My parents

It's human nature. I would argue that my dad was equally slothenly in this area, plus, if males (and females) didn't put such ridiculous pressures on women to look a certain way, they wouldn't have to go to the hassles of this level of bullshit.

E.g., "Boy, if I could look as slobby and unkempt as you, no make-up, no product, having my underwear hanging out and shit, and not be seen as a 'slut' or trying to be 'loose', and at worst was seen as 'lazy' or 'trying to be gangster' and needing a better rolemodel, then maybe this 'shit' wouldn't be here..."

On the other hand, men predominantly design homes and I have yet to see one actually designed for all the hardware required to look "stylish".

E.g., where are the easy to access makeup drawers like at the mall, or all of those hidden roll out wall enclosures with everything you need? Where are all of the hooks for dryers, a built in seated dryer like at the salons so my hair won't over dry? Were are the hooks for my wet/dry, ceramic, ion producing straightening irons with the grips that cost me $350 only to last six months because the bathroom has shitty wiring or because men think that their beer cooler is FAR more important to properly wire? Where are the hooks for my curling iron, my ionic blow dryer, my I ran out of brain space to name hair styling products, my foundation, eyeliner, moisturizer, concealer, lipsticks, lip gloss, brushes, color guides, eye shadow, blush/rouge, my six brushes, combs, perfumes, skin creams so I don't turn into a 'wrinkled-old-hag' prematurely so you'll run off with a younger model, or brushes, wipe pads, sponges, mascaras, and all of the other non-animal tested crap you men sell to us because we have to fit your standards of 'beauty' in order to be loved?"

"Would you like to say something?"

"No mam..."

"Good. Now, wipe up your piss and get out. I've got to go dress up and outdo those stuck up nouveau riche bitches from the PTA. FUCKING C#$%S! Make sure to clean up your chips or I'll make you lick them off the floor."

"Yes mam."

:P

I had parents where were equally strong willed, mom an equal match for my dad, and something of a tomboy. My grandparents sent her to modeling school after college because they didn't think that she was cooth enough or elegant, etc., apparently too many years acting like a boy. :P

My dad on the other hand worked construction (my parents business; commercial concrete) and was horribly busy dealing with fuck-heads, dumbfucks, screwups, clusterfucks, and disasters of such magnitude their level of epic "OMFG!???!!!" notorious ephagies can still cause my mother to tell "stories" of a side splitting nature of "stupid." Not to mention partners trying to fuck him/screw him/us out of the business, and all manner of other CLASSIC male pattern tactics of fucking/brown nosing/killing/backstabbing epicness to get ahead of someone else for no apparently logical reason besides ego, greed, lust, envy, enmity, pride, or just being a fucking lifetroll.

Anyhow, dad wasn't around much and had such terrible expectations placed on him to be the star-everything (grandfather was an Olympic wrestler, head university football coach at UI for the Vandals, baseball coach, basketball coach, athletics director, etc., father was on the PGA, each of them was all-american, etc.,), so my dad was like "If YOU want to do it, son, then I will support you the whole way, but I won't pressure you. Also, the football program at your high school is a joke, and I don't want you to spend the rest of you life injured, so no football until you're a senior, etc. I knew plenty of world-class, NFL players who didn't start until their senior year.", and instead, cuz dad was busy, my mom taught me hit a baseball and helped teach the kids on my 2nd grade softball team (she worked previously as a recreational therapist, and had degrees in parks and recreation administration and planning, and one in recreational therapy from UW, the second as the first graduate with that degree, making her own program with the help of one of the therapists at University Hospital), swimming, etc. Although, mom did scare the crap out of me making me stick my face in the water (dad was strangely a lot more chill around water having been through UDT scuba training in the USMC. Mom and he constantly fought over " who knows best" and even though mom was a lifeguard, dad taught combat swimming and was the first enlisted man/person to graduate first in their class Navy Diving School, yet he'd let my mom teach me because "your mother thinks she knows everything and I can't handle the war." and they were constantly like that, battling it out, who knows best. It was hilarious. It turned into bar room brawls sometimes between them, you'd never be sure who hit first, because they were both "crazy". :P

It was awesome in many ways because it would make me look at most bullshit divorces and be like, for my mom, if dad had a PTSD episode, she'd punch him. He'd give her a " love-tap" and she'd "slug him." They could act like children. Hated and loved one a other. Drove each other crazy, and would do anything for the other person. Were the loyalest of friends not to mention best friends, and simultaneously were assholes and the most beautiful people you could imagine.

I learned about make-up, hair, etc., from mom, along with the whole female world, which probably explains my tendency to have female friends and a difficult time, or nonexistent time actually dating, because I look at women and am like, Um... Dating, but I want to hang out, talk, have fun and be friends? How do I move from let's go nerd out or talk life to, "dating"?!! O.o

It's hilarious and at times a bit sad watching me. I was and am so anti-normative male, being like a combination of the toughest MOFO on the face of the deep, "I walk through the valley of death and fear no evil, for I am the toughest mother fucker in the valley." with a "priss." I look at 99.9% of men, roll my eyes and think they are both "womanizing inferiors" and pussy, bullshit little fucks. I also tend to be attracted to smart, ass-kicking ladies", (who admittedly have a classic beauty about them) which is probably why I have a thing for Hayley Atwell's character from Marvel's Captain America/Agent Carter and a truly serious and badass Wonder Woman, as they remind me a lot of my mom, whom I respect beyond measure, just like my dad.

Mom also shared all the ins and outs of female life and personal life, which is why talking about a period with me is like talking to your girlfriend, because it produces ZERO shock value. Hell, I even went so far as to ask the adult nerdfighter group for recommendations to get her a replacement "happy device" so she can be somewhat less of a screaming, raving, you-know-what. :P This, by the way, is her lingo, because she'd joke, "So, why is dad being so nice all of a sudden?" "Oh... [Mischievous look, chuckle] He got some nookie." "So, was he successful for once?" "Sort of... But, he tries. It was easier before his heart attack and diabetes, and I tended to enjoy sex more when I drank. But, it improves his mood and he does try." Rape has a wonderful way of fucking up your sex-life, huh? 3/5 women who suffer thanks to 5-10% of the male population... :/

Anywhooo...

I know FAR too many things on both extremes and see men as either being a bunch of womanizing, male chauvinist pigs, with egos the size of mountains, and dicks the size of a pencil when you throw it out, or other displeasurable things. I tend to respect women and men who've been through some serious shit because those who have and have come out the other side well, are, like my parents, fucking epicly awesome. :)

I hear that I too have been something of that, at least, according to the women in my DBT group. :P

Hahaha

So, now you know a bit more about me, and perhaps a bit of why I am how I am, and why I will do anything for my parents, mom particularly, even though I want to [STAB! STAB! STAB!] when she goes all batshit crazy and is like "Boundaries?! THERE IS NO SUCH THING AS BOUNDARIES!!!" :P Yeah, both my parents could be like that, or dad would get too physical and mom would be like, "NO! BACK! [smack] Bad Marine, special forces, ..., no punching. Only I get to do that! ;) " Love you, Mom!

Whereas my dad would tell her to stop hounding me like her mom (automatic, trained behavior is SO AWESOME! :P ) and say stuff like, "Barbara! Leave him alone. BARBARA! THAT'S ENOUGH! He won't get anything done with you pounding on him. Chris, you've got five more minutes before I kick your ass." Or "...Give him an hour." But... He won't start after that!" Which is mom code for "No! Must club child into submission!" <=How I got awarded "Honorary Asian" for having an "Asian Mom". :P

And then dad would finally lose it with the [battle] between ADHD parent doing same behavior patters as her mother (which she knew didn't work, but you're asking her to think about impulsivity??? Hahahahaha!!! and ADHD son, with an ADHD Marine father! Shenanigans!). Dad would give her his drill instructor voice which was code for, "Bitch, shut up before I kick your ass, and while I know you think you can whip me, I let you win." (Palms face) and before I get the "Your father was abusive! You're poor mother!" Don't forget that she once tore off his ear and broke his ear drum in the process. Fucking crazy these two! Hahaha! And dad was mostly blather and hot air, like mom, and would use fear as the only effective ADHD treatment. It was the only thing assured to get my mom (or my dad) of eir ass. Nothing works like a crisis! Hahaha!

I know, people reading this probably think that I come from a "madhouse" filled with "crazies" and that my father was the "worst person on earth." My aunt Jane likes to go into this "poor me" worldview (I love you Jane, but in my personal and not quite professional opinion, you're a clinical narcissist, and I COMPLETELY understand why! Not your fault! But being a bitch as your age who refuses to cope or deal with it in any way, well, that IS your problem..." :P ) and see my dad as terrible or both my parents as so terribly toxic, but the facts are, they may have caused me enormous levels of stress, much outside of their control, they never stopped loving me, even during extreme PTSD bullshit where we acted like complete fucking psychos (perfect neighborhood too! Hahaha! BPD response: FUCK YOU, YOU SELFISH, NEAUVOU RICHE, SELFISH FUCKS! TRY ACTING CIVIL AND LOVING, AND MAYBE WE'LL TRY NOT TO MAKE YOU PISS YOURSELVES!"

The best parts were my parents having wars and DHS officers, as both my parents joked, "good little feminist bitches who want to lock [me] (dad)/[your father] (mom) up because they think [I]/[he] am/is abusive." Them they'd turn and start laughing. My mom was the worst. They had their problems. I'll admit it! But, they were wonderful even in their batshit craziness, which was mostly an external thing. It's easy to look in and see a disastrous home and another thing to be willing to fight it out with another person, stick with them through thick and thin, even if they have some of the WORST habits or tendencies, and yet love them enough, and want the best for them, that you WILL DO WHATEVER IT TAKES to help them (even if you have to kick their ass in the process). That level of loyalty and respect, to me at least, is breathtaking. Both my parents are very special people, and while they have caused me some harm, it's the not that difficult and totally understandable under the given circumstances, repairable kind. Not the level of twisted selfishness I see in the world around me that is the real source of my mental instability. The depravity outside my door that refused to put in the same level of dedication to another that my parents and I have towards other people. My parents didn't give up on people, they just ended up having BPD-like reactions after a while when people wouldn't change.

It took me many years and quite a bit of pain, but I think I knew my father in many respects better, save maybe for mom, than anyone on this Earth now living. He had enough crap that the fact he wasn't more crazy is like a jaw dropping event in it of itself.

I love my parents and would and will do anything for them. I just let a world convince me of something I know in my heart to be utter bullshit, yet because I no longer see the good, it's hard to muster the strength from within. My parents taught me so very much and in many ways I've been selfish and failed them out of my own neuroses. Yet, by this point, my audience is lost, judgemental, or simply incapable of fathoming the reality before them without oversimplifying and thinking that you childhood was a was or that my parents were monsters. I spent years in fear of being taken away and therefore couldn't talk about my inner pain for fear of what society might do to me. My father was no different. He feared judgement as a cultural aftereffect of Vietnam. He was abused when he came home. He was put into a mental institution by his mother when he told his father that she'd molested him, which was a result of her neuroses, her husbands behavior, and probably seizures. She pulled back from my dad, my aunt claims my dad has some mental disorder like bipolar, but then I've seen how she acts and it was her youngest son who molested and raped me, so, take it as with a grain, Merry. She claiming it was because he acted out, chased her around the house with a butcher's cleaver as a child, even though she was a truly sadistic, spoiled little c.u.n.t. (one of only a few women I, in my utter respect for the great women of this world would ever use to describe because of her utterly contemptible behavior, which again has logical causes). And even gran's behavior had other sides and sources. It's been a funhouse of puzzles. The full extent of the human condition playing out in one family. Utterly breathtaking in its absurdity, horror, and beauty.

People, humans want a simple world that's easy to compartmentalized, deal with, and move on, but the world, the real world of out there and in here is not simple except in it's utter respect to its complexity. People refuse to sacrifice, give up, or live by the suffering living in the real world demands. I get it, some people like my relatives are of a kind and level of toxic that requires a level 4-5 hazmat suit to even marginally safely cope with or deal with, but not everyone is like that. Not to mention even at their worst, their most truly and horrific, people should be loved and sacrificed for. It's humanity's greatest biological adaptation. Cooperation, sacrifice, unconditional love. A willingness to give up even life for another, and until you've seen that or been close enough to it to understand its significance, you'll never truly know the depths capable of love. And saying that outside of pain is easy. I know, but inside is another matter.

I struggle finding a balance and seeing this picture reminds me of my family and that willingness to sacrifice love.

A Curious Tale about Marvel: Stories and their tellers.

An extremely interesting read on Stan Lee. One thing that I found most interesting is the ponderous question:  How are comic book artists and creators treated in the 21st century (as opposed to the past)? Given the challenge that this particular journalist poses to us, I'm rather saddened that he didn't get more time with Lee.

I think we (in the 21st century) could all use a bit more reality and considerably less sensationalism. What makes stories power, what makes them hit home, is precisely what makes this piece meaningful: reality. You ask a question and expect an answer.

In my own case, I've got no allegiances when it comes to comics. I'm just a random passerby who happens to enjoy the stories. But, I'm like that with everything. I enjoy what I can try when it is good (or at least, when it is human and real), and whether that is a gritty portmanteau or a poorly crafted film adaptation of the Fantastic 4 made all the more real because it was trying to keep the copyrights to the film in the hands of said director, or, perhaps, the story of two people, Jack Kirby and "Mr. Marvel", Stanley Martin Leiber, a.k.a. "Stan Lee", and the life-long struggle of comic creators. Stan was, ultimately, he admits, "a salaryman", paid by his job titles and not his creations.

In the end, whether we're writing stories about Lawrence Lessig attacking the social construct of a corrupted Polis election system or the convoluted content rights problem, society will still want, as Neil Postman might describe, "stories of meaning". We all need tales that are human, tales that tell us who and what we are, and what ultimately makes us different or similar to other things—flexing those immortal boundaries and providing sense to who we truly are—an identity, a ferocity, a power unlike others—the power of truth.

And when it comes down it it, the truth is—"Mr. Marvel" is just another character in a rather interesting story we humans craft through our lives and livelihoods. A story formed by our organizations, our structural lines, our creeds, our ideas, and our ideologies. Perhaps, as Jack Kirby's character, Loki, is so fond of proclaiming, we are "so petulant, inferior [of] creatures", for we spend our days fighting amongst each other and never truly appreciate what we have been given through the combined efforts of one another (or "collective cooperation" as S.I. Hayakawa might profess)—respecting each piece, and each player in that great production: life. Perhaps, we, oh, so petty mortal kind, shall meet out fate on the annals of universal history, to be deemed deficient.

Of these things, I cannot tell, but what I can, of those limited experiences I know, within the bounds of bare reason, is humanity needs stories that teach us who we are and storytellers who are not afraid, not matter the consequences or the costs, to tell us—even if we ourselves are too scared to admit it (or to acknowledge the results)—what being human is all about.

              

Quiet, please.

"I... Help..." No answer.

Pain. Loss. Lots of pain and lack of clarity. No one questions the strangeness. No questions answered.

"Help." None arrives.

"Where...Where are they? When will they come...? Help... Please...Dear God...Help me. Jesus...Don't abandon me in my hours of need..."

Death. Alone. Silence in Stillness. Alone and Forgot. Forgotten by the world. Abandoned by all who claimed to care. "When will they come?" Never. That's what they always do — abandon in the hours of need.

She broke in again. She invades matter the barrier. I barred the door, this time with a fan, some loose boxes filled with books, and my piano, and yet she still gets in. Her voice penetrates my sanctuary. Her angry, broken, fearful cries penetrate my mental walls. Her insecure questions. Her tremulous pleas. They never cease. Nor does she. They pierce my skull, my ears, my spirit central. They pierce through me. No end in sight. Only death will quell her might. My Death. Silence. Sleep.

Sleep. Sleep is my every desire, to sleep soundly, anywhere I might. Sleep eternal. Sleep everlasting, evermore, yet never more than an instant. "Can I? May I, please, sleep so soundly on my knees filled with such rancor broken tenderness that I dare not wake until the world is changed, my world, my broken space? While she pounds? While I tear? Perhaps, when father gets home...?" No. Not then. Then will only be more pain, more sadness, fear, and loss as something else is taken away.

Another day, another moment, another plot against him and all his dreams. Men tried to kill my daddy. Men tried to harm. Alone he is, quiet, afraid. So is mother. They are both the same. Alone and forgot. Forgotten like me, except for a swot. By word or deed, we will all be not.

Banished: Churches of the Damned

Banished: The Outcast in Modernity by the Church

By Christopher M. Vanderwall-Brown

Does Jesus teach humanity that it is permissible to withhold charity because people live in sin? Are people (or the Church for that matter) permitted or charged to withhold charity onto those of a broken nature or character or to place limits on the charity and kindness we give onto others? What does the Parable of the Prodigal Son, especially with regards to the elder brother, teach us about God's Divine Love for all humanity or as a blueprint for the church's love onto all of humanity?

For example, is it permissible to withhold food because a person might waste it or because a person refuses to sit and listen to many hours of lectures about their brokenness or their failures to uphold the criminality of their soul or lives? If someone makes a mistake or continues to make mistakes, is it charged or permissible to withhold charity upon them if they are suffering and poor?

What does our Father who art in Heaven command for us? What does Jesus teach us?

Does God put terms on our salvation or Eir charity? Must we convert? Must we do certain things in order to be forgiven or to receive God's blessings, or does God provide us these things because we ask out of love and out of divine charity? Is it merely our returning to God that is enough?

The parable of the two sons, the prodigal son demands his inheritance before his father and then departs for lands unknown. He takes his wealth, blessings, and prosperity and wastes it.

Living in the gutter, utterly broken and despotic, the son realizes that he is doomed and returned to the father's house to ask to work as a servant, to work as a slave or as a hired hand (not as a son, not with a birthright, merely a day laborer). Before the son even reaches his father's house, the father sees his son and races towards him, overjoyed. He embraces his son without explanation and proceeds to order a feast prepared and for the son to be clothed and a signet ring put upon his finger. The joy of the father at the return of his prodigal child, the child lost to him. He is so happy and filling over with joy.

The prodigal son is loved, clothed, and a feast held in honor of his return. The other son, the son who did not leave, who did not demand his inheritance, did not waste it and become low upon the Earth, looks on in disgust, in anger, in folly and pride, for he sees his brother's return in enmity to the father's love. For, having returned in rags and marred honor, the prodigal son has trampled and wasted all the father has given to him, and the other son, the son who has not failed, who has done all the father asks, instead of looking on with joy at the return of his brother, looking on with joy of the father, instead looks on in disgust, in iniquity and strife, for his pride has been heaped up against his brother for he does not believe his brother should be greeted with open arms. He is better than his fallen brother, or so he thinks, and it is his pride that is his fall. When we see ourselves as better than our fallen siblings, when we see them as lower than us, and being unequal, we have fallen pray to the greatest of iniquities..

The story is a metaphor demonstrating God's love and mirroring humanity with all those who have not left the fold and are angry and resentful because they “did as their father requested and were good, obedient children” and yet their father treats the son who has abandoned everything in equal measure with themselves. When they do this, they have become as Lucifer; they have become angry and prideful at their father and sibling for the perceived injustice at not being held in higher regard to their prodigal brother who so wronged their father, by his father, and as a result, grows to hate the father because of this perceived transgression against the loyal and steadfast son.

Has the church become the other son? Has Lucifer won us over to eir cause? Have we abandoned the true will and love of the father for that of the perceived injustice of the son who did not leave or wrong his father, but who nevertheless felt angry, prideful, resentful at his brother who trampled everything he had upheld?

When we judge others, turn away those in need because they do not meet our expectations or because they have in some way not “measured up” to our perceptions of “Justice”, have we become as the Dark One and fallen down the road of pride? Has the church become an institution of the devil and not of our Lord and savior?

Is it possible that all those critics who daily bombard us with criticisms of our claimed iniquity may be on to something and that in fact much of the church is in fact divorced from the Love and Generosity of our Lord, Savior, and Creator?

Last Call Into Night

Situational crossroads like tonight make me hate life, God, the world, our institutions, and people in general.

I got denied for social security and while mom missed it, because we were at my grandfather's funeral, the notice of the foreclosure process from the bank got sent because in my disability and my mom's broken insanity (and my being totally alone in this life shattering mess) I wasn't able to get all the paperwork filed.

There's a chance that things will still work, but if they don't, if God bails on me, on us, I'm done for good.

This world has taken everything that is precious from me and everyone who could have acted justly to stop that from occurring stood in silence.

The pain and wrongness of it all. The unmitigated moral iniquity of it all.

I am mashing my teeth, wrenching my hands, and making great lamentations.

The world is a cold and desolate placed filled with armies of unfeeling bystanders who like the many white churches in America, keep driving by, those in suffering.

This person, however, cannot watch the swaths of suffering any longer, cannot sit by doing what little he is able while suffering perpetuates, while everything and everyone he loves is stolen from him. I cannot do this any longer. I will not stand by to watch the destruction of the world or the church by the armies of the godless who claim to stand for justice any longer.

When this trial is at a close, when I've done all that I can and I find myself homeless: the childhood home in which I have resided and grown since 3rd grade taken from me, with the soulless bastards of humanity cheering on my destruction while claiming to be arbiters of justice and equity; when these things have all been expended and nothing more remains and I have lost everything and am living a homeless life, with my "selfish cunt of an aunt" sneering on, taunting my mother and I in our suffering as she reiterates how it's all our fault and how we brought this on ourselves, when those godless creatures in the church command that this is yet another reason to "disintegrate" from my mom, because she belongs in an institution where "proper care can be administered", when the heartless have finally taken refuge in the hearts of all those livings, when this shall come to pass, I shall make my only expression left to offer in silence. I shall make one last and final statement to the world and it shall be the shortest, briefest, and most concise statement I can offer.

You can read between the lines and decide for yourselves what that will mean.

I'm fed up with fighting and with losing. I've done this for too long and it just is not worth it anymore.

I am besieged by legions seeking for my destruction and I am battered on all sides by the forces of unricheousness and unholy monsters who seek for my destruction, my condemnation.

I am alone in the wilderness. I am broken. I suffer. God has yet to show Emself and until I see hope, I shall morn for lack of it. May the Lord have mercy upon your souls.

Sleep

By Christopher Vanderwall-Brown

Pain. So much pain. Overwhelming. Covering. Filling. Churning. Where is my salvation? Where is this peace so you speak? Where is my safety in this maelstrom?

Cold. Alone. Bitter. Broken. Spears of ice piercing my heart, my body. Am I to lay here... lay here to die? Die alone? Is this the end?

Where are you my God in my suffering? Where is my peace? Where is this cold's end? Please! Please, my God... End my suffering!

Silence. Suffering. Emptiness. Alone. Alone until the end. This is the end of me...

Love. Overwhelming. Embracing. I stand. I walk. Light Enveloping. Who is this figure? This figure of hope, of joy, of... everything?

Goodbye world. I love you so. But, something greater awaits. Peace. Finally. Sleep Eternal....

Petition Against Advertising on Public Broadcasts

Television Advertising as many studies show leave our children open to materialistic consumption. They become fixated with their need to buy—as like a bleeding person from a gunshot wound needs a transfusion.

PBS is one of the only commercial-free networks in America left to allow parents to expose their children to entertainment that is not inherently socially destructive, laden with commercial advertising.

As a Christian, I cannot condone the actions you, Willard Mitt Romney, present before the Polis—citizens will stand united in this affront to this fundamental economic necessity. Like national defense, a public forum or theater, just as the Ancient Greeks of Athens performed, is a key element in a stable and free democratic republic.

Calling for its reduction is equivocal to calling for the elimination of our systems of public education or for the elimination of our militias. Our founders, my 7th-great-grandfater, Justice James Wilson, would have called you out for these indiscretions.

I implore you sir, cease at once this indiscretion and learn a little about the magnitude of ramification your actions will wreck on us all.

I might suggest you inform yourself on the economic principles of Coase theory and the problem of "free-riders" in economics—it might give you the perspective you need pertaining to "free-riders" and the necessary place the government has in this market. If you are so keen on a public military, and not merely a collective of private military companies who rule our state with an iron will, then I suggest you also notice the dangers of public media that does not embody the fundamental principles of nation states.

Divine Engineering: On the Importance of Rhetoric

Divine Engineering: On the Importance of Rhetoric

On the Importance of Rhetoric

On the Importance of Rhetoric

Language and the Survival of Democracy in the Republic

by Christopher Brown

There exists a pleasurable sensation of being proven correct. Not necessarily the power to gloat over one's adversaries, which is a psychological coping mechanism and a means to attack those who have hurt or wronged you, but the power of closure—reconciliation—that you have been righted, justified, in your world view. Your striving has netted a positive result—an accurate (or more accurate) representation of reality than your peers, or at least, an important contribution to that great world view we call life.

It has been in this way that I have been justified. Rhetoric is a subject that offers tools and methods by which its pupils may better harness language to their benefit—striving to master language in an effort to enact some purpose: convince a person, clearly explain a position, affect or move a person in some fashion. There are many ways in which rhetoric is useful in our daily lives, yet it is seldom taught.

Rhetoric taught me to understand the importance of thesis statements. First that they are in fact statements, what a 'statement' is, and how one should endeavor to use a thesis in understanding and writing on a topic, a question, a problem, or an issue.

Obviously, understanding and stating your topic clearly, concisely, and precisely is vital to effective use of language; yet, few students master the art.

We should endeavor within a society which prides itself on its democratic principles to encourage the widespread teaching of rhetoric—both for the preservation of the Republic, but also for its betterment. For, Democracy cannot survive without an educated body of citizens—the Polis. This body consisting of all citizens within a nation or society—depending on how said society binds itself together—relies upon its ability to communicate effectively with itself and with other members of our world. 

Language—as we humans are language modeling beings—derive our perspective of reality greatly influence by and through our language and use of language. Without a firm grasp upon the reigns of language, we might be thrown asunder, as from a wild mount. It is the duty of each citizen to master the art of language, and with it, rhetoric, that we may present a mass of learned men and women as the penultimate defense against ignorance, bigotry, and the vitriol arts that seek to control and eventually enslave us to the will of a select and fearsome few. Our survival rests upon our ability to use language to illustrate the dangers these bands of despots present to the safety and sanctity of the Polis, and to the general welfare of our species within our Polis or the world at large.

Science In the Toliet: Recession, Unemployment, Poor Education, Competition

Have Doctorates in Theoretical Physics become worthless?

After having nearly given up on my plan, because people think I'm crazy, I am now reinvigorated by the discovery that "I'm not alone". Science requires much of people, often that in our modern world the lack of education in science and the coveted desire to earn as much money in the shortest time possible, to teachers who lack the fundamental understanding of the subjects they teach, leading to "hand-waving", also known as "this is true; just shut up and accept what I'm saying as true, slaves!". I feel more of the latter category.

It appears, however, that I'm not the only person. Scientists of the higher order appear to fall into my category. I believe science is one of those horrible disciplines that has moved into the beast of corporate society. In order that we might make companies more profitable, we are asked, as scientists, to focus purely on the applied. The problem here stems from the nature of scientific discovery. You don't get to create new theories without discovery and without people to take seemingly "magical" formula in the archaic language of mathematics and utilize this to formulate highly advanced models of reality. The problem comes from these absolute noobs (your household business executive, or your run of the mill politician or general) and their inability to understand the value of experimentation.

In the early 1990's, Congress halted construction on the Superconducting Super Collider, the largest supercollider ever constructed. Wikipedia


I've written on this before, but it was canceled, because Congress was allowing NASA (a highly political organization) to be involved in the International Space Station. Since this was in all regards a "diplomatic" enterprise, Congress saw the value less in terms of science, something they undoubtedly could not fathom, but instead in terms of the political capital they could garner from the US populace.

What were the eventual costs?

The livelihoods of an entire generation of American particle physicists and theoretical physicists who were studying in preparation of the multitudes of jobs that would result from US research at the SSC.

To give you an understanding of the attributable undertakings involved, when the project was canceled in 1993, the facility's 87.1 kilometres (54.1 mi) and 80 TeV per proton. The SSC's planned collision energy of 80 TeV was almost pentuple the 14 TeV of its European counterpart, the Large Hadron Collider (LHC) at CERN in Geneva.

The associated $12+ billion in development was mostly on account of the massive civil engineering costs associated with building the 87.1 kilometer tunnel.

The US had no facility of this kind. At this point the US is running way behind and depending solely on Europe to develop high level research, something never before known.

We instead chose a purely diplomatic issue, something Americans could see and touch (in a way) as opposed to this vastly unusual project no one seems to understand. We spent $2 billion dollars building the supercomputer mainframe facility, hiring staff, etc. What followed by the cancellation was the toileting of 1/6 of the construction costs and providing nothing in return.

The US instead chose to budget for stealth planes and the like, costing over $60 billion.

In the end, we put out of work an entire generation of scientists (theoretical and experimental) on the cutting edge of research, who now must compete with scientists in Europe for positions at CERN.

If Americans want to look at the problems in our research and development, and understand how our science community is broken, just look at how we weight science in the community of our peers. It's value is only in what we can see and touch, and is completely outside the weight of objective form.

Congress, as recently as the Cybersecurity bills, SOPA and PIPA has demonstrated a complete lack of understanding where science is concerned.

It is in the opinion of this humble member of Occupy that the scientists, educated students and those with an inclination for science should begin to involve themselves in the political arena, for the only way Congress will seek to improve, is if we "bring in the nerds" as one Congressmen recently commented (Rep. Jason Chaffetz) during the hearings for PIPA. Congress has no idea what it is doing, and the attributable costs are immense. With the consequences science has for our development as a society, it seems only logical to have those with the understanding making the decisions , as "fundamental" understanding is necessary, and these people don't understand half of what the scientists mean when they "dumb it down" for them. This is a bad sign.

Scientists! Get your law or political science degrees (or both!) and start running for political office! We need you! Stat!

Imagination Series: Essay no. 2

Essay no. 2

by Christopher Brown

As a child entering puberty, I recognized the tomfoolery of man and his adult world.

Man, unlike child is willing to give up his imagination for the sake of 'industry' or 'practicality'. There is a better word to describe this 19^th century ideal, but it alludes me.

This adult sacrifices the spirit of imagination for the 'practical' world he thinks he will enter in doing so—abandoning 'dreams' and 'imagination' in single, broad strokes. He does not see the necessity of 'waking dreams', nor the conception (notion) that the adult is merely the continuation—or extension—of the child. What is to the one must inevitably be to the other. The clouds of creation to go with the hand that hath the means to build the dreams to stone and iron—bring the clay to life in the kilns of fire.

Man neglects this and more.

He sacrifices his very essence, throwing away his very center—the locus of his power to reason. Our ability to model external creation is built upon our capacity to dream. What better way exists to strengthen that skill than through the waking dreams of youth? Why must this sport only be for children? Are not the 'sports' of youth made fully developed in adulthood? Do we not become fuller players of the great American pastime of Baseball? How then can one expect the art of imagination to be any different—follow any different a path? Would not this be asking us to do no less than go against our very nature?

Man (or very much so woman) is blessed with dreams of waking slumber. We can experience in our minds the worlds of plenty or few—explore all that is, could be, or never will be. That we throw this blessing away at a very youthful age to “fit-in” is madness. Parents tell their kids to “stop living in the clouds”, [through] that age old insult to Socrates by Aristophanes in his play The Clouds.

We somehow believe adulthood must be the absence of childhood fun as opposed to its fruition. Imagination is the blooming of a flower and the ripening of its fruit that we may all enjoy together.

Have we not reached an age where man is “mature” enough in experience to see the folly of Aristophanes and his peers? We need imagination and must look to our childhood to find it.

Imagination Series: Essay no. 1

Essay no. 1

by Christopher Brown

The importance of imagination: when a child dreams for their first time of the waking of wonder while their body is very much alive, they experience the power of God's greatest gift. The storyteller's gift—imagination.

Unlike other gifts, this allows us to explore strange new worlds, seek out what is unknown and overall experience the power of creation.

The differences are that when God does it, the creation is made real, whereas man or woman only have—possess the power of mind. We may externally create our worlds bound within the confines of natural law, but are limited in our modes of childhood expression.

In preventing children from experiencing childhood, you do not allow them to make for themselves their own worlds. It is the worlds of great fiction that arise from great imagination or experience.

The pain of youth must be real enough to evoke a visceral expression of the external world. Our model building is only as good as our [capacity to imagine]. As a child, I swore off the world of grownups and other people to protect my imagination—its vividness.

People are so willing to pass off [their] 'fantasies' of youth for the 'models' of adulthood, only for them to discover if they search hard enough and long enough that those are the same—if, perhaps, built on a little more evidence.

Science is fantasies brought to life through mathematics and experimentation. The models we build are still childhood fantasies. The grand delusion of waking man is to believe they are something else—reality--for the only thing 'real' is the conversation(s) between people, everything else is a fantasy produced in the mind to make the external sensory input make more sense. We do not know what is really out there, beyond what we can talk about, describe and agree upon. We not even know if there is a 'real' world out there, or if the external is simply our false perceptions. Reality may in fact be very different then we can dare to imagine.

The child can understand this, why then can't the adult? Are we really so different?

Analyzing Teaching as a Subversive Activity

Analyzing Teaching as a Subversive Activity by Neil Postman and Charles Weingartner

by Christopher-Titus Mark Vanderwall-Brown

In Postman's themed chapter entitled "Crap Detecting"¹, he focuses on the idea that within any system of modern education it is the due obligation of said institution to focus not on subverting the masses to their preceptor's indomitable will, but instead, to focus teaching the majority, the mass of humble stricken bodies lost amidst the confused notions of the new age, how to deal with new ideas, new systems of belief, the influx of technology which has changed our world -- made it into something we have never before imagined -- and now it is with much effort we have focused our attention on producing within our young the methodologies necessary, the internal systems whereby our children are capable of detecting the "crap" perpetuated by our society. This may sound as though we are asking for the impossible, but we are not. Postman looks forward at this rare secular forest, not to abolish creation, but instead to fabricate a system whereby it may exist in the fullness and pleasures of its complete form.

It is strange to think that so simplistic a subject as "education" could transform itself into the overwhelming conception of being that it could permeate every portion of my very existence; I've often wondered if the reason I have so many problems in education, has nothing to do with the very nature of education, but instead, with myself. But then I wake up, realizing it is not I who is the problem with my ability to learn, but those who claim that holy title of -- teacher.

An interesting problem brought forward by Postman is the idea within the media society, where ideas are being blasted at the speed of light to every single cornea receptor of the optical nerve faster than anything that has come before in the past two millennia, changing every aspect of what it means to be human, what it means to possess knowledge, and how one goes about coping with this overwhelming force, bombarding our brain's with more simplistic information in an overtly "sensational" way than our bodies are capable, nor designed, to handle. It is in this way that Postman challenges us to deal with future problems, not in a ragtag method, but instead in a methodical process, whereby society is capable of finding a reason based solution to the unexpected changes always brought about by the influx of new ideas and technologies.

As Postman continues, we see his discussion move from the major description of the chaos in which society has propelled itself through the latter part of the 20th century, homogenized into an almost gruesome macabre picture, where individuals lumbar about loss and confusion about where their next meal ticket will be coming from, to a detailed discussion of the very nature of our problem and perhaps a logically constructed set of solutions. Of course this “meal ticket” is not to say society is "starving" per se, but moreover that, it is within this idea of a "meal ticket" that we are craving something sensually tangible, for we have a starvation of imagination; it is not the knowledge of information we crave, but the knowledge defined by the term 'wisdom'. Wisdom, of course, meaning knowledge gained through experience, which teaches us how to deal with knowledge of information. Sometimes this term is referred to in more scholarly journals as knowledge gained a posteriori or knowledge from experience.

I do not wish to drone on about concepts that seem pointless to the average person, but it is important to note that Postman intentionally utilizes great vernaculars of an academic standard, a romantic standard, which Postman prefaces. The varying nature of his discussion, for Postman and Weingartner described themselves as romantic educators, men whose sole desire is a fulfilling the belief that problems which exist in society, tangible problems, are capable of being solved through education. He quips they may indeed be leading to the mental instability of the nation for this, but that it is their hope these problems which do exist, yet me only theoretically be resolved, could be solved through education.

1. Here Postman constructed upon a quote by the great adventurous writer Ernest Hemingway when questioned, "Isn't there any one essential ingredient that you can identify [necessary to being a "good writer"]?" he replied, "Yes, there is. In order to be a great writer a person must have a built-in, shockproof crap detector."

And there was light!...and chocolate pudding?

And after what seems like ages I have been tempted to write. Not anything tangible mind you, but as a continuation of an ever affectionate story—Alice has awoken having fallen a great distance late last night down a very long and psychedelic rabbit hole, full with flashbacks of old Squaresoft/Square Inc. games and lost English friends she hasn't spoken to in any great or meaningful way since childhood.

This may seem well and good for all you happy mortals, but knowing mortals as I so do, few will wander onto this page for fear of being lost in a very outdated prose I consider comfortable. Much like C. S. Lewis considered his life's work comfortable when he compared it to Tolkien's manic life's accomplishment(s). I would dare say that Tolkien was more of a man, who in a very similar fashion to myself, wasn't satisfied with society's generalizations and wanted his world perfect and if that meant dedicating his life to his novelties, well dammit sir, he did just that. He'd cut off his left arm if it meant he'd get another chapter. People thought he was quite mad, mad as a march hare; mad as a hatter. But we already know that. His only real friend I dare say in those early days had to be Lewis. Why, I having no complacent or logical discourse to justify that statement with beyond pure unadulterated passion.

If my friend, this pocket watch carrying Rabbit in trench coat who has managed to tempt me, or dare I say, flog me down this particularly dark rabbit hole into a world I scarcely remember, but feel with such a passion it is as though my heart was lost in fuzziness, happens to read this passage of randomly connected statements (which I'm constantly editing for the sake of it) I dare to call writing, then perhaps he will find some deeper meaning in it all—we can only hope.

I'd slap him for that flashback, but seeing I rather like the confused sense of reality, the sense at knowing that this Lost World of imagination, childhood and imaginative originality—once all my own—has been brought back all by a couple of journal entries of pedantic whining on his part.

Ironically, and in not too small an order, he managed to give me an ulcer (to which Google gave me a correction for my incapacity to spell words properly without great assistance. It is to no surprise of my own that I am an infant when it comes to typos and spelling mistakes, grammatical debaucheries of the fourth order. Remember first order debaucheries are not capable by primary users of a language unless they are Americans after consuming large quantities of alcoholic substances in the presence of her majesty. “Good Morning Mr. President.”). To which I also might add, the inescapable truth in life is that while we try and avoid the reality of imagination, our minds trying to delude us into thinking fiction, fantasy is simply a delusion, created as a pastime by our troubled minds in order to escape reality, it strangely may yet become known that reality is overrated and is not really reality at all, but another fantasy our minds concoct in order to deal with the sameness of our lives and fantasy is simply an expression of the human spirit, the human condition in an effort for us to better understand ourselves and our potential. So that that simple yet eloquent boy may yet still become a heroic man and save the world under blade or pen.

May all your swords stay sharp, your pens flowing to constantly bombard the authorities with annoying legal rhetoric whose only purpose is to maim and prevent their dark selves from bringing about world destruction.

To a friend who often finds himself lost in a pub somewhere in Northern England I give a message. Perhaps fate is not always a warm and kindred spirit, but sometimes she has a way of bringing all bad things to a close and showing us our destinies even if we don't always realize them at first. Fantasy is the pathway to (into) the human spirit and perhaps your novel is your method of escape. Remember to imagine, to find the deepest meaning in life. Find the power to find yourself and the stupidity to laugh at my ridiculously high brow prose. Perhaps this is all just a flawed perception or mental constipation on my part, my inability to grow up, but I do think in some small way God is telling Christopher not to Grow up, not just my imagination's dying wish to live.

So to close, Andrew, World, Life, God, whatever else exists and is capable of reading my random prose—Perhaps this message will reach you in good light and measure. Find meaning in something, in the daily pressures of our existence. Hopefully there is some small purpose in it all that will give us meaning. I dare say I know not what it is nor where it is leading me, but at least it has been fun—this merry life we do lead. Good luck and perhaps I shall meet you again in another forum, another life, another world.

God Bless and may the pudding and flying spaghetti monsters of lesser men bounce harmlessly off your innumerable intellects.

Postman & Collins, an Academic Study: Progress in the New Millennium

Below is written my essay. Contrived in a twisted mind, perfected for the motal coil. Read on if you can handle it...

Postman & Collins, an Academic Study: Progress in the New Millennium

By Christopher Mark Vanderwall-Brown

December 9, 2009

“Western Progress” is a misconstrued mirage, propagated by the altruistic actions of sentient beings, desiring for a superior world; without active participation by individual citizens within their respective civilizations, this “Social Progress” will falter, failing miserably in its perceived objective to better social welfare and the human condition, pushing human civilization back into the cradles of time, as it has done so often throughout history; the themes of Postman’s epic work are played out within the poem of Collins, which illustrates a future crammed, not with luminous perfections, higher ideals and a generally better life for the individual, but, instead, familiar human qualities, clothed in simply tailored human faults and draped in the illusive perception of “dependence upon the society to solve the individual crisis”.

To this end, I endeavor within this placid prose, punctuated for conciseness, to illuminate the dark recesses of the conjoined works of Neil Postman, his magnum opus, Building a Bridge to the 18th Century: How the Past Can Improve our Future and former United States Poet Laureate, Billy Collins, who specific work “To a Stranger Born in Some Distant Country Hundreds of Years from Now” acts as a sarcastic parody and illuminating beacon into the tarnished hearts of American and Global Culture, a warning to us all that putting too much faith in “Progress” will lead to our eventual downfall, or at least, getting us hit with a good chunk of wet egg.

Neil Postman, a late professor, Paulette Goddard Chair of Media Ecology, and Chair of the Department of Culture and Communication at New York University, was an inspiring American author, a media theorist and a well regarded, and might I add, amusing, critic of modern western culture. The body of Postman’s work can be found slanting a vast range of topics, including: technology, the “post-modern, epistemic relativist”, education, the media, modern political activity and arguing for a return to the ideals of 18th century Europe, to which his final work so eloquently decrees.

The purpose of his last work, seem clearly his last and best attempt at teaching citizens of America his theories on how to better society, how it actually works and what is necessary to take with us into the new millennium. How we may create a transcendental narrative for a future beyond our imagination.

“What are we to make of this? There are many possibilities. Among them are the strange and fanciful dreams that seem always to accompany the onset of a new millennium. Some believe a new age signals the Second Coming of Christ, some believe it signals the end of everything, and in between the varieties of delusion are legion. The possibility that strikes me as most plausible is more mundane. And it has happened before, with or without the coming of a new millennium. I refer to the confusion that accompanies the absence of a narrative to give organization and meaning to our world—a story of transcendence and mythic power. Nothing can be clearer than that we require a story to explain to ourselves why we are here and what our future is to be, and many other things, including where authority resides. I am not writing this book to document the loss of narrative. I have done that already, as have others in books better than mine. Besides, I have no intention of writing still another depressing book about the breakdown of the human spirit. But it may be said here that when people do not have a satisfactory narrative to generate a sense of purpose and continuity, a kind of psychic disorientation takes hold, followed by a frantic search for something to believe in or, probably worse, a resigned conclusion that there is nothing to find. The devil-believers reclaim a fragment of the great narrative of Genesis. The alien-believers ask for deliverance from green-gray creatures whose physics has overcome the speed of light. The deconstructionists keep confusion at bay by writing books in which they tell us that there is nothing to write books about. There is even one group who seeks meaning in the ingenuity of technological innovation. I refer to those who, looking ahead, see a field of wonders encapsulated in the phrase “the information superhighway.” They are information junkies, have no interest in narratives of the past, give little thought to the question of purpose. To the poet who asks, “Where is the loom to weave it all into fabric?,” they reply that none is needed. To the poet who asks, “What gods do you serve?,” they reply, “Those which make information accessible in great volume, at instantaneous speed, and in diverse forms.” Such people have no hesitation in speaking of building a bridge to the new century. But to the question “What will we carry across the bridge?” they answer, “What else but high-definition TV, virtual reality, e-mail, the Internet, cellular phones, and all the rest that digital technology has produced?”

These, then, are the hollow men Eliot spoke of. They are, in a sense, no different from the alien-and devil-believers in that they have found a story that will keep them going for a while, but not for long. And, in a way, they are no different from those academics who find temporary amusement and professional advancement in having no story at all. I am not writing my book for these people. I write for those who are still searching for a way to confront the future, a way that faces reality as it is, that is connected to a humane tradition, that provides sane authority and meaningful purpose. I include myself among such people.” (Postman 9-10)

Postman’s theory is simple; that human dependence on “progress” to solve its problems is flawed reasoning and that “progress” only occurs because of human involvement. When the “human factor” is removed, society returns once again to the past where it comes from, as it did after Rome, and likely so will again, at least as long as human beings lose their narratives and neglect the importance of being human. He calls the dependence on future generations to save the present.

The justification for this is that “Progress” is an illusion, created by a series of historical events; formed first by a perception society came to during the Enlightenment, which was a great time of social and scientific achievement. The “progress” witnessed by society, began, starting in the late 18th century, to convince society that it was on a never-ending road to improvement. By 1900, men and women spoke of a future limited only by limits of our imagination. “By the eighteenth century, the idea that history itself was moving inexorably toward a more peaceful, intelligent, and commodious life for mankind was widely held. Both David Hume and Adam Smith argued that there existed a self-generating impulse of rising expectations that must lead to a society of continuous improvement. Bernard Mandeville argued that the ‘private vices’ of envy and pride are, in fact, ‘public virtues’ in that they stimulate industry and invention, and Hume wrote that the ‘pleasures of luxury and the profit of commerce roused men from their indolence,’ leading them to advances in their various enterprises.” (Postman, 28) He then continues by illustrating that while these ideas may be valid in a society of active involvement, the events of modern society are reversing the trend, and the dependence upon others to solve personal crises will eventually lead to another dark age in civilization, if not a complete reboot of the system.

Collins on the other hand is writing a poem as a letter to the future, he writes it also to his present. The persona is Collins himself, although sarcastically noted. The poem is a retort to critics who say he is like Mary Oliver, who he quotes as “I write poems for a stranger who will be born in some distant country hundreds of years from now.” This seeming censure of his critics at first seems like a merry stroll through the park, but after further contemplation serious questions begin to arise. While it may be true that Collins does not write to the future, it is apparent that he is writing to his present and to the future in what becomes as deeply philosophic as Eliot or Frost. When he uses the metaphor to ask the future if they, “O stranger of the future!/O inconceivable being!/whatever the shape of your house,/however you scoot from place to place,/ no matter how strange and colorless the clothes you may wear/ I bet nobody there likes a wet dog either./I bet everybody in your pub,/even the children, pushes her away.” (Collins, 89)

The discussion Collins has about this “wet dog”, is interesting as it appears to be a metaphor for the problems in society. The dog typifies the human suffering and the plagues of human experience as society futilely looks to the future for salvation. We are flawed and no matter how great we perceive ourselves, according to Collins, we possess faults. However, when Collins looks to the future he seems to do so in a warm and perky tone. Illustrating to me, that, even if the future is flawed, this is not a bad thing, as when people look back, it will be as we do into the past, some things we don’t like, but overall, we see ourselves in them. To this Collins speaks.

But how may you ask does the fallacy noted by Postman and the “wet dog” of Collins relate? If you think of some of the most popular science fiction movies of the past 40 years I think you will see the correlation. Postman warns us that our personal involvement is necessary to make change; we need a real narrative and the active involvement in government and society to bring about a better future. Collins argues that with the current attitudes, the “future will save us” mentality, society will end up in the same place it always does, brushing out wet dogs under the blanket, ignoring they are there, our problems, and when the problem comes to pet us, ask for assistance in the cold and rain, we push them away, as easy as it is, we detest wet dogs (problems). And to that Collins looks on with some sense of relish, as he knows that the arrogant ones will not make a better tomorrow, simply a different one, and even then, those of the future will look back and see our world no different than theirs, the flaws making us human.

Interestingly, the two authors give us some good advice. Specifically, when we look to the future we have two outcomes: Sameness or Improvement. Society like those dystopian futures can be terrible and different. Everyone, as it does today, will have the haves and the have nots, society will be clambered by restrictive governments, bloody wars and utter destruction. Our other possibility is the improved idea, the getting off your butt and doing something future, the Star Wars and Star Trek ideal. It may not be a perfect world, but it looks better. Postman and Collins give us this twofold theme in one, that if we propagate our future with effort, education and knowledge, a narrative for the future built upon our past and present, we can have a future, not too different from our present, but better, otherwise we may yet cast ourselves into the eternal fires of humanity’s darker side, and leave an encrusted, fiery chard hole where civilization once stood.

Works Cited

Collins, Billy. "To a Stranger Born in Some Distant Country Hundreds of Years from Now." Sailing alone around the room new and selected poems. New York: Random House, 2001. 89-89. Print.

Postman, Neil. Building a Bridge to the 18th Century: How the Past Can Improve Our Future. New York: Vintage Books, 1999. Print.

What is Divine Engineering?

Why is it called "Divine Engineering"?

Well, as Shakespeare put it, "Would a rose smell a sweet, if by any other name?". I know that doesn't answer your question, but it does pose the point, why is it called something. It is because humans have the convention to name things. The physical properties are independent of the name, but the name to humans has meaning. So then why did I pick such a peculiar name for a blog? Simple.

"GOD".

I hope that answers your question.

Now that we have been given the answer, let's use those deductive reasoning abilities to express why that is.

Simply, my pastor had a sermon not to far back called "Call and Response" where he spoke on finding your calling.

I won't break down the sermon here, but the gist was it broke down three things we can do to help understand what our calling is. I looked back at my life and strangely enough my calling, is a lot like a divine engineer. It's really strange. So, seeing this new turn in my life, finding what I believe is an adept description of my calling, I've decided to call my blog that and see where the light guides me.

I hope everyone will enjoy the ride. ^_^'

Now you may be wondering what specifically is "Divine Engineering", well, from what I can see from my personal experience, the basic description of an engineer is one who finds solutions to problems in society, more specifically, by taking theories and applying them to produce actually functioning technologies, systems and institutions. Other forms may be produced.

I admit engineering in recent times has moved away from the original term, where to "engineer" something, was " to arrange, manage, or carry through by skillful or artful contrivance." One might say that to be an engineer in the scientific or physical fields would be the modern notion of an engineer. However, physical engineering is not the only forms. We could have a social engineer, like Jefferson, Adams, and Wilson. People who we might define as Statesmen. People who took the ideas of others and put them into practice by creating a system/institution whereby something was created to solve a problem. e.g. government, or democratic republic.

Another type of engineer, might be a spiritual engineer, one who takes the spiritual theories of one and creates an active, functioning religion from it. A set of beliefs and an organization by which those beliefs may be disseminated. I admit this is tad controversial, but by my definition, people such as Peter and Paul, or the early Buddhists engineered their religions from the teachings of theorists. Jesus or Buddha, regardless of your personal beliefs were a form of spiritual philosopher/scientist. They were the enlightened ones of their age, thought deep thoughts and made great strives. (I admit, I believe Jesus was real, alive and the Christ, but for the purposes of this discussion, I don't think we need to look at that aspect, regardless of my personal views, nor taking anything away from the respected individuals.)

Finally, from what I could witness in my mind, there exists, artistic engineering. Moreover, the engineering of the theories practices and applications of art and the finding of solutions to artistic problems is its own kind of engineering. Michelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci were their own engineers. Da Vinci in his own way (a little bit of the physical engineer and artistic). When they went about finding, using physical theoretical means (geometry and representation of physical existence) to express the world as it appeared to them or "is", they constructed new forms of artistic expression, but also the structure or systematization that was evident behind the creation.

I don't think engineering is merely creating something, but instead, creating something from a specific set of theories. In this way, Michelangelo and Da Vinci were both artistic scientist and engineers, for they created new theories and built creations based upon those theories. In the case of Da Vinci, he used his new artistic theories to make a system whereby it became possible to design the helicopter, glider, military weapons. All of these stemmed from Da Vinci's mind, but were unable to be expressed physically until he created the system, engineered the system, whereby these ideas could be expressed or transposed from his mind.

I suspect at some point I will receive a torrent of letters by offended and estranged members of the scientific community who consider my definitions arbitrary and demeaning to their life's work. I'm sorry to those who feel offended, but as this is (at least upon writing) a free nation, and because I am an engineering major, who considers himself a bit of a historian and philosopher, and because of my family's history of producing a vast assortment of engineers, I believe I have some idea what engineering is and what it isn't. Moreover, this is merely an opinion. I do not try to offer an argument for believing what I think, I only show this so you have an understanding about what I believe. Which I suspect entails the personal justification or reason for me believing my own views, but for the purposes of this article, I shall not be forming a rigorous argument, as I am too tired.

Now, as to defining the still undefined term "Divine Engineering".

It appears to me that all of these "fields" require an underlining branch. Sort of how solid state engineering resides within the domain of electrical, electronics and computer engineering. I use divine engineering as a umbrella term to mean all branches of engineering. And to be a divine engineer is more the person who is divinely inspired to find solutions to problems wherever they present themselves. My divine inspiration is to lead a life governed by problem solving in an engineering mindset. To help people whenever I can, to use good reasoning and help make society a better place. To as Dr. Dudley put it, "Assist in God's Rescue Service on Earth." He may have said "Plan" but I suspect either works. I don't edge a bold tone and claim to be "making" or "creating" anything, I'm simply doing as the Lord directs. So, as a calling, mine appears to be "the universal application of engineering and the specific mindset associated therein to solve problems where they arise as God directs and whatever resources man has available."

So , because of that, I think we can look at the future prospects of the world in a positive light and see a future bounded by positive, critical thinking, led by God's unending wisdom. Be it as myself in a relatively spiritual manner, or a traditional religious sense, I think we can agree that people generally try to make the world a better place when they are in a good mind and sense for themselves and others. My goal is to help, using whatever resources are available to me, help to procure that future.

Hopelessness in a "State of Denmark"

As futile as my present state appears, I believe its recent turn of events is the sign of my personal life's improving outlook. That delightful but not certain eventuality is the kind of altercation I've been praying for. It does not, however, spell the end to my family's incessantly destructive habits, nor will it spell any major adjustments in my parents' attitude toward me.

My father, a caring man at times, continues to bloviate and bluster in a wall vibrating and ear clasping volume. Just tonight, I had another altercation with madness. I had been doing my wash all week and apparently used all the bleach alternative, generic brand, while neglecting to remember to purchase a replacement box. An astute eye might take a second glance at that post, posing the query, “Why would a young man, nearing 23 years old, who is doing his own wash, through his own prerogative, encounter a harsh altercation for the mere use of a household cleaning product? Additionally, when the neglect was an honest mistake?” Sadly, I must agree with the analysis, it does leave open for speculation a vast assortment of reasoning, most of which would seem lacking in my situation. Sadly, the real reason that my father generally exchanges harsh words with me is fare more mundane: I do not meet his expectations and continually fail to measure up. I am a flawed individual, lacking at time moral integrity, and proliferate an exceptional strain of arrogance as a partial defense mechanism.

It is a sad sorted state of affairs I engender. I wish for once, we could exchange friendly words where the goal was to create a more positive outlook on life, but perhaps I'm asking too much of myself and him. We are blissfully ignorant mortals, transfixed upon the flaws of our brethren and not upon our own, twisted souls, gnarled by sin and the harsh quarters life dispenses.

When we are not hurling harsh terms about, we live a relatively mild and mundane life, one that transfixes between the extremes of natural and unnatural chaos and calamity, or the simple boredom that sets in between maelstroms. This short peace, is the only alleviation before another storm of overwhelming stress confronts our defenses.

But why am I complaining? I still possess my health, relatively speaking; my weight is a problem, but one that I hope to solve sooner rather than later. My youth, predictably in body is still with me, but I cannot say the same for mind. Age is a speculative and ambiguous term, because what kind of time are you talking about? Do we mean the age of my body, my life experiences, or my spiritual growth? If it's the first, yes I am young, two tends towards dust, while three is maturing but still immature.

Looking forward I guess my life harbors stressful memories of my past; injustices conspired and attributed, false claims made, and punishments dealt out to the deserving and innocent. All in a mere 22 year old skin. But what am I alluding to with all this talk of my past a present predicament? Simply I am tired, tired and restless, hoping for a better tomorrow, while still maintaining the present sucks.

That I surmise is where the joy of my life's turn of events arises. I have the chance at a better day, a better night, while all the while, practicing for my dreams. So what do you care? Hm...that is a difficult question, but I might simply ask, then why are you reading this? Perhaps you find meaning in other people's advice, perhaps you simply read to get a good laugh at a pompous inquiry. I cannot know your purpose or justification in reading this, only what I experience living my life and writing this literary expression.

So I come to another difficult quandary: Why do I lack the motivation to improve myself, my status and position. I seem to not lack the desire on a theoretical level, but in practical application I fail miserably. I want to do better, but lack the willingness to change. I have surmised much of my father's anger and frustration comes from that fact; he wants perfection, openly admitted it, yet knows fully that perfection does not exist. I guess he must be losing track of something. What I am not exactly sure, but whatever it may be, it is important to both his and my own personal growth and development.

All I really want to do is improve my lot in life by the sheer act of trying. Not unintelligent or unplanned action, but action maintaining spontaneity with the organizational proficiency I need. Where I can propel my life is beyond my sights for the moment, however, with a little effort and well placed spiritual guidance, I pray my life will be healed and impressed with the desire, determination and drive to get it done. I have the first, a partial second and entirely lack the third. That's the “get your lazy butt out the door” attribute.

I hope I can maintain my cool and focus to find a balanced perspective, where I can see my frailties while still forcing myself, with rigorous intent, to constant improvement. Where my life is headed, nor where I actually arise are beyond my scope of reasoning, but at least I can see and believe a better tomorrow is out there if only I straighten my tie, my weaknesses and get my life going in the direction God intended. I just got to pull my shoulders square, get my head out of my posterior and get with the divine program. Now if only I could find my membership card.