Dear Readers,
It is a truth, and not a sad one, that I too must live out my life, as do my characters. The sad part is when my life does not involve recounting theirs. If I had nothing else to do but write, this would have been posted long ago. But if I never did anything but write, I would have nothing to write about. So, with that convoluted excuse for the delay, please enjoy this second segment. To see the first installment, click here The rest, I truly hope, will follow quickly on its heels.
"I suppose it was about time they took me away," muttered Nathanael, as the motor of the cab rumbled, interrupting the crows in their good-mornings, and sending echoes off the chapel walls. Students across the lawn stared in surprise, but a few were already turning away to hurry on to their classes. Stranger things had happened.
"Excuse me?" said Benjamin after a moment.
"You're excused," murmured Nathanael, pacing back and forth behind the other two, taking off his hat to run a gloved hand through his hair.
"What's the matter? Don't you's guys know where you're headed?" the lips spat out from around the stogie. "If so, please, say so; I 'aven't got all day, y'know."
"I think you've made some mistake," stammered Graybeard.
"No! Wait!" shouted Nathanael, clapping his hat back on his head and stepping forward.
"Where exactly can you take us?"
The face scrunched itself up even more, almost swallowing the stogie in cheek and chin.
"Where exactly can you pay for, doc?"
"Rates?" inquired Nathanael casually, drawing out his wallet, his umbrella hanging in the crook of his right elbow. But in his other hand the ring still lay, and he played with it as he flipped open the wallet.
"Nathanael!" interrupted Benjamin, "what...?"
"Who you trying to fool, doc?" asked the cabbie. "That ring'll get you's guys wherever you wanna go."
"Then Sanderson, good man, and make it quick; we're late for class." Nathanael opened the rear door and turned, motioning his friends inside.
"You're joking," said Graybeard flatly.
"You're late for class," tempted Nathanael.
Benjamin glanced around, shrugged, and dove into the cab. "Anyway, why not?" he laughed, and stuck his head back out to grin at Graybeard. "Come on!"
"For Pete's sake!" laughed Graybeard, but he followed Benjamin into the cab. Nathanael hopped in, compressing the other two, and slammed the door. "Drive on!" he exclaimed, tapping his umbrella on the back of the driver's seat.
"Don't get prissy, doc," came the reply, and the cab leaped forward, spewing turf behind it.
"Oh! Drive carefully or you'll tear up the lawn!" entreated Nathanael, but to no avail. ("What'd'ya think this is, landscaping service?" grumbled the cabbie.)
It took perhaps thirty seconds to cross the lawn, squeeze past the library, and arrive at Sanderson Hall. The three students piled out, Benjamin turning red as he noticed others staring at them.
"Come on!" he whispered, tugging on Nathanael's jacket-sleeve.
"Well! Thank you!" said Nathanael, leaning down to speak into the cabbie's window.
"D'mention't," the cabbie revved the engine.
"Any chance you could wait around for an hour and...um...pick us up?" ventured Nathanael, throwing his arms into the air in a gesture of wild speculation, the ring still in one hand.
The cabbie rolled his eyes, and, removing his stogie, leaned out the window.
"This is a cab, bub, not a limo. See ya." And with a roar of the old engine, he was gone, dropping off the curb at the bottom of the hill and squealing onto Scenic Highway.
"None too soon; let's get inside," said Graybeard, grabbing Nathanael by the shoulder with one arm and motioning towards an approaching staff golf cart with the other. The three entered the building and rushed to their respective classes, hoping no one had recognized them in the cab. Nathanael, as he removed his gloves, dropped the ring into one of them.
“Gentlemen, I have let fall the proverbial legume side dish,” grinned Graybeard as they regrouped in Sanderson lobby after class.
“Spilled the beans?” Nathanael forced a chuckle, nodding his chin at his friend, “that's terrible.”
“Yes, I ought to have said it,” laughed Benjamin, and then, speaking past Graybeard, “Georgiana Vurner! What are you up to?”
“I think she's the one upon which our friend let fall...” began Nathanael.
“Let's go take a look at the chapel lawn!” interrupted Georgie, “I want to see the wrathful looks on the faces of the ground's team,” her whole face contributed a huge smile and she bounced, hands clasped in front of her, but then suddenly her hands and face fell, “this makes me sad, though, guys. You'll be doing so much Practical Service to make up for it I'll never get to see you anymore.”
“I assure you, we had nothing to do with it, m'dear,” said Nathanael, at the same time ramming through the difficult Sanderson doors and motioning them on with his umbrella. “It was entirely due to the cabbie's driving.”
“And by the way, Nathanael?” said Georgie as they exited the building, “what you were about to say about Graybeard spilling beans on me is a little grose.”
The walk from Sanderson to the chapel lawn was a short one.
“I've got to be in the library for work anyway,” noted Georgie, “this will be...oh...my...goodness!”
She had been correct in her prediction of the groundspeople's dispositions. They mulled about beside their maintenance cart, shaking their fuming heads, as several men in suits examined the tracks and conversed with each other. The cab had torn four deep swaths through the sod all the way across the lawn. Pieces of turf were lying everywhere.
“Maybe they'll pay us for aerating, but somehow I don't think so,” murmured Benjamin.
Graybeard sighed. “Why did I get into the cab?”
“Chin up,” said Nathanael, his voice, for once, almost serious, “they don't know it was us, yet.”
“Are you sure about that?” Georgie giggled nervously, “because they're coming this way.”
“What?” gasped Benjamin.
It was only too true. The men in the suits were walking, four abreast, straight for the four friends. There was no one else near them; the men must have been told who it was rode the cab across the lawn.
“Since when does the administration wear sunglasses?” asked Georgie, backing towards the library door.
“Do you recognize any of them?” Graybeard asked suddenly, sharply.
The others replied in the negative and began backing with Georgie.
“Guys?” whispered Georgie, “are they running at us?”
“Booth, the ring!” shouted Graybeard.
“No, no time,” snapped Benjamin. The men were almost to them, coattails flying in the breeze, polished black shoes tossing dew with each purposeful stride.
Wednesday, December 26, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
How To Compute Logarithm Errors
I'm rather proud of my choice of title. You are all probably thinking I called it something boring and scientific so that you would be surprised when it turned out to be light and entertaining. If these are your thoughts, you have been deceived. It's going to be just as boring as it sounds. But I wonder if this paragraph isn't going to make you believe even more that there's something interesting in this post.
Maybe you only think that way if you are me. Eternal optimism and such. But why tarry with rivulets of self-awareness? On to the boring reality at hand.
I'm working on my physics lab write-up, or at least I was until I started writing this. These write-ups occur, naturally, after the lab is completed. They are very useful. For instance, when I pick up my notes from lab, I find that I am in dire need of recalling, first, exactly what we were doing in the lab, second, why we were doing it, and, if I feel particularly important, third, why it worked. It's a good thing the third part is optional, because sometimes we break all the rules. Compile all the laws of nature that we've broken in Physics lab, and you'd probably vaporize due to a lack of intermolecular forces.
That said, the past few days of working on my write-up have been very productive. I've definitely made recollection one (singing Christmas carols). Step two is in progress (because we wanted to drown out the guys who were rapping). And step three is a no-brainer (because our prof. sang with us).
In fact, I've been so productive that I've actually made The Graph twice. The Graph is where I put all sorts of numbers into boxes in particular orders, then realize I put the wrong numbers in the wrong boxes, and try to fix it, only to make a different mistake. Finally, I get all the numbers in the right boxes, save the file to text and to j-peg, close it, realize I forgot to label my axis, and find that my simple graphing program, whose name is Linefit, cannot read the text file. Thus, I am working on the graph for the second time today. For various reasons which I prefer not to go into right now (Translation: I'm embarrassingly inefficient) I have computed nine different logarithms six times each. Any math major can tell you that's fifty-four computations. My calculator is groaning about the mundanity of life.
My calculator, however, has it easy. All it needs to run are four triple-As and a few of those natural laws that we break in lab every week. Its purpose is predetermined. It never had to go to school, and all I have to do is press the right buttons to teach it something new. It has cool circuitry, is a "silver edition," and was apparently born in Texas.
In contrast, I need things like internet and pizza just to exist; despite what some of my non-Reformed friends think, my purpose is predetermined, but I am not yet aware of the specifics; I most certainly do have to go to school; learning requires things like long study breaks to write blog entries; I have amazing circuitry but it's too small to see; there's no such thing as a silver edition of me; and I was born in Alabama.
All this about the superiority of life as a calculator and repetitious graphing aside, my real problem, until I started writing this blog, was how in the world I was supposed to propagate errors through a logarithm (now, it's how I'm ever going to stop writing and get back to work).
See, there's errors in everything. Ask a mathematician what he ate for breakfast, and he'll tell you 2-and-1-third strips of bacon, 1-and-3-eigths cups of grits, 1 cup of factory rejects cereal, and 1-thirds cup 2% milk. Ask a physicist (we do not respond well to 'physician'), and he'll tell you 2 plus-or-minus 1 cups of lucky charms (Factory rejects? Please!) and 1.67 plus-or-minus 0.05 cups of whole milk. As you can see, physicists have far too much on their plate to eat a lot for breakfast. In fact, I saw one eat his cereal standing up this morning because he had no time to sit down. I'm not kidding! In addition, physicists have much better taste in milk. But aside from this, the astute reader will notice, because I am about to point out to him or her, that the physicist included error bars. We use these all the time, plus or minus 5% of the time.
Getting measurement errors is easy. You simply turn to your lab partner and say "what error will be big enough to cover our mistakes, but small enough to make it look like we didn't really break all the laws of nature today?" I'm just kidding, of course. Really, what you do is estimate the largest possible error you could have made in carrying out the measurement, and then double it for good measure, because there's no way you can cover up that you just broke all the laws of nature, so you might as well not try.
Propagating error gets more difficult. First, the word "propagating" is easy to trip over, like a gate that's been propped open, or a propane tank you left out while tail-gating. Second, you forget how and, when you figure it out, you are so excited that you blog about it for an hour and get very sleepy.
Thankfully, I have written the rules in the beginning of my Physics notebook from last semester. As a faithful nerd, I have it with me in the computer lab, and so I can share with you the propagation rules.
When adding or subtracting values, simply add the errors. Subtracting errors may seem like a good idea at the time, but trust me, in the end you will regret it.
When multiplying or dividing, use a very large formula that you would have memorized by now if you were in Physics II, and which I do not know how to code in html, and so will not try! (If you are interested, I can whip it up on TeXnicCenter and send it to you in Adobe. And yes, TeXnicCenter is supposed to be spelled like that. To computer programmers and their strange typing ways I say, "w00t!").
These were the rules I remembered. Unfortunately, I couldn't recall what to do when taking a logarithmic function of something. But then I found it. Yes, dear readers, it's the moment you have all been waiting for:
Viola.
Now, if I can just get gravity turned back on, I'll try to finish my graph so that Linefit can eat it again. Life as a computer program must be so easy...
Maybe you only think that way if you are me. Eternal optimism and such. But why tarry with rivulets of self-awareness? On to the boring reality at hand.
I'm working on my physics lab write-up, or at least I was until I started writing this. These write-ups occur, naturally, after the lab is completed. They are very useful. For instance, when I pick up my notes from lab, I find that I am in dire need of recalling, first, exactly what we were doing in the lab, second, why we were doing it, and, if I feel particularly important, third, why it worked. It's a good thing the third part is optional, because sometimes we break all the rules. Compile all the laws of nature that we've broken in Physics lab, and you'd probably vaporize due to a lack of intermolecular forces.
That said, the past few days of working on my write-up have been very productive. I've definitely made recollection one (singing Christmas carols). Step two is in progress (because we wanted to drown out the guys who were rapping). And step three is a no-brainer (because our prof. sang with us).
In fact, I've been so productive that I've actually made The Graph twice. The Graph is where I put all sorts of numbers into boxes in particular orders, then realize I put the wrong numbers in the wrong boxes, and try to fix it, only to make a different mistake. Finally, I get all the numbers in the right boxes, save the file to text and to j-peg, close it, realize I forgot to label my axis, and find that my simple graphing program, whose name is Linefit, cannot read the text file. Thus, I am working on the graph for the second time today. For various reasons which I prefer not to go into right now (Translation: I'm embarrassingly inefficient) I have computed nine different logarithms six times each. Any math major can tell you that's fifty-four computations. My calculator is groaning about the mundanity of life.
My calculator, however, has it easy. All it needs to run are four triple-As and a few of those natural laws that we break in lab every week. Its purpose is predetermined. It never had to go to school, and all I have to do is press the right buttons to teach it something new. It has cool circuitry, is a "silver edition," and was apparently born in Texas.
In contrast, I need things like internet and pizza just to exist; despite what some of my non-Reformed friends think, my purpose is predetermined, but I am not yet aware of the specifics; I most certainly do have to go to school; learning requires things like long study breaks to write blog entries; I have amazing circuitry but it's too small to see; there's no such thing as a silver edition of me; and I was born in Alabama.
All this about the superiority of life as a calculator and repetitious graphing aside, my real problem, until I started writing this blog, was how in the world I was supposed to propagate errors through a logarithm (now, it's how I'm ever going to stop writing and get back to work).
See, there's errors in everything. Ask a mathematician what he ate for breakfast, and he'll tell you 2-and-1-third strips of bacon, 1-and-3-eigths cups of grits, 1 cup of factory rejects cereal, and 1-thirds cup 2% milk. Ask a physicist (we do not respond well to 'physician'), and he'll tell you 2 plus-or-minus 1 cups of lucky charms (Factory rejects? Please!) and 1.67 plus-or-minus 0.05 cups of whole milk. As you can see, physicists have far too much on their plate to eat a lot for breakfast. In fact, I saw one eat his cereal standing up this morning because he had no time to sit down. I'm not kidding! In addition, physicists have much better taste in milk. But aside from this, the astute reader will notice, because I am about to point out to him or her, that the physicist included error bars. We use these all the time, plus or minus 5% of the time.
Getting measurement errors is easy. You simply turn to your lab partner and say "what error will be big enough to cover our mistakes, but small enough to make it look like we didn't really break all the laws of nature today?" I'm just kidding, of course. Really, what you do is estimate the largest possible error you could have made in carrying out the measurement, and then double it for good measure, because there's no way you can cover up that you just broke all the laws of nature, so you might as well not try.
Propagating error gets more difficult. First, the word "propagating" is easy to trip over, like a gate that's been propped open, or a propane tank you left out while tail-gating. Second, you forget how and, when you figure it out, you are so excited that you blog about it for an hour and get very sleepy.
Thankfully, I have written the rules in the beginning of my Physics notebook from last semester. As a faithful nerd, I have it with me in the computer lab, and so I can share with you the propagation rules.
When adding or subtracting values, simply add the errors. Subtracting errors may seem like a good idea at the time, but trust me, in the end you will regret it.
When multiplying or dividing, use a very large formula that you would have memorized by now if you were in Physics II, and which I do not know how to code in html, and so will not try! (If you are interested, I can whip it up on TeXnicCenter and send it to you in Adobe. And yes, TeXnicCenter is supposed to be spelled like that. To computer programmers and their strange typing ways I say, "w00t!").
These were the rules I remembered. Unfortunately, I couldn't recall what to do when taking a logarithmic function of something. But then I found it. Yes, dear readers, it's the moment you have all been waiting for:
In order to propagate the error through a log function, simply divide the error of the original value by the value itself.
Viola.
Now, if I can just get gravity turned back on, I'll try to finish my graph so that Linefit can eat it again. Life as a computer program must be so easy...
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
In The King's Court
Dear Readers,
Below you will find the next in my series of self-plagiarisms. Written, again, for my introductory English composition course in the spring of 2006, this is probably my favorite paper of the semester simply due to its personal significance to me. Enjoy.
I have not seen an abundance of "turning points" and epiphanies in the course of my life. For the most part, I have lived in happy monotony, working and playing, thinking and sleeping; even the occasional surprise or crisis has been picayune -- a flat tire, a surprise party, a lost paper, or a broken bone. It took God Himself to drive home the idea of a turning point to me, at the age of nine, as I sat in tears at the end of a sermon, wondering why I had not understood how amazing God was before. Even this event had a string of mundane occurrences leading up to it. So can say I was surprised when two hours spent pecking away at the keyboard in our den changed how I wrote, dramatically and permanently; however, I cannot say I was surprised that there was a lifetime of experience and instruction behind this event.
It began with my parents reading me bedtime stories when I was but a little tyke, buried under the covers in body but journeying to far away places and adventures in spirit. If I sound like the advertisement on a Pizza Hut box to read to your children, so be it; it happened.
My parents have been reading to me since I was born -- they have not stopped yet! I grew up on Lewis, Verne, and the Bernstein's; dreamed of space voyages, unicorns, and small town mysteries; and even survived Moby Dick, lounging in my dad's study and watching my sister fall asleep. I learned words I could not yet pronounce, heard of places I was not sure existed, and packed away enough stories and characters in my head to last me a lifetime. I learned to take words listened to and turn them into ideas of people and places.
From ideas came images of the mind produced by one of my greatest pleasures: "pretending." I cannot count the times I have been surprised in my yard by a neighbor or family member, caught in the act of reliving stories I had heard, or crafting new ones. I wonder exactly what they thought I was doing, running around, waving my arms in the air, humming and talking to myself. Pretending was my method of writing stories from the time I could walk until the fall of 2003. I needed neither paper nor pen, grammar nor form. I lived the stories in real time, played all the parts, and lost myself in the adventure.
The motivation to write my first full-length story came from a writing course my parents signed me up for. Learn to Write the Novel Way was its name, and that was exactly what I did. It was nothing new for me to think up a story, but the knowledge that I would spend an entire year writing it down for all to see added nervous anticipation to my efforts. I wrote up the initial plot on half a page, entitled "A Novel Idea." It was not, actually. The story took place in seventeenth century England and the Caribbean. An aged admiral, decorated for his negotiation skills, is dispatched in command of a refitted merchant vessel to neutralize a pirate group acting under the British flag. I plotted out fourteen chapters, originated characters, and then prepared myself for the great moment -- the moment when I would actually begin to write the story.
I set apart a morning in which to write the first five pages. It was, thankfully for me, a sunny day. I think best in brilliant, unadulterated sunshine. Chapter outline in hand, I sat at the computer desk downstairs, fired up Word, and, a little giddy, began.
In some ways, it was like scuffing around on the front drive, pretending. But now I could go back after each sentence and live that moment of the story again. The story pulled me in, and the knowledge that it would receive a grade gave me caution. I described the scene carefully and thoroughly. I introduced Admiral Hambly to my imaginary reader with all dignity, yet with all the visual reality I could muster.
What I described was a scene symbolic of the turning point those two hours were to me. The admiral "strode" (I felt very proud of myself for using that word) down a corridor with his dignified fellows, soft red carpet under his feet, just as I had made the journey through stately pages and dreams in the company of my family. Soldiers at the end of the hall saluted the dignitaries and swung open the doors, revealing, to Admiral Hambly, the court of King Charles II, to me, a similar great chamber, full of great yet flawed people communicating desperately important truths. Hambly and I were there to join them, there to try our tongue and pen at their own game, and see if we could make a difference.
Ironically, what Hambly had to say was not so very important. And, by the end of the book, he almost despairs, seeing how useless his life has been. Regardless of this warning sign, I sat, at the end of my first two hours and five pages, my fingers aching and my hands quivering from excitement, knowing that my life had changed for good. I had begun to learn in those first two hours the beauty of description, the centrality of character, and the necessity of plot in a "good" story. Familiarity caused me to lose some of my excitement and caution in future chapters and books. I must fight for them now every time I write. I understand more and more that, if I am going to write, I had better have something important to say, and say it well. There are already too many cheap ideas and cheap deliveries.
But I learned something in those two hours that I hope will never leave me. I knew already how to translate words spoken into thoughts and ideas. I had discovered and refined already how to take those thoughts and ideas and make them sounds and images in my mind. Finally, that morning, I learned how to capture sounds and images in words, completing the cycle. I was equipped to begin making what had, in many ways, made me.
If I hold to the Truth I first learned in the second row at church, in my first epiphany, and work at conveying it, I can do lasting good with what I learned in The King's Court.
Below you will find the next in my series of self-plagiarisms. Written, again, for my introductory English composition course in the spring of 2006, this is probably my favorite paper of the semester simply due to its personal significance to me. Enjoy.
I have not seen an abundance of "turning points" and epiphanies in the course of my life. For the most part, I have lived in happy monotony, working and playing, thinking and sleeping; even the occasional surprise or crisis has been picayune -- a flat tire, a surprise party, a lost paper, or a broken bone. It took God Himself to drive home the idea of a turning point to me, at the age of nine, as I sat in tears at the end of a sermon, wondering why I had not understood how amazing God was before. Even this event had a string of mundane occurrences leading up to it. So can say I was surprised when two hours spent pecking away at the keyboard in our den changed how I wrote, dramatically and permanently; however, I cannot say I was surprised that there was a lifetime of experience and instruction behind this event.
It began with my parents reading me bedtime stories when I was but a little tyke, buried under the covers in body but journeying to far away places and adventures in spirit. If I sound like the advertisement on a Pizza Hut box to read to your children, so be it; it happened.
My parents have been reading to me since I was born -- they have not stopped yet! I grew up on Lewis, Verne, and the Bernstein's; dreamed of space voyages, unicorns, and small town mysteries; and even survived Moby Dick, lounging in my dad's study and watching my sister fall asleep. I learned words I could not yet pronounce, heard of places I was not sure existed, and packed away enough stories and characters in my head to last me a lifetime. I learned to take words listened to and turn them into ideas of people and places.
From ideas came images of the mind produced by one of my greatest pleasures: "pretending." I cannot count the times I have been surprised in my yard by a neighbor or family member, caught in the act of reliving stories I had heard, or crafting new ones. I wonder exactly what they thought I was doing, running around, waving my arms in the air, humming and talking to myself. Pretending was my method of writing stories from the time I could walk until the fall of 2003. I needed neither paper nor pen, grammar nor form. I lived the stories in real time, played all the parts, and lost myself in the adventure.
The motivation to write my first full-length story came from a writing course my parents signed me up for. Learn to Write the Novel Way was its name, and that was exactly what I did. It was nothing new for me to think up a story, but the knowledge that I would spend an entire year writing it down for all to see added nervous anticipation to my efforts. I wrote up the initial plot on half a page, entitled "A Novel Idea." It was not, actually. The story took place in seventeenth century England and the Caribbean. An aged admiral, decorated for his negotiation skills, is dispatched in command of a refitted merchant vessel to neutralize a pirate group acting under the British flag. I plotted out fourteen chapters, originated characters, and then prepared myself for the great moment -- the moment when I would actually begin to write the story.
I set apart a morning in which to write the first five pages. It was, thankfully for me, a sunny day. I think best in brilliant, unadulterated sunshine. Chapter outline in hand, I sat at the computer desk downstairs, fired up Word, and, a little giddy, began.
In some ways, it was like scuffing around on the front drive, pretending. But now I could go back after each sentence and live that moment of the story again. The story pulled me in, and the knowledge that it would receive a grade gave me caution. I described the scene carefully and thoroughly. I introduced Admiral Hambly to my imaginary reader with all dignity, yet with all the visual reality I could muster.
What I described was a scene symbolic of the turning point those two hours were to me. The admiral "strode" (I felt very proud of myself for using that word) down a corridor with his dignified fellows, soft red carpet under his feet, just as I had made the journey through stately pages and dreams in the company of my family. Soldiers at the end of the hall saluted the dignitaries and swung open the doors, revealing, to Admiral Hambly, the court of King Charles II, to me, a similar great chamber, full of great yet flawed people communicating desperately important truths. Hambly and I were there to join them, there to try our tongue and pen at their own game, and see if we could make a difference.
Ironically, what Hambly had to say was not so very important. And, by the end of the book, he almost despairs, seeing how useless his life has been. Regardless of this warning sign, I sat, at the end of my first two hours and five pages, my fingers aching and my hands quivering from excitement, knowing that my life had changed for good. I had begun to learn in those first two hours the beauty of description, the centrality of character, and the necessity of plot in a "good" story. Familiarity caused me to lose some of my excitement and caution in future chapters and books. I must fight for them now every time I write. I understand more and more that, if I am going to write, I had better have something important to say, and say it well. There are already too many cheap ideas and cheap deliveries.
But I learned something in those two hours that I hope will never leave me. I knew already how to translate words spoken into thoughts and ideas. I had discovered and refined already how to take those thoughts and ideas and make them sounds and images in my mind. Finally, that morning, I learned how to capture sounds and images in words, completing the cycle. I was equipped to begin making what had, in many ways, made me.
If I hold to the Truth I first learned in the second row at church, in my first epiphany, and work at conveying it, I can do lasting good with what I learned in The King's Court.
Monday, October 29, 2007
In Which Benjamin Dobbs Starts an Electrical Fire
Dear Readers,
As Dave Barry is fond of saying, 'I'm not making this up!'
And as a friend of my family once said, "You can exaggerate up to 15% before it becomes a lie."
With these two thoughts in mind, read on.
Four feet shuffled and gripped on linoleum, squeaking mildly in protest as weight shifted suddenly back and forth. Wooden swords flashed in the florescent lighting, reflected in the microwave window and greasy range top. "Clack, clack" called the swords to each other, and the two combatants panted and grunted as they traded blows.
On the other side of the room, across the pool table, two of Benjamin's hallmates had lost interest in the unusual pass-time and were focusing on the football game one of them was playing on the 360. The crowd noise channeled through the speaker system drowned out the sounds of battle only a few feet away. Windows along two sides of the commons let in the last few rays of light the day had to offer, as the eyelid of the sun blinked and began to fall for the last time.
Benjamin enjoyed sword-fighting, if that is what his activity should be called. He wasn't quite sure himself, only that he tried to hit the chap with the other stick and quite enjoyed himself at the same time. Even at times when he didn't have an opponent, his imagination could supply hordes that were even more agreeable, quite willing to ignore his weak spots and be soundly beaten. Against his roomie Sheep, he was lucky if he got a draw.
"Leg!"
"Arm!" they called to each other in unison, and backed away, Benjamin berating himself for trying for a strike so quickly. He raised his sword (dear old All Purpose Staff) above his right shoulder, his left hand close to his right cheek. He eyed Sheep's hands, trying to anticipate his move, and, in preparation for a strike, cocked his elbow. The A.P.S. jumped up a few more inches in reaction and struck the plastic cover underneath the florescent bulbs.
As Sheep countered Benjamin's attacks, a hissing noise from above gave them cause to stop and look up. Through the undamaged plastic cover, the end of one of the bulbs was hissing, sparking, and (Benjamin's heart froze) smoking.
Even as phrases such as
"Holy cow,"
and
"It's smoking," passed unsummoned through his lips, he waxed philosophical.
Knowledge dictated state of mind; of that he was sure. Simple facts, such as the smoke detector, mounted on the ceiling about two feet from the light, and the $400 dollar fine imposed upon anyone foolish enough...
fool
...to set it off, changed his entire outlook on life. $400 dollars was a lot of cheeseburgers, a lot of cheeseburgers he could smell, look at, but never buy, no, never eat. Life was short, and he had just devoted far too much of it to paying off his stupidity.
He should take up croquet.
Having finished his philosophical meanderings, he had the bright idea of reaching over to the light switch, finding yet another use for his A.P.S: insulation from hazardous electrocution.
Darkness fell.
The hissing, sparking, and, especially, smoking, stopped.
The nauseating smell of electrical fire permeated the room.
"Aw, junk!" Benjamin snapped.
The guys playing football commented on how bad the room smelled, and inquired as to how in the world Benjamin had started a fire with his staff. Benjamin would have explained at length, but his cell phone began to buzz in his pocket.
"Hello?" Benjamin's voice quivered. Had the administration heard about it already?
"Hey, Benjamin..." it was Vlad, his friend, and his big sister's boyfriend.
"Oh, man, get the windows open! It's gonna go off any time..."
Sheep and Benjamin crossed the room and began throwing open windows.
"Are you all right?" asked Vlad.
"Yeah, fine," said Benjamin, more sarcasm than honesty in his voice.
"Well..."
"I wish we had a fan," whined Benjamin.
"...I was calling to say we were probably not going to watch a movie until later..."
Good, I'm going to be busy evacuating the building and confessing anyway! thought Benjamin.
Sheep turned on the range fan and waved smoke out the window. Benjamin checked the air conditioning unit. It was already set on high.
The alarm poised, ready to spring on them like a cheetah stalking a baby gazelle in the middle of a golden, grassy field in Africa...if only Benjamin could be in Africa right then, he thought, and not there in the commons.
Vlad caught on that Benjamin was not paying any attention to him, and excused himself.
As the initial panic settled lower and began to crawl along his stomach lining, Benjamin mounted a chair and tried to get the cover off the light, supposing he might as well make sure there wasn't a fire smoldering. He couldn't budge the cover, but it was cold and nothing seemed to be amiss. Hitting it hadn’t even cracked the plastic.
He inquired as to the location of their fearless Resident Assistant, and the guys on the couch replied that they didn't know. His embarrassment overcome by adrenaline, he left Sheep with strict orders not to let anyone flip the switch, and descended to the Resident Director's office, his ears alert for the impending alarm. No one was in the office. Embarrassment caught up with him, but he eventually called the Assistant Resident Director.
"Everything's all right now,” he began, “but I was wondering what we should do if one of the lights in the commons starts smoking..."
"Did you say 'smoking'?"
"It's not anymore, and the alarm hasn't gone off," Benjamin explained himself, almost taking pride in confessing that yes, he had started the electrical fire while sword-fighting in the commons.
"Oh, ok. Just put a sign on the switch so no one turns it on, and remind me to deal with it later."
"Ok. Thanks."
By the time he hung up the phone, he had come to understand that a small miracle had occurred in that if the alarm hadn't gone off already, it probably wouldn't at all.
Ascending to his room, he tore a piece of notebook paper from a binder and wrote "Do not turn on." on it with a sharpie. Then, knowing his hallmates were much more likely to turn on the light when they saw the sign, he added the following malediction: "(The lights will smoke!)"
Popping over to the next room, he borrowed duct tape. Returning to the commons, he relieved Sheep of his duties("How did ya'll start a fire; it smells terrible in here!" commented a recent arrival.), and, after taping the sign to the wall, retired to his room with a prayer of thanks for God's mercies, and a residual sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He wouldn’t be able to cook in the commons for a week without glancing nervously up at the smoke detector.
As Dave Barry is fond of saying, 'I'm not making this up!'
And as a friend of my family once said, "You can exaggerate up to 15% before it becomes a lie."
With these two thoughts in mind, read on.
Four feet shuffled and gripped on linoleum, squeaking mildly in protest as weight shifted suddenly back and forth. Wooden swords flashed in the florescent lighting, reflected in the microwave window and greasy range top. "Clack, clack" called the swords to each other, and the two combatants panted and grunted as they traded blows.
On the other side of the room, across the pool table, two of Benjamin's hallmates had lost interest in the unusual pass-time and were focusing on the football game one of them was playing on the 360. The crowd noise channeled through the speaker system drowned out the sounds of battle only a few feet away. Windows along two sides of the commons let in the last few rays of light the day had to offer, as the eyelid of the sun blinked and began to fall for the last time.
Benjamin enjoyed sword-fighting, if that is what his activity should be called. He wasn't quite sure himself, only that he tried to hit the chap with the other stick and quite enjoyed himself at the same time. Even at times when he didn't have an opponent, his imagination could supply hordes that were even more agreeable, quite willing to ignore his weak spots and be soundly beaten. Against his roomie Sheep, he was lucky if he got a draw.
"Leg!"
"Arm!" they called to each other in unison, and backed away, Benjamin berating himself for trying for a strike so quickly. He raised his sword (dear old All Purpose Staff) above his right shoulder, his left hand close to his right cheek. He eyed Sheep's hands, trying to anticipate his move, and, in preparation for a strike, cocked his elbow. The A.P.S. jumped up a few more inches in reaction and struck the plastic cover underneath the florescent bulbs.
As Sheep countered Benjamin's attacks, a hissing noise from above gave them cause to stop and look up. Through the undamaged plastic cover, the end of one of the bulbs was hissing, sparking, and (Benjamin's heart froze) smoking.
Even as phrases such as
"Holy cow,"
and
"It's smoking," passed unsummoned through his lips, he waxed philosophical.
Knowledge dictated state of mind; of that he was sure. Simple facts, such as the smoke detector, mounted on the ceiling about two feet from the light, and the $400 dollar fine imposed upon anyone foolish enough...
fool
...to set it off, changed his entire outlook on life. $400 dollars was a lot of cheeseburgers, a lot of cheeseburgers he could smell, look at, but never buy, no, never eat. Life was short, and he had just devoted far too much of it to paying off his stupidity.
He should take up croquet.
Having finished his philosophical meanderings, he had the bright idea of reaching over to the light switch, finding yet another use for his A.P.S: insulation from hazardous electrocution.
Darkness fell.
The hissing, sparking, and, especially, smoking, stopped.
The nauseating smell of electrical fire permeated the room.
"Aw, junk!" Benjamin snapped.
The guys playing football commented on how bad the room smelled, and inquired as to how in the world Benjamin had started a fire with his staff. Benjamin would have explained at length, but his cell phone began to buzz in his pocket.
"Hello?" Benjamin's voice quivered. Had the administration heard about it already?
"Hey, Benjamin..." it was Vlad, his friend, and his big sister's boyfriend.
"Oh, man, get the windows open! It's gonna go off any time..."
Sheep and Benjamin crossed the room and began throwing open windows.
"Are you all right?" asked Vlad.
"Yeah, fine," said Benjamin, more sarcasm than honesty in his voice.
"Well..."
"I wish we had a fan," whined Benjamin.
"...I was calling to say we were probably not going to watch a movie until later..."
Good, I'm going to be busy evacuating the building and confessing anyway! thought Benjamin.
Sheep turned on the range fan and waved smoke out the window. Benjamin checked the air conditioning unit. It was already set on high.
The alarm poised, ready to spring on them like a cheetah stalking a baby gazelle in the middle of a golden, grassy field in Africa...if only Benjamin could be in Africa right then, he thought, and not there in the commons.
Vlad caught on that Benjamin was not paying any attention to him, and excused himself.
As the initial panic settled lower and began to crawl along his stomach lining, Benjamin mounted a chair and tried to get the cover off the light, supposing he might as well make sure there wasn't a fire smoldering. He couldn't budge the cover, but it was cold and nothing seemed to be amiss. Hitting it hadn’t even cracked the plastic.
He inquired as to the location of their fearless Resident Assistant, and the guys on the couch replied that they didn't know. His embarrassment overcome by adrenaline, he left Sheep with strict orders not to let anyone flip the switch, and descended to the Resident Director's office, his ears alert for the impending alarm. No one was in the office. Embarrassment caught up with him, but he eventually called the Assistant Resident Director.
"Everything's all right now,” he began, “but I was wondering what we should do if one of the lights in the commons starts smoking..."
"Did you say 'smoking'?"
"It's not anymore, and the alarm hasn't gone off," Benjamin explained himself, almost taking pride in confessing that yes, he had started the electrical fire while sword-fighting in the commons.
"Oh, ok. Just put a sign on the switch so no one turns it on, and remind me to deal with it later."
"Ok. Thanks."
By the time he hung up the phone, he had come to understand that a small miracle had occurred in that if the alarm hadn't gone off already, it probably wouldn't at all.
Ascending to his room, he tore a piece of notebook paper from a binder and wrote "Do not turn on." on it with a sharpie. Then, knowing his hallmates were much more likely to turn on the light when they saw the sign, he added the following malediction: "(The lights will smoke!)"
Popping over to the next room, he borrowed duct tape. Returning to the commons, he relieved Sheep of his duties("How did ya'll start a fire; it smells terrible in here!" commented a recent arrival.), and, after taping the sign to the wall, retired to his room with a prayer of thanks for God's mercies, and a residual sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
He wouldn’t be able to cook in the commons for a week without glancing nervously up at the smoke detector.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Marginally Interesting
Dear Readers,
Today I continue my new practice of self-plagiarism. I composed the following a week or two ago for one of my classes, in response to reading selections of Job from a compilation of readings on the cultural heritage of the West. To give the drift of the paper, allow me to insert a quote I just received via internet from home. It is the quote of a British evangelist who only recently died:
So when I watch my friends and family going through “the valley of the shadow of death,” whether it be serious injury or illness, deaths close to them, struggles with horrible sins, financial hardships, or romantic disappointments, I find it both hard to understand what they're going through, and easy to understand that it must be really bad!
My reaction to the book of Job must be the same. I have never had great wealth, a family of children, and my health and rest taken from me in the space of just a little while. But I can imagine to some degree what it must have been like, especially as Job, irked by his friend's accusations, describes how he feels to have these things happen to him. And, as God says, they happened “for no reason” -- Job is a righteous man.
I have had many more opportunities in the past year at college than I had previously to be around Christians who were suffering. So, while little has occurred to cause me to suffer, I have been much more aware of suffering in the world around me. As a result, I have tried to understand better how Christians are to react to suffering. Studies in Job have, of course, been very useful.
Job is brought so low that he would very much like to die, or, better yet, to never have been born. It is difficult to blame him. Christians are called to rejoice in the Lord always. But that is not quite the same as calling Christians to be happy and excited to have all the things they hold dear on Earth be stripped away from them.
I was prompted to write on Job when I noticed in my used copy of our textbook I noticed a note in large letters in the margin. “God is...” began the note, but the rest was marked out with pencil. I finally made it out “...arrogant [bad word]” it read.
I laughed at first, but then tried to get into the head of the student who had come up with this conclusion from reading Job. How should I react to it? Had the author of the note been in the room with me, should I have come down hard, rebuking them for flying the face of God's majesty? How can God be arrogant when all the things He says are true, and we, His creatures, say just this sort of thing back to Him? Or should I not act upset, and quietly try to reason with the author, using the text of Job itself to reason with him or her?
The note was beside 39:26-30, and 40:1-2 were circled with what appeared to be the same blue pen that had written the blasphemy in the margin:
I wonder if in reading Job the author had run out of intellectual excuses for ignoring God's greatness, and had tried to dismiss what they were reading by questioning God's character. Was God just posturing to look big? Was He throwing around His weight? After all, He does go on to give Job back twice what was taken away (that part was underlined in the blue pen). He Himself admitted He took it “for no reason”. Did God, after blustering at Job for a while, quietly make restitution for injustice?
If He did, He owes a lot of apologies to my friends.
I had a conversation about sin and suffering with a friend yesterday evening. We considered how we didn't deserve for Christ to die for us – we were not “worth” Him – yet God the Father sent Him, in a sense assigning a value which neither of us could see. We agreed we certainly wouldn't have done what Jesus did. Anything good is better than we deserve. We know from our Bibles and pastors that everyone has sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. So Job “deserved” what he got. But as God said, and backed up by his rebuke of Job's friends, it was not for some sin that He let Satan hurt Job.
It seems that at least part of it was to show Satan, the “Sons of God” and every person throughout history who has heard of Job, that God is the reward. Those who serve Him, get to have Him as their God and all the richness that relationship entails! Riches, health, life, friends, spouses, are blessed additions.
This summer a few of those blessings were taken from me against my will. I complained a lot. It seems God was teaching me that I was not poor if I only had Him. If He chooses to take away the people and things I love, and give me in their place more of Him, I can mourn my loss, but how can I not rejoice in my gain? A man will serve God for nothing, by the power of the Holy Spirit, because God Himself is the reward.
I expect God shamed the Devil with Job. I can think of little greater honor than to be held up by God as an example to prove the Devil, and perhaps whoever wrote that note, wrong.
Today I continue my new practice of self-plagiarism. I composed the following a week or two ago for one of my classes, in response to reading selections of Job from a compilation of readings on the cultural heritage of the West. To give the drift of the paper, allow me to insert a quote I just received via internet from home. It is the quote of a British evangelist who only recently died:
"The only time you can really say that Christ is all I need, is when Christ is all you have." ~Leonard RavenhillCompared to most of the people I know, my life has not been very hard. I have lived through the deaths of three of my grandparents, suffered a few painful injuries, and occasionally have been treated wrongly by others.
So when I watch my friends and family going through “the valley of the shadow of death,” whether it be serious injury or illness, deaths close to them, struggles with horrible sins, financial hardships, or romantic disappointments, I find it both hard to understand what they're going through, and easy to understand that it must be really bad!
My reaction to the book of Job must be the same. I have never had great wealth, a family of children, and my health and rest taken from me in the space of just a little while. But I can imagine to some degree what it must have been like, especially as Job, irked by his friend's accusations, describes how he feels to have these things happen to him. And, as God says, they happened “for no reason” -- Job is a righteous man.
I have had many more opportunities in the past year at college than I had previously to be around Christians who were suffering. So, while little has occurred to cause me to suffer, I have been much more aware of suffering in the world around me. As a result, I have tried to understand better how Christians are to react to suffering. Studies in Job have, of course, been very useful.
Job is brought so low that he would very much like to die, or, better yet, to never have been born. It is difficult to blame him. Christians are called to rejoice in the Lord always. But that is not quite the same as calling Christians to be happy and excited to have all the things they hold dear on Earth be stripped away from them.
I was prompted to write on Job when I noticed in my used copy of our textbook I noticed a note in large letters in the margin. “God is...” began the note, but the rest was marked out with pencil. I finally made it out “...arrogant [bad word]” it read.
I laughed at first, but then tried to get into the head of the student who had come up with this conclusion from reading Job. How should I react to it? Had the author of the note been in the room with me, should I have come down hard, rebuking them for flying the face of God's majesty? How can God be arrogant when all the things He says are true, and we, His creatures, say just this sort of thing back to Him? Or should I not act upset, and quietly try to reason with the author, using the text of Job itself to reason with him or her?
The note was beside 39:26-30, and 40:1-2 were circled with what appeared to be the same blue pen that had written the blasphemy in the margin:
“And the Lord said to Job:I did not come to a conclusion; I could not determine in what spirit the author had scribbled the note, more than that they had much better handwriting than I, which was something I would not expect from someone who said such things about God.
'Shall a faultfinder contend with the Almighty?
He who argues with God, let him answer it.” -Job 40:1-2
I wonder if in reading Job the author had run out of intellectual excuses for ignoring God's greatness, and had tried to dismiss what they were reading by questioning God's character. Was God just posturing to look big? Was He throwing around His weight? After all, He does go on to give Job back twice what was taken away (that part was underlined in the blue pen). He Himself admitted He took it “for no reason”. Did God, after blustering at Job for a while, quietly make restitution for injustice?
If He did, He owes a lot of apologies to my friends.
I had a conversation about sin and suffering with a friend yesterday evening. We considered how we didn't deserve for Christ to die for us – we were not “worth” Him – yet God the Father sent Him, in a sense assigning a value which neither of us could see. We agreed we certainly wouldn't have done what Jesus did. Anything good is better than we deserve. We know from our Bibles and pastors that everyone has sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. So Job “deserved” what he got. But as God said, and backed up by his rebuke of Job's friends, it was not for some sin that He let Satan hurt Job.
It seems that at least part of it was to show Satan, the “Sons of God” and every person throughout history who has heard of Job, that God is the reward. Those who serve Him, get to have Him as their God and all the richness that relationship entails! Riches, health, life, friends, spouses, are blessed additions.
This summer a few of those blessings were taken from me against my will. I complained a lot. It seems God was teaching me that I was not poor if I only had Him. If He chooses to take away the people and things I love, and give me in their place more of Him, I can mourn my loss, but how can I not rejoice in my gain? A man will serve God for nothing, by the power of the Holy Spirit, because God Himself is the reward.
I expect God shamed the Devil with Job. I can think of little greater honor than to be held up by God as an example to prove the Devil, and perhaps whoever wrote that note, wrong.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)