BoldUlysses.com

It’s nice to hang out with a bunch of guys again. Unpretentious, easy laughter is something we all need more of. :o) I went to Aaron and Giff’s Bible study (their’s is one of the few on Wednesday night, which is the best time for me), but instead of actually studying the Bible, we went and helped one of the member’s boss move out his business to a storage shed. He had gone out of business and needed to move all of his equipment before the new occupants of the shop arrived. The man looked quite distraught; I’m glad we were there to help at least a little. It was a nice little corner coffee shop and chocolate factory (yes, they made their own chocolate–good, too :o) It’s just that the location was terrible. *sigh* The owner let me have the bell from the counter. I’m going to go to that Bible study every week, though. The guys are great.

In the ironbound section near Avenue L
where the Portuguese women come to see what you sell
the clouds so low the morning so slow
as the wires cut through the sky

She stops at the stall
fingers the ring
opens her purse
feels a longing
away from the ironbound border

— Suzanna Vega, “Ironbound/Fancy Poultry”

I think I have more entries in the small hours of the morning than at any other time during the day. Such is my life at the moment. And this dumb resume doesn’t want to update itself. It has to be perfect. You should have heard some of the things students were getting nailed for last Friday when the resumes went up on the wall. The scanner is nice to have; I just wish I had better material to feed it. I’m going to do some heavy-duty sketching tomorrow night and fill in some gaps in some of the projects. This schedule is really nice to have. Studio is the only class requiring actual work at the moment. It’s nice to have just one design course. On average, those were the ones that bit me during previous semesters. Now I can finally give one the attention it’s been asking for. This will happen; this thing will come together.

Going skiing on Sunday, most likely, since we’ve finally discovered a time convenient for everyone, including Paige. Paul might come too. That’ll be fun. I can see him and Aaron racing straight down the hill. :o) Guess I’ll have some stories to tell (for once) so that all of you won’t be completely alienated by my quasi-poetic obscurity. There’s something to look forward to…

I am seriously ODing on 80’s ballads. This is not good. I’m getting miserable again listening to them. Especially since I found a very significant song (at least in my mind) from our past. Another one I remember well is “Gypsy” by Suzanne Vega. I had it on a tape and played it as we returned from her home once. All that’s running through my head at the moment are love songs, lyrics meshing and twisting around one another. :o) You want to know what I downloaded? I’m a bit ashamed, but here’s a sample:

Peter Gabriel, Your Eyes
Christopher Cross, Sailing
Chris Deburg, Lady in Red
Breathe, Sweet Caress
Peter Cetera and Crystal Bernard, Forever Tonight
Peter Cetera and Amy Grant, Next Time I Fall
Peter Cetera and Cher (he certainly did a lot of duets, didn’t he?), After All
Journey, Faithfully
Richard Marx, Endless Summer Nights

Among others… *sigh* Okay. That’s it. I’m going to be productive for a good, solid half hour, then go to bed. Okay, maybe I’ll write in here before I go to bed. Who knows.

My roommate is asleep yet again, and it’s quiet in here. A faint rhythmic thumping of bass from another room’s stereo makes it way through the walls, but that’s all.

I wish I could paint you all a picture of the day unfolding itself outside my window. The casual quality of the sunlight making its way through the leaves reminds me of so many things. It’s a song of sunlight, the airy notes breathing through my memory, recalling times in France, the same sunlight thousands of miles away, but so near to me now. The white plaster walls of the hotel; a small open window above my bed. I slipped the headphones on and laid down, pressed play, closed my eyes, and lost myself in the music, scenes and people drifting through my head becoming one with the lavender fragrance carried by the breeze.

I wish for so many things, but most of all, someone to share these moments with.

We might die
We might live
We could hurt each other badly
Do things, things so hard to forgive
Oh and if time is not our friend
Your mind might forget me before the end
And oh I cannot
I cannot look that far

But like your daddy said
How can we see that far?
The same sun that melts the wax can harden clay
And the same rain that drowns the rat will grow the hay
And the mighty wind that knocks us down
If we lean into it
Will drive our fears away

— Amy Grant (“How Can We See that Far?”)

Ce lundi d’hiver dans la Cote d’Azur etait un temps qui se presenta tres agreablement pour les gens. Le soleil lanca meme un peu de chaleur dans la direction des chapeaux et vetements lourds, qui pesaient non seulement sur les dos, mais aussi representaient les poids restant sur les coeurs.

Jabazz nop schturvy ecktle vooper. Hie needer, wispang yetovoxytripular E qwizeep. Iffsy nootle vooten splort. Sae ni gaaka, reen quistopen Snoo’truz. Laebido prussufon nu steez ein vershcum opstoo rhoukie zoot. Yart, “Ernatz plink.” Quandi stapp? Zarble wi numble dot, zru pweffen. Varumph varumph snutter, raspelnootzpiki, yeova boinkie narf? Steevo parken krumpf…

Raided the old cd rack over the weekend and brough back a couple of Richard Marx albums and an old Mark Lowry comedy bit. Paul and I listened to it over Tim’s stereo–somehow, the televangelist parody seems funnier now that’s it’s got a few dozen watts behind it. There are some good songs on that album too. I wonder whatever happened to him?

Well, time for bed. I wish I had another blanket; one didn’t exactly suffice last night. I’ll go digging through my dresser; I probably have one I’ve forgotten about.

God’s revealing my real weaknesses and strongholds in the aftermath of things that I had put in His place. My interest in cars is something I definitely need to surrender to God. It’s good and useful, but when I spend several hours a night leafing through the online classifieds, it becomes something that I need to cut back on. I think I just need to remind myself constantly, “I’m content with Twinkie. Twinkie is a great car. Twinkie is fast enough. Twinkie has ‘character’ and ‘personality.'” :o) I can’t replace God or people in my life with these things. That’s something I’ve done all my life, and the reason I’ve always been so good at entertaining myself. It was never a punishment for me to be sent to my room; there were always books or Legos or just lying on my bed thinking, daydreaming. Why is it so hard for me reach out to people? It shouldn’t be. I have nothing to worry about in the vast majority of cases. I get along grandly with most everyone once we’ve overcome that initial meeting and established some common ground. It’s the beginnings that I’m not very good at and that I need to trust God with. Honestly, last Saturday at GNC, it took quite a bit of initiative to approach customers and ask them if they had any questions (granted, I didn’t know where or what anything in the store was, but still…) What was so great about the experience, though, was the change I experienced through it. Afterwards I felt ready to approach anyone and be friendly and casual. God is definitely preparing me for something through this; I can tell. I honestly felt ready to share my faith with strangers, and got another taste, so long coming, of Destiny Quest, a summer conference in 1999 where I was really out on a limb, depending on God, for the first time.

That’s it; I’m calling Mr. Fuller. I couldn’t get hold of him on Sunday to renew our discipleship, but now I will. Yes indeed.

Short studios and quiet rooms doth make one quite pensive. I’ll go run in a little bit. Haven’t done that in a while and it is a beautiful day. Okay. That’s it. I’m going to attempt to write on one topic coherently and for more than two sentences. We’re the “sound bite generation,” raised on TV commercials and relationships that don’t last, and it comes through in our writing and mannerisms, through short attention spans and wandering minds.

Perhaps it might interest all of your fine folk out there (though not me in the least) to hear my whacked-out preferences concerning food. Ready for the thrill ride of your life? Alrighty.

— I don’t like fruit, except for watermelon, and even then not in large quantities. I do, however, like certain fruit-flavored candies and such; strawberry, cherry, lemon, and orange. Some products made from fruit are okay too: ketchup, for example.
— No milk on cereal.
— No sauce on pasta except for ravioli and occasionally gnocchi (depending on how they’re prepared).
— No salsa on chips.
— Mushrooms just have the wrong texture to them.
— Fish is good. I’m not big on crab meat, though.
— Only acceptable drinks: Water, milk (skim, 1%, and 2%, not whole), coke (or pepsi), tang, and hot chocolate.
— Staples of my daily diet: Gum, various cereals, Golden Graham bars, Powerbars, chunky beef soup, granola bars, dining hall food, and mom’s cooking (far and away the best).

Okay, now that I’ve successfully weirded everyone out, have a nice day.

Clear nasal passages are very nice. They were something I often took for granted, but won’t again, believe me. Finished the first “real” page of my portfolio. Yay. This calls for celebration. Okay, another trip to the water fountain… :o)

I finally sold my soul to the powers that be and downloaded Napster. It’s nice except for the fact that a lot of these people who say they’re T3’s are not even close. I can tell, see. Anyways…

The ship of my mind is sailing on ahead, though there’s not much to be tended to at the moment. Song lyrics and conversation fragments float through my head. My brain hasn’t been this decongested in a long time. Perhaps that’s what’s throwing me off. I’m not sure.

I got a tachometer today and, via the world’s most seamless hack job, put it in Twinkie. Turns out the previous owner had installed a cellular phone in the car, and upon removal had left certain wires in very strategic locations. My car now has a TwinkieTach. The superbowl was boring and my clothes took too long in the dryer. I’m wearing the fuzzy green sweatshirt I got for Christmas. Work at GNC is going well; my new boss seems to appreciate me quite a bit, a sentiment I didn’t often experience at HT. I made $14 on commission Saturday night on top on the hourly rate, and I was training most of the time. In six hours or so that day, Brian made $100 on commission. I could get used to that. Made yellow rice this evening for dinner, but there wasn’t a full cup of rice, so it was a bit watery after twenty minutes. I had to strain it a little bit. I finally found my glasses, which I’ll have to clean off. Sitting on top of the dresser for a couple of weeks doesn’t do much for the lenses’ clarity.

I will dance. This seems to be the theme of every other song I hear of late. Dancing is not just about music and physical movement, it’s about walking the steps you were meant to walk in the time given to you. I have put dreams on hold; I have been fearful, cowardly, and unambitious. I don’t even recognize myself during the first phone conversation we had Thursday night, the whimpering, pathetic crust of a man. Not that I am any more one now, but I do have this conviction: I will dance. On many floors and with many pairs of shoes, I will take the assignment He has given to me and gently, in His time, movement by movement, bring His name glory through the fruit of His guidance. I have been blessed with many talents, and now is the time to step into them and make my way onto the floor. Here we go…

Somehow it all makes sense when I talk about it with Aaron. After a brief moment of being his usual, uh-oh-here-we-go-again self, he was really great. I really appreciate hanging out with him and having him around. He was understanding, and actually listened to me… My analogy for the night was that it was like we were trying to fix a flat tire on a car that was still barreling down the highway. You need to stop, fix the tire, and then continue. But we were obstinate to the point where we lost control (which, of course, we never had in the first place). Pushing the analogy, we’ll have to see if the car is totaled or not. I hope it isn’t, but only God can make that call. Thinking metaphorically is about all my mind can do now. There’s a huge pile of tissues on my desk. I went to the gym and went through my routine rather mechanically. I feel drained of all energy of any kind.

And she’s so alone. That’s something that wrenches my heart desperately. But if I did meet with her, feelings and memories, so immediate, would come flooding back and block anything. We both know this.

I’ve decided my version of comfort food is buying things for my car. On the way back from the dining hall, I fantasized about getting a tachometer or a strut tower brace for Twinkie. I think I will. I’d have to fabricate the brace, but that’s no big deal with a good metal shop at my disposal.

Just to be with you
Is having the best day
Of my life

Just a little snippet of Dido. Tim’s taste in music is improving, I’ve decided. Might just be that the songstress is quite attractive (probably), but as long as the music is decent too, I won’t question his motives.

How to describe this feeling? I think it will all come out in poetry when I have time tonight. Whether or not that is shared is another story.

I still have this cold. It’s very frustrating because I want to go running or do something athletic, but I know what will happen if I do. Puddles of sweat and quick fatigue. I feel like I’m wasting away.

If she can find it in her heart to somehow forgive me, I’ll be okay. It’s different for both of us. I can’t even begin to imagine what she’s going through. I felt absolute anguish this morning. Somehow my feelings are more acute when I wake up in the morning.

I need to experience forgiveness in a big way. If there’s ever any hope of my knowing any sort of joy again, I need to experience forgiveness and know it right down to my core. Chapter 10 in the Harris book has been amazing, like a friend.

Time for class.

“I can hear the soft breathing
Of the girl that I love,
As she lies here beside me
Asleep with the night,
And her hair, in a fine mist
Floats on my pillow,
Reflecting the glow
Of the winter moonlight.

My life seems unreal,
My crime an illusion,
A scene badly written
In which I must play.
Yet I know as I gaze
At my young love beside me,
The morning is just a few hours away.”

Am I really me? I am myself, I have been given this body, this mind, and this life. I am me, this particular collection of hopes, fears, loves, hates, discrepancies, useless knowledge, body masses and shapes.

What is a soul? We never finished that discussion. All I know is that mine is aching, throbbing with memories, sadness, and yet… I have to be here. I’ve given this day so much, wrung out my heart upon His altar, but nothing concrete. Is it supposed to be concrete? There is faith; am I learning that? Do I want to learn that? The quietness of the room offers no replies, only the watery sounds of the fish tank and the soundless noise of the light striking the walls. I could lose myself in music–no. I could bury my head in my arms like I have so many times today–no. I could attempt absolution through occupation–but I have to face the realities. Things will be said soon enough–am I ready? Can I be? I have to say no; the full extent of which I know not yet.

To the tune of “Everyday” by Phil Collins:

The european city was black and jagged against the burgundy sky. Somehow they seemed to bleed into one another, the dark crimson of the sky filling the spaces left by the chimneys and church spires. Her apartment was on the third floor, overlooking the narrow ravine of an alley. Strangely, it was blessed with a large-paned window, which reflected the murky light illuminating the bellies of the clouds. My mind’s eye moved inside the room. I saw squares of light slanting across the floor and up the wall, and masses of dark-hued furniture. She stood, her back to the window, facing the door as he entered. He walked towards her. Both smiled, and she moved towards him. She kissed him on one cheek, and was about to kiss the other when her lips met his and they pressed them together. In a whirl she was caught up in his arms, again and again, never to let go. Their dark silhouettes became one against the window of the apartment…

Absolutely priceless:

The Wit and Wisdom of Imelda Marcos

I’m going to bed now.

my veins are large and oftentimes
i see your reflection in my eyes.
what is a moment between us?
clouds have never seen such stuff
as that which comprises your fingertips.
next to me.  intricate collections of three-
worded sentences tumble from our
unencumbered lips.  things are not how 
they were before, as somehow your
presence reissues into my restraint
a new vigor.
but how i burn, darling, i cannot tell you.
i wish for a world where seasons pass
like rose petals,
to live and extinguish in a moment.

The chicken fingers are sitting rather heavily in my stomach… not a feeling a particularly enjoy. But… I’ve made a resolution to complain as little as possible to LJ. I don’t want this to be a forum for that. What it is a forum for, I haven’t quite determined yet. But enough self-conscious philosophy…

The calendar I received for Christmas is up on my wall now. It has old art deco travel posters on it, advertising the beauty of the French Riviera. My parents bought it for me while we were visiting France over the summer, presumably. France is predominantly Catholic, so each day has the name of its patron saint. My birthday is St. Vincent.

How can the bonds that attract us to one another be so strong and so tenuous at the same time? Might it be because we only see things from our perspective, that we only understand the attraction on our own terms? I think a lot of it has to do with idealization, facades, and the knowledge of who we really are. What drives people to overlook the glaring deficiencies in each others’ lives is something I’ll never understand, but experience on a daily basis. I’ll make something besides sweeping generalizations on this topic later, when my roommate isn’t playing country music.

One of the funniest/most pathetic scenes in life has got to be the cat trying to rapidly change directions on linoleum. For a creature that goes to extraordinary lengths to maintain its dignity… (*scritchscritchscritch–WHAM*)

* * * * * *

“April, come she will
When streams are ripe and swelled with rain

September, I’ll remember
A love once new has now grown old.”

I don’t know why this song has been running through my head lately. Maybe the distance of the months it speaks of gives them a fantasy-like quality.

I had a nightmare. I dreamed my father and my brother and I were making our way through a sort of adventure park. We were whitewater rafting, but had to do it separately (not in the same boat) because none of us had one large enough for all three. We set off down the river, then the water turned into a giant vat of colored, plastic balls like you see (and maybe even experience) outside fast food places. An occasional rock jutted up above the sea of plastic, and we got out of our boats and waded through it. I climbed out of the river and up the embankment. I noticed that we seemed to be in some sort of industrial (mining) park in a clearing surrounded by forest. There were giant silos and metal boxes all around. I walked over to the side of the park with a very small hill and an interesting looking banner supported by two poles. It had a solemn looking woman’s face that spoke to me and told me to enter into the circular metal door on the side of the small hill the banner was facing. I approached it, but when I got a yard or so away, I felt an powerful pulling towards the door. I fell down on the ground and crawled away using all my strength, with my fingernails digging into the earth. Panting, I jumped away from the door as another person neared it. They passed through the door and I heard a unearthly roar and scream from inside the hill. I stepped away. People were lined up to enter the door like it was an attraction in an amusement park, and the woman on the banner was goading them on in new-agey terms. Somehow I became aware of the history of the hill, how it used to be just a frame and a metal door before it became the likeness of a hill, and I saw a black and white picture of the frame, with four men standing to the right in front of a large vat, and a huge, black beast to the left. It was absolutely terrifying, like something out of the apocalypse, and I knew it ate human flesh. I also knew that the men standing next to the beast lived inside the hill and packaged the remaining entrails into cans and distributed them. I was horrified and tried to pull people out of the line and away from the door. They, however, moved in a trance, mesmerized. The banner’s voice spoke in my head, though, taunting me with the inevitability of the door. I ran away to my truck which was parked by the side of the hill. I started it and was about to drive away when, on impulse, I backed the truck up and floored it. I rammed the hill, hoping to knock it down, but I knew the hill was armor-plated so it wouldn’t do much good. Indeed, I just bounced off. They would retaliate for sure, so I swung the truck around and gunned it out of the clearing and through the forest. I checked my rear view mirror frantically for a pursuer as the truck sped along the dirt road, and sure enough, a small truck appeared, gaining on me. I pressed the pedal harder, driving as skillfully as I could, but the smaller truck was still advancing. I could hear the banner’s voice still in my head, saying, “You can’t escape. You are one of us. I AM you. You will return to me in the end.” Somehow it was extraordinarily appealing, but I refused to slow up. The truck was almost alongside mine when the dirt road turned paved as we reached civilization. The truck was next to mine and preparing for a collision as we rounded a corner. There was traffic in the other lane, going the other way, and it caught the other truck head on. I breathed a massive sigh of relief as I drove as far away as I could from the hill and its occupants.

I woke with the paranoia still clinging to me. I gazed at the ceiling for quite a while, shaking the sensation.

This day has seen me experience a gentle up and down of emotions quite unlike anything that’s happened in previous Christmases. I couldn’t get to sleep last night because I felt like a complete heel for not having enough money to get anybody anything this Christmas. Turns out more than one of us was in that predicament, though, so there was a flurry of “coupon” exchanging this morning before the presents were officially attacked. There’s was a definite shift away from material gifts to service-related stuff; whether this is good or bad only time will tell. I made cards for my mom and dad as well; I hope they went over well. I really wish I had money.

The gifts I received, however, went far above my expectations, having only asked for a car cover for my red paperweight. Along with a fistful of candy, I got the complete works of e.e.cummings, a turtleneck and some khakis (though I must say the ones Mrs. Gubitz got for me are much nicer), a few more books, Rubber Soul by the Beatles, and a box set of Simon and Garfunkel music. And a very weird-looking stuffed dog.

I’ve been downing those negative chocolate chip cookies (negative because the dough is chocolate and the chips are white) like there’s no tomorrow all weekend. I really should run in a little bit before it gets too cold.

I was listening to NPR for some reason while putting the spare engine in my garage into the stand I received for Christmas. All Things Considered was about to come on, and I was listening to some show with “commentators” reciting the most inane little pieces about the trivialities of the holidays. I could just see them patting themselves on the back every time they inserted a little witticism or quip into their “commentary,” and I realized that I would never do something like that for a living. I think it was just a gut reaction to something in the voices of the men… They just sounded like spineless suburbanites who had spent their entire life commuting to and from some Bostonian university behind the wheel of a Subaru. I’m probably all wrong, but it was part of my day.

Church yesterday was incredible. God really spoke in power through Mr. Reklis as he talked about Jesus and His nature, both fully God and fully man, and how He fulfills every need we have; in essence, to worship anything or anyone else is not only futile, it’s foolishness. He is the true Word of God; God communicated everything He wanted and wants us to know though His Son. We must have created a few cracks in the rafters afterwards worshipping, singing “Shout to the Lord” as the melody goes up an octave near the end of the song…

I really wish my grades would be posted on the internet. I don’t like the waiting.

Back in the room and getting ready for bed. Nothing of substance tonight, unfortunately. Nothing. Go away! BZZZZZZ! (a la Fifth Element)

Why does it feel like I’m winning battles but losing the war? Too little too late, yet again. I’ve been in this place before. My exams are going well; I’ve been more diligent than I’ve been all semester, but a general feeling of malaise shadows me.

I need people. This is something I’ve been realizing more with each failure and shortcoming. I need people to keep me accountable. I need to be needed in some way, to help, to connect with someone else, to pour myself into the life of someone whom I don’t feel an immediate attraction to. But more than anything, I need honesty. I’ve been lying to myself and others about so many things for so long, and if I’m ever going be accountable to someone and be of any use to others, I need to be honest, otherwise everything is undermined. You can’t be held accountable if you’re not honest. And I need someone besides my dad to be accountable to. He loves me, I know, and he has my best interests at heart, but he has 21 years of “dad” inside him, the first reflex of which is to lecture and not listen. It’s not that I don’t believe in his ability to change; he has, albeit slightly, it just I know there will be at least a modicum of condemnation when I come to him with my recent struggles; it’s just the way he is. And that’s the last thing I want in the world. I’m willing to surrender my pride and admit I’m having difficulties, but if he starts lecturing again I don’t know what I’ll do. I know I deserve it, but it’s not the most effective route to take for either me or him. He needs me to start making connections outside the home, and I need to make them. It’s a step I have to take. And I will. I just don’t know where to start… I need to talk to God, I know that much at least.

*sigh* I’m just tired and sore. I want things to be straightened between us, but there’s a thorn in the side of our relationship that we’re beginning to enjoy too much, I’m afraid. Why do I act the way I do? Why is it just then? 98% of the time I can keep it under control, it’s just under certain conditions… I know that’s what it is, we put ourselves in situations where we’re tempted too much. If only we could edge as close to the line as possible, because the times of stillness were unspeakably lovely. But the wall we were to never have crossed has become a line, easy to step over. The ramparts are crumbling, and we can’t rebuild them alone.

I’m not miserable, though. I know God will work things out. I have peace in my soul, just not in my heart or conscience. I don’t feel guilt, just a hope… such a bright, bright hope. We both know what needs to take place; where to start, we’ve just lied and said we didn’t have time to think about it now. Perhaps we don’t, but taking advantage of the situation certainly isn’t the way to go either.

I feel lifted, slightly. I need to swim in the Word of God and bask in His presence for a while, though. Yes, I do. :o)

Moping isn’t going to help.

Enough about me, though. Have a lovely trip, Elyse. Be sure to email me and send me a postcard or two to let me know how the job at McDonald’s is going. I’ll see you in the springtime, if not before. With affection–

Mornings… I had forgotten how crisp and clean they are until I experienced the last two, yesterday during an all-nighter, and today waking up from the “recovery sleep” following it.

I feel like Max in “Where the Wild Things Are,” except that instead of waking up to a dinner still patiently warm, I’m waking to a morning whose smile reminds me of someone. The journey through the night was the most adventurous I’ve had in a while, though, and I only remember a fragment of it. It (they?) started at a beach with fine white sand, where some friends and I were running around underneath the summer sun. A low line of stores was just up from the beach, and the water was warm and inviting, with small waves. I remember wading in and being amazed at the clarity of the sea as I splashed around with my friends. Then my best friend appeared, and I decided to race him to the other side of the bay (it became a crescent-shaped bay not unlike the one at Nice). So I took off, freestyle, with my friends in tow. But my best friend was cheating, swimming slightly underwater and upside-down, with a snorkel and flippers, and was moving very fast indeed. But a giant was flying above me as I swam, and lifted me out of the water and upward as we neared the other side of the bay, a steep-sloped hill that rose out of the water. The giant and I flew higher above the sea as we plunged headlong towards the side of the hill. Just as we were about to make impact, I noticed the end of the hill, the part extending into the ocean, was covered with giant cicadas, not making noise, just hemispheres of insect wings lying massive against the practically vertical slope. The giant released me, and I hurtled into the side of the hill, which had become a sheet of thick black fabric. The giant became one of the cicadas to my right, and folded himself up against the hill. I found an opening through the fabric and pushed my way through. I was inside the hill, a framework of black metal tubing with black fabric draped over it, with slits in the covering to introduce light. I made my way through over the black tubing, moving toward the center of the hill. There was a circle of rooms, not unlike chapels in the apse of a cathedral, surrounding a center platform made of industrial-textured metal. All kinds of animals were everywhere, cats, dogs, birds, and the tubing crisscrossed every line of sight. People stood in the rooms surrounding the center platform, talking like they were at a cocktail party. A beam of light projected a two-foot circle in the center of the platform, and food would appear there occasionally, only to be eaten swiftly by the main duck. I circled the room about twice on the network of tubing before stepping onto the platform. Whenever I would approach the food, the duck would lunge at me protectively, jumping up and hitting my chin with the top of his beak. It didn’t hurt; it was more funny than anything, but I wasn’t hungry, so I backed off and joined a cluster of people in one of the rooms, observing the duck. I heard one of the people mention offhand that the duck was scared to death of Flora. Somehow I knew that if the duck wandered away from the circle of light for too long, a little white dog named Flora would terrorize it. By and by, the duck did venture away from the platform for too long, and Flora bounded out of the black tubing towards the duck, which was petrified with fear and remained frozen while Flora ran around it, heckling it…

Time to eat.

It’s too early in the–what is it? afternoon?–to be writing in here. *sigh* I have so much junk to do, and I feel so juvenile, because all I want to do right now is just sit here and miss someone. What’s wrong with that? I wouldn’t get any work done. So–mind over matter (in a minute). :o)

The oddest assortment of people pass outside my window. I swear I’ve had someone from every ethnicity under the sun (a real rarity here at State–we’re not exactly known for our diversity) trudge slowly across the brick path on the other side of the bushes. But then I’ve always maintained that I live on the part of the campus that most resembles Carolina, so go figure. Interesting thing, this State-UNC rivalry. I don’t really pick a side too often, since my loyalties are split in several arenas. I go to State, Erin goes to Carolina, I live in Chapel Hill; my dad is a State alum; my mom graduated from UNC. Let’s just say we’re a confused little family when March Madness rolls around. :o)

“Sequoia’s razor-sharp instincts were no help to his master now, though, as the spiral walkway began to collapse and flatten with the noise of the bubble-making lawnmower. The floor slowly lost its incline and became level until Morton and the dog were trapped in a doughnut shaped room. The midget had disappeared, of course. Morton walked around the large pillar in the center of the room, twice. Sequoia walked the other way around, and the leash became tangled. ‘Well,’ thought Morton aloud as he straightened the leash, ‘Let’s try one of these doors. Whatever’s behind them can’t possibly be as bad as the Mongolian shrimp platter I ate at The Flaming Lint Ball.’ ‘If only you knew how wrong you are,’ said a voice behind him, as Morton wheeled around. The Toothbrush Lady stood there, combing her bristles. ‘The shrimp platter is a pushover compared to the tasks you will encounter behind the Doors. Besides, you didn’t know the secret ratio of antacid to shrimp: 12.58 shrimp to 1 little cup of antacid. I just ate there,’ she said as she burped slightly, ‘Pardon me.'”

Read the rest of the Morton Chronicles

and if i ever close my eyes to the gold
upon the melting back of a leaf then i
swear lady by all things which hold warmth
as their country then your eyes as yet
are finally become like transparent stars
unto the world of my stories so high yet
part of the firmament escaping from the
simplicities of my assuming their
gentle turning about the central one lives
a spoken relevance and never too soon
shall i open the shades and let in the
radiant light of your twisting fingers
watch silhouettes the outlines divide
i become the lightness the panes
remain cold their paint cracked and
parched listen to the wind my love
if the fabric of your skin were to
encompass the dust upon the sill i
should relay your holdings inside the
realms of that which is more than seeing
or speaking oh lady how i wish for the
complicity of our closeness to disappear
but absolution with you will amend this
particularity if only the light would
transport me to your arms and warmth
then winter would be a welcome thing

I’m trying to get my mind around the concept of classical music at the moment (although I should be drawing like a fiend). I think part of my reservations have to do with the way we’re brought up on music nowadays; we demand that music give us a gut feeling or speak in a more forthright manner about issues which concern us or that we’re concerned about. Classical music, for me, has always been the “faceless” music, partly by virtue of the fact that it doesn’t have any lyrics (unless you count opera, which I haven’t built up a tolerance for yet), and partly because classical music seems to speak softly in a language I don’t fully understand. I just feel a little “ignant” every time I listen to it (purposefully, not as background music) :o)

It’s all academic, you know? That’s something that hit me over the head a couple of weeks ago. I had subconsciously come to the conclusion that somehow English and other right-brained courses were “superior” to math courses and such since they seemed to deal with “real-life” situations and emotions, not just doing exercises and (what seemed like to me) playing games with numbers. But in my poetry class, it finally hit me: It’s all academic. The poems we read might deal with lofty subjects such as history, war, love, violence, but in the end, it’s not going to do the world any more good than those number games we play in math class. Poems are word games, if you will (beyond their relevance to us). We have to choose to take anything we come across and make something out of it, to DO something. It’s all academic until you do something. *sound of Matt descending from soap box* :o)

Found possibly the greatest treasure on the web: The Joe Versus the Volcano mp3 page

I know I should be working on my dumb ergonomics paper instead of looking this stuff up, but realistically, which am I going to remember in a week, a month, a year? A paper and the emotions, the nervousness revolving around it, or the things that really matter, i.e. people, events, the positive emotions you don’t feel every day? I know it sounds like a cop-out or a procrastination tactic, and it is, to a certain extent, but I think it’s valid in a more far-sighted light. The idea is rather half-baked at the moment; I think I’d be able to flesh it out more if Tim weren’t playing Ace of Base right now… *sigh*

What is discipline, anyway? On first glance it sounds like an act of willpower, but I know God’s will must be preeminent. I think part of it is allowing God to cultivate and use good habits in your life, positive routines and mindsets. This is a pretty big issue in my life, so I’ll be ruminating on it more later, I’m sure.

Well, here I am; here it is. I’ve been subliminally talked into it. Interesting how these things work; I’ve always held that the whole appeal of a journal/diary was the fact that it was private, but here we are, with our lives (what we choose to reveal) on display for those who would search for them. We’ll see how this goes. Optimistic–

Our grandmother has died today. I guess that pretty much sums the day since everything else pales in comparison to that event.

She died this morning; I don’t know the exact time; we received word this afternoon. My dad is down in Jacksonville, NC, where she and my divorced aunt and my two cousins live (all this is on my dad’s side of the family).

My two brothers, Paul, 14, and David, 11, did not take her passing very well. That is we’ve never had a death in the family when we were in the US (our grandfather died while we were in France), so my brothers really didn’t know how to handle it. Paul lapsed into one of his “buddy” routines, where he tries to cheer everyone up, before we informed him that was not appropriate. Needless to say, they were cracking jokes all day, acting happy, much to my annoyance and dismay. [people’s responses vary]

Grandma was a wonderful woman, cook, nurse, mother and grandmother to all of us. Although a Catholic, she did not attend church, or mass, regularly. In her lived a spirit and true generosity, sincerity and selflessness. She always thought about others before herself and left, if nothing else, a legacy of humility and an inimitable example.

We’re going down there for the funeral tomorrow, I think.

If I could sum this day up in one word, it would be Busy, with a capital “B”. Church this morning was better than usual, or more interesting, at least. We had an all-time record of sixteen people in Sunday School, and there was a decent amount of participation, not just the usual group of groggy teenagers awakened in the middle of Sunday morning hibernation. [what an apt description]

The service was good. We sung “The Deep, Deep Love of Jesus”, which I like a lot, even though I can’t sing. [making a joyful noise] Mr Fuller continued his sermon “mini-series” on 2 Timothy. He preached on 4:6-8, which in itself is convicting enough when you compare yourself with Paul, but Mr Fuller really came down on us on like how we spend our time.

I watched San Francisco get stomped by the Panthers 23-7 before leaving for the church picnic at five o’clock. Some blessed soul brought Little Caesars pizza, so I ate a few slices and a hot dog. The cookies we brought were doughy and heavy; not all of them were eaten.

Later that evening, our church played a softball game against an E-Free church from Cary. Actually, you couldn’t really call it a game; it was more of a joke. Let’s just say I think we stopped counting after they had about fifteen runs to our one.