the 18th week

Monday. Mandy K. and I made breakfast in the lodge and then went to the other side of the lake and climbed Judson Tower and checked out the "chapel car" and went tree-climbing on a peninsula. We picked up her friend Krystal and then picked up her daughter Lily, and we saw them off back where Krystal's staying. We had a hole-in-the-wall Chinese buffet for lunch. It was pretty ghetto, definitely a memory. She showed me her favorite spot in Ripon before we went back to camp. We grabbed the golf-cart and loaded it up with kayaks and went out on Green Lake. I took a picture, and it's the one at the top of this post. We went down by the lake and talked for a while as we watched the last of the sunset. At 7:30 we went and had brownies and coffee with Paul and his wife. "A+!" she exclaimed as we left. "Are you rating my social interactions now?" I teased. We went up to the loft and watched a movie: "New York, I Love You."

Tuesday. Mandy K. saw me off--as did Paul--and I made the 12-hour drive back to Dayton, bypassing Chicago and cutting through Indianapolis. I drove through sunrise and sunset, saw two tornadoes at the same time in Illinois, and came THIS close to hitting a deer on Interstate 75 just south of Dayton. I was so relieved to be home. I visited Mom and Dad and Sky and then went back to Cincinnati. It felt great to be home.

Wednesday. I worked an uneventful 7:30-3:30 after my four-day weekend. Mandy K. called me at work, left an adorable voice-mail. I tried calling her back after work, but she was busy. I hung out with Mandy H. for a while before going back to work for a work meeting. It wasn't bad: Cat ordered us pizza, and I hammered it. Jon's not coming back for sure now, and Tiffany's taking on some of his catering responsibilities to ease his absence. After the meeting I took Tiffany home, since her mom lives directly across the street from us. I spent the evening writing. Brandy and her friend Aaron came over, and he has the loudest and most amazing laugh I've ever heard. Nick came in from Dayton, where he's running the new Fusian store. Go buy a roll if you live up there. Around 11:00 I got to talk to Mandy K., and it was good to talk to her. 

Thursday. Anna's car got wrecked, so she couldn't come into work. Thus I got called in at 9:30, but only after hitting up The Anchor and doing some writing. Work was uneventful, and we got out a decent time. I spent the rest of the evening doing laundry and cleaning up 'round the room. Mandy K. called, and we talked about a lot of stuff that's been going on in our minds, and it seems (at least) that things have pretty much ground to a halt. 

Friday. All day I was in a state of numbness, recalling our pleasant memories and the way I felt when I was with her. I spent the evening hanging out with Mandy and Amos. We ran to Kroger and The Party Source in Newport for goodies to be enjoyed tomorrow. It was definitely hard not talking to Mandy K. tonight; first time not hearing her voice before bed in a long while. 

Saturday. Slept in 'till 9:30. Nine hours of sleep, a recent record. I ate way too much yesterday--damned sadness--so I forewent Indian food and just went to The Anchor to do some writing while enjoying cottage cheese and orange juice. I came home to do some more cleaning: the front and back porches for the party. Blake and Amos assisted in this endeavor. Tyler came down early for the party, and we caught up and ran some errands in Clifton. The party "started" around 5:00, when the housemates broke into the pumpkin ale keg and had it downed by the time the party officially started. I didn't drink much, except for a sip of beer and a shot of whiskey with Tony (just like old times). Beer pong in the basement, hot dogs on the fire. Reconnecting with some old friends: Jessie (certainly noteworthy) and Katie,whom I haven't seen in a long while. Ams and I dressed as Pebbles & Bam Bam from "The Flintstones," but I shed my costume when I realized Pebbles & Bam Bam weren't brother and sister but erotic lovers. Lots of people from work came by: Kile, Cat, Gina, Brandon, and even Bob (the president) showed up. Tyler and I crashed around 1:30, maybe 2:00 AM.

Sunday. Lots of people were still here come morning, arising from sofas and clutching pounding heads. Mandy made cinnamon rolls and eggs for breakfast, and of course Rob made coffee. Amos, Tyler and I shot some zombies in the basement. Zombies: they're everywhere these days. Tyler headed back to Dayton and I spent the afternoon and evening writing. I finished revisions on what I had for my zombie story and added about another forty pages (so it's at 140 pages now, give-or-take). Really, I'm thinking that writing this story--at least now--is just an escapist tactic. I don't want to deal with the real things going on in my life in this, so I just lose myself in a different world. In this world I know what's going to happen, I have control over the events, I'm not just an observer, I'm an architect. But when the pen's down, real life's still there. We all deal with things in different ways, and I'm thinking a constructive way is better than a destructive one. And writing a story, I think that's pretty damned constructive. Even if it has zombies in it.

halloween party (dos)

I'm sitting in my room listening to "Band of Horses" while people recuperate from last night's shenanigans. Halloween Party Dos we called it. Last year the housemates had a pretty baller Halloween party, and this year we decided to go all-out. Not one but two kegs, the premier being pumpkin ale from Rock Bottom Brewery (the perks of partnership continues); an assortment of snacks and a bonfire where we roasted hot dogs, beer bong in the basement, and a house flooded with people I love. The pumpkin ale was gone before the party even started (thanks to pre-gaming), but I didn't drink at all at this party, so it didn't affect me much. I'm the kind of guy who just likes a beer here and there, and some bourbon as an even rarer special treat. It was great seeing Tony and Jessie, and even Katie drove an hour and a half to partake in the festivities, and it was good catching up with her again. I'm not sure how many hot dogs I ate, but I do know they were the best-cooked hot dogs I'd ever had. I went to bed around 2 in the morning and the party was still going hard. Lots of drunk singing to eighties songs, people keeling over, the drunk antics soaring through the roof. No one can deny it's fun to watch. 

Jessie took a jello shot for the first time, and then we smoked hookah in the basement. She's loving being married, and she told me all sorts of stories about married life, and it made me look forward to the day when I can tell such stories. I'm so old-fashioned, I know: it's a particular quirk. She asked how I was doing, and I told her I was doing good, which is true, but she could tell I seemed a bit out-of-it, and I told her why, and she was quite empathetic. While I know that she and Tony didn't drive two hours to the party just for me, I do feel honored that Jessie made time to get some one-on-one time with me (or at least try to; wherever we went, there were people swooning and hollering). She lives all the way out in Mahomet, Illinois (or somewhere around there), so I don't get to see her that often, and these times are prized. 

Speaking of Mahomet, I drove through there Tuesday on my way back from Wisconsin. "How was Wisconsin?" you ask (as everyone seems to do). It was good, really good. Two thirds of the adventures have been exposed in the last post ("the 17th week") but Monday's adventures will be covered shortly (i.e. tomorrow). All in all it was a great weekend, beautiful weather, good company, basically a grand ol' time. But, to be honest, things have gone downhill in that department, and that's a long story, and one I don't really feel like writing about (The Anchor's reserved for such writing); besides, pretty much everyone who reads this blog is a big enough part of my life to already know this). Nevertheless I'm doing all right, maybe even good, though the numbness of it all still hasn't worn off (except for in the late-night and early-morning moments). 

P.S. A Message for Dylan: "Tyler told me you read my blog every day, but apparently not my emails. So in case you've forgotten about our email exchanges, please WRITE ME BACK. And in case you failed to notice, the 'please' is more a polite gesture than anything. I'm actually commanding you to do it."

P.S.S. A Message for Dylan from Amanda: "WRITE ME BACK!" She said she emailed you or something, and she's questioning your love for her or something like that, I don't know, I wasn't really paying attention. But you should write her back. After you write ME back, of course.

P.S.S.S. I have nothing for this one.

the birth & death of a day

I’m 25 years old and terrified that half my life is over—or at least 1/3 of it—and I have nothing to show for it. Sure, I’ve accomplished more than most my age: college degree, self-reliance and self-sustainability, two published novels that have sold well, one even topping the “best of” lists in its genre (along with Stephen King and Cormac McCarthy, might I add). But that which I crave most—a family—remains no more than a fancy I fear to never be realized. I envision myself old and wrinkled, bitter and sad, sitting at this same diner writing these same things and having these same hopes and then dying alone and forgotten within the year. I feel trapped in the endless cycle of hope & disappointment paving the road to disillusionment, a road stretching towards the ever-closer destination of resignation. I’m ready (I think) for that “next step” in life: finding a shawty to hold me down, popping out some kids, being a Family Man. This is what I want, and I know who I want it with. But she doesn’t want that, and I’m really not surprised. I’ve been here countless times before, heard all these words Time & Again, words sprinkled with hope but ultimately deceptive. What hurts the most isn’t that she doesn’t want me; it’s a recurring theme in this life of mine, and the cold waters of stoicism snuff out any foolish hoping that she’ll wake up one morning and realize that what I want with her is what she wants with me. No, what hurts the most is that she is, by her own confession, where I’m at: she’s ready for that “next step,” ready to start off on that adventure, but not with me. What hurts is knowing that if her heart came alive like mine, it’d be the turning of the page and the advent of a new and more beautiful chapter in my—no, our—lives. But as it were, there’s no new chapter being written, just the same old chapter being drawn out, page-by-page, with new characters and subplots but a story ultimately going nowhere. I built in my head and heart a clandestine mansion where I could go room-to-room, peering in on different snapshots and scenes of life together, a prophetic labyrinth winding its way in circles going nowhere. This mansion, it’s built of fog and mirrors, and its foundation is a naïve hope. A mansion built on sand, quickly swept away with the rhythmic and merciless advance of reality. In my foolish hoping, with my head in the clouds, I dared to resurrect these dreams of my youth only to remember, quite painfully, why I buried them in the first place.

Even now in this diner at 8:44 AM and with a cup of coffee and a smoldering cigarette, even as this pen floods the page with the unfortunate reality of things, there’s hope. A hope certainly not as powerful as before, and certainly not embraced. There’s hope that this is just a hiccup in the story of us, the hope that she’ll come to see what we could be and want that with me. There’s the hope that this settling cloud of uncertainty and resignation will be but a temporary hiatus in this boy’s life, and what lies at the end of the road isn’t dying cold and alone as an old man filled with darkness and regret, but that the road leads north to Wisconsin, to a life of love and laughter, a life of cherished memories and cultivated hearts and a love growing warm like a candle in the night, a love warming our hearts and our lives so that even the biting northern cold cannot quench the love that we have. There’s that hope, rising out of the depths of my heart like a phoenix from the ashes, telling me about myself but ignoring the nature of things in its naivety. It’s so easy to close my eyes and open my soul and let this hope light a fire in my heart, to let this hope give energy to weak hands and trembling knees. But hope then becomes nothing more than a drug, an opiate keeping reality at bay. But reality’s stronger than ignorance, and as much as they say love’s stronger than the grave, death’s just so full and man so small. I would much rather know the nature of the world and live in accordance with it (this is the heart of stoicism, after all) than spend my days believing lies and being sustained by them. Perhaps it’s just time to call this for what it is, to name it and be done: another disappointment, another dead-end, another testament to the foolishness of hope and just another tale to be lost in the records of my diaries and journals. If we weren’t separated by 497 miles, maybe things would be different; maybe she’d come to see what we can be and want that with me. But 497 miles is no gulf easily bridged, and I’m rendered powerless to change her heart. As a dumb boy I once believed that I could change a girl’s heart. Now I know I can’t. It just doesn’t work that way. So here I am with what I feel and she’s there with what she feels, and there’s not a damned thing we can do about it, and that’s that. 

"newness of life"

It would be easy—more than easy—to just do now what I’ve done every other time: forget her and “move on.” The latter is in quotes because while the phrase implies forward movement, that’s hardly ever the case. One step forward and two steps back, that’s how I tend to do things. It’d be simple to paint her up as an ogre in the struggle to eradicate all feelings for her; but, really, I don’t see how this is possible, with my over-arching disposition towards her not anger or frustration but care and compassion; this itself is strange, I won’t deny that. Hurt by what she’s done, my ultimate concern remains her well-being. This forgetting her may not be as easy as originally thought, since all my tools and tricks-of-the-trade for “getting over” someone have as their foundation a negative disposition. God, so many big words. It’s true that her discontinuation of “us” gave birth to a lingering numbness replaced by a great sadness, the kind of sadness that clouds your entire day, dampens all light, and poisons every laugh and smile. In such times I isolate myself, cutting out the world so I can be alone in my pain. We’re strange creatures, we really are: we bathe in our suffering, willfully prolonging it, bitching about how much it hurts. It’s some sadistic form of cerebral S&M. We just keep holding onto the pain. Maybe it’s because feeling something is better than feeling nothing; and how she made me feel, it’s only appropriate that the End be met with such a strong feeling as sadness. If the sadness goes, maybe it’ll render all that we had invalid, just another disappointing chapter preceded by the same and undoubtedly followed by the same.

ANOTHER DISAPPOINTMENT. Maybe a better word would be “defeat.” For six years I’ve been fighting, through countless lands and with different weapons, but the end is always the same: each heroic battle met only by a sound and crippling defeat. I’ve changed strategies to find defeat lurking in every dark corner. With each defeat my will to fight lessens and my enemy—pure, unfettered cynicism—grows stronger. Cynicism: it runs like sap through my veins, and I wrestle against it with everything I have. But these defeats, they’re turning my heart to stone and my willpower to wax. It’s such an effort to hope, it really is: the more I hope, the wearier I become. My world’s growing dark, and it’d be easy to just close my eyes, curl up on the ground, and let it overcome me. It’s easier, and there’s a sort of comfort there. It’s familiar territory, I know my way around, it feels a bit like home. But it’s not home, and I know that because with her, I felt “at home” like I haven’t in a long while.

All the escapist techniques, isolating myself, seeking to get lost in worlds that are of my own creation but not mine… All of these are attempts to survive this, to come out unscathed. I’m just trying to get off the battlefield in one piece. Looking back on what we had as invalid, a passing fancy that died as violently as it began, that may be legitimate. Chances are she’ll go her way and I’ll go mine; my cynical side envisioned such a fate from the get-go (another win for the coldness in my heart). But rendering what I felt as invalid, I can’t too easily do that. I can explain it away as a delusion, sure; cynicism begs I do that. And maybe that’s what it was, pure and simple, and to bloat it with any intrinsic meaning would just be taking the spade to my heart and furthering the pain. But I can’t do that, because while what we had may have just been a delusion, the fact is that it wasn’t a delusion to me. Sure, I may have been a silly and foolish boy (as seems to be a recurring theme), but what I felt with her is no more a delusion than the sadness I feel at her retreat. If the sadness means anything, it means that what I felt with her was real. How can you miss something you never had?

“And what did I feel with her?” Half of me thinks I know, the other half knows I don’t know. Was it love? Sure, and I do love her. Not the kind of love that gives birth to 2-becoming-1, as such love must be cultivated; but I care about her more than I care about most people, and if that’s not love, then what is it? What I felt with her transcends, in a sense, one-word descriptions (even words laced with deeper meanings). It’s the sort of feeling encapsulated best in a poem or song. But I’m no poet or songwriter, so I’m left with prose, and I must do with it what I can.

I felt as if I were standing in the doorway leading home.

My heart came alive; the world, so beautiful and electric, alive with hope & promise.

My heart beat quicker and my strength returned.

A new passion for life caught me in an insatiable vice.

I was caught, ensnared, and I was being dragged into a future I had disavowed.

I craved to become the man I was created to be.

I craved to “grow up” and put my childish ways behind me.

A newfound fervor burned in my soul, and I dared to hope and believe.

I dared to believe that all the brutal defeats were simply there to ensure this stunning victory for life & love & hope. I felt like I was crawling out of this musty cave into a brand new world of blinding light, into a world reborn and begging me to explore it all. Holding her hand in mine, cuddling up with her in front of the fire… I believed that this is what I’d been looking for all along.

Those old and cryptic, half-buried dreams were resurrected with her advent.

But now in her absence they threaten to sink away into the depths yet again.

With her I saw how I’d sought to fill a void with things unreal.

Without her, how can I say what he had is anymore real than passing fancies prior?

This “newness of life”—there’s a good term—has gone now, and in its place is backward movement into the throes of cynicism. I tell myself I was a fool, a stupid & silly boy, for ever letting my heart taste something so forbidden. And, really, that may very well be it: the only lesson here is that I let my heart trump my mind, that I let myself toss wisdom to the wayside as I grappled with things not meant for me. What I felt with her is a memory now, and dwelling on it may be nothing more than an extenuation of my foolish, stupid, silly habits. Perhaps such things as these are forbidden, not for you but for me. Maybe my lot in life is to just swallow up the disappointments while watching all those around me flourish. Part of me has already accepted this, and I don’t fight like I used to. Resignation draws closer and closer. But I fought so hard for what we could have, what we could be; my heart came alive and I summoned lost strength, and though I’ve apparently lost yet again, the fact that I fought—and continue to fight, even now, as the world’s darkness covers me like a moth-eaten cloak—has to mean something. What? I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know, but I know what I felt and I know what I feel, and somehow I must make sense of that.

wisconsin re:cap

Wisconsin? Phenomenal. I can’t put into words how great it was to be with her, to share in her life, to hold her hand and cuddle and talk and laugh. My heart, it came alive like never before. A sort of “waking up.” It cemented in my mind the reality that, yes, I really want to be with her, that she means so much to me, and that, yes, I can truly see this going somewhere. But it had the opposite effect on her. She expected some great and heavenly fleeing, some validation of all this, a “coming awake” of sorts, a flip being switched, a dam bursting and flooding her heart with passion and excitement and an innate desire to move forward and to see the world differently. But that didn’t happen, and things haven’t grinded to a halt, they’ve been thrust into retrograde.

Really, I’m not surprise. I knew, deep down, that this would happen.

Call it intuition, but history’s cyclical.

Qoheleth had it right: “There’s nothing new under the sun.”

The last six years have taught me, in unapologetic terms, that the more I want something, the greater the chance of it not happening. Solely because I wanted Mandolin so much, it didn’t work out. All the potential, the chemistry, all the hope, my heart bursting at the seams and the world flooding with light, all this came together in the perfect storm, and now I’m not just being tossed around in the swelling whitecaps but am being pulled out to sea, the shimmering lighthouse of my Hopes & Dreams fading in the wind and the rain, and it’s only a matter of time before it’s out-of-sight completely.

Am I mad at her? No, not in the least.

Am I frustrated with her? Not even that.

I’m mad at myself, frustrated at my own foolishness. I just don’t seem to learn. While acknowledging the sad state of reality with my mind, my heart continues investing itself in fairy-tales and illusions. Heart versus Head, which is stronger? Certainly the heart, for in my intoxication with love—or, rather, the idea of love—all logic is thrown to the wayside as my heart twists and contorts reality to justify what I want as genuine and logical. The cold wilderness of cynicism melts under the warm glow of hope; but extinguish the candle, and the darkness crawls back without skipping a beat. My dream—a quiet life in a quiet town with a wife and kids and pursuing my dream of writing—is so engrained into the muscular fibers of my heart that logic and rational thought become mere peripheral trimmings to be discarded when they don’t match the carpet or the drapes. I believed in a fairy-tale—us—and invested so much (too much!) into that, denying what I knew to be true, that she & I, we were too good to be true. Ours was a good story, and perhaps by virtue of being that it was rendered fiction rather than reality. Denial can last only so long, and now that time’s up. The candle’s been snuffed out, the lighthouse is growing dim, and the wind howls and 100-foot waves of God’s good ocean gone wrong threaten to put an end to all this right quick.

And how do I deal with all this? The classic monsters have been all but put to rest. There’s no self-blaming, telling myself that I fucked it up. No, for once I did things right, and I’m proud of that. Call it wisdom, but I’ve made the same mistakes enough times to know how to navigate these treacherous waters with a bit of skill. Perhaps we were too honest, too Real & Authentic; maybe such honesty came too fast, and maybe a bit of deception is required to make these things work. Hell, the more everyone knows, the greater the chance of mutiny. Nor must I deal with any sort of self-loathing, that I wasn’t good enough or cute enough or anything like that. I have my faults and flaws and failures, but overall, I like to think I’m a decent (or, at least, semi-decent) human being. And she told me with unfettered honesty that I’m simply amazing, and that I’ve given her hope, because she knows guys like me exist (never-mind that I don’t want her to want a guy like me but ME, but these things tend to fall apart). Nor must I fight all the religious baggage of my youth, thinking that God dangled all I wanted in front of me only to snatch it away because I wasn’t a “good enough” Christian. I used to think like that, and such thinking drove me to the brink. But I’m wiser now, more rational (or at least I try to be), and I don’t use God—or myself—as a scapegoat for all of life’s unfortunate events. And that’s all this is: an unfortunate event, another lesson learned (or, I should say, another lesson reinforced).

I dared to believe that this was my cynicism breaking, my stoicism crumbling, my perception of the world being tweaked—no, turned upside-down—as I stumbled onto something I’d never known. I felt like I was emerging from Plato’s cave, seeing the world differently, light piercing the darkness in my heart and uncovering things never before seen or experienced. But it was all just in my head, my heart bloated like a water-logged corpse, and after a brief hiatus, a sort of vacation, the cynicism has returned, refreshed and rejuvenated. And now all that we had—or, rather, what I thought we had—has become a haunting specter, like a panther crouched at the doorway, a spike thrust into my heart in the quieter moments. I can still feel her hand in mind, but it’s just a phantom memory, drunk neurons firing as they seek to dispel reality, holding onto the bits of hope left in the onslaught.

Honestly, I’m honored to have held her hand in mine and to have shared my life with her if but for a moment. There’s no bitterness, anger, or resentment. Sadness? Yes. Nostalgic echoes giving birth to numbing pain? Sure. But there’s no hostility or malice, and my perception of her remains unchanged, and I think that says something, but I don’t know what. Usually in these situations, my first instinct is to get a strange sort of revenge, to show the heartbreaker what she’s done, to make her face it for all its gruesome ugliness, to make her hurt like she’s made me hurt. But my only concern is her well-being, that she doesn’t hurt anymore than she has to, that in all this she remains strong and does what’s best for her. Maybe it’s because I care about HER more than I care about “us”, and I think that, too, says something. But, again, I’m not sure what.

She said she wanted a feeling, that she wanted this to “feel right,” but that she doesn’t know what that’d be like, or even how she’d know it when (or, rather, if) it happened. And as much as we know love is a choice, it can also be a chore; and I can’t try and talk her out of this conviction because what she wants but doesn’t have is what I have but don’t want, at least not now. I can’t tell her that what she’s looking for is an idealized fairy-tale concept, because it’s what I feel in my heart towards her. Trying to convince her of some folly in her desires would just be manipulation, and if we’ve sought to be real and authentic from the get-go, why stop now? She can’t force herself to “feel” anymore than I can force myself not to “feel.” Wisconsin proved my desires for her, for us, to be genuine, and my doubts broke in her presence. But it had the opposite effect on her, simply elevating the doubts and making her question the authenticity of her feelings. C’est la vie.

the 17th week

Monday. Weekends always fly by; but, then again, they're only two days. Mondays have become my early days with Jon's continued & definite absence. 6:30-3:30. But at least parking's cheaper. Amos and I spent the evening shooting zombies in the Dungeon (i.e. his unfinished basement bedroom). Brandy came over for a while, as she tends to do on Monday nights, and it was great to hang out with her. Mandy K. and I decided that I'd come up and visit her this weekend; impromptu but definitely worth it. I already have next Monday and Tuesday off; I went straight to Cat and told her what was up.

Tuesday. Began the morning at The Anchor to do some writing. Four cups of coffee and I was a jitterbug at work who almost kept pissing himself. Stephanie, Brandon, Amos & I did our training with Rob. It was cold, windy, and storming all evening. Brandon--by far my favorite gay friend--came over later in the evening. Rob bought Magic Hat 9 and we each had a couple and "enjoyed" front porch times. It's in quotes because it's so insanely cold and my teeth wouldn't stop chattering. And by "insanely cold" I mean 50 degrees. Winter's going to be hell. The distance between Mandy K. and I seemed so vast today, a whole 497 miles, and I got to talk to her on Skype later in the evening, and I liked that I made her smile.

Wednesday. Crazy ass day at work. Understaffed, super busy, low on product, two last-minute catering orders, and the drains burst and flooded the back room. It's going to reek like rotten vomit for the next couple weeks. When I got home I lounged upstairs with Blake before he headed to Boston with Brandy and some of her pals. Mandy went to Dayton to see Nick and Mandy K. and I talked for two hours, being open and honest about some things going on in our lives. This "getting to know" one another is intense but good. We're being vulnerable, sharing ourselves, being real and authentic. It's hard, it's scary, and it's good. I want to know the REAL her, and I want her to know the REAL me. Scary indeed! But worth it.

Thursday. I hit up The Anchor before work. Work wasn't crazy like yesterday, and for that I was thankful. Amos and I stopped by Carew Tower to see Hartman and his experimental drink for the barista jam this November. His lavender milk will put you straight to sleep. Cold, windy, and rainy all morning, day, and night. I spent the evening bundled up inside with a Greek wrap for dinner and some "Lie to Me." Topped it all off with chamomile tea and chatting with Mandy K. We had some intense and good talks. 

Friday. After work I ran a plethora of errands, packed my bags, and jetted up to Dayton. Mom, Dad, Grandma, Ams and I got dinner at O'Leary's, and then I decided I couldn't wait to see Mandy K. and went ahead and made the drive north, grabbing an iced coffee from my old place of employment, and I took some 5-hour energy shots and felt ready to have a heart attack for the first hour, but after that it was smooth sailing north in the dead of night cranking Mumford & Sons and The Local Natives. Chicago's beautiful at 3 A.M. I got into Wisconsin and outside Fon du Lac I pulled over at a rest stop and tried to sleep in the back of the car, but it was so cold and I couldn't keep warm and semis kept driving past and rocking the little car on its little wheels. I gave up before dawn after about a good half hour of sleep and went into town and stopped at a gas station for stale and burnt coffee and then went out into the countryside with the sunrise meeting me at Camp Grow. Up a solid 26 hours, but when I surprised her, the exhaustion evaporated.

Saturday. I met Paul and some others at breakfast, helped do dishes, and then Mandy gave me a tour of the camp. She took me by the hand and we went to her favorite spot on Green Lake and sat on a fallen log and watched the waves sparkling under the morning sun. She was kind to let me sleep a few hours, and after I woke up, we went into town and had lunch at an Oktoberfest festival. We shared a wiener schnitzel, frankfurter, German potato salad and bacon kraut topped off with some apple dumplings. There was a wedding there and all the bridesmaids wore different dresses; I guess that's hip now? We spent the afternoon in Greek Lake and then went to Ripon. A small, quiet town. Think "Gilmore Girls" except not in Connecticut. We hit up a coffee shop and I had some steamed cider spiked with a bit of rum. We got pumpkin ice cream at Mug's and went back to her place to watch "Gilmore Girls," and then we went to a haunted trail. It wasn't scary for me (I need good drama to freak me out), and the volunteers focused on her the whole time time, and that was fun to see. She led us into a room with no exit. On the way back to camp, I got pulled over and Mandy somehow talked me out of a ticket. Her social skills are quite impressive. When we got back to camp we split ways and I promptly passed out.

Sunday. I woke early and went to a lakeside park down the road. Mist covered the waters and my breath fogged before my eyes, and it was so quiet and still and serene. We went to church with some folk from the camp. Trinity Evangelical. The pastor, some dude named Jeremy, gave a great sermon from 1 Timothy 6. The afternoon was absolutely crazy, and Mandy had some emergency dramas to deal with. So I went back to camp and did some writing, and I went into town as a thunderstorm broke with driving rains and cinematic lightning. Tomorrow's my last day here; I'm sad to see this weekend pass so quickly, but it's been great spending time with Mandy K. Definitely worth a meager 8-hour drive. 

a memento

from wisconsin

While Wisconsin may not have all the spritz and glamor of city living, I could get used to it. The canopy of unbroken stars at night, the fog on the quiet river, the water so clear it's like glass, the still silence of a world unbroken by sirens and gunshots, the steady and unhurried rhythm of a life not kept on a calendar but savored for each precious moment. I could live here one day, perhaps.

it walked on my pillow!

As a writer I know the power of words, as well as their limits. Some things simply cannot be put into words, and attempting to describe something as ambiguous, confusing, and multi-layered as a feeling can become quite the chore. These times are few and far between, but these moments when the words just don't come do happen, and in their place, let me use an image to accurately depict what's going on in my heart:

Excited, nervous, scared. 

Yes, a thousand times yes, that picture nails it.

I'm the kind of guy who likes to know exactly what's going to happen. I enjoy puzzles and mysteries when it comes to such things as philosophy and theology, but when it comes to daily life, I'm not the biggest fan. I want things to be clean-cut, black-and-white, neatly packaged and squared away. I want life to have order, structure, in short: logic. But sometimes (hell, most of the time) this isn't the case. The future's unforeseen, and as much as we like to speculate, conjecture, prophesy, whatever, the simple fact is that we just can't know. Sometimes what seems like a "sure thing" ends up being a dead-end at the end of a plummeting cliff; and sometimes what seems like an impossibility to be given no heed alights in our lives and hearts like a shot out of the dark, throwing everything off-kilter and plunging a stick into our gears. Tomorrow I'm heading north to Wisconsin to see Mandy K. I'm excited, nervous, scared, and overwhelmingly hopeful (for better or worse). I know we're going to have a good time (we always have), but I want to know what the end result's going to be. I don't like not knowing, plain-&-simple, but I'm learning to try and be content with it. And while I don't know the "end result", I do know, as a matter of fact, that being nine hours north in the wilderness of Wisconsin with one of the coolest--if not the coolest--girl I know will be a 4-day weekend to remember. 

And we all know how much I love memories. 

I'm a sentimental koala.

four months later

It's been four months since I uprooted from my parents' place in Dayton and moved in with college friends here in Cincinnati. It all happened so quickly, I really didn't have a chance to sit back and think about it till after the fact. I remember praying pretty hardcore about the decision, and I felt comfortable with the idea of moving down there. It's not that I "felt" God saying "Do it" or "Don't do it." More-or-less, I knew that whatever I decided to do would be cool in God's eyes. So I made the decision to move down. At first, it was pretty rough. I love all the people here, I love living here, but some of my friendships in Dayton began to disintegrate. I took all that pretty hard: I invest deeply in people, and when those connections are severed, it can be excruciating. I fought for these friendships, but those friends didn't; and because a friendship is a two-way street, there was literally nothing I could do. So I accepted the fact that these things happen, and I became entirely absorbed in my new life down here. Within a few months, it started feeling like home again. My visits to Dayton lessened, and I continued developing the friendships with those people here and making new ones. I'm growing up in more ways than one, and my relationship with God has been moving steadily forward (as it should be). One of my friends in Dayton, before the move, expressed her concern that this would be a bad idea. She felt that doing this would plunge me into a sort of darkness. Quite the opposite! Being so close to so many good friends, living with Christians, and having my little sister by my side... Darkness may describe many of the things I've seen, but not this. My heart's coming alive like never before, a renewed purpose burning like a torch before my eyes. This move down to Cincinnati has definitely been good, and there's no regret whatsoever.

In regards to the friendships lost: it happens. I put a value on those friendships that those friendships didn't deserve. My time in Dayton, a 1.5 year stint (give or take some months here-&-there) was more like a sabbatical than anything. It gave me the time to figure stuff out, gave me the time to really look at my life and my faith and make forward movement. Now I'm back in Cincinnati, and I'm finding that there are friends who pass in and out of your life like you're stuck in the center of a revolving door, and then there are friends who are like family. You know, the friends who stick closer than a brother. The friends who are there for you in all of life's different moments, rejoicing when you rejoice and weeping when you weep. I've found that the more intimate the friendship, the more you get to know someone as they truly are, the more chance there is for earthquakes: little tremors within the friendship, when we don't get along. But these never last long, because our loyalties to one another lie deeper than our little fits and trifling disagreements. My friends in Cincinnati, they're these kinds of friends, and I'm so thankful to be living and working with them. An old Brand New song goes, "Back when you were very young, did you ever think that you would be this blessed?" The answer: No. I certainly am blessed, in so many different ways; and I'm grateful for all that God has done in and for me despite my selfishness, my whining, my scapegoating, and my rebellion. Grace: it's a hallmark of my life, not in the sense of something I possess, but something that possesses me.

the 16th week

This past week's been rather uneventful. We've instituted a new rule at the house regarding who's allowed to come over and how many people are allowed over at the same time. What happened was that (a) the house was constantly flooded with people, and with six people already living here, it can get pretty crowded (despite it being a big house), and (b) we had one or two people who would come over just to crash on our sofas or use our utilities, and essentially these people became quite entitled to that, and all the housemates agreed that 1. we didn't like the house being constantly flooded with people, and 2. we certainly didn't appreciate people using our things without asking and expecting us (the "hosts") to clean up their messes. This rule has been in effect for a few weeks now, and I love it. We have a quiet house now, and that's something I appreciate.


MEMORIAL DAY. Work went by pretty slow, it being a government holiday and all, and I even got out a bit early. I ran by the Marathon on 8th Street for gas and then took an accidental nap. And, yes, by accidental I mean entirely-on-purpose. Spent the evening talking with this cool girl in Wisconsin and watching "Lie to Me." We talked about me going up there come December, and lying in bed (where I do most of my "deep" thinking), all I could think was, Is this really happening? It's still surreal, unbelievable, and I love it.


Tuesday. Last night Rob told Ams, "I think Anthony really likes this girl." He nailed it. Went to The Anchor before work, and after work I enjoyed a Greek salad with some "Lie to Me." Mandy K. called us "us" for the first time today, and it warmed my heart. We're doing good, we're both excited about the future, and part of me is still scared that this is a dream from which I'll wake back to the sterile coldness of reality. But I'm refusing to let cynicism have the last word, and I'm daring to believe that this isn't a dream, that this is real.


Wednesday. Had the privilege of waking the Wisconsinite for work over the phone. I worked 9:30-6:00 and it was INSANE. Understaffed, super busy, wholly exhausting. Amos and I played some video games to unwind when we got back to the house. Rob came over with Alex and Cassie to do their training--brew methods!--and I took some of the dark roast Mexican and paired it with a pipe on the front porch. 


Thursday. The day started off well: 6 A.M. breakfast with Isaac at The Anchor, lots of good conversation about random things: messianic dispensations, the God of the O.T. "versus" the God of the N.T., the portrayal of the human condition in the O.T., and different hypotheses regarding the nature of hell. Work went well, but was exhausting. I drove Amos to Game Stop after work so he could grab some games, and then I crashed back at the house and watched TV for a couple hours. The highlight of the day? Not The Anchor but getting to talk with the Wisconsinite for a solid two hours.


Friday. Cat was sick, so she didn't come in. It was kinda crazy, but Khristian, Tiffany and I held it together. Tiffany's a newbie (I'm no longer the newest employee!), is great, and her husband Eric runs the Hilltop. Connections, connections! I hate running to the bank on Fridays so I didn't. I used tip money for gas and went home to call Mandy K. on her way to "the town." It was great talking to her, but I'm not surprised. I spent my Friday night hanging out with the housemates, and then I listened to some music--Local Natives--and watched some TV. I enjoy these quiet nights.

Saturday. I got a book on coffee and a wondrous letter from Wisconsin. It warmed my koala heart, it really did. I say that a lot about this girl, I'm finding. Perhaps Australia isn't where my heart's to be found? I ran by the bank, and then Rob, Mandy and I grabbed Dumesh Indian Buffet. "Do you want to get married to someone less crazy than me?" Mandy asked as we were scooping food onto our plates. "Preferably," I replied. She cracks me up. I spent the afternoon hanging out with Rob with some chemex Brazilian. When he and Mandy joined Andy at the Beer Sellar, Amos and I had some front porch times. 


Sunday. I woke early and went to The Anchor for writing, then went to Mount Echo to spend some time in prayer and read 1 Peter. I was craving Dumesh but couldn't find anyone to go with, and although I was willing to go alone, I knew I'd be too awkward (by virtue of trying NOT to be awkward) for the comfort of the establishment. So I got Subway instead and ate it while watching more "Lie to Me." Really digging it right now. I spent the majority of the afternoon writing and enjoying the beautiful weather while sitting on the front porch. Amanda and I had a late-night dinner at the Chinese buffet on Glenway. "I was this close to demanding half-price if they didn't have crab rangoon." 

the 15th week

Current time: 6:53 P.M.

Current music: Mumford & Sons, "I Gave You All"

Current SoE: the very thought of talking to someone very special tonight

Monday. I ate WAY too much this weekend (sadly a recurring theme). Woke up with a splitting headache around 8:00, and at 9:00 I hit up The Anchor. Cottage cheese, toast, crackers, coffee, orange juice: in short, a feast. Work went well. We're hiring a 7:30-11:00 shift because mornings are getting crazier. Blake and Ams came in for coffee, so I took my break and hung out with them. When Amos and I got home, we hung out with Brandy, Blake and Ams in Blake's room for a solid couple hours. Isaac came over and joined in the fun. We retired to the front porch all bundled up in the cold and smoked pipes, and then I called Mandy K. and we talked for a while. It was definitely good and definitely interesting.

Tuesday. Early morning: met up with Isaac at The Anchor at 6:30. We had breakfast and coffee and talked about the tension between orthodoxy and orthopraxy, and we talked about the murky realm of "essentials vs. non-essentials" and we agreed that the best hermeneutic of all is that of humility. Did some writing at home and worked 11-6:00, and Amos and I had training with Stephanie and Rob afterwards. Pat D. and I met up at The Anchor for dinner and to play "catch-up." Back home Rob, Amos and I hung out on the front porch, and Rob became quite happy over Rock Bottom beer. We won't be able to finish it all--we're not drunkards, despite what you might think--so Rob passed the growlers out like candy to our neighbors. Sarah came over for a bit, and Mandy made cocoa-puff rice krispies FTW. Amos and I shot some zombies, and we ended the night by rifling through Mandy's shoe-box of photos. 

Wednesday. I worked 7:30-3:30 and forgot my phone at work, so I had to double back and didn't get home till about 4:30. Mandy and I went to Roh's Street to do some writing. Mandy had a blended dirty chai and wrote on her computer, just journaling about her life. She let me read it. In part of it she talks about how we met, how she loves me dearly, how I'm a good and crazy guy who's writing and on the way to becoming famous. Heh, okay. I finished my iced coffee and we went to the U.C.C. bible study in the next room. Ended the night shooting zombies with Amos. 

Thursday. Woke up early to go to The Anchor and to get a jump on my writing. Work went well, a swift and clean close. Spent the evening hanging out with Amos, Rob and Hartman. During work Mandy K. and I talked a lot over texting, and it was interesting. I showed it to Mandy, who said, "She's definitely interested in you." I gave Mandy K. a call on Skype. It was good, like we were actually hanging out, and the conversation was interesting to say the least.

Friday. 80 degrees in October? That's Ohio for you. Worked 7:30-3:30, a pretty crazy day with lots of catering order mishaps. But it's Friday :). After work I hung out with Blake and Amos, and Andy had us over for an amazing dinner with white wine and bow-tie pasta, topped off with chocolate brownies and Direct Trade Guatemalan. We smoked hookah in the living room. He lives in some rich part of Delhi. S.U.V.s and Jeep Wranglers in the driveways, tarp-covered boats, Halloween ornaments in the front yards. I felt like I was back in Centerville with Jessica and Carly at the house Cars sat for a while. A stark difference from my hometown, where Elder & Seton had a tailgate party, and all the white soccer moms were gripping their children in frenzied terror. But I digress... I spent the rest of the night talking to Mandy K. 

Saturday. I laid in bed for an hour last night listening to Mumford & Sons. Phe:nomenal. Hit up The Anchor for coffee and writing, and spent the next ten hours buying a dresser and a desk and then assembling them in my room. It took WAY longer than expected, but it turned out well. Rob said, "After four months, you're finally moving in." Mandy's in knots over the desk. "It's a trestle writing desk," I told her, "with an espresso finish." Once I got it all set up, we got pizza from Little Caesar's on Glenway. After dinner I spent the rest of the night talking to Mandy K., about things going on in her life and how we've both changed since 2009. Quite surprisingly, the past two years have been similar for both of us, in that we've had our fair share of badlands and hard times, and, I think, we're better off for it. She hinted at me coming to visit; what she doesn't know (until now) is that I've been saving up for it now for a while.

Sunday. Went to The Anchor for writing, coffee, and orange juice. Are you seeing the trend? Rituals define my life. Matt Jobst and I went to the Indian buffet for lunch, and we talked about him moving to Mariemont, then about me and things with Mandy K. Three plates of Indian food, a warm car drive home, and an Al Capone cigar: "Sandman is coming!" I crashed for a while, then spent the evening writing and chilling with the housemates. My typical Sunday night. We had a bonfire, and Rob bought gourmet chocolate and graham crackers for s'mores. Mandy K. and I skyped for a little while; I got to meet Krystal and her beautiful daughter Lily. We're planning on me going up there in December. It's weird to think that in 2009 I watched her go without any hope of ever even seeing her again (okay, that's a bit of a stretch, but still), and it's crazy and weird and wonderful to think that I'm in Cincinnati, she's in Wisconsin, and we're not just picking up where we left off but  are moving forward. 

The Cave

I can't get enough of these guys, and I figured I'd share one of my favorites. Something light-hearted and heart-warming, a bit of relief from the overbearing gall of breaking cynicism that's clouded these blog posts. I have another series of blog posts from The Anchor, spiritual in nature, that I plan on throwing up here within the next couple days. Give a little meat to these pages. In the meantime, however, I hope you enjoy this video (and the brief reprieve). This song does carry some meaning to me, but I'm tentative to explain at the moment. Oh, how I love delaying gratification. 

in conclusio

It’s easy to meet girls. If I wanted a girlfriend desperately enough, I could have one by the end of the month. Historically-speaking, getting dates and girlfriends isn’t some daunting task. In the last six years, I’ve dated nine girls. Had my fair share of broken hearts, and have broken a few of my own. That’s part of dating, part of life. I’ve been cheated on, back-stabbed, and betrayed; each heartless act against me by a girl I’ve invested in and trusted has thrust the cold steel of cynicism deeper into my koala heart. Yet hope has remained, flourishing in even the worst conditions, a glimmer of light on the fading horizon, a north star guiding me through the darkest of nights (hope: the new kudzu). While all of this may come off as just some kind frustrated because he can’t get a girlfriend, please know that’s not the case at all. Like I said, I could get a girlfriend lickety-split if I so desired. The issue here isn’t, and has never been, singleness. I’m quite okay with it, and it’s far better than being with someone “just because.” The issue here isn’t having a girlfriend but finding true love, or at least a reworking of it, and this is something I take seriously. I’ve broken up with the majority of my past girlfriends because I’ve seen that we’re not really that compatible, for whatever reasons, or because I’ve experienced better and don’t want to settle.

Wow. That last line really comes across wrong. Let me explain: in my life thus far, I’ve had two great connections with girls. Amazing chemistry, vast potential, overwhelming compatibility. The kind of girl you know you could fall in love with. The first cheated on me, showing that, in that situation, the love was really only one-sided. And the second, well, there’s much more to that story (and it is, so far, a damned good story; but grant me time and be patient). My point is, “experiencing better” is about a connection, two hearts beating as one; and having experienced this, having tasted this, how can I be content with any run-of-the-mill relationship? The things that matter to me are matters of the heart, matters of the personality. A girl’s physical beauty is important, but I’ve found that what matters most is the girl’s heart. A girl with a good heart becomes intoxicatingly beautiful, “fatally gorgeous”; but a girl with a rotten heart becomes nauseatingly ugly. What matters to me when it comes to pursuing someone is plethora; there’s her personality, her maturity, her responsibility, her integrity and faithfulness and all those good qualities. I want a girl who holds the same values as I do, a girl who has embraced a reasonable Christian faith, a girl who’s eager to have an authentic and invested relationship rather than a fling. It’s easy to get a girlfriend, but it’s not easy to find that. Maybe I’m just too old-fashioned, but I know what I want, and I’m chasing after it, even if the distance between Me & Her is hundreds of miles, even the distance from Cincinnati to Wisconsin; but it’s definitely worth it.

The hope I’ve sketched out on these pages (and then copied to my blog) is realistic, honest, and active. It’s a hope that acknowledges the awfulness in the world without focusing on it; a balanced worldview takes both the good and the bad, and an active hope acknowledges the bad while straining for the good.

Yes, nothing may change.

Yes, things may get worse and not get better.

Yes, I may be hurt in the process.

BUT…

Yes, things may change.

Yes, things may get better.

Yes, I may end up finding true love.

The destination may never be reached, but the journey itself may very well be the destination. The beauty of a story lies not at Point A nor at Point B but on the way between them. All our lives are our own stories, our mini-epics, and the worth in the story isn’t found on the last page but on the challenges and conflicts along the way. I may never find true love, but know this: I’ll be writing, in flesh and blood, some sort of masterpiece. A comedy? A drama? A tragedy? A fairy tale? Time will tell.

NOT the route of Buster

The worst kind of hope is the passive kind of hope. The “sit on your ass” waiting, where you bathe in regret and self-loathing, becoming pitiable and pathetic as the years go by without a scent of change. The surprise that things are pretty much the same spawns from the naïve idea that fate’s got you secure, and that time will change everything. But fate’s a cold-hearted whore, and time changes nothing. Action changes things. We can’t sit on our asses and just wait. If you’re not moving ahead, you may not be going backwards, but, well, you’re still not going anywhere. Any kind of passive hope is fruitless and deserving of condemnation; and while hoping always has an aspect of waiting (for a hope realized is no longer hope), the waiting is to be active. Chasing after our dreams, that’s hard work. But is it worth it? Yes, it’s absolutely worth it. And how do I pursue this, my greatest dream, the dream of love and union in a world like the one we’ve got?

PURSUE THE BETTERMENT OF MYSELF. I’m talking holistic betterment, no stone unturned. Better myself physically so that I’m attractive to the opposite sex, but more importantly, so that I’ll get to see my grand-kids one day (if it gets that far). Better myself emotionally, through discipline, so that I’m more able to handle life’s pains, single or married, in an appropriate and beneficial manner. Spiritually, I’m deepening my roots in God and continually pursuing sanctification, so that my heart will be continuously transformed so that my love can be strong and secure.

TAKE RISKS. Risk-taking, by nature, is scary. But risk is always there, even if we can’t see it. We may risk shooting ourselves in the foot, but we may also miss out on something beautiful for fear of plunging into the unknown. Resignation, just giving up and calling it a day, isn’t an option. This is a quest, damn it, and quests involve moving forward and pushing through all that stands in your way to find that prized object holding your fascination and delight. This quest involves making investments, risking humiliation, even being sorely hurt and facing disillusionment. But the tempting thoughts of resignation can’t be heeded, must be thrown off, because that’s no sort of life. Life is Risk, period. And life’s filled with hurts and disappointments, but we have to keep getting up, keep mending bones and stitching open wounds, and we charge forward come what may. Don't go the route of Buster, being neither seen nor heard.

A realistic hope must be an honest hope, and an honest hope is valid only if it’s active and not passive in nature. The kind of hope I must embrace is a hope that is realistic, honest about the nature of the world and the nature of hope, a hope that’s not content to wait around for stuff to get done but a hope that grabs the bull by the horns—or would they be tusks?—and wrestles through the arena no matter the gashes and bruises and open wounds and festering sores.

a sketch

BE REALISTIC. Easier said than implemented. We tend to swing between Optimism and Pessimism, and Realism (we like to think) falls somewhere in the middle. Pessimists condemn optimists for their naivety, and optimists condemn pessimists for blinding themselves to all the good in the world. Mandy K. told me quite some time ago, “Being a realist doesn’t mean ignoring the good and focusing on the bad, it means acknowledging the good while acknowledging the bad.” She told me this in 2009, and since then, that’s been my goal: to forsake the simplistic paradigms, to face the world head-on, to eke out a sort of coherent worldview framed by Logic and Wisdom rather than by fits of fancy. Sometimes I feel like I’m doing decent, and at other times it feels like I’m wandering dark alleys, fearful it’ll come to the point where I’m holding a goat in one hand and fifty bucks in the other with no idea how I got there.

We have, then, the hope for “true love,” reworked in light of perceived actuality, standing out of the murk and mire of our world like a Roman standard on the battlefield, beckoning our eyes and alighting fire in our hearts. Any idea that marriage is the Grand Solution to all our problems, that in marriage the fairy tale comes to life as all the pains and troubles of daily life fade into the background, must be discarded like used tampons. Get those things outta mind and outta sight! Marriage, rather, is like a Grand Enterprise, two human beings becoming one and (we hope) living a shared life in a disconnected world. Life’s ripe with good times and bad times; this world provides us with dark roads and badlands, and marriage doesn’t exempt us from this. If we’re dumb enough to think, even to hope, that marriage is the antidote to a world laden with suffering, then we’ll find ourselves sorely disappointed; and having such an outlook only raises the chances that when things don’t go as planned (as tends to be a trend), we’ll screw up the marriage because we’ve failed to see what marriage is supposed to be. It’s a union, two souls becoming one. It isn’t just a life change you can abandon at him, nor a passing craze. It’s here to stay, because even those who mock the idea of marriage acknowledge that there’s something mystical about it; and seeing what happens when marriage is done wrong (think purgatory or a miniature hell), the critics turn to mockery. Perhaps a better route would be authenticity, facing the dilemma of marriage—something so beautiful that can become something so miserable—and doing our damnedest to see the way through to the other side.

A SKETCH. “Please,” you beg me, “please be brief.” For your sake (and for mine) I’ll do so. I’m unmarried and never have been. But I’ve been in enough relationships, and been close friends with successfully married couples for quite a while, that I know a few things about how to make a relationship work. It all boils down to love. Not romanticized, idealized love but grounded, down-to-earth love. The love that’s rooted in decision and carried through with a lot of resolve and an equal dosage of endurance. It’s not just inviting someone into your life; it’s about making someone else your life. It’s devoting yourself to that person, in the sense that they become your life’s priority: their needs supersede your own. Love’s manifested in selflessness, servitude, sacrifice. In a world driven by impulses and urges, a world where our decisions are located on the map of selfishness and self-indulgence, in a world full of self-seeking cretins trying to “live it up” 24/7, the very idea of marriage as such a weighty ordeal is scored as archaic and ludicrous. And yet their own paths show the fruit of such living, and nothing good can be found there. No matter your “chemistry” or “connection” with someone, no matter the way your heart flutters at the sound of their voice or how seeing their face is the best part of your day, that’s not enough (and it never will be). True Love, a symbiotic decision to love and be loved in the truest sense of the word, that’s what I’m searching for. This reworking of marriage, locating it on the map of what could be called “biblical love,” that’s not a burden nor an imprisonment, it’s a liberation. It’s something my heart craves, something my spirit burns for, and I hope for it, oh! how I hope for it.

And then there’s reality. Cold, unforgiving, unrelenting, doomed for destruction but prospering now in all its horrid and fetid brutality. The way through this mess isn’t just a realistic hope but an honest one. A hope that says, “Yes, this is what I want, this is what I crave, and this is what I’m fighting for.” A hope that says, “Yes, I know this will be difficult, both the Journey & the Destination, but I believe it’s worth it.” Revisiting economics, I’m convinced that hoping for true love is a dangerous gambit riddled with unforeseen risks and terrors, but the beauty and goodness that can be discovered there is worth all that, because true love is a middle finger to the currents of selfishness, greed, and indifference that have become trademarks of our world. This honest hope acknowledges, “Yes, I know this is uncertain, and I know I may be shown a fool. But I’ll still hope for it, because it’s worth it.”

This isn’t a romanticized hope, nor an idealized one. It’s not a naïve hope, and it’s not blind, either. An HONEST hope. A stoic hope. And so I will hope, and I’ll be honest about it. But I won’t just sit in the dirt and wait for love to wander my way. There is a passive kind of hoping, the hoping belonging to the one who’s embraced resignation, a hope that, for the most part, does nothing but deepen the pain and widen the gulf between us and our dreams. This is the worst kind of hope: the kind serving no purpose but to make us feel less miserable (and then going turncoat on us, poisoning our hearts and minds so that we shrink and shrivel in our humanity). The kind of hope I’m advocating, the kind of hope I’m implementing, isn’t passive but active.

a different sort of hope

“There is a hope that doesn’t disappoint,” Hebrews tells us. Not “hope doesn’t disappoint” but there’s “A hope that doesn’t disappoint.” A very specific and particular hope, the Christian hope: new heavens and new earth, new creation, restoration and renewal, all that. I am a Christian, and thus—for better or worse—I place my hope in that future, of God’s final victory, of peace and justice drowning the cosmos. That hope has gotten me through many a dark night. But Hebrews doesn’t tell us about hope in general, and there’s no guarantee of finding true love.

We can work for it, wish for it, pray for it, but can we hope for it?

Maybe the answer lies in mathematics. If the world’s governed by mathematics, why not take the quest there? We have, on the one hand, the sheer and unfettered reality that most who hope for true love never find, and we see that most of those who’ve claimed to found it find themselves quite soon miserable and choking on disillusionment; and then we find, keeping us quite far from any simple answers, the fact that some people do experience true love, as I’ve defined it before). Mathematics leads us nowhere; how ‘bout mathematics, a matter of weighing costs? Is the cost of having hope worse than not? As much as hope may be an opiate, so long as you’re unaware of its fallacy, you’ll be ignorant, able to find endurance, and you’ll enjoy life a bit more. The cost of not having hope… Well, it just leads to bitterness, despair, and a general atmosphere of doom and gloom while monsters haunt you in your sleep (think “Pitch Black” meets Venus).

Believe a lie, be happy.

Embrace reality, be nauseated by the state-of-the-world.

But life without hope is no life at all. No matter your thoughts on the subject, hope’s an essential element in the human person. Every religion has a certain hope, something to keep us moving forward. Perhaps primitive peoples, faced with the nature of the world, its harshness and senselessness and cruelty (they had to face-off with smilodons!), maybe they spun religions to give themselves, their spirits, some rejuvenation. Like some spiders spin web to cocoon themselves from predations, so our ancestors donned religion to do likewise. And perhaps we’re just continuing this escapist technique, in fiction and fairy-tales, except now we know the difference (for the most part). Do I actually believe this? No, though I can definitely see its merit. I cling to the Christian hope like a baby clutching its blankie, and if you want to call me naively crazy, feel free: I’m well aware how this may look to some people, but don’t exalt yourself over me, since you do the same thing but in different ways. Faced with the uncertainty of all things and the misery of all things, like a panther crouched at the door waiting to tear us apart at the next opportune time, a certain eschatological hope that all this will change refreshes and rejuvenates the soul. But, again: this matter doesn’t address the issue at hand. And we’re back where we started; these meandering tangents can be fruitful or pointless, and I never know which ‘till I get to where I’m going, which is, most of the time, unclear; hooray for free-thought writing).

What I’m looking for is a different sort of hope, a REALISTIC hope (if there is such a thing). “True Love”, as defined by Disney and medieval hangovers, can’t be hoped for. It’s a caricature of the real thing, bloated like a waterlogged corpse by the prim and proper of our whims and fancies. This view on true love—you know, the perfect and easy and unchanging love which the world is helpless against—is a raging typhoon of nonsense and stupidity. I hoped in that “once upon a time” (to carry on the fairy-tale theme), but I learned my lesson when reality decked me across the face (“The deeper the delusion, the deeper the sting.”). But true love, the real kind of love founded on commitment, sacrifice, selflessness, that kind of love, the genuine kind of love, can be hoped for, because such love—though rare and difficult—can and does happen. But how do we hope for something that remains, despite our protests, uncertain?

There’s a way to hope for something without letting it consume you. “Don’t put all your eggs in one basket,” the saying goes. Hopes tend to disappoint, so scatter your hopes across the waters. One might go somewhere. Don’t let yourself slip too far into the hope, so that its disappointment ruins your life. If life without true love is a life of misery by virtue of being absent of true love, then you might as well call it a day, ‘cause chances are, you’ll just be miserable. There are other things that bring joy and purpose (though, sadly, these, too, are uncertain). Don’t bloat the object of your hope into some insurmountable peak, don’t infuse it with trimmings borne of fancy; keep the hope realistic. But what does that look like? The fog seems hesitant to lift.

a beautiful monster

HOPE. The expectation of a desire coming to bear on reality. Everyone hopes for something, the OBJECT of our hope. It’s that desire, burning deep inside us, a desire for something (like true love), a desire so burning and scalding and deep that it becomes part of us, and removing that hope puts us through the gauntlet and empties out to a wooden bastion where we’re hung and quartered. There’s that which we hope FOR, and there’s that which we hope IN, the person or thing that we expect to bring this hope to fruition (be it fate, destiny, God, ourselves, other people, etc.). There are little hopes—“I hope the weather’s decent so I can get up without wanting to smash my head into a mirror”—and there are Big Hopes, such as, “I want to fall in love and get married and have a family.” Little hope disappoint and we shrug our shoulders and move forward with no skin off our back; Big Hopes disappoint, and we can be scarred for life.

Hope’s a beautiful monster. It promises us our desires and fuels our endurance amidst life’s checkered hellholes, but its monstrosity becomes apparent when the hope returns empty, and we’re left to pick up the pieces all by our lonesome selves. “Be careful where you place your hope.” The cost of an ill-placed hope can be pricier than we ever thoughts. Over the years I’ve wrestled with the concept of hope, especially in a world so cruel and unfeeling, in a world that doesn’t give two shits about what we want. I’ve likened hope to barbed wire: the tighter you hold on, the more it hurts (as a nautical variation on this, I’ve equated Hope to the lionfish: every time you get a hold of it, it just stings you). Hope, I’ve said, is a drug, an opiate, an escapist technique. “Life’s something awful, so we’ll get through it just telling ourselves everything will work out.” Perceiving the world to be one way, we fabricate in our minds the opposite of it, and we hope for it (never-minding, of course, that it’s just an illusion; such details become peripheral if they’re considered at all). And so, again and again, I condemn hope as a lie, a rogue, a marauder, and I decry its authority and advocate its beheading.

And behold the hypocrisy, the inconsistency: I’m a creature of Hope.

Hope saturates my life, keeps me going, keeps me from giving up.

With my mouth I confess hope to be dead.

But in my heart it’s flourishing and vibrant.

To quote the Harvard Sailing Team, “I love myself and I hate myself.”

I’m seeing, again for the first time, that the Simple Answer isn’t so simple.

“Kill hope, bury it, leave it there.” That’s fine and dandy, except:

(A) A life without hope is no life at all. Yes, the world’s awful, but it has its bright spots, too. Realism isn’t focusing wholly on the bad, but focusing on the whole: the Good and the Bad. Calling life a hellhole with no moments of glory is emphasizing only one end of the spectrum; we may as well be honest and acknowledge that life is constant suffering interspersed with brief and fleeting moments of happiness. While that outlook’s depressive in its own state, the fact that there are moments of happiness shows that a total genocide of hope is a foolish endeavor. At the least, hope itself should be reworked, reframed, rearticulated, but not wholly abandoned.

(B) A life without hope will turn us into monsters. If hope has a function, perhaps this is it: it keeps our hearts above the murk and moiré of our world, and we’re able to “hold ourselves together” as the world’s shit-storm rages all around us. Those who abandon hope become cold and calloused creatures void of any vibrance and vitality, mere shells of their former selves. Looking at the world in all its darkness and cruelty can make our own inner light go dark, and focusing solely on the bad that doesn’t just happen but thrives can easily lead us into a cistern of despair from which there’s no escape (except, of course, for a well-placed round in the temple or a blade drawn up the wrist). If you’re going to abandon hope, you’d better be willing to become a monster.

(C) We declare hope to be escapism, but what’s left when Hope’s removed? Just a greater escapism. Held down by the weight of the world, we flail and thrash against the meaninglessness in all sorts of ways, not least our postmodern triumvirate of sex, drugs, and alcohol (shadowed by a host of other less noticeable addictions). The right path through this minefield will lead to the other side, not just leave us wandering like blind fools waiting to get our legs blown off.

The answer isn’t to just toss out hope altogether. The answer lies in being honest with the world and reshaping our hope around that. Specifically, in light of my quest for True Love, how ought hope be shaped? Reality is mean, but it has its kinder moments. How does hope acknowledge this without lose its soul altogether while simultaneously being restrained? At this point there are no solid answers; I feel like I’m in a black room filled with smoke, groping for a door or window; but this is a house of mirrors, and how long I’ll be stuck here, I just don’t know.

We can’t leave Hope as is, and we can’t abandon Hope altogether. It’s that tension between Cognitive Dissonance and Resignation: we can be like the ostrich, thrusting our heads in the sand so that we don’t have to face reality with all its trimmings, or we can be like the turtle, curling up in our shells and becoming lost in ourselves, shutting out the world and waiting for it all to end. But there’s a different route, the route of Rebuilding. When hope disappoints—as it often does—there’s a period of disillusionment, and we can move through that disillusionment into cognitive dissonance, resignation, or rebuilding. This is where we’re at: we can either naively cling to our foolish hopes, we can just give up and sit in the ash while cutting our boils with broken pottery, or we can Man Up, Nut Up, and hammer out a way forward. My perspective on hope—especially hoping for true love—must be in accordance with reality while refusing the miserable, albeit easier, routes of cognitive dissonance and resignation.