Vintage: Back in the States (January 2009)

Dulles in late December was like the first day waking up after a long illness. My head was just coming back to earth after my sinuses teetered on the brink of seeming implosion during the six hour transatlantic flight. American flags in the sunset were familiar and foreign, like childhood memories of places and smells I don't remember remembering.

Three days on the edge of Amish country with my best friend from 6th grade, at least four lifetimes ago. Anathello sounds and Mrs. Goebbels murdering her children. The world is falling apart with such pained beauty. But not here, there is redemption; Wal-Mart has a buggy barn.

The Philly airport security line is a security nightmare. Huge glass window overlooked by the parking garage, lines stretched along the length of it. Someone should change that. Monotone cheery voices explaining how you could make a shoe-sole out of plastic explosives. I spent New Year's in a hotel run by Indian college students in Sacramento by myself. I woke up at 4am and skyped, showered, returned to the airport and headed south, where San Diego seemed out of context. Point Loma's beautiful scope and scape, I was trying to capture the sound of the waves in caverns, the spray as it flew into the air. Dutch Blitz with Megan and family. Pelicans, massive Sea Lions, bottle-nosed windsock modern art dolphins. I was trying to capture the pulse of change, the person in the mirror and my family. My mother saw the first whale spout and told me I should move on and settle down. This seems impossible. Later, wearing paths in the grass in Live Oak Park like old friends falling apart with collected voices and broken hearts. A hug for closure at the harbor. 

Yosemite was an echo of Prague cathedrals, tourism and tangible space, sacred juxtaposed with the flash of digital cameras and foreign languages. Half dome helped pine columns hold up a quiet blue sky fading to veils of mist and twilight. I could see God there but I couldn't hear him. Hushed pines and snow, potraits through ice, and quiet water falls.

Skipping stones on the Bear with Liz. The gang told 12-year old Dania they were gonna take her out of that Guatamala home dead or alive. She fell asleep on my sister's shoulder, still holding her hand, Christmas eve facing who knows what future. Liz said she would've stayed there if she didn't have us back here. Stayed in community, in a place where two languages would be needed to be understood. I understood that. Dropping stepping stones across the river in front of us. Futures are changing. Everything will change. My brother says he's staying here. Black bean soup and crazy music, August Rush, and at 2am lights out my dad's in the living room singing silence. I try to join him on guitar but he's in a different key, and then we sing songs that no one here in Norcal remembers, because they weren't there in the youth group in Pensacola. My mom asks for Overwhelmed. Yeah, that's about right. We're still waiting on foreclosure.

Jen in Pensacola wanted that song too. Mikey and I stayed up studying Hebrews and I was at home for the fourth time since last semester, with another one of my families, this one debt-free. I forgot that he speaks my family's language. "And you know what else, I've never liked your spinach puffs!" Bedtime conversations on the politics of Med School and marriage. This is still home but everyone has changed, perhaps me most of all. High school faces out of context, people I recognize but didn't talk to then and don't talk to now in other lives, other worlds. JK in the living room, Carnival of the Animals on youtube and some banjo. 12 miles on rollerblades, fried green tomatoes, Vietnamese Salty Plum drink, and finally a Starbucks on the third try. Two long walks with brothers, Old Catholic and "I'm not really sure but I'm open." Broken and damaged people still live. We're all broken. Mom with a husband in prison for a second time, pressing charges. Or chopped blond hair and a divorce at 21. And yet we are still so much more. Jacob with his bum hip and bag of tricks. And God's still leading Him. 21 years working for a manipulative uncle and a skull of stone. I complete my ensayo on La memoria, la identidad, y la metaficción for Spanish Historical Memory at Aberdeen in the Atlanta airport on five hours sleep. Last bit of work for the term. Closure.

I started this trip by missing an Amtrak in DC and they put me on a bus instead. Fitting that I should be 10 minutes late in Fort Worth, so I can see another friend. Public trans, rice and weenies, and the Dallas Greyhound station til 5am. This is the only place homeless people have asked me for food instead of money. Man trying to get back to New Orleans to find some closure I reckon. Worldviews, philosophies, hurt. Soldier on his way to see an old friend and escape the memories. Kissed a young Mexican girl he'd never seen before: "Not sure why I did that." "I can't let this go."

It was halfway through my first class when I arrived in Norman. Lady from the Pink Elephant picked me up from the bus stop and gave me a ride to campus. "Wonder if the inauguration's still going on." She pops on the radio and "I, Barack Obama, do solemnly swear..." I put on my headphones and sit on the south oval and wait, the First Single "you know me." 

The next day I accidently got a job instead of my room keys. Walked into the wrong office. Cool beans. Broke Nathan's bike pedal with a backpack full of beans. Classes. German, Russian, English. Seguiendo Ché through South America at Audrey's. I feel alienated and yet so excited, so at home, especially at my church, the Stone. Friday night my life is compartmentalized into three minute pizza timer intervals punctuated by thoughtful walks in the cold and my customer service voice on the phone. Mops. Skype talks, emotions, and attempts at closure. Reopening old friendships, dropping and adding classes. Pained silence.

Ice storm interrupted transition. Sliding snow frisbee. Dutch Blitz in Herrick. Am I gonna graduate? The world is falling apart, but not here. Economic hitmen and white terrorism make sure that happens elsewhere, like Panama. The train rolling down from OKC spewed a haze of snow into the air as Hoppípola played, and I swayed to New Soul as my hands froze. Finally caught up on Lost. Cain's salsa como deja vu and talks with my roomie. 330am I'm looking at teaching English in Russia. How far is St. Petersburg from St. Ericksplan? Plans. Kelsey's talking about modern day slavery and law degrees. I'm talking about modern day slavery and justice with a friend in India. Skyping 'bout families and injuries and honours degrees with my friends from Germany. I received an e-mail from my Irish professor that was tagged with Glen Hansard. But the associations there are too stretched to explain. "Take this sinking boat and point it home, we've still got time."

"Take this sinking boat and point it home." I got about twelve skips on one stone, and I told Liz that I was gonna quit while I was ahead. I've dropped my heart into so many people, so many places, but I can't seem to drop a dream or a class. Bored and busy. I looked both ways when I crossed the street, first the British way, then the American way. All this was subconscious. But she changed my mind. I threw another stone in the stream. I'm still confused, don't know where I'm going. Home? Yeah God, wherever you lead.

Vintage: Summer News Flashes (not to be confused with hot flashes) (Aug 2008)

Apparently the Bunny Messiah has come and gone. I'm not sure what this means for us humans, but my friend Gina had a rabbit named Sammy who was born on Christmas and died on Easter. The most interesting thing about this is that I'm certain the bunny anti-Christ has already come...although I can't really decide if it's the little white rabbit from Monty Python or the Easter bunny. The theological implications are endless, but needless to say the salvation of our furry friends is hanging in the balance.

Speaking of apocalyptic visions, I went to the beach in California...apparently it was a nude beach, and the guys were the fattest people I'd ever seen. I was about to make a sarcastic comment when my sister told me they were actually elephant seals.

Alexa rocks my flip-flops. I know this because she told me so and then wrote it in the dust on our van in Mexico. I'm not really sure "rocking one's flip flops" means. I mean, everybody rocks socks...though, then again, I'm not really sure what that means either. I could understand if we were talking about rocking our socks off. But then I still don't understand why you'd be so hard on a rocking chair, unless you were having a serious crisis or had just drank two monsters. (By the way, is anyone else disturbed by the concept of energy drinks with zero calories that say “do not give to young children?”) Rocking chairs remind me of this Atlanta Braves coach who would sit in the dugout rocking back and forth all game, every game.

And just when it looked like the Braves' season couldn't get any worse, Russia has recently invaded Georgia. Or more precisely, they've invaded the ungovernable part of Georgia that wants to defect from Georgia, plus the other half of the country that's nearby. I guess that must be the area around Atlanta, cuz I can't imagine revolution in Savannah, not after what Sherman did. Go home Russia! Georgia belongs to the U.S!

But if the Georgians are gonna defect again, I think California should secede from the Union too. We should probably wait until Bush leaves office though, because I don't want to be blown into the Pacific. Anyway, the main reasons I think this is important is that 1)Arnold Schwarzenegger could be president. 2)We could put Arnie on the 20 dollar bill. 3)Becoming a separate country from the U.S. would allow for the IMF to come in and help us with our state government's spending problems. 

And the gold for cutest Olympian goes to...Shelly Ann Fraser, the Jamaican girl who won the 100m. Killer smile that won't stop smiling + braces = unbeatable. In second, we have Shawn Johnson with the Silver. 4'9"...sixteen years old. She just looks like she's out there having fun...and then she does four consecutive backflips on a balance beam without readjusting her feet. 

And although I know my masculinity might be questioned over my choice for bronze, Usain Bolt's little pose and chest bump as he strutted across the finish line in world record time was too cute to not get a nod. (GEEZ DUDE! YOU COULD'VE OBLITERATED THE WORLD RECORD, BUT INSTEAD YOU PULLED UP WITH 30 METERS TO GO! I guess he wants to make things sporting, so he can break the world record again later.) Here's your bronze medal, Mr. Bolt.

That's a wrap. Not like a shawl, but like one of those cheesy chicken things in a warm tortilla...aahh. Which is what I think we should give the Russians to pacify them. I mean, I'd be cold and belligerent too if all I didn't get some good Mexican-American food occasionally. Let's just not start the Cold/Civil War II, okay guys? I want to be able to visit St. Petersburg someday, and Tbilisi too if it's still around. 

Seriously. Peace. Out.

Pishkyekistan

I've decided to resort to humour as a means of survival.   Six months here in the third world.  Consider this my plea for marriage...I mean, help.  Sorry about that Freudian banana, people here seem to consider the two terms, help and marriage, synonymous.  I'm trying to make the best of life, but people here don't even know what tacos are.

"Not just no, HELL no."  That's what my amazing and cranky English teacher used to say.  Can anyone help me with a Russian translation?  My future wife will thank you. 

What do you say to a kid who looks depressed about YOUR love life, like you were an ideal person until he figured out you have commitment issues or I don't know, haven't lived in one place for more than 9 months in the last four years?  Fo' rizzle.

So seriously people, the third world:  this is how it works.  There's the first world, i.e., the USA, i.e., We're number one, didn't you watch the Olympic basketball tournament?  There's the second world, which consists of Europe, Australia, and Canada.   You know, 2nd best, like, you would be cool if you provided the world with more quarterbacks and weapons of war, but you're kinda sissy.  Then there's the fourth world:  that would be like Russia, China, and all those other upstarts who think they're better than the United States.  And the fifth world, wherein a pending US or French invasion or airstrike is imminent...places like Mali, North Korea, Montana, and Iran.  And then there's everyone else:  i.e., here.

According to the CIA, the average person here makes like $1,000 a year.  I don't think the CIA accounts for goats and horses though.  Oh, that's something you should know, people have a horse fetish here.  The national drink is Komuz, which is alcoholic mare's milk.  I would tell you that I have tried horsemeat here, except that it's too expensive--it's for rich people, i.e., not me. 

In the 1st world, I would be making like 20 times what I make here teaching.  Recently one of my friends tried to pitch me a nice social worker job, that would be making 1/10th of what I make now.  So I don't have it so bad, I mean, really, if I could make $200 a month extra giving plasma like I did in Oklahoma, I'd be set.  I should ask our American neighbors about that.

Yeah, the airport.  My first sight when I came here was a fleet of US Air Force C-17s.  Somebody in foreign relations here is a real clever guy.  This country's largest profits come under the auspices of a Canadian gold mining company.  The people here like revolting, they were on the streets in the fall trying to get the gold company nationalized.  However, I think the lack of gobs of wealth is probably healthy, and the reason we don't have a dictatorship like every other country in the region.  Anyways, so the country's elite institutions of higher learning are American and Turkish--although there's also Korean, German, and European-funded private schools.  Larger companies with foreign investment are mostly Turkish and Russian.  And best of all, we rent out air force bases to the Russians and the Americans, while the Chinese are building our first real freeway across our Eastern border straight to the capital.  Can you say World War III?   Well, probably, except for the fact, that only the Kazakhs care about horses that much, and they're much too busy swimming in oil money and taking bribes to care.

What is living in the uncivilized world like?  If only words could describe.  Occasionally, cows get mixed up in traffic.  The people are revolting.  The other day we were at school and there was rioting downtown.  The teachers were like "hmm...maybe another revolution?" before taking another sip of tea and proceeding to check their "Odnaklassniki" accounts.  (It's like Vkontakte, the awesome Russian Facebook, only much worse...worse than Myspace even.)

If there is one thing that speaks to the barbarism of this place though, it's the smoking.  Seriously people, who you do you think you are, James Dean?  Ugh, I haven't inhaled this much second-hand smoke since I dual-enrolled at the University of West Florida.  About three times a week I want to walk up to a cute girl and say "you'd be gorgeous without that cigarette."  I'm thinking I should try it, just to see if it works as a pick-up line, I could solve the country's problems and all my personal problems if things went well.  I figure if marriage will solve all my problems, why stop after the first one?

Speaking of James Dean, men here wear two colours:  blue jeans and black jackets.  Anything not brown, black or blue jean, everyone stares.  I'm thinking the next time I go to the United States I will purchase my friend Tim's wardrobe.  Tim has a different color pair of pants for every day of the week--salmon, red, turquoise, green--I feel like, somebody needs to convince the men of this country to allow for some variance in appearance.  Vo ob-shey. (Which means "Fo' Rizzle," in Russian).

Anyways, as far as I can tell, the other thing that's a dead giveaway you're in the third world is that everyone thinks their life will be better if they could only move to Los Angeles or Manhattan.  I.E., they haven't seen the Jersey Shore, they've never sat in traffic for five hours, they've never seen a Manhattan apartment ad ($$$$), and their musical literacy is so low they don't realize how awesome it would be to live in Brooklyn.  One of my students turned in the lyrics to "Whistle" by Flo Rida as a homework assignment.  If this had been New Jersey, that would've been a dirty joke and the kid probably would've asked if anyone wanted to perform oral on him after class.  My student, however, remains blissfully ignorant.  None of my friends here know that Mumford and Sons, Florence and the Machine, Lecrae, Josh Garrels, Ellie Goulding, or Jenny and Tyler (i.e., all my favourite bands right now) even exist.  They probably think Sufjan Stevens is a new age guru.   But everyone knows what dubstep and Gangnam style are...

Anyways, what I'm thinking is that I should start my own local business empire:  first, I'd open an indie record label and a Mexican restaurant.  Then I'd start a secret society that would burn all black and brown clothes in the nation, causing severe shock and eventually another revolution.  With James Dean as my holographic puppet president (Hey, they brought back Tupac.), I would outlaw cigarettes.  My propaganda machine would extol the merits of Sufjan Stevens, publish my poetry as mandatory reading for university students, invent a new religion that involves watching westerns, and last but most importantly, show foreigners talking about how the main reason that Pishkyekistan is a horrible place to live is that local people believe that it's a horrible place to live and can't wait to leave and won't leave English-speaking eligible bachelors alone in their headphoned Florence and Machine paradise, but instead ask you a million times a day if you miss America and if you've heard of Flo Rida or 50 Cent. 

"Well, actually, what I miss is having friends, which is what you would be if you realized that I don't have a visa-stamping machine in my apartment and that I'm not interested in you hooking me up with someone who doesn't know who Marcus Mumford is."   Oi vey everybody.  Vo ob-SHEY.

Vintage: Diary of a Klutz (July 2008)

I like to think of it as Animal Magnetism. I attract danger, like Jason Bourne or Vin Diesel. I have skills, like Jet Li or Martha Stewart. When ordinary folks would fall down on the wet floor in the KFC kitchen, I just slide on by because I have fallen down on ice enough times that I know how to walk without traction.

I like to think of it as keeping other people on their toes. You didn't expect me to drop that dime out the drive-through, did you? Are you the kind of person who will open your door and get out of your car right in front of the window? Or will you coolly dismiss such small change with a wave of your paw? That's right, I'm an also an excellent judge of character.

So when I see two guys coming after me, one with a water hose and one with a bucket full of water, I know it's time to run. And running is one of those skills that one picks up with Animal Magnetism. (Like a magnet picks up paper clips.)

Except not so much, cuz I tripped and sprained my foot, spent the next day in the ER, and have missed work for almost a week now.

Which brings me to a sub-note:

Tips for Making an Impression in Youth Ministry

Tip 1: Make it challenging. Don't just let them catch you and soak you without a fight.

Tip 2: Make your first time memorable. Don't just hang out, get injured.

Tip 3. Make it sporting the next time around. Just because they think you'll be an easy target on crutches doesn't mean you should let them soak you without a fight.

End sub-note.

So I've been on crutches lately. And yes, high-schoolers find strange glee in chasing down and drenching people on crutches. (Honestly, I thought it was hilarious, though part of me still can't believe they did it.)

But that's okay, when you have my kind of Animal Magnetism, you get crutch skills. And that's why I was playing dodgeball and tackling flights of stairs in search of buried treasure on Friday night; and mud-wrestling elephant seals, eating pirozhki, and walking miles along the California coast on Saturday, all on crutches. (Well, except eating pirozhki...that I did on my fat butt.)

Okay, so I might have put the crutches aside to play dodgeball, and the Elephant Seal mud-wrestling was more a…spiritual battle than a physical one. But with my Animal Magnetism, it was quite the fight.

Vintage: Abril In Fragments: Rivers, Communist Pigs, time is passing (stay in right lane) (Apr 2009)

Lost? Put back the stars. Is time a stream or spaghetti? A passing train? Poor Daniel Faraday.

My mum sends me a message for the future: learn how to be friends.

Future: Mexico. Go. No. Swine Flu. Danged pigs.

Pigs underneath iconic capitalist costumes of the 50s dancing on stage. The priest gassing the people with the sign of the cross (opiates?). Christmas gifts, two gas masks, but the third box is poison gas. (Of) Montreal might be communist, and their keyboardist looks like Nicole. I eat my first hamburger of the semester I think I'll pass.

In Central Europe 1989 communist Totalitarianism is passing away. Protesters oust government in ten days. Solidarity. And I think that MEP's charge that the EU is for peace makes sense and that's why it's important to incorporate the "east" to prevent a interwar repeat failures of democracy. Extremist parties play on fears. In Bulgaria, revolution was anti-Turkish civil rights. Yay democracy.

Catching Second Wind sing Chicago Mr. John Calvin all things grow, old friends: Alana, Audrey, Stephen; new friends: Lyssa with a red scarf curled into pigtails, Jazz, Sam.

Saxophone follow the grey cat in circles like time spaghetti and sit on dry fountains where the stream holds for a while. Beatbox down the South Oval, keeping time: Modern Music (might be communist).

Sing On Fire with David (Oh, and friend Mr. Stokes too, he's a good lad). Sing on Fire in Crossroads for Corey (Solidarity?). Sing On Fire in the dirt in Mexico. Sing On Fire again this fall with the leaves.

When we meet, we are passing each other, striders on the stream. "I'm standing on the edge of me."

Be prepared. ("I've got horns that open bottles and I've got horns that hold my keys." ) For what?

Are you leaving? Kelsey is leaving. Stop taking people for granted. Call Justin, Liz, and Laura. Call Mikey.

I know at least five Lauras. In April we talked about Mexico for quite some time, met on the South Oval, had lunch by the duck pond, gave awkward hugs, and said hello in British accents, respectively.

I also know four Ryans: in April we facebooked frequently, planned to go to Mexico and lead VBS games, jammed out at Youth, and missed planning another game night.

One Ryan and one Laura didn't recognize me for like a week after I shaved.

I know a couple of James Metelaks.

Talk to your mother. This would be better to do before you talk to any females. And sort your own crap (But thank you Maja, for listening anyway).

Pick up the phone, pick up the remnants of a broken house. The walls will have to be torn down. Trash littered around the yard: shelf mushrooms growing on a shovel. Foolish words littered around. I saved the little bicycle, but which of the two seats is the one missing? My bike is broken. Twice, same problems: brakes, back wheel needs replaced. Similarly I find myself making the same mistakes. On my way to Target Stephanie saves me a trip, Rachel saves me a back wheel, and Bepo gives me a bike. Thank you.

Keep sowing kindness, love. But why is darkest Africa a symbol of poverty? Let us give ourselves to feed the hungry. Jamie is getting married and they'll wear green beads.

Trisagion at youth, a service of songs and liturgies. Contrast. Jack Bruno Rachel Soldier Boy dancing. Contrast. College decisions, pros and cons. Eli is posing on top of his jeep. Heath has the stinky leg down. The Backstreet Boys have shown up in Creative Non-Fiction on faith, Jack's car, and nostalgic musings. Basketball with the neighbor kids; Rahhal helps a little guy dunk while Chad trash talks a guy half his size. "The losers have to jump in the pool. It's full of mud." Chicken nuggets, lemonade, frisbee and ice cream.

I have moved hundreds of cases of ice cream in the last month. It's like Tetris. If you ever work at Braum's, ask people at the checkout what they did during their day. Don't just ask them how they're doing, they'll just say fine. If you do ask the right questions, you might meet 3 law students, 5 GAs from different countries, hear two World War II stories and numerous interesting jobs, and a man might mention he seen "everything but the dead raised" when it comes to healing.

And when Boluwaji (sp?) talks about the whole gospel, I can almost believe. But when Greg came we had a dental student look at his jaw and when Greg sang he didn't because it was locked up, but his violin can still sing. I'm still praying and remembering the man in Glasgow (full of communists) on a stretcher.

Sleeping at last. No, not so much. I try to write the pain, but it could never be just to the people involved. I spend my days remembering alternating every breath between past, present, future--my nights doing homework. I have much farther to go. If you love let her go plays as you write a letter. My mother points out that I have a tendency to never live the now. I go a week a without showering, but it keeps raining. Have dinner with and walk with Tim. Sit on the South Oval with Katie and Sarah and watch clouds pass by.

"To clear this clouded mind" I walked down two creeks to the river and picked up my biannual case of poison ivy. "Feed the roots and honor the tongues of the animals." Bullfrog tadpoles, Carl, I thought I saw a turtle disappear, but I know I didn't, however, there's gotta be some magic in turtles' on a high dive, in frogs who remain unseen until they leap out in front of me. Hawks and egrets are omens, but for good or for ill I cannot tell. It looks like I'm staying here until I have more money in my account. I walk to the island and try to sleep with my toes in the river. "Pooling all accounts of peace while passed beneath the canopy glow." The sun burns. We will pass. Slipping under fences, staying out past curfew, breaking the Sabbath for rock music because I feel I have nothing left to say to You, and there is no peace there.

Should I sell my stuff? That's what I preached on April 6th. The early church might have been communist. Greg (Toffee Crunch) sometimes I feel like you're the only one of us revolutionaries trying to live it, despite your mistakes and theologies. I'm still trying to write mine but it came out all wrong. Steven said so and I think he was right. The son of man has no place to rest his head, and I have nothing to give, (solidarity?) and I hope, Greg, that he holds you then if you lose your place.

I'm trying to find mine, Habitat for Humanity? My mom insisted I find one, so I'm living with Nathan for now. Funny-looking kid, he's a brick. We walked down the culvert on Tuesday before we went to the Gazebo where Brittney sang "You won't Relent" and it's been stuck in my head ever since. Please don't God. I sang Overwhelmed which carried me back to the living room in January worship with my parents which carried me back to youth in Pensacola. Does anyone else remember With Every Breath? "Throw your hands to the sky."

I tried to catch the monarch butterfly between the blue and the bricks. The river rolls down Elm and the rain it keeps coming down. The lightning fried Kelsey's surge protector and I had a lovely Easter brunch with some storm chasers. We will pass.

"You can sing a new song." Come what May (or June, July, or August): Austin, Edinburgh, Arizona, Lithuania, Foreclosure, Finals papers, Dallas, Mexico City, Chicago, Paul's Valley, Cal Poly, Divorce, St. Petersburg, Hong Kong, Russian Tanks, Record Labels, Pennsylvania, Oxford, Vancouver, Yokota, The Air Force, Kenya, New Hampshire, Ensenada. For now, for once, I'll be the one staying here. Happy trails friends. :) Go in peace.

Vintage: Landscaping: Fighting for Civilization at a Grassroots Level (Apr 2010)

Self: Ok, James, no Lost until after you've done your taxes.
James: BUT SELF!!! There's only five episodes left!! And Desmond's back and separated from his beloved Penny by his wicked father-in-law!!
Self: Nope, not until you've done your taxes...
James: *Sigh*...ok, what about facebook notes?

On the outer edges of civilization...Weeding is pretty much the futile process of taking the natural prolific, beautiful, and often edible plants out of the flower beds long enough for a picture. "Why bother?" you ask? Well, cuz it pays good, and I'm not about to question the lifestyles of rich people. (Well, besides those King Charles Spaniels...That I will question...they're SO ugly once they grow up...but everybody's got one, so you have to have one too.) Anyway, a dayful of weeding is tough work...it's hard keeping suburbia safe. But luckily for Lands-cape-a-man, you can always munch on some clover, dandelion, or if lucky, some mint...or if you're not so lucky, you can always chew on pine needles (but watch out for hemlock...that would be a mistake, Socrates)

On the outer edges of civilization...is there an Echo in here? Maybe it's in my head (Oh crap, Gollum just ate the mousy one. Gollum: Dids not, precious! Self: Whatever.) Echo has like 50 personalities in her head. Virginia Creeper and eggplant! Talk about creepy.

Speaking of personalities, I want to create a fictional gardener who uses plant names as exclamations and give him a grand adventure.

A public service announcement: So many of you have probably stopped wondering about my future plans because they've changed so many times (Jumping Snapdragons, is that kid ever gonna make up his mind?). My current plan is to deal with those nasty hobbitses...I mean, to volunteer in a homeless youth shelter and then hope I get transferred to a country ending in -éxico, -onduras, -mala, or -Ick! A RAGUA! (Rodents Always Goring Umbrella-carrying Adolescents...I don't think they exist) So if I do that, the next time past July I'll be free is in 2012, about a month before the world ends. I'll be 25.

A public service announcement: On turning 25, my life plan is to get a golden retriever, name her Mandy, and take a binding oath of no kissy-kissy or marriage or dating for the rest of my life. Then I'll write her love songs and become a wealthy crooner. I know it's been done before, but that's exactly why I know it can be done! Then all the single ladies will wish they'd proposed to me sooner, but it will be too late, because I will have eyes only for my beloved Mandy. And because the world will end that month.

The world is changing. People are graduating and moving on. People are getting married. Luckily for me though, all of my friends are avoiding women like the plague that they are.

Although I'm not sure why the world is ending, I think it has something to do with the Mayans and my sister's evil plot at world domination. A word to the wise: don't move your tulips to Nicaragua in the next two years, that's where she's starting her evil empire! (William Walker tried and failed, but Liz will make it work)

Speaking of evil plots of world domination, I've discovered that there is a much worse corporation than Wal-Mart out there. It's called the WTO. Well, that was what I wrote my capstone about, no but seriously, I'm talking about the drug cartels. Iin Mexico college students and buses and random people on the street are getting shot, killed, maimed, etc, around the border and beyond all because Americans really like their cocaine and heroin and marijuana. This has gotten to the point where it has seriously undermined the authority of the Mexican government in some areas, and thousands of innocent people are dying. Frankly, I'm appalled at my country. But I've found the solution! On my flight back on the customs form, I realized that if I just get a government job for another country, I can forfeit my United States citizenship! What do they call the KGB now? Do you know if they're accepting applications?

Speaking of evil plots of world domination, the Rossum corporation...Echo...umm...security guards...man, I never saw that one coming. So I'm going through immigration at DFW and the dude is SO obnoxious. He's like where'd you go? I'm like Mexico. What'd ya do? Volunteer. With a group from the states? No, with locals. Am I gonna find drugs if I look in your bag downstairs? No. And then the worst part is, he lets me go...he doesn't bother to check my story (I had 50 pages of journaling and 600 pictures) or anything, just passive-aggressively decides he's scared me enough. Then they took my ham sandwich away in customs. :( 

Maybe it's all the Clancy novels I read growing up, but I'm always kinda insulted when people consider me a terrorist threat or feel they need to take something for other people's airplane safety. Every time, I'm always thinking, you know, if I was really a terrorist, I would so NOT do things like that, and then I start hatching a plan. But ham sandwiches are a dangerous weapon. In Mexico, though, they're a lot stricter (except they don't make you take off your shoes...shoes are apparently only a major threat to US airports). I definitely got patted down twice...they took my EMPTY water bottles. And they asked to see my rubber ducky. Yup, Squeaky was flirting with the bag check ladies. Talk about a personality.

Speaking of personalities, although I'm not sure why the world is ending, Joss Whedon is really good at creating characters. His latest show Dollhouse, has individual characters take up multiple personalities through this idea of brain-imprinting. (And In the show, the abuse of brain-imprinting and "wiping" is why the world is ending.) Not only is he stretching the limits of what we think of as human...he's also creating the most complex characters known to fiction! However, on the far reaches of civilization, Malcolm Reynolds is drifting because Fox cancelled that show...and now Dollhouse (disclaimer: neither of these shows are kid shows). So why is the world going to end in 2012? Probably because he's going to make an even better show that will then be cancelled, and fans will revolt. Or maybe, after two years of spinning from the climax of Lost, people's brains will explode. Or, turns out my sister is actually Darth Vader and allied with a communist conspiracy.

RED freakout. Story time: So the CIA and the United Fruit Company don't like the nationalizing tendencies of some of Guatemala's leaders in the 1950s...so they try to overthrow the gov't and the CIA makes some very high level hits...after which Guatelmala goes into a 30-year civil war. Frankly, I'm appalled at my country. Luckily, Joshua Huff and Ryan Heerwagen are going to found the American Anarcho-Capitalist Party (Or AACK!, for short), which will hasten the world's end. 

I will fight (for bovine freedom!). At this point I think our only recourse is to go back in time. Now, I know what you're thinking, Marty McFly's disappearing and all that...we don't know what this could do. But I think we need to steal the pen of whatever Mayan dude wrote that crazy stuff down, then the world won't end. Won't that work? I'm very confident about time travel, because even though Desmond is a lackey of his evil father-in-law in the time-travel induced future, he still meets Penny. I have faith in the humans (Affirmative)...well, as long as they're not politicians. Reading Mexico's history has me pretty cynical on politics on both sides of the border. My favorite theory: that the reason that we only took a third of Mexico after the Mexican war was because the North didn't want to give too much political advantage to the South. Yay for pragmatism. Speaking of which, did anyone notice that clause of the healthcare bill that was a nice FAT gov't subsidy specifically for pharmaceuticals? Some lobbyist is getting a killer Redwood-sized raise. 

Speaking of raises, I really wonder how long the US can keep making its debt and trade deficit bigger. Like eventually, our credit card's going to max out, yeah? Unless we just bully people into giving us more loans...which loans are just like giving away power ANYway so what the dandelion is our government thinking? Plus, since we elected a communist sleeper agent to the presidency, the United States will probably join the Russian Federation. At which point, the world will end and it will be revealed that Vladimir Putin is actually my friend Tim Graf, and my Russian will come in handy, but my scheme of joining the KGB will be ruined because for all practical purposes, I'll be a US citizen again. Applesauce! At that point I will probably imprint myself into Mandy's brain. Then we will be together forever, the two will become one brain; I will, as a canine, forfeit all citizenship, and like my great forefather Grommit, take off for the Moon in my beloved spaceship Serenity. "no you can't take the sky from me." (Well, unless it falls...isn't that part of the world ending?)

Lands-cape-a-man/Mandy/Gollum/Squeaky/James/Self and the Pansy Gardener: Out.

Vintage: How to Write (Oct 2010)

First write everything that comes to your mind and keep writing, keep writing, keep that pen on the page, don't think, don't critique...did you see 8 mile?  (it was so-so)  The pieces of paper Eminem scribbled on weren't in lines, weren't in rows, just words and ideas scattered on a page and he didn't limit himself.  He wrote on the bus, at work, whenever he got a line he wrote it down.  Don't limit yourself.  Write crap.  Lots of crap.  Don't worry about grammar, don't worry about whether or not it makes sense until after you finished the danged poem/story/whatever.  Blossom.  Freely associate whatever is coming into your mind.  Run in circles.  Write the same crap you wrote yesterday, write it different today.

Heart:  Record man in  "Walk the Line" says something like 'You're dying in a gutter and you got five minutes to live.  What song you playing?"  Write that song.  Play those songs.  Write with purpose.

Be you.

Push/play:  Garden State:  "Do something that's never been done before."  Combine words.  Combine ideas.  Wreck grammar and genre.  Read ee cummings:  you can do a-maze-ing things with w(lovely)o(shocking)rds.

Invoke/Evoke (Universality?): Quote an epic poem from your universe (Tolkien), drop place names in a song (cheater):  it makes things seem real.   For example, "Empire State of Mind" is mediocre poetry, and okay music, but it evokes a place (NYC) and the dreams of millions of people in a powerful way.  In the real world, there are millions of things going on that we don't see but get hints of all the time.  Passersby.  History.  Relationships.  These unimportant things make literature seem real.

Now make them important.  Is this worth writing?  Worth reading?

Imagery/Specificity: Take your pick:
1)James mournfully chomps apple pie amongst the vines under gold Olive Garden lights OR. 2)He was eating at a restaurant.
A poem needs a place...it can meander through place, it can be a stream of images, but the reader needs a pillow, a place to rest, an image, a room.  Evoke taste/touch/sound/smell/sight.

Humanity:  humans care about humans.  Most love songs are terrible poetry but people think "hey that's like me and so-and-so."  Or "I wish that could be me."

Trim.  Say only what you want to say.  Orwell:  Test every word.  Spare none.  Cut all words without meaning.  Prune and cull.

Layer.  Limit yourself to three lines.  Say as much as you can.  Have a series of lines be a tiger, clouds, and a subway train all at once.  Learn to layer.

Edit.  Take those two pieces of crap yesterday, combine them with Thursday's crap, grab it by the tail and flip it on its head.  Repeat.  Then add more layers, trim some more.  Trace the progression.  Where did you start?  Where did you end?  Are the words taking you there?   Does style match content?  Does it flow?  Every great poem I've written has been through at least ten edits.

Read it.  Out loud.  If you don't believe in it in your bedroom, how do you expect others to read it?  Now, for those of you who are perfectionists...read it to an honest friend, someone who will tell you if it's terrible.  Never throw anything away.  Instead, edit.

Get an outside opinion:  Because nobody else lives in your head.  Workshop.  Get critiques.

Share:  Blog, read, share, read, submit, read, self-publish, read, get published.

Oh, and don't listen to me:  be you.  :p

Vintage: A Simple Man (November 2011)

I've been called a renaissance man. I'm pretty good at everything, I'll try my hand at anything. I, like my father, am driven. Constant in my mind is the long list of e-mails and messages to write, the projects I would like to complete, all the things I think I should be doing.

I complicate things.

I make up things for myself to do.

I am an intellectual. I believe in God, but there are plenty of things in the Bible I don't live and don't believe.

I'm a poet. I like things I can't completely understand. I like art that is ambivalent, art that's complex emotionally, formally, and ideologically.

I'm an individualist; I don't depend on others. (People leave, and the show must go on.) Lately, emotional and intellectual confusions have kept me from depending on God as well.

I pray to love God, but in the daily reality, I sing Manchester Orchestra's "I'm gonna leave you the first chance I get." Because the terror, the unknown, the pure emotional energy it takes to love a jealous God I can't see and who can change everything in an instant is enough to send me running away most days. Also, I sin, and that makes being around God uncomfortable. It's miserable, but it's true. So instead of finding myself in this God who others deride and don't believe in, instead of throwing myself on a God who, rather than being "understanding," of my faults and doubts, says "repent" and "I love you" (I love you? Who says that? What good is that to me?), I prefer a complex web of identity markers: I'm a poet, I'm a singer, I try to follow Jesus, I'm a volunteer, I'm an intellectual. This way, someone can't reject me on the basis of just one thing, and I can have a conversation about faith or poetry where I get ignored or insulted and still feel safe. Because only part of me is on the line. Nobody knows all of me. Heck, most people can't even keep track of what country I'm in. I'm safe; I'm complicated.

A couple weeks ago at youth group, we talked about Paul. Paul said "To live is Christ, to die is gain." Honestly, I'm not confident enough to say to live is Christ. I'm a full-time missionary! But for me, to live is to do my best until I have time for God, to do good things, to try to be worthy.(?) As for death, well, I hate how many Christians talk about tickets to heaven and all that and ignore the present commands of God, so I don't let what happens when I die enter my theology or my motivations. I pray for mercy, that as I live and die, God won't cease coming around, teaching me, pursuing me, using me, showing little bits of his glory.

Watching "Chariots of Fire" today, I was struck by Eric Liddell. I'm more like Abramson, out with something to prove, striving, straining, wanting to be the best, because if I'm not the best, I apparently am not trying hard enough. So I try to be everything to everybody, I try to be the best Christian, the best poet, the best musician, the best missionary, the best friend. Lately, about once a day, someone unfriends me on facebook. And I ask myself "what did I do wrong? Was I not interesting enough?"

"I try to be my best."

Jesus was a simple man. He did what he saw his father doing. Paul was a simple man: to live was Christ. Liddell was a simple man: Running on the Sabbath was out of the question.

I'm more like Solomon, thinking too much for his own good, or Samson, all for God until "oh hey look, a pretty girl," or David, who violently throws himself back and forth between repentance and failure.

I don't want to be like David. I don't want to have to look at my wife and go "Well, I f*cked that one up, but I'm a good man and I'll live with the consequences, and hey, she's sexy." I don't want to be like Solomon, who seems to me, depressed, and in the end, wasn't really loving and serving God at all. I don't want to be like Samson, who sure, God used him to fulfill his destiny, but didn't really get to enjoy the journey and knew God more as a judge than as a Father. I'm not saying God isn't big enough to redeem any mistake I make. I'm just saying, I want to be a person of joy, and a clean conscience, I want to know and experience God deeply.

God, I need you.

I understand obedience. I understand, that if I feel like God is calling me to Central Asia, I must go. I won't be happy otherwise. I understand that, like Paul, if I knew I was going to die going there, it wouldn't change anything. I must live by faith.

 But I don't want to be a good servant. I don't want to reach the end of my life and say, "Well, God, I lost you somewhere in the madness, but I made 150,000 converts, and helped 550 orphans." I want to be like Liliya, singing "won't you let me love you more?" to God as she goes through her day.

My true measure of success, is when I wake up or fall asleep, I pray, that I want to be with You. That when I have nothing to do, I spend my time with You, and when I am overwhelmed, I turn to You, and You are my rest in the storm.

God scares me. I heard Chris Kelly in a sermon say that the number one command in the bible is this: "Do not be afraid." I trust God has my best in mind, I'm just afraid of how much that will cost, of how hard things will get this time. I'm afraid that somewhere in there I'll give up or fail or have a major David-like blow-up. And God says "do not be afraid." "Don't worry." "Rest in me." "I love you." And I'm like, "sure, as long as I can keep my complications around to fall back on." And he's like "Chill out, what you yellin for? I am. I am enough. I love you."

15 The Spirit you received does not make you slaves, so that you live in fear again; rather, the Spirit you received brought about your adoption to sonship. And by him we cry, “Abba, Father.”

 Dad, make me a simple man, a man who can say "I love you too," with no ifs, ands, or buts. Erase me, as needed. "Make soft my heart, in thy strong flame, to take the imprint of thy name." Change me.

"I am in love with You, and there is no cost. I am in love with You, and there is no loss. I want to take your name. I want to cling to You, Jesus."

Vintage: Jumping off Bridges and Braum's Conversations (June 2009)

My heart cringes at the thought of more school, despite everyone's advice. My dad and I biked down to the American River, I was holding the brakes so tightly that my hand cramped up, but they still weren't slowing me down. That's how I feel about the future right now. He said I should jump off the bridge. I waited a while, going back and forth; really, it wasn't the fall that scared me so much (I trusted his judgement) as that I wasn't sure I wanted to get in that cold water. Eventually you just step off and go with it and you're in the air for a few seconds wondering what the heck you're doing. Then comes the smackdown and the cold water. Whatever the next step is, it feels kinda like that right now.

Please stop asking your kids what they want to be when they grow up. They'll come up with their own dreams in due time, and I think it's a distortion of reality that we "are" our jobs. 

When I was in fourth grade, I was in a play where I was the shopkeeper of the "I'm-going-to-be Shop"...I helped all the different kids find their careers and rationalized with the guy who wanted to be "A do-nothing frog, who sleeps in the sun" (Heh...in hindsight I wonder what political agenda the play had--why didn't we just perform "the Hairy Ape?"). I definitely was wearing a maroon apron (in practice it was a Raggedy Ann and Andy one). It's either cruel irony or fate that, now that I've graduated, my work uniform at Braum's (an Ice Cream/Grocery Store) includes, among other things, a bright maroon apron.

Speaking of Braum's, if you ever want a snapshot of your society, work checkout in a grocery store and talk to the customers as they come through (heck, just talk to your co-workers). I've met architects, mechanics, lawyers, all kinds of kids and students, World War II Vets, working women and grandparents. Most people just give the standard answers and don't elaborate much, but I've had some thought-provoking run-ins:

"So what have you been up to today?" I ask the grandmotherly woman across the checkout.
"If I told you that, I'd get arrested."

"What have you been up to today Sir?"
"Visiting my mother-in-law...My mother-in law, during the War, would date someone if she knew they had an extra ration card for shoes."

A middle-aged man: "It's a good idea to try to give somebody something every day: even if it's just a smile."

"How are you doing today ma'am?"
"Fair to middlin'."
"So what does that mean?"

"How much do you owe me?" the man asks.
"Uh, $10.26."
"Alright then, pay up."
"What?"
"You said you owe me $10.26."

(Handing out $5.11 in change) "Your total is five dollars and eleven cents."

(Pressing the total button on the register) "Your change is twenty-eight dollars and twenty-three cents. I mean, your total. Sorry, I'm tired."

"I'm sorry, the credit card machine just doesn't like you." (No joke, it takes a good 40% of people three swipes to get it to take...sometimes it's the machine, sometimes not)

"How was your day?"
(Gruffly) "If it had been a good day, I wouldn't be here buying Ice Cream."

"Where do you work?"
"I'm an elementary school teacher."
"Oh, cool, how long have you been doing that?"
"Four years." (dang it, she's probably out of my league ;) )
"Do you like it?"
"I love it, but I don't think I want to do it for the rest of my life."
"Ah, just the kids or..."
"No, it's the parents. Most parents just...really aren't concerned about their kids getting an education."

"What are you up to this evening?"
"Well, I'm gonna go pray and we're gonna see people healed...(How do you respond to that? He goes on to talk about God's healing and various healings he's seen)...I've seen everything but the dead raised." (He then goes on to talk about how he's confident he will see that happen before his life is over)

The same man (at a later date): 
"What you been up to today?"
"Hanging dry wall for my daughter. (goes on, it's obvious he's worn out and this was difficult for him)...but you know, Give thanks to God in all circumstances."
"Even sheetrocking?"
"Yeah, even sheetrocking." 

I've talked to people running late for their wedding rehearsal, people going through divorces, young baseball players defeated and victorious. I met a woman from Persia who is a Kindergarten teacher...she's been here in the states longer than I've been conscious of the world, and I wonder which of us is more American. Some of the Spanish speakers like it when I talk to them in Spanish...some of them feel self-conscious. Amusingly, I've had a few conversations lately where for understanding's sake I would speak Spanish and the person I've been talking to responds in English.

Yesterday I had dinner with a Korean War Vet, a guy who was a Trucker for 45 years before he retired, a guy who's helped raise kids, grandkids, and now a great-grandson. Yes, I sat down with a stranger in a fast-food restaurant. Yes, I would recommend it, and no, you should not go try to sit with the pretty girl in the corner (I mean, well...if no one else is sitting alone, go for it, but otherwise, pick somebody else, you'll learn more.). He was concerned about the lack of progress in our society, the lack of education and values in today's youth, the lack of common sense and work ethic. He felt like society had regressed if anything. He was definitely a member of "the greatest generation," one of those people who believes in doing right because it's right:

"If you've got an opportunity to get an education, get as much as you can."
"...Well, I just feel like, with where I'm at in life and with my faith that...I've got a lot of head knowledge but I don't know much about living."
"Like common sense? Well, maybe you need to take a year or two off before you go back."

Mebbe so, kid. George Müller and Mat Kearney haunt me: "No parachutes of safety nets here, one foot on the water to face these fears." And one foot in the boat so we can pay the rent (?). I'm torn between leaving my nets and tentmaking, the spiritual and the physical. But I have peace. I feel human, a sort of sometimes-lovable screwup who can't seem to figure out how to live community, communicate, or figure out where he's going. Taran Wanderer. Thanks friends...It's good to be myself.

"Here we go, there's nothing left to choose. And here we go, there's nothing left to lose."

"Freefall, weightless and terrified. On I go, crossing over, from living to so alive."

Vintage: February 2009 (and the storms came)

So I think I feel like opening up my creative-non-fiction box again.   As a run-up I'm posting some old thoughts as well...

"So die Minuten are feminine because women take up lots of time. [Laura didn't think this concept was funny] Plants are feminine cuz they don't talk, so they kinda represent the ideal female. And die Fragen are feminine because girls are really confusing."


Tim: "Someone has to take a firm stance on the total depravity of girls."

I walked out of class and the sky was heavy grey, bulbous and oppressive. I ran to get my camera to try to capture the smell, the weight, the overwhelming power of the storm, but I missed it somehow. I wasn't using the right tools. Images. I went to the top of Dale Hall Tower to try to get the scope. Reflected lights in the room kept tainting the sky. I was trying to catch lightning on the horizon but it eluded me, flashing its defiance, the bright streaks uncaught by the lens. I was trying to catch the raindrops splashing on the sidewalk, large wet tears that scatter on the cement awash with color. I couldn't capture it.

On the first of February I had summer plans for South America. By mid-February I was applying to teach English in St. Petersburg. Last week I decided I'm staying here.

Four harps harmonized "Let it be." It was the first time I'd ever appreciated the Beatles.

I had lunch with a member of the European parliament, an English Baroness. She believed that Turkey should join the EU and will once they implement the thousands of laws required. She spoke of corrupt elections in Russia, the death penalty, Russian aggression, widespread corruption in the handling of EU foreign aid, and the differences of interests and power between France and Germany; between the European Parliament and the commissioners. She believed in democracy, the voice of the people; she believed in the EU so much that she switched parties to become an MEP. She believed deeply in right and wrong, and we talked for two hours straight. The EU is for staving off the clouds of war.

A flurry of Cellos spinning deepsound.

At youth we sang "I'll Fly Away" slow, clouded, and cold. A friend lost a mother.

McCarthy trials in the faded 1954 papers. A storm of ink and rhetoric: Brown vs. Board was an asterisk, but don't worry, the South will rise again; don't worry, here in Oklahoma it won't affect your kids; don't worry, we don't have these problems in Los Angeles. The governors of Georgia and Arkansas vow that this won't happen in their states, and South Carolina explores the option of privatizing all of their schools. The New York Times assures Americans that equal laws do not mean that we were created equal. An uneasy silence. France is losing its grip on Vietnam. It looks like we assassinated some populist leaders in Guatemala. The Reds say that Gone with the Wind is a racist film. A Michigan Senator proposes the insertion of "Under God" into the pledge. "All communists would oppose it...97% [of Americans] believe in God." Soviet dictionary definition as reported: "Benevolence--In bourgeois society private material aid extended to the poor in a hypocritical manner which insults the dignity of man; benevolence is one of the masks behind which is hidden the exploiting nature of the bourgeoisie."

"Heroes from the West, we don't know you, we know best." Sometimes your enemies see you most clearly.

The Tulsa race riots in late 1921 left hundreds of African-Americans dead and a much of Tulsa was wrecked. When Natasha Trethewey's parents wanted to get married in Gulfport, they went to Ohio. According to the eyes of the government, her mother was black and her father was Canadian, and so their marriage was banned in Mississippi. This was after the Civil Rights movement, and she spoke of the narrative of the tragic South, the Civil War, lying between her parents as a cross burned in the yard. The South shall rise again; and what does this sound like to African-Americans? I wonder, hearing the ghosts of Gulfport, what hidden histories lie in Pensacola's past. I remember hearing of riots at Woodham in the 1970s. Norman was a sundown town: Don't be around after sunset if you're black, posted at the edge of town. I have heard that the Nazis cited American success in their treatment of Native Americans as evidence that their "final solution" for the Jews could be successful. Most of the laws passed in 1936 were designed to make the distinction: Jews are not Germans.

Demetria Martínez read a short piece on what she was calling "Sanctuary II." College students saving the lives of illegals lost in the desert. Discarded water bottles and strollers. "The life of a poor foreigner depends on speech." Translation errors can mean deportation, misdiagnosis, or hatred.

At youth we played "Identity." I was Shakira, Princess Jasmine, Yoshi, and myself. 

Despite the fact that the 1970s hipster personifications of individualism were exaggerated and perhaps pop, the social critique levelled at the male species in The Stepford Wives was killer. Would you trade real relationship, real otherness, for something you could control? We do this so often with God and girls. Do you want a partner or a playtoy? Why do men make all the plans?

Plants are the ideal feminine because they don't speak. Things that don't speak can't express emotion. Things that don't speak can't express difference, disagreement, or self. Really I don't know that it's guys and girls that are so complicated, it's that gulf between individual selves compounded by our fears of otherness and rejection complicated by those bonds that entangle us. I realized that I'd been treating you as an extension of myself for quite some time. It was safer that way, it was terrible...everything you were to me swallowed up in an idea in my head.

Images. Computer screens, and my friends are sitting in the same room as me on the other side of the world. Once again we are sitting on opposite sides of the stream, unaware and separate. Or painfully aware. "You cut me open." Identity. I wonder about relationships, about the politics and emotions of being "just friends." Ben's eyes welled up too I think when "Chasing Cars" came on. I've been meaning to ask him about that. I don't know what the point of falling in love is, or maybe I've just done it all wrong. The First Single Valentine's day I wanted to dance with a stranger, I'm not sure why. I'm not sure what I need to do. For closure.

An uneasy silence. Pizzas. My co-workers are from the DRC, Colombia, Cameroun, China, Korea, Japan--and the other half are from here in the states. Ryan's here, and it feels like something lost is back again, a group. We speak of bonds, borrowing against the nation's future. Philosophies and farm subsidies. Brynnan's quiet, but she knows how to drive a combine, mowing down rows of grain. She wants to paint and work in museums. Danny is going to learn how to dismantle bombs for the Air Force. I found out from a stranger that my sister applied to OU. I wonder where we're all going. 

I figured out that it's not so much the fact that God would allow or even bring about war and slaughter that bothers me. I mean, it bothers me a lot, but I don't expect to understand everything about God. It's that we try to explain it that bothers me. This cheapens death. This cheapens the reality that things are not as they should be. I see this in the church too, and I think that it's important to remember that none of us really have it all together, that we're all falling, fallen. My dad and I are trying to figure out what we're gonna do when we grow up.

I buy poetry and bread but at this point I run out of money. I bought too many groceries and I was having trouble getting on my bike until a man offered me a ride. After church I said "God bless you" to a woman who was, at the time, homeless, and she replied "he already has, he already will, and he already does."

Images:
Homeless. 
Illegal. 
Unchristian.
Conservative. 
Mexican. 
Female. 
Black. 
Am I putting images in your heads? Why? Does anyone really fit these categories? I'm asked to give a definition of what it means to be black. I write half a page of precise definition. This disturbs me. I'm asked what it means to be white? Nothing? It's true, but totally false: there is an American culture, a Western world. Funny thing is that you go into Mexico right next door and that's a different world. Like the Middle East, only less so. 

Corey tells me that girls struggle deeply with self-image, measuring up to a standard. Supermoms and worker-moms fighting for their identities. And what of those who don't want to be called mommy? I am curious to note that everyone in my class is wearing jeans besides me, but in spite of this Brittney isn't wearing clothes at the beginning of her last video. My classmates protest that college doesn't count. How many times do we flock to the pretty people? How many times do we write off the girls who have the self-respect not to sell their bodies for popularity? It seems to me that as guys we generally write each other off as not even interesting, as if we had nothing to give one another and had no value. I think this is terribly destructive and isolating.

A storm of colour nearly bowled me over when I went into the Fred Jones Museum of Art. All the Southwestern art, the Native American aesthetics, the bright reds and oranges of the dirt stood in stark contrast to the safe blues and greens of the European landscapes I've seen. Trethewey found a dictionary definition for native that defined a native as someone born into a lower caste, a position of servitude. Someone in Mexico told Tim that there were three types of treatment of natives in Mexico: In one region the Spanish enslaved them, in one region they intermarried with them, and in the last region they slaughtered them. The ritual costumes in the paintings spoke of a different world, an alien world erased by the coming of the white man. Men painted up in zebra stripes, antlers on their heads, dancing frozen, totally silent and still on the canvas, like my voice on this screen. I try to capture a month of conversations, images, thoughts, and feelings and it is beyond me. "Peoples is peoples." Peoples like you, even when they're nothing like you. I hope you get that in what I'm saying. May we learn to love our neighbors more than we love ourselves.

"You treat me like I'm blind. Setting fires around houses on the hill. But light gives heat. You segregate my mind, burning crosses from your fears...

Would You teach us how to love?"

Da Burbs

Maybe my Darwinian compass is broken, but I've never understood suburbs. As much as I can reckon, the point is that suburbs are safe. You have privacy fences and big houses set back on lots far away from the noise and crowds of the city, but still close enough to work there or go see a movie. While this protects you from some crime it seems to me that buying a big house is like putting this big "steal from me I'm rich" sign on, or "in case of communist uprising, burn here first." So, then the rich people have to pay for security guards, and then when their workers strike, call in the police or military to protect their money. All that work just so people will hate you.

The second thing I can figure about middle and upper-class suburbs is that they are generally clean. But are they really? All those housing chemicals? All those lawn fertilizers and weed killers? *shudder* Everybody in America is allergic to everything these days because they're growing up with fake foods and fake environments where they aren't exposed to enough dirt. That's my theory anyway. Maybe life isn't supposed to look like Disneyland?

Last night I watched City of God. It was a gritty, disturbing, and sometimes disgusting film about some drug gangs in the flavelas of Rio de Janeiro; it was also very well put together and won many awards. To save your sensitivities, I'll give you the sum-up: Gangs formed by teens and pre-teens grow up to terrorize neighborhoods and start intergang wars that bleed the community. Eight-year olds with pistols shoot up brothels and gangsters. Some people would watch this film and get excited by the lawlessness and crazyness. Some people will feel pity. My thought is, man, there are places where there are boys like that need role models. (Also, don't underestimate who might be packing heat) There are schools in those places that need good teachers. There are places that need cops that aren't corrupt, judges that can't be bought or intimidated. There are battles still worth fighting in this world (and I'm not talking about, 99% of the time, with guns).

This morning, I was reading Through Painted Deserts and Don Miller was talking about living in the woods and mentioned Welches, Oregon. I try to appreciate the beauty in every place I go, but it's really difficult after you've been to NW Oregon, because the rivers flow from majestic ridges and these towering mountains through damp pine woods full of ferns and berries and sorrel before they cascade over waterfalls into the Columbia before finally reaching the rocky coast that comes alive at sunset. Anyways, I've always wondered about how working in an office just probably isn't good for you, especially if you drive there and breathe in exhaust for an hour or two on the way. Like you need sun and fresh air and exercise. Why people would work in an office when they could save for a couple years, buy a little something somewhere and plant things and get your hands in the dirt? Dirt is good. I know a money-based economy is safer. I know you'd have to find a state with low property taxes. But why would you live in Los Angeles if you could live where you could see the stars instead?

I suppose the only reason would be because there is so much going on. So many people, so many dreams, so many beautiful artists and craftsman and exciting events! "Didn't have to look up to the stars burning in the night sky, they were burning bright in the eyes of people passing by." (Bradley Hathaway "Look Up") People are moving to the cities like never before, and I love cities (although it's hard to breathe in Moscow or LA or Mexico City). I am overwhelmed by the possibilities of cities. You mean I could go to a concert EVERY night, not just three on Friday nights? There are more museums than you could explore in a month in these big cities, and there's always a million things happening. They probably even have Creative Writing Societies. (Bloody Americans--I hope I can find a good Creative Writing Club in Central Asia)

Switchfoot has this song "throwing chairs," it was never released, it goes like this "I want to wake up low, in the world below, I want to love life low, where we need it most." Perhaps I'm a hippie of sorts, but I believe in living close to the earth, close to others. The suburbs, and the mentality that goes along with them, protects us from crime. It also protects us from trying to help fix our cities. Privacy fences keep our secrets, but they also help our sins from being exposed. Big houses give us sanctuary, protecting us from other people, and from the elements. They protect us from feeling the rain on our skin, and from engaging others in community so that we can be healed and grow and learn. In insulating us from people who aren't like us, the suburbs destroy a piece of our common human community. This isn't just not ideal, it's dangerous.

I think that, when it comes down to it, the suburbs are based on fear. Fear is what makes ghettos and slums lawless, it's what allows things like racism, dictators, and thuggery to persist. Fear does not lead to us loving our neighbors as ourselves, or to seeing that we are all neighbors. Fear runs opposite to love. Love breaks down fences, knocks on doors, pays one another's medical bills, attends one another's funerals, shares meals, and shares life.

Church could use a little Revolution

Non-violent, in completely non-condemning love, of course. "I'm not trying to be a nuisance, I just think we can do better than this." This is following off of Don's thoughts here:

http://donmilleris.com/2011/04/05/unlike-todays-church-leaders-none-of-the-early-disciples-were-professional-educators

I saw a similar model in action at Norman Community Church, to what Don's talking about. A church led by musicians. :P If church is about meeting God, ministering to one another in community, and living the kingdom, why do we sit and listen most of the time? Norman Community is the only church I've been in where relationship was more important than the service, where service and living the Kingdom was more important than intellectual theology. Where training was about learning to live out our faith and making people do it. Honestly, for all my 'ministry,' I felt completely inadequate at Norm Comm, because I was so afraid that the church might ask something of me. And I want that so much, to be challenged and told I'm wrong and asked where my heart is at.

I've been in churches that have their heart all in the right place, where I had great relationships with almost the whole congregation, but our service and our expectations of the service didn't leave us the space to really ask how one another was doing, or to pray over people. Since we don't Sabbath on Sundays anyway, I think our liturgy needs to go and I think house churches are the way to go. Most healthy churches actually do "church" in small groups, but I think this sends the wrong message to the world...how is attending seminars the first step in following Jesus? Jesus did dinner with people.

Don't get me wrong, I believe in the church. I need to worship, I need Church. I believe in preaching, I get something almost every week. I believe in having people study the scriptures, and having well-thought out, Biblically-based theologies. But if I'm just at church to hear a sermon and sing, I might as well watch it on TV. And I think that's the opposite direction of where the church should be going.

I think this is at the core of why many Men have given up on the church. We don't value things like barn-raising and tentmaking or cooking as possible forms of ministry leadership. It's an intellectual/emotional game, and let's be honest, if it's not backed up by actions, it is a game. Or it's a social club where you have to mind your Ps and Qs all the time, and boy that's exhausting. Faith without works is dead.

I'm gonna take it one step further and say the same thing that is wrong with our churches is also wrong with our schools. Kids hate school because the stuff they're doing is pointless...because it is! Sixth-graders have the intellectual capacity to change the world, do research, lead community projects. It happens all the time!!! But our expectations of kids is to "practice" learn for 16 years before they ever do anything, and it's incredibly patronizing and a shame that our romantic idea of "childhood" and "teenage freedom" keeps kids from becoming engaged citizens and real adults until around 23-28. What if instead of paying an economics teacher we loaned kids $50 and told them to invest it for a semester, grade will be based on your rate of return. The Kingdom of Heaven is like that. ;) That's the real world. (well, in the real world most kids would get 50c and a couple would get a couple hundred thousand, but...)

Why don't we change? It costs more of us. We suck at sharing life and being vulnerable. A Sunday school lesson and games are easier for me to plan than a night of outreach or a night of waiting on God. And what if my youth freak out? What if they get robbed? What if demons show up? I know that youth like games and music. And those are valid things to do together. But as a pastor, (I sincerely believe in the priesthood of all believers) I want my fellow sheepies to be ministry-leaders and pastors themselves in their circles, not church attendees.

I have faith that if I try to do something and fail, it's okay. But walking with God is messy, and I'm afraid if I'm honest about that, the church will reject me. Also I'm poor, I don't know how to ask other people to do missions with me, because missions with me might end up getting you stuck in a foreign country if you miss a bus or lose a wallet or something (strictly theoretically-speaking, of course, it's only happened to me once). I know how to let myself down, but I don't know how to let others down. I almost only talk to strangers when I'm alone because most of my friends get annoyed or nervous. (Greg Wilson, you are an amazing exception to this.) Wow...I'm insecure and I need to change, because I'm becoming the things I don't want to be.

Zach

I was walking around downtown Indianapolis, I came up to this street corner and there was this kid there with a sign asking for food and help, "God bless." He was young and white and didn't look homeless. I started a conversation. I gave what I could, I don't give money to homeless people ever, but I gave him my food. Tried to help. Prayed over him. 19 years old. He was white, young, thoughtful, used to being rich.

I saw myself in this kid. But I didn't see myself in the old black man I passed by a minute before I stopped to talk to Zach. God ordained that I would meet Zach. I was supposed to be on a bus, but that didn't work out. But was I supposed to meet that black man? He had a story too. He had something to teach me and give me. But I didn't see myself in him, and that troubles me deeply. Ironically, working in an inner-city African-American community has probably created stereotypes, racism, and fears that I didn't have before.

Can you see yourself in the person across from you? Are their dreams as important as yours? Their insights as valid? Are you even willing to listen? I went to this conference on orphans last week, and it was very sad to me that most couples place the greatest value on infants. They are cuter, less problematic, less broken than Fatherless teens or even schoolchildren. A director of an Eastern European orphanage remarked that the "baby room" is the nicest room in the place, because once they leave it, they probably won't find a family.

I realize that despite experience to the contrary, I don't value kids with special needs. Even though this 12 year old girl who taught me a song in Mexico, and the girls at that shelter taught me to sing, I don't see myself in them. I don't see how I could relate. I am guilty of the same thing when it comes to older church members. I wish they would reach out to me, because I don't see how to bridge the gap. But all of these, even the least of these, is made in the image of God. God, help my unbelief.

Twenty-Seven+ Ways to Die in 2011

First, if you jump into the cold North Atlantic at dawn on no sleep and then don't eat and go to sleep,
you could get sick.

Second, a few weeks later, you could try to catch Walking Pneumonia at work, which is harder to catch than most diseases, because it keeps walking away, but then once you get it it's really hard to get rid of so I wouldn't recommend it. Lucky for me, I'm a runner.

Third, you could mess up the company rental car, or not have the money to pay for the parking garage, or coming back to pay the fifth dollar, you could startle the cashier while she's counting her money and that could just be the end of you.

Fourthly, there are always arguments with youth at the Cov.

Fifthly, you could have a heart attack trying to catch up with Jr. High youth playing freeze tag.

Or sixthly, you could get killed by the elders for playing with the tennis ball inside the church building.

Seventhly, you could get trampled by a cow at the PA farm show, or die fat and happy of a ice-cream induced food coma.

Eighthly, you could die of cold in Toronto, or die happy because the Curator of the Model Ships section of the AGO tells you amazing stories of ships that were snuck, carried, and sunk. Or you could die because Toronto is liberal and there are cannabis shops. Or because there are statues to Redcoats in prominent squares, and the locals might mistake you for an invading Fenian.

Ninthly, you could eat bad salmon. Or put craisins in your spaghetti (yum!).

Tenthly, you could get attacked by rioting youth on your way to work. Luckily the stones thrown were before I passed by. You could also die by driving the wrong way on a one way to avoid police barricades. They tell me you can die for being a white person in Back Maryland, but I haven't gotten shot at so far.

Eleventhly, you could make sexist comments to your housemates. Or take the car without asking. Or finish off the leftovers. Or leave a dish in the sink.

Twelthly, you could die spazzing over the possibilities of the future and your desire to be in eight places at once and do everything. Or there's the pressure of being a terrible friend and not responding to messages on time.

Thirteenthly, you could stumble across an illegal operation while looking for homeless people under a bridge.

Fourteenthly, you could break your face on the floor when you pass out because you are sick.

Fifthteenthly, you could die of awe over the awesomeness of the movie 12, or die because your roommate is trying to warn you, but you hear Russian coming out of his mouth, even though he is speaking English.

Sixteenthly, you could upset an ex with a youtube video.

Seventeenthly, you could stick with protocol and refuse to tell a parent whether or not their child is currently in the building.

Eighteenthly, you could talk to strangers in elevators.

Nineteenthly, you could try to slide/drive to Philly in the 6am snow and ice. (If you have a good housemate, he'll talk you out of this one.)

Twentiethly, you could write unprofessional messages to your boss.

Twenty-firstly, one could undertake pains to wrongly split infinitives.

Twenty-secondly, one could put your hands in your jacket while being searched by an overzealous policeman on your way to the library. Cops don't like hippies with purses.

Twenty-thirdly, you could walk to work in a blizzard and...I still haven't figured out what could have happened.

Twenty-fourthly, by pool stick.

Twenty-fifthly, you could die because you run out of money. This is what my brain tells me. However, I think it's actually food and air and water that you need. Still though, money is annoying, and it feels like it could kill you.

Twenty-sixthly, unrequited love?

Twenty-seventhly, and lastly, a poet-aster must always be wary of the grammar police, pun haters, rabid fans, and his own dramatic hubris. Alas, it's a dangerous business entering the blogosphere...especially when you don't continue your previous to be continued. Oh wells. Don't hate the player, hate the game??

La Familia

Firefly, Joss Whedon's unfinished (or half-finished, since Serenity came out) epic deep-space series, resonates very deeply with outsiders, with our crazy culture. It's a story of finding family in the most unlikely of places, of making family with the people around you in a fragmented society. Each character has an opinion on each of the others, a mix of respect and annoyance. Each individual finds a fragile but beautiful family brought together by chance, difficult pasts, and a little love.

I think one of the reasons that the poor are blessed is that they have to depend on one another. Because they realize they couldn't do what they're doing on their own. And perhaps one of the most destructive beliefs, no, it goes deeper than that, roots of American culture is the idea that in order to succeed, you have to leave it all behind and go it alone. You have to be able to make it on your own to be a real man, a truly independent woman. That in order to succeed, you have to go it alone.

Gangs are a reality of inner-city life in this hemisphere. You see the tags and tats in almost every major city: New York, Guate, LA, DF. On a local level, you could think of them as grassroots labour organizations or pyramid schemes, but I think the essential allure of gang life is family. Of knowing that when you walk out into the streets, you're not alone.

We're a homeless culture, the United States the vanguard in a global society where place is becoming less and less particular. In such a global society, flows of capital and labour mean that while a "living" might not be sustainable in an overcrowded refugee camp, the flexible and willing to compromise can rise to great heights thousands of miles from "home." But orphans of divorce, emotionally abandoned children, wealthy and poor line the halls of every school in every country. Those without family are manipulated to kill, prostitute, and suffer by evil and desperate individuals in places like Oklahoma City, San Diego, Pensacola, and Atlantic City. Out at 18, foster children in the United States, impovershed youth in Guatemala's slums, and orphans in the Ukraine all fall prey to gangs, suicide, and drug addiction. They medicate their helplessness with violence, their lonliness and lack of self-worth with sex and "under the table" medications. Many college students aren't that different. Grad schools and jobs lead us further and further away from family and often dehumanize us altogether. Those of us who are "good" often medicate these same afflictions that street kids face with much smoother veneers: we work for houses, cars, to "provide" for our family, and for the accolades of teachers and bosses, we volunteer and give, and these things make us feel accepted and good and a part of something.

But it's not family, it's not true community. I've seen family in Mexico: when churches and friends come together and truly focus on serving one another. When a family takes in abused, neglected, and previously unwanted children and makes them their own. I've seen family in Oklahoma, when a family invites me to share Thanksgiving with them, in worship nights, or when my friends and I would stay up til all hours of the night reading, eating, talking, and listening to music together. I've seen churches and schools in Lithuania adopt orphanages as their own. I've seen family in Russia as well: a couple of the church families I met there were truly extended, in that you couldn't really tell where blood ends, but you knew that family spread beyond just being related. I see family in California and Pensacola, when I'm welcomed back no questions asked, and welcomed home. Family can be brief, when one person takes on the burdens of another person for a conversation, a moment, or some support between paychecks. But true family is unconditional, and as such, although life is change, unchanging. It's a lifelong commitment to another, a marriage of individuals. Family can be united around a common idea or task, but it knows no religion and doesn't even need common interests. My most profound experience of community was in Scotland, where our shared experience wasn't much more than that we shared meals together, did laundry with each other, walked to the grocery store together, and had a "community night" once a week where we shared dinner and sometimes we'd have music nights. It was as simple as us deciding to be together and treat each others as equals, and to open up what was really going on in our lives a bit. Frisbee and movies are also something that have brought me closer to my roommates, past and present. But I think true community happens when we pray, and when we do dishes or run errands together, not as a favor, but as a part of family.

So I would encourage you to be a person that invites family wherever you are. Invite people over, bring people in. Talk to strangers on the bus and in elevators and lines at the grocery store. Ask lots of questions. Listen a lot. Don't settle for status quo with the people you live with. Love the people around you more than you love yourself and your grand story. Get involved in theirs. And when you do that, and really commit to it, you'll create community.

To be continued...