Only that which is named is able to live in language...

Words are not what they signify. We confuse the signifier with the signified. Words are only words. They live in an atmosphere of their own.

Words are suitcases crammed with culture.

- from "The Prowler" by Kristjana Gunnars

Claude* strikes again!

The ever vigilant Claude made an appearance for the awareness of unlocked lockers. Such a worth and oft forgotten cause. It was an unprotected locker, two down from Melissa's, it's valuable textbooks left open to the grasps of would be thieves. Before securing the locker Claude left a note to both entertain and shock the owner into remembering how exposed their property could be. Fight the good fight Claude. Perhaps one day there will be a world where every locker is secured.

11-11

Soon the drone of voices died down as men in their blankets lay down to get the much need rest they would require in a few hours. I think that very few of them slept. They probably were trying to picture what they would be doing at dawn in the gloom that confronted them. I think a lot of them prayed for the first time in their lives. And most of all dreamed of their homeland, and ones dear to them. Some wondered if they would be afraid, others felt they wouldn’t return, others felt a guardian over them, others didn’t know, they were the victim of circumstances and confined their odds to fate.
...
Then came the familiar words. “Driver Advance!” My foot gradually released the clutch pedal and I knew we were rolling off the T.L.C. It was not my hand but one of invisibility that guided me as my fingers touched the tiller bar. “A little left! Steady! Driver right!” Something was making me calm and stealing my nerves. Perhaps after all it was the hand of Fate. I felt Bloody proudly sway to and fro as she mounted the ramp and then defiantly plunge down onto the beach. Over the wire came, “Driver halt, blow your cortex.” Calmly amidst the din of the already raging battle I grasped the plug that would blow the water tight sealing and open my vision hatches onto the scene of Hell.
What I saw I have not enough words to describe but I shall always remember.

-excerpts from my Grandfather's journal the night before and morning of Dieppe


WWII was my grandfather's war. I know nothing of war. Nothing of the fear of being shot, of capture, or heroism and squandered lives. Not even the wars that are fought today are my wars. The idea is too far beyond me to wrap my head around. The tragedies are to large for me to comprehend or encapsulate. The whole too much to understand. So in trying to mourn the whole war I feel almost nothing. I simply can not understand it enough to feel it all. So on these days, on Remembrance Day I think of my Grandfather. My Grandfather who I only know from his war time journal that he left behind and the words of his children. My Grandfather who I know was so mentally and emotionally destroyed by the war that the man who left for the war never really came home. I understand this grief better, this morsel of the full story. And maybe just remembering this small part of the whole is what I'm supposed to do anyway.

Set the Sails

After months of deliberating, praying and contemplation I have resigned from Ignite 107. I was becoming too bitter about the inner workings of the station and it was affecting the rest of my life. A negative emotion poison that was seeping into my general consciousness. I haven't been happy there for a long time, but it had reached a whole new level. But, I do care about the station and the roll I feel it should be playing, so I spent a little over a week writing, restarting and altering my letter of resignation. The first drafts were rather angry and accusing upon rereading, but I eventually ended up with this:

Ignite 107/Goldenwest Radio,

I have been with the station for almost a year now. It has been a beneficial experience and I feel that I have grown as a result of my time here. However, I feel that at this time Ignite is no longer a good fit for me, nor I the best person for the position. You need a person that can share in your vision for the station and has a passion for radio. So at this time I am hereby giving my two weeks notice.

Ignite walks a tricky path. In representing yourself as “Christian” Ignite has placed a responsibility and standard upon itself that is difficult to follow. Your intentions are to minister to people but must still consider the bottom line. I pray that God will bless the station and help it grow into a prosperous business that can represent Christ well and be a support to the listeners.

In my first meeting at Ignite I was told, “we are not going to change the world.” This has stuck with me and bothered me immensely. That is exactly what Ignite should be doing. I am beginning to see this view surface. Take more risks, push more envelopes, be willing to make people uncomfortable or the station will slowly die.

I would like to encourage the station especially in moving the power over the playlist to Kyle. The people on the front lines should be the ones making the music decisions. All the on-airs have a passion for the music and have a vision as to how Ignite can best thrive. Let passion be the driving force. I also encourage you to look beyond CCM. In my experience CCM is a bad system. It draws moral and spiritual safety lines based on distributers, and labels. There are amazing Christian musicians with artistic merit and deep spiritual messages that are not distributed by the easy channels. Reliance on the charts and mainline distribution will create stagnancy and stump the stations possible effectiveness. God is the ultimate creator, let the music on the station be a celebration of that and worship to Him.

In all your actions with staff and the community let the love of Jesus permeate completely. Do not be a business filling a market niche, be a Christ intentioned business.

I will continue to hope for Gods will to be done in the future of both Ignite and CHVN.

Joel Schwab

Hopefully this is a step back to take two steps forward. I don't have any real work lined up yet, but I'm trusting that God has something for me. Regardless of work (or worklessness) I feel energized, empowered and inspired. Being free of the poison alone makes it worth it.

City of Joy

This fell out from the back cover of my bible the other day. I've had it sitting on my desk since then. There are two sets of twins that usually sit with me during church, two boys, two girls. One of the girls, Dorris, gave this to me. It's a map, but the most beautiful map. And that she called it "City of Joy" creates some inarticulate feeling akin to wonder. I don't feel like I have anything else I can form into words.

If wishes were horses, more beggars would ride them.

Ah, disappointment. How bitter you taste and how you linger in the back of my throat. Especially after the sweet whiff of possible freedom and success.

There was an internship at Merit Motion Pictures, a documentary company, I applied for this weekend. It looked absolutely perfect. An 18 week internship with full time hours, and a pay of 12,000 for the load. It involved mostly working with their website, organizing their database, and learning how to work in a production company. My hopes were high. I even have a friend in the company, so the odds were looking good.

The interview this morning wasn't perfect, but I thought it went well. However, the rest of the day I was playing it over in my mind. I should have said that instead. Why did I say that? Did I talk over her there? Did she notice? Each small error got it's own part starring on the stage of my mind in a play of second guess with a with a run of 1500 shows. Needless to say I was a little preoccupied all day.

They were to let me know tomorrow morning, but the email came tonight. They decided to go with someone else. I feel so very defeated. Mostly because I feel that it was my own doings in the interview that lost me the position. There is no consolation but a job. I'm going to go to bed and sleep off this sour mood.

I feel like this today. Melancholic and not making complete sense.

Extract from a romance which is not yet written and probably never will be

To a Modern Poet by GK Chesterton
(The resolution for some reason is very low, so click on them to see them in their full and readable form.)



Books touch that deep down part of me that you might refer as my inner child. They get me excited. It's not just the reading of them, but the tactile experience of them. The crinkle of the pages, the slight grain of the paper rubbing up against the tips of your fingers as you pass your hand over it, and in the case of old books, the smell of history that only something of past generations has. This is a love affair that has been going on for some time.

This past weekend I struck gold. It has become a habit of mine when going into any used book store, as I can often be found doing, to ask if they have any Chesterton. Most often they will have a copy of "The Man Who Was Thursday" or some of the Father Brown collection, both of which I purchased long ago. It just so happened this time that they had a copy of collected poems by Mr Chesterton himself. A first edition printing of "The Collected Poems of Gilbert Keith Chesterton" from 1927 in surprisingly great condition for being over 80 years old. When the owner of the bookstore handed me the book I was positively giddy and the story of the pearl of great price kept running through my head. Thankfully it only cost $25, a steal for such a valuable pearl.

The book held more treasure than I could have guessed. Beyond the accidentally unevenly weighted text on the rough cloth paper pages, included were newspaper clippings from the 20's and 30's. Some about the book, some not. (I love the typo in the second paragraph of this one where they refer to him as Mr Chesterfield.)



DEH Cleveland MD, the previous own of the book whose claim to the copy was found on the inside cover also left notes throughout the book. It is interesting to see what moved this total stranger, but fellow Chesterton lover. Looking through the book it is fascinating to see what poems he marked off with a short line in pencil beside the title. It feels like a strange connection to some person I have no real connection to. It is like I am privy to the ruminating and thoughts of a stranger, an odd sort of voyeurism.



I found this photo in there as well. No markings on it to say who is in the photo. Is this his mother holding his son? Perhaps, it is his grandmother holding him when he was a child. It is left to the imagination to tell the story and fill in the gaps.

A treasure of a book, and I look forward to reading each of it's 356 pages.