The Madman's Corner

Wouldn't you be?

2011-05-27T14:20:00.000-07:00

I would be sad because you left me all alone.
I would be sad because the lies that you had told.
I would be sad because I got left by a girl that I adore.
I would be sad because the love I had before.

I meant what I said when I said I would settle down with you although I know it's not something that you were asking me to
do.
And I know we are young but we won't always be, so marry me; lets not be that predictable young couple changing, moving on.
But I can tell by watching you that theres no chance of pushing through.
The odds are so against us; you know most young love it ends like this.

I would be sad because you left me all alone.
I would be sad because the lies that you had told.
I would be sad because I got left by a girl that I adore.
I would be sad for all the love I had before.

I meant what I said when I said I would rearrange my plans and change for you.
You know me; I've always been the kind with easy confidence.
Confident enough to honestly beleive that nothing out there stopping me especially not someone who's not loving me.
Now listen here I told you I could live on with out loving you.
I was bluffing then, but it seems that just might have been the truth.
Well my dad told me, "One day son, this girl will think of what she's done and hurting you will be the first of many more
regrets to come."
And he said, "If she doesn't call, then it's her fault and it's her loss."
I say, "It's not that simple see, but then again it just may be."

I would be sad because you left me all alone.
I would be sad for the lies that you had told.
I would be sad because I got left by a girl that I adored.
I would be sad for all the love I had before.
I would be sad for all the love I had before.

Wherein I act like I haven't been gone for seven months

2010-11-19T09:59:00.000-08:00

Plato understands human interaction according to three categories, making, using, and imitating. He chalks art up to the lowest form of interaction: imitation. He his considered the lowest form, because it requires the least knowledge of its object. The maker at least understands the structure of a thing, and the user even more, as he understands its function and use, but, according to Plato, the imitator merely perceives what a thing appears to be and attempts to act accordingly. “It was this then I wished should be agreed upon, when I said that painting, and in short imitation, being far from the truth, delights in its own work, conversing with that part in us which is far from wisdom, and is its companion and friend, to no sound nor genuine purpose. Entirely so, said he. Imitation then, being depraved in itself, and joining with that which is depraved, generates depraved things. It seems so.” For Plato, Pursuing art was base enough to be considered depraved.
Now that we understand where Plato is coming from, we can interact with his accusations against the arts in two ways: within his framework, and against it. Within the Platonic framework there is a facet of the Form matter distinction that Plato fails to identify the possibility form a Form of Art, or Artistry. Plato regularly sullies art by calling it the imitator of all it sees: parrot to everything and master of nothing. Yet, Art is not so easily attained. True art, accurate art, conforms to reality. At its best, art teaches moral lessons, wisdom, and knowledge. At its best art points us to the Good. To prove this point, let us consider a work that many consider a literary masterpiece: Plato’s Republic.
The Republic is not an artless philosophical tome. It is a dialogue. It has characters, and foreshadowing, and a plot. There are jokes, sarcasm, and conflict resolution. And most importantly, it is fictional. Despite the ancients’ legendary capability for retaining long speeches in their memory, no commentator actually attributes the words of the Republic to Socrates, Plato’s mouthpiece. And yet this piece of art points us to the Good. This fiction, this masterpiece, extols the contemplative life. Within the platonic framework, one could actually argue that art is one of the few things that can point directly at the Good with only a paper-thin intermediary. Art is not the problem. Bad art is the problem. Art that is truly imitation, that merely looks at the lines and color of the shoe, and paints without understanding, within Plato’s framework, this is indeed the mere imitation and a poor pursuit.
But why give up the field? Why let Plato frame the argument, his historical superiority not withstanding? Only in Plato’s dualism is the shoe not a venerable object. Consider my servant shoe. It keeps the nails and blisters out, the dust off, and the warmth in. Some humble shoe was the means of transportation that carried Socrates and his message around Athens. Real, wet, human lips delivered Socrates’ Apology, and a tangible pen recorded the words of the Republic. A systematic deconstruction of the theory of the Forms is beyond the scope of this paper, but looking with wide eyes will show us that the rocks and pebbles are rejoicing. Hating the world is the sine qua non of deriding art. Rejecting the objective goodness of objects naturally results in deriding their contemplation and their reproduction in art. This assumption goes to the heart of Plato’s philosophy and is the motivation for his accusation against art as imitation. The ultimate justification for art is an affirmation of the goodness of things, to side with Homer, Aristotle, and Christ.
The resolution of art and philosophy is not found in ratifying and strengthening their distinction, but rather by uniting them under the banner of the pursuit of Truth. The Republic shows that at its best, art is a type of philosophy, and philosophy at its best, is a type of art.

Charles Spurgeon is Timely

2010-04-26T08:09:00.000-07:00

"This do in remembrance of Me."—1 Corinthians 11:24.

T seems then, that Christians may forget Christ! There could be no need for this loving exhortation, if there were not a fearful supposition that our memories might prove treacherous. Nor is this a bare supposition: it is, alas! too well confirmed in our experience, not as a possibility, but as a lamentable fact. It appears almost impossible that those who have been redeemed by the blood of the dying Lamb, and loved with an everlasting love by the eternal Son of God, should forget that gracious Saviour; but, if startling to the ear, it is, alas! too apparent to the eye to allow us to deny the crime. Forget Him who never forgot us! Forget Him who poured His blood forth for our sins! Forget Him who loved us even to the death! Can it be possible? Yes, it is not only possible, but conscience confesses that it is too sadly a fault with all of us, that we suffer Him to be as a wayfaring man tarrying but for a night. He whom we should make the abiding tenant of our memories is but a visitor therein. The cross where one would think that memory would linger, and unmindfulness would be an unknown intruder, is desecrated by the feet of forgetfulness. Does not your conscience say that this is true? Do you not find yourselves forgetful of Jesus? Some creature steals away your heart, and you are unmindful of Him upon whom your affection ought to be set. Some earthly business engrosses your attention when you should fix your eye steadily upon the cross. It is the incessant turmoil of the world, the constant attraction of earthly things which takes away the soul from Christ. While memory too well preserves a poisonous weed, it suffereth the rose of Sharon to wither. Let us charge ourselves to bind a heavenly forget-me-not about our hearts for Jesus our Beloved, and, whatever else we let slip, let us hold fast to Him.

The Principalities Are Us

2010-04-08T07:34:00.000-07:00

Let us be torn down,
crushed by the chief cornerstone.
Let the weight of the world made new
apply purifying pressure.
Crush these bones,
I want to rejoice.
Our feet are within your Gates, O Jerusalem,
let them stay in peace.
Keep us this day without Sin.
Amen

2010-03-08T12:59:00.001-08:00

Testudo lepusque per silvamambulant viã

Testudine non loquente, lepus loquacior

iocatur Sordide quoque gloriatur et

Ambulat apud domum serpentis caeci. Tam

Loquor magna lepus voceut a vipera

Petatur, manducetur, et concoqatur et

Tardus pergit tutaet secura silentio.

Doctus es a fabellaillud: videsne virum garrulumet

Verbosum? Vero spes stulto viroest magis.

I Haiku because I must

2010-03-05T07:34:00.000-08:00

Death, be thou not proud.
Spring comes and smiles to see you.
Your winter was weak.

2010-03-04T10:15:00.000-08:00

Laminator Antonius

Testudo lepusque per silvamambulat viã
Testudine non loquente lepus superbissimus
Sordide iocatur gloriaturque. Lepus sine curã
Ambulat apud domum serpentis caeci. Tam
Dicit lepus magnã voceut serpens eum
Petat, manducet, et voret, concoqiat.
Chersos pergit totaet secura silentio.
Doctus es a fabellaillud: videsne virum garrulumet
Verbosum? Stultus vero spem plurem possidet.

Trying to be Clever

2010-02-22T06:55:00.000-08:00

Saw this type of thing on another blog and wrote on myself. Figure out the scheme behind how it was written (ignoring all but the first article and paying special attention to the spelling (that last hint is only helpful about half the time)). Enjoy.

A brave child did enter forest grown high, irate, jeering, kreeking, laughing, making Nathan's otherwise passionate quest rather slow and terrorfilled. Under this weathered xenofaun ventured young Zebulun approaching the brave child.

2010-02-19T13:21:00.001-08:00

Baby Blessing Tongue Twister

My big brother Brandon’s bride bore a beautiful baby bairn. Baby be brave. Baby be beautiful. Baby be bright. Baby be blessed. Girl grow gorgeous. Girl grow grounded in the word. Girl grow in grace. Girl grow in God.

Emmaline

2010-02-13T11:37:00.000-08:00

We here at The Madman's Corner would like to welcome Emmaline Lynn Antkowiak into this world. She arrived this morning at 8:11. She has the lungs of an opera singer and the arms of a power lifter. She has dark curly hair and her father's nose. She weighs eight pounds and six ounces, is twenty-one inches long, and when she opens her eyes the world gets brighter.

2010-02-12T13:25:00.001-08:00

Paupers steal me from my home and I end up in bars. I am beaten and crushed on the way. I am poked and prodded, weighed and measured. I am ground, stirred and melted. Men will purchase me but won’t be able to have any of me, their wives will make sure of that. My bride, my perfect complement, drowns, waiting for me in the supermarket. Men stare at her with sad eyes knowing that they will buy her though they have no desire for her. Her red head and slender body have no appeal. Women say they love her, but they always hang her out to dry. Just outside this room, my bride and I wait for you, to celebrate our patron saint.

2010-01-29T12:12:00.001-08:00

I stood up at the front of the room in a poorly cut blazer looking out into a crowd of most everyone I knew, with a ring clutched in my sweaty hand shoved in my pocket. At this point Brandon knew it was better not trust me with little things, as I was incredibly talented at breaking or misplacing them. But then again this little ring was not so little at all. This ring was last the big adventure that we Antkowiak brothers would embark on. Bigger than secretly carrying our science teachers small sedan into the field next to the parking lot. Bigger than getting lost in the woods for nine hours and having our mother call the police. Bigger than all the holes we had punched in walls, bigger than any guy we had decked in lacrosse, bigger than any cigars we ever smoked, bigger than any fort that we had ever built. As the eighty-year-old man of God announced that Brandon had become one flesh with the radiant woman standing next to him, Brandon looked at me, and they asked me for the ring. Against all odds I still had it, hidden in the creases of my sweaty palm. They exchanged rings and love and a very long kiss and rode of into the west. Our adventures would continue but never in the same way. She now has his love and his child and his ring, and will forever. But I still have a piece of Brandon that will always stay with me. His mark is stamped six inches below my left knee, hidden under hair: four evenly spaced dots, almost as if I had been stabbed by a fork.

2010-01-22T13:21:00.000-08:00

Tyler Antkowiak
Friday, January 22, 2010
Chalcedon Term
294 Words

My eyes widened in shock and so did his. As his gaze jerked back and forth from just below my knee to my startled face, his jaw dropped in amazement, and slowly cranked itself back up into a smirk. I had been sitting on the couch and he was washing dishes. We had been arguing about something of monumental importance. To this day I cannot remember if it was concerning a Platonic verses an Aristotelian understanding of the forms, or if we were revisiting the probable outcome of a fight between the Incredible Hulk and Superman. Whatever we may have been arguing, I clearly had just made a brilliant rhetorical move, which always signaled that the verbal part of the debates had come to an end. He made the first argument in the physical phase of the debate, nonchalantly leaning over the sink and throwing something, with most of the force that a two hundred pound fourteen year old can muster. My eyes widened in shock and so did his. Plato and Clark Kent were forgotten, as he walked over to the couch to get a closer look. At this point, we were both trying to suppress laughs, pain making it considerably easier for me. Once we had both decided that our cousin had not spiked the orange juice, and we really were seeing what we saw, I leaned forward and pulled the fork out of my shin. Dear reader, if you find this story at all unsettling, read no farther. The tales contained in this tome, of frog genocide, dented cars, and dead men on the road, will be far too much for you. But if this sounds like you brand of bubble gum, continue on into the chronicles of the Brothers Antkowiak.

on (not) being "indie"

2010-01-18T18:32:00.000-08:00

Firstly of all, did you notice how much I communicated with mere punctuation in the title.

Secondly of all, I am not nor have I ever been considered part of the indie crowd. What is the indie crowd you ask? My outside perspective leads me to believe that to be indie is to: wear tight second-hand clothes, or tight clothes that look second hand. The indie crowd enjoys scarves, music that i haven't heard of in which i cannot always discern a melody, poetry (particularly free verse), romance, pencil art, cigarettes, pencil art about romance and cigarettes, film photography, organics, and awkwardness in movies. (side note: the word awkwardness is like an ugly sibling, it doesn't get any better looking the more you stare at it, but you start to think one day you'll really enjoy hanging out with it) Anyway, this is where i start my tirade against the indie subculture, right? Naa, maybe later. I like them. some of my good friends fit one or more of the criteria for being indie. and I love them for it. But I just can't seem to get on board. First of all, people cringe when they hear the words " Antkowiak" and "skinny jeans" in the same sentence. Secondly scarves really don't do anything to help the appearance of the already existing disparity between the size of my head and the size of my body. As far as the music goes, i just don't really do the whole longing thing. I get angry, i lust, i love, i laugh, and I cry. There's just no room for longing in here. I'm all for romance, but I fell like we would be talking about very different things. Its the same with the pencil drawings. ... this post started as a fun venue for self deprecation, but i think that if i keep going i'll start stepping on toes that i love and care about, so I guess that thats about all for now...

OH! Wait! I remember now. The thing that got me going was: What is the deal with the indie subculture and cigarettes? I like a (high quality, no additive) cigarette as much as the next guy, but honestly, what's going on? Are they sexy? Are they revolutionary? I just don't get it. Thoughts?

2009-12-05T16:12:00.000-08:00

I want to blog and have had several thoughts which I ought to have blogged recently but haven’t had the time. Now that I have (made) a little time, I don’t know what to write about. So here are some options. Pick One. (This is really just my way of blogging with no effort)

“Careful Language” or “Eff-ing and Jehovah”
I have had plenty of conversations regarding “swear/curse/dirty/cuss words”. I don’t think they exist. There are words that are powerful, rare, vulgar and hateful. There are situations in life that are powerful, rare, vulgar, hateful, and unavoidable. They need to be addressed. With words. Generally, I can get people onboard. Up unto the infamous “eff-word” Very few can agree that there ought to be a word which alludes to illicit, vulgar sex. I grant that this word would probably fall on the atomic bomb end of my scale of usable words, but I feel like the general aversion to this word is cultural not ideological. (yes I get that a large aspect of language is culture, but this not a post, its an option for a post) Anyway, all this to say. Why is the “eff-word” more sacred (set apart) than God’s name? I’ve heard plenty of friends let slip an LNIV (thats Lord’s Name In Vain) but nary an eff-word in sight. Why? I wouldn’t mind writing more in depth about this.

“A Place to Die”
I’ve written about the friends I’ve made and the people I love at the several nursing homes here in Moscow. I’ve spent little time actually addressing the philosophy behind nursing homes, nor have I attempted to evaluate the value of nursing homes. This ought to be done.

Finally,
“On Polenta”
I’ve been perfecting my Eggs Benedict recipe, using polenta rather than an English muffin, and I’m pleased… very pleased… you’d like to here about this.

I’m kind of messing with you guys. I’m gonna write about whatever I want.

Bucket List

2009-11-14T10:39:00.000-08:00

We were assigned to write a one year bucket list, what would we want to do if we knew we were going to die one year from today.

I want to pass all my classes. With only a year left I’m not sure why, but I think it matters.
I want to paint something worth remembering and write something worth publishing.
I want to cook with truffles, and Kobe beef.
I want to finally perfect my orange chicken recipe.
I want to drink twenty-five year old scotch.
I want to drink fifty year old scotch.
I want to drink two hundred year old scotch.
I want to lead my friends who have fallen away back to the faith.
I want to go back to Italy and Greece.
I want to stand on top of that mountain in Delphi, smelling wild sage and thyme, watching the sunrise over the bay of Corinth.
I want to wrestle with my Dad one more time.
I want to see my unborn niece. I want to see her laugh. I want to see her baptized.
I want to see my father’s father who I haven’t spoken to in five years.
I want to see my mother’s father you hasn’t spoken to her in three years.
I want to go to Poland.
I want to see my friends do great things. I want to see them be more bold.
I want to defend somebody with my hands. I want it to come to blows.
I want to die for someone, or something. I don’t want to just fade.
I want my heart to burst in my chest from doing too much than dying having accomplished nothing.
I want to be laid in the ground under a cross and “I want For All The Saints” sang over my grave.

Marie

2009-10-29T13:29:00.001-07:00

This will be Marie’s last winter. Her face is crooked. The wind changed and it got stuck that way. Her hands are like tiny bones in a bag, dwarfed as she puts both of hers into one of mine. Her voice comes out of her throat as though it were being dragged over sand-paper. She’s withered since the summer. More leaves have fallen. Her trunk is overcome by its own slight weight. Her limbs are more bent. She used to use her legs. Now she use a nurse and a chair with wheels. She’s all knuckles and creases now. The sun left town today, and I don’t think she’ll be here when he gets back. I won’t see the sun for six months. Marie may see it in weeks. Marie will find summer before I do.

19

2009-10-06T19:51:00.000-07:00

I’ve gone around the sun nineteen times. I’ve pushed over trees and played with ants. I’ve painted walls and faces and floors. I’ve seen a man die. I’ve read my bible with moderate to poor consistency. I’ve seen my father get white bristles in his beard. I’ve seen my brother cry. I’ve gotten bigger than most. I’ve been tipsy. I’ve been really angry. I’ve smelt wild sage on a mountain in Delphi. I’ve seen two sisters baptized and a brother married. I’ve picked up big things and have been knocked over by very small things. I cried in church this week. I went West, young man. I’ve chipped a tooth, broken a bone, busted a knuckle, blacked an eye. I’ve loved and been loved. These last nineteen years were good, are good, will always be good. They cling to me like smoke in a jacket. The best part is I get more. More years to hide in my pockets and under my hat. Years that will be filled with babies, and beer, and new love and old love. I’m already wet with life and I’ve only had so little. It’s been a good year. Time for another round.

2222

2009-09-28T20:37:00.000-07:00

So guys we kind of blew right past 2000, but i will bless whoever can prove that they we're number 2222 (yup, prove, as in take a screen capture).

From Spurgeon: The world lends a willing hand and shakes us to the right and to the left with great vigor. Well, well! Let it go on. Thus is the chaff severed from the wheat!

From Tyler: Having pink eye is like having the world lend a willing hand and shake you with great vigor by the eyeball.

100

2009-09-22T14:11:00.001-07:00

I’ve spent the last two months trying to think up ways to make all the old posts cohesive and interesting in a group. That attempt was about as difficult as herding rabid three-legged toddlers. The only thing that comes to mind is to post about something which I’ve never written about on this blog: mi madre. The astute observer will have noticed that I’ve written about my uncle, brothers and sisters, and often about my father. Never about my mom. For those you know me better you’ve probably seen a handful of more or less roughly sketched portraits and paintings of the pater familias, laying around my studio. Some of you who know me worse might think I don’t have much of a relationship with my mother. You’d be wrong. Think of my dad as my face and my mom as my backbone. Both are integral but one is aesthetic and the other is structural. My dad gave me his nose, his sense of humor, and many of his skills. My mom gave me my ideas about justice and home. I’ve written and drawn my Dad so often because its easy. Big nose, beard, tired eyes: he’s a caricature. My mother on the other hand is a paradox. I could write about her about as easily as I could describe a square with no hard edges. Its such a strange mix of strength, and femininity, and grace and fairness, that I nearly threw away this document and almost decided to not even post this entry. Maybe I’ll try again when I’m smarter. So this is to Mom. My 100th blog post.

Uncomfortable

2009-07-29T09:04:00.000-07:00

Has anyone else had a diminutive bald man with a New England see you stand up and lisp, "Well you're a tall drink of water!"

Its weird, and I didn't like it.

It might be a few days before I post again as my next post will be my hundredth and I'm gonna make it special.

T

Morgan Again

2009-07-28T10:27:00.000-07:00

"Sometimes its good to be naked."

Honest Question- Raised by a friend outside of my family, calm down, all hypothetical.

2009-07-24T06:00:00.000-07:00

If one of your siblings was getting married to a non believer would you attend the ceremony? I absolutely would go to the man's bachelor party, to keep him from dishonoring my sister the night before their wedding. And I can see myself getting more involved in my sister's life afterwards, because she will need support and love all the more. My question isn't whether I would drop out of her life. Certainly not, just the opposite. I can't support the union, because he can't love her as Christ loves the Church, because he doesn't love Christ. Her father is going to have to continue doing that for him. Her Father is still her covenant head in many bregards. My Question is; would i attend the ceremony (coming from the middle latin awed, or revered rite) between a believer and a nonbeliever?

Morgan is still smarter than me

2009-07-21T16:27:00.000-07:00

"In my shop, I'll sell things to people, and jordan will fix their hair, and you'll stand at the door and draw pictures for the walls and mom will where a giant chicken suit and wave signs outside."

Morgan is smarter than me

2009-07-15T05:46:00.001-07:00

According to my 7 year old sister: "Gymnastics is the best thing ever... except for God, and Jesus,... and friends and family... and life... oh oh oh and forgiveness. So its the seventh greatest thing ever. maybe gymnastics is just cool."

Sister Nature

2009-07-08T11:17:00.000-07:00

Today is one of those days where the weather couldn't be the way it is without a story behind it. Surely something happened that we don't know about. The fallen earth is crying, big wet tears rolling down her cheek and into her soup. Everything is wet. She's not ripping her hair out and tearing her dress. She's sulking in a corner, and she doesn't want your hand on her shoulder. The boy she loves through a water balloon at her. Someone hit her dog with a car. You didn't want her hanging out with her friends. I just want to hug her, tell her it will be ok. Beat the boy. Buy a new Dog. Bring her along. but I can't. So I think we'll just take a nap together.

Life

2009-07-02T06:51:00.000-07:00

There is nothing wrong with going through life asleep, as long as you're dreaming.

Rude

2009-06-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

This Just In! Baptist Children to name themselves after obtaining driver's license: Noone knows what the heck to call them in the meantime.

What is your favorite movie?

2009-06-22T08:00:00.000-07:00

For the whole argument go to

http://pushlings.wordpress.com/2009/06/09/whats-your-favorite-movie/

Christian you’ve played into my hand. A movie is a painting, a picture of an idea. We get to pick the meaning. You said you’ll let your sons watch it “when they reach a certain age.” The age when they will garner the right meaning. I’m old enough to see that a Nietzschian will to power can only be (almost) consistently applied by a man who is certifiably insane and that the results are destructive (yes david a nihilistic win but because I’m not a nihilist, i consider it a catastrophe). I honestly wasn’t old enough when I first saw it and definitely thought how cool it would be to start a fight club and be a slick sonofabitch like Tyler Durden (at this point it would be good to point out that I never wanted to be a terrorist). I used the movie for evil, or a least I was evil in how I viewed the movie. I now view it in a morally edifying way. A movie can’t have a moral quality in vacuum (the existential aspect is necessary for the movies ethic.) The movie isn’t wicked sitting on my shelf. I think this is true with any art. You can view The Birth of Venus with respect for the artist, and with wonder at God’s gifts, or you can masturbate to it. The Art is the situation and there are decrees about how we should interact with it. Without interaction we can’t evaluate the art. David makes a good point: looking at nihilism can be edifying in the context of the truth. I think that context of truth will prevent viewing certain things as well. I comprehensively understand the evil that a pornographic snuff film portrays without watching one.

I absolutely admit that Fight Club makes an evil argument. If I listen to the argument, the movie has induced me to evil. If I argue back, the movie has been edifying and has strengthened my defenses. I think my main point is that good and evil are considerably more providential then inherent.

Watch this

2009-06-05T06:59:00.000-07:00

http://www.hulu.com/watch/75946/dave-matthews-band-41-live-from-the-beacon-theatre

What the what?

2009-05-28T08:08:00.000-07:00

WHO WAS IT?!

I will bless you

2009-05-27T07:13:00.000-07:00

Don't forget to tell me if you are the 1000th viewer. You will be blessed (maybe). View tracker at the bottom of the page.

Friends

2009-05-26T05:56:00.000-07:00

I figured my folks would be very curious about the new friends I made over the school year. Not wanting to be put on the spot I made a list of just a few with the impression that the have imprinted on me in the last nine months. Obviously I've only given initials, but if you know me and know them then the identity should be obvious.

K- But by the grace of God be he the most dynamic Southern Baptist Preacher of the Twenty-First Century.
T- Stud.
B- God was having a rough day proportioning size and personality. Of course a compliment.
R- My artsy conscience.
J- Six matchsticks with a head held together by environmentally conscientious clothing and indie music.
D- You are Pluto… You know Goofy’s dog.
M- Made of bricks and laughs and sweat and strength and family and his Grandfather and God.
C- Brilliance hidden under a yellow hoodie.
J- You are a bicycle. Simply and unequivocally. Useful and commonplace and laughable in a math class.
J- Peter Jackson’s beard. Just his beard.
C- The word “bonehead” shouldn’t be construed as an insult, it is a compliment of the highest order.
R- I think you are your hair, wild and free and rare, but somehow perfectly suitable.
E- I imagine you being carried away over the shoulder of a Viking. I don’t know why.
R- For some reason I see you as a cynical PI working the Florida Retirement Home beat. Its probably the chest hair.

Battered by Travel I type incoherently

2009-05-21T20:31:00.001-07:00

It is certainly a strange thing to leave home. Almost as strange as going back. When we leave home it is a revolt into nothing, a hopeless leap into an unknown. After a time, however, the unknown becomes known and more importantly becomes home. We dive headfirst into the dark future and let our eyes get accustomed until it seems very much like the present seemed. Going home is a Re-revolt, Devolution, going from light to light. By my estimation change is often regarded as an introduction. Commencement, if you will. We shake the dust off our sandals and keep walking. It is a strange feeling to return to the old dust. After a year away from home with every week laying some new spike strip or revealing a new golden ticket, I feel quite unprepared for 3 months of quietude, of constancy, of Maryland. But then again if this feeling is strange, it is also new. Strange means little more than unfamiliar, and if my thoughts of home are that of relative unfamiliarity, then going home is new. It is unfamiliar simply because of my recent falling out with familiarity. Home is completely familiar and yet not, like an old picture or forgotten shoes. A general expectation that the shoe will still fit holds at once an insult to your growth and a compliment to your constancy. It is difficult to close out this entry. I can’t write a conclusion because I have no conclusion. I can’t close out Moscow any more than I can prepare myself for Maryland its all strange, all new, all commencement, and all unfamiliar.

Sorry

2009-05-15T14:19:00.000-07:00

Jeez Guys... sorry for the late great blog lameness. But guess what! Schools over! So hears what's on my mind.

Absolutely Nothing !!!!!

Ty

Hands

2009-04-30T08:12:00.000-07:00

Bleeding knuckles drip
On rotten wood
Like red sweat off a wrinkled head.
Jagged nails rest on scarred fingers
Busted purple at the tip
Like helmets on witless soldiers,
Blithely following commands.
Real bruises remind that the hands
Are fully man’s:
The product of a hammer swinging slip.
I thought that carpentry
Had left my hands just like the Carpenter’s.
But I was wrong.
These are a soldier’s hands.
These knuckles bled as I beat Him.
These nails chipped as I pierced Him.
These hands bruised as I pounded Him
Into the cross.
I won’t make Pilot’s damn mistake.
I can’t
Wash the Carpenter’s blood from my hands.
It’s the only thing that covers my scars.

Antkowiaks are like Oranges or Poem for Morgan

2009-04-24T09:54:00.000-07:00

The youngest girl, my Morgan Rae,
Near Eight and blonde and bright.
Her reckless teeth brighten my day,
They flash all bent and white.

Her older sister, fourteen now,
Both beautiful and tall.
And even if my dad allows
I’ll kill the first to call.

Her brother Bran is big and mean
So says one who might dare
But if you pass this grizzly sheen
You find a teddy bear

My mother, goddess of the home,
Both love and grace supplies.
A mighty woman she alone
Cooked food for Bran and I.

Our father kind, the patriarch,
Would bounce me on his knee.
One day I learned his past was dark;
He’d rocked on MTV.

That leaves just me, the second son
No better and no worse,
I did what none thought could be done
Antkowiak in verse.

News

2009-04-20T22:43:00.000-07:00

So when reporting the news, just what are "the facts"? At a gay rights parade or abortion rally is evil just as much a fact as the color of the chief organizers shirt? thoughts?

In other news, notice the new blog counter at the bottom of the page. Important numbers will be rewarded.

T

Professor Appel's Eyebrow

2009-04-17T08:20:00.000-07:00

We stand upon this barren balding plain,
Our ranks much thinned by craft of fursome foe.
We stand the pale thin vangaurds ‘gainst the rain.
But cannot block the sun or shield from snow.
And who could be the enemy so great?
The self-important foe who drives us back,
He forays north while rests his dext’rous mate.
He flies enraged in self-impressed attack.
Twixt jutting ears, above all-seeing eyes
He reigns. Each Tuesday jumping in the air,
Our border ocean creased in pleased surprise
He sails across to make our army bare.
But who are we this eyebrow fills with dread?
We are the hairs that die on Appel’s head.

March 31

2009-04-10T13:17:00.001-07:00

My eyes fly open and hit the day like headlights on a dear, the first flicker of the oncoming collision. As my head twists toward the digital alarm clock, the traitor, its sneering face gleefully winks 6:54. Morning Prayer starts at 7:00. I fall up out of bed and trip on yesterday’s shirt. It is black with an orange and white logo. Black hides stains. Yesterday’s shirt just become today’s. The button-down is suitably matched by yesterday’s jeans. I only have to make it through morning prayer after all, where everyone’s hair is still shower wet and everyone’s eyes can barely be seen peeking out of the bags that carry them. I trundle into my study for my brown boots and the wall clock’s long arm ends in what looks like a middle finger somewhere closer to twelve than eleven. My computer reassures me that it’s only 6:56. My watch pronounces an angry 6:59. I run through the dark house back to my bedroom. Grab keys. Grab phone. The stupid little piece of technology idiotically grins 6:58. I certainly don’t have time for a coat. I run outside and slam headfirst into the new day and six inches of spring snow.

2009-04-06T11:20:00.001-07:00

Summer was over. Only this Sunday stood between me and the cavernous abyss that is the eighth grade. Fellowship dinner had drawn to a close and everyone except the Boswells had gone home. Dr. Boswell, my father, Brandon and I sat on my back porch, weathered and worn to a splintered gray, in the cool September air, with four glasses of wine, in four groaning green lawn chairs that shot creaking reproaches every time we shifted our weight. Dr. Boswell was wearing a blue oxford shirt. His belly fell over his belt like a blue oxford wave over a khaki beach. My father’s tenor voice said something that I was too busy poking Brandon to hear, and the good doctors epicurean eyes lit up and he nodded in grateful assent. My father walked inside past the busted screen door leaning at ease against the house. He returned as Prometheus, a wooden box tucked under his arm. The box. The humidor. It was red like blood and smelled like heaven. He handed Dr. Boswell a thick robusto. But he was not done. He put his hand in the humidor again and pulled out two light thin cigars. Six inches long and three quarters of an inch in diameter. A fitting first. Its blond tan hue laughed at my red sun-kissed hands. Its wrapper was thick with veins and smooth as felt. It tasted like chocolate and leather and fire and earth and summer. It was six inches of summer: three months of summer tightly rolled and laid in my hand.

Recess

2009-04-02T08:09:00.001-07:00

The grass was soft. It felt like running your hand over your father’s best ties. Ten years later, when I graduated, this patch of heaven had been reduced to yellow stubble by ten more classes of glow in the dark sneakers. But back then the grass was as young as I. God’s green earth met man’s black asphault. We could get close enough to Indian landing Road to feel the wind from the cars push us back on to grass. Then Miss Brophy would yell for us to be safe. I was smaller then. As close to cute as I ever will be. I had a bowl cut. It was tag, and red shirts were it. I had a red shirt. Matt had a white shirt. Ready. Go. He was made of matchsticks. I was made of logs. It was not the fairest of chases. I grazed his shirt. He didn’t believe me, so we both kept running. As we jumped roots I shortened the gap. My legs were longer. He turned his coconut head to see just how close I was. I gave him a tag that was more like a push. He turned and his head hit a low thick branch like a softball on a Louisville slugger. He fell to the ground alternately crying and laughing. The giant knot on his head felt like a stress ball. We were young enough to worry and old enough to laugh. The perfect Godsmack.

2009-03-28T17:59:00.000-07:00

God is the April Fool.
He gives us snow in undo season.
He makes men with strong jaws and covers them with thick fur.
He gives women beautiful legs and then puts knees in the middle of them.
He makes toes.
He made me.
He made Canada.
God made the principle of the swerve. The Atomists weren’t crazy after all. Almost.
Everything falls in an almost straight line. Almost.
God made man. God made monkeys.
Darwin wasn’t crazy after all. Almost
God made us similar enough to apes to give Darwin an excuse.
And different enough to damn him.
God make fat men the best singers.
Asians the best cellists.
Thieves the most generous.
Liars the best storytellers.
God made my brother and I together.
He the son of Vulcan, I the son of Bacchus.
Both sons of Mars.
Both Sons of Jeff.
God is the Mad Prankster.
He made this mortal temple.
This gas expelling, hair growing, ass scratching temple of the Holy Spirit.
He made Moscow.
He made it wet.
He made it snow in the end of March.
God is the April Fool.
We are April fools for not seeing it.

Hey... he's alive.

2009-03-20T22:18:00.000-07:00

The Travel Post

Sorry for the Late Great Blog Silence. The mind is weak and the body is busy. I’ve finished my third term at New Saint Andrews and I’m happy to report it went well, quietly even. No broken bones were had, a rarity, respectable grades and good fellowship aplenty. I’ve begun singing at several nursing homes this past term that have made me laugh to the point that I nearly shared my entertainer’s incontinence. Between Wild Bill (from over the hill, who never worked a day in his life and never will), Evelyn who openly criticizes our singing, and my friend who has told me about her granddaughter who wore a little bathing suit on the grass at least once a visit, I think I’ve found a favorite: I was talking with a woman who will be turning 96 in April. After exchanging a few pleasantries about the weather (freezing rain and snow) she asked my name.
“Tyler Antkowiak, ma’am.”
They all really like being called ma’am.
“And what type of a name is that?”
“Its Polish, ma’am.”
Long pause.
“And how have you enjoyed your time in our country?”
“Oh just fine, ma’am, America is a beautiful place.”

My Question:
If movies are the modern equivalent of novels, are trailers the modern equivalent of poems? Watch a few for cinematographically charged dramas, or emotionally charged (ha!) action movies.
My Book: The Supper of the Lamb By Robert Capon. This book reminded me what it is to be human. I recommend it particularly if you have no culinary interests.
My Food: Corned Beef Reuben (best I’ve ever had) from Nana’s Irish Pub in Newport, Oregon.
TyTunes: Stevie Ray Vaughan: Live Alive. Great live album especially the tracks Superstition, and Willie the Wimp.

Uncle George

2009-03-08T20:54:00.000-07:00

His hands were like gloves, filled with rocks and sticks. They were oil stained and rough and brown. His hands pulled trees up by the roots, mashed potatoes out of bowls, and new believers out of the baptismal font. His hands held me while we both fell asleep watching figure skating during the 96 Olympics. His hands scratched everything. His hands threw a wicked wiffle ball. His hands held Kathy tight every time she cried. His hands patted Randy on the back every time he was proud. His hands gave noogies. His hands operated hammers and trucks and guitars. Its easier to remember his hands. They drew cartoons that I still keep. They called strikes and threw ignorant coaches out of games. They showed me how big Boog Powel’s forearms were. They missed buttons, wiped stains on jeans, and grabbed more chips than he could fit in his mouth. Those hands worked harder than mine ever will. They will always be stronger than mine. The world will never know better hands. Those hands now play catch with the greats. Those hands now hold pierced hands. I’d give anything to hold those hands again.

2009-03-01T16:53:00.001-08:00

It is certainly curious that “The Poets have been oddly silent on the topic of Cheese.” This most glorious invention of man and gift from God, I hardly dare speak of. How could I in a mere 250 words, words that could never convey the reality that is cheese, tell you of the joy of Jarlsberg, the richness of Ricotta, the marvels of Mascarpone, the pleasure of Parmesan, the greatness of Gouda? To make cheese is Covenant fulfillment. God sent the Israelites into the land of Canaan, the land of milk and honey, to subdue it. Surely God did not merely want Joshua to subdue the land and the pagan people. God wanted him to subdue the milk. The Israelites would have known this and most assuredly began making Brie and blessing it with the bees’ hard labor. Cheese also bears a redemptive message. Limburger reminds us of the odiousness of our sin, while a Danish blue cheese, like an ancient Ebenezer, can remind us of the bitterness of the cross. A tart Lorraine Swiss reminds us of our need to be holy. We learned last week that the blessed curd is an allegory of our total depravity and justification. If you can get something as noble as cheese from something as ignoble as a cat, then God surely is strong to save. After all if cheese is not noble and praiseworthy sustenance, why would the God of goats and grapes have so perfectly married it to wine which makes our hearts glad?

Wet Snow. Sick House. Week Six.

2009-02-24T15:22:00.001-08:00

There you lay bright as death
cold and blue
Angelic eyes cracking the window
you move
our eyes cannot touch
yours are closed and mine are open
Its no fair exchange for you to look out and let nothing in
you fall again
your messianic pose strewn across the madonna couch
The snow fell but it didn't stay
Somehow it turned the couch and you and everything blue.
These sham winters and false springs leave us could and wet.
They freeze our hearts and melt our heads.

Sitting in the back at Trinity

2009-02-16T12:44:00.000-08:00

Little shrieks punctuate the constant humm
of infants mewling and puking in their mothers arms
little damnations landing on wrists
little salvations entering mouths
These have tasted the heavenly gift
These rejoice in singing all the more
they can't sing parts
they spill juice
they shift in their seats
they push their sisters
They unite us to Christ
Become like the least of these and enter rest
These little cries are the sounds of the covenant
They reverberate of the roof of heaven
They batter down the doors of hell

Goodwill, Laundromat, Basement

2009-02-09T10:16:00.001-08:00

There’s a place I go in hopes that giants have died.
That I may plunder the treasure which they have cast beside.
To clothe from the cold my pale Polish hide.
And in style and comfort to the sunset I’ll ride.

There's a place where I take my stains.
Where I take my clothes for a spin and a drain.
With cameras and guitars we tickle our brains.
Then we leave in silver trains.

Heavy on my feet I land
In the room where I cannot stand.
We play at cards and food and band
me and the friends I find so grand.

Nominae Sanctorum

2009-01-25T00:18:00.000-08:00

I thought I would get to watch the funeral. It threw me a bit, but then again I don’t know why I thought I would. So much for stereotypes. There probably isn’t even an escalator. The line is long and its getting longer. I shouldn’t have expected an immediate audience, but I didn’t expect to wait so long. This is worse than the DMV.
The line stretches far in front of me but suddenly I feel a jerk underneath my feet and I’m flying toward a white light. Imagine a friend a foot taller and a hundred pounds heavier than you lifting you up to hug you. There is a mild discomfort, not derived from the friends imposing bigness but from your shrinking smallness. The unseen embrace dragged me up and suddenly I was before the face of… something. I don’t know if it was God… I don’t think they let you see God that easy. Suddenly I heard a voice. Not with my ears. I don’t think ears work as well in heaven… If this is heaven. I heard the voice with my teeth; it was in my head. It asked me what my name was. I told him. Or it. Or her.
“My name is Mark.”
“No it is not.”
I’ve never hid from a disagreement, but to be disagreed with in my own head was a little galling. And what right had it to be in my head anyway?
“Really, then first why the Hell did you ask? And second, what do you think my name is?”
“I do not think your name is anything. I know what it is.”
I was having Lion King flashbacks.
“Then what is it?”
“Lee.”
Heaven is random.
“Why is that?”
“For the same reason your smile happens more to the left side of your face, hair will not grow on your upper lip, and one of your arms is a half inch shorter than the other. It is how our Father made you.”
I wouldn’t have minded giving up my crooked smile, barren lip or asymmetrical arms, but I really liked my name. It was actually my middle name, but as soon I could talk I asked that everyone called me Mark. I busted a friends lip when I was twelve because he promised he would never call me Mark. Before I got married I had my name legally rearranged to have Mark as my first name. Who wants to be Timothy anyway?
“You must have me mistaken for someone else.”
“Do you think I could be in your head and mistake you for someone else?”
It had me there.
“Well, I assure you my name is Mark.”
“That does not suit you. The name Lee fits you. Your name is the essential tooth on the key that will allow you into heavenly rest. Surely the name you have given yourself is not worth the alternative.”
“What if I think it is?”
Suddenly I was rushing down. A different embrace drew me down this time. This was the hug of a child exactly half your height slamming into you, doubling you over, making your stomach hurt. I was in hell. It was just how I pictured it. Or at least how Gary Larson pictured it. Finally something expected. Amid the stalagmites there was a small receptionist desk and behind this desk sat a shedevil who looked startling like my high school sweetheart. She looked at me with a knowing smile.
“Angela?”
“Mark?”
“Yeah, how are you?”
She didn’t reply, but smiled again and after a moment told me that I was expected. I noticed a door that may not have been when I arrived. She asked if I wanted something to drink, and as I began to answer she poured me a scotch. I couldn’t see where the bottle came from.
When I entered the office, a ruddy man with dapper clothes and slick hair stood to greet me. He had the characteristic twin bumps on his forehead. Just like I wanted. His manner reminded me of my favorite uncle. He grabbed my hand gave it two solid pumps and asked me how my scotch was.
“Smooth.”
“Oh, how rude of me, I am the Morning Star.”
“I’m Mark.”
“Wonderful name… He tried to take it didn’t He?”
“Yeah… how did you know?”
“He tried to take mine as well.”
I liked him. He spoke to me, not in me. He liked my name.
“I thought it would be hotter.”
“Celestial subterfuge. I can make it warmer if you wish, but we try to keep it as comfortable as possible.”
He walked to a thermostat on the rough stone wall that I’m almost sure was not there when I entered. It didn’t bother me for some reason. My perception of Hell must simply be more fluid than I expected. It was warm and soft; not at all like the sterile fixedness of heaven, or wherever I just was.
“No its fine.”
“I’ll tell you what, Mark, why don’t you come work for me. Angela isn’t working out so well, and I could use a good man like you around.”
My mother had no idea what Hell was like. She couldn’t possibly understand that Father O’Toole was off his little Irish rocker.
“I’d love a job. I couldn’t imagine standing around singing for the rest of my life.”
I always hated singing.
“And anyways, who wants to spend eternity as Lee.”
At this the Morning Star burst out in uncontrollable laughter.
“Lee? They tried to name you Lee? Those sneaky bastards didn’t pull the ‘key’ bit on you did they?”
I nodded my assent and he responded with another great peel of laughter.
“Listen Mark, keep your name, stay with me, you can’t imagine how quickly you can progress through the ranks down here.”
“Deal.”
As our hands touch I again felt the warm oversized embrace and the rush upwards. I landed in the white realm that I hand grown to hate and before me stood a rough wooden door. In the door there was cut out a silhouette as though a man exactly my size had just run through it. Through the Mark (or Lee) shaped hole I could see bright sunshine and green fields. My side of the door felt like a dentists office. The voice suddenly appeared this time not in my head but separate from me. It was covered in wings and eyes and had the rainbow shimmer of oil on pavement.
“Welcome back Lee.”
“My name is Mark.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure. It’s my name, damn it!”
Something in me twitched and I made a mad charge at the door. I bounced off my hole as if it were a semi-truck.
“Lee, this is your last chance. What is your name?”
I hated him. I hated him so much I wanted to rip out every feather, gauge out every eye, burn off his glimmer.
“My name is Mark!”
With that came another head-butt to the groin and I was falling, like a comet, burning up, smoldering. I collapsed in a heap on the cave floor. Angela and her desk were gone. I longed for a glass of water much less scotch. I wasn’t on fire. I was fire. I wasn’t in pain. I was pain. I was eternally separated from anything good. I looked up and saw standing over me the Morning Star. Everything I loved about him was now odious to me. He was changed. Grotesquely huge, his horns were gone, and he had become ghostly pale. With a feverish giggle he looked at me with a glint in his eye.
“Welcome back, Lee, we’ve been waiting for you.”

I'm Alive!

2009-01-21T23:54:00.001-08:00

So I am alive, and here is some art to prove it.

2009-01-12T19:43:00.000-08:00

This, my friends, heralds a new direction for this bog. I believe I will use it to also regale you with my food adventures. Once I recover from my food coma I will tell you all about a fantastic place called Fogo de Chao.
T

I'm Back

2009-01-01T12:48:00.000-08:00

So I'm in the Outer Banks of North Carolina, enjoy:

Beach Haiku:

Kites.
Black wings leap to the air, dragging my sister away, then crash to earth.

Beach Limerick:

There once was a man named Ty
Who once gave cigars a try
On the sand he enjoyed them
'Till the wind destroyed them
Which nearly made the man cry.

Beach Sonnet:

Sorry guys, way too lazy.

So I think I may have hyped up the not-fight too much. I was at the gas station at around 8:00 trying to get to a party at the Horst's, when a small red car whips into the station and a girl jumps out of the passenger seat crying and yelling. She begins to pump gas and begins screaming for the young man in the driver's seat to get out of the car. (I should at this point remind the reader to sprinkle expletives throughout all of the narrative) She continued to yell, he stayed in the car, until he got out with a vengeance. He began yelling at her and began to drag her back into the car. I ran over told him to get his hands off. He turned like he was about to swing, but changed his mind and we exchanged "words" instead. Another man ran up and called the police. I told the boyfriend I really didn't want to get involved, but if he touched her again, I was taking him down, and I waited until the police arrived. As I had not reported the incident I wasn't needed as a witness, and, after telling the girlfriend to drop this moron, I left. Post Script tidbits: She had just turned 18, he is 22. She says he slammed her head into the windshield. He is supposedly an MP for the Marines, which is really a blight on the name of the corps. She's a moron for being with this idiot, He's a moron all the way around. The more people I meet the more I like dogs.

And to answer Kenny's accusation of lameness, I think I'm going to steal an idea from Jen's blog here:

Movie: HBO miniseries, John Adams. Paul Giamati is pure gold.
Music: Artists: Julian Velard, : Album: The Movies Without You, Song: Joni (Buy this)
For the Guys: First, Avo 2, a fine Dominican cigar with a Connecticut wrapper, good draw, smooth but bold taste, and great for the beach. Second, don't touch girls in a harmful way within 200 feet of me, trust me, you'll regret it.
For the Girls: First, Stay away from morons, you'll regret it. Second, Ask Jen.

2008-12-27T21:01:00.000-08:00

Hey Everyone,
Sorry for being such a lame blogger look forward for my story about my most recent not-fight, wherein I save a female moron from a male moron. Coming soon.
T

Evangeline Shaleigh

2008-12-12T10:48:00.000-08:00

Cutest bambini ever.

Feminism

2008-12-08T12:16:00.001-08:00

Perhaps NOW’s strongest argument is that men and women are indeed equal and ought to be treated as such. One of the many hard places to get stuck against in this discussion is the multifaceted nature of the organization. It really is true that the “want it all NOW” which makes it difficult to critique the organization as a whole. Part of NOW’s mission statement is a prime example of this conundrum, “Our purpose is to take action to bring women into full participation in society — sharing equal rights, responsibilities and opportunities with men, while living free from discrimination.” I gladly concede that women ought to share equal rights and opportunities with men. Yet hidden between those two innocent truths lies the dastardly word responsibilities, with which I simply cannot agree. Every woman ought to have all the same rights and opportunities as a hangman, but never his responsibility .
This quasi-agreement comes from an equivocation in the feminist’s rhetoric. The terms “equal” and “identical” have become basically interchangeable. This sort of equivocation may go undetected in the soft science of sociology, but imagine the devastation that could be caused in one of the hard sciences for such an inconsistency. Hydrogen and helium may be equally valuable in the sight of God and man, but any chemist would scoff at the concept that the equality made them identical. In fact, many of the tragic effects that one would expect from such a chemical confusion, can be seen in the dissolution of the American family. Castrated men, who behave like women, have given rise to women filling the gap that has been created, and, operating under the devastating equivocation, begin to act like men, and thus destroy their femininity.

Christmas Update

2008-12-01T09:34:00.000-08:00

My mom had me write our family Christmas letter and this is what came out. For those of you who don't know my family, just imagine.

Hey Everyone,
Greetings from the Antkowiaks! It’s been a busy year, and God has blessed us immensely. Jeff is still young and charming, with a twinkle in his eye, and a spring in his step. Not to mention the grey in his beard. The business is booming and we’ve grown to over thirty employees (economic crisis my arse). Karen continues her benevolent reign as one part domestic goddess, one part shnazzy dresser, and one part financial savior, keeping the lights on and the employees paid at ADG. Morgan is flourishing in the first grade and loves nothing more than singing and dancing. She is also developing quite a sharp sense of humor: think half Shirley Temple, half Groucho Marx. Jordan is turning into quite the young lady, is happily working through her freshman year in high school, and would only be slightly offended at the term “self-appointed Diva.” Tyler graduated Summa Cum Laude from Rockbridge Academy and is now slowly being brainwashed at New Saint Andrews College in frigid Moscow, Idaho. Brandon married his high school sweetheart Ashley Dwyer in May and has also settled down in Moscow. As far as they’re concerned they are still on their honeymoon. In typical Antkowiak style we are all tired, but all happy, and all looking forward to the new exciting ways that God will test us and bless us in the New Year.
God Bless you all,
The Antkowiaks

NewArt

2008-11-21T08:07:00.000-08:00

Hey Everyone, I've got a little bit of new art for you. I made a list of all the people in my class who I thought would be fun to draw. This is a girl in my class named Robin Bowe, and she should be the first of many class pictures to come. I once had somebody ask me, "Do you draw men?" as they had only ever seen portraits I've done of women. Yes I draw men. Actually probably 80% of the people I've ever drawn have been men. But if your going to invest serious time and effort in a portrait, you should draw a woman. They are more appreciative and considerably better looking than guys. Also, you get hugs.
T

Obamanation

2008-11-13T22:27:00.000-08:00

A God-fearing Christian is an Obama supporter. Paul exhorts us in Romans, “Let every soul be subject to the governing authorities. For there is no authority except from God, … Therefore whoever resists the authority resists the ordinance of God, and those who resist will bring judgment on themselves.” ¬ God has placed this man in authority over us, and that providential act requires an appropriate reaction from Christians. Some Christians who think themselves rather clever, thanked God for the impending judgment, and asked that it would be swift and would cause a conservative backlash, I unfortunately fell into this way of thinking. This however is simply backward. We know that Barrack Obama has been promised as a “minister for our good” . Whether we like it or not. Expecting the sudden downfall of our nation is the sort of dependence on horses and chariots that we are strictly warned against. Do I trust Obama’s policies, character, or affiliations? No, no more than we ought trust in tanks. I do, however, trust that he cannot thwart God’s plans, and that God has made all things to work together for the good of those that love Him . A pro Obama stance does not make one pro abortion, or pro Gay marriage. On the contrary, we ought to pray that God would preserve our nation from such evils and direct our president away from them. The appropriate Christian response to our president elect is thank God and ask his blessing on our new leader.

PS. If you read this pathetic little blog please click the follow this blog link.

Beard

2008-11-06T23:03:00.000-08:00

Last week Mr. Leithart made his clever and well-received attack on the shaggy faces of the freshman class. I appreciate what he was saying. He makes a valid point by warning against the growth of a beard for status or a façade of maturity. I agree. The thing is I don’t think that many members of the freshman class grow beards for this reason. I don’t rely on my beard for social acceptance. I rely on my beard to separate my chin from my neck. There is nothing wrong with growing a beard, but, live up to your beard. If you behave like a prepubescent punk, then I must agree that your chin fuzz only serves to accentuate the contrast between your age and your behavior. But if you are a young man known for maturity and humility, then a beard is totally appropriate.
Again I’ll grant to Mr. Leithart, that part of that maturity and humility is knowing what you can grow and where. Fourteen hairs grown to five inches long is not the mark of wisdom. I’ve spent the last week figuring out that I can’t grow a moustache, and I probably won’t try again for some time. Also, it is important to keep in mind that, most of us come from much more clement weather than the frozen tundra that is Moscow. A little hair on the face goes a long way in maintaining body heat. So to the freshman guys, be wise, stay warm, and grow a beard, if you can.

Suicide

2008-11-04T17:20:00.001-08:00

Suicide is the ultimate sin of economy. It combines a disgust for all of God’s gifts and government, with a usurpation by human perversion’s. Chesterton talks about suicide as a sort of cosmic treason, but the dangers and debaucheries of this action run much deeper. Suicide represents utter revolt against God’s providential narrative and authority. In expelling the God-breathed life from their bodies suicides are not only refusing to face, interact with, and accept God’s providence; they are denying his authority as the author of life. This is perhaps the fundamental difference between suicide and martyrdom. The former is the ultimate rebellion against God’s will, whereas the later is the perfect acceptance of, and resignation to God’s will. Moreover, suicide is often a false gospel, a rejection of the gift of Christ efficacious blood, a distortion of the necessity of bloodshed for purgation, which reveals itself in the propensity of cultish activity to end in suicide. The way Augustine viewed the world is the perfect paradigm for understanding suicide. By understanding creation as God’s property built on a hierarchy of love, it becomes plain that in suicide man is stealing from God, himself, and nature. The City of Man, characterized by the economic sins of greed, ingratitude, and domination, is born from the poisonous juices of the first suicide, when Adam and Eve willingly ate of the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil, and thus knowingly garnered death for themselves.

Pumpkin Battles

2008-10-27T08:24:00.000-07:00

Sitting on the table before me, glaring but not yet grinning, my enemy and I pause. Knife in hand and six good friends besides, each with a demon to define and defeat, I catch my breath. I gutted him, and yet my struggle was not nearly over. I went to work with a trusted Sharpie, less effective in my battle than the name might imply. I had already gauged his eyes out, and yet my foe was not yet complete. All but one other friend Rachel Mayerberger had finished off their orange foe, Horace the Duck, Guinivere of the Bear and Shark, Kelley of the German River, Brandon the Demoniac, and Ashleigh of the Vomit. Finally the battle was over, my squashly nemesis finished. I am Coniglio Diabolico and I have won. We left the corpses of our foes, now turned into family crests, strewn across our door, that any more orange marauders might know what lies in wait for them at the House of Antkowiak.

Art

2008-10-20T12:44:00.000-07:00

Despite all of the work thats expected of me ion college i've also managed to do a little art. Here are a few of the things i've managed to squeak out.
I'm not thrilled with the quality of the scanned images, so in all seriousness they look better in person. ;)

2008-10-18T20:56:00.001-07:00

My tenor mixes with my father’s,
My mother smiles and winks from down the row,
Jordan pinches my arm. That’s the same.
Morgan finds the right page in the hymnal. That’s new.
Its good to be home for church.

2008-10-06T10:30:00.000-07:00

Today the government officially recognizes my semiadulthood. I'm not quite sure how i feel about that. I can legally smoke, no real new ground broken there, however I can be tried as an adult in a court of law, and be drafted. I suppose I'm mostly glad to be done with 17. 17 was so last year. In survey, however, seventeen was pretty great. I lost 40 lbs (and put 25 back on :) ) I was part of an amazing musical production. I graduated from a spectacular school. I made an amazing cross country trip with my Dad. And now I am at a great college, making some really good friends. 17 was a good year. I'm going to have to work pretty hard to make 18 even better.

2008-10-01T08:39:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone. Facebook is eating me.

Declamation #2

2008-09-22T08:42:00.000-07:00

Cooking is worship. The modern church has lost a fundamental factor in worshipping God, and enjoying him. God is not merely the God of our heart and head; He is also the God of our stomachs. A survey of the Bible demonstrates that God is interested in what we ingest. When it came to sacrificing bulls and goats, the ancient Levitic priests were commanded to cook and eat a portion of the sacrifice. The altar was not a stage for pyromania, but a divinely ordained barbecue. Moreover, the Jewish celebrations weren’t merely weeklong church services; they were feasts. Surely in the newer and better covenant this glorious aspect of worship ought not be lost, but made more glorious. Christians are called upon to prepare their hearts for corporate worship throughout the week, by the study of the scriptures in individual devotion. How much more fitting is it to prepare for the great Feast, by preparing and eating good meals? The Westminster Divines considered worship the proper response to God’s lordship, sovereignty, and goodness. There are few greater ways of celebrating God’s lordship and goodness than partaking of the vegetation and beasts that God has to men. Cooking is worship most fundamentally in that by cooking Christians are mirroring Christ who prepared food for the twelve, and for five thousand. If Christians are expected to make joyful sounds, and earnest prayers, and they certainly are, then they are also expected to make rich sauce, bake fresh bread and roast red meat.

Declamation

2008-09-12T09:27:00.000-07:00

Everyone here has a home. And for a great number of us, our home is not Moscow. Its California, or Michigan, or Maryland. To those of us who were not born and raised here in Moscow, I have this to say: Go home. And to the locals: Get us out. If you love the school and its vision, take it back home with you. The school has a vision of cultural reformation, and quite frankly, Moscow is reformed enough already. To whom much is given much is required. We’ve been given much. What will be required of us is bigger than Moscow. As far as the people who have grown up here in Moscow are concerned: stay! Perpetuate the work that your parents have invested in, and do a good job so that nobody from out of town feels compelled to stay. We are being trained as rhetors, and I have no doubt that your hometown could use more Godly men speaking in accordance with biblical wisdom. We are being taught to love God’s Lordship over creation, and it is a rather feeble accomplishment to merely conquer a town of only 20,000 in the Northwest corner of the country. We are being taught math from a Christian worldview and the whole country is overrun by secular science. You’re being armed to deal with this problem, let Dr. Stokes handle it here in Moscow. Finally, I am sure somebody’s hometown needs a little Latin. After graduation, humbly gather what you have been given, and go home.

I Love My Adopted Family

2008-09-06T23:51:00.000-07:00

By the way, you can view these photos individually in my slideshow at the bottom!

A Near Death experience

2008-08-28T01:10:00.000-07:00

Hi everyone. Its 1:00 and I need a break from Augustine. I heard that one of the declamations will be describing a near Death experience so this is what i came up with. Also this story is now nearly three years old so I'm comfortable telling it.

My life has never been near death. My self inflicted bb gun wounds and automobile destructions have not brought me an inch closer to six feet under. That does not mean however that my life has not been threatened. As a matter of fact I have had a death threat leveled against me. In my fifteenth year, my 6’5” 290 lb frame was threatened by a little fruit in a scarf. Two friends of mine, for our purposes we shall call them Dumb and Dumber, arranged a wager. As the aforementioned fruit walked past, Dumb said to Dumber, “I’ll give you a dollar if you ask that guy if he’s gay”. Dumber obliged. That’s why he gets to be Dumber. The relatively calm fruit said “no he was not” and Dumber returned to the table. I felt called to go and apologize. I answered the call. Bad call. Something in my apology must have legitimized my friends question, for that aforementioned fruit exploded in a torrent of scarf laden metrosexual anger. His 5’6” feathered haired head was reaching past me yelling that he had an f…..g gun, and that he was going to f…..g kill us. (Dumb, dumber and I later decided that his gun was most likely pink and fuzzy.) Fortunately his girlfriend arrived, which as I’m sure you can all guess made things much better. Now Ryan Scarfcrest and his girlfriend who at least had the IQ of celery, are yelling through my chest at the guys and girls behind me. And as quickly as it began it was over. They suddenly walked out the door and the bescarfed harbinger of f…..g death and his blond harpy were never seen again.

2008-08-20T20:52:00.001-07:00

I thought they said chapters not sections!

I'm Back

2008-08-09T11:10:00.000-07:00

Have you ever been faced with a situation so overwhelming that you simply couldn't handle it? Yeah, I haven't either. I'v spent the last two weeks driving accross country with my dad, and working like mad to get construction finished on my house. I've learned an aweful lot in the past two weeks. You shouldn't drink a lot of coffee if your trying to stay on the road for as long as possible. If you're going to get a flat tire, the best place to do it is in Austin, Minnesota so you can go to the spam museum while your getting it fixed. I learned that sometime you can learn more about your family in an intensely stressful week than you could in nearly eighteen years of normalcy. I learned how to scrape the paint off of hardwood. and vynil. and lynnoleum. and plaster. Mostly i learned that, in a very hyumble way, there is nothing I can't handle. When I am at my tiredest, when my defences are down, when i'm weak, God fills that void, more than my own strength ever could. I can spend all morning hauling pianos and book shelves, and somehow when evening comes and i feel like i have nothing left, God gives me the strength to handle the pipes bursting beneath the sink. With the two weeks I've had school shoulod be easy, and all the trials and triumphs that I've had leave me with one realization. I can do alol things through christ who strengthens me.

T

New Features

2008-07-21T05:38:00.000-07:00

Hey there everyone,
A couple of new features on the blog worth checking out, first we have the promote the Dwyers sidebar, with their new releases. The weekly updated poll, and down at the bottom we have a slideshow of some of my favorite pics. a legit post should show up soon.
T

Beauty

2008-07-10T09:41:00.000-07:00

It is sometimes the case that certain women are recognized universally as being beautiful. This is a shame. Their beauty is purely plastic and external. The most fundamental type of beauty is the disputed type. Let us say that I find someone very attractive. Hypothetically. It is more of a testimony to my affection that others I know do not find her as attractive. She is attractive to me. She is not so much beautiful on her own. She is beautiful in respect to me. My love makes her beautiful. Lest you think that I’m saying beauty is relative, I’m not. Beauty is not something that is indefinable, but it is personal. Others might not find her laugh infectious. But it infects me. Others might not get lost in her eyes but eye do. The standards do not change. Men do. If others found her as attractive as I do, I would doubt my feelings. I would think that they were superficial. But she has a disputed beauty. Yet she is indisputably beautiful to me. Hypothetically.

-William Bernard Martin
Selected Shorter Writings

Updated

2008-07-07T18:12:00.000-07:00

Hey there everyone, sorry if my pre-departure nostalgia was a bit too heavy, I had a lot on my mind and wanted to get it out. Anyway as you might have noticed there are some updates to the site including the beard poll on the side, and as soon as I figure out how it works, a slideshow at the bottom.

About a year ago I wrote this statement of faith for my college application, after smoking a cigar and reading Chesterton, my two primary muses. I hope you enjoy:

I believe in God, the father Almighty maker of heaven and earth. I believe in God the Creator and God the Redeemer. I believe in a God who is transcendent in his greatness yet immanent in love. I believe in God’s Son, begotten not created, and that he used a cursed cross to crush a serpent’s head. I believe that Christ was fully God and fully man, and I believe that I will never fully wrap my head around that. I believe that He was a prophet, priest and warrior king. I believe that the Apostle’s Creed is an accurate human portrayal of the inerrant truths found in the Word of God. I believe in the Holy Ghost, that He proceeds from the Father and the Son, equal in power and glory, and that with the Father and Son, He is to be worshipped and glorified. I believe that the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost are one God in three persons, as real and as mystical as shamrocks.
I believe that God loves the babes of those who love Him, and that he has welcomed them to be washed and feast in His name. I believe that God gave men wine to make their hearts glad, and cigars to put hair on their chests. I believe that the Westminster Confession of Faith is not the Bible nor is it the sequel, but it is close. I believe in loving the sinner but hating the sin. I believe that Roman Catholics are Christians, even if Pope Benedict does not think that I am. I believe that the government is God’s minister for good, no matter how often they attempt to throw us down wells and shred our multicolored coats. I believe God hath foreordained whatsoever comes to pass. I believe that many of the prophecies uttered in the books of Daniel, the Gospels, and Revelations were fulfilled in 70 AD. I believe that as an image bearer I am chief among creatures and as man I am chief among sinners. I believe that Christ died for all men but not every man. I believe that laughter is war and that not all Rigor is Mortis.

My father

2008-07-05T10:34:00.000-07:00

Its 4:30. Time to go to work. Six days shall you labor. 13 hours a day. The seventh day is a day of rest, but much is expected of my father even on that day. My father's build comes from a time when men were men. His thick chest and graying beard are those of a Norse soldier, not of the feminine stock that today passes for men. My father is stalwart. My father is what God requires of man. He is a creator. An artist. An educator. A defender. A laborer. A servant. A husband. A father. He is my best friend. My father is Loves His Lord and his creation. He glorifies God and he will enjoy him forever. He blesses those around him with strong drink, and good cigars. My father's singing reverberates off the roof and dances in our ears. I love my father. I am leaving him. But he has molded me into someone like himself, and I will make him proud.

This is my ADG bio that will be going up on the website soon!

2008-06-12T08:05:00.001-07:00

Name: Tyler Antkowiak
Title: Content Developer

Superpower: Creative Giant. There are few artistic disciplines in which Tyler has not dabbled, from painting and sculpture, to music and theater, to creative writing and poetry. Such a diverse blend of talents and skills could only fit into large package, and Tyler’s broad 6’6” frame make him a prominent member of the ADG team.

Alter ego: Philosopher King. Tyler is happiest smoking a fine cigar and talking about philosophy. When not working at ADG Tyler loves nothing more than reading influential philosophers and proving them wrong. He spends his time wondering if Existentialistm exists, and considering why there are no Nihilists.

Inspirations and Addictions: Irish Rock, NC Wyeth, and GK Chesterton. Tyler finds inspiration in the mysteries of God’s good creation. Tyler finds the perfect blend of addiction and inspiration in contact sports.

Drink: Caramel Machiatto with 3 extra shots of espresso.

Favorite Thing about working for ADG: Tyler grew up at ADG, and he’s extremely grateful for the culture of creative cultivation that has been so fundamental in his upbringing and outlook on life.

Story: Ever since Tyler was a wee tike (well… he was never wee) his creativity manifested itself. More often then not, to the chagrin of his father, ADG founder Jeff Antkowiak, this usually meant paint on the carpet and gouges in the kitchen table. The atmosphere at ADG creative has done nothing but intensify his rogue artistry. Tyler has won several art contests on a state and national level, and brings that competitive creativity to any project put before him.
From his humble beginnings as the office intern at age twelve, Tyler has moved from trash boy to an important part of the team. He loves creating, whether that means writing copy for brochures, cutting video, content development, or graphic design. His list of skills only grows from the guidance and instruction he receives from the ADG team.

In His Words:

What does it mean to you to serve the client?
“Its easy to sacrifice honesty and integrity for simplicity. It’s much easier to give the client exactly what he asks for, rather that attempt to advise them in creating something that will really benefit them. It is fundamentally important to maintain artistic integrity, even if that means a little friction with the client. Anything besides artistic integrity coupled with a sincere interest to see the client succeed is a disservice.”

How do you gauge the success of your work?
“The staff at ADG is so brilliant and creative. If the guy in the nest cube over looks at my desk and is impressed with what he sees then I know good things are happening. ”

What’s the most important thing for the client to know about you?
“Most kids aspire to being firemen or police officers in there formative years. I wanted to come work at ADG. This is my dream job; and that is going to come through in what I produce.”

2008-06-09T06:52:00.000-07:00

I was cooking bacon at 4:30 this morning.

Selah

The Irish Know Best

2008-05-19T03:33:00.000-07:00

And I love her so
I wouldn't trade her for gold
Walking on moonbeams
I was born with a silver spoon

Hell I'm gonna be me
Gonna be free
Walking on moonbeams
And staring out to sea

And if a door be closed
Then a row of homes start building
And tear your curtains down
For sunlight is like gold

Hell you better be you
Do what you can do
Walking on moonbeams
And staring out to sea

'Cause if your skin was soil
How long do you think before they'd start digging
And if your life was gold
How long do you think you'd stay living

And I love her so
I wouldn't trade her for gold

The End of an Era

2008-05-12T17:25:00.000-07:00

Today was my last day of classes at Rockbridge Academy
I still have to turn in a paper, deliver a speech, take a math test, and a literature final.
That is all.
13 years.
Here's a tear.
And now its gone.

Arsheesh

2008-04-30T19:19:00.000-07:00

This blog belongs to the Winner of the Hall Closet Art Contest!!!
I'm pretty darn psyked about it!
T

2008-04-26T05:50:00.000-07:00

Bold Chrisatian Men Rejoice,
May your faith be large
May you never yearn for the bitter cup, it is no longer yours,
May you not wallow in your sin, may your faith be large
Let the Popists and the ascetics navel gaze and may their palates pucker
May you feast with your king and redeemer and drink sweet wine
Let your confession be true and mournful
Let your forgiveness be true and jubilant
Let us drink no dry wine
let us be wet with baptism and let our hearts be made glad
may your faith be large
The battle is won, may we drink to our hearts content
Wine vine vinegar was for the cross, let our communion be sweet
May your faith be large enough to drink sweet wine

T

Soirre!

2008-04-14T17:57:00.000-07:00

Here are some pictures of a great night!

God in the Numbers

2008-04-08T16:46:00.000-07:00

Sorry everyone its been a while... So here's what I've been thinking about: AP Calculus and Calculus based Physics. I'm reminded of the Chesterton quote, "The mysteries of God are far more satisfying that the answers of men." I might be losing it, but I really think I am seeing God in these two subjects in which I don't belong. I can honestly say that I'm fighting to keep an A in these two subjects. But I think I prefer it that way. If these came easily to me I would never get the growth or appreciation that God has blessed me with. God's majesty is in the integral I can't wrap my head around. His order is laid before me in the complexity of electricity. But its tough. And I'm suffering into truth.
T

2008-03-29T12:40:00.001-07:00

This Community is dead.

Long Time No Post

2008-03-24T16:37:00.000-07:00

Well Ladies and Germs its been quite a while since I've done any serious posting so I might be a bit rusty... I have a few things to say to pagans about Jesus. He was not a good man. If he wasn't God incarnate he was a dreadful Liar, and anyone who says he didn't claim to be God hasn't read the Gospels. Secondly, I swear the next time I hear a nonbeliever call Him Jesus "Christ" I will them on their lnees, really. If they are willing to call him messiah and yet don't recognize his lordship they ought to get used to feeling like a foot stool, and I'm ready to assist. As far as, "If I were at the crucifixion I would have helped him off of the cross" goes, thats a lie straight from hell. First of all those who have been swept up in the modern atheists movements are just as much mindless followers as a mob of first century Jews, and anyone who calls for Hitchens or Dawkins would be even more likely to call for Barabas. Secondly, it is an arrogant lie to say that the modern atheist would be the one noble soul in the crowd when even His disciples deserted him. These are just a few thoughts I have concerning the critical thinkers of our time. Happy Easter. May a true knowledge of Christ gladden your heart.

Whoops!

2008-03-15T07:20:00.000-07:00

Well that last post went over like a lead balloon... so here 'tis: ylou guys tell me what you want to hear, and I'll write about it.
Thanks
T

Enviromentalism

2008-03-08T12:53:00.000-08:00

Heres another little tasty morsel...enjoy

Lets say however that you let the attack against religion go. The theories of Utilitarianism and Consequentialism cannot produce traditional morality. Really, it produces a morally so strange that, if it were truly applied, it would leave anyone pining for the evils of religion. Utilitarianism, the greatest happiness for the greatest number, is peculiarly impaired by environment. Rape is a serious sin and would not be used to prove a point if one were dealing with a morality that made sense, however it is important to demonstrate how heinous the morality of Utilitarianism can be. Imagine two thugs in an alley, who decide to rape a woman. Two thugs, one woman, this action justified by Utilitarianism inside the environment of the alley. Now extend the environment farther, and the two police officers who walk by the alley and are decidedly unhappy about the situation, now push morality into the woman’s favor. Two thugs, two policemen and the woman, two vs. three. Suddenly violent rape is wrong again. The environment can continue to extend outward until we reach humanity as a whole (which as has already pointed out tends towards sadism, favoring the rapist) but one way or another, environment hardly seems like a condition that should be applied to morality.

Ironic...

2008-03-06T12:29:00.000-08:00

I strongly dislike it when people use their blogs to express their self-loathing and inadequacy and as a ploy to get others to tell them their special and that everything is just fine. So this is me not doing it.

lets just say I came close...

T

Sadomasochistic morality

2008-03-01T11:41:00.000-08:00

Though you all might enjoy another chunk of thesis so here it is

It is the cry of the Atheist that religion is the bane of man’s existence. It “poisons everything,” it is an opiate for the masses, a podium for pig-headed fundamentalists to inflict emotional and physical pain on the bleating masses. Lets grant this overblown, but not uncommon, description of religion and see what it does to atheism. Whether you believe that the world is six thousand years old or fourteen billion, religion has existed as long as humans have. Concerning the choice to be religious of not Hitchens points out that, “For the greater part of human existence, it must always be stressed, this ‘option’ did not really exist.” This dread institution is inseparable linked to humanity. Yet (most formally propounded by Thomas Hobbes, and held onto by Atheist past and present) human activity and morality is based on pleasure and pain, “the greatest happiness for the greatest number is the foundation of morals and legislation.” (according to Jeremy Bentham and repeated by Richard Dawkins .) If this is indeed the case, and if religion is as omnipresent throughout human history, then we are a very sadomasochistic race indeed. Humans have held on to an institution, which is, according to the modern atheist, only good for inflicting pain or being tortured with. Yet the great majority of humanity has found happiness in the heinous belief in God. Surely therefore, the Utilitarianism or Consequentialism of Bentham and Dawkins can’t be the foundation of moral. For the greater part of human history men have been esteeming as good and true a monster which can only lead to guilt and pain. Therefore the greatest happiness for the greatest number is found in this peculiar sadomasochism, making religion a good thing, or there is something genuinely wrong with religion, making Consequentialism and Utilitarianism an incomplete description of morality (keep in mind that these options are only necessary if you assume the bloated accusations listed against religion).

2008-02-21T06:28:00.000-08:00

"Its Nice to be appreciated...These here paupers in this here parish don't appreciate me! Antiparochial they are ma'am antiparochial, we've given away a matter of twenty loves and a cheese and a half this very blessed afternoon, and still them paupers in not content."
- Mr. Bumble

It is unequivocally nice to be appreciated. Thank you.
T

Valentines Day Eve

2008-02-13T18:20:00.000-08:00

Valentines day is not a celebration of love between, a man and a woman, God and mankind, or love at all. Its a battle of the wills. Valentines day provides the battle ground for some of man and woman's most important fights. We stand in the middle of warring Ideologies. Most of all its a time of brotherly griping where all men come together and form a band of brothers, all fighting against the violent rule of yes, you guessed it, ROSES. They last the three days, max, what kind of a representation of love is that. plus no matter how good of a florist you go to, at least two of the roses in your dozen will be sub-par. If you should run into another guy buying flowers on Valentines Day Eve, you'll meet eyes and both immediately get a sheepish look, roll your eyes, and let the complaining commense.

This is ME!

2008-02-04T02:00:00.000-08:00

Hey everyone, I had to turn in a cast biography, written in the third person, for the Oliver! pamphlet and my dad actually wrote one for me, which I was a lot more comfortable with. Thought you all might like to read it and tell me if its an accurate picture.
T

Tyler Antkowiak’s parts have gotten bigger with every play. A mere 5’ 4” in his brief role in Music Man, in Oliver-his fourth play -he stands 6’ 6” and intends to Bumble around the stage to the best of his ability. Interests include art, music, and sports – where if he can catch you, you’re in big trouble. Tyler thanks Mr. McKenna for working him so hard, and Mrs. Horst for healing the wounds. His greatest goal at the moment is also his saddest moment… leaving Rockbridge this year. After graduating at 17, Ty plans to attend New St. Andrews in Moscow, ID -- but a large part of him will remain… he’s leaving his shoes.

thanks dad

The Razor

2008-01-27T12:48:00.000-08:00

Hey everybody, how bout something with a little substance? Here a little first taste of the thesis paper.

The dictionary describes Ockham’s Razor “the philosophical and scientific rule that simple explanations should be preferred to more complicated ones, and that the explanation of a new phenomenon should be based on what is already known.” Originating with the fourteenth century logician William of Ockham, this “rule” was first formulated as “Do not multiply entities beyond necessity” and has often been employed to cut God out of the picture. Ignoring the fact William was a Franciscan and thus would have never utilized this theory against the existence of God, does this theory even benefit the Materialist? Ockham’s razor seems to be governed by an even more fundamental rule (deeper magic you might say) formulized for generations by wise fathers, “A tool is most dangerous when you use it for something it wasn’t intended for (so stop trying to cut that sheet of paper with the chainsaw)” and the “rule” is clearly true, for the Materialists who reference the razor are the ones who are most likely to be cut.
In a debate with Francis Collins Richard Dawkins was asked to compare the Genesis account of creation with Darwinian evolution. He employs an informal expression of the razor argument:
“Yes. For centuries the most powerful argument for God’s existence from the physical world was the so-called argument from design: Living things are so elegant and apparently so purposeful they could only be made by an intelligent designer. But Darwin provided a simpler explanation. His way is gradual incremental improvement starting from very simple beginnings and working up step by tiny incremental step to more complexity, more elegance, more adaptive perfection. Each step is not too improbable for us to countenance, but when you add them up cumulatively over millions of years, you get these monsters of improbability, like the human brain and the rain forest. It should warn us against ever again assuming that because something is complicated, God must have done it.”
It indeed should warn us, but not to reject God. The Christian understanding of creation is that an omnipotent, all good Deity created the world by the word of his power in six days and on the seventh day he rested. This is a very loaded statement, but it is simple enough. Neo-Darwinian Evolution claims that a universe-spanning supernova (the Big Bang) created the universe as we know it, sparked life on this planet and that over the course of billions of years by incremental steps life forms emerged from a “primordial soup” and eventually grew by Natural Selection into infinitely complex organisms, like human beings. Perhaps the most profound thing that Dawkins uttered was the phrase “monsters of improbability.” After Ockham’s razor has done its dirty work it is clear that the Materialists conception reality is the improbable monster.
Creationism claims one entity in the creation of the world: God. Materialism and Darwinism necessitate at least three: primordial soup, natural selection, and billions of years. Surely this is an example of entities multiplied beyond necessity.
These arguments from simplicity do give a good cursory look at a theory, but ignoring its obvious ability to show curb appeal, Ockham’s razor doesn’t actually prove anything. It in and of itself is only a theory, but it is not one that the Materialist ought to employ. If anything the convoluted nature of evolution should cause the Materialist to shy away from this dangerous razor. A tool misused is often hazardous to its handler.

2008-01-26T17:08:00.000-08:00

Oh play practice... how i love/hate thee. The plays only four weeks away, and quites frankly I think this is just about the best shape RBA has ever been in. But... ITS ONLY FOUR WEEKS AWAY!!!!! look out for sanity (or lack there of) updates!

Petty

2008-01-22T19:06:00.000-08:00

Petty

The good, the bad, and you
Everything I’m goin’ through
Don’t care ‘bout what you say is true
This, my friend, is long overdue.

Your beautiful, half the time,
Penny for your thoughts, would you shut up for a dime?
The depths I reach for a for a simple rhyme
But the high road is much too far to climb.

Of course you became a mirror
Made me look in places I fear
The chest cavity where I store this drear
Only to find I’m just as petty.

Severely disappointed with myself. Thank God for sanctification.
T

Frankenstein

2008-01-19T07:47:00.000-08:00

Hey Everybody... Sorry I've gone kind of lame these last to weeks as far as the blog goes... schools been hectic and I've kind of felt like frankenstein lumbering around the halls of Rockbridge. So to exorcise that feeling I painted it out last night. And so, Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you Frankenstein's monster.

PS. This scan doesn't quite do justice to the painting (In my opinion) and since I'm feeling a little socially starved, come see it/me.

Meat

2007-12-30T17:57:00.000-08:00

On Meat and Redemption

Damnable curse oh, that fell upon men
In a garden where only the veggie was in
But the One who redeemed gave delectable beasts
So that this side of Heaven the fallen may feast.

Oh sing of sausage, and ribs, scrumptious fowl
Oh thank you dear schweiner, yon chicken, ye cow
For giving thy flesh that my hunger subsides
And gracing my grill and my tender insides.

I speculate, yes, but this I believe
That had meat not been given ‘cause Adam and Eve
Our Heavenly Father, perfect and great
Would have used other means to put meat on my plate.

Amen.

The Covering…

Gravy. Olio. Hollandaise. Barbeque.
A puddle of nothing, no purpose that’s true
Without underneath it the succulent flesh
Of a beast who was bred, shot, or caught with some mesh.

Now if you’re a purist, and desire no sauce
Have it your way my friend, no carnivorous loss
But consider the covering a paint that is sweet
Now you are the artist, your canvas is meat.

Michelangelo, Leonardo, I mean you no ill
But I favor the artist who works on the grill
Will I be remembered like they for their work?
Perhaps among meat lovers, where ‘ere they may lurk

So open the lid, douse your steak with this nectar
And at least ‘til the morning, your works are remembered.

The Herbivore’s Folly.

Oh weaker brother, I pity him so
For the pleasure of the pork chops that he’ll never know
I bitterly weep for that thin wretched man,
Whose naught ‘ere partaken of Mum’s Christmas ham

My tears, they are torn ‘tween remorse and such glee
For I desire to bless him, then again… more for me.
If he think it ignoble and abstain from this pleasure
The meat piles up on my plate beyond measure.

On broccoli, on carrots, on taters for him
They’ll garnish my plate, but they’ll scarce enter in
To my gullet so long as charred flesh is in reach
And once I’m content 1 Corinthians 10 I will teach.

Stumble not my brother, and lead others to peace
Better teach them to feast on the flesh of the beast.

Meat: It’s what’s for dinner.

Poem III

2007-12-29T21:54:00.000-08:00

Of all the creatures in the world there is one which is the most confusing. She is the last of God’s creatures. She can do at once what three men can. She is the weaker vessel. She is strong willed, “her desire will be for her husband.” She is at once beautiful and terrible. She will win any fight, even when she is wrong. Hell hath no fury like her scorned. She communicates even when she is not speaking. She expects you to understand. She can be a dripping faucet. La Donna é Mobile.

But oh she is the most wonderful of creatures. She answered the call when we were not meant to be alone. She will be loved. She is the helpmate. She is the jewel in the crown, the apple in the eye, she is the neck. She leaves me bewildered. Where would we be without her? I’ll tell you. Nowhere. Without her, our Creator would be a bit of a nihilist. Who wants that? Not I. Without who crushes the serpents head?

Her nature is cryptic. Alone she merely is. Only once she is loved does she truly become lovely. She has a reason to live. Without her we have naught to defend. We exist for her. She exist for us. What are we without her? Why else would we slay dragons?

She is lovely. She tames the beast. She is Woman.

Chesterton

2007-12-28T07:35:00.001-08:00

Hey Everyone, a quick posts between poems to tide you guys over. This Is my favorite author GK Chesterton. I used guache on artists gel then added details with Prismacolor colored pencils