A Newer Post

As you can tell, I haven't written anything in a while. More on that later. In the mean time, here is a doodle I cooked up this afternoon. It's part of a scene in an idea for a play I hatched, also this afternoon.
The play is set in a Christian College in the Midwest, much like Cornerstone. The protagonist is a a 5th year or 6th year senior, much like myself. The story comes from his journey through the year. His struggles he encounters being relatively old in an undergraduate program, his issues with personal identity, his relationships, a lack of post-graduate plans, and others.
It's just an idea, but you never know what might come out of it.

This scene in particular is set in an all guys Freshmen Dorm room (Quincer). It's late and Andrew - yes, I'm naming the protagonist after myself for now - is getting ready to leave to go home for the night. He's tired. He's worked all night, and he has class in the morning. He's in the dorm of a friend, and a bunch of freshmen are hanging out in the room. One of the freshmen - one he doesn't know all that well - has just asked why one of Andrew's close friends is such a dick all the time. This is Andrew's response (in the perfect world, where the perfect monologues just come to us).

Andrew:

You’re right. Carl can be a dick sometimes. You can chalk some of that up to the fact that that is just his sense of humor. He gets under your skin to get a reaction, and he gets sweet, sweet satisfaction out of it. You can also chalk up some of his dickishness to the fact that he is, in fact, sometimes a dick. He can be hard to be around. He’s easily irritated, he has a short fuse, he lashes out. He recognizes it as a fault, and he’s working on it. But I will say this about him. For all of his shortcomings and all of his immaturity, he’s smart, he’s honest about the way he feels, and he’s one of the best judges of character that I have ever met, and I know tons of people. So perhaps instead of asking yourself “Why is he picking on me?” you should instead look in the mirror and ask yourself, “Why is he picking on me?” Maybe you deserve some of the shit coming your way. I don’t know. I don’t know you -

Offending Freshmen: (interrupting)

But -

Andrew:

Shut up -

O.F.:

He’s -

Andrew:

Shut UP. Something tells me that all of my words are lost on you. You’d rather feel as if you’re some innocent recipient of undue persecution. It’s certainly easier to go through life thinking that. That certainly makes sense. I see it now. When you were asked why he’s a dick you weren’t actually interested in the answer, you just wanted the rest of us to know that you thought he was a dick. Listen up freshman. You’re entitled to your opinion as much as the next man, but this is college. If there is any justice, you better know that when you ask a question, you’ve got an answer coming your way, and how much you like the answer is arbitrary. (to the rest of the room) And that goes for the rest of you. I’ve been in University too long to stand for pointless posturing when I don’t need to. You start out going to college not knowing anything. Hopefully by the time you’ve hit Junior year you’ve applied yourself enough to actually contribute. Before then, you’re just wasting everybody else’s time.

Sophomore:

Is that what you think you're doing now? Contributing?

Andrew:

Only in the way that weeding a garden can sometimes contribute.

The Other Shoe Drops

It's been a while since I've posted. A lot's happened since April. But I don't write...there's a reason my Blog is entitled what it is. I guess my websites collect dust as well.

I write today out of my dismay.

Earlier this afternoon I read from my Bible. In the course of daily readings, I started a about a month ago in 1st Samuel and worked my way through, finishing the book 2nd Samuel today.
My growing knowledge of literature, combined with my Study Bible's handy footnotes caused me to pick up on a lot that I feel is missed by a potentially pedestrian reading.
The author's contrasting of a King abusing power and a King seeking God in all that he does, and what the consequences are when that Godly King chooses in turn to abuse power. How literarily it seems divine punishments fit crimes against God.
How the characters are as real and as human as any in classic literature - filled with complex flaws, fears, strengths, weaknesses, and complex motivations.
The author's arrangement of information into a concise, book-ending pattern. Thanks to Mr. Schienk, I realize this is known as a "chiastic structure", when the events of the story fall into a not-necessarily chronological order, but in an order that instead brings emphasis on events...never mind, I guess it's a lot harder to explain than I thought.
The point is, I have actually enjoyed reading my Bible for reasons both spiritual and intellectual. Who'd a thunk it? An in depth reading brings not only the peace of spirit, but also mental stimulation.

TURNING POINT
And I've been in desperate need of spiritl-peace lately. I only need to look at my daily actions and the motivations behind them to realize that I am a terrible, terrible, terrible person and I need to change.
I am selfish and weak and anxious.
Quite often I feel totally purposeless.
I long for a full, selfless life full of intention and a peaceful soul.
That is why I read my Bible.
That is why I pray.
That is why I believe what I believe.
I've tried other ways and they simply do not work.
I know too many people who have done the same and have reached the same conclusion.

So I finish my reading, I finish 2nd Samuel, filled with a sense of fulfillment and slight wonder at the power of Biblical Literature, and I immediately log onto my Facebook, what one might call one of the most thorough introspections into the current Zeitgeist, to date.
I followed a link that a friend of mine who is an atheist had posted on her profile.
"yourgodisimaginary.com", complete with the youtube video: "Proving the Bible is Repulsive"

I refuse to comment on this literature, other than to say it hurts my feelings very much to have the way of life I have chosen, or some might argue, the way of life that has chosen me, to be slandered so.

I mutual respect so impossible?

Today I...

Today I said farewell to Intern Josh. His time is up - his wings are spreaded.
Today I spent the afternoon running downtown with Mike Tatu. We went to the apartment over The Bitter End. The couple who live there are moving to Washington State with their baby. For School. With the help of the Husband and the guy who lives across the hall, we carried a small piano down the narrow stairs and out the door. Two guys from behind the counter of the delicatessen next door helped us lift into the waiting, bright-yellow, cargo van. We drove to Mike's condo - and the piano tipped over twice. Scott Townley helped us move it from the van into Mike's living room.
I got lost on the way to Jay's house. I traveled in a wide looping circle over the Alaska, Lowell, and Caledonia borders. Twice.
Scott and I ran errands with Jay.
We drove with Mr. Kamphuis to the air-port and saw Jay off to South Africa.
(I am the dropper off-er and the picker-upper, never the traveler, but my time will come.)
I wrote a letter to Sarah.
And now I pack - choose which to abandon, and save that which is dear.
For a season has ended and another has begun.
And I must lighten my load in order to be ready for what comes next.
I fight the urge to burn half and donate the rest.
I loved - and talked, and listened, and failed to do all three of these in varying amounts as well.
I grew a little taller.
I wrote this.
You read it.

Updates

I never blog anymore. I have more important things to do with my time. Nobody ever reads this thing anyway. I don't blame them. The majority of blogs are simply the old bathrooms in your high school. The poorly lit ones with white cinder-block walls that stood at the end of the narrow hallways. People opt to yell their words at infrequent times, and the echos blend into a sound most can empathize with. Depressing? I'm sorry. Confusing? I bet.
I just picked up the link tonight to post something quick - this is a late night phone call when I don't know who to call. A whimper from deep within myself - showing a side few ever see.

I am wrapping up my second year at Grand Rapids Community College. I have spent a few thousand dollars, easily a couple dozen thousand man hours, more late nights than I wish to count, buckets of gasoline carting myself back and forth, and at least five parking tickets. I poured these into a bowl and mixed it with a large wooden spoon over the course of two school years and one summer course. But now it's time to take it off the stove.
I have cooked up: 62 credit hours, a 3.47 accumulative GPA (which is outstanding, given my grades in Sr. High), and a membership in an academic fraternity.
I have written a manuscript my creative writing professor swore could be turned into a book, given the addition of 100 pages or so - and Dave Cope is not a man to throw around compliments.
I have increased my theater knowledge 100 fold, acted in one GRCC play, have been cast in a one-act being performed at the end of the month, and deck-crewed two other shows.
I have read and laughed and whittled away all that did not fit me and have gained a much greater understanding of myself and who I am. I AM A MAN.
I read fantastically and can interpret symbolism, allusions, and meaning. I can write like a devil. I can ACT. I can weld and dance, and am learning to do both better. I have gained a greater hunger for God that I hope never leaves me. I have learned to tell what is false and what is insincere and what is bullshit and how to call it as it is. I have seen truth much deeper than most people will ever understand, and I thank God for it.
But as I said, the two years are done, and the oven bell has rung, and it's time to see how my cookery shapes up in a transfer of Colleges.
I am going to Cornerstone - for more reasons than you'd care to hear.
I run the risk of going into debt at least 12,000 dollars. This is a conservative guess, but still a figure my brain is learning how to comprehend.
Barely any of my credits transfer. I always signed up for classes at CC with no greater - or too many - direction(s) in mind.
I will be fifth year Sr. and will have to hold off any plans I might have had or would have liked to have made for at least another year. I will have to pay many more thousands of dollars and continue to give up more of my freedoms for another year. Most of the friends I have who are my age will move on and some will start families and some will move away as I stay here for another year. Staying on the dance floor and repeating these STUPID Academic shimmies and twirls for another year.
A part of me wants to yell, throw chairs at the transfer councilors and powers that be, knock office supplies off desks, drop out and tell them all to rot or shove what in which end.
A part of me wants to think that these two years, these last 24 months, this last one-tenth of my life so far have been wasted. A fortune spent and empty pockets bought. I have purchased real-estate and found I have inherited the wind.
A part of me wants to believe that.




But these last two years have taught me a few things. A few to say the least.

My Funeral

New amendment in the ongoing plans to plan the disposal of my own body.
Put me in a simple pine-board box, lined with the afghan Great grandma crocheted. Carve a few lines praising the Lord's wisdom and grace on the lid. Anybody who feels as though I have impacted their life will go into the woods behind my parent's house in order to find a stick, twig, log, or tree branch. These will be piled atop a pre-stacked pile of wood and charcoal. My coffin will be laid on the very top.
Enough gasoline will be used to ensure the fires success, but no more.
A live recording of Breathe Owl Breathe's "Playing Dead" will be played on speakers as the flames spread.
The fire will take place in the field behind my parents house.
A tree will be planted over my ashes.

Buried Child

This afternoon, I read a play called "Buried Child". It was written by Sam Shepard, whom I will tell you all about and how much I love if given the slightest provocation - which is only slightly untrue. I love his latter plays. He wrote his earlier ones while taking lots of drugs, and so I have a hard time finding substance in them. I'm sure you understand.
"Buried Child" won the Pulitzer Prize (enter "Newsies" reference of your choice here) for Best Play back in '79, and it is very good. But, as you may be able to deduce from its title, it is very troubling in subject matter.
"Disturbing," as my father is fond of commenting after watching certain movies. "Very disturbing." Like most coined phrases of our parents, this one typically caused a slight eye-roll from me upon hearing my father's verdict. I never really understood what he meant by it - until recently I couldn't understand what was "troubling" or "disturbing" about what I was watching. Sure Jack Nicholson is acting weird. He always acts weird. I don't think he is capable of acting normal, even in his serious roles.
What we had just watched might have been scary, or suspenseful, but I could never really see things from my father's point of view - to fully grasp what his words entailed. I'm sorry if this sounds repetitive, but I'm trying to make a point. In my younger teenage years, I was unable to be disturbed.
Whether desensitized by gory movies or the countless comic books I read ( I had no business reading 75% of those I pulled from the Barnes & Nobles shelves) - I was not able to be touched. It was as though I had a switch I could flip. A window to close, to stop letting the breeze of what I was witnessing from reaching me.
But lately I have been beginning to see what my dad was driving at. The typically calm waters of my mood and dwelling-thoughts have been upset periodically. A movie. A play. Poems. News from far away places. I am able to be touched. What does this mean? - Now that I am able to see the potential harm in what I absorb.



It has been said that filmmakers, and artists in general, often reach an age of maturity when all the work the produce follows a certain theme. Spielberg loves Father-Son/young person finds mentor-figure stories. Wes Anderson does movies with quirky characters who learn to embrace/control their flaws and love the people around them. Tarantino does Tarantino-y takes on obscure film genres/cultural references. Woody Allen...you get the picture. Film buffs, connect the threads. This is a fun game to play sometime.
Sam Shepard, though a playwright, has similar themes and characters in his works.
Heritage and family history. The disappearance of the American West as we traditionally know it. The depreciation of that which was once cherished. Insane families.
Who we are because of where and who we came from. How we can never escape our past. How we try to kill off the memories of our parents only to find that we ourselves are driven to extinction in the process.
I hold theories about families that I have personally arrived at.

No one is able to hate anyone else quite like a son is capable of hating his father.
Every son will love their father - even those who hate their dads. Despite the sins that are inherited from one generation to the next, that love still remains, though it may become twisted and marred by pain.
The contempt shared between two brothers is also incalculably strong, though categorically very different.
"A boy's best friend is his Mother or whatever has become his pet."
Family.

Mr. Shepard has an answer for us. Acceptance. Learn to live with where you came and who you are. Combine it with who you are capable of being, and a happy medium may be found. Just remember that a tree cannot live without its roots.

"How to Tell A true War Story"

This post shares a title with a short story by Tim O'Brien I began reading the other day. The essay is nestled between other stories like it -ones about his tour of duty in Viet-Nam.
Though each can stand as an independent work, major motifs carry throughout; namely watching his friends die suddenly and with seeming randomness.
I have read the essay in question before. It's theme is as follows: "If someone is telling you a war story and it has a moral, it's false. If it makes sense, if it has any shred dignity, decency, or humanity in it, it cannot be true. For it to be true it has to be horrific, and senseless and ugly. You cannot learn anything positive about your fellow man from a war story. End of discussion."

Infrequently, I'm asked by certain people to tell them a story. Unless I am in a jovial mood to begin with, I am often stumped. Unable to summon a personal memory on command, I usually consider falling back on the Greek mythology I collected in my younger days. So strange how the story of Mercury stealing Apollo's cattle and the tale of Cupid and Psyche are more readily available - are often more easily grabbed from the cluttered walk-in closet of my memory - than actual events that have happened to me in my own personal life.
Something that happened to me once, that filled my entire world for an hour or moments at a time, that I observed and stored, adding to what I am - something that has affected who I am today? hmm- drawing blanks. How about something that never happened, but people used to explain their surroundings thousands of years ago? Yeah, that's more easy to come by.

Maybe its because on some level, I agree with Tim O'Brien. Real stories often have no moral, or their meaning is hard to sort through, opaque, or perhaps irrelevant and uninteresting to someone who was not changed by it. "Why would you want to hear about it? -What use could you possibly have for something that didn't stress you out, keep you awake at night, or thrill your senses?"
Real morals to our everyday fables? So subjective. Our world is too existential. Maybe that's why I first reach for something that's been told a thousand times. Something more timeless than you or me or minutes of our lives. Something with a prize already wrapped and ready for you to take hope and put on your shelf. Surely that is better than some tattered thing about how my best friend and I were walking in the woods behind his house Junior year of high school when we literately stumbled across this sculpture -some welded giant green goldfish with sparkling scales and fins flapping in invisible water on a five foot pole six inches round. You wouldn't want to hear about how the bottom ended with the jagged line a hacksaw had left -how it was taken from the entrance of a new housing development that was being built just down the road, how it was stolen and then hidden in the woods behind my best friends house. How we hefted it and put it in his basement living room and forgot about it, leaving it to do something else. How his parents called the right people and that it was returned. How it turned out that it cost upwards of 1,500 or so, and how the artist who made it was so grateful that it had been returned honestly after only a few days that he gave my friend's mom the gift of a new piece to put in her garden - a dragon fly or something.

What would be the point of that?

Yes, surely there is no meaning to be leaned from that. Nobody could possibly learn anything from it, or find it interesting, or use it to teach their children anything.

Surely.