Wedding Registry and Gifts

Hannah and Tim - One Love, One Lifetime - June 20th, 2012

We plan on moving to Boston in a few months, and we'd rather not have to take a whole registry's worth of items with us. Instead, we would love gift cards so we can buy what we need once we arrive. We would love anything, from a shopping trip to furnish our new home to fun stuff like a night at the movies.

Homemade and/or special gifts are still greatly appreciated and welcome.

Cards and gifts may be mailed to:

Tim Laurio and Hannah Hoyt
2100 Bluebonnet Lane
Matthews, NC, 28104

Another way you could bless us would be to help us raise money for the deposit on an apartment in Boston. Living expenses are high, and even the cheapest apartments can cost $2000 to $3000 up front. If you would like to contribute, you can follow the button below to a secure PayPal donation form.

So, all that said, in lieu of a gift registry, here is a list of gift card ideas.

DEPARTMENT STORES
Target
IKEA
Kohl's
TJ Maxx

SPECIALTY STORES
Best Buy
Bed, Bath, and Beyond
Office Max
Trader Joe's

JUST FOR FUN
AMC Movies
Guitar Center
Barnes and Noble
Carrabba's
Pizza Hut
Pinkberry
Starbucks

Hello again!

Just a note to say that this is still my blog, and I'm still planning to use it. What have I been doing? Let's see--I spent a semester studying at Oxford last fall! And I graduated college a few weeks ago! Yep, I am officially B.A. now--and not the profane kind, either ;). Now that I don't have school, my blog may see more activity. But a few other things have to happen before then. In two weeks Hannah and I are premiering our very own film adaptation of Northanger Abbey. And we're getting married on Midsummer's Day next month!!! It's going to be a summer to remember!

Three Bards

A great bard arose in the far end of time.
Moses was his name; he sang of God
and the works of God: of Earth-making
and life-giving, of good Creator
and good creation, froward creation
and patient God.

A great bard arose in the midway of time.
Shakespeare his name; he sang of humanity,
good and evil: of noble deeds
and basest treason, joyous fortune
and grievous fate, the rising and falling
of human life.

A great bard arose in the near end of time.
Whitman was his name; whatever he sang
and whenever he wrote, all his song was of
himself.

The Reluctant Poet

And yet, try as you might,
you cannot escape the fact
that words must be used--

ideas expressed,
beauties acknowledged,
praises sung.

And no matter how much, Moses,
you plead weakness with words,
still, someone must sing,

and even in the face of
years of wadded paper
the question remains

why not you?

Words to think with

The semester has dwindled to a sliver of its former self, the way an ice cube shrinks when you pour water over it in the sink, and I am just watching and waiting now for the last few weeks to melt away. And I'm studying, of course. And rehearsing. And writing papers. And memorizing lines. And planning summer projects. And summer trips. And summer work. And next semester's classes. And vacillating, all the while, between bleary-eyed complaints about the workload and moments of utter wonder that I am allowed to eat and drink and breathe history, literature, philosophy, music; that I have lived through the hardest winter in living memory to see a spring which is the loveliest in history, as every spring is; that I love and am loved by a woman who is fair and seemly and wise beyond my highest hopes; that I continue to wake up every morning to find that someone else has been up before me scrubbing the sky and pulling up the sun and pouring dew on the grass—in short, that I keep on living in God's good earth under God's bright heaven. This must be the way a sprout feels when it wakes up from hibernation in its seedpod to find itself planted in rich soil with clean air swirling around it and the sun beaming down overhead.

Meanwhile, time slips away from me and it's early morning and I should try going to bed. I oughtn't to be blogging at all, except that I was studying late and broke policy and bought a coke and now I'm awake on caffeine. I'll rue it tomorrow.

I heard a lecture this morning about modern women who are writing—Annie Dillard and Toni Morrison and people like that. It was a good lecture from start to finish, but this simple quote stood out to me. It comes from Toni Morrison, whom I've not read. It returns to the question of ownership, which I've pondered before, but Morrison makes it more personal that Steinbeck did:

Freeing yourself was one thing; claiming ownership of that freed self was another.

Words to think with, words to live by...

Concerning the history of ideas

Lewis once again hits the nail on the head:

Humanity does not pass through phases as a train passes through stations: being alive, it has the privilege of always moving yet never leaving anything behind. Whatever we have been, in some sort we are still.

- C. S. Lewis, The Allegory of Love, ch. 1

I think the folks here at school need to make this the motto for the humanities program.

Fun fact: I'm reading a library copy of the book, and these lines are underlined and starred in this copy. Apparently someone else liked what Lewis had to say, too. (There's a parallel about the universality of human thought in that somewhere...)

Ownership

From The Grapes of Wrath, which I'm reading for school:

...It's our land. We measured it and broke it up. We were born on it, and we got killed on it, and died on it. Even if it's no good, it's still ours. That's what makes it ours—being born on it, working it, dying on it. That makes ownership, not a paper with numbers on it.

What do we mean when we say we own something? The word has different shades of meaning. We say we "own" our clothes, by which we mean they are our property. But we also say we "own" someone as a friend, by which we mean we acknowledge the relationship, not that we possess them. What makes something our property? A book may sit on your shelf, but can you really say it's yours until you've read it and slipped bookmarks in the folds or dog-eared the pages or stuck sticky notes to favorite paragraphs or added notes in the margins or whatever you do with books—in other words, until you've made it yours by spending time with it and letting part of yourself become involved in it? The relationship makes it yours, not the purchase.

In the library--

In the library reading
a journal of poems
I found much to be
dismayed at, a little
to give pleasure, for
in those I read were some
laced with crudities, some
effusing nothings, a few
full and firm and sweet
like the first ripe apples in summer,
none a satisfying meal. But
among the readers' letters
someone quoted Frost, saying
poetry should tell of griefs,
not grievances. At that
I rose and left, for here
at last was sustenance,
and I knew
it was enough.

Letting Go of the Kite

The show that I've been a part of for the last few months, Little Women, had its last performance today. Endings are harder than beginnings. Beginnings can creep up on you unawares so that you're in the middle of things almost before you know they've started, but there's no getting around endings.

No, it is over now, the theater empty and the sets dismantled. They are gone, the characters that lived here. They are dead; no, not dead, but shut away, locked in memories of long nights and brilliant evenings. We shall not meet them thus again, not the way they were here, so alive that they kindled the stage with fire and burnt the air with passion. We were permitted a while to share their joys and sorrows, their loves and dreams; we lived with them in a dream, returning to their world day after day till it became a second life, a second home. Now at length the last curtain has fallen, and our time here has come to an end. Hence we know them as dreams only. We look forward now to new days and new dreams. But we shall keep the friends we made here. We shall keep the memories we made here. We shall keep the lives we lived here. As dreams they shall remain, a fire within us, through all our days of plenty.

As the days pass I will probably post more about the show itself. I already have some stuff written down, and we got plenty of photos from rehearsals, behind-the-scenes, and performances. (Most of the photo credits, by the way, including the one above, do not belong to me. They're all thanks to various friends in the audience and backstage.)

About the Teaching of Art

Should art be taught for enjoyment or understanding? Or can it be taught for both? I've been wondering about that for a few months. Last fall I had some talks with my mom about the place art should have in a curriculum based on relational principles (i.e. Charlotte Mason). Now my college semester has begun, and with it my fourth and final semester of humanities. We've been studying history chronologically, so this semester is about the 20th century. We've already studied plenty of modern art.

I've noticed, however, that all we study are the avant-garde, envelope-pushing works. We've looked at Matisse and Picasso and Munch, watched Stravinsky's Rite of Spring, listened to atonal music and talked about Schoenberg's twelve-tone system. Our discussions of "what's happening in art" during the 20th century have focused on modernism and post-modernism: the rejection of traditional Western aesthetics, experiments with other styles, and the serious, searching art that was produced as a result.

[Admittedly, the literature we've studied—World War I poets, W. B. Yeats, Pygmalion—has been more traditional. (In other words: no Joyce!) We haven't studied the literature as art, however, but as illustrations of contemporary ideas. The WWI poets demonstrate the two ways people looked at the war (romantic, patriotic sentiment versus shocked, disillusioned realism). Pygmalion expresses and criticizes the behaviorist principles of B. F. Skinner. And so on.]

I understand to a point why we ought to study the latest developments in art. The state of the arts can tell us much about the state of a culture. But my question is this: why do we privilege progressive art over works created in older styles, works which may do nothing to advance the art of art, but which are still profound and moving and beautiful? Why the bias towards the new?

I asked two of my professors this question, separately, and got several answers. One professor replied that, in a survey course such as humanities, we have limited time, and have to focus on the tip of the spear, so to speak, as art moves forward. He explained that, once you hit the 18th and 19th centuries, old styles no longer die out as new ones are born; thus by the 20th century you end up having neoclassical, romantic, realist, and a whole list of other styles all being used simultaneously with the developing modernism. That modernism is the new element, so that's what needs our attention. But just because we're not studying the other art of the 20th century doesn't mean it's not important.

The other professor replied that the humanities course is focused on understanding art rather than enjoying it. (This professor, by the way, enjoys art as much as anyone I know.) I may be misinterpreting him, but I think his point was this. When we look at the diverse collection of 20th century styles, most of them are ones we have studied before. Romanticism we met in the 1800s; neoclassicism in the 1700s. So, while artists may still be using those styles, they offer no new perspective on the human condition. The new styles, those that offer a different approach: those are the ones we can learn from. Those are the ones that add something substantial to our understanding of the world.

I think I understand their arguments, but they don't satisfy me. If students are taught to understand art—that is, to analyze it—without being taught to enjoy it, then education has missed the point of art. If we approach a work only to extract its philosophical underpinnings, then we have forgotten how to listen, and if we do not listen, we cannot learn. Art must be experienced, not merely studied. We learn from art only when we respect it enough to build a relationship with it. That means entering without an agenda and without trying to analyze. It means entering with attention, even with humility, to ask the art what it means.

Any good art will be rewarding if we take the time to build that relationship with it. In saying this, I disagree with the bias towards new art. I don't mind learning about the new as well as the old; we have to know the whole history in order to understand where we are now. What bothers me is the tendency to say that an artist must say something new in order for his work to have significance; to say that the only legitimate, honest art is that which speaks in the most current dialect; to say that today's questions can only be answered with today's artistic styles.

If art were like science, always gaining more knowledge, always correcting old theories, then the bias towards new art would be necessary. But art is not progressive like science. An old work of art, or an old style of art, has as much to say to us now as the art that is current. Plenty of music composed in the 20th century was sophisticated and significant without abandoning tonality or aesthetic standards. Vaughan Williams comes to mind, as does some Prokofiev, or later works by Stravinsky. Plenty of literature written in the 20th century was beautiful and meaningful without abandoning traditional narrative structures or poetic forms. I'm thinking of The Lord of the Rings, or the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay, or Yeats's lyrical works.

We can gain as much by getting to know these traditional works as we can by studying new styles. Atonal music, abstract art, stream-of-consciousness literature, and the like may be more "advanced" (that is to say, newer). But that does not make them more valid or more valuable than art which says well what needs to be said, whether it has been said once or a thousand times.

Batman Begins: the Untold Story

I just finished watching Batman Begins for the first time with my brothers. They had both seen it before, which put us in the interesting situation of them showing me a movie for once. (An unusual occasion, that.) I enjoyed the movie a lot, but at the same time it left me with an unsettling feeling. In this movie, more than in any of the other Batmans or superhero movies I've seen, you see the vulnerability of good guys. It wasn't simply that the hero had weaknesses, or that he could be injured; that's a given in any good superhero story. This movie made you doubt Batman's ability to save Gotham, or stay a step ahead of the bad guys, or protect the ones he loved. It made you doubt his ability to defeat evil at all.

Batman Begins made me feel how precarious our victories are in this life. The world is balanced on a razor's edge. No matter how many times we save the world, all we're doing is keeping it from slipping. It remains hanging on the edge of destruction. The next battle could very well be the last.

Likewise, the movie made me feel how powerless we are to fight. Though Batman had his superpowers, in the end it was the power of the bad guys that was impressive. Batman's victory was hardly triumphant: it was victory by a hair's breadth. He succeeded in snatching Gotham from total destruction, but only after the bad guys had infiltrated the whole city and caused a huge amount of damage. Except for the fact that it was a Batman movie, which meant that he had to come out on top, there was no sense of certainty that he would prevail in this battle, nor any surety of his victory in the future. The bad guys knew his tricks (in fact they taught him most of his tricks); and as Lieutenant Gordon said at the end, what is to stop our enemies from matching power with power? You start using semi-automatics; they get automatics. You start flying around in a bulletproof suit; they pull out the armor-piercing rounds. There are more of them. They hold the cards. (Sometimes literally.)

That is indeed our position in this world's war. We face an evil of such immense power that not one of us can hope to defeat it. Our enemy is far beyond our strength. As Luther wrote, many years ago,

Still our ancient foe doth seek to work us woe;
His craft and power are great, and armed with cruel hate:
On earth is not his equal.

No matter how fiercely we fight, our foes will always be fiercer. No matter what weapons we can find to throw at them, they will always be a step ahead of us. No matter how wise and careful our plans, their cunning and malice will always be stronger. We are like ants fighting dragons. They hold all the cards.

Except one. And that one is the trump card. We have a Messiah: a Savior who cannot be defeated. He cannot be defeated because he was already defeated once, and came back again. His power, the power of resurrection from death, is greater than any power of the enemies that beset us. And that power lives in us and works in the world (1 John 4:4).

Yet still we see darkness closing in around us. Evil is an ever-encroaching flood, and the dark waters of sin and death seem to be only just kept at bay by an ever-dwindling number of fighters. Our victories all seem precarious. No matter how often we drag the world back from the brink of destruction, it keeps slipping. We cannot trust ourselves to win the next battle. We can't trust ourselves to protect the things or the people we love. We can't even trust ourselves to keep fighting. But even in such conditions, we have a hope to hold on to.

No matter how dark the world grows, and no matter how few our numbers, our Messiah will never give up on us. Gotham was so depraved that Ra's Al Ghul thought the city was past hope and condemned it to destruction. Bruce Wayne, however, looked at the few in the city who were still fighting—Rachel, Mr. Fox, Sergeant Gordon—and saw them as a sign of hope for Gotham's redemption. Our God likewise looked at the corruption of Sodom and Gomorrah, and said that if it were only for the sake of ten righteous people, the cities should be spared. What's more, our Messiah has promised to protect his own. He hasn't lost a man yet (John 6:39).

That is our hope. Not in our fighting, but in the one who fights for us: in a Messiah who is both merciful and powerful to save. So long as he fights with us, we cannot be defeated. Darkness may prevail for a time, but we know that good will defeat evil in the end. But how do we join the fight? And how do we spread our hope?

One way is by prayer. Our direct plea to God, and his direct action in the world, are powerful forces to work good. Another way is by living righteous lives. Proverbs 28:4 says that to obey the law is to fight the wicked. Our daily perseverance in righteousness—being honest with friends, being faithful to spouses, having patience with an over-talkative co-worker, not cheating when it would be easy to do so, even simply fighting the chaos in the hall closet—all of those ordinary, everyday deeds are really indispensable in the fight against evil. They are the bricks which build the ramparts of our defense.

Yet another way to fight evil is with stories. I know, I know. "Stories?" you say. "Alongside prayer and righteousness? That's a bit of a stretch." Not at all. It is through stories that people make sense of the world. Our stories tell us the shape of the war going on around us. The stories we believe make us either hope or despair, love or hate, fight or flee. Stories have the power to tell us that redemption is possible, that evil is conquerable, that the fight is worth fighting. This is what Chesterton meant when he said that "fairy tales are more than true, not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten."

We need stories to show us the truth, for they alone have that power. Yeats once said that "man can embody truth but he cannot know it." He meant that truth is in the parable rather than the precept. Ideas can be true—or rather, accurate—up to a point. Philosophy can tell us that there is a fight between good and evil. Morality can tell us which one ought to win. Religion can even tell us who are the contestants. But only a story can tell us how the fight turns out.

That ability to embody the truth gives stories great power. But—to mix fandoms—with great power comes great responsibility. Here Batman Begins both succeeded and failed. It did indeed show Batman winning in the end. But the world in which he won was a world ruled by the bad guys, a world in which the good guys were vigilantes waging a hopeless war on evil. That's only half the story. We live in a dark world, but we have the promise of final victory. That is why, though the movie was great on many levels, it was ultimately unsettling: because the story it leaves untold is as great as the one it tells.

Happy New Year!

In my reading this morning I came across this passage from Psalm 4 which seems befitting for the start of the new year.

Many people say, "Who will show us better times?"
     Let the smile of your face shine on us, Lord.
You have given me greater joy
     than those who have abundant harvests of grain and wine.

I will lie down in peace and sleep,
     for you alone, O Lord, will keep me safe.

I love this. It is at once a prayer for blessing, a song of thanksgiving, and an expression of trust. As the year beings we are all hoping for better days, days of peace and plenty. The psalmist directs us to God, who is the foundation of all our hopes. He gives thanks for last year's blessings, and reminds us that we are blessed whether or not we've had an abundant harvest, because we have been given life and love by our God. Finally, he reaffirms our trust in God by reminding us to rest, to keep Sabbath with God, because it is God who keeps us safe, whether we wake or sleep.

Have a blessed new year, everyone!

New Photoblog!

Not only have I moved my old Blogger photoblog to a new host, I've also figured out how to put a feed from the new blog in my sidebar! You can visit my new blog at de Lumine, and the slideshow on the right should get updated automatically when I post a new photo.

Christmas Break

It's been a few days now since the end of my semester. Finals week was--well, it was finals week. I think I finished well; at least, I'm fairly satisfied, and definitely done. I finished Wednesday and moved home Thursday last week. Since then I've done Christmas shopping, gone to the Nutcracker ballet, rehearsed with my church worship team for Christmas Eve service, put up decorations in the house, helped my sister make our tree the "best tree in the year," baked cookies, made gingerbread, listened to the first part of the Messiah, and listened to various other less classical Christmas music (like Bing Crosby).

So you will understand when I say that I'm enjoying being home, and it's nice not having the stress of schoolwork, but things don't feel like they've slowed down much yet! I'm beginning to wonder if I made too many plans for break (whether articulated or not). I probably did; I tend to be overambitious, especially with time. There are certain things, however, that I really do want to do over break. Beyond the non-negotiables like seeing family and celebrating Christmas, I have three things I want to do every day for the next few weeks:

• Pray. And set aside specific time for devotions. I let this slide as the school semester wore on, and I need to start doing it again.
• Write. Something--anything. It can be weaving a poem or collecting notes for a story or even rattling off a blog post, but I want to write regularly this break.
• Read. And if I read nothing else, read The Brothers Karamazov. This is a challenge that I'm doing with one of my friends from school: the whole book during break. He read Brothers a few years ago and loved it; this will be my first time. The plan is that we'll read 30-40 pages a day and discuss. So far, I've read... none. Heh.

Those are the main things. My to-do list is much longer than that, but I won't mind so much if I don't get to the rest of it. I don't think those three will be unmanageable so long as I stick to them daily; perhaps, too, having them written down will help.

Meeting Jenny

The cafeteria at my school likes to employ people from the surrounding community. As a result, you get to meet people in the cafeteria that you don't see elsewhere around campus. Since we are across the street from a seminary, and since the church on campus has a lot of international ties, the surrounding community can produce a lot of interesting people.

One of the ladies who works at the cafeteria is from Africa. She's not especially tall, and her slight build makes her seem smaller than she is, but she's noticeable because she's so friendly. She always smiles and says hello when I walk by. Still, until a couple days ago we had never talked more than to pass the time of day.

This week I got to know her a little more. I came up to the cafeteria one afternoon, when no one was there, and we talked over the counter for a while while she made pizzas. Speaking in a rich African accent, she told me that she and her husband have been here for several years while he has been studying at the seminary. Both their children were born here. Although her husband has visited Africa a few times since they left, neither she nor their children have been back, and it was clear that she was missing her country. It's not that she hasn't made a place for herself here, but when she talked, Africa was home. She worries, too, about her children growing up away from their heritage.

She was curious about my accent, especially when she found out I had never been outside the US. She said I sounded as if I'd just come back from Europe (which I took as a high compliment). It surprised her even more since I've been living in Tennessee most of my life. I explained that neither of my parents are from Tennessee, and that I'm careful about my English. And watch a lot of British movies. I made the comment that English is a goodly heritage which I try to preserve. She was pleased at that. She said it was encouraging to her, because she's trying to do something similar for her children: to teach them their heritage and keep them involved in their native culture while living away from home.

We talked about our Thanksgivings, and she told how her family spent theirs. Her culture has no Thanksgiving tradition of its own. Since she and her family are in the US, they decided to celebrate the holiday, but in their own fashion. So they got together with a group of friends, mostly foreign students in the area, and had a party and made "gaught" for dinner.

At that point I lost her. My puzzlement must have been evident in my face, so she repeated the word a couple of times. I still couldn't make it out.

"I don't think I've heard of that," I said dubiously. It sounded rather like "God," but that didn't seem right. I know Christians are meant to take the communion seriously and all, but surely this fellowship of believers didn't eat God for Thanksgiving dinner.

"You haven't had gaught before?" she asked. I was flummoxed.

Finally her co-worker (who is from Jamaica) came over and joined the conversation. "You've never heard of goat?" he asked with some surprise.

Oh! I felt foolish. "Well, yes," I said, trying to cover my ignorance, "but never as a meal."

They were surprised. How could someone have never had goat? I must try it some time. She said that it's not hard to find. They get their goat from a local farmer who goes to the little church on campus, which is their church as well as mine while I'm here. She said they have goat three or four times a year. I asked what it tastes like; she said it was very similar to lamb. Which makes sense, I guess.

Then she asked me if I'd be interested in joining them for a goat dinner sometime. Of course I said yes. So perhaps one of these days I'll be able to tell you for sure what it tastes like. I'll keep you posted.

On Species of Writing

I have been learning about the kinds of writing. It is a learning which is coming not by any regular curriculum but simply by using and reading and thinking about the various kinds. So of course I still know little enough about them. But I like what I am learning. Each kind must be approached in its own way because each has its own rules and standards of beauty. And there are so many different kinds.

For instance newspaper writing is different from academic writing which is different from essay writing which is different from blogpost writing which is different from letter writing which is different from nonfiction writing which is different from short story writing which is different from novel writing which is different from playwriting which is different from poetry writing. Every single one of those takes a different style and different skills.

I do not mean that one must relearn how to write for each kind of writing. Skill once learned is of course adaptable. But no two kinds of writing take the same skills in the same ways. Each one requires another modulation of craft. And I love that they do. Language can take forms so delightfully varied that getting to know the ins and outs of them all is in itself a pleasure. Discovering the power and bounds of each one is a study and a joy which could last a lifetime. Humans at least shall never lack for modes of expression. It was a wonderful thing when we were given language. I think it was only a slightly less wonderful thing when we learned to write and began the permutation and proliferation of written species which led us to the present population of form and style.

An All Hallows' Eve Tale

Once upon a time—a time not so unlike our own—there lived a man who, like all men, was a traveler. This man loved a maiden, as many men do; and the maiden loved him in return, which is more than many men can say. Nor was she an ordinary maiden, though she was a commoner, for she was as fair as autumn and as faithful as the seasons. But there are other powers in the world than Love, and not all are powers for good. So it was that the man and maiden were parted, and both were laid under binding spells that they might not go and seek one another. They remained many days in duress; but upon All Hallows' Eve Day, the man broke the spells that bound him and set forth upon a journey to find the maiden again. Twice a hundred miles he traveled, through misty mountains and over dark rivers, until he came to a town in the midst of a forest.

That was a strange place, for the town lay upon the borders of Elfland, and heavy were the enchantments that held it there. No time passed in those shadowy marches between our world and the other, but each morning dawned upon the same day, so that the folk grew no older, and the land did not decay. The force of the spells about the town was such that it was often hidden from human sight; at such times, any who found it would find only empty buildings and whispering streets. Indeed, only a few days in the year could that town be found by mortals; but All Hallows' Eve Day is of all days the most potent.

In that town, under the veil of enchantments, the maiden was hidden. Resting as it did on the border, the town had become a meeting-place for the worlds, and men named it Fairhaven, for within its walls humans and elves alike found refuge. Through its streets passed lords, ladies, peasants, pickpockets, fairies, elves, merchants, craftsmen, swordsmen, scholars, knights-errant, stranded seafarers, traveling jugglers, wandering minstrels, and others so many that the tale of them would last seven days in the telling. Among these the maiden took her place, living by her music upon the streets, and waiting for her love.

The man stopped before the gates of Fairhaven. The guards that keep the gates looked him up and down and muttered amongst themselves, for they let none pass that have not the welcome of the town's governors; and the man was a stranger. So he stood without the gates, gazing with wonder into that elfish place. Hard it seemed to have come to the gates of Faerie and be denied entrance; and harder still, for the man knew that the maiden had passed through those gates; and now only a single wall lay betwixt them; yet it was an impassable wall. Still he was patient, and waited for something to happen; and, as usually happens, something did.

For, by some way of magic, the maiden had learned of his coming. When she knew that he was without the gates, she ran thither as swiftly as her legs would bear her. And there in the doorway of the elfin city those two long parted met again, and in the twilight between Earth and Faerie the man found the end of his journey, and the maiden the end of her waiting. After a time she led him through the gates, for she had a word of passage from the governors of the town, and once within she became his guide through all the wonders of that place. The sights that she showed him there, musicians and players, merchants and craftsmen, jousts and processions, and more beside, must be left for another writing, for there is not space nor skill here to describe them. Through all these things she led him; and all that day he did not leave her side.

Yet, when the day ended, and All Hallows' Eve had passed, the enchantments that had bound the man once more summoned him away. All Saints' Day was come; the day of wonder was gone, and the man returned whence he had come. Once more the man and the maiden were separated: she went again to the town of Fairhaven to await his return; and he was borne back to a far-off land of thick and dreary enchantments. Yet even there, at times, the memory of Faerie, and of her who waits, returns to him in waking dreams. And it may be that they shall not remain thus parted: for there be other days in the year with potency against dreary enchantments; and there be other powers in the world besides those that strive with Love.

(I, Owen Locksley, son of Sir Reginald Locksley, servant of the Crown, do attest to the truth of this tale. Yet it may be that some find the story dark, and think the right shape of things hidden by the telling, and the facts obscured in webs of words. For those that make such complaint I say merely that this account is true to the utmost, as far as it goes; and for a clearer telling of the facts, they must wait for some other day. For tales take long in the weaving, even such tales as be reworkings of things already past; and a knight's son has scant time for tale-weaving.)

Prayer for Empty Hands

Give me strength
In these two hands
To do what I must do.

Give me the strength
To fulfill the demands
Of a writer's task. Renew

Again and again at length
The weakening bands
Of mind and body. View

With grace my empty strength,
And fill these hands
With bread, to make a new

Body in this old length
Of flesh. Fill these hands
With words like wine, true

Writer's blood. By the length
And breadth of grace, by the hands
Whose holes proclaim true

Strength, I plead for strength.
Give into my weary hands
The grace to do what I must do.


After being sick for two weeks and missing more school than I've ever missed in my life, I have work to do. A full weekend and week and month of it ahead.

Between Earth and Earth

This looks like a poem, and I'm categorizing it under poems, but it's not much of a poem yet. In other words, if you call it a poem, it's a bad one; but if you call it the first impression of a poem not yet written (and probably never to be written), then it might not look so bad. I myself would call it "rambling in linear form," but one must categorize somehow. (Translated: I'm lazy and I'm done with this poem for now and I know it's far from perfect but I'm posting it anyway and my conscience is nagging me for it.)



How little now stands
between me and the ground.
Two legs, a strange support
that can hardly balance
at the best of times—
small wonder, being as they are
incongruous pillars of
blood and bone and sinew,
which are, of course, only dust
lashed together by a few words.

And what supports those legs
but the spirit that is in the man?
Upon that fragile clothesline hangs
every limp muscle between my head and foot,
each one pinned to that lifeline
expecting to be filled with breath:
the wind of life or spirit of air
that can turn heavy, drooping fabric
into dancing raiments
quick with movement.

Even so, with borrowed air
and many borrowed words
to hold together my shaking line
upon which hang so many
unlike things—even so,
my feet are weak, my knees
wobbly, my legs too much like
wet fabric; and this
damp line of earth
the only thing that stands
between me and the earth.

So, stumbling again like a child
I ask to enter the world again
like a child, trusting to
others' legs to hold me up
and others' arms to catch me
while I go running
(stumbling, falling)
with grateful wonder
towards each new thing
and each old thing
I find in the way. I may
be wobbly, yes, and perhaps never
quite sure where I'm going;
often running off-course
through the weakness of my legs;
often needing that someone with
surer footing to pick me up
and help me on my way;
but always following the path,
never doubting that
running on wobbly legs
is better than not moving at all.

Song of the Valley

To be sung in the manner of Chesterton

Splendid rides the sunset o'er the garden of the Lord
Where summer spreads its colors on the hills like emerald wine
And the mowers raise the incense of the grass and of the soil
And the ponds and trees and houses gleam like grapes upon the vine
In the sun that smites the valley with the brightness of a sword:
In this cool and quiet garden in the center of the world
Where the people's death and living makes a song of righteous toil
In this precious piece of nowhere in a corner of the world;
In this garden of the people which is sacred to the Lord.