The War Behind the Eyes

There's no real reason behind this post, besides a want to share these images.  You really can see it in their eyes, and there is no explanation in the English language to express it.

"Look at an infantryman's eyes and you can tell how much war he has seen."

-Bill Mauldin, Up Front

Musings from the Captain's Log: God's Earth, Panic, Sailors and more

God's world is beautiful. 

There are no words in the English language to describe the vast depth and breadth of the wondrous earth he has placed us in.  

Even when we fallen men reshape, hew down, and blot out the trees, grass, earth, and small waters, their infallible and constant return reminds us that though we are stewards of this delicate sphere, we can never for a moment think that we can harness or control the forces our Lord has put in place.  I am reminded of this tonight, sitting in my dorm at college in the middle of a tired old town.  Even though many consider it to be a small dot on the map, even this town has stained the sky and interrupted the gentle song the wind sings in the branches of the trees.  My sorrow at being in an environment of brick, cement, vehicles, and foul air has grown of late.  I--so accustomed to a place of trees, fields, and strong clean wind--have begun to see the beginnings of the new season; winter's cold fist is relinquishing it's hold on the latch to the gate of spring.  We mortal men cannot tell him to depart or pry his claws from their hold; no, Winter waits for his Maker's command.  Soon, the snow will depart from us, and all things of green and gold will embrace our eyes once again.  This permanence, this ever-flowing order of renewal, is lovely in all ways.  The Nile still runs toward the north; a blade of grass can push through a crack in cement; the clouds ever reel overhead; waves upon the shore continue their dance.  

We can mar it.    

We can choke it.

We can shape it.

But we can never fully destroy it unless God allows it to be.

The idea that we are stewards has been taken to mean that we are masters.  This is in no wise a truth; such arrogance our weak and vain race has to think that we can trammel the things God has ordained to be in order.  

This is not to say that I believe we ought to resort to wielding sticks and wearing cloth made of fallen leaves; on the contrary, we have innovation and ought to employ it. 

 Neither do I mean to imply that we are entirely bad shepherds, or are wicked because we assume the role of the keepers and cultivaters of the earth--it is out duty.  Genesis 2:15 "Then the Lord God took the man and put him in the garden of Eden to tend and keep it."

If you look in chapter 3 of the same book, you will see the Lord passing judgement upon the serpent and Eve, and finally Adam, who he tells that he will "toil" and "sweat" in his labor upon the earth, ever straining with and against it.  

Finally, this train of thought does not mean in any way that I am turning into one of those soft-palmed numb-skulled tree-hugging imbeciles we have been beset by in these modern times

---(Side Note: Did you ever wonder if there were tree-hugging hippie-types in Ancient Rome, Anglo-Saxon England, etc?  I can see the Vikings being very baffled upon meeting their first treehugger.)---  

No, I am not becoming this.  I was merely struck by the thought tonight as I trudged back toward my room tonight, staring wide-eyed at the stars as they reeled overhead in the heavens.  There I stood--cold cement beneath my feet, red brick buildings forming a tasteless labyrinth around me, pools of sallow light seeping down from buzzing streetlamps-- gazing at the pure gems on the mantle of heaven far, far above all of this mire.  The contrast between craftsmanship of Man and the craftsmanship of God sears to the heart.

I am blessed to be given a place on this Earth.  Such beauty.  Such anticipation.  Such work yet to do.

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Now, onto less rapturous things.

Like the month of April.  

It really is the cruelest month.

  Especially for a college student with two massive chairs, two footstools, and 3 other courses to do battle with in the next two weeks.  Wood needs to be purchased and transported--I have no car up here right now.  Time to mooch a ride with a minivan-driving student.  Like my dear Da' always says, "When you drive a minivan at college, it doesn't matter of you're Republican or Democrat; as soon as you arrive on campus with that people-mover, you become a Socialist."

Panic.  I keep trying to grin it down, but my mask is beginning to crack on the edges.  Time to put it in 5th gear.

Ah well.  I definitely have a full plate, and I jolly well have to deal with it.  Whatever the cost (quite literally.  Have you priced out wood in the past decade?!  Oy.  My poor little wallet.)

Coffee, music, and All-Nighters shall be my weapons and armor in the coming battle against the mighty foe named Time.

Alma College: prepare for battle.  No cheap shots.   

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Something I have recently noticed:

I have gone into Jack Aubrey mode.  It is a mood and mindset that befalls me from time to time.  It is not all that bad.

What it looks like on the inside: Stubborn, leonine, a little brisk, and no welcome harbor for things petty or off-topic.  Pride easily wounded, temper a little closer to the surface, and tolerance for things squirrelly, scattered, or disrespectful at a bare minimum. 

What it looks like on the outside: Nautical.  I don't know why, but when I am in this mood, I start wearing more clothing that is reminiscent of the navy during the Napoleonic wars; tall boots, white shirts, a coat or jacket with buttons or squared shoulders.  I really don't know why; it just suits my mood.  In the summer, this physical appearance is not as marked due to the good weather.   

Also, I make more eye contact, walk with longer strides, and go about things with a rather marked purpose.

Frightening, no?

Honestly, I'm watching myself in this state with mild amusement.  What a growling thundercloud of a Captain I can be sometimes.

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Yours truly,

The Captain

Forgetfulness, by Billy Collins

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

—Billy Collins

History in the Five Senses

Another oldie I found.  This one was an assignment that I did, only to realize that it was the wrong assignment and was not needed.  So my high school teacher never saw it...but that just makes me savor this more because she didn't spoil it for me with her simpering tone and everyone's-style-is-equal-in-my-eyes attitude.  She was actually a bit of a glory-kill (much like a buzz-kill, but much, much worse.)


Here is History in the Five Senses.  
Or something like that.  For the life of me, I cannot recall what it was supposed to be called.
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History is the chronicle of the deeds and actions of mankind, recorded and remembered in the many ways know to us. In essence, history is a story of our past; to some, it is a story of the things that have died, never to return. But for to the observant person, it is not dead at all; indeed, if you stop and consider, history is all around, reminding us of the heritage and undimmed glory of times past.

The remnants of history can be seen in the icy gleam of steel, a lone banner in the wind, and sometimes in a wild spark deep in a person’s eyes. People carry pieces of history in them even if they don’t know it; it is part of them, just as a tree is part of a forest. It can be seen in the way an old veteran salutes a flag, his eyes never leaving the banner for which his country stands. You can see it in the noble faces of antiquated statues, sightlessly staring back into the ancient stories whence they came. History can be seen everywhere; but do we look for it?

The remnants of history can be heard; for instance, in the resounding toll of a bell, the roar of the ocean, an old song or the rattle of chains. It can be heard in the keening of the bagpipes of the highlands, the thunder of horses’ hooves and the longing call of the Celtic whistle, pleading for something that cannot be given; also, in the hiss of an arrow or the crack of a rifle, weapons of war seeking to strike a target. When walking, you can hear it in the whispers of the swaying trees or the hunting cry of a hawk; but do we listen for it?

The remnants of history can be felt in the bark of a tree and the smooth surface of headstone. It is tangible in the energy of a ferocious wind at your back, or cold sleet whipping your face. It can be felt in the cold, dangerous beauty of a blade, or the sting of sand whirling around your ankles. But do we feel for it?

The remnants of history can be tasted. You can taste it in the saltwater of the ocean, coarse and distasteful, or in the sweat running down your face. You can taste it in the savory simplicity in a slice of bread, or in the bold, round flavor of Cabernet Sauvignion; but do we seek to taste it?

The remnants of history can be smelled. You can smell it in the rich earth of the garden, or the clear, unmistakable smell of rain. You can smell it in the dust churned up by your feet, the sharp, rusty smell of blood, and in the blunt, bold smell of smoke. It can be smelled in burning wax and dusty attics; but do we try and scent it?

History remains all around us, lingering on a whisper, a breeze, heard in songs or read in books; but it is up to us to realize its presence and fully appreciate the past era that we have, as a people, come from. 

Heroes

I found this note I wrote a year and a half ago.  Man has my writing improved.  But maybe because I wasn't putting much effort into this one. Nevertheless, here is a little rant about heroes.
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Sometimes, I disappear to somewhere quiet, and just sit there and think. 
It's not neccisarily intelligent thought, it's just...using "The Nothing Box." 


And I realized that I look up to alot of people; I have alot of heros, and I never knew it. 
Some heros are real people in your everyday life; like for me, it's people like my Dad, Rachel, my Grandma...people who inspire you by the way they handle things, or treat other people. 
Other heros are people who you've never met, never seen or might not have even lived; legends and characters who inspired you more than you knew, unknowingly making them affect the way you conduct yourself, the way you look at other people, the way you live, and what you do in your spare time. 


I really had no idea whatsoever that these characters affected me like that, but sitting there, I realized that these people that I've never even met have given me a passion and aspiration for chivalry, honor, self-sacrifice, knowledge, action, courage and strength. 
It's a weird feeling, realizing that. "I'm being influenced by people that might not have even been alive..." 
Not neccisarily a bad one, but definitely weird. 
It's mostly people in books that struck me like that, but there's even a few I realized I look up to that are characters in movies; that sounds kind of shallow, but it's very true. Not all of them were neccisarily main characters and weren't used much in their stories, but I loved them just the same.


I can't name all of these heros, because so many have struck me as truly heroic, but here's a few that will forever stay in my mind as heros I never knew:


-Sir Gawain-
Probably my greatest hero, he was the Knight of King Arthur whose manners and chivalry made him great amongst the others. His strength in battle grew greater as the sun rose, but when it began to sink, his strength returned to normal as well. 
The French writers tend to portray Gawain as an anti-hero and a womaniser; a ruthless and treacherous knight. They preferred their romantic Sir Lancelot; the morals Chivalry were dying out. 
Sir Thomas Malory depicted Gawain as an angry, barbaric man full of hate and vengance, but that book was written after the morals of chivalry had become much less popular and a thing of the past.
In The Once and Future King, T.H White nailed Gawain's character--or at least, to my mind he did.  His Gawain was proud, stubborn, leonine, dangerous when provoked, volcanic-tempered, and sometimes harsh or needlessly violent.  He was also fiercely loyal, family-oriented, gentle, thoughtful, determined, and honorable to the end. 


I find him strangely relatable.  


-Ferdiad MacDaman-
Died fighting CuChulainn, his best friend, for the sake of his honor. A mighty warrior and fierce friend.
"...Ferdiad came with them for the sake of his own honour, forasmuch as he deemed it better to fall by the shafts of valour and bravery and skill, than to fall by the shafts of satire, abuse and reproach..."
He died as a man, fighting against his childhood friend who was armed with magical weapons and otherworldly powers.
Man after my own heart.


-Robin Hood-
or Rhu Bran Hud.
Everybody knows who he is.

-Katsumoto-
The Samurai lord who died fighting for his country, people, and honor.
From The Last Samurai.
Cool guy.

-William Wallace-
A Scottish patriot who fought and led his country on one of the most intense wars against the opression of England. He was excecuted for high treason.
You know his story from Braveheart...which was a mite inaccurate, but we'll let it slide.  Because he is a might hero in the film as well.

-Andre Marek-
Read Timeline by Michael Crichton; you will understand, and be enlightened.

-Aslan-
The christ-like lion in The Chronicles of Narnia.
I cried the first time I read the part when he gave his life in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. If you didn't, or had a hard time not doing so, you're a cold-hearted monster.

-Boromir-
from J.R.R Tolkien's Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. Also in the movie, where he was depicted perfectly by Sean Bean.
The son of the Steward of Gondor, noble and proud, a mighty warrior afflicted by the temptation of the Ring. He died defending those weaker than him, and confronted his corruption like a true hero in the end.  I weep shamelessly when I watch or read his final scene.  Such humanity.  Such dignity.  Such true Heroism.  Courageous.

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So you've read all about some of my greatest heros;
I'd like to know who yours are.

Into Battle [by Julian Grenfell]

"Into Battle"
ByJulian Grenfell

The naked earth is warm with spring,
And with green grass and bursting trees
Leans to the sun's gaze glorying,
And quivers in the sunny breeze;
And life is colour and warmth and light,
And a striving evermore for these;
And he is dead who will not fight;
And who dies fighting has increase.

The fighting man shall from the sun
Take warmth, and life from the glowing earth;
Speed with the light-foot winds to run,
And with the trees to newer birth;
And find, when fighting shall be done,
Great rest, and fullness after dearth.

All the bright company of Heaven
Hold him in their high comradeship,
The Dog-Star, and the Sisters Seven,
Orion's Belt and sworded hip.

The woodland trees that stand together,
They stand to him each one a friend;
They gently speak in the windy weather;
They guide to valley and ridge's end.

The kestrel hovering by day,
And the little owls that call by night,
Bid him be swift and keen as they,
As keen of ear, as swift of sight.

The blackbird sings to him, "Brother, brother,
If this be the last song you shall sing,
Sing well, for you may not sing another;
Brother, sing."

In dreary, doubtful, waiting hours,
Before the brazen frenzy starts,
The horses show him nobler powers;
O patient eyes, courageous hearts!

And when the burning moment breaks,
And all things else are out of mind,
And only joy of battle takes
Him by the throat, and makes him blind,

Through joy and blindness he shall know,
Not caring much to know, that still
Nor lead nor steel shall reach him, so
That it be not the Destined Will.

The thundering line of battle stands,
And in the air death moans and sings;
But Day shall clasp him with strong hands,
And Night shall fold him in soft wings. 




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If this doesn't make you want to run out and be a hero, I don't know what does.  
Take it to heart go do battle with someone for something great.

One More Reason Why I Love the UP of Michigan

This is just another great reason to love the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

I was at a gas station, and instead of the screen telling me about deals on pop, bread, or milk, it read as follows:

"Come inside for your Jerky and Smoked Fish"


Now THAT is my Michigan.

Keep your New York, Florida, and Los Angeles.
This is the place for me.