Maybe It's Her Smile

A precedent has been set. The posting of lyrics, most likely assumed to be a one-time event, is near to my heart and I will take this opportunity to run with this idea.

I used to write lyrics down on paper and carry them around in my Trapper Keeper ( yeah! Trapper Keeper! I've missed your velcro music). I think I was hoping people would think that they were mine. This only happened once. I had the lyrics to Here Comes the Rain by the Mavericks, a 50's rock/country fusion song, and I set it gently on top of my Trapper Keeper. One of the most attractive seventh graders ( I think it was in seventh grade) picked it up and read through it. She said she liked it and asked if it was mine. I lied lied lied and said it was. I remember her smile as she asked if she could keep it. Of course you can. I wrote it for you.

Not true.

I've always loved music. My little boombox was on every hour of every day. It was on while I was away at school and it was on while I slept. The fact that the radio was on while I slept presented interesting situations. I would be playing Sega Genesis (or later on, Playstation) and I would hear a commercial come on the radio and I'd have wicked, wicked deja vu. After a few times I realized that the commercials that were playing were also playing at night, and I realized that someone in my dreams had said the exact same words as those being said in the commercial.

Music is a funny thing. I grew up listening to country and oldies. I don't listen to country anymore, but there's a seven year window (or so) where every country song released during that period I could name the singer, name of the song, and album during the intro. Therefore, I still have a lot of old country on my computer for the sole purpose of nostalgia. When I listen to these songs, I am whisked away to an idealized remembrance of my childhood.

None of the horrible times, none of the boring times, only the warm fuzzies.

There are specific songs and CDs (Roy Orbison's Mystery Girl, K. T. Oslin's 80's Ladies, and Huey Lewis and the New's If This is It) that if I listen to it I can close my eyes and quite clearly see my eight-year old self sitting on our old blue couch in the summer. The window is open and a faint, cool breeze is blowing. I feel the curves and angles of the X-men toy in my hand as I look outside and see my dad outside washing the car. My mom, she's in the kitchen cleaning. My dog is still alive and young enough to run circles around the dining room table. My parents probably still loved each other.

Warm fuzzies.

There are some songs that work adversely. For the longest time I couldn't listen to Tim McGraw and Faith Hill's It's Your Love. It was "our song" and it was the longest and oddest relationship I've been in to this day. Elton John's "Candle in the Wind" was one of the songs that played prominently at my brother's memorial service. I still can't bring myself to listen to the whole thing.

So, as mentioned, there's a song that's been nagging on me. It's by a now defunct (to my knowledge) Christian band that never really made it anywhere. I created a myspace music page in order to put it on my own myspace page (forgive me, O wrathful myspace gods).

Doubting Thomas' Maybe It's Her Smile

Maybe it’s her face
No makeup at all
As she tells me she’s not beautiful

Maybe it’s her hair
Soft, golden, and wind-blown
As we drive through the streets of town
It could be all these things
But I think it’s her smile

Maybe it’s her laugh
Or when she throws back and sighs
Or her eyebrows when I do
Something stupid

Maybe it’s her smell
The lotion she wears
Or how my hands smell like
Country Pear for days
You know it could be all these things
But I think mostly it’s her smile

Because I love to see her smile
Back at me
And I know she
Is happy

Maybe it’s her touch
The feel of her hands
When she puts her tiny fingers
In mine
Maybe it’s her eyes
Gently searching my soul
Still nothing stirs me
Like when I see those lips roll
And I see her smile

Because I love to see her smile
Back at me
And I know she
Is happy.

Fünf Jahre

Over five years later, it's odd to think about September 11th. It's strange to think that it was five years ago. One of the things about it personally is the fact that I had graduated the May before it happened. That means it's been over five years since I've graduated high school. Anxiously we spend our whole lives with the goal in mind: that fine, glorious day when we take our last breaths as charges of the local school district (I had considered writing "scool" as a bit of irony, but decided against it [then again, I did just do it] ) and are no longer governed by others concerning our scholastic well-being. I have accomplished the goal. The main effort was simply enduring time and certainly not any amply mental exertion. And yet I took a good deal of pride when I walked across that platform.

Now I am at the crest of college graduation. With a single class left to take and having taken a full time position, I consider myself functionally finished with college. Four or five more years down the road I may very well find myself returning for my Master's, but right now I'm done. I don't plan on going back to school and walking to get my degree documentation. Last year I watched as my class walked and that was good enough for me (when, in fact, was actually the class after mine, but I came in with them [oh the joys of community college] ).

Speaking of September 11th (we were?), it's a bit strange that "September 11th" is the accepted name across the world's collective unconscious (thanks, Jungy). Not "Manhattan attacks," not "the World Trade Center Disaster," or "the day the earth stood still," just simply "September 11th." It was such a momentous occasion that it needs no other clarification. Occasionally it is referred to as September 11th, 2001, but this is mostly unnecessary. Any other past events that happened will forever live in the shadow of this one gargantuan event. C'mon, other Sep. 11th happenings, get with program.

Are there any other events that are so world-shaking they are simply known by the day on which it happened? Nothing comes to mind. December 7th is well known as the day of the bombing of Pearl Harbor (only if you paid attention in your history classes) but the accepted name for this event is "Pearl Harbor" not "December 7th." I of course could be missing some, but my point is this: five years later it's easy to brush it under our mental rugs. It was, after all, five years ago. It is the Pearl Harbor of our generation. But it really trumps Pearl Harbor in the fact that the attack on December 7th, 1941 was on military units, whereas Sep. 11 was an attack on civilian units and rescue workers. Over the course of the past five years we've all heard the observations and comparisons so I won't rehash it.

A few days after it happened, the country was still more or less shut down. Shops were beginning to reopen and the news reports (which we were all watching night and day) advised against travel and going to places with large gatherings of people. My family and I took our lives in our own hands and we went to Silver Dollar City in Southern Missouri (almost an amusement park like Worlds of Fun or Six Flags but with much less rollercoasters and much more food and hillbilly atmosphere). Every year for ten years (maybe longer) we headed down there and that year wasn't going to be any different. The thing I noticed first about the trip were the flags.

Remember when everybody had flags flying? The park had a row of maybe forty or fifty in a row as you walked in. In place of the normal hillbilly music in the loudspeakers, patriotic themes were blasting as the flags waved. I remember feeling my heart swell a bit and a tear came to my eye. I say all of this to bring up the thing that I've actually been thinking about lately:

Remember when patriotism was a fad?

Snap Crackle Pop

Okay. For nearly a year I've wanted a turntable/record player. Not to wicky wicky wicky like a DJ, but to actually play records. I told my dad this and he snickered, "Why would you want a record player? They crack and pop and don't sound as good. Get the CD." Since I was born in 1983 CD's have more or less always been available. They're just not a big deal to me. Yeah, it sounds clear, it always has. But there's something unmistakable about listening to a record. Maybe it's knowing that this is how it was originally heard. Maybe the ambient fuzz adds something. I dunno. But I love it.

I've been blessed by a record player recently. Not only can I play records, but I can also plug my PS2 and XBox into the speakers. You see, I've had the same TV since I was 9 or so. I remember laying down one night and turning it on and seeing that Letterman was starting his monologue and thinking to myself, "wow, I'm up really late." That's how long I've had this TV. The speakers buzz pretty bad but it's been several years since I've noticed it.

It bugs everybody else, though.

So the record player/tape deck/receiver remedy that problem. I can play Guitar Hero without the buzzing (which, incidentally, is different from records because that's not how it's intended to sound).

The first record I bought was a Record Book of Night and Day, the Cole Porter Musical. It has several other Cole Porter songs as well. The only problem with this is it's a 78. . . and my player only jives with 33 and 45 rpm. oh well, I'll save it for some rainy day where I acquire a 78 player.

I just returned from an antique store with several more. Here's what I've scored so far:
Elton John Rocket Man 45
Wings With a Little Luck 45
The Romantic Music of Rachmaninoff (unbelievable. . .but the back side is scratched pretty hardcore)
This Is Broadway's Best (stuff from Bye Bye Birdie, My Fair Lady, The Sound of Music, Kiss Me Kate, etc. But most importantly it has Tonight from West Side Story)
Bing Crosby tells and sings How Lovely Is Christmas (Half spoken story, half Christmas songs... and it's Bing!)
The Jimmy Swaggart Christmas Spirit (I couldn't pass this one up)
The Best of Chuck Mangione
BJ Thomas Raindrops keep falling on my head: from the motion picture Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

I think I'm going to go out again tomorrow and see what I can find.

I really don't have any witty quips tonight. I just want to listen to some Rachmaninoff.

Bratch

No Witty Title

I had planned on visiting my peeps down in the SPR today (that is, my friends in Springfield, MO). It was college days and my old youth Pastor, Doug Reed, the man who helped form the man I am today, is the speaker. Unfortunately, I had coffee with dinner last night (a late dinner) and couldn't go to sleep until after midnight. 3 30 AM (the time that I was to leave in order to have as much SPR time as possible) came very quickly and I knew that even with a ridiculous amount of coffee in my belly (coffee- this is all your fault) I wasn't up to the six hour drive. Plus it was still storming outside and that was a double whammy, so I rolled over and went back to sleep. I now wish that I would have sucked it up and gone anyway, but deep down I feel a bit relieved because I had so much that I was going to try to cram in two days as possible: hearing Doug Reed speak at the college days events, spending quality time with one of my best friends (since one is in China, this is a very small category), getting my yearbook from last year (some people aren't into those, but I can't help myself. . . it's a glimpse into a year of my life . . . even though I'm never in it), shopping for records (I'm a record guy now. . . did I tell you that?), having coffee two different times with two different people (girls) who may not want to have coffee with me in the first place, buying my hair product (Murray's pomade. . . they don't have it at my Walmart here because they don't have an African-American hair care products section . . . racists.), eat at my two favorite restaurants (Thai House, Adobe bar and grill), pick up my deposit money from my old roommate's parents, give my mailbox key back, meet with my mentor (the director of Student ministries @ CBC), maybe flirt with some of the CBC girls (who am I kidding, I didn't do it the three years I was there, I wouldn't do it now), and find the time to play some Guitar Hero 2.

Yeah, I'm okay with sitting here in my jammies watching Scrubs on the internet.

EDIT: Also, I have found candy corn to be quite tasty (and for dinner).

Murphy's Law

About a month ago I went with an acquaintance/friend to St. Louis. It was a Friday and he appeared in the office just before I left and asked if I wanted to go with him to a thing. Seems the St. Louis Christian College (I think that's the name) brought in Ryan Dobson to speak at a pseudo-college days event. I spend a lot of time by myself, so I quickly accepted this invitation and we left. Ryan Dobson, son of famed Pastor/author James Dobson, was pretty interesting to listen to. He's originally from California and it shows. Thick, black plastic fashion glasses (not the Rivers Cuomo type, the "I assume he's secure enough with his image to wear those strangely proportioned glasses" type) were in the middle of his face and giant black plugs stretched his earlobes into little fleshy hula hoops all while wearing a tight button down shirt with some stylish print of a woman's face (no doubt made by Diesel or some other company that looks at the likes of Express clothing with contempt [this is a really long sentence] ). I've known several Californians in college. They all have more or less the same air and attitude, especially when exposed to the Midwest. Which is fine, I actually liked the guy.

But this story isn't about Ryan Dobson.

We were originally going to crash that night at the school with my friend's (we'll call him Matt [mostly because that's his name] )friend. We ended up just leaving that night. The thing was over at 10:30 or so and neither of us had eaten dinner, so we decided to stop and get something to eat somewhere we don't have at home. I suggested Chevy's (my favorite Mexican restaurant [really thin chips and chipotle style salsa {drool} ] ), so we head out trying to get there. I think I made a mistake by suggesting something we weren't immediately near.

It was the little pebble kicked down the hill that starts the avalanche in all the cartoons.

We start in the north side of St. Louis and somehow we end up on the south side heading west. Living in Illinois (and so is Chevy's), this is obviously a problem. I tell Matt to take the next exit, whatever it is, and we'll use it to turn around and undo whatever wrong turns we took.

But of course it is one of those interstate off-ramps that you can get off the highway but you can't get immediately back on. You have to play the "Where the crap is the on-ramp???" game. Being a good two hours away from home still, I tell Matt to find a place we can ask how to get back on the highway. At this point it is well after 11:30 and wherever we are (we literally have no clue where we are) Taco Bell is the only thing still open. So we pull through the drive-thru and ask for directions. The guys working there (bright shining beacons of society that they are) are confused that we didn't order food but still give most of an answer. As we're pulling away, we hear a sharp hiss like air being let out of a really big balloon. Matt looks out the window to see if we ran over some kind of air hose (what???) and doesn't see anything. So we pull away, and sure enough (you've probably seen this coming) there's a metallic ding ding ding and a thwop thwop thwop (this is fun) as we roll. Matt gets out but doesn't see anything. Hoping for the best, we get back onto the side road and Matt gives his little truck some gas. You don't have to be very smart to guess what sound we were still hearing.

I tell Matt to pull over again. We pull over in a little closed K-Mart parking lot. I get out and check the tire myself. In the middle of the tire was embedded a nail with a head the size of a nickel. Great. I think to myself, how could this get any worse?

If I only knew.

A year or so ago I realized that I didn't know how to change a tire, so I asked my dad if he could show me. I thought it would be a good bonding experience since he's a car guy. His response to the question? "You don't need to know how to do that nowadays." Thanks, Dad.

Something worth mentioning is the fact that neither Matt nor I are very "handy." He had never changed a tire before. I did change a tire, but only with a lot of help from my roommate. I get the truck up on the jack somehow and with great effort we get the lug nuts off the tire (apparently you're supposed to take them off while the car's on the ground . . . that would have been much easier.) and Matt gets the spare out of the truck. As I'm about to slide the spare onto the axle, I can't help but think "With the way that everything's been going, I wouldn't be surprised if it didn't fit."

I really wished I hadn't said that.

Sure enough, it didn't fit. I tried it three times, once even backwards just in case. Nope. I can't imagine a scenario where you would end up having the wrong size spare. But somehow Matt did just that.

As simple as that we were stranded.

He calls his dad to come pick us up and we go back to Taco Bell to get something to eat because it is nearly midnight and we have yet to eat dinner. Taco Bell has a policy of not serving you if you walk up to the drive-thru window. Unfortunately, we didn't really have any choice because the lobby was closed. Matt walks up and motions to the guy to open the window. After a few "I'm not supposed to" looks, the guy opens the window. Matt explains our situation to the guy and asks if we could get something to eat. We don't think that this is too much of a stretch. After all, we picked up the giant nail in their parking lot. After a bit of coaxing they let us come in and wash the road grime off our hands and get a burrito. The funny thing is they make us stay by the door because they're afraid this is all a ruse to rob them. Sorry, Bucko, this is for real.

Matt gets a call from his dad telling him that he's not coming and Matt should just get a tow truck. Matt calls information and gets one. He has to hand the phone to one of the employees to tell them where we are because, remember, we have no clue where we are stranded. We kept asking the guy where we were and the best answer he could give us was "St. Louis County." Thanks, buddy. That really narrows it down.

We take the burritos (not Chevy's, but at this point I'd eat anything) and go back to the parking lot where the truck is. One of my favorite things about the night is us sitting by the truck up on a jack and one of those giant street sweeper cars pulls into the other side of the parking lot. After a few minutes it passes by us and I catch eyes with the big Hispanic man that's driving it. I could tell that he could care less about our predicament, especially when he drives right past us without slowing.

The tow truck comes finally and we tell him our situation. Basically, there's nothing he can do. The only thing he can do is tow us to a nearby tire place that will be open in the morning. We do just that, and the guy feels bad for us and doesn't charge us anything. Matt gets the idea to call his buddy at the school to come and get us and we'll just stay the night there like we had originally planned.

His friend calls back and says that he doesn't have access to a car.

At this point we're up against a wall. What are we going to do? Where are we? Is it even 50 degrees out here? I think about calling my friend who lives near the college. I saw her for two or three minutes that night, but other than that I haven't really seen her in two or three years. As I'm about to call (mind you, it's a good 1 or 2 AM at this point) Matt decides to get a cab to the school. We pass the phone off to the tow truck guy and he again tells them where we are. As we wave farewell to the nice tow truck guy, we are told that the taxi will arrive in ten to twenty minutes. so we sit in the cold outside some strange tire place and watch the occasional car drive by.

Forty-five minutes later I just start laughing.

This is ridiculous. I'm afraid to ask "What else could possibly happen?" because I know I will find out. A police car passes and I try to flag him down as he drives by. At this point I'll take anything. I don't really know how much more time passes, but finally a car with "Such-and-Such Taxi company" on the door flies right past us. Of course. I wouldn't expect him to actually stop. He actually does come by after a few more minutes and Matt and I pile in.

Matt and I have been talking and we decide that we should just take the taxi to some motel and stay there. It would cost the same to take the half-hour taxi ride back to the school as it would to rent a room. The lady at the front desk at the nearest inn tells me that there's some kind of convention in town and all of the rooms are booked. I should, though, try Holiday Inn. She tells me where it is, and I relate it back to our taxi driver who doesn't have a clue where it is. I go back in and ask her the directions again. "Your driver doesn't know where Holiday Inn is?"

At this point, the only response I can muster is "I dunno, he's just . . . "

I couldn't come up with any more words. I was completely tapped out. The lady at the front desk interprets this as "I dunno, I think he's been drinking." So she has pity on us and rents us a handicapped room that they rarely let out. I tell Matt that we do indeed have a room and he pays the driver. I look at myself in the mirror for a moment, trying not to relive the evening. Tiredly, I slip off my belt and shoes and fall onto the bed, drained.

The next morning I was supposed to be in the office at 7 AM. The "I'm stranded somewhere south of St. Louis and I won't be able to make it in until later" phone call was a fun one. Another taxi takes us back to the tire place. It's open now and we wait another half hour while they check out the tire and replace it. Matt pays for it and we ask how to get back on the highway.

We finally do find the highway. Twenty hours into this trip, I slouch down in my seat and sigh as I realize the final piece of the puzzle:

After all of this, we're still two hours away from home.

My Heart on my Sleeve. Well, err... My Heart on my Blog.

If I were honest with myself, I'd probably realize that I don't really like poetry. True, there are some amazing, epic poems that are a gift straight from God (or at least, a reasonable representative). You'd think that I, as a romantic covered under a very thin layer of realist, would go wild for poetry. I'm sensitive, I cry at movies, I absorb poetry. Right? Well, for the most part, I read poetry begrudgingly. Maybe I think about my own experiences and toils trying to find the perfect words as I always fall short and end up scribbling rubbish on a leaf of paper instead of the lyrical masterpiece that I see and hear in my mind. That's the thing . . . I don't really like reading poetry, but I write the junk.

I can't help myself.

It's how I order my thoughts. Any time I'm going through a ridiculous situation (there's usually a feminine name attached to the problem) I have all these thoughts and ideas that rocket through my mind. I can barely hear the real world through their deafening roar (this is a bit of a hyperbole, but work with me here). So's I exercise my demons through paper baptism. The result is usually melodramatic, melancholic, and mostly without form, but I at least have all of these thoughts in some semblance of order.

When Email was still a fairly new concept I had a "poetry" address group to which I sent out all of my mental sieve droppings. For some reason, I thought that people might be interested in what's going on in my life (I guess I've replaced "poetry" in this equation with "blog"). Ha.

So here I present a selection of my "poetry" en masse. There's actually a chronological flow to most of it (paralleling developments in "relational situations" [or lack thereof {development and situations both} ] ). I'm not saying it's good, I'm not saying it's readable, I'm not saying it's edifying. I'm only saying it's me. Somewhere. Somewhen.

Fun Fact: I made my first rubber band ball today. This makes me very excited. I put several short bands on the outside that just barely fit around it, so every once in a while I'll bounce it and one of them will zing off to hide somewhere in my office. It's a fun game, almost like a rubbery Russian Roulette with less death.

Fun Fact 2: If you, oh blog lander, have never listened to Iron & Wine, I would highly suggest it. The album Creek Drank the Cradle is okay, but Our Endless Numbered Days consistently surprises me every time I pop it in (or press play on iTunes [always a pleasant surprise on shuffle] ). If you've seen Garden State, He/they're the one(s) that do the song Such Great Heights on the Soundtrack, which is a cover of a Postal Service song (also an immensely amazing band [my number 2 Fav] ).

Okay *ahem*. back to the poetry.

Music Man

If I were a better painter
I'd paint you a mural
Showing Heaven and Earth
Light and Love laid out so fine
You'd gasp, point, and go "oh!"

But I'm not that good
Not at painting anyway
I can, though, paint you
a lopsided doggy that barks
and says "I LOVE YOU" in block letters.

I'd write you a full, long song
One with every instrument you could imagine
If I were a music man I'd do this:
I'd hire all the musicians to play
You'd sit back, relax, and go "oh!"

But I'm not any good at that
No one pushed me to musical greatness
I can't tell Bach from Mozart
But I think I can figure out
"You Are So Beautiful to Me" on the kazoo.

One day, hopefully, I'll have lots of money
Enough to buy your dreams and desires
We'd get old and fat together without money woes
But for now I've got $1.37 to my name
And I hope you'll like this plastic "I Heart U" ring
I got for a quarter out of the machine.

Fragments

These words are all I have
But they’re so useless anymore
I now know I cannot catch your eye
Nor make you laugh
Like I could so long ago.

I can only give you words to read
They’re my heart on paper
But I know they mean little to you.
So a fool am I, wearing my heart away
For naught, it endears me to no one,
Not even myself.

Every word I write is a scream in my mind
Shrieking the truth: No one listens.
But my fingers move
And my heart still bleeds
Forming words no one reads
And words no one feels
And words you shrug off.

With a mere comment
“You’re like a brother.”
Never have such words burned.
Nor have broken me in such a way
As to leave me shattered,
Lying darkly on the ground
Scribbling frail fragments
On dark paper.
Such is life.

#35

The world dies with a slow groan,
God’s sprawling creatures lose their zeal
Dropping steadily the instruments of life,
Death and heartache is their only warmth.

I am not wooed by the new colors;
Brown and yellow are colors of decay.
A pungent smell of the time hangs above the ground,
A new scent betraying burning leaves as a rich aroma.

My heart pangs for the giants looming above,
Autumn is the season of my soul.
I kick up little pieces of my life as I
Stroll across the fields of me.

This heart, once a vibrant green, wilts,
hues turning yellow, brown, and a mockingly vibrant orange.
And the fragrance hanging in the air?
It’s none other than the rising smoke of the bonfire of the
fallen pieces of me.

I pull my jacket tight as I meander longingly across the lawns,
A single brown leaf falls and floats to my feet,
A single grey tear is held back in mourning; it cannot show.
Autumn’s tendrils wrap tightly around my chilled interior
But the exterior only betrays the vibrancy of spring.

Worthless Poets

Everyone.
All want to sing of your love.
There is not a man living
who has not written a song
in your honor.

Hundreds of sonnets bear the simple title
of your name.
Who can resist the crafting of sweet music
to breeze through your amber hair?

Desperate men pine to have your ocean eyes
grace across their prose,
but who can blame them?

The power of one woman is amazing.
Were she a leader of military might
Empires would fall.

But she is no general.
Even still hearts of whole kingdoms are dashed
when she looks away.

Words repeat themselves
and songs slip to monotone
Has there ever been a beautiful word
that hasn’t affixed itself to her?
Most probably not.

A teeming mass of hopefuls gather at her side.
I do join them, these worthless poets,
by writing this very thing.
I can live with that.

But not without her.

Black and White

I've got to get you out of my head
Entertaining a dead future with you
Won't get me anywhere soon
We weren't meant to be anything more
Than friends, just friends, you know
I don't need you to tell me what
I can plainly see in black and white
From here on out I'll hold onto every word from you
They're as close as I'll get to holding you
I'll grow old without your love
I'll be okay, but I doubt it'll be enough
There will never be a "we" or an "us"
The sooner I realize this the better
Someday you'll only be a memory living in this letter.

I think the saddest thing is this:
You'll never be the wiser when
All I can do is try not to think of you.

Dead Letters

You’ve won.
I get it now.
Something about me unnerves you.
You don’t have to go out of your way to avoid me.
I’ll pull myself away.
We’ve had some fun times
But I see that they are dead now.
Did you know that when you laugh
your eyes turn into little triangles?
It’s a very beautiful thing
But I won’t make you laugh anymore.
We talked about doing something
sometime.
Maybe now I should just mail you the money for the meal.
You’ve pitied me but you never said no because you have
a tragically beautiful heart.
You smiled, nodding when I talked to you,
maybe hoping I would leave?

You don’t have to fake it anymore.
To be honest all I wanted was to make you
happy.
To think I thought I could help you with that!
Never have I had a more ridiculous notion.
No, I can make you happy, and I will.
How?
The phone will be silent and the letters will
die.
Kinda like me.

“Remember that one guy you used to know?
No? Me neither.”

Thing Of Dreams

It all started the day you bled out of my dreams
and reformed in the world.
I was fine with this world with all its misgivings,
but then one day I thought of you and you were gone.
I guess running through my thoughts all day
and long, stupid conversations in my dreams weren’t enough
to keep you.
Anytime I thought maybe you didn’t exist, you’d come running to me
and say “here I am, dummy.”

Remember the nights we spent behind closed eyelids?
We talked about the strangest things...
Why you always feel dizzy when you sit up too fast...
That time we walked in the rain and never really dried...

I thought it was funny, but it wasn’t a big deal to me.
You were here with me, that’s all that mattered
That look in your eyes kept me coming back to the
silly topics
you loved so much.

But no longer.
We lived and we loved
in the world of aspirations and desires but all things good must
end.

You seeped from my fancy and ran into the world
there you are, rather
close
but still so far
away.

There for everyone to see and steal
There for the losing of me.

I was meant for you, and so the other way,
but the world is big and those beautiful triangle eyes can’t help but gaze
at the other wonderful things of the world.

So here I wait, doing particularly nothing
until you grow tired of your adventures.
You are a thing of dreams,
you know.

Bratch

Bratch attacks Frenulum Linguae for 10 HP

First let me start this of by saying I am in pain. I stabbed myself.

With a toothbrush.

It's true. I drew blood with a toothbrush. Not gingivitis "I need you to start flossing, Mr. Bratcher" blood, but forceful stabbing induced blood. Somehow I managed to miss all of my teeth and ram Ol' Bristly straight into the flap of skin that connects the underside of my tongue to the rest of my body. Yeah. Go ahead and laugh. Good thing I wasn't clipping coupons, or I'd be typing this with only seven fingers (do people tell the "those are thumbs, not fingers" joke after fifth grade?)So I immediately pull Ol' Bristly out and look at the little flap of skin and, hoo yeah, bleeding. It took less time than I expected for what little toothpaste I managed to get into my mouth before oral hari-kari to mingle with the open wound and cause more pain than you'd think toothpaste could. I mean, c'mon, it's toothpaste. I rinse my mouth out and commence brushing gingerly. Now it stings a bit when I talk and when I eat, but the worst is I keep tonguing it. This feat is surprising to myself because I didn't realize that I could lick the underside of my tongue. But I can, and I've been doing it all day. It reminds me of losing my teeth as a kid. You'd pop one out and for the next few weeks every slow moment you'd find yourself tonguing the hole where the tooth was because something's different. The tongue must get lonely to be so obsessive over every new little thing.

Somehow I don't think this will heal any time soon.

Video Killed the Blogging Star (ouch, that pun hurt)

I've been busy editing video. For some reason, I have maybe 5 or 6 different video editing software packages (including Adobe Premiere) but the only thing that is stable on my system is Windows Movie Maker. Sigh. So, I made these with WMM, which I hope to use as an excuse for their obvious simplicity. The first was more or less a test, using some footage I already had. In a way it chronicles my move from the dorms to the apartment I lived it last year. The end is a joke on one of my friends, so no, I don't have a "crush" on the blonde in the movie. Again, joke.

The Year of the Hanuman


This one is much better, in my opinion. I took my youth group to the Illinois Youth Convention (Momentum to sound cool)and took a lot of footage. This is the result. The end is the best part, so wait for it. And yes, the audio on the guy that's preaching is unintelligible. I like it that way.

Momentum 06
Momentum 06

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Pax,
Aaron

States Having the Honor of Me Being in Them at Some Point in Time

Welcome Freshman

Being a freshman is a humbling experience. The first day of high school brings many emotions, most of which are variations of "terrified." Why do we feel so much anxiety on this noteworthy day? Because just months before we were in eighth grade.

Eighth grade. I remember it well. I was never very popular, but I did have a strong group of friends. When I passed the sixth graders (the youngest at the school) they looked at me with a bit of awe and dread, mostly because I was twice their size. In a way I ruled the school. It took me two whole years to earn the right to be an eighth-grader.

Then I walked into my first class in High school. I hoped to reinvent myself as one of the cool guys, giving everyone "hey, what's up?" looks. When the teacher calls roll and starts on the "C" names without calling mine, I begin to suspect. After a little while I was pretty sure of what was going on.

I walked into the wrong classroom.

I gathered up my stuff and ran out of the room, giving the same people "oops, I'm in the wrong room. . . " looks. I did finally arrive in the correct room. I was so late that everyone turned and looked at me as I wondered.

Something deep inside told me they knew.

I forwent the schmoozing looks that said "how you doin'?" and settled on sitting low in my seat with my hand over my face that said "please don't judge me . . . actually, just don't look at me."

Three years of occasional torment found me as a senior. I was both excited and a little surprised that I had actually made it. You've been working toward this goal since you were eating finger paints in Kindergarten. I mean, come on, they make movies about how cool it is to be a senior. In some ways I had lived down my mockery of a freshman year and was moderately (moderately) popular (known in many circles as "That Christian Guy" [close enough] ). Sooner than I had expected graduation day came and went. I was the proud owner of a shiny new high school diploma. The next step came so fast it seemed to smack me in the face.

I became a freshman in college. I went to community college for a year and let me tell you this: it was the best freshman experience of my life. I was still living at home, meaning I didn't have to pay for rent, food, water, etc. My classes were small and I enjoyed them. After a year of community college, I decided to stress out my mom and go away to college. The thing is, some of the classes I took in Community College didn't transfer to Bible College.

I was a freshman again. It was appropriate, though. The experience of going away to college is very deserving of the freshman label. After moving all your junk that you just couldn't leave at home into your tiny dorm room and attending 35 meetings for incoming students and their parents that are designed to make your parents feel better about leaving you . . . they leave.

And you're alone with hundreds of other new freshman.

It's an exhilarating feeling to wave to your parents as they drive away. You've finally done it. You're out of the house, probably in a different city, and possibly in a different state. I remember when my own parents' taillights had barely faded when I was approached by some upperclassmen who offered to drive me to Andy's Custard, the best ice cream joint in Springfield. I agreed hoping to make friends. Several other freshmen were corralled with me toward the parking lot where I could see other cars with "CBC" parking stickers driving away. We got to the guy's car and it was a truck. The other guys piled into the truck bed and I did so as well. As we drove off, I had two thoughts:

One, I hope I won't regret doing this and/or be found tomorrow in a ditch. . .

Two, It only took thirty seconds for me to do something that my mom would have disapproved of. . .

There was no hazing or initiation (those came later), only ice cream. And it was good.

Being a college freshman is a little different than being a High school freshman. It makes some people go a little crazy. They aren't used to having so much freedom. No one makes you do anything. At some point you're kicked out of school for not attending class and/or being an idiot. But there's much more leeway than you ever had in high school. It's the first step towards the "real world" and many people trip and fall. On the other side, it's the freshman that are still excited about life. They've just come from ruling high school and hit the ground running. They think they're pretty hot stuff and try to change the world. This, unfortunately, is mostly extinguished by junior year.

I took a year off from what would have been my senior year. Many reasons found me remaining in Kansas City but the big idea was this: I needed to regain my focus. So I enrolled in a Master's Commission program there in KC. Even though I had spent three years already in college (two of which were Bible college) I was still considered a First Year Student.

I was a freshman again. (If you haven't figured out by now, this is a recurring theme in my life.)

It was a difficult year. The purpose of Master's Commission is to provide a disciplined environment in which to pursue hands-on ministry. There were a lot of freedoms that I was very much used to that I gave up when going to Master's. I won't list them, but one was particularly painful. There was a girl that, one day, I realized that I cared for her like I'd never cared for anyone before. One of the big rules in Master's (at least ours) was not being able to talk to members of the opposite sex on the phone. Going into the year I was afraid that we would grow apart. And we did. Even when I returned it was different. Regardless, I do look back on that year with warm fuzzies in my stomach, good memories and great friends.

I returned to school to finish up my Bachelor's in Biblical Studies. A very good friend and I got a nice apartment together. Because I had been gone a year and was only on campus for classes, I had become a ghost.

People would introduce themselves, assuming I was a freshman.

I did indeed finish college (well, okay, I have one class left to take) and I find myself looking back at my life. I have been a high school freshman and a college freshman three times.

Now I am a freshman in Life. Just as I looked back at middle school and saw that things weren't really as they seemed, just as I looked back at high school and realized that it really was trivial, I look back at college and think:

"I didn't really learn anything."