Iω, or to you Commoners, "Rotational Momentum"

For everything—turn, turn, turn—there is a season—turn, turn, turn—There is a time for every purpose under heaven.

Ahh... The birds putting music to the rantings of Solomon in his book of collected experiences, known to the general world by its Greek name, Ecclesiastes.

It's eleven days into the seventh month of the fifth year after the genesis of the second millennium, anno domini. I am sitting at what is known by the front-of-house staff at my workplace as "table fifty five"—a two-person booth skirting the main thoroughfare between the restaurant’s entrance and the bulk of the dining area. I have recently started to come to work quite early, mostly because of the availability of endless caffeinated beverages and a decent environment in which I can write in peace. As a result, I seem to be more productive these days, chipping away at the massive beast of my first legitimate short story, quasi-regularly updating this, my weblog and also getting some reading done on top of it all.

The crazy thing to think about is that summer is technically in dull swing, with the pendulum reaching its dreaded apogee, threatening with eversomuch menace to begin its dreaded recoil, ushering in the dawn of my ultimate undergraduate fall term. Have I told you, oh reader, about my Mexico trip in February yet? Or what about my first week at work, where there was a fire in the garbage area at work, forcing thee closure of all Bourbon Street in West Edmonton Mall? No? Then I probably also haven't told you about Sony patenting technology that uses ultrasonic waves to stimulate artificial sensory experiences within the brain, quite reminiscent to the artificial world generated by sentient computers in the beloved Matrix trilogy. What about my unfortunate discovery that it takes less than 90 minutes to walk from West Edmonton Mall to Grant MacEwan College, downtown? Haven't told you that? Hmm...must mean that I've been busy at work.

Mind you, work is a mixed blessing. I love the place—meaning the people I work with. There's a guy in the kitchen who reminds me of me: always talking in accents, always quoting and/or singing bits from The Simpsons, Futurama or other beloved prime-time entertainment. He is also even an artist, preferring graphite—just like me. Biggest difference, I would have to say, is that he has no relationship with Christ, so it kind of lets me look at who I might have been, were it not for that life-altering difference.

Two of my kitchen managers are as big of computer geeks as I am, which is great. We talk about hardware every once in a while & compare systems, or talk about the most recent games that have hit the market.

The greatest thing, however, is that everyone in the place—whether working in the kitchen, or working "front of house"—is totally real. There are no veneers of expectation, no plastic personalities, no misleading masks. Everyone is real, and my fornicating goodness, is it ever a refreshing change from a.) university and b.) contemporary Christian circles. At work, who you are is who you are, whether you're a multiply-convicted felon, a drug dealer, a Christian, a lesbian or some combination of any of the above. It doesn't matter: you are who you are, and people are cool with it. In fact, the individuality and the diversity are embraced, leading to a dynamic, colourful community, where conversation and interaction flourishes.

Although however cool the people may be, this still doesn't change the fact that working in an "open kitchen” is extremely warm. One of the stations that I work on, known as sauté, is stuck between hundreds of litres of boiling oil on the right while flanked by an open broiler grill on my left, burning natural gas at approximately 600° Fahrenheit. If that weren't bad enough, I am neatly tucked in behind the holding window, which is where all the food gets placed just before the servers come and run it to our customers. The holding window is—for all intensive purposes—an open oven, whose overhead heating elements operate non-stop throughout the day, emitting an infrared shower of blistering warmth at 400° Fahrenheit. Oh, did I mention that the sauté station is a ten-burner gas range, which operates with 4 burners keeping our metal presentation skillets searing-hot throughout the day? Yes, yes, that's what the sauté station is like. Needless to say, the ambient temperature in the kitchen as over 30° Celsius, and when one is wearing three layers of clothes while preparing as much as 8 meals at any one time, I hope you can imagine the thermal conditions of the kitchen inferno.

So, that's work. I like it: the people are cool; the job's thankless, but stimulating; and best of all, I know that I'm not going to be doing it for the rest of my life (hallelujah).

I guess it's time for my characteristic Theo-Messianic (my fancy word for "Christian") reflection bit, a staple portion of all my blog entries. This one however will be short, as the rest of my entry is already quite long. Here goes: I was thinking the other day about who we as Christians are in Christ, and it occurred to me that the years of inbreeding we've had navel-gazing has kind of numbed the awesome sense of who we really are. As a Christian, I am an adopted son of the Most High God, the Creator of the universe and perhaps anything beyond it. Isn't that a bit freaky? Try telling a non-Christian that you are an adopted child of the most powerful being within and without all existence. They'll probably answer back with some sort of bovine droppings. Tell them that God Most High wants to call them his child as well and I wouldn't be tooo surprised if the ended up laughing at you and again mentioning some sort of bull excrement.

What a privilege, what a powerful position, what an amazing heritage we as Christians have—and any one who would like to become a Christian has access to as well. To be the adopted children of the most powerful source of everything and everything...it kind of blows my mind away. I am an heir of Creation. My Father made all of this and He is gunning for me. Why do I bother being afraid of anything that might potentially danger me, when the Boss and Overseer of All has a vested interest in my well-being—a Boss and Overseer who sees everything and who knows everything, one who doesn't miss a single step in the goings-on of His handiwork.

Food for thought, don't you think?