Story of Life

I really enjoy surprise parties. If one is pulled off, it is one of my greatest joys. It's hard to throw me a surprise party. One, most of my friends have a hard time keeping a secret. But, the most difficult thing is that I am astutely observant. If there is the slightest hint of a plot, I can usually sniff it out. Which is a shame, because then it is not a surprise party and then everyone, guests and myself included, are disappointed.

This is not so unlike Christmas or any other time when gifts are exchanged. Children and loved ones poke and prod to find out what they will receive. I don't think this is to ruin the joy of astonishment in reception, but rather a fear of an unknown thing that is coming their way, as certain as the grave (or taxes). I once went snooping under my parents' bed in early December when I was a child. There I found a new skateboard that would be mine in a few weeks time. But, there was no pride or sense of accomplishment, but a fear and a shame that I had some how broken the trust or faith of Christmas. That Christmas morning, I received a good many other gifts along with the skateboard, but I took no joy in the skateboard. I don't know if it was that I didn't want it or that I knew the gift before it was given.

Similarly, I have the curse of picking up on forshadowed events in literature. As I read the words on the page, I can, in a well-written piece, feel the pain of the characters, smell their skin, and hear their voice. The words take on a weight and darken against the font previously used. The sorrow in the forthcoming pages broods and gathers like low-hanging clouds before a storm. I hate when I figure out the forshadows, especially when they first appear. If you figure the plot one or two pages before it happens you're only sad for five minutes or so while the characters rush towards certain doom and you're screaming at the parchment and ink to stop them in futility.

Regardless of the story, none of the characters stop and say, "Hey don't you feel like we're doomed to live out this story. You know, like our futures are already written." I guess that's what I hate about my story. I can't feel the forshadowing that may be gathering in my skies. Not to say that all future is gloom and doom, but it would be nice to know where I'm going. Perhaps, someone is screaming at my story to go here and say this, do that. But, like gifts at Christmas, the joy is not in finding out the future, but enjoying the thrill of astonishment when it comes, and looking back on the crooked trail that brought you straight to where you need to be.

Beats two and four

Some who follow this, if anyone may wonder why it's named "Beats two and four." The simple answer is, those are the beats the mandolin plays on in bluegrass. I recently received a mandolin and I like bluegrass. Those two beats are difficult to play on because they are the up beats in most music scores. The upbeats are not emphasized in music much. But, they are very important. It adds color to the music. The bright chop of mandolin is the counter the dark bass on the downbeats. Think on it, how could you get to three without two, or how can you come back to one without four.

Maybe we can have some fun on the upbeats of life. The parts that get left by the wayside. How many times has your day been ruined by someone cutting you off or been brightened by kind note? I found that in recalling a road trip with my brother, the times in the car were the ones we remember most. The destinations seem secondary. A mountain scene does not look realistic with out the wisps of clouds. Chocolate chip cookies need a bit of vanilla. The contrasting flavors of life ebb and flow to show us how wonderful our lives really are. And, sometimes we need the dark to see the light. Beats two and four are fun because no one expects them, they show up as a time to shine for those who embrace them.

Dreams

Ever since I was little, I have had vivid dreams. I would sit at breakfast telling my mom the most fantastic stories. They were so detailed, it was assumed I made them up. Most people dream in black and white, less people dream, or least remember their dreams, in color (colour if you're British). My dreams are more than Dolby 5.1, HD, Blu-ray. No, my dreams come in more like virtual reality. You remember the 3-D rides at Disney world where you get tossed around like a rag-doll and stuff comes flying at your head? Welcome to my dream world. Most of the time my dreams are benign or even enjoyable. Like the one where I was in a race with Bill Nye the Science Guy as a judge. However, some of my dreams are terrible. They haunt me the following days like I had some choice in the matter.

There are some dreams we do choose. There was one American who dreamed another would stand across the way on a cold, January morning. Some of my friends dream of med-school. There are a lot of times I wish I could take these dreams and play them at night.

I have many dreams I know won't come true. There are songs I will never sing because my fingers are too slow to form the chords, or collaborative efforts won't happen because of my hard-headedness or that of others. I probably won't own trendy gourmet restaurant or shoot a photo article for National Geographic. There are many skills I will probably never have, and there are many places I'll probably never go.

Who knows where those dreams came from. Did I have a choice in those dreams? There are some dreams we choose and some we do not. We are presented with a number dreams and then we choose from those which to follow. We are forced to follow some dreams, and sometimes an unexpected nightmare binds us up for a while. But, everyonce in a while, we have dream that is, in fact, enjoyable that we did not choose.

namaste, vaya con Dios

Bathrooms

Whenever I had an assigned reading book in high school, I would go one of two places. A little study area in the basement or the bathroom. No one will bother you in the bathroom. If you're in you bedroom, people will bother you because you're in a place that allows a meeting. If you're in the bathroom, no one wants to catch you with your pants down (literally). Often (for fear of developing hemorrhoids), I would set the lid down on the toilet. It was quite nice: quiet, good light, and,if I needed to take a bathroom break, I was already there.

You can learn a lot about people from their bathrooms. Do they have dry or oily skin, maybe they have dandruff or acne? Is it a male's throne or are there feminine hygiene products under the sink. Maybe they have an exotic disease like dengue fever. I wear contacts and therefore have all the paraphernalia that goes along with that.

But also, you can tell about someone's personality. Do they not want to look old (hair dye and anti-age cream)? Do they think they are fat (diet pills)? What is their self-image? Are they a clean person? Some bathrooms are really ornate and are meant to be enjoyed, while some are utilitarian, and are only meant for the three S's (think about that for awhile it will come to you).

Regardless, you should feel better after coming out of a bathroom than you did going in (unless it's public restroom, ick) Your body expels the junk you consumed earlier in time. You wash yourself of the grime from the day. Maybe, VA is my bathroom. Yeah that's right, I'm taking a spiritual dump right now. I've been consuming education, experience, relationship, etc for the past 23 years. I'm absorbing the nutrition of this gluttonous feast I've been on in college and now I'm taking a big fiber pill to clean my system. It sounds kinda gross, but that made total since in my mind. After the ancient Jews used the bathroom they said a special prayer to YHWH because of this miraculous thing that just occured. They didn't know why they needed to do that, but God did. I guess every once in while we need to shower and remove all the sweat, dust, and grime we pick up from life. So here's to spiritual bathrooms, now go take a dump!

namaste, vaya con Dios

Why do you care what I think?

I guess the answer is a little bit easier to answer if you know me. Which also begs the question, "Do you know me?"

From what I gather from others web logs or "blogs," anonymity is a standard. I don't know why because if you are reading this you either a) told by me that I had a blog, b) facebook stalked me and discovered I had changed my websites, c) someone who randomly searches for blogs to follow and don't give a flying flip what my actual name is.

Yet this is contradictory to the reason to blog and really all of our modern networking. By writing in a blog or "blogging" I can express my opinions, thoughts, and musing regardless of their coherence, sanity, logisticalness, or butchering of the English language. I suppose you care what I think because I have left many friends for a period of time and you want to keep in touch with me. Aw, how sweet. And, even though most of this post has been scathingly sarcastic, I would like to say without the least bit of hubris, thank you for caring what I think.

Maybe one day we will see each other (if you can figure out my super secret identity) and you can tell me how stupid I was to post such swill.

Second Topic
Why am I in VA?
To answer this you might want to read the introduction to Donald Miller's "Through Painted Deserts." It talks about leaving and how we are formed when there is no saftey net. My favorite novels, and consequetially the best ones, are about journeys. I admire and often question the decision-making skills and thouht processes of the characters in these stories that leave. Often the stories end poorly. Abraham died in a foreign land, Moses could only gaze at the Promised Land. Jeremiah "Liver-eating" Johnson was hunted like the animals he trapped until he died. Christopher McCandless died alone wishing for community. And the list goes on.
There are good endings. Joshua was faithful until the Promised Land. Donald Miller found a new community and reinvigorated his faith and wrote books to inspire others to continue when it seemed Christianity was irrelevant in modern culture.

I think the answer lies in my favorite novel. By the end of "The Grapes of Wrath," the Joads have nothing left. The big dreams they had were crushed like the grapes in vineyard. They lost their strength and hope. But they could still give of themselves. In the last paragraph the daughter actually breast feeds a grown man after her baby was still born.

I guess I'm away to remove my selfish thoughts by losing everything that has made comfortable. Jehovah has called me to have the faith that He will feed me like the birds and dress me like the flowers. I want choose my next steps carefully on the path of life. I do not want to make selfish decisions, because they are easy, or expected, or boring, or even logical. Sorry for the long post.

namaste, vaya con Dios