Borrowed Dust

Chasing Crickets - a poem

2004-12-22T10:39:00.000-07:00

If it is possible to capture the moment
like a cricket one goes chasing after
on bent knees as a child, I would.
Quietly, I would cup my palms
in polar regions,
enclosing towards the silent insect
as it twitches its antennas,
waiting to jump again.
But just like those pesky creatures
whenever I am close to catching it,
in a quick bound, it hops away.
My little feet scuffle onward,
attempting a capture, but it escapes.
I reattempt, it dodges.
Finally, I lunge forward, trying to land
the fleshly, dark cage of my hands
over the tiny Houdini
and all of sudden, it's gone.
After a moment of frustration,
I rise, dust myself off,
and as soon as I open my eyes,
I see another one just ahead,
twitching, waiting to play my game.
For years, I have continued this,
Practicing my predatory patience.
Some days, I catch several,
but as they tickle my fingers,
There is no question what I must do.
I cannot hang onto them forever,
they are too tiny, they call
for too much attention.
One day, after years of chasing,
just as suddenly they disappear,
I will stop. Crossing my legs, I will sit
and watch as they hop around me,
dodging all the other children
chasing them. That night,
as I lay staring at my bedroom ceiling,
waning like the moon casting shadows
right outside my window,
I will listen to the tiny creatures
orchestrating a symphony. Obviously,
I already know they sing, but before that time,
Surely, I will have never heard them so clearly.

Don't Know What To Write...

2004-11-11T23:49:00.000-07:00

Just know I have to.
All this emotion has been welling up inside
ready to spill from me in free verse
and keep flowing until I choose to stop it.
I am so tired of all this confusion and
false beginnings, these rehashings of the shit
I hoped we put an end to.
So tired of my heart breaking
as it lays on the alter for your taking,
not your teasing or your faking.
You are a liar and blind,
naive and young,
not ready for me and all I have to offer.
The line above is the bottom.

But I have not chosen to stop yet,
my chest is aching,
and no matter what I tell myself,
it is so difficult forsaking
all I have known for the past year and half.
What is felt and understood over time like that
does not just go away, hide.
The ride does not end as abruptly
as I may want it to, it coasts on steadily
for the momentum was more than enough
to carry it for years.
The tears I have shed for you
are more than I have given any.
I offered you everything I had
but you rejected it, me.
Your jealousy is pointless,
you get one last chance,
one more opportunity.
If you do it again, never say
I did not warn you.

I am ranting, raving,
forgive me, but realize also,
I am not kidding. This is not some joke.
Beaut, my love, girl,
make up your mind.
That is all this is about.
Say, "Yes" or
let me go,
release me.

2004-10-27T00:27:00.000-07:00

Adding to the Deal - a poem

2004-10-12T13:25:00.000-07:00

In a deep, raspy voice,
a jazz musician spoke,
told the listening world,
"There's a good deal
to smile about,"
then softly chuckled
and played. In invisible,
transmitting waves,
through the silent night,
his trumpet transcended time,
unified families, incited
romance and reflection,
completed the border
to Life's puzzle of meaning.
Even if only for a moment,
note by note,
riff by riff,
measure by measure,
to the tune of smooth,
perfected music,
he gave this small world
exactly what he said.

Thought I Should...

2004-10-06T16:55:00.000-07:00

...Put some of my poetry influences up on the web. No use only posting mine all of the time. There's so much good stuff out there and am so selfish, trying to only create my own and imitate theirs. This poem is not by any means my favorite ever, but it is the only one I could find for the time being by Billy Collins, a contemporary poet I do enjoy. If you like it even a little bit, I suggest you pick up "Sailing Alone Around the Room," an edited selection of his recent work. He tends to flow and not bind himself to a format, but his concepts and imagery are usually quite good. Enjoy.

Fishing on the Susquehanna in July
I have never been fishing on the Susquehanna
or on any river for that matter
to be perfectly honest.

Not in July or any month
have I had the pleasure--if it is a pleasure--
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

I am more likely to be found
in a quiet room like this one
--a painting of a woman on the wall,

a bowl of tangerines on the table--
trying to manufacture the sensation
of fishing on the Susquehanna.

There is little doubt
that others have been fishing
on the Susquehanna,

rowing upstream in a wooden boat,
sliding the oars under the water
then raising them to drip in the light.

But the nearest I have ever come to
fishing on the Susquehanna
was one afternoon in a museum in Philadelphia

when I balanced a little egg of time
in front of a painting
in which that river curled around a bend

under a blue cloud-ruffled sky,
dense trees along the banks,
and a fellow with a red bandanna

sitting in a small, green
flat-bottom boat
holding the thin whip of a pole.

That is something I am unlikely
ever to do, I remember
saying to myself and the person next to me.

Then I blinked and moved on
to other American scenes
of haystacks, water whitening over rocks,

even one of a brown hare
who seemed so wired with alertness
I imagined him springing right out of the frame.

We, History - a poem

2004-10-03T16:40:00.000-07:00

History does not keep tabs
On normal men, does not
Record their triumphs
Or errors. History favors only
The mighty, the great, the infamous,
Those who form nations,
Betray empires, make fortunes,
Begin wars, prompt peace, kill.
But what of the mechanics
Who help get us to work on time,
The cooks who have perfected
The ideal balance between cheese
And scrambled eggs?
What of the bar tenders
Who order us drinks on the house
When our luck is down, night is blue,
Tomorrow seems gray?
What of the driver who lets us in
When we are merging,
Of our firemen, police, military?
What of our quiet brothers,
Joyful sisters, the unknown poets,
Of the old barbers who perfect
Our haircuts and styles, know us by name,
Been there five days a week
For over twenty years?
What of our pastors, accountants,
Sweaty yard workers, our faithful mothers,
Our tired, persevering fathers?
What of us?
We are the history
Of this great moment,
Of this year, the decade,
And the century to come. The volumes
And tomes may not record our struggles,
Our flaws, kindnesses, a day in our shoes.
Authors may not write concerning
The effort we put forth everyday
To hold our families together,
Excel in the workplace, may not
Detail what it is that elongates
The wrinkles lining our brows,
Under our eyes, across our faces.
But every hour, minute, second,
We possess the power to make
And break lives,
To train our sons, protect our daughters,
Work hard, love our wives.
No matter what historians may say,
The text books may describe,
Art conveys through color and subject,
We are the mighty,
The great,
The infamous.

July Nights - a poem

2004-10-01T23:59:00.000-07:00

Of those pleasant, July nights
at the coffee shop,
before it grew cold,
the biggest decision at hand
was whether or not
to order my beverage
hot or iced.
Of course, there was the choice
between what movies to see
that coming Friday.
And, on occassion, there came
the immense questions:
should I ask her in person,
write a note, or call her
with that inevitable tremble
and hesitation in my voice.
Life seemed so big,
so dramatic, so complicated.
Over the weekends, live music
filled the rare silence normally
known only during midterms
and finals. If it were not
for failed musicians
still trying,
or those peers of mine,
I was absolutely certain,
the world would have been
a quiet, boring place.

One night, many years later,
I returned for nostalgia's sake,
and a cup of joe.
It seemed noisier than ever.
The music was drowned out
by all the stilted laughter,
all those familiar kids
I didn't know.
I just wanted to listen
to the music,
hear the chords,
give the guy sitting up there
with his lonely guitar
strumming with all he had
a chance.
He wasn't that bad,
but as I looked around,
listened, I was
the only one clapping.
It was October
and not that much cooler,
just cold enough to know
summer was over,
late enough to realize
I had a long day tomorrow,
far too busy to stay
and meet new people, evaluating
the chances I had
with some cute girl
just a table away
in a world of only first names,
and constant flirting.

Quality Over Quantity

2004-09-29T08:21:00.000-07:00

My roommate and I were talking last night about discipleship, about quality over quantity. He really encouraged me in the fact that he said I develop more quality and focus in on individuals. It's good to know someone else noticed that, because it has been a hard step for me. It's necessary in my opinion to be the most effective discipler. If you look at Paul, when he addresses his disciples Timothy, Titus, Onesimus, he says "my (true) child in the faith." A child requires attention, growth, financial help, and so many other things. I hate the word "mentor." It's a worldly word. We can be a role model to people, most definitely, but, if we want to go after the Bible's definition, it's about discipleship and concentrated, intentional effort to help that person grow up in Christ, to be a father-like figure in our love, patience, and instruction towards them. I have a lot more about this on my mind, but I'll have to write it down later.

Also, I wrote a poem last night. It's just a first draft, but I had the last two lines running through my head the night before, so I had to get it out of me.

Elbows and Whispers
Subtle. I have always
seen perfection in this way.
It has never faced me,
like a man, proudly,
puffing out its chest, flexing.
In silent, solemn moments,
I have found it hidden,
revealing its scraped elbows
like a child playing hide and seek
who does not know he is exposed.
Today, I found it
as dusk descended
soft and fast. I waited so long
and at last, rain fell,
but I was at the office,
tying up loose ends, prolonging
the drive home. When I finally
shut off my computer,
yawned, walked outside,
the sky had fused
and the debris of orange, pink, lavender
was all that remained.
I drove away
to the hum of traffic,
towards the flaming sky,
silent, reverent, insignificant.
Surveying lightning in the distance,
I smiled, partly as a result
of my discovery, partly
hypnotized by the changeless hum
knowing this existence is merely
a whisper of the life to come.

Ramblings

2004-09-25T02:54:00.000-07:00

It's late, but for some reason, I'm really not tired. I felt like I had to get up and write. I'm not exactly sure what, but I feel like there's something.

The times I have decided to write lately have all been focused on poetry. I don't know why, necessarily, but poetry has been the focus. I know I would be able to better explain it all and really capture the moments, thoughts, observations, or whatever else in prose. Sometimes, though, poetry just feels more natural, more appropriate.

I started working on other stuff--short stories and such--but I have not had the motivation to sit down and finish them. Maybe this weekend, though I doubt it considering all I have to do. I wonder sometimes how much of the "busy" we self-inflict. I know I add things that really aren't necessary to my schedule. I have gotten better at saying "no," to people, it's necessary, but I still "yes" too often. It all seems so important at the time. It's not really, but, I tell myself it is most of the time.

We live in a culture of "yes" though. So many kids today don't even get to spend time with their own parents because their parents are always saying "yes" to others, and "no" to their families. It's ridiculous when you think about really. Family should be the number one focus. There's a guy I greatly respect who owns a large business and is extremely involved in ministry. He taught me a philosophy I will pass on to as many others as I can. It involves the idea of resolution.

Every year there is at least one person you know who has decided to quit smoking "for good," work out three times a week, eat healthier. How many people, though, have you heard ever say their resolution for the year is to "spend more time with their family," or something actually significant and will make a difference not only that person's life, but also in the lives of those he loves? Well, this guy I admire in almost every way taught me to choose one word for every year. Don't be focused on a long list of self-improvements. Focus on one word and make everything for that year revolve around it. For instance, the first year he did this, the word he chose was "simplify." When it came down to decisions, he asked himself, "Does this simplify my life so that I can spend more time with my family, in ministry, etc.?" Brilliant. I am indebted to the man for this philosophy. The only unfortunate thing about it is the word I chose for this year has been difficult: "patience." Well, I sure have learned a lot because of it.

What does it mean to be patient? Truly, and completely patient, relying on the Lord? It's complicated. I would love to say it's easy and that I've figured it all out, but that wouldn't be true. I'm still learning. But, I can say one thing. My timing doesn't matter anymore. I have realized that God opens doors and shuts them at the time necessary. It's as though I am on this elevator on its way up. Instead of waiting for the elevator to reach the next floor, I would rather hit the emergency stop button, the forbidden red, pry open the doors only to realize I can't get off yet. How stupid. I'm waiting now. The elevator music may bore me in the meantime, but I need to hang in there and just wait for the elevator to stop as it was designed to, when it was designed to. It's tough.

I'm sure there's a lot more I could say, and quite honestly, I'm still not all that tired. I am also fairly confident that this is not that cohesive. I apologize. But these ramblings weren't meant for you, weren't composed for your reading pleasure. They were for me. Sorry. I'll write something a little more reader-friendly in the near future. For now, I'm going to try and fall asleep. I guess I will have to be patient for it.

Politics

2004-09-22T09:00:00.000-07:00

When it comes to elections, or politics of my state and nation, no problem. It is a matter distant from me and I do not feel the harsh blows of personal attack. But when it comes to office politics, I am overwhelmed. I have been in the midst of a position transition for the past month at work, and I have never before witnessed such ridiculous behavior. The two managers I am transitioning between are as different as night and... well, afternoon at least. One of them is kind and respectable, while the other, in my honest to God opinion, is not respectable whatsoever. How is it a man of his position can so completely become unfair? I am in awe.

I may be going against my morals here, but I will be working for him. Office politics have led me to this decision. I am uneasy with the move to say the least, but am confident God will bless me if I trust him and work "with fear and trembling, in the sincerity of [my] heart, as to Christ," like it says in Ephesians 6:5. Maybe I can influence his character. It's doubtful, but I can hope. Gosh, I'm sick. I better get to praying hard and fast. I hate stuff like this.

Why am I writing all this? Well, Smartel told me last night over the phone that I needed to post something soon, because she enjoys it. Luckily, I enjoy it too, and I needed to get all of this off my chest anyway. On Monday, I visited the Phoenix Seminary class studying Ecclesiastes. It's a great book, and I hate ending my stuff on sad notes, so I better post a poem I wrote following the class, too. A lot of people see Ecclesiastes as a negative book, but I have always known that is not true. Daryl Delhousaye confirmed my observation. So, here's the poem, and until next post, that's all I have for you, Smartel.

Something Great, Profound
Every morning, I wake hoping
Today is the day.
Finally, I wil add value,
Supply the world with my contribution,
Say something great, profound.
But morning quickly slips into afternoon,
Afternoon into evening,
And the night dissolves into another dawn,
Another missed opportunity,
Another wasted hope.
In the early hours, cold, hazy,
I amaze at its purity,
At my genuine aspiration
To change the world.
I am only 22, but,
It will not be long
Before life slips through my fingers
And the grainy nothingness that lingers
Are mere memories of this borrowed dust.
There is no harm in hoping,
No problem with striving to do what I can
Or proclaiming what I believe.
But it is necessary,
Every now and then,
To let it all go, stop pressuring myself,
To just enjoy the day
For what it is:
Another one,
Nothing new.

My Voice - a poem

2004-09-14T19:02:00.000-07:00

It's natural. Or so we tell ourselves
over and over again. We have substituted syntax
for the relaxation of our pens
and minds. All these lines and lines
of prose labeled as poetry
and poetry disguised as prose clutter
our shelves. While the critics call it
individual style, an author's voice
flow, punch, brilliance
I know what it really is.
My colloquialisms are not attempts
to connect with the common man
whoever that man may be
by whichever denominator we may divide.
I'm just too damn lazy to skip
the apostrophies, add the commas
reword my inconsistent participles.
Contractions are my best friends
I usually go with the past tense
spell words as I hear them.
I hated Spanish 101 and don't kid myself.
Most likely'll never learn another language-
had a hard enough time with mine.
But just to stick with trends
and follow this generation's reinventions
let's call these little imperfections my voice, style
my mastery of English.

Sleeping Beauty

2004-09-11T08:20:00.000-07:00

I cannot remember the last time I slept so long. It's a beautiful thing. "How long," you ask? Well, I slept twelve and a half hours. I fell asleep at 7pm. Not bad, right? I feel great.

I don't have a lot to say right now, I pretty much just wanted to boast about my beauty sleep. It's unbelievable. You should try it sometime soon. I feel better than I have in a long, long, long time. Yes, three longs.

Finally, the Writing Juices Flow Again

2004-09-05T13:35:00.000-07:00

As I have written over the past month or so, it has been extremely difficult for me to write anything of creative value. Every time I have specifically gone to spend time alone and write, I have not been able to write anything. Truly. I set my pen to the paper and I go blank. Completely blank.

Finally, last night, all of that changed. I spent hours writing, and though not everything I wrote was spectacular by any means, I felt the creative juices flowing once again. It came simply. It was as though all these words had been stored up inside my brain and they could not wait to make their way to the paper. So, what did I write? Mostly poetry. But, it was poetry that actually had meaning and it wasn't just some feeble attempt and scribbling stuff on the paper. It actually had a cohesive theme, beginning, and ending. Sure, the words could be more eloquent, but they always could. Some of the work is quite personal, so all I am really ready to share is what I have below. But, hopefully this is a sign that I will be back at it in no time, writing about stuff other than my current state of affairs and emotion, about life, God, love, humor, work, philosophy, my family, friends, and more. We'll see. But this is a good beginning at least. I have hope.

Goes On
It's not as easy
As you make it out to be.
I am jealous.
That smile appears so sincere,
And your "I'm great" response
Sounds carefree. If it were me
It would be careless. But,
Not you. You look... happy.

I don't know how many times
My eyes stared into yours
And I told you
That's all I wanted: for you to feel that,
Be. But now,
I'm not as sure. It hurts
That of everything I gave you, this
Incited it instantly.

"Life goes on," you simply utter.
I have so much going for me, you console.
"I need you to move on,"
You more demand than ask.
There is all this going, going, going.
I disagree, though. A show must
Go on, the world will
Keep moving, but life?

One day you will understand
When you love someone as much
As I love you. Don't try
To fool yourself into saying
You did, and don't dare say
You do. The present has proven
The veracity of Us-that tiny, damned word,
Which seemed so much bigger to me.

Good for you, my beautiful girl.
Continue, but realize.
Until time mends
Wounds this deep,
Until the sting
Finally subsides,
Life does not just go on,
It staggers.

Familiar Superlatives
Until it comes upon you
Or you fall in it,
It all seems so familiar, almost boring.
The words appear formula-driven,
Cliché-ridden, the stories are as tired
As time itself.

Since the dawn of creation,
It has underlined history,
Destroyed leaders, formed nations,
Been the life and death of generations
Behind us, breathed reason into sunsets,
Stars, sex, wars, murders.

I knew very well, could even recite
What it would feel like, what I
Might do when it befell me.
To the depths of hell, I would travel,
I would swim across oceans, "sacrifice"
Would become a regularly used word.

Gravity would no longer control me,
And though my wings would not be visible,
Indeed, like a bird, flight would be mine.
And most of all, somehow, hopefully,
Like so many others before me,
I would grow noble.

Up until recently, I always viewed Romeo
A fool. "Over a girl" I clarified
At a young age? But she was not
Just a girl, Juliet was his girl,
His life, and hence, his death.
If I only knew what it truly feels like.

When what seems so perfect
Comes to an abrupt end,
I expected what accompanies even less.
I read it all, knew Shakespeare, history. But,
How could such pain surmount, such depression,
Such anger, again, over a girl?

I was the fool.

If it has not befell you, yet,
I will save you from all those copious
Familiar superlatives. When it comes,
It's unlike anything.
When she's gone,
You'll hurt like hell.

Thank the Lord it's Friday

2004-09-03T09:33:00.000-07:00

The week really has passed quickly, but I am so thankful Friday has finally arrived... or I've finally arrived to Friday. It's all about perspective I guess. Three day weekends are a marvelous, glorious gift. My to-do list is not that extensive, though existent. Mainly it's about cleaning the house a little and writing some, too. I'm going to spend as much time possible on Monday just reading and writing. It'll be great for me.

Well, considering I have a short day today (my CEO said we can leave after 2:00), I better act like I'm working a little bit at least.

Make it easy. - a poem

2004-09-01T09:41:00.000-07:00

Skip the B.S.
Get to the point.
I already know what
You're going to say.

Stop looking at me
With that 'I'm confused' glaze.
Be honest. Shut
Up. Walk away.

Ah, Paris - a poem

2004-08-31T10:12:00.000-07:00

As so much disappointment seeps
Into every space of life right now,
I have chosen to no longer
Look forward to anything.

Even though Paris
Has a nice ring to it,
So did engagement, marriage,
The next three years we had planned;
So did the name we so presumptuously
Picked out for our unconceived children.

Paris, undoubtedly,
Would now seem lonely,
Nonetheless, I have always wanted to whisper,
"Ah, Paris"
With the best accent I can muster
Standing, at sunset, atop the Eiffel Tower
Surveying French rooftops,
Cobblestone walkways, and streets.

I will only have the view to love now
As I no longer have you, but
Whether now or later,
I will see Paris someday.
I will sip espressos in some street corner cafe,
Wishing you could be there
With me.
I will merely not look forward to it.

It would be a small hope to dash
If I did anticipate it and
The perfect plan fell through;
Yet, in the wake
Of all these broken dreams,
I would not be able to stand another.

I will breathe it all in
If and when I get there,
When I am a silhouette against
The French sky,
When the dream becomes a reality
And my whisper is followed by
A pathetic yet honest mumble
In the wrong language,
"Se Le Vie."

American Marvel - a poem

2004-08-30T14:03:00.000-07:00

The comics have always been popular among Americans,
Even if you do not read the news,
If you have never read the news,
You “read” the comics. Surely, everyone desires
For life to be like this
In some cartoonish form
Or another.

Consider all of the benefits.

Your pets would be able to speak;
Cats and dogs and mice and birds and
Other cute little fuzzy creatures
Would voice how you do not give them enough attention,
And at other times,
Make you laugh.

Also, you would know exactly what everyone was thinking;
White little cloudy spheres would hover
Above everybody’s large, bulbous heads
To display, “I love you,”
Without having to say a word, or perhaps
On a separate occasion,
To plot some devious scheme.

And on that note, you could see
If the person speaking to you just used
One exclamation point,
Or three,
Where they placed the commas,
What words they chose to italicize!!!

Everyone would have interesting names,
Not one would be alike;
There would be no more Johns, Bobs, Daves, Mikes,
Only Jugheads, Garfields, Dilberts, Supermans
Names that emphasize individuals’ most unique attributes.

You would no longer age,
Your face and body would be in ten years
As it is now;
Probably the same even in twenty.

There would be no more monotony of daily tasks,
Showers would not be necessary,
Rent would not be due,
Forty-hour workweeks would be a laughable concept.

Quite possibly, you could have secret powers,
Change in a glass booth on a moment’s notice,
Be respected even though you wear gaudy tights,
Live through events in which most men would die,
Call upon the weather, see through buildings, fly.

When running, the wind would streak behind you,
Stars would circle upon a concussion,
You would be able to strike your enemies
And rivals with sledgehammers,
Yet never kill them.

The little details of every moment
Would no longer escape you,
You could study each pixel of your world
Because the scenery would not move,
Only the pages would.

You would know when an idea came upon you
Because your eyes would grow two sizes,
Not to mention
A massive, glowing light bulb would illuminate overhead.

If worry or dread ever came upon you,
It would not matter,
You could just peak over into the next window,
See what is about to happen,
If everything will turn out alright,
If you have any reason to be troubled, really.

Of course, there are cons to every concept,
So they exist with this, as well.

You would only be two dimensional,
You would probably have no back,
No meat to your arms,
Perhaps completely lacking legs, depending.

You would no longer be allowed to cuss,
Instead reverted to announcing your frustration
With words like “Blast, shoot, darn-it,
Son of a gun, jerk, hush up!”

Your wardrobe would be a little more selective,
The same everyday for some;
Name brands would be absent
And fashion would not matter in your animated world.

Also, your life would be reduced
To three frames per day, maybe four
If you were popular, syndicated, or lucky.

Additionally, it must be mentioned,
Six-sevenths of your life
Would have to be spent in black and white.

These cons are petty, however, compared to the pros.
Who would not give up their limbs,
Their three-dimensional figure,
Swearing, full closets, their fleshly tones,
For a good hearty chuckle,
For a moral to every story,
For a world where the good guys always win
And you can be a hero everyday?

Surely, you realize the marvel it would be
To know that everything will end happily, that,
Even if you have nothing else,
You would know there always is a tomorrow,
Framed and waiting,
At least as long as your cartoonist decides to continue drawing,
So careful with every sketch and outline,
So attentive to every stroke of black and color.

I really should...

2004-08-19T13:01:00.001-07:00

...write everyday. Especially now. Outside of the past few weeks, my life is not especially busy. The thing is, though, I've been blocked. I know, I know. Even I promised myself I would never say it, but truly, honestly, every time I sit down and try to write anything of substance, no words come out. It's drivel at best. This is the first coherent paragraph I've actually composed and not just revised in weeks. It's ridiculous.

Life is funny right now. Okay. Maybe not so much funny as it is depressing, but the ongoing streak of my life's depressing coincidences/acts of God/life changes have made it almost humorous. Almost. I would love to be able to write about it in detail, write humorously about all these strange, indefinable matters which keep occurring, but whenever I put my pen to paper, my hand doesn't move. I would cry (and I have), but in this very moment I can't help but smile at all of my unfortunate luck. I'll just have to write more extensively about it later.

Like Any Other Saturday - a short story

2004-08-04T09:53:00.000-07:00

It began like any other Saturday. I am sure the sun rose slowly and stunningly, melting the midnight blue of early morning into a soft, warm yellow. I have no basis for this certainty, but maintain my decisive position on the subject. Rather than transitioning into the day, though, similar to the velvet darkness, I slept in. After finally waking, I decided to spend much of the afternoon sinking into the comfort of my black pleather couch, rising only to nuke some cold, stale pepperoni pizza for a late lunch. Then, all of a sudden, evening arrived. It always seemed so fleeting, this joy of isolated, afternoon relaxation. I wondered how Saturdays rushed by so quickly. Many hypotheses sauntered through my little, uncombed head.

What it really boiled down to, though, concerned the fact that Saturday, in actuality, rarely constituted an entire day. Sleeping until two in the afternoon left only ten hours to do as I please. After one hour of staring at the ceiling, considering whether I should rise from bed at all, following two hours of mindless cinematic entertainment, plus another hour for my content and continual descent into the glossy fake leather while weighing the pros and cons of a shower, I was left with a mere and pathetic six hours. 360 minutes. A fourth of an entire day. Barely anything. I cherished the percentage anyway. After serious deliberation, it was concluded I also cherished the smell of Irish Spring soap and the reflection of a non-oily face.

Shortly following a nice, hot, mirror-fogging shower and change into clean clothes, my best friend and roommate, Dave, returned home. I exited the bathroom to find my pal in his sky blue scrubs, dropping a stack of thick, hardback text books on the table, and making his way to pour a glass of water. He greeted me and asked how my day had been so far. I responded with a brief, “Nothing.” Immediately, I realized that I hadn’t actually answered his question. My day had been fine, while it consisted of nothing. I considered quickly rephrasing to answer appropriately, but decided it wasn’t worth it. “Nothing” worked. Besides, the question was as much rhetorical as my response was rudimentary habit. I moved on. “What about you?”

He downed his glass of water. “Alright.” Undoubtedly, his had been immeasurably more accomplished than mine. Even on Saturdays he volunteered at the hospital and took care of kids. He then usually made his way to a bookstore several hours, studying for his upcoming MCAT. And not only was he a good guy, and intelligent to boot, but he was handsome, too. Bastard. He slammed his glass on the kitchen counter, then wandered down the hallway, mumbling. “Gotta piss.” His humanity relieved some of my justifiable envy. Every roommate in this house might as well have been a comic strip character. The stuff most people only think, we actually uttered. Thinking out loud somehow made the thoughts more real to us. The sentences and fractured ideas would have made more sense had they been surrounded by two-dimensional, white, cloudy bubbles hovering overhead. I envisioned the title for our strip then: Guys. It had to be short. Snappy. Like every popular comic – Garfield, Archie, Batman, BC. A cliché summation, and yet, in some way, unique.

Considering all of this, while also thinking through how the rest of my fractional Saturday would unfold, I sat, staring into the oblivion of a fingerprint-smeared, sticky, frosted glass table. I made a few quick notes to self. Buy Windex. Use placemats. Never pay over 700 dollars for a glass top table again – coffee, dinner, kitchen, whatever. No reasonable explanation for this purchase came to mind. I merely admired the distinctive, modern design.

After Dave exited the restroom with the sound of flushing trailing closely behind, he bee lined his way directly for the fridge, obviously more concerned with eating than washing his hands. He leaned into the cavernous, empty coolness and, from my angle, entirely disappeared from the waste up, surveying the void which was our fridge. Except for rotting fruit, a greasy pizza box which I took the liberty of emptying earlier that day, vast assortments of barely used condiments, and a carton of two eggs, even unable to see Dave’s expression, I knew what the rest of my night would entail. I didn’t mind. Owning the house and responsibility for food purchases, it was my fault anyway. I hadn’t stepped foot inside a grocery store for at least three weeks. Maybe longer. Needless to say, Dave did not protest when I informed him of our mission to boldly go where no individual from the house had traveled in far too great a time. This was a mission for warriors. For the wise. The strong. A mission for hungry, bored men lacking other Saturday night plans. We were going to fill that damn fridge.

* * * *

Piling in my car, we drove in the direction which had been not frequented enough of late. Having been so busy during the week, we took time to catch up with one another and all the little details of our silly lives. While the conversation was nice, only one thought stood at the forefront of my mind: the destination which awaited our arrival. It was a utopia boasting, not only groceries, but electronic gadgets and equipment, furniture and apparel, DVDs and music; a cement, free sample, cheap dinner, overstocked paradise known as Costco to some, and Godsend to us.
Walking into the massive, glorious warehouse, I grabbed a shopping cart to begin our mission. We did not traverse very far before our attentions were drawn to the computer and television section strategically placed at the forefront of the establishment, luring all men upon their very entrance. Showing some newly released DVD on the oversized screens, Dave and I both slowly migrated down the aisles of LCD screens and plasmas, TiVos and surround sound. Neither of us could have told anyone the difference between the varying models except for “Ours is big, and this one’s bigger. Ours is loud, and these are way louder.” The pure size and volume of these Japanese masterpieces were enough to incite a male orgasm.

After a little drooling and pointlessly calculating whether these items were out of reach financially, we continued on our way. Unfortunately, much like our original detour, we took extended breaks to browse through the DVD and music section, skim the New York Time Bestsellers, slide our fingers across barbecue grills, peruse the wine, test bicycles and golf equipment, analyze digital cameras, and recline in furniture. It seemed we could not make it more than one aisle without distraction taking hold of us. Our lack of focus greatly compromised the mission. Eventually, we escaped this mode, and once again took sight of the ultimate goal.

As much weight as had accumulated in my midsection over the past year, I truly did prefer healthier foods. So, to boost my distorted self-image of fitness, Dave and I began in the produce section, squishing fruit and vegetables, checking for bruises, rotating the oddly shaped prospects every which way to ensure we purchased the nicest snacks possible. True, before anything, we wanted to sink our teeth into the highest quality produce. But, additionally, we were preparing for every situation. Say one of our more attractive female friends visited the house and grew hungry. Due to our attention to detail, we could inform her that there was no need to worry, for fresh vegetables and ripe fruit awaited her in our very fridge. As she selected her filler of choice, she would of course be impressed with our produce purchasing skills. She would tell her friends that, of all the guys she knows, we would make the best husbands. “They even know how to buy good food,” she would exclaim. In all reality, we had no idea what we were doing, how squishy or firm or colorful the items should have been. There was just something comforting about squeezing produce like little stress balls.

After picking up a healthy assortment of snacks, we marched onward. Along the way to one of several freezer food aisles, we were enticed by our first in a series of free sample carts. From behind her station, an elderly lady, complete with gray beehive hairdo, blue apron, and white latex gloves, slowly handed us each samples while regurgitating her mumbled sales pitch. She was no salesperson. Most of the sample providers were not. They were all old. I envisioned Costco hosting an entire ward of grandmas and grandpas such as this. They were victims of Alzheimer’s and loneliness, provided a home supplying full security, all the toilet paper they would ever need, and unlimited free samples. If I was old, I would take the offer in a heartbeat.

Our sample was tasty, but finished in a single bite. Dave and I made our way to the aisles lined by frosty glass, standing before the showcase of cardboard boxes covered by large text. For a moment, I felt as though I stood on the Vegas strip, blinded by neon lights promoting some unique feature of each jumbo pack. “10 For The Price of 8!” “Fish Sticks Now With Real Bits of Fish.” “Ready to eat in just 3¾ seconds.” “Low in Carbs, Huge on Taste.” Where would we begin with such selection? We wound our cart through the wide aisles of mothers shopping for families and surplus food stockpiled high in the center of our passageway. Pizzas and corndogs, beef taquitos and teriyaki bowls, dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets and home style French fries, shrimp scampi and Philly cheese steak sandwiches, we loaded up. Saliva began to form.

Four free samples and eight microwavable boxes of food later, we came to the necessary cereal, breakfast bar, packaged snack, and beverage aisles. The bulk of these items would make any man smile ravenously. While women like buying cute little containers of food, mini-this, and reduced-that, somehow thinking that the quantity they purchase automatically translates into the amount they will ultimately consume, men worship bulk. That’s why Costco creates such a euphoric state of emotion within the male species as they merely enter the cement wonderland. In fact, I considered during this event that heaven might just be a strip mall of stores such as Costco, Best Buy, Home Depot, The Sharper Image, Barbecues Galore. Between each of the stores adorned by golden signs would sit sports bars replaying the best games in history, Hooters where the divine servers outnumber the patrons, and steakhouses that prepare tender, juicy, five pound New York strips and T-bones. Every location would be free of charge, as well. Ah. Paradise.

After a solid hour of quick decisions, nods of the head, cart reorganization to make room for additional items, and continually repeated “That looks good,” we neared an oversized kiosk decorated by vibrant bouquets of flowers. Now, while I consider myself completely heterosexual, I consider myself quite the metrosexual, as well. The roses were beautiful. Subtle pinks rimmed dozens of diffused orange rose petal tips. The growers bunch assortments covered an array of colors. The orchids were a fusion of purple. Drawn toward this center of natural beauty, I began to examine the flowers, relishing the delicate aromas and rich sights. Dave did not immediately notice I had slowly wandered from our path toward the check out lane. As he realized I had gone missing, he spun in circles like a lost child, searching for his mother. When he caught sight of me again, he tentatively backtracked, approaching with a smirk on his face. I knew exactly what he thought.

“We need some flowers for the house,” I began. “It’s been a while since we’ve had...” The words “color” and “aroma” almost followed, but I refrained. Dave would have undoubtedly started laughing uncontrollably while “FAG” scrolled across his brain like the endless cycle of stock symbols on every financial channel. “…them,” I finished. He chuckled a little, anyway. Defensively, I responded, “Whatever, dude. I don’t care what you think. The ladies love guys who aren’t afraid to have a vase full of flowers every now and then. Just watch.” As I continued sorting through the bouquets, a bit finicky, trying to find a pleasant arrangement of orange tulips, Dave interjected. Whether it was my philosophical facade on the matter, or a secret impulse within him that finally surfaced, he began discussing with me the flowers he thought best suited the house.

“Get the white carnations. They last longer and go better with our black and white theme.” Though a bit surprised by his input, I took the advice into consideration. Thus initiated an entire conversation.

“But orange and red are accent colors. They’ll add a little mood wherever we put ‘em. Vitality.”

He strongly responded, “If you’re looking for vitality, flowers isn’t the way to go. We need to redecorate the entire place.” He almost sounded pissed. “Keep the theme. Get the carnations.” He looked left, “Or the white roses.” Without hesitation, the conversation continued for nearly two minutes. Thoughtfully we expressed our opinions, debating the importance of certain hues and the unwritten rules of decoration. After this brief dialogue, Dave all of a sudden looked directly at me and stated, “Get whatever you want. I can’t believe I’m having this conversation.” I picked up the tulips and headed once again towards the cashier. Half truthfully, half jokingly, he finished, “If my dad heard me right now, he’d beat the hell out o’ me.” We shared a good laugh.

After watching the items stream down the little rubber checkout and listening to the consistent beeping as each purchase was scanned, the car was our next stop. We came. We conquered. Unloading the cart proved simple enough. Quick. Much quicker than our shopping excursion turned out lasting. Dave loaded the last load of groceries into the backseat while I turned the cart around and wheeled it a little ways. What followed forever changed my life.

Honestly, when most people say that their life changed, altered in some dramatic way, I usually believe them, no matter how ridiculous it may seem. Especially after experiencing an event of such scale, I finally identified with those whose lives took turns for the better, attributable to some unexpected occurrence of random chance or fate. I tasted the ripe fruit of life in this instant. Even riper than the peaches, apples, and oranges I had purchased only a moment ago. As certain as I am about the sunrise I missed that very morning, I am confident that at this exact moment in time and space, all the planets aligned. Time slowed and I briefly glimpsed the simple and eternal beauty of the universe.

In the middle of the parking lot sat a cart retrieval station, filled by a lineup of wheeled baskets, all connected to one another. Still a minimum of thirty, probably thirty-five feet from the lone island of orphaned carts, I let go of my large, silver companion with a solid oomph. Though normally I would have turned around immediately, as soon as it left my hands, I knew something profound was about to take place. Even Dave, after closing the backseat door, turned, and focused on the cart. We stood still. Silent. As though in slow motion, the cart rolled over the pavement steadily, resolutely, only slightly drifting. The wheels did not fight, but rolled together. Every part performed its job. The cart hit a slight bump in the pavement, but remained on its path of perfection. The cart I pushed, intending nothing, aiming nowhere in particular, after a journey which seemed to last minutes, rolled into the last cart, inserting perfectly with the organized train of wheeled contraptions. Yes, a regular cart. The same type of shopping cart that constantly decides to turn one way or another on its very own, without any direction from the pusher. A cart, which, without forceful command for more than a half second, drifts into shelves of food, knocks down pyramids of canned fruit cocktails, peas, and chili.

Once I regained my composure, I turned to find Dave with a dropped jaw. He high fived me, “That was awesome!”

“Incredible,” I responded, equally shocked, if not more so.

“Man! How’d you do that?”

I wondered, too. “No idea!” Silence overwhelmed us. We opened our doors, I started the car, and we began home. For moments in the car, we broke our silence and discussed the event as if God Himself had come down and guided the cart into the lineup. Perhaps. We had no clue. Dave eventually changed the subject and started proposing our options for the remainder of the night. During his thinking out loud, he received a phone call from some girl that liked him. Can’t remember which one. Their numbered was added to daily.

* * * *

We eventually arrived home and unloaded the car. The void of the fridge and freezer was filled for the time being, and appeared impressive. The cabinets, also, appealed to us once we finished storing everything in its proper place. We threw out some food that had spoiled and packages which were as good as empty to make room for the new stock. Our mission had been accomplished. I was now off the hook to shop for a while. As much as Costco was an event more enjoyable to me than most others, it was dually expensive.

Dave asked what I wanted to do next. Three hours were left in the day, and, relative to average weekend standards, I hadn’t done much. Of course, in line with the logic of most college aged men, even after spending nearly two hundred dollars on perfectly tasty, fresh, and easily prepared food, we decided In-N-Out would be our next entertainment for the evening. I picked up my car keys and again piled in the car, on to a more relaxing, though less satisfying destination.

We entered the simply decorated, red and white joint, ordered a couple burgers, fries, milkshakes, and sat down just to continue enjoying one another’s company. I justified the calories by ordering my burger protein style, without the bun, wrapped in lettuce. Dave scoffed me. After our friendly debate concerning the effectiveness of this order, we sat. It was a nice occasion, though nothing out of the ordinary. Just two best friends grubbing on juicy, California burgers together, laughing, getting fatter, passing the time. Dave received a few more calls during our stay, but made them short. He brought to my attention a few more options we had to select from after our energy filler. I considered the opportunities, but for some reason, just wanted to go home. Nothing against him, I just did.

After walking in the front door, I knew I had made the right choice. Even though I had spent all day lounging on the couch and drifting in and out of consciousness in my bedroom, this is what I needed. A little more alone time. By myself. Dave left again to hangout with a group of people. After reading a couple short stories on the couch, I crawled into bed. Truthfully, I didn’t even bother brushing my teeth or preparing in any other way. Somehow, I was tired.

Staring up at the ceiling, I laid silently under my warm covers, planning out the approaching day. Call it habit. There was nothing in particular needed to be done Sunday, either, but I desired, in the very least, to accomplish more than I had today. For a moment, I caught myself considering my Saturday a waste, 24 hours down the pot. I slowly began replaying the day in my head – all the solitude, all the relaxation, the result. As if the back of my eyelids were a large silver screen in an old movie house, I sat in the dark, smiling. Over and over again, in slow motion, I watched a glimmering cart roll into a line of others. The distance it traveled seemed longer every time. At that moment, I found myself wishing life lined up like my trusty, metal cart; everything methodically working together, progressing towards some ultimate goal, keeping in motion even after hitting a couple bumps in the road.

When the cycling projection finished, there was no more shiny, rolling cart. No more silver screen. No more wishing. There was only a lone, tired figure in a dark room, and the hint of a smile. I opened my eyes briefly. Then, a deep sleep overcame me.

I don't know about you, but I love those maps at the mall with a little red dot stating, "You are here." I have been thinking lately how wonderful it would be to own a map of our lives. As we walk through our stations in life, perhaps we might come upon this large three-sided obstacle right in the center of our path. One side would have a billboard stating something like, "Sin. Try it today!" while another side might be decorated by this unenticing picture of white, headlined by faint words reading, "Truth. Find it." Then, the map would outline everywhere I've just walked through. Birth, childhood, fear, adolescence, doubt, temptation, lust. There would be dividing forks in the path where I had to choose one road. Then, I could see where was next. The answer key at the bottom would inform me where I might be heading to next, what might be in store. It's just a thought, but it sure would prove helpful sometimes.

In case you did not know, you are here.

Cliche Catechism

2004-07-14T19:41:00.000-07:00

It would seem so cliche if I read it somewhere else. Formulaic. A Stereotyped Paradise. A wonderland of kissing in the rain, tears shed out of love, separation, slow goodbyes, gentle music. An ending of such bittersweet possibility, humor, hope. Real.

How wonderful it would be if there was a cliche catechism of sorts. I could just open it up and find my answer. The page asking, "What is there to do next?" would be my first read. The catechism would go on to answer questions about life, death, love, regret. It would solve every problem. Right?

Oh well. I'll just have to figure it out on my own, I guess. People have done it before. There's a little beauty in not knowing, anyway.

Bed Sheets and Rap Album Titles

2004-07-14T17:47:00.000-07:00

Right now my roommate has James Taylor, Shower the People, setting the background. It's crap. Hokey. Oh well.

The day turned out alright. I just started working out with a friend at 6:00 am three days a week. Too early for my tastes, but that's life. Anyway, today, it didn't happen. I woke up so sore and so tired, there was no way in you-know-where I was going to drive and spend an hour plus breaking a sweat, straining my muscles, and driving myself to the point of passing out cold. Ridiculous. All that to say, after I staggered to the bathroom, splashed my face with water, my nice little bed, with the comforter and sheets crumpled into one corner called my name. You may think I'm kidding, but, really, it did. My ceiling fan sped up and the sheets started moving back and forth, swirling around as if a tornado surrounded only my bed. The light around me faded to darkness and only my face was highlighted. An echoing voice spoke from the bed, calling my name, "Jonathan, Jonathan." It was something straight out of some kid's corny nightmare. The voice had a deep, groaning quality to it. Frightening, really. Eventually, the sheets subsided, the wind decreased, light returned to its gray, early state, and I crawled back in bed. I pulled the sheets over my aching, tired body, and fell asleep. I thought about how weird the whole bed episode was for a moment or two, but then I crashed. It took about fifteen seconds tops.

Nothing quite that exciting took place at work. I wrote a rap. That was okay. I figured, if an ugly little white guy with bleached blond hair can do it, why can't I? Unfortunately I am guessing there are not that many people who want to hear the rage of some guy in a suit. Angered cussing flowing in a poetic fashion of sorts about reports and micromanagement don't get too far. A couple titles for my first album came to mind. "Office B*tch" was the first. Then I considered, "Progress Report My A$$." I'll work on it. Basically it'll involve beats that surround the topic of the coffee not being refilled when empty, Microsoft Word template problems, the new guy getting all the glory, and other stuff like that. Nothing too exciting.

Well, not too much else is going on right now. Luckily, James Taylor is no longer echoing through the house. I'm going to go grab some dinner and then watch a movie with my girlfriend. Some chick flick. The things I do... (sigh)... oh well. She's worth it.

Beginning

2004-07-13T13:37:00.000-07:00

Beginnings have always scared and excited me at the same time. To be honest, I have not finished a majority of my beginnings. The instances are countless. I have an idea, a little whirl of exhilaration swells within me, the words flow out of me, drench the page with optimism, and then... nothing. Nothing comes of it. It truly is as though I am a runner so looking forward to a race, the legs almost run ahead of the body, but after a while, they tire. Everything else follows.

I have decided, though. Not this. This is more casual, it will come to me over the days. No one will pressure me. I really do not care if someone else reads this. Fine. This is for me. The dust is slowly scattering and I must slowly try to capture its majesty in words. Slowly I must try to put into words this beautiful existence. Slowly I must act upon my great desire to write. Slowly. Steadily.