I love the word, "and." I love the size of it and the efficiency of it and the inclusiveness of it - the way it wants to invite more ideas to the party. I like stringing them together even though any English teacher would circle the excess of them in fascist red ink. It's not that I don't like commas, (see, there's two of them already) I suppose it's just a stylistic thing, a way to torque the rules a bit, to help my voice emerge from the vast cannon of literature (if I may be so vain).
And I love it's partner, (in my mind they're partners) the parenthetical. I love how it can interrupt an idea (like this) and can add clarity (by expounding on what's been said) or context (I wrote this entirely inane blog at 12:45 in the morning after getting out of bed to take a piss) or humor (horse walks into a bar, bartender says, "why the long face?" ba-dum-pump) or commentary (okay, that's enough examples, now move on).
Finally, I like using my own version of the ellipse (see point 9.8). It's natural habitat is the quotation but I use it whenever I need to add a conversational pause to my prose. In order to differentiate my (bastardized) version of the ellipse from the rule book version, I put the three periods in a row instead of spaced and to add literary insult to my grammatical injury, I don't even put spaces between the words around them...I just cram them all together like that (my spell-checker hates it when I do that...but what does he know?).
So there you have it (whether you wanted it or not...probably not), a brief exposition on the writing style of Randall Ajimine. If you're the anal, copy-editor type, my writing must drive you nuts...but it's how I write. It's something that's taken me years to develop and I like it. Yes, it's sloppy and bloated and a bit adolescent, but it works for me and it gets my ideas onto the page.
Okay, now I can go back to sleep.
Friday, July 29, 2005
Thursday, July 28, 2005
54. mood swings.
Mood swings, shifts in attitude, course changes, peaks and troughs. Maybe this is the first real test of my new outlook on life...but I'm getting ahead of myself.
Today, and a little bit yesterday, I detected a shift in the earth. It's a shift I recognize because it's been a part of my life for so long now - it's the shift that means I'm sailing into dark water. Maybe it's Circadian Rhythms ganging up on me, maybe it's bi-polar-Serotonin-re-uptake problems, maybe I haven't been eating enough fruit. Whatever it is, I'm finding it difficult to maintain my positive outlook on life.
In the past, when I felt the slide coming on, I'd coast right on into it. I didn't care because really, it was just reinforcing my already bleak outlook on life. But this time things are different. To me, there's a lot more at stake because I don't want to lose the positive momentum that I've gained. I didn't care before because I was only going from bad mood to worse mood whereas now I have a lot more to lose. And I don't want to lose a bit of it.
And so I'm trying to find the brakes. I'm trying to grab onto branches in the hopes of breaking this fall. But despite the metaphor, this is not a physical kind of falling and there are no freeway impact attenuators to keep me from crashing. So all I have to call upon is the Lord because I'm powerless in this situation.
The Lord's help was always there to grab onto but in the past, I had no trust in God's love and so I didn't reach out for it. But faith, trust, belief, hope in the Lord is part of my new outlook on life and so now I cry out to him. But living in faith can be like living in a foreign land where you don't speak the language.
I suppose some history is in order here. See, I've never really understood what it meant to have a "relationship with Jesus." That word, "relationship," seems so concrete and tactile but as real as I believe God is, he is also so different from me as to seem virtually inaccessible. I mean, think about it - I'm sitting in this little chair in this little house on a little island on a little planet circling an average sized sun in an average sized galaxy located in a universe that's really fucking huge (and I believe that's the scientific way to put it). So I'm sitting in this chair trying to figure out how it is that I'm supposed to have a relationship with the thing that created it all. Some of the greatest physicists who ever lived talked about trying to know the mind of God through their studies, and they couldn't figure it out. Now if they couldn't then what the hell chance does my pea brain have?
Okay, zip back to the present. I still really have no idea how this "relationshp with God" bit works but I've been trying to listen. I've been trying to be open to whatever it was that God wanted to share. And wonder of wonders, bits and pieces have been breaking through. But like I said, it's like I'm in some foreign land and I can't quite make out the translation. Or maybe it's more like a bad cell phone connection - bits cut in and out and you can't quite make out the whole of what's being said and sometimes you can't tell if you're hearing the person on the other end of the line or the cell phone tower bouncing your own voice back to you.
But I suppose this is just another lesson. Another episode of trial by fire. I want to trust God to be with me through this dark time and to deliver me if possible (I mean, of course it's possible, but is it what God wants). And so I leave my old coping mechanisms behind and trust that the stillness and the smallness will be there to hold me through the night and through the day and through the frustration and the loneliness and on to the other side where the sun breaks through the clouds once again.
Today, and a little bit yesterday, I detected a shift in the earth. It's a shift I recognize because it's been a part of my life for so long now - it's the shift that means I'm sailing into dark water. Maybe it's Circadian Rhythms ganging up on me, maybe it's bi-polar-Serotonin-re-uptake problems, maybe I haven't been eating enough fruit. Whatever it is, I'm finding it difficult to maintain my positive outlook on life.
In the past, when I felt the slide coming on, I'd coast right on into it. I didn't care because really, it was just reinforcing my already bleak outlook on life. But this time things are different. To me, there's a lot more at stake because I don't want to lose the positive momentum that I've gained. I didn't care before because I was only going from bad mood to worse mood whereas now I have a lot more to lose. And I don't want to lose a bit of it.
And so I'm trying to find the brakes. I'm trying to grab onto branches in the hopes of breaking this fall. But despite the metaphor, this is not a physical kind of falling and there are no freeway impact attenuators to keep me from crashing. So all I have to call upon is the Lord because I'm powerless in this situation.
The Lord's help was always there to grab onto but in the past, I had no trust in God's love and so I didn't reach out for it. But faith, trust, belief, hope in the Lord is part of my new outlook on life and so now I cry out to him. But living in faith can be like living in a foreign land where you don't speak the language.
I suppose some history is in order here. See, I've never really understood what it meant to have a "relationship with Jesus." That word, "relationship," seems so concrete and tactile but as real as I believe God is, he is also so different from me as to seem virtually inaccessible. I mean, think about it - I'm sitting in this little chair in this little house on a little island on a little planet circling an average sized sun in an average sized galaxy located in a universe that's really fucking huge (and I believe that's the scientific way to put it). So I'm sitting in this chair trying to figure out how it is that I'm supposed to have a relationship with the thing that created it all. Some of the greatest physicists who ever lived talked about trying to know the mind of God through their studies, and they couldn't figure it out. Now if they couldn't then what the hell chance does my pea brain have?
Okay, zip back to the present. I still really have no idea how this "relationshp with God" bit works but I've been trying to listen. I've been trying to be open to whatever it was that God wanted to share. And wonder of wonders, bits and pieces have been breaking through. But like I said, it's like I'm in some foreign land and I can't quite make out the translation. Or maybe it's more like a bad cell phone connection - bits cut in and out and you can't quite make out the whole of what's being said and sometimes you can't tell if you're hearing the person on the other end of the line or the cell phone tower bouncing your own voice back to you.
But I suppose this is just another lesson. Another episode of trial by fire. I want to trust God to be with me through this dark time and to deliver me if possible (I mean, of course it's possible, but is it what God wants). And so I leave my old coping mechanisms behind and trust that the stillness and the smallness will be there to hold me through the night and through the day and through the frustration and the loneliness and on to the other side where the sun breaks through the clouds once again.
Monday, July 25, 2005
53. Pearls
He's walking through the shopping center and in one of those kiosks off to the side, he sees a stand selling pearls straight from the shell. But it's not the jewels that caught his eye, it's the girl selling them. And he's reminded of the Chinese poet, Yuen Mei, who wrote:
My beautiful lady goes to see the flowers,
and a flower, she forgets, is she;
Would they not come to blossom in her bowers,
should flowers intelligent be?
But though she's pretty, with sadness shadowing her commercial smile, he continues walking by because his heart belongs to another. He turns, takes one last look then thinks, "now there's something you don't see everyday: a pearl selling pearls."
My beautiful lady goes to see the flowers,
and a flower, she forgets, is she;
Would they not come to blossom in her bowers,
should flowers intelligent be?
But though she's pretty, with sadness shadowing her commercial smile, he continues walking by because his heart belongs to another. He turns, takes one last look then thinks, "now there's something you don't see everyday: a pearl selling pearls."
Saturday, July 23, 2005
52. Thomas Merton and love (cont.)
So if a Trappist monk wasn't able to say for sure that he understood love before being in a relationship with a woman, what does that say about my capacity to know love? These monks spend all their time in a community devoted to contemplating God - and when I say devoted, I mean that in the hard core sense of the word, not in the hopelessly-devoted-to-you kind of way. (For a great book about what it is to live the monastic life, see the excellent Cloister Walk by Kathleen Norris.)
I've made the admission before that I don't understand love, and I suppose now I have an excuse. I suppose I always have my imagination, but with something as powerful and complex as love, there will never be a substitute for experience.
Which reminds me of something else I've been meaning to write about. I've been thinking quite a bit about love recently and that's been made evident in a lot of my blogs lately. I mean most of my blogs have been about love in some form (usually complaints about how elusive it is) but look at the dates and you'll see that writing about love (or anything else) used to be a rare event - once every few months, if that. Now I'm still writing about love but now I'm far more prolific - a few blogs per week. And I suppose that's just another part of me that's waking up, making itself known (see blog 49).
Having the romantic (for lack of a better word) part of me reawaken presents somewhat of a conflict/paradox for me. I'm glad to have it back but at the same time it worries me because it's the hopeless romantic part of me that always gets me into the most trouble. Indeed, it's probably responsible for most (if not all) the trouble that started me on the decent into despair that I'm only now emerging from. I'd like to think that age and experience has made me better able to deal with the danger but really, I only have age to rely on since I'm still woefully lacking in experience.
But what can I do? It's not like I'm a component stereo system where I can selectively turn parts of me on or off. It's a holistic thing that I have no control over. And though I'm fearful, I'm also glad because even though it brought me a lot of grief, this (hopeless) romantic side of me also brought me a lot of inspiration, some good songs (if I do say so myself), and when it wasn't getting me into trouble, it often brought out the best in me.
Oh, and there is something else that I have on my side - great friends. One thing that experience has taught me is to rely on the advice of friends in matters of love. I've learned that love can rob you of all reason, reducing you to village idiot status. Love also makes you feel invincible which makes for a deadly combination (sounds a lot like alcohol, only a lot more expensive). In the turbulent throes of love, I know that I have to rely on advice from friends. In the past, I discounted such advice thinking, in my romantic fervor, that I would gallantly prove them wrong and write a grand new chapter in the Book of Love only to wind up crying on their doorstep, heart splattered all over my sleeve.
Love, love, love. What on earth was God thinking, entrusting us with so powerful an emotion? Might the world have been a safer, saner, more peaceful place without it? I suppose, but it would also be a far more staid, bland reality. If I opt for the safety of a world without love it's only because I've yet to master its intricacies and experience it's true power. I'm like some martial arts novice learning to use nunchucks. I flail away, bruising my balls and looking the fool but once I've worked out the kinks, watch out because I'll be kicking some romatic ass (wait, that didn't come out right, but you know what I mean).
I've made the admission before that I don't understand love, and I suppose now I have an excuse. I suppose I always have my imagination, but with something as powerful and complex as love, there will never be a substitute for experience.
Which reminds me of something else I've been meaning to write about. I've been thinking quite a bit about love recently and that's been made evident in a lot of my blogs lately. I mean most of my blogs have been about love in some form (usually complaints about how elusive it is) but look at the dates and you'll see that writing about love (or anything else) used to be a rare event - once every few months, if that. Now I'm still writing about love but now I'm far more prolific - a few blogs per week. And I suppose that's just another part of me that's waking up, making itself known (see blog 49).
Having the romantic (for lack of a better word) part of me reawaken presents somewhat of a conflict/paradox for me. I'm glad to have it back but at the same time it worries me because it's the hopeless romantic part of me that always gets me into the most trouble. Indeed, it's probably responsible for most (if not all) the trouble that started me on the decent into despair that I'm only now emerging from. I'd like to think that age and experience has made me better able to deal with the danger but really, I only have age to rely on since I'm still woefully lacking in experience.
But what can I do? It's not like I'm a component stereo system where I can selectively turn parts of me on or off. It's a holistic thing that I have no control over. And though I'm fearful, I'm also glad because even though it brought me a lot of grief, this (hopeless) romantic side of me also brought me a lot of inspiration, some good songs (if I do say so myself), and when it wasn't getting me into trouble, it often brought out the best in me.
Oh, and there is something else that I have on my side - great friends. One thing that experience has taught me is to rely on the advice of friends in matters of love. I've learned that love can rob you of all reason, reducing you to village idiot status. Love also makes you feel invincible which makes for a deadly combination (sounds a lot like alcohol, only a lot more expensive). In the turbulent throes of love, I know that I have to rely on advice from friends. In the past, I discounted such advice thinking, in my romantic fervor, that I would gallantly prove them wrong and write a grand new chapter in the Book of Love only to wind up crying on their doorstep, heart splattered all over my sleeve.
Love, love, love. What on earth was God thinking, entrusting us with so powerful an emotion? Might the world have been a safer, saner, more peaceful place without it? I suppose, but it would also be a far more staid, bland reality. If I opt for the safety of a world without love it's only because I've yet to master its intricacies and experience it's true power. I'm like some martial arts novice learning to use nunchucks. I flail away, bruising my balls and looking the fool but once I've worked out the kinks, watch out because I'll be kicking some romatic ass (wait, that didn't come out right, but you know what I mean).
Friday, July 22, 2005
51. Thomas Merton and love
So I'm reading this article about Thomas Merton (see how much fun my life is?) and part of the article talks about this Trapist monk falling in love. After he renews his vows (which, I would imagine, include not being in love with a woman) he said that being in that relationship taught him that he was lovable and was himself able to love.
See now I read that and I think, well if a guy who spends his time in silence contemplating the wonders and truths of God can't understand love without having been in a relationship, what chance do I have of understanding love?
(to be continued)
See now I read that and I think, well if a guy who spends his time in silence contemplating the wonders and truths of God can't understand love without having been in a relationship, what chance do I have of understanding love?
(to be continued)
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
50. randall as writer...
I've been writing a lot more lately because...well, frankly because I've just had a lot more to write about. What I mean is, this whole new attitude, new outlook thing that's emerging in my life - one of the benefits is just this newfound wealth of ideas. It's like there was no sun on the soil of my subconscious so nothing grew but now that the sky is clearing, molecules of carbon dioxide are combining with water and forming sugars and oxygen - energy and life.
Anyway, I wanted to take a moment and talk about myself as a writer. I am the writer who wishes he was writing songs instead of short stories because when's the last time you heard a short story blazing it's way up the Billboard Top 40? Or when's the last time you heard someone humming the words to a short story while walking down the street? And compared to a singer/songwriter on a stage (no matter how big or small), a short story reading just isn't as sexy or cool.
But I just play the dice that God rolls for me. I wanna sing but I sit and type instead. I want screaming fans but I get silent, anonymous readers instead. But that's okay, I suppose. I love what I do when I write (even when I know it's crap) and as any artist will tell you, that can be enough.
See, the part of me that writes is separate somehow from the rest of me. That's how it feels sometimes (especially when the juices are really flowing and words are falling from the sky). Sentences form themselves, and the thing I'm writing is just willing itself into existence through my fingertips. It's a real fucking rush.
And that's another thing - the language I use. I feel completely free when I write. The English language is my playground and words are my playthings - and they're fun to play with. I love how you can grab two words, put them together in a way that no one has ever thought of before, all in the effort to communicate what doesn't want to be put down on paper. And I imagine that's what it's like with any kind of art. Artists are just trying to squeeze their world through whatever medium they work with. And some parts don't want to fit, and some parts want to lie and appear as something else, and it's always so tempting to do the easy thing and resort to the trite, the cliche, the obvious.
I like the voice that emerges when I write. It's eloquent and sturdy in a way that my speech never is. When I'm writing, I feel ten feet tall and tan and handsome and able to woo women with a wink and a nod. No one tells me how to write. I bend the rules of grammar as I want and I follow them when I choose (which is actually most of the time because the rules are there for a reason). I exercise blatant disregard for spelling (though I try to clean up the typos afterwards because spelling errors are just embarrassing). In short, when I'm writing I just don't give a shit. I run through the world with my balls flapping in the wind for all to see (in real life, this is NOT a pretty picture but when I'm writing, it's Playgirl centerfold material).
All that to say, it's a rush...at least when things are flowing and the words are falling from the sky. When the words don't come? I read. And in case you're wondering (and still reading), here are a couple of my favorite (fiction) writers:
Raymond Carver
Douglas Coupland
Barry Yourgrau
and Michael Chrichton (no, really)
Well, I have to run now. This was entirely indulgent of me but, that's my write (yuk, yuk, yuk).
See you again soon.
Anyway, I wanted to take a moment and talk about myself as a writer. I am the writer who wishes he was writing songs instead of short stories because when's the last time you heard a short story blazing it's way up the Billboard Top 40? Or when's the last time you heard someone humming the words to a short story while walking down the street? And compared to a singer/songwriter on a stage (no matter how big or small), a short story reading just isn't as sexy or cool.
But I just play the dice that God rolls for me. I wanna sing but I sit and type instead. I want screaming fans but I get silent, anonymous readers instead. But that's okay, I suppose. I love what I do when I write (even when I know it's crap) and as any artist will tell you, that can be enough.
See, the part of me that writes is separate somehow from the rest of me. That's how it feels sometimes (especially when the juices are really flowing and words are falling from the sky). Sentences form themselves, and the thing I'm writing is just willing itself into existence through my fingertips. It's a real fucking rush.
And that's another thing - the language I use. I feel completely free when I write. The English language is my playground and words are my playthings - and they're fun to play with. I love how you can grab two words, put them together in a way that no one has ever thought of before, all in the effort to communicate what doesn't want to be put down on paper. And I imagine that's what it's like with any kind of art. Artists are just trying to squeeze their world through whatever medium they work with. And some parts don't want to fit, and some parts want to lie and appear as something else, and it's always so tempting to do the easy thing and resort to the trite, the cliche, the obvious.
I like the voice that emerges when I write. It's eloquent and sturdy in a way that my speech never is. When I'm writing, I feel ten feet tall and tan and handsome and able to woo women with a wink and a nod. No one tells me how to write. I bend the rules of grammar as I want and I follow them when I choose (which is actually most of the time because the rules are there for a reason). I exercise blatant disregard for spelling (though I try to clean up the typos afterwards because spelling errors are just embarrassing). In short, when I'm writing I just don't give a shit. I run through the world with my balls flapping in the wind for all to see (in real life, this is NOT a pretty picture but when I'm writing, it's Playgirl centerfold material).
All that to say, it's a rush...at least when things are flowing and the words are falling from the sky. When the words don't come? I read. And in case you're wondering (and still reading), here are a couple of my favorite (fiction) writers:
Raymond Carver
Douglas Coupland
Barry Yourgrau
and Michael Chrichton (no, really)
Well, I have to run now. This was entirely indulgent of me but, that's my write (yuk, yuk, yuk).
See you again soon.
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
49. I asked for love...
I asked for love and I thought I was going to get a girlfriend but instead, God gave me a band.
I know nothing can really prepare me for pursuing a significant other but in the meantime, God has given me a band as a kind of trial run. Especially on the West Coast Tour, hanging with the band put me through trials that seemed similar to what I've heard my friends who are in relationships go through.
For example? Well, I'd rather not go into specifics (mostly because I can't remember) but the big thing was learning how to communicate. I was watching some professor on some public access channel (yeah, I was bored) and he was talking about how thoght is parallel whereas speech is serial - in other words, the mind can work on multiple ideas at the same time but we can only talk about one idea at a time (actually, the professor was talking about stuff that was WAY over my head, but I kind of got the edges of it and this is one thing I took from it). This makes communication difficult because the mind can be thinking about three or four things, all of which pertain to the same issue, but we can only speak of one thing at a time.
He also talked about how amazing it is that we can communicate at all. I mean, if you think about it, when you're talking to someone, what you're really doing is taking a idea/image/narrative (a thought, for lack of a better term) that exists only in your mind and using these clumsy things called words to build that same thought in someone else's mind. We take it for granted because we do it everday but communication is a truly remarkable process.
As with anything this complicated, it can be pretty easy to screw up. Add emotion to the mix and you've got a volatile combination. Which brings us back, finally, to me and the band. Learning how to understand what another person is saying while simultaneously trying to get them to understand what you're saying can feel like punching yourself in the face.
Anyway, being in this band has taught me a lot about how to get along with people who are very different from myself. It's not easy, and sometimes it's no fun, but at the end of the day it's more than worth the struggle. And now I find myself in love with these people in the band. I care about them. When they hurt, I hurt and want to heal. I'll go to any lengths (within my resources) to help. When they struggle, I cheer them along. And even though I'm investing in another, I grow at the same time.
...now if only there was a way to make out every once in a while...
I know nothing can really prepare me for pursuing a significant other but in the meantime, God has given me a band as a kind of trial run. Especially on the West Coast Tour, hanging with the band put me through trials that seemed similar to what I've heard my friends who are in relationships go through.
For example? Well, I'd rather not go into specifics (mostly because I can't remember) but the big thing was learning how to communicate. I was watching some professor on some public access channel (yeah, I was bored) and he was talking about how thoght is parallel whereas speech is serial - in other words, the mind can work on multiple ideas at the same time but we can only talk about one idea at a time (actually, the professor was talking about stuff that was WAY over my head, but I kind of got the edges of it and this is one thing I took from it). This makes communication difficult because the mind can be thinking about three or four things, all of which pertain to the same issue, but we can only speak of one thing at a time.
He also talked about how amazing it is that we can communicate at all. I mean, if you think about it, when you're talking to someone, what you're really doing is taking a idea/image/narrative (a thought, for lack of a better term) that exists only in your mind and using these clumsy things called words to build that same thought in someone else's mind. We take it for granted because we do it everday but communication is a truly remarkable process.
As with anything this complicated, it can be pretty easy to screw up. Add emotion to the mix and you've got a volatile combination. Which brings us back, finally, to me and the band. Learning how to understand what another person is saying while simultaneously trying to get them to understand what you're saying can feel like punching yourself in the face.
Anyway, being in this band has taught me a lot about how to get along with people who are very different from myself. It's not easy, and sometimes it's no fun, but at the end of the day it's more than worth the struggle. And now I find myself in love with these people in the band. I care about them. When they hurt, I hurt and want to heal. I'll go to any lengths (within my resources) to help. When they struggle, I cheer them along. And even though I'm investing in another, I grow at the same time.
...now if only there was a way to make out every once in a while...
Sunday, July 17, 2005
48. feed a starving artist's ego
(blogger note...this entry came from my mirror blog site at MySpace. Some of the features I wrote about don't apply here at blogger.com.)
When I click on my blog, I see this table letting me know how many people have viewed my blog. Last week, according to this table, this humble blog of mine was viewed upwards of sixty times (I don't know if it counts repeat visits to the same blog). Which makes me really curious (and kind of humbled too) - who are all these people?
Just FYI, if you like this blog and would like updates as to when new posts are made, you can subscribe to the blog (just look on the left-hand side of the page under my little eye-glasses-in-the-sun picture and click on the link marked, "subscribe" - you can "unsubscribe" if I start pissing you off or start writing crazy-talk).
Also, here's an open invitation to message me (or leave a comment on this entry) with any thoughts about...anything - topics you'd like to see me tackle, editorial suggestions (like clean up your fucking language, asshole!), or any other forms of constructive (or destructive) criticism (like stop using so many parenthetical asides).
Lastly, thank you all for reading. Writing is one of God's many gifts given to me to be shared with others. Anything useful comes through his grace. Anything self-serving or superfluous (uh...kind of like this entry) comes from my fallen nature.
When I click on my blog, I see this table letting me know how many people have viewed my blog. Last week, according to this table, this humble blog of mine was viewed upwards of sixty times (I don't know if it counts repeat visits to the same blog). Which makes me really curious (and kind of humbled too) - who are all these people?
Just FYI, if you like this blog and would like updates as to when new posts are made, you can subscribe to the blog (just look on the left-hand side of the page under my little eye-glasses-in-the-sun picture and click on the link marked, "subscribe" - you can "unsubscribe" if I start pissing you off or start writing crazy-talk).
Also, here's an open invitation to message me (or leave a comment on this entry) with any thoughts about...anything - topics you'd like to see me tackle, editorial suggestions (like clean up your fucking language, asshole!), or any other forms of constructive (or destructive) criticism (like stop using so many parenthetical asides).
Lastly, thank you all for reading. Writing is one of God's many gifts given to me to be shared with others. Anything useful comes through his grace. Anything self-serving or superfluous (uh...kind of like this entry) comes from my fallen nature.
47. i'm in love...
with a book. And it's not Harry Potter.
It's a strange, strangely beautiful (my favorite kind) book called The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. I'd tell you what it's about but I'm not entirely sure yet. I could tell you what's happened so far but that's not what the book is about.
I knew the book was cool from the moment I pulled it off the New Releases shelf at Borders. I do that from time to time. I look for interesting titles or cool cover art (you can't judge a book by its cover? you can). I flip right to the first page and scan. If the language doesn't grab me by the end of the second sentence (usually I never get past the first phrase) I close the book and choose another, usually with the same results. Every once in a while I'll find a book that has me to the end of the page but no further. Sometimes I make it to the end of a chapter.
I needed a book for the trip I took a few weeks ago with the band, Harrison, and I (thought) I need a book to read on the airplane. The History was the last book that held my attention to the end of the first chapter so that was to be my trip book. Turns out I did far more sleeping than reading on all three plane rides (two there, one back). I re-read the first chapter, but not much more than that. Back in Hawaii it became my bed stand book, something to settle me into sleep. And night by night, bit by bit, it grabbed my attention and then my heart.
Here's a sample sentence:
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.
Here's a couple paragraphs from further in the book:
"And though you were grown up by then, you felt as lost as a child. And though your pride was broken, you felt as vast as your love for her. She was gone, and all that was left was the space where you'd grown around her, like a tree that grows around a fence."
"For a long time, it remained hollow. Years, maybe. And when at last it was filled again, you knew that the new love you felt for a woman would have been impossible without Alma. If it weren't for her, there would never have been an empty space, or the need to fill it."
Amazing, amazing writing...and like good writing does, it got me thinking.
My love for this book. That little short story thing I wrote a few blogs back (titled Heroics but I'm thinking about going back to the old title, "and she was tired of talking so he told her a story"). The long drive I took back home from Rocky's house on the North Shore (I took the long way back). All these little things - tiny and otherwise insignificant - are signs of life for me.
It feels like I'm waking up from a long, deep sleep - a sleep that lasted for over ten years. After the Last Great Relationship (which wasn't really that great or much of a relationship but as single as I've been for all my life, it's huge) ended, bits of me fell asleep. The ability to feel joy went first. I also lost my inspiration - I was an aspiring songwriter then and there was a time when I was trying to finish two or three songs at a time, but after the LGR, they stopped coming. And then my ability to love not just people, but also things like books and songs and art and the purple glow of twilight. And then most recently, the part of me where hope is made and maintained turned out the lights, said it's prayers, then went to sleep. After that, I was nothing more than an organ transportation unit, because what more can a man be without hope?
But I'm waking up now. Bit by bit, pieces of me are opening their eyes, stretching their legs, brushing their teeth. Feelings I'd forgotten about are surprising me. My love for this book, that short story. A few weeks ago while cleaning my studio I looked over at the piano, opened it up, and wrote the first few lines of a song. And best of all, I have a new hunger to hear from God - and, wonder of wonders, he's speaking.
I've been wrong about a lot of things but I'm starting to make them right again and I'm finding that right thinking leads to right living and that pleases God and when God is pleased, anything, anything, ANYTHING can happen.
It's a strange, strangely beautiful (my favorite kind) book called The History of Love by Nicole Krauss. I'd tell you what it's about but I'm not entirely sure yet. I could tell you what's happened so far but that's not what the book is about.
I knew the book was cool from the moment I pulled it off the New Releases shelf at Borders. I do that from time to time. I look for interesting titles or cool cover art (you can't judge a book by its cover? you can). I flip right to the first page and scan. If the language doesn't grab me by the end of the second sentence (usually I never get past the first phrase) I close the book and choose another, usually with the same results. Every once in a while I'll find a book that has me to the end of the page but no further. Sometimes I make it to the end of a chapter.
I needed a book for the trip I took a few weeks ago with the band, Harrison, and I (thought) I need a book to read on the airplane. The History was the last book that held my attention to the end of the first chapter so that was to be my trip book. Turns out I did far more sleeping than reading on all three plane rides (two there, one back). I re-read the first chapter, but not much more than that. Back in Hawaii it became my bed stand book, something to settle me into sleep. And night by night, bit by bit, it grabbed my attention and then my heart.
Here's a sample sentence:
Once upon a time there was a boy who loved a girl, and her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.
Here's a couple paragraphs from further in the book:
"And though you were grown up by then, you felt as lost as a child. And though your pride was broken, you felt as vast as your love for her. She was gone, and all that was left was the space where you'd grown around her, like a tree that grows around a fence."
"For a long time, it remained hollow. Years, maybe. And when at last it was filled again, you knew that the new love you felt for a woman would have been impossible without Alma. If it weren't for her, there would never have been an empty space, or the need to fill it."
Amazing, amazing writing...and like good writing does, it got me thinking.
My love for this book. That little short story thing I wrote a few blogs back (titled Heroics but I'm thinking about going back to the old title, "and she was tired of talking so he told her a story"). The long drive I took back home from Rocky's house on the North Shore (I took the long way back). All these little things - tiny and otherwise insignificant - are signs of life for me.
It feels like I'm waking up from a long, deep sleep - a sleep that lasted for over ten years. After the Last Great Relationship (which wasn't really that great or much of a relationship but as single as I've been for all my life, it's huge) ended, bits of me fell asleep. The ability to feel joy went first. I also lost my inspiration - I was an aspiring songwriter then and there was a time when I was trying to finish two or three songs at a time, but after the LGR, they stopped coming. And then my ability to love not just people, but also things like books and songs and art and the purple glow of twilight. And then most recently, the part of me where hope is made and maintained turned out the lights, said it's prayers, then went to sleep. After that, I was nothing more than an organ transportation unit, because what more can a man be without hope?
But I'm waking up now. Bit by bit, pieces of me are opening their eyes, stretching their legs, brushing their teeth. Feelings I'd forgotten about are surprising me. My love for this book, that short story. A few weeks ago while cleaning my studio I looked over at the piano, opened it up, and wrote the first few lines of a song. And best of all, I have a new hunger to hear from God - and, wonder of wonders, he's speaking.
I've been wrong about a lot of things but I'm starting to make them right again and I'm finding that right thinking leads to right living and that pleases God and when God is pleased, anything, anything, ANYTHING can happen.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
46. pessimism/optimism/realism
About a month ago, a friend and I were talking about optimism and pessimism and where between the two reality resided. Which is an interesting question because life isn't all bad and life isn't all good. So then, should one be an optimist and always expect the best of life only to be disappointed time and time again or should one be a pessimist who always expects the worst but is occasionally surprised when things turn out well?
Put that way, it seems like pessimism is the way to go but the problem with being a pessimist is that it's like bad BO - people may not say anything for fear of hurting your feelings but it sucks to be around you. I suppose Buddah-mind would say to not have any expectations and to take things as they come, but I don't know, that seems like kind of a cop out...and that's just too hippie/granola for my city-bred mind.
So I've been kind of working through this optimism/pessimism problem in the back of my mind and here's what I've come up with. You need to be both. Oh, thank you very much. I'll be waiting for my philosophy award nomination from the International Society for Neoplatonic Studies in the mail...should be arriving any day now.
No, really. You need to be both in order to have a reasonably accurate view of life...because life is both joy and pain, hope and dread, sun and rain. But it's not that simple (and here's where my brilliance really kicks in). Are you going to be a pessimistic optimist or an optimistic pessimist?
Here's the difference. A pessimistic optimist (p/o) believes that things will normally turn out for the worse but is open to the possibility that things may turn out for the better every now and then. An optimistic pessimist (o/p) believes the opposite - that things will normally turn out for the best although sometimes, shit happens.
I like to think that I've become a o/p after years of being a p/o. And even though the switch took place recently, I can already say with confidence that being an o/p is light years better than being a p/o.
That's all. A short blog for a change. Just food for thought - bite sized.
Put that way, it seems like pessimism is the way to go but the problem with being a pessimist is that it's like bad BO - people may not say anything for fear of hurting your feelings but it sucks to be around you. I suppose Buddah-mind would say to not have any expectations and to take things as they come, but I don't know, that seems like kind of a cop out...and that's just too hippie/granola for my city-bred mind.
So I've been kind of working through this optimism/pessimism problem in the back of my mind and here's what I've come up with. You need to be both. Oh, thank you very much. I'll be waiting for my philosophy award nomination from the International Society for Neoplatonic Studies in the mail...should be arriving any day now.
No, really. You need to be both in order to have a reasonably accurate view of life...because life is both joy and pain, hope and dread, sun and rain. But it's not that simple (and here's where my brilliance really kicks in). Are you going to be a pessimistic optimist or an optimistic pessimist?
Here's the difference. A pessimistic optimist (p/o) believes that things will normally turn out for the worse but is open to the possibility that things may turn out for the better every now and then. An optimistic pessimist (o/p) believes the opposite - that things will normally turn out for the best although sometimes, shit happens.
I like to think that I've become a o/p after years of being a p/o. And even though the switch took place recently, I can already say with confidence that being an o/p is light years better than being a p/o.
That's all. A short blog for a change. Just food for thought - bite sized.
Wednesday, July 13, 2005
45. why nice guys are single...(part 2)
Let's recap. Nice guys are single...
1. Because they're safe.
2. Because they tell the truth.
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
4. Because they're more selective.
5. Because they're dorks.
6. Because they think too much.
7. Because they try too hard.
Not a bad list but I can't believe I forgot to mention the most important, and the most obvious reason:
8. Because girls only want them as friends.
I don't know how I could have missed that fact when it's the one thing above all others that has kept me single all these years. This drives me fucking nuts! I mean, what is it about a guy who's a good friend that keeps him from being boyfriend material? What kind of antimatter-logic is that? Girls are always complaining about how men don't listen, how they don't care about them, how they're just using them, how they leave the toilet seat up. And do you know who they sometimes complain about these things to? Their guy friend who they keep on the side. And do you know how that makes the guy feel? Like a dead bird in the middle of the freeway during rush hour traffic, getting mushed over and over and over again until he's just another dark brown stain.
"He can't be my boyfriend because we're too good as friends."
I'd eat my fingers off of my hand with mustard and relish if someone could explain that to me. Here's how I hear that statement: "He can't be my boyfriend because I wouldn't have to stay up late at night wondering if he's cheating on me and because I wouldn't have to pull my hair out trying to get him to appreciate me and because it would just be too easy and simple to fall for someone who I know really cares about me."
I've heard some say, "I want to marry my best friend." That may be true but you only want to date lesser men.
What is it about nice guys? I mean is dating a nice guy like wearing a muumuu - comfortable and functional for wearing around the house but not stylish enough to be seen in public with? Or maybe they're like a Swiss Army knife - kept in the glove box or in your purse for repairs but quickly put away once the party starts.
Reason number three says, "nice guys care for the girl more than themselves." This means that when the girl gets her heart broken by another guy and comes crying back to them, the nice guy will refrain from telling her what a selfish idiot she is, choosing, instead, to provide her with solace and the warm shoulder that she needs. And he'll continue to be there for her, nursing her back to emotional health until she's ready to crash her heart into another brick wall at eighty miles per hour...again.
"...but he doesn't want to be my boyfriend, he's just a friend." Now in some cases that may be true. And in some cases, pigs have been known to fly out of my ass. 10.5 times out of 10, what's really happening is the nice guy is just too nice to tell you how he feels about you. Or he's too scared to. Or (and pay special attention to this one) he thinks that you want adventure man, or tall-dark-and-mysterious man, or bungee-jumping-extreme-excitement man. He thinks this because these are the guys you talk about and end up chasing and/or going out with. He thinks those are the kinds of guys you want and he's not that kind of guy so he figures he's not right for you and never does anything because he only wants what you want.
If you've made it this far down, I suppose you deserve to hear the truth. Yeah, I was checking someone out recently. Someone amazing. Someone who calls me her friend...but these last two blogs haven't been about her (I'll get to that three paragraphs down).
No, I didn't say anything to her about how I felt...and I suppose that's my bad but...but a couple things. I don't think I'm the kind of guy she'd be interested in and I don't want to mess up what little we do have because she inspires me - she renews my sense of wonder at what the world has to offer, what can still emerge from this decaying, crumbling civilization.
And so you see, after all this ranting and raving, sometimes nice guys are single simply because they're shy and scared - scared to lose what they have but even more scared of hurting the very one they care for and so they watch from a distance, ready to catch them should they fall...kind of like spider man.
I know I've been pretty hard on girls in these last couple of blogs but I wasn't talking about her. Like most of my blogs, it was a way for me to vent some steam and generally figure things out for myself - writing helps me understand, and that blog was about understanding why I didn't want to pursue this relationship (number three and six helped a lot). All those women I complained about? Those are from things I heard firsthand or stories I heard secondhand or things I saw on TV or in the movies or in a book somewhere. But weren't about her.
Maybe I should say/do something...but I don't know how or what. And if you're tempted to leave a comment with a suggestion, I ask instead that you would pray because if anything is done in this matter it will have to be with God's strength and guidance.
See here's the other thing. I'm having a change of heart/mind/attitude. I'm finally emerging from the dark pit of pessimism that I was drowning in for far, far, far too long. I'm on my way out and there's light at the end of the tunnel and it's getting closer but I've learned that optimism is a fragile bird, especially at this infant stage. I'm afraid that a bad turn (and this could certainly turn out to be a bad turn) will topple all the progress I've made.
And here's another thing. I've learned that optimism is hard work...at least it is for me, right now. It takes constant care and vigilance, pulling the weeds of cynicism out by the root as they spring up before they grow into something unmanageable. It's like getting over an addiction - you want to return to what's familiar, what's brought you comfort in the past, what seems so enticing at the moment but you have to keep looking forward towards a future free from those old chains. And I've been pretty good so far - I can see the change in my general attitude and outlook. I like where I'm going and I'm afraid of risking anything that might derail this train.
So there's more at stake here than just this girl.
Maybe in this small way, it's my turn to be selfish.
And so I ask, not for advice but for prayer.
...although comments are always fun, regardless.
1. Because they're safe.
2. Because they tell the truth.
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
4. Because they're more selective.
5. Because they're dorks.
6. Because they think too much.
7. Because they try too hard.
Not a bad list but I can't believe I forgot to mention the most important, and the most obvious reason:
8. Because girls only want them as friends.
I don't know how I could have missed that fact when it's the one thing above all others that has kept me single all these years. This drives me fucking nuts! I mean, what is it about a guy who's a good friend that keeps him from being boyfriend material? What kind of antimatter-logic is that? Girls are always complaining about how men don't listen, how they don't care about them, how they're just using them, how they leave the toilet seat up. And do you know who they sometimes complain about these things to? Their guy friend who they keep on the side. And do you know how that makes the guy feel? Like a dead bird in the middle of the freeway during rush hour traffic, getting mushed over and over and over again until he's just another dark brown stain.
"He can't be my boyfriend because we're too good as friends."
I'd eat my fingers off of my hand with mustard and relish if someone could explain that to me. Here's how I hear that statement: "He can't be my boyfriend because I wouldn't have to stay up late at night wondering if he's cheating on me and because I wouldn't have to pull my hair out trying to get him to appreciate me and because it would just be too easy and simple to fall for someone who I know really cares about me."
I've heard some say, "I want to marry my best friend." That may be true but you only want to date lesser men.
What is it about nice guys? I mean is dating a nice guy like wearing a muumuu - comfortable and functional for wearing around the house but not stylish enough to be seen in public with? Or maybe they're like a Swiss Army knife - kept in the glove box or in your purse for repairs but quickly put away once the party starts.
Reason number three says, "nice guys care for the girl more than themselves." This means that when the girl gets her heart broken by another guy and comes crying back to them, the nice guy will refrain from telling her what a selfish idiot she is, choosing, instead, to provide her with solace and the warm shoulder that she needs. And he'll continue to be there for her, nursing her back to emotional health until she's ready to crash her heart into another brick wall at eighty miles per hour...again.
"...but he doesn't want to be my boyfriend, he's just a friend." Now in some cases that may be true. And in some cases, pigs have been known to fly out of my ass. 10.5 times out of 10, what's really happening is the nice guy is just too nice to tell you how he feels about you. Or he's too scared to. Or (and pay special attention to this one) he thinks that you want adventure man, or tall-dark-and-mysterious man, or bungee-jumping-extreme-excitement man. He thinks this because these are the guys you talk about and end up chasing and/or going out with. He thinks those are the kinds of guys you want and he's not that kind of guy so he figures he's not right for you and never does anything because he only wants what you want.
If you've made it this far down, I suppose you deserve to hear the truth. Yeah, I was checking someone out recently. Someone amazing. Someone who calls me her friend...but these last two blogs haven't been about her (I'll get to that three paragraphs down).
No, I didn't say anything to her about how I felt...and I suppose that's my bad but...but a couple things. I don't think I'm the kind of guy she'd be interested in and I don't want to mess up what little we do have because she inspires me - she renews my sense of wonder at what the world has to offer, what can still emerge from this decaying, crumbling civilization.
And so you see, after all this ranting and raving, sometimes nice guys are single simply because they're shy and scared - scared to lose what they have but even more scared of hurting the very one they care for and so they watch from a distance, ready to catch them should they fall...kind of like spider man.
I know I've been pretty hard on girls in these last couple of blogs but I wasn't talking about her. Like most of my blogs, it was a way for me to vent some steam and generally figure things out for myself - writing helps me understand, and that blog was about understanding why I didn't want to pursue this relationship (number three and six helped a lot). All those women I complained about? Those are from things I heard firsthand or stories I heard secondhand or things I saw on TV or in the movies or in a book somewhere. But weren't about her.
Maybe I should say/do something...but I don't know how or what. And if you're tempted to leave a comment with a suggestion, I ask instead that you would pray because if anything is done in this matter it will have to be with God's strength and guidance.
See here's the other thing. I'm having a change of heart/mind/attitude. I'm finally emerging from the dark pit of pessimism that I was drowning in for far, far, far too long. I'm on my way out and there's light at the end of the tunnel and it's getting closer but I've learned that optimism is a fragile bird, especially at this infant stage. I'm afraid that a bad turn (and this could certainly turn out to be a bad turn) will topple all the progress I've made.
And here's another thing. I've learned that optimism is hard work...at least it is for me, right now. It takes constant care and vigilance, pulling the weeds of cynicism out by the root as they spring up before they grow into something unmanageable. It's like getting over an addiction - you want to return to what's familiar, what's brought you comfort in the past, what seems so enticing at the moment but you have to keep looking forward towards a future free from those old chains. And I've been pretty good so far - I can see the change in my general attitude and outlook. I like where I'm going and I'm afraid of risking anything that might derail this train.
So there's more at stake here than just this girl.
Maybe in this small way, it's my turn to be selfish.
And so I ask, not for advice but for prayer.
...although comments are always fun, regardless.
Monday, July 11, 2005
44. why nice guys are single...
1. Because they're safe and girls don't want safe. They want the cowboy who's going to ride out into the night killing evil men with bad mustaches and dark hats. They want to look longingly, fearfully out the top window, waiting for their pirate to return from the seas with chests full of stolen gold. The want a man who knows how to make a weapon out of a broken bottle - the man who drank that bottle dry. They want the Harlequin adventure, not the guy who can quote Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus. They want the man who's going to break their heart because they want to believe that their beauty and their kindness will be enough to keep them from doing so.
2. Because they tell the truth, even if it means not getting the girl.
(and closely related)
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
2 & 3 explained: A nice guy will bow out of chasing a girl if he knows that he's not right for her. He will also tell the truth about himself, because he cares for this girl more than himself. He will not hide distasteful truths about himself or his past - he may not volunteer them, but if asked he will spill the beans (even the lima beans...blah).
In contrast, a bad guy wants what he wants and will do/say/be anything he has to in order to get the girl he wants. What's right for the girl has no weight. He's free to play whatever mind/heart games he wishes and even if, on some level, he really cares for the girl, he will still shade the truth and hide his warts, figuring that once he's gotten the girl, he can just explain it all away even if he's found out. He wants what he wants first and if he has some explaining to do later on, he'll deal with it when (although he will try to make it, "if") it comes up
Now how is a nice guy supposed to compete with that?
4. Because they're more selective in who they pursue. They're usually more choosy because they only pursue girls they really care for. They're not just out to find a hot body or a pretty face. They want someone they can champion. And so they wait, and watch, and sigh longingly into their pillow at night.
5. Because they're usually dorks. Let's face it, nice guys are usually dorks - not nerds, because nerds have a certain kind of geeky charm. If they're skinny, it's in a way that makes them look weak, not stylish or emo. If they're fat, it's in a way that says, "lard-butt," not in a way that's buff or imposing. They have little to no sense of style
6. Because they think too much. If you're a guy and you're not sure what this means...watch out, you may be an asshole.
7. Because they try too hard (usually because they're thinking too much...see above). Should a nice guy find a girl he's interested in and should he actually believe that he would be good for her, he will (despite himself) throw caution to the wind and try to sweep the girl off her feet. This may take the form of letters, flowers, quoted or original poetry (stick to the quoted stuff unless you REALLY know what you're doing). They may even believe what they've seen on TV and think that singing a song for your lady is actually something that's attractive, becomming, and romantic. In reality it's usually awkward, embarasing, and painful (or best-case-scenario, laughable). Trust me guys, the singing thing is NOT easy to do well and it is far too easy to do poorly. I actually tried it once and not only did it not go well, it turned out to be the turning point where our once promising future became the never ending path of fire ants...instead of describing hell as a place "where their worm does not die and the fire is not quenched" (Mark 9:48 KJV), God should have just said, "hell is a place where it's always the day after your boyfriend/girlfriend broke up with you." I bet we'd have a lot more Christians if it read that way.
Let's see, what do we have so far:
1. Because they're safe.
2. Because they tell the truth.
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
4. Because they're more selective.
5. Because they're dorks.
6. Because they think too much.
7. Because they try too hard.
Yeah, that's a pretty good list. Not comprehensive, to be sure, but along the right lines, I think.
Not all of them apply to me...not really...at least not completely...(insert pregnant pause here)...oh hell, who am I kidding - it's not like I've been summarizing an article out of Anthropological Studies of the Well Mannered Male. But you know what? I don't give a shit. I'm a hella-fucking good catch and I feel sorry for the girls that spruned my advances (succumbing to some playah's smooth lines instead).
Anyway, girls, give a nice guy a chance. And if he buys you three dozen roses and sends them to you at work after the first date, don't go all apeshit and file for a TRO. Just understand that nice guys operate differently than other guys because they're not just another guy...they're a nice guy.
2. Because they tell the truth, even if it means not getting the girl.
(and closely related)
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
2 & 3 explained: A nice guy will bow out of chasing a girl if he knows that he's not right for her. He will also tell the truth about himself, because he cares for this girl more than himself. He will not hide distasteful truths about himself or his past - he may not volunteer them, but if asked he will spill the beans (even the lima beans...blah).
In contrast, a bad guy wants what he wants and will do/say/be anything he has to in order to get the girl he wants. What's right for the girl has no weight. He's free to play whatever mind/heart games he wishes and even if, on some level, he really cares for the girl, he will still shade the truth and hide his warts, figuring that once he's gotten the girl, he can just explain it all away even if he's found out. He wants what he wants first and if he has some explaining to do later on, he'll deal with it when (although he will try to make it, "if") it comes up
Now how is a nice guy supposed to compete with that?
4. Because they're more selective in who they pursue. They're usually more choosy because they only pursue girls they really care for. They're not just out to find a hot body or a pretty face. They want someone they can champion. And so they wait, and watch, and sigh longingly into their pillow at night.
5. Because they're usually dorks. Let's face it, nice guys are usually dorks - not nerds, because nerds have a certain kind of geeky charm. If they're skinny, it's in a way that makes them look weak, not stylish or emo. If they're fat, it's in a way that says, "lard-butt," not in a way that's buff or imposing. They have little to no sense of style
6. Because they think too much. If you're a guy and you're not sure what this means...watch out, you may be an asshole.
7. Because they try too hard (usually because they're thinking too much...see above). Should a nice guy find a girl he's interested in and should he actually believe that he would be good for her, he will (despite himself) throw caution to the wind and try to sweep the girl off her feet. This may take the form of letters, flowers, quoted or original poetry (stick to the quoted stuff unless you REALLY know what you're doing). They may even believe what they've seen on TV and think that singing a song for your lady is actually something that's attractive, becomming, and romantic. In reality it's usually awkward, embarasing, and painful (or best-case-scenario, laughable). Trust me guys, the singing thing is NOT easy to do well and it is far too easy to do poorly. I actually tried it once and not only did it not go well, it turned out to be the turning point where our once promising future became the never ending path of fire ants...instead of describing hell as a place "where their worm does not die and the fire is not quenched" (Mark 9:48 KJV), God should have just said, "hell is a place where it's always the day after your boyfriend/girlfriend broke up with you." I bet we'd have a lot more Christians if it read that way.
Let's see, what do we have so far:
1. Because they're safe.
2. Because they tell the truth.
3. Because they care for the girl more than themselves.
4. Because they're more selective.
5. Because they're dorks.
6. Because they think too much.
7. Because they try too hard.
Yeah, that's a pretty good list. Not comprehensive, to be sure, but along the right lines, I think.
Not all of them apply to me...not really...at least not completely...(insert pregnant pause here)...oh hell, who am I kidding - it's not like I've been summarizing an article out of Anthropological Studies of the Well Mannered Male. But you know what? I don't give a shit. I'm a hella-fucking good catch and I feel sorry for the girls that spruned my advances (succumbing to some playah's smooth lines instead).
Anyway, girls, give a nice guy a chance. And if he buys you three dozen roses and sends them to you at work after the first date, don't go all apeshit and file for a TRO. Just understand that nice guys operate differently than other guys because they're not just another guy...they're a nice guy.
Thursday, July 07, 2005
43. and she was tired of talking so he told her a story...
And she was tired of talking so he told her a story. . .
. . . about a prince in gilded armor who stormed a mighty castle and fought his way to the top of a high tower. All along the way he traded bits of gold (a shield, a breastplate) for his life, leaving a trail of blood and amber in his wake. After he had vanquished the last of his foes, he opened the door to the room atop the spire only to find a frog who forgot how to turn back into a princess no matter how many times he kissed her.
. . . about a boy who gathered pebbles in his pockets along the long and windy path to an orphanage where the ungrateful cared for the unwanted. At night under his linen sheet he would care for his little stones, giving them names and histories and legacies. Stone nations clashed and warred - epic tales complete with subplots where topaz Romeos wooed pyrite Juliets. The boy grew into a man who manufactured the first marble and his son was the first to throw a taw, collecting a grand army of ducks, starting a fad along the way. The man died a millionaire and was burried under opals, glimmers, and rubies.
. . . about a chimpanzee who, by feigning animal ignorance, tricked NASA into letting him man the first spacecraft launched into orbit. Once airborne he dismantled the computers, took control of the ship and flew to a planet populated by hamsters. He leveraged his superior intellect (and opposible thumbs) to organize the rodents and ruled over them. He used his power to teach them to grow and harvest bananas, but he was a benevolent anthropoid and didn't tax them too heavily.
"So, what do you think?" he asks.
She smiles, thanks him and places a kiss on his cheek before getting back into her car and driving away, leaving him with these stories in his hands, barely able to contain them. Chapters, characters, and footnotes fall through the cracks between his fingers. They hit the ground and fragment into a meaningless jumble of words and letters and apostrophes before dissolving back into the ground.
. . . about a prince in gilded armor who stormed a mighty castle and fought his way to the top of a high tower. All along the way he traded bits of gold (a shield, a breastplate) for his life, leaving a trail of blood and amber in his wake. After he had vanquished the last of his foes, he opened the door to the room atop the spire only to find a frog who forgot how to turn back into a princess no matter how many times he kissed her.
. . . about a boy who gathered pebbles in his pockets along the long and windy path to an orphanage where the ungrateful cared for the unwanted. At night under his linen sheet he would care for his little stones, giving them names and histories and legacies. Stone nations clashed and warred - epic tales complete with subplots where topaz Romeos wooed pyrite Juliets. The boy grew into a man who manufactured the first marble and his son was the first to throw a taw, collecting a grand army of ducks, starting a fad along the way. The man died a millionaire and was burried under opals, glimmers, and rubies.
. . . about a chimpanzee who, by feigning animal ignorance, tricked NASA into letting him man the first spacecraft launched into orbit. Once airborne he dismantled the computers, took control of the ship and flew to a planet populated by hamsters. He leveraged his superior intellect (and opposible thumbs) to organize the rodents and ruled over them. He used his power to teach them to grow and harvest bananas, but he was a benevolent anthropoid and didn't tax them too heavily.
"So, what do you think?" he asks.
She smiles, thanks him and places a kiss on his cheek before getting back into her car and driving away, leaving him with these stories in his hands, barely able to contain them. Chapters, characters, and footnotes fall through the cracks between his fingers. They hit the ground and fragment into a meaningless jumble of words and letters and apostrophes before dissolving back into the ground.
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
42. 5 things i learned while on tour
1. I need time alone.
2. Living with others makes me feel more whole.
3. I need to cure my snoring problem.
4. I can be an asshole.
5. I'm relatively good with maps.
Now one by one:
1. I need time alone.
I didn't know this about me until this trip. I mean I always knew I was one who didn't mind being alone but I didn't know that I NEEDED to be alone. It hit me Thursday night (our 5th day together), driving into LA. Marty was at the wheel and I was reading the map and I was getting really short with him - barking directions at him and criticizing his driving and generally being an asshole (see point number four). He was good enough to put up with it although he did the right thing and told me how uncomfortable I made him feel the next day.
This surprised me because normally, I'm one who can put up with anything. I pride myself on having both a long fuse and a short, controlled explosion should you make it to the end of the fuse (not many do). But that night I was really being a jerk. Marty had enough stress dealing with LA traffic (take Hawaii traffic, remove all the aloha, and speed all the cars up 30 percent and you get the idea) and we had been on the road for hours surviving on nothing but lame radio stations and even lamer road games. Marty was heroically dealing with it all and didn't need me giving him heat but he got us to where we needed to go with a cool head.
The next day, the first thing on the schedule was meeting up with Miles' aunt in LA. I asked the other guys if it would be okay for me to pull out of that meeting so I could be alone for a while. I told them I usually spend a lot of time by myself and hanging out with three other people for five days straight was turning me into something I didn't like. They all understood and as it turns out, we thought it would be a good idea for all of us to kind of disband for a few hours and unwind by ourselves.
The next morning, I ended up at The Grove where I spent most of my time at Starbucks (which was actually at the Farmer's Market next door) and at Barnes and Noble. I felt a bit odd because normally when I'm by myself, it's because nothing else came up that I wanted to do. This was the first time I was by myself just to be by myself. In other words, this was the first time being alone was a purposed activity, something I wanted to do. I wasn't sure how to go about it so I ended up at Starbucks smoking a clove and watching the people walk and later, when I ended up at Barnes and Noble, I spent most of that time talking to Steph back in Hawaii (not exactly time alone but it was time away from the band nevertheless and it did me good).
Once I was back with the band, I felt a lot more myself again. From then on, everything was pretty groovy. There were moments where I felt the same kind of social claustrophobia but whether by design or by chance, there were other times where I was able to get away and be by myself so I could keep the asshole side of me at bay.
2. Living with others makes me feel more whole.
Now this sounds like a contradiction to number one and in a way it is. Being with three other people, even for just a week, gave me a kind of confidence and assurance in who I am. I mean, sure there were times when all I wanted to do was get away but by the end of the week, I noticed a subtle but sure kind of ease with myself that I don't think I've ever felt before.
It's hard to put into words because it's something that kind of crept up on me slowly, something that I could have easily missed. Even now I'm having a hard time explaining it. Okay, maybe this works. Have you ever been to camp? I mean those church camps where high schoolers or singles or couples or men or women or some other social sub-group of people get together and spend time away from the world to learn about God. You know how by the end of those camps, you feel like everyone is your best friend and you're able to share your deepest, darkest, holy-shit-you-did-that kinds of secrets around the campfire? That's kind of how I felt, only not as intense and not as smokey (and no smores which is fine with me because I think they're overrated).
Donald Miller, in his books Blue Like Jazz and Searching For God Knows What talks about the importance of living in community - something society seems to be moving away from. I can't help but wonder if my feeling-more-comfortable-in-my-own-skin thing was the result of living in a kind of mini-community for a week. I suppose I'll have to find some kind of balance between community time and alone time once we make the move up here but I'm not too worried about that. If we didn't kill each other and break up the band after one long week of ALWAYS being together, I doubt there's anything we won't be able to work out once we make the move.
3. I need to cure my snoring problem.
Yeah, I snore like a tornado. With all of my charming, lovable qualities, there had to be some kind of downside to knowing me and snoring is one of them. Luckily I have at least six months to lick the problem. In fact, I went to get a dental check-up this morning (my first one in at least four or five years) and once I got into the fancy dental chair (complete with arm and leg restraints), there was a poster for a anti-snoring mouth guard type device.
While on the trip, I tried a couple of mouth spray things that seemed to do no good. For all I know, they were filled with snake oil. From what I've been told, I have an industrial-strength snore. Spraying something on the back of my throat is kind of like fighting a forest fire with an atomizer. I'll be asking my dentist and my doctor about options. Hopefully I'll have the problem taken care of before I make the move.
4. I can be an asshole.
Who knew? See number one for more details.
5. I'm relatively good with maps.
I was able to get the band from point A to point B without too much trouble. I mean sure at one point I had us driving through the heart of Inglewood and through a couple other dicey looking neighborhoods (make that 'hoods, nobody's your neighbor in some of these places) but we never got jacked or shot at so what's the big deal? Besides, we even got to see the legendary West Coast Choppers shop because of one of my map-reading mistakes.
It's not like I have a natural sense of direction. I don't. I spent a lot of money on maps. I hate the feeling of not knowing what's going on and nothing tweaks that nerve more than being lost. The few times we had to go completely off map and rely on someone else's directions, I was NOT at ease.
6. Summary
So there you have it. Five things I learned about myself while on tour with Harrison. Of course, there were other things I learned (like the fact that bears don't like paintballs) but these are five things that came immediately to mind...which may or may not mean they're significant. All this to say that if you get a chance to drive down the West Coast with your band mates, I'd say go for it. You're likely to learn as much (if not more) about yourself as you do about them along the way...and it's a lot more fun than therapy.
2. Living with others makes me feel more whole.
3. I need to cure my snoring problem.
4. I can be an asshole.
5. I'm relatively good with maps.
Now one by one:
1. I need time alone.
I didn't know this about me until this trip. I mean I always knew I was one who didn't mind being alone but I didn't know that I NEEDED to be alone. It hit me Thursday night (our 5th day together), driving into LA. Marty was at the wheel and I was reading the map and I was getting really short with him - barking directions at him and criticizing his driving and generally being an asshole (see point number four). He was good enough to put up with it although he did the right thing and told me how uncomfortable I made him feel the next day.
This surprised me because normally, I'm one who can put up with anything. I pride myself on having both a long fuse and a short, controlled explosion should you make it to the end of the fuse (not many do). But that night I was really being a jerk. Marty had enough stress dealing with LA traffic (take Hawaii traffic, remove all the aloha, and speed all the cars up 30 percent and you get the idea) and we had been on the road for hours surviving on nothing but lame radio stations and even lamer road games. Marty was heroically dealing with it all and didn't need me giving him heat but he got us to where we needed to go with a cool head.
The next day, the first thing on the schedule was meeting up with Miles' aunt in LA. I asked the other guys if it would be okay for me to pull out of that meeting so I could be alone for a while. I told them I usually spend a lot of time by myself and hanging out with three other people for five days straight was turning me into something I didn't like. They all understood and as it turns out, we thought it would be a good idea for all of us to kind of disband for a few hours and unwind by ourselves.
The next morning, I ended up at The Grove where I spent most of my time at Starbucks (which was actually at the Farmer's Market next door) and at Barnes and Noble. I felt a bit odd because normally when I'm by myself, it's because nothing else came up that I wanted to do. This was the first time I was by myself just to be by myself. In other words, this was the first time being alone was a purposed activity, something I wanted to do. I wasn't sure how to go about it so I ended up at Starbucks smoking a clove and watching the people walk and later, when I ended up at Barnes and Noble, I spent most of that time talking to Steph back in Hawaii (not exactly time alone but it was time away from the band nevertheless and it did me good).
Once I was back with the band, I felt a lot more myself again. From then on, everything was pretty groovy. There were moments where I felt the same kind of social claustrophobia but whether by design or by chance, there were other times where I was able to get away and be by myself so I could keep the asshole side of me at bay.
2. Living with others makes me feel more whole.
Now this sounds like a contradiction to number one and in a way it is. Being with three other people, even for just a week, gave me a kind of confidence and assurance in who I am. I mean, sure there were times when all I wanted to do was get away but by the end of the week, I noticed a subtle but sure kind of ease with myself that I don't think I've ever felt before.
It's hard to put into words because it's something that kind of crept up on me slowly, something that I could have easily missed. Even now I'm having a hard time explaining it. Okay, maybe this works. Have you ever been to camp? I mean those church camps where high schoolers or singles or couples or men or women or some other social sub-group of people get together and spend time away from the world to learn about God. You know how by the end of those camps, you feel like everyone is your best friend and you're able to share your deepest, darkest, holy-shit-you-did-that kinds of secrets around the campfire? That's kind of how I felt, only not as intense and not as smokey (and no smores which is fine with me because I think they're overrated).
Donald Miller, in his books Blue Like Jazz and Searching For God Knows What talks about the importance of living in community - something society seems to be moving away from. I can't help but wonder if my feeling-more-comfortable-in-my-own-skin thing was the result of living in a kind of mini-community for a week. I suppose I'll have to find some kind of balance between community time and alone time once we make the move up here but I'm not too worried about that. If we didn't kill each other and break up the band after one long week of ALWAYS being together, I doubt there's anything we won't be able to work out once we make the move.
3. I need to cure my snoring problem.
Yeah, I snore like a tornado. With all of my charming, lovable qualities, there had to be some kind of downside to knowing me and snoring is one of them. Luckily I have at least six months to lick the problem. In fact, I went to get a dental check-up this morning (my first one in at least four or five years) and once I got into the fancy dental chair (complete with arm and leg restraints), there was a poster for a anti-snoring mouth guard type device.
While on the trip, I tried a couple of mouth spray things that seemed to do no good. For all I know, they were filled with snake oil. From what I've been told, I have an industrial-strength snore. Spraying something on the back of my throat is kind of like fighting a forest fire with an atomizer. I'll be asking my dentist and my doctor about options. Hopefully I'll have the problem taken care of before I make the move.
4. I can be an asshole.
Who knew? See number one for more details.
5. I'm relatively good with maps.
I was able to get the band from point A to point B without too much trouble. I mean sure at one point I had us driving through the heart of Inglewood and through a couple other dicey looking neighborhoods (make that 'hoods, nobody's your neighbor in some of these places) but we never got jacked or shot at so what's the big deal? Besides, we even got to see the legendary West Coast Choppers shop because of one of my map-reading mistakes.
It's not like I have a natural sense of direction. I don't. I spent a lot of money on maps. I hate the feeling of not knowing what's going on and nothing tweaks that nerve more than being lost. The few times we had to go completely off map and rely on someone else's directions, I was NOT at ease.
6. Summary
So there you have it. Five things I learned about myself while on tour with Harrison. Of course, there were other things I learned (like the fact that bears don't like paintballs) but these are five things that came immediately to mind...which may or may not mean they're significant. All this to say that if you get a chance to drive down the West Coast with your band mates, I'd say go for it. You're likely to learn as much (if not more) about yourself as you do about them along the way...and it's a lot more fun than therapy.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
41. echos of love
love runs through the corridors of our lives
it fills the once empty spaces
with a kind of chaos of light and sound,
beautiful sound.
there is no substance to love
yet it saturates us, fills us,
makes us more than whole.
and when love is gone the hallways echo
echo away
the background radiation does not decay
completely
it remains as the memorial reminder
of what once was there
but is there no more
it fills the once empty spaces
with a kind of chaos of light and sound,
beautiful sound.
there is no substance to love
yet it saturates us, fills us,
makes us more than whole.
and when love is gone the hallways echo
echo away
the background radiation does not decay
completely
it remains as the memorial reminder
of what once was there
but is there no more
Sunday, July 03, 2005
40. lessons from the road...thoughts on community
Wow, I'm on my last full day with my band, on "tour" in LA. We've been here on the West Coast for about one week now and it's been an intense experience.
I'm generally a solitary person. I like to keep to myself. If I'm not cruising somewhere by myself, I like to hang with just a few good friends rather than being in a big, crowded place. Meeting new people stresses me out and this trip has been nothing but meeting new people. We've been staying at band members' family/friends' houses/apartments on this trip and so in addition to meeting new people, I've had to live with them as well...which is stress on top of stress because I don't dig staying in other people's homes. (Staying at the Clone-Twins apartment was an exception...that was supah cool, thanks guys.)
On top of this, whenever we've played shows, we've gotten to meet lots of new people. Playing in the mainland has been a trip in that the crowd response has been totally different from Hawaii. People just come up to you after the show (even while you're trying to pack up) and start pelting you with questions and comments. We've also been selling CDs at our shows and we've been selling out! As we speak, I'm furiously burning new copies. Again, new people equals stress for me so selling CDs and having people ask me to autograph them is cool but at the same time, not my favorite thing in the world.
I've lived at home all my life. I've got really cool parents. We're not close by any means but they give me a lot of freedom and they've always supported me in whatever I've put my hands to. I know we're going to be moving to Cali sometime next year and as much as I've learned about myself on this trip, I know I'll have to learn so much more then but over all, it's been a good thing.
Donald Miller, Lauren F. Winner, and other postmodern Christian writers have said that living as part of a community (not just a family, but as a part of a larger social structure including but not limited to the church) is an essential part of what it is to be a human being. This is something that we've lost today.
Even as the internet connects people, it also isolates them. The ease of e-mail makes communication effortless but something is lost when pen and paper fail to meet (I almost miss the process of deciphering difficult handwriting...almost). We try to make up for this by using ALL CAPS and italics but not being able to see someone's handwriting is just one more level of depersonalization between you and the other. And these blogs. What is it about writing what basically amounts to a public diary that's so attractive? How is it that as we're winning the battle for privacy and personal space we're posting our personal thoughts and struggles where everyone can see?
If God has indeed created us in such a way that we require community, then despite our efforts to live otherwise, we will find a way to fulfill that requirement...even as we struggle against it. I think of the movie, Jurassic Park. The scientists designed the dinosaurs on the island to need a certain kind of hormone or chemical to survive - the thought being that if the dinosaurs found a way to escape the island, they would not be out for long. I can't remember if this was in the movie version but I remember in the book by Michael Crichton, escaped dinosaurs start feeding on a certain kind of plant that allows them to get the chemical/hormone they need.
"Life will find a way," was one of the ideas of the book. In this case, you could say that, "design will find a way." In other words, the way that we've been designed by God will manifest itself regardless of our efforts to reverse engineer and modify it. As we draw in our social circles closer and closer to ourselves, we find new ways to connect. I mean, geeze, you're reading this blog on an on-line social networking website! How many people do you know who've been bitten by the MySpace bug and need their daily fix?
In the end, once I move up to the mainland with my band and live with them I'm hoping that living in such close contact to other people (a mini-community) will make me more whole of a person. Maybe this is what I've been missing all these years. I don't know, I'll just have to wait and see.
I'm generally a solitary person. I like to keep to myself. If I'm not cruising somewhere by myself, I like to hang with just a few good friends rather than being in a big, crowded place. Meeting new people stresses me out and this trip has been nothing but meeting new people. We've been staying at band members' family/friends' houses/apartments on this trip and so in addition to meeting new people, I've had to live with them as well...which is stress on top of stress because I don't dig staying in other people's homes. (Staying at the Clone-Twins apartment was an exception...that was supah cool, thanks guys.)
On top of this, whenever we've played shows, we've gotten to meet lots of new people. Playing in the mainland has been a trip in that the crowd response has been totally different from Hawaii. People just come up to you after the show (even while you're trying to pack up) and start pelting you with questions and comments. We've also been selling CDs at our shows and we've been selling out! As we speak, I'm furiously burning new copies. Again, new people equals stress for me so selling CDs and having people ask me to autograph them is cool but at the same time, not my favorite thing in the world.
I've lived at home all my life. I've got really cool parents. We're not close by any means but they give me a lot of freedom and they've always supported me in whatever I've put my hands to. I know we're going to be moving to Cali sometime next year and as much as I've learned about myself on this trip, I know I'll have to learn so much more then but over all, it's been a good thing.
Donald Miller, Lauren F. Winner, and other postmodern Christian writers have said that living as part of a community (not just a family, but as a part of a larger social structure including but not limited to the church) is an essential part of what it is to be a human being. This is something that we've lost today.
Even as the internet connects people, it also isolates them. The ease of e-mail makes communication effortless but something is lost when pen and paper fail to meet (I almost miss the process of deciphering difficult handwriting...almost). We try to make up for this by using ALL CAPS and italics but not being able to see someone's handwriting is just one more level of depersonalization between you and the other. And these blogs. What is it about writing what basically amounts to a public diary that's so attractive? How is it that as we're winning the battle for privacy and personal space we're posting our personal thoughts and struggles where everyone can see?
If God has indeed created us in such a way that we require community, then despite our efforts to live otherwise, we will find a way to fulfill that requirement...even as we struggle against it. I think of the movie, Jurassic Park. The scientists designed the dinosaurs on the island to need a certain kind of hormone or chemical to survive - the thought being that if the dinosaurs found a way to escape the island, they would not be out for long. I can't remember if this was in the movie version but I remember in the book by Michael Crichton, escaped dinosaurs start feeding on a certain kind of plant that allows them to get the chemical/hormone they need.
"Life will find a way," was one of the ideas of the book. In this case, you could say that, "design will find a way." In other words, the way that we've been designed by God will manifest itself regardless of our efforts to reverse engineer and modify it. As we draw in our social circles closer and closer to ourselves, we find new ways to connect. I mean, geeze, you're reading this blog on an on-line social networking website! How many people do you know who've been bitten by the MySpace bug and need their daily fix?
In the end, once I move up to the mainland with my band and live with them I'm hoping that living in such close contact to other people (a mini-community) will make me more whole of a person. Maybe this is what I've been missing all these years. I don't know, I'll just have to wait and see.
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