Brian

Hello,

Wow. What a thoroughly tiring day. I had a couple papers to turn in and a meeting with a professor in the afternoon. Neither Emily or I got much sleep last night so we’re pretty tired right now. Still, we’re doing pretty well. It’s a strange grey day but I wouldn’t know that if it weren’t for Jack Johnson encouraging me to open up the window and actually look outside while I’m at my computer. Despite appearances, I spend far too much time on this here box without any view of the outside world. Well, I decided to get some music today because I haven’t got a new album in a really long time and have gotten out of the habit of listening when that’s like reading to writing—a key factor in development as an artist.

I went by Newbury Comics which is a really hot spot that I check out pretty often here. In case I haven’t mentioned it before, it’s in the large mall-like complex in Harvard Square called “The Garage.” They have comics, video games, music, movies, guitar strings, knick-knacks and all sorts of other things. So, today I went in and bought Jack Johnson’s newest album. It was really inexpensive—Newbury actually has pretty good prices—and so I also picked up a funny little Wiimote-shaped tin full of mint gum. But that wasn’t all I’d get at the counter! The clerk saw the album and said:

“You know, a free seven inch comes with this—would you like it?”

“Uh . . . sure?”

And with that, I was happily holding a red and white bag with an iconic, toothy, smiling face that looks like a five-year-old drew it filled with a Wiimote-tin, “Sleep Through the Static” and a 45 (I guess called a 7 inch these days . . . these youngin’s. . . .) with “If I Had Eyes” on side A and “Let It Be Sung” on side B. It’s über cool.

So, with that I walked through the grey sky, snow fields of Cambridge and back to Emily.

God bless,

Brian

Hello,

It’s been a while since I’ve written anything and I can truthfully cite a major reason for that as lack of confidence in myself, in who I am and in my relation with the Father. For anyone thinking of studying theology, let me warn you the same way everyone warns every person beginning the endeavor—and, truth be told, the same way that I was warned—by saying it will challenge your faith. But I will not go so far as some who told me it will strip you of your faith. No, today I am quite certain that no one can “lose” their faith and I have the assurance of one Stanley Marrow to bolster that opinion.

Quite simply, Stanley believes that if one “loses” one’s faith, then it never really was there to begin with. You simply awaken to the reality that you never possessed the faith to begin with. I suppose faith may seemingly lie dormant for a length of time in some cases, but if you genuinely abandon it all together, you genuinely never had it.

So, what if your faith is challenged and/or lies dormant? What does that mean? Well, as I currently understand it, it can be challenged in two distinct ways: 1) your knowledge and understanding of your faith can be shifted resulting positively in the need think critically about your faith and 2) your love of the world overpowers your love of the Father. The former case I believe to explain itself pretty well. The latter, however, is the topic I chose for a short exegesis which I will be turning into Stanley on Wednesday so I’m going to practice here in this little journal entry by collecting some thoughts.

First it is necessary to define what is meant by “loving the world.” John states, “Do not love the world or the things in the world. If any one loves the world, love for the Father is not in him” (RSV, 1 John 2:15). Why does loving the world necessitate the absence of love for the Father? This verse trips me up each time I see it. I have always found beauty and joy in much of the world around me. Authors and artists have created works that evoke similar responses as one would call religious or spiritual. Similarly, after just having watched the excellent documentary, The Journey of Man: A Genetic Odyssey, I can’t help but reflect more deeply on our common origins and with even more certainty maintain that Jesus Christ taught charity for all. So, with this understanding of the world, how can one hope to understand 1 John 2:15?

The answer is, one can’t. This view of the world is not the same that John is using in this context. That’s not to deny the existence of this view—simply to say it’s not helpful in this context. In this context, a different view of the cosmos is presented. Similar to the previous view, in this one, Christ came to save the world—not to judge it. The salvation offered all creation by the Cross of Jesus Christ is salvific to all that accepts. However, that which rejects what is held to be true—that Jesus Christ did die for our sins and for the sin of the world—is what John is calling “the world.” It is that which is tainted by impurity and becomes as it would be if there was no salvation: mutable and temporary. However, the effect of that world is what can be disastrous to the life of the Christian. For some mystery, we are all swayed by the world of this sense and prone to enslavement by it. Addiction strips us from right relationship with God and with the opportunity to reflect upon our actions so that we may try to the best of our ability to remain pure and blameless in the eyes of the Father and good stewards during the realized vision of God. We forget that Jesus has overcome the world and we must too.

Throughout all of this, faith has marked us with a mark that cannot be taken away—remember those indelible marks of the soul that the Catholic Church talks about? Perhaps your remember your Confirmation. Your faith is marked. So, though you might have been overcome by the world, it is not the final world. Your faith is with you and the salvation of Jesus Christ is freely offered to you and all that is required is a simple apology and thanksgiving for the grace of God.

And that’s about all I can muster for right now,

Brian

It is not easy for me to be a Christian, to believe twenty-four hours a day all that I want to believe. I stray, and then my stories pull me back if I listen to them carefully. I have often been asked if my Christianity affects my stories, and surely it is the other way around; my stories affect my Christianity, restore me, shake me by the scruff of the neck, and pull this straying sinner into an awed faith.

--Madeleine L'Engle from Walking on Water, chapter Keeping the Clock Wound

It seems to me that there is far too much waste around me. I was trying to clean up some things and found that I had old packaging I wanted to do away with and then I saw the excess. It was probably most apparent because of how little is actually in this rather large apartment that Emily and I call home this year.

Anyway, my New Year's resolution is to learn how to reduce, reuse and recycle to the very best of my ability. Every little bit matters. I actually came to this resolution when I had a paper package that once had . . . heh, paper (you know, for the printer) and I thought, "This could be recycled. . . . But, that would mean I would have to get out of my chair and walk to the kitchen when there is a perfectly good bin right here for Kleenex and the like."

Well, that's that. I'm going to try. We can all do it. With our own hands. It's easy. Well, hard, you know--but it's easy.

So, Emily and I fly out tomorrow. That being said, I've got to get going. God bless,

Brian

Well folks,

Last night's jam was terrific! So great! We did in total about 13 or more songs. All of them quite long. If we were trying to record an off-the-cuff CD, we would have succeeded. In any event, it seems there are quite a few talented musicians here at WJST this year and many are just now showing up. I'm glad Emily sent out an e-mail to everyone.

In other news, it's the long weekend--praise God! It's going to be quite a nice chance to recover a bit. So many papers in the last couple of weeks. I've got a little one-pager that I'm going to try to write today, but other than that, this weekend should be a blessed chance to catch up on sleep, good eating habits and a bit of housekeeping.

This month Emily's grandparents are visiting us, and that's exciting. I can't wait to show some family around the apartment. We're really making it nice, I think. And in addition, it's becoming a good place for social gatherings. I just hope that we get some pictures on the wall soon. Maybe that can be a "this weekend" type project.

So, a shout out to all and a thanks to Hebe and Shannon. ;)

Peace in God,

Brian

Dear friends,

A random thought to start us off, taken from a response to Shannon's last post:

Not to go off in a totally different direction--though that is precisely what I'm about to do--but, doesn't it seem like ages since we were in Ireland? The other day I was confronted by someone who spoke fluent Irish. They saw my shirt (the red one with the star and "People's Republic of Cork" written in Irish) and asked me if I was part of the communist movement in Southern Ireland (joking, of course).

Anyway, my Irish was rusty--near non-existent. It seems like that was a lifetime ago. Looking back at my school files, my second semester Junior year is empty. Not much writing at UCC. Perhaps a blessing I wish would reoccur this semester. But, such is life.

Emily and I are now, after a wonderful wedding, now married and living in Cambridge, Massachusetts. A perfect wedding followed by a perfect honeymoon followed by a whirlwind packing frenzy followed by a flight which was downsized and resulted in our taking a later flight in followed by much unpacking and lack of personal belongings culminating in an all-too-quick beginning of another school year.

Not that I'm complaining. Married life is amazing and I think just what I imagined. Dishes are, in fact, an inevitable aspect of life and brings some constancy that, in a strange way, gives order that helps one stay sane.

There's so much to say! Spiritually, Emily and I have been roaming around the "Catholic circuit" here in Boston. We've decided on attending Boston University's "Salt & Light" which is a grad-student and young professional group. Quite good and directly following a weekly spaghetti dinner. Yum! Sister Olga reminds me a lot of Sister Bride minus the accent (substituted by another one) down to the point I believe I accidently called her Bride when mentioning her to someone today.

Emily and I have a carrel in the EDS/WJST library and our apartment is slowly but surely manifesting itself into a workable sacred and hectic working space. Somehow, I think we're finding the balance.

In a blessed turn of events, praise God, a Thursday night music fest tradition has begun that has thus far occurred four? times in our apartment. It will branch out as well, but Emily and I both look forward to playing with all the talented musicians. We have some guitarists, a bassist, a clarinet player and one of the guitarists really considers himself a drummer and is a durn fine one at that! He has a djembe and other various percussion instruments such that the night is grounded and last Thursday, a klezmer tune became one of our biggest and best jams. Quite fun--really!

Emily is learning the "T" and I'm getting ever better at it--even finding ways to put videos on my phone. I've watched some little shorts called "Fuggy, Fuggy" that I would recommend to anyone. Just Google it. Really--it's worth it. I've also been helping put in tip-top shape the "Weston guitar." That project just finished itself, I believe. I might do another small tweak to the truss rod, but all in all the action is much better, the neck is much straighter and the strings . . . aren't . . . 21! . . . years old anymore!

Things have been hot here in Cambridge but are finally starting to cool down. It's a blessing and a welcome change. Unfortunately, however, it seems Emily may be getting sick. I am feeling a little . . . meh myself and partly because of that and partly because after already turning in one paper, Emily and I are both writing our seconds tomorrow and I have another one due next week. Still, there's more to do in the apartment and it would be nice to do that soon. We still have pictures to put up. Thankfully, we do have two new twin beds put together for a king with a memory foam pad that makes it just so comfortable--and much better than what we had to deal with when we first got here.

So, really, that's the update for right now. Please, check out Ingrid Michaelson's song "The Way I Am" as it's on her MySpace--just Google it! It's charming.

As for me, I'm off to bed to dream of *cough* Nintendo DS's.

Love and blessings,

Brian

Hullo,

As it were, I made $17 today by playing about an hour at First Friday Art Night here in Grants Pass. Not too shabby, I'd say.

Emily is in Europe. She's been able to e-mail me fairly often, but I miss her. Funny how it feels to be home while she's elsewhere.

I'm selling my truck. I'm detailing it tomorrow and removing all the stuff that won't be sold that I've put in its special place. I guess it finally hit me today how I will miss her. She has been a good truck and she houses all of my tools and a bed and . . . I guess I am somewhat of a truck person.

But, I've also inherited Uncle Ken's Ford Maverick. That makes selling the truck easier. It really occurred to me two days ago what a sweet looking vehicle she is. And she's unique. Something I don't necessarily strive for, but I do embrace. I like the bright orange and the white racing stripes. I can see me packing my instruments and my artwork in her to take down to the next First Friday where I will actually have a table where I will try to sell my wares.

When I took Emily up to Seatac, we stayed in the Abbey Guest House. When we first arrived, Nick met us up at the Abbey Church. As soon as I walked in, I remembered what it's like to be home and home in God. I saw the place in the Rose Garden where I prayed my first Rosary. I saw the place I lay and cried myself in the comfort of His arms. I remembered the mercy. I remembered the grace. I remembered the dream.

I could live content in a little trailer. I could live content. I need to simplify. I want to. Too many distractions. I suppose people who tell you to work the system don't understand the graces that they have as well. Life, then again, might just be one of those things that's difficult for all of us no matter our walk of life.

There's a new fountain in the Abbey Church courtyard. There's hope for the future. I'm so happy for my best friend, Nick. He seems to have lot going for him. I'm so very happy for him.

Ever wonder what it's like to lay in the middle of nowhere and scream out to stars in an eternal and endless ink? Perhaps you should experience that if you've never thought of it.

"I've just seen a face I can't forget . . . as it is, I'll dream of her tonight." Emily. . . .

Brian

PS: Oh, I shaved my facial hair off. Smooth as can be. Now for that hair-cut.

Listen.

This is the first word in the Rule of St. Benedict. This is the one word that I can’t extract from the forefront of my mind right now. It appears to be grabbing me and flaunting itself in front of my eyes. It is calling. It is commanding. It is suggesting. “Listen,” the angelic voice decrees. “Listen and hear all.”

If there is one word that epitomizes home, it is “listen.” For all that I am, all that You are, all that we are, “listen” is means that we are connected. To listen is more intimate and passionate than a kiss. It is more healing than the best medicines. To do this simple act touches a soul.

I have had the privilege of being invited to listen the last few days. I’ve lost the art. To listen is one art that is not practiced or understood where I am. Yes, there are a few who are masters at the craft. Steven Crimaldi, for example. The reason I say this of Steven is not so much the way his body language proves that he is listening, but the simple fact that he can recall details I’ve forgotten I’ve told him and he’ll retain that memory for many months. Listening is not simply sitting leaning towards the person who is talking and nodding your head (my own failure), but rather it is hearing, caring and comprehending. Listening is such a powerful act that it has the power to create and the power to destroy.

In the darkening night when the cool breeze hovers around the small band gathered on the front steps, all are talking . . . God listens. God hears, understands. We may not even care enough to listen ourselves, but there is one who always does. In the gossamer twilight, three branches break under the blooming hydrangea. A squirrel looks up and smiles. Somewhere a star twinkles and a spritely creature comes from out of the shadows and dances in the dewed grass that no one yet has discovered. A little laughter happens and an ear perks.

To this do we owe our lives. To this do we dedicate our souls. We are not worshippers of noise. We are warriors for peace and screamers for silence. Still, that small sprite dances twice and whistles. Two tunes are emitted and then the sprite sits down, reclined in the thatch. An end. A cricket. Silence.

God.

There is a tree that fits perfectly between the matte of concrete and steel containing glass that is filmed with the residue of New England winters. The tree grows out of the brick sidewalk and twists and meanders as it grows to heights that enable it to see what’s on top of the chimney nearby. Tom would be able to tell me what the tree is called. He was a landscaper before he joined the Franciscan fraternity. Capuchins. O.M.Cap. The clouds are taking on a distinctly warm yellow hue above the bluish violet that the sky has turned. The bark appears an old gray. The yellow green of the beginnings of leaves makes the tree seem mossy and wise. I want to walk up and touch her. She is a gnarled old thing.

The smooth white bark of the trees further down the street feel smooth. I don’t think her bark would feel so smooth.

The sun is fading. The neon lights of my small cell are starting to become more apparent and take over the ambient light the room once had. Now it begins to seem harsh. The texture on the walls: brushed and spiked like the walls from home. Only the walls at home are a soft plaster. This is a hard, unforgiving sort of concrete. The spikes of home break off. These spikes do not.

She is looking at me now from in front of the chimney that grows a rich ruddy red. She waves a little. Her branches sway. She sometimes feels as an only friend from within this cell.

The violet, turns to red, turns to gold, turns to dark. The witching hour. Soon.

Hello,

I backdated this new entry because I wrote it on the eighteenth, but it does not show up on your Friends Page and it is not the most recent post (that makes sense) on my main page.

Ergo, here go,

Brian

I’m ashamed.

I keep looking at the topmost entry on my LiveJournal and seeing OMFG. It’s a horrible little acronym I picked up in cyberspace. I said, when I wrote it, that I didn’t care. I said it really meant, “Oh my freaking God,” but that is no better. I guess I was looking for an excuse to let loose all inhibitions and shout out something like that. Now that I look at it, I realize it’s not me. And I don’t want to use that term again. I’m embarrassed. I thought about editing the post, but I don’t think I can. The post is what it is. I can’t always go and revise my past. I have to live in the present and for the future. Isn’t that how it goes?

But in other news, today there was an electrical fire in the Park Street T-station. It was right over the meridian between the inbound and outbound “busses” (trains). There was a whole fire-crew and everything. I was worried I wasn’t going to get to my class at BU on time. Thankfully, I managed to, but not before walking around on the blanket of ice that is currently Boston Common. I waited for the shuttle bus that was announced to be there over the loud-speaker, but it wasn’t for a good half hour or more that it came. But, I got to figure out where the Boston Public Library is as a result. I’m going to try to go there again.

You know, I consider myself to be more of the adventuresome type. I love to explore. But I don’t explore here at all! I have to figure out things by chance. Then I might remember how to backtrack. I might have put m finger on the reason: I will explore in nature. I will get lost in the woods. I will not do the same in a city. Maybe it’s too foreign to me. And what a shame it is that there are people who are the opposite of me in this regard.

Cessation of thought,

Brian

I'm so happy right now because . . .

FECKING MARY-DRESSED-IN-BLACK IS VISITING ME ON FRIDAY!

We're going to keep ourselves blissfully entertained while trying to reconcile our location and company. We're already on the lookout that there is a Thirsty Scholar in Boston! What?! How did I not know?! Mary found it. She's wondering if there's any relation to the one in Cork. ME TOO!

And she's stoked about Grendel's Den! Pub crawl! (Mary laughed at me because I'm 23 and don't drink; it was a good laugh.)

Whoot,

Brian

One morning I woke up and I knew
You were really gone
A new day, a new way, and new eyes
To see the dawn.
Go your way, I'll go mine and
Carry on

—Stephen Stills

I know what I'm gonna do tomorrow, and the next day, and the next year, and the year after that.

—George Bailey

Hey,

I’m sitting here in the house I’m sitting. There’s cable on the television and I just watched How To Lose a Guy In Ten Days and now Patch Adams is on. This is a wonderful movie. “Shanks for the memories.”

I remember being really inspired by the part of the movie I watched a few years ago. Now I have the chance to watch it in its “altered for TV” “entirety.” Immediately, I’m struck by the fact that Patch is so passionate about helping people. It’s inspirational. In many ways, that’s how I feel. And in a strange way, that whole notion that the rules don’t apply to me . . . sort of sticks. Maybe that’s not that great, but in some ways, I’m proud of it. Why are we the way we are? I really wouldn’t mind it if I were as quick as Patch or at least as quick as he’s depicted as being in the movie. I mean, really that’s what sets him apart from someone like me who doesn’t pay attention to rules. I disregard them and am below them. He disregards them and is above them. I need to do more reading. I also really miss the passion for others I had before coming out here.

I remember talking to Crista about how I shut down from saying “Hello” to people. She valiantly urged me to just keep saying “Hi.” I haven’t. I haven’t said anything for so long now. I’m dried up. All the “Hello” is out of me.

But, is that my fault? I don’t know. And should I be studying more? Why is it that the greatest source of joy for me—

I’m crying at almost everything that hits me profoundly these days. I’m crying while watching Patch Adams. I cry at Grey’s Anatomy. I cry a lot, but it’s always when no one is around. Strange that I can admit this to the whole world, but I don’t feel inclined to cry in front of anyone. Not even Guillermo—God bless him—who just made the trip to Delaware on a whim this weekend.

I realize that I haven’t really been very upbeat in my journal entries for a while. I actually have started to wonder if anyone reads them anymore. I used to love to read everyone’s journals. I would read and write and I would look forward to seeing people’s comments. Now people just “poke.” I mean, what happened? I used to learn about people, and now I give them a virtual . . . what?!—who knows?! What is a blinkin’ “poke?!”

So, I’m working on setting up a MySpace. Yes, I know I gave up the MySpace a while ago, but now I want to have a musician’s MySpace. I have one song up at the moment, and I’m somewhat proud of it. It’s not perfect, but I’m proud because it’s up there. Maybe this will get me to actually start sharing the music that I’m embarrassed to share. Maybe it will even lead to recording more and better music.

Man! I’ve got to work on my paper!

MAN! I have to EAT! I haven’t had anything all day and it’s now 10:26 PM! I am so hungry! I mean, really, really hungry. I should probably go and get some food. But, I don’t really know what I should do. I’m house-sitting, so I don’t really have any means of acquiring food. I guess I could go see what’s open around town. Hmm, the T is going to be closed by the time Patch Adams is over. I guess I could walk to find a fast-food place. It’s only a few T-stops.

Ummmmmm. . . .

I dunno what to write. Does anyone read this anymore? Please post a note wherever you found this.

Thanks,

Brian

“You rested on the seventh day. Maybe You should have used that day to work on compassion.”

—Patch Adams

Okay,

I'm coming clean. I'm blurting it out. I'm not looking back. I can type pretty fast these days. Here it is. I hate the East-Coast. I don't want to study Theology. I don't want to have to deal with all those questions that trouble a person's faith while I'm supposed to know the answers to the complexities of a faith that has only been defined satisfactorily throughout two thousand years by the one thing I'm passionate about and yet unable to take part in.

There are so many tools open to the artist of today. Fuck! I was just looking online and listen, there's deviantART.com. There's livejournal.com. There's YouTube.com. There's my personal website. There's MySpace.com for musicians. I have every freaking Adobe product I could want. I can manipulate images. I can manipulate sound. I can manipulate video. I can manipulate life. What I can't do is create. I'm dry. I have markers, but no crayons.

But my soul is crying out. I want to save. I want to draw. I want to crush charcoal deep in the marrow of my chest. I want to breathe into sanded marble. I want a soft bosom to lay my head in. I want pure water lapping at my fingernails and an ocean of salt to wipe away the rings under my eyes. I want to tear at the hunger in my abdomen and pull out alimentation. Wipe away the hindrances and shatter a falling leaf in the dry earth and granite. Hike the mountain and cut my feet on the sharp rock of desire. I want to plant my flag in the raw earth of a dry crag. I want to view the panorama of shifting void. Hide me, heal me, keep me, show me, deal me. Me.

Find a way to let me in. Drive a stake in the one heart that means to me. Let me be. Let me in. Let me love. Let me create. Let me love to create. Let me be. Let me go.

Damn hell release. Release. Let go. Let be. I want to run. I remember this time once. All I wanted to do was bury myself in the clay behind our back porch. I wanted the rain to melt the degenerated granite and let me sink. I wanted to dive in. Most people understood this as morbid. I thought of this as praying to God to heal me. I wanted to be ALIVE! I wanted to dig deeply and plant my heart in the ground. I wanted to be the character in all the books I've ever read. I wanted to be the singer in every song I've heard. I wanted to be the writer of the journey. I want to be the writer. I'm tired of the realities of adult-hood.

Dad, I love you. I love you so much. I can't thank you enough for working your job. For living each day and not complaining. For telling me to look for something better. But, I don't know where to find what's better.

I would be happy living in a boat. Casting my net into the deep waters. I would wait. If the storm comes, I say, "Ah, a storm. I must pull in my net." If the waters are calm and there is a light drizzle, I say, "Ah, the perfect weather. I shall catch many fish today. My soul shall burst as the nets. I shall pray. I shall sing. I shall catch, create, dance, shout, draw, write, cry, laugh, embrace."

I shall embrace my Emily.

I shall. When the fire is burning and the scent of decay covers the heartache of a place where creation is spawned from an abyss, what then? Nothing. Nothing comes from such a place. There is only one place. You must dig. You must immerse yourself in the raw-ness. Don't get too much in the head. The head lies to the heart. The heart communes with the soul.

Just yesterday my heart and soul were dining near my esophagus. My soul asked how my heart was doing. My heart said:

"I'm fine. I'm near bursting because of the love in my life. But, I'm sad. Because love is far away. How are you?"

My soul responded, "I'm alright, as well. I am so happy because there are small moments of joy when I remember things past. When I remember healing. When I remember the quiet of the forest. When I think of the joy of friends. Do you remember that time we went out in middle of the night with those friends and frolicked in the knoll behind the tennis courts? We ran in the cold and the wet. We ran and we laughed. And we sang. Do you remember all the times you stood and let yourself get covered in the torrents of water?"

I, overhearing both, knelt down and lifted my hands to the LORD ALMIGHTY and cried. I cried a great, yearning, hungry cry. I . . .

So,

Here I am sitting in the grandness of Harvard’s library. Silent, leather doors with oval windows through which one can see further into the myriad halls, annals, chambers, lounges, nooks, crannies, catacombs and ever-unique rooms appear every so often around this rugby field of a room and are styled after the slightly larger set which I had come through.

Let me try to describe for you where I currently am: I am sitting in the corner of a room larger than most parish churches in floor space. The chair I am in is a sort of tan-ish-grey with a wolf’s tooth pattern on it. A brass lamp with a matching brass shade sits between me and another chair identical to the one I am sitting in immediately to my right. Looking left, I see an almost comedic run of people sitting on cherry-stained chairs with tidy curved slats flanking an almost never ending series of large, solid wood tables with table lamps matching those that sit between the larger chairs of which I’m sitting in.

Four columns (yes, one of those types I was supposed to learn the name of and remember [Dorian, perhaps?]) divide a wing of the room on my side and looking over towards the distance, I see a similar thing on the other wing. The middle section is the most astonishing. Whereas where I’m sitting the ceiling is flat with panels and roughly thirty or more feet high, the middle section is larger yet—with a domed ceiling and paneling that is painted a lovely turquoise against the cream white and the sandy marble. The center of this center contains multiple, yet simple, stained glass windows that accentuate the flourish of flowers flowing from the ceiling in living plaster.

All around this room are roughly eight-foot high, dark and heavy grained book shelves. Atop some of them are signs in a chocolaty/olive brown with gold letters. Those signs declare things like “NEWSPAPERS”! and “BIOGRAPHY”!; they appear only every so often, however there is one right to the left of the main door which happens to be under another interesting piece of architecture.

A giant clock sits there with flourishes that would make even the most elaborate gargoyle jealous. Currently the clock tells me the time is 4:20-ish. Being analog and being far away and me viewing the clock from almost across the face of it (as opposed to perpendicular), I’m afraid I would not be able to tell you for sure.

There are many other peculiarities I should very much like to share. But too many. More than I can count. And this is, judging by my previous journeying, only one small cell on one tiny floor of one tiny wing that is the Widener Library.

I saw a copy of a Gutenberg Bible on display in one chamber. I dare say, I “found” a poetry room. Only barely “found,” as it was really my being hopelessly lost that brought me there. I think this was a poor choice for being productive for I neither am able to navigate this library well or am inclined to be productive in a place filled with so much new grandeur.

Instead, I think I shall retreat to my more humble apartment for now. So as not to receive dirty stares for my rumbling stomach.

Brian

The number one reason I love Flyff:

"Server's coming down. Now. GoldenAce spilt water on the Mia server."

Is that not fantastic?

Hello,

Oh, yes. Another silly thing: I was typing out a date and inserted a three instead of a two. The result? I'm apparently living in 3007 and so are you! But, really, it struck me when I saw that number that we are really moving towards that. History doesn't really seem that long anymore. Maybe the internet has collapsed time.

So, here's to wishing my procrastination tool (which I've been so good about!) will come back online. Seriously, I was just starting to try the new build. The only thing I got accomplished before shutting down was restating my character. I didn't even move! Utaiu is still sitting on the flying boat, 'ol chap.

Oh, and here's to time in memoriam. And to Easy Mac. Oh, and strange little carpenters who think they know everything about fishing (and it seems really do!).

To fish,

Brian

Hullo,

The following quote is from Rob Burnett on April 17, 2001 according to this site:

"Ed is not for everybody, and its laid-back, quirky style has been compared by some critics to the cult favorite Northern Exposure."

I was reflecting during today's Grey's Anatomy that there may only be one other show that I was as addicted to as Grey's and even then, not quite to the same extent (as I've never before been able to claim having seen every episode of a show since the first). That one other show would be Ed. I should very much like to watch M*A*S*H and Northern Exposure from beginning to end, but Ed was one I came close to doing precisely that during it being on air. It was such a great show. I especially remember fondly a critical episode in my development: "Live Deliberately." With it's emphasis on Thoreau, I felt quite at home.

It was quirky but poignant. But, my goodness! Grey's is the undisputed queen of poignancy. Almost every episode leaves me with that feeling only achievable elsewhere by reading a good book. It's the aftermath of "A-ha! moments" where you can only sit back and take stock of what it was that just happened. You know that something hit you profoundly and may very well have altered your thoughts. That's the feeling I get and heretofore only believed possible from authors like J.R.R. Tolkien, C.S. Lewis, Thoreau, Tennyson, etc.

Peace,

Brian

Hey,

There are some snow flurries out my window right now. They’re sort of dancing around the fire escape of the ruddy brick’n’ steel of the apartment across from me. Occasionally the dots are hidden against the white trim and mortar—not to mention the window sills. I have the shades open a crack. And I also found out that none of our radiators have been on—ever. So, I woke up toasty this morning. Yes, toasty. In fact, I immediately adjusted the radiator lower. It seems these sorts of things happen and one says, “How wonderful!”

I got a good grade in my Old Testament class. Maybe Clifford just likes me. I’m holding out waiting for the rest of my grades. Maybe anxiety is like dancing snowflakes.

I helped Bridget arrange her bookshelf by the Library of Congress system. It was very nice. We got help from this site which I quickly joined. Check out my profile:

http://www.librarything.com/profile/kalyana_mitra

I think you’ll like this, Emily. Yeah, I think there will be much cataloging in our future. We have to combine our libraries, after all. And how exciting will that be?!

The sun is coming out a bit and the snow flurries are not flurrying so much. In fact, they’re rather calm.

I think it’s time I actually shower and dress. Maybe there will still be flakes as I walk to Whole Foods and make a purchase or two or three.

I have to talk to Boston University. They think my last name is . . . well, not what it is supposed to be. Furthermore, they decided to completely change the course I signed up for without changing the number or informing me. Thankfully, I’m excited about the class that they changed it to. Actually, I really like Boston University in general. It’s a very pleasant place. The building my class is in has marble floors, wood paneling, brass doorknobs, a fireplace in the room the class is in with a large solid-wood table at which we sit and either pay rigorous attention to the wisdom of the fine scholar instructing us on Rabbinic literature or stare out dreamily at the river in winter and the few naked trees shivering in the cold.

Last night a group of us shivered as we made oru way to the B in order to have a game night. I played Taboo. That was fun. In fact, the whole event was fun. I was so tired, though. I ended up playing guitar in a half-awake state. I’m pretty certain that whatever I was playing was unconsciously played and perhaps the music was better for it. Still, I’m listening to James Blunt right now and none of his music has the absence of consciousness.

There’s a fairly steady drumbeat in my head the last few days. Drums, drums in the deep. But steady. That’s good. Now I just add the right melody and the song’ll be back.

J.M. Barrie said, “The reason birds can fly and we can’t is simply that they have perfect faith, for to have faith is to have wings.” on page 171 of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. Snow flurries must have faith and purity.

Faith,

Brian

Oh, my God!

Tonight's episode of Grey's Anatomy was SO amazing! The music montage at the end was perfect and the song is still running through my mind. I am so happy the crew of Seattle Grace is back. I'm a fanboy. Oy. Oh, well, there are far worse things to spend my hours on. Heartfelt story and stunning concepts will keep me going, thank you very much.

I don't know if I'm looking forward to next semester's classes or not, but one thing is certain: I will not let myself fall behind and I will not let myself forget good stories.

Okay,

Brian

PS: As soon as the music list comes up on the official website, I'm finding that song and buying it on iTunes or something.

Well,

I had my first officially deadlined final come and go. Thankfully I was there. It was an in-class essay for Clifford's Old Testament class. I feel I did terrifically well. Really. I'm quite pleased with myself. I'm sure I didn't do the best that could be and I'm sure I didn't do my personal best, but I feel that given the tide of this semester, I did great.

I've also decided that every time I make a major change in schools, I have at least one really rough semester. While it was my second semester in undergrad for some strange reason, it was certainly this semester for graduate. And I'm banking on the fact that present trends continue. I really think that will be the case. Next semester will have to be good, because I won't let it be otherwise.

So, I have to go and finish my second final. It's a paper due at the end of today. I can do it. I know I can.

Peace,

Brian