brothas dig the lyrics

How important are lyrics in music? I'm still developing an opinion on this. I consider language an important and powerful tool, that has been increasingly undervalued and ignored in favor of saying anything at all. This is something I struggle with personally: using imprecise language or being content with weak statements that don't adequately convey my meaning. Poetry counters this in me completely, because it is the act of playing with language, bending it to one's will and surprising the reader with spice, bite and nuance.

In the last couple of days, I've been listening to a couple of my favorite albums by the band dredg. A friend introduced them to me in high school, and I've followed them since, listening to their albums and enjoying their sound as it twists, wiggles and ultimately retains a consistent voice over the years. The band has written several concept albums, with themes of questioning belief and religion, a Dali painting and a man seeking to cure his moral disease.

I listened to them for a long time, into college years even, without thinking seriously about the lyrics and simply enjoying the music (which is exquisite and vibrant and different than anything else I had heard--calling it art-rock seems appropriate to me). Looking back, this is kind of ironic, considering the themes of the albums. I've been content to experience and appreciate the music solely for its aural quality, to bask in the sound washing over me, purposely ignoring the worldview of the artists.

It turns out that the way the members of dredg see the world is very different than how I see it. I identify with their sense of questioning belief and religion, but we've come to different conclusions. At first I considered this and came to the conclusion that it wasn't appropriate for me to listen to music that was advocating a position in opposition to my beliefs. Looking back on that initial thought though, it seems hasty.

I have plenty of friends with whom I disagree on many things. We're still friends though. We enjoy each other's company and discussion and spending time. I've come to this realization about music as well. It's a friend that I enjoy being around. I respect her opinion, though I don't necessarily have to agree.

In fact, I've learned something from this friend and seen things in a different light.

I was trying to decipher the meaning of the lyrics from one of dredg's songs recently: I Don't Know (live) [music video]. At first blush it seems to be a strong statement of agnosticism, but I don't know if the message is inherently anti-religion or if the writer is merely frustrated and is giving up on searching for meaning apart from himself. There were a lot of interesting takes on the lyrics, but one from Qohelet caught my eye:

Flowing, powerful song; the vocals almost force you to pay attention to the lyrics.

Concerning the anosticism [sic]:

Well I don't know what to believe anymore
But every now and then I feel a moment of awakening
But then it's gone, then it's gone, then it's gone
I'm blanketed by the warmth of ignorance

Apparently, the moments of awakening have enough value to create frustration that they don't pan out to more. It seems like the writer is embittered that the awakening is fleeting because although his blanket is warm, he calls it ignorance.

I totally agree with:

Cause there's no guarantee
Of a god or longevity
Admit you don't know anything
And give it up

although the "it" may mean more than one thing. It is interesting that we communicate as if a possible-god is obligated to guarantee us anything, as if such a being is on trial by us instead of vice versa. Speaking agnostically, if there really was some ultimate, all-knowing being able to guarantee us longevity, a special place, etc., would it be more realistic to suppose that he must prove himself to us or that we must prove ourselves to him? If the latter, then we may well be in a state without all the answers so that this possible-god can assess what we are really interested in finding out / becoming.

Qohelet takes a stab at what makes agnosticism frustrating...the moments of "awakening" and not only being unsure of the existence of a god, but unsure of how we might be supposed to interact. I don't know if this is exactly what dredg meant or not, but the song engaged me and provoked a deeper thought.

Maybe that's the story to hear from this song, an agnostic's view of agnosticism, and how they understand/struggle with/define it. Words like these are enough for me to keep listening. Enough for me to wonder at the meaning behind carefully crafted verses.

The point, via drawn out case study, is that lyrics in music do matter. At least they should. They matter to me even if we're not in accord.
Title inspiration

Animosity, made ya speak but ya spoke

Rap isn't poetry. Poetry is poetry. Rap is rap.
Rap is musical performance. The emcee, as Rakim, one of the best rappers ever put it, is the microphone soloist.
A poem might be sonorous, lovely to the ear, but it--it's still a completely different form. It's not a song.
But just as some of the best poetry has great musicality, some of the best rapping is as densely, tightly packed with figurative language and surprising meaning as a poem.
Often the layers of allusion and secondary meanings are hidden, intentionally so in fact--a marginalized culture is incentivized to speak a language its oppressor doesn't speak.
--Jesse Thorn

Jesse is the host of some my favorite podcasts. He's a thoughtful culture critic as well, and I've gotten many good recommendations from him in the last few years.

He develops the statement above by using as an example, a verse in Jay-Z's song "Threat". The lyrics are explicit, and I won't quote them here, but the way Jay-Z incorporates symbolism and meaning into his verses is pretty incredible. I don't understand many of the references (thank goodness for rapgenius.com), but I do understand a well crafted verse. I understand the desire to be lyrically dominating and to use words fiercely. I'm not looking to "build The Sands on you", but "y'all [will] wish I was frontin'" with my pen...

In the latest Bullseye episode (23 April 2013), Jesse works through some of the lyrics of Threat by Jay-Z in his outshot (9th Wonder on the production). If you have any interest in rap or lyricism, I would suggest a listen below.



Some lyrics may seem prosaic at first blush, but read deeper and appreciate meaning and thought (even if it's about how someone might be threatening violence explicitly).
I'm not going to try and downplay the violence and sexism that exists, much less condone it, but remember: Nickelback makes rock music.
If you don't appreciate rap music, that's fine. But be aware that you're missing out on some delightful word play and electric rhythm.

I stand by Jesse's thesis:

"Rap's not poetry, but that doesn't means it's not worth a close listen."

Nice to meet you, I'm me

I really needed to read this post today.

Things at work haven't been going particularly well, and I feel in danger of my fellow classmates outpublishing, outworking and succeeding in ways that I'm not ( all still true :D ), but I know that doesn't really matter. Not to say I've given up, but I know in my head that I don't need to worry. My heart will catch up eventually, by God's grace.

This morning I got a "thanks", after sending a file to someone who hasn't shown me a lot of patience lately. It felt like a weight had been lifted even though it was just one word in an email. I need to dispense that person some thanks as well. Because I mean it, and because it feels good to reciprocate feelings that are, even in a small way, mutual. It reminded me that even small progresses are good. I underrate progress in small packages, when really, those progresses make a Ph.D. eventually (I hope).

Today, I'm Steve. There is no one else that I have/want to be.

nothing rhymes

I've been eating oranges a lot lately because they're absolutely, incredibly delicious. The formatting was kind of an afterthought, but I like how it turned out. I initially useD capitals at the end of verbs to distinguisH them, but it waS too confusing and didn't differentiatE them clearly. In other news...I'm glad I learned HTML once upon a time.
The formatting is still kind of meh...and I feel like my ad/verb usage is weak, but for a first runthrough I liked the result.

rubbery and pliant, almost waxy in Texture--it slides smoothly, rolls easily, in my Hand.
Thumbnail pierces Skin, releasing a pungent, aromatic Spray, transforming the Room.
Flesh trapped in a protective webby Prison releases pleasant, fierce limonin counter Attacks.

the Orange sits on the Desk taunting me, daring me to open it up and taste its sweetly-bitter Juices.
it promises that my Beard will be wet and sticky by the end.
the Beauty of an Orange lies as much in the Anticipation of those saccharine wet Bites as in Consumption.
my Teeth poke fiercely through the Membrane and my Brain conducts the sensory Orchestra.
notice first the crisp Notes that the Nose picks up, proclaiming, "we have Purchase!"
the Tongue enters boldly like the bombastic Tones of a trombone Section blaring loudly and brightly!
dribbling out the Corners of my Mouth, Nectar is snatched up by eager Fingers, a suspended Cymbal resounding.
i notice the Mess i've made of my Surroundings. it dries quickly, leaving sticky Steps for Mice to meander o'er.
quarter-at-a-time the Carpels are consumed with abandon.
over before it started, Hands lay limply at my Side, drenched and drying.

Makin me ta wanna rite

My friend is an English professor who reminds me of John Keating from the Dead Poets Society. She is a prolific writer and blogger too. Her love of Jesus and of those around her oozes out of her writing and conversation.

It seems to take friends like this to reignite my love of writing. We were talking a few weeks ago, and she suggested a short writing idea. It felt so good to write again--to write about a memory, to write about anything.

I like to have ideas and drafts waiting for me to poke at, to prod, to contribute to and prune.

This afternoon, I decided to eat an orange outside in the sun for a few moments, and I thought about the verbs and nouns around me. I felt the sun beating down on me and the black bench outside my lab. Heat radiates to me directly from our star, and from beneath me through the energy contained in the metal bench, warming and washing me from head to toe. Somehow today brings the cleanest warmth imagined, so I sit, and I munch. The plump navel orange peels easily, leaving me with sticky sweet hands while I eat.

My lightly freckled, blonde haired hands soak it in, pale and white after the bitter, refreshing winter. They bring each plump bit of pale citrus from its place on my juice dotted lap to my lips, waiting with breath abated.

With each bite I'm tenuously satisfied, yet have the desire for more, to jump into a pit of pulpy orange juice and let it saturate my pores, inhale it deeply and breathe it.

The moment is brief, but delicious. Busyness will squeeze the enjoyment of a moment like this from our lives, so I enjoy it while I can.

I'm determined not to be squeezed out like my snack, unless it be into the maw of the worthwhile.

Friends, Redditors, summonermen, stack me your tears;

Friends, Redditors, summonermen, stack me your tears;
I come to bury Bronze, not to be n00b.
The games that summoners throw live after them;
The wins are oft interred with their bone-tooth-necklaces;
So let it be with Bronze. The noble Silver
Hath told you Bronze were feeders:
If it were so, it was a grievous wound,
And grievously hath Bronze QSS'd it.
Here, under leave of Silver and the rest -
For Silver is an honourable tier;
So are they all, all honourable tiers -
Come I to speak in Bronze's promotional series.
It was my friend, faithful and just to me:
But Silver says they were feeders;
And Silver is an honourable tier.
He hath brought many n00bl0rds home to Jesse Perring
Whose firstbloods did IE's from the shopkeeper buy:
Did this in Bronze seem feeder?
When that the n00bz have cried, Bronze hath wept:
Lucker-dogs should be made of sterner stuff:
Yet Silver says they were feeders;
And Silver is an honourable tier.
You all did see that on the Rift
I thrice presented him Trondomodere's crown,
Which he did thrice refuse: was this the promo-series?
Yet Silver says they were feeders;
And, sure, he is an honourable tier.
I speak not to disprove what Silver spoke,
But here I am to speak what I do know.
You all did feed there once, not without rage quitting afkers:
What cause withholds you then, to rage with them?
O judgment! thou art fled to Dunning-Kruger,
And men have lost their reason. Volibear with me;
My heart-of-gold is in the coffin there with Bronze,
And I must pause ere I come back to feed.

I made it from Bronze I to Silver V last night, in my favorite game (League of Legends), so Shakespeare seemed appropriate. This means I passed from a lower rating into one with better players, which is hopefully where I belong if I continue to win games, for the uninitiated.

That's Mr. Prosaic Confabulation to you...

A good friend told me about how excited she was to teach college students the next unit in her writing course: memoir. Her students write about their favorite memory in as much detail and nuance as they can. Their stories pop with detail, bubble over with spicy particulars and sizzle with meaning when she's through.
It got me thinking about some of my favorite memories, one of which is completely fabricated. I'm not delusional about this memory--I know it never happened, but it feels as real as if it had. In fact, it seems more real than some memories which actually happened. Brains are so funny sometimes.

This memory is about time with my grandfather at my grandparents house, bordered by a small crick in the back yard. There's an old, rusting, wrought iron and cement bridge which crumbles at the edges in places and spans a very shallow sandy bed no more than 10 feet wide. Neighborhood kids have taken a dirt path to the bridge and crossed to school for generations. It's very unassuming, with simple chain links running along its profile, room enough for two children to pass, perhaps. Growing up, the boy cousins made boats from sticks and leaves to drop from the bridge and race until the end of the property, a mere 50 feet downstream.

One day when my little brother and I stay with my grandparents for the day, while our mum is at work, we decide to make boats with Grandpa. It means we get to go downstairs and work with him in his shop. Grandpa's shop had nearly everything in it. This is by virtue of the fact that a good dutchman throws away nothing if it can be of some use later, real or imagined. Waste not, want not, he always says. The dark side of this is his pickle "juice" drinking habit, balanced by the beautiful grandfather clocks my aunts and uncles all sport in their houses, which he constructed from kits he saved from dumpsters over the years. Grandpa's shop also has Werther's candies.

The boats we make are simple and flat, made in a boat-shape of course, with little keels on the bottom. We sand them down together and Grandpa helps us glue the keels to them. With the keels attached, we're faced with a decision, sail the boats now in the sofly burbling crick, or paint them and wait for them to be christened. Funnily enough, in the part of the memory that transpired in real life, I don't remember who made the decision, but we paint them. Mine is painted red and black; the little bro chooses blue with red. He writes our initials on them of course. That way they match every other item in our toy chest back home.

The painting was the point at which events passed from fact into the realm of fiction, constructed from desires in a child's mind. I don't know at which point the following became entrenched in my memory, vivid as the sun on the dull red brick outside my window, but my tangled mess of neurons holds onto it tenaciously and naïvely.

In my memory, we take our painted boats to the back yard instead of piling into our old and worn, red minivan. We drop the boats in the crick with Grandpa and walk along the bank through neighbors' backyards as the boats slowly drift along the current. The sun shines through the pine trees leaving dappled patterns on the brown, soggy leaves that are left in the spring after the snows finally melt. The afternoon feels golden, lit like the artificial set of a movie. My little brother isn't even part of the memory at this point, poor fellow. In fact, no boats float in the stream, we just walk. It ends there--my Grandpa and me, strolling along the bank. A simple pleasant memory.


The detail about the lighting is probably what tipped me off initially about the falsity of the memory. That and the speed of the crick. In the spring, the crick becomes a creek, moving swiftly and bone-chillingly from the snows dripping in; wade after boats at the peril of your warm tootsies.
Though it's fraught with errors and inconsistencies, I treasure this memory of my Grandpa. This is the memory I wanted to have with him. I wanted it so much that in my mind, it happened.

I shelve it in my brain along with the real memories of my Grandpa. It sits next to us fishing for catfish with my cousins on the side of a channel (We ate those terrible, bottom-feeding fish later. Boiled. I didn't have fish for years because of this.), sits next to camping trips with him listening to Rush on a picnic table with kids cavorting loudly around him, next to uncles and aunts skiing behind us in his ancient, rickety, underpowered fishing boat, next to Sunday afternoons eating pot roast, green bean casserole and mashed potatoes, and hearing him pray for the "lost and sorr'ing (sorrowing) ones".

I don't know why I fabricated this memory, or even if it was on purpose. I'm going to leave it there though, because if I had asked him to, Grandpa would have walked that crick for miles with me.

Meemeemeemee ABC 123

I love visiting cities for all the voices you hear during the course of a day. Some voices speak languages I don't know, some speak in tones that are vibrant, others harsh. Voice tells me something about your attitude currently, and when I've gotten to know you, about your worldview. Listening to voices is an incredible joy: accents twist, cadence tickles, pitch pinches and pace asserts. Some people who study voice and speech can even tell where you're from, very specifically--we share parts of our voices, while retaining the part which makes it ours.

Difference in spoken voice is so salient and delightful. Written voice is also an incredible phenomenon. I didn't have much of an appreciation for it until a few years ago when I began to think more consistently about how my writing sounded, and what it was trying to communicate. Blogging poetry is easy, you sculpt each sentence carefully and with meaning. Each word is chosen carefully to evoke a specific image in the mind of your reader. For me, poetry is the most intentional of writing styles...but this is because I overvalue poetry. Poetry is not the only style with a voice. All writing has a voice and it is up to the writer to clearly enunciate that voice in each word she pens, be it in narrative fiction, poetry, persuasive essay or research paper.
My "poetic" voice in high school was incredibly angsty. Parts of that voice stuck around, but it matured, in the way that my squeaky high voice deepened through puberty. It's fun to read what that early voice had to say, but only in moderation.

My ninth grade high school English teacher really encouraged me to write in my own voice. He loved the zany stories and essays I would write. I really tried hard to be descriptive and let my words drip with savory juices. My vocabulary was growing, and I explored each new word I was learning, trying to fit them in appropriately, and more often humorously. Writing in high school was new and fresh and I loved it. I was finding my voice.

A friend of mine blogs regularly--for the moment. That's not a criticism, it's just acknowledging the reality of this blog, which had regular posts for some time, before going fallow for about 2 years. It happens. In any case, she's blogging, and writing about her life. She writes about God working in her life, about giving up control, about finding her place in her field, about scones and tea. It's fun to read and get insights into what she thinks about. Her voice though is still developing. I hear someone else's voice in her words.
A mutual friend of ours blogs every day. She has a brand, a style and a consistent readership. Her voice is incredibly consistent and vibrant. Few people I know write in this way, and it's clearly hers. This is the voice I hear in my other friend's blog. It's a good voice, but it's not hers (that I know of). I haven't read enough of the first friend's writing to say what her voice might sound like, but I know the voice she speaks with in her blog is nearly identical to the other familiar voice I'm used to reading. I like that voice, but I want my friend to find her own voice. Her writing is good, but I think it can be so much better if she can find that voice, and speak comfortably with it. I want to hear the spunk her spoken voice has, but written. I could be wrong, but I think there's another voice hiding in there, waiting to set words on fire.

I want to hear that voice too.

I ain't afraid of no ghosts!

EDIT: I posted this three days ago, but Blogger apparently disagreed with my request. Well, it's published now...

It's snowing now. We're supposed to be in for a helluva storm, but I'm skeptical. It's fear that the news stations and weather sprinkle into their forecasts, so we'll pay attention. We need some fear, to make sure we take care, to keep our priorities straight, to live life instead of watch it go by. Fear loses its usefulness past these (maybe more) functions. Fear is what would have kept me from working abroad when I was in college, from traveling by myself and exploring places with strangers become friends. Fear is what keeps me from sharing my Jesus with the people around me. Fear is what kept me, at Calvin College, from living the life that Jesus would have. There was no growth there, but several years of contented inaction.

Fear was all I knew as a child. Fear that my parents would die in an auto accident and I would be left with my younger siblings, to try to provide for them, or be separated among our larger family. Fear was always there, lurking, wondering with an overactive imagination, "What if?"

Fear has a hold in inaction, I've found. It delights in the status quo. Moments of spontaneity crush fear.
Asking a crush from high school to dance with me for the first time started to liberate me from my fear (maybe fear of rejection) of women. I can count her as a friend now.
Taking the initiative to step into Prof. Nielsen's office and inform him that, yes, I would like to travel overseas to take a job in Germany, knowing no German, and knowing I would earn no money to put toward my tuition.
I'd like to say that it was faith which propelled me through those decisions and on that course, but it was probably adrenaline in the first case simple curiosity in the second.

My life changed significantly from these two experiences, from taking a pass on fear, taking a chance that it might not be as bad as I could envision. I left the superfluous thinking in my head, and let my feet lead me to a slow dance in a sweaty gym, and to an amazing experience in culture, friendship, language and chemistry.

So take that weather station, I'm not afraid of your banal weather warnings. I'll boldly take to the roads on my way home tonight.


P.S. When you see my grey Vibe in a ditch tonight, kindly call me a tow truck when you get home.

My Kindle 3 Review (Wifi and 3G)

I have had my Kindle for two weeks now and decided to comment on the process that resulted in its purchase.

I was deciding between the Kindle and iPod Touch. Both have internet and book capabilities and each shines in a particular area. As I am not properly acquainted with the Touch, I will only comment on the capabilities and features of the Kindle.

Reading on the Kindle has been very easy, and the formatting is quite nice. This is the main strength of the device and I have no cause for complaint there. Locating and buying books is also quite easy and can be completed in a matter of seconds.

What was of more concern to me as I was researching devices was the online capability of Kindle. I have since found that it handles the mobile versions of sites such as Facebook, Gmail and blogs quite well. I had hoped the device would be well suited for checking email and possibly answering in short replies. It has certainly met that, considering that I am typing this entry from the Kindle. I bought the 3G model and have had occasion to use it to find directions to a wedding, outside of wifi access. It is certainly slower that way but very functional.

The Kindle does not have all of the multimedia capabilities that the Touch may have but it proves itself as a very capable reading device with ancillary internet browsing ability.

This was not intended to be a thorough review, merely to say that the Kindle can do most of what the Touch can and some things better as long as it is remembered that it is primarily an Ereader.

Edit: 1/8/13
I've had the Kindle for almost two years now and I still love it. I've been reading it a lot lately and find it a fantastic device. The Kindle store has been receiving many of my hard earned pennies--it's so easy to find good books. Most of the books that I've wanted to read have been on here and those that aren't I can sometimes find elsewhere (paper isn't so bad after all).
Battery life is still great and it's nice to be able to use the internet on those emergency occasions. Other than that though, it's a little clunky, but the browser is "experimental" for a reason.
TL;DR...I like the Kindle3 and would buy it again in a heartbeat (or receive it as a graduation present, more accurately!).

Summer of 1862

May, too soon. There is just not enough time in the day. But my decisions have been made, some projects finished while others await completion. There is still no time.

Solace in the decision to attend Penn State, happy to meet new friends, yet somewhat doleful...

I've made the best of my time here academically, and I have no regrets about being with my friends or the times we've had. Balance is so terribly difficult to achieve, just try to reach that equilibrium and you will be eaten up. Try your best, live with it.

Conversations deepened through years as friendships have grown. And I'm glad. What does the future and transition hold? Heck if I know. I'm just happy to be in it and have the opportunity.

I just want to share some coffee with you.

Transitions

Hmmm...I haven't posted in a while. Life has been full though. Full of friends, school, preparation and seeing the rewards of hard work come to fruition. This will be an interesting year now, of that I'm sure. A simple decision will land me hundreds of miles either east or west for the next five years of my life. The friends I have made won't be next to me anymore, and their company will be missed.

Further study is an amazing opportunity and blessing for me--a way to use the skills that I've developed to expose new areas of human knowledge...or at least that's the hope. Well then, here I am, (at the end of the beginning),staring at the shrouded entrances to two potential futures, trusting in God's faithfulness. As much as I can.

Two Thirds

I am now about two-thirds through the most memorable summer of my life. In May I embarked with two other students to Germany where I have been working as an intern at Böhringer-Ingelheim, a pharmaceutical company. My German has been getting steadily better, but I worry about what will happen when I return to the States. The work and travel experiences that I have had here have been incredible, and I feel incredibly blessed to have this opportunity. Germany is a fantastic place, and I stand by my belief that it is the people that live in a place which makes it special. It was the same way with China, and I know that I will remember the people that I have interacted with much longer than I will ever remember the places that I have visited. The places are wonderful and beautiful, but the relationships much more so.

Cartwheeling through life

So Dave's bachelor party was pretty great last night (kudos Ben). Some great paintballing was done, welts were received all around and a good time was had. We retired to Brasser's house for pizza, gaming and spirits (some more than others). Hopefully Dave had as good a time as I did, for we both had to drive home, and I enjoyed myself immensely. This morning brought a great breakthrough in Wushu. I was able to perform some cartwheels for the first time...quite the accomplishment for my too-tall, rather uncoordinated body--pretty much the best moment of my life. We'll see how much I enjoy doing engineering homework for the rest of the weekend. Probably a lot.

As of two minutes ago: if one more person complains to me for me not being their partner for beer pong, I might have to take drastic measures.

Ein hundert

Apparently this is the hundredth time that I've attempted to communicate something on the internet via this space (probably 96 times too many). Today is Easter, praise God for the Resurrection! It's even a nice day outside today, which is rather fitting. This morning brought a combined breakfast with Open Bible and GRCCC. It was a great mix of Chinese and Western fare, with some new friends. Lixin was baptized today! They did immersion for the two younger people and sprinkling for the older two. That adds up to four baptisms! It was wonderful. I couldn't stop grinning :D. Also, lunch with Grandpa, Grandma and Nathan was delightful. That is all.

等一等! Jetzt, yo voy 走一走. Guten Nachmittag.

Mountain bikes are not for touring

Nathan and I went on our first longer bike ride of the year yesterday: from Calvin to Rockford via the White Pine trail. It was quite the beautiful day, and our fellow road dwellers weren't even being jerks. Knapp Street was delightfully downhill (which made me worried about the way back), and Riverside park was full of vim and vigor. We made it to Rockford just fine, and had some lunch/supper before heading back.

At the outset of our return trip however, it became apparent that we would have to battle a headwind the whole way back. Twas quite the trip, and like the title says, I have to implore you not to tour with a mountain bike, unless you want a good workout, which is what we got. In general though, it was a fantastic ride and rather enjoyable. I think it was about 40 miles round-trip; perfect for an afternoon jaunt.

Man sagt auf Deutsch: ich konnte gestern Rad fahren.

武術 (Wushu)

So I had my first Wushu lesson today. Wushu is one of the Chinese martial arts. It employs staffs and swords pretty often, but luckily today was just the basics for me, other than some of the more basic staff work. This is going to take a while. I can barely even get the warmups yet :). No matter, it will just take a lot of practice.


Alotalotalot...of practice.

I have the best friends

This is just a quick post, but I have to because I'm floored right now. This evening a couple of my housemates gave me a Chinese-English Bible as a belated birthday present. I was very much caught off guard and could not appreciate it more. I'm fortunate that God blessed me with amazing friends/housemates who are incredibly thoughful. Wo xihuan tamen henduo.

Gute Nacht, buenas noches, 晚安 and good night.

中国教会

I had the most delightful Sunday, kind of. Let me rephrase that. From 2:15pm-3:45pm was the most delightful time I've had in a while. Today I decided to go to Chinese Church instead of Ada Bible. The church is about a minute's walk from my house, which is convenient to be sure. I have some friends who go there, and apparently some I didn't even know go there. At the last minute I got Scott to go with me (he was literally driving in as I was leaving and decided to go on the spot), which was fun. I was ok with going alone, but it was great to have a housemate along.
Just like in China, the church was incredible hospitable. The pastor spoke to us for a while after the service (he's originally from Malaysia, just like Wen!) I was especially very happy to see Penny (Lixin), Yang and Yujing there; they are great.
The pastor who preached was visiting, and originally from Indonesia, so he knew three languages. Since it was the first Sunday of the month, it was in English and Mandarin instead of the typical headsets. The pastor spoke about the Bible as God's gift to us, and our most important tool.
There was food afterward as well, which reminded me of Chinese breakfast in Shanghai...yummy. I will be going back next week :)

Oh, and the title says Chinese church. The first two characters mean China (middle kingdom).

Rangeela 2010

Epic, wonderful, inspiring, beautiful. Oh, sorry, just describing Rangeela over here. It is a showcase of the many diverse cultures that Calvin is host to, put on by students. And it is awesome! One of my favorites was the Chinese act that combined a traditional fan dance, wushu martial arts sequence and an energetic Taiwanese hip-hop dance. I also enjoyed the Indonesian act, which had a kecak chanting sequence done by a small choir, accompanied by dance. These two were particularly interesting to me because I had experience Chinese culture in a very real way over interim (and knew some of the students) and had studied Indonesian music for my World Music class last year. It was cool to see an actual performance, even if it wasn't actually trance-induced ^_^. The last dance was great too. It was an African dance, all of the performers were dressed very colorfully and had lots of energy. I can't help but smile when I see all of the people up there. It's quite the event.