For lack of anything better to do during sermons, I doodle and write. Every once in a while, something decent pops up. Like in this case. Feedback is appreciated. I'm always interested to see how people interpret my poetry. Now, without further ado, I present to you:

It isn't much...but here's some thoughts and blurbs from Wild at Heart, by John Eldredge, which I am currently reading.

Eve was created within the lush beauty of Eden's garden. But Adam, if you'll remember, was created outside the Garden, in the wilderness. In the record of our beginnings, the second chapter of Genesis makes it clear: Man was born in the outback, from the untamed part of creation. Only afterwards is he brought to Eden. And ever since have boys never been at home indoors, and men have had an insatiable desire to explore...As John Muir said, when a man comes to the mountains, he comes home. The core of a man's heart is undomesticated and that is good.

I smiled when I read that bit. There's a little place in southern Alberta called Crowsnest Pass, where I've spent chunks of my summer, either at Bible camp or camping with family. Every time I go there, I can feel the excitement building as I thread my way through the foothills, the mountains looming higher and higher on the horizon, 'till finally I break through and a sense of peace and happiness overtakes me. Turtle Mountain on the left, the giant boulder field a sobering reminder of how small and insignificant we really are...Crowsnest Mountain herself peeking up out of a valley...passing Coleman and looking at the ranges in the distance, trying to remember all the names. I can't. I know I've climbed McLaren; it's multiple peaks are deceptive up close; you never know which one is the final summit 'till you're on it. While a gypsy at heart, "the Pass" will always be home.

As I said, this'll be a short one, and I wasn't kidding. I'll leave you with this passage to ponder and possibly even comment on:

Society at large can't make up its mind about men. Having spent the last thirty years redefining masculinity into something more sensitive, safe, manageable and, well, feminine, it now berates men for not being men. Boys will be boys, they sigh. As though if a man were to truly grow up he would forsake wilderness and wanderlust and settle down, be at home forever in Aunt Polly's parlor. "Where are all the real men?" is regular fare for talk shows and new books. You asked them to be women, I want to say. The result is a gender confusion never experienced at such a wide level in the history of the world. How can a man know he is one when his highest aim is minding his manners?...The problem with men, we are told, is that htey don't know how to keep their promises, be spiritual leaders, talk to their wive, or raise their children. But, if they will try real hard they can reach the lofty summit of becoming...a nice guy. That's what he hold up as models of Christian maturity: Really Nice Guys. We don't smoke, drink, or swear, that's what makes us men. Now let me ask my male readers: In all your boyhood dreams growing up, did you ever dream of becoming a Nice Guy? (Ladies, was the Prince of your dreams dashing...or merely nice?)

What, in your mind, defines a real man? Do you know any?


Next time, in the Sandbox: Sticks, Stones, and Bazookas - Why little boys love their guns

Today, I captured a sliver of happiness. You too, can capture your own sliver of happiness, by following these simple instructions:

Step One: Dress warm! Boots and gloves and mittens are a good idea, but the jacket and snowpants are optional.

Step Two: Find a large field, preferably away from major roads, and preferably untouched, previous to your impending intrusion. Oh, and it has to be covered in snow. If you're especially brave, try this on a clear night, when the moon is full. First, stop to admire the way the snow sparkles, catching the moonlight and scattering it across the field like a glittering blank canvas. While you're at it, take a deep breath, and hold it. Now, just listen.

I've come to the conclusion that happiness is a mathematical formula. The amount of happiness is directly in proportion to the lack of noise, both immediate and background. I have found, on more than one occassion, that snow acts as a sound dampener. You too, will discover this, when you visit your field. Were you to visit that field in the summer or fall, the air would be bustling with activity, alive with life. In the winter, the snow blankets everything, deadening sound. If you're lucky, the world surrounding you is so quiet that the only thing you can hear is the sound of your heart beating in your ears. In fact, it may be so quiet that your brain is too scared to even think, lest the spell of the quiet stillness be broken. This, my friends, is true peace. The highly sought Zen, the perfect bliss. Savour this moment, for they are few and far between.

What's that you say? Peace does not equal happiness? How very true. That's why there's a third step.

Step three: If you're anything like me, your Zen attention span will last all of about a minute and a half before the ADD kicks in and you get distracted by the way the snow sparkles. Once your moment of peace has been broken, commence step three – start running. This field, this untouched piece of nature's canvas is ALL YOURS! Happiness is breaking virgin snow, knowing that you are the first living creature to leave its mark upon this patch of peace-laden earth. What you do, and the amount of happiness you derive from the experience you are about to embark upon is limited only to your imagination and willingness to make a fool of yourself in the quest for true happiness.

Happiness can be found in anything; from the way your lungs burn with cold fire as you are doubled over gasping for breath after running in circles for twenty minutes. From the sudden and not entirely unpleasant sensation of snow creeping up your jacket (or lack thereof, if you were gullible enough to believe me when I told you it wasn't necessary) and melting against your bare skin. From the somewhat lopsided snow angel in the middle of the field, to the large “SOS” written in boot prints that spans the entire upper half, and disappears into the treeline. From the sudden end of footprints and the large impact crater four feet after that, serving as both reminder and consequence of the tree root you discovered five minutes into your twenty minute circular-shaped run.

Happiness, my friends, is subject to your own reality. Go forge it, and don't forget to giggle.

Oh yeah. That's right. Gramps, you ain't got nothin' on this punk. 11.5km, uphill (both directions, seriously), IN. THE. SNOW.

Yup. I biked to work. And then back home. I hate not having a car. Perhaps it's time to start looking for a house that's considerably closer to my place of employment. But, now nobody can complain about me sitting on my derrière all day, because hey! I walked 23km today.

Pretty soon, I should be winning the Boston Marathon.

What if Death were sentient? What if there actually was a grim reaper, harvester of souls? Personally, I would hate to have that job. First off, 'cause of all the whining, blubbering fools who really don't want to die, but have to 'cause their number's been called - which brings me to another thought: what if God and Satan were locked in a game of Celestial Bingo, and every time a number was called, the soul with that number on it was harvested? It would make the term "your number's up" more feasible. And then whomever called "Bingo" first got to keep all the souls currently inked on the bingo cards.

But, I digress. Harvesting whiny people would be annoying, because not only do you have to kill them, you have to escort their still-whining (and probably still-sobbing and terrified) soul to either heaven or hell. The bigger problem, however, is those who would not go gently into that good night. Guys like Chuck Norris. Sure, as the Reaper, it's the job to kill, but some people tend to be a little more tenacious in their hold on life than others. I can't imagine the robe being conducive to fast-flowing hand-to-hand combat, although it would be quite easy to conceal both body armour and heavy weaponry underneath it. And a scythe, while awesome, is no match for the chainsaw rifle that Marcus Fenix would surely be wielding when God finally dabs his number.

Some tragedy is so great that even death stays away I've heard it said. What if that were the case? What if one were to endure so much trauma at one time that the Harvester of Souls were to take pity on that person and choose to stay his blade? Or maybe both God and Satan were smart, and knew that to end that one's life now would mean an eternity of un-sated vengeance. That would be hell to put up with, for sure.

If the reaper were real, it would explain a lot about death, and near-death. If the reaper were a woman, it would explain even more, like Darwin Awards, and other stupid male deaths. Especially the sadistic ones.

It never cease to amuse and amaze me; the effectiveness of arming 12-14yr old girls with large boxes of chocolate, and then unleashing them upon the unsuspecting general population. I mean, who can resist the disarming smile and big blue (or brown) eyes, pleading with you to please, buy one...this is my bus ticket for our next field trip, and my team jacket...it's going to a good cause!

How do you say no to that? I watched as one by one, my friends knuckled under and paid for packages of chocolate-coated nuts and bars, and then found myself digging through my wallet for that wrinkled old five that lurks between faded receipts and Canadian Tire money, all the while shaking my mental head and telling myself that I'm a spineless sucker. Blue eyes are very effective, what can I say?

Half an almond bar later, I find myself forced to admit that $3 is a small price to pay for happiness, however temporary it may be.

Corruption.

It's a slow, sneaky process. Corruption bides its time - a great evil that cloaks itself in the greatest of virtues - patience. Corruption takes the opposite path of its comrade called revolution. Instead of shouting in the streets and banging on the doors, corruption whispers seductively into even the deafest of ears, the tiniest of trickling brooks that slowly carves a deep riverbed over time.

Looking back over the last year, I realize just how truly deep the seeds of corruption have been sown in me by my friends. I've changed. I've relented my unabashed, ignorant, and unyielding stances on many things. I'm running Firefox: I swore I'd never leave IE. I want an iPod Touch: I swore I'd never give in to the iPod craze. And the final nail in the coffin? I made the switch to iTunes last night, leaving my beloved Windows Media Player and never looking back.

Pretty soon, I expect I'll be installing Ubuntu or Debian, or worse - buying a MacBook. God forbid.

New chapter!!!

This one was a lot of fun (but very hard) to write.

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At least she didn't scream. Alyxandre thanked the powers that be for small blessings as he half-dragged, half-carried her unconscious form down the hallway and into the kitchen. Muttering quietly, he began preparing her for the procedure. The past was a wonderful teacher, and in this case the relevant lesson was that some people were more resilient than others, and sometimes wake up faster than anticipated. As such, restraint is sometimes necessary. Half a roll of duct tape later, Alyx was satisfied that the girl would not be moving from her position on the steel tabletop. After a half second's deliberation, he chose not to gag her – it was three in the morning in the back of an empty coffee shop. Nobody would hear her anyways.

Alyxandre left her right arm free, hanging over the edge of he table, extended nearly perpendicular to her body and hanging free at the elbow. Carefully, he washed and dried the limb, and then made his marks. Now came his least favourite part. Eyes never leaving her face, Alyx placed one hand firmly on her bicep, and grabbed her wrist, took a deep breath and pushed down sharply. The elbow gave way with a sickening snap, and the arm flopped down at a ninety-degree angle, fingers coming to rest over the edge of a large metal bowl sitting on the floor.

“Didn't even twitch. Must've hit her a bit harder than I thought.” Alyx muttered as he unsheathed the slender silver dagger nestled against his spine. Again, as always, the irony of a vampire carrying a silver blade brought a hint of a smile to his normally dark, expressionless face. Force of habit made Alyx wipe both sides of the dagger on the sleeve of his black silk shirt as he stared intently at the arm dangling in front of him. Deftly he twirled the dagger through his fingers, catching the handle and wielding it like a pencil. A quick breath, and a precise, controlled slash. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Alyx smiled. He'd done it right then. Much like a controlled swing with a razor-sharp sword, the aftermath always took time to reveal itself. And, much like the delayed sliding of a head severed from body, a fine line of red appeared, running from elbow to wrist. Rich red blood, bright with oxygen, began running down the girl's arm, briefly collecting on her curled fingertips before dripping into the container below. The drip became a drizzle, which then became a steady flow.

Normally, arterial incisions spurt blood, but five and a half centuries of practice had honed Alyxandre's skill to the point of art. For such a sharp, swift movement, the cut had been remarkably delicate – the incision had cut the artery clean in half, dropping the blood pressure down to next to nothing. As a result, what would normally spurt energetically simply pooled and ran. Nonetheless, five minutes later, and the flow was reduced back to a steady drip. Satisfied that he had collected enough, Alyxandre carefully raised the bowl to his mouth, pausing to inhale the cloyingly sweet scent of fresh blood. Standing up, he took one last look at the girl. She was probably about twenty-one or two, stood about five foot seven, and the natural black hair that haloed her head was probably shoulderblade length. A normally pale complexion was made paler by the severe loss of blood. She had been very beautiful, and that saddened Alyx, as it always did. Through the centuries, he had always chosen the prettiest girls as his victims, if only to remind himself that in spite of the world's filth, life could still be beautiful, even if only in appearance. It was his one reminder of a past lifetime, that even now, five and a half centuries later, Alyxandre Charon was still human, no matter what the virus had done to him.

With that last sobering thought, he raised the bowl to his lips and tilted his head back, letting the warm, sticky liquid fill his mouth and slide down his tongue, coating his throat. Alyx closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, and tipped the bowl back, letting the blood pour straight down his throat. Ahhh....delightful. A rare treat this is.

The cluster of wooden stakes blew through Alyxandre's ribcage like buckshot. Some glanced off ribs, shattering and splintering inside him, piercing every vital organ housed inside the cage. Some were clean through-and-throughs, punching in and back out, looking like minature comets with their trails of crimson. The shock and agony was paralyzing – a perfect counterpoint to the blissful savouring of wine. The bowl slipped from senseless fingers, impacting on the edge of the table and splashing everywhere. Alyx managed one last blood-filled sigh as his eyes rolled back, and he pitched forward on top of the girl, his lifeblood pumping out and intermingling with hers, dripping off the table and down her arm, which still hung at it's unnatural angle.

Two voices spoke, sounding like they were at the end of a long tunnel, and getting farther away.

“Got 'im.”

“Yeah, he won't be getting back up, ever. Good shooting, mate. What about girlie here?”

“She's bled out, bro. Too late to save 'er, I guess. Oh well. Let's go, before someone...”

Darkness enveloped his soul, cold and black and...comforting.

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This is my latest attempt at story writing. It's very short at the moment, but I hope to add some more to this chapter later tonight, and then have semi-frequent updates as time progresses. The working title of this novel(la) is "The End", and is basically going to be a series of flash images of critical events, that hopefully will all tie together somehow and make sense by the time I'm done. For those of you who've read my previous work, The Silver Blade, this is what TSB is becoming. I decided to gut the story and change the plot, but keep certain things from it, as you'll notice later. There will be constant editing and updating of each chapter/episode, so be sure to check back over old entries every once in a while, to see how the continuity and flow get tightened up. So yeah...without further ado...The End.

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He awoke to the sound of screaming. A few seconds later, the man came to the realization that it was the sound of his own voice that echoed off the storefronts across the deserted street. Picking himself up off the sidewalk, the man staggered onto the road, glancing up and down its lonely trail, hesitant and uncertain. I...can't...remember. The harder the man tried, the bigger the mental wall seemed to be. Again and again he threw himself against its unyeilding surface, bashing his head against the figurative wall hard enough that one could almost hear the “splat” of his brain matter on each contact. Each time, he found himself coming up blank on the smallest details. Where am I? *THUD!* What day is it? *THUD!* What is my name? *THUD!* Where am I from? *THUD!* Who am I? *THUD!* Do I have a family? *CRASH!*

Finally, breakthrough! A single fragment of a memory: a young girl being pulled from his unwilling grasp and thrown roughly into the back of a car, her panicked scream for help cut short by the slamming of the door, and the shriek of rubber skidding across pavement. They have my daughter. 

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Slowly being changed. Check back often!

...Does it really die? I've found myself debating kicking this tired old beast back to life, and wondering if there's really a point. Everyone's on Facebook now, and if they want to blog, they post a note there.

So, if that is the "norm", then I, as one who does his best to not conform, yet not be unconformist, shall continue to blog, rambling on about nothing and everything, and simply link it to my Facebook note application for the win. Conformation, yet not. Walking the same direction, but to the syncopated (and often random) beat of my own little drum.

I'd love to proudly proclaim that The Sandbox is back in business, but if I did that, we all know it'd promptly lie back down and die yet another horrible death. Entertaining though that may be, I derive more entertainment from amusing myself by writing entries that probably only David reads (scared ya didn't I, eh Dave?), but since I'm linking this to pretty much everything, people are going to be reading this and groaning, because Nik is playing mind games again, and making them read something completely pointless and not really that funny.

But you're still reading. And Nik is smiling all the more because of it. Because that, ladies and gentlemen (and Dave), is the mark of a great writer. Not to sound my own gong or anything...

Perhaps later this week I shall have a guest blogger, or perhaps I'll just have another blog entry, slightly more clever than this.

Au Revoir,

Nikolai

I've been researching for a novel I'm writing, and I came across this entry in a history timeline:

1114 AD -   Two peasants at Soissons are accused of holding meetings outside of the Church. A deep vat of water is blessed. One of the peasants, Clement, is tied up and tossed into the tank, and he floats, leading to the conclusion that the "holy water" has rejected him and that he is therefore guilty. After this, the other peasant confesses. Two others are imprisoned with the two. Local people excited and passionate about heresy break into the jail and burn the four to death. 

Does that sound familiar to anyone?

Wot floats?

A Duck!

There are no races, only countries of people Chuck Norris has beaten to different shades of black and blue.

Chuck Norris once invited all of the other badasses from TV to duke it out in order to see who was the supreme badass. Only two showed up-- Jack Bauer and MacGyver. MacGyver immediately tried to make a bomb out of some Q-Tips and Gatorade, but Chuck Norris roundhouse-kicked him in the solar plexus. MacGyver promptly threw up his own heart. Jack Bauer tried to use his detailed knowledge of torture techniques, but to no avail: Chuck Norris thrives on pain. Chuck Norris then ripped off Jack Bauer's arm and beat him to death with it. Game, set, match.

Chuck Norris eats steak for every single meal. Most times he forgets to kill the cow.

Chuck Norris can win a game of Trivial Pursuit with one roll of the dice, and without answering a single question... just a nod of the head, and a stroke of the beard.

In the Words of Julius Caesar, "Veni, Vidi, Vici, Chuck Norris". Translation: I came, I saw, and I was roundhouse-kicked in the face by Chuck Norris.

As an infant, Chuck Norris' parents gave him a toy hammer. He gave the world Stonehenge.

Chuck Norris was banned from competitive bullriding after a 1992 exhibition in San Antonio, when he rode the bull 1,346 miles from Texas to Milwaukee Wisconsin to pick up his dry cleaning.

Chuck Norris is the only person who can simultaneously hold and fire FIVE Uzis: One in each hand, one in each foot -- and the 5th one he roundhouse-kicks into the air, so that it sprays bullets.

Chuck Norris can do a roundhouse kick faster than the speed of light. This means that if you turn on a light switch, you will be dead before the lightbulb turns on.

Chuck Norris sold his soul to the devil for his rugged good looks and unparalleled martial arts ability. Shortly after the transaction was finalized, Chuck roundhouse-kicked the devil in the face and took his soul back. The devil, who appreciates irony, couldn't stay mad and admitted he should have seen it coming. They now play poker every second Wednesday of the month.

When Arnold says the line "I'll be back" in the first Terminator movie it is implied that is he going to ask Chuck Norris for help.

People created the automobile to escape from Chuck Norris...Not to be outdone, Chuck Norris created the automobile accident.