I wonder if life would be better if pipes were better insulated.

It seems that water is generally at the mercy of the elements: in cold weather, the taps always run at almost-freezing for five minutes, until the hot water kicks in. On an Australian-summers-day, the cold water always run hot, or at least luke-warm for several minutes.

That leads me to hypothesize one of three things: either the pipes are laid too close to the surface, and thus are not well insulated by the earth, the earth is not as good an insulator as one would expect, or that the pipes are too thin.

I toy with the idea of pipes better-embedded in the ground, but I suspect that we are slave more to the mains than anything else. There would be not-much point in getting a pipe a metre below the ground, and then submerging it by an extra metre for all of the 3 metres it takes to take it to your kitchen.

Pipes could be thicker though, I suspect. From what I remember seeing, most of them are thin plastic (apart from metal pipes running out of the hot water system).

Theoretically, that would reduce heat-inefficiency at the point of water-supply (the tap in your kitchen and bathroom) and thus waste less water.

I'd like to experiment on point 2, though. If I ever get around to building a house, I'd like a den. My suspicion is that a house with an underground floor would be much more heat-efficient than a house with a second floor above. The earth ought to insulate my den and make it nice and cozy.

Hobbits probably have cozy houses 365 days a year.

I save the planet when I'm bored, and my brain isn't erstwhile occupied during breakfast.

[This post is brought to you by the letter D, for Discretion, which is said to be the better part of Valour, and is probably also the better part of Honour, for a gentleman never tells, n'est pas?¹]

I get frustrated often and annoyed frequently, but I am rarely angry.

And so when I become so, it takes me completely by surprise.

Me, and the dented door to our bedroom.

Given a few hours to think about it—it's no less scary. The speed at which it arrives, the naked aggression and my entire potential for violence explodes out of nowhere. It burbles around, it boils, it threatens to flare out of control at any moment. Thinking about it makes it worse, but thinking is the only way to resolve it; to apply reason and logic and rationality. And control. But as the offense replays itself in my head, automatically, insistently, repeatedly, the rage ebbs and flows. But ignoring it, bottling it up, can only lead to worse.

Perhaps it runs in the family. It is times like this that the old anecdote about my dad, a meat cleaver, and a mischievous cousin ceases to become merely amusing, and becomes something I too have the capacity for. Or capacity for worse.

I've had a few legendary brain-snaps, most of which are in the dim dark pasts in primary school. Thankfully, I have done almost nothing I regret. I pray it is something I never unleash on Sarah, or those close to me; or anyone at all for that matter. Because inside, as the rage overwhelms, within is the small calm psychotic voice who points out all the targets, measures all the possibilities, measures all the methods of vengeance and how they might be most justly and cruelly exacted.

One can see how one could conceive of Mr Hyde. One can see how crimes of passion are entirely possible, how mild-mannered men become murderers.

§

I find that the situations that usually bring it up is usually a misunderstanding. I am in the right, but nobody else is entirely in the wrong. Normally it is miscommunication, misguided expectations, and human error. Something that might have been avoided but was not; and things escalate.

If I am at fault, I can happily lay the blame on me, and persecute myself inside. If someone else is in the fault, I can work at forgiveness. With misunderstanding, there is no wrong party; merely a series of unfortunate events, with the wrong stars in alignment², and human error, which leads to the plan going awry, which leads to me being very unhappy.

And so it's not something that can be rationalised, can be explained away, can be dealt with by logic or reason. It is "bad luck", something potentially unavoidable, and imperfection and an abberation which I, the thwarted one, will have to live with.

Which does little to mollify.

Raaargggh.

It still makes me mad. Not furious, anymore, but grumpy. Hopefully sleep with make it go away.

---

¹This will only be a paradox for those familiar with Ultima
²Only in a manner of speaking. Astrology is bunk.

It probably won't surprise anyone to know that I've been listening to old-school (old skool?) music recently... I successfully manage to avoid music on the radio, and it's a joy to delve back into the 80s and the 70s and the 60s.

My parents were never massively into music (I think I ranted before that Mum was living in England at the right time to see the Beatles, The Who, or the Rolling Stones, or Hendrix, and never saw a single one live! Aargh!)

And so a lot of "cool" music other kids got to grow up to (Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, etc) is still mostly unfamiliar to me.

Anyway, the two artists I've been listening to a bit are both old-school, although that's about all they've got similar... as far as I'm aware.

Dylan

First of all, I've been digging into Dylan. He's sort of hard to avoid, really, and I have enough Dylan on compilation albums and music soundtracks, and I think I picked up a CD of his unplugged performance. But I've never really spent much time in his older, classic albums.

The first thing you encounter, and most inescapable, is his voice. My parents had this obsession with "a good voice", some sort of idea of a clear, sweet, classic voices in a 60s pop mode; Linda Ronstadts and Mary Blacks, or even Elvis doing gospel.

Someone like Angie Hart would be too much like a little-girl, Mariah Carey would be too warbly. Bob Dylan would be untenable.

But there really is something to imperfect voices. Actually, that's a rant for another day.

But my point about Dylan is, his voice is deceptively ugly. Although it seems ancient and rusty and easily bettered, his voice serves him well: he hits every note he wants to hit, and when you sing along to the songs, you realise that he covers a pretty broad vocal range.

But what gets me is how talented Dylan is. He was 22 when he wrote Blowin' in the Wind and A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall. He was 24 when he wrote Mr Tambourine Man, Baby Blue, and Desolation Row.

His confidence reeks from reel to reel of his albums--you can tell he's having a great time as he's recording, and occasionally you get the impression he's fighting off laughter...having so much fun in the throes of music. Ah, there's so much more to say about Dylan. But another time.

Jackson

And then, I've been listening to Michael Jackson.

After a decade of extreme weirdness, followed by a decade of lawsuits, oddly-named children and relative obscurity, It's easy to forget exactly how cool Michael Jackson was back in the 80s. I guess I must be exactly old enough to have bass line of Beat It and the groove of Billie Jean burnt into the back of my head. Or my older cousin had the album. or something. Because every kid in primary school wanted to dance like Michael Jackson and moonwalk everywhere. There were the trademarks, the fedora, the glove, and the effortless spins, complete with crotch-grabs. Only with MJ, it looked cool, not obscene. There was even a computer-game that a kid up the street had... where you beat the bad guys by spinning, clicking your heels, moonwalking, and throwing your fedora at them. Or maybe you beat them, by grooving so unbearably that they just have to dance along (like in the film clip to Beat It).

The cool thing about the 25-year anniversary of the re-release of Thriller is that it comes with a DVD of the film clips, and the landmark performance of Billie Jean at Motown's 25th Anniversary. It was the first thing I watched, and then I made Sarah sit through them all when she got home. [And that's how I figured out the age thing... because Sarah, only 2 years younger than me, had heard the songs on the radio like everyone else, but never seen the film clips.]

Even though the film clips are tacky and 80s, they're still pretty darn cool. Whatever you think of Michael Jackson's music, his dancing was second-to-none. If he could still dance, someone from So You Think You Can Dance really needs to invite him on to show the kiddies a thing or two. It's mesmerising. It's fascinating. If I didn't have other stuff to do, I could probably sit and watch it all day.

But listening to Thriller in it's complete glory (I don't think I've ever sat down through the whole album, never having owned it) reminded me that, regardless of what I think about Michael Jackson's weirdness, his music was also brilliant; ground-breaking, unbearably catchy and groovy. Every other song rings and old bell in my head, and raises nostalgic excitement; Thriller, Beat It, Billie Jean. And even songs that, by any true measure ought to be lame ("The doggone girl is mine"... a duet with Paul McCartney) are someone made cool and catchy.

[Written: 4/8/08]

I went into the city today for the first time in... Forever.

Just another indicator that life has changed sooo much in the last few years.

4 years ago, I was in the city all the time. Not just for work, although I did pass through the city pretty much every day. On a weekend, a regular thing to do might be to head into the city, passing through the familiar haunts: Kinokinuya, Venue Music, JB hi-fi, Games Paradise, Kings Comics, Pitt St Mall, Borders, Virgin. A movie might cap off the afternoon. Yes, a movie by myself.

Yes, I was single and lonely. But once you get over stigma of going to movies by yourself, movies are a great escape, as you enter another world for a few hours.

Thats not to say i was anti-social. I used to go to everything. Multiple parties in a night. Church, and 150 other family-members were a great joy and I couldn't think of a better way to spend a Sunday evening.

But in some sense, all that frantic social activity was seeking after friendship and social contact. Filling a void.

Every day i wake up next to my best friend in the world and (sorry to all my other friends but) besides whom, all other company fades in comparison.

While I love seeing all my other friends, I would be content with just the company of Sarah any given evening.

It seems like, my entire life, I've been bearing the weight of great expectations.

My name, (hao ran = 浩然)¹ means Natural Greatness. And for a long time, I wore the weight of my parents great expectations. That's natural: I'm Chinese, and so are my parents. I am the firstborn, and the first Un born in Australia. There is intellect in my family, and a history of academic success, and I was expected to excel². Academically.

Those days are gone now, and my parents are content with who I grew up to be. As we have all grown older, that stunning success seems less important. Does it matter, at 29, whether I came first or second in primary school? Does it matter whether my Honours is first class or second class? The career I had I gave away, and their expectations are of happiness and security, not of financial success. I am happily married, and perhaps the only expectation left is the grandchild, although my parents are lovely enough not to apply any pressure on us. I hope we are as good to our own children.

Now the expectations are my own, and they are no less imposing. Nay, moreso. I never starred academically because I never dreamed of academia. I never dreamed of being first in the class. But the converted me dreams bigger, and stronger, and deeper. My ambitions, dormant and sleepy throughout all of my youth became breathtaking; because I had found the cause I was (and still am) willing to die for. I had found the dream worth following, and it is my risen Lord. All for his glory, and all in his service.

And so I dream of changing the world. It is eminently possible; and many people have. My limitations are vast, for I am but human; my capabilities are infinite, because they are really God's; my desire is for God's glory, but my pride is dangerous for I am fallen, still, and shadows of Adam and Babel loiter. In God's sovereignty, something, or nothing, or everything might happen, and only in his grace do I progress at all.

§

As long as I have had expectations on me, I have had disappointments. It is but natural. I disappoint, and often. I dream, I desire, I don't, and thus I disappoint.

i think my own disappointment is worse; because I can hide from my parents; but I can only ignore the ever-present demons in my head. I distract them, even as the distractions lead me to falling. But I can bear them. It is my own failings that bring them on: my laziness and my distractions, my ennui and my enervation. Entirely.

§

I wonder if the stream of expectations will flow, outwards and downwards. I wonder if I will infect my family. I wonder if I will bear down on them with my own expectations of perfection. I can bear my own expectations, for they are my burden to carry; but is it right for Sarah to be weighed down by rampant perfectionism?

I think not.

---

Footnotes:
¹ Just by the by, Guangyao means Bright and Brilliant... which might illuminate his choice of blog-name...]

² I have only just noticed, and I am unsure why, that the expectations were not to lead, but to excel. Lead the class but not to lead people. I wonder if it is the way I was as a child, meek and shy; without influence, or popularity, or many friends. I wonder if it is the way my parents grew up; small virtuous people; not hungry for power, just for success and affluence. They were never inclined to change the world; but just to do well. It was more important to be dux than to be school captain; not that I ever achieved either.

I managed to get through about a quarter of the opening ceremony last night. Not because that sort of thing excites me, but because i figure everyone will be talking about it. And, not unexpectedly, there were some pretty cool things at the opening ceremony. The big scrolling LCD floor-screen was neat (although most of the time it was quite hard to see what was going on from the TV's camera angle), and the dance that drew on paper was also kinda cool.

But, from your cynical observer, one little image stuck in my mind.

The little little girl was singing, and then these children emerged, dressed in 3000-years worth of traditional Chinese dress, carrying the Chinese flag. They carried it across the stadium as the little girl sang, and handed it over to 6 soldiers, who marched it over to the flag-pole, to be raised to a crescendo of music.

Cynically, it could well be a metaphor for the loss of innocence, and the thousands of years of culture and tradition that was squashed by Communism and the Cultural Revolution.

• Eaten: Deep Fried Mars Bar.

My taste buds loved it. My arteries still hate me for it. Ow.

Inspired by the 3rd MYC Seminar:

There once were Levitical priests,
Who continually offered up beasts,
This was made obsolete,
Jesus died and complete-
-ed the Law, and so gave us true peace.

I'm giving up writing for a while.

Oh, I don't mean blogging. I'm sure I'll still blog, because blogging is thinking for me, and I like thinking.

But any pretence I make to writing as art-form, writing as creativity, writing as elegant expression and the savoir-faire of word-selection...
(strange to say, because I'm still doing it, even now...)

I shall be taking a hiatus.

In truth, I haven't been a proper writer for a long while. I've been juggling too many things, and fitting too many things in my spare time, and then video games came and ate a lot more of my spare time. (Can you believe, there was a time when I gave up video games? I did! I had several blissful years where I gave up video games, computer games and the like, only to be foolishly sucked back in by Baldur's Gate when I lived with my brother.)

And I kept going along to writers meetings to keep a certain part of my mind ticking over; but at the end of the day, I have never really been an artistic writer anyway, but really, a pragmatic writer. I write because it is needed, and occasionally it is well-written. I rarely write for the joy of it—almost never these days—and the joy of blogging is I get to write as me in my style in my head in my words in my phraseology (bugger the theory of short sentences... and hooray for em-dashes and brackets and sentences that go on forever because) and it doesn't have to be readable, it just has to be writable...

Anyhoo. I'm giving up writing.

It's a bit sad, actually. It is necessary, I know, and something that needs to be done. But I read beautifully-written words like these, or as pointed out, basically everything Karen writes, and I feel an odd pang.

Because even though the action preceded the announcement, saying it out loud makes it realer; and I wonder if smokers grieve when they give up smoking.

I imagine they do! If your life has been based around cigarettes; around afternoons and cigarettes and coffee-spoons, if your romantic life is shared cigarettes and interesting encounters with borrowed lighters (and I have been asked for lighters by many interesting people), and smoky cigar-filled rooms and late nights and a certain sort of lifestyle, then the loss of it once again is grief.

And, so what am I doing with my words instead of writing, you may ask?

Pragmatically, my writing has generally been in God's service (apart from, say, blogs like these, which are entirely self-serving). So I shall be working on something else which I generally don't do for pleasure; which is writing code. Programming. Oh joy. But it is necessary.

For future thought: ponder the confluence of perfectionism and pragmatism.

Is 30 middle-aged?

I know 30 is the new 20, and 40 is the new 30 in this age of undignified aging and grasping at youth (literally, in Christie Brinkley's husband's case), but nevertheless there is a way in which I already have a good stock of history behind me.

This was brought home to me recently, as primary-school friends started finding me on Facebook. (Primary School! It has been 24 years since I started primary school!) I was adding another one just now, as I heard someone cover a Bruce Springsteen song (10,000 Maniacs, Belongs the Night, to be precise), bringing Glory Days to mind.

There are days I remember fondly, it is true, but the "glory days" are here and now—the happy days, the satisfied days, the days to grow old and fat and gain crows-feet, from smiling too much. The days before struggle and hardship and death and decay and tragedy.

But primary school?

Is it necessary to be embarrassed about the way we were when we were in Primary School?

When I start counting the embarrassments of primary school (let alone high school) I lose count; we were younger then, and more foolish then, and my childhood was filled with a litany of stupidity, and I am glad I grew up. I have gained wisdom and a wife, self-esteem and self-control, coordination, confidence and contentment with who I am. I have met God, and have had my life changed beyond recognition. The Good Lord has paid for my past sins, I look forward more than I look back; the future is bright and stretches on towards eternity, whilst the past is limited, and regrettable, and foolish, and dark.

But on the other hand, we have all been there. The 21st is a time for dredging up the foolishness of youth which we have all had, to remind us of that which we had forgotten. Need I apologise for my youth; for being callow, bookish, uncoordinated, arrogant, careless, uncool?

All that happened is what was necessary to get me here; and like it or not, I would not be the person I am to day if it were not for that sad little child in primary school with a heart and a head, I would not be the man I am today. I wouldn't be reminded that I have grown up, and be grateful. I would not trade the life I have now for any other; not for rock stars or sporting legends or anyone else I'd wish to be when I was 4 ½.

I started reading the Briefing recently (well, 10 minutes ago, whilst eating a late dinner) and I started thinking a little bit about Jesus (regrettably, something I don't do often enough).

What do you think Jesus was like as a person?

I mean, sure, he was kind and gentle and generous and as godly as humanly possible¹. And he amazed people with miracles, and taught with authority. And befuddled people (albeit entertainingly) with well-told stories.

But imagine him in the roles we're more commonly familiar with. What sort of "trainer" would he be like? Would he slowly exposit the Old Testament to his disciples? (Like he may have done at Luke 24:27) Would he be structured and systematic? Did he, as Tony writes, plot out his strategy and his 10-point-plan for evangelism? Or was he erratic and enigmatic? (We know he surprised his disciples often, and wrong-footed them... escaping to pray, and moving on in an itinerant way, rather than staying and establishing ministries at one location.) Did he always seem divinely inspired, or did he just seem to be "dancing to the beat of his own drum", in a likably eccentric way?

When he met women like Mary Magdalene, would he have ever met her alone? Being alone with an attractive woman (or so one imagines, given her former profession²) is a dangerous thing... Would he have kept himself accountable by always taking along a disciple or two, so he could be above reproach?

Was he cavalier with his godliness? Did he walk into situations of temptation knowing he wouldn't fall? Or was he circumspect and careful? I guess he spoke out or prayed when temptation stared him in the face (Mark 8:33, 14:36).

We know he drank wine... would he ever have been tempted to go one round too many? Was every movement intentional, or did he celebrate and rejoice and have fun with his disciples? It certainly seems Jesus has a strong sense of humour...

I saw a John Chapman video the other day; talking about the sheep (John 10:1-6), and alluding to the sheep and the goats (Mt 25:31ff). And the idea that stuck with me was this: that on Judgement Day, there are two fates waiting. To one set of people he will say, "welcome old friend! Good to see you!", but to the others, he will say, "sorry... do I know you? I don't think I do... I never knew you."

The fear of the latter cuts me to the heart; and I wonder about the former. God knows me, I know; he knows me inside out and back-to-front. But if he is my friend; and I am supposed to treat him like one...do I? Do I spend my time walking with God and getting to know him better? Perhaps I've spent too much time with too many charismatics and I'm nervous I've never "heard God speak to me" (in so many words), or had my stroke of divine revelation... but even as an evangelical, the Word is how I know God. Through my Lord Jesus, I learn about God; through the Bible I learn about them both.

The chore of ministry can take the joy out of reading the Bible; in fact I almost feel there is a spiritual struggle to do so; it is harder to read the Bible, or even Christian books, then to pick up a novel and read. I could happily and easily read several novels back-to-back, but I struggle to finish Christian books... there are possibly more unread Christian books than Christian books on my bookshelf.

This blog has no neat ending.

---

Footnotes
¹ "Jesus was ...as godly as humanly possible" Isn't that a thought worth pursuing? Was he as godly as humanly possible, or more so? An idea for me to ponder more later.
²Hang on... I just did a word-search through the Bible... it never says that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute... Where did I get that idea from? Is that one of those crazy traditions we carry with us (like the names of the three wise men, Balthazar &co)

On a whim, I decided to check out the news. I've decided that Zimbabwean state-run newspapers are almost as funny (and almost as accurate) as the old favourite, The Onion.

We have a very exciting announcement!

Meet the newest member of our household:

As the story goes, Sarah wanted to buy me a nice shiny coffee machine for my birthday, but Sarah couldn't hold on until July, so she bought if for me at the half-yearly sale, and, not able to hide it in any corner of the house, I have my birthday present a month early.

I am thinking of calling him Barry, the Barista. But there are times when I think he needs an italian name, which is when I refer to him as Frederico.

As you can see, Barry is learning to play with all the other shiny members of our kitchen family:

[Our bread-bin is noticably absent, because he ran off to hide in the cupboard and sulk.]

It is 12:16am, and having just caught up on a month's worth of blog readings, and mostly exhausted the adrenaline rush from a frisbee night, I figure I should go to bed.

But I have a second thought, a better thought, a guilty thought, and I decide to blog instead.

• Played my first game of frisbee in a month of rain. Yay for frisbee, yay for endorphins, boo for frisbee-stopping rain (the other sort can stay), and ow. Muscles hurt.
• Sarah bought me an early birthday present (so as to take advantage of the half-yearly stocktake sales.... is she turning into an Asian or what?!?) and (being Sarah hates being kept in suspense) gave me my present early. And so, I have a shiny new espresso machine. I think I am going to call him Barry, the personal Barista, but I have flights when I fancy calling him Frederico. I don't really know why its not a girl, when our stainless steel toaster clearly is.
• I am pondering the paradox... no, the problem, that the busier I get, the less work I actually get done. This is a problem. It has been a long time since I worked for 5 days on one task, and in one problem space. I fancy taking a machete to my life. I also fancy spending a years sabbatical on a mountain, but that will probably never happen. I don't like mountains.
• The MYC Planning days last week were fun; it reminds me of the lofty heights of what student ministry can be, and what MYC promises to be. Why do we always live in the real world? I'd prefer to sit around and sip my cappuccinos and discuss theology all day.
• I am thinking that I am perhaps too much of a dilettante—I've spread too much of my life on too many things (music (CDs), music (guitar/bass), programming, IT, writing, XBox, Beach Mission, church-ministry, school-ministry, university-ministry, IT-person-ministry, anime, blogging, ...) and I need to unclutter. I love having a broad set of interests; enough to relate to most people I meet, but in reality I think I need to do less. For instance, I already know I'm not going to even think of writing stuff (non-blog-type-stuff) for the next 6 months... (except here's me in the shower dreaming of a diary-of-a-school-chaplain)Votes—what should I shed?
• I've been reminded: I really need to finish crafting my board game. Especially as the generic design is it's pretty much done, I just need to make cardboard bits and print off some cards, and playtest.
• I need to write a website for my parents-in-law. Mr Perfectionist always wants to write his own programs, for practice. But Mr Perfectionist is also too infrequent a coder to writer good code.
• I need to read about 20 books in my bookshelf before I let myself buy ANY MORE BOOKS. Seriously.
• ...[brain dump complete]...

*sigh*. Living with my brain is a busy life. I should probably stop feeding it caffeine.

PS: Do I need a party? I fancy I need a party. I haven't had one in a few years.

A break from my travel-diary for a while.

I am easily amused, it must be said. There are some things you see overseas that you really want to buy, just to show people that they exist. Unfortunately, they also cost money. Photos, however, are free, and speak volumes.

So click below to see some of the things that really amused whilst I was overseas...