I've always bristled at the thought whenever someone would say, "you need to be a whole person before you're ready to be in a relationship." I never really thought about it but I think I know why - I don't think it's Biblical.
In Genesis 2:18-25, we see the creation of the first woman, Eve. It all starts with God sensing that Adam is missing something, "It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a companion who will help him," (Gen 2:18b NLT). And so God went to work creating all kinds of animals, bringing them to Adam. Adam in turn gives them names, but even after God's grand parade, "...there was no companion suitable for him," (Gen 2:20b NLT).
Funny side-note, some people tell me that I'm too picky. Hell, I think I'm too picky, but it's a good thing Adam was too because if he wasn't, he might have settled for llama and God would never have gone on to create Eve. And I don't want to even begin to think about how procreation would have worked out if that were the case..."damn, did you see the teats on that llama mama? DAMN!"
Anyway, God sees that none of the animals he's created are right for Adam and so he goes and does something very strange. "So the LORD God caused Adam to fall into a deep sleep. He took one of Adam's ribs and closed up the place from which he had taken it. Then the LORD God made a woman from the rib and brought her to Adam," (Gen 2:21-22 NLT).
Up until this point, God had fashioned all of creation out of the ground. But he does something very different when creating the first woman, Eve. He opens Adam up, removes a part of him (a rib), and uses that to create her. Thus, instead of just being another form or creation, woman is "...bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh," (Gen 2:23 NIV). And God doesn't replace the rib (at least not Adam's rib...despite what some Christians think, men and women have the exact same number or ribs) and so in a very real sense, Adam is made whole when he is with her.
Another side note, the Greeks had a similar kind of idea about men and women and why they feel more whole when together. Plato describes, in one of his writings, a man being split in two. One half became male and the other half became female and that's why the one is always longing for the other - because they desire to be made whole again.
The thing that I find particularly interesting about the Bible's account the creation of Eve is the fact that it occurs BEFORE the fall - that is, the world has not yet been corrupted by sin, it is still as God intended it. The longing that Adam felt for another was there from the beginning, it's not a product of corruption but of design. Man and woman being together is a part of God's design, and so is Adam's longing for companionship!
So then, the advice that one needs to be whole before being ready for a relationship is misguided. Man's longing for companionship predated the fall and thus is an element of God's design.
I don't know. I'm no theologian (understatement of the year). I've just never heard the story of man and woman explained this way. I've always seen loneliness and longing as a product of a fallen world, but what if that's how we've been created?
Not sure what this all means in the long run. It's an interesting idea (to me). Maybe I'm wrong about this. Any Bible scholars out there able to comment on this?
Wednesday, August 10, 2005
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
62. too much information
Wanted: inspiration.
Stuck in a rut and I've run through all my gears. I need God's tow service to pull me out. And so I pray. And wait. And I check to see if anyone's read my blog (and better yet, left a comment). And I wait.
[insert segue]
You know how people are always saying things like, "you've got to be a whole person before you're ready to be in a relationship." Or, "while you're looking for the right person, make sure you're the right person." Or, "be glad you're single, appreciate your singleness, you're going to miss these days once you're in a relationship." This last one is particularly irritating. If they really feel this way then they should dump whomever they're with instead of trying to comfort me with this lame advice. If I knew how to be a contented single person I wouldn't be complaining about it now would I?
I can't speak for every 33yo single person out there but as for me, I'd rather lick a toilet bowl than have to listen to more of those comments/suggestions. I mean, I appreciate the fact that the person saying those things is just trying to help out, but...it doesn't help.
I'm the most single person I know. I don't know anyone in my circle of friends who's been single longer than I. Well, there is one person...but I won't go there. I don't get it and I hate it. It's stupid. I have so much to offer, so much I want to give: I'm selfless and I do my best to empathize, I like to shop for clothes, I'm a good listener, I have a latent romantic side of me that can't wait to spoil a woman with style and surprise, I've read Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, I like chick flicks (as long as they're well made), I'm not obsessed with sports or automobiles, I believe that a woman's heart is ounce-for-ounce the most precious substance in the universe and should be treated as such, I really do care more about who a woman is than what she looks like (sometimes I wish appearance was all that mattered to me, that would be so much easier), I want to learn the difference between "I'm fine" and "I'm okay," I'm good about leaving the toilet seat down (the department I work in is mostly female and they'll back me up on this), I'm not afraid of marriage - I think a lifetime is not nearly long enough to know a woman but I'd love to give it a try.
All that said, I know if anyone's to blame for me being this single this long, it's me. I'm far too picky and I'm far too shy (not a good combination). I have no game and don't let anyone tell you that game doesn't matter. In the long run, that's true but game is what gets your foot in the door. And if you don't get in the door then you're on the outside with the other sorry, single individuals.
In case you're wondering what it is I'm so picky about, here are a few things I'm looking for, pretty much in order of importance: she's got to be a believer in Christ - that's pretty much a given but I think exceptions can be made in (very) rare circumstances. She's got to be smart. I find intelligence incredibly attractive and insight is far sexier than lingerie (I can't believe I just used the word, "lingerie" in my blog). She's got to be funny. But if she's smart, funny probably won't be a problem. I could go on but really, everything else is just a refinement of those three things: Christian, smart, funny.
Physical attributes? Hey, I've got eyes so yes, there are physical features that I'm drawn to but they're not nearly as important as the big three (Christian, smart, funny). But for the record, here they are: I've always been attracted to women with short hair - shoulder length and above. Anything below the middle of the back is redundant and frankly, gross (hair is really just strands of dead cells, thus longer hair equals more death...blah!). I also like women who wear glasses (believe it or not, I'm still going in order of importance, not off the top of my head). I like women who don't wear a lot of makeup. And this is probably far too much information, but big breasts frighten me. Honestly, the smaller the better (fo real).
Oh my, I never know where I'll end up when I start a blog entry. I thought this blog was going to be about feeling stuck in a rut...but I guess there's really not much to say about that. If you're stuck, you're stuck and if you're not going anywhere then there's really not that much to say is there? But I had no idea this would end up as an exposition on what I find attractive.
But I follow the sentences where they lead and I do my best to be true to what they want to say.
Thanks again for reading.
...and if you see her walking by, tell her I'm doing my best to find her - and that when I do, I'll do my best to overcome shyness and insecurity. Tell her I have no game and so if I drop the ball, don't give up on me.
Stuck in a rut and I've run through all my gears. I need God's tow service to pull me out. And so I pray. And wait. And I check to see if anyone's read my blog (and better yet, left a comment). And I wait.
[insert segue]
You know how people are always saying things like, "you've got to be a whole person before you're ready to be in a relationship." Or, "while you're looking for the right person, make sure you're the right person." Or, "be glad you're single, appreciate your singleness, you're going to miss these days once you're in a relationship." This last one is particularly irritating. If they really feel this way then they should dump whomever they're with instead of trying to comfort me with this lame advice. If I knew how to be a contented single person I wouldn't be complaining about it now would I?
I can't speak for every 33yo single person out there but as for me, I'd rather lick a toilet bowl than have to listen to more of those comments/suggestions. I mean, I appreciate the fact that the person saying those things is just trying to help out, but...it doesn't help.
I'm the most single person I know. I don't know anyone in my circle of friends who's been single longer than I. Well, there is one person...but I won't go there. I don't get it and I hate it. It's stupid. I have so much to offer, so much I want to give: I'm selfless and I do my best to empathize, I like to shop for clothes, I'm a good listener, I have a latent romantic side of me that can't wait to spoil a woman with style and surprise, I've read Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus, I like chick flicks (as long as they're well made), I'm not obsessed with sports or automobiles, I believe that a woman's heart is ounce-for-ounce the most precious substance in the universe and should be treated as such, I really do care more about who a woman is than what she looks like (sometimes I wish appearance was all that mattered to me, that would be so much easier), I want to learn the difference between "I'm fine" and "I'm okay," I'm good about leaving the toilet seat down (the department I work in is mostly female and they'll back me up on this), I'm not afraid of marriage - I think a lifetime is not nearly long enough to know a woman but I'd love to give it a try.
All that said, I know if anyone's to blame for me being this single this long, it's me. I'm far too picky and I'm far too shy (not a good combination). I have no game and don't let anyone tell you that game doesn't matter. In the long run, that's true but game is what gets your foot in the door. And if you don't get in the door then you're on the outside with the other sorry, single individuals.
In case you're wondering what it is I'm so picky about, here are a few things I'm looking for, pretty much in order of importance: she's got to be a believer in Christ - that's pretty much a given but I think exceptions can be made in (very) rare circumstances. She's got to be smart. I find intelligence incredibly attractive and insight is far sexier than lingerie (I can't believe I just used the word, "lingerie" in my blog). She's got to be funny. But if she's smart, funny probably won't be a problem. I could go on but really, everything else is just a refinement of those three things: Christian, smart, funny.
Physical attributes? Hey, I've got eyes so yes, there are physical features that I'm drawn to but they're not nearly as important as the big three (Christian, smart, funny). But for the record, here they are: I've always been attracted to women with short hair - shoulder length and above. Anything below the middle of the back is redundant and frankly, gross (hair is really just strands of dead cells, thus longer hair equals more death...blah!). I also like women who wear glasses (believe it or not, I'm still going in order of importance, not off the top of my head). I like women who don't wear a lot of makeup. And this is probably far too much information, but big breasts frighten me. Honestly, the smaller the better (fo real).
Oh my, I never know where I'll end up when I start a blog entry. I thought this blog was going to be about feeling stuck in a rut...but I guess there's really not much to say about that. If you're stuck, you're stuck and if you're not going anywhere then there's really not that much to say is there? But I had no idea this would end up as an exposition on what I find attractive.
But I follow the sentences where they lead and I do my best to be true to what they want to say.
Thanks again for reading.
...and if you see her walking by, tell her I'm doing my best to find her - and that when I do, I'll do my best to overcome shyness and insecurity. Tell her I have no game and so if I drop the ball, don't give up on me.
Monday, August 08, 2005
61. The Birds and the Bag Lady
They're walking down the sidewalk and decide to take the shortcut through the park. Halfway through, they come across a riot of birds, pathway-wide, roosting on the bushes beside and the branches above. She hesitates for a moment and he remembers her odd, yet endearing, fear of pigeons and crows.
He makes a run at them and some of them disperse but these are city-park birds - they'll make a mess of your umbrella and your hat, but apart from that, they really don't give a shit. He makes a spectacle of himself, kicking his feet and flailing his arms, but outside the circumference of his reach they just go on pecking at the unusually delicious crumbs left by the strange bag lady.
Story goes, she lost her home during the divorce but got the bulk of the settlement cash in return. She refused to use her millions to buy another house, claiming that no other house would ever be home. She chose, instead, to move into the penthouse suite of a downtown hotel. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings she buys pretzel-croissants made to her specification (extra flaky) from the city's best cafe. She spends these mornings spreading crumbs in the park and doesn't stop until every last piece is gone. And as she spreads them, some say that if you listen close enough, you can hear her muttering her ex-husband's name under her breath, sometimes longing, sometimes mad.
He's still working on the birds when he feels something fall on his shoulder. At first he thinks that he's just been shat upon but when he turns his head to check, he sees her hand and beyond he sees her face betraying a thin, uncomfortable smile burdened by the weight of her phobia. Her eyes pinball between face and fowl.
He holds her close and tells her to close her eyes.
"I can still hear them - their wings" she says, calmer now but still nervous.
"No, listen," he whispers. "Those aren't birds, they're old, manual typewriters - Remington, Royal, and Underwood machines - spewing out stories all by themselves."
As he's telling her this, the birds jump and scatter as Olympias and Smith-Coronas appear beneath them, pages filled top to bottom with text spilling out over their carriages. After the last bird has flown, he tells her to open her eyes and when she does she finds the pathway white with paper. He picks a few of them up and walks her through the park, reading letters from the bag lady to her husband - some of them longing, all of them sad.
He makes a run at them and some of them disperse but these are city-park birds - they'll make a mess of your umbrella and your hat, but apart from that, they really don't give a shit. He makes a spectacle of himself, kicking his feet and flailing his arms, but outside the circumference of his reach they just go on pecking at the unusually delicious crumbs left by the strange bag lady.
Story goes, she lost her home during the divorce but got the bulk of the settlement cash in return. She refused to use her millions to buy another house, claiming that no other house would ever be home. She chose, instead, to move into the penthouse suite of a downtown hotel. On Tuesday and Thursday mornings she buys pretzel-croissants made to her specification (extra flaky) from the city's best cafe. She spends these mornings spreading crumbs in the park and doesn't stop until every last piece is gone. And as she spreads them, some say that if you listen close enough, you can hear her muttering her ex-husband's name under her breath, sometimes longing, sometimes mad.
He's still working on the birds when he feels something fall on his shoulder. At first he thinks that he's just been shat upon but when he turns his head to check, he sees her hand and beyond he sees her face betraying a thin, uncomfortable smile burdened by the weight of her phobia. Her eyes pinball between face and fowl.
He holds her close and tells her to close her eyes.
"I can still hear them - their wings" she says, calmer now but still nervous.
"No, listen," he whispers. "Those aren't birds, they're old, manual typewriters - Remington, Royal, and Underwood machines - spewing out stories all by themselves."
As he's telling her this, the birds jump and scatter as Olympias and Smith-Coronas appear beneath them, pages filled top to bottom with text spilling out over their carriages. After the last bird has flown, he tells her to open her eyes and when she does she finds the pathway white with paper. He picks a few of them up and walks her through the park, reading letters from the bag lady to her husband - some of them longing, all of them sad.
Saturday, August 06, 2005
60. this "relationship with God" business (bring your lightning rod)
The backstory:
1. So I'm hanging out with a couple of my Christian friends and we're talking about problems in our lives and it seems to me that we're talking about the same problems every week. Which brings to the fore something that was hanging out at the back of my mind which is...
2. These past couple weeks (well, past couple months but more so in the past couple weeks), I've been dealing with my feelings for this girl I know. When I'm in rational zen mind, I understand that she's not right for me and I'm not right for her so let's call the whole thing off, but most of the time it's tweaking me this way (maybe things can work out anyway, give it a try) and that (stay the hell away, this could get ugly and throw you right back into the pit that you've just been making your way out of). The only thing I can do when I get twisted like this is pray...and so I pray...and nothing happens. I ask questions (is it this way or that?) and nothing happens. I ask for these feelings to be taken away, and nothing happens (although I do feel the edges soften sometimes). I pray for Jesus to fill the needy, resonating emptiness inside of me the way so many sermons have promised, and nothing happens (and the empty gains an inch).
The rant
And so tonight I'm listening to my friends and I'm thinking about my prayers and then it hits me. (lightning rods up) Where is God in all of this? Where is this God I always hear about in church - the one who hears prayers, who answers them? And in my loneliness, where is the God who brings comfort and fulfillment and purpose?
There are a thousand ways to explain them away, these questions, but the fact remains, evident as the air I breathe - God is not (as far as I can see, and right now - right now - that's all that matters to me) doing anything about anything.
Of course if I think it through, I can understand that God works on a different timetable than ours and so behind the scenes in dimensions inaccessible, angels are hard at work...but it's the quiet that ires me most. Some Christians talk about a relationship with Jesus as if he lives in the apartment across the hall. And he's always there when they knock on the door to borrow a bit of salt. My Jesus lives on another planet and my cell phone doesn't reach that far.
I suppose it's possible that God chooses to reveal himself in different degrees to different people, and that's his right. But this talk of relationship is ubiquitous. It's so ingrained into the Christian lexicon that one like me has to wonder, "what's wrong with me?" Has the church taken what was once a useful metaphor and turned it into a stumbling block?
Late at night, I like to sit and stare out into the night sky. And I pray. And I wait. And I listen. And I wait. And wait. And then I get up and go to bed.
What do I pray? Here's a quick list (minus the specifics...this is a blog, not an open book...so to speak):
1. Lord, my friends and I need help with these problems and they don't go away. We try but we fail. We need your strength and intervention. Is there anything you can do to save us from ourselves?
2. Lord, I'm lonely. Are you there?
3. Lord, you know that I'm a generous person, that I help whenever I see a need that I can fill, but who's going to fill the need that's left in me? I know you've graced me with great friends but this need is beyond them. This need is beyond me. It's a need that I can't even put into words but you know what it is (Romans 8:26-27). Can you do something about this?
4. Are you there? Can you throw me a bone or something?
And the wind blows, a car drives by. I watch the clouds (lit by light pollution) go by. And I try to listen beyond the ambiance, down through the noise floor. But it's silent. Jet black, squid ink, obsidian. Silence.
Now don't get me wrong, I don't mistake the silence for absence. I know God is there, that's not a question for me anymore. And so in the end, maybe my argument is not with God but with the church and their (false?) promise of relationship. And I wonder how many more of me are out there, squirming in their church pew seats when mention is made of this relationship business - if they're still in these seats at all.
I believe. Even though, even if, despite. Still, some evidence would be nice.
1. So I'm hanging out with a couple of my Christian friends and we're talking about problems in our lives and it seems to me that we're talking about the same problems every week. Which brings to the fore something that was hanging out at the back of my mind which is...
2. These past couple weeks (well, past couple months but more so in the past couple weeks), I've been dealing with my feelings for this girl I know. When I'm in rational zen mind, I understand that she's not right for me and I'm not right for her so let's call the whole thing off, but most of the time it's tweaking me this way (maybe things can work out anyway, give it a try) and that (stay the hell away, this could get ugly and throw you right back into the pit that you've just been making your way out of). The only thing I can do when I get twisted like this is pray...and so I pray...and nothing happens. I ask questions (is it this way or that?) and nothing happens. I ask for these feelings to be taken away, and nothing happens (although I do feel the edges soften sometimes). I pray for Jesus to fill the needy, resonating emptiness inside of me the way so many sermons have promised, and nothing happens (and the empty gains an inch).
The rant
And so tonight I'm listening to my friends and I'm thinking about my prayers and then it hits me. (lightning rods up) Where is God in all of this? Where is this God I always hear about in church - the one who hears prayers, who answers them? And in my loneliness, where is the God who brings comfort and fulfillment and purpose?
There are a thousand ways to explain them away, these questions, but the fact remains, evident as the air I breathe - God is not (as far as I can see, and right now - right now - that's all that matters to me) doing anything about anything.
Of course if I think it through, I can understand that God works on a different timetable than ours and so behind the scenes in dimensions inaccessible, angels are hard at work...but it's the quiet that ires me most. Some Christians talk about a relationship with Jesus as if he lives in the apartment across the hall. And he's always there when they knock on the door to borrow a bit of salt. My Jesus lives on another planet and my cell phone doesn't reach that far.
I suppose it's possible that God chooses to reveal himself in different degrees to different people, and that's his right. But this talk of relationship is ubiquitous. It's so ingrained into the Christian lexicon that one like me has to wonder, "what's wrong with me?" Has the church taken what was once a useful metaphor and turned it into a stumbling block?
Late at night, I like to sit and stare out into the night sky. And I pray. And I wait. And I listen. And I wait. And wait. And then I get up and go to bed.
What do I pray? Here's a quick list (minus the specifics...this is a blog, not an open book...so to speak):
1. Lord, my friends and I need help with these problems and they don't go away. We try but we fail. We need your strength and intervention. Is there anything you can do to save us from ourselves?
2. Lord, I'm lonely. Are you there?
3. Lord, you know that I'm a generous person, that I help whenever I see a need that I can fill, but who's going to fill the need that's left in me? I know you've graced me with great friends but this need is beyond them. This need is beyond me. It's a need that I can't even put into words but you know what it is (Romans 8:26-27). Can you do something about this?
4. Are you there? Can you throw me a bone or something?
And the wind blows, a car drives by. I watch the clouds (lit by light pollution) go by. And I try to listen beyond the ambiance, down through the noise floor. But it's silent. Jet black, squid ink, obsidian. Silence.
Now don't get me wrong, I don't mistake the silence for absence. I know God is there, that's not a question for me anymore. And so in the end, maybe my argument is not with God but with the church and their (false?) promise of relationship. And I wonder how many more of me are out there, squirming in their church pew seats when mention is made of this relationship business - if they're still in these seats at all.
I believe. Even though, even if, despite. Still, some evidence would be nice.
Friday, August 05, 2005
59. on loneliness and longing
Loneliness and longing are like two halves of a couple who can never be together. Like in the movie Ladyhawke where the man was a man by day but a wolf by night and his love was a hawk by day and a woman at night. Thus, they could only be together as man and woman at the instant the sun dipped below the horizon.
Loneliness and longing are like this, madly in love but never able to be together. And that's why there is so much ache tied to those emotions - because you're shairing in their impossible, insatiable need to be with their all too significant other.
Loneliness and longing are like this, madly in love but never able to be together. And that's why there is so much ache tied to those emotions - because you're shairing in their impossible, insatiable need to be with their all too significant other.
Thursday, August 04, 2005
58. Wishful Thinking
My phone rings and when I answer there is silence on the other end but it doesn't matter because I know it's her (caller ID). And I know her well enough to wait.
And the pregnant pause gives birth.
She tells me she's read my latest writing and she goes on and on about what she's found tucked between the lines. Her insight, as always, amazes me. She finds layers and textures within the text that I didn't intend but her reasoning is sound and the examples she sites are efficient in the way that only the truth can be.
But she doesn't stop there. She goes on to tie her findings to myself and though I've operated within this skin for all my life, she seems to understand what brews beneath better than I ever did.
I fight my tears because I want to savor the moment - to draw a bowl of glass around this space and time, pinching the ends closed so it's airtight, preserving the essence of it. But the tears come anyway because I feel I've been found - adrift in the populous sea, she found me.
The irony amuses me because I thought it was I who did the discovering - I thought I was the one who noticed her in the New Fiction section, lost in pages. And as I stumbled through the small talk and asked for her number, I thought I was the brave one - but it was she who took a chance and told me the truth (one digit off, she confessed to me once, that's all it takes to turn them away).
And she doesn't ask why because she already knows. She just smiles (over the line, through the wires, I can see her smiling) and points out a typo and a misplaced comma.
And the pregnant pause gives birth.
She tells me she's read my latest writing and she goes on and on about what she's found tucked between the lines. Her insight, as always, amazes me. She finds layers and textures within the text that I didn't intend but her reasoning is sound and the examples she sites are efficient in the way that only the truth can be.
But she doesn't stop there. She goes on to tie her findings to myself and though I've operated within this skin for all my life, she seems to understand what brews beneath better than I ever did.
I fight my tears because I want to savor the moment - to draw a bowl of glass around this space and time, pinching the ends closed so it's airtight, preserving the essence of it. But the tears come anyway because I feel I've been found - adrift in the populous sea, she found me.
The irony amuses me because I thought it was I who did the discovering - I thought I was the one who noticed her in the New Fiction section, lost in pages. And as I stumbled through the small talk and asked for her number, I thought I was the brave one - but it was she who took a chance and told me the truth (one digit off, she confessed to me once, that's all it takes to turn them away).
And she doesn't ask why because she already knows. She just smiles (over the line, through the wires, I can see her smiling) and points out a typo and a misplaced comma.
Tuesday, August 02, 2005
57. The Angel and the Argument
There's an angel sitting on a bus stop bench across the street from a fine dining restaurant (Mediterranean, if you must know). Her wings are tucked away, pressed upon her back such that (a marvel of design) they're barely noticeable laying against her dress. Even upon close inspection you'd think it was merely some strange fabric - that is, if you could see the angel at all.
She is looking through the window of the restaurant, but these are the eyes that never knew the fall of man and so they see clearly and deeply as if telescopic. And she listens with ears that can reach out through the clutter and the white noise. Angel eyes and ears focus on one table towards the back where a couple is arguing over an issue that has nothing to do with them.
The angel observes, with equal part sadness, equal part anger, the words that are hurled across the table. She is sad because she sees the words for what they are - daggers and poisonous darts, back and forth in a meaningless battle of attrition. And she is angry because she knows that they will continue to assault one another until one buckles under the barrage and the other tries to savor the emptiness of the victory.
But there is also fascination and envy, for these are passions that she cannot comprehend. That's not to say that she doesn't know passion, because she does. All angels carry with them an insatiable passion for justice, for beauty, and most of all for God. But this thing that drives this couple to claw at one another with these words - there's no explanation for it. What, she wonders, could so saturate a man that he sets aside his love for this woman, launching him straight at the chinks in her armor - weakness that she revealed (finally, able to reveal them) to him in moments of soft, safe intimacy. And what could so posses a woman that she turns her dormant maternal instincts inside out - dismantling the thing she loves with example after example of error and inadequacy.
A snap, a click, and the angel draws an inch of sword from its scabbard. The sound of a sail catching the wind, and tongues of flame ignite and lap at the length of holy steel that has been exposed. But only for a moment. A click, a snap, and the flames disperse into thin air.
Later that night, a student on his way home from the college library passes the bus stop bench and wonders when it was (and why) the state thought to install this strange bronze statue with the strangely textured back and the sword that seems so out of context.
She is looking through the window of the restaurant, but these are the eyes that never knew the fall of man and so they see clearly and deeply as if telescopic. And she listens with ears that can reach out through the clutter and the white noise. Angel eyes and ears focus on one table towards the back where a couple is arguing over an issue that has nothing to do with them.
The angel observes, with equal part sadness, equal part anger, the words that are hurled across the table. She is sad because she sees the words for what they are - daggers and poisonous darts, back and forth in a meaningless battle of attrition. And she is angry because she knows that they will continue to assault one another until one buckles under the barrage and the other tries to savor the emptiness of the victory.
But there is also fascination and envy, for these are passions that she cannot comprehend. That's not to say that she doesn't know passion, because she does. All angels carry with them an insatiable passion for justice, for beauty, and most of all for God. But this thing that drives this couple to claw at one another with these words - there's no explanation for it. What, she wonders, could so saturate a man that he sets aside his love for this woman, launching him straight at the chinks in her armor - weakness that she revealed (finally, able to reveal them) to him in moments of soft, safe intimacy. And what could so posses a woman that she turns her dormant maternal instincts inside out - dismantling the thing she loves with example after example of error and inadequacy.
A snap, a click, and the angel draws an inch of sword from its scabbard. The sound of a sail catching the wind, and tongues of flame ignite and lap at the length of holy steel that has been exposed. But only for a moment. A click, a snap, and the flames disperse into thin air.
Later that night, a student on his way home from the college library passes the bus stop bench and wonders when it was (and why) the state thought to install this strange bronze statue with the strangely textured back and the sword that seems so out of context.
Monday, August 01, 2005
56. more on writing
In his introduction to his first book in The Dark Tower series, Stephen King wrote that he started this series because he wanted to see what would happen if he got the heavy machinery out and took on a story of epic size. If you're familiar with King's writing, you know he's got some door-stopper books, so for him to say he wanted to take on something big...well that's really saying something. He started the series in 1991 and the seventh and last book was published last September. Most of the books are about 400 - 500 pages long but some, including the last one are around 800.
(FYI...I think I read some of the first book, The Gunslinger, and I can't remember if I finished it or not (guilty confession: I start a lot of books, I finish very few of them). But I never read any of the other books in the series.)
I can't comprehend that kind of writing. I can barely comprehend that kind of reading. I guess I say that because all I write are these tiny little story things, most of which wouldn't fill one page. Stephen King pulls out the big guns and ends up with an epic somewhere around 30,000 pages long.
I mention King partly out of insecurity - is there a place in the world for stories three, four, five paragraphs long? It's not that I'm lazy (well, it's partly that) or not disciplined (um...yeah, partly this too), it's more the case that that's all I have, that's all that comes. I get an idea, sometimes just a line or a sentence, and finishing that sentence is like opening a door. Behind the door, I find a scene or an action or another character. Whatever it is, I write down what I see and then I walk through the next door and I write what I see there.
Sometimes after I'm done with a room I can't find an exit - I don't know where to go with the story. When this happens, sometimes I wait and a door appears later - the wife of a writer once said that one of the first things she learned about being married to a writer is that when he's staring out the window, he's actually working. But sometimes the next door never appears. Sometimes that means it's a dead end and the story dies. Sometimes that means that I missed a door a few rooms back.
The ending...it's hard to explain but I just know when the story ends. It's not like running out of things to say, I just know there's nothing more to be said. And so I stop.
Someone asked Jackson Pollock (the artist famous for throwing paint onto the canvas rather than applying it with a brush) how he knew when he was done with a painting. He replied, "how do you know when you've finished making love?" (Oh crap, I just had a thought...I hope writing super short stories doesn't mean I'm going to be one of those guys who make love for five minutes and then they're done.)
[insert segue]
It seems I've been thinking a lot about my writing lately (see blog 50 and 55). I suspect this has something to do with the downswing (blog 54). I don't know if this is how everyone handles being down but I get all introspective and since I've been writing a lot lately, thats what I'm introspecting (holy crap, my spellchecker didn't flag that word...I can't believe it's in the dictionary).
I don't know. Maybe one day I'll find a story that doesn't go down in two bites. Maybe I'm just warming up. Or maybe this is how I write and I'm actually fine with that. I never aspired to be a writer, it's just something I like to do. That thing I wrote above about walking through doors, that's a reasonably good way to describe how I write - I never know what to expect. One sentence leads me to the next and a lot of times, even as I'm writing it, I won't know where that sentence will take me until I've put a period at the end of it. And that's what I love about writing - the surprises.
And this doesn't just happen when I'm writing stories. It's the same with my "regular" blog entries (like this one). Even when I'm writing about myself, I'm usually trying to figure something out or trying to flesh out an idea that's been running through my head and a lot of times, I find just as much surprise as I do when writing stories...which is why I continue to write both.
Thanks for reading...really.
(FYI...I think I read some of the first book, The Gunslinger, and I can't remember if I finished it or not (guilty confession: I start a lot of books, I finish very few of them). But I never read any of the other books in the series.)
I can't comprehend that kind of writing. I can barely comprehend that kind of reading. I guess I say that because all I write are these tiny little story things, most of which wouldn't fill one page. Stephen King pulls out the big guns and ends up with an epic somewhere around 30,000 pages long.
I mention King partly out of insecurity - is there a place in the world for stories three, four, five paragraphs long? It's not that I'm lazy (well, it's partly that) or not disciplined (um...yeah, partly this too), it's more the case that that's all I have, that's all that comes. I get an idea, sometimes just a line or a sentence, and finishing that sentence is like opening a door. Behind the door, I find a scene or an action or another character. Whatever it is, I write down what I see and then I walk through the next door and I write what I see there.
Sometimes after I'm done with a room I can't find an exit - I don't know where to go with the story. When this happens, sometimes I wait and a door appears later - the wife of a writer once said that one of the first things she learned about being married to a writer is that when he's staring out the window, he's actually working. But sometimes the next door never appears. Sometimes that means it's a dead end and the story dies. Sometimes that means that I missed a door a few rooms back.
The ending...it's hard to explain but I just know when the story ends. It's not like running out of things to say, I just know there's nothing more to be said. And so I stop.
Someone asked Jackson Pollock (the artist famous for throwing paint onto the canvas rather than applying it with a brush) how he knew when he was done with a painting. He replied, "how do you know when you've finished making love?" (Oh crap, I just had a thought...I hope writing super short stories doesn't mean I'm going to be one of those guys who make love for five minutes and then they're done.)
[insert segue]
It seems I've been thinking a lot about my writing lately (see blog 50 and 55). I suspect this has something to do with the downswing (blog 54). I don't know if this is how everyone handles being down but I get all introspective and since I've been writing a lot lately, thats what I'm introspecting (holy crap, my spellchecker didn't flag that word...I can't believe it's in the dictionary).
I don't know. Maybe one day I'll find a story that doesn't go down in two bites. Maybe I'm just warming up. Or maybe this is how I write and I'm actually fine with that. I never aspired to be a writer, it's just something I like to do. That thing I wrote above about walking through doors, that's a reasonably good way to describe how I write - I never know what to expect. One sentence leads me to the next and a lot of times, even as I'm writing it, I won't know where that sentence will take me until I've put a period at the end of it. And that's what I love about writing - the surprises.
And this doesn't just happen when I'm writing stories. It's the same with my "regular" blog entries (like this one). Even when I'm writing about myself, I'm usually trying to figure something out or trying to flesh out an idea that's been running through my head and a lot of times, I find just as much surprise as I do when writing stories...which is why I continue to write both.
Thanks for reading...really.
Friday, July 29, 2005
55. (and)...
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.
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.
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.
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