Waking Up For

Yesterday I watched Fight Club for the first time.  No, there's no dramatic build up to that, and no, as much as I loved it, this post is not about Fight Club, because, well, I can't talk about it.  But while I have not yet created an alternate personality to take over my life and flood the world with mayhem, I have not been sleeping well and understand the temptation.  And in the midst of rethinking the very fabric of my existence (and, for the record, totally calling the ending) I simply wondered about the idea of coping.  "Just survive the next ______" has become the rallying cry of my every 6:00 a.m. alarm sound, and I repeatedly come to the question: "what should I get up for?"

Yesterday I watched Fight Club for the first time in the basement of a dorm building at my future school.  I had spent the afternoon exploring the campus in the windy, perfection of heaven-on-earth that is Saint Louis for exactly two days in the spring.  Yesterday was one of them.  And in between lemon sherbet sunshine and sixty-something weather, I wandered among the towering brick buildings of my immanent future lost in that inexpressible subspace of thought that keeps me awake all night and started this mess in the first place.  Trying to determine what was wrong with me that I wasn't excited when all my classmates couldn't wait to graduate; why all of this did nothing to touch the void that seemed to be widening in my chest.  Why blue skies seem infinities away when in reality the azure air is all around us.  Why every passing step grows heavier and harder, even when I'm just walking down the stairs in the morning.  Why I'm suddenly growing curious about who would miss me if I disappeared or who I would miss.

And yes, I am definitely Jack's loss of sanity.

Yesterday I watched Fight Club for the first time in the basement of a dorm building at my future school next to my best friend.  And earlier that day, while sitting alone in my car in a slowly emptying parking, desperately wishing I had someone to fall apart to, my phone rang with the some of the most beautiful words I've ever heard: "Hey, I had a crappy day. Wanna come over and watch a gritty adult movie?"  Though we ended up saving Pulp Fiction for another crappy day, it's comforting to have a back up plan.  These are the days that become my sweet escape to a college campus that in our world is only twenty minutes away, but as far as my life's concerned, might as well be another world entirely. Somewhere that isn't here where I'm writing this down in study hall.  Somewhere free from the perceptions of people who know me, those that think they do, and those who couldn't care less.  The home of the one dude who's stuck with me my whole life, and every now and then is there to catch the pieces as I messily fall apart.  Or just watch something in a darkened dorm basement and let the world worry about itself for an hour or two.

And this is what I get up for, or with the memory of.  These are the things I love and the things that motivate each next step and perhaps the one after that.  Third step's a toss up.
I am Jack's next breath.

And I'm reminded that this too shall pass.  

Baby Close Your Eyes

Behind the scrolling lines

Of professional overdub,

Someone is screaming.

The TV is muted

And only the colors catch my eye

As I stand in line

At the Delmar bubble tea,

Like the news would never touch my world

If I couldn't feel it touch me.

And somewhere between the

Coconut milk and bobas there is

Blood, blood, bomb, blood.

No what?

What?

More screaming,

But no sound.

And no words to find.

This time I’m

Watching

From the other side

Of the safety of a touch screen,

Like the digital projection was

Somehow my shield against

The reality

Of these events

That somehow I held in my palm

And pretended I could contain there.

Like maybe this was just a movie

That I could pause and rewind

Or pull up the blanket and cover my eyes

Like that

One day in eleventh grade U.S. History

Where they sat us all down in a darkened

Room to watch the bloodiest scene

In Saving Private Ryan.

And one by one we asked to use the restroom

Just to step outside the gore and breathe.

But this is real history,

Right now.

And right now my phone rings

And I answer like nothing is wrong.

Why the hell is nothing wrong?

No, no,

I’m fine.

I’m still alive.

How are you and what’s-his-name?

No, no, the cute one.

And this,

This is the fiction.

Desperate to pull it off as fact

I’ll reenact my sense of shallow

Invulnerability.

And this can’t be real life.

Because maybe it’s right to feel

That empty sense of twisted gut

And helpless horror

In the pit of my soul.

Rather than watch the big, bad world

From behind the careful crochet of a security blanket

And a voice that says

It’s far, far away.

But the wild, open eyes of a silent screamer

Caught in the bloody LCD

Of the Delmar bubble tea won’t

Stop asking me why.

And I don’t have an answer.

I Have a Typewriter But I Bloody Well Hate Hemingway

Ernest Hemingway once said that writing is no more than sitting down to a typewriter and bleeding.
I always kind of loved this quote. It made something I loved seem so easy, so raw and real.  Like maybe this post would be written with my blue veins -- personal and straight from the heart.  For some weird reason that idea always seemed kind of dramatic and tragic. And okay, therefore cool.

When I was growing up, my dad never let me play around with his computers.  They were complicated and set up for his work, and my little destructive, technologically-incompetent mind...well, you see why.  But as a substitute form of entertainment he pulled from the dark, cavernous recesses of our basement an ancient, heavy, iron and ink typewriter.
The sad part about this post is that most of you will be jealous. Like "oh that's so vintage and cool!"  No kids, when I dutifully pounded out story after story on that beast and proudly showed my friends the staple-bound work the most common response was, "why didn't you just use the computer?"

But in a complicated blender of love and hate for the old machine, I found bleeding on its vintage keys slightly harder than Hemingway made it sound.  The ink ribbon near-dry required the little finger to pound each key three or four times, and an inability to spell the English language left the world with the neigh-unintelligible ramblings of an over-active, fourth-grade mind.

But I'm staring at a subtly glowing screen in this chilly, dark, cavernous basement and find computer keys little easier to bleed on.  I hate Hemingway; I hate his characters, and I have yet to find a Hemingway story that doesn't fill me with urges to join a feminist movement and maybe brush my teeth.  But I envy his ability to bleed.  So for now I sit in the dark limbo of writer's block.

It's not that I have nothing to say, but I have no words with which to say it.  It's not that my heart broke down, but my veins seem to be running on fumes.  More and more my evenings seem to gather themselves into this corner where I can brood and let Ben Folds say everything for me. And it's cold out there. And it's dark in here.  And maybe I need to put on a sweater, but maybe I'm holding out for spring.  And maybe the sun will help melt this frozen state I'm in, or maybe I need to spend spring break in Florida like everyone else.  But Jon Foreman told me a few years ago that you can never escape yourself no matter how far you run, but maybe you should get up and move anyway.  And you know, Jon, I'm trying, but it would be nice if someone could please unpause my life, because that's the biggest road block in my path to moving on.

Or maybe that's just the writer's block.
Either way I think I'll start by digging out that typewriter; apparently these days it's vintage and cool.

Never Know

Broken laces and worn out soles

Asking questions of every green filled jungle crack in the soggy asphalt about

Dried worms and birds

And how it all works

And "mamma where do the butterflies go when it rains?"

And she didn't know but talked about wings or funny things 

And how God drowns the bugs to feed hungry beaks

And no I still don't understand

Feathers sailed through the evening clouds

Singing loud lullabies to her nest and mamma made me listen

As the sidewalks glistened

And a Windshield ended the song and I probably cried.

"mamma where do the animals go when they die?"

And she didn't know but talked about the sparrows, some lilies, and peace.

And no I still don't understand.

Chubby young hands held an empty bowl and asked again

Mamma buried him under the spring clover

And I built a broken twig fence around the tiny grave.

"mamma will there be goldfish in heaven?"

And she didn't know but talked about shining sidewalks, mansions and happiness

And no I still don't understand 

And I got up and dried my eyes

And mamma said it was all alright

And the clover covered graves multiplied in the red earth

Rain came again and they were forgotten in the puddles

And "mamma where do the butterflies go when it rains?"

But they danced in the sun

So I chased.

And no I still don't understand.

"Flake"

"Fight 'til your fists bleed, baby. Beat the fate-walls enclosing you, maybe God will unlock the cage of learning for you. Fight 'til your fists bleed, baby. Kick and scream at the wicked things, maybe God will unlock the door you need to walk through.

 When will it happen, baby?It could be near, but then maybe it could be far."

"Dear Miss Bosch,
We regret to inform you that you have not been accepted to our honors program. Your name has been placed on a waiting list, and we will inform you of your updated entry status in May."
My curling fists began to crumple the neat, straight letter head.  Amazing how professorially succinct rejection can be.

Also amazing how much harder "maybe" is than no.

"Maybe" keeps some hope alive, keeps you feeling that perhaps it all will work out after all. If you just work a little harder.  If you just twisted the situation, just flirted a little more.  If you just gave it some time, or maybe if you just made a move.
And we all know that "maybe" rarely means "yes," but it leaves just enough room for hope that, when the final rejection comes, it can hurt so much more.

So once again I find myself waiting, drinking hot chi and watching the snow fall outside the window in huge, frozen chunks of white. Jack Johnson is singing to me from inside the ear-buds.  Singing about maybe and how it pretty much always means no. I scald my mouth on the chi and wrap my fingers around the warm mug. This I can feel: the heat melting into my fingers on the smooth ceramic, the sting on the tip of my tongue.  It is manageable. It quantifiable.

Much the same way anxiety isn't.

So I look ahead at an unknown, uncertain future. Everything hidden and tucked away.  I stand outside in the cold where swirling flakes of ice sting in my eyes and obscure the path. My tears freeze on frostbitten skin. My frozen fingers search for something to hold onto, but in the frozen flakes I'm blind.

And I look behind at a piling weight of rejection, at the flakes building one on one on one till I break under the weight.  And no crystal is heavy alone.  No one is crushed by small stones, but whose fault is the avalanche: the mountainside or the first falling pebble?  Hurricanes are formed in tiny drops, and blizzards are built from fragile flakes.  And who's to say which is the one that kills you?

Oh God, I'm freezing.  And I'm lost.  I'm weak, and I can't be strong anymore.  And I know You are sufficient, but right now I just want to be held.  And I can't even get that this year can I? And I miss my family, and the one room where I felt safe.  And I'm really alone, and that's really not going to change is it?  And when you're the strong one there's no waiting arms to pick you up, to carry you when you falter, when your strength is gone.  And if You're so sufficient, why does this feel so much like dying alone in a snow storm?

And I look out the glass again and notice the snow has stopped. Only the wind picks up little pieces here and there to dance with them in endless dips and twirls.  And I realize that I am no different from they.  No greater. No more mighty.  Delicate, so delicate, and for all my claims of strength, a fragile, frozen vapor -- here for a moment to spin in the arms of the wind, then is gone.  And You are the breath that molds these white drifts.  You are the sculptor of this bleached landscape, the choreographer of this life.

And under all this, who am I?

Tiny, cold, and moribund. 

Yet intricate.  Formed.  Frozen unique.  Never has been another.  Never to be again.  Soiled and filthy, yet somehow seen as white.  "Dear Miss Bosch."  The one, the only, the very, very small.  The very, very loved.

And God, I don't need You to prove Your love.  I just need Your love to be enough.

My chi has grown cold; my breath fogs the window pane.  And for this brief instant on the frigid dance floor, I stop and find something peaceful in the sight of a late February snowfall.

Not a piece is accidental.

Not a flake is out of place.

Not even me.
So I watch.
And think that there's nothing more beautiful.

Dear Friend,

I lie back on the synthetic leather. The fluoride fumes and sickly, pea-green shade of the corner office meld together in a dreaded concoction of dental hygiene. Latex fingers invade my mouth. No, I don't floss enough. A set of pink scrubs in tennis shoes squeaks around the sterile tiles near my head, and a pair of thin, black rimmed glasses frame two chocolate irises above the paper mask. 
She spills something on my paper bib. I crack a joke. The eyes smile. 

Then she laughs.

And I swear, it sounds just like you. 

And who would have guessed, in a night I'm feeling far from home, I'd find your laughter here behind the mask of a friendly hygienist. 
It's a beautiful laugh. Solid and genuine. 
The kind of laugh that would make me feel warm all over and the kind I'd want to immediately befriend. It brightens a room and makes you glow. And then your eyes get all shiny because you always end up tearing up a bit. 

Man, I've missed that laugh.

So like the idiot I am, I kept up a steady stream of lame jokes around the dental tools, closed my eyes and just listened to that laugh. Pretending for some inexplicable reason it was you back here in this city. Thinking two months is a long time, and mentally digging my toes into the Florida sand.   

And all too soon it was "nice teeth," take your toothbrush, and out the glass door with the little jingle bells tied to the knob clamoring behind me.
And I started missing you all over again.

And we will speak soon, and you will laugh again because, ill admit, perhaps this is all a bit creepy. But that won't change anything. I will always look for you guys at football games, and every drive past the empty apartment will tempt me to stop in and say hello. And anytime I meet someone from Florida I will still ask if they know you, and I might cry about it a little every once in a while. But you're the one who taught me its alright to cry.

And I went home and watched Tommy Boy for the 47th time and thought of you both. And there's a reason it's my favorite movie, and no, it doesn't have all that much to do with Chris Farley. And soon I'll drive over to the youth house for our d-group dinner. And I'll walk in talking too loud (as usual). And we'll hug, and tease, and probably joke about poop. And I'll tilt my head back and laugh too loud. And Katy and I will share some nonsensical joke, and I'll make that obnoxious squeaking noise when something is funny and I can't seem to find air, and she will start crying, and I'll tease that we've lost her.
But halfway through dinner I'll look around the table, and I'll think about how much we've all grown. How hand motion illustration of leadership in vulnerability have transformed silent suffering into open community. How five girls who lay around in the summer sunlight that filtered in golden stripes through the living room blinds are not the same five now. How a new love for the greatest Love has taken root here. And despite doubt and fear and heartbreak and loneliness and complacency, this table around me has become that something I cried for by the pool in Fairmont. And I will think yet again that this is your legacy too.

Because tonight I find myself homesick for a place I've never been.  I miss my family, and we don't share any last name.  

But tonight I'm finding "family" to be something much more eclectic than the little group formed by blood.  I'm finding my family album containing names and faces nothing like my own. I see you two and your sweet, sweet Emma who is by far the greatest puppy in the world.  I see my tall, energetic big sis, with her blond ponytail, God-filled heart, ready smile, and laugh as loud as my own. I see my older brothers, from college freshmen to thirty-somethings -- the writers, the teasers, the examples, the mentors, the caring hearts, and the all-in-ones.  I see a sea of blond sisses, from the human incarnation of a sunshine-flavored cupcake to the strong spirit of a country girl, and my fellow brunette with her beautiful heart and face to match it who inspires me with her extravagant love.   

And the more I look around me the faster my family album grows.

And it's filled to the brim with carefully worded notes in perfect cursive, old Polaroids, and torn edges.  It has pages of splatter paint and edgy, artist quotes on cardboard. It has poetry that blows my mind and warms my heart as only poetry can.  It's never neat.  The pictures aren't straight or even.  Katy is making a face nearly every one, and the glue shows around the edges. 

And I think once again that it couldn't get any more perfect. 

Because no one in this family is perfect.  No one came with it all together (and some don't even know they're in it at all) but as far as I'm concerned they don't have a choice.  Some I've known all my life and some I only knew for four days in Georgia, but something is strong enough to bind these dogeared pages together into a funny, awkward, piebald community of a scrapbook.  And that something transformed these hearts like only that something can.

So here's to you both and that something you showed me so well. Here's to the family dinners and theological talks. Here's to the first people in my life to know everything and not run away. Here's to the movie nights we shared, and here's to the ones we would have shared -- the ones we will share. Here's to my family, the people I have loved so much, the people I will love forever and always. Here's to good times past and future.
And, friend, here's to your laugh.  

Caught

Blinking into the frosted morning
light reaching so brightly through the skeleton fingers of lost and lonely trees,
Blinking in darker artist eyes
Brown irises glowing caramel.
Caught for a moment
frozen in the sightless panes of street lights,
Renewing dormant fire.
Then is gone.
Echoed in crow calls and robin laughter
Over and beside.
And the disapating dreams of clandestine crystals
Hidden in soggy mulch,
Patterned in the muddy memory of small paws
And melding slowing with the black earth
Inaudibly free.

And I don't know what this is, but I want to scream.
No, no, it isn't spring.