I meant to turn this blog into a storytelling blog, a place where I could freely sketch the stories in my head that were clamoring to come out. As you can see here, that hasn’t exactly happened. Yet. I’m not sure when it will, either.

I don’t talk about this blog much here because it’s not something I do, nor do I want to seem like I’m pitying myself or being self-righteous. (You just came off as pitiful to me with the previous sentence. -Ed. Do us all a favor and shut up.) That will change now because I’m in a bit of a quandary about this website.

I have no idea what to do with it.

When I regularly blogged here, I tried to come off as neutral because I didn’t want to seem overly argumentative or opinionated. Guess what? I may not be overly argumentative - at least, I’d like to think I’m not - but I’m very opinionated. Very. This started coming out at the Livejournal I keep, but I wanted it to stay there and not show up here. Guess what again? I started posting there more than here. This is a blog. That is…well, my “rant space.” But now it’s switched: that’s my blog and this is a personal site with a great design that I don’t feel free enough to post about anything. Will I come off as snobbish? What if I can’t refute an opposing argument that disagrees with one of my opinionated posts?

Know what? I don’t care anymore if I can refute anything.

I’m a pretty open-minded person and I enjoy hearing the opposing point of view, so long as it tackles the subject and doesn’t attack me personally.

So when I do start blogging here again, regularly, you’re going to see the opinionated Rhesa, and often. Whether or not you like her is up to you.

PS: And yes, I’ll post short stories and “flash fiction” here, too, if and when I get my writing mojo back.

PPS: (See, Rhe? You just solved your blogging problem right here. Be glad. Be proud. -Ed. Thanks. I think.)

Nowadays most people rely on e-mail to write letters to loved ones and acquaintances. Others like, say, an American soldier deployed overseas, still use paper and pen, depending on how isolated the environment is. Regardless of the form, letters overall are a vital tool of communication. They range from being personal to professional to nasty to anonymous, and the messages they convey are just as diverse.

The people I love to send letters to the most are my friends, for numerous reasons: to gripe, to praise them, to catch up on their lives and they on mine, to debate or argue with, and to exchange ideas, opinions and truths.

How about you? Who do you like sending letters to most and why?

I’m reposting this for introspective’s sake. Have a good weekend.

I’ve come to realize that I like to think in questions. I ask questions of myself and of others (yeah, you know who you are, especially those of you who’ve had to endure my “psychiatric evaluations"). I’ve discovered a lot about myself and about life in general through questions. I can’t tell if it’s just because I’m curious about everything, and it’s certainly not because I want to be more knowledgable about any one thing, but the “difficult” questions always help me understand things better.

Perhaps this is just as well.

This isn’t really a Halloween post, but I’m sure you can find plenty of those elsewhere.

Right now I’m thinking about clashing cultures. Hugo wrote a good post on this subject that prompted a little soul-searching for me; and then I stumbled across this article that served as an extension of Hugo’s post and my reverie. This lil post is only a result of combining the two.

On my mom’s side, I’m a second generation American; on my dad’s side, third generation. I don’t go along with the [ethnicity here]-American hyphen thing. I consider myself an American. End of story. (On earth, anyway. In heaven, I’m pretty sure things aren’t viewed the same way. Don’t worry, this isn’t a last-minute patriotic election rant, either.)

However, I can’t deny my ethnic roots, as much as I’ve tried to and would like to permanently bury them. Impossible, I know, because ethnic pride runs deep on both sides. My mom is a full-blooded Samoan (with a little Tongan and even German thrown in for good measure, or so she tells me); my dad is half-Filipino and half-Samoan. That makes for an interesting mix, which has unfortunately led to barely any acknowledgment of my Filipino heritage, and a dominance of my Samoan heritage, again on both sides.

I only know a few words in Samoan, and no Tagalong. I grew up going to a church that was Samoan-based in the language and in the church membership. My mom never taught me the language, and I do regret that because it’s a beautiful tongue and I love hearing all the women in both sides of the family employ it in casual conversation.

It’s my father who impressed upon me and my siblings the importance of attending college, getting our degrees and getting into fields that would generate large incomes. (All of us kids have bucked that last part and are either unsure about what career we want or we’ve entered fields where a good income isn’t necessarily assured. Disappointing, of course, for my parents, but my dad still urges us to find good paying jobs to support ourselves.) My mom, whether from her culture’s laidback attitude or because she didn’t really attend college herself, couldn’t care either way, so long as her daughters wait until after college before we find husbands. (Again, we’ve let our parents down on this part. One of my sisters just got married this past February and hasn’t graduated from JC yet.)

So the intersection point between expectations, assimilation and ethnic culture was lowered, you could say. That doesn’t mean our parents love us any less. They might not like the paths we’ve chosen for ourselves, but the only thing that separates any of us from each other is physical distance.

And me? Yes, I’ve had issues with my Samoan heritage. I disliked many of the things I saw take place in my childhood church, which my parents still attend. Cultural traditions and family business often came first before God, and the gossip circuit is still alive and well. All of these things disillusioned me about Samoan churches in particular. In a more general vein, I can see that ethnic-based churches serve a purpose here in America, but most of the members of my generation weren’t born in Samoa. We were born here. American traditions and culture have much stronger binds than Samoan ones. That’s just the way it is.

But do I hate my Samoan heritage? Nope. Does it drive me crazy sometimes? Oh, yes, especially when my mom invokes her island childhood to point out to her stubborn children that her word is law under her roof.*

It’s taken me several years to come to terms with my ethnic roots. I haven’t even started exploring the Filipino side of my family yet. Yeah, I am a liberated woman, in more ways than one. I identify myself as Samoan to those who ask about my nationality, but I’m still American first. The olive skin and islander attitude are just parts of the proverbial icing on the cake.

*(My dad sometimes talks about the “Samoan way” of doing things when he’s trying to get us to do things as he likes them done. For instance, about a year ago a couple from church dropped me off at home after the Sunday evening service. My dad was waiting for me at the door. “You should stand in the doorway and see them off,” he told me, getting annoyed when I seemed to pay him no heed. “C’mon, it’s the Samoan way.” My reply: “Sorry, I’m only three-quarters Samoan.” He, of course, was not very happy with me after that.)

It’s the end of the world as we know it and I feel fine…

When this particular scenario comes to you in the form of a question, what’s the first answer that pops into your head? Well, what’s the question? you wonder. If the world were to end at this time tomorrow, what would you do today? That’s different from just asking, “What would you do if you knew the world was about to end?” Isn’t it?

Everyone in the discussion group agreed that they would probably go home and hang out with their loved ones until the world ended, but I wondered what that meant, exactly. Would there be a bright flash before Earth disintegrated? Would the ground shake itself to pieces and swallow every human on the planet in the process?

Would there be pandemonium and hysteria en masse or would everyone take this calmly and wait for time to tick to zero?

The future is uncertain, a mirror that doesn’t reflect anything but what we wish would happen, and even those desires are as wispy as the clouds we see on a sunny day. The future, on the other hand, is as thick and dark as the clouds that form when thunderstorms or even hurricanes appear on the horizon. It takes without asking, wreaks havoc with present predictions, and ultimately consumes today and becomes the present.

Were we to know what the future would bring, would we want to continue living?

I’m happy enough with those fleeting glimpses that our answers to curious questions like “What would you do if the world ended” gives us. I may not know the future, may not like what I hear will happen in the future from others, but then again, I prefer to remain in the present. I know the present well.

The title of this post was inspired by PMP

“CONSTANT VIGILANCE!” (Mad Eye Moody, a character from the HP book series)

I’ve read two-thirds of the way through the 9/11 Commission’s Report, which thoroughly reviews the events, institutions, and histories of the persons involved in the September 11, 2001 attacks. It also provides insight in the decisions of the Clinton and Bush administrations prior to and following the attacks.

With this in mind, I’ve been wondering if it would have been possible to prevent the tragedies which occurred that day. I’m not going to play the blame game and drag out the “would’ves, should’ves, and could’ves” because at this point they’re irrelevant to current counterterrorism efforts.

The reason why I say this is because the game has changed. Terrorism in the 80s and 90s, especially when it came to hijacking aircraft, involved terrorists’ demands to release their jailed comrades. On 9/11, the hijackers went beyond that and turned aircraft into missiles, forfeiting the innocent lives aboard those planes. Other terrorist strikes involved massacres to prove a point or further an ideological struggle which, in most cases, the terrorists don’t try to explain to the horrified public. Kill first, take responsibility later in the name of their god. In any case, killing someone is a given, regardless of whether or not whatever demands they make are fulfilled. One only needs to look at what’s been happening in Russia for the past week for evidence of this.

Part of me wonders how it’s possible for such human beings to exist. I pity them, more than anything. I get angry, too, because such wanton murder makes me want to lash out at similarly-aligned people who are just as determined to kill us, and yes, stop and kill them before they kill me. I realize that doesn’t jibe with Christlike behavior, but that’s the first human response I might have to a threat. It’s a response that I admit I actually like, despite what I’ve been taught and despite the fact that I know better than to react that way.

In a broader vein of thought, I don’t question that the existence of evil in this world holds a purpose, even though that purpose frequently escapes me. In light of this, is it possible for good men to physically prevent tragedies like 9/11 and the Russian school takeover? How is it possible for us to discover and disrupt terrorist plots when they have shown themselves to be patient and thorough while planning to inflict death and destruction on their enemies?

Last month, Condi Rice said, “Now, we know we have an uphill fight, because the terrorists only have to be right once. We have to be right 100 percent of the time.” (Bold emphasis mine.) She isn’t the only member of the Bush Administration to express this sentiment, which in my mind best describes the struggle we’re in.

Constant vigilance is perhaps the best weapon we have to guard against another major attack. Do I think this should involve paranoia and fear of the unknown? No. Suspicion and mistrust can only do so much when it comes to our security. We as individuals and as a nation have taken steps to ensure that a 9/11-like attack has not occurred again on our soil since 2001, while maintaining the normality of our everyday lives. Letting our guard down, however, is not and cannot be an option until the terrorists realize that their attacks are futile and concede defeat.

An addendum to this post: it occurred to me after the fact that I may not call myself a feminist…but I sure as heck act like one.

Case in point: guys opening the doors for me. Since my initial post on this habit is now swimming in the sea of forgetfulness elsewhere in the blogosphere, I’ll give you a brief recap. The first time I was in SoCal, my friend Lee was the perfect gentleman - wherever we (me, him and Ash) went, he opened the door for us ladies. Frankly, I wasn’t used to this and got pretty uncomfortable; once he noticed that I was fine with opening the door for myself, he stopped opening the doors for us. I was embarrassed about this and regretted being that forward without mentioning why I didn’t feel comfortable about him being a gentleman in this manner, but also grateful.

I got home, posted about it, and we talked a bit about it later on. We agreed that the next time we went out, we’d go with Army rules or Victorian rules when it comes to opening doors. When Army rules are invoked, it’s every person for him/herself. Victorian rules? The gentleman will open the door for the ladies.

Like I told Lee last night…I’m going to have to work on this, letting a guy open the door for me. Yes, it’s courteous and even chivalrous to have a man open the door and insist that I go first, but I’m the type of chick that sees a door and doesn’t see the point in having to wait an extra 3-5 seconds while the guy behind hurries to go around me to open the thing. And I’m not partial to the gender of the person behind me - if I open it first, I’ll stand there and make sure that person doesn’t get a door slammed in their face.

All this to tell you that yes, I don’t necessarily identify myself as a feminist - but I have little quirks that would make a person say, “Uh, Rhe, you could’ve fooled me.”

I’m approaching this subject from a personal perspective, because when it comes to feminism, I’m an inexperienced woman.

Call me a product of the modern era, a person who witnesses and enjoys the fruits of the upheaval of the sixties and seventies. Racial prejudice towards blacks isn’t a controversy to me because I don’t see blacks as being different from whites or browns. (I have an olive complexion, black hair and dark eyes - I’m what you’d call a “minority.") I don’t see men as a majority as sexist and chauvinist. As a kid and a teenager I was oblivious to these issues because they never directly affected life as I knew it, and even today, I don’t see why a person’s gender, ethnicity, skin color or sexual orientation has anything to do with how society should think an individual should be treated.

The reason I asked Hugo questions about feminism was and is that I’m a woman who�s curious about the movement behind women�s rights. I’ve been studying feminist poetry in one of my classes and that added fuel to the fire, so I approached a blogger who regularly tackles feminist issues at his website, is very knowledgable about current women�s concerns, and identifies himself as a feminist. I figured those factors were enough to establish his authority on the subject.

In Hugo�s response, he discusses abortion, choice, and solidarity. Well, abortion first: I�m pro-life and always have been. “Fetus” is the same word as “unborn child” to me. The only exception I make is in the case where a woman has an ectopic pregnancy. I don�t see pro-choice supporters as being misleading, but I do question their motives behind their support. What do they see as being more important � a woman�s independence to make life-changing choices or an unborn child�s right to live? Who is more important � the potential mother or the unborn child? Why? Is the priority of one life over another meaningful in any way to pro-choice supporters?

I agree with Hugo that the modern feminist movement seems to identify itself by being pro-choice. Until now, that�s how I viewed most feminists: they were pro-choice, and they were usually angry about something. Also, criticizing feminism and feminists for the issues and ideals they choose to support seems to be a huge taboo in this country. I�m serious � I�ve seen other feminists, bloggers and non-bloggers, immediately castigate their critics, call them nasty names, the whole works, for no other reason than they disagree with feminist reasoning and rhetoric. Why is that?

This leads me to choice, and I have more questions than opinions about this. Hugo put it eloquently:

And as a feminist, I believe the whole notion of “choice” to be problematic. One only can “choose” from a limited selection of choices made available at any one time. Choices and desires are very different things, and feminists know this. The choice between an abortion and raising a child on one’s own in poverty and shame is not a happy one. Most young women who “choose” abortion might choose differently if our society were willing to provide young mothers with sufficient emotional and financial support so that they were not forced to choose between their babies and their futures. (And many of these young women might choose differently if the father of the child were willing to “step up” and be present for his new family emotionally, financially, and physically.) The choice between cosmetic surgery and being accepted as beautiful is not a happy one either – what most women really desire is to be loved and affirmed and wanted as they are. Radical diets, surgery, and hyper-sexualization are strategies of desperation rather than choices rooted in genuine desire. (Italic emphasis mine. �R.)

Can a woman buck the system by choosing a path that�s not even among the available choices? Take the young, unwed mother, for instance, who chooses to keep rather than abort her baby. Has society changed its outlook on babies born out of wedlock? Do unwed mothers still feel the stigma of disapproval from their families and the rest of the community? On a related tangent, do young women today take the choice of abstinence seriously, knowing it�s available and accepted? Having sex before marriage and the practice of casual sex are norms these days, but are they requirements necessary for a woman to be accepted as a normal member of society?

When it comes to feeling beautiful, I�ll tell you this much: personally, I don�t care about what others think about my looks. I make sure that I have good hygiene everyday (primping for this tomboy use to take twenty to thirty minutes � now it takes about forty-five minutes to an hour!). I�ll admit that when it comes to clothes, I don�t want underlines to show in the back of my pants, and I want my outfits to be color-coordinated; otherwise, I don�t dress like I�m going to a wedding when I�m really going to the mall. Do I desire to look good? Heck yeah! Do I desire to look good on the basis of how others will judge me for how I look? NO. I�ll also admit that I have conformed in some ways to how society wants an ordinary woman to dress, but that�s different from dressing to look and feel good as an individual. In my opinion, a woman anxious to look better when she already looks good has security issues and problems with self-confidence. What is sad is that she insists that the way she sees herself should equal the way society views an ideal woman.

And finally, solidarity. When it comes to women�s rights and equality, I do believe that women should support movements that advocate better treatment of women who don�t enjoy the same freedoms we have in the West. Combatting sexual slave trafficking in the States and other countries, for example, is one cause that should receive more attention if it isn�t getting it already.

I also question extreme Muslim views that dictate morals in countries like Saudi Arabia and Iran. Usually, I wonder what the Koran really says about a woman�s place in society versus the clerics who impose ridiculous laws that forbid women from working and dressing a certain way when they�re not home.

Along the same lines, I�ve clashed with Christians who insist that women shouldn�t be pastors or teachers because of a Pauline mandate. I don�t disparage or willfully ignore what Paul has to say about the matter of women�s involvement in the church, but I wonder if his teachings have been correctly applied to modern church life. On the other side of the coin, I don�t believe Christian women should cause discord in their congregations because they have gender issues with how the elders define leadership positions. I believe that a woman who�s been called by God to be a pastor or teacher should fulfill that calling, but only in a church where the elders confirm her, by the leading of the Holy Spirit, to that position. The last time I checked, the Kingdom of God is not, I repeat, not, a democracy!

Hugo did a great job answering my questions, and it�s led me to spend a great deal of thought and time on modern feminism. I still don�t see myself as a feminist, and I still have more questions. My curiousity about feminism has achieved a couple things, however: it�s given me a chance to reflect on how I view things as a woman. More importantly, it�s made me appreciate womanhood a little more. If you ask me, that�s always a good thing.

A friend posted on the pervasive use of the “I feel” phrase over “I think” or “I know,” then took it a step further.

Start listening: you will hear people say, “Well, I think…” when refering to perfectly immutable facts. I contend that this is a consequence of the rise of Pragmatism over a hundred years ago, and the widely-seeped ideas that conviction is arrogant, and that there is no such thing as truth. It is beyond the pale, now, to state a fact as a fact. That’s “arrogant,” you see…I see – routinely – people referring to facts on the order of the existence of sunshine, beginning with, “I think…”

All I can say, really, is “Ouch.” I’m certainly guilty of doing this.

The scientific study of names has always fascinated me, in an off-and-on way, since I was a teenager. I don’t exactly engage in onomastics, but searching for the meaning of names (or inventing my own) is a hobby of mine. And you’re talking to the girl who compiles lists of both names and surnames for fun.

Maybe you’ve seen the keychains that’re meant to carry some sentimental value because your name is on it, but that doesn’t count as much to me as the meaning often does. ‘Course, my name means “princess,” so for all you know, I’m just a total snob about the name thing since mine indicates royalty. (That’s right, you peasants! Bow before… Oops, sorry, my projecting slipped into the open there.)

Over here, you can find a list of insightful essays on how the study of names impacts individuals and society on different levels. And in case you’ve forgotten the meaning of your name, you can search for it here. (And did you know that websites on parenting and babies have name search engines?) If you want to know the meaning of your last name, go here.

If you have a unique name and can’t find its meaning at any of these sites, do a little research. Ask family members for help. My middle name is long and Polynesian (it’s my maternal grandmother’s name), and I didn’t know what it meant until last year ("water") because I Googled for it and pestered my mother and other relatives until they told me. So now I suppose I’m a “water princess.” A nereid. Fancy that!

I tried to write this silly post once already and it turned into a sermon. I don’t do sermons. I’m more comfortable ranting. So - said rant will be quick before I start deviating into tangents that I’ll leave for my senior pastor to tackle on any given Sunday.

2004 has been very different so far. I’m not sure if anyone’s noticed, but I’ve taken a break from certain aspects of my life, both off- and online, to spend a little time getting my life in order. Life in general has been pretty hectic with a wedding and school to think about, but the slice of life I’m talking about in this post comprises an integral part of me: my Christianity.

Where that part of me is concerned, the rundown goes something like this: I am tired of being such a passive Christian. Nominal Christianity (Sunday-only Christianity, basically) is impossible to maintain. It means going to a nice-looking building with stained-glass windows every Sunday to sing songs I don’t really mean and to hear a feel-good lesson about life that I could’ve probably read out of a self-help book. No thanks.

I’m tired of being a passive Christian. And the only way to become a passionate Christian is to step away from everything that’s familiar and comfortable to me and become a pioneer and a wanderer.

This means viewing what Christianity means to me not as a weekly trudge to the sanctuary for a sermon and a couple of songs, but as a personal adventure with God. That sounds so weird, doesn’t it? For one thing, this is God we’re talking about. That distant, unseen being who I’m supposed to be serving. How can anyone have an adventure - with God of all people!?

Easy. Let Him define my horizons. To be in control of my own situation means maintaining this spiritual routine that bores me to death already. But what if I left all that up to God? What if I told Him, “Okay, God, I’m tired of this crap. Give me a challenge already - otherwise, I’m gone.”

They say be careful what you wish for. That applies also to prayers, because one may regret what they ask God to do if they’re not prepared for the answer they receive.

That’s where I am right now. I stepped out and challenged Him to give me an adventure to live - now it’s a matter of actually accepting whether or not I want to embark on that adventure. I don’t know what’s in store for me, all of my expectations got kicked out of the house, and the horizon I had defined for myself disappeared as if God had used the eraser at the end of His pencil, which I suspect He did.

Do you have any idea how frightening that is? It’s like deciding to go on a hiking trip in Mongolia without a guide. And I am not the sort of person who will do anything or go anywhere if I don’t know what the itinerary is. I’m afraid God doesn’t hand those out, even when we ask nicely. This, to me, is true risk-taking.

So - that’s what’s going on with me right now. It’s difficult to be upfront about something so meaningful to me when I have a tendency to be mysterious and eloquent enough in most of my posts here that people don’t really react much unless I churn out something really out there. But in case you’ve been wondering why I’ve been absent, this is why.

And “taking a break” in this case is relative. I don’t know if I’ll return to the aspects of my life that I decided to take a sabbatical from. But I’ll still be here.

Look, Your Worshipfulness, let’s get one thing straight! I take orders from one person! Me! - Han Solo

My real name means “princess.” By definition, a princess is a member of a royal household, royalty referring to a ruling monarchy. I already know who my King is.

This post might seem rather egotistical, but I was recently asked if I knew what my name really meant. Well, yeah. “Princess.” And now that I think about it, I’ve always taken the meaning of my name seriously. In fact, when some stores and clothing lines began producing certain articles of clothing that boasted “I’m a Princess!” about the girl wearing it, I got miffed. Especially if I knew that girl’s name did NOT mean “princess.”

What is the first thing that comes to mind when one tries to visualize a princess? I usually see a girl or young woman who is the epitome of Beauty, or becoming one: gowns of silk, slippers, precious jewelry, subtle perfume, glistening skin and perfect hair. She is also highly cultured and educated, well-versed in the proper courtly mannerisms, and if she is being groomed to inherit the crown one day, she will also be diplomatic and polite.

Depending on her personality and upbringing, a princess would be gracious if not graceful, courteous, kind, generous, sheltered, insecure, conceited, selfish, and even ruthless. Her people could love or hate her - her popularity with the citizenry rises and falls in direct proportion to this factor.

I can’t tell you if I truly possess all of these traits, but perhaps it doesn’t matter. I have always been rather weary of my name because there are many other girls who also carry it. But now I take the meaning of my name to heart.

Someday, I’ll be able to actually live up to it.

It’s devastating to lose a loved one, but I’m the sort of person who doesn’t cry at funerals. It’s not so much that I’m stoic and completely unemotional about the said person’s passing - it’s just that I see no reason to put so much emphasis on something that’s instantaneous compared to living.

A friend and I were discussing this last night and it made me think a bit on how I truly view death. Death itself is painless, if one thinks about it. One can die from painful health problems (i.e. terminal illness, torture, etc.), one can die because of an idiotic choice or reckless behavior, and/or one can die because it was one’s time to die. There’s of course the matter of believing in an afterlife, which is a subject I’ll try to skip in this post.

All this being said, I find it bewildering that so many people are afraid of death. Why? One minute we’re on this earth, the next we’re gone. The best thing to do is LIVE until that moment comes. How you live and what you live for is of course up to you.

For all the peeps who participated in the Holiday CD Exchange: here is the songlist for my album.

1. “Silent Night”
This has always been my favorite Christmas song, and I found a rendition that I liked on the WoW Christmas album. If I had the pipes for it, I’d do a solo of this song, but since I don’t, I’ll spare everyone the horror.

2. “The Restroom Door Said ‘Gentlemen’”
When my cousin came for a visit from Oregon earlier this year, he brought a cd called Twisted Christmas that I fell in love with. It was a bunch of parodies that would probably offend members of the politically correct persuasion - which is probably why I liked it so much - but this song got me laughing the most.

3. “O Come, O Come Emmanuel”
Last year someone in my family bought Nicole C. Mullen’s Christmas album, Christmas in Black and White, and I gained an appreciation of this song for its prophetic elements. This song is basically about hundreds of years of prophecy that Christ’s birth fulfilled.

4. “What Child Is This?/Where Is He?”
Carman is an oldtimer in the Christian music world, and his Christmas album is one of my all-time holiday favorites. “Where Is He?” is a nice alternative to “We Three Kings” - it let me slip into the wiseman’s shoes and discover why it was so important to find the child of promise.

5. “He Is Born, The Holy Child”
This song is off the VeggieTales Christmas album, sung by the French peas. These guys are a riot, but it wasn’t until I looked through the CD cover that I found out this song is actually a French Christmas song. I’m not a big VeggieTales fan, but I’ll say that for the holidays (in my world) at least, no album can be complete without a VT song.

6. “Sing We Now of Christmas/O Come, O Come Emmanuel/Emmanuel”
I have always enjoyed Michael W. Smith’s classical bent in the two Christmas albums he’s produced. This medley is a nice mixture of everything that signifies his style.

7. “Welcome to Our World”
I heard this song on the radio when the holiday pageantry started appearing everywhere and figured I’d better find a copy of it before I lost interest. Chris Rice composed and recorded this simple, beautiful song.

8. “O Holy Night”
The girls from Point of Grace recorded a great version of this song, my second favorite Christmas carol. I don’t think anymore needs to be said so far as this song is concerned - it speaks for itself.

9. “Our Blessed Savior Has Come”
This is another song off Carman’s Christmas album, a duet he did with CeCe Winans. I guess one can call it a Christmas inspirational classic, because it has the marks of one: background choir, thrilling crescendo, the whole works. The message about the Messiah’s coming is probably the most poignant part of it.

10. “God’s Own Son”
Nicole C. Mullens toys a bit with the blues in this song. Immediately after I first heard it, I put it on repeat for the next several hours.

11. “Merry Christmas With Love/Have Yourself A Merry Little Christmas”
Another Christmas inspirational classic, this one by Sandi Patty. Okay, okay, I admit it - I like all the Christian oldtimers, and Sandi Patty’s no different.

12. “Do You Hear What I Hear?”
A friend of mine sent me this version by Vanessa Williams when I first started putting together this album, and I immediately decided to include it. I mean, this is Vanessa Williams!

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Yesterday Kim du Toit posted an essay on his website that sent his web traffic through the roof and prompted outrage on a few other blogs. The topic? Well…go read it for yourself. Or not.

So far, I think I like Jay’s response best: “Maybe in the end, sans any rabies from anyone, we all know what being a man is all about: we don�t let anyone tell us what to do or how to be.”

But I’m still curious: what makes a man?

(And please don’t tell me it’s ‘cause his anatomy is different from a woman’s - I knew that…)

UPDATE: Kim’s gotten a lot of varying responses from other bloggers, but right now his site can’t handle the traffic from the Instalanche and whatever-else-link-storm his essay’s prompted. I had to switch links above while his hosting service deals with the traffic and ensuing server problems. Just an FYI.

This is the one holiday Christians can’t agree on - which ain’t a bad thing.

My two cents: I don’t care about Halloween. I don’t celebrate it, even though I do love the oodles of candy that come out of it (what chocaholic wouldn’t?). For all the scary imagery used by those who do celebrate it in some form or manner, kids love it. I mean, if they didn’t, they wouldn’t dress up in costume and go trick-or-treating, would they?

I applaud the churches who want to provide wholesome alternatives. I don’t see anything wrong with that. I also realize that the controversy surrounding this holiday has to do more with its pagan origins and the fact that covens and satanic cults the world over consider this day one of their high holidays, but I ain’t into the occult, so I don’t care. Now, if I had children, things would probably be different.

The reason why I decided to post about this holiday is because one of my favorite childhood memories was the Halloween party held at a cousin’s house - uncle wearing a black garbage bag over his head and playing eerie music on the organ included. The games were fun, the treats were great, and I had the chance to wear this suffocating mask over my head with the freakin’ rubber band to keep it in place, which my siblings liked to pull and snap back every chance they got. (I don’t remember who I dressed up as that year.) All the Halloween festivals at my elementary school were awesome. Matter of fact, all the times we went trick-or-treating were kool. And then our church started holding the harvest party alternatives, and those were kool, too.

Your childhood experiences may differ from mine, of course, but my point is everybody views this holiday differently and experiences it differently. Nothin’ wrong with dat.

And that, my friends, is my cop-out post for the year. Go enjoy yourselves so I can get back to scarfing down all this chocolate I’ve been hoarding today.

Warm days like this and the right books can do things to a girl’s head.

This morning I was on the train, thinking selfish things about myself and wondering if I’d always been so bull-headed about my own abilities. False modesty? Spades of it. Self-deprecation? Yup. Lazy? Self-absorbed? Uncertain about her self-esteem? Check, check, check.

Gradually one’ll get a headache if she repeats this same argument over and over again, so I decided to focus on something else. Worry about a certain cat versus a prospective caretaker whom I need to call to see if he was serious about his offer versus worries about money versus only a few hours to revise a story I hadn’t liked from the beginning even if other people thought it wasn’t bad. No, this is potential migraine material, too. Onward.

Hmmm, there was last night. It was the first cell group meeting I’d attended in awhile, and actually, it’d been pretty nice. Good food and good company, good conversations. Jim Oberg had offered a pleasant surprise when he’d pitched in during the prayer time for the needs that had been raised. I remembered the first time I’d ever met him and contrasted him to the man I knew now; he was very much a changed man.

And now I realize that it will always be like this: a mingle of complicated problems and simple blessings, selfish endeavors and selfless outreach, and all the while humanity’s trying to make sense of this thing called life that they, whether they like it or not, are infinitely connected to and influenced by, as a concept or philosophy or as reality.

That’s life, all right.

Erin O’Connor points to this delectable essay on teaching poetry by Tom Henihan. O’Connor goes on to observe,

There are some things that cannot be taught. Inspiration is one, creativity is another, having a “feel” for language a third. Skills can be taught, and those are certainly necessary if one wants to be a writer of any caliber. But too often creative writing courses are about far more than the teaching of skills–there is a dishonesty to them, as Henihan notes. Their premise is that everyone enrolled in the course can write; their guiding principle is that deep down, we all have a poet or a novelist in us just waiting to come out. We don’t. But in premising themselves on the notion that we do–and on the notion that coursework can bring it out, that all we need is practice and encouragement (and a few good contacts)–creative writing courses encourage a level of self-deception and communal pretension that are positively damaging to the art.

Being a Creative Writing student and all…if you were expecting me to react with outrage and disagree vehemently with these opinions, you thought wrong. Some things just can’t be learned in a classroom.

So then why the heck am I majoring in this field? To learn more about one aspect of modern “literature.”

(Maybe this is why I’ve never been able to get my Poetry section up and running yet!)

UPDATE: Jay has more thoughts on the art of writing.

ANOTHER UPDATE: Jason comments at ABA. Pretentious? Me? Surely you jest, Jason…

Mark Simon writes an interesting perspective on how liberal Bay Area politics are, compared to the rest of the state.

I’ve often taken this factor about the region for granted, but I’ve also wondered about it, too. When the 2000 presidential election was just around the corner, students at my college campus dismissed Bush as a prospective win altogether and argued that it would either be Gore or Nader. When I visited a friend who lived in Central California this past May, I couldn’t help it - I was pretty amazed that there were actually Republicans around. And when I was playing beat reporter for the Ingleside district a year ago, one of my sources and I were talking about the Democratic Club, an interest group in the neighborhood. I asked her (somewhat naively) if there was a Republican Club or something like it, too. She laughed. “Republicans? Are you kidding? Do you have any idea how many Republicans live in San Francisco? Probably a handful!”

But despite the slanted political view here, I don’t think I’d want to live anywhere else.

“I voted no on the recall, and I’m very disappointed in the voters of California.”

Ah, partisan arrogance. You gotta love it.

I have always wanted a kitty because for some obscure reason I haven’t figured out yet, my parents forbid pets in the house when we were growing up. I can’t see myself as being a dog owner; and I’m sorry, but goldfish don’t count. Goldfish to me are Expendable Pets Extraordinaire.

Now I have two cats living with me for the next eleven and a half months, and I must say that having them around changes perspectives somewhat.

Oh, don’t get me wrong - I still like cats and I want to get my own kitten someday. But there are a couple things I didn’t prepare myself for: mainly, cleaning the catbox and playing with the cat on a regular basis.

Playing with the cat is much easier than getting rid of cat crap and cleaning up accidents. Playing with the cat, however, means losing my “dignified posture” and showering affection and love on this furry, purring machine who likes to stare at me as if to say, “You measly, rotten human! Don’t you know I’m the sole reason you exist!?”

I’m not the kind of person who talks much unless I’m directly addressed or I feel like I need to contribute something worthwhile to say. And maybe it’s just because I don’t talk to human babies in their own language ("Gurgle! Coo! Wail!") that I don’t think I can talk to cats all the time in meows and hisses. I’m learning how to be playful in my language when I’m around them, though. When one of my cats nudge me for a petting, I’ll happily oblige. And watching them show off is probably one of the most fun moments of being a cat caretaker.

One never hears about any individual or group of people fasting anymore, it seems, but fasting as a “exercise” of faith and spiritual renewal still exists today.

The first time I ever fasted was about five years ago, and let’s just say it wasn’t smart to pig out once it was over. Since then, my church has done several three-day corporate fasts (meaning, almost the entire congregation fasted together) for a number of reasons. Today we started another one.

So, with that in mind…it isn’t until we start one of these corporate fasts that suddenly I’m craving all the things I’ve decided to put off for the next few days.

Like chocolateAIM.

Argh.

You shouldn’t be here today. I didn’t lose a loved one on September 11, 2001. None of my relatives gave their [lives] in military service to their country in Afghanistan. I was just another shell shocked American watching from a safe distance wrapped in the comfort and safety of [her] home.

I was on my way home via train, actually, when I first heard about a plane crash in NYC. One of my best friends had called me, upset, saying that something terrible had happened at the WTC, but I was still bewildered. It was an hour after the first tower had collapsed before I got back to my apartment and found out what had happened. Funny how little details like this can stay with you two years later…

Some urge us to move on. Let the dead lie dead. Live.

I’ll live. I have classes to go to today, chores to do, errands to run, prayers to say, words to write, people to visit. Life will still go on. I’ll still breathe.

It doesn’t mean I’ll forget.

This is meant for the right-wingers and evangelicals out there who seem to find something wrong with the Golden State.

For the record, I was born here nearly twenty-three years ago and I’ve lived here my entire life. You’re talking to a 100% California girl.

If you don’t like my state because there are way too many Democrats who live here and the atmosphere seems too PC for you, OR, there are too many heathens around for your peace of mind…

TOO FREAKIN’ BAD.

Don’t offer to pray for me, because I’ll do the “laying on of hands” thing and give you a smack. Don’t say you’d like to see Berkeley or San Francisco firebombed to oblivion because, hey, Democrats are still human beings. Their politics might seem too extreme for you, but like you, they have their own lives to deal with. People here mourned after 9/11. People here are just as passionate about their beliefs and values as you are about yours, and if you don’t even live here and think you have a say in how their lives should end just because they don’t think like you do or adhere to your own political/religious standards, then you can kiss my butt. You’re not worth more than five seconds of my attention.

Today marks the 58th anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima. That is nothing to be gleeful about, really.

Here are some comments that I found to be rather interesting, from a post on Tim Blair’s blog:

This was on Fark and one of the commenters named Thale summed it up well:

“While American scholarship has undercut the U.S. moral position, Japanese historical research has bolstered it.”

American scholars: The use of atomic bombs by the U.S. on Japan was a wholly unnecessary thing.

Japanese scholars: No, we wouldnt have surrendered otherwise.

American scholars: Yes you would have. All we had to do was drop Fat Man on a small Pacific island to show you we had it.

Japanese scholars: No, really the military wasnt going to stop fighting.

American scholars: Well if wed allowed surrender with the provision that Japan could keep the Emperor.

Japanese scholars: Look even after you guys dropped both bombs the military didnt want to surrender. It took us beating a downed pilot into saying you had hundreds more Atomic bombs and Tokyo was next for them to even start to budge.

American scholars: Well we were still wrong.

Hmmm.

And on a similar note (of sorts), here’s some commentary from Stephen Green on how the aftermath of waging warfare has changed in these modern times.

It’s August already! Where’s the time gone?

The one day of this month that I dread/look forward to (take yer pick) is August 27. This year, that day falls on a Wednesday.

On that day I will turn 23. Also on that day, I return to school.

…that’s some birthday present.

More history that occurred on August 27.

Happy 227th Birthday, United States of America.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute a new Government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness.

- Declaration of Independence
July 4, 1776

I’m gone till late Sunday/early Monday - whichever day that I happen to be more awake.

Have a wonderful holiday weekend.

It’s been impressed upon me many times through sermons and even through the unlikeliest circumstances that anything I put above God can become an idol. Yesterday, the subject of personal idolatry was money (and, in some ways, it still is).

Today, though, it’s writing.

(Via Dean Esmay)

Today Michael Totten posted about how he arrived at his views on the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, and I think he did it rather eloquently. In fact, there’s a portion of his post that I’ll copy here, if only because I echo his sentiments:

…When I knew next-to-nothing about the Arab-Israeli conflict and I saw photographs of Palestinian kids throwing rocks at Israeli tanks, it was a no-brainer to side with the kids. I�d do the same today without apologies if I didn�t have more information.

When I learned a bit more, it was still easy to sympathize with the Palestinians. Here�s a group of people who kinda sorta live within Israel, yet are not Israeli citizens and are not granted the right to self-government. They want their own state, and it�s a grievance that someday must be redressed. It looks to the uninformed observer a bit like the apartheid regime in South Africa. It�s the civil rights revolution all over again. Or so it appears on the surface.

I never excused the terrorists. They were undermining the Palestinian cause, and they made it difficult to support them. But I didn�t think it right for extremists to discredit the majority. Even after September 11 I maintained this view. A friend once asked me in an argument whose side I�d be on if a full-scale war erupted between them. If push came to shove, I said, I would have to choose Israel. I sympathized with Palestinians, but I knew very well that Ehud Barak was elected because he promised a permanent settlement. Arafat was a dictator, and he rejected Israel�s offer. If a war were required to settle it, it would not be right to blame Israel.

Still, I knew I was unfairly biased. I didn�t understand the Israeli view. So I read Thomas Friedman�s From Beirut to Jerusalem. He is fair to both sides, and that�s why I picked him. When I finished the book I was no longer biased. Though he tilts toward Israel himself, Thomas Friedman put me in the middle. I gave each side a hearing and split the difference.

I kept reading, and I kept learning. I discovered that Hamas and Islamic Jihad are not fighting for a state in the West Bank and Gaza. They are fighting for a Taliban regime �from the river to the sea,� including all of Israel. They say negotiation is treason, and that means war. I learned about Arafat�s education system, which glorifies suicide murder.

In a nutshell, the more I learned, the more I leaned toward Israel.

And so it is with me. The poem you see below (my “response,” as it were, to the suicide bombing from last week) is from early last year, after some idiot Palestinian “martyr” walked into a crowded Jerusalem cafe and blew himself up, killing 11 Israelis and wounding 72 others. One picture I found from that bombing showed a young Israeli on a stretcher, pale and dazed. Most of his clothes had been torn off from the blast, and most of his left arm was gone, replaced by a bloody stump.

At the time I was a centrist who leaned towards the left of the political spectrum, and I thought the IDF was responsible in more ways than one for instigating the string of suicide bombings occurring in Jerusalem and in other Israeli towns. I went so far as to think Ariel Sharon was sanctioning the murder of his own people by showing no mercy towards the Palestinians and thus perpetuating the cycle of violence that’s continued since September 2000.

The more I learned about the Palestinian side of things, however, the more aware I became that worldwide sympathy for their “plight” may as well be the same as saying that Mugabe is God and Zimbabwe is the Promised Land. And he isn’t and it ain’t.

That doesn’t mean I always agree with what the Israelis do to deal with their brand of terrorists (i.e. rounding up young men who probably had nothing to do with the bombing in question and interrogating or even torturing them to force them to make false confessions). You cannot lump together an entire population and label them as “enemies” simply because a few extremists on their side of the line are making them look bad and are making life where they are go from bad to worse. HOWEVER, when a huge majority of that same population supports suicide bombings to further the goal of forming their own state…and when the education system of that same population indoctrinates their young so that the idea of blowing yourself up to kill a few Jews is one of the highest honors worth attaining…why would I want to support a people who have adopted a culture that glorifies death in that manner?

Restlessness does something funny to you sometimes.

Take music, for instance. I could be listening to a song that I have on repeat, and suddenly the words, the beat and the melody sound completely foreign and strange to my ears, even though the order of the song and the lyrics seem familiar.

Or I’m traveling somewhere on foot, and suddenly with a start I realize the trip’s unnecessary and the destination is no longer certain.

I wouldn’t call this doubt or forgetfulness. Maybe I’m just tired of this comfort zone.

It’s time to discover something new.

Most of today was spent lounging around my parents’ house with my siblings and two cousins who came down from Oregon for my sister’s high school graduation next month.

I suppose I could crank out something eloquent and long because today is Memorial Day, but I’ll just say this:

For most of today I spent time with my family, exercising many of the freedoms that others have died for so that I might still have these same freedoms. Maybe that sounds a little too simple, but that’s how I remember the sacrifices made on the behalf of one American citizen out of millions more.

To the men and women who made those sacrifices: thank you.

I was reading Romans 14 a while ago and thinking a bit about some things that have struck a controversial cord of some sort with different folks - for instance, the Buffy debate from last October.

For now, I’ll say this: old habits and addictions, as well as personal tastes, likes and dislikes can only be changed by one person, and that person is God. The key to this is an individual’s willingness to allow God to change him or her as s/he strives to become more like God. If I applied this to ME, then I would say that my interests and habits change or stay the same because it reflects how much I’m willing to give up in order to draw closer to God in my relationship with Him. (Y’know, there’s that holiness factor.)

It’s always easier to say all this than to actually do it, and because of this, striving to be an example for a “younger” and “weaker” believer is never easy. But hey, reality always works wonders for that perfection measurement scale, doesn’t it?

When one sees the words “pride” and “humility” in the same sentence, one has to wonder how each of these can see eye to eye with the other. Pride in this case is that emotion an individual feels when something is accomplished to such a degree that pleasure is taken in the work involved to make that accomplishment happen. It is also akin to self-righteousness and arrogance; it’s what makes man want to stand tall and stare haughtily at those he deems beneath him. Humility, on the other hand, is everything “self” pride is not; honor where honor is due, not always eager to grab the spotlight, and when the humble man finds himself in the limelight anyway, he doesn’t let it go to his head. And let’s not get humility mixed up with insecurity here.

I have experienced both “self” pride and humility many times as a Christian, and neither is easy to handle. A stab of humility usually wants to give way to pride, and pride - eh, well, it’s not an easy “high” to come down from, especially when things, people and events keep adding fuel to the fire. I lose sight of what I’m supposed to be doing and focus on what I want to do. I want to reach this goal, even if God has something better for me. I want this object, even though God may want to bless me with something bigger and better. I like where I am, even though God may want me to move on.

Combine this struggle of me vs. God with real life and I wonder what an outside observer would think. “Hey, wow, she’s not some perfect religious fundamentalist after all!” or “What in the world is she sniffin’?” or “Why is she so freakin’ moody all the time?”

Trying to be real - to be me, not someone everyone else BUT me myself and I would recognize - while trying to keep my faith in Christ intact in a world that’s tired of fake Christians is not easy. I have to keep proving to others that my Christianity is real, but why should I bother?

It’s not even about ME.

Proverbs, written by the wisest man that ever lived, tells us how to be a man. Four books show Jesus; how he lived, why He came, and what he felt was worth dying for. If it’s worth dying for, it’s likely worth living for. Incidentally, I’d love for you and every other young man to read 15 minutes a day in Proverbs and apply it. If you look at Christianity through the eyeglass of postmodern secular ethos (reheated existentialism) you’ll conclude some devastatingly wrong things. First, me being authentic is the aim of life. It isn’t. Second, what I think, feel and believe is the CENTER of the universe and my ideas are the ultimate arbiter of truth, reality and the American way is way off target. Jesus said in Lk 10:27, “You shall love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your strength, and with all your mind; and your neighbor as yourself.” The focus of Christianity is God and others. “Me” got lost. Life isn’t about me. Today we remember that Jesus, the God/man was in the grave. But it didn’t end there, thank God. Easter’s a comin’. The real challenge, in my opinion, of a Christian’s blog is to help people know God. Everything in an authentic Christian’s life is to help others know God.

- Proud Gator Dad
“This is me” comments thread

It’s not supposed to be about ME…and yet it always ends up that way. It’s only because of God’s constant refining that the whining, selfish ME slowly withers, and the person I was called by his grace to be, garbed in his mantle of humility, shines forth.

Some random thoughts as the weekend comes to a close:

1. The funkiness has gone away, and while I still remain unsure, I know God is faithful. That’s enough of an assurance to get through anything.

2. If you don’t get interested in a book right away, do you even bother trying to read the rest of it? I just picked up a book I’d bought about a month ago, read through a third of it last night and almost wondered why I’d bought it in the first place when I realized that I was bored with how the story was going so far. Then I picked up the same book earlier tonight and wondered if I should start reading from the beginning again because now it’s exciting and maybe I missed something.

3. I really hate it when I accidentally erase something that I’m about to post.

4. Trying to escape the familiar usually leads one to retreat back to it when the going gets rough. I suppose this is human nature, and I suppose that trying to escape the familiar is sort of like a convict making a break from the penitentiary and the guard towers are tracking him every bit of the way, but that doesn’t stop him from running. Why is it, then, that when we actually succeed at this, we find out that the unfamiliar is more familiar and precious than what we knew as “familiar” in the first place? (I dare you to repeat this over and over, fast. Yeah, I know, I can’t do it, either.)

5. When bloggers who say they’re members of the same (ideological/political/religious) camp lose readers because of a disagreement over one issue, I have to wonder which party involved in the dispute is making a bigger deal of the issue than it should.

Have a good Monday, everyone.

Maybe I’m just fighting the blue mood, but suddenly I feel like Jonah.

I stumbled across this article, which didn’t make me feel better. Something the author wrote struck a nerve, though I’m not sure yet what kind of affect this should have on me:

Journalism is best learned by doing it. Mostly, an aspiring reporter needs a job, preferably for an exacting editor. You try to be accurate, clear, quick, perceptive and engaging. These are not abstract skills learned in a classroom. At best, journalism schools are necessary evils. They provide basic training – usually through mock newsrooms – that most papers and broadcast stations won’t. Some get this training on college papers and stations. Journalism school is an alternative. But keep it brief. In general, universities are sheltered places. Most professors have job security. Their politics don’t reflect national politics (less than 20 percent rate themselves “conservative'’).

Yes, universities are sheltered places. Yes, sometimes I wonder if I’m even on the right career track. Training to be a journalist in a society which seems to distrust journalists more and more these days is not easy. Not that I wanted to become a journalist because it was comfortable, but now I’m not sure about my long-term career goals. It’s an icky feeling.

Last Friday, The New York Times published an op-ed by Eason Jordan of CNN called “The News We Kept to Ourselves.” Since then a firestorm of criticism has erupted over CNN’s flawed coverage of what’s been going on in Iraq.

(A related article about journalists in Iraq is located here. More here, here and here.)

Right-wing pundits especially have been giving Mr. Jordan a hard time since his NYT confession made the headlines. Yesterday Jason Kottke rebutted their criticism with this:

Lastly, where the hell was everyone else in Iraq, reporting all these atrocities? Where was FoxNews endangering the lives of their Iraqi employees’ families to get the truth out at all costs? Where was Rush Limbaugh sticking his neck out to topple Saddam’s regime with the truth? Out of your chairs, pundits. It’s hard to make the tough choices when you’re sitting comfortably on the sidelines. Could you make a decision to air a news report knowing that it will directly cause the brutal torture and death of someone’s entire family?

Put that way, I suppose folks like Rush Limbaugh should be taken to task for being “chickenhawks.” But as it was reported by Franklin Foer here, how the heck could the journos report anything truthful when they were shadowed by those infamous minders from the Iraqi regime? If CNN was willing to cope with the minders and give way to their demands, what does that say about the price they were willing to pay for continued access?

Visas are the Ministry of Information’s primary tools for controlling foreign journalists. Even correspondents for CNN and the BBC, which maintain permanent offices in Baghdad, must continually apply for visas, which typically last only two weeks. And without visas for their own correspondents, the networks have to rely on local Iraqis to keep their offices running–locals who are even more subject to government reprisals than are visiting Americans.

Journalism ethics are always changing, depending on the situation one has to handle; they don’t seem set in stone, but once something questionable comes up, there are always basic tenets that one should be reminded of.

Media organizations like FOXNews didn’t have the same arrangement CNN did, nor did they care to maintain one. Why? I think they weren’t willing to sacrifice their integrity to hide the truth. Journos who didn’t quote the Baathist Party line were kicked out of Baghdad and out of Iraq, sometimes permanently. If you ask me, a one-time-only visit in-country would be worth more than “permanent” access to a situation at the price of one’s credibility.

When it comes down to basics, I’m not a debater. I follow discussions that are interesting to me because of the topic and will discuss it with a close friend (who either agrees with me on the topic or has something of his/her own to contribute to the whole discussion), but most likely I’ll not take part in it.

Earlier today I wrote a post out of frustration and also because I was annoyed that only one viewpoint on the subject was being presented. I’ve discovered several things about myself during the past few years when it came to theological debates and similar discussions: I’m only able to present my viewpoint on a topic when something really, really bothers me about it. I’m more passive than active on debate participation, I think partly because I’m not ready to defend my views when someone questions them (yes, that’s bad), partly because I’m not always sure of some of my throughts regarding said subject in the first place, and also because I’m very open to hearing different aspects before speaking up.

Yes, I will admit to being wrong about something; I’m not so proud to think that I’ve covered all the bases on the subject - most likely I missed something that might’ve changed the content of my argument substantially. I have also learned not to personally flame someone who disagrees with me, and no, I won’t rebut in the same manner if I get flamed, anyway.

I’ll post a few links I found on being a Highly Effective Blogger tomorrow. Right now my roomie is grouchy and I really need to think about something else. G’nite.