Slater is a devil for putting me on to YouTube.
I never watch the new stuff that goes up—too many weird people doing weird things for my taste. But I do spend entirely too much time watching clips from TV shows I no longer get to see since we kicked television out of our home last time.
Which brings me to the delightful subject of today's post, in the spirit of the upcoming holiday: a clip of "Even Stevphen" from The Daily Show about Halloween. I'm a big fan of both Stephen Colbert and Steve Carell, so this is just a wonder; I laugh every single time I watch this. (It does contain a rude euphemism for "bottom," so don't be too shocked.)
Oh, man.
See, Marilyn? This is why you have to let your eventual children celebrate Halloween. You don't want them to end up like that, do you?
This seems like the dream career for Devin and I—a series of political debates that somehow always descend into vitriolic personal attacks and psychological breakdowns. We would do such a fine job. It was the following clip, however, that really convinced Joanna that this is what young Mr. Parker and I were born to do (in the hidden camera footage, Steve Carell even looks like Devin!):
There are many more fine episodes of "Even Stevphen" on YouTube—this is a good place to start for an overview (a bit more naughty language is present, to warn those of a sensitive constitution).
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Two Praises
On Sunday, Pastor Dave gave a sermon on "How to Worship Instead of Worry." He used 2 Chronicles 20 as his text, in which King Jehoshapat is facing an attack by three armies. He knows he's outnumbered and outmanned, and he can't see any way through, so he just prays like a son of a gun, then hands it all over to Jehova, trusting in His strength. Heck—he puts a choir out to lead his armies. And, of course, God comes through and hands out a whomping to the enemy armies, who fall to fighting among themselves so that when the army of Israel arrives, all they find are dead bodies. It's kind of like Sam finding all the dead orcs at Cirith Ungol in The Two Towers—only, you know, it actually happened and was all biblical and stuff.
So on the way to work yesterday, I realized I was deeply obsessing over my scheduled meeting with the dean. Those of you who've read here or talked to me about work for any length of time know that the dean and I aren't on great terms. She always seems to be looking for points to criticize and catch me on. We had a lot of trouble with my evaluations before I got tenure last year, having to do them twice due to contractual and proceedural issues.
Then I found out I was being evaluated again this semester. Tenured faculty are only supposed to be evaluated once every three years, so to have it follow on the heels to two other sememsters of evaluation seemed excessive. I asked about it and was told that the timing of the evaluation during those three years was at her discretion, and that she was choosing to do it again now. I gritted my teeth and got set to do it all over again.
As I was saying, I was really dreading having to meet with her—she's generally all smiles and politeness, but somehow our meetings always end with me being guilty of something and accusatory memos getting sent off to the president of the college. But I was reminded that going over the possibilities and trying to formulate responses to a conversation I hadn't actually had yet was pretty pointless. So I decided to try Pastor Dave's advice out: I handed it all over to God and said, "It's Your battle, not mine. I can't fix this—I trust in You."
Fast forward a few hours. Just before my meeting, an email comes through from the dean. I'm thinking that maybe she has to reschedule and I'll get a short reprieve, and for that much I'm grateful. Instead, it's a message saying that there was some "miscommunication" between the campus and human resources, and that I won't be evaluated this semester at all. There was also a terse little "reminder" about working on those areas I get low (though still entirely acceptable) scores on from students, but a great weight was lifted from me. Of course God fixed it more thoroughly than I could have hoped for. I wish I'd shut up and get out of the way more often.
Man—this is already long, but I don't want to leave out the second and, to me, even better news. After almost a year of putting it off, I finally sent an audio sample to Pat Fraley, the instructor from back at Voicetrax who was so encouraging and with whom I was working last year on getting an audio book deal. At the time he asked for the sample, I was feeling pretty down, and all kinds of excuses—the holidays, family stuff, Voicetrax shutting down and the depression that followed, my desktop computer's fan roaring like a leafblower every time it's turned on, and the disappointment that my first demos hadn't gone so well—kept me from sending him one. And then it got to be so long since he had asked that I started feeling ashamed to even send it off. I'd think about recording the sample every few days, then worry about what would go wrong and put it from my mind.
But finally, on Sunday night, I recorded an excerpt from Peter Beagle's The Rhinoceros Who Quoted Nietzsche and Other Odd Acquaintances, from a story titled "Professor Gottesman and the Indian Rhinoceros," and sent it off on Monday with a short note about my grievous faults and pleas for understanding and aid. Pat wrote a very nice note back and was excited about the sample, and now I'm making a "mini-demo" for him in the hopes that that elusive audio book deal might once again be within reach. Your prayers in this matter are happily accepted.
So on the way to work yesterday, I realized I was deeply obsessing over my scheduled meeting with the dean. Those of you who've read here or talked to me about work for any length of time know that the dean and I aren't on great terms. She always seems to be looking for points to criticize and catch me on. We had a lot of trouble with my evaluations before I got tenure last year, having to do them twice due to contractual and proceedural issues.
Then I found out I was being evaluated again this semester. Tenured faculty are only supposed to be evaluated once every three years, so to have it follow on the heels to two other sememsters of evaluation seemed excessive. I asked about it and was told that the timing of the evaluation during those three years was at her discretion, and that she was choosing to do it again now. I gritted my teeth and got set to do it all over again.
As I was saying, I was really dreading having to meet with her—she's generally all smiles and politeness, but somehow our meetings always end with me being guilty of something and accusatory memos getting sent off to the president of the college. But I was reminded that going over the possibilities and trying to formulate responses to a conversation I hadn't actually had yet was pretty pointless. So I decided to try Pastor Dave's advice out: I handed it all over to God and said, "It's Your battle, not mine. I can't fix this—I trust in You."
Fast forward a few hours. Just before my meeting, an email comes through from the dean. I'm thinking that maybe she has to reschedule and I'll get a short reprieve, and for that much I'm grateful. Instead, it's a message saying that there was some "miscommunication" between the campus and human resources, and that I won't be evaluated this semester at all. There was also a terse little "reminder" about working on those areas I get low (though still entirely acceptable) scores on from students, but a great weight was lifted from me. Of course God fixed it more thoroughly than I could have hoped for. I wish I'd shut up and get out of the way more often.
Man—this is already long, but I don't want to leave out the second and, to me, even better news. After almost a year of putting it off, I finally sent an audio sample to Pat Fraley, the instructor from back at Voicetrax who was so encouraging and with whom I was working last year on getting an audio book deal. At the time he asked for the sample, I was feeling pretty down, and all kinds of excuses—the holidays, family stuff, Voicetrax shutting down and the depression that followed, my desktop computer's fan roaring like a leafblower every time it's turned on, and the disappointment that my first demos hadn't gone so well—kept me from sending him one. And then it got to be so long since he had asked that I started feeling ashamed to even send it off. I'd think about recording the sample every few days, then worry about what would go wrong and put it from my mind.
But finally, on Sunday night, I recorded an excerpt from Peter Beagle's The Rhinoceros Who Quoted Nietzsche and Other Odd Acquaintances, from a story titled "Professor Gottesman and the Indian Rhinoceros," and sent it off on Monday with a short note about my grievous faults and pleas for understanding and aid. Pat wrote a very nice note back and was excited about the sample, and now I'm making a "mini-demo" for him in the hopes that that elusive audio book deal might once again be within reach. Your prayers in this matter are happily accepted.
Friday, October 06, 2006
It's Official
I finally get to put this thing on my website:
I signed up over at the National Novel Writing Month website in preparation for that big undertaking in November. Devin is going along for the ride—anyone else up for the challenge?
I'm putting out the call for your folks to once again post the cruel and unusual things I'll be subjected to if I don't finish the 50,000 words before the deadline. It'll be quite a task—it seems like November is always chock-full of events, and this year is shaping up to be chock-fuller than ever. It's a good day to be signing up, though: pleasantly foggy and chill for us (it's sad when 60 degrees constitutes "chill," but I'll take what I can get here in the desert southwest). Grading is going fairly well these days, thanks to the revelation by Joanna that no matter how I break it up, grading always takes the same amount of time. Of course this is obvious to the majority of humans, but it was a stunning insight for me. Doing a small amount of grading each day actually won't make it take longer than when I do it in a great, mind-destroying rush at the last minute. Weird how reality works, isn't it?
The last thing I leave you with before I get back to work is this, which was linked to from the NaNoWriMo website. It was an entertaining read for us fantasy aficianados, and I'm happy to say that my novel from March only breaks three or four of them that I recognize (numbers 36, 37, 48, and maybe 17 if you stretch it). They recommend abandoning any novel that contains even one, but these are relatively innocuous, I think. And the novel I'm thinking of for November may once again break the name rules, but otherwise I think I'm pretty safe...
And for those who are wondering, yes, I am still working on the March novel. New draft sections are going up even as we speak.
I'm off.
I signed up over at the National Novel Writing Month website in preparation for that big undertaking in November. Devin is going along for the ride—anyone else up for the challenge?
I'm putting out the call for your folks to once again post the cruel and unusual things I'll be subjected to if I don't finish the 50,000 words before the deadline. It'll be quite a task—it seems like November is always chock-full of events, and this year is shaping up to be chock-fuller than ever. It's a good day to be signing up, though: pleasantly foggy and chill for us (it's sad when 60 degrees constitutes "chill," but I'll take what I can get here in the desert southwest). Grading is going fairly well these days, thanks to the revelation by Joanna that no matter how I break it up, grading always takes the same amount of time. Of course this is obvious to the majority of humans, but it was a stunning insight for me. Doing a small amount of grading each day actually won't make it take longer than when I do it in a great, mind-destroying rush at the last minute. Weird how reality works, isn't it?
The last thing I leave you with before I get back to work is this, which was linked to from the NaNoWriMo website. It was an entertaining read for us fantasy aficianados, and I'm happy to say that my novel from March only breaks three or four of them that I recognize (numbers 36, 37, 48, and maybe 17 if you stretch it). They recommend abandoning any novel that contains even one, but these are relatively innocuous, I think. And the novel I'm thinking of for November may once again break the name rules, but otherwise I think I'm pretty safe...
And for those who are wondering, yes, I am still working on the March novel. New draft sections are going up even as we speak.
I'm off.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Season of Trials
Man—it seems as though everyone's going through a period of testing these days. Devin is trying to find some balance (though he once again sounds chipper in his most recent post—the man's a bipolar wonder); Christina is struggling through school, single motherhood, and general madness; Slater is working through church issues and bousebuilding difficulties (it's hard to muster up much sympathy for a guy who goes out to breakfast with his wife every week, is indepdendently employed, and is planning a home on his own 10 acres of country paradise, but there you go); Skaggs is making us cry about his poor wee son and the heart-wrenching trials they've been through; Beth has had her head pop off and a giant change of life thrust upon her and her family; and Kathie, though her recent posts have been about humorous bathroom noises, is leaving tear-inducing comments on everyone else's blogs and struggling with her own issues.
Egads.
Makes my petty whining here seem pretty pitiful. Yesterday morning I was all set to post about how miserable I was after another night of not much sleep and grading still left undone, but (a) after whining and moaning and kicking at the goads trying to guess what God wanted from me, He came through in His own way, and (b) everyone else's posts put me in my place.
I'm not sure why this seems to be descending upon us all simultaneously—perhaps together our band is the single greatest threat to the forces of evil in America today, so we have to be kept separate and struggling. In a more serious vein, though, it certainly does point out the need for strong community. I know I wouldn't get through half of what I do without my friends' admonishment, counsel, and encouragement. Devin and I have been recently bemoaning the evil and pointless diversion the internet brings into our homes and lives, but at least in this it is a mighty powerful tool. I'm fairly certain I wouldn't hear from half of you half as often as I do without this—heck, without GoogleTalk I probably would have no clue at all that Slater was even married yet, or that he wasn't a hobo living under an overpass as we all though he would be. The idea that we get to keep up on one another's lives so quickly and easily is a blessing, albeit one that sometimes comes with ads for online gambling and penile enhancement products.
I haven't really found a place to be at peace yet, but knowing that others are going through their own seasons of trial and sharing in mine is a comfort. I'm praying for you all.
Egads.
Makes my petty whining here seem pretty pitiful. Yesterday morning I was all set to post about how miserable I was after another night of not much sleep and grading still left undone, but (a) after whining and moaning and kicking at the goads trying to guess what God wanted from me, He came through in His own way, and (b) everyone else's posts put me in my place.
I'm not sure why this seems to be descending upon us all simultaneously—perhaps together our band is the single greatest threat to the forces of evil in America today, so we have to be kept separate and struggling. In a more serious vein, though, it certainly does point out the need for strong community. I know I wouldn't get through half of what I do without my friends' admonishment, counsel, and encouragement. Devin and I have been recently bemoaning the evil and pointless diversion the internet brings into our homes and lives, but at least in this it is a mighty powerful tool. I'm fairly certain I wouldn't hear from half of you half as often as I do without this—heck, without GoogleTalk I probably would have no clue at all that Slater was even married yet, or that he wasn't a hobo living under an overpass as we all though he would be. The idea that we get to keep up on one another's lives so quickly and easily is a blessing, albeit one that sometimes comes with ads for online gambling and penile enhancement products.
I haven't really found a place to be at peace yet, but knowing that others are going through their own seasons of trial and sharing in mine is a comfort. I'm praying for you all.
Monday, September 25, 2006
Warning: Another Depressing Post Ahead
I cannot express to you how much being generally unable to access the internet after 8pm or so affects my ability to post.
I mentioned before that my "office" has been given over to a playroom (which is really more of a toy storage room and now cat supply room, since the boys don't ever play in there and we have two new cats. Oh, yes) and now the computer is sitting in a corner of our bedroom. Born Dancin's crib is also in the bedroom, so after she's sleeping, I'm out.
It's also surprising how lazy I am--well, surprising to me, anyway. I could access the internet from my laptop, but that requires (a) me unplugging the wires to the DSL box, (b) carrying it to the living room, and (c)re-plugging everything in. It's a laborious process that can take up to five minutes on a bad evening. Yet somehow it seems hard to do (not to mention the fact that I have to put it all away again when I'm done). Setting up the folding table, laying out the machine, and getting everything properly attached to everything else is just too hard.
All this points to a bigger issue: I'm congenitally unable to use small blocks of time. I don't even start a project unless I have a couple of hours to devote to it, free from all other interruption. If I have four hours of grading to do, I don't start it unless I actually have four free hours, which is almost never.
This is madness, I know. I'm trying to break myself of that thought process, using ten and fifteen minutes when they're available. That's why I'm posting this hasty and rambling and dull post now, while I've got a moment or two before heading home. Cramming in whatever I could worked for my "novel-in-a-month" project, mainly because I was concentrated on the results rather than the process. Maybe I could employ a similar system.
Isn't this fascinating? I'm going through one of my endless crises of conscience and focus, trying to figure out how to live life in such a way that I don't feel guilty all the time. I'd love to go to bed some night feeling happy and content about what I'd accomplished that day. To be a good teacher, and to write, and to be a good husband, and to be a good father, and to be a good homeowner, and to be a good servant to Christ... How to manage all these simultaneously is a seeming impossibility. Only He can show me how to get it all done.
I hope I get a few clues soon. I don't want to drown.
I mentioned before that my "office" has been given over to a playroom (which is really more of a toy storage room and now cat supply room, since the boys don't ever play in there and we have two new cats. Oh, yes) and now the computer is sitting in a corner of our bedroom. Born Dancin's crib is also in the bedroom, so after she's sleeping, I'm out.
It's also surprising how lazy I am--well, surprising to me, anyway. I could access the internet from my laptop, but that requires (a) me unplugging the wires to the DSL box, (b) carrying it to the living room, and (c)re-plugging everything in. It's a laborious process that can take up to five minutes on a bad evening. Yet somehow it seems hard to do (not to mention the fact that I have to put it all away again when I'm done). Setting up the folding table, laying out the machine, and getting everything properly attached to everything else is just too hard.
All this points to a bigger issue: I'm congenitally unable to use small blocks of time. I don't even start a project unless I have a couple of hours to devote to it, free from all other interruption. If I have four hours of grading to do, I don't start it unless I actually have four free hours, which is almost never.
This is madness, I know. I'm trying to break myself of that thought process, using ten and fifteen minutes when they're available. That's why I'm posting this hasty and rambling and dull post now, while I've got a moment or two before heading home. Cramming in whatever I could worked for my "novel-in-a-month" project, mainly because I was concentrated on the results rather than the process. Maybe I could employ a similar system.
Isn't this fascinating? I'm going through one of my endless crises of conscience and focus, trying to figure out how to live life in such a way that I don't feel guilty all the time. I'd love to go to bed some night feeling happy and content about what I'd accomplished that day. To be a good teacher, and to write, and to be a good husband, and to be a good father, and to be a good homeowner, and to be a good servant to Christ... How to manage all these simultaneously is a seeming impossibility. Only He can show me how to get it all done.
I hope I get a few clues soon. I don't want to drown.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
And Back Again
I, like Devin, have been paralyzed for a while without posting, daunted by all I'd have to catch up on to do so.
How silly is that? Yet it happens more often than not. So I, like the aforementioned Parker, am throwing responsibility to the wind and posting whatever pops into my head.
In this case, it's pictures!
Tell me that's not the cutest kid in the world. Go ahead--just try. Meanwhile, I'm causing my hand to phase in and out of existence. I'm a magic!
It's Born Dancin', just over 15 months. A bunch of you have not seen her in a long time. She's talking, melting hearts, and walking. As evidence, I offer the following:
Though this may be a rare sighting of Cindy Lou Who.
Meanwhile, the boys at 5 have sprouted into the gangly, long-legged creatures you see here:
They just started preschool and are showing predilictions of being their father's children. The other day, when I asked Poncho if his shirt was on backward, he pulled out the neck, looked down, and exclaimed, "I see no tag!" On a recent camping trip, after visiting a little general store that didn't have what we needed, he asked, "Did it prove too small?" His current ambition when he grows up? To be a knight.
That's my boy.
Here is Poncho, in all his glory:
Meanwhile, Denver also continues to amuse and amaze with his strange made-up songs (he wants to be a guitarist) and his consistently employed fake laugh. When presented with a belated birthday gift from the great-grandparents, he actually exclaimed wholeheartedly, "Boy oh boy! I'm gonna like this!" It was like standing in an episode of The Little Rascals.
Amidst all the birthday parties, school functions, the new semester starting at school (almost a month and a half ago now--sheesh), family hijinks, and revising my draft on Slater's orders (for which I am ever grateful), it's been nutty.
I'll attempt to be more postful when I can. Until then, one more image of cuteness to tide you over:
Two words: En-joy.
How silly is that? Yet it happens more often than not. So I, like the aforementioned Parker, am throwing responsibility to the wind and posting whatever pops into my head.
In this case, it's pictures!
Tell me that's not the cutest kid in the world. Go ahead--just try. Meanwhile, I'm causing my hand to phase in and out of existence. I'm a magic!
It's Born Dancin', just over 15 months. A bunch of you have not seen her in a long time. She's talking, melting hearts, and walking. As evidence, I offer the following:
Though this may be a rare sighting of Cindy Lou Who.
Meanwhile, the boys at 5 have sprouted into the gangly, long-legged creatures you see here:
They just started preschool and are showing predilictions of being their father's children. The other day, when I asked Poncho if his shirt was on backward, he pulled out the neck, looked down, and exclaimed, "I see no tag!" On a recent camping trip, after visiting a little general store that didn't have what we needed, he asked, "Did it prove too small?" His current ambition when he grows up? To be a knight.
That's my boy.
Here is Poncho, in all his glory:
Meanwhile, Denver also continues to amuse and amaze with his strange made-up songs (he wants to be a guitarist) and his consistently employed fake laugh. When presented with a belated birthday gift from the great-grandparents, he actually exclaimed wholeheartedly, "Boy oh boy! I'm gonna like this!" It was like standing in an episode of The Little Rascals.
Amidst all the birthday parties, school functions, the new semester starting at school (almost a month and a half ago now--sheesh), family hijinks, and revising my draft on Slater's orders (for which I am ever grateful), it's been nutty.
I'll attempt to be more postful when I can. Until then, one more image of cuteness to tide you over:
Two words: En-joy.
Monday, August 07, 2006
The Long Walk
The great journey to the Sierras was a limited success. It was terrific while it lasted. It just lasted too short a time.
Legolas and I made great time up to Mammoth Lakes, flying through the scrubby desert dotted with scrapyards and Joshua trees and spent a pleasant afternoon replacing items we'd forgotten, packing bear-proof canisters with food, and getting Legolas' pack down to approximately 1.7 pounds. Somehow, despite thinning out my gear to near attenuation, it still weighed in at 486 pounds. I credit it to the fact that Legolas' pack was fuscia.
Eventually, Gimli joined us and ate some lunch at perhaps the worst-run Quiznos in the western hemisphere (I'd never been into a sub shop in which the bread was too frozen to be eaten). Upon our return, we found Pippin there and ready to go.
We all made it out to the trailhead as the thunderheads above started to unleash their torrents. The hike began in mixed rain and hail with a cool breeze, still warm enough to travel with just a pack cover and poncho. Lots of folks were fleeing the high country, leaving us as the only travelers uphill. It was like hiking through a Tolkien epic, actually. Great towering monoliths of granite, capped with snow, loomed above us, their heads thrust into the lowering clouds. All around us, huge pines sang in the wind, the ground carpeted with mossy boulders and rushing streams. We made it up to Arrowhead Lake (which Pippin conjectured was connected to all Arrowhead Lakes in the world by secret tunnels, and if we could find the hidden cavern at its depth, we could swim through it to our own Arrowhead Lake. What a delightful scamp he is), then curved up to Skelton Lake, making a few small stream crossings along the way.
By this time the precipitation had trailed off, so we stowed the ponchos and continued in the fresh post-rain breezes scented with pine and damp earth. Barney Lake was idyllic and surrounded by lush green, but we had our eyes on the top of Duck Pass looming to our north up a thousand feet of scree-covered hillside.
There's no better way to mount endless stony switchbacks than while debating religion, so that's what we did. Slowly the lake dropped below us in a basin of primeval talus, and before long we were tromping past icy patches of snow. We made the pass at about 11,500 feet, just before sunset. Duck Lake lay below, four times larger than any of the lakes before—and we were the only people there, which was exactly what we wanted.
However, we were also winded, getting cold, and in need of a spot to set up camp. As Pippin indicated on his blog, we found a spot on a tiny spit of land halfway down a clifflike slope on the south side of the lake. Legolas and I attempted to set up our tarp and tent while Pippin and Gimli headed out for water (a forty-five minute adventure that resulted in four gallons of water and the near destruction of those who went to fetch it). By the time we got the gear stowed and the stoves running, it was full dark. The waxing half-moon shone behind the breaking clouds and the landscape was breathtaking, but we were cold, tired, and worn thin, and the freeze-dried camp food I was so proud of turned out to be of pretty low quality. We finally got everything bear-proofed for the night and retired—Legolas and Pippin in the nearly level tarp and Gimli and I in the severely angled tent (no, really; we spent the first few hours repeatedly sliding down into the foot of the tent and clawing our way back up).
None of us slept much—the others due to their own private demons, and me due to fear of their demons coming to get me. It was clear Gimli wasn't doing well, though: he was breathing heavily and restless. By 2:30am, he was up, out of the tent, and wandering sick. It was kind of creepy to try to follow him around in the dark, unsure of whether he was fully conscious. He was nauseated and muddled headed, even more than usual. We guessed (and later pretty much confirmed) that he had altitude sickness, a malady I should have forseen. But hey—I live at altitude, so it didn't bother me. That's the important thing, right?
Unsure of whether Gimli would make it out okay, we packed up our gear in the darkness. Since the application of medication, warmer clothes, and water seemed to be lifting our comrade's spirits, and since we were deathly afraid of trying to get down the switchbacks in the dark (not to mention trying to get back to the trail from our cliff dwelling), we all sat in the blackness, watiting for sunrise. It turned out to be a great little time—we watched the ten thousand stars that are invisible from civilization wheel overhead, shivered against the cold, and talked about movies, life, and the universe. I sang showtunes, which were appreciated by no one. Philistines.
By 5am, we were up and hiking. Gimli was nearly his old self, but the general mood suggested that getting out of the wilderness was the order of the day. Besides, Pippin was obsessed with getting some Moons over My Hammy into his belly. By 8:30am we made it back to the trailhead. Overall, we hiked about 11 miles in a day, the second half on a couple of hours' sleep. We were manly.
We spent a few hours in town (a third of which was spent trying to get everyone to the same place at the same time), and there was some discussion of staying the night, but the prevailing sentiment was leading most of the Fellowship away, and since Legolas was my ride, I couldn't well stay on my own. We had some coffee, discussed a few more issues, and bade one another farewell. I was home by 6:30pm, thanks to the dedicated automotivemanship of Legolas.
So it was a mixed bag, but mostly good. The scenery and the journey were incredible, the companionship was great, and the spinach and bacon omelet in town was delicious. It was just too short, dang it.
Legolas and I made great time up to Mammoth Lakes, flying through the scrubby desert dotted with scrapyards and Joshua trees and spent a pleasant afternoon replacing items we'd forgotten, packing bear-proof canisters with food, and getting Legolas' pack down to approximately 1.7 pounds. Somehow, despite thinning out my gear to near attenuation, it still weighed in at 486 pounds. I credit it to the fact that Legolas' pack was fuscia.
Eventually, Gimli joined us and ate some lunch at perhaps the worst-run Quiznos in the western hemisphere (I'd never been into a sub shop in which the bread was too frozen to be eaten). Upon our return, we found Pippin there and ready to go.
We all made it out to the trailhead as the thunderheads above started to unleash their torrents. The hike began in mixed rain and hail with a cool breeze, still warm enough to travel with just a pack cover and poncho. Lots of folks were fleeing the high country, leaving us as the only travelers uphill. It was like hiking through a Tolkien epic, actually. Great towering monoliths of granite, capped with snow, loomed above us, their heads thrust into the lowering clouds. All around us, huge pines sang in the wind, the ground carpeted with mossy boulders and rushing streams. We made it up to Arrowhead Lake (which Pippin conjectured was connected to all Arrowhead Lakes in the world by secret tunnels, and if we could find the hidden cavern at its depth, we could swim through it to our own Arrowhead Lake. What a delightful scamp he is), then curved up to Skelton Lake, making a few small stream crossings along the way.
By this time the precipitation had trailed off, so we stowed the ponchos and continued in the fresh post-rain breezes scented with pine and damp earth. Barney Lake was idyllic and surrounded by lush green, but we had our eyes on the top of Duck Pass looming to our north up a thousand feet of scree-covered hillside.
There's no better way to mount endless stony switchbacks than while debating religion, so that's what we did. Slowly the lake dropped below us in a basin of primeval talus, and before long we were tromping past icy patches of snow. We made the pass at about 11,500 feet, just before sunset. Duck Lake lay below, four times larger than any of the lakes before—and we were the only people there, which was exactly what we wanted.
However, we were also winded, getting cold, and in need of a spot to set up camp. As Pippin indicated on his blog, we found a spot on a tiny spit of land halfway down a clifflike slope on the south side of the lake. Legolas and I attempted to set up our tarp and tent while Pippin and Gimli headed out for water (a forty-five minute adventure that resulted in four gallons of water and the near destruction of those who went to fetch it). By the time we got the gear stowed and the stoves running, it was full dark. The waxing half-moon shone behind the breaking clouds and the landscape was breathtaking, but we were cold, tired, and worn thin, and the freeze-dried camp food I was so proud of turned out to be of pretty low quality. We finally got everything bear-proofed for the night and retired—Legolas and Pippin in the nearly level tarp and Gimli and I in the severely angled tent (no, really; we spent the first few hours repeatedly sliding down into the foot of the tent and clawing our way back up).
None of us slept much—the others due to their own private demons, and me due to fear of their demons coming to get me. It was clear Gimli wasn't doing well, though: he was breathing heavily and restless. By 2:30am, he was up, out of the tent, and wandering sick. It was kind of creepy to try to follow him around in the dark, unsure of whether he was fully conscious. He was nauseated and muddled headed, even more than usual. We guessed (and later pretty much confirmed) that he had altitude sickness, a malady I should have forseen. But hey—I live at altitude, so it didn't bother me. That's the important thing, right?
Unsure of whether Gimli would make it out okay, we packed up our gear in the darkness. Since the application of medication, warmer clothes, and water seemed to be lifting our comrade's spirits, and since we were deathly afraid of trying to get down the switchbacks in the dark (not to mention trying to get back to the trail from our cliff dwelling), we all sat in the blackness, watiting for sunrise. It turned out to be a great little time—we watched the ten thousand stars that are invisible from civilization wheel overhead, shivered against the cold, and talked about movies, life, and the universe. I sang showtunes, which were appreciated by no one. Philistines.
By 5am, we were up and hiking. Gimli was nearly his old self, but the general mood suggested that getting out of the wilderness was the order of the day. Besides, Pippin was obsessed with getting some Moons over My Hammy into his belly. By 8:30am we made it back to the trailhead. Overall, we hiked about 11 miles in a day, the second half on a couple of hours' sleep. We were manly.
We spent a few hours in town (a third of which was spent trying to get everyone to the same place at the same time), and there was some discussion of staying the night, but the prevailing sentiment was leading most of the Fellowship away, and since Legolas was my ride, I couldn't well stay on my own. We had some coffee, discussed a few more issues, and bade one another farewell. I was home by 6:30pm, thanks to the dedicated automotivemanship of Legolas.
So it was a mixed bag, but mostly good. The scenery and the journey were incredible, the companionship was great, and the spinach and bacon omelet in town was delicious. It was just too short, dang it.
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
Journeys
Well, I got a chance to explore some of that Pacific Crest Trail I had been longing for. After a couple of preliminary hikes to test out my new gear, I headed off last week for a two-day, 24-mile trek across the Big Bear valley.
My endlessly kind and lovely wife was incredibly generous in giving me the time, what with the Sierra trip with Gimli, Legolas, and Pippin coming up (I'm trying out the LotR names this time out, and you should be able to figure out who's who if you know the players at all. I'd like to think of myself as Aragorn, but I think I'm probably closer to Samwise, or maybe Merry). I was hoping to really give the gear a workout. So on Friday my family dropped me off at Baldwin Lake at around 8:30am, and I didn't see them again until 4pm on Saturday afternoon on the other end of the valley. The road from one end to the other can be seen here, though the trail itself wraps around the back of the ridge to the north of the lake.
I'd never been camping alone before, and certainly never covered so many miles on one hike before (we used to take a Sierra trip with the Boy Scouts every summer--we might have done that distance over the course of a couple of days, but I've blocked it from my mind). It was pretty incredible. The weather was hot but bearable, and I had the trail to myself nearly the entire time. I was passed by one pair of older ladies on horseback as I switchbacked up Gold Mountain (they turned back an hour later when they realized how long the trail was) and passed a pair of older folks resting under a tree before descending into Van Duesen Canyon. I didn't see anyone until I started climbing out of the valley to Fawnskin on the forest road when the jeeps and motocross bikers started buzzing me.
It was a pretty amazing journey. The path passes through a whole series of micro-climates, from the arid, catcti-dotted rocky soil near Baldwin Lake up over Gold Mountain and into conifers and oaks, then down into the valleys thick with pines and ferns. I camped the first night just below Bertha Peak with views both over the lake and the Holcomb Valley.
I was definitely worn thin by the time I limped out into Fawnskin, but it was pretty satisfying. The solitude and being away from civilization (though, sadly, in the valley it's difficult to escape traffic noises and such) was a blessing.
It was really neat, is what I'm saying. I'll go now.
My endlessly kind and lovely wife was incredibly generous in giving me the time, what with the Sierra trip with Gimli, Legolas, and Pippin coming up (I'm trying out the LotR names this time out, and you should be able to figure out who's who if you know the players at all. I'd like to think of myself as Aragorn, but I think I'm probably closer to Samwise, or maybe Merry). I was hoping to really give the gear a workout. So on Friday my family dropped me off at Baldwin Lake at around 8:30am, and I didn't see them again until 4pm on Saturday afternoon on the other end of the valley. The road from one end to the other can be seen here, though the trail itself wraps around the back of the ridge to the north of the lake.
I'd never been camping alone before, and certainly never covered so many miles on one hike before (we used to take a Sierra trip with the Boy Scouts every summer--we might have done that distance over the course of a couple of days, but I've blocked it from my mind). It was pretty incredible. The weather was hot but bearable, and I had the trail to myself nearly the entire time. I was passed by one pair of older ladies on horseback as I switchbacked up Gold Mountain (they turned back an hour later when they realized how long the trail was) and passed a pair of older folks resting under a tree before descending into Van Duesen Canyon. I didn't see anyone until I started climbing out of the valley to Fawnskin on the forest road when the jeeps and motocross bikers started buzzing me.
It was a pretty amazing journey. The path passes through a whole series of micro-climates, from the arid, catcti-dotted rocky soil near Baldwin Lake up over Gold Mountain and into conifers and oaks, then down into the valleys thick with pines and ferns. I camped the first night just below Bertha Peak with views both over the lake and the Holcomb Valley.
I was definitely worn thin by the time I limped out into Fawnskin, but it was pretty satisfying. The solitude and being away from civilization (though, sadly, in the valley it's difficult to escape traffic noises and such) was a blessing.
It was really neat, is what I'm saying. I'll go now.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Denver's Joke
The joke my son told me tonight at dinner:
Denver: How many big boys does it take to put in a light bulb?
Me: I don't know. How many?
Denver: Four.
That was it. No explanation. It just takes four.
Kid takes after me.
I had my last summer school class today, so tomorrow I may be coherent enough to put up a real post.
Good night, all.
Denver: How many big boys does it take to put in a light bulb?
Me: I don't know. How many?
Denver: Four.
That was it. No explanation. It just takes four.
Kid takes after me.
I had my last summer school class today, so tomorrow I may be coherent enough to put up a real post.
Good night, all.
Saturday, July 22, 2006
Thievery Strikes Again!
I didn't share the really exciting news from this week: I was robbed!
And no, I don't mean that in the "sports metaphor, they-won-because-of-a-bad-call" kind of way.
I work in a suite of five offices, outside of which is a balcony running around an open courtyard. Because the Liberal Arts building seems fairly secure and well traveled, those of us with offices often step out without closing the door. Making copies, getting a drink, checking the mail—it's easy to do.
You can already see what's coming, can't you? Clever monkeys.
On Tuesday I stepped out, walked about ten feet outside the suite and another twenty feet to the bathroom. I was gone for about four minutes (I know because I was grading on the fly and I keep a pretty close eye on my time use at such times). I walked back to my office—
No more laptop.
I just stared for a while. It seemed incomprehensible to me that it could be gone in so short a time. I kept looking around, as if somehow I had snagged the computer on my clothes and had pulled it off the desk without realizing it. But it wasn't me—someone had snagged the thing and run off.
It had to be somewhat planned: you can't actually see my office from the courtyard and have to walk into the suite to see within. There was a fellow sitting outside when I went out who was gone when I returned, but I did not observe him closely—I have yet to develop the sufficient level of suspicion to survey everyone I pass on the off chance one of them will commit a crime against me. So I wasn't too helpful to the campus police when they showed up some twenty minutes later.
The good news (of a sort) is that it was the school's computer, not my sweet new machine (on which I type this even now). The bad news is that, of course, that's where all my assignments and grades were stored. It's password protected, so until and unless it finds its way into the hands of a l33t hacker, I should be safe, and I don't keep much personal information on a school computer. I've since changed my internet passwords, and I suppose a desperate but literarily pretentious thief could take the draft of my novel I had on there and publish it before I do, but other than that the danger factor is low. It's just an annoyance, and a wake-up call; a lot more professors will be locking their doors from now on.
One of my coworkers shook his head in disbelief at the story, and said, "Man—I'd be swearing and cursing up and down. You seem so calm." I just shrugged. What would swearing do? After coming down from the shock, I prayed for the guy who took it; what else could I do? He was either desperately messed up, or just desperate: either way, he needs help. I doubt I'll ever see the computer again, but hopefully something good can come of this all.
Back up your files, people. Really.
And no, I don't mean that in the "sports metaphor, they-won-because-of-a-bad-call" kind of way.
I work in a suite of five offices, outside of which is a balcony running around an open courtyard. Because the Liberal Arts building seems fairly secure and well traveled, those of us with offices often step out without closing the door. Making copies, getting a drink, checking the mail—it's easy to do.
You can already see what's coming, can't you? Clever monkeys.
On Tuesday I stepped out, walked about ten feet outside the suite and another twenty feet to the bathroom. I was gone for about four minutes (I know because I was grading on the fly and I keep a pretty close eye on my time use at such times). I walked back to my office—
No more laptop.
I just stared for a while. It seemed incomprehensible to me that it could be gone in so short a time. I kept looking around, as if somehow I had snagged the computer on my clothes and had pulled it off the desk without realizing it. But it wasn't me—someone had snagged the thing and run off.
It had to be somewhat planned: you can't actually see my office from the courtyard and have to walk into the suite to see within. There was a fellow sitting outside when I went out who was gone when I returned, but I did not observe him closely—I have yet to develop the sufficient level of suspicion to survey everyone I pass on the off chance one of them will commit a crime against me. So I wasn't too helpful to the campus police when they showed up some twenty minutes later.
The good news (of a sort) is that it was the school's computer, not my sweet new machine (on which I type this even now). The bad news is that, of course, that's where all my assignments and grades were stored. It's password protected, so until and unless it finds its way into the hands of a l33t hacker, I should be safe, and I don't keep much personal information on a school computer. I've since changed my internet passwords, and I suppose a desperate but literarily pretentious thief could take the draft of my novel I had on there and publish it before I do, but other than that the danger factor is low. It's just an annoyance, and a wake-up call; a lot more professors will be locking their doors from now on.
One of my coworkers shook his head in disbelief at the story, and said, "Man—I'd be swearing and cursing up and down. You seem so calm." I just shrugged. What would swearing do? After coming down from the shock, I prayed for the guy who took it; what else could I do? He was either desperately messed up, or just desperate: either way, he needs help. I doubt I'll ever see the computer again, but hopefully something good can come of this all.
Back up your files, people. Really.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Excuses, Excuses
So I haven't been on for a while, and I don't know how much time I'll have here, as a boy may wake up at any moment and emerge to poke me.
The main reason for my absence was simple logistics. I've been drowning in grading, and in an attempt to catch up I've been getting up at 4 or 4:30am. This means that I've been crashing at 10 or 11pm, which is far earlier than normal--and if you've ever checked out the time posted for my old entries, you'll see they're mostly 1am-ish. That, and the fact that the baby goes to bed at 8pm or so, cutting me off from our computer, has kept me out of here.
This is fascinating stuff, I know. I wanted to post because--well, heck, everyone else is all post-y these days, what with Slater returned and Parker becoming a revivalist preacher and even Beth putting up stories about tomato plants and old ladies. My own spiritual quest has not stopped, but has felt somewhat stilted by all this work. We've only got three days left of summer school (thank goodness), but between endless grading, family illness, and Kathie about to make her giant move to the Idaho, it's just been a whirlwind of responsibility. Still, the changes in me over the last few weeks have made this bearable, even if I haven't learned to rejoice in it yet.
Okay. Time grows short. Good morning, all, and keep watching this space.
The main reason for my absence was simple logistics. I've been drowning in grading, and in an attempt to catch up I've been getting up at 4 or 4:30am. This means that I've been crashing at 10 or 11pm, which is far earlier than normal--and if you've ever checked out the time posted for my old entries, you'll see they're mostly 1am-ish. That, and the fact that the baby goes to bed at 8pm or so, cutting me off from our computer, has kept me out of here.
This is fascinating stuff, I know. I wanted to post because--well, heck, everyone else is all post-y these days, what with Slater returned and Parker becoming a revivalist preacher and even Beth putting up stories about tomato plants and old ladies. My own spiritual quest has not stopped, but has felt somewhat stilted by all this work. We've only got three days left of summer school (thank goodness), but between endless grading, family illness, and Kathie about to make her giant move to the Idaho, it's just been a whirlwind of responsibility. Still, the changes in me over the last few weeks have made this bearable, even if I haven't learned to rejoice in it yet.
Okay. Time grows short. Good morning, all, and keep watching this space.
Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Madness
I am sunk deep into the mire of grading. I could complain about this at length, but you've read that already if you've read this blog at all.
I don't have time to elaborate at great length here (you know—'cause of the grading), but let us say that my inability to grade in a timely manner is the bane of my work. I'm anal-retentive as it is, and trying to walk away from a paper without thoroughly marking it up is a pain. Yet that takes so darn long that I get behind and suffer great pangs of guilt for being so slow. And I do so resent the time I have to put into it.
But that's my problem, I think. I always see it as such a burden and such a drudgery. It's never going to be a joy, but until I can approach it as a challenge and a duty, I'm always going to resent it—so I'll keep putting it off and keep stalling and keep loathing it.
I don't think I'm meant to teach forever, but I think I need to learn to do it well now. For a lot of reasons.
So that's what I'll be doing for a while here. Maybe next time there will be something interesting to read about. No promises, though.
I don't have time to elaborate at great length here (you know—'cause of the grading), but let us say that my inability to grade in a timely manner is the bane of my work. I'm anal-retentive as it is, and trying to walk away from a paper without thoroughly marking it up is a pain. Yet that takes so darn long that I get behind and suffer great pangs of guilt for being so slow. And I do so resent the time I have to put into it.
But that's my problem, I think. I always see it as such a burden and such a drudgery. It's never going to be a joy, but until I can approach it as a challenge and a duty, I'm always going to resent it—so I'll keep putting it off and keep stalling and keep loathing it.
I don't think I'm meant to teach forever, but I think I need to learn to do it well now. For a lot of reasons.
So that's what I'll be doing for a while here. Maybe next time there will be something interesting to read about. No promises, though.
Friday, July 07, 2006
A Long Story
Strap in, folks. This is a long one. The world cried out for my triumphal return to blogging, and here it is. I am not kidding with that title. You Have Been Warned.
Several people have voiced their disapproval over my disappearance from the blogging scene, and I'm grateful for the encouragement. When my mom asked last night, "Why don't you blog anymore?" I knew I was in trouble and had better get back. I had actually been planning to blog for quite a while, but as we know, the line between "blogging" and "planning to blog" is a mighty and powerful one.
The reasons for my absence are far too long and uninteresting to go into here. So as an alternative I thought I'd post a long and more interesting (at least to me) account of a real "God moment" that smacked me upside the head earlier this week.
Two pieces of information are important as background, though:
(1) In a few weeks, I'll be taking a backpacking trip with the Professor, Skipper, and Gilligan in the Sierras, and the prospect of that has electrified and resurrected my old love of camping and backpacking. I don't know why, but since we decided to do it I've been obsessed with getting back out on the trail. I've collected some fine new gear (thank you, Father's Day contributors) and we've been taking the boys hiking a couple of times a week. I'm hoping to take a long trek up in Big Bear sometime this month before the big trip in August.
All this manly outdoorism has also reawakened a very old dream I've squirreled away for a score of years: to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. For those outside the loop (and a pretty small loop it is), the PCT is a 2,650-mile trail that wends from Mexico to Canada via the major mountain ranges of the west coast (you can read more on it here). To through-hike the whole thing takes 5-6 months, and I'd love to do it. I amend that—I'm going to do it. I've already secured the blessings of my splendidly generous wife; right now, we're on the 11-Year Plan (I'll be starting off in late April, 2017, if the planet hasn't imploded by then), once the kids are of a manageable age. By then my writing career should be in full swing, and who knows—perhaps I'll swing a deal to write about the experience of the trip.
Part of the trail runs right through our mountains, and I remember as a kid being fascinated by such a mighty journey and imagining making the whole trek. I'd not thought about it much until this new obsession blossomed, and now I'm daydreaming about it with some consistency. I took the boys to Big Bear a few weeks ago and found a forest road where the PCT crosses it; we hiked about 300 feet of it then, so I'm well on my way. Only 13,991,700 feet to go.
(2) Last week I read John Eldredge's Wild at Heart, and it made my head come off. My insightful sister gave me the book over two years ago, and I hadn't gotten into it then, but Skaggs has become all Wild-at-Heart-y recently, and he's a man with some traits I'd like to cultivate, so I gave it another shot.
Holy cow.
I'll probably be yammering on about the book in future posts, so I won't go into depth here. Suffice it to say that the book hit me where I needed to be hit at this particular stage in my journey. A lot of the material is stuff I'd heard before but never quite in that way, and it's made a huge difference in my outlook and my faith. In brief, Eldrege encourages men (at least in this book) to embrace those "manly" virtues that have lost their prominence in recent decades (honor, fierceness, wildness, passion, heroism); he also admonishes that Christian men in particular have lost their way and their hearts, allowing a milquetoast, passive image of Jesus to dominate our thinking rather than the more dynamic, passionate, dangerous picture the Gospels paint of Him. Through scripture, Eldrege argues that God made us the way we are for a reason, and that our passions and longings are part of that design (revolutionary, I know; as I said, it's stuff I've heard before but this is the first time it really stuck). Eldredge outlines an invitation to live a life of risk. He doesn't promise success or achievement, but an adventure, and that spoke so clearly to my soul that it felt like he was inside my heart, kicking at the walls to make a little more room for the Spirit.
Now, for those of you worried, I've not become an Eldredge groupie (though he is dreamy... I bet under all that rugged "man" stuff he's really sweet and would be a fun prom date... Oh! Sorry. I have to put down my Tiger Beat magazine and go paint my toenails now). To paraphrase Max Lucado, it's not the words, but God in the words that makes the difference, and I think God used these to waken something in me that had been long lying dormant.
Okay—on to the story.
In my pursuit of this elusive adventure, I obtained the Wild at Heart Field Manual, a kind of workbook/journal/tool/thing to aid in wrestling with the concepts presented by the book and find ways to explore and apply them personally. The book encourages you to go out into the outdoors somewhere to work on it, and I was more than amenable. On Monday, I journeyed up to Big Bear along Highway 38, the long, winding, and—most importantly—less-traveled road. There were still a lot of tourists for the holiday weekend about, so I was trying to think of a place I could go to get a little solitude.
Forest roads and campgrounds are to be found just off the highway all over back there, but none of them called out to me. I remembered that the PCT passes through Onyx Summit, the high pass before the road descends into Big Bear, and a part of me really, really wanted to find it. "What better place," thought I, "to start this spiritual journey than on the trail that is calling me to a physical journey?"
After a while, though, I got discouraged. Who knew which of the myriad roads actually intersected the trail up there, or how far back that intersection might be? I put the thought from my mind and settled for searching for some back road with a good view.
Boy howdy, did I find it. At the top of the pass there was a forest road that looked like it was blocked off by downed trees, but there was space for the truck to climb through. The road was strewn with a blanket of loose rocks and wound about through gnarled pinyon pines and scrub. I found a turnout wide enough to get the truck off the road a few miles in and a comfy seat among the scree.
Below me opened up the whole vista of the Big Bear valley, and beyond the distant shadows of Wrightwood and Mt. Baldy. To my left, Baldwin Lake was a thousand feet below, and dropping down to the north was the prospect of the desert beyond, stretching into gray-brown haze. To my right the granite cliffs and crags thrust up through the forest, and the vale to to the south was a sea of pines. As if that wasn't enough of a gift, thunderstorms were sweeping the valley, and a dark gray landscape of clouds rumbled across the sky. I could see the rain falling in writing tentacles; though I didn't see lightning, thunder rumbled through every few minutes. I sat in muggy sunlight, but the wind from the north blew chill into my face.
It was a glory.
I alternated watching the display and writing in the journal, answering questions about my walk with God and those things which speak to my soul, the dreams that make my heart come alive. On the theory that what we do in our free time is a window into our heart, it even asked about what I would do if given three months and a large enough bankroll to do whatever I truly wanted. I immediately granted myself an extended leave of six months and wrote about that elemental journey up the PCT.
I continued in that vein for about an hour, taking a short break to sit in the branches of one particularly monstrous pine just down the slope. Then the rain swept up my way, and I decided to take my leave. I had to drive further along to find a spot to turn around before heading back. A few hundred yards further on, I saw an inviting spot, but decided to journey a bit further before I had to return to civilization. Eventually I found a wide space with a view of the next ridge, reluctantly got the truck pointed back the way I had come, and headed out.
But I couldn't resist the call of that inviting spot, so I pulled in on the way back. It was on the edge of a small open space bounded by pines and manzanita. It had clearly been used before—a small cairn of stones stood in the center of the clearing. I stood there in the rain and it occured to me that despite my thinking about God and my place with Him, I hadn't actually prayed. So I did so. Feeling particuarly melodramatic, I knelt down in the clearing and prayed for a good long time. Being in such an awe-inspiring setting, I really wanted to have an overwhelming experience, to be overcome by emotion and a sense of God's presence. The confusion of everyday life was supposed to resolve itself in one mighty moment of clarity and purpose, and all would be made clear to me.
It didn't happen.
It was good to pray, longer than I had done for a great while, but I didn't feel particularly uplifted or enlightened. I tried to be still and just listen, as I had so often been counseled to do but which I have never really achieved. I did manage some semblance of it there in the rain from the heavens and the dry earth beneath my knees, and I decided I'd sit there and wait until some kind of answer came. Some sort of sign would make itself known, even if it was just being struck by lightning for sitting in the middle of an open space on a high ridge during a thunderstorm. I vowed I'd wait and listen.
Only I had to get back. My watch (as the Liliputians would have it, my pocket god) showed me that there would be trouble if I didn't get home. I told God that my family was waiting on me and I should not shirk my responsibility to them. So I vowed to keep listening in the truck on the way home, and in my house all evening, and in the dark of the night. I'd keep looking for that sign.
It still felt like failure, and I was kind of downcast as I climbed back into the truck and backed onto the forest road.
However, as I did so, I saw a sign.
A small wooden sign, actually. I stopped the truck to stare. It was carved with the legend "No Motorized Vehicles Allowed." And at the top, a bit faded and worn, was the spade-like tree-and-logo symbol of the Pacific Crest Trail. I had been sitting almost on top of the trail the entire time.
I laughed out loud for full five minutes, giving way occasionally to tears. I climbed out and walked along the path for a hundred feet, stoppping every few minutes to put my hand on a boulder or a tree and guffaw, shaking my head in wonder at what we see and do not see. If anyone else had been about, they'd have thought I was a loon.
It was so clearly an answer that it seemed supernatural—and I'm sure it was. I'm not positive what the message was, except that I could very nearly see God giving me a slow wink and saying, "You are on the path. It's been here the whole time." I don't know what else is packed in there, but I intend to find out.
It occurred to me when I thought about putting this all down here that anyone who reads this and doesn't know God's goodness and overwhelming love, who doesn't know Christ's generosity and patience, is sure to chalk this up to chance and emotional turmoil, or at best some kind of numinous "fate," to explain and rationalize away the meaning or to ascribe it to my own mental processes. I am sorry for you, truly. It was a moment that marked me and in which God spoke right into my heart. The circumstance was small, but the voice was thunderous. If you don't know Him, find Him out. I am done with doubt.
Now to see where this new path leads...
Several people have voiced their disapproval over my disappearance from the blogging scene, and I'm grateful for the encouragement. When my mom asked last night, "Why don't you blog anymore?" I knew I was in trouble and had better get back. I had actually been planning to blog for quite a while, but as we know, the line between "blogging" and "planning to blog" is a mighty and powerful one.
The reasons for my absence are far too long and uninteresting to go into here. So as an alternative I thought I'd post a long and more interesting (at least to me) account of a real "God moment" that smacked me upside the head earlier this week.
Two pieces of information are important as background, though:
(1) In a few weeks, I'll be taking a backpacking trip with the Professor, Skipper, and Gilligan in the Sierras, and the prospect of that has electrified and resurrected my old love of camping and backpacking. I don't know why, but since we decided to do it I've been obsessed with getting back out on the trail. I've collected some fine new gear (thank you, Father's Day contributors) and we've been taking the boys hiking a couple of times a week. I'm hoping to take a long trek up in Big Bear sometime this month before the big trip in August.
All this manly outdoorism has also reawakened a very old dream I've squirreled away for a score of years: to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. For those outside the loop (and a pretty small loop it is), the PCT is a 2,650-mile trail that wends from Mexico to Canada via the major mountain ranges of the west coast (you can read more on it here). To through-hike the whole thing takes 5-6 months, and I'd love to do it. I amend that—I'm going to do it. I've already secured the blessings of my splendidly generous wife; right now, we're on the 11-Year Plan (I'll be starting off in late April, 2017, if the planet hasn't imploded by then), once the kids are of a manageable age. By then my writing career should be in full swing, and who knows—perhaps I'll swing a deal to write about the experience of the trip.
Part of the trail runs right through our mountains, and I remember as a kid being fascinated by such a mighty journey and imagining making the whole trek. I'd not thought about it much until this new obsession blossomed, and now I'm daydreaming about it with some consistency. I took the boys to Big Bear a few weeks ago and found a forest road where the PCT crosses it; we hiked about 300 feet of it then, so I'm well on my way. Only 13,991,700 feet to go.
(2) Last week I read John Eldredge's Wild at Heart, and it made my head come off. My insightful sister gave me the book over two years ago, and I hadn't gotten into it then, but Skaggs has become all Wild-at-Heart-y recently, and he's a man with some traits I'd like to cultivate, so I gave it another shot.
Holy cow.
I'll probably be yammering on about the book in future posts, so I won't go into depth here. Suffice it to say that the book hit me where I needed to be hit at this particular stage in my journey. A lot of the material is stuff I'd heard before but never quite in that way, and it's made a huge difference in my outlook and my faith. In brief, Eldrege encourages men (at least in this book) to embrace those "manly" virtues that have lost their prominence in recent decades (honor, fierceness, wildness, passion, heroism); he also admonishes that Christian men in particular have lost their way and their hearts, allowing a milquetoast, passive image of Jesus to dominate our thinking rather than the more dynamic, passionate, dangerous picture the Gospels paint of Him. Through scripture, Eldrege argues that God made us the way we are for a reason, and that our passions and longings are part of that design (revolutionary, I know; as I said, it's stuff I've heard before but this is the first time it really stuck). Eldredge outlines an invitation to live a life of risk. He doesn't promise success or achievement, but an adventure, and that spoke so clearly to my soul that it felt like he was inside my heart, kicking at the walls to make a little more room for the Spirit.
Now, for those of you worried, I've not become an Eldredge groupie (though he is dreamy... I bet under all that rugged "man" stuff he's really sweet and would be a fun prom date... Oh! Sorry. I have to put down my Tiger Beat magazine and go paint my toenails now). To paraphrase Max Lucado, it's not the words, but God in the words that makes the difference, and I think God used these to waken something in me that had been long lying dormant.
Okay—on to the story.
In my pursuit of this elusive adventure, I obtained the Wild at Heart Field Manual, a kind of workbook/journal/tool/thing to aid in wrestling with the concepts presented by the book and find ways to explore and apply them personally. The book encourages you to go out into the outdoors somewhere to work on it, and I was more than amenable. On Monday, I journeyed up to Big Bear along Highway 38, the long, winding, and—most importantly—less-traveled road. There were still a lot of tourists for the holiday weekend about, so I was trying to think of a place I could go to get a little solitude.
Forest roads and campgrounds are to be found just off the highway all over back there, but none of them called out to me. I remembered that the PCT passes through Onyx Summit, the high pass before the road descends into Big Bear, and a part of me really, really wanted to find it. "What better place," thought I, "to start this spiritual journey than on the trail that is calling me to a physical journey?"
After a while, though, I got discouraged. Who knew which of the myriad roads actually intersected the trail up there, or how far back that intersection might be? I put the thought from my mind and settled for searching for some back road with a good view.
Boy howdy, did I find it. At the top of the pass there was a forest road that looked like it was blocked off by downed trees, but there was space for the truck to climb through. The road was strewn with a blanket of loose rocks and wound about through gnarled pinyon pines and scrub. I found a turnout wide enough to get the truck off the road a few miles in and a comfy seat among the scree.
Below me opened up the whole vista of the Big Bear valley, and beyond the distant shadows of Wrightwood and Mt. Baldy. To my left, Baldwin Lake was a thousand feet below, and dropping down to the north was the prospect of the desert beyond, stretching into gray-brown haze. To my right the granite cliffs and crags thrust up through the forest, and the vale to to the south was a sea of pines. As if that wasn't enough of a gift, thunderstorms were sweeping the valley, and a dark gray landscape of clouds rumbled across the sky. I could see the rain falling in writing tentacles; though I didn't see lightning, thunder rumbled through every few minutes. I sat in muggy sunlight, but the wind from the north blew chill into my face.
It was a glory.
I alternated watching the display and writing in the journal, answering questions about my walk with God and those things which speak to my soul, the dreams that make my heart come alive. On the theory that what we do in our free time is a window into our heart, it even asked about what I would do if given three months and a large enough bankroll to do whatever I truly wanted. I immediately granted myself an extended leave of six months and wrote about that elemental journey up the PCT.
I continued in that vein for about an hour, taking a short break to sit in the branches of one particularly monstrous pine just down the slope. Then the rain swept up my way, and I decided to take my leave. I had to drive further along to find a spot to turn around before heading back. A few hundred yards further on, I saw an inviting spot, but decided to journey a bit further before I had to return to civilization. Eventually I found a wide space with a view of the next ridge, reluctantly got the truck pointed back the way I had come, and headed out.
But I couldn't resist the call of that inviting spot, so I pulled in on the way back. It was on the edge of a small open space bounded by pines and manzanita. It had clearly been used before—a small cairn of stones stood in the center of the clearing. I stood there in the rain and it occured to me that despite my thinking about God and my place with Him, I hadn't actually prayed. So I did so. Feeling particuarly melodramatic, I knelt down in the clearing and prayed for a good long time. Being in such an awe-inspiring setting, I really wanted to have an overwhelming experience, to be overcome by emotion and a sense of God's presence. The confusion of everyday life was supposed to resolve itself in one mighty moment of clarity and purpose, and all would be made clear to me.
It didn't happen.
It was good to pray, longer than I had done for a great while, but I didn't feel particularly uplifted or enlightened. I tried to be still and just listen, as I had so often been counseled to do but which I have never really achieved. I did manage some semblance of it there in the rain from the heavens and the dry earth beneath my knees, and I decided I'd sit there and wait until some kind of answer came. Some sort of sign would make itself known, even if it was just being struck by lightning for sitting in the middle of an open space on a high ridge during a thunderstorm. I vowed I'd wait and listen.
Only I had to get back. My watch (as the Liliputians would have it, my pocket god) showed me that there would be trouble if I didn't get home. I told God that my family was waiting on me and I should not shirk my responsibility to them. So I vowed to keep listening in the truck on the way home, and in my house all evening, and in the dark of the night. I'd keep looking for that sign.
It still felt like failure, and I was kind of downcast as I climbed back into the truck and backed onto the forest road.
However, as I did so, I saw a sign.
A small wooden sign, actually. I stopped the truck to stare. It was carved with the legend "No Motorized Vehicles Allowed." And at the top, a bit faded and worn, was the spade-like tree-and-logo symbol of the Pacific Crest Trail. I had been sitting almost on top of the trail the entire time.
I laughed out loud for full five minutes, giving way occasionally to tears. I climbed out and walked along the path for a hundred feet, stoppping every few minutes to put my hand on a boulder or a tree and guffaw, shaking my head in wonder at what we see and do not see. If anyone else had been about, they'd have thought I was a loon.
It was so clearly an answer that it seemed supernatural—and I'm sure it was. I'm not positive what the message was, except that I could very nearly see God giving me a slow wink and saying, "You are on the path. It's been here the whole time." I don't know what else is packed in there, but I intend to find out.
It occurred to me when I thought about putting this all down here that anyone who reads this and doesn't know God's goodness and overwhelming love, who doesn't know Christ's generosity and patience, is sure to chalk this up to chance and emotional turmoil, or at best some kind of numinous "fate," to explain and rationalize away the meaning or to ascribe it to my own mental processes. I am sorry for you, truly. It was a moment that marked me and in which God spoke right into my heart. The circumstance was small, but the voice was thunderous. If you don't know Him, find Him out. I am done with doubt.
Now to see where this new path leads...
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
And the Truth Goes Marching On
An update on the Hungarian corpse-rum drinkers: Reuters has printed something of a retraction here.
I like how they avoid any personal responsibility, myself. Way to go for journalistic integrity! I guess that the "Oddly Enough" beat doesn't have the same fact-checking requirements; after all, half the stories would end up not being printed.
So I have struck the tiniest blow for truth that it may be possible to strike. I think I deserve a government grant and an exemption from having to do anything difficult or morally upright for at least a few weeks. Goodbye, final grading...
I'm in a punchy mood, so forgive the choppy prose. There was little sleep for me last night, and too much time was devoted to filling out an overly long profile on MySpace (I feel geeky just typing that), 'cause Chris said that Devin was over there and some other Rim graduates and even a few folks from the camp we used to counsel at in our younger days. I figured if all the cool kids were doing it, I should, too. I hear that's the way to get really popular. We'll have to see if television is giving me that truth straight.
I like how they avoid any personal responsibility, myself. Way to go for journalistic integrity! I guess that the "Oddly Enough" beat doesn't have the same fact-checking requirements; after all, half the stories would end up not being printed.
So I have struck the tiniest blow for truth that it may be possible to strike. I think I deserve a government grant and an exemption from having to do anything difficult or morally upright for at least a few weeks. Goodbye, final grading...
I'm in a punchy mood, so forgive the choppy prose. There was little sleep for me last night, and too much time was devoted to filling out an overly long profile on MySpace (I feel geeky just typing that), 'cause Chris said that Devin was over there and some other Rim graduates and even a few folks from the camp we used to counsel at in our younger days. I figured if all the cool kids were doing it, I should, too. I hear that's the way to get really popular. We'll have to see if television is giving me that truth straight.
Thursday, May 04, 2006
I'm Famous (Almost)
I know I owe an actual post here, and I intend to put one up soon, but I thought I'd pass on that my astute observation has lead to a minor change on another web page.
I guess that's not famous after all...
In any case, the deal is that I was perusing the Reuter's web service's Oddly Enough news section, and the first story listed today was from a Hungarian online magazine. It reported that workers who were renovating a house drank a cask of rum, but when they finished they found a corpse preserved inside. Read this fun and educational story here.
The only problem with this is that some version of this tale has been floating about for ages, and was reported on another news service (from the same Hungarian rag) a couple of years ago. D'oh!
So I sent word over to the folks at Snopes, sending also a few kind words about how much I enjoy their site. An hour later, Barbara Mikkelson (one of the founders of the site) wrote back with some thanks. And now, patient readers, you can see the update of the story here.
I don't know why this pleases me; it's about as minor a thing as a person could reasonably do. But there you go.
I also sent a note to the Reuters people, but they have not responded. The link to their story may disappear eventually, so read up while you can!
What? Writing? What writing?
Oh, that writing. Yes, it's going on. I'll post on that next time out. Really soon.
Really.
I guess that's not famous after all...
In any case, the deal is that I was perusing the Reuter's web service's Oddly Enough news section, and the first story listed today was from a Hungarian online magazine. It reported that workers who were renovating a house drank a cask of rum, but when they finished they found a corpse preserved inside. Read this fun and educational story here.
The only problem with this is that some version of this tale has been floating about for ages, and was reported on another news service (from the same Hungarian rag) a couple of years ago. D'oh!
So I sent word over to the folks at Snopes, sending also a few kind words about how much I enjoy their site. An hour later, Barbara Mikkelson (one of the founders of the site) wrote back with some thanks. And now, patient readers, you can see the update of the story here.
I don't know why this pleases me; it's about as minor a thing as a person could reasonably do. But there you go.
I also sent a note to the Reuters people, but they have not responded. The link to their story may disappear eventually, so read up while you can!
What? Writing? What writing?
Oh, that writing. Yes, it's going on. I'll post on that next time out. Really soon.
Really.
Monday, April 17, 2006
Status Report
Sorry about the delay--it was a crazy weekend, full of family visits, egg coloring, and the seemingly endless cycle of cleaning. Really, I don't know how anyone with kids has time for anything in life other than cleaning. If I quit my job and devoted myself to it full time, I think we could just keep up with those monkeys...
In any case, I've written all of about 3,068 words this month so far, meaning I need to complete some 17,000 words in 13 days. Not a problem, really, but I do need to pick up the pace if I'm going to get done here. I will try my best to get in here daily to keep up the numbers. We're approaching finals, so it's getting a bit hairier to make things work, but I'll do my best.
Our Easter, by the way, was very nice (if a bit cold and rainy--excellent for me, kind of depressing for others). We saw both families over the weekend and the boys received approximately 45.67 pounds of candy each. No idea how that will be shared out in the coming days. Honestly, can't we start a tradition of giving rice cakes and wheat germ shaped into gerbils for some holiday? I hate to put an end to the candy I so loved as a child, but it's insane. Old Man's Syndrome, long a condition I knew I was afflicted with, grows worse each year. It just isn't like when I was a boy, gol durn it...
Oh--wanted to share The Order of the Stick. If you're a fan of roleplaying games at all, this site is for you. It's usually pretty amusing and sometimes downright hilarious, as here, here, and here. Be warned--it's easy to get sucked into reading many, many strips one after another, as each is so simple and goes down smooth. You can waste a lot of time here, especially because it's best to start with the first strip...
I wanna play a homicidal halfling ranger...
In any case, I've written all of about 3,068 words this month so far, meaning I need to complete some 17,000 words in 13 days. Not a problem, really, but I do need to pick up the pace if I'm going to get done here. I will try my best to get in here daily to keep up the numbers. We're approaching finals, so it's getting a bit hairier to make things work, but I'll do my best.
Our Easter, by the way, was very nice (if a bit cold and rainy--excellent for me, kind of depressing for others). We saw both families over the weekend and the boys received approximately 45.67 pounds of candy each. No idea how that will be shared out in the coming days. Honestly, can't we start a tradition of giving rice cakes and wheat germ shaped into gerbils for some holiday? I hate to put an end to the candy I so loved as a child, but it's insane. Old Man's Syndrome, long a condition I knew I was afflicted with, grows worse each year. It just isn't like when I was a boy, gol durn it...
Oh--wanted to share The Order of the Stick. If you're a fan of roleplaying games at all, this site is for you. It's usually pretty amusing and sometimes downright hilarious, as here, here, and here. Be warned--it's easy to get sucked into reading many, many strips one after another, as each is so simple and goes down smooth. You can waste a lot of time here, especially because it's best to start with the first strip...
I wanna play a homicidal halfling ranger...
Thursday, April 13, 2006
Whoops
As might have been predicted, all my grandiose claims about continued scribing have fallen apart. I am full of shame.
For this post, and much else that's appeared here this year, I am indebted to the unceasing badgering of young Chris Slater. He's always poking me about getting off my duff and actually doing something, and he's both straightforward about its execution and not put off by my dodges and whining. I have many of you to thank for encouragement and accountability, but despite how it bugs me when I don't want to hear it, Slater's smack-downs have been instrumental.
So there's a little mash note for you, Chris.
In discussions with said Slater and looking over the wreckage of my claims to further authorship, I've come to realize that I've not yet internalized the "habit" of writing, partly due to the strange, uneven nature of the writing task last month, and partly due to my own really ugly personal faults. I think I'm going to have to keep my attempts public for a while, until I can get myself established in the routine of writing.
I am not asking for the kind of massive encouragement and/or punishment I demanded for the March Writing Project, but I will be keeping tabs of my continued progress here. That doesn't make for thrilling blog entries, but it should keep me honest. And I suppose that means actually posting here both with successes and failures; during March, you'll note the long gaps when I wasn't producing and I didn't post out of shame. Now my shame will be yours.
In that spirit, I'm proposing to write at least 20,000 words in the rest of this month, and the 50,000 standard for the month following. Those are the kinds of minimums I think I have to maintain to make a go of this job.
On that note, I had actually decided a while ago to postpone my next "new-novel-in-a-month" project until June, so if any of you want to take on this zany project with me, you get an extra month (and a little more time for those bound to school schedules). Since I'm already aiming at 50,000 words per month, in June I'm shooting for 60,000.
This all reads like madness as it comes off my keyboard, but what can I do but jump?
For this post, and much else that's appeared here this year, I am indebted to the unceasing badgering of young Chris Slater. He's always poking me about getting off my duff and actually doing something, and he's both straightforward about its execution and not put off by my dodges and whining. I have many of you to thank for encouragement and accountability, but despite how it bugs me when I don't want to hear it, Slater's smack-downs have been instrumental.
So there's a little mash note for you, Chris.
In discussions with said Slater and looking over the wreckage of my claims to further authorship, I've come to realize that I've not yet internalized the "habit" of writing, partly due to the strange, uneven nature of the writing task last month, and partly due to my own really ugly personal faults. I think I'm going to have to keep my attempts public for a while, until I can get myself established in the routine of writing.
I am not asking for the kind of massive encouragement and/or punishment I demanded for the March Writing Project, but I will be keeping tabs of my continued progress here. That doesn't make for thrilling blog entries, but it should keep me honest. And I suppose that means actually posting here both with successes and failures; during March, you'll note the long gaps when I wasn't producing and I didn't post out of shame. Now my shame will be yours.
In that spirit, I'm proposing to write at least 20,000 words in the rest of this month, and the 50,000 standard for the month following. Those are the kinds of minimums I think I have to maintain to make a go of this job.
On that note, I had actually decided a while ago to postpone my next "new-novel-in-a-month" project until June, so if any of you want to take on this zany project with me, you get an extra month (and a little more time for those bound to school schedules). Since I'm already aiming at 50,000 words per month, in June I'm shooting for 60,000.
This all reads like madness as it comes off my keyboard, but what can I do but jump?
Sunday, April 02, 2006
The Final Proof
I said I'd provide proof yesterday of the word count. A bit late, but here it is:
So whence from here? I mean, the big number was reached, but the book isn't remotely done. There are a number of short novels of about 50,000 words, some of them quite good--Of Mice and Men and The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy among my favorites--but this isn't one of them. Much still needs to be added to fill in gaps, both in the plot and character development. So I'm planning on adding more writing, trying (after this weekend) to continue to pound out about 2,000 words a day. After all, if this is really a calling and something I'm planning on doing for a living, I'd best get in the habit now.
Once the largest gaps are filled, I'll ask a select group to do me the great good favor of looking the thing over and giving me useful feedback. And we'll see what happens from there.
The book suggested that this is supposed to be a time of intense celebration, when one would be overwhelmed by the great accomplishment one finally achieved. Personally, I have more a sense of free-fall (since the tale has not been fully told) and some quiet contentment--as if I'd finally done the thing I should have been doing all the time. Odd, that.
By the way, I'm planning on taking this on again in May, so any of you nervous Nellies who bowed out on this one, you'll have another chance in a month or so. And if I could get it done during this crazy month, you have no excuses.
So whence from here? I mean, the big number was reached, but the book isn't remotely done. There are a number of short novels of about 50,000 words, some of them quite good--Of Mice and Men and The Hitchiker's Guide to the Galaxy among my favorites--but this isn't one of them. Much still needs to be added to fill in gaps, both in the plot and character development. So I'm planning on adding more writing, trying (after this weekend) to continue to pound out about 2,000 words a day. After all, if this is really a calling and something I'm planning on doing for a living, I'd best get in the habit now.
Once the largest gaps are filled, I'll ask a select group to do me the great good favor of looking the thing over and giving me useful feedback. And we'll see what happens from there.
The book suggested that this is supposed to be a time of intense celebration, when one would be overwhelmed by the great accomplishment one finally achieved. Personally, I have more a sense of free-fall (since the tale has not been fully told) and some quiet contentment--as if I'd finally done the thing I should have been doing all the time. Odd, that.
By the way, I'm planning on taking this on again in May, so any of you nervous Nellies who bowed out on this one, you'll have another chance in a month or so. And if I could get it done during this crazy month, you have no excuses.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Day Thirty-One (Final Word Count: 50,185)
Yes. Yes, indeed.
Booyah!
More later. I just wanted to let you know that the goal was breached with a little time to spare. This is all God's doing, and all praise goes to Him--and many thanks to you all, too. You are, collectively, da bomb of the friendly support world.
The tricky bit now, of course, is that I have proven that I can do it--and it wasn't really all that hard, frankly. I skipped at least a week of days in there and wrote a short entry on other days. I could, theoretically, match Stephen King's output of 2,000 words a day. Now if I could only match his skill, and his success in getting the things published...
Must run now. I'll provide proof later tonight. I'm still basking a bit at the moment, and have kids to see after, too.
Booyah!
More later. I just wanted to let you know that the goal was breached with a little time to spare. This is all God's doing, and all praise goes to Him--and many thanks to you all, too. You are, collectively, da bomb of the friendly support world.
The tricky bit now, of course, is that I have proven that I can do it--and it wasn't really all that hard, frankly. I skipped at least a week of days in there and wrote a short entry on other days. I could, theoretically, match Stephen King's output of 2,000 words a day. Now if I could only match his skill, and his success in getting the things published...
Must run now. I'll provide proof later tonight. I'm still basking a bit at the moment, and have kids to see after, too.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
Day Twenty-Eight (Word Count: 40,100)
Have you all given up on me? No butt kicking from the peanut gallery?
It's been a rough slog--not the writing, but the life. Everyone seems on the mend, except for Joanna who has come down with something else this morning. Trying to catch up on missed grading from during the break (when I got far less work done than I would have during a normal work week, thanks to snow and sickness) has kept me up late, so there have been a few missed days in there and a few short days, somewhat made up for yesterday (though I learned the valuable lesson that if you type while you are falling asleep, it does not lead to astounding creative insights).
So I've got four days and 9,900 words to go. It's pretty amazing to be down to the four-digit level, and that works out to about 2,475 words a day, which is eminently do-able, provided that God smiles on me and major disasters don't befall. Pray for me, would you?
It's been a rough slog--not the writing, but the life. Everyone seems on the mend, except for Joanna who has come down with something else this morning. Trying to catch up on missed grading from during the break (when I got far less work done than I would have during a normal work week, thanks to snow and sickness) has kept me up late, so there have been a few missed days in there and a few short days, somewhat made up for yesterday (though I learned the valuable lesson that if you type while you are falling asleep, it does not lead to astounding creative insights).
So I've got four days and 9,900 words to go. It's pretty amazing to be down to the four-digit level, and that works out to about 2,475 words a day, which is eminently do-able, provided that God smiles on me and major disasters don't befall. Pray for me, would you?