Investigation at 42nd Street

So there I was, sitting behind my desk, working my way through the 300th page of Moby-Dick (the great American novel, so they'd told me, even though I'd been at it for about two weeks, and far as I could tell it was just some whaler's handbook with a cute story about a white fish and a crazy sea-captain, not a detective or a crime mystery to be spoken of). I hear a timid little knock at my office door. "Come in," I call out, expecting that it's just the landlord coming in to shyly inform me I've got four more days to come up with the rent. Yeah, business was slow. Seemed like all of a sudden people started to have moral scruples against my line of work.

Someone asks you, "So what do you do for a living?"

You tell them, "Freelance investigation." Watch them turn their nose up at you. You can read the assumptions all across their face.

Most people think I just spy in jealous lovers' bedrooms taking pictures from the closet. First of all, I'm a delicate person. People have even called me sensitive. I don't go digging for dirt where it aint there. I don't go running to the newspapers. I don't dial up the mayor calling shenanigans. I don't judge. I get paid to gather the facts that people probably already know about but are too proud to rightly admit. At least they tell me that they can't afford to get their hands dirty, whatever that means. Way I see it, they'd rather live a lie than muster the guts to confront the truth. Pay someone else to that. Do you want me to spell it out for you? I'm a dick! Only my middle name aint Richard . . . It's Henry.

Anyway, back to my story. The door slowly opens, and in steps some broad in a black dress. Sheesh! It's 12:00 and I'm hungry. Who is it this time? A senator's wife? She's young. Blonde hair. Not gonna take it very easily. I say, "Look, mam, you suspect you're husband is cheating on you and you're probably right. But maybe you should save yourself the grief, huh? Use your money and take a vacation." My stomach was growling, what can I say? I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't seen it happen a thousand times before.

"I'm afraid you've judged me wrong, Mr. . . "

"Just call me Henry."

"Mr. Henry."

"My apologies. So what CAN I do for you, Mrs. . . "

"It's Miss."

"Excuse me."

"Miss Trinket."

"Miss Trinket. What can I do for you?"

I look at the clock. 12:02. I know right about now the line down at Joe's Sub Shop has probably strecthed out to a 15 minute wait already. No use squirming outta this one now. You gotta understand. It's never easy working for women. I mean, there's gotta be some level of trust between you and your client, and with the bad reputation I already get for being a member of my (honest) line of work . . . well, trust is something that I've found takes time when you're talking about a man and a woman.

"I work at the orphanage on 11th Avenue. Well, last night someone broke into the kitchen pantry and stole all of the milk and cookies. I wouldn't be so concerned except for the fact that this is the second night in a row that this has happened."

"So you came to me."

"Well, I didn't want to bother the police. But also . . . "

"But what?"

"Well . . . "

"Well what, Mrs. Trinket? Anything you might be thinking makes my job easier, makes your case potentially quicker and cheaper to solve."

"I believe that it's Santa Claus!"

I drop my head. As does my stomach. It was a Friday. Fridays are always bad luck, especially on a Christmas Eve. You think you're about to kick back for a nice relaxing weekend.

She goes on, "I'm sorry. Perhaps I shouldn't have come here. I . . . "

"No! Look, I'll help you out. I just need you to sign this contract, it contains all of the information regarding my fees and your rights . . . "

Truth was, I'd dealt with this guy before. Mr. Santa Claus. It was about three years earlier. Toy shop manager comes into my office telling me there's this guy been coming around the store lately. Big fat man in a red puffy outfit. Apparently he'd started coming in every day, wistfully admiring the model trains and racks of stuffed animals. When the cash box started turning up less money than what was supposed to be in there, that's when this manager starts to get some suspicious ideas about the manic depressive fat man. Turns out it was the manager's son had been felching extra cash from his daddy's business. The guy was raising a spoiled brat for a son, but he was too busy with his own affairs to even notice that his kid had been going about causing trouble, getting his name pretty high up on the naughty list.

Well, I'd followed this fat red guy anyway. I was curious. He looked familiar. When he finally stopped for the night in a back alley on 42nd Street, I tripped over a garbage can. Blew my cover.

"Who's there?" the guy calls out. I can hear the fear in his voice. I don't blame him. It can be a rough city at night.

"Not to worry, sir," I tell him. "I just feel like I know you from somewhere, but maybe I was wrong. The name's . . . "

"Henry. I know, son."

I stagger backwards.

He says, "Kris Kringle." And he holds out his hand. I start to walk with him to some shantytown on the East Side. He tells me it's warm there, a place with burn barrels and more or less friendly company. We're talking on the way, and I finally convince him to let me buy him a cup of coffee and a piece of pie at this nice little diner I know uptown. Turns out he only wanted some milk. They didn't have any cookies but he settled for a muffin.

Long story short, turns out the jolly fellow had gotten a bit disillusioned over the past few years about his job. Seems that Christmas had become too much of a commercial gimmick. People didn't want Christmas for what it was, a time to be with their families, eat delicious cooked meals, wake up with bright cheerful faces to see what new toys Santa had left them under the tree (all out of the goodness of his heart, mind you). Kids were greedy these days. They didn't want trains. They wanted violent video games. They wanted money! First of all, that wasn't easy for Santa and his helpers (as he called them) to meet the demand of. That required a lot more complex machinery and manpower. Worst of all, he'd begun to read columns about himself in the newspaper. Some parents had been claiming that they were unsure about the moral character of a man who snuck into people's homes in the middle of the night, much less certain children's bedrooms where the young ones had left thank you letters addressed to him. I gotta say, I kinda knew where the old guy was coming from.

Well, after a few hours and a few funny stories later, we got up to go.

"Listen," I say to him, "I'm sorry people misunderstand you, Mr. Claus, but I don't think you realize how special you were to me when I was a little kid."

I told him about the time that I got the poster of Micky Mantle that I'd really wanted, how I still mounted that one on my bedroom wall. I think I actually convinced him to go back home and keep working. I mean, that next Christmas morning I walk down to my living room to find a tubed package sitting next to the record player. I didn't bother to get myself a tree that year, I still feel bad about it. I open it up and it's a poster of Babe Ruth.

It looked like Kris Kringle was down in the dumps again. How could I blame him? Maybe he was expecting me to come after him. I figured he'd been hanging around the orphanage because he cared about the poor kids there. In any case, it looked as if I would have to go talk some of the jolly happiness back into the red suited fellow once again. Hey, it was my pleasure, especially if it paid the rent. I picked up my overcoat and headed out the door. I paused to think, but just for a second. Then I made my way down to 42nd Street.

F'er talks and eventually recommends a film

I couldn't let myself pass by a whole month with only two measly blog entries. So let me share something interesting that I was thinking about today. I learned that Sir Isaac Newton was wrong. Masses do not attract each other. A black hole sucks in light, but light has no mass. It is pure energy. The sun will also bend light that shines from stars billions of miles away. Once again, light has no mass.

Here's the deal. We now believe in Einstein's theory of relativity. And we all know that E=mc^2. Well, this is what mass does. It bends space.

Now, in a black hole, space is warped so much that it pulls everything into another dimension that does not exist in our universe. What?! I know, but apparently it's true. Apparently, astronomers have reason to suspect that there are 10 dimensions. Now, is that just dimensions of space? Because time is also a dimension, and, yes, black holes also bend time. I don't know.

All I'm thinking is this. I feel like that is an important thing to know. At the same time, that is nothing I would ever need to know. Is it wrong that I am 22 years old and have never until today learned about the true nature of the force of gravity (even though I still do not understand it by any means)? How are we so smart? Nobody has ever seen a black hole. How do we know they're out there? This world has got some geniuses. I wonder, however, if anyone really understands it all. Everyone great is standing on the shoulders of the great discoverers before them. It is a great chain of invention and discovery, and does anyone truly comprehend the genealogy if its linkage? It's a web. An enormous web of information and knowledge. We don't necessarily need to know step A to have a grasp of step K or step L. We might even be able to be the bridge to step M.

Also. I lied. I am thinking about one more thing. There is, in fact, a film entitled The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension. The film starts out with our hero Buckaroo Banzai going through a mountain, through the eighth dimension, in a super fast prototype car, out in the desert. And if I remember correctly, he was not the first. Another guy went through years before but got temporarily stuck and went crazy, possessed by a creature of the eighth dimension.

I'd like to think that Buckaroo Banzai is real. That he is out there protecting us. Using his knowledge not merely for money or his own personal fancy, but using it to protect us from those evil minions of the eighth dimension, who have been invading our universe, posing as humans, for decades now.

Sitting Still

The TV signal is like granola tonight. And I'm aching. The painter usually comes on around now. I would know for sure if I had a clock, but I'm through with that. Who wants to get trapped like that? TV is bad enough, but at least I've been freed tonight. Now if I could only find something to eat. The shelves have just about run empty. The microwave keeps running when I pull the door open. I don't want to get some kind of cancer. I'll steer clear of that. Machines. They're probably killing us. Like this TV. It's just showing the stuff that's moving all around us all the time. Radio waves. It's energy. Energy that we're bombarded with every second of our lives. That has to do something. Light. I should turn off the light. Light is stronger than radio. It's better to stay healthy. These crazy nutjobs. Killing themselves slowly, 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. They even left their lights on when they went to sleep. Have some respect for yourself! Their blankets smell of spices. It's all over me. I can't get away from it. I'll bet that even if there was running water to take a shower it would still be on me when I got out. Why haven't I turned off the TV?

I can't see. But if I sit here and look around long enough, my eyes will adjust. I remember reading about these people that lived underground for generations. They turned into blind monsters. But their sense of hearing and smell became so honed in the process. They lurked around the nearby villages and stole children from their homes at night. I don't remember where I read that anymore. I suppose it probably wasn't true. You can't trust people! People will let you say anything these days and get away with it. There's no restraint. And we call that freedom! We're just trapping ourselves in with a big wall of lies. It would take millions of years of evolution to create a species of blind human beings. There's no possible way that there will be civilization in another million years. Probably not even the next hundred years.

I wonder if that static...

How would I know if it had all ended? Nuclear explosions obliterate New York City. How long before the effects of that reach here? There's just this granola on the TV screen for maybe 25 minutes and then there's no more feeling. No more time. Because there's no such thing as time really, just another stupid invention like the TV or the microwave. It's a dimension. And we don't understand it. It's not cyclical. And we can't live in a cyclical mindset. Otherwise, all of the pain that we escape from will catch right back up with us again. And I can't accept that. I have to believe that this is random.

I better just check...

Still the granola. Still no food. And I'm suddenly glad that their blankets smell of spices. I think it's covering up the stench. I better not think of that. It will just get worse. But it's not that simple. I can't just tell myself something and make it be true. If there is a stench then there is a stench.

How long has it been since I've moved from this position? I think the cold has frozen my joints. I need to pour hot water on myself like my mom used to do to the car in the morning before driving me to school when the doors were frozen shut. That always looked so nice. The warmth. The awakening feeling. It must be so wonderful to be warmed like that. To be brought back to life.

I have to urinate. I could go in my clothes. That would be so warm. But then it would become uncomfortable. And if I'm gonna be stuck here I shouldn't make myself uncomfortable.

What time is...

No! I can't get away from it. I'm tired. So what? That doesn't mean that it matters what "time" it is! How did we let them do this to us? Wasn't there someone who spoke up when they began to trap us? Nobody listens to us. We have the answers. Not to everything, of course, but it doesn't matter because nobody listens to us. They didn't listen to me. So I had to save them myself. Why don't I turn the TV off?

Gastronomic Dispute

My stomach has experienced better days. All of this panicked tightening, coupled with the intake of volatile acids that react harshly with unsettled stomach acids. I'm sorry, stomach. I've overlooked your feelings. But you've made your point, and you've made it clear as day. And really, it's just gotten to the point where I'm gonna have to tell you to just knock it off. You're starting to interfere with my responsibilities. When I'm put in strange, unfamiliar circumstances I tend to act impulsively. You know this. It's nothing personal. Yet. I mean, keep it up and we'll make it personal. I'll put an ulcer on you. What? You don't believe me? Try me.

Look. Forget that. I don't want to fight. I know this guy. He's a peer listener. He volunteers at his high school. I think he'd be willing to sit down with us and help us work all this stuff out. I don't want to keep fighting like this. I need you to digest my food. And you need my body to put yourself into. The last thing I want to do is remove you. I mean, I could try and find another stomach, but we both know how hard it is to find a good fit. So whaddya say?

Awesome. give me a hug. Just gimme a hug, for crying out loud! It doesn't mean we're gay! Geez. Now what do you want for breakfast?

On Spills

Run and you take the risk of spilling yourself on the concrete. That's what happened to me. A big mess of F'er, sprawled over pavement. I should be a skater. Then there would be a method to the madness. I would have tripped on that curb, but it would have been in an attempt to grind it. And that would be admirable.

Will I run again? It will never be without a remembrance of today's infamy. It will never be the same. The laughter will have lost its original meaning. Perhaps that is why comedians use new material. One night they screw up, forget the precise delivery of a joke and change the meaning. That's why Radiohead refuses to play "Creep" live anymore. Not because they're any more mature of a band. They messed it up a few years ago in concert. Thom Yorke forgot the words. The drummer dropped his sticks. It was embarrasing. They could never play it without conjuring up that moment of failure.

Okay. This has gone on long enough.

25th Post Celebration

Time to celebrate! This marks the 25th post of JiVE! And everyone knows that celebration must ensue on the 25th of anything. Well, okay, this isn't an anniversary. And even television shows don't usually celebrate a benchmark until they get to something like 100 or even 500 airings. So this is a modest, but nevertheless appropriate celebration, because I don't really have anything more significant to discuss. I say we take a look back and revisit some of our more notorious posts of yesteryear (or yestermonth...or yesterweek)...

Tuesday, June 22, 2004:

Man, this was a big day. 3 posts! Something that has not been repeated to this day! And what an ecclectic group of posts it was. I wonder what was going through my mind. Here is a quote from each of the three posts...

from "About my Blog":

"Our journey towards an understanding of the universe will be travelled upon different roads, even if we accept the same religious truths."

Wow...I was probably being a little too deep for my own good.

from "The Official 22 things that I Want to do Before I am 22 Years of Age":

"What was I thinking?"

That sounds a little more like me.

from "In a word...'exceptional'":

"And the word was 'exceptional.'"

Once again profound...but this time, I believe, more focused. I must have certainly come full circle on June 22nd. Deep ambitious thoughts, followed by doubtful catastrophe, but restored with epiphanous clarity. Isn't that life? Isn't that the epitome of the human condition? We are all of the time caught up in a cacophanous funnel cloud of abrasive, half-formed ideas, broken in their embriotic development by the very tulmultuousness of our ever-changing horizons. Even solar systems are unstable, unpredicatble entities. What?! Am I completely moronic? Why do I even bother with this blog nonsense? I don't even feel like I'm in a whirlwind, so why did I even say that? I should have seen this coming. Wait! I think I understand. The only certainty in this life is uncertainty! That's it! I've done it again!

Well, I don't think I have enough energy to sort through any other posts for the time being. That was too taxing. But they are all archived for your and my perusal. So thanks to all of you who have been faithful and supportive to JiVE over the past few months. The uncertainty. The renewal. The laughs. The thoughtfulness. The hiatus to China. The comeback. The new challenges. The new experiences. And once again...the uncertainty of the future. What will become of F'er 25 posts from now? Will there even be 25 more posts? I can only hope. But who knows really? And more importantly...oh yes...who bloody even cares?

Drift

I remember that day you tripped on shrooms. That was weird. I didn't know it at the time. I just thought you were high. All those old feelings and thoughts cramped into your halluco-world in that kitchen where we had the munchies one night and Charlie went the way of the buffalo. How did it look in comparison? A part of you was about to drift away like a floating chunk of glacier melt off. Were you able to keep your bearings? I only ask because I have no clue. I'm pretty grounded.

I'm really not giving a hard time. I miss the stuff I can't get back. For a time, it was good. It was what I needed. And now everything seems to be drifting away from my center. It has been. I have to travel too far to get to where everyone has gone. I'm just an island anymore. Used to feel like one, but I wasn't, not then.

I had an old life. I have a new one. Like you. You had an old life. You have a new one. For a while we seemed to intersect. We ran a similar curve. "Actually, that's not true."

So I wonder what it feels like to know what you know. I wonder if I could have followed you to that halluco-world. What would I have seen when the walls of 21 years of construction were made to bend and shift? I bet it would be more than a feeling, sea-bottom walking. My revelations have come from a different source. It's harder to believe in them. Sometimes you gotta force yourself. And then it pays off. I like where I am. But the continents have drifted. The globe is unfamiliar, and I no longer recognize it.

can't fix it

I regret walking into an unsolvable problem. There are some people that become obssessed with fixing broken things. Their computer has crashed. The programs aren't working properly. Something is wrong. So they spend the next four hours utterly in vain, trying to pinpoint what is wrong with their computer. The longer they remain at the task, the more frustrated they become, because nothing changes. I'm not exactly like that with physical things. I don't really bother with busted machines or stupid math riddles or jigsaw puzzles.

But something much more abstract is broke right now, and I'll be damned if I know how to fix it. I noticed it earlier today. I let it go. I moved on. I thought about it later, checked on it. That may have been a mistake. I feel like my tinkering has made it worse. I feel like a complete idiot. Two hours gone by now. Other broken things, things that I can fix, have been neglected in the mean time.

Where did this come from? As the theme from Full House posits, "What ever happened to predictability?" And all I can think about is what I possibly could have done wrong to make this all happen, besides not just leaving the problem to run its natural course. I begin to think that I am the very source of the problem. And now all I'm doing is journaling, and that's not interesting. That's not even productive. So here I go. I'm gonna force myself to forget about this crap and work at things that are within my knowledge and power.

...I want to blame my blog (which is pronounced B-log, by the way). I feel like this thing has gotten me into trouble before.

we have eyes that speak

we have eyes that speak
louder than muffled words
easier to stare sunward
than to withstand your gazes

words that do not cut
but impart more truth
than can be held in
cheap paper gift bags

(though gifts we readily
receive and cherish)
words that convert only
with almost vain effort

a touch strikes deep
sprung from unseen recesses
culminating surface caresses
and returning to deep

transferring unsung truth
that is nevertheless
a sort of betrayal
and a resulting frustration

a taste of something too
sacred for young emotions
and all that remains
is a struggle for words

hard-fought words and
timid muffled breath
hard-formed truth but
proper understanding restored

we do not forget but we
know more new truths
dark and good in a curious haze
let our eyes focus on the lines

hardness on the brow

My life is like a volatile substance. And I am an incompetant scientist. Somebody pushed me into an expensive laboratory with a new immaculate white coat and told me to observe this chemical. I don't know what it's doing. It's splitting and conjoing and exploding and bubbling. As soon as I notice something worth recording my cell phone rings and I have to answer it. Or I reach into my pocket protector to realize that I left my pen somewhere around the room, and by the time I find it and get ready to jot down information on my notepad the chemical's behavior has already changed, and I forget what it was I had planned on writing down in the first place.

What's with my crazy similes and metaphors anyway? Really, this is nothing more than a classic example of blogging about blogging. What makes things worse, why I feel even more ridiculous, is the fact that I just wrote about two paragraphs and lost them because I went to a new web site in the same window. I've just spent the last ten minutes or so trying to rewrite what I had already written, and for some reason it doesn't sound nearly as good as it had before. That's frustrating. All a part of what I was talking about. Now that happened and my feelings have changed.

Oh man. I need a vacation. Luckily, I'm getting one. Pretty much starting now. But I'm tired and still stressed about school and work and school and relationships. I never intended this to be a journal. But it has kind of replaced my journal, which was updated infrequently anyway. There's probably only a couple people at best who read this, one of them likely being myself. My feelings have gotten in the way of my art.

But I still want to say something interesting. And something interesting happened today. I have a quote that I heard from an astronomer today:

"In the beginning there was hydrogen and helium."

Wow! The way he said it was not Biblical or profound. I don't even think he realized then how ironically funny this sounded, at least to someone like me. Whenever I hear a sentence start with "In the beginning..." my mind is confronted with unfathomability and religious theology. It makes me want to insert some deductive reasoning and begin a Third Testament:

"God is hydrogen and helium."

But then I would have to accuse myself of heresy and get some friends to burn me at the stake. And that would be awkward. Then later today, I read the opening of a William Faulkner story:

"At first there was nothing."

Granted, it's easy to take a sentence out of context, and I need to read the continuing 23 pages of the story. But I'm pretty sure there was an intentional religious allusion on the part of the author. It's hard for us humans to understand the beginning. We're not supposed to understand it. We don't remember being born. There might as well have been nothing before our existence, because what is the purpose of anything but for our own interaction with it?

There was always God. Weird. And there was not always us, but there always will be? Eternity. Weird. My life feels volatile and changing. God is changeless. Will my life always be an unstable liquid? Especially if my life never ends. Unfathomability. God is hydrogen and helium? People should not talk to me, in spoken or written word. I've heard enough for a lifetime to play around with and figure out. Give me 2,000 years to order everything I have observed thus far. Check up on me. Maybe then I will be ready for more. Or just give me five minutes and maybe I'll forget it all.

too many similes, too many metaphors

Oh man! I've really done it this time. I feel like I've dished up more food than I can eat. I'm like the scientists in Jurassic Park who built a dino theme park before figuring out that you can't put up a fence and hope to contain an extinct group of animals that had to be eradicated by a frickin' asteroid collision. Which basically means I'm like Dr. Frankenstein. From one point of view, you could say that I've created a monster that has broken all restraints that I could ever hope to enforce. Of course, if you've ever read Frankenstein, you would hopefully understand that there is sympathy for the monster. Instead of being afraid at what I have done, I should try to understand it better. To show it love and care. Throw away all of the deluded expectations I may have had that my creation was meant to serve me, to gain me fame and triumph. It is a responsibility.

What I've written sounds bad. It sounds like I've commited a crime. Far from it. What I am feeling is excitement. Very likely, I am days away from a major change in my life. All other concerns, like work and shelter, seem so shallow compared to the grandness of what could be going down shortly. It deserves to be recorded in the blog annals of modern history. I have been running down a long footpath, gaining momentum for the bold leap into the deep gorge below. And for the first time I can begin to see the edge of the cliff. We are in the dark movie theatre, and the time has almost come to don the ceremonial 3D glasses for the action highlight of the film.

But as my first paragraph hints, I am experiencing strange feelings that I had not anticipated. I'm nervous. What if I jump into that gorge only to realize that I never learned how to swim? I thought I had it pretty much figured out. Now I realize that this step I am about to take is not a small one. Things are going to be a lot different. And it's exciting. But I must keep perspective. I can't forget that others have gone before me, only to end up shipwrecked, burning their wreckage on a deserted shore in hopes of rescue. They tried to captain their vessel through forbidden waters. In their excitement, they experienced a temporary pride in their accomplishments, putting too much faith into their own limited knowledge of navigation. As they drifted farther and farther off course, they forgot in their fever-stricken panic to look up at the the sky to the one constant source of guidance.

Let me never forget you, God. I thank you for your blessings. Let them never become idols. And now help me figure out this stupid English paper.

In spirit and in truth?

It's been a while since we've actually heard from F'er. And while one could possibly make conjectures about F'er based on his blog entries (I will freely admit there is a lot of F'er in these blog posts), perhaps we need to return to some more blatant honesty. Every once in a while, a writer may be called to emerge from behind the curtain. I ask you now to indeed pay attention to the man behind the curtain! At the same time...be careful! You can't totally separate the F'er from his words. F'er is words. As spoken by Lauren Hill, "Me without a mike is like a beat without a snare." Okay, so I really didn't have a very good reason for quoting the Fugees.

I find myself wanting to be a true worshiper of God...

"Yet a time is coming and has now come when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth, for they are the kind of worshipers the Father seeks. God is spirit, and his worshipers must worship in spirit and in truth." -- John 4:23-4

All I know is that this passage resonates with such truth for me. Maybe it has to do with the fact that there are three forms of "truth" in the verse itself. I found myself wanting to walk over to the railing overlooking the ground floor of the library last night. I imagined myself declaring these verses to my fellow hard-working students, and watching their confused faces while I just looked on with a grin before turning to leave. In fact, I really don't completely understand what Jesus means when he says this, and I hope it is not because I am like the hardened pathway, or the rocky or thorny soil. I want to meditate on these words. As for my fancies of being a crazed, soap-box preacher, perhaps that just sprung from my recent desire to speak words of truth. I desire the Holy Spirit to impart me, to charge me with a surge of profundity, that when I speak in passing conversation to my brothers and sisters, God's words would pierce the walls of their doubt and misunderstanding.

What does it really mean to worship "in spirit and in truth?" I mean, I feel like I could give a simple explanation, but I also feel that there is something deeper that needs to be uncovered. I would love to hear a sermon about worshipping in spirit and in truth. Worship is a personal offering to God. We can worship in singing, writing, giving, what have you. It compliments the work that we do in His name. Our worship is the tasting of life-giving waters:

"But whoever drinks the water I give him will never thirst. Indeed, the water I give him will become in him a spring of water welling up to eternal life." -- John 4:14

We are given abundant life. Thus, even in a desert place (a picture of an old map...the Sahara), we can bring life to those dying around us. Because "the Father seeks." We do not have to search for our destiny. We don't have to probe the singulartiy of the black hole to find truth. I don't really have to worry so much about where to go after graduation. I listened to a song today that spoke to some of my recent feelings. The climax (yes, climax) of the song goes like this:

"This place that I'm supposed to be,
is not the chair of a desk in front of a mirror
Can't you see that it's not here or there or anywhere
But in speaking distance with God,
and where can you go that's too far?
Because I can worship him anywhere.
Yes I can worship him anywhere."
-- Plankeye -- 'Bicycle'

There's a certain freedom in that. It's good to know that I don't have to go and "find myself," that there is a purpose for me being where I am today. I am here to worship my God. I can read the Bible in the library. And even here there is a harvest. I see a lot of thirsty people around me. They want something true, kinda like me, but they don't know where it is. So, like I said, it doesn't matter so much where I go. Yet I still find myself thinking of West Africa and pirates and diamonds. And I wonder if I'm trying too hard. I see a plausible connection. Trouble is, do I see a connection between oracles and the stream of consciousness? I suppose time will tell. Likely, I'll look back on this blog and chuckle.

F'er continues to hide. F'er has been dealing with a lot of strange new things. F'er is listening to emo-punk. F'er wants to worship in "spirit and in truth." But F'er also wants to do something, and perhaps that is the hardest part, the most challenging.

4829 H Street

A certain house outlives its builders, it's first tenants, maybe it's second tenants, perhaps scores and generations of passerbys. It is a way point on a larger scale of time than an inn. It is something that is owned, yet never owned. The house is like a mother, and its tenants are her children. She enfolds them under her wing. She stands tennaciously through the wind and the rain, the bitter cold snow and the pounding hail.

We force our changes upon this protectress. We force her to conceal our darkest secrets. We scar her with nails and make her carry our memories and desires, covering her walls with the heavy images of exotic worlds where we imagine ourselves to be happy. We bore her with holes and invite corruption to diffuse itself into the rooms, until it is reflected in every corner, under every table. Colors and sounds of fear. The mother cries, she bears testimony to her pain, yet we drown her angiush in our business. We silence her moaning frame with hypnotic information, and we lose ourselves to sedation on soft surfaces. We feel her yet think only of the hardness. We forget her. And in our forgetfulness we trample her. She bears the filth of our travels, our earthly wanderings, and it collects. She wipes our soles.

Is it me?

"Look back I sift through all the cliques
Roaming the halls all year making me sick
While everyone's out trying to make the cut
What
And when you think you know me right
I switch it up"
-Deftones -- 'Back to School (Mini Maggot)'

I'm like a superhero. I'll change on you so fast. I've got so many identities, you couldn't track me down if you tried. You go ahead and go out there into the world. Move to the big city. Follow your dreams. Find yourself. Try out for cheerleading. Force yourself into that circle of friends. Laugh at the things they're laughing at. Go out on the town in a limo. You think I'm looking at you for acceptance? I'm trying to figure out a mathematical equation for the distance between your stupid proud smile and the knot in your stomach that keeps telling you that someone's gonna find you out.

And you know what? I'll even play your game. And I'll play it better than you ever could. All I gotta do is switch hats and you'll think I'm 2 Dangerous! Maybe I'll walk outta the house in my beanie and you won't even wanna talk to me. You can make your judgements. But I figured out all your psychological puppet strings. Sorry. You're gonna have to think like me if you wanna figure me out. And if you do wanna figure me out, happy hunting. Maybe we could go out for a beer, talk about our dreams, talk about how stupid everybody is. How do you know I won't flip your ego too? Please...

Vacation

I feel like a gypsy squatter right now. Life is so confusing. Some property managers came by my house today, completely surprised that I was living here. I try to convince them that I have an agreement with the landady that lasts through the month. The old guy tries to tell me a different story that he heard from the landlady. Does he believe me? I don't know. "What can we do to make your part easier?" he asks me. I'm thinking, "What the hell is my part old man?" True this house is messy and filled with all kinds of crap, but it ain't mine. I didn't make the mess. It was a hole the day I moved in a year ago! Why is this my problem? Gimme my frickin' security deposit back, you wench of a landlady! You better not try and screw me! Oh, so I may have to vacate by the end of the month. No problem! It's only the middle of the frickin' school year.

I feel like there are forces at work more powerful than me. There was definitely an agreement, and encouraging words that this house could very well be mine for the rest of the semester. But now I feel like a squatter, and I want out.

I wish I could say, "no problem." I wish I could just put on a vinyl record and sing:

"I get by with a little help from my friends
I get high with a little help from my friends"

Apparently, in his later years, after the complete divebomb of his career, Orson Welles was a bit of a transient, somewhat of a Hollywood nomad, rooming and boarding at the hospitality of friends. It must have been like housing a timeless relic to keep this broken-down man, this forgotten and abandoned genius of his time, at one's estate. You would be living not with an ordinary tenant but a genuine, mysterious piece of history!

This, however, is not the aftermath of my life. Actually, I don't know what it is. So many strange, often difficult occurrences have been happening in my life lately. And so many sad, confused feelings have been now and again invading my mind. And they are triggered by different things, the thought of a friend, an envisioning of the future that is just as assuredly dashed by my doubts as it had been brought into confident focus. These property managers have disturbed the temporary piece of mind that I had been experiencing. They are like a car that has driven through a beautiful reflection of the city skyline after a refreshing rain. Forgetful me. I mistook what I had been looking at as the real thing. The image of my life that I had been dwelling on was only a distorted replica. With difficulty I attempt to pinpoint in my memory the time that this beautiful, upside-down picture caught my attention and began to put me into this trance that I have finally been awaken from.

Is it just reality come raining down? Is it a confrontation with inevitability? Aren't we all meant to be drawn from our luxury and comfort at some point in our lives, to be dragged out into the pouring rain? Where are the cameras? What is the name of this "reality show?" But I am not in the pouring rain. Some people are. I am simply in a doorway. Or a threshold. In some stories I have often read of certain characters who are introduced "on the threshold." We have a literary term for this. It is called a "liminal" description. Perhaps I am in a liminal existence. Ever since I heard the knock on my door this afternoon, it has been as if I could begin to see the individual pieces of this house fade away from existence. I need to escape before I am swept away. This is cleaning time. Reality is expected at any moment. I have stayed here too long. But it's more than just this house. Something is catching up with me! And I don't know where I have to run to stay ahead.

Penance

Alex finished his set and stepped offstage. He felt a little embarrased, as he always did after a performance. It was a strange profession for someone like Alex to choose, someone who felt uncomfortable and out of place under the bright glare of a spotlight. But the act was over and behind him once again, and once again he would be ready to face the few spectators who would approach him to pay their tributary respects and flatter the musical talent that Alex never quite felt he genuinely had.

After sealing his guitar away in its black hard case, he stepped out into the dimly lit room. His friend Josh came forward and the two exchanged a smooth ritualistic hand shake. It was a casual yet necessary gesture that signified, not only their mutual recognition of friendship, but their sense of brotherhood and shared experiences. "That was awesome, dude," his friend congratulated.

Alex forced out a little chuckle and looked away across the room. "Thanks," he quietly responded as he began to wind up his cords and stow away his equipment. Keeping himself occupied was a good way to potentially ward off the awkwardness of this sort of conversation. How was he supposed to respond?

"Hey," Josh quickly interjected, "I want you to meet my friend Mogely." Alex turned from his task and acknowledged the presence of the young guy that had been standing next to his friend. This young man, who appeared to be in his early 20's, took a step forward and threw forward his hand with a broad, friendly smile. Alex politley offered his own hand and the two exhanged a brief, single shake. It was a quick gesture, but Alex was momentarily surprised by both the warmth and strength in the young man's grip.

"Nice to meet you," they both said. And the three men stood around for a moment, wondering what to say to each other. Alex already knew a little bit about Mogely's story from Josh. He had just been released from prison a few days earlier, now a born-again Christian trying to get back on his feet. And while Mogely professed his intentions to begin a new life, to walk forward upon the straight and narrow, Josh was there to mentor him and safeguard him from the snares of the past. Society, although with good intention, was already forcing him to confront certain past habits and addictions in the form of volunteer programs and support groups.

After talking for a few minutes about coffee and basketball, Alex asked Josh if he could help him carry his amplifier outside to his car. Bringing it inside had taken more energy than Alex was now left with. Mogley, however, immediately responded, and squating down, fought to get a firm hold on the ridiculously heavy machine. Standing up, he asked in a friendly voice, yet with a slight, involuntary grimace, "Which way?"

"Oh...ah...follow me," Alex hesitatingly replied, a bit surprised at Mogely's action. Alex, unawares, picked up his guitar, and the two young men began to walk outside toward the parking lot. Alex suddenly realized his rudeness and turned back to say, "Do you want some help, dude? I know that's pretty heavy."

"Oh, no, it's all good, man. I used to have to carry these heavy boxes all the time when I used to work at a warehouse." Alex could see that his arms were beginning to shake, and he ran ahead to unlock the back of his car. Mogley shuffled over to the vehicle, struggling under the weight of the amp, yet trying hard to hide the obvious strain. Setting it down as gently as he could, he took a deep breath and told Alex, "Well hey, man, it was good to meet you. Maybe I'll see you around again."

"Yeah, totally," Alex responded. After a final moment of staring silence, they again shook hands and Mogley turned to go back inside the cafe.

Alex just stood and watched as the young man walked away. What had just happened? There seemed to be something extremely significant in the interaction that had just taken place. Mogely had grabbed that heavy amplifier as a man that was somehow desperate. There was such a strange necessity in his reaction to the call for assisstance, and it hadn't even been directed at him really. And then Alex began to think about the concept of penance. Are we expected to pay a penance for the sins we commit? Alex got into his car and sat there in silence. He was overcome with sudden and immense guilt.

my shadow

We all have dark things that follow us. They are our shadows. And they're most hideous and powerful at night, because they're all around you. Feelings, whatever they may be, are amplified at night because of the shadows. Shadows are feelings. And they have names. Mine is Loneliness. What is so aggravating about Loneliness is that he (although it very well could be a she) stares at me through other people. That's how he taunts me. He has fun in crowds. And then, in an empty room, he whispers these deafening noises into my ear...no, not in my ear, but it gets to my head nevertheless. And he's all I can think about. I remember in middle school, how I used to bend my head to the ground and it did damage to my back. It was his fault. Though my head may be held high nowadays...it's funny, I still can't look at people in the eye. Because sometimes he's still there. And boy do I curse my shadow! I blame him for a lot of things in my life. But he keeps me company. In fact, sometimes I get this funny idea, and I don't know if it's true, but I get to thinking that maybe I put him on a leash. Maybe I'm not really trying to walk away from him. I think I might actually be taking him for a walk. Why else would he want to stick around with me? Anyway, I still get this other idea...this is one that I've had for a lot longer, but I suppose it must be even more untrue, beacause I can't find very solid evidence in favor of this one. At any rate, the idea goes something like this: Loneliness is gonna face something fierce one day. It's gonna come up against something he's never seen before and run away. And then something new will follow me around. Another shadow? I don't think so. But it won't be Loneliness.

"Azeem the Great One, I am home!"

We're sorry. This post has been temporarily or permanently deleted by F'er. (11/16/11)

3 minute message from China

When you're in Beijing, don't pray for rain. Or if you do, make sure you don't have to catch a train. Or if you do, make sure you are at the train station first. Chinese people can't seem to handle driving in the rain. Gridlock is insufficient to describe the chaos. Thank you.

China ho!

Alright, folks! After a rough start, a glorious comeback, some laughs, some tears and some uncertainties, we come to a significant fork in the road for JiVE. This, I am afraid, will be the last entry of my blog for what could very well be a hiatus of more than six weeks! F'er will be leaving his native country to visit another on the other side of the world. China. As part of a cultural exchange program, I will be travelling with a small team of American college students from three regional schools. For the bulk of the program, we will be located at a university in the city of Lanzhou, where each American student will be paired with a Chinese, English-studying student as roommate. I could continue the details, but I won't. Details are too uniteresting for JiVE. Needless to say, I am anxious. And my packing is not going so well as of yet. And I'm running out of time. And I'm writing a blog entry? I suppose one of the most significant things I will miss is blogging, which includes the reading of my friends' blogs. At the same time, I think I need a break from some of the commercial and consumerist absurdities of American culture. It will be quite interesting to be in a place where Chinese food does not go by the name (in Mandarin, of course) "Chinese food" but merely "food." My friend and I had a good conversation about this phenomenon once.

Anyway, if any of you American stalkers out there were hoping to discover my whereabouts this summer and come "visit" me, you had better start digging a hole now. Or you could book passage to China.

I leave you all with a few questions...

1. Has your life been an examined one?
2. Are you feeling bloated and light-headed?
3. Am I not extremely cool?
4. In what year will the human race finally dig a hole from the United States to China (you can see I am fascinated by the concept)?

Twenty-two

Alright...I'm reposting something I had up for a little bit on the 29th. There are a number of reasons why I'm uncomfortable to do so. First of all, it's a poem, and I don't normally write poems. Secondly, it plagiarizes something that was both written (quite beautifully I might add) and experienced by mindovermatter of Synaptic Transmissions, an experience that touched him personally and me vicariously. I encourage you to read about it here. I suppose it conflicts with my notion of "individuality," upon which I have lately written of my frustrations and confusion. As if I couldn't come up with my own experience to write about! Well, in my perhaps completely unnecessary defense, I did not begin writing this poem with the intention of alluding to mindovermatter's blog entry (since that is what I have to go off of). However, it seemed that the point I was making was illustrated quite well in his train story. I had no qualms writing the poem, which was intended to be nothing more than a humble excercise in artistic expression. By posting it, however, I fear of appearing cheap and pretentious. Nevertheless, I seem to have the go ahead from mindovermatter. And because this simple piece of writing is nothing more than honesty, which this blog may need more of from time to time, I give you a little insight into what F'er was thinking about during the transition from 21 to "Twenty-two."

Twenty-two

All I care about is me
And about my discontents
Countless dreams I fail to reach
And wasted time I’ve spent

I just turned twenty-two
Only fifteen minutes ago
Fifteen minutes, twenty-two years
What do I have to show?

So clearly I can see the world
In chaos and decline
My mind can see its problems
Though I only work at mine

I know I’ll never find content
In a world that’s sick and dying
Yet I can claim a love and grace
Sufficient for the trying

I still cannot be selfish
Hoarding love as wealth
It’s given me by overflowing
In sickness and in health

I will fail and I will hurt
And dreams will seem like dreams
But love, how small, will hit its mark
And rivers flow from streams

A boy of four or five
Was walking with his mother
She did not know what train to take
And needed help from others

Her own hard life was pain
Her innocence defiled
And now the debt to pay would be
Exacted from the child

While sitting on the train
A sad young woman boards
Her eyes betray the troubles
That the cruel world awards

And then she sees the boy
Perhaps as in a mirror
She takes her place beside the pair
In love there is no fear

Her soothing voice of comfort
Makes young bright eyes shine brighter
Her candy and her smiles
Will make his burden lighter

As if she were an angel
She comes and disappears
But angels I do not believe
Wear eyes as sad as hers

She will fail and she will hurt
And dreams will seem like dreams
But love, how small, will hit its mark
And rivers flow from streams

No safe bets

To give something of one’s self can be both ironically selfish and simultaneously courageous. Why is that? Life among other people is a constant exchange, and our transactions can be absurdly unequal. We give anger for sympathy, empty encouragement for vulnerability. Perhaps the worst exchange is unrequited love. To be hated is one thing, especially when we know that we are undeserving of such feelings. But to give love and receive anything less is truly despairing. For that there is rarely consolation, and a person may seek desperately for an explanation, all in vain. That we may never understand. In our ignorance we anticipate a fair economic system, yet experience will teach us that reality is anything but ideal. There are no safe bets.

Frustrations

Tomorrow I will be 22 years old, and I ask myself what I have to show for my life thus far. All you think about when you turn 21 is about how you can now legally drink and gamble. If you didn't consider yourself an adult at age 18, then you were sure to have reached that status at 21. And now there's nothing left but to face life. There are no special bells and whistles from here on. What is special about 22 is "Oh crap! I'm 22!" I feel like it's time to start figuring things out. I have one more year of college, and then I need to be ready to make some kind of decision as to where the next segment of my life will be positioned to run its course.

I've just spent the weekend in Canada with some friends from college. We were visiting another friend up there. Last night I talked with a guy who had graduated last year as a studio art major. I asked him if he had come to Whitman expecting to be a studio art major, hoping for some reason that he would say no. Turns out my hopes were confirmed. He had had no idea as an incoming freshman, expecting to be a math/physics guy. But he has such a passion and budding knowledge about different kinds of art: painting, architecture, etc. I know this because he often brings up such topics, his thoughts, knowledge and observations, in general conversation, as he sees things out the window from a moving car. He has a passion for art, and it's exciting and encouraging to see.

As I said, I began to talk with him last night, voluntarily beginning to talk about myself and my own desires. I have such a deeply rooted desire to create. I feel as if there is a reservoir of potential energy building up within me ready to be released and put to use. But I don't know what to say or how to say it. I just read the recent posted entries from the blogs of my friends, and I though they were beautiful. In many ways I connected with them. I enjoy this blog, and I have had some genuine fun writing some of it. And maybe that is good. But how is it important? How is writing about my thoughts of film all that important? I've never created a film. I dream about how awesome such an experience must be, but I have nothing of value to say, or if I do, I have no idea how to fashion my ideas into any kind of cohesive form. I have tried to express my creativity through playing the guitar. Yet I realize that I am not that good, nor will I ever be all that much better than I am. That's just the way it is. I've tried writing songs, but I can't ever do it. There have been plenty of various riffs and chord progressions that I have come up with, but I cannot for the life of me put anything together! I have no idea how to put together a song! And I'm not even talking about writing or applying lyrics. That's another obstacle that I can't overcome on its own. I wish I could write stories, but I don't know where to start or where to take them. My own experiences? Ok, I can do that, but what do I say through that, how do I describe this particular experience? I begin to write, not having any idea of what my objective is, and immediately stumble on how to form a sentence. I am so critical of what I do, that I silence myself before I ever even allow myself to speak. How will I ever get from the point of merely envying the passion and genius of other people to being able to express my own?

I remember being a very happy kid in the sixth grade. I was nerdy, scrawny, four-eyes, what have you. But my classroom that particular year became a comfortable environment in which I felt encouraged to be myself, to revel in the hidden corners of my ridiculous 12 year old imagination, and bring them to life. I am romanticizing the experience, of course, but it was truly a time that I was allowing myself to create in different ways. There were these humorous comic characters that I invented, such as a character who did nothing but played ping pong. I suppose to describe him, he was invisible except for a smily face, two arms and pair of shorts. He permanently carried around a ping pong paddle in his left hand. I'll never forget that stupid little character. And it makes me proud that I can claim complete creative ownership over that.

It is difficult enough for me to create my own opinions. It seems that anything I argue is simply an amalgam of opinions and ideas that I have collected from various conversations, sermons, eavesdroppings, speeches, etc. Is it just me, or does anyone else feel like they are so easily persuaded? Two people will be arguing against each other, and I will be able to do nothing but perceive the truth and validity of the claims of both sides! What do I have to argue that comes directly from me? Should I try and cut myself of from the opinions and exclamations of other people. Do I just need to sit down and be patient, and begin to ponder about the world and its problems, and from this patience and isolation, allow individual thoughts to flow? Can it be, in fact, somewhat dangerous to our individuality when, although upon good intentions, we seek out knowledge and ideas from alternate voices? When we read books from African Americans writers and watch films by Native American directors? What if our individuality is, in fact, more like something that is slowly shed and torn off like old skin, the more we experience the world and listen to the voices of its different people?

Well, this is probably not it. But I must say, I do not know how to reconcile my frustrations. This past weekend has been strange. I have hung out with three different groups of friends: some people I used to be friends with from school who I eventually drifted apart from, friends from college, and my best friends who came from church and youth group. It was a fun and unique experience being among all three groups. The first group made me wonder what my life would have been like had I shared their similar group experiences in high school. The second group made me think about how much a college experience like the one we share has forever opened up our eyes to a new way of looking at the world and the lives ahead of us. Among the third group of friends, I realize that remaining in the same place will probably limit a person's development. One's ideas will not be changed. Unless you force yourself to adapt to the challenges of a new environment, you will not easily change much at all. What this means, I suppose, it is that my individuality is indeed not completely my own. I owe who I am as much to myself as to these different groups of friends, with whom I have shared similar experiences. In retrospect, that ping pong character from sixth grade would probably not have been invented had it not been for my friendship with a particular friend from that class.

Previously, I had been asking myself, why don't I feel like I completely belong to any of these groups of friends? But then I also remember a brief situation from last night, in which I was sitting with the friend I had gone to visit in one of his hometown cafes. He was approached by one of his old friends, and their conversation was brief. This guy must also know what it's like to be caught in the middle of past and present experiences. He must also have old friends who he has trouble relating to now that he has been away at college for the past 3 years.

Maybe my individuality is the very reason I feel such unrest among groups of people. Where am I going with this? This has become sort of stream-of-consciousness. I think I am trying too hard to build up to a resolution. A few minutes ago, I felt I was on the verge of something profound. But my indecisive nature, my too critical thinking and my fear of writing too much (too late) has perhaps reared its ugly head once again.

I am not really all that worried about turning 22. It does sound dramatic to say that I am. I just listened to a song by Switchfoot called "Let That be Enough." In it the singer says, "It's my birthday tomorrow / No one here could know / I was born this Thursday / 22 years ago." Remembering this line is what caused me to listen to it, because although tomorrow is NOT Thursday, it is my 22nd birthday. The first words to the song say, "Wish I had what I needed / To be on my own / Cause I feel so defeated / And I'm feeling alone / And it all seems so helpless / And I have no plans / I'm a plane in the sunset / With nowhere to land." I don't know if this was really what the songwriter was feeling when he wrote the song. Maybe it too was a bit of romanticism, but I can definitely relate to what it says. My station is nothing new. Perhaps even the writing of such a beatiful song was not enough to satisfy his anxieties. Perhaps he too felt critical of what he had created, annoyed that his poetry was too simple and lacking a true sense of individuality. The song actually continues, "And all I see, it could never make me happy / And all my sandcastles spend their time collapsing." He has seen much of the world by 22. But no matter what new places he travels, no matter how many new experiences he might enjoy and be influenced by, he will never be completely at ease, never quite feel like he can belong. All of the things he creates never quite acheive the greatness that he strives for in his mind. They are like sandcastles that get trampled on or demolished by the tide in the midst of their construction. Maybe they just buckle under their own poor design, because they were never built strong in the first place.

The friend who I talked to last night told me a particular piece of advice that I should probably consider. He told me that to become great at an art, one has to practice it every day. Maybe this sort of excersize is a step in the right direction. Maybe allowing myself to ramble on like this as a way of conveying my frustrations is a means to settling them. Who knows? And more importantly, who cares?

Happy Veemas Eve!

Well, folks, it is another 6 months to Christmas Eve. Which means that today is 1/2 Christmas Eve. Which means that it's 1/2 X-mas Eve. Which means that it's V-mas Eve!

Oh man, have I got some crazy Veemas Eve memories, like the one year my mom severely overcooked the peacock and we all had to eat cereal instead. We were all in such down moods, because, you know, we had waited all year for another peacock dinner, and it was ruined. So we're all sitting around the table. I was eating Corn Flakes. My sister snaps at me, "Stop kicking my feet!" So I was like, "Am not! Am not!" My sister takes a spoonful of Captain Crunch, gives me the nastiest glare you've ever seen, and flings it at me. It hits me square on the forhead! I've got milk and soggy little Captain Crunches runnin' down face. I take a spoonful of my Corn Flakes, and I fling it over at my sister. It goes right over her head and splats on a picture of Grandpa on the wall. My sister is cracking up, pointing her finger at me like a little brat. I get so upset that I take my whole bowl of Corn Flakes and dump it on my sister's head! This whole time, our dad is just shouting and shouting, telling us to stop it. Too late, right? Well, right as my sister is about to pick up her own bowl, my dad reaches across the table to try and stop her. He knocks over his hot coffee, spills all over his lap. This makes my dad shout out in pain, so loud and sudden that it freaks my mom out. She drops her glass of water on the floor. It shatters. And now, it's all over. My dad is throwing spoonfuls of cereal at me. My sister is flinging blueberry jam at my mom. Mom goes for dad, I go for my sister and we just start making a mess of the dining room. This goes on for a minute or so. Then my uncle, who we had all forgotten about because he had been sitting on the pot for the last 5 minutes, he sneaks into the kitchen and grabs the burnt peacock. So here are all the rest of us in the middle of a Veemas Eve food fight. My uncle walks up behind my dad. He takes a big swing and just pummels my dad with the peacock to the side of his head. Everybody stops. We're all completely stunned. And then, of course, we just start laughing. I don't think I've ever seen my dad laugh so hard in my life. I thought he was gonna pass out. Anyway, we were all happy once again, and we went bowling. I'll never forget it.

So, now I wish a very mirthful Veemas Eve to all my readers. Kids, you all go on to bed now. You don't want Old Mr. Sneezlebums to pass up your house because you're still awake!

A response to the American Film Institute

Last night, CBS aired another annual installment of the AFI's 100 years series. This year's program was entitled "100 years 100 songs," and the AFI counted down what they decided to be the 100 greatest songs to appear in film, the only criteria being that the song had to have lyrics. I was intrigued by the idea, and I had taken a gander at the AFI website which had listed the 400 nominees. There were a few interesting and creative choices. Sadly, these more interesting nominees were, for the most part, overlooked.

It seems to me that the AFI often placed more value merely on the song, rather than on the juxtoposition of moving image and song. For evidence of this, I point to certain songs that were awarded which appeared in their respective films only in either the opening or closing credit sequences. The song "Nobody Does it Better," which corresponds to the James Bond film The Spy Who Loved Me, for example, is a song that appears at the opening credits. And while the opening credits to James Bond films are visually interesting, it is not what the program talked about. "Rock Around the Clock" was another song that was awarded. It too is a song the merely corresponds to the opening credits, in this case to a 1955 film entitled Blackboard Jungle. Representing 8 Mile, a film that I have seen, was the number 93 song by Eminem, "Lose Yourself." This song does not appear until the very end of the film as Rabbit walks away and the credits begin to roll.

I think that "Lose Yourself" is a pretty amazing song. I'm not upset that it was awarded, but it goes to show that the AFI did indeed emphasize the song over the sometimes ingenious way in which a song is used to enhance the viewing experience. The latter I would have found much more interesting. The AFI overlooked what I believe are some of the most incredible uses of song in film. They failed to honor the ways in which the film-school generation filmmakers of the New American Cinema often reinvented the concept of popular music in film.

Take the Doors' song "The End," for example, which was one of the initial 400 nominated songs, as it appears in Coppola's Apocalypse Now. There could not have been a more perfect score to accompany the beginning and ending sequences of that film than this song. The haunting doomsday lyrics of Jim Morrison, coupled with the mystically eerie yet simple guitar work of Robby Krieger, coupled with the organs and every other aspect of the song, create an already unforgettable piece of music. Now couple this to the images of the film itself, Martin Sheen's borderline psychotic character moving around like a drunken martial artist, completely strung out and losing all sanity in a hot and humid Saigon hotel room. Fast forward to the end of the film, in which Sheen's character once again assumes this bizarre and horrifying persona, on his way to brutally assassinate the enigmatic Kurtz. The Doors song plays again over the unforgettable shot of Sheen slowly emerging from the still river like a silent predator. This is art!

There you have it, an example of how the use of song enhanced the cinematic experience in a profound new way. There are other directors besides Coppola who have acheived incredible cinematic moments through song. I am immediately reminded of two very similar, both incredible, montage sequences in two of Martin Scorsese's mob pictures, Goodfellas and Casino, that utilized pop music to help tell the sad and fateful stories of how the mafia was destroyed by the very reckless behavior that made it initially powerful. The former is carried along by the second half (without lyrics, I admit) of the song "Layla," the latter film using, quite fittingly, "House of the Rising Sun." What did Celine Dion's "My Heart Will Go On" really do for film? It sold a bunch of CD's, made some people lots of money and annoyed most of us Americans for a few weeks.

This is my humble opinion. I have no problem with "Over the Rainbow" being the number one song. But there could have been a much more interesting variety selected in the top 100, that would have challenged viewers to think about the many different ways in which the historical combination of song and film has influenced the cinematic experience of the present day.

A room fit for a blogger

I've done it. My bedroom, which was a shamefully messy and cramped disaster just 2 days ago, has been transformed into the perfect blogging environment. The bed has been moved from the south wall to the east wall. In its place is my "desk" and computer. This particular arrangement, which I remember working well back in high school, has allowed the room to be opened up. For those all-too-common moments of writers block, I now have a convenient amount of open space to pace around in and think. My northern window is now unobstructed, and if the neighbors feel so inclined they can now watch me change or walk around without a shirt (and possibly pants). My college books have emerged from the state of suspended animation that is storage and are now being proudly displayed on a proper shelf. I am ready to blog. Who wants to do some jivetalkin'? Who wants some?

In a word..."exceptional"

Last night, I was asked to think of one word to describe myself. It did not take me long to come up with that word. And the word was "exceptional." I think that I will stick to that. If ever I am asked to describe myself to another person, perhaps a perspective employer or a blind date, I will boldly declare that I am, in a word, "exceptional."

Upon further consideration, I realized that there was another good word. While I cannot truthfully apply this word to myself, it is something to which I can nevertheless aspire. And that word is "contagious."

The Official 22 things that I Want to do Before I am 22 Years of Age

Well, a week from today is my birthday, and I will be 22 years of age. Which means that I have a week to accomplish "the official 22 things that I want to do before I am 22 years of age." They are as follows...

1. Watch all 6 Star Wars episodes in one sitting, preferably dressed up in a Stormtrooper costume. (Scratch that one. Curse you Lucas! You were supposed to have finished them ALL by now!)
2. Get married and honeymoon at the Neverland Ranch.
3. Get divorced and go hit the singles bar.
4. Produce a children's cartoon show promoting ecologically-sound thinking.
5. Discover what the Batcave is really a metaphor for.
6. Eat a pound of broccoli.
7. Free Tibet.
8. Free my mind.
9. Patent an invention, preferably something that will take care of grease stains.
10. Write a check for $1 million dollars and rip it up in some homeless person's face.
11. Grace the cover of Sports Illustrated, preferably for achieving athletic greatness in a sport.
12. Dive headfirst into a giant mound of leaves.
13. Earn the respect of my colleagues.
14. Escape to Cuba by makeshift raft.
15. Achieve true flight for at least .09 seconds, and possibly grace the cover of Sports Illustrated.
16. Build a robot out of 1,000 other disassembled robots to create a MASTER ROBOT, and possibly patent it.
17. Develop a taste for mariachi music, good or bad.
18. Post bail.
19. Sing the National Anthem underwater.
20. Decline a major award.
21. Sever all ties with South America.
22. Get sunshine on a cloudy day, as the feller once said.

Well, shoot, with the exception of number one, which I most likely WON'T be able to accomplish by next Tuesday, I've got my work cut out for me. What was I thinking? Where am I gonna find a pile of leaves in the summer?!

About my Blog

I started this blog only a few days ago, and I immediately ran into problems with my first entry. And that is never a good thing. Most likely, I was simply lacking direction. Perhaps I should have started out with a goal or a mission statement. Then again, that doesn't really conform to the way I do things. I always felt that having to write down "New Year's Resolutions" and "goals" for the new schoolyear cramped my style. But at the same time, I am extremely critical of the things I create. Well, I still haven't solved my problem. I'm only continuing this blog, because it seems like a cool thing to do. I may be able to express myself in new and exciting ways. I enjoy what I have read from other people's blogs. Here's what happened...

As stated before I did not like my first entry. My next entry was basically an apology for what I had posted. It's just not the way that I wanted to start off. So, I have taken the coward's way out and deleted those first two entries. I copied and pasted what was written to a Wordpad document, and perhaps in the future I may repost what was written. Maybe I will try again to describe what had been on my mind, with better success.

I didn't have to do that. After all, I have entitled this blog "JiVE." In other words, what is written here may be nothing more than meaningless, wasted space. I am more inclined to accept the worldview that we are more or less insignificant as individuals in comparison to the bigger picture. Our own opinions, creations, joys, sorrows, triumphs, nay...our very lives, as profound as they may be to us as individuals, are merely our own opinions, creations, joys, sorrows and triumphs. We all have to figure it out on our own. Our journey towards an understanding of the universe will be travelled upon different roads, even if we accept the same religious truths. My acceptance of Jesus Christ, for example, is merely the beginning for myself. There is yet much to be learned and experienced. But they will be experiences unique to me.

I'd better stop there. Because it was only my first two entries that were deleted and not my third (which now will appear as the first, entitled "Favorite Movie Moments Vol. 1"), it does not mean that the remaining entry is any more or less absurd, more or less worthy of deletion. It is simply a matter of my own personal taste.

This is JiVE. It is what it is. Who knows what lies ahead? And more importantly, who cares?

Favorite Movie Moments Vol. 1

Here are a couple of my personal favorite movie moments...

1. Almost Famous: The band is all together in an airplane. The plane enters a storm and begins to experience some serious turbulence. What begins as an attempt by the lead guitarist to express some sentiments of love to his fellow friends and band members, in the face of a danger that might not be survived, soon becomes both a mile-high confession and a frantic, shouting match that reveals some hilariously disturbing secrets and brutal hostilities between the people on board. And the plane suddenly lands to safety.

2. Boogie Nights: Dirk Diggler and two of his friends pull a ridiculously stupid stunt when they visit the home of a notorious (yet simultaneously ridiculous) L.A. cocaine dealer, hoping to score money on a trade of baking soda. Scared out of their wits and tripped out on drugs as they are, the dreadful mood is not relaxed by the menacing bodyguards or inexplicable presence of a young Asian man who walks around the room and randomly lights of firecrackers to the tunes of "Jesse's Girl," which is being blasted to deafening volumes from the stereo. This is one of the most intense scenes of any film I have seen in recent memory.

Interestingly, I have come to realize that both of these scenes serve a very similar function in their respective films. They are perhaps the most important climax moments of both films. The poo hits the fan. Both the bickering rock band Stillwater and the washed out porn star Dirk Diggler are forced to come to terms with the new low that they have found themselves in. What follows for both characters (Stillwater being a character) is a moment of shame and embarrassment, one that will be faced with either despair and resignation or a glorious redemption. These films have many similarities. They both revel in the glory of the 70's, depicting the precarious journey from obscurity to popular fame, and the prices that must be exacted for such a prize. In the end, neither Dirk nor Stillwater can continue on their upward journey until they can admit and "repent" of the cruel and foolish things they have done.