Sunday, April 3, 2016

Do What You Love

Dog's bark,
Midnight lark,
Construction's churn,
Copter's turn:
Noise of DC.

Who knew that these trivial sounds would be the overture to my dream job.  "Do what you love" - so everyone says, although I haven't met very many people who can honestly say they are working their dream job right now.  Except for my dad.  I've always been jealous of my dad, because he graduated college knowing exactly what he loved to do and immediately got a job doing it.

Growing up, I never knew what I wanted to be.  Nor did I in high school.  I thought maybe I would know once I got to college, but graduation came and went leaving me still wondering "What do I want to be when I grow up?"  Then, I decided.  I decided that I couldn't find that one job doing what I love in my beloved Tennessee.  That one thing that you literally look forward to every day - the thing you feel alive when you do it.  So, jobless, and without any prospects, I moved my new, small family up to our nation's capitol.  And now, dear reader, I am twelve hours away from my first "job" in DC.

No, it isn't paid.  No, it isn't glamorous.  But one month into the job search, I have decided to test my mettle.  If you truly love doing something, you will love it regardless what you are being paid, right?  Is that true of your job?  Would you love doing it even if the money wasn't coming in?

I'm thinking a lot now that I'm here.  More than I have in years, and the ironic thing is that I'm thinking so much that it has become more difficult to write.  I find release and relaxation in hand-written letters occasionally, but that's about it.

Capitol Hill Baptist Church has been so good to us.  It has been so long since I genuinely felt happy - an overwhelming joy - to be a Christian, but I feel it here.  I am constantly thinking about things I never thought about before, and I enjoy praying for people I just barely met.  Change is hard, faith is harder, but oh, dear friend, they are so worth the struggle.

I write to you on the cusp of uncertainty; I am unable to see around the bend of the future, but I am so glad it is that way.  I trust my God more than I have before, I love my wife increasingly more every day, and I love my country.  I am in a good place...and I'm not sure I've told you that enough in our few years together.

I'm praying for you right now - I hope that God draws you to him, to the work you are called to (because all work is valuable and precious to Him - if you're a furniture mover, a Hill staffer, a lawyer, or an insurance salesman), and to a love for where you are in life.

I'm sure I'll have plenty to write to you about soon - after all, how long can the philosopher in me hold out working somewhere as momentous as Capitol Hill?

We shall see.




Monday, February 29, 2016

Our Cat is a Boy

Every now and then in Life, there comes a day that you can put your finger on and say, "this day marks the end of one chapter and the beginning of another."  January 9, 2015 was one of those days, if you'll remember, I wrote to you - The Setting Rising Sun.  That day marked my last day of break before graduation and my last day of dating - moving into a life of engagement and a few months later marriage.

August 1, 2015 was another one of those days I could easily point to as a new beginning.  That day, I married my best friend.  Since then, my life has been a constant whirlwind of uncertainty.  Blissful, but still uncertain.  Am I meant to collect debt for the next few years? Should I stay in my beloved Tennessee, or should I pursue a career elsewhere?

February 26th, 2016 was another day that was obviously a turning point.  I had given notice at my job two weeks prior, and now I was required to truly put weight to my decision to move to Washington DC.  Oh, and partway through my workday I got a call informing me that the cat I have owned for several months - the cat I thought was female - was actually a male.  Talk about being thrown for a loop.



Life is full of uncertainty (I mean when you can't even count on what gender your cat is...), even on those days that are "set in concrete."  These are exciting times for Virginia and me, and they are scary times.  I don't have a job waiting for me in DC, but I am positive I am meant to go there.  I am meant to influence people in a particular way, and I am certain that I am to so it there.

Dear reader, I am so far from perfection, as I know you are aware.  I look for fulfillment in things like publishing a book (which I am now working to revise, as it is extremely difficult to find all your errors the first time around), but I find fulfillment in better things - my faith, my wife, and my Work.  I do not necessarily know what I am going to do in DC, but I go there with an open heart and more resolve than I've had in quite some time.

From my heart to yours, may this encouragement find you wherever you are.  You can do whatever it is you are meant to.  It will not be easy.  But I'll be here all along the way.

I'll write to you again soon.  My view from this proverbial hilltop of my life is stunning, and I eagerly await the view from the next.

I'll see you there.

J

Monday, February 15, 2016

Scarlequain is Published!

Dear reader,

I have been writing to you for quite some time now, and you have faithfully come back, again and again.  As I'm sure you could guess, it has always been a childhood dream of mine to be a published author, and thanks to Amazon Publishing, I have been able to publish a collection of letters, poetry, and short stories!  Some of it will be familiar to you, if you have been following me for very long, but much of it will be new, as I have included poetry all the way back to 2009.  In this book you can also find the complete gathering of the JTY saga, narratives, rants, and other writings, including a forward written by my lovely wife, Virginia.

Thank you all so very much for continuing to read my work, and for encouraging me to write.  Without you, I would just be talking to myself.

I will be putting a link to my book on the right side of my blog, and you can also find it by clicking here.

Again, thank you for reading.  Please let me know how you like the book!  I can't begin to tell you how excited I am.

Sincerely,

Jonathan


Wednesday, January 20, 2016

Don’t be Financially Responsible

Yes, you heard me right.  Don’t be financially responsible.  I’ll tell you what I wished I would have done when I was 18 in light of our current culture.

1) Going to college, make sure and go to the most prestigious school you can get accepted into.  That looks great on your resume.  And don’t try to do it debt free; I’ll tell you why in a moment.

2) Open a credit card as soon as you turn 18.  Pay the balance every month, but use it more than you use your debit card.  This way, you’ll build a credit score.  This does actually require you to be responsible enough not to abuse “free money” at 18.  And not to be a pessimist, but…good luck.

3) Every summer between semesters at college, don’t worry about your mounting debts, because you need something else to look good on paper – experience.  You’ll quickly find, if you’re motivated, driven, and want to make a difference, you’re going to have to get a job in a career area that is highly competitive.  Politics or policy, for instance.  So every summer, apply for an unpaid internship in the career area you want to be in one day.  You’ll work like a dog, you’ll probably have to use that credit card of yours to pay for food and housing (because unless you’re super lucky those won’t be provided), and by the time you’re done it will be school time again!  Huzzah!

When you graduate college, even with the ridiculous debt you’ve accrued, you’ll have more positive credit than someone who was financially responsible and took out no debt (go get that car you need now that your clunker died!), and you’ll have 1-4 years of relevant experience in the field you want to work.

Finally, 5) write up a killer resume, and realize that you spent all that money, got into all that debt, and spent all those summers, just so you can write a few lines of text on a page that will be electronically submitted to someone you don’t know who will spend less than 30 seconds reading it.

As unfortunate as it is, our society punishes young people who are responsible enough to work hard during their summers, get through school debt free, and who have never opened a line of credit.  You can’t get a small loan to buy a car (I’ve tried), you can’t get a job you’re passionate about, because even an entry level one requires experience (wait…so you’re telling me I need experience for the job I’m getting…for experience?), and your prized college education has been marginalized to being worth nothing more than a check in a box on your next job application.


So you tell me...in our current society, are there any young people out there regretting being financially responsible?


Friday, January 8, 2016

Playing House



“You be the Daddy,
I’ll be the Mommy,”
A teary glance,
A smile and a ring,
And two former children
Are applauded into the future,
Playing Life like Playing House.
In their hands their Rites
of Passage – the ring
and a Roll of paper:
bought at a high price
of Wealth and Time,
Years of their life dedicated
to one page of tree pulp,
Still unframed, guaranteeing no
more than an affirmative check
in a box, acknowledging completion.
Curmudgeons above sniff and scoff,
Holding their keys to success
just out of reach,
leaving the couple pretending
to know what they are doing,
where they are going,
And who they should be,
While the Experience Elite,
The Venerable Generation,
Exude expectations expecting
their advice to exonerate them
for their failure in parenting – 
Having failed their children,
Dooming an entire generation,
Leading them to believe
They can Play Life
Like they played House.

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

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.

Thursday, November 19, 2015

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.