Wednesday.

Today began rather normally. I woke up, made coffee and porridge, read a little Revelations. My routine ran smoothly. Then I went to work.

Work began pretty uneventfully. I started gathering the information I had found for Squamish Community Radio. Theresa (who's running the Squamish Community Radio initiative) came by, and we finally discussed things in person and got a lot figured out. The day was shaping out to be rather productive. I ate a breakfast bagel at Zephyr at lunch, put my cheques in the bank, all kinds of things were getting done.

When I returned from lunch, we began a meeting about the cyber camp we're trying to organize for Spring Break. Mid-meeting/Scrabble game, an elderly Indian man came in, looking to be tutored on the computer. He said he knew some of the basics, but he needed help attaching files to emails, setting up facebook, and "splitting the computer so not everyone who uses the computer can see everything." He wanted to create user accounts in Windows. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

Then we opened his email. There were a lot of pictures being sent to him of a young woman smiling. This girl sent him songs as well. He wanted to send pictures and songs on email, but he didn't want people to see that he was doing it. Then we went to sign him up for facebook, but he didn't want to use his real name. I tried to explain to him that if he wanted people to find him on facebook, he should use his actual name, but he didn't want people to find him, "and how do you upload photos onto facebook, and who can see my facebook page?" And then for a birth year he chose 1982. He looked to be about 60 years old. Needless to say, he made me feel uncomfortable.

Things changed for the better. I transcribed some radio show applications, and had a great conversation with Jason about books and writing while the internet was down. We ended up helping this lady with her files and email. She had her laptop, and was planning a trip. She "goes away for four weeks of the year to backpack Peru or something." I told her I wanted her life.

A friend had told her not to email credit card or passport information to herself, but to save that kind of thing in a folder in her own computer. "Good advice," we both said and explained why and how to do that. She laughed constantly about how little she knew, and we spent a few minutes talking to her. There was something wrong with the security on her computer, and she said she always had to called Telus up to fix it. She "always ended up with someone from the Philipines," telling her how to reinstall this and that. We had no idea what she was talking about. I needed to go and started getting my things. "Don't you want to know my last question?" she asked me.
"Actually, I do," I replied.
She said, "There is actually a guy that gets on my computer, but he's in Australia. Oh, he doesn't steal anything or anything like that, he just uses, what's it called again? Paypal." Jason and I looked at each other with question marks in our eyes. He told me he would let me know what was up tomorrow.

Nick had come by earlier to say we were eating at Darrell and Adrienne's. Adrienne was making soup. I went straight there from work and Katrina came by so Steve could pick us all up for worship practise. I love Wednesdays. Ending the day with worship practise at the Davies cannot be trumped. Their small group is always there, so we get to talk to the likes of Elissa, Yi Khy, Lorraine; all kinds of good people.

We had ended pretty early, so Yi Khy and Lorraine came downtown to hang out for awhile. After a quick stop to Walmart, we dropped Katrina off and headed to the apartment to drink tea and listen to music. Lorraine had bought me a "Music Listography" book a few weeks prior, so I showed her some songs I had put in there. Nick stops us midsong with some thing from facebook. He hooks the computer to the stereo and plays something from a Spanish radio station. "Indie Newsic," the broadcaster says, and then starts rambling off. All of the sudden we hear, "The Magician end ye Gates of Love" and "Langley, California." And then he announces the song "A Gentleman's Harvest: Teen Daze Remix!" And there's our song! On Spanish radio! It blew my mind.

After all this, and after conversations in the past couple days about need to write things down and record life, I thought I should get the story of today down. So that's that. A whirlwind, eh?

rebirth/baptism.

I had a conversation with my good friends Yi Khy and Lorraine today about words and their value. It stemmed off from watching a film called "HOWL," about the poem of the same name and it's author, Allen Ginsberg. What began as a discussion about obscenity and government intervention turned into us inspiring each other to pick up pens or type out our lives. The conversation essentially concluded with us committing to all start blogging. Lorraine already blogs, Yi Khy never blogged before, and I had lost motivation to do it. We had every part of the spectrum covered.

One thing we touched on was how writing helps you remember the important lessons you've learned along your way. I come to realizations at least weekly, but I forget easily. God has to teach me the same lesson over and over. It's annoying and frustrating for both of us, I think. I'm giving this spot on the Internet a rebirth for this reason: to help me remember my lessons. I figure with the three years I've given it to die, it's a quiet enough place to speak honestly.



I'm learning about baptism lately. Being brought up with a weak understanding of my baptism, I accepted this part of my faith from my parents, and never truly wrestled with it until recently. My childhood church explained things by calling my relationship with God a "covenant" relationship, which it is. They told me I did nothing to deserve God's love, that I am part of God's family because of God's faithfulness, not my own, which is true. God chose me before I chose him, and baptism is a symbol of God choosing me. My parents may be the ones bringing me in front of the church and dedicating me to the Lord, but the Lord baptizes me. Baptism is not fire insurance (as Pastor Glenn puts it), or any kind of guarantee. It is an act of faithfulness, going both ways between God and my parents. In all of it, both God and my parents show faithfulness to me, too. I've seen it as a beautiful tradition; a true understanding of the sacrament.

But is that what baptism really is? I read the Bible, I read the examples given to us of baptism, and I'm not so sure. Jesus is circumcised as a child, in accordance to the Old Covenant, and then, when he is ready to begin his ministry, has John baptize him. He comes to John for baptism. And so does every person baptized before and afterward. They all come to be baptized. They make a decision. They all experience baptism. I have been baptized, but I have never experienced it. I committed myself to Christ, but without symbol.

I see a symbol for both areas in Christ's life. He is circumcised at (or near) birth, and then is baptised at his rebirth, or movement from prior life into ministry. And yet, Paul tells us circumcision is not necessary, so we Christians have no symbol for covenant making at a child's birth unless we baptize them then. I guess the issue I'm having with both traditions of baptism is that both of them leave a gaping hole. They both have traditions for bringing a child into covenant with God, and they both have one for someone making that step toward Christ, but in both understandings, one of the traditions seems insufficient for me. The simple dedication of a baby doesn't have enough weight to it, and neither does a simple "profession of faith," I think. Symbols give experiences in our lives significance. Both these moments seem to need one, no?

friendship and goodbyes.

I shouldn't have waited. Last time I said that friendship was a topic for another day, and now I've lost my train of thought. Two months will do that to you. I'm a terrible blogger. I wouldn't be surprised if no one read this thing because of how infrequently I post. Terrible.

I think I have a different take on the whole topic of friendship than I did back in the summer. Working alone for a month has made me see it in a different light. Often friendship is simply conversation to fill in the silence. This is probably a horrible way of looking at it, but it's true. Once Reuben was back at school, there was a silence in the truck that needed filling. For most of the month I used the radio, especially the Kid Carson Show on the Beat or Jeff O'neil on the Fox. But yesterday I just turned it off. Silence isn't so bad from time to time.

There is something different about real people, though. They don't have an off switch, and very rarely to they need one. I can't think of a time this entire summer where I wanted to turn Reuben off. Or any of my friends for that matter (well maybe there was that one night, Gordon). Being in close contact with Reuben all summer, you'd think there would be a moment, a day even, where I'd be annoyed, but nothing comes to mind.

I'm leaving them all behind. And it makes me nervous. I've had this feeling, about the weight and texture of a potato, in my gut for about a week. Friends are the sticky substance trying to keep me in Langley. Do you know what I'm talking about? People keep on asking me if I'm excited to go to Montreal, and I consistently lie and say, "oh, totally," or something lame like that because it's what's expected. I don't want to go. I love my home. That's a lie, too. I do want to go, but I know I'll miss everyone here, and I'm not looking forward to missing people. I have good friends.

I won't be writing on here while I'm gone. I've set up a website, www.whistlehum.com for my podcast, and i'll be blogging on there quite regularly, to keep everyone at home caught up. anyone who reads this is more than welcome to take a look.

so long, for now,
your ticketytaptyper.

Daft Punk makes me want to paint. I realized this yesterday while Reuben and I took turns mowing a pond in South Surrey with the four-foot. I haven't painted since grade seven and hadn't felt the erg until yesterday. I wanted to paint squares of all colours, mostly bright, randomly placed on canvas, like a broken Rubik's cube.

When Reuben started mowing that thing late-yesterday afternoon, stopped in the center to lift the blades, it looked as though he was cutting down the African plains. It's moments like those I wish I kept a camera on me at all times. Not a lame camera phone, like the one we used to take pictures of the baby birds, but one with manual focus, like Nick's. But he has it on his trip to Osoyoos. I think that's how you spell it, Osoyoos, but I'm not sure. It's got a little red line under it, but it's the name of a place. I'll leave it.

I just finished reading Don Miller's "Through Painted Deserts" and it made me want to write, so here I am. I think that's how I decide if art or literature is good. If it makes me want to makes things, too. Like Daft Punk and painting.

If I follow through with my thoughts this morning, I'll start writing letters to far way friends. Don wrote about meeting up with a pen pal in his book, and it made me realize that no one writes letters anymore. Email and blogs have taken over, and that's too bad, I think. There's something about taking the time to write to someone else with a pen, folding it, putting it in an envelope, writing two addresses on the outside, stamping it, and sending it off. It takes effort and love to do that. I guess that's what you're really sending off, effort and love. All we get in the mail now is coupons and news.

Dan, Dave and I talked about music and movies at Boston Pizza last night. I mostly listened, realizing I know a lot less about both topics than these two. I simply don't have the funds to see and/or hear all that. The conversation always moves on to Bob Dylan somehow. I'm listening to him play the harmonica right now. Dan and Dave agreed that "Visions of Johanna" is and effing flawless song, while they smoked cigerettes and looked as much like the man as possible. It made me want to listen to that whole album, "Blonde on Blonde." I didn't finish it last night, so I listened to the end this morning. It's over now. The headphones are only warming my ears and making them ring.

I'd talk about friendship, but that's another entry for another day.

podcasts. how do you start one? i am. whistlehum.com. i can't wait. i'm going to involve everyone. you will be in my liner notes.

i like songs that bite truth. if "truth" was a music genre, that's what this conglomeration of songs would be put under. a group of songs that you can't ignore.

if you're podcast's website is whistlehum.com, is that the name of your podcast? i still want my name to be clapfm. i still love that idea.

i'm always tempted to start smoking. odd, i know. but it's just so cool. all the cool people smoke. i just realized why sunglasses are cool. look at the word cool. weird.

cold upper lip.

I miss march.

lackadaisical.

how do you spell laxidazicle? Laxidasicle. Lacksidasicle. Laksidasicle. Laxidasical. Laxidazical. Lacksidasical. Lakidasicle. Lakidazical. Lakidasical. Lacidasical. Lacidazical. Lacidazicle. Lacidasicle. All wrong. I give up.