Read part one.
Prompt: A character lies to another on an important matter, One of the characters is revealed to be not who she is
Wordcount: 549
---
Jane glared at the man, pulling her hand away from his grip. She turned on her heel and stalked up and down the porch, shooting furious thoughts at him. As his words filtered through her brain, she stopped mid-step.
“I’m sorry, but uh, actually,” she stammered.
“What is it?” His eyes flickered irritably in her direction.
“Are… are you Cousin Randall?”
She could feel the blush starting from the base of her neck, the warmth blossoming up to her high cheekbones, as he nodded.
“You be Cousin Jean?” he asked wryly.
“I… yes. Sorry.”
“So this here unknown man,” he nodded at the door, “stole this here fancy coach from you from somewhere in Assart?”
She nodded back at him, wondering if she would have enough time to pull this off, even if her face hadn’t already given her away. He was rubbing at his chin now, deep in thought. She watched as his hand started caressing the butt of his gun.
“Where did you get it?”
“Sorry? Get what?”
“The coach. Not something you would regularly be driving round about here, would it? I’d imagine that’s why this here man was trying to get his fingers on it.”
“It’s just painted - not even gilded,” she said in a rush, trying to calm her wobbly voice. She was sure he suspected something the way he was staring hard-eyed. “The old pa did it up with a crest and everything - reminder of the past generations. Said he wanted to ride in style. I told him it wasn’t worth the expense and the effort.”
“Well then, let’s go find this thief to dispense some justice.”
Jane watched as he strode toward the door, arms slightly akimbo, his right hand brushing the holster on his hip. She took a step backward, waiting for him to enter the post office, when he turned again.
“Coming along?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” She shrugged and followed him into the sunlit room.
The man behind the counter looked up at them then gave Jane a nod.
“Morning, ma’am. Howdy, Randall. That your cousin?”
Randall nodded. “Yep. And by her account your customer here seems to have stolen her coach.”
The sound of scratching stopped as the coachman looked up from the letter he was writing.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” the postmaster asked.
“The coach belongs to my boss,” he said calmly, resuming his writing.
Randall rubbed at his stubble again before speaking slowly. “You say the lady lies?”
“Didn’t say that. She could be mistaken.”
With Randall’s concentration fixed on the coachman, Jane slowly backed towards the door. As the tips of her fingers brushed against the door, it suddenly swung open sending her sprawling on the ground.
“Bill, I see you got the coach here in one piece. Oh dear, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to knock you over,” a familiar voice said. “Why, Jane! What are you doing in Renaissance?” The young man reached down, hand outstretched to help her up.
“Oh, hello, Jean. Just passing through. I think I have to go now,” she blurted in a spurt, scrambling to her feet.
“Hold on a moment!” Randall strode across the room, grabbing her arm. “Didn’t you say you were Cousin Jean?”
She broke out in cold sweat.
---
Read part three.
Wednesday, 12 October 2011
Wednesday, 5 October 2011
#REN3: Coach Thief
Prompt: There is an argument.
Wordcount: 434
Setting: Western (late 1900s)
Randall squinted in the hot sun. He could make out dust clouds in the distance and hoped that it was the herald of Cousin Jean’s arrival. He rubbed at his prickly chin, wondering if he should have taken the time to shave that morning, seeing that the coach was late anyway. Well, it was too late for that now. She would have to take him as he was.
The black and gold coach stopped outside the post office.
“Howdy, stranger,” Randall greeted the coachman. “Welcome to Renaissance. You be carrying Cousin Jean?”
The man looked him up and down. “No,” he replied gruffly, turning away, his eyes stripping the small outpost town.
“Ah, well. Come in through Targe, did you?”
“No.” He threw the reins down to Randall who caught them deftly.
“Kris or Villein then?”
“What’s it to you?”
Randall shrugged. “See any other travellers coming out your way?”
The coachman ignored him and entered the building. Randall tied the reins to a nearby post and went back to surveying the horizon.
The new dust cloud that appeared fifteen minutes later didn’t look big enough to be another coach. Randall shaded his eyes with his hand, trying to get a better look. The woman who came galloping in at full speed was furious - Randall could tell by the set of her mouth, the lines of her eyebrows. He was fairly sure the shade of her face was more to do with the blistering heat and dust than her current state of emotions.
“Why the hell did you steal my coach?” she yelled as she dismounted.
Randall looked around. “I…”
“Don’t deny it! And you dare stand here, waiting for me to catch up with you? What the hell is wrong with you?” She had him pressed against the wall of the post office, pounding his chest with each word.
“But Ma’am, twasn’t me! The man, he…”
“It was you, Mr. Fuzzy Face! Now own up. I had to borrow this lousy horse that I have to take all the way back to Assart!”
“Look here, woman, you can’t simply go around accusing people you don’t know of stealing your coach.” He could feel the heat rising to his ears.
“Don’t woman me. I recognise your shoddy face and dusty clothes. Stupid country men!”
He caught her hand mid-punch, making her wince.
“I’ll woman you if I want to!” he growled. “The man from off the coach just walked into this here building. Now why don’t you go in and yell at him, then? Now leave me alone. I’m waiting for my cousin.”
---
Read part two.
Read part three.
Wordcount: 434
Setting: Western (late 1900s)
Randall squinted in the hot sun. He could make out dust clouds in the distance and hoped that it was the herald of Cousin Jean’s arrival. He rubbed at his prickly chin, wondering if he should have taken the time to shave that morning, seeing that the coach was late anyway. Well, it was too late for that now. She would have to take him as he was.
The black and gold coach stopped outside the post office.
“Howdy, stranger,” Randall greeted the coachman. “Welcome to Renaissance. You be carrying Cousin Jean?”
The man looked him up and down. “No,” he replied gruffly, turning away, his eyes stripping the small outpost town.
“Ah, well. Come in through Targe, did you?”
“No.” He threw the reins down to Randall who caught them deftly.
“Kris or Villein then?”
“What’s it to you?”
Randall shrugged. “See any other travellers coming out your way?”
The coachman ignored him and entered the building. Randall tied the reins to a nearby post and went back to surveying the horizon.
The new dust cloud that appeared fifteen minutes later didn’t look big enough to be another coach. Randall shaded his eyes with his hand, trying to get a better look. The woman who came galloping in at full speed was furious - Randall could tell by the set of her mouth, the lines of her eyebrows. He was fairly sure the shade of her face was more to do with the blistering heat and dust than her current state of emotions.
“Why the hell did you steal my coach?” she yelled as she dismounted.
Randall looked around. “I…”
“Don’t deny it! And you dare stand here, waiting for me to catch up with you? What the hell is wrong with you?” She had him pressed against the wall of the post office, pounding his chest with each word.
“But Ma’am, twasn’t me! The man, he…”
“It was you, Mr. Fuzzy Face! Now own up. I had to borrow this lousy horse that I have to take all the way back to Assart!”
“Look here, woman, you can’t simply go around accusing people you don’t know of stealing your coach.” He could feel the heat rising to his ears.
“Don’t woman me. I recognise your shoddy face and dusty clothes. Stupid country men!”
He caught her hand mid-punch, making her wince.
“I’ll woman you if I want to!” he growled. “The man from off the coach just walked into this here building. Now why don’t you go in and yell at him, then? Now leave me alone. I’m waiting for my cousin.”
---
Read part two.
Read part three.
Sunday, 2 October 2011
Post camp post: being true to myself, a writer.
We had this session during iBridge camp about discernment, i.e. knowing the will of God. I don't have all the notes (I stopped jotting when they said they would get the slides to us, but I haven't seen them yet) but there was one thing that really struck me that day.
There's a lot of stuff floating around about knowing yourself, being true to yourself, standing up for who you really are, and not all of it is Christian. In fact, most of it is rather post-modernistic, individualistic, let-me-do-what-the-heck-I-want-so-get-out-of-my-face-God (or maybe I'm getting the wrong kind of vibes here). But more often in the Christian circles, there's a lot of thing about finding God's will, focusing only on God and ignoring ourselves (we are nothing, we are nothing, we are nothing - kind of Buddhist, no?). True, Christ must increase, and we must decrease, but does that mean we ignore everything that our passions and inclinations drive us towards?
What does it mean to stay true and truthful to who you are? (Let's ignore the other bits for a moment.) Who you are matters, because God made you that way. If you are an engineer, you worship God through your engineering skills and making that no one gets killed by a bridge falling down or a phone blowing up or... something like that (I get a little fuzzy on details because there are so many kinds of engineers). If you are a doctor, you worship God by helping people get well, or at least by easing their pain until it's time to go. If you are a lawyer, you worship God by helping innocent people get their lives back and assist in disseminating justice where it's needed (though it may seem rather arbitrary at times). If you are an accountant or an auditor, you help ensure that the companies don't cheat money off their investors and the employees don't defraud their employers (to what little extent you can). But if you are an artist, or a writer, or a dancer, or anything to do with music and creative arts, it suddenly seems that you can't and aren't doing anything productive or useful unless you are leading worship in church, or decorating the church, or doing an Easter or Christmas production.
WHAT GIVES?
Why is every other profession more important to the body of Christ than the very professions that have the most impact on our daily lives?
And this is where I get into the rant mode, sorry.
I'm tired of people acting like it's SO easy to get a good story down on paper/screen, and to edit it. Like it can be done in a day. Yes, you can get 50,000 words out for NaNoWriMo in a month but that doesn't mean the story is good enough. It doesn't mean the writing is tight enough. It doesn't mean that you're done with it yet. And all this takes time, people. Time I do not have working a 8.30AM to whenever job.
I'm tired of people thinking it's SO easy to put a good play or *gasp* musical together. Like it can be put together in a week. Yes, you can have once a week practices for a month and do a decent play. But if it's anything longer than 5 minutes and you're working with a bunch of amateurs, or people who are just acting for the sake of it or because there is no one else, then it's not good enough. I'm sorry if I'm sounding condescending - I'm not the best of actors or directors OR playwrights - but it takes time to put stuff together that will be worth watching, and frankly half the stuff that comes out on church stages are not. Time I do not have working a 5-day, but in reality 6-day week.
I'm tired of the slipshod way we approach worship in church, like a two-hour anything-goes practice session is good enough to pull together a team that only plays together once in three weeks, and then expect God to DO SOMETHING WONDERFUL. Yes, He can, and DOES. But at the same time, is this what you really want to offer Him week after week? Because it is an offering, isn't it? It's not just "leading people to worship" it's also an act of worship in itself.
Where does this take us again? Well, it takes me back to the core question - who am i?
What drives me? What makes me tick? What makes me stay up all night? Pulling aside all that I do and try to do, what motivates me?
This. Writing this. (It's 12.32AM now, despite the fact that you'll only see this on Sunday, 9AM because of the power of blog scheduling muahahahah and I have to get up at 6AM tomorrow to catch a plane.) Writing Friday Flashes. Receiving good and not-so-good comments. Trying to figure out which WIP to start editing, because I can't always sit on them until they grow stale and annoying.
And if this who I am is rooted in whose I am, doesn't that really mean that I'm a writer plugged in to the greatest Creator the world has ever seen? If I stay true to who I am and whose I am, doesn't that mean that I've already found my purpose and direction in life? Doesn't it mean that I don't have to keep asking the question, But God, what do you really want me to do?, as if I'm sure He's going to ask me to do something I cannot do or go somewhere I really hate just because I can't believe that He made me love writing so that I can write?
How does this translate into real life?
I don't know yet. The two-year plan was to wait it out until David graduates and then see what happens. My mum insists it's a maximum one year break, to study some course or other in creative writing and/or creative arts. That may be part of the plan. I don't know. It's the first step I am looking at, just to redefine where I am.
Then again, it may be shorter. I don't know, there's this restlessness. There's this itch. There's this perpetual question (eh, so when are you going to resign? What, you're still at the same firm? Me: YAH, I know I'm loyal!)
But I'm ready, here and now.
One of the guiding principles of discernment is to stay true and truthful to who and whose you are in Christ.
There's a lot of stuff floating around about knowing yourself, being true to yourself, standing up for who you really are, and not all of it is Christian. In fact, most of it is rather post-modernistic, individualistic, let-me-do-what-the-heck-I-want-so-get-out-of-my-face-God (or maybe I'm getting the wrong kind of vibes here). But more often in the Christian circles, there's a lot of thing about finding God's will, focusing only on God and ignoring ourselves (we are nothing, we are nothing, we are nothing - kind of Buddhist, no?). True, Christ must increase, and we must decrease, but does that mean we ignore everything that our passions and inclinations drive us towards?
What does it mean to stay true and truthful to who you are? (Let's ignore the other bits for a moment.) Who you are matters, because God made you that way. If you are an engineer, you worship God through your engineering skills and making that no one gets killed by a bridge falling down or a phone blowing up or... something like that (I get a little fuzzy on details because there are so many kinds of engineers). If you are a doctor, you worship God by helping people get well, or at least by easing their pain until it's time to go. If you are a lawyer, you worship God by helping innocent people get their lives back and assist in disseminating justice where it's needed (though it may seem rather arbitrary at times). If you are an accountant or an auditor, you help ensure that the companies don't cheat money off their investors and the employees don't defraud their employers (to what little extent you can). But if you are an artist, or a writer, or a dancer, or anything to do with music and creative arts, it suddenly seems that you can't and aren't doing anything productive or useful unless you are leading worship in church, or decorating the church, or doing an Easter or Christmas production.
WHAT GIVES?
Why is every other profession more important to the body of Christ than the very professions that have the most impact on our daily lives?
And this is where I get into the rant mode, sorry.
I'm tired of people acting like it's SO easy to get a good story down on paper/screen, and to edit it. Like it can be done in a day. Yes, you can get 50,000 words out for NaNoWriMo in a month but that doesn't mean the story is good enough. It doesn't mean the writing is tight enough. It doesn't mean that you're done with it yet. And all this takes time, people. Time I do not have working a 8.30AM to whenever job.
I'm tired of people thinking it's SO easy to put a good play or *gasp* musical together. Like it can be put together in a week. Yes, you can have once a week practices for a month and do a decent play. But if it's anything longer than 5 minutes and you're working with a bunch of amateurs, or people who are just acting for the sake of it or because there is no one else, then it's not good enough. I'm sorry if I'm sounding condescending - I'm not the best of actors or directors OR playwrights - but it takes time to put stuff together that will be worth watching, and frankly half the stuff that comes out on church stages are not. Time I do not have working a 5-day, but in reality 6-day week.
I'm tired of the slipshod way we approach worship in church, like a two-hour anything-goes practice session is good enough to pull together a team that only plays together once in three weeks, and then expect God to DO SOMETHING WONDERFUL. Yes, He can, and DOES. But at the same time, is this what you really want to offer Him week after week? Because it is an offering, isn't it? It's not just "leading people to worship" it's also an act of worship in itself.
Where does this take us again? Well, it takes me back to the core question - who am i?
What drives me? What makes me tick? What makes me stay up all night? Pulling aside all that I do and try to do, what motivates me?
This. Writing this. (It's 12.32AM now, despite the fact that you'll only see this on Sunday, 9AM because of the power of blog scheduling muahahahah and I have to get up at 6AM tomorrow to catch a plane.) Writing Friday Flashes. Receiving good and not-so-good comments. Trying to figure out which WIP to start editing, because I can't always sit on them until they grow stale and annoying.
And if this who I am is rooted in whose I am, doesn't that really mean that I'm a writer plugged in to the greatest Creator the world has ever seen? If I stay true to who I am and whose I am, doesn't that mean that I've already found my purpose and direction in life? Doesn't it mean that I don't have to keep asking the question, But God, what do you really want me to do?, as if I'm sure He's going to ask me to do something I cannot do or go somewhere I really hate just because I can't believe that He made me love writing so that I can write?
How does this translate into real life?
I don't know yet. The two-year plan was to wait it out until David graduates and then see what happens. My mum insists it's a maximum one year break, to study some course or other in creative writing and/or creative arts. That may be part of the plan. I don't know. It's the first step I am looking at, just to redefine where I am.
Then again, it may be shorter. I don't know, there's this restlessness. There's this itch. There's this perpetual question (eh, so when are you going to resign? What, you're still at the same firm? Me: YAH, I know I'm loyal!)
But I'm ready, here and now.
Friday, 30 September 2011
#fridayflash: Imago dei
Sheril glared at her reflection: short, dumpy, too-dark skin, flat hair, eyes just a little too far apart.
“Hah! Who looks like god? Not me, certainly,” she grumbled aloud, certain that the comforting words the preacher had said this morning in church was just another miasma of religious pretension. “You can’t fill this lacuna with your empty words. Empty is empty and empty fills nothing.”
Mama would think her crazy to be talking to her reflection, but sometimes she thought Mama was crazy to believe in a god who would leave her in this hellhole with a missing Papa who could not even spell Cheryl right, stupid Latino.
“I certainly do not want to look like you either,” a voice said, startling her. “No, do not oscitate. I understand there has been a glitch in the spacetime continuum that has brought me here right at this moment, which has proven to be quite synchronistic, don’t you think?
Sheril stared at the bearded man reflected behind her left shoulder.
“Ah, all sorted out now,” he said, smiling.
“Who are you and what do you do in my room?” Sheril asked, turning to look behind her.
There was no one there.
---
Prompt: the second campaigner challenge.
“Hah! Who looks like god? Not me, certainly,” she grumbled aloud, certain that the comforting words the preacher had said this morning in church was just another miasma of religious pretension. “You can’t fill this lacuna with your empty words. Empty is empty and empty fills nothing.”
Mama would think her crazy to be talking to her reflection, but sometimes she thought Mama was crazy to believe in a god who would leave her in this hellhole with a missing Papa who could not even spell Cheryl right, stupid Latino.
“I certainly do not want to look like you either,” a voice said, startling her. “No, do not oscitate. I understand there has been a glitch in the spacetime continuum that has brought me here right at this moment, which has proven to be quite synchronistic, don’t you think?
Sheril stared at the bearded man reflected behind her left shoulder.
“Ah, all sorted out now,” he said, smiling.
“Who are you and what do you do in my room?” Sheril asked, turning to look behind her.
There was no one there.
---
Prompt: the second campaigner challenge.
Write a blog post in 200 words or less, excluding the title. It can be in any format, whether flash fiction, non-fiction, humorous blog musings, poem, etc. The blog post should:
- include the word "imago" in the title [check]
- include the following 4 random words: "miasma," "lacuna," "oscitate," "synchronicity," [check]
If you want to give yourself an added challenge (optional and included in the word count), make reference to a mirror in your post. [check]
For those who want an even greater challenge (optional), make your post 200 words EXACTLY! [check]
The 200 words was hard, this time. It kept getting either too long or too short. Like my post on rachael's blog (see link above) if you like it! It's number 167. :)
Wednesday, 28 September 2011
#bookreview: The White Road by Lynn Flewelling (goodreads crosspost)
The White Road by Lynn FlewellingMy rating: 5 of 5 stars
Saddled with Sebrahn, a magical creature who can heal, kill and raise the dead, Seregil and Alec set off on a journey back to Plenimar, where an alchemist had created Sebrahn out of Alec’s blood, to find a way to prevent it from ever happening again. For exactly the same reason, they are hunted by Alec’s long-lost kin, intent on capturing him and Sebrahn before anymore tayan’gils are created out of Alec’s blood. Also hot on their tail is Seregil’s old nemesis who desires Sebrahn for his healing power.
I only picked up The White Road because it was on 50% discount and it had a Legolas-looking persona on the cover (not that I like Legolas, but I like elves and elvish stuff in general). I had browsed the blurb and found it to be about two heroes searching for “the truth about this living homunculus - a journey that can only lead to danger… or death”. I mean, what could go wrong with a fantasy with elves (she calls them faie, but anyone with a decent background in reading fantasy would know the words are interchangeable) and magic and dangerous adventure? I did take the precaution of reading the list of “also by Lynn Flewelling” to find out if it was part of a series, but didn’t find any indication. No “So and so series” with list of books or “book #XX of the something-or-other chronicles!”
Boy, was I wrong. After the first chapter, I started thinking that there was too much back story to the book for it to be a stand alone. Then again, The White Road was written as a complete novel in itself - whilst I wondered if there were prior books (maybe one of the also-bys) to the series, I didn’t find it difficult to follow the story. A quick google search later informed me that this was book 5 of the Nightrunner series.
It was altogether a tantalising read, one of those books that just don’t let you put it down. I mean, it took altogether about 5 hours, on a working night, up until 2AM to for me to release that final sigh of relief, so go figure.
Note:
I went back to the bookshop a few days later but couldn’t find any of the other books. I suppose Flewelling’s not popular enough to be high on the list of imports. On the other hand, I’ve only ever found the Ender series (Orson Scott Card) during warehouse sales, and you hardly see any Eddings on the shelves anymore, so maybe it’s the poor reception of fantasy books in Malaysia that’s causing the problem. A third deterrent could be the fact that the two main protagonists are in a homosexual relationship. Um, yeah, way to go, censorship board.
View all my reviews
Friday, 23 September 2011
#Fridayflash: An uneasy love
This is a short story I started working on for the Writer's Digest short story competition. As usual, I bit off a little more than I could chew in my choice of topic... so I may or may not finish it, depending on whether I figure out where they're going (or rather, whether they figure out who they really are and define the relationship [the one thing I ever learnt from Boundless was DTR, not that I ever had a chance to use it], if that makes sense). More notes after the story, because you may or may not agree with where I'm coming from. Don't read it if you're a bigot.
---
---
Wednesday, 21 September 2011
pre post camp post,
if that even makes sense.
I wanted to do a long post about camp. But I've been terribly busy at work trying to clear the backlog, and then I spent forever writing up (or rather editing) a travel advisory for the GCF delegates coming for the planning meeting for EAGC 2013 and my eyes can't stay open a moment longer. [Evangel asked me, don't you ever sleep? You sent me this at 2 AM and I see you online now (that was about 10AM on Tuesday morning).]
But I'll just leave you with a thought I've been mulling over since the session on discernment: what would you do different if you were to really know who and whose you were?
The other thing I have been mulling over would be to come up with some kind of blogging and/or writing schedule.
This would generally look something like this (with reference my past blogging trends):
Sundays (or sometimes Monday nights) - some deep reflective post and/or rant involving church, worship, cell group and God.
Fridays (or sometimes Saturday mornings) - #fridayflash
I should probably add in a day for updates on writing progress (hah! What progress?) which could possibly on Wednesdays, just to even it up.
We'll see how it goes. (This normally means that nothing will happen because I get too busy and/or lazy)
I wanted to do a long post about camp. But I've been terribly busy at work trying to clear the backlog, and then I spent forever writing up (or rather editing) a travel advisory for the GCF delegates coming for the planning meeting for EAGC 2013 and my eyes can't stay open a moment longer. [Evangel asked me, don't you ever sleep? You sent me this at 2 AM and I see you online now (that was about 10AM on Tuesday morning).]
But I'll just leave you with a thought I've been mulling over since the session on discernment: what would you do different if you were to really know who and whose you were?
The other thing I have been mulling over would be to come up with some kind of blogging and/or writing schedule.
This would generally look something like this (with reference my past blogging trends):
Sundays (or sometimes Monday nights) - some deep reflective post and/or rant involving church, worship, cell group and God.
Fridays (or sometimes Saturday mornings) - #fridayflash
I should probably add in a day for updates on writing progress (hah! What progress?) which could possibly on Wednesdays, just to even it up.
We'll see how it goes. (This normally means that nothing will happen because I get too busy and/or lazy)
Friday, 9 September 2011
#Fridayflash: Now was forever
The door swung open; the aisle stretched endlessly before her. She smiled blankly, instinctively. The music swelling in her ears was overshadowed by the pounding of her heart. The first day of the rest of her life, and she stood there, like a fool, with an empty stomach. At least there was nothing to throw up.
How did I get here? The pink roses trembled, the baby buds she had asked for suddenly seeming alien in her freshly manicured hands. A steady arm held her, a familiar voice whispered in her ear, “Ready, my little princess?” Twenty-six years of being the baby of the family would be changed in the next hour; had in reality been changed yesterday at the Registrar’s office by the signatures of five people. What have I done?
It had seemed so simple, so magical, a year ago. He had asked, she had answered. And now, now was forever. Now was…
She was aware of the smiling face bobbing by the altar, so comforting and yet so unreal. She took the first step toward him, almost tripping on her dress and in her wobbly heels.
Her wedding train trailed behind her; the door swung shut.
---
Prompt: The first campaigner challenge!
This was quite fun. Also, rather inspired by my cousin's wedding and the recent spate of engagements. People, can you stop getting engaged and married already? Or at least find me one so I can join in the fun! Haha.
On writing matters, I find that I'm using commas a lot. Please let me know if it feels too disjointed or truncated. I'm not sure if it really works.
How did I get here? The pink roses trembled, the baby buds she had asked for suddenly seeming alien in her freshly manicured hands. A steady arm held her, a familiar voice whispered in her ear, “Ready, my little princess?” Twenty-six years of being the baby of the family would be changed in the next hour; had in reality been changed yesterday at the Registrar’s office by the signatures of five people. What have I done?
It had seemed so simple, so magical, a year ago. He had asked, she had answered. And now, now was forever. Now was…
She was aware of the smiling face bobbing by the altar, so comforting and yet so unreal. She took the first step toward him, almost tripping on her dress and in her wobbly heels.
Her wedding train trailed behind her; the door swung shut.
---
Prompt: The first campaigner challenge!
Write a short story/flash fiction story in 200 words or less, excluding the title. It can be in any format, including a poem. Begin the story with the words, “The door swung open” These four words will be included in the word count.[check]
If you want to give yourself an added challenge (optional), use the same beginning words and end with the words: "the door swung shut." (also included in the word count)[check]
For those who want an even greater challenge, make your story 200 words EXACTLY![check - according to Scrivener, at least]
This was quite fun. Also, rather inspired by my cousin's wedding and the recent spate of engagements. People, can you stop getting engaged and married already? Or at least find me one so I can join in the fun! Haha.
On writing matters, I find that I'm using commas a lot. Please let me know if it feels too disjointed or truncated. I'm not sure if it really works.
Wednesday, 7 September 2011
How He Loves Us.
And yet, so forgettable, in the midst of the hustle and bustle and the rush and the buzz. But at the core, oh, how he loves us.
Haggai 1:7-9
Thus says the Lord of hosts, "Consider your ways! Go up to the mountains, bring wood and rebuild the temple, that I may be pleased with it and be glorified," says the Lord. "You look for much, but behold, it comes to little; when you bring it home, I blow it away. Why?" declares the Lord of hosts, "Because of My house which lies desolate, while each of you runs to his own house."
When things seem pointless, a timely point to consider.
Working on my weekend worship set now. :)
Tuesday, 6 September 2011
Piracy: The complex Malaysian Christian stand
So I was talking with this guy, Caleb, at my cousin's wedding dinner on Sunday night and we somehow got from music into books and into piracy (the copy-your-content-and-sell-it-cheap kind, not the Captain-Jack-Sparrow kind) and online file sharing.
And you know the thing about piracy is, it's not good. It's not nice and it's not Christian. To put it harshly, it's stealing. Sort of.
I mean, I write. I post stuff online. Right now, all of it is free, because most of the stuff I do is blog. Or write articles for people. But I would really like to write a publishable novel, and I might go the e-book route through Smashwords or Amazon. And if I do that, I would really like all the money for those sales to come to me. Like, if each person were to buy an e-book and the royalty comes to me, rather than say if A buys it and then passes a copy to B who passes a copy to C.
Then comes the other thought - what's so different between that happening with an actual print book and that happening with an e-book? I mean, I often borrow books off other people (which is, in fact, A buying the book then passing it on to B and passing it on to C). The difference is - there is only ONE actual print book, as compared to THREE different copies of the digital version.
And how about buying second hand books? I buy A LOT of second-hand books. The money still doesn't go back to the original writer/publisher, does it? It's all very complex. Why is the re-selling of second-hand books legal, but the re-selling (or sharing) of a digital version not? The argument goes back to the number of copies of the book available, doesn't it? There will only always be one ORIGINAL copy of the print book (let's not talk about making photocopies) whereas, there could be many, many copies of the digital version by now.
I also sing and act non-professionally. I know the amount of time and trouble it takes to get things right. Writing a song is a work of art, crafting everything together and getting the arrangements in shape is not only time-consuming, it's expensive if you're going to hire out. It's not good enough to say that oh, but the singers/actors/production houses are so rich anyway it's not going to make any difference to them. The reason they are able to get rich is because they sell A LOT of albums/shows. If you're a new artiste, fresh off the racks, in all probability you're not going to make enough to break even. If you pirate every album or movie you come across, there will be NO industry left because they won't be able to cover any of the costs! Yes, burning a copy of the album is super cheap. But the technology and the time and the effort it takes to come up with the original product is not insignificant.
A music album would need at minimum the band and the singer(s), the graphic designer (to come up with album art or at least the little logo thingy if you buy it off itunes), the composers/song writers (assuming that these songs are not written by the band/singers themselves), the guy who does the musical arrangement (may or may not be a separate person) and the sound engineer (or whatever you call the person who mixes the sound together) - I'm probably missing out a lot of other people (marketing, maybe) and don't forget that while they're doing all this stuff, they need money to keep themselves alive. Then there's the equipment - piano/keyboards, guitars, drums, whatever other instruments are being played, sound desk and all the recording devices, microphones, amps, mixing software...
True, you could probably do without a lot of these and record everything off your laptop, but the sound isn't the same, is it?
A movie? There's the director, producer, actors, cameramen, gaffers, video editors, computer graphic-y/animation people, costume designer, music director... if you've ever stayed to read the credits THAT'S A LOT OF PEOPLE INVOLVED. Let's not start on equipment.
And yet, the thing is, I don't think many Malaysians realise this. It's just a movie to watch, or an album to listen to and if you can get a perfectly good copy for RM4 where the whole family can watch together, why bother going to the cinema at RM8 - RM10 per person (imagine if you have a family of 5) or an original VCD/DVD which may be between RM30 - RM50?
I admit, I do hunt for bargain VCD/DVDs (often priced between RM12.90 to RM19.90). Nothing wrong with that - it's still the original. I don't know how the royalties/payments work that way, but I'm still buying the original product. (I suspect the distributing shop takes the hit, but these are usually obsolete/old/overrun/written off stocks anyway).
Actually, scratch the "Malaysian". I don't think most of society realises this anymore. The concept of paying for value has kind of gotten thrown out the window in recent years. There's so much free stuff around that people feel entitled to having other stuff free, and get outraged when they're asked to pay for it. What's so hard about doing all this artsy stuff anyway? is the kind of reaction you get, as if writing a book can be done in a day. Or writing a song is just a hobby. It may be a hobby for you, but it's a livelihood to others. And if they don't get paid, they can't continue giving you the content you want.
The problem for me, as a Malaysian, is that it's pretty much a way of life, a culture almost. Music and movies are often overpriced for the average person (especially if you're a student) and I admit to having copied music/e-books from friends before. And sometimes there are some great stuff that doesn't come here officially/legally and the only way you can get hold of it is through online file sharing (or the local pirates).
And there's that saying that if your stuff gets pirated and sold on Batu Feringghi, that's when you know you've made it as an artist...
So I don't know. It's wrong. It's plain confusing.
It's a stand I suppose one has to make and I'm trying to. It's difficult.
And you know the thing about piracy is, it's not good. It's not nice and it's not Christian. To put it harshly, it's stealing. Sort of.
I mean, I write. I post stuff online. Right now, all of it is free, because most of the stuff I do is blog. Or write articles for people. But I would really like to write a publishable novel, and I might go the e-book route through Smashwords or Amazon. And if I do that, I would really like all the money for those sales to come to me. Like, if each person were to buy an e-book and the royalty comes to me, rather than say if A buys it and then passes a copy to B who passes a copy to C.
Then comes the other thought - what's so different between that happening with an actual print book and that happening with an e-book? I mean, I often borrow books off other people (which is, in fact, A buying the book then passing it on to B and passing it on to C). The difference is - there is only ONE actual print book, as compared to THREE different copies of the digital version.
And how about buying second hand books? I buy A LOT of second-hand books. The money still doesn't go back to the original writer/publisher, does it? It's all very complex. Why is the re-selling of second-hand books legal, but the re-selling (or sharing) of a digital version not? The argument goes back to the number of copies of the book available, doesn't it? There will only always be one ORIGINAL copy of the print book (let's not talk about making photocopies) whereas, there could be many, many copies of the digital version by now.
I also sing and act non-professionally. I know the amount of time and trouble it takes to get things right. Writing a song is a work of art, crafting everything together and getting the arrangements in shape is not only time-consuming, it's expensive if you're going to hire out. It's not good enough to say that oh, but the singers/actors/production houses are so rich anyway it's not going to make any difference to them. The reason they are able to get rich is because they sell A LOT of albums/shows. If you're a new artiste, fresh off the racks, in all probability you're not going to make enough to break even. If you pirate every album or movie you come across, there will be NO industry left because they won't be able to cover any of the costs! Yes, burning a copy of the album is super cheap. But the technology and the time and the effort it takes to come up with the original product is not insignificant.
A music album would need at minimum the band and the singer(s), the graphic designer (to come up with album art or at least the little logo thingy if you buy it off itunes), the composers/song writers (assuming that these songs are not written by the band/singers themselves), the guy who does the musical arrangement (may or may not be a separate person) and the sound engineer (or whatever you call the person who mixes the sound together) - I'm probably missing out a lot of other people (marketing, maybe) and don't forget that while they're doing all this stuff, they need money to keep themselves alive. Then there's the equipment - piano/keyboards, guitars, drums, whatever other instruments are being played, sound desk and all the recording devices, microphones, amps, mixing software...
True, you could probably do without a lot of these and record everything off your laptop, but the sound isn't the same, is it?
A movie? There's the director, producer, actors, cameramen, gaffers, video editors, computer graphic-y/animation people, costume designer, music director... if you've ever stayed to read the credits THAT'S A LOT OF PEOPLE INVOLVED. Let's not start on equipment.
And yet, the thing is, I don't think many Malaysians realise this. It's just a movie to watch, or an album to listen to and if you can get a perfectly good copy for RM4 where the whole family can watch together, why bother going to the cinema at RM8 - RM10 per person (imagine if you have a family of 5) or an original VCD/DVD which may be between RM30 - RM50?
I admit, I do hunt for bargain VCD/DVDs (often priced between RM12.90 to RM19.90). Nothing wrong with that - it's still the original. I don't know how the royalties/payments work that way, but I'm still buying the original product. (I suspect the distributing shop takes the hit, but these are usually obsolete/old/overrun/written off stocks anyway).
Actually, scratch the "Malaysian". I don't think most of society realises this anymore. The concept of paying for value has kind of gotten thrown out the window in recent years. There's so much free stuff around that people feel entitled to having other stuff free, and get outraged when they're asked to pay for it. What's so hard about doing all this artsy stuff anyway? is the kind of reaction you get, as if writing a book can be done in a day. Or writing a song is just a hobby. It may be a hobby for you, but it's a livelihood to others. And if they don't get paid, they can't continue giving you the content you want.
The problem for me, as a Malaysian, is that it's pretty much a way of life, a culture almost. Music and movies are often overpriced for the average person (especially if you're a student) and I admit to having copied music/e-books from friends before. And sometimes there are some great stuff that doesn't come here officially/legally and the only way you can get hold of it is through online file sharing (or the local pirates).
And there's that saying that if your stuff gets pirated and sold on Batu Feringghi, that's when you know you've made it as an artist...
So I don't know. It's wrong. It's plain confusing.
It's a stand I suppose one has to make and I'm trying to. It's difficult.
Review: A to Z Stories of Life and Death (goodreads crosspost)
A to Z Stories of Life and Death by D. BiswasMy rating: 4 of 5 stars
Birthed out of a month-long blogfest, D. Biswas’ A to Z Stories of Life and Death presents 26 short stories organised according to the letters in the alphabet. Beginning with the innocence and wonder of a child finding snails in her Aquarium and ending with a fiery funeral pyre in Zone, the stories run the gamut from love, murder, sex, abuse, addiction, myth, sickness and mourning - all revolving around the issues of life and death.
Majority of the stories are very poignant vignettes focusing on slices of life, with several longer flash fiction in between. Reading them makes you feel as if you are collecting memories from various sources and trying them on for size. Each story has its own personal twist - the endings are never quite what you expect - and most would leave you with a tear in your eye.
What I like about Biswas’ writing is the descriptive way she writes, which helps put you right in the middle of the scene. She is very good at invoking emotions and making you feel the story without a sense of detachment.
View all my reviews
Saturday, 3 September 2011
A blogger game!
Got this off Kimberly's blog:
1. I'm typing this off my iPad whilst chilling at my cousin's house (this is also for you to excuse my poor editing skills while on the iPad because I normally edit everything once I'm home on my comp, but I'm not going home until Monday so that's not about to happen.)
2. The first dish I learnt how to cook was Maggi Mee (instant noodles) at about age seven, using the microwave.
3. I haven't much advanced from there since then. If i need to cook anything, it's bound to be something microwaveable.
4. I'm friendlier online than offline (apparently). I think it's something to do with the way I look like I'm frowning if I think too much. Or possibly the book I usually carry around in case I end up alone.
5. I love singing! Especially in harmonies!
6. Unfortunately, I usually pretty much hate karaoke.
7. I wrote, acted and directed a musical once. (a friend wrote the music and songs, I did the script). I still wince whenever watching the video. Which I avoid watching like the plague.
8. I love describing myself as a bean counter (though I'm not exactly one) so I can watch the puzzled looks on people's faces while they try to figure out what that means.
9. I once had this German word craze for a few months in high school which made a friend buy me a German-English dictionary for my birthday. I hardly used it so it's almost brand new. Anyone wants it?
10. I do most of my writing between 11pm to 2am, even if I start off by sitting in front of my computer since 9pm. I don't really know why.
So that's it from me! Looking forward to yours :) Have a happy campaign, people!
P/s I know I said I'm away til monday. But I got bored and couldn't resist
Here's how it works. I'll post 10 random things about myself. If you're interested in playing along, post 10 things about yourself on your blog. If the user account you post with doesn't link over to your blog, be sure to leave your blog url so I can check out your 10 random things. :)Okay, so here goes:
1. I'm typing this off my iPad whilst chilling at my cousin's house (this is also for you to excuse my poor editing skills while on the iPad because I normally edit everything once I'm home on my comp, but I'm not going home until Monday so that's not about to happen.)
2. The first dish I learnt how to cook was Maggi Mee (instant noodles) at about age seven, using the microwave.
3. I haven't much advanced from there since then. If i need to cook anything, it's bound to be something microwaveable.
4. I'm friendlier online than offline (apparently). I think it's something to do with the way I look like I'm frowning if I think too much. Or possibly the book I usually carry around in case I end up alone.
5. I love singing! Especially in harmonies!
6. Unfortunately, I usually pretty much hate karaoke.
7. I wrote, acted and directed a musical once. (a friend wrote the music and songs, I did the script). I still wince whenever watching the video. Which I avoid watching like the plague.
8. I love describing myself as a bean counter (though I'm not exactly one) so I can watch the puzzled looks on people's faces while they try to figure out what that means.
9. I once had this German word craze for a few months in high school which made a friend buy me a German-English dictionary for my birthday. I hardly used it so it's almost brand new. Anyone wants it?
10. I do most of my writing between 11pm to 2am, even if I start off by sitting in front of my computer since 9pm. I don't really know why.
So that's it from me! Looking forward to yours :) Have a happy campaign, people!
P/s I know I said I'm away til monday. But I got bored and couldn't resist
Friday, 2 September 2011
Away!
Just dropping by to hang up my "away" sign.
I've gone 4 hours south to Kuala Lumpur (and parts of PJ) for my cousin's wedding. This is only the second cousin in my family (on my mum's side at least) to get married, so it's a pretty momentous thing. The rest of us 'older ones' are still single...
I'll be back on Monday for the first campaigner's challenge thing. So meanwhile, follow me on twitter and read the awesome posts from my awesome writer warrior friends.
P/s I'm still trying to figure out what's the best way to link up all the campaigners in my group for ease of following for my and my readers. Tips? Leave 'em here!
Wednesday, 31 August 2011
I'm broke! (again)
I had an expensive day out this first day of Hari Raya Aidilfitri.
First of all, met up with an old college friend of mine, KK, for lunch. We went to Bella Italia at Belissa Row, where I had the ravioli something-or-other and she had some pasta thingie. (As you can tell, I'm not a food blogger. If I were, there'd be multiple descriptions of the food and the taste and texture and the atmosphere, topped off with pictures and pictures and more pictures...) Then we indulged in some Haagen-dazs ice cream (still reminds me of that ridiculous trainee teacher I had back in Form 4 who didn't know what Haagen-dazs was).
Then we headed off for Logos Hope, and I optimistically declared "I am not going to buy anything!"
As I said, optimistically.
After about forty-five minutes of waiting in line (during which time Wen Ping joined us and I took bored snaps above), we finally got on board. Into almost heaven. (I guess it doesn't take much to satisfy me. Heh.)
When we left, we realised that the waiting line to get in had become extremely short. Meh - we have to do something about this timing thing. At least we managed to catch up while waiting.
I do think that the bookshop on the old MV Doulos was much bigger than this, but then again, I was much younger and smaller then, so that could have been... erm... sheer perspective. Surprisingly, my stash this round turned out to be quite an even split between music CDs and books (because they had Derek Webb! and also they had CDs at RM5 each, with a buy 2, free 1 deal) and more surprisingly, I had only 1 fiction out of the 6 books (instead of the usual 100%), the remaining being primarily books on worship and/or Christian related stuff. And that would be because their range of fiction was disappointingly small. And rather unknown. I suppose most of them were Christian fiction, which seems to be mainly sanitised love stories or end times/apocalypse scare stories. Haih. Boring!
But all said, happy with my stash! (Pocket is complaining)
First of all, met up with an old college friend of mine, KK, for lunch. We went to Bella Italia at Belissa Row, where I had the ravioli something-or-other and she had some pasta thingie. (As you can tell, I'm not a food blogger. If I were, there'd be multiple descriptions of the food and the taste and texture and the atmosphere, topped off with pictures and pictures and more pictures...) Then we indulged in some Haagen-dazs ice cream (still reminds me of that ridiculous trainee teacher I had back in Form 4 who didn't know what Haagen-dazs was).
Then we headed off for Logos Hope, and I optimistically declared "I am not going to buy anything!"
As I said, optimistically.
 |
| Welcome on board... |
 |
| Logos Hope! (The logo is ridiculously tiny) |
 |
| The admission ticket |
After about forty-five minutes of waiting in line (during which time Wen Ping joined us and I took bored snaps above), we finally got on board. Into almost heaven. (I guess it doesn't take much to satisfy me. Heh.)
When we left, we realised that the waiting line to get in had become extremely short. Meh - we have to do something about this timing thing. At least we managed to catch up while waiting.
I do think that the bookshop on the old MV Doulos was much bigger than this, but then again, I was much younger and smaller then, so that could have been... erm... sheer perspective. Surprisingly, my stash this round turned out to be quite an even split between music CDs and books (because they had Derek Webb! and also they had CDs at RM5 each, with a buy 2, free 1 deal) and more surprisingly, I had only 1 fiction out of the 6 books (instead of the usual 100%), the remaining being primarily books on worship and/or Christian related stuff. And that would be because their range of fiction was disappointingly small. And rather unknown. I suppose most of them were Christian fiction, which seems to be mainly sanitised love stories or end times/apocalypse scare stories. Haih. Boring!
But all said, happy with my stash! (Pocket is complaining)
Sunday, 28 August 2011
On being unusually social (and yet not)
So I've been fairly busy in a social sort of way this week, despite being crazily maxed out at work.
First of all, I finally signed up at goodreads, and spent several hours rating books that I've read so far. Well, not all the books I've read, obviously, but at least those that I remember reading and can remember if I like. I realized that there are quite a few books I think I've read, but I'm not quite sure. There are also books that sound very, very familiar, but I can't tell off the title if I've read them or if I browsed through them at the store or if I (possibly) heard about them from someone. It's all very annoying. Hopefully by rating and reviewing on goodreads I'll get better in that aspect. And yes, I do intend to start reviewing books, which I've said quite often I will do, but never quite got round to doing. The next two books on my to review list are Damyanti's A to Z stories of life and death and Anne Riley's The Clearing. Awesome writers - check them out!
Next, Damyanti invited me to triberr, which is this social-media-sharing-thingy which tweets out new blogposts of your tribe on the tribe members' twitter (does that make sense?) so I've been catching up on some pretty good writer bloggers and tweeters. Which makes me sad because i haven't been blogging regularly. These people post almost every day!
Which brings me round to the next social project I'm thinking of, which is to join the writers' platform building campaign. Why? Because it looks like fun. Also, because I need more external incentives to blog because I tend to do more stuff if I tell other people I'm doing it, because I'm internally VERY lazy). And that's too many 'becauses' in one paragraph.
[Edit: 29/8 - just signed up!]
Other random realisation of the day: I'm still really bad at typing on my iPad.
First of all, I finally signed up at goodreads, and spent several hours rating books that I've read so far. Well, not all the books I've read, obviously, but at least those that I remember reading and can remember if I like. I realized that there are quite a few books I think I've read, but I'm not quite sure. There are also books that sound very, very familiar, but I can't tell off the title if I've read them or if I browsed through them at the store or if I (possibly) heard about them from someone. It's all very annoying. Hopefully by rating and reviewing on goodreads I'll get better in that aspect. And yes, I do intend to start reviewing books, which I've said quite often I will do, but never quite got round to doing. The next two books on my to review list are Damyanti's A to Z stories of life and death and Anne Riley's The Clearing. Awesome writers - check them out!
Next, Damyanti invited me to triberr, which is this social-media-sharing-thingy which tweets out new blogposts of your tribe on the tribe members' twitter (does that make sense?) so I've been catching up on some pretty good writer bloggers and tweeters. Which makes me sad because i haven't been blogging regularly. These people post almost every day!
Which brings me round to the next social project I'm thinking of, which is to join the writers' platform building campaign. Why? Because it looks like fun. Also, because I need more external incentives to blog because I tend to do more stuff if I tell other people I'm doing it, because I'm internally VERY lazy). And that's too many 'becauses' in one paragraph.
[Edit: 29/8 - just signed up!]
Other random realisation of the day: I'm still really bad at typing on my iPad.
Saturday, 27 August 2011
#Fridayflash: Dear ten-year-old-self
Stop caring so much about what others say of you. Your complexes for the rest of your life mainly stem from this one year of being the new kid who doesn’t speak the language.
It doesn’t matter if you run like a penguin, even if your teacher is the one who told you so.
It doesn’t matter if the other kids in class are so superstitious that they think the things you do will give them bad luck. That’s their luck, isn’t it?
It doesn’t matter if they don’t want to be your friends. There are more friends to be made elsewhere, whose friendship won’t rely on whether you’re “in” or not. It’s not as if you’ll remember them past high school anyway.
It doesn’t matter if the locals think you’re stuck up for speaking in English. It turns to your advantage when you start work.
Don’t waste your time borrowing and hiding those Sweet Valley books. There are much better books to read, as you’ll soon discover. Those Nancy Drew books you keep getting with your book prize money? You’re going to be giving them away too.
Treasure those moments in England and Sweden with your family. It’s the last family holiday you’ll have for a very long time.
Believe in yourself. Learn to be comfortable being the odd one out, because you’ll almost always be.
And that’s cool.
---
Nina posted a story prompt on G+ that I initially missed, but I caught a call for submissions off a twitter link she sent out much later.
Read the call for submissions here, if you're interested in writing a similar post!
It doesn’t matter if you run like a penguin, even if your teacher is the one who told you so.
It doesn’t matter if the other kids in class are so superstitious that they think the things you do will give them bad luck. That’s their luck, isn’t it?
It doesn’t matter if they don’t want to be your friends. There are more friends to be made elsewhere, whose friendship won’t rely on whether you’re “in” or not. It’s not as if you’ll remember them past high school anyway.
It doesn’t matter if the locals think you’re stuck up for speaking in English. It turns to your advantage when you start work.
Don’t waste your time borrowing and hiding those Sweet Valley books. There are much better books to read, as you’ll soon discover. Those Nancy Drew books you keep getting with your book prize money? You’re going to be giving them away too.
Treasure those moments in England and Sweden with your family. It’s the last family holiday you’ll have for a very long time.
Believe in yourself. Learn to be comfortable being the odd one out, because you’ll almost always be.
And that’s cool.
---
Nina posted a story prompt on G+ that I initially missed, but I caught a call for submissions off a twitter link she sent out much later.
Read the call for submissions here, if you're interested in writing a similar post!
Sunday, 21 August 2011
Worship as a muscle
I think in many ways worship* is something like a muscle. Everyone has a capacity for it, but you can also have an aptitude for it. Part of this aptitude could very well be how musically-inclined you are, but that isn’t really a very good indicator. There are some very musical people who do not worship and there are some people who just can’t carry a tune but are instantly caught up in it.
It’s partly to do with mind-set, as I blogged about here. It’s easy for someone who’s really into music to forget that the heart of worship isn’t about the music or the musician, but about the One that the worship is directed to. It’s very easy to get distracted about how the music is or isn’t picking up, how it is or isn’t good enough. It’s very easy to shift the focus of worship on to the worship itself.
I have had edifying talks over several nights with several people about worship and the state of our worship teams. It’s always encouraging to know that there are others who care just as much about the direction of our corporate worship and also very humbling to be reminded over and over that I do not always get it right and that there are other people striving for the same thing in their own ways.
That said, worship is really like a muscle because it can be built and strengthened – you can increase your aptitude and capacity - or it can fall into disuse or weaken from abuse. There are many times that I just want them to disband the worship team and start from scratch – and that was one of the things we talked about for both the youth team and the main service team (both seriously AND jokingly!). I also managed to be really mean and blunt, which I am when I’m really disillusioned (sorry, guys).
I don’t doubt that most of the people in the team once had a great capacity for worship. Maybe it’s just the way we’ve been running things (or the way we lack in running things, for that matter) that has gotten us to where we are. It could also be the way we tend to cater to the weakest, which is a nice thing to do in the short run, but can be pretty devastating for the long term.
Then Yuen Thern starts talking about really building the team, mentoring them and immersing them into worship; of working together to rebuild that culture and practice of worship**. And you know what? That really is a better solution. You don’t cut off your muscles because they aren’t working right - you go for physiotherapy. You work at it and rebuild it. It’s not going to happen overnight. It’s going to be a tough journey and it really is going to be for the long haul. But it will be worth it***.
I’m in. Are you?
* as in reference to worship in song, not your life as a worship. I suppose this always needs to be clarified. I don’t want you to get me wrong. Your life and how you live it is your worship and the work you do is part of it. Forgive me if I want to concentrate on a small portion of it. I’m pretty narrow-minded.
** I love it when he gets that way! It’s been way too long since I’ve heard this passion from him. Perhaps I haven’t been listening hard enough.
*** I'm also really excited about our current group of worship leaders. I do think that there is SO much potential overflowing here, and I think that we should hang out more. Who knows what may happen when all our visions align and ignite?
It’s partly to do with mind-set, as I blogged about here. It’s easy for someone who’s really into music to forget that the heart of worship isn’t about the music or the musician, but about the One that the worship is directed to. It’s very easy to get distracted about how the music is or isn’t picking up, how it is or isn’t good enough. It’s very easy to shift the focus of worship on to the worship itself.
I have had edifying talks over several nights with several people about worship and the state of our worship teams. It’s always encouraging to know that there are others who care just as much about the direction of our corporate worship and also very humbling to be reminded over and over that I do not always get it right and that there are other people striving for the same thing in their own ways.
That said, worship is really like a muscle because it can be built and strengthened – you can increase your aptitude and capacity - or it can fall into disuse or weaken from abuse. There are many times that I just want them to disband the worship team and start from scratch – and that was one of the things we talked about for both the youth team and the main service team (both seriously AND jokingly!). I also managed to be really mean and blunt, which I am when I’m really disillusioned (sorry, guys).
I don’t doubt that most of the people in the team once had a great capacity for worship. Maybe it’s just the way we’ve been running things (or the way we lack in running things, for that matter) that has gotten us to where we are. It could also be the way we tend to cater to the weakest, which is a nice thing to do in the short run, but can be pretty devastating for the long term.
Then Yuen Thern starts talking about really building the team, mentoring them and immersing them into worship; of working together to rebuild that culture and practice of worship**. And you know what? That really is a better solution. You don’t cut off your muscles because they aren’t working right - you go for physiotherapy. You work at it and rebuild it. It’s not going to happen overnight. It’s going to be a tough journey and it really is going to be for the long haul. But it will be worth it***.
I’m in. Are you?
* as in reference to worship in song, not your life as a worship. I suppose this always needs to be clarified. I don’t want you to get me wrong. Your life and how you live it is your worship and the work you do is part of it. Forgive me if I want to concentrate on a small portion of it. I’m pretty narrow-minded.
** I love it when he gets that way! It’s been way too long since I’ve heard this passion from him. Perhaps I haven’t been listening hard enough.
*** I'm also really excited about our current group of worship leaders. I do think that there is SO much potential overflowing here, and I think that we should hang out more. Who knows what may happen when all our visions align and ignite?
Saturday, 20 August 2011
#Fridayflash: Living is simple
Living is simple.
The floating lyric echoed itself in his head. Was it really? He stood on a precipice.
Twenty floors below him, the people seemed to crawl like ants on the sidewalk, bustling about their unknown business. What would they do if he came down among them like a bolt from the grey? Would they run about screaming? Would they be disgusted at the mess? Would they wonder if he had blown in from a stray cloud? He hated the rain. It was cold, wet and depressing.
The strong winds whipped a gust of spray into his face. He stepped back from the balcony railing. A step forward was all it would take for a shot at the next life, if that was open to him.
Living is simple.
It was dying which was hard. The when, where and how was more than he could take. It pounded in his brain, making it hard to concentrate on anything else. Everything he had considered would be too messy, too disturbing for everyone he left behind. If they took the time to bother. That was moot at this point.
His apartment was stark, bare. He sat down on the starchy couch and stared at his peeling fingers. The detergent he used was too corrosive and he had used too much of it, but he wanted everything to be neat and clean when they found him. It seemed now that everything would be except him.
And that was the problem.
Living is simple.
It sure was simpler than trying to die. You didn’t have to think much, living. Living was just carrying on - putting one foot in front of the other, watching time slip away. Living was waiting for the crushing, like the way his car had broken down yesterday, like the gimp knee he had that made him limp, like the smile he had given Kerrie when she had walked out. It didn’t require much effort. It just was.
He walked out to the balcony again, watching the slow stream of red and yellow lights below through the thickening downpour. The north wind blew and he turned to close the glass door behind him, determined that his hard work would not go to waste. He shivered as his soaked clothes clung to his skin. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Living is dying.
---
I didn't exactly start out to write such a depressing piece based on a random line from a Switchfoot song. It just happened.
Switchfoot stuff is generally very hopeful, in case you didn't know. This song is actually quite a nice one. Not depressing at all. It talks about mercy. And choices remaining, like second chances.
I should not take song lines out of context. Sorry.
The floating lyric echoed itself in his head. Was it really? He stood on a precipice.
Twenty floors below him, the people seemed to crawl like ants on the sidewalk, bustling about their unknown business. What would they do if he came down among them like a bolt from the grey? Would they run about screaming? Would they be disgusted at the mess? Would they wonder if he had blown in from a stray cloud? He hated the rain. It was cold, wet and depressing.
The strong winds whipped a gust of spray into his face. He stepped back from the balcony railing. A step forward was all it would take for a shot at the next life, if that was open to him.
Living is simple.
It was dying which was hard. The when, where and how was more than he could take. It pounded in his brain, making it hard to concentrate on anything else. Everything he had considered would be too messy, too disturbing for everyone he left behind. If they took the time to bother. That was moot at this point.
His apartment was stark, bare. He sat down on the starchy couch and stared at his peeling fingers. The detergent he used was too corrosive and he had used too much of it, but he wanted everything to be neat and clean when they found him. It seemed now that everything would be except him.
And that was the problem.
Living is simple.
It sure was simpler than trying to die. You didn’t have to think much, living. Living was just carrying on - putting one foot in front of the other, watching time slip away. Living was waiting for the crushing, like the way his car had broken down yesterday, like the gimp knee he had that made him limp, like the smile he had given Kerrie when she had walked out. It didn’t require much effort. It just was.
He walked out to the balcony again, watching the slow stream of red and yellow lights below through the thickening downpour. The north wind blew and he turned to close the glass door behind him, determined that his hard work would not go to waste. He shivered as his soaked clothes clung to his skin. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Living is dying.
---
I didn't exactly start out to write such a depressing piece based on a random line from a Switchfoot song. It just happened.
Switchfoot stuff is generally very hopeful, in case you didn't know. This song is actually quite a nice one. Not depressing at all. It talks about mercy. And choices remaining, like second chances.
I should not take song lines out of context. Sorry.
Monday, 15 August 2011
Bombed.
So there are times when you get ahead of yourself, and you think that you know what you're doing and then you reach a point and go... I lost them. I didn't intend to, but I did. I guess that's another learning curve to deal with.
I realised something though: the people who are there to worship, do worship, regardless of whether they know the songs or not. You can tell by their stance, by their focus. But I guess not everyone is like that.
On the other hand, a post that deals with what I go through most Sundays here. Because sometimes I tend to be the critic, thinking what I could do better, though that's pretty much a moot point. (The Sundays I lead I'm usually going ohGodwhyamIdoingthisagain?Stressstressstressstress.Savemeeeee) I think the most important thing to remember is his last point:
I don't think there's anything wrong in wishing for things to get better. It's the yearning for something more that pushes you to strive in your art, creativity and basically in everything in life. And that should translate into your worship as well. It should translate into you crying out for God to move in your worship. Because what you have, what you've experienced is never enough. There is always something more, something better, something that you have to press in to.
The thing to remember is as much as you want to criticise after the service, don't let it be that you're criticising during the service as well because then you wouldn't actually be worshipping. And as much as you want to criticise after the service, make sure you're doing something to bring about positive change. Because things don't get better via mere criticism. Things only get better by finding solutions to your complaints.
I guess there are several things I need to work on.
I realised something though: the people who are there to worship, do worship, regardless of whether they know the songs or not. You can tell by their stance, by their focus. But I guess not everyone is like that.
On the other hand, a post that deals with what I go through most Sundays here. Because sometimes I tend to be the critic, thinking what I could do better, though that's pretty much a moot point. (The Sundays I lead I'm usually going ohGodwhyamIdoingthisagain?Stressstressstressstress.Savemeeeee) I think the most important thing to remember is his last point:
Lead yourself
I know there’s a “worship leader” on stage. Forget about that. Lead yourself. Make up your mind beforehand that you are going to lead yourself in worship.
This is a habit you need to build. Don’t wait for your favorite song or epic keyboard pad or perfect lighting. Lead yourself. Go for it. Cry out to God.
I don't think there's anything wrong in wishing for things to get better. It's the yearning for something more that pushes you to strive in your art, creativity and basically in everything in life. And that should translate into your worship as well. It should translate into you crying out for God to move in your worship. Because what you have, what you've experienced is never enough. There is always something more, something better, something that you have to press in to.
The thing to remember is as much as you want to criticise after the service, don't let it be that you're criticising during the service as well because then you wouldn't actually be worshipping. And as much as you want to criticise after the service, make sure you're doing something to bring about positive change. Because things don't get better via mere criticism. Things only get better by finding solutions to your complaints.
I guess there are several things I need to work on.
Saturday, 6 August 2011
#Fridayflash: Adam's death
In contrast to the harshly lit cells, the interrogation rooms were dark. Mahatma in his tattered prisoner’s jumpsuit seemed to blend in with the shabby room filled with old stains. He figured that a lot of the stains were probably his own. How many times had he been in here? How many times were they going to ask him to recant? He sat rock still in the chair, years of discipline quelling the need to fidget even if he was still as afraid as he had ever been. What if today was the day he would be beaten to death?
A faceless man entered, standing far in the shadows, whilst the beam of the light was shone directly into his eyes.
“We’ve arrested your son. You’d be glad to know he’s been following in your footsteps.”
His heart sank.
“I guess traitors run in the family. What, nothing to say? No fatherly words of concern?”
“What is there to say?”
“No pleading for mercy on his behalf? Ya Allah, you’re hardly human!”
“He chose his own road. Let each man live or die on his own convictions.” Mentally, he prepared a shroud, played a funeral, recited a Psalm. Ashes to ashes and dust to dust, may your short life have done some good, provided some beauty, because nothing will be beautiful henceforth. I hope they kill you quickly, mercifully, before you become an animal like me. And yet… Adam for Met. Hadn’t that smuggled note meant that he had escaped? Didn’t it mean that he was now underground with the Metropolitan agents? Or was it merely a ruse to prove that they had caught the mole?
They now dragged in a thin body - a young teen so badly beaten that his features were almost unrecognisable. Mahatma schooled his body to stillness, even as his heart felt like it would fall out of his chest. He steeled his face, showing nothing. The boy, as much as could be seen, resembled Adam very much, and yet, his mind protested that it was impossible. It was impossible that this person could have come from what he remembered of his son’s lankiness. He had only been eight then, yes, but he had shown indications of very great height. This corpse, for it wasn’t breathing, looked to be barely above his own five feet five. Unless his growth had been tampered with… suppressed… denied… but anything could have happened in ten years.
He had to admit to himself, he had no idea who this youth had been. And if he didn’t know, it could be anyone. So he shut his heart back into its recesses and turned his stony face towards the nemesis in the shadows.
“And what do you want me to do with this… corpse?”
“And this is what you would wish for your dream Malaysia? Heartless men like you who cannot grieve the deaths of their sons?”
“You have no proof that this is my son.”
“Oh, you wish proof, cynic?” The man laughed and tossed him a wallet.
Willing his fingers not to shake, he flipped it open.
Adam’s face stared out at him from the identification card, his baby boy grown up. His gaze flickered towards the body. It was hard to decide what he should do. He had been living so long counter to all that they tried to make him be and do, that there were little impulses left in him. Should he acknowledge this strange person as his son and grieve? Or should he deny that it was his son? Or was there another way that would annoy them even more?
Laughter seemed to fill the room. It took him a few seconds to realise that it was coming from him, which then made him shake with fear that he had finally lost it. Maybe he had, and maybe it didn’t matter. As they dragged him back to his cell, tears started falling for the first time in over twenty years, and they wouldn’t stop.
---
This week's Friday flash is an excerpt from my unfinished NaNoWriMo novel. I picked a passage at random, and edited it slightly for some clarity.
Thursday, 4 August 2011
A worship ramble.
One thing about Twitter is that it's been leading me to interesting links/sites. I just started following a whole bunch of worship related accounts which has led to blogs, one of which is Rob Rash. (I'm not sure why he uses ".us" because it makes me think of Rashes. Like Rob has Rashes. Err. Anyway.)
His recent post on Worship Pastor vs. Worship Leader vs. Song Leader is an interesting one:
I may be wrong, but I just some how think that if the church is entrusting a bunch of guys (and a girl) to lead the church in worship every week, there should be some kind of deeper discipling happening at that level. I mean, if you really take worship (as in the corporate worship-in-song, not the worship-as-a-lifestyle) seriously, there has to be a correlation between what is going on during the worship, including the songs selected, and the general sermons coming out over the pulpit. There has to be a connect. (On an aside, having the sermon theme/outline BEFORE choosing songs is a great plus. True, it's great and awesome when both WL and the Pastor are so in tune that they sing/speak on the same theme... but face it - it's not that common an occurence. Then the WLs have to scramble about for a suitable song for altar call on the spot.)
Taking that further, it shouldn't only be the WLs per se who are getting this deeper discipling - the whole team need to be on the same page as well. Because a worship leader doesn't lead on his/her own. The musicians and singers need to engage as well, because if not, it will fall back into another weekly performance. The tech people need to be there - not just to make it sound right, but to be sensitive to where the service is going.
I don't know. I suppose that the carecells are supposed to be taking care of this, but it just seems to me that this new cell model is shallower than the previous one. It's a lot more about connecting, yes, but it's not much about discipling. Or maybe I should just be patient and wait until the next level of discipling starts and wait and see if I'm on it. As it is, this leadership cell thing is only for cell leaders. (Okay, this could be a personal chip.)
So the question now is how do we move ourselves from being "song leaders" to being "worship leaders"? And do we wait for a church appointed / ordained / paid Worship Pastor, or do we seek to step up into that role because that is what the church needs, and where our hearts lie?
His recent post on Worship Pastor vs. Worship Leader vs. Song Leader is an interesting one:
The Song Leader - The song leader does just what the title implies, leads the church in songs. There is no real leadership or vision. There is no shepherding going on, it’s the simplest form of leading worship as there can be. The song leader sings worship songs.I figure that most of our "worship leaders" (WLs), me included, are more inclined towards being just "Song Leaders". A lot of times, it's about throwing a bunch of worship songs together based on our own directions - maybe the current themes in our heads/personal devotionals/etc - with no clear vision, no clear direction that is in line with the church. Maybe this has to do with the disconnect between the WLs and the general leadership of the church. I don't know if this is something the other WLs feel, but it's been something I've been mulling over.
The Worship Leader - Once again, going off the title, the worship leader knows how to lead the church in worship. This is a step above a song leader and they know how to speak, cast vision, and lead the church beyond just singing songs.
The Worship Pastor - The worship pastor goes beyond just singing songs, casting vision, and speaking into people’s lives from the stage. The worship pastor is shepherding the church. Moving past the stage and Sunday mornings, the worship pastor gets involved in people’s lives and has a sense of responsibility mixed with a calling to move people in their faith.
There is a major difference in all three, as each one assumes a slightly different role. I believe it’s important for those of us that are leading the church, whether in worship, preaching, teaching, or in leadership, to have a real clear understanding of our calling.
I may be wrong, but I just some how think that if the church is entrusting a bunch of guys (and a girl) to lead the church in worship every week, there should be some kind of deeper discipling happening at that level. I mean, if you really take worship (as in the corporate worship-in-song, not the worship-as-a-lifestyle) seriously, there has to be a correlation between what is going on during the worship, including the songs selected, and the general sermons coming out over the pulpit. There has to be a connect. (On an aside, having the sermon theme/outline BEFORE choosing songs is a great plus. True, it's great and awesome when both WL and the Pastor are so in tune that they sing/speak on the same theme... but face it - it's not that common an occurence. Then the WLs have to scramble about for a suitable song for altar call on the spot.)
Taking that further, it shouldn't only be the WLs per se who are getting this deeper discipling - the whole team need to be on the same page as well. Because a worship leader doesn't lead on his/her own. The musicians and singers need to engage as well, because if not, it will fall back into another weekly performance. The tech people need to be there - not just to make it sound right, but to be sensitive to where the service is going.
I don't know. I suppose that the carecells are supposed to be taking care of this, but it just seems to me that this new cell model is shallower than the previous one. It's a lot more about connecting, yes, but it's not much about discipling. Or maybe I should just be patient and wait until the next level of discipling starts and wait and see if I'm on it. As it is, this leadership cell thing is only for cell leaders. (Okay, this could be a personal chip.)
So the question now is how do we move ourselves from being "song leaders" to being "worship leaders"? And do we wait for a church appointed / ordained / paid Worship Pastor, or do we seek to step up into that role because that is what the church needs, and where our hearts lie?
Tuesday, 2 August 2011
Restless - Switchfoot
I am the sea on a moonless night
Calling, falling, slipping tides
I am the leaky, dripping pipes
The endless, aching drops of light
I am the raindrop falling down
Always longing for the deeper ground
I am the broken, breaking seas
Even my blood finds ways to bleed
Even the rivers ways to run
Even the rain to reach the sun
Even my thirsty streams
Even in my dreams
I am restless
I am restless
I am restless
Looking for you
I am restless
I run like the ocean to find your shore
Looking for you
I am the thorn stuck in your side
I am the one that you left behind
I am the dried up, doubting eyes
Looking for the well that won't run dry
Running hard for the other side
The world that I've always been denied
Running hard for the infinite
With the tears of saints and hypocrites
Oh, blood of black and white and gray
Death in life and night in day
One by one by one
We let our rivers run
I am restless
I am restless
I am restless
Looking for you
I am restless
I run like the ocean to find your shore
Looking for you
I can't hear you breathing
I can't hear you leading
More than just a feeling
More than just a feeling
I can't feel you reaching
Pushing through the ceiling
Till the final healing
I'm looking for you
Until the sea of glass we meet
At last completed and complete
Where tide and tear and pain subside
And laughter drinks them dry
I'll be waiting
Anticipating
All that I aim for
What I was made for
With every heartbeat
All of my blood bleeds
Running inside me
Looking for you
I am restless
I am restless
I am restless
Looking for you
I am restless
I run like the ocean to find your shore
I'm looking for you
I can't feel you breathing
I can't feel you leading
More than just a feeling
More than just a feeling
I can't feel you reaching
Pushing through the ceiling
Till the final healing
I'm looking for you
I'm looking for you
---
There's just something about a melancholic Switchfoot song that just captures the longing in your heart. I am restless. Aren't we all?
We're all pilgrims, aren't we? Looking for something more. Looking for something deeper.
And there are times we just can't feel Him. It's a glass ceiling we can't get through, even if most times the glass ceiling is of our own making.
Always running hard for the infinite, not yet there, still hypocritically pretending that we are. Still, striving, restless, looking.
Always the paradox of Christ and the paradox of man. Death in life, night in day.
I am restless, and yet there will be a day. Pushing through.
Also:
Revelations 15:2 appears here? And I saw what looked like a sea of glass mixed with fire and, standing beside the sea, those who had been victorious over the beast and his image and over the number of his name. They held harps given them by God.
Betcha you didn't catch that: Until the sea of glass we meet / At last completed and complete / Where tide and tear and pain subside / And laughter drinks them dry.
Sunday, 31 July 2011
The Shelter - Jars of Clay
I've been having the album on repeat in my car, mainly because 1) I'm too lazy to change the CD and 2) I haven't gotten sick of it yet.
Details just for the heck of it (and since it was listed on youtube):
Jars Of Clay -- The Shelter (2010)
Artist: Jars Of Clay
Album: The Shelter
Release Date: October 5th, 2010
Style: Rock / Pop / Indie
Label: Gray Matters / Essential Records / Provident
Location: Nashville, TN
Track Listing:
1. Small Rebellions (featuring Brandon Heath)
2. Call My Name (featuring Thad Cockrell, Audrey Assad)
3. We Will Follow (featuring Gungor)
4. Eyes Wide Open (featuring Mac Powell, Derek Webb, Burlap To Cashmere)
5. Shelter (featuring TobyMac, Audrey Assad, Brandon Heath)
6. Out Of My Hands (featuring Mike Donehey, Leigh Nash)
7. No Greater Love
8. Run In The Night (featuring Thad Cockrell)
9. Lay It Down (featuring David Crowder, Dawn Richardson)
10. Love Will Find Us (featuring Sara Groves, Matt Maher)
11. Benediction (featuring Amy Grant)
S/N: Jars of Clay lyrics = deep poetry = winners! at least in my book. (Switchfoot too, though I didn't like the style of Hello Hurricane as much as I expected - but Restless off the upcoming album is awesome!)
If you've been following my older blog, you'll remember that I kind of like to dissect songs (maybe more exactly - respond to them) every once in a while. So I figure I might as well follow up on that here.
I wasted a rescue
Abandoned the mission
I've failed by my own hand
And watched it all go wrong
Hah, isn't this life?So many times all the great plans that we have, the awesomest things we want to do (for God or otherwise) just seems to fall apart at the slightest twitch of a finger)
You said You could save me
That I couldn't save myself
You said that You loved me
No matter what I've done
Isn't this sometimes how we talk to God? You said so, didn't you? But why can't I believe it? Why can't it just be that I can save myself? Why can't it be that I don't need to be saved? You said you loved me, didn't you? How sure are you of that?
When the light is gone
And life is just a dare we take
Still the fight goes on
To give my heart away
Funny, but as much as you deny it, my heart has to belong to something. It can't exist in a vacuum. If I can't love you, I have to love something else. My boyfriend. My books. My games. My work. My family. But something. Something has to have my heart, even if it's myself.
And it's out of my hands
It was from the start
In light of what You've done for me
In light of what You've done for me
You lifted my head
Set me apart
In light of what You've done for me
This is what You've done for me
It's out of my hands
Is it? Is it really out of my hands? Isn't there something I can do? Something I can say? Something that makes me feel not so worthless? Something I can grasp?
You grow where the light is
Like trees in the highlands
We're bent by our own plans
To keep us in the dark
And I act like an orphan
Forget that You found me
But You came like a whisper
And saved me with a spark
Yetyoufoundme. Like a whisper in the wind that says, you're worth it. It doesn't matter what you think or how much you can believe - I came for you. It isn't you always striving. It isn't you always trying to be, be more, be bigger. It's you being Mine. It isn't your action that counts. It's your response to Me.
When the light is gone
And life is just a dare we take
Still the fight goes on and on
To give my heart away
Take that dare. Imagine you could live bigger than just you. Imagine that you were a beacon shining in your night. Take that dare.
And it's out of my hands
It was from the start
In light of what You've done for me
In light of what You've done for me
It is, isn't it? It was never in my hands. It was never mine to hold.
You lifted my head
Set me apart
In light of what You've done for me
This is what You've done for me
It's out of my hands
It's out of my hands
It has always been You moving the pieces, directing the scenes. You lifted my head to see a different scene. You set me apart to be a different person. It's not me, trying. It's You, being.
There's nothing in the world that I can offer
Nothing in the world that I can stand apart
Apart from You
Apart from You
There's nothing in my life
Nothing in my life that You haven't given to me
It's out of my hands
It was from the start
In light of what You've done
In light of what You've done
You lifted my head
Set me apart
In light of what You've done
In light of what You've done for me
It's out of my hands
It was from the start
In light of what You've done for me
In light of what You've done for me
You lifted my head
Set me apart
In light of what You've done for me
This is what You've done for me
It's out of my hands
It's out of my hands
Everything I have, Lord
Everything I have
It's out of my hands
It's out of my hands
Oh, It's out of my hands
Other S/N: I love the backup vocals on this. Leigh Nash! <3
Details just for the heck of it (and since it was listed on youtube):
Jars Of Clay -- The Shelter (2010)
Artist: Jars Of Clay
Album: The Shelter
Release Date: October 5th, 2010
Style: Rock / Pop / Indie
Label: Gray Matters / Essential Records / Provident
Location: Nashville, TN
Track Listing:
1. Small Rebellions (featuring Brandon Heath)
2. Call My Name (featuring Thad Cockrell, Audrey Assad)
3. We Will Follow (featuring Gungor)
4. Eyes Wide Open (featuring Mac Powell, Derek Webb, Burlap To Cashmere)
5. Shelter (featuring TobyMac, Audrey Assad, Brandon Heath)
6. Out Of My Hands (featuring Mike Donehey, Leigh Nash)
7. No Greater Love
8. Run In The Night (featuring Thad Cockrell)
9. Lay It Down (featuring David Crowder, Dawn Richardson)
10. Love Will Find Us (featuring Sara Groves, Matt Maher)
11. Benediction (featuring Amy Grant)
S/N: Jars of Clay lyrics = deep poetry = winners! at least in my book. (Switchfoot too, though I didn't like the style of Hello Hurricane as much as I expected - but Restless off the upcoming album is awesome!)
If you've been following my older blog, you'll remember that I kind of like to dissect songs (maybe more exactly - respond to them) every once in a while. So I figure I might as well follow up on that here.
I wasted a rescue
Abandoned the mission
I've failed by my own hand
And watched it all go wrong
Hah, isn't this life?So many times all the great plans that we have, the awesomest things we want to do (for God or otherwise) just seems to fall apart at the slightest twitch of a finger)
You said You could save me
That I couldn't save myself
You said that You loved me
No matter what I've done
Isn't this sometimes how we talk to God? You said so, didn't you? But why can't I believe it? Why can't it just be that I can save myself? Why can't it be that I don't need to be saved? You said you loved me, didn't you? How sure are you of that?
When the light is gone
And life is just a dare we take
Still the fight goes on
To give my heart away
Funny, but as much as you deny it, my heart has to belong to something. It can't exist in a vacuum. If I can't love you, I have to love something else. My boyfriend. My books. My games. My work. My family. But something. Something has to have my heart, even if it's myself.
And it's out of my hands
It was from the start
In light of what You've done for me
In light of what You've done for me
You lifted my head
Set me apart
In light of what You've done for me
This is what You've done for me
It's out of my hands
Is it? Is it really out of my hands? Isn't there something I can do? Something I can say? Something that makes me feel not so worthless? Something I can grasp?
You grow where the light is
Like trees in the highlands
We're bent by our own plans
To keep us in the dark
And I act like an orphan
Forget that You found me
But You came like a whisper
And saved me with a spark
Yetyoufoundme. Like a whisper in the wind that says, you're worth it. It doesn't matter what you think or how much you can believe - I came for you. It isn't you always striving. It isn't you always trying to be, be more, be bigger. It's you being Mine. It isn't your action that counts. It's your response to Me.
When the light is gone
And life is just a dare we take
Still the fight goes on and on
To give my heart away
Take that dare. Imagine you could live bigger than just you. Imagine that you were a beacon shining in your night. Take that dare.
And it's out of my hands
It was from the start
In light of what You've done for me
In light of what You've done for me
It is, isn't it? It was never in my hands. It was never mine to hold.
You lifted my head
Set me apart
In light of what You've done for me
This is what You've done for me
It's out of my hands
It's out of my hands
It has always been You moving the pieces, directing the scenes. You lifted my head to see a different scene. You set me apart to be a different person. It's not me, trying. It's You, being.
There's nothing in the world that I can offer
Nothing in the world that I can stand apart
Apart from You
Apart from You
There's nothing in my life
Nothing in my life that You haven't given to me
It's out of my hands
It was from the start
In light of what You've done
In light of what You've done
You lifted my head
Set me apart
In light of what You've done
In light of what You've done for me
It's out of my hands
It was from the start
In light of what You've done for me
In light of what You've done for me
You lifted my head
Set me apart
In light of what You've done for me
This is what You've done for me
It's out of my hands
It's out of my hands
Everything I have, Lord
Everything I have
It's out of my hands
It's out of my hands
Oh, It's out of my hands
Other S/N: I love the backup vocals on this. Leigh Nash! <3
Saturday, 30 July 2011
#Fridayflash: Time
Your story prompt from Writer's Digest
So this is what mortality feels like, he thought, the steady trickling away of life. It seemed that his feet swung in time with the rhythm of the clock as he stared blankly into space - or where space would have been, if the meeting of the wall and the ceiling hadn’t coincided with his general line of sight.
Time rippled around him and for a moment he had the illusion of being naked, a white towel draped around his waist. He blinked and the hallucination faded. The door in front of him opened and the petite young doctor came in, frowning over her clipboard.
“I don’t understand these results,” she announced to the clipboard.
“What’s wrong with them?” His heart raced in his chest as he tried to keep his voice steady.
“None of your results fall within the normal ranges. You shouldn’t even be alive right now.”
He thought it was cute, the way she bit at the end of her pen in frustration.
“Maybe I’m not.” he said.
She rolled her eyes. “Try harder next time. Here. Bend down - let me get a look at your eyes.”
He did as she instructed, taking the opportunity to stare into her large grey ones.
“Not funny,” she snapped.
“Who’s laughing?”
“If you continue to be a creep, I’ll turn you over to the next available doctor. He’s reaching eighty, extremely cranky and will probably give you paracetamol and tell you just suck it up and live.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I should go. My time is up.” He could feel the ticking in his bones now, the many slight jumps in time, images over images appearing before his eyes.
She frowned at him. “Maybe I’m testing for the wrong thing,” she mumbled to herself.
“Yes, totally wrong. Look,” he stood. “Just remember that there’s more to life than this. It’s clichéd, I know, but it’s true. I have to go now. I’ll see you on the other side.”
He watched her from the stream of time as she looked up from her clipboard, puzzled to find that her peculiar patient had suddenly disappeared.
I’m not alive, he thought, merely immortal.
----
So I dropped by Writer's Digest and the latest Your Story competition caught my eye. However, I couldn't quite just stop at an opening line, so I tried to continue the story. I got distracted by the Internet though (as usual) so it's probably not as good as it could have been.
I'll have to work on the not-getting-distracted bit.
Several posts lined up in my brain, just whether any of them will see the light of day. We'll see how this weekend works out.
Sunday, 17 July 2011
Happy birthday, @yeohjo, here's to (almost) 27 years of friendship!
Dear Josh,
So. Twenty-seven years ago, you were born. And I've known you for almost 27 of them. Technically. If you count me being in my mom's womb, I've known you for all 27, but that's a bit hard to grasp. Hm. Well, never mind.
I don't really know where I'm going with this. I kind of had an idea earlier, but it slipped my mind between arriving home and turning on the computer and being distracted by Twitter.
We've done much together: firebrands, cell group, writing, acting and directing Star of Persia, worship teams, add maths tuition (HAH I RULE!), camps, random e-mails, strange twitter exchanges, birthday parties, FYU, supper, YOUR FIRST ACCIDENT WITH ME IN THE CAR (It was the first, right?). I'm sure there's much more I haven't mentioned...
You know, sometimes I listen to a bit of flak about your current um, overspiritual state, and how sometimes it's hard to talk with you without it turning into a well, sermon. But that's you. It's what you're excited about and it's exciting that God is doing so much with you. Or you are doing so much with God, whichever way you want to put it. It's beautiful to listen to your passion. I guess I love the way you make me want to do more, to press on more, to not be satisfied with where I am just by listening to your stories.
Maybe I'm getting old enough to wax nostalgic about the "good old days". But we should hang out. Soon. When I'm not so busy, and you're not so busy.
So here's to more of God in your future; that your wildest dreams will be fulfiled with more than you've ever hoped for, because when you glory in God, He glories in you.
Love and blessings,
-anna-
So. Twenty-seven years ago, you were born. And I've known you for almost 27 of them. Technically. If you count me being in my mom's womb, I've known you for all 27, but that's a bit hard to grasp. Hm. Well, never mind.
I don't really know where I'm going with this. I kind of had an idea earlier, but it slipped my mind between arriving home and turning on the computer and being distracted by Twitter.
We've done much together: firebrands, cell group, writing, acting and directing Star of Persia, worship teams, add maths tuition (HAH I RULE!), camps, random e-mails, strange twitter exchanges, birthday parties, FYU, supper, YOUR FIRST ACCIDENT WITH ME IN THE CAR (It was the first, right?). I'm sure there's much more I haven't mentioned...
You know, sometimes I listen to a bit of flak about your current um, overspiritual state, and how sometimes it's hard to talk with you without it turning into a well, sermon. But that's you. It's what you're excited about and it's exciting that God is doing so much with you. Or you are doing so much with God, whichever way you want to put it. It's beautiful to listen to your passion. I guess I love the way you make me want to do more, to press on more, to not be satisfied with where I am just by listening to your stories.
Maybe I'm getting old enough to wax nostalgic about the "good old days". But we should hang out. Soon. When I'm not so busy, and you're not so busy.
So here's to more of God in your future; that your wildest dreams will be fulfiled with more than you've ever hoped for, because when you glory in God, He glories in you.
Love and blessings,
-anna-
Friday, 15 July 2011
sorry, no #Fridayflash this week.
I told myself that if I could write a short story every Friday for #fridayflash, I would have 52 shorts (or flash fiction) in a year and I could edit and compile it and try to sell it online. Unfortunately, a week of crazy work which is going to continue into this weekend is not much of an incentive for me to sit and write something. I've been rather brain dead all day after a week of midnighters (so NOT me!) and I think I'm off to bed.
So, no #fridayflash today and those posts I've been wanting to work on will just have to wait.
Cheerios.
So, no #fridayflash today and those posts I've been wanting to work on will just have to wait.
Cheerios.
Friday, 8 July 2011
#FridayFlash: Remember Peace
Daniel opened his eyes and stared at the fan spinning above his head. And so it is morning. Am I truly ready for today?
He refused to think about it further as he bent his head and inhaled the smell of Sherise’s hair. When had she come and snuggled next to him? His arm was around her, holding her like a doll. The sleeping bag suddenly seemed a cumbersome thing he was cocooned inside. He extricated his arm, trying not to wake her up. Once he was free, he picked her up, comforter and all and laid her gently on the bed. She stirred, he held his breath, but she settled down again, eyes closed.
Am I ready for today? Perhaps.
The shaver stopped mid-chin as Sherise pushed open the bathroom door.
“Sorry, did I wake you? I thought I was quiet enough not to.”
"You're going, aren't you?" she asked, her face white under the yellow lights.
He shrugged.
"Take me with you."
His eyes flickered over to her even as his arrested motion resumed. "No."
"Then you are not going."
"Sherise, the rally is no place for you in your state."
"Neither is it a place for you in yours."
"Do you..."
"Remember peace, Daniel," she interrupted him. "If you forget it, there is no point in going."
Peace. He bristled at the suggestion. No one called for peace when you were arrested.
"Daniel, if you're going to look for a fight, don't go. They don't need your help to create a riot. They need people who will remember that it started as a peaceful movement, will continue as one and will end in peace as well."
"And how would you know?" He hated the way it came out gruff and accusing and angry even as her eyes tightened. “Sorry, I…”
"Do you think being grilled for hours on end about this would leave me as clueless as I was before?" There was a catch in her voice. "If you must go, you must take me."
"Why?" he asked, but he knew the answer: if she went along, he would give his all to protect her. If she were there, he would not give in to his basest impulses, his wild anger, his desire to fight. That was why he had decided to go, wasn’t it? To tell the government that he wouldn’t give in to their bullying tactics. It was only peripherally about the rally’s actual demands. Are you sure you really are ready for what today holds?
"This is not about retaliation," she insisted.
He scratched at his chin. But maybe it really is. Maybe all this, the rally itself, is a retaliation against a government which will not listen to reason.
"There is too much tension in the air already. Key leaders have been banned from the city. If they start... if anything happens and you get involved, where would that leave me?"
Daniel leaned against the sink, toying with the shaver. Then he straightened and lathered his face with soap. So do we rally with peace or with war?
"Are you listening to me?"
Bent over the sink with water and foam running down his face, he nodded.
“Stop thinking with your heart and start thinking with your brain. What do we gain if you fight them physically? Battered bones and bruised egos. Is that what you want? And if you get arrested what do I do? Peace is the goal, Daniel, and calling attention to the eight points. There will be no blaze of glory.” Suddenly, she giggled. “Don’t think with the hair on your chest!”
Daniel had to smile. I don’t have any, he threw in his usual reply mentally. He covered his face with the towel, trying to wipe off all emotion before answering. “I can't let you put yourself in danger again, Sherise." Who can guarantee peace if there are many like me without a wife like you?
"And neither can I, Daniel. Remember what we used to joke about? Sherise? She who rises?"
She waited for her husband to nod.
“Then let me rise. We rise together.”
"Get ready," he finally said. "We leave in thirty minutes.”
Peace. Remember peace. Remember the cause. Remember what you are fighting for. Remember. He tried to hold it all in his head, to knot down the purpose, the goal.
I will remember peace.
---
For all of you attending the Bersih rally tomorrow, stay safe and stay calm! May the wisdom of God go with you.
He refused to think about it further as he bent his head and inhaled the smell of Sherise’s hair. When had she come and snuggled next to him? His arm was around her, holding her like a doll. The sleeping bag suddenly seemed a cumbersome thing he was cocooned inside. He extricated his arm, trying not to wake her up. Once he was free, he picked her up, comforter and all and laid her gently on the bed. She stirred, he held his breath, but she settled down again, eyes closed.
Am I ready for today? Perhaps.
The shaver stopped mid-chin as Sherise pushed open the bathroom door.
“Sorry, did I wake you? I thought I was quiet enough not to.”
"You're going, aren't you?" she asked, her face white under the yellow lights.
He shrugged.
"Take me with you."
His eyes flickered over to her even as his arrested motion resumed. "No."
"Then you are not going."
"Sherise, the rally is no place for you in your state."
"Neither is it a place for you in yours."
"Do you..."
"Remember peace, Daniel," she interrupted him. "If you forget it, there is no point in going."
Peace. He bristled at the suggestion. No one called for peace when you were arrested.
"Daniel, if you're going to look for a fight, don't go. They don't need your help to create a riot. They need people who will remember that it started as a peaceful movement, will continue as one and will end in peace as well."
"And how would you know?" He hated the way it came out gruff and accusing and angry even as her eyes tightened. “Sorry, I…”
"Do you think being grilled for hours on end about this would leave me as clueless as I was before?" There was a catch in her voice. "If you must go, you must take me."
"Why?" he asked, but he knew the answer: if she went along, he would give his all to protect her. If she were there, he would not give in to his basest impulses, his wild anger, his desire to fight. That was why he had decided to go, wasn’t it? To tell the government that he wouldn’t give in to their bullying tactics. It was only peripherally about the rally’s actual demands. Are you sure you really are ready for what today holds?
"This is not about retaliation," she insisted.
He scratched at his chin. But maybe it really is. Maybe all this, the rally itself, is a retaliation against a government which will not listen to reason.
"There is too much tension in the air already. Key leaders have been banned from the city. If they start... if anything happens and you get involved, where would that leave me?"
Daniel leaned against the sink, toying with the shaver. Then he straightened and lathered his face with soap. So do we rally with peace or with war?
"Are you listening to me?"
Bent over the sink with water and foam running down his face, he nodded.
“Stop thinking with your heart and start thinking with your brain. What do we gain if you fight them physically? Battered bones and bruised egos. Is that what you want? And if you get arrested what do I do? Peace is the goal, Daniel, and calling attention to the eight points. There will be no blaze of glory.” Suddenly, she giggled. “Don’t think with the hair on your chest!”
Daniel had to smile. I don’t have any, he threw in his usual reply mentally. He covered his face with the towel, trying to wipe off all emotion before answering. “I can't let you put yourself in danger again, Sherise." Who can guarantee peace if there are many like me without a wife like you?
"And neither can I, Daniel. Remember what we used to joke about? Sherise? She who rises?"
She waited for her husband to nod.
“Then let me rise. We rise together.”
"Get ready," he finally said. "We leave in thirty minutes.”
Peace. Remember peace. Remember the cause. Remember what you are fighting for. Remember. He tried to hold it all in his head, to knot down the purpose, the goal.
I will remember peace.
---
For all of you attending the Bersih rally tomorrow, stay safe and stay calm! May the wisdom of God go with you.
Saturday, 2 July 2011
Annoyed: Chicken & Duck conversations
I suppose what irritates me the most about this whole Bersih thing (actually Malaysian politics in general) is the whole atmosphere of arrogance and pride. On both sides.
PR has the arrogance of a popular online support. I don't know about on the ground, but online, yes. Their demands may be righteous, but their tone smacks of arrogance, not of righteous anger. It's like a come-uppance. I'm right, so you had better agree with me.
BN has the arrogance of power and money. They know that they have the power of the ruling party and the power to stay in power due to money politics and corruption so they couldn't care less about what anyone else has to say. Any pretence of it being all due to perception is probably down the drain with this whole fiasco with Bersih. Perception? What perception?
Everything is so skewed.
No one is listening to anyone else. As in really listening, in the open-minded, negotiation-possible stance. It's just, I hear you say this, I shoot back at you. The facts are lost or buried. One side brings up some obscure laws and practices in other countries that are simply not applicable in the current undertone (as well as making everything illegal). The other keeps blasting the fact that there is too much corruption and problems and things need to change. Yes, things need to change but what? How? When?
As it is, it just seems to be a whole bunch of Chicken & Duck conversations where nobody is actually addressing anything in any reasonable way.
Okay, maybe the real gripe is this. We know that BN is in deep shit. But what makes you think that PR will be any better?
Anwar is tarred with pretty much the same brush as any ex-BN person is... and this whole de-facto nonsense is a bigger detractor for PR than anything else.
Maybe it's time for PR to start acting as if it is the government, instead of merely playing the opposition card. Yes, you want the best for the rakyat. What are you doing about it? Is it possible to do something even if you are not the elected rep? Are you not able to visit your constituency if you're not the official elected rep? By standing for that constituency, you have elected yourself to care and to take notice of these people. It doesn't matter if you lose. You still have that responsibility for them if you are really serious about making a difference and not just in changing the government.
It is possible to be so caught up in the idea of change that you forget why you are trying to make that difference. And then you may forget that the ends do not always justify the means.
And seriously, Twitter is no place to even attempt a debate.
PR has the arrogance of a popular online support. I don't know about on the ground, but online, yes. Their demands may be righteous, but their tone smacks of arrogance, not of righteous anger. It's like a come-uppance. I'm right, so you had better agree with me.
BN has the arrogance of power and money. They know that they have the power of the ruling party and the power to stay in power due to money politics and corruption so they couldn't care less about what anyone else has to say. Any pretence of it being all due to perception is probably down the drain with this whole fiasco with Bersih. Perception? What perception?
Everything is so skewed.
No one is listening to anyone else. As in really listening, in the open-minded, negotiation-possible stance. It's just, I hear you say this, I shoot back at you. The facts are lost or buried. One side brings up some obscure laws and practices in other countries that are simply not applicable in the current undertone (as well as making everything illegal). The other keeps blasting the fact that there is too much corruption and problems and things need to change. Yes, things need to change but what? How? When?
As it is, it just seems to be a whole bunch of Chicken & Duck conversations where nobody is actually addressing anything in any reasonable way.
Okay, maybe the real gripe is this. We know that BN is in deep shit. But what makes you think that PR will be any better?
Anwar is tarred with pretty much the same brush as any ex-BN person is... and this whole de-facto nonsense is a bigger detractor for PR than anything else.
Maybe it's time for PR to start acting as if it is the government, instead of merely playing the opposition card. Yes, you want the best for the rakyat. What are you doing about it? Is it possible to do something even if you are not the elected rep? Are you not able to visit your constituency if you're not the official elected rep? By standing for that constituency, you have elected yourself to care and to take notice of these people. It doesn't matter if you lose. You still have that responsibility for them if you are really serious about making a difference and not just in changing the government.
It is possible to be so caught up in the idea of change that you forget why you are trying to make that difference. And then you may forget that the ends do not always justify the means.
And seriously, Twitter is no place to even attempt a debate.
All an eagle would really like, is a teapot
Okay, so I said I'm giving up on payperpost, but maybe not yet. They just told me to write that (All an eagle would really like, is a teapot) to claim my blog. Erm.
I wonder what an eagle would do with a teapot, though. Maybe make a nice pot of essence of rabbit?
Yay for random word posts.
I wonder what an eagle would do with a teapot, though. Maybe make a nice pot of essence of rabbit?
Yay for random word posts.
#FridayFlash: Bersih
There had been yellow flowers in her hair. It was all Daniel could remember about that day. Yellow flowers. That day; last Saturday. Had it been a week? He crushed the tin can in his hands. The remains of his beer flowed over fingers, a sticky yellowish liquid. Definitely not a - no, not kosher, that was the product of his colonial mindset; he rejected the word offhand - halal drink, but who was counting?
He picked up the yellow pamphlet from the table as he tossed the crushed can into the trash. How much of this was to be faulted? He had read it over and over and he didn’t see why it should have caused so much trouble. It was what any reasonable minded man would support; at least it appeared to be as it was printed. Who could know the intent of those behind it?
He turned his head towards Sherise. She sat on the couch watching television, twirling hair around a finger.
"Sherise..."
She jumped in her seat, giving a small shriek. He frowned. She had been jumpy ever since then.
“It’s late. Do you want to go up to bed?” he asked, trying to make his voice gentler.
“Oh, okay. Yes,” she turned off the television. Another change: she was afraid to be alone. She absolutely refused to stay alone in a dark room. Was it the dark or was it being alone that frightened her? He took her hand as they climbed up the stairs, but she drew away. Afraid to be alone and yet afraid of human contact. Maybe she was just afraid of the dark.
He settled into bed and picked up a book to read whilst she prepared herself for bed. She came out from the bathroom in pink striped pyjamas and stood at the door glaring at him.
“Alright, alright, I’ll go wash up,” he grumbled. Wives!
“Sorry, Daniel,” she said as he came out of the bathroom, his face buried in a towel. He looked up. His pillows were on the floor again along with the sleeping bag.
“I can’t. I just can’t.” Her voice quivered and her eyes swam. She huddled on the bed, the comforter wrapped around her like a shield.
“It’s alright, dear,” he answered, his heart making a hole in his belly. “Do you… do you want to talk about it?”
“No… I…”
“There’s a good doctor you could see,” he cut in as he unrolled the sleeping bag. “The lawyer said she might be able to help.”
“I’ll…”
“Just think about it, okay?”
She nodded.
“Do I get to kiss you goodnight?”
She hesitated but nodded, so he walked round to the side of the bed and planted a kiss on her forehead. He couldn’t help noticing that she had flinched. He waited until she had settled down on the bed before he switched off the lights and got into the sleeping bag.
How had it all happened? Daniel asked himself over and over again. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t add up. Sherise was the most harmless, bubble-headed woman in the world. He went over the events of that day again.
---
“I’m going shopping with the girls, Dan,” Sherise had told him early Saturday morning.
“Am I invited?”
“You could hang around if you want,” she said. “Some of the boys are coming, I think.”
“Okay.” He looked up from the newspaper. “What’s with the flowers?”
“The girls said they’re wearing yellow. I thought these would go nicely with my outfit,” she twirled in front of him, making the skirts of her yellow sun dress flare up around her.
“Very pretty. Just remember you’re mine,” he caught her in his arms and kissed her, hard. She giggled breathlessly.
They met up with the girls at Midvalley Megamall. Daniel didn’t listen much to their excited chatter. None of their boyfriends or husbands had decided to come so Daniel headed to Starbucks for a coffee. The call had come about an hour later, a frantic burst of information and then a sudden silence.
“What do you mean they have my wife?” he growled into the phone.
“Man, you do know about this whole Bersih thing, don’t you?” Azman said. “They’ve been asking everyone to wear yellow to support their rally next week, and you know how Farizah is. She’s been going on and on about it all week. I thought Sherise…”
“Sherise just said that the girls were wearing yellow to go shopping. I doubt any of the other bits filtered in through her ears. So why…”
“Don’t you read the news? The government’s gone ballistic! They’re arresting anyone wearing yellow.”
“Anyone at all?”
“Well, I suppose those they link to the campaign and… Farizah had a bunch of flyers with her… so…”
“Why hasn’t Sherise called me?”
“She might not be able...”
“And you know how?” Daniel felt rude, almost yelling into the phone. He realized that he was starting to attract attention but he couldn’t think straight anymore. No one threatens my wife! No one!
“Farizah and I have an emergency code,” Azman admitted. “If anything were to happen she just has to send a pre-written SMS to me and I would look into it.”
“How good of you to be so prepared.” He was being a jerk and he knew it. “Sorry, Azman. Where are they now?”
“They’re at the station in Bangsar. Meet you there?”
It turned out to be a long two days being led around by the nose trying to get the two wives and their two friends out of lockup. They were frustrated at every turn, even with the lawyers from Bersih attempting to help them. No one believed that Sherise didn’t have any knowledge of what was happening.
What happened to innocent until proven guilty? Daniel stormed to himself. What happened to truth and justice?
He had read over the pamphlets Azman and his friends had given him very thoroughly during the day. There had been nothing else to do except worry. So he read. And he agreed. Fair points. Anyone with sense would agree with them. Even the government would – should have – agree, he thought, even if they did not exactly practice it. Agree. And then forget about it. There were rugs enough for this to be swept under and forgotten for maybe the next five years or so. But no.
And then the four women were released; Farizah, angry and yet triumphant, Devi, glowering, Li Na, hard and sullen and Sherise… broken. She had been delicate before. Now she was just fragile. She refused to talk about anything that had happened, though the others were fairly vocal in their indignation of their treatment – of beatings and nude squats and threats and violence and the rumour of rape. No one was certain, but they had heard that one of the women had been raped. No one would confirm if it had happened to one of their party, or to some of the other women detained, but the rumour persisted. Only no one knew who it had happened to.
Was it you? Daniel couldn’t help asking. She had denied it but her persistent refusal to talk about what happened frightened him. She looked a wilted flower herself, the flowers in her hair long discarded, the sun dress disheveled and dirty. There was bruising on her arms and legs that he could see, but he hadn’t been allowed to see the rest of it. She refused to go for a checkup and insisted that he take her straight home, where she had marched into the bathroom and taken residence for at least two hours until he tentatively knocked on the door, afraid that he would find her drowned in the bath.
---
Had it only been a week? Everything seemed different now.
He ran over the details of the rally again. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would march. Even if he hadn’t believed in all they were trying to ask for, which he did, he would march. He would march because of what they had done.
And if they brought violence to his door, so be it. They had done it once and destroyed the only part of his life that held meaning. If they did it again… he shrugged in the darkness. Whatever came tomorrow, he was ready for.
***
The story above is fiction. Seriously. But writers reflect the emotions of their times and I can't help but be drawn in by the raw emotions and all the drama surrounding the Bersih rally.
He picked up the yellow pamphlet from the table as he tossed the crushed can into the trash. How much of this was to be faulted? He had read it over and over and he didn’t see why it should have caused so much trouble. It was what any reasonable minded man would support; at least it appeared to be as it was printed. Who could know the intent of those behind it?
He turned his head towards Sherise. She sat on the couch watching television, twirling hair around a finger.
"Sherise..."
She jumped in her seat, giving a small shriek. He frowned. She had been jumpy ever since then.
“It’s late. Do you want to go up to bed?” he asked, trying to make his voice gentler.
“Oh, okay. Yes,” she turned off the television. Another change: she was afraid to be alone. She absolutely refused to stay alone in a dark room. Was it the dark or was it being alone that frightened her? He took her hand as they climbed up the stairs, but she drew away. Afraid to be alone and yet afraid of human contact. Maybe she was just afraid of the dark.
He settled into bed and picked up a book to read whilst she prepared herself for bed. She came out from the bathroom in pink striped pyjamas and stood at the door glaring at him.
“Alright, alright, I’ll go wash up,” he grumbled. Wives!
“Sorry, Daniel,” she said as he came out of the bathroom, his face buried in a towel. He looked up. His pillows were on the floor again along with the sleeping bag.
“I can’t. I just can’t.” Her voice quivered and her eyes swam. She huddled on the bed, the comforter wrapped around her like a shield.
“It’s alright, dear,” he answered, his heart making a hole in his belly. “Do you… do you want to talk about it?”
“No… I…”
“There’s a good doctor you could see,” he cut in as he unrolled the sleeping bag. “The lawyer said she might be able to help.”
“I’ll…”
“Just think about it, okay?”
She nodded.
“Do I get to kiss you goodnight?”
She hesitated but nodded, so he walked round to the side of the bed and planted a kiss on her forehead. He couldn’t help noticing that she had flinched. He waited until she had settled down on the bed before he switched off the lights and got into the sleeping bag.
How had it all happened? Daniel asked himself over and over again. It didn’t make sense. It didn’t add up. Sherise was the most harmless, bubble-headed woman in the world. He went over the events of that day again.
---
“I’m going shopping with the girls, Dan,” Sherise had told him early Saturday morning.
“Am I invited?”
“You could hang around if you want,” she said. “Some of the boys are coming, I think.”
“Okay.” He looked up from the newspaper. “What’s with the flowers?”
“The girls said they’re wearing yellow. I thought these would go nicely with my outfit,” she twirled in front of him, making the skirts of her yellow sun dress flare up around her.
“Very pretty. Just remember you’re mine,” he caught her in his arms and kissed her, hard. She giggled breathlessly.
They met up with the girls at Midvalley Megamall. Daniel didn’t listen much to their excited chatter. None of their boyfriends or husbands had decided to come so Daniel headed to Starbucks for a coffee. The call had come about an hour later, a frantic burst of information and then a sudden silence.
“What do you mean they have my wife?” he growled into the phone.
“Man, you do know about this whole Bersih thing, don’t you?” Azman said. “They’ve been asking everyone to wear yellow to support their rally next week, and you know how Farizah is. She’s been going on and on about it all week. I thought Sherise…”
“Sherise just said that the girls were wearing yellow to go shopping. I doubt any of the other bits filtered in through her ears. So why…”
“Don’t you read the news? The government’s gone ballistic! They’re arresting anyone wearing yellow.”
“Anyone at all?”
“Well, I suppose those they link to the campaign and… Farizah had a bunch of flyers with her… so…”
“Why hasn’t Sherise called me?”
“She might not be able...”
“And you know how?” Daniel felt rude, almost yelling into the phone. He realized that he was starting to attract attention but he couldn’t think straight anymore. No one threatens my wife! No one!
“Farizah and I have an emergency code,” Azman admitted. “If anything were to happen she just has to send a pre-written SMS to me and I would look into it.”
“How good of you to be so prepared.” He was being a jerk and he knew it. “Sorry, Azman. Where are they now?”
“They’re at the station in Bangsar. Meet you there?”
It turned out to be a long two days being led around by the nose trying to get the two wives and their two friends out of lockup. They were frustrated at every turn, even with the lawyers from Bersih attempting to help them. No one believed that Sherise didn’t have any knowledge of what was happening.
What happened to innocent until proven guilty? Daniel stormed to himself. What happened to truth and justice?
He had read over the pamphlets Azman and his friends had given him very thoroughly during the day. There had been nothing else to do except worry. So he read. And he agreed. Fair points. Anyone with sense would agree with them. Even the government would – should have – agree, he thought, even if they did not exactly practice it. Agree. And then forget about it. There were rugs enough for this to be swept under and forgotten for maybe the next five years or so. But no.
And then the four women were released; Farizah, angry and yet triumphant, Devi, glowering, Li Na, hard and sullen and Sherise… broken. She had been delicate before. Now she was just fragile. She refused to talk about anything that had happened, though the others were fairly vocal in their indignation of their treatment – of beatings and nude squats and threats and violence and the rumour of rape. No one was certain, but they had heard that one of the women had been raped. No one would confirm if it had happened to one of their party, or to some of the other women detained, but the rumour persisted. Only no one knew who it had happened to.
Was it you? Daniel couldn’t help asking. She had denied it but her persistent refusal to talk about what happened frightened him. She looked a wilted flower herself, the flowers in her hair long discarded, the sun dress disheveled and dirty. There was bruising on her arms and legs that he could see, but he hadn’t been allowed to see the rest of it. She refused to go for a checkup and insisted that he take her straight home, where she had marched into the bathroom and taken residence for at least two hours until he tentatively knocked on the door, afraid that he would find her drowned in the bath.
---
Had it only been a week? Everything seemed different now.
He ran over the details of the rally again. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would march. Even if he hadn’t believed in all they were trying to ask for, which he did, he would march. He would march because of what they had done.
And if they brought violence to his door, so be it. They had done it once and destroyed the only part of his life that held meaning. If they did it again… he shrugged in the darkness. Whatever came tomorrow, he was ready for.
***
The story above is fiction. Seriously. But writers reflect the emotions of their times and I can't help but be drawn in by the raw emotions and all the drama surrounding the Bersih rally.
Tuesday, 14 June 2011
Rejoicing in dance
You dance over me
When I am unaware
You sing all around
But I never hear the sound
[Amazed - Lincoln Brewster]
The nearest Bible reference I can get to the source of this song is this:
When I am unaware
You sing all around
But I never hear the sound
[Amazed - Lincoln Brewster]
The nearest Bible reference I can get to the source of this song is this:
Zephaniah 3:17
The LORD thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.
Well, not all songs have a specific verse tied to it, though some songs are directly lifted from Biblical passages... but if there is one verse that seems to be tied to this song, it's this one.
How does it fit, you may ask? The only thing that seems to be similar is the reference that God sings over us! Not exactly. Maybe it boils down to your individual perception of rejoicing, but I would definitively say that rejoicing over you with joy (quite a bit of emphasis on the joy part, no?) might have something to do with dancing. Because only happy people dance. Only free people dance.
And yet every time (almost) you bring up dancing, it seems to be only a presentation, only something for the people to see. It doesn't come up as a dance before the Lord, as a holy consecration of our bodies to Him. But it should be.
Probably way back when in my naturally suspicious and anti-super-spiritualistic heart (I'm still somewhat there) I was very skeptical about these dancing pastors who see angels behind every dance. But I think I've come to a realisation that there is a power in dance. There is a release. There is something deeper to it than merely movement for movement's sake, or just presentation. There is an ushering in of God's presence in the lifting of the banners, the waving of the flags, the pounding of the tambourines, the grace of the limbs.
I don't know if there are angels behind every dance. I probably don't think so. But that's not really the point.
If you talk about presenting yourself as a living sacrifice to God, then offering your body in the dance is part of it. You can't offer all of yourself without including your movement. That would be like telling God that he can only have your brain and your mind and the thoughts and the stuff you do with it... but no, you can't make me move. You can't possibly be interested in that because it's so... carnal.
But what is carnal?
What are you without your body? Without your bones and the flesh and muscles that covers it? Isn't sex carnal? Yet without it, you wouldn't have children and wouldn't be able to fulfil the command to be fruitful and multiply.
David danced before the Lord.
Maybe I have a strange kind of thinking about worship. I wouldn't know. I have strange kinds of thoughts all the time. But it's like a music that plays itself; unheard, most of the time. All we do is step into tune, taking what is already there, picking it up in our words and our music and yes, in our dance. And like a huge orchestra, if anything is missing, you feel it. It feels like there is something lacking, something not yet achieved.
One of the missing chunks right now is the whole area of dance. Maybe even the whole area of anything related to art or creative arts. Like paintings. And pictures. And sketches. And stories. And movies. And music. And dance, always dance.
I'm not really a dancer (or so I think) but somehow it always gets back to dance. Because whilst a movie or a sketch or drama or story tells things about God, tells all kinds of things about anything, really, it's often put on, contrived, made up, created. It's a representation.
Dance seems to be a more primal instinct, coming from the depths of the soul. It's not quite a representation. It is a being. A release. And twined with it, the music of heaven.
And yet every time (almost) you bring up dancing, it seems to be only a presentation, only something for the people to see. It doesn't come up as a dance before the Lord, as a holy consecration of our bodies to Him. But it should be.
Probably way back when in my naturally suspicious and anti-super-spiritualistic heart (I'm still somewhat there) I was very skeptical about these dancing pastors who see angels behind every dance. But I think I've come to a realisation that there is a power in dance. There is a release. There is something deeper to it than merely movement for movement's sake, or just presentation. There is an ushering in of God's presence in the lifting of the banners, the waving of the flags, the pounding of the tambourines, the grace of the limbs.
I don't know if there are angels behind every dance. I probably don't think so. But that's not really the point.
If you talk about presenting yourself as a living sacrifice to God, then offering your body in the dance is part of it. You can't offer all of yourself without including your movement. That would be like telling God that he can only have your brain and your mind and the thoughts and the stuff you do with it... but no, you can't make me move. You can't possibly be interested in that because it's so... carnal.
But what is carnal?
What are you without your body? Without your bones and the flesh and muscles that covers it? Isn't sex carnal? Yet without it, you wouldn't have children and wouldn't be able to fulfil the command to be fruitful and multiply.
David danced before the Lord.
Maybe I have a strange kind of thinking about worship. I wouldn't know. I have strange kinds of thoughts all the time. But it's like a music that plays itself; unheard, most of the time. All we do is step into tune, taking what is already there, picking it up in our words and our music and yes, in our dance. And like a huge orchestra, if anything is missing, you feel it. It feels like there is something lacking, something not yet achieved.
One of the missing chunks right now is the whole area of dance. Maybe even the whole area of anything related to art or creative arts. Like paintings. And pictures. And sketches. And stories. And movies. And music. And dance, always dance.
I'm not really a dancer (or so I think) but somehow it always gets back to dance. Because whilst a movie or a sketch or drama or story tells things about God, tells all kinds of things about anything, really, it's often put on, contrived, made up, created. It's a representation.
Dance seems to be a more primal instinct, coming from the depths of the soul. It's not quite a representation. It is a being. A release. And twined with it, the music of heaven.
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