Wintersmithing

I walked to Wintersmith Park yesterday with no real purpose in mind except to sit in the amphitheater and read while the sun went down. I walked there from the coffee shop, making it about a mile and a half walk. It was warm outside; sweat was definitely noticeable by the time I made it to the park. Just past the intersection of Stadium and Fifteenth, a car carrying two college-age girls pulled up to the stop sign behind me to offer me a ride. This was so refreshing since this was just a day after Tyler and I ranted about how rude people are to people on foot or on bike. The girl who yelled at me was attractive, but I reluctantly declined. I didn’t want to have my pleasant, get-in-touch-with-nature walk detoured by a pretty face. Still, it was very nice of them to offer a ride to a complete stranger.

I entered Wintersmith from the southwest entrance and made my way onto the sidewalk that went around a 1.5 mile perimeter of the park. It wasn’t too long before the sun would be going down; it was already closing in on the trees to the West. This didn’t stop people from making the best of their time: two cross country runners bulleted past me, swinging, couples walking hand-in-hand, the “romantics” (euphemism for lonely) were walking or sitting by themselves, families were out, kids feeding the ducks, and everything else a person would expect to see at eight o’clock in the summer. A beautiful couple were fishing on the edge of the lake, paying absolutely no attention to whether or not they caught anything. They didn’t care but just smiled at each other and enjoyed the company. A little boy rested his head on the railing at the end of one of the docks. I could only imagine what little-boy things were going through his head—probably “why are there Christmas lights around the castle in the middle of the lake?” Everybody seemed so connected to everybody else, or maybe just something else. Maybe it was the summer itself. There wasn’t anybody overly enthusiastic, but the atmosphere itself was very lively and contagious. I walked to the amphitheater on the west sidewalk, with a smile on my face the entire way. I didn’t have my Ipod with me, but the mood could best be summed up by a song by pianist Rob Costlow called “Meant to Be”. I just sat and read my book on left-handedness. I looked up occasionally to the sound of a runner going by or people laughing.

So the book itself, A Left-hand Turn Around the World, is such an excellent read. It’s very esoteric, but it’s entertaining enough that it doesn’t come off as snobbish. It attempts to find the cause of left-handedness, taking author David Wolman on a trip around the world, from Canada, to Japan to play in a lefties-only golf tournament. He discusses all the major theories, talks to the leading experts today, and takes a look at the history, from the legendary and allegedly southpaw Kerr family, to Broca’s discovery of the area of the brain responsible for language. The theories themselves are actually a bit frustrating. When he dedicates a chapter to a certain theory, he makes it sound so plausible and responsible for handedness; that is, until he goes to the next theory that discredits the first to the point of making it almost laughable. It’s a bait and switch. The Right Shift theory presented by Marian Annett says that as humans evolved into language-communicating people, there was a shift to the left hemisphere for many cognitive functions, and the right-handed majority is basically a byproduct of this. Another theory suggests it’s a matter of how motor skills developed, while another theory suggests the differences aren’t so much about left-handed and right-handed people but instead total right-handedness, mix-handedness with a right hand dominate, mix-handedness with a left hand dominate, and total left-handedness. The latter is the current theory that sounds appealing to me; that is until the next theory comes along to prove how ridiculous it is.

I have some new years resolutions, only it’s over six months late: I am really going to try to make an effort to try to put myself out there once class starts again. I do a great job when approached by other people (which is what happens the majority of the time), but I have always been pretty apathetic to being really friendly. I am easy to approach, but I don’t do a lot of approaching myself. I am also going to stop rehashing the past and worrying about the future. There’s a lot of living in my head, but not too much of it is in the present, and I just recently realized how upset I am going to be five years from now when not much has changed.

Part of how I am going to do this is to try and get a job with The Journal once schools starts. I contributed a couple of articles last semester, hopefully giving me a bit of a foot in the door. I am also friends with one of the reporters and kind of know the editor. I don’t want to quit the Doughnut Shop, only cooking. I wouldn’t mind being solely delivery or opening a few days a week, nothing over twenty hours, though. Overall it would be a pay cut, but I would really like some journalism experience in case I’d like to pursue it. These post-graduate plans seem to change monthly.

Irony

In an act of mischief, Tyler and I walked to Daylight Donuts completely sober and on the right side of the road. This was a slap in the face to the police officer patrolling my side of the ghetto. He didn’t like the idea of two white guys walking in his neighborhood with no sign of mishap. Tyler and I were talking about how drivers are rude to people walking or biking alongside the road. They yell obscenities, insults, and sometimes throw garbage at them. I told him how I was “pulled over” when riding home from work one evening: I was riding legally, stopping at red lights, thus waiting a few minutes for a car to trigger the sensor to change the light greed, had blinky lights on the front and back of my bike, and even obeyed the speed limit (it was tough). As soon as I turned onto 16^th st., a police officer pulled me over with no other reason than to tell me that he had been getting complaints that cyclists have been disobeying traffic laws. He also asked me for I.D. This felt like a 4^th Amendment violation, but I didn’t have any power to dispute it. He was polite and didn’t give me the business, but how would a driver feel if a cop pulled him over with no reason and told him that cyclists were complaining that drivers were breaking traffic laws.

That’s when police lights started flashing behind us, case in point. The officer was very cordial. We gave him identification, and that’s when he recognized Tyler. They exchanged quick small talk before the officer went back to his car. We had done nothing wrong, and I don’t think it was even past midnight, Ada’s curfew for minors on weekdays. It would be much less likely for a cop to arbitrarily pull over a car. The last time D.J. was pulled over he was at least given the excuse that he was blinking excessively(?). We weren’t told anything, only to hand over our I.D.’s.

Kill righty!

For too long have Southpaws been subject to the mercy of the right-handed world. In our attempt to be true to ourselves, we take on such burdens as being more likely to develop cancer, live with the knowledge of a lower lifespan than our right-handed counterparts, and have a higher rate of schizophrenia. What do we get in return? Smudged paper when trying to use ballpoint pens.

Throughout history, left-handedness has been associated with the devil, the vile, sinister, evil, unclean, maladroit. We are subject to constant discrimination, from scissors and desks to hygiene. What hand is considered dirty in India and used for…dirty deeds, the LEFTovers? Even the etymology of the word “left” has depressing roots. “Left” comes from the Anglo-Saxon “lyft” which means weak, broken, defective, crippled, awkward, clumsy, inept, maladroit; the latter one borrowed from the French, literally means “bad right”. Listen, I may trip over myself and run into things, but I’d like to attribute that to my chronic vertigo, not my handedness. Ever heard of being born on the left side of the bed? This is a term to describe children born out of wedlock. What about a left-handed marriage? Another term created and perpetrated by the biased, right-handed media for an adulterous act. When we are young, teachers whack our hands to tell us “no, left is ugly and smelly, just like you!” while all the right-handed kids get praised with presents and cookies for being perfect, robotic at angels. “But I was born this way!” is never an acceptable answer. “No, you chose to be left-handed, and you can choose to be free from bondage by choosing to be right.” Right? Right makes might in this world. No more!

I think it’s time for left-handed people to organize into a single, paramount unit to advance our left-handed agenda. Southpaws consist of roughly 10% of the population. If we were to form a country, The Republic of Left-Handastan, we would be outnumbered only by China and India. In America we could form one of the bigger political voting blocks to usurp the right supremacist. Strength through unity, brothers and sisters. One nation under a strong hand, a strong left hand. Over the course of a 1,000-year reign, we will create a people, a super race of superior left-handed individuals. We will achieve this, not just through legitimate political process, but by force if necessary. Our weapon of choice? The fencer’s foil. It is well-known that lefties are excellent fencers due to their unorthodox fighting technique. The British-Scott Kerr family from the twelfth century through fifteenth century is a fine example of this. They are not only known for their excellent skill with a sword but also their skills with left-handed scissors. They were a family of southpaws; in fact, Thomas Kerr built a castle with a left-handed staircase. This made it more difficult for right-handed invaders to draw their swords and fight without being awkwardly cramped. Yes, it will be through our God-given fencing skills that we will take this country over from the right devil.

Here is a first draft of our declaration of independence:

When in the course of left-handed events, it becomes necessary for left-handed people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the left-handed supremacy, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation. We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all left-handed men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Lefts, that among these are Life, liberty, and the pursuit of Happiness.

The nation state of The United States of America is henceforth called The Republic of Left-Handastan. We are one people with one cause, the advancement of mighty Left. We take from our left hand and give to the powerful left hand through the use of our left hand. Through strength by unity we resolve to create Permanent Revolution, extending beyond our borders, cleansing the the world of the right devil.

Our official book? Left Behind.

Grumpy Gus after a nap

People never appreciate others for anything, except what they can give them. This isn’t even appreciation since this is a selfish motive.

I have been taking a keen notice of relationships lately; the ones that have been successful into marriage, the ones that are so far successful, the ones that limp on, the ones that have ended with broken hearts and broken promises, and the ones that just end. This, coupled with reading The Picture of Dorian Gray, has made me more skeptical than usual of love, marriage, and the like. When choosing a mate, there seems to be two contributing factors that are usually overlooked but become more apparent as time goes on: power and assets (not talking material necessarily). Even with the purest of loves, it only stays loves because of you get what you want, and she gets what she wants. That’s usually emotional support at the very least. Relationships are just an over-glamourized barter. We all come to the table with what we have to offer, while all the other potentials come to the table with what they have. We aren’t upfront about it, largely in part because it would just be too difficult, but it’s what we do. Here’s a basic scenario:

1.Man with lots of money, seeking beautiful woman to raise kids and take care of the home. Intelligence not required (I am not saying all women like this are stupid).
2.Beautiful woman seeking plush lifestyle. Will do whatever it takes to achieve.

Those two should get married. Eventually the two will probably get lonely with each other if their personalities just don’t click, leading to divorce. Through the drudgery of flirting, the coffee, the Facebook/Myspace stalking, we call it “getting to know you” when it is actually “what do you have to offer, and do I like it?” If they don’t like your goods, or you don’t like their’s, it’s time to go to another store…probably shopping for generic. Fortunately this does sometimes turn into real friendship when you meet some of the list but not enough. Then there’s the problem of one of you meeting the other’s demands but not vice versa. (Aside: then you have my last two weeks) Everybody has a list of what they want in a mate. It’s a list of what they want in order to be happy (or think will make them happy) with tolerating/living with a person for a long time.

I’ll end my bitterness by saying love conquers all!

Now to end my sarcasm…

The Perfect…retirement home

It’s almost Noon thirty at the Perfect Blend. Within ten minutes, the place has become a haven for the over-fifty crowd. It’s the busiest I have seen the place all summer.

I was right about my schedule for this week. Joe texted me Monday night to ask which days I wanted to do deliveries. I chose Thursday-Saturday.

I had a big, nostalgic longing for Fall and Winter last night. I was sitting in my room looking up sweet potato soup recipes and listening to a slow, melancholy song that reminded me of the cold. Sweet potato soup just sounds delicious right now. I walked over to D.J.’s since he only lives two blocks away. The sky was clear with Orion overhead. This reminded me of running my old route in the fall and winter since Orion was always in the South-Southeast, depending on the time of my run and the time of the year. It was especially reminiscent of my first few months of running (started September 20, 2005). It’s cliché to like the winter, but I don’t mind being cliché. I like the sound of a low, steady shhhhhh, the occasional distant car on the highway, the sound of my own footsteps on the road; plus, so many good memories are associated with cold. The past three winters, especially in the Fall semester, can almost be described as immortal. The magic fades in early February, but from November through January I am smarter, funnier, more charming, harder working, etc.

I hung out with Michaela for about an hour on Saturday. We have had the weirdest “friendship” of anybody I have known. It’s partially a rivalry but not really, partially an appreciation for a lot the same things, partially a deep appreciation of who each other are because we will never figure each other out, though we like to think we do. I was on my way to the Perfect Blend (ugh, I spend too much time here…), a five block walk, when I passed by the street she lives on. She was finishing up a run when we intersected. The conversation was actually a bit disappointing—on my part. We talked some books, but there was way too much talk time devoted to my recent girl drama. Still, we tried to figure each other through random vagaries. I was correct to assume she is one of the rare INFJ temperaments. That explains the mutual intrigue with each other; I, an INTP, have always found myself intrigued by INFJ’s for their emotional wisdom they never follow themselves. Despite usually being smart, they refuse to follow their head and end up in precarious situations. Michaela and I are two people who I believe would be close friends if either of us had a reason to care enough to try. As it is, things are fine the way they are.

I was disappointed when I finally made it to the coffee shop as it was closed for the Fourth of July Weekend.

Amurca rox!

Fourth of July in Ada meant Fourth of July weekend. A lot of businesses closed down for the entire weekend. I was supposed to do deliveries Saturday morning, but because so many businesses were closed, Joe canceled deliveries for the day, giving me an extra day off. As for the Fourth itself, it was actually pretty good. The past few Fourth of July’s have been pretty memorable, but I think this stacks up pretty well against them.

I have decided that despite the flaws of the American government and American culture, I am optimistic about living in a country that lets me criticize the government. It’s a basic right for most liberal democracies, but it is something I take for granted. It’s easy for me to beat my chest about a “blah blah” government that “blah blah blahs”, but right now America is still pretty free for most people. It’s becoming more and more restrictive, but free speech is still pretty well guaranteed. Now about that fire in the crowded theater…

The Gandy’s invited Caleb, Lee, and Miranda over to their house for a cookout shindig. A lot of their family came over, including some little kids. When we walked in, I had probably the most awkward hug with Mrs. Gandy. It must be a generational thing or cultural thing, but a lot of people do side hugs, and she was one of them, making it a three-quarters hug. The food was really good, and we all had a pretty good time overall. D.J. doesn’t really like little kids, so they got on his nerves. One little girl in particular was really bossy to everybody. It’s funny when they’re eight, but when they’re eighteen…  We went to Jesse Allen’s at about eight o’clock to celebrate independence by blowing Chinese-manufactured products. Jesse didn’t show up for about forty-five minutes, leaving Caleb, D.J., and I to entertain ourselves. They had a trampoline, my main source of entertainment. I haven’t jumped on one since about ninth grade. I was a little rusty at first, but all of my acrobatic skillz came back fairly quickly. We also goofed around with a soccer ball. I have no idea what “foot” I am. I am right-handed at most sports, but my right foot didn’t feel as comfortable as my left. There about ten of us by the time everybody showed up. It was very relaxed, and everybody seemed to have a good time. I was peopled out pretty early on and left before water basketball. Jesse has an indoor pool, and water basketball is the thing to do at his house. I went home and called it an early night, letting Dorian Gray read me to sleep.

I am only about forty pages into it, but The Picture of Dorian Gray is better than I expected. Oscar Wilde is so dry, but it has been an insightful read so far. Lord Henry’s paragraph-long monologues are ahead-of-their time when it was written. Wilde makes a very distinct dichotomy between the beauty and intelligence, making great strides to point out that they are mutually exclusive. He goes so far to say that beauty ends once intelligence begins. He goes so far to say that beauty is genius, even more genius than intelligence. In my mind my first thought was that this is an outrageous claim since beauty is not earned. Then I sprung my own trap. Even though intelligence has to be nurtured, it is something usually inherit. The same can be said about beauty I suppose. He also talks about how it is superficial not to judge somebody on their looks. I actually agree but probably for different reasons. This book is great to think about, but reading it, as short as it is, is a bit of a chore.

This week is another short work week. I’m only scheduled for about twenty hours, but Joe will probably have me do deliveries one more day. My guess is Friday since he plays poker Thursday nights pretty late. If he doesn’t, I am going to petition Jenna for her shift on Friday morning since she likes taking Friday’s off.

I’ve had some girl drama lately. Oops…

Caleb, D.J., and I watched Rocky Horror Picture Show on Saturday. It was partially a celebration for me. The Guy on the Couch “moved” out, meaning it’ll be easier to have people over at night. His bedtime was about ten o’clock. I am also going to OKC on Halloween night with Caleb and Johnna  to see the live production of it. I have never seen it before Saturday night, but I kind of got the basic idea from reading Perks of Being a Wallflower. It was entertaining, but I do have a hard time understanding why it has such a cult following. It is original and very taboo for its time (1975), but I’m not sure of the contemporary appeal. The fact it is interactive is probably the main reason. Regardless, it is funny, and seeing it as a play should cause lots of lulz. Caleb is going to dress as Dr. Frank-N-Further, the sweet transvestite from Transsexual, Transylvania. I am going to dress like Brad, mostly because it’s an easy outfit that won’t require too much effort—emo glasses and a part in my hair.  We made white Russians for the movie, and I had a bit too much. I am such a lightweight that it’s embarrassing how little I can drink before becoming legally drunk. Nothing bad came of it; I didn’t go out anywhere and I kept quiet during the movie. I slept hard through the night, however. I have never had a hangover, but I woke up feeling pretty crappy and even a little bit buzzed. This was nothing a little morning run couldn’t solve. It was a crappy run since I was dehydrated from the alcohol, and I am not a very good morning runner; still, I felt a lot better afterward.

Gotta lay off the Heinlein before bed

I had one of the most memorable, vivid dreams I have had in a while last night.

A man who was not a man but an androgynous man was seen in a beautiful, albeit small room with leaves blowing all around him. He had the features of a withered woman who had put all of her confidence if her beauty in her younger days. Now that her beauty had faded she was left neglected and no longer loved. This left her with sardonic, jaded features. Silver hair that lost its shine, eyes that were once a deep blue, flash-bulb violet even, now losing their luster as they become dimmer. The leaves were not blowing in the wind or even within the wind but through the wind, outward in all directions from the man, almost orchestrated but without looking so. He danced a pulchritudinous dance in three-four time—a waltz. The room was a life-like portrait of a single, dead tree blowing in a non-existent wind, forcing it to the left from my point-of-view. The scenery of the room was interactive but not material in the material sense. It was a projected idea, from whom?—I do not know. I saw myself from a ubiquitous third-person perspective, detached and in deep concentration in observation. My third-person was aware of the first, but not the other way around. This dichotomy impacted the rest of the dream, causing me to see all things from two people who were still one in essence.

We asked the beautiful man, “who are you?” Once aware of our presence, his dance slowed, stopped. From his face he produced a wry smile of incredulousness and skepticism. His facial features disappeared and were replaced with a talking piece in the form of a ventriloquist dummy upon his shoulder—a sad dummy with no means of love, who himself was only a means of another, who himself was an object of sempiternal abuse. Instead of giving us a definition, the shouldered dummy responded callously,

“Time, plural, verb- The most selfish of all the gods.” The dummy did not speak audible words but spoke in subtitles from his mouth in Jokerman font, an ironic, playful font considering the melancholy tone of his inaudible voice. This was not Father Time, Brother Time, or Out of Time; this was time. The dummy’s dummy skin became visibly crisp and focused into my eyes, showing cuts and scratches on ever exposed pieces of skin. We thought it was from self-mutilation. It began to bleed slowly from these wounds, wrestling and sparring with the pain while at the same time accepting it. Veins protruded from the dummy as the moments intensified, confirming to us that it was not a doll, but a humanoid warped by Time. He had become smaller and smaller, features more plastic, less real by Time. His body was contorted, especially his face. His thin, watery blood thickened to the point of normal blood, and then thickened to black ink. As the inky blood hit the leaves on the ground, the veins within the leaves pulsed with life and then quickly decayed and died. The whimsical, dancing leaves aged two seasons in two seconds. The blood stopped pouring. The warped man began the process of cutting large chunks of flesh out of his already-defeated body. With each chunk of flesh, a passing of time; Moses and the prophets from his tongue, Siddhartha Gautama and his followers from both ears, Christ and the apostles from his right hand.

The contort continued his self-mutilation at a robotic speed, faster and with louder groans. The epochs of time became faster, quickly becoming the present, and even faster becoming the future until Time gave him the signal to slow. The epochs of decayed flesh became years, and then days, and then seconds of regeneration until even the seconds slowed to seem like days and then years and then epochs, until seconds became an approach to infinity, and the approach to infinity became infinity. We were not stopped in time, but were trapped inside of single second. Each second became divided. A second divided by two, divided by two, divided by two, ad infinitum until we were on a single point on a three dimensional line, only the third dimension was not depth, as depth was no longer necessary; the third dimension became what is typically thought of as the fourth dimension, Time: before and after. We tried moving along this point, before and after, with no impact. Though we were infinitely farther away from where we were, we were no closer or distant to any other place in Time. My first-person, third-person dichotomy became wedged by Time, though everything was equally the same from any point on the line. After what seemed like either years or seconds, it didn’t matter, our point became a drop of ink on another leaf.

And then I woke up, five minutes after I remember falling asleep.

Faith Plus One

My external hard drive may have bit the dust for the time being. I was trying to transfer music files earlier when I realized that my laptop wasn’t recognizing it. Upon further inspection, I noticed that the USB port in the hard drive was loose. After retrieving my USB adapter, the port receded inside of the hardware. The contents of the hard drive are 95% media files that I can stand to lose, but there are very important notes from classes last semester. I have referred back to the notes on occasion and would hate to lose them, especially the ones for social psychology. There are a few options I am going to pursue. The first is to disassemble the device (the warranty is already void) to see the full extent of the damage and hope it can be easily reattached. If this fails, I will have to take it to either a professional or somebody who knows what they are doing to fix it for me. Chris Carpenter was an electrical engineering undergraduate at Tulsa. Perhaps he could fix it for me if nobody in town can. The best, worst case scenario is that the hard drive cannot be repaired but the data still retrieved somehow. I would be satisfied with that.

Caleb and I went to a VERY charismatic revival service Wednesday night. Doing doughnut deliveries leads me all the way out to Stratford, causing me to pass by a fairly new-looking church called <a href=http://www.newbeginningschurchok.com/> New Beginnings Church </a>. The past few weeks it has been advertising an ongoing revival called the Stratford Miracle Outpouring. In a fortunate coincidence, the gas station that buys our doughnuts had a flier that advertised it in greater detail. It links itself to Todd Bentley’s revival in Lakeland, Florida. Having heard about Bentley’s shenanigans and seeing some of his Youtube videos, I really wanted to check it out. Despite being slightly vacillate due to Caleb’s cynical nature, I recruited him to come along with me. We did prep work by visiting their website and reading all the testimonials from the revival. It ranged from curing obesity, to curing achy bones, to curing suicide attempts. We also marveled at the pastors title, Apostle Prophet, which is a title that demands respect out of the fear of anathema…or a bear mauling (from the prophet Elisha).

After committing to going to this, I had immediate regret as I left Caleb’s office. In my attempt to become happier with the church universal and stop with the flippant criticisms that only lead to discontentment and resentment, it is very counter-productive to go to a church service that I know is going to upset me. The only purpose would be gossip and blog fodder. It didn’t fail…

I have two other charismatic experiences: the first was at a Benny Hinn crusade in April 2005. A small group with the intent of hunting witches. In the end, it was actually a pretty good Gospel presentation. The theology isn’t something I agreed with, but as a means of explaining the Gospel, he did a very good job. The second was at Carissa’s church. Her father is the pastor and is a very well-spoken, intelligent man. It was a very good experience with charismatic Christianity, partially because it wasn’t the stereotypical archetype of what I had in mind. It was only a slightly more upbeat version of FBC’s former 8:30 service. I enjoyed the music, the sermon was well laid out, and despite being a little out of my comfort zone, I didn’t leave thinking I had experienced some kind Christian show.

Wednesday’s service lived up to almost every expectation I had in my mind. Caleb and I got there about fifteen minutes before it started to make sure we had enough to time acclimate to our surroundings. We sat on the second to front row. We wanted seats towards the front without looking too conspicuous. Anytime two new, younger men walk into a church comprised mostly of middle-aged and older folks, people are going to notice. A lot of people took an immediate interest in our presence. As a general rule, I think this is a great policy for a church to have; for me personally, however, I feel a little bit uncomfortable with everybody asking me the same questions and telling me the same information the first time I visit a church. I response equally as friendly, but my introverted tendencies really shine in situations like Wednesday’s. The praise and worship started when scheduled. They don’t mess around; when they tell you to stand up to praise the Lord, you do it! There was a guitar, a set of drums, and a piano on stage, but to my surprise it was done by CD. The first song was Blessed the the Name of the Lord. I am pretty out of the loop on P&W, but I really do like this song. It was the only song I was familiar with. Some of the songs were absolutely ridiculous. They didn’t really praise God. The only reason they seemed like worship songs was because they identified themselves as such. For example:

“Open up the heavenly gate
And let it rain”

That was the song, over and over again. One song sounded like a Jesus romance song with lyrics like, “take me, mold me, use me, fill me.” I am not anti-P&W. There are plenty of hymns out there that do little to praise God, but this song seemed very people-centered. While we were singing, two women in the opposite corner of Caleb and I were doing the chicken dance for the entire duration. Their dancing reminded me of the Mitsubishi Eclipse commercial from a few years ago that had a women in the passenger’s seat of an Eclipse doing an over-the-top interpretive dance by flailing her arms everywhere and dancing like she was high enough ecstasy that she could actually see, feel, and probably even taste the techno music. That’s what this reminded me of. It’s the kind of dancing that is expressive in a way that you could put fake subtitles to it and make a pretty funny internet video.

After about almost an hour of singing, the pastor got up to talk. The way the church appears to be set up is that there is an administrative pastor and a preaching pastor. They are separated by titles, pastor and Apostle Prophet. The pastor came up to do announcements and discuss the status of the movement. On Tuesday night there gentleman who participated in the  Azusa Street Revival that speak to the congregation. He was 105 years old. I would have been interested in hearing him speak. The pastor discussed the impact he had on everybody and announced that he would be back next month. He introduced the Apostle Prophet Marvin Hazel. At first glance, he didn’t really fit the look at what I would consider a charismatic “prophet”. He was average height and above-average weight. He had a large middle section that was disproportionate to the rest of his body. He had to warm up I guess because was pretty soft-spoken at first. He had us turn to the book of Revelation. Jackpot! Caleb and both thought. It’s always an adventure when you get to hear a church’s interpretation on Revelation, especially a church whose interpretation might come across as pretty alarmist and border “newspaper eschatology”. To our disappointment it was Revelation 3, the letters to the seven churches; in fact, we turned from Revelation to the Proverbs to read to separate scriptures. In no particular order, we read Proverbs, Isaiah, Matthew, and Luke. They were somehow interconnected (not at all). After about an hour of sermonizing, I was still unsure exactly what the sermon was about. The only thing I distinctly remember was that it had to do with seven pillars of Christianity found in Proverbs and stumbling blocks God hates, also found in Proverbs. A lot of the sermon dealt with the power of the Holy Spirit, and His moving in the revival. There were stories of His healings and other miracles. The Holy Spirit makes a very distinct sound, we learned that night. Pastor Hazel had a habit of making a “shoooo” noise in between making points. At the beginning of his sermon I thought it was just a nervous tic. As the night went on, it became very clear that he did it when his point was very poignant or used to describe a working of the Holy Spirit. “And God healed him of his pain…SHOOOOO!” It was unpredictable. At first it was just a little humourous, there were a few times when it caught me off guard, causing me to break out in inappropriate laughter.  At one point Hazel looked directly our way, and I hid my laughter. The service was broadcast onto the internet, both audio and video. He would occasionally address the internet audience; he even let the power of the Holy Spirit go rogue onto the internet, followed by http://www.SHOOOOOO!!!!.com.

I was actually a little bit disappointed by the service at this point. The sermon was disconnected and difficult to follow. I wanted for him to hurry up and give his version of an alter call so we could leave. His version of an alter call was more entertaining the previous three weeks of my life. He continued to talk about the status of the movement and emphasized the need for us to take it to the streets. There was one point that Caleb got excited enough to either 1) speak in tongues or 2) sound like a stroke victim. In order for the revival to spread, we needed to be blessed and anointed with the gift of evangelism. He made a subtle point that to me summed up part of the movement—he believed that gifts of the Holy Spirit are transferred from those who posses them to those who don’t. If they are hard-pressed, I imagine they would give credit to the Lord, but he made it sound as if we are masters over the Holy Spirit instead of facilitators and vessels for His service. He had every able-bodied (and not able-bodied) individuals come up front and form a river dance line. I resisted, but Caleb was giddy to receive his blessing. I followed him up front in anticipation of what was waiting for us. I was expecting some kind of corporate prayer and then dismissal. I was wrong. He told us to raise our hands towards heaven. I happily obliged by making a “Y”, and Caleb had another stroke. Since I was one of the tallest in attendance, I was closer in reach to God. Then it happened; after a prayer in tongues, Hazel whacked somebody in the head, making the fall to the ground. Caleb and I both turned to each other. I was in horror; I am not sure what Caleb’s reaction was. He went down the line, babbling and repeating nonsensical phrases as he hit people in the head. He also made bogus prophecies and gave anointings. I had three options come to my mind: I could either make a big scene and be verbally dissident to him, telling him I was not moving, passively resist, or be so “slain” in the spirit I would make a perfect 10 if I was judged on it. I chose the third option, a choice I regret. I now wish I would have gone for the first option. Caleb went down with a little resistance. I had all of my weight on my front leg in preparation. When he smacked me, I sprang off my front foot five feet into the air and gave the catchers a run for the money. Caleb and I got tucked in with blankets. I am still unsure about the reason. Caleb and I both laughed, unsure what we were supposed to do next. We got up and went back to our seats to watch the ending act of the show.

It was now time for some healing. First, there were reports of healings read from teh internets. The most confusing was about a guy who had his leg amputated but was not growing it back, I think? The weight loss one was pretty good, but mostly they were aches-and-pains-stories. People lined up to be healed or have prayer. I wanted to be healed of my left-handedness, but they probably wouldn’t take that very seriously. There was hardly anything serious about the service. Again, most ailments were simple aches and pains. Hazel used the power of suggestion a lot, it seemed. A man was complaining of hip pains. He was “healed” but was still hurting. After a few more “healings” he said he felt a little better. It was stuff like that. One woman asked for a prayer that her husband find a new job. The church took up an offering for her family. That scored major points since regardless of theological beliefs, helping the poor is still helping the poor. While praying for people, Hazel had us extend our arms towards those being prayed for, making us look like we were supermaning. We even extended our arms towards the internet (which was at the back of the room). After the healing was over, Caleb and I left. We were both a bit “giddy” at our experience, but I left very discouraged and disgruntled.

While I am not charismatic, I understand some of their beliefs and biblical justifications. One thing I do not understand is the public display of tongues. The good Apostle Prophet spoke in tongues a lot during the service with no interpretor. I understand a private prayer language, and I understand tongues with an interpretor, but I am completely unsure his style of tongues. It wasn’t another earthly language; besides, everybody there spoke English. Another thing I don’t understand is being slain in the spirit, especially why somebody has to do it to you. A pastor does not have the Holy Spirit anymore than laymen, nor does he “transfer” Him. If the Spirit is going be so overwhelming that it causes you faint, then let the Holy Spirit push you down, not somebody with a self-imposed title higher than Pope. Charismatic Christianity was starting to warm up to me, but this experience was absolutely ridiculous and makes me very skeptical. It is unfair for me to generalize the entire movement, but this service will stick out in my mind.

Ride by shooting

Coalgate, Oklahoma: best known for its high female to male ratio, low median income, and sweeping indecent exposure crime wave. This was my destination Saturday morning. It has been a town I have only dreamed about while wearing my skintight, biking short shorts that really display my Greek god-like quadriceps (the Greek god of hairy legs, maybe).  I have miled my way closer and closer week after week, knowing that Coalgate was the goal I had in mind to prepare me for the Hotter n’ Hell. It is exactly 100 miles to Coalgate and back from Ada after taking a very obscure route around the perimeter of Ada, and 3E boasts a wide, accommodating shoulder with fairly low traffic but a high, ambiguously-figured roadkill population; in fact, I play games with myself to try to properly identify what has been roadkilled in order to stay alert.

A few weeks ago I rode seventy-five miles in my cryptozoology hoodie to dramatically increase the heat. It was only in the 80’s and I needed it hotter in order to acclimate myself. People I know who have rode in the HNH have told me that the biggest struggle to finish isn’t impacted so much by the cardio aspect as it is the heat and the ability to stay hydrated. For yesterday’s ride, I was interested in just making it back home without the aid of a cell phone. Since it was my first go at century distance, I wanted to ride as comfortably as possible. Once my ability to finish was ascertained, I would work on the heat aspect later. So I set my alarm for 4:30 in the morning, only fifteen minutes later than had I been doing doughnut deliveries. I ate in advance on Friday evening, mostly whole wheat pasta but also some protein to try and salvage what muscle fibers I could. I stayed up way too late, knowing it would only be hours before I would wake again.

What sleep I got was put to good use because I woke up very alert and anxious to go. After putting on my riding shorts and then regular shorts over them (for the pocket room), I rode to Loves on Mississippi to get a Gatorade for my bottle cage. I chose my all-time favorite of any sports drink, blue. I knew I had to pace myself the entire way. 20 mph is a bit sluggish if I was going 25-50 miles, but my goal was five hours, and part of that goal was maintaining a steady pace. It was still dark by the time I hit 3E, but there was evidence that the blue and black were quarreling. I knew just how early it was when I saw Joe drive past me on his way to Stonewall in the Doughnut Wagon. I made it to Stonewall and was going to go by a convenience store to grab another Gatorade to put in my pocket. Unfortunately it was about five something on a Saturday, meaning there were no convenience stores open. This mean I had only one Gatorade for fifty miles. This had an immediate psychological effect on me that translated into a physiological one. My decision to go on was a capricious one, but I halfway convinced myself that there might be another gas station on the way (I have ridden from Ada to twelve miles outside of Coalgate, knowing this wasn’t true) and went on. I loaded my pockets with carb gels I had leftover from a few months ago. The package said they were vanilla-banana flavored. The actual flavor tasted more like Pumbaa from the Lion King smelled. I choked them down every thirty minutes to an hour. After running out of Gatorade (around mile 35), I didn’t want to chew them and have that viscous feel down my throat so I forsake them until I could rehydrate.

There were no major problems for the first half of the ride. The lack of fluids didn’t have a noticeable impact on my ride. I used what I had carefully in conjunction with the gels.  I kept a fairly steady pace even going up the hills. The wind was very light and coming from the North, meaning it was to my back most of the time. The wind is the cyclist’s natural enemy. Like the rest of the world, it was still asleep, however. Instead of listening to music for the first half, I listened to John Piper sermons. I hadn’t listened to his sermon from the following Sunday due to lack of time and was excited to get caught up. He is doing a series over the Psalms and this week’s was 103. After listening to it, I finished up listening to one of his conferences on Don’t Waste Your Life just outside of Coalgate. The traffic wasn’t heavy considering the time of day, but it the surplus of semis were noticeable. There were no honks, angry words, or ashtrays thrown at me.

By the time I made it to a convenience stores, there was a very poignant pain in both my knees but more so, my back. My bike frame may be a little too small for me or my form might be off, but whatever the reason, it caused a sharp pain all throughout my lower back. Standing up in front of the convenience store was a challenge. As soon as I hopped off my bike, the muscles in my legs tightened with fatigue, making even the smallest leg movement remind me of the past fifty miles. My muscle memory had developed Alzheimer’s. People stared at me as I walked into the store. It was partially a look of pity and partially a look of anti-pity since it was my decision to do this to myself. I drank a blue in about two minutes in order to take away the taste and feeling of the energy gel and then bought two more, one for my bottle cage and one for my pocket. It was gradually getting warmer outside. The sun’s presence started to be noticed by my otherwise pasty neck. I called my parents and talked to them just long enough to let them know I was doing okay. They volunteered to be Plan B (emergency contraceptive?) in case I couldn’t make it. My break was a little more than five minutes in all. That five minutes made a lasting effect on the rest of the trip, however.

Getting back on my bike was a little bit discouraging. I don’t know why; I was halfway done and should have been consumed with rapture. In that regard, it motivated me to keep going. On the other hand, I knew that I was only halfway done, and the fatigue would get worse as time went on. Psychological effects would start to take place, and my body would only get worn out as the day went on. There was also the heat which only then started to be a cause for concern. To help clear my mind, I said goodbye to John Piper for the rest of the day. I had a playlist of more intense, motivating music (though Piper is one of the most intense speakers I have heard). No more than five minutes back into my ride the pain and fatigue that took two and a half hours to develop came back all at once. By resting only five minutes, it allowed lactic acid to rush to my legs, causing the tightening sore feeling. I kept my pace up, however. The 20 mph wasn’t fast, and going slower wouldn’t help the soreness; it would only cause me to get home later than planned. I kept peddling. The hills started to seem longer and steeper at around Stonewall. Stonewall was a huge mental achievement for me, allowing me to catch a second wind. It was also when honks, curse words, and ashtrays (or soda cans anyways) all came from one vehicle. I don’t know what it is about seeing somebody on a bike or even running, but it brings out the jerk in people. I remember hearing a study that concluded people in convertibles or any other kind of “open” vehicle are less likely to have road rage due to the lack of anonymity. This was a black Dodge Ram with what looked to be a couple of high school kids on the inside. I sharpied the shirt I was wearing the night before with, “honk/yell/throw if cycling is superior your jerk-baggery”. Yeah, it is mostly to make me feel a little bit better about myself without getting angry to the fact that there are some jerks out there. It was pretty smudged from sweat and was barely legible; regardless, I straightened up and pointed to as they passed by me.

I finally made it to the three exits, the triad of triumph: the first one, an exit to Tishomingo, the second to Pre-Paid, and the the third to Ada. Unfortunately for me, I was not done yet. I still had to go through Richardson loop to Byng and then back home for the full 100 miles. I was very close to just taking the exit and calling it a day. It still would have been about eight-five miles, a very braggable accomplishment. I pushed passed the exit and kept going, immediately regretting the decision. I hit the wall a few miles prior and knew that my body was out of glycogen and was running off of protein and fat, two very inefficient sources of energy for aerobic activity. My pace started to stagger, my breaths more frequent and pronounced, and my entire body almost numb from the pain it was suffering. I made it passed Byng and with a lamented face, got out my cell phone to call my parents. I was less than ten miles from being done and the thought of any more peddling made my stomach turn. Instead of making the call, I took my battery out and separated it from my cell phone. A little immature seeming, I know, but the idea was that it would take too much effort to dig through my bike bag to find the battery and reattach it to my phone. By the time I did, I would hopefully had talked myself out of it. I changed my Ipod to David Crowder Band’s Remedy album. It has very upbeat music that would hopefully motivate me into finishing. It worked. I made it to the “Welcome to Ada” sign with a joyous smile on my face that I couldn’t remove even if I tried. I went down Broadway without hitting a red light and turned left on 12th street (to avoid the 16th street hill). I rode up to my front porch, not even bothering to bring my bike in with me. My room is at the very back of the house, and my legs finally collapsed outside of my room. I regained my composure and made it to my bed. I spent the rest of the day eating and resting.

The ride was very tough but completely necessary to the training. After resting all day, I actually mustered up the strength to run a VERY slow three miles. I knew that if I didn’t move for the rest of the day, Sunday would be even worse than Saturday. Sunday was bad regardless but more tolerable than it would have been. I’m going to take it easy the next two weeks and go again once I feel rested enough.

Fitty Cent

Josh moved out at the beginning of the week. I knew his living with us was only supposed to be temporary, but I was expecting him to stay through the  summer. There really is no problem other than that of bills. I was really excited that this last month I had to pay less than $200 for rent plus bills. The fact that he moved out in the middle of the month shouldn’t alleviate his responsibility for at least half of what he would have paid. I won’t be upset either way, but I would like to know what he’s going to be doing. It looks like we’re looking for a new roommate now. Jesse said that he may know of somebody who could move in at the beginning of next semester but that he is going to look in the meantime. I will be doing the same.

I got a fifty cent raise on Tuesday. Every other raise I have received has been voluntarily by Joe. I was actually the assertive one this round. While it isn’t necessarily a simple matter of money, I believe that I have been undercompensated for the amount of work I have done. Joe isn’t going to just give up money, considering it is slow during the summer, meaning I had to make valid reasons for deserving a raise. These were my reasons:

1. Every other employee has a very specific job. When she looks at the schedule, Crystal is never going to be surprised to find that she will have to cook one evening or do deliveries. I have to cook, do deliveries on certain days, and though we have the morning store shifts covered for the summer, I may have to occasionally cover the store. I did not tell him this, but it did make me think: Karl Marx predicted that “factory” workers would eventually be trained for every spot in order to reduce dependency on certain people and maximize profit. I am the only employee like this, doing the exact opposite; it shifts the burden to me if there is a spot that needs filled. As of right now, Joe could safely put me as the role of manager if my own schedule permitted it since I am well-versed in every facet of the business except one, making orders to the distributors.

2. Keeping number one in mind, this makes my schedule all over the place. There is one day that I know for certain that I will work, which is Tuesday in the evening. Everybody else can pretty much accurately predict what their schedule is going to look like from week to week. This makes scheduling non-work activities a little bit harder, though I do admit that the staff is pretty flexible when it comes to shift swaps. There was one week I worked twenty-five hours, followed by a forty-five hour week. My schedules are bipolar.

3. I do a great job and take pride in my work considering it’s only a doughnut jockey job meant to get me through college.

Joe didn’t disagree with any particular point but keeping pragmatism in mind, he did wrestle with the fact that any more money I get is money he loses, something he is concerned about. He gave me a modest raise, but it was still a victory. He told me that while I deserved more, it just wasn’t in the numbers for him. I understand. Like I said, it isn’t as much about the money as it is a physical way of saying that my work is valuable. I don’t need compliments as much as some of the employees and the only other way that immediately comes to mind is monetary.

I learned a lot about Jenna yesterday, especially her perspective on the whole of humanity. I never claim to have anybody completely figured out, but she is one person that is typically pretty easy to understand. So it is surprising when I find out anything new about her thoughts. She has easily mistaken my idealism as cynicism (very common), so I found it ironic when she told me that one of the reasons she is so cold and closed off, unable to be completely “whole” to one person, is because she thinks nobody truly cares about anybody else. This allowed me to get my sociology on. I think she is mostly true when speaking in generalities, but there are common traits and situations that tend to bind humans together in a group. This is why most people are open to at least a few close people; they become emotionally bound, usually through the time of close proximity, and common experiences. Also I think there’s the Christian aspect. It is very hard to be truly selfless, but with communion with Christ and maturation, love is the Christian outcome. We are to serve man as though we are serving Christ (Eph. 6:5-7). To say that nobody cares is in conflict with a basic Christian tenet. But again, I think she is mostly right. People are selfish, and it doesn’t take that long to figure out that out through conversation. People like to either be entertained or talk about themselves.