Emotional Anarchist

I was a punk in high school. I don't mean punk in the way hip-hop people say it. I mean punk as in pointy hair, safety pins, leopard print. That kind of punk. I went to concerts at churches and restaurants, and gymnasiums, where I would run in circles and shove everyone I saw. They would shove me back. It was called a mosh pit. It was fun. I think the thing I really liked about punk rock is that it let me be someone else. I could go to a punk show and no one there knew me. As far as they knew, I was cool. I wasn't this dorky home schooled (super) Christian, hypersensitive, extremely unauthentic, nit necessarily non pathetic...you know. Whatever I was. I was not those things at a punk show. I was a punk, and I was shoving people. They shoved me back. It was called a mosh pit. It was fun. It had nothing to do with the rest of my life. Punk rock is about anarchy and rebellion. It was the essential middle finger in the face of anything we didn't want to deal with. Those people that hurt me in my "real" life? Don't matter. Don't need them. Don't need anyone. I haven't really called myself "punk" since high school, (and rightly so, I listen to Sufjan Stevens and Psapp, for crying out loud) but even so, I think I still carry that punk mentality with me when it comes to people. If you hurt me, I'm done with you. I don't need people who are going to mistreat me. I write off a lot of people rather quickly, actually. I do it before they have a chance to hurt me really badly. crimes worthy of such a punishment range from talking about me behind my back to forgetting to return my phone calls. there's this still, gentle voice inside of me that has been telling me for quite a few years that it is time to change my punk rock ways, but the punk rock voice isn't gentle, and it screams anarchy at the top of its lungs. I haven't heard the gentle voice for quite some time now. The gentle voice is actually kind of scary. It means that I'll be hurt and betrayed, and I have to heal and try again. No writing off, no anarchy, no pointy hair. I thought I was strong, but I realize how weak I am, and how little I've actually grown over these years when I'm faced with the need to try again. The only tools I have are sarcastic comments and leopard print. Sarcasm is just a glorified painkiller. It doesn't fix the problem. There's something else about community that I've never really experienced. I've never had anyone to share my worries with. I explain what I'm worried about to people, and they tell me what's bothering them, but at the end of the day, really what happens is that I take my problems home, and you take yours. I guess listening to the gentle voice would be helpful, because I don't like feeling alone. That's what being independent really is. It's the first stage of loneliness. I think one of the biggest problems I struggle with is fear of rejection. This makes it nearly impossible for me to talk to people I don't know. I know what you're thinking: how do I meet new people if I don't want to talk to people I don't know? Exactly. Exactly exactly. The thing I dislike most about Intervarsity is the first two weeks of school when we have the info table set up on campus. I get to face rejection about 50-100 times in one afternoon. I know it doesn't sound that bad, but for me, even complete strangers not wanting to talk to me for a few seconds just kills me. It's something I have to give up, but I just can't let go of it yet. Here's the thing. That whole independence trip I'm on makes me think that if something doesn't get done by me, it won't get done. I feel the constant need to be a one man army. It wasn't working, and I completely tanked last week. Alone. I think I'm done with alone. Yesterday, I was going forward to face a whole new set of rejections (I hate it, yet I keep volunteering to do it again). I decided I wasn't going to be a one man army anymore. I shared the burden of facing rejection with the others at the table with me. It didn't really even change anything about what I did, I just decided that I wasn't going to pretend to be strong when I clearly wasn't. Awkwardness is kind of funny. I learned that yesterday. Awkwardness comes with stupid jokes about turtle shells, rock galleries, free fliers, and most of all, orange peels. Yesterday was fun. I forgot that I was supposed to carry the weight of the world on my shoulders. I forgot I was supposed to care when some punk freshman doesn't want to talk to me. The punk rock voice was lost in the almost unbearable hum of a gentle whisper. I used to think I didn't need anyone. Today I think maybe I need everyone. How wonderful.

Quick Question...

Where did the term "brutally honest" come from? I mean, is that supposed to be a good thing? What's wrong with taking the extra effort to spare someones feelings? That's more than one question...I have to go.

Shelter From the Rain

It's been raining a lot lately. I love the rain. Usually. Most people like to cover themselves up and run as fast as they can through the rain. I like to take long, slow walks in the rain. One thing that I've noticed, though, is that the last few times it has rained, I haven't really been into it. Matter of fact, I wrote a post about rain a few weeks ago, and it was morbidly depressing. Why is that? I used to love the rain. I've been thinking about this for a few days now, as it has rained more and more, and I grow more and more tired of it. I think I know now. I think I forgot the original reason why I liked the rain. It rains all the time at home.* I remember being much younger, and wearing my yellow galoshes, while my big brother had his red ones. They had a strap across the front that was supposed to keep water out of the top. It didn't work. Jonathan** and I would stand in the greenhouse, where the roof leaked, oblivious to our parents worrying about the flooring, or the warped wood under the doors, making it impossible to shut the doors during a cold winter, where the heating bill was already higher than the grocery bill. We took turns boosting each other up to look out the window, at the rain coming down, our eyes on the driveway, and the drainage pipe that ran underneath it. "Is it going to be enough?," I would ask. I thought my big brother knew everything about everything, because he was two years older than me, and he read lots of books about Native Americans. "It's too soon to tell. We'll check again in a little bit," he would say as I lowered him down. My mom would come up from the school room, after helping sissy*** with her math work. Sissy hated math. I hated it too. Sissy said that division was a lot harder than subtraction, but I didn't think that was possible. Mom said that it didn't matter how much it rained, we couldn't go outside until our work was finished. Jonathan and I groaned and complained, saying that all our friends got breaks at lunch time. My mom said that home school kids don't get breaks, because they get a higher quality education from learning in a self-paced environment. We knew what that meant. No break. The sound of falling rain would tease us both from our little desks that Dad made. I don't think I even fit under that thing anymore, but I used to need to sit on a book to reach it. Dad said it was more cost effective to make things that we would grow into. So there I was, trying to figure out subtraction, growing into everything while it was raining outside. Life was so unfair. It couldn't get worse than this. Jonathan always finished his homework first. He was smarter than me, because he read a lot of books, and already knew how to subtract. I would probably be working for another hour. Jonathan asked Mom if he could help me. Mom said no, because last time he just told me the answers. I liked that kind of help. Why did we both need to learn how to subtract, when we could do it together? It was raining outside, and I had to learn how to subtract. Finally, after a whole hour of work, I finished. Mom checked off my work, and said Jonathan and I could go outside, but to wear our galoshes and rain coats, and NOT to splash in the puddles, or we would get sick. We were listening, up until the point she said we could go outside. The two of us were out the door like streaks of red and yellow lightning. "Close the door! We can't pay to heat the entire outdoors," she shouted after us, but it was too late. We were outside, and there were some nice puddles that needed splashing. Mom knew not to yell at us unless we did something really bad, or she'd be yelling all the time. We had puddle splashing contests. First, we would try to splash as many puddles as we could. Jonathan always won this one, because he could run faster than me. We had contests where we would try to splash as high as we could. As I got older, I won this one a lot, but it made Jonathan laugh, because when I started winning, my tummy jiggled like jello when you slapped it. The contests were unimportant when it rained enough to flood the driveway. That drainage pipe under the driveway would fill, and create a steady flow of water. Our own river. Jonathan read books about Native Americans, while I read about origami. I knew how to make boats. I liked making boats because Jonathan couldn't do it. He needed my help, and he was two years older than me. That was funny. We had our boats, and we would give them names, then race them. We would usually just let them float until they got too soggy and sank to the bottom of our river. We got more paper and started again. Unless, of course, we heard that familiar, deafening sound of a million croaking frogs. New friends. We gave them names and let them ride in our boats. We took them home, and gave them new houses in jars and bowls. Mom would ring a big bell at dinner time. That way she could know that we heard it wherever we were. We had to say goodbye to our new friends (we let them keep the boats) and go inside. Everything about what I love about the rain has been leading up to this point. By this time, Jonathan and I were soaking wet, and freezing cold. If it weren't for dinner, we probably would have froze to death, because the thought of coming in had not even crossed our minds, even when our fingertips turned blue. We would come inside, and dump the water out of our galoshes, and wash our hands. We usually had to take baths before dinner, because Mom said we were covered in germs. I liked coming into the kitchen to watch Mom cook, because the oven made the kitchen windows steam up, and the kitchen was warm and smelled good. Sometimes I would draw pictures on the steamy windows with my finger. Sometimes Mom and I would cook together. After dinner, Jonathan and I would get blankets and sit on the couch, because we were cold. Sometimes Mom and Dad would build a fire, but we always had blankets. We were all cold, even the people who stayed inside, and there weren't enough blankets to go around, so we would have to share. Do you know how much trust it takes to share a blanket with someone? I've been living with my current roommates for about two years now, and I still think I would feel weird sharing a blanket with them. But when you don't have enough to go around, you share. I don't really remember what happened after that. I just remember waking up in my bed the next day. In a few years, I would be too heavy, and Mom or Dad would have to wake me up when it was time to go to bed. For now, I would just remember a shared blanket and waking up neatly tucked in my bed. I remember waking up, hoping that the river was still there, that Jonathan and I could find our friends again, and that I could go to the library and get a new origami book. I think now I realize that the whole ordeal wasn't really about the puddles, or the rain soaked galoshes, or boat races, or puddle splashing contests, or anything we did outside. It was about coming inside after a long day, freezing cold and soaking wet. It was about Mom drying off your soaking wet feet, even though she told you a thousand times not to splash the puddles. It was about falling asleep underneath a shared blanket. The rain made us cold, and when we went inside, we got to warm up again. If it didn't rain, we still would have gone inside for dinner, but we wouldn't have gotten cold and had to warm up. Sometimes, I think, it's good that it rains, and we get cold and wet, because it feels so good to warm yourself up again after a long day. I hope it rains tomorrow. I'm getting a blanket. I'm going to make soup. I'm going to call Jon and Sarah, and call them Jonathan and Sissy. I'm going outside until I'm cold and wet. There's no better way to appreciate being warm and dry.


*By "home", I mean Salinas, CA or the Monterey Bay Area, though I understand I now use the term rather loosely
** Jonathan is my brother. We call him "Jon" now, but a long time ago, his name was Jonathan.
*** Sissy was what we called my big sister, Sarah.

I'm such a loser (it doesn't matter)

I'm in love with this movie called Eagle Vs. Shark right now. I've seen it four times. A couple of nights ago, I was really stressed out, and I put on Eagle Vs. Shark to watch my favorite scenes, just to calm me down. Half an hour later, I was asleep. It's a love story (most of the best stories are) and I think it reminds me of a certain love story of my own. I'll explain.

WARNING: If you ever plan on watching the film Eagle Vs. Shark, you might want to proceed with caution, because I am going to divulge some pretty key plot points, and probably tell the funniest jokes, and go into great detail about my favorite scene. I find this completely necessary for the proving of my point.

I have read the above warning, and agree to its terms and conditions: 0 yes 0 no

Okay, we're going to move on now. As I've said before, Eagle Vs. Shark is a love story. It's about this girl named Lilly who's really shy and timid. She works at a burger joint called Meaty Boy where everyone hates her. She's in love with one of the regulars, because the two of them have a mole on the same place on their faces. I can't remember the guy's name, actually, because he makes me so mad that all I can think of is what a jerk he is. I'll call him Steve. One day, Lilly finds out she's getting fired, and that it's her last day. Steve comes in to the restaurant, and she hooks him up with some free food. He invites her "hot friend" (a co worker) to his video game party. Lilly goes instead, and beats all Steve's friends at video games but lets him win. This is the start of their extremely awkward romance. Honestly, I don't know why Lilly didn't give up on Steve early on. He was such a jerk to her. Sean can't even watch the movie all the way with me, because Steve and his jerky ways are just too much for him. Seriously, every nice thing she does for him, he ruins somehow, and she always comes through with something else. He stands her up at the movies. She bakes him a cake. He smashes the cake to prove the point that he's impulsive. She offers to give him a ride to his home town and meet his family. Steve is probably the only person on earth who doesn't know what a loser he is. Steve doesn't think he's a loser. He thinks he's an artist. He has a shop where he makes these ridiculous candles and inventions that don't make any sense. "I have to create, or I'll just go crazy," he says. The purpose of his trip home is equally stupid. Steve has been training for a few years to battle some guy who used to beat him up in high school. Steve says he's probably going to kill the man. Lilly follows him all the way to his home town, believing in him, when everyone else in Steve's family thinks (and rightly so) that he's an idiot and a loser. The worst part of it is, after all Lilly does for Steve, and all the support and encouragement she provides, he breaks up with her! He breaks up with her, claiming he can't handle being in a relationship, and then tries to start one with some other girl. Any self respecting girl would have left right then, and happily. Instead, Lilly convinces the rest of Steve's family to come and watch his fight with the kid who used to beat him up in high school. As it turns out, the man is now paralyzed from the waist down. The man apologizes for how immature he was in high school, and hopes that Steve can forgive him. Steve still tries to fight him. And loses. To a guy in a wheelchair. This is where my favorite scene comes in. Steve is lying near a cliff, thinking about jumping. Okay, he's not really thinking about it, he's just trying to be dramatic. Lilly is right there beside him. She follows him everywhere he goes. "Why do you stick around with me? What a loser," says Steve. "Yep," responds Lilly. "It's not worth it," he says. She leans in. "Yes it is." I think that finally, after all this time of being a jerk and a loser, it dawns on him. Steve looks over at Lilly, and there's this glow about her, and she doesn't look shy and awkward anymore. She's beautiful. Steve says "I'm a loser, aren't I?" "Doesn't matter," she says. They watch the sunset together. Lilly stands up. "I have two things to tell you," she says. "One is that I'm leaving tomorrow. The second thing is that that can change." She leaves him by himself. The next day, Lilly's bags are packed, and she's going to the bus, escorted by her new friends (Steve's family). She gets to the bus stop, and smiles. Steve is there, holding a candle he made for her, and a bouquet of flowers. Lillies. They get on the bus together, holding hands. I love this movie. I still think that Steve doesn't deserve a girl like Lilly. After all the things she did for him, he was such a jerk, and a loser, and what did he do at the end? Flowers and a candle? that's just not enough. I think I realize now that this is more Lilly's story than Steve's. She loved in a real way. A sacrificial way. A way that hurts. She was so patient with him, and so giving of herself, with little or no regard for how her needs would be met. The way that she loved Steve was so honest too. She never told him that he wasn't a loser. She only told him that it didn't matter. She didn't care that he was a loser. She wanted him anyway, when no one else did. Her love was active. It forced Steve to reach out and take her. She may have started out as pathetic and awkward, but in the end, she knew that what she had to offer Steve was good, and so she put it in front of him. Just once. Her love forced Steve to grow up, and appreciate what was right in front of him. Remember how at the beginning, I had said that this story reminded me of a romance of my own? I'll explain. Sorry if you were hoping for a long and torturous description of some girl who stole my heart and never gave it back. I don't have any of those. Actually I'm a lot more like Steve. I think I'm cool. I think I'm an artist. I'm a loser, and it takes me more than an hour and a half to realize it most of the time. When I'm a the bottom of my despair, and I can't believe what an idiot I am, and I'm too embarrassed to even show my face to any "normal" person, I hear my love whisper into my ear. I don't hear that I'm not a loser, or an idiot, because He knows that will not help me. What I hear is "it doesn't matter." It has been known from the beginning what I am, and I am loved, despite it. Though this relationship is unbalanced, and I don't deserve a love this pure and selfless, it doesn't matter. I have it, if I would only reach out and claim it. Even though that one step is nothing compared to the wrong I have done, it is enough for my love. It is worth it to him.

Salinas, CA

In the corner of my attic
In a dusty cardboard box
I found you
A memory
An old T shirt
I had folded you up
And put you away
In exchange for a suit and tie.

What memories we've had!
Or, so I remember
From the pictures
Collecting dust in that lofty room
And all the stains and holes
My fabric has endured
Look bigger, darker now
Without the aid of a camera lens.

I'll fold you up
And put you away
You don't fit me like you used to
Best to be remembered
Through faded photographs

It's 4:00. Do you know where your sanity is? (Cause mine's not where I left it)

So. First day of my internship. I've got to wake up and drive 45 miles to Sherman Oaks and start learning about what I want to do for the rest of my life. I'm not going to make any mistakes. I'm going to give myself two hours to drive there. I wake up on time and shower. I eat breakfast, brush my teeth, and even have a brief moment for a prayer before I go. I need to make more time for prayer. I fire up my engine at 7:32 AM. It sputters a bit, but starts up just fine, like it always does. I've got two hours to drive 45 miles. I could get there driving 25 miles per hour. Speed limit? 65. We're good. I've got this day under control. An hour and a half later. I have been driving an average of 10 miles per hour. Am I worried? Well...yes, but even if I'm just a little late, I can always just blame my tardiness on bad traffic. It's not even a lie. In fact, it's the honest to goodness truth. I've still got this under control. The battery light goes on. Eh, it's been doing that a lot lately. No big deal. The engine light goes on. Okay. I think I've just found some time for some prayer. The car's electrical systems shut down. More time for prayer. Maybe I should pull over. The car starts slowing down. I didn't let up on the gas. Okay, this is bad news. I turn on the emergency flashers. They don't work. More bad news. I turn off at the next exit, and my car dies on the driveway of a Chevron station. I'm pushing my car towards a parking space, where I can make a call, when a man gomes out of the adjacent garage and asks me if I need someone to work on my car. My savior! Perfect. He helps me push it into the garage, and starts to look at it. I thank God for my post LAUP budget, which will allow me to pay for this without any trouble. All I have to do is transfer some funds from my savings account. I reach for my wallet. Forgot it at home. I say a couple of words that rhyme with bad luck, and inform the man working on the car that I have no way to pay him. He looks confused. I tell him that I forgot my wallet. He asks me why I came if I didn't have any money. I explain that I didn't actually mean to come here, but that my car died and I was pushing it out of the road. He doesn't get it. He asks me if I have anyone I can call. I call my Mom. She doesn't pick up. I call my dad. He says he can give his credit card number over the phone. Perfect. The man says that they can't take credit card numbers over the phone. Dad wants to talk to him. Three minutes later, the man hands me back the phone. Dad says that the man didn't sound very intelligent. I tell him that the man doesn't look very intelligent either. I think I'm on plan "D" or "F" by now. I call HyounJun and see if he can get me my wallet somehow. I tell him where I'm at, and he says that he can. I give the man the OK to fix my car. HyounJun calls me back. He says he can't help me because he has class at ten. Thank you HyounJun. Or something else-you HyounJun. I can't remember which. He has passed the torch along to Greg. Not that I'm too happy that he thinks going to class is a good idea when I'm destitute on the side of the road, but at least he found someone else to help me. It's about 9:00 now, so I think I should call Lisa, my boss, and let her know that I'll be late for my first day. I call her. "Hi Lisa, this is Stephen." "Stephen who?" Great. This is the rest of my life. After explaining who I am, I explain my situation. "No worries," she says. "Come when you can. Bye." No worries? That was ironic. I think I'm going to annoy her. It's cold outside, and I'm shivering as I write this. I hope this guy can fix my car. I hope Greg doesn't get lost. I hope I made the right choice, coming to Sherman Oaks over Long Beach. But I already made that choice, and no amount of hoping is going to change the situation I am in. I don't know if I really "learned" anything from all this, but it is kind of funny. Or, at least it will be. Like, tomorrow.


Update: It is now several hours since I worte the above entry, and as I was typing it, I laughed. So I guess it's funny already. I missed the first day of my internship, but Thursday is looking like as good a day as any to give it another shot. Also, I think I did learn something. I can try as hard as I want to be perfect, but I'm never going to be. God gets to do what he wants with me. I'm just lucky enough to get to follow him.

"And if I didn't have you as my guide
I'd still wander
Lost in Sainai
And counting the plates
Of cars from out of state
Oh, how I'd jump in their path as they hurry along
And you surround me
You're pretty but you're all that I can see
Like a thick fog.
If there was no way into God
I would never have laid in this grave of a body for so long."

-Mewithoutyou

January 20, 2008

My ears are ringing from a sonic overload. I just went to a concert. My brain feels like its on a bit of an overload too. When I was little, I knew these two guys, Tim and Peter. They were in a ska band called What About Jimbo. They used to cover old Supertones and Hippos songs. They were such a crappy band, and that only made them more awesome. We were in high school. I was really into Star Trek and Mystery Science Theater 3000. Peter and Tim's band broke up, and they formed another one. A rock band this time, and they called themselves Say No More. While that was happening, I decided I wanted to either make movies or be a youth pastor. Oh yeah, and I figured out that you could abbreviate Mystery Science Theater 3000 by calling it MST3K. My world was opening up. So, it's five years later, and I see Tim and Peter again. Their band got a record deal, and they were playing a show in Fullerton. We're a sight after five years, the three of us. Peter, Tim, John and Pete (The rest of the band) have these crazy haircuts with all kinds of angles and colors and stuff. Their website has all these professional pictures of them. They look like all of those other bands you see on the Internet and TV. I guess I never really thought about any of those people going to High School and having friends that are really into Star Trek like everyone else. Then there's me. I've changed too. My hair is cut short, and I lost a lot of weight, there's a circular piece of metal shoved through my lower lip, and I'm wearing my Compton shirt that I made from my summer at LAUP. I'm wearing a lot on the inside from LAUP too. My insides have changed a lot. I don't really care if these guys think I'm a dork anymore (that was something I worried about a lot in High School). Judging from how happy they were to see me, and the all embracing hugs I got from each of them, I guess that wasn't ever something worth about (if anything ever is). I'm not the same guy that I was when I knew them. I suppose I look the same, and talk the same, and make the same jokes (they used to be a shield, but now they're a weapon) but I'm surprised sometimes when people from high school recognize me. I hardly ever recognize myself. I like not recognizing myself. Five years can do so much. I'm so much happier now than I was in high school. It makes me smile to think what five more could do. But I do miss my friends. I wish they all could see what God did for me, instead of that self doubting, depressed, crying mess that I was when we knew each other well. There's this thing about Peter when he plays the guitar that gives me hope. Hope that maybe somehow, my friends know that I'm doing all right (better than, actually). Peter was twelve years old tonight. I mean when he was playing his guitar, there was this smile on his face that I remember from his twelfth birthday when he and his friend Joey got their first electric guitars. They were up in Joey's room, playing Five Iron Frenzy riffs and dreaming of being rock stars. I don't think Joey ever became a rock star, but that smile that was just exploding off of Peter's face was telling me something tonight. He was singing along with all the words to his songs, even though he wasn't supposed to sing. Seriously. I've heard him sing. He's the only one in the band who doesn't sing. So happy. This is what he dreamed about in Joey's room when we were twelve. Of course some dreams die (Joey's real name is Frank, and I think he's doing some sort of office work now) but there's still that stupid, frustrating hope that the thing that you want most in the world can happen for you. All my dreams in High school were nightmares. I wanted to kill myself in high school. Why? The world is so beautiful, even with all the pain and suffering. I didn't really want to make films until college. I remember my dream from high school. I'd go to my room, put on my music, and cry because I felt so alone, and unfulfilled. The entire world scared me, angered me, and brought me further into the depths of depression, so deep that I often forgot how I got there. I just wanted to be happy. That was my dream. I realized something last night. My life has gotten harder since high school. I have more tough decisions, bigger responsibilities, and some pretty crazy worries and fears, but I'm happy. I'm happy. The dream, like the smile on my friend's face, brought back like ska riffs in a sweaty church youth room on a Saturday night. It's familiar. This isn't even the first time anymore. I'm happy. I don't really get to see my friends anymore, and that doesn't make me very happy, but I'm glad that they get to be together all the time. I know that they take care of each other, and that will have to do for now. I just want the world to see Peter smiling on the stage, and know that sometimes we don't have to let go of our dreams. And I want my friends to know that I'm all right. All right is an understatement. I'm all right and Peter sort of likes playing guitar in a rock band.

January 18, 2008

I noticed something as I was checking for out of place books at work today. We used to have two popular display racks, one for general display (marked with a blue sticker), and one for scholarly science and business journals (marked with an orange sticker). We got rid of the scholarly journal section to save space last year. We're always worried about saving space here. The thing I noticed was that though we don't have those journals anymore, the rack is still on the floor, it just doesn't have any journals in it. So, instead of saving space, like we wanted, we're just saving orange stickers, which is really dumb because we don't even have any other use for orange stickers. All we have is this empty rack and several thousand useless orange stickers. We were supposed to have space. I don't really know why I think this is so interesting, but I can't help but think how easy it is for me to look at that rack in the corner of the library and think that it's a waste, yet be disinclined to look at myself, and all the things I've wanted to do but never got around to, and think the same thing. I guess that's really it, isn't it?

"How great would it be if the value of our life was judged by the things that we meant to do, and not just the things we actually did?"

-Dr. Yoshiko Matsushita Arrao (old psychology professor)

January 17, 2008

I've had three big dreams in my lifetime. Not that I never dream, or that these dreams are really that big, but, I've dreamed these things, and I've wanted them more than anything I've ever dreamed. They are as follows (in chronological order)
1. I want to live in the city of Salinas, CA for the rest of my life.
2. I want to live in the city of Fullerton, CA for the rest of my life.
3. I want to live in the city of Long Beach, CA for the rest of my life.

For those of you who haven't noticed, I like to end my big dreams with the phrase "for the rest of my life." I guess it's all just one dream, in the end. I want a place where I can stay. I want something for the rest of my life. I keep thinking I've found it when this voice in my head says "do you trust me?" Case in point. I'm 20 years old, and I live in Salinas, CA where I have lived since I was two. I'm about to graduate valedictorian from Hartnell Community College. My picture was in the newspaper. On of my best friends lives in Salinas with me, and I get to see him pretty much every day. My relationship with my Dad, after being shaky for my entire life, is finally starting to stabilize (at least he doesn't make me cry anymore). I have the world's greatest job, mentoring Jr. High students that I love for some not understandable reason. This is it. Can it get better than this? I start hearing that voice asking if I trust Him when I'm deciding on a college to transfer to. Fullerton, or someplace closer to the people I love. I'm convinced that I'll never be as happy as I am now, and that this is where I belong. "Do you trust me?" I don't know why, but I chose to give up dream #1. One year later. Fullerton is my home. I want to stay here for the rest of my life. I have three great roommates, I'm creating art, and having an effect on the surrounding community. I'm going to join the leadership team for Intervarsity. It's going to be amazing. I have so many friends, and we're all so close. I'm so glad I got out of my hometown. This is it. This is where I belong. "Do you trust me?" Of course I do. "Do you trust me enough to give up on your dreams?" Well, I... Fullerton is gone. I'm going to enrol in some program called the Los Angeles Urban Project, where we're going to be in Long Beach for six weeks. Long Beach? Long Beach isn't urban. It's the beach. Fast forward to this year. I keep finding this pen in my car that says Long Beach on it. I got an internship in Long Beach. I'm so glad I'm going somewhere besides Fullerton. I'm graduating soon. I'll be done with Intervarsity soon. Sad but true. I've got some place to go. I Belong in Long Beach. I've got this other interview in Sherman Oaks, but I don't think I'm even going to go. Actually, I think I'll go, but I'm not going to try very hard to get it. I'm not even going to dress up. I know what the future is. I've found it. It's Long Beach. "Do you trust me?" Not again.
I really want to belong somewhere. I want a house in a city that I can love. A big city with problems that I can try to fix. I want to come home from work with flowers and poetry for my disproportionately beautiful wife, and play in the park with my disproportionately athletic children. I've carried that dream with me all my life, and just when I think I have it, I get pushed forward. It reminds me of the last book in C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia. It's called The Last Battle. Basically, it's the end of the world, and everyone on the side of good is safe in this paradise created by Aslan the great Lion. Everything is beautiful, and everyone is happy. Every time they stop, however, Aslan commands them with a single phrase: "Further up and further in." At this command, everyone stops what they are doing and runs. Each place is more beautiful than the last, and everyone is happy, and could be satisfied with what they have, but the command keeps coming. "Further up and further in." And they run. They give up everything for what's next, because they know that the Lion is going to show them something incredible. They trust him. The thing is, they have to give it up. Everything they had for what's next. Worth it, yes, but isn't it such a terrible risk to give up everything when what you want is right in front of you? What right do we have to want more, even when that is what's offered? It really is a question of trust. So here's the plan. God, I love you, and I trust you. After all these years, my answer is yes. So every time you say "Further up and further in," I will give up all my dreams and run after you. I will belong at your side, if no other place is given to me. And if for the rest of my life, I never belong anywhere in the way that I want, I know you will one day take me to where you are, and I will live there for the rest of eternity. I love you and I trust you. Salinas is yours. Fullerton is yours. Long Beach is yours. The Earth is yours and everything in it. So, let's go. Further up and further in.

January 15, 2008

I'm in Starbucks. I hate Starbucks. Why am I in Starbucks? I have an interview today in Sherman Oaks, which is somewhere near Hollywood. Do I really belong in Hollywood? I've never felt very Hollywood-ish, but at the same time, I think if I don't even try, I'll just sabotage myself and end up not belonging in Hollywood that way. Self fulfilling prophesy. The thing is, I really want that internship in Long Beach. I can just see myself there. In addition, I know that there is a little girl in an after school program in Long Beach who prayed last night that my interview would be a disaster, so that I could stay in Long Beach forever. She told me she would, and I believe her. I think, I probably hope on some level that it's a disaster too. Just thinking about that internship in Long Beach makes me soo happy. I want to do what God wants me to do, though, and according to a conversation I had with God and a woman named Jen Blue this summer, God wants me to make movies. I think. I also think God might want me to go to Long Beach. I know this sounds weird, but I believe God does weird things like this. I have this pen somewhere in my apartment, or car, I'm not quite sure where right now. The pen says "Fountain of Life Covenant Church Long Beach, CA" on the side. I've been to three services at Fountain of Life since this summer, but this pen had been in my life long before I ever set foot in the church. For weeks, every time I would reach out and grab for a pen, that would be the one that would end up in my hand. I asked my friend Eric (Who goes to FoL) if he left the pen at my apartment. He told me that he didn't even know they had pens. Once last semester, I had an in class essay for English, and realized that I hadn't put a pen in my pocket that morning. I was rifling like mad through my backpack, looking for a pen, or a pencil, or an ostrich quill, anything I could write with. I was about to give up, when I found something in a random pouch I don't normally put anything in. I pulled it out. It was a pen. It was that pen. I feel like I need to make movies and I need to be in Long Beach, but which is it? Maybe both, but which is first? Which step do I take first? I hope today is a disaster, then I won't have to decide. I think it's so strange that yesterday I was worried about having no options for my internship, and today I'm worried about having more than one. I have very specific fears. I am afraid of murky water. I am afraid of the phone. I am afraid of everyone I love secretly hating me. But I shouldn't be afraid of the future. I shouldn't be afraid of doing well, or impressing someone who might want to give me a job. I shouldn't be afraid when God offers me his hand to hold, and I shouldn't sabotage myself just so I'll have no place else to go. In about fifteen minutes, I'm going to walk into that building across the street, and introduce myself to Lisa Pollack, and I'm going to do whatever is reasonable to impress her, and I'm going to hope to God I know what I'm doing.

January 14, 2008

I got lost in downtown Long Beach today. I have an interview there for an internship with an independent record label. It's frustrating getting lost when you know some one's waiting for you, especially in Long Beach, where every other street is one way. You have to know exactly where you're going to get anywhere in Long Beach. Otherwise you just end up going around in circles. In addition to all the fun circles, getting lost gives you more time to stress and obsess about tiny details, especially when you're doing something you've never done before. What do I wear to an interview? I've decided that I need to impress people. No torn jeans, no t shirts. What about the lip ring? Pro: I like it. Con: it's unprofessional. Tie goes to no lip ring with "I play with it a lot, and that grosses some people out." No lip ring. I finally find the place, go inside, and meet Brandon Chamberlain, president of The Militia Group. Hair in his face, torn jeans, t shirt, lip ring. Don't be fake, Stephen. Don't be fake. Despite my no lip ring/button down shirt/slacks appearance, Brandon still offered me an internship. I have the thing I need to graduate in the palm of my hand. In Long Beach too? I love that city. I spent a summer there. I met God there, right up close and personal. We talked about the future. Could this be it? I stopped by the after school program I worked at this summer before leaving. I love these kids. They hate me. I don't care. I love them. I said hi, got a few hugs, got called a few names, got my hair made fun of (before it was too long, now it's too short) and was heading out when something hit my leg. It was a shoe. I looked over and saw Vanessa, four years old (could she be five now?) trying as hard as she could to look mean and tough. I said hi. She hit me with her other shoe. I knew better than that. I ran over to her and picked her up and twirled her around in the air like I did last summer. She kicked me several times, but when I tried to put her down, she held on tight to my arm and wouldn't let go, as though if she could hold on forever, I wouldn't leave. I love that girl. I finally had to say goodbye, so she hit me with her shoe again, flashing her angry face. It's just not even possible to take that angry face seriously. It just makes me love her more. I wish she could hold on forever, then I couldn't leave. But I had to go home and tell my roommates the good news. I got lost again on the way home. I think I did it on purpose. It's so nice to get lost when you have no place to be. I got to see so much more of Long Beach than I would have if I had done something boring like find the right way the first time. I love this city. It's so weird and complicated. It's breathtaking. I called Mom and Dad on the way home, and told them the news. I have an internship in the city of Long Beach. The beautiful city of Long Beach, full of wonderful homeless people, incredible little girls that throw shoes, and impossible one way streets that make you go in circles for hours, like dancing. I left my heart in Long Beach last summer. Today, I found it again.

January 13, 2008

I got to see Enrique and Jennica today. It's been a while. I was helping their church out with childcare for a while. I used to spend a lot of time with children at my old church. I forgot how much I love them. They remind me of things about myself. They remind me about Allen. I forgot about Allen. Allen Euchevarria. That was what he always said, that his name was Allen Euchevarria, as though there was no other way to say it. He was Five years old, and wore the same dirty sweatpants every time I saw him. He said he and his mom lived with Grandma now because Daddy was a bad guy. I first met Allen when I was in high school. Allen was a part of my AWANA group (AWANA= Boy scouts for Christians with less camping, more singing, and the same amount of neckerchiefs). Allen wasn't like a lot of kids in AWANA. I liked a lot of the kids in AWANA. Allen was inappropriate and gross. I remembered one time when i picked Allen up from the restroom, and he held my hand on the way back. I forgot to ask him if he washed his hands. I later found out he didn't, and all I could wonder was, if he didn't wash his hands, then why in God's name were they wet? Another time, it was Allen's turn to run in a relay race. When he got up to run, he handed me a bag of animal crackers and asked me to hold them for him. Where did he get them?, I wondered. He didn't have any food with him when he came in, and I certainly didn't give them to him. The answer to my question came most unexpectedly and unfortunately when I gave Allen back his crackers at the end of the race, and he stuffed them into his pants. Not just into his pants but into his underwear, into the inside of his underwear. I like most of the kids at AWANA, but Allen was gross. He was in appropriate and gross. He wasn't just gross or inappropriate, he was also difficult. He was always running away from the game circle, and standing up on his chair when he was supposed to be sitting down, and even when he didn't have crackers or toys or juice boxes in his pants, he always had his hands in there. There were rows upon rows of nice, well behaved children, sitting and listening attentively, and then there was Allen. And then there was me, yelling at him to sit down, stop fidgeting and get his hands (and whatever else he might have in there) out of his pants. Allen's mother got fed up with him a lot, and was always worrying about him being a nuisance. She told me that if Allen was a problem, to tell her, and she would discipline him. She even said that if he was too much trouble, she would take him out of the program. The thing about Allen was, even though he was an annoyance, and he was, well, gross, I could tell he wasn't doing it on purpose. He wanted to make me happy and he wanted to make his mother happy. Sometimes I think he wanted it more than anything in the world. Every time he screwed up or did something wrong, he would look at me and say "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," like he had just killed somebody. His mother would look at me at the end of the day and ask how Allen was. Then she would look at Allen and Allen would look at me, and ask that question he asked every week. "I did a good job?" Every week i would look at this kid who was fidgety and disruptive, and inappropriate and gross, and there was only one response I could give, the same one I gave every week. "Yeah, you did a good job, kid. You can go home now." That look of pure joy that he left with every week, knowing that I wasn't mad at him, was just haunting. I carry it with me today. It wasn't really Allen's fault that he was gross and everyone around him was nice and well behaved, and he was trying so hard. Maybe that's why I never told his Mom how crazy he drove me. Maybe it was because I knew that despite how inappropriate and gross Allen was, he belonged there, every Wednesday night, next to me, learning about Jesus. Maybe, though (and I think this is it) maybe I understood how much Allen was like me. I think I knew that I was going to be just like Allen someday. At the end of my life, I'll be just like a kid standing in front of his leader on a Wednesday night wanting to know if it would be comfort or punishment. I won't have any eloquent speeches then. I'll be lucky if I can even repeat that question I heard every night for a year in high school. "I did a good job?" I know what I deserve, but I still have this stupid, childish hope that I'll hear my leader say back something familiar. "Yeah, you did a good job, kid. You can go home now." At the end, we're all just children, desperately wanting the approval of the people in charge of us, and failing miserably. I never lied to Allen when I told him he did a good job. He did the best he knew how, and that was good enough for me. I hope that's good enough for someone else I know, because I can't offer Him much better. I'm just going to try, okay?

"How great is the love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!"
-First John 3: 1a

January 10, 2008

The sun is out today. A welcome change. The weather has been mirroring my moods perfectly lately. Sunshine and low clouds all day today. Yesterday? Partly cloudy? Check. Fog in the morning? Of course. Cold temperatures throughout the day (but especially when someone wants to talk)? Double check. Chance of rain throughout the week? Always. All my life, I wonder if the way I feel has anything to do with my actual life and what's going on in it, or if it's just lack of sunshine. On sunny days like this, I can just sit on my back and stare at the sky for a while, and I don't remember what I was just so upset about. I don't think I'm as complicated as I pretend to be. Am I really depressed all the time, or is it just fog? Do I really have anything to cry about, or has it just been raining for too long? When I see my mood brighten for something so simple as a few less clouds in the sky, I have to think to myself: maybe all this time I was just under the weather.

"Why so downcast, oh, my soul? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise him, my savior and my God"

-Psalm 42: 11 (also found in Psalm 43: 5)

January 8, 2008

Reflections on the Scriptures (Second Chronicles 33:1-13)
Manasseh was twelve years old when he became king, and he ruled in Jerusalem for fifty-five years. He did evil in the sight of the Lord, following the detestable practices of the nations the Lord had driven out before the Israelites. He rebuilt the high places his father Hezekiah had demolished; he also erected altars to all the Baals, and made Asherah poles. He bowed down to the starry hosts and worshipped them. He built altars in the temple of the Lord, of which the Lord had said "My name will remain in Jerusalem forever." In both the courts and the temple of the Lord he built altars to all the starry hosts. He sacrificed his sons in the fire of the valley of Ben Hinnom, practiced sorcery, divination, and witchcraft, and consulted mediums and spiritists. He did much evil in the eyes of the Lord, provoking him to anger. He put the carved image he had made and put it in the God's temple, of which the God had said to David and to his son, Solomon, "In this temple and in Jerusalem which I have chosen out of all the tribes of Israel I will put my name forever. I will not again make the feet of the Israelites leave the land I assigned to your forefathers, if only they will be careful to do everything I command them concerning all the laws, decrees, and ordinances given through Moses." But Manasseh led Judah and the people of Israel astray, so that they did more evil that the nations before the Israelites. The Lord spoke to Manasseh and his people, but they paid no attention. So the Lord brought against them the army commanders of the king of Assyria, who took Manasseh prisoner, put a hook in his nose, bound him with bronze shackles, and took him to Babylon. In his distress, he sought the favor of the Lord his God, and humbled himself greatly before the God of his fathers. And when he prayed to Him, the Lord was moved by his entreaty and listened to his plea; so he brought him back to Jerusalem and to his kingdom. Then Manasseh knew that the Lord is God.

Reflection: I've got problems, but I'm really glad I'm not that guy (or one of his sons).

January 5, 2008

I'm trying to grow up. It may take a little longer than most people, but I'll get there. I'd better get there. I've got one more semester to get there. I can't tell if I'm afraid or excited about the future (usually you can't have one without the other), but one thing's for sure: I don't know what it's going to be. I mean, it's easy to be content before you have to face the future. You can even replace the future with dreams. The future can be anything you want it to be, until it becomes the present. A part of the future became the present this week. I'm down to the last semester at school, and the last thing I need to graduate is an internship. If I get an internship, I graduate. Simple, right? The thing is, this internship is the first step in that long, uphill battle called the future. I had replaced the future with dreams, remember? The problem with dreams is that they give you hope. In my fantasy future, I had the perfect internship, that would land me right in the industry I wanted, and I would do so well that they would hire me on the spot. I would live in my own magical bubble, and hang out with Wes Anderson and Rachel Ray, and we would make movies and cook. We would go to my house, and my mom would knit a sweater for Wes and teach Rachel how to make her awesome cinnamon rolls. Yep, that would be it. Me, Mom, Wes, Rachel, and the bubble. Well, Wes and Rachel disappeared this morning when the bubble burst, as I realized that I sent out resumes over a week ago, and I haven't heard from anyone yet. I have so little time left, and if I don't get an internship, I don't graduate. Pop goes the bubble. Time for reality. Reality is, I take whatever I can get, and possibly not starve to death for lack of a job after graduation. The thing that really sucks about the reality mindset is that I've been carrying around this dream from God, this thing he told me to do. I can't shake it, and it's definitely one of those bubble kind of dreams. So, what do I do? I do the one thing that I always do when I've got no options, (though I should have thought of this slightly before) I pray. If God wants it, then I want it, but he needs to show it to me, because I can't live on dreams with reality staring me right in the face. It's a struggle to believe something when you've got to be practical. So I prayed that God would show me this week that he had an awesome internship lined up for me. I was patting myself on the back for how bold that prayer was. "i live my faith on the edge," I told myself. Sometimes I think God just keeps me around because I make him laugh. Reality needed an interview in two weeks. God gave me two interviews in one day! Just like that, huh? Do miracles really come so easy? The most beautiful thing about life with God is that he allows us to dream. To continue to hope for something beautiful at any given moment. There's no bubble this time, but reality has been seriously messed with. I barely even had to ask, and I received. Maybe I should ask God to meet a girl. I guess that's for another time, though.

January 5, 2008

I just came in from walking my friends to their car. It's raining outside, and I'm soaked from head to toe. The Bible says that there's a season for everything. Right now, it's raining, and I miss someone who used to tell me stories about the rain. She's not even gone yet, I just miss her because I know that some day she will be. Human life is so fleeting, like water droplets, spilling over the top of themselves, only to spill down a drain, to flow into the ocean, to join with the numberless droplets that make up the oceans that stretch across this giant planet, never again to know the freedom, the pure ecstasy of being a lone droplet, with nothing else attached, free to splash where it pleases. Funny how rain can make you feel so many different things. Someday, I'll hear the sound of the rain knocking ever so politely at my window, and I'll think of that person I miss, whose not gone, and how lovely our conversations about rain were. I'll smile as I swear to myself that the patter of rain falling on the sidewalk resurrects the subtle, symphonic sounds of her voice, like notes on a piano. Today, I'm soaked to the bone. My socks are wet, and I can't help but think that the raindrops were foolish to fall to the earth and become the sea. I am a raindrop again. Stuck. I tried to join the ocean, and got lost in the shuffle of a thousand other drips like me. And what drops I almost joined have been swept away. I'm not supposed to think about her anymore. I am a water droplet once again, unattached and afraid that it will hurt when I fall to the ground, and join all the other people who travelled all their lives, only to splash on the sidewalk and be washed down the drain.

January 3, 2008

I'm making a list of all the stupid things I believe. I know that they're stupid, I just believe them anyway. The list is as follows:
1. ***** is mad at me (not a stupid belief by itself). Because of this, ***** does not want to talk to me, so I'm not going to call her. Really, this is her fault.
2. Small animals want to pee in my lap. If I hold one, it will pee in my lap.
3. There are sharks in the Hartnell Community College swimming pool. They're invisible, and they attack when you close your eyes underwater.
4. My friends don't want to talk to me. If I call them in the middle of the day, they will be annoyed with me, and conspire together to ignore me.
5. My boss hates me. He keeps writing me positive reviews, but he hates me. He's just setting me up.
6. The only people who like me are the people who like everyone.
7. Snakes are everywhere. They could be hiding in the toilet, or under the couch cushions at my apartment.
8. Everything that hes ever gone wrong in the world is somehow connected to me. There's something that I'm doing (or not doing) that is causing everyone's pain. (I'm sorry about the Holocaust. I wish I wasn't German, but I am. At least I think I am.)

Based on these most closely held beliefs of mine, I've decided that my new to do list will be as follows:
1. Call *****. Smile. She's my friend. She likes me. She said so herself.
2. Hold a small animal in my lap.
3. Call my friends. They like me too.
4. Tell my boss a joke. Make it funny too, so that he'll laugh. Enemies don't laugh at each other's jokes.
5. Lift and look under every cushion in the couch, but only once.
6. Learn John 3:16 in German.

Joanna once told me that the biggest thing keeping me from doing what I want with my life is myself. It's true, I am pretty big. She's probably right. Every stupid thing that I believe must be exposed and scrutinized and picked to death until almost nothing remains. On those that remain, I will base the rest of my life. By this time tomorrow, I plan to believe the following:

1. My friends love me.
2. God loved the entire world (including the Germans) enough to send his only son as a sacrifice so that everyone who believes in him will live forever. He has a plan, even for the major screw ups. Actually, those plans are usually the coolest ones (e.g. Paul, Moses, David, Peter, etc.)
3. There are invisible sharks with laser beams in the Hartnell swimming pool.

One day at a time, friends. One day at a time.

December 31, 2007

Alice: I was wondering if you could tell me which way I ought to go?
Cheshire Cat: That all depends on where you wanna get to?
Alice: Well, that really doesn't matter, as long as I-
Cheshire Cat: Well, then it really doesn't matter... which way...you go.

I've decided that Alice in Wonderland was really about drugs. Today is my unbirthday. Tomorrow is not. I don't turn 23 today. Tomorrow? That's a different story. I got a letter from my grandparents today. It said "Happy Birthday" and there was a twenty dollar bill inside the envelope. "buy whatever you want for your birthday," the note said. Good thing most of the things I want are worth less than twenty dollars. I want a movie. I don't have enough movies, because everyone tells me that a film major should have a lot of movies, and I guess Milo and Otis and The Care Bear Movie just aren't impressing anyone anymore. I went to find the Suncoast Video store at the Northridge Mall in Salinas. They shut Suncoast down. In it's place, the mall now has two Verison Wireless stores. Why does everyone want the same thing? Why don't I want what they want? Better question (one that can't be answered in just one post): How bad has capitalism gotten that I've started to miss chain stores? I mean, all the Mom and Pop places are long gone, but at least we used to have some choice as to where we spent our money. I'm not going to Walmart. I'm just not. There was an FYE across the street from where the old Warehouse used to be. They had used DVD's, buy two, get one free. It took me an hour and a half to look at every used DVD in the store, so I could find three that I wanted. I think that a lot of what I do is finding something good in what other people throw away. I like that. I did find something. I found three great movies for the price of one. I am happy. An hour and a half at FYE taught me to keep looking for something good in what other people throw away. It's there. It's waiting for you. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday to me. Happy birthday dear Stephen. Happy birthday to me.

December 29, 2007

Cooking with Mom today. She says she remembers teaching me to cook when she was little.She misses those days. I miss them too. It's weird knowing that they'll never be again. Maybe someday I'll have a son, and I'll teach him how to cook. Maybe I'll take him to his grandma's house and she'll teach him some more. We were supposed to watch a movie together after cooking, but Mom and Dad fell asleep halfway through. I don't think they have ever made it through an entire movie as long as I've known them. They were holding hands. I want to marry a woman like my Mom. I've heard that's how it works anyway. A man and a woman have a baby. If it's a boy, he grows up to be just like his father, and marries a woman like his mother. That used to scare me. I used to think that if I became like my father (or even like my mother) I would be a failure, because I needed to be myself. I didn't want to marry someone like my mother. I wanted to pick her for myself. I don't think I care about individuality anymore, though. I think I'd rather look at the two of them, asleep on the couch, asleep holding hands, grey haired and wrinkled, pot bellied and smiling. I can't even think about all the things about my Dad that make me angry. He works all day for her. She works all day for him. He fixes her cupboards, she fixes his dinner. He holds her hand. She falls asleep in his arms. All I can think is "Dad, you're pretty lucky to find a woman to love you for the rest of your life, and fall asleep holding your hand." I'd be really lucky if I become my Dad. I'd be really lucky if I marry a woman like my Mom. I want to marry a woman like my Mom.

December 27, 2007

I'm starting a blog. I'm not really starting a blog, I'm writing things down on a peice of paper that will eventually become a blog when I put it on the internet. Then everyone will read it, and leave me thousands of comments, and call me briliant. Or no one will read it. What if nobody reads this? Oh well, I guess I'll write it anyway. It's neccessary. My brain is too small to hold the extra stuff, so I write. I have been cutting and recutting my hair, changing my clothes, sticking pieces of metal into my face, then taking them out, then putting them back in. Then the sweatband, the hat, no hat, the other hat. I look in the mirror a lot. It isn't vanity, it's curiosity. I'm looking for something that's familiar, something that fits. I want to look on the outside how I feel on the inside. I want to feel the same way long enough to be dressed the same all day. There's something in me, beneath the piles of clothes and hats, and after the hours I've spent in front of the mirror. There's something good. I know it. I have to know it. Don't worry about me, freinds. I'm not really anything yet, but one day I will be.

"Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; Then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known."

-First Corrinthians 13:12