The Garden

The Garden
by Mark Tyler Chase

"What do you want to be when you grow up?" she asked
"A gardener in the orchards of your heart," he replied
"Faithfully watering these flowers of yours
 Tending them 'til the day I die"

"Why would you do a thing like that when
There are gardens far fairer and greener than mine
Don't you see there are thorns and brambles here
Walls covered in a cobweb of vines"

"But these flowers here at the center of the garden
Are of a breed so pure and rare
Throughout the Earth I've not seen their like
Their beauty beyond compare"

"Those are a shielded sight, few care to see
Most stay at the vine-covered wall, gazing haphazardly
And the ones that stroll through the gate, do not often stay
They'll pick a flower and be gone, come the red sun's rays"

"But I would water these roots with my soul
Sun their leaves with my heart
Watch the petals and their gentle sway
Like the sails of a ship, its voyage about to start

For a flower closed is safe from harm, but robbed of beauty too
It cannot spread the pollen of joy or the freedom of full bloom
But rooted in the soils of trust, your petals may unfurl free
Beneath the warm sun of my heart, blossom!
Comfort in Vulnerability"

Solved: Mark and The Mystery of The Overly Oriental Text

Today, I received my second Chinese-character text message.  I don't speak Chinese.  These texts are from my mom.  She doesn't speak Chinese either.

  

Now, my mother is awesome for a multitude of reasons, and her texts tend to be as well.  Normally, I wouldn't think twice about a barrage of Chinese characters.  But these Chinese characters weren't just obfuscating some boring old, plain-jane, run-of-the-mill FYI text.  They were obfuscating a mother's love!  And, I think we can all agree. That's just not okay.

Coupling these likely love-laden texts with a history of way too much computer troubleshooting and you have no choice, but to get to the bottom of the issue.  I wasn't about to wait idly by whilst the technological top dogs argued about who's fault it was, let alone muster up a fix.  Besides, whatever fix they would eventually muster probably wouldn't be applied retroactively anyways, meaning while future texts would be saved, this current treasure-trove-of-a-text would be forever lost in translation.  

I wasn't about to allow such a travesty.  Not on my watch.  Errr phone.  Yes, phone.  Which also kind of serves as my watch.

So, here's the crux of the issue:

1)  You can be minding your own business when suddenly someone you know sends you a somewhat lengthy text.  To the sender this text message looks exactly like the text message they (or auto-correct) typed.  To the receiver, said text message appears like a Chinese version of alphabet soup stirred by a kitchen-aid on a rampage.  It is not legible.

2)  It's a recent issue, appearing to have started on the early-side of mid-October, around abouts October 10th.

3)  The issue is widespread and phone-agnostic, meaning it's affecting phones of all types regardless of brand, not just iPhone or Android.

4)  Nearest I can tell, the issue seems to only be happening on AT&T's network.  I have yet to see anyone on another network report this issue.  The only people reporting it seem to be on the AT&T network.  Please, correct me if you see otherwise.

So in summary:  A phone-agnostic, network-specific issue is turning texts from a sender into oriental gibberish for the receiver.  Fun.

After extensive research and troubleshooting.  I have found zee issue!  And not just an issue, but a solution!  It is...get ready for it...an encoding issue!

What does all this mean?  Well, "encoding" is basically the technological equivalent of translation.  All those lovely little characters we type in our texts are actually stored as unique number values under the hood.  These unique number values are then sent across a network, and translated back to their alphabetic, eye-friendly form.  At least, that's how it's supposed to work anyways.

The problem is, in the same way there are a lot of languages in the world, there are also a lot of encoding formats.  How are you storing the number-representation of those characters?  Thankfully, some encoding formats are more common than others.  Two of the most common are UTF-8 and UTF-16 (UTF stands for Universal Transformation Format).  Fun fact: About 90% of websites use UTF-8 encoding, probably including these characters you are reading right now (that's kind of deep...character-encoding-ception?).  

Hmmmm.  So, what would happen if we used UTF-16 when we were supposed to be using UTF-8?  Brace yourself for scary (yet informative) barrages of numbers and characters.

Take this barrage of less than helpful text I recently received:

䁈䁩䀠䁍䁡䁲䁫䀡䀊䁓䁯䁲䁲䁹䀠䁉䀠䁭䁩䁳䁳䁥䁤䀠䁹䁯䁵䁲䀠䁣䁡䁬䁬䀮䀠䁄䁡䁤䀠䁳䁡䁹䁳䀠䁨䁥䀠䁷䁯䁵䁬䁤䀠䁬䁥䁴䀠䁴䁨䁥䀠䁤䁥䁡䁬䁥䁲䀠䁴䁡䁫䁥䀠䁴䁨䁥䀠䁯䁬䁤䀠䁳䁮䁯䁷䀠䁴䁩䁲䁥䁳䀮䀠䁈䁥䀠䁤䁯䁥䁳䁮䀧䁴䀠䁨䁡䁮䁧䀠䁯䁮䀠䁴䁯䀠䁯䁬䁤䀠䁳䁮䁯䁷䀠䁴䁩䁲䁥䁳䀮䀠䀊堼ꜻ䀠䁌䁯䁶䁥䀠䁡䁮䁤䀠䁈䁵䁧䁳䀬䀊䀠䀠䀠䀠䀠䀠䁍䁯䁭

Converted to UTF-16 we get these lovely blocks of encoded goodness:

4048 4069 4020 404D 4061 4072 406B 4021 400A 4053 406F 4072 4072 4079 4020 4049 4020 406D 4069 4073 4073 4065 4064 4020 4079 406F 4075 4072 4020 4063 4061 406C 406C 402E 4020 4044 4061 4064 4020 4073 4061 4079 4073 4020 4068 4065 4020 4077 406F 4075 406C 4064 4020 406C 4065 4074 4020 4074 4068 4065 4020 4064 4065 4061 406C 4065 4072 4020 4074 4061 406B 4065 4020 4074 4068 4065 4020 406F 406C 4064 4020 4073 406E 406F 4077 4020 4074 4069 4072 4065 4073 402E 4020 4048 4065 4020 4064 406F 4065 4073 406E 4027 4074 4020 4068 4061 406E 4067 4020 406F 406E 4020 4074 406F 4020 406F 406C 4064 4020 4073 406E 406F 4077 4020 4074 4069 4072 4065 4073 402E 4020 400A 583C A73B 4020 404C 406F 4076 4065 4020 4061 406E 4064 4020 4048 4075 4067 4073 402C 400A 4020 4020 4020 4020 4020 4020 404D 406F 406D

Now, you'll notice, each of these blocks starts with a "40."  Well, that's a little conspicuous.  Let's nix all those 40s, leaving us with the following:

48 69 20 4D 61 72 6B 21 0A 53 6F 72 72 79 20 49 20 6D 69 73 73 65 64 20 79 6F 75 72 20 63 61 6C 6C 2E 20 44 61 64 20 73 61 79 73 20 68 65 20 77 6F 75 6C 64 20 6C 65 74 20 74 68 65 20 64 65 61 6C 65 72 20 74 61 6B 65 20 74 68 65 20 6F 6C 64 20 73 6E 6F 77 20 74 69 72 65 73 2E 20 48 65 20 64 6F 65 73 6E 27 74 20 68 61 6E 67 20 6F 6E 20 74 6F 20 6F 6C 64 20 73 6E 6F 77 20 74 69 72 65 73 2E 20 0A 0x583C 0xA73B 20 4C 6F 76 65 20 61 6E 64 20 48 75 67 73 2C 0A 20 20 20 20 20 20 4D 6F 6D

Now, the above looks a lot like what could be considered UTF-8 (which remember is the most common encoding format on the web).  Treating this as UTF-8 and translating it back into alphabet world we get something slightly less suspicious.  Not only that, we get this highly-important, world-changing text message!

Hi Mark!

Sorry I missed your call. Dad says he would let the dealer take the old snow tires. He doesn't hang on to old snow tires. 

convertUTF82Char: error1 583C! convertUTF82Char: error1 A73B!  Love and Hugs,

      Mom

(Note:  I'm assuming the "errors" are emojis.)

Hey! That almost looks like a text message!

Now, let's really break it down.  You'll recall what was really mucking everything up was a "40" at the beginning of each character block.  This 40 is actually hexadecimal.  If you convert 40 from hexadecimal to binary (which is what all these numbers are ultimately represented as) what do you get?  Something absurdly simple, a 1 followed by a bunch of 0 (six zeroes to be exact).  That's 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 or 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 (to include the full eight bits for convention sake).  

40 (hexadecimal) = 0 1 0 0 0 0 0 0 (binary)

If we change that 1 to a 0, that 40 that was originally mucking everything up just becomes plain old zero.  And zeroes preceding numbers don't muck anything up. 

So what's going on in this big, nasty issue?  Somewhere along the line in AT&T's network an extra 1 is getting tacked on.  That's one bit getting flipped from 0 to 1.  Off to on.

To anyone out there who thinks one person can't make a difference, just remember:  Flipping a lone bit from 0 to 1 is the difference between legible text messages and gobbly-gook.  You matter.  You make a difference.

Now, unfortunately, I cannot change that 1 back to a 0.  That's AT&T's job.  But I can at least show you how to unscramble the gobby-gook into something meaningful until AT&T does fix it.

So what should you do if you receive crazy weird Chinese texts like this from people you know don't speak Chinese?  With the following, you too can save the texting-world with relative ease:

1)  Send the barrage of Chinese characters to yourself as an email (so you can do this on a computer rather than a phone).  On your computer, copy the characters from your email.

2)  Go to this helpful website (that will do all the fancy UTF conversion for you.) and paste the Chinese characters from your email into the big green box.  Hit the big button "Convert."

3)  Scroll down to the box labeled UTF-16, and copy all the characters.

4)  Open a word-processor and paste the UTF-16 characters.  Do a "Find and Replace" operation, finding all the "40"s and replacing them with nothing (essentially deleting them).  Copy the now, 40-less text.

5)  Go back to the super helpful website from earlier and paste the text into the UTF-8 box.  Hit the button "Convert."

6)  Scroll to the top and behold.

Alternatively, you can just pester the sender to shoot you a picture of their text.  That's probably easier.  A whole lot easier.  But, then you wouldn't feel like a cryptic, code-cracking, cyber-junky, which everyone should experience briefly at least once in their lifetime, even if just to read their mom's text message.

If you're frustrated with technology and could use a little more love in your life, please check out my latest blog post.

Running In Circles

Back in 2014, my band Burning Bush released its debut album Honesty in a Box (which hey you can listen to on the side over there!).  It's no coincidence this project began immediately following college graduation. 

After earning a math degree, my brain had some serious re-calibrating to do.  College, especially the last couple years, becomes incredibly narrow.  It's kind of like eating your favorite cereal every day for four years.  Now matter how much you liked it at the beginning, after awhile it just starts tasting like soggy cardboard.  You might even go so far as to develop weird food allergies to it.  Or diabetes.

Thankfully, I managed to graduate college without developing an allergy to math, but my brain and being had begun to protest this nonstop, single-subject binge diet.  It's as if the math part of my brain had gotten so incredibly strong that the rest of my brain and even soul had begun slowly deflating, kind of like if you only did bicep curls at the gym but never worked out any other muscle groups.  You might start looking kind of funny.

After so much study of one subject, I had started to feel pretty one-dimensional.  Music was a way to make me three dimensional again, to re-inflate my soul, breathing life back into the other oxygen starved parts of my mind and soul.  But the album was more than just some therapeutic mental re-calibration.  It was also a way to wrestle with the meaning of life.  

It's so easy to get caught up in routine, to go through life with your nose to the grindstone, and get to the end of it without having really lived.  With music, I felt like I could look that meaning straight in the eyes.  Not to mention have a lot of fun doing it at the same time.  Because you have to admit.  Music can be as joyful as it is powerful.

In my opinion, music is the highest form of communication.  Spoken word is great.  I love poetry.  I love prose (heck I wrote a blog dedicated to the stuff).  And you can get pretty far with words.  You can use inflection, word choice, writer's voice to convey an idea.  But when you pair those same words with the right music, the music takes on a-whole-nother dimension.  The music transports the words to a place mere words could never go.

This album was an attempt to harness that beautiful, mysterious, powerful force of music to make a positive contribution to this troubled world.  We've all listened to that song that gets us through the bad day, helps us celebrate the good one, or just slaps us sober and makes us think.  The hope was to have an album to inject some of those songs into the world.

As with most albums, there were songs that never made it on the record, mostly due to time constraints.  This is one of those songs.  It's a song that's always felt especially honest even to this day.  It's a song that definitely belongs on album number two.  But before album number two, you can listen to this acoustic demo.  The song is called Running in Circles.

Running in Circles

All words and music by Mark Chase

Running in circles

Trapped trying to get free

I’d rather drown in your ocean

Than swim in my own sea

And I’ll remember this

The love you’ve shown

No longer only yours

It’s part of my own

I’m sick

I need your medicine
I’m tired

Where do I begin?

When I’m down

And I could use a hand up

In Life

Running in circles, trying to get free

Running in circles, it’s so like me

Running in circles, the start’s the end

Running in circles, back to you again

Looking left and right

I’m wishing for the sky

I’d rather jump off your precipice

Than stand on my highest high

You promise to remember

Always recall

Your arms are outstretched

Before I fall

I’m sick!

I need your medicine
I’m tired!

Where do I begin?

When I’m down!

I could use a hand up

In Life

Running in circles, trying to get away

Running in circles, to the same old place

Running in circles, all confused

Running in circles, back to you

I’m sick!

I need your medicine
I’m tired!

Where do I begin?

When I’m down!

I could use a hand up

In Life

The Misadventures of Mark - Episode 3: Real Men Kawai

Giving birth to another human being is a purportedly painful experience.  So, in some ways, it was only fitting that my mom's birthday request was also a "labor of love."

The gift was a piano, one that came with a generous, complimentary installation service, courtesy of "the rest of the family."  Purchasing the piano was easy since dollar bills are relatively light, easily transported objects.  Moving the piano on the other hand.  Well, well.  That was another story.

Another story indeed!  We had to ascend a whole two of them (three if you count this story I'm currently writing, which has involved a lot of retroactive mental lifting just to recall the experience)!

So, how do you move a piano anyway?  I'm glad you asked. The remnants of my muscles are dying to tell you.  After approximately an hour of grunting and groaning, I now consider myself a master in this subject area and completely qualified to answer this daunting question. The way you move a piano is the same way you build a pyramid. You use alien technology and/or a lot of slave labor. Unfortunately for us, we had neither.  All we had were muscles.

The journey begins.  Even the Vanagon groaned a little.

My brother and I both workout regularly. We run. We lift weights. We attempt to eat more frequently from the "my body is a temple menu" than from the "woopie, life is short menu." Let me tell you, though. No matter how much you workout, nothing can prepare you for moving a piano except maybe prior experience with a hernia.

Pianos are not to be trifled with or taken lightly.  Actually, let me rephrase that.  Pianos cannot be taken lightly.

In a non-steroid-infused human, the only muscle group strong enough to move a piano is your legs. Your arms and hands are just handles to use while the rest of your body attempts to hold together.

Thankfully, my brother and I are both blessed with tree trunks for legs. All, the same, moving a piano up a stairway makes you wonder if you won't be taking your own Stairway to Heaven before the end of it.

If you look closely on the stairs, you'll notice we had to take the railings off.  

Somehow, despite the piano's best efforts, we managed to lay the piano to rest before it did the same to us. After much grunting, growing, praying, and a little kawai-ing, we nestled the piano into it's final place.

Phew! I straightened my back and took a breath. Like a cattle brand, the weight of the piano felt forever etched into my muscle fibers, a masochistic diary of each movement. I wouldn't be forgetting this day for a long time to come. But, we had done it!

The piano was all in one piece, and somehow, we were too. Part of me thought that by the time we had finished rolling it to its destination, the sun would have burnt out and perpetual night would have taken over. But it seemed we'd finished before the sun even went down. I guess miracles really do happen.

The brand name Kawai is a sneaky double entendre: part warning, part mirthful laugh. 

Since that day, I've never be able to look at a piano the same way. No longer do I see furnished wood and innocent ebony, ivory keys. Instead, I involuntarily calculate all the paths the lifters must've stumbled through to bring it to its current resting place. 

I'm not what I would consider a wise person, by any means, and most of the time the best advice I could give anyone would be to be wary of advice.  That said, they say wisdom is some strange mix of knowledge, intuition, and experience. Well, after this experience, I think I may have finally gleamed one, lone nugget of wisdom. So future piano owners and home builders.  Please.  Listen up! Don't wait until you have a house to decide if you want a piano. Get the piano first. Build the house around it. You'll thank me later.

Happiness, Gratitude, Rain

Happiness, Gratitude, Rain by Mark Chase

Windows bathed in a sheet of rain
Tears down a face, but not from pain
Happiness is the sight within these eyes
Happiness...enough to cry

You are the rain, I the ground beneath
Flooding with joy, watering with peace
Filling, saturating, blessed beyond measure
Beauty amidst the rain drop weather

On the roof above, a rumbling applause
A thousand hands clapping, the sound of sincere awe
Gratitude found in the spirit of reflection
Two paths and their delicate intersection

The most precious treasure, bathed in firelight
A gift not bought, but given, once a life
A gift to be guarded in the folds of a heart
Flawed, yet perfect, masterpiece of art

Gratitude on the roof
Life on the ground
Sad Happiness on the windows
Love's atmosphere surrounds

[Aside: I couldn't make up my mind whether or not to include illustrations. On the one hand, the words should be doing most of the painting, but on the other hand pictures can be worth a thousand words (or so they say). Basically, I wasn't sure if the pictures would enhance or detract from the poem. So, rather than make this extremely difficult, once-in-a-life-time, course-altering decision, I just included both versions. That way you can appreciate each version, pick your favorite, all without having to travel to a parallel universe where I had decided to post the other. After all, quantum mechanics can get a bit messy.]

Happiness, Gratitude, Rain (Illustrated) by Mark Chase

Windows bathed in a sheet of rain

Tears down a face, but not from pain

Happiness is the sight within these eyes

Happiness...enough to cry

You are the rain, I the ground beneath

Flooding with joy, watering with peace

Filling, saturating, blessed beyond measure

Beauty amidst the rain drop weather

On the roof above, a rumbling applause

A thousand hands clapping, the sound of sincere awe

Gratitude found in the spirit of reflection

Two paths and their delicate intersection

The most precious treasure, bathed in firelight

A gift not bought, but given, once a life

Flawed, yet perfect, masterpiece of art

A gift to be guarded in the folds of a heart

Gratitude on the roof

Life on the ground

Sad Happiness on the windows

Love's atmosphere surrounds

The Misadventures of Mark - Episode 2: Pedal to the Olympic Medal

I had just dropped off my parents' Prius at the dealership for some routine maintenance.  I was happy to help them out.  I just wasn't expecting to risk my life in doing so, nor in such Olympic fashion.

Outside, the rain was trickling down, drizzling like a stopped up sprinkler.  The roads glistened with a lip-gloss sheen.  After dropping off the car, I had elected to bike home for some exercise and fresh air. I wasn't expecting rain.

I was riding along at a pretty good clip.  Not fast enough to make anyone jealous, but with enough top-gear gusto to cover some distance.  That's when it happened.

Like the gears of a meticulously calibrated clock, a series of events set into motion.  Out of the left-hand side-road just ahead of me, a burly pickup pulled forward.  It groaned to a stop with all the grace of an overloaded freight train, but stopped nonetheless.  I figured the driver had seen me.  I continued on, my wheels humming in dual cyclones of rain water.

I began crossing the side-road.  The pickup remained politely stationary.  Then without warning, the pickup began creeping forward, first an innocent roll as if anticipating my passing, then an intentional acceleration as if completely oblivious to my squishy biker presence.

There's a famous math equation in the physics world.  F = MA.  Force equals mass times acceleration.  Put simply, this means the more something weighs and the faster it's going than you, the more it hurts when it hits you.  The burly pickup had me seriously outclassed in both the mass and acceleration department.  Yeah, this was gonna hurt.

I didn't think.  I didn't have time to think.  I just reacted, my body making executive decisions without consulting me first.

My fingers flexed.  I slammed on the brakes.  Like a football player about to be sacked, I veered to the right, attempting to create a pocket of extra space to at least lessen the blow.

My front and back brakes squealed a harrowing harmony.  My knuckles went white and probably my face too.  Like wringing water from a wet washcloth, I desperately tried to squeeze every last drop of stopping power from my meager bike brakes.

Suddenly, the rear brake went limp, abruptly giving out as it disconnected.  The front brake remained engaged.  A pair of poorly balanced math equations, I braced for the inevitable result.

Like their misspelled counterpart suggests, brakes are good at breaking. Especially the back ones.  Especially when you need them the most.

In an instant I was airborne, catapulted like a rock from a piece of siege equipment.  The bike had managed to stop just short of the truck, but I had kept going, locked into my perilous parabola.

For those dying to know what it feels like to be launched from a trebuchet, being thrown from your bike serves as a close approximation.

When you sign up for athletics in school you don't usually do so with the foresight they might one day save your life.  Today, all those years of grueling practices and repetitive drills may have done just that.  In what would become a series of acrobatic maneuvers I credit to a combination of cross-country skiing, running, and track, I managed the impossible.  

Somehow, in a leap frog stunt more nimble than I should be capable of, I pulled my feet up and over the handlebars.  If Jack be nimble and Jack be quick, Mark be nimble and Mark jump far.  Mark jump over the handlebar.

In a midair crouch, I cleared my bike avoiding a devastating trip.  I sailed through the air, and despite embarrassingly little gymnastic experience, I stuck the landing.  Sort of.

I hit the ground on my feet, but off kilter.  Like a skier fumbling through an icy turn, I regained my balance as I stumbled forward.  But balance alone wasn't going to save me.

I had also hit the ground with a generous surplus of momentum, a surplus that my relatively stationary legs weren't ready for.  My body must have reflexively called upon my long dormant 100m dash experience.  Like a sprinter blasting out of the blocks, I surged forward, managing to get my bottom half up to speed with my top half, just in time to avoid a painful pavement face plant.

It felt like I had just won some sort of strange biking-sprinting-crashing-gymnastic hybrid event at the Olympics.  Bike vaulting.  Combining the spectacle of demolition derby with the athletic finesse of the pole vault, I could see bike vaulting really taking off, or at least the riders taking off anyways.  Incorporating the landing pad from the pole vault would probably be a good future addition.  If not a little sorry, I  hoped the man in the truck was at least entertained, maybe even impressed by my performance.  It's not everyday you get to witness the birth of a new sport.

Bike vaulting: coming to an intersection near you!

Almost as instinctively as the rest of my maneuvers, I ran back to my bike and hopped on.  Without missing a beat, I started pedaling as if nothing had happened.  And somehow, miraculously, nothing had happened.  I was 100 percent unscathed.  Like a good little boy, I had been wearing my bike helmet, but thankfully didn't have to use it.  Not this time.  Helmet, bike, and biker would live to bike another day.  Now if only I could get my rear brake working again.

The Hallmark of My 27 Years

Today is my birthday.  In addition to maintaining a miraculous, near-100-percent survival rate for 27 consecutive years, I have a lot to celebrate.  For instance, this year I created a revolutionary home laundry sorting system that drastically reduces the time it takes to do laundry.  My wife not only tolerates me, but even repeatedly insists that she loves me despite my tenacious talent for placing the dish cloth in the wrong spot (there is no greater love than this).  I also continue to be grateful for the kindred camaraderie my brother and I share.  And of course, I'd like to thank my parents, you know, for making this day, and me, possible.  After all, mom and dad did most of the work.  I was just along for the ride, throwing in some crying for good effect.

At lunch today, I received my first birthday present:  A card.  Not a graphics card -- which does happen to be a great gift idea for hardware enthusiasts like myself -- but an actual paper card.

When I was little, I had to open all my cards before my presents.  It was an excruciating exercise in patience while waiting to unwrap the "good stuff."  Today, I count this card as one of the best presents I have received.

A lot of this has to do with the fact this is a card that can't be bought, only made, homemade.  Don't get me wrong, I appreciate a well-chosen, nicely annotated Hallmark card, but you have to admit. There's something special about a homemade card, no matter the caliber of the artwork.

The homemade card came courtesy of my lovely and loving wife.  Not since my "Fiance of the Year Award," have I felt so officially recognized.  For my 27th birthday, she chronicled a whopping 27 reasons to love me (cue audience-wide Awwwww)!  Now, I don't have a "Proof People Love Me" collection (though the more I think about it, it's probably a good idea.  I'm a sensitive soul.), but if I ever start one, this will be one of the premiere pieces.

Inside this artistic masterpiece are "27 Reasons to Love Mark Chase as He Turns 27."  Take note.


27 Reasons to Love Mark Chase as He Turns 27

1)  He composes amazing songs that touch the heart.

2)  His athletic prowess helps him survive close biking encounters.

3)  He can't help but teach other people with the very core of his being.

4)  Computers stand up straight and salute when he walks in a room.

5)  The USA Olympic Snuggling team called to give him a spot in Rio this year.  I told them he was beyond their league.

6)  He believes the best in people, and brings it out.

7)  He has a strong desire to do what's right and see that others are treated fairly and justly.

8)  He would give you the shirt off his back if you asked for it.  That's why he goes shirtless so often.

9)  His laundry organization systems are cheap and effective.

10)  He is a fighter and once he determines to do something, he does not quit.

11)  He is a lover and can give you a bucket of sunshine with his encouragement.

12)  He is patient.  And patient.  And patient.

13)  He is the best dance partner you could bring to a wedding, including your own.

14)  He is a loving, loyal son and will always be there for his parents.

15)  He is a good brother who plays Guild Wars 2 on the regular to combat Veteran Ice Wurms and loneliness.

16)  He builds the best fires, and they're even better when it's rainy or your fireplace gets zero draft.

17)  He cares deeply for the planet and advocates for the beauty of nature.

18)  He loves breakfast as much as I do.

19)  He will bring you your favorite treat when you're bummed to be at work.

20)  His eyes are more expansive and dreamy than the sea.

21)  He is a skillful musician and has a knack for looking "under the hood" of a song.

22)  As a recreation he could still qualify for Guinness speed eating competitions.

23)  Nobody comes close to being such a proficient plate stacker and well-mannered restaurant patron.

24)  He still buys you flowers even when he doesn't see the point.

25)  Even on a bad day, he can climb Mount Marathon faster than you.

26)  He proficiently produces preposterous prose, poignant poetry, plus proprietary poppycock.

27)  He's my favorite man in the whole world, and I wouldn't trade him for anything.

And with that, I would like to give the highest honor bestowable by the 27 years vested in me,  "The Best Birthday Card of the Year Award" to Aimie Chase for her astounding achievements in birthday card technology and unparalleled contributions to the distribution of love.  For this card alone, it was worth turning 27.

You Are My Delight

This year has been one of the toughest of my life.  Both my wife and I have been dealing with unforeseen hardship.  Even though the struggle itself has been trying, it's the length of it that's been the hardest.  It feels like we've been running a race where someone keeps moving the finish line.

Humans aren't well equipped to deal with obstacles that don't have well-defined ends.  Anyone can deal with known difficulties that will pass.  It's the challenges that suggest they could last indefinitely that try to break you.

Even though we are both just ready for this difficult season to be over, I'm grateful for it.  I know that sounds weird, but I think one of the most powerful ways to conqueror difficulties is to be grateful for them.  Difficulties expect you to fight them, but when you can find ways to be thankful, the difficulties kind of just lose their oomph and deflate like an awkwardly activated whoopee-cushion.

For instance, I know this trial is strengthening our marriage.  When we get through this, we are going to have the tried-and-true conviction that we can make it through anything.  I'm grateful for that.

I also think it's going to greatly enhance my already natural gift of empathy.  I've always had an organic compassion for others going through hardships.  It was just in the past, I felt like I was mostly caring for them out of a place of surplus rather than from a place of having-been-there emptiness.  And, really I think that's one of the most powerful things you can give someone:  The hope of having been where they are and somehow pulled through.

Struggles can also give birth to great songs. The following is a song I've tried to write for awhile.  But yesterday, it happened almost effortlessly.  Amidst, a tangle of tears and bed sheets next to my wife, this song came together in the course of about fifteen minutes, chords, melody, lyrics and all.

It's a song that wholeheartedly acknowledges the suffering that is all too real, but simultaneously embraces hope, striving to channel that hope with each note, chord, and lyric.  It's called "You Are My Delight."  Give it a listen.

You Are My Delight
by Mark Chase

You've been pushing long and hard
Heart is heavy, soul is scarred
Can't even walk another mile
Whatever happened to the light in your smile?

But Hope is coming fast today
Hope is coming here to stay
Hope is coming here to say

You are my delight
The sparkle in my eye
The teardrops down my face
Happiness enough to cry

You are my delight
I'll never let you go
I wrote this song
So that you'd always know

Trapped by the lies in your head
Curling up in this unmade bed
Finish line not even in sight
Will we make it through the night?

Where We Belong

"Death is not always the tragedy we perceive it to be." - Daisy Moser

We live in a world ripe with tragedy:  The attack on Nice, Paris, the shootings in Dallas, Texas, the shooting at Pulse nightclub in Orlando, Florida, just to name a select few.  

But, for all the pain and turmoil they create, tragedies produce a strangely fertile soil for beauty, hope, and love to take root.  Whether it's drawing people together, smacking us sober, or injecting us with an adrenaline shot of thought and emotion, a surprising amount of good can come from tragedies, even if it's just reminding us how precious life is.

Life is precious.  Every day.  Every moment.  Every breath.

Most of us know this, but it's easy to let it slide to the mental back-burner as we go about our routines.  After awhile, life can start to feel more given guarantee and less precious privilege.  I mean, I've been alive for 26+ years with my mortality "relatively" unchallenged.  It can be pretty easy to start feeling falsely invincible.

But life is as fragile as it is beautiful.  Like a flower suspended on an easily snapped stem, our lives are housed in delicate vessels.  Whether it be a car crash, capsizing, medical mystery, overdose, or out-of-the-blue, we are all probably a little less invincible than we'd like to admit.

We are here for, but a season.  That season could be as long as a winter in Alaska or as short as a summer in the South Pole.  No matter how many heartbeats we've been bestowed, someday we'll all have to turn in the keys to these bodies.

On the surface, that can start to sound pretty depressing, but in the acknowledgement of life's fragility isn't that where we come face-to-face with its beauty?  Isn't it in the moments where our lives uncomfortably butt up against mortality that what really matters comes into clear focus?  

Maybe it was when you spun out in the snow and weren't sure if your car was gonna drift into the other lane or not.  Or maybe it was that time you almost sunk your boat and weren't sure if you were gonna make it back to shore.  Maybe it was the loss of a loved one to sickness, or maybe it was just listening to a stirring song.  Whatever the scenario, these moments bring us together, smack us sober, and remind us what really matters in this fleeting, but precious thing called life.

Saying life is precious doesn't mean life isn't hard.  Life is hard.  Really hard.  To quote one of my friends, Bill, "Life is messy."  I couldn't agree more.  Sometimes life feels as messy as me eating spaghetti in a white shirt.  Heck, writing this has been a messy, struggle.  Still for as much as we'd like to skip over struggles and tragedy, they do have a way of laying a strangely firm foundation for beauty, hope, and love to build upon.  That's why struggle and tragedy never have the final word no matter how much they'd like to.

Regardless, I think we all still long for that moment when all will be right with the world and within ourselves.  I think that's one of the reasons the following song speaks to me so deeply.  It delves into the difficult divide between how simultaneously precious and hard life is.  Here's a raw, personal rendition of it:




An excerpt from the second verse:

"Feels like we're just waiting! waiting!
While our hearts are just breaking! breaking!
Feels like we've been fighting against the tide"

And from the first verse:

"But I'm not sentimental, this skin and bones is a rental
And no one makes it out alive."

And yet amidst all the lyrical struggle, I find this song incredibly hopeful.  Maybe that's the real reason I find it so meaningful.  It injects hope into the middle of the struggle with hope singing the loudest.  And isn't that what we're all here to do?  Inject hope into the middle of the struggle?

My New Squeeze: 3dfx-tion

I've always had a soft spot for you, 3dfx.  You've been gone awhile, it's true, but even so.  There's still some not-so-subtle affection between us.  You might even say we have a "thing" for each other.  If there's such a thing as a tech-crush, I've got one.  On you.

Back when I first caught wind of your name, I fell for you.  Hard.  But who couldn't swoon?  It seemed the whole world was in love with you all at once.  And, rightfully so.

3dfx, you not only legitimized, but revolutionized real-time 3D desktop graphics.  And you did it all while the PC was still a fussy, smelly, babbling infant.  You accomplished what had been deemed by many to be impossible.  Things people said could only be done on massive, overpriced, over-sized workstations, you brought to the comparatively puny PC.  You were a real stunner 3dfx.

An old 3dfx commercial.  Gotta love a company with a sense of humor.

However, despite your amazing technology, you had some less than stellar business moves that ultimately sunk you.  By 2000 you had gone bankrupt and were ultimately acquired by your nearest competitor, Nvidia.

You were young.  Far too young.  Some of your best ideas were still ahead of you, nipped in the technological bud.  Man, I hate business.

But like a lot of things, death only made you stronger, propelling you to the status of mythos and legend.  Having a product line named Voodoo didn't hurt the notion that there was something truly magical about you.

It all happened so fast.  Right when I had just started getting to know you, you were gone.  I was also a little young for you.  When you were in your prime, I was but a wee lad.  If only we could have slowed down and savored the moment.

But, all is not lost!

Thanks to the wonders of Ebay, I have found you:  The last ever product you released, the legendary 3dfx Voodoo 5 5500 AGP.  You were just sitting there, staring at me fetchingly.  The moment I saw you, it was love at first sight all over again.  I had lost you once.  I wasn't about to lose you again.

So, I caved.  It was a little bit of an impulse buy, I confess, but I had always wanted to be able to get to know you better, to experience you more fully.  So, I bought you.

Naturally, I wanted you to feel at home and I'd never want you to be lonely.  So, I tried to find some components you would get along with, maybe some old friends even.  After all, you've been through some tough times, and you deserve to be able to rest and relax.  So, along with you, I purchased a few components for a retro PC gaming rig.  Then, it happened.

Today, that fateful moment arrived.  Or, should I say, you arrived!

The box you were in was a little worse for wear, but I welcomed you with open arms as if you were brand new.  We hugged.  We embraced.  I couldn't believe it!  You were finally resting in my arms at last.  Safe.  Sound.  Secure.

I proceeded to undress you.  You know, to make sure you were still in good condition.  I have to say.  You've aged amazingly well.

I know it doesn't make sense.  Sure, there are younger, sexier, better looking cards that have come along, cards that could easily outperform you in this day and age.  But no one will ever have as much style, grace, and personality as you.

It's been a long time, but soon you'll be resting in a vintage PC gaming rig, pumping out pixels as if it were yesterday.  3dfx Voodoo 5 5500 AGP, welcome home.  Welcome home.

Sun, Sea, Stars

The name of this blog is Poetry, Prose, and Poppycock. If you've read any of my previous posts, you may have noticed that so far, it's been a little more like Poppycock, Prose, and Poetry, or maybe even just Poppycock, Poppycock, and Poppycock. I've been pretty heavy on the poppycock and comparatively light on the poetry.

This is partly intentional. After all, a dose of poppycock-riddled prose is good medicine for this crazy world we inhabit, but, alas! Since this is Poetry, Prose, and Poppycock, I figure, it's high time I post a poem. I wouldn't want to disappoint all those people coming to this blog with the outlandish idea there would poetry amidst these digital pages. So all of you thirsting for a little poetry, here you go:

Sun, Sea, Stars by Mark Chase

Your face shines like the sun On the dew covered dawn Your smile the gentle beam My soul the flower it falls upon

A privileged partaker In this garden that you grace The most beautiful morning view Painted across your face

Your eyes sparkle like the stars In the crisp night sky A breathtaking galaxy born In the silent opening of your eyes

But your eyes are just the surface A sea of stars dancing ballet beneath You show me as I dive in A galactic tour of your heart's coral reef

Coming up for air, souls as full as lungs A middle, an ending, or a story just begun Heads lay on the ground, eyes lifted above A star in the sky for every chance to love

Your heart a constellation Mine the shooting star in flight Love and life crossing Our place beneath the Big Dipper tonight

Credit: Bob King

Rainy Day Dabblings in Music And My Not-So-Secret Love of "Bad" Weather

I'm such a bad weather person. I know that's not a popular thing to say. But, I love rain. Really heavy rain. Maybe, it's because my blue eyes are sensitive to high light. Maybe, it's because I grew up in Seward where learning to love the rain is practically a prerequisite for happiness. Maybe, I'm just wired backwards. Whatever the reason, rain has always excited me.

Some people run from rain like they're being chased by a bear. Me, I run to it. When I see rain, I want to dash through each drop. I want to play in it, dance in it, sing in it, get completely soaked by it. When it rains, the Earth takes a big collective swig and comes alive. And, so do I.

You have to admit. There's something really cozy about bad weather. Being warm is nice, but it's the cold contrast that makes snuggling up in your blanket so appealing. You can look outside and see the world wrapped in its own blanket, a quilt of clouds. You can press your nose to the window and look closer, taking it all in while sheets of rain cascade down the window, a see-through waterfall.

Today, is one of those days. It's raining. Hard. Less pitter-patter and more drum-solo-downpour.

This morning, with the rain dancing outside my window, I woke up with a song in my head. Not someone else's song, but a new song, a song yet to be created.

The creative process, the art of art, if you will, has always both perplexed and amazed me. What leads one to choose a certain note in a song, a certain word in a poem, a certain color or texture in a painting? There's an element of craft to it, drawing from the fundamental toolbox, but there's also an element of art, that almost subconscious intuition that steers you towards a particular idea.

Honestly, sometimes I feel like the ideas choose me more than I choose them. I don't know really know where this song came from. I just woke up with it in my head and tried to do it justice by getting it out of my head and onto my guitar. So, with the rain banging out a rooftop rhythm, I proceeded to craft this rainy day acoustic guitar duet.

Mark

P.S. You'll have to forgive a couple of the "buzzy" notes towards the end. One of the frets burnt out on my guitar.



P.P.S And just for fun, here's another oldie-but-a-goodie that also happens to feature some weather-based imagery.

The Misadventures of Mark - Episode 1: Bench-Mark

It was like the Terminal: Dimond Center Mall Edition, except instead of Tom Hanks, I was the star in this stranding film. I just didn't know it, yet.

Dad had dropped me off so I could do some shopping while he went to a doctor's appointment. Being one of the last humans on Earth without a cellphone, I have come to rely heavily on the ancient art of "meeting." This lost art involves two people agreeing upon a time and location to convene. It's surprisingly effective when both parties follow through. It's also completely useless if they don't.

Our agreed meeting time: Approximately 11:30. Location: Bench in front of Old Navy.

I started shopping at approximately 10:30 and wasn't about to dawdle. When I go shopping, I go in with all the careful preparation and purpose of a SWAT team hostage rescue. Don't get me wrong. I actually do enjoy shopping. I just lack the necessary endurance to extensively revel in it. For me, shopping is a lot like swimming underwater. It's fun, even exhilarating, especially with friends, but sooner or later, I gotta come up for air.

A poor soul after shopping too long

By 11:10, I had rescued the hostages...err, purchased my shirts, all ten of them. I was a little early to the bench, but what the heck. Better early than late to the agreed meeting place.

I sat. I waited. I twiddled my thumbs. I pondered life. 

Eventually, a potent combination of curiosity and boredom led me to find a clock. The time: 12:30. Using my highly advanced mathematical mind, I calculated the elapsed time. Wait a minute!

Wait a minute indeed, I had waited a full 80 of them. That's when it dawned on me. Like the fog lifting during a morning sunrise, it all became clear. I was stranded.

Possible survival scenarios began circulating through my head. I took stock of my resources. Two Cinnabuns for 99 cents. Food check. Bag full of clothes doubling as pillow. Comfort check. Entertainment? Well, I could probably squeeze into the climb-in toy helicopter for kids. Would I look ridiculous. Of course. But, this was a survival situation. Entertainment check.

On the bright side, the bench did have indoor heating.  Indoor heating is good.
Otherwise, I probably would have ended up looking like this.

I continued to wait. People began to look at me funny. We had left for Anchorage early in the morning to make the two hour drive. As an ardent lover of sleep, this meant omitting certain non-essential activities such as shaving and picking out a decent pair of clothes. Now at the mall, I started receiving looks I can only interpret as, "You must be the resident hobo." I was now upgrading my status from stranded to abandoned.

Thoughts began to crop up in my head. Did Dad even know where Old Navy was? Maybe he thought I was at a different store. Should I go look for him No. The only thing worse than being stranded is being lost. At least one of us knew where the other was. Myself not being the privileged bearer of this information, I stayed tethered to my bench.

As I sat, I could feel myself becoming one with the bench, the molecules within my body slowly changing into wood one-by-one. Before long, I would be more bench than man. I had to do something. I had to fight back, to save the remaining human parts of me. So, I did the only thing I could.

I took a nap. Hoping to fall into a sleep-induced time warp, I pulled my yellow "Bean There Done That" hat over my head and closed my eyes.

As I napped, I dreamt of perfectly placid lakes and serene sunrises...and being picked up...or even just adopted.

An undisclosed amount of time later, I awoke, jarred from sleep by the sound of a voice. I tipped my hat back. There standing above me was my father. Breaking free of my benchly prison, I stood up.

Meeting that late person can be an emotionally conflicting experience. You're frustrated at their lateness, but simultaneously overjoyed they finally showed up. Where you find yourself between these two can vary depending on the circumstance. In my case, the later won out, partly because I had to take pity on his situation.

I looked down at my Dad's foot. He was walking around in a sock wrapped in what looked like a produce bag snagged straight from the grocery store. I knew he'd gone to the doctor to get his ankle checked. What I didn't know was that they were going to bag it like a bundle of apples. For being so expensive, the medical profession really knows how to make you feel like you've gotten your money's worth.

So there we were, reunited at last, Dad walking around in a grocery bag, me putting on my best hobo impression. If we played it off right, I figured we had a pretty good chance of making it as a traveling comedy team...at least as good a chance as meeting each other on time. With that we walked off into the parking lot, bagged, but not beaten, sloppily dressed, but not defeated.

How I felt after being reclaimed.  

(For maximal effect, read in voice reminiscent of Braveheart) 

FREEEEDOOOOM!