ThinkBlog

what is quaffing

It’s drinking something heartily, or with gusto. In the hierarchy of drinking something, quaffing is at the top; observe:

quaff
chug
gulp
swig
sip

sympathy verses saying

Assuming this reader is searching for Bible verses pertaining to sympathy (and others like him/her on anger, love, hate, sin, salvation, &c.). You can find a huge compendium of verses categorized into sections here.

ways to say i am sorry

There’s only one really sure-fire way. Mean it. Believe it from the bottom of your heart. Hold the error of your ways in the fore of your mind until it burns you to the core; repent, then go to her/him in your penitent state and apologize.

If you’re a guy apologizing to a girl, roses, chocolate, vacations, and diamonds never hurt, either. If you really screwed up, do ‘em all at once (well, in sequence). Seriously though, a sincere apology with a genuine change of heart needs no money involved.

If you’re a girl apologizing to a guy, do the same (heartfelt apology + change of heart, &c., not necessarily the roses-chocolate-diamonds route). But again, you have to mean it, not just look like you mean it. He can tell, just like you can, even if he doesn’t call you out on it.

I just started my accelerated summer session (May 30 - June 28) with intro to logic and contemporary moral issues today. I’m looking forward to it. Every new semester confirms the fact that I really thrive in the academic schedule—that’s not to say my grades are always good, but learning, debating, and writing about new things is like a caffeine rush without the sweating and shakes.

No, I don’t expect that this is normal.

http://thinkblog.org/index.php/2005/05/20/i_don_t_love_you_anymore

As promised, here are some more thoughts on what that .50 caliber phrase means, where it comes from psychologically, and what impact it can have.

First, the Evanescence song that made me think about it, “Everybody’s Fool”* from their 6x platinum album Fallen:

Perfect by nature
Icons of self indulgence
Just what we all need
More lies about a world that

Never was and never will be
Have you no shame? Don’t you see me?
You know you’ve got everybody fooled

Look here she comes now
Bow down and stare in wonder
Oh how we love you
No flaws when you’re pretending
But now I know she

Never was and never will be
You don’t know how you’ve betrayed me
And somehow you’ve got everybody fooled

Without the mask, where will you hide?
Can’t find yourself lost in your lie

I know the truth now
I know who you are
And I don’t love you anymore

It Never was and never will be
You don’t know how you’ve betrayed me
And somehow you’ve got everybody fooled

It never was and never will be
You’re not real and you can’t save me
Somehow now you’re everybody’s fool

Let’s set aside for a minute the chillingly sirenic voice of lead singer Amy Lee and focus on what she’s saying. The song is about a lover who put up a front, apparently, but who was a lying snake of a man in private, and who apparently cheated on her. (For simplicity’s sake I will refer to “her” as though Ms. Lee was singing singularly and autobiographically; I don’t know if that’s the case.)

The point of the song, if I hear it correctly, is to say that the love she and this guy shared is null and void, because the foundation for her was built on false knowledge about him.

So then, if it was false knowledge, then it was false love, or at least love misplaced. I ask you again, is this an acceptable use of the phrase? Is this merely an over-the-top emotional expression of such severity that it comes out as something she didn’t mean, or could not mean?

I have loved someone before and discovered that there was more (or less) than met the eye. The girl that said this to me believed me to be a liar and a fake, as well, I believe (I’m giving her the benefit of the doubt). I was going through a very rough time, and ended up handling the breakup very poorly. Was it warranted? Even if it was true, was it a good thing to say? I wonder.

I do wonder if it’s possible for it to be true; I took it at face value when she said it, and it nearly destroyed me. I thought that if she had ever loved me surely she must still, since you cannot stem the flow of love immediately like turning off a spigot even with rage. But something about that doesn’t add up. I think the compulsion to utter this phrase comes from deep pain that is grounded in perceived betrayal. Logically, if you see that someone has completely changed, or that they are not as you thought them to be, then your love was placed on a phantom; therefore, to say to the person as he or she now presents themselves that “I don’t love you anymore” is to say, “I don’t love the true you, who you are at your core, regardless of having loved an image you successfully projected for X amount of time.”

Anyway, I’m curious about your thoughts. Does this indeed stem from betrayal, or can it come from other sources? Can anyone really mean this completely, having once loved? (My suspicion is no.) Let me know what you think.

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* Lyrics to “Everybody’s Fool” copyright © 2003 Wind-Up Records.

http://www.worth1000.com/view.asp?entry=9558&display=photoshop

I got a kick out of this.

As my mother prepares to get the house ready to sell, one of the big jobs was to pressure-wash the back deck, steps, and huge concrete pad below it. That job fell to me yesterday, and I realized that it was strangely gratifying to pressure-wash: as I told my father, it’s like vaccuuming only you can see your results immediately and drastically.

At one point, I was trying to hold the nozzle up above my head and blast my feet to clean them off so as not to track over what I’d already done. I let the nozzle come down at such an angle that, before I knew what had hit me, a 3100 horsepower blast of water shot at a 25° arc from two inches away slammed my shin—I had just unintentionally exfoliated a three-inch rectangular swath of skin straight off of my leg.

That got me to thinking. First and foremost, don’t clean human flesh with an instrument that can splinter wood and blast years of accumulated muck off of a driveway. Shortly thereafter, that God both is and is not like a pressure-washer. He is, in that—insofar as we are comparable to concrete pads—when we yield to His love, He blasts the guilt and hatred out of our hearts in little strips. This is called sanctification, and though the work won’t be complete in this life, it’s a good and necessary process that sometimes hurts. A lot. (And sometimes it happens in prayer before we know what hits us.) And He’s not like a pressure-washer in that He’s much, much more gentle, and will never force His love on anyone. That’s why we Christians are a curious lot: we submit ourselves to an often-painful blast of love to rid ourselves of dirt that seems perfectly acceptable to most people.

Thought you gentle readers might get a kick out of that.

http://www.wired.com/news/technology/0,1282,67574,00.html

The blue LED fad that has swept consumer electronics for the past couple of years is getting to ridiculous levels. They really are brighter than LEDs that emit longer wavelengths: they out-luminesce red and green by a factor of 20. Now, I like them as an accent, and one blue-LED case fan adorns the back of my otherwise nondescript Penguin full-tower beige case. (Yes, it’s a behemoth, but endearing.) But according to some reports, exposure to the lights can disrupt sleep patterns and the diffusion of blue light across the retina means you can’t really focus clearly on one of them (headache city). Check out this article at Wired for more.

What are your thoughts? Love ‘em? Hate ‘em?

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0192833723/thinkblogorg-20

Augustine: Confessions II.iv.9

I find echoes of Lewis from Mere Christianity here: Augustine illustrates the awareness of natural law in every man’s heart by pointing to the thief who cannot abide being stolen from; Lewis mentions two chilren, one of whom cuts in front of the other in line or who takes more than his share. No one, says Lewis, need be taught that that is an instance of unfairness.

Performing wicked acts is rewarding in and of itself to the unsaved. This is another instance that illustrates why drug addiction is such a good picture of sin itself: the more evil we do, the more we wish to do; and there is a certain rush in doing wicked things (e.g., stealing, as Augustine points out), regardless of the outcome.

I think Augustine’s description of how he “loved the self destruction, [he] loved [his] fall, not the object for which I had fallen but the fall itself” is echoed in the attitudes of many who are apart from God, whether they be Christians or not. I know Christians suffering apart from the brightness and love of God—at least the experience thereof—who are unwilling or at least reluctant to turn because they love their own angst, that rush of pain and personal anguish by which they pity themselves and feel more “alive.” I would know, I did that my first year in college: when the sick taint of damnable acts turns one’s stomach, there can be no doubt that (1) one is alive and (2) that God exists and is holy, because the rancor of conviction is like the smell of death so pungent there can be no question as to the functionality of one’s nose. The beloved fall, for unbelievers, is simply a rush as when one jumps for a high place and his stomach leaps into his throat. But there seems to be some kind of connection between the existential paradigms of this day and the revelling in one’s own pain some Christians perform. (This could be, on the other hand, due to something wholly separate from existentialism or postmodern thought, but this remains my tentative hypothesis for the time being.)

I found information on Catiline (mentioned in Chadwick’s footnotes as being the type of villain Augustine was trying to describe himself), but it was in Latin(!); nevertheless, I caught the drift from the brief introduction on the page. http://users.ipa.net/~tanker/catiline.htm

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References.
Augustine, St. Confessions. Henry Chadwick, trans. ISBN 0-19-283372-3 (Paperback).

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0192833723/thinkblogorg-20

Augustine: Confessions, Book II §iii.8

Satan seduced him “because [he] was in the mood to be seduced.” How often I fall into temptation because I wanted to, and I didn’t admit it to myself until it was too late.

Augustine mentions that neither of his parents tried to restrain his sexual exploits through essentially forcing him into marriage, but I wonder if he would have respected that bond if his soul were not illuminated by Christ. Rules and bonds of all kinds seem to be put in place specifically so we can break them, when we have no higher authority to which to pay honor and respect. If the highest bond we consider is a social convention, or a pledge to one’s spouse or parents or self to remain faithful to one person, then arguably, we shan’t. But if we remain faithful to a spouse because it is God’s perfect plan that it should be so, and that through marriage we may illustrate the relationship between Christ and His church, we are likely to stick to that bond out of love for God.

“There was no strict discipline to keep me in check, which led to an unbridled dissoluteness in many different directions.” That whole sentence sums up my life when I am not faithfully feeding myself on God’s Word. When I stop reading the Word, I gradually lose the ability to prioritize, to discern what is most important, what is frivolous, and what is detrimental or a waste of time; and then I end up throwing up my hands, stressed out, thinking that there’s no time to get it all done. (This is not the same as when one overcommits and there really is not enough time to get everything done; but this is another sin of itself, IMHO.)

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References.
Augustine, St. Confessions. Henry Chadwick, trans. ISBN 0-19-283372-3 (Paperback).

From Donne’s 1624 Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions.

The shorter excerpt:

[A]ll mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated. God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God’s hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another. As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon, calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come: so this bell calls us all: but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness. […] No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend’s or of thine own were. Any man’s death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind; and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.

I would say that not only does “any man’s death diminish me” but also the “deaths” of relationships in my life or in the lives of those connected with me. (Lest the concerned reader believe I’m using Donne’s mortal “this sickness” as my own even in jest, which I am not, s/he should rather refer to the relevant post from a few days ago.) Also: note the glorious Neoplatonic “translated into a higher language” line. Classic!

You may read the whole meditation below: (more…)

Went to Greenville today for a doctor’s visit (and, later in the evening, a coffee with an old friend). Were my head not swimming enough literally (sorry), it is also swimming with ideas I’m getting from a book I’m reading lately.

More on this book and the thoughts it’s spawned later, when the Bioxin and white cells have done more of their dirty work.

http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0192833723/thinkblogorg-20

Notes on Augustine’s Confessions, Book II

iii(5)

Augustine’s father sent him to school in a mode far beyond his actual means. Again, may we never be so concerned with intellect and “culture” that we boast in that and stretch our credit on things that will not help us spiritually.

iii(6)

Classic Platonism: Patrick, Augustine’s father, is said to have gotten drunk to celebrate his son’s sowing his seed about, which Augustine notes as his “will [being] directed downard toward the inferior things.” The lesser good, that is: children are good, sex is good, but not the greatest good under these circumstances.

iii(7)

Augustine’s mother wasn’t perfect, as he has already told us, but she was a godly woman with good advice for her son–indeed, advice shot through with God’s own wisdom. What she spoke anxiously, Augustine heard but “hearing, he did not hear” as God says through Isaiah (and Christ) of Israel. When we think that God is not talking with us–when He keeps silent when we’re on our knees but we’re receiving teaching and admonition, edification and exhortation from our brothers and sisters in Christ, that’s Him telling us to heed their wisdom.

In Confessions we see a helpful, polarized evaluation of the Christian versus the secular mindsets. When Augustine talks of vice, he invites us to look on it with shock and horror, which is jarring in the face of secular delight and even Christian complacency.

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References.
Augustine, St. Confessions. Henry Chadwick, trans. ISBN 0-19-283372-3 (Paperback).

This has nothing to do with the late goings-on, but I’ve been thinking lately while listening to some Evanescence about something that was said to me a long time ago.

“I don’t love you anymore.” When this comes from someone you’ve known and loved, and trusted and known they loved you back, what does that really mean? “I’ve lost the warm fuzzies” or something closer to the real meaning of love, “I now make a reverse committment of the will in which I desire all that which is not the best for you”?

Curious about your thoughts. More on this later.

(The song I’m talking about specifically is “Everybody’s Fool”.)

I’m sitting here in the same Waffle House where I learned how to order a plate of eggs and hash browns “scattered, smothered, and topped” at three in the morning so many years ago. (Can’t do that now, I’m sitting here with a decaf and a water, two eggs over medium with dry toast—a bit lighter fare than grease city.) Now that the novelty has worn off, perhaps I can write.

I drove around Greenville, my hometown, tonight when I woke up from a short nap and had called a dear friend back. The conversation we shared was brief, but stunned me in a way that hurt, but beneficially so. It turned my mind to things that I’d been keeping at bay for a while, things that really only hit in the wee hours.

Lately I’ve been around people a very great deal. I haven’t done much reading, and what I have done has been fairly light. It’s much easier to have a cold one or make yourself a vodka tonic and watch a movie, or make what really amounts to small talk, or play cards, or anything but sit there and think. And I don’t mean brood, which is what you do when you can’t really think but you know your heart is heavy for some reason. I mean really think about life, like you do if you journal or keep a diary (whatever you call it). I used to keep a journal for over two years, from August of 1998 through the spring of 2000. I catalogued almost everything I did and thought, averaging four or five days out of every week, until the thing filled numerous binders. I stopped when I went to Clemson right out of high school because a little something inside of me died, and I didn’t want to record my reaction (which involved multitudinous cold ones, and a lot of other things of which I’m not particularly proud).

Well, tonight I’m alone and it’s given me a chance to think (and brood, if we’re being honest here). The conversation between myself and the aforementioned friend really made me think about the stuff of life, and the point of love. I drove toward downtown, and it really hit me why people leave their hometowns to try to start a new life. So many relationships ended, so many little pieces of myself, my creativity, my love, my soul’s lifeblood in little patches all over this city. She’s married; she moved across town; she went to college; she went to college out of state; she’s employed around here; she’s—the wound is still to near to say.

But what strikes me is how common alienation is; not just how I feel right now, still recuperating from another the collapse of another tower of promises filled with the lush tapestries and hand-crafted furniture of hope, but in general. I woke from my nap late to a huge, dark, empty house save for my mom (and my sister, who for various reasons I shan’t touch cannot be considered company for mom), who was trying in vain to fall asleep. There she is, alone in the dark. There’s my sister, sleeping, neverminding the clicking of the machine by her bedside. I went to see my dad earlier in the day, alone in his house. We just talked: dad and I, mom and I. Then I called my friend back and we talked for a few moments, and then I drove around.

Greenville, between midnight and two in the morning on a late-spring Thursday morning, is an odd sight. There are lights on in all these deserted buildings, ready for the next day but presently dormant. There are subdivisions full of dark houses. And there you sit at the red light, half-wishing for some jackass to cut you off just for the familiarity of another terrible driver to keep you company on the road.

“I said all that to say this.” The love of Christ is unique in that it bridges the alienation between people, when properly applied. Christian love is not legalism, it’s not a cultural standard, it’s not even shaking a hand and smiling; it’s an action rooted in the firm desire to see that another person is, in that instant, cared-for. Some take this too far, by smothering someone and trying to control his or her life; and others don’t take it far enough, giving a buck to a homeless guy on the street and mumbling over his shoulder “God bless” or some other such worn-out pseudoreligious cliché.

I’ve been lately going through a rough spot in my walk with Christ. It always happens: another bridge burns and falls and I on it into the rocky surf below, burned and broken because I stepped out on faith between the cliff of singleness and the cliff of marriage, then dropped a cigar too many on the deck. I’m stiff-necked, especially when in pain, so of course then perhaps (speaking of smoke) I have one cigar, one glass of wine, one pint, one hour of sleep—too many. And the women shout from that cliff of singleness to which they were so able to bound back: “I told you so” or “I saw it coming,” and the guy friends say, well, nothing at all, but don’t you dare cry—here man, can I make you another drink?

And God waits patiently, not laughing, letting you thrash yourself around on the rocks in a stupor until your heart is humble enough to let Him work through you by unselfish love. It was a blessing to go have a ginger ale with my dad on his back deck today; it was a blessing to dine with my mother; and it was a blessing to talk with my friend, who left unsaid all he knew I’d understand. It’s a blessing tonight not to have erred in my consciousness, either in excess (by quaffing coffee) or defect (by tilting back brews). I’m slowly working through my anger, bit by bit, and God’s at the helm, showing me love when I show love to others. Go figure. Lessons once learned can be remembered, the lesson deepened.

Thanks to Apple Network 07db31 at the corner of Main & McBee streets in downtown Greenville for having an open WAP from which to blog.

Three hundred sixty-five days ago today, a boy and a girl sat on a couch after a rainstorm, dreaming big dreams, talking huge talk, full of themselves, building a bridge together. The least I can do is commemmorate the occasion, if for no other reason than to say, “Lesson learned.”

I used to write fiction, and love it. I remember sitting down one day my junior year in high school, a little angry; the window and my mind open, I wrote for three solid hours and entered a state of flow, without the help of caffeine or the hindrance of alcohol.

It occurred to me the other day that there are several reasons that I stopped. First of all, the same reason I stopped thinking and talking in metaphors about this time last year: when I enter into a relationship, or am trying to enter into a relationship, I wring every last drop of my creative energies into that. It’s exhausting, but I used to think it was the best thing to do (more on that in a few days, maybe). Secondly, while the aforementioned piece I wrote got great reviews from the guys I know, the reactions of the women I’ve dated have either said nothing or told me outright it wasn’t good in the slightest. Granted, the genre was dystopic cyberpunk on the order of (in imitation of) Gibson, but nevertheless, I got discouraged.

Then a few days ago it hit me: why should I wait for a woman to like it? The answer from my past would be that, when you pour all your energy into a relationship with a person, then that person has more weight with which to encourage—or discourage. But this is ridiculous. I don’t need anyone to validate my writing, and shouldn’t. So! I’m going to try my hand at it at some point in the future, and in the meantime, when I root around in my computer (… pun intended) and find that little snippet, I’ll post it. I’ll do my best to keep from revising it this go-round.