SuffoChristmas

I'm spinning around in circles. I've lost my Mom. I can't find her, and I've walked up and down every aisle. I'm not five years old and this is not a flashback. I'm 23 years old and I've lost my mommy. I'm in that place... that place surrounded by christmas music, where everything is red and green. That place where everyone goes to celebrate Christmas.

Where am I? Oh yeah. Target.

I'm shopping for Christmas presents, even though I have no money. Even though I know that presents are not what it's about. Even though I have no good ideas for anyone, and I have no desire to pretend that I know these people any more than I do. I have a sister in law, a brother in law and a new aunt this year. Can't even remember the Aunt's name. How am I supposed to buy her a gift? My uncle buys the entire family a tub of popcorn every year. We wanted to do that for him this year, but mom said that wasn't funny.

Mom. Where is my mom?

I feel more and more like I don't understand anything about life. How did Christmas become about...this? The worst part is, this isn't a new thought. Someone else always says something like this every year. How Christmas is a hollow shell. How no one really "feels" in the spirit of Christmas anymore. How we spend ten times the amount it would take to solve world hunger every year on shit we don't need. But nothing. We don't ever do more than complain. It almost seems like it's a part of the Christmas ritual to question the validity of this Christmas season and then do nothing about your convictions. I guess I just need to keep my head down, walk straight, and do my best to just survive this season. I'm dizzy.

I just need to get my mom and get out of here.

It's unfair. This numbness, this inability to think of anything but familial duty and my checking account balance, when I'm supposed to be remembering the only truly selfless action ever witnessed in the entire history of humanity.

It must be lame to have so many people who don't even acgnowlege you on your birthday.

He was born in a manger, you know? He was born in a feeding trough, and one of the wise men gave him embalming fluid. And we don't even remember. Happy birthday.

Mom found me. I'm getting out of here. Thank God (first time I've thought of Him all day). Me and Timmy are going to Dorithy's Place to throw a Christmas party for the homeless ladies he knows. We pray before we start. Timmy says that if we learn how to love people enough, somehow they will know where it comes from. Who taught him that? I certainly didn't. He and Karolina are at Dorithy's Place every Monday. Only missed three in the last two years.

Dorithy! That's my what new aunt's name is.

The women are all grateful. Timmy bought them Christmas presents. One of the women there told Timmy he was probably autistic. He thought she said "artistic", so he said thank you. We had pizza, and christmas decorations and candy. There was too much. We went out on the streets, and passed out candy and hot cocoa to the people who couldn't come inside. Tim says not to tell Mom or Dad, or Karolina's parents that we did that. They would make us stop coming if they knew we talked to people on the streets.

Life is not what i wanted it to be. One second, I am dizzy in Target, looking for my Mommy, questioning the purpose behind everything from gift giving to theology, to the breath coming out of my lungs, each consecutive cycle spending slightly more energy than it seems worth. The next moment, I am staring at my little borther, and his girlfriend, learning how to love people, learning enough that they would know why, and I am holding my breath for fear that my exhales would frighten this moment away.

So why should I care if my moments are pointless and numbing, or filled with purpose and hot cocoa? Either way, I can't breathe.

A Story

Someone once said (I think it was the British guy from Little Women) that a good writer will write what they know. I think that's good advice.

I'm writing a novel about people who declare war on the ocean and get stuck inside a city made of driftwood, under the rule of a man whom I have described as "being made from the parts of several destroyed people." There will also be a small amount of cannibalism towards the end.

I don't know very much about the ocean.

or cannibalism.

One time, I saw a chicken eat an egg. It was disturbing.

This is a time in my life where I will endlessly (and sometimes pointlessly) question the meaning behind everything, so that I can know my purpose. It's perfectly normal. I've been told this by a lot of people lately, and I fully believe it to be true.  I just can't help falling into its trap from time to time. Feeling like (maybe wishing) I'm the only person who's ever felt this way. 

I think it's stupid to do things when you're supposed to do them. I want to be brilliant when I'm young, reflective and existential in my adulthood, carefree in my middle age, and useful when I'm old. I certainly, certainly do not want to question my existence and purpose in my post college mid - twenties. Seriously, how cliche.

But really.

What am I doing here? How did I get here? Why am I here? Will the things I do with my life have any effect whatsoever? Should I be where I am?

How did I get to be so lame? Just... doing the same thing that everyone else does? Whatever happened to rebellion?

I must have gotten tired. And a little lost.

God said that I was going to tell stories. Did he mean stories about people who declare war on the ocean, and end up in a city in the belly of a giant sea monster? How does cannibalism factor into God's plan for my life? Is it possible that I misheard him? That maybe he meant something else?

I love stories. I mean, it's just how I communicate. It just seems lately that I can't make it work like I used to. It's like that scene that's in every movie, play, short story, novel, whatever. Not every one's favorite scene. The one that comes right before it. Where no one knows what's going to happen. Up against the wall. Every option has been tried. Every favor called in. Stuck. 

This is usually the part of the story that I like best. These are the parts when you scream out loud. Curse the author. Accidentally rip the page. Wonder why this story was ever even told. The conflict is at its greatest. The people are on the edge of their seats. The thing is... no matter how loudly you scream, how angrily you curse, it won't do any good. There are no words that will give you the answers you need. There is only one thing to do.

Turn the page.

See what's next. 

I have a headache right now. I don't normally get headaches, but my brain is beating against the sides of my skull right now. It's like there's some deep realization (or hidden frustration) buried under there that needs to come out. Why can't I do this? Why didn't it happen the way I thought it would? I need to let that realization out. I need to understand that even though I have been trying to tell a story, I should have been listening to the story that was being told to me.

God, you are a storyteller. You were before I was. This is my favorite part.

Stuck.

Turn the page.

Childish

Oh, my gosh, I looooove my new job! I just had my first day today. The kids are absolutely adorable, even though they can't read (or sit still). I just want to pick each of them up, and hug them to death.

But I probably shouldn't.

Actually, I don't think we're allowed to hug them.

It's okay. I can hold it in.

For now.

Why are these children so happy? I don't understand why these children are so happy. I mean, it's not like the world around them is going too well. They are the poorest kids in their school district, and also some of the lowest performing students. Now they have to stay at school an extra 2-3 hours. Why all the smiles?

Better question...

Why don't we smile more?

How do we get like this? Like adults. Like these complicated sets of fears and concerns, like the world is out to get us? Maybe it is. I don't really know, but it seems like these small children know somehow more than I do about what it takes to survive here. Where does their joy come from? Where does it go when they become old? Why do we stop enjoying playing duck duck goose, and rolling around in the sand, and spinning around in circles until gravity plays tricks on us? What in us shuts down as we become adults?

Where does child abuse come from? How could anyone be so devoid of love that a child becomes nothing more than an annoyance that can be silenced with a slap? Are we really that better off when we grow up? 

It's not really about being carefree, and devoid of responsibility. At least I don't think so. It's seeing the world for the first time. It's thinking that adults know everything and can fix everything, if you only ask. It's getting to say, in a word, what you want to be without worrying about what you are.

"I want to be a fireman."

"I want to be a movie star."

"I want to be an astronaut."

The stars aren't as far away, when you're younger, when no one tells you not to dream.

I think that children are a wonderful gift from God, and that anyone who abuses a child should be punished severely. There is one abuse, however, that cannot be punished, and that we are all a victim of. 

The worst childhood abuse is growing up.

3 reasons I'm happy today...

1. I ate all the boba in my drink before I finished my tea (very rare for me)

2. My friends are going to help with my art show. They are awesome in many ways.

3. Quickly. Brian Adams. Summer of 69. Need I say more?

Father Say, Mother Do

I was trying to remember some stories from my childhood today. I came across a few that kind of helped me out in my perception of my life as it is now. Hope you enjoy...

1. What Mothers Do.

I remember being really poor as a child. It's not like anyone expected any different. 7 children and a father who is self employed, while his wife has given up her career to home school their children. That was my upbringing. We had no right to complain. This is the lifestyle my parents wanted. 

I should say that they had  no right to complain. As an involuntary member of this family establishment, I saw it as my right and sacred duty to complain as often as I could. Of course I only had to deal with being poor. I wasn't responsible for making it look like 10 year old handmedowns were only five year old handmedowns, or for smiling politely at the grocery store when total strangers informed mother that condoms were cheaper than children. 

Who would we have not had though, now that we were all here? 

Maybe Timmy. 

Anyway, Dad moved his business home in the wake of some slow business, and was without work for about 6 months. Mom had been without work since she started making babies (work that paid, anyway). They like to think that they didn't let us kids in on how bad it really was, but we were more tuned in than they thought. 

I remember one dinner in particular, when Dad wasn't home yet, because he was out trying to collect money from some work he had done. We were holding diner until he got home. What we didn't know was that if Dad didn't come home with some money, there might not be any dinner. I was complaining to Mom. It was 7:00, I hadn't eaten yet, and complaining was just sort of my art form at the time (kind of still is). Anyway, I asked Mom (in my whinny voice) what we were having for dinner. She had had enough of my whining, so she told me the truth.

"I don't know."

Do you remember the first time as a child that you realized that adults don't always know everything? I do. Right then. Mom didn't know what we were having for dinner. She didn't know if we were even going to get dinner. 

I threw a fit. I was tired of not knowing, when everyone else got to eat three times a day, and never questioned where it came from. Why doesn't God take care of us the way he takes care of them?

"We're gonna starve!," I screamed.

Mom didn't even flinch. She looked me in the eye, and with the faith that I am only to this day beginning to understand, she responded, quieting me for good.

"When have you ever starved? When have I not taken care of you? I tell you, we are going to eat when your Father gets home. You are not going to go hungry, because I am taking care of you."

We did eat that night. It wasn't a feast, but it was enough. We did not starve. She took care of us. 

I think that today, I can still paint a pretty mean masterpiece of complaint. I want to know why I don't have the job that I want, why the girls I like are always just out of my reach, why I have to live so far away from my family, and why, oh why, there are about $12.00 in my bank account, and I have to think twice before buying toilet paper. I am at the bottom every time. I've been okay so far, but how much longer can my luck hold out?

I keep forgetting that it's not luck.

I hear the words of my mother in my head. The voice is familiar, but it's not hers.

"When have I not taken care of you?"

2. What Fathers Say.

I don't always get along with my dad.

(understatement of my life)

Dad and I have had issues from the start. I guess he always though that his more sensitive children would be his daughters. Oh well, at least he got two normal, mannish boys. 

Then there's me.

Dad always said that I was lucky to have him as a father, considering what he had for a father. I can't help but agree (Grandpa once threatened to shoot me when I was 7). Even still, I always thought that he just used that as an excuse, and never really tried too hard. I think fathers need to try hard. When I'm a father I'm going to try hard.

When I was in high school, I got this weird virus that made it really hard to go to the bathroom. I was in bed sick all day. I fell asleep at about 7 in the evening, then woke up again at 4:30 the next morning. I decided to try going to the bathroom. I hobbled down the stairs to the living room which had an entrance to the bathroom. I was still in a lot of pain, but feeling a bit better.

"Are you feeling any better?"

I actually screamed out loud. I did not expect anyone to be awake at 4:30 AM, and especially not someone with such a deep voice. It took a few moments for me to realize that the voice was my father's, and after my eyes adjusted to the room, I saw him there, sitting in the corner with his Bible.

I would like to say he scared the shit out of me, but the circumstances of my sickness prevented such an outcome. 

"I-I'm feeling a little better. Why are you awake at 4:30 in the morning?"

Dad took a sip of his coffee and a deep breath. 

"I'm awake at this time every morning. So I can pray for my children."

I always thought I would be a great Dad. That my children would always love me and that they would turn out wonderfully. Never doubted that until I found out that my dad gets up at 4:30 every morning to pray for his children. I'm ungrateful for, and ignorant of the amount of work it takes to even be an okay Dad. And the prayer. I have a good dad. God only knows what I have been saved from by him waking up at 4:30 to pray for me. God only knows.

Love at Five Dollars a Day

A cop gave me five bucks yesterday.

It's been a severely frustrating couple of months. I've decided that I should be a writer. Further than that, I've decided to be a good writer. Since I am not currently among the better writers in the world, and don't know any really rich people I could mooch off of, this means I will be a very poor writer. Not a writer. A very poor person. 

The point is, I barely have enough to make it through the day, and when an unexpected expense comes up (like a $75.00 parking ticket) I really have to scrape the bottom of the barrel to make it. I keep telling myself that I'm making the right decisions, or that at least it won't always be like this. Someday, I'll be doing better.

But what if it is? Like this all the time, I mean.

Me and God, we have trust issues. I have trust issues with him, I mean (even though I'm usually the one who breaks trust). I know I should trust him, and I know he's come through for me before, but I look at that empty bank account, and I just can't help but wonder when things are going to change, and why not now? He says that he has plans to prosper me and not to harm me, but I'm broke all the time, and living just barely below my means, constantly in fear of what would happen if, say, my car broke down, or I got another parking ticket, or someone even less fortunate than me needs my help, and I can't help them. A woman on the street asked me the other day if I had any money she could use to buy her children some food. All I had was a dollar. She looked at it like I look at myself in the mirror sometimes. not enough.

So, God has said that he would always take care of me, as long as I can trust him. What I'm finding out is that it's more of a day to day trust than a ten year plan trust. 

Long story short, I need to get fingerprinted for my new job, which I think might help me a bit in the money department. We'll see. anyway, I was told to bring a photo ID and $15.00 to the Police station, so that my forms could be processed. I went to get some money out of my bank. I had a balance of $17.00. Barely made it. When I got there, however, I was told that the processing fee was actually $20.00. I though maybe I had some money left in my savings account (which was slowly being cleaned out). I asked where the nearest ATM was and bolted out the door.

I got lost looking for it. I always get lost when I'm looking for something. It's like my brain gets bored and decides to do something else, while the rest of me is left to continue on without it. So, I needed to find my brain, and an ATM. I finally found it (the ATM, that is) and checked the balance in my savings, hoping to be surprised. $0.00. Can't say I wasn't surprised, but it wasn't exactly the type of surprise I was looking for.

I had to go and borrow some money from someone. I really didn't want to, but what else was I going to do? I walked back to the police station with my head hung as low as that time I had to tell my Grandma that I had kicked a soccer ball through her window.

These are the times I talk to God, and make sure that I'm doing the right thing. Or, perhaps just to see what exactly he is doing. I mean, he promised, right? 

"You're going to help me out, aren't you? You said you were going to be there, for whatever I needed, right? Now would be a good time to help me out."

I guess I was almost hoping a 5 dollar bill would come blowing down the street as I turned the corner to the police station. No such luck. I walked through the door.

I've never been a really big fan of the police. I guess it's my punk rock days. I'm just used to being harassed rather than being served and protected. Not that I've had a whole lot of run ins with the police. Just enough to not trust them.

I explained my situation to the officer behind the desk, and I said that I needed to reschedule my appointment. She looked at me for a second. I just wanted her to help me reschedule so I could get over this embarrassment and go home. She reached into her pocket and pulled out a 5 dollar bill. "You look like you could use a hand, and I could use a good deed for the day," she smiled.

"good Samaritan deed" she said, actually.

I walked home with what I needed. Exactly what I needed, and no less. I think it's part of God's weird sense of humor that He seems to reserve especially for me that I got my help from a cop. These were the people I demonized for so long, because of a few negative experiences. Good Samaritan, she called herself. Weird sense of humor.

I still don't have the next few steps figured out. I just have this promise, this weird promise that he's going to take care of me. I've always thought that the hardest part of being in any relationship is moments like this, when nothing is sure. When I could just as easily spend all my time worrying about the future, those are the moments I need to love those around me.

"I love you."

I said it out loud, as that phrase always deserves to be spoken. As the light on my gas meter turned on, I choked back a tear, not because I had another thing to worry about, but because I was, despite all other things, in love.

Of course, I didn't really cry.

Men don't cry.

1...2...3... Time To Jump

I used to swim all the time. 

Like, literally all the time. Every weekday, in fact. This was when I was in Jr College in Salinas. It was cold, and it rained. You could smell the ocean sometimes, on a foggy morning. I didn't always want to go swimming. It wasn't always the weather for it. Every morning though, every morning, I would look into that pool. Hesitating for just a moment, I counted to three, took a deep breath, and jumped in. The water was freezing at first, but then I got used to it, and could swim all day. 

That was all it ever was. A deep breath, count to three, and then jump. I always got used to whatever it felt like. 

I've been standing at the edge of the pool for quite some time now, looking in. I haven't been swimming so much. I'm not used to the abrupt change. The cold, the fog in the air surrounding me.

It's time to leap in.

I don't want the change. It scares me. I'd rather be dry, and have the same old things surround me. Why can't I wrap a towel around myself and go inside, without ever getting wet? It's been so good up here, on the deck. I knew I couldn't stay up here forever, but why does it have to end now? I guess I'll never know the answer to those questions. All I can know is that my body needs exercise, and I already dressed up for a swim. There is only one step left now, and I know what it is.

 Count to three. Deep breath. Jump.

I'm moving. To a place where it's not always the weather for swimming. Where you can smell the ocean in the air sometimes.

Things I See That Make Me Wish I Lived In Canada

 

Eight year old boys

with sunglasses

sipping on Starbucks coffee.

 

Morbidly obese women

Chattering

Gossiping

ordering

a double

cheeseburger with large

French fries

and

a

diet coke.

42 ounces, of course,

to make sure

that greasy burger slides

all the way down their throats.

 

Fat people

Who think that

Those in

Undeveloped countries

Are

starving because

They don’t work

as hard

as we do,

Otherwise they’d have

As much food

as we

have

access to.

 

People passing by

homeless, hungry

men on

the street,

muttering quietly

about the downfall of

the economy,

while on their way

out of the

toy store,

or,

Starbucks coffee.

 

Forever 21

and

Limited

Too, producing

increasingly

sluttier clothing

while

everyone else is

desperately

trying to find

a way to reduce

teen

pregnancy.

 

A woman

talking on her cell phone,

smoking,

holding

an umbrella

while

trying

to ride

her bicycle.

Sipping on Starbucks coffee.

Safety Pins and Mismatched Socks

I had a meeting today with Cathy. Cathy works for an advertising agency in Fullerton. Cathy thinks I'm a videographer and audio technician, because I told her I was one. This week was about putting up a false front. "Fake it 'till you make it," as Sean would say. Or, "Act as if," As Sean's brother Mike would say. 

Step one: pretend you've got your shit together.

Step two: get your shit together.

My shit, this morning, was held together loosely, if at all. I sat in the meeting room of DSYL Advertising, intimidated by the ornately carved Buddha in the corner, and giant print on the far wall displaying a quote by T.S. Eliot.

I am one of the lesser known Elliotts. There's T.S. Eliot, then Pete's Dragon, followed by that kid from E.T., then my father, my uncle, my older brother, my cousins, and me. I'm sure there are some others that fit in between, but I'm definitely near the bottom at this point. I hear there's a writer named Stephen Elliott in San Francisco. He writes erotic political fiction. I hope Cathy hasn't heard of him. I might not be erotic enough for her.

I'm here because of my false front. I know I don't belong. I made up a business, and printed up fake business cards with materials I bought at office max. I drew a little picture of a polar bear leaning up against a brick wall, and put it on there. I stayed up until three AM to do that. Loosely held together. I wondered if Cathy would notice that all my clothes were from the Goodwill. Or that one of my socks was black and the other white. I prayed against the cuff of my pants riding up at all to reveal my secrets. My false front. I've always been somewhere between black and white. D id anyone know that my sweater was too big, and that I had hemmed it with safety pins last night? Professionals don't do that. Professionals spend more than 5 dollars on a sweater. Professionals buy sweaters that fit them.

I don't belong here and I know it. I'm living on pins and mismatched socks. It's like the prayer I said this morning. If I succeed, it is because God has blessed me to go forward. If I fail, it is because he has cursed me in that direction, and wants me to go somewhere else. I'm nothing but a false front, but today was bigger than me, today was about someone who knew me to be false from the start, and loved me into legitimacy. To this great love that surpasses all hate, that gives peace that surpasses all understanding, I am indebted. I owe it my life, and even that is insufficient, but we'll start there. We'll see if art can be made from my loosely held together shit.

You know me better than I know myself. To know you is all I want.

"For I know the plans I have made for you, says the Lord. Plans to prosper you and not to harm you. Plans to give you a hope and a future."

-I am ashamed for all the times I doubt his ability to provide for me.

I Want To Be Somebody's Bitch

My friend Terence has a dog. Itzy is her name. 

He brought her to Bible study tonight. 

It's interesting to see how people love on pets. Everyone was petting her, scratching behind her ears, letting her sit on their lap. Terence even picked her up and hugged her, holding her right up to his face. She was licking him, and she even bit a few people (lightly) on the hand. No one cared though. It was as if her behavior had no bearing on how much she was loved. 

What if we treated human beings like that? It's not like we're any less lovable. Less hairy maybe, less cute, definitely, but not less lovable. 

I wish I was a dog, and people smiled at me and scratched me behind my ears when they saw me. I think I would eat dog food for that.

(edit two days later): 

I've changed my mind. Humans aren't that loveable. I just wish I could find someone who's not loveable, who would love me right back, even though I'm not so loveable myself.

Mild Mannered

My seventeen year old brother is quite popular with businessmen and prostitutes.

I was home this weekend for my sister's wedding , of which I can say with a slight bias, it was one of the most beautiful ceremonies I have ever seen. I had to read a poem in the middle of it, and I was afraid I would start to cry. You all can ask me about that later (It's not what I'm here to talk about). The best part about Sarah's wedding was getting to go home, and see my family. Especially my brother, Timmy. It was not easy growing up with Timmy as a little brother. He can be quite the pain in the ass from time to time (By "ass," of course, I mean democrat). I love him though, and he grew up to be quite an interesting person. He's got a great life in Salinas. A great relationship with his family, an awesome girlfriend, the ability to drive stick shift, and has the distinct honor of being one of the top 50 rock climbers in the nation. 

There's more to him than that though.

My father went to one of the meat markets he designed the day I got home. He needed some meat for the rehearsal dinner we were having at our house the next day. The man who owned the place was having difficulty paying for my father's services, so he was taking his payment in chicken and steak. Dad grabbed Timmy before he left and said that the butcher wanted to meet him.  Timmy just shrugged it off, and went along. This wasn't the first time something like this had happened. When Dad and Tim arrived at the meat market, the manager emphatically shook Timmy's hand and gave him his business card. "I've heard all about you, and what you're doing," he said. "If you ever need anything, give me a call. I want to help."

I've always thought my brother could do anything. I felt like his dreams for himself were too small. He doesn't want to go to college. He wants to join the police academy, so that he can fulfill his lifelong dream of being a police officer. Maybe it's just my own personal feelings about the police, but I just always thought my little brother could do better than that. Like, he could probably be the real Batman. He's passionate about justice, he's got good eye-hand coordination, he's good at climbing walls. All he need is funding. If we could somehow get him to a planet with a weaker gravitational pull than our sun, he could probably be Superman. He would make a good Superman, flying around in circles, picking up people that fall off of buildings, pulling cats out of trees and the like. I still don't understand why my little brother wants to be a cop when he could be Superman.

As much time as he spends there, you'll never catch Timmy in the rock climbing gym on a Monday night. On that night, he, his girlfriend, and another kid from their high school youth group are in downtown south Salinas, in one of the most dangerous areas to be. They spend their night at Dorothy's Kitchen, a local soup kitchen, preparing a custom meal for the people in the women's shelter that is housed there. It's just the three of them. They were brought to Dorothy's by some adult leaders in their church, trying to "teach the kids how to serve the poor." The adults are long gone. Only the three of them remain. They know these women that come in by first name. They know what kind of food they like, and what their dietary needs are. Each week, Timmy and his friends prepare a meal for the homeless the same way a mother prepares a meal for her children. With those who are eating it in mind. They sit, they cook, and eat with them like family. I think Tim really gets what family is. I just don't know how to put it any other way.

You can't walk the streets of Salinas without seeing somebody that Timmy knows personally. The people we try to ignore. He knows their names. He waves back to them, and says "See you Monday." 

That's the thing I forget about dreams.

I have often thought that success was having a good job, a well adjusted family, a good relationship with God and ...being creative. I don't know, something like painting as a hobby. Given that definition, you can't be very successful as a Cop in Salinas. I didn't realize that that's not what my brother is. He is like Jesus, in more ways than I can say with good conscience that I am.

A few weeks ago, my brother was talking about what he does with one of the elders of my church. "Oh yeah, Dorothy's Kitchen," he said. "My wife and I used to go there, but I can't handle it anymore. I got propositioned by a prostitute the last time I was there." With one sentence, Timmy turned the world upside down and turned this elder, this church leader, this great teacher, into a student, while he became the teacher. "Yeah," he smiled. "Those people are my friends."

My brother. Mild mannered high school student. Jesus to the prostitutes and butchers of Salinas. Superman.

Broken Bodies

I went to the grocery store today. I really didn't even need to go, I just felt like getting out of the house, and I'm making pesto for my Bible study tomorrow, so I figured I would just go and pick up the extra ingredients I needed and then come back and write all day. That's kind of what I do these days. I suppose I'm getting used to it. Things like this always happen once I'm comfortable. I was coming out of the grocery store, when I was approached by a man and an elderly woman. I could tell what they wanted just by looking at them. The man, who said his name was Robert, told me about how he had just gotten out of the hospital, and needed to care for his mother (her name was Nina) who also had some health problems. He showed me his foot, which was swollen and red, so much so that he could not fit it entirely inside his shoes, which were falling apart. He swore to me several times that neither of them were addicted to drugs or alcohol, and asked if I could help them get something to eat. I hesitated. I always hesitate. It's my defining characteristic. I tried to offer them some of my groceries, but Robert said that his mother couldn't chew anything but soft food. I reluctantly asked him where I could get them some food. He asked me if I had any change. I told him I didn't. Only the card. I lied. I just can't trust people, but I still wanted to help. He told me to go across that street to the Carls Jr. "We live there," he said. "We're homeless." I offered him a ride, given the state of his foot, I thought he could use it. "We'll walk there," he said. With that he left. I watched him walk over there, gently taking his mother's arm, limping across the street. I drove over to the other side of the street, where they passed out of my view. I wondered how they could actually live there, since the restaurant was on the corner, and there didn't seem to be any alleyways or places they could hide for the night. I couldn't see where they went. Then I saw it. Robert pushed open the door to the dumpster on the side of the restaurant. That was their home. They lived by the dumpster. I began to see them differently. We walked inside, and I stood in line to get some food, while Robert went to sit his mother down at one of the tables. He then went and stood by me, and told me what he and his mother wanted for food. I asked him about his foot. He told me that he was on his way to the hospital to have it checked up on again, but if he didn't get the medicine he needed, the doctors said he might lose his leg. I have no idea what that must feel like. After ordering the food, I went over to the table, where Nina was sitting. Robert said he needed to wash his hands, and asked if I could watch his mother for a while. I agreed. She asked me what my name was. I could hear in her voice that it was painful for her to breathe. I told her my name and put my hand out to shake hers. She did not even move hers. It was at that point that I realized why her son had to direct her everywhere she went. She was blind. "It's nice to meet you," she said, with great effort. "I'm sorry I can't see you." I could see every rib in her chest as she struggled to breathe. She told me about her condition. Athsma. I had never seen it this bad before. She said that the inhaler cost $13.00, but she couldn't afford it. I had a little money in my pocket, minus my tithe, which I forgot to put in the offering plate this Sunday. I gave her what I had. I know I tell people all the time (just said this to someone yesterday, actually) to never give out money to the homeless, but I suspended my beliefs for a moment. I started to think about what it would take for someone to survive in this state. A blind woman living behind a dumpster with her son, neither of them able to find the money for medication they need to live. I asked Nina and Robert if I could pray for them. They smiled and said yes. I prayed my most feeble prayer, without much hope for Robert and Nina. How can I dare hope? I watched them leave. I almost cried as I thought about the two of them. No hope in the world, and nothing to hold onto except each other. This is a strange world we live in, where I can call myself poor, and yet there are people who live beside dumpsters, as though they were trash. I thought about my tithe, and how I had been taught from a young age to give to the church, and let God have the first fruits of our harvest. What good could be done with that money, and yet we use it for the new building fund. For a brand new sound system. For snacks for the monday night Bible studies, where people who can afford to eat far more than is healthy come to stuff their fat faces once again. I don't know what Robert might feel like, but I know that I belong to a body that does not function as it should. I'm afraid of what might happen if we don't heal soon. We might lose more than a few body parts. "Remember me in your prayers," Robert said as he walked out the door. "I don't know any other way we're going to get through this." What else do I have to offer besides this? So I am praying. Praying for two broken bodies, and the body that was formed out of brokenness. I pray for healing, and by God, I pray that I remember.

Difficult to Swallow Bible Verses

There's some interesting things in this book. Ironic, I think it is that some of the most adamant thumpers/belt carriers don't bother to read it before using it as a weapon. Here are some of my favorite verses that run contrary to popular theology. Enjoy, all you soapbox evangelists, you writers of gospel tracts, you door-to-door Jesus connoisseurs. I hope you end up utterly confused. That, I think, is the first step to real faith.

Isaiah 9:6 (a certain part is often removed from this verse to accommodate Christmas cards)

For unto us a child is born,

Unto us a son is given,

And the government will be on his shoulders.

And he shall be called Wonderful Counselor,

Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.

Ecclesiastes 7:16-18

Do not be over righteous, neither be over wise-why destroy yourself? Do not be over wicked and do not be a fool-why die before your time? It is good to grasp at one, and not let go of the other. The man who fears God will avoid all extremes.

Matthew 25: 41-46

Then he will say to those on his left, "Depart from me, you who are cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the Devil and his angels. For I was hungry, and you gave me nothing to eat, I was thirsty, and you gave me nothing to drink, I was a stranger and you didn't invite me in, I needed clothes and you did not clothe me, I was sick and in prison, and you did not look after me." They will answer "Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or needing clothes or sick or in prison and did not help you?" He will reply "I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these you did not do for me." Then they will go away into punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.

Romans 9:20-21

Who are you, a mere human being, to argue with God? Should the thing that was created say to the one who created it "Why have you made me like this?" When a potter makes jars out of  clay, doesn't he have the right to use the same lump of clay to make one jar for decoration, and another to throw garbage into?

These are some of my favorites. Many more where that came from. Just send me a comment if you want to hear a few more. Or, just read the Bible. There's a thought. 

Another thought: The bible= over a hundred verses about money management. 2 verses about homosexuality. Which one should be a priority?

I Love...

I write things when I'm depressed. It should come as no surprise that I am writing a lot these days, as I am unemployed, single, and so consumed with post-graduation slump that I can't even remember what day of the week it is. Is it Tuesday? It doesn't really matter. My point is that I hope someday that my depression will not be the reason I pick up a pencil and paper, or sit down at a computer. I want, someday, as an expression of worship, to be able to write from my joy. I want to be able to describe joy to people, so that they can know it more fully. I'm not there yet. Far too often joy blindsides me, and I am taken off guard, much to my delight, and forced to float along with it, obeying its every whim until it plops me down on the side of life's river, so that I may wait for another stream of depression to sweep me up again. Those are the stronger currents in my life these days, and the ones that last the longest. I still hold fast to the hope that someday this will not be true. In the meantime, I have to hold on to what I know, and make the best of what I have. But for the future, these are the things that give me joy, the things that I want to be able to write about someday:

1. Ice cream on a hot day.

2. One on one conversations with the people who have seen me cry.

3. Laughing so hard that it hurts.

4. Little kids who say "hi" to everyone in the grocery store.

5. Baptisms.

6. Finding Jesus in places I didn't think he belonged.

7. 12 bar blues Jammin' with Will and/or Paul.

8. Getting advice from really old men.

9.  Phone calls from my sisters [too rare:( ]

10. Grooms who tear up at their weddings.

11. Monterey, CA.

12. Long Beach, CA.

13. Hugging strangers who need a hug.

14. Campfires+acoustic guitars.

15. Discovering hidden talents.

16. Meeting people whose jobs reflect their passions.

17. New relationships.

18. Reunions.

19. Serving food to the homeless.

20. LAUP 2007 (and anything associated with LAUP 2007)

21. Grass + bare feet.

22. Bosses that are well liked.

23. That part of the day after the sun goes down, but before it gets completely dark.

24. New music.

25. Fresh art.

26. Looking through sketchbooks.

27. Being known AND loved @ the same time (also too rare)

28. Wrestling matches with Timmy.

29. Foreign countries.

30. conversations with no pauses.

31. The beach.

32. Random Photography - based games.

33. Walking around with a friend just to kill time.

34. White kids and Black kids who are best friends.

35. ipod + 2 people + sharing earbuds.

36. Late night study sessions.

37.  Knowing just what to say at the right moment.

38. Reciprocation.

39. Education.

40. Familial obligation.

41. Group prayer (especially when we all hold hands).

42. Church picnics.

43. Psalms

44. Proverbs.

45. Ecclesiastes.

46. Song of Solomon.

47. Amos.

48. Hosea.

49. Q and Mercy from Skid row.

50. Old Weezer songs.

51. A sink with no dishes.

52. A fresh set of guitar strings.

53. New socks.

54. getting a haircut.

55. A balanced checkbook.

56. Handwritten notes.

57. Battleship tournaments.

58. Card games.

59. grateful people.

60. Bible study.

I think it might be working already. I won't rush it though. Someday. Someday it will be.

Looking For a Job After Graduation, Stuck in Traffic

(So you guys don't think that all I think about are girls : ) )

The lights turned green before I was ready

No need for speed

No destination known

No space for right or left-hand turns

Or lane changes.

Life is a highway

And traffic has just started flowing

Here I am moving too slowly

While everyone else knows where they are going.

Stop and go, but mostly stop.

I've been interrupting the traffic ebb and flow

like rocks interrupting the ocean on the shore

Lost in thought

I missed my exit

And had to turn into a lane I'd never been in before.

Where I find myself moving far too slowly

And everyone else knows exactly where they are going.

This traffic flow can't be interrupted

For those who've lost their way.

And the air is full

No room for frustrated tears

As the sound of screeching brakes and honking horns

push through all the open spaces left

screaming at the top of their lungs "too slowly!

You're in the way of where I am going."

Not road-ready

After five minutes, road weary.

Exhausted of trying to explain

That I need to be somewhere

But don't know how to get there.

Better off in a gutter

Than speeding off to God-knows-where

In the wrong lane

Sending off emergency flares.

And why did I think I was moving too slowly

With no particular place to be going?

A Visitor From the East

I hope you drown on the West coast horizon.

I hope the ocean finally takes you.

I hope that when you come around in the morning

One of us isn’t here to see your

Blinding bright sunlight screaming through

the barricade of my tightly squeezed eyelids.

I hope one of us wonders why

My eyes are no longer open to

The brilliance of you and

Wondering why you haven’t

settled next to me.

I hope the moon is in the sky

The entire day and you and I don’t

Ever cross our paths again.

You burn me. Prolonged exposure.

Too bright, too high in the sky

Combined with too low, too small, not good enough.

So pass me by, you giant orb of ever-expanding gas

And wonder as you fly over me

Why I’m no longer hovering around

Mistaking orbit for relationship

Like Pluto before we found out

He didn’t belong.

I’ll find another gravitational pull

To get sucked into.

Another universe to sign my name to.

Pass over me, alone in the sky

All along wondering why I haven’t tried to hold your hand.

I've been burned before for trying to take lesser stars

from their place above me.

The scars on my hand prove that you were just another one.

Mutual Exchange

You tore the two of us apart

Like a piece of paper coming out of a calculator.

Between us, only a receipt for goods tendered

Marked “all sales our final! No returns!”

But you’ve put yourself up in the window again

With a bright yellow tag announcing “for sale”

Underneath where it says your name.

 

I don’t return broken merchandise

But have a tendancy to misplace pieces

Lost a piece of me underneath your couch

“you broke it, you bought it”

I agreed to pay the full amount

Saving this paper for my records.

In case I get audited

Or somehow forget that

We’re friends who don’t

owe each other anything anymore.

I haven’t seen you in a while

But I guess it’s true

What they say

That you get

what

you

pay for.

Busy busy busy...but still with nothing to do...

Hello friends. I haven;t forgotten about you all. I promised to post up some poetry about my life like, a month ago. I have been working hard, exorcizing my inner demons and grocery shopping, location scouting, learning the piano, crying over what could have been and whatnot, but I didn't forget you. So, here's more than what I promised. Three poems. I cannot promise that they are good, but that's not why people read blogs, is it? I guess I'm just trying to be honest. So, this is what's going on for me right now...in poetry code. Enjoy!

A Day at the Beach

I visited Long Beach today. Sarah and I went to visit our LAUP sites today. Beautiful town. My heart beats faster and my fingers twitch with anticipation thinking about it. I think I might belong there. We went  to see the kids at Covenant Pres's after school program. A few of them remembered us. I carried little Kayla around the whole time. I didn't get tired of holding her. I wish she was my little girl. Or, that someday, I could have a daughter like that. I know I don't deserve that, but who really deserves a girl like Kayla. It was Pastor Adele's birthday today. All smiles, and nothing different for her. Up to our arms in kids, hugging, teaching, kissing bruises, and tying shoelaces. She said that us visiting was her birthday present. how wonderful for your existence to be somebody's birthday present. I'd never thought about that possibility. The kids kept talking about us being there two years ago. I told them that it was one year ago, but in a way, I felt like they were more correct. It had been longer than it had been. I missed this place. A lot. I can see all the kids from when we were here. They're the same, but different. They're older, in more ways than one. I saw lots of spiritual warfare while I was in Long Beach. I'm not normally the type to talk about these things, but I know what I saw. I guess I forgot about how in tuned with these things pastors Rob and Adele were. They were winning. These kids, the ones that stuck around, were being transformed. Victory is happening in Long Beach. It's  beautiful. Then we went to COA. We wanted to see old friends, and serve a meal to the homeless. The only old people that were there were Dixie, Cindy, and Scotty. No one else knew us. That's alright. Someone told Sarah and I that we couldn't sit at the table with the homeless people. He said that they didn't run this program just so that we could sit around and talk to homeless people, and that they needed to eat, not talk to us. What a silly thing for him to think! As if the only purpose of feeding the homeless was to give them food! I didn't have time to explain this to him, because Sarah and I had to go. You and I, Long Beach. We're not done here.I want to be here again someday...

ADeepBreath

I'm writing again. I'm going to put a poem up here soon, about this weird phase in my life. So keep me accountable, you loyal reader(s?), because I should have enough time to accomplish things here. That's all for now. 

P.S. I just went on an outing with the kids from the nursery @ my church. There's something about children that makes life bearable. I know it doesn't really make sense, that the fact that new life is constantly being added to the painful, dizzying chaos of the "real world," and I think that's a good thing. You'd think I wouldn't want to wish anyone else to come and experience the world as it is. But I do. I think that's another reason why I believe in God.

Mornings Have Disappeared

I woke up this morning at 11:00. I don't eat breakfast anymore. There was once a time when I would have had a million things to do by this time. Now I start at this point. I got an email today from the hotel I applied to. They said I'm not what they're looking for. They needed a dishwasher. I don't know a lot of things, but I think I know how to wash dishes. Why won't they let me wash dishes? I'd do a good job. I really would. I have no idea what to do from this point. I met a guy in Huntington Beach last night who is a CFO (management in film industry). I told him I have no idea where to go to find experience for an industry that is so connections based. He said I should look into porn. I'm not sure what my Mom would say about that. Or Jesus. Was it impossible? Maybe it was. So where do I go from here? I have no marketable skills, and not enough confidence to lie about what I know. I think that's the only way anyone gets anything. I don't know anything about the real world. I can't even type. I took some tests at a temp agency. I can type 22 words per minute. The world is getting faster, and I am slowing down. God, what do you want me to do? I've got nothing.

In Between Sunrises

I feel a strong need to write again. Like my fingers are on fire and the clickety-clack of of my keyboard is part of some elaborate stop-drop-and-roll technique that I never really perfected until it was needed. 

It's nice to be needed. I think. I've heard that, at least. It would be nice to know again that if I decided not to show up, or do my part, that something would be missing in the world. It would be nice to have to leave my apartment for some reason. It would be nice to get that urgent phone call at 2:oo in the morning. The one that says "I need you." 

I'm told that it's tiring to be needed all the time. Some people say that. Those people should try being completely useless. I just want to sleep all day. My life is like a shotgun fired into the air. A big distraction, with no purpose. Just a brilliant flash, and then everything scatters. I'm sitting alone in a meadow where everyone once was. I think I scared them away. Or maybe they got bored and left. I would leave too, but I've nowhere else to go, nowhere where I make sense. This is my meadow. And it's dark here. I can't see anything clearly. I might as well sit down and wait for morning to come. If it does, then I'll be able to see soon. I guess that's when I will know what to do. Until then, all I have is alone. All I have is dark. The morning has not come yet. 

God, I wish I could see you, and hear you. I wish you were somewhere nearby where I could run. I wish I could get up and find you. But it's dark, and I can't see. So I will wait. Wait until the morning sun warms my eyes, or until I feel your hand on my shoulder. If you tell me to run in the dark, I will trust you. But tell me something, and tell me soon, because I am tired of sitting. I am tired of dark. I am tired of waiting for morning to come.

Fire Shut up, I can't shut up.

O Lord, you deceived me, and I was deceived,

you overpowered me and you prevailed.

I am ridiculed all day long;

everyone mocks me.

Whenever I speak, I cry out

proclaiming violence and destruction.

So the word of the Lord has brought me

insult and reproach all day long.

But if I say "I will not mention him

or speak any more in his name," 

his word is in my heart like a fire,

A fire shut up in my bones.

I am weary of holding it in,

indeed, I cannot.

(Jerimiah 20:7-10)(NIV)

Screw feeling sorry for myself. I'm back.

Dear John...I Mean Blog...

I'm stepping away from this for a while. I started a blog to get my feelings out, and share stories about God, and other things that I think are beautiful. Somehow, it became about something else, and whatever I was doing different hurt me a little. I love to write, and I love to tell stories, but this doesn't really fit me right now. I need to figure out how it works. Until then, I bid you, my loyal reader(s?) farewell. Thanks for listening.

Stephen

San Fransico Day 3: Downhill

Today is my last day in San Fransisco. I can't decide if I'm sad ('cause tomorrow I'll have to remember that I need to be responsible and find a job), or happy (because HyounJun keeps calling Alcatraz Azkaban [seriously, he's done it like three times]). I can't figure myself out. I might as well just enjoy this. Chelsea is with us. It's nice to have her here. I feel like we're going to be best friends forever, no matter what. I think my life won't be so bad, knowing that.

We spent all day looking for this Japanese Tea Garden in Golden Gate Park. I wanted to go because I remember going there with my Mom when I was little. Whenever I think of San Fransisco, I think of traveling there with Mom and Jon, and Sarah, and Deborah, Hannah, and little Timmy (Before Rachel was born), waiting to pick up Dad from his business trip to London. I remember laying down on my stomach on the walkway to look at the fish in the pond. I asked mom if all Japanese fish had mustaches. She said no, and to get up before I get my nice clothes (third generation handmedown) dirty. I knew I could stay like this until she could fish Timmy out of the pond. He wanted to take the fish home. I bet Mom got tired of being glared at by complete strangers everywhere she went. She loved us though. She told us all the time. She told us Dad loved us too (though he couldn't say it himself until just recently). It was a spiritual experience (though I was too young to know it). Surrounded by green in this alien atmosphere, covered with jackets that had been in the family for years, wind whipping about my body, waiting for father to come home after being away for so long. I wanted to return to that place.

We found it. They charge admission now. HyounJun says that this place is like Korea, and that it was a lot of stuff he'd seen before. I asked him if he meant by that that Korea was just like Japan. I don't know why I say stuff like that. It just makes him mad (like when I say that Kimpop (can't spell) is just like sushi). But for me, it was just like I remembered. I am six, waiting for my father in an alien place, surrounded by mustached Japanese fish. I don't want to live in the past, but it's nice to visit from time to time.

We decide to go home. HyounJun says he misses my parent's refrigerator. I miss the people that eat out of it. For some reason, his tiredness from last night seems irrelevant now, because HyounJun says we should have asked Chelsea where we could find a club to go to. I told him Chelsea had probably never been to a club. He said that was impossible. Chelsea said it was true. HyounJun said that she probably knows someone who knows where to find one. Chelsea said that her sister did. I told HyounJun he should have mentioned that yesterday. HyounJun swore to God that he did. I told HyounJun that when he swears to God, it doesn't mean anything. He laughed. I'm not sure if I was making a joke or not. I'm going to miss him when he's gone. I'm going to miss everyone.

We're careening down hills on our way out of this place, straight back to where we came from. I don't know when I'll be back, if I'll be back. Did I miss something? Will the future hold as much promise as the things I'm leaving behind?

San Fransisco Day 2: A View From the Top

Today was busy. A rush to the head. A thousand images per second as HyounJun and I tried to see everything we could see in a day. I only had a few moments to take in what others were spending the entire day on. Sausalito is nice. The Golden Gate bridge is actually orange ( and smaller than the Bay Bridge). The Palace of Fine Arts is beautiful. Chinatown is busy and frenzied. Japantown is...small. Haight - Ashberry is pretentious and overrated. Pier 39 is overpriced food and too many people. A gallery on Saulsalito was showing the lost art of Dr Seuss. I didn't know this (and apparently a lot of people don't) but he was actually a studio artist in addition to writing children's books. HyounJun had never heard of him. I was explaining the stories to him. Dr Seuss was a surrealist, a social critic, and a poet. The world only knew him as the best writer in the world, for that brief time that we were all growing up. I think Dr Seuss might be my hero. After the natural light had left, and the artificial ones were out, HyounJun and I headed up to Twin Peaks, where we could get a good view of the city lights. This is the part of the story where everyone says that the city lights made them feel like they were looking down at the stars from up in heaven. I don't like being cliche, I'm actually very self conscious about it. I sometimes won't say what I'm thinking/feeling if I think that someone already said it. I think that's probably unhealthy, so I'll be honest, and I'll be damned if it didn't feel like looking down at the stars from up in heaven. Our entire day was spread out in front of me. From the bridges, to the piers, to the streets, each of them buzzing with activity, as tiny people in tiny cars carried about their daily business, oblivious to the fact that we were watching them. People say this is how God must see the world, and that this view from the top is how He is able to love it. Like the scene in Star wars where R2D2 and C3po are escaping from Princess Leia's flagship. As they are flying away from the badly damaged vessel, 3po remarks "Funny, the damage doesn't look as bad from out here." I don't think God sees us this way. Not that He can't look down on what he has made and be proud. There's a lot of cool things out there. But he's in the streets and piers and bridges with us, too. He looks down from the top so he can guide us when we get lost, or distracted by something on the roadside. He sees the larger picture, the box of our puzzle, but he cares for the pieces individually. My camera battery died at the top of the hill, but I didn't care. Showing people pictures of this was useless. I didn't want anyone to think that because they had seen some collection of 1's and 0's on a computer screen that they had seen what I saw that night. HyounJun wanted to go clubbing earlier that night. I have remarked several times how I feel about clubbing, but I would still go with him. He's my Friend. Fortunately he was too tired, and I was glad to make this our last stop. We were spending the night with Chelsea at her home in Marin. The city can be exhausting, but seeing an old friend never disappoints. I a going to sleep tonight, and dream about Heaven, knowing that I have been met while just a tiny person in a tiny car, oblivious to the fact that someone has been watching me. Life will never be perfect, but the damage doesn't look so bad from out here.

San Fransisco Day One: Shorelines/Transitions

I'm going to San Fransisco today. HyounJun and I packed our bags this morning and are currently driving up the coast on highway 1. It's beautiful. Every corner we turn, there's a new picture, a shoreline I have never seen before. The Bible says that God's mercies are new every morning. I swear, one of these days I'm going to remember that for longer than thirty seconds. I keep taking pictures over and over again. They disappoint me. I don't think a picture could capture what I'm looking at. That's the frustrating thing about art, or trying to be an artist. No matter how good you are, nothing compares to the original. So I'll just watch for a while. Pictures are a waste of time here. I'll just save them for when HyounJun and I are posing in front of the Golden Gate Bridge. That's a man made structure. Those are less intimidating to photograph. We are almost out of gas. It's been about 20 miles since we've seen a gas station, and according to the street signs, it will be another 10 miles until we reach any sign of civilization. The warning light is on. HyounJun is worried. I am praying. I don't worry in the same way he does. I have been well provided for. We found a gas station (of course we did), fueled up, and continued. The scenery is beautiful. Beautiful and familiar. The city lights of LA have nothing on the ocean's blue, the green of the trees, and the occasional flashes of yellows, purples, and reds from the flowers on the hills. I was raised here. Why don't I come back more often? Why didn't I notice the beautiful things around me when they were around me? Why do I want to stay on southern California the rest of my life?

There's so much still to see. You can hear it, smell it, almost taste the growth, the energy in the air. Just writing about it is the equivalent of taking a deep breath. I don't want to let it out. Do I belong up here? HyounJun has to pee. I saw a little beach town off to the side of the road. Parking was readily available, and there was a bathroom right at the entrance to the beach. I waited while HyounJun used the bathroom. I walked along the shoreline, taking pictures (silly little boy, trying to copy Daddy's paintings) of this random beach. I had never been there before. I didn't even know where I was. Somewhere between Santa Barbara and Santa Cruz. That's a wide margin. This was something new.

"I want to show you something new."

A voice that came to me, as calm and reassuring as that fermented salt breeze that filled my lungs. It doesn't scare me anymore to hear voices. Not that voice, anyway. It's new and old at the same time. It belongs to me more than my own voice.

"I am still here."

I worry about my life more than I should. I worry about finding community after Intervarsity. I worry about all my friendships dying slowly and painfully. I also worry about being attacked by sharks at the pool. Pool sharks. Haha. That's a different story, though. I never really thought that I'd been worrying about that voice not following me into the next phase of my life. But I did, and when I heard it again, I knew I shouldn't have. It was the one constant in my life, that thing that never left my side, and now it was closer than it had ever been before, like a hand on my shoulder. No, like a hand inside my own.

Northern California is beautiful, and I'm glad I got to see so much of it, but it's not the place where I fell in love with Jesus. It's not the place where he continues to use me. This shoreline is like a love letter. A beautiful reminder that I'll always keep, but I would trade in a thousand like it for one glimpse of His face. My home is the space between his hand and mine, growing smaller every day. Someday close enough to touch. The earth is yours, and everything in it. It is all that I can do to wait along your shorelines to walk with you, and feel your wind at my ear, your hand inside my hand. Where you will have me wait for you. That will be my home.

Ducks and Humans

I kicked a duck today. I was in the park. I kicked a duck in the park today. I was sitting on the edge of the lake, trying to figure out what had happened to me over the past 23 years, when a large pile of ducks plopped up on the shore. It looked like they were in a huddle of some sort, like pictures I've seen of rugby players. It made me smile at first. Ducks are kind of cute, you know. They kept pecking at something in the middle of their little circle. I was curious, so I went over to see what it was. It was a female duck. It must be mating season. When ducks have sex, it isn't cute. It's probably the least cute thing they do. They have to grab the female by the back of the neck, and stand up on top of her. It looks like it hurts. I think I was right, because this female was trying as hard as she could to get away. She couldn't, though, because she had to fight off so many. There were about 10 male ducks on top of her. She broke loose and made it to the water but they caught up with her again, They were holding her under water. I don't think she could breathe, and it seemed like the other ducks didn't care. They dragged her up on the shore again, and I could see that most of the fight was out of her, but she was still struggling. They kept pecking at her, and I could see that the feathers were gone from the back of her neck, and her head was bleeding. My God, they are going to kill her.

People have always said of me that I am more emotionally involved with most things than I should be. That's probably true, and I think I proved it today. I couldn't just sit there and watch these ducks kill another duck just because they were horny, so I got up, and tried to scare them off her. They all scattered instantly, except for one guy. He was probably captain of the duck football team or something. Douche bag. Duck bag? I don't know. I kicked him. I kicked him square in the stomach, and he went flying. She got away, and got a serious head start. He and his crew caught up with her on the other side of the lake, where I assume he got what he wanted, since the struggling stopped.

I'm an idiot, really. Appointing myself chancellor of duck rape prevention. And failing. I guess I really don't know what else to do. Ducks aren't really that cute after all. They remind me of humans in far too many ways. I wish...

I don't know what I wish. I guess I just wish I didn't feel so close to all this mess. Human beings aren't really that much better at relationships than ducks. I can see some of them across the shore, flapping their wings in the air with their chests puffed out. I used to think that was cute. Arrogant bastards.

Old vs. Home (the difference between giving up and letting go)

I made a playlist of depressing songs today. Just a list of every song I've ever heard that has made me feel like crying. 76 songs. Over 3.5 hours later, and all I can think is that I cry too much. Or no one else cries enough. One way or the other, I'm just a person with a lot of feelings, and they don't always fit inside me, so they have to come out. This is one of those feelings. It's been inside me for a long time, so...be warned.

When I was little, I cried a lot. Not, I don't cry so much. It's not because life got easier, but more because I got tired of crying about everything. So, I stopped. One day, I just said to myself enough, boys don't cry, and I stopped. There was this Element 101 song called "The Fragile" that I lived in high school, because it was just so true to how I felt about life.Thee were these lyrics that kept repeating on my head over and over again. "When you shut the door/ And lay yourself on the floor/ That's how you know/ That's when you know that you're old./" Don't slow down. Don't give up. Don't close the door. Don't lay on the floor. That will be the end of you. I carried that philosophy most of my life. Never show any weakness and never admit that you're tired. I put up a good fight for a long time. I didn't lay down on the floor, but I was tired. I started crying again this last year. I just couldn't hold up that front any longer. It's amazing how different it is when you don't have to fight alone. When your friends can wipe your tars, and hug you and pray for you. Putting up a brave front never seemed so stupid to me in my life. Maybe Element 101 was wrong. Maybe it's better to be old.

I was at the beach this last Friday with my friends. I was going to graduate from college the next day. My family was going to visit me at the beach. The two worlds that rarely come together. As I sat on the beach, worshiping God with my friends, and anticipating the long overdue arrival of my family, I laid myself on the floor of the beach, and stared up at the sky. The stars stood out like pins holding this giant quilt of space up like a canopy of protection over me. The ocean breeze, mixed with the laughter of familiar friends was the closest to the voice of God that I have ever heard.

"This is how I know.../"

My family came up and surprised me from behind, and I hugged each of them as family deserves to be hugged. I needed a moment to soak all this in. This was not giving up. This is what I had been waiting for, and missing all along.

I just listened to that Element 101 song again, and it's really funny how your attitude can really color your perspective. That lyric, the one that had been playing in my head forever was wrong. Those weren't the words at all.

"When you shut the door/ And lay yourself on the floor/ That's how you know/ That's when you know that you're home./"

The door is closed, and I am laying on the ground. I am home.

Steve the Tomato

I have an uncle named Steve, and he looks like a tomato. He's a big round guy. He's not just fat, his belly pokes out of his body like he's pregnant with triplets. And he's not the jiggly, jolly type of fat, he's just round. Big and round. Even his gums are big and round. They overlap the edge of his teeth like silly putty. His skin is bright red. Red like a...yeah, like a tomato. Honestly, it's like he got really sunburned one day, and then decided he liked that color, and kept his skin in a constant state of burn. I can't really take him seriously, because every time I see him, the theme from VeggieTales plays in my head.

I don't really get along with my uncle, and it doesn't have anything to do with the fact that he looks like a human vegetable (I mean fruit). He's kind of in a cult. If any of my CSUF peeps have had any run ins with the campus group "Christian Students", you'll know what I mean. He's with them. Some of the things that he believes are just so strange to me, and I find myself embarrassed by him sometimes, especially because he claims that his beliefs are not cultish but a truer interpretation of Christianity. Beyond that, he is sooooo stubborn. I once had a conversation with him for over a half hour about a stupid game of poker. He was so obviously wrong, and everyone in the room knew it, but I guess he thought that if he didn't admit defeat he would still be right somehow. This mentality carries over into every aspect of his life. My mom won't even talk to him anymore. My mother is the sweetest, most forgiving and patient person in the world (She's married to my Dad, enough said) and SHE gave up on him. Often enough, I wonder why my aunt Claudia even married him. I guess maybe he was attractive at one point. That, however, is now gone, and he is just this big, stubborn...tomato of a man.

I guess the point of all this really made sense to me this last weekend. My cousin Becky got married last weekend (the day of my graduation), so the whole family packed into three cars and headed out to the sweltering heat of San Bernadino, to go to a crazy cult wedding. Actually, the service wasn't that bad, and the man who is marrying my cousin seems like a nice, mentally stable man. I really didn't expect that. I saw my uncle across the room at the reception, and as he crossed over to say his hellos, I prepared myself to make small talk that didn't involve theology, poker, or fruits that everyone thinks are vegetables. Fortunately, I had a lot of material to talk about, with recent family developments and all. Steve came up, shook my hand, and told me how excited he was to see two more weddings in the family (My sister and my brother) coming up this summer. "All my children are finally married," he said. "So, I guess you're next." I had to laugh (It's better than the other option). I am incurably single, you see. Beyond that, I had just received a bachelor's degree that morning. Marriage at this point would simply be false advertising. I tried to explain this to my uncle, but I mentioned before how stubborn he is. He stopped me in the middle. "Listen," he said. "All you need to do is find a woman that loves the Lord." "Oh crap," I thought. "He wants to talk about God." I further explained that while, yes, that is the top priority, there are other factors to consider, such as compatibility, and common interests. The whole time, he was shaking his head at me. "The only reason anyone can ever get along is the resurrection," he replied, in his all-too-sure-of-himself preacher voice. He put his hand on my shoulder. For a man who walks around with such a glazed over look on his face, Steve has a pretty strong grip. I'll never forget what he said to me. "Take the advice of a loser who somehow made it thirty seven years. I slipped on a banana peel in the first round, and somehow made it up again. and now, look at all of this." He spread his arms out and pointed to the corners of the room, where his wife, his children, and grandchildren were sitting, laughing and playing around. "If I can make it," he said, "You can make it."

I'm not really the type of person who gets super depressed about being single. Not anymore, at least. I figure I'll probably someday meet someone really cool, who has poor taste in men, and we'll go from there. And if not, oh well. Life's too short to waste it complaining and feeling sorry for yourself. And I've been given so much, what right do I have to complain anyway? Even still, I can't deny I was a little jealous of uncle Steve, and what God had given him that night. I wonder what it would feel like to be a husband, then father, then grandfather. He's been those things for longer than I've been alive. I don't think my uncle has the scriptures completely correct. Not by a long shot. Even still, if you look at all that God has given him, and his attitude about receiving it, you cant help but wonder. Maybe God loves my uncle as much as he loves me.

Oh, and I can be pretty stubborn too.

Basslines and Bible Belts

I went to a club last Saturday. I don't normally go clubbing, but I'm not one of those people who thinks that clubbing is inherently evil. Sure, there are lots of things you could do at a club that would come back to haunt you, but mostly it's just a bunch of people dancing around and trying to look cool. I don't really get what the big deal is, but I went anyway.

Clubs are dark. The people who go to clubs are cool. They look cool, at least. Maybe they look cool because of how dark it is. When it's dark, you can kind of be whatever you want. You could say that you are everything you ever wished you were. Who would know that you're not? No one. You're unbelievably cool, until the light comes on. My friend saw someone she knew outside of the club. He tried to hit on her. He didn't realize yet that we were outside of the club and we could see him. He wasn't cool anymore. It's weird. there's these bright flashes of light that come from strobes and these video screens they had up. When they go off, you can see everything as it is, for just a second. Everyone trying so hard. Trying hard to be seen, but not fully. To be only seen as a shadow, because the light ruins the illusion of their existence. Of what their existence has been fabricated to be. It struck me last night that people want to hide, but they need to be seen. They need to be known for who they are, not the dressed up, sexualized, super slick, slightly drunk version of themselves that they have grown to prefer. People need brief flashes of light to remind them of who they truly are. It's not good enough just to be known, though. You have to be loved, with the lights on, wearing your messy clothes, putting your hair into a sloppy bun. Just as you are. I realized last night that no one ever told the girls in that club any of those things. They know that they have to hide, or be alone, and the flashes of light only hurt their eyes.

It's a sad thing that I've seen. People who would choose the darkest corners of the room over breif flashes of light, because they do not know. They are not known.