Ye Olde Falle Breake 2005e Revised

Take heed, and hearken to the account which I, Martinus, Scrybe and Chronikler of LETU Historie, shall present, and ponder well the details which shall be provided therein.

In the Yeare of Our Lord 2005, at the transition between the Third and Fourth Weeks of Octobre, there was in Longviewe a time of respite from the rigours of classes. This time had, for years unnumbered, been known as Falle Breake, and it was a time much beloved by all Students at LETU. Some did venture forth into the World, determined to serve God by serving their fellow Men. Others returned to the homes from whence they had come, there to visit with families and friends. Still others remained on the Campus, there to rest, enjoy the Good Company of their friends, and try to diminish their mountains of Homework. Yet for those who stayed, there was no dearth of oppportunities for Merriment.

On the evening of Saturdaye, the twenty-second of Octobre, the Longviewe Symphonie Orchestra did present a spectacle of Musick, performing works by Rimsky-Korsakov, Barber, and Brahms. The glorious sounds were wonderful to hear, and all who attended were delighted and entertained. Quoth one noble squire: "Say thou what thou wilt of our humble Universitie, yet I tell thee this: an Institution that gains us admittance to a show such as this for the cost of a mere $2 (not exceeding $5 for the lazier among us) can in no way be bad throughout."

The Symphonie was followed by a great Feast at the mead-hall of the renowned Ap Pl'Beze, whose hearty food and drink brought cheer and good spirits to all.

On the morrow of Sundaye, the twenty-third of Octobre, the students of LETU did make pilgrimage to various Churches, there to worship Almighty God and learn from His Word how to live, as is fitting for all Men to do.

On Sundaye eve, there was held a great Celebration of the feast of Thanktoberfest. Many came from far and wide to partake of good company and fine food. The fair and renowned Culinary Countess, Paigels of Bern, was joined by her Honoured Mother, the Duchess of Dining. These remarkable women prepared a feast the likes of which had never before been seen in LETU. The fare was of surpassingly great qualitie, and all who did partake thereof were amazed at the skill of mother and daughter.

On Mondaye and Tuesdaye, the valiant students of LETU set themselves to the task of preparing for the return to Normal Classe Schedule. In the midst of these preparations, many nevertheless found or made time to enjoy the company of their friends. Legends speak of a six-hour cinematic excursion undertaken by a small party of students on a porch in the chill Octobre air.

On Tuesdaye, the twenty-fifth of Octobre, new cause was had for celebration. Two Students brought their time of dating to a happy end with a proclamation of engagement. They and their friends did gather at the Slab of Marble for congratulations and frozen desserts. And there was much rejoicing.

So ends this account of the Falle Breake of the Yeare of Our Lord 2005.

Non scholae sed vitae discimus. --Seneca
(We don't learn from school, but from life)

“I Sit and Think” or “Hope after Despair”

Sometimes when I write poems, I have a specific purpose in mind; I might want to write something about Thanksgiving or cheese, for example. Other times, I just feel overwhelmed by my thoughts or emotions, and I simply write what comes to my mind. This poem is an example of the latter; it's a view of my darker side. In fact, it says a lot of things that I've said in previous posts (the struggles continue). But this poem will be a more concise account of my recent thoughts than anything else I could compose.
So, without further introduction: "I Sit and Think."

I sit and think about the things that go on in my life,
About the joys and victories, the losses and the strife.
I sit and think about the way I spend each passing day,
And whether I am wasting time as life slips fast away.
I sit and think about the things I have been called to do;
I’d gladly go and do them now, if what they were I knew.
I sit and think about the things that make me who I am,
And wonder whether anyone besides me gives a damn.
I sit and think about my friends, whom I love and hold dear;
I weep to think I might not see them more after this year.
I sit and think about the way I try to be a friend,
To help, support, uplift, encourage, and damages to mend,
And how my efforts never seem to mean much in the end.

I wonder if it matters that I'm doing all I can;
When faced with these concerns, I'm more an earthworm than a man.
I never know the words to say or actions I should take;
I want to lift up and restore, not fumble, drop, and break.
Does it make any diff'rence; have I been a help at all?
Or have my words and actions simply built another wall?
The specter of incompetence pursues me in my dreams;
It laughs to see my futile hopes, it mocks my anguished screams.
I scarce can stand the thought that I'm a burdensome classmate;
A guy who just can't get things right; a friend that's just third-rate.
I cry and moan and gnash my teeth and beat me mentally;
These tortures may be silent, but the pain is real to me.
I seek a place of refuge, but there's nowhere I can flee.

I'm trapped by my emotions as they overwhelm my thoughts;
They dart and flit around my mind and leave me there, distraught.
I see the strife in people's lives and long to ease the pain,
But even when I think I have, it soon returns again.
I can't escape the thoughts of things that happened in the past;
I'm haunted by what might have been if things could be recast.
I quake with fear to think about the future days to come;
I dwell on possibilities and find myself struck dumb.
I know it doesn't do much good to second-guess what's done,
But I can't help the fact that I want to help everyone.
I'll likely never know just what effects my life has had;
I only hope and pray I've done more good than I've done bad,
And brought more people cause to laugh than reason to be sad.

I wrestle with the darkness, I strive to find the light;
But all I feel inside of me are anger, pain, and fright.
I listen to the music play, I drown myself in work;
But none of that relieves the pain or clears away the murk.
I want to feel God’s peace in me, to be complete and whole,
But all I feel is numbness cold, a deadness my soul.
Life is hard, it has been said, and that I can attest;
You run and fight and sweat and bleed and yearn for quiet rest.
And when you think you’ve found a chance to rest your weary head,
Life kicks you in the face again and leaves you there for dead.
The grass withers, the flower fades, the body turns to dust,
My soul cries out, my mind despairs, my heart breaks down like rust;
God’s Word and Love eternal live; in them I place my trust.


For the rest of the story, see this post. It's old, but the feelings and thoughts expressed therein (see especially the closing poem) are still with me. Perhaps more so now than then.

(Oh, and Wilson: sorry about the under-age use of rhyming couplets. ;-p)

'"In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world."' --John 16:33

'So we do not lose heart. Though our outer nature is wasting away, our inner nature is being renewed day by day. For this slight momentary affliction is preparing for us an eternal weight of glory beyond all comparison, as we look not to the things that are seen but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient, but the things that are unseen are eternal.'
--2 Corinthians 4:16-18

"Censureship": Musings on Power, Pride, and Awe

First of all, I'd like to thank everyone who provided comments on my last post's story excerpt. Your feedback was appreciated. I hope to return to that work someday, and if I do, I just might post developments on this blog. For those of you who haven't read it, please do so; the more feedback, the better. Now, on with this post:
********************
WARNING: The word "Musings" in the title means that the following topics might be only loosely related. I think there is a connection, but I might not have done a great job expressing it. Try to bear with me until the end, and see if it makes sense for you.
*

'The heavens are telling the glory of God;
With wonders of His work resounds the firmament.
Revealed are His ways by day unto day,
By night that is gone to following night.
In every land abounds the word.
Every ear will hearken; never tongue be dumb.
The heavens are telling the glory of God;
With wonders of His work resounds the firmanent.'

This is a chorus from F. J. Haydn's oratorio The Creation. As far as I can tell, it's based on Psalm 19:1-4:

'The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words, whose voice is not heard. Their measuring line [or "voice"] goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world.' (ESV)

We humans tend to take a lot of pride in our works (architecture, painting, music, writing, etc.), and this is proper to some extent. Our creative impulses are reflections of God's creativity, part of what sets us apart from the animals; recognition of talent and appreciation for our work is good. But if our creativity is a spark of genius, God's is hotter and brighter than any star we can imagine. His creation speaks for itself, revealing its grandeur to all. How many of us can say the same about our works?

This idea is echoed in Job 38-41, particularly 38:4-7:
'"Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell me, if you have understanding. Who determined its measurements--surely you know! Or who stretched the line upon it? On what were its bases sunk, or who laid its cornerstone, when the morning stars sang together and all the sons of God shouted for joy?"'

God's power and majesty are incomprehensible. He is the Creator, the Lord of All, the Ancient of Days. This makes the fact that He loves and cares for us even more astounding.
*

'But [God] said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness."' (2 Corinthians 12:9a)

I've been struggling a lot this semester with the idea of surrender. While I certainly haven't had things as badly as some of my friends have, the severity of their predicaments does not change the fact that this has been a rough semester for me, both mentally and emotionally. I have discussed the empathetic (or maybe just pathetic?) and intellectual factors of my distress before, so I won't repeat them here. The point is, I know that I have to turn things over to God, because I can't handle them myself. But that's not easy to do. The desire to control things is strong, even though I know that my having such control is both impossible and a bad idea.
*

I guess what I'm trying to get at with this post is that we have to remember several things: (1) God is good; (2) despite that, life sucks sometimes; (3) God is in control; (4) God has a plan; (5) because God has a plan, we can have confidence that the sucky parts of life will pass in time. In light of those things, it seems to me that neglecting to turn our troubles over to the Lord is the height of foolishness. That's not to say we should be lazy and never try to do anything. But there are things that we can't handle, and the best way to deal with those is to submit them to God. It's not easy, and I certainly haven't mastered it, but I think that has to be our ultimate goal.

'Put on then, as God's chosen ones, holy and beloved, compassion, kindness, humility, meekness, and patience, bearing with one another and, if one has a complaint against another, forgiving each other; as the Lord has forgiven you, so you also must forgive. And above all these put on love, which binds everything together in perfect harmony. And let the peace of Christ rule in your hearts, to which indeed you were called in one body. And be thankful. Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly, teaching and admonishing one another in all wisdom, singing psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, with thankfulness in your hearts to God. And whatever you do, in word or deed, do everything in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through him.' (Colossians 3:12-17)

'Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your reasonableness be known to everyone. The Lord is at hand; do not be anxious about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Jesus Christ.' (Philippians 4:4-7)

Former Creativity

So, I'm still suffering a dearth of suitable posting material. In the interest of getting something up, I've decided to take a page from Wheeler's book and post a little creative writing (see these posts for reference).

What follows is the prologue to a story (almost a novella) I started writing about three years ago. It was to be a "high fantasy" story, focusing primarily on the military and political struggles resulting from the machinations of a few evil nobles; roughly equal parts action and political intrigue, with plenty of "character development" along the way (similar in ways to Wheel of Time, but on a smaller scale). I drew many ideas from books, movies, and games that I've enjoyed, of course, but I actually did have some original material, too. I wrote about five chapters, but wound up scrapping everything but the prologue. I intended to go back and continue working on it.

Unfortunately, college happened, and my time for free writing slowly ebbed away. I came up with some ideas for characters, events, and settings, but I never seriously returned to the story. I might like to get back to it someday, but maybe not. Part of that might depend on the feedback I get from you guys. This draft is still pretty rough (and I don't fancy myself a great writer of fiction), but I don't think it's too bad. Of course, I'm also just a little bit biased. You'll have to set me straight on this count. :)

*****
"Tides of Thunder" (very tentative title)
Prologue:

The wind whistled softly through the trees and the leaves rustled quietly underfoot as the Hunter moved stealthily through the forest. The dim light of early morning did little to pierce the gloomy fog that slid across the land. But the Hunter could see his path clearly. His keen gray eyes saw through the all-obscuring mist; his sharp, pointed ears picked up sounds a wolf wouldn’t have heard; and his aquiline nose could discern all but the faintest scents. He knew his prey in extreme detail; he had followed it for months, learning everything about it, and nothing would cause him to lose it now. The wind shifted slightly, throwing the prey’s scent away from the Hunter, but he did not slow or miss a step. He could see the prey now.

A short distance ahead, the mists swirled and parted around the base of a small hill. The Hunter stopped, crouched, and looked through the mists to the top of the hill, where a small group of people was clustered. Two average-sized men in chain mail flanked a smaller figure wrapped in a thick cloak against the cold morning air. “That’s her,” thought the Hunter, “that’s the prey.” As if hearing his thoughts, the smaller figure turned its head slowly, revealing a pair of light-blue eyes in a round face, pale even in the shadows of the hood. Alshana, a duchess of Calomar, was fine-featured, neither stunningly beautiful nor particularly homely. One of her guards turned with her, hand on the sword at his side, peering vainly into the fog. They couldn’t see ten feet away from their noses, and the Hunter knew it.

After adjusting the black veil that hid all of his face but his eyes, the Hunter silently slid an arrow from the quiver at his side and fitted it to his bowstring, but he didn’t draw. He kept his eyes always on his prey. They would not know where he was until it was too late. After longs weeks of stalking and waiting, it was finally time to carry out his mission. It was time to take his prey.

Alshana and her guards turned their gazes back towards the north, where their destination waited in the distance: Calimshan, the capital city of Calomar and jewel of the northern kingdoms. The Hunter silently went over his instructions one last time: “Kill the duchess, but leave at least one guard healthy enough to escape and tell the tale. Be sure he sees her die!” The Hunter’s employer hadn’t given a reason for wanting the duchess dead, and the Hunter hadn’t asked for one. In this line of work, one took one’s jobs without asking questions; to do otherwise was to set oneself up to be someone else’s target.

Still kneeling, the Hunter drew back the heavy string of his bow, sighted for the guard with the sword at his side, and released the string. Almost before the arrow had cleared the bow, the Hunter was moving, running soundlessly around the hill to the northern side. He glanced at the hill just long enough to see his arrow lodge firmly in the guard’s left calf, exactly where he had wanted it.

The guard uttered a sharp cry and fell to the ground. Alshana’s other guard turned immediately and faced south, the direction the arrow had come from. The guard placed himself between the duchess and the obscuring fog, but by then the Hunter had circled the hill and was climbing the northern slope. Short sword in hand, the Hunter rushed at the duchess. The spearman heard him at the last moment and flung himself at the duchess, driving them both to the ground. But the Hunter didn’t stumble; he simply passed the prone pair, slid to a halt, and pivoted around to face them.

A wicked grin spread over the Hunter’s face as the spearman rose and leveled his spear at the Hunter’s chest. The duchess had crawled over to the first guard and was wrapping a strip of cloth around his leg. The spear-wielding guard kept his attention on the Hunter.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “Who sent you?”

The Hunter laughed: a cold, mirthless sound. The spearman shuddered, and the Hunter said simply, “Ask the spirits when you meet them in the underworld!”

The Hunter lunged at the spearman like a striking viper. The spearman scarcely had time to gasp before he found a foot of steel sticking into his belly. As the spearman slumped to the ground with blood gushing from his stomach, the Hunter moved past him to where the duchess and swordsman sat on the ground.

The swordsman fumbled with his sword, but the poison from the arrow was doing its work; a kick from the Hunter’s boot sent the paralyzed guard sprawling. He looked up to see the Hunter grab the duchess’s hair and drag her to her feet. The fog-dimmed light flashed off the blade of the Hunter’s short sword as he placed its tip against the duchess’s chest.

“Your uncle sends his love,” the Hunter snarled. With a swift, smooth stroke, he drove his sword home.

The swordsman cried out as the duchess’s body fell limply to the ground, and the Hunter turned his attention on the trembling man. With deliberate slowness, the Hunter ground the guard's hands under his heel, bringing a trickle of tears to the wounded man’s face.

The Hunter wiped his sword on the grass and rose. “Go to Calimshan, human,” he said with a sneer. “Tell them that their duchess is dead, and that the tide of darkness flows closer.”

With that, the Hunter vanished into the mists, leaving the swordsman alone on the cold hilltop.

*****
So, there it is. What do you think? Would you be interested in reading the rest of the story? I'd seriously like some feedback, both for my own edification and because, if this is the kind of thing that might interest people, that might provide some motivation to continue the story.