This is the last post of 2005. I don't know what to say. Should I tell you all that I've changed the way I think about this blog? If you're a regular reader, you've probably noticed. I don't talk as much, and I try to write more.

This is the last post of 2005. I don't know what to say. Should I tell you all that it's been a weird year at work? If you work with me, or if you are family, you already know this. I'm happy at work, but there are things that I'd like to change.

This is the last post of 2005. I don't know what to say. Should I tell you all that I'm looking forward to 2006? You may not know this, but I am. I'll turn 36 in May of 2006, and almost feel as if I've started into the second half of my life.

This is the last post of 2005. I don't know what to say...do you?

Happy New Year.

This book is the long, wordy, rambling story of Anodos (pathless), who finds his way into the land of Faerie. He has many metaphorical visions there, encounters indescribable beauty, and heart gripping dread.

I'm reading this book again, for the third time. I am struck by the language of nineteenth century writers. In their ability to string together words and phrases so complex that to our modern ears, sounds like gibberish. But it's beautiful. It is art. For some it may seem pretentious, but for me, it is captivating. The storyline, while less than engaging, still keeps me going through its soft, quiet persistence.

If you ever, by chance, find this book on your local bookshop shelf, or in your local library, buy it or check it out. I encourage you to put away your fear of reading Dickens-like descriptions and wording, and dive into it and see what you get out of it...

I'm not sure what it is...I don't know how or why it happens...but I often dream of England. I often dream of the countryside, the fog, the moors, the rolling hills and the stone walls and gates between wandering fields of sheep.

I dream of the cool moist overcast days, the drizzle. I dream of walking across the cold fields to a warm hearth in a pub for a bowl of hot lamb stew and a pint and the quiet talk and laughter of the locals. I dream of thatched roof cottages, English gardens with stone walls and moss.

I dream of England, though I've never been there. I dream of England as if I were from there.

The following is a Christmas Eve tradition at our house. It is by one of my favorite 19th century authors, George McDonald (interweb page) (Wikipedia entry). I've copied it here in it's entirety because I think it is a rare work. I don't know the history of the piece, or where it first appeared. If you like it, you might want to purchase the book that contains it, and other very good Christmas stories by the same author. It's called The Christmas Stories of George McDonald. In addition, besides being able to find the poem below, it can also be found here.

I hope you enjoy it, I always do. The meter is simple, the rhyme and message even simpler, but it always makes me grin. I've added some pictures for emphasis.

---

King Cole he reigned in Aureoland,
But the sceptre was seldom in his hand.

Far oftnener was there his golden cup--
He ate too much, but he drank all up!

To be called a king and to be a king,
That is one thing and another thing!

So his majesty's head began to shake,
And his hands and his feet to swell and ache.

The doctors were called, but they dared not say
"Your majesty drinks too much Tokay;"

So out of the king's hear died all mirth,
And he thought there was nothing good on earth.

Then up rose the fool, whose every word
Was three parts wise and one part absurd--

"Nuncle," he said, "never mind the gout;
I will make you laugh till you laugh it out."

King Cole pushed away his full gold plate;
the jester he opened the palace gate,

Brought in a cold man, with hunger grim,
And on the dais edge seated him;

Then caught up the king's own gold plate;
And set it beside him: oh how he ate!

And the king took note, with a pleased surprise,
That he ate with his mouth and his cheeks and his eyes,

With his arms and his legs and his body whole.
The king laughed aloud from his heart and soul,

Then from his lordly chair got up,
And carried the man his own gold cup:

The goblet was deep and wide and full,
The poor man drank like a cow at a pool.

Said the king to himself, as he took his seat,
"It is quite as good to feed as to eat!

"It is better, I do begin to think,
To give to the thirsty than to drink!

"And now I have thought of it," said the king,
"There might be more of this kind of thing!"

The fool heard. The king had not long to wait:
The fool cried aloud at the palace gate;

The ragged and wretched, the hungry and thin,
Loose in their clothes and tight in their skin,

Gathered in shoals till they filled the hall,
And the king and the fool they fed them all;

And as with good things their plates they piled
The king grew merry as a little child.

On the morrow, early, he went abroad
And sought poor folk in their own abode--

Sought them till evening foggy and dim,
Did not wait till they came to him;

And every day after did what he could,
Gave them work and gave them food.

Thus he made war on the wintry weather,
And his health and the spring came back together.

But, lo, a change had passed on the king,
Like the change in that same spring!

His face had grown noble and good to see,
And the crown sat well on his majesty.

Now he ate enough, and ate no more,
He drank about half what he drank before,

He reigned a real king in Aureoland,
Reigned with his head and his heard and his hand.

All this through the fool did come to pass.
And the poor came in from every side,

And the king rose up and served them duly,
And his people loved him very truly.

My aunt holds me on the front porch of our suburban Fort Worth, TX home, the same month I'm born, and I don't remember.

Are those really my fingers? The same ones that are typing this very message today? The same ones that are now scarred from knife cuts, and calloused from use?

Are those really my toes? The ones crammed tightly into these smelly boots today? The same toes and feet that have walked to the top of mountains on other continents since?

Is that really my head, the same one that is having these strange thoughts today? The same head that houses such full and long salt and pepper hair?

Is that really my face, the same one that is covered by a beard that is quickly becoming white with age and stress today?

Are those really my ears, the same ones that are listening to this music today? The same ones that have heard music that could bring tears to those same eyes?

Is that my body, lying there on her lap? This same body that sits here today, overweight and in need of medication just to stay alive?

Surely not.

Change in the air
And they'll hide everywhere
And no one knows who's in control...

It's out now. They have it in their hands, the aristocracy of this going concern that is my livelihood, my family's lifeblood, our means.

This tension only grows, my hair is going grey, my beard, almost white. Stress.

I want it to end, I want it to leave me.

Maybe it will.

Soon.

Once in Royal David's City stood a lowly cattle shed,
where a mother laid her baby.
You'd do well to remember the things He later said.

We would, it's true. To remember the things he taught us, the things he said to us, and the love he showed to his fellow man. All to often we are shown images of heartless cruelty to our fellow human beings on this planet. If there was a little more love on this old earth, perhaps it wouldn't be so painful for so many.

When you're stuffing yourselves at the Christmas parties,
you'll laugh when I tell you to take a running jump.
You're missing the point I'm sure does not need making;
that Christmas spirit is not what you drink.

Christmas is a time of reflection, I think. It comes at the end of the year, and for those of us in the northern hemisphere, it comes at the darkest part of the winter season. We find ourselves indoors, out of the cold, near hearth and family. It's a good time to look around at their faces and love them for who they are, and what they bring to the world. It's also a good time to look around at those who aren't so lucky as many of us. Perhaps if we gave more throughout the year, of our time, and our energy, Christmas would be better for everyone.

So how can you laugh when your own mother's hungry
and how can you smile when the reasons for smiling are wrong?
And if I messed up your thoughtless pleasures,
remember, if you wish, this is just a Christmas song.

Our pleasures this Christmas season should not be thoughtless. We need to remember. We need to not forget our servicemen overseas, our homeless in cardboard boxes, our working poor, our lonely, our elderly. If it were in my power, I would and famine, I would end poverty, I would end war and hatred, I would end suffering of all kinds. But it's not up to me. Still, I can do what I can right here in my home town. I'll give what I can spare, I'll do what I can, and wish a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year to all.

Then, I will celebrate my own good fortune with a soft grin on my face that I've done as much as I can.

Hey, Santa: pass us that bottle, will you?

I love it when you smile. It makes me smile too.

I love it when you laugh, it makes laugh too.

I love it when you squeeze my neck and kiss my cheek like there's no tomorrow, it makes me warm right down to my toes.

Because the world is round
it turns me on
Because the wind is high
it blows my mind

Love is old
Love is new
Love is all
Love is you

Because the sky is blue
it makes me cry
Because the sky is blue

The song continues...

I can't wait to share this new wonder
The people will all see its light
Let them all make their own music
The Priests praise my name on this night

This series of posts has been about music, and the thoughts that race around in my head while I listen and sing along, alone in my car. Today the music reminds me of how alone I am in my listening habits. I am a colossal nerd, it is true, where music is concerned, and I wear the epithet well, it seems. I enjoy music that others blatantly dislike, and even feel is less than worthy of having ever been made in the first place. It is labeled "overly emotional" or "over ernest." I don't understand either of these labels. I think they both mean, "not cool" however.

Listen to my music
And hear what it can do
There's something here as strong as life
I know that it will reach you

But it doesn't. They sneer, they scoff, they walk away and laugh about me and my "slaying the dragon" prog music. I am alone in my love for most music. It is a solitary alone that isn't good. There's nobody to share it with. My wife tries, and I love her for trying. She at least, understands my love for it, where others only laugh and scoff.

Don't annoy us further!
We have our work to do
Just think about the average
What use have they for you?

It's not cool. It's not Radiohead, which is about as adventurous as many "cool" people get. I like Radiohead too, but there's so much more out there. Maybe it's because they don't feel as I do...or maybe I feel too much? Maybe I'm too caught up in my own emotions and my own reactions to music, my own feelings. Maybe its that people who don't feel the way I do, don't even shed a tear at the sight of a sunset.

A thunderclap, then...

And the meek shall inherit the earth...

I nailed it, every note. After all these years, I still had it. Lyrics too, which is rare for me. This music, so much a part of my past, so much a part of my early years, flowed out of my mouth without even hesitation at the sound of the first lyrics.

We've taken care of everything
The words you hear the songs you sing
The pictures that give pleasure to your eyes
It's one for all and all for one
We work together common sons
Never need to wonder how or why

Almost losing it here, but hitting every beat. I can't scream-sing like I used to be able to, but then, neither can this singer in his later years. It's almost too high for my aging vocal chords, and I have to hold back, but still the memories of life gone by flood into my head once again.

I'm on the band bus, it's a cold dark night after a football game. Alliances between boys and girls are made, love flowers, and dies away all within the space of one bus ride here. Forrest is there, before all his piercings, before his tattoos, the child-like innocence still in his face, his hair hanging across it gently. There's Corey next to him, the runt of his litter, much too small for his size. The music is blaring. This music. Damon and I are singing it, and talking about the meaning of it with each other. The girls, who would rather cuddle under the blankets with someone, are looking at us as if we've lost our minds, and are wishing we'd just shut up and stop playing that old seventies music, in favor of something like Wham! to lighten, or at least match, their cuddly moods.

But we can't. We are deep into a discussion of the music now. The screaming and screetching of the singer carries on, until it dies away, and the sound of running water makes the girls finally take notice.

What can this strange device be?
When I touch it, it gives forth a sound
Its got wires that vibrate and give music
What can this thing be that I found?

My voice knows these notes as well as it knows language itself. I sing along then, softly, just as I do today, with again, every beat and entrance perfect. Surprising even myself. The girls look at me on that bus, in the dark, some interested, some surprised, others still just wanting to cuddle. But Damon and I are still in our intellectual discussion of the music, the lyrics, and their meaning. The looks of those around us goes unnoticed.

The song continues...

Music is an enormous part of my life. It is an ever present thought in my head, a constant noise. While I don't abhor silence, I endeavor to fill it always, with something interesting musically. I try to fit the music to the activity, I search for moments alone to enjoy specific music that others do not enjoy. Oddly enough, however, I do not like walking around with headphones on, for there is a music outside in the world that you can hear all the time, if you listen right. But for sitting, driving, reading, or writing, music is almost an essential.

Because of this, and because of my wide and varied tastes and music collection, I sometimes find myself re-encountering music for a second time. Music that I haven't listened to for a long time, music that I've shelved, am glad to have, to own, but haven't listened to in ages. This morning was one of those times. Something about the sub-zero temperatures, the blue glow of the snow in the morning light, made me run to my little hidden room in our basement, the room set aside just for me and my quirks, and get out and old friend for the drive to work. After I opened the garage, pulled out the car, closed the garage again and got on my way, sliding into the ruts of the main arterial street and the end of our own quiet road, I hit play on the cd player. Suddenly I was fifteen sitting in my brother's car on a rainy fall day in North Texas. I was sitting in the car, while he went into the convenience store to buy beer. I was about to taste my first beer. Unfortunately, it was Miller Lite, quite possibly the worst tasting beer in the world. Still, I was fifteen, and it was beer. As the music moved through the overture of this familiar song, many other things came flooding back to me, memories tied to music, events until now hidden within the sound of this music. Like reminiscing with a friend long forgotten, I'm reminded of a time later in my life, sitting around a camp fire, on a moist November evening, seeing the glow of my friends faces all around as we stare into the flames and converse about life, and what it's like to be seventeen. Then I'm brought back to the present, with the sounds of the first lyric being sung...

And the meek shall inherit the earth...

I'm on a freeway now, blowing snow runs in rivulets across my path. This is today. This is now. The surrounding landscape is gray and white, completely frozen. The music is pounding, pounding, railing against the elements in whatever way it can, then it stops, becomes more ruminative, and inward. I'm reminded of where these guys come from. Toronto. Yeah, it gets cold there too. Maybe that's why this stuff feels so right today.

How was your weekend? Mine was, well, ok. We are in full "what are we going to buy the kids for Christmas, birthday, who is it coming from, Us or Santa, and how much is it all going to cost" mode. We spent a late night discussing the likes and dislikes of the boys, and trying desperately to find some balance of toys for the both of them that would both please them, and not break our limited budget. There's also the added December 24th birthday of our oldest son to think of, which adds even more cost and planning to the whole December ChristmasBirthdayHoliday season.

Because of all this, we attempted, unsuccessfully I might add, to maim and kill our oldest son this weekend. Well, not really, that was a joke. What really happened was that he did a face plant against a telephone pole while sledding. He was shaken up, cracked a tooth, but there was no blood, no head injury, no scar, and just some minor scrapes on his jaw. Fortunately, he raised his arm and blocked the full brunt of the hit with his arm, protecting his almost six year old head (he's the one born on the same day as Jesus you see). He screamed and yelled and said he never wanted to sled again, but deep down I think he had a pretty good time...

He was up the next day, tossing snow balls at the neighbor kids saying, "dude, I totally hit a telephone pole yesterday." Street creds, right? And the cracked tooth? We talked to the dentist, and they said "eh? whatever, it's a baby tooth, he doesn't need it much longer anyway....he'll be fine." Ah.. ok.. I see, so that knife sharp tooth should be just fine until it falls out I suppose. He's already talked about going back and sledding some more at his friends house. So, he'll be fine...either that, or next time he'll break his arm.

After all that, I'm tired, worn out, and the Holidays are only beginning!

How are you?

Is it wrong to think that we all can't just get along? Is it naive?

Is it wrong to think that people should respect each others beliefs? Is this unrealistic?

Is it wrong to believe in the goodness of humanity? To have hope? To fight for riteousness and truth, humanity and love for all?

Is it wrong?

Cautious, trepidacious, and snowblind. The light fades at three thirty and the darkness of the northern night settles. Tonight it will snow again, this time, in silent fury, peaceful aggression.

The soft and gentle beauty of the day gives way to the tension and fear of the drive home. I'm alone. Just one man and one machine versus the pounding and emotion-less hand of nature. We are small. We are insignificant in her eyes, just a part of something larger, a system of life, death, and rebirth.

The wind will howl, the snow will deepen, and we will endeavor to live through it by means of our technology, which we imagine has no bounds, no enemies, no limits. But take away our man made magic, and how could we survive, how could we live?

Have we lost what grew in us over aeons of life without technology?