the tension & the terror

Be it foolishness or wisdom, I can never tell, but I believe that “True Love” can be a reality. Not the true love of the Twilight saga, which is to be loathed, but the true love that is cemented in place by a decision of the will and the resolve to see it through. It’s no strange thing that marriage—the covenant where two people go in and one person come out—is begun by vows; the heart of true love isn’t a feeling but a commitment fueled by determination. But I don’t know if it’s wise to hope for true love, and this is why:

1. It’s possible, it happens, but it’s about as rare as a dodo bird in the late 17th century. Generally-speaking, putting your hope in something that’s no more common than a hipster at a football game is pretty foolish. Why will we condemn the lottery as an exploiter of the poor when fairy tales and publishing houses exploit the hopeless? We’ll tell someone they’ve lost their marble for playing the lottery, but we’ll validate their hope for true love. Maybe we’re all just blinded, because it’s something we crave in our deepest parts?

2. The world isn’t kind to true love. The world simply doesn’t give a damn. Most of the time your hopes return empty, and when they don’t, you have no guarantee that the hope will be preserved throughout life’s seasons and senselessness. Is it better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all? When two become one and one is taken, there remains half a person, dismembered and hung out to dry. Fairy tales thrive in a world laden with meaning, but our world’s scarred by Death and Decay, and where the lines are blurred, there’s the realm of Disappointment & Despair. Is it even possible to both acknowledge the nature of reality while holding out hope? Can we legitimately be honest with ourselves while simultaneously legitimately hoping for something so far-fetched? But we’re inconsistent creatures. Call it hypocrisy, condemn it as two-facedness, but I think it’s just that we’re confused and muddled people riddled with inconsistencies in Perception and Praxis.

The wrong way to cut through this tension is to revert back to my old ways. As tempting as it is to believe that God has someone in particular for me, and through the kaleidescoping rhythms of life is bringing us together, such backward momentum only draws us further into the darkness. There are no answers in such a backwards movement; two steps back and one step forward is still moving in the wrong direction. I want such a conviction to be true, I’d love it if it were true, but the belief system itself just doesn’t work. Not only is there no biblical evidence for it, but the sad reality of most Christian marriages tells a different story (recent statistics show more unhappy marriages in Christian communities than secular, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because we’ve swallowed the lie about ‘The One’ and didn’t expect marriage to be hard, since God authored it). The whole belief system, too, is wholly egocentric, where our romantic aspirations become God’s greatest concern to the point that he puts everything else on the backburner to bring two people together. Yes, I believe God works in our lives; yes, I believe that God can and does bless people with spouses; but I don’t believe that there’s “just one” out there who’s perfect, and that God will bring us together in due time. Who we end up marrying—if we reach that point—has less to do with God’s direct involvement in our lives and more to do with our choices, and chance. Sometimes, sure, God may indeed bring two people together (remember Hosea and Gomer? perhaps not the best example, but there’s a lesson there nonetheless), but to make an occasional rule a universal rule is a monstrous misstep in the wrong direction.

So what’re we left with? The tension coupled with the uncertainty. There’re no black-&-white answers, nothing to dispel the riddle of the Unknown. This is as deep as the knife goes, and the beast’s innards are coiled about our feet. The rarity of true love, the world’s apathy towards true love, and the guarantee, irrespective of religious preferences, that there is no guarantee.

Can I move forward into hope? And how to do so without succumbing to fanciful lies spun in gothic castles? Another question: should I move forward into Hope, or is Hope a beast of burden best left tied up and left behind?

a slow death? no, an evisceration

Not two days ago I found out that Jessica is “dating” someone (or, at least, she’s going on dates with someone and really excited about it). The news dredged up all sorts of bottom-feeding monsters, a mixed bag of emotion clouding my perception of things. While we haven’t talked in quite some time, and while for all intensive purposes the friendship is all but “dead and gone,” the news did bring a certain amount of pain. Not because I want to be with her—I don’t—but because I invested much of my time, thoughts, and hope into the idea of “us” that this brings it to its grave. May such hopes rest in peace. The death of yet another hope strikes deep, like a barb hooked into my left ventricle and pulling with every breath. Again I succumbed to a foolish hope, and again I’m seeing how truly foolish such hopes are. What’s the point of hoping for “true love” when reality tells you, without pausing for a breath, that such “true love” is a lie, something yearned for but never realized? And so we become cold and calloused skeletons dressed in moth-eaten rags, jaded creatures with downtrodden scowls and milky yellow faces carved with deep-set and empty eyes.

At this point, any pain felt over knowing that “The Girl” has found someone else is quickly drowned by this deep-rooted skepticism. But at the same time, I know that my cynicism may one day be destroyed by me actually experiencing something wonderful. “Love is stronger than the Grave.” If something has the power to uproot logic in a single strike, it needs to be taken into account. It matters. And real love is like that, a mystical and magical organism whose mere presence dismembers cynicism at the seams.

“True Love.” Not this pie-in-the-sky, happy-go-lucky unicorn that gets around like a crack-whore ten bucks short, but the real deal. An authentic love that doesn’t run from the world but embraces it, two souls conjoined and standing locked together before the world, a levee refusing to break under the shrieking hurricanes. “Life’s a bitch, so let’s do this thing together.” The kind of love where two people meet and connect on that supra-spiritual level and make a decision of the will to love and be loved, and actually do it. Such love is real. I’ve seen it and felt it: knowing you’d do anything, even leaving, just to see her happy and her dreams coming true. As iron sharpens iron, so true love seeps into the marrow of our bones and reworks us, and like a phoenix rising we become something different. Not one person exalted about the miasma but two becoming one (1+1=1), showing a world driven by selfishness, greed, and lust that there’s a different way to be human, a different way to do this thing we call Life.

That is what I mean by true love, not this “You’re hot and kinda cool, so I’m totally into you” bullshit. The kind of love I’m talking about goes beyond looks and beyond personality (not to denounce these things as unimportant; I’m too much a realist to know that 90% of the time, these factors decide who does and doesn’t want to be your mate); this kind of love looks deeper, into the heart, into the core of who we are. Our hopes, our dreams, our fears, our vices. Our evil and the skeletons in our closets; our issues and quirks and inconsistencies and idiosyncrasies. All of this, known and beheld, then embraced and cherished for all its flaws and shortcomings. Two people, coming to love and appreciate the other, knowing that life together is better than life alone, sharing in the journey and experiencing together the dark alleys and Babylonian gardens, the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly of all that life has to offer. Granted, this love doesn’t just happen. It must be worked at, cultivated, grown and nurtured. Under the right conditions, and with the right care, such love will blossom and spread, radiating outwards and making people turn their heads—“Okay, that’s weird, what’s going on over there?”

But cynicism doesn’t easily die, and nor should it. Once hope consumes us to the point where we become illogical in our perception of the world, there’s a problem. The kind of love above, this caricature sketch of true love, it’s something I’ve seen, something I know to be real. But for every instance of true love coming to bear on the world like a shot out of the dark, there’s plethora of the opposite. “Love” is replaced with bitterness and annoyance, and the relationship is underscored with a discontentment feeding the adulterous heart. True love can turn beasts into beauties, but more often we find beauties turned into beasts. Hoping for true love can’t be done blindly, in a vacuum outside real life, fueled by the ridiculous notions of Disney and Pixar, birthed in Medieval tales and without any substance in real life. This is something we can’t do; we can’t just swallow the pill and go on our way. The reality is that this world doesn’t cater to true love, and the difficulty of finding true love is compounded by the fact that, as human creatures, we are inherently self-centered. Selfish, greedy, indifferent. That’s us. Homo incurvatus en se, as Augustine put it: human beings turned in on themselves. True love has at its foundation selflessness, generosity, kindness, forgiveness. It involves commitment, sticking it out when it’s the last thing we want to do. Instead of abandoning the relationship when it gets too hard, and instead of running into mistress’ arms when we can’t get what we want at home, we need to address the issues and wrestle through them, for the betterment of ourselves and our union.

Compounding this, the fact is that true love can flourish only when both people are on the same page. As the old saying goes, “It takes two to tangle.” True love is a symbiotic relationship, not an autonomous one. And no matter your love, your commitment, your loyalty, and your determination to make the relationship shine out above the rest, the sad truth is that if the Other doesn’t want that, if the Other’s not picking up what you’re laying down, then, well, and to be quite frank, you’re screwed.

Of course, these dangers can quite often be avoided. Be conscious of the Red Flags. Flee from the psychos, the crazies, the manipulative and controlling chicks. Don’t leap into something with someone if there’s no compatibility or potential, and in your attraction, don’t gloss over those things that will erect spikes in the road, because while the exhilaration of the chase and the euphoria of the attraction is borderline hallucagenic, the in-setting of reality will turn this dreamscape into a nightmare. And while it’s fun to point out the flaws and short-comings of other people, let’s try and be somewhat mature and do some serious introspection ourselves. Not the “introspection” of the tool-bags that list it as one of their favorite activities on Facebook, the kind where you look in the mirror and say, “I’m a f*cking demi-god,” but the raw and honest introspection, where we dig through our closets and dust off our skeletons and try and figure out how to get those bleach-white bones clothed. Half of the difficulties found in True Love would be calmed down if we’d just take a moment or two to make wise decisions and to better ourselves for the possible landmark vocation of marriage, of uniting yourself with another.

Already the chances of true love are dwindling, and the biggest hurdle has yet to be tackled: life. Don’t buy into the BS about life being a sweet garden begging to be picked. This world is its own post-apocalyptic hellhole, a wasteland scarred by Death & Decay, and to quote The Band Perry, “Who knew forever could be severed by the sharp knife of a short life?” My greatest fear: not never finding true love, but finding it and then having it taken from me in a meaningless gamble of cause-and-effect. It wouldn’t be any sort of Slow Death; it’s be an outright evisceration. And as much as we’d like to think that we’ll grow up and old together, love is repeatedly ripped asunder by this cruel and senseless world, and we’re left alone to try and pick up the pieces, to sift through the ashes, but there’s no phoenix to rise.

a certain cruelty to it all

Optimism can thrive only so long as reality is kept at bay. were two ships passing in the night, for a moment conjoined in our journeys, but now going our separate ways, she to her port and me to mine. Half-dead hopes brought to life, the spade taken to the shallow grave where I buried my dreams, and these dreams are exposed to fresh air, and then I’m alone, left to refill the grave before I’m face-to-face with half-rotten monsters wielding nostalgia and remorse as their debilitating weapons.

There’s a certain cruelty to it all.

I can read out of this some sort of reminder—“This is where Home really is.”—but if that’s home, it’s not too homey. It’s an empty home, nothing but bare walls and a shiny finish, void of any life or substance. That old dream—falling in love, sharing my life with a wonderful girl, maybe having a family—is built on assumptions that have shown to be false, assumptions that fail to hold the weight of the world. Naïve convictions about the world which the world chose to brutally expose. Returning to my roots—naivety, ignorance, blissful hoping while refusing to look ‘round ‘bout the world with an honest eye—would be nothing short of a turtle retreating into its shell, shutting out the world as it shuts itself in. And that’s something I can’t do; it’s far better to embrace reality for what it is than to pretend it’s something it’s not. While the latter may be appealing, when reality decks you in the face, it won’t be worth the pain; and the deeper the deception, the deeper the sting.

This is Reality: sometimes you get what you want, sometimes you don’t. Some people experience their dreams; most of us don’t. Some people have an easy life; others must toil day in and day out, with no reward for their work, dying a lonely and miserable death. Death: the one thing holding all of us together, that irrevocable common fate linking us all as one. “Everyone who lives will someday die and die alone.” Between Birth and Death, there is Life: a “bittersweet symphony”, an existence aptly characterized as an evolution of suffering interspersed with fleeting and illusory moments of happiness. We go through this life, and we try to make it through in the best way possible. Some do well, others fail miserably. The shape of our lives isn’t due to Fate but to our own decisions, the decisions of others, chance itself, and—at times—the interventions of God. Black-and-white explanations as to why some people get lucky and others flounder fail to do justice to the evidence, that the rains fall both on the Righteous and on the Wicked. We’ll do no worse than to buy into that religious pop-talk about God orchestrating our lives so that if we’re faithful to him, everything will turn into a rose-garden paradise at the end. Any idea that one’s fortunes in life are determined by their character—Good Folk are blessed, Bad folk are cursed—is simply repackaging the ancient Jewish idea of Torah-Obedience, a simplistic hypothesis that could never move from theory to fact simply because it’s crushed under the siege towers of Real Life (and that’s where we get things like Job and Lamentations, people knowing the theology of Torah-Obedience but seeing, with their own eyes and in their own lives, that it’s inherently flawed). Don’t think that “having Jesus” means you’ll be delivered from all your troubles; sure, it’d be great, but it just doesn’t work that way. Ask the little Sudanese boy, “How has Jesus changed your life?” and he may tell you, “We had someone to pray to after our mom was gang-raped and murdered in front of our eyes.”

Do I love the idea of falling in love with a girl, marrying her and sharing life with her? Yes, absolutely, a resounding YES. But I’m at the point where I don’t hope for it. Hope without expectation isn’t hope, it’s wishful thinking. Hope with an unrealistic expectation is a hope that disappoints, a hope that’s both a host and a parasite: we feed off it in the hellholes of life, and it feeds off us as it drains life from our veins and leaves us emaciated echoes of our former selves. So call my “hope” in this no more than wishful thinking, wanting it to happen—hell, craving it to happen—but not actually expecting it to happen. Sometimes two people meet and the world’s changed, two hearts beating in rhythm and the world peripheral to “us”. But most often such meetings are fleeting: glimpses into a world made new, a world reborn, opening the floodgates to a new reality begging to be explored… but in the end being nothing but a tease and a reminder that this world’s in awful shape and it’s apathetic to our wants and whims.

*SIGH* I really, REALLY want to have hope; I really want to believe that there’s change down the road, new air in my lungs, a new horizon to be admired. But history’s cyclical, disappointment sketched across an ever-revolving canvas, painting a dark portrait whose promise is nothing but uncertainty and disillusionment ‘round every bend and fork in the road. Sometimes it doesn’t matter which road you take: they both go nowhere.

omg, you fo' realz?

It's just as difficult for me to believe, but it's here: the first post of a series entitled "unofficially" "The Quest for True Love". It's a series of a journal entries written at The Anchor. All handwritten and all typed out and put on here for all the world to see (for better or worse). The series is inspired by some internal wrestling and meditation that took place sometime in late August; "the ninth week" if you care to know (I know you probably don't). Thus these are "outdated", but honestly nothing much has changed since then, and what I write now mirrors, albeit fragmented at times, what's going on in my heart. Some of these posts will be long (oh so long!) and some will be short. The length generally depends on (a) the specific subject matter, and (b) how long I was able to actually write at The Anchor before rushing off to work. So here are my handwritten journals for your reading pleasure. Please don't judge me.

You can be overwhelmingly infatuated with someone—fools call it “love”—and then you see this person years later and find yourself unmoved. “What the hell was I thinking?” you ask yourself while nonchalantly checking the time and ticking off the minutes to your anticipated departure. So many factors plug into what “draws” us to a person “in that special way,” and when some of these factors change, the “drawing” (as it were) will disintegrate. It’s rare to be irrevocably drawn to someone, not see them—or even talk to them—for months (sometimes to the point that they become a relic of a past life, a haunting memory whose features slowly morph so that you’re left remembering not a person but an idea), and then randomly, totally out-of-the-blue, you reconnect and it's like nothing's changed.

Am I the sort of person who finds meaning in everything (even when there’s no meaning to be had)? Yes. Some find this strange, others find it admirable. I’ll call it both a curse and a blessing, a double-edge sword fluidly cutting to expose inner realities formerly unknown. 

Chances are we’ll become wrapped up in our own little worlds and what was today will just be next year’s forgotten memory. That’s the reality. But what I feel is that these days could become a bench-mark, fond memories to be recalled, the fork in the road which, if taken, can lead to uncharted territories and unknown vistas, and she and I can become New World cartographers plunging like spelunkers into a previously unknown world rich with adventure and tom-foolery, and like vines we could grow up and old. Two paths becoming one, two streams becoming a river, two off-kilter paintings meshed together into a masterpiece unimagined but now self-evident.

I’ve ran the gauntlet with girls. I dated four—Genna, Faith, Clare, and Elle—and pursued but got nowhere with two others (Sarah and Jessica). The four I dated, why did I break up with them? Ultimately, and most of all, it just didn’t “feel right.” There’s more to it, but not less. And what would’ve happened with Sarah and Jessica? I would’ve broken up with Sarah, unable to trust her and driven mad by it; and while Jess and I may have had a shot, I’m pretty sure we would’ve just driven one another to the brink of insanity. The point of all this being, every girl I’ve dated—or even liked—hasn’t reached that point in my heart and mind as this other girl. Not that they were dysfunctional in any way (‘cept for a few), but this girl and I connected on such a level that the connection, despite years of absence, hasn’t missed a beat. And I’ve yet to find this connection again, though I crave it.

Instead of getting all sad that I haven’t found a girl as great as her, a path which can lead down the rabbit hole to settling for come what may, I can have hope. Hope that despite the dead-ends, the empty promises, and the downtrodden dreams, despite the backstabbing and betrayals, despite the disquieting disillusionment formed from the muddied ash of messed-up relationships and a life starved of eucalyptus, despite all this, there’s hope. There can’t only be one of her; the chances of us connecting are too slim for that in a world topped-over with billions of people (thanks to the Chinese—and to the Catholics—exact numbers of the world’s population are unknown). I mustn’t and cannot settle; I must not fight for an ideal that may be framed as logic only in the spider’s web of our imaginations, I must fight for what I know to be real, what I know to be true: that there are people with whom I can connect, love, and grow with. The cynicism and skepticism that so permeates my perceptions of things begins to weaken under the piercing rays of what I’ve called “A Lie” coming into its own as “Reality.” Hope is stronger than resignation, and even the depths of my disillusionment are shallow as a kiddie pool with the advent of her.

Look: I know with 95% certainty that she and I will never be more than friends. This isn’t me whining ‘bout how she’s gone and I want her and how life’s so unfair and all we can do is try and deal with it as best we can. But what if my interpretation of reality is ultimately flawed, and she’s now so much throwing a stick into the gears but illuminating the weak points of my perception. I denied (and continue to deny) the idea of “a perfect marriage” with “the one God has for you,” and I’ve denied the validity of such a thought and even gone so far as to make the assumption that any hope for a supra-connection, a metaphysical and supra-spiritual relationship between two people, is a ridiculous thought. I’ve always called such “chemistry” nothing but physiological impulses interpreted through a certain set of lens endowing them with greater meaning, a meaning transcending the fact that this “chemistry” is biological in nature and that, in the end, our reasons for any sort of relationship—platonic or romantic—are wholly selfish (we choose our “mates”—in both the Australian and Animal Planet senses—based on how they make us feel, what we can get from them, etc; relationships thus become just another feeding ground for egotistical and self-centered brutes).

And while I’m convinced that such a rule remains in most cases, she’s there again, a kink in the machine. A girl like her, that’s what I’m looking for. The kind of girl you’d give up everything for, change your life for. She’s the kind of girl I can see myself growing old with, doing ministry and maybe even popping out some kids. I don’t anticipate any of this happening with her specifically, but I know that if there’s one, there’s got to be another. God would be cruel to have only one of her here. I look forward to the day I find and love a girl like her, the day my cynicism will crumble like a sandcastle under the new dawn’s tide. I look forward to the day when the sun will rise on a new chapter in these koalabeast chronicles, a day when I will love and be loved and share my life with another.

Not, as an aside, that I think this (hopeful) new chapter will be a garden paradise. Love’s cemented in commitment, sacrifice, and service, not in some super-spiritual, mystical connection. And I know that the best marriages are fraught with their troubles and trials, and the cruel chaos and irrevocable uncertainties of “this present evil age” won’t take a vacation. Life’s tough, love’s tough, marriage is tough. To think otherwise is to allow Optimism to become Fantasy (which, by definition, is an illusion), that’s always a problem, and usually you don’t notice the problem ‘till the damage has been done. I’m a reality who’s hopeful (or at least that’s what I’m trying to be), so learn the difference.

These past months have been fraught with questioning, confusion, and doubt. The stress of it all has been overwhelming at times, and my attempts to dispel the present darkness through logic and resignation have failed time after time. “Kill the root, kill the tree.” But some trees are damned resilient, bursting into life right when you thought you’d finally pulled it off. Disillusionment led to resignation, and I painted it up as logic to justify the philosophical leap. The reality is that, while I may deny it, I’ve taken my deepest and most innate desires and sought to snuff them out of existence, crucifying them on the altar of Tears & Regret. But being with her today, I’ve felt these desires again. I thought I’d starved them off, but they refuse to die. More than anything I wish to one day find a wife, share my life with her, maybe even have a family (I can swing either way on that at the moment; really, the answer depends on who the mom would be more than anything else). That’s what I want more than anything, and being with her today, there came in her eyes a laugh and smile and a time of refreshment, rejuvenation. “You don’t always get what you want, but sometimes you get what you need.”

the 14th week

This week has not been kind. Really, no week is "kind", but because the unkindness fell on all those in my own social sphere, in my own little microcosmic world, the unkindness of it all seems exacerbated. Behold the egocentric nature of my heart. And you're no different. *cough* Okay, this week's re:cap.

Monday. The weekend flashed right by. It rained all night and I dreamt of Jessica, dreams I cannot remember. Khristian was sick, so I went in an hour early. 10-6:00, closing with Cat-herine (alias: "Cat"). Kyle covered Khristian's morning shift, and Amos covered Kyle's evening shift at Carew. Confused? Me too. Cat pulled a double to keep the store together, and thus was in an understandably worn out mood. After work Rob and I drank some beers on the front porch. Blake, Amos, and Ams headed out to a soccer game, and on the way Ams got in a car wreck (the incoming car was being stupid; "F*cking Price Hill," a household slogan). The insurance is covering it, and she's getting a rental until it's fixed. Brandy came over and we carved pumpkins, and I'm going to cook the seeds. Mandy K. and I talked for a while, and all in all (minus the accident), it was a good day. But bringing it down was a death in the family. 

Tuesday. Cat had the day off to recuperate from her double, so Bob covered the first half of her shift, and I covered the second. The lunch rush was all but nonexistent, but the afternoon picked up (like always). Mitch from Rock Bottom came over with 12 more growlers. We gave him an iced coffee on the house. A decent hospitable gift-giving. Back at the house Amos, Ams and I shot zombies, and Mandy made a vegetable casserole and let me have some as my dinner. She and Ams went over to T.J.s, and "the guys" hung out in "the town" with beers, hookah, "Frisky Dingo," and a welcome visit with Kyle from work.

Wednesday. Worked 7:30-3:00, an easy day. Ran a bunch of errands, which included getting my own car insurance and a new phone-plan. Growing up! I hate it. But I'm 24, so I've been cushioned long enough. Sarah, Mandy and I went to a bible study for college students at U.C.C. We split into groups and the three of us stuck together. Mandy, I swear, she's hilarious. So socially awkward it's not even funny, literally had me in tears from holding back bursts of laughter. I was shocked at how much misinformation abounds, how many "Christian illusions" are embraced (maybe not "illusions," per se, but flawed perspectives). It was weird to know more than the facilitator, and all these kids, they looked so young. And they're in college! In a group of college kids, I was the "adult". So strange and terrifying. The leader, Anthony Jones (whom we all went to school with) wants us there to participate as "guides", in a sense; on the same level as them, but helping to steer the discussions appropriately, if that makes any sense? It sucks, though, because I want to go somewhere where I'll be energized, challenged, etc., I just want to be part of a church rather than someone taking an authoritative role, and it sucks because that's hard to find. "Let's give this another shot," Mandy said.

Thursday. Hit up The Anchor for breakfast and to write. Life's been so chaotic lately that I haven't had a chance this week. The Anchor's like my "me" time, my time to drink coffee and write and not be bothered (though I do enjoy bringing other people into the ritual, as has happened multiple times), and being there again this morning, I felt recharged afterwards. Ams borrowed my car for work, so she dropped me off at the Tazz. Work was uneventful and over with quickly. Nothing wrong with that. Storms paraded through tonight, incessant rains flooding the basement. Nothing exciting happened tonight: finished a 42-page chapter in "Dwellers of the Night: 3", hit up the pipe on the front porch, and lit up some zombies with Amos.

Friday. Amanda's luck worsened: her car got broken into last night, and her radio was stolen. "I was parked right across from the president's house and underneath a light pole! F*cking Price Hill." What a bad summer for our cars: two wrecks, transmission troubles, a broken mirror (my own inclusion; really, it's N.B.D.), and then a break-in. And it gets worse: she got a call telling her that her car's actually totaled. So now she'll be out a car for two weeks and has to find a new one. And all because of stupid Price Hill drivers. Worked 7:30-3:00 covering Jon's shift. He was supposed to come back this upcoming Monday, but he called asking for a one-month extension in New York. It's understandable: he has no ties here, and his family's there, too. I ran some errands after work and cleaned my room, and Ams and I went to the Chinese buffet on Glenway. I drove, of course. Her car's totaled. I can't get over it. Her fortune: "It's easier to go down a hill than up it but the view is much better at the top." "Well no f*cking sh*t!" Back home we hung out with T.J., and Rob pounded the Rock Bottom growlers and was feeling pretty good come midnight. We played on the Wii and talked about how we go way back; hell, I knew him before Mandy did and witnessed the psychotic Jessica Yarnell period. 

Saturday. Last week was long: here's to an enjoyable weekend (despite no camping with Mom's side of the family; what with all the rain and Bruce's death and Amanda K. is sick, it was cancelled). I slept in and showered and went by the bank and then to The Anchor to write. Rob and I met up with Mandy, Sarah, and T.J. at Dumesh, an Indian buffet, and it was amazing. I'm so thankful for all the great friends I have here, people I love like my own family. Tyler came down, and we played video games and crowded upstairs like we'd do in the winter and hung out with T.J., Mandy, Blake, Ams, and Amos. Rob was there, too. Such a good night. 

Sunday. Tyler and I went to The Anchor for breakfast--coffee, orange juice, eggs and toast for only $5!--and he called Dylan in Africa, and my heart blossomed at the sound of his voice and his cacophonous laughter. It was marvelous. Back home we hung out with Blake and Ams, and then Tyler left and I went to the grocery for rice and beans, did some writing. Rob made some Mexican chiapis, and I spent the evening hanging out with Mandy and Ams upstairs. Ams read through what I have so far on my zombie serial, and she really likes it. 100 pages in one sitting, and she's left wanting more. It's encouraging. I spent the rest of the night hanging out with Old Man Hudson and shooting zombies.

(post)pwned

Have I promised a series of blog posts for the last couple weeks? Yes. Did I promise that "the next post" (this post) would be the launching-pad of it all, so-to-speak? Sure did. But I've failed all three of you yet again. What's the reasoning this time? I tend to be an O.C.D. freak when it comes to my blog, and I don't want the posts to be separated into two month-wide archives rather than being solely located in one, and with October 1 being, well, tomorrow, it seemed a small price to pay to wait another day or two (gotta wiggle in The 14th Week somewhere; O.C.D. at work, my friends). 

Not that this post is meaningless. My O.C.D. wouldn't let that happen. All this aside, the fruit of this post lies in the simple recognition that while I can't pinpoint, specifically, with how God's at work in our lives, and nor can I embrace the idea that all our lives (or even much of them) are God-directed. But I do know that it rains both on the righteous and the wicked. It's difficult for me to say, "God has blessed me here and here and here," but it's easy for me to say, "I'm certainly blessed." And that's what I am: certainly blessed. Honestly, now, what do I really have to complain about? Sure, there are things I'd like to change in my life (so many things!), but I have food in my stomach (too much, at times, especially when I'm eating an Indian buffet), a roof over my head, otherworldly peace and security, and I'm surrounded by friends and family, people I love. I'm one of the most fortunate people in the world, and I can barely scratch the surface of it. Most of the time I'm unaware, caught up in my own little crises and dramas, but there are times when I can actually take a breath and stop thinking about myself, and I can see, yes, I'm blessed, and God's in that. 

the 13th week

Apologies for not posting anything worthwhile lately (with the exception, of course, for the zombie video: that's just unapologetically amazing). Life's been chaotic lately: lots of activities with friends, putting in lots of hours at work, basically having no time to really sit down and hammer out something worthwhile. "Worthwhile" posts usually spawn at The Anchor, and starting tomorrow (or, I should say, with the next post) I'll be posting my rants and raves written at The Anchor over the past several weeks. But for now, let's see what I did last week, shall we?

Monday. Woke around 9:00, worked out, showered, and ran off to work. Went in early for an egg biscuit and orange juice. Worked 11-6:00, and it was the definition of chaotic. We kept running out of things, we were slammed something awful, and people were beginning to lose their calm. Luckily by the time we polished off lunch rush, the rest of the day went smoother. The kinky girl from Nicholson's came in again, invited us once more to the pub. "I invented the kilt trick, don't play it with me!" Cat, Amos and I shared much laughter during work, and when I got home, I hung out with Ams and Mandy for a while, and Isaac and I felt our heads swell as we sat on the front porch and smoked cigarettes and listened to Rob lecture us on the basics of coffee from plant-to-cup. I'm excited to be learning about all this. It's so much more complicated (not to mention interesting) than my old Starbucks handbook would lead you to believe.

Tuesday. Had some Vienna roast for breakfast. Oily and burnt but decent with my morning pipe smoke. Worked out, did some reading and writing, and ran off to work: 11-6:00 followed by a mandatory store meeting. Little details here-and-there. Bob (the owner) was there, and he was so excited, because he visited a handful of local cafes around northern Kentucky, and he's confident that we far exceed them in every area. We talked about some future movements with the company. The opening of 1215 (a cocktail of coffee and wine) is on the horizon, and we've already become quite established in the area. News articles, television interviews, our Direct Trade with la hermonia hermosa, the whole pour-over/chemex/siphon deal, and the fact that (a) we know coffee and (b) we do it well. Case in point: today someone came in, pointed to me, and said, "He made the best cup of coffee I've ever had." No glory for me: that lies with the fact that Rob trains us well, and he doesn't dick around when it comes to coffee. I really do feel blessed to be here, and after six years of spinning coffee, now I'm doing it with one of the best. And being partnered with Rock Bottom Brewery has its perks: Keith and Mitch, head brewers at Rock Bottom, brought us all a ton of growlers, and I kept a Belgian white as my own. After the store meeting, the evening flew by smoking pipe with Amos, hanging out with Rob on the front porch, and then a Kroger run with Ams ("Me and Mandy always get stalked at night.") followed by zombie-slaying with Amos before bed.

Wednesday. Jon's in New York with his son (who had an illness and is recovering), so Cat, Ana and I have split up his shifts over the next two weeks. I'm doing it Wednesdays and Fridays, and so today I pulled the shift. Mandy spent the day at Tazza doing homework, so she rode home with me when I left. After a while I went to Dayton to get my netbook cord (foolishly left it there this past weekend), and when I got up there, Mom was having her Small Group. It was good to see some of the girls again, i.e. Katie and Mariah. They crack me up. Sky loved on me like crazy, and I had buffalo chicken for dinner topped off with some Scarecrow and Mrs. King and ice cream. Back in Cincinnati, I did some writing and shot zombies with Amos and Ams.

THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER. Drank some more of my Vienna roast on the front porch, worked out, and then had coffee and orange juice at The Anchor. I've been there about 20 times in the last month; holy cow! I came home to an empty house (everyone out doing something), and Rob and Amos didn't get home 'till around 9:00 from a store meeting. Brandy came over later in the night, and I tried to go to bed at a decent hour, but there was a party in Amanda's room and I couldn't sleep. I asked them to be quiet, they asked me to join, I decided to join. We shared so much laughter, watched zombie videos online, and listened to a flurry of different artists I'm planning on downloading.

THE FIRST DAY OF AUTUMN. Pulled a 7:30-3:00 (Jon's shift), and then I ran by the bank and went to The Anchor for a spot of writing before going back to work and training at 5:30. We coffee tasted our single origins. It was a blind tasting and I nailed Sumatran and Nicaraguan. After training, Amos and I shot some zombies, and Brandy came over with her friend Erin, and we hung up in Blake's room. "What I'm getting from this conversation is that people are more-or-less just sharks." Andy joined the fray, and we watched 28 Days Later. Anyone catching onto this zombie strain? Brandon came over, and we had some beer and crowded the front porch. Gambill came over, said, "It's nice to be part of the front porch fraternity. We're the outcasts." Oh: Amanda's legitimately anxiety-ridden over the thought of a "potential" zombie apocalypse. I mean genuinely scared: she's having a hard time sleeping, and she almost came and woke me in the middle of the night to have me tell her it's impossible (it's not: BOOSH!). And all because of the hysteria of a video game and the spine-tingling trailer for another (post below).

Saturday. Enjoyed a late breakfast at The Anchor and did a spot of shopping at Dollar General. Everything there's off-brand, but adequate, and it's so cheap! How does everyone KNOW about this?! Back home I made a pour-over of some Indian monsoon malabar, and I stole some 600 songs from Mandy. Bulkin' up my music. In the evening I went over to see Dewenter at his place. Grippo's, Rock Bottom Belgian white, and homemade Greek pizzas: goat cheese, olive oil, garlic, tomatoes, basil, feta cheese... WIN. We watched Synecdoche New York. Weird freaking movie. Mandy, Blake and I hung out when I got home, and then Andy and Isaac came over for a while. Amos got drunk off the growlers and joined me on the porch and we had some hilarious talks till 2 in the morning.

Sunday. It's Blake's birthday! 33, I think? Hit up The Anchor for coffee and writing, and after ridiculous traffic on the Brent-Spence, Mandy and I picked up Sarah on our way to U.C.C. (University Christian Church) in Clifton. It was decent, and Mandy and I know the guy leading the Wednesday night bible study, and he's pretty cool, so we're going to check that out (at least once). We dropped Sarah off at home and went to Findlay Market to purchase some produce, and we ran into both Cat and Brandon. Quite strange. Brandon came over later in the evening, and Mandy fixed everyone an amazing dinner: almond chicken, string beans, and brown rice, topped off with some quite-tart lemonade pie. Mom and Dad were in town, just passing through, so they stopped by and Rob made some coffee, and we all just sat on the porch and reminisced on simpler times, the Glory Days with Pat, Chris, and Lee (and, later on, Dylan and Tyler). Days that promised to never end have been reduced to a handful of journals, faded photographs, and our attempts to stitch it all together in our minds.