flatulent cats

Dear friends. Dear, dear friends.

Well, I think it is safe to say that I'm actually pretty depressed in life right now. Having, what you might call, a dark night of the soul should only be done occasionally. I'm moving on, though- sunlight is flooding my room, and cats are jumping through the open window. Trying to decide about next steps can be tough, but I am officially emailing my pseudo-aunt Arlene about Pasadena accomodations, and shopping for airline tickets. I feel good about this Fuller thing, even when I don't feel good about anything else.

Rediscovering the blackness of my heart has been sobering, but I believe it will be good for me in the long run. The truth is, I get jealous. I say hurtful things. I think hurtful thoughts, towards myself and others and the Godhead. I have dastardly priorities and dubious emphases. And above it all, I have to come face to face with the man in the mirror (oh yeah) and know I always will. Or woman in the mirror, as my own personal case would have it.

I have decided that I really have an appropriate name- my last name means Black, and I have to remember that's where I am. That I always be, and no good lives within me. But I am also consecrated to God, and there is a hidden Joy that I even often forget about. But it is there. Always, always, always when I am convinced it is over, there is something good remaining. This morning Shelly left a note outside my door, requesting that we start spending a lot more time together. Friends, that is perfectly ok by me. It's not like I'm trying to fill a void with people where God should be (sick that sounds like a crappy Christian lyric) but more like God knows the desires of my heart. I hate being alone. God is good, all the time. I am not, ever. As only LoCurto could say at Adams, "Praise the Lujah!"

On a parting note, I picked up Draco tonight, and he farted. No wonder he's been squirrely all day and clawing at things. Gas always makes me cranky, too.

two by two

I think my two favorite feelings in the world are as follows:

1. Reconciliation

2. That feeling right after you pee when you can totally relax all of your bladder muscles because you're completely empty

... and so, as to show a contrast, here are two things I really don't like:

1. Looking at dead baby anythings

2. That pukey feeling you get in the back of your throat when you are really worried about something so you gag a little occasionally

Sufjan Shirt

I have discovered a new favorite. I feel like I'm in Paco Michelson's head when I listen to this music. It makes me happy and weird, and I'll confess, I have danced to it in the art gallery.

I love falling in love all over again for the first time. I'm glad sound was created- palpable, yet ineffable. I wish I could touch it and make clothes out of it. I would wear this music every day of the week.

old songs found, but never written

Last night- 6-6-04

I remember the last night you were in town
You came in after I was sleeping and you laid down
Oh I remember that night
Like it was last night

I used to hate the puddles in the john
After you had showered, dressed, and gone
Now all I want to feel
Socks wet from toe to heel

And if there’s any doubt in anybody’s mind
Let me set the record straight- set the record straight
If there’s any doubt in anybody’s mind
I miss you tonight, like it’s the last night of my life

I want you to know
I’ve been fine since the day I watched you go
I went out and made for myself
Riches in friends if not in wealth

I enjoy having my own place
Just three rooms that can be my own space
But that doesn’t mean
I don’t want you here with me

And if there’s any doubt in anybody’s mind
Let me set the record straight- set the record straight
If there’s any doubt in anybody’s mind
I miss you tonight, like it’s the last night of my life

I can continue to live without you
I will continue to thrive without you
But that doesn’t mean
By any means
That I’d like to go on without you

And if there’s any doubt in anybody’s mind
Let me set the record straight- set the record straight
If there’s any doubt in anybody’s mind
I miss you tonight, like it’s the last night of my life

Goodbye Uncle Peter

Peter Jennings died today of lung cancer. He was 67.

In reading the obit posted on Yahoo! news, I found out some cool stuff about Peter, like that he never graduated from high school or attended college, and that he had dual citizenship in Canada, where his family was from, and the United States. Also that he had his first Saturday morning radio show when he was nine.

My most memorable moment with Peter was during one of the more significant days I have ever experienced. On September 11th, 2001, I found myself in the late morning crammed into the upper floor of the HUB at Huntington College, with about 700 other students, glued to the huge projection screen. We were eager for anything that fell from anybody's lips about the greatest attack on U.S. civilians on our soil that we had ever experienced as a nation. Peter sat there, good old Peter, somebody we could trust. His shirt sleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up and his tie and collar were undone and pulled away from his throat. He was sitting there, staring at us just like we were staring at him. And then Peter said it all for us.

"We're just trying to figure out what the hell is going on."



Rest well, you who have kept us in the know so many years. May you find answers we did not.

play-doh, mcdavid, benfolds, and the unimaginable rift

First of all, dudes, let me say how pleased with myself I am at the ease with which I use HTML. Or at least that image-posting tag. Professor Lehman back at good 'ol HC (or HU... what a dumb acronym) would be proud. If he only knew I was reading emails and looking at sound equipment for 90% of his class... when I showed up. Too bad college is over; good times, good times.

I bought play-doh with Brian last weekend, because I wanted it and he encourages me in trivialities. I went over to McDavid's house and we played with it and I made a snowman with a dog. My favorite part are the scarves. I brought her a little tubbie of it, too, as a party favor, and she just made oddly-shaped lumps. This is why I like McDavid. Just when I need it, she lets me feel smart.

I'm hanging out in Kinfolks, an establishment on Manitou Ave just above the creek (which I can hear in the darkness due to open windows- ahh). It is incredibly Manitou. There is live music, beer, hiking shoes, outdoor gear, a bicycle repair area, and dogs are definitely allowed. The only non-alcoholic beverage they have available is french-pressed coffee, which I hate, but I am drinking because it is cold outside. It will also keep me awake until a late hour- a good thing at this point in time. I feel like being up late because I DON'T HAVE TO WORK TOMORROW!

***

So as to add another review on in this time, I'm going to talk about Ben Folds' most recent album, Songs For Silverman. Man, this man is genius. I love people that get better with time, till they just open their mouths and it's like drops of gilded butter fall out onto the floor in a beautiful tableau. UGH! I just accidentally drank coffee without sugar in it. Bad idea. So this album, this album is the first one I have that is a CD on one side and a DVD on the other. It makes me nervous. I don't mean to be but I am really hard on discs, and I'm sure it's going to get ruined in one way or another. The first track starts off and it's like pre-rubber soul Beatles, and then by the middle of the album it's like the Beach Boys and Chicago got married, and maybe Darren Jesse was the best man at the wedding. There are little chunks of time where I can hear all of the other stuff, from the self-titled Five album to Fear of Pop Vol. 1 to the EPs. And everything in between. His stuff is so melodic and poppy yet well-developed while being understated; it's like a buffet in a lunchbox. It is a CD that needs to be played really loud, and often. The one song that almost makes me cry, not because it is the best song on the album, but because I conjecture it's for Elliot Smith. The song is called "Too Late," and whether it's for Smith or not I don't know, but it's really intimate and says a lot of things the speaker was never able to say to the intended party. I remember being really blown away by the first page that appeared at BenFolds.com for months after Smith's suicide. I like thinking about amazing famous people being good friends in real life. And I think Smith's death was probably hard on Ben; I feel like this song lets me sit in on the living room floor and hear about it. Ok, so I just read the actual words, and it says, "Elliot, man you played a fine guitar/and some dirty basketball" so it's totally about him. It just makes me feel sad and clear and good all at the same time.

This album spans the gamut of styles- country, pop, jazz, rock. Al Yankovic sings BGV's. It is a musician's cd- Ben is a musician's musician. It makes me happy there are sounds like this out there.

****

In other news, I feel disconnect from a lot of things, and look out over the realm of disconnectedness and see limitless possibilities. All my life, I have placed other people before myself. Experiences, memories, people make you who you are. Do you ever get to the point where you can venture out and just do crap as a completed person? What happens when you are on a different page of reality from everybody that used to matter to you? People are totally crushing, totally getting engaged and having babies and getting married, and I just want to sit on a floor in a darkened room and listen to the spinning disc. Or wander around and do nothing really but everything, and write about it. I feel less cohesive and more coherent than ever. There are several times a day where I am just looking at things and all of the sudden things shift in my mind, like when you flip the hourglass over, and the sand is the same, but coming through backwards, and a new something or other is visible. It's like I look and it changes, becomes more real, but it just the same to everyone else. I really liked waiting tables today, and it was odd to me. I don't want to get drunk, even though it would be easier sometimes to blur through everything, show up to work high and go on just like everyone else. But this bigger part of me wants to feel everything while it is happening, even if it hurts like a little cut on your hand filled with lemon juice. I know that there are more nerve endings in your lips than anywhere else on your body, and I have never kissed anyone. This is the irony of my life, and I am resigned to go through with utter clarity; for what purpose I don't know. But it seems more right than anything else I can find.

Santa Fe- Are you there? Do you swear you won't forget me?

So last weekend I went to Santa Fe with my friend Brian from Denver. The whole week leading up to the event, I had that Newsies song in my head, but I couldn't remember any more than the "Santa Fe" part of the words. I forgot until I grabbed this picture how cute all those newsies were.

We went down because a cousin of mine was getting married, one I rarely see, and hardly any of my family was going to be there. Oddly enough, this compelled me to go more than less; I felt somehow obligated due to our lack of connection. My aunt called me nine days out and asked me if I would play the guitar for the ceremony, which was to be held outdoors in some sort of ruined church. After a half hour of deliberation, I said yes, and ended up playing last Saturday with approximately an hour total in practice time. Thankfully the guitar is like a horse or a bicycle, and even though my fingertips felt like knives were slicing them, I managed to hold on just long enough.

The wedding was at Pecos National Historic Park, and the ruins turned out to be pretty cool, a sun-baked mud-brick sort of structure that had an open roof and back, but the front and sides were mostly intact. The wedding party was small, the attendence was sparse, and the ceremony was short. My favorite kind of wedding. Brian liked it because there was beer at the reception, and he got to say the word "horno" about 97,000 times. [There was a little display type thing set up just across the road from the ruins, with a native type of stove, called a horno, that was used to bake bread.] The ceremony itself was performed by some kind of priestess, who talked about the four sacred elements, and I kind of felt like Captian Planet might come barreling down the aisle at any given moment. I found out later that Lauren (my cousin) had become Wiccan, and so this answered a few of my immediate questions, but quickly brought up more pertinent ones.

So, on to post-wedding activities: Brian and I checked into our Red Roof Inn accomodations prior to the reception, and promptly both felt too tired to go back out like we had planned. So we watched Tommy Boy on TBS and fell asleep. The next morning we went downtown and had breakfast, and walked around a little. Then we stumbled onto the Plaza and the annual Spanish Festival. It was actually really great, and ended up being my favorite thing about the whole trip. We walked around for a couple of hours, looking at art, sculpture, hearing music, viewing beautiful handmade jewelry, smelling foods, and watching live performers of several different genres. We met up briefly with my family to say goodbye before they headed to the airport in Albequerque, and then took a spin around the old and beautiful Cathedral of St. Francis. Then we walked back to the car, making a pit stop at a Cold Stone Creamery, and finally headed in an easterly direction on I-25.

The car ride back was great- a little napping, a lot of reading of Harry Potter, some eating of Swedish Fish. The best, most epiphinal moment for me of the entire weekend was when we got north of Pueblo and I saw the Peak and began to recognize finer points of the geography. I said it out loud before I even realized it to myself; "Finally, I'm home." And I realized it was true- this little hippie, gay, backwoods town has really become my home, as far as I am able to claim one. And I was honestly glad it was true. Santa Fe was nice, but I could care less if it remembers me or not, because for now I'm a Colorado Kid.

Charlie and the Michael Jackson Freakshow

I went out and saw Charlie and the Chocolate Factory last Friday night with my friend McDavid. Now, McDavid is a student of dramatic literature, so I was going to throw out any criticisms she might have had, almost immediately, because she is coming from a different land than most conscious beings. I liked the film, though I will have to say careful post-watching reflection has brought certain flaws to the forefront for me. I'm just going to talk about everything all at once, though.

First of all, Charlie is a cute, cute kid. His teeth are just starting to show that handsome/grotesque English badness. He is abominably good. He sleeps in a room in the top of the house, and his window is really an open hole in the roof. I didn't get why he didn't freeze to death, but perhaps it was just one of those things I was supposed to accept and not question. Charlie appears to just kind of hang out, and doesn't really go to school or anything. We find out towards the end that he might be a shoe shiner, but I have no idea if this is a one time stint or an ongoing occupation, because there is no through-line on the subject.
Also, Grandpa Joe is the same old skinny actor from Waking Ned Divine, a film I absolutely loved. And Charlie's mother is Helena Bonham Carter. Gorgeous. The other great casting plus (aside from Johnny, who I will get to in a minute) is the character of Mike TV, who almost uncannily resembled the original actor of the 1970's classic.

The moment Johnny Depp stepped onto the screen, I almost screamed. The guy is Michael Jackson. I wonder if stage directions sounded like this. "Ok, Johnny, now in this scene, I want you to act like Michael Jackson. Ok, great. Now, in this next scene, act like Michael Jackson. Ok, here just act bored and make fun of the kids. Ok, now act like Michael Jackson." I mean, the guy must have been watching the trial or something, because he had it down. Really pasty skin, bad hair, weird clothes, said really bizarre stuff, and acted creepy around kids. He was like a MJ clone.

This is where McDavid took the low road, but I hightailed it and beat her to Scotland. She felt like things were overdone, and a bit perefunctory at times. The latter part I might concede to on occasion, but definitely not the former. The original "Charlie" film was groundbreaking in its time. Roald Dahl was an irreverent genius of kiddie lit. This is the curse disguised as a blessing for those wishing to remake such a classic film.
How can the original impact of the film be felt when so many have seen it, have a certain set of expectations, and are also familiar with the written work? Well, just enough has to change- Violet's parent becomes a mom, Mike TV's parent is a dad. There is no Slugworth. Emphasis is put on background- we learn Charlie's dad is a toothpaste factory worker, and Willy's was a dentist. There is thought here- mere coincidence that both boys will grow up to be choclatiers?
The bar also has to be raised with the extremity of the film. Willy goes from a somewhat passive stance towards the children in the original, to an occasionally aggressive, antagonistic bully. His impotence to overcome his situation is nearly crippling to him, only being discovered in a therapy session with an oompa loompa. The film had to be taken to the next level to have the same impact on today's audience, in a louder, more caustic world, that the original had on its intended audience.

But don't take my word for it, Levar Burton. I definitely recommend a personal viewing, along with a large popcorn and some sweettarts. Not even this film could get me near the chocolate.

demon baby

My small cousins were in Michigan this week, and apparently went over to visit my grandparents who live there. Jim is addicted to his digital camera, shooting everything from collapsed lean-tos to plates of his uneaten dinner. They send me reams of photos all the time, and the picture above came from the latest batch, received today.

I love this little girl, Claire Emma Ferguson. She is almost exactly 20 years my junior, my youngest cousin. However, when I saw this picture, all I could do was scream.

Look out for the flaming massage oil!

So, last week when my family came out to visit me in my hippie/lesbian/wiccan town, I gave my mom and aunt massages. I have to insert a bit of history here, and tell you all that my mother is first of all an RN and skeptical of massage therapy, but also has chronically dry skin. So, I was excited to show her what massage can do. Let me say my statement about her skin is actually quite lacking- she has excema pretty much covering her body. 90 + percent, in fact.

She ended up really enjoying the massage, especially how moisturized she felt after I was done rubbing a massage gel blend of apricot, grapeseed and sesame oils into her very dry skin. So, I told her she could take the 2/3 of the jug of gel that I had left home with her. This is where Homeland Security steps in.

My mom was stopped at the conveyor belt while checking her carry on-where she decided to stash the gel, hoping it would be less likely to explode or come open than if it was in her suitcase. The dude at the monitor thought he saw what looked like a bleach jug and called her over to search her bag. Upon finding the offending gel, he seemed momentarily unconcerned, but was then shocked to find "highly flammable" in the fine print on the label. Well, duh. It's oil. He reported to his supervisor, who then reported to his supervisor. After thoroughly questioning my mother, cross-referencing her story with her flaking arms and cracked knuckles and the fact that she did say her daughter was in massage school, they agreed to let her board the flight, with her gel.

I'm glad we have these security checks- you never know what a wacko with a jug of massage gel could do.

Would you care for a peanut butter and Jehovah sandwich?

Is it even possible to eat the ineffable God? Transubstantiationists think so. Perhaps it should be the inedible God.

ACT 3

Beyond all this driving around and tourist hawking, I've been wandering around, writing a little and reading Kerouac for the first time. And finding a ghostly beat ancestor there, going west for the sheer westness of it, much as I am doing now. I feel the need to soak up all around me, and yet be a little detatched all at the same time. I had a review at work, and they told me if I am ever stressed nobody knows it because I look so calm, almost too calm, all of the time. I do get stressed. I have a featherlight, strawberry-patterned scar on my right hip to prove it. Its just that I don't get stressed about normal stuff, and I see little things as terribly important. I take time to fritter away meaninglessly, watching people or reading things of no real consequence. I totter back and forth between wanting to look at the mountains and not wanting to. The balance of grabbing life by the balls and ripping it off and being way to cool to even notice life, or notice life tourists, pins me down. I recently read the following from The Happy Isles of Oceania by Paul Theroux, "Tourists don't know where they've been. Travelers don't know where they're going."
All of the travel writing I read is morose and excited all at the same time, like if the author doesn't pull back in a moment they'll be crushed with the weight of being able to move about freely.

I got an email from an old friend, Andy Brown, today. He apologized for some junk that went down two years ago. I forgot all about it, but his wife is expecting a child and I figure he wants to get everything off his chest and really be ready for fatherhood when it arrives. We worked everything out of course, as there really wasn't anything to be concerned about in the first place. He told me I sounded like I was on the right track when I told him about my black, church-hating heart. Little does he know....

So, things keep continuing on, much in the same way that they have. I don't really think about what is going to happen next, but just kind of look forward to it. I could be 400,000 different people next year, in one of 400,000 different places. I oscillate between being bored and riveted with anticipation.

Ringing bells- the surprise whirlwind tour

During the intermission, I would like to relate the following anecdote. I work with a lot of incredibly brilliant people. These are people who walk away from physics and philosophy degrees, full ride scholarships to med school, to live in Manitou and work at an organic restaurant and smoke pot. I feel incredibly lucky sometimes. We have the best conversations. And also like I'm in this weird sort of limbo of life where everyone will wake up one day and decide to be real people and go get into investment banking. So far, though, everyone keeps showing up to work every day. I'll just take it as it comes.

The specific item I have in mind concerns one modified Christmas Carol a certain Mr. Dustin Booth and I modified from it's original, 1960s context. The following should be sung to the tune of "Silver Bells."

"Ringing Bells"

Busy sidewalks, turning tables
Can you take six on eight?
In the air I can smell orange spice tea.
Crappy tippers, tourists from Texas,
What a thankless job it can be
From the kitchen you always will hear:
Ringing bells, ringing bells,
Your ten-top's food is on fire
Where's the meat, we want to eat
Do you think we could get straws?

Where's the bacon? And the sausage?
Do you have corned beef hash?
In the air there's a warm smell of tofu.
I need equal- Diet Coke please
We would like separate checks-
We just lost electricity
Ringing bells, ringing bells
Frog says that we're all out of bread
On your feet, we're out of seats,
Soon it will be Labor Day.



ACT 2

So I took 4 days off work last week and drove my mama, little bro and aunt Gretchen around the bee-yutiful state of Colorady. I picked them up from the airport Tuesday night, and we drove down and stayed with Brian and Mahgrit, kidnapping a sleepy, dirty buddy on the way. We ate late night soups and Brian was impish with me for not calling. Oh well. I give him free massages, so he never stays mad for long. The next day we took the original Colorado kid back to her 4 square foot basement apartment on Emerson and she held hands with my brother briefly for a photo. Then we took off down US 285 towards Chaffee County. On the way we stopped at Red Rocks and hiked, and then Morrison for lunch, which I declined. It was really hot.

We finally got to Beuna Vista sometime around 2 or 3, and then drive down to Mt. Princeton. We took the mountain road up to St. Elmo, an almost perfectly preserved 120 year old ghost town. A few buildings burned down in a freak accident about 5 years ago, so we looked at some piles of ash and old iron stoves. Then we fed chipmunks that live in a pile of old railroad ties, and walked around and peed in this weird outhouse that smelled bad enough to make you faint. Then we headed home, and saw Buffalo and Cows but no antelope. We had spaghetti for dinner at my house and fell asleep almost immediately.

Thursday saw us sleeping in a little, and then walking around Manitou for an hour or so before going down to lunch at Adam's. Then we went up to the Cog Railway and took the 2:40 train bound for the summit of Pike's Peak. One of the engines broke down about halfway up, so the trip ended up taking a little longer than usual. We pulled back into the station after much picture taking and fudge buying at about 7:15. Then we came back through town, looked around a little more and mostly waited on Gretchen to buy jewelry. We were back at my place by 8:15, then made dinner and after about an hour had passed I gave my mom a massage. Then we watched an A&E Biography on Don Knotts and fell asleep.

Friday we woke up and went over to Adam's for a late breakfast. Then we walked around town a little more and bought some crap. We came back to the house and changed clothes and drove around for a while, I took them to downtown Colo Springs, and over to my school, where the somewhat grouchy receptionist was kind enough to let us in for a self-guided tour. Then we drove back to the Garden of the Gods and hung out for a couple of hours, taking a rather extended hike and pausing for all sorts of photo ops. We got back to the house around 5 or so, and then my mom changed and she and I went up to the community for the gathering. That went well and we got back around nine. We hung out on the porch for a little bit and talked, and then we turned in sort of early.

Saturday morning Dan and I got up and were out by 8:30, and climbed most of the incline, coming down where the Barr Trail makes a switchback particularly close. We were back by 10:30, and showered and ate. Gretchen wanted a massage then, and everybody else wanted to buy last minute crap and pack up. Then we got everything into the car and started driving north and were in Denver by 2:30. We walked the 16th Street Mall one way and then rode the free bus back. Nobody bought anything. Then we went out to Golden and drove around a little bit and saw the Coors factory, and ate an early dinner at Ali Baba's Grill, the best Lebanese food around. Then I drove them out to the airport, a little early because we weren't sure about security only three days after the London bombings, and I dropped them off. Then I went out to Scott's and gave him a massage and looked around his apartment and whatnot. And then I drove home and went to bed.

[End of act two.]

The adventures of Jeff and Mahgrit- a play in three acts

So my family has been out this past week, visiting from Indiana. And a million other things happened.

ACT 1: THE GAL FROM DOWN UNDAH

Margaret Ward, a friend of Brian's from Australia, was out visiting for a couple of weeks. Or, as she would teach me to say, Mahgrit from Melbin, currently doing work on her Ph.D. at Melbin Yuni. I taught her to say, "Brian, you're full of crap," in her best, squashed-vowel American brogue. I hung out with her a couple of times while she was here, the best of which was over the fourth, which totally entranced her. What she couldn't get over was the "America" garb we clothe ourselves with. She said if anyone did that in Australia, they would be thought a tourist, or laughed at, or both. The cool thing was taking her out and parking Jeff (my Trooper) on south Wadsworth, where we could see all the fireworks displays from Golden to Castle Rock at the same time. Mahgrit had certainly never seen that many at once before. She also ran that night for the first time in ten years, and all eight of us piled on the top of my Trooper and sat for the best view of the staggered finales.

I also got to break Mahgrit's massage virginity while she was here. That was interesting. It's always funny to me how many clothes people wear the first time they get a massage, then by massage #3 they're buck naked almost before they hit the table. I'm down with modesty, don't get me wrong. I had just never had someone wear a skirt on my table before. She later promised me a place to live in Melbin, should I continue my moving-west-only game, and taught me that ocker (ahkah) means really outback-type people or accents- think crocodile dundee. Brian and I taught her what gringo means. And bathers are swimsuits.
So, good times were had by all.

(entre'acte)

Adams' 4th of July special- the G. W. Bushboy

So a customer mispronounced our P. W. Busboy special the other day, ending with Bushboy. I quickly thought up the subject line, and then Megan hit the ground running with the idea. A huge pancake, the shape of Texas, would serve as a background for the rest of the dish. The syrup would actually be in a container the shape of a miniature oil well, which would dry up before you got enough. The bananas would be carefully arranged in the shape of a "Support our Troops" ribbon, and most of all, only about 35% of people would like it.

***

We did work on the Temporomandibular Joint tonight in class. I thought about Sarah Stanek and her bitey-retainer in college, and how it made her talk with a lisp. Other people I've thought about from college lately include Phil Salazar, Mandie Sanders, Matt Ricke, Evie White, Joe Urschel, Zach Luginbill, and Katie Kobelski, in no particular order. Oh, and that tall, blonde drink of water who was Miss Huntington a few years ago. Can't remember her name, though. She was in a dream I had the other night, hanging out with Katie Smith, who was telling me she wasn't really interested in being friends anymore. I think Miss Sanders was there, too, but every memory I have of her is tangled up with Dodge Omnis and horse tack.

***

I think I've turned the corner. I was happy today for no real reason, and didn't really mind. Really grasping the fact that I have something better, more lasting going on in the long run always catches up with me, even if it takes a while. I think I'm looking forward to seeing my family again next week, even though it was only 3 weeks ago that I left them. I will admit to having been pretty lonely out here the last couple of weeks, working like a dog and massaging like a fool. I got temporarily excited about yet another boy, and am now once again mostly over it. Those connections, even if made for one evening over a stack of David Bowie records and a dog that is afraid of shadows, keep it real enough for me. There are other people in the world, more of my species, that think and emote and consider and laugh and weep like me. Maybe not just like me, and I'll never understand them, not really really, but it's enough. Dr. Schleiffer once told me in college about this dream she had when she herself was an undergrad student. She had this dream where there were two hands, outstretched, coming within inches of each other, over and over again but never clasping. It made me really depressed at the time, I mean seriously like I wanted to cry my eyes out. But then I realized, sometimes the hands themselves are enough, just that there are two of them. And they don't have to touch- they know the other one is there and the best meetings are never physical anyway.

I knew I liked Wesley, but doh! with the evangelical schmevangelical

You scored as Evangelical Holiness/Wesleyan.

You are an evangelical in the Wesleyan tradition. You believe that God's grace enables you to choose to believe in him, even though you yourself are totally depraved. The gift of the Holy Spirit gives you assurance of your salvation, and he also enables you to live the life of obedience to which God has called us. You are influenced heavily by John Wesley and the Methodists.

Emergent/Postmodern 61%
Evangelical Holiness/Wesleyan 61%
Neo orthodox 54%
Charismatic/Pentecostal 39%
Roman Catholic 32%
Modern Liberal 32%
Reformed Evangelical 25%
Fundamentalist 25%
Classical Liberal 25%

Try the Auckland smoothie- chock full of kiwis with a side of vegemite

In my attempt at being honest with myself and the resounding echo of cyberspace, I have concluded that my recent posts have been thorougly depressing. Sorry. I guess I'd just rather not be fake these days.

It's like massage city around here, and I'm the mayor. But I never seem to have enough done. Kind of like earning money- all you do is work, but there's never enough of that, either. I found myself listening closely this morning in the kitchen as our dish told me how to select the perfect cave. It all started to make sense! No six month leases, no 400,000 dollars a month. All you have to do is make sure it faces east so the sun can warm it up in the morning, and that no water can get in even if it rains for days and days and days. And if you can't find a cave like this, find a mountain and some dynamite and make one.

I think I'm going to write some stuff soon, maybe about the potato lady from Adams, who simultaneously eats potatoes and looks like one. Maybe it will be about how I'm starting to think New Zealand would be a great place to emigrate to, because it is ruled by women and is gorgeous. Just like me.

one more time, chuck corea

I've been thinking about loops. About how my mind loops things, and everything is cyclical. I think that's why I almost flunked out of every math class I ever took, unless it was that part in geometry where you get to put rubber bands on the little nail-boards. I can't really think in a straight line. I think that's why I'm fascinated with Howie Day so much, and how the sound keeps coming back around and gets layered and is different while still the same. I'm wondering if its possible with theatre or written stuff, and how it would work and what it would look like. I think if I just sat down and wrote some stream of consciousness crap it would probably be pretty loopy, in more ways than one. Kind of like this post.

So I worked for like 5 jillion hours today and am exhausted and kind of crabby/crappy/creepy. That means its time to hang out with just my bad self and close the downtown Common Grounds in Denver with the little baristas. Quiche is good this time of night, with a healthy dollop of salsa and some weirdness on the side.

Sometimes I wish I was still in high school, when things were simpler and I was worried about stuff like marching band and if my green cords were clean. Then I remember how much that sucked, and I don't really know if there is ever a part that I will completely like. Or if things will just go better and worse, better and worse- somehow different, somehow the same, just a loop running in the background somewhere.

I'll pack my bags tonight, preflight

I've found myself once again in the midwest for the past few days. It's been a great trip, I have to say. I seem to be continually on the edge of being permanently jaded; this was just what I needed to get some wind back in my sails. First of all, I think most of it boils down to the fact that my spiritual walk ends up being more of a joke than anything else. I pretend to kind of be on top of my game, hand out advice like small bits of wisdom that should be treasured like pearls dripping from my mouth. Really, I'm just full of crap. I'm tired and lonely and not really ever spending time reading my Bible or praying or anything. Just when I really start to feel gone, something wonderful happens like a sermon from John Hay Jr., or having an honest conversation with a brother over a cup of coffee, and I remember what used to be in my heart.

People ask me what I'm up to. How do I politely explain to these semi-interested folks from different stages of my past that I'm living in a hippie Colorado town, taking courses in massage therapy? I get a veneer smile and a nod, and something mumbled about how it sure is beautiful out there. I get more interest when I mention the bit about thinking of Fuller Seminary and a Masters in Theology and the Arts. I'm almost more excited about that Fuller program because of the people I'll meet and the environment I'll be in - a somewhat more thoughtful version of Huntington, perhaps? I don't want the Christian College stupidity, but all of the great things about it I loved. Hopefully Fuller (should I choose to go) will be chock full of experiences similar to Dr. Schleiffer's small group, or discussions held after HC Theatre lab productions, or instructors like Dr. John Sanders.

I think I just have to continually remember that no matter where I go, or what I do, or who I become, that I belong to Someone else. I don't have to change my personality for God- just reflect God's likeness in my own way. My name means "consecrated to God." I want to be like the people in the Community who have names that perfectly describe them- Elohov, Yakkar, Yohannan. The love of God, precious of God, the grace of God. I want my name to be who I am. I want to respond in God's love to whomever I come in contact with, regardless of their lifestyle choices, religious affiliation, or nationality. I want to dance with those who dance, and mourn with those who mourn. I want to be consecrated.

Ibrahim...free!

At last.

A federal judge, one Hon. Ahern Cohn, has released Ibrahim, basically saying the government has been wrong all along. Uber- Conservative websites and blogs are blasting such celebrity supporters as Roger Ebert for being terrorist-lovers, which I guess would make sense if the critic habitually made out with Osama bin-Laden. But according to the feds, Ibrahim Parlak is not and never was a terrorist.

Mr. Parlak, our hats are off and our glasses are raised to you.

here comes June

I've taken a hiatus from blogging... sorry to anyone who stopped by and found a whole lot of nothing new going on.

Things have continued to happen, however. Quick updates- things at Adam'a are good, school is good, roommate is good, and I am good. Except for the continual realization of who I am, which I guess you could say is more of a mixed bag than anything else.

I have a heart that's sick, unable to do the right thing, being caught off guard and swept up into the wrong thing at a moment's notice, when everything seems to be going ok. I have a God of love, who buys me back each time. The fact that I am cognizant of this situation makes it all the more painful to me. I'll never understand it, I won't try to relate it to some slightly humorous and touching anecdote because there isn't one appropriate.

I have a mind made for learning. I look out ahead of myself and think about grad school, or taking sailing lessons, or learning martial arts. I get the weirdest notions at times, say, for instance, to learn how to ride a motorcycle. Or rockclimb. Or go to culinary arts school. I love the Community here in Manitou, and even took Katie with me last night to the first part of the gathering, but they have no real interest in scholarship, only in what they believe God to be telling them. I, on the other hand, believe all truth is God's truth. This makes the academic world shimmer with possibilities; that we may know ourselves, our world and our maker more with each lesson learned, each class taught, and each pupil enlightened.

**

I've been thinking about things like family, houses, cars. I don't know what my own family will look like as I age. God has provided me family in the realm of brothers and sisters in Christ, and if that is all I will ever have in this life, it is still a depth of relationship that many lack. I don't need to wait until I am married to buy a house. I feel very assertive on a lot of fronts, but not so much this one. I think it is important, though, to build for the future - all the while realizing tomorrow may never come. This includes cars. I love my Trooper, but I have come to the conclusion that he just isn't practical for every day driving- at least not after I leave Colorado. So while I don't want to get rid of the Troops, or Jeff, as I've taken to calling him, I think it would be worthwhile (especially if I move to Los Angeles as is planned) to have a small car for commuting. So I would have two cars. What's the harm in that? If they're both cheap, it equals one moderately priced car, with two entirely different options. Just some stuff I'm throwing out there for now.


Lying in bed this morning, I heard planes fly low overhead and thought about how I'd flee into the mountains if they started dropping nukes. There are some things that are important and some that aren't, and I'm just kind of trying to sort them all out right now.

Peace out.