September 17, 2001
The shock is beginning to fade. Even though I wasn't at ground zero, this event was so emotionally loud, I was kind of internally deafened. I can't think of any other way to describe it.

The emotions are at a boil right now, all over the world. There is a lot of talk in America about retribution, and I hear that all across the United States, young men are lining up to sign on to the US military machine.

It's an understandable feeling. It's even an admirable sentiment. Love of one's country is nothing to be ashamed of, no matter where one is from. But before you put your name on that dotted line, young American, ask yourself the following:

How strong is your anger?

Your personal rage, and even hatred, may indeed be strong enough to carry you through a couple of months of initial training. Your thirst for revenge may succeed in driving you through whatever advanced training you require. Pain may even be strong enough to get you to the front lines without soiling yourself.

But when the war is over, and you still have two, or maybe more, years of service obligation left, will your rage carry you through?

Far be it from me to discourage anyone, of any nationality, from serving their country. Service is a valuable experience, a great oportunity to see the world and learn a trade, and I understand the American military has some excellent educational incentives. But rage is not the reason to serve. Find within yourself some nobler purpose, young American. All the world joins you in mourning, and laa the world cries out with you for satisfaction in this matter, for in this matter, we are all New Yorkers.

September 11, 2001

August 18, 2001
Uncertainty.

I hate not knowing things. I hate waiting to find out things I need to know. But even more, I hate that I am so impatient.

I don't think I ever signed a contract that guaranteed me tomorrow, or even that I would finish this paragraph. Throughout history, the people we have considered wise have told us not to borrow tomorrow's evil, because today has enough of it's own. And yet there is always this nagging desire to know the future, even if only to a limited extent.

Someone once told me that, when I am looking for trouble, I should remember that trouble is already busy with weaker men. To be uncertain in and of itself is no crime. When I allow my desire to control my world to control me, and I don't value those around me out of frustration, then I have crossed a line. What I am surrounded by is of infinite value in comparison to that which is next to come.

In the end, it comes to this: We are here, and this is now. All else is philosophy.

August 12, 2001
It's about midnight. I've recently returned home from work, had a late supper, and am winding down from the hectic pace of whatever it is that I do for a living. All the world is asleep around me, embracing the dream-state and its promises of reward, adventure and excitement. Sometimes I wonder what they all dream about, these people that surround me. Does my neighbor dream of the perfect lawn, manicured at right angles, with the sidewalk edged so crisply you could give yourself a papercut? Does the young man down the street dream of 75-inch subwoofers in his souped-up '87 Honda Accord?

And what of my family? Do my sons dream they are heroes in a Star Wars epic? Or that they ride bicycles through the night sky with E.T.? Does my wife, as she sleeps next to the empty spot that now calls me, have coffee with old friends on a shaded deck outside a perfectly-ordered home? Do the dogs dream of chasing rabbits, or of lying about the house all day while being hand-fed choice cuts of sirloin and a few cats?

What will I dream tonight?

Within the safe, secure confines of the recesses of my mind, hidden away from the people who expect stoicism and courage and stability, I allow myself to dream. Some are as simple as a day at the beach. Others are complicated, irrational, impossible, sometimes even frightening in their disjointed unreality. But they are mine, and I embrace them with desparate fervor.
In my secret dreams, I allow myself to have secret dreams.

August 18, 2001
The more I write, the more I realise I have a lot to write about, and the more I am faced with the knowledge that I am completely inadequate to address some of the topics that I want to deal with. Here are a few examples of things I have been asked about via e-mail and by friends face to face:

• Faith
• Love
• God
• Relationships
• Grief and Loss
• The Fundamental Nature of the Universe
• Religion
• Existentialism
• Motorcycle Maintenance
• Pasta

Naturally, I have strong opinions on all of these topics. My quandry, however, is that which troubles every writer. I want to make a definitive statement, one that will stand the test of time and be recognised by my children's grandchildren as a profound contribution to the human dialogue. The only trouble is, gee whiz (brief tribute to the Everly Brothers), I have so many more questions than answers, and only about three-or-so pounds of what amounts to a computer made out of meat to come up with any profundity.

So I guess today's topic is insecurity.

I heard of a study that some university did about 2 years ago (obviously funded by some branch of some government) that said one of the leading characteristics of incompetent people is their complete confidence in their competence. Part of what makes them what they are is their complete lack of awareness of what they are.

On the other hand, the study continued, competent people generally felt less able to perform than they were actual ability level would indicate. And so, again, part of what makes them what they are is their inability to perceive themselves as they truly are.

It's enough to make a writer neurotic. If I think I'm a good writer, does that indicate that I'm not? If I don't think I'm a good writer, and that indicates that I actually am a good writer, does that mean I should stick to topics that I feel I don't know well enough to cover? And if I don't think I'm a good writer (which is an indication that I actually am a good writer), why am I writing in the first place? Shouldn't I be an accountant, or a mercenary in the French Foreign Legion, or an Elvis impersonator, or an automobile technician in Wisconsin (I have it on the most reliable authority that Wisconsin is where all the best service techincians are)?

Fortunately, there are reasons for writing other than whether or not I believe I am a good writer. Far more important is whether or not I think I have anything to say. Having something to say goes deeper than being opinionated. There is more of an urgency involved, sometimes for the world to know something you have stumbled across, sometimes for you to find out if you are the only one in the world who feels as you do, and sometimes...

Sometimes it's because you have to. You have feelings, or ideas, or beliefs. Your environment won't allow you to speak, because what is inside you is so different from what is around you, that if you shared it with even your closest friend, you would find yourself more alone than you were in the first place.

So we write.

We scribble our thoughts on journals, or post them on web sites, because we are insecure. The irony is that the only way to deal with the insecurity is to go here, the most public venue there is.

But, then again, I could be wrong. It's only my opinion.

August 5, 2001
I have a question that I like to ask people around me. Would you be willing to trade everything that you know, everything that science, logic, and conventional wisdom have taught you, for just one thing that you truly believe?

Sounds like a crazy question, doesn't it? But think about it. What I'm talking about, without getting too specific about the focus of it, is Faith. Suppose you could believe in something so strongly, so deeply, that even if it stood in defiance of the laws of nature as you knew them, you would believe nature itself to be flexible before you surrendered your belief.

And how would that change your life? If the evidence showed you that reality was something different than what the people around you said it was, would it change anything about the way you interacted with people around you?

Just as an example, suppose you had learned that you were able to fly unaided by any mechanical means. You could simply move through the air as easily as you now move across the ground, without even the need to concentrate. You had done it often yourself, as well as seeing others fly in such a manner. how would you interact with people around you that still believed unaided human flight was a child's fairy tale or a myth from the ancient past, long discarded by logical humans? What about people that say, "I'm so glad that you've found something that works for you, but I just don't believe it."?

Keep in mind that it isn't through any special ability of your own that you can fly. Its something that is available to everyone. Letting people in on it won't make it any harder for you to fly, and it costs nothing.

Kind of a wierd analogy, I know, but that is the way life is for, among others, a really serious Jesus Freak.

I wish that I could say the question was my own idea, but I cannot lie to you. I heard it in a song by Susan Ashton, a marvelous singer that you should check out if you get the chance.

August 2, 2001
Well, I've pulled a couple of 60-hour weeks, and the tension is starting to build in the office. My thoughts have been pretty disjointed lately, so it can be pretty tough to put down coherent words.

I am one of those adult people with ADHD (Attention Deficit and Hyperactivity Disorder). I know that the whole concept is blown out of proportion in most of the Western World (which is where I live), but I am one of the actual, honest-to-God, full blown cases.

ADD isn't something you have as much as something you are, or so it's been said. Lately I've been doing a bit of reading about adults with ADD. The reactions vary pretty widely. Some people are ashamed, some are living in constant fear of making mistakes, and some say they wouldn't dream of trading what they are for what everyone says the rest of the world is.

As for me, I take the good with the bad. Having a brain that runs counterclockwise has its advantages. It makes problem solving easier, especially with people that are used to doing a thing the same way for years. It makes me look like a genius. It also has the advantage of making me fairly creative, a good musician, and I have had the opportunity to retain a good number of childlike qualities that many people lose by their early 20s, such as an insurmountable sense of wonder and a complete lack of dignity.

There are disadvantages as well, don't get me wrong. Every few months I'll take a wrong turn down a one-way street I've been driving down for years. I forget to shave once about every other week. If you tell me a list of things to do, about the best I'll be able to do is remember the first item, that there is, indeed, a list, and you are the one to keep running back to for the others items on the list.

I forget important things that I need to carry with me, such as my wallet, which I left behind today, or important paperwork, or the occasional important article of clothing. Once I got all the way to the parking lot at work before I realised I was in my undershirt.

The hardest part, though, is knowing what my wife has to put up with. I forget to pay bills. I forget to write down withdrawls from the bank, or the occasional cheque. Sometimes I have to look at my driver's license to see when my birthday is. I can be a frustrating person to have to share a life with. I'm still not exactly sure why she does it...

Well, I think I'm all written out on that subject for now. My mind has wandered again, and I can't get it back on track. Something about a snack food I was just having, and then it jumped to a thought about someone I know that drinks too much coffee.

I'd better sign off, before someone gets hurt.

July 25, 2001
I have a headache.
It isn't one of those blinding migranes, or one of those hangover headaches, or a stress headache. Most likely it is slight dehydration. Not a big deal, even for someone who never gets headaches.
But it does cause me to think about something. Previously, I mentioned that unemployment was the second most unpardonable sin in western society, because so much of our identity is tied up in what we do.
The single most unforgivable thing in western society today is pain.
Kick the idea around a bit. We will forgive anything today in the name of lessening or avoiding pain. Drugs (legal or otherwise), lies, alchohol, even killing people to a certain extent. There is almost nothing we will not do to avoid pain.
"So what's wrong with that?" you may ask. "Pain, if you recall from your 10th-grade Biology class, hurts. Avoidance of pain is natural. That is why we pull a hand away from a hot stove."
No. We pull our hand away from a hot stove in order to avoid damage. Pain in that case is nothing more than a physical reaction to damage. But to avoid pain must not be the be-all and end-all of existence. Ask anyone that has ever known a leper, and they will tell you the devestating results of disengaging the pain mechanism.
So where am I going with all this? To some extent, it's simply an observation. But to someone out there, I would say the following. Perhaps you are suffering emotionally. It could be the end of a significant relationship, the loss of a loved one, or even the death of a pet. It is not for me to say what pain is significant, or what should not hurt. But I can tell you this; To withdraw from life as a child's hand from a hot stove is no answer. And while no amount of advice will lessen the impact of your experience, and nothing that I could ever say or do will take the pain away, taking the pain away isn't the answer anyway.
The canvas on which your life is painted is so much more than the blacks and whites that you can see from the immediate point of view. Perspective adds colour and texture to the line drawings that you see now. Don't run from pain. Embrace that which causes you to feel at all.
Well, I've babbled enough on this subject. Headaches are rather distracting, and I'm finding it hard to put my thoughts together coherently.

July 20, 2001
Today was a hard-working day. I'm not talking about mentally difficult, like working on some computer problem, or emotionally difficult, like trying to help someone deal with a deep personal tragedy. This was a manual labour day, full of back-breaking, 110 ° (F), Hebrew-slave-type work.
There is a part of me that loves this type of work. I find it extremely gratifying to see the younger men fall to the wayside while I keep working. There is a certain satisfaction that comes from looking back at the work you have done at the end of the day and knowing that you gave all that you had and did a good job. And when you lay down at night (earlier than usual), you can sleep easy, knowing that you traded a good, honest day's labour for your pay.
Then, of course, there are the other parts of me that disagree violently with the first part and would beat it down and lock it in a closet if they could. These are the parts of me that prefer the intelectual challenges that come from computer work, or supervising a crew of working people to guide a task to completion. You know, the lazy parts of me.
Why is it that people need to work? We all seem to have this compulsion toward some kind of gainful employment. There are much easier ways to live, if you are resourceful and willing to do without some of the trappings of a capatalistic society. And yet work is so important to us that it has become our very identity.
Ask a random stranger who they are, and you might be suprised that they generally answer with their occupation. "I'm a policeman," or "I'm a lawyer." (Neither of which I am, by the by). Unemployment has become the second-worst social sin in western society, and one which we cannot seem to forgive.

July 16, 2001
I have finally made a moment to have a thought. It isn't a very interesting or profound thought, but just taking a moment to think is a minor victory.
I have discovered that it is, indeed, possible to care for people without caring about them. I can be deeply concerned with the welfare of some of the people I know, and yet not value their opinions of me or what I do. I'm not sure if I like this or not. I have always been a very empathetic person, and people's feelings are still very important to me. But I think, in this case, that I consider the hyper-critical attitudes of people I know to be more of a fault to be overlooked than a valid emotion to be concerned over.
Many things have kept me busy this month, not the least of which is job searching. I'm not unemployed (or else it would be highly unlikely that I would waste precious minutes on this journal), but I am anticipating a change soon. I have roughly 10 weeks to get my affairs in order. It's going to be a grand adventure, I'm sure, and yet another opportunitty to trust my God to make things happen. Faith, however, doesn't mean I sit under a tree and eat birdseed until Jesus drops a large bag of money in my lap. Faith means I blow about fifty thousand copies of my resume into the market, make all the phone calls and handshakes I possibly can, and trust God to show me where He wants me to land.
I have a different concept about this whole Jesus Freak thing that a lot of people do. Some people say they believe in God, and try to hold Him at arms' length, aloof from the mundanities of life. I figure if God went to all the trouble to put me on this particular planet, in this particular country, in this particular point in history, He's probably interested in other parts of my life as well. I'm willing to accept that I may be wrong, but I would rather be wrong on this one than get to the end of the road and find out this was the answer.