What's up with me? I'm busy, and I'm sick. That's basically it. On with a crazy life even though I cough 'till it hurts and have an externally chapped nose. But it's nicer then when I had the sore throat.
That said, what I really wanted to tell you is a story. A story about 40,000 children.
Yesterday I got together with a bunch of friends. And one asked us if we'd heard of the Gulu Walk. We had not. I don't know if you have, but it's a walk that was held yesterday to raise awareness. A ten kilometer walk to think of the kids who have to walk from the country to more populated areas every night in an attempt to keep themselves safe from the Ugandan rebel army. These kids are the untold victims of a harsh civil war. Captured and forced to be soldiers and sex slaves.
So my friends held their own Gulu Walk. A small act that won't make any difference. Unless making us think about can help change something somewhere.
I was smart. I didn't go. Because it was hard enough trying to wait up for them to get back. And I'm not resting enough to get better anyway. But also because I was able to stay back and feel perfectly safe. Because I don't need to make a two hour walk every night.
And so maybe that's the good it did. Because suddenly my cold doesn't seem quite so bad. I'll get over it eventually.
realize. (dial-up users beware. The link has a video clip).

I steal Cor's bike for the afternoon. I then zip around town. Small town alleys. Rough paths. Classic shortcuts. A quick glance to make sure the coast is clear before dashing across the road. With my hair blowing behind me.
It's true when they say you never forget how to ride a bike.

I'm starting to remember what I dislike about sitting on my rear for hours trying to find the correct answers for too many questions in a row.
I'm starting to remember the thrill of figuring the right answer after trying twenty times.
I'm starting to remember the frustration of fighting against stupid english courses that tell me to believe in not using incomplete sentences.
In short, school returneth.

I was singing Larry Norman. Not even his most impactful song, as far as I'm concerned. The one that goes,
I've been shot down/
kicked around/
some people scandalize my name./
But here I am talking 'bout Jesus just the same.
Talkin' bout Jesus. Shouldn't that be what it's about? Talking about Jesus, living for him, putting him first before everything else? Going out and doing what we think he's leading us to.
But it's not. I tell myself that if I was forced to choose I'd stand as a martyr for him. But How could I? When I don't even do the simple act of having time with him regularly in a country where I'm free to do so. When I don't even bother asking him to guide me except when I'm stressed and I need relief. But only to fix my mistakes.
I go through life. I've set my standards. I know where I draw my lines at what's wrong. Still mildly confused when faced with some stuff. But I try to follow the guidelines given to me. But then I don't read them. Because I think I find them boring.
I get caught up in theology. And I think we should learn through it. Study it. Form our opinions. And be able to face the tougher questions. But at which point did it turn from 'Yeah, brother!' to 'Yeah, but do you accept your denomination's doctrine?'.
There's a lot of important issues out there. And they need to be faced. But in the end it needs to come back to what's basic. And what's important.
So let's hear it.
There is love in the red letters/
There is truth in the red letters/
There is hope for the hopeless/
Peace and forgiveness/
There is life, in the red letters/
in the red letters. (lyrics gratis of DC Talk)
And you have no idea how hard it's been for me to keep this post as simple and basic as I have.

Both of us sitting at either end of the couch. Under our own blankets, and deep in our own books. Our toes touching. Aware the other is there. But not thinking of it. Unless we come to a section of our book that needs sharing. Or let our minds wander to a thought we need to tell the other. Until we're back in our books.
I involved in the plot of an Agatha Cristie. Her deep in some philosophical novel. And each of us planning to read the other's. Once they're through, of course.

When I was younger and hair wraps were big I used to want one. To sit on those lawn chairs at those outdoor markets and have some hippi chick bedeck my hair in my chosen colours. I believe Meg and I tried on our own a couple times. We weren't very succesful.
Which is why I agreed on spontaneousness today. I was wondering the town. Studying graffiti, realizing the college was closed (Sat. Duh), and eating fresh butter buns from the bakery. Oh yes, and visiting the last weekend market of the year. Between not buying eggs and buying half a pound of hot peppers I walked past a table set up by a couple younger girls I mostly know.
"Do you want a hair wrap?"
Laughs. "I don't have much in the way of hair."
"Oh well. Then it's cheaper"
"About how much?"
Shrugs all 'round, "Depends what you want to pay."
I was shown a gift bag full of tangled embroidery thread, and three samples.
"O.k. Where's your longest hair?"
"Oh man. I don't know. Just choose somewhere."
"eeny meeny miny mo."
Five minutes later I handed over fifty cents and walked away. A one short section of my layered hair striped in tangerine and aqua blue.
Maybe they're not quite hippis. And I don't have that long strand that can swing in front of my face anymore. But I have a hair wrap.

I just bought gas. And then I remembered that today was the day I was supposed to "stick it up their behind". Meaning if the whole of North America didn't get gas then prices would have to drop.
I don't know who starts those things. You gotta know they won't work. And let me tell you, I wasn't the only one not buying gas.
There's about two places in town that stayed twenty cents cheaper then everywhere else today. And I had to get in on it.
I think maybe I should give up driving all together.

When I was little I had an umbrella. I loved it. I would go outside when it rained just so I could use it. And stand dry beneath well I heard the crisp pop of drops landing on plastic.
It had strips of white and blue. You know, classic umbrella style. And on each white strip there was a picture of a little girl also holding an umbrella.
One day something strange happened. Out of the corner of my eye I saw one of the little girls simply disappear leaving one plain strip of white. It happened so quickly. But the little girl that was me was pretty sure it had happened.
And then it suddenly reappeared.
I looked my umbrella over carefully. After a complete investigation it was clear that every white strip had a little girl. And so I lowered myself to a quick search for secret buttons. Even though I was old enough, or just simply logical enough, to know I wouldn't find any.
I let my mind wander to fairies. But only briefly. I definitely knew better when it came to that.
I had no choice but to file it as freak. Imagination. An unexplained phenomenon. And to know that I would get laughed at as childlike source of humour if I tried to tell anyone.
And then I forgot it.
Fifteen years later I've suddenly remembered it. But now I'm too old for it to hold any sense of mystique. Life has taught me a few pretty straight forward explanations. Like, say, blind spots. A phenomenon...maybe. But one completely explainable through science. One that would've intrigued the four year old me. But disappointed me at the "simplicity" of it. To know that there are plenty of people out there capable of telling me exactly what had happened. Something so much more complex, but maybe not so cool, as secret buttons.
But not all is lost. The other day I brought a row of cows into the parlour. Suddenly, from between two of them, falls a pen I'd never seen before. Freak? Imagination? And unexplained phenomenon?
Definitely enough to respark my curiosity anyway.
Maybe when I'm thirty I'll suddenly remember it, grin to myself, and then tsk at the simplicity of the answer.
I hope not. There should always be something to make one wonder.

How come you don't realize when you forget?

I find the term, "Ah...We're camping," to be somewhat flawed. Indeed your camping. At least I hope you are, if you're going to say it. So, first of all, it's a statement of the obvious. Second of all, it's an over used excuse. I dropped your sandwich, that's o.k. We're camping. I haven't shaved in a week, but yeah, we're camping. Ah, screw it. We're camping.
Most importantly, that statement is flawed because physically, scientifically, and emotionally you are still the same as when you're at home. Well, besides being a bit more sunburned, happy, tired, and carefree. But your germ tolerance doesn't officially go up. Your standards of beauty don't have any real reason to go down. Unless you're generally prettying up for the guy at the office. If you're that kind of person, you're probably not camping in the first place. You shouldn't be able to stand sand in your bed any more then usual simply because you're in a tent. "A little dirt never hurt anyone" should be as relevant in the backyard as around the campfire.
All the same, we use it. We use it like crazy from the first minute we set up our tarps and throw on our swimsuits. And, somehow, we come out better for that casual embrace-it attitude.
Ah, I was camping.
I played volleyball and wrestled on the beach. Stayed up late playing with coals. Whispered to the next sleeping bag. I went skinny dipping, and hiked trails. I windsurfed, dived from the dock and had to give in to sunscreen. I laughed. I ate s'mores after supper and smokies at midnight. I pulled on my hoodie well still wet from the beach, and sat around the campfire playing Mafia. I went rock climbing, repelling, and tried to out sing my cousin, to start the list.
In short, I enjoyed this years vacation. Did I really need to say that?