last of the month

It's truly sad that for the month of August, there's only been eighteen entries (including this one). Life's been chaotic, to say the least. Chaotic but good. The last month has passed by in a blur, and I'm shocked to find September just around the corner (only two hours to go!). I've spent way too much time reminiscing this month, something I tend to do (I'm a sentimental kinda guy, for better or worse), and so there won't be any of that "monthly re:cap" stuff I sometimes try to pull off. Instead I'm hitting you in the face with two "note-worthies" from my daily journal entry for August 30:

(1) The "quiet wrestling" with things like vocation, duty to God, etc. continue, and though clarity's certainly beginning to come about, there's still much to wrestle with. This wrestling isn't some peripheral issue with no bearing on life but, rather, formative of my life's current and future framework. The future remains unwritten--"Stare at the blank page before you," anyone?--and how that future pans out depends quite largely on how this wrestling will tweak, re:work, and shape both my "worldview" and "manner of living." Much of this wrestling has been done with pen on paper, logging long hours at The Anchor with coffee and black-and-milds (would've been cooler if it were cigarettes, though), and the seemingly endless pages seem to be the culprit of this carpal tunnel I'm getting over. Much of these journals will find themselves coming to life, sort of speak, in September, when I start publishing them online (here, on the blog) so that I can be honest with myself, others, and serve as an encouragement to others who find themselves in this oh-so-common but oh-so-lonely arena.

(2) Last night Brandy and I talked about my writing, my tools and methodologies, those weird things I do as I get involved in my story to the point that at its close, something inside me has died. "You're weird as shit," Brandy said, "but you're fucking brilliant." Quite the compliment! Writing, for me, is an addiction, a major and irreversible facet of my life. "Whatever happens," Mandy told me the other night, "you know you'll always be writing." It's not something I do to, say, make money (anyone who thinks that the quick route to getting rich is writing a best-seller has just been flat-out misinformed; as it turns out, we rock-bottom aspiring writers are a quieter, less prolific, and generally out-of-sight kind of starving artist). I write not because I "want" to but because I have to. It's a compulsion, and whenever I'm kept from it for too long, I become irritable and impatient. Like a snapping turtle who just wants to be left alone. Why is it a compulsion? Hell if I know. But I do know that, besides sex, there's nothing as exhilarating as writing a damned good story. Taking a blank page (see what I did there?) and, from it, creating a story. It's a bit like playing God, you might say. And as much as I love writing, after I finish a story I feel (to quote Hemingway) "both sad and empty, as if I've just made love." 


It's been a good month. 
Koala out!

the ninth week

This past week I started doing full-time barista rather than part-time barista and part-time food prep. How do I like it so far? I love it. I’m so excited to be part of an up-and-coming coffee shop that’s badass and good at what we do. We roast our own coffee, partner in direct and fair trade, and we actually make café drinks right. I didn’t realize until starting at Tazza Mia just how many drinks were made differently at Starbucks; there were so many short-cuts employed (to help with speed) that much of the drink loses its quality. And this week we also stopped doing our drip coffee after 2:00, and have been doing pour-overs and vacuum pots to make one-cup coffees for our customers. Some of them have been upset about the change-up, but nearly every single one, after trying a pour-over or siphon, has been coming back day after day. “It’s the best cup of coffee I’ve ever had.” Can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard that.

Monday. On Monday mornings before work I always try and make it out to The Anchor. A perfect start to the week. This past Monday I worked 9:30-6:00 with some Anchor time right before (lots of great writing done). We had a chaotic lunch and a busy afternoon, and we closed at 5:30 but didn’t get out till 6:30. We smoked out by the fountain after we closed, and a cute girl in a white blouse “totes checked me out.” Spent the evening hanging out around the house and listening to music. Funny how songs can “take you back”: Adele’s “Rolling in the Deep” and any Florence & The Machine take me back to winter and spring of this year: trips to Cincinnati multiple times a week, burning CDs for Jessica, liking Jessica, that whole situation going to hell. Good times.

Tuesday. I met up with Mandy K. at a Starbucks on Beechmont, just a handful of miles east of the city. We sat and talked for about 2 ½ hours. It was really good seeing her. The past coming to bear on the present. She told me all about Nick, why she broke up with him, the checkered layout of their many-month relationship. I don’t understand how a guy could be with Mandy and not treat her right. Absolutely boggles my mind. Amos and I had an easy close, and I went to The Anchor afterwards for coffee and journaling. When I got home, Mandy and I went across the Roebling bridge and parked outside the four-star Covington hotel and walked down to the river and sat by the monolithic base of the bridge and watched the fishing boats crawling up and down the river. When we got back, we hung out with Brandy, Amos, and Ams.

Wednesday. Had breakfast at The Anchor, worked out back at home, and Mandy, Amos and I went downtown. Amos and I worked and Mandy ran errands in Rob’s car. Dewenter came over for a while after class. Toured the house, met the crew. We played Mario-Kart just like old times, and we sat on the porch late into the night reflecting on how life is always in a state of change, and hardly ever can we know where it’s leading us. Hell, in our 412 days—even in my early C.C.U. days—I never would’ve imagined I’d be here, living with a community of friends, working with friends, being part of a badass coffee company, and pursuing my dreams in relative ease. There’s much to be thankful for. We talked about our dating lives (or lack thereof) and agreed that we’re done just fucking around (metaphorically-speaking) and that we’re waiting for the right person to come along. A person we can connect with, love and be loved by, and share our lives with. All failed relationships that didn’t harbor such things are nothing more than echoes and signposts pointing to a potential future that can be greater than anything I can imagine.

Thursday. Smoked a cigarette on the porch with Gambill, who arrived at the house just as I got out of bed. I made us a pour-over of FTO Mexico (weak and tasteless, probably old; but I also generally dislike Mexican beans). I did pilates, and then Amos and I went to work. There was a superhero convention or something, and we saw Iron Man walking outside our café. I attempted to flirt with a cute customer; it didn’t work out too well, but it’s a great story (perhaps for another time). Amos and I stayed late to give Rob a life home, and we spent the evening hanging out. Mandy got hammered on three shots of liquor and was running around like a pinball and then after she puked on the front porch—after telling us, “There’s no way I’m going to puke.”—things quieted down and she passed out. I love it when Mandy’s been drinking, seriously one of my most favorite things ever. And to complete the night, Nick made Reese’s Cups chocolate brownies.

Friday. I woke up to a quiet house. People nursing their hangovers. So glad drinking isn’t one of my vices. Smoked a morning cigarette—much thanks to Nick—and worked out. I ran by the bank and went to The Anchor for coffee and cottage cheese while doing some writing. I headed across the bridge and then went downtown and pulled my last shift of the week. Rob and I did training after work, and we had an enjoyable evening at home. The hookah was unfurled, and most everyone was in bed by midnight.

Saturday. I went to Dayton this afternoon to see Tyler. We sat on the front porch and smoked cigarettes like we used to do back in the day, and we had Subway for lunch and watched Netflix. He left and I took a nap, and Mom made cabbage soup for dinner. I headed back down to Cincinnati and spent the evening hanging out with the ragamuffins and misfits coming in through the front door. Much of the night was spent out at Gambill’s car, smoking cigarettes and talking with him and Ams. Rob joined us, too. Jessie came into town, and I visited her down in the basement. We talked about how marriage is going, and we reminisced on the Old Days. So much of that happening this week.

Sunday. Upon awakening, I made coffee for me and Isaac. John and his ex came by, and they took some coffee, too. Rob made more coffee, and I went to The Anchor and did some writing (with, you got it, coffee). When I got home, Amanda and I went to Kroger—Brother-Sister Time!—and then I reorganized my room and cleaned the front porch. Ams has gotten into this zombie-shooting game, it’s pretty top-notch, and we did that for a while. Did some writing throughout the afternoon, and come evening I hung out with Gambill, Mandy, Rob, and Ams on the front porch. Felt restless with much on my mind, so I went for a drive through Eden Park. When I got back Amos had made a fire and was putting a cup filled with lighter fluid into it, and when it ignited, the choking black smoke and towering flames threatened to engulf the Big Tree—oak? cedar? walnut? hell if I know. He, Ams, Gambill and I went to Skyline on Warsaw for dinner. Greek wrap with fries. Felt pretty tired, so I went to bed before everyone else.

An exciting week? Not so much.

But I got a lot of writing done, and that’s what excites me the most.

I’m such a weird little koala.

on nostalgia

This week has been filled with joyous reminiscing giving birth to a sort of painful nostalgia. It all began Tuesday when I met up with my old friend Mandy Kimes. It was so great talking with her, catching up, and sitting outside the café with her took me back to the days in spring 2009 when we’d sit outside the Hilltop or go to coffee shops and sit and talk about life and God and everything in between. Those days feel distant now, old memories that are beginning to yellow with the stains of time. While it was only 2 years ago, so much has happened between then and now—I’ve moved three times, for instance, and have been through a myriad of good and bad life experiences—that it feels like a primitive age. Jessie came into town last night, and we sat up tonight late into the night talking about the old times when she was dating Kyle (who’s now married) and then Justin (who’s now engaged), and how I was absolutely head-over-heels for our Thai friend Faikham and then how I forget the Asian for Mandy Kimes (see the circle I made there?). All those times, all but forgotten and living on through a handful of disjointed connections that I hope to remain un-severed. And if those times feel cryptic, reliving my high school “glory days” with one of my oldest friends, Dewenter, and then it looks like I’m remembering someone else’s life, or giving commentary on events from which I’m disconnected, some casual—albeit satirical—observer. Even the more recent times, like the spring and summer of 2010, feel distant, separated from me by a widening and unbridgeable gulf. Hanging out with Dylan and Tyler on the front porch, smoking our cigarettes and drinking our beers, going on long walks at the park and making trips to my work for free drinks, and then we’d sit on the patio and smoke the clove cigarettes Dylan got from some friend in Turkey.

All of these are different chapters in my life, some longer than others, all of them different in their own respects. Being a narrative kind of guy (hell, I practically get off by writing stories), I tend to view my life in narrative form. A “new chapter” in my life must meet a certain set of criterion, either internally (in who I am as a person) or externally (how the story has changed with a set of circumstances). These chapters are almost always set apart by sudden external events, or internal interpretations of them, and some are funny and others are sad. All are entertaining once the cloud has lifted. I’ve begun a new chapter in my life and have been becoming wholly wrapped up in it. Moving down to Cincinnati, reconnecting with old friends, living in community with people I love, and being part of a well-known and reputable coffee shop (rated Best in Cincinnati 2010, might I add). With the dawn of each new chapter, the preceding chapter feels a bit more distant, and the memories of those days fade and contort as the distance lengthens and as my reflections on those events become integral to the fabric of the events themselves. Life is constantly in a state of change—“How Life Can Turn,” one of my favorite songs (Appleseed Cast, look ‘em up)—but at the same time, there’s no such thing as “starting afresh” and “starting anew”: all the preceding chapters have led to the new chapter, and even if that chapter is to be about “a new beginning”, it is that and only that because of all those chapters leading up to it. Even so, when it comes to my own life story (and everyone else’s story, for that matter), the advent of a “new chapter” isn’t a rejection of the old but, rather, a growth from it (be it positive or negative). As distant those days may seem, they are integral to who I am today and where I’m at today. Tweak any of those days in even minor ways, and what’s real now may never—and probably never would’ve—come to be.

So here’s to Starting Anew.

Or, at least, to Keeping It Going.

journal entry - 8.18.11

Dreamt about "The Girl" for the first time in a long while. I dreamt we were dating and happy and laughing about how stupid both of us had been. When I woke up, I felt... Nothing. No sadness, no fantastical nostalgia, no missing of memories that were never made. Has she become just some haunting phantom from a different chapter in my life? Not yet; she hasn't become Sarah, out-of-sight and out-of-mind. Haven't seen her or talked to her in a few weeks; have made a few meager attempts, all of which fell through, and she hasn't tried to contact me, either. Really, I can't blame her: not only is she overwhelmed with her career, but the tempest of my departures plus all that happened post-May 4 has no doubt affected our relationship, so that any sort of friendship would forever breathe behind the mirror of what's happened. Perhaps the nature of what happened itself has simply forever changed our perceptions of each other, so that the only possible (forward) movement in our relationship would be, well, a relationship.

But that won't happen.

And I don't think either of us wants it to.

We had a good run. We were good for each other as close friends, but the immaturity of our friendship and the weight of what's happened may be just too much to bear. I don't expect things to change, in the sense of our friendship rejuvenating, or even--God help us--a relationship blossoming, and I'm wholly okay with that. Not because I dislike her, or am bitter, or anything like that; no, my disposition towards her is completely good-willed. Life has its seasons, and so do friendships; these seasons aren't bad, they just are, and all seasons have their highs and low. I'm moving forward in life, and so is she; and I hope her the best, as I know she does for me. Strangely, there is peace in this.

a sunset

The city fog certainly makes for beautiful sunsets. I went to The Anchor after work to do some writing, and on the way back the sun was setting beyond the western Kentucky hills and the river seemed to throb with the sun's last dying rays. Sadly I couldn't get a picture, but Mandy was irrevocably drawn to it as well and snapped a shot. And here it is.

the *eighth* week

A general lack of understanding regarding simple calendar observations has made me re:think this chronology multiple times. As of right now, I'm 100% sure that this is probably the eighth week (rather than the seventh). So come the end of this week (or the beginning? to hell with it) I've been living in Cincinnati for two months. It's been "baller shot caller" and I've been "making it rain."

Monday. A common morning ritual: a trip to The Anchor in Covington to write while having breakfast: eggs, toast, and a cup of coffee. A swift and simple meal. I worked out, showered, and worked 11-6:00 with Amos. Cat wore a sweater to work and looked like an Eskimo. Brandy, Blake, and Ams came in for drinks, so I took my break and Brandy and I smoked out by the fountain. A man who looked like a vampire may have turned into a bat (or fruit-fly) and bitten Brandy in the back of her leg. Amos and I lit up the hookah when we got home. “The Gambies” as Mandy calls them (John and Matt) came over for a while, and then Brandy’s ex John came over as well. His last name’s Gambill, too, so it’s all shot to hell. I guess Brandy and John are getting back together? We closed off the night with a tapestry of beers on the front porch: Killian’s, Magic Hat 9, Doghead. Definitely a good night.

Tuesday. We had a crazy day at work. On my way to the ghetto parking garage where I leave my Celica unattended and without care day after day, I spied Gambill across 4th street, and I darted across the road in my beast-run and rounded a corner to scare him half to death. Down 4th Street a bit I saw Mandy in the window of Fusian and sought to frighten her. Kelly, whose back wasn’t turned to me, saw me coming and alerted Mandy with darting eyes. I felt stupid and then visited with them for a bit before heading home. Gambill came over and we shared cigarettes on the front porch. He left and I went to Mount Adams for a while. Eden Park’s lovely at night. When I got back Nick, Kelly, and Jared were all over, and I visited with them for a bit before going to bed. Oh: Mandy was in an accident today, and her car’s totaled. Not an optimal situation.

Wednesday. Had a cycle at work, felt on the verge of tears, consumed with feelings of failure, self-loathing, emptiness and rottenness. And then it was gone. Like a switch had been flipped. Being bipolar can make life interesting at times, to say the least. Mandy and I spent some quality time together when I got home. Amos and I hung out in the basement and then I ran some errands and had a salad for dinner and then polished it off with a chocolate protein shake. Bolthouse Farms: get it. Mandy and I spent the evening hanging out in Amanda’s room. It’s so hot it’s miserable; and just two days ago it was cold in the morning. August isn’t over and autumn’s not yet here, but we’ll make do. Oh: Mandy quit her job at Fusian today. Too much drama.

Thursday. An average day at work followed by an average evening. Worked out, got a Bolthouse from Kroger on Warsaw—the Vanilla Latte, it’s decent—and smoked a cigar while driving up and down Route 50. Nick came over, and I made some coffee for us. Pour-overs. Fantasmic. Spent the evening just hanging out with the housemates, and Isaac’s newfound friends, some hipster band who has pretty good music and a cute lead singer—spent the night.

Friday. I was the first to rise from sleep, and so as not to waken our guests sleeping in the living room, I sped away to The Anchor to do some writing and drink coffee. A handful of annoying wanna-be bad-asses were making a ruckus in the diner, annoying the other two customers and driving the waitresses up a wall (who played into their foolish games so as not to lose a tip). I came home to find Mandy and Isaac making breakfast for the housemates and the band (End Times Spasm Band: look ‘em up). Scrambled eggs, grilled bacon, cinnamon rolls and ORANGE JUICE!!!! (Mandy knows what I’m talking about). After work I had training with Rob. Mandy’s knee is throbbing and making weird noises, has gotten worse since Rob hurt it by rolling over her in his sleep. She’s really run the gauntlet this week. Everyone was in bed around 11:00. Definitely a chill, low-key, uneventful Friday evening. I needed one of those. Noteworthy: I’m not doing Food Prep anymore (they’re bringing in a former employee from the Covington site), and I’ve been switched to full-time closer with Commodore Harvey. “I changed my job title from ‘barista’ to ‘beast-tamer’,” he said.

Saturday. Another perfect morning: breakfast at The Anchor while hustling through another chapter in “re:framing repentance”. Rob, Mandy, Amos and I grabbed sushi from Fusian for lunch, and then we made a brief stop by the Carew Tower Tazza Mia to visit and get drinks (for free, mind you: I’ll never grow old of this perk). Tyler came down for the evening, and a good handful of us hit up the Dewey’s Pizza in Clifton: Tyler and me, Rob and Mandy, and Amos. “Is this a local establishment? And I’m on my own check.” I was, am, and will forever be a social fuck-show. I had a ½ Billy Goat and ½ Edgar Allan Poe, polished off with an Old Scratch Ale. Mandy, Tyler and I went and saw Ryan’s new place right next to The Madison Theater in Covington, and Tyler and I ran through McDonald’s for some frozen strawberry lemonades. Apparently they give them to you pre-mixed; definitely thought it tasted too sharp and tart until Amanda used common sense to point out my error. “Oh, yeah, I can see why people would buy this.” I’m 70% sure a bird shit in my hair through the sunroof while Tyler and I were idling outside McDonald’s. Love it.

Sunday. I had a night terror—first in a long while—and woke up with a pounding heart and cold sweats. Couldn’t get back to sleep so I smoked my pipe on the front porch and watched the sunrise over the rooftops across the street. When Tyler woke up we went to The Anchor for breakfast, and we talked about prayer and spirituality for a good long while. To polish off the religious vibes, we went to the 2nd Service at University Christian Church. About eleven of us showed up to see Jamie Smith preach in his Australian accent and with merciless dry humor. But apparently U.C.C. doesn’t have a second service, and Mandy read the information wrong. Classic mix-up. Tyler headed home and I took a nap. Mom and Dad came down to help Amanda clean her old apartment (Sarah failed to clean, no surprise there), and afterwards all of us—Blake included, just trying to weasel his way into the Barnhart Family—went to Wendy’s for dinner. A monsoon storm threatened to break the windows and trees were knocked down all about the train yards. Went on a late-night drive. Do you ever have nights where everything’s a fog and you feel overwhelmed and stressed and unable to calm down? Yeah, had one of those nights. Not a big fan.

a dark night of the soul

The past few months have been what one could call a “dark night of the soul.” Such dark nights come in life, and they’re never the same. These are periods of testing and times of wrestling: wrestling with yourself, wrestling with the world, and wrestling with God. Although these dark nights of the soul are, by nature, the very opposite of fun, they often become benchmarks in the history of our faith. These dark nights of the soul carve lines upon our hearts, forever altering the way that we view the world. These dark nights, some filled with many tears and much cursing, become in time our greatest strengths, and through the ashes flowers can emerge. Sometimes, I believe, these dark nights of the soul come with the territory of living in the tension between Easter and Consummation, but sometimes, I equally believe, these dark nights come from the hand of God himself. C.S. Lewis called pain God’s megaphone to a deaf world; these dark nights of the soul can pierce our hearts, and we who have refused to be wakened are drawn from our sleep to face the realities which we so eagerly seek to dispel. The pain of these dark nights, to quote Lewis again, “removes the veil; it plans the flag of truth within the fortress of a rebel soul.” These dark nights can end in several different ways; there’s the route of cognitive dissonance, where the pain of the dark night doesn’t mesh with the way we perceive the world, and instead of dealing with the pain as it ought to be dealt with, we stick our heads in the sand like the ostrich and frolic in our own fantasy worlds. There’s the opposite help, of running swift and sure from the pain itself, leaping from one worldview to another worldview like a frog hopping lily-pad to lily-pad. The appropriate route is that of rebuilding, of wrestling and struggling through the dark night to come out forged into something—someone—better.

There have been several dark nights of my soul, and none have been the same. This past one has centered, essentially, on my inability—no, my hesitancy—to trust God. As I’ve been thinking and praying about this, I’ve been seeing again and again that the roots to this mistrust lie in both (a) my misinterpretation of past experiences and events, and (b) various insecurities (everyone has insecurities, and they affect us in different ways, and mine totally dovetail into the whole trusting God thing; but, alas for you, I’m not going to share these insecurities, because they’re not public domain). There’s quite likely demonic influence over this as well, though to what extent and how that’d play out, I’m not sure. I haven’t blogged on this much, mostly because it’s quite a private matter and because I’ve just been so damned busy, but I’ve been talking and praying with friends over this matter. This whole “trust freak-out” started sometime around the tail-end of winter, I think, slightly after I stopped dating Codename Elle. Everything with “The Girl” started up a bit later, and I pushed the whole trust thing to the side. Now I had something else to focus on, something else to work for. When that fell apart (as these things seem to do) I knew I had to face these issues head-on. I got scared and ran like a little pussy (pussycat, cat), losing myself in a host of other things and doing everything in my power to avoid the wrestling match. An old professor wisely told me, “If you’ve never wrestled with God, then perhaps you’ve never met.” I’ve wrestled with God. I’ve met him. And I didn’t want to do it again. But no matter how hard I tried to disengage from the Subject-@-Hand, God was there, his Spirit prodding and pulling, convicting and encouraging. Around this time Cincinnati became a definite reality, and because it was such a big decision, I decided to pray about it. I felt as if God were telling me, “Go,” but I didn’t know if this was just because I wanted to be down there or if it was legitimately God’s answer. I guess when you get to the point of doubting God answering prayers, you’re going to take any “answers” quite skeptically. I went to the doctor’s one day and the nurse, who’d never met me, told me out-of-the-blue that she knew I was a Christian, and that God sometimes talks to her, and she told me, in effect, that God wanted me in Cincinnati. I still don’t know how all that works out, but I ended up moving to Cincinnati and have been here for two months. And how has that been going, at least on the spiritual level?

Quite good, actually. There are people down here much wiser than me, people who have been encouraging me in these things and who have themselves been walking alongside me on these dark roads. There’s been much prayer, meditation, scripture-reading, lots of wrestling. And it’s damned good wrestling: the kind that exhausts you but makes you energized at the same time. “First Match” kind of wrestling. God is showing me many things about my personhood and life, and I’m “returning to my roots” so-to-speak (and so-to-speak is important here, because there are convictions, beliefs, etc. of my earlier days that I now see to be completely ludicrous and unsubstantiated).

Has trusting God become second nature to me? No. And really, the hesitancy is still there. These insecurities and misperceptions, these wounds, they go deep, and I see now that any attempts at invasive self-surgery will just lead to self-mutilation. Some things we are virtually powerless to change, but God takes hearts of stones and makes from them hearts of flesh. No one can top that. I am tiptoeing along the great chasm of trust, with the wind in my sails and my heart hammering behind my ribs. The call to trust God isn’t a call to figure everything out, to make sense of all the chaos and confusion, to come to a point where we can 100% put our trust in God. The call to trust is a call to decide to trust, and the trust that we’re called to embrace is a ruthless trust, a trust embraced as we launch into the unknown with fear and trembling, making a decision of the will to trust God and pursue his will no matter come what may. That’s the kind of trust that God’s looking for, not a 100% devoted kind of trust.

And if you know anything about my theology, you know that devotion to God is a big deal to me. I believe it’s the quintessential essence both of faith and of loving God. Devotion, loyalty, allegiance to God: that’s what God demands of his prized image-bearing creatures. But I’m also a realist, and I know that sometimes—if not much of the time—our trust can be weak, our devotion can be flimsy, and it’ll never be “perfect” (to use a Hellenistic ideal which I find repulsive, to say the least). But even the littlest trust can move mountains. Looking back at all the heroes of the Bible and even to the saints of the last centuries, and what do we see? Delve into their deep and personal inner lives, and we find there sprinklings of doubt and mistrust, of self-preservation over against loyalty to God. We’ve all done it, do it, and will do it, usually in the littlest and most unseen ways. But we shouldn’t get all guilt-ridden because of it; it’s a matter-of-fact that the current state of the world, coupled with the human condition, make the doctrine of “sinless perfection” an impossibility. The fact of the matter is that we’re made of dirt, and God knows that; we’re not yet glorified, and God doesn’t expect us to be. Abraham passed off his wife as his sister; King David said, “To hell with it,” and took the census; Jeremiah almost lost his prophetic office. All three of these individuals are held up as heroes of the faith, and we see in their own lives the doubt, the mistrust, the self-preservation. Are we to self-flagellate ourselves because we’re not better than them? Damn. That’s a road I don’t want to walk, because there’s no end in sight. My point being: God doesn’t expect me to have a rock-solid trust, he expects me to get off my ass and move in the right direction, and he’s promising to be there every step of the way.

So that’s where I’m at right now.

There’s more to the story, but not less.

I’ll be sure to keep everyone updated on how things pan out.

discombobulation

And now some randoms. Current events in my life that have failed to make themselves into fully-fledged posts.

(1) Things at Spring Valley continue to become crazier and crazier. Not only has Jessica moved to Brown Street as the ASM, but Faith left the store and the store’s now under new management. And in the mere month since I left, there have been handfuls of other people quitting or putting in their two weeks notices. The store is entering quite a chaotic phase, and at least two people blame it on me (jokingly, of course) since I was the first to go. “I just saw what was on the horizon and said, ‘To hell with this,’” I reply; “And, besides, Wade left before me. Blame him.” Ha. Spring Valley was a great place to work, but with so many people leaving and with Faith gone, and with my only reason to really stay in Dayton gone to, well, Dayton itself, I feel confirmed again and again in the conviction that moving to Cincinnati was the best idea.

(2) I haven’t bought a pack of cigarettes in a week. It’s a good first step (or at least a first step) towards quitting smoking. Already, even with buying the occasional cigar and smoking my pipe, I’ve saved about thirty-five dollars. I don’t need to run to the bank anymore, and I can just exist off tips made at work. Once I get caught up with paying Sallie Mae, I’ll be able to shove some moneys away. The next step is to get down to just two black-&-milds a day, and then to one, then to… Well, you know. Half, obviously. But then none. That’s my plan, and I’m sticking with it. Phase 2—two black-&-milds a day—begins this week. We’ll see if I can’t pull this off by 2012.

(3) I’ve got new glasses, and they’re baller shot caller. They were cheap. They’re simple. And they don’t have nose-guards (I’ve always hated those things). Both Mandy and Amanda are absolutely in love with them, and I like them, too. They make me look older, more mature. I look like a kid without them (and half the time with them), so I’ll take anything I can at this point. And, besides, my eyes are getting a rest from the contacts.

(4) “You look like a writer in those sunglasses,” John said. I’ve been steadily working through “re:framing repentance,” tweaking and reshaping it as the 2nd draft. I’ve already got a handful of people willing to read through and edit the 2nd draft, leaving comments and concerns and questions and all that stuff on the margins. I’ll go through the 3rd rough draft and then seek publication. There are two routes to go with it, and I’ll probably go the path most tread.

(5) Spiritually, things have been on the upswing for me these last couple weeks. There’s a lot to it, and expect blog posts on it within the month, but right now let’s just suffice it to say that I wasn’t in a great place, but God’s been clearing the fog from my lenses and has been helping me see things anew. This in turn is giving me great hope, peace, and joy; but not without the knowledge that (a) I must own up to my own mistakes and stop making God an ethereal scapegoat for my screw-ups and (b) there’s much that remains to be done in my own repentance. One might scoff, saying, “One who is wrestling through repentance is also writing a book on the subject? How hypocritical!” Perhaps, but let’s all be honest here: sanctification is progressive, and it’s not linear; and repentance—and I mean true repentance—is always a struggle. Everyone struggles with repentance, there’re just those who’ll fess up to it and thus who gloss over it best they can. Much has been contributing to this spiritual “revitalization,” not least being here in Cincinnati around people who love God and are passionate about his kingdom. Back in Dayton I didn’t have people in my life daily who could challenge and encourage me, and I have that here. This place, it’s like good soil: much can grow here.

the sixth week

How to describe the past week? I’ll spell it out: P-A-R-T-Y-!!!!. Not one big party, really, but we had a series of impromptu parties and two scheduled parties (Mandy’s surprise birthday party, and Hartman and Megan’s wedding reception) at the house.

Monday. Broke out the week with a bout of pilates before my closing shift with Commodore Harvey. When we got home I found a little present from Mandy in the oriental box beside my bed, and Amos and Isaac and I enjoyed it in the basement. It’s the little things, you know? This was Mandy’s 23rd birthday, and we—me, Amanda, Mandy, and Nick—celebrated it with an impromptu and relaxed party in Amanda’s decked-out room. “It’s so feminine I’m getting wet just being in here.” Mandy’s way of saying “I like how you decorated this room.”

Tuesday. Decent day at work, made $23 in tips plus a random Rock Bottom Brewery gift card. Ran some errands after work (i.e. picked up two packs of Killian’s) and around 5:30 people started showing up for Mandy’s surprise birthday party. She flipped her shit when we surprised her, went into micro-spasms and sprawled against the wall like a terrified tree frog. The evening was spent hanging out with all sorts of great people, close friends coming together to celebrate. The night closed off with a Cuban cigar on the front porch. Another storm came through. Lightning in the clouds. People left their houses to watch as the wind tore the leaves from the trees. No rain came, though. How strange?

Wednesday. Beautiful day in the 70’s. Mandy and I made an impromptu trip to Northside to visit her friend from Findley Market. I forget her name, but she was pretty awesome. Black culture to the max, brilliant and witty, starting her own business and struggling to get through life. We sat on her patio and talked about farming, which has apparently been a big deal as of late. Isaac himself is trying to purchase some land and grow some orchards or at least have a self-sufficient garden. Another night spent on the front porch smoking backwoods cigars and watching the sunset turn the clouds into orange ribbons cutting across the horizon and pushing through the trees.

Thursday. After work I ran up to Dayton to see Carly a bit. Went into Spring Valley where Faith was working her last shift before moving to Oregon, where she’ll be managing a different store in Salem. It was good to get to say bye. Carly and I went to Grant Park and walked the trails and played in the shallow drought-smoldered pools. A crayfish tried to attack Carly’s feet. We parted ways after another visit to Spring Valley, and I went by the house to see Mom, Dad, and Sky. Grandma’s in town there, too, so I got to see her. I enjoyed the drive back to Cincinnati and spent the evening hanging out with Brandy, Amos, Ams and Mandy.

Friday. Eggs and toast for breakfast after my early-morning workout. I closed 600 with Amos, and then Rob and I had training. I took an iced soy mocha with me to Fountain Square and did some writing. Returning home, I found Blake and Gambill shirtless. We played guitar—“Write a serenade for Brandy!” Blake exclaimed, so I did—and then there was an impromptu party around the hookah. Amos, Andy, Nick, his pale Jared, Mandy, Ams, Blake and me. It was pretty great. I crawled through a bedroom window—sneaky cats!—and went for an equally-impromptu drive into Indiana, delving into foreign yet tempting optimistic hopes and resilient dreams.

Saturday. I woke up to find Josh and Isaac passed out on the sofas. I did some shopping in Clifton, and cleaned my room and did some laundry. We had a not-so-impromptu-but-equally-satisfying party (err, reception) for Hartman and Megan’s wedding. That’s when things got crazy, I mean outta control. Not in a bad way, just in a “hey” way. Lots of great—albeit unhealthy—food (it’s a wedding, though), and there was a keg and people were getting trashed. The first puker came early, and only after a beer, one shot, and a cigar. I left around 10:00 to go on a drive, this time ending up at Mount Adams, the hilltop swarming with partygoers. Things at the house had calmed down by the time I got back, and the stragglers all hung out in the basement till 4 in the morning when the rains came, and I was the last person asleep because I spent another forty minutes on the front porch smoking my pipe and watching the rains.

Sunday. Started the morning off right: a trip to The Anchor where I smoked my pipe and continued slowly tumbling through the 2nd draft of “re:framing repentance”. Breakfast: a cup of coffee, runny eggs, and buttered toast. At 1:30 I met Mom at the Cincinnati Premium Outlets off 75 for a much-needed eye appointment. I came out of it with new glasses and new contacts on the way. Amanda joined us, and we—Mom, Dad, Grandma, Ams and I—had lunch/dinner at IHOP. This time: a spinach-and-mushroom omelet with three buttermilk pancakes. Much laughter around the table. When I got back to the house, I spent the evening hanging out with Rob and Brandy. Mandy went over to Nick’s with Ams and she came home drunk and then passed out. It took me back to the “good ol’ days” of 2009 (which really weren’t that great) when we used to drink several nights a week and then pass out.

Is it safe to say that I'm tired of partying? Yes.

Is it safe to say that I'm looking forward to partying this Saturday? Yes.

Because Tyler will be here. And you never know what to expect with him.

mount echo

There are places around Cincinnati that hold great meaning to me. This meaning isn't "built in" but acquired through years of experiences and memories that have been forged in these places. Mount Echo is one of them. I always speak quite fondly of the park, but truth be told, it's nothing especially great. I just went there a lot because it was close to where I lived and now live (five minutes away, at the most). There are certainly better parks in Cincinnati: Eden Park, Mount Aries, Ault Park, I could go on. But Mount Echo retains a fondness in my heart. 

During my freshman year of college, my friends and I would go out there with paintball guns. We'd play a game called "lost boy" where one of us (usually me, because I actually preferred the role) would play a kid lost in the woods being hunted down by deranged lunatics. We'd run around through the woods shooting at each other with paintballs. It was during one such escapade that I found an overgrown path winding through a dead apple orchard to a hobo camp. Lots of mattresses and chairs strewn around, sleeping bags and the like. It was picturesque, too, set midst a field of wildflowers. I'd also spend a considerable amount of time there alone: after my O.T. History class, I'd get a chai from the Hilltop (this is before I did my three-year stint there) and go to a log just lying in the woods and sit there smoking cloves and drinking my vanilla chai. Other times I'd park at the overlook and smoke cigars. Grenadiers, usually. I'd smoke and just look out at the city and feel all the hope about finding a great girl, going into ministry, having a family. Old dreams that died hard but died nonetheless.

Come sophomore year of college, I entered a depressed stage where I'd go there and smoke my cigars and wonder why life pans out the way it does. I dated Julie during this time, and we went to the bridge scarred with the carved initials of long-lost lovers and I dared to hope that our love wasn't lost but found and to never be lost. But I was a hopeless romantic--icky, I know--and reality taught me a different lesson. I said "fuck it" and quite literally did so, losing my virginity in a quiet patch of flowers in the woods and returned home with mud on my kneecaps and spoiling my shirt and shorts. We'd go there a lot to have sex before the whole relationship spiraled out of control.

Junior year, I'd go there with my next girlfriend, Karen. We were going to get married, and at the park we'd dream about the future, we'd try to put all the pieces together. That relationship didn't last, and I spent the rest of Junior year practically absent the park. My visits to the park steadily decreased over the next two years, but recently I've been going there a lot more often. It's an excellent place for prayer and meditation, for wrestling with God and also with yourself. Wrestling with God, I think, is always done best in places of nostalgia. 

sunsets and cigars

And backwoods, at that. 

I'm doing this new thing, propelled both my Mandy's incessant nagging and Mom's promise to give me $200 come Christmas if I'm successful, where I'm trying to quit smoking. I've made several attempts in the past, all to no avail. I've tried cold turkey and I've tried weaning off. I have tons of nicorette lying in the shadows waiting to shine, relics of older attempts. But this time I have a plan. Step One? Quit smoking cigarettes. So I've stopped buying the cigarettes, but I'll smoke maybe 1-2 black-and-mild cigars a day. So I'm not quitting smoking at this point, just moving past the need to light up a small cigarette at certain points in the day. 

And what's Step 2?

I'm not really sure, as I'm sorta making this up as I go.

But, still, not having a cigarette for three days now is pretty baller.

the fifth week

It was a decent week. Not as exciting as the last, but good nonetheless. 

Monday. Amos and I worked 11:30-6:00. I lifted weights and had an egg and toast beforehand. A smooth close, no hurdles to jump. We went back to the house and hung out in the basement, and I had a salad for dinner. Mandy and I hung out for a while, and then Blake and I went over to Brandy's--well, where she's dog-sitting--and hung out with her on the back patio. No noodles spilled this time. I returned home to chocolate-covered bananas wrapped in Oreo icing. Hells yeah. And today Jessica was officially promoted to A.S.M. at Brown St. Pretty exciting.

Tuesday. An easy 7:30-3:00. Even got out early. Mandy, Amanda and I ran errands all afternoon. At Target I got a pair of shorts, some no-show socks for work, and two shirts Mandy and Ams picked out for me. T.J. came over for Mandy's surprise birthday party (which is actually next Tuesday, so we just played Halo 2 in the basement, and then I hung out with him, Gambill, and Ams for a while on the front porch. 

Wednesday. At 8:00 the sky got eerily dark. Sirens were blaring, the trees were bent over, people running across the street to get inside. The lightning of the encroaching storm reflecting in the skyscraper windows. I picked up Mandy from Fusian after work, and then I gave Brandy a ride to the Journey concert in Fort Wright. The ten-mile trip to 1 1/2 hours because of concert traffic. Ridiculous. Spent the evening hanging out with Rob.

Thursday. After work my friend Matt and I went to The Anchor for coffee, chess, and cottage cheese. I'm a "C" kick, apparently. What can I say? Other than, "Damned shame it's 'koala' and not 'coala'--but then everyone would think we lived in the south pole with polar bears because they'd read it as 'cola' which would irrefutably lead to the coke commercials with polar bears when they were hip and cool, and people are stupid and think polar bears live in Antarctica. Polar bears live at the north pole. Aside: I really hope I'm right about the polar bear locale, or I'll look like quite the fool... After I dropped Matt off, I did some writing and had a salad for dinner. Nick came over and made an amazing cherry pie. And I generally loathe cherries. They remind me of the sleeping medicine they gave me during my childhood penis surgeries. Yeah, not the fondest memories.

Friday. Amos and I worked 11:30-6:00. Rob and I had training at Carew till 6:30. I was a fuck show and kept forgetting to bring the right filters. At least the two stores are only two blocks away from each other, and it's a quick koala-hustle back and forth. Kicked off the weekend with some Great Lakes Dortmunder Gold with Pat D. at his new place in Fort Thomas. We picked up the beers from Party Source and watched an old movie we made in high school and he made breaded chicken for dinner. Definitely felt pretty buzzed by the time I got home. I planned on going to bed but caught up in Amos' shit and then hung out with T.J., and Gambill bought a 1/3 pack of cigarettes from me. "I refuse to buy a pack," he says. Yeah, we'll see how long that lasts.

Saturday. Ran to Dayton this morning to pick up a few things and to clean out my car. It was good seeing Mom and Dad. Sky flipped her shit when I pulled up. Returned to Cincinnati and wrestled with where to get lunch. Subway? Chipotle? Golden Kitty? Sebastian's? Thai Taste? Yes, I generally go for ethnic foods when I'm picking it up. I ended up going to Sebastian''s, haven't had Greek since Dylan and I went to Gyro Palace in Dayton before his launch-off to Mozambique. "How's he doing?" He's doing great, getting sworn in at the Ambassador's mansion this weekend, and then working in remote jungle villages with World Vision, working with kids who have AIDS. Or something like that. So I brought my gyro and Greek salad back to the house and for dessert I enjoyed a cigar at Mount Echo just five minutes up the road. Blake and I hung out for a while, and I did some writing, and then Mandy and I went to Kroger at like 11:00 for groceries. The rest of the night was spent in the company of Rob, Blake, Amos, Andy, and Kyle. Kyle and I shared our Courtney woes, and Andy and I shared how we were fucked over by Jessica C., who's married now and pregnant. 

Sunday. Woke up at 4:30 A.M. to a violent storm shaking the house. Sat on the front porch in the dead of night with the world lit up with lightning and thunder the overture. Spent the morning hanging around. Worked out and went to The Anchor for lunch, then made a bank run to Delhi. Rob, Amos and I went to Findley Market to see Mandy. I ended up selling basil, still not sure how that happened. Amos and I perused the market while Rob and Mandy did their own thing. Around 4:00 Cat came over, and so did Josh. Amos broke out the hookah with champagne in the bottom and we drank Killian's Irish Red and smoked. C. Isaac is back from Montana, where he helped out with a church plant, and we went to The Anchor (The Anchor twice in one day? Yes please!), where Rob, Ams, and John Gambill joined us. Spent the evening hanging out on the front porch smoking cigarettes.

So, again: not an exciting week, but a good one.

Got to spend a lot of good time with lots of good people.

And being with friends, that's kind of a big deal to me.

an INFP koala (V)

"And though we’re not detail-oriented details, when it comes to those things we’re passionate about, we’re intricately detailed, covering every possible nook and cranny in our attention to detail, as we strive with determination and vigor to reach our goal. This attention to detail doesn’t spill out into the mundane details of life maintenance; we’re literally unaware of such things. It’s not uncommon to go months without noticing a stain on the carpet, but we’ll carefully and meticulously brush a speck of dust off our current project."

To be honest, I often feel out-of-place working jobs where details are key. Thankfully there aren’t too many details to keep track of at Tazza Mia, so I’ve been doing a pretty decent job. But if I were to find myself in a job where, so-to-speak, “the devil’s in the details,” I’d fail miserably. Give me details and I’ll be confused; give me abstract theories, and I’ll excel. If I care about something—truly, deeply care—then I’ll be a detail Nazi. When it comes to books I’m working on, or back when I was in ministry sermons I was writing, details were key. Cleanliness isn’t something I’m too good at; just as Mandy. I’m getting much, much better since 2009, when it really hit the fan, but I still miss things at times. Jelly on the wall, spaghetti on the ceiling, forgetting where I put stuff all the time. My brain isn’t hard-wired to think about these things, but through positive and negative reinforcement, and akin to Pavlov’s Dog, I’m coming around. To close off this little segment into which I put little heart, here’s another excerpt which hits the nail on the head:

"What we lose in social finesse, we make up with creative articulation. Despite being awkward and uncomfortable at verbally expressing ourselves, we have this innate ability to define and express what we’re feeling on paper, and thus the majority of INFPs are talented writers."

Creative articulation? Check.

Being awkward and uncomfortable at verbally expressing myself? Check.

Talented writer? Check.

Be as skeptical as you want about “personality profiles,” but mine describes me down to a “T”. INFP all the way! Google search personality profiles and find your own, then google search your personality and find all sorts of information on it. Very enlightening. It’s like someone saying, “Hey, this is how you are, even though you don’t know it,” and though you disagree, you come around, saying, “Oh, yeah, I guess you’re right. I never realized I was like that!” Cool stuff.

an INFP koala (IV)

"Although stand-offish, non-social, and often awkward in big groups of people or with people we don’t know, with those we do know and love, we’re very warm and friendly, so-much so that we go at great lengths to avoid any conflict that threatens the safety and comfort of the relationship."

The last two INFP traits I looked at in my own life are more internally focused than outwardly focused. In other words, you don’t actually see that part of me. But when it comes to how I actually operate in the world, my INFP personality shines. I’m shy and timid, apprehensive about friendships but, once a friendship is established, I am very open, honest, and “real” around these people. I have lots of acquaintances, many friends, and even fewer “best friends”—those people you connect with on a deep level, where you can be yourself and be loved in spite of your awkward comments and social blunders. “Warm and Friendly” is a good descriptor of our dispositions towards those people we love, and we take our relationships very seriously. We thrive in harmony and detest disharmony. We loathe drama and try to keep it from affecting our friendships. When we feel the friendship is threatened, we will literally do everything within our power to keep the harmony alive. This is all good and well, but there comes times when we fight for a friendship that we don’t even want. Disharmony is so hated that we strive for harmony in friendships we don’t even want to be in, and we fight to keep the friendship when (a) we lose nothing if the friendship dissolves and (b) we gain nothing if the friendship remains intact.

an INFP koala (III)

"

"[We] rely on our feelings to guide us, and we use our discovers along the way to constantly search for value in life. Our search for truth and meaning underlying everything means that we’ll take every encounter and every piece of knowledge, sift them through our worldview, and evaluate how these new discoveries define or redefine our life-paths. Thus our worldviews are constantly changing, often in dramatic ways, but always in a way that goes back to how we feel about ourselves, others, the world, and God."

When it comes to constructing our worldviews, we let the construction project spill out from the foremen of our feelings. The events of our lives, interpreted through our acquired set of lens, will take on great meaning not by virtue of themselves but by virtue of having been sifted through the grid of our worldview. What this means “from the outside” is that a relatively simple, straightforward event can rise to the heights in our mind, encompassing about itself all sorts of meanings and values, and these events (which most people may very well nonchalantly forget) because cornerstones and turning-points in how we perceive our life story. The greatest events in my life thus far aren’t great by virtue of how they actually were but because I’ve attached so much meaning, interpretation, and feeling to them, and allowed them to guide my thinking and living.

Our worldviews are built up like an onion, layers of interpretation upon interpretation. When a deeper interpretation—upon which many other interpretations rest—becomes jeopardized by a change-of-heart on our end or something in our lives advocating a different interpretation, our worldviews will dramatically shift. Everything has to be reinterpreted, and these reinterpretations invariably lead to a change of praxis (how we live our lives). Thus it’s not uncommon to find an INFP in 2009 living a very distinct way, and then finding them again in 2012 living in a completely different way, because even in three years, we can undergo radical paradigm shifts in our thinking, and the way we perceive the world (our worldviews) always and without fail directly affect how we live our lives.

an INFP koala (II)

Deep down, we’re focused on making the world a better place. We’re constantly on the search for our purpose in life, for the meaning of our existence, and this search—which can be agonizing, enlightening, and burdening—can never be made close to complete if there’s no greater aim for the greater good.


This is really a post for another time, so I’ll keep it brief. This need to have a mission, and the need to have a mission that is outwardly-focused, consumes all INFPs without regard. We can’t just live to have fun. We can’t just be casual. We can’t just have the happy-go-lucky, let-come-what-may, life-is-too-short so have-a-good-time mental paradigm. Any attempt to embrace such a paradigm leaves us restless, breathless, and confused. We’re like a square trying to fit into a circular hole. So long as we have no mission, and so long as this mission isn’t outwardly-focused, we’ll never experience any sort of contentment. This period of struggling feels like limbo: it’s stagnation, it’s wasting time, it’s withering and shrinking and bloating and putrefying. As we wrestle with our “calling” or “vocation” or whatever the hell you want to call it (interesting, isn’t it, that the vast majority of INFPs—although the group is rare as a whole—are consumed with “callings” on their life?), we’ll feel restless and anxious, a constant sense of unease about us; but when we finally “discover” our vocation, and engage it wholeheartedly, there’s to be found great peace and great success, as Part I showed. And honestly, I know this period of wrestling quite well because I’m there right now. And how envious am I of those who can adopt that nonchalant, carefree attitude? You’ve no idea. I’d kill for that.

an INFP koala (I)

I’m usually in my own little world of fantasy, illusion, and delusion, and it’s gotten me in a lot of trouble sometimes, because we INFPs have the tendency to illogically take all these fantasies and delusions and thrust them into how we actually live our lives. I’m constantly in my head, entertaining ridiculous hopes and dreams, imagining things big and small, my mind a powerhouse of creativity where I spin all sorts of wild and untamed myths. I then let these myths, these misconceptions and misperceptions, avoid the scrutiny of logic and to flow out into my relationships, often with disastrous results. Not that all this is bad: idealistic fantasizing paves the way to much risk-taking and gambit-running, often with great payouts.

And although we’re stuck in our heads, don’t think we’re egotistical. We’re not. Deep down we’re focused on making the world a better place for people. We’re constantly on the search for our purpose in life, for the meaning of our existence, and this search—which can be agonizing, enlightening, and even burdening—can never be made close to complete if there’s no greater aim for the greater good. Once we figure out the path we’re going to take, we set out with idealistic ideals and a perfectionist attitude. We set goals, we achieve them. We strive and fight and we make things happen. These goals will almost always be focused on bettering the world in some way or another, and the emphasis won’t be upon the Self but upon others. Were it to be any other way, the idealistic and outwardly-focused INFP would be miserable, and thus self-seeking dreams only lead away from any sort of self-fulfillment.

We’re highly intuitive about people. That is to say, we gauge all our relationships and interactions with people largely dependent on our feelings towards them. We’ll befriend people we feel comfortable with, and we’ll keep people at hand’s length whom we don’t feel comfortable with. All of this is due to our feelings and feelings alone. Feelings aren’t just limited to our social interactions; we rely on our feelings to guide us, and we use our discoveries along the way to constantly search for value in life. Our search for truth and meaning underlying everything means that we’ll take every encounter and every piece of knowledge, sift them through our worldview, and evaluate how the new discoveries define or redefine our life-path. Thus our worldviews are constantly changing, often in dramatic ways, but always in a way that goes back to how we feel about ourselves, others, the world, and God. Nevertheless, the changing worldviews and the consequent life-goals are always connected with the golden thread of wanting to make the world a better place.

So we have these inwardly-focused, feeling-oriented and feeling-guided people who want to understand themselves and their world and then make themselves and their world a better place. In relationships we’re usually thoughtful and considerate, and we’re good listeners who put people at ease. We’re very shy and timid when it comes to expressing our emotions, but we have a deep well of caring and are genuinely interested in understanding others. Our sincerity is sensed by others, and the result is that those who become close to an INFP find a valued friend and confidant. Although stand-offish, non-social, and often awkward in big groups of people or with people we don’t know, with those we do know and love, we’re very warm and friendly, so-much so that we go at great lengths to avoid any conflict that threatens the safety and comfort of the relationship. When unable to dodge the conflict, when forced to confront it head-on, we always do so (no surprise) from the basis of our feelings. Who’s right and who’s wrong are of little concern. Our position in the conflict is determined by how we feel about the conflict itself. Because of this, when we’re in the middle of the conflict, our decisions will often be irrational and illogical. Quite surprisingly, though, we’re excellent mediators and good at solving other people’s conflicts, because (a) we’re all about making the world better place, (b) conflict-resolving is a big part of that, and (c) in that position we can approach it from a logical position, while keeping intact our attention to peoples’ perspective and feelings and genuinely wanting to help them. Essentially, so long as the conflict doesn’t involve us, we’re logical and rational; but when the conflict involves us, our feelings become intimately involved, and we become irrational and illogical.

We’re flexible and laid-back, at least until something or someone we love or value is violated. In the face of this, we become aggressive defenders. When our worldviews and life-goals come under attack, we fight passionately for our cause. Quiet, shy, reclusive, we’re surprisingly violent and aggressive when that which we love is threatened. How often have you heard about the quiet, nice guy who snapped? We’re not talking about psychos going off the handle, but people you’d never expect standing up and taking action aggressively.

Our main focus isn’t “daily living” so much as “living daily” for a cause. Everything not directly related to that cause gets sidelined. When we adopt a project or job we’re interested in, or when we embrace a particular “calling” that we feel in our lives, we chalk it up as a cause. And though we’re not detail-oriented details, when it comes to those things we’re passionate about, we’re intricately detailed, covering every possible nook and cranny in our attention to detail, as we strive with determination and vigor to reach our goal. This attention to detail doesn’t spill out into the mundane details of life maintenance; we’re literally unaware of such things. It’s not uncommon to go months without noticing a stain on the carpet, but we’ll carefully and meticulously brush a speck of dust off our current project. Our dedication to our project ends up with us being hard on ourselves, never giving ourselves much credit. We prefer to work solo—“we’re lone wolves, bitches!”—rather than with others, because (a) our standards are likely to be higher than everyone else’s, and (b) we often have “control” problems. One of our biggest struggles is balancing our high ideals with daily living; without resolving this conflict, we’ll never be happy with ourselves, and we’ll often become confused and paralyzed about what to do with our lives.

What we lose in social finesse, we make up with creative articulation. Despite being awkward and uncomfortable expressing ourselves verbally, we have this innate ability to define and express what we’re feeling on paper, and thus the majority of INFPs are talented writers. When it comes to professions, many INFPs are drawn to counseling or teaching. We shine like the stars when we’re working for the betterment of the world. INFPs have a greater ability than most to accomplish great and wonderful things, which we’ll rarely give ourselves credit for.

the 4th week

If anything, last week was a pretty good week. Re:caps!

Monday. Worked 6-1:30. Amos is at our store now, closing nearly every night. Which means I get to work with him every day. Baller shot collar. The whole house ended up at Tazza Mia by the time I got off work. Blake, Amanda, and Mandy came in for lunch with the girls, and even Andy and the Sulzener's came in. Rob, Amos and I were working. I hung out with them for a bit after work, then spent the evening writing and hanging out with Blake, Brandy, and Amos. Nick came over and made dinner and dessert. This time: bourbon-fried banana over caramelized vanilla ice cream.

Tuesday. I went downtown early and sat out on the square drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette, and watching the pigeons. I worked till 3:00, and Amanda and I hung out for a while. Mandy took the girls to King's Island, and I spent the evening hanging out with Rob.

Wednesday. Mom picked up Sky since she and Dad are back from New York. She came into work to see me, I liked that. After work I got in an excellent upper body workout and did some pilates. Feels great to be getting back into that routine. The evening was spent in the company of Rob and Amos, then I switched sides of the house and hung out with Mandy and Sarah C. At 10:00 Amos and I went to a house Brandy's sitting on Glenway. T.J., Mandy, and Amanda joined us. We sat outside under the smoggy stars for two hours smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. We went inside and read through some journals I brought, and strangely enough, the first one Brandy read was about my college crush on her. The only entry I ever made in regards to the matter. What luck. 

Thursday. Somehow I hurt my eye overnight, probably a result of going to town (wrestling, mind you) with Amos at Brandy's the night before. Nevertheless, my first closing shift was spent in agony. I couldn't focus, couldn't stop tearing up, the pain was unbearable (my eyes are watering now just remembering it). When I got home I took a long nap, had a peanut butter sandwich for dinner, and then went straight back to bed after guzzling Nyquil.

Friday. My eye felt much better. Still sucked not having any depth perception and seeing double half the time (could only wear one contact). Amos and I closed together, and then I had training with Rob. We spent the evening smoking hookah with Rob, Blake, Andy, and even T.J. showed up.

Saturday. Helluva busy day. Ran some errands, made a stop in Clifton, and then Amos, Blake and I went downtown for coffee and paychecks at Carew Tower, and then I grabbed lunch at Soho Sushi. Damn: Fusian. I'll get that right one of these days. Brian Walker came over for a while, and Jobst made a surprise visit. I tried putting in a contact and it worked. Eye feels fine now. I went for a drive and then we had The Cupping here at the house. A variety of Asian/Pacific Blends. The Saffron was unbelievably good. This was Rob's wet dream come to life, and he had everything set up for it hours in advanced. Some grade-A people came by for it. Gambill came over, and we sat on the front porch smoking cigarettes and drinking coffee. Mandy and I ran to Kroger (for orange juice, of course). Mandy, Ams, Amos and I hung out in the basement after the cupping crowd left, and Blake even joined us for a little while. Most of us didn't get to bed till 3-4:00 in the morning.

Sunday. Did some writing in the morning, ran to the bank in Delhi to deposit my check, and then watched movies all afternoon. Lunch from Subway. Mandy, Blake, Amos, Ams and I went to the Summit View pool. A security guard demanded our pool passes. Mandy threw him off on some wild goose chase to Apartment D108 (or 108D? God, you can never remember that), and we got the hell out of there. I've never seen Mandy go from a Point A (the pool) to her car (Point B) so fast. Mandy and Amanda fixed breakfast for dinner--eggs, bacon, biscuits and gravy, and fried green tomatoes--and I hung out with Amos and Josh for a while, then went to the porch to smoke with Gambill and Mandy. We ended the night with a trip to Brandy's, where I spilled an entire box of elbow macaroni across the floor and even into the stove.

Hey, it's the beginning of August.

Which means this heat's about to get real.

I already can't stand being soaked in sweat.

Mayhaps this will be a long summer? *sigh*