the 48th week

Damien Jurado in Nashville

Monday. I opened this morning with Emily, and it was an awfully slow day. Tiffany's in Florida for a week with her family, and I'm pretty jealous. I got home around 3:00 and took Ams to Brogan Oil to get her stallin' car worked on. We hung out for a while in her room, and then I ran to Kroger to get some laxatives: the Keflex tore up my bowels something awful. It's a common side effect, and I'm just glad I'm not shitting blood: that's what what Keflex does to the most unfortunate. John, Brandy, and C. Isaac came over for a hot minute, and the hookah was lit and smoke bubbles were blown, but I had an anxiety attack and ditched the party early, driving all around Cincinnati trying to calm down about all these health issues.

Tuesday. I went to The Anchor to do some nerve-wracked writing before work, pouring out my heart regarding these health mysteries. It's scary, it really is, and my mind keeps spinning webs of paranoia. I feel trapped in my own head, raped by my own mind, and I hope and pray this doesn't turn me into some anxiety-ridden wretch incapable of enjoying the simplest joys in life. I closed shop with Amos, and as soon as we got home the paranoia struck again. I went on several drives, not just one, up Route 50 and through Eden Park and back again, fighting off the panic as best as possible. The drive didn't help much, and I chugged NyQuil to pass out when I got home.

Wednesday. I woke early to go into work, helped Brandon and Emily deliver a few catering orders. I went home, drank an Italian cappuccino, and took a short nap before going back to work to close with Brandon. After work I booked it to Dayton, got to see Katie and Mariah at the house for Mom's High School Girls Bible Study. I hadn't seen them in so long, in about a year or two, it was good to see them. I went to see Joe and he attributed my bowel problems to Keflex, said to avoid the stimulant laxatives as much as possible, to be patient: "Your bowels could be messed up for weeks or months, unfortunately, but it doesn't present any serious problems." Most of my other symptoms were, again, and not surprisingly, attributed to stress, not least losing a solid six pounds in a week. I weighed in at 125#, my lowest since sixth grade. The culprit, Joe said, was probably the stress. "You need to gain about fifteen pounds. Eat a steak or two." Challenge accepted. Back at the house I took my shirt off and Mom gasped: "You look like a Holocaust victim!" And as for the nodes? They haven't gone down any, but they haven't grown, either. Joe thinks it's either an infection or nothing, and definitely not lymphoma. "Usually the nodes are cushioned in fat and you can't feel them," he said. "You're so skinny now, there's hardly any fat down there so they may just be able to be felt now." He attributes the strange and occasional burning sensations around the area to tenderness: "That area can get really tender, and since you're so skinny, there's not a whole lot of cushioning for them." It may very well be the case that there's absolutely nothing wrong with my lymph nodes, and if that's the case I'll feel both relieved and like a fool. The next step is blood and urine testing, and we'll take it from there. "Stop stressing out," he ordered. "And eat. Both you and your dad are waaay too skinny." I returned home in better spirits, hung out with Ams and Amos for a while, and went to bed.

Thursday. Work. Was. HELL. We were busier than we've ever been, and both Bob and C. Isaac from Carew jumped in for a solid two hours to help our skeleton crew make it through alive. I missed most of the rush because I was delivering catering orders all around Cincinnati in the Tazz Mobile. After work I chilled out at home, and then got anxious. I spent the evening fighting anxiety in northern Kentucky, and I felt a bit better seeing the new Tim Burton movie "Dark Shadows", though I wasn't a fan. I chugged NyQuil again and passed out.

Friday. I worked 6-11 AM, a princess shift, and then Blake, Andy and I hit the road: off to Nashville! When we rolled into the city we perused Grimey's Record Shop. I've been thinking about getting my own scratch-disk. Blake and Andy both have one, and I love listening to records on 'em. Blake's sister Leah Shannon met up with us and took us to her favorite bar for dinner and drinks. She drove us around downtown, pointing out all the highlights, and Andy had to fight the urge to do velociraptor shrieks out the window. I love that guy. Blake's friend Melissa joined us for a while, and at 9:00 Leah Shannon dropped us off at The Basement, a venue beneath Grimey's. We saw Kate Tucker and J.B.M. followed by the main gig, Damien Jurado. He played through Maraqopa, and he rocked it out. Most of Jurado's stuff is less rocky, and it was good to see him going crazy on stage. It was a phenomenal show, and I even ran into Dylan and Tyler's sister Sarah at the show. I slept curled up in Blake's backseat the whole way home.

Saturday. I woke at 7:30 and booked it up to Dayton to get blood-work and a urinalysis. I nursed my wound with McDonald's for breakfast while watching "King of the Hill" at Mom and Dad's. I played with Sky for a bit, did some writing, ran by the bank and went by Spring Valley Starbucks before heading back home. Carly was working, and she shrieked and ran to the door when she saw me pull up. We shared a big hug and she made me an iced caramel macchiato, and we talked about reuniting with Jessica for drinks and games at Cars' apartment in Northside. I hope it happens. "You're soooo skinny!" she exclaimed, and I told her how I have to gain fifteen pounds. I spent my Saturday afternoon drinking around the house. Tim Jeter from the old C.C.U. days came by to see Andy and Amos. Blake and Amos ordered Papa John's and I got Taco Bell, and they messed up my order as usual. Anxiety struck and I chugged NyQuil to fall asleep but it didn't help; so I decided to head up to Mom and Dad's, knowing being around them would make me feel better. Being around them just sucks the anxiety away, and when Sky crawled into my lap with her tail wagging and whimpering in joy, I physically felt better. Love is potent.

Sunday. I slept like a baby in my old bed, woke for a few hours, was gonna go to Southwest Church with Mom and Dad but ended up falling back asleep for a couple hours, the NyQuil making me groggy. I anxiously awaited my test results and drove down to Cincinnati. I got lunch at Dusmesh with Andy & Amos, and then I went back to Dayton to see Tyler. We watched a B.B.C. nature documentary that was absolutely amazing, and we got McFlurries and watched the new Sherlock Holmes movie. It was good seeing him again. My blood-work and urinalysis came back, and I couldn't make sense of any of it. Joe called me to fill me in on what it said: "Your test results weren't good. They were phenomenal." My blood's as healthy as it could be. He said, "Your cholesterol is amazing. It's a third of your dad's, and he's an Iron Man." I've got a bill of clean health in that regard, and regarding the lymph nodes: "Let's wait and see if they grow, and let's see what happens when you gain fifteen pounds." He theorizes that since I've dropped so much weight, the fat cushioning the nodes has become virtually nil, resulting in a general tenderness in the area and the ability to feel them. He thinks much of my "pains" in the region may be solved by simply gaining weight and cushioning the nodes again. I've fought for the last three years to lose weight; now I've got to fight to gain some of it back. Oh, the twists & turns of life. "Don't keep checking yourself, just relax and eat and have fun," he said. "Eat a couple good steaks and put on weight. And try to get your dad to do the same." Joe's one of the best doctors I know, and he's never steered me wrong in the past. I'm placing my confidence in him and his assessment, and we'll readdress the issue in a few weeks if it needs to be readdressed. Till then, I'm hoping there's no mentioning of nodes on this blog whatsoever. 

an anxiety-ridden post

I've slipped into a sort of O.C.D. regarding my health. I'm constantly checking my body, searching for anything out of the ordinary, and every time I think I've found something, I have to remind myself that I'm not a doctor, I know close to nothing about the human body, and Joe--who has about fifteen years medical training and countless more years of medical experience in the field--isn't too concerned. I keep taking myself back to that episode of Arrested Development where Michael forces himself to trust in his doctor, the one with medical training; and I'm thankful that Joe has a much better track record than the doctor in that show. My lymph nodes, if indeed swollen, point to infection, not to any sort of cancer. I may have big lymph nodes genetically: Mom does, and the fact that I'm super skinny makes feeling the lymph nodes quite easy (Joe says 3 out of 5 guys my age and build have lymph nodes that can be felt like mine, and Mom's can be felt in her neck just like mine). Joe checked my organs and the nodes throughout the rest of my body (minus the ones in my gut, which are spread throughout my organs), and he did a series of tests and X-Rays, and he says that minus the lymph nodes in my groin, everything's in tip-top shape. That my groin nodes haven't gone down isn't too alarming: I may just need another sort of antibiotic. Many of my "symptoms" are probably directly related to stress: periodic difficulty breathing, back pains, etc. And to be sure, my stress has gone through the roof (and in moments without stress, as is quite telling, I feel fine). I found lumps on my head and freaked out, thinking they were melanoma: but they're too small and don't fit the characteristics of skin cancer; most likely they're bug-bites, some sort of scalp infection, or just bumps. 

The anxiety, you can imagine, has been crippling. I look forward to work like never before, if only because when we're crazy and swamped my attention's turned from my problems and on to other things. But when the day's over, when I'm back home, the anxiety floods like the Gulf through New Orleans (too soon?), and it often becomes so overwhelming that I HAVE to leave the house. I go on random drives with the window rolled down and A.C. blasting, driving up and down Rt. 50 and through Eden Park and back, or into northern Kentucky where the stars are bright and the country smells calming, and I try to reason myself out of the anxiety or try to get lost in other thoughts. Being around people makes me all the more anxious, and so I've been isolating myself. I've started chugging NyQuil again to fall asleep, because the fear keeps me up. Many times I've woken in the middle of the night gripped by panic, or fallen asleep with quiet tears and frightening thoughts.

Is there a possibility that something is seriously wrong? Sure. That's the case with everyone. We like to think we're destined to die in our old age after a wonderful, dream-filled life. We're half-right: we're destined to die, and that's that. Our own conviction that we'll die "at the right time" serves only to reinforce how solipsistic we are, how our worldviews are so heavily anchored in ego-centrism. We push away the fact that people die all the time "before their time," taken by accidents or diseases or the evils of other people, assuming "early retirement" is something that happens to other people. It's something we see in the News, or in prayer bulletins, or in second-hand gossip. Until Death comes crashing into our lives like the murderous thief it is, he often remains conceptual and abstract. We are born with only one guarantee--"You will die."--and it's a fate we often ignore, or push aside, or deny entirely. But it's a fate that we're destined to experience, a fate the vast majority of our world has already experienced. We're their successors, and we'll go the same route.

I always assumed Death would come to me in my ripe old age. I never imagined I could be taken "early," but the last few weeks have honed in that point quite well. In my youth I assumed that God had some plan for me, that I would do something great for his kingdom. I thus assumed that Death would not visit me until these things came to pass, when I'd left my mark. But this assumption goes against the fact that so many Christians who have felt the same way have had their expectations dashed, and it runs contrary to the biblical declaration that though Death has been defeated--shown in Jesus' own death and resurrection--it remains a prominent feature of the landscape. Though defeated, death remains to be eradicated. Crippled, wounded, destined for annihilation Death may be; but it's a destiny that hasn't yet come to pass, and we still live under its shadow. Death, the New Testament tells us, visits us all; but it has lost its sting, for those who are "in Christ" may die, but we will have the last word: as Christ rose from the dead, so we, too, shall rise. I fully believe that when Death comes, those in God's covenant family will be in paradise with Jesus and all the other saints. And I believe that when Jesus appears to judge the Living and the Dead and to remake the heavens and the earth, those who've spent their afterlife in a place of beauty, peace, joy and rest will take their place beside Christ in his appearance. And in their new bodies, these glorified saints won't simply observe the recreation of the cosmos but also participate in it.

This is a beautiful picture, and though it may just be some mythological fantasy, it's a damned good one. This doesn't mean, however, that it removes the fear. I've been thinking a lot about Gethsemane lately: "What was it that Jesus feared?" Crediting the bible with authority, it certainly wasn't due to the unknown lying on the other side of the cross. Jesus knew well what lied on the other side, evidenced in his own confident assertion to the criminal dying beside him: "Today you will be with me in paradise." What Jesus feared, I think, was that which he'd never experienced, something that would soon become very real to him: death itself. He wept and he prayed that God would spare him, but God did not. And Jesus' own anxiety was so great that he sweated blood. Jesus felt fear facing death, and he endured it and came out the other side. I find comfort knowing that my king who's gone before me experienced incredible, crippling fear despite his faith in God and despite knowing what awaited him the other side of death. Fearing death is an unmistakable human condition, and I hope and pray that when that day comes, be it sooner or later, I'll face it with confidence and trust in God amidst the fear. 

on The Quest

These last few weeks have been pretty stressful, with drama and panic at every turn. May 2012 has been one hell of a month so far, but it's not without its rewards. I've been run through the emotional gauntlet, so-to-speak, and the resulting introspection has brought several things lying deep to the surface. I'm learning more about myself than I care to learn, and The Quest hasn't been preserved from the effects of all this. Specifically regarding the Quest, these are conclusions I've drawn thus far:

(1) Belief in God is an intellectual belief that can be defended and defended well. It's not just some evolutionary misfiring or handicap that needs to be shed like a molten, useless skin as we move towards enlightenment.

(2) My greatest doubts are emotional in nature, and these doubts trace back to subsequent beliefs within Christianity rather than to Christianity's basic beliefs and assumptions. That is to say, my doubts reside in the inconsistency between "real life" and a host of secondary (rather than primary) assumptions regarding God, the world, and myself.

(3) My biggest concern is that of theodicy (not surprising, since it's a current Western obsession when it comes to theology). Regarding God and Suffering, I believe that the New Testament paints a portrait of our world in which human suffering makes sense. I believe much of our struggle with theodicy comes from, at least, (a) a failure to understand what the New Testament actually teaches regarding "this present age" as well as (b) a stubborn clinging to egotistical, solipsistic assumptions akin to the Medieval assumption that the sun revolves around the earth.

(4) Christianity, in my mind, makes the most sense of our world--from the sciences to the arts, from all the world's evil to all it's good--and by this token it is an intellectually satisfying worldview.

(5) Following on the heels of #4, the world we live in, if created, points not to an un-involved God but to a creator who cares about his world. Although I see merit in deism, it seems that the basic claims of deism--that some creator created the cosmos and then stepped back to let it all unfold--emphasize some aspects of reality while downplaying others. List the horrors of life all you want, but how does deism explain things like love, beauty, laughter, altruism, the human craving for relationships, our love of art and literature and music, not to mention things like selflessness, sacrifice, and justice? It's a decent assumption, I think, that such things wouldn't be present if an apathetic, uncaring God were behind it all. We must make sense of both the good and the bad of the world, and any philosophy or theology must make sense of both, and Christianity--with its declaration of an active God striving to rescue an evil-saturated world--does precisely that.

(6) The resurrection of Jesus is an historically plausible event, as has been demonstrated by world-renown historians. Christianity is wrapped around not so much some "divine revelation" but around an historical occurrence, and if the resurrection is true, Christianity's basic premises are, at least in some sense, validated. Although one can't go back to ancient Jerusalem and investigate the claims of the gospels, fundamental historical methods lend credence to the proclamation that Jesus did indeed rise from the dead on that first Easter Sunday.

I plan on going through all these things in more depth later on, but that's not what this post is about. My favorite Wisconsinite asked me, months ago, what the End Goal of all this so-called Quest was, and I laid it out like this: the goal has been to determine the validity of the Judeo-Christian worldview, the desired result being (a) validation of that worldview as an intellectually justifiable worldview, and (b) a renewed faith resplendent with purpose, peace, and passion. But I've found, when i'm honest with myself, that my fears regarding epistemology run deep, and I'm sort of O.C.D. when it comes to these things: I hate not knowing, I can't stand the ambiguities, I'm terrified of the uncertainty. "The Cloud of Unknowing." At what point can I say, with confidence, "This is true, and I'm plugging my life into it."? Such confidence is more akin to narcissistic epistemological arrogance than anything else, and in the words of Damien Jurado, "I have questions that lead to more questions." Or to quote a group from my high school days, "The more I learn, the more I don't understand."

Every worldview has its assumptions, a set of lens through which the world is not only viewed but also interpreted and understood. Some worldviews are more coherent than others, but all makes assumptions and perceive the world in a certain color. The beliefs of atheists have as many assumptions as the beliefs of theists, and both go through life interpreting reality by virtue of those assumptions. The search for an airtight, irrefutable, 100% certain view on reality is a quest that not only denies the very nature of epistemology but also showcases an egocentric foolishness. I'm coming to see that my ambitions in this quest have ignored the basic propulsion into this quest, that being the unfortunate circumstances of how we can't simply know things, but that which we "know" is known not on its own but when it stands on the shoulders of assumptions and beliefs.

The Wisconsinite pointed out to me a simple fact: at some point we must surrender our doubts and fears. Does "surrender" paint a portrait of defeat and submission? Perhaps. Does it show a lack of free-thinking and honest, skeptical inquiry? Maybe. (Though I have found it quite ironic how the vast majority of "free-thinkers" seem to have identical beliefs.) Yet the simple fact is that surrendering doubts and questions and fears to a worldview is something we all do. It's necessary to function in our world. It's what happens when we see our own stupidity, the limits to our understanding; it's what happens when we're honest with ourselves in admitting that we're really not that smart and at the end of the day, some questions don't have any definitive answers. Some questions can only go back to assumptions that can be neither proved nor disproved, and in the end we surrender our questions one way or another. Surrender isn't just something some beliefs demand: all worldviews demand, to an extend, the surrender of our doubts, questions and fears to a higher meta-narrative. No one is exempt: the non-religious must surrender their doubts and fears no less or more than the devout. 

Bringing all this together:

(A) The Judeo-Christian worldview is an intellectually justifiable worldview.

(B) Nevertheless, doubts remain.

(C) These doubts may very well be emotional in nature, and no amount of intellectual legwork may be able to satisfy them. These doubts, if intellectual, may have no airtight answer due to the limits of my understanding and the irrefutable barrier of my own stupidity.

(D) There comes a point, in any such quest, when the doubts, fears, and concerns must be surrendered in lieu of the fact that we are dumb, and by that token some questions have no definitive answers and must be answered "by faith" (or, in more technical terms, by placing confidence in an assumption): we appropriate to ourselves answers to the questions stocked by our worldview, and we trust in these answers in light of the grander scope of the worldview's tradition.

I hoped to come to a point where all my questions were answered, where my doubts were eradicated and my concerns put to rest. And, if I'm honest with myself, I still hope for this. But I'm seeing that any movement within this quest is dependent upon assumptions, and any answers found rest not on their own prowess but on the foundation of all those assumptions holding it up. Assumptions under-gird everything; some are good, some are bad; some make senses, others are inconsistent; but assumptions lie in everything, and at a certain point I must surrender some of these things to the assumptions. Christianity, I honestly believe, is a worldview that is based on justifiable assumptions about the nature of reality. It makes more sense to me now than it did months ago, and I stand on the brink, so-to-speak, summoning the courage to admit my own limitations not just "on paper" but in my own heart, surrendering these doubts to God or to the worldview, however you may take it.

the 47th week

66 years and countin'!

2012 has not been the year for well-paced blog posts, and May has definitely been, at least for me, the worst month of 2012 thus far (fingers crossed that the resolution to this "health issue" won't just open the door to many more worse months). The doctor thinks it's a minor infection, and I'm staking my hope and prayers on that. I can't imagine coming down with something debilitating, and the very thought of it has cut to my heart like that swordfish that leaped out of the water a couple years ago and speared a camera-woman through the stomach. Intense, I know. I was going to try and recap all the developments with the whole "lymph node" thing, but instead I'm just going to do it day-to-day. Here's the 47th week since my move down to Cincinnati:

Monday. I went to Mount Echo for a bit before closing 600 Vine with Amos. When we got back to the house, Isaac was on the front porch, and he had some of his home-brew with him. We hit that up and enjoyed the sunny evening. When dark fell we watched "Game of Thrones", and Isaac passed out on our downstairs sofa. John & Brandy couldn't make it tonight, and that made me sad.

Tuesday. Amos and I closed together, another slow day. Kyle S., good friends with Amos and Andy, is in town for the week, crashing on one of the basement sofas. I went to the Starbucks in Mariemont to write on the patio, and when dark fell I hurried home and drank NyQuil and went to bed early in preparation for opening shop tomorrow morning.

THE ANCHOR'S 66TH ANNIVERSARY. Tiffany and I opened together, and I'm thankful to say that this Wednesday went far better than last Wednesday. But, then again, I couldn't imagine--nor do I want to imagine--how last Wednesday can be topped; and yet I know, one day, that it will be topped, and that thought terrifies me. I went to The Anchor after work, and they were giving away free slices of German chocolate cake in celebration. The Anchor's anniversary is a holiday worth celebrating, at least for me. That quaint diner has become a staple of this chapter in my life, and when this chapter's ended, I'll remember that place fondly. Dylan flew out from the U.S.A. on his way back to Mozambique: he'll be back in a year and a half, and I look forward to that reunion.

Thursday. I did Food Prep this morning, since Ana has Thursdays off. The tips are nice, and I don't mind chilling in the back and doing my own thing with my IPOD going; I cranked out Damien Jurado today in anticipation of seeing him in just over a week. I ran some errands up in Clifton, next to the Deaconness Hospital, and then I tagged along with Ams to Kroger. Brandy brought Amos home from work, and we all perched up in my room and hung out while listening to Band of Horses. "You need more Noah and the Whale," Amos said, since he likes Noah and the Whale and also listens to my IPOD when doing dishes. I went on a frosty run to Wendy's, and Ams & I played "Dead Island" on Blake's PS3 before bed. Well, I played "Dead Island": she doesn't like playing it alone, gets scared, but loves to watch.

Friday. Amos & I closed together, and I spent the evening in northern Kentucky, driving around aimlessly, winding around the airport, and I had an amazing milkshake from the Steak & Shake there that has a Drive Thru. Panic hit me later on in the night, paranoia regarding all that's happening to me medicinally: I've been on Keflex for several days now, and the lymph nodes are starting to hurt and not going down, and despite not smoking I've had some difficulty breathing.

ANDY'S 23RD BIRTHDAY. I woke early and ran to the bank, and I ran by a friend's house in Colerain and Andy, Amos, Kyle S. and I grabbed Dusmesh for lunch. It was Kyle's first time, and he was floored by how delicious it was, as is to be expected from most newcomers. I took a massive nap and then did some writing at The Anchor. The evening was spent drinking with the whole house in celebration of Andy's birthday. I started to hurt all over, and this sent me into a full-fledged anxiety attack. I left the house and went for a drive to try and cool off, and I managed to. I've been living in a constant state of stress, and this has been fostering my paranoia, and I fear that in time it won't just be stress that's defining my mental state but simple, unbridled panic. 

Sunday. I went to The Anchor to do some serious introspection--"That place is your office!" Andy exclaimed--and then I hiked up to Southwest Church in south Dayton and went to the 2nd service with Mom and Dad. Mom went to her cousin's, and Dad and I got lunch at Smashburger. I told him how I've been seriously considering a Master's in business (or "an MBA in Business," as I put it to Dylan; that there might be a red flag), and he had some really great input, being a heavy-hitting guru of sorts in that arena, and he thought I'd be really good at Marketing. Honestly, I think he may just really like Mad Men a bit too much. These last several days have been hard as hell, and I've come to see, yet again, how blessed and privileged I am to have the family that I do. Dad asked me, knowing my history, if I was surprised at how much I wanted to live following the whole Lymphoma Night of Hell. "Absolutely," I said. We like to think we'll great the End with dignity, with brave and stoic faces, but as the screams of the dying on the battlefield seem to indicate, such is rarely the case. At one point I thought myself to welcome death; but facing it (at least in my own mind) taught me otherwise. Life is a precious thing, a gift, with an End and a Beginning, and I don't want to squander it, I want it to mean something when the epilogue rolls to a close. 

summer movies

Due to the world-famous bedbug infestation of Cincinnati, I'll be avoiding every theater within a thirty-mile radius. With that said, my movie viewing will be limited to those titles available on Netflix because (a) Blake has Netflix and (b) I'm too apathetic to go to an actual video rental store ("Wait, they still have those?"). I've added several titles to Blake's queue: 

"the quest" book reviews (2 of 3)

 Letter to a Christian Nation by Sam Harris. Being the third book of four advocating the non-existence of God, I was hoping to find something new with a different author of the New Atheists movement. Unfortunately, all I found was the same ranting & raving that you have with Richard Dawkins, coupled with equally assertive and unfounded statements about science, the evil of religion, and so on and so forth. Reading this short little book felt a bit like eavesdropping on a drunkard just ranting and letting tangent lead to tangent. To Harris’ credit, however, he does an excellent job at showing just how awful arrogance in regards to personal worldviews really is (although he fails to be any less arrogant about his own; it’s funny the number of double standards you keep coming across), and he advocates a sort of humility unknown to his own work. He writes a lot about stem cell research and abortion, and he makes some excellent points in those regards. At the end of the day, however, I didn’t find anything new in Letter to a Christian Nation, and certainly nothing too challenging. 

The Devil’s Delusion by David Berlinski. The subtitle to this book is called The Pretentions of Scientific Atheism, and Berlinski—a secular, non-practicing Jew—does an amazing job showing how the assertions of New Atheism, especially in regards to science, make much use of countless unprovable assumptions. As a mathematician in love with science itself, Berlinski critiques science from the inside, and this makes his points that much more formidable. Much of the book focuses on a defense of the cosmological argument as presented by Thomas Aquinas (much quoted and misunderstood by New Atheists) and by earlier Muslim theologians, and Berlinski demolishes many of the theories and ideas postulated by scientists over the last couple decades to avoid the cosmological argument altogether. It’s quite telling, and Berlinski shows this, that some of the most recent (and wildest, not to mention unfounded) theories in science are directed against the cosmological argument, seeking a way around its implications. So far, no sturdy theories have been presented, and Berlinski seems exasperated at the lengths his fellow scientists will go to discredit God and religion in general. His main point, again and again, is that belief in God requires less assumptions than a belief in no God. The architecture of the universe, from a mathematician’s point of view, seems to scream for something or someone lying behind the scenes. I appreciate Berlinski’s book for two reasons: (1) he addresses my main interest in the whole ordeal, namely the assumptions required to undergird a belief; and (2) he writes not from any religious point-of-view, in the sense that he is not a practicing Jew, nor a practicing Christian, nor one to ascribe to any sort of dogma. He’s a theist, convinced of the existence of God but not making any claims past that, and the lack of bias towards any particular religious program. 

I have two more books to read regarding this assumption—The Reason for God by Timothy Keller and An Atheist’s Manifesto by Michael Onfray—and then after those book reviews I’ll post my own personal conclusions on the subject. In the meantime, my attentions are being redirected towards my creative side: having finished Book One in the zombie serial, I’m going to script out the majority of Book Two and finish the revisions of Dwellers of the Night. I made the novel unavailable over a year ago to do some fine-tuning, and it got lost in the chaos of life. However, my readers have not failed to realize it’s gone, and I’ve been receiving emails asking where it’s available. So I should probably make it available so it’s not apparent how mindless I can be at times.

the 46th week

Jessie and I posing in Britany's kitchen

Monday. I went to The Anchor before closing with Amos, and I had a delicious breakfast of bacon, eggs, toast & coffee. Brandy couldn't make it tonight, but C. Isaac filled in, and we played video games on Blake's new PS3 and watched a show that's basically Skyrim by another name, and watched some "Workaholics." In a way, Andy, Amos and I were like those guys in that we live and work together.

Tuesday. I went to The Anchor before work; I won't be back there again 'till Friday, since I open tomorrow and do Food Prep on Thursday. I closed with Brandon; Amos had a princess shift, the kind I've got Friday. Brandon pointed out his work crush to me, said he gets nervous whenever he's around. Ha. I got home around 6:00 and had a quiet evening: fixed him and split pea soup for dinner and enjoyed Moscato on the front porch. Dad came down to work on Ams' car, so it was good to see him. I found a couple enlarged bumps under my skin by my groin; I emailed Joe to see if he can see me this weekend. 

Wednesday. One hell of a day. I slept only 2 hours last night: after getting online and figuring out that my "bumps" are actually swollen lymph nodes, I went into panic mode and had a pretty awful panic attack. I chugged NyQuil around 3 A.M. to pass out because I couldn't do it on my own. I woke at 5 and opened with Tiffany. I started feeling awful all over again--tightness in my chest, difficulty breathing--and this launched me yet again into another panic attack. I was a pretty shitty barista, messing up orders and making newbie mistakes. Tiffany could tell something was wrong, and I sought to calm myself down, and I did somewhat, but before the lunch rush it got worse: throw light-headedness and "distortion of perception" into the mix. I was a hot mess, and Emily--God bless her--came in to cover the last hour of my shift so I could race to Urgent Care. My symptoms in both my chest and groin suggested lymphoma (one of those cancers that is silent and painless until it kills you). I left the place freaking out, and I fought tears the whole way to Dayton and then just lost it when I saw Mom out on the front porch. I told her what the doctor had said and she started flipping out, and Dad and Ams both rushed to Dayton to try and figure out what was happening. I meant to call everyone in my family, but so much was happening and I couldn't think straight. When Dad got home, he was cracking jokes and stuff to lighten the mood like he always does, and I liked that. I'd finished crying by the time Ams rolled in. I hadn't eaten all day and Mom wanted me to eat, but I had no appetite, so I ate some applesauce. I spent the evening numb and scared, and we went to Surecare come nightfall to see Joe. He admitted it may be lymphoma, but he doubts it: the lymph nodes in my armpits, sides, neck and head are fine, and my spleen and liver--both associated with the lymphatic system--are in perfect condition. He thinks my chest problems are unrelated to my lymph nodes. "People can have golfball-sized lymph nodes in their lungs and not even know it, and we'll find them on X-Rays for unrelated complaints," he said. He thinks my chest pains are a bitter cocktail of acid reflex and an anxiety disorder. If it is cancer in my groin, he said he's seen far worse cases and can't recall, personally, losing a single patient to lymphoma. The talk calmed me down a bit, and it was easier to breathe (lending credit to his diagnosis). The next step is 2-fold: X-Ray my chest to see how my lungs and the surrounding area are doing, and get me on antibiotics. The swollen lymph nodes may be due to some sort of infection, and if the swelling goes down, then it's infection; if not, then the next step (a Step 3, if you will) would be a biopsy to definitely see what's going on. All this assumes the X-Ray comes back negative for lymphoma, or any type of cancer. We parted ways and I got ice cream with the family, and Ams went back down to Cincinnati and I hung out with Skyler and promptly passed out by 10:30 PM.

Thursday. I woke and jetted off to Surecare for a series of X-Rays. The verdict: lungs are clean! Not a spot or scar on them, not a trace of my smoking habit! The lymph nodes are in their proper places and at their appropriate sizes, and thus (a) the chest pain is probably due to Joe's diagnosis, and (b) if I do have cancer "down there," it hasn't spread elsewhere, which is awesome news. I left the office in better spirits, and I went over to Tyler's apartment and picked up Dylan, and we got coffee at the Centerville Starbucks. We sat out on the patio and I gave him the scoop of all that happened. We talked about Cincinnati and Africa, about atheism and theism, our mirrored struggle to come to some sort of understanding regarding ourselves and our world. I headed back down to Cincinnati and ran by Northside to see Emily--and to thank her for covering my ass yesterday--and I thanked Amos back at the house for covering my shift today. He's a trooper. 

Friday. Today marks Day 1 of me and Amos' "smoking cessation" project. I went to The Anchor before work, and sadly it was nowhere near as enjoyable without cigarettes. Amos and I closed together; it was super easy, with only one customer after 3:30. Jessie and Tony--in town for Faikham's graduation--came into the store with Jake and Britany, and we're going to be hanging out tomorrow night. I fixed a gourmet steak, baked potato, and sauteed mushrooms for dinner, filling the entire house with smoke in the process. I spent the rest of my night playing "Dead Island"--like Skyrim, except with zombies--and I was restless without cigarettes so I chugged NyQuil. Trading one addiction for another, apparently. Habits are formed in the effort to break other ones. And thus today passed as the longest stretch of time I've gone without a cigarette since 2007. 

Saturday. Already I can breathe a little easier. I went to The Anchor for coffee, but I wasn't there too long: the cravings started, and I didn't want to collapse. I cleaned my room, cleaned my car, ran some errands, and Andy, Amos and I got Dusmesh for lunch, and then we smoked mint blue hookah on the front porch (hookah's still OK). I napped till 5:00, and then Andy, Amos and I joined Jessie & Tony for dinner at Chic-fil-A, and then we enjoyed sangria fruit punch and beer at Britany's house. Faikham, my old Thai friend from my senior year days at C.C.U., was there with my old pal Kugler. 

MOTHER'S DAY. Rain, rain, rain all day. I went by Mt. Echo in the morning with my E-Cig, and I sat in my car with the rain drumming on the roof and admired our city draped in fog. I did some grocery shopping and had Subway for dinner while watching "Doc Martin." I'm the only one in the house who really likes it. I gave Mom a call for Mother's Day, and then I called Mandy K. and talked to her for a while, and we caught up on each others' lives, and that was really good. Now it's off to bed, and here's hoping for a less exciting week next week!

one HELL of a week

It's been one HELL of a week, let me tell you that right off the bat. Things seem to have leveled out, at least for the moment, but I figure it'd be a noteworthy post. This past Tuesday I felt swollen lymph nodes in my groin, and I had difficulty breathing, light-headedness, and "distortion of perception." I went to Urgent Care after work, and the doctor said I had a decent possibility of having a pretty awful case of lymphoma. Obviously I was a hot mess, and after a flurry of doctor visits, tests, and X-Rays with Joe back in Dayton, it turns out that it's most likely not cancer, and I'm on antibiotics to fight what he thinks is probably a sort of infection. There's still a possibility that it's cancer, but the possibility is remote, and even if it were, it's an essentially easy fix at this stage. Snip-snip, in-&-out. I'm banking on the statistics being on my side for once, but I think it's a comfortable bet. While things have seemed to work themselves out, nevertheless for a solid six hours of my life I was face-to-face with my own mortality, and I didn't like it one bit. I've been doing a lot of thinking in light of all this, but the validity of any of these thoughts will be shown in whether or not they stick.

The X-Rays showed that my lungs were clean of swollen lymph nodes, that all the aces were in their places so-to-speak, and so my doctor attributed my difficulty breathing to a combination of acid reflux (I'm a grandpa, apparently), an extended sort of anxiety attack, and smoking in general. He reported that my lungs showed no signs of smoking, that they were healthy as they should be for my age. I was shocked at this, but he pointed out that most smoking-related problems don't develop 20-30 years into smoking (most being the operative word here). I've only been smoking "steadily" for about 5 years. My apparent clean slate when it comes to my lungs, the new-found reality of my own mortality, and my desire to not experience "for real" what I experienced "in perception" on Wednesday, all come together into the perfect storm, and I've sworn off smoking (with the support of all the housemates), and Amos is quitting with me. 

This is Day 3. 

Officially the longest I've gone without smoking a cigarette...

... in at least 3 years.

That's both sad and impressive. 

I'm feeling good, I'm feeling energized, I'm feeling hopeful, and I'm already breathing better. Am I restless? Absolutely. Do I crave a cigarette all the time? Not "all the time" but certainly "most of the time" (it's only Day 3, after all). But I'm remaining strong, I'm trying to be resilient, because I want cigarettes to be a thing of my past. I want to try to be as healthy as I can be, for myself, for my family, for my friends, and for my (possible) future wife and kids. So... Yeah. Busy week.

the 45th week

this guy likes to EAT

Monday. I had the day off work to go see Dylan up north, but that didn't pan out. So instead I got some new plates for the car and did some writing at The Anchor, finally finishing "The Procyon Strain: Book One". It rounds out at about 280 pages. It was a lazy and sunny Monday, and I started (and finished) two books: Sam Harris' Letter to a Christian Nation and David Berlinski's The Devil's Delusion. Both are part of my schedule on The Quest. Brandy, John and Missy came over, bearing gifts of Mac & Cheese, molasses muffins, and beer. We played a few drinking games and watched Cool Runnings. I played Weatherman like I did last time Missy was here, but the storms were nowhere near as exciting. 

BRANDY'S 26TH BIRTHDAY. (It's kind of a big deal around here) I slept in till 9:00, woken up by Tiffany's son Lenin playing his recorder outside, and I woke feeling a little hungover, having drank more than I thought. I worked 10-6:00, my 4-day vacation coming to an end. A gauntlet of storms hammered Cincinnati by the time Amos and I got off work, bringing hail and furious rain between 5:30 and 2 A.M. By 7:00 I75 was shut down because of flooding, and there was a mudslide on Columbia Parkway. Tiffany called frantic, her basement flooding with her brother's expensive TV threatening to be spoiled, so Andy and I hoofed it over there and helped Eric lift the TV off the ground and set it up where it wouldn't get wet. The water came up to our calves and, yes, it took three of us to move one TV. We spent five minutes talking about how heavy the TV was, it was something else.

Wednesday. I went to The Anchor before closing with Amos, and after a quick visit with Isaac and Josh I met up with Dewenter at (of course) The Anchor. I changed it up and got raspberry lemonade instead of coffee. We talked about life, God, faith, our doubts and struggles. It was really good. He's pressing me to get a better job. Really, I probably should. 

Thursday. I enjoyed another round at The Anchor before closing with Brandon. He told me, "All the bitches love me, it's a curse of being gay." It's true. The customers who won't give straight guys the time of day flock to Brandon like flies drawn to a moth, or magnets attracting. I don't get it, but I don't mind: I'd rather be doing my own thing and not trying to entertain customers. When we wrapped things up we sat out on the patio and smoked cigarettes and talked shoppe before parting ways. I ran some errands before going home, and Ams, Andy and I watched "A Day In The Life" (a pretty cool documentary) and drank Moscato.

Friday. A year ago today I told Jessica C., at the picnic tables at North Park with a storm encroaching, that I liked her. Surprise, surprise, nothing ever came of that. Sometimes I wonder if disappointments are predetermined? I had the day off for Matthew and Shelby's wedding, and before jetting up north I spent some time reading at The Anchor. The wedding was held in the basement of a big-ass house on a hill somewhere east of Dayton. It was a short and small ceremony followed by dinner--turkey, pulled pork, briskets and baked beans--followed by cake-cuttin' and present-openin'. Megan had me take wedding photos the entire time, but I didn't mind. Dad and I talked classic rock all the way home, and on my way back to Cincinnati I got caught in one helluva storm. I swung by Northside to see Gabe & Emily for a bit, and when I got back home I found a micro-party in full swing, and I joined in the fun. Cooper was over and ended up passed out in our upstairs bathroom, and Andy and Amos were quite intoxicated. "Ohio River Water!" Ginger beer mixed with Kraken rum: never a good idea (or always a good idea?).

CINCO DE MAYO. I took Amos downtown and ran by work to get my paycheck. Andy and I got Dusmesh for lunch, and he went to work at Carew and I spent the afternoon tinkering with Itunes. I got some coffee at The Anchor and read up on The Cosmological Argument, and once dusk settled I went to Brandy's house off Vine Street for (one of) her birthday parties. It was a great party with lots of keg-stands, elegant 3D beer pong, delicious eats, and Manny did his "fire rodeo" thing. The Monday Night Crew was all there (minus Ams), plus Isaac, Missy, Sara, Sabrina, Erin, and a newcomer named Francine. I planned on being there for only 'bout an hour, but with so many great people--not to mention Isaac's tasty home-brew--I couldn't tear myself away until about 3 A.M. for a quiet and lonely drive through downtown and up into the western wells.

Sunday. I slept in till 11:00 and satisfied a craving for barbecue with ribs, hand-dipped hush puppies, garlic bread, and baked beans with briskets from City BBQ. I took a recovery nap and edged away the residual grogginess with coffee at The Anchor, reading up on string theory and quantum mechanics (I'm pretty sure that once it starts to make sense, you're failing to understand it). Blake worked again tonight--I fear this will be a regular occurrence--and when Ams got home from a leadership conference with Chic-fil-A she promptly went to sleep. Amos returned from the "after-party" at Brandy's (finishing the leftover keg), and we hung out for a while before calling it a night. "It was a solid weekend," I told him during our last night-time cigarette. He agreed.

wedding ruminations (II of II)

"Do I think I'll ever get married?" I don't know. It's something I want down the road, and honestly my own mood affects the way I answer the question. Mood plays a bigger role in the way we view the world than we often give it credit, and it affects the tempo of my own perception far more than I'd care to admit. Sifting fact from fiction is far more difficult than sifting the wheat from the tares, and we can't even get that right most of the time. When you boil everything down, what you have are experiences coupled with interpretations, these interpretations both integral to keeping the worldview supported and, at the same time, being born from the foundational worldview itself, with all its beliefs and the assumptions buried within those beliefs. And thus, you see, it's quite a pickle: when we try to understand the world, we're trapped within our assumptions: we interpret reality in light of our worldview, and by doing this we reinforce our worldview by discarding other interpretations foreign to the foundational perspective. It's no small wonder, then, that ignorance breeds itself so easily, and that naivety can take root with almost no effort at all; all it takes is a little hopeful optimism left unchecked, and in the same vein, despair can come from a little 'realistic' pessimism left unguarded. The point of all this is that my own thoughts on the subject--"Will I ever get married?"--aren't as logical as I'd like to think, and my own beliefs in the arena have less to do with the world as it is than with my own experiences and subsequent interpretations. And all this comes to a head with words a very brave and cherished friend spoke to me a year ago right before leaving for Africa: "Don't let your experiences be your god." 

"Fuck the past," he said. "Look ahead and move forward."

Easier said than done. And it may be because Mumford & Sons is playing on my IPOD player right next to me, but I have to admit: I'm scared of what's behind, and I'm scared of what's before. The weight of the unknown, the uncertainty of everything, the dark nature of epistemology, all of this strikes a match of fear in my heart. At times I wonder if something (more) isn't wrong with me: most people, it seems, are quite content to go through life without asking questions, without digging for the inconsistencies, without ever being bothered by the temporary and fleeting nature of all things. I'm comforted to know that such a cumbersome existential plight is common among INFPs such as myself. It's one of the little quirks of our personality (and INFPs, in general, have far more quirks than most other personality types). Nevertheless, over the last year I've sought to really embrace what Dylan told me, and through this a "philosophy of life" has been emerging, albeit jagged and broken at times, colored (again) by my moods. It's certainly not coherent all the way through, but if we're honest, most worldviews (if not all) share this trait. 

While this post is titled "wedding ruminations II" it has little to nothing to do with marriage at all; obviously, it's evolved (or devolved?) into something else entirely. And that's entirely okay. There was a day when I could never imagine life without marriage, a time when the very thought turned my blood cold. Companionship is a beautiful thing, something we are designed for (whether literally or figuratively), but just because it's a psychological and biological imperative doesn't make it guaranteed. If life is meaningless outside of that, then what are we left with? I certainly don't want to go down that route: looking 'round about the world, the canvas of heartache, betrayal, divorce and infidelity painted by peoples' selfishness, greed, and innately human natures makes such a declaration--that life without a full-flourished love is meaningless--a scary thing with nasty implications.

It's very possible I'll find a girl, fall in love, and live a long and loving life with her.

It's equally possible that none of that will happen.

It's possible that I'll fall in love and get married to only have her die in child-birth.

It's possible that I'll get married and then, down the road, get divorced.
It's quite possible that I'll get married, tragically die, and leave my wife a widow.

Of all the possible scenarios, falling in love and living a life of love and happiness seems one of the least likely (in the statistical scheme of things), albeit that which I crave (and strive for) the most. But if the laws of probabilities come to bear unfortunately on my life in this regard, what am I left with? Encompassing all of life around a single dream, a single ambition, is a ridiculous thing to do in this world we live in. Perhaps it was for a reason that Ecclesiastes tells us to spread our bread upon the waters? 


In time my dream for a life of love with a wonderful woman may go the way of the dinosaurs, and I mean that quite literally: as my dream to become a paleontologist died, so, too, there may come a day when I fold this dream up and discard it as nothing more than wishful thinking. But that day has not yet come, and for better or worse I cling to this hope, though I do not, at least in some sense, expect it to come to fruition. I may very well be on the road to discarding this dream, but I have yet to reach that point. How long this dream holds out, who can say? Dreams are like bad habits: they're a bitch to kill.

wedding ruminations (I of II)

sad koala is sad.
(and yes, this negates the preface)

I want to preface all this by emphasizing that what I write isn’t born of pain but from observation, and it’s written not in the angst of a broken heart but in the cold and calculating manner of a mathematician who’s “done the math” and come to his conclusions. As much as I hope, one day, to have a family, I see no reason to expect this.

Maybe the reason I can’t seem to find peace & contentment is because, quite simply, I’m a koala whose native land is ocean’s away, and how content can a pilgrim be far from home and alone in his wanderings? There’s more to it, I’m sure, but not less. As much as I try to forge some path going somewhere, and as much wrestling is involved in such forging, there remains that consistent thread running through it all. It’s what I want most, more than anything, and though I’ve tried to get rid of it, I just can’t. It’s always there, burning like an eternal flame, and peeling back the layers, what do you find? A beast imprisoned, rattling its cage and seeking to be free? No, you find a koala with a weak heart and fallen eyes, a wounded creature whose captivity has bled its resolve to fight. Peeling through the weathered journals I’ve kept for almost 13 years, I can’t deny that that which enflames my heart and crushes it at the same time, the desire clinging to my bones like a parasite, is the overarching dream of falling in love, getting married, and sharing my life with someone. 

A simple life with a simple love for a simple, old-fashioned girl. 

There it is, laid out for all to see, the most innate—dare we say primal?—desire of my heart. While I may be unsure of everything else, this much I know: for better or worse the deepest longing of my heart is to love and be loved, to find a helpmate, a life partner, a wife. “It is not good for man to live alone.” Countless heartaches, betrayals, and back-stabbings litter my pursuit of this, and skepticism runs deep. But skepticism may, in the end, just be an attempt to mend broken bones, my way of wrapping the wounds in gauze. This skepticism may be nothing more than some cerebral attempt to kill the dream because dreams “dead & gone” just don’t hurt as much. All I do know is that, for better or worse, hope’s stronger than skepticism, and I don’t want to be cynical. I want the cynicism to break, but I dare not let go for fear of detaching myself from reality and plummeting headfirst and with abandon into that chasm of hope, a chasm so deep that there may be no escape. In the end, skepticism may just be some fabrication, a coping mechanism of some sort, something I’ve built in my own heart and head to put up fences and hedges around hope to keep it from spreading like kudzu, to keep it from getting out of control. As much as cynicism may strangle life, its potency is nowhere near that of a hope dismantled.

Sometimes we just have to face the fact that nothing’s guaranteed, control over our fate is an illusion, and that sometimes you don’t get what you want or what you need. There was a time when I could shift the pressure off myself and onto God, hoping that he’d bring me someone in due time whom I would love with all that I have and who would love me likewise. But if I’m honest with myself, I have no reason to believe such a thing will happen. Stacking all our hopes and dreams on God is an optimistic outlook, and by that admission we should probably be wary, as the world is far from optimistic. Looking back over my life, where do I see God? I see him in my thoughts, I see him in my heart, I see him in my values and the way that I look at the world, but the one thing I do not see is him. 

I have on one hand a numerous number of unanswered prayers; and on the other I have answered prayers that can easily be explained by the cause-and-effect nature of our world. In other words, assigning credit to God for when prayers were answered is imposing another variable on an otherwise simplistic explanation. My life has panned out due to chance, my decisions, and the decisions of others; with these three factors, everything is so easily explained. Why bring a fourth factor into the mix when it’s not needed? All this to say, I don’t believe that God is looking out for me in this regard, I don’t believe that God has someone for me. I would love to believe that, absolutely, but I have no reason to believe it other than wanting to believe it: and desiring to believe something isn’t, I think, a good reason to believe it; and even worse is staking your life on something, your hopes on something, that you want to be true rather than something that can validate itself and stand up to scrutiny. The idea that God has someone for me and will bring us together in due time, an idea that I clung to for most of my life, is an idea that has absolutely no support in reality, and it’s for this reason that I dismiss it.

Am I stupid for wanting this, foolish for longing for a simple life with a simple love for a simple girl? Maybe, it’s quite possible. We koalas aren’t the sharpest. Be it stupid, foolish, blind, what-have-you, it remains nevertheless what I want more than anything, and that’s something to fight for. At times the hurt’s so great there seems no way out, and at times the defeats are so debilitating that I’m left crippled and nursing my wounds for a time. But always—always—I get back up and Keep Going. This hope’s too ingrained into the fabric of my being to be discarded, tossed away, dismantled. I’ve tried to do all that, I really have: but trying to kill this hope is like killing off a part of me. When’s all said and done, I’d be less of a person for it. I’m damned persistent and resilient, and I’ll try again, and again, and again. And maybe, somehow, that desire of my heart will be fleshed out in real life. I’ll stomach these disappointments, tend my wounds, try to learn a lesson or two, and Keep Going. Really, what else can I do?

a heart-warming text

I sincerely love it when people write in my journals.

"Miss my koala. Going to Roh’s Street to write, taking a million pictures even when everyone is already over it and yelling at us, getting drunk, getting [well, you know…], all of our conversations about life, relationships, religion, God, hating on your exes (okay, so it was mostly just me), reading over your stories, reading your journals, me being a bitch because I think you’re messy, laughing till I cry at all your shenanigans, going out in public and making it a life event, bubble tea, The Anchor, hiking in Dayton, being chubs together then getting skinny together, you knowing how I freak out about calories and supporting me in it, you cleaning up my puke from being drunk, hanging out when I was pissed at Rob, laughing at me, letting me do laundry at your house (which always ended up with us both wasted?), Arrested Development, making foods together, being fuckers at C.C.U., giving each other free drinks at the Hilltop, you never judging me EVER, me feeling like I’m the third Barnhart because you and your sister are two of my best fucking friends… THE best kind of friends anyone could have… I love you so much Anth. I remember it all, so don’t ever think I could forget any of you!"

Mandy sent me that as a long-ass text message, and I’ll be honest: it made my day, and I may (or may not) have shed a tear at work. I find it ironic, too, that the day she sent me the message was (almost) a solid three months since she left, three months since I’ve seen her face-to-face and had face-to-face conversation (minus Skype, which doesn’t really count). I’m raising my glass to September!

a night at the anchor

Pat D. and I met up at The Anchor last night, and we drank coffee and enjoyed dinner and caught up on each others’ lives. Dewenter and I go way back, meeting my freshman year of high school. We’ve been friends for a solid ten years, and though we don’t get to see each other as much as we’d like—we’re both working full-time, and he’s going to school full-time as well—those moments we do get to reconnect are treasured. 

We talked about how things at Tazza Mia are going, all the craziness and frustrations, the conflicts that come up when you have two store managers running one store and both having differing ideas about how that running should be accomplished. He asked when I’d be getting another job, and I didn’t know how to answer him. I’m 25 years old and working as a barista at a coffee shop. I haven’t gotten a raise and nor have I gotten an (official) promotion (despite running shifts, getting paid a shift’s wage, taking on extra responsibilities, etc.). He told me that when I get “a real job”, he’s going to throw a party for me. As for what “real job” means, I don’t really know what he means. I get paid, I pay my bills, I’m not going in debt. But the unfortunate reality is that most people my age have steady and (comparatively) high-paying jobs. All my friends from high school—including Patrick, who’s still in college—were wise enough not to dedicate their lives to God’s service, perhaps seeing (with excellent foresight) that spending four years of their life learning about the bible, going thousands of dollars in debt and then getting a job that would never be able to pay off that debt, probably wouldn’t be the best of ideas. If God were the type to reimburse wasted money, perhaps things would be different. But as it is, those left swimming in debt are left swimming alone. I really don’t have it bad: though I do seem to have wasted four years of my life getting a bachelor’s in something I could’ve learned on my own from the library (or, if we were optimistic, in church), I’m not up to my neck in debt. And though I may not want to go into ministry again, I do have a bachelor’s degree, and Pat D. says that’s essentially a business degree. He says I should try to get a different job, just search around Cincinnati for something where having a bachelor’s can be profitable. I think I’m going to do that, just to see what’s out there, and to see if Pat D. knows what he’s talking about. I’ve also been thinking about getting my Master’s in Business: a friend of mine recently got his, and it took him only 1 ½ year going to school for four hours a night each Monday. That’s definitely something doable for me, I just need to look into the financial aspects.

on writing (VII): it is finished

After a solid nine months, I’ve finished “The Procyon Strain: Book One.” Is it a masterpiece? I certainly wouldn’t go that far. But it’s a good story nonetheless. In the final revisions I deleted the different act separations, starting it off with a prologue, 26 chapters, and closing it out with an epilogue. The book comes out to about 280 pages, and I’m shooting for 250 pages for each subsequent book of the saga (five more to go). Before I launch into the second book, however, I’m going to do some more reading for The Quest: The Devil’s Delusion by David Berlinski and A Letter to a Christian Nation by Sam Harris (the first is from a secular theist’s perspective, the second written by a militant atheist). Once I finish those two books, I’m going to try and script out a good portion of Book Two, and then once I’m done scripting, I’m going to close out reading books for the first assumption: An Atheist’s Manifesto (recommended by Mandy), The Reason for God by Timothy Keller, and another book from a theist’s perspective (so that I balance it out: four books against theism, four books in defense of theism). After that I’ll post up my subsequent thoughts.

the 44th week

It was a pretty crazy week, but in the good kind of way.
The highlight: Dylan's on temporary leave from Mozambique.
Nostalgia's kicking my ass right now, but I wouldn't have it any other way.

Ams and Dylan on a stroll downtown

Monday. Another wondrous trip to The Anchor was followed by a swift and simple close with Amos. Brandy came over come nightfall, and we ordered pizza and watched episodes of "The Office" late into the night. We Skyped with Rob in Portland for a hot minute, and Ams flew back in from there late last night.

Dad's 50th. I went to The Anchor and did some writing. I didn't go in until noon, and we had three people to close down the store. It was nice albeit unnecessary for most of the shift. Emily cut her hair and dyed it brown, and she looks like my friend Jessica from afar. It kept messing with me. Amos and I both wore our Anchor Grill t-shirts, and thus we matched unknowingly. I gave Dad a call wishing him a happy birthday, and I was surprised that he didn't get breakfast lunch at White Castle; his explanation was that he has a race Saturday, and White Castle takes a solid week to pass through ya. Carly invited me to enjoy dinner and a movie with her and Alison, but I couldn't go because we had a work meeting that ran pretty late. Amos and I went to Mac's Pub in Clifton after the meeting, and then we spent the evening hanging out with Josh and Ams, and Andy got drunk off a bottle of sweet wine.

Wednesday. Amos joined me for my trip to The Anchor, and the waitresses introduced themselves since he's a regular now. Work was decent, and I spent the evening writing and playing Black Ops with Amos. I went to bed around 10:00, and furious storms with rolling thunder, slashing rains and hail moved through as I passed into sleep.

Thursday. I opened the store with Emily and we rocked it out. I got off around 1:00 and jetted up to Dayton after hanging out with Blake and an Anchor trip. I went to Tyler's apartment and finally got to talk with Dylan face-to-face after countless emails. We've been separated by an ocean, immersed in worlds on two different continents, and he flew into town yesterday morning and we haven't missed a beat reuniting. We listened to music and shared cigarettes on the front porch. Ams showed up, and we got dinner at Wendy's--always an adventure with Tyler!--and then got ice cream during a half-remembered, dead-of-night trip to the 24-hour Kroger. The Yosick Brothers really are like brothers to me, and I'm proud of that fact.

Friday. My 4-day vacation begins today! Dylan and Tyler left early to go see their parents, and I did likewise: I went to Springboro Intermediate and met up with Mom. She introduced me to some of her fellow teachers and friends, and one of them was about my age and super cute, and she thought I was super sweet but I didn't get her name. There was a bank robbery at the 5/3 across from D.L.M., so I stopped at the Marketplace and bought a pack of cigarettes and watched the drama unfold, at least until I got bored: when the SWAT guys decked out in riot shields and riot gear retreated from the front doors, I shuffled off. Skylar joined me on my return trip to Cincinnati, and Dylan and Tyler showed up a bit later. We hit up Rock Bottom Brewery, and Dylan and I split the nachos with chicken and barbecue chicken pizza. He polished his meal off with a Crosley Field Pale Ale, and I did likewise with their mocha imperial stout (or porter? damn, can't remember) that's made with cocoa and Tazza Mia espresso. It was 12% APV, so you know it's good. We spent the evening inside and out of the wintry cold, hanging out with Blake, Amos and Ams.

Saturday. Dylan, Tyler and I got breakfast at The Anchor--my breakfast was two eggs over medium, wheat toast, and bacon with coffee and orange juice--and then we parted ways (but only for two days). I grabbed Skylar and jetted back up to Mom and Dad's place in Dayton. They're in Louisville--Dad had a race; remember why no White Castle?--and so I'm watching the place the rest of the weekend. I spent the evening, had Namaste India for both lunch and dinner (Saturdays aren't complete without some sort of Indian cuisine), and ran by Spring Valley to get a drink and visit with Abby and Leah. I rounded out the night with Black Keys playing on Mom's stereo-system and writing countless pages (i.e. nineteen) on my journey to the ever-nearing completion of Book One.

Sunday. "My legs ache in the cold and I'm sluggish without coffee. I'm such an old man." It's a true story. How is it that winter seems to have been warmer than spring is now? I've had it with the dreary skies and endless rain, I'm tired of my body aching sunrise to sunset. I just want it to be warm again, and I refuse to change the wintry template of this blog to an upbeat, sunny one until the weather gets its shit together. I took care of my second old-man characteristic with a double shot from Starbucks (I'm seeing how much I rely on Tazza Mia and Anchor Grill for my caffeine needs: "I may drink a lot more coffee than I've previously led you to believe."), and I spent the rest of the morning writing, doing laundry, and deep cleaning the Celica. Mom and Dad returned from Louisville, and I jetted down to Cincinnati. Amos and I watched the hockey game, and Blake would've joined us (seeing as we watched it in his room), but he quite unfortunately had to work tonight. I went to The Anchor to drink coffee and do some reading, and then Ams and I rounded out the night hanging out in her room.


Hmmm. Not a bad week at all.
Hey! Thought bubble! Who remembers yerks?!