An Exercise In Futility - Written late at night, unedited and disorganized

For the past few weeks, I've spent a lot of time on the computer.  I've made progress in my homework, organized Waffle Day at USP, and played a bunch of games.  Computers are good.  However, I tend to overuse them.  When I'm working, I use my laptop.  When I'm taking a break, I play computer games.  If a new song or comic strip comes out, I look it up online.  I even use my computer to communicate with friends.  For some reason, I'm dissatisfied.

Goat Simulator: A game where you run around as a goat, wrecking as much havoc as possible.  If you cause the right kind of destruction, you get bonus abilities, that usually help you cause more mayhem.

The Stanley Parable: Mostly about a man who pushes buttons repeatedly, and his adventures in an abandoned office, with a confused narrator, a mind control facility, a broom closet, a blue door, and a game with a baby.  After you make a bunch of choices, the game spits out the predetermined "ending," and restarts itself from the beginning.  Definitely a game best played without watching a walk through beforehand.

Both of these games are incredibly pointless.  The "objective" is to walk around until stuff happens, then enjoy the stuff.  It's great, but terribly painful and boring after a few hours.  If you want to play these games, please don't spend hours without long breaks.  I don't want to hear or see anything related to these games for at least 1 week. 

Anyway, futility.  Computers are amazing.  You can make so much out of them.  There's almost endless (interesting) content stored online.  Yet, I'm fed up with computers, for the moment.  I don't really understand why, but I'm missing something when I'm focusing on a screen for a long period of time.  I always leave the screen bleary-eyed, wishing to go to bed, and hike a mountain, all at once.  Maybe I'll 3d-print one in a few years, and go climb that.  Goodnight.

*Side-note, both games have a bit of cursing and such mature-ish content, for those who are like me and google something just because a friend referenced it.

A Step Back

There's not many feelings better than taking a step back from work.

After snow-shoveling, lying down in a pile of snow.  You're warm, but the snow cools you down.  Fluffy snow is the best cushion in the world.

After homework on the computer, sitting on top of the roof, seeing the lights go out in other houses.  It's high enough to be exciting, but not enough to be frightening.

After a weekend of wilderness survival training, lying down in a hammock.  Swinging gently between two trees, with a sleeping bag acting as a blanket.

After running around camp in rain and thunder, making sure everyone's tent is set up properly for the storm, lying down on a bench in the dining hall.

After an intense game of tag at night, lying down in the grass, watching the fireflies.

Rest is amplified when it follows hard work.  I want to be envisioned by these moments, and strive for more opportunities for genuine rest.

Public Service Announcements

1. Finances are important.  Do them good.

2. I love taking notes about economics.  For some reason, it's the easiest topic for me to come up with applicable cartoons/graphs/doodles.

3. For those who want to take nores, use less words, and more pictures.   Have fun when you're taking notes, so that you can keep yourself amused when studying.

4. Figure owt where your money goes.  That's important.

5. Always take notes in pen.  It makes them look fancier, plus you remember when you make a mistake (at least, I do).  For example, I won't easily forget the struggle to fix the 'w' in out, so I won't forget to figure out where my money goes.  Note-taking is all about connecting new facts to preexisting notions/experiences.

6. Sheeeeep

7. I have mixed feelings about making money into a stick figure.

8. Save early should be a button on the keyboard.  The closest thing we have right now is Control/Command Z.

9. "Get money right now" can be taken two ways.  Both of them are important.

10. I continued the list from 6-10 just to ensure I made it to 11.

11. Alevon.

Fire and Ice

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice. 

This post was created with a flame paintbrush and a poem by Robert Frost.

I'd like to thank the man/woman who invented stick-figures, the man who wrote Fire and Ice, and the inventor of the Boogie Board, for making this drawing possible.

Do not consume this post between midnight and 5AM.  Side effects may include drowsiness, bleary eyes, a firm belief that you've reached enlightenment, and a box of unopened Mike and Ikes appearing on your desk.  If you experience any of these symptoms (but especially the Mike and Ikes one) call me immediately, to investigate further.  Under no circumstances should you open said box.

Don't believe the time-stamp

It's currently 12:17AM as I'm beginning this post.  I am quite certain that this means failure, but on the off-hand chance the rules of competition allow for last-minute entries, I'm moving forward.

Ultimately, I know that I will not complete everything exactly as I would like to.  The end result of my work will pale in comparison to what I could have done.

However,  my hope is is something greater than human ability.

Condemnation can destroy what good we can find in conviction.  Rather than putting too much merit in posting every single day before midnight, I'll do my best to continue creating content.  The goal of this challenge is to produce, rather than exclusively consume, content.  I'm sticking with that goal, so that minor setbacks don't destroy my drive for excellence.   I goofed.  I plan to continue,  regardless.

Perspective

Flatland is a pretty cool short film about dimensions.  Essentially, it's about a square, living in a two-dimensional world, discovering three dimensions.  In reality, the square could only catch glimpses of three dimensional objects, as they passed through his plane (growing larger or smaller based on their shape). 

Experience is a very interesting concept.  As humans, we have a wide range of experience, being able to feel joy and pain, analyze complex images in milliseconds, and experiment with abstract ideas/concepts.  Most animals can access similar thoughts, emotions, and abilities, but a termite, for example, does not even come close to a human in regard to what it can think/feel.

Living in a three-dimensional (or more, depending on who you ask) world, we understand a lot about three-dimensional space.  Quite a radical though, I know.  However, there is so much more that we could understand.  We barely understand how time works, or what it would be like to jump in/out of it.  We barely understand how our emotions function, and we are quite often stuck in our present mood. 

Recently talking with Stevie, we were amazed at how limited we are, as creatures.  If we can understand three-dimensions, and have complex experiences, imagine what it the creator experiences.  God has created man in His own image; naturally, man would have some understanding of "greater reality."  But we're so much simpler than the God of the universe.  We might enjoy building skyscrapers and planes; imagine what God felt when He created humanity.  If we feel pain when someone rejects us, what must He feel when we desert Him. 

What kind of love would rescue us despite our depravity?

I can't imagine His joy when His children repent of their sins, running back into His arms.

11:39

I am currently celebrating various festivities.

Judgement is not welcome, but it is deserve.

Eagle Scout

You're going to want to click this.

Today was my Eagle Scout Court of Honor, and I am at a loss for words.




Almost.

I am amazed at how good God has been to me: giving me such faithful friends and family.  Through the "formal" roast/toast, and conversations with everyone, I have been encouraged.  There are so many more events and accomplishments that lie ahead, but I am grateful to have been able to celebrate this milestone, today.

Note of Clarification: I did not create the image attached to this post: that would be Mr. Van Patter, who has been a family friend for years.  Throughout the ceremony, he created this, summing up some of the best moments.  I had no clue beforehand, but he gave me this completed picture right afterwards.  This is definitely going to be framed.

...too far?

Content

Once a white page, this is no longer devoid of text.

Though it isn't even 9PM yet, the writer is a bit too tired to think of something incredibly creative.

This story feels familiar.


Content.

It doesn't require much to be qualified as such.  You simply need to add some black lines and curves to a white background and call it meaningful.  It's what I'm doing with this post.

Topic sentences mark the beginning of a paragraph.  Transition sentences are always good, but not always required if the ideas are coherent enough.  Sometimes, I prefer to simply throw a sentence or idea out there, and let it sit.  Things are more interesting that way.  Isolated words and isolated thoughts draw attention to themselves, boasting of their great ideas, but left without an explanation as to why they exist in that particular section of the paragraph.  Fortunately for this paragraph, the conclusion sentence does have a decent explanation.

I recently discovered a delightful game known as Diplomacy.  Though I'm still figuring out whether I'm any good, it's become one of my favorite strategy games.  (superseding Risk, not yet Catan)

This is my explanation.

This is the last sentence.

The very last.

This is.

Sentence.

The Best Laid Plans...

Goal: To experiment with time-travel.  To safely investigate changing the past, taking care not to disrupt any major events.  To test the capabilities of our discovery, how time-streams function, and possibly build a business out of it.

Step 1: Send someone back in time.  Maximum safety; nothing should be changed.

Step 2: Initiate chain of seemingly random events (the notes at the apartment, the apartment itself, the idea to travel through time, etc.).  Create stable time-loops, to ensure that nothing really changes.

Step 3: Test what happens when something is actually changed (parallel universes?).  Ensure that this is a small change --> like what hat someone wears for the day.

Step 4: Create a self-sufficient paradox (minor). 

Step 5: Possibly attempt to halt our discovery of time-travel.

Step 6: ???

Beta Meta

Young Jimmy scrolled through the pages of the internet, until he discovered a blog titled "Contemplative Whimsy."  He was intrigued by the title, and began reading a post titled "Beta Meta."  The post read thusly: Young Jimmy scrolled through the pages of the internet, until he discovered a blog titled "Contemplative Whimsy."  He was intrigued by the title, and began reading a post titled "Beta Meta."  The post read thusly: Young Jimmy scrolled through the pages of the internet, until he discovered a blog titled "Contemplative Whimsy."  He was intrigued by the title, and began reading a post titled "Beta Meta."  The post read thusly: Young Jimmy scrolled through the pages of the internet, until he discovered a blog titled "Contemplative Whimsy."  He was intrigued by the title, and began reading a post titled "Beta Meta."  The post read thusly: Young Jimmy scrolled through the pages of the internet, until he discovered a blog titled "Contemplative Whimsy."  He was intrigued by the 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discovered a blog titled "Contemplative Whimsy."  He was intrigued by the title, and began reading a post titled "Beta Meta."  The post read thusly: How in the world are you reading this?  You crazy kids, go get some more sleep.  Here's your reward, you silly child: http://img0.liveinternet.ru/images/attach/c/5/3970/3970473_sprite198.swf The post read thusly: Young Jimmy scrolled through the pages of the internet, until he discovered a blog titled "Contemplative Whimsy."  He was intrigued by the title, and began reading a post titled "Beta Meta."  The post read thusly: Young Jimmy scrolled through the pages of the internet, until he discovered a blog titled "Contemplative Whimsy."The post read thusly: Young Jimmy scrolled through the pages of the internet, until he discovered a blog titled "Contemplative Whimsy."  He was intrigued by the title, and began reading a post titled "Beta Meta."  The post read thusly: Young Jimmy scrolled through the pages of the internet, until he discovered 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On The Subject of Universes

Think about our universe as a point.  That's pretty much all that it is, until you add time (I love time).

Time adds a dimension to our universe (it's the same item, but with more going on).  Essentially, our point has become a line.  Timeline.  You've heard this before.

Now it's guesswork, but based on my understanding, there are a ton of universes out there, with millions and billions of different things going on.  In order to account for this diversity, our lines need to be floating around in 3D space.  Think string floating around without gravity.  Timelines are usually more stationary than that.  More on this later.

If two timelines intersect, then the universe at that given point is exactly the same (happens more often than you would think).  Not that everyone's history is the same, but the physical actions of everyone and everything line up perfectly.  Usually, this happens right when someone makes a choice.

As you may have guessed, many universes can meet at the same point.


Parallel universes:

There may be similarities between the two--in fact, they are usually quite akin to each other--yet they do not share any moments, at any point in time.

Perpendicular universes:

At one moment, everything between the two words is exactly the same; one choice determines which universe you wind up in.

Most universes:

Seemingly random, intersect with other universes at different points, it is completely possible to jump from one to the other (where they intersect), but it doesn't have much impact on how you perceive the world.  This is a bit different when you throw time travel into things.

I hope that that's explanation enough.  John will be back any minute. 

~George

For Future Reference

Fancy, linear, timeline of events.

John (Future) appears in apartment building, furnishes it with a couch, tv, food, and a cat (Jeffery).
Presumably, he also leaves notes for himself.
John (regular John) is given the key to this apartment, and finds himself in possession of the aforementioned items.

Two weeks pass (possibly uneventful)

Feb. 11th - Regular John remembers to leave the door open.
Past Future John (still the future, but before he rented the apartment) appears in the apartment.
Crazy things (not being able to influence anything) stuff happens, he makes it back to George (whoever that is)

Two more weeks pass (possibly uneventful)

Past Future John (right after aforementioned craziness) talks to George about problems.
Readers get a sketchy idea of what these two hooligans are up to.
George creates the notes that Regular John reads when he first goes to the apartment.
The idea of sending someone back in time, but not accounting for the Earth moving through space, is addressed.
"...Sending you back one month..." -- obviously, this is about time travel!  Woah.

At some point soon,

John goes back in time, now able to control some things, and rents the apartment.
//see above

???

Reality might collapse.
Future? John is running.
Future? John reaches George before it's too late (vague suspense is vague)

Still In It

Running from his apartment, John ran.

He knew this was repetitive, but he was cutting it close this time.

Thankfully, he reached George before it was too late.

Before reality collapsed around them.

In Retrospect...

I should have posted the love poem on Valentine's Day.

Focusing on better decisions, I'm awestruck at what we can do with technology.  

That was a segue.

 

For instance, this is a math problem I worked on earlier today.  I used a program called MathType to make the symbols look mathy.  I used a graphing calculator to solve the equations, used a Boogie Board tablet and Acorn (Paint.net for macs) to sketch a graph (beautiful, isn't it).  Also, I did the typing on a mac.  Computers are pretty cool too, I guess.  Calculus is one of the most frustrating classes for me; I love the concepts, but I need to redo almost every problem because of small mistakes.  Despite this, the ability to use a bunch of gadgets to solve a problem is a lot more exciting that writing it down on paper.

I just posted on Calculus and technology on Valentine's Day.

Let's call it irony.

Poetry Break

Enough with this time-travel nonsense.  For today, at least.

Backstory:

A few years ago, I was introduced to the lovely mark of punctuation known as the semicolon.  Essentially, it acts as a period between two sentences that are related; it's simply the best.  After reading a paper where every other sentence contained a semicolon, my teacher called me out for my excessive behavior.  She told me, "you need to start seeing other punctuation." 

...and so begins our story...

An Apology

When I first saw you,

I never realized how much I would grow

to love you.

There you sat,

right next to the double-period

that made up the eyes of a smiley face.

For years, you were there,

denied your rightful position on the page

by the shift key.

I’m sorry;

I thought you were strange,

useless, and undeserving

of that lofty position

to the right of the ‘L’.

For years, I have written sentences that

logically connect with each other;

I used a period, denying you your rightful place.

In Elementary and Middle School, I admit it,

my feelings were mixed;

you got in the way of my smiley face;

you looked strange.

Even before I saw you for who you were,

you kept winking back in the face of my impudence.

In High School, my eyes were opened;

I thank my English teacher daily

(whether she knows it or not)

for introducing the two of us.

I saw you, despite my former prejudice;

you were, and are, beautiful.

Ours is a forbidden love;

the laws of grammar forbid exclusivity.

For both of our sakes, and our futures,

I have started seeing other punctuation.

Despite these circumstances,

there was never so magnificent a love

as the love I harbored, and still harbor, for you;

though other men might find joy in other marks,

none shall match my joy in knowing you.

Mobius

This story is about John.

Two weeks after almost complete helplessness, one month after moving into his apartment, John was yelling at George. 

"...the point was to experiment, not take away all control!"

"We need to take this slowly.  There's a lot at stake, here.  Giving you too much control, too soon, could be dangerous."

"Dangerous?  My cat had a better chance of survival!  What if it started raining?"

"We didn't know what would actually happen.  The goal was to leave everything the same as when we found it—to change nothing.  At least that worked."

"You set it up; why didn't you think of this?"

"No one has done this, before.  I can't tell you how everything will function.  That's why we're experimenting.  We were being cautious.  Neither of us thought that it would be unsafe.  Also, it worked.  That's never happened, as far as we know.  For one, I'm excited.  Sorry that it was dangerous, but I thought we knew that from the beginning."

He was right.

"How did you know I was there?"

"I'm working on it.  Do you still have the notes from your apartment?"

"Yes."

George took them, copied them down onto a notepad, and looked up.

"Actually..."

George finished writing something, then handed it to John.

Walking over to his desk, he asked, "Did you start from your apartment?"

"Yes."

"Good.  I wanted to make sure I have the right coordinates.  When you get back, let me know if it's the same as last time.  My calculations should be correct, but if they're slightly off, you might eventually wind up in space."

What.

"Earth's moving through space.  Sending you back one month, without changing your location in the universe; that would be bad.  Very bad."

A Dangerous Business

“Remember what Bilbo used to say: It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to.”
- J.R.R. Tolkien

This is a story about a man named John.

John lived in an apartment, with a cat named Jeffery, a couch which faced a tv, and a mug of coffee that usually made the counter-top its home.  Two weeks ago, John was given the key to this apartment.  The key came with a note: "Leave the door open when you leave for work (2/11).  Also, his name is Jeffery."  John thought it best not to question the letter.  He did find it odd that the room came with a cat.

John found himself in his apartment.  He expected this, yet it was unsettling, still.  First things first.  He checked the clock. 

10:02AM
Feb. 11th

That settled, there wasn't much else to do.  He decided to make coffee.  He was able to grab onto the handle the french press (also included with the apartment) just fine.  He wasn't able to do much else.  It simply wouldn't move, regardless of how hard he pulled.  Opening cabinets, turning on the sink, picking up his mug, he discovered that nothing moved.  He wasn't able to change anything.

Fascinating.

Even the couch wouldn't compress under his weight; it was quite hard, actually.  It would be glorious if Jeffery could appreciate the irony, sleeping quietly on one of the cushions.

Thankfully, he had remembered to keep the door open earlier that morning, so getting outside was no problem.  This was interesting enough, but John had more important things to do.  One of which was getting to work.

On the way, he slipped on a puddle of water, landing hard on the pavement.  A passerby stepped in the very same puddle immediately afterward, causing water to splash over the sidewalk.  He didn't even acknowledge the man laying helpless on the ground.  Thankfully, he didn't step on John, but it was close enough to be worrying.

The door read "Push."  If only it were that easy.  After nearly getting knocked over by following people too closely, John finally entered the building.  He carefully walked down the stairs and through the red doors: conveniently propped open.  Apparently, George was expecting him.

Spices

This is a story about a man named John.

After inspecting the walls of an empty apartment, he opened the door, closed it carefully behind him, and walked downstairs.  He intended to stay here.

The manager was slightly confused, "I didn't see you walk in..."

"Sorry, I should have knocked."

A card was swiped, a paper, signed.

"How long will you be staying?"

"About two months."

John was given a room key. 

The apartment was quickly furnished with a couch, a tv, and a cat (his name was Jeffery).  John placed a french press onto the counter, with a mug right next to it.

In the first cabinet, he placed a few plates, bowls, and some silverware.  In the second, a few packets of Ramen, a box of cereal, a bottle of syrup, and a small assortment of herbs and spices.  He noticed that he was short on thyme and basil.  He considered running to the store, but for the amount of cooking that he would do in the next few days, it didn't make sense.  He had just enough.

Fading West

Love Alone Is Worth The Fight.
When we discover Who We Are—
When We Come Alive—
we find this amazing truth to be true.

So away with these pretentious facades:
Say It Like You Mean It.
Honestly enjoy the moment.
Don't sit down, waiting for
The World You Want,
when the real world is
Slipping Away.

Whether that means helping a neighbor
move into a new home
or picking up BA55,
make use of the time that you have.
Don't keep a song stuck in your head;
Let It Out.
Give your All Or Nothing At All.

Let your Saltwater Heart
ever explore the endless ocean.
In every struggle, remember how far
you've come from your first step.
Take encouragement from hearkening
Back To The Beginning Again.

Forged in Winter

Wrong will be right, when Aslan comes in sight,

At the sound of his roar, sorrows will be no more,

When he bares his teeth, winter meets its death,

And when he shakes his mane, we shall have spring again.

When Adam's flesh and Adam's bone,

Sits at Cair Paravel in throne,

The evil time will be over and done.

- The Golden Age Prophesy

            My father would read this to me.  In hushed tones, he would pull me closer to the fire and tell me stories of Aslan, of His return, and life before this dreadful winter.  He would show me pictures of spring, of green grass, and of flowing streams.  “This is why we fight, son,” he’d say, “to see Narnia restored, to set Narnia free.”  

“You have done well to accept the summons of the Queen of Narnia.  Those who have refused to enter her service will suffer much more than the loss of a few coins.  You have been summoned because each of you is a key member of your community.  You hear much of what goes on in the Wood.  You shall be the Queen’s eyes and ears.  Far more important than simple spies, your primary concern is the prophecy.  Your Queen will not suffer any challenge to her throne.  Any rumor of a Son of Adam, or Daughter of Eve in this Wood must be reported to the Queen immediately.  If you ever find a human, you must bring it to her.  For this task, you will be handsomely rewarded, however, betrayal will not be tolerated.  Punishment and death will be your recompense if you refuse to comply.”

            The Dwarf looked up from the parchment, and noticed me as I shuddered.  He grunted, “Stop shaking, Faun!”  He added, under his breath, “Her Majesty can make you stop moving altogether.”  With a laugh, he stepped up into the sleigh, whipped the white reindeer, and drove off into the trees.  The Witch didn’t utter a single word during the whole proclamation.  She simply sat in the sleigh, striking fear into any who dared observe her.

            My father would be ashamed of me.  Ninety years ago, he waged war against the Witch. I joined her.  Narnians remembered warriors such as him.  They wrote songs about the hopelessness of victory, about the strength of the people.  When Aslan abandoned Narnia to the Witch, they still fought for their families, for their home, for Him.  I gave in to despair.  We look similar.  We are nothing alike.  He was strong.  I am weak.  He died fighting for freedom.  I will survive by giving mine up. 

***

            White snow blanketed the Wood.  This white was not bright or inviting; it was cold and bitter.  The snow used to signal the start of celebration.  The Wood was once joyful.  Music floated across the wind, the snowflakes would dance before our eyes, and we would go hunting after the White Stag, or search for treasure with the Red Dwarves.  The snow no longer danced.  It burdened the trees. The trees no longer moved.  The waters no longer sang.   All was frozen. Always Winter, never Christmas: the snow was not a reason to celebrate.  It was a symbol of oppression. 

            Such was my train of thought the day my world was shattered.  I was merely walking home when I met the strangest creature.  It had the height of a dwarf, but no beard, and its dimensions were all wrong.  From the waist up, it was built more like a Faun, though I daresay, I couldn’t understand to where its hooves and horns had run off.  In fact, it looked like my concept of a Daughter of Eve. 

***

            My flute lay shattered on the floor.  Wretched Faun!  I never thought I would ever see a human this far North.  When I met Lucy, I only thought of myself—my punishment if I rebelled against the Witch.  How blind I was to our salvation.  Lucy could bring the end of this dreadful winter.  I am such a terrible Faun.  I kidnapped this innocent girl, intending to give her over to the Witch!  I told her tales of Narnia, pretended to befriend her, made the fire dance to my flute, then sent her off to sleep with my song.  I showed her pictures of merriment, of spring: Dryads and Nymphs dancing with the Fauns for hours on end.  Hunting parties chased the White Stag across my fireplace.  As she drifted off to sleep, I rejoiced—I grieve at my joy—that my task was almost completed.  Then an image I had not conjured entered my hearth.  It was He: the Great Lion.  The true King of Narnia.  His face appeared in the fire, larger and brighter than any previous image.  He looked quite alive, and his face shocked me into silence.  Then he roared.

***

I knocked on the door.  The sound of rustling reached my ears: drawers being opened and

closed.  Dead silence.  Then a poorly crafted peephole was opened. 

“Tumnus!  Never thought I’d see you on my doorstep.”

“Please let me in.  I have news that is best not revealed out of doors”

The peephole shut quickly.  The sound of a rustling key in the lock.  Beaver let me inside, cautiously sipping from a mug, eyes darting to and fro—obviously looking to see if there was any illegal goods that he had missed in his rush.  Mrs. Beaver quietly entered from another room.

“Alright, let’s have this news.  You haven’t come to spy on me, have you?” 

 It was generally known that I was in the Witch’s employ.

“Beaver, I’ve met a human.”

            I discovered what he had been sipping as scalding hot coffee sprayed into my eyes.

“Beaver!”

            That was Mrs. Beaver.  She scolded him as he tried to stop guffawing. 

“’I’ve met a human?’ Coming from him? I can’t help myself, dear.” 

More laughter.

“Well, it’s nothing to laugh about.” 

She turned to me.

“What do you mean?”

I told them everything.  With each detail, they became more and more solemn.  I almost skimmed over the part about the fire, but they stopped me when I mentioned Aslan.       

“You don’t know, do you?”

            He lowered his voice.

“Aslan is on the move.”

“What do you mean?” 

“Others have seen him.  He might already be in the Wood!”

“Then there is hope.”

“Hope?  There is more than hope!  This is Aslan’s return: foretold in the prophecy.  He’s just got back and now you tell me you’ve met a Daughter of Eve?  Oh, we have hope, we have much more than hope, my friend.”

***

            I am a traitor.  I have betrayed Aslan and my kinsman through entering the Witch’s service.  Now I have betrayed her by aiding a human.  I don't belong in either camp.  I am an enemy to both sides.  Even when telling Beaver about Lucy, he thought I was spying on him.  I know that my allegiance lies with Aslan, but will he accept me?  After years of infidelity, I am no better than any of her loyal servants.  I agreed to serve her, just as they did.  I almost carried through with my orders.  Saving Lucy was the right choice; I know that much.  Now I must deal with the consequences.

            The wind picks up.  As I make my way back to the Beavers’ Dam, it begins to snow again.  I am almost blinded as the storm grows into a blizzard.  Forced to take refuge, I hide under a tree.  Through the deafening sound of the storm, I hear whispers in the forest.  Tumnus.  The trees rarely talked in those days.  Something must have awoken them.  I hear my name echoed across the Wood: silently whispered by each tree that hears.  Humans in the Wood…  I begin to tremble.  The Witch knows.  You name has reached her.  Terrified, I run the rest of the way, ignoring the storm, ignoring the trees, ignoring their voices.

            I knock on the door.  “Tumnus!  It’s Tumnus!  Let me in!”  I yell into the wind.

“Alright, alright!  I don’t see why you couldn’t wait this blizzard out somewhere sensible, instead of barging in here, letting the cold in…”

“Beaver, the Witch knows about Lucy.”

            He is silenced.

“…and, Aslan?”

“I don’t know.  The trees didn’t mention his name.”

“The trees?  How do they know?”

“They didn’t say.”

Mrs. Beaver offers me a blanket, which helps considerably. 

“It was going to happen sooner or later.  We should be grateful that the trees told us this so quickly.  Now we can prepare for her next move.”

            Mrs. Beaver chimes in.

“Of course, we’ll keep you safe from her.  Beaver has plenty of safe havens that none of her spies know about.”

            Instantly solemn, Beaver firmly states,

“Tumnus, you can’t hide from the Witch.” 

            I look up with a start.

“If Lucy returns, we need you to guide her to the Stone Table.  She needs to know where to find Aslan.”

***

A knock on my door.  A knock so powerful, that the door splinters.  The Wolves enter my cave.  The largest growls at the others, “Tear it apart!”  He is holding a piece of parchment.  “Oh,” he snarls, “Would you like to read it, Faun?”  Snickering, he hands it to me.

The former occupant of these premises, the Faun Tumnus, is under arrest and awaiting trial on a charge of High Treason against her Imperial Majesty Jadis, Queen of Narnia, Chatelaine of Cair Paravel, Empress of the Lone Islands, etc., also of comforting her said Majesty’s enemies, harboring spies, and fraternizing with Humans.

            Signed MAUGRIM, Captain of the Secret Police,

LONG LIVE THE QUEEN!

I knew this day would come.  I gave Beaver Lucy’s handkerchief for safekeeping.  He promised to guide her and her siblings if anything happened to me.  This parchment signals the end of my part in their story.  “I will be needing that back.”  The Wolf snatches it from my trembling hands.  The rest of the Wolves parade around my home, knocking over furniture haphazardly.  They begin throwing books, letters, small items into the fire.  One of them lifts the picture of my father.  I bolt towards him, knocking it out of his hand.  The shattering sound of its frame attaches itself to the crushing blow of a club on the back of my head.  The world fades to darkness.

***     

Shackles.  My hands are held together by iron strengthened by the Witch’s ice.  My hooves are similarly restrained.  Even without them, I wouldn’t run anywhere soon: my legs are broken—a punishment particularly reserved for treacherous Fauns.  The guards drag me across the floor of the Witch’s palace.  Because I can’t stand, they connect my chains to two pillars that support the house, holding me upright.  If I only had the strength, I would bring down these pillars and the Witch with them.  Hanging from my chains, my legs uselessly graze the floor.  Mercifully, the cold numbs the pain.  Awaiting trial: that’s what the notice reads.  If only I could hope for something so humane.  My “trial” is more of an interrogation. 

“Do you know why are you here?” 

            My only thought is survival.  Weeping, I reply,

“I don’t, your Majesty!”

“Do you think flattery will aid you here?”

“I didn’t mean…”

“Didn’t mean to ignore my direct orders?  Didn’t mean to shelter my enemies—to stir up rebellion?  You certainly didn’t mean to be caught, Faun, and yet all of these have been accomplished.”

“I don’t understand…”

“I have made it clear to you.”

            There was no escaping this.  No victory in sight. 

“Why are you here, Faun?”

I immediately think of my father.  Completely outnumbered with no hope of victory, yet his spirit was unbreakable.  I am weak—as a rule, Fauns are not the sturdiest of creatures—but some spark of courage gives me boldness.

“Must I repeat myself?”

“I hang here before you…because I believe…in a free Narnia.”

            The Witch is silent for a moment,

“…and who shall bring about this freedom?”

            I don’t dare reveal Aslan’s presence yet.

“Those who have been foretold in the prophecy: the very Sons of Adam and Daughters of Eve who you charged me to capture: the very ones who I aided, who I hid from you, and who I have kept alive, be it for one more day.”

“The very ones who turned you in.”

            This barely fazes me.  Lucy would never…

            I hear something behind me but I can’t move to look. 

“Edmund, won’t you come forward so the Faun can see?”

            A guard holds a young boy in front of me. 

“This is your salvation.  He is your future.  This ‘true king of Narnia’ turned you in for spite of his family.  And don’t take reassurance in your ploy to hide Aslan from me, Edmund has told me all.  I know about the children’s journey to the Stone Table.”

Once again, my world is shattered by a human. 

***

My chains are released.  My body collapses on the ground.  The procedure is briefly described to me by the guard.  I will be held up by my chains once again.  It will be a fairly quick occurrence but I will be able to feel my limbs go dead.  The spell will wind its way to my head last.  I should have been terrified.  In some corner of my mind, my fears are let loose.  On the surface, I am surprisingly calm. 

I am going to my death.  This is my burden to bear.

As I am dragged across the floor, I no longer see the Witch’s palace.  I see Narnia set free.  It might be a trick of the light but I see snow melting off the statues lining the courtyard.  As I am guided to my position, I see snow melting off the trees.  I see rivers and lakes and streams flowing once again.  I hear the music of midnight dancing.  I see the Nymphs and Dryads dancing with the Fauns in the clearing.  Leaves are changing color, falling from the trees.  Snow, real snow, is dancing on the breeze.  I hear the laugh of Father Christmas, feel the heat of the fireplace, and smell the Christmas dinner.

            These visions leave me. 

My chains are secured to other statues.  A Centaur and a Dog support my weight.  One is perpetually brandishing a sword; the other’s face contorts into an eternal whimper.  One seems to mock my weakness; the other echoes my cries of pain.  I prepare to join my kinsman, not in glory, but in defeat.  I am certainly not strong like my father but I will not be denied this opportunity to join him in Aslan’s country.  The wait is agony.  My chest rises and falls as I struggle for breath.  The burden is too great.  I can barely lift myself to breathe.  I gasp for air, though the cold rush of frost intensifies my pain.  The Witch storms out of the castle.  She slows as she nears me.  My head bowed, I fix my eyes on the ground in front of me.  Her wand is raised to strike but she lowers it.  It gently nicks my left hoof.  Instantly, it turns to stone.  Too fast to allow for thought, the spell races through my body, robbing me of warmth, of life.  I scream, but life ends before sound escapes me.

***

            Warmth flowing across my face.  My hair rustling from some unknown wind.  A fire ignites in my chest and begins to spread.  I am awakening.  Darkness turns to haze and haze fades to clarity.  I see Him.  His face creases into a smile as I begin to breathe.  Instantly, my fears leave me.  I know that I am forgiven.  I am no longer a traitor in His eyes.  I am a member of His army.  He bounds away and my legs give out from under me.  They are no longer frozen.  Lucy comes into view and helps me stand.  My legs have been made whole.  They are strong.  Looking around me, I see other Narnians waking up.  The Centaur to my right fastens his sword to his back.  The Dog steps forward, snarling.  It is clear that the battle against the Witch is not won yet.  I have been rescued, but not to idleness.  I have been reclaimed for battle.

Creativity

When creativity is a goal, the end result usually feels clunky at best.  I can't plan to be creative.  It's too vague of a goal to get me anywhere.  Similarly, I can't sit down and have "good" ideas.  These ideas come from a bunch of random nonsense (hours of brainstorming), with one or two being something I actually want to run with.  Maybe I exaggerated with the whole hours bit.  Maybe I should try to live up to that standard.

Effective brainstorming yields a load of useless garbage.  However, there are a few gems scattered among the trash heap.  There are usually 2-3 ideas that I am excited about: that don't lose their quality of interest when explored further.  Too often I begin working on a shiny idea before I truly understand what I can do with it.  I get excited about an idea, only to find out that its manifestation is lacking.  All that glitters is not gold, and all that litter would be seen correctly if I gave my thoughts more thought.

For instance: Java.

I was thinking about doing something with code when the obvious pun hit me.  Images of brown leather shoes, coffee beans, and colorful dinosaurs were running through my head. 

I love that sentence.

Overjoyed, I set out to create this magical adventure, only to discover (I hadn't touched code for months) how tedious the process of coding a story had become.  Initially scrapping the idea, I posted it because I didn't have time to come up with anything else (silly 12:00PM deadlines...).

It seems that a creative idea, if it is to function correctly, needs the appropriate amount of time to be refined into something worthwhile.  Without this filtering process, (weak coffee joke) something that seemed amazing might be set loose online, revealing the lack of genuine substance.

Maybe I should come up with more ideas before starting a new project. 

Maybe I should start writing well before 10:00PM

"Maybe" is a subtler version of "definitely."


Side note: these time-stamps are all wrong.  I am finishing this post at 11:08PM, but the time stamp reads 8:01PM.  I think that Blogger records the time that you initiated the post as the time that you posted it.  ...not sure how this impacts the rules of the Blog Challenge, but I'm not complaining.  (or cheating, for that matter) 

Temperate Dissolution

Words are fascinating.  The very idea of boiling down abstract ideas into a few characters and sounds is astounding to me.

Word combinations open the doors to new ideas.  you can combine ideas that never seemed to flow together, and create something entirely new

paradoxes are terribly interesting to me  for instance ben franklin gave us the witticism make haste slowly  though we might be able to get meaning out of this it is a ridiculous statement when it comes to the pure meaning of the words

this often requires demonstration  it is wehn wrods are eactned or dmenotsaretd taht the maneing can bcemoe eevn mroe itnreseitng  it gvies us a gertaer udnretsnaidng of waht the atuohr is giong for

tihs is waht I'm gniog for wtih tihs psot  tyhjer idferas okfg tyermpoertagter dfisdsdol;uitiopjn camer fto mnes fthjde ogtjherf day asnkd sokujndseds sako dsidfsdfsesdrenjkt frkom wajhrt i jkhsdad hjderd ijn thjkrre lp;sat


It's certainly a new concept to me: one that can be frightening.

Restrained undoing.

...as if to highlight the order that once existed.

...each step a slow progression, not far removed from the preceding change.

...the end—so far removed from that which it once was.