"Stop crying. Are you a girl?"

(Omgosh, crazy Asian mother LOL!! I remember when this first came out, I watched it religiously everyday. Same effect for a good week. My mother still doesn't get the jokes ... never lookah laik hehpee feisss!)

In the past four days, I've literally cried like 5 times. And practically made someone else cry too. Actually, that event in itself accounts for the first of the cryings.

Crying is defined as "a complex secretomotorphenomenon characterized by the shedding of tears from the lacrimal apparatus, without any irritation of the ocular structures (Compr. Psych. 34 1993)." Uhhhh, I agree with the complex part! I'm starting to see myself well up with tears during heightened spiritual awareness ... but historically that only happens when I'm pretty stressed out -- and I think I'm cruising just fine at the moment. It's just so strange that I've been feeling continually floored by glorious adoration ... bah, praise Him for these lapses in my cool-as-a-cucumber nature 8`D

Under Wikipedia, "Crying" is listed under the category "Psychological manipulation," accompanied with "Silent treatment" and "Swearing." That's kind of harsh. Who has seriously used crying as a means to control others? (If you've done that and you're like older than 14, I dislike you with extreme prejudice).

It also says, on average, men cry at least once a month and women cry at least 5 times a month (before/during menstruation account for most incidences). First of all ... who are these men LOLOL?? The only explanation for that statistic is if the survey was conducted in Taiwan. Or a comparable location where men lack stable emotional needs. Like Rodin 2315. Fact. And it's now officially known that my sister undergoes a period everyday. She does those genuinely frustrated gurglings: "This -huffpuff- expletive -sniffsniff- essay/trombone piece/cell phone -huffpuff- needs to -huffpuff- expletive -sniffsniff- itself..."

Sigh.

Well, it always feels better after a secretomotorphenomenon, especially with a human handkerchief by your side.

x'D


Psalms 130:1-3

3 broken women

A panhandler with drool-drenched clothes spat at me and cussed me out in the subway.

A mother rammed her son's head into a street pole for not filling up the parking meter.

Girlfriend's sick.

It's just one of those Mondays.

Don't "Try Jesus"

From a sermon by Ray Comfort:

Two men are seated in a plane. The first is given a parachute and told to put it on as it would improve his flight. He’s a little skeptical at first because he can’t see how wearing a parachute in a plane could possibly improve the flight. After a time he decides to experiment and see if the claim is true. As he puts it on he notices the weight of it upon his shoulders and he finds that he has difficulty in sitting upright. However, he consoles himself with the fact that he was told the parachute would improve the flight. So, he decides to give the thing a little time. As he waits he notices that some of the other passengers are laughing at him, because he’s wearing a parachute in a plane. He begins to feel somewhat humiliated. As they begin to point and laugh at him and he can stand it no longer, he slinks in his seat, unstraps the parachute, and throws it to the floor. Disillusionment and bitterness fill his heart, because, as far as he was concerned, he was told an outright lie.

The second man is given a parachute, but listens to what he’s told. He’s told to put it on because at any moment he’d be jumping 25,000 feet out of the plane. He gratefully puts the parachute on; he doesn’t notice the weight of it upon his shoulders, nor that he can’t sit upright.

The second man is struck by the truth and knowledge of death without the parachute. Outside jeering falls short of the peace, security, and joy in certain salvation that fills his heart. Surely he is grateful to the giver of that parachute. The first man just wanted the parachute solely to improve his flight, but ends up humiliated. Chances are, he wouldn't dare put that parachute back on to save any face he has left.

When leading others to Christ, don't falsely promise a great life. To do so is to sow seeds on the rocky places where there will be no root (Mark 4:16-17). Matthew 16:24 paraphrased is, "In the world's eyes, you gon' die if you follow Jesus. Prepare to get put up on a cross every second of your life." A life in Christ is most joyful, but trial is certain. Suffering is imminent.

It's a delicate thing, sharing the "Beloved child, God wants to hug you" Gospel vs. "Wretched sinner, God wants to save you from deserved wrath" Gospel. Both are vital. Yet I encourage those in the faith to not talk like a theologian when sharing to the lost, but use personal narrative to relate these truths. Don't testify about how bad life was before Christ and how your life is baller now (yeah, no); testify on how you're still short of His glory. how you don't deserve saving and repentance. how you're as wicked as the child pornographer and family-abandoning father.

and how you love your Jesus.

Oh baby.

So like when parents have their newborn son (isn't it true you never hear people say "newborn daughter?"), through underslept eye slits and hoarse vocal folds they'll tell you, "I can't take my eyes off him!!" A literally overused phrase that I will refuse to characterize my offspring care. I mean, they look like aliens, sure. Except it's not clear whether God has made room for aliens to exist in the heavenly realms.

Anyways, during my interview for church membership, Pastor Wanho brought up how God is constantly watchful. "For the eyes of the LORD move to and fro throughout the earth that He may strongly support those whose heart is completely His (2 Chron. 16:9)." A human father's obsession with his child, multiply it by 144000, and you come closer -- not really -- to an unexplainable security worth rejoicing and worshiping.

Don't trust in your prayer, your (little) faith, your baptism, sacraments, good works, or your own repentance.

In everything, trust Christ alone.

Remember that Bill Cosby show...?

7 year old kids say the darndest things.

Playing soccer:
"Imma burn you."
How do kids come up with burn/smoke/serve threats?? 7 year old Willis would have mistook you for a carpet-burner, or worse yet, Indian-sunburner.

Talking about pets:
"I once took dis cat and bwoke its neck. Frew it by the tail against the wall."
O_________o!!!!

On athleticism:

"And then I tried squeezing my hair together in a mohawk then tie my laces to my legs then pick up my Stone Cold Steve Austin action figure then (inches in and whispers) I jump so high."

On art:
"Whenever I see black and white, I just feel like coloring it in.

No wait.

Not on walls. "

Asking about guardians:
"My parents ask Angeline to come in. Angeline is my babysinner."
That was just a funny one.

And for some reason, black kids everywhere I go like using the phrase:
"Imma take you out and bring you back real fast in slow motion."
SUCH A DOPE LINE.

West Philly, Baltimore, or brats from Chinese school, you'll never really understand kids (at least until the two missing front teeth grow back in).

32 - 4 = 28 teeth left

Things we take for granted:

- inpalpable oxygen intake
- normal, non-icepak temperatures
- voluntary fasting
- LOL
- shushing trombone-playing sister
- comprehensible speech
- not having p-orbitals for cheeks
- drinking bloodless beverages

笨蛋 vs. ばか

In Ben Shyong fashion, contemplate this.

Sino-Japanese relations, as of late, have thankfully only been ruffled by intense soccer matchups and subsequent import product boycotts after defeats. But I would like to exasperate things. Japanese certainly have the Chinese beat with international PR.





For us Chinese, quite "はずい."

"♪So you had a bad day...♫"

Had my first car accident today. Bummer.

Interesting climax to a wack Wednesday. Loaded my drug substance material onto the column after 2 days of preparation and…no HETP curve. 6PM came and once I was done repacking the column, all I was thinking of was the 各类炒饭waiting for me upon spangled Chinese hems.

Light rain playfully slid beneath clumsy wipes. No really, the wipers strike down at my windshield rather than skim across. It sucks. Anyways, the dark road gradient grew lighter and less damp as I went 80mph down 270 Southbound. Beside myself with dramatic maneuvers, I stomped on the brakes in order to take the Columbia Pike exit. The front of my car certainly rotated right, but more forwardness than rightness was getting accomplished than planned.

Ladies and gentlemen, it only takes Ms. Hidro Plain one second to serve screwed-stew. That’s all she needs. An artist’s depiction of the scene is seen above.

Well, I thump up onto the curb and fear sears through me. My ears pick up 1995 iron-grade sockets waging a millisecond war with concrete. Silence. Then my own breathing. Wonderful. Emergency lights. At this point, so overwhelmed by the feeling of being alive, I didn’t think to step outside and assess the damage. Yo, mad quiet time. Probably the most sincere quiet time I’ve ever had. I listened, I listened hard. He’s telling me something.

In between passing rap music and well-meaning pickup truck country boys offering help, I flip to the recently tabbed Isaiah 55:10-13. Yeah, the rain verse. LORD, am I being watered? LORD, You know I am nothing. How are you planning for my Willis petals to bud? Will I know when I’ve been budded, if the budding is pleasing?

Casualties: front wheel rim popped off and wooden remnants of a McCainPalin campaign slogan laid about decomposing with added moisture. GG. Driving back at a self-emplaced 30mph speed limit gave me much more time to reflect. The steering alignment was having a severe case of scoliosis. To keep straight was to constantly adjust a manic wheel. Such is how the LORD wrestles with the sickly human heart. His firm digits keep the know-it-all wheel from certain death. It might think going on the passing lane is a good idea, but the vehicle is not ready.
-Baby, this is 6.5x1000 RPMs, you kidding me?
-No, He says. Not kiddingeth.
The perfect plan highway has peculiar mandates. But each car’s timing never fails. Whoa, the wheel flew left again. This is hard.

And then as I drove up the driveway, the shy sun winked through a rainbow.
“Oh יֵשׁוּעַ, you nice.”
-Earth veers off orbit onto a crash course with Neptune due to blog reader’s massive eye roll movement-

God-life-analogy shpeels are usually pretty cheesy, but I believe that life’s groundwork is founded upon a wholesome slice of lame.

Jesus Christ was a Bboy

Saturday was interesting. With Boaz and Calvin in tow, we made our way to the oft visited Lakefront, home of duck families and the scores of human families that throw rocks at them. And in typical Howard County fashion, a country band was already performing on the platform we would practice on. Waaaaack. The crowd vibe was bored at best, itching for something else. Then the band finished. Right on cue, we summoned the [g h e t t o b l a s t e r] to project the musical stylings of passed-over legend, Michael Jackson. And in typical Howard County fashion, an anxious dance circle opened up to invite a homegrown, suburbantown celebration. Waiters served the patio tables with a swagger and accepted tips with a pelvic thrust. Grandmothers swung their clawed hands left-right-circle-left-left. And there we were, Bronx-style bboys paying tribute through a branch of dance Jackson helped inspire. Aside: Woodlawn, a local African-American church, invited us to perform at their services. Word! But after an hour of getting people hyped to songs about zombies and gang violence deterrence, a dried-up Willis surrendered, “Dang, I don’t have a lot of moves.”

The past year I was involved with Freaks of the Beat, a group that upholds the truest Hip-hop principles at Penn. Already having background in bboying and knowledge on the culture, I was eager to train with like-minded, enthusiastic, KRS-ONE-sampling individuals. And I did meet those individuals. Caveat lector – one troubling thing I noticed was the way the oldheads were teaching the new gens. They seemed consumed with lecturing the self-righteous doctrine of musicality; that hitting the beat triumphs over all other dance aspects. As a result, we were terribly weak. Complacent with just rudimentary skills and sloppy technicals, we would get destroyed at competitions. Moreover, it is my personal belief that Frosty Freeze, bless his chair-stabbing soul in heaven, would be ashamed at our group’s attitude.

This is the attitude that I believe is infesting a lot of churches. There are misconceptions in varying degrees, but the general misconception is of God’s unconditional love. I know this very much contradicts an entry I posted earlier. That no matter who we are, no matter how great our sin, God forgives…which is true. Caveat lector – His grace is not a universal blanket of acceptance.

Then how is it unconditional? Well, God is not a frail grandmother that indulges kids but is too weak to demand obedience and discipline (John 14:21-23). His love is unconditional in the sense that there are no tricks. The devil tempts and deceives, using our fleshly weakness to exploit and surrender blessings to sin. But God’s word unmistakably shows we are saved by *unconditional love through the *unconditional, complete sacrifice of His Son (Romans 8:32). For that reason, we must CHASE the Son without reservation to lay down our lives, sacrifice everything, lest we stand in God’s presence with heavy hearts. If His love were as free as everyone thought, why would we need Jesus? Why would we need God?

I see that with my class at church we are not becoming Godly men, but rather kids who act nice when we have to. God’s way is too hard for us. We’ll start cursing right when we leave the church parking lot. We’ll touch our girlfriends however we like. We’ll lie to our parents because it’s easy, silly mainlanders. Analogous to the weakness of a lousy 6-step, our church class is a weak body from shrugging off scripture, weak from passion run dry, weak from a delusion of God not being jealous for our hearts, not wrathful for our sin.

“Nahh trick chillax, God’s coo’ wit it. Jesus saved us, ya dig?” This is cheap grace. Just like hitting beats is just cheap hype. A chimpanzee handcuffed to a chair submerged in a tub of lard could hit beats. To explain in a way I understand, God doesn’t just beatride everything with footwork-pose-downrock-pose to follow “oldschool rules.” That’s Mighty Zulu Kings crap, and no one likes them HEHE. He is not made holy by nonchalantly beatriding both the righteous and the wicked. Instead, He is Judger of all things time-space and His timing devastates with perfect care and purpose. A (slightly) more accurate gauge of God’s holiness would be a double loser flip into a reverse elbowchair, spinning and inverted with both His mighty hands behind his back scratching His own mix of the Jackson 5’s Pumpin’ Jumpin’ (you all know that part – babadabadadum DA!DA!DA!) He is perfect. He won’t completely burn you, smoke you, wipe the floor with your eyelids like you deserve, but will reveal to you THE WAY AND THE TRUTH.

And so, we must emulate. True bboying is honest expression. Not being a slave to music, but being its visual megaphone so to speak. To respect the culture, and yourself, expression must be as complex as the emotions put into each trilling high-hat. Crazy Legs could’ve just saved the trouble of tirelessly going from backspin to chair, backspin to chair, then –KABAWW- windmill. We must always push ourselves to acquire the moves and put our own flavor to it.

Faith works similarly. Our bodily vessels must megaphone Jesus. Scripture is what we arm ourselves with against the Gentiles and skeptics. Like storing nasty finisher combos, we should commit to memorize a couple hardhitting verses or a couple stupefying counter-Darwinist loopholes to beat back the opposing crew that is the World. Caveat lector - spitting Christian theology without compassion is like doing rehashed power combos that are superficially impressive. Bboying emphasizes individuality; unique transitions and well-timed blowups are recipes for an inspiring battle set. It is the same with reaching out and blessing others with His word. A Christian should discern when the soil is fertile to plant seeds, when they are called and do so lovingly and not proudly (Ecclesiastes 3:1). Do not simply recite scripture, but share your personal convictions and how your walk with Jesus changed because of them. Dope.

Surprisingly, Christian and Hip-hop ideologies reflect each other in too many ways. Members of both parties would deem this sacrilegious: Christians would pretentiously stray away from something so “degrading” while Hip-hop heads continually cypher in the orgy that is self-empowerment, rejecting conventional authority seen in Christian-based Western government. Thankfully, God’s goodness transcends their mutual flaws and is made to be glorified in both communities.

"but when I became a man, I put away childish things."

Today at work, someone's water broke. So crazy.
I took a break from playing with my cubicle phone, scuttling over to find a crowd of labcoats ringing around what could only be a calamity. Peering through the legs, I could only get glimpses, but stuff was visibly gushing. Again, nuts.

They took her to the hospital -- though the labs are quite sterile, would've been alright to deliver here -- leaving us with quite a vibrant lunchtime conversation. The women employees were the most vocal: "Sometimes it pours, sometimes it doesn't." "Willis, you know the turbid solution you tried getting from the vial? Mine trickled just like that." We guys just gave hesitant looks to each other and nervously laughed at what we thought was a more sensitive topic. "I'm double-layering my gloves next time I work with a vial."

Life is a different game when you're older. Breakups and new relationships are as easy as dropping a Dunkin Donut and getting complimentary compensation coffee. Bachelor party locations swing between New Orleans and Las Vegas, whichever has more lax open-container laws for that season.

How crazy is this adulthood. Verily, I say! When I was younger, I thought adults spoke quite formally amongst themselves, conversations akin to, "Lordship, surely thine syringe speaks naught of long-term protein solubility." "Speaketh in weak hams, thou shalt be eviscerated, stern o'er to chops!" OK, maybe not. But I'm always uneasy when I address "Dr. Mercaldi" as simply "Tim." However, conversation itself is a lot less awkward than I imagined, insofar as flowing naturally versus the dialogue I have with many of my same-aged peers. Unlike the fashion of high school borne discussion, my corny humor and Standard English work here. The off-color remarks of my peers won't get them far, so I wish them all the best.

Think about it! Soon enough, the very nature of our conversations will change. "Hi, I would like you to meet my friend Albert and his... ... wife, Alina." Introducing our friends' spouses, chaperoning my kids' fieldtrips (only to be helplessly ignored by mere embarassment-potential), the list of evolving propriety perpetually grows.

As an acute observer, the real world is pretty exciting right now. And, in more ways than one, a little overwhelming. I can definitely wait a few more years!

Another dry summer? Not this year!

No really, it’s been unusually rainy this May :P

Flashback. May 11th. Back home after hauling away at college. I discovered how awesome a full night’s sleep was. And how awesome to find my cats still pooping by the red couch. Nothing’s changed.

Time to idly trot the predictable summer catwalk of self-improvement. Reading here and there. Learning (trying) Math241. Learning (trying) guitar. But with the unproductive time (the other 96% of the day), it becomes an indulgent blur of sheer freedom and fun. Yet, that’s all it really is. Fun. After buying next-morning contraceptives for my maybe-pregnant friend and hearing words that rhyme with “duck” at church (which is still the gossiping hub) as well as witnessing all sorts of defamations and defecations (yea…), I’ve felt a sort of uneasy tug at my heart. Well, actually, a nonbeliever could tell you that. In amazement I ask myself how people can fail the “basics.” Such transgressions are the easiest sins to avoid.

Fast forward to this week. Recent blessings. Last Friday, I went to graduation. As expected, Saunderson was still a G! Always “rak-ug-nizin’ our scoo’s finust, alright alright.” When the C’09 madrigals sang, I thought about all the funny people from the music department I don’t talk to anymore. When I saw Alex Lee, I thought about times our calc group messed around at lunch. When I saw Julius Rotimi, I thought about our little hodge podge of hopeless Cannella programmers. Sigh, high school mannn. Good memories, but then I got to thinking. How have I really changed since last year? Honestly, I’m still hanging out with the same people with the same faults doing the same unedifying things, just now manifesting into real consequences.

If a man sins against another man, God may mediate for him; but if a man sins against the LORD, who will intercede for him?"
-1 Samuel 2:5

Going through the simple mental checks of “What would Jesus do?” -- or rather, "What would Jesus think?" -- I can only accuse myself of utter acquiescence to mental sin. At least with public sins, there is help for my fellow peer. But who will pray for my hidden envies, anxieties, insecurities, and pride? I've been too cool to be pure of mind and action. Apparently, too cool for blogging. But alas, too cool for Jesus. My belief in the Savior stopped as soon as summer started. Good grief. I’m still worrying over my grades, as evident in the repeating nightmares. In these nightmares, my professors lose our finals somehow and make new ones. So for Chemistry Lab, I would have to make a 5 star pizza to get an A. I couldn’t do it, and all the while the girl I like refuses to talk to me. In one episode, she eats my pizza and dies. That totally sucks!!

So with sin, it’s time to rescind my judgment on those who’ve failed “the basics” --a

And what now? I’ve been yearning for a summer family group, and I have been introduced to three but none of which I’ve made more than one appearance. Pretty wacktastic. But He has given me another way. For my summer job, I am moving in with a quiet Chinese family. While perusing through the process biochemistry projects, mowing the lawn and washing the dishes for my host family, I cannot help but give thanks to God. I am put to real work. He gives me ample and necessary time to reflect so that I may look to Him and honor Him. God has promised the Christian every spiritual blessing in the heavenly places of Christ (Ephesians 1:3). The world pits me in spiritual warfare through daily existence. With the spectrum of attitudes, commitments, decisions, and temptations as my battleground, so must I seek discipleship.

I didn’t attend the Hillsong concert last night, but recently I’ve felt as if “from the inside out, Lord, my soul cries out.” lol oh my. So no more “Lakefront@830 then Alex’s house BYOB” texts. No more missed services for Saturday night antics. This summer, God, I pray that You entirely consume me, You consuming fire You! Your power to save astounds me!

"You love me, we're a happy family"

Coming back from the wreckage that was my math quiz, I pop online to find Rev. Cowman's devotional reminding me that God uses all things broken for His glory. The Lord is always mindful of my mind.

Over the course of the day He would keep showing Himself to me. Nothing extraordinary happened, per se. I knew Benjamin Franklin was a pretty good almanac writer, but after three days of rain, his selection of the next two days for the panoply known as Penn Previews couldn't have been more perfect. Little miracles. I stayed awake through all of physics. In writing seminar, I felt as though the professor and other kids cared about what I said for once. As I greeted the gentle sunshine after class, literally 8 different friends smiled and waved to me on my way back to Hill. If at this point I was still not inclined to acknowledge the Son's love that envelops me now and forevermore, it would be because of my debilitating midafternoon hunger. I made a mental note to never again find myself with 10 meals and $.94 dining balance a month before the end of school. However, as soon as I cross 34th I got a text saying my dinner was covered i.e. my friend in Skirkanich saved me some top-notch sandwiches. I did not wait for dinner. Even my volunteering in the hospital wasn't spared from grace. I had been thinking for a long time how to ask the staff bout what happened to the nice, old secretary lady who hasn't come in two weeks, fearing the gravity or awkwardness in the case that she died. But today I found her sitting at her desk normal as can be.

Now this entry isn't to simply catalog every instance He's shown His face (this blog would probably be updated more regularly if that were the case). He's done/doing that a million times over. Earlier today I told a friend about how I was "overdosing in Jesus' love." But I now realize how misguided that statement is. Everyone overdoses in Jesus' love; it's how we're here, why we are able to love and forgive one another. If you're flushed in a vat with 739 +/- ∞ Molarity Lo(VE), it's only natural to overdose. Furthermore, the vat solution has an extremely large Ka that takes even the weakest acids to brilliant product, calmed and neutralized by the union of our strong base i.e. Jesus Christ.

(Someone bludgeon me over the skull before I even think about becoming a pastor).

Not only does God loves us, but He is sovereign. He knows what you and I were thinking before we spawned the necessary synapses. So what's that to say? Well for one, if I were in that position I'd probably sometimes let my standards slide just teensy bit. Or at least have varying degrees to which I love. But God says, "No." Each one is loved equally and unconditionally. So even if it's not in Christ, I feel like all my human brethren are my brothers and sisters as God's beloved children. We're all connected. Whatever we think, say, or do, it is meant to somehow bless someone; it's all in His plan. What an awesome predicament, thank you God.

And God is able to make all grace abound to you, so that in all things at all times, having all that you need, you will abound in every good work.
--2 Corinthians 9:8
Oh, and this blog is fantastic.

When I was your age..

My April 1st started off normally enough. I woke up clamoring for the snoozes on my cell phone and two computer alarms.

Click.

Click.

Click.

Each an intense act of labor in its own right. I feverishly debated whether to wake up groggy and face fellow diners downstairs or sleep through math lecture (since the notes are online anyways). In between noisy birds chirping, my Vagelos roommate studying from the night before, and an encouraging text, I slipped into my oversized slippers and headed for the washroom. Another battle ending in near-defeat. Normal.

After math, I skedaddled over to 39th and Market for my checkup at Presbyterian Medical. The walk was hard, with the wind afflicted with bouts of sneezing and wheezing. However in the building’s pharmacy, while calling my primary for a referral, there was real sneezing and wheezing all around me. The order-taker, protected behind a sheet of glass, still strained her neck back to avoid imaginary booger particles.

I eavesdropped on some of the medication drop-offs. A woman needed help for an intracerebral hemorrhage after her second stroke. One wheelchaired man had gastrointestinal problems. Another, moaning and rasping in a corner, came with high blood pressure. Admittedly, I was more put-off than sympathetic towards the general crowd, but then I started noticing I was the only one under the age of 60. And non-black. Suffice it to say, I was feeling pretty insecure in my “I’m Black and I’m Proud” James Brown tribute shirt.

And then something happened. The man in the corner breaks the silence, "This pill got me another walk down the stairs - praise the Lord!" The crowd responds "Amen!" Another man dressed conspicuously in an all-black robe, necklace in a 7-inch cross, adds, "We, oh God, rest in you!" Another wave, "Amen!"

I talked with both, the first ex-Corporal McCullen, and the second Mr. Jordan. McCullen served in Korea, Jordan in Vietnam. Both were very chipper. McCullen, born in 1928, was a scouter during the war, but in one recon when he was late in reporting back to station, he found his entire platoon nearly wiped out. "I was in that platoon with a lot of friends, but I'm alright. 'Why me?' We have these special escapes for a reason. I'll just have to accept these things and use what the Lord has given me for His glory." Mr. Jordan's body was angular and jagged from years of hobbling on a weak leg, but his face was soft. He smiled with uneven whiskers adorning his chin and talked about my shirt. In the broken and truncated accent of the old and black, he talked about how God has given him strength during the years since his wife died. They had been together for 55 years. "Nothing is worth worrying too much over."

And which of you by worrying can add even one hour to his life?
-- Matthew 6:27

Recently, I've been struggling to be recaptivated by God, frustrated that my love and belief is never a constant. I pray for focus and diligence, trying to honor Him in my efforts in academics and growth in new relationships, but I fall short by misplacing much of my identity in them. Yet to see these Philadelphian natives trust in their shepherding God completely is a blessing.

On a day where we celebrate the lame pranks and sharp duplicity of our colleagues, I'm drawn to silence and humility. Just that morning it took a People's Republic-sized mental army to prep me up for my highly-exclusive, private Ivy League education. I can't continue upsetting Him and slandering what He's given me. What could I possibly say to those beaten-down old folk who can't WAIT to live for God? I simply will take their example.

Artsy-Fartsy II

Hey Guise.

Hm, I'm not sure what I'm doing on here. The next 48 hours for me are pretty...busy. Notice the pause, a pause more poignant than any expletive the English language has yet contrived. But here are the thoughts I'm putting down before anything of the Biot-Ampere-Laplace nature seizes hold of my brain-bark.

Admittedly, in between study times I've been down in the music room figuring out riffs to catchy songs. I could spend an entire day practicing and composing a piano piece, tweaking bits and pieces in order to tailor certain riffs to my fingering approaches. One song, “Winter Night,” originally set to a dawdling tempo of 85, sets an eerie ambiance, as if one were sitting atop the chilly Danish castle battlements waiting for King Hamlet’s ghost to appear. But play the piece an octave higher with added caprice, and you have yourself a fanciful scene decorated with dainty white snow gently settling atop sleepy pines. Indeed, music can easily place the participant in whatever setting it wishes to, so long as it is different from the present.

And what of the visual arts? Sculptures and sketches, all of which present some “perfect” form of man and society. As a child of the ‘90s blessed with cable television, I would spend countless afternoons absorbing fantastic, animated adventures. People could recover from a 2-ton weight struck in the head. Good and evil were effortlessly distinguishable. The coyote that ran off the edge of a cliff would not fall until it noticed its mistake. The realities here were amusing and ideal, yet nevertheless fictitious.

However, out of all the arts, I am most in love with dance. I immerse myself in the art of breakdancing, preferably known as "b-boying" by fellow enthusiasts loyal to its original Hip-hop nomenclature. It is raw. It is physical. It is emotional. Whether I dance to express what bottled up feelings I have or dance as a fresh medium of school spirit, I can share these sentiments on the hardwood floor, engaging others in the essence of being one with the earth. The musicality, kicks, spins and pivots take me away from the drudgery of daily existence. All that matters is hitting every 4th snare beat with soul and class.

Sonatas. Ceramics. Sambas. If life weren’t so fast, I would revel in the arts forever, in all their imaginative depictions of truth. Still, there came a time when I had to “grow up,” where I had to reevaluate these former “truths” with the current realities of modern life. Reality, though beautiful in the aggregate of its experiences, has its moments every so often riddled with monotony, injury, and complexity. At one point I concluded that those old cartoons and those Christmas songs, with their desirably simplistic albeit misleading ideals, have no place today in all pragmatic respects. Allotting much of my time to transcribing sheet music, taking sketch portraits of friends, or developing dynamic styles for upcoming b-boy battles, I began questioning how I could get anything "productive" done.

Now, I have since learned that art is not meaningless or powerless. Quite the contrary. Both art and reality have their ups and downs. Art is very much influential, to a point where I struggle to separate artistic concepts I have been fed since childhood from the blatant realities of the tangible universe. As it turns out, smoking is bad for you! The Earth's “North Magnetic Pole” is actually the South Pole! Napoleon was actually 5-foot 7, taller than I am! Surprise! If only the phenomenological realities of art could find application in reality, PHYS151 would be a little less demanding. But perhaps these distinctions are what save us as a species from the occasionally disappointing thing known as “reality.”

Artsy Fartsy

Being in an engineering school, I'm beginning to really appreciate the freelance charm of humanities subjects. The last time I wrote a creative piece escapes me, and I'm acutely aware of my being out of practice. O' ye writing abilities, doth hast plummeteth. But once-frequented things like abstract arts -- playing piano or sketching a scene -- I feel I've pushed under the rug of college more than I've wanted and needed to.

I feel people will never understand just how important art is or has been in our history. In spite troublesome human conditions of old i.e. war, indulgence in sex, and poverty, or new, like looming threats of nuclear holocausts and global warming, most of us continue with our lives quite merrily. Granted, reality is not so harsh for the average American like you and me, yet everyone can take refuge in the entity known as art, complete with sensual appeal and bizarre absurdities.

I trust readers to be dewds of righteous veracity.