My fortress of solitude

My life has been full, my October was busy and wonderful and now it's November. Time to blog. My life is indeed full and busy, and I am connected beyond the imagination of anyone from a couple decades could even imagine. I'm texted and Twittered and Facebooked and Google-Chatted and Google-Waved and on and on. I've filled my evenings with hanging out with all sorts of great people, even junior high kids. And I love being connected to these people that I really care about. However, being a borderline introvert all of this is enough to wear me out, and usually I'm exhausted by Thursday afternoon. I'm able to regroup then with some Hulutime or a run or a rare nap, but then I'm off again for the weekend. It's a good life, but I have to get some healthy alone time.

My fortress of solitude* was built in the twenties. It has been a brewery, a furnace factory, a storage space, and most recently a filming locale for The Experiment. I am, of course, talking about the warehouse at which I spend some of my vocational time. I realize that, if you're a steadfast reader of my blog, it may seem as though there have been times in which I've loathed the warehouse. Maybe I have, but those times are in the past and have been forgiven.

I generally have the whouse [pronounced house] to myself when I am there. The first order of business is to turn the radio from whatever pop station my coworker was listening to and put the dial to the NPR classical music station. And then if it's dark I fire up a couple of the light bulbs and maybe the furnace. Despite the music, it's a much quieter space than I'm used to. I think it would make sense that having introvert time would be more likely seen in sitting at my desk and putting my feet up. But it's actually moments like that when I spend too much time in my head and come out on the other side full of anxiety. Instead I find the heaviest boxes to lift, the dirtiest files to sort, the hardest project to work on and I get to it. Somehow while I'm working I'm able to think through things in a less intense manner, thus saving my brain from being fried.

The whouse isn't a place that is very home-ish or comfort-able. But it has grown on me and has become my fortress of solitude, my place of rest and of labor. There is a realization that I could very well not be working there by this time next year**, and it's definitely a bittersweet thought. I suppose when that day comes, I will just have to find myself another place to be an introvert. you have my love.


*this is a Superman reference, but it does not mean that I'm a "Superman-guy".
**I would actually love to buy the whouse and turn it into something really cool. I would just need approximately ten to fifteen million dollars to pull that off.

The early days

I've been blogging for nearly seven years now, though, as some of my long-term readers can attest, I've been inconsistent at points. I was looking over some of those first posts and was thinking about how far I've come. I was twenty-one, a junior in college, living with a bunch of guys whom I still considered some of my best friends, and I was just learning how to write. Not in the sense of my ABC's, or learning how to type or even write a paper. I was learning how to write what I was feeling. But it didn't come out that way a lot of times.

For a long while I wrote about what was going on in my life, and it ended up coming across more like a report of what I did or was doing. Of course I can look at the posts and remember the emotions behind it. And I can see hints of what was going on behind the scenes, so to speak. There was a lot of editing, trying not to reveal too much and yet give a somewhat reliable story of my life. And I suppose the editing still goes on, it's tough for me to justify putting my whole heart out on the internet.

My writing evolved. The report-like posts gave way to a variety of different types of posts: topical essays, anecdotes, rants, fragmented absurdities, lists, best of's, etc. I suppose I realized the boringness of having to read someone's what I did today posts when that is all the person ever posted. Now days I'm trying to find the stories in my life and write about them. Or making up stories and posting them. Or putting together some introspective thoughts. Sometimes I think it would be nice to return to those old style posts, just giving the details and leaving my thoughts out. It would be easier, especially when I am going through the crap of life and don't really want to anyone to step in and sift through it with me. But a long time ago I made the decision to share my life, not always through this blog, but sometimes through it. And it would be dishonest and less safe for me to return to that. But then again, I could just write ambiguous and introspective thoughts and leave you with no real insight into my life*. you have my love.

*Sorry, I couldn't figure out how to end this post.

Ladies and gentlemen we are floating in space

It is no secret that I have recently given into and fully embraced that which is Battlestar Galactica [BSG]. For those who doubt, I challenge you to watch it, and by the end of the second [2.5] season you can make a judgement call on it. However, this post is only inspired by BSG, not about it. Let me proceed.

One reason I like BSG so much is the idea of a Battlestar fleet in general. There is a fleet of ships out there, defending the peoples and exploring the great expanse of space. Obviously BSG isn't the first narrative to go on about the idea of exploration [Star Trek, On The Road, Moby Dick?, etc.], and furthermore is more about the protection aspect, which is why this post isn't necessarily about the show, but about the idea. I have long had a love for the idea of exploration. Sometimes when I am in a beautiful place I wonder what it would be like to be the first person ever to see it. Can you imagine what the first person thought when they saw the Grand Canyon? I've never been, but I've seen pictures so I would know what to expect - and even then I would be amazed beyond belief. Now imagine someone who was just trekking along and came across it. I would have loved to be with Magellan as he travelled around [circumvent] the world.

The second part of the equation is that, in these narratives and real life events, the exploration was done in community. These days people cross oceans and continents and the world by themselves and are heralded as champions of the human spirit, or some crap like that. When I see those stories in the news I think, 'man, I would miss my loved ones. Wouldn't it be such a better trip if they were with them?' And it's true. I have verified personal, experiential evidence that proves when one experiences something that ought be meaningful, it is less meaningful when experienced alone. [It should be noted at this point that I'm tired and drinking whiskey, so I'm not sure where this is going anymore*]. I could go into great detail about community and such, but if you're reading my blog you more than likely know how I feel about community. If you don't, ask, I'll inform you.

So, there the crew of Galactica is, floating around in space, living in community. It's harsh and imperfect and ripe for exploration and adventure. Eating meals together, mourning and celebrating, learning to forgive, forgetting and learning again. Community and exploration, hand in hand. To me, there may be nothing better. So either I join the Starfleet or I get going on finding a way to live that out here on terra firma. And I'm happy to do that, I'm excited at the possibilities ahead of me. Excited to explore this life more fully than I have been these past few years. There's a positive turn coming up around the bend, I feel it and it's unsafe and ready to be embraced. you have my love.


*Rambleblog of the year. Friends don't let friends drink and blog.

Writer's commentary on "to fly"

Rocky Butte state park, NE Portland. I would go there sometimes after I would drop the Sanchezes off at the airport. Annie's Donuts, of course. The idea for the story came from dreams that I have a few times a year in which I witness plane crashes, the reoccurring dreams that the protagonist has are some of the dreams that I have had. The first time I flew I was six months old, to South Carolina. The last time I flew was to Portland, where the story is set. I'm definitely not afraid to fly. The college in Spokane: Gonzaga, the Zags. The grad school: Notre Dame, a M.M.S. in Medieval Studies. Johanna was originally Joanna, taken from using the "random article" function on wikipedia, Joanna of Castille. I switched it to Johanna because of a girl I knew at Trinity who I thought was very pretty, but I was afraid to talk to her. I have been to the Vatican, it was incredible, even as a non-Catholic. I listened to A LOT of Ryan Adams / Cardinals while writing it, I wonder if it comes through. Sometimes I feel like my style is somehow new, but I know it isn't. I don't like fully disclosing some aspects of the story. Such as: A) I'm not sure whether or not that the protagonist's name will ever be revealed. B) It's clearly set in Portland, but I may never come out and say that [so my Iowan readers won't pick up on that]. I think it's interesting that no one in the workshop said anything about the fact that the father disappeared from the story [which was purposeful], but they wanted to know where the story was taking place. I haven't really written any dialogue for the story yet, but I'm looking forward to it. I figured out today how the story will end, but I have a feeling that most of the people in my class will be disappointed. I won't be. It's the right way to end it and I'm fairly certain that it's good, i.e. unsafe.

These are my thoughts on the first thousand words. I really like the process of writing, it's a challenge that I'm up to. No one in class asks me where the pieces of the story come from, but I think it's worth sharing. Maybe that's just me. you have my love.

Autumnal words

I'm drinking abundant amounts of apple cider, I'm writing a short story, I'm thinking that a hoodie might be necessary. I should be focusing more on the story, but I needed to put some of these words here. The first is the opening paragraph to my story, and maybe I'll keep putting pieces of it up here. The second is a poem by the illustriously absurd Andrew Gates, which I somehow inspired. I forget the story, I'm sure it doesn't make any sense though. you have my love.


(tentatively titled "to fly")
My father would bring me here after Mass sometimes. We would grab some donuts and watch the planes land and take off, struggling against the gorge’s high winds, disappearing into or appearing from the skies above. If it was clear enough we could see the stream rising off Mount St. Helen’s. He would tell me the stories of the Saints as I watched the Cessna’s, Airbuses and 737’s bounce through the air. I would ask him what the Latin words from Mass meant and he knew every word and phrase. He would tell me about different planes and try to explain how such massive machines could stay suspended in air. And at night I would dream of planes crashing into the ground.


(? - by Andrew Gates)
It's in the air...a bite...a chill...this autumn hour is upon us.
Leaves rustle in a symphony of aural bliss...this autumn hour is upon us.
The warmth of the sun is steadily negated by the winds...this autumn hour is upon us.
Sleeves on shirts, hoods and hats...this autumn hour is upon us.
Out in the field, the orchard, the plain...this autumn hour is upon us.
Hands become numb, rigorously I exhale...this autumn hour is upon us.
Creation beautifully makes its way into hibernation...this autumn hour is upon us.
Hair on my face is embraced as a shield...this autumn hour is upon us.
The process has begun, the wheels in motion...this autumn hour is upon us.
Sleep now, but haste not the winter...this autumn hour is upon us.
Embrace each moment of blissful autumn...God bless this autumn hour.

A stumble

POP! "Shit! Shit-shit-shit-shit." I somehow managed not to completely fall headfirst into the brush and, on my hands and knees, I began to wonder if I had just broken my ankle.

It was a truly beautiful day and I was making the best of it. My newly-embraced running partner Ben was joining me on one of my favorite runs - a fartlek [Swedish for "speed play"] on the Ashworth Pool trails. These trails are popular for local mountain bikers. The trails have great hills, some narrow crossings, a few hairpin turns - for a trail in the middle of Iowa, it's a great place to ride. It's the type of trails that allow for an incredibly natural running experience and it demands a lot from those who run there. There has to be attention given to every step; with numerous trees and their roots, branches, rocks crowding the trail a runner must be aware of all that is on the path before him.

The amazing conditions of the day had one drawback in this instance. The sunlight that made the day so glorious in every other way broke through the forest canopy in a manner that confuses the eye, making it difficult for total focus of what exactly is on the trail.

We had finished one loop, a little less than two miles. My legs had clearly not recovered from a horrible run a few days before and I had found myself dragging my feet more than a runner should. Ben was spent, he didn't have the experience of hills and speed work; understandably he called it good and let me on my way to run the reverse loop.

It wasn't easy. I was definitely struggling. But even amidst the challenging run I was enjoying this quiet run in the woods. I saw a few deer and less people.

It was a rock that I had stepped on. It jutted from the ground, just beyond the patch of sunlight that had blinded me from its existence. The 'POP' of my ankle ligaments and the pain shooting up my leg was the first evidence that the rock had been there. I assessed my ankle: it wasn't swollen yet, no laceration, test it for strength - I could put some weight on it, that was good. If it was broken, it wasn't too bad. Getting up, I hobbled over to the rock. I couldn't cast too much blame on the rock, it certainly didn't intend to ruin my run, my day or my training schedule; it was just a rock and I was just a runner, these things happen, even on beautiful, perfect days. I turned back to the trail and started the quarter-mile walk to my car.

---


Don't worry, it turned out to be a minor sprain. Though Doctor Nate did advise me to be careful in case there are any hairline fractures that could be disastrous if I returned to running too quickly. I'm back to nearly a full range-of-motion, but still have a little swelling and even less pain. And I will indeed return to those trails, though I may only go when it's less sunny.

This was my first "attempt" of story-telling, I suppose it's the format that I'll stick to when telling a story [just hopping into it without any preface]. Feel free to provide feedback, if I didn't want any I wouldn't have posted it. you have my love.

Relearning the narrative way

The first week of classes always seems to awaken some sleeping giant in my heart, this week is no different and the sleeping giant of the week is related to this here blog. I'm taking a creative writing course and it's slapping me upside the head. I've spent a large quantity of time thinking about a story to work on, and it's been a struggle. Now, it is supposed to end up at ten to fifteen pages, which intimidates me, and so I've rejected a lot of ideas based on the inability to squeeze that long of a story out of whatever idea is being rejected. However, all this thinking and rejecting has been making me think quite a bit about my so-called ability of story-telling, and I've come to at least one conclusion and a couple of hopeful resolutions.

Somehow during these past few years I've lost what once was a solid understanding of my own narrative. That is to say that I feel as though I've become less of the protagonist and more of an observer. And life is not meant to be lived in third person. Now, I would not say the observer-in-me has overtaken the protagonist-in-me, but it's been such a shift that it obviously bothers me.

How on earth do I resolve that? Part of it is attempting to use my gifts, but that's a whole other post. For now I have a couple of ideas. One is to carry around a pocket notebook and make note of the stories that I am part of, and those I observe. Perhaps there are stories that I'm a part of that I'm just not realizing, documentation could reveal that. And it might show that I'm less an observer than I thought. The second step is to take some of those stories and expand on them here on this blog. Stories aren't really stories until they're told. And maybe that will lead to a resurgence of my story-telling and this blog. I'll leave you with a quote from Sherman Alexie's "This Is What It Means to Say Phoenix, Arizona". You have my love.

We are all given one thing by which out lives are measured, one determination. Mine are the stories that can change or not change the world. It doesn't matter which, as long as I continue to tell the stories.