The Eve

Something about tonight's sunset is different. Looking out the window display where the Sun and I watch each other during the day, something is amiss. Perhaps it is the way the clouds have conspired with the Sun to warn me, for while the sun has set, a red flare shoots across the sky. I know it to be a sign. I have learned enough from the sun to know when it is worried. I know enough from the clouds to recognize warning.

About me, enemies are beginning to appear. An uneasiness lurks about me: I must beware the shadows.
The days of leas and prosperity are nearing their end for now. For now, I must prepare for the nights of battle against specters. I do not know who I will be at the end of this night; I do not know what I will have become.

Am I ready? I don't know. I have only but just gotten used to the days of pleasures that marked a journey anew. However, though I am alone, I have with me a Party. I am Atticus, Pishon, and Israel. I do not know where I will go.... but I know that I must go. I must become as Wise as the serpent. I must become as Fluid as Water. I must become as Aware as the Owl.

I find myself at crossroads yet again. Should I attempt to change once more, as some counsel would suggest? Do I stay the course? What is the right decision?

The answer... I must confront the final boss to find what it is. My truth lies deeper within myself, farther below than the abodes of the spirits, to where God himself is. I must descend into myself, withdraw from the world, and seek the counsel of the God of the universe.... to where he is speaking now, not just in the past. I must confront him, and combat him until there is not but an answer.

My time is up... now... into the abyss...

love Letters from a just-remembered mentor...

I've recently reconnected with a place that was sort of a refuge for me during my days of zeal and martyrdom for the ex-gay movement. I do not know what I will do in the days ahead, but I cannot deny that I had a great many positive experiences in that place, and with a great number of people. A couple of you may know what I'm talking about.

Well, this post is dedicated to a friendly anonymous specter who served as a great friend and mentor towards me. Because of certain policies, I'm not allowed to divulge certain information, like username or even the site I was on, but, I find myself very grateful for his presence and his love towards the person I was.

He was in texas, while I live in california. He struggled with "SSA", as we would call it back then, and I was just struggling.  He gave me such a love that I couldn't explain, and it didn't have any innuendos [on his end; on mine, it looked like I was seriously flirtatious, even though I was being genuine in the things I was saying], and he was very clear about boundaries, and he didn't build me up with stories or delusions of granduer. He was a mentor, a friend, a confidant removed from my sphere of the physical world and all of its ugliness.

Today, I stumbled on an old thread. It was the only thread where we had spoken. I had started it long before he joined the site and began posting, and I was around for a while after he left. He announced his departure to me and everyone who read our forum, and I read his personal "Thank you", where he said that I had brought out the best of him when he thought he had none.

In truth, I loved him. I loved him so much that thinking about him still bring back a lot of laughter, and I think that that laughter has rescued me, soundlessly, from a lifetime of unhappiness and total hatred of God, even when I had thought that I had. This love was not sinful... for it wasn't lust. It was companionship. It was brotherhood. It was Godly.

I am posting this to pay homage. You see, before I was Atticus, before I was Pishon, before I was Two-Spirits, he gave me a name as well. A Third Spirit, who I had been estranged to. A Third Spirit, who never left, but fell quiet. A Third Spirit, who is back, holding all those letters for me to read, to own, to embody.

Israel. He called me Israel.

Bless you, man that I've not met yet. I hope I recognize you in heaven.

I bet I will.

A Worthy Referral

So I stumbled upon this blog that I've come to adore after reading three posts: Single Dad Laughing. The site is insightful, and the post I read spoke a lot about humanity and love and celebrating the human spirit. Please do me the honor of checking it out.

The Home of the Homeless Man

Today I wanted to buy a homeless man something to eat.
I had seen him a couple of times before.
Once with my mother,
Once with my brothers,
And once outside the Starbucks door....

I wanted to buy a homeless man something to eat,
And merely hours ago, he was there,
But when I finally tried to find him on the street.
To my horror, someone else was there.

I turned back around,
I didn't even slow down,
I cried in the driver's seat alone.

But I knew who to call,
She made sense of it all,
Counseling and Condolences over the phone.

I spilled out the tears,
And we sorted until all was clear,
Her voice, cooing to sleep, my fears.

I asked one of my Seraphim,
"Alisz, was I in love with Him?"
'Twas no whim; 'Twas the question I feared.

She could hear my confession,
"Not Love, but affection"
And I prayed a prayer for their intercession.

Then I stood in the rain,
God, Spirits, they knew my pain.
And, by water, I was absolved of my transgression.

Spirits, Spirits... Can You Hear Them, Deux Spirits?

"Digimon...Forever United as One

Digimon....Together, The Battles Are Won

Digimon... Through us, Let your Spirit Evolve

If we're all for one world,

There's a world for us all."

The night turns to the wee hours of the day and still I am up in front of a LED screen and a seed of a revelation. Again and again I am baffled by the places my blissful spirit leads me, and I often find myself wondering of the two I have, which is the wiser. Beneath a quilt lies content legs and giddy lungs, my head slightly bobbing to the technically inspired beat of Nostalgia, who has visited me yet again on this night. I find myself never growing tired of his visits, for when he is here, I find myself sleeping easier, and waking up more rested.

Tonight, we visited a lost treasure in my past--Digimon. Even now, my heart flutters with a lost child-like happiness. As a child, I only watched but a few episodes throughout my elementary ad middle-school life, but it did more than supply a fragment of my past inside of me; it enthralled me like nothing else. Days upon end I wondered about being inside that digital world, special enough to wield a Digivice and have my own crest to find and use on my very own Digimon-friend. It was the first work of fiction that I had attempted, and here on this night, after at least a decade, I found myself a child before it, and awakened to everything that the blissful spirit had done by bringing me to it.

I have never seen but one episode of the fourth season, which is known as "Digimon Frontier", and I have but little interest in the fifth, titled "Data Squad". I had known a fair portion of the theme song that had been more or less identical in the first three seasons, and I listened, the euphoria setting my eyes on fire and connecting my heart to the adrenal glands.

As I thumbed through the my memories of this show, I remembered a few details about the concept behind it. In season one and two, middle-schoolers are transported to a digital a la tron and performed their roles as guardians, defending the digital world as well as their own. The third occurred in another dimension where Digimon is, indeed, a television show, as well as a card game, and three kids are given an enigmatic blue card, which gives them real Digimon. With the fourth season, "Digimon Frontier", came the new theme song, and the single episode I had seen, I remember one impressing detail that has given me, a jaded adolescent, a renewal of hope: "Spirit Evolution."

One of the things about the show was that, instead of having the Digimon as these outside creatures that walked, talked, and had personalities that complimented their corresponding human, the idea was that the kids themselves would undergo transformation, and what they had turned into were based on these totem-like relics that they had found. Totems. 

I don't know much about Native American culture, but I know about the importance of Totems. They were known as the guardian spirits of an individual or family, if I remember correctly. I began thinking of my given name: Two-Spirits. It had its own understanding amongst Native Americans, but that was not the meaning meant for me, nor my name-giver's intent when he gave it to me. Two-Spirits has merely been a description: I have been gifted with more than one intent, ideal, and perspective. I am more than singular.

As I have become more aware of these two forms of self, I have often sought their counsel, and even named them: Atticus and Pishon. They are my guardians, my totems, and with their hands in mine, I am following my bliss and pining away towards heaven, wherever it may be. I have yet to give them form, but they are more real to me than I can find words to describe right now.

Can you hear them, Spirits? Can you hear them? The drums, the drums... they are calling! The chants of journey! "Ha-ya-moo-ah! Ha-ya-moo-ah!"

Hear the Call

Dancing Shepards and Dancing Wolves

Open a new tab and press play

There's this guy that insists that I dance with Him.
I've known Him my entire life,
and People are all abuzz about His dancing.
I've danced with Him before,
But I couldn't tell if I like His style or not.

I will say that He's got some serious rhythm,
but He LIVES for dancing with me.
He's always wanting to dance together.
But We only dance battles lately.

He insists of us practicing tango
And I'm not allowed to do it a los bordellos
He scolds me when I'm not practicing,
Even in my studies, I find guilt with myself.
I should be dancing with Him.
Everyone says I should be dancing with Him
Everyone says I shouldn't be dancing with Him.

But today, I found myself dancing,
It wasn't with Him,
It wasn't against Him, either.
I was dancing against another,
A dance FOR Him.

The challenge was sudden,
I, the challenger, was challenged.
Practice was over,
Time to see what Learning I had managed.

I had been dancing less and less up until now,
But at the drop of a hat, I was back.
Out of respect, I did my bow;
At attention was every vertebrae in my back.

We squared off. We stepped off.
Me with my staff; all fangs and claws, was He.
He intimidated me before,
But the beat was inside,
With nowhere hide,
I seized this ballroom floor.

He pounced, I kicked,
He clawed, I spun,
He snapped, I ducked,
With each second, I knew I had won.

My staff became a snake.
It complimented every move I would make.
My steps were light,
My staff turned into wings of flight.

He was swift,
his swings would barely miss,
He chomped thin air,
But only missed me by a hair.

I tangoed with Capoeira,
Fused ballet with He Nan Xing Yi Liu,
It was a dance of strange proportions,
My opponent may not even be totally sure what to do.

I dealt the final blow,
Staff struck and struck again.
In a flash I offered my hand,
For even wolves can be turned into trusted friends.

My opponent left and I departed on well-enough terms,
The Sheep had been protected,
I been declared victor, It was confirmed.

I returned to my dance partner,
Who stood by the mirror for rest.
I nodded, and He smiled.
"Good" said He, "Now for the rest."

The music played,
We bordelloed, contemporaried,
Two forces, too bad.
We tangoed like we made the world what it was.

Scary (Albeit Stupid) Movies, and Homeless, Anonymous Dreamies

Today I went to go visit with a few friends whom I recently got back in touch. We had planned a movie night, but hadn't decided on a movie. My friend who had connections had a few bootleg copies, and we had two choices: Inception or Paranormal Activities. The final vote was Inception-1 PA-4. Guess who voted for Inception?

Perhaps I'm just a guy with an overactive imagination, but scary movies tend to stay with me much longer than those annoying Hallmark ones. Maybe it's just me, but even movies that aren't so scary, but have screams of terror, fear, grunts of submission, possession, just freak me out. Not necessarily because I find the effects scary, but the concept of evil overcoming good, in the supernatural realm, in the political realm, or even in the spiritual realm... terrifies me. To think that Evil can so easily intrude on people, is just mortifying to me.

After the very first scream [which turned out to be nothing, by the way], I figured that I couldn't watch it, and I left. I'm dead serious: after spending about 45 minutes with friends who I usually could spend weeks-on-end with, I went out into 37 degree weather to buy an Eggnog Latte beneath the holey black sheet that covered the sky in protest of that movie.

When I was walking out of the jazzy establishment, I noticed a man with a winter coat on. I had seen him while walking in, but when I saw him again, I knew that he had wanted some change. I wished  that he had wanted some change.

"Hey, bro, do you have any change on you?"

Immediately, I remembered that when I had bought my Venti Eggnog Latte, I took the change from my five, exactly $0.25, and put it into the tip jar. I then remembered that I had two dimes from when I bought the pizza for my family. While he picked at one of the various scabs and scars on his hands, I fished into my wallet for those two Roosevelts for him.

As I climbed into my car, something came over me. I realized then that I had this strange desire to know him. I don't mean in the biblical, Sodom and Gomorrah context, but to sincerely sit down an talk to this man who had asked me for twenty cents. My mind was filled with questions about this arbitrary man, and I didn't even get a clear look at his face (no light), only distinctly hearing his voice. His eyes (what I could see of them) were friendly, his voice light, and his manner optimistic. I was immediately drawn to him, this lightness in darkness, and I realized that, of the two of us, it was he who had helped me out.

I turned back to where he stood, and he was gone. I saw him moving through the well-lit beams of a laundromat and disappear. I climbed out of the car and followed him to where I last saw him, and I searched all up and down 40th for him. I wondered so much about him: his family, his name. I thought about his scabby hands, what it would feel like to watch them tell stories in accompaniment to his voice. I wondered what color his eyes were and what brand his coat was. I wondered if he was religious or an addicted. Oh, how I wondered and wondered and wondered some more. Was that love I felt? I don't mean the romantic love, but just...love? Free and unreserved? Or pity?

As I pulled back into my friend's place, I found myself praying:

Dear God. I don't know how much my prayers are worth these days, or whether or not you even hear them anymore, but, if you hear nothing else, please hear this: Give that man warmth, wherever he sleeps tonight. Give him shelter and bring him to You.

Looking back, now, I can't honestly say I know the last time I had ever prayed for God to bring a stranger closer to him. Maybe I'm just returning to my love for the kindness of strangers? Giving and receiving it? I felt it a lot before becoming an active Christian. I did it a lot when I was an active Christian. Now maybe I'm returning to it as I make my ascent from the solipsist Christian to the sophisticated Christian...

Whatever it is, I have to say that I'm thankful for it. It was worth missing out on half of a movie about evil overtaking the innocent. I committed and felt the power of good in a random encounter.

Is there an "honest-to-goodness"...anything?

Press Play

Today I did something I had never done before: fed the homeless.

In the outside canopies in the lot between the Presbyterian house of worship and a nearly bare home owned by my mother's hospital, I, like many of the volunteers by me, wore the burgundy shirt with the hospital logo on it. The air was nippy, but I hand my flannel Abercrombie shirt underneath it... and yet another shirt beneath that. I was to man the ambrosia table: a type of fruit salad with marshmallows and coconut shavings and whip cream that I had never heard of until I was charged with serving it. We were heavily manned-- all of our shifts had been cut from four hours to two.

As I worked the two hour shift, however, my ambrosia duties quickly morphed into a dozen others-- helping those who were handling multiple plates for their child or husband or brother, bringing out trays of turkey or mashed potatoes, offering extra dinner rolls to those eating, fetching pies and clearing spots. Some people walked in with more than half-dozen friends and family; some ate alone, reservedly chewing in corners of the canopy.

I hadn't chosen to feed the homeless; my mother had signed up my brothers and me. We had known for months that we were going to be doing it, but even hours before we went, I had done a bit of griping to myself in my room. It wasn't that I didn't want to, but, in truth, I was scared. Something scares me about walking downtown and being around those who's luck hasn't been on their side. I was scared, and I felt guilty. I never showed this side to my family about the matter, and at times, I tried to look at the plus side: "Community service equals an attractive applicant."

However, as I moved through the folding chairs filled with people talking and laughing in coats and beanies... as I helped provide extra dinner rolls to the makeshift families and the biological ones... as I watched them swoon in awe of the ambrosia, apple pie, and pumpkin pie slices I set behind their steaming plates of stuffing ham, I began to understand what it was that I had missed out on in my fear. I was around people who had lost their homes: some old and abandoned by their families while others had to fight to keep them, but I had done something. I had put smiles on their faces and cheer in their voices. I laughed with some of them, maintained friendly conversations and supplied a need for others. I guided children no taller than my waist to tables, and prepared the way for others to take abandoned places. For a couple of hours, I extended Thanksgiving past myself and my family and to others.

On this blog, I'm sure that my readers read a lot of depressing things about what it means to struggle with homosexuality and Christianity for me. My life is not easy, and I'm sure you've learned that by now. However, in my actions here, on this night, were my own, and I used a power that I've longed talked about in reminiscence and in a manifesto-styled manner, but for a long time, was hesitant about implementing into practice: I changed. I made someone full for the night, but I did something different internally, as well. I rediscovered that part of me that acts out of a simple honest-to-goodness, the part of me that found joy out of everything. I did something good in a way that can rarely be said: the kind of good without alternative motives or masked cynics. I was completely open with world around me.

Nostalgia is more addictive than Vicadin...

Some of my best memories are of the stage.
I was only on it for a short time, but I may return yet again....

The elevated platform before the grid of spectators.
The blinding evidence of God in the spotlight.
The memorizing of lines, The eternal replays of emotion,
My character, my character, I am in Love with my character.
I am one with my character:

"...entire years strewn on the cutting room floor of memory..."
And how did no one know that I could sing?
Takis and white keys and
the audition, the competition,
the drive to succeed,
It was home to me...

But Mark Cohen... you were my first choice,
Why did I love you? How come you were a part of me
before everything?
You knew me
before everything...
You left with me
for everything...

The actors, the directors,
the moments where I shivered for reasons
I didn't know... who was saying the lines?
Who knew the pain? Mark? Me?
Or both of us-- As one?

The arguments, the pettiness,
The world was so simple then.
The next day, everything was forgiven,
The next day, everything was forgiven.
"This Yuppie scum," my best friends.

"He's in denial," and "without you... I'd die"
I was my own counselor. I was my own friend.
I broke down each night,
each death, each fight.

I wanted us to stay together,
The 8 of us, the 16 of us,
made no difference. I wanted
to bring peace, to bring love...
To be loved. To find love where
It was most abundant.

"Angel helped us believe in love."
You helped me believe in happiness
In existentialism, in the road not taken [Thank you Frost!]
We're Bohemians, but we sure as hell aren't forsaken!

Your/my pain and fears are the same As mine/yours.
"Will I lose my dignity?
Will someone care?
Will I wake tomorrow From this nightmare?"

I have my own Mimi, my own Roger,
"Facing your failure,
Facing your loneliness
Facing the fact that you're detached from feeling alive."
We are also changing, and shall continue to do so.

We're Dying in America
And while I may not own a notion
ten years after the millennium
and screw with content
and I'm coming into my own,
and emotion? I'll rent!

Larson's death wasn't in vain
And I'm learning who I am,
Thank you, all involved,
The dances, the spills,
The sing-offs, the thrills
Life lessons and life learned
I'm not going to forget you.

"Everything is Rent," Naysayers spew,
"and say Goodbye to the New Lease on Life,
For it's Out Tonight, you'll always be on Life Support."

Well "You'll See Boys,"
Our ways are bohemian
But our compassion Angelican
and I'm not letting anyone stopping me from
Being an US, for once... [think twice before you poo poo it!]
INSTEAD OF A THEM!

So, without, further ado...
Here goes.... here goooooooes...
Here goes.... here goooooooes...

TO DANCE!

[Edna:]
 No way to make a living, masochism, pain, perfection,
Muscle spasms, chiropractors, short careers , eating disorders!

FILM!

[Jacob:]
Adventure, tedium, no family, boring locations,
Dark rooms, perfect faces, egos, money, Hollywood and sleaze!

MUSIC!

[Tirage:]
Food of love, emotion, mathematics, isolation,
Rhythm, power, feeling, harmony, and heavy competition!

ANARCHY!
[Alisz and The Wizard:]
Revolution, Justice, Screaming for solutions
Forcing changes, risks and danger,
Making cries and making pleas!

[God:]

To homos, lesbians, Cross-dressers, too!


Don't like it? What're you going to do?
'Cause even if I don't go crazy tonight,
There's no day but today,
And we all know that dawn comes after the twilight,
So I think I'll be okay...:}


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hqpqpH3XWfM

Dying Declaration

Press Play.

The lonely bulb of light lies hidden beneath a curtained shade, defective and without a friend. Shining alone, it watches the boy with the imprint of God's hand across his face. A messy room paves the way for depression, it scolds feebly. The boy just shrugs.

He brings his knees to his chest. The smell of dirty pajamas seems appropriate now more than ever, he thinks. He swallows, fights back, but the tears still come. He rocks himself uselessly, and tries to imagine a place where things are different. He's done just what he's always done; not just with others, but with himself. He's come full circle, not just with others, but with himself. I was only fooling myself... and apparently, those who wanted to believe in me.

He was provided a simple task, one question to ask himself: Who am I? Answering that question that provided him not with any sort of joy or purpose, but instead only sped up his inevitable destruction. The more that he began to think about it, the more he realized his place in the world: tucked away six feet underground. His entire life was a set-up; a cosmic joke in which he was in the clown suit, fumbling about in front of an Almighty God.

"Finding myself," He never learned to fight back; he had been scared and lectured into submission. He was never very creative; all of his creativity was confiscated under the ruse of being inappropriate. He was never very happy: he never knew why, but the little offenses he committed always stayed with him. Everything always hurt too much. He was always too happy, too sad, and too quickly.

He tried to change. He began to mellow out, he began to fight back, he began to not care about the lines he had crossed. But he failed. In all his efforts, he came up short, again. How could I believe that there was a happy ending at the end of this story?

He is left with the knowledge that he's always known: Biblically speaking, my life is forfeit. Personally speaking, I've never not believed in the God of Abraham and Jacob and Issac and Ishmael. Honestly speaking, I can never undo the complexities of my attractions. Logically speaking, it would have been better for me if I had never been born.

No good deed goes unpunished. No prosperity stays unsoured. No happiness stems from life. Nothing in this life matters. Nothing in this life counts. All that can be said is that that boy's life had no instinctual joy, no internalized mirth, that can combat the reality:

"If a man lies with another man  as one would with a woman, they shall both be put to death: their blood is on their own hands." -Leviticus 20:22

The Joyful Headache

There's a drumming in my soul,
Though I'm afraid I'll lose control
I'll lose control
And lose my footing
I'll lose control
And hit the railing.
There's a drumming I can't control,
And I'm afraid I'll lose my soul.

So what if you lose your footing?
Loss of footing leads to twirling,
And twirling into leaping,
And leaping into creeping,
And still creeping into whirling,
Foxtrotting, Quick-stepping,
Cha-cha-chaing, Box-stepping
Waltzes and Tangoes and
Lose your soul? Are you sure?
I don't think so, not you.
You would own the floor.

There's a drumming in my soul,
"Return to roots", so says they.
But must I? Do I have to?
Oh God, the tribal beats are thund'rous,
Shouting "Go Go Go!"
But go where? And Go how?
It doesn't matter, stupid Worry!
Shut your mouth, raise your hands, and enjoy the ride!
Sit over there next to Sloth, and if you two speak,
So help me, I'll gag Sloth with a Cloth,
And you will feel my Fury, Worry! So Help me
I'll put duck tape on you and throw you into a closet until I forget you are there.

Okay... I think I'll do it...
By Golly, I may just do it...
Sweet Jesus! I'm losing my footing!
To the drumming of my soul I've
Lost Control I've Lost
Control I've Lost Control I've
Lost Control!

People stare and people laugh
People clap and people smile
And people wonder "Can I still do that?
I know it's been quite a while..."

But I don't care, and I don't mind,
I've got to dance while I've got the time.
That time is here; the place, now,
I'll lose my footing even if I fall down,
And the naysayers will hear me laugh when I do,
And if you're a naysayer, I'm laughing at you.

To be meek, I must first stop being weak,
To be strong, I must adorn the weighted sarong
And to be wise, I must first apologize,
Recognize the drumming in my soul,
With the bliss that is losing control.

Upcoming production...

Attention readers!

I am writing to let you know that I have not abandoned you. I am currently preparing for my next post: a didactic between Pishon and Atticus on a great and eternal dilemma, "Who am I?"

 I have refrained from posting the results yet because, well, I still have to find them. It will be very soon, like, before Monday soon, so that i can share my results with all of you!

Until then, to all of you I say goodnight, and remember, there is a light at the end of the tunnel, always!

Quietness... a rarity in and of itself.

I walk to the edge to the aircraft-grade aluminum,
Sleepy rain hints and gathers into droplets onto my panting breast,
While thoughts thrash about my head in a assiduous mosh,
Again I find myself needing of a reminder of where I am.

My toes cling to the grooves beneath my feet,
My wrist absent-mindfully flails my fingers about.
I try to focus: ignore the persistent distraction,
Amidst the barrage of bleary recollections, I try to remember where I am.


Sprinkling hints become drizzly volleys.
Drizzly volleys become grizzly barrages.
Rain grows Clamorous and Almighty.
It grows in volumes, like a roaring crowd drowning out my thoughts.
I stop thinking, recognizing that all is quiet save for the cheering rain
throwing itself down at my feet,
casting itself onto my shoulders,
rolling down my back,
adorning wet kisses on my face.

I stare in awe. I spread my arms right above my head.
Behind my back,
Down past my bent knees,
Over the arched 747-wing
I launch into nothingness.
The rain droplets hold their breath.

My mind ceases to register my Body's endeavors--it tries not. It needs not.
Legs and Arms and Hips guide me up, around, and back down.

I can still see the wing when I streamline into the water.
It only feels like being born again. Leaving my old life without dying.

Mad to Live, Mad to talk, Mad to be Saved.

"The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!' What did they call such young people in Goethe's Germany?"  -Jack Kerouac

This quote hung in my favorite room, you know. It was abridged, but only slightly, and for a long time, I didn't pay it much attention. I suppose it would be okay to simply think of this of an anthem of sorts of what I should be looking for in myself, but it is not enough to simply think about it. I have to become these things, for it was in these things that I accomplished feats that in retrospect even amaze myself. It wasn't that my academic performance improved, or even that I had a compass, spiritually, cognitively, personally, all pointing at one thing--excellence.

I have been questioning my life, and whether my affections have indeed been "chosen" at one point in my life. I feel the turn back to my pursuits of possibly unraveling my sexuality and rewriting it to instead be more acceptable, but, then I ask myself, to whom? I've been following the hearsay from Christians, "This is how you have to be in order for God to love you enough to get into heaven." In truth, I cannot see how that can be coherent with God's love. If I am worth it to God, then I will be pursued by him relentlessly.

In the meantime, watch out world, because I'm more than mad-- I'm fucking insane. Insane for Life, for Speech, for Salvation, and I'm burning like roman candles and exploding like a cherry bomb. Have a nice day =}

So I was updating my Facebook page...

"There is no such thing as an ignorant writer."

I posted my infantile thought on the website and moved back to my developing interest of Jungian Philosophy when one of my classmates had posted that he had never heard me say something so stupid before. Upon inquiring what he meant, he stated:

"Its ignorace in itself to state there is no such thing as an ignorant writer."

It then occurred to me that he had used the finality in my statement to suggest an ignorance in my own statement. A barrage of similarly stated quotes from my freshmen year in high school came back, and i found myself chuckling at my obvious oversight-- we had two completely different definitions of the obligations of the writers and the frivolity of all others.

But, this understanding came to me after I sought to explain myself. It was actually quite simple: it occurred that not everyone who writes a book is a writer, neither did one need to write a book in order to be considered a writer. I didn't have to think long, but it was obvious that writers--good, impacting ones, anyway, had to take their characters, their towns, their customs, and their sciences and learn them better than anyone else. They had to be able to explain the mechanics of magics, relay the history of a city, tell the customs of their world, and conjure an imaginary being to the readers all in a way that the reader can understand and accept.  Some do this through fantasy; others, through science fiction. Still, all writers must synthesize all this with the public. They must craft a tale, as intimate, or as expansive as it may be, to the human mind or soul.

This task cannot be accomplished with the chains of ignorance. With ignorance, I do not mean the lack of omnipotence in this world, but the impudence of assuming that there is a universality to their understandings or their beliefs of the subject which they choose to write about. They cannot be so blind, or they will fail their characters, their world, and themselves. Writers who pay no attention to these laws cannot call themselves writers; they are technicians of fictional uniform, with no true merit to their name. Those types of individuals--the novelists, the screenwriter, the playwright,-- will never be writers until they graduate from their infantile devotion to "structure" in art. Writers, by nature, are also philosophers-- that's what sets them apart. If you philosophize about nothing, then you have nothing, for your art will say nothing.

Stay Extraordinary

When I go to see movies, I want to leave with a new perspective. I often do not spend eleven dollars to go see something that looks like your run-of-the-mill, cookie-cutter production of a comedy, action flick, or drama. When I saw the social network, I was expecting to see something that would fulfill the outlandish claims of being a "cultural touchstone", or a "once-in-a-generation" type of film.

When I watched the film, the writing was the first thing that blew me away. The first five minutes, and I knew it was going to be something extraordinary. From then on in, it continued to pull me through this engaging, twisted world of the brilliant minds, however, underlying some of the same issues that had plagued my mind and character. It occurred to me, however, that there was this driving force behind it all-- and that motivation was a motivation that was specific to the character-- a passion, although selfish, germinated a potential that later moved past that and into this cultural phenomenon.

I found all of this to be a very helpful reminder because I have been looking to understand what is it that drove me so hard in my later years of high school, and yet has left me here in Community College. I don't think that it was simply the desire to be successful, for that has never truly motivated me in any sense. "For the good of the world" and any other ideals along those lines that I try to think up to motivate me sound less sincere than the desire to be successful. I believe that the only thing that could really motivate me is competition and audition: can I really prove that I'm better than my competitor? Can I really prove that you have no business telling me I'm not good enough for you? Do I have any business thinking that I'm able to prove you wrong?

That's something that definitely gets my blood pumping, and it's a great place to start. I need something that will keep up my drive, because I'm good and capable, and I'm not going to let any piece of paper, condescending stare, or patronizing tone tell me otherwise. I'm more than good enough-- I'm extraordinary. And it's time for all of us to find out what extraordinary looks like.

I....

I want to be the smartest. I want to be the best. I want to be the most fluid. I want to be the exception.

The exception...but, in what way? What is it that i desire? I want my life to turn tides of history, my accomplishments flabbergasting. I want people to look at my name in reverence. I wan to be seen as invaluable. I want, not simply to create, but to recreate, to redefine, to change what was thought before. I want to be like the writers of old... my works revolutionary and worth studying.

I want to be the best. I want to be happy.

I want... to be everything. I still want that. I want to bring about a glorious revolution... but I only want to play my role to the best of my ability. To please God, and to be loved by him...always.

And his love won't run out... He's mine forever. I am my beloved, and my beloved is mine.

Not So Bitter After All

As I think of what to say after eleven days, an image fills my head. One that first struck me as pleasing, then slightly embarrassing. I am in God's arms. Not like an embrace, but like the hero after the battle takes his wounded friend into his arms and carries him home. It isn't very vivid. Few of them are anymore, save nightmares... but it's there, and I felt a sliver of restful peace. 

Maybe it is too soon for me to say anything like this... but there might be hope for me still. Please don't give up on me, God. Don't ever let me go.

Dinah Washington Must've Known...

Please click on this sentence before reading.

As I drove down the highway leading to the train tracks, I took note of the familiar depression upon my chest, hanging heavy like a lock and chain around the neck and heart. I rode on automatic, my mind lost in self-examination, mere centimeters away from the distorted mirror of self-reflection. Every breath, every blink, every thought was leaden with a debilitating hopelessness. "What am I doing? What have I done? What can I do? How can I decide?" The words slump about me in a heap, lying like masonry for a brick cell, and I have all but ignored its presence, when it may be too late for me to climb out.

Today I spent an extended amount of time with other Christians. I do not mean to say like people who are related to pastor or individuals who take them to church each Sunday, but people who believed that their way was the only way, who referred to the Bible constantly and put it above all other text. There is no room for common ground with others who didn't share their views, as per the bible. I spent time with them today. 

The loneliness was so isolating. At points in their conversations with one another, I simply plugged in my headphones and tried drown out the dealings with the ejection of church members.

Perhaps I am like Damocles--This may be the price that I pay for such pursuits of knowledge. My desired peers seem so far from me, and I can no longer speak their language or sing with such conviction. Yet, it is, in essence, the very seat I sought to have the privilege to sit in. Maybe it would be better not to seek knowledge. Maybe it would be better to simply blindly obey, to forget, to regress to a state of infantile belief. However, that which is known, cannot be unknown. The pursuit of knowledge cannot be so easily abandoned, for it may be even harder to kill than hope itself: the desire for truth may be the force that has driven humanity for all the accomplishments and progress it has been accredited.

In truth, even if I could simply wipe the desire for proof, for knowledge, for logical understandings, I would still be left with the bereft discontent with the remainder. How could I ever believe in you, God? How could I bring myself to believe that I could survive the peelings of something that was fused to me like gauze being peeled back after surviving being burned alive? The pain feels almost the same...

Maybe I've been a fool to believe in anything like morality. Maybe, I should just let go of any and all notions of love, kindness, joyfulness, goodness, peace, and happiness. Perhaps these were nothing more than fairy tales, and I am outgrowing them. Perhaps I am on the right path in deadening myself to any emotional contact to family and friends, and would instead turn into a stone-heart being, knowing not mercy or compassion from any, only manipulation.

On the way home, riding down the highway to the train tracks, my gaze turn towards the open window, and I spied the sentinel mountains watching from a distance. The radio played a song I knew well. I would've felt the lyrics months ago... but now, all I can tell myself is. 

"It's only rhetoric. There is no spiritual power in it. There's now spiritual power in anything."

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ueP05bkWVvQ 

Glee and Religion

I don't have a lot of time to post. I have to study for my midterm tomorrow, so this will be very brief.

I was moderately anticipating this week's episode of the television show of Glee because I was quite interested in there take on religion. The previous two weeks have been a little less than satisfactory in my opinion, and I was very much looking forward to some serious character development and drama, along with the wit that I so missed the year before. I decided that it would be this episode that would either continue or discontinue my viewership with the program.

My verdict: Worth watching.

I was concerned that the editing of the show had become lazy over the year, and that there were more than a couple of spots where they just threw songs into to fill for time, but the issue that provided the crux of the episode had gripped me again, and I've been waiting for that feeling again.

While I can't say that the episode was spectacular, I do believe that there is, in fact, a return of story for us gleeks to watch with anticipation. Looking forward to next week's episode!

Love and Hope....and the Disciplining of Thoughts.

Hello, all!

I realize it has been a bit of a while, not writing here with you, but I have been wrestling with a matter of the soul and God. (When am I not, right?)

My manners have somewhat regressed of late. I have come across behaviors and opinions of others and myself that I have not seen since middle school. In middle school. I didn't know God. Not as I know him now, or even four years ago. To see myself to regard others even remotely as i did before then, makes me worry. I suppose it is because of the way I've been looking at God a lot. I have resurrected some of my old resentment for Christians. I'm just taking it out on them.That is very childish of me.

But all is not lost. With every ebb, there is a flow. I have felt a pressing around me--that's the odd thing about it. When a constant ebbs away, it starts internally, then makes its way into the outside world, and it from the outside world that I noticed it flows back from the outside to, affecting, persistent, making its way back into my good graces, arousing feelings an sentiments that I thought time had laid to rest.

Feelings of genuine concern have crossed my path once more. I comforted a friend who was so frustrated with Christianity, and was able to quiet her cries, and even prayed for her, when I was reluctant to pray for myself. It was therapeutic for myself, as well.

It's odd... some of my most helpful moments were when I believed in one thing: the person in front of me needs to know that life gets better. The person in front of me needs to know that my hands are open, but so are my shoulders and my ears and eyes and heart and mind. I had a clear head because I had a clear objective. That doesn't happen naturally. My thoughts did, and do, need a form of discipline. Now with that word, I must clarify that I'm not talking about the cutting of imagination, or the flights of fancy, but, when dealing with people, and myself, I must have a hope in my actions. I must have a joy in my thoughts. I must believe in the possibilities of Love.

Walking on wet concrete.

A quick note:

I have been trying to keep with my serial fiction. Not happening. But I've still been writing. I write shorts. More like descriptive fiction. If I think of anything to write in a continuous stream, I'm going to seriously have to plan it out a lot more. Instead of there being a proposed "once a week" setting, I'm setting up an entirely different blog for my short fiction. It's name? "Anecdotes and Adages". The url is www.anecdotesandadages.blogspot.com Speaking of Names, I've also changed the name of this blog to "Dear Abba..." It'll mostly serve the purpose of the letters and conversations to God. The intent of this blog more suits that now, anyways. Sorry for the changes folks, but they are needed.

"The message that sustained me as a child-- that the cruelty we take for granted is not natural-- sustains me to this day. For I know that beneath the fear and the hatred, beneath the urge to kill and destroy, far beneath the scarred shells that protect and define us, people are good. Deep down our needs are simple: apart from food, shelter, and clothing there are the needs to love and be loved, for community, to be open with the world at large and have it be open with us, to affect and to be affected, to understand and to be understood, to hear and be heard, to accept and to be accepted. It is only when we fear that these needs won't be met that we grasp at them, and in grasping, lose any chance we have o...f satisfying them. Love controlled is not love; just as sex demanded is rape and acceptance expected is subservience. Bet if we fear, then demand we must, for to fear these needs will not be met is to fear for our lives as surely as if our lack of love and acceptance were instead the absence of food and water. With these deep needs unsatisfied, we waste away, shrivel, and die from hunger and thirst. We die, but we go on surviving. The search for that which should have been there all along continues, but we can no longer receive it, or even recognize it."

-Derrick Jensen, "A Language Older Than Words"

I have to say that this quote should be one of the few that I memorize, because I find myself referring back to quite frequently. Sometimes, I see bits and pieces of my once-thought-conquered insecurities creep back into my personality. The exhuming of desperation in my actions dealing with people I would like to be friends with, my falling onto a twisted intellectual caste-system with others, and the incessant turning everything on myself. I thought i had spent a significant time unraveling that profile.

I cannot say that I haven't changed at all, however. Nowadays, I'm more forgiving of myself. I keep more things to myself, simply because I don't feel the need to broadcast with my coworkers [the reason, then, that I write this blog is because I still wish to be honest with the world at large and have it be honest with me. Those of you who stumble onto this site can learn about me, but it is of your own volition.] If anything, I try harder to befriend those of higher intellect in my classes than to outdo them. When i feel like I can't do something, I do something physical. It jolts me out of my depressive state, and I didn't fully understand it until now-- When my legs are moving, and my heart is working, and my lungs are breathing, it reminds me of my own power. When I'm diving or running, my body can fully submit to my mind, and it takes my problems, and sizes them up for what they are: much smaller than they appear.

Now I have to state that this sudden reflection has been brought about in light of recent events. I am considering joining the school paper. Nothing definite yet, but I'm working on an article for them, and when I was survey some on site work, I ran into this guy. We hit it off. Turns out tat he was gay, and very interested in me, and to be fair, I had an inkling that he was no ordinary fellow [we had become the center of attention when he asked the pastor a controversial question and I provided evidence] and afterward, he asked me if I would be interested in going out. I said yes.

And in the days that followed, he has more or less recanted. He's told me that he had just gotten out of a relationship and wasn't ready for another, but still wanted to be friends, and then he just stopped returning my calls. In that time, I felt my consciousness constantly battering against myself, suggesting all sorts of things to get in touch with him. I was unhappy, and when I knew better than to feel so.

I know what a lot of people are saying; yes, it was only a day that we met, and only a few hours when we actually a few hours when we hung out. I suppose that the reason I am so torn up about this was the chance at a real relationship. Being a black, gay man isn't the most attractive feature in our society. Most of my meeting people who are actually interested in me are online, and they either don't take care of themselves, are very shallow, or are just not available. The possibility of meeting someone who was legitimately interested in me, asks me out, and isn't just concerned about the next party, or the next bed bounce, or the what they wore, or other superficialities seemed like a fairytale come true.

And so I grasped and grasped and grasped, and probably pushed him away.

I know what I felt wasn't love, not of him, anyway. If anything, I'm in love with intimacy. I'm in love with whispers and sunrises and tea in the morning while reading the paper. I'm in love with the stability of strong arms and the power of a strong chest, but the openness of a straight stare. I'm in love with falling asleep with someone to cling to, and hair to twist and fondle. I'm in love with silence being comfortable, with breathing in sync, with hours going by and the only things we do are for each other.

I don't fear death. I fear loss, loneliness, rejection, deception, humiliation, and the pain these things cause, but I don't fear death. God, help me lay these fears to rest.

That is what I am afraid

Stark Honesty with God about myself.

"Lord, open our eyes to all the things that make your heart cry, to be the church that you would desire, a light to be seen. Break down our pride, and all the walls we've built up inside. Our earthly crowns and all our desires we lay at your feet."--Hillsong

Dear God,

How do I begin?

I suppose I should thank you. I remember what Life was like before you. I remember how much it hurt. Everything hurt it seemed; getting up in the morning, going to school, breathing. I was a mess. I was so alone, and I couldn't stand it. I would fall into depression for weeks at a time, and it seemed like no one cared. None of my friends at school, no one at home, no one at church. I was alone, not in the literal sense that there was no one around, but in its stark, most prevalent form; the awareness of the hero's character flaw in a reality that constantly proved to be his undoing. For a long time, I thought--no, I was convinced that you were out to get me. I knew it with every bone in my body. The God of the Universe, creator of Heaven and Earth, sought my destruction. I knew this.

In return, I hated you. You wanted to damn me to Hell? Well, fuck you, then. I knew myself to be the exception in all promises for salvation, the reason for every legalistic asterisk after anything dealing with you loving or caring. Maybe this was just a projection on my part due to my parents' reaction to my coming out of the closet, but then, the thought never occurred in my head, only the constant reminder of the verses that stabbed me in the stomach, and twisted relentlessly. I need not repeat them--we both know which ones they are.

And then you brought him into my life. It seemed like such a cruel thing to do, but then, I had come to expect nothing but the most ruthless, underhanded things from you. There were six of them; some christian, some not. I didn't learn which was which until much later, but him-- from the moment I saw him, something inside me, jaded and betrayed, forgot it's wounds, and instead began to seek him out.

In retrospect, I was at my most neurotic about that time. I hounded him. I trusted only him. I lived only when I was with him. It was like he had the gift of color and clarity, one that only a perfect life could give, one without burden, but understood burden in its truest form, could have. I was incapable without him. Phone calls that lasted hours, daily at one point, only to be left so much hungrier for what it was he had when he peeled himself away from me to be with the rest of the world. I idolized him. I loved him. Still do, in someways. But it seems like he's only a distant memory, now.

Time passed, and he left for college. I took it really hard. It felt like you had won again. You dangled hope in front of me, and, even when I should've known better, I went for it. I thought, "Maybe this time, it's real. Maybe things will change. Maybe I can find love." And when I lunged, you pulled him away. 3,000 frickin' miles away. I was alone again.

But something about this was different. This departure, though final physically, didn't end with a stage exit. I wrote him something. An epic poem. It was spur of the moment: I started it half an hour before I was went to his going away party, and completed it about an hour and a half into it. I slipped it into the yearbook he was passing around--I was the last one to sign it.

That night, I called him. Asked him about it. "I loved it." He said meekly. "I bawled when I read it." We talked for a while. Mostly my trying to get out everything he did for me, and how I didn't know what I was going to do without him. Without him, all I had was you, my Tormentor.

He suggested that I give you an honest chance. He suggested that I do something different from the insane methods that I had tried ever since I learned what I had learned about you: That I would give you a real chance to prove to your love for me. I had no means of denying him. I loved him. 

As we both know, Life wasn't roses and peaches afterward. I was up one minute, down the next. I was still so convinced that you hated me, and with him gone, I had no other community to fall back on. I kept searching for the thing that would fill the void, and eventually, I found another candidate. Another "christian" friend, who's faith was simply choked by thorns, and a new pastor at the time.

I fell back into my pattern over again. The phone calls, the emotional dependency, I did it all, but this time, it blew up in my face. Before it that happened, however, something happened. There was this all-guy retreat that they were offering, where they were going to talk about God, Manhood, and Sexuality. I lied my way out of it. I was terrified of going.

That same weekend, more specifically, the day they came back, there was supposed to be this magic show in the pew. I went, though I made sure to avoid the guys. The magic show itself was alright, but there was this part at the end of the show that struck me with a blunt form of purity, that I simply watched.

There was video clip that included a student who attended Virginia Tech. The same Virginia Tech that had dealt with the shootings on campus earlier. It turned out that she was a victim. I suppose the eeriest part was her recounting of when she had gone to choir practice at church camp, and she had been feeling down, and couldn't shake it for some reason, and called to you, asking to see your face, knowing full well that the bible said that those who have seen your face would die. She wanted to see it anyway, and she did.

That night, I went home. Back to my situation. Back to the isolation. That night, I had looked into the mirror intently, asking you to help me, to show me a sign, to show me that there was hope for me. Then I went to bed.

I remember my dream vividly. It was a Sunday morning. I was sitting in the wool-like synthetic-stitched seats that composed the pew. People to my left and right, the senior pastor preaching. The first thought to my mind was where the object of my dependency was.

"Where is he?" I asked aloud. The woman next to me spoke.

"He had a stroke." She said casually.

An implosion in my chest. "What?"

"Someone hit him on the back of his head, and it triggered a stroke." She said, almost candidly. A stark panic set in, and I ran towards the exit. Looking back, in a situation like that, I probably couldn't even get into his hospital room, but I didn't care. One thought was on my mind--that I had to be where he was. I understand now, that it was much like loyalty.

I burst into the lobby and stopped. I was face to face with him, tethered to an IV pole, a nurse in his left arm. Relief washed over me, and I wanted to run into his arms. I called out his name.

"Who are you? I don't know you."

How does one describe how I felt? It wasn't simply shock. It wasn't simply betrayal. It wasn't simply pain. It was as if he had indeed died. No--it was worse. I had this sense of loss that stole the air from lungs, no matter how deeply I gasped.

"It's me, Maynard!" I cried, my voice cracking and shuddering. "Don't you recognize me?"

"I don't know you. Stay away from me." His voice was even, unaffected by my deteriorating composure. He and the nurse passed me, leaving me alone in the lobby. I didn't feel humiliated. I didn't feel insulted. I only felt loss, and...I wanted to die.

Before I knew it, I was somewhere else. There was sun, and there was water. It was a pool, and we were at a retreat. Arizona. Everyone was splashing around, enjoying themselves. That man I couldn't forget was even enjoying himself, now free of the IV pole, but not entirely independent.  He was so much like a child at that moment: innocent, pure, free. His eyes were were the perfect blend of blue and green, so that they shown with the reflection off the water. He had begun to remember everyone else, but not me. He still didn't know me. Why doesn't he remember me? I asked myself. Loss had accelerated to the depression that turned into the filter that made everything stale. I watched from the pool edge, unmoving, watching him be happy with everyone.

Then, the ground stumbled. Shuddered. Trembled. Everyone scattered, including that nurse. Looking back, I never liked her. It was just me and him, and he looked more frightened than I could bear. I rushed to his aid, but he pushed me away and ran into a forest [I don't even know if there are forests in Arizona, but this is what I saw.] I chased after him, calling his name over him.

The shaking had stopped, but I was worried about aftershocks. I caught him by the arm, but then, he started hitting me. Over and over and over. He kept screaming "I don't know you! I don't know you! I don't know you!" Even asleep, I could feel it. I could physically feel every punch connecting to my chest and stomach. It killed me to see him like that. Every bone in my body sought nothing more than his safety, I couldn't get through to him.

His footing slipped. He fell, rolled down the leaf-laden decline. I chased after him, flipflops and all. I scooped him up into my arms, skidding to a stop. My big toe slid between the bottom nettles of a wire fence, and as I looked up, I saw the sign reading "Danger, High Voltage."

He started hitting me again. "I don't know you! I don't know you!" I couldn't bear it anymore, God. The pain threatened to break me. But I still wanted him to be okay. I still wanted to save him. I grabbed at his arms, the punches hitting my face and chest and stomach, and I embraced him. "I know you don't!" I cried."But please, please, please. I need you to trust me!"

Silence. I waited. Then, calmly, he said, "Okay."

I woke up in tears. I had been crying in my sleep. I bawled. I went to the bathroom, splashed water on my face, and through fresh tears, I prayed. "Please, God, help me."

You did, didn't you? The time that followed was the best ride I had. When I moved, You moved. And yes, every breath we drew was "Hallelujah." It was the simplest time of my life. Throughout all of my trials, no matter what had happened, or how I felt, there was always peace, that rang like a drone.

But that question never went away. That decision I had to make never even made it to the back of my mind. I still had mood swings. I still became uncontrollably depressed. I sometimes contemplated suicide. I couldn't break it, it seemed, and my neuroticism festered, and I began to over-analyze things. Matters of faith were no matter left up to faith, but dissected every chance I got, the decision that I had to make the insolvable riddle:

You come to two doors, each with a guardian. One, leads to happiness and salvation. The other, your destruction. One guardian will tell you the truth, the other will lie to you. You can ask them only one question. What do you ask them?

My frustration over this seemingly eternal riddle fed my neurotic nature.  We grew apart as I began to obsess over it. The task of faith became more and more insurmountable. Eventually, the two friendships that I had held onto, the ones that I couldn't bear to end poorly and have them join the sea of passersby, began to crumble in front of me. That was a serious wake-up call.

The summer after I graduated, I took time to face the core problem: I still hated myself. I still hated myself for my mistakes. You know who helped me do it? Maya Angelou and Derrick Jensen. One spelled out exactly how I felt. The other, what I needed to do to fix it. I take it as what you had been trying to tell me. I took a few days to contemplate the words of the atheist and Harvard professor duo, and I finally, finally, absolved myself of my past. All the things that my parents blamed me for, I forgave myself for. All the socially embarrassing things I did that people either did or didn't make fun of me for, I forgave myself. All the crimes that I am guilty of that the good book was so kind to point out for me, along with a few Christians had constantly taken potshots at me because of it, I forgave myself.

So here we are, now. I've traveled the path of a gay christian for a few months, as contradictory as it sounds. I'm not giving up on you, but I have noticed a distance between us. I've prayed for us to bridge that distance, but I'm going to ask you: are you finished with me? Is my new found stability really desensitization? Should I elect to return to my persecutors who bear your name? What am to do, spiritually?

With an open heart and Ears,

Atticus

On the Aspects of a Life Fulfilled

Perhaps I'm taking this a little far, but I was combing my favorited videos on youtube, and I came upon this remix of "Do Tok", a IB parody of Ke$ha's "Tik Tok". As I click play and listen to the auto-tuned, heavily edited lyrics by Hatenko, I thought back to the adventures I experienced as part of the first International Baccalaureate class in my high school. Past the eventual moping over what I saw as a general disappointment in terms of not receiving my IB Diploma, I have to say that I look back with fond memories of those two years.

I didn't waste those years. Not getting the diploma is just a road block that I have to deal with. The schools that I wanted to go to were the best in the country, but, before I can go there, before I even think about applying to the same people who rejected me the year before, changes need to happen in my life. I have to find balance. I have to teach myself discipline. I have to move past the small, individualized sphere that society started to construct, but I completed on my own. I need to move into a community that is focused, not on small-minded, lazy pursuits like catching the latest episode of Jersey Shore, but that is connected by an activity or endeavor that appeals to what I have found to be the three essential aspects of humanity. They aren't exactly hidden from the general public. No doubt you, my readers, have heard of the trinity of Mind, Body, and Soul. They are simply the three aspects of every individual: The physical, intellectual, and the spiritual. Should we neglect any of these aspects, we suffer.

Each of these aspects must be attended to regularly, and given great and serious care, because they each contribute to the core of our character, and at the same time, define the world around us. One cannot exist without the other two, and no one is exclusive from the others. One who manages to complete the task of attending to and delving himself wholeheartedly into each of these endeavors and their combined variances conquers the task of living and enjoying a life fill with good memories, informative experiences, and few regrets.

The Mind is intellectual, but the brain is a muscle as well. The mind is fostered best when it encounters puzzles and gathers facts and evidence. The mind, in a biological sense, is the literal command center for the rest of the body. It is more complex than any smart phone or super computer, and more capable. Understanding and postulating scenarios is healthy for an active mind, from which anything can occur. To neglect this would be a disservice to the individual in an incalculable number of ways, making him liable to any sort of sham the slightly-more intelligent con man or blind him to the necessity of nutrients to his body in order to survive.  However, the singling out of mind for intellectual pursuits can cause heightened paranoia or the skewing of the value of the pursuits of the soul and the body.

The Soul is spiritual, and benefits from the meditation and evaluation of a faith or moral construct. While one may ask whether or not there is a "correct" faith, or inquire one's right to choose no faith, the purpose of the soul is the ability to garner wisdom. A tome of a faith with a major following, aside from questionable mythology/truth, will consist of an acceptable to relate to others and with oneself. A healthy soul is reflective and insipidly evaluating the beliefs of said individual. From this aspect, there is the understanding, and eventual celebration of the seemingly unsavory parts of life, such as the construction of patience and the learned appreciation for discipline. A Soul neglected has no voice, and there is no grounding of the individual, and thus, no happiness or fulfillment.

The Body, the physical, provides for a  refuge for all things, including the intellectual and the spiritual. In the world outside of one's mind comes the fruition of one's theories and the applications of the philosophies inquired. It is also interesting to note that it is from the outside world that these intellectual and spiritual pursuits are birthed, attesting to the initial claim of Hume's Treatise of Human Nature:

"Nothing is ever really present to the mind but perceptions and ideas, and that external objects become known to us only by those perceptions they cause in us."

The physical aspect of an individual, then, must also serve a personal role. Besides being the application to both the highly internal aspects aforementioned, it also serves as their rescuer. A body in use temporarily diverts ones attention to the task at hand, and the pursuits of the mind and soul are checked. A mind without diversion can delve to deeply in a intellectual dilemma, causing frustration with one's self or others. A soul under too much surveillance will distance itself from influences that deem it hazardous to one's health, becoming a purely judgmental figure unable to relate in the necessary avenues to connect with any sense of community altogether. In both of these cases, the individual is torn from society, and they may either cease to understand society, and, unable to relate, fall into depression, or come to resent society for their vices and ignorance as labeled by their understandings. A healthy body eases the soul and enlightens the mind. It enables working philosophies to garner success, and informs one of the nature of reality and the world around them.

The combination these three parts create essentially incorporates all areas of knowledge and understanding in our society today. Any combination of these elements foster theories and validate them for the goals and pursuits of any individual. A life partnered with felicity is one that is maintained and examined. A life fulfilled has received the fruits of these labors.

IT'S ALIVE!!!!!!

That's right, readers! I haven't forgotten about you at all! Those of you who are still with me, I thank you. You're loyalty is greatly appreciated. That will not be forgotten.

The reason for my absence is not a sign of neglect to a self-made responsibility. Instead, I had suffered technical difficulties, as in my computer was precisely four clicks away from the outside of my second story window. Gateway is to computers what AT&T is to cell phone coverage: in need of being woken up from its comatose-like state before someone in the family wises up and pulls the plug.

Love you, too, Gateway =}

But before I decided to end the life of my computer, I contacted my dad and had him work on it. The man fixed what had been a crippling problem for me for about a week or so in a matter of hours. I walked out of that house with a functioning computer, and my files didn't have to be deleted before anything happened to it.

One thing that I've definitely noticed over the past year is the relationship with my father taking a huge turn for the better. We talk, I ask for advice, and I've even started confiding certain things to him. Not that my usual confidants have been neglected in any way.... other than my prayer journal. Actually, I would like to start that back up. I know where it is.... why not?

Anyway, in the interest of the reader/blogger relationship, I, the blogger, want to hear some stories from you, the reader. Give feedback on the posts and chapters you read, share your thoughts on the characters or prompts, plots or opinions expressed by the characters or myself. It helps me to learn about the audience I'm writing to and the things they want.

For instance, this week's prompt is: "What is a positive memory that you have of your parents and you bonding?" It can be of you and your mother, father, stepfather/mother, ex-stepfather/mother, legal guardian or all of the above. Leave a comment below!

Also, there is a follow button on right side of the page, where you can follow publicly, anonymously, semi-anonymously, and with or without a glorious alias.

Until next time, which I promise will be soon, I am signing off, so live strong, love boldly, and farewell!

With Love,
A.A.Montax

Pirates and Angels

Let me just say this:

I like boys. Sooo much.

Today I went with my family to see a dinner show for my youngest brother's birthday. It's sort of a tradition of ours to see one of these on his birthday. We've gone to see Medieval Times twice, once in Georgia, and once in California.This year we saw Pirates, across the way from our familiar castle of swords and gladiator-style competition instead for games, romance, musicals, and acrobats.

Again, I will say it. Boys are sooo hot.

We were seated in the red section, mostly because we had barely made it to the show on time, and while we were watching the show, I noticed that our pirate, the red one, would be the one who got the girl in the end. the writing made that much obvious!

What's more, he only had an open vest over his bare chest. He and the green Pirate also spent half the show shirtless, and I think that the green pirate may actually have been hotter [he got the leading lady's best friend]!

So, me, being kinda struck blind by their looks, tried to get a picture with them, even though the green one slipped away, and came up with this:

 Ugh... boys are so hot.... =P


But, of course, it was also my brother's birthday gift, so I had to take a picture for him, too. He took a liking to the purple and orange pirates, because they were the funniest and most acrobatic. However, they weren't able to take pictures, so he got one with the captain and his wife.

For those of you who don't know him, my brother is one of the best artists around. He's been drawing since he was about two years old, and wants to go into animation as a profession. While his favorite subject for his art and animation pursuits is the Sonic World [has been since he drew the one-eyed sonic of the Sega genesis for his first drawing], he does occasionally been know to create other works for his pleasure, and yours if you read them, and is even considering to do commissions! To check out his deviantart page, click the link below:

http://aerobian-angel.deviantart.com/

Colleges and Computer Meltdowns....

My computer has been giving me issues lately, If it isn't the word product being unable to copy and paste my documents to the web, my computer has also crashed when I send certain security programs through it. Also, I had accidentally deleted the draft of the story with the finished overdue chapter. Oh well, I've got to make due, huh? I've started the next draft already, so don't fret.

The fall semester has started at Chaffey, and I've got to say that I've been very lucky to attend this school. It was questionable whether or not I would be able to get into any of the classes I had signed up for, but, out of the twenty units I signed up for, there are at least nine which I have been able to add in, and have entered the add codes for in the classes. The last three units I need, the professor is waiting just a little longer to hand out add codes, but it is a great outcome, considering that when I started the week, I wasn't enrolled in a single class.

It would be appropriate to say that I've taken the initiative to look into colleges in which to transfer. I'm not entirely sure as to which to transfer to yet, but, as I wait for my honors application to go through, I have been overseeing the benefits, and it seems that Chaffey has the best agreement with UCLA. While I've walked the campus, and have been thoroughly impressed, my first choice of the UCs would be Berkeley. 

I'm talking so much about schools because I've found it to be one of the most invigorating places. Colleges, at least certain ones, have become equated with travel destinations and famous landmarks. For me, college isn't just a place of learning. Its become a wonderland of its own sorts, where people come together and share ideas, listen to everything from Aerosmith to Edith Piaf. The sages of every subject currently known to man lend their invaluable time to us, the new, temporary denizens of these mythical locations. 

What can one say about college? You have to be there. I have to get there, to my college. I don't know which one it is, but I have to get there. 

If there was ever anything close to a utopia, it would be a good University. A place of learning and excitement. A place of culture, where one could live and let live. A place that slew ignorance, encouraged friendship, led by a true leader [its funny, sometimes principals and deans look like they would make better politicians than the ones who are].

Today will be a two-post day. I know it.

I must bid a temporary goodbye. Its Sunday, after all!

A couple of things before I post the next chapter...

Hello, Internet!

I'm writing to say that, yes, I know that my work is late. [Like, A week and a Half], but writers block is no joke! When that stuff hits you, you are unable to write anything for WEEKS.

Now, aside from that, there has been a little something in each of the story entries that I have been trying to write well enough to tell you about the characters. Has anyone been able to point out these little 'easter eggs' of mine? The device is different each time, so brush up on your literary devices, because this is a doozy!


If any one of my readers out there thinks they can figure out the prizes on the past chapters, simply post in the comments of the corresponding answer with your argument. Happy hunting!

A new chapter is still in the works!

The post pretty much says it all, but I have to say that I'm behind schedule. I'll try to post something by monday.

Broken Promises and Joyless Institutions

When we were young, our parents taught us not to swear. They told us not to say an assortment of words marked "taboo" because of societal implications, and, if our parents were religious, they certainly taught us not to take the Lord's name in vain. It is rather interesting, the concepts of words, made by man, introduced into society by man, and deemed so vial, so undignified, so basic as to be declared "swear-words", "curse-words", and altogether, "bad words", could possibly exist in a single language. Instead, they are tucked away like nuclear arms, never to be used, for fear of starting a war between two potentially disastrous forces. Cuban Missile crises, anyone?

What even more intriguing is that they are in every language known to man. 

But, as we grow up, we learn one truth, one fundamental truth, which unmistakably corrupts each and every single one of us at the hands of those we trust most: family. More specifically, parents. We, as children growing up, all remember a time when our parents accidentally mentioned a certain four-or-five letter word in a bout of anger or frustration, and how we eventually came to realize that our parents don't play by the same rules they make us follow. Parents, watch out. I would have to say that this is where you cause the torrential maelstrom that is the teen-aged years. You tell us to treat everyone equally, yet we watch your true motives slip under the cracks. You say you follow a faith, but we watch you incessantly fail to live out the lifestyle of a believer. You smile for all the world to see, yet moments ago we watch you commit a wrong, and all we want to do is expose you for the seemingly two-faced spineless individuals you raised us to dislike. In a sense, you undo all the work you put into raising us, and then wonder why we take pot shots at your weak spots. 

But this isn't just a grill for the parents, however. I'm not up at four am to talk about how evil my mother is for some obscure reason which is only a symptom of another problem. Teenagers across the western world must realize one thing: we are quickly becoming our parents. It may not be so obvious now, or maybe you know exactly what I'm talking about. However, we are failing to do what is necessary to not be like them. For those of us who had the fundamentals instilled in the days of before the great anatomical change that is puberty, we do not treat everyone with respect. We tease others and take advantage of those closest to us, rather than looking to bring out the best in others. We keep secrets from our loved ones, and we do not forgive those who have wronged us, while there are usually good reasons for us not to. However, the more that we do so, the more we  lose. If our parents are liars in our eyes, then we are usually a lot worse in the residual effect, only because we feel so betrayed by them. The longer it takes for us to forgive them, the farther behind we fall in becoming the person we always wished to be. It would be tragic for that to happen to us, seeing as that is how we would be exactly like our parents, in the worst ways possible.

Jesus of Nazareth said never to swear. To let your "yes" be "yes", and your "no" to be likewise. We break promises and commands, but that is only because we are human. We make mistakes. Carrying a scoreboard around can ensure that when the final buzzer rings, everyone's a loser. Sometimes, awakening the future requires we lay the past to rest. 

Goodnight, dear readers. Oh, And do take care to forgive the broken promises of your loved ones, less the institutions of family and friends turn into joyless ones.

With love,

Atticus.

Chapter 3: clackclackclackclackclack!

**IF YOU ARE A NEW READER, PLEASE CLICK ON THIS LINK TO GET A SENSE OF WHAT IS ASKED, AND WHAT YOU CAN DO TO START FROM THE BEGINNING :)http://happilyunpopular.blogspot.com/2010/07/finallly.html**


*To find the previous chapters, click the tab labelled "The Project" at the end of this post! A list of All the previous posts should appear!**

Lucas’s eyes opened slowly in the morning sunlight. The tracks beneath him tapping a muffled metronomic beat that rose from the wheels to the axle, through the various mechanisms to the carpeting and up his legs, gently touching his spinal chord. Lucas didn’t raise his head, his eyes instead half-heartedly scanning the carriage in which the attendant had placed him. He was alone, the air his to take as he chose. Lucas felt a slight disappointment, a large part of him wishing that the attendant would’ve brought someone to keep him company.

Lucas rose like a breath, his consciousness not the slightest bit tired, and yet, for his mind, there had been no rest. He had merely transferred from unconsciousness into consciousness, his body disregarded by the mind. As he moved, unfurled from the corner of the carriage, he could feel the creaking in his bones. He stretched out his left arm and gave his wrist a half turn. Grrrck! He pointed with his index finger, then furled it. Snap!

Lucas half-stared at his wrist. His body felt old, deteriorating. He did not try to stretch further, leaving his slouching shoulders to oppress the rest of his torso. His spine creaked. Age, he had thought to himself. His body seemed well beyond its years. With wandering eyes, his gaze shifted to the large pane he had awoken beside. Slowly, his feet shuffled, turning his hunched figure towards the translucent mirror. His achy neck strained as it held up the seemingly too heavy of a cranium, and that, after the years it had attended to it’s task, it was on the verge of collapsing. He stared at his reflection gravely.

Staring back at him was a young man of eighteen, fresh out of the best high school in his district. His body was willowy, to a point when it was nearly morose. His skin was taut and tanned by the sun, with hardly but a few blemishes that broke the infinitely stitched knitting of his soft hide. His blonde hair was styled back in a fashion reminiscent of the days of the Ivy League generation, leaving his eyes and forehead free from their intrusion. He watched the buildings pass by like cars headed in the opposite direction, and he found himself realizing, as if for the first time, the gravity of what he had done in boarding this train. It was not that he had never boarded a train before on his own, but rather, in his boarding of the train, he had taken a step in a new and terrible direction that, in all of the years of his life, he had thought himself to be above. Lucas had made a choice, one that he previously thought himself resolute against, at the hands of an anonymous force, one that had been ever-present for what seemed his entire existence.

Lucas sighed, his eyes bearing the regret of which it had seemed he had bore too long, suddenly creaking under the weight of yet another transgression. They brimmed with the similar hopeless frustration, and he turned away from the slightly transparent monument to all of his sins. He wanted to forget this life. He wanted to forget his mistakes, to bear those apparently unbearable sins no more. His chest shuddered mournfully.

His mind revisited a moment from his past. He was years younger, his mind a thousand times more innocent. He thought of the sun, and how it shone brilliantly, gently, in his mind. He sculpted the slight transparencies of the green leaves overhead, and the silhouette of the face obscured by the sun. He tried to make out the face, to see what his mind had instilled in his thoughts…

Suddenly, an idea came to his head. He turned to where he sat, his eye falling on the black messenger bag, its flap lying open in disarray. Reaching into the front pocket, he pulled out his cell phone, sliding it to reveal the small keyboard-style pad, and started typing the letters to the his contact.

Before he hit the send button, he froze. Doubt held his finger back, like a puppeteer tugging the string attached to his thumb. What would he say once thy answered the phone? What if the voice on the other end made him tell him where he was? He stared at the name, anxiety rising like a boiling water in the chimney of a geyser. Should I call him? What should I do? The thoughts ran through his as swiftly as the train that had carried him. He thought of how the people on the other end would respond. Would they even answer?

He pressed the green button after his contact information had been brought up, bringing the phone up to his ear. A second went by. Two. Three. He heard the ringing in the ear piece. He paced the carriage, shrugging and stretching his shoulders, a lightness easing into his movements. A youthfulness accompanying the nervousness and anxiety beforehand. Would they pick up? Give it a second, Lucas said to himself. He’s probably far away from the phone.

Four. Five. Six. Still no answer. The carriage darkened as the train bulleted into a tunnel. Lucas began to wonder if he was ever going to pick up that phone. He had no idea what he was going to say, or how to explain why he was on a train headed to some unknown destination. He just knew that the one thing he wanted to do, but didn’t get the chance to, was say goodbye.

“You’ve reached the Spelling’s residence. Please leave a message with your name and number, and we will get back to you as soon as possible.”

Lucas froze. Then, he slowly brought the cell phone down from his ear. He pressed the end button, rubbing his forehead as he placed the cell phone into his pocket. He couldn’t leave a message, he decided. It wouldn’t be right. He didn‘t want to talk to him anymore. He didn’t want to think about him anymore. It’s not like he wouldn’t have anything to say to me, anyway.

Lucas found himself sitting down in the same seat he had awoken in. Contempt, stale and decrepit with age, set into him once more. Once more, his mind wandered, his eyes closing as he thought of the nap he had just woken up from. He remembered dancing beneath the stars, the elegance he felt throughout his body, the comfortableness in his mind, and in his heart. He thought of the music that rang through the night, the glittering stars, the spins with his partner--.

His eyes popped open once more. Absentmindedly, he paid notice as he turned to the rushing darkness, turning to the only thing he knew; the slightly less transparent glass monument to all of his sins.

Rejection Letters and Wedding Vows

Well... I should inform you that the confirmation of my rejection was emailed to me this morning. I'm no longer a student at the university.

I have to say that, as difficult as this is, I am not loosening my grip on God yet. This morning, I read John 14, and it talked about how he was not yet finished in his work with the disciples, but when he was, they would do great things for him. After I received the notice, I went to make good on a promise with my little brother to take him to see inception, and when I turned on the car, I heard a segment on Air1 talk about the same passage, and relay the same message to me, though it was not originally what i had gathered from the verses at the time.

Thinking about what I can learn about this... I've come with three lessons as a child of God: humility, patience, and faithfulness.

Humility-- I was very prideful when it came to my schooling. I wanted to take the hardest classes, and prove that I was leagues ahead of those who had better grades than I did. When upperclassmen told me they were going to a state college or a community college, I always looked down on them. Once, a series of alum who had finished their fall term came to visit a teacher, and I had asked them why they weren't studying or whether or not they had any assignments to complete. They told me they had no assignments to complete, and that they were no longer worried abotu classes now that finals were over.

I snickered, "That's while public universities are never as good as privates."

Yeah, I wasn't even subtle about it. In my mind, they seemed lesser than myself. When it came time for me to apply, and I had gotten into only two colleges, one public and one private, i almost immediately signed up for the private.

However, when it came time for financial aid, the public one gave me a MUCH better deal. I thought it meant that they were the one that wanted me more...

And then came the final transcript... My first semester, I took nine classes, and received six A's. One B, One C, and One F. Spanish. My second semester, I took Seven classes, and received four A's. One B, One C, and One F. Spanish. You've seen for yourself the letter I wrote as to why they had happened, and still, I wasn't good enough.

Now i'm stuck with the rest of the student body, dispersed amongst schools in the local area, with the people who didn't try in high school. With the people who i walked by, each and every day, looking down upon because I was so sure that I would be voting to have their welfare reduced, or abolished altogether, in the next few years.

It's one of the most irritating things in the world. But, my pride has cost me dearly in many ways, this last quirk of fate was merely set in place so that I can do something about it. I must lower myself. I must rid myself of the caste system of intellect, because it not only impaired me socially, but spiritually as well. It seemed the more religious an individual I met, the more I pitied them, viewing their devotion as merely "quaint".

Quote:

---

"He must become greater. I must become Less."
-John 3:30

---

Faithfulness & Patience--I've asked God "Why did I do all that work if you were going to simply turn it to naught?"

To give you an Idea of what I did, I'll refer back to my letter. I had an average of 8 hours of sleep to divy up during the week days. I was the captain of my mock trial team, and I was the lead in my school play. I volunteered at my local hospital, 3 hours a week, and I worked in the church cafe, also 3 hours a week. I attended bible study three times a week, Tuesday through Thursday. I got nearly all of my homework done, as well as went to the local college library to work on my extended essay, the role of developmental psychology in homosexual identity... something that caused frequent headaches and bouts of depression.

I even remember the time that I had pushed myself so hard, I passed out in that college library, in the psychology section, after going 40 hours on a half-hour of sleep, and I believe the last thing that I had consumed of substance was the white-chocolate mocha with eight shots of espresso the night before...

Looking back... Sometimes I think "Why did I work so hard? Why did miss prom, and every dance, and all but ONE football game, if all it meant was that I would end up staying HERE? Was it pointless?"

But, all I have to do, is think back. I only have to think about the importance of everything I learned. I have only to think about how it finally clicked that people who were scientists and writers, musicians and politicians, philosophers and linguists, didn't become great simply because it came natural to them. They saw a great need with the world. The saw what needed to be done, and they did what it took to do it.

I remember a line from what seemed to be a poem by Walt Whitman's "Pioneers!" that was recited for a Levi's Commercial. In research, I learned that it was abridged.

Quote:

---

Pioneers, O Pioneers!
Have you your pistols? Have you your pick-axes?
You, whom all the rest of the world depends?
Pioneers, O Pioneers?

---

I'm not sorry I did it. I'm not sorry it happened. I learned so much. About myself, about my capacity to do what is difficult, about my ability to maintain. I began to learn what school was all about, and I began to understand what a true student cared about.

I can only assume that this time will only show me more about Life, and why I am here. I cannot falter. I cannot miss a step. I cannot quit. I cannot give up.

This is the time I must use to further my talents. My mom and I have decided that, while I'm attending school, I'll be working on my book. My goal, is to complete it in a Year. I know the demand, but now, I know that IB was merely training for the big times. I will use my extra time to move closer to my goal, and I will apply once more, not to the school that revoked my admission, but to another school, hopefully, higher in rank, and I will never let that revocation haunt me.