This morning a helicopter landed in my kitchen. (Part I)

This morning a helicopter landed in my kitchen. I was about to step into the shower at the time, but I thought, “that doesn’t sound like my helicopter!” So I stuck my half-naked torso out of the bathroom door to take a look. I didn’t see any helicopter. But then I thought, “well…maybe it’s one of those invisible kinds the military deploy.” I decided to go investigate.

First, I made sure my towel was secure (helicopters can sometimes create a lot of artificial wind and the blinds were open and I didn’t want to expose myself too much). Next, I puffed my chest up all big like. And then, I started screaming like a banshee while running down the hall.

The helicopter didn’t seem to notice: there were no anomalies in the ruckus to signify the helicopter had noted my presence. I grabbed my titanium broomstick and started poking the air to locate the geographical position of the helicopter. I was unsuccessful. The helicopter seemed impervious to my poking and prying.

I then began to doubt the existence of the invisible helicopter. And at this precise moment the incessant noise of massive blades chopping air ceased all at once. Perhaps the helicopter had completed its landing? Or perhaps the helicopter was merely a figment of my imagination?

Just as I was beginning to question my sanity, the noise started up again…this time, however, the sound was located in the air duct above my stove. The helicopter had somehow managed to teleport itself into the air duct while at the same time changing its overall volume. Intriguing little bugger that helicopter was.

Unfortunately, the helicopter didn’t have much room to maneuver inside of the duct: I could hear the sound of its blades slicing into the walls of the duct. I still had my trusty titanium broomstick in my hand and I used it to pop loose the grid that covered the fan. Somewhere behind that fan the helicopter hovered. I took a step back to catch my breath and consider my next course of action.

This morning a helicopter landed in my kitchen. (Part II)

My gaze lowered to the stove top: little pieces of muck, mixed with broken twigs scattered the surface. “Why are there twigs inside the air duct?” I said to myself. That’s when I came to my senses…

Those little twigs were actually logs: when the helicopter had changed its overall volume, everything inside the helicopter had changed too -including its cargo! I wondered why the helicopter was transporting logs into my kitchen. I didn’t have long to consider this; the helicopter was approaching the fan. Why had I removed the grid!? Stupid! Now the helicopter would infiltrate the rest of my kitchen. I held my ground though, and I poked at that pesky little helicopter with all the chutzpah I could muster. To my delight, the helicopter quickly retreated up the air duct with a series of high pitched screeching sounds. The sound grew more muffled and distant over the next few seconds. Then …nothing. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was finally rid of the helicopter.

I reached for the grid with my fingers and was about to pop it back in place when I noticed something slightly suspicious: above the fan I could make out a little mound of muck and twigs. Had the helicopter deposited its load? If so, what an odd location! Perhaps I had knocked some of it loose with my swift poking skills. This made more sense to me. I returned to my earlier muse: why was the helicopter transporting logs into my kitchen? I needed to get a better look at the load, so I gave the mound a few well aimed pokes. To my great surprise tiny little eggs tumbled out of the duct and fell –directly- onto my frying pan. What a great surprise! The helicopter must have been on its way to a bush family up in Moosonee or some other little Northern town…on it’s way there with supplies: logs, tar, eggs, and who knows what else. I looked down at the little eggs broken and leaking all over my frying pan: there were quite a few. I wasn’t planning on having breakfast before my shower, but I consider myself a pretty flexible guy, so I made myself one big fat omelette. Boy was it good. That helicopter sure had some good eggs.

I have an album by a fellow named Ali Farka Toure. He is a farmer from Mali who every couple of years leaves his sheep and crops to record some of the most exciting music played on the guitar.

I am not sure which country the guitar belongs to. Some say it is an American instrument that evolved from the ukulele or the mandolin. Others link the guitar to the work of Spanish craftsmen. It is hard to say: countless folk traditions have appropriated the guitar and made it their own.

As far as I am concerned the guitar is an African instrument. How could I think differently after hearing Ali Farka Toure?

If language is an instrument, which country does English belong to?

A guy like Salman Rushdie picks up English as if it were a beat-up ol' guitar...he knows its history. He also knows it can play new songs. He takes it to his shop and reshapes it. He may find for it a few alternate tunings. He may even add a couple extra strings.

I like how malleable English can be. It gets shaped into so many different forms. The plays people in other countries perform on it are so varied and interesting. Which country does English belong to? I refuse to choose.

Student Life is now in the process of tracking down my exam.
I guess this means I have to go home and nap.
Oh well.

innocent(?) ar·chae·ol·o·gy

letters from old lovers. photos of childhood friends.
subtle pains of remembered pleasures.
unexpected pride in the touch of forgotten scars.

the stories I carry are whispers of hands
slow explosions of unspoken words
shifty ghosts waiting to be
excavated by gentle brush strokes.

In the Hum-Drum Desert there is an oasis of weirdness. Its name: The Illustrated Diary of Struan R. Sutherland. Go and visit. You will not be left dry.

Currently, my favourite is “At The Hospital”. Yesterday, I printed it off and then coloured it in with magic markers. It was a happy moment.

"Butternut Squash" gets my vote for best Redeemer soup of the year.

I have compiled a short-list of the ultimate Redeemer insults (…not that anyone at Redeemer would ever have need for such a list)
ta da!:
-“Dualist Dufus”
-“PoMo Piece of Pooh”
-“Feminist Fembot”
-“Arminian Anus”

feel free to shy away from the alliteration…
you can even try a combination
(like)
“I hope your unworthy arminian ass
falls into
a post-modern piece of POOH!”

Oh and don’t forget to regard your Christian sibling as better than yourselves!

Predestination is the topic of discussion for this evening’s class. In preparation for such an event I spent three hours of my afternoon in bed and the last three hours reading about it.

My conclusion: God is beyond my capacity to understand. Why does He choose me and pass over another? None God chooses are worthy, so how does He decide? Only silence answers. Election is absurd.

Grace is absurd. Its comprehension so often seems beyond me. And when I do "get it", it's a knowledge that spreads from my gut...an invisible mustard seed God buries in the knots of my intestines.

Fyodor Dostoyevsky writes: “At the last Judgment Christ will say to us, ‘Come, you also! Come, drunkards! Come, weaklings! Come, children of shame!’ And he will say to us: ‘Vile beings, you who are in the image of the beast and bear his mark, but come all the same, you as well.’ And the wise and prudent will say, ‘Lord, why do you welcome them?’ And he will say: ‘If I welcome them, you wise men, if I welcome them, you prudent men, it is because not one of them has ever been judged worthy.’ And he will stretch out his arms, and we will fall at his feet, and we will cry out sobbing, and then we will understand all, we will understand the gospel of grace! Lord, your kingdom come!”

Grace is a shock and a scandal. And so we try to dim its blinding brightness; it seems too good to be true. Brennan Manning has helped me see this. I am beginning to open my eyes to the gospel of grace.