Urbana Update #3

Today the following occurred:

I woke up. Went to breakfast, it was good. Morning session was also very good, but nothing really struck me enough to write about here.

I went to a very interesting 2 o'clock seminar called "something-something postmodern something." The postmodern part was why I went, because I like pain. Turns out the seminar had nothing to do with postmodernism and was instead a new paradigm for approaching evangelism. It was very thought provoking.

The 4 o'clock seminar was co-lead by Shane Claiborne and John Perkins (of the Perkins Center for Reconciliation fame). I love both of those men. They are both incredible people, and I cannot speak highly enough of them both. That seminar was more encouraging than practical. It was a fire-stoker, and much appreciated.

Tomorrow I have a meeting with the aforementioned Aussie to talk about life, liberty, and the pursuit of Godliness. I'm really looking forward to that. This guy has been a mentor figure for me off and on over the past three years, so tomorrow promises to be good. It better be at least, I'm missing a morning session for this meeting.

Urbana Update #2

Today the following occurred:

I woke up. Missed the morning Bible study due to really long registration lines. Went to morning session, it was good. Worship is something that I've been missing recently, and it's really refreshing especially in this context.

I didn't go to a 2 o'clock seminar. Instead, I went to the OMF booth. Holy cow... that was nuts. So. when I first got there, I met with a guy who will, in all likelihood, end up finishing a project that I started 1.5 years ago. I talked with him, and with my old team leader, and then I started talking with this random OMF guy who-- wait, backstory.

For the past three years I've been in heavy contact with OMF, going on two summer trips two years in a row. One of my main points of contact has been the regional short-term trip coordinator field-side, an Aussie. I found out recently that this Aussie was going back home for an indefinite period of time, this made me sad -- back to the story.

So, anyways, I'm talking to this random OMF guy who I really like, and we're hitting it off, and we know some of the same people, and then I find out, this guy is gonna be the Aussie's replacement. So we talked about what I could do to help out now, and also potentially in the future. He gave me a whole lot to think about.

Later in the day I went to a seminar called "Postmodern Apologetics." Which I mostly went to because it sounded like an oxymoron. It was pretty neat. I just can't stay away from those crazy philosophers...

I'm sorta feeling like I'm stumbling around in the dark right now. I know why I'm here in general, but I have no clue what that looks like specifically. I feel a little bit adrift right now. For those of you who pray, I'd appreciate a little something for my over-stuffed brain. There's a lot of noise in my life, and I would really like some quiet.

Urbana Update #1 (Maybe the Only One)

The following happened today:

Drove to the airport with my parents. It was good. Then, flew to Dallas, slept mostly. Upon arrival at Dallas International Airport, received voice mail from automated lady informing me that my flight to Urbana had been canceled. Cursed a lot.

Spent next seven hours wandering around Dallas International. Ate food. Was put on standby for two flights, missed them. Ate more food. Called people. Texted. Eventually flew to St. Louis.

Upon arrival, was immediately accosted by southern-Californian, well-meaning, hip, youth pastors. Was initially annoyed. Tried to break away from traveling group of hip Christians, but was caught in same transit train as the group.

Was bitch-slapped by God when one of the hip Christians turned out to be Canadian missionary whose missions model is like none I've ever heard of before. He's with Pioneers, whose focus is completely on unreached people groups (major cool awesomeness). He and his wife went to Punjab for a year and a half to learn language, culture, and history of Punjabi people. Then, they returned to Canada to work among the large Punjabi populations within Canada. I've heard of people doing things similar to this before, but never so intentionally. Brought up some interesting ethical questions, will need to discuss later, but short overview. 1. Creative Access vs Creative Identity, 2. Funding, 3. Missions/Work Balance, 4. Cultural Boundaries: Crossing vs Destroying.

It's now 1:30 here. I must sleep.

Break

Today, a friend told me to pick up everything, move to a distant city, and fall in love with a girl.

Today, a physical thereapist came by and hurt my sister.

Today, I walked in the rain until my feet began to wrinkle.

Today, I talked for three hours about radical theology.

Today, an assignment was not turned in.

Today, a new pack of cigarettes was purchased.

Today, I lived as I saw fit.

Tomorrow will be much the same.

3 Reasons why My Sister is a Badass

A two ton vehicle slid ten feet while dragging her along with it.

"I don't need two pain pills."

She can wiggle her toes.

Things Are Not Alright

I'm freaking out.

My mother and five of my siblings were in a car wreck this Sunday. Everyone is okay. The worst was my sister. She's a junior in high-school. She wasn't buckled up, she was laying down in the very back seat, most likely sleeping. My brother was driving, he lost control on I-5 while going 65mph. The van rolled over a few times before eventually coming to a stop. When the van did come to a stop, my sister was halfway out of it. Her leg and head were both stuck between the van and the ground. My brother tells me that "you couldn't see her head." My mom did a roll call, and when everyone but my sister didn't respond, she sent everyone else out of the car and crawled back to make sure that my sister was okay, conscious, alive. She told me that she had a minor panic attack, but when she found that my sister was both breathing and able to communicate, she calmed down and tried to comfort my sister as much as she could.

She told me on the phone, "I tried to lift the car off of her. But I couldn't lift it. I couldn't lift it." I told her that if she needed to lift it, then she would have. The paramedics came and after a half an hour of being trapped under the van, they lifted it with inflatable bags and slid her out. Everyone was taken to the hospital. Two of my brothers were given Vicodin, the youngest one was put through a battery of tests, all of them came up negative. He's 10.

My sister spent the night in surgery. She had her head stiched up, and CAT scanned. But, her feet are where they're really worried. They're all scraped up, and they may have to use some skin grafts on her legs. My dad tells me that she'll be in the hospital for a while. He says that she's in physical therapy where they just have her take these little baby steps. He says that it's very painful and she has a really hard time doing it. She took four of them today.

I could handle this yesterday. And I could handle it for most of today. I had distractions. I had homework, papers, studying, tests, class. But now, those are fading away. I'm left without the useful distractions and these little sound bytes and images I've created keep repeating in my brain.

I know that they're okay and there's nothing I can do for them, but... I'm so far away. I've always been one of the ones who held things together. The other person who fills that role is my sister, and she's not in exactly the best place for that sort of thing right now. Neither am I, I suppose.

I have an ongoing analogy for my existence. I am a tree. I have deep roots, and although my branches are far from the roots, the branches would not exist without the roots. My roots keep me planted in one spot, and keep me from falling. The thing is... this week, my roots were disturbed, and I realized just how fragile and shallow they actually are.

What happens to a tree when it's uprooted? It dies. Without my family, my roots, I am nothing. I am staring over the precipice of nothingness, and the void isn't staring back, it's drooling. All I want to do is rush to their side, I want to be there and now. But there are things I must do here first. I have papers, and packing, and cleaning, and Christmas parties, and saying goodbye. But, none of that is important. All that's important is my family, and they are so far away.

Narcissus

Some things you should know about me.

I am a liar. I lie to tell the truth. I tailor my every word to and action to wherever or whoever I am. If I trust you, I will lie to make you smile. If I love you, I will lie to make you laugh. If I hate you, I will lie to make you uncomfortable. If I'm afraid of you, I will lie to make myself stronger.

I love hard. I love with everything I am. I will love you better than anyone else, especially your boyfriend or parents. I will make you feel like everything I say and do is tailored to you, because it is.

I doubt hard. When I am confused and things stop making sense, I don't just doubt the rain, I doubt the sky. I will disbelieve everything I held up as most important two minutes ago if it will make now make sense.

I keep stress in my shoulders. I have two knots on either side of neck. I am certain that if they were ever massaged out I would fall apart. They are where I put the weight of the world. They are where I carry you.

I love my family more than anything. I had them tattooed on my back on my 16th birthday. It is a poor reflection of their mark on my very concept of self. If I love you, and you do not love my family, we will not last. If you despise my family, I will despise you. I hurt them and lie to them worse than anyone else in the world, and if you hurt them, I will hurt you so much more.

I am always afraid. I have always been afraid. If I love you, I will not let you know how afraid I am at any time. You will see glimpses, but you will not see the whole. I do not fear for myself, I try not to think about myself too much. I fear for you, and I fear for my family. And, that fear is large enough to cast a chill over my whole world dark enough to swallow faith.

I pretend to be self-sufficient. I know when I need people, but I will cut just short of release. I will not be completely helped. I will take a crutch until I can walk with a limp again, when I will make a show of sprinting.

There are things that give me hope that no darkness can swallow. I cannot tell you what they are. I hold them close to my chest because if I let them see light I think they will melt.

There are always two places I want to be. One of them is with you, one of them is with my family. When they coincide, there is either a storm or perfect tranquility.

There is always one place that I am. It is under a microscope. Sometimes I look through the eyepiece, sometimes God does, and sometimes I do not know which is which.

I am not enough. I will never be enough. But still, I have hope.

Passion vs Safety (The Result)

I mad some decisions today. I decided where I wanted to be, and I went there. The result was a mixed bag.

I saw friends that I would see less of and others I would see more of.

I mourn the loss and celebrate the gain.

I was given a choice between a simple, comforting safety and a free, vagrant passion. I could stay where I was in a safe, warm cave. Or, I could go out into the rain and follow the songs of desire that I heard floating through the trees.

Today, I saw a man play guitar until he bled. At first, it was almost transcendent, to see a man playing with such force and passion. In what kind of pain, I don't know. But, he didn't stop he just kept playing. It was incredible. But after a time he still refused to stop. He kept going long after the blood had spackled the guitar's body and the strings turned rusty-red. The blood splashed onto his thumb and dripped into his palm. But he didn't stop. I brought him a bandage and a cloth to clean the guitar and cover his wound, but he kept playing. Eventually he stopped. He wiped the guitar, to an extent, but then, ignoring the bandages, he kept going.

He was lost in something. Something that I could not see, or feel, or understand. But, I could smell it. And I could hear it. He was longing for something that, no matter how hard he played, he could not find. There was desperation in his face, and his voice was as strung out as his body. Wound tight. He played as if he were playing to an empty room that he only wanted to be filled with ears and hearts that would listen and hear. But, I was there, and there were others. They tried to sing with him, but his songs didn't call for harmony. Not the sweet, soaring harmony that the girls offered. I watched, and as my awe turned to something small and afraid, all I wanted to do was tell him that it was okay.

It was okay to stop. It was okay to lick his wounds and clean his instrument. He didn't need to get blood on his hands. But... I couldn't have told him that. It wasn't my place. I brought him bandages and a cloth. I placed them at his feet. I could not make him pick them up.

This is the world that I about to enter. This is the life that I choose to lead. I will bring bandages and cloth. I will bring what modicum of hope that I can spare. I will stand on the other side of the valley and I will scream into the rain that martyrdom and suicide are not synonyms. My words will mix with the water, and they will flow across wet pavement. Into a culvert? Into the ditch? Or to water some tree of life? I don't know, but I choose this.

I choose the bleeding man who wants something I cannot know, and I will offer what I can. I will lay them at his feet.

Let the next wave crash.

"Alone"

When I was in 6th grade, my teacher had us all write poems. Being a "sensitive" child, I was overjoyed. I wrote a poem about being lonely, feeling like I had nobody to talk to. We had moved into town just a few months ago, and I hadn't made any friends yet, so the poem (if I remember correctly) was a pretty good representation of how I felt at the time.

When I showed the poem to my teacher, he laughed. He knew that I had 6 siblings, and he reminded me of this fact. "What do you know about being lonely?" he said.

What do I know about being lonely?

I think that my 6th grade teacher and I have very different definitions of what it is to be lonely. I did not correlate loneliness and lack of people around. I had it more aligned with the level of mutual understanding between the people who were around.

The sheer lack of people is a form of loneliness that few people have had to endure, and it is so painful that it's one of the most commonly used forms of torture. This other kind of lonliness, I am willing to bet, is far more common, and in some ways harder to recover from.

When all you lack is human interaction period, anything will do. Which is why solitary confinement is useful for interrogations, those kept in solitary will talk to anyone, will do almost anything for human interaction.

When the problem is mutual understanding, however, the solution is a little more difficult. The main source of the problem is within the lonely person. You don't feel understood, at times you feel like you're going crazy, and you're afraid to let anybody in. There can be a million reasons for this stuff. Maybe you're afraid of letting someone get that close. Maybe you're afraid of looking weak, or needy. Or, maybe you think that by sharing what's bugging you, you could risk chasing away those close to you.

Maybe my teacher didn't think I was capable of experiencing that depth of emotion at the age of 11. If that's the case then I don't blame him. Either way, I'm stuck with the same conundrum as I was in 6th grade, feeling apart, or disconnected, from those around me. And, just like in 6th grade, I'm afraid to take a leap of faith. I'm afraid to open, or I'm too tired, or I know that they don't want me to dump on them.

I can hear my teacher's voice in my head. "You live with 5 other guys, what do you know about being lonely?"

"Nothing sir. I don't know nothing."

Halfway

Imagine that you are standing in a knee-deep bog. You don't know how it became so deep, and you have a very hard time making any forward motion. The last thing you remember is running, freely through a field of tall grass and blue skies. But, now, all you see is grey and seafoam green in every direction.

Directly in front of you is a small pile of boulders. You have to climb them. You've climbed higher mountains before, this is no big deal, but you don't really know how to start this sort of thing from knee-high mud. They are just a few steps away, but you find that ever since the mud rose, your steps have been far shorter than normal.

You stand for half a minute, looking up at the grey. You search for blue, you search for a break in the clouds. That's the funny thing about clouds, you can never tell how thick they are. Sometimes, the entire sky will be completely grey, and some rogue wind current will brush away a thin layer of cloud, as if to remind you that there are other colors out there. But, today, there seems to be no friendly wind, or if there is, then the clouds are just too thick.

You stare anyway, maybe there will be a bird. You haven't seen much sign of life beyond the odd frog or beetle for a very long time. Sometimes you think that you can hear a goose, or maybe a loon, but they're always on the other side of the fog.

You remember when you had traveling companions, but it seems like you lost them somehow. Did they give up? Just, drop themselves into the muck and not get back up? Did they drown? Did they stumble at some point, and fall face first into the bog? If they did, then why didn't you help them? Why didn't you go back and pick them up?

You can't stand for too long, or else you begin to sink, so you press on, getting closer to the boulder pile ever second. You think about how, maybe, you'll get halfway there before you can rest, and then only be able to get halfway and then halfway again, and then halfway again. You giggle to yourself. Maybe you could prove Zeno right. One of your friends would have laughed at that one. If only you could remember who.

Dealing

What follows is a meh bit of fiction. I'm thinking about re-working the concept into a short film.

The man in the anachronistic top-hat smiles your direction. “What would you say if I told you that life was just like a deck of cards?” He says. He pulls 52 bicycles from his vest pocket. “Each card is another life event. You only get 52, just like everybody else.”

“But,” you say, “That’s not now life works. Some people die before others.”

“Ah, but they’d reached their 52 before you had.” He begins to shuffle the cards on the table in front of him.

“Okay,” You say, “I’ll play along.”

“That’s the thing though,” He says, “you haven’t a choice, really. Of all the distractions at this carnival, mine is the only one where the outcome is certain.”

“You do card tricks then?”

“In a way.” He slams the deck on the table in front of you. “If you would, my good sir.”

You cut the deck but before you let go of the cards, he grabs your wrist.

“Just a moment.” He turns your hand over, revealing the bottom card. “The eight of clubs. You have lived a hectic and busy life.”

“Perhaps.” You say. That could be true of anyone.

He puts your hand down and re-shuffles the deck. He begins dealing. The first card is the king of diamonds. The old man on his knees, the axe about to fall. “Oh, young man, your life began in turmoil. Your poor father.”

Immediately, the shiver goes up your spine.

The man smiles. He continues dealing. Seven of diamonds, ace of spades. “But good fortune came soon after.” Seven of clubs, nine of diamonds, five of hearts, two of diamonds. “Your mother and yourself. You lived a pleasant life after his death.” Three of diamonds, queen of spades. “Your mother especially.” Eight of diamonds, nine of hearts, five of spades, six of clubs. “But then, you had to flee, you had to run.” Five of diamonds, queen of diamonds. “Another woman, a grandmother? A lover?” Jack of diamonds. “You. Alone.”

“Sir,” you say, “I would like to take my leave.”

“That’s nice.” He deals. Jack of spades. “Tragedy followed by good fortune seems to run in your family.” Ten of clubs, king of spades. “You grew up fast.” Nine of spades, seven of spades, five of clubs, nine of clubs, two of spades. “These are acts of horrible violence, but you were not alone.” Six of spades, two of clubs, jack of clubs. “Your compatriot.” Three of hearts, eight of hearts, four of spades, ace of clubs. “But you betrayed him too.” King of hearts. “Suicide. His.” Eight of clubs.

“Your card again.” King of clubs. “You rose to your pinnacle of power.” Ten of diamonds, four of hearts, three of clubs, ace of diamonds. “You were wealthy.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“I didn’t do any of this, sir, you did.” Three of spades, eight of clubs, two of hearts. “A lover.” Ace of hearts. “You truly fell for her.” Six of diamonds, ten of hearts, queen of hearts. “She rules in your life. How lucky.”

“Leave her out of this.”

“That is entirely up to you.” Seven of hearts, queen of clubs. “Another woman, looks like you can’t control yourself.” Four of diamonds, ten of spades, six of hearts. “And you are so hopeful.” He stops. There is one card left. “Would you like to hear what the cards tell about your life?”

“Didn’t I just now?”

“Not in full. The cards individually give an outline. Fully dealt, I can read your autobiography.”

“What about the last card?”

“That card stays, until the end.”

You think for a moment. “Alright. Tell me.”

The man picks the cards back up and begins shuffling through them backwards. “When you were young enough to be innocent, but old enough to lose it, your mother killed your father and his vast fortune fell to you and her. You were happy for a while, living in luxury. Your father’s mother suspected foul play, so your mother took you and ran. Your mother died. You killed her and took everything she had. You went to make your fortune of your own, but you couldn’t hack it alone. You took a friend, a partner, someone who was psychologically weak. You betrayed him and drove him to self-destruction. Soon, you were living the high-life, baptized in the blood of anyone who ever loved you. Then, you fell in love with a pure woman. She wouldn’t give herself to you, so you took on a mistress until the marriage could be arranged, which is why you’re here.”

“Her father runs the carnival.” You say, your eyes lowered in shame.

“Yes he does, and he also employs me.” The man smiles again. “You shall not be marrying my employer’s daughter, he sent me to see to that, but it looks like I won’t have to.”

“And why’s that?”

“Because, my friend, life is like a deck of cards, you only get 52, and you just reached the last card.” The man flips over the final card. Jack of hearts, the one-eyed jack with his head on the chopping block, waiting for the axe to fall.

The Next One

To return to the overarching theme of this blog, summer is almost over. This weekend I move into my new house, with my new housemates, and a week from now I will be in class. Pretty exciting.

This, however, also means that a time in my life is ending. This past summer was, as most summers are, eventful beyond belief. I have changed incredibly from only 3 months ago, and my life has changed even more.

And so, today I look out over the beach and watch the last remains of the beautiful wave of summer slide back into the ocean of my life, leaving behind a completely clean and undisturbed layer of wet sand. But, in the few moments before the next wave arrives and crashes against the shore, sending me swimming ferociously for whatever new goal presents itself, I would like to take a minute to say farewell to a few of the best parts of that beautiful wave.

Reading 15 comics a week

Living in Wallingford

The view from the porch of Fremont and the Canal

Working at Foodz Catering

Movies on the Projector

Bus Ride's to Ballard

A romantic relationship of any kind

Living in the same house as an espresso machine

Jasmine the Dog

The Durn Good Grocery

Living in the same house as an Xbox

Sleeping till 10 every day

And so, with that, the summer wave goes rolling back out to sea. I'm giddy for what comes next.

I am Zombie

I'm going to quote Simon Pegg. He's going to be talking about Zombies. And, I'm going to be completely fucking serious.

"[T]he zombie represents a number of our deeper insecurities. The fear that deep down, we may be little more than animals, concerned only with appetite."

That quote comes from the shortest and best afterword I've ever read in a comic collection. I realize that I'm stacking nerdyness upon nerdyness here, but this is a concept that I want to delve into a little bit.

The zombie is witless, hungry, and persistent. They see living flesh they devour it. They see life, they destroy it, consume it, and make it theirs. They are death incarnate. Scary as Fuck.

Zombies are scary because they are us. They are what we all have to look forward to after we fail at surviving, which we all do. In the best zombie stories, the act of "turning zombie" isn't the result of an infection, or a bite, but rather the natural progression after death. In the original Night of the Living Dead, in which George Romero firmly established some very long-standing rules of zombiehood that have only recently been broken, albeit with quite some success, zombies were, as the title would imply, dead people who crawled their way out of their graves. In the Romero universe, it doesn't matter what takes your life, you will come back, and you will be hungry. If there is an infection, we all have it.

This is the form of the zombie that disturbs me the most. In a zombie story, we know that at least one of our rag-tag bunch of heroes is going to turn zombie before our very eyes before the end. But, before that happens, they will be wholeheartedly engaged in the basic struggle to survive. The heroes fight, kill, starve, fall in love, and try to hack out some small niche of existence in a world that has given up on living. All the while, there is a zombie inside of them, just waiting for them to give up along with the rest of the world.

Every morning, I wake up and look into the mirror in my room, and I see the zombie. The zombie wants food, coffee, cigarettes, and sex. The zombie wants life to be easy and go smoothly. The zombie wants to satisfy it's desire for life, and in doing so, the zombie will destroy it. Every day, I spend hours fighting the zombie away. Sometimes it wins.

The zombie is an infection we all have. Dostoevsky called it "The Sensualist." Some people call it human nature. I want to kill my zombie. The thing is, nobody really knows how to do that. In the zombie stories, all it takes is a swift crack on the skull to get rid of the zombie on your front porch, but what about the zombie in your living room? How do you cleanse the infection from your system. Where is it? What is it?

Without this knowledge, there is no way to cure oneself from turning zombie. All we are left with is prevention. Prevention in the form of survival. So, I will survive. I mean this in a spiritual/emotional/metaphysical sense. Usually when people say "I'll survive" they mean they'll scrape by, or sometimes, they mean that they'll go zombie. When I say "I'll survive" I mean that I will live. I will fight the zombie with all my might, and I will not turn.

It'll have to kill me first.

Online Therapy

I try to make people feel better.

How many times have I heard people hypothesize that our culture would save billions of dollars on counseling bills if we'd just listen to one another?

I want to listen. And I think I'm pretty good at it. Maybe that's my problem.

The problem I'm facing now is that I want to talk. I desperately want to let out a lot of the frustration and angst that's been building for just about a week now, but I haven't found a chance too.

Let me explain.

Just under a week ago, my older brother was drunk and got in a fight with a meth-head. If any of you don't know, the only reasons one would get in a fight with a meth-head are a suicidal nature or another form of impaired judgement. Now, his jaw is wired shut, and there's been "structural damage" to the bones in his face.

He was always the prettier one. We're only 18 months apart. Ever since I started noticing girls, they were all busy noticing him. He dated a beautiful blonde super-christian who broke his heart because she read "I Kissed Dating Goodbye." Then, he got edgy.

Older Brother got into drugs. Slowly at first, but my current tally of the drugs he's done include Cocaine, Ecstasy, and possibly LSD. I've been watching Older Brother slowly choke himself to death on half-hearted hedonism, and all I could ever do was watch and try to learn from his mistakes (I didn't learn well enough, I date blondes).

Anyway, he's recently been skipping across Lake Rock Bottom like a perfectly smooth stone slung from the sidearm of a major-league pitcher. He got in trouble with the law a few times, got into debt with friends and our parents. And, now, he can't chew.

Growing up in Philomath, you learn pretty quickly a few things about meth and meth-heads. Number one, first thing you learn: Leave the meth-heads the fuck alone. They are stronger and less mentally stable, than they look. Older Brother knows this just as well as I know it, just as well as Littlest Brother knows it. He had to be really drunk.

All this to say... I hear this, and it kills me. I don't know what to do. I want to help, but I don't know how. I want to talk to him, but I'm afraid to call. I want to be home so that I can help in some way, but I'm here. I'm far away. And I always will be.

The Real Ending

Have you ever woke up depressed? It kinda grows over the course of the day and by 4:30 you're sitting in your room, your eyes running over some book from your floor while your mind drifts in morose nothingness like the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. Yeah... those suck.

So, the other night I told a story to some friends during a sunset-watching break from "Lost in Translation" (which was better this time).

The idea for it was prompted by my friend The Novelist who was talking a few days ago about these transcripts from the 20's or whenever when we first figured out cataracts surgery and a ton of people got to see for the first time. Somebody came up with the idea of writing down everything they said about sight and the visual world. Apparently, one of these ex-blind people, a kid I think, talked about "the tree with lights in it" in regards to the translucency of a tree's leaves and how, if you look at it right, it looks like the tree is creating its own light.

So, I decided that I would tell a story about a tree that created its own light.

We were sitting out on The Novelist's porch, watching the lightening over the sunset. Conversation had come to a halt, and I decided to tell The Novelist my idea. Somehow, that turned into me telling the whole story. These things happen.

In the story, the main character was a man whose family had always been the guardians of this magical tree. He had grown up hearing and reading stories of the tree's mystical powers, the heroes who had used the tree to do incredible things, and the many rituals and miracles associated with this tree.

Eventually, it fell to him to cultivate the tree, which meant waiting for someone to come, seeking to use the tree's healing power, and helping them. He had never seen the tree do anything extraordinary, except for the lights, which were nearly invisible when the sun was out, and were best viewed at sunset or sunrise. It was more of a glow than a shine. Either way, his faith in the tree was immovable. And, he waited.

After a time, a woman came into his village from a long way away. She had been journeying for three months, and she carried with her a small bundle. She came to the man and told him that she had come for two things. First, she had come on behalf of her village, whose staple crop had been decimated by a new disease. They had stories of the healing tree that could work miracles, so she was sent to see if it held any hope. Second, she had been chosen because of the bundle she carried with her. It was a baby, her son, who had died just three months ago. Before he was born, it was prophesied that he would be a great and terrible (in the arcane sense) warrior who would change the course of history. After his death, the woman had wrapped the body and preserved it with spices. She came to see if the tree could bring back her son, the prophesied great man.

The main character researched his library of the history of the tree, going as far back as written language. He found that, yes, the fields could be healed, and the child could be raised from the dead, but only one. To heal the fields, leaves must be plucked from the highest point in the tree, ground into a paste, dried into a powder, and scattered over the fields. Then, the fields must be untouched for a year. The next year, there would be a large crop and from then after, the crops would be as normal and never fall prey to the same disease. To raise the boy from the dead, the tree must be tapped and the sap must be spread over the boy and be allowed to sit for a week, then the boy must be washed in running water.

The problem was, once a the required leaves had been picked, or the required sap had been tapped, the lights on the tree would go out for three years, and the tree would be, simply, another tree.

The woman was torn by this decision. Was the life of her child worth the death of a village? No, the entire village wouldn't die, but some would. And, those who survived would have to move, scattering the village's inhabitants and effectively creating a ghost town.

The main character refused to believe that the tree was limited in such a way. He promised the woman that he would find a way. He searched through the libraries, looking for some story that contained a hint, a clue to a solution. He found stories in these volumes that surpassed any thoughts of miracles or dreams of the impossible that he'd ever had before. And yet, he still hadn't found anything that could help.

As he read and researched, the tree seemed to take on a new life for him. As he read stories of ancient heroes, the tree he envisioned in his mind was huge, with roots that went deep into the mountain, quite possibly supporting the mountain itself. The branches of the tree were large enough to hold the entire world, and it shined so bright that one had to cover their eyes to even approach and touch the holy bark.

This tree in his mind had very little in common with the tree that he tended.

After a week, the woman made her decision. She could no longer wait, she said. She would sacrifice the one for the sake of many. The main character attempted to dissuade her. Give him just a few more days, he said, he was sure he could find something. She wouldn't listen.

Reluctantly, the main character helped the woman prepare her little bundle for burial. They anointed him, prayed for him, wrapped him tight, and at the woman's request and with the main character's permission, they buried him at the foot of the tree in a small grave.

That night, the main character climbed the tree and plucked the leaves. He made the paste and spread it on some hides to dry in the sun. The next day, the woman left.

Remember this point, because I will reference it later.

The main character went back to his house and spent the next two days reading the ancient stories. Reading about miracles. After those two days he fell asleep in the library.

He dreamt. In the dream he was kneeling at the feet of the great tree, the one that existed in his mind. It was huge. Birds of all kinds lived in its branches, and there were clouds hovering around the very top of it. In the tree's branches were people, hundreds of people. Every race and nation that the main character knew of was there, they were talking and resting. The tree shined brightly. Then, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see standing behind him a man, tall, with dark hair, and scars covering his face. He was dressed for battle and he carried a large sword at his side. The warrior turned to the main character and said, "Thank you."

The next morning there was a great commotion in the village. Everyone had heard the noise of a boy running through the village the night before, and he created such a racket to wake nearly everybody. One villager had gone outside to see who this boy was and to send him home. When he approached the boy, he saw that the boy's skin was glowing faintly. At first he thought it was just the moon reflecting off the boy, but there was no moon that night. The man asked the boy who he was and told him that he should go home and rest. The boy said that he was home already. The man asked who he was again. The boy said, "I am free."

Upon hearing the story, the main character ran up the mountain path to the tree. The path had become overgrown slightly, and it took him longer than usual to make it too the foot of the tree. When he got there, he saw the little grave. It looked untouched, but he had to know. He dropped to his knees and began digging with his hands. Eventually, his fingers scraped against some cloth. He dug faster. He reached in his hands and pulled out the blanket that the child had been wrapped in, but the body was gone.

He cried.

So, that's the ending I told that nights on the balcony. But I only told that ending because of the company. My girlfriend was there along with another female friend who far prefers happy endings. Remember the part where I told you remember because I'd reference it later? The real ending begins there.

In this ending, the woman leaves, and the main character goes back to his home. He spends the next few weeks in his library, reading everything that there is, putting his favorite stories to memory. Every night, he dreams of the great tree, the one in his mind. He begins to neglect the real tree, visiting less and less frequently. Eventually he stops going all together. Three years later, the lights return to the tree, but no one is there to witness it.

The path to the tree is covered by vegetation. The little grave is left untended by anyone but the tree, and the main character dreams of a God that never was.

That's the real ending. That's what really happened. Little boys don't come back to life. The keepers of holy secrets don't get to witness their miracles, or even know if they work. The sacred tree with real, albeit limited, power is ignored for a more satisfying fantasy. And we forget. We always forget.

The Plan

Summer is here.

I have a new house.

I have a new life... sorta.

Okay, I have the possibility to live a new life, but I guess I get that every day don't I... Hmm...

Right, so I have a new location to live in which gives me the emotional motivation to live my life differently.Sure, that's close enough to truth. ANYWAY

I have a huge reading list for the summer, but currently I'm working on the following:

Isaiah

Tobit

Matthew

Purity of Heart Is To Will One Thing

Two Hellblazer Comics

The Goon: Noir

The Brothers Karamosov

And that's it for now.

Also, I'm gonna start taking guitar lessons from a friend who's staying in town over summer. So... yes, the summer is promising. Also, anyone who reads this, don't worry, I will get back to philosphical meandering, just not today.

Roommate Gone

Yesterday, my roommate went home for summer. I won't see him till next January, possibly not for multiple years, depending on what he decides to do for school. This is weird.

While we were hanging out for the last time, I kept saying to myself beautiful wave, beautiful wave, just let it go. But, that's a lot easier to write about on a semi-anonymous blog than actually put in practice.

I was doing okay all day yesterday, getting ready for my last final, helping my girl move, trying to de-stress. Then, I tried to sleep. That was funny.

For some reason, I have a really hard time sleeping alone. Not alone as in alone in my bed, but alone in my room. In this half-gutted state, my room has lost any essence of home to me. There were nights when my roommate was gone and I slept just fine, but I slept surrounded by his and my stuff. Now... that stuff is all gone. Not that there was anything special about the stuff, but it's like his presence has left.

Before, whenever he would go anywhere, his stuff was a constant reminder that I didn't live alone. That I would never find myself alone in my room, with nothing to do, and no-one to see. No matter how withdrawn or mean or stressed I got, he would eventually be around, even if neither of us had any choice in the matter.

But now, the room is bare. The cinder block walls and the pre-stained carpeting are completely devoid of any character or warmth. Three months from now, somebody will unlock that door and see this room as a blank canvass. But to me, right now, this room is the last muddy pieces of a beautiful wave as it is pulled, at the speed of time, back into the ocean. Leaving behind wet sand and the terrifying expectation of the next wave.

Beautiful Waves

I've let the fact that my little piece of autobiographical fiction is now free for any scary person on the scary internets to peruse, judge, and dislike sink in for just about an hour and a half.

I think I'm okay.

I'm ready to say something new now.

I'd like to explain the title of this blog.

This summer, I was spent a weekend with mom's family camping on the Oregon coast, which, as anyone whose ever been on the Oregon coast knows, means camping with salty air and the ocean as soundtrack. Nobody really "plays" in the Pacific ocean anywhere further north than San Francisco.

The only thing that makes the Oregon coast worth visiting is the view. The place is beautiful. You can sit on the beach and just listen and watch the seagulls. Once there was a group of whales breaching just beyond the breakers and we passed around binoculars.

Last summer was especially... disruptive to the status quo of my life. I broke up with my girlfriend of two years, who I had given a ring. I spent nearly two months of the summer abroad, and alone, trying to be useful. And, my sophomore year of college was just about to start.

I was sitting on the beach thinking about how much had changed since the last year when I'd camped here with my family. My Dad has a saying, "in five years, a lot of things change, but in ten years, everything changes." I was pondering that phrase. Really, dad? Everything.

I sat there, gazing out into the fog, trying to find the exact point where the ocean and the sky blended together, and a thought came to me. The ocean is constant. The ocean doesn't change. It's probably the most constant thing on the planet. Continents shift. Layers of the sky can be destroyed. People, animals, and plants are all in constant cycles of birth, life, and death. The ocean is the only thing that hasn't changed throughout all that.

Tides have always come in, and they have always gone back out. Then I realized that the most constant thing about the ocean was it's change. It's a bored cliche, but the only constant is change. For the ocean, this change takes the form of waves.

Each wave is different, unlike any other. Some of them come rushing at the coastline, pounding the sand with full force, sending water particles flying into the air. Some waves lap against shore, caressing the wet sand like you'd pet a butterfly. Every wave is a unique interaction between water molecules and land, propelled by a force far beyond anyone's control.

You already know where I'm going with this. Each wave is like each moment in life. Every moment comes and goes, followed by another. There's nothing we can do to keep the next moment from coming, and we can't keep a moment past its time any better than we could keep a wave from returning to the ocean.

The temporary aspect of the wave is part of what makes it so beautiful.

I have been guilty of trying to keep waves on the shore far past their time. I have been guilty of this many times. Often with little waves with small consequences, but sometime, especially recently, with a big wave. I'm tired of doing that.

I am trying to live by a new philosophy. One where I recognize a beautiful wave, revel in the temporal wonder of the moment, and then allow the moment to dissolve and slip into the past. I'm not going to kill myself trying to keep old waves on the shore, and I'm not going to mourn their passing.

My life is full of beautiful waves, and my goal is to see them for what they truly are, without fear, and let them wash over and through me.

Testing the Waters

So... I'm gonna see how I feel about publishing something I've written on this thing. I wrote this just over a month ago, it's fairly unedited, and were I to ever do something serious with it, I would probably review it a few more times.

Anyhow, here it is:

She had been dead for 2 months before I cried for her. It wasn’t that I was too shocked to mourn, and I’m not some kind of cold-hearted bastard, I was just too busy. School had just started, I was still trying to get my footing in Seattle, and then, she was gone. Midterms are not canceled just because an 80 year old woman in Oregon dies. I went back for the funeral, and then I went on with my life.

Two months later, my world had stopped spinning. I was back home for winter break, and it was cold. Everything was cold. My parents were in the middle of rebuilding half of our home, which meant that there were lots of cracks in the insulation, and the cold was beginning to get in. We would keep the fire burning hot all day. Since she died, and we were the only other ones in the family with a fireplace, we had more than enough firewood. Most of the time, we huddled together in the living room/kitchen and tried to keep one another sane. Sometimes we talked about her.

A few weeks before Christmas, I took a walk. I don’t know why. It was cold. Damn cold. I was wearing four layers of shirt under my coat, a hat, and two pairs of socks. Have you ever noticed that we never bundle up our legs? Nobody owns snow pants in the Pacific Northwest. We wear jeans all the time, when we go skiing we wear long-johns under our jeans.

I walked the three blocks down to her house. Nobody was there, but I knew where the key was. She lived next door to her son, my grandpa, and I was praying to God almighty that he would be at church. He was.

Inside, the place was in a weird state of gutting. She was a pack-rat, lots of those children of the depression turned out to be pack-rats. They never threw things out. My family had inherited, besides the fire-wood, a majority of her food reserves. Most of which was from pre 1980 and contained dairy.

The garage shelves were bare, something I’d never seen in my entire life. I got into the house proper as soon as possible, it was cold out there.

It was cold in there too. I don’t know why I assumed it would be warm inside a dead woman’s house. The pictures were all gone, as well as most of the useful kitchen items, but most of the books, and nick nacks were still there. The better furniture had been removed, the TVs were all gone. I sat down on one of the couches, and looked around the room.

Years of after-church afternoons flooded back to me. Evenings so hot that you’d sleep on the cold tile floor in the kitchen. Bowls upon bowls of taco soup and broccoli. And always her, sitting in the chair, doling out equal amounts of wisdom and bitterness, sometimes I wasn’t sure which was which with her.

She’d been sick for a long time, but she didn’t really take care of herself. She liked sweets, and she liked CMT and she liked to read. The cocktails of prescriptions had started to take a toll on her mind, and sometimes she forgot.

I saw her a few times after she’d gone to the hospital, after they had her on morphine and not much else, when lucidity was improbable. But, I don’t count those. The last time I really saw her was the day before I went away to school. She must’ve known that something was going to happen, she must have known something. She told me that she had a gift for me. She went into her bedroom and she came out with an old bible. It was a leather bound, black thing with her name monogrammed on the front.

It had been her bible for a very long time. It had been damaged by smoke during the fire before my father was born. It’s especially obvious in the back, where all the maps are. The pages are browned and crinkle they way near-burnt paper only can. I pick it up sometimes and smell it. It still smells like her house. It may be the only thing in the world that does.

It was damn cold, and sitting with nothing but the wheels in your head moving isn’t a good way to keep warm. I walked through the rooms of the half-empty house for the last time, and I stepped out onto the back porch. The still-green stump of the old pear tree was sticking out of the ground in her back yard. She loved that tree, and it was at least as old as she was. Every year it would drop pears on the ground like a slothful piñata, one every few minutes or so. She would can the pears, or just eat them raw, and we would help her.

Not a week after she died, her son, my grandpa, cut down the pear tree. I don’t know why. I don’t want to know why.

The night before I left for school, I had a dream. Well, I had a lot of dreams that night, but I forgot all of them but this one. I was in a transition between dreams. One dream was ending and another was beginning to fade into my sleeping. I felt someone say, pay attention, this is important. Then, I found myself standing at the edge of a clearing in the middle of a mountain valley. The sun was just on its way to setting. The field was filled with tall grass that swayed in a gentle breeze.

There were people, standing, sitting, laying down; in groups of three or four, or alone. None were moving, they weren’t frozen, they just weren’t going anywhere. They wore 30’s era clothing, jean suspenders and flannel shirts. There were some trucks and tractors, also 30’s, laying around in the field. They weren’t broken down, but the grass around them wasn’t depressed. It was like they’d just been left there, they weren’t necessary anymore.

One of the women stood out. She was about 30 years old, and she stood alone in the field. She had brown hair, and she was wearing a dress with yellow flowers on it. The breeze picked up for a moment, and she raised her arms out to her side. With the wind tugging at the hem of her dress, she closed her eyes and smiled.

I walked the three blocks back to my house, thinking about her. Thinking about all of it. Thinking about the half gutted house. Thinking about the pear tree that died with her. Thinking about the Bible that was sitting on my shelf at school. Thinking about my dream. I saw her, standing in the field, yellow flower dress billowing lightly, as the cool evening turned into a warm night. I saw her holding me when I was newborn. I saw her watch my dad so that his parents could work. I saw her sacrifice for her children when their father died at 35. I saw her, and I knew that I wouldn’t see her anymore.

I cried for her.

Okay, so I started a blog

Will I often use this blog?

Probably not.

Will anyone I know read this blog?

Dear God, I hope not.

Will anyone on the internet read this blog?

Again, probably not.

So, why did I start a blog? The simple answer is that I often find myself sitting at my computer wanting to vent some emotion and not finding an adequate outlet for it. I have a hard time getting it out in ms word or something similar, so here I am. I guess it just helps me when I feel like I have an audience. Even if that audience doesn't really exist.

I will probably do a post sometime tonight after I finish my homework.

I don't know if this is really that good of an idea, but, here's hoping, right?

Ezekiel D.