Personal Essay Mumbo Jumbo

I stepped out onto our cabin’s porch with my sister. We couldn’t see as many stars as you’d think, but the silence of the rural Alabama land was loud. Maybe it was better that way. We’re able to see a lot. The internet and TV show us a lot of stuff. I can Google “starry night sky”, but I can’t search for "silence".

I tucked my hands into my dad’s old fleece. The fleece over the sweatshirt over the long-sleeve shirt over the undershirt. The silence, a new noise, pulled me through everything to an uncomfortable proximity of my God.

“Can you imagine living like they used to? Wondering where out there the others are?” She asked.

After she went inside to her son and husband I sat in a rocker and pulled a cigarette. Under the density of the new noise I was too close to my fuck-ups and thankfulness‘.  I hadn’t been there in a while. Sometimes I can go some time without going there. It’s taxing. And usually it’s then that I get ideas about things I can do. These things I can do are normally things that would help everything, and they’re always things that don’t sound particularly swell--decisions that are both small and big, but make me.

When I’m riding in the car past old grey-wooded barns, in bed looking at ceiling plaster, or even writing--that’s when I dream about doing all those things I won’t. I think about telling the next Her that she's important, talking to the person I‘ll pass, or writing my Grandma a letter about how she makes me laugh.

But my insides can only so often, and for only so long, dwell on what I want to but won’t. And whether it was my insides for their own sake, or Him, my minuscule muse of Cognitive Control feverishly steered me away. He’s usually hiding or drunk or something. But this time, thankfully, he gave me a small shout. And he and I ended up back on the porch. Away from the cold my Mom and Dad slept in one room, my Sister’s family in another, and my little brother watched Sportscenter in a third.

I’ve had people close to me say that they felt like they knew me until they stayed with me at my house. I’ve also had people close to me ask which of me I am.  What do they expect? I think it’s hard to act the same when there are places like this cabin, where because of their personal interests‘, people don’t know how truly normal I am. People who gloss over my egregious errors and hug me for my resiliency amidst consequences I alone have earned. And somehow I’m supposed to modify so that I make sense to both the people at this cabin, and the outsiders who know the truth?

But tonight’s one of the few not dedicated to how frustrating I am. Tonight’s about the miracle of the blind. It’s about the blessing of bias, and that despite all the great stuff we humans have cut out of life, we still have families. And yeah, I know about the 50% divorce rate. But everyone, regardless of blood, tries for family. And in family we’re on someone’s side and they’re on ours. Tonight the holes my eyes burn in the plaster will be more shallow because of four seconds of country quiet. A member of my life’s cast could share in total astonishment with a member of my family as they hear one another’s impressions of who I am. Thank you God that the two parties would leave the interaction believing the other to be mad, and that one of them would scratch my head, tell me they love me, and remind me that they prayed for my infant heart--because God, it’s still so small.

Wave

This is short thought from Robert Fulghum. He writes about the ordinary things. Some of which are everything:

September 21, 2010
Queen Anne Hill - Seattle, Washington
September 20, 2010

WAVE

A movement up and down or back and forth.
A disturbance that travels through time and space by transference of energy.
A dimension of daily life and the daily news.
Waves in water, light waves, sound waves, microwaves, seismic waves.
There are heat waves, tidal waves, the air waves and on and on . . .

And there’s a much smaller-but-visible wave that strikes me sometimes.
I don’t have a name for it. But you will recognize it if I tell you about it.

Just this morning I was driving down a two-way street that’s so narrowed by cars parked on both sides that cars cannot pass. In reality it’s a one-way-at-a-time street. And there’s no clarity as to who has the right of way.

If you and the driver of the car coming toward you are not alert you soon will find yourselves bumper to bumper. Then somebody has to back up or it’s a stalemate. And backing up gets weird because there’s always a car or two behind you driven by sheep that have blindly followed your lead.

I’ve been there - done my part to make it happen, too. Been there for the angry honking of horns, the clinching of fists, and the upraised finger in greeting. And, after the mess was unscrambled, gone away with my day made toxic by the insensitivity of the human race - which would include me.

Being familiar with my neighborhood streets, I keep an eye peeled a block or two ahead when driving in these narrowed passages. This morning the car ahead of me drove on through because the oncoming driver had been alert and thoughtfully pulled over into a wide spot and waited.

As the first car passed the waiting car, both drivers waved.
The gentle wave of common courtesy acknowledged.
Following the good example, I pulled over into a wide spot and waited, while the oncoming car took its turn coming through the bottleneck.
As the driver passed me, she waved and I waved back.
This is a brief wave - a small sign of the kindness of strangers who take some responsibility for the world outside their own car.
More than a wave, it feels like a gesture of mutual blessing.

No big deal, you might say.
But I say it is.
Especially in a cultural climate when anger and rage are in fashion.

It’s a powerful wave - sufficient to shape the rest of one’s day - to remind one that the human race remains capable of small kindness - even me.
It cost me about 20 seconds travel time but paid me a dividend in the form of good feelings about my fellow travelers and myself. And I arrived home in high good spirits, ready and eager to tell you about this.
Why?
This is the way I want the world to be. And sometimes it is.
I’ve never been sorry for being kind and generous - even in small ways - and I’ve always regretted when I wasn’t.
For at least a few moments this morning, no regrets . . .

-Robert Fulghum http://robertfulghum.com/index.php/fulghumweb/

“It's funny. All you have to do is say something nobody understands and they'll do practically anything you want them to.”
-The Salinger

The Earth is not a cold dead place

When I was in kindergarten I learned a couple things:

I learned that Zach was one of the Power Rangers. At first I was skeptical but he said I could ask his mom if I wanted to.

I learned that the best way to express my crush on Jenny Drew was to chase and throw dirt clods at her during recess…unfortunately I also learned that while I was chasing her, she was chasing Zach.

And the last thing I learned was that I needed to stop crying when I skinned my knee. There was a professional size scooter racetrack in our playground—10 feet in the straight-aways, the width of a sidewalk—and every day at recess we men of sport would demonstrate our athletic prowess by racing the two scooters around the track. Much to my disappointment there was not a referee or any type of official supplied by Montessori Kindergarten. This was disappointing because I was not a Power Ranger; in fact, diminutive would have been a compliment. So when we raced, despite my quickness, I would always be pushed to the side or onto the ground. (If you’re not sympathetically crying yet—you should be). I don’t think Zach meant to knock me over every time, but because a brush of wind was all required to displace me, I fell. And when I fell I suffered tragic and debilitating injuries. I think a couple times there may have even been a visible scrape. I would lay on the ground watching Zach on his victory-lap, and then I would cry. I would wail, weep, and sniffle…my crying arsenal was expansive. After a million days of limping to the car in tears, one of my parents suggested that perhaps I could be a little tougher. They pointed out that Batman did not cry when he was scrapped. The Batman comment hit home. I’d been wearing a Batman cape and cowboy boots to school everyday for two years. The next day, or something like that, I scrapped my knee, withheld my tears, and proudly bragged of my toughness to my parents.

Bear with me. (Not “bare with me”, which means (comma or no comma?) “lets all take our clothes off”.)

Recently I started to wish for the days when I cried because of a scratched knee. Not only because everything is better when you’re wearing a cape, but because of the courage I’ve lost. When I was wearing the cape I wasn’t a cynic. Zach was a Power Ranger, my heroes wore capes and were always good, my Dad could throw the football 700 yards, God was the most grandest, most loving-est, giant, and humanity and I had an agreement to be kind to each another.

But you know how it goes. My favorite baseball player had an affair with a Hooters girl-- He was on his honeymoon. Someone lied to me. I lied. The hero who could toss me in the air, the man who led me to the Lord, was secretly molesting children--and is now imprisoned for 2 life sentences and 30 year. My grandpa died. God seemed smaller, or at least apathetic… And these are the “tragedies” of everyone’s life. In fact, these are tame compared to most. I don’t feel particularly picked-on or assailed, but it still sucks. And as these things happened I got “tougher”. I thought that I wasn’t bothered by them--or the end of Santa, my first break-up, the news, and my own selfishness.

And so nothing “hurt”, but it hurt a lot for that to be true. I resented. I didn’t blame the things that are unfortunately true, I related to them. I get it. I’ve lived enough to know that there is no thing, great or terrible, that I’m incapable of. I realized that being in jail does not mean that someone is in more sin than I am. But perhaps I became too aware of sin. Maybe I started to hate more than the sin of my skin. Maybe I started to doubt the goodness of creation. Everything seemed to be attacking everything, and worst of all, I figured I was probably the ring leader. Humanity had broken our agreement and I was being a real baby about it.

But the Earth is not a cold dead place. (I stole that from the title of the album I listening to)

I’ve been traveling for only a couple of weeks, but in that mere time the cowardly scales, the scar tissue, has begun to be removed. I can’t get through a day without a friend, old and new, buying me a meal or a drink. I’ve driven 3,500 miles and humanity has given me shelter every time I’ve needed her to. I stayed in my Dad’s, ex-wife’s beautiful condo for three nights. If that’s not a point for humanity I don’t know what is. I talked with a fisherman who is not only enduring the oil disaster, but finding ways to help others flourish in it. I shared whiskey with friends in Texas while shooting giant guns at beer bottles in a lake. I’ve driven through the hills of northern Alabama, the swamps and marshes of the gulf, and under the big sky of Texas. I can still love people and they can still love me. Is there a greater miracle than the fact that we don’t greet each other with a punch in the gut? I mean we definitely all deserve it. We may not know why the other person deserves it, but we know they do. But we don’t do that. For the most part we sympathize. We hug or shake hands, demonstrating a degree of “Yeah I get it. All of it.”

It takes a lot of bravery to kill the cynicism. It means that I’ll have to believe someone is telling the truth—even when I know they’re lying. It means that I’ll be taken advantage of. It means that I’ll look helpless and foolish. But hopefully it means that I’ll cry more. Hopefully it means that the things as small as the scrapes on my knee: destructive comments, selfishness, attempts at popularity, and manipulation will be felt greatly. I’m not tough and neither are you. Let’s make a deal with humanity that we know she’ll break. Let’s learn from our Father and continue to court a whore. Let’s remember that though she’s lost and self-destructive, there is beauty in her.

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable."
— C.S. Lewis (The Four Loves)

7) I drove 43 miles today and ended up in the same place that I started…It is time.

8) Nicolas Cage is building himself a nine foot pyramid to be buried in, in New Orleans…It is time.

9) The Gulf of Mexico is flammable and California is falling into the Pacific. …It is time.

I’m ready to go. I’ve wanted to go for a long time. I said it out loud about a year ago, but I think I wanted to go before that.

When I was 16 I would get sad and not know why. I’d go to school, my friends would make fun of my hair-cut, I would make fun of their hair-cuts, and then I would go home and be sad and not know why. Well I think that passion for the trip has been a little bit like that. I’ve cramped and strained and not known why. And just like I know that in High School I was sad because I felt like a wart-- I’m starting to guess at why I want to waltz.

Here are some of my early conclusions regarding why it is time:

1) A few days ago a policeman on a Segway, floated like a pixie across the parking-lot, and charged my friend and I with $351 citations for looking in the windows of our school’s new basketball arena. While he was telling us of the possible consequences we would incur if we were to lose an appeal of the citation (suspension of my driver’s license, misdemeanor on my record, and notifying the Student Government Association), a guy jumped the fence surrounding the arena and sprinted towards the doors on the far side. The cop, who of course had a mustache, my friend, who had been smiling because SGA was just mentioned as one of the threats (as if SGA is as real as the people in it think it is), and I, all watched. I glanced at my friend who verified the reality, my friend and I turned to Officer Pixie-Stache expecting action, and Pixie-Stache looked down at his clip-board and asked me how to spell my middle name…It is time.
-If you’re as frustrated by policemen as I am, I’d suggest that you Youtube “dumb cop videos” =therapy

2) Today the same friend left me a voicemail letting me know that his car had been towed and that he was walking in the rain to the impound lot. I went to my car to go rescue him, but was stalled by the process of toweling the seats/doors/floors and cursing the car’s moronic owner for leaving the widows down. When I finally picked my friend up we talked about Officer Pixie-Stache while sitting on monogrammed towels and attempting to ignore what may be a permanent algae smell… It is time.
–Between my friend and I, we owe The Man $1300 more than we’ve ever been paid to write anything…Here’s his blog:http://drewj1.wordpress.com/If you have time for one blog, do yourself a favor and make his blog your blog.

3) Today when one of my papers was returned to me with a B+ grade, and “Parts of your argument require more elaboration,” comment written on the last page; I lit the building on fire. I rode the elevator to the top floor, found my Professor’s office, and held a lit match to the “Associate Professor: Dr. Elaboration Required” nameplate on her desk. She and I watched the signifier burn. She didn’t run. She yelled, “Elaborate! Elaborate! Elaborate!” Further frustrated and walking out of her burning box of an office, I thought that maybe I had reacted too aggressively. I thought about how I hadn’t read either of the two books which I had compared in my essay…It is time.

4) Though #3 didn’t actually happen, I not only visualized it, but managed to write it down as if it were fact…And by didn’t happen I’m referring to the fire and confrontation. In reality I took my B+ on a paper about two books I didn’t read and walked quietly to my car…It is time.

5) I have loved college. But today I left my last class of the semester hoping that I didn’t know that I’d taken the last class of my college career. I don’t really want that to be true…and we’re back to the vitamins and smoking.


And nothing confirms my need for flight more than the following quote being my favorite quote. If you’re planning on ever reading anymore of this blabber I’m typing, you had better read the quote. It will be referenced:

6) “Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball.”-Melville 1. Moby Dick

Travel Books

While I’ve been working on what he joking describes as my “queer journal” (this blog), my travel partner for the second half of the summer says that he’s been, “doing what it takes to get us across the (expletive) country”. While I may disagree with his interpretation of my blog’s orientation, I can’t argue with his results. Here are some pictures he sent me of the books and guides he’s accrued for our waltz.

("Light houses, village greens, canyons & caverns, covered bridges, waterfalls, and mountains") – The perfect book?

Picture Books

“are you sure that it’s practical where exactly are you going will you write a book why are you going shouldn’t you wait till you’re done with school have you already done an internship are you looking for your purpose isn’t there a more efficient route what if your car breaks down what kind of gun are you taking how much will it cost whatareyoulookingfor whatareyourunningfrom areyousomekindofhippy areyousureyougetit”