... Leaving on...

I have decided to move. Not that I'm going to be moving physically, but to a new topic. So far, trying to write a post on religion every day has proven to be elusive. By elusive I mean painful on a whole new level. I’ve lost hours of sleep attempting to research the topic, and then collapse in exhaustion at the end before writing even a single sentence. This obsession with correctness is driven by the need to avoid insulting anyone. By avoiding insulting people, I hoped to avoid bodily harm. But, alas, my favorite subject has turned out to a paper rose.

This, of course, does not mean that I will not write about religion. I will be updating this blog once or twice a week, as time permits. I’m a sucker for addictions. I will be moving all of my class related work to another blog. Hopefully, having to do no research will allow me to meet my class requirements. My teacher has informed us that the next section of class will be even more painful then the current, so this switch in expectations will help me to survive this already desperate semester.

And for the teacher, whose smirk is most likely twitching at the ends with the need to scream: “I told you so”. I am not admitting defeat. I will not surrender.

My new blog, named “A Geek’s Guide to the Female Race” will be absolutely un-researched, ill informed, and wholly ridiculous.

As stated before, I will not be closing this blog. I will be updating it every week, with another one of my impassioned arguments. I will be posting again soon.

Rolling on Hot Air: Part 2

Religion is an easy target when aiming at unquestioning tragedy. Sometimes it seems as if extreme faith is alone in the bulldozing of reason. Thoughtless actions, however, have no religion.

Most people within the United States should be aware of the Oklahoma City bombings. It is hard to imagine that 168 people, including children, died because Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols believed that fighting the government was worth any cost.5 The key emotion here is fear. Fear that the government would take over and rule everyone’s lives. That fear caused so many deaths, and those deaths tainted any message they might have tried to send. With so many different mediums of communication, such use of violence is unnecessary.

But, they thought mass murder would be louder, so they slaughtered.

Blind beliefs do not always lead to violence. But it usually has victims anyway. Racism, while not as destructive or as prevalent as it used to be, still wounds. Segregation, while not supported legally any more, is still socially imposed.6 Such obstinate beliefs are built of ignorance, and keep people that might otherwise contribute greatly to society from gaining the means to do so. Such contributions might have even helped those who are committing the evil of racism.

But, people hate anyway.

More insidious are the views that do not seem so dangerous. Some people believe that religion is at the heart of all the evil in the world, and therefore wish to destroy it. In view of recent events, it is hard to argue that religion is purely benevolent. What seems to escape those who hate religion, however, is that religion is ultimately a tool. Some people use it to guide them, helping those in need. Many churches are connected to the giving of aid to people who need it. Some use religion as a cover for their own materialistic desires. The cases of sexual harassment committed by pedophilic priests are widely known. Religion has the potential to be good or bad, depending on how it is used. The wish to eliminate something for fear of it is still hate. Hating all religions is still intolerance, no matter how it is colored. Intolerance has the potential to be incredibly dangerous, and is almost always hurtful.

It is therefore extremely important to question any belief. The belief might seem innocuous to the one who holds it, but questioning the belief is necessary to understanding it. In the case of more controversial convictions, questioning might save lives. In the case of faith, it is even more important to query, as such will build and strengthen one’s own religion. Without looking inward, all that screaming faith is a bunch of hot air.

Citations

5) "Oklahoma City bombing." Encyclopædia Britannica. 2009. Encyclopædia Britannica Online. 15 Sep. 2009 .

6) "Racial segregation in the United States." Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Wikimedia Foundation, Inc, 16 Sept. 2009. Web. 20 Sept. 2009. .

Rolling on Hot Air: Part 1

Imagine you’re in the cockpit airplane, with all those buttons, lights, and screens flickering in your face. You can hear yelling voices in the back, particularly the squealing babies. Through the glass window panes, the sight of a skyscraper towers above you. You grip the yoke, and for the tiniest part of a second your hand twitches upward, but your belief is absolute, America is subjugating Islam, so you stay the course.

Of course, by now you’ve figured out I’m talking about the events of 9/11. It is obvious that questions were not asked by the terrorists that flew into the two towers. The significant of these: was America really intent on subjugating the Islamic peoples? The estimated adult Muslim population in the United States had more than doubled between 1990 and 2001.1 The Islamic religion was expanding under the umbrella of democracy. If the United States itself had a vendetta against Muslims, it would have stamped their existence within its own borders first. Given Iraq’s stores of oil, greed rather then prejudice appears to have been the major driver in America’s presence within the Middle East. Even Osama bin Laden seems to concede the point that the American presence may have had an economic element in his fatwa.2

Given that the US’s presence within the Islamic powers was economically driven, it would have made much more sense to restrict the oil sold to the US, instead of attacking the interested country. Spreading news of atrocities that the Islamic fundamentalists claimed were committed by the US, especially by way of the internet, would have been an even better manner of attacking the problem, as it would have softened support for America. By, instead, using violence, the terrorists gave the US government the excuse it needed to place more troops in Iraq. This reaction should have been obvious. Had the terrorists asked questions and thought about their options instead of taking the road of violence, they might have avoided so much tragedy on both sides.

But, blinded by rage, they struck.

Of course, such blindness is not a trait of Islam itself. Rather, it is an addictive habit developed under anger, fear, and hatred. Killing someone for a cause takes an overabundant amount of all three. George Tiller’s murder stands as a recent illustration of where such actions lead.

Abortion, an issue well connected with the Christian right, has long been a bonfire of debate within the US. With his willingness to perform late term abortions and his successfulness in the field, George Tiller brought the wrath of anti-abortion activists to his door. The protests continued on for thirty years, with all the attempts to stop his practice without success.3 It is even arguable that his actions were criminal. But the end of his practice did not come in a court, but with a gunshot in his church.4 His killer’s rage at the deaths of so many unborn children demanded that the doctor’s life be ended. Perhaps, the murderer was able to write off the sin of murder as a necessary sacrifice in his own mind. He was also, apparently, blind to the fact that he was committing such a grave sin on sacred ground. The murder, however, cost not only George Tiller and his family, but also the cause that the murderer was fighting for. The negative publicity that followed the death of George Tiller hurt the position of Pro-life movement, making them seem like violent extremists. George Tiller’s practice might have ended more peacefully had negative press been given a chance to damage his reputation.

But, in ignorance of possible outcomes, the killer shot.

Citations

1) "Largest Religious Groups in the USA." World Religions Religion Statistics Geography Church Statistics. Adherents.com, Apr. 1999. Web. 14 Sept. 2009. .

2) "World Islamic Front Statement Urging Jihad Against Jews and Crusaders." Federation of American Scientists. Web. 16 Sept. 2009. .

3) Barstow, David. "An Abortion Battle, Fought to the Death." The New York Times - Breaking News, World News & Multimedia. The New York Times Company, 25 July 2009. Web. 15 Sept. 2009. .

4) Davey, Monica. "Witness Tells of Doctor’s Last Seconds." The New York Times - Breaking News, World News & Multimedia. The New York Times Company, 28 July 2009. Web. 15 Sept. 2009. .

FOR CLASS

Arch of Heroes: Draft 3

“C’mon man, hurry up.”
I stood transfixed by the arch of elephant grass, towering before me. Greek heroes would pass through such arches when adventure beckoned them away to distant shores. Marble would hide the sun until it burst through the hole of the portal, lighting their faces with the cleansing warmth, as they trampled rose petals thrown from a thousand lovers. The cheering crowd would yell:
“What are you doing? I’ll drag your ass if I have to.”
The tunnel had always been a separator between the gated community and mine. Always a different world. On the other side was a magical world of the rich, on mine was the every American subdivision. The houses were nicer, and the cars were sportier, and all I had to do was walk through the tunnel.
I entered the grass tunnel. I left behind the static world of my own subdivision. The tunnel before me may only lead to the gated community on the other side, but in my mind it was the difference of two worlds. The difference was that of static etched glass and painted murals in which the vibrant colors ran. The emerald leaves pulled at my skin with itchy hairs. The rustle of the leaves gently tickled my ear, and the air darkened. Into the forest of green we charged, uninhibited by a past, unaware of the future. Blades cut red lines into my legs, yet I could not leave my comrades to fend for themselves in such darkness. A silhouette of a monstrous man appeared before me, and it was clear that this was the guardian of the path, the last obstacle before I could again draw free air. I knew such beasts are meant to be slain, yet I had no weapon to bear against the brute. With a courageous battle cry I aimed my shoulder towards my foe, and charged, my only thoughts of freeing my friends, whom he had imprisoned.
“Ouch! What? Why… I don’t know why we brought you along.”
He picked me up. He was much older than I was, and bigger. Like a giant, and sometimes, just as mean. Captured by the cruel giant, heaved over his back like a sack of rice, I was destined for a death unfit for my status. Knowing fate would not intervene, I wriggled against the gargantuan human’s hold, but escape was not meant to be. We left the tunnel behind, the brightness of the outside world almost blinding me. Around me I saw glorious structures, perhaps from civilization long lost. The wind breathed around me, a strong with the sour scent of vegetation and mud. The area was deserted, yet the giant and his brothers looked around with suspicious intent, perhaps fearing another would steal their precious meal. The giant dropped me to the ground, the ruin they had picked was blocked from the view by other such structures.
“Stay here. If you see anyone, yell. You got that? Okay.”
I could hear the creaking call of the chair swinger. The house across from me didn’t have mold growing from the beige wall shingles. The windows didn’t have dust clouding the panes. The back yard didn’t have weeds, and it was surprisingly well kept. The blades of grass did not vary in their height. I had never seen the house before. It hurt, however, that a house could be all that my house was not, so I didn’t really think about how my friends were casing the house.
My friends ran around the house. They looked in all the windows as if they suspected someone was home. Then they huddled by the door, one of the barbarians trying to work the knob. I thought it past the capabilities of such brutes, to plumb the depths of such an ancient tomb took ingenuity, but as it turns out, strength is sometimes a substitute. Such treasures do not so easily gift strangers, and they were greeted by a wailing banshee, keening at their insolence. Invisible, it chased them and ignored the lone hero, sitting upon the knoll. Not so, however with Cerberus. It heaved itself upon thick legs, launching its log like body forward with every gallop. Doom approached with speed, staring into my eyes with evil intent.
I felt someone scoop me up and throw me across his shoulder. For a couple of seconds I felt my liver pinch and my throat swell. My friends actually cared about me. My comrades ran back, in the face of danger, to pull their fellow hero out of the fire. Fire represented by the slobbering sausage chasing after us. I could hear its heavy panting, its galloping footsteps as I stared into its face. It looked oddly happy, liquid dripping from the lolling tongue. It chased us back to the tunnel of grass. And we returned heroes, backs to the orange glow to the setting sun, victoriously rushing home.

FOR CLASS

Arch of Heroes: Draft 2

“C’mon man, hurry up.”
I stood transfixed by the arch of elephant grass, towering before me. Greek heroes would pass through such arches when adventure beckoned them away to distant shores. Marble would hide the sun until it burst through the hole of the portal, lighting their faces with the cleansing warmth, as they trampled rose petals thrown from a thousand lovers. The cheering crowd would yell:
“What are you doing? I’ll drag your ass if I have to.”
I entered the grass tunnel. I left behind the static world of my own subdivision. The tunnel before me may only lead to the gated community on the other side, but in my mind it was the difference of two worlds. The difference was that of static etched glass and painted murals in which the vibrant colors ran. The emerald leaves pulled at my skin with itchy hairs. The rustle of the leaves gently tickled my ear, and the air darkened. Into the forest of green we charged, uninhibited by a past, unaware of the future. Blades cut red lines into my legs, yet I could not leave my comrades to fend for themselves in such darkness. A silhouette of a monstrous man appeared before me, and it was clear that this was the guardian of the path, the last obstacle before I could again draw free air. I knew such beasts are meant to be slain, yet I had no weapon to bear against the brute. With a courageous battle cry I aimed my shoulder towards my foe, and charged, my only thoughts of freeing my friends, whom he had imprisoned.
“Ouch! What? Why… I don’t know why we brought you along.”
He picked me up. He was much older than I was, and bigger. Like a giant, and sometimes, just as mean. Captured by the cruel giant, heaved over his back like a sack of rice, I was destined for a death unfit for my status. Knowing fate would not intervene, I wriggled against the gargantuan human’s hold, but escape was not meant to be. We left the tunnel behind, the brightness of the outside world almost blinding me. Around me I saw glorious structures, perhaps from civilization long lost. The wind breathed around me, a strong with the sour scent of vegetation and mud. The area was deserted, yet the giant and his brothers looked around with suspicious intent, perhaps fearing another would steal their precious meal. The giant dropped me to the ground, the ruin they had picked was blocked from the view by other such structures.
“Stay here. If you see anyone, yell. You got that? Okay.”
I could hear the creaking call of the chair swinger. The house across from me didn’t have mold growing from the beige wall shingles. The windows didn’t have dust clouding the panes. The back yard didn’t have weeds, and it was surprisingly well kept. The blades of grass did not vary in their height. I had never seen the house before. It hurt, however, that a house could be all that my house was not, so I didn’t really think about how my friends were casing the house.
My friends ran around the house. They looked in all the windows as if they suspected someone was home. Then they huddled by the door, one of the barbarians trying to work the knob. I thought it past the capabilities of such brutes, to plumb the depths of such an ancient tomb took ingenuity, but as it turns out, strength is sometimes a substitute. Such treasures do not so easily gift strangers, and they were greeted by a wailing banshee, keening at their insolence. Invisible, it chased them and ignored the lone hero, sitting upon the knoll. Not so, however with Cerberus. It heaved itself upon thick legs, launching its log like body forward with every gallop. Doom approached with speed, staring into my eyes with evil intent.
I felt someone scoop me up and throw me across his shoulder. For a couple of seconds I felt my liver pinch and my throat swell. My friends actually cared about me. My comrades ran back, in the face of danger, to pull their fellow hero out of the fire. Fire represented by the slobbering sausage chasing after us. I could hear its heavy panting, its galloping footsteps as I stared into its face. It looked oddly happy, liquid dripping from the lolling tongue. It chased us back to the tunnel of grass. And we returned heroes, backs to the orange glow to the setting sun, victoriously rushing home.

FOR CLASS

Arch of Heroes: Draft 1

“C’mon man, hurry up.”

I stood transfixed by the arch of elephant grass, towering before me. Greek heroes would pass through such arches when adventure beckoned them away to distant shores. Marble would hide the sun until it burst through the hole of the portal, lighting their faces with the cleansing warmth, as they trampled rose petals thrown from a thousand lovers. The cheering crowd would yell:

“What are you doing? I’ll drag your ass if I have to.”

I entered the grass tunnel. The emerald leaves pulled at my skin with itchy hairs. The rustle of the leaves gently tickled my ear, and the air darkened. Into the forest of green we charged, uninhibited by a past, unaware of the future. Blades cut red lines into my legs, yet I could not leave my comrades to fend for themselves in such darkness. A silhouette of a monstrous man appeared before me, and it was clear that this was the guardian of the path, the last obstacle before I could again draw free air. I knew such beasts are meant to be slain, yet I had no weapon to bear against the brute. With a courageous battle cry I aimed my shoulder towards my foe, and charged, my only thoughts of freeing my friends, whom he had imprisoned.

“Ouch! What? Why… I don’t know why we brought you along.”

He picked me up. He was much older than I was, and bigger. Like a giant, and sometimes, just as mean. Captured by the cruel giant, heaved over his back like a sack of rice, I was destined for a death unfit for my status. Knowing fate would not intervene, I wriggled against the gargantuan human’s hold, but escape was not meant to be. We left the tunnel behind, the brightness of the outside world almost blinding me. Around me I saw glorious structures, perhaps from civilization long lost. The wind breathed around me, a strong with the sour scent of vegetation and mud. The area was deserted, yet the giant and his brothers looked around with suspicious intent, perhaps fearing another would steal their precious meal. The giant dropped me to the ground, the ruin they had picked was blocked from the view by other such structures.

“Stay here. If you see anyone, yell. You got that? Okay.”

My friends ran around the house. They looked in all the windows as if they suspected someone was home. Then they huddled by the door, one of the barbarians trying to work the knob. I thought it past the capabilities of such brutes, to plumb the depths of such an ancient tomb took ingenuity, but as it turns out, strength is sometimes a substitute. Such treasures do not so easily gift strangers, and they were greeted by a wailing banshee, keening at their insolence. Invisible, it chased them and ignored the lone hero, sitting upon the knoll. Not so, however with Cerberus. It heaved itself upon thick legs, launching its log like body forward with every gallop. Doom approached with speed, staring into my eyes with evil intent.

I felt someone scoop me up and throw me across his shoulder. For a couple of seconds I felt my liver pinch and my throat swell. My friends actually cared about me. My comrades ran back, in the face of danger, to pull their fellow hero out of the fire. Fire represented by the slobbering sausage chasing after us. I could hear its heavy panting, its galloping footsteps as I stared into its face. It looked oddly happy, liquid dripping from the lolling tongue. It chased us back to the tunnel of grass. And we returned heroes, backs to the orange glow to the setting sun, victoriously rushing home.

FOR CLASS

Suspended Critique

Such moments displayed by Joy Harjo’s “Suspended” paper are always beautiful to visit. Awakenings stick with people, change burns new paths in their minds. When walking through such memories, however, it is easy to become dazzled in the reminiscence, and forget to grab the audience’s hand and pull them along.

One way to kidnap the reader is to use imagery to represent emotion. Instead of saying what the event did to the narrator; paint an image on the reader’s eyes instead. On page 83, Harjo explains that her experience of jazz “changed even the way I look at the sun.” Instead of using the abstract to enlighten, using imagery to evoke the idea of a new understanding might help her drag the reader into her world. For example, “when the sun’s gentleness tickled my face, the sound of jazz warmed my ears” would leave the audience with a sense of what she felt.

Feelings also hit a wall when the voice is too passive. If the objective is to force the reader to touch the experience with gloves, then this might actually be effective. In Harjo’s piece however, it is evident that she wanted the reader to leap into a memory filled with neon lights. Using more active words and avoiding comatose language such as “was” would more effectively kick the reader off the cliff into her own reality.

The last barrier between her world and the reader’s is the tendency for her sentence length to be longer then necessary. When the reader must reach the end of their breath then gasp through the rest of the sentence, a lot of the immersion is lost. The first sentence on page 83 demonstrates this. When reading “Once I was so small that I could barely peer over the top of the backseat of the black Cadillac my father polished and tuned daily;” the audience has to stop, gather their breath, then continue with the sentence. The reader’s mind might race ahead to other things, and lose interest in continuing reading.

Like any time a person looks back, it is easy to stumble, especially in the telling. Her piece was heartfelt, and that pushed through. It is a good piece, though like any other, a little bit of pounding could do it some good.

Harjo, Joy. "Suspended." In Short: A Collection of Brief Creative Nonfiction (1996): 83-85. Print.

Lost Roses: Chapter 3

He returned and rushed to the tavern, expecting to find Bethany to greet him. Instead, everyone avoided his glance. Now in terror, he grabbed one of the tavern maids by the arm, wrenched her around until she faced him. She blurted out an address, and he threw her to the ground and rushed out the door.

He knew long before he reached his destination. When he read her name upon the gravestone, his heart was filled with hallow hate. He hated God. He hated England. He hated everything around him, and swore never to return. He never learned how she died, and never cared.

Before the Blue Rose sailed away from the bay for the last time, Jude gave any on his crew a last chance to leave, but none did. He had been the only one with an anchor in England, the rest of his crew having run away from home and drafted, or long ago buried their loved ones. They were the only family each other had left.

Hunted for desertion, having nothing but the ship and barely enough food, they quickly turned to piracy. Originally hunting only foreign ships, they turned to hunting English merchant ships by necessity. Horrifically successful, the Blue Rose became the Bloody Rose, and earned a legendary reputation. Known for their policy of leaving no survivors to identify them, as well as for their unusual figurehead, the Bloody Rose brought fear to the once peaceful waters around Britain. The Bloody Rose was an unusually large and well equipped warship. This, combined with a well trained crew and his military and local marine knowledge, allowed the ship to make short work of most of its victims. He learned that his reputation distorted descriptions of himself from a captured sailor right before he killed him. He decided then that they would reap one last merchant ship before he and his men would retire to some land far away. Four years of murder had worn away at even his frozen heart.

It was then that they spotted an unusually large merchant ship. The ship sailed slow as if laden, and Jude knew immediately that it was a prize he could not ignore. Instinct tugged at his mind with doubt, but greed tempted even louder. At night they had tried to sneak up to attack, but the target oddly sped up and disappeared into the darkness, no lights marking their position. Ignoring the signs, he ordered the ship to keep course in the hopes of catching the ship.

And now he realized it was all a trap. His thoughts were jarred away as a lantern lit up the stern of the enemy ship, now feet away from the Bloody Rose’s port side. At least the enemy captain had some humor.

The impact came with a deafening crack, followed by a bellowing, thunderous groan. Thrown down upon the deck, he watched in horror as his first mate was smashed into red jelly between the embrace of the other ship’s figurehead and the Bloody Rose’s main mast. He was mercifully in the ship’s prow. Another crack and the sight of the mast falling towards him, however, let him know he would not be spared.

As he watched the giant tree trunk fall towards him, he felt an odd calm wash over him. Even stranger still, he thought he heard Bethany calling his name. Tears, not sea water, stung his eyes. A now unfamiliar emotion squeezed his heart. Guilt and sadness tugged at him as he remembered: today was her birthday. Nothing around him mattered in those last seconds, all he wanted to do was see her again. Adrenaline slowed the mast’s fall.

For the first time in five years, he prayed.

Lost Roses: Chapter 2

“Nothing else then?”

She sat with her hands on her slightly swollen stomach, rays from the sun shining through the window and dancing upon her burgundy tresses. A modest apartment close to the dock, there was barely enough room to fit a wooden rocking chair, a small bed, and a stand for the lamp. Her presence, however, made the place seem more like home then the rocking cabin aboard his boat. He felt disquieted by her intense stare, so he looked down and made an exaggerated gentleman’s bow.

“Gentle lady, I must depart for seas-”

“And leave a lady at home by herself again, without anything to remember him by?”

“But I’m sure that memories, and, and something else…”

“Yes, that something else? What shall I call that ‘something’? Have you even thought about-?”

“Yes! Of course I’ve-”

“So you knew all this time and just acted like you didn’t?” Her voice softened and he knew he had dug himself a hole.

“Yes… I mean, I, no, …yes. We can call him Thomas or her-”

“And the last name!?”

“I can’t, I have to set sail today.”

She stood, and stepped within a foot of him, and locked her brown eyes with his. A tear trailed its way down her cheek.

“If you love me, tell me with more then just words. You are the captain, you can decide to stay for a day. Just for a day. For me.”

“I have a duty to my country. I promise that when I return, I’ll marry you. I’m sorry.”
He looked away, unable to bare the disappointment he knew that was in her eyes. He felt the softness of her hand on his cheek, turned back to face her, and was met by her kiss. An eternity passed in the second before she withdrew.

“Go with God.”

“And may God protect you until I return.”

The image of her smile burdened by eyes of liquid sadness burned into his brain and his heart as he left. He shortened his tour from two weeks to five days, yet his crew never asked why. He imagined every one of his brother sailors looking at him with accusing eyes, yet he knew it was only his own doubts. A cold fear haunted him despite the calm weather.

Lost Roses: Chapter 1

A call cried over the salty spray of the ocean’s clashing waves. Its meaning drowned immediately in the percussive roar of waves hitting the port side of the Bloody Rose. Captain Jude Maurice heard the whistling scream of a ballista bolt surging past his left shoulder, the taste of iron tainting his tongue. With a grim smile he stared, eyes greeted by obsidian darkness, hands gripping the railing. He realized his doom. It smiled back at him, a curse bought by greed. And now his only thoughts were of a past lost.

Once, he had been a captain in the Royal Navy, the Blue Rose a guardian ship of a large port in England. The ship often moored at home port, and his crew followed him with a devotion built over years of close scrapes and unparalleled leadership. Life had not been perfect, but it was filled with spots of beautiful happiness, love being the most pleasant of all.

Bethany was only a serving wench, but for the lonely sailor, she was pleasant, if silent, company. He couldn’t explain why, but he was drawn by her presence. Perhaps it was because she was the only one that ever served him. At first it was only a grin from him and a raised eyebrow from her. Undeterred, he took to expounding outlandish stories of his imagined heroics every time she came near. Sometimes she laughed, sometimes she would just grimace.

Suddenly, she no longer appeared. When it became obvious that she was avoiding him, he started to stagger his drinking schedule. His plan was successful, and seeing her across the tavern, a look of surprise on her face, he felt as if he had caught the fox.

Then he saw the smile in her eyes, and realized the fox had caught him. From then on, he spent every second of shore time he had with his new love. Her dangerously brilliant mind became evident as they spent their time together, before he knew it she had become his fellow strategist and confidant. She explained that her father had been a captain, and he had regaled her of all his harrowing adventures. Ever since, she had watched the ships dock in the bay by the tavern. She admitted to having watched with distance until she noticed that one ship had a wooden rose instead of a women figure blooming from the stern. Finding it romantic, she swore to find the captain of the ship.

Being a Christian, he waited a good month before sleeping with her. A year quickly passed, and it was becoming evident that he would soon be a father. It is then that he employed his superb skill at ignoring the obvious, until Bethany confronted him on the night that had ever plagued him since.


"Save - English-French Dictionary WordReference.com." English to French, Italian, German & Spanish Dictionary - WordReference.com. Web. 07 Sept. 2009. .

"Jude the Apostle -." Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Web. 07 Sept. 2009. .

"Piracy -." Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia. Web. 07 Sept. 2009. .

A bit about origins

Before I start spelunking the darker bowels of religion, I feel the need to write in a disclaimer. Because I'm lazy, I'll regurgitate the story that I've been using for years to describe practically everything in my life.

When I was a child, a patch of elephant grass separated my subdivision and a closed gate community that existed on the other side. In the middle of this wall of grass was a tunnel hollowed out by the hooligans that came before me. Through this portal, everything was richer. All the lawns were without weeds, no paint was pealing from the walls. All those cars I saw in the movies were zooming down the street. This world was a different world, it was a separate universe I visited whenever I wished. I wasn't alone in my belief. Using the word "gang" is misleading, yet it is the only word I can use to describe us. We dived into the empty culvert systems, peered into store windows, and occasionally did less intelligent things. Here, in this other world, nothing could touch us, because life was perfect.

Years later I visited the subdivision that I used to live in, by chance happening by my old house. When I looked across the yard, I realized the immortal gateway that I had so cherished in my youth had been chopped down, and the reality was laid bare before me. The "perfect" subdivision I had imagined had become a decrepit old residential area. The stores were gone, the culvert filled, and the mystery blew away. The question was then, did this world that I glimpsed in my youth actually ever exist, or was it a complete fabrication?

Like the world through the patch of grass, when I was young, perfection was easy to imagine. Beyond the gates of death I imagined a garden, perfect, and clean. Everything I loved would stay forever, life would always be perfect, and the things that I feared would be banished like a breath on the wind. Believing in God was easy then.

Then belief got hard. Loved ones were lost, and the deeper questions of the mere existence of atrocities began to wear away my faith. Science slammed into my faith like a meteor, declaring the things I once held true to be false. When my prayers were not answered with any speed, my faith dripped away to nothingness.

For many years I looked in on religion from the outside, and saw what I suspect many of the nonreligious see. I saw hate and intolerance. I saw people who gave up everything just so they could attain an illusion. I saw perversion and hypocrisy.

It was different when I rejoined the church. I saw that I had hated people who did not deserve it. I had been intolerant because I had thought that they were intolerant themselves. Yet they were as hurt by the overzealous as much as those outside the religion. They weren't ignorant either. They made the choice to believe in something and ultimately did not seem worse for it. They weren't self-righteous or angry either. They were people. We are people.

So remember when looking at religions that you don't yourself become close minded. Remember that attacking a religion can be completely without merit. This blog is not here to attack any religion, but simply question the practices by some factions within the faiths that seem destructive to society and the faiths themselves.