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