I'm supposed to be in Europe for seven months but I've budgeted as if I were leaving yesterday.
and
I don't have any skills and I can't speak Spanish.
therefore
For lunch I had four cookies from the vending machine.
therefore
I clicked the "Allow ads" button on my blog.
therefore
The Devil has my soul.
and
I'm a fat prostitute.
and
I wrote a short and insignificant post so that I could post links all over the internet.
therefore
At the end of the month I'll receive a check for nineteen cents.
therefore
I will have earned less than one euro.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Sunday, January 23, 2011
1st recap
Sam, (my roommate in Spain), and I shuffled into our fourth floor room in the Parisian hostel. The girl whose thong had been hanging on the chair earlier was now asleep. Weird to see underwear before you see a person. She woke up and startled us with an Australian accent. (I say startled because it was 4am and because it will always be funny when Asians speak a foreign language that isn’t Eastern. I’ve commented on that before, and though it’s never wise to alienate a billion people, I imagine I will again.) Joe told Sam and me that she can always tell where the Americans are because they’re the loudest and drunkest in the room. Great right? But we moved from nationalities to personalities, discussing her return home, the people waiting for her there, and her thong.
The Louvre turned out to be a little bit bigger than the glass pyramid part that I’d seen in movies. One thing that struck me was that everything--the ground, ceiling, building, walls, and exhibits were all art. The Louvre was an experience which was thankfully more than a drive-by of the Mona. The other thing I realized is that I’m really ignorant. The works of the ages may as well have been wall-paper. It’s embarrassing to admit, and you know I love to play The Cultured Guy, but I can’t name 5 pieces on display in the Louvre. Can you?
Notre Dame pushed me over. The food, the travel, the school, the relationships—all about me. Notre Dame—not about me. At first I tried. I tried to disqualify the magnificence by bemoaning the gold cast Mary, the TV’s, the camera flashes, or the number of hungry bellies that could have been fed instead of fake bellies carved—but I sat down. I sat in one of the many wooden folding chairs and I breathed for the first time in 16 days. Everything has been new and selfish and scary and fast: Who am I when I’m not in America? Not at my church or school, not with my family or friends? Why does the whole continent smell like poop? How do you say peanut-butter? But I sat in the wooden chair, listened to priest-dudes sing that song that’s only “OhhhhohOhhhOHHHohhh”, and my insides were pushed over. My heart that kept me from sleep, beating like a bird’s even when I lay, was finally in rhythm. I considered the possibility that some of the workers who built The Dame, and some of the contributors to its construction—I measured the chance that maybe The Dame is an acknowledgement of Greater. Maybe it wasn’t just a couple dudes trying not to die, but a lot of dudes who knew that the absolute greatest that they humans could offer should be to God and not themselves.
Notre Dame is Greater in construction and aesthetics than the athletic fields of the same era.
But regardless of right or wrong, acknowledging our tendency to over and under spiritualize, and admitting that it may have been a reflection of what I needed--the moment and the place struck me as Holy.
The Fondue place had two long wooden tables, matching benches along the sides, and walls painted with penned graffiti. The small room was loud, hot from the boiling pots, and wonderfully cramped. The long meal of jockeying prongs, drinking wine from baby-bottles, and story swapping was in my opinion the wealthiest moment of the trip.
I’m tired of writing and self-conscious of the quality. Our culture is narcissistic to begin with, especially that of the youth, and writing a blog that chronologically accounts the mundane of my life is frustrating. I want to keep those who are interested aware of my goings-on, but I also want to create. I guess I’ll do this when I have the fortitude. The trip has been new. At one time high school was new, then college, and now this. 60 of us live in a building together—10 to an apartment. I live with girls. No one knows me, though they think they do, and I know no one, though I think that I may, and we have no choice but to continue to act as if the friends and relationships of two weeks can replace those of years and lifetimes. But we’ll get there. This is new, but if it weren’t new it would be old, and old is why I left.
Images of First Weeks
I can't format pictures and text. Just remember that there are things that you can't do either.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Two Day Day
Day one was two days. I flew out of Orlando at 3:30, stopped in Atlanta for my last sweet tea, and then boarded my flight for Madrid. Despite beer being free on the flight I was only able to sleep for about an hour. I watched The American, which makes sense, and The Social Network. Once my flight landed in Madrid I spent an eternity and a half looking for my flight’s check-in before being advised that I would have more luck in the correct terminal. I was the last person to board the Valencia bound flight. (I ate sushi in the airport because it was the only thing I recognized on the menu. This would be my last meal for a long time. Had I known, I would have opted for anything other than the small circles of nothing).
From the Valencia airport I paid probably 5 times the appropriate price for a cab ride to my hostel in downtown. The hostel, fittingly named “Youth Hostel”, is a few hundred yards from the popular Plaza de La Virgen. Everything looks as it does in the books: narrow streets of stone, old buildings with wrought-iron-fenced balconies, earth tones, pigeon-poop-covered statues of revolutionary heroes, and leather skinned abuelos.
(I wish I could grow a beard. I think scraggily beards, smoke-stained teeth, and sun-squinted eyes are the preferred look here. I can squint my eyes, and I can smoke, but my pathetic beard would get me carded in a country that gives cerveza to toddlers…so I guess I’ll just squint the hell outta my eyes?)
Anyway, after four hours of siesta I woke up to what I thought was the murder of a muchacha. The hostel rooms are split into three sets of bunks with a bathroom. The actual rooms are a few inches larger than the space the bunks take up, and all of the bunks in my room are full—so it’s tight quarters. But back to the “murder”: After a thought or two regarding my defensive plan of action, (I opted for the fetal position), I realized that though the noise was loud, in Spanish, and desperate, it signified a completely different experience. The young lady below me was apparently in the midst of a very satisfactory sexual experience. It’s a difficult topic to write about publicly, but suffice it say, in those moments she alerted the entire hostel to the prowess of her lover. I looked around our cubby-sized room to see if anyone else was as appalled as I.
They weren’t. (Asleep, reading, and on the computer.)
Once they left I grabbed my computer bag (I think my computer bag weighs as much as my suitcase) and went wandering for food. I walked and I walked.
“Oh there’s a nice looking café with tables outside and bearded squinty-eyed patrons, I think I’ll give it a go.” I walk in, bumble about as if I’ve never in my life had a thought or experience, grow increasingly intimidated by the language barrier and leave. Strolling further, I repeated the processes. My right shoulder, the one carrying the bag, kept banging into my knee while my left shoulder marked the highest point of my body. My stomach gurgled and I wondered if anyone wouldn’t assume that the passed out American is “just a drunk America”. Eventually I settled on a café called “Café de Virgen”, which translates in English to “Tourist Trap”. I ordered paella, the only Spanish food I’ve had before, and sat alone in the plaza. I don’t mind being alone. Really. I get to think more clearly and I have a perfect record of not pissing other people off. But apparently solitude during meal time is a Spanish sin. The waitress asked multiple times “when will your friends be here”, and after a few bites of paella a middle-aged man sat at my table and asked where my girlfriends were. He told me my paella was “the worst shit of all time”, that he couldn’t watch me eat “cow shit” in his country, and that I must come to dinner with him and his friends. I was relieved to hear English, and he seemed normal enough, but I did wonder how far we would walk before he raped and mugged me. But, as is well documented, I’m a sucker for adventure and so I agreed.
Alex Montana was the name of the man who played host to me the rest of the evening. Alex is a multi-millionaire who owns a large contracting company, a couple discos, and has spent a few years in jail because of his apathetic attitude regarding taxes. He has one son by his first wife, a Swede he met in Minneapolis Minnesota, he likes to party, and he often reminded me of his mantra: “If you don’t have money you are nothing. Money means power and power means women.” Alex’s son Jacob, named so because of his mother’s wish, a woman who Alex described as Jewish in blood and action, is 19 years-old. Alex figured this meant that I was practically his son as well. Last night I was “hijo de Alex”. My “dad” was opinionated, braggadocios, and I think very lonely. (He was also telling the truth. I checked him out on the net and he’s everything he said he was.)
We went to a swanky Italian restaurant where he ordered drinks and food for our table. We were with his lawyer, a drunken employee of his, and The Lawyer’s three friends. Alex was drunk but highly functioning. Unlike his friend The Drunken Employee who could barely walk. Apparently he was so drunk because his wife had recently left him and was taking everything. The Drunken Employee didn’t speak English but had been taught the phrase, “fuck that bitch”, which he repeated regularly. Alberto left shortly after the first round. In a break in conversation Alex explained each of the three woman and one man’s professions. The attractive woman to his left, who often provided him with services outside of legal advice, was his lawyer. The man to her left and across the table from me was described as a “person reader”, the woman to his left at the end of the table as a secretary, and the woman next to me as an economist. All were single and at least 35.
I asked what a “person reader” does, and Alex told me to look the other man in the eyes. Everyone was silent for a moment as this dude and I looked at each other. He told Alex some stuff in Spanish as we glared and Alex translated as the first spoke. He said I had “powerful eyes” and that “I can do whatever I want”. They all congratulated me on my “reading”. I laughed, thinking that anyone could be told this and believing the whole thing to be a joke. Alex grabbed my arm and sternly told me not to laugh. He said the gentleman would be offended.
At a table of lawyers, economists, and millionaires the soothsayer was taken highly seriously.
Alex continued translating, dedicating more thought to the changing of the words from one language to another than to the content of the speech. The People Reader, without changing tone, began to say some weirdly flattering yet overtly homosexual things about my physique and aura. I wasn’t that bothered. Just as I appreciate the affection of girls I have no interest in, similarly was my feeling about The Gay People Reader’s overtures. But Alex was outraged and snapped in Spanish at The Gay People Reader. A few moments later Alex made The Economist to my right so angry that she and The Gay People Reader left. Alex elucidated to me that The Economist works for the Mayor of Valencia, a woman who Alex knows to be highly corrupt. He ended his explanation with, “but fuck her, she has no money.” On our way out, while Alex was paying the bill, I was able to apologize to the The Gay People Reader and The Economist for whatever Alex had said. They understood and were actually fairly appreciative.
I told Alex that I was tired and ready to head home for some rest, and he said “okay”. But as I was walking away he called me back and drunkenly pleaded that I go with him to a club that his friend owns. He said, “Tonight you are my son, eh? I have nowhere to go but to sleep. Of course you pay for nothing. Just be my friend tonight, eh?” I thought about the couple in my room at the hostel, my lust for a story, the lonely millionaire, put my arm around his shoulder, and dropped one of my five Spanish words-“Vamos!”
We walked the short distance to a posh rave disco. Alex really is some kind of a big-shot. The owner came out and greeted both of us warmly. All of our drinks were free and the owner asked me to choose songs for the DJ to play. (Most music here is whatever is popular in the states).
But then Alex reached his tipping point. It began with, “hijo, I am drunk”. Oh shit. “Mi Padre” started going up to girls as asking them what they thought of me and if they’d sleep with me. The “yes’s”, though rare, were much more of a problem than the “no’s”. As he made his rounds the pudgy pimply girls came up and asked "for make photo please?". I think I took like a million pictures...which means that a million times i saw their disappointing looks as they realized that however cute they thought I was, it didn't appear so on camera. I shouldn't care that the gordos false bragging is ruined, but it would get to anyone after ten pictures. While Alex was off on the mission of attaining company for his hijo, two girls asked me if he was really my dad. I of course said “no”, and that I didn’t even know who he was. We spoke a little English and even less Spanish. The girls were sweet and asked if I wanted to escape with them. I definitely wanted out of there but I couldn’t just leave my dad. So I told Alex thanks. And by “I told Alex thanks”, I mean there was a drawn out semi-emotional scene in which Alex said he wished I really was his son, and begged me to take his watch. (Even though he’d already told me how many thousands euros it was worth, but not out of kindness. I honestly think he’s the type of guy who could have me tracked down and killed.)
The two girls were sweet and average looking, but most importantly one of them knew some English. We sat on a bench and jabbered about big ideas with small words until clouds reflected the rising of the far-away sol. As we became friends their ages dropped, as I suspected, from 22 to 19. They said that it is true that America is not well liked in their country, but that everyone wishes to be in America. From what I gathered last night, there are many here who wish more of their people cared more about work and money. Yeah, pretty ironic.We said “adios”, and are now Facebook friends.
When I got back to the hostel I leaned against the outer wall and Skyped with a friend. Then I walked into the locked sliding-glass door which was supposed to let me inside to my bed. I tried sliding, jumping, and knocking, then walked the door-less perimeter. I climbed the decently high wall of an old building without a roof. I could see my window, and knew that I could knock loud enough to wake the fuckers up. (Get it? It’s like a double meaning. The fuckers who fuck? Okay). But the wall was really high, my bag was heavy, and I’m a pansy. I resolved to find a disco open until morning and wished that I had taken a muchacha up on her “yes” to my father’s question. “A roof would be nice—at any cost”, I thought. But I guess God decided he’d rather I not be a fucker. And so he sent the hostel manager outside to tell me that it was my lucky day.
Could the first night be the most interesting? I don’t know, but challenge accepted.
PS-One night of avoiding: gypsies, communists, gays, girls, and jail, down--many to go.
Monday, December 20, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, October 11, 2010
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/
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/
Monday, June 28, 2010
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
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)
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)
Friday, May 7, 2010
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
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
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
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