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.