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The Adventures of Mary Celeste

What you are about to read in no way reflects my religious, spiritual, or academic beliefs. It is for entertainment purposes only. My entertainment, to be exact. My apologies to anyone who is offended. You may proceed.

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There had been some discussion of death. But more importantly, there had been more discussion of what was on the other side once you got there. And Mary liked the idea of dying and living forever after that in complete bliss. Sure, everyone likes to imagine what happens to your consciousness after your physical body dies, but not everyone who likes to imagine it goes and kills himself. Usually when that happens, the person who jumped ship had given up on the ship, didn’t want anything to do with the ship, and was pretty sure that ever boarding the ship was a totally stupid thing to do.

No, Mary cheerfully and eagerly jumped ship and ended her life. Not that there was anything wrong with the ship, just that she heard there were beautiful islands and she didn’t want to wait till her ship reached the original destination. Strangely enough, her middle name was Celeste: entirely coincidental and had nothing to do with the Mary Celeste itself, even though Mary’s ship, like the famed brigantine Mary Celeste, would reach its destination unmanned and everyone would find it a mystery. But this is not a story about the Mary Celeste, or even about our own dear Mary’s life. This is Mary’s story in the afterlife:

In the fifteenth year of Mary Celeste Norris’ journey, Mary abandoned the journey and took off on an unknown path of her own. It began when she found herself treading water in a great warm ocean with no land in sight, except for some huge islands floating in the sky with beautiful waterfalls disappearing into a mist. Mary was confused; this is not what the afterlife was supposed to be like at all.

“Hello?? Somebody help me!” she called, panicking. She could see people moving about on the island above.

“Hello!” somebody yelled back.

“Hello? Yes, I’m down here! How do I get up there?”

“Ah, yes, very good! It’s very lovely to meet you!”

“What??” Mary was beyond confused at this point and in the beginning stages of befuddled. “No, don’t leave me! Where should I go? What should I do?”

“Well, frankly, my dear, I don’t give a—“

“Bradley!” interrupted a woman’s voice. “Honey, if you’re down there without a ship, you can’t very well climb up here. But there’s some luxurious underwater caverns if you dive deep. I hear their pubs are the best.”

“Oh,” started Mary with a bit of an air. “But I don’t drink. It’s bad for your liver and once you start, you could become an alcoholic.”

A loud guffaw erupted from above and another voice added:

“Sweetheart, I don’t know if you know this, but you’re dead. You don’t have a liver to destroy. And alcoholism is a living world thing. And before you argue that you might run out of air, you don’t have lungs either. You aren’t breathing, even right now. Just dive in, grab a rum, and leave us alone.”

“Owww, be nice to the girl, she’s new to all this. She just came a little too soon is all,” whined the woman.

“Okay, thanks!” cried Mary, and she did as she was told. They were right; she didn’t have to hold her breath underwater. And she noticed that everything was crystal clear with a dark blue hue. Far below the surface of the water, she saw lights. She swam downwards until she reached the bottom. She landed on a cobblestone street with shops and pubs on each side. Lanterns lit the way in both directions and at first everything seemed deserted. But then two men burst out of a pub door and wrestled on the pavement squawking about a dancer.

A lady in a sparkly green leotard and a headdress of conch and oyster shells calmly tiptoed out of the pub and stood on the side to watch the spectacle. Mary gave her a questioning look and the lady replied while thumbing her nose,

“The shawt ‘un slapped me bum, an’ the lawge ‘un righ’ smasht ‘is rum bottle on th’ shawt ‘un’s nose.”

Mary blinked in astonishment. Some afterlife, she thought. She slipped into the pub and was immediately offered a bottle of rum by a man enthusiastically screaming, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” at a young child who couldn’t have been any older than three chugging away at a keg that said, “RUM” on the side. Mary looked on in horror.

“Aw, dinnae worry yer pretty wee hidd, lass. He died a’ sixty-six but wantit tae look lak a wee boy sae he could spit profanity an’ people’d get their craic, ya knoo?” a plump ginger slurred at her.

Mary stared into her rum and then up at the bartender, who looked like this wasn’t the most exciting thing he’d seen in all his time bartending.

“Does this happen all the time?” She asked.

“Nope. Usually he comes in here, gets as drunk as he can without blacking out, and then howls the most disgusting, repulsive words he can still think of. He’s getting pretty good at it. He doesn’t use the new words, though, so don’t expect to get offended. He uses the old Norse oaths, the ones used to either start a fight or summon spirits. But now the only spirits to summon down here are the ones right there in your bottle. Care for some more?” he offered patting the keg of rum on the wall.

“No, thanks. But why are they used to summon spirits if they are so awful?” She asked.

“Because the Church went all goody-two-shoes on the language of the land and all of a sudden, the old tongue is replaced by their cursed Latin,” and with that he gave the bar top an angry swipe.

“But don’t most words come from Latin?” she wondered.

“Most words are from languages of people whose ancestors soaked the ground with Roman blood and then happily repopulated the land to the memories of it. The only reason Latin is still used is because of the mercy and fascination of historians and linguists, and the inability of some religious nuts to let it go. If Latin is as high and mighty as you lot were led to believe, how come the so-called ‘barbaric’ languages are considered unutterable? If you can answer me that, then I’ll kiss the guy next to you full on the mouth.” The guy next to her gave the bartender a deer-in-the-headlights look. “If you ask me,” he continued, “Latin is the tongue of the dogs and the ancient tongue of the Germanic tribes is the glorious legacy of a respectable people.”

“I take it you’re German?” the guy next to her guessed. His name was Sean, apparently. Or Linda. Or English Scum. His tattoos weren’t very helpful as to which name was his.

“Certainly not! I’m Faroese,” the bartender boasted.

“Is that Asian?”

“It is no more Asian than you are English.”

“Tha’s a good way to get a rum shot in the eye, sailor.”

Mary stared into her rum again and imagined a great naval battle upon the amber waves. She looked back up at the bartender and the guy next to her. She was quite sure she was going to enjoy herself in the afterlife.

“So, tell me more about old Norse.”

My cover of From the North by Runrig

Well, I've been feeling like I'm cheating when I just use a bit of software to make my music. So this is me trying to be a little more real. I don't do well with cameras. Or singing while playing for that matter. Please tell me what you think. And blame Mike Vaughan for psychologically pushing me to do this. And speaking of Mike, go check out his music. Here's his website and here's his Soundcloud. He's a brilliant singer and musician and is into pirates and stuff.

Cheers!

Modesty and Lust

I casually follow Project Inspired, and today, I found this article on the issue of yoga pants and whether or not Christian women should wear them. It kind of struck me because just yesterday, I went out and bought myself some yoga pants. In fact, I'm wearing them as I type this. They are sooo comfortable and soft and warm and comfortable... and I felt a little defensive about the article. Like, seriously? I just got these gorgeous things! So, naturally, I want to talk about them and the issue of modesty and lust.

Praise the Lord and pass the yoga pants.

Just kidding, I don't want to talk about yoga pants. It's just a new fad that has replaced other articles of clothing that make our [insert body part] look good, and it will soon be replaced by other articles of clothing that do the same thing. And this has been the same argument for every one of those controversial pieces. The reason that they are controversial in the Christian community: men are evil and full of lust and all they really want to do is rape you because yoga pants (or miniskirts, crop-tops, swimsuits, etc.) make you look too sexy to pass up. And you, the female, are just a fragile blossom who must keep these men from indulging their basest desires or even fantasizing about it. They can't help themselves; you must do it for them.

Whenever a woman is sexually assaulted, the question inevitably comes up: "What was she wearing?" I have to ask, "What does a woman need to be wearing (or not wearing) for her to sexually assaulted?" From my experience working in a grocery store, I have deduced that the outfit I'm most likely to be assaulted in is a loose-fitting polo shirt and a pair of dirty black pants. When I worked in the deli, I was hit on constantly by a male coworker and a few of the male customers. Come to think of it, why did the customers hit on me? They couldn't see anything but my face. My good bits were hidden behind a display of meats and cheeses. Must be my face. Better cover that up so men don't lust after me.

Nailed it.

On the days that I didn't wear the uniform (Yay, for Employee Appreciation Week!), I would dress up in my favorite shirts, which I admit were form-fitting, but I didn't get hit on or stared at. Apparently, I looked like a manager. I only got hit on if I was wearing the employee uniform. Because nothing says hot stuff like a blue t-shirt (they had to change the employee shirt so we'd stick out) that asks, "How may I help you today?"
In conclusion, I'm thinking that it's not the clothes we wear that make guys think impure thoughts. Because us girls look really good when we go to church and think nothing of it. The dress that covers the knees, shoulders, and all the "goodies" and isn't skin tight is still going to look very good on you, and men are going to look at you. That doesn't mean that it doesn't matter what you wear. Men think lustful thoughts. Period. Some more than others, but all men, at one point in their life, have thought impure thoughts. (Just like women do.) When Jesus told the multitudes that they were committing adultery in their hearts when they lusted after women, he wasn't admonishing the women for wearing things clinging to their butts. He was admonishing men for having wayward eyes. We all need to work on that. It keeps both genders from feeling uncomfortable.
And what about us women? How we struggle with those good-looking men wearing those tailored suits and ties! How does this not fill your mind with lustful thoughts?

I had lots of fun looking for the perfect tailored suit on a guy.

See what I mean?

Now, using the same logic applied to us women, I'm going to tell men to not wear nice clothes because we women can't control ourselves.

I'm having a hard time controlling myself right now.

Let's face it: men are going to continue looking very very good, and women are going to continue looking very very good. Nothing is going to change that. People need to start taking responsibility for their own thoughts and actions and not blame the victims. If you want men to not have lustful thoughts about women, either teach them to not have lustful thoughts or forbid them from seeing women. And good luck with that.

Arguing With Myself

I wanted to do a post on the issue of homosexuality. But I really don't want to hurt or anger anybody. But I also want to initiate important discussion about homosexuality. But I don't want to start a fight. So I shall leave it up to whoever actually reads my blog. Or I could post it to draw more traffic to my blog. I can just read the headlines: "Fatface Beats A Dead Horse and the Crowd Goes In For the Kill." No, seriously. Should I post it? (please answer, I'm so lonely over here...)

War: A free-verse poem

I wrote a free-verse poem the other day for an assignment. The assignment was that I write a free-verse poem for one of four subjects: religion, sex, birth, or war. Well, I don't know enough about sex or birth to write a meaningful poem about it, and I know to much about religion to write about that (don't want to pick a fight), so I chose war. Don't know enough about it either, but I do know loss and can imagine it from a part-romantic, part-realist point of view. So here it is, simply titled, "War."

I stand here alone

And look out on the water

Red with the blood of my brothers,

Stained with the blood of my enemies.

The seagulls irreverently cry

As they scavenge for freshly hewn meat.

But all is silent midst their screams,

A dirge for every man.

The television will hum

With news that we won the war.

“The war is over!” they will say.

But no one really believes it.

To the children lying at my feet,

Mere collateral damage from battle,

The war is finally over; they will hurt no more.

To their mothers, the war drags on.

I killed a man last week, a good man.

I would have bought him a drink any other day.

But orders from the top bade I spill his blood.

“He is dangerous,” they said.

I don’t think either side won.

The seagulls won; they will feast for a week.

The ground won; it gladly receives the harvest.

The flies won; there will be plenty of them.

I sit here alone on the crimson sand.

I haven’t slept in days.

I take this leaden pill and sleep

At last with my brothers.

Back after a long while...

Wow, I'd neglected this blog for quite some time. To tell you the truth, I'd forgotten it, and created another blog (and please feel free to visit and follow me!). But that blog I think I will reserve for self-promotion, because I like to make little articles on history-related subjects, and... well, I just think it's a good idea, okay?
To catch up, I and my family have moved into a bigger, much nicer house. You can tell it's nicer, because the only linoleum is in the kitchen and it hasn't yellowed, popped out at the edges, warped in places, and gotten weird mystery stains. It's a relatively new house, and it's out in the country, which in itself is pretty awesome and comes with it's own amusing annoyances:

1. "That one guy" across the street: Last night, I was doing some late-night browsing on the internet, and I began to notice a familiar noise gradually increasing in volume. It was the guy who lives across the street coming home. He has an obnoxious car horn reminiscent of "The Dukes of Hazzard" Dixie horn. So he pulled into his driveway and parked the car, but soon decided that 1:30 a.m. is a brilliant time to play with your programmable car horn. So it alternated between an awesomely loud ambulance siren and Dixie for a good half-hour. Luckily my big box fan is loud enough to drown out his horn.
2. The horses next door: Every time those horses whinny, I get that sick feeling in my stomach that I get if my laptop makes a noise I've never heard it make before. Because that's exactly what I initially think is going on. I've never lived out in the country before, so this will take some getting used to.
3. The water tastes funny: We get our water from a well, and it has a metallic taste that has since died down (or I've gotten accustomed to it), but it leaves a film in my coffee. I drink it anyway, and haven't gotten sick from it yet, but I still find it uncomfortable to know that I'm consuming it.
4. You know I'm all abou' da bass...: In suburbia, we'd always have that one neighbor who had a sweet sound system in his car and wasn't ashamed to let the whole neighborhood know, but it was usually some pop or hip-hop song. Out here, one of our neighbors blasts bluegrass with a big booming bass.

But the night is full of stars, so I've got that going for me. Will post pictures when Spring arrives and I'm willing to go outside.