the 20th week

Monday. DeJuan and I opened, a slow day. Blake, Ams and I hung out after work: Lie to Me and video games. I went to The Anchor to do some writing, and Monday Nights commenced: putting hairclips on Clover, Andy doing bat-sex renditions, and Mystery Men.

Tuesday. DeJuan and I opened again, and I spent the early afternoon hanging out with Blake before enjoying coffee at The Anchor before training with Isaac downtown at 5:00. Ams, Isaac, Dave and I got dinner at Rock Bottom, and Luke joined us when he finished brewing. Just my luck: my car broke down on the overpass, just straight-up stopped working. WTF? It's hardly noteworthy anymore. A cop set out flares and went on his way. Isaac stopped by but couldn't diagnose the problem. Ams was kind and kept me company until the tow truck arrived. I had it towed to Schermer's Garage. Fingers crossed and hope it's the spark plugs.

Dad's 51st Birthday. Sarah covered my shift today, seeing as my car's broken down and I am, yet again, stranded at Park Avenue. I spent the day writing and watching TV, doing laundry and reading. Hot dogs and mac-and-cheese for lunch. Ams came over to keep me company, and we played MW3 and watched episodes of SVU while dining on crockpot chicken, cream corn, and homemade mashed potatoes. The garage called me: broken timing belt. Not a cheap fix. $600-$1000, 'cause there's things in the way they need to fix. Not sure what I'm going to do. Every time I think I'm out of the woods, BAM!

Thursday. Isaac took me to work on his way to Chiquita. I went up to 1215 after work, grabbed an iced pale horse bourbon latte, chatted with Farmer Pat, and sat out on the patio reading. Amos saw me through the window on his way up Vine to go home, so he came over, got a pour-over, and we trekked back to his place for Mario-Kart. Isaac joined us, and we got Taco Bell for dinner. Isaac & I ran by Kroger on the way home. I missed House Church 'cause of the car fiasco. I considered scrapping the piece of shit, but I'm taking a gamble and hoping the fix can get my car running for at least another couple months, give me time to save up some money for a new one.

Friday. Isaac ferried me to and from work since my car's still in the shop. Mom, Dad, Ams and I celebrated Dad's 51st at Arthur's in Hyde Park. Sally burgers with avocado, bacon, and bleu cheese. It was delicious: I love discovering new joints here in town; unfortunately, someone else has to drag me there in the first place.

Saturday. An uneventful day: lots of reading and writing, watching SVU and World War 1 documentaries, and a few nice walks to UDF down the street. Blake was at Traci's and Isaac worked at 1215.

Sunday. Isaac and I went to The Anchor this morning. He got breakfast, I stuck with coffee. We spent the afternoon watching World War One documentaries and playing MW3. Blake returned from Traci's, and Ams came over. The four of us hung out for a while, and then Blake went to Traci's and Isaac went to see his parents. Ams and I spent the evening watching TV, playing COD, and eating homemade mashed potatoes.

the 19th week

Monday. I worked 6:30-1:15. Amos got a kickass pirate skull and crossbones tattoo emblazoned with lyrics from Mumford & Son's "The Cave" while in North Carolina. The drive home after work was beautiful: warm, sunny, flowers blooming and trees ripe with buds and leaves. I chilled out on the front deck and spent a while reading: Jeff Shaara's To the Last Man. Blake & I played MW3 for a bit, and Tracie came over. I headed down to The Anchor to do some writing before jetting up Vine Street to the Loth House for Monday Night's (post-Walking Dead). Tonight's highlight: Djembe Unchained. Damn it, every time. I mean DJANGO Unchained. 

Tuesday. I worked 6:30-2:00, opening with DeJuan. A beautiful, sunny day which I thoroughly enjoyed on the front porch. I headed to The Anchor, a spring storm following me the whole way. Traffic gridlocked on the bridge across the river, and to my left the stormfront was pierced by the sun, to my right lightning danced over the Kentucky hills; and behind me the city's skyline was bathed in rain. My time at the diner was spent writing, thunder rattling the rain-streaked windows, the coffee cup steaming. The storm passed, and I picked up Dusmesh for dinner: chicken jalfrezi, samosas, and bhatura bread. I rounded out the night with whiskey and O.J. at the Happy Hollow with Isaac and Gina.

Wednesday. Work was INSANE. I did F.P. and we went through 14 heads of iceberg and 3/4 a box of romaine in one hour. I was thankful to be home, did what I did every other day this week: sat out on my front deck reading. I went to The Anchor again, and then I headed over to the Loth House for Mario-Kart in John & Brandy's room and L4D2 in Amos'.

Thursday. Frank & I opened. He's down to a couple hours a week, landed a sweet gig with some agency writing hockey articles. He's brilliant, he really is. I read on the balcony after work and got stuck behind a cattle truck on my way to Amos'. We got Dusmesh for dinner--chicken matar!--and then went to the Tomeo's for House Church. Our homework this week was reading the Book of James. Tonight was Q&A, getting to know one another. We shared the current themes of our life. When I shared mine, Andy exclaimed, "Regret!" An inside joke. I said mine was coming to terms with where I'm at in life and moving towards where I want to be. A ex-CCU chick, Jessica, asked if I'd considered what might've brought me to this point. "That's where the regret comes in," I coolly replied.

Friday. Eric & I opened. I went to The Anchor before jetting up to Springdale 18 to see Jurassic Park 3D with Blake & Traci, Isaac, Amos & Ams. The rest of the night was spent at the Loth House with John & Brandy, Josh & Edith, Amos, and an entourage of dogs: Clover, Lily, and the titanic great dane Cleo. We played the Mario-Kart drinking game (take three shots of beer every race). Everyone got pretty trashed, except for me: tired from opening all week, I only had the total of one beer and then headed home around midnight.

Saturday. I went to The Anchor for a bit, did some blogging, then went to 600 to do Monday's order. Dave & Frank were scheduled to work (we're open Saturdays now), but both bailed and Amos ended up doing it solo. A hot mess, but he nailed it. I won't lie: I feel like Amos, Eric and I are the glue at 600. No one else, minus Sarah, cares or is reliable. I picked up some sushi for lunch, and Amos and I headed back to his place for a celebratory afternoon with John & Brandy. I did some late night grocery shopping: time to curb this weight gain. Not that I look bad. "I was just thinking about how good you look," Brandy said. But I can't let it go too far.

Sunday. I went to The Anchor for a little bit. Isaac, Andy, Amos, Ams and I got Dusmesh for lunch, and everyone game over to play video games and play a spot of Carcassonne with Blake & Blayne. People filtered out, and I did some late-night shopping and then knocked out some reading before bed.

the 18th week

You can never have too many photos of Indian food.

Monday. I had the day off (four day weekend!), so I slept in till 9:00, had McDonald's for breakfast, and spent the afternoon watching SVU and playing video games with Blake. Around 4:00 I went to The Anchor to do some writing. Traci came over to see Blake, and we fixed mushroom-swiss burgers for dinner. Monday Nights was cancelled: Brandy's come down with bronchitis and an ear infection. So Ams came over to our apartment, and we watched "The Pacific" and "The Perks of Being a Wallflower." It made me really miss high school.

Tuesday. I worked 6:30-1:15 and had training with Isaac: mastering the perfect espresso pull. Bo called me, told me that she realized she wasn't ready to be exclusive, but that she doesn't just want to date around. "Hell of a pickle," I told her. I'm not really too invested, I figured we weren't seeing each other again.

Wednesday. I opened with Isaac and helped Brandon make a coffee delivery to The Rookwood, and then we hung out at his loft for a while. Ams came over when I got home, and we made cheeseburgers and mac-&-cheese and spent the evening watching The Dog Whisperer.

Thursday. I worked 6:30-12:45, spent the afternoon writing, and then headed over to Amos' around four to play video games before the kick-off of Thursday Night Small Group with Amos, the Rileys, and the Tomeos. We had some awesome spaghetti and meatballs, gourmet cookies with gourmet coffee, and we played Apples to Apples.

Friday. I worked 6:30-12:30 and spent the afternoon watching "The Pacific" and napping. I got dinner from Subway and finished "The Pacific." Blake's in Gatlinburg with Traci, Amos and Isaac are in North Carolina, so it should be a quiet weekend.

Saturday. Ams, Josh and I got Dusmesh for lunch, and when we showed up we saw Andy was there solo, so we pulled up chairs. Ams & I headed over to the Loth House to hang out with John, Brandy, and their pal Josh. We played Mario-Kart on the Wii, and then Ams and I headed north to Dayton, with the windows rolled down and US Royalty blaring. We grabbed dinner at La'Rosa's with Mom & Dad, and then Mom, Ams and I joined a paranormal investigation with Shadow Hunters at Harmon Hall in downtown Lebanon: K2 devices and ghost boxes picked up a lot of stuff, but despite my belief in ghosts, I was super skeptical and still am. I know no other way to be.

Sunday. I went to The Anchor for a bit and ran by 600 to do tomorrow's order. Brandon was there working on catering, it was good to see him. I spent the afternoon cleaning, writing, reading, and watching TV. Ams came over, bearing the gift of Penn Station, and we watched TV until late in the night. 

in need of a vision: an epilogue

I'm generally not a depressed or gloomy person. Those who know me strictly through my blog may think otherwise, as there's a steady stream of sad notes littered about like seashells on the seashore. It's simply the case that one of the ways I deal with sadness is both by writing it and sharing it: writing it helps me gain a sense of balance, and sharing it (if only through a blog) offers a sense of relief, something akin to the guilt-laden Catholic confessing his sins in the booth. He walks out feeling a bit better, though the issues may not have been resolved. I'm known as a cheery, sincere, buoyant person. Over and over again people comment on how friendly, approachable, funny and likeable I am. My co-workers can't imagine me angry; they constantly make jokes about how I'm optimistic and positive no matter what's going on. And then you come to my blog, where things seem to strike a different note. It isn't that I'm hiding my pain, shielding it from the world, opening up only on this blog; it's that generally, I'm a happy person. I have my stress and my anxieties, to be sure; I have my dark moments, and they can be very dark moments; but I'm upbeat, the personification of "Kick Drum Heart."

There are indeed dark moments, moments when light seems to be nothing but a fading pinprick. There was a time when I was diagnosed bipolar. But the passage of time has shown that the diagnosis was almost certainly incorrect. My sinisterly dark depression had been fueled by a series of unfortunate events, circumstances wholly outside my control. I felt lost and hopeless, and brooded on the disappointments with a ferocity. Ruminating. That's the technical term: persistently, ritualistically, even religiously dwelling on distressing events from the recent or distant past. And I'm thinking that what lies behind much of these dark moments is my tendency to ruminate the hell out of the past. 

I can be having an absolutely wonderful day when a sorrowful mood strikes, triggered not so much by an event but by my interpretations and dwelling upon the event. Memories are tied together through emotional associations: so when something unpleasant happens to me and puts me in a sour mood, all of a sudden I start remembering all sorts of things that made me feel the same way. Things from years and years ago seem to resurrect, those emotions cascading through me all over again and projecting themselves onto my life. A certain pattern of negative thinking arises, and everything around me is interpreted in that light, so that I only see the negative events of my past, the negative events in the present, and all those things that could go wrong in the future. To make matters worse, rumination amps up activity in the brain's stress-response circuitry, evaporating motivation: constant rumination, going over and reliving the past and letting it affect my present and instill fear and doubt of the future, fosters a lack of confidence and commitment to those things I wish to achieve. Rumination is, really, self-sabotage: it saps the joy and thankfulness out of everyday life, washes the world in a tragic-blue hue, and erects psychological barriers to my dreams and ambitions in life. 

Four consistent patterns crop up in ruminating, and I entertain all of them. There's emotional reasonings, conclusions based solely on strong feelings. There's overgeneralizing: seeing a negative event not as an event but as part of an endless pattern of defeat. Disqualifying the positive is discounting anything good as an out-of-the-ordinary fluke, on the verge of being upended and drowned. And then there's all-or-nothing thinking: looking at events in black-and-white terms, with us or our actions generally being seen as wholly negative or bad. At the heart of my ruminating are cognitive distortions: irrational and exaggerated thoughts or interpretations of my life. 

You can't stop rumination. You can't just throw a stick in the wheel and make it stop. Rumination is endemic (and harking back to that online test I took back in 2009 telling me I'm only 20 percent a man and 80 percent a woman, most of those who suffer rumination are women); and there are things that people can do to help them not fall into the cycle. One is cognitive restructuring: every time those negative interpretations start shedding their light on everything, I can just force myself to be critical and entertain other interpretations. This lends less credibility to the negative one, and who knows: I just might find a more logical interpretation this way. Another is to practice mindfulness, a sort of meditation: when negative thoughts come, just let them pass in one year and out the other; focus on the present, void of distraction, and don't give the thoughts the foothold they need to prosper into their inglorious natures. If I let ruminating control my life, run my emotions, and sabotage my efforts, then all this "vision" talk will go nowhere (wait, isn't that all-or-nothing thinking?). If I don't regain control of the way I think, the way I interpret the world, then I'll succumb to these ruminations and find myself on the psychological hamster wheel, so stuck in my head that I miss the blessings, gifts, and adventures that surround me. All this talk about steps and efforts to achieve my dreams must be done in a spirit of moving forward not just in my life but in the way I interpret my life (as well as myself). God help me.

in need of a vision (VII)

Bringing those five aspects of my life together--teaching, writing, learning, family, & faith--and a portrait begins to emerge. "Where do I want to be in five years?" I'll be 31 years old by that time (God, how time flies...), and if I'm honest, I hope that I'm married, maybe even have a kid or two. I'd love to live in a little yellow cottage, tucked into the woods somewhere down a gravel driveway lined with flowering dogwoods. I'll have a job as a history teacher, preferably 8th grade Social Studies where the emphasis is on everything from colonial America through the Reconstruction Era, and I'll be damned good at it. I'll do writing on the side, piecing together stories as I've always loved to do, self-publishing them and letting readers devour them as they wish. I may even have tried my hand at nonfiction, perhaps books on historical subjects or theological matters. My wife and I will be involved in our church, and I'll lead a bible study one night during the week. I'll be in constant touch with my little sister, despite the geographical distance that may wedge itself between us, and likewise with my parents. I'll drive a nice car: by "nice" I don't mean "nice" as most people mean it but "nice" by my experience: runs well and quiet, and preferably has all the hubcaps and even both sideview mirrors. My wife and I will be romantic, going on dates and sharing our lives with one another, comforting and encouraging one another, playing pranks on one another and getting under each others' nerves, but settling bad blood with hot and sweaty sex. We'll be financially stable, even secure, and we'll live frugally, and healthily, and like vines we're intertwined, carelessly growing up and growing old; life will be on our tongues, and it will taste heavenly so good; because La ou tu eleves ton amour, tu eleves ta vie (and, yes, I couldn't help but quote The Hush Sound). But, above all, I'll be a man of God, a man of prayer, my character conforming to that of God's intended standard for genuine humanness. 

There, The Vision.

And now, The Steps.

My Career. The first step, obviously, is school. After wrestling for months over which route to take to achieve my goal of becoming an 8th Grade history teacher, I've finally found the route that's best for me. First is getting my Masters in History, and the second step is getting my teacher's certification. The Masters enables me to qualify for several different alternative teacher programs for those who didn't get their Bachelor's in education or their Masters in Education, and if all goes to play, within three years I'll be ready to work as a history teacher. If the whole teaching thing falls through, a Masters in History does give me leverage against those with bachelors (especially those with bachelors as useless as mine!). I could work full-time as a museum exhibitionist, or do tour guides through American battlefields or find a career in research and writing. And if down the road I change my mind and decide I do want to minister as a vocation, an MAH doesn't hurt at all. School will satisfy my craving for learning, but because learning is such an integral facet of my life, I'll obviously keep doing it once I graduate. There's always time to learn, and even nowadays I'll spend 10-15 hours a week in recreational learning. Ideally I want to dedicate 10 hours a week to study, at the least. As for writing, that needs to be fed as well, and I want to dedicate at the least five hours a week to writing, whether that's fiction, nonfiction, whatever: it's all about honing talent and feeding the beast. 

Family. When it comes to family, the steps to take are twofold. First, Work on Myself. Sharpen who I am, in every dimension, so that am better ready to be a husband when the time comes, and a father when that day arrives. Singleness isn't about being on the prowl, it's about having time to work on yourself and your dreams. When singleness is gone, when the ring's slipped on her finger and we leave the wedding, I'd damned well better be ready for what's coming, and because the root of love is selflessness, there must be the commitment to forsake my own dreams and desires for the sake of the family. But working on myself is just the first side of the coin: there's also the prowl. "Prowl" may not be the optimal word, but being a koala-beast, it's apt. This prowling must be purposeful: I know what I want, I know what I'm looking for. There's no excuse for settling for less, and having known love, or the closest thing to it, in the cold and leaves-swept woodlands of Wisconsin, I can't settle for less than that. Hitting closer to home, I can't sabotage my relationships: I can't let stress and anxiety cloud my judgment, and I need to be ready to get through the hard times as well as the bad without panicking and running for the hills. Self-sabotage, it's a bitch. Purposeful dating also involves being aware of the red flags: marrying a woman who would be a shitty mother, for example, runs contrary to the entire scheme of things. 

Faith. As the cornerstone of my vision, my faith, and the nourishing of it, takes center stage. No matter the landscape of my life, the highs and lows, the tribulations and elations, there's always faith. What matters when the curtain rolls closed isn't what I accomplished (for all our accomplishments will fade) but who I was, and I know that the best I can be is only by God working on my heart and turning me into the person he wants me to. I don't have a checklist for faith, or anything like that, steps to take to reach that goal. St. Paul was wise when he said he didn't yet achieve that goal; and if Paul in his heyday didn't achieve it, I'm proper fucked. It's about nourshing my faith daily, about growing day in and day out, week by week and month by month, slowly transforming like an Animorph into a form reflecting genuine humanness. The method is daily disciplines (reading the scriptures and prayer, for example) and community. I've gone to U.C.C. off-and-on, but I want to make it a habit; and I'm grateful to be involved in a Thursday night small group with Eric & Tiffany, Andy, Amos, the Rileys, a whole bunch of people. It's a godsend, it really is.

The way to move forward is to take steps.

Some of these steps are big, some of them are little.

But there are more steps that don't fit into the five-forked paradigm.

We'll call these The Mixed Bag.

Health is important to me, more-so over the last year or so. I've been exercising more, eating healthier, have cut back on my smoking (but I need to make the final plunge, it's just so damned hard). Financially, I want to be stable and secure, and that means embracing frugal living now. I don't really have a lot of expenditures: grocery, gas, books, the occasional evening out. But somehow I end up scraping the bottom of the barrel when it comes to my bank account. A better job would certainly help, and I've been perusing different placements, but Tazza Mia works for now. I also want to start focusing on life's little experiences, finding joy in the little things and seeing the beauty in the hidden corners of my life. These can be refreshing, and can make life more colorful, if only you notice them. And finally, I want to be focused on relationships: my relationships with my friends, my family, and my future wife and kids, and not to mention God. Life's about relationships; the rest may just be circumstantial. 

in need of a vision (VI)

Ams, Isaac and I were curled up on the sofa with Explosions in the Sky coming through Blake's airport express. I can't remember much of what we talked about (you know how it goes), but I do remember her saying something about how she respects how I love God, even though she doesn't share the same convictions. She and I are in different in that I find myself chained to the need to be plugged into something--or, rather, Someone--bigger than me, the compulsion to be part of something greater than me, something that doesn't hinge on my success and failures. Some would call this a sort of weakness; it's a common insult by the New Atheists, that those who find a need for God are weaker than those who don't (how they measure strength and weakness, who can say?). If I were Calvinist, I'd attribute this irrefutable need to my own election. I'm not Calvinist, though, and I take a more... what's the word... physiological approach (and, yes, I know that's not the right word, but I'm running with it). Doctors Meyers and Briggs told me, multiple times and on multiple occasions, that I'm an INFP koala. INFP koalas, such as myself, are driven to find meaning and purpose in life, a primary obsession. Regardless as to the origin of this drive, it's there nonetheless, an integral part of who I am, something that cannot be denied, explained away, or marginalized, except to the detriment of my person.

~ faith ~

As an innate facet of who I am, faith is something to which I must pay attention. I don't count this as the universal human experience (or even a general one), but when I go without nourishing my faith, life turns sour and empty. Perhaps once you've tasted and seen that the Lord is good, any journey away from that reveals precisely why the Lord tastes so great. A life lived in rhythm with God and plugged into his kingdom is a life characterized by such things as peace, joy, love, and hope. Sure, the facade may not change that much (a life with God doesn't bring about Health & Wealth), but there's a stark difference in the experience of it, and even a sharper difference in how you turn out at the end. In my experience, a life absent God breeds nothing but despair, hopelessness, emptiness and futility. That "quiet desperation" Thoreau's so damned keen on. Any question of what I want my life to look like has my faith, and its implications, front-&-center. When I envision my life five down years the road (as optimistically as possible), I'm known as a man of prayer, a confident and crazy religious nut-job who's nonetheless nicer and more loving and hilarious than sane people. I imagine a spiritual relationship with my wife, raising my children well, being involved in a church and perhaps leading a small group, nourishing the faith of my family as the head of the household. As much as I say I want a family one day, it's so very important to me that my future family share my beliefs and convictions. I can't imagine a future family absent that, and that's the reason that I only date Christian chicks. See, I'm not THAT desperate!

The lesson I've been learning the past two years, and written about so much on this blog and in countless moleskin journals now shoved into my desk, is that my faith isn't connected to a career in ministry. Freed from the chains of professional ministry, the bonds of spirituality as a career, I've found that my love for God, my desire to please and honor him, has intensified. For so long I measured my worth as a Christian against the measuring stick of my involvement (or lack thereof) in ministry. The realization that I didn't have to go into professional ministry felt like an anvil being lifted off my shoulders. I was able to breathe better, and I felt a new passion for God flowing through my veins. It was no longer about performance but about life, and that opened up so many windows in my own spirituality. Not that I feel repulsed by the idea of ministry, or that I don't like the idea of it. As I wrote above, I still desire to participate in Christian community and even teaching, just not on a "professional," career-oriented scale. 

A lot went into my struggle with Christianity last year, not least the wrestling with vocation. I'm still teasing dark motivations and doubts from my heart, but the wrestling and struggling, the confronting of my biggest doubts head-on and without restraint, brought more questions to the surface than there were before; but I didn't give up, kept striving to determine whether or not my faith was justifiable, and at the end of it, I came out far more confident in God's existence and in the justifiability of the Christian worldview. The whole process, painful and scary, brought me to a more reverent and humble faith in God and in my insignificant place in the cosmos, and this has had a profound effect on the way I view my own spirituality, my own practice of conformity to Christ.

Because my spirituality isn't bound up in my career, but in WHO I AM, a creature redeemed and standing before God as a new creation, made new, no longer condemned but righteous and holy and secure in that position, the fear of failing God, of not being good enough, is wiped away. I don't have to strive to make the cut: I've already made it, I'm already part of the team, and no matter how good or awful I do on the court, I'm still a member of the team and the captain loves me too much to kick me off. I'm sorry that analogy went so far, but the point is that there's freedom to pursue God when the pursuit of being accepted by God is shown up as foolishness. God's desire for me, as part of the team, isn't so much bound into what position I play but the kind of player I am. What matters is that I conform to the image of Christ, that I strive for what Christ was, a genuine human being in every shape and fashion. Pursuing Christ-likeness isn't about rifling through the gospels and trying to do what Jesus would do; it's about understanding who Christ is, the perfect human being, and striving after genuine humaneness by aid of the Spirit. This is what God wants from me: my love and devotion, my fitting into the new skin of his new creation called me. And though my love for him, my devotion to him, and my commitment to Christ-likeness may waver, that's ok: I'm not kicked off the team. Players don't get kicked off teams when they get stuck in a rut or have a few awful games. 

The focus is on who I am, not what I do, so that at the end of it all, if I die absent of any of my dreams and ambitions, I may at least be known as a man after God's own heart (who could all but armwrestle King David for biggest fuck-ups). Shining the light on what God wants to do in me rather than through me opens up a whole new scope of spirituality for me: when my faith hinged upon what I was doing, how I was advancing, now it's hinged upon who I am and coming to terms with that in every aspect of my being. I'm able to pursue my dreams and ambitions rather than constricting myself to a sort of postmodern self-flagellation wherein I do nothing and pursue nothing unless it has a giant cross stitched into the fabric. I'm able to take the exhortation from Ecclesiastes, "Live life and honor God," and find joy in it. This spirituality isn't complex nor complicated, a spirituality nourished by scripture, prayer, and Christian community. 

in need of a vision (V)

This past Easter my family gathered at my grandparents' home in New Carlisle. All my cousins were there, and their kids as well. Matthew and Shelby just gave birth to a son, and I was afraid to hold him (babies are like porcelain dolls, and I have a tendency to break porcelain). Mom held him, though, as she always does with babies, and she asked me when I'd bring her one to hold. I just laughed, but truth be told there's envy towards those who've been lucky enough to find someone to love and build a family with. Family is one of the key elements to what I want out of life, if not the key element, and my desire for a family--a wonderful wife and children--has been integral to my desires for as long as I can remember.

~ family ~

Marriage and a family has been an ever-present idea, and no matter the twists and turns that my life goals have taken over the past eleven years, the desire for a family has always been front-&-center. During high school I'd listen to Straylight Run constantly, and every time Existentialism on Prom Night came across the Jeep's CD player (and it did, A LOT, since it was jammed on that song), I'd imagine that first honeymoon night, entangled in the sheets with the morning sun cutting through the blinds. My desire for family was the substance of my prayers, and I had a tendency to write cutthroat poems that would make even the most die-hard preteen emo girl exclaim, "At least I'm not THAT bad!" Reading these poems is comical nowadays, and in college my friends and I would gather in my dorm room and read them together, buckling over in laughter. Though I graduated from the emo poem phase, my stories since high school have always been rife with romance (albeit tragic). In 36 Hours, the main character's blossoming romance is ruined by a zombie bite; in Flowers Quickly Fading, the damsel in distress is hit with a car at a small-town festival; in losing touching searching, the premise of the book is the main character's efforts to reassemble his life after losing the one he loved to betrayal. My latest book took the same route as 36 Hours, the main character's love interest taken by the plague. Dwellers of the Night closed on a mantra I'd come to believe wholeheartedly by 2010:

"What you want, you can't have.

What you have, you can't keep.

And everything you love will, eventually, be taken from you."

The boisterous and proud hopes of a young high school boy, confident he'd find love and family, sure that God would deliver his greatest dream, were crushed during college. I wasn't without warning: in my first college course, the teacher asked us what we wanted to do, and of course I said I wanted to get married, start a family, and work at a church somewhere in Colorado. She warned me that it probably wouldn't come to pass, and my heart turned to stone behind my ribs. College was HELL, and I never would've imagined that by 26 I'd still be single, absent prospects, unsuccessful, dirt poor, barely holding on at times. I imagined that by age 24 I'd be married with a kid or two, working at a church, advancing God's kingdom. None of that came to pass, none of it, and as the disappointments and heartaches mounted, one after the other, the futility of this hope became clear: it simply wasn't something for me. Perhaps I was too ugly, too short, too quirky. Maybe I just didn't have the personality that women were drawn to, and these insecurities found fodder: I was told, by numerous girls, that they'd date me if it weren't for my looks or personality. "Kick them to the curb," you say, and I did: but their words stayed with me. 

I tried to kill this hope, because hope's like barbed wire: the tighter you hold on, the more it hurts you. I figured if I just let go, gave it up, there wouldn't be so much pain. And I was right: the pain subsided. But it wasn't replaced by peace or contentment, but by a vacancy in my heart, a brooding emptiness. Hope is resilient, and killing it off is akin to self-mutilation: in the end, without this hope, I was less of a man. It's become clear to me, over the past year, that I must EMBRACE this hope and FIGHT the lies that declare marriage and a family isn't for me, the lies about how I'm not good enough for any of it. The insecurities about my looks, my height, my personality, my quirks, all these insecurities be damned. I need to acknowledge what people tell me: I'm genuine, sincere, loving, funny, gentle, compassionate, friendly and intelligent. I need to acknowledge that I do indeed have a lot going for me. Any vision formulated must make this front-&-center, because that where it genuinely rests in my own heart.

in need of a vision (IV)

Though I said the next post in this "vision" series (if we can call it that) would be my own imagination of my life five years down the road. Because my reasoning tends to be inductive rather than deductive, however, I find that asking myself what I want to do lays a pretty good foundation for imagining my future and working towards that. In the last post I gave five aspects of who I am, aspects that are inseparable from my personality: writing, teaching, learning, family, and faith (and these are in no particular order). To tackle the question "What do I want to do?" I find that bringing together writing, teaching, and learning creates a patchwork that one might call a "career" (though I wouldn't know anything about that).

teaching ~ learning ~ writing

Teaching. Wed my love for teaching with my love for learning, and you have a sort of career path. I've always loved teaching, and throughout most of high school I took active leadership and teaching roles in my home church: I taught the High School Sunday morning bible studies, and throughout the week I taught or helped lead 2-3 small groups. It was busy and hectic, but I absolutely LOVED it. And I was damned good at it. Even to this day, when I visit my home church, I'll have old acquaintances tell me that their kids, now graduating and heading off to college, still talk about the lessons I taught way back in the day. Just a few weeks ago, I was rummaging through the crawlspace at my parents' house and came across a ton of old journals and notebooks from my junior high and high school days. Littered throughout was my dream: to get married, have a family, and be a teacher. I almost went into the teaching program through the career center, but my junior year of high school, I decided to go a different route: ministry. I loved the idea of teaching and preaching, but as I grew more experienced in ministry, both at my home church and through connections through college, including an internship in Minnesota, I found that the politics and level of involvement demanded by the congregations were just too far a reach for this introspective, introverted koala. Plus, a career in ministry is quite often detrimental to family life, and having a family is my priority A. My decision to go into ministry was born out of my desire to teach, my love for God, and my desire to advance his kingdom, to be sure. But the heavyweight factor was the legalism that ensnared me: I felt that if I didn't go into ministry, I would be forsaking God, making him mad, not living up to my potential. It took months of wrestling and prayer to get past such thinking, but now that I can see a bit more clearly, the desire for teaching has raised up like never before.

Learning. Meyer-Briggs told me I'd be a lifelong learner, and so far he's been spot on. Perhaps that's why theology has fascinated me for so long: it's the puzzle, the striving to figure it out, the constant learning that sheds light on different angles and enables you to see things from a different perspective. Puzzle is one word, paradox might be another; but as Professor Weatherly is fond of saying, "If you don't like paradox, become a Muslim." A consistent interest of mine has been the study of history: my Sunday School classes were steeped in history, rather than bible verses, and perhaps this is why my lessons stood out so much: I was able to enrapture the students, transport them to another world, make them see things and hear things and sense things foreign in our modern era. My first written story was about Pilgrims, though it was somewhat ahistorical, what with Ams' stuffed animals being main characters. In college, I chose to pursue the route of biblical studies rather than ministry-oriented degrees like youth ministry or preaching. I love the art of biblical interpretation, understanding the history and culture and interpreting the primary sources through the appropriate lens. I cherished all my Church History classes: the more you understood the history of the church, the more you understand why, as a Christian, you do the things you do and think the things you think. It's far better to read three books ten times than thirty books once; in the same way, it's far better to be great in one subject than decent in several. 

Again: wedding my love for teaching and learning, there's a career path, and the one I've been toying with for the last year has been becoming a history and/or social studies teacher (depending on your preferred language), especially for 8th Grade, where the subject is U.S. history from colonial America to the Reconstruction Era. I know I'd be a great teacher: not only do I have the experience telling me such, but when I teach, I have a way of engaging even the most apathetic. I'm funny, quirky, slightly crazy, somewhat brilliant, good with kids, passionate about history, and I can make history come alive. History is, after all, a series of amazing stories shedding light on the mythos in which we live and move and have our being. Studying history isn't about memorizing facts and dates, but immersing oneself in the stories. And teaching history is, I'd like to think, just that: bringing the stories to life, helping the students see, so that they can locate themselves in the ongoing story. I've looked at several different routes for this, and have settled on what I think is the best (but that's a post for another time).

Now, what about Writing? Writing, like my desire for a family, is innate: I can't kill it. If I go too long without writing, I get ancy, I get unsettled, I become irritable and closed-off. The world feels out-of-joint. Really, daily journaling is sort of like a way for me to get my fix: I may not write anything all day, but at least I can get the shakes out of my system. Back in the day I envisioned making a career out of writing, becoming the next Stephen King or Michael Crichton. But the Rise of the Age of Media has made such success stories rare; most authors, even the best ones, still have to work another job to pay the bills. If someone wants to write a best-seller and then live off the income, that person has a wildly inaccurate understanding of the world of professional writing. But the point, after all, isn't making a living: it's creating, imagining, and entertaining. It's immersing the reader in an experience of your creation, and in that it's an intimate sharing of yourself with another person. The point is, I will write, so I might as well make it a purposeful facet of my life. I'm not an awful writer, but I'm not amazing, either. There's much I envy when I read the works of Cormac McCarthy, Ernest Hemingway, Chuck P. It's true that I've been on "best of" lists with Stephen King, Cormac McCarthy, and Richard Matheson. But I have no illusions of grandeur and fame. Best-case scenario, I'll have a supplemental income (and on a teacher's salary, this could be quite helpful). Worst-case scenario, I'll have a great collection of artwork to line on my bookshelves. And who can be mad at even a modest fan base?

in need of a vision (III)

Who do I want to be?
What do I want to do?
And how do I go about it?

Those three questions have been haunting me, and I've made no effort to rush the answers: so long as I'm striving to forge a vision for my life, there's every reason NOT to rush it. It does feel like time's of the essence, so much so that often I feel like a sailor amidst a storm, dredging water in buckets and throwing it overboard, but at far too slow a pace: the ship's sinking and there's no stopping it. Yes, time is of the essence, in the strictest sense of the term; but time's not to be taken lightly, and devoting at least a month to scavenging together a "life vision" seems reasonable. After all, this vision isn't just something I'm hoping for: it's something I'm striving for, something that requires work, patience, discipline, self-control. I can't be hasty in trying to piece it together; it's a complicated assembly with lots of moving parts, I don't want to be halfway through realizing I forgot a nut or bolt somewhere.

In trying to assemble this vision, I've asked what seems like the simplest question: "What's important to me?" Not "What should be important" but what is ACTUALLY important. I can try to be as noble as possible, but let's be honest: that's not me. I could write that "feeding the hungry" is important to me, but I'm not taking any steps to alleviate hunger worldwide. Simply put, it's not that important to me. Writing it out that way makes me feel less-than-human. The point is, I have to be honest about those things that are important in my life, rather than making priority what I feel should be important. A vision fashioned for a saint isn't going to work for a guy like me. I'm hardly ever pragmatic, but I think this kind of pragmatism is justifiable.

So... "What's important to me?" I've sketched together five things that are important to me, and I've asked the subsequent question, "What do I specifically WANT in these areas?" What do I want these "areas of importance" to look like in two years? five years? ten years? These areas of importance are integral to who I am, and addressing them not as "side items" in life but as facets of my personality is key: these are things that I can't give up, for to do so would be like dismemberment. Any vision needs to incorporate these things, plain and simple. Here they are on a classy diagram I wittily threw together:

I'm not rushing any of these "facets" of who I am, and I'm taking time to ponder how I want these things to unravel in my life. I've done lots of reading up on "how to make a vision for your life" (it's incredible the wiki pages they have nowadays), and one consistent recommendation is to imagine, almost in a fantasy world and holding nothing back, what your life will look like in two, five, and ten years, and to WRITE IT DOWN. The "writing down" serves to bring out of our hearts and minds those passions, desires, dreams and ambitions that have lie dormant for so long. Thus the next post (in this series) will be just that: my own imaginary vision of life as I'd like it to be down the road (and I'll try to keep zombie involvement down to a minimum). And from there comes figuring out the steps that need to be taken to reach that vision. 

in need of a vision (II)

From the outside looking in, my life seems quite enviable. But from the inside-out, discontent and uncertainty breeds a growing resignation tiptoeing ever closer to that final shrug and ultimate sigh. Cynicism bleeds like sap through my veins; it's how I've been conditioned to think via countless heartaches and disappointments, crushed dreams and cherished memories turned bitter by the stain of loss. Cynicism makes life easier in some ways. You learn to curb your expectations, to exercise caution when placing one's hopes. But cynicism fosters a bleak life, stripping the excitement, joy, and adventure out of everyday living. It creates a void where purpose once thrived: in a world so dark and ripe with misfortune, why aim for anything at all? Why take a swing when you've learned you can't help but strike out? This is the quiet desperation that befalls most men: an aching and unpalatable void which we seek to fill with momentary pleasures, our means to escape the dreary wasteland of the human experience, an experience characterized most poignantly by loss, disappointment, and futility.

This quiet desperation seizes me, but there's hope. The cynicism isn't ingrained: it's learned, conditioned, from the interplay of events and their interpretations. We don't perceive the world fully but through a kaleidoscope of shifting lenses. We don't have but one way of seeing the world but many, resulting in paradoxical beliefs and incongruities within our muddled worldviews. My cynicism comes not from a balanced, cogent, or objective observation of the world. It's simply a pattern of thinking and seeing that's evolved not so much from without but from within, as I've consistently interpreted life's negative events from  a broken, despairing, and confused heart.

The remedy for this cynicism propagating indifference and uncertainty may lie in the root of cynicism itself, those interpretations of how my life is and why it's the way that it is. I may perceive my life as being marked by disappointment and empty dreams, void of meaning and absent substance; I may perceive myself as not cool or not smart or not attractive enough, and I may struggle with the off-balance fear that my life is all but over (damned lymphoma scare). But that's but one way to look at it: I could put on a different lens and see those things I've accomplished (graduated college, living on my own, author of several successful novels, etc.) as well as all the blessings that surround this life of mine, a life that is quite probably in its early stages. Perhaps my perception of my life should be reworked in light of a broader horizon: I have food on my table, I have my health, I can sleep in safety at night, and I have a place to live. I have a car, a cell phone, a TV, and books I can read (by God, I'm literate!). I'm surrounded by loving family and friends, and I'm in the top 1% (now that I've gotten an iPhone). On the outside, my life may look enviable, and that's because it is. People would KILL to have what I have, and I bitch and moan about not having MORE. Ultimately, the problem may not be too narrow a perception but too ungrateful a heart.

As to the reason my life is the way it is, I could interpret my life as a series of misfortunes and broken hopes (as I have consistently done for the past seven years), and in doing so I have to understand why life has turned out the way it is. Perhaps God is punishing me for not being good enough; maybe God's just mad and being mean; maybe God isn't at all interested in what's going on with me. Or maybe God's not at all to blame, but I am; and perhaps God isn't to blame, nor myself fully, but life just goes like this sometimes and reading meaning into its currents is like trying to read signs off the Potomac's surface. But if I see my life as ripe with blessings that 99% of the world craves to have as their own, then I see that I have far more than I ever deserve, and that I'm being quite the annoying and obnoxious bitch when I complain about not having "all those things I've always wanted."

The reorientation of my perspective--gratefulness for what I have, a broader view of my fortune in the world around me, the knowledge that I am loved and favored by God, blessed by him even, and that he hasn't abandoned me--fuels the eradication of the cynicism. It's not about forgetting the past; it's about approaching it from a different perspective, a different angle, seeing it in a new and refreshing way, a way that allows hope and purpose and even fosters such things.

Who do I want to be?

What do I want to do?

And how do I go about it?

The chains of cynicism holding me back must be shaken loose; the shackles must be hewn apart. The darkness must be expunged so that light can shine once more. Beyond the cynicism and its bleak and fatalistic interpretations of my life thus far, there lies a freedom beckoning me forward, inviting me to experience life anew. 

in need of a vision

A people without a vision perish, or at least stagnate. 

And maybe that's what my problem's been all along. 

Since college, going on four years now (OMG), I've been doing nothing but chasing empty dreams and biding my time. It's been wholly unproductive. My old vision--to get my degree, meet a wife at C.C.U., find a job at a back-country church and start a family--fell apart. None of that happened, despite my efforts in every regard, and it came to the point where any hoping that it could or would happen felt more like an escapist technique than anything else. I gave up on the vision, and I could do nothing but exist as best I could, and despite little wins here-and-there, there hasn't been any forward movement. This lack of my movement is largely due, I think, to the lack (or absence) of vision. My vision must be put together, or at least rekindled. Goals have to be forged and steps taken. 

What do I want to do?

Who do I want to be? 

What do I want my life to look like in three years? five years? ten years?

And, most importantly, how do I get there?

All my life people have told me that I've got what it takes to do and be something great. I've got an odd sort of charisma (if we can call it that), I've got all the quirks necessary to be an original success, and there's a good bit of intelligence stored away in this sometimes-less-than-adequate brain of mine. The critical key may simply be sustained, concentrated effort; and the lack of that ties back to the lack of a vision and thus lack of steps taken to get there.

I don't want to just exist anymore.

I don't want to watch people moving forward as I'm stuck in the mud.

If regret must be the rhythm of my life, I want to minimize as much of it as I can.

That's a noble enterprise, wouldn't you say?

"Fuck the past," Dylan told me so long ago. "Don't let it define your life. Look ahead and move forward. Don't let your experiences be your 'god.' We all let our experiences define our beliefs and how we live. But sometimes we need to simply realize that just because something has been the same way for so long doesn't mean it should be so or that it will be so in the future. Things change, Anth; opportunities are found, people are changed, and some, once cynical and stoic, can even find that they only believed the way they did because they experienced heartache and disappointment. Experience doesn't equal truth. Experience doesn't say what your future will be like or what you can change on your own. Don't lose hope. Without hope we're dead, life becomes meaningless, and I don't see that in you."

I like Dylan a lot, and not just because he's wise.

(We all have our moments, even me).

I think on his words often. It's no secret that I'm nostalgic as hell, and that nostalgia is very much tied to the importance of the past I put on my life. This isn't an importance the past should have; the past indeed doesn't dictate the future. History is cyclical, but only to a point. Dylan's right: I shouldn't let my past define my life. I shouldn't let the heartaches, the betrayals, the fears and insecurities, the disappointments and embarrassments, the empty hopes and fruitless dreams, any of this define my life. There's a certain weariness to remembering the past all too well, a downside to abandoning rose-colored lenses. "Look ahead and move forward," he told me. THAT'S where my attention should be. The past must be dead to me, silenced at the guillotine, and I must refuse to look over my shoulders as I figure out a path to walk and set out on it. 

the 17th week

The view from The Rookwood

April Fool's Day. Also Red's Opening Day, so downtown was flooded with red. Eric walked around Fountain Square handing out drink coupons, and I manned the bar as people flocked in for free small coffees. Dave lit a fire under Amos' ass, and luckily Amos had the resolve NOT to launch into a fist-fight. I spent the afternoon watching The West Wing and made a basil pesto reggato pasta dish with broccoli, mushrooms, green peppers, onion, garlic and chicken. Monday Nights mourned the end of The Walking Dead, and now we must wait until October for Season 4. Lame.

Tuesday. Frank & I opened with Dejuan on Food Prep. He isn't quite cutting it, so he's switching to barista and I'll be covering his Food Prep shifts. I napped after work and then headed back downtown for "training" with Dave & Isaac. Ams joined us for dinner and drinks at Rock Bottom. Brandon was there with his boyfriend ("His name's Anthony, too! You know I love me some Anthonys!"), so I finally got to meet him. I headed home and did some reading before Isaac and Ams headed over to round out the night in the living room.

Wednesday. I worked 6:30-1:30 and had an uneventful evening comprised of leftover pasta and The Hobbit. Also, I finished The West Wing.

Thursday. I worked 6:30-2:00, an unusually uneventful thursday. I had to park on an adjacent street from the apartment because of landscaping work. I took a nap and grabbed dinner from Subway, enjoyed it while watching Law & Order: SVU. I went over to Amos', and we played CoD2 and watched "Doctor Who." Bo's done a complete 180, no reason why. I'm not too concerned.

Friday. I had the day off; Isaac picked up my 6:30-1:30 for more hours. He's low since Carew got the chop. I went to The Anchor to do some writing, ran by work to do the USFoods order, and then I went on another date with another girl up in Mount Adams: we walked around Eden Park and then grabbed drinks and olives at The Rookwood. We parted ways and I met up with Amos at his place: we watched Wayne's World, played CoD2, and Frank and Rebecca stopped by.

Saturday. I was awake by 7:30 and grabbed some McDonald's for breakfast. I went to The Anchor for a bit, ran by the grocery, and spent the afternoon watching Law & Order: SVU. Caught up through Season Eight!

Sunday. I had some vivid zombie dreams last night, including one where my family sent Dad off on a run to draw the zombies away from our cars. I went to The Anchor to do some writing, and then Amos and I got Dusmesh. I spent most of the day at his place, watching games, playing games, frolicking with Clover and hanging out with John & Brandy. The rest of my night was spent back home with Ams, watching Son in Law and Taken 2 while feasting on Cheezits and Oreos.

[hashtag]rock.bottom.

the 16th week

Monday. Amos & I opened. We have Carew's old La Marzoca espresso machine (Bob sold the Synesso), and it was broken down all morning until Les & Ryan from the Espresso Guild came to fix it. I drove home through miserable snow and worked out for the first time in a LONG while. It felt really good. I headed over to the Loth House after an afternoon of The West Wing, and the usual suspects gathered together to watch The Walking Dead. It was great seeing Merle as a zombie, but it sure does suck for Darrell. Next week is the season finale!

Tuesday. Work was slow. Eric & Dave got into it, Dave trying to be a big-shot and making a fool of himself. "Welcome to my mornings," I mused. I spent the day indoors, out of the cold: reading, writing, watching The West Wing. Oh: I have a date tomorrow.

Wednesday. I had the day off, so I woke around 7:30, had McDonald's for breakfast, and spent the morning watching The West Wing and reading all about The French & Indian War. I went to The Anchor and then met up with my date, a cute girl named Bo. She was a cheerleader in high school and could be a model; and she loves classic literature and dinosaurs. We went to 1/2 Price Books and ran downtown, and I made her a drink. She likes classic macchiatos, good girl. We rounded out the night watching National Lampoon's "Christmas Vacation."

Thursday. Bo said she had a great time last night, so we'll probably be seeing each other again. Ams came over after work, and she and Isaac made stir-fry. When she left Isaac and I went across the street to the Happy Hollow. 

Good Friday. I worked 6:30-1:30, but being the holiday, we were pretty slow. So I left early. I headed downtown around 5:30 for Rock Bottom with Frank & Rebecca, Isaac, Andy & Ams. Frank, Rebecca and I retired to Amos' for an evening of hockey and wrestling with clover. John and Brandy were there, too. 

Saturday. Bo & I met up at Tim Horton's off 675, and I met her little boy Titus and we shopped for dino party supplies, and I gave her some of my figurines from Bunnell Hill. She showed me her house in New Carlisle, right up on a lake. We got a cute picture together (above). She went to dinner with friends and I headed down the street for Easter celebrations with Dad's side of the family. Gracie and Cate were there, and Matthew & Shelby's newborn was being shown off. Ams & I, we're the Black Sheep of our family: most of our cousins are engaged or married, with kids or kids in the near future. Everyone's always like, "So when are you going to be adding to the family?" It sucks that it's what I really, really want, I just can't seem to find anyone who wants that with me (and whom I want that with).