“So what’s changed with you?”
Well, the other day I was reading Mere Christianity, but today I’m reading Fahrenheit 451. And instead of running to Spoon or Band of Horses today, I ran to Dashboard Confessional (you may think they’re whiney, but that steady kick drum and those rolling lyrics speak to my running shoes).
“What do you do when your small pond dries up?” That’s the first sentence of a novel I actually dreamed about writing the other night. This sentence changed the way I look at the “sagging” courthouse, and the worn down buildings, and the quiet of my dying town.
Sometimes my toenails are red, and sometimes they’re pink, and sometimes they’re not painted at all.
I never step in the exact same place, the exact same way I did yesterday. Sometimes I actually use the mouthwash next to my sink, and sometimes I only consider it. I forget different things at different times; I lose my keys one day, and don’t even hesitate to find them the next.
The gas in my car runs out. Always. And it won’t stop doing this.
I’m determined to do or say something on one day, but I forget altogether the next. I don’t eat the same, or dress the same, or speak the same every single day.
Some days I talk a lot, and some, barely at all.
The last time I was asked this question, I’m pretty sure I responded that I was the same as I have always been, but I’m never the same as I have always been. If so, I still would be unable to pronounce my “R,” I’d be even worse at spelling, and I’d probably be four or three or two or one.
My missing tooth wouldn’t have grown back. My heart wouldn’t have gotten all better. My scratch wouldn’t have become a scar. My toenails wouldn’t have changed color. That freckle that I like so much wouldn’t be there…
Maybe there’s nothing really amazing about change. But I think there is something remarkable about it. About the days always changing, the seasons, the hours, the minutes; this one being different from the next. There’s something about the wrinkles in a face, and the graying of hair, or the way these pair of shoes are worn this day and those the next. I’ll walk today, and drive tomorrow. I’ll have long hair now, but I had short hair then.
I like change. Imagine what could be in five years. In five years I’ll be 28, who knows where I’ll be, or what I’ll be doing. I could be married, I could be single, I could be running with my dog in a park.
And in five more years…I’ll be 33. And in five more 38. And in five more 43. And in 5 more 48.
Do you see how quickly it all goes?
I think I don’t take enough advantage of the change of it all. I make it monotonous. I make it like it’s nothing. Time ticks, but so what. Let it tick. It never gets anywhere, but all the while, Time is carrying me, and you, on his back across the seconds, and the days, and the years, and all the while we change, oblivious of the present until we’ve gotten far into the future.
I remember when I used to think, “next year I’ll finally be old enough…” And then it would come and I’d feel the same, and I’d hope for the next year to be different. And what’s funny is that things were changing; braces were getting put on or taken off, hair was cut, new things were seen or done, and before I knew it, I was graduating, and only when I was “five years later” could I see the whole picture, or the before and after.
I think I’m always looking forward to the change. I’m looking forward to the job, and the house, and the trip to Italy. I wonder if in looking so far to the future, I fast forward and forget that there’s enough change happening today, and though it isn’t marked in bold letters or with red writing, the changes now are just as significant as the changes to be.
Maybe every time someone asks me what’s changed, the changes will be too small, and seemingly insignificant for me to make any “worthwhile” observations. Who cares if my toenails are a different color, or what song I ran to, or what book I’ve changed to, or what color my hair is? And the real changes that are going on are shoved out of the way for the “big” changes, and those aren’t really noticeable until a good bit of time has passed…
So, it seems we spend most of our lives believing we are constant because we imagine we are always the same. But then one day, a wrinkle appears, though it was probably there before it just magically made itself known, but one day, you really see it. And it’s hard to notice that one gray hair, but with enough time, you’ll notice a handful. And the pain you feel seems like it will hurt forever, until that morning you wake up, and it has just magically disappeared, when really, it was the individual second that carried you to that point.
I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know. Today I have no wrinkles, but tomorrow I’m closer and that little wrinkle that will be there in who knows how many years is already pushing itself up to the surface. And the person “I’m going to be” already is becoming. And the things I will “learn in the future” are already being taught.
Today is tomorrow. And I’m already changing. And I’d like to stop waiting for the future for things to “be” because, well, they already are. And there’s no point in waiting around for it to happen, because it already is.
“So what’s changed with me?”
Well second by second, everything.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Sunday, May 22, 2011
To You
Verse: I've got you always in my back pocket
And I keep you safe and warm inside and old, gold locket.
And I've been writing down all you're ganna be,
And I keep wonderin', wonderin' if you think of me(2X)
Verse: And I remember all the days we haven't had
And I remember all the times that you've been sad
And I remember all you wanted to be,
And I keep wonderin', wonderin' if you remember me(2x)
Verse: I always hope that you will love me sweet,
And find out all the things that noone else can see,
And I hope that you'll forgive easily
And I keep wonderin', wonderin', if you hope for me(2x)
Verse: And I already love the man that you are,
Every crack and bruise and old battle scar,
But what I love most is that you could love me,
And I keep wonderin', wonderin' when that's ganna be(2x)
Bridge: Every morning with the rising of the sun,
I am hoping that this day you'll come, oh,
And wake me, and wake me, and wake me up
(2x)
you wake me up,you wake me up.
I always feel a little awkward writing love songs. I don't know how music artist do it all of the time. You know that feeling you have when you dream you went to school with your homework, and shoes, and back pack, but you kind of left your clothes at home (unless you've done this is real life...). That's what writing love songs feels like to me. It's like I showed up with a guitar and no clothes.
I considered leaving it "untitled" but since it's anonymous, I figured "To You" would suffice since it wasn't written to anyone in particular, other than the anonymous person I do not know yet...haha. So this is to you, whoever "you" are.
Friday, May 20, 2011
End of the World
It’s May 21st, 2011. 1:05 Am.
The world is going to end today.
At least that’s what some guy said; though I’d like to clarify that biblically the end is said to come on a day that no one can predict. If we could predict it…the surprise factor would kind of be lost. In fact, if we could predict the end, I have a feeling that we would have a tendency to leave things unresolved until the last minute.
Anyway, for now, I’m going to pretend that today the world is ending. Because unless I try to believe in it, then this post isn’t going to do the “what would I write if I only had one more day” justice.
To God,
I wish I had had more time to make you proud. I wish I had prayed more, studied your word more, talked to you more, and well, listened to you more. I wish that I had read the bible all the way though without finding myself at a brick wall every time I hit the New Testament. I wish that I could quote one bible verse for every year of my life. That’s only 23 verses, but I have a feeling I might come up short. I wish we had had more time. But thank you for all that we did say, and we did share, and all that you did teach me. Thank you for the darkness, because I think it was then that I knew just how beautiful all of your light, and goodness, and love was. Thank you for choosing me, even when I forgot about you. Thank you for knowing me before it all, and loving me despite after…
To my friends,
Sometimes you were terrible friends. You said the wrong things, you weren’t there when I needed you, you forgot me, you criticized me, and you made some of my days a little harder. But despite these obvious flaws, I love you because I’ve done the same thing to you. I’m sorry we couldn’t both be more dependable, more honest, more loving, and more forgiving. I’m sorry we wasted so much time fighting over stupid things, and I’m sorry we let so much time go between visits. Besides the times you made me a little self-conscious and nervous you also made me braver, wiser, and more light hearted. You taught what you could, and abandoned what you couldn’t. But I’ll take that any day. We hurt and healed, we gave and took, but at the end of the day, you were my kindred spirit, my opposite, my shoulder rest, my favorite story, my best hug, my prayer, my adventure, my best laugh... you were my friend.
To my family,
I don’t feel like there is anything that I could say that you don’t already know. We’ve said it all. Literally, we’ve talked about everything there was to talk about. And we listened to each other. We read the same books, and watched the same shows, and shared stories of school, and work, and politics, and religion, and all else under the sun sitting at that little round, oak table in the breakfast room. And we laughed at mom when she forgot, and we pointed out dad’s arched eyebrow but lazy smile, and we knew ken was the debater, and matt was the social butterfly, and I was the writer whom you were all depending on to get published so that we could stay close and the money could build us a camp house, and our little club could go on, always, like it always has. I have to say, out of all the clubs that have ever been, ours is my favorite. We may not always agree, we may think each other crazy, or weird, or too loud, but at the end of the day, we loved each other, we really, really, loved each other, and it turned out, we were of the same kind.
To you
Maybe I liked you, maybe you were my crush, maybe you were a past boyfriend, or maybe you were a future boyfriend; all I can say is you’re a lot more complicated than I expected you to be. I always thought you’d be easy, simply, so to speak. I guess I always thought you’d just come along, and that’d be that...But as a movie I just watched said, you never know who you’ll love, and it never happens the way you want it to…but you already knew that. I wrote you letters and songs. I kept a list from when I was thirteen in a chest of what I imagined you’d be; you could have been the exact opposite, and I am confident I wouldn’t have held it against you. As you may or may not know, I have a tendency to forgive easily. I’m sorry if you liked me back, and I never knew. And I’m sorry if I liked you back, and you never knew. But that’s the way it is sometimes. I was looking forward to the laughs, and the road trip, and the forcing you to read all of my short stories, and you either loving them, or hating them, but despite that, reading them anyway. I was looking forward to the confided secrets, and your success at keeping me from running, and our inside jokes and glances, and our exchanging of music and books (that is if you’re a reader). I wanted to hear your embarrassing stories, and sing you to sleep, and yes, I really wanted to play with your hair. But since the world’s ending today, I’m perfectly content in that I knew you, or at least, in that I thought I knew you.
To the strangers
We passed each other walking to class, you randomly found my blog, you saw me fall up the stairs at Brown once and held back a laugh, you were in my chemistry lab, you were the cashier at the grocery store, you were the kid in Africa I didn’t get to hug goodbye, you were the man on the street, you were the woman with the screaming kids in Wal-Mart, you were the man I called Walt, you were the girl crying in the bathroom, you were the stranger… I should have said “hey,” even if you weren’t going to say anything back. I should have heard your stories and told you mine. I should have bypassed the small talk and gone straight to the deep end. You could have been a friend, you could have saved me from something embarrassing, you could have passed on your knowledge or wisdom, one of us could have possible made the other’s day a lot better, you could have been a real face, a real name, and real person instead of the stranger I thought of you as. God asked me to love you first, and for some reason, I saved you for last. I looked around you, wrote around you, and spoke around you…and I’m sorry we didn’t get to know one another.
To church
You were one of the most intimidating places for me to go to sometimes, and I’m sorry you were. You weren’t supposed to be. You were supposed to be the safest place, the most loving place, and the brightest place. But I should never have put you on a pedestal since the people in you were just that, people. And sometimes people fail. It’s inevitable. You weren’t God, you weren’t angels, and you were going to make mistakes, and say the wrong things, and do the wrong things, but my favorite thing about you was that you really tried. You really tried to have Jesus’ heart, and sometimes you got just close enough that I could see him in you. And I knew his love then, and I knew his words then, and I knew his face, and voice, and smile. And I had sisters and brothers that I never imagined I’d have, and even when I was gone too long, you were still there, waiting for me. I loved hearing you sing and pray, and I even when I was still, and quiet, and small, I loved worshiping God with you.
To Me
I’m glad I was brave enough to ….I’m glad I read all of those books, and listened to all of that music. I’m glad I never quit piano lessons when I was little. I’m glad I was patient enough to figure out something on the guitar. Even if I didn’t make it to Italy, I was going soon, I was really going soon, and I’m content with soon rather than never. I’m glad that Africa had called my name that summer and rearranged things in my heart. I wish I had finished that painting that’s been staring at me now for three years, quietly reminding me to “finish.” I’m sure I could have said more to you, but I’ll take what was said since it’s better than nothing. I wish I had written that novel, but I’m thankful to have written anything at all. Though I was hard headed, I don’t think I ever became hard hearted, and I’m glad. From all the times I looked back and saw God’s hand in my life, I should have looked towards the future knowing it was there too, in everything. I’m glad to have run, and danced, and sang as often as I did. I’m content with my stories, with my mistakes, with my crushes, with my tears and laughter, with my constant humming, with my learned lessons, with who and what God was to me. The regrets I have are few, and the thankfuls I have are much.
Today is the end of the world. And I’m ready.
The world is going to end today.
At least that’s what some guy said; though I’d like to clarify that biblically the end is said to come on a day that no one can predict. If we could predict it…the surprise factor would kind of be lost. In fact, if we could predict the end, I have a feeling that we would have a tendency to leave things unresolved until the last minute.
Anyway, for now, I’m going to pretend that today the world is ending. Because unless I try to believe in it, then this post isn’t going to do the “what would I write if I only had one more day” justice.
To God,
I wish I had had more time to make you proud. I wish I had prayed more, studied your word more, talked to you more, and well, listened to you more. I wish that I had read the bible all the way though without finding myself at a brick wall every time I hit the New Testament. I wish that I could quote one bible verse for every year of my life. That’s only 23 verses, but I have a feeling I might come up short. I wish we had had more time. But thank you for all that we did say, and we did share, and all that you did teach me. Thank you for the darkness, because I think it was then that I knew just how beautiful all of your light, and goodness, and love was. Thank you for choosing me, even when I forgot about you. Thank you for knowing me before it all, and loving me despite after…
To my friends,
Sometimes you were terrible friends. You said the wrong things, you weren’t there when I needed you, you forgot me, you criticized me, and you made some of my days a little harder. But despite these obvious flaws, I love you because I’ve done the same thing to you. I’m sorry we couldn’t both be more dependable, more honest, more loving, and more forgiving. I’m sorry we wasted so much time fighting over stupid things, and I’m sorry we let so much time go between visits. Besides the times you made me a little self-conscious and nervous you also made me braver, wiser, and more light hearted. You taught what you could, and abandoned what you couldn’t. But I’ll take that any day. We hurt and healed, we gave and took, but at the end of the day, you were my kindred spirit, my opposite, my shoulder rest, my favorite story, my best hug, my prayer, my adventure, my best laugh... you were my friend.
To my family,
I don’t feel like there is anything that I could say that you don’t already know. We’ve said it all. Literally, we’ve talked about everything there was to talk about. And we listened to each other. We read the same books, and watched the same shows, and shared stories of school, and work, and politics, and religion, and all else under the sun sitting at that little round, oak table in the breakfast room. And we laughed at mom when she forgot, and we pointed out dad’s arched eyebrow but lazy smile, and we knew ken was the debater, and matt was the social butterfly, and I was the writer whom you were all depending on to get published so that we could stay close and the money could build us a camp house, and our little club could go on, always, like it always has. I have to say, out of all the clubs that have ever been, ours is my favorite. We may not always agree, we may think each other crazy, or weird, or too loud, but at the end of the day, we loved each other, we really, really, loved each other, and it turned out, we were of the same kind.
To you
Maybe I liked you, maybe you were my crush, maybe you were a past boyfriend, or maybe you were a future boyfriend; all I can say is you’re a lot more complicated than I expected you to be. I always thought you’d be easy, simply, so to speak. I guess I always thought you’d just come along, and that’d be that...But as a movie I just watched said, you never know who you’ll love, and it never happens the way you want it to…but you already knew that. I wrote you letters and songs. I kept a list from when I was thirteen in a chest of what I imagined you’d be; you could have been the exact opposite, and I am confident I wouldn’t have held it against you. As you may or may not know, I have a tendency to forgive easily. I’m sorry if you liked me back, and I never knew. And I’m sorry if I liked you back, and you never knew. But that’s the way it is sometimes. I was looking forward to the laughs, and the road trip, and the forcing you to read all of my short stories, and you either loving them, or hating them, but despite that, reading them anyway. I was looking forward to the confided secrets, and your success at keeping me from running, and our inside jokes and glances, and our exchanging of music and books (that is if you’re a reader). I wanted to hear your embarrassing stories, and sing you to sleep, and yes, I really wanted to play with your hair. But since the world’s ending today, I’m perfectly content in that I knew you, or at least, in that I thought I knew you.
To the strangers
We passed each other walking to class, you randomly found my blog, you saw me fall up the stairs at Brown once and held back a laugh, you were in my chemistry lab, you were the cashier at the grocery store, you were the kid in Africa I didn’t get to hug goodbye, you were the man on the street, you were the woman with the screaming kids in Wal-Mart, you were the man I called Walt, you were the girl crying in the bathroom, you were the stranger… I should have said “hey,” even if you weren’t going to say anything back. I should have heard your stories and told you mine. I should have bypassed the small talk and gone straight to the deep end. You could have been a friend, you could have saved me from something embarrassing, you could have passed on your knowledge or wisdom, one of us could have possible made the other’s day a lot better, you could have been a real face, a real name, and real person instead of the stranger I thought of you as. God asked me to love you first, and for some reason, I saved you for last. I looked around you, wrote around you, and spoke around you…and I’m sorry we didn’t get to know one another.
To church
You were one of the most intimidating places for me to go to sometimes, and I’m sorry you were. You weren’t supposed to be. You were supposed to be the safest place, the most loving place, and the brightest place. But I should never have put you on a pedestal since the people in you were just that, people. And sometimes people fail. It’s inevitable. You weren’t God, you weren’t angels, and you were going to make mistakes, and say the wrong things, and do the wrong things, but my favorite thing about you was that you really tried. You really tried to have Jesus’ heart, and sometimes you got just close enough that I could see him in you. And I knew his love then, and I knew his words then, and I knew his face, and voice, and smile. And I had sisters and brothers that I never imagined I’d have, and even when I was gone too long, you were still there, waiting for me. I loved hearing you sing and pray, and I even when I was still, and quiet, and small, I loved worshiping God with you.
To Me
I’m glad I was brave enough to ….I’m glad I read all of those books, and listened to all of that music. I’m glad I never quit piano lessons when I was little. I’m glad I was patient enough to figure out something on the guitar. Even if I didn’t make it to Italy, I was going soon, I was really going soon, and I’m content with soon rather than never. I’m glad that Africa had called my name that summer and rearranged things in my heart. I wish I had finished that painting that’s been staring at me now for three years, quietly reminding me to “finish.” I’m sure I could have said more to you, but I’ll take what was said since it’s better than nothing. I wish I had written that novel, but I’m thankful to have written anything at all. Though I was hard headed, I don’t think I ever became hard hearted, and I’m glad. From all the times I looked back and saw God’s hand in my life, I should have looked towards the future knowing it was there too, in everything. I’m glad to have run, and danced, and sang as often as I did. I’m content with my stories, with my mistakes, with my crushes, with my tears and laughter, with my constant humming, with my learned lessons, with who and what God was to me. The regrets I have are few, and the thankfuls I have are much.
Today is the end of the world. And I’m ready.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Lewis
And this leads on to my second point. People often think of Christian morality as a kind of bargain in which God says, ' if you keep a lot of rules I'll reward you, and if you don't I'll do the other thing.' I do not think that is the best way to look at it. I would much rather say that every time you make a choice you are turning the central part of you, the part of you that chooses, into something a little different from what it was before. And taking your life as a whole, with all your innumerable choices, all your life long you are slowly turning this central thing either into a heavenly creature or into a hellish creature: either into a creature that is in harmony with God, and with other creatures, and with itself, or else into one that is in a state of war with God, and with its fellow creatures, and with itself. To be the one kind of creature is heaven: that is, joy and peace and knowledge and power. To be the other means madness, horror, idiocy, rage, impotence, and eternal loneliness. Each of us at each moment is progressing to the one state or the other.
C.S. Lewis. Mere Christianity
I guess what it comes down to is knowing that we'll always be going one way or the other. There's no "middle ground" no "safe land." There's only up or down. And I'm sure that as I meet more kind and gentle and Godly people, I'll see more and more of the hellish creature within myself, and I'll be more and more refined. That's what having family in Christ means anyway. Refining and improving one another out of love...and hope never hurts.
C.S. Lewis. Mere Christianity
I guess what it comes down to is knowing that we'll always be going one way or the other. There's no "middle ground" no "safe land." There's only up or down. And I'm sure that as I meet more kind and gentle and Godly people, I'll see more and more of the hellish creature within myself, and I'll be more and more refined. That's what having family in Christ means anyway. Refining and improving one another out of love...and hope never hurts.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Gone Away
“These are my enticements, and they are sufficient to conquer all fear of danger or death and to induce me to commence this laborious voyage with the joy a child feels when he embarks in a little boat, with his holiday mates, on an expedition of discovery up his native river.” Frankenstein
“I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.” Moby Dick
Ever since yesterday afternoon, I keep imagining myself, hand rising and falling outside of the window, some acoustic music playing, and the wheels of my car hot against the road.
I’m having an itch for things remote.
This happens occasionally. I just want to escape, to run, to spend a day away.
It would just be something spontaneous and perhaps a little risky or dangerous, or maybe just exciting and new.
Every time I image myself gone away for awhile, I imagine old, broken paved roads; the kind that have cracks and dips everywhere, the kind that have been neglected. And I think of rusty gas stations where weeds have grown up around the corners. And I think of big, open fields where old grain silos are gray in the background, and abandoned farm houses that are white against bright blues and greens. And I think of big lakes, and long piers, and tall grass.
I have no idea why this is what I keep imagining every time I think of getting in my car and driving, but it is. I guess- if I were to get in my car and just drive- I’d like to go driving towards nowhere. Call it the “country” or whatever you’d like, but I’d just like to go where there aren’t any people, or buildings, or at least, anything familiar.
Have you ever considered this before? We have entire days away from school, or even an entire half of the summer free (I finally have this luxury) and in that span of time, imagine where a car, and gas, and a road could take us?
Turkey sandwiches, and warm cokes, and rolled down windows, and open fields, and those silos I keep thinking of, and sleeping in the backseat of a car, and laughing at everything and nothing, and listening to music, and eating Little Debbie brownies out of the wrapper, and staring at the sky, and reading all of those books you’ve been meaning to, and stepping out of the car doors- every time- to somewhere you’ve never been before, or maybe, somewhere you haven’t been in a long time.
Consider this: You don’t have to go too far, and you don’t have to eat turkey sandwiches (maybe you prefer peanut butter and jelly...or maybe ham and cheese), but you could go. You could just get in your car, with everything you really need, and just drive. There’s nothing stopping you.
It’s no wonder I was so captivated by novels like Robinson Crusoe, 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, The Call of the Wild, Treasure Island, Huckleberry Finn, or Around the World in 80 Days growing up. I read that entire classic adventure series in Junior High School, and recalling now, I’d like to read them again.
Maybe somewhere in the human heart, or maybe in the soul, we all have some kind of longing to escape and to discover. This would explain why men built ships to cross what could have been the end of the earth to find out what was on the other side, and faced starvation and death in seeking out the West, or the East, or the South, or the North.
I was always fascinated with Lewis and Clark. I used to think, when I was younger, that if I could have lived in any time, it would have been in their days when they were just setting out so that I could have tagged along at their heels. Of course, I couldn’t really go back to their days, so novels had to suffice, as did creating little maps for my friend Kimberly which allowed us to live out our own adventures. And when maps weren’t enough, there were always forts to build, the railroad tracks to walk down, or the creek.
I think it’s about time to put the novels down. I’ve walked the tracks enough times to know which bend the bridge is around, and the creek, which once seemed so mysterious and deep, is really only ankle deep and only goes so far. But the road is endless. And I’m having an itch to know where it could take me.
Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear. In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child. In the woods, is perpetual youth. Within these plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of them in a thousand years. In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, -- no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground, -- my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, -- all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God. The name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances, -- master or servant, is then a trifle and a disturbance. I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I find something more dear and connate than in streets or villages. In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature.
-Emerson (from the essay Nature)
“I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts.” Moby Dick
Ever since yesterday afternoon, I keep imagining myself, hand rising and falling outside of the window, some acoustic music playing, and the wheels of my car hot against the road.
I’m having an itch for things remote.
This happens occasionally. I just want to escape, to run, to spend a day away.
It would just be something spontaneous and perhaps a little risky or dangerous, or maybe just exciting and new.
Every time I image myself gone away for awhile, I imagine old, broken paved roads; the kind that have cracks and dips everywhere, the kind that have been neglected. And I think of rusty gas stations where weeds have grown up around the corners. And I think of big, open fields where old grain silos are gray in the background, and abandoned farm houses that are white against bright blues and greens. And I think of big lakes, and long piers, and tall grass.
I have no idea why this is what I keep imagining every time I think of getting in my car and driving, but it is. I guess- if I were to get in my car and just drive- I’d like to go driving towards nowhere. Call it the “country” or whatever you’d like, but I’d just like to go where there aren’t any people, or buildings, or at least, anything familiar.
Have you ever considered this before? We have entire days away from school, or even an entire half of the summer free (I finally have this luxury) and in that span of time, imagine where a car, and gas, and a road could take us?
Turkey sandwiches, and warm cokes, and rolled down windows, and open fields, and those silos I keep thinking of, and sleeping in the backseat of a car, and laughing at everything and nothing, and listening to music, and eating Little Debbie brownies out of the wrapper, and staring at the sky, and reading all of those books you’ve been meaning to, and stepping out of the car doors- every time- to somewhere you’ve never been before, or maybe, somewhere you haven’t been in a long time.
Consider this: You don’t have to go too far, and you don’t have to eat turkey sandwiches (maybe you prefer peanut butter and jelly...or maybe ham and cheese), but you could go. You could just get in your car, with everything you really need, and just drive. There’s nothing stopping you.
It’s no wonder I was so captivated by novels like Robinson Crusoe, 20,000 Leagues under the Sea, The Call of the Wild, Treasure Island, Huckleberry Finn, or Around the World in 80 Days growing up. I read that entire classic adventure series in Junior High School, and recalling now, I’d like to read them again.
Maybe somewhere in the human heart, or maybe in the soul, we all have some kind of longing to escape and to discover. This would explain why men built ships to cross what could have been the end of the earth to find out what was on the other side, and faced starvation and death in seeking out the West, or the East, or the South, or the North.
I was always fascinated with Lewis and Clark. I used to think, when I was younger, that if I could have lived in any time, it would have been in their days when they were just setting out so that I could have tagged along at their heels. Of course, I couldn’t really go back to their days, so novels had to suffice, as did creating little maps for my friend Kimberly which allowed us to live out our own adventures. And when maps weren’t enough, there were always forts to build, the railroad tracks to walk down, or the creek.
I think it’s about time to put the novels down. I’ve walked the tracks enough times to know which bend the bridge is around, and the creek, which once seemed so mysterious and deep, is really only ankle deep and only goes so far. But the road is endless. And I’m having an itch to know where it could take me.
Crossing a bare common, in snow puddles, at twilight, under a clouded sky, without having in my thoughts any occurrence of special good fortune, I have enjoyed a perfect exhilaration. I am glad to the brink of fear. In the woods too, a man casts off his years, as the snake his slough, and at what period soever of life, is always a child. In the woods, is perpetual youth. Within these plantations of God, a decorum and sanctity reign, a perennial festival is dressed, and the guest sees not how he should tire of them in a thousand years. In the woods, we return to reason and faith. There I feel that nothing can befall me in life, -- no disgrace, no calamity, (leaving me my eyes,) which nature cannot repair. Standing on the bare ground, -- my head bathed by the blithe air, and uplifted into infinite space, -- all mean egotism vanishes. I become a transparent eye-ball; I am nothing; I see all; the currents of the Universal Being circulate through me; I am part or particle of God. The name of the nearest friend sounds then foreign and accidental: to be brothers, to be acquaintances, -- master or servant, is then a trifle and a disturbance. I am the lover of uncontained and immortal beauty. In the wilderness, I find something more dear and connate than in streets or villages. In the tranquil landscape, and especially in the distant line of the horizon, man beholds somewhat as beautiful as his own nature.
-Emerson (from the essay Nature)
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
A Portrait
I usually tend to dislike photos taken of me. They never look like me. I mean, yeah, the eye color is the same, but the eyes are usually scrunched up in a silly face because I find looking straight into the lens, really looking into the lens,somewhat uncomfortable.
I'm not sure why. I was actually thinking about this last night. I don't know why I can't just stand there and let someone take a picture of me without feeling awkward or stoic. Smiling usually helps, but then, I don't walk around smiling like that all of the time, so looking at hundreds of pictures of yourself, not in a moment, or a pause, but in a strategic smile and stance is disapointing.
When I die, these are the pictures my grandchildren, and great grandchildren will have to look at. Me, standing with one foot slightly in front of the other, smiling, and on occasion making a weird face.
So I took a portrait yesterday (which is really a series of pictures).
I'm not sure why. I was actually thinking about this last night. I don't know why I can't just stand there and let someone take a picture of me without feeling awkward or stoic. Smiling usually helps, but then, I don't walk around smiling like that all of the time, so looking at hundreds of pictures of yourself, not in a moment, or a pause, but in a strategic smile and stance is disapointing.
When I die, these are the pictures my grandchildren, and great grandchildren will have to look at. Me, standing with one foot slightly in front of the other, smiling, and on occasion making a weird face.
So I took a portrait yesterday (which is really a series of pictures).
Sunday, May 1, 2011
A Nod
Before I begin this, I’d like to go ahead and say that underneath my clothes, I’m naked.
Do with that sentence as you will.
Do you ever do that thing where it’s about to be four in the morning, and you know you want to sleep, but there you are, staring at the ceiling, counting all of those splots of paint your friend left accidentally that day you painted your room? Or maybe you watch the shadow of the evil fan that you can’t get to turn off no matter how many times you pull the cord. This happens to me. Literally. I have an evil fan that I can’t turn off…slow…fast…ah ha off….nevermind. slow. Fast. Slow. Sigh. I give up.
You close your eyes, and there it is; there’s that little thought…that little annoying thought that won’t go away. And it burns so bright with your eyes closed that it hurts, and you have to open them again, and look at the egg yolk colored splots on the ceiling, or blame the tick tick of the fan for your lack of sleep.
So you get up. You get up and you go downstairs and you get a glass of water, or a cup of water, or a bottle of water, or maybe you get a mountain dew. And you walk up the stairs and you turn off the light, and you drink your water or mountain dew, and then you lie back down.
And then you turn to your side, but now the idea is so big that it’s staring at you. It’s lying there next to you, and you’re looking at it, wanting it to go away, but at the same time, you don’t, because for some reason, the thought of it, even if it’s sad, or weird, or whatever, you like holding on to it. You like remembering it.
So you and the idea are now face to face. You can see it so clearly now, remember it so clearly now, or imagine so clearly now, that it could be real, and thus, this little thing called hope is born. Or maybe a tear is born. Or maybe a poem or story is born. Or maybe a song is born.And that hope, or tear, or poem, or story, or song begins to sing, or cry, or write, and you listen to it, or you find a shoulder in a pillow, or you read it over and over again.
And you can’t sleep.
Because it’s so big it’s taking up all the room in the bed, it’s taking up all the room in your room, it’s taking up all the room in your heart.
And that weight. That pull. That awakening, is too big to ignore.
And that’s why you’re awake.
Because you’ve just had a thought.
But not any thought.
A big thought, a real thought.
And it’s the real ones that matter, all the other ones, the ones about school, and finals, and what kind of dog do I want after I graduate…those don’t matter. But the real ones…is God up there, what was I created to do, who was I created to be, how did I use to be, who will I be, what story do I have to tell…those matter.
Those aren’t particularly my thought tonight, but I’ve wondered over them before.
Nope, and sometimes I’d like to trade the nameless, faceless, ghost of a man I find myself thinking about for the something else, anything else. Anything is better than wondering who will love me.
That’s the worst.
Because thinking won’t get you anywhere, not like thinking about God or where you want to be or what you want to do. Thinking always gets you somewhere with those thoughts. But you can’t think someone into loving you. You can’t imagine it. You can’t hope for it. You can’t write it into existence, or sing it into existence. You can’t even cry it into existence.
You can count all the dots on the ceiling, and drink a hundred glasses of water, and you’ll be no closer to being loved that you were before the dots appeared or you turned the faucet.
The best words in the world aren’t, “I love you,” they’re “I love you too.” Because loving is easy. It is. Strangers who nod their heads at other strangers on the street, at the corners, or in the store because their overflowing with love is easy because it’s in their nature. When I say, “I love you,” I mean it. And even if I don’t say it, I still mean it. Sometimes I love people I don’t know.
Like my Great Aunt Lottie Laurie. I never knew her. But I know she died young, too young, around 23 or so. And I know she wrote in a journal about a boy she loved for five years before he married someone else. And my hearts breaks for her because she couldn’t think him into loving her, or hope him into loving her, or cry him into loving her, or write him into loving her; not even after writing about him for as long as she did. And I love her because I understand, just like you understand.
And that nameless, faceless, ghost of man, who I don’t know. Who might not know me now. Who, someday, out of some courage in his heart will talk to me. And laugh with me. And listen to me talk on and on without asking me to not talk so much. And read all the things I write. And makes mistakes, and has flaws, and thinks I’m good, and sweet, and beautiful, though I too make mistakes, and have flaws, and am too often hard headed, and rambling, and afraid. That day, I’ll love him too.
Because one day, I won’t have to hope for him to love me, or cry him to love me, or write him to love me, because he will already love me. And he won’t have to hope me to love him, or cry me to love him, or write me to love him, because I already will.
And that’s the point I’m getting at, I guess. I don’t know how it happens, but it does. It just happens. It’s not planned. Thinking about it for hours won’t really get you anywhere. It’s just one day you’re walking along in your life, and there he is. Or there she is. And I don’t know how long you have to look them in the face, or hear their voice, or watch them before you know. But eventually, you just do.
And I don’t really think it’s that easy, but I’d like to think it is.
I’d like to think that this faceless person exists, but sometimes, if I think too long, and if the idea gets too big, it’s easy to imagine he doesn’t. And when that idea gets too big, I can’t sleep, because, ironically, even if he is nameless, and faceless, I still get little glimpses of the kind of person he may be, or the kind of laugh he may have, or how funny it will be if he’s tone deaf and doesn’t even know how to make sense of a guitar.
And then I start hoping. And I start writing. And I start singing. And I could care less that the beautiful dream I’m having won’t last past the morning, because inevitably the idea that he does exist- that he could exist, that he just might exist- is too big, and too real to even consider the alternative.
And the fan clicks, and the ice melts, and I fall asleep knowing that one day someone will love me. Just like one day, someone will love you. And until then, as the stranger on the other side of a screen, consider this a nod.
love you.
Do with that sentence as you will.
Do you ever do that thing where it’s about to be four in the morning, and you know you want to sleep, but there you are, staring at the ceiling, counting all of those splots of paint your friend left accidentally that day you painted your room? Or maybe you watch the shadow of the evil fan that you can’t get to turn off no matter how many times you pull the cord. This happens to me. Literally. I have an evil fan that I can’t turn off…slow…fast…ah ha off….nevermind. slow. Fast. Slow. Sigh. I give up.
You close your eyes, and there it is; there’s that little thought…that little annoying thought that won’t go away. And it burns so bright with your eyes closed that it hurts, and you have to open them again, and look at the egg yolk colored splots on the ceiling, or blame the tick tick of the fan for your lack of sleep.
So you get up. You get up and you go downstairs and you get a glass of water, or a cup of water, or a bottle of water, or maybe you get a mountain dew. And you walk up the stairs and you turn off the light, and you drink your water or mountain dew, and then you lie back down.
And then you turn to your side, but now the idea is so big that it’s staring at you. It’s lying there next to you, and you’re looking at it, wanting it to go away, but at the same time, you don’t, because for some reason, the thought of it, even if it’s sad, or weird, or whatever, you like holding on to it. You like remembering it.
So you and the idea are now face to face. You can see it so clearly now, remember it so clearly now, or imagine so clearly now, that it could be real, and thus, this little thing called hope is born. Or maybe a tear is born. Or maybe a poem or story is born. Or maybe a song is born.And that hope, or tear, or poem, or story, or song begins to sing, or cry, or write, and you listen to it, or you find a shoulder in a pillow, or you read it over and over again.
And you can’t sleep.
Because it’s so big it’s taking up all the room in the bed, it’s taking up all the room in your room, it’s taking up all the room in your heart.
And that weight. That pull. That awakening, is too big to ignore.
And that’s why you’re awake.
Because you’ve just had a thought.
But not any thought.
A big thought, a real thought.
And it’s the real ones that matter, all the other ones, the ones about school, and finals, and what kind of dog do I want after I graduate…those don’t matter. But the real ones…is God up there, what was I created to do, who was I created to be, how did I use to be, who will I be, what story do I have to tell…those matter.
Those aren’t particularly my thought tonight, but I’ve wondered over them before.
Nope, and sometimes I’d like to trade the nameless, faceless, ghost of a man I find myself thinking about for the something else, anything else. Anything is better than wondering who will love me.
That’s the worst.
Because thinking won’t get you anywhere, not like thinking about God or where you want to be or what you want to do. Thinking always gets you somewhere with those thoughts. But you can’t think someone into loving you. You can’t imagine it. You can’t hope for it. You can’t write it into existence, or sing it into existence. You can’t even cry it into existence.
You can count all the dots on the ceiling, and drink a hundred glasses of water, and you’ll be no closer to being loved that you were before the dots appeared or you turned the faucet.
The best words in the world aren’t, “I love you,” they’re “I love you too.” Because loving is easy. It is. Strangers who nod their heads at other strangers on the street, at the corners, or in the store because their overflowing with love is easy because it’s in their nature. When I say, “I love you,” I mean it. And even if I don’t say it, I still mean it. Sometimes I love people I don’t know.
Like my Great Aunt Lottie Laurie. I never knew her. But I know she died young, too young, around 23 or so. And I know she wrote in a journal about a boy she loved for five years before he married someone else. And my hearts breaks for her because she couldn’t think him into loving her, or hope him into loving her, or cry him into loving her, or write him into loving her; not even after writing about him for as long as she did. And I love her because I understand, just like you understand.
And that nameless, faceless, ghost of man, who I don’t know. Who might not know me now. Who, someday, out of some courage in his heart will talk to me. And laugh with me. And listen to me talk on and on without asking me to not talk so much. And read all the things I write. And makes mistakes, and has flaws, and thinks I’m good, and sweet, and beautiful, though I too make mistakes, and have flaws, and am too often hard headed, and rambling, and afraid. That day, I’ll love him too.
Because one day, I won’t have to hope for him to love me, or cry him to love me, or write him to love me, because he will already love me. And he won’t have to hope me to love him, or cry me to love him, or write me to love him, because I already will.
And that’s the point I’m getting at, I guess. I don’t know how it happens, but it does. It just happens. It’s not planned. Thinking about it for hours won’t really get you anywhere. It’s just one day you’re walking along in your life, and there he is. Or there she is. And I don’t know how long you have to look them in the face, or hear their voice, or watch them before you know. But eventually, you just do.
And I don’t really think it’s that easy, but I’d like to think it is.
I’d like to think that this faceless person exists, but sometimes, if I think too long, and if the idea gets too big, it’s easy to imagine he doesn’t. And when that idea gets too big, I can’t sleep, because, ironically, even if he is nameless, and faceless, I still get little glimpses of the kind of person he may be, or the kind of laugh he may have, or how funny it will be if he’s tone deaf and doesn’t even know how to make sense of a guitar.
And then I start hoping. And I start writing. And I start singing. And I could care less that the beautiful dream I’m having won’t last past the morning, because inevitably the idea that he does exist- that he could exist, that he just might exist- is too big, and too real to even consider the alternative.
And the fan clicks, and the ice melts, and I fall asleep knowing that one day someone will love me. Just like one day, someone will love you. And until then, as the stranger on the other side of a screen, consider this a nod.
love you.
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