The Banshee

Come with me, oh come with me

The pain has ended. So now we

Are off to many a greener field

Where the answers are revealed

My love, I hear the banshee cry just

Outside this kitchen window.

I’m no longer for today, so

Don’t weep over my ash and dust

It’s just the wind, my simple wife

That howls outside. I’ll close

The shutter. You’ve a long life

To live before your great repose.

Come with me, your time is through.

Oh come with me, and find the true

Peace and rest that come with death.

Now smile and exhale that last breath.

My love, I’m dying. I don’t mind.

Goodbye, please simply kiss me.

Pray for me, say a rosary

To bless the one’s I’ll leave behind.

It’s just your nerves and exhaustion

That has you hearing this banshee.

So get to bed, let this worry run

Away from you, leaving you free.

But freedom’s offered to me now

To go with grace. And to forget

The duplicity in this duet.

You can’t control, you must allow.

Come with me, I’ll take you past

This Iron Fist, outside your caste

Where life and death become a choice

And teach you how to use your voice.

My wife, my love, I will not let

You go. I’ll keep you from this dread.

Meanwhile a ghostly silhouette

Had flown, leaving one cold, one dead

Scattered Glass

As a quiet lass walks along the shore

She stops and picks a piece of broken glass

Whose smooth, polished edge the ocean has worn.

Such are memories of moments you pass.

The scenes you live as the infinite stretch

Across your minds’ beach, scattered glass and stone

And only the odd piece do you bend to fetch

Omitting all others the tide has thrown.

Pass me not without pause, O lass so shy!

I yearn to be in the warmth of thy hand.

Slowly regard our time in your minds’ eye,

Take me from descent in seaside’s quick sand.

I live for your breath and hope it gives me

Yet ever to you but a memory I’ll be.

A Description of Music

Someone recently asked me the same question that my father asked when I was 13 years old. In both cases I had mentioned the term "Alternative Rock" as a genre of music and the question was, "What is Alternative Rock? What does it sound like?" The person who just asked was looking merely for a definition and I simply listed a song and band and they understood. But Dad's question was deeper. He knew what the music sounded like, what he wanted from his son was a description of the music, of its type and message, of its place in history. I have always looked back on the quick and easy answer I gave him to a serious question and cringed at myself.

So here is my new answer, twelve years in the making.

What is Alternative Rock? What does it sound like?

Alternative Rock is the name given to Rock Music of the 1990s, perhaps particularly the middle of the decade. It is influenced mostly by the classic rock of the late 70s and, more so, the punk bands of the 80s. It is a lyric driven music, different from the instrumental driven classic rock.

Songs are based around a standard blues progression of the I, IV and V chords. However a trademark of Alternative Rock is the use, if only in part, of power chords (chords using only the I and V, leaving out the III and thus negating any value of major or minor). Distortion is also heavily used in Alternative Rock, though not as much as in its immediate precursor, Grunge. Grunge could just as easily be called a sub-category within Alternative Rock, but was more dominate in the late 80s and early 90s, led by Nirvana and Pearl Jam.

The instrumentation of Alternative Rock is centered around the electric guitar, the bass guitar, and the trap set (drums). This, however is only the standard and, in any given song, any one of these instruments may be omitted. The backup instrumentation is varied and knows no limit. Within the genre, ska leans heavily on the use of horns. Many bands also favor the piano or keyboard, although not with the synthesized sound characteristic of the 80s. Strings and winds are also popular as background. This becomes particularly true after the success of the Dave Matthews' Band although they did not coin the use of either.

Thematically, Alternative Rock reflects Generation X in its lyrics. Songs reflect a sense of social awareness coupled with general apathy. Songs like "Jeremy" are taken straight from headlines while others such as "Under the Bridge" and "Ants Marching" are more a reflection on current affairs. There is also a sense of the breakdown of the self in many songs. This can be seen in "Basket Case" and "Disarm". Just as the protest and folk music of the 60s reflected the social conscience of the Baby Boom, Generation X's music yearns for a cause and for unity.

Alternative Rock, geographically, was panAmerican. Bands from Seattle all the way to Florida can justly claim it as a mantel, although the music was definently an urban phenomenon, rather than a rural one. British Bands also participated in and influenced Alternative Rock, though probably not with the same degree that they led the musical movements of the 60s and 70s.

First Treatise on Facebook Epistemology and Ethics

Despite, and indeed perhaps because of, Facebook's most recent update, that being the news-feed and mini-feed, we are forced to look inward and reflect on this phenomenon of Internet connections. The general response to this change is one of antipathy and shock. We as a generation have become accustomed to the perks and benefits of online connections. Its uses are innumerable, ranging from the highly useful and, indeed, noble, to tacky and petty. We reconnect with old friends and keep up with current ones. We share pictures and ideas. We are able to reveal our likes and dislikes, the status of our lives, our jobs and relationships. We revel in the feeling of being popular. We send and receive invitations to everything from charity events to “Friends” marathons. We search out new friends and distant connections. We seek romance and whore ourselves out to the person who enjoys the same book or lists a funny quote. We are seduced by and addicted to Facebook as a balm on our broken self-esteem and a splint for our shattered feelings of purpose.

And in all of this we are lulled into a sense of privacy. A privacy which we have no reasonable right to nor possible expectation of. Here, then, Facebook is doing us a service with this change. We feel outrage that our every update and change is broadcast to everyone who has ever met us and some who have not, yet we take no responsibility for this. We are by no means beings spied upon or conscripted. We are not forced nor even pressured to reveal any information with which we are not comfortable. Facebook should be applauded for showing us our weakness and blindness. Convenience comes at a price, and to claim it we must be willing to pay.

Even if the price is too high, we are not being robbed. We are not being denied a life, friends, romance or even privacy. The dominion of Facebook ends on the piece of glass in front of you. Everything beyond the cyber world is untouchable. I would encourage us all, then, to both embrace Facebook as a tool, and shun it as a life.

Those who remain will surely suffer a new breed of cyber-Darwinism. Those who can adapt to the change, who can embrace its usefulness without succumbing to its opiates will stay on and their experience will be better than anything we have used so far. But they will also be the ones who have the realest lives outside the cyber domain. We will learn, once again, to live in the real world. If we have a conversation we wish to remain private, we will use the telephone, and no one except Big Brother will overhear. Or perhaps we will lose the five-hundred friends whom we simply added to comfort our minds and make up for the fact that we were alone on a Friday.

Goodbye and Hello, as always.

It is a horrible thing to feel unwanted... unappreciated.

To be told how to do your job, or why, is crushing for morale. I can feel the weight falling on me. That the people who once hired me now see me only as a puppet... a marionette to be played only as long as my strings stay attached. Like a Chinese finger trap, I can feel the restraints tightening the more I pull against them. With every breath out the constrictor wraps itself tighter around my duties and charges.
I can see why Pinnochio stirred up so much trouble. The powers that be cannot stand the puppet without his strings. Autonomy is shattered and abused back into it's proper place in line. The conformist is merciless.
Was I always a puppet? Was I hired for my pliability rather than for talent?

I do not mind struggling against my restraints and nipping at my blinders. But being expendable is difficult to swallow.
It only lasts so long to remind yourself that there are those who believe in your worth. The bad stuff is easier to believe. It simply plays into the all to familiar symphony that is the break down of self-esteem.

For me, the music of my dismantling is a hymn medley played in four/four time, neighborhood of B flat.

Everything you wanted to know about Christianity

Some people in America are scared silly of Christianity, but many of the most frightened know very little about it. They throw around terms like fundamentalist and evangelical with very little knowledge of their meaning, and this is before they enter the dark thicket of Preterists, Amillennialists, and Prelapsarian Arminian Claims Adjusters.
Here, then, is a handy reference guide to some of the key terms, concepts and groups.
Premillennialism: This is the belief among some Christians that ever since January 1, 2000, it has no longer been possible, in the words of the Prince song, "to party like it's 1999." Postmillennialists are those Christians who believe that it will always be possible to do so, while amillennialists believe that in this context "1999" cannot be understood literally, but must be read as an allegorical term roughly meaning "a time at which it is especially appropriate to party."
Rapture: This was a No. 1 hit in 1980 for Blondie (No. 5 in the UK), from the otherwise underwhelming Autoamerican album. Many Christians now concede that the then-pioneering use of rap in the song sounds a little lame in retrospect. In their best-selling series of books about the song, Left Behind (Parallel Lines), Jerry Jenkins and Tim LaHaye defend the rap verse's hip references to Grandmaster Flash and Fab Five Freddy, and maintain that when Jesus returns, all believers will be united in accepting that Blondie's cover of "The Tide Is High" is better than the original.
Pope: The pope is the president of Christianity. He is elected every four years by the Congress of Cardinals, which is divided into the Senate and the Holy House of Representatives. As president, the pope can veto important pieces of legislation, which he tends to do. The pope is also magical and cannot be seen with the naked eye except for one hour on Christmas Eve every year.
Bible: The Bible was written by God as a merchandising tie-in to his blockbuster film The Ten Commandments. Each book of the Bible is named after a person who features prominently in it—for example, the book of Numbers is named after Herschel Numbers, who invented numerals. The Bible was so successful that God wrote a sequel, Bible II: On to Rome, now generally called the New Testament. Protestants believe that the Bible is literally true in every detail except the description of the Eucharist, while Catholics are not allowed to read the Bible.
Catholics: Catholics are the New York Yankees of Christianity. They are the biggest and wealthiest team, and their owner is intensely controversial (Does this make St. Francis of Assisi the Derek Jeter of Catholicism: discuss). Catholics all wear matching uniforms and are divided into "parishes" or "squadrons" to make choosing softball teams easier. Catholics are rigidly controlled by a hidebound hierarchy that starts with priests on the bottom and priests' housekeepers on the top. Catholics are not allowed to read the Bible, eat meat, or refrain from worshiping statues.
Orthodox: For many years, American scholars believed that the Orthodox were—like leprechauns, unicorns and compassionate Conservatives—purely the product of the fanciful imaginations of medieval writers. Recent evidence leads us to tentatively conclude, however, that Eastern Orthodoxy may have somewhere in the neighborhood of 250 million adherents. Protestants tend to see the Orthodox as "Catholics with beards," while Catholics confess to a haunting sense that they themselves are simply "Orthodox without beards."
Protestant Reformation: This is the name historians give to a major labor dispute that erupted in Germany in 1517 when a group of monks hammered a proposed union contract to the door of the pope's house, requesting a 95 percent pay raise. The pope refused to negotiate with the monks union until it agreed to pay to have the door fixed, and the result was the world's longest-running strike. For nearly 500 years, a huge number of Christians have been on strike from being Catholic, saying they are "justified" in their work stoppage because the pope won't expand the number of indulgences they get per year. Currently, the matter is in arbitration.
Calvinism: This theory was worked out by the French theologian and fashion designer John Calvin Klein, who argued that some people are predestined to be glamorous while others are doomed to be plain. America was founded by Calvinists, who sought to establish a country where they could pursue their belief that buckled hats were fashionable.
Fundamentalism: The belief that basic elements of play—like passing, ball handling and defense—are the essential building blocks of a winning basketball team. The fundamentalists formulated their doctrine in the 1980s against the showy, heretical play of Magic Johnson's Los Angeles Lakers. Leading fundamentalist institutions include Bob Jones University and Syracuse. Larry Brown's failure to get the Knicks into the playoffs has been seen as a major setback for the cause of fundamentalism.
Baptism and Baptists: Baptists are Christians who believe that God can be accessed only by means of a swimming pool or, in some cases, a shallow stream. The first Baptist was John the Baptist, who was said to eat locusts and honey, although contemporary Baptists generally prefer barbecue. Baptism is also the term used to describe a key Christian ceremony in which prospective members of the church are initiated either actually (Catholics, Orthodox, confused Protestants) or symbolically (Protestants, confused Catholics, religious studies professors). Catholics believe that anyone can perform a valid baptism. Baptists believe that only they can.
The Emerging Church: A term that refers to churches attended exclusively by white people in their 20s and 30s who have at least one tattoo or body piercing. Their distinguishing characteristics are a refreshing, up-to-date interpretation of Christianity and a reluctance to directly answer questions.
Nicene Creed: This statement of faith is the Christian Pledge of Allegiance, recited every Sunday in squadron meetings by Christians all over the globe. Adopted in the fourth century at the behest of Emperor Constantinople, it was designed to counter the influence of the Aryans, who argued that Jesus was German.
Trinity: This is the Christian understanding of God, who Christians say is personified by the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Unitarians, Jehovah's Witnesses and some Pentecostals reject trinitarianism, as do Muslims. Interestingly, while this does not mean that Pentecostals are Muslims, it does mean that Muslims are Jehovah's Witnesses. St. Augustine famously summed up the difficulty of comprehending the Trinity when he recounted a dream in which a small boy told him he would need a bigger bucket if he wanted to bail out the ocean.
Jesus: Jesus H. Christ (1-33 CE) invented Christianity during a spring break road trip to Jerusalem in the company of his friends. Jerusalem had been the site of severe spring break disturbances during the previous year, and the local authorities took a dim view of anyone starting a new religion. Beyond the fact that Christians really, really like him, scholars, historians and professional athletes can agree on little else about Jesus. Some maintain that he was a secular revolutionary who never intended to found a religion; others argue that he was perfectly conscious of his mission and that the Bible is a reliable guide to his earthly ministry. Others go very far in their rejection of traditional Christian interpretations of Jesus, to the point of suggesting that he never existed; still others insist that he did exist, we're just not aware of it yet. And finally others say his name wasn't Jesus at all, but rather Josh.
Touchdown Jesus: When professional athletes thank Jesus for helping them win a game, this is the Jesus they're referring to.
Sex: Christians are not permitted to have sex. This unpopular doctrine was formulated by Pope Lactose LX at the Council of Disney in 1439. Despite this restriction, Christians have managed to increase their ranks to the point where there are roughly 2 billion of them. Scholars attribute this to the competitive health benefits and generous "flex time" arrangements offered by Christianity.
Heaven: This term refers to the ultimate destiny of a certain number of souls. Depending on who you listen to, heaven is either: where all of us will end up (Origen); where many of us will end up (St. Gregory of Nyssa); where some of us will end up (John Calvin); where a small portion of us have, in some sense, already ended up (John of Leyden); where precisely 144,000 of us will end up (Charles Taze Russell); or where Jack Chick will end up (Jack Chick). Theologian Belinda Carlisle once posited that "Ooh, baby, heaven is a place on earth," but explorers combing the globe have yet to confirm this.
Devil: Although the devil, also known as Satan, Lucifer, the Father of Lies and, to his friends, Hef, is mentioned numerous times in Bible II, most Christians today are uncomfortable with belief in a literal, personal demonic entity. Instead, they prefer to think of the devil primarily as the potential for wickedness that exists within all human beings or, in some cases, as an especially unreasonable landlord.
"The devil has all the good music": This commonplace phrase is actually a spin point put forward by the devil and his representatives, primarily in commercial radio. In fact, painstaking research has shown that the devil's own musical tastes are startlingly pedestrian: an avid Barry Manilow fan, the devil has also been known to weep at the works of Andrew Lloyd Webber, although the Author of Sin has described Jesus Christ Superstar as "one-sided." The Saxon monk Everwach posited in the 11th century that the devil rearranges his schedule so as not to miss a single episode of American Idol, but the Council of Trent later clarified that he TiVos some episodes.
Unitarians believe that Jesus was a dedicated social worker, the first feminist, the first environmentalist and the first advocate of tolerance between all human beings, who nonetheless managed to enrage the Roman government to the point where it killed him by nailing him to a tree.
Fundamentalists believe that everything God wanted us to do is spelled out in easy-to-understand detail in the book he wrote, except the part about the Eucharist, which was obviously a case of God's being a bit fanciful.
Methodists believe that the Wesley brothers wrote such awesome songs that it was necessary to secede from the Church of England.
Puritans believe that you're going to hell, and they're kind of happy about it.
Quakers are a sect that began in Philadelphia in the mid-1990s as a fan club devoted to the NBC sitcom Friends, hence the group's official name, "The Society of 'Friends' Fans." However, a bitter schism developed when Monica and Chandler began dating, and the Quakers broke into several factions, including the Proud Quakers, the Shakers and Velvet Revolver. Known for their obstinate refusal to remove their hats except when in the presence of Wilford Brimley, the Quakers are also known for being the only people at antiwar demonstrations who are well dressed. Their accomplishments include oatmeal and the state of Rhode Island.
Mormons or, as they prefer to be known, "The Church of Saturday Saints," were founded by Vermont native Karl Malone, who argued that God had such a hit on his hands with Bible II that he eventually wrote a third installment, Bible III: Once Upon a Time in America. This has remained tremendously controversial with Christians who say only the first two Bibles count, and who in particular are unhappy with Sofia Coppola's acting in the third installment. The Mormons were notorious for their controversial stance against caffeine and, in fact, were driven west by angry mobs of jittery espresso addicts. Ultimately settling in Utah, a place where they could drink Sanka in peace, the Mormons later invented jazz.

Oh the thinks you can think
Think and wonder and dream
Far and wide as you dare
When your thinks have run dry
In the blink of an eye
There’s another think there.

If for no other reason, writing is a way of fighting the atrophy I can feel attacking my brain. I used to think… really think. I used to fight for what I thought, and defend my whims. I was unafraid to contradict myself and bold in my annex of new and strange ideas.

Somehow I have lost that. I have become Germany in 1946. I shy from all real fights and only half-heartedly wave a blunt sword at the deterioration of my wonderful Thinks. I bury my whims, my contradictions and my pride in the sovereign name of Practicality.

There is little more evil in this world than this: that free thought, discussion and debate should fall victim to fear.

Here is my real loathing. That I am a prisoner in the position where I used to be a leader. I have become complacent and the archetype for the “yes-man”. “And where,” the unspoken question deafens, “is this sacrilege happening?” Why in the most sacrilegious of places… the church. Why is it that the people who, of all of us, have the greatest and strongest call to love, peace, understanding, and generosity have turned into such a Gestapo over ideas. What terrifies the Christians so about free thought and pointed questions?

But I digress. I should not put the blame on the institution when I am the guilty party. I am compromised. I have put a steady (if meager) check as a priority over a voice of dissention. I can be bought. And where does my price end, I wonder? At what point to I stop whoring out my silence?

Can I make it until the end of the year….

Dear God please

Halfway to nowhere.

The mid-twenties are a confusion. Nothing compared to adolescence, and yet so much worse. This is cognizant confusion, where a decade ago I was gloriously ignorant and had the audacity to believe the world insane. Young enough to remember how great it was and yet too old to be that great. Young enough to want to drink a bottomless pitcher of beer and make love until dawn. To want to wake up hung-over and slide into class wearing faded jeans and a t-shirt. To want a Bloody Mary last thing on Friday night and again first thing on a Saturday morning, just before leaving to bum some tailgating food off of the alumni. Old enough to know better. Old enough to feel foolish and irresponsible doing any of these things.

Old enough… too old… not yet old…

Too old to be a child and sometimes too young to have one.

When I was one year old my Father was 30something, a step away from 40something. And here I stand at 24 with my one year old son. What stupidity or audacity do I yet retain that I think this wise or myself qualified. Does any 30something parent still harbor these desires for late adolescence? I would like to think not. And yet maybe we never get over the longing for those crazy college days. Are those alumni who we all bum food off of simply trying to relive that same day for which I yearn?

Tired.

I wake up tired and never shake it far past my heels. It follows me like the shadow at my feet. And if it ever runs away my son, the deft Peter Pan, dives after it and has it sown back on. I should give him a thimble. I wake up tired and dwell in that state the entire day until I can’t sleep the following night. It’s a lethargy that comes from doing so much of nothing, and yet it is exhausting. I chase and I play and I feed and I change. I pick up and put down and scold and laugh. And yet it is not something… not in a way which moves me. His perpetual energy is of a different sort, one that does not rub off onto me, merely taxes.

Maybe that’s why I’m so sleepless. Nights are my respite. My grasp at normality and anything adult comes in his long sleep. A chance to use words with more than two syllables and avoid harping like a broken record.

I miss the passion and abandon of college. I miss not wanting sleep in lieu of HALO, wine and sex. I miss heated debate about the meaningful and the meaningless, with no difference in involvement or inflection between the two. Meaningful then was the problems of the universe and the nature of the infinite. Meaningful now is the mortgage. But I seem to have lost my zeal for debate on that. Merely acquiescence.

Halfway to nowhere…

Welcome to the middle.

Colleges hate geniuses, just as convents hate saints.
-Emerson

Converts hate saints, indeed. In truth I don't understand this, but it does spark a thought. I think piety is a joke and a misery. I have fallen so far away from Christianity that, were I to bare all, only God would still call me a Christian. There are so many things in this religion that are so contradictory. Sin and shame and guilt. The idea of a single route to divinity. I could make dwell on each of these and write an entire journal. I probably will.

Only divinity keeps me around. Only God. Is this church? Is it religion to have nothing but faith in God? Or does the idea of religion dictate an adherence to more. Must I pay more than lip service to the traditions? Or is my silence in the face of these traditions a hypocracy and the greatest sin.

What would Jesus do?

Would he sit and let a stagnant, dominant religion reign supreme; oppressing millions by misquoting archaic decisions? No indeed! The most Christian thing to do is to pull the masses back from the edge. To show everyone that you do not need to follow tradition and dogmatic law to find God. All you need is that spark. That sense of awe and wonder and reverence at the majesty of the universe.

God grant me the courage to throw the moneychangers out of the temple and confound the pharacies with the simplicity of the truth! Alas that I have not that courage. The world could use a Messiah right about now....

Ah, my dear, I have missed you... you to whom I could open my soul in the dullest and most absurd ways... you who have sat quietly through my months of mediocrity and waited for that one moment which is art.

I will write to you once more. I do not intend to be at all personal here, simply art. I have seen the pain that can be caused by personal, and be not mistaken, it is pain. Personal doesn't work online. Personal should be between two persons.
But this... this is practice, and poetry and fantastically and garrishly dull. But wait for it, my medium, if you have the patience. And I may again find my way to art.

"Life is a highway. I want to ride it all night long."

I remember a night last September. A Friday.
Meredith and I were going somewhere in Downtown Atlanta for the evening. We got off 85 onto Spring St. at about 6:30 and as we crested the first hill I expected to see Atlanta rush hour looming before my eyes. But as the car came over the hill my breathe was stolen by a surreal sight. As the sun set behind us, I saw before a straight street, up and down hills, with not a car on it. And as I watched, I saw every light before me sequentially turn from red to green. And not a car in sight. The road opened up to us, and only us, and for the longest of minutes we were alone in a city of five million people.

True Story.


Everyone complains that there is never a bend in the road. Never a bend in their road. That they can see it stretching out to the horizon. What they mean, of course, is that they can see what their future holds, and that they don't like it. That they want a change but can't seem to escape their monotony.

Well, my life for the past forever has been a turning serpent of a mountain road. I've sped up and slowed to a crawl. I have worked my way through the gears of my existance with scary accuracy and even more terrifying indifference... release the gas, hit the clutch, slip it down to second and accelorate back into the turn...slam on the brakes as I come up on a slow moving semi... begin again in first...turn up Tom Cochrane on the radio as I work her back up to fifth...ignore the rearview...maybe the sirens won't catch up...

But now I find that I want no more of that. I am tired of the bends in the road and the thrill of the uncertainty inherent. Show me that horizon. I have had my days of fast cars and hairpin tunrs.

Once more I find myself seated next to Meredith. Beautiful Meredith. And as we crest the hill together I see nothing but every red light ahead of me suddenly change to green. I turn off the radio, take her hand, and set a leisurely pace forward as the sun sets behind us.
There are no cars on the road but ours.

Maybe over the second or third hill Spring St. will turn, or another car will merge into our lives. Until then, kid, its all ours.

Flip the switch from standard to automatic transition. I've got more important things to do than drive.

Journals, particularly mine, are exceedingly vague sometimes. Here's to cutting through the red tape:

Meredith and I are engaged.

For those who haven't yet heard the news, this is now how I would have chosen to tell you... but apparently we don't speak often enough.

My Friends: I am nothing but greatful to everyone for everything we have or had or might yet one day share. I am greatful for all of the talks and all of the drinks. The retreats and the parties. The late nights and even the early mornings. I am thankful for everyone who has given me strength, direction, criticism, and most especially to those who have shared in my joy.

For that is all I have now: great joy.
Friends, I have never in my life been happier than I am now. I do not know in what direction Meredith and my lives will turn now. But I am on the edge of my seat for the journey.
I hope that you, too, share joy.
I hope that we and you cross paths soon.
I hope...


Goodbye and Hello, as always
-Stephen

"Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by" -Frost


I've never had a plan. Not a really soild one, anyways. I'm not someone who knew as soon as I got to college what I wanted to do when I left it. But damnit, I've always had some clue as to what was supposed to come next. I always knew what I thought would happen.
This isn't it.

I've never believed in signs. Never believed that I was so forunate that GOD would take a personal interest in my daily life. I always believed that things happened randomly; or at least if they were determined, that that determination had nothing to do with me. But I can't shake the idea that there is too much for coincidence here; too much happened that had to happen... and when... and I don't even believe in that bullshit.
....
........

To be perfectly honest, I'm scared out of my mind. I had some sort of idea as to what would come next and now I seem to be being beconned... drawn in the other direction. And I love every second of it; wouldn't trade any of it; but this isn't when this was supposed to happen... And I don't know what comes next anymore. I don't know where I'm supposed to go.

But to answer your question, Matt, YES. A key does feel at home in the lock its meant for. It is comforted by a feeling of rightness when its pins close in around it. It does know itself only when the lock turns....completed. (Don Juan's Journal)

For the first time in my life I have a feeling of fate. A feeling of something that I was, for lack of a better word, meant for. And as bewildered and apprehensive as I am, I would be a fool to fight the pins from closing around me. I am being led, blindfolded, by the arms of the wind. With the gentle but firm hand of fortune on my shoulder are my steps premeditated before me. Perhaps this is the road less traveled by of which the poet spoke. It isn't that everyone else is going the other way, merely that everything else says I should. And yet I cannot, will not... and even as I begin down this path I no longer want to take the other road.

I curse Jerry McGuire for making a cliche out of the term...
but this completes me.

Age is a humbling thing. I called my grandmother today and talked to her for a while. Now, as far as I'm concerned, she was an older woman when I was born, and that was 22 years ago. And as I think about it now.... she is 90 years old. 90 years old. We talked on the phone and she was telling me about things that she has that she wants to give me. A organette that she purchased at a World's Fair 50 years ago or so... A book that my great-grandmother took in dictation sometime in the late 19th Century... A history book, no less. What does a history book that was written over a hundred years ago have to say? What is it's take on history?

I've done nothing. I am nothing. I'm, what? 22 years old?! And I think that I have some life experiences or that I have some kind of grasp on the world. I can't remember a real war: my grandmother lived through both World Wars. I can't remeber poverty: she vividly recalls the depression. Grandmama saw the advent of flight and a man land on the moon: I can somewhat recall Challenger.

When I was younger than I am now, I used to think that Grandmama was simply a kindly old lady who was good at the piano, good at cooking, and could tell my Dad what to do. But now, the more I talk to her, even if she weren't an educated woman, her experience would make her stories golden to hear. She has a deeper and more firm grasp of politics, philosophy, relgion, work, pain, family, death, music, morality and love than I could ever hope to study in a book or theorize about over a latte. And it isn't because she studied them (although she has and does constantly), but rather because she has lived them.

Note to self: Spend time with Grandmama while I still can. Learn from that wisdom... or at least learn what wisdom is.

How many thin lines are there that we tread; careful to avoid either one side or the other? And how many of those lines do we tread out of fear. Fear to pick a side and stand by it.

Is it wisdom that makes us tread the line, or is it fear? Is it wise to view both sides before committing to one or the other? But then, does there not come a point where a decision must be made, but the line holds us upon it; frozen statues in the face of being wrong.

Is that distinction between wisdom and terror yet another line?
Which is right?

There are times when the answer seems so clear. Where our gut just tells us something and it seems folly not to plunge head-long. Why, then, are these the decisions we fear making the most? Why do we not trust ourselves? Is the temperance which stays our hand truly a virtue? Why should we deny ourselves that which we crave, that which we know we want? Out of fear?
Fear is the mindkiller. Fear is the little death which brings the total obliteration.

Long let me inhale, deeply, the odour of your hair, into it plunge the whole of my face, like a thirsty man into the water of a spring, and wave it in my fingers like a scented handkerchief, to shake memories into the air.

If you could only know all that I see! all that I feel! all that I hear in your hair! My soul floats upon perfumes as the souls of other men upon music.

Your hair contains an entire dream, full of sails and masts; it contains vast seas whose soft monsoons bear me to delightful climates where space is deeper and bluer, where the atmosphere is perfumed with fruit, with foliage and with human skin.

In the ocean of your hair I am shown brief visions of a port resounding with melancholy songs, of vigorous men of all nations and ships of all shapes outlining their fine and complicated architechtures against an immense sky where eternal heat languidly quivers.

In the caresses of your hair I recover the languor of long hours passed on a divan, in the cabin of a fine ship, rocked by the imperceptible surge of the port, between the flower-pots and the refreshing water-jugs.

In the glowing fire-grate of your hair I inhale the odour of tobacco mingled with opium and sugar; in the night of your hair I see the infinity of tropical azure resplendent; on the downed banks of your hair I inebriate myself with the mingled odours of tar, of musk and of coconut oil.

Long let me bite your heavy, black tresses. When I gnaw your elastic and rebellious hair, it seems to me that I am eating memories.

A conversation between two friends
Addison: Would you rather have bread or free speech?
Justin: Well, I guess bread.
Addison: Bah! I would rather starve than not be able to speak my mind freely!
Justin: (After thinking) Well... I guess you could eat your words.


I saw something as I was driving through downtown this morning that made me think. Athens certainly has it's share of interesting people... well, one of those interesting people, an older man, was standing on the corner of Broad and College holding a sign that read,
"I Love My Country. I'm Ashamed Of My Government."
This man was fairly raggedly dressed; he may not have showered in a couple of days; he looked a bit thin a little feeble, but he was out there holding that sign like he meant it.

And out of nowhere two police officers came up to him and began to question him and harrass him. Now, I was in my car so I don't know the full story. He could've done something seriously wrong, or they may have been trying to help him... but it certainly looked for all the world like they were chewing him out for picketing. It was something out of Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. The well dressed, well fed, bigger government goons abusing this poor old man for the untolerable sin of speaking ill of his government.
It was sad.

I think people have forgotten what freedom of speech really means. If you ask most people now... certainly if you asked most people just after 9/11, they would tell you that they liked the idea of freedom of speech, sure, but that they didn't mind the government taking it away in exchange for protection.
BULL SHIT

We as Americans have never known a lack of freedom of speech. It's easy to wax political and say that there are more important things than free speech when nothing you say is censored or contraversial. But try saying something that Big Brother doesn't like and then see how much fun censorship is.
America... America was founded by men who knew what it was like to not be free to speak, to write, to worship or to assemble in the way that they wanted. And they were unanimus in their idea that it would be better to die than to have to suffer like that at the hands of their own government. But we've all forgotten that. We've never had to endure that sort of thing, so we don't mind when the government takes that inalienable right away from us. We tell each other that it's worth it so that they government will protect us.
This is wrong. This is unAmerican. This is stupidity at its height.

There is not much that I believe is worth fighting for, but I think this is one.
I would rather be attacked 100 more times by terrorists than have Americans' freedoms taken from us.

I may not agree with what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.
-Voltaire

Hands down this is the best day I can ever remember,
I'll always remember the sound of the stereo,
the dim of the soft lights,
the scent of your hair that you twirled in your fingers
and the time on the clock when we realized it's so late
and this walk that we shared together.
The streets were wet
and the gate was locked so I jumped it,
and I let you in.And you stood at your door with your hands on my waist
and you kissed me like you meant it.
And I knew that you meant it,
that you meant it,
that you meant it.
-Dashboard Confessional


Not exactly the things I remember about today... but this is still the best day that I remember. The best day since the last time I saw her. There's something in the way she moves; in the way she talks; in the way we are that affects me like nothing ever has. And she left a few hours ago and ever since then I've just wanted her to come back... because that's when I'll feel happiest again.
I've never felt so powerless... like I was so completely at someone's mercy. I've never wanted this much to make someone happy. I've never had conversations before where all we did was look at each other's eyes and I knew.... knew more surely than if she had told me a thousand times that she feels the same way that I do.

I want to write a poem or a song... paint a picture.... something artistic. There's something about prose that doesn't even begin to capture this in the slightest.

My words feel dull and inept after the omnipresent sparkle in her eye....

On Holy Ground

When Moses climbed the mountain to look for a lamb he lost, that is all that he expected to find.  Certainly not a burning bush.  And certainly not a booming voice telling him to remove his sandals, that he was on holy ground.

Where do you find your holy ground?  Do you have a place that is, for you, holy?  Where?  Why is it holy to you?  How often do you go there?

Camp Christian is my holy ground.  Camp Christian is my Mecca.  I take a pilgrimage there every year.  Because I find peace.  I find fulfillment.  I leave Camp every summer feeling like I have the energy to take on another year.  I find the people and the experiences and the memories which sustain me... which sustain any hope I have of ministering to others.  My cup is filled to the brim that I may begin to drink again.

 

On Holy Ground, I can paint my face for a game of capture the flag.

On Holy Ground, I dye my hair blue for losing a bet.

On Holy Ground, I conspire with lifeguards and snipe hunt with campers.

On Holy Ground, I found fraternities.

On Holy Ground, I have flour and water bottles as my weapons.

On Holy Ground, I communicate more on a night of silence than in most of the week prior.

On Holy Ground, I serenade in both public and private.

On Holy Ground, I am moved by how people share of both their talents and the most secret stories.

On Holy Ground, I become the poet.

On Holy Ground, I am the cause of both laughter and tears.

On Holy Ground, there lives God.

There are too many names to name...  I was moved by over 200 of you.
Thank you to all of you!
And most especially to you, Thank You for our dance.

All power be to the Creator, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit.
Amen

I don't think she really knows what she wants.  Either that or I give her far far to little credit.  She wants to be friends... she wants the intimacy... she wants to be strong... but she wants people to help her along with that.  I feel like she wants an impossibility.  I'm sure of it, in fact, in regards to the immedieatly being friends bullshit.

A couple of mistakes on my part.
YES - I did deny any desire for a quarentine period before reentering a friendship.
NO - I haven't brought the subject up once I realized that I DID want said period.
YES - I should have told her and not just remained distant.

But I feel like tonight I walked into an ambush.  I went over knowing that she wanted to talk, but not at all realizing that she had her entire speech planned out and that I was to be subjected to its apperently unerring words.  I freely admit my mistakes, but everyone who I've talked to about it is right... there HAS to be that period of absence before resuming friendship.  And you can't just jump right back into the deep end and be best friends after dating... certainly not after such a long and close relationship.

The ball is in your court, kid.  We will see each other again, we are too mutually involved to avoid that.  Hopefully when that day comes we will start a new friendship.
The old one is forever gone, and that's a shame.
It would equally be a shame to not plant a new one.

The termoil of transition is maddening.  I loathe it.  The end of an era leaves naught but longing for familiarity coupled with the complete denial of such longing.  It's not that one wants to turn back the clock, nor wants things to be again as they were.  If such were the case than the transition would never have been neccessary in the first place.  Rather, it is the lack of familiarty which is so infuriating.
 
To be frank... I don't know how to act and I don't like it.  I feel like I should act one one, or should act another, or should act at third all at the same time... I begin to loose all manner of differenciation between how I want to act, should act, can act and do act.  My action feels like it is the plurality of a thousand pieces of unspoken advice or subtle proddings, none of them my own.
 
I don't want to be harsh or mean or even distant... but I've forgotten how to be close without being too close.  I've forgotten where the barrier was... or what the barrier felt like.  It's been a year since I wanted the barrier there, and now that I want it again I can't find it.
I don't want to shut the door completely, but I'm not sure that I can leave it open without jumping right back through it... and that, too, is something that I must not do.

With the advent of flight and the increasing technology there involved, airplanes became faster and faster. After some years, many scientists and engineers began to imagine that the plane might be designed that could break the sound barrier; which is to say that an airplane might go faster than the speed of sound.
However, try as they might, no one managed to design or pilot a vehicle that survived an encounter with the speed of sound, and far too many planes were destroyed for no apparent reason as they approached the sound barrier.

The answer to the riddle came in the understanding of the nature of sound. Sound travels in perfectly spherecal waves from the origin of the sound. One at a time, these waves are harmless, however all together they create an impressive wall... one which could crash an airplane. A plane that approaches the speed of sound not only has to pass the waves that it has already created, but is continually creating new waves which it must then pass through, and the waves build up quickly.

The answer, then, is not to slowly pass through the barrier... trying to gently break it down, but to punch through swiftly before the waves have a chance to accumulate.
It must be a sudden change in speed, or the craft is destroyed.

The Paper doesn't feel anything. You can insult, berate and belittle the paper all you like, and it will never complain... never have anything to complain about.
The Pen has no sense of burden. You can tell the pen your deepest darkest secrets, unload all of your uncertainties and burdens on the pen and it will never complain... never reveal what it knows.

We do not have that luxury. For us, when we are berated, it hurts. And when we are told things, painful things, it hurts to hear and to bear. We may never complain or reveal, we may even happily bear the burden like pen and paper, but we will feel it.

When was the last time you felt the weight of the world on your shoulders? The last time you had a secret or needed advise? Who did you tell? And when you told then didn't you feel that much better? It's feeling the very tangible release of pressure.
Chemists teach that if you introduce two liquids together the smaller will often spread evenly throughout the larger... this is called osmosis. Emotions follow the same pattern. If you have lots of pain, or anger, or pressure inside of you, and then you tell someone else, the pressure spreads evenly over the both of you.



How blessed the gift of empathy, which gives us the eyes and nerves of our friends, that we might see and feel and share in their pain!

How lucky the pen and paper that they need not feel when confided in!

"Be careful not to do your 'acts of righteousness' before men, to be seen by them. If you do, you will have no reward from your Father in heaven. So when you give to the needy, do not announce it with trumpets, as the hypocrites do in the synagogues and on the streets, to be honored by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you give to the needy, do not let your left hand know what your right hand is doing, so that your giving may be in secret. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. And when you pray, do not be like the hypocrites, for they love to pray standing in the synagogues and on the street corners to be seen by men. I tell you the truth, they have received their reward in full. But when you pray, go into your room, close the door and pray to your Father, who is unseen. Then your Father, who sees what is done in secret, will reward you. And when you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need before you ask him." -Matthew 6: 1-8

People could learn from this. If you do something nice, or make a sacrifice, or whatever... if you do a good deed, don't broadcast it. Don't show that you are not doing what you want... if you want to make a sacrifice do it while smiling and never NEVER show that you didn't get your way, or that you are unhappy with the way things went.
Otherwise any good deed, nice thing, or sacrifice that you do is worthless.

Five years ago today my life flipped onto its head...

... it has been very stubborn about flipping back over.

With apologies to Heather, I have to share a story:
Seven months ago, or just over, I was upset about a certain girl who refused to date me. I kept asking the same stupid questions that everyone asks in that sort of situation and got no real answers. And my friend Heather was wonderful at talking to me and listening to me and generally keeping my mind off of how sorry I was feeling for myself. And after one session of listening to me bitch for a while about this great girl she said, "It's not that major. I mean, it's not like your Dad's dead or anything."
[editor's note: Stephen's Dad is dead]

I still kid Heather about that comment and she threatens me every time I do.

I do miss him, though. Mom does to. Probably Megan as well, although she and I never speak of it. But it's been a rough five years in some respects. My life has been totally different from how it would've been if Dad had stayed alive. He would've insisted on some things that Mom and I agreed were a bad idea. He would've enjoyed some things and advised me on some things that I could've used the help on.
He would've loved watching his children go off to college.
He would've hated seeing Georgia beat Tennessee so many times over.
He would've enjoyed discussing philosophy, but hated discussing religion, with his son.
He would've been so proud of his daughter's voice, and dances.

I learned something new tonight about the night my father died. I was out of town, so I was spared being at the house when he passed away, or at the hospital when they tried to recessitate him. (A futile but obligatory effort.) But I learned that my Mom, while she sat outside the hospital room where the doctors were trying to bring back her husband, was hoping and even praying that they would fail. She knew that Dad would've hated this new ailment in his life. He would've hated being stuck in a hospital even more often than he was already. Hated the new lack of control over himself, and hated the burden that it placed on his family. So Mom prayed that he would stay at peace.
I think that's difficult to do.... bordering on impossile to do. Because she didn't want him to die, and yet let go for his sake anyways.
I admire that courage.

I remember when I got back in town, that going into the funeral home and seeing my father was the hardest thing I've ever done. Ever.
And I can't even begin to compare my courage to my mother's.

I love you, Mom.


and i love you too, dad....

Ode to Collegiate Alchoholism

College students are truly a rare breed. Week after week we put ourselves through the gauntlet of flip-cup tournaments, keg stands, ice luges, and power hours only to pass out briefly and wake up at obscene hours of the morning to re-fuel our still-intoxicated bodies with a few more beers all in the name of tailgate. We also lack any legitimate sense of time. We "pre-drink" until eleven. 12:20 classes are "early." We know 2:00 a.m. as "last call" because we have been going to the bars since we were 17 with fake I.D.s. There is a day of the week referred to as "Boozeday."

We college kids undoubtedly have a subculture unto ourselves. Some people play basketball, we play beer pong. Some people wait all year for Christmas or Thanksgiving, we wait all year for St. Patty’s Day, New Years Eve, and Superbowl Sunday. Some drink orange juice for breakfast, we throw back a Busch Light because we hear its a good cure for that hangover. We can turn anything into a drinking game.

We live in our own world, a world where jungle juice seems like a good idea, being awake at 4 a.m. is normal, “wanna do a body shot” is a sufficient pick-up line, and 21st birthdays are an entity unto themselves. We have become aware that alchohol makes us say, do, and wear things that would, in a sober state, be out of the question. Watching our friend make out with a stranger in front of cheering spectators is raw comedy, kegerators become the greatest invention the world has ever seen, and we "discover" things that seem utterly amazing…like malt liquor...and Beerios...

We nickname beers. If we're at the bar and we ask for a "Beast" or a "Natty," the bartender knows what we're talking about because he's probably in college too. We have drunken alter-egos and we name them. A few sots down the hatch and we suddenly turn into "Don Juan" the tequila-chugging wonder...We are experts at Waterfalls, never running out of tricky categories or a clever rule. We draw on the faces of passed out friends, we know that empty fifths make great decorations in our apartments (also note: empty kegs can be sweet coffee tables), and we have done a "shotski".

We make friends while we are drunk and we assign them an adjective that will forever precede their name in order to distinguish them from the rest of the "friends" we make while drunk (also because we do not know their last names.) "Drunk Dan," "Man Whore," and "Sketchy Dug" will always be near and dear to our hearts.

We have no money because we spent it all on beer. This, unfortunately, is also why we drink PBR and Schlitz, and trust us, that takes heart. It grows on us after awhile...or after we've taken too many shots to remember that what we're drinking tastes like gasoline. The lack of money situation is also why if we see someone sipping a Corona, they are a baller, and we will make friends with them.

After a long night of bonging beers at a house party, bravely resisting the urge to drunk dial (and/or drunk IM) all of our ex-girlfriends, then going shot-for-shot with a sorostitute at the bar, we wake up hugging an empty box of wine in our underwear on our best friend's kitchen floor with a million questions running through our pounding heads. We wake up with random incoherent numbers in our cell phones ("Who the hell is 'grEenshirtgzrll'?"), random pictures on our cameras ("Look, here’s one of so-and-so humping that Corona chick on the dance floor..."), a mere 73 cents left in our wallets ("I didn't know Hold 'em was a drinking game?"), and a desperate desire to lay in bed for the rest of our lives...it is then that we swear off drinking forever...for real....we really mean it this time....

Yet, after shotgunning a brewski or two and kickin back with a 40, we head to the shower, beer in hand, and get ready to begin our evening once again. It takes balls, simply put. We know how to party. We have honed and perfected our art. We are lushes, bar stars, and boozehounds.

Why do we act this way you ask? Because we can. Because in 4 short, blurry years we will have to enter the “real world”. So for the time being we will live it up…As long as there are beers to be drank and shots to be taken, we will be there...as long as there are case races to be won and frat houses to pass out in, we will be there...as long as there are bars to be danced on and annoying eighties songs to sing loudly along to, WE WILL BE THERE!...but we're not gonna lie, we probably won't remember it.

A horse and a chicken were walking one day through the Farmer's fields.

And they were walking and they were talking and all of a sudden the horse fell into this huge pit. This pit was deep. And the horse tried jumping out and he tried climbing out and nothing was working. He just couldn't get out of this pit. So he yelled up the the chicken, "Hey Chicken! Run back to the Farmer's house and get his new car and some rope, drive out here and get me out of this pit!"

So the chicken ran back to the house, got some rope and the Farmer's brand new BMW 530 and drove into the fields. He came to the pit that the horse was in, tied the rope to the back of the BMW and threw the other end into the hole. The horse grabbed the rope and the chicken drove the car off, pulling the horse up safely.


A couple of weeks later.... same horse, same chicken, same field. They were walking and they were talking and all of a sudden the chicken fell into the same huge pit. And the chicken tried jumping out and he tried climbing out... but again, nothing was working. So he yelled up to the horse, "Hey Horse, You remember how this works... get the BMW and the rope and get me out of this thing!"

But the horse shook his head. He just stood there, whipped his penis out and threw it down in the hole. And the chicken climbed up easily and was saved.

What's the moral of this story?
If you're hung like a horse, you don't need Daddy's BMW to pick up chicks.

The worst dates are often the result of the fix-up. Why do we fix people up? Because YOU think they'll have a good time? Who the hell are you? It's a little power trip isn't it? You're playing God.

Of course God was the first person to fix people up. Fixed up Adam and Eve, you know. I'm sure he said to Adam, "No, she's nice, she's very free about her body, doesn't really wear much. She was going out with a snake --I think that's over though."

To me, the fix-up just doesn't work. You cannot fix people up. It doesn't work because nobody wants to think that they need to be fixed up. You cannot get that out of your mind; it affects your atitude when you meet the person that you're fixed up with. You go, "Well, I guess everybody thinks I should be with you."

I was fixed up one time. Couldn't deal with it. The whole time we were out, I could feel the puppet strings of the fixer-uppers on me. I couldn't even operate my body. I go to put my arm around her....
--SLAP--
"Sorry, I can't control my arms. This whole evening wasn't my idea. I'm just a puppet."

I mean, what would the world be like if people said whatever they were thinking, all the time, whenever it came to them? How long would the fix-up last? About thirteen seconds, I think. "Oh sorry, your rear end is too big." "That's ok, your breath stinks anyways. See you later." "No problem." "Goodbye." "Okay." "Thank you very much."

"Every time the plane banked sharply I prayed for a crash or a mid-air collision."

From Fight Club....
I just need a reason to keep going. Something, anything. I can't see one anymore. I'm so very tired in every sense of the word, that all I want is a change. I don't care what. A car wreck, being fired, spring break... I mean I'd settle for anything that would get me out of this rut.
I'm ready to lie in bed for a month and not get out for anything. There's pressure from every side and no visible outlet. No valve to turn that will release the steam. This makes for a dangerous system. I caught myself beating the shit out of my steering wheel last night because it was the closest thing to me.

Where does a counselor go for counseling?
Where does a minister go to be ministered to?

I can't believe I condemned depression only last week.... I guess this is what you call irony.
But I somehow can't laugh at it.

I'm not suicidal, I'm not manic depressive, I'm not on the edge, I'm not even what I would call dangerous.
I keep telling myself that so many other people have it worse than me...
That this could be worse...
Which is exactly what I don't want to hear.

I'm just hitting bottom. I'm just tired. I just need a change of scenerey.
I need a release valve.

Is it REALLY that difficult to be happy? Is it really that hard? I don't understand it anymore.

I don't think he's looking for sympathy, that's not how it feels. He's just miserable all the time. Maybe he wants to be that sad. Maybe he feels better when he's depressed. Feeling pain is better than feeling nothing, so he chooses pain. But it CANNOT be that hard to get over.

I'm tired of seeing this. I'm tired of walking out of my door and seeing this spot of dull gray on my couch. He says he's looking for answers.... looking for a reason to go on.... Such crap. He's looking in the wrong place.

Religion is such a crock of shit sometimes. Don't get me wrong, I love the Bible and have faith in God, that's not it. But to look to a book to give your life purpose? To expect to find happiness in that..... it's fantasy. Happiness is found in life, in experience. Happiness is found in other people, in relating to those people. Happiness is found in nature, even in the self. But it ISN'T found in some fucking book. I don't care how inspired it was or how many people have read it.

Take your happiness to the Bible, maybe. Take your joy to God. That's fine. That can give direction and multiply your happiness... sure. But going empty handed to God and asking to be filled is folly. Meditating on single lines of letters written thousands of years ago to long dead churches and hoping to find an answer in those single sentences is.... I mean.... it's pointless.
Paul was a smart guy. He was probably one of the greatest writers of ethical and theological theory in history. True. But no letter that Paul wrote contains happiness. And even if it is all truth that he wrote, meditating over it won't make you believe it anymore than just reading it once. You can't force yourself into believing someone else's experience of truth, faith, happiness or life. You have to find your own happiness and then you can empathize with someone else's... agree with it, criticize it, use their theories to refine your own. But that's it.

If I get hungry, I don't sit with my plate in front of me and wait for God to put food on it. I don't even ask God, however politely, to put food on my plate. I go out and I find food and eat it. And then I thank God for creating the food and giving me the tools with which to acquire it...

I just don't understand him anymore... which is sad, because I used to think that I did.
I used to empathise. Now I'm apathetic.

I can't find oblivion. I'm seeking her and yet she eludes me. All that I want is to turn off my thoughts for a while. To truly relax. Not to do nothing, but to think nothing. I cannot remember the last time that I had nothing on my mind; Months upon months ago. My mind has become white noise to me. I can choose, and often do choose to focus on certain things in my life. To think about and dwell on these one or two or three problems for the moment. But even if I choose to focus on none of them. If my choice is silence instead, I can still hear all of my thoughts in the back of my head. The only relaxation I find is not to turn my thoughts off, but rather to turn something else up so that I drown out my own white noise.

There is a line in "The God's Must be Crazy" where one ladie in an office building turns to her co-worker and asks, "Does the noise in my head bother you?"
I used to laugh at that line every time I watched the movie, and yet now I can't seem to turn off the noise in my own head. I watch movies and listen to music, often not because I want to see that particular movie or hear that particular song, but simply because it gives me something to concentrate on that isn't complicated. That isn't difficult or personal.

I keep so many things simmering in my mind. Things that I don't think about perpetually, but that I always come back to. As if my mind were a stove top with three or four ideas boiling up front and a dozen times that staying warm on back-burners; waiting for their turn to boil with thought. It's an endless cycle of moving pots around. More and more often I just want to turn off the heat.

Who needs these thoughts? This dull ache of the chronic ringing in my ears. Is this the "joy" of mature adult life? That we lie to ourselves, saying that we gain some kind of moral victory by juggling a dozen fragile thoughts in our minds? How deluded are we that we embrace this pain as a standard and then how self-righteous are we for condemning all other life-styles, even that of our own children, as "simple" by comparrison?

I need to find a new definition of happiness or of success. That or a new way of achieving this same definition. No suggestions, please; I've already got enough noise to listen to.
Does the noise in my head bother you?

There is a certain sadness.... A bittersweet melancholy that I can't shake. I think it feels like I'm longing for something, but I no longer know what I'm longing for. It feels weird, too. Since I was in High School, even before that, I've always had something that I was persuing. Usually it was more someone I was chasing, actually. This etherial Beatrice figure that I've spoken of before. My ideal of the perfect girl... the one who would make everything perfect and happy if she would only see me.

But I've lost that somewhere. It's a harsh bit of reality, maybe, that is coming on at last. There IS no perfect girl. And of course I've always known that in some kind of objective way... but.... I don't know, maybe this is finally some manner of wisdom setting in.
I've found a girl, I have a girl.... and of course she's not perfect... but I think more than anything else, what I'm missing is the idea that she was perfect.

In the movie High Fidelity, John Cusack spends the entire movie overthinking everything, and fantasizing about everyone. He romanticises every girl until the end of the movie, when he realizes that, were he ever to actually go out with them, they would prove to have the same real problems that we all suffer from. That's a harsh lesson, ladies and gentlemen, that no matter how hard you wish it or how deeply you think about it, nothing is ever going to be perfect. And worse, all that wishing and thinking builds up a ficticious image in our minds. So that now, when I think about how perfect I thought [girl of your choosing] was, the real girl was almost nothing like what I had been obsessing about.

I'm not sure if it's funny or if it's sick how many different times I've gone through that same cycle. Or with how many girls. Probably someone reading this right now has been idolized in my head... you should be complimented.

But that isn't the point. The point is that I have someone right now, and that I am happy. So why do I miss that longing? I've been on the edge of heartbreak for so long, hanging on the edge with nothing but hope... I guess I'm not used to being content. Am I longing for that same pain, then? How masochistic is that?

It was a sweet depression. It was a bittersweet saddness. Goodbye, Dreams.

Be careful of and never underestimate the power that your words can have on others. A word... A sentance... an thought expressed verbally that can never be unsaid. Always think on the fact that others who listen will be effected by what you say.

There was a meeting in church this morning. A congregational meeting. A bad one. For an hour, the congregation who had been worshiping together just before, was factioned and at each other's throats. There were arguments and accusations and many tears from many people who don't often cry. A memeber of the youth group stood and, through sobs, told the adults that they were behaving like children. And at the last minute, I stood and spoke.

I didn't have anything to say about the church budget. I, thankfully, didn't even get a vote on the God-forsaken thing. But I did have an issue that I wanted to address. I stood and told everyone that the church was two parts. That it was certainly a buisness, but also a theological organization. And that while we argue as a buisness, we must... MUST be able to immedietly afterwards, look at each other and smile as people. Must be able to forget that we disagreed as buisnessmen and just love each other as men. If we can't do that, then we are not a church at all, and have lost all sight of why we are there in the first place. We aren't at Spirit of Joy to be a buisness. We are at Spirit of Joy and have the unfortunate side effect of also having to deal with buisness.
I ended with a quote from Abraham Lincoln's Innaugural Address:
"We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained we must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory will swell when again touched, as surely they will be by the better angels of our nature."
And I walked out to check on the youth who had been so effected.

I stayed out through the remainder of the meeting and left church soon afterwards. And although I have thought of little else all day, I know that I am one of the least effected people in the congregation. That I am one of the few who will have not the desire but the ability to, in the end, overlook all of this.
Late this afternoon, I received an e-mail from one of the members of the church... one which he sent to everyone. In this e-mail, he began by apologizing. He apologized for his weakness, for his shortcomings... and for "[allowing] the emotion, the youth, and a very true and astute observation from our youth minister sway me to stand for church unity rather than what I truly believe to be true."

And while I by no means doubt what I said, nor recant or regret it. I am struck by the awesome power that words can do. This wonderful young man is leaving our church... not entirely based on what I said, but partially because of the effect my words had on him.
I shall forevermore be hesitant to speak words that, even though they sound harmless in my own ears, may wield a force more powerful than I am prepared to unleash.

Sticks and stones my ass. Words are the weapons of civilization.

Tim McNary, the founder of WatchDawgs,Inc. impresses me more and more every time I see him.

A Scenario:
After the WatchDawgs Banquet last night, many of the volunteers are over at my house, talking, laughing, drinking, etc. Around 11:00, I come into my room. It is dark except for the light from the computer screen. At my desk, in my chair, sits Tim McNary, his face oddly lit in a vibrent blue light. Howie, Alison, and Becky are sitting on the bed listening. And on the floor in front of my chair sits Heather. She is sitting at Tim's feet, looking up at him, and telling him her problems. She speaks for around five mintues, then entirety of which Tim is silent, listening, looking down at her. After she finishes telling her story and asking for advise, Tim takes perhaps half a second in thought. No time at all, really. Then he tells her what an amazing person she is. He lists off for her all of her good qualities, hitting the nail on the head each time.

It was like watching a disciple at the feet of Christ; or a greek in the polis with Socrates. Heather is a strong person, a willful person and one who, in as far as I can tell, has no issues at all with confidence or self-worth. Yet she sat at Tim's feet and poured her heart out. She spoke of the challenges she had ahead, of her misgivings about how to resolve them. I have seen such inspiration in someone's face. Never. In all the counseling I've done or sat in on, never have I seen such unblemished confidence in the advisor.

Yet at the same time, what impresses me most is his response. He didn't answer her problems, he just found the courage in her and pointed it out. He uplifted her without reservation. The pure selflessness of his commentary are enough to make it noteworthy. But what's even more is that he was so very right. He didn't just compliment her. While that would have been a good thing to do, it was far short of this. Tim looked with a keen eye and pointed out the truth for all to see in an undeniable manner.

What wouldn't I give, not to be able to exude such inspiration, but to be able to give true encouragement.

A person's capacity for pain is staggering. rephrase... A person's capacity for causing pain is staggering. Are we all just miserable sadists, looking to inflict as much pain upon others as we from time to time feel? What kind of a people would do such a thing. A race of the Happiest Sadist. When we are hurt, our first inclination is never to forgive but rather to lash out and enact revenge on those who hurt us. And for what? That we might both revel in misery?

There is so much beauty in the world. So much love and so much goodness to live for, and yet humanity defines itself through pain. Through our own pain and through the pain of others. We glorify the wars which we have won and the men who killed the most "other men" in the wars.

I guess I just don't understand why we have words like "sorry" and "apologize" in our vocabulary if they don't mean anything when used. I can apologize to somebody 20 times, but if they can't hear me than my words do no more good than a clanging gong.

What are my priorities? Where does my time go, and more particularly, where should it go? I have so much that I do... so much independant stuff that I do. Am I first a student? A Youth Minister? A Watchdawg? A Friend? A Son? A Disciple?

I wonder if everyone has the same indecision about what they should be first. I wonder if everyone, when doing one thing, always finds it the most important. Or do they choose what is the most fun? Or what will help them the most? What will help others the most? Sometimes it seems that the most important jobs are the easiest ones. And that the ones that are truly time consuming are the ones that are trivial.
But if it's trivial, then why do I put such effort into it?

Can I compare my duties as a friend to those of a student? Can I honestly put being a son and being a Youth Minister in the same catagory? They're both jobs, I guess. I have responsibilities as both.... but somehow they seem slightly different. More than that, they seem radically different.

I guess it's really no contest. If there were a choice to be made, I would choose family above the rest without a thought.
I suppose that's just the nature of the beast.

There is really no way that I could convey the emotional residue from a week at camp... I don't have the vocabulary for it.
I feel so very drained and yet so very elated.

Camp to me is the highly intellectual conversations that Matt and I had on the way down and on the way back; juxtaposed with singing "I Want it That Way" with him.

It is that simple quarter-mile walk that Bria and I took every day; that I looked forward to every day, to and from the cabins.

It is being lost for words when Bryant and Katie interrupted my skit.

Camp is having fourteen seventh-grade girls sitting around and letting out sad stories they know of people who have commited suicide.

It is sitting around the Affirmation Circle and listening to just how penetrating and accurate some of the campers' comments are about their peers... about me.

Camp is having not only 65 friends around me for an entire week, but even more powerful.... having my two best friends around, for every second of every minute of every hour in every day. I am almost lonely knowing that the two of them are more than 100 yards distant. Camp is something that I will look forward to for the rest of the year... because I will rarely feel that alive or that close to perfection.

Amen

"Naturally, the common people don't want war, but after all, it is the leaders of a country who determine the policy, and it is always a simple matter to drag people along whether it is a democracy, or a fascist dictatorship, or a parliament, or a communist dictatorship. Voice or no voice, the people can always be brought to the bidding of the leaders. This is easy. All you have to do is to tell them they are being attacked, and denounce the pacifists for lack of patriotism and exposing the country to danger. It works the same in every country."

-Hermann Goering, Hitler's Reich-Marshall
at the Nuremberg Trials after the Second World War

There are these times when I wish I could turn off my mind for a while... stop thinking.
When everything seems to remind me of one certain thing, and nothing clears my head of it. I guess tonight is just one of those times.

I went in not knowing how to feel, and hence not knowing what to think. I went in with, as is my want, so many questions with so few answers. I had told myself that the point in the questions was the asking.... such a pleasant lie.
The good news is that some of the questions have been answered; or at least the old feigning of ignorance no longer works. The bad news is that now the rest of the questions, the unanswered ones now become important.

And I can't stop thinking about it.
This isn't something that I can reason through, I know that this isn't something that I can reason through. I keep thinking about it, though. The movie we watched tonight.... The song on the radio... The conversation Jonathan and I had...

I was once told that love is where all things; every second with every sense; reminds us of that which we love.
I guess that's another answer, then, if all this reminds me so much... If only it were the right question.

A peaceful state of bliss. An apathy that has enveloped me entirely. To be less poetic and more vulgar, I'm living in "I-don't-give-a-fuck-Land." I don't care. That's what it comes down to. And the only part that's remotely bad about this is that it doesn't even bother me.

Even if I didn't care, I still should be freaked out that all this work is building up. But I'm not. I just don't care. It's wonderful. I have a 15 page philosophy paper due on Tuesday, a 5 page paper due on Wednesday. A German presentation also on Wednesday, and then finals start. I haven't been to class in two days. I just don't care. School is old and tired and I'm sick to death of it. It's so much nicer to not care.

There was one time last year that I fell really behind, and it terrified me. Not anymore. It's just not worth being upset over. I'm sure I'll kill myself Sunday and Monday and Tuesday. But I'll bet you that even then, I won't care.
I need a break. I've been in school for 16 years, and I've got another 4. I don't want anyone else shoving their theories down my throat. I don't want to have to write pointless essays. I don't care.
The apathy is even seeping into the other aspects of my life. Watchdawgs..... Spirit of Joy.... I still do what I have to, I even enjoy it while I'm doing it. But I don't look forward to anything anymore. I'm living in a second-by-second comfort zone.

There is no pain, you are receding
A distant ship smoke on the horizon
You are coming through in waves
Your lips move but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child I had a fever
My hands felt just like two balloons
Now I've got that feeling once again
I can't explain, you would not understand
This is not how I am
I have become COMFORTABLY NUMB.

I have become Comfortably Numb.

'Cause nothin' lasts forever
And we both know hearts can change
And it's hard to hold a candle
In the cold November rain

Rememberance.... a three month break. I feel like so many words apply to today. A Walk to Remember. Not the teen star movie, but a real walk that I will really remember.

We've been through this such a long long time
Just tryin' to kill the pain

I guess I need those three months. To think; to lick my wounds; to recover; to re-discover myself and re-define my reactions. I think, maybe, mostly to lick my wounds though. I don't think I ever really admitted how changed I really was.

Do you need some time...on your own
Do you need some time...all alone
Everybody needs some time...
on their own
Don't you know you need some time...all alone

Today was the nicest day that I've had in a long while. There were times when it was a bit ackward.... a comment here or a silence there that seemed out of place. But mostly it just worked. Nothing like how it was, and nothing like I would've expected. But somehow it worked all around. The walk.... Lunch.... the Winery.

And when your fears subside
And shadows still remain
I know that you can love me
When there's no one left to blame

In any case. Thank you. Right now it kind of seems like a gift of serendipity. The conversations just before running into you two days in a row. Neither of us having anything to do. My lunch plans being cancelled. And November Rain coming on the radio as I was driving home. A whole string of coincidences that led to a wonderful time.
I'm trying to think of a better way to put it.... but all that comes out is Thank You.

So never mind the darkness
We still can find a way
'Cause nothin' lasts forever
Even cold November rain