in praise of the gravedigger

a quaint cottage home.
also, it reminds me of "Dead Island"

We walked down the road hand-in-hand, past the ice cream shop and the antique book sellers, past the rows of cottage-style homes bordering the lake, rocking chairs and hammocks strewn about the porticoes. The trees were in full plumage, the leaves a mix-matched patchwork of reds and browns and yellows. She made me come alive, settled my fears, opened my heart, made me know myself more than I ever did. She was and is "beautifully captivating," and more than in those ways that meet the eye. I care for her now even more than I've cared for most. She remains, for better or worse, the litmus test. "We're gonna be alone forever," Ams mused. Maybe our standards are too high. But it's hard not to have high standards when they've been met before, and not just met but set. It's not that I have a list, really, that needs to be checked top-to-bottom, and she crossed off the list in one fell swoop. It's more than that, hard to describe. She brought life, she made it easier to breathe, she made me see and she made me hope, and she continues to do that, over half a year later, even now. She opened my eyes in a way that no one else has, and my eyes remain open. Months after the fact, 'bout half a year, I'm still seeing things differently, and thus I know that what we had is by no means rendered Null & Void. She changed me, I think, and for the better. 

By opening my eyes, she made me see who I wanted to be. Walking through that quiet town on that sunny afternoon, her hand in mind, the quaintness surreal... It felt right, it felt whole, and I can't shake that. "Who do I want to be? What do I want to do with my life?" She shone a light on my heart, and she showed me what had been hidden there all along, what had once been thriving and prosperous but which had shriveled and shrunk to a meager skeleton; and she clothed this skeleton with muscle and sinews and breathed into it life. My dream wasn't gone, it was just buried, and she brought it to the surface, reminding me again of who I was and who I wanted to be. 

I'm fond of saying that it takes two to dig a grave, but only one to fill in the hole that's been made; but maybe the hole shouldn't be refilled at all? If I were to go into chronological, step-by-step detail of how (and why) I've sought to fill that grave year after year, it would go on for paragraphs and paragraphs. I'll spare the grisly and meandering details, only to say that instead of buckling down under the fear, the uncertainty, the paranoia, maybe I should just on the edge of that grave and take a good, hard, long look into it. C. Isaac has a bumper sticker on the back of his car that reads "Where are you going?" Most people fumble through life just letting the waves carry them where they may; and in truth, in many ways, I've lived such a sort of life. But I'm seeing that stagnation is no way to live at all, and conducting your life by the moves dictated by fear and anxiety only tend to send you hurrying in circles, going nowhere fast. I want to be going somewhere; but I need to know where I'm going before I can get on the road, or I'll just end up lost. And as much as lostness may be praised, you don't find anyone who's genuinely lost cherishing it. If I want to go somewhere, the first step is staring into that grave and letting that which I've tried to kill to come up for a breath of fresh air.

early june grill-out

gazing down the road

A Facebook friend (more an age-old acquaintance than anything) posted a news article on their wall about how the years of our twenties determine, for the most part, the shape and contour of our lives. There are exceptions, of course; but statistically-speaking, the twenties are when our habits are set, our personalities made concrete, our worldviews cemented, our characters set in stone. Who we are in our twenties is who we'll most likely be 'til the end of our days. Andy and I got Dusmesh this past Saturday, and we talked a whole lot about this. I wondered aloud how I would look back on these days, and I shared with him my sentiments: "My response will probably be, first, 'What the hell was I thinking?!' and, second, 'It was a helluva good time.'" I know I'll look back fondly on these days, those long summer nights where we were just "cool kids livin' like the good times never end, we just daydream, waste away in a stoned out summer's end." And as much as I may look back on these days with a cinematic skew, the reality is that these days have been filled with much wrestling regarding life and the future, and this wrestling gains a greater importance in light of the fact that its end-result (if there can be such a thing) isn't just something for the moment but something that will strain itself out throughout the rest of my life. 

The kind of person I am now will very likely be the kind of person I will be, period. And so the begging question: "Who do I want to be?"

Late last week I enjoyed a hefty steak dinner and Irish Reds with Dewenter, and we sat in his apartment's little kitchen cutting into our steaks and smothering our sweet potatoes with butter, and we retold stories from our high school years like we always do, and we talked about how we had great and irrational dreams, how we were so naive about things, how we didn't have a clue how the world worked. And I'm forced to wonder, Has any of that changed? Or are we just buying into different irrational dreams, naive about other sorts of things, and in the end can we say that we understand not only the functions of reality but its purpose? It's seven years after the fact and though we've both changed greatly, much remains the same; of the interconnected web of friendships stretched over our high school years, he and I are the only ones remaining of that fragile and decrepit web, and we know one another better than we know most of our compatriots. We struggle with the same things, fall in the same ways, go through the same emotional trials, have all our issues... All this to say that maturity hasn't chiseled us into tried-&-true golden pinnacles of our personalities, but rather simply changed us. But which changes are good and which are bad? Hell if I know. But I know that while I've grown stronger in some areas, I've grown weaker in others; and I know that there are aspects of the "old me" that I desire to be resurrected, re-birthed, but I can't help shake the feeling that those days are gone and that me is gone and any thought of "going back" is nothing short of retrograde, devolution, an attempt at birthing "ignorance is bliss". But then I wonder if that's just an excuse: I know, for the most part (I like to think), how I've gone from Point A to Point B, and I know that there may very well indeed be a Point C, and I wonder how much control I have over that. Is it possible to paint a portrait of Point C and then move towards that, increasing the odds, so-to-speak, of Point C unraveling as hoped for? I used to think No, but I'm starting to think Yes. 

"Who do I want to be?" That's the primary question here. 

And the secondary question: "How do I get there?"

A few weeks ago I met up with an old friend. Years before he found himself in dire straits, feeling trapped and hopeless in a dead-end life working as a grocer. He had his pity party and then I made the point clear: "It's not that you're hopeless. You're just lazy." He knew change was within his grasp; and he didn't just know this, he knew what it would take to make that change happen. He just didn't want to go through the effort. "The fact that you can make change happen means that you're not really hopeless," I told him. "Hope is there, hope is real, it just can't be waited for, you've got to actually take some responsibility for your own life. You've got to buckle down, grow a pair, and make it happen." It took him a while, but he did. When we spoke last, he was living in community, got a new job he loves, and is flourishing in the love of family and friends. He stopped sitting on his ass and got to work. Now I'm in his position, at least in a sense; and I know that change can be made, that there are steps to that change, that they will be difficult indeed; but I know that change is possible.

The problem, again: "Who do I want to be?"

If I don't know this, how can I sketch a Point C? How can I move towards it?

Sometimes I wonder if I even know who I really want to be.

I know who I was, I know who I am, but... Who I want to be?

Or am I just lying to myself?

Maybe I do know who I want to be, but I stave it off as irrational, illusory, nothing but a dream destined to remain forever a dream? If I'm honest with myself, and if I push off the fears and anxieties, I can catch a glimpse of it. When I stand alone in nature, with the trees wrapped around me, nothing but the wind and the rattling of the leaves and the tumbling waters winding through the creek, I know--in the silence--who I want to be, I can see it opening itself before me, filling every nook and cranny of my imaginative powers. I become captivated by it, drawn to it... But when the noises return, when "real life" settles about me, the vision fades, breaks apart, disintegrates. It's hidden there, somewhere, inside me, drawn out by beauty, by peace, by hope. And I'm thinking maybe I should pay attention to that.

stagnation

This is about how I feel at the moment.

the 49th week

Yep...

Memorial Day. I spent the afternoon with Mom, doing shopping and such and catching up. I've got a NASTY bruise from the blood-work; the vein knotted up something awful. The nurse asked me if I wanted her to try a different spot on the vein, and I told her just to keep going, it was already in there; and now I've got a bruise to prove it. I went out to Caesar's Creek, around 5:00 almost everyone from Dad's side of the family came over for a Memorial Day grill-out. It started to rain just as we got the grill going, but we made do. It was good seeing everybody, and I went to town on cheeseburgers, pasta, baked beans and Macaroni-&-Cheese. I returned to Cincinnati around 10:00, and I hung out with Blake, Andy, Amos & Isaac for a bit before calling it a night.

Tuesday. I worked 6-2:30, an insane day with our equipment breaking down at every turn: the ice machine's broken, the Food Prep cooler stopped working, our computer systems went down, and we were short-staffed. "Par for the course," Tiffany quipped. I echoed her sentiments. I napped after work and went to The Anchor to write, and when I got home I hung out with Amos and Ams, played "Dead Island," and Andy & I grabbed dinner from Chipotle. John and Brandy came over for a while, and Mandy brought my attention to a zombie attack in Florida. "Summon the horses and gather the men, say your last goodbyes to the women and children..."

Wednesday. I woke early and went to The Anchor to do some writing before closing shop with Shameless Amos (a.k.a. Commodore Harvey). Our oven quit working (add it to the list), so I ran over to Rock Bottom and grabbed some nachos w/ chicken for lunch. Megan--the waitress I always get--was there, and I hadn't talked to her for a hot minute, so that was cool. The new hire, Sarah, started today: she's got lots of XP (in the Skyrim sense) and should make a grand addition to the 600 team. Jake was at our house when we got home, his truck idling in the driveway with Brittany crouched inside on her phone: he had to piss before he went in his pants. Amos and I took zombie pictures, played Call of Duty, and I went on a late-night Wendy's run. I was excited about the possibility of a free grill from Tiffany, but it'd accidentally gotten lost in her stuff. She gave me the bad news, then said, "Lenin says you need to stop losing your grills." Ha.

Thursday. I worked 7:30-3:30 covering Ana's Food Prep shift, and after coffee and writing at The Anchor I went to Dewenter's apartment in Fort Thomas. We watched episodes of "The Office", listened to Zeppelin on his scratch-disc, and drove his cat Sunday--his sister's old cat--quite literally up the wall. We broiled some pound steaks and paired them with baked sweet potatoes and mac-&-cheese (with peas!). All this topped off with some bottles of Killian's Irish Red. A series of heavy storms rattled through on my drive home, and all downtown was lit up with reflected lightning as I drove across the McDonald's bridge. It was a sight to see.

Friday. I went to The Anchor before closing with Amos. After work I grabbed Rock Bottom with a friend, and we watched "Joe Dirt". I'd forgotten how much I love that movie. It was a pretty low-key night closed off with some waaaay too soon episodes of "South Park" (but that's what makes South Park great).

Saturday. I woke earlier than anticipated and did some writing at The Anchor, ran by the bank, went for a drive through Mount Aries, and grabbed Dusmesh for lunch with Andy after hanging out with Blake and Ams for a hot minute. I took an impromptu nap, played some "Dead Island," and was bored so I went to The Anchor for a second time today. I hung out with Blake and Andy by the fire Andy made in the backyard, and Andy & I talked about how Cincinnati is such a green city, resplendent with trees everywhere, deer on the roads, and if you were to take a photograph in most places, you could swear you were in an old Appalachian town somewhere. Speaking of deer, I've seen three on the road right by our house in the last week. I went to Dayton to see Mom and Dad, and Dad and I watched some of "The Hatfields & McCoys," and Mom & Dad went to bed so I stayed up and cuddled with Skyler and watched TV before following suit.

Sunday. I woke and got some Starbucks to perk up, and I went to 1/2 Price in Beavercreek to get a few books. Mom and Dad treated me to Frisch's for lunch, and Dad was going on and on about the show we watched last night, some new mini-series or something that just came out on The History Channel. It's a true story, really good with decent actors and good cinematography. I returned to Cincinnati to do laundry and read Gods & Generals, and C. Isaac came over and we hiked over to Brandy's to laugh, eat snacks, and share stories. Andy came by later on, followed by Ams & Amos, and Blake held up the rear. Erin made amazing white chocolate sugar cookies, and everyone went to The Anchor afterwards; I, however, went home and right to bed, a sweltering migraine pulsing behind my temples.

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.