Time is Milk, and Milk is Precious

I wonder if America sees me coming? No, not the last great hero who will liberate the children of shackled disillusion; not that at all. More like an exact replica of who they want me to be. I feel as if so many different words are piercing my head, all with the intent on clearing out space for a new ideology. The more I study your history, dear America, the more I learn that your babies have never been satisfied with your milk. Has there ever been a generation who hasn't sworn off your virtues? Who hasn't cried for the flag of freedom, all while operating in the very system they march against? It's a shame, America, that your children do not give you a chance to speak for yourself. 

How about a word from our country, people? 

Let's give her a moment. 

Moment is here. 

Moment is past. 

She can't speak for herself because of the white fists of democracy shoved down her throat. It's dark in here, children. It's dark because we refuse to shine any light worth lighting. We cling to the phrases that are passed down to us from other rebels who aren't sure why they rebelled, either. Think back, guerrillas; was it America who disgusted you, or the crowds who inspired you? I'm not sure what your answer will be, but I hope it will be one of reason. 

Reason is the waste product of our society. Reason and time. Both are precious and both are running out. Justice is a facade. Freedom is easily manipulated. Reason and time remain pure. You can't molest reason and you can't influence time. They are both the centerpiece and the measuring rod of our collective foot holds. And we need both of them. Without reason, the "cause" ceases to be. Without time, well, who has time to figure that out?

Can we all agree on one thing? What we consider to be so vile is the very reason we must reach harder than ever before. America isn't the problem and she never has been. America is what her brat babies make her. America's flavor is only as good as her chefs. If you want to curse her shortcomings, aim that gun at the rightful targets; her masters.

In short, blame whitey.

Living In The Whenever

I'm not ready to deal with finality...

I'm too immersed in the present. My past still hangs on like a symbiotic leech. The future seems to be a hazy memory that hasn't happened yet. The present, however, is fresh and bright. Red and green, like untouched Christmas wrapping.

There is a newness to the present that is absolutely undeniable, but completely misleading.

The present, you see, is either constantly passing or eternally ahead.

It doesn't exist.

The idea of the present is what we proclaim, but there is no truth to it.

The second the present happens, it slips away.

The past is made up of ghosts; the future, of animated prophets.

The present dies as soon as it is born.

This is nothing to mourn, for it simply is what it is. It's liberating, actually. When idealists who can't remember what they idealized tell you to live for the present, you can have full knowledge that the very act of living for the “now” is impossible.

Where is this pessimism coming from? Wasn't this the fount that was made to proclaim positive truth?

Yes, indeed it is. There is no pessimism in admitting that the present doesn't exist, anymore than it isn't negative to deny the statements of “living in the now.”

Here's what I have chosen to live for: I live to leave a pristine ghost. I live to grasp an untouched future.

Living in the present is impossible. Living in comfortable shoes is attainable.

Leaving Your Wife While Still Being Married

I'm so glad I've gotten over my obsession with correcting the world/saving the world. I'm glad people like Bono and Oprah really want to handle that, but I'm done with. I can't do it and it wont happen. I think any man that has a wife and a child/children, but spends more time at his church or working on plans to bring world peace and end poverty is a piece of garbage. I meant it. You can make it sound as noble as you want; "I'm doing this for my church! For God's kingdom!" If your wife and children feel second to anything, you're wrong. It's that simple.

I love my church. I love my job and my future career as a special education teacher. But let me tell you, the second any of those things require more of me than expected, and if that expectations come at the expense of my wife and son's feelings about their daddy; if they begin to lose trust in my dedication to them, I'm stepping back. If it means I have to miss a pay increase, or looked at as non-committed, so be it. It's that simple to me.

There is a huge phenomenon, especially, in the Bible belt, called the "Church Widow." The church widow is a wife who marries a Christian man, and that man decides that it's completely acceptable to spend more time doing "ministry" than spending time with his bride. He's up at the church early and late. She's always waiting for him. He volunteers to do things that someone else could do easily. It's such a common story, it's almost pathetic.

Random, random thoughts....
I just hate seeing families broken up, and I think it's even more despicable when it's in the name of good intentions. Just because you're married doesn't mean you're there.

Winter's Darling

Break forth in song, all you rabid life breathers!

I'll break forth in solitude. 

Life lived alone seems almost a farce. 

If a heart breaks and no one is around to hear it, does it still make a sound? 

Thank the Creator for skin to touch, lips to taste, and breath to feel.
Nothing seems real without your feet on my floor. 

You, who are so present in my past, now, and future. 

Your eyes burn a woman-shaped hole in my chest.

A woman as flesh and bone as can be. 

A sensual offering from a God who owns love.
Shove my face close to the wall! 

I can't see at all, and through that I will find focus. 

Your hands seem to know this dance all to well, but I can't tell if you are trying to dock or sail. 

Most of us are either reaching for the wheel, or sleeping in parked cars.

I hope that the randomness of my love for your warm stare does not deter your ability to shatter my confidence and bolster my esteem. 

You, you, you. 

I'll do this for you. 

"This" being a never ending list of chores, adventures, pains, and deaths that would fit nicely in a request, 

Rolling off your life filled lips and seeping ever deeper into my ear.

Ask me a question, winter's darling.

The answer is written on my sleeve.

Horror As Art

I can't help it....
I love horror films.

It started at a young age, and it started with the Wolfman. I was absolutely riveted by the idea of a man changing into a wolf. I started checking out books from our school library about Lon Chaney Jr., Bela Lugosi, and Boris Karloff. In a way, my love for horror movies started my love for film, because this was the first time I was interested in the actors, the people that made the film, as well as the movie.

I saw them all, or as much as my Mom would let me watch. She is really responsible for my love of horror, whether she wants to admit it or not (I bet she's proud of that, however). She would tell us stories about killer mountain lions, severed fingers, and scary events from her childhood. I was transfixed on fear. I don't know why. Why are any of us attracted to being scared?

I am afraid of sharks. The idea of being in the water whenever a shark is nearby literally gives me goosebumps as I type this. It's an almost claustrophobic fear; a fear of no retreat. Despite this fear, I love documentaries and movies about sharks. Jaws is my favorite film of all time. I live for Shark Week. In essence, I am very much the same little boy wanting to hear more and more about the things that terrify me.

So listening to my Mom's scary stories lead me to the Wolfman. The Wolfman lead me to Dracula, The Mummy, and Frankenstein.

My fascination with the "unknown" eventually caused me to become an amateur junior cyrptozoologist by the time I was in 6th grade. I could tell you anything you'd want to know about Bigfoot, Nessie, UFO sightings, and ghosts...

Ghosts...

I loved books about haunted houses. I checked out Scary Stories To Tell In The Dark from the Londonderry Elementary library so many times, I could recite many of the stories, word for word. The artwork in that book was, and still is, extremely creepy.

As I aged, I wanted to find things that scared me more. I still loved (and still love) the Universal monster movies, but I felt like I was ready for something a little more intense. By this time, I was in 7th grade, and my 3 brothers and I lived in Wellston, OK, after moving from New Hampshire. We discovered the wonders of Wellston Video, and their massive collection of low-budget to blockbuster horror movies. You could rent 5 movies for 5 days for 5 dollars. We watched every horror movie in Wellston Video, most of them twice. Our Dad would drive us in, and we'd pick out 5 rather quickly. We'd usually have 3 of them watched the first night, then the final two, the next. I have no idea how much money my Dad ultimately spent at Wellston Video, but we went 2 or 3 times a week during the Summer, always renting 5 at a time.

There has never been another time in my life like those nights in Wellston with my brothers. My life is so much better now, being married and having a son, but the innocence and freedom during that period of my life will never be duplicated. It was such a joy, and I think that's why it irritates me when people tell me how awful and "Satanic" horror films are. They were simply fun. A release for 3 boys who weren't exactly sure who they were or where they belonged.

During these horror film marathons, the films would mostly be laughable. Low to zero budget films with horrible overacting, 40 year old high school seniors, and ridiculous kill scenes. These were the best. We would laugh until our stomachs hurt. Many nights, our friend Mike would join us. We would always choose at the beginning of the film which character represented ourselves. Mike would always choose the most ridiculous character in the film and, 9 times out of 10, Mike would be the first to die. He would then feign sorrow and horror at the murdering of his avatar, while we rolled with laughter. It was absolutely beautiful.

Other times, you'd find a legitimately scary film; one that would stick with you while you were trying to sleep. Though we enjoyed watching the goofy ones together the best, I started mentally cataloging the really good ones, knowing one day I'd watch them again. I started to look for redeeming qualities in the bad ones, as well. In a way, finding really well made horror movies amongst a plethora of horribly hilarious films taught me how to watch movies: how did so-and-so achieve that feeling using lights; does music add or take away from this scene; what is it that really scares me, and how can a filmmaker pull that off?

I discovered Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Shining, The Exorcist, Jacob's Ladder, Night of the Living Dead, The Serpent and the Rainbow, Halloween, and a few others that I genuinely love. These were movies that rose above the idea of just a good horror film; these were just good films, period.

I have gone back and forth over my love for horror. Sometimes, I would feel bad about liking such a despised genre. I would feel like there was something wrong with me. Why am I attracted to dark things? I'd soon realize that any conviction I felt didn't come from God, it came from religion. As I've aged and matured, there are certain things I do not like to watch. I'm not interested in anything that is gratuitously sexual. I do not like sacrilegious things, unless there is something redeeming in the end. But for the most part, I just enjoy being scared. Until Jesus tells me other wise, I probably always will.

Saint Anger Around My Neck

If I could destroy one aspect of my personality, it would be this...

I would righteously murder my anger.

Anger has controlled me my entire life. Those who know me socially might be surprised by this. I remember sitting at a church function a few years ago, and one of the young ladies in attendance said she couldn't even imagine me getting mad. This made my wife almost snort with laughter.

And that hurt me.

Amber doesn't have to try very hard at all to imagine me getting angry. All she has to do is think about any random car ride we've taken where I encountered the least bit of traffic or a slow driver.

All she has to do is think about anytime something didn't go the way I expected it too.

All she has to do is think about the hundreds of times a week I've become frustrated over pointless garbage.

The person I love above all has no problem imagining me angry.

I don't want to be this way, and I certainly don't try to get mad. I hate the way it makes me feel. I hate how my neck hurts and my head pounds. My entire body gets angry. I can almost feel it swallowing me, the way a claustrophobic describes having an episode. 

My anger has been such an issue in my life, it has at times caused me to question the very existence of God. I'll explain: since I've been young, I've prayed, cried, and begged God to take away my anger. It comes out of nowhere, and I rarely feel it until it's peaked. All I want is for it to be away, but God has never seemed fit to do so. Any time I've talked to someone about this issue, I get the same regurgitated garbage about "God only helps those who help themselves," which isn't Biblical, by the way. People who are the quickest to give throw-away advice are usually the worst people to talk to, but they seem to always be around. I've come to terms with my faith in God, however. I read about Paul who asked God to deliver him from the "thorn in his side," but Scripture never indicates God did that. Maybe it's just something I'm stuck with.

That really bothers me, though, because it's not how I want to live. I want to be laid back. I want to be able to relax and enjoy things. I want to be happy without consciously waiting for something to ruin my mood. I guess I just want to feel normal.

I'm not posting this because I want anyone's advice on how to deal with it, although I'm sure someone will try. You can't help yourself, and I understand. I guess I just wanted to post how it makes me feel, because there may be someone else who feels as swallowed up as I do. I promise this: if I find a way to deal, to cope, and to exorcise, I'll be sure to talk about that, too. In the mean time, just know that you're not alone in your anger. Just know that I realize how frustrating it is when people say things like, "You just need to relax," or "Don't get so worked up about things," as if it was that simple. Trust me, if it was a matter of just "not doing something," I'd never do whatever that something might be again.

Here's to feeling better....

32 Is The New Camaro

What does it mean to feel old?

I'm 32. If you ask my Meemaw, I'm still a kid. If you ask some of my fellow classmates at UCO, I'm old. They'll tell me, too. It's funny to them. I'm an odd duck at college. I'm what they call a "non-traditional student," and that has nothing to do with the fact that I wear Hammer pants and a chef hat every day. It has to do with my age. Most non-traditional students are actually much older. Mainly women in their late 40's to early 50's who want to finish that degree they put off when the kids were born. So you have babies, early menopause, and me right in the middle...

The fact is, I don't feel any older at 32 than I did when I was 21. I still like the same music, I don't ever tuck in my shirt, and I don't listen to Glenn Beck.

I am very much a punk and metal kid who has a penchant for soul music and outlaw country.

I'm not old, am I?

Almost every time I see a teenager wearing those ridiculous looking skinny jeans or the girls who look like Cyndi Lauper, I just shake my head. I can't believe someone would willing look that silly based on a fleeting trend....

...I use to part my hair down the middle, shave underneath the longest part, wore Jnco's and No Fear shirts....

I don't think about that crap in those moments, though. It's my hypocrisy, and I wanna own it.

The fact is, I'm in my 30's. I don't care how young that sounds to old folks and how old that sounds to younger ones. It's just where I'm at. I'm in my 30's, and my career hasn't even begun. That's the part that depresses me a little. I'm going to be working with teachers my age who've been doing their job for almost 10 years, now. I'll be almost 50 when my oldest son graduates high school. I'll probably be looking at the end when he's in his 40's. There's a very good chance that my life could almost be half over...

Depressed yet?

I'm trying not to be. When you look at it like that, it can seem a bit sad. The truth is, however, we all have a short amount of time to get it all done before we die. It really doesn't matter if you start when you're 20 or 50. There is the bookend of life and death that surrounds us, and the events in between are solely up to us. It's hard when so many people have a time table which they hold every one else up to. I guess it's just a matter of realizing that my time table, my story, is different than anyone else, and I refuse to let someone write it for me.

Plus, I haven't peaked yet. That's what's exciting. The best years of my life are still ahead of me! I'll never be like the popular high school jock who, now in his 30's, realizes that the meaningless little world of high school football were the best years of his life.

Caleb is getting excited....