Boy, does my desire to journal nightly wax and wane.
Anyway, today I am grateful for the time Éa and I spent before a magnetic board at Schlow Library with magnetic letters. She was sorting the letters when I walked up, then we started a game in which I would spell a new word to her and she would read it. I got to introduce her to words like “anodyne” and “arachnid.” She enjoyed it—and read everything very well. Later, after I had gone upstairs to pick up a LEGO architecture book for Sullivan and a copy of Wally Pfister’s film Transcendence, I returned to find she had spelled the word “xilafone” all by herself. She was just so chipper and engaged about the whole thing. I like Éa very much.
I am also grateful for rebound from a first hour-and-a-half at work today of distraction (Michael Shermer, Keith DeRose, John Piper) that started as I wanted to corroborate Ethan’s report that members of ISIS are converting to Christianity because they have visions of Jesus. I found new clarity and decisiveness to stay on task and be efficient at work—and it felt great.
Finally, I am grateful for the continue distillation of Christianity in my head and heart as a Way and not a set of beliefs. I still hold those beliefs and them galvanize my commitment to the Way, but my priorities lie in imitating Christ (or our distilled, inherited version of Him), not believing the right things about Him. Meanwhile my confession that my beliefs might be false strengthens my commitment to them.
I think we could resolve some problems if we simply renamed the secular holiday, so that there’s the Christian holiday, “Christmas,” and the secular, gift-giving holiday, “Festivus”.
Voxer is like SMS except with voice messages instead of text. It’s so nifty I think it should come as firmware on all phones. It made talking with Jason Wendle an ocean and half a continent away this morning wonderfully, dangerously easy.
Carla: Sullivan, you have to take a shower. I don’t want to hear any more whining about it. Get in there. Sullivan [walking away into the bathroom]: Aw, maaan! Fuck. Fuck fuck. Carla: Sullivan, what did you just say? Sullivan: Haha! I didn’t want to say “shucks” so I disguised it by saying “puck”—or no wait: “fuck.” Yeah, that was it.
I remind myself how much richer a reading experience is when it is read aloud. I missed Ahab’s boat in Moby Dick; I’m not going to miss Licona’s resurrection train.
Could a fellow charismatic humor my perhaps fussy inner lexicographer? I’m looking for a definition of “enter in.”
I ask because I’m generally suspicious of phrases in Christian circles whose meaning would not be immediately apparent to outsiders. “Enter in” strikes me as an example of the clichéd, mystical argot that helps to maintain power structures and in-group, out-group distinction in an organization. The first way to neuter such a phrase’s abusive possibilities is to provide a clear definition for it.
As far as I can tell, among Bible translations the phrase is unique to King James, and it never occurs in the context we hear it now: Congregational singing. What’s more, it’s redundant—that is, drop the word “in” and the phrase would, at face value, mean the same thing. The problem with that, however, is that we often use “enter in” without prepositional object, and if the guy at the microphone were to say simply “Enter!” during singing time (pause for a moment to picture it), the mysticism of the directive would, I think, be even more apparent.
In the Clover Highlands during my prayer-walk today, I came away with this: The people in front of you at any given moment are the most interesting, fascinating people in the world. Certainly more interesting than myself. Act—and listen—accordingly.
Without an interpreter, my workday with Alexander Amelchev and his family visiting would have been a drag. As it was, with our Svitlana Budzhak-Jones in tow, we had a great time touring the factory, eating lunch at Retro Eatery in Philipsburg, playing at Discovery Space, and eating again at Happy Valley Brewing.
Brave New World is an excellent book so far. And there are effable things I think I’m learning from it, too. What strikes me tonight is the power of something close to hypnopædia: I ought to make use of the apparent fact that if you repeat something assuredly to someone frequently enough, they will believe you.
Carla called me intense this evening at the College Township holiday party and appreciation dinner at the Nittany Lion Inn. Too much face. She meant it as an constructive putdown. Boy, did it dampen my mood. But she’s right: I need to control my energy in social situations that are tied to exciting ideas or where I feel my reputation for something good (singing, progressive vision for the township) goes ahead of me.
Scott: Éa, would you mind if I put on some tunes? Éa: Yeah. Scott [to clarify]: Should I put on some tunes? Éa: Yeah. Scott: Any objections anyone? Éa: Tunes! But don’t put on any objections!
Carla: It’s 7:57. Scott: What!? Already? Carla: I know. Like, what the fUuuuuuUuuck? [moment of silence] Sometimes I say that just to assert my adulthood.
Sullivan: What’s Mama doing? Scott: What do you think she is doing? Sullivan: She is wiping that hanger thinger linger. Scott: Well, that’s a very good name for it. But most people call it a curtain rod. Sullivan: Yes…but I’d prefer to call it a hanger thinger linger. OR…a hanger wanger sanger.
