Bazaar

One of the first comments of the morning spilled out the mouth of young Iasonas Katsaros.

"Your eyes have a white circle around them. That's weird," he informed me.

This tanning is not unusual to the rest of the world. When a person goes to the beach and wears their sunglasses all day, the result yielded is the infamous reverse raccoon. I, however, was not at a beach. There was sand all around but absolutely no water. Instead we sat, or rather we stood, in the blazing sun of the wadi desert at the annual Maadi Women's Guild Christmas Bazaar held at the Wadi Degla Sporting Club. The temperatures deceived us, thus the reason for our Rudolph'd noses and jolly cheeks and foreheads. When we left our homes at 9 am that morning the chill thrilled us all with a shivering 55 degrees Fahrenheit. The breeze and the chill never rose beyond 70.

Lucky for me, the work I had put into my tan earlier in the year barricaded the burn from any insinuating pain. Fearful of a day of sled-leading jokes and a crispy face, relief gave way to joy on the skip over to pageant rehearsal this morning.

I serve as one of the 4 wise kings of Orient. I did not mistype as you may be wondering. This year, there are four of us baring gifts to the glowing baby-King. One of the other kings, who is dressed as a pharaoh, brings the same gift I thought would be wise - gold. In the spirit of holiday cheer we duke it out while telling King Arthur and the pirate king of Asia to hush their oh so wise yappers.

I, the only king from the appropriate location and time period, get cut from the gift baring, leaving me only to kneel in shameful awe of the precious baby Jesus, of whom was a clay pot today. We didn't have a baby to rehearse with so we improvised.

All in all, its not too shabby of a gig. I get to dress up in a man dress called a galabeya, play a nerdy role that doesn't make the cut, and ride on a camel of which one of the wise men was tossed from in last year's performance. Now why did I agree to do this again? Oh, yeah, to spread the word of the birth of Christ. He better do something brilliant when he grows up.

Yule Tide Greetings

Though it is cooling off a bit here, I find myself stripping my shirt from a toasted torso when running in the wadi today.

Also, there is officially less than 2 weeks before a quick leap across the Atlantic puddle. It'll be a good skip home, or so I hope.

I had a Dr. Pepper today for the first time in over a year. It gave me a head ache.

The longer I spend with the Katsaros' the more it feels like family. I went to Yannis' soccer game yesterday and sat with the families. During a lull, I terrorized the young ones on the playground as the big bad playground monster, tagging and moving with great tact and rapidity.

I find the cynic in me bobbing for surprise visits more often than I'd care to see his gnarly disgruntled face. Some one please tell him to stop.

It would take great convincing to sway me from a belief that functional family and true social reform (what I refer to as dreams) do not coincide. Perhaps this is youthful ignorance chiming in, but I do not believe it possible.

Recently, my youthful immaturity blinds and exposes my frugalled experiences. In this, there has been a surge of disdain and apprehension for revealing immaturity. My whole life I've maintained the reputation as the one more mature than his peers. That slows as you age, I think. The expectation for maturity flattens out and climbs near a ceiling. Breaking ceilings is not an activity I'm accustomed to, though it is a growing family tradition (apologies, Dad. Terry I hope you are laughing while remembering that ordeal many years ago). Perhaps, I'll continue the tradition.

I burst with tension yearning the simple life.

Independence is my friend, but interdependence is my brother.

Big words (like interdependence) make me want to vomit. I wish I, and others, could write and talk with pictures like cultures of the East.

I am retiring for the night to sip some tea and lounge on the sofa couch.

In the holy, precious name of Jesus Christ our risen Lord, I pray. Amen

Greasy grasp of the Garden

The following is a rapid recollection of thoughts from the regretfully unrecorded conversation of the night with Kevin, more as a reminder than a full report:

This life sucks. Get over it. We live in a fallen world. We were not designed to live this way. Not alone, community, care for the land. There is no formula. "This is the most morbid picture of life I could have given." "But perhaps the most accurate one."
The promise of the best life is only based on an acknowledgment that others strive and don't find. At least we know we won't find happiness here. We aren't suppose to. Why would God do that? He must; we sinned. He can't be anywhere near sin. That's why He is creating a new Earth.

Peace of comfort vs. Peace of Hope
The rich will have a hard time getting into heaven, because when Jesus comes to save the rich won't feel like it is salvation. They had everything they wanted. It makes sense that the poor receive the Kingdom; they've been awaiting freedom from oppression. This would lead us to the same reason God would choose an enslaved nation such as Israel to claim as His. It is the sick who need a doctor, and the imprisoned who need a savior. A wealthy nation has nothing to be saved from but a low and crappy nation has everything to be saved from.



Check back for comments from the co-conversationalist himself.

Functional Design

Yesterday, and days leading up to it, boredom pluck a new cord. In most circumstances, this deadening nothingness is satisfied with a void filling video game. However, two circumstantial differences crashed the party this week, the first of which has been feeding on maturation. The snarling beast of lonesome fantasy games barks all the louder as its snapping jaw enjoys a muting muzzle. Though they video games still suffice as a source of sweet entertainment, they fail now in their former mutinies of the mind.

The following alteration to the week bounces in unexpected, but more warmly welcomed than anyone could anticipate. Due to unusual activity in the electricity, the power cord to the Wii surged and burned. We held a memorial service the same day for close friends and family.
This bittersweet passing melted away all ability to easily waste away our lives. It was that very moment when I realized we'd need to be more creative in our attempts to waste our lives.

My aimless body scuffled around the house lifeless. Fast forward to today. Normal routine ensued: Awake, pour the cereal, stare at the wall, then spend 30 minutes deciding what will happen next. On occasion I chat online with a friend when she is awake.

Today, I decided to watch a movie. The Last of the Mohicans survived as almost the last movie I hadn't seen in the drawer. Not a disappointment. The adrenaline gushed within me to become a Mohican myself, to know nature and control my surroundings as one intimate with its Maker. I launched out the door to set my body to such form and control. But it left me with these thoughts.


As the sculpting and flexing muscles surged, so did my mind. Why is it that I succumb to this perceived need to work out, to sear my body into a machine that can stand up to the challenge? I have nothing in my daily life or even in a yearly life that requires such fitness. There is no need for the power of a strong arm hold whatever social countenances I desire. But as for practical purpose, I glean none.

My suspicion veers toward a residue of a once necessitated survival requisite. We were designed to subdue to the earth, no? I fear that our current interpretation of such a command hits slightly outside the intended red dot. Why do athletes train now? To engage in less dangerous forms of "battle" where risks remain low and assurance finds a home. It is a remnant of what we used to do, how we used to conquer, a necessity for food and survival. Now, a structured body lives in the cage of social appearance and entertainment value.

I want to work out, but the desire slowly ceases. I lift only as a means of feeling good and "healthy" living. It all seems a bit more lackluster now.

Through the Glass, part 2

As promised, to everyone's surprise, the story continues.

We rejoin our hero after his quiet traverse across the wilderness and following the assent of the concrete castle. The games recommences as the youth tap a slightly deflated and dilapidated futbol soars across the musty cavern of a hallway.

It is in this adventure the youth find their joy not necessarily in the game's ends but more so in the cheating fun of pushing, wrestling, and falsely truced alliances scourging the game instead. Revenge not only expects a righteous seat but bows low in thanks when she is encouraged. Pinching, poking, prodding. Jabs, juts, jams. Wall slams, open field shoves, and unsuspected foot tripping skip playfully on this battlefield.

Eventually, when all the guests arrive, the prince's sister escorts the celebrated royalty to his well-contoured throne where we marinate his with lavish flattery on his special day. Though this day belonged to him, I protruded as the welcomed and honored guest at the occasion. As if the presumed righteousness of my presence required some reciprocation, both mother and father of this young prince fervently piled the dish in my hands with unceasingly amounts of pizza, apple slices, chocolate cake, and assorted candies. For just as apart of "the family" of the Godfather, when in the home of an Egyptian they commit to making you an offer you can't refuse [done in a gross Italian-Egyptian accent]. Its customary, an insult if you refuse to eat anything offered to you by your generous host. I had heard this before yet it took 3 months before I could fight my way into a true Egyptian home to experience it firsthand.

We implored God for a blessing on the boy. The royal party slighted me a bit in Arabic, all in good fun; then the prince's most trusted warrior guided me on foot across the treacherous hills back to familiarity. Though little depth was bled from the conversation, a bond was struck between this faithful coursing mercenary and my soul. Bound by what may only be shear sensation and speculation, I crave to teach this young lad the tactics of a warfare he knows naught of.

We shall see. My lingering fear pierces with a thought of my abandonment in a mere 6 months. Do we undertake and break his spirit and mine, or shall we let the heart continue on in this hardened state leaving it only to sink faster in the dark sands of a naively ransacked perspective? Though I wish it were not so, the answer bathes in crystal water.