Here, JTY Died

Dear reader,

Every now and again I am inspired to a great degree, and this inspiration finds itself in the form of a short story.  I have attempted to write to you multiple times without avail, so instead, breaking my pattern of poetry or philosophy, I offer you this story of death and rebirth.  I hope that it is an encouragement to you in this particular season, on this first day of winter.

-J

Here, JTY Died

My eyes strained to see through the black solid that surrounded me. Air it was not – in fact, I could feel the matter slide in and out of my lungs as I inhaled and exhaled. The inky, silky undergrowth beneath my feet could be made out by a dim, green outline: I could see each individual blade of grass. The nightmarish jungle that I was pushing my way through was mostly dark, with maroons, deep purples, and sickly blues accenting the putridity on my every side, but all these things weren’t the greatest hallucinogen: even though I was entirely alone, the voices of hundreds of people filled my ears. I heard no individual word, but still they droned on.

The tendrils of a dark mushroom coiled around my feet as I stood still for a moment, heaving for breath, cold sweat pouring from every pore of my body. Panicky, I shook it off and stumbled a few more steps forward, but one last vine had caught my boot, and I crashed to the ground. My face landed inches from a tree with black bark that had disgustingly dry Spanish moss hanging from every possible limb and leaf. It soaked up every inch of the solid air – if air it was – around me, and after a short few seconds the dripping sweat from my brow began flying up to the moss at an absurd speed. I could feel the liquid draining from my body; I was unbearably thirsty. I tried to pull away, but couldn’t escape. Inexplicably, my face was drawn closer to the tree, and fading into my view, scratched in bloody letters in the rancid bark, were the words, “Here, JTY Died.”

A scream – maniacal laughter.  The wind whistled through this forest, the metalic clank of a child’s swing-set above my head, and I could see the dilapidated fort of my past eaten alive by the tree above me.  I tore away from the tree as fast as my legs would carry me, breaking loose the tentacles that had worked their way up my thighs.  A molting owl screeched overhead and dove towards me, driving me away from…wherever it was I was going.  I knew I had to get there, but if I tried to correct my course the beast would cut my head and hands with his talons and beak.  Suddenly I was hurtling through razor-sharp bulrushes; splashing through murky water.  Tiny green thorns cut my skin, and yelping in pain I pulled away.  My arms, scratched and torn, letters appearing in blood, “Here, JTY Died.”

I was still moving, heard splashing ahead, a faint cry for help.  I couldn’t save myself, I knew, but if I was breathing I’d ensure that they weren’t lost.  I tore through the rushes, the haunting phrase etching itself in blood on my legs and hands and face, when I suddenly broke into a clearing.  The marsh I’d been struggling through crescendoed into a cesspool of dread, and faces – more nightmarish than Tolkien’s bloodiest dreams – broke the water every few feet.  Faces of my past, unmarked faces of my future: all broken, all dead, eyes staring, unseeing, upwards.  And there, in the middle of the pond, was a black island of grass and rock, with a single body laying sprawled, limbs at odd angles, as if it had fallen from a great height. 

After a moment’s hesitation I plunged into the water, but instantly fell many feet downwards, as if I had stepped off a cliff.  I wasn’t wet; in fact, the pool seemed dryer than the air I had recently left, but the nightmare of the upper world continued as I descended lower.  I regretted my decision to save whoever was suffering on the island now many yards above my head, as Frodo regretted his choice to follow the lights in the marsh.  And just as with him, hundreds of ghostly faces hungrily rose to meet me and usher me to my doom – their long hair wrapping around my neck and pulling me ever downwards.  I could not fight against them, my hands grasped for whatever they could find, and just when I knew all hope was lost, a silver rope found my grip, and I hauled myself upwards.  Many of the ghouls fell off my body as I started to climb, but a few stubbornly held on as I approached the surface.  The line began to shimmer the further up I got, until it was nearly blinding; a blast of light sent the remaining three ghosts hurtling back to the oblivion from where they came.  Clawing my way onto the land, I lay there gasping, now soaking wet, struggling to breathe against the fetid air.  Almost immediately I wished I were back down with the specters, where my surroundings were easier, even if I was steps away from death.

“The silver lining finally saved you, huh?”

Perplexed, I turned to see who was speaking.  Why was I here?  I looked back towards the pond, and the rope was nowhere to be seen.  …what rope?  I couldn’t remember.

“Hindsight isn’t always 20/20, you know.”  The boy coughed, his pale skin accenting his blue hair.  He wore pajamas, the old kind with feet, and a tattered red blanket was tied around his neck like a cape.  Solid white eyes looked at me through a purple mask, and he attempted to smile.

“My name is Sam.  The Darkness and I were friends once, you know.”

At his words, the space seemed to close around us, and I could see nothing more than his body and the sparse grass at his sides.  He seemed extremely familiar.

“JTY came here to die.”  It wasn’t ominous.  It wasn’t derogatory.  It was obvious to me from his tone that whoever this JTY was knew what he was doing.

“He didn’t have to.  I tried to save him, but he forgot me.”  The boy’s injuries were substantial – several broken limbs, haggard breathing, blood pour from open wounds, but he didn’t seem to notice.  He was too concerned with me.

“You’ve been friends with Darkness too.”  An observation of fact I innately knew to be true.  He squinted up at me; we both knew I couldn’t save him.  “Don’t…don’t forget me, ok?”

“Of course not.”  I fumbled for more appropriate words, but nothing came.

He untied his mask and handed it to me.  “Don’t forget You.”

He stopped breathing, and his body disintegrated into the sooty soil on which he lay.  His whispering voice echoed in my head, “Otto can take you to shore.  Don’t go back to the depths of despair.”

I straightened from where I had been kneeling over him and tied the mask around my head.  My field of view widened, and there, at the edge of the island barely obscured by the mist, was a worn old dinghy made of wood, without a moor.  The name “Otto” was painted on one side in black letters.  My breathing was still labored in this dense air, but taking the word of the boy, I tried to lose the thoughts of the deadly appealing waters that surrounded me.  Climbing into the boat named Otto, I glanced over the side and caught my reflection.

I had blue hair; my skin was pale, and pure white eyes stared back at me through the purple mask.

The boat began moving on its own, taking me into the fog, across the water.  The solid air pushed my wavy hair back as we progressed – I could feel it slide past my face.  Otto slowly came to a stop at the edge of the cesspool, and I climbed out.  I could feel the red cape billowing at my back as I stepped ashore.  Otto creaked and turned back towards the island – waiting.  I looked down at my hands and legs.  The bloody words had turned into small white scars: still visible, but fading even as I watched.  Some mysterious force propelled me forward into the bramble of twisted dark trees, as if there was something calling to me.  The voices continued in my head, swelling in volume even though the words were still incomprehensible, and as I walked forward, one voice rose above them all, singing one unwavering melody.

In the distance I could see a single point of white light.  It was near the height of my stomach, and it shone like a star through the foul wood of blackness around me.  I began to pick up my pace from a walk, to a jog.  In moments I was tearing through the undergrowth yet again – I had to get to that light.  The voices got louder and louder in my head; over the din I could still hear the single song beckoning to me.  Trees reach down to stop me, ghastly hands rose up from the ground, hands I recognized, but still I pounded through the forest, determined to be requited against the foul world of Darkness once and for all.

At the thought of his name the entire land was brought to bear on my mind, on my body.  It became nearly impossible to move, as if I were walking through molasses, and cackling screams of malevolent joy overtook the beautiful voice ahead.  I fell and the star flickered; it threatened to go out and leave me in despair.  “NO!” I screamed with all my might and pushed myself off the ground.  Stumbling forward a few more steps, my surroundings immediately changed, as if I stepped from one world into another.

The voices ceased, and all I could hear was the song, gently urging me forward.  All around me was pure, soft white.  The tree trunks, which were formerly crashing down upon me, weighing my body down with their black boughs, now stood upright.  Their leaves were a dull gold, and a soft, warm wind blew through their branches.  I felt exposed and vulnerable – my greenish skin and blue hair standing out starkly against the spotlessness of this hallow, but I felt perfectly safe. In the center of the clearing, hanging on a cane implanted in the ground, was an Evenstar.

The cane on which the Evenstar hung was the only black object here, its head an antelope, made of silver.  A long chain held the jewel suspended, and as I looked, a pulse of energy blasted outwards from it, forcing the evil and Darkness away, leaving me alone.  I took a tentative step forward, encouraged by the voice, and stretched out a hand towards the Evenstar.  For a brief second, as I was inches away, I could hear whisperings, secrets of my childhood, and imaginings of the future – incandescent happiness playing on the edge of my consciousness, and I grasped the jewel.

There was a blinding flash, and I retracted my grip.  The black forest, which had previously been just steps away, was completely gone.  The shimmering white wood took its place as far as I could see in every direction, and where the cane had been, She stood.  The Evenstar hung gracefully from her neck, and she wore a long blue dress that flowed with the caresses of the wind.  She smiled at me, and ran a slender finger along my cheek.

“My dear Goldenheart.  How far you’ve come for me.”  Her voice was like a creek playfully slipping over worn stones, the crisp leaves of fall in a pile, and the song one never forgets that is written on the heart.  My weary bones were instantly put to rest, and I fell into her embrace.  Tears, both of joy and of a great toil come to rest, slid down my face.

There, JTY Died.  But here in Her arms, he came back to life.

Self Imposed Chains

Dreamers trapped in mediocrity,

Dreaming dreams in chains,

"I'd make a difference if only..."

An excuse; mere complacency.

We watch the bloodred sunset

In the West,

Mourning with the rest,

Clip-on white-collar,

Routine unchanged in the

Face of Terror,

Potential near boiling,

Silenced by Necessities:

Education,

Bills,

Money,

Technology,

Personal princedom the priority,

Watching world burn through the web,

Occasionally sculpting with words,

Guardians; Watchful reminders,

Creations of a dreamer

Dreaming of a life of influence,

Reminding Present of the Past,

But Art meant to Remember,

Clutters dusty corners of

The same Web that gives

Eyes to every corner of the world.

To every Dreamer then,

Remains a stone choice:

Do we continue to remind?

Do we rise up from the ashes of

Monotonous routine;

Do we Create until cluttered creations

Push themselves into the line of sight?

In the face of those who Burn we stand:

The Artists, the Dreamers, the Few.

The Day After V

A whimsical whirl of words,

Washing, waving, wavering;

Wishing were weaving wantonly;

Where are wont to Inspire -

Aspire!

Wherever wandering without,

Whenever wandering within,

Wailing, weathering weather,

Winning winsomely over

this weary artist.

As Ives the Insurer

Ghosts of the past

Rising up in nightly dreams,

Wailing, clawing, resurrecting

Remembrance of damning deeds.

The artist cannot conjure

away these ghouls; but then,

a good artist sees in suffering

a Beauty impossible to ignore.

A confounding comparison:

That the haunting retinal light

of the past brings a

shiver of recognition - stunningly,

a similar sensation to

the insatiable inspiration of

a summer storm.

An artist, then, is not just an articulate auror; or

an accomplished authority in

"classic" contrivations!

No, like Ives the Insurer,

Any average Joe averaging

The standard forty-a-week

Willing to withstand the

waning structure of

Individuality,

Is capable of creating

Art: an attempt to

articulate the indescribable Beauty

found in ghoulish gleam

or summer storm.

What do you want to be when you grow up?

"An Artist," says he.

They chuckle.  "But what job do you want?  You need to make money, dear."

Downcast, he reverts to whatever his father does for a living.

"Oh, how sweet!"  And another Artist dies - giving way to to the blue-or-white collared prison known as the work force.

Being an Artist isn't an occupation, dear one.  It's a way of recognizing life.  There is Beauty in everything; it just needs to be discovered and appreciated for what it Is.

Are you a debt collector?  A mortician?  A hole-digger?  An insurer?  A librarian?  A marketer?  There is Artist in you: you only need to wake it.

Please, dear reader, don't kill the Artists.  If we are worth anything as humanity, it is only because, at some point, many, many years ago, there was Art.
Look for Your Art.  Maybe, when you grow up, you will find it.

Fellow Fallen Fairy

To my Fairy, for picking me up when I was Flightless.

One winged angel,

Feet firmly on the ground:

Earth bound,

Moping, moseying, meandering,

Living life in lurid grey,

Bemoaning broken wing,

Eyes ever downward,

Resigning, never rising:

Returning to the heavens.

But during daily drudge,

Our one winged angel,

Fumbles into his fate.

A fellow fallen fairy,

Feeling free, frisky, and whole,

Steeled by sadness,

Fortified in fun,

A whirl of a girl,

Caught the angel's hand,

And rushed him through the rain.

Side by side, the two gained speed,

Running madly and merrily,

Relinquishing rancid past.

In an instant,

Two wings become One,

And flightless angel,

Paired with his fallen fairy,

Takes flight again.

No end in sight,

No temporary flight,

Soaring; fly,

Keep us, Sky:

Two-winged Being.

Turn Up the Music

Day of the first,

Either best or worst,

Reset, start again,

Hoping the same goal to win:

Collections Department.

I'm supposed to be writing a paper to apply to two different institutions in an effort to begin studying for a PhD, but being the day that it is, I just couldn't bring myself to write coherently about social thought and political justice.  As some of you know, I work in a collections department now, and I have to be honest, when I first started this job, I had no idea how emotionally taxing it would be.  I mean yeah, everyone expects collections to be difficult, but you wouldn't believe how fast you become jaded and uncaring, or just how angry you can get over numbers you can't control.

For the second month in a row, I've missed a goal by literally one payment.  And the day after the deadline, that one payment comes through.  After listening to sob stories and lies day in and day out, the disappointment of a month seemingly wasted manifests itself in tirades against customers I speak to on the first.  The craziest thing is I ended up hitting my other goal - by a lot - allowing my team as a whole to hit their goal.  Ironically, if I hadn't tried as hard on that goal, I would have hit all of my goals this month.  That's the bizarre office space I live in, that I'm sure many thousands of people can relate to.

Leaving the office yesterday, I knew the odds of getting that goal were slim, so I turned up talk radio and tried not to think about it.  There is little other sign that you're getting older than listening to talk radio unnecessarily loud.  But finding out that you missed by one, and that you're going to have to drudge at the exact same thing, with the exact same lying customers for another month, hoping for a more favorable result...that's insanity inducing.  So much so that occasionally you have to be reminded that, perhaps, your customer actually does have cancer and can't pay today.

My manager asked us in an email what we're going to do differently this month to do better.  I wanted to sarcastically respond, "try less - maybe I'll hit goal then..." but as that would be unprofessional and earn me a reprimand, I'll just stick with something more mature.  I hope.

So here I am, pitching a little fit through poetry and verbiage.  Per usual.  I am reminded even more that, as good as this company is, it is not where my vision and calling is leading me.  So I plug in to my music, some of the angrier stuff, and turn it up.  For now, to me is not to fret about the future.  For now, to me is to listen to the lies, make it through the month, and help it along with some headbanging.  That seems to temporarily solve everything but the ensuing case of whiplash.

14 Year Stupor

There are times when the weight of life is so heavy only pen and paper can lift it.  Scrolling through Facebook, taking in an endless stream of information, looking around at my coworkers immersed in their own devices, and wondering if they feel the weight of the 3,000 souls that breathed their last breath 14 years ago.

Why is it that day is an icon to all our nation, but the feelings are gone?  Yes, we remember, but 14 years years has turned into history, and history doesn't Feel.  Why is today any different than then?  Why did it take three thousand deaths to momentarily wake us from our divisive, slumbering stupor?  Are we not one nation?  Are we not free?  If we are oppressed, if we bow to the drudgery of our daily grind, it is no fault but our own!  Stand, American.  Rise from your 14 year stupor.  There will be sleeping enough in the Grave!

Wishing for the Weekend

"Don't wish your life away."  We've all heard it, I'm sure.  Ever since we were kids, and probably still now, our parents, our bosses, our professors, all tell us to live in the now.  Focus on your job!  Keep your head out of the clouds of the future, and focus 20/20 on the present.

This week was a long one for us - I get to say us now - and the weekend is finally here.  For probably the first time in my life I get Labor Day off, and so this weekend is going to be a longer one.  Just like anyone else working a 9-5, I've been dreaming of this weekend since the week previous.

Today during my lunch break I was reading a bit of The Poet's Guide to Life, a collection of letters and poems by my hero, Rainer Maria Rilke.  Very rarely have I thought of myself a disciple of any mortal man, but every time I read anything of his, I feel as if I'm sitting at the feet of the master.  No, his life was not exemplary, nor would I recommend making the same choices he did.  However, he always makes me think, and think deeply - and I adore that.

Today, I was reading a portion of commentary on his poem "The Flamingos".  Using an atypical bird, Rilke makes the point that certain things that we place more value on: a woman losing her sight, undying love, and death, for instance, really only have as much value at their core as a flock of flamingos.  I see his point, from his philosophy - if we are alone in this world, and there really is nothing more than the here and now, then we should value our marriage, say, just as much as we would value watching the rain fall on the window.

Ah, but we are not alone in this world.  And the wonderful thing I have been contemplating in the shower this evening (I get a lot of my best thoughts in the shower...I'm sure I'm not alone), is that my wishing for the weekend has much more significance now than it ever has before.  I'm not wishing for solitude or for a good book alone, or for "me" time...the beaming face of my lovely bride instantly reminded me of that when I walked through the door today.

This time, I think, the Master Rilke and my boss, and your parents, and his professor, and her uncle, are wrong.  If you have the fantastic fortune to be in my position, wish for the weekend, dearest reader.  Sometimes that wished away time stands still the moment you walk through the door and are captured by her shining eyes.

Weary of the week,

Washed by kiss on the cheek,

Time stands still,

Redeemed though force of will:

Wishing for the Weekend.

The Marionette Drummer

Shivering canvas of silence,

Expectantly awaiting the brush-stroke of sound.

Squeak of the seat,

Sticks rest on the rim,

And my body is surrendered to puppet-master,

Like a marionette merely along for the ride.

Sensual whispers guide my hands from head to head,

Crash in my ears like waves of pleasure,

Hair rising, skin quivering,

Mistress of music demanding

My undivided attention.

The ride leaves me breathless, shaking,

As last brush-stroke rings unencumbered:

Brilliant color giving way to the forgetful silence.

And here I sit – just another drummer,

Just another day.

Unbounded by Words

Dearest reader,

I have said time and again, to you specifically, that the happiest things in life are unbounded by words: specifically mine.  So it happens that I am putting virtual ink-to-page for your enjoyment two weeks and two days after the most joyous day of my life.  I am sitting in my wingback armchair listening to Brahms, and watching my lovely bride read a book on philosophy on my right.  I don’t have much more to say in this respect, not because I am indifferent; rather, I am, to be sure, one of the happiest men alive at the present moment.

I find that being married has occupied my mind in ways that have diverted my attention from my inspiration as no other.  Or perhaps I should say, it has changed the form of my inspiration for the time being.  In the last few days I have been divulging my lunch-hour to Rilke, Bastiat, and Fitzgerald, and so it happens that my Scarlequain is merely simmering in the rear of my mind.  Like the Music, my poetry is always present in the recesses of my cognizance, but as of late it has resigned itself to an ironic:

Crawling, parched

Month-long march.

Dry and barren,

Take me, Charon:

Silent Muse.

And while I in no way feel that the Ferry Man of Hades is pulling my inspirational muse to hell by his boney grasp, I am well aware of my tenure in the desert of noninspiration, if I may coin a rather unoriginal term.

My job has felt new and daunting to me for some time now, until, as it happened, an employee newer than I asked helplessly for directions on a simple task.  “I told [her].  And as I walked on I was lonely no longer.  I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler.  [S]he had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighborhood,” which was, in this case, my workplace.  Ah, Fitzgerald.  Even in the third or fourth read-through (honestly, who is counting?), Gatsby still fails to disappoint.

I have also been spending time reading The Poet’s Guide to Life: The Wisdom of Rilke in my spare time, and if you know anything about me you’ll know I cling to every word this literary giant saw fit to pen.  As it turns out, Rilke hand-wrote thousands of letters during his lifetime – mostly as a distraction from his “work” – poetry writing.  I stumbled across a passage where Rilke describes these letters, on all topics and to all demographics, as an escape from the desert of noninspiration.  An oasis, if you will.  Indeed, it has often been said that Rilke has done more good for the literary community through his letters than he did through his poetry.  I daresay Rilke was beginning to suspect the same as he approached his final stroll towards Charon’s ferry-house, as he gave permission for them all to be published.  At any rate, it made me smile, because I realized there is no ear more open than the blank page intended for some distant recipient.

And so, dear reader, this is where I bid you farewell for the time being.  This is where I take my last sip at the oasis and hope with a smile that the desert ends just over that hill.  For, you are my open ear: my addressee that gives my poetic halt a respite.  I sincerely wish that I, like Rilke to me, have conveyed some measure of hope and happiness to your daily walk.

May the sand quickly leave your shoes.

Suspended Sensations

Whispering Echos

Flitting in dark corners.

Warm silence

Filling your ears,

Like Alice,

Sleepy Wanderer,

Wondering: Where

Am I again?

Sneaking Suspicion

Sneakers stray

In circles chasing

A flutter flying

Just outside the 

Blurry landscape lines.

Rolling over, crack an eye,

There, over the clock,

A moth flitting.

Pillow warm,

Filling your ears

Dreams: whispering

Echos.

Normal

Normal.  What a usual, every day word.  And yet, what is normal?  We toss this word about in a negative light, an aspiring one, or a mundane one.  But what is normal if not the pursuance of the things that, at our core, make us human?  To be loved, to Know, and indeed, to love knowing.  To be normal is to exist on a plane that is unbounded by time, emotion, petty disputes or relative notions of society.

What if we strive to do great things because we are compensating for the failures of our life that we cannot escape by any means other than excelling so far above them that they are mere dust in the wind?  Perhaps by achieving those great accomplishments, we feel as if our life has been normalized – the scale is tipped more towards the balance for which every man or woman that has ever lived has struggled, and most struggled in vain.

Consider your own life.  Do you fight against being normal?  How many times have you lifted an upper lip, sneering the word “normal” in reference to breaking the mold of society which, while being the very thing we seek to defy the most, we cannot seem to do without its good opinion of us.  How many times have you – have I – shaken our fist at the Norm saying “I am not with you!”

What is it to be normal?

Maybe normal is a struggle, or a journey.  Maybe normal is not something we see until that fleeting second when life leaves our lungs for the final time, and in that last exhalation we finally understand.  Maybe it is after that.  Or maybe normal is something that we can never truly understand or discover, because maybe none of us are as normal as we would like to think.  Perhaps we are all abnormal in a world that yearns for the opposite.

But that wouldn’t be normal to say so.

Chorale

Join me in my musical musing 

Dear, dear reader.  Life comes quickly, doesn't it?  Here I am, nearly 3 weeks away from being married.  I've noticed my recently graduated friends musing over much of the same thing recently - being an adult, I mean.  I'm working full time now, I'm making decisions about paint colors and what socks to wear in the mornings, and I'm working and I'm sleeping and I'm working some more.

Some people look at life like this and they just assume that this is all it is - rote routine.  Which, you'd find ironic if you read my last blog post.  But recently, I've been catching up on reading I promised myself I would do in college, and it pushes me.  It spurs me onward towards my Passions: those big things that we each dream about in high school or college - the things we cling to with a desperation that drives us to put one foot in front of the other each and every day.

This post feels a bit scattered and ethereal to me.  Much like my life right now does.  But, friend, the chaos of our life, no matter how scattered and detached we feel now will lead us into eternity in ways you and I could never have imagined.  The crazy thing is, God has wonderful plans for you and me.  And whether we are just secondary characters in the stories of our own lives, or whether we have more say than we'd like to think, the chaos of our past and the passions of our future will back us away enough to get a larger glimpse of the Bigger Picture.

Sometimes when you're just laying in bed, exhausted and ready to be done with your day, you have to listen to beautiful voices and write down a few beautiful words.  I hope they put a small smile on your face tonight, tomorrow, or wherever this post finds you.

Thank you for being you, dear dear reader.  You are one of my Passions.

The beauty of the past,

Even though the pain lasts,

Is the contrast of the dark,

Which brightens your gold heart:

Beautiful chaos.

Remembering Rogers' Routine

1. Routine: Noun - a sequence of actions regularly followed; a fixed program.

2. Superstition: Noun - a widely held but unjustified belief in supernatural causation leading to certain consequences of an action or event, or a practice based on such a belief. 

You know, I was thinking today as I got out of the shower after a long day at work, that routines are interesting things.  Every morning when I wake up - which is precisely 10 minutes before my alarm goes off every morning - I go to the bathroom, take out my retainers, brush my teeth, and wash my hair, shortly after turning the morning coffee on.  I then go back into my room, turn my now blaring alarm off, get dressed, and head upstairs for a bit of breakfast, some Bible, and Clash.  I'm able to wake up 1 hour before work because the previous evening, I already packed my lunch, laid out my clothes, premade my coffee, and packed my work bag.  This probably seems perfectly normal to you; you probably have a very similar routine of your own.  But think about this: what if one little thing in your routine gets messed up by something.  Doesn't it make your day get all out of whack?  It does me.

Coffee, order of socks, 

Music before and after,

Certain smiles at certain stops,

Repetition to avoid disaster:

Routine.

What if Mr. Rogers had come in the door singing "Won't you Be My Neighbor" and, instead of taking off his suit coat, promptly gone and changed shoes first?  To be honest - that was the first thought that popped into my mind as I showered this evening.  I think I would have flipped a lid, even as a child.

Why do we have routines?  Some people would probably say that we do repetitious things because we are superstitious.  We don't want that one little thing going wrong or differently to throw off our whole day!  I surely don't.  But then I thought, and thought again as I watched the Mr. Rogers theme song, I think we were blessed with satisfaction in routines because we take comfort in the familiar.  And in the midst of hectic planning for my fiance's upcoming school, or my job, or getting married, or what have you (assuming you're not doing all the same things I'm doing. ;) ), I find immense pleasure and comfort in knowing myself well enough to go through the motions and actually enjoy it.  Do you?

Memory Drawer

Demons come out to play,

Old creaky hinges sway.

They dance in the mind,

To old wounds blind:

Memory Drawer.

There is so much that I could write to you about, but words escape me.  For those of you who don't know, I'm working full time now, and as of today, I'll be married in two months.  I'm back at home for the time being, and the transition hasn't been the easiest for me - I feel as if I'm 16 all over again, except with lots of experiences and history behind me.  College is over with, for heavens sake.  At any rate, I was digging through a drawer in my bed recently that I have reserved for "memory" things, and I stumbled across many artifacts of people I have interacted with in...less than favorable circumstances.  It tore me up a little, and inspired the previous poem.  It's amazing the things that small pictures and poems and bracelets can stir up.

Further, and I'm not sure if it's the transitions or the hard decisions coming up or what, but I've been having nightmares - not bad dreams, as if they are something a little child suffers from - every single night for the past few weeks.  I have a host of reasons why this might be, but as I said, reasoning escapes me at the moment.  All I have for you is this poem.  Perhaps that will better convey to you what I feel.

And perhaps next time I write it will not be so...terrifying.

Standing on the edge of an abyss,

Looking into a cesspool of nightmares,

Forced to choose for a tryst.

Your featherweight dreams drown,

Dread dancing in delight,

Eating away at the edge 

of your consciousness.

A creak, a squeak, the

footsteps of a ghost vanishing

the moment you move your mind

in its direction.

Musings of murder making merry,

Sounds of seduction and sin

suggesting your downfall,

Perspiration pouring,

Heart hammering,

Blackness bombarding your body

with the weight of the wrongdoings

of your life.

Slumber drags your wakeful

eyelids closed against your will;

Sweet sleep laced with terror;

Nightly rest haunted by

ceaseless spectors.

Hail, Long Thirdia on Four!

A hall to some, A clique to others,

The awkwardest boys you’ll ever meet.

Friends at first, joined room to room,

Potential of Third greatly unexplored.

Three new freshmen thrown in the mix,

Unaware of their grand looming adventure:

We accept them as brothers,

Say goodbye to others,

And after a year move up a floor.

Now, we have bonded: more than a hall,

At beck and call we support our own,

In the midst of any trial school or females,

Or parents or money, or philosophies or

Callings, or films or games or petty worries

Can throw at us.

Thunderous nightly charge to dinner,

A uniting force, fire drilling around a table

To the surprise of our schoolmates around.

Competitors, winners, we have,

Olympics a mere capstone to gatherings

That would seem extravagant to anyone else

Mere tradition and requirements to us.

Where else can you reenact Last Supper,

Or trip to the 50s as hoofers and bums,

Curse each other over a game,

And console a brother in personal loss?

Where can you find solace, just to be alone,

Knowing just a room away there is steadfast comfort,

Or where can you enjoy endless hours of

Comradery unmatched by any other experience

You’ve had before these?

An era is ending, but here stays my heart.

Men of Long Thirdia, even though we depart,

We cherish our days together as golden memories.

Rest assured whenever I next cross your path,

There will be just as much affection as before.

My door may not always be open,

But the latch on my heart will always swing wide.

Dearer friends one cannot find,

Than the ones on this hall.

Long Thirdia on Four,

You have my all.

The Forgotten Graduate

Four years are quickly coming to an end.  When I came to the Hill for the first time, I was full of expectations.  I was ready to become a new person and to pour myself into my alma mater.  I bled red and gold for several years.  I helped start a new rivalry, I led the charge of the BCFC for a year, and I played for nearly every musical production that was put together, even if I was dragged into it the night before.

Then, specifically last year, everything began to come to crumble around me.  I found out that some people who claimed to by my friends were really just waiting for a chance to roast me - and I ended up burning at their mercy.  During that time things started getting Clarified.  I found out that I only burned red now, as did many professors, students, and faculty.  My school spirit was utterly destroyed, and I lost faith in the people I used to be a standard-bearer for.  And when I thought I had escaped unscathed and the burn-wounds were nearly healed, they took my dear friend a closest professor and mentor away from me.  Five of my seven classes this semester were with him, and with Biology being the sixth (something that has nothing to do with either of my majors, music and politics), my motivation plummeted to an all-time low.

I learned to keep to myself as a graduating senior.  My door stayed open as it always did, but only a select few still took the time to open it.  I thought for most of the semester that I was alone.  Everyone else had, I thought, come to grips with the fact that they had to smile and bear it, bend over and take it, or just accept that what had happened was right.  I heard more times than I can count, "If you don't like, you shouldn't have come here."  A pained smile stayed painted on my face, and occasionally I'd lift my proverbial cyber-pen in protest of some new development, but my audience generally just shook their heads in pity - just a stubborn senior.  A few agreed, but they were far between.

And then recently, a dear friend pulled me aside and told me it's okay to feel the way I do.  He's felt that way too.  And even if I walk across the stage and I'm forgotten by everyone else, he'll remember the things I did for him.  And thinking back on our conversation?  The aching part of me that wished I'd be a graduate remembered was satisfied.  Maybe my name will only be remembered for a semester or two from here on out, but the people who remember will be the ones I love.

Recently I've been laughing at the irony that a graduation gown is black, and totally covers your undergarments - the person beneath.  When we're all gathered for the ceremony, when we walk across the stage, we'll be numbers on a success list.  We will be stifled in finality for that one day like the sea burqas in a crowded Middle Eastern street.  A part of me wishes that I could have climbed the ranks of alumni to be one of the people who is remembered for years to come.  But after what has happened here, after my heart of red and gold lost its luster, I am happy to leave that behind.  I would rather be remembered by the forgotten.  And one day, if one of us rises to recognition, it won't be because of the red and gold we've left behind.  It will be because of the love of those few people who were left to drown in the sea of black success.  That's the kind of success I want.

Last man stand,

One man band,

Notes die in the wind,

Nothing left to spend:

Forgotten Graduate.

Sunny Jar of Clouds

Sometimes inspiration comes in floods after long dry spells.  To be honest, it feels like breathing again after being underwater until your lungs almost explode.  I offer no apology for two posts in two days; instead, I offer the hope that one of them speaks to you in a way that inspires you like my clouds inspire me.

Sunny Jar of Clouds

A bright yellow sweater

Masks a grey shirt,

Subconsciously emulating

The relationship between

Your face and your heart.

Your off-white shoes

Give commentary on the

State of your character:

Tarnished, stained; an environ-

Mental project in the works.

The storm-cloud jar deflects

The dispersing winds of spring,

And to avoid inquiring noses

Dons a camouflage of sun.

Happier in hurricanes than

On a blissful day, because

All walls of pretense come

Momentarily down.

Perceived through tinted lens,

This shrouded smog is

Condemned as untrusting:

Do you have any Right?

Don’t you draw breath?

But even He sweated blood

And dreaded and begged for

Another way, soul battered

By the howling winds

Of the storm.

And if it was so with He,

How much more with me?

This stormy inspiration that

Constantly rages in little jar,

At the very least has won

Incomprehensible love,

And shows others that

They are not alone.

Now you have seen the

Contents of the sunny

Jar of Clouds.

Transparency is rare.  It

Comes at a cost.  And

Now that you see, I’ll blend

Right back in.  Slipping

Yellow hoodie on again,

To protect from the wind.

Meet Me Where You're Going

For aesthetic effect while reading, click here.

Most of the time when I find a new band, or a new genre of music, it's because someone recommended them to me.  I rarely listen to the radio - it's Spotify all the way for me.  However, there is one band that I randomly found on my own.  I used to be obsessed with the phrase "Cloud 9" in highschool - even wrote lots of stupid stickman comics about drama, love, and all the junk like that that goes on when you're that age.  And so, on a whim, I typed "Cloud" into the Spotify search bar, and the first suggestion was an indie band called "Cloud Cult."  I was instantly enthralled.

Through the years, I have religiously followed Cloud Cult through their pain, their recovery, and the expression of those emotions in their music.  In 2013 they released one of my absolute favorite albums to date: Love.  It's a simple title, but the album itself is profound.


The night I proposed to Virginia, now my fiance, I created a playlist called The Night.  On it were songs that held significance to both of us, and I had a dear friend que it just as we walked in the room where I would ask her to be my wife.  One of the songs that I chose was "Meet Me Where You're Going," which you're hopefully listening to right now.  Like I do with most of my music, I took meaning from the title, from the words, and the heavy emotion that's poured into the song.  What an appropriate song for such a night!  But like most music, it grew and evolved with me, and last night I had a revelation.

Meandering down life's path,

Meeting its wrath,

With you at my side,

Your pace a quick stride:

Going where you are.

"Run away with me, yeah, let's get married. Will you be the rest of my life? Every day with you I say "I do", and it means so much more each time."  These lines were obviously a wonderful choice for a proposal night.  But what about, "Thank you for patience. Thank you for-giveness. Thank you for spending this time with me. Meet me where you're going, cuz I wanna be going wherever you'll be."

Recently I've had a lot on my plate and on my mind.  We all have, especially we seniors.  It's very easy to get annoyed with each other, and I find myself often getting annoyed at those people who have walked college's path with me ever so closely for four years.  Some of my dearest friends.

Have you ever been backpacking with three or more people?  There's always that one person who leads, and you fall behind.  You get to a hard stretch of trail, and talking and chatting stops all together.  Maybe that front person pulls ahead, and it feels as if you're no longer on the hike together, but as individuals.  But you know what?  You're not.  You're both on the same trail, and most likely, you're hiking together because you love each other.  From my perspective, even if it seems like my friends have their back to me, hiking at their own pace and investing in other things, I want to Meet Them Where They're Going.  I value them so much that I'd rather "go wherever they'll be," than be annoyed that they're not prioritizing me.

Aside from the obvious message between lovers, Cloud Cult's MMWYG reminds me that we're all on the same trail together.  We should all value where they're going first, because most likely we'll all be better off in the long run.  Relationships always trump the day to day mediocrity of life, even if it's the last little stretch of school.

So to my fiance, to my family, and specifically to my friends here on the Hill, with whom I have such little time remaining, "I love you and how. Won't leave you alone. Will you be my home now? And I'll be your home."

For the 15

I don't have much to say this time around.  I've been going through the motions of preparing for a senior recital, and I've been going through the motions of finishing the last few classes I need to graduate, even though Biology has nothing to do with either politics or music performance.

The truth is, I ache.  I ache in a deep way that only a few people in this school can understand - or choose to understand.  Music people, Biology people, Comm people, Psych people, Bible people...there are a few people in nearly every friend group, major, and class who understand what I'm getting at.  Should we just roll over and say "Oh well?"  I thought that's what we should do last semester, until one of my dear friends and favorite professors fell out of my life, just like so many others have this past year.  There's not much we really can do.  So I'll just sit over here in my corner of the Den and make some noise.  I know I'm not alone.

Afraid, cowering in plain sight,

Hiding from ethereal unknowns.

Previously our pride, but like

a lion shorn, our colors worn

Now become our shame.

Friends, mentors, melt away like

spirits, the young forgetting who

Once led our vivacious pack.

Those men with manes targeted,

Made mediocre in a moment by

the will of an iron pen.

The convenience of hypocrisy,

The death of justice at the hands

of a mere formality enrage

Those left behind – gold memories

Stained Red.

We few hide defiantly in

the shadows of our Den,

barring our teeth at the bones

thrown to us from the poachers’ table.

Some are dragged away for show,

and eventually we all jump through their

hoops, kings made stooges.

Would that there were Prides left to

laugh at our Circus, but extinction

breeds nothing but an audience riveted to

this momentary drama.

I count down the days until this collar of

chain rusts away – Time its only key.

My mane once shorn surfaces again,

Teasing and tantalizing, tempting me

with new life.

A choice remains, for the 15:

Do we keep our collar, fondly recalling

Our might being smothered into nothing

larger than a house cat? Or

shall we leap through our last hoop,

roaring in contempt at the Board that

holds the remains of our rusted chain?

Suddenly a snap!  Sally forth or

sit in silence.  I ask no pardon

for my

Roar.

Textbook Poetry

I balk against the idea that Spotify can predict what type of mood I'll be in depending on the season and music I've listened to in the past.  However, as the snow blows in a twenty mile an hour wind, I concede to the weird technological genius that says I should be depressed because it's February and I usually listen to Cloud Cult when I'm depressed in February.

I have had a migraine most of the day which gives me crazy weird dreams when I try to sleep it off, and I decided I needed to let my mind wander in a short (hopefully) blog post to get over the post-migraine "hangover."

I have been having trouble focusing in my Biology class recently.  This being my last semester of college (ASDLGHIASLDFGKJHA), I am realizing more and more that your undergraduate degree is merely four years and thousands of dollars spent so that you can check off a little box that says "I have completed my undergraduate degree."  As I think back over the things I have learned in college, I can point to just a very few things that I actually learned in the classroom.  Everything else that I truly learned - which is a lot for just four years' time - came from heartbreak, heartmend, and good relationships.  As a senior if I were asked by a freshman for one piece of advice to truly get the most out of their college experience, do you know what I would tell them?

As are overrated.  Find people who you can invest in, and who will invest in you, and Love them.  That is what makes your college experience worthwhile.  Because as soon as you graduate, no one will care that you made an A in Biology or International Relations.

Why must it be this way?  Why have years of education that used to be extremely meaningful turned into a merely list of requirements the State has us fulfil?

TRAdiSHUN!

Ironically enough, cultural experiences and cultural definitions have forced us into thinking that things need to be done a certain way for everyone, and if you don't do those things that particular way, it's wrong and you'll be unsuccessful.  Even in "Christian" institutions we have cultural definitions that absolutely CANNOT be broken.  Forget Christ and salvation.  If you do or say XYZ, or don't do and say XYZ, you'll get excommunicated, fired, forced to retire, whatever.  And we call this Christianity!

I have no particular structure to this rant, and I make no plans to explain myself.  I've recently dabbled in a form of poetry called "blackout poetry," and it keeps me occupied in Biology.  My Scarlequain has stayed uninspired recently, since, sadly enough, Dr. Wilhoit was one of its chief inspirations.  But since he has fallen prey to cultural definitions, the inspiration has left me.

Hated at first,

Now hurts the worst,

Lectures inspire,

Turned poetry's ire:

Lost Inspiration.

At any rate, here is a sample of this new "textbook poetry."  Somehow, this is tied in to all my jumbled thoughts for today.

Some questions for you to consider that I've been mulling over:

1) Have we cheapened the word Love?

2) Are the things we do really Christian? or are they just culturally accepted?

3) Where do you stand in Eternity?

I'm praying for you, friend.  Whoever you are.  I hope that the centuries bring your ideas alive in ways that transcend cultural conditions.