Younger Picasso

Lean Back

2012-01-25T22:26:00.000-08:00

    I hate pretending. Maybe it was my destiny to be something for the animals to eat, something for the naked to wear. Something to dominate, a plaything for the weak to prove their worth. But I found out I was strong. That surprised me, honestly. Maybe I wouldn't be here if I had known.

    I'm sitting cross-legged on my bed, writing in my notebook. Tapping my pencil against my bottom lip. Looking at the position of the sun, it's late morning. When is lunch coming? I call it a notebook, but it's really just a sheaf of filler paper, college ruled. It's all I could get. I folded it in half and put my name on the front. My journal.

    My hair stinks of stale cigarette smoke. I can smell it on my pillow, in my mustache. That musty, stained old thing. I wish I could get a new one. The sweat from my forehead is mixing with the skin grease accumulated over two days without a shower. Without so much as looking in the mirror. My eyebrows aren't any help. The sweat stings my eyes and is giving me a bastard of a headache. I put my pencil down and get up to wash my face in the tin sink.

    I look worn out. Not just tired, but used up. I rub my cheeks with the palms of my hands, and I wonder how much of the elasticity in my skin is leaving me each time I squint or smile. Maybe this is what it means to get old. You stand in front of the mirror and watch your face turn into something you don't recognize anymore. I could always tell how old my father was by looking at his eyes. In the end, they were milky white cataracts, vacant—just like his mother's father. I wonder if my eyes would have done that. I'm pretty sure they would never cloud over in here.

"Foster, rise and shine. Oh, good you're up. You don't wanna sleep today away, do ya?"

That's Bart. He brings my food.

    "Yeah, Bart. Sun is shining." I mime some excitement with my hands.

    I can see his face in the reflection. He pulls a little grimace.

    "I've got your lunch here. It's just like you wanted."

    "Thanks, Bart." I smile at him in the mirror. "How's your wife doing?"

    "Fine, I think. Yeah, she's doing good. Baby's due any day now, so I haven't been sleeping very well. Thinking about becoming a father scares me."

    "I'm sure you'll be a great dad, Bart. You always know how to cheer me up."

    Silence. I turn around. He's standing there looking down at the tray of food he's holding.

    "I'm sorry."

    "It's okay." He starts to tear up a little. "I'll miss you, Foster."

    I walk over to my bunk and pick up my journal. "You see this. These are just some notes I've been making since I've been here. But I want you to have them. Something to remember me by. When they come to get me, you can take them. I'm not done yet."

    "Okay." Sniff. "Thanks." Sniff, sniff.

    "So, what are you gonna name your kid?"

###

    The tv in here is old and brown. It's a squat little thing, sitting on a bolted platform. Sometimes I like to lay in bed and watch it reflected in the mirror above the sink. Last night, some well-manicured pundits were arguing along party lines. They seemed properly ill-tempered about the right things, as if a football coach had put them through hours of tackling drills. "Hit em low and drive, drive, drive. Don't stop moving your feet." Whenever that show comes on, it has a gimmick tagline that tells me to "lean forward," as if somehow whatever they're selling is worth paying that much attention to.

    I actually tried it a couple of nights ago. I think it was the middle of the night, judging by how quiet it was. They let me control the tv in here, which is nice. I switched it on, but kept the volume low. Didn't want to wake Bill. I jumped around until I came to a late night news update show. I scooted to the edge of my bunk and leaned forward as much as I could, until my face hovered out over the floor and my back started to spasm. Then I turned my head towards the screen and watched intently: "In other news today, rioting in the streets of the nation's capitol as angry protesters...."

    For a moment, I felt a little different. I'm not sure exactly what it was, but I'm guessing the experts would say it had something to do with holding the right opinions about the economy and gay people. I laid back down and had a dream that I was elected president in a country where everyone spoke in gibberish, drove old VW bugs, and mimed things with their thumbs.

    This morning the sunshine broke me out of a deep sleep. I sat up instantly and opened my eyes. I used to like to wake up slowly, to keep my eyes closed, trying to hold on to a dream for as long as I could, sometimes falling back into it. I haven't been able to sleep much this week. Bill liked to fall asleep with the television on. I don't remember dreaming about anything in particular last night. Strange. Maybe it caught up with me. Paying back my debt. Who collects on that? There's something to be said for a good night's sleep. I always seem to think more clearly when I've had enough rest.

    Sometimes I lay in bed, close my eyes, and think about my old house. This time it was my living room. Sunken a few feet, surrounded by white tile flooring on the outside. The carpet was a long brown shag. The glass patio door was shaded by a sliding cream-colored linen drapery. I remembered my Moroccan coffee table— forest green and open grained. A natural, flat finish. I loved the feel of that table. There was something about it that made me feel connected to nature. To history. It was engraved with all sorts of Sanskrit script on the legs, a sort of crude mandala in the center. The shop owner said it that it might have belonged to a noble Indian family.

    Then there was that burl wood bowl my dad gave me sitting on it, with a few apples in it. That bowl reminded me of the 70s, when people still cared about the things they made. It was wide and plain, with four small feet to stabilize it. Just a few tiny chips around the lip from age. His grandfather had given it to him. Lily always wanted to put something in it, like keys or mail or junk.

    "Where are my keys? I'm in a hurry."

    "I put them on the counter. Look, if you're going to put something in here, put some fruit or something."

    The next morning, I found red delicious apples in the bowl. I hate red delicious. They always taste like pesticides to me. Something to do with the waxy coating they put on them to make them shine. I haven't had an apple in 35 months. I wonder if I can get Bart to get me some apples. Green. Granny smith.

    I remember our blue sofa. Lily always wanted me to be honest with her, so I told her I didn't like it. It was an old rolled arm affair, covered in this dark, scratchy wool. It was too deep for me to ever sit in comfortably. We fought about it one afternoon. She took the car and I went out on the back porch.

    "Hey pardner. It's dark out here."

    "Hi baby," I say.

    "Whatcha doin?"

    "Staring at the sky. Just thinkin' about God and destiny and stuff."

    She combs a fistful of my hair into her hand and pulls my head gently towards her, so that I'm almost looking up into her wide brown eyes. "I love you. Don't you ever leave me."

    She puts my head back level, and I cover her soft hand with mine. I know her father left her when she was nine. I know she didn't want to get married.

###

    They took Bill away yesterday. I've been writing in my journal a lot lately. When he saw me with it, he'd ask me about it.

    "What's that?"

    "Just making some notes about an idea I had."

    "Tell me about it. There's nothing else to do in this dump."

    "I don't really feel like going into it right now."

    "C'mon man, tell me your idea. I want to hear about it. You're the only guy I've met in this place who bothers to have ideas, even when he knows there's no point."

    Ever since they put him in here with me, it seemed like he'd always want to be entertained. Now I wish I had read him some of my notes. I pull out a sheet of paper and write down, "For you, Bill, the apples were always green." Bill had never been married. I fold the sheet of paper and place it gently on his pillow.

    The gray walls have never depressed me. I don't mind the bareness. It's a bit comforting not to have to look at signs or pictures if I don't want to. It's the hardness and the coldness that get to me. I wish there was somewhere else to sit besides the bed. It's hard to hunch over for too long, and I can't sit up straight because of a herniated disc. I don't like to sit with my back against the wall. Too far back.

    They come and get me. They bring two tall men I've never met, and a quiet doctor and a fat nurse. "Just one moment." I fold up my book and put it on my pillow. I scribble "for Bart Weeks."

    We walk down a long hallway, past other empty rooms. All I can hear are the echoes of the tall men's footsteps on the concrete and the shuffling of nylon clothing as we move slowly. No one says a word. I see a door at the end of the hall, with a small square window, grated with thin wire between the panes of glass. But we don't go in there. The nurse jumps to the front of the pack and opens a door on our right.

    "In here."

    I sit on a gurney. There are leather restraints for my feet, my waist, my arms, my head. They take my blood pressure, ask me to lie down. The nurse begins to strap me in, while the doctor is scribbling some notes on a clipboard in between watching the nurse closely. Another man in a brown suit jacket comes in and nods to the two tall men. The nurse straps my arms down and then pulls forward an IV bag on a rolling stand. She presses the inside of my forearm, wipes it once with a disposable alcohol pad, and puts the line in my arm.

    There's an elbow in the IV line. I can twist my head just enough to see a tall white box. It's got three hypodermic plungers in it, and some glass cylinders full of clear liquids. They connect to a single line. That line is connected to my line.

    "Lean back, sir," the nurse says.

    "What?"

    "Please lean your head back." She starts to force me down by my shoulders. "Some help here." The two tall men come over. I think I am screaming. Why am I screaming. Big mushy hands are all over my face, pressing down on my forehead until the back of my head hits the pillow. My back starts to spasm, and I'm arching away from the bed, but I can't get free.

    I see the doctor rush over and he injects something into the line. My muscles start to loosen up. I feel the hands go away, and something cold and rubbery is pressing against my forehead. I feel sleepy and everything sounds muffled.

    Now Lily's here. She's here with me. We're on the sofa. The Moroccan table is there. The bowl is empty. She leans over to kiss me.

    "Lean back," she says.

The Man Who Spit Seahorses

2011-12-17T21:34:00.000-08:00

Yeah, that's right. These are pictures made from my spit. Pretty neat, eh? I take notice if my spit pools into the outline of a deformed t-rex or the boot of Italy. This time, it's seahorses. Enjoy!

The Birth of the Golden Serpent

The Seal of the Seahorse

King of the Rusty Deep

Maybe I'll Never Grow Out of This

2011-12-16T14:24:00.000-08:00

I had a few different things I wanted to post on recently—all seeming to hover around some form of discontent with the way that things are. But those things don't feel that important right now. What really matters is that God is trying to get my attention, and I don't seem to be able to give it to him.

Why?

I wake up in the late morning, read the paper (check my email and various social media outlets), drink coffee, wonder where the time went, prepare some lunch. Now that I'm a student, I can do these sorts of things. Now that I'm done with school for the semester, I can blow off things I know I need to accomplish, because a grade and some big money aren't riding on it. But that's not the point, right? The things that I am letting ride are my spiritual growth and relationship with God. Let me try and demystify that. What's at stake is that I want to run my day today. I want it to look like I want, and I want to be satisfied with that picture. But I'm not. And when I really think about it, I don't think I will ever be.

There's something that God wants to show me today, to tell me today. But I don't really want to listen. I am lazy. I want to be comfortable, above all else. When I am not comfortable, whether physically or emotionally, my insides are upset. It's a delicate balance. I have needs. I am a baby. I am a sweet, impotent, loved but imperfect, small, fragile child. I am an imperial, precocious mess of a kid. And I will never grow up. This doesn't seem to align with God's plan for me to mature. But I don't think what I'm talking about is what he's talking about in those particular bits of his book.

I am talking about having a dad who's always there, who is always going to know what to say and do, who is never disappointed in you beyond measure, and whose love will never diminish with the dimming of age or the brokenness of ambition. Who will never strike out at you in uncontrolled anger. Who will never embarrass you to make himself look good. Who will never be wrong, but will never gloat about it. Who is at once greater than you could ever dream and more humble than you could ever attempt to be, even in your finest hour. You know there are things that a father always bears that don't even enter the mind of the child.

And so, I rest comfortably today. Not because I am purposefully attempting to become a layabout. But because I know there's nothing I can do to ruin what I already have. I have great confidence in him, maybe because I know he is the fulfillment of everything we are not. But I'm still learning, slowly, to trust him. Is he like the perfect day, only to be lived once or twice, never to be found again, despite our striving to make every day after feel that way? Sometimes I think that. But, then again, maybe today will be one of those days.

Mystic Spit Wisdom Takes Hold With the Simultaneous Stroke of a Thousand Brushes

2011-11-18T15:32:00.001-08:00

Left Or West

2011-10-01T22:30:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I ask myself what I should do so many times, the words lose their meaning. Sometimes I don't ask at all, preempting any other possibility.

In between, much of what I do or conceive of is marked with a kind of trepidation that, frankly, you would find absurd. But I hate being wrong. It is a damnable thing, an incubus of fear. If dreaming of going out of doors without clothing is embarrassing, how much more so when naked circumstances come unexpectedly, and find you unready or unwilling.

This neurotic conceit isn't all bad. It characterizes who I am in a way that's very...characteristic. But it hinders me as much as it helps. Pliant and malleable happenstance calls, and I answer with a rigid and fixed framework. An irrational "yes" or a dogmatic "no," carved in stone. Instead of the charged excitement of a new endeavor, all paths have a sure and predetermined end, whether hope or despair. There's no room for mistakes, nor for discoveries.

Left or west—they both look about the same to me. But I'm not always facing north. That's the false dilemma that's got me turning in circles these days. And I'm not talking about issues of morality here. This is about risk assessment. This is about a safe, predictable existence. This is about fear and manageability. What do I need to do to regain control of a situation, satisfy my expectations and put myself back at emotional equilibrium? They are respectable questions, but not always the right ones. And I'm not completely qualified to answer them.

You only get so much manna for each day. I spend most of mine recharging after my pathological attempts to manage all of life's unsummoned challenges. I should have used that strength for the journey. I should have gotten there by now. I should be ready for the next adventure. But I'm taking the long way round, and 40 days is now 31 years.

Dear Westerners

2011-09-03T19:14:00.000-07:00

After reading a bit of political philosophy over the last few days, I have come to realize how woefully ignorant I was of modern history.

If you are in any way unsure of the power of ideas, take a look at Rousseau, Hobbes, Mill, Engels or Mussolini. You will find that the formation of the modern world rests on the collisions of some of the thoughts of these individuals.

Especially interesting is the progression of one social experiment to the next. You can read it there in the pages of history - the expression of the state, the disenfranchisement of the working class, the definition of the social union, the identity of the individual.

The rights and nature of man, of his own person and in relation to his fellow man, are doctrines that have undergone enormous change - and I think will continue to do so. It is not the perennial debate over taxation and spending, or the condition of the economy that should hold your interest merely. To be sure, they are the concerns that mark our lives daily. But they are the expressions of a bigger question:

Who are we as individuals, and how do we relate to each other?

Answer that question for yourself, and then take 5 minutes to think about the implications of your response writ large - apply it to a large number of heterogeneous people.

You have now formulated a powerful idea. Be careful what you do with it. Other men, whom God has seen fit to give power and influence, have done the same. Their opinions on the matter have ruled the lives of many men - both for good and for ill.

Everyone Has Their Own Tongue

2011-08-05T23:03:00.000-07:00

I was feeling pretty restless tonight and decided I needed to go out for a smoke and a walk. For whatever reason, walking helps me think. Otherwise, I tend to end up at the house watching too much television. I've been feeling very restless lately.

Sometimes I get some pretty crazy visions when I go out walking. Whenever that happens, I wish I had some way to take what I'm seeing, hearing and feeling and share it. It seems so powerful, so alive, so important. It seems like something that people would need to see and hear. I can imagine how it will move them deeply, how it will transform them. And then it fades.

Ever since I was a teenager, I've wanted to write a book. Maybe even younger. (There was the illustrated short story I wrote in middle school - "The Incurable Case of Amnesia".) I remember the frustration I was feeling back then. I remember my life and how terribly lonesome I had become. I can even remember the night I heard my parents fighting downstairs. I couldn't sleep, so I sat up to write. Feverishly, in a rage. I've been writing for a while.

An entire novel seems to me like a sheer wall. I've tried to climb it a few times. There's something so wonderful at the top - I just know it. But I can never seem to get a foothold. Maybe I'm afraid that it won't be worth the climb. Maybe I'm more in love with the idea of what's up there, rather than what really is up there.

For certain, it is an unexplored land.

I still want to do something important, to make something beautiful - like a book. But lately it seems like books and words are not enough. But they are what I am still drawn to do. Unfortunately, I'm finding more and more that art is not food for the soul. At least not my art. At least not for other souls.

Or is it?

At 31, I've had enough exposure to both sides of the creative endeavor (artist and audience) to begin to understand that it's just art. Not that art is in any way diminished by that. But it is just a book, or just a painting. It is a thing your mind and heart knit together and put on display. We tend to look at it, to read it, to watch it and be moved for a moment. Maybe even inspired. But that's usually where it ends. If it's especially good, the process will be repeated.

I think I'm afraid that that's all it will be in the end - this book of mine. I have built it up to such a height that I almost venerate the idea. I said almost. I am even going back to school, mostly because I love to learn and to live in that world. But there is a part of me that secretly hopes that I'll come out of grad school with a sturdy book in my hands, my name on the cover.

I wonder if that will make my dad proud of me. I wonder if I'll hold my head a little higher and feel my place in this world is established. I wonder if I'll just have to do it to get it out of my system, so that I can get on with the real business of life. I don't honestly know.

I do know that it keeps calling me, whatever's at the top. Though its voice has grown softer over the last few years.

Can I Trust You?

2011-06-01T20:21:00.000-07:00

There's an important question I need to ask you...

Okay, a few questions:

Can I trust you?

Can I trust you to know that I don't like cheese?
Can I trust you to discover that I am introverted and often prefer my own company?

Can I trust you to figure out what I'm saying?

Can I trust you to want to get to know me? Not just what I do for a living. Not that I could really explain that, anyways.

Can I trust you to know that I'm not interested in what happened to you on Tuesday, but rather what you think and how you feel?

Can I trust you to love me? Can I trust you enough to let you in? Can I trust that you care about me, my interests, my thoughts, my dreams?

No, probably not. If you're anything like me, you probably only give this kind of attention to a few select people.

(Mayflies are doing undercoordinated spin moves across my screen, while I'm listening to the latest Explosions album.)

Back to my point. I'm not sure it's very realistic to think that anyone would aspire to this level, now that I see it on paper. But as I get to know people, these are some of the subconscious things I am looking for. I am sure of it. Those who meet more of the criteria are likely to become closer friends with me than others. And these requirements are likely some function of my personality and experience.

I'm struck by the amount of work it would take to get to know me. I don't think I put this kind of effort into getting to know others. But somehow, I've never owned up to how high these expectations are. They just seemed natural to me. Maybe I suspected that it wasn't much work, that it was obvious. So if you don't "get me," then maybe we just can't be good friends. That is certainly a less painful approach in some ways, but devastating in others.

(It's difficult to find your stogie in the dark, and even more difficult to smoke and type at the same time.)

So if I seem aloof sometimes, or unfriendly, it's likely because I find you a strange, and thus untrustworthy, character. Maybe this isn't fair. Maybe this isn't how the sane half of the world works, if such a thing exists. But somehow I manage to get by. Some days, only just barely.

I am also struck by the fact that God is supposed to know me in all of these ways - I mean, c'mon, he made me. But it's difficult to translate that kind of intimacy to other people. Maybe it's because I'm selfish. Maybe it's because it doesn't come naturally. Maybe I don't really believe he knows me in these ways. It's difficult to acknowledge that he does sometimes, especially when he's very quiet.

But, there are times when God speaks to me in a language that only I know. It's very personal. It's very intimate, if that's the right word. Very familiar. It's almost as if, sometimes I feel like God's the only person who knows me. Who knows my name. All very true, according to the Book. But that doesn't make it any easier to live out.

When you're trying to connect with people in a real way, on a level that only a few people, or maybe only God can, there's sure to be some real problems. Yet, that's my approach. That's what I need in my relationships. And right now, I find that if I can't have it, I, however subtly, push you away.

So, by now, I am guessing that some of you may be saying "This guy is ridiculous. Gimme a break." But that's roughly the truth, I think, regarding how I relate to other people. I don't recommend it, by the way. It leads to a lot of frustration and rejection, honestly. And writing it all out here, I can see why that might be.

The answer seems obvious to me: I need to spend a lot more time with God, getting my need to be known fulfilled in my relationship with him. Paraphrasing, God says that we can't give what we don't have; in order for me to give more energy to learning about others, I need that kind of energy given to me. If I have a lack in my ability to reach out and make others feel welcome and learn about them, I need to have that filled by God, right?

I'm afraid that's more difficult than it sounds. I mean, God did say "It is not good for man to be alone," didn't he? I have a hunch that it won't be as simple as watching for the little ways that God shows that he knows me. And then, when I have enough emotional credit built up in my relationship with God, somehow transmuting that to my relationships with people.

I have a suspicion that it takes other people showing me that kind of attention. And it takes me recognizing when it does happen, recalling when it has happened. Being thankful for it. Savoring every bit of it. Not taking it for granted.

Well, that's all I've got for the moment. So I guess it's time to turn the tables. I guess now you get to ask me -

Can I trust you?

In Earnest

2011-05-17T08:35:00.000-07:00

By degrees, he shifts his weight and settles to the side
He lifts his foot and makes his step into a settled stride
He bounces, faintly brimming with the power that's inside
Every moment,

time plus time beginning to elide
And glancing at the clock he sees the hour growing wide
Nothing, not the going nor arriving

can decide
To stop him from the journey that is blowing him aglide

Not the innocence unknowing, nor the ignorance of pride
In earnest, not the most dishonest feeling can provide

But with his face determined and yet buckled to his will
He marches on towards yesterday; he lies
completely still

Hosted by kiwi6.com file hosting. Download mp3 - Free File Hosting.

The Power of Estrangement in Fiction

2011-04-29T16:36:00.000-07:00

Some may feel that in literature, the heroes are much more enthralling that the Jesus you find in the pages of the Bible (unless you read Revelation regularly). Not that Jesus isn't God; not that he doesn't do amazing and miraculous things. But for many of us, the story may have become stale or lacking adventure. This might be because of a familiarity with the Gospels--or even a failure to see the Bible as an integrated epic tale. Whether you have found this to be the case or not is entirely your business--but this is the case for me.

Which brings me to the impetus for this essay.

I often find myself nosing in the pages of some novel or other, with a great amount of interest. What's going to happen next? How do the characters think and feel? What's ultimately at stake? How does it end? All of these questions drive me further and further into the narrative, looking for the high that comes from a well-planned dramatic arc.

But I don't find this excitement when I read the pages of Scripture. At least not regularly. I feel the weight of the mundane, rather. Not the hopeful allure of "what if this were true, " but the disappointment of "this is true" and the impatience of "it hasn't happened yet." The world around me is fraught with the things that wise writers tend to neglect in their prose. The reality of life and the story of God's ongoing redemption don't seem to live up to the (temporary) enthrallment of a well-constructed novel.

Some might point out that I'm being a sacrilegious heathen who needs to wake up from his romantic notions of life. And some of you might be right in saying so. But what's the point of great literature, if not to draw our attention upwards, blessing the sacred imagination with idealized notions of power, beauty, love, mystery and heroism. These too are written on the heart, are they not?

Therefore, I am going to suggest that one of the important functions of a great story is its ability to tap into the heart, and to help us to resonate with those things that are true. In so doing, we can take the passion of the protagonist's struggle and somehow transmute that to the Biblical narrative.

Like a shadow that displays an unfamiliar form, literature helps us to forget or to unlearn the boxed-in notions of heart-numbing orthodoxy that have coddled us through modern life. Taking the importance and draw of literature and ascribing it to God's story is what I believe God intended. These stories help us to see what we could not see, because we have become blind to the details, through familiarity and acceptance.

I believe this was Jesus' intent when he spoke to the people in parables. It's as if God was assuring us that, yes, we were created to know him through stories.

So I say curl up with a good book, and rediscover the excitement of meeting God through your imagination. And once you're done with your book, or even as you read, pick up the Scriptures. See if they don't resonate in a vibrant, fresh way.

This has been an opinion, and, as such, is subject to the errors of opinion. Comments welcome.

Eden Is Burning

2011-01-13T21:10:00.000-08:00

Rough-handed river
Cold as a lover
Never a giver
Never discovered
Trees unemboughed
Watching the water
Deliver the seasons
Uncover the autumns
Reedy and stoned
Silty and sandy
River is murky
River is winding
Essence in motion
Purposefully banking
Swallows are singing
Of the unmaking
Daunting and silent
River is running
No one is watching
Nothing is coming
Haunted and quiet
the river is turning
the wind is a riot
and Eden is burning

Radical

2010-12-30T19:43:00.000-08:00

I'm reading David Platt's "Radical" right now. So far, I would say it's a good read - but use significant caution and discernment.

Platt's zeal is infectious, and he makes several key points about the nature and character of the typical "self-centered American church." (I'm really looking forward to the day we have secret church at Great Hills.)

But he also reads as a bit reactionary, and I think his zeal carries him too far in some places.

You would do well to read this book with careful scholarship, examining the arguments and lining them up against scripture...because this is not the Bible. It's a book with a powerful message about how we're missing it in some key ways as a church body.

As my brother-in-law put it, think of Radical as a pendulum swing toward missions. But don't miss the passionate heart behind the message - God loves all people and wants to redeem them...using us.

No Amount

2010-10-22T12:13:00.000-07:00

no amount of shouting
will stop the wind from buffeting the sea
and the ocean
swallowing the sky
towering waves
breaking overhead

no amount of sleeping
will bring a resurrection
you will not wake from the dead
when your head lifts off the pillow
you open your eyes tentatively
and wonder, somewhere, in the back of your mind
if something is different now

no amount of weeping
will bring back lost love
or put a stopper on heartache
to punctuate your life
from here on, no more hurt

no amount of running
will take you where you want to go

the clock ticks fast
the clock ticks slow

Spittin' Images

2010-09-25T17:54:00.000-07:00

Here are some more images I created from one picture...of my saliva. I dunno why swirls of spit serve as such fruitful subjects for photo manipulation, but I could do this kind of thing all day. Even thinking of having some posters made.

Spit Take

2010-09-11T20:40:00.000-07:00

Yep folks...it's more artwork made from my spit. This is what I spent my Saturday night doing. I think an outsider might look at this and think I had a few screws loose. But I'm not a robot, so who cares.

With a few hours and some free Adobe-esque software, I came up with these renderings. These are all made from a single image. Enjoy...

IR Spit

Glassy Spit

Newsy Spit

This spit is forming a new universe

Ancient map spit

Ghost Spit

Poem

2010-09-02T12:18:00.000-07:00

I stood high on the hill, where my ancestors were buried
And I called aloud, into the voice of the storm:

"Bring me the strength to do what must be done
Bring me the bones and dust, but bury the ashes
Alarm, come forth alarm, and fear, rise up, and
Prick the heart of courage to his cause"

"A lusty warrior is sleeping on this mound
He is buried underground
Five feet and three, he is resting
On his knee are the sword, the crown and the key"

Repent of your hope for a quiet life, of solitude
And homespun wisdom
Repent of your search for a home of your own
Repent of the love of summertime and
the richness of a heart that beats with feasting
and the gladness of wine

Turn and face the winter at your doorstep
Turn into the bitter wind of destiny, open the door
to death and drink deep from the cup of
needful sorrows

And hold the hand of Christ as you
walk out of saftey into the wilderness
of the unknown
Where danger and reward grow
thick and untended

Sweet, silent dreams

2010-09-02T12:06:00.000-07:00

Codified in angry twists of trust
Sweet, silent dreams were thrust into the fire
I burnt my hand, and stare into the mirror
Admire the smiling scar;
Hand shakes
its tender, boiling skin,
Blistered, burned, and peeling open

Hosted by kiwi6.com file hosting. Download mp3 - Free File Hosting.

Poem

2010-07-12T14:54:00.000-07:00

All the lustre we can muster
(If it's bold, then it's gold)
All the time we're moving faster
And we're heading for disaster

Mac N' Cheese With Hot Dogs & Peas, Please

2010-06-12T16:58:00.000-07:00

I had a friend once who didn't understand my affinity for mac n' cheese. He called it "the best of the simple," and told me that steak was always more preferable, given a choice between the two. I disagreed with him at the time.

I had a steak dinner last night. It was wonderful. Expensive, but wonderful. But there's still something special about a $.39 box of macaroni, a can of peas and a pack of all-beef Oscar Mayer's. Maybe it reminds me of my childhood. Maybe it's because I made it myself. Maybe it just tastes so darn good.

Spittlebunny Draws a Sword

2010-06-11T17:49:00.000-07:00

I know this is probably gross, but I love Photoshop projects, and this one takes the cake. Those who know me and my cigar smoking habits also know that I spit profusely when smoking. Yes, this is my spit. I turned it into a bunny rabbit with a sword and used pretty colors to make it look artsy. I will probably put a poster of this on my bedroom wall, eventually.

Enjoy :)

sometimes i wish

2010-05-25T14:06:00.001-07:00

sometimes i wish i was molded in steel
the strength of the metal
unwilling to feel

sometimes i wish i was formed of a stone
the hardness of granite
the color of bone

sometimes i wish i was carved out of wood
the beauty of form with
the absence of mood

sometimes i wish i was built out of bricks
the wall between me
and the things i can't fix

EP Under Construction

2009-12-24T10:40:00.000-08:00

Hey Ev'rybody!

Thought I'd give a general update of the progress on the EP. Over the course of almost 2 months in 3 locations, we've...

1. Tracked drums, bass and guitars.
2. Did lead vocals for 4 songs, to replace the scratch vox recorded on the studio day.
3. Recorded background vocals and harmonies.
4. Worked on a bass redub for a song.
5. Redubbed guitar on 2 songs, made tweaks, solo overdubs and extra parts for punch or interest for many of the songs.
5. Added textures like shaker and cowbell.
6. Started "on the fly" mixing and fixing.

What remains...

1. More guitar tweaks, dubs & fixes.
2. Lead vocals for at least one song, perhaps 2, and tweaks/overdubs in several places.
3. Adding organ/keys to 2-3 songs, at least.
4. More textures & outlandish ideas.
5. Mixing, mixing and more mixing. This is where we decide what we keep and what we leave on the cutting room floor; what you hear and what gets buried in the mix. This is the time where everyone sits around the producer, trying to get his attention to let him know that he needs to turn us up! ;)
6. Thinking about song order.
7. Mastering.
8. Publishing (of some sort).
9. Marketing.

There's still a lot of work to be done, but we hope to have something for you to chew in late winter or early spring. More details to come as the situation develops. Back to you!

Justin
Life On Loan

I Turned 30 Yesterday

2009-12-21T10:48:00.000-08:00

I don't have any reflections on getting older as of yet, but I'll try to keep you posted. Oh - people say your 30s are awesome. We'll see.

Vasquez #3 @ Lake Creek - A Little Taste of Mexico

2009-09-07T12:49:00.000-07:00

I highly recommend Vasquez #3, tucked away in the Lake Creek Shopping Center (around the corner from Alamo Drafthouse and Jason's Deli, facing 183). They have the best breakfast tacos I've tasted in a long time. Simple flavors done right--and for cheap, too. I had 3 bacon, egg and potato tacos for under $6. So tasty.

New Mutemath Album "Armistice" Gives Up the Fight

2009-08-19T15:10:00.001-07:00

I hope someone buys this album, so I don't have to spend the money on it to hear more than the 30 second previews, but so far, I don't have high hopes. Tie this one up with the new Muse and Wilco releases and you have a summer hat trick of disappointment...for me, at least.

Oh well.

Makes me wonder what releasing our own EP will be like. I'm guessing that everyone who hears it will have an opinion. I wonder if it will do well enough that I'll read about it on somebody's blog :)

PS - I'm listening to the self-titled Mutemath album right now, and I've just convinced myself that it's got too much sound for just headphones. Yes, it rocks that much. Definitely put it in the stereo and crank it -- that is, if you still own a stereo.

After re-listening, I'm liking:
"clipping"
"spotlight"
"pins and needles"

The New Muse Album

2009-08-18T12:55:00.001-07:00

The new Muse album "The Resistance" sounds like Muse covering Queen covering Muse. Big disappointment.

Poem

2009-07-30T12:49:00.000-07:00

i deal in phenylalanine
and fig root...
i deal in boot;
i deal in tree and ghost and tooth...
i deal in truth

Let it Be Known That...

2009-07-15T10:43:00.002-07:00

Wednesday is like unto a coconut, wade fishing near the banks of the mighty Mississip'.

Let it Be Known That...

2009-07-15T10:43:00.001-07:00

My people come from Alabam', where penmanship is for dilettantes.

Sayings

2009-06-16T08:22:00.001-07:00

Jesus doesn't want you to give your life for him, but to him. It's not sacrifice--it's surrender.

It Will Blend

2009-05-30T09:57:00.000-07:00

So, I have been dealing with high cholesterol for about a year now - high enough that they put me on medication and told me it would be for life. Apparently, it's a genetic thing.

After receiving the news, I was a bit ambivalent. Pit the chances of a heart attack before 40 against the allure of ice cream or the convenience of fast food, and most people keep on eating as before. For my part, I didn't do much to try and improve the situation, except for maybe a few extra salads. About the amount of effort you put into a New Year's resolution. That mystical double burger and fries just kept calling my name.

After about a month of medication (and concern), I let both run out and didn't bother to refill them. With no check-up scheduled, and no pills to take, I let the problem slowly slip out of daily consciousness.

Six months later, and the empty bottle of pills on my desk started calling my name, warning me, nudging me to get a refill. At first, I ignored its quiet, urgent pleas for action. But the daily reminder that I was letting something bad get worse began to make its way to the top of my mental to do list; and the bottle became a mocking reminder of the danger I was choosing to forget.

In the end, I decided to go get my cholesterol checked again. When the results came back, I found that my numbers had definitely gone up since the last visit, and that cinched it for me. Something had to be done.

The doctor renewed my prescription for a month, and asked me to come in for a follow-up. But just like last time, the visit wasn't scheduled in the book. It was very tempting to just take the meds and then forget about the problem, as before. So, I faithfully took the medication, but then also set a reminder to schedule an appointment in 30 days.

As the clock was ticking down, I was thinking about what I could do to change my diet. Something that was easy and made sense for me, not one of these crazy change-everything types of regimens that I knew I wouldn't keep. I had tried that before and was mentally defeated before I could really get started.

I also know just how lazy I can be. Cooking at home, preparing healthy meals, making wise choices...none of these are something I'm very good at. So I was a bit discouraged about my prospects for the future. It looked like I would just have to buckle down and be healthy, to everyone's displeasure.

Thankfully, about this time, I found something that I thought could really help me get to where I needed to be nutritionally, with minimal effort. I ran into a co-worker who brought a blended vegetable concoction to work in a mason jar. I asked about it, and he gave me a personal testimonial of how effective and useful his new kitchen appliance was (divine appointment, no doubt). I combined this with my parents' bad experiences with lesser appliances, and made up my mind.

There is a saying often used in business that goes something like this: "Choose two: fast, good, cheap." I chose fast and good--I chose the Will It Blend blender.

If you're familiar with this handy device, descriptions aren't necessary. If you're not, spending a Saturday afternoon trying to describe it's blending ferocity doesn't really sound appealing to me. Use the Google. Just type in "Will It Blend" and watch the videos.

You'll see. It will blend, whatever "it" is.

Nonsense 1

2009-05-29T11:07:00.000-07:00

Robyn Trower called from his tower of sighs. He wants everything to be perfect. Gamble with the past and you may strike it rich. Miniature ambulances and tokens of regret are both die cast in a factory in China, on a once lonely country hillside, now saddled with the busy hands and minds of machines; all this while men lay silent and wait. Cords bind and words wound. Time is tuned to the foundries of the earth, long forgotten when the land was cooled and blessed and cursed.

What Men Really Want...Really

2009-04-03T17:25:00.000-07:00

A couple of friends have been swapping ideas about what men and women want in relationships, so I was inspired to chime in...

As I was thinking about what I would write, I had this idea of talking about the glorious ideals that live in men's hearts - of standing on mountaintops as kings of all they survey, their queens by their side, strong and wise, loyal and devoted--and only beguiled by the charms of their beloved. I thought of the passionate longing for intimate friendship; of days filled with peace and comfort, and of years of contentment. I thought of a life completed: not hindered by pain or fear, but filled with caring, kindness and joy.

Maybe some of you are reading this and chuckling to yourself at my naivete. If you know me well-enough, maybe you are laughing hysterically. But I think the problem with this ideal is not that it's unattainable or unrealistic. The problem is that, no matter how hard I try, I can't add the word "love" to my storybook description of romance.

Oh, I could talk about love in an easy way, telling you how wonderful it is to be in love, or to love, or be loved, but I don't think I would be speaking in earnest. Rather, I'd be repeating all that I've ever been told, seen in a movie, or caught wind of in a passing conversation concerning love...

But, as the song goes, real love hurts. Sometimes it hurts a lot. Sometimes it's unrequited. Sometimes it's undeserved. Sometimes, I think the amount of effort and commitment that go into real love would be more successfully put to use training monkeys to order mu shu pork in Mandarin. Sometimes I wonder what real love means.

Thankfully, I think I have a real-life example of what love is. My parents have been together for about 30 years now, and I've seen quite a lot of what goes on in a lasting relationship between two human beings, warts and all. I've witnessed, firsthand, how close two people can get over time, and how strong the bond is between a man and a woman. It makes me hopeful.

I've also seen how much can go wrong and how much remains lacking and unfulfilled, how much struggle and hardship a committed relationship has to endure from season to season. It scares me, honestly. It is the hard side of love, the testing of the relationship, where a person gets to decide between losing their pride or losing their mind.

But despite my deepest fears, what I want is to have a real relationship--like my parents do. I want to have the faith to keep moving forward, even when things don't make sense, the courage to get back up and try again, despite failure, and the love to endure when all seems lost. I want to be like my dad, who, over time, has proved himself to be a man who makes less of himself and more of others, especially my mom.

I don't want to fall in love, because it's too easy to fall out of it, like a wobbly hammock. I want to learn how to love like my parents did. If it takes years, so be it and God-willing. If not, staying single is not as horrible an option as time and circumstance sometimes seem to suggest.

Pedal Board Revisited

2008-12-13T15:34:00.000-08:00

Check it out--new configuration complete!

Cuneiform

2008-11-20T12:07:00.001-08:00

Sometimes it seems like the answers to life's questions are written in a foreign language. Anyone here read ancient Sumerian?

Sayings

2008-11-09T13:27:00.000-08:00

Obscure men, they lack focus.

Poem

2008-11-09T13:20:00.000-08:00

I am touched by a thousand such fears
Which speak of a man who blushes with tears
At the life he invents by the words of his mouth
And the life that is spent on the deeds of his house

Poem

2008-11-09T13:13:00.000-08:00

we are cast in stone for God's eyes to see
we are monuments to eternity
we are rays of light that made it to this place
beloved of the sun,
where there is life for everyone

Poem

2008-11-09T13:09:00.000-08:00

Out in the baffling wind we swam
With nothing but bags of old gold in our hands
Our trenchcoats were reaching just down to our boots
Buffeting body and bones from the shouts

Question

2008-10-30T19:53:00.000-07:00

Something that occurred (and reoccurred) to me today--would I be a Christian if hell didn't exist?

Refrain

2008-10-26T21:12:00.001-07:00

In filial affection
blessed be the Name
In painful consecration
blessed be the Name
In holy resurrection
blessed be the Name
In darkness and in question
blessed be the Name

Poem

2008-10-26T21:10:00.000-07:00

If cleansing is for burial,
Why bother when the body rots
The gasses ferment and fluids ooze
The perfect becomes the monster that
Time draws back to reveal
The empty shell
The carcass, our refuse

Poem

2008-10-26T20:45:00.000-07:00

Stories unfold of darkness and days gone by
Old men struggle and cry out--and softly sigh
And wish intense moments of fate
Leave their monuments, lying in state, unkempt
Insensate

Wayward, Homeward

2008-10-11T14:18:00.000-07:00

I must confess, a scar is a scar, whether visible or invisible. Deep inside, in the hidden places, where I've done some of my most frantic, desperate wrestling, I've come to find that my scars are the thick, numb places of the soul--the rough, raw, abused patches that I sometimes wear like badges of honor or proof of life.

I used to think that what I was doing was healthy. I called it by many names: reflection, wisdom, introspection. I let it become one of my defining personality traits. People praised me for what they perceived as a wanderlust to discover existential truth guided by the spirit of a rugged individual.

On the surface, I felt my outlook was wholly commendable--the secret dream of every soul clothed in the trappings of a mundane, humdrum routine. It was an escape to the life of the mind, where I could be free to unearth and inspect the most profound truths, where I could plumb the depths of knowledge unfettered. Where I could learn to be the person I always wanted to be.

Looking back, the earliest evidence of its beginnings is a page of an unfinished novel from early adolescence, chapter heading "Life in the Herbs." It was the beginning of my departure; it is the first fixed point in time where I can identify the iceberg of doubt breaching the surface. It was the moment where I began to question that the life that God had promised to everyone was also promised to me. It was my grumbling soul, longing for comfort. And I listened.

Haunted by selfishness and a need to find the life that I had been promised--and guided by disappointment, discontent and arrogant--I set out with my inheritance in hand. I was on a journey to the undiscovered country... but I never found it, because that country does not exist.

I searched high and low, but found no place where I could gain the benefits of God apart from him. Once I had discovered this, like the foolish prodigal, I kept far from my Father's gates. For me it was a matter of shame. Surely God wouldn't want me back as I was. So I tried to make something of myself in order to have something to offer. This was my second great mistake.

I learned to turn the power of my mind against itself. I learned that the bright intellect that God had blessed me with could be focused and trained, and I soon taught it to fix it's gaze on my identity. Surely if I left God as one man, I should have returned a different one.

So what I could do, I did. An untrained plastic surgeon, I cut at what I saw in me that didn't seem worthy. Like an unspoken directive or a faithful friend, the drive to look in the mirror and fix myself became an obsession. Surely God wouldn't recognize me, but rather the man I had become.

But lately, as the hourglass runs low, I've come to find that it never mattered. Trying to ease the pain of a life apart from God's grace and provision, I thought I could fix everything. I thought I could come back mysteriously transformed, and God would wonder at the holy and powerful soul I had become. Instead, I come back deformed and disfigured, a wretched sight to behold.

But, the Father recognizes me, underneath it all. Still his child, a little older, a little less proud. And he says with tears in his eyes, embracing me, "Welcome home, my son."

The sheltered life is nothing to scoff at; and innocence is preferable to experience in many things. If by my story you are warned, he who has ears, let him hear.

Psalm 27: 13-14

Starbucks Retraction

2008-09-20T16:31:00.004-07:00

I'll keep this short and sweet.

While Starbucks still fails pretty hard to make a good brewed cup of coffee, I have become very fond of their interpretation of the Americano. The simple combination of espresso and hot water is a new favorite of mine. They also make a wicked cold brew, which I enjoyed many times over the summer. I can't say why their execution on these two beverages stands head and shoulders above the standard brewed cup of coffee, but I am... a Starbucks fan once again.

Bring on the gift cards!

Slipstream of Consciousness

2008-09-03T11:59:00.000-07:00

On a Sunday afternoon, the day before Labor Day, I found myself lying in bed, halfway ready for a nap. The Committee on Rest & Relaxation deciding not to commit to a full-fledged snooze, I settled on a movie I had rented the weekend before. With a picture of a screenplay writer on the cover and filmstrips threading their way through his mental projector, "Slipstream" seemed like an intriguing rental, especially with Sir Anthony Hopkins in the lead role. Since I enjoyed his work as Hannibal Lecter, as well as his performances in the films Proof, Legends of the Fall and The Elephant Man, I anticipated a sleeper hit. I put the DVD in the tray and prepared to be entertained, but what I got was something entirely different.

For about an hour and a half, I lay in bed trying to figure out what the movie was about--but more than that, what was real and what was illusion. The entire plot was predicated on the idea that this screenplay writer had lost a firm grip on reality and was slowly drifting into a sort of limbo between this world and the many worlds of his stories--which I was entirely prepared for. Being someone who grew up reading books for pleasure (I wonder if in 30 years that will be a shocking statement), I had chosen the movie specifically for this purpose, thinking the story was going to take me on some sort of "adventure of the mind," eventually resolving itself into a somewhat recognizable and satisfactory ending. I was wholly mistaken.

If, truly, some forms of insanity can be represented on film, one might imagine that this movie gives an up-close sense of what suffering from schizophrenia might be like. Instead of an adventure, I was presented with a confusing juxtaposition of images, characters, non-sequiturs and plot lines, arranged in such a fashion that my mind didn't know what to do with them. Were they more ridiculous and random, I could have dismissed them. Were they more cohesive, I could have seen the threads of a story and perhaps extrapolated to some hidden or poorly handled resolution. Instead, the movie wavered between one plot line and the next, never resolving any problems, but rather transforming them, changing one character to another while preserving the setting, or altering the environment and rewriting the last 15 minutes of action.

Perhaps my pre-sleep brainwave configuration allowed me to be so open to suggestion that what was intended to be a peek into the mind of an over-saturated Hollywood storyteller became a more unsettling experience than mere entertainment usually provides. Whatever the mechanism that allowed me to be so affected by the fractured reality presented by the movie, as the credits rolled (and the entire movie played in reverse at high speed), I got up in a daze, not quite sure if I was awake or dreaming. Since I had received an invite to go have dinner with friends, I got dressed and went out.

I arrived a little early, so I decided to go to the grocery store and walk around. As I meandered down aisle after aisle, wondering if I needed to buy anything for the house, I had that distinct pall of foggy haze usually reserved for the rollover between alarm snoozes resting firmly behind my eyes. I could not shake the sense that somewhere else, my body was resting comfortably in a sea of maroon sheets, while I had sent my dream self out to pick up toilet paper and toothpaste.

As I wandered, I had begun to notice that many of the shelves in the meat department were completely empty; it was enough to make me think that the store must have been going out of business. So, naturally, I began to discover other signs of its downfall: the quiet, drawn, unhappy faces of its employees, the large number of red markdown tags on its shelves and an overall sense of customer desertion. I had to test my hypothesis, so I asked some neighboring customers (in as normal a manner as I could muster) if they knew anything about the store closing its doors. I got an "I dunno, man" and they promptly returned to their shopping.

Nudged back into reality by my willingness to speak to other people in the midst of my delusional state, I set off to re-examine the store, trying to find an explanation to reduce my hypothesis back to its component elements. Finally, breaking the illusion like a talisman, one of my friends found me contemplating some sunflowers a little too intensely. He asked me what I was doing thinking about buying flowers, and soon enough I was back on solid ground, my insular paranoia dispersing with every word of conversation with this very real person I knew and trusted.

It took me a while for the rest of my stupor to release its hold on me, but the basic effects of the spell had worn off. I explained to a friend at dinner how affected I had been, as we discussed one of H.P. Lovecraft's short stories and how it represented the author's profound fear of isolation--in that particular instance, how it can fundamentally change people. Another friend joined us, and soon we started a heated discussion about national politics, from which I mostly abstained.

In the end, it seemed uncanny that the one thread that connected the strange events of the day was the human connection: whether it was a lack of real world interaction that drove a muddled screenplay writer to insanity, the way a couple of friends helped bring me out of my own isolated psychosis, or the reason an author of short stories would use his imagination to take a fear of loneliness and transform it into a macabre vision of the supernatural.

For someone like myself, who considers himself to be an introvert with an increasing tendency for the hermetic lifestyle, it strikes me as truth heretofore unobserved. While I have nestled my heart in between the pages of books over and over again, keeping my own counsel and my own company, I've failed to stop and allow the true gravity of the life of solitude take hold. Somehow, somewhere along the way, I learned to live alone, adopting some of the unchecked neuroses, lies, fantasies and self-inflicted harm that come with living on your own, neglecting the checks and balances provided by a loving parent, a trusted friend, a good teacher or a family that sees you for who you are, warts and all.

Maybe it's all just been game of hide and seek. If so, it would explain why, lately, I've found myself peeking my head out more and more often, searching to see if anyone is still looking for me, straining to hear someone shouting "Olly olly oxen free!"

Those Whom Fortune Favors

2008-06-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

Have you ever found that saying what must be said can be a difficult thing to do, even when your intentions are to seal a serious breach in a friendship, comfort someone who's hurting, or confront someone who's offended you? When it comes to healing emotional wounds or restoring relationships, I find the temptation is often just to run away from resolution, to hazard that closure and chance will someday meet, that one day all will be forgiven and forgotten. After all, they say time heals all wounds and never demands payment.

But why is it so difficult for us to say what should be said without the messy, festering, clumsiness of raw emotion? Sometimes, feelings seem to trick us into thinking we exercise some sort of dominance over them, like mutinous servants who only await the opportune hour to revolt and overthrow their master in a paroxysm of grief, doubt, woe, anger, frustration, bitterness, rage, or despair.

Somehow, we think by avoiding the thing we dread to do (yet know we should do) we can keep these emotions at bay, docile and submissive. Yet, experience does not bear this out. I submit that practicing martial law with our insides is like trying to enslave a free people--they do not go quietly, nor with heads bowed in acceptance of tyranny. Emotions are inextricably tied to something deep inside of us, such that though they can often be unreasonable, undesirable, or inexplicable, they are invariably us, through and through.

This is all, by no means, a declaration that we are at the whim of our emotions, but rather an understanding that emotion is like a force of nature, just as water and wind sometimes conspire into forms less innocuous than a cool spring or a gentle breeze. Water must flow, wind must blow--God has made it to be so, and who can straighten what God has made crooked?

The challenge lies openly thus: say what needs to be said, do what needs to be done--despite the pain, the fear, the emotional coping mechanisms that keep things at bay and under wraps, though only temporarily. Perhaps in the end, your emotional bravery will be rewarded handsomely.

Poem

2008-06-27T10:17:00.000-07:00

All great men must fall,
All monuments made small,
All fortune squandered in a bet:
These are the things we forget.

2008-06-17T17:22:00.000-07:00

This is my pedalboard.

There are many like it, but this one is MINE.
My pedalboard is my best friend. It is my life.
I must master it as I must master my life.
My pedalboard without me is useless. Without my pedalboard, I am useless.

My pedalboard and myself know that what counts in music is not the settings we dial in, the noise of our feedback, nor the faces we make.
We know it is the song that counts. We will rock...

My pedalboard is human, even as I, because it is my life.
Thus, I will learn it as a brother.
I will learn its weaknesses, its strengths, its parts, its accessories, its lights, and its circuitry.
I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage.
I will keep my pedalboard clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready.

We will become part of each other. We will...

Courage

2008-06-16T19:06:00.000-07:00

Courage can be measured as the distance between what God demands and what man does. Some call it faith. Call it what you will-- it is the most powerful of all of man's qualities. Love is surely greater, but love is of God, not of man.

Poem

2008-05-04T15:07:00.001-07:00

The body, such a delicate anchor for the soul...
That form which Nature delights to frame at the urging of the Almighty:

Ensinew'd with power so complete
Sufficient to bear the crown elite

So soft, such lithe design made ready
by craftsman's hands both worn and steady...

but marred by lines of tragedy
and ruled with fearful energy

Glory

2008-03-16T14:16:00.001-07:00

We don't hope to attain the glory of God, but to reveal it.

Perhaps a Future Album Cover, N'est Ce Pas?

2007-09-16T22:34:00.000-07:00

Early Tonight

2007-07-23T18:11:00.000-07:00

Cursive S drifts in & out of sight
Eyes see what only eyes might
Cars drive by, intent but ignorant
while lonely dogs alight,
early to bed, early tonight

Another bird out of his mind
Another fool out on the wind
Catching his death for the song of a friend

Empires dashed to ignorance,
against the rocks,
against the many ruts of chariots
Rivers cut the land in plots, and
curv-ed swathes of color, light
Like water, man and woman might,
early to bed, early tonight

Achievement

2007-06-02T18:53:00.001-07:00

Laurels are for retirement or death; I will rest on them when the time comes.

Social Distortion

2007-05-28T12:58:00.000-07:00

Has anyone ever had the feeling that relating to other people is one of the most difficult things to do with any success?

If a Candle Is for Light, What Are Friends For?

2007-05-22T23:12:00.000-07:00

So I'm beginning to think I finally get it. My life has been simply incredible at various times over the past few weeks, and it's mostly do to this strange thing called friendship. Those select few whom I've had the privilege to get to know over the years (the actual number being quite a bit higher than I expected when I sat down to count) have had an ever-increasing effect on my outlook, constantly shifting my perceptions, calling my bluffs, and introducing new ideas into my tidy 4x4 reality.

Life has had its way with me over the past couple of years; growing into maturity may be a lifelong process, but it sometimes shares certain qualities with a severe drought and a hot, buffeting wind. Nevertheless, I should say that I have quite a bit of life to look forward to--life measured in memories and moments, not months and minutes. Most of that nitrogen-rich life has been and will be spent in the company of friends.

Perhaps due to the catalytic effect that friendship has had on me lately, or some fatherly advice that is finally working its way in, I'm in a season where I'm learning how to be willing to try something new. I've begun to do what I thought I never would do. I defy my own definitions of who I am. I change--not that I never did before. Rather, now I at last acknowledge that I have changed, I am changing, and I will continue to change. I don't try to make straight what God has crook'd; and I don't fight what I should not fear. I no longer withhold the flame from the candle of my life, in hopes that I can remain whole, intact. Rather I let the light fall where it may, as others have let their lights fall into my life. In all of this, somehow, I make peace with the undeniable time when I will shudder and fall. If it is the candle's purpose to burn, it is mine to shine.

Stranger Than Fiction

2007-04-11T22:40:00.000-07:00

First of all, I'd like to say a fond farewell to Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. I can't claim that he inspired me to anything other than imagination; but imagination is a valuable thing. Some of my favorite stories of his are Cat's Cradle and "Harrison Bergeron," which appears in Welcome to the Monkey House.

Moving along. If you haven't seen Stranger Than Fiction yet, definitely get your hands on a copy. Emma Thompson, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Will Ferrell and Dustin Hoffman all play their characters without interruption. After a little less than two hours, all I can say is that the movie stirs something deep inside of me.

I found that I am very much like the main character of the movie, Harold Crick, in some unsettling ways. I won't go into details; if you know me well enough, you know what they are. Yet, despite the ability of a story to cause important parts of my heart to resonate with an opining, elongated sigh, I won't accept that the simplicity or elegance of fiction, like a well-balanced, simple equation governing the soul, can accurately describe the complexities of a continuous existence, not lived frame by frame at 24fps, but stretched and sculpted over what is now 27 years of life here on Earth.

Most of the above will read like abstract art. My apologies. I am mostly writing letters to myself on the walls of the subway, or ranting to strangers in the rain. Nonetheless, all of this is a roundabout way of saying simply this: my life is as depressing, risk-free, and regular as can be. What never hits home, day after day, is that I am wasting my time here, nourishing my heart with the shadows of dreams, leavening my desires with ashes. And thank God that the question remains and charges me with an answer:

What is life but for the living?

Starbucks Gift Card...No Thank You

2007-04-07T13:46:00.000-07:00

I will explain the title for this post before you get up in arms about me slandering your favorite coffee shop--or chime in with choruses of "amen, brother." First of all, I am not against Starbucks as a company; its corporate approach to the local coffee shop is fine by me. The issue I have against the 'Bucks stems from its extreme mishandling of my coffee tasting experience.

To be blunt, Starbucks coffee is often undrinkable and undesirable. Much of the time their brews are burnt beyond recognition. At one point, I decided I was going to abstain from Starbucks altogether. But something always seemed to stop me from cutting all ties with the coffee giant: consistency. I found I could go to one location and get a black coffee and absolutely hate it, pour it out after taking two sips, and vow never to return again. Then, hours later, I would drive around the corner and get another black coffee and think "hey, this is just what I wanted."

I should say that Starbucks definitely knows how to make anything other than coffee, and they do it well. The mocha frappuccino & all of its friends are well worth the occasional $4 splurge. But if you go there expecting to find anything resembling a pure coffee beverage, you might as well just slap your cash on the counter and leave.

At one point, I read the story of how Starbucks got to where they are today. I was surprised to find that the founder was passionate about coffee flavors, roasts, and the overall taste experience. Yet as I see it, today Starbucks is in the dessert business; they only continue to offer coffee because everybody expects them to. And people have learned to cope by putting all kinds of additives and flavors in their coffee to cover up the real taste...because it tastes really, really awful.

I have been drinking coffee for more than ten years, and over those years I've sampled a wide variety of brews. Nothing has come close to the wretchedness of a poorly crafted cup of Starbucks coffee, hands down. Often the word swill comes to mind.

Michael Jackson Brown?

2007-04-06T11:02:00.000-07:00

Now that James Brown has died, what do you think will happen to Michael Jackson? Brown was Jackson's idol from childhood, practically inspiring and launching Jackson's success as a solo artist. By the way, I'm not saying Jackson is a thief--everyone has their influences.

Do you think now Jackson can stop trying to be James Brown and just be Michael?

Recognition

2007-04-01T11:34:00.000-07:00

Some people want to be recognized for their genius; everybody wants to be recognized for their value.

Bad Girls Club

2007-03-31T13:28:00.000-07:00

Okay guys. So I work for a small press, and we're putting out a book very soon called Bad Girls Club. All snickering & comments aside, this is an amazing story about a teenage girl who has to deal with some very heavy, dark issues at home. I had the opportunity to copyedit the book, and I have to tell you that it's a must-read for anyone who has ever dealt with mental illness or abuse.

Although it's written from a perspective you might not readily understand, it deals with issues that are universal to everyone: growing up, dealing with problems that overwhelm us, getting help.

So, take that recommendation for what it's worth; I won't be pushing every book that we publish!

What Is Postmodernism and Why Do I Care?

2007-03-31T13:20:00.000-07:00

Postmodernism is the psychosis of a world lost in its own illusions...or so it seems. I do not know what all of my illusions are. Multiply that by 6+ billion and call it whatever you want.

What Is a Man?

2007-03-31T12:42:00.000-07:00

So, after watching a movie released in 1992, Glengarry Glen Ross, I was challenged to revisit my recent past in the world of sales...and dredge up all kinds of painful memories: of intimidation, of fear, of greed, of falsehood and sniveling servitude. I can't honestly say that sales is pure evil, and I appreciate a lot of the lessons learned. Nevertheless, I might say that I would never return to that world; but God usually likes to take those statements as a personal challenge of wills.

So, in a roundabout way, I'm stuck with the possibility that I could again be called upon to cajole, to push, to befriend: to sell things to strangers--people with whom I need to create a rapport in order to win their trust and steer their decision to buy.

After watching the movie, I came up with a little maxim that I thought summed up Ricky Roma's philosophy of life, and the philosophy of the movie in general:

"You either get to be a man or a good guy; you don't get to be both."

That statement seems to sum up my distaste for the sales experience, and sometimes the world in general. I think it also points to a deep-seated fear that I have about a decision that I make every day:

Today, am I a man or a good guy?