Obsure Reference to a Bob Dylan Song

Tonight I was reading over my old blog entries. A blog that a friend had written reminded me of something that I had written in the past, so I went searching for it. While I was unsuccessful in finding that particular entry (if it even exists) I instead got the chance to re-read what I had written two years ago. It doesn't seem like I've been blogging for that long, but apparently I have.

I wrote better then, not to mention more consistently.

I found a number of themes that arose in my numerous blogs. One was cynicism and sarcasm, which pervaded every entry with startling force. It is not like all my entries were "woo is me" emo rants, far from it. Some of my blogs were laced with hope for the future. Others were filled with observations of the world's hidden beauty. I don't know how much I've changed in this fashion. I believe that in the past couple of years I've become more knowledgeable about the world, how it works, and humanities relationships with each other. This information hasn't managed to stifle my scathing rebuke of current social conditions. At the same time, this information has also provided me with a wonder for the world only matched by the first time that I saw a butterfly take flight.

Another theme was women, and oh my.. the times they are a changin'.

A lot changes when you go from being single to being in a committed exclusive relationship. I suppose my entry called "My War on Dating" wasn't as "victorious" as George W's war on terror. No, instead my whole viewpoint towards women has changed. I don't know what it was then, and I don't know what it is now. Perhaps one day I'll sit and attempt to sort out in my head exactly who I believe Lori to be, but that question is so huge that I can't comprehend the implications while procrastinating writing yet another paper.

One thing that hasn't changed is my thoughts on the eyes of a woman. I wrote once, "Anyways, throughout my years I have met many an eye, some blue, some brown, some green. I hope my wife's eyes will someday be more beautiful than any I have ever seen". That much is still true for me. To be perfectly honest (and that is what blogs are for, some would argue) Lori's eyes are the most beautiful I've ever seen. It is not because of their particular pattern (though magnificent) or their color (sometimes brown, sometimes green, depending on the lighting/the color of her shirt/how drunk I am). I'd say it is mostly because of the way that they look at me. When she looks into my eyes she knows me for who I am, and she's willing to keep looking there because she sees something beautiful. Sometimes for the life of me I cannot figure out what that is, but I trust that what she sees truly exists, and for that reason alone I can love her.

Isn't It Interesting...

Tonight a group of us went to our professor's house for refreshments and discussion on anything that might arise from our class discussion. I think if I was there an hour longer I would have started talking, but there was enough to fill the silence so I let it go by.

One of the most profound thoughts that I came across was the realization that in our post-modern world, this younger generation is desperately looking for some concrete answers. Our hearts are in the right place, I believe, help thou my unbelief, but we don't know truth in some of the immense "gray" areas. I guess to an extent we as Christians have to be content with not knowing, but that seems to be the answer to all of our questions these days.

Another thought was regarding the idea of mentorship, and how it ought to look. This could be in regards to vocational desires (pastoral, teaching, etc) or spiritual. Though sometimes I wonder how separated those two really are. I think we're not doing a bad job of raising up our children, but we're having a tough time raising up mentors to train those children once they're no longer children. We're also having difficulty teaching people to be teachers, and pastors. How can you learn to pastor unless you're given the chance to minister, to speak with the dying, to preach to the congregation? How can you learn to teach until you're given the chance to communicate?

The only solution we have right now is the idea that we have to create for ourselves our own learning environment. I think we're too used to being spoon fed exactly how we're supposed to learn, so that we are prepared. I'm just glad we're finally realizing that our education system is not fully preparing us for ministry, as scary of a thought as that may be.

Dirty Christianity

I recently began reading Stumbling Toward Faith, by Renee Altson. It scares me.

I'm terrified when I think of all the misuses of the name of God. I used to worry when I said "God Dammit" or "Jesus" under my breath that I was "using the Lord's name in vain". I've been known to use Jesus' name lightly, alluding to him being a close male friend who I've spooned with, or a pimp. I sometimes call him a self-righteous bastard, but that one's theologically correct so I think I won't be in purgatory as long as some people. I think a stronger violation of that particular commandment is when Renee was raped by her father while he recited the Lord's prayer. For some reason I think God is angrier when that happens.

I also get worried about the abuse of the church. There's story after story of her life how the church abandoned her when she needed help the most. The scary thing is, I can more closely identify with the institutions than I can with the author. Essentially, she was one rotten apple (no surprise) and as such, caused disturbances and distractions. It makes sense, democratically and financially, to remove the distractions so that the majority of students/church members could benefit.

I remember Jesus saying something about 1 in 100. I don't think he was joking, or exaggerating. I think we've cut our losses and gone home for the night.

Who have I injured without knowing? How many people have hidden pains, unthinkable pasts that I so callously ignore because it doesn't fit into my comfortable expectation of faith? Oh God, forgive me for my ignorant, life destroying actions that I thought were for the best.

I was wrong.

Dirty Jobs

The other day while watching our regular "Dolbert Show" combo (The Daily Show with Jon Stewart as well as The Colbert Report), some guy named Mike came onto the show. He's the host of a show called "Dirty Jobs". Essentially he goes around the country and works the dirtiest jobs, from sewer technician to chick sexer.

It makes me glad that I don't work.

Sustenance

sustenance

1.	means of sustaining life; nourishment.

2.	means of livelihood.

3.	the process of sustaining.

4.	the state of being sustained.

I think we, in the North-American culture, have a difficult time picturing God as our sustainer. I mean, for the most part we don't have an issue with viewing Christ as our Saviour, or Jesus as Lord and Master. That's simply ingrained theology from the time when we were prayed with next to our bedsides. God as Sustainer, however, has more difficulties.

I believe this is because we're really quite self-reliant in this post-Starbucks world. We no longer have any needs; we live in a world of our wants. Safeway, in all reality, is our sustainer. It is Save-On-More that provides for our physical nourishment, it is BC Hydro that accommodates our electrical necessities, and it is our paycheck that continues those services in our favour. My daily bread comes not from the Lord, but from minimum-wage's benevolent hand. Our mental stresses can be overcome with the power of positive thinking, and our emotional needs can be quelled, to the point of submission, by a variety of biologically and chemically manufactured prescriptions. In the quest to reduce human pain and suffering, our society has fabricated a world that no longer needs God.

I think that here, at CBC especially, we've idolized and idealized the idea of suffering. We learn about the heroes of church and Anabaptist history and we dream of having the faith to put our lives on the line for the praise of God's holy name. We believe that one day, when someone puts a gun to our head, we'll have the strength and courage to proclaim our faith to the nations. This, we think to ourselves, is truly suffering for the Christian faith. In a dream world of extreme situations, God exists in a seemingly desolate world. However, in the mundane Earth we currently reside in, God abandons us when we encounter the mildest of inconveniences. I think that we've forgotten that the martyrs first had to go through extreme physical and mental suffering before they were able to lay down their life. Surely they were held malnourished, beaten, and tortured for some time before their death. The knowledge of your family suffering because of your unwillingness to deny your faith, or being completely separated from your friends and fellow believes would be utter anguish. Dying is easy; suffering takes eyesight beyond the physical world in front of us.

I don't hold a theology of suffering. I don't believe that I have to be killed for my faith to be a real Christian. I do, however, recognize that the apostle Paul calls us to join with him in suffering for the faith. I have no problem with the fantastical impression of dying for my faith, in fact, I welcome Hollywood-esque moments into my life regularly. I do have a problem with suffering through broken relationships, stress, or the flu because of my faith. Surely, if God were real, he would have prevented these cumbersome annoyances from penetrating into my life of faith.

No. If I accept the theology of God as my sustainer, I will begin to recognize that God will get me through all things. He will give me the strength that I need for the day; or the moment that I am suffering and in pain. He will provide me with the encouragement to keep fighting, he will love me when I need to be loved. He will feed me when I need to be fed, and give me rest when I am too tired to go on. He will light my path only when it is too dark for me to see for myself. When I believe these things to be true, my relationship with God shifts from the stagnant binary to a wholesome organic where I am given just what I need, not what I desire.

The Left Behind Series

For my Timothy and Titus class, I have to present to the class a false teaching that has affected my Christian thought and behavior. So this is what I ended up coming up with, and what I shall present to the class tomorrow. I wish I had something with more substance, but seriously, my theology has always been perfect! Tough life, this is...

It was difficult for me to come up with a specific false teaching that I could look back upon and say with certainty that it was this instance in which I was duped into misguided theology. Part of this is because of the similarities between my church's theology and the theology of CBC, and the other part is a combination forgetfulness and forgiveness, I'm sure. So it ended up being an outside source that altered my theology. This perpetrators in this instance are Time LaHaye and Jerry B. Jenkins, authors of the infamous “Left Behind” series. I know that their theology has probably affected a number of you, but I get to go first.

For those of you that don't know, the Left Behind series is a fictional account of “the last days” which is based on the premise of the Rapture, a theory in which Christians are “taken” or “caught up” from Earth to Heaven. In the series, the bodies of believers simply disappear, leaving behind clothes, jewelry, dental fillings, and so on. This concept has only been around in the church within the last 200 years. So reading this, as a preteen and young teenager, I fully believed this work of fiction to be based on probable events. This was firstly because it was in my church library, and secondly because the authors referenced certain sections of text, namely Revelations, which seemed to align with the fictional events that were taking place. While I knew and understood the literature to be a fictional account, it promoted a theology different from the one portrayed in the Bible.

I specifically remember a time when I desired for the rapture to occur and to not be taken up into the heavens so that I might be able to be one of the Tribulation Force Elite, like on the newest video game released in the series, Left Behind: Eternal Forces. I wanted to be like Buck or Ray and fight in the clearly divided world of Christian versus non-Christian. I kept waiting for the end of the world so that I could start beginning to act like a real Christian. I stopped reading the series when I realized just how poorly they were written, and how bored I was becoming with the characters.

It was actually here, at CBC during my first year of college, with John Vooys, when I realized that there were perhaps other interpretations to the book of Revelations. From there and through classes like Church History, I've been able to see a variety of possibilities for a biblical interpretation of the last days, some of which are more biblical than others. Like the false teachers from Ephesus, the authors of the Left Behind series actually believe their theology, as according to statements that they've made on their website. However, I've come to accept a theology where these are, already, the last days, and now is the time in which I should be acting like a “real Christian”.

Comment, if you can, before I present on this so that I might take your suggestions.

Cold to Joy

I've always grown up assuming that I'm a pessimist, perhaps a modern day Cassandra. I'm a critical sarcastic cynic that presumes the worst in people and events. Yet, for some reason, recently I haven't really minded getting sick.

I mean, it's not that I enjoy waking up at night with snot running out onto my pillow, or that I like it when I can't talk for the amount of phlegm in my throat. I don't take pleasure in spending a day with dirty Kleenex in my pocket, coughing at my girlfriend (woot!) or wincing every time I eat something. But sometimes, I don't really mind.

I mean, there's so much good about being sick. First of all, there's the obvious pity that is lavished upon they that are diseased. While I don't normally prefer to be pitied, when such circumstances are above your control, you might as well appreciate it. Along with pity comes others willingness to take on tasks that you normally would've been more than able to do yourself - like make dinner, walk to the grocery store, or wipe your ass. Now, there's always someone willing to do that for you, because, well, you're sick.

Beyond the pity, when you engage in sickly behavior you suddenly have an excuse for anything you do that would normally be unforgivable. It's like a blank cheque for human interaction. If you get bored with the conversation, you can sneeze or wipe snot from your nose. If you are caught feigning interest you can simply say that hey, you're sick and it's hard to concentrate. You no longer have to attend class for fear of infecting others (you're clearly being selfless here), and you can "forget" to do things because you were distracted by the overwhelming pain surrounding and impounding your entire body.

Also, when you're sick you can drink lots of tea, which is always good.

A Metaphoric Siesta

I fell asleep on my couch today.

I'm back home in Kelowna, in the house I grew up in. Everytime I come home something has changed, whether it's the location of furniture, or the color of a wall, or the absence of a tree. This time the most has changed, as my parents are getting ready to move. They painted a hallway, they replaced doors and put up a tree. They traced from the wall where we marked the progression of our height as we grew. This way, we can take it with us, wherever we go.

My family was just doing their own thing today. My mom baked some cookies and my dad shoveled the driveway. My sister and her husband just lay around and watched old episodes of Survivor, catching them up to the season finale that we all could watch as a family tonight. We made deep dish pizza and ate it together, as a family. This afternoon I threw myself into one of Douglas Coupland's novels, Life After God. It's a collection of stories about a postmodern world. One page says nothing but, "You are the first generation to grow up without religion". I knew this, but I never really thought about how badly it's impacted our society. We really are the first generation to be built without a faith system in place. We have the choice, and look at what a choice we've made.

Reading made my head tired, and as the sun set my lighting faded. I was sitting in our upstairs living room, my back to the open window that my dog was staring out of, perched atop two pillow cushions in the corner of this particular loveseat. I put the book down on the coffee table in front of me, rearranged the dog's tail so as to make room for my skull, and took off my glasses. I curled up into a little love seat, six feet fitting into four. My knees protruded far out over the edge of the makeshift bed, but I was balanced and I was tired. As I lay there, I entered into a world of transition; a world between reality and the supernatural.

I wholeheartedly believe that there's more to this world than what I see and hear and touch. There's something beyond us; something that is hardly expressable in anything except symbolic language. I am unable to literally describe what is hidden behind light and objects, all I can do is hope to allude to a metaphor of understanding. I think most people would agree that there's a God, or at least a celestial order or design that is exhibited in the world. Nature is too refined and organized to have been adventitous or inadvertent. Biblically, we believe that the apostle Paul had a "second sight" that could see beyond the current physical realm to something beyond himself. For centuries there have been countless numbers of people who were willing to lay down their present life because of their belief in the future. Something is out there, above and beside us.

As I lay on the couch, my mind played dreams through my head in the style of Douglas Coupland's writing. His disjointed sentences and fragmented narration clearly reflect the postmodern world. My dreams came and went, some were remembered but most were forgotten. The dog left her perch and I rolled from one side to the other. Now my feet were hanging loose, free for predators and assassins to strike. The scarf I was wearing around my neck began to choke and warm me beyond my original intentions, but I was lost in another world. The clock on the wall was my only source of sound besides the constant clatter of family member's movement throughout the house. The quiet drone of the TV downstairs drifted up the stairway to ears that were unwilling to listen.

Perhaps it was because I was reading postmodern literature, but I saw my torporific nap on the couch as a metaphor to how I often live my life. I like to take a backseat in the majority of affairs. I'm not the kind of guy that would willingly step forward in crisis situations to become a leader. I don't grab the reigns of the runaway horse, even if the woman in trouble is beautiful and potentially rewarding. Sometimes things happen that disturb me, that might "push me over the edge", but after a short, brief time of intermittent discomfort, I resume my previous path of self satisfied slumber. The things that I hold to most dearly in life, the things that I believe will keep me warm and safe, are often the things that choke me and slow me down. And sometimes, people will think that my behavior is odd and come to take pictures of me in the fading light of day.

I don't know if I'm reading into coincidental situations like that time I thought I was getting a pony for Christmas, but maybe there's something to this whole unlikely situation. Maybe there's something more to life than simply existing; just waiting for the next day to start so that it can finish. I seem to think it is conceivable that sometimes things happen for a reason, and that we can find reason, truth, understanding and beauty not in the literal, but in symbolic, in the metaphoric, and in the emblematic. I can't define God, but I can read you a fairy tale about Him. I can't grasp ahold of beauty, but I can allude to it. I can't describe my love, but my poems will shout it out.

Egotistic Labor

I must admit, the most recent reaction to my blog has been swelling my already engorged ego. It causes a pleasant rush of endorphins to have nine comments (four of which are fake) in reply to my paltry thoughts. Surely, I say to myself, I am an important person.

Today I spent the majority of my time steam cleaning. I cleaned the carpets of my college's Columbia Hall, the local residence for female students. I will not lie, it is weird to be in their place of residence, normally locked down with key, pass card, and numberpad to prevent the atrocious and overbearing attacks of male pubescent boys. The spring air brings not aromatic wisps of love, it seems, but rape hangs heavy. Except for between 12 and 8 every other Sunday, where the gates are temporarily opened to the unsuspecting masses and where chemistry and biology are closely monitored. Yet here I am, walking freely amongst the skeletons and tumbleweed of an otherwise unoccupied citadel of death.

So the process of steam cleaning, as it was explained to me, is "not hard". He certainly wasn't lying. What he forgot to mention, however, was that this process not only involves what is, essentially, a wet vacuum, but that it inadvertently also sucks my soul. The high pitched whine of the two, count them, two vacuum engines is combined with the dull low roar of the spray pump. This enveloping sonority reaches through my oral canal to effectively disassemble my humanity. Beyond that, the motion of this banausic task has become a 50's film projector, complete with scarred and tearing frames, looping endlessly the seven seconds it takes to steam clean one three foot line of blue carpet. This archaic visual aid plays from behind my eyes, the clatter of the reels drumming through my skull, flashing its nightmare onto the back of my eyelids.

I must get to bed, I have to steam clean some more carpet tomorrow.

By the way, my thesaurus has become my new Bible. I read it more often.

Embrace the Adjective

This is Alan with too much time on his hands.

Essentially over the last four months I've had this little thing called "Post Secondary Education" distracting me from the responsibilities of my blog. As my friend Rachel used to point out in her link to my blog, quite bluntly, "doesn't blog very often and won't get a more descriptive title until he does". Well, that was true. I've been quite reticent to blog recently mostly for time purposes. I spent the majority of my day thinking and writing, so why would I bother continuing to think and write when I instead have the opportunity to sit back and relax while watching mindless explosions?

However, seeing as school is finished (and I did rather well. Of the three classes I've gotten final marks back from, I've got straight A's. I haven't had that since elementary school) I have plenty of time on my hands to sit back and think; to reflect upon the world as I perceive it.

Last night I watched the movie "Dead Poets Society", featuring Robin Williams. I had seen it before, but this time I think I was better able to appreciate the message and/or themes of the film. One of the most obvious ideas that stems from this film is the idea of "Carpe Diem", or "seize the day". I'm not sure if this is the original that we're introduced to this Latin term, but it certainly has become an iconic moment in movie history, being parodied in various films since it's inception. Clearly the idea here is the encouragement for young boys to get what they want in life, and if they can't, blow their brains out.

Actually the thing I found most beautiful was the section where the main characters finally enter into Keating's English class, where he tantalizes them with this quick monologue:

"We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless--of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life? Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse." That the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?"

We live to read and write poetry. What is it about the rhyming verse that touches our soul? Is there some hidden deeper beating of our hearts that is inaudible to the ear and insensible by the hand? Why, when I think of love, can I only paint pictures in my mind using the vocabulary that I've been breed to use? I must learn more words to begin to comprehend the vast entirety of this deep emotion that beats beneath my ribs; an unquenchable yearning for an intimacy so beyond myself it pricks at my skin to think about it.

Later on in the film this exact thought is played out between Keating and one of his pupils:

Keating: A man is not "very tired". He is exhausted. Don't use "very sad." Use, come on Mr. Overstreet, you twerp.

Knox: Morose?

Keating: Exactly. "Morose." Language was developed for one endeavor, and that is, Mr. Anderson. Come on, are you a man or an amoeba? Mr. Perry.

Neil: Uh, to communicate?

Keating: Nooo!! To woo women!

I cannot express the love that I have using biophysics. I am unable to dance out my desire to be intimate. One is too austere, the other too recondite. Language, somehow, captures the best of the abstract and the literal, combining them through simile and metaphor. Embrace the adjective, express your love.

The Christmas Bus

I'm sitting here in my apartment, with the curtains open. It's 10 minutes until 5 o'clock, and the sky is dark. There's just the last hints of blues that I can perceive near the mountains to the north of me, mostly hidden by the reflection of my dinning room chandelier. Behind me, my hide-away couch has revealed itself, and the comforting sight of a soft soaring eagle tempts me to curl up within it. I am seated upon a stool, the only object the right height and width that can fit between my living room bed and the wooden desk this keyboard sits upon. It is less than fully comfortable.

I'm sitting here thinking about all the things that I could've done with my day. I'm thinking about the people that I could've called and forced to hang out with me. I'm thinking about the book that I could've read, the letter I could've written, or the newbies I could have fragged. I'm thinking about how my whole day has been waiting for three people to call, whom I called first, who said that they were wanting to spend time with me today. I'm thinking about the TV shows I watched while I waited.

As I sit and think, I stare outside, my back hunched and growing sore. This stool is lacking in back support, and I lack in self discipline to sit up straight. The headlights of vehicles momentarily allow me the view of white and yellow painted lines. In one moment, a public city bus drives by. This bus has been decorated with Christmas cheer. Antlers adore the front and center of this fantastical contraption, alluding to none other than the red-nosed reindeer. The large shatter resistant windows on either side are bordered with blue and yellow lights, glistening and glowing in the freezing night air. From the outside, it appears like four quick dancing squares gleefully float past my view. From the inside, I'm sure, the added light causes reflection of the interior back to the passenger and driver alike. I'm forced to wonder if the accident rate of the public transportation system rises in the advent season. Anything else they see from inside must surely be tainted too blue and too bright.

It's interesting to consider the measures humanity goes through to celebration the passing of time. How much money is spent buying presents for other people that they may or may not fully enjoy? How much time is spent redecorating restaurants, houses, and city streets for three weeks of the year? What would happen if I forgot Christmas was December 25th and it slipped past, unnoticed? Would I feel a sense of loss, knowing that only 19 of my 20 December 25ths were spent reflecting on my presents and home cooked brunch, or would I simply shrug and say, "Oh well, I'll catch the next one", like the skytrain to Main Street.

Alas, one might argue that the Christmas/Advent season is about remembering the coming of Christ, and perhaps even the second coming as predicted by Stephen Colbert. I personally question whether or not Jesus would have supported exchanging hundred dollar gifts with other members of your upper-middle class white North American family or if he would have spent Christmas Day with the homeless in downtown Vancouver. Or whether he would have voted in favor of passing whichever bylaw allows public buses to "spread holiday cheer" like the Who's down in Whoseville.

Fever Dream

At the end of the fall semester, '05, I got sick. Real sick. I don't normally get sick, but this time I did. I guess the stress and lack of decent eating finally caught up with me, and I got sick. When I do succumb to disease, it's always hardcore. There ain't no sniffles or a slight headache when I get sick. I get man sick.

So I had a fever. And I was trying to sleep during the day, while Jeff (my roommate) was working on a final paper. Jeff was also sick, but his was like a "my-throat-is-congested-owie" type sick. Sadly, this drove me nuts as he constantly cleared his throat. I was lying in bed, during the day, with the lights on and Jeff typing six feet from my head, hacking and coughing. Making the exact same sound every 30 seconds.

Now, if you've ever had a fever, you know that a few things can become rather annoying. Light, of which there was plenty (Jeff didn't want to work with the lights off. Might strain his eyes), and sound, again, of which there was plenty (thanks Jeff!). So I wasn't in the best of moods. I was lying in bed, wearing my full day clothes (jeans and all), underneath two blankets, shivering and sweating. The sounds were driving me nuts, my eyes hurt from the light, and I was thirst. Always thirsty.

This is how my day went: I woke up with the fever, wrote an exam, went to bed while Jeff worked on his paper. Every two hours from noon until aprox. 10pm I would wake up out of my fever dream, drink 1 liter of water, pee, and go back to sleep, where the fever dream would resume. And when I say "sleep" I mean toss and turn, groan in pain, and generally hurt. I couldn't sleep because it was day, the lights were on, and Jeff made noise. I'm not bitter.

Anyways, I look back on this with a fond memory (except towards Jeff), especially regarding my fever dream. My fever dream was this: A pillow army. That's right. There was a pillow army, and I was making the army grow by my movements. A turn of the head, a shake of the dreads, a generally thrashing motion, that would increase the size of the pillow army. If I stopped moving, at any time, they would shrink. Probably because we were under attack, dontchaknow. They died, so I had to make more. And more. And more. So I kept moving, thrashing about in my bed, making my pillow army grow enough so it wouldn't run out. Thankfully, we never did.

I tell you this because it's a metaphore for my life right now. I am living the fever dream. Not the pillow army, technically (I can only hope...), but this (note to self: I just discovered, through a type, that the words "this" and "shit" have the same letters. go figure):

While the dream occurs, it's numbing. You don't feel the pain. You wake up every once in awhile and the pain comes back, but as soon as the dream is there, the pain dissapears temporarily. When you are awake, you're in a daze, groggy and disoriented. You feel like you have sweat crusted to every orifice of your body. You feel like gum dragged on pavement - sticky and worn thin. The dream prevents the pain from occuring for a time, allows your body time to heal.

I am in that dream. This summer is my fever.

One day, I'll look back fondly on most things and remember that summer I just spent working and living in Kelowna one last time. One day. For now, I'm just sweaty, thirsty, and generally quite cranky.