I may be crazy, but it's worth a try. This letter will be sent to BMW's North American headquarters in New Jersey. The squeaky wheel gets the grease!
To Whom it may Concern:
My name is Matthew Jung, and I am a twenty year old student at Eastern Washington University. I am currently studying English and History, hoping to travel after school before beginning a career in firefigting. As I am sure you know from personal experience, being a student also entails not having much money.
As something of a car enthusiast, I have fallen in love with BMW's entire line of vehicles. From the classic 6-series to the 850 to Team Polizei's M5 - with their provacative styling and promise of superb performance the BMW badge never fails to capture my attention. My first real exposure to BMW has been my good friend's 1984 633Csi. The "first class" lines and smooth performance of this 6-series gem never fail to thrill when driving, riding passenger, or just admiring it on the road. Although I have some hope of acquiring this car, I currently drive a 1990 Honda Accord. The Honda has been good to me, but at 230,000 miles things are wearing out. Of course, as an economical family sedan, it could never fully deliver the performance I crave.
The purpose of my writing you is to ask a favor. Once out of school, I hope to begin a car collection ranging from classic American muscle cars to the most exotic offerings from Europe. I cannot tell you how thrilled I would be to begin that journey with BMW. It may sound incredibly presumptuous of me to ask for a car - especially one of the most advanced vehicles in the world today, but it is worth a shot. Not everyone can afford the premium price demanded at showrooms - many of whom have more enthusiasm for this benchmark company and its cars then a great deal who already own them. If you don't find it possible to donate a vehicle to my cause, a pair of driving gloves would also be spectacular. Please help this student starving for a true driver's car and the Ultimate Driving Machine.
Thank You.
Respectfully,
12.18.2005
Setting Sun
From September, during Hurricane Katrina. I posted it for a day, and then took it down...I didn't like it for some reason, but now I've forgotten why.
The tattered newspaper slipped from its perch atop her head and fell into the gutter, accompanied by three drops of sweat from the ends of her weathered, wrinkled fingertips. It was hot. Very hot. The air was thick with the perfume of rotting trash but even that was overpowered by the scent of suffering humanity. Fumes from raw sewage and sweat from bodies that could not afford to lose it swirled through the streets.
A small child, maybe six years old stumbled down the middle of the street half naked and completely alone, blurred in the lazy vapors of summer. A few flies buzzed around the old woman's face but she did not swat them away. Somewhere in the block a gunshot sounded a violent stacatto - but the old woman did not flinch. Above them, a woman had been screaming for help from a rooftop balcony for a quarter of an hour. Some eyed the building uneasily, but noone helped. The strong must survive. Finally the screaming stopped and a shirtless man climbed over the pile of bricks that blocked the building's doorway. He looked up the street at the crowds before stuffing his hands in his pockets and disappearing amidst the chaos.
Overhead, a helicopter with a man in a tie and a camera buzzed and thumped low, whipping up palm branches and scattering debris including a few pebbles and a handful of grit that lodged themselves in the old woman's pitted, wrinkled face, but she didn't look up to investigate or turn away for protection. Thwock. Thwock. A few in the crowd shouted at the chopper, held signs or screamed in frustration. The old woman did nothing. Across the street two gangmembers, five single mothers, and a policeman shattered the window of a convenience store in their search for uncontaminated water. For a second the shards of glass tinkled and sang through the air with the song of a windchime in a May breeze - but just for a second as they crashed chaotically to the asphalt. The store yielded only a few gallons which were commandeered by the policeman - who had a gun. A mile away, a family of five is arrested by three other officers of the law for looting water from a Wal*Mart. They've had nothing for four days and are now in handcuffs, too dazed and exhausted to cry out against the injustice.
The old woman sat in her chair and stared down her street, stared at the shadows of her city, stared unblinklingly into the setting sun. She will continue to stare until someone - maybe her son, maybe a stranger - pulls a sheet over her lifeless eyes.
please help.
please.
12.15.2005
Begins
Suddenly, driving home from the gym, I feel happy with everything. Like everything is where it is supposed to be - and that's okay.
Some people like beginnings, but I usually prefer ends. Maybe it's because endings often hurt that I like them - such an intenisty of feeling that it forces me to remember vividly.
Beginnings are kind of scary and awkward - like the first day of a new job. You stand around, not sure what to do and feeling as if you are just in the way of everyone else. You don't really know anything, and aren't much use besides spraying windex or lifting heavy objects. But this beginning - this one I like. I like it even though I've been here many, many times over the past two years. Does it still qualify as a beginning if you've been there before? Yes. I've already written about it, talked about it, thought about it, analyzed it...And I suppose I should be ashamed for being here again, but I'm not. I'm too excited and happy that I'm here at all.
It's a place of redemption and a place of peace.
I use that word a lot - peace.
Some people like beginnings, but I usually prefer ends. Maybe it's because endings often hurt that I like them - such an intenisty of feeling that it forces me to remember vividly.
Beginnings are kind of scary and awkward - like the first day of a new job. You stand around, not sure what to do and feeling as if you are just in the way of everyone else. You don't really know anything, and aren't much use besides spraying windex or lifting heavy objects. But this beginning - this one I like. I like it even though I've been here many, many times over the past two years. Does it still qualify as a beginning if you've been there before? Yes. I've already written about it, talked about it, thought about it, analyzed it...And I suppose I should be ashamed for being here again, but I'm not. I'm too excited and happy that I'm here at all.
It's a place of redemption and a place of peace.
I use that word a lot - peace.
12.13.2005
Run On
Pane sits on the window and looks out to the sky, where dark clouds roll freely from the edge of the world to the opposite horizon and rays of stray sunlight beam down - creating the illusion of inspiration.
Pane sits on the window and looks to the ground, where green grass shirks under the shadow of sullen skies and the pits of fallen plums plot their next move.
Pane sits on the window and looks inside. There he finds me in a blur, hunching over books and papers - or else over my own knees begging half-heartedly for understanding.
Pane sits and takes a breath, swinging and dangling his legs in the way only he can. Watching the world from a window, he smiles and sobs in turn - perhaps knowing much more about life then those fortunate fools who claim to live it.
Pane sits on the window and looks to the ground, where green grass shirks under the shadow of sullen skies and the pits of fallen plums plot their next move.
Pane sits on the window and looks inside. There he finds me in a blur, hunching over books and papers - or else over my own knees begging half-heartedly for understanding.
Pane sits and takes a breath, swinging and dangling his legs in the way only he can. Watching the world from a window, he smiles and sobs in turn - perhaps knowing much more about life then those fortunate fools who claim to live it.
12.05.2005
A deep pain crawls just to the edge of perceptibility, raises its hand and begins scratching a cracked nail on my eyes. A small wound is formed, he doesn't gouge - it's almost gentle the way he works. Blood threads a path from my pupils to the gathering pools in the corners of my eyelids. Once he has scratched to where there is no blood left, pain's hand lowers and tears visible only in complete darkness seep to the surface and run down my face. Now I feel it. Now it is almost foremost in my consciousness. Strange to be sad, but I want to hold onto it. To taste it. To somehow savor its presence.
I lie in darkness and pray that tears only angels can see will bring quiet peace.
I lie in darkness and pray that tears only angels can see will bring quiet peace.
11.30.2005
11.25.2005
11.23.2005
11.02.2005
Mumbles
It's cold tonight. Seriously cold, like snow-is-coming cold. Only eleven and the frost is already settling on parked cars and unsuspecting shrubbery. The clouds of steam that are the backdrop of my words find company in a light foggy mist which hangs over the parking lot and dances in the rays of a streetlight. Yes, winter is coming. In my mind, fall is relegated mainly just to October. I notice her then, feeling the breeze that smells of woodsmoke and football. Shorter days and dimmer sun are a perfect setting for birthdays and walks and writing and books. Silent conversations between intimate friends and long drives spent with music far gentler then the heavy beats of summer. But now...now the wind stings my cheeks and creeps slowly into my bones. The trees are bare and, for a while, their life has left us to rest.
A solo guitar finger-picks in the back of my imagination and I sway to its gentle rhythm. A long , black dress swishes along a hardwood floor and my steps click with perfect time. It's just us under a blue spotlight haze, everything dark and everything quiet...just a solo guitar and our own spirits to guide us. We should be happy in this place - and we are.
Together, a piano and a cello sing mournfully across the sewer. And she picks her ears from the mud to listen. The notes that echo through the pipes carry a new sense. A new stench in this haven of filth. Does she feel it? Does it frighten her? It is hope. Hope has no place here in the gutter. It stings and blurs like sweat in an eye. So different, such a sharp edge - but so sweet a feeling. Embrace hope, don't fear that "this" is all there is. Have hope that even in all of "this" there is joy and there is peace.
Words that are easily dropped: hope, joy, peace. What do they mean to you? Really, tell me. Not sunday school answers, and I don't care about webster. What do they mean to you? Maybe they mean a story or a scene from your life or a passage from a book. That's okay. Joy to me is a white speedboat racing across the bay. I'm sitting in the back of the boat with my friends feeling flecks of seaspray on my face and singing The Space Between along with Dave Matthews on the radio. Whenever I am really completely happy, that is what I go back to. For me, that's it. What about you?
A solo guitar finger-picks in the back of my imagination and I sway to its gentle rhythm. A long , black dress swishes along a hardwood floor and my steps click with perfect time. It's just us under a blue spotlight haze, everything dark and everything quiet...just a solo guitar and our own spirits to guide us. We should be happy in this place - and we are.
Together, a piano and a cello sing mournfully across the sewer. And she picks her ears from the mud to listen. The notes that echo through the pipes carry a new sense. A new stench in this haven of filth. Does she feel it? Does it frighten her? It is hope. Hope has no place here in the gutter. It stings and blurs like sweat in an eye. So different, such a sharp edge - but so sweet a feeling. Embrace hope, don't fear that "this" is all there is. Have hope that even in all of "this" there is joy and there is peace.
Words that are easily dropped: hope, joy, peace. What do they mean to you? Really, tell me. Not sunday school answers, and I don't care about webster. What do they mean to you? Maybe they mean a story or a scene from your life or a passage from a book. That's okay. Joy to me is a white speedboat racing across the bay. I'm sitting in the back of the boat with my friends feeling flecks of seaspray on my face and singing The Space Between along with Dave Matthews on the radio. Whenever I am really completely happy, that is what I go back to. For me, that's it. What about you?
10.24.2005
A flicker and a spark and I wonder where I am. Lazy, swinging boughs hang from their host to make shapes with shadows in my mind. Where have all the good people gone? I read about them and their adventures. I follow their words as they turn silly, simple things into objects of fascination and peculiar beauty. As if they see the world through different lenses in a more perfect shade.
It's probably not so clearly defined as it is in my mind - these different worlds. The world of achievement somewhere blurs into that of reckless fun which in turn blends into those few beautiful souls who defy definition and have chiseled their mission from joy and peace and experience. How are you satisfied in your way? Is it because in fact, you do not derive your satisfaction from the road you run? Here I go again, trying complicated questions for what I already know are simple answers. Simple somehow - and somehow so hard.
But I've stopped making sense, maybe I never started.
It's just another beginning.
It's probably not so clearly defined as it is in my mind - these different worlds. The world of achievement somewhere blurs into that of reckless fun which in turn blends into those few beautiful souls who defy definition and have chiseled their mission from joy and peace and experience. How are you satisfied in your way? Is it because in fact, you do not derive your satisfaction from the road you run? Here I go again, trying complicated questions for what I already know are simple answers. Simple somehow - and somehow so hard.
But I've stopped making sense, maybe I never started.
It's just another beginning.
9.24.2005
Cold sun feels good
As I sit indian-style on my bed, soaking up cold autumn sun, and listening to piano from Finding Neverland - I ponder a couple of things. One, the internet. I take it for granted now - only really noticing how much I use it when it's not available to me. So nothing new -- it just struck me as I read a blog this idea of virtual paper...virtual pens...which are not really as romantic or adventurous as the real thing but are still better for the sheer fact that we can share. That we can communicate. In the psuedo-anonymous world of blogging, people feel safe enough to put pieces of themselves into "cyberspace." Effectively inscribing their secrets, fears, joys, loves, passions, and hates on parchment and sending them to sea in bottles or tiny vessels made of paper mache'. Anyone may happen by in a rowboat or a liner, or maybe noone at all for months or years until it reaches the opposite shore. But someone reads and someone loves that you write.
I've just been enjoying the writing of a friend from a year ago. I've read her work many times, but I think today I began to understand her better. Her honesty is beautiful and her simple sincerity stands like a willow, strong but without overlooking her imperfections. Life holds confusion - and chaos - but what do wind and rain do but make a willow still more beautiful?
I've just been enjoying the writing of a friend from a year ago. I've read her work many times, but I think today I began to understand her better. Her honesty is beautiful and her simple sincerity stands like a willow, strong but without overlooking her imperfections. Life holds confusion - and chaos - but what do wind and rain do but make a willow still more beautiful?
9.11.2005
Reclaiming the Lost
Thirteen days and seven ways to end it all forever. Seventeen years of good morning's from voices that didn't wish what they said - and that was all that really mattered. Three thousand and twelve inches of rain that soaked her shirts, ran off her umbrellas, and matted her hair to her face into the sort of oddball frame you may find at Value Village on a Tuesday afternoon.
Three chords on six strings play one song on four continents. It's a hit! It's a smash! Congratulations, well done, we know your name now - we know your name. You haven't really spoken to us, you haven't really changed us, we don't know what you've done - but we know your name.
Four voices in paragraph daily, document the last 24 hours and we'll dialogue six times or until we've broken the record. Personal best - yes, thank you - that was very good.
A cello somewhere echoes ghost's voices of fog on the moor and mystery in the night. They go together: beauty and the cello. Bend over your frame and feel the vibrations, drift with your notes, does it speak to you? Have you ever played your cello in the rain? On a dock that rocked with the passing wake of the midnight ferry? I wish you would.
I wish many things. I've wished upon the stars. Do they wish on us? I thought they came true - but- maybe they still will. There is still time. When you shout at the night sky, is all lost to the dark? Someone hears - but how many? Do the angels really cry over us? Does anything so beautiful and so close to God even begin to feel pain or know the meaning of sorrow?
And what do you mean, when you say forever?
Three chords on six strings play one song on four continents. It's a hit! It's a smash! Congratulations, well done, we know your name now - we know your name. You haven't really spoken to us, you haven't really changed us, we don't know what you've done - but we know your name.
Four voices in paragraph daily, document the last 24 hours and we'll dialogue six times or until we've broken the record. Personal best - yes, thank you - that was very good.
A cello somewhere echoes ghost's voices of fog on the moor and mystery in the night. They go together: beauty and the cello. Bend over your frame and feel the vibrations, drift with your notes, does it speak to you? Have you ever played your cello in the rain? On a dock that rocked with the passing wake of the midnight ferry? I wish you would.
I wish many things. I've wished upon the stars. Do they wish on us? I thought they came true - but- maybe they still will. There is still time. When you shout at the night sky, is all lost to the dark? Someone hears - but how many? Do the angels really cry over us? Does anything so beautiful and so close to God even begin to feel pain or know the meaning of sorrow?
And what do you mean, when you say forever?
9.08.2005
Pressure washing is fun. Five horsepower of compressed air and water, 2400 psi, seven nozzel choices - nozzel. There's a sweet word: nozzel. Say that out loud. Say it fast. Say it slow. Write a song about rock and roll...
Seven days left until school and I can't wait. Counting down the days until I move to Cheney so I can count down the days until I come back home. Seriously we humans are such silly folks. I think that I've begun to pretend that we don't have a government. They don't exist, they're just kidding. I don't watch the news anymore cause I'm too busy or it's too depressing, I only read the paper for the sports and comics (GET FUZZY!!), and what our awesome and powerful leaders are or are not doing holds little or no interest to me. Apparently, the race for Mayor of Bonney Lake is heating up. Apparently all three candidates (including the incumbent) are worthless men who don't care enough about my city. Apparently they've not done enough planning to head the No. 2 fastest growing city in the state of Washington. All I know is that somebody keeps cutting down all our trees and building hardware stores (I wonder if they'll sell those same trees there as warped, low-grade lumber?) and houses with inflated prices. Apparently we don't have enough police, water treatment, and our roads aren't going to be able to handle the massive amounts of people who will soon be moving to our beloved town. Hum. I wish they'd go away - it used to be, and still is, such a nice town, tucked beneath the beard of Mt. Rainier awaiting its next erruption in peace. Now we have Wal*Mart and Target and Home Depot. O, and if there's one thing we don't need it's more police. I can't drive to one mile without seeing at least two of the buggers trying to catch me driving with flashing lights on my hubcaps. Um...that wasn't me...it was someone...who looked like me...
That's all...it might be forever until I blog again...I dunno, I'm kind of burned out on it. I love to read other people's blogs way more then write in my own anyway.
Um, lookin' for a good time? Pop in some Journey and go cruising with a brand new pair of aviators.
Very, very cool.
Seven days left until school and I can't wait. Counting down the days until I move to Cheney so I can count down the days until I come back home. Seriously we humans are such silly folks. I think that I've begun to pretend that we don't have a government. They don't exist, they're just kidding. I don't watch the news anymore cause I'm too busy or it's too depressing, I only read the paper for the sports and comics (GET FUZZY!!), and what our awesome and powerful leaders are or are not doing holds little or no interest to me. Apparently, the race for Mayor of Bonney Lake is heating up. Apparently all three candidates (including the incumbent) are worthless men who don't care enough about my city. Apparently they've not done enough planning to head the No. 2 fastest growing city in the state of Washington. All I know is that somebody keeps cutting down all our trees and building hardware stores (I wonder if they'll sell those same trees there as warped, low-grade lumber?) and houses with inflated prices. Apparently we don't have enough police, water treatment, and our roads aren't going to be able to handle the massive amounts of people who will soon be moving to our beloved town. Hum. I wish they'd go away - it used to be, and still is, such a nice town, tucked beneath the beard of Mt. Rainier awaiting its next erruption in peace. Now we have Wal*Mart and Target and Home Depot. O, and if there's one thing we don't need it's more police. I can't drive to one mile without seeing at least two of the buggers trying to catch me driving with flashing lights on my hubcaps. Um...that wasn't me...it was someone...who looked like me...
That's all...it might be forever until I blog again...I dunno, I'm kind of burned out on it. I love to read other people's blogs way more then write in my own anyway.
Um, lookin' for a good time? Pop in some Journey and go cruising with a brand new pair of aviators.
Very, very cool.
galen told me about this cool spot. it's cool, fool, check it out.
www.oneword.com
[Matt]possessed with hope, possessed with fear that hope is not enough. but it is - it always has been, it always will be. Hope with christ. share my hope with you, love you, love me. hope together. so much depresssion so much possession without a cause without a reason, just let hope be my possession in this life's progression. September 8, 2005 12:52 PM
www.oneword.com
[Matt]possessed with hope, possessed with fear that hope is not enough. but it is - it always has been, it always will be. Hope with christ. share my hope with you, love you, love me. hope together. so much depresssion so much possession without a cause without a reason, just let hope be my possession in this life's progression. September 8, 2005 12:52 PM
9.05.2005
9.02.2005
I wonder...
if you write about death -- will you die sooner?
if you write about life -- will you live better?
if you write about time -- will you get some of it back?
if you write about memories -- is it ok to forget?
if you write about pain -- will it leave you?
and
if you write about love -- will love be written for you?
if you write about life -- will you live better?
if you write about time -- will you get some of it back?
if you write about memories -- is it ok to forget?
if you write about pain -- will it leave you?
and
if you write about love -- will love be written for you?
8.31.2005
Tonite I willingly entered what could be my first online scam. Get this, people. Pay-to-do-survey website. One time fee of $35, promised to make lots more over the course of a long and healthy survey filling out career. Now, I did a bit of research, checked 'em out, figured it's mostly safe...And if not, it's only thirty five bucks. It can't be worse then selling my blood, right?
right?
March of the Penguins: $8.50.
My kid brother shouted at me as I left the house, "I can't BELIEVE you're going to go see that movie!"
"It's critically acclaimed!" I defended myself.
So it was amazing camera work. The guys that film flightless birds in tuxedo in antarctica in winter need to be checked out as to their mental stability, but it was pretty cool. Tho i think i'd already seen some of it on Wild Discovery, Sunday nights at 8.
Due to popular demand, I have tested out the purified water dispenser at Top Foods in Federal Way. It works. I pushed the ON button. Water flowed. I panicked, galen lost his composure, and i hastily punched the only red button on the machine. Water stopped. All is well.
right?
March of the Penguins: $8.50.
My kid brother shouted at me as I left the house, "I can't BELIEVE you're going to go see that movie!"
"It's critically acclaimed!" I defended myself.
So it was amazing camera work. The guys that film flightless birds in tuxedo in antarctica in winter need to be checked out as to their mental stability, but it was pretty cool. Tho i think i'd already seen some of it on Wild Discovery, Sunday nights at 8.
Due to popular demand, I have tested out the purified water dispenser at Top Foods in Federal Way. It works. I pushed the ON button. Water flowed. I panicked, galen lost his composure, and i hastily punched the only red button on the machine. Water stopped. All is well.
K, so here's the thing. Oatmeal actually sucks. It does. If you don't buy it in those little packets with all our traditional American favorites (Apples and cinnamon, Maple and brown sugar, Cinnamon and Raisin, Cinnamon Roll, Banana Bread, etc) and don't add stuff that completely negates that healthful quality of the oats such as heaping portions of brown sugar - there is little or no reason to be eating this stuff. It's goupy, it's sloppy, it's grainy, it never looks as hot as it actually is -- meaning that tongue burnage can be expected on a regular basis, and it lowers your cholestrol which makes me feel old.
I have no love for cholestrol
But should I really be eating anything that's going to lower it at the age of not-quite-twenty?
Uh oh, it's 4.51...i'm running late - ha, and i have to stop for gas. Guess I'll be hoping I make it to work today - i'll just call one of you to get up and help me on the cell phone i definitely do not have.
Ah, morning incoherence...
I have no love for cholestrol
But should I really be eating anything that's going to lower it at the age of not-quite-twenty?
Uh oh, it's 4.51...i'm running late - ha, and i have to stop for gas. Guess I'll be hoping I make it to work today - i'll just call one of you to get up and help me on the cell phone i definitely do not have.
Ah, morning incoherence...
8.28.2005
8.22.2005
Glass of water, anyone?
Allow me to state the obvious: there is a lot of water in the Puget Sound. Lots. A quick google search and one click of the mouse informs me that up to 367,000 cubic feet of water flows into the puget sound from fresh water sources alone per second. That is a lot of water.
I spent this last weekend at my favorite place in the world: Thetis Island, British Columbia. Every time I step off a ferry or boat and my foot hits the ground on the island, I am overcome with a sense of peace that I cannot explain. It's just -- everything is right no matter what is going wrong. I was able to re-connect with old friends and leisurely pass the time riding in speed boats and lying on floating docks between gourmet meals and fabulous teaching and encouragement. A couple of main things that have really stuck with me - the glory of God should be SHINING out of us, not just leaking, not even just noticeable SHINING! Unmistakable and unmissable. God's glory and work is no mere candle bobbing in a darkened attic, but a blazing sun piercing out of the blackest cave. Something else, it's okay if we don't know. Cluelessness is okay. When Jesus healed the blind man in John 9, the people and religious leaders were questioning the formerly blind man as to who Jesus was and how he had healed him. What did this man know? Nothing!
When the people ask him where Jesus is in v.12, he replies "I do not know!"
v. 24: So a second time they called the man who had been blind, and said to him, "Give glory to God; we know that this man (Jesus) is a sinner. v.25 He therefore answered, "Whether He is a sinner, I do not know; one thing I do know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see."
It's okay if we don't know! Jesus finds the man later and tell him to follow Him and the man does not because he knows everything, not because he knows that the scriptures point to Jesus as the Messiah, or because he could logically defend his choice but because he saw the transformation in his own life. And that transformation will be unmistakable if we rely on Jesus to change us to His glory.
Back to the Puget Sound trivia, this weekend was also my first extended small boat ride. About 12 of us piled into two boats to make the 8 hr one way trip to Thetis Island from Des Moines on Friday. The trip up went decently, though the boat I was in was significantly slower then the other boat so it was frustrating at times - I think I got some sweet pictures can't wait to develop my film. The ride on the way BACK was a little bit more interesting. The engine started backfiring immediately after we started it so we had to go even SLOWER to try to keep the engine running. Four hours later we reach Friday Harbor for U.S. Customs. After leaving Friday Harbor, we brave a long section of viscious rip tides, whirlpools, and stray logs before hitting the strait of wandafuka (sp?). Okay, the strait is a pretty big section of open water that gets rollers in from the ocean as well as the wind which whips up some pretty nice waves as well. I finished my book just as the first wave came flying over the side of the boat and we were off on a natural roller coaster. I stood outside the cabin, hanging on and smiling to myself with delight as we plunged and rolled and rocked and bucked our way through a sea that was growing steadily more angry. Forty five minutes later, the engine starts bogging down and we're doing about 5 mph before someone looks down. O. What's that? THAT is four inches of water in the bottom of the boat that is coming up very, very fast. O yes, friends, the S.S. Minnow with Gilligan, your's truly, is sinking. Bob, our fearless leader, immediately got on his antique, "sometimes works, I don't even know" radio and alerts the caost guard with a mayday! while I and the only other guy on that boat under 40 years old spring forward with five gallon buckets and start bailing for all we're worth. Somewhere in the thrill ride of the ocean, we'd gotten separated from our other boat so the only nearby vessels were three cruise ships leaving for a week of Alaskan site seeing. Fantastic. I continued to bail for the next two hours barely keeping up with the inrushing water as we limped to the nearest dock.
I didn't really mind too much, tho really. I was laughing and singing with my bailing partner glad for the distraction from the long ride - that is until someone pressed a life jacket into my hands and I suddenly thought that this whole situation could get interesting. Very interesting. Aren't life jackets for emergencies? Hmm... Then the only things I could think of is Paul writing "To live is Christ, to die is gain," how I no longer shook my head at the disciple's panic in the midst of a storm, Tom Sawyer (figure it out), and wishing I had more film.
Anyway, we obviously made it to shore where we discovered a rather large hole in the hull of our iron clad ship and proceeded to take hot coin-operated showers and eat crab chowder at the marina while we waited a few hours for a vehicle. MMm, 3 am arrival, anyone? Anyhow, we met some cool people and God is always good - had this whole adventure began twenty to fifteen minutes earlier when we were still in the strait, we all woulda been swimming for sure. Hey, I coulda been on the news! :)
Cheers, all.
I spent this last weekend at my favorite place in the world: Thetis Island, British Columbia. Every time I step off a ferry or boat and my foot hits the ground on the island, I am overcome with a sense of peace that I cannot explain. It's just -- everything is right no matter what is going wrong. I was able to re-connect with old friends and leisurely pass the time riding in speed boats and lying on floating docks between gourmet meals and fabulous teaching and encouragement. A couple of main things that have really stuck with me - the glory of God should be SHINING out of us, not just leaking, not even just noticeable SHINING! Unmistakable and unmissable. God's glory and work is no mere candle bobbing in a darkened attic, but a blazing sun piercing out of the blackest cave. Something else, it's okay if we don't know. Cluelessness is okay. When Jesus healed the blind man in John 9, the people and religious leaders were questioning the formerly blind man as to who Jesus was and how he had healed him. What did this man know? Nothing!
When the people ask him where Jesus is in v.12, he replies "I do not know!"
v. 24: So a second time they called the man who had been blind, and said to him, "Give glory to God; we know that this man (Jesus) is a sinner. v.25 He therefore answered, "Whether He is a sinner, I do not know; one thing I do know, that, whereas I was blind, now I see."
It's okay if we don't know! Jesus finds the man later and tell him to follow Him and the man does not because he knows everything, not because he knows that the scriptures point to Jesus as the Messiah, or because he could logically defend his choice but because he saw the transformation in his own life. And that transformation will be unmistakable if we rely on Jesus to change us to His glory.
Back to the Puget Sound trivia, this weekend was also my first extended small boat ride. About 12 of us piled into two boats to make the 8 hr one way trip to Thetis Island from Des Moines on Friday. The trip up went decently, though the boat I was in was significantly slower then the other boat so it was frustrating at times - I think I got some sweet pictures can't wait to develop my film. The ride on the way BACK was a little bit more interesting. The engine started backfiring immediately after we started it so we had to go even SLOWER to try to keep the engine running. Four hours later we reach Friday Harbor for U.S. Customs. After leaving Friday Harbor, we brave a long section of viscious rip tides, whirlpools, and stray logs before hitting the strait of wandafuka (sp?). Okay, the strait is a pretty big section of open water that gets rollers in from the ocean as well as the wind which whips up some pretty nice waves as well. I finished my book just as the first wave came flying over the side of the boat and we were off on a natural roller coaster. I stood outside the cabin, hanging on and smiling to myself with delight as we plunged and rolled and rocked and bucked our way through a sea that was growing steadily more angry. Forty five minutes later, the engine starts bogging down and we're doing about 5 mph before someone looks down. O. What's that? THAT is four inches of water in the bottom of the boat that is coming up very, very fast. O yes, friends, the S.S. Minnow with Gilligan, your's truly, is sinking. Bob, our fearless leader, immediately got on his antique, "sometimes works, I don't even know" radio and alerts the caost guard with a mayday! while I and the only other guy on that boat under 40 years old spring forward with five gallon buckets and start bailing for all we're worth. Somewhere in the thrill ride of the ocean, we'd gotten separated from our other boat so the only nearby vessels were three cruise ships leaving for a week of Alaskan site seeing. Fantastic. I continued to bail for the next two hours barely keeping up with the inrushing water as we limped to the nearest dock.
I didn't really mind too much, tho really. I was laughing and singing with my bailing partner glad for the distraction from the long ride - that is until someone pressed a life jacket into my hands and I suddenly thought that this whole situation could get interesting. Very interesting. Aren't life jackets for emergencies? Hmm... Then the only things I could think of is Paul writing "To live is Christ, to die is gain," how I no longer shook my head at the disciple's panic in the midst of a storm, Tom Sawyer (figure it out), and wishing I had more film.
Anyway, we obviously made it to shore where we discovered a rather large hole in the hull of our iron clad ship and proceeded to take hot coin-operated showers and eat crab chowder at the marina while we waited a few hours for a vehicle. MMm, 3 am arrival, anyone? Anyhow, we met some cool people and God is always good - had this whole adventure began twenty to fifteen minutes earlier when we were still in the strait, we all woulda been swimming for sure. Hey, I coulda been on the news! :)
Cheers, all.
8.18.2005
Pent up
500,000 tons of concrete damming millions of gallons
snow capped volcano struggling to contain a billion psi that broils from somewhere inside
angry and tired and frustrated and sad
silently crying and bitterly laughing
not because I am alone or because no one cares
they do -- I just don't know how to tell them
what I am feeling.
-------------
And then I almost do cry, only not from rage or hurt - but real tears because I may soon have to decide whether my dog is in too much pain to continue living. She is next to me sprawled on her blanket, her dark eyes twitching as she tries to stare up at me. Eyes that ask me why everything hurts, why I can't make it better, trusting me for what is best. She had her annual summer haircut a few weeks ago, so she looks sort of silly for a golden retriever. One ear flopped over her face, her side heaving with each breath - she's given up trying to keep her head off the ground. It's a small thing perhaps - "just a dog" - but anyone who has been here before knows that it is more then that. She's my first dog, the puppy I dropped when I was 12 but forgave me the very next instant. Walked with me, played football and soccer with me, rode in my car, hunted easter eggs, ate christmas paper, and always welcomed me home.
Ten minutes ago I was too angry at anything to speak, but now just by looking at me she's made me forget half of all the rubbish.
500,000 tons of concrete damming millions of gallons
snow capped volcano struggling to contain a billion psi that broils from somewhere inside
angry and tired and frustrated and sad
silently crying and bitterly laughing
not because I am alone or because no one cares
they do -- I just don't know how to tell them
what I am feeling.
-------------
And then I almost do cry, only not from rage or hurt - but real tears because I may soon have to decide whether my dog is in too much pain to continue living. She is next to me sprawled on her blanket, her dark eyes twitching as she tries to stare up at me. Eyes that ask me why everything hurts, why I can't make it better, trusting me for what is best. She had her annual summer haircut a few weeks ago, so she looks sort of silly for a golden retriever. One ear flopped over her face, her side heaving with each breath - she's given up trying to keep her head off the ground. It's a small thing perhaps - "just a dog" - but anyone who has been here before knows that it is more then that. She's my first dog, the puppy I dropped when I was 12 but forgave me the very next instant. Walked with me, played football and soccer with me, rode in my car, hunted easter eggs, ate christmas paper, and always welcomed me home.
Ten minutes ago I was too angry at anything to speak, but now just by looking at me she's made me forget half of all the rubbish.
8.17.2005
Frustrated
No one is that perfect, nothing is so sweet. What could be that beautiful? Money and perfection are not synonymous. One voice and one song transcend class and creed and clique. One day to change lives. This is what I have: a bit of money, a job, a concert, and a bus ride. This is what I have - this is what I can give. So...give that. One night to live, one night to lose. One life to live, one more to gain. Let us gain and lose too and stop pretending.
Pretending is not synonymous with beauty,
nor innocence with fear
Peace then? Peace.
8.11.2005
I say good day.
Did anyone watch the Peter Jenning's special on abc last night? Disney's network featured a two-hour, commercial-free commentary on the life and work of World News Tonight's late anchor. Now, I want to be clear - I have always, always, always been a Tom Brokaw loyalist prefering Brokaw's dry, sort of grandfatherly assertiveness to Jenning's silky approach which I always interpreted as a little weak and condescending. I've found myself in more then a few heated arguments about who is the better network news anchor, polling courtesy clerks at safeway, cashiers, people on the street, and fellow students. However, I retract any less then flattering things I've said about Mr. Peter Jennings during these debates and honor his passing by remarking on a man of insatiable curiosity, charm, intelligence, and awareness to the world around him.
Some deep blogging going on, people. There's a smattering of posting going on, some in big chunks, others in their usual steady stream - but really deep topics being addressed. I haven't had much of an inclination to write for the past week and a half or so -- my journal travels wherever I go from my bedside desk to the kitchen to my car to the machine shop where I work...but stays closed. Just resting. Sometimes, in fact most of the time, I prefer to absorb and listen to the thoughts of others -- of all of you rather then filling my ears with the scratching of my own pen.
Trust me when I say that I will wait for you. Trust me when I tell you that it hurts to look into your eyes -- and yet I can't look away. Eyes that sparkle in honesty and fly above triviality. Eyes that laugh easily, cry fearlessly, and judge slowly. Eyes that are made out of rain.
Ooo, wait...getting a scene here...ooo, gotta go write this down - enjoy your friday.
"I'm going to be honest with you, Bryan. That smells like pure gasoline"
Did anyone watch the Peter Jenning's special on abc last night? Disney's network featured a two-hour, commercial-free commentary on the life and work of World News Tonight's late anchor. Now, I want to be clear - I have always, always, always been a Tom Brokaw loyalist prefering Brokaw's dry, sort of grandfatherly assertiveness to Jenning's silky approach which I always interpreted as a little weak and condescending. I've found myself in more then a few heated arguments about who is the better network news anchor, polling courtesy clerks at safeway, cashiers, people on the street, and fellow students. However, I retract any less then flattering things I've said about Mr. Peter Jennings during these debates and honor his passing by remarking on a man of insatiable curiosity, charm, intelligence, and awareness to the world around him.
Some deep blogging going on, people. There's a smattering of posting going on, some in big chunks, others in their usual steady stream - but really deep topics being addressed. I haven't had much of an inclination to write for the past week and a half or so -- my journal travels wherever I go from my bedside desk to the kitchen to my car to the machine shop where I work...but stays closed. Just resting. Sometimes, in fact most of the time, I prefer to absorb and listen to the thoughts of others -- of all of you rather then filling my ears with the scratching of my own pen.
Trust me when I say that I will wait for you. Trust me when I tell you that it hurts to look into your eyes -- and yet I can't look away. Eyes that sparkle in honesty and fly above triviality. Eyes that laugh easily, cry fearlessly, and judge slowly. Eyes that are made out of rain.
Ooo, wait...getting a scene here...ooo, gotta go write this down - enjoy your friday.
"I'm going to be honest with you, Bryan. That smells like pure gasoline"
7.29.2005
When everyone is sleeping...
There is something wonderful about feeling the sun come up. Breathing the new chances and smelling the quiet peace. A quick 6.30am errand to Safeway turns into an adventure. An adventure because so few other people are experiencing it. Wonderful. Wonderful how the roads are empty, save a lone pickup and two motorcycles. There is an invisible mist - the kind that hangs over meadows and rolling hills in Ireland. Well - this one had its origins in our sprinkler system, but it's as close to Ireland as I can get. Trees are overgrowing the roads and spreading canopies over my favorite haunts. Everytime I go beneath a tree canopy in my car - it is magical and perfect and too good to be true. It speaks of quiet paths to hidden coves and new beginnings, stray sunbeams casting pinpoint spotlights on unsuspecting celebrities of the moment. I'm not a morning person - not yet, but I'm getting dangerously close.
7.28.2005
I see
i watched a kite and his boy. i saw him set the line and angle the wings.
Go! Run! To the grips!
blonde hair bleached by the sun ran along the length of string, arms pumping beside him until he arrives, panting, at his post. Spinning away from the wind, he raises the grips to his chest and pulls with all his might. A moment's hesitation before the great blue and white canvas delta rises shakily into the sky. Air swells beneath it for a moment but fades quickly, and the kite falls gracefully back to the freshly cut grass.
Come back! My line needs straightening! I must face the winds! Hurry, before we miss the next gust!
run he does - again and again without lasting success until finally, back hunched in defeat, the small boy shoulders his massive flyer and trudges out of sight.
Don't worry. I loved it anway.
Communion
"Repent!" comes the call. Just return, but the road is tired and my soles are full of holes. What!?! Evil that I never consider in the midst of my passions. Blood I don't feel dripping from my eyes and off my chin. Too much pain to even feel anymore. No, I don't feel it -- but I know it's there -- after I've gnashed my teeth and thrown my body upon the rocks among the tombs. "Savior!" comes my drunken call, my chain wrapping my neck as a boa constrictor -- links that imprint and scar.
You've answered my crazed screams again...again...In disbelief I watch you coming -- walking on water and riding the clouds. Ashamed at Your mercy and faithfulness in light of myself, I slip into an empty tomb, hiding myself in darkness. But the light -- Your light comes out of even the darkness. And your shining grows -- beginning from the deepest black where not even the most devilish creatures dare to go. You conquer death and so have beaten them all. Your golden warmth flows across the dusty floor like a flooding river, reverse waterfalls that climb the walls. A song. What is it? Beautiful. And the shepherd finds me again - alone and cold, bleeding and saturated. Tempted by the best-looking fruit but trapped in the ugliest tomb.
You smile and touch my cheek, "Sweet child of mine. I know. Return with me. The rocks on the way back are sharp - the way is dangerous. I will carry you." It is then that I see the gashes of Your feet and the blisters on Your heel. Calloused hands and a sweat-soaked tunic. But Your eyes are only for me. Loving me. As You walk I bury my head in Your chest and sob -- but Your footing is sure and Your pace is swift. We walk on water and ride the clouds together. Back. Back to Peace.
You've answered my crazed screams again...again...In disbelief I watch you coming -- walking on water and riding the clouds. Ashamed at Your mercy and faithfulness in light of myself, I slip into an empty tomb, hiding myself in darkness. But the light -- Your light comes out of even the darkness. And your shining grows -- beginning from the deepest black where not even the most devilish creatures dare to go. You conquer death and so have beaten them all. Your golden warmth flows across the dusty floor like a flooding river, reverse waterfalls that climb the walls. A song. What is it? Beautiful. And the shepherd finds me again - alone and cold, bleeding and saturated. Tempted by the best-looking fruit but trapped in the ugliest tomb.
You smile and touch my cheek, "Sweet child of mine. I know. Return with me. The rocks on the way back are sharp - the way is dangerous. I will carry you." It is then that I see the gashes of Your feet and the blisters on Your heel. Calloused hands and a sweat-soaked tunic. But Your eyes are only for me. Loving me. As You walk I bury my head in Your chest and sob -- but Your footing is sure and Your pace is swift. We walk on water and ride the clouds together. Back. Back to Peace.
but who are we
really
to theorize
and philosophize
which feeble ideas
are left to try
really
to theorize
and philosophize
which feeble ideas
are left to try
evil thinks of
ways to
take
and break
to prod with iron
their quiet ache
who has been
lost in
drink
can't think
how far will they
let you sink
until one of us
must
dive
and cry
that we are full
of lies
now let me
jump
to redeem
your screams
till all's left
are dreams
let me look to your eyes and sigh
before we both must die.
Found
Beneath a pile of car magazines and 3x5 photos of Michigan under my bed. Scrawled on a scrap peace of paper, written I'm not sure when.
I feel like I'm always plotting, scheming, or seething. Always jealous over something or someone, trapped in my insecure lies and whispering doubts. Where is my beach? Where is my island? What arrogance! I always want them to come to me. Always. Fear. Fear that they don't want me, never did, and won't unless I scheme...master plan.
I feel like I'm always plotting, scheming, or seething. Always jealous over something or someone, trapped in my insecure lies and whispering doubts. Where is my beach? Where is my island? What arrogance! I always want them to come to me. Always. Fear. Fear that they don't want me, never did, and won't unless I scheme...master plan.
7.25.2005
7.23.2005
3x5
"Maybe I will tell you all about it when I'm
in the mood to lose my way
but let me say
You should have seen that sunrise with your own eyes
it brought me back to life
You'll be with me next time I go outside
NO more 3x5's "
--John Mayer: 3x5
Today I sat at a stop sign (in my car) in the thriving, tiny town of Buckley while crooning Alyson Krauss and scanning the busy intersection for my opening to enter traffic.
He was truding along the shoulder of 410 with his thumb protruding from a clenched and dirty fist. A blue hiker's pack half the size of his body sat high on his back. An ice pick was strapped to the front of the pack and the glistening blade of a hatchet reflected the soon to be setting sun.
I was excited to pick him up. Only twice before have I had the opportunity to give a ride to a stranger. Once to a skater whose truck ran out of gas -- and once to a young lady on the side of the freeway at 2 am. The skater was only too happy to not have to ride his short board next to cars flying by him at 80 mph. The girl was scared of me and refused my help.
"I can get you to Enumclaw!" I yelled out my window as a I slowed to match his barely-walking pace. He threw up his hands in disbelief and shouted his thanks when I pulled over in front of him. He was beside himself with excitement and it took him three tries before he finally managed to successfully throw his pack through the back door and onto the backseat. I couldn't help but chuckle as he leapt into the passenger side and found himself tangled in my automatic seatbelt. His left boot found it's way to crush the pages of the Bible on my car floor and I smiled knowing that Jesus didn't mind. He'd been backpacking -- hiking for five days in the mountains and had made it to 7900 feet. He was so excited about the rolls of film in his pack -- he had caught the orange glow of sunset on mt. rainier last night -- along with Galen's beautiful cloud formation.
"I'm tired, man. I'm tired. I stink bad, huh? Most rest I've had is two hours sleep at a time...You know going that long without sleep -- that's kind of a high by itself. My mistake was stopping in...last nite. I had 9 beers coming down the trail yesterday, you know how that goes. You're young, huh? You look like a big partyer, huh? The colors, man! You just have to go up these mountains and see the colors. Every hue from this glaring sunlight we have here to orange and purple -- i can't even explain it, man. Wow. That's another high. A natural high. Take it from me, friend, well -- all us hikers will tell you the same thing -- you have to get out there for yourself. See these things for yourself. Yeah, I'm crazy. And I'm tired. High too."
For fifteen minutes we chatted happily about my size (he noticed with interest the small stretch marks on my "large" arms), clear-cut logging, and how much weed he had just smoked. I dropped him off in front of a quiet set of apartments and wished him a blessing, so happy to have known him if just for a quarter of an hour. We shook hands and exchanged names -- I don't remember his. He shouldered his pack and watched me drive away -- nice guy that.
I hope I can see that mountain too -- in as many colors when it seems so big, so close that I am part of it. Falling into its tangelo glaciers and hurtling toward its rose purple peak.
in the mood to lose my way
but let me say
You should have seen that sunrise with your own eyes
it brought me back to life
You'll be with me next time I go outside
NO more 3x5's "
--John Mayer: 3x5
Today I sat at a stop sign (in my car) in the thriving, tiny town of Buckley while crooning Alyson Krauss and scanning the busy intersection for my opening to enter traffic.
He was truding along the shoulder of 410 with his thumb protruding from a clenched and dirty fist. A blue hiker's pack half the size of his body sat high on his back. An ice pick was strapped to the front of the pack and the glistening blade of a hatchet reflected the soon to be setting sun.
I was excited to pick him up. Only twice before have I had the opportunity to give a ride to a stranger. Once to a skater whose truck ran out of gas -- and once to a young lady on the side of the freeway at 2 am. The skater was only too happy to not have to ride his short board next to cars flying by him at 80 mph. The girl was scared of me and refused my help.
"I can get you to Enumclaw!" I yelled out my window as a I slowed to match his barely-walking pace. He threw up his hands in disbelief and shouted his thanks when I pulled over in front of him. He was beside himself with excitement and it took him three tries before he finally managed to successfully throw his pack through the back door and onto the backseat. I couldn't help but chuckle as he leapt into the passenger side and found himself tangled in my automatic seatbelt. His left boot found it's way to crush the pages of the Bible on my car floor and I smiled knowing that Jesus didn't mind. He'd been backpacking -- hiking for five days in the mountains and had made it to 7900 feet. He was so excited about the rolls of film in his pack -- he had caught the orange glow of sunset on mt. rainier last night -- along with Galen's beautiful cloud formation.
"I'm tired, man. I'm tired. I stink bad, huh? Most rest I've had is two hours sleep at a time...You know going that long without sleep -- that's kind of a high by itself. My mistake was stopping in...last nite. I had 9 beers coming down the trail yesterday, you know how that goes. You're young, huh? You look like a big partyer, huh? The colors, man! You just have to go up these mountains and see the colors. Every hue from this glaring sunlight we have here to orange and purple -- i can't even explain it, man. Wow. That's another high. A natural high. Take it from me, friend, well -- all us hikers will tell you the same thing -- you have to get out there for yourself. See these things for yourself. Yeah, I'm crazy. And I'm tired. High too."
For fifteen minutes we chatted happily about my size (he noticed with interest the small stretch marks on my "large" arms), clear-cut logging, and how much weed he had just smoked. I dropped him off in front of a quiet set of apartments and wished him a blessing, so happy to have known him if just for a quarter of an hour. We shook hands and exchanged names -- I don't remember his. He shouldered his pack and watched me drive away -- nice guy that.
I hope I can see that mountain too -- in as many colors when it seems so big, so close that I am part of it. Falling into its tangelo glaciers and hurtling toward its rose purple peak.
7.18.2005
I think there might be more freedom on a motorcycle. I envision a cleansing wind slapping my face and forcefully pushing away every question and fear, every worry and wasted tear. Either the throaty rumble of an American Vtwin or the killer bee scream of a crotch rocket to serenade my escape. I wouldn't wait for red lights, just keep my wrist into the throttle -- already seeing the curves ahead. There would be nothing but a thin, split-second worth of air seperating me from 3,000lb of steel or waiting, black asphalt as I fly above and beside them. Pavement that reaches up to grab me and bring me to my end, but a little more pressure from my right hand and I am already gone.
Already gone.
Already gone.
7.10.2005
I'm writing a poem about suicide -- suicide -- suicide. I'm not doing it, don't want to and by God's grace never will. But I was thinking about it today. I want to say that a lot of things are trivial. They don't matter - they're unimportant. There's other things to think about. To stress about. To be angry over. But at the same time I can't deny I'm at fault. I hurt people too. I disappoint people too. I let them down, turn them around, and hope it will all be okay. Noone ever means to hurt anyone -- well, that's not true but it's nice to say and hear. So, I'd like to justify myself and be angry at them in return but I can't.
I'm going to see someone today who I don't want to see. I don't like him, want to hate him, and hoped to never see his face again. He never did anything to me. He never hurt me. But he did many things and hurt someone I love. So he did all those things to me.
Today I'll forgive and ask forgiveness and start tomorrow anew. Tonight I'll pray to be free of this rage that builds beneath my ribs. Please be in peace, from the bottom of my heart I hope, wish, and pray that everyone in the world and especially you do not share a spot with me on this rotting bridge -- but that you rest in quiet peace.
I'm going to see someone today who I don't want to see. I don't like him, want to hate him, and hoped to never see his face again. He never did anything to me. He never hurt me. But he did many things and hurt someone I love. So he did all those things to me.
Today I'll forgive and ask forgiveness and start tomorrow anew. Tonight I'll pray to be free of this rage that builds beneath my ribs. Please be in peace, from the bottom of my heart I hope, wish, and pray that everyone in the world and especially you do not share a spot with me on this rotting bridge -- but that you rest in quiet peace.
7.07.2005
Dear Africa,
I'm writing to congratulate you on the fabulous success of your story depicted in the full feature film Hotel Rwanda. It had all the elements that make a smash-hit from the start with suspense, action, tear-jerking emotion to the nines, a moving cast -- just a great movie. It even managed to cause a bit of a stir for a month or so stateside as people began to wonder what our country is doing to help, what the real condition of African nations is, etc. That is, until oil prices topped $50 a barrel and we moved on to more pressing matters that affect us directly.
Of course, America is the most generous state on earth and collectively our governments gives billions of dollars to your nations in the hope that it will trickle down to the people who need it. Our charities are huge and active in your countries. We hope you understand that these things go on in the background of our psyche -- it's much too guilt-inducing and heavy to be spoken about in public. Besides, the situation seems to be under control. President Bush was on tv just yesterday saying that America already gives enough money, that significantly more aid is really going over the top and most of it ends up in the laps of corrupt governments anyway. Besides, if there was a real crisis it would be on the evening news. Seriously, if 3.6 million people were starving in Niger alone or 166,000 children died every year from preventable diseases in that country* -- it would at least make the front page of the newspaper. Heck, it would probably be there everyday considering the sheer numbers of human suffering. They would urge us to action, to volunteer, to give more to private charities. Millions of people dieing of disease, starvation, or ethnic cleansing and civil war? If that were really happening, to real people, in a real place we would spare no expense to help those people. I think we can all rest easy -- pretty sure that our tax dollars are enough to help you out, as I'm sure you agree.
Anyway, stay in touch. We might contact you again in a few years to see if any of the over 15 million people who have died of AIDS** have any good stories we can make a movie about. O, and if you could please call off all these noisy protestors who keep claiming you can't take care of yourself. They're ruining our economic summits and making a scene.
I'm writing to congratulate you on the fabulous success of your story depicted in the full feature film Hotel Rwanda. It had all the elements that make a smash-hit from the start with suspense, action, tear-jerking emotion to the nines, a moving cast -- just a great movie. It even managed to cause a bit of a stir for a month or so stateside as people began to wonder what our country is doing to help, what the real condition of African nations is, etc. That is, until oil prices topped $50 a barrel and we moved on to more pressing matters that affect us directly.
Of course, America is the most generous state on earth and collectively our governments gives billions of dollars to your nations in the hope that it will trickle down to the people who need it. Our charities are huge and active in your countries. We hope you understand that these things go on in the background of our psyche -- it's much too guilt-inducing and heavy to be spoken about in public. Besides, the situation seems to be under control. President Bush was on tv just yesterday saying that America already gives enough money, that significantly more aid is really going over the top and most of it ends up in the laps of corrupt governments anyway. Besides, if there was a real crisis it would be on the evening news. Seriously, if 3.6 million people were starving in Niger alone or 166,000 children died every year from preventable diseases in that country* -- it would at least make the front page of the newspaper. Heck, it would probably be there everyday considering the sheer numbers of human suffering. They would urge us to action, to volunteer, to give more to private charities. Millions of people dieing of disease, starvation, or ethnic cleansing and civil war? If that were really happening, to real people, in a real place we would spare no expense to help those people. I think we can all rest easy -- pretty sure that our tax dollars are enough to help you out, as I'm sure you agree.
Anyway, stay in touch. We might contact you again in a few years to see if any of the over 15 million people who have died of AIDS** have any good stories we can make a movie about. O, and if you could please call off all these noisy protestors who keep claiming you can't take care of yourself. They're ruining our economic summits and making a scene.
Best Wishes,
The Free World
*Stat: World Vision
**Stat: lifeissues.net
7.06.2005
Steve comes home tonite. Hooray, this makes me happy. Now we'll have three weeks of me driving him around, bent on his every whim in every spare moment of my time when I'm not working. Happy. Oo, and he can play guitar and piano and show me how much better he is at them. Yea. And then he can beat me at hearts, cribbage, five card poker, texas hold 'em, running, jumping, hiking, camping, basketball, bowling, golf, speed, swimming, scum, halo, halo2, and knowing what elements chrome is made out of. Sweeeet.
Somehow, steve, it has never bothered me that you're better then me at...at...ahem, EVERYTHING. This is gonna be a killer three weeks. :)
(if you look closely, that is drool pooling on the carpet below stevo's lip)
7.04.2005
Happy Birthday, America
July 4, 1776-July 4, 2005.
229 years of independence, freedom and the promise of a fair chance to anyone that they could become anything they wished, if only they worked hard. We're not perfect, we have some ugly things in our history that we have owned up to and are pressing forward to overcome. Whether we agree or disagree with the direction of our country, the most beautiful thing is just that - the ability to applaud or dissent. So lets be thankful and celebrate the courage and sacrifice of a few men from thirteen colonies whose decisions to declare their independence would create the most powerful, most advanced civilization in the history of the world.
(Adopted by Congress on July 4, 1776)
The Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen United States of America
When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security. --Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.
229 years of independence, freedom and the promise of a fair chance to anyone that they could become anything they wished, if only they worked hard. We're not perfect, we have some ugly things in our history that we have owned up to and are pressing forward to overcome. Whether we agree or disagree with the direction of our country, the most beautiful thing is just that - the ability to applaud or dissent. So lets be thankful and celebrate the courage and sacrifice of a few men from thirteen colonies whose decisions to declare their independence would create the most powerful, most advanced civilization in the history of the world.
(Adopted by Congress on July 4, 1776)
The Unanimous Declaration of the Thirteen United States of America
When, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bonds which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and of nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed. That whenever any form of government becomes destructive to these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security. --Such has been the patient sufferance of these colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former systems of government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute tyranny over these states. To prove this, let facts be submitted to a candid world.
...
We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things which independent states may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.
We, therefore, the representatives of the United States of America, in General Congress, assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the name, and by the authority of the good people of these colonies, solemnly publish and declare, that these united colonies are, and of right ought to be free and independent states; that they are absolved from all allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the state of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as free and independent states, they have full power to levy war, conclude peace, contract alliances, establish commerce, and to do all other acts and things which independent states may of right do. And for the support of this declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor.
New Hampshire: Josiah Bartlett, William Whipple, Matthew Thornton
Massachusetts: John Hancock, Samual Adams, John Adams, Robert Treat Paine, Elbridge Gerry
Rhode Island: Stephen Hopkins, William Ellery
Connecticut: Roger Sherman, Samuel Huntington, William Williams, Oliver Wolcott
New York: William Floyd, Philip Livingston, Francis Lewis, Lewis Morris
New Jersey: Richard Stockton, John Witherspoon, Francis Hopkinson, John Hart, Abraham Clark
Pennsylvania: Robert Morris, Benjamin Rush, Benjamin Franklin, John Morton, George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, James Wilson, George Ross
Delaware: Caesar Rodney, George Read, Thomas McKean
Maryland: Samuel Chase, William Paca, Thomas Stone, Charles Carroll of Carrollton
Virginia: George Wythe, Richard Henry Lee, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Harrison, Thomas Nelson, Jr., Francis Lightfoot Lee, Carter Braxton
North Carolina: William Hooper, Joseph Hewes, John Penn
South Carolina: Edward Rutledge, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Thomas Lynch, Jr., Arthur Middleton
Georgia: Button Gwinnett, Lyman Hall, George Walton
Massachusetts: John Hancock, Samual Adams, John Adams, Robert Treat Paine, Elbridge Gerry
Rhode Island: Stephen Hopkins, William Ellery
Connecticut: Roger Sherman, Samuel Huntington, William Williams, Oliver Wolcott
New York: William Floyd, Philip Livingston, Francis Lewis, Lewis Morris
New Jersey: Richard Stockton, John Witherspoon, Francis Hopkinson, John Hart, Abraham Clark
Pennsylvania: Robert Morris, Benjamin Rush, Benjamin Franklin, John Morton, George Clymer, James Smith, George Taylor, James Wilson, George Ross
Delaware: Caesar Rodney, George Read, Thomas McKean
Maryland: Samuel Chase, William Paca, Thomas Stone, Charles Carroll of Carrollton
Virginia: George Wythe, Richard Henry Lee, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Harrison, Thomas Nelson, Jr., Francis Lightfoot Lee, Carter Braxton
North Carolina: William Hooper, Joseph Hewes, John Penn
South Carolina: Edward Rutledge, Thomas Heyward, Jr., Thomas Lynch, Jr., Arthur Middleton
Georgia: Button Gwinnett, Lyman Hall, George Walton
7.02.2005
Addict
"Hey, mister, there's no smoking in here!" The young busboy shouted, pointing at a sign that featured a cigarette with a line drawn through it.
The long, thick man in an unbuttoned overcoat with upturned collars snorted in response. He slowly tapped the filter of his as yet unlit smoke while he regarded its features. Broncos. Broncos... So utterly American. They probably pictured some rugged, muscled, handsome man with 3 days of unshaven growth on a face overshadowed by a Stetson cowboy hat. If you smoke Broncos -- you'll be a cowboy. Nevermind that most of the cattle in this country was pumped out like cars from an assembly line and the only bronco 98% of the nation had ever seen was at a rodeo. And whatever fat cats produced those were probably publically anti-smoking...Such an unpopular thing these days.
Sending an arrogant look in the busboy's direction, the man in the overcoat lifted the rolled tobacco to his lips and held it there loosely for a moment. An overweight man with a fake Rolex looked up from his greasy plate of eggs and took in the scene with growing interest.
Using his left hand, the man pulled his hunter green derby tighter over his eyes, and with his right searched for the book of matches always in residence in his back pocket. He struck a match and the fat man gasped above the hiss of burning sulfer and clutched the edges of the bar. Just as he lifted the match to the waiting Bronco, a new patron opened a door and the kick of wind snuffed out the match.
Annoyed, the man in the overcoat glared at the new guy for a second before turning his attention back to the cylinder of Americana dangling from his lips. The busboy looked at him again and shrugged before scampering into the kitchen. The second match fell to the ground with his sloppy strike. Finally, he held his third match in slightly trembling fingers and touched the small flame to the edge of the white paper. A crackle followed by a hiss and a small thread of white smoke snaked its way to the ceiling. Pulling deeply, the man tried to let himself drift into what images the feel, taste, and the draw of the Bronco would bring. To his disappointment, instead of cowboys and the Old West and John Wayne, it left only a legacy of burning brush and rotting driftwood. He looked up to see a man in a blue jacket with a polished, gold nameplate that said: Manager.
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
The long, thick man in an unbuttoned overcoat with upturned collars snorted in response. He slowly tapped the filter of his as yet unlit smoke while he regarded its features. Broncos. Broncos... So utterly American. They probably pictured some rugged, muscled, handsome man with 3 days of unshaven growth on a face overshadowed by a Stetson cowboy hat. If you smoke Broncos -- you'll be a cowboy. Nevermind that most of the cattle in this country was pumped out like cars from an assembly line and the only bronco 98% of the nation had ever seen was at a rodeo. And whatever fat cats produced those were probably publically anti-smoking...Such an unpopular thing these days.
Sending an arrogant look in the busboy's direction, the man in the overcoat lifted the rolled tobacco to his lips and held it there loosely for a moment. An overweight man with a fake Rolex looked up from his greasy plate of eggs and took in the scene with growing interest.
Using his left hand, the man pulled his hunter green derby tighter over his eyes, and with his right searched for the book of matches always in residence in his back pocket. He struck a match and the fat man gasped above the hiss of burning sulfer and clutched the edges of the bar. Just as he lifted the match to the waiting Bronco, a new patron opened a door and the kick of wind snuffed out the match.
Annoyed, the man in the overcoat glared at the new guy for a second before turning his attention back to the cylinder of Americana dangling from his lips. The busboy looked at him again and shrugged before scampering into the kitchen. The second match fell to the ground with his sloppy strike. Finally, he held his third match in slightly trembling fingers and touched the small flame to the edge of the white paper. A crackle followed by a hiss and a small thread of white smoke snaked its way to the ceiling. Pulling deeply, the man tried to let himself drift into what images the feel, taste, and the draw of the Bronco would bring. To his disappointment, instead of cowboys and the Old West and John Wayne, it left only a legacy of burning brush and rotting driftwood. He looked up to see a man in a blue jacket with a polished, gold nameplate that said: Manager.
"I'm sorry, sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."
6.29.2005
Grind
Thursday signals the end of my second week on the job in the Maintenance Department of the distinguished Fife school district. We work a stellar schedule of 4x10's Monday through Thursday giving us three day weekends every week. This is a plus, but also requires my alarm to go off at 4am. This is not a plus. I will survive. I am suriving. :)
The guys I work with are awesome, hilarious. Middle age to old with some of the dryest humor in the maintenace biz. There's Song, the Korean who has worked here for over 20 years but still speaks thickly broken English, and a guy who I only know by the name of Ornery. Which I know is a joke, but I don't know his real name yet because that's all anyone calls him. He has a purple spot on the end of his nose and smokes Bronco cigarettes. I've never heard of that brand before, but he smokes two during morning break while relating how he knew a guy in highschool who would spit the metal bridge out of his mouth into fellow student's drinks to claim them for himself. We play cribbage between mouthfuls of PB&J or spaghetti during lunch and ride in trucks without wearing our seatbelts. O yes, we're dangerous - on the edge of madness with a scraper blade in one hand and a fire-proof filing cabinet in the other - don't mess with us.
So far, my job has consisted of running a wire brush and scraper over the exterior of the Junior High building, followed by two days of painting. On hot, sunny days like today, the shower of paint chips flying off the old wooden boards sticks to my arms, gets in my hair, eyes, mouth, and down the back of my shirt. Nasty work. Painting is much better, though the fumes can bring out the craziness in anyone. Now, I've been trying to eat better to get in muy bueno shape so I find myself craving junk food all the time. I was stirring the paint in my pan with my finger this afternoon and found it surprisingly cool on the warm day. For some reason, this reminded me of chocolate pudding. The next thing I know, my finger is two inches from my face with every intention of getting closer. That, friends, would have been some sick chocolate pudding. Later, as I scraped a pillar ten feet in the air, I felt my hand hitting something over and over as my arm arm went back and forth across the wood. I looked down to see my hand bleeding as I repeatedly slammed it into the blade of another scraper I'd stuck in the wood earlier. Someone stop me.
Cheerio, all.
The guys I work with are awesome, hilarious. Middle age to old with some of the dryest humor in the maintenace biz. There's Song, the Korean who has worked here for over 20 years but still speaks thickly broken English, and a guy who I only know by the name of Ornery. Which I know is a joke, but I don't know his real name yet because that's all anyone calls him. He has a purple spot on the end of his nose and smokes Bronco cigarettes. I've never heard of that brand before, but he smokes two during morning break while relating how he knew a guy in highschool who would spit the metal bridge out of his mouth into fellow student's drinks to claim them for himself. We play cribbage between mouthfuls of PB&J or spaghetti during lunch and ride in trucks without wearing our seatbelts. O yes, we're dangerous - on the edge of madness with a scraper blade in one hand and a fire-proof filing cabinet in the other - don't mess with us.
So far, my job has consisted of running a wire brush and scraper over the exterior of the Junior High building, followed by two days of painting. On hot, sunny days like today, the shower of paint chips flying off the old wooden boards sticks to my arms, gets in my hair, eyes, mouth, and down the back of my shirt. Nasty work. Painting is much better, though the fumes can bring out the craziness in anyone. Now, I've been trying to eat better to get in muy bueno shape so I find myself craving junk food all the time. I was stirring the paint in my pan with my finger this afternoon and found it surprisingly cool on the warm day. For some reason, this reminded me of chocolate pudding. The next thing I know, my finger is two inches from my face with every intention of getting closer. That, friends, would have been some sick chocolate pudding. Later, as I scraped a pillar ten feet in the air, I felt my hand hitting something over and over as my arm arm went back and forth across the wood. I looked down to see my hand bleeding as I repeatedly slammed it into the blade of another scraper I'd stuck in the wood earlier. Someone stop me.
Cheerio, all.
6.20.2005
Games
It’s a backyard game atmosphere, and that is fine with him. Because he doesn’t belong here – so it is just as well that the other players are as likely to laugh as to cuss, to be drinking beer as Gatorade.
It was hot out, sticky, and the roof of his mouth clung to his tongue between gasps for air. Occasionally, a stray elbow or knee found its way to his gut making him wince with pain as air left him in a thin wheeze.
Sweat dripped from his fingertips, ran down his forehead into his muddy brown eyes, and matted his back – turning the grey Puma t-shirt into a dark, second-skin. Flecks of blood oozed from knuckles and a purple mound appeared on the left corner of his lip.
The game moved in a haze, blurred snapshots passing quickly in his vision. Every sound was slurred and seemed to last for eternity, lagging behind the images it accompanied. Every millisecond slowed and demanded it be noticed and recognized.
Now and then, his eyes went black and the sounds disappeared. Only the crunch of cartilage as a fist met with his face or chest. When his sight returned, it was a little dimmer then before, but that was alright. A nod in the offender’s direction – almost in thanks.
Then he drew the back of his hand across his face, wiping clotted blood and saliva, mucus and tears. Turning from the others, he spat a chip from a tooth into a group of clover, and shuddered.
He didn’t belong here, but at least they let him stay.
It was hot out, sticky, and the roof of his mouth clung to his tongue between gasps for air. Occasionally, a stray elbow or knee found its way to his gut making him wince with pain as air left him in a thin wheeze.
Sweat dripped from his fingertips, ran down his forehead into his muddy brown eyes, and matted his back – turning the grey Puma t-shirt into a dark, second-skin. Flecks of blood oozed from knuckles and a purple mound appeared on the left corner of his lip.
The game moved in a haze, blurred snapshots passing quickly in his vision. Every sound was slurred and seemed to last for eternity, lagging behind the images it accompanied. Every millisecond slowed and demanded it be noticed and recognized.
Now and then, his eyes went black and the sounds disappeared. Only the crunch of cartilage as a fist met with his face or chest. When his sight returned, it was a little dimmer then before, but that was alright. A nod in the offender’s direction – almost in thanks.
Then he drew the back of his hand across his face, wiping clotted blood and saliva, mucus and tears. Turning from the others, he spat a chip from a tooth into a group of clover, and shuddered.
He didn’t belong here, but at least they let him stay.
6.16.2005
Battle Animalia
This is one of my fishes. Inside his little heart he is actually a piranha the size of a blue whale. He will eat Steve's gorilla. So there.
6.09.2005
6.04.2005
Discovered!
The secret to a long and happy marriage: "a glass of whiskey, a glass of sherry, and the word 'sorry'."
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/8047095/?GT1=6657
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/8047095/?GT1=6657
5.13.2005
BabyBlue
A lot of things happen in our lives. A lot of things happen every single day. Many of these events coast by our subconscious, becoming individual, unnoticeable brush strokes on the mural of our lives. After all, how important is that single drop of baby blue in a ten foot by ten foot painting of a cloudless sky? It would seem the answer is not very, if at all. The same drop of baby blue, however, let fall on ten feet by ten feet of blank snow-white canvas would become the foremost subject of importance. Once lost in a sea of his fellows, the stray tear of paint finds himself discussed, dissected, and applauded (or scorned) in turn. I believe we have the power to turn any of these normally pixilated moments into that dramatic stroke which brings everything to a climax. To invoke a clich̩, if it were indeed our last act on earth Рor at least our last act of any consequence it would indeed be that final stroke which brings everything into perspective. Am I then suggesting that we live ever mindful and fearful of our last day? Not at all, but is it so far from our capabilities to adapt an attitude of selfless compassion?
For example, when I walk campus I have become accustomed to wearing an expression that betrays neither vulnerability nor contempt. I’ve often thought of the Ocean’s Eleven quote when Brad Pitt’s character instructs Matt Damon on the finer points of robbing a casino: “Don't shift your weight, look always at your mark but don't stare, be specific but not memorable, be funny but don't make him laugh. He's got to like you then forget you the moment you've left his side.” I lift weights most days of the week, straining to attain a physique that would be both attractive and intimidating. I shy away from people who comment on my size, refusing to flex and show off the very thing I’ve worked hard to get for several months. Rather I posture myself like something from the Discovery Channel, hoping it is an effective defense against any potential threat. I file many of my idiosyncrasies beneath the umbrella of defense. I have convinced myself that so many threats lie on the other side of my skin that I walk with porcupine quills raised and skunk tail poised in warning to anyone that would come close. At the same time, I desire to be open. To be loved because I love.
I pass so many people, so many lone drops of paint. I wonder how many of them are about to give up, or already have. Who needs only to hear their name? Or sit next to someone while they pick at their vegetarian lunch? It used to be what I did. When I was a kid, I went out of my way for other people without a second thought. It was second nature to give up the best seat or my favorite milkshake for someone else. What happened?
Where does the child’s trust and indiscriminating love go? Somewhere in the cracking voice of puberty, high school football, and – and – I guess friends, the boy realized that to have friends he must be popular and to be popular he must be mean. He was wrong, of course, and knew it. But he was pressed anyway, little by little until he had changed.
It’s a difficult time, now. Sandwiched between the desperate realization that I’m not sure who I am, and the pressing urgency of making choices that will affect “the rest of my life,” I know that the only thing I am sure of is that I am not really ready for all of this. Time out. I need a break. I need a lakehouse with a few good people, good food, good drink, a boat, and nothing to do.
For example, when I walk campus I have become accustomed to wearing an expression that betrays neither vulnerability nor contempt. I’ve often thought of the Ocean’s Eleven quote when Brad Pitt’s character instructs Matt Damon on the finer points of robbing a casino: “Don't shift your weight, look always at your mark but don't stare, be specific but not memorable, be funny but don't make him laugh. He's got to like you then forget you the moment you've left his side.” I lift weights most days of the week, straining to attain a physique that would be both attractive and intimidating. I shy away from people who comment on my size, refusing to flex and show off the very thing I’ve worked hard to get for several months. Rather I posture myself like something from the Discovery Channel, hoping it is an effective defense against any potential threat. I file many of my idiosyncrasies beneath the umbrella of defense. I have convinced myself that so many threats lie on the other side of my skin that I walk with porcupine quills raised and skunk tail poised in warning to anyone that would come close. At the same time, I desire to be open. To be loved because I love.
I pass so many people, so many lone drops of paint. I wonder how many of them are about to give up, or already have. Who needs only to hear their name? Or sit next to someone while they pick at their vegetarian lunch? It used to be what I did. When I was a kid, I went out of my way for other people without a second thought. It was second nature to give up the best seat or my favorite milkshake for someone else. What happened?
Where does the child’s trust and indiscriminating love go? Somewhere in the cracking voice of puberty, high school football, and – and – I guess friends, the boy realized that to have friends he must be popular and to be popular he must be mean. He was wrong, of course, and knew it. But he was pressed anyway, little by little until he had changed.
It’s a difficult time, now. Sandwiched between the desperate realization that I’m not sure who I am, and the pressing urgency of making choices that will affect “the rest of my life,” I know that the only thing I am sure of is that I am not really ready for all of this. Time out. I need a break. I need a lakehouse with a few good people, good food, good drink, a boat, and nothing to do.
5.11.2005
5.07.2005
It's Finally Raining
A dimmer, yellower light. And a cleaner surface. Why am I never in the ideal? So I heard all again, heard it all again. Saw it too. But...strange...somewhere along the way I started to decide that I didn't like it anymore. Odd. To have everything within me scream to resist exactly that which it so desires. Odd. Though not really odd at all. It's been thoroughly, completely explained to me. Rationalized, theorized, taught, learned, considered -- case closed. But here it rages. A thought occurs to me. Would I change -- if it were all a lie, I mean. I don't think I would. I'm awfully safe, aren't I? Boringly, horribly safe. O, I have my adventures from time to time...but...they always rest with someone else. To my horror, I find myself looking through a brochure for the dread isle Security. Surprise! I'm in the business of surviving. Well now. That IS a disappointment. What influence! Smiling, nodding. "O yes! I would love that!" (and I would too) but something is wrong here. And it suddenly becomes imperative that I identify it. I am living through the independence of those dear people around me? Have I become dependent on their drug of freedom? Where would I find myself if shipwrecked? I know not.
Then it really hasn't changed at all. Desperately seeking the acceptance of new friends and the assurance of old ones, I become a hue of gray, blending invisible through the Fireworks, Overt Greens, and Revel Blues. How do I find my color? Will God show me if I ask Him? I think He would. But -- I am afraid. Afraid to speak to Him. Afraid He may not be real (a stupid thought). Afraid that I may decide I don't like Him anymore. Again. There are so many tomorrows. There are so many yesterdays. Only one today. Today I am afraid. My eyes moisten a little just at the thought. Sad. Is there any happy ending? O, I know about the one tomorrow, and the one next month. But today. Are there any happy ending today?
Then it really hasn't changed at all. Desperately seeking the acceptance of new friends and the assurance of old ones, I become a hue of gray, blending invisible through the Fireworks, Overt Greens, and Revel Blues. How do I find my color? Will God show me if I ask Him? I think He would. But -- I am afraid. Afraid to speak to Him. Afraid He may not be real (a stupid thought). Afraid that I may decide I don't like Him anymore. Again. There are so many tomorrows. There are so many yesterdays. Only one today. Today I am afraid. My eyes moisten a little just at the thought. Sad. Is there any happy ending? O, I know about the one tomorrow, and the one next month. But today. Are there any happy ending today?
5.01.2005
4.29.2005
Morning Pillar
No, he doesn't know why everything always turns out this way. He doesn't feel anything when he wakes up with her the next day. He wishes there was rain -- and thunder -- and wind. But all he has is a faith that's wearing thin. She is not awake yet, the ocean breeze sends a wisp of her walnut hair to play along her face. And he is steeped in their regret -- or his, but she will join him soon. Lying in white silk, white everywhere: on sheets, pillars, and drapes. The ocean's waves accuse them while its roar gives an excuse. She moves a little and reaches for his arm. Invisible, unexplainable is the attraction that pulls them together. They will never be happy in this life, though when the sun sets just so -- then he thinks they will. But how can they? Money, jewels, drink, and parties...palms and oceans and sex. Even love, yes love, and cars, travel, books, and music --this is all they have. Marble floors are cold in the morning and he gives them a look to match. She is awake now and her green eyes search his. There is a smile there, even a spark. But they can't hide her despair when she realizes he is only him and nothing else.
4.22.2005
Moon and Cheese
I think i may have forgotten my own voice -- as tragic as that is. When I write, I wonder if it's really me or some cheap immitation. Cheap...and weak too. Jesus, fill me and let this be the place of my battle. He's right, I'm right. It's all worthless without You. And even now, as I sit totally convinced, my pen wavers just a little. I am in desperate fear of that small betrayal. To trade a Judas kiss for 30 pieces of what I want. We're not so far apart -- we and Judas. Not very. Dreams be dreams, let the past run and die. I want to write songs. Something that will be at home with the sun, and the drops of rain that streak against my window. Words that meld perfectly with a howling wind and pounding surf. Forget your beer and your pot and your parties...what about the scratching of palm leaves against each other. What about stars that call your soul to sing? A moon whose craterous imperfections remind me that the beauty isn't from the surface...but radiates. It glows. It shines and illuminates, casting its legacy through spindly branches and down quiet creeks which may never give it recognition or homage. Follow the moon as it changes and grows, shrinks and moans. Walk the path in night, dodge the knfeman or take the scar. Run...run...run...watch the moon...watch the moon...
4.20.2005
wish you were here
A magnificent day. Absolutely, unbelievably postcard-perfect. The sky sporting a rich blue with just the right amount of marshmallow-white to keep things interesting. On the way back from skipping math, I looked up and got lost in the sky, that breath of wind pushing against my freckles...I was speechless against the sheer beauty. So I closed my eyes for a moment -- and almost got hit by a car. :)
4.12.2005
Dreams be Dreams
I feel gyped. I never remember my dreams, save one or two a month but those are only the extremely bizarre. I woke up this morning and as I made my way into the shower I knew that I had an awesome dream last night, but I couldn't remember what it was. I stood there with my shirt half-off, blinking hard and straining to remember. Frustrating. Two nights ago my friend Mario dreamed that he was arrested, taken to a park, and made to ride the swing because he's afraid of heights. Do you remember your dreams? I've never had a recurring dream, have you?
I think I may have an opportunity to do something ridiculous this summer. How ridiculous? How about spending six weeks in Alaska canning salmon. Is that ridiculous enough? From where I'm sitting, that's pretty freaking ridiculous. Then again, it offers more money then I usually make all three months combined, plus I've never been to Alaska and it seems like such an..."experience." Trying to work on a cruise ship doesn't appear to be panning out, but still I'm excited for summer. The first week at Galen's digging dirt, moving rock, building gazebos -- what fun! Then to the frozen tundra, or wherever God takes me. It's kinda fun cause it's all the stupendously unknown. Ah, balancing on the fine rock edge of a ravine, the sun beating on my face, the sound of crashing waves filling my ear. Could this be my first real step into life?
Anyway, that's all for now -- it seems like everyday is punctuated with some crazy amount of wack-ness that keeps me off balance. Today I try to get into the poshest dorm on campus! Brewster, here I come! Frozen tundra, here I come! Beautiful beach, here I come!
I think I may have an opportunity to do something ridiculous this summer. How ridiculous? How about spending six weeks in Alaska canning salmon. Is that ridiculous enough? From where I'm sitting, that's pretty freaking ridiculous. Then again, it offers more money then I usually make all three months combined, plus I've never been to Alaska and it seems like such an..."experience." Trying to work on a cruise ship doesn't appear to be panning out, but still I'm excited for summer. The first week at Galen's digging dirt, moving rock, building gazebos -- what fun! Then to the frozen tundra, or wherever God takes me. It's kinda fun cause it's all the stupendously unknown. Ah, balancing on the fine rock edge of a ravine, the sun beating on my face, the sound of crashing waves filling my ear. Could this be my first real step into life?
Anyway, that's all for now -- it seems like everyday is punctuated with some crazy amount of wack-ness that keeps me off balance. Today I try to get into the poshest dorm on campus! Brewster, here I come! Frozen tundra, here I come! Beautiful beach, here I come!
4.11.2005
Intermission
Seeing as I and it seems many other of my fellow bloggers have been experiencing droubts, I suggest you pick up The Alchemist to hold you over until things return to normal. :) Love you all, yadda, yadda, yadda. :)
cheerio!
cheerio!
3.26.2005
Kiss Me, I'm Irish!!
...so says my new shirt. I love it, and am not sure why. Maybe because I have a semi-witty comeback for people who challenge my Irish origin. No, don't think you get to hear it free, you too must confront me in order to experience my response. Oo, and plus I love it that much more because i made Galen yell it out his window today. Altho he cheated and will eventually have to pay the consequences. Somehow.
Today was spent mostly in pajamas. Once out of those, i graduated to jeans and a st. patty's day tshirt and headed outside for some sports and recreation. These included passing my football, pretending to paintball (by myself, with an unloaded, uncharged marker), and chipping wiffle balls with an 8 iron in the front yard. I forgot myself a couple of times and removed large strips of turf from the yard -- this is a bad thing because my mom's stress relief/pride and joy is our landscaping soooooo...hopefully noone notices. I tried to put it all back...This talk of golfing and wiffle balls makes me want to go to a thrift store to purchase some proper golfing attire. A ratty checker sweater, long flanel shorts, huge socks, and a beret with that little yarn ball on top ought to do the trick. Hmm, pipe or cigar? Hmmm...
I think I'm ready to go back to school. Break has thoroughly tuckered me out, and I think that's the sign it's time to go back -- when the break is wearing you out. A relentless, merciless routine would almost be nice for a change. If only that $66 library fine wasn't there waiting for me. :)
North Carolina won tonite. I'm that much closer, steve. That much closer.
Does anyone miss Tom Brokaw?
Today was spent mostly in pajamas. Once out of those, i graduated to jeans and a st. patty's day tshirt and headed outside for some sports and recreation. These included passing my football, pretending to paintball (by myself, with an unloaded, uncharged marker), and chipping wiffle balls with an 8 iron in the front yard. I forgot myself a couple of times and removed large strips of turf from the yard -- this is a bad thing because my mom's stress relief/pride and joy is our landscaping soooooo...hopefully noone notices. I tried to put it all back...This talk of golfing and wiffle balls makes me want to go to a thrift store to purchase some proper golfing attire. A ratty checker sweater, long flanel shorts, huge socks, and a beret with that little yarn ball on top ought to do the trick. Hmm, pipe or cigar? Hmmm...
I think I'm ready to go back to school. Break has thoroughly tuckered me out, and I think that's the sign it's time to go back -- when the break is wearing you out. A relentless, merciless routine would almost be nice for a change. If only that $66 library fine wasn't there waiting for me. :)
North Carolina won tonite. I'm that much closer, steve. That much closer.
Does anyone miss Tom Brokaw?
3.22.2005
3.20.2005
3.19.2005
Three miles. The pain started in his calves and spread steadily to the hamstrings, hip, and then to his abdomen. Breathing hard, Chadwick struggled not to gasp for air as he cast sidelong glances at his younger brother, Alchem. Alchem's long strides looked easy and fluid, his face stoic and relaxed. His blue baseball cap had a print of a tiger, its paw poised and threatening. Chadwick's hair stuck to his face-slick with sweat.
Three and a half miles. His chest growing tighter, he struggled to breathe without feeling suffocated by some crushing force. His hips began to feel unsteady and disjointed, body leaning side to side-unable to keep a balance. It required a paramount effort just to keep up with Alchem, who's expression betrayed not even the slightest hint of fatigue-his lips barely parted as if he was merely sampling the air rather then sucking it in bellows like his partner.
Four miles. Chadwick's arms hurt. His arms? "Why do my arms hurt?" All he knew was that they did. His triceps, biceps, even his shoulders. This occupied his thoughts for a moment before the pain moved to his neck and the nightmare was complete. A hundred thousand needles poked every pore, sawed at every muscle, and pulled at every hair. His body was one huge ache-lungs burned for air and he had to concentrate to keep from drifting into the middle of the road. Thud. Thud. Thud. Feet pounding pavement there was no end in sight, and he began to regret suggesting the exercise. Alchem lengthened his stride.
Four and a half miles. Chadwick had nothing left-what did they call this? The wall? He'd heard that he was supposed to break through the wall-that everything was easier on the other side. "Wall...if you have to get through the wall, who's bright idea was it to build it in the first place?" He cursed whoever's bright idea it was. It became a simple matter of pride-could he tell Alchem that he had to stop? Could he exchange his ego for the rest that had suddenly become as important as life itself?
Four and three-quarter miles. He did. "Stop." One word. One word that failed himself, his brother, and his sport. Did it? Tomorrow he'll run five. Then six. Run beside him, if only for a moment -- he is challenging fear. Are you?
**
Alternative ending for recent events:
Four and three-quarter miles. He did. "Stop" One word. One word that had echoed in his mind for every step. That had haunted him, egged him, challenged him, tempted him. One word that changed it all -- a few will say he's failed and abandon him to look for someone else who will carry the torch of medriocrity. Those who look harder will not find him panting, exhausted, counting mile markers; but soaring beyond their meager marathon. Fly beside him, if only for a moment -- he is challenging fear. Are you?
**
-this one's for you, sam.
Three and a half miles. His chest growing tighter, he struggled to breathe without feeling suffocated by some crushing force. His hips began to feel unsteady and disjointed, body leaning side to side-unable to keep a balance. It required a paramount effort just to keep up with Alchem, who's expression betrayed not even the slightest hint of fatigue-his lips barely parted as if he was merely sampling the air rather then sucking it in bellows like his partner.
Four miles. Chadwick's arms hurt. His arms? "Why do my arms hurt?" All he knew was that they did. His triceps, biceps, even his shoulders. This occupied his thoughts for a moment before the pain moved to his neck and the nightmare was complete. A hundred thousand needles poked every pore, sawed at every muscle, and pulled at every hair. His body was one huge ache-lungs burned for air and he had to concentrate to keep from drifting into the middle of the road. Thud. Thud. Thud. Feet pounding pavement there was no end in sight, and he began to regret suggesting the exercise. Alchem lengthened his stride.
Four and a half miles. Chadwick had nothing left-what did they call this? The wall? He'd heard that he was supposed to break through the wall-that everything was easier on the other side. "Wall...if you have to get through the wall, who's bright idea was it to build it in the first place?" He cursed whoever's bright idea it was. It became a simple matter of pride-could he tell Alchem that he had to stop? Could he exchange his ego for the rest that had suddenly become as important as life itself?
Four and three-quarter miles. He did. "Stop." One word. One word that failed himself, his brother, and his sport. Did it? Tomorrow he'll run five. Then six. Run beside him, if only for a moment -- he is challenging fear. Are you?
**
Alternative ending for recent events:
Four and three-quarter miles. He did. "Stop" One word. One word that had echoed in his mind for every step. That had haunted him, egged him, challenged him, tempted him. One word that changed it all -- a few will say he's failed and abandon him to look for someone else who will carry the torch of medriocrity. Those who look harder will not find him panting, exhausted, counting mile markers; but soaring beyond their meager marathon. Fly beside him, if only for a moment -- he is challenging fear. Are you?
**
-this one's for you, sam.
3.06.2005
10:27 pm
And I'm wearing the biggest, goofy-est smile ever. The girl studying across from me must be frightened. :)
WOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOO!!!
WOOOOOO-HOOOOOOOO!!!
3.04.2005
Friday Coffee
Ppssshhh,
a frothy foam
rises to the surface
and pours into your cup
of life.
a frothy foam
rises to the surface
and pours into your cup
of life.
Clunk, bam
the scoop of
used espresso ends its
journey and is emptied
into trash.
Be careful
disguise the pain
with syrups, milk, and water
sip your life slowly
with caution.
No joy
swirled with peace
mellow, bitter, and quiet
slow at first-then in swigs
it hurts.
Savor it
this cup that speaks
of your life precisely,
too much for you?
drink tea.
2.24.2005
2.23.2005
Usually I get angry-truly angry-about once or twice a year. Maybe three times, but that's rare. And when something does finally push me over the edge, the key is to LEAVE ME ALONE! Last year it was a well-aimed snowball that was my undoing. When it was all over, an innocent hockey stick was split in two over a goalpost, basketballs and volleyballs abused, and my hand bruised against a stud-inforced wall. And...today it was being denied access to a video game. How stupid I am. How utterly stupid.
Tonight I have a very, very short fuse.
I am very much looking forward to the break...
Tonight I have a very, very short fuse.
I am very much looking forward to the break...
Mower Shed
it is quiet there--
because you're with God.
i don't mean you can't hear anything
like the stillness of tears when nothing else matters-
it is quiet there.
A whistle as the wind pierces
rotting wood walls
Rasing the hair of our forearms
a shiver, but not of cold
The smell of work hangs heavy
oil and gasoline
grass and grease
We are talking, but not to each other
Words ride the quiet
and disappear
Water pours from the sky
runs off the roof
and pools among the gravel.
Bones are cold
beaneath our layers
Heavy breathing fills the shed with fog
Our machines are outside
waiting for us
A day of work
waits for us
It is quiet there-
because God is there.
I push the door open
step into falling water
I am soaked in three steps.
Hair clinging to my face
as I push out toward the lawns.
They all say we have the worst job
But we are the most happy.
because you're with God.
i don't mean you can't hear anything
like the stillness of tears when nothing else matters-
it is quiet there.
A whistle as the wind pierces
rotting wood walls
Rasing the hair of our forearms
a shiver, but not of cold
The smell of work hangs heavy
oil and gasoline
grass and grease
We are talking, but not to each other
Words ride the quiet
and disappear
Water pours from the sky
runs off the roof
and pools among the gravel.
Bones are cold
beaneath our layers
Heavy breathing fills the shed with fog
Our machines are outside
waiting for us
A day of work
waits for us
It is quiet there-
because God is there.
I push the door open
step into falling water
I am soaked in three steps.
Hair clinging to my face
as I push out toward the lawns.
They all say we have the worst job
But we are the most happy.
2.10.2005
God's Eyes
Seventy thousand miles from nowhere so am I somewhere? I FORGET EVERYTHING!!! I forgot to call, forgot to go, forgot to send, forgot to do, forgot to remember, forgot to love, forgot to forget. What is wrong? Write it down, I guess. Maybe I'm not cut out to be a writer. Remember what you say? Everyone is a writer, just not everyone writes. Maybe...I wonder why I don't feel like pleasing God, but I haven't spent time with him for so long. Forgotten. Forgotten how to climb into His lap. Forgotten the pattern of his hands. His laugh, my straining ears can't hear it. Those warm eyes that surround me and tell me everything I need. How I miss those eyes. They change color: a green that makes me feel such peace, a brilliant blue, an earthy brown, grey, orange, and purple. Navy, white, and a color without a name. It's this color that I love the most. Have you ever tried to describe a color to a blind person? I haven't, but I wouldn't know how. The color without a name, it's like the spray from a speedboat as I race across the ocean. It's the first snow of winter, the letter in my mailbox, and the quiet fog on my walk. It's as slow as September but as exciting as July. It's a warmth building in my chest and I want to burst into a thousand rays of joy, to smile the biggest smile, to run to the closest friend and hug them forever. It's the magnifying glass that shows me the details-the moving grass, the gentle presence of everything. It's the hearing aid to tell me about the silence. Take your best memory, the one you hold onto when everything around you wants to give up-the one that you think of at least once a day-this color is that.
How? How do I get back? I've washed ashore somewhere that looks vaguley familiar, but somehow isn't quite right. It's a little embarassing...Almost humiliating to find myself near drowned. There's not much left of me-matted hair, torn clothes, a left shoe. Somewhere I want to keep swimming in that puddle-to let it all sweep me away to wherever it goes, if only just to see. But I can't. Because I remember that color. That color I can't name. That color I can't forget.
How? How do I get back? I've washed ashore somewhere that looks vaguley familiar, but somehow isn't quite right. It's a little embarassing...Almost humiliating to find myself near drowned. There's not much left of me-matted hair, torn clothes, a left shoe. Somewhere I want to keep swimming in that puddle-to let it all sweep me away to wherever it goes, if only just to see. But I can't. Because I remember that color. That color I can't name. That color I can't forget.
2.08.2005
Oatmeal
Today's Creative Writing Freewrite (11.05am):
I wonder, am I supposed to feel totally lost? I feel like oatmeal that is too hot to eat, and the idiot that made it didn't add enough water or milk leaving it bubbly and dry. It's an ugly thing: dry, overcooked oatmeal. Unwanted but forced anyway because no one likes to waste food. And even if it is eaten, the bowl will sit on the counter because that crusty, semi-burned oat crap on the sides is such a pain to clean up. I fell really, really-I don't even know. Is it sad? I don't think so, there's no tears to send falling, not angry-I haven't been angry in awhile. The girl thing? God, I hope not. I would like to be happy with my morning coffee, the chocolate soy milk I'll buy for lunch. Everything is a jumble and I don't know why I do anything. Why did I wear this shirt today? I'm not sure I like it-I wore it anyway. I'm so stupid sometimes. I would like a cigar. That would be nice. Maybe I'm jealous-maybe I'm insecure. Maybe today I don't care-and quite possibly that's the worst of all. I do care-who am I convincing? Mad World. I've heard that everybody has these days. Everybody. Then why does it seem that I have them so much more? And even as I ask, I feel that familiar answer crawling up the back of my neck. I'm fighting it. Why? Almost as if I want to sit in the shadows for awhile. But I don't. Really-I don't. Because of those words, "I love you. I want you. Sit with me awhile, let me love you." They ring in my ears and give me goosebumps. Fear is paralyzing, and I can't move my feet. Afraid to lose what I treasure most, terror showing me visions of ships sailing away leaving me to reach out and grab onto nothing. Where does it all come from? I'm not sure. Later, I'll wake up to find my treasure still here, still around me, still loving me. Someone left the oatmeal in too long.
I wonder, am I supposed to feel totally lost? I feel like oatmeal that is too hot to eat, and the idiot that made it didn't add enough water or milk leaving it bubbly and dry. It's an ugly thing: dry, overcooked oatmeal. Unwanted but forced anyway because no one likes to waste food. And even if it is eaten, the bowl will sit on the counter because that crusty, semi-burned oat crap on the sides is such a pain to clean up. I fell really, really-I don't even know. Is it sad? I don't think so, there's no tears to send falling, not angry-I haven't been angry in awhile. The girl thing? God, I hope not. I would like to be happy with my morning coffee, the chocolate soy milk I'll buy for lunch. Everything is a jumble and I don't know why I do anything. Why did I wear this shirt today? I'm not sure I like it-I wore it anyway. I'm so stupid sometimes. I would like a cigar. That would be nice. Maybe I'm jealous-maybe I'm insecure. Maybe today I don't care-and quite possibly that's the worst of all. I do care-who am I convincing? Mad World. I've heard that everybody has these days. Everybody. Then why does it seem that I have them so much more? And even as I ask, I feel that familiar answer crawling up the back of my neck. I'm fighting it. Why? Almost as if I want to sit in the shadows for awhile. But I don't. Really-I don't. Because of those words, "I love you. I want you. Sit with me awhile, let me love you." They ring in my ears and give me goosebumps. Fear is paralyzing, and I can't move my feet. Afraid to lose what I treasure most, terror showing me visions of ships sailing away leaving me to reach out and grab onto nothing. Where does it all come from? I'm not sure. Later, I'll wake up to find my treasure still here, still around me, still loving me. Someone left the oatmeal in too long.
2.02.2005
Ivory
One day, I think I'll ask God about today. It was just one of those...
I really, really, really need a piano right now...
I really, really, really need a piano right now...
2.01.2005
Child
Before the nightmare in my head
You were there
When the nights only felt dark and alone
I looked for You
The warm breeze of August reminds me of You
And I smile
When I look out my window to the reflecting sun
I see You
Always I cry for Your return to this place
But You never left
So I want to climb into Your lap
And love You
You were there
When the nights only felt dark and alone
I looked for You
The warm breeze of August reminds me of You
And I smile
When I look out my window to the reflecting sun
I see You
Always I cry for Your return to this place
But You never left
So I want to climb into Your lap
And love You
1.30.2005
Soy
Right now-get up-go watch Phantom of the Opera-now-go. This movie-I love it a lot. A whole lot. Alrighty then.
Today I rode an elevator with a man bigger then me. No joke, I know it's very hard to imagine, but there are bigger people then me in this world. Crazy thought, eh? At least a foot taller-and not thin. Maybe you're not getting this. I had to look UP to see his face. I haven't done that since...since...I don't even remember. Holy crap.
Look past the offense and love the offender...
Next stop: Broadway
Show: Phantom of the Opera
Today I rode an elevator with a man bigger then me. No joke, I know it's very hard to imagine, but there are bigger people then me in this world. Crazy thought, eh? At least a foot taller-and not thin. Maybe you're not getting this. I had to look UP to see his face. I haven't done that since...since...I don't even remember. Holy crap.
Look past the offense and love the offender...
Next stop: Broadway
Show: Phantom of the Opera
1.21.2005
Flurry
I don't know how to feel
I wish I cried more maybe that would take the pressure off
I want to blame someone
No you don't
I'm not angry-just sad
It's been a long time to pretend hasn't it?
I want to forgive you
I want you to be able to stand and be able to depend on me
I thought many things-but not this
Do you know what this means to me?
This love, this bond between friends is the only thing I point to on this earth
I don't have many
Have I laid so much so carefully
To have it freefall where I don't know?
I need to be reassured
I forgive you
But that means so much
My chest is a little tight
Am I overreacting?
Am I thinking too much?
I don't know
It was awhile ago
Then why does it cut so deep?
It was a long time
Sleep would help some
Sleep doesn't solve anything
Why is it hard to let go of it?
Am I supposed to?
I'm not sure
I think so
You can't really forgive unless you let go
True
Forgiveness-that's a whole nother ball game
Dances on broken glass-didn't you just write about that?
Yes
Take your own advice then-don't forget to love
It's hard isn't it?
Yes-i don't think anyone calls it easy
Okay
Talk to Jesus for awhile-He wants to listen
You're right
Goodnight.
I wish I cried more maybe that would take the pressure off
I want to blame someone
No you don't
I'm not angry-just sad
It's been a long time to pretend hasn't it?
I want to forgive you
I want you to be able to stand and be able to depend on me
I thought many things-but not this
Do you know what this means to me?
This love, this bond between friends is the only thing I point to on this earth
I don't have many
Have I laid so much so carefully
To have it freefall where I don't know?
I need to be reassured
I forgive you
But that means so much
My chest is a little tight
Am I overreacting?
Am I thinking too much?
I don't know
It was awhile ago
Then why does it cut so deep?
It was a long time
Sleep would help some
Sleep doesn't solve anything
Why is it hard to let go of it?
Am I supposed to?
I'm not sure
I think so
You can't really forgive unless you let go
True
Forgiveness-that's a whole nother ball game
Dances on broken glass-didn't you just write about that?
Yes
Take your own advice then-don't forget to love
It's hard isn't it?
Yes-i don't think anyone calls it easy
Okay
Talk to Jesus for awhile-He wants to listen
You're right
Goodnight.
Thursday
I can't sleep-well I haven't really tried, but I don't think I could if I did. But, pretty sure I'm lieing because my eyes are blurring this very second but I need to say something, anything after an interesting today.
First of all, i would like to say that my morning started crummy when my creative writing class ruined my story. That may be a little egotistic considering that "my story" was half a page long and was really just a beginning. But it was a good beginning with so much potential, trust me on this. It was a "pass the story" exercise, you know the kind-where you write for five minutes then pass the paper to the next person and write for five minutes continuing someone else's story and so on and so forth for an hour. I was excited to see how mine had turned out after passing through so many hands-I gave them interesting ingredients! There was a psycho girl who's only concern was drugging herself enough to get through the day, a self-interested guy who thought himself much smarter then he really was and a life in turmoil. Perhaps not the best bit i've ever written but it was something. So after digging in the pile of papers for mine I found myself muttering, "no...no...no" as I read what had turned into a simply irritating "I love you, you love me, maybe we can work things out" horrible awful chick flick. And i like chick flicks! Heck, when I started they weren't even friends! Argh!!
Among other things I lost three raquetball games and to top off my dynamite day I discovered that one of my fish has died. Which makes two in the last week. I need to take a walk.
First of all, i would like to say that my morning started crummy when my creative writing class ruined my story. That may be a little egotistic considering that "my story" was half a page long and was really just a beginning. But it was a good beginning with so much potential, trust me on this. It was a "pass the story" exercise, you know the kind-where you write for five minutes then pass the paper to the next person and write for five minutes continuing someone else's story and so on and so forth for an hour. I was excited to see how mine had turned out after passing through so many hands-I gave them interesting ingredients! There was a psycho girl who's only concern was drugging herself enough to get through the day, a self-interested guy who thought himself much smarter then he really was and a life in turmoil. Perhaps not the best bit i've ever written but it was something. So after digging in the pile of papers for mine I found myself muttering, "no...no...no" as I read what had turned into a simply irritating "I love you, you love me, maybe we can work things out" horrible awful chick flick. And i like chick flicks! Heck, when I started they weren't even friends! Argh!!
Among other things I lost three raquetball games and to top off my dynamite day I discovered that one of my fish has died. Which makes two in the last week. I need to take a walk.
1.18.2005
Hotel
My room is dark and as I stare across the twenty yards separating my dorm from Morrison Hall, the thought occurs to me that it looks very much like a hotel. Lights are on in Morrison's windows at random intervals, but most of the curtains are closed. Why is that? I'm in front of my window all the time and would very much like to strike up a sitcom-esque friendship with a mysterious somebody in a dimly lit window. Sigh, they never come out though. The lights are on but they're hiding.
Today was beautiful-a thick fog and light mist that made everything magical. For anyone who doesn't know and would like to, I am making a run at trying out for the football team. Wish me luck. I'm training now and plan to be gradually turning up my preparation to near full-time. Which will make things interesting when I get a job. :) Goodbye, social life.
Galen, I miss you horribly and will be selfish in wishing a speedy return from warm beaches, trade winds, and tans.
Today was beautiful-a thick fog and light mist that made everything magical. For anyone who doesn't know and would like to, I am making a run at trying out for the football team. Wish me luck. I'm training now and plan to be gradually turning up my preparation to near full-time. Which will make things interesting when I get a job. :) Goodbye, social life.
Galen, I miss you horribly and will be selfish in wishing a speedy return from warm beaches, trade winds, and tans.
1.17.2005
Throw Me
It doesn't really rhyme, not much rhythm...but my heart cries it-maybe it makes sense to somebody...
throw me from this circle
this sphere of games and tears
the players do not know the rules
and the winner's prize is fear
keep me from this power
that consumes what I have to give
break my fall from this lonely tower
teach me to forgive
cast me gently into morning
for the night has been unkind
wrap your arms around me
and hold me through the night.
greet the sun with fog and tears
run along the cobbled path
feel the breeze upon our skin
laugh while we last
let the warmth touch our souls
forget the work we had
run upon some undiscovered beach
swim out in the shoals
don't forget to love, my darling
dance with orchids in your hair
smell the rain upon the breeze
but never forget to love
walk along the sky's farthest reach
dip your finger in the sea
let your laughter shake the heart of mountains
watch our tears slowly freeze
only don't forget to love, my darling
when that cello graces our ears
our feet will move to its song
only don't forget to love
our feet are scarred from dances on broken glass
we are bruised from violent hands
words have shattered these fragile hearts
eyes searching for just one who understands
throw us from this circle that refuses what we know
replace these broken hearts with ones that dare to love
give courage to speak and a gentleness to whisper
hold us for a little while and quench our fear with peace
see the sun rising above the waves
rest under a quiet palm
watch the sun sink in its quiet way
only don't forget to love.
throw me from this circle
this sphere of games and tears
the players do not know the rules
and the winner's prize is fear
keep me from this power
that consumes what I have to give
break my fall from this lonely tower
teach me to forgive
cast me gently into morning
for the night has been unkind
wrap your arms around me
and hold me through the night.
greet the sun with fog and tears
run along the cobbled path
feel the breeze upon our skin
laugh while we last
let the warmth touch our souls
forget the work we had
run upon some undiscovered beach
swim out in the shoals
don't forget to love, my darling
dance with orchids in your hair
smell the rain upon the breeze
but never forget to love
walk along the sky's farthest reach
dip your finger in the sea
let your laughter shake the heart of mountains
watch our tears slowly freeze
only don't forget to love, my darling
when that cello graces our ears
our feet will move to its song
only don't forget to love
our feet are scarred from dances on broken glass
we are bruised from violent hands
words have shattered these fragile hearts
eyes searching for just one who understands
throw us from this circle that refuses what we know
replace these broken hearts with ones that dare to love
give courage to speak and a gentleness to whisper
hold us for a little while and quench our fear with peace
see the sun rising above the waves
rest under a quiet palm
watch the sun sink in its quiet way
only don't forget to love.
1.07.2005
Snow. Lots of it. The white stuff started coming down at four in the afternoon and has been steady ever since. At least 3.5-4 inches already. So happy.
Frustrated because i'm drawing a complete blank for my first creative writing 'assignment.' Write a short story. That's it. I should be able to do that, but i'm fumbling around with lame topics, empty plots and boring characters. Nothing is working. I feel sort of like I've been driving for years, someone challenged me to retake my driver's test and I've forgotten how to parallel park...will they take away my license? am i destined to never drive again? was i never good at driving in the first place?
In other news, Frank's water needs changing, i'm drinking more water then galen, and I had an excellent workout today.
hooray for poetry
Frustrated because i'm drawing a complete blank for my first creative writing 'assignment.' Write a short story. That's it. I should be able to do that, but i'm fumbling around with lame topics, empty plots and boring characters. Nothing is working. I feel sort of like I've been driving for years, someone challenged me to retake my driver's test and I've forgotten how to parallel park...will they take away my license? am i destined to never drive again? was i never good at driving in the first place?
In other news, Frank's water needs changing, i'm drinking more water then galen, and I had an excellent workout today.
hooray for poetry
1.05.2005
This isn't funny. And yet it sort of kind of is. Stop playing games, embrace who you are and be it. Don't do it. Be it.
Family, friends, gathered strangers-it is officially cold. A high today of 28, 25 tomorrow and white stuff to fall soon. It needs to snow. The stuff on the ground is obviously old and has taken on a dirty, half-genuine quality that needs cleaning. I wrote my first "2005" on a school paper today, my way of officially ringing in the new year. Not one for resolutions, but everyone has times in their life when they sit down and realize they don't like what they are doing, or who they've become and decide to take a deep breath and plunge into an effort to change. More often then not, efforts turn into failure and discouragement replaces motivation. Slumping back into what they hate, everone waits for the next first of January when they will try again. Amazing isn't it? Our weakness is right there in front of us. Smacking our foreheads every February that what we do for ourselves, or what we do for other people-coming from us-is a mess. Give it up. GIVE IT UP!!! If only I could hear myself. If only I could truly believe myself. So don't believe me. Believe, listen to Him.
Beginning of the quarter looks promising. American government is taught be a cell-phone hating prof who hates late people and wears turtlenecks. Creative Writing is brilliant. Teacher dresses shabbily, smokes cigarettes, laughs a lot and uses words like "swimmingly." He hates school and hates spending money-I think i've found a genius. As for Math....o math...This is how first day went. I walked in and took my seat in the small auditorium expecting a class like my other first days had been: introduction, reading of names, correction of pronunciation on names, tedious reading of syllabus, questions on syllabus, listening to the same questions on syllabus over and over again, class dismissed. But no such luck here. A simple, "the syllabus speaks for itself" was offered before she took a deeeeep breath and began speaking in chipmunk-style speed, hands flying over the chalkboard, "real numbers integers rational numbers irrational numbers complex numbers infinity number line i can't believe they're making you learn this already homework whole numbers..." I took notes furiously, my head swimming and muttering to myself thatthis was why I hated math. I just keep thinking of my bright spot...creative writing which I enjoy 'swimmingly.'
In other news, the dorm floor is in upheaval. The two main groups have split into one core group with a million orbiting people that the core pretends to like but wishes would go away. It is ridiculous and bordering on cruel. I will allow that there are annoyances and real problems that need dealt with, but isn't the solution to deal with them? Endlessly complaining about it really only blows everything even more out of proportion and just cultivates the bad feelings already rampant.
I've managed to make it this far without partaking in food from the PUB. I fear that I'll have to give in tomorrow, but congratulate me on three days cafeteria-free. Colin beat me three games in raquetball today. The new glove isn't magically making me better. Drat.
Does anyone feel like crying? Sometimes i do....
Family, friends, gathered strangers-it is officially cold. A high today of 28, 25 tomorrow and white stuff to fall soon. It needs to snow. The stuff on the ground is obviously old and has taken on a dirty, half-genuine quality that needs cleaning. I wrote my first "2005" on a school paper today, my way of officially ringing in the new year. Not one for resolutions, but everyone has times in their life when they sit down and realize they don't like what they are doing, or who they've become and decide to take a deep breath and plunge into an effort to change. More often then not, efforts turn into failure and discouragement replaces motivation. Slumping back into what they hate, everone waits for the next first of January when they will try again. Amazing isn't it? Our weakness is right there in front of us. Smacking our foreheads every February that what we do for ourselves, or what we do for other people-coming from us-is a mess. Give it up. GIVE IT UP!!! If only I could hear myself. If only I could truly believe myself. So don't believe me. Believe, listen to Him.
Beginning of the quarter looks promising. American government is taught be a cell-phone hating prof who hates late people and wears turtlenecks. Creative Writing is brilliant. Teacher dresses shabbily, smokes cigarettes, laughs a lot and uses words like "swimmingly." He hates school and hates spending money-I think i've found a genius. As for Math....o math...This is how first day went. I walked in and took my seat in the small auditorium expecting a class like my other first days had been: introduction, reading of names, correction of pronunciation on names, tedious reading of syllabus, questions on syllabus, listening to the same questions on syllabus over and over again, class dismissed. But no such luck here. A simple, "the syllabus speaks for itself" was offered before she took a deeeeep breath and began speaking in chipmunk-style speed, hands flying over the chalkboard, "real numbers integers rational numbers irrational numbers complex numbers infinity number line i can't believe they're making you learn this already homework whole numbers..." I took notes furiously, my head swimming and muttering to myself thatthis was why I hated math. I just keep thinking of my bright spot...creative writing which I enjoy 'swimmingly.'
In other news, the dorm floor is in upheaval. The two main groups have split into one core group with a million orbiting people that the core pretends to like but wishes would go away. It is ridiculous and bordering on cruel. I will allow that there are annoyances and real problems that need dealt with, but isn't the solution to deal with them? Endlessly complaining about it really only blows everything even more out of proportion and just cultivates the bad feelings already rampant.
I've managed to make it this far without partaking in food from the PUB. I fear that I'll have to give in tomorrow, but congratulate me on three days cafeteria-free. Colin beat me three games in raquetball today. The new glove isn't magically making me better. Drat.
Does anyone feel like crying? Sometimes i do....
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