If I didn't share this. . .

I would be quite heartless. I want you to prepare yourselves, because (obviously I have no idea, but) I think this is how music in heaven will be.

This is Hoppipolla and með blóðnadir by Sigur Ros.

I am continually amazed by Easter

So I learned a verb for Latin today. Shocking, I know. Anyhow, this verb is "pasc," and it means basically to bring livestock to food. Being the diligent (albeit ignorant) Lordship student that I am, I wondered if this was where we got "Pascha" from. Pascha, in case you don't know, is another name for Easter, used frequently in the Orthodox church. So I jumped to Google and typed in Pascha. According to OrthodoxWiki (which any Greek person can edit, so you know it's right), it's a transliteration from the Greek, which is transliterated from the Hebrew for Passover. Cool. Yet still I wonder. So I break out ye olde Whitaker's Words (a free Latin translator) and typed in Pascha. It popped up with "Easter, Passover." Yea, verily, this I knew. So I typed in "pasca" on a whim. Pasca means water mixed with vinegar, a traditional drink of Roman soldiers in the field and the drink of slaves. 

If your reaction at learning this is at all similar to mine, you're clapping hands over mouth in wonder. Because Easter is all of these. Easter is the new Pascha, the true Passover, when the blood of Christ, the Lamb of God, is poured out on us and protects us from judgment. It is the time of pascamur, when we are led like sheep to the manger, to eat of the Body that was placed there for us. It is when we remember that Christ drank pasca for us on the cross, when He took our place, the place of a slave, and drained the bitterness from our cup. Yet we also remember that He drank the pasca because He was the conquering Warrior, who was in the field because His work was not yet finished. 

Anyhow. Our God has an incredible way of tying things together. He is the Master Storyteller. 

Beach Walking- My newest assigned poem

I would have presented this poem at rhetoric declamations today, but I was sick (am sick). Therefore, I shall present it to you.

"Beach Walking"

I am walking across the Ft. Pickens buried road
With a kayak slung . . . DANG! on my shoulders
And a crab just took claw and it grabbed
My big foot so you must please forgive me.
I am lucky that no cars are going by me,
cause I dropped that big bulky friggin’ bark
And it landed right CRAP! on my other foot.
So I hobble fast across this barren beach.

It's obviously not a great poem or anything, but I am rather proud of the meter. It is anapestic, which means that it has three beats per foot going "unstressed, unstressed, stressed." The meter itself is almost like taking two steps and encountering something painful. I wouldn't want to use it in a relaxed poem, but it works well in this situation.

An update on my movements

So, I'm back into biking (as in bicycle, not motorcyle) now that it's spring. I've biked some 70-0dd miles over the last three days. I've found out some things. First, that the old man in the kilt also walks down the trail to Troy. This guy gets around. Second, Pit bulls like to hang out on the sides of the trail and scare its users. This is the second time I've been unnerved by the sight of a pit bull wandering free. The first time it was on the Chipman trail and I was even more afraid, because it looked like a mountain lion. Third, a gas station at the end of an eleven mile trail is a beautiful thing. Fourth(ly?), I shouldn't keep my phone in my pocket while I'm riding. It fell out and I thought I lost it for good, but someone picked it up and called the number my dad texted to it. It was quite providential. Finally, the Palouse is so beautiful. The hills just seem to roll on forever. It's quite a sight for a guy who is used to oceans and flatlands.

Well, that pretty much sums up my weekend. I hope yours was good too.

What hurts the most

So, I made a rather bold resolution the other day. In a bizarre sort of reverse, mid-lent declaration the other day I have resolved to try to listen to more country music.

Now, those who know me well will know how much of a stretch this is. To my ears, the twangy whining/wheezing/wailing of a country singer is no more musical than nails on a chalkboard. I'm doing my best to fix this though. I recognize it as a gap in my musical palate. To this end, "Project Densensitisation" is underway.

The smart thing to do would to start with some "Southern rock." After all, rock is what I would consider to be my native genre. So, the natural transition would be to move into something that's a bit more southern but is still rock. It's sort of like easing your way into a freezing cold bit of water.

But that's not how I roll. I jump (headfirst when I know it won't kill me). Right now George Strait is singing something about Cowboys. Just a minute ago Kenny Chesney was saying something about how his wife (at any rate, the woman who hands him the jug of sweet tea) thinks his tractor is like, attractive(?). Right before that Rascall Flatts* was whining about something hurting really, really bad (the most in fact).

So I'm thinking. . .
- Yeah I guess cowboys have fun. Chasing the wind and all that jazz.
- Sure, I bet some women are attracted to tractors.
- What's that Rascall Flatts? Oh PLEASE. Stop the whining, will you? I really don't care how bad it hurts. The most, eh? OOOOO It can't be worse than what I'm suffering right now, listening to your whining. Like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer. . .

You know, I think I'm beginning to get acclamated. I can't say I like country music, but I have made progress. Now, instead of running away screaming, I just laugh at it. Seriously, this stuff is hilarious. What's even funnier than the actual music is the fact that I am listening to it. Me. I keep looking around to make sure I'm not actually sitting in Lone Star Steakhouse with waiters dancing around and tripping on the peanuts.

P.S. My apologies to any "Rascall" fans. *Cough* Bobby Lee.

*Incidentally, I have found this equation to be quite helpful in understanding this band:
Boy Band + Country= Rascall Flatts

Smacking (Why I hate it)

In the Oresteia when Clytemnestra binds her husband in his bathrobe and murders him, we hear Agamemnon say with great feeling (and pain): I am stabbed. I am stabbed again.” This signifies to the highly intelligent audience that Agamemnon has been murdered. Presumably, the audience knows, and can imagine for themselves what this looks like. It might have ruined their enjoyment of the play had they seen the actual pool of blood accumulate around his lifeless body, his bathrobe stained in his life’s juices, his faithless wife holding the knife that took his life. Such a spectacle is said to be “obscene”, or literally off-stage. It is off-stage because it is unseemly.
In the same way, when someone is chewing his food we know that the digestive juices are flowing. We realize that food is actually getting mixed with spit as it swishes around his mouth. However, we are not supposed to hear it. The smack as the wet food sloshes around the mouth is not a pleasant sound. Nor is it at all, appetizing to see the extremely unaesthetic state of his partially undigested food. Food in the mouth is always disgusting. It does not matter if it is the most exquisite entrée on the menu of West of Paris. And look, how beautiful it looks on the plate when it is served. In the mouth it will look like the same kind of mush that saltine crackers becomes, and I can guarantee it will make a similar noise.

Scariest word in the English language. . .

Oops [!]

Usually accompanied with an exclamation point when it is written,* "oops" has long been considered the scariest word in the English language. At just four letters it packs a mighty punch. Although, its true strength can only be measured by the context in which it is uttered, "oops" is never a good thing to hear.


Close cousins to oops [excluding vulgarities]:
Whoops
Whoopsies
Whoopsiedaisies
Crud bucket
Shucks
We're in a tight spot
Did I do that?


*Depending on the enormity of the disaster. If it's a fairly harmless mistake, such as when a few innocent hairs are plucked out of existence, then only one is necessary. However, if it is a disaster of nuclear proportions, two or even three exclamation points may be necessary to convey the utter badness of the situation.