As everyone who knows me knows, I'm not a fan of the whole "Girl Power" thing. I think it's degrading to the sexes in general. Except in cases of board/card games, I'm 95% against any boys vs. girls situation. I think any intention pitting of one group (sex, race, etc.) against another just validates sexism, racism, xenophobia, etc. That said, I thought this was bloody hysterical...



Seriously, I mean, come on... how is that the funniest thing ever! It's also proof that Marvel is superior to DC. The only time Spider-man lost his powers, it was a totally psychological thing, and not Spider-girl, Spider-woman, nor Arana played stupid tricks on him. It should be noted that Iron Man (the Marvel equivalent of Batman) has no female counter-part.

When I'm writing, sometimes I'll say something like "I just wrote one of the oldest scenes in my book." People tend to find this esoteric, so I'm going to take this opportunity to discuss my creative process a little.

Stories never happen in order when I'm creating them. Back when I was just starting to write stories that I actually finished writing (so, when I was about ten), my ideas tended to flow out of a single line or scene. "A.L.L.O.D." was the first real story I ever finished (second worst title in my canon) and it got its start one night when I invented this witty bit of dialogue:

"And may our children forgive us."
"Sir, we are your children."

The lines ended up going to the President of the United States and David Stark (who would later be renamed Alex because the book had too many 'D' names). It was my first ICON story and I didn't actually finish it. The story got as far as a robot falling from a train into a canyon and then I lost a giant chunk of story thanks to the Zip drive "click of death". I didn't have the heart to re-write it, so the story died. Only recently, actually, have I started with a concept and worked out a story that explores it. My current novel started after an episode of 'Lost' had me thinking "How tragic would it be if you were stranded on a deserted island and when someone came to rescue you, you didn't realize who they were and attacked them?" I determined that it was about as definitive a tragic situation as one could hope for, so I start fleshing it out. Really, the story bloomed in my head, unfolding like a cube several hundred times over. It was very exciting, I'd never had a story do that before. At that early stage, I wasn't really making decisions, I just went with what felt most natural. The idea of telling the story from the islanders' perspective, for one, was always a given for me. Of course, I could have written it from the rescuers' perspective. It's more emotional that way and I wouldn't've had to figure out all of the island living stuff. However, it's much less suspenseful, there's not much going on internally, and it's much harder to establish a sense of impending doom without a lot of vague portents which aren't nearly as interesting or effective, to me, as watching each piece of a catastrophe fall in to place. The helpless observer is a frantic, moving creature where the surprised participator is a feeling creature who becomes apathetic very easily. I'm ever so slightly sadistic, I'll admit that, it's just so much more challenging to make people squirm for five minutes than jump for five seconds. Plus, they'll remember it better.
The critical turning point in my current book (The Wind in His Fists) was, of course, when the first islander attacks a rescuer. Very early on, I knew how I wanted to tell that fight and who I wanted involved. This was when I was still figuring out who was there, but still. It also helped me figure out some of the more foundational things, because I had to backwards engineer stuff like "How does one guy with a cudgle take out four Navy SEALs all on his lonesome?" Another old scene, that happens closer to the end of the book and didn't help me develop anything, really, was envisioned independantly of the story and stitched in later. It's this mano a mano scene where the narrative switches back and forth between the two internal monologues. I love the idea in my head, now if I can translate that on to the page.

Frequently, ministers sit around with nothing to do and suddenly decide to start arguing about theology. There's a list of topics that is given to everyone who graduates from seminary that they aren't allowed to show to "outsiders", they are topics on which there will never be a truly final answer. (The uninitiate aren't allowed to know about this list because it would undoubtedly shake their belief that their pastor does, in fact, know everything about God and the Bible. If congregations realized their pastor was a fallible human who was still maturing spiritually, it would damage the foundations of Christianity on a level so deep that even Dan Brown can't imagine it.) Anyway, one topic on this secret list (which I acquired only after a grueling ninja fight with the agents of Jerry Falwell Jr.) is the interpretation of Genesis 1:26; known in fancy Latin terminology as the "Imago Dei" passage.
I think that most Protestants have settled on "the soul" as their standard answer, which is just the thing that goes to Heaven, and leave it at that. What if there's more to it than that? Sure, the possession of a soul allows Salvation and, by extension, the benefits thereof; but Salvation wasn't exactly part of the original design. The Incarnation of Christ, the sacrifice of the Cross, and the miracle of the Ressurection, wrapped in glory though they are, are just a patch (a shiny golden patch, but a patch nontheless) in the white lace gown God originally taylored for his Bride. Man was in Imago Dei long before he became interesting to John Calvin. People tell me that I look like my Dad, a lot. They don't mean that our DNA sequences are strikingly similar, or that we have the same interests (Heaven knows, that's not true... I'm rubbish with cars), what they mean is that I possess something very like the first thing they notice about my Dad: his face.
What is the original attribute of God? The attribute that he decides to have mentioned first in his biography? Go look, if you don't have Genesis 1:1 memorized. Before love, before savior, before omni-anything: God is the creator. In fact, if you cold read the Bible from the beginning, you will only know five things about God by the time you hit 1:28: He can create, speak and see, then he's plural and masculine. That is the whole image of God in the first 28 verses of the Bible. So, guess what I think God means when he says that man is in Imago Dei. More importantly, why is the possession of creativity so important? Simple: the Church!
Ah ha! This post does have a point!
If the thing that makes mankind truly special is creativity, what should the Church look like? Well, knowing that creativity is the light of imagination shining through the lens of reason (you have an idea and then you give that idea a shape/form/expression that makes sense to other people), then we know that true creativity will always fall short of chaos; which is a good thing. Now, what if the "light of imagination" is God and the "lens of reason" is the world of the senses, everything you can touch, hear, etc. In this case, Imago Dei is the potential to express the spiritual in sensory ways. Giving physical form to things spiritual, a definition of 'creativity'. Now, if a church wanted to look like God, a Christian wanted to look like Jesus, everyday; wouldn't they try to be creative everyday? So, what does a church look like where everyone is trying to be as creative as possible?

She walks through grass and brush
Stepping like she belonged to it.
If you look into her eyes, you'll see
That the forest is a King's tapestried palace
Then you'll know what she knows
That the birds change the drapes in seasons
And the rain is music perfect for dancing
If you listen to the winds and cloud strings

What you held, sir, you can't hold so tight
And expect to hold on to it forever
We've been too close for comfort
She and I, and were glad it was each other
Yes, she smiles like a lion-cat
With claws that are claws from every angle
But, she'll let you touch her coat
If you'll let her be a lamb

So just let her dance and let her sing
Let tell you all about everything
And let yourself find
In her hair, her hips, her hem,
The new face of who you want to be.

Autumn is without a doubt my favorite season. Something in the muted tones of the earth creates something than warmer than summer ever offers. Summer, at its best, leaves you with absolutely no notice of the weather. Think about it, the best Summer days are the ones when everything is neither this nor that, but just in the middle. Winter has the beautiful quality of being the great season of longing. It's when we visit relatives most often; it's always the heaviest traveling time for me. Winter carries a wanderlust, a journeyman's spirit, with it. No season will affect you, emotionally, with more potency than Winter. The problem is that, Winter's best, is black and white, maybe touches of blue and green. It's pretty monochrome all around. Then we have Spring, which is largely only impressive in contrast with Winter. Somewhere around January, we all sort of forget what blooms look like and when Spring ushers them back in, we're all so surprised. There's something so inviting about Autumn. The colors are warm, like old photographs. The energy, all around, is just right. It's the season of dying (not death, that's winter), which makes it most conducive to creative thought. Creation always occurs on the threshhold of living and death, birth being its effect. It's sheer coincidence, really, that we are all on this side of the life/death dychotomy. Of course, what I really mean to say is not life and death, but physical and spiritual. The life physical is a platonic shadow of the life spiritual (which is ironic because the Greeks thought the afterlife was actually really boring). When the spiritual leaks into the physical, we get creativity. Perhaps all this is why Christmas is in December, the height of winter. Winter is the most Spiritual season because everything is veiled and obscured, much like our perception of the Spiritual. Now, I doubt anyone will contest that Summer is most physical, or fleshly, season. There's all kinds of awkward, scientific things to back up the statement (all hormones and sex and all the other things that make you wonder why anyone owns a TV). Then, of course, is the poetic support for all these statements in the tradition of Spring as the season of birth. The transition from Spiritual to Physical. For me, I want to live an endless Autumn. Locked, trapped, forever, in that doorway, spilling Spirit all over your bodies. Always, unmoving, floating, just about to die, but never quite getting there.