So I've Been Listening to Christian Radio Again...

 

My journey through Premier Christian Radio continues.

“Me? Listening to Christian radio?” was something I never thought I’d say, if I can be honest, on the principal that it tends to be hopelessly out of touch and lame, where apologists lean back in their armchairs to participate in the theological equivalent of a circle jerk. But Premier Christian Radio, a British radio station, complete with a programming line and numerous non-Christian guests, continues to surprise me.

I’m listening to the “Unbelievable” podcast with Justin Brierley, which features guests of different faiths (or non-faiths) to discuss the differences between their views and Christianity. Typically these are dialogues, not debates, something that I think is important to distinguish. Each speaker shares their background, their faith, and throughout the discussion points of distinction arise. What I like about this model is that, if we assume that Christianity is the only path to God (ie. The “best” religion), then the orthodoxy and orthopraxy will speak for itself, and there’s no true purpose to developing an argument or debate.

The idea of wanting to mutually understand one another, I think, is something that is relatively new. In times gone by, resource scarcity motivated us, and there is something to be said about hope (namely, in the afterlife) being one such thing everyone contested. If person X said something that contradicted person Y’s metaphysical framework, the end result was a destabilization of an important resource to Y’s life. Today, our needs are mostly met by the institutions we have erected. (Perhaps this is why the marginalized have always been more orthodox than the middle and upper classes?) So our institutions lessen the blow when someone questions the source of our hope. In fact, most of us probably put our hope in things other than the metaphysical, whether intentional or unintentional.

As I write this on Black Friday, I’m reminded of a quote that I can’t rightly place where I heard it. “Where religion failed, capitalism took over.”

I suggest that the good feelings at Premier Christian Radio on the Unbelievable podcast are probably symptomatic of this overabundance of resources, metaphysical or otherwise. Or maybe the Existential has supplanted the Metaphysical? Christianity has always been offensive in some aspect, whether implied by Jesus’ claim of exclusivity or because of the misguided zeal of those too impatient to wait for the Holy Spirit to work on His own time. (This may be why most of the New Age guest speakers on Unbelievable insist that “it’s all the same thing,” because the full measure truth is too threatening and mired in the toxicity of institutionalized religion influencing geopolitics.) But few draw blood on the program, and it’s refreshing that Justin, the Christian moderator, is the one that endeavors to lead the conversations away from that. He even aspires to ask the hard questions of the Christian speakers, anticipating the objections an Atheist might raise. The argumentation, consistently made in good faith, is so rewarding as an American to hear, compared to the spiteful and, oftentimes, courtroom spirit of debate that I’m constantly exposed to in the USA.

At the end of the day, I remind myself once more that Christianity speaks for itself. It is Truth manifested through the Hope of the Resurrection of the Son of God. While Apologetics is important, and must be studied to acquire a “thinking faith,” the core of our hope comes from our relationship with God and how we talk to Him. And our Hope in God, evident by our actions and disposition, is the best evidence for Him we could wish to have. 

Happy Thanksgiving!

It's My (35th) Birthday!

 

This marks, roughly, the second year in our new house. I have a new job and a new car. Things are leveling out in all the best ways, I think.

 

Today is my birthday. I’m 35 years old once the clock strikes 11AM PST.

 

I made this reflection sometime during the last year, where I realized that I am as old as someone I would have considered to be a “grownup.” And when I look at Eowyn, who sits on the couch, blissfully unaware of Alyssa and I’s responsibilities, fears, and anxieties, I smile. Enjoy it while it lasts, kid! Hopefully, I can ease you in to it.

 

I’m currently doing some professional coaching. (If you’ve ever wanted to experience true “impostor syndrome,” try telling someone that you want to be famous someday and then try to justify it. It’s like Shark Tank, but it’s your life that you are pitching. And God help you if Marc Maron doesn’t like it!) A friend approached me and asked if I wanted to be his guinea pig for his coaching certification, and I accepted with some trepidation. Coaching, as I imagined it, was a way to con rich people out of their money, but apparently (as with all things) there was more nuance to the field. It’s more goal oriented than I imagined, with the coach acting as a guide, asking questions and teasing out answers. My goals that I set for myself were to prioritize reading new books in my life, going out on dates with Alyssa, and “perceive writing as an extension of who I am, not a chore.” Even though I’m only a few weeks in to the course, I have seen a net positive change.

 

With the 3rd goal, I felt like Summer or Beth Smith whacking their Meeseeks Box. (Asking someone to help guide me through an existential problem, as opposed to a practical one.) I resolved to start following my formula for the Writing in Handcuffs videos I made a while back on Instagram, using the exercises to force myself to write. Instead of writing to share the final product though, I’m keeping them close. I haven’t even shown Alyssa the stories yet, and I don’t see any reason to. Inextricably linked to writing, is the trauma of my youth. It was only some time last year that I made the discovery that my writing was done primarily to disassociate from past experiences. But, from this point of view, writing becomes a gateway back to the trauma, to wallow in it when I probably shouldn’t. It’s like a runner that jumps in to a lion enclosure to get their daily jog. Why not, then, write as an expression of freedom and creativity? This is what I’m trying to achieve with the final goal.

 

So far, it seems to be working.

 

Alyssa is working quickly through the novella, which is usually a good sign. I hope to be editing it again soon.

 

Anyways, Happy Birthday to me. Time to go to church.

 

See you next time!

 

 

Letting Go of the World and Backyard Activism

Maybe this will rub people the wrong way, maybe it won’t, but I’ve been thinking about some of the current events in my newsfeed, as well as the larger movements happening in our culture, and can’t help but feel exhausted. 

This isn’t me, a white guy, being bummed out by “noisy minorities” or “angry women,” but just as a human being witnessing the endless outrage machines pumping out content, day after day, and seeming to not be able to escape it. Lately, I’ve been trying to reconcile the need to stay informed with the need to stay disconnected, and strike a healthy balance. Thus far, I’m coming up empty handed. My only, feeble, recourse has been to delete Facebook from my phone; which, even then, is kind of a pyrrhic victory. (How do you build a business/ following on social media without engaging in it? Trick question: you don't.) 

I’m trying to understand the best way forward but not getting anywhere. 

I started noticing this when I decided to stop listening to The Problem with John Stewart. Full disclosure, I love the show. It’s fantastic, informative, and generally entertaining. It’s also cathartic and moving, and getting to hear a dialogue being hashed out between people of varying opinions, something Stewart has always excelled at, is very gratifying. (We ought to recognize the diversity of opinion in this world and be OKAY with that.) But at a certain point hearing a continuous track of “the world sucks, everything is evil, everything is fucked,” becomes staggeringly oppressive. That is sort of the unforeseen gift of technology in general: we are given a mirror to hold up to our faces and observe the horror of who we are, without the veneer of best intentions and window dressing. And it’s awful. 

Stay with me. I’m getting to my point. 

So, I decided to find something different and landed on a podcast called Ask NT Wright Anything. The show itself follows a pretty loose format (at least as far as the first 30-something episodes are concerned), featuring Justin Brierley as host (known for his Unbelievable podcast), bouncing a handful of questions off of Wright every two weeks. (For those of you unfamiliar with Wright, he is a New Testament scholar that has contributed a wealth of information on the study of theology and history and philosophy over the last 40-50 years.) The questions vary week to week, some on difficult topics like abuse and church politics, but also touch on lighter things like general pastoral guidance, prayer, and intercession in general.

What got me thinking about the world, and my role in it, is the preface he mentions before answering these personal questions in the podcast. “I can’t be your 'online' pastor,” Brierley/Wright  say emphatically. “Please join a local church community and seek guidance and have someone work through these painful topics thoroughly, in person.” But then, of course, Wright proceeds to start answering the questions as best he can. (He even did so with me some years back when I worked up the courage to email him about some of my own struggles with faith. An absolute boss of a human!)

This gave me an epiphany that may be kind of “bleh, that’s obvious,” but I realized that my ability to affect change in the world is fundamentally finite. So, how much I can influence the treatment of Uyghurs in China, is fundamentally small. It’s not something that I can change or control, personally. I can vote in a general election for policies and politicians that may want to address something like that but, even then, unless I go over there to actively change something, I can’t actually do anything. We still live in a world where geography separates us from active conflicts. Technology can bring us up close but only as voyeurs. 

So, how did this revelation change my perspective? 

I'm not saying "don't care about things like BLM or MeToo." I'm saying, "care about what is happening in your own neighborhood, in your own town." You can affect change there in a meaningful and positive way because it comes from your own hands. I think the appeal of activism in general comes from the vicarious experiences it produces, but otherwise it’s just abuse tourism (or, as some have called it, "voluntourism"). Similar to how Christian youth groups go to Africa for a week to build a single house and then leave to go home and feel good about themselves, it’s easier to find inoffensive ways to help than to actually get down in the mud and trauma of people in tough places. 

(The irony of the former example is that Christians are called to actually do this, but we often (myself included) shirk those commitments in favor of a comfortable, drama-free existence. In fact, we are called to, and ought to, be involved in our local churches, be with others in solidarity with their struggles, and volunteer where necessary. While it seems trivial to pick up chairs after service, it is Kingdom work that serves an immediate need for everyone.)  

The good thing about local activism is that you, the individual, are the hands and feet of the movement. You see the change taking effect and you aren’t fucking off to somewhere else afterward to allow it to grow back (sometimes worse than before). But the constant availing of ourselves to this kind of brutality and carnage in the remote places that we will never set foot in, via social media and the 24-hour news cycle, is exhausting. If anything, media organizations of every flavor only profit off it when we tune in and pay attention to it (via advertising revenue). What I’m not saying is to be indifferent to earthquakes in Haiti, gun violence in Florida, or wars in Europe. What I’m saying is, if you do decide to engage, quit your job, change your life, actively do something about it. Otherwise, you'll just be angry, constantly, at how shitty the world is, and continue the endless cycle of outrage and grief at all the bad things we have no control over. But, the alternative is far better: do something about it in your own backyard. And over where the carnage is, make the choice to let others do the work, that is unless you are otherwise called to be there yourself. God is still in control. 

That said, I sat on the above for a day or two and felt compelled to add an additional thought... There are events that occur that do demand international assistance, like the ongoing war in Ukraine, or previous international incidents like the Bosnian War or the Rwandan genocide, but I think the response of private citizens willingly enlisting their skills and services to confront these events is the most realistic path forward. Also, in the wake of the murder of George Floyd, making an active effort to be aware of systemic racism and confronting it where possible, has different applications specific to whichever region we live in. In California, for instance, Latino communities make up the largest percentage of residents, yet are routinely marginalized. So, wherever we are needed, we should go and support others and be prepared to serve and minister.

I listened to "The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill" and this Happened...

I had heard of The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill from a handful of my friends, and the podcast’s viral appeal during the Pandemic. It was only until recently that I had actually found the time to listen to it.

 

This all started when I decided that I should redeem my morning commute by finding a podcast, or book on tape, that I could meditate to. There were a lot to choose from, but, at the top of that list, The Rise and Fall of Mars Hill awaited me like one of scrooges' specters. There was once a time when I would have done anything to meet Mark Driscoll, or go to his church. I think I would have even relocated there, if I had the finances, or a way to get a job near the campus.

 

In reality, what my image of Driscoll consisted of was a flowing river of pixels and soundbites. I had only ever seen him as a talking head in a web browser window. I was basically what he hated more than anything at his church: a consumer. I took, and never gave back. (Although, there was that one time I was shamed in to giving to the Hati relief fund after their devastating earthquake in 2010…) But I wasn’t alone in this. I think I was one of maybe millions that listened to his sermons, which were so readily accessible as internet streaming platforms and social media coalesced in the late 2000s to what we now understand them to be. Mike Cosper even addresses this as the MC, who gives context to how Mars Hill Church came to be, and the historical movements that precipitated it’s meteoric rise to prominence.

 

I discovered Driscoll during college, listening to his sermons instead of participating in the local ministries in town, even. I used his book, The Radical Reformission as a aide for the bible study I led, which was a mess in and of itself. (“Led,” meaning, “I led a Campus Crusade Bible Study out of spite for Campus Crusade, which I had believed at the time had abandoned us because our leaders dropped out of their commitment to lead us.”) Driscoll's theology was at the forefront of my mind when discussing the Bible and it’s interpretation. His orthopraxy, was my orthodoxy. When I eventually did meet him in LA, at an event hosted by Reality LA, while he was on a sermon tour for The Peasant Princess sermon series, I stood in line at an intermission, waiting to shake his hand. I told him, to his face, “If being a Father is teaching your children about God, then you are more of a father than my father,” then gave him a hug. When I went back to my seat in the auditorium, I cried next to my girlfriend (now, my wife) for 10 minutes. Later on, when I told my pastor (who knew Mark from before his rise to fame) back in Escondido about the meeting, he let me know that Mark complained that one of “his guys” had hugged him.

 

When I heard about Driscoll resigning from Mars Hill, the impact was like listening to a sonic boom in the distance. I could sense the momentous impact of the event, but I was far enough away to not perceive the collateral damage at the epicenter. Listening to the podcast, I think, informed me of the real consequences of what happens when a man walks away from a church of 15,000 people, and just watches it burn down like the Emperor Nero allegedly did for the city of Rome. I wrote about it, shortly after it happened, in November of 2014. I will let you read the post for yourself, which is something of a time capsule at this point, but I will highlight one piece of it below:

“I hope and pray that Mark moves on from Mars Hill, that this experience motivates him to re-evaluate his personal missiology and the way he deals with people. I hope that he can spend time with his family and take a long vacation and finally let go of his responsibilities. I hope that he decides to pastor a church again, and continue to change the lives of people, and I hope his church never exceeds 200 people.”

I look back on my words and feel naivete and shame. I look back on my experiences, where I led a bible study and quoted this man to such great lengths that my life was basically the Distracted Boyfriend meme. Mostly, I look back on my devotion to this man and I am confronted by the reality that what I loved so much about this person was completely fabricated and curated by his personal Media team, with hundreds of thousands of dollars behind them. I didn’t really know Driscoll at all. And, for the people who did know him, who were railroaded by him, I played a small part in their demise at his hands.

 

A lot of the podcast deals with the issue of culpability. And I think Mike Cosper asks the appropriate questions. He suggests, in no uncertain terms, that we all had a role in Driscoll’s rise to prominence, and that, worse, we drank the Kool-Aid willingly. I vividly recall defending Driscoll during discussions. Granted, it was mostly his "Reformed theology," but I still came to the defense of someone that, behind the scenes, was disqualifying himself from ministry. And that, in no uncertain terms, kind of fucks with me.

When I was recommended the podcast, it was following a period of spiritual upheaval in my life. That others who had since left the Church, could come to this podcast and feel a sense of reconciliation with whatever spiritual abuse they had previously encountered, was a balm unto my soul. Although, in truth, that feeling came and went rather quickly. What galls me, what I don’t understand, what I may never understand, is that Driscoll is still a pastor. For me, that’s difficult to accept. I struggle with the idea that God would allow someone like Driscoll to continue, unabated, in sin. If his Twitter feed is any indication, his aspect is unchanged. He is still the William Wallace II character of the early Mars Hill Message boards, only now he is lauded and accepted by every fearful boomer tuning in to Fox News, if only because he isn’t “woke.”

Simultaneously, however, I am reminded that Driscoll isn’t the first man to “speak for God” and kindle a movement, despite grievous disqualifications. If history tells us anything, there have been many “Mark Driscolls” in the past, who’s cunning and wit transformed and mobilized entire movements of theological thought. I may even meet him in heaven and behold his redeemed aspect, shed of all his faults and misdeeds, by the grace of Jesus, and finally shake his hand without shame… But, until then, I am oddly confronted by my own self-serving righteousness, and my desire to see him punished, despite knowing the truth: Mark Driscoll was justified by Christ’s death, burial, and resurrection. Who am I to want justice and retribution, while at the same time holding back my forgiveness? Even Mark Driscoll deserves forgiveness. Why? Because Christ forgave me.

If none of this makes sense to you, then I welcome you to the personal hell I find myself in. But if it does, then pray for me, and for Mark, in hopes that we can both meet and embrace one another, one day, without pretense.

 

 

 

Merry Christmas! Updates Abound!

So, what have I been up to?

 I have been vacillating back and fourth about what to do about my videos. I had a production method locked in, but when Instagram changed their platform a while back, I never took the time to find a new platform. So now I have this 600$ camera and nothing to film. (Truthfully, I have things to film, but I don't know what I should be focusing on.) To this day, my most popular video was a review I did of Mister Miracle by Tom King and Mitch Gerads. It was a part of a series called, "What the Heck am I Reading?!" which I occasionally harken back to in Instagram posts. This past week it was some clippings of Static, a comic that ran in the 90s that introduced the character Static (of which I remember fondly from the DC Comics animated series, Static Shock). The issue in particular referenced the tension between the Jewish and Black communities in the 90s, which seems all too relevant today with the resurgence of anti-semitism in the mainstream media ecosystem. Reading something written, at this point, almost 30 years ago, as if I pulled it from the culture section of the LA Times today, is as wild as it is bizarre.

Working with my designer Greg, on his publishing label Electi Studio has yielded some amazing fruit. I may be able to get involved more closely with one of his new properties, which already has large base of players! This reduces the amount of work incumbent on me to self promote. Doing that has always been exhausting and something that I struggle with, so the opportunity to just write without needing to worry about  managing a social media presence is a really big deal to me. 

The short story anthology that I am writing to endcap the Dynamic Synapse Protocol universe was put on hold to help Greg with the above since June of this year, but since the beginning of November I've been back at it again. I've re-read about 2/3rds of Dynamic Synapse Protocol to help find some narrative beats to reference back to in the anthology. Of course, I've found a few mistakes that made it to print, but thankfully nothing too major. (Most books have some typos still when they go to print. You know, because pobody's nerfect!) 

The most impressive thing about revisiting a book, or really anything that we have written after some time, is that the work is mostly unfamiliar. Too much time has passed, so all the intimate details just fade away. The result is that we get to read something with (nearly) virgin eyes, and it's a strange experience. 

 What have I been listening to?

Over the Thanksgiving weekend I listened to Devin Townsend's new album called Lightwork. I loved the conceit of a metal guy embracing the Seattle-esque indie textures of post rock. It was authentic, of course. The single off the album "Call of the Void" was definitely the best track. Something to listen to while allowing my mind to drift away into a fugue as my wife drove us home. 

What have I been watching?

F is For Family has dominated my evenings. After Alyssa puts Eowyn to bed we are mostly watching this, which is (I can only assume) a semi-autobiographical retelling of Bill Burr's childhood. The ebb and flow of comedy and tragedy and turmoil and all that plagues Burr's fictional family, is wildly engaging. It's also set in the 70s, which allows the writers to explore some of the period instances of misogyny and racism. Strangely, what the kids get up to in the episodes, isn't too different from what I lived through during the 90s. I don't know if that is a good or a bad thing...

I found a new church!

It's called Crossroads and pastored by Pastor Sam Kiser. So far so good. I appreciate their humble approach to service and a good ministry to the local community. I am eager to get involved and see what God will be doing with them in the years to come.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

Anyways, I hope you all enjoy your Christmas holiday. Here's to a great new year! See my picture from this year's holiday party. You can't see it, but I was morbidly nauseous the whole night! (Thanks anxiety!)

An Object of Scorn

Affixed to the altar before the apse was the cross. It’s edges were frayed, roughly hewn from quarter sawn timber long ago. The reclaimed piece was swollen and pocked with burls. Striations of discoloration, wrapping around the trunk, intimated the shape of a hobbled man, or a rot in the wood. Well-lit by the clerestory above the chancel, the cross was positioned prominently, as if basking. The carpenter had placed the cross there, shunting it into a notch in the ground, embroidered with mosaic tile. He cursed the splinters collected by his hands. 

Over time, the basilica changed many hands, each flock with their own vice and preference. For a century or so, the cross absorbed bitterness and contention. In-fighting broke out across the aisles, until a meeting was convened to determine the spirit of their creed and what they said about their Lord. Most were satisfied by the outcome. At the end of it, the rich young ruler who ordered the meeting stepped forward and placed a thoughtful hand upon the hardened exterior, sensing great things ahead. 

Not soon after, it was stained with blood. Buckets of coagulated sanguine absorbed into the sword-gouged trunk, bright red, before fading to purple and blue. Suffering abounded in the lands choked with smoke and ash, until a pragmatic flock emerged, resourceful enough to stifle the sickness of violence that seemed to infect the sullen, stagnant air. The cross was crowned with temporal power by the rich young ruler, but the gilded crown bore the likeness of a bad forgery.  

New edicts were established regarding what the cross could and could not be. It took the aspect of many things. The cross was showered with wealth and abundance. Even the soft gold coins withered the cross’ face, bruising and softening the wood. Two attendants fought over the cross, for a time, until they conceded, finally, to a stalemate. Each mutually regarded one another with hate, their flocks diverging. They sat apart from one another, on either end of the cross. It stood between the camps, buffeted by anger and distain. After a time, the flocks relented, weary of the conflict, abandoning the refuse of entrails and sinew they had draped over the arms of the cross. The dawning light, emerging through the open portal in the narthex, exposed the rot. And members of both flocks returned to clean it as best they could.  

The cross still stands there now, black as charcoal and steeped with dried blood. Some still approach, as if recognizing an old friend. Those that stay, marvel for a time and consider the carpenter that left it so many years ago. Those that depart, do so quickly, though not before dressing it in fashionable clothing, berating it, and covering it with semen and feces. The weight of shackles, handcuffs, bandoliers, braids of Ethernet cable, fascist flags dipped in gasoline, drape around its neck like a noose. There, on the altar, it stands: objectified by filth, defeated. 

Yet, despite all this, the flock heaps their burdens upon it willingly.  And they depart, each one, with a spring in their step.  

Adulting in Peace

 My life is slowly becoming that Dr. Manhattan meme, where the omnipresent, and nigh omniscient, super hero sits on the surface of Mars, contemplating his life with jagged simplicity. 

Behold, pretension!

We've been in the throes of our first escrow, an entirely new process that I'm only beginning to understand. The byzantine disclaimers and addendums, compounded with legal aphorisms, wash over me like a salty wave that someone died in. Of course, I should be thankful. Owning property is a gift. And every gift is an opportunity for understanding and growth.

In all seriousness though, I had this strange moment of clarity, maybe 5 minutes ago. I was in the kitchen, hovering over a dissected crown of broccoli, realizing that my mind was characteristically "adult" in the moment. (Obviously, I've been an adult since I was 18, though even that status is symbolic in our highly specialized society.) I was watching myself move, as if in 3rd person, a weight resting on my shoulders that was altering the way I moved and behaved in that space. A similar moment happened in my 20s, when I signed my first lease to rent a town house (for the low, LOW price of $1000 per month). I was so scared and immobilized by the weight of rejection and the potential for failure. What if I couldn't handle it? What if I lost my job and, therefore, couldn't make the payments? I felt, in a way, hobbled by the immensity of the commitment, despite the fact that it was so mundane in hindsight.

Now I was standing over the cutting board, feeling secure and in control of my life. I was doing an "adult" thing and feeling characteristically "adult" about it. 

I've said it before: the progression from a childlike mind to an adult one is less about the traversal of legal status and more of an epiphany that, you—yes, you—are in complete control of your decisions. (That is, as far as "mortal" control goes in the infinite and all powerful presence of God). When I was buying 3 six-packs of beer a week to self medicate my stress, I was a child, abdicating my right of control over my body and mind. Now, I'm making the conscious decision to be an adult and take the helm of my life, inasmuch as I can in light of God's will. 

The apostle Paul kind of addresses this in 1 Corinthians: 11-12. And, in the context of the larger dialogue at work in the passage, as God renews our hearts through the work of the Holy Spirit, this peace that I feel will only grow, ultimately to resolve in my death and resurrection. And that, that is dope, my friends. 

"When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known."

Another Year Around the Sun

 I am ready to leave work, go to the local brewery, and celebrate my Birthday. 

(Yes, today is the day.)

The past few years, other than my 30th, were not very fun. Or they were riddled with depression. Or the looming threat of being old, yet unaccomplished, weighed on me. Not so this year, I am happy to report. 

I'm not sure why things have changed. I'm as old as Jesus was when he went to the cross for the world, which would make light of any of our accomplishments, big or small. That alone could be the reason for my paradoxical contentment, but I don't feel like it is. I released a book in hardcover this year: also a big accomplishment. Still, it's not as big a brag as it sounds. (In fact, it's deceptively easy.) 

This year is different in ways I never expected, and it's because I feel like I'm no longer a kid. 

I am becoming less aware of "age." I'll find out that a co-worker is actually in his mid 40s, when I thought they were my age. We act how old we want to be, which is a lauded trait among our aging boomers. This charming deception gives me social mobility, where I previously didn't. Instead of the need to "impress" my elders, I am collaborating with my peers. 

Hopefully I can avoid the pitfalls of other unequal alignments though. Like, it's sad to see a child acting like an adult. Youth and joy has it's purpose. A child that works in a coal mine, or emancipates themselves when they are 14, loses the freedom to explore hobbies and ideas ahead of their adulthood. Likewise, it's sad to see a 50 year old acting like they are 20. Age carries with it a quiet, established dignity that inspires others. It's a responsibility that we all should feel inclined to take part in.  (I.e. help your kids plan for the future. Be their roadmap. Don't fuck off to Coachella, forget to pay your rent, and then get angry when your "van-life" kids make a mess of you're apartment while you're away.) 

Concerning the above, I would wager confidently the reason I am so happy is because I where I'm supposed to be. That's enough, right? 

I sure hope so. I've already printed t-shirts for merch!

(No, I haven't.)

 

I'm Quitting the Sauce (Seriously)

I've had various drafts of this blog come and go. What is here now seems the best possible iteration of the past couple months. I think what impressed me to write was the fact that I thought being in a scenario like this wouldn't happen. That I didn't "have a problem." That only washed up detectives and coked up movie stars struggled with the temptations. And while I am planning to have a beer at Christmas, it seems that I may never drink again, if my current disenchantment endures. 

I made the decision to stop drinking about a month ago, which seems appropriate given the current, insufferable socio-political climate. It's very strange, to think that my 20s was a marathon of unrelenting alcohol consumption. (Never all at once, just a slow burn.) Even stranger, that the majority of my life was spent NOT drinking beer and wine and Moscow Mules and whiskey and scotch, and whatever else can be fermented into ethanol. I remember, fondly, going to the local independent supermarket where I grew up, gift certificate in hand, when I would buy a 2 liter of A&W Cream Soda and an oversized jar of kosher dill pickles. Back then, that was enough. Why isn't it anymore? 

After I turned 21, it was a fashionable thing to go to local gastropubs and sample the available stock. I never racked up any credit card debt doing so, but I went enough to realize that the super markets had a much better going rate. When I worked for Stone Brewing Company, beer became free over night, which was fortunate given that large quantities were necessary to cope with working 9 hour shifts, 6 days a week in wretched conditions without worker representation. But even outside of work—at church, at home—drinking was a cultural exercise. And, I was very... cultured. 

The turning point was when I realized the rate at which I was drinking. I was having about three six packs per week, usually 2-3 beers per night. Pouring the beer was like measuring out NyQuil into a thimble. I would tell myself that I was just making sure that the beer wasn't over-agitated, but to the person outside of my window I was like a mad scientist. I could see what I was doing and it didn't sit well with me. Then, I had the realization that our fridge was never without at least one beer—I couldn't place a time when it wasn't. Most important, the stress wasn't going away and the beer was no longer relieving it, even when knocking down a 6 pack of Enjoy-By IPA. At this point, I don't even think my medication was working anymore.

Of course, it's now September (ish). I'm addicted to sugar free soda as a replacement, but, you know, pick your battles. At least I lost about 15 pounds in two weeks after making the transition! 

Anyways... enough about me. I have a couple updates!

I can say with modest certainty that my newest book should be ready for printing around Christmas time. My wife is making good progress on draft 3, which is encouraging. Usually that indicates positive things: plot is cohesive, fewer grammatical and structural errors, and good pacing. Additionally, the cover art I received back from the artist my designer picked will look incredible. God, it will look so dope! 

Also, if any of you are interested in pre-ordering the book, please let me know. I'm planning on ordering about a 100 copies. Cost will most likely be $30, plus $4 shipping. Of course, each will be signed by yours truly!

Thanks for hanging in there for a substantial update on my part! Love you guys!   

Tacky Hawaiian Shorts: West - By Stuart Warren

 West

Two women with calloused hands haggle in a prop-up tent. Vendors eye each other suspiciously, unboxing imported merchandise. Trinkets and baubles. Captured essence of island life made by the hands of children thousands of miles away. The coffee is “Kona”. One pound for twenty-four dollars. “I’ll give it to you for twenty,” says a Filipino woman.

The Martian desert lies above the tourist alcoves, parched by the exhausted wind; a dry heat. Golf carts roam in herds on distant greens. Lonely highways, arrested by total darkness in the quiet hours, lit only by sickly torches of fluorescent light. Beaches, purified by time, covered in plastic awnings, are serviced by the true wards in the shadow of Pu’ukohola.

New Decade New Me

With the hustle and bustle of the holidays I found myself without time or the focus to write or work on anything other than my book. This year I spent a Christmas apart from my family out of necessity to save my marriage, though, in truth, the reality was a little less hyperbolic. This holiday season, I made some interesting discoveries, changed some vital behaviors, learned that I was suffering under some kind of banal alcoholism, all—it would seem—in preparation for the decade ahead of 2020.

               

Much to my chagrin, my unprofessional dispositions at work have led to the reality of being held back (yet again) in life from joining my contemporaries in the sun. My arrogance, like some Aesop fable, has prompted me to very painfully come to terms with where my career is going and how I should continue. It fucking sucks and it makes me so depressed.

    

Silver linings... At least I have a new desk.

Where to go from here then? That’s the question, isn’t it? I have vacillated on the possibility of either quitting my job or reducing my hours to part time to pursue—more aggressively at least—my writing career once Eowyn starts kindergarten. Joining local writing groups. Being more active in my peer community. Submitting stories to journals. Crowdsourcing for insight and strategies that I could not otherwise formulate on my own… I could go on. But I struggle with whether or not this is a selfish thing. Being a Youtube star, or a writer that couch surfs from apartment to apartment, takes no particular brand of courage when there’s nothing to lose. (And I don’t mean to intimate this as something particularly disparaging to those in my circle of friends that have done this/continue to do this successfully.) But when there’s a family involved, when your child is depending on you for a good life, the picture becomes hopelessly muddy. Can one be virtuous these days, while still being “dangerous”? Something to pray on, then.

Busy at work...

               

I’ve wanted to produce another “Little Bits” post, but I keep forgetting to record my momentary sparks of “genius” when they are prompted by some cursory observation or thought. Similarly, an opportunity arises every so often to write a short story, but these moments always come when I am pressed up against an unmovable deadline (ie. I have to go to work/church/bible study/the store/in laws’ house). Perhaps the imminent danger of being late to something get’s the juices flowing? Possibly. But this goes back to previous posts, lost somewhere in the ether, where I’ve mentioned the ease of writing a short story versus a novel. Short stories are accessible and “punchy.” (The structure of a short story is “Look here!”, then “Oh snap!” whereas a novel adds an additional piece: “So what?”) They are formulated with relative ease, and any subsequent work is less focused on the verbosity of the content but on its composition and flow. Lawd! A novel requires investment and an endurance that I somehow possess in the literary realm, but not in the social and occupational strata of my life. Anyways… this little rabbit trail is brought to you by my lack of focus and my lack of communication these past few weeks.

(…)

One thing that I’ve noticed now that I’ve been 31 for a while and have suffered a major setback in my professional career is the transition from a somewhat youthful awareness and motivation to a laid-back, adult complacency. It’s very strange. Everything now seems deliberate, as opposed to spontaneous. Life choices are weighted by the amount of chaos that would be injected into the ongoing domestic equation. It kind of sucks, but I’m hard pressed to establish an alternative life hack to change this pattern. How does one pursue a “van life” with a family? Probably not very easily, definitely not once the kid reaches the age of public schooling. (That is unless you are a huge piece of shit.) The shadow of domesticity isn’t that bad though, now that I’ve settled into it with Alyssa. There is a flow, a routine. I can expect certain things and rule out others. As 2020 rolls out, I have many ambitions that I hope to see happen. I want to print my next book, run a Kickstarter, and better establish myself as a writer. Hopefully that’s possible with that additional stability on hand? After doing taxes this year, I can say with some certainty that we are “doing okay,” but there’s always something else, isn’t there? I have a feeling that this year, somehow, will be a “shit or get off the pot” kind of year.

iWantToBelieve™

One of the things I find exceptionally funny about theology is how divisive it is. This should not be construed as a pillory of theology or the merit of it being studied. What I mean to say is that theology, both good or bad, predominantly becomes a pain point for believers in a larger community setting. So-and-so is "A," which so-and-so is "B" and, next thing you know, shit is going down.

I slaved over a new "Personal" blog image.
Behold my 18 year old self on the last day of HS!

I made a personal revelation a few weeks back. I tried writing about it, but to no avail. I was far too tired and frustrated. (This has NOT been my year.) The above has merit in that, for the first few years of going to church, I did not put my faith in Jesus, but the traditions surrounding Him and His church.

I keep going back to the night I was saved. I remember that there was a "cool" looking guy with frosted tips and a mild flirtation with obesity performing what I can only describe now as some kind of morality play. He held an apple in his hand, speaking to us about the original sin of eating from the fruit of knowledge. On the stage was a cheap mirror and he proceeded to throw the apple at the mirror. He said that our lives, without God, become like the mirror: shattered and irreparable. And while he was technically right, only today can I point out a myriad of reasons why the execution was, at it's core, a manipulative exercise. Still, it stirred in me a response to follow Christ. And I guess you could say that I've been confused ever since. (In a sublimely good way, of course.)

Something apparent from the several months of counseling that I have invested in so far is my never ending need for validation. It is a pathological fixation, from what I've been told, and the repercussions have sent ripples throughout my life. It has affected my personal life, my professional career in IT administration, and (I've just realized) my relationship with God.

Thinking back on my life, always wanting to be in the right standing with society, becoming a Christian was likely, in my 15 year old mind, the best possible decision. Existentially speaking, I could now be in the "right" with almost 2000 years of tradition and structure to cement in the certainty that I was "doing the right thing" by accepting God's promises. The irony here is that I was violating the entire paradigm of Christianity by doing something, to get something. I accepted Christ as my authority so that I could be "in the right."

Now, it certainly didn't help that I was attending a church that produced, with factory-like proficiency, people that walked, talked, acted like Christians, but whom may not have even been Christians in the first place. I would be remiss if I didn't mention that it was a "Non-Denominational" church, which without qualm produce the least common denominator of "Christian," many of whom I imagine practice because their belief was passed from mother to daughter, father to son. They, in essence, operating from the same position I was. "I'm doing this because this is the right thing to do."

So imagine my sudden shock of arriving at the conclusion that I had not really accepted Christ because I wanted him, but because I wanted something out of it: the certainty that what I was doing was the "right thing to do."

There are so many ways to proceed from here and I am content to stay on the page, but with all of life's changes in elevation I suspect I will be thinking about this more as time goes on. Ideally we should believe in Jesus like we believe in superheroes. We love what he does and how he saved us, and aspire to be more like him everyday.

The Mysterious Flame of Highland Valley Road

As I slowly work through the novels of Umberto Eco, I find myself on the cusp of finishing The Mysterious Flame of Queen Loana, still enthralled with the adventures of Yambo rediscovering his past after succumbing to retrograde amnesia.

Most of the book takes place at the summer house of his youth in a small town named Solara (in Northern Italy, though there are two towns named Solara, both very close to one another). There in the attic, the scenery, the books on his shelf, he encounters his personal history, attempting to piece together everything after losing his identity.  It occurred to me, about halfway into the book, that Yambo's experience was much like my own, and I've thought about it sometime, meaning to get thoughts to paper.

After my parents split up, I spent my weekends at my father's ranch house in North County San Diego. It was rather isolated, literally atop a mountain named after an incident during the Mexican-American War, when Mexican Forces attempted to starve a portion of the US Army. I spent most of my weekends learning every inch of the 12 acres my father owned, which was not particularly awful. There was plenty of fruit available for casual consumption, which was convenient, because my father (at the time, he's a lot better now) was a stingy bastard and wouldn't buy us food (or clothing, or toys, or bedding, or anything else). Given that my father was a farmer and local seller at a farmers market, I'm sure he considered it a tax write off.

My father in his 20's (I think)

My father, even to this day, remains an enigma to me. Most, if not all, information I've learned about him has been via secondhand resources (friends, family, and various documents). And much like Yambo, I spent the days at the ranch house either combing the countryside for interesting things to discover, or searching through his personal effects, hoping to glean any information I could on this mysterious person that was my father.

The garage was most interesting, full of bric-a-brac. Newspapers, chemicals, car parts, bike parts, dusty old books and magazines, furniture, and amazing booze (of which I did not partake) could be found in the heap. And even though I have hazy memories of my childhood when my parents were together, the many portions of that house I grew up in were ever changing. My father was attempting to remodel the house for most of my life, replacing the porch with a master bedroom and leaving the upstairs carpet-less for at least 10 years. But despite the slow changes, I was able to glean a few things...

• My dad had almost 20 years worth of National Geographic collected and meticulously organized. I would spend most of my time looking at the pictures inside, discovering that some had natives in the nude would fuel an early addiction to pornography. 
• My dad was (and is) a cinephile, and had a wide array of films (both good and bad). When the first DVD players were available, my dad purchased one, along with a $6,000 widescreen TV (rated at 480p). At around the same time, my mom was asking for help for the cost of my braces. My dad said they were too expensive. 
• My dad had a plethora of maps. Detailed, topographical maps of San Diego County, Hawaii, and others that came with his National Geographic subscription. 
• My dad was a collector of antiques. He once used a 100 year old apple press to make apple juice on the sly to sell at the farmers market. (Probably breaking numerous health violations in the process.) What's more amusing was the intoxicating stench of alcohol produced, as the rinds fermented on the hill beside our house. 
• My dad had a large safe. It was ancient, not unlike those seen being broken into by bandits in westerns. I knew he used it for collecting coins. Every once and a while I would see him depositing new valuables, recently purchased from California Numismatic Funding off of East Vista Way. 
• My dad had a storage unit, which was once a large camping trailer beside his watering meter up the hill. Inside was all kinds of things, including a vintage pool table. When he sold it to my aunt, she once told me in passing that the rubber cushions were the original ones from when the pool table was manufactured in the late 1800s. 
• My dad preferred to keep his wares in mint condition. His VHS tapes often still had the plastic wrap covering the paper containers, preserved by cutting slits around the bottoms of the tapes. 

Today, unlike Yambo's eventual recovery of his faculties (via a stroke), I still know very little about my dad. I wish I did. The house was sold in 2005 or 2006, I can't remember when exactly...

I hated that place. I hated every minute I spent there, so much so that when my cousins from Germany moved stateside I would spend most of my high school years there, leaving my poor brother to fend for himself alone. Incidentally, the house was burned down during the Witch Creek Fire in 2007, when I was away at UCSB for my Freshman year. It wasn't until a year or two later that I revisited the orchard to find my father's orchard in ruins. The subsequent tenant let the property go to waste, and what was left was destroyed. 

Life is funny like that, isn't it?

How to Make a Sandwich

Making sandwiches at a deli, catering event, or at home for a friend, is a sacred obligation. Don't fuck it up.

Some might say, "But why does it matter? A sandwich is up to interpretation. There are many kinds of sandwich. After all, some would argue a hotdog is a sandwich."

To them I would reply, "You could believe that if you were a moron and didn't subscribe to Sandwich Fundamentalism."

After working a natural juice bar and deli for about 6 months, let me tell you, there is only one way to make a sandwich.

Otherwise cheese and tomato placement is flawless... Good Job!

Step 1: Take two pieces of bread. Lay them flat on your prep counter. Is there a whole in one slice? Is one slice noticeably more thin than the other? If either is true, get new bread. Don't be a bastard. (If cutting a slice from a roll, like ciabatta, cut the roll with the side facing up directly downward. None of this flat-on-the-counter-awkward-side-cut bullshit. 

Step 2: Apply condiments. How many will be used? Two? Then apply them separately on each side. (Ie. mustard on one side, mayo on the other.) Lightly apply them! Do you have any idea how quickly condiments soak through bread? You can't even get to the picnic benches outside the supermarket before its falling apart, into a soggy mess, and all you can think about is how (and why) a sandwich suddenly became a metaphor for your poor life choices.

Step 3: Apply meat and cheese. The foundation of all sandwiches is built on the bedrock of meat and cheese. They constitute the barrier between the wetness of tomato and lettuce. The rigidity of cheese, it's shape and preparation should make where it goes absolutely intuitive. If you put it in the center, then fuck you, you should be fired for crimes against humanity. 

I will add that there is no international consensus, as of yet, for the proper placement of meat. This is due to the varied states of meat. (Pulled pork may be naturally "wet" when applied, while roast beef and turkey could be dry.) If meat is dry, apply directly against the opposite slice of bread as the cheese. If the meat is wet, take each slice of cheese (There are always two. But you only have one? Jesus Christ...) 

*sandwich anger intensifies*

Step 4: Apply vegetables in even layers on top of the meat (which serves as the floor of the sandwich). Don't stack the sandwich! If it's one of those fuckers that asks for every vegetable to inflate the mass of the sandwich, make every layer evenly distributed. This is high art. You are Leonardo da Vinci. Don't let this fucking pleb' tell you how its done!

Step 5: Fold top half on top (with only cheese and condiment applied) on to lower half. You may be tempted to mash the top downward onto the meat and vegetable medley, but you don't have to. If you did "Step 4" properly, then you don't have to. Bread is supposed to be fluffy and airy. 

Step 6: If the customer asks you to toast it, counter with, "but why ruin a good thing?"

Step 7: Don't cut the sandwich in half. Why people do this is beyond me. Who saves a fucking sandwich for later? Just eat it now. Commit!

Hey, the world needs janitors.

With the above, the sandwich will be complete. It will be immaculate, a work of modern art, a testament to your making the best of working for minimum wage, right out of college. Work well. Work fast. Work with all the pride of a person grotesquely in debt. Didn't go to college? Well... then just you do you. You don't need soft skills to make sandwiches.

Waiting for the World to Load

I purchased Watch_Dogs 2 this past week and I’ve been blown away by its attention to detail, which, I suppose, invokes a greater design concept inherent in “open-world sandbox” games. (I say this in quotes because, typically, the most exhilarating moments of playing these games comes when the player is constrained and limited, which seems antithetical to the core philosophy of in-game freedom.) In order for these environments to feel lived in, they require elements of immersion to trick the player into thinking that the non-playable characters are “real,” as if every character interaction is a form of Turing Test. The representative populace of San Francisco, in my opinion, seems to be the most true to life distillation, especially when taking into consideration the carefully kept balance between technology (ie. in-game rendering of the world) and iconography (ie. contents of the world). One little detail, to those who are listening, I will share regarding my next book is that the setting is the San Francisco Bay Area. And, having spent a good portion of my childhood visiting and experiencing the Bay Area first hand, Watch_Dogs 2 will be instrumental in my approach of gaining a better visual frame of reference. Because, up until this point, I’ve used Google Maps and the street view to encounter and better understand the environment. The former is, at the very least, three dimensional. That helps.

As much as I hate to admit it... this is too fucking real.

 

When I saw the early screening of Shazam! the weekend I was in town to attend my grandmother’s memorial service, I was a little disappointed of the lack of an appearance by Black Adam (played by Dwayne Johnson), who is by far one of the most interesting anti-heroes/villains in comics today. Villains, much like the environment that a story takes place in, are critical in building the world, specifically because villains are foils to both the physical appearance and ethical constitution of the hero. In the case of Billy Batson (ie. Captain Marvel/Shazam!), his personal desire to aide those systematically disenfranchised (foster children, the terminally ill, victims of child abuse, et al.) contrasts with Black Adam’s autocratic characterization, and how this influences his view on Justice and the role of the fate of the “oppressed” in society. Whereas Billy is forgiving and patient, Black Adam (born as a slave in Egypt) consolidates power via the brutal suppression of his opponents (up to, and including, summary public executions). Both arrived to the wizard Shazam from similar circumstances, but their responses are black and white. And this ultimately builds the world, its ethics, its ultimate purpose as a theater for thought experiments on Justice, Rehabilitation, Consequence, and Fairness under the definition of Natural Law.

Villains, in general, have such potential for story-telling. It’s strange to me that there have only been small attempts to develop villain centric properties. I would love to see a series on Solomon Grundy, who, despite being an undead abomination, has displayed lots of depth throughout his character history. Likewise, a Vertigo-esque character study—similar to Neil Gaiman’s run on The Sandman—for Darkseid could have momentous potential. Other than the Joker (via The Killing Joke), this hasn’t been attempted with critical acclaim (at least to my knowledge).

Simply put, the above is easy to conceive on a purely theoretical level. Actually writing it down is another thing altogether. Consider what has already been done. The formula to creating a villain is nothing new. So creating these characters is almost like building another piece of the world. The opposition requires a narrative that is equally as credible as the hero, as well as symbolize stasis. Being the catalyst for change, the hero interacts with the opposition, not the other way around. Bringing it all back to where we began, the setting of all narrative is like wallpaper, and the hero is pushing through it into the moldy drywall.

On Dedicating My Book To My Daughter

The other day I said goodbye to a large swath of comics on my shelf. My personal goal of building a personal library over my lifetime was hindered by a lack of space, so I meticulously truncated my library based on the likelihood of re-reading titles. Those that didn’t make the cut are pictured below:

To be completely transparent, I recently acquired an Absolute Edition of
World's Greatest Superheroes, Kingdom Come, and All-Star Superman.

There’s so much to love about comics, yet, at the same time, there’s a lot of chaff that doesn’t deserve to be bound in the first place. After all, comics are serials, monthly installments that get churned out with incomplete stories. Though, when I was collecting monthly issues a year or two ago, I never recalled reading a story that I outright hated. Tom King’s current run on Batman, is beyond imagination and it feels interesting to watch presently something that in 15-20 years will have the same renown as Grant Morrison’s Animal Man. That said, what I was giving away were from the era of the New 52, back when DC was lured by the siren song of Zack Snyder’s grim cinematic universe into making shitty, transgressive stories—remember the 80s, am-I-right? Selling them was difficult, but ultimately I was able to consign them to a local comic book store. (Go Avalon!)

With my wife editing my second draft on the weekends, there has been more time for me to spend with my daughter, Eowyn. To my sweet surprise, she fell in love with all the Miyazaki films (the ones for children, at least) as well as Batman: The Brave and The Bold. The other day, she picked up my bluray copy of Justice League and was able to pick out all the members of the JLA without breaking a sweat! (“Bah-mah!” for Batman, “Wuh-muh!” for Wonder Woman, “Sum-mah!” for Superman, and “Fshhhhhh!” for the Flash.) The amazing thing about children, something that I never truly realized before having one, is how young children attain this environmental awareness. Like, you can talk to a dog, anthropomorphize it, but a dog could never talk back to you. That would be fucking crazy.

Talking kids. Now that’s fucking crazy.

I find myself in these positions where I’m having an existential crisis. How do I introduce her to comics? To guitar? To Jesus? Do my introductions actually matter? Do they appear forced? I try not to think about it, as much anymore. All the things that I fell in love with, were I to go back and look for the spark that ignited such passions, I doubt they would be anything obvious. Hobbies always start with a little push. I wrote my first “story” when I was in middle school. But I was also killing it when I started writing three sentence “sandwich” paragraphs in 3^rd grade. Neither of those things would have lead me down the path to writing novels. Yet, here I am. Artistic talent isn't like building model rockets. And, at the end of the day, whatever she chooses to love will make me proud. 

Maybe this is my way of concluding on an announcement? Sure. I’ve decided to dedicate my third book to her, my kid. I pray that she will read it one day. 

This is Not the Gospel

A bit ecumenical for my taste, but, if you are a christian,
this is how you love others in line with the gospel. 

“This is not the Gospel.” That’s my usual response to atrocity. So, especially, when I see the news this morning (Friday) that 49 have been confirmed dead in New Zealand due to a right wing “Christian” terrorist, I just sit there shaking my head, without words to express my sadness. This would be the second time in recent memory that a white supremacist in a country of traditionally non-violent people carried out a shooting, motivated by race and hatred of immigrants. (In 2011 Anders Breivik killed 77 people, mostly children, to “protect” Norway from liberalizing and compromising the ethnic makeup of the country. These children were attending a liberal sponsored summer camp at the time for those volunteering with left leaning political organizations.)

The mark my faith makes on my books usually is Tolkien-esque—making subtle allusions in the interest of telling a story with a worldview in the background, not at the fore. In my stories, drawing from Virginia Woolf’s Mrs Dalloway, I decided—rather arbitrarily—that in order for a character to live, one must die. That is true of Spirit of Orn and Tall Men and Other Tales. I bring this up because the sordid past of the Catholic Church and Protestant sects, have on display a wide array of atrocities, some more recent than others. And while someone may have a “membership” to a particular strain of Christendom, I often steer clear of specific denominations because they function more or less as arbitrary categories and not demarcations for actual “saving-faith” in the resurrection of Jesus.

It’s frustrating both personally and existentially to see these things happen. I find it difficult to believe that anyone could read the New Testament and draw from it the conclusions of the NZ and Norway shooters. The only thing I can imagine, the only thing that could possibly explain this, is the fundamental desire to augment the practices of 1^st century Christianity to fit our current cultural climates. And, make no mistake, there is not truly “right answer.” Christian ethics professors would say that something like Just War Theory is far more “reasonable” than the Crusades of the Middle Ages, which were motivated by misinterpretations of the Revelation of St. John and the need to consolidate the papacy’s political dominance as a nation-state. (Far different, one could say, from the Eastern Orthodox Churches that remained subservient to the governments in power.) But Just War theory is a pragmatic attempt to justify killing others in war, who at the end of the day are just other pawns being moved forward by heads of state.

It’s further frustrating when other communities observe these actions made by lone gunmen and equate those actions with modern Christian Orthopraxy. But I could say the same thing about Christian expressions of republicans, Southern Baptists, and people that don’t let me drink beer at homegroup (our weekly Christian gatherings affiliated with my church). These previous examples demonstrate a linear curve of de-escalating prejudice, which is observable in any community, be it Muslim or comic book fans. So, at the end of the day, the things that define us are tempered by our own conscience and reason.

As I said before, there is no definitive answer, or absolute definition of orthopraxy. The only absolute in this world is the absolute—of course, to myself, this is Jesus. And when people raise up a tertiary cause to become what, in their minds, is absolute, the only resulting path is destruction. Jesus’ actions, the reality of who he was, and is, culminate in the gospel that I believe. The same gospel that prohibits prejudice, slander, and xenophobia. That is why I am not without hope, because what happened in NZ isn’t the gospel.

Speculative Living

How I feel irl

One of my co-conspirators, Melissa Milazzo, at Sequart Organization released her book (which was really cool) this past week. Please buy it if you can! I remember her first few articles exploring the series and they were absolutely incredible.

Concerning the above, I don’t get to see this often enough, that is, the completion of a long term project. I know myself that the second draft of my second novel should be done next week. This has been a long time coming and I am ready for a break. Specifically one long enough to read my back log of books. These last few months have been stressful. Holidays, certifications, stress management training, et al. All I really want to do is curl up on my couch and finally finish Umberto Eco’s Inventing the Enemy. (Holy shit-balls! Buy it you plebians!)

This past month, I received as payment for passing my first major IT certification from my boss the Absolute Transmetropolitan Volumes 1-3. The pitch of Transmetropolitan alone is enticing, but the execution is really cool: in the distant future a gonzo journalist cover the sprawling subcultures in a pan-continental future city, known simply as “The City.” The series emphasizes the strength of the speculative fiction genre, which revolves around the dissection of current issues, juxtaposed to multiple hypothetical settings. Even though Transmetropolitan ran from 1997 to 2002, the series covers a multitude of issues affecting us, the American people, as we speak. Its execution is almost prescient! Though the ending was anticlimactic, the sum of its parts highlights the beauty of society and its vastness. That there could be such a thing surprises us, but it’s always nice to be reminded.

That is why we (Desmond and I) started Rune Bear. The truth lies in the weird and the strange, truly. Everything is so bedazzled in consumerism and commercialism, that "reality" has become fake. Globalism, for all its goal of unifying people, only means (practically) that our goods are made by slaves that we cannot see and wars are localized, compartmentalized, and spectated. Speculative fiction uncovers the disparities at work in society. The City of God is so far away, while the City of Man is on fire and gilded with rancid Trump Steaks.

Desmond and I have fun though. Weird is fun.

I think the joy we make of it comes from the implicative nature of the stories we receive. Seeing the world as it could be forces us to reflect on the present and ask the poignant question, “is this how it has to be?”

Recently, I should announce, I was able to go an entire week without taking my clonazepam. It's a huge milestone for me and it feels good to not have to rely on my "get-out-of-jail" pill to weather the anxiety storms. Someday I hope to stop taking Zoloft also, but I'll cross the bridge when I get there.

New Year. New Life. Exciting things are afoot and I can't wait to share them with you!

The Truth About Writing Books

#TheStruggleIsReal

Work on my second full-length novel continues, slowly. With the holidays and my wife being sick, it’s been hard getting out to Starbucks and remaining there for my typical 6 hour writing sprints (6am-12noon). Yet, even if I did, I’m finding my chapter-per-weekend progress is slowing down as I begin to sort out the final plot details, make sure my climax doesn’t fall flat, and consolidate the denouement. Creating an enemy to hate, redeeming a flawed hero, and giving weight to a fictional world is a monumental task, and it’s always at the end that the gravity begins to pull you down like a rollercoaster bottoming out. That said, the second draft is always the hardest—I’m sure I’ve mentioned this before—but for some reasons you might not expect. For me, I call this stage I’m in the “Longhaul Blues.” That is, the period of disillusionment and creative depression. After looking at sprawling sections of old passages that are, at this point, almost 2-3 years, you want to give up sometimes. Note: the benefit of long term writing projects is personal growth. Then, you start looking at Chapter 1 and the writing is beyond shit and the reality settles that every moment forward will be a slog. To reform and refine what’s there, from coal to diamonds. In a way, it’s both a victory and defeat, seeing how much progress has been made.

The acts of reverse engineering that occur when implementing the notes from draft 1 constitute the bulk of the time; which, when handled by my friend Desmond, often play out like a friar’s club roast. Incidentally, the first notes I received from him for Spirit of Orn made me laugh so hard that I was crying. (That was back when I was washing dishes at Stone Brewing Company, and every lunch break was a release from the unrelenting torment of that place.) This is the best kind of feedback. Something that forces you to realize that you “ain’t shit” and that you ARE NOT the greatest writer of all time. Humility that knocks you on your ass, that grounding, helps embed you with your own characters even, drawing your perspective down to theirs. (Life isn’t fair, there is no rudder (narrator), the struggle is omnipresent, etc.)

There is a layer of fog between the work and yourself after a while. When becoming over-familiar with something, the side effect that comes is that suddenly everything looks overdone. Certain writing conventions and stylistic choices become wrote and it begins to drive you mad. In reality, readers will not catch these devices, most of the time. They key is variety. And you also underestimate the degree by which a reader will “fill in the blanks,” hold a picture in their head of how details transpire unique to themselves. The writer doesn’t see that step in the author-fan dichotomy.

But, I’m getting ahead of myself. Post-draft 1 research typically begins after reviewing the notes from draft 1. (Desmond initially asked me to read Notes on the Underground and Brave New World for more insight into my main character in Spirit of Orn. Another friend, Bern, told me that I should tune the narrative to fit with a specific audience, which at the time was split between a Christian and a Science Fiction/Fantasy crowd. I chose the latter.) The books that were recommended to you, the essays that corroborate the narrative, films with conceptual inspiration, all of this prepares me for the moment leading up to starting the second draft. It’s like clinging to a life raft in a storm. Oscillating unto cresting waves before crashing down into the foam. Over and over. Then you reach a point in a chapter only to find that about 45% of it will have to be rewritten? The struggle is real friends!

My process is very regimented. That’s intentional, to a degree. I think structure helps keep the momentum, to know what comes next. The Pre-Life crisis (as opposed to mid-life crisis) comes after college, not during freshman year of high school. Its easy proceeding forward knowing what comes next. Once you are done, then what? That where shit really gets tough.

But that’s a blog for another day.