I really feel like writing something this morning, but I don't have anything to write about. That worked-out pretty well for Mr. Seinfeld, so it can't hurt me.

This morning I'm going to have coffee with Dave Something, he's a pastor (not a pasture). We were talking and he said we should get together and talk about religious stuff sometime, that time is today. I've always been game for religious discussion, but lately I've been more open and less antagonistic about it. I may write in-depth about that at some point, so remember not to check back.

This probably won't mean anything to anyone, but I read a moving short memoir this morning. It was written by Maureen Dowd, for her mom, who died nine days ago. Ms. Dowd is one of my favourite columnists for the NYT and a profoundly admirable person. The article illustrates the source of her strength. You'll need to quickly register to read it, but nytimes.com is the best newspaper online, so your life will not be complete until you do.

I'm going to go see Charlie and the Chocolate Factory tonight. Tim Burton and Roald Dahl have perfectly matched sensibilities. I always loved the beginning of Charlie the most. Charlie is poor, he lives with his parents and four grandparents, his dad works at the toothpaste cap factory, they eat cabbage soup everyday and he only gets one chocolate bar per year! Charlie is the best little boy, and I think . . . Freddie Highmore (Finding Neverland) is perfect for the role.

I don't know if I'm the only one, but I often like the beginning of a book or movie more than the body or the end. The beginning is the author's chance to set-up his or her own little world and share it with you; whereas, during the rest he is usually trying to impress something on you. Few of us are able to make an original comment weighty enough to carry a novel; but everyone has their own unique world (imaginary or otherwise) which they can share . . . if they are lucky.

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Last night I dreamt of a beach. It was nighttime, lit by a full moon. The beach was wide, with about thirty meters of even sand from trees to surf. A lone, thin tree stood near the middle of the beach, almost in the water. Not far across the water was another beach. Both beaches were circled on three sides by steep, lush mountains, like a tropical fjord.

There were three others on my beach, and about a dozen on the opposite beach. There was to be a contest between our two groups, as well as with other groups on beaches out of sight. No one knew the rules yet, we were waiting. I had a swelling confidence that we would win, despite having fewer members than the other teams. I felt we would be able to bond and focus better. The other teams underestimated the four of us, which was also to our advantage.

Our group was me, another guy and two girls. We were all close in age, though they were slightly younger than me. The other guy was black, from Africa. One girl was from Northern Africa, Egypt or Libya maybe, with Middle-Eastern features. He thought that sharing the same continent made the two of them familiar, and he made an innocuous gesture of good luck to her by drawing a line across her face with wet sand. She felt differently; she was insulted. She thought it was beneath her, so she brushed his arm away. The other girl was Asian, she had an orange shirt and didn’t speak. The contest was not to begin until the morning. We slept in our clothes on the beach, near the tree.

I woke-up to shouting in the early morning, it was still dark. There was a gentle rumbling and the sand was vibrating. Three horses came into view in the distance. They approached quickly, racing across the beach at breakneck speed. One bumped another, it tripped and dove violently, snapping both of its front legs. It slid right towards me and I had to jump out of the way. The girls were becoming hysterical, but their pitched screams were soon drowned-out by the deafening rumble. Seconds later a wave of horses broke across the far end of the beach. Shoulder to shoulder, thousands deep, all black or dark brown. We were too far from the jungle, so I scrambled for the lone tree. I didn’t make it before they were upon me. Luckily, there was a pocket of space between the tree and the water. I was temporarily safe in it, as the horses flowed by me on both sides, plowing into the water. I knew the tree would soon be broken to splinters, so my only chance was to swim to safety. I stumbled into the water, it was futile though, the bay was quickly filling with bodies as the horses flung themselves in one after the other. I thrust my arms through the water, a few futile strokes before I went under. I sunk, bracing myself to be struck unconscious at any second. I called out to God for forgiveness, knowing that I was going to die. Then I woke up.

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Shortly after I moved up here my cell phone stopped working.
Fido (my carrier) was like, "Yeah, you can get expanded coverage and it will work, for an extra 5 dollars per month." (41.99 total)
Then I was like, "pfft!"
So they were like, "Well, ok, we'll make it work for free, just don't cancel."
Then I was like, "Well, why wouldn't you do that in the firstplace?"
And they were like, "because we hate you!"
So I was like, "pfff-fff-fffft!"

So I cancelled my contract and got a landline, and it only took me 2 months! I went the VOIP route, which means I don't really have a phoneline, my calls just go through my broadband connection. This technology is only tenuously legal in Canada, as I understand it, but whatever, It's only 14.95$ per month; that's all that matters. Also, you get a neat looking adapter-box-thing. Best of all, you don't have to pay money to a stupid, abusive conglomerate such as Rogers or Telus. Unfortunately, the company I got it from (Comwave) hasn't set-up in the 250 area code yet, so they gave me a toll-free '1-866' number, which is kind of funny. I wish they had given me a '1-800' number, and then let me pick the rest, so I could have picked like: 1-800-AWESOME, or 1-800-PANCAKE, or 1-800-URPOOPY, or something really profound. Actually, maybe it's best that they didn't.

So yeah, you can call me now (1-866-840-2765), but you shouldn't because I'll just pretend that I can't speak English and that you have the wrong number. That'll show you, whoever you are!

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Mom

Diana was the daughter of Jupiter and Latona, and the twin sister of Apollo. Both were born on the island Delos . . . wait a minute, that’s Diana goddess of the hunt, not Diana my mom. D’oh! Actually, no one calls her Diana, or Diane for that matter. To the world she is simply Didi!

My mom was born in Montreal not long after the advent of colour TV. Her dad was one Wally Emo, an adventurous geologist of Irish and Dutch heritage. Her mom is the generous Kyra Emo, bird watcher extraordinaire and onetime Volvo-owner. Grandma Kyra comes from French-Canadian and Russian stock. In fact, my great grandmother, who once gave me a rabbit and cheesies, was a ‘White Russian’ who buried her silver and fled the country, probably during the Russian Civil War.

Didi is the middle of 3 sisters, which automatically makes her the coolest. Her older sister is Carolyn, currently lost somewhere in Southeast Asia, but usually a resident of Victoria. Her younger sister is Gail, a resident of Laurieston Hall, Scotland. Mom also has a very successful business, which she started from scratch about 10 years ago. It’s called “Didi’s,” after Princess Di.

Being a middle child, mom likes a lot of cool things, such as: skiing, kayaking, driving a mini cooper and losing at board games. Wait, that last one isn’t cool. Anyway, we used to go skiing every Saturday from about . . . February 2nd 1990 . . . until 1997. So, she’s pretty hardcore. She was even Chairperson for Northern Alpine Zone for several years, and is presently the Alpine Director (or something like that) for next year’s BC Northern Winter Games.

Didi’s favourite animal is the flamingo. That’s why she always tries to dance like one with her flamingo dancing troupe. Their name is Flamingo Dance Team 5000! They rock! At least as much as any other Flamingo Dance Team this side of Spain.

Seriously though, my mom was and is a great mom. She always encouraged me to do different and creative things, and supported me in everything I did. Even things that probably didn’t merit support, like painting racing stripes on my dog, inventing an all-meat salad and starting that nudist colony at the bird sanctuary. I guess she realized we all have our own way, at least until the police arrive.

Oh yeah, I can’t forget. She possesses a wicked secret recipe for chocolate sauce, and is a magnificent brewer of Starbucks. We've had a tradition for a few years now which happens to be one of my favourite things in the whole world. Every Saturday morning when I’m home, we get the weekend papers, brew a big pot of Starbucks, whip-up some crêpes, and lounge about all morning, overstimulating ourselves with caffeine and the printed word. It's truly blissful. You’re welcome to join us, just stop in some morning pretending to be lost or ‘in the neighbourhood’ or whatever; we’re not picky.

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This little guy was on the side of the road when I walked up to the university yesterday. He was all like "gurgle, hellllllllp meeeeeee, I have only one eye and I'm soaking wet." So I put him on the cement barrier at the top of the hill to dry out. If he's yours, better go pick him up and take him to the vet. I took some other pictures too. It's a nice walk up there, through the forest, even in the rain.

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I went to the public library yesterday, because hey, I'm part of the public, right? The librarian seemed to think so. She gave me a card that allows me to steal books, providing I return them after a few weeks. It's a neat building, it has no ground floor because it stands on pillars. I was looking for The Alchemist, because I've always wanted to turn common metals into gold, but it had been signed out. I got Siddhartha and some book on comparative religion instead. Today my buddy Daniel e-mailed me out of the blue and recommended The Alchemist, funny coincidence. He also told me he is moving to China again, lucky guy.

I've been thinking about China a lot today. I hadn't really much since I moved up here. I guess the reason is that Dash just went there. She should be travelling from Hong Kong to Guangzhou today. She sent an e-mail from a hostel saying she had met a Danish couple, so everything should be fine. Nothing bad ever happens when Danes are around. Dash is staying with my friend Vic, and my other friend is meeting her at the train station, and a third friend is going to give her a tour of the city. I kind of had fun planning a trip that I wanted to take, and now I can take it vicariously through her.

I miss the feeling of nothing making sense and everything being weird. One of my teachers says writing is supposed to make the world seem strange again. Moving to another country does a pretty good job of that too. I loved my first night in China. I peered through the bus windows at towering, otherworldly neon signs. My two ton pack was featherlight as I lugged it through midnight traffic, guided only by the memory of an arm gesture. The first person I met lent me her cell phone to call the people who were supposed to pick me up. A good omen it was, the Cantonese are irrepressibly friendly.

Here's a curious video clip. It's part a film about Islam made by Theo Van Gogh (yes, he is related). So controversial was this film that poor Theo was stabbed and shot to death over it. That was by an Islamic extremist in Holland last November. Boy, with this and the Pim Fortuyn incident, I'm pretty glad for boring Canadian politics.

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Contrary to popular opinion, I am starting to get the hang of this blogging business. My original, meticulous non-plan was to post randomly about anything I came across that piqued my interest, or about which I could make fun. I have since realized that randomness is a recipe for nothing, and nothing is not something. So, I have decided to streamline the contents of IP to somewhat factual anecdotes from my so-called life (I can too say that Clare Danes! I don't care if Jared Leto was in Fight Club, leave me alone!), as well as various ruminations of questionable maturity.

Given that my life today is not much distinguishable from that of my wax duplicate at Madame Tussaud's, I will plague you with one of the aforementioned ruminations of questionable maturity. Ahhhh, the qualifying power of self-deprecation. Actually, yesterday I was not idle. I finally watched Napoleon Dynamite, which was pretty much the best video ever made ("Whatever I feel like I wanna do. Gosh!"). And now for the seamless transition from Napoleon Dynamite to theology.

(There's a summary at the bottom if you find this really, really boring.)

I've been wondering, and I've asked some of the devout in my life, say a person doesn't believe in hell, yet he does all the things necessary to keep himself out of hell, would he still go to hell? Well, by definition, if he has done all the necessary things, then he won't go to hell. Put another way, is belief in hell a necessary condition for staying out of it?

I am sometimes puzzled when I talk to Christians (Protestants specifically, mostly evangelical) and they say that the positive of having a relationship with God makes the negative of staying out of hell wholly inconsequential. Or, as I have several times heard it put: "I am not a Christian because I want to stay out of hell, it is because of what God gives me; my relationship with God" (paraphrased). This suggests that eternity without God is one and the same as hell. The lake of fire is a metaphor. I guess the question of whether the lake of fire is figurative or literal becomes moot if eternity without God is worse than eternal physical torment.

Still, I don't think the de-emphasis placed on the negative of hell is really fair. Sure, it doesn't matter to you if you're going to heaven, but you have to appreciate that it's a pretty big thing if you're not. In any case, I don't think we can verify the existence of either in this lifetime, but hell remains a key meeting point between different belief systems. We can talk all we want about our different religious experiences, and how I interpret this in such and such a way, and that in such and such a way, and smile and get along, and enjoy the variety of religious opinion. But if at the end of the day you're going to heaven, and I'm not, then it's all meaningless.

The problem I have is that I don't see the purpose of a metaphysical system which punishes those who fail. A sensible picture can be made of a God who creates humans and wants them to join him (through salvation, in Christianity), but I don't see what punishing those who fail to join him accomplishes. Why would it not be set up in such a way that those who fail remain "unenlightened," but unharmed? There are several other major systems who have it that way. Reincarnation, found in Hinduism, Sikhism and Jainism among others, as I understand it, allows for those with 'bad karma' (i.e., those who have failed) to return, albeit in a worse position, but still with the chance to improve their lot and eventually succeed, whatever they may call success. There is also "rebirth" in Buddhism. In most forms of Buddhism there isn't a self to reincarnate, much less to damn to eternal torture.

No doubt there are numerous counterarguments, those notwithstanding, there are still some belief system which contain punishment for those who fail, and some which do not. To reiterate, why would God choose the former? I know, God can be angry: "On that day I will become angry with them and forsake them; I will hide my face from them, and they will be destroyed" (Deuteronomy 31:17 NIV), and jealous: "You shall not bow down to them or worship them; for I, the LORD your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me" (Exodus 20:5 NIV). I don't deny that, that's his prerogative, much like everything when you are omnipotent, but it does seem out-of-tune with the way the faithful I interact with these days perceive him. Those verses, and others like them, are well-entrenched in the Old Testament, which is more restricting than the lives of faith I see.

Why would someone omniscient become angry anyway though? I mean, I know humans aren't God, but when we get angry, it is often in the heat of the moment, or because an irreperable wrong has been done us; something we can't fix. Those things don't matter when all of time is laid out before and behind you. Being angry seems unfittingly fickle for an omnipotent being. When are human leaders vengeful and malicious? Not as often upon reflection, or when there is no threat from he who would be punished. Do we punish criminals for the sake of punishment or to prevent them from recidivism? Both, to varying degrees, in varying cultures and states. Wiser and more compassionate societies do not simply execute criminals indiscriminately. Most often the criminals retain a basic, if dull, existence. Why would God not do the same? He could just reduce us to a bland imprisonment, or he could kill us once and for all and be done with it. Isn't death bad enough? Why should the failures be relegated to eternal torment?

Anyway, I don't know. It is in some ways merely a piece of theological trivia, but I think it is important in what it reflects. There are more important and complicated questions in Christianity, which are answerable in other ways (and at other times, don't worry). Still, if one can accept the essential tenets of faith, without paying lip serivce to every single thing, and he remains in the world (separate from God and a spiritual community) then that is telling, and sad.

Summary:
1. Is belief in hell a necessary condition for staying out of it?
2. What is God's purpose in creating a universe in which those who fail are punished? I understand he wants to reward those who 'get it right,' but what does he gain from damning the rest for eternity? Why not simply erase them, or let them wander wearing neutral beige, drinking watered-down oatmeal and listening to air supply?



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Dad

Here's the second installment in some series about those people who were always around the house when I was younger. It features one of my two living male relatives, and probably will be of limited coherence. I realize it's not a good picture of him, because it's taken from behind, but I really like this picture, it has all sorts of stuff going on (click on it, it's much bigger). Here's a second pic of him for good measure.

Walter Spencer Henderson was born in 1950 to parents of English and Scottish ancestry. That makes him a baby boomer, which I think has something to do with dynamite. His dad was a machine-gun instructor in WW2 and his mom was once the lawn-bowling champion of Quebec, although that had nothing to do with any war. He grew-up in Town of Mount Royal, which is an English district of Montreal. As a boy he played lots of hockey, waterskiied a lot and appeared on an old-school television quiz show with his parents. They won the first night, but lost the second.

In nineteen-seventy-something he moved to BC, for reasons known only to God and the mafia hitmen who were chasing him. He worked as a log-peeler, a fruit-picker in the Okanagan and a miner. Eventually he joined the radio industry, which he remains a part of to this day. The year Star Wars was released, he and my mom were married.

Whenever something went wrong when I was little (that is, everyday) he would say "it's not the end of the world." And you know what? He was almost always right. The notable exception being the Cuban Missile Crisis. The thing I remember him doing most when I was young was driving me to soccer practice. I went to a lot of soccer practices and he always drove me and picked me up. He was also my baseball coach, but I liked soccer better than baseball, so nevermind that. I guess it's a trivial thing, but plenty of kids don't have anyone to drive them to soccer practice, so they just stay at home and play soccer with their dog, but then the dog runs away and they shout "stop running dog!" But the dog just keeps running because the dog can't understand English, also, it doesn't like soccer.

These days my dad is a civic councillor in my hometown. That's cool, because I like politics, except for civic politics, because they are boring. It's still cool though. His main hobbies are golf and buying weird Montreal Expos memorabilia on ebay, apparently because he loves inept baseball teams. He does not collect Washington Nationals memorabilia (the latest incarnation of the Expos), probably because they are actually good.

What else? He really likes those movies about football where there is some underdog player or team, and they eventually win in the end against all odds. Seriously, he has like 8 of them. That's cool though, Rudy was a pretty good movie (Ruuuudy, Ruuuudy!). He is a big Beatles fan, and is generally into music from the 60s and 70s, not surprisingly, since he has often been a DJ, and has often lived during those decades. He also likes to drink hot chocolate, in all seasons, and go for walks with his dog Gamgee, but they don't play soccer, because who would drive them?

So yeah, that's my dad. He's a really considerate and giving person, kind of like Leah, but with less rock-throwing. He can also make a voice like Donald Duck, and super-good omelets.

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Me, Lilly, Fluffely the cat

I've petted at least 5 different dogs in the last 4 days, all friendly. That opening sentence was supposed to explain that I have been gone since Saturday. It failed, because there are dogs everywhere. Anyway, Friday was not uneventful itself. I went to see the Canada Day fireworks at a park with Roxanne from English, her friend, brother and sister-in-law. That's the reason I had a Canadian flag tattoo on my neck all weekend, just in case anyone was wondering.

Saturday I drove home, narrowly missing a moose which was crossing the highway. Well, it wasn't slam-on-the-brakes narrow, it was more like slowdown-admire-giant-moose narrow. Having a pet moose would be great. I bet they are almost as fast as horses, plus you could store things in their antlers. Somebody sure dropped the ball when they decided horses were the ones to be domesticated. Sure, there are fewer gorings, but the antler storage! Saturday afternoon was a bust, as I missed the two people I was trying to see, but I saw Danya (Dann and Tanya) et al on Saturday night. Sitting around a campfire is an artform.

Sunday I met my childhood friend Ben Horner and his family. We were fanatical about lego back in the day, as well as GI Joes, little cars, digging in the dirt and boyishness in general. He now has a very friendly wife Christy, an adorable daughter Lilly and a round 15-monther named Silas. They stayed at our house for Sunday and Monday, which was really good. It was mostly at low speed, but we did wander about Bridge Creek for some time. We also went out into the woods East of the Heritage site, to look for unique pieces of wood, because he is a woodworker. We found a potential coatrack and part of a future table.

Kelly came back from Europe too, which is always good, mostly because she is one of the few people I can hug and punch at the same time, but also because I now have a camera again. Watch out! She's gone again already, as is her habit. She says she is planting trees up North, but we all know she is hunting wolverines.

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