Joshashana Ambiguoso

Sector Nine

2011-09-02T09:41:00.000-07:00

Cottage bound; 400 square feet and little else. Everything within an unsteady hop or two. No crutches inside.

No car to use, can't engage the clutch on Daisy without putting everyone on the roads around in danger so she's loaned out to others who can use it so long as they limit the "hard brakes" in order for Progressive to give me a safe driver discount in t minus 28 days.

El Camino, albeit loaned with good intent and being a kind gesture, crapped out and left me sweaty, stinky and stranded.

All I've got is Roger Miller spinning on vinyl reminding me that the last word in lonesome is me.

I've got Stein and Steinbeck, 3 Lives and The Winter of our Discontent.

I've got C.S. and Chesterton, Perelandra and The Everlasting Man (way over my head but I appreciate his dry humor nonetheless).

I've got an overdue DVD on Pete Seeger, blacklisted and somewhat happily banished to his cabin in the woods but still spreading the message on his banjo: "This machine surrounds hate and forces it to surrender", causing me to think out loud that "Gee, it sure would be swell if musicians would follow the example of Seeger and Guthrie and still come up with saying such as this"

I've got my trusty recliner in which I mentally count down the days to the next podiatrist appointment (less than 4 now) while fighting the impulse to free my left leg from the bondage that prohibits the relieving of annoying and persistent itches, interspersed with evening games of backgammon with Matt and pestering Penny the dog who runs in fear from crutches like a herd of gazelles runs from a pride of lions in the African veldt.

A Life Well Lived

2010-08-28T05:49:00.000-07:00

My grandfather is someone who regularly makes outlandish and unbelievable comments so it has become more and more rare for him to utter words that surprise me and catch me off guard.
However, that is exactly what he did during the course of a dinner conversation a few years back. After reading some passages from Scripture, my grandfather made the comment that not one time during his 80 plus years of life did he doubt the veracity and truth of the Bible.
I was flabbergasted that someone who had grown up in the Depression with no more than a 6th grade education could make a statement like that. After seeing his beloved first wife die during childbirth and seeing his only son choose a life of addiction. After outliving his eldest daughter, he lays the claim that he has never had any doubt concerning his faith.
Yet I, with a pampered lifestyle and a college education frequently battle moments of unbelief and questioning about whether or not I should place my faith in someone that I have never seen.
I, like Thomas, wish for Him to show me the holes in His body to prove to me once and for all that He actually had the strength to take and conquer the weight of humanity's sins.

Ode to a Cadillac

2009-12-23T18:49:00.000-08:00

The crumpled front left fender gave evidence of an unknown accident in the past but the love that David, Ryan, Alan, Tucker, Cliff, Patrick and I and anyone else fortunate enough to bask in the presence of the brown '84 Cadillac Brougham was not diminished in the least.
An untold number of nights were spent filling up the interior either with discarded beer bottles garnered from the Dirty Bird (thank you, Will Newman, for appropriately naming the establishment) and consumed between regular fits of laughter likely caused by the retelling of dreams and other stories or the smoke that rose from our beloved pipes, often both of these items in conjunction with each other.
But, alas, the very items that enhanced our pleasure of the Caddy eventually led to its downfall as Safety and Security deemed it inappropriate for an abandoned car filled with empty bottles of alcohol to remain behind the Campus Merit housing of its treasured students and took the requisite steps to have her towed.
The tracks turning to the left in the gravel broke each of our hearts and gave evidence of this beloved gift of Jonathan Maricle exiting our lives but the memory of the Caddy will live on in the hearts of all who graced her presence there in the dimly lit alley behind Mango 318.

Ellis Island

2009-12-20T09:05:00.000-08:00

Give me your tired, your poor...
but only if they are willing to work at the bottom of a trickle down economy for years on end.
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free...
but only if they buy into the American dream and are subservient subjects of the Man, always paying their taxes on time.
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore...
but only if the young men continue to go to other shores and risk losing their lives for men in designer suits sitting behind oak desks paid for by the taxpayers.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me...
but only if they can readily acclimate to society with the least possible assistance and don't question authority.
I lift my lamp beside the golden door...
the door leading to the altar of capitalism where one worships with their lives and money.

Dhaka

2009-11-24T18:27:00.000-08:00

There are numerous previously foreign sights, sounds and smells that I have become accustomed to since I arrived in Bangladesh.
It is no longer strange for me to see various forms of raw meat being swarmed by flies and hanging from hooks at a dilapidated roadside stand or to encounter chickens and sheep roaming freely through the streets while a herd of goats on leashes are being walked by a native through the swirling conglomeration of trucks, cars, busses, motorcycles, rickshaws and bicycles that make up Dhaka's traffic.
The sight of a man squatting on the side of the road to urinate no longer merits a second glance.
My ears no longer perk up when airplanes going to and from the nearby international airport fly low overhead but I must admit it still does make my heart race.
I fall asleep easily after being woken by the early morning Muslim call to prayer emanating from as yet undetermined nearby speakers instead of remaining wide awake and alert for the following half an hour with chills running up and down my spine.
My nose no longer wrinkles as I pass through the market replete with all the animals that pass their existence there or as I pass lots and lakes filled with rotting trash where stray cats and dogs make their home.
The past couple of days, however, have introduced a new sight, sound, and smell that I have yet to get used to.
In preparation for a Muslim holiday celebration, bulls have appeared on the streets of Dhaka to eventually be offered as a sacrifice and eaten.
So in addition to attempting to steer clear of ankle sprain producing potholes and periodic open sewers as well as trying to avoid getting hit by the components that form the maelstrom on Dhaka's streets, I now also have to keep my eyes peeled in order to avoid sinking my foot into a heap of putrid, steaming, literal bull shit.

Dhonnobad

2009-11-23T23:43:00.000-08:00

During the extensive amount of time that I have spent in airports and also in foreign cities over the past couple of weeks, I have had the opportunity to observe the interactions of a plethora of parents and children.
This activity provided me with a healthy amount of laughs and also caused me to reminisce about some of my own memorable and cherished childhood experiences.
There are an innumerable amount that I could expound upon here but I will simply pick out some of the most enjoyable.
The memory that I recount most often most likely has to do with the Fisher Price tape recorder that Mama would break out when we grilled brats on the deck as well as sing-a-longs with the cousins and prayer time before bed. I would either end up laughing uncontrollably for reasons that were comical only to me or sing the chorus of the same song over and over regularly pausing to catch my breath in the midst of a word while Ben would inevitably complain and begin to cry when he didn't get to finish his song or was interrupted by me, Leah, Travis, Nick or Season. He pretty much cried for the majority of the time on the tapes. He still does this, by the way. Some things never change, I guess. Once a cry baby, always a cry baby. I still love him, though.
Another one that comes to the forefront of my mind would be picking up the "beans" from the monstrous tree that once stood in the front yard, visible as a landmark to us of where our home was as we drove down I-95.
It was pretty much the same script every time we filled the trash bags up.
Mama would mention what was on the menu for dinner that night. I'll use hot dogs as a common example.
"Well, Ben and Josh, do you want a hot dog tonight?"
"Yeah, yeah, hot dogs are awesome," we would respond.
"Well, then you need to fill up one bag each."
"Okay," I would reply as Ben would begin to cry because he was tired or for some other inane reason.
"Do you want more than one hot dog, Josh?"
"Yeah, I want two," I would say as I held up two fingers on one hand and stuck two fingers of the other hand into my nose to get rid of my boogers.
"Okay, well, that's another bag then. And keep your fingers out of your nose," said Mama.
"But don't I get another hot dog?" Ben asked as he wiped the snot caused by his constant crying from his nose.
"Well, Ben, if you would stop crying and start working you could probably have all the hot dogs in the house. Do you want any toppings on your hot dog, Josh?"
"Yes, I want catssup, mustaahd and pickel wellisshh."
"Okay, one more bag and you can have all those things."
"Alright, you got it, Mama."
Ben, meanwhile still hasn't filled one bag.
Parts of this conversation may be exaggerated but it made for a better story. Sorry for casting you in a bad light, Ben. You only cried a third of the time we picked up the beans.
Another happy memory involves Ben and me riding our bikes through the puddles immediately following a summer thunderstorm.
"Watch out for cars! Listen for thunder! Where there's thunder, there's lightning!!!" Mom would yell as we rode down our 45 degree angle driveway, ready to do some nasty jumps on the corner of High Ridge.
Other memories that stick out include playing catch in the backyard, making Christmas cookies and hard boiled Easter eggs, riding bikes with Mama over the overpass, aka the "jungle", to McDonald's for ice cream cones (I would always get the swirl), and last but not least Sunday afternoon drives along A1A in the '40 Ford with the same Oldies tape playing over and over.
"Do you love me? Do you, surfer girl? Surfer girl, my little surfer girl."
All this to say that I am incredibly thankful for the memories I have from my childhood.
Mom and Dad, you did a fabulous job raising both me and Ben and I am grateful to have you as parents.
If I eventually have children of my own, I hope I can do half as good a job as you have done.
As you well know, I will be unable to celebrate Thanksgiving with you this year, so this will have to suffice for my answer when Mom asks her annual Thanksgiving question of "What are you thankful for this year?"
Thank you for all your sacrifices.
"Dhonnobad," as they say here in Bangladesh.

Late night reading and ruminations

2009-10-16T20:59:00.000-07:00

This is what happens when people walk away from me.
From the shortly possessed, constantly exchanged trenches of World War I with myriads of dead and dying boys lying between to the atomic fallout of World War II Japan with shadows permanently scarred on the ground being the only evidence that a human being once stood there.
From the gulag work camps of 1930's Soviet Union to the concentration camps of 1940's Germany.
From the napalm scorched rainforests of Vietnam to the killing fields of Cambodia.
From the seemingly endless flatlands of Somalia to the dry, dusty deserts of the Sudan soaked in blood.
From the government induced persecution of Chairman Mao's regime to government guided missiles striking Afghan villages.
This is what happens when my compassion and love leave a place.

2009-09-17T05:40:00.000-07:00

The surface of the brackish, brown water is smooth as turquoise sea glass
Convincingly covering up the ecosystem that lies beneath-betrayed only by an occasional shimmering, silver mullet jumping in an attempt to escape its pursuer and prolong its life another day.
Salt is filling my nostrils and covering my skin like leprosy.
The gnarled mangrove trees are effectively blocking out any vestige of civilization or society and hiding stories beneath their roots of a simpler, slower time.
A time when one lived wisely by gathering enough food for the day from the toil of his own hands and did not have the perpetual worry of credit card and car payments hanging overhead as a result of greed, indulgence and uncontrolled, unchecked desires.

Forgiven

2009-08-19T15:39:00.000-07:00

Occasionally seeking to do what is right
Continually being waylaid by temptation
Constantly being covered by grace.

To Live Is To Fly

2009-08-19T15:11:00.001-07:00

Won't say I love you babe.
Won't say I need you babe.
But I'm going to get you babe
and I will not do you wrong.
Living's mostly wasting time
and I waste my share of mine
but it never feels too good
so let's not take too long.
You're as soft as glass and I'm a gentle man
we got the sky to talk about
and the world to lie upon.

Days up and down they come
like rain on a conga drum
forget most, remember some
but don't turn none away.
Everything is not enough
nothing is too much to bear
where you been is good and gone
all you keep's the getting there.
To live is to fly low and high
so shake the dust off of your wings
and the sleep out of your eyes.

It's goodbye to all my friends.
It's time to go again.
Think of all the poetry
and the pickin' down the line.
I'll miss the system here
the bottom's low and the treble's clear
but it don't pay to think too much
on the things you leave behind.
I may be gone but I won't be long
I'll be bringing back the melody
and the rhythm that I find.

We all got holes to fill
and them holes are all that's real
some fall on you like a storm
sometimes you dig your own.
But choice is yours to make
time is yours to take
some dive into the sea
some toil upon the stone.
To live is to fly low and high
so shake the dust off of your wings
the sleep out of your eyes.
-Townes Van Zandt

Grandpa

2009-07-25T07:55:00.000-07:00

His hands are wrinkled,
fingers bent and pointing in ten different directions:
evidence of a lifetime of toil
from 6th grade until his 80's.
There wasn't anything in the world that could stop him from accomplishing what was necessary, whether that meant making sure the cows were milked or painting one of the hundreds of homes he was asked to paint.
He was given a choice, he'd tell you.
Way back when the majority of the pages to be written about his life were blank and held in the right hand instead of complete and held in the left.
The decision he had to make was to continue to go to school or to help his father work on the family farm.
His adolescent mind originally came to the conclusion that it would be best to work on the farm, what with all the girls chasing him around and bothering him at school.
It only took about a week, however, before questions as to the wisdom of his choice began to creep into his wondering mind.
He informed his dad that he had changed his mind and that he wanted to go back to school.
Upon hearing this, his father told him,
"No, son. You've made your decision and now you've got to stick with it."
With that one statement the path of his life was irrevocably set. Any aspirations he might have had were funneled into work on the farm and the eventual raising of his six children.
As a result of that one decision made so many years ago, he has lived his entire life within a 10 mile radius of the house in which he was born.
He was forced to develop a strong personality and iron self will with the line of work that he was in.
When he set his mind to a task, there wasn't a thing that he couldn't conquer.
As with many men of his generation becoming more elderly, the realization and idea that they are now increasingly unable to adequately care for themselves is a bitter pill to swallow.
So it is with my grandfather.
The swollen, strong hands that show the markings of manual labor are now unable to possess items which are rightfully his.
Hands that have been betrayed by a mind that has not aged as well.

2008-11-28T20:44:00.000-08:00

This night, after crawling into bed, I picked up my trusty copy of My Utmost For His Highest for the first time in nearly a week. I was planning on reading a bit and then catching some shut eye in preparation of a Saturday spent inside grading papers and writing lesson plans. However, after reading the excerpt for this 28th day of November I felt compelled to do something I haven't done in several months which is to blog. I was reassured of God's grace after this passage and therefore I am posting it so others may benefit as well. Anyway, here are the words of Oswald Chambers as only he can express.
The Bounty of the Destitute
"The Gospel of the grace of God awakens an intense longing in human souls and an equally intense resentment, because the revelation which it brings is not palatable. There is a certain pride in man that will give and give, but to come and accept is another thing. I will give myself in consecration, I will do anything, but do not humiliate me to the level of the most hell-deserving sinner and tell me that all I have to do is to accept the gift of salvation through Jesus Christ.
We have to realize that we cannot earn or win anything from God; we must either receive it as a gift or do without it. The greatest blessing spiritually is the knowledge that we are destitute; until we get there Our Lord is powerless. He can do nothing for us if we think we are sufficient of ourselves; we have to enter into His Kingdom through the door of destitution. As long as we are rich, possessed of anything in the way of pride or independence, God cannot do anything for us. It is only when we get hungry spiritually that we receive the Holy Spirit. The gift of the essential nature of God is made effectual in us by the Holy Spirit; He imparts to us the quickening life of Jesus, which puts "the beyond" within, and immediately "the beyond" has come within, it rises up to "the above," and we are lifted into the domain where Jesus lives."

Commonalities of Man

2008-04-22T14:08:00.000-07:00

This past weekend I had the good fortune of being blessed with a 3 day weekend.
On Saturday, I took advantage of the wonderful warm weather and strung my hammock up at Paradise, right next to the Flagler Museum. I was minding my own business while reading Call of the Wild and simply enjoying the day.
After about half an hour an elderly couple strolled up to eat lunch on one of the benches facing downtown West Palm Beach and the Intracoastal. We exchanged pleasantries in passing. The man commented on how it appeared that I had a nice rig set up while his wife stated that I appeared to be quite comfortable. I replied in the affirmative to both of their statements. Indeed, it is a nice rig and I was, in fact, relaxed nearly to the point of nodding off. We shot the breeze a bit longer before they had their lunch at which point I continued reading.
While lying there in the hammock, I came to the realization that both I and the elderly man likely were jealous of each other's respective position. On one hand, the elderly man sees his bygone youth and freedom; something that he will never be able to capture again in his lifetime. On the other hand, I see a couple who still enjoys being together after who knows how many years. They have a lifetime full of memories and are hopefully to the point where they are completely one with each other.
This situation also reminded me of the first verse of Old Man, a great Neil Young song from the album Harvest.
Old man, look at my life, I'm a lot like
you were.
Old man, look at my life-twenty four and
there's so much more.
Live alone in a paradise that makes me think
of two.

Humbly Repentant

2008-03-29T14:24:00.000-07:00

After being chastised to the 3rd and 4th generation by a couple of my expatriate compadres, I feel compelled to apologize for a lack of blogging activity. I know it is no excuse but I do find it difficult to find time to blog while juggling the construction of (hopefully) effective classroom management techniques along with lesson plans.
Apologies aside, I am happy to be in the midst of one of my favorite times of the year. March Madness and all the compelling basketball games that give the event its name make for hours and hours of entertainment. This is about the only time of year that I embrace the TV; an object I normally shun save for Jeopardy and The Office. Seeing teams and players work together for their individual schools and universities is inspiring in a world where athletes care more about themselves and making millions of dollars for their own personal advancement and greed.
On a lighter note, personal lessons can also be taken from this time of year. For example, two years ago I resolved to never again make perilous bets that could possibly result in tremendous embarrassment in the form of being forced to receive a belly button piercing accompanied by the modelling of a belly shirt to that day's classes. Thankfully, this bet did not come to fruition due to a little known school named George Mason. I thank the Lord Jesus Christ for mid-majors and the unpredictable nature of the NCAA tournament.

Hometowns

2008-02-23T18:44:00.000-08:00

All half dozen readers of this simple blog know of my love for the unique town of Lake Worth. Much of this affection can likely be attributed to the fact that I, like my father, was raised in Lake Worth and have spent the vast majority of my life in and around this town. However, I don't believe that this notion completely explains the reason why I feel the way I do about Lake Worth.
After spending another evening in downtown Lake Worth having dinner and looking at the artwork from the annual street painting festival, I believe that I have found the missing link of why I love Lake Worth that has eluded me up until this point.
The reason why I love Lake Worth is because it is a town that doesn't pretend. In Lake Worth what you see is what you get. They don't attempt to be something that they are not. Lake Worth, like any area, is not without its problems but it doesn't attempt to hide behind a facade of false pretense. Many of the buildings downtown have been here since the Great Migration of the 1950's. They are by no means modern and I find beauty and inspiration in that simple fact. For the most part, Lake Worth thus far has been able to avoid what I feel has been a plague upon South Florida: the urge to get rid of everything that reminds us of the past in the pursuit of wealth and luxury through the building of new high rise condominium buildings.
I also believe that Lake Worth provides us, as Christians, an example to follow with fervor and without hesitation. Instead of constantly looking forward and worrying about what will come next in our lives, we should be content with who we are and where we are in life. I am in no means discouraging a person from improving oneself but am instead emphasizing the need to realize that the means to improve oneself oftentimes comes from the example and witness of people from the past. Instead of disregarding all that preceded our generation in the name of progress we need to come to the realization that we are more likely to be blessed with progress and growth if we will simply be open-minded and follow the examples of our predecessors and forbears, all of whom struggled with the same issues and desires that we still face today.
I am continually grateful for the lessons that I have learned in Lake Worth, in my opinion one of the greatest places to have had the opportunity to spend my childhood, adolescence and now adulthood. I simply hope that these types of lessons and experiences continue during the time that Providence allows me to stay in this wondrous town.

When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder

2007-12-02T15:18:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite albums of all time is My Mother's Hymn Book by Johnny Cash. Cash said toward the end of his life that, of the dozens of albums he has made, this one was his favorite. My Mother's Hymn Book has been a source of solace and encouragement for me ever since I purchased it a few years ago. All the songs on it are ones that he sang with his family as a boy growing up in the cotton field of Arkansas. These songs largely deal with the rewards that await in heaven.
Another reason I love this album, besides being a source of comfort, is that it reminds me of a Men's Quartet that would always sing those old hymns in the church that I grew up in. I can't say that I really enjoyed going to church during my formative years (I usually spent that time reading a book that I toted along) but my ears always perked up whenever these four men walked up into the choir loft to share their talents with the congregation. However, the biggest treat of all was when one particular member of the quartet would fly solo with the accompaniment of his trusty accordion. I have yet to meet another person who plays the accordion but this fella actually made it look like a cool instrument. He also got away with dance moves that would have been blaspemous in the CRC if exhibited by someone belonging to a younger generation.
As I sit and write this, the man in the above paragraph is lying in a hospital bed surrounded by family members who are awaiting the inevitable: the passing of a beloved husband, father, and grandfather. This man has lived a good, long life and has undoubtedly been a source of inspiration to all those who have had the good fortune of being in his company. He has always been someone I've looked up to and aspired to be like and the songs that he always sang for the congregation have added meaning at this point. The promises that this man sang about are now close at hand. It is understandably a time of mourning for his kin and for everyone else who knew him but the assurance that comes with the knowledge of the saving grace of Christ as well as the assurance of being reunited in heaven is something to be grateful for.
"And He walks with me and He talks with me,
And He tells me I am His own,
And the joy we share as we tarry there,
None other has ever known"

Gene Francis and Gated Communities

2007-10-24T12:19:00.000-07:00

Here's an excerpt from the road trip journal that Alan and I fastidiously kept:

We're on the road once again heading to Charleston, SC. The past two days have been spent at the home of Gene Earl Francis III in Winston-Salem, NC, a town built nearly entirely on the fortunes that tobacco has created. It was great to spend time with Gene, the original "rock star" of our college experience. We had the good fortune of being treated to a private concert during which Gene showcased some new songs as well as a couple golden oldies, if you will.
It's difficult to put into words all that Gene meant to us during college and all that he means to us still. He befriended us and hung out with us when he could have chosen to spend time with literally any student at PBA. He just had a personality that drew people to himself. Gene still possesses this personality trait as evidenced by his interactions with people and the willingness they have to help him in any applicable way whether that be getting him a beautiful, maplenecked guitar or loaning him a maroon Volkswagen Jetta when his car broke down. All in all, spending time with Gene while listening to music has been among the most memorable and enjoyable experiences of the trip thus far.
The North Carolina scenery has also been the most enjoyable on the trip to this point. The rolling mountains complete with fall colors have been a showcase of God's gorgeous creation. I simply hope that North Carolina does not follow the path that Florida has taken especially given the fact that North Carolina's population has been growing rapidly just as Florida's did during the last 50 or so years.
By this statement, I mean that hopefully the nature God created for us to enjoy and which initially draws humanity to a place will be preserved and protected and not cut down and paved over in the name of "progress" as has unfortunately been the case in Florida.
This nature serves to bring us closer to the heart of God in a way that no gated community or condominium building can match regardless of whatever name is chosen to grace the rock placed out front with big, capital letters on it: a name that likely will describe the place that has just been destroyed rather than the horde of cookie cutter houses that have just been constructed.

Apathetically Unemployed

2007-10-05T16:31:00.000-07:00

One of my high school English teachers said that there are times in life when the stars align and you are at peace with yourself, with God, with all that is encompassed in this earthly life. These instances have become more infrequent following my graduation from college a year and a half ago. However, I feel there is cause for optimism at this present time. This is likely due to the fact that I am experiencing a similar type of freedom that was taken for granted during those college years.
I have recently quit my job at an incredibly convenient time as it has allowed me to embark on a road trip, one of life's greatest joys. I will be driving cross country with my boyhood, college and lifelong pal, Alan Kaiser. I'm looking forward to countless hours of random likely inappropriate conversations as well as listening to a healthy amount of Ryan Adams music. I relish the opportunity to see friends and family and nurture relationships that too often are not given the necessary importance and respect especially since the aforementioned days of college have passed, taking with it the opportunity and privilege to see close friends on a daily basis.
Anyway, the point that I am attempting to make in this rambling, somewhat incoherent inaugural blog is that opportunities to experience life, to go out and grab it by the horns and do something that much of our American society would deem irresponsible need to be exercised whenever possible. I am thankful that Providence has allowed me to have an one of these opportunities that reinforces the belief I possess that life is about living and experiencing different places and things as opposed to the idea that I need to get ahead and save money so I can also one day settle down and possess my piece of the American dream. Not that there is anything in the least bit wrong with the American dream, it's just that I don't feel that I am quite ready to be tied down by all that goes along with the dream. We live in the land of the free and I am incredibly grateful for my country but I feel that what much of our society places an emphasis on serves to take freedom away rather than endow it.