Don’t ask.

You may ask, “Why chili?” Considering that the Christmas holiday is mere days away and this time of year is filled with all forms of Eastern European starch concoctions and Polish pork product, the days leading up tend to lean vegetarian. There’s also the fortunate cheese wheel incident in which I was given via not-so-secret Santa a three-year aged hunk of cheddar weighing in at an impressive three pounds. Of course this means grilled cheeses galore, or panini to the gourmand in your life, and thick soups like chili on which to mound fistfuls of the white dairy gold. Everyone knows that gooey chili is the best. There’s no argument there.

I approached the streetcar stop stepping through my exhaled patches of cold breath. It was easily twenty degrees colder that it was earlier in the morning when I’d ridden my reviled Magna to work during the pre-dawn hours. Avid cyclists with their multi-hundred or even multi-thousand dollar rides tend to dislike bikes that don’t shift well and have a hard time braking when traveling at a comfortable clip. Yes, my bike may be substandard and, indeed, cheap, but it was free and it gets me to work in less than fifteen minutes.

I looked at the LCD readout at the stop that, in the darkness of the Solstice, brightly advertised the next arrival in four minutes. There was a lone Asian woman sitting at the stop. I refrained from sitting next to her and chose to stand a good distance away. She seemed lost in thought and looked lonely. I may have looked the same standing there like an oafish goof, uncomfortably leaning to one side, burrowing my hands in my coat’s pockets. I felt a drop of rain on the tip of my nose and I realized I’d forgotten my umbrella.

The headlights of the box-like car approached, blazing the way through a silky evening mist. After a spark, a series of squeaks, and a whispering slide, the street car came to a full stop. The front of the tri-sectioned car was filled with moms and kids ranging in age from probably four to thirteen. There were no seats available. I chose to stand in the second of the three sections. My days are often spent sitting for ten hours at a time in front of computer screens, so standing is usually a distinct pleasure for me.

I counted the usual suspects that I see on my daily rides around the city. They normally drop off near the Safeway to get money for their recyclable cans. They sometimes head to the library stop to congregate with some of the other homeless or to hop on the commuter rail. Some even dare to head into the Pearl, eventually getting off where the ride is no longer free and the fare surveyors reign supreme with their mantra: “Taking a survey of the fares. Fares please.”

The streetcar slid down the avenue and from the front came the sound of children singing. I thought it was someone’s music player at first. After careful aural inspection, I realized that there seemed to be spontaneous caroling a-brewing. Taken aback, I inched closer to the front cabin holding on to the rail above me making sure I didn’t fall into the middle-aged woman parked next to me. She was gabbbing into her iPhone about shopping. I decided to keep staring into my Blackberry’s void.

The din of the carols became louder and the words broke the residual noise. “Angels we have heard on high, sweetly singing o’er the plains…” floated gaily into our cabin. Despite the voices belonging to untrained children, the song seemed to flow nicely. Even the spazzy little boy sung with a certain level of expertise. I listened further and continued to stare into the void. Something, however, was amiss.

As the group segued into “Silent Night,” I realized that I felt strangely. Dissecting how this unsettled feeling came about, a soaring wave of dread overtook my emotions. What was this? Why was I feeling this way? Was there something visual that was cluing me in? Was something about to happen around me? I swept my gaze across the cabin and saw nothing out of the ordinary. The usuals had already gotten off a stop back to hock cans for cash. Everyone in the car seemed normal and looked like they were headed back from work. “Shepherds quake at the sight…” the children continued. As I sung along in my head, it became clear that I was reacting to this song that I loved as a child. This harmless song that I remember most distinctly from an episode of Benson when one of the characters, Gretchen, sung it in German. It truly is a beautiful representation from such a harshly-regarded language: “Stille Nacht! Heil’ge Nacht!”

I could not relieve myself of this feeling of dread, nonetheless. It was then that I became sad. I realized the root of why I wasn’t warmed by the carolers and why I felt no pangs to hum along. Both songs that this group of merry public transportation riders chose to sing revolve around Christ’s birth and this, honestly, put me off. In a country, and world, where the year-end winter holidays are dominated more and more by the sentiment of putting Christ back in Christmas as if Christmas is the only reason to celebrate. While the sentiment may be earnest, what it ends up being is exclusionary. Christ never left Christmas. Those that celebrate the Christmas holiday are Christian or are lapsed Christians that continue the holiday. The holiday may have in many ways been supplanted by the frenzy of commercialization required to bring so many retail outlets into the black, but the core remains.

Christmas, though, was not the first celebration of the dawn of a new day. The history of man is filled with celebrations related to the coming of the sun and the revelry behind lighting the darkest of days. So many of the stories told during these days are allegorical and it’s important to remember this. This time of year for the northern hemisphere is largely dark, cold, snowy, and wet. We need a day to turn on a bunch of pretty lights, eat a lot, and get drunk! This notion is not shoved aside by the addition of Christ to the picture, of course. It was adopted and transformed just as humans have done for time immemorial.

“Silent Night” made me sad, indeed. Should I feel that a cute group of kids, when singing Christ-centered carols, is proselytizing? And if I do, why has it even gotten to this point? Why has this time of year turned contentious instead of joyous? Was this my own paranoia?

The kids moved on to the next selection and loudly belted out “Jingle Bells.”

I hummed along and smiled.

The last time I wrote anything here was in September and the last time before that was an entry in August journaling my trip to Portland.

Of course, with my silence comes either too much work, too much thinking, or too much personal tribulation to tear myself away from. In this instance, it was too much thinking at first and then too much tribulation and, finally, too much work.

There were various storms preparing to collide in San Diego, the least of which was my actual job at Target – which I loved, actually. Our rent was going to jump significantly, life had been impossible to live financially for some time, and a future scraping-by held no promise of growth or progression. Understandably, the economy is in the toilet and our lives have reflected this in the last few years. However, I would not stand by and allow our lives to be taken down. Change was required and, indeed, change had come.

I write now from the green surroundings of Portland, OR. I made the decision to move myself and my family here not long after visiting Portland this past summer. The decision was based on a host of reasons: my aging mom is still here, the cost of living is cheaper, public transportation is top-notch, the general feel of Portland goes more with my flow.

My original intent was also to attend a smaller culinary school here in Portland. Somehow, I don’t think this is ever going to happen, though. During the application and tuition financing phase, the bottom fell out of the lending industry which, in turn, caused the bottom to fall out of any hope I had to attend culinary school. This is OK, though, because I have read far too many accounts of culinary graduates getting stuck in barely-higher-than-minimum-wage jobs for long stretches of time post-graduation. I’m pretty damn good at cooking, yes, but it’s who you know and luck that gets you far in the culinary world. I’m a little short of both. If this, my third attempt at getting into some sort of culinary arts program, doesn’t tell me that I struck out and that I should probably look at other avenues of study, then I am one dumb ass.

And, for the record, I am not a dumb ass.

I’m all right with allowing fate to lead me into whatever direction it wants to take me in regards to food, but life isn’t all that fair, especially now. I am re-evaluating my educational options at this point and most likely will finish up my degree, finally, here in PDX. Exactly what I’ll major in is still up in the air until I sit down with a counselor, hopefully in the next few weeks.

So, where does this leave me?

It leaves me in Portland!

Despite all the gloom and doom going on in America with the failing economy, I’m hopeful. Our first paychecks from Target combined (both Kim and I transferred our Targeteer jobs – I, however, have some other irons in the fire, as well) will pay rent. This is a state of finances I have not seen in over two years. There is a certain amount of freedom you feel when you know that rent can be paid for without having to scrounge. Of course, as life has it, things do not remain the same and I do not expect with the sagging economy for things to be easy. But I am hopeful and that is a step in the right direction – at least for me. I’ve some mountains to move yet, but the biggest has crumbled.

You can expect some life to be breathed into this blog from my end. I’m feeling somewhat settled in, but fit enough mentally to jot thoughts on the proverbial paper once again. Thanksgiving and the holidays approach, which always get my culinary blood flowing. Politics: they are a-changing, and seemingly for the much better. Religion: well, religion is still out there somewhere. I’m sure First Unitarian will jar some of those crags loose for me – when I can actually make it in for a Sunday service.

I am alive, indeed. The great thing is that I actually am starting to feel that way after a long, much too long dormancy.

For those of you looking to make some friends on Facebook, look me up.

Tell me you found me on iddream.com and I’ll add you.

Cheers!

Allow me this one question concerning this: If this were held, say in the Detroit area, where the Muslim population is significant and the nominees were questioned in a Middle Eastern community center, would there be outrage?

I dare say that the fires would still be burning, lit by Americans in arms to an insurgent rise to our core liberties and our freedoms. “Terrorists!” would be the first drops from their poisoned tongues. Terrorists, indeed.

I am outraged. Outraged not only because Saddleback and the represented Evangelical branches of Christianity felt the need to host this first forum, but that they ever needed to do this at all. And, we quiet, shame-faced Americans sit by and let this happen without a single word. America is not Christianity. To have ever even thought that it was proper for a church, especially a mega-church with this cult status (and just because it is a huge church with 22,000 members doesn’t mean that it’s not a street-corner cult), to intervene in our nation’s political process to ask the same, tired, and dried questions regarding “life” appalls me.

Our civics take place on our streets and in our halls of government – not in our churches.

I watched some of the John Adams mini-series yesterday. Of course, HBO took the opportunity of our nation’s birthday to run a marathon of the mini-series from beginning to end. I watched the first few episodes, which were excellent pieces of television, but didn’t catch the last several. I’m waiting now to get the DVD set so I can sit and watch it on my own time and at my own pace.

Nonetheless, I watched a scene in which John Adams and Thomas Jefferson discussed the direction America was already taking with President Washington at its head – a direction closer to monarchy than they liked. Jefferson, in response to Adams’ trepidation of this fact, uttered one of his most famous lines, quoted above. I think that single line says it all, really. I know it can be cliché to try and reach back to our country’s forefathers, but as the Evangelists formed the basis, unknowingly so, of the New Testament, the forefathers, too, formed something of which they had no concept of size or power. Here we are over 230 years later staring at an America under our feet that is imperfect, as well it should be. However imperfect, though, America has lost its spirit and its promise and it is only natural to return to the roots of anything to renew all that is lost.

As I alluded in my last entry, I’ve been listening to The Boston Camerata‘s Liberty Tree: Early American Music 1776-1861. From beginning to end it is a gripping work of art. Another of the songs caught my attention and I searched for the lyrics, which I found rather handily. The song is “The Liberty Tree” as penned by one of my personal heroes, Thomas Paine. Here are the lyrics:

“The Liberty Tree”
by Thomas Paine

In a chariot of light from the regions of day
The Goddess of Liberty came;
Ten thousand celestials directed the way
And thither conducted the Dame.
This tall budding branch, from the garden above,
Where millions with millions agree,
She bro’t in her hand, as a pledge of her love
The plant she call’d Liberty Tree.

This celestial exotic struck deep in the ground
Like a native it flourish’d and bore.
The fame of its fruit drew the nations around
To seek out its peaceable shore.
Unmindful of names or distinction they came
For freemen like brothers agree,
With one spirit endow’d, they one friendship pursued
And their temple was Liberty Tree.

Beneath this fair branch, like the patriarchs of old
Their bread, in contentment, they eat.
Unwearied with trouble, of silver or gold,
Or the cares of the grand and the great.
With timber and tar they old England supplied
Supported her power on the seas;
Her battles they fought, without having a groat
For the honour of Liberty Tree.

But hear, O ye swains (’tis a tale most profane)
How all the tyrannical powers,
King, Commons and Lords are uniting amain
To cut down this guardian of ours.
From the east to the west, blow the trumpet to arms
Thro’ the land let the sound of it flee;
Let the far and the near, all unite with a cheer
In defense of our Liberty Tree.

From The American Patriotic Songbook, 1813. First published in 1775.
Tune: “Once the Gods of the Greeks.”

Striking poetry indicative of a time of inspiration, desperation, and triumph.

Take the time, also, to make it over to my friend’s blog for more inspirational American flourishes. Tim is a patriot.

On this day in 1845, Henry David Thoreau moved into his cabin on Walden Pond. It was 10 feet wide by 15 feet long, had an attic and a closet, two windows, and a fireplace. It cost twenty-eight dollars and twelve cents to build. The single biggest expenditure was three dollars and ninety cents for nails. Thoreau boasted that he was a good builder, but when the cabin was excavated a hundred years later, the investigators found hundreds of bent nails in the cellar hole. He had two knives and forks, three plates, one cup and one spoon. He had a huge garden, seven miles of bean rows altogether, and he spent a lot of time weeding them and chasing away the woodchucks.

And:

On this day in 1855, the first edition of Whitman’s Leaves of Grass was printed. It consisted of 12 poems and a preface. The printers were friends of his, and they did not charge Whitman for their work. He helped set some of the type himself. “Grass” is a printer’s term; it refers to a casual job that can be set up between busy times.

Both of these authors have over time come to influence much of my philosophical and theological thought. When I think of the promise of America, I don’t think of Barack Obama, John McCain, or anyone else really. I think about Walden. I think about poems such as “Long, Too Long America,” or “Beat! Beat! Drums!” and, of course, “O Captain! My Captain!” These are America and will always be America.

Also, I want to post a set of lyrics for a song entitled “Jefferson and Liberty” for all of you to read. This song became known to me through The Boston Camerata from their CD, Liberty Tree: Early American Music 1776-1861, and the lyrics, I believe, are appropriate for today:

Jefferson and Liberty

The gloomy night before us lies,
The reign of terror now is o’er;
Its gags, inquisitors and spies,
Its hordes of harpies are no more
Rejoice, Columbia’s sons, rejoice
To tyrants never bend the knee
But join with heart, and soul and voice
For Jefferson and Liberty.

O’er vast Columbia’s varied clime
Her cities, forests, shores and dales;
In riding majesty, sublime,
Immortal liberty prevails,
Rejoice etc.

Hail! long expected glorious day
Illustrious memorable morn:
That freedom’s fabric from decay
Secures – for millions yet unborn.
Rejoice etc.

His country’s glory, hope and stay,
In virtues and in talents tried;
Now rises to assume the sway,
O’er freedom’s temple to preside.
Rejoice etc.

Within its hallow’d walls immense
No hireling band shall e’er arise;
Array’d in tyranny’s defence,
To hear an injur’d people’s cries.
Rejoice etc.

No lordling here with gorging jaws.
Shall wring from industry its food;
No fiery bigot’s holy laws,
Lay waste our fields and streets in blood.
Rejoice etc.

Here strangers from a thousand shores
Compell’d by tyranny to roam;
Shall find, amidst abundant stores,
A nobler and a happier home.
Rejoice etc.

Here art shall lift her laurel’d head
Wealth industry and peace divine;
And where dark forests lately spread
Rich fields and lofty cities shine.
Rejoice etc.

From Europe’s wants and woes remote
A dreary waste of waves between;
Here plenty cheers the humble cot,
And smiles on every village green.
Rejoice etc.

Here, free as air’s expanded space,
To every soul and sect shall be;
That sacred privilege of our race,
The worship of the Deity.
Rejoice etc.

These gifts, great Liberty, are thine,
Ten thousand more we owe to thee;
Immortal may their mem’ries shine,
Who fought and died for Liberty.
Rejoice etc.

What heart but hails a scene so bright
What soul but inspiration draws;
Who would not guard so dear a right
Or die in such a glorious cause.
Rejoice etc.

Let foes to freedom dread the name,
But should they touch the sacred tree
Twice fifty thousand swords would flame,
For Jefferson and Liberty.
Rejoice etc.

From Georgia up to Lake Champlain
From seas to Mississippi’s shore;
Ye sons of freedom loud proclaim,
The Reign of Terror is no more.
Rejoice-Columbia’s sons, rejoice!

To tyrants never bend the knee;
But join with heart, and soul and voice
For JEFFERSON and LIBERTY.

It’s the birthday of English art critic and nun Sister Wendy Beckett, born in South Africa (1930) and raised in Edinburgh, Scotland. She’s been a nun for more than 60 years, an art critic for more than 20. She’s famous for books on art and her television shows on the BBC and PBS where she talks about art in museums around the world in plain, understandable language.

Sister Wendy said, “Many people feel I am not really equipped to understand art, that I am not educated enough to speak to people in elitist languages, but don’t you see — that’s the point!” Her first book was Contemporary Women Artists (1988).

Sister Wendy surprises her audience with the way she openly talks about sex and nudity in paintings without any embarrassment. She says, “I use the words that come naturally…I’m absolutely astonished and bewildered to find people commenting on my delight in a naked body. Never, ever, has anyone suggested that parts of the body were not quite right, that God made a mistake, that they should be passed over. It’s appropriate to comment on everything in the painting. I’m not going to deny God’s glory by pandering to narrow-mindedness.”

Sister Wendy negotiated in her contract that no matter where she is filming, she must go to mass every day. When not filming, she lives in solitude and prayer in a trailer on the property of the convent. All the money she makes from her book sales and her shows go to the Carmelite convent and its hospice for children. Sister Wendy says, “When you are talking about art, you are talking about God indirectly; all experience of art is an indirect experience of God.”

I am a lucky man. I am lucky because thirteen years ago I found this love resting her sleeping self in the crux of my arm, all wrapped up to stay warm in the frigidity of a Maryland winter. In her eyes I felt the bind and the draw to that supernatural otherness – that pull that makes you willing to lay your life down for another human being. My love had been found.

Today, Delphina, having turned thirteen, is on her path to womanhood. It makes me excited. It makes me want to cry. It makes me remember all the days we spent together learning about the world and it makes me remember how small she was just yesterday and how old she is at this very second. It makes me wonder how many sunsets we’ve experienced together and how many more there will be. It makes me the happiest and saddest man alive all at once. And, still, she’ll make me laugh today as she always has and, most likely, always will.

Delphina is an ode all unto herself to that search for love that humanity inevitably takes upon its shoulders – and she is my answer to that quest.

Happy birthday, kid. I love you.

Today, though, I’d like to selectively remove this part of my personality and look at life with a more grateful vision. It is Thanksgiving Day today and no matter how you may feel about the origins of this holiday, the bottom line is that today has evolved to become a uniquely American holiday and it is singularly a day to appreciate what you have because there is always someone else who has less.

This blog often seems like an open exchange of letters between Randy and me. I’d argue that point, but then sometimes I think that notion is correct. Now and then, for me, it’s a forum in which I think I’m speaking to an empty house. I feel like a representative sitting in Congress reading to the janitors as they sweep the aisles of crumpled papers with impressive letterheads. I want a record of what has gone and what goes through my head. In doing so, though, I invite the world to think about what I think about, to put it awkwardly. I am glad that some of you do take part in this endeavor because I think it just might be a quick path to a vacation at an asylum. So, on this day I send thanks out to you, o’ mighty Internet, and to you readers who may read and not say anything and, especially, to those readers who read and do say something. Here’s to you.

I also, of course, want to pass along my gratitude for the friendship between us and Randy and Mary that has held strong. Whatever it is that we may pontificate upon – politics, religion, cooking, music, art – it binds us all. Sharing these things with them has made life worth living even in the toughest of times.

To all of our friends in Detroit, far too many to name, we give thanks to you all for keeping us in your hearts and in your minds. Truly, it is you that keeps the fire in our bellies strong. We’ve never known such an amazing assortment of individuals and we never will.

To our many other friends dotting the landscape of the mountains, plains, the swamps, the forests, the hills, and the coasts of our land – we thank you for making our lives all the more colorful.

To our families scattered all across the States, we give thanks to all of you for being a constant source of inspiration, stories, history, and, indeed, laughs.

On a personal note, I want to thank my wife, Kim, for just being herself. It is through her that I stay as strong as I can and it is through her that I am made an honest husband and father. Without her, my life would have no contextual meaning. I also thank my daughters, Delphina and Hero, for completing my life as it is. It is through them that I dream of a future that is better.

Again, thanks to all of you and thanks to God for making things complex. I like it that way.

I’d first heard of him from a friend of mine, Tim, who seems to have an undying love for (and, in turn, a frustrating relationship with) said Mr. Bazan. Pedro the Lion was his band at a point some years ago. Again, the only thing I recall is seeing the band’s moniker emblazoned across a flyer for the long defunct downtown Detroit showspace/cafe, IO.

I may know only a little about the man, but I’m guessing he is probably the perfect embodiment of faith in America today. David seems stuck in the push and pull that is God. I can identify with his recent statements regarding a different David Bazan that wrote “Secret of the Easy Yoke,” a song I’ve never heard. For a more descriptive snippet, read this blog entry. It was the MySpace bulletin that Tim posted that got me to think more about Mr. Bazan and where I stand currently regarding faith and the ever-present mystery of such things.

It seems to me that David Bazan is a thinker. I know that, often, thinkers might be looped into the realm of unbelievers, but I think that’s giving David the short shrift. I’m on hiatus from the God thinking because it was taking a turn towards realms I didn’t want to think about. I’d started to see Christianity traipsing toward the underbelly of indie thinking, giving birth to cheesy Jesus hippies. I already thought that the hippies I knew, unbelievers mostly, were on the right track. I didn’t need to know about hippies who travel around, holding their hands to the sky. Why not just get on your knees and kiss the earth? Or, play the drums like the dirty pagan hippies do?

To merely believe is not to enact or to empower. To merely believe or to merely have faith is to simplify things.

So, who the hell is David Bazan? I think he just might be a prophet for a new age of believers who test their faith constantly and who sometimes drift away to maintain their sanity.

But then, what do I know? I’ve only just met him.

BANQUETE, Texas — The director of a Christian boot camp and an employee were arrested Friday for allegedly dragging a 15-year-old girl behind a van after she fell behind the group during a morning run, authorities said.

Charles Eugene Flowers and Stephanie Bassitt of San Antonio-based Love Demonstrated Ministries, a 32-day boot camp, were arrested on aggravated assault charges for the alleged June 12 incident.

The two are accused of tying the girl to the van with a rope then dragging her, according to an arrest affidavit filed Wednesday by the Nueces County Sheriff’s Department.

Both remained in Nueces County Jail late Friday on $100,000 bond each.

A call to Love Demonstrated Ministries was not immediately returned Friday. No listing was found for Bassitt. An answering machine at a listing for Flowers cut off during an attempt to leave a message Friday.

Flowers, the camp’s director, allegedly ordered Bassitt to run alongside the girl after she fell behind, the affidavit said. When the girl stopped running, Bassitt allegedly yelled at her and pinned her to the ground while Flowers tied the rope to her, according to the affidavit.

The girl’s mother gave investigators photos of her daughter’s injuries that were taken at a hospital where the girl was treated and a sworn statement from a witness who claimed to see the girl being dragged on her stomach at least three times.