sled, team, and personal Norwegian dog handler. And a summer conversion kit.
5. A sign from God.
6. A personal early morning serenade from Sting. Followed with a breakfast by Shaffin Hajji and Emeril featuring steak.
7. A woman. (Oh. Wait. That's what Ethan wants. Never mind. I'm fine!)
8. Homemade cinnamon rolls.
9. A statue of me to be erected in the quad.

Ahhh. Rock climbing suits me. So does eating. It's time to leave. You should buy me a song on iTunes for my birthday...

haiku (for brevity)

snow, ice, wind: Buffalo--
by bicycle I to work
go cursing "springtime."

--

Mike's room, bless him, dark;
I housesit, lamplit, his lit.,
many lonely nights.

--

snotty nose, bad bad!
otitis media: ear!
it hurts it hurts! ow!

--

at work to and fro
with lights and sirens we go
one dead and one born

--

"lawsuit!", lady screams--
my protocol's begotten
of prior lawsuits!

sorry ma'am, but your
friend is woozy, post-ictal:
he cannot refuse!

the law is the law--
if we leave and he gets hurt,
our asses: grasses.




ooop--Gordon's here. Time to sign off another successful Safe and Secure Weekend. Until next time!

[grunt]

"Look wise, say nothing, and grunt. Speech was given to conceal thought."
-Sir William Osler

And in the new category of absolute coolest thing ever, in honor of Ben Howard who will no doubt try this at home despite numerous warnings to the contrary, I give you my latest internet discovery:

Will It Blend?

Now I can't wait for garage-sale season :) We could have entire garage-sale themed parties: get an old garage-sale blender, get various garage-sale knicknacks, and blast away!

In other news, I am heading up to Buffalo next week to put in more time for The Man and extend my stay at Rural/Metro Medical Services for another three months. I'm thinking of taking it easy this time, though, and enjoying city life again. And, enjoying bicycling, as Sera still comfortably sits under her blanket of snow--it's been far to cold to play around with wiring this week.

Water is leaking through the roof on third-floor Chamberlain Center. Strange, chemical-ish odors are filling an office in Luckey. Students are holding a video game festival in Campus Center, simultaneous with Honors Program interviews. To the batmobile!

Under the Radar

Or, in the words of big brother: "Sanka, are you dead, mon?"

Nope.

Just took an early Lent and fasted blogging for a month, I guess--though I'm guessing I won't be getting much credit for fasting when it was completely unintentional. Thankfully, grace being a gift and all, you can profit greatly from things for which you are not responsible.

Work in Progress

...It's not just a personal description! I upgraded my Blogger account this weekend, which set the ball rolling for all sorts of innovations--including a subscription to Google Reader, which gives you a constantly updated summary of all your blogs, selected news feeds, Daily Show videos, and, to my great joy: podcasts. It's wonderful. And, as you can see on the left-hand bar, single click republication of the comic, profound, or merely interesting to the blog sidebar. So I don't have to login and publish everytime I want to share something cool with you, my iFriends.

And, work is progressing slowly on my most pressing project, that of paying bills. I reached a landmark 60$ surplus from last paycheck, which led to splurging...Big Al's Pizza! Soon, perhaps, I will be able to afford a new alternator for Sera, and I'll be able to go on ambulance calls without huffing and puffing my way down Centerville road just to watch Houghton 8 go screaming off without me. In the meantime, this blog will just have to be "Notes from the footpath (of doom!)". The quickest route downcampus from Babbit House involves a sketchy footbridge, a slippery slope, and lots and lots of ice and snow. Of course, my morning run to work is always rushed as usually end up snoozing the alarm clock until about 0450 (that's am) for my 0500 shift and end up half-dressed, blitzing out the door into the predawn chill (chill: your face won't move because it's below zero and the wind is busily coating it with snow that feels like sand. from a sand blaster. except really cold.)

I missed Tanzania for a few weeks, but, hey, now I walk with that proud Western-New-York snow-and-wind hunch that says, I'm too sexy for my parka, too sexy for my parka, too sexy by farka... It's good to be here--between the lovely E, experimenting with a hundred variations on rice, potatoes, beans, and other low-budget food made mighty by the currying process, and a few good housemates (here and here) and an eccentric and thoroughly enjoyable neighbor, life is good for Houghton's newest Community Member. I ski on the ski hill, get movies out of the library, take odd jobs lumbermilling and driving, keep things Safe and Secure, and play EMT volunteer-style.

And I screw up my sleep schedule. It's well past my bedtime. I spent four days without sleeping more than four hours in a row at any given time, and then I slept a lot during an afternoon, and I'm still working at five a.m. Except when I'm working at five p.m. Except when I'm working not at all. So, I stay up late and experiment.

For instance, adjacent to my Google Reader share feed (on the left) is a feed from an old blog that I've converted. I post whatever catches my fancy from the wide world of the internet via gmail to the old waybread blog, which should theoretically feed immediately to the sidebar on the new reified-beans blog. And then you can share my stream of (i)consciousness.

In the meantime, revel in this amazing song from a Scottish artist I discovered via NPR's All Song's Considered, 1 February 2007. It's James Yorkston's "Woozy on Cider," and it perfectly fit the mood Saturday at around 620, as I sat in the new superfancy conference room on the new 3rd floor of the Library, watching the sun rise deep and orange and vast across high, mottled clouds on a still campus where not a soul's step broke the newfallen snow...

London-Heathrow

garrrrr...

it's a long hike from Terminal 4 to Terminal 3. But, hey, the ticket counter lady just bumped me from the 4 pm flight to the noon flight, so I don't have a seven hour layover. Hooray! Instead I have five hours in DC. No biggie...maybe they can bump me up to an earlier connection in DC and I'll get to Rochester before Wednesday...that would be nice.

all right. This is expensive. And I'm officially broke. And going home...weather.com said 58 (F) in DC, and I said groovy, that will help me transition a little between sunny Africa and not-so-sunny America. And then I looked up Rochester, where, apparently, it's not enough to be 25 (F) (and thus below freezing) but also adjusted with wind chill down to 16 (F). Brrr....unpacking the wool hat already. Puttin' my thermals on midflight.

Well. I hope for a good movie over the Atlantic! I'm a-goin' hoooooome! Woooohooo!

Not Dead Yet!

Well. I'm back. The sky is yellow-grey outside, thunder is rumbling off the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro, and it is freakin' pouring buckets of rain outside. My experience with electricity this trip has not granted me great faith is the Tanzanian electrician. It is with trepidation (and faith!) that I continue writing, because it's been a while since I was able to sit down and actually use the internet.

pause for anecdote

Cousin Kevin, an Electrical Engineering major, works for Catepillar. My father, also an EE man, has been wiring various things around the (American) home for thirty-plus years.

Dad: Youch!

Kevin: Wow. The entire frame of this washing machine appears to be carrying current! But you only get zapped where the enamel's worn off!

Dad: Yeah, I noticed that...

Dan: I had the same problem in an Internet Cafe in Iringa. And, come to think of it, the same thing happened with an inverter we were using to power this drill.

Dan, lacking the proper degree, demonstrates his lack of appropriate jargon. He worked for an electrician, once

Dan: I think it has something to do with a leak from hot to ground.

Dad: No, it couldn't be that. That amount of current running to the ground wire would blow the fusebox.

Dan: Ummm...Dad...That's assuming they actually ran a ground wire to the ground. I've walked around this house a few times and I haven't seen one.

Dad: This system's not grounded?

Kevin: I don't understand how people don't die all the time from all these blatant code violations!

Dan and Jeff, in unison: No, no. People do die all the time from these blatant code violations. If there's really a code...

end anecdote

So did I mention it's raining? I think hurricanes are hitting the East Coast of Africa or something. It's the wettest and longest "Short Rainy Season" they've had in a long time. Which made our safari in Ngorongoro crater quite, quite fun. :) We played in the mud with a Land Rover and a Land Cruiser. The mud gods were pleased. I drove the hairiest bit in the 'Rover, and grinned like a banshee all the way. Good, good times...

Well. Synopsis:

a) Settlers and Risk are fun and all that--but. The game of the year is definitely Bohnanza, the bean-farmer simulation card game! It's wicked cool!
b) Bottle-cap poker is now a family safari tradition. Cokes are worth one, Fanta are five, Stoneys and Sprites are tens and beers are twenty!
c) My beer-tasting tour-de-force has concluded. First place: Tusker. Of course. But it's good to know the reputation is well-earned. It even cured a nasty upset stomach. Close seconds: Castle Lager's Milk Stout, a surprisingly good twist on Guinness, and Savannah Dry Hard Cider, with points for the most aesthetically pleasing bottle.
d) Tarangire Safari Lodge has a breathtaking view. And breathtakingly good food. When they weighed me at the doctor's office the other day, I was "only" down to 74 kilograms...still a few pounds over my pre-Tanzania weight, after a week under the tender ministrations of some exotic intestinal houseguests. I attribute it entirely to that amazing buffet.
e) 4100 Tanzanian Shillings (about $3.80) got me a doctor consult, lab tests, and two prescriptions to put an end to the digestive tyrrany of both (yeah baby! go big or don't go at all!) soldier worms and bacterial dysentery. I've always like the way "dysentery" sounds...rolls nicely off the tongue. I spent the first week of the new year abed (or atoilet) with all sorts of exciting sympoms. Good times. Now I have two more diseases to chalk off my life list!

I would upload pictures, but they're not working. And dusk is falling, and I don't have a lamp for my bike. Cheerio!

hey, look at me, i am here

nipo masumboni...I am in Masumbo, quite possibly my favorite place in the world. We went swimming yesterday, in the morning when there were no clouds. The sun shone beautifully on the massive boulders and ruddy currents of the Mto Ruaha. Paul and I clambered around on the rocks and boulder-surfed the main current and I partook of the opportunity to impart a little well-needed soap upon mine armpits. Life is good. We've (and by we I mean Paul, with a little kibbitzing on my behalf) been putting the finishing touches on the new director's house, and hobnobbing in the evenings with Iringa's finest and dining alternately between the Jacaranda and the Hasty Tasty Too.

It's quite phenomenal to see what has happened in the two years since I was here last. Abbas has married, Masumbo is getting a (admittedly slow) wireless internet hub, the solar water purification program (using cast-off plastic bottles and corrugated tin) is in full-swing, the craft shop has expanded fourfold and has a coffeeshop that serves panini, the bat-box program is getting onto its feet, Andy and Suzie got another baby and the closest thing anyone locally has ever seen to a Vespa...

And other things haven't changed at all. The night watchmen still chill out by the kitchen and are still good for both laughter and good conversation. The river is still the ultimate playground. And, oddly enough, people in the Iringa marketplace still remember me...and are as sharp bargainers as ever.

It's good to be here. Good people, good places, good food, good times.

on the road again...

I love travelling long distances--it's not just seeing new things, it's taking your entire world and routine apart and being free to dilly-dally and dawdle and mess with it so long as you don't miss a flight.

And, you get to experience random things. Like, for instance, being chastised by a guy who barely spoke English for sleeping while wearing my shoes at the interfaith prayer room in London's Heathrow Airport...a drab little cube with an arrow pointing to Mecca and a bench where weary travellers like myself can practice their own form of contemplative prayer. I thought it was awesome that I got to slumber there and hear/see the Arabic poetry in motion that is daily Muslim prayer. I get the impression that the drab cube way off the beaten track exists so that faithful Muslims who work the airport's various menial jobs can excercise their spiritual duty of daily prayers (replete with foot and hand washing, rugs, and vigorous Sunna/Shia debates) without freaking out international travellers. It's a far cry from the quite posh "Meditation Room" here at Amsterdam's Schiphol.

By the way. I learned last night that if you use the loo's next to the exclusive executive travel lounges (where economy class people like me are not allowed) you can score yourself all sorts of perks. Like free showers. Hot showers, with no time limits (granted, there are no towels if you aren't a paying customer, but who needs towels when you are a well-equipped, moisture-wicking hiker sort?)

On the downside, if you spend the night in a Dutch airport, you will be serenaded nonstop by bad/cheezy/sappy American pop music. It's their version of elevator music. Grrrr...need Gorillaz!

Well, I'm almost out of time. Next stop: Tanzania. cheerio!

weee heee!

I'm out of here! See ya in January!

Well. As the newest member of Houghton College's crack security force, I am once more enjoying the perks of being paid to sit around waiting for stuff to happen. But now I have free, unlimited access to the internet--the perfect place to while away hours without the needless fear of being productive or useful.

And since I've finally got access to a computer less than five years old, I've been happily introduced to incredible time-wasting power of Google Earth. Never before has a mere computer program come so close to actually making me nauseous. If you start, for example, with **** Centerville Drive, Houghton NY 14744--my current living address--you will see satellite photographs dimly displaying the foresty setting of the northern "suburbs" of Houghton, NY as witnessed from a simulated altitude of 4,485 feet (a little under a mile up). Type in "Moshi, Tanzania" and the earth falls away beneath you as you soar, digitally, to a simulated altitude of 1,503 miles in less than two seconds. The earth moves beneath you as you move eastward, crossing the Atlantic ocean in the time it takes you to sneeze, and suddenly you are falling, quite rapidly, crossing all those tiny West African countries, gaining speed as the Democratic Republic of the Congo speads out beneath you, falling even faster as you move over Lake Victoria and the massive Mt. Kilimanjaro fills your vision...

Actually, your computer screen. At any rate, your descent slows as the land becomes blurry and green, as if your eyes were sparing you your impending impact, a moment frozen in terrified agony in your head. And you are there. 7,657.23 miles away, as the crow flies if he happens to be a crow capable of cross-oceanic endeavors and feels so inclined. It's quite disorienting, at first.

And, in six days, this old crow, charting a course from Buffalo, NY to Washington DC(282.5 miles), across the Atlantic Ocean to London, the UK (3,672.31 miles), take a short layover (6 hours), then hop to Amsterdam (the shortest leg yet at 230.22 miles), followed by the longest layover in the trip (16 hours, overnight), and then embark on the longest flight (a whopping 4,275.65 miles) to Kilimanjaro International Airport, Moshi, Tanzania, arriving on the third day of his sojourn, logging an extra 45.13 miles overland (as even the average crow could fly, with proper motivation) and an additional 803.45 air miles (should the airline pilots choose to follow the incredibly overachieving crows and their ridiculously straight lines).

Ahhh. Thanks to all who chose to contribute their opinions and the ever-accommodating Amazon.com, I will be accompanying myself with good reading. Thanks to none of you, I'll be provisioning myself with granola bars, oatmeal, crackers, cheese, and a beef stick for the duration of what will be, if all goes according to schedule, something like 52 straight hours of airline flights and layovers. Note to self: bring the nalgene bottle.

Well. Cheerio! I'm off to explore blog-land and try to find Mollie's blog again. (hint, hint...Mollie). Until next shift, cheerio!

okay, so my phone died and I have an appointment with traffic court to explain why I haven't fixed the muffler on my truck which is currently immobile due to a faulty alternator, so this will be very short:

1. and most important. I am going to have a lot of empty time in my life soon and reading will be very important. I'm putting in an order to Amazon by the end of the week. What should I buy/borrow/read? Stipulations: absolutely nothing involving analyses of postmodernism and/or Evangelical Christianity.

2. no, it's not a sin to not feel as I feel; but it is a sin not to feel at all, or to feel only what it is safe or accepted to feel. Remember the ringing condemnation of Christ: We played a dance for you, but you did not dance. We played a dirge for you, and you would not mourn. Mindless obedience or the heartless participation of a safely detached observer, both are missing something vital. If you can witness something beautiful or sorrowful without being moved, isn't there something disturbingly wrong with you? Something problematic with your soul?

Furthermore, there are sins that are not individual: corporate sins of a church that emphasizes dogmatic intellectual conformity over freedom in Christ--freedom to explore, learn, grow, experience, and express in the guidance of the Holy Spirit the fullness of a unique and awe-inspiring human life. A fullness that goes far beyond attaining correct theology or learning how to go through the motions of some particular Christian community.

A church where people are incapable of independent response to something beautiful and human because they have been trained into passively waiting for someone in authority to tell them how to act appropriately is a broken, dysfunctional, lifeless church. If you have to curtail or conform your actions because of the sanctions or standards of a church, isn't there a problem with that church?

Conformity to Christian social structures is not holiness; in the words of Flannery O'COnnor, to be holy is "to be specially, super-alive:" full of the grace of God, and participating fully in the image of God--the creative and oft-surprising image of God that is reflected with special treasure differently and uniquely in each and every human being.

There were at least five people at that concert who, well schooled in the consequences of being nonconformist in Christian communities, disappointedly sat down because they were the only ones standing in a crowd who stood and sat as if someone was holding up signs: "applause," "stand," "clap," "sit," "heel," "stay," "good boy, have a biscuit."

I'm not saying that everyone there should have participated or involved themselves in that particular moment. But they came and provided an environment where they remained disinterested observers while musicians laid their souls bare with incredible grace, beauty and energy; and I find their response tremendously callous and fearful.

Callous hearts worry me, and strong social structures that encourage and discipline (to use Foucoult's words) hearts in conformity or quick obedience to the status quo terrify me. The church should have noting to do with these things. The church is where people come alive in Christ. If music and poetry cannot move you--either to mourn or to dance or even to lift your eyes to heaven and not see whether the people next to you are standing or sitting or leaving--what can?

I don't think it's just a matter of taste--that the polite, detatched spectators in this moment would be fully awake and alive in another context. I think there's some genuine soul pathology at work here. And God wants souls to be alive and involved, sensitive and able to percieve and respond to people in a myriad of ways and expressions.

Well, I could go on. But the pathos of my daily life is calling. Actually, not calling, since my phone won't work. Alas. I'll be in Buffalo next week, working overtime for the holidays, and if I don't call--sorry. no phone...

wow

just got back from an internet-less week in Buffalo. put in 86 hours of ambulance work in six days...and a Jars of Clay concert.

conclusion: i love EMS, so long as I'm not burnt out. and Jars so helps you not be burnt out...pretty stinkin' incredible show. BUT...I was absolutely furious at the tepid audience response. I have decided that it is a sin to pay someone stand up in front of you and pour out their heart and energy and emotion and just sit and watch and refuse to answer with the same heart and energy and emootion. The whole audience just stood there. And sat down on cue the moment a slower song began. It's like they were totally incapable of experiencing passion or emotion publically without someone telling them what to do: stand, sit clap, yell, sway from side to side, move around...but only on cue. And only when everybody else is too.

It's wierd. I guess I got pretty indignant...work makes me pretty hardened, pretty deadened, pretty numb. We work in an efficient health-care machine and we are expected to be clinical and detached. It's like working with inks or motor oil or concrete or manure--it gets under your fingernails and in your hair and imbeds itself in your skin and you start smelling like death all the time.

And then something like Jars of Clay or Kate York comes along and sings and dances over you like clean pure spring water and you know what it meant to fishermen and camel drovers and dusty-street-worn tax collecters to have their feet washed by a man who's eyes were everything not deadened and stale. You know you need it, just to stand and let something real and human and intimate wash over you so you can feel something again, anything again, like a real breathing person and not some machine.

It's just plain wrong to see something beautiful or heartbreaking and appreciate it detatchedly. There's no way to avoid it in the information age, with the overwhelming flow of more information than can possibly be attended to. But when you pay someone to come and strip themselves (metaphorically) naked on the stage and be intimately human in the most powerful manner possible, and just sit and watch, that's wrong. Dead wrong. Detachment will kill your soul so fast it's unbelievable. And a little salvation is right there saying, uncross your arms, shake your feet, stop looking for the right cues and right responses, and live in this beautiful moment. Breathe or dance or close your eyes or sign along or something, please give me a sign that your heart is still beating! Respond to beauty and sorrow, feel beautiful or broken yourself through identification with something human, participate somehow for the salvation of your soul...it may not feel safe because it requires creativity and initiative and risk-taking...someone may ridicule you, or despise you, or see you vulnerable, or worst of all you may see yourself in all your glory and weakness...

but the smug alternative is so much worse.

thought of the day:

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly be broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket — safe, dark, motionless, airless — it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. The alternative to tragedy, or at least to the risk of tragedy, is damnation. The only place outside of Heaven where you can be perfectly safe from all the dangers and perturbations of love is Hell." --C. S. Lewis, The Four Loves