Ferries Busses, and Subs-Oh My!

Journal, written 4-13-08

I think that Home Alone 2: Lost in New York went easy on the insanity of New York City. After a failed attempt at driving into the city last night and after burning $8.00 on the Lincoln Tunnel, after sitting in a car at stoplight after stoplight, feeling like a piece of chocolate in a sealed container swarmed by ants that are begging to break in, and after trying to cross the Ben Franklin bridge with just $7 and change, which led to an embarrassing episode in which I held up traffic at the toll booth while the attendant marked my license number down and gave me a bill for $12 – the toll plus a $2 fee – After all of that, I decided that today it would behoove me to try entering New York City via ferry, busses, and subways.

I wasn’t sure how the ferry worked, so I circled the  ferry terminal on the New Jersey side of the bay, hoping to put together some information – how much it costs, when it leaves, when I can come back, etc.- before I finally got my ticket at the window. 

Waiting for the ferry to arrive, I was able to snap some pictures of the skyline. The sky was grey. I had a slight fear that rain could be on its way, but the sun was still fighting its way through the thick clouds, like God was still waiting on the swing vote to come in to decide whether to make it a nice sunny day, or open up the faucet. 

From the other side of the bay, I could see a small blue boat whizzing in an arc shape first, going parallel with the shore, then slowly turning to face the dock, where I stood with about twenty others. A young boy kept asking his mom, “is that the ferry? Is that it?” He must have been excited to go to New York. I wonder what it meant to him to go to New York, I mean I don’t know that I ever saw New York as exciting as a kid. I had Disneyland, and the Zoo, and water parks. Even now, at 24, I wasn’t quite sure what it meant to me to be going to New York. I boarded the ferry at last, and immediately went upstairs to the open air seats. Nobody followed me, and I quickly learned why. As the boat reversed, and throttled forward again across the bay in a zig-zag pattern (which I think was to give passengers on both sides of the boat a chance to take pictures), the cold air hit me. I was shivering but so refreshed. I snapped a few of those myspace pictures, you know where you hold the camera out and blindly snap a picture of yourself, hoping you don’t end up with just a forehead and sky.

As I looked out over the bay again, I began to realize that I had no idea where this ferry was taking me in New York, or where to go once I arrived on the other side. As the buildings that made up the famous skyline grew larger, I became worried. I remembered the hundreds of people from the night before. I thought, “I’m still the chocolate, but I don’t have the sealed container anymore.” I’m going to be robbed. I’m going to get my ass kicked. If I let on that I’m lost, I’m going to be killed! I tried to orient myself, “That’s Manhattan, so that must be Brooklyn. No, there’s The Statue of Liberty, so over there must be – wait, no. Oh, over there, that’s, that’s um – What the heck do I know about New York? Why am I trying to convince myself, I have no idea!”

The ferry landed and again I was left circling the terminal, looking for a map. I expected to walk off the ferry to see everyone circled around a big 10’ x 10’ map, you know like at Disneyland, with different colors for each of the lands, and cartoon-like images of the different rides. I expected a “You are here” bubble somewhere on the map. I pictured a not – to – scale drawing of Broadway, with little bubbles popping out of it that describe the different shows that are playing there, and a caricature of the Empire State Building. I thought it would clearly define “Manhattan-land” and “Queensland”, “Central Park”, “Times Square”, “Brooklyn”, and it would be cool if the jungle cruise was in there somewhere too.

Nothing. Everyone else rushes out the double glass doors to the street. I follow timidly as they all board busses and hop in taxis. Within a minute, the busses are zipping out, Taxis are chasing down the streets, and I am alone on the streets of New York. Suddenly I realize why it’s called “The Big Apple”. I go back into the ferry terminal, where I search for my imaginary map again, somehow convinced that it must exist. All I find are 10 different flyers for different bus routes. They don’t mean anything to me. Criss-crosses of black lines that look like nothing more than graph paper, with different coordinates marked with a red line, that makes some sort of polygon. None of the maps say “Brooklyn”, which is where I’m trying to get to. I guess this is why some people choose to plan out trips like this, you know, research? I, Andy Cashion, do not understand that concept. I grew up playing legos, not video games – I don’t need a plan, I just start sticking the things together and see what I get. I could be in the completely wrong place. This might be like taking the Tom Sawyer raft to pirate cove, when you want to get to Tomorrowland to see “Honey I Shrunk the Audience”. Right now, I don’t think I’m going to make it to church on time.

I try again, I walk through the double glass doors and head down the street, where busses are lined up one after the other, and Taxis wait in front of them for anyone who’s really desperate to blow a wad of dough (does that sound New Yorkish?). By each bus, a sign stands on an A-frame. I read them, “57^th street”, “49^th street”, “Lincoln Center”, “Madison Square Gardens”, etc. Ok, I get it- each bus goes somewhere different. So what do I do, play New York Bus Roulette and just get on one? For a second, I consider waiving for a taxi, that should be easy – just waive my hand in the air. I’ve seen it done a million times on Friends episodes. Then like 40 taxis will fight their way over to pick me up. As I lift my hand, it dawns on me that I could end up in another situation like the Ben Franklin bridge. I have cash this time, but who knows how much it will cost me? A taxi began to pull over for me, so embarrassed, I ducked back into the terminal.

I grab one of each of the bus route flyers, trying to decipher them. Maybe if I can get to a subway, I can find my way to Brooklyn. I take a deep breath, and as I blow it out, I pound back through the glass doors, this time with a certain manufactured confidence. One breath of the New York air and my confidence crumbles quicker than my gingerbread house from Christmas did when I put one too many peppermint candies on the chimney. I think I’m just going to forget about it all. I’m going to get back on the ferry – At least I can say I went to New York. Nobody will know the difference, I have pictures to prove it! I’m going to forget about the church I wanted to visit. I’m going to forget about New York… New York.

“New York, New York.” I hear him in my mind. His free flowing voice is ringing in my head, “Weee’ll Maaake uh time - of – it…” here he comes, “…In old New York.” Good ol’ Frankie has come to save the day. I hear the bursting, beating forte of the most important verse, “If I can (bum-bum) make it there, I’ll make it (bum-bum) anywhere, it’s up to you New York, Neeewww Yooooorrrk.”

A second rush of confidence. Adrenaline conquers fear. Excitement defeats intimidation. Possibility devours reluctance. I am a born-again tourist, and by now I have already attempted three alter calls, but this time – this time I am devout.

A security guard stands by for the next flock of people flooding off the ferry which arrives every 20 minutes. I need to get answers before they come, so I don’t miss the next bus or whatever. I ask him for help, “I need help, sir.” I said politely as possible (Though I like to imagine that I yelled it with confidence like a lion, ready to take over the plains as he looks over them from a cliff). He doesn’t really respond, just keeps looking down at his counter and I wonder if he heard me. He finally responds in a rough, New York accent with a hint of – I don’t know, maybe Serbian or something. “Where you need to go?” I hand him the address I’m looking for, but I don’t get a response I’m looking for. “I don’t know where that is.” He hands it back to me. I stand in shock. I don’t know what to do, he didn’t even try. I look at the address and as I get ready to walk away, I realize that he wasn’t saying, “I don’t know where that is, go away.” He was saying. “give me a second, I’ll look for it.” He turns to a map on the wall – still not a Disney map, but closer to what I’m looking for.

“Brooklyn?” His voice is softening I think.

“Yeah.”

“Lorimer street?”

“uh-huh”

“Take downtown loop to 14^th, take the Subway – the L to Lorimer street. Here’s a flyer.”

“Oh, thank you I already have one of those. Thanks for the help.” I skitter off, so as to not embarrass myself anymore. I don’t bother asking any more questions. I mean, what would I ask - Where’s the Downtown loop bus? How much does it cost? Where do I buy a ticket? How do I find the subway? What is the L train?- Why would I ask any of those questions? I’m Andy Cashion - I’m an idiot! I walk down the line of busses and again I read, “57^th street”, “49^th street”, “Lincoln Center”, “Madison Square Gardens”, and at the end, I see “Downtown Loop.” Step 1 complete.

I walk past the bus and look in to see if there is a driver. Yes, there is. I turn around and pass the bus again. The door is closed, do I knock on the door? Do I wait here? I’ve never ridden a bus alone before – I’m a 24 year old man, and I feel like Forrest Gump, getting ready to board the bus to school for the first time. “Momma told me not to ride with strangers.”

I pass the bus for a third time when I hear a sound like a giant Dr Pepper can being opened. SSSHHHAAH – it was the door. The lady looked down at me kind of condescendingly, like Dolores did to Forrest, waiting for me to say something.

“Do I pay here, or do I need a ticket or something?” I ask

With a sarcastic laugh, she says, “yeah, you pay here.”

I pull out my wallet. “how much?”

Another laugh- more of a belly laugh this time. “ it’s – ha – it’s free.” Her voice speeds on so fast I don’t think Jeff Gordon could catch it. “look at you with your wallet, you thought you were going to pay, that’s so funny, get on, what the – I knew a kid like you once, walkin down the street alone one day…” seriously, is she saying sentences? “What are you, where are you from?”

“San D –“

“Oh, San Diego, I lived there for 10 years, Carlsbad – I drove busses in Oceanside, you know I don’t like that area, to many F* ing Mexicans.”

I really don’t know what to say. I guess that’s about right though, New Yorkers say what’s on their mind. A few more - worse - slurs were spit out before the bus filled with the next waive of passengers. She continues telling me about San Diego vs. New York, and how she’s going to move to Canada. She also continues to cut me off every time I try to talk. I didn’t know where I was going, but luckily another guy hit some magical button that told the bus to stop at 14^th street. I didn’t know I was supposed to hit a button. I thank the driver and walk down the stairs. I look around – no signs for a subway, so I follow the other dude from the bus. We cross the street. I look back and see a stairway next to a building that goes down underground – a stairway to hell – I guess. Another one is Cattycorner from it, so I keep walking like I meant to go to this other subway entrance – Confidence. A sign has three circles, each with the individual numbers 1, 2, and 3 in them. Then on the other end of the sign, the letter “L” in a blue circle.  Step 2 Complete.

This was the easy part. Down the stairs was a machine, like the machine we have in San Diego for the trolley. This one just charges $2 per ride no matter what, so it’s actually easier than our trolley. I buy a ticket, and proceed through a turnstile, down a few sets of stairs, all the while following the maze of tunnels and paths that have a blue circle with an “L” in the middle. I am now in a long corridor, passing homeless people playing music for money, college students with backpacks and i-pods, business people, and other tourists. I get to a station with tracks on either side of me. Finally, a well marked sign that says “L to Lorimer. All times.” How much easier could it get? There is another sign that counts down the minutes until the next train arrives. “5. 4. 3. 2. 1.” Then, whoosh, the train is here. I board and find a seat.

We move, and I see a timeline/map of the route above the windows on the opposite side of the train. As I wondered why they even have windows on the subway, which has no sights to see, we reach the first stop, and a voice announces the station. I am relieved. I will know when to get off. What I'll do then, I don’t know- but I will know when to get off. A man begins pacing up and down our car, and asks for everyone’s attention. He gives us a prepared speech about homelessness, how he was once homeless, and it can happen to anyone. We need to take care of the homeless, help them out. You will never know what it’s like until it’s you. He’d like donations of anything – a leftover sandwich, a jacket, money, anything. It was really a great speech actually.

People around me have headphones on, so I feel safe and pull out my Ipod. The soundtrack starts with Simon & Garfunkel, “The Only Living Boy in New York” from the Garden State Soundtrack. As the background voices sing “aaah, here I am” in a sort of Catholic choir sound, I am relaxed and calm. I’m in New York. I’m making it. It’s not so hectic anymore.

The man has finished his speech and is walking up and down with a can, for donations. The train comes to another stop, and as the doors open, I hear “Lorimer Street.” I get up and walk out. The stairs lead me to an average street, where I look at the closest address, determine that I must go right, and begin walking. It’s only 4 blocks when I walk past a run down building with writing on the wall that is worn and faded, but I can make out “Pete’s Candy Store.” On the wall, I see a sign:

REVOLUTION CHURCH

DON’T LET THE BASTARDS GET YOU DOWN.

I’m here. I made it. I conquered New York City!

www.revolutionnyc.com

Jon Foreman - Buy the EP's!

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My Prayer Today

God, My Father who created the world, I stand in wonder of your design, but I am stricken with grief that is so much; that I desire to experience all that you have made. Give me contentment and let your creation live within me, so that I do not seek more than I need. Let my wonder be stilled, that I may find fullness in what I can complete and fairness in what others will accomplish without me.

Amen

A Prayer Request

Please pray for me to Our Lord that, instead of merely writing something, I may be something, and indeed that I may so fully be what I ought to be that there may be no further necessity for me to write, since the mere fact of being what I ought to be would be more eloquent than many books.

Dialogues With Silence, pg 161

More Than Oceans

I love the way that Southwest Airlines does its seating. It’s basically open seating and whoever checks in first gets first choice of seats. I’m not anal about it, but I usually get somewhere in the first sixty people on the plane. So, I get my preferred aisle seat. Once I’m seated though I feel like I’m standing in a line against the wall in third grade, waiting to be picked for the kickball game. One by one, people look left and right down the aisles and at some point have to realize that they are going to have to sit next to someone. So they begin to assess each person, each seat and decide who will be comfortable to sit next to, who looks friendly, who doesn’t smell bad, who will not attempt to talk to you when they want to sleep. I’m not going to lie, I make these judgments too as board the plane.

 

 In elementary school, I was a killer kickball player, I mean I played soccer since I was five so how could I not be a great kickball player? Yet I was always the last to be picked. Likewise, in middle school, our school had a program called Natural Leadership, in which students were nominated to participate in a training program of sorts. I always thought I was a good leader, but nobody nominated me so I couldn’t participate. In certain circles it seems to work that way, like on my high school soccer teams. However, on my club soccer teams that I was on with different teammates than the high school teams, I was often a captain, a leader, and one of the more respected players. Now, as I sit in the aisle seat  and I make eye contact with person after person who passes me by, I become self conscious to the highest degree. “Am I scary looking? Do I smell? Am I so fat that people think they will be uncomfortable next to me?” Not every plane ride is like this though. Sometimes I’m the first to be picked, and we have great conversation and have a great ride.

 

Why is it that in certain environments a persons talents and skills are showcased so well, but in other environments, they are compressed into a  box and stored away? In High school, I made a drastic decision my senior year. I had completed three years of school at RB High, and had many different circles of friends. I did ok in school, I made the soccer teams I tried out for, I made it into plays I tried out for, I was in the top choir, I was a part of a few clubs’ leadership teams. It was an average high school career. But I was so unhappy. For three years I was unhappy because I thought I was worth more than that. I thought I should be a team captain, a bigger role in a play. I was selected as a co-choir president by the director, but if I tried to do any of the presidential duties, I was kind of told, no- the other co-presidents would do it. I was one of four students who started a new club to fight biased, bigotry, and racism. I worked hard with them to speak in the community with public clubs, like Octagon International. I spoke at teachers meetings to drum up support, I filled out paper work at times. But once the club was established and we had to elect officers, I lost in the elections for Pres, VP, Sec, Treas, and two other leadership roles. I was offered a consolation position that the club director made up because she felt bad for me, it was called “Head of Speaking Events.” Better than nothing I guess.

 

Overall, I felt like nobody thought I was special, or a standout. After three years (well, more really because middle school hadn’t been much different), I was starting to think about myself how everyone else thought of me. I bet I would have graduated thinking of myself just that way. Extremely average. Run of the mill. But one day, I was sitting in economics class in the seat in front of Gabe Lindamen. He was a popular guy, really cool, funny, played the banjo, loud, obnoxious. But his comedic outbursts often hurt somebody. Quite often, that person was me. He made it public that my clothes were not cool, I was a loser, I was a momma’s boy. One month into the first semester of my senior year, there he was behind me in class, poking at me- literally. He cracked a few jokes before class started, then made some comment that I don’t remember. I quickly stood up and turned around and at the moment that I thought I was going to swing back my arm and hit him, I breathed in really hard, filling up my lungs, staring at his shocked, confused face, and I sharply grabbed my backpack and walked out of class. At the end of the day, I made arrangements with my mom to transfer schools.  My friends were confused. The choir took it hard, especially the teacher - I think she took it really personally. I suddenly felt like I could be more. I never cared too much about what others thought of me, but I felt I deserved, at the least, respect. I have a feeling that in that decision, I earned Gabe’s respect. The next day, as I went in to get my teacher to sign off on my transfer and mark down my grade, he announced to the class that I was going. After that last class, I found out that Gabe did have a heart, though I had never seen it before in 3 years. He put his hand on my shoulder from behind- a stark contrast from the pokes of the day before- and said, “I’m really sorry if anything I did hurt you.” I think I mumbled something back to him, passing off his part of all of this like, “oh that’s not why I’m leaving”. I hope he knew though deep down that he was the last straw anyway.

 

Hindsight is so weird. Looking back at what one moment, one day in my life meant. I think If I could talk to Gabe today, I would tell him, “thanks. You changed my life.” Really, he did. In two ways though. First, he was the last straw that pushed me to do something that really changed my future. I could have transferred and been bitter the rest of my life, thinking that some people are just mean. But when he apologized, I decided with conviction that people in general are definitely good deep down.

 

So, I transferred. Mt. Carmel would be my new school. It’s not much of a different school besides the fact that the average car in the parking lot had a retail value of about $15000 less than that of RB high. I was offered a spot in the top choir, but turned it down because I had already filled my elective requirements and I figured choir would be an extra class that I could just take off first period. I continued private voice lessons instead. But part way through the semester, the drama teacher approached me because he had heard that I sing and act. He asked me to try out for the musical, which I probably would have done anyway. I don’t think that he nor I expected that I would be given the lead role which also won me the best actor award for the year. I felt like a leader in clubs that I joined, even though it was too late to become an officer. I felt like my input was always appreciated in classes. I felt like people wanted to be around me rather than they were just content that I was around. Friends wanted me to try out for the soccer team, though I chose not to because the musical interfered. I was just plain respected and understood. To top it off, I was chosen to sing a solo at graduation.

 

Now, I’m not boasting that I am much of a singer or actor or soccer player, I am just stressing the affect that a different atmosphere can have on a person. A change in environment can re-define someone, or help that person to re-define themself. It’s funny, I’m listening to Switchfoot right now, and the song “More than Fine” just came on.

 

“When I wake in the morning, I wanna blow it to pieces. I want more than just OK….”

 

“…I’m not giving up, giving up, not giving up now. I’m not giving up giving up, I’m not selling out… not backing down”

 

“...More than Fine, more than bent on getting by. More than fine, more than just ok. More than oceans away from the dawn. More than oceans away from who we are….”

 

These lyrics are perfect.

 

This is what I want, what I always wanted. This is what I wanted in High school. More than Fine, more than just ok. I think most people want that, don’t they? Don’t you? Somewhere over time too many of us are convinced that we don’t deserve more than fine. I was there at the beginning of my senior year of high school. I am not backing down, not giving up! I am going to re-discover myself and re-define myself.

 

The problem I think we have in society, the reason why we so often hold each other back and tell each other they are not good enough – not in words, but in actions- is that we live in a society that equates success and finance and happiness to a pie; The more you get, the less for me. Isn’t that the way we think? Don’t we complain about immigrants because if they get a piece of the pie, I can’t get any? Don’t we shun socialism because we are too afraid to share our possessions with others? And we are afraid to recognize each others' talents and lift each other up because if they are good at something, it means I am less good at it? We have the wrong focus. We do not live in a pie – but we do live in a circular world; what goes around comes back around to us.

 

Jesus told a parable about a man, a King, who entrusted his finances with three people. To one he gave 10 talents, to another 5 and to the third, 1 talent. The first two decided to invest the talents, and the last buried it in a hole. Because the finances grew for the first two, the King was happy, but he was extremely disappointed with the third man, for not doing anything with his part.

 

This story has been told from many different angles. I’ve heard a preacher say that this is a reference to our faith. We need to read and pray every day to strengthen our faith. I’ve heard rich pastors say that this proves that God wants us to have lots of money, that we shouldn’t be ashamed of having money. But I am wondering why was it that the first two invested and the last one didn’t. Was he not smart enough? Did he not know where the bank was?

 

What if this man was handed that one talent and thought, “well, he gave more to the others to hold for him, so he must not trust me. He must not think I’m good enough, smart enough. So, to be sure I don’t prove him right, that I don’t screw this up, I will be extra careful not to lose this one. I will bury it.” Why is this story always used as a scrutiny towards the third man, and not a scrutiny of the King? I know, that is how Jesus was directing it towards his crowd at the time, but I don’t think He will be mad at me for analyzing it a little.

 

The King was mad at the man for not investing the finances, but he did not invest his trust, his respect. There was a study done on school children one time where students who did historically well in class were placed in a class together, and the teacher was told that these were the bad students. They couldn’t pay attention, they didn’t work hard, they were failures. Alternatively, a class was comprised of students who often failed in class, and the teacher was told that they were so smart, quality, well behaved students. I’m sure you know what happened; The first group of students did poorly and the second group did well. It’s called the Pygmalion effect. The product a person produces is directly related to the investment that is made into them. I knew this as a trainer at a bank – the more someone was trained, the more successful they were, the quicker they got promoted. And I felt good at that job. Comedians get it; we laugh, they say more jokes and get funnier, if we don’t, they stumble and want to leave. It’s a simple concept for gardeners too; pick the weeds, water your plants, fertilize them and they will grow.

 

Have you noticed how much I’ve been writing lately? It’s only because people have shown appreciation, and complimented my ability to write, which didn’t used to get recognized much.

 

Give away your trust. Give away your faith in people. As a society, we should give away our acceptance and love. I believe that giving is contagious. Hopefully its as contagious as the plague. What if we gave away recognition to each other, maybe we would make people believe in themselves. What if we gave away welcome to immigrants. Maybe they wouldn’t feel the need to cheat the broken system; they would be a part of it and improve it. And I just have to say, seriously Bush, do you want to pick the fruit in the fields? Are they really taking away jobs? huh? really? It's just fear. Fear of what's uncomfortable, what's new. Fear of failing. Even fear of success.

 

We are so afraid. So, so afraid in this world. Afraid of someone else taking our substance.  You can’t have it. this is just one more thing that we hypocritically teach our children, but don’t apply to our lives – “Share your toys, Tommy. But I don’t want to share my project at work, because I’d have to share the credit. I can’t share my money with the homeless guy on the street, because I won’t be able to pay for your school, Tommy. Of course, I was able to afford that $5.00 Latte this morning” Yes, we will get hurt. Yes, yes we will be burned, screwed, fucked, taken advantage of. Do it anyway, remember you are Christ’s ambassador. He was ready to get hurt for you, so be willing to get hurt for someone else. If we live in Christ, and He lives in us, then nothing we give away was ours to begin with. Don’t you think the King missed his money while it was gone? Well, eventually it will come back around, having been invested, but only by the ones he invested in. The world God created is not a pie.

Here's a little secret: The pie we hold onto is a shit pie. We don’t need a piece of it. The more we hold on to it, the more we think we like it, but at the end of the day, it is SHIT for crying out loud. But when we let it go, God has an endless supply of Pie that He shares with us. Any kind you want. And it won't even make you fat! He even shares it with the people holding the shit pie- isn't that Crazy?

Giving is Grace - Grace is a gift from Jesus - Jesus is saying, “[You] will not thirst, or hunger” without the pie.

Still, even though a gardener knows when to water a plant, they also know when a plant must be transplanted. One plant might thrive in San Diego (mmm, Avocados) and one might thrive in New Jersey (mmm, Blueberries) and one might do well on either coast (mmm… um peaches?). Don’t let your soil kill your belief in yourself. Don’t let your environment destroy your love for yourself. Don’t let the weeds grow around you and suffocate you. If you cannot treat the soil, transplant yourself. If you cannot find a watering can, find rain. If you cannot kill the weeds, pick them.

 If you cannot feel God’s love, show somebody that you love them! 

We were meant for so much more.

buy: More Than Fine by Switchfoot

The Question, The Answer

It’s official! I’m completely addicted to writing. I’m not an insomniac, I am just addicted to thinking and I can’t think when I’m asleep. I slept for about 3-4 hours before getting up to go to the airport yesterday morning at 5:00am, and I thought I’d sleep on at least one of the plane rides, but I didn’t. Then, last night at 10 pm Eastern time I think I finally did it, but my thoughts wouldn’t give up the fight. I woke up 2 hours later, with the unrelieved question still tapping gently at my mind like the legendary torture tactic where soldiers would be placed below a water fountain that would drip slowly onto their foreheads and run down their face until the monotony caused them to go insane. “What is the question that God is asking? Why can’t I understand it? Why don’t I comprehend it?”

 Perhaps one of my favorite lines from a Tom Hanks movie (or any movie for that matter) came from Forrest Gump:

Jenny, I don't know if Momma was right or if - if it's Lieutenant Dan. I don't know if we each have a destiny, or if we're all just floating around accidental - like on a breeze, but I - I think maybe it's both. Maybe both is happening at the same time.

I remember talking to my pastor, Rich one time back when I was still learning what it meant to be Christian. I had seen so many Christians in school, who repeated the same lines and said the same things, so I picked up some of those lines myself. Rich had asked me what it was that I wanted to do when I got through school. You know, what my career was going to be. I responded with the typical Christian answer, “well I’m still trying to see what it is that God wants me to do.” I was shocked and moved when he responded, “Don’t you think you could also figure out what you want to do and maybe God will bless that?”

Forrest Gump was so right when he said, “maybe it’s both”. Maybe our destiny is that we float around accidental-like on the breeze. But even then, God conducts the breeze because, after all, isn’t the breeze His orchestra?

The afternoon before I embarked on this journey of self-discovery (or so I hope that’s what this journey is) I sat down on a friend’s couch and happened to grab a book that I used to love to read. It’s a book that I believe to be nothing less than a modern day Psalms, only instead of being written by the struggling King David, who wrestled with God, it was written by a struggling monk who was also wrestling with God. Thomas Merton’s, Dialogues With Silence is a sensational compilation of his thoughts and prayers and some drawings he did while in a monastery in silence.

I don’t know why I chose, now, to add this book to my miniature library that I accumulated while packing for this trip (which includes David Sheff’s Beautiful Boy, Tolstoy’s The Kingdom of God is Within you, and J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye.- which by the way is chosen simply because I faked my way through it in High school and have always wanted to read it; not because I am a depressed lunatic that carries it around everywhere). So, when my journal opened up inadvertently to a page that read, “Dialogues With Silence, Pg 75 – Why is it so dark?” I found it, let’s say, fortuitous that I had brought this book with me. At what is now 4:45 in the morning, I relinquish the idea that I was fortunate to have this book in my bag, because were it not for this book’s presence, I would not have been asking myself this question that pulled at my closed eyelids as I was sleeping. I would have read the journal entry and passed it on by.

So rather than fortune, curse found me; A beautiful curse, though. A curse that only at 2:30 in the morning could I finally conceive its purpose. Only in the darkness can I comprehend its grand meaning: If I am floating on the breeze, then God guided that breeze to this book. He guided me to this book which led me to the question of the day – maybe the question not just of this day, but of this journey I am on. A question that God asks me, but I do not know how to answer nor do I know how to comprehend it. A question that woke me, and a question that now, as the first birds begin singing in the morning, I am beginning to comprehend, but still cannot answer. Could this be the question? If I am right about the breeze and it led me to this book and this page, maybe the breeze too led me to a conversation with my pastor years ago. And in one of Rich’s profound moments (which he has a lot of by the way) he actually helped me initiate a shotgun start for this journey I am now on. A journey within a journey – because life itself has always been, is, and will be a journey.

While I wrestled with God, questioning why He, The Ocean, destroyed my sand castles, my plans, and while I reflected on childhood, and while I dreamed of the special power to fly again, and while I packed my backpack for this trip and while I said goodbye to my friends as if it were the last time I’d see them, still not understanding why it felt like that, I was becoming one with the breeze. I was preparing to go with the wind. I was summoning up the courage to ask God one more time, with expectation for disappointment and frustration, “What is your plan for me?”

As Christians say, God is good… at the question game. God is the king of improve. He’s the Improv god (sorry Daniel, I used to think you were the improv god). I like playing improve games too. I love the question game – a storyline played out only using questions for conversation. But I can’t stand when people I play against find the easiest ways out. Here’s an example of someone I don’t like playing the game with (person B): 

Person A: What are you doing to night?”

Person B: Don’t you know?

or

Person A: Are you going to the show tonight?

Person B: Are you?

See, there is a way to play the game where person B can actually in part answer the question with a question, thus creating conversation:

Person A: What are you doing tonight?

Person B: Didn’t  I tell you I’m going to the show?

Person A: Which show was that?

Person B: Have you heard of Wicked?

Person A: Is that the show about the Witch in Wizard of Oz?

Person B: Oh, did you see them talking about it on Jay Leno last night?

On and on. Yeah, God is good at this game. So, when I ask, “God, what is your plan for me?” his answer is, “What do you want it to be?”

 

And the game has begun.

Buy: Beautiful Boy, Dialogues With Silence, The Kingdom of God is Within You

The Darkness of "God's Plan"

The message I received from myself (through a character in a story - a creation of my own mind) has been rewinding and repeating in my head as I sit in the Chicago Midway terminal. My metaphorical manifestation of God – the Ocean – echos to me like repetitive waves pounding at the shores of my mind. “My sand castles are way better than yours, but I love sharing them with you.”

 

Over and over, I tell myself, “God has a plan, what is it? Pray harder, listen for God’s voice to tell you what his plan is!” Isn’t that what we’re conditioned to do in Christianity? Isn’t that what we’re supposed to desire – to find God’s plan? Since I first started attending church in the last year of high school, I have been trying to follow what God wants for me. Time and time when I thought He was telling me to do something, work somewhere, attend some school, go to some church, I have been disappointed. “I still don’t see the plan, God. Where is this going.” Then again, I feel a tug for me to go in another direction, leave what He just asked me to start. And again, a series of signs tells me a new direction. Over and over and over I change direction. So often my direction changes, that my compass is confused. If I had a GPS, it just fried its own brains out. I imagine a GPS with God’s voice instead of that annoying lady, “In one mile, turn right.” Then you turn right and it says, “In 100 yards, make a u-turn.”

 

God creates man, man creates GPS. Shouldn’t God be better at directions than the GPS? Or am I not using it right? Is my faith not strong enough for Him? Am I not trying hard enough to hear him? I envy anyone who says they know God’s plan for them. Does anyone really know God’s plan for them, or do they make their own plans and make it look like God? Were all those directions just my own voice processed through a computer to sound like God?

 

As I get on my flight to Philadelphia, I reach for the book I am reading, Beautiful Boy, I pull it out along with my notepad/journal thing. I flip open my journal on accident to a page that is empty except for one line in my chicken scratch writing:

 

Dialogues With Silence, page 75 – Why is it so dark?

 

The plane hasn’t completely boarded yet, so I jump over the guy in the aisle seat and quickly shuffle through the overhead compartment, where I find my backpack nestled in the back under a jacket, a pillow and someone’s computer bag. I don’t need to look in it because I can feel the rough edges of a book that the publishers decided to produce with torn ridges, which I can only assume was to help the reader fully understand the brokenness of the author. I only know that the book has rough edges because I stole the book off of my friend James’ bookshelf just yesterday (well actually we concluded that it was my book in the first place, but I left it from when we had lived together). I flip through Thomas Merton’s book and find the page:

 

           

God, my God, God whom I meet in darkness, with you it is always the same thing! Always the same question that nobody knows how to answer!

            I have prayed to you in the daytime with thoughts and reasons, and in the nighttime you have confronted me, scattering thought and reason. I have come to you in the morning light and with desire, and you have descended upon me with great gentleness, with most forbearing silence in this inexplicable night, dispersing light, defeating all desire. I have explained to you a hundred times my motives for entering the monastery, and you have listened and said nothing, and I have turned away and wept with shame.

            Is it true that my motives have meant nothing? Is it true that all my desires were an illusion?

            While I am asking questions that you do not answer, you ask me a question that is so simple that I cannot answer it. I do not even understand the question.

 

I feel like I could have written this - myself, today, frustrated. Instead a man who had given up his life to join a monastery and live in silence asked this question probably at least ten years ago. I think he wondered if God had led him astray. I wonder the same things, “do my motives mean nothing?” I feel like I try very hard. I feel like I want to do what’s right every day. Likewise, I feel that my questions are un answered. But I love how Merton says the last line, “While I am asking questions that you do not answer, you ask me a question that is so simple that I cannot answer it. I do not even understand the question.”

 

Didn’t we learn well enough from Jesus that when you ask God a question, he likes to mess with our heads and ask us a question back instead? Have you ever seen the TV show, “Whose line is it anyway?” Its an improve game show and they play this great game, where you can only speak in questions. God would rock the pants off of Drew Cary in that game!

 

What is the question? What is the question he asks back. Why can’t I answer it, why can’t I understand it?

Buy: Dialogues With Silence

So Lonely (The Police)

I came upon these lyrics a month ago while I was reading through a book of lyrics by Sting. I grabbed my pen and wrote the words down on a napkin. The relevance of these words has faded some, but I am curious to see how I feel about them in a month.

Well, Someone told me yesterday

That when you throw your love away

you act as if you don't care

you look as if you're going somewhere

But I just can't convince myself

I couldn't live with no one else

And I can only play that part

And sit and nurse a broken heart, so lonely

So lonely, so lonely, so lonely

So lonely, so lonely, so lonely

So lonely, so lonely, so lonely

Now no one's knocked upon my door

For a thousand years, or more

All made up and nowhere to go

Welcome to this one man show

Just take a seat, they're always free

No surprise, no mystery

In this theatre that I call my soul

I always play the starring role

So lonely, so lonely, so lonely

So lonely, so lonely, so lonely

So lonely, so lonely, so lonely

I feel lonely, I'm so lonely, I feel so low

I feel lonely, I'm so lonely, I feel so low

Dialogues With Silence

My God, I pray better to you by breathing.

I pray better to you by walking than by talking.

-Thomas Merton (Dialogues with Silence)

Lamb of God

Who takes away the sins of the world

Give us Peace

Today's Horoscope

VIRGO (Aug. 23-Sept. 22). You have smart people in your life, but none so wise that you should question your own judgment. Establish the boundaries. This requires no discussion. Once you silently decide, that's how it will be.

Up all night

As many times as I have flown on an airplane, as many times as I have picked up friends and family from the airport, as many times as I heard the loud engines vibrate over my house on Grape street during the year I lived there, I can still sit and watch airplanes take off and land for hours. What is so majestic about it? What is so hypnotizing? As I sat on James’ patio on Wednesday night and watched airplanes line up to find the runway and slowly descend under the horizon of housetops and trees, I kept thinking of  the movie, “Radio Flyer”. Even from his younger days, it seems that Tom Hanks’ quotes always affect me. It seems that every movie he has done from “Big” to the failed “Da Vinci Code” has at least one profound quote that blows you away. Let’s start with this one from Radio Flyer:

There are six lost secrets and abilities that you lose in the split second between your 12th and 13th birthday. They are: animals can talk; jumping from any height with the aid of an umbrella is completely safe; nothing is too heavy to lift when wearing a cape; monsters exist, and can both be seen and done battle with; your favorite blanket is woven from a fabric so mighty that once pulled over your head it creates impenetrable force field, and the greatest, most special lost power: the ability to fly.

When we were kids though, I think we had a different understanding of flying. Flying for a 1 year old is when your dad throws you up in the air about two feet and catches you. I remember watching a friend do that to their little baby a while back and the way the kid’s eyes just expanded so huge and he exploded in laughter and his big, toothless smile infected me from the inside out. God, I love kids! To a three year old, flying is your older brother lying on his back, putting his feet on your stomach and lifting you up so that you are balancing in the air over him. For a five year old, it’s jumping off the bed in a superman cape, which captures the very power to fly somewhere between the Velcro that your mom sowed on to strap it around your neck, and the frilled edges that you ripped trying to get it away from your dog. At seven, it’s jumping off of the diving board at the public pool, and at nine, it’s jumping on the trampoline at your best friend’s house. Flying didn’t have to include soaring over downtown for hours, just a few seconds of being airborne was flying. It wasn’t about a broomstick, like witches and wizards use, it was about having nothing holding you up. See, the magic - the power - of flying wasn’t defined by what you were gripping that lifted you up into the air. For us, there was no such thing as “lift” and “draft” (I don’t know if the later is a real aeronautics term, but it sounds good, huh?). Our flight was so exhilarating because there was nothing holding us, and yeah we were really just falling, but it was a great fall, wasn’t it?

I think the point of that quote from Radio Flyer is that we started to be logical as we got into our teens. We started to need things to hold us up. It started with a skateboard, or rollerblades, or for the kids now, wheeleys – those stupid shoes with wheels in them. Seriously, I love kids, but every once in a while I imagine myself clothes-lining a kid in a grocery store who whizzes by me! Somewhere in high school, maybe we got our first car to move us around, and for thrills we began playing sports, or watching TV. Cool things show up. The latest toys like CD players or I-pods now. And we started to even build a ground floor for our lives, then build stairs for where we were going – that is, make the blueprints for what we will do to get through school, then go to college, and get a job, etc. And we become conditioned to being grounded by things and plans. We don’t fly anymore. As I watched those planes landing over the dark night sky, I realized that I wasn’t intrigued by the people in the plane – I didn’t want to be them. I wanted to be the plane itself. Every once in a while we get that still as adults. That memory of flying – of being free of stuff and plans. I love how the Bible says, “You will soar on wings, like eagles. I think that’s God’s promise that it’s ok to fly. I don’t have a Bible on me right now, so I don’t know who it was that wrote that part, but the fact that they chose to relate to eagles is the best part. You know, hummingbirds don’t soar; they flutter. Seagulls are flapping and squawking until they catch a gust of wind and float for a minute, but not too long. Even Hawks seem pre-occupied when flying because they are searching for a carcass. Eagles though, sure they have to look for food, and they have to flap, but  most of the time they look so care-free. Their wings are just spread out and they let the wind pick them up- they don’t have to try too hard. I think Eagles must believe in God, because it looks like all they are doing is communing with God, talking to him and taking in the world. They are breathing in the miracle of existence, while breathing out the need to know what existence is.

Another quote I love from that movie was one I remember, but can’t remember exactly how it went, and I can’t find it online anywhere. I think it was Tom Hanks saying something like this:

“There is something about watching planes. Imagining the stories of the planes, where they are coming from, where they are going.”

Maybe it wasn’t even a quote from Radio Flyer, maybe it was another movie, but it’s true. As I watched the airplanes, I was overcome with hope and excitement for what I am doing for the first time since I decided to take off. I don’t know what it was, but I saw myself flying away to the East coast and experiencing a new life.  I felt content and everything that is holding me down here- really everything I am holding on to here- lifted away.

__________________________________________________

I don’t know what time it was that night that I finally gave up on the idea of sleep. James had gone to bed at 11:30 or so, and by 2:00 I had already written an entire sermon in my head that I was convinced I would preach someday at church, I read about 60 pages in the book I am reading, and I began writing a musical in my head – a parody on Fiddler on the Roof called “A Guitarist on the Balcony”. Ok, I have to give you a taste of it. The musical starts like this: 

Lights fade in on a night scene of a New York apartment and you hear an acoustic guitar playing the intro to Fiddler on the Roof. You see a young man on his balcony, upstage left, playing the tune. On another balcony, center stage storms a pissed off New Yorker as he begins:

Tony: A guitarist on the balcony.  Seriously, how annoying can neighbors be. But then again, I guess you could say that every New Yorker is a guitarist on a balcony; playing the same old tune over and over and over (his voice escalates) until you just want to say “Shut the Fuck up” (he shouts out the window as the guitarist gives up and storms into his house). I always ask myself, why do we do it? I guess its because its easy. And how do I get through day after day, that’s easy – one word, “Repetition”

The neigborhood bursts into the song, “Repetition” which sounds like “Tradition”.

No, really I think it would be really funny. And “Matchmaker” would stay, only they’d be referring to an actual match maker, because they ran out of matches to light their cigarettes – or bong. I don’t know how I feel about the drug use in my play though. “If I Were a Rich Man” becomes “If I Were a Gay Man” because Tony is struggling with why all his friends have turned out to be gay, so he wonders what it would be like – but he’s not gay. “Do you love me” gets interrupted when it dawns on Tony that he’s singing it to his cat because he’s so lonely. And by the end of the musical, the audience is convinced that these lives of repetition are not what we were intended for.

So anyway, here I am at 2:30 or so and I decide to fall asleep, but my mind looks a little like the window by Space Mountain at Disneyland- where you can see the trains whiz by each direction at a hundred miles an hour, and Disney’s production of shooting stars and whirling galaxies make it next to impossible to keep your eyes focused on one thing for more than a nanosecond. I lie there and write two more sermons in my head, but I couldn’t find a pen and paper, I didn’t have my computer, and James told me earlier that his had died because he didn’t have the power cord, so who knows if we’ll ever get to hear the product of my sleepless senselessness. It reminds me of Mitch Hedberg’s joke: 

“When I think of a joke, I have to write it down really fast so I don’t forget it. Or, if the pen is too far away, I have to convince myself that that shit aint funny.”

It must have been about 4:30 or 5 when I finally gave up on sleep. I lied there and looked out the window, where sporadic rain clusters were tickling the trees and playing rhythmic solos on the roof. I lied there paralyzed by my brain, re-structuring the way church should be done, making soccer drills for when I begin coaching the children I dream of having, I think I also came up with a title for my first book I will write someday- but then there was that whole “no pen/computer/James’ computer thing” that I told you about already so, again we’ll never see the product of that one. But I’ll tell you what, when you are sleep deprived, you are a profound thinker, or at least you think you are a profound thinker. I mean I thought up some good shit in those 8 hours. But after trying to recall it all, I’ve convinced myself it wasn’t really that profound. 

So then it happened. A moment that bummed me out and stoked me out all at the same time. The clouds out the window were no longer just dark shadows behind the one tall palm tree that I could see. They had a slight pink hue to them, and the birds started their chanting, saying “Hey, stupid humans, you always miss the best part of the day. Don’t you know that you’re supposed to be up at sunrise? Can’t you see how much it stokes us out, it makes us want to sing”.  Suddenly I thought, hey I can catch the sunrise. At this point, it looked as if the clouds were scattered, and I haven’t seen many sunrises, but I know that at sunset, scattered clouds become canvasses for the sun to reflect its last whispers of “goodnight” on. So, why shouldn’t it be the other way around? Maybe the sun will whisper “good morning” too. I got up and quietly put my shoes on without socks (which is usually so uncomfortable, but was ok this time). I grabbed my jacket and slowly creaked open the door. I grabbed a folding chair outside and climbed to the top of the roof where I angled myself toward the South. This way I figured I could see the reflection of the sunrise on the West sky as well as watch the sun rise in the East. The clouds began to soak up the pink out of the spectrum that the sun casts through the sky. Just as I begin to think, “this is going to be cool”, the pink fades back to white. I look to the East and see that thick clouds rolled in, creating a paste that the sun could not fight through. Oh well, so there won’t be a spectacular sunrise. But along with the thick clouds came a breeze and a little mist. Not anything freezing cold, and not rain, but a sort of whoosh that, if you’re quick enough to breath it in, fills your lungs with solitude.

As I began to see neighbors walk out their doors to their cars, I could hear their feet shuffle. I momentarily closed my eyes and another whoosh came by. I was quick to breath it in. The moisture kind of caught my nose a little though and with my eyes closed, I heard those shuffling feet of the neighbor and the birds chirping and I was transported to probably the only other times I had ever been up this early in the morning.

As a child, and into teenage years, my family always enjoyed camping and outdoor activities. I remember going to San Elijo beach in Carlsbad, where we would camp. We enjoyed our bikes, football in the narrow paved streets, boogie boarding, bon fires, and lobster that my dad and oldest brother would illegally catch, decked in their scuba gear, swimming out from the shore as I ran back up to camp in pain because I didn’t put any sunscreen on for the last 4 hours before sunset.  The memories have faded over the years, as memories so crudely do, but the memory that never left is the memory of each morning when we woke up to the sun. My parents didn’t make us get up with them, but we got up. if it wasn’t the sound of shuffling feet or the cold, moist morning air that woke us up, it was the first morning light that began to knock at our eyelids that we couldn’t ignore. The morning silence was amazing. People whispered, if they felt they needed to speak at all. Even dogs didn’t bother barking yet. We would crawl out of our sleeping bags, un-zip the tent flap (or when we had a trailer, we’d climb down from our upper balcony bed and we’d almost never forget to pinch or elbow each other) then we would shuffle our feet towards the fence by the cliffs.

On Thursday morning, with my eyes closed, this memory becomes vivid in my senses. I smell the ocean, I hear the feet, I feel the breeze, I taste the marshmallow that is still stuck on my lips from the s’mores that I scarfed down the night before, and I see the sunrise in my mind despite the reality that the sun is still smothered by thick cotton. I remember that fence by the cliffs where I would have to stand on a bench and lean onto the wood, that time after time gave me splinters and no matter how many times my dad (Dr. Daddy as we called him in these situations) gently pulled out the tiny shards of wood, I still leaned forward on that fence looking out over the ocean. There’s the sun coming up, casting rays of light onto the horizon of the ocean, and into the sky. The light reflects on the ripples in the water from the horizon to the waves which are below us at the bottom of the cliffs. And the waves are crashing, I can hear them louder now because everything else is silent in the morning. They crash on the sand and slowly roll up, then back down into the ocean. One wave rolls up much farther, almost to where the sand starts getting soft- you know, that sort of line where the water seldom goes past. You have to know where this line is, because anywhere up from here is strictly reserved for chairs and towels and storage of beach toys and boogie boards. But at the right times of the day, from this point down the beach about 20 feet towards the water, it creates the perfect sanctuary for play. The sand is hard enough to run on, to toss a Frisbee over and have enough solid ground to cut to the left and catch it when it curves away from you, and the sand is also just thick and solid enough for the creativity of a beach day.  That’s right- the sacred sand castle!

Still picturing this scene on Thursday morning on the roof of a friend’s house, I picture my sand castle that, if I look closely enough over the cliff, I can see the last remnants of after it had a long night of getting beat by the waves. Before we go any farther, if you didn’t read my story, “The Sun is Setting”, go back and read that then come back and read the rest of this.

I begin thinking about that sand castle, looking like a mini version of Pompeii, which I visited 10 years ago. But from this view, I see more of the ocean that I see of the beach. The castles’ remains are so small compared to the waves. I begin listening to the waves and I don’t feel like they caused this destruction in anger, in malice. I am confused. I have a conversation with the ocean:

“I don’t get it, why did you feel you had to do this” I ask the waves

“Oh, that?” they reply. “Yeah that was kind of a cool little castle you built there. I liked the way you built the moat that would fill up with water.

“Yeah, I liked that too. I worked hard on it” I scoff back. “Why did you do that?”

“Man, you say it as if I’m your big brother and I just trampled on it to prove that I am indeed your big brother. Don’t you see that horizon?

“Yes, I see it”

“Do you know how far my existence continues past that?”

“No, not really… pretty far, huh?” I’m curious.

“Yeah, pretty far. All around my edges are beaches, and all along those beaches, people build sand castles and I laugh. I’ve seen some interesting techniques for castles. Different shaped buckets that are used, or the “Drip-castle” technique. Some people have a whole tool set for sand castle building. Since I’ve seen all of this, I have some suggestions for you, how you could maybe build it different next time.”

“Oh yeah, How’s that?” I soften up a little.

“The best suggestion I can give you on building sand castles is… don’t!”

“What?” Now I’m confused.

“Don’t you see where you are standing? Look down, that’s a cliff.  I built that.  You live 20 minutes away from La Jolla cove, where my waves pound against the rocks and you marvel at night when the moonlight makes my waves glow as they spray 20 feet in the air. Look a little southwest from here, see the Coronado Islands? I built them too. They are my sand castles. And the beaches - I made them each into what they are.” Speaking of which, you might want to check out this beach again. Take a walk down to the San Elijo beach and look again at your sand castle.  As you do that, just remember, my sand castles are way better than yours, but I love sharing them with you.”

I silently walk away, still barefoot, and find the wooden staircase that leads to the beach. I count about eight flights of stairs. I make it down three flights and look back down to the beach, but something is wrong. I can’t figure it out yet, but it’s not right. I continue and the waves are still crashing, the sun has completely risen now, but what is it that doesn’t look right out there? I finally reach the bottom and take the step off of the wooden staircase where I expected my feet to sink into the soft sand. Instead, my foot slides along the top of a solid, bumpy surface. I look down where the sand was supposed to be, and – Rocks.  Just rocks. This was never a sandy beach. In all my youth, we didn’t build sand castles here.

The realization hits me as it starts sprinkling rain again in the morning on top of this roof. So I get up and scale my way down the roof, back inside and I lie on the couch looking back out at the palm tree standing on the other side of the street, outside the window, which is now more than just a tall shadow in the dark. I struggle for a while. How did I get fooled by my memory? That scene I built up was all wrong. I vividly remembered my sand castle, but as much as I remembered it, it felt strangely unfamiliar. I felt like even if I could get it back, it would not be what I remembered. I began to think about that line, “My sand castles are way better than yours, but I love sharing them with you."

The Forms of Love

Parked in the fields all night

So many years ago

We saw a lake beside us

When the moon rose

I remember

Leaving the ancient car together

I remember 

Standing in the white grass beside it

We groped our way together

Downhill in the bright, incredible light 

Beginning to wonder

Whether it could be lake or fog we saw 

Our heads ringing under the stars

We walked to where our feet would have been wet

Had it been water

- George Oppen

The Sun is Setting

My painting, "Palms and the Sunset"

I've been marinating in a pool of depression for way too long. I sleep all day and can't find motivation to get up. I stare at the TV watching re-runs of old shows and I beg myself to get up and do something. I have so many options. I can beg my old boss to give me my job back even though I walked out on him and everyone. I can get a new job. I can go back to school. I can join a mission group and help people. I can run to the mountains and just be alone (this is my favorite one). But each time I think of a new idea, it strangely does not help me get up. It only makes me pull my blanket back over myself and sink a little further into my mattress. Why does that happen? Maybe because I start putting together the logistics of what I need to do to make each option happen, and I give up because it's either too much work or I know someone is going to try to talk me out of it, or I know it will hurt someone. Maybe because more options mean more chances to screw things up. I feel like I have to plan out what I do, it's the logical way to make a decision. But at this point I'm so sick of planning. Planning to me is now like building a sand castle. What the hell does it accomplish? The water is going to come and wash it away. I've built some pretty damn cool sand castles in my life, and the water washes them away. The last one I built wasn't just washed away. Like, usually a wave comes and hits the front of the castle and fills up the moat with water and you're stoked. Then another wave comes and you go, "Shit, the tides coming in, let's go home" then slowly it's taken out over the next 15 minutes. No, the last castle I built was fucking demolished. The whole thing. Those of you who know me think I'm talking about one thing- let's call it the Keep, the center of the castle. But I'm not just talking about that. I mean the Keep was the best part of it all, but there were all these other great parts of the castle. I built the biggest fucking castle I could imagine - and it was perfect. It was just the castle I wanted. Have you ever had a sand castle make it all the way to sunset without the tide taking it? Like, you're just sitting there and you decide not to leave the beach yet because your castle is still standing? There's the sunset and the waves and the beach and your castle. Then finally you leave and the castle is still standing and you'll never know if it gets taken out. I don't know if that's ever happened to me, but man I always imagined how cool that would be. 

What's worse- having shitty things happen to you your whole life, or living what seems to be such an amazing life, and being so blessed by God, and feeling like one moment it all went to shit? I feel so selfish for being depressed, for being sad, for feeling lonely. And feeling that I'm selfish makes me feel more depressed and more sad and more lonely because I've prided myself on being selfless my whole life. So many people, even close friends are going through so much more pain than I am right now. I mean whether it's physical pain, or losing a family member, or losing their 5th job this year. And here I am throwing out the greatest opportunity I could possibly get just because I'm depressed. How frustrating.

I feel claustrophobic in this city, in this house, in this room, in this body. Now that I think about it, I like that analogy of marinating. It's hopeful I guess because you marinate meat in a mixture that you would never want to eat by itself, in fact it sometimes smells like shit, but after it's been sitting there, you cook that meat and it's not so much the marinade that tastes good, but the way it compliments the meat; it is delicious and tender and flavorful. Maybe I'm getting ready to throw myself on the grill now and all this depression has just been getting out some pain and really processing some anger and in the end I will be stronger and have a new identity- because I completely lost my last identity nine months ago.

I don't know where I'm going to end up, but it can't get much worse than it is here. I'd rather be homeless in New York than lifeless in San Diego. I sure love this city. I'll be back. But right now the city I love so much is tainted with memories that are all too wonderful.

So, I go. Hopefully I do so with few questions asked. I don't know what it is that I'm looking for, but I'm tired of waiting. I don' t know if I'm going to find anything, but I have decided that it is time to go. I was born and raised in San Diego, and though I've traveled all over the US, I've never lived anywhere else. One week from today, I leave for the East coast. I regret having told anyone though because I get the same questions, "Why? What will you do there? How long are you staying? Is this a trip or a move? Are you excited?". The answer is: I don't know. The only emotion I have is dullness - if that can even be categorized as an emotion. I'm frustrated with life, with myself, even with God. But, I believe in Him. I believe He loves me still, even though I don't love myself. So if you are a friend or family and you don't hear from me, or I don't call you back, please don't take it personally. I don't feel like talking these days. Actually, I don't feel like listening to opinions about what I should do. I want to just wrestle with God for a while and not plan anything, and see where I end up. This blog will be my communication and updates. So while I'm not interested in too much conversation on this journey I'm taking, I will appreciate prayer.

Not Ready to Move

My painting, "Depression"

Twenty-four moments have passed.

They leave him empty and lost

Nothing but memories; Twenty-four Memories

It's so warm outside 

but it's ten below freezing in his soul;

The emotionless soul 

that the last moment left behind

His dreams are haunting and repetitive.

He can't feel, he can't speak, he can't touch.

He wears a smile when he's on stage,

but behind the curtain he wonders

why his big moment, his proudest bow

opened up a trap door that led to a dark, lonely room

There he sits.

Not ready to move, there he stays.