It has been a sad few days around here. My roommate, friend, and pet, Leeroy Jenkins, has died. I understand the nature of things, and I certainly understand the lightning-fast nature of fish things, but the manner of his death was quite disheartening.
LeeRoy killed himself.
I had forgotten to feed him one day this week and remembered this in a moment of desperation. I Jumped up, palmed open the betta food container, and started to serve a well-deserved dinner when I looked down into the bowl.
LeeRoy wasn't there.
My heart sank. Right away I knew something was wrong (I'm very sharp like that). Eerily I pictured fish from my childhood that felt they had been too long in the world and jumped from the aquarium, resulting in their certain, waterless death. A quick check around the bowl revealed that LeeRoy had not leeched these memories from my subconscious and was inspired to do the same.
LeeRoy was just gone.
I have no cat to scoop him from the bowl. He wasn't a magical fish that could teleport from the bowl to somewhere else. Nor was he a technically-advanced fish that built a small, waterproof device that transported his scaled little brightly-colored body away. No, he was just a fish. He was my fish.
Something drew me to lift the bowl above my head and every question was answered.
LeeRoy was under the rocks.
After one month of parenthood, was I that bad of a father? True, once I let his bowl get a little dirtier than it should have. And I'd imagine the process of being poured into a smaller glass so I could clean his home was quite traumatizing. But was this enough to drive little gilled LeeRoy to his watery death?
The thing is, LeeRoy liked to dig in the rocks. At any given time I could hear him zooming around the bowl and pushing the rocks out of the way. I guess he was just very inspired and dug down deep enough for the rocks to shift and crush him. Too bad, really, he was a good kid.
LeeRoy Jenkins, you will be missed.
LEEEERRRROOOOYYYYY JEENNKKKIINNNNSSS!!!
10.31.2006
10.29.2006
Rest Stop Ahead
The town that I live in is just that: a town. Not a city-- a town. It has a population of 8,000 people and there's enough amenities to live comfortably. But one of the best things about it is the rest areas. You see, there are rest areas just one mile outside of town on the interstate.
One mile.
Why have rest stops so close to a moderately-sized town? It's almost as if those little blue signs say: "Rest area ahead, one mile. Yeah, okay, there's a town up ahead, but you don't want to stop there. Trust us."
One mile.
Why have rest stops so close to a moderately-sized town? It's almost as if those little blue signs say: "Rest area ahead, one mile. Yeah, okay, there's a town up ahead, but you don't want to stop there. Trust us."
10.25.2006
Real Smooth Moves
For most of my life, my strategy concerning wooing girls was this: don't talk to them. I didn't mean it in an aloof, playing hard-to-get way, but in a "seriously, don't even bother talking to them" kind of way. Why?
I was a pretty goofy kid. Definitely not the best looking nor socially skilled boy at school, or anywhere close for that matter.
So I'd develop these ridiculous crushes. They weren't on the normal girls, the girls at school that would maybe even talk to me. I always crushed pretty high on the social ladder. I suppose this was more or less normal--after all, there's a reason why these people were always the popular people (in my case-- popular "girls"). I found out that these calibre of girls wouldn't have really talked to me regardless (again, me= not suave).
So I didn't try.
No matter what, I'd always do this. I crushed hard and fast as a kid. I went to camp because I liked to sing the songs and I liked the girls. By the second day I had picked out a "camp crush" that I would inevitably dread the last day in which she'd leave camp and my life forever. (Shelby Something from Somewhere, Kansas, you're still in my heart). Always admiring from afar, I'd never meant anything to all these girls that meant everything to me.
I did this in college. For freshman orientation, I did what every other guy (and most girls) do: scope out the new scenery. I was in a completely new environment where I could reinvent myself and become everything I always wanted to be(Oops. . . I knew I forgot to do something). I was surrounded by girls (many of whom were pretty good looking) who probably loved Jesus just as much as I did (probably more). There was a girl that I found pretty attractive. She was shorter, brunette (what I generally consider my "type") and kinda "punky" in style (which, if executed correctly, can be very attractive even if you're not "punky" yourself). I was behind her family in the line in the caf and saw her a couple of times over the next two days.
Then she disappeared.
She was gone. What happened? Did she drop out already? Our school was small enough that you usually see everybody at some point. But no, not her, she was gone. It soon hit me what the deal was. She wasn't a student.
She was somebody's little sister.
I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how awkward I felt on so many levels. (In my defense, she came to school the next year, so it's not like she was someone's really little sister.)
There was a time where I decided my plan wasn't working for me (recap: don't talk to girls). There was a girl that I talked to in a class that was a chore to sit through everyday [Let's call her Jen). We made each other laugh (well, she made me laugh, at least) and she was beautiful, so I thought, "why not?" I began scheming how I'd make this happen (I learn from the best, Barrett). One night I went to the movies with three friends of mine. On the way, I told my friend [let's call her Kris] about Jen (remember, this is what we're calling her) and I had this amazing, earth-shattering idea.
"Why don't you, in some discreet way, find out what she thinks about me." This seemed like a good idea at the time. Wrong.
The four of us were standing around the lobby of the theater waiting for our show to start seating when somebody walks in the door with her sister. Who? Jen, of course! So Kris, in a shocking display of schemery sees an open window for her to make good on our deal.
The four of us nodded a curt greeting to Jen and her sister and Kris pulled Jen into the bathroom with a squeal.
Oh no. I remember thinking.
This can't be good.
They were in there for a few minutes, then came back out. Jen seemed a bit more estranged than normal. She didn't say anything to me and I was afraid to volunteer a conversation. So the two parties separated and went to their respective movies. Later on I asked Kris about the scene she had caused. She seemed a little embarrassed when she told me that she asked Jen what she thought about me. Just like that.
She really jumps in.
Apparently Jen never really responded. She merely gasped in confusion and asked a simple "What?". I think maybe a couple of lights flickered somewhere as Kris realized what she had done. She let it go and tried to play it off but it was too late; she had already showed my hand.
Hmm. Not my definition of discreet. It did accomplish the goal, though. I realized that Jen didn't think anything about me and I shouldn't bother pursuing anything. Or talking to girls anymore, for that matter.
I did start dating in eighth grade. Except for a few cases, I've stuck pretty close to my original plan. I do talk to girls now, but never about relationships. My seven year old self would be proud of the 23 year old me. Still sticking to my guns.
I was a pretty goofy kid. Definitely not the best looking nor socially skilled boy at school, or anywhere close for that matter.
So I'd develop these ridiculous crushes. They weren't on the normal girls, the girls at school that would maybe even talk to me. I always crushed pretty high on the social ladder. I suppose this was more or less normal--after all, there's a reason why these people were always the popular people (in my case-- popular "girls"). I found out that these calibre of girls wouldn't have really talked to me regardless (again, me= not suave).
So I didn't try.
No matter what, I'd always do this. I crushed hard and fast as a kid. I went to camp because I liked to sing the songs and I liked the girls. By the second day I had picked out a "camp crush" that I would inevitably dread the last day in which she'd leave camp and my life forever. (Shelby Something from Somewhere, Kansas, you're still in my heart). Always admiring from afar, I'd never meant anything to all these girls that meant everything to me.
I did this in college. For freshman orientation, I did what every other guy (and most girls) do: scope out the new scenery. I was in a completely new environment where I could reinvent myself and become everything I always wanted to be(Oops. . . I knew I forgot to do something). I was surrounded by girls (many of whom were pretty good looking) who probably loved Jesus just as much as I did (probably more). There was a girl that I found pretty attractive. She was shorter, brunette (what I generally consider my "type") and kinda "punky" in style (which, if executed correctly, can be very attractive even if you're not "punky" yourself). I was behind her family in the line in the caf and saw her a couple of times over the next two days.
Then she disappeared.
She was gone. What happened? Did she drop out already? Our school was small enough that you usually see everybody at some point. But no, not her, she was gone. It soon hit me what the deal was. She wasn't a student.
She was somebody's little sister.
I'm sure you don't need me to tell you how awkward I felt on so many levels. (In my defense, she came to school the next year, so it's not like she was someone's really little sister.)
There was a time where I decided my plan wasn't working for me (recap: don't talk to girls). There was a girl that I talked to in a class that was a chore to sit through everyday [Let's call her Jen). We made each other laugh (well, she made me laugh, at least) and she was beautiful, so I thought, "why not?" I began scheming how I'd make this happen (I learn from the best, Barrett). One night I went to the movies with three friends of mine. On the way, I told my friend [let's call her Kris] about Jen (remember, this is what we're calling her) and I had this amazing, earth-shattering idea.
"Why don't you, in some discreet way, find out what she thinks about me." This seemed like a good idea at the time. Wrong.
The four of us were standing around the lobby of the theater waiting for our show to start seating when somebody walks in the door with her sister. Who? Jen, of course! So Kris, in a shocking display of schemery sees an open window for her to make good on our deal.
The four of us nodded a curt greeting to Jen and her sister and Kris pulled Jen into the bathroom with a squeal.
Oh no. I remember thinking.
This can't be good.
They were in there for a few minutes, then came back out. Jen seemed a bit more estranged than normal. She didn't say anything to me and I was afraid to volunteer a conversation. So the two parties separated and went to their respective movies. Later on I asked Kris about the scene she had caused. She seemed a little embarrassed when she told me that she asked Jen what she thought about me. Just like that.
She really jumps in.
Apparently Jen never really responded. She merely gasped in confusion and asked a simple "What?". I think maybe a couple of lights flickered somewhere as Kris realized what she had done. She let it go and tried to play it off but it was too late; she had already showed my hand.
Hmm. Not my definition of discreet. It did accomplish the goal, though. I realized that Jen didn't think anything about me and I shouldn't bother pursuing anything. Or talking to girls anymore, for that matter.
I did start dating in eighth grade. Except for a few cases, I've stuck pretty close to my original plan. I do talk to girls now, but never about relationships. My seven year old self would be proud of the 23 year old me. Still sticking to my guns.
10.08.2006
In the Morning
Staying up all night is highly dependent upon its context. When you are a kid, it's a challenge, something you try to do when you are at a birthday slumber party (I never made it past 6 AM). When you are in school, it is a necessity (especially as a procrastinator), something you have to do in order to pass the class (I've started so many papers at 11PM). When you are a gamer (this could apply to both childhood or college) it is a nonissue, something that happens unintentionally . . .you just really got into that game and forgot all about time until you looked at your watch and it said 5:45 AM (I've done this, too [Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic II]). You probably weren't going to class the next day anyways.
Staying up all night, in a way, is a defiance of the daily grind. No, I will not go to bed so I can be up at 6 AM and jog-- No I will not go to bed so I can be bright and alert in class tomorrow. It is subconsciously acknowledging the fact that you will loathe this decision in the morning when you must face another day, and this one without any recuperation. You thought the day before was tough . . . just wait 'til 2 PM and you have to be responsible at work (teach elementary school kids, sell lawnmowers, count deposits, etc.) and everything just goes fuzzy. No matter how hard you try to focus your eyes you can't see less than two of everything. Hey, at least you're night driving. You aren't driving, are you? Better squint harder. No? Good, phew, that was close. But you do it anyway, you stay up well aware of what awaits you.
All of this doesn't even mention what effect alcohol has on the whole situation. Throw that stuff in the mix and your asking for trouble (or so I've seen).
When that sun comes up, you can't help but stare at it. In any other case, you'd probably reflect on how beautiful it is. But you've stayed up all night, and that bright sun is like "God's flashlight" (thanks for the phrase, Larry Miller).
When you're printing up your paper you think to yourself, "Self--"that's what you call yourself- "self you should have written this paper earlier."
When you're saving your game and turning off the XBox, you reflect, "Self, you should have paid attention to the time and turned off the game earlier."
When you're at your best friend's birthday slumber party, you say to yourself, "ZzzzzZZzzZZZZZzzzz" (You didn't quite make it. Maybe next time, kiddo.)
There are, of course, times when we stay up out of necessity (as much as it seems like it, pulling an all-nighter writing a paper is not necessary [I'm looking at you, Bratch O.O ]). We stay up all night because of a number of a situation that we would not have volunteered to go through.
I remember one of these nights quite well. The day after Christmas my sixth-grade year found me watching TV with my family (Dave's World!). I didn't even notice when the phone rang.
My brother had spent the night with us and had left early that morning. I received a computer game the morning before and was steadfastly pouring myself into it. I heard him get up, iron his shirt, and walk out the door.
I didn't even say goodbye.
Brandon was killed that night driving home. I'll spare the details, but we got the phone call and that started the longest night of my life. I don't really remember much about it, but I remember swirls of images blending together. I remember my parent and I crying for hours. I remember nearby family coming by in the middle of the night. I remember the pastor from our grandparents house coming over. I remember overhearing funeral preparation decisions.
I remember wondering if that night would ever end.
I sometimes have trouble sleeping. Ask someone who has insomnia-- the night can be so long. You are sure that dawn will be soon and check the clock. 1:13. After a while you sit up and start thinking absurd thoughts.
Maybe dawn won't come.
Maybe this one time dawn forgot. I mean, it should have been here already. What time is it? 2:37 ?!?
Sitting there in the dark can be so oppressive. The utter, imposing silence becomes a deafening roar. The wave upon wave of oily blackness covers your nose and mouth, suffocating you.
It's enough to make you weep.
Unbeknownst to the kid, college student, and gamer, seeing the first precious rays of sunlight is a thing of comfort. So many hours of cold, oppressive night have be forded. Hours bracketed in sobbing and red noses. A rush of warmth blows past you as the outermost edge of that beautiful orb crests the horizon. Every strand of inky despair flees as a vibrant splay of color splash into existence. Every moment held in quiet desperation dissipates as the warm wash floods your senses.
The night did not last forever, the world did not end, and there is a common thread of love that runs between our hearts. The night is vanquished along with our sorrow. We find ourselves cradled in a sea of beauty, a sea of loved ones that persevered along our side and a ever-growing sky full of the whole spectrum of life. Every color, every ray seems as a gift from on high, the perfect gift for just the right moment when all seems lost and thoughts of giving in weigh heavier and heavier. But, just then, that first beam of light pierces the darkness and invades your soul.
And then you start laughing, because everything's going to be okay.
"Weeping may last for the night, but a shout of joy comes in the morning." David, King of the Israelites
Staying up all night, in a way, is a defiance of the daily grind. No, I will not go to bed so I can be up at 6 AM and jog-- No I will not go to bed so I can be bright and alert in class tomorrow. It is subconsciously acknowledging the fact that you will loathe this decision in the morning when you must face another day, and this one without any recuperation. You thought the day before was tough . . . just wait 'til 2 PM and you have to be responsible at work (teach elementary school kids, sell lawnmowers, count deposits, etc.) and everything just goes fuzzy. No matter how hard you try to focus your eyes you can't see less than two of everything. Hey, at least you're night driving. You aren't driving, are you? Better squint harder. No? Good, phew, that was close. But you do it anyway, you stay up well aware of what awaits you.
All of this doesn't even mention what effect alcohol has on the whole situation. Throw that stuff in the mix and your asking for trouble (or so I've seen).
When that sun comes up, you can't help but stare at it. In any other case, you'd probably reflect on how beautiful it is. But you've stayed up all night, and that bright sun is like "God's flashlight" (thanks for the phrase, Larry Miller).
When you're printing up your paper you think to yourself, "Self--"that's what you call yourself- "self you should have written this paper earlier."
When you're saving your game and turning off the XBox, you reflect, "Self, you should have paid attention to the time and turned off the game earlier."
When you're at your best friend's birthday slumber party, you say to yourself, "ZzzzzZZzzZZZZZzzzz" (You didn't quite make it. Maybe next time, kiddo.)
There are, of course, times when we stay up out of necessity (as much as it seems like it, pulling an all-nighter writing a paper is not necessary [I'm looking at you, Bratch O.O ]). We stay up all night because of a number of a situation that we would not have volunteered to go through.
I remember one of these nights quite well. The day after Christmas my sixth-grade year found me watching TV with my family (Dave's World!). I didn't even notice when the phone rang.
My brother had spent the night with us and had left early that morning. I received a computer game the morning before and was steadfastly pouring myself into it. I heard him get up, iron his shirt, and walk out the door.
I didn't even say goodbye.
Brandon was killed that night driving home. I'll spare the details, but we got the phone call and that started the longest night of my life. I don't really remember much about it, but I remember swirls of images blending together. I remember my parent and I crying for hours. I remember nearby family coming by in the middle of the night. I remember the pastor from our grandparents house coming over. I remember overhearing funeral preparation decisions.
I remember wondering if that night would ever end.
I sometimes have trouble sleeping. Ask someone who has insomnia-- the night can be so long. You are sure that dawn will be soon and check the clock. 1:13. After a while you sit up and start thinking absurd thoughts.
Maybe dawn won't come.
Maybe this one time dawn forgot. I mean, it should have been here already. What time is it? 2:37 ?!?
Sitting there in the dark can be so oppressive. The utter, imposing silence becomes a deafening roar. The wave upon wave of oily blackness covers your nose and mouth, suffocating you.
It's enough to make you weep.
Unbeknownst to the kid, college student, and gamer, seeing the first precious rays of sunlight is a thing of comfort. So many hours of cold, oppressive night have be forded. Hours bracketed in sobbing and red noses. A rush of warmth blows past you as the outermost edge of that beautiful orb crests the horizon. Every strand of inky despair flees as a vibrant splay of color splash into existence. Every moment held in quiet desperation dissipates as the warm wash floods your senses.
The night did not last forever, the world did not end, and there is a common thread of love that runs between our hearts. The night is vanquished along with our sorrow. We find ourselves cradled in a sea of beauty, a sea of loved ones that persevered along our side and a ever-growing sky full of the whole spectrum of life. Every color, every ray seems as a gift from on high, the perfect gift for just the right moment when all seems lost and thoughts of giving in weigh heavier and heavier. But, just then, that first beam of light pierces the darkness and invades your soul.
And then you start laughing, because everything's going to be okay.
"Weeping may last for the night, but a shout of joy comes in the morning." David, King of the Israelites
10.05.2006
If Only in My Dreams
So, wow, funny story. I get really excited about having a decent blog (there's something about blogger that's so aesthetically pleasing) and make a few posts. Then my computer starts acting wonky enough for me to finally reformat (remember to copy everything onto an external hard drive!) and start over. So, when I do this, I have to punch in all of my passwords for my digital life (thanks to Mr. Mozilla Firefox who has remembered them for me for so long now) and I get to this one and for some reason I can't remember what it is. Now, I've had 3 email addy-s in the past several years, and two major passwords, both of which have two variations. This makes for several different combinations. Well, it took me a coupla months to hit the right combination. But nonetheless, here I am.
Let me describe this moment for you. I am sitting in my apartment (I could call it a studio apartment, but it's really just a room)on my loveseat that I was too attached to get rid of (it's as ugly as sin) and there are a few piles of clothes laying around that didn't quite make it into the "dirty enough to need washing" category. My betta fish, Leeroy Jenkins (Leeeeeeerrrrroooyyyyy Jennnnnnnnkkkkinnnss), is staring at me hungrily because I haven't fed him yet. The most important elements of RIGHT NOW are the smell and the sound and both are related.
I smell incense. I found my pack that I got a coupla years ago for Christmas that I burned almost nonstop last year. There's something about the smell that is just comforting. I don't use it to cover up the smell of pot and I don't use it to pray to Buddha, I use it because I'm a smell guy. Aromas conjure strong emotions for me and are usually tied to memories. I have an old cologne, IRON, that if I smell it, I can close my eyes and I can see myself playing the Legend of Zelda . . . I apparently wore it alot when I played that game (I probably got them on the same Christmas). This particular variety of incense (I don't know what it's called. . . it's written in Indian (India Indian) was what I burned a lot around Christmas last year.
What I hear is music. More specifically, a Christmas CD by Diana Krall. If you are not familiar with Diana Krall, I highly suggest you remedy that. What she does is Jazz Magic. Now, I jumped on the Swing bandwagon in the 90's, but I was never a fan of jazz jazz. In retrospect, I don't think I was mentally developed enough to appreciate it. There's something about jazz that pulses and never resolves; it's heartbeat is a progession. Any jazz music I hear makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Vague, incorporeal images flash in my mind and there are usually common articles. Coffee, the sharp smell and biting taste. Warmth, deep internal warmth while the ouside is cold. Bright lights and earth tones. A feeling of belonging and deep-reaching love. The realization of a special moment. The kind of moment you wish you can retreat into and live the rest of your life. But it floats just outside of your reach so you can never really grasp in and make it your own.
Jazz music reminds me of Christmas. Maybe because both bombard the same area of
my brain. Maybe because the perfect setting for listening to jazz music is Christmas time. There's something about it that fits perfectly with walking downtown, seeing the bright lights and earthy brick of the buildings. Feeling the warmth of your coat and scarf while the wind threatens to take your ears. The sound of the snow pack underneath your footsteps and the lingering carols from some distant shop. The indescribable aroma of fresh snow and fresh brewed coffee that burns both your lungs and your throat, respectively. The ecstasy of sharing such moments with someone you love or the bittersweet thoughts of having that someone with you as you take in all the magic.
My favorite Christmas song is "Somewhere in My Memory." You may remember it on the Home Alone movies. It's the slower part of the main theme that actually has lyrics. I've never heard a Christmas song that so accurately describes what I see, hear, and feel when I think about Christmas. Here are the lyrics:
Let me describe this moment for you. I am sitting in my apartment (I could call it a studio apartment, but it's really just a room)on my loveseat that I was too attached to get rid of (it's as ugly as sin) and there are a few piles of clothes laying around that didn't quite make it into the "dirty enough to need washing" category. My betta fish, Leeroy Jenkins (Leeeeeeerrrrroooyyyyy Jennnnnnnnkkkkinnnss), is staring at me hungrily because I haven't fed him yet. The most important elements of RIGHT NOW are the smell and the sound and both are related.
I smell incense. I found my pack that I got a coupla years ago for Christmas that I burned almost nonstop last year. There's something about the smell that is just comforting. I don't use it to cover up the smell of pot and I don't use it to pray to Buddha, I use it because I'm a smell guy. Aromas conjure strong emotions for me and are usually tied to memories. I have an old cologne, IRON, that if I smell it, I can close my eyes and I can see myself playing the Legend of Zelda . . . I apparently wore it alot when I played that game (I probably got them on the same Christmas). This particular variety of incense (I don't know what it's called. . . it's written in Indian (India Indian) was what I burned a lot around Christmas last year.
What I hear is music. More specifically, a Christmas CD by Diana Krall. If you are not familiar with Diana Krall, I highly suggest you remedy that. What she does is Jazz Magic. Now, I jumped on the Swing bandwagon in the 90's, but I was never a fan of jazz jazz. In retrospect, I don't think I was mentally developed enough to appreciate it. There's something about jazz that pulses and never resolves; it's heartbeat is a progession. Any jazz music I hear makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside. Vague, incorporeal images flash in my mind and there are usually common articles. Coffee, the sharp smell and biting taste. Warmth, deep internal warmth while the ouside is cold. Bright lights and earth tones. A feeling of belonging and deep-reaching love. The realization of a special moment. The kind of moment you wish you can retreat into and live the rest of your life. But it floats just outside of your reach so you can never really grasp in and make it your own.
Jazz music reminds me of Christmas. Maybe because both bombard the same area of
my brain. Maybe because the perfect setting for listening to jazz music is Christmas time. There's something about it that fits perfectly with walking downtown, seeing the bright lights and earthy brick of the buildings. Feeling the warmth of your coat and scarf while the wind threatens to take your ears. The sound of the snow pack underneath your footsteps and the lingering carols from some distant shop. The indescribable aroma of fresh snow and fresh brewed coffee that burns both your lungs and your throat, respectively. The ecstasy of sharing such moments with someone you love or the bittersweet thoughts of having that someone with you as you take in all the magic.My favorite Christmas song is "Somewhere in My Memory." You may remember it on the Home Alone movies. It's the slower part of the main theme that actually has lyrics. I've never heard a Christmas song that so accurately describes what I see, hear, and feel when I think about Christmas. Here are the lyrics:
"Candles in the window
Shadows painting the ceiling
Gazing at the fire glow
Feeling that gingerbread feeling
Precious moments
Special people
Happy faces
I can see
Somewhere in my memory
Christmas joys all around me
Living in my memory
All of the music
All of the magic
All of the family home here with me"
If I close my eyes I can almost see some indistinct scene where my family is all together celebrating Christmas. I can see the colors, smell the scents, hear the laughter, feel the warmth. But the thing is . . . I don't think any of it really happened. Not that way, at least. Sure, we had Christmas, but there wasn't nearly as much family as I see in my heart. The smells weren't as strong and the emotions were more banal. Maybe this concept isn't so much a memory as an ideal. It's something intangible that I reach for but can't quite touch, no matter how much I struggle.
Zach Braff's character in Garden State ( I do not suggest this movie as it contains a ridiculous amount of language and a scene of nudity [which I don't understand why it's there, it's so completely gratuitous] but there are some interesting questions brought up about our existence and how we live our lives) talks with his friend about our concept of home, the image and feeling that comes to mind when we think of "home" :
Shadows painting the ceiling
Gazing at the fire glow
Feeling that gingerbread feeling
Precious moments
Special people
Happy faces
I can see
Somewhere in my memory
Christmas joys all around me
Living in my memory
All of the music
All of the magic
All of the family home here with me"
If I close my eyes I can almost see some indistinct scene where my family is all together celebrating Christmas. I can see the colors, smell the scents, hear the laughter, feel the warmth. But the thing is . . . I don't think any of it really happened. Not that way, at least. Sure, we had Christmas, but there wasn't nearly as much family as I see in my heart. The smells weren't as strong and the emotions were more banal. Maybe this concept isn't so much a memory as an ideal. It's something intangible that I reach for but can't quite touch, no matter how much I struggle.
Zach Braff's character in Garden State ( I do not suggest this movie as it contains a ridiculous amount of language and a scene of nudity [which I don't understand why it's there, it's so completely gratuitous] but there are some interesting questions brought up about our existence and how we live our lives) talks with his friend about our concept of home, the image and feeling that comes to mind when we think of "home" :
"You know that point in your life when you realize that the house that you grew up in isn't really your home anymore? All of the sudden even though you have some place where you can put your stuff that idea of home is gone. You'll see when you move out it just sort of happens one day one day and it's just gone. And you can never get it back. It's like you get homesick for a place that doesn't exist. I mean it's like this rite of passage, you know. You won't have this feeling again until you create a new idea of home for yourself, you know, for you kids, for the family you start, it's like a cycle or something. I miss the idea of it. Maybe that's all family really is. A group of people who miss the same imaginary place."
That sums it up, really. This thing I see, this wave of nostalgia and sentiment, doesn't really exist. It's a culmination of all the emotions and feelings that surround that time of year. It is rooted in my desire to create the foundation of family of my own and the desire for a warm, joyous life. A life full of warmth that naturally results in beautiful movements when my wonderful family gathers to celebrate not only each other, but the birth of our Lord. That really is the foundation of all our joy.