Combating Reality in Grinder and Grains

Dear Reader,

I can't tell you how much I've missed writing you.  So much has been on my mind of late, and I haven't found the words or the poetry to express what this vortext is doing to my upper grey matter (yes, I did invent a new word; do you like it?  Yes, "grey" is better spelled that way.  "Gray" just looks too harsh.).  However, let the record show that, talks with fathers (mine), wonderful authors (specifically F. Scott Fitzgerald), and a surprisingly pleasant change of atmosphere do me wonders.

I had the good fortune to realize through someone (my mother, I think), that the location that my favorite coffee-shop in my hometown used to occupy was again filled, and it was taken by a mom-and-pop cafe.  I was deeply saddened when the coffee-shop had left its previous home (a 100 year old house), in exchange for a larger, warehousey building (there he goes again with the weird words...).  The coffee's quality suffered, and the atmosphere there took a change for the worse, in my opinion.  However, I am currently sitting in the very corner of Grinder and Grains Cafe (where, if I ignore the windows looking outdoors to my TN home, I feel as if I'm in a lodge in the Swiss mountains), and I am one of two patrons currently frequenting the quaint establishment.  The coffee here is satisfactory, and the chicken tortilla soup is exquisite.  I feel quite safe here, much as I do at Harmony House back on the Hill; for, as far as I know, this little cafe has yet to be found out by a large amount of people. I think I have found a treasure, and I revel in that fact.  A painting of a couple embracing under an umbrella adorns the wooden wall near me, typical coffee-shop music floats softly through the age-old house, and here I write.  Alone, but with my books, words, and thoughts to keep me company.

Lately, I have been feeling extremely...lost.  I know this sounds like the same words over a different tune (I suppose that would be an inverted form of strophicity?  For those of you wondering, I did just modify the word "strophic" to fit my needs), but I guess being at home, countless engagements of people younger than me (some of those old friends, an ex, or just people I used to consider much less mature than myself), my drawing near to the completion of my time on the Hill, and just a general lack of preparedness (or so I feel) for the future has amplified those feelings even more than normal.  For those of you who understood that previous sentence on the first try, I commend you.

At any rate, I have been wondering recently whether or not I am a child of the millennial generation, and how that will affect me in the near future.  I attribute much of the faults of that generation to a complete immersion in technology for most of their life (specifically feelings of entitlement and narcissism), and while this may not be completely accurate, from my experience it has had a large role in their upbringing.  While I generally do not think that I have been immersed in technology my entire life (I barely knew what the internet was until I was 15, and never had any type of phone or gaming system until at least my 16th year), I do feel as if I am an extremely immature person surrounded by people of a maturity unknown by most people in my generation.

I have friends in college about two years younger than me who are married and awaiting their first child.  And here I am watching/playing Pokemon (I even ordered Ash's hat), playing Legos, dressing like I'm still in my early teens, and relying on my parents for a lot of my livelihood while I'm in college.  And I can't help but ask myself if I'm somehow behind...if I've done something wrong.  Is it wrong to have the kind of fun I'm having at my age?  Should I grow up and move on to more serious things?  I have sworn most of life that I'll be wearing Converse from now on out, and I'll be a goof even when I'm old and white...but...why am I here and they are up there ahead?

I read The Great Gatsby (a MUST read...I don't care if you've seen the movie) and I read things in it like, “The truth was that Jay Gatsby, of West Egg, Long Island, sprang from his Platonic conception of himself…he invented just the sort of Jay Gatsby that a seventeen year old boy would be likely to invent, and to this conception he was faithful to the end.” and I wonder (because that is exactly how I am...constantly Romanticizing everything, just as Gatsby did) if it is indeed possible to form a Platonic version of me: to forget my past on such a level that I can become the man I've always dreamed I could be.  That vision is nothing like Gatsby's in physical grandeur.  I don't want the house, the wealth, or the people...but to be a man that is worth remembering.  I want to do that as a Christian, and I know I should be constantly tempering what I think and desire by God's Word.  And I do.  I guess I don't feel the comfort a lot of people say they have in it.  I think God requires of us the blood, sweat, and tears that worldly people shed on their own personal ambition.  I think service for Him is the end goal, but we are still required Gatsby's ambition if we want to be truly successful for Him.  I feel like I have shed quite a lot of blood, sweat, and tears, but lest you think I'm feeling entitled, I do not say I deserve anything; rather, I query to the void what those wounds, labors, and tears have accomplished.  Who am I because of my past?  Or should I shed my past and become my own man?  ...some questions that are probably best left to hindsight.  Yes, it is 20/20...but it sure takes a long time getting here.  I guess growing up takes a lifetime.

Pokemon and pranks,

But to be frank,

Immature and irresponsible?

Is growing up logical?

Combating Reality.

Here I sit, comfortably musing in a new favorite place of mine.  I am listening to Pavarotti's rendition of "Nessun Dorma" from "Turandot" for the 12th time since I've been here, and I refuse to look up the lyrics.  

Why?

"I have no idea to this day what [he is] singing about. Truth is, I don't want to know. Some things are best left unsaid. I'd like to think [he is] singing about something so beautiful, it can't be expressed in words, and makes your heart ache because of it. I tell you, [his] voice soared higher and farther than anybody in a gray place dares to dream. It was like some beautiful bird flapped into our drab little cage and made those walls dissolve away, and for the briefest of moments, every last man in Shawshank felt free."

I may feel like I'm institutionalized in Shawshank right now.  But regardless of the circumstances I'm in, and no matter that I feel as if I'm in a pond but pining to be in the ocean, I'll keep doing my best to be who I want to be, and who He wants me to be.  Join me?  I really could use the company.

Lost in the Evidence

Tin man in Tin armor,
City-loving farmer,
Eagle Scout and musician,
Questions, queries, unanswered ambition:
Finding Me.

Christian, Oldest child, Romantic, romantic, Ginger, goal-oriented, focused, trumpet player, brass lover, Romantic era, big orchestras, principled, sap, music-lover, deep thinker, broken and bandaged heart, lover of family, big brother, patriot, UT fan, athlete, double-major, possible grad student, heart-breaker, player, exhausted, confused, obnoxious laugh, affectionate friend, flirt, sweet-tooth, afraid of needles, spiral staircase lover, fictional writer, aspiring poet, confidante, goober, goofball, addict, extrovert, touchy-feely, writer of letters, liar, lover of politics, movie collector, nostalgic, smeller of books, natural leader, public speaker, improv, classy, jazz, farmer, Eagle, hard things, Legos, Zelda, Simple Things, Beauty in the small, Words, capital letters, etc., so on, and so forth.

Afraid to commit,

Risk completely spent,

Hide in my shell,

Wish them all well:

Protecting Her.

Who is my Her?  I don't know.  Who am I?  I don't know.  Where am I going?  I don't know (this reminds me of a negative version of the Zoboomafoo theme song...).  But I do know that whoever she is doesn't want the Me I know now.  And so I try and protect all the Hers out there.  But I fail.  I wonder why the terrible things happen.  I wonder why the dragons of my life persist.  But I keep pressing on, still not knowing, still hoping to be a better Him.

"How should we be able to forget those ancient myths that are at the beginning of all peoples, the myths about dragons that at the last moment turn into princesses; perhaps all the dragons of our lives are princesses who are only waiting to see us once beautiful and brave.  Perhaps everything terrible is in its deepest being something helpless that wants help from us."  -Rainer Maria Rilke

...one day later...

P.S. (Because sometimes other things need to be said that are too curtailed to say in another post...and besides, who posts two posts within a day of each other, really?)

The English language is crazy.  I made a little note at the end of my International Relations Notes that says the following:

Baloo blew until blue.  Write rite right. The board is aboard the bored board.

What?

Also, have you ever wondered what would happen if you mixed up tenses in English?

I did that tomorrow, you know.  I will go to the store yesterday.

I hear the makings of a Lewisesque story.  My mind has been down the Rabbit Hole of late.  Which would explain away the "good-heavens-I feel-like-I-fell-off-a cliff-after-that-mood-change" post script you just read.

C'est la vie.

Flightless

Lots of people post reflections around the holiday time.  If you've been keeping up with my blog you'll note what I put up on my blog on Christmas day.

Insanity.

I've discovered that the holiday travels were all that was keeping my depression and fright at bay.  I feel like a flightless angel - one with a deformity.  Or a lack-of-formity.  At the moment, I feel like I have only one wing.  Like my feet are firmly stuck to the ground.  I'm sure I feel this way because I've crashed.  Because my other wing was broken off.  When?  I have no idea.  I just know it has happened.

Earth bound,

Feet on the ground,

Longing to fly,

Take me, sky:

One-winged Angel.

I feel so trapped.  I feel Life pressing in on all sides and smothering me like I never have before.  And I know that in several years I'll say the same and look back on today as cake...and I know that the Big Guy upstairs has all this figured out, but somehow it still doesn't take away with fear.  I'm scared.  And I can't just fly away and make it all better.  At least not yet.  And even then...it won't be all better.  Like Icarus, if I grew enough Wing to fly, the sun waits to burn me if I fly too high.

Some people call this being dramatic.  Just shut up and face life like a man, they say.  I disagree.  This is being Real.  Not enough people can just say how they feel without fear of reprimand or advice or smh-ing.  So this is me.  Telling you I'm afraid.  And not being afraid to do it.

Ironic.

Hello, Void.

"Sometimes I wonder about my life. I lead a small life - well, valuable, but small - and sometimes I wonder, do I do it because I like it, or because I haven't been brave? So much of what I see reminds me of something I read in a book, when shouldn't it be the other way around? ...I just want to send this cosmic question out into the void."

-Kathleen Kelly, You've Got Mail


I feel as if I've drastically changed in the two years I've attended Bryan College.  I hesitate to say that I'm a better person now - I've made mistakes and choices that I never would have even thought about four years ago.  I'm a different person.  And today, sitting in my little safe haven of Harmony House once again (Luke diligently studying Western Civ across from me, a coffee mug in my own hand), I feel as if I'm being bombarded by this different me.  The image that comes to mind is a small child hugging his knees in the dark, being confronted in his dreams by an unknown and scary person, but this time that person is me.  Who is this man?  What does he love?  What does he hate?  Where is he going?  What is his Purpose?

Bend and tear,

Break and wear,

Vicarious pain,

Nothing plain:

Decisions.

I know I have time to make the life choices that seem to shake the foundations of the beloved building in which I now sit.  People tell me I have time quite often.  But how much time do I have to figure out who I am?  The person I am is not waiting on me to decide how I will act or who I will be.  He runs rampant on the world and community around me, influencing people constantly.  Very few people remain unhurt by him.  By Me.  And one of the people who understands him (better than I do myself) asked me today "We complain about life screwing us.  What about the people we screwed?  We can't handle what we dish out... What's wrong with us?"  And to be honest I wonder the same.  While I'm sitting here trying to figure out who I am and what I believe, the very man I don't understand is screwing people around me.

Focus intent,

Passions spent,

In all the wrong place,

Now just saving face:

Distractions.

Quite often I get upset at people who write this sort of crap on the internet.  And I realize that "crap" is most likely the least classy adjective I could have used in this situation, but it's true.  However, like Kathleen Kelly, I don't really mind if you could care less what I'm struggling with, or thinking about.  Sometimes the Void is kinder than most.

I believe we all have a Purpose that is endowed upon us by our Creator.  I Know that.  And I Know that all things work together for good to those who love Him.  But I don't know who I am.  And as I hurt the people around me who I love the most, I look Inward and ask "Who are you?"  And I hear nothing but the echo of my own words.  I Need something.  Obviously He is included in that.  But I don't know what that something is.  I pray I find it soon.  Before the damage gets worse.

I don't ask for encouragement.  But if you're reading this and you know exactly what this Feels...know that I'm here searching too.  At the very least, you're not alone.

Ism after ism,

Brand new schisms,

Satan's great Fair,

Speak if you dare:

Deep Human nature.