This blog is not updated often enough. This blog often has typos in it because I post too quickly. If you follow it, you won't be bothered too often.
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Blueberry Chocolate Blunders.

There is a shelf in our walk-in pantry. Actually, there are several selves. This particular shelf is the top shelf. On this top shelf, there is a small clear container heralding the words "Dark Chocolate Blueberry."
I am an eater. I eat. I do not eat lunch. I am not a lunch eater. I usually munch on a snack somewhere between two and four before dinner. I am a snacker. So, when I go for a snack thinking "I'm hungry, I want something to eat...but not enough to spoil dinner." I head to this walk-in pantry. About a week ago this clear container appeared on the top shelf. It contained (and still does contain) small slightly flat looking spheres, which are either completely chocolate, or at least chocolate covered. They look just like chocolate espresso beans. So, in the past week, every time I've gone into the pantry (somewhere between zero and twenty times) I've looked at this clear container of "Dark Chocolate Blueberry" (No plurals) I've wondered: What is it? and what does it taste like?
My Dad makes blueberry coffee in the mornings, sometimes. The beans smell just like coffee and blueberries.
Blueberries and I have always had a strained relationship. When I was little I never ate them, fearing I would dislike them. When I got a littler older, I loved them. Now I am somewhere in the middle.
Perhaps a month ago, just where the "Dark Chocolate Blueberry" now stands there stood a similar looking container containing chocolate covered espresso beans. Those were fairly good.
For a week I've wondered: Are these blueberries covered chocolate? Or are they blueberry coffee beans covered in chocolate? Not knowing which it was....I would inevitably turn away and search for something else to eat.
Today I didn't. Today I stared that clear container with the words "Dark Chocolate Blueberry" square in the eye and said the title of another The Strokes song. "You only live once" and took that container down of the shelf.
I opened it up as I had often imagined myself doing, and took one of those little devils out of the box and ate it.
...Looks like I'll be waiting to eat till dinner.

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The Gothic Archies.



I don't expect most of you to realize the awesomeness that is "The Gothic Archies", but their presence on the "goth-bubblegum pop" scene must be made known. This band wrote fourteen songs for the audiobooks to "A Series of Unfortunate Events." Strange? Yes. Wonderful? Yuss.

No other band can get away with lyrics from "Freakshow" like this: "real people question how/someone took a lobster's face and/put it on a cow" Or perhaps this incredible offering from "the world is a very scary place": "when I was young my study was candies." And "Some people act as if there were nothing wrong, due to the fact they haven't heard this song." Clever self reference! 
Or the brilliant Shakespearian insults of "When you play the violin": "I go gray then bald with chagrin/When you play the violin./How I pray for death to begin/When you play the violin."
Do not squawk at the Gothic Archies. Remember, you heard it here first! Oh, and they have an Accordion player!

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Should I write what has already run through my head this evening? Or should I write what comes to me now. There's a cheap ring on the table next to me, I don't know who it belongs to. But it's too small for my ring finger and too big for my pinkie. I should go to bed. I have a physical tomorrow. All I want to do is sit here and run my fingers through my hair (which is growing quite long) and feel sorry of myself. To soak in all of me, all I've thought and done and consider it fully. I spent nearly twenty minutes trying to find The Great Gatsby. Katie eventually asked me "why do you need to find it so desperately?" I didn't have an answer. I don't. I can't sleep yet. Should I distract myself with something? 

Music is playing in the background, I can't hear the two clocks ticking anymore. I can hear my fingers typing. It's ironic and self fulling, hu? I can only hear my fingers typing because I am typing about how I can hear myself typing. I know I'm emotional, but I am showing none of my usual symptoms. In fact, I'm showing all my symptoms of being in one of my "Mechanical" moods. I've been planning out my movements for the next few minutes. I don't have anything planned right now. Though I was considering looking up the lyrics too "last nite" by the strokes. I kind of have to now that I've written that don't I? To make sure there's nothing bad in them so I won't have to delete that sentence. 
I lost a hundred dollars today. Not entirely. I lost it days ago, but I hadn't realized it until this morning. It's very important. It hung over me all day today, along with going to the registry and finishing my letter to Micah. The last one hasn't been done yet. I found the money. That was a huge weight of my shoulders. As soon as it was found I felt so relieved, and for a moment or two I forgot why. I had to remind myself.
I talked to Jacob for a few seconds, and then I said "brb" and never came back. 
I want to read The Great Gatsby. Or do I just want something to do to make this sleeplessness a little more justifiable? 
I cannot wait for the three day novel. I need to buy a power inverter so that I can write in the car on the drive home from the New Jersey CFC. There is no way that that novel will be finished in time. 
I just squeezed a Mosquito in my left palm a moment ago, and I had to wash my hands to get some of it off of my hand. Was that wrong? Is it wrong to kill a Mosquito? 
I think that I like The Strokes. Peter gave me some of their music. Maybe I like them more because I am tired. I should end this blog post.

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A moment that is the stuff of novels.

The characters: Jordan, as himself. Mr Gray, as himself. Me, as myself.

The scene: The van.
So the three of us pull up to a stop light, the windows in the car are down, and it's very hot. A white landscaping van pulls up on our left. There are two brazilian guys in the car, and they have Latin music blasting...you know, you can feel the vibrations! 
On our right pulls up a black guy in a black four seater. He has some rap blasting...you know, you can feel the vibrations. It was just such a great moment, the three car sitting at the stop light. 

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I'm thinking of what Danny said.

There are times when I suddenly see what Christianity, what life, is all about all over again. Last night was one of those times.

I went to the Hutchin's youth group because Katie was speaking there, giving her persuasive from this year in fact. After Katie gave her speech, we had mandatory hug time. That wasn't awkward at all. Well, a little, but not as much as I would have expected. By the way, mandatory hug time is when you must hug ten people, so there it is. I felt an instinct to at least introduce myself before hugging people though :P
So I come up to this guy, and I say "Hey, I'm Michael." He says "And I'm Dan, let's hug." He seemed like a pretty cool guy. Then almost directly after that, Dan gets up, and since it was (apparently) "teen takeover" week, he was preaching that day. The name of his talk: What's the point?
A while ago, Grace told me a little about a lecture at L'Abri by Danny Burbeck called "What are people for?" While this Danny was most likely not as articulate as Danny Burbeck was (and since I didn't hear that lecture I really don't know) I drew a parallel between the two talks. The second talked about, through much repetition, more "likes" than I'd care to count, and seeping charisma, how stuff, and the pleasures of life are meaningless. His talk was based on Ecclesiastes, a book that I love. The conclusion of this realization is a question: What are people for? Why are we here? What is it all about? (I can say one thing, it is not the Hokey Pokey.) Dan's final idea was from Ecclesiastes 12: 13

"The conclusion, when all has been heard, is: fear God and keep His commandments, because this applies to every person."

That does not answer the question of what we are for, but it tells us what we're supposed to do. At the center of it, is of course God. Here is where my moment of clarity comes in. I see myself as a machine. We'll do something simple: A printer. My job is to print. That's it. My fulfillment, my goal in life, is to print. Perhaps unfortunately, this printer is self aware, and can decide to spit paper out blank, or just refuse to print altogether. When I am doing anything other than printing, than I am not doing what I am supposed to do. We don't buy printers to shoot paper out at twenty miles an hour (though come to think of it, that sounds kind of awesome.) We buy them to print.
All I am supposed to do is fear God, and do what He tells me to do, that's it. Forget about everything else, that's it. As we were driving home, I thought about this: if someone were to ask me what my life was about, all I could do was say that it was about God. Or show them what it was about. Regardless of my creativity, what I enjoy, what matters to me, even if I do not love God as I should, He is the center. He cannot not be. Even if He is not the center of my mind, He is what matters. My life's purpose is to do what He tells me to do. Isn't that simple!? Easy? No. Simple? Absolutely. Living is simple.

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Dear Poetry,

I miss you.
I haven't seen you in a while.
I haven't used you.
to express what's true
or how I "feel"
I don't know (or care)
what I feel.
And no ideas are leaping out,
begging for attention in my head
Poetry, I've abused you.
Used your free-ness as an excuse for poor grammar.
I ought to have done right by you,
you deserve better than this.
Am I bored with you?
I don't want to be.
Maybe I just don't understand you.
Don't leave me, yet. I'll try.
What about your friends?
Well...Meter can hang around sometimes.
I can avail myself of rhyming once and a while.
We can work this out,
We've made it through so much worse than this before.

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"I"m a poet, and I know it, hope I don't blow it."

Desolation Row - Bob Dylan


They're selling postcards of the hanging

They're painting the passports brown

The beauty parlor is filled with sailors

The circus is in town

Here comes the blind commissioner

They've got him in a trance

One hand is tied to the tight-rope walker

The other is in his pants

And the riot squad they're restless

They need somewhere to go

As Lady and I look out tonight

From Desolation Row.

 

Cinderella, she seems so easy

"It takes one to know one," she smiles

And puts her hands in her back pockets

Bette Davis style

And in comes Romeo, he's moaning

"You belong to Me I Believe"

And someone says, "You're in the wrong place, my friend

You better leave"

And the only sound that's left

After the ambulances go

Is Cinderella sweeping up

On Desolation Row.

 

Now the moon is almost hidden

The stars are beginning to hide

The fortunetelling lady

Has even taken all her things inside

All except for Cain and Abel

And the hunchback of Notre Dame

Everybody is making love

Or else expecting rain

And the Good Samaritan, he's dressing

He's getting ready for the show

He's going to the carnival tonight

On Desolation Row.

Now Ophelia, she's 'neath the window

For her I feel so afraid

On her twenty-second birthday

She already is an old maid

To her, death is quite romantic

She wears an iron vest

Her profession's her religion

Her sin is her lifelessness

And though her eyes are fixed upon

Noah's great rainbow

She spends her time peeking

Into Desolation Row.

 

Einstein, disguised as Robin Hood

With his memories in a trunk

Passed this way an hour ago

With his friend, a jealous monk

He looked so immaculately frightful

As he bummed a cigarette

Then he went off sniffing drainpipes

And reciting the alphabet

You would not think to look at him

But he was famous long ago

For playing the electric violin

On Desolation Row.

 

Dr. Filth, he keeps his world

Inside of a leather cup

But all his sexless patients

They're trying to blow it up

Now his nurse, some local loser

She's in charge of the cyanide hole

And she also keeps the cards that read

"Have Mercy on His Soul"

They all play on penny whistles

You can hear them blow

If you lean your head out far enough

From Desolation Row.

Across the street they've nailed the curtains

They're getting ready for the feast

The Phantom of the Opera

In a perfect image of a priest

They're spoonfeeding Casanova

To get him to feel more assured

Then they'll kill him with self-confidence

After poisoning him with words

And the Phantom's shouting to skinny girls

"Get outa here if you don't know"

Casanova is just being punished for going

To Desolation Row.

 

At midnight all the agents

And the superhuman crew

Come out and round up everyone

That knows more than they do

Then they bring them to the factory

Where the heart-attack machine

Is strapped across their shoulders

And then the kerosene

Is brought down from the castles

By insurance men who go

Check to see that nobody is escaping

To Desolation Row.

 

They be to Nero's Neptune

The Titanic sails at dawn

Everybody's shouting

"Which side are you on ?"

And Ezra Pound and T. S. Eliot

Fighting in the captain's tower

While calypso singers laugh at them

And fishermen hold flowers

Between the windows of the sea

Where lovely mermaids flow

And nobody has to think too much

About Desolation Row.

Yes, I received your letter yesterday

About the time the door knob broke

When you asked me how I was doing

Was that some kind of joke ?

All these people that you mention

Yes, I know them, they're quite lame

I had to rearrange their faces

And give them all another name

Right now I can't read too good

Dont send me no more letters no

Not unless you mail them

From Desolation Row.

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