Fighter's Blood

You know there are some things that are simply too deep for poetry. I feel as if I'm grasping at the straws of life every time I write my Scarlequain. Most things I wrestle with are just incapable of being summed up in the few words I limit myself to. But I told a friend recently that the moment you undertake something merely for necessity is the moment the joy of pure creativity dies. She was kind enough to remind me of what I had said, and so I write, even if the words don't blanket my thought as I would like.

The last few weeks I've had the great privilege to study the era surrounding WWII. Ironically, the way my classes are progressing, I'm learning about the politics surrounding the War in International Relations while simultaneously studying the influences Wagner had on Hitler in Music History 4. And in one of the documentaries I've seen countless times in Dr. Clauson's classes, a woman said something that made me think. "People from that era are quickly leaving us. Soon we won't have them anymore. Ask them their stories. If you don't remember, who will?" Thankfully my dad has done lots of research and asked his dad all about his story, and some of those stories are of the Second Great War. So, in an effort to Remember, I'm writing to you.

My Papa, Fred Creasy, became the oldest man at his home in Middle Tennessee at the age of 12. His father died and left him to care for the entire farm and family himself. It was hard, but he did it. He made do with what he had. When the bombing of Pearl Harbor pulled the US into WWII, he responded as many young men then did. I asked Papa about the War once. He told me plenty of stories, ranging from raiding a liquor shop in Italy with some of his friends when they were being shelled night and day (hey, you get bored sometimes. Even when under constant attack) to hiding a monkey in a fox hole he lived in (the monkey ran away after burning his hands on a stove pipe). But I've never been so stirred as the time when he was telling a story to my dad and me in his living room.

My Papa has been in some horrid battles. He was wounded in France, he held his friends as they died, and he saw the results of the atrocities committed by Hitler. If the name Anzio Beach means anything to you, know that he experienced it. The night he told me about watching his friend die in his arms from a grenade explosion still rocks me to my core. My little sibling popped a balloon somewhere near, and he had a flashback to that day. My Papa experienced things I will, Lord willing, never come close to experiencing. My Papa was a fighter in his time. He fought to keep his family alive, and he fought to ensure the freedom and safety of his country. He fought for you, and for me.

Sometimes it is difficult for me to wrap my mind around the man my Papa is. Seeing him now, you wouldn't really know that he is the kind of person you read about in heroic novels of war and glory. I know from him there is no glory in war. But let me tell you about some glory my Papa has earned.

I know somewhere he has a purple heart for his wound and his bravery. I know that his uniform lays at rest somewhere in his house. I know that he would rather do without most of those memories. And I know, thanks to a summer youth trip to Washington DC what my legacy is.

While in DC, my youth group visited the Holocaust Museum. I thought I knew upon entering the doors I was in for an emotional rollercoaster, and I thought I could handle it. Then, I rode the elevator up with my Dad and some of my friends, and as the doors opened, I was greeted by an enormous mural and my father's surprised and reverent gasp. He pulled me to the center of the photo and pointed to one G.I. in the middle.

"Son...that's your grandfather."

Papa doesn't really care that his picture is the first one millions of people see when they visit that museum. He doesn't really care that many people marvel at the kind of man he had to be to do what he did.  I didn't know at the time how much that picture meant to me, and I probably still don't. But in the midst of what I call "hard times," I remember that picture, and I remember the kind of man my Papa had to be in his time. I remember that same Fighter's Blood is in my veins. Not the kind of fighter that kills for glory or thrill or personal gain. The kind of Fighter that kills to defend his country - the people he loves. The Fighter that strives to raise a family the right way - after Christ, because it's the Right thing to do. The kind of Fighter that has made plenty of mistakes, and keeps trying to pursue what he knows to be right. The kind of Fighter that has stared Atrocity straight in the face, and even though he was scarred and shaken, came back on VE Day just that - victorious. Papa may not be proud of everything that he's done, but I'm proud of him, and I'm proud of the legacy, family, and blood he has given me. And in light of the hard things that press around me every day, things not nearly as hard as the things he overcame, I do my best to stand tall and remind those things...

I have the blood of a Fighter.

Off-White Converse

Attention decline,

Look and you'll find,

Not much at all,

Consciousness call:

Music ADHD.

I feel much like Professor McGonagall in using that last Scarlequain.  Penned in October of 2013, I've been dying to use it in a post ever since, and today, I feel justified in doing so.  The past several hours have seen me listening to Symphony No. 2 Allegro Maestoso by Mahler, Concerto in Bb Minor for Piano and Orchestra by Tchaikovsky, various Rage Against the Machine (culture shock switching genres like that, I know), and a little bit of Fall Out Boy.

"Oh dear," you're probably saying to yourself at the moment, "here comes another musical rant.  Must I listened to this cultured gobbledygook?"  (Believe it or not, the y is not changed to an i in this particular circumstance...yay English...)  The answer is no, you don't.  Pardon me if I step on any toes.

"I've been dying to tell you anything you wanna hear, 'cause that's just who I am this week."

Thank you Fall Out Boy for pulling my readers and me away from another musical rant.  Thank you Fall Out Boy for dragging my readers and me into a rant I've been avoiding.  Sometimes to say what you want to you have to trash new ideas, pull from old ones, and just start writing.  So let's start with some poetry.

Followers of God,

A horrid facade,

Stained; caught; lured,

Makes insecure:

A Christian Mask.

Attending chapel at Bryan College has never really been my favoritest thing in the world (pardon my descent into less-than-eloquent English...sometimes I can't help myself).  There have been several people who have led chapel (who don't anymore, and now, in my opinion, chapel is struggling a bit.  As is the entire music department, but that's another rant for another time...) who have been extremely influential on me spiritually.  But as I said, they are gone, and chapel isn't what it once was.  Which is why the previous chapel speaker at the Engage Conference we held at the beginning of the semester rocked my world/boat a bit, so to speak.

Recently, I have been very upset at the local church.  I said everything that the speaker pointed out as faulty.  I didn't want to attend a local church because the people there are a bunch of self-righteous cover-ups.  I understand why agnostic friends say they don't want to be Christian because they're all hypocrites.  But the speaker challenged me to change that.  I can't change the people who continue to hide behind their mask.  I know they have their dirt just like I do.  A lot of people know.  But since wearing the Christian mask is something most everyone does, nobody bothers to be Real (there goes my Romanticized capitalization again...), because nobody else is.

I have a tendency to trust people too much - to be too vulnerable.  It opens me up very quickly and creates bonds faster than should be created.  So coming to college like that has allowed me to get burned multiple times, and it has caused me to be more careful.  But in becoming more cautious, retreating into myself has made me put on my Christian mask again.  I am too scared to be honest.  I am too scared to let other people know I'm not a saint.  Just like Fall Out Boy pointed out, I become what other people want to hear.  Tickling their ears?  Scripture was right.

So this is me trying to be different, and encouraging you to do the same.  Take off the Christian mask.  Be a Christian underneath the mask.  Be a Real Christian - a fallen human being who still makes mistakes, and makes them daily.  Admit to that dirt, but point out that you're forgiven through Christ's perfect sacrifice for you.  Other people may not forget and forgive like He does.  And that's ok.  Sooner or later, you will find (as I have) that there are a few people that will take off their mask and join you.  And those people are well worth exposing yourself to.

So this is me.  Telling you I have dirt, asking you to see me for what I am (blemished, but wonderfully saved), and asking you to join me.  No matter how much dirt you have, you're always welcome here.

"In three words I can sum up everything I know about life: it goes on."

-Robert Frost

"Be yourself.  Everyone else is already taken."

-Oscar Wilde

Purity lack,

Bleed-through black,

Hide no more,

Honesty's shore:

Off-White Converse.

romantic, Romantic, Romanticist

There is little that daunts me more than a blank page and a short haircut.  "Who in the world am I?  Ah, that's the great puzzle."  Lewis Carroll has been an inspiration of late, if you haven't noticed (check a few posts back for the Mad Hatteresque post), and he was just as correct this time around.  Who I am is a puzzle that is constantly changing.  But I think I've found a piece of it, and I thought I'd share it with you.

Some call me a flirt, or a heartbreaker, or a romantic, and I guess in some ways they'd be right.  I'm a sap for anything sappy and heart-melting (why else would I have a full-sized movie poster from the movie Tangled above my bed, and a half-finished romantic comedy in my "writing" folder...), but I don't think that merely being "romantic" is the full piece of the puzzle.  Sure, I'm a Romeo somewhere beneath all this red hair (which has been recently cut much too short), but that's only a small corner of this puzzle piece.  Believe it or not, this part of me is more than just rushing into relationships, wonderful love-letters, and endearing pet-names, and I would venture to guess it's the smallest part of the piece.

Other people I know would next be likely to guess what I'm getting at to be more technical.  "Ah!"  They'd say.  "You're getting at the feelings behind your favorite genre of classical music: you're a Romanticist."  And, in some areas, I'd have to admit that they are correct.  I am seldom to be found listening to any other classical than Berlioz, Dvorak, Mendelssohn, or Tchaikovsky.  And yes, these great men do in fact greatly influence the coloring of this puzzle piece.  Inspiration comes in many forms, and very often it comes to me through their musical devices.  But again, being a Romanticist doesn't seem to cover the entire surface or depth of what I'm getting at.

1815 to 1910,

Love, letters, and Gems,

Dreamer, Philosopher,

Adventures: garret to cellar:

romantic, Romantic, Romanticist.

There are very few people I've met who actually understand every facet of what it means, at least to me, of being a true Romantic.  I'm in love with the city, but a country boy at heart, a dreamer...but one who wants to have a plan...not 100% lost in the clouds...but lost nonetheless.

A Romantic is one who would use the word "garret" instead of "attic" because the former holds more nostalgic meaning, and simply because it's a wonderful word.  A Romantic may want to have a study stuffed with old books in a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf and a set of spiral stairs in their house, because these are the Gems that are found in the most unlikely of places.  They might think that Foxgloves and climbing Roses are the best flowers because that's something one would find in a perfect story; and, speaking of story, Romantics tend to be the best story-tellers in my estimation.  Why are fairy-tales so appealing to us?  Why is a story best with a good old-fashioned villain and a hero to outwit him at every turn?  Why is a raven like a writing desk?  These are questions that a Romantic understands, even if they cannot put them into words.  To be a Romantic is find beauty in extremely simple things, like a warm fire and a book and a cup of tea, or a piece of punctuation at just the write place, or a capital letter (or lack thereof) just to give emphasis.  A Romantic could go on describing what it is to be so for ages, because to admire those characteristics is, in a way, another characteristic of being Romantic.

And you know, it is interesting to me that being a dreamer is seen to be opposite of being a realist.  At least, it is so according to Merriam-Webster.  But ask yourself: who is it that has survived the ages and has practically become immortal?  Is it the realists?  Or the dreamers?  Is American Joe an icon that we cling to, quote, and aspire to be?  I daresay not.  It is the heroes created by dreamers.  We may not be practical, and we may not be realistic.  But those who are true Romantics are those who help keep us human.

Being a Romantic is the best of most worlds.  Maybe that didn't make sense.  Maybe you call that being big-headed or proud.  I prefer to think of it as being haughty without being so...proud, but humble about it.  I am most certainly not afraid to pitch my tent in the Romantic crowd.  Here, to be famous is to be dead.  But I'd rather it be that way.