Life's wonders. . .

I can't explain why I think what I think, when I do. I get so absorbed in film. The music, the presentation, the emotions people are feeling it all combines and channels into me. I feel electrified by what I am seeing on the big screen and for a split second, I feel like I'm actually alive. It's like I plug myself into the fantasy and fail to pull myself out, until I hit the brisk winter air. Yet, the chill enhances my high, my skin's sensation mirrors the rush I feel inside.

Tonight I was watching Enchanted. I was spending some time with Rachel and decided to compromise to see a movie that wasn't so intense, dark, and dramatic. It was a good change, but I couldn't help but feel something strange during the end of the movie. I won't spoil it, but I got the impression, as I do with all Disney movies, that you should let yourself never get so serious, and that fantasy is not always as good as reality - but yet you shouldn't completely relieve yourself of the fantasy either. I began thinking of a future when I have kids.

Since I'm not religious, I am at a loss for words as to what I can preface this sentence with to elaborate on how serious I am about how much I hope I am never more serious than needs to be. When I'm a father I hope I am able to be a kid with my children and give them every reason to smile, grow with confidence, and enjoy every moment of their lives. I hope if I have a son he never looks and me and says "Dad you're stupid." for something silly I say or 'make believe.' I began thinking about Big Fish. How the dad made everything bigger than it truly was, but the point was not that he was lying to his son, but that he wanted life to be a grand adventure - to be full of imagination, wonder and excitement. When I'm on my death bed, I hope my son can understand who I am, and I hope he can finish the story for me.

Text: Mulling Politics

The one thing that frustrates me the most in this world (today) is: Pearl street after snow fall. I angrily drove around in desperate search for a parking spot this afternoon. I had multiple things working against me. One, my truck has no weight in the back, so it is impossible for me to park on an incline where snow might transform into ice during the night. Two, I am down here early, around 2:00 p.m. and the meters run until 7:00 p.m. I will be here until at least 11:00 p.m. so I have to pay for five hours worth of meter time because the streets off Pearl have construction, too much snow, and no available parking. So I drove around for at least a half hour looking for a spot to park my truck that would work in the long run of the evening. At least it is the last week of school and the last week of my internship. I had mentioned that if the snow fell three weeks prior, I would've probably quit school and never earned my degree, primarily based on my truck's snow performance, and parking availability on and off campus.

That frustration aside, I've taken a deeper interest in politics recently. I scour several online news Web sites daily, as well as listen to NPR in my truck while I adventure the winter streets. It subsides my daily driving anger. As I typed that sentence, it dawned on me that this post could be used in court, if someone were to find my blog, after trying me for running over several Boulder pedestrians, purely for sport. I'll just have to make a mental note to delete this blog with haste, if that is to occur.

On the subject of politics, I wrote a page long news and politics trivia test, that also included capitals and historical dates. I gave it out to interested people at work. I wasn't trying to make people feel stupid, I was merely trying to point out how involved Americans are in the bigger picture. Most of the people at my work have a degree, and those who either do, or are working on one did fairly well on the test. Only about three people filled in half the test, and of that portion received a 40% or better. Most people could answer a lot of the questions, but capitals, even ones like Japan's capital or Iraq's capital eluded even some of the smarter test-takers.

It raises the question: Should Americans have the right to vote or should it be a privilege? Well, I believe that all Americans should have the freedom to participate in the democratic process. It is our country's purpose, after all, to enforce Democracy across the world and at home. It is, however, the responsibility of Americans to at the very least, pay attention to news and politics. Someone once said: "Democracy is 51% of the people taking away the rights of the other 49%." Why is it unreasonable for Americans to have to take a politics or news test prior to being eligible to vote each election term? It should require Americans to have to complete a test and score 80% or better on the listed questions in order to make a decision for our next President. I know it wouldn't work, because most Americans vote either Democratic or Republican, no matter what. Other Americans just simply don't care, so you'd only have educated Americans making the decisions for a large population of American citizens, and that just sounds terrible, doesn't it?

I was thinking recently that Americans would be more involved in politics if someone, somehow created a reality TV show featuring the candidates. It would be hard to feature a fair and balanced look at the political candidates, because all of them would have to have equal air-time. The director would have to be objective, but would it be as hard as it sounds? I'd say, get rid of those stupid ads bashing candidates, make a reality TV show that gets personal with the candidates and exposes every aspect of their life, and let America text their votes. Haha, it sounds unlikely today, but I don't think it's impossible in the future to have something like this. It'd probably happen in Germany first, everything happens there first. It's at least worth a thought.

Photo: God's Joke

That Mother Nature, she's so funny.

Photo: Octopus baby

Photo: Japan

There is a new post below this image one, as well.




Baseball celebrations in Japan seem much more appropriate, and so very cute. I bet business meetings end this way when profits are up.

Text: What's Up

I'm currently reading Into the Wild by Jon Krakauer. It is about a man who gave up every material posession he owned--including ditching his Datsun in the desert, burning the money in his wallet, and donating his life savings--to live off the "fat of the land," trying to find the good, real life. The book is significant to me because of the journalist's work in uncovering the identity of this man who disappeared into the obscurity of the wild. This is the sort of journalism I'd like to do. The type of story that is an investigation into real life situations, no matter how weird or small they might seem. Just like writing about my time in Kansas, or at my grandmother's. There is a story to be told everywhere, about every thing.

I am taking a journalism course this semester that has had several guest speakers. A few weeks ago a panel of journalists gave us some tips on how to get hired, how to write resumes. Last week a Brit with a shaved-head gave us tips on how to survive in combat zones abroad. His accent combined with his pin-strip shirt tucked into his light colored dockers, rolled-back sleeves revealing muscular forearms, and his penchant for making every situation sound particularly dangerous and intense made him seem like the James Bond of the journalism world. Today we met Kevin Corke an MSNBC White House correspondent who's perfect, white teeth (a hallmark of the journalism broadcasting world) were in sharp contrast to his very dark skin. Apparently he has appeared several times on the Today show and his presentation skills in class excelled from his career. The most impressive thing besides his demeanor was his fashion--which gave me some hope thinking about a career in journalism.

If I don't choose journalism, I've been tossing around the idea of teaching. Either getting my teaching license after my Bachelor's or looking into the Teach for America program then returning for grad school. I'm considering History or English. The great thing about being a teacher, besides the amazing governmental benefits and summer vacations, is the fact that I can continually read and develop my own writing skills. My ultimate goal in life is to be a published author. I have that much figured out. So, hopefully everything will work out for me. I am sure as hell not getting any younger.

Text: Hmmm.

I'm wondering how this will work, if I post pictures and writings. I posted a few entries that I am not sure if anyone read, because when I posted pictures, it bumped those posts back. Until I figure out the best system, I will just inform you (if you haven't already seen them) that there are some older posts to be read. I'll update soon.

Photo: Buffalo

Are you kidding me with this stuff? (Alright, the secret is, I really want one of my own.)

Photo: WPost, head

Bush has declared it for two reasons: Britney Spears and wildfires. Coming soon, Bush will declare the White House the next disaster area. I bet he doesn't even clean his room.

Photo: Onion, sexy

Clever.

Questions: Presidency

Things on my mind.

1) I recently saw a broadcast of Barack Obama on Jay Leno and he used the word "peeps" to refer to his "people," obviously. Do you think candidates have the freedom to laugh and joke about particular stereotypes in the public eye, or does that hurt their reputation?

2) What do you think of the Stephen Colbert presidency bid?

Text: Blood, war

[In an email I sent the other day I started fleshing out something that had been in my head. I decided to share it.]

I think about war a lot. A couple of years ago I was into writing about it, even though I had never experienced it firsthand. It's weird trying to imagine what it might've been like. I remember the opening line to my story was:

"Bullets stomped down on the soldiers like Gods in the playing field of mortals." In my head I pictured bullets like rain, silver rain with a destination; a driving force with a purpose. It then prompted me to write a poem, thinking in this perspective. I was interested in Existentialism at the time, it made me think of a dying soldier in his final hours lying against the stone wall of a cell.

[Most of you have read this before, but just a quick reminder -- there is also more to read after the poem.]

The trail of moonlight licks
at my cell floor upon its arrival,
bathing the night's children as they
scurry across my withering leg, fleeing
to find refuge in the shelter of darkness,
calculating spoils thieved from
my rusted and crude plate.

I sit, aimlessly flicking my eyes to
the motion of a moth, mastering
its ability to smack against cracked cell lights.
Its determination so impressive, my hands
might clap to its loyal search for ultimate salvation,
twisted within a hot fuse and a glass case.

Ambition blinds this winged warrior,
who drives into a barrier, leaving
behind cinnamon-colored dust trails, with each
snap of its body to a current of shrinking electricity.

My stomach as empty as my soul,
I wish I had sold the latter for a purpose,
like my silent, fluttering friend above me.
The proprietor of an admirable goal.

My hand slides across sand and stone,
fingers prowling for those who fell
before this new contender in a tireless battle.
Never learning a lesson from the creatures who,
despite their valiant effort struggled in vain,
now lie beside me, in a ruin of their remains.

I've been thinking lately, of the hot soil of Iraq. Pictures that are shown in the media make the place look so empty, so primitive--so red, clouded by the roaming sand given life by the wind. A soldier cuts across the sand, searching desperately for shelter from a barrage of incoming fire. The intense sun breaking through the sandstorm that was once engulfing him, like the patriotism throbbing in his heart, an intensely passionate belief burning in his blood. A bullet finds him; he is mortal. His flesh cracks, splits from the force of a fiery metal; a ticket sending all he stands for back against a wall. He slides down, the grip on his gun loosens. He is wide-eyed; disbelief in his current state. His blood, running hot with his noble purpose flows freely--his body merely a vessel of American pride, stretching Democracy and freedom as far as it will reach. Reaching for his boy, the sun's rays warms his face; a small comfort for a boy who is a long way from home. The warmth slips. The boy's eyes fall--the sensation of losing all feeling, a fleeting rush as if he is falling out of his body--the sun's rays become a reaching hand trying to connect him back to the world. He can't grab hold. What does he find? What does he see?

Photo: Emily

I used to work with this girl at Pappadeaux. Funny.

Photo: Crystle

[Removed the photo for Crystle's sake. She took hers down, it's only fair.]

Not much to update, other than, I found it strange that Crystle put up this picture on her MySpace earlier today:

Text: Grandma, dementia?

Visiting my grandmother's house always yields a surprise. In the past, when I was a child, I would visit and there would this expectation that there was going to be a toy waiting for me. Don't misunderstand me though, I never asked. Lately, though, the toy has converted into money. I don't ask for any, but my grandma insists that if she isn't able to cook that she will buy my breakfast or lunch.

"How much does breakfast cost these days?" she asks.
"Not much, grandma," I reply.
"Here take this, is that enough?"

She drops a $20.00 on the table.

"No that's not enough, here, take this too."

A $10, $5, and another $20 stack on the previous bill. Is she mad?

"Okay grandma. Thank you, that will buy me breakfast for several days."
"Oh good, great," she replies with a smile.

This offer doesn't conclude that she has driven herself mad in the silence of her home, but I ponder whether or not if she has. The same broken tile is propped against the top of her oven. Today I realize I should probably help her fix that. I should help out a lot more than I am. I make the excuse that our schedule conflicts, but in reality, when I have time off lately, I just want to relax.

I'm still at Pappadeaux bartending three nights a week. It has been going good, since I can work 25 hours a week and have enough to live on. It's about all I'm doing though. I have enough to pay my bills and eat, especially with the monthly help of my grandmother. My schedule is especially nice because I have to do an internship two nights a week and go to school two afternoons. I have no days off, but enough time each day to get some personal things done.

The internship is going well. They seem to really value my help and lately almost all of my headlines are being used. Headline writing can be difficult. I definitely have to be in the right mood to write them. Not only do I have to come up with something catchy and clever, I also have to fit a certain character requirement. Editing is nice though. I've come to realize that I'm a much better editor of other people's writing than I am my own. I've been helping Rachel on some of her school work. She is in some weird hybrid class, which seems to be a combination of both creative writing and Holocaust literature. She has spent a month or more on one paper writing it paragraph by paragraph and getting feedback from her classmates and teacher.

I read some of their work because it is a workshop and she has to take home some of the papers. Man, some kids really have no idea what they're talking about. It is frustrating because I know people have opinion's about the things going on in the world, they just either have no idea how to express them, or are really naive. I don't have any examples of the work, but there is just terrible grammar throughout, and really no fresh ideas. I know I've had this commented on my work before, but now I fully realize what that meant. It must come with age. As I get older, I feel like I'm looking back at other work and I know that I am taking steps forward. That's all I can really hope for I guess.

Rachel also has her roommates back now that school has started. One roommate, Lucas, left at the beginning of the summer and was replaced by a small, young Korean girl that is a second or third cousin of Rachel's. Her father apparently married a Korean woman so she could get her citizenship, then parted after having a child together. Her name is Ivry, pronounced Eve-ree, and aside from being "in touch" with her culture, she goes on these feminist kicks about how men and women are equal in every aspect. Great. I think it's the feminist kicks that draw attention to there being some sort of inequality. I've never looked at a woman and for a second thought that she was on some lower level than me. So I give her shit all the time because she constantly needs Rachel to do things for her, like fix the toilet, or fixing the smoke alarm in her room. People crack me up.

It is really amazing how hypocritical people can be. People get these ideas in their head that they need to fight for some cause and in refusing to back down on how they feel, end up missing out on the larger picture. Sweet, so you want to enforce your feminist politics on me, great, but maybe you would accomplish this better Ivry, by being a strong woman. Instead of calling Rachel, "rae rae" and approaching every conversation in the tone of a six-year-old, you could just put a little backbone into your speech and have some confidence. I can't take her feminist push seriously when she acts like an immature teenager on some rebellious affair. Who cares. Get a life.

Different subject now. Flight of the Conchords, what a riot. I don't watch much TV, but I feel like I should after seeing these guys on youtube. If you don't know the name, check them out. Their live stuff is really funny, but the Rhymenoceros vs. Hiphopopotamous clip from their television show is amazing. I've watched it several times now. Thanks Catherine, for linking me to "Business Time" and enriching my world with these two. They are beautiful. I am beautiful.

Text: My youth

I was writing some of the details of my life for Rachel, who barely knows me yet. I know it isn't really anything new, but I thought I would share since it is the only thing I've written lately.

-----------------------------------

(I wanted to get you caught up and make sure we are on the same page. I wrote about my school years. I have a ton of additional information, obviously, but I just wanted to give the skeleton of my life before I fleshed it out--pointing out key figures and a brief timeline of my school years. There is a conclusion note at the end of the email telling you what I will talk about next).


What’s funny is that I don’t really know the details surrounding the union of my parents. I know little about what was good in their life and more about what was bad. All that I know for certain is they divorced within years of being marriage and it happened around the time of my arrival into this world.

My youth was pretty normal. If you consider being raised in bars by a bartending mother, and receiving annual care packages filled with toys amassed by my father as a normal childhood. I spent most of my early days with my Dad’s parents Joyce and Chuck. My grandfather was thin, clean shaven and curly-haired in his youth. Some early pictures of him would suggest that we have similar styles as we aged. The time that I knew him though, he believed he ailed from a lot of different diseases, which he popped pill after pill until he eventually had a cardiac arrest in his sleep, next to my grandmother. He became bigger from his medicine it seemed, and he had a bushy beard and balding hair in his elder years.

Despite his tragic end, he left the tools for me to grow with a passion for learning. He taught me to read, remember phone numbers, and to talk within two years of my existence. My grandmother still tells me today, “Your grandfather really wanted to watch you become a doctor someday.” Little to his disappointment my path is much different.

My grandmother’s parents died before she was 14 and she spent a majority of her childhood raised by her aunts. She became a beautician and owned her own shop at one point. My grandfather worked his way up to a senior position at the Bar-S meat company. He did a lot of public relations work for them. I have a few pictures of him awarding luxury vehicles to people per Bar-S raffle auctions or customer giveaways.

My grandparents were always well-liked. I feel like I am constantly reminded by people I’ve hardly met that “Your grandfather was a great man. He loved you very much.”

I have a lot of family on my Dad’s side that I don’t really know all that well. Many of them are bible carrying Republicans that believe everything is a satanic or Democratic conspiracy to take the control of America out of their hands. My grandpa’s brother is still telling me to read chapters of the Bible for my own benefit.

My Mom’s parents are a different breed altogether. Clemente, who is Italian, and Peg, who is Irish, gambled, golfed, drank, and had a very social existence as well. Both sets of grandparents were well-liked by their peers but ultimately had a different sense of style. I grew up going back and forth from these households due to the custody of my parents. I would go from one to the other on Christmas and then I would have to see family, if they were in town at either place as well.

At one point almost all my family lived in the same state. Now none of them do, except for my Dad’s mom who I visit once a week.

Alright, now onto other things.

I went to kindergarten in Phoenix, Arizona, at a school called Rover Elementary. I transferred about halfway through the school year with my mom, who decided to stop living with her sister (I can’t recall why she was). What I remember the most about Arizona is the giant houses my mom’s sister lived in (this is the one with the con-man husband who was forced to move a lot when deals went sour). My cousin (who is rumored to have been a Las Vegas hooker) and my other cousin (who lives in Denver and always has the next “million dollar idea”) would all play make-believe games constantly. Whether it was house, army, Star Wars, or some exploration adventure on the steamy streets and lawns of Arizona, there was always something fun going on.

We moved to Arvada where I finished kindergarten at Weber Elementary. Then my mom wanted to get back to her social life and find a real boyfriend, maybe even someone for me to look up to, so I was forced to live with my Dad’s parents. I did this from 1st to 6th grade.

I went to John E. Flynn Elementary from 1st to 5th where I met a lot of people I still stay in touch with today. In 2nd grade I become close friends with a kid named Kyle Jackson (he is on my myspace and facebook). We hung out all our elementary years and I spent a lot of time at his house playing with all his latest toys, since his family was rich. They financed a lot of his education, cars, computers, and whatever else he needed—which for some kids is a curse. It can easily breed laziness. Not in Kyle. He pursued his passions and now co-runs his own post-production film company in Santa Monica. He is also the guy who directed the film, Chasing Ghosts, I mentioned to you briefly. You can find it on www.imdb.com, if you really want to read about it. I always seemed to maintain friendships with nearly everyone in school, on some level, and made sure I was well-liked—it seemed important to be.

Elementary was fun because kids are silly with their early love. In first grade I thought I was absolutely in love with a girl named Kirsten Hartman. Kyle and I would battle for her affection throughout the rest of elementary. The three of us still joke about it. In 1st grade, before Kyle, I had a giant crush on a girl named Leslie Allen, who later attended high school with me. We laughed about that too. In third grade I did the weird “arm writing game” with the music teacher’s Hawaiian daughter and we confessed our love as well. This was also the time that my friend Tracey developed a crush on me because we both wore glasses. Ah, elementary drama.

I managed to get out of elementary with a multitude of crushes and really nothing else. I had still never kissed a girl or done anything other than feel the very first stages of crushing on someone.

I also remember that I briefly lived with my mom during elementary. I seemed to float back and forth from her house and my grandparents, depending on what my mom’s schedule looked like. We lived in apartments on 80th and Lowell for a small time. I remember being obsessed with Nintendo by this point and especially the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles movie that had just come out. I met a friend named John Simmons. He was about five years older than me and our first interaction entailed him stealing my hat on the playground. He also picked on me a bunch before we really become friends.

As my mom moved to a new house, I remember meeting a new kid in the neighborhood named Kyle Brendlinger. Eventually all my friend’s would compile into a list in my head that I would recite out-loud to try and always have someone to hang out with. I was alone so much that when anyone was available, their company was amazing. I blame my need for social interaction on my mother for dragging me around to bars and partying so much.

Unfortunately what troubled me the most about the trail end of elementary is that I lived in a different school district than almost all my friends. I ended up attending Shaw Heights Middle School for 6th grade while everyone else went to Scott Carpenter. My separation from these friends made it difficult for me to see them as often as I would’ve liked.

In 6th grade I met a guy named Nickolas Lysohir (also on myspace). He was a kid very into his health and weightlifting, wrestling, computers and school. He was a mix of jock and nerd and fairly popular. He got me so into computers that I begged my Grandma to help me purchase my first computer. This is when I became addicted to America Online and writing. Addiction might be too light of a term. It was as if life was secondary. My online world took precedence and fueled my imagination like nothing else. I wrote and role-played a specific persona/character online until I was at least 20, so for about 8 years. I hung out with Nick and his family mainly for the entire year, occasionally visiting the aforementioned friends.

Fast forward a bit here. I went to Oberon Middle school in Arvada right after 6th grade. I went there from 7th until 8th then became the first Freshman 9th grade class at Arvada West high when they expanded their grades levels. Nothing really that interesting in between that needs to be summed up now. I had a few more crushes, Jamie Reicow that I ended up sneaking her number from a friend and calling her randomly to talk. She humored me for a while, knew I had a crush, but wanted nothing to do with me in that regard. I kissed my first girl, Caryn Lindsey my Junior year and even though I started drinking at 16, I never did anything else with anyone. There was always the pursuit of women, but my friend Chris (who I met at Oberon in 7th grade, the guy who I started talking to again recently) was much more successful. He dated a number of women while I made fun of the fact that I was so terrible at it. I really had no sense of myself yet; couldn’t figure out what to wear, how to do my hair, or really anything other than be awkward. (Sorry my grammar is going downhill, it’s late).

PS: There is a ton of filler stuff in here, but I’m just trying to catch you up on the overall picture

Text: Celestial, the end

I envision a thrilling end to my life. Walking in the light rain today, shirtless, sweating and tired from an earlier workout, I pictured an incoming meteor slamming into the Earth. The impact so great, rotting and fresh Earth poured out like a bullet tearing the flesh of the Earth and it's mud, worms, and water flying into the air like blood. I stand and wait. There is no question anymore of my fate. This is it, the moment. My gut flinches. I let the intensity of the situation flow over my body; a new kind of warmth hits my skin. The warmth of endless emotion pouring throughout my body like I poured a shot of whisky down my throat and it poured over my organs and soaked into my skin. I raise my arms and embrace it. My body becomes one with the Earth, momentarily as it drives through me; its power rips my skin, and for a second, I know the Earth's pain. Then I am gone. I am no more. All I had been thinking about that day, worried about that week, it is all nothing. I have returned to the blackness from which I spawned; but is it life or is it death? Are we dead now, waiting to release to finally begin living? The way a Christian talks, I really begin to wonder where we are at all.

Yesterday I watched the sun dive in and out of storm clouds. They were flying across the skyline like smoke. The sun was like a peering eye through it all. It popped in and out of the broken cloud formations, but as it slipped back under the cover, all its rays fell off. It was a dull, white circle. There was nothing flowing off of it and I could stare at it perfectly. It has watched down over me all my life; now I could finally return an even gaze. The sun's skin was peeled back, we could see eye to eye; we were on the same level. It could not longer injure my skin with its exploding heat. It could not reach to stab my eyes. It sat behind the veil of the clouds, waiting until it was time to strike again.

I became lost in the silence and serenity of that summer moment. I did not contemplate existence; I did not think of myself, my family, friends,or loves; I was just an observer, nothing more.

Text: Grandma, madness

I haven't been to my mom's in a while. I went over there this evening for dinner. She was making ribs, white rice and corn. She used the pans I bought her three years ago for Christmas.

"How are the pans holding up?"
"Fine," She replied.
"I cooked the ribs in Pepsi," she comments.

I'm not entirely sure, but there is something a little white-trash about using a soda product in your fine cuisine for the evening. This must be related to the fact that somewhere in my history with my mother, we lived in a trailer together. In fact, when she first started dating Lars, her current husband, we were still living in one. We begin eating the meal. There is nothing much to discuss, but when we do find something to talk about it is typically about the movies.

"Have you seen Hot Fuzz?" My brother, Andrew, asks.
"No,” I reply.
"Oh, it is alright, I guess," he says.

He is a growing boy. His first year of high school begins in the fall and he has the signs of puberty--pimples, awkward height coupled with skinniness, and a deep voice. I glance around the table. Lars is wearing his typical wifebeater baring his bear tattoo on one giant, sunburned arm. His hair has gone from long to mullet to a fuzzy short blonde and he has never shaved his goatee and moustache since I've known him. If he is not drunk on Jagermeister or Busch, he is usually fixing a vehicle, or trying to figure out how computers work and asks me a series of questions every time I go over. That is our little trade. He fixes my Toyota and I fix his computer. We really have no other association than that, except when both of our fathers died within a year of each other. We didn't discuss much other than our condolences.

My brother and I disappear to play catch with a baseball after dinner. My mom sits on the porch and observes while smoking. She admires the garden she has made around the front of her house. There are a bunch of plants with juicy peppers growing around her driveway and the walkway to her house. She talks about them and her pet fish and her pet dogs like they are some of her closest friends. My brother and I come to a close and walk back to where she is sitting, but in the meantime a red Jetta is pulling towards us slowly.

"There's Ryan's mom!" someone shouts from the back of the car, talking about my mother (who has no sons named Ryan).
I raise an eyebrow. Andrew just stares awkwardly at the car full of young girls, probably in their mid teens. I can't see the back of the car, which apparently has someone's mom in it. She is being escorted by a couple of young girls in the front seat. I only see a hand from the window as she waves to us.

"We just got drunk," the girl from the driver's seat informs us.

Then they slowly pull away.

Well that was interesting, wasn't it, I'm thinking to myself. We start to analyze the situation and discuss it amongst ourselves for a small time. Then we stop and my mom changes the subject.

"Andrew told all his friends that I used to hang out with Al Roker when I went to fat school as a kid," my mom tells me.
"And she used to smoke the 'peace' pipe," Andrew chimes in.

I wonder if Andrew even knows what he is talking about, but then I think of his myspace profile. Aside from posting bulletins every day to "Comment on his pics or DIE!!!!!" he has labeled himself as part of the FMF crew. He tells me this stands for "Fresh Motha Fuckers" and his friends all have a collection of profiles matching this. There is nothing cooler than a bunch of skinny white boys starting a Junior High gang. So I give him the benefit of the doubt, based on this earlier observation. The conversation keeps changing as no one really has anything in particular to talk about. I tell my mom about my uncle's cancer news and the state of my grandma. I tell my mom that my grandma has stopped driving, is losing her mind, and is moving slowly now.

"Should I go over there?" my mom asks.
"I don't think so," I comment.
"What's she going to do with that house?"
"I don't really know. She offered it to me, but I don't think I would like to live there."
"Why not?" my mother asks with some confusion in her voice.
"I really don't want to have to ever say, 'Okay, and here is where my grandfather died. Here is where my father died. Lastly, here is where my grandmother died!"

Everytime I walk into that house I am faintly reminded of those particular moments. I never witnessed them in person, so all I can do is imagine what it felt like to lay next to my grandpa while he choked on his own blood when his heart stopped. I can only imagine what it felt like to touch my dad's cold forehead or hand as he rest his head on the front of the bed, watching television with his mouth cocked open, eyes shut or wide open--dying alone, in the basement of his mother's house--a returned, defeated, divorced man. Yea, I'll pass on the house. Thanks.

I know a lot of my writing lately has talked about my dad or family or death. It is tough not to incorporate that into my writing right now since it is a very relevant topic for me. I hope someday I will outgrow it. Right now I need to learn from it and talk about it in the only way I feel comfortable, here. It is helping, I feel.

That's all for now.

Text: Contemplation

My future is still uncertain. I am excited for my internship this fall. I received an email from Joe Prentice, a Daily Camera editor and layout designer, telling me that it was pretty much a sure thing. I just need to get the ball rolling in a few weeks, talk to a few people, then I work two nights a week editing articles for the paper. Right now I am signed up for five classes, but I plan on dropping three of them as the semester starts. If I kept this work load I would need to dedicate time for homework, at least four nights of working long bar shifts, and two nights for the internship. I am thinking this might be physically impossible. I don't want to tax my mind and body to the point that I hate my last semester of school. I would also like to continue working out and I don't see any way of fitting that into this schedule.

Otherwise, I've been thinking about my future after school. I am hoping the internship will answer a lot of questions for me as to whether or not I want to use my major. Two other possibilities I've considered is applying for graduate school in English or History. Lately I've been leaning more towards History. I have a genuine interest in history and it always has relevance. It would be fun to write historical films, or novels, or even fantasy novels incorporating the romanticism of history in general. I would need to start considering my options soon. I'd prefer to stay in state for school, but I would be open to possibilities of moving elsewhere or even traveling. I am not entirely sure if my financial situation would permit me to do so, but in the event that I could, it might be a nice change.

Recently I've been feeling more confident in my writing and even more so in my photography. I've been contemplating working my ass off for the next month to buy a nice digital camera. I'd love to take more black and white photos of people, portraits, or even just snapshots of daily activities. Beauty is so simple. I feel like I have so many possibilities but none of the right tools or training to master the things I want to do. I'd love to get better at photography, writing, weight lifting, all these easy things, I am wondering if my career path in journalism will enhance my knowledge of these hobbies. I probably will have to do the weight lifting thing on my own.

What about acting, though? I love doing it in the conversations I have. My comedy is usually an act. It involves the right facial expressions, timing, delivery, and knowing my audience - which I've felt more confident about lately. How can I incorporate my love of English and history, as well as my writing, photography and comedy? So much of me feels it is in film. Kyle, a friend of mine who works in Hollywood directing, producing and editing told me that it doesn't start the way I would imagine.

"You have to write it in book form first," he tells me. I know I can do it. Where does it start though? What is it about? So many books and movies are coming out lately about every day life. There is nothing much going on other than some exploration of the imagination thrown into daily existence, like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. Then there are these epic movies based on epic books, like Harry Potter, or Lord of the Rings. Some people say that market is so dried up because all the great Science Fiction already exists and everything else is just secondary. I don't believe that. Just like I don't believe I can't be an actor, or a writer, or director. It takes one person to fill those roles, even though there are millions of applicants.

Lately I've been trying to piece together memories of my past in Kansas. I feel that there might be something there I can tap into, at least as a foundational work-or an inspirational piece; a practice story that can test my dedication. I also think that after I finish college, I will feel differently about life. I will at least have the necessary education and tools laid before me to start piecing together what I want to do with my time. I also feel like graduating will open up outlets to work more hours, or get a better paying job and earn something worthwhile. I'm a little worried about the repayment of my school loans, but I'll have to manage it when the time comes. For now I can only hope that might future is as bright as I feel it is. I know I can make something of myself and I will figure it out. Maybe I'll spend the rest of my life doing it but I know in the end my life will be fantastic.

Text: Fading

I was riding in the car with Rachel today. She put in a musical CD showcasing her musical accomplishments during high school.

“I’m the piccolo,” she said.

I pictured her as a piccolo. A dot. I pictured her as a single bouncing atom among atomic sounds. There was a wave of other instrument players, but her sound rose above them. She was glowing; all else in my mind was black. If I had never seen the stars, I could imagine that this is what they sounded like. She was like a star, a glowing white dot in a sea of blackness, burning with passion and with musical intensity.

“I was rated a 1. The group as a whole was rated a 4. ”

She said it so proudly. I had no idea where the scale began or ended, but I knew she did well. I was told by the sound of her voice and the way she smiled.

The music turned my attention out the car window. I started to focus on the small things; a small group of houses grouped together on the peak of a hill, the way growing weeds offered a blast of rustic orange against the fading yellow of the fields. I focused on an incoming moon and then on a falling sun. Sometimes I forget to look up once in a while. Sometimes I am too busy. I kept thinking while her music played . . .

I've been working out more. I shaved my head. A friend of mine commented that the shaving of someone's hair marks a major change in their life, maybe a checkpoint, or a turning point. Maybe it does.

I was thinking of something I heard in a philosophy course I took a while back. What would Aristotle answer to the "chicken or the egg" question.

"Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

"The chicken, so the egg knew what to become."

I then thought about my dad. I thought about how he was only in my life in fragments. It is like having a partial blueprint of what I am supposed to be. Now the missing pieces to my construction are lying in the dirt at Crown Hill Cemetery, six feet under in a wooden treasure box. I spend the rest of my life wondering why my mom and him didn't work out and why his second marriage resulted in his wife cheating on him and leaving for another man. Have I learned the things from him that make me the type of person to be left, to be cheated on? I say fuck it. The only person I can trust for the rest of my life is myself. Nothing surprises me anymore. If I'm surprised, I'm not vigilant. I'm vigilant enough to know that I'm not my father. I'm not the product of a broken household, even though it was ever present.

My mom spent a majority of my childhood bartending, cocktailing, drinking, dating, and partying. We moved trailer to house, to house, to Arizona, to Kansas, back to Colorado. I've been dragged through the dirt of her life while she found out how to clean it all off and find herself. My dad was a phone call or an "every other summer visit" away. He still feels that way. He's dead. It hasn't mattered since it happened. I'm a broken record. My point here is that despite these people being the supposed primary caregivers in my life, I've overlooked one small fact. My Grandparents raised me. They were married for 40 years, had a house paid for and no debt. My grandfather was a man who was loved by many; humorous, honest, sincere, and cared more about me than anyone I know. My mother tells me that my dad struggled to be cast in the same image of his own father being absorbed mostly in the shadow of his legacy. My grandmother now sits in a house; a desolate place where both her son and her husband died under her watch. She is starting to fail in the mind, but seems to be mildly healthy in body.

"Someone sent me a birthday suit," she tells me. I was at her house this past week.

"What?"

It is the first time I genuinely laughed at her house in a long time. Usually everything is so morbid and I just sit there and listen to her. I offer nothing; nothing that makes her feel any better. I tell her not to worry and that she looks great and that she will live another 20 years if she keeps cleaning like she does. She chuckles and swears she hopes not. I hug her often. She says I mean a lot to her; I'm all she has left. I understand this but I feel so detached. I was never that close to my grandmother. Even when we lived together I didn't talk to her that much.

"Betty sent me a birthday card."

Oh, that makes more sense now. I knew what she was trying to tell me, but I wanted to make sure she did too. Betty is an elderly woman who lives across the street who is dying of cancer. She has a nurse who visits her and also escorts my grandma to the store. My grandmother stopped driving a couple of months ago because she clipped some guy's car and he got $500 out of her pocket to pay for it. The insurance company said she had to comply and she was so mad at the fact that no one even looked at her car.

"People are doing this everyday, Bobby."

"Really."

She calls me Bobby or Bob or Charlie. My cousin and my uncles are named Bob. I don't say anything. This year she didn't remember when my birthday was and I called her on that day. I didn't say anything. She got mad that I didn't mention anything and I told her it didn't matter. My grandmother paid my child support my entire life while my dad worked 70 hours a week to pay for his lifestyle. His marriage to a woman 10 years younger than him in a Florida home they owned with their only child, Diana, was the only lifestyle I knew he had. My mother mentioned cocaine. The combination of cocaine abuse, diabetes, smoking, and a poor diet is what did my dad in. What of this did my grandmother know as she entered the basement room where he was watching TV and now slumped lifeless against a bed I used to sleep in. What do people know of anything, or anyone? They know what is shown.

My grandmother also is the unofficial source for everyone who has cancer or has died recently in the Westminster area. I hear about it every time I go over. The time on her television says 8:25 and I know it is 4:30. Does she even care what comes on anymore? Has death been her only focus since her husband? Does time even matter when you lose the one you have cared for all your life?

"You should come into Pappadeaux with Bob and Marita one afternoon. Do you like seafood?" I asked.
"I love catfish. I used to make it all time," she glowed.
"We have great catfish, especially if you get it blackened."

This is the most interesting conversation we've had since I learned my dad's sister's husband has cancer. She checks the clock. She knows I usually leave within an hour or so. She apologizes for boring me or keeping me too long.

"Stop worrying about that. You don't bore me and you aren't keeping me."

I try to assure her. She seems to forget what we are talking about. There is a brief silence. I notice that one copper tile is pulled from above her stove, there are at least forty that tile the wall above it. Everything else seems to look exactly the same since I was little. Spotless as usual. In the silence I realize something. I come to the realization that time does feel like it has stopped here. There are three clocks visible in her kitchen: the stove, the microwave, and my watch. It seems like time is only passing on my wrist, not in my mind or body. It is only apparent since the hand is constantly ticking. The house is filled with antiques like my grandmother's soul. She is 84 as of this post. She has dyed her hair brown. She pushes it in such a manner that would not show baldness and definitely not a sign of gray. She has been fighting the passing of time since she was born; she is a product of the world's vision of the body. Her entire life she has dedicated to the preservation of her face and hair. What happened to her mind? Maybe the body just forgets how to display what's being thought, but maybe the thoughts are sound.

There has to be some connection here. The melody of Rachel's piccolo, a broken copper tile, my grandmother's fading mind; it all hits my heart differently. I might find an answer to it all someday.

Text: Moonlight

The writing of this post is being done under the influence of the song: Shelter by Ray LaMontagne.

This week was eventful. Everything worked out. I don't know why or how but it just did. Sometimes that is okay in my book.

On Sunday I was working my regular bar shift. I got a few texts from Rachel. One of the last ones asked, "Are you angry with me? You seem rather short with me lately." and I responded, "I am not angry Rachel. I think I give you more attention than you want right now. I can feel that you feel differently about me and I can't say for certain what that means." I also told her that I am just concentrating on surrounding myself with the things that make me happy - hobbies like writing, reading, whatever. I understand that when I am content with who I am, the people who will admire and love me will then surround me. I am told this daily by the people who care for me. I understand it, I really do. It is sometimes lost in the mindblast of a giant crush on someone, but I still understand it.

Rachel came to her defense with a long speech on how she wanted to start over, get to know each other, be friends again without any attachment. I agreed. I thought that would be helpful to, if anything, save our friendship and grow. Somewhere in this hour long conversation I said a few things that made her cry. It made her realize that I am not the threat she originally perceived. I don't know what specifically drove her over the edge, but I told her that she couldn't blame me if I still got butterflies in my stomach whenever I saw her. The conversation ended with a "Thank you for understanding. It means so much to me, you don't even know." from her. I smiled.

That night I started working out with a girl from work. I got a call from a few people, including Devin, and some co-workers, looking to share my company. The one call I missed on accident was Rachel's. It was coincidence, I swear it. I called her back, but didn't say anything of missing her call, she told me she was going to PCL, which was the usual plan on Sunday for Pappadeaux. I said, "Cool. I might be there, I might not." My first reaction was to certainly not go there. I just had a conversation where we took a giant leap backwards and at that point, I was starting to look elsewhere--mostly inward. I asked Amanda if she wanted to go get a drink and some food at Old Chicago. Shawn Cordova calls, says I have to go to PCL. I tell her, "I don't have to do shit, what are you talking about." I am still debating at this point. I tell Amanda, fuck it, let's go together.

Amanda ends up ditching out, but I go home, change into a nice shirt, jeans, shoes, head out. I run into Eric, our manager, and his wife who goes out, according to her, "once a year." I notice how terrible that is and comment on how she could've done better than PCL for some entertainment. A few people comment on how nice I look and I thank them. Pool goes well. Karaoke goes well. Somehow a burden feels lifted and my confidence is present. I no longer carry the packaged insecurity I had pursuing Rachel the last week or two. Sometimes you just get a slap in the face and time passes, things settle internally, and you move on. It was short lived. Rachel and I danced eyes around each other all night, to see what had held from our conversation during the day. We told stories, but mainly I was making everyone laugh about the stupidity of the week at work or with myself. I'm good at that.

Last call hits. Everyone splits but Rachel and I. Right before we paid for our drinks she had been sitting near me and put her hand on my leg. I thought this was unusual behavior for two people who had just decided to take a friendship more seriously. Who, almost five hours ago, decided that getting to know one another over dinner and wine later in the week seemed like the best option to salvage what we had. I made the small smile I normally do with her, almost a smirk of happiness, if that's even possible. One where you sigh inside, and after that breath settles, there is no feeling, a calmness that encompasses you, the way I imagine Zen to feel. Everything is alright inside and I know it will be, the feeling is generated from her hand on my leg. Nothing more.

We go to the parking lot. We start talking. I let her do a majority of it, I feel it is not only the least I could do, but actually what I want her to do. We stay locked in each other's gaze. She tells me, "I've been really stupid. I couldn't imagine losing you. You might be the greatest thing that's ever happened to me. I don't want to lose that." I tell her, "Thank you." I let her go on. It's her turn. I've given myself to her day after day, been as sweet as I know how, and I've waited a while to hear any sort of true emotional response from her heart. She doesn't want anyone but me. She wants me, I want her. "Come home with me tonight. I've wanted you for the last six hours since we talked this afternoon. Tomorrow I'm going to make you breakfast."

I must be dreaming.

Text: Darkness, Dreamworlds

I remember the hot summer in Kansas like it was this summer in Colorado. The sun is the same, no matter who or where you are. Sometimes I would escape the basement to be comforted by it's warmth. I had little physical warmth back in those days. A hug or a kiss or a feeling of passion was as the result of textual discourse and my imagination. Apart from running outside during the summer months, I participated in a lot of exercise classes in high school. I tore the hell out of my abs, arms, and legs doing a weightlifting gym course. I had nothing else to focus on except my dreamworld and a rather silent sophomore year.

Andarielle's player sent a check to my mom that week to help her recover from the giant phone bill. Andarielle's player, who I will just call C, reminded me that her phone bill's were much larger. I could only imagine--long distance wasn't cheap during those days. There was a rather large group of people that surrounded our two characters, sort of fascinated by them as a pair, like they had a Brangelina-style celebrity status. It could be merely my perception, but sabotage, jealousy, and a constant barrage of instant messages to either of us supports my notion. When we would log on, it wouldn't be long before someone sent a message our way, maybe even several people. We'd have to sift through a variety of mail from council decisions, applications to the kingdom, missives from friends, family and enemies. It was like being captain of a political office, where at least a hundred people would be directly involved in your current dealings.

Let me give you a brief explanation of the realm that surrounded Alendria, but do not get confused, as no group was associated with the other, some characters and lands were in different time periods, others existed on the foundation of being certain types of characters, like Goblinoids. A group called DETH had Mourne and NightJewel at the helm and they thought so highly of their own writings and affairs, they were like a mini-France. There was the Goblinoid Horde led by EVILGOBLIN and VILEGOBLIN, GOB7DSYNS, NastyGob, and scores of other players that specifically lived out the roles of Orcs, Goblins, and other evil races. Alongside Alendria, several kingdoms existed to keep control of the evil population, and merely to help bring some order to the chaos that was Free Form Role-Playing. The Wardens of Loreil were a small group of players who acted like judges to combat disputes and mentors to new players. I pictured them like sheriffs of the realm, since they put special attention to wearing the badge of Loreil. I explored all of these groups, but not in depth. Draven watched from the outside, perched atop his throne in Alendria, bogged down in worldly affairs.

War was always on Draven's mind. It was really the only competitive outlet I had online and offline. Personally, I loved baseball but I didn't want to join any group in Kansas. Not after the way I was constantly treated. The only way for me to channel any sort of rage or feel any adrenaline was through character combat. Draven entered tournaments, jousts, even battled "death matches" where the loser would have to delete their screenname from AOL. He won about 20. It was just a gamble of the dice. In a random survey online one year, Draven was named the Most Experienced Male Combatant in a realm of thousands. Although, it can't be a huge compliment, of course the survey was only participated in by a small group of people. Not everyone knew of Draven and his legacy.

I found a picture of how I saw Draven, it was the closest I could find, so it is not entirely accurate.



(to be continued)

Text: Darkness, Rejection

(This is a continuation from the last blog entry)

Besides having a fantasy crush with Draven and outside of that I spent a lot of time being confused on what to do with my spare time. I was a lot more involved with taking honors classes. I remember dedicating a lot of time to taking senior courses my sophomore year and also sitting in the library trying to read difficult texts. I think I got through about 100 pages of War and Peace among other accomplishments.

My mother became concerned after months passed and I expressed no interest in being outside with others. Prior to moving out I developed asthma from sleeping in my mom's old moldy basement during junior high. In an effort to tackle that obstacle I ran nearly every day during the summer and school year. It was another activity that I shared by myself, except for one of the two dogs on occasion. I did it to mostly be in shape, but another part of me was frustrated with the way I was treated during that time.

I was a 15 year old kid forced to ride the local bus that was shared by all grades, since it was a small district. The younger kids were much more apt to make fun of me, since I was probably the eldest there. I remember being called "The ugly kid" or "Screech" by people who were careless in their action. I am almost positive, as I reflect back on this period that they were probably more insecure than I was. Most of the kids who made fun of me were not necessarily the stereotypical jocks or cheerleaders. They were additional reasons I was addicted to my isolation. Instead of being confrontational and standing up for myself I walked away dejected.

I retreated to Alendria in class, in the library, on the bus, and at home. My addiction continued to grow as time passed. Draven became embedded in online political affairs, he worked his way up a rank of leaders and became an imperative figure in many eyes. His presence was both admired and despised, but in him I could channel confidence as the veil of the Internet kept my real persona out of the mix. Yet, as I said before, Draven was a projection of me in several ways. He was everything I wanted to be; he was the man who would stand up to all the people who looked down on me. He was the romantic man, the ideal father, a defender of peace, an upholder of the law, a glorified warrior-king, and above all else, recognized among the masses as a handsome, bold figure. He was everything I wished I was; but could people smell the fear of an insecure child behind the mask of an aging knight?

Draven stumbled through many introductory relationships where I experimented, textually, with the limits of my knowledge. I expanded my database of sexual terms without ever leaving my room and without the physical company of others. I visualized the female form from what I could access on the Internet, besides porn, fantasy images of nude females ran rampant as the ideal profile picture for over-weight women in bad marriages, playing fantasy roles themselves. A majority of the women online played both female and male characters, since many of the men who played were obsessed with war and had little to no knowledge of romance. Or, if they did, it was particularly skewed since most men didn't need to find refuge online for romantic interludes. Women had more trouble in this area. A lot of the women I talked to were in their mid-thirties and suffered from abusive or controlling husbands, or had to watch one of their many children. America Online was their solace; a momentary sanctuary were silence prevailed and pure, emotional thought was poured out in instant message through one of their active online voices.

Much like the men wanted to be the online Rambo, the women wanted to be fragile, beautiful, sexy, in the way a pin-up leaves little to the imagination. There were other women who shed that image for one of violence, an image that made them as strong if not stronger than the men online. What fantasies were these? Who were these people? I often asked myself these two questions and sometimes I was able to penetrate the characters to learn more about the players. We would trade images of each other to better understand, eventually I was strictly talking to people out of character, rather than writing with them. In the early days it was hard to find fantasy images online in an efficient manner. The more veteran players who started at an older age or had some outside talent could create artistic portraits of their characters. Some were amazing, others were pencil doodles that could hardly be taken seriously. I never found a portrait that represented Draven. In my head he had a well-kept graying beard; he was tall, broad shouldered, and his hair was long, flowing, and thin. The most prominent feature that I loved to picture was shinning silver armor that was accompanied by a thick hooded cloak. I even named his sword Duranel.

My addiction to Andarielle and her player became more addictive as well. Instead of calling the 1-800 number which was free, obviously, I started calling through my mom's phone service to her home in California. I remember my mom taking my computer upstairs and hiding it from me after she got a phone bill for $180.00. I couldn't help myself. Andarielle's player was one of the few people who could actually understand me. She was someone that I could ask questions and get answers when everyone else in the world was just laughing at me. My whole life I have been raised by women who have experienced more than I have, yet I rejected them all the same for not being men. For not being Draven, or my grandfathers, or my dad, who all raised me in some ways, but never enough to compensate for the time the women put into my life. As I grow up, I realize that I am particularly dependent on women to teach me things and in return, I offer little to no substance as I leech their knowledge. That's another story altogether.

(to be continued)

Text: Darkness, Dawn

I like to write my blog when listening to a select album that summarizes my mood. Right now I'm listening to the haunting melody of My Morning Jacket's album At Dawn. In particular, "Lowdown" is such a great mixture of contrasting elements of sadness and greatness. Anyone reading this should check them out, if even at a glance on iTunes previews.

On with the blog.

The last week has been another wreck for me. I feel like I am throwing myself under the bus seven days a week with work, drinking, eating out, and passing out in my room full of forgotten laundry and the trash of days spent. I really should take the time to be better about my health. For the last several weeks I've been doing all activities, including night-driving (which I suck at), with only one contact in. I'm legally blind in both eyes without them. I also came down with one of the worst colds. It drained my body completely. Besides that I think I prolonged my body's healing process by continuing to go out and drink each night, except for one particular night that my joints ached so much I had to call it early. I had to call in sick the next day, too. The first time since I've started my job.

I remember back in school when I would want to call in. It happened so frequently my sophomore year of high school, I can still remember it being my all-time high. I missed 29 days of class. I did fairly poorly, but Kansas was a difficult period in my life. I was reminded of it a few days ago when I was listening to Third Eye Blind's first album. What a dark period in my life. It is one that I currently ponder writing about. It is brief enough that I can tell a tale from beginning to end, and mix some of the modern day elements of Internet, fantasy, and relationships to possibly make a successful story. Let me fill you in on this section of my life:

My sophomore year of high school I was conned into moving out to Kansas with my mom. I was, at the time, living with my grandmother in Colorado, attending Arvada West High. It was the start of my second year. I had several friends that enjoyed my company, but I was a very confused, growing teen--as most are. I wore glasses and last week's fashion. I was always trying to catch up to what was cool and always the last to know. I just really wanted to make people laugh and mostly to hang out, play video games and go exploring late at night in the school fields or parking lots near my house.

I got a call before summer started and it was my mother expressing how much displeasure she had that my dad's mother was raising me. She said, why don't I come down for the summer, and unknown to me of the plan, I accepted. I hauled my shit down to Kansas. At the time, it wasn't much, but the most important thing to me was my first computer. America Online had really started becoming popular when I built it. There was, however, a particular part of America Online that really stuck for me. It made me addicted to it's services. So much so that I got frustrated when I couldn't connect, if even for a single hour. If there was trouble with the Internet dial-up connection, I was immediately on the phone with whatever technical support group that could link me back in. I was troubled.

America Online had a dedicated area to Free Form Role-Playing. In it, I lost myself to constant character creation and storytelling. There were online message boards for all to see, where I could create an entire world for people to participate in, according to what I desired. I created a character who I felt would be an ideal persona of myself, maybe a project of who I could only aspire to be as I got older, maybe it was even a grand-scale vision of what my father or grandfather's might've been like - in this fantasy setting. Someone suggested I name him Draven, after Eric Draven, a Brandon Lee movie character. I liked the sound of it. I didn't know the movie at the time. I was only 12 when I created Draven and about 14 when I landed in Kansas, my fantasy world in tow.

Kansas was terrible. Nothing as far as the eye could see. We lived in a really small community of houses separated by several fields. I often joked that the only things in Wichita, Kansas were a hundred bars and a shopping mall that was going out of business. This opinion of mine, coupled with the fact that I was too young to drive, and didn't know anyone in the area, made me a recluse. I had a giant, cold, dark basement to myself. It housed my bed, my computer stand, a bathroom, and a stone, empty room containing the furnace. It was my cell. I knew it would be, the minute my mother told me, "I know you want to go back, but I feel it's best you stay here and be raised by me." and I said, "Fuck you." slammed the door, and disappeared into my world.

Let me catch you up about my fantasy world. As a child, and even a little now, I daydreamed about a fantasy-medieval world, one that would reflect Arthurian romances. The duties of knights, their tireless chivalric standard, never-ending pursuit of battle and glory. The reign of King Arthur, a true, just king, passionate about his conquest and ambitious in his quest for the Holy Grail. He was admired by his citizens, his brothers, his knights-in-arms;he was a leader, a man's man, coated in platemail, justice sheathed at his side. I dreamed I was as powerful as him, as admirable and as noble--a man's man. I was a child. I knew nothing of myself or the world, little of women and nothing that I couldn't fantasize or dream happening before me. For almost a decade, I used Draven off and on as an escape from my own reality as a growing teen. Whenever I was down on myself, I could retreat to this gaming world where hundreds of people knew my character and I had made for myself an image much of Arthur's in Draven. Outside of this world, I was just the dorky virgin, living a world on the Internet far larger than my real life ever was. When I couldn't be there, my life was on hold. I was waiting until I could sign on and check to see who was online. Then I would start chatting or writing an entry on a message board. I would check the Member Directory like a Celebrity Searchlist to see who had updated their profiles, who was online, who was claiming what guild status and what was new in the realm. There were tricks to figure it out. I would have to enter certain acronyms to find particular groupings of people. In a hurry to check everything, I would glance over a variety of message boards containing posts of hardly any meaning except to the author who was trying to flesh out their character in a world they created before them. The most interesting stuff to view was particular emails. Emails of gossip, alliances, applications to Alendria, and more. Even praise of Draven or criticism, which in turn felt like praise or criticism of me, because in a way, I was him.

Draven met a woman. Her name was Andarielle. She was a just woman, donned armor and a sword and had a thirst for battle almost as much as Draven. Together they fought side by side, confused at first whether the matching tattoos on their back made them family, or destined lovers. Eventually the latter became the truth and they were married shortly after their initial meeting. As a partnership they built a kingdom; a land I called Alendria (hence my name.blogspot.com). It was a region I separated into four provinces, governed by Draven's four brothers, some played by real life friends, others played by me. The world was interesting, peaceful, and at best, the greatest escape of my life for a period of several years.

Andarielle was played by a 25 year old woman who lived in California. I was only 13 the day our character's met online. We played out this fantasy relationship, but then it drew more interest offline. We called each other, became involved in each other's lives. There was a brief stint where I would call her at work, on a 1-800 number, from my high school during my lunch period, because I felt so socially awkward with people. I was such a loner. I sat at random tables with only a few people at it, who probably, in some way, felt the same way I did, but didn't know of my wonderful escape. I was obsessed with the fact that this girl talked to me, cared for me and my future. I even started having fantasies about seeing her in person. I was three-times deep in fantasy.

(to be continued)

Text: Thoughts

(I've been adding a few pictures in older posts of people I've been talking about. Feel free to browse back and check them out.)

So, what's some good music? I've been browsing through iTunes and Myspace music to find some singles I like. I've downloaded a few songs by Vienna Teng, Blake Lewis (AI runner-up), Jordin Sparks (AI winner), Train, Niki Harris, My Chemical Romance, My Morning Jacket, Hellogoodbye, and a few other older rock songs. I've been on a pop kick lately. It is probably the result of American Idol finishing, or that I'm just that cool. Any recommendations would be awesome.

I find myself being increasingly frustrated with people at work. I think it is a part of a larger problem with human standards. People walk around with such a narrow scope of what is in front of them that they fail to see the larger picture. For instance, I have been training servers to be bartenders the last few weeks. I understand that it can be overwhelming to take on new responsibilities and to learn them quickly. It doesn't mean that you should be oblivious to the guest's needs around you. One bartender walked by an empty glass of tea several times and I had to walk around the entire bar to fill it up. These are the small things I mean. Granted there are four of us wandering all over the bar trying to take care of 30+ guests, it just shouldn't be that hard to assume some common duties, like filling up empty drinks, and taking care of everyone as one large group. Eh, whatever. I think I'm cranky from drinking too much and being at work for long amounts of time.

Maybe I am frustrated with my current station in this world. I feel like I am holding myself back. I take these gradual steps of improvement and never seem to push myself. I dream of a future where I am acting or writing or doing voice acting for a comedy series. I am not saying that I am the lead role, but I don't see anything wrong with making money to learn a few lines and act silly. Hell, I do this on a daily basis. I see every social gathering as an opportunity to let my comedic side unleash quick-witted and sometimes offensive jokes that really make people think. I've had several people comment that I can seem to say whatever I want, even things that hit very close to home, and get away with it. How is that possible? I'm sure it is because I constantly try to make people laugh and most people don't take me too seriously. Some of them have to be wondering in their mind, though, did he really mean that? Yes, yes I did.

What I find funny is women who like to verbally assault themselves on a regular basis. They are the most fun to toy with. Not only do I agree with whatever they say, I rub their faces in the dirt a little further each time. It is like I get to throw some free jabs without much repercussion--especially when a girl isn't serious then she doesn't feel that I am. I'm usually not, but I also find it as a healthy way to say "Hey, you really are a bitch, could you stop" without being confrontational. I hate confrontation. I like to deal with my problems passive-aggressively. Think about that whenever you look at your hands or legs and have unexplained scratches or bruises.

Death is looming all around me lately. It seems that when I was a kid, I would grow up with the bubble that the world was great and there wasn't much to fear, except for maybe a dark basement or the space under my bed. Life is full of adventure. Everyday I would wake up as a child I was out on my puffy-paint sprinkled Huffy, exploring dirt fields, ditches, riding to Bigg's Shopping Center with John Simmons, or Kyle Jackson, or getting into trouble around Westminster with Tad Sharp. As I get older, the sweetness of life starts to dull and my senses sharpen. The initial rush of life's sweet alcohol lets its dry, stinging after taste set in. I become buzzed off of tragedy, because the fun only comes in waves; death is my smoke break. The period where I contemplate life, if only for a brief period, it is enough to add to my perspective.

Rachel's grandfather is dying of cancer. My friend Andrew, that I mentioned in previous blog entries, just lost his on Friday. My Dad's sister's husband has cancer; he was a large part of my youth. It happens. I know that I cannot help these people in their time of grief but all I can say is that I understand. I know of loss. I've lost both of my grandfather's, one to cancer, one to heart failure, and my father. I have only a foundation of guidance from the women in my life to act in place of these fallen role models. My imagination has made these men larger than they ever were in my life, but in a way, I think that helps me to mature and grow. I can only be grateful that I had them, no matter how much time that involved. I must be thankful for the life that was given to all of us and the fact that ut expires and the memory does not. Maybe my senses are too dead from the tragedy that surrounds us all everyday. The constant broadcast of scores of people dying in war, schools, whathaveyou, add another layer to my hardened resolve. The only thing that can seem to evoke any emotional outburst from me is film, something so fantastic and unreal that it ejects all my reserved emotion. Lord of the Rings, the Return of the King did that for me. None of the previously mentioned deaths electrified my body in that way. I could ask myself, "Did I really love or know these men well enough to respectively send them off with an emotional response?" I don't know why, I just can't cry at death. A comic book centered around Zen philosophies once said of death, You do not cry because you do not fear where you go once you die.

My contemplation of existence is to extensive to add on to this post. Maybe in death I will finally get some time to think about everything. I am sure it will be peaceful and quiet, if that is what I desire.