It started off in a rush. Evin fainted in the boy’s locker room before gym class. He could almost remember coach Greyson trying to revive him. The other boys, in various states of dress, hovered over the beefy coach’s shoulders.
Then he was on a bed in a hospital room. Then his parents were following him as he rolled along on a bed to the operating room. His mother was holding his head, saying, “It’s going to be all right honey, its going to be all right.” His father followed along, holding her hand. They were a train of confusion, a medical engine pulling a paternal caboose.
Then the engineer in the form of a nurse disconnected the rear portion of the train, and he went into surgery.
“This won’t hurt a bit, just remember to breath,” said the Anesthetiziologist. He then cupped a plastic mask around Evin’s lips, “Breath deep.”
He did.
“One,” said the doctor.
The gas tasted like tangerines, tangerines and iodine, tangerines in his lungs.
“Two.”
Tangerines deep in his nostrils.
“Three.”
Tangerines clogging up his brain, wedging there like an unnoticed dress in a car door, catching mud and muck from the road that would never quite come out.
“Four! Keep breathing deep.”
His eyes closed. He was on a porch, that proverbial porch that old granddads are supposed to dispense wise advice to young children from.
“Five. That’s great.”
His brother, Curtis, sat there next to him. Curtis was young, not off in college, but still clean shaven.
“Six.”
He opened his eyes; the blue capped doctor was looking down at him. The clear plastic mask obscured some of Evin’s vision.
“Seven.”
He closed his eyes. His brother looked at him, and said, “Remember when you used to say you could fly.”
“Eight.”
“Yeah.”
“I told you you couldn’t. Or I’d ignore you. I was wrong. You can.”
“Nine.”
“I always told you I could.” Evin said. He tried to open his eyes, but couldn’t.
“Ten.”
And he flew, for a time. And then he opened his eyes, malformed blue doctors and red nurses floated around him. He couldn’t move.
He felt the pressure on his groin. It was a strange, outward, inward, upward, sensation, and then he felt the heat rumbling around in his chest, the heat right there in the pumping lifeblood, a mellow heat, increasing as the object stayed there, radiating, unnaturally, there. He could feel the IV too, butterfly needle tapped there against his knuckles.
It felt too much, all of it, and the world fled from him.
(to be continued)
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Thursday, January 18, 2007
It feels like Wyoming out here!
It is Windy today, I mean REALLY windy. Got wacked in the head with a branch (I'm fine) when coming home from Hebrew. I biked at one point, thought I was going to be carried away as I biked into the wind.
Peace,
Chris
Peace,
Chris
Deep Thought Thursdays: All you need is love
All these things we do that come from God are mere manifestations of love. Now we see them as specific things, things that so easily become self-important idols. When the great trumpet sounds and the stained glass is finally shattered, when the mirror image is made manifest and enfleshed, when the sheet music becomes a symphony, when our own dreams are washed away in the great flood of daybreak, then we will see it as it truly is, love.
If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.
Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.
And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.
Sunday, January 14, 2007
Sunday's Story:Highlands Ranch
Here is the second of Luthermatrix's newest weekly feature, Sunday's Story.
Highlands Ranch
“They looks like Yaks,” Beemer said. He had been quiet all that morning. Kevin Bram wasn’t sure if the old cowhand’s heart was in it.
“Yep,” Kevin replied, still embarrassed at the homeliness of the cattle his brother had asked him to watch, “Sure do. Or Wooly mammoths.”
“Umhum,” Beemer agreed, chasing a sleek black longhorn away from the red Highland Cattle that they had separated out from amongst Bill Bram’s herd.
They looked out of place there on the Wyoming plains. Their fuzzy, overgrown, almost comical, appearance seemed to mock the lands sparsity, the stubby clumps of buffalo grass, the treeless expanses meeting the breathless, cloudless, blue, sky.
Bill had brought two dozen of them there two summers ago from Peterhead. Six months ago he’d bought another dozen from an outfit in Minnesota. By all accounts it was a good venture. By that first summer he was in the black. When Governor Freudenthal gave his speech about Wyoming’s role in the 21st century he used Highlands Ranch as a backdrop.
“You sure you want to do this Kevin?”
Bill had always been the odd one. Kevin never forgot seeing him for the first time at the Hospital. He was tiny, a little pale alien, with a few strands of red hair atop its head. Andrew and Kevin Bram had dark brown, nearly black, hair and Molly’s was not much lighter. Apparently Bill was the spitting image of Miriam, an aunt Kevin never met.
When their father would take them out to mend fences or tool on the bailer, or birth a calf, Bill was always distant. At first, they thought it was just because he was younger. As he got older though, they realized he was just different, “Like Miriam” his mother would always say. He’d go on long walks around the property, or watch ants, or have his head in some book. In short, he was never productive. “Like Miriam.”
“Yep Beemer, I’m sure.”
It came as a surprise to no one when Bill left for Cheyenne and took courses at L-trip. What did surprise them was when he came home unannounced and offered to sell his portion of the ranch to Kevin for 3,000 dollars. Kevin talked it over with Rachel, they’d gotten engaged that Christmas. He’d have been a fool not to, Bill’s part of the inheritance was worth at least ten times that. So they got a loan and Kevin gave his brother the check.
Bill cashed his check and announced he was going to Europe. Andrew didn’t like it any, thought his son didn’t know what he was doing going there, said as much, and said it often. Molly told Bill to get her a picture of the Eiffel Tower.
Beemer went to the cab of his beat up, low riding, brown Dodge and took out a tool kit from the floorboard.
Mom got a letter from Bill once a month and a post-card of the Eiffel Tower that summer. Bill was a tour guide in Spain, a waiter in Italy. When Rachel and Kevin got married they received a bottle of Saint-Emilion and a fancy cutlery set from Belgium.
In 1990 they had their first child, Henry, and that same year they received a package postmarked from Berlin. It contained a piece of concrete from the Wall, and a picture of Bill kissing an East German woman.
Being all bunched together as they were, the red cattle were getting nervous. They stamped their feet and tried to go as they pleased. Kevin sauntered around their perimeter on Betsy, keeping them in line.
Then seven years ago Kevin got a letter from Bill about this Highland Cattle nonsense, along with pictures of the red beasts; big, snot mouthed, fur covering their eyes.
Bill just needed 3,000 Pound Sterling to get things off the ground. He’d met a man in Glasgow that wanted to unload his family’s holdings up North for next to nothing. Bill promised his brother a double return on his money. Kevin wrote back, saying that he didn’t have that much. It wasn’t true, but they did have a fourth mouth to feed, James, and it seemed prudent to save.
They didn’t hear much from Bill for a few years, though Molly got cards from Poland, Greece, Moscow, and then again from Scotland.
Beemer took out the wire cutters. He got to the fence, and stopped. He turned and looked at the cows, the shag nearly covered their eyes that looked at him for a clue as to what was happening.
“He’ll be in Denver ‘til late,” Kevin reassured him.
Then one day Andrew Bram asked his son to pick Bill up from DIA. He went, after all his father had told him to. He’d waited in Denver, looking at that damn flight schedule. The 1429 out of Heathrow arrived three hours late.
His brother returned with the clothes on his back (dark slacks, a green woolen sweater, and scuffed shoes) two large books (“The Complete Works of William Shakespeare” and “The Open Society and Its Enemies”) and a briefcase (containing various contracts, deeds, and governmental forms) and nothing else. Nothing else that is save a monstrously full red beard and long unkempt red hair that hung around his face.
Kevin found out later that his father had lent Bill the 3,000 Pounds and was now a shareholder of Ambler and Bram Agriculture, a multinational involved in farming throughout the European Union. He also found out that Bill would be raising his cattle not even 15 miles away from home.
So Beemer cut the wires, quite a few of them. The two men mounted their horses and rode to the rear of the herd. They started to move them toward the holes in the fence.
They bolted like sheep, red blurs scattering everywhere. The horses were startled, Betsy threw Kevin. Some of Bill’s cattle went through the fence, but most returned to be in among the typical black Wyoming cattle.
Highlands Ranch
“They looks like Yaks,” Beemer said. He had been quiet all that morning. Kevin Bram wasn’t sure if the old cowhand’s heart was in it.
“Yep,” Kevin replied, still embarrassed at the homeliness of the cattle his brother had asked him to watch, “Sure do. Or Wooly mammoths.”
“Umhum,” Beemer agreed, chasing a sleek black longhorn away from the red Highland Cattle that they had separated out from amongst Bill Bram’s herd.
They looked out of place there on the Wyoming plains. Their fuzzy, overgrown, almost comical, appearance seemed to mock the lands sparsity, the stubby clumps of buffalo grass, the treeless expanses meeting the breathless, cloudless, blue, sky.
Bill had brought two dozen of them there two summers ago from Peterhead. Six months ago he’d bought another dozen from an outfit in Minnesota. By all accounts it was a good venture. By that first summer he was in the black. When Governor Freudenthal gave his speech about Wyoming’s role in the 21st century he used Highlands Ranch as a backdrop.
“You sure you want to do this Kevin?”
Bill had always been the odd one. Kevin never forgot seeing him for the first time at the Hospital. He was tiny, a little pale alien, with a few strands of red hair atop its head. Andrew and Kevin Bram had dark brown, nearly black, hair and Molly’s was not much lighter. Apparently Bill was the spitting image of Miriam, an aunt Kevin never met.
When their father would take them out to mend fences or tool on the bailer, or birth a calf, Bill was always distant. At first, they thought it was just because he was younger. As he got older though, they realized he was just different, “Like Miriam” his mother would always say. He’d go on long walks around the property, or watch ants, or have his head in some book. In short, he was never productive. “Like Miriam.”
“Yep Beemer, I’m sure.”
It came as a surprise to no one when Bill left for Cheyenne and took courses at L-trip. What did surprise them was when he came home unannounced and offered to sell his portion of the ranch to Kevin for 3,000 dollars. Kevin talked it over with Rachel, they’d gotten engaged that Christmas. He’d have been a fool not to, Bill’s part of the inheritance was worth at least ten times that. So they got a loan and Kevin gave his brother the check.
Bill cashed his check and announced he was going to Europe. Andrew didn’t like it any, thought his son didn’t know what he was doing going there, said as much, and said it often. Molly told Bill to get her a picture of the Eiffel Tower.
Beemer went to the cab of his beat up, low riding, brown Dodge and took out a tool kit from the floorboard.
Mom got a letter from Bill once a month and a post-card of the Eiffel Tower that summer. Bill was a tour guide in Spain, a waiter in Italy. When Rachel and Kevin got married they received a bottle of Saint-Emilion and a fancy cutlery set from Belgium.
In 1990 they had their first child, Henry, and that same year they received a package postmarked from Berlin. It contained a piece of concrete from the Wall, and a picture of Bill kissing an East German woman.
Being all bunched together as they were, the red cattle were getting nervous. They stamped their feet and tried to go as they pleased. Kevin sauntered around their perimeter on Betsy, keeping them in line.
Then seven years ago Kevin got a letter from Bill about this Highland Cattle nonsense, along with pictures of the red beasts; big, snot mouthed, fur covering their eyes.
Bill just needed 3,000 Pound Sterling to get things off the ground. He’d met a man in Glasgow that wanted to unload his family’s holdings up North for next to nothing. Bill promised his brother a double return on his money. Kevin wrote back, saying that he didn’t have that much. It wasn’t true, but they did have a fourth mouth to feed, James, and it seemed prudent to save.
They didn’t hear much from Bill for a few years, though Molly got cards from Poland, Greece, Moscow, and then again from Scotland.
Beemer took out the wire cutters. He got to the fence, and stopped. He turned and looked at the cows, the shag nearly covered their eyes that looked at him for a clue as to what was happening.
“He’ll be in Denver ‘til late,” Kevin reassured him.
Then one day Andrew Bram asked his son to pick Bill up from DIA. He went, after all his father had told him to. He’d waited in Denver, looking at that damn flight schedule. The 1429 out of Heathrow arrived three hours late.
His brother returned with the clothes on his back (dark slacks, a green woolen sweater, and scuffed shoes) two large books (“The Complete Works of William Shakespeare” and “The Open Society and Its Enemies”) and a briefcase (containing various contracts, deeds, and governmental forms) and nothing else. Nothing else that is save a monstrously full red beard and long unkempt red hair that hung around his face.
Kevin found out later that his father had lent Bill the 3,000 Pounds and was now a shareholder of Ambler and Bram Agriculture, a multinational involved in farming throughout the European Union. He also found out that Bill would be raising his cattle not even 15 miles away from home.
So Beemer cut the wires, quite a few of them. The two men mounted their horses and rode to the rear of the herd. They started to move them toward the holes in the fence.
They bolted like sheep, red blurs scattering everywhere. The horses were startled, Betsy threw Kevin. Some of Bill’s cattle went through the fence, but most returned to be in among the typical black Wyoming cattle.
Friday, January 12, 2007
Writing Contest
This sounds cool, the "American Idol" of writing... I know I'm going to submit my book (the question is which one?)!
Peace,
Chris
Peace,
Chris
Thursday, January 11, 2007
Deep Thought Thursdays: Practice is important
I've thought some about what type of weekly features to have on Luthermatrix. I've come up with two, Deep Thought Thursdays and Sunday's Stories. Judah, or anyone else, if you have any good ideas for weekly features let me know, I'm still open to suggestions.
Peace,
Chris
Practice is Important
This past term I have been learning Hebrew. Yes REALLY learning Hebrew. Every day I go over verb conjugations, look at flash cards, and translate both from Hebrew to English and English to Hebrew. I’d done Hebrew before this year of course, but I hadn’t maintained a consistent routine of study. I had done class work, but that was it. Likewise when I learned German and Latin in High school, and the Clarinet in Junior High. I did the work, but no practice.
Work is what is required. Work is “the real thing.” Work is where brilliant insights are made and blinding flashes of inspiration flicker from some muse. Practice is the cornerstone of wrok. It is the furnace in which the tools of work are forged. Practice is what is necessary for the required. All the flashes of insight in the world are short-circuited without practice. A muse without practice would be emaciated, she would not speak, only grunt.
And I say all this not only about learning languages, but about living. What we do not consciously commit ourselves to maintaining will fall away.
Peace,
Chris
Practice is Important
This past term I have been learning Hebrew. Yes REALLY learning Hebrew. Every day I go over verb conjugations, look at flash cards, and translate both from Hebrew to English and English to Hebrew. I’d done Hebrew before this year of course, but I hadn’t maintained a consistent routine of study. I had done class work, but that was it. Likewise when I learned German and Latin in High school, and the Clarinet in Junior High. I did the work, but no practice.
Work is what is required. Work is “the real thing.” Work is where brilliant insights are made and blinding flashes of inspiration flicker from some muse. Practice is the cornerstone of wrok. It is the furnace in which the tools of work are forged. Practice is what is necessary for the required. All the flashes of insight in the world are short-circuited without practice. A muse without practice would be emaciated, she would not speak, only grunt.
And I say all this not only about learning languages, but about living. What we do not consciously commit ourselves to maintaining will fall away.
Tuesday, January 09, 2007
Reader Input: bloging series
As those who read my blog know I've been rather lax in my blogging. I want to fix this, and the best way I can think of would be to start some sort of weekly feature on my blog. Problem being I'm short on ideas, so I'm asking you, the reader, to suggest a weekly feature for Luthermatrix.
Peace,
Chris
Peace,
Chris
Are we at war again?
So, this reminds me of when one of our drones blew up a jeep in Yeman a couple of years ago. Basicly my question is are we at war in Somolia or do missle attacks not count as an act of war? Is this a 'police action'? How common is this kind of thing?
Not that I'm exactly Somolia intervention, I'm just wondering what this kind of attack is?
Peace,
Chris
Not that I'm exactly Somolia intervention, I'm just wondering what this kind of attack is?
Peace,
Chris
Monday, January 08, 2007
I’m back in Cambridge
Well, after a couple of weeks vacation I’m back. I had a wonderful time. Hogmanay was canceled because of bad weather, but mom and I managed to find a Scottish pub to celebrate New Years in, we also went to the Highlands and saw Edinburgh Castle. Then we met up with Kyla in London and saw a lot of the city, from St. Paul’s to Shakespeare’s theater, Trafalger Square to the Tate Modern, Big Ben to Parliament Westminster to the Dali museum. I’ve also been introduced to my new favorite beer, Leffe.
Peace,
Chris
Peace,
Chris
Tuesday, December 26, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
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