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?!

a cold & rainy evening in Dayton

The last several days have been nothing short of a whirlwind, but a whirlwind of the best kind. On Wednesday morning Dylan returned to the States from his Peace Corps duties in Mozambique, and we didn't waste any time: Thursday night (the first night we both had free) I drove up to Tyler's place after work, and the reunion celebration began (during which the photo below was taken). We had two full days of hanging out, and now I'm house-sitting Mom and Dad's place in Dayton through Sunday, and on Monday Dylan and I are hanging out again. It's so good to have him back, and the best part is that there's no awkward "Hey you've been gone a long time..." followed by social adjustment: as always, Dylan and I just picked up where we left off, and we caught up on each other's lives, sharing our girl stories and talking about music and making ridiculous jokes like we used to do when we lived in Dayton. It's weird to think that we hadn't seen each other for almost if not over a year. So much has changed, and so much has remained the same.

Best buds since 5th grade. Gotta love dem Yosick Twins.

I'm going to finish this iced soy caramel macchiato--my favorite Starbucks treat--and then head back to the house to continue plowing through "The Procyon Strain: Book One" while playing The Black Keys over the stereo-system. Oh: I heard The Black Keys on a classic rock station tailored to those in love with Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Pearl Jam, etc. That pretty much made my drive up to Dayton.