Two weeks, two days, two hours, two...

To start with, I would like to dispel some of the lies and fabrications that seem to be circulating among my friends and acquaintances; I suppose, I would also like to add that it is very hurtful that people whom I care about and claim to care about me would not just come to me and speak face to face, but insist on whispering about in the background and talking behind my back. First: no, I have not been kidnapped by the Bodlean Library gnomes and dragged down to their subterranean land of forced labour among the underground stacks, so that they might sacrifice me to their dark literary gods, only to break free from my captors and win the favour and love of their beautiful princess through my prowess in an ancient combat ritual involving laminated bookmarks and sepia ink, and rise to the throne where I will reign for a thousand years in glory and majesty and splendor. More than anything else I find this "tall tale" insulting to the gnomes, who have been a democratic republic for at least (at they record time) the last seven hundred pages of the Great Stone Book of Narthogrond; and it is ridiculous to even consider the gnomes sacrificing ANYTHING to any such "dark gods", as it has been put, let alone a human being, especially an Oxford student, as this would among other things break the treaty peacefully negotiated by William of Wykeham and King Eajyrb the Well-Intentioned in the late 15th century.
There also seem to be some strange stories floating about involving my running off to the Scottish Highlands to join a troupe of performing dancing caber tossers. While I admit that during my time in the United Kingdom I have frequently indulged the terpsichorean muse, it *seldom* involves wearing a kilt, and never involves large pieces of wood (I exclude, of course, the obvious uses of ale casks). So. Now that we have set the record straight...
When we last left our hero, his friend Johanna and future friend Johanna's-cousin-Sarah were about to come visit him in merry olde England. As it turns out, they did. Much fun was had by all, many old inside jokes were resurected, many new inside jokes were formed (incongruous? disconcerting? who knew a day would come when those words would be pushed far into the land of Overuse?), Brian was assigned a new (new? did I have one before?) slogan ("Full of pithy wisdom, naturally verbose!"), and generally Brian's friends found out that Brian's other friends are really much cooler than he is. This he expects, and has built up callouses in his heart, so he is not hurt, except on those rare nights when he turns to the full moon and sobs quietly, allowing his tears to dry on his cheeks.
After that, a week of school and other such things. Rinse, repeat.
Easter weekend (four whole days off! the longest break we have here! what do you do with all the time! besides make sarcastic comments and complain!...er I mean...?) was a trip to Scotland with Chelle. We spent the whole time merrily going nowhere in particular, and it was wonderful. We had made arrangements for our first night there, in Edinburgh, but for the rest of the time we...what is the past tense for the verb "wing"?...we winged it...we wung it? Wang it? Our few days seemed like so much more, as though we had entered our own little pocket universe with a time all its own. We saw the aforementioned Edinburgh, as well as Glasgow, the tiny seaside town of Mallaig, the highlands, the inside of a lot of trains, and a host of towns along the way. Our only true goal was the Isle of Skye, but we did not make it, missing the last ferry by some ten minutes and remaining in Mallaig. But, in the end, this was better, because then we know the journey was the important thing, because the journey was what we were given. Reminds me of an analogy...
***Dr. Finlay's analogy***
It seems like God tells us to go off to this mountain off in the distance; so of course, we begin trudging, until we make it to this rock in the middle of the path. Suddenly God tells us to head off in a different direction. But God, we say, I am supposed to get to the mountain. No, He replies, I told you to head towards the mountain so you could make it to the rock.
Often times, what we think is our goal is really a landmark to help us make it somewhere else.
***End Analogy***
I admit she told it much better. (Dr. Finlay is very wise, despite her young age. She is actually going off to Germany to become a nun this summer.) I also admit that surrounded by the glories of the highlands, I did have a strong desire to spend a few years there tending sheep. No, I am not kidding.
(I do realize I am giving a very sparse record of all of these happenings. There will be more in coming days, I am sure. At least for Scotland, you can read Chelle's account at her blog here: Chelle's Blog.)
I realize that many who read this have a reason to consider me a "Bad Person" because I have...how you say...Ignored Them Completely. But rest assured, my thoughts and prayers are with many of you, and if nothing else I will be home in a few short weeks, and "Robin shall restore amends."
Grace be with you all,
Brian

Brainsnap...

...I think might be a good band name. Not for me, but for someone, somewhere...
It seems I only write here when it is very late, and often when I ought to be doing something else. I suppose this means you (dear reader, as some Victorian novelist might say) hardly get me at my best; for this, I apologize.
So here I sit, at a late hour, with a half-finished C.S. Lewis paper before me. I have fought long and hard to reach this point, employing all my powers of procrastination and distraction to keep from actually writing. No one, I think, knows the art of distraction from purpose like a writer. One I actually begin, and my fingers stagger their first halting steps across the keyboard, it is not so bad. It is just this terrible inertia that fills me at the thought of beginning. It reminds of me Bilbo, when he was preparing to enter Smaug's cave. It was there, Bilbo knew, in the dark of the tunnel, where true courage was shown. Everything from that point on was almost an afterthought. Oswald Chambers said something similar, that the true battle takes place on our knees, and in our hearts, before the moment of action itself. All the rest is simply a demonstration of what has already taken place.

Johanna flies in tomorrow morning. (For Oxford friends: she is a friend from back home. To home friends...well...you should know her already; she is one of "your kind.") She and her cousin are spending a week in England. There is a spell to be found here, if you listen for it, an incantation whispered in the trees and from green hills, the stone of old buildings and worn gravestones--I hope they find it.

Two plays in the past few days: "Pygmalion" and "A Streetcar Named Desire." The former was good and the latter was...well...serviceable.

I have taken to listening to ambient, trancelike, new age sorts of music while I work. I have also noticed that the Incan monkey god tends to visit me more often with helpful advice for my papers. Could these two things be related?

I have discovered line breaks between paragraphs.

See?

I have been humbled, especially as of late, knowing how many people are praying for me here, from family to friends to acquaintances to perfect strangers who only know of me second hand. It is no small thing to know that people approach the throne of the King of the Universe on your behalf. For this I am grateful, and most undeserving.