Uncertainty

"Some men think with their dicks. Some men think with their heads. The most successful men, though, think with their hearts."

-David J. Herman, Sr.

You have to think with your heart and act out of love in as much as you can. Sure, by trusting and reaching out and responding all the time, you're going to get hurt a lot more than if you just turtled up. But ... isn't that how you hit it big, too? Isn't that how you live the happiest life you can?

So that's my rationale on this one. That'll be how I explain it.

Fall

It's over. Thank the gods, it's finally over.

I'll admit that this was not my finest semester. Performance in all areas was sub-par at best. Without looking too closely, it's easy to see stuff all over the place that could have been improved upon. Interestingly and despite my most ridiculous doubts, though, the world kept on spinning. I guess that's the silver lining. Maybe in the future I'll remember the work of this semester and remind myself that stellar, top-notch performance is superfluous to function (read: happiness). Maybe.

I've spend the last week organizing the spring semester into a far more consolidated, efficient beast than the fall was. Music and teaching fell on the chopping block as usual, leaving class and research in the top spots. The goal was to find time to sleep and relax, enjoying my last semester with these lingering friends and loved ones. With that big ol' M.S. degree serving as my purpose for the next 9 months, I suppose the way things shook out was logical, if cold. I'll still have some music. I'll still have time to teach the class I really did want to teach. What's more, everyone who was supposed to be mad, disappointed, or upset has been incredibly supportive. Whether they knew me well or were just objectively compassionate, I am grateful for that much.

I feel myself pulling away from beloved Lehigh. It's just one of those things ... the natural course has been run. It's time to go. As is typical, a starting point for my adult life has been chosen, although it's important to note that it can be rescinded at any time. Where else would I go? Who knows? The adventurous part of me wants to save my pennies, board a plane, and find the world. The passionate part of me wants to petition to spend the summer traveling with some drum corps. The pragmatic part of me wants to get a job so I can begin to build a life that can support a family someday.

My winter break will mostly be spent here at school, getting research done. I'll hopefully spend the majority of my time running, practicing, and reading. If I can catch up on even a little of my reading list, I'll be quite thankful. The peace of the quiet, tranquil mountain will be a welcome respite from the hecticity of the last four (seven? twelve?) months. Also, I feel the time alone will be important.

So it goes ... as usual, my favorite saying from Opus the Penguin certainly applies here.

"Another day, another segue."

Happy Winter Break.

On the Couch

The following is a summarized, paraphrased, internalized dialogue from some of the time I spent at the Counseling Center last Spring.

"You take certain people in your life and build them up into some sort of superhero status. It's always easy for us to tell who they are, because you rearrange your whole life around them. Back in high school, we knew for a fact that you would never have done anything to cross Mr. C. In fact, you were willing to overlook his flaws entirely, practice hours upon hours a day for him, defend him in any conversation, and I bet if he'd asked, you would have laid down in traffic for him. He was one of your superheroes.

So that's what you do. I'll bet at Lehigh you've got the same relationship with certain professors, don't you? How about over at- what's your company's name, Air Products? You haven't talked to any of the Cadets staff in years, but if Marc Sylvester called I have no doubt you'd fly over to J. Birney Crum or whatever midwest high school he named.

Now, all that's fine- to an extent. But what you do next is where the problems come in. You get your motivation from these people because they give you the praise that validates you. And whatever validates you is where your focus goes. Science. Like I said, you build everything you do around these heroic archetypes of people that you create. Academically and professionally, this has benefited you quite well. You build a hero, you kill yourself for them, they praise you, and you're beloved as the worker and achiever you are. I'm not saying this entirely out of derision, either- I'm saying this out of respect and admiration, too. Sure, you fuck up all the time, but you know that you've crafted quite a little resume for yourself in the last decade.

So why are you so unhappy, you ask? For exactly the reasons I've already described- you get your validation from being a wunderkind for your heroes. The thing is that that takes a toll on you. No one can sustain 20 hour workdays and a downright debilitating number of commitments. Where do you get release, then? Certainly not another hero, god no. That's where the stress came from in the first place. So you look to other aspects of your life, your friends and relationships. Your friends, being typically busy and motivated themselves, are often able to overlook or forgive your incessant cancellations, delays, and apologies. They know the score- if there's work, M. Jeremy's gonna do it. The fact that they love you anyway is what makes them so good to you.

Now your relationships ... you gotta know that's where you fuck up the most, right? You don't want more stress, especially if it's not where you get your validation, so you never regard the girls you date as the heroes you live for. Because of this, they never even stand a chance. If they no longer serve entirely as the escape you're looking for, you don't want to put in the time anymore. The moment they ask something back from you that you aren't immediately willing to give, they become superfluous to you. Cold, maybe, but mostly true.

Your hope lies, I think, in finding a way to get some sense of that accomplished validation from the women you love. You get your motivation from acknowledgment of accomplishment. Think about this- you come home from work, you tell her you did good that day. In a perfect world where you would be happy, her reaction would mean more to you than anyone else's that day. Her recognition of who you are would make the whole of your existence. She'd be your hero, the one you'd want to lay down in traffic for. That can never happen, though, if you don't open yourself up. You need to be willing to acknowledge the fact that someone else knows you're not perfect but they love you anyway.

I think that's where the disconnect comes from, really. There's always a barrier between you and your current heroes that keeps them out, keeps you shining. The women you loved wanted and needed that barrier to come down. In a lot of ways, they just wanted you. But you wouldn't let it- that notion frightened you- so you retreated back to your heroes, walked away, and let them be the escape hatch that became too stressful. Either that, or you tried to open up, and maybe things just didn't go your way.

Does any of this make sense? What do you think?"

From XKCD

http://xkcd.com/513/

If the desired outcome on the male character's side is the same in all cases, does the nobility of his intentions matter?

What if his motivation isn't fear, but hope?

Rooftops

The trick to Batman is that, to some extent, he can't help what he is. On the one hand, he wants to save his parents' city. He's doing it for the other families and citizens of Gotham who don't deserve the pain and anguish he's suffered through. He wants to make a difference for the sake of the city itself. It's a cause he believes in.

On the other hand, I don't think Batman could really stop what he's doing if given the choice. As they allude to in the various media of late, he is fueled by his rage. He wants it to stop, but he hasn't really found his peace, and so his crusade against crime is the way he lives. Bruce Wayne needs Batman as much as Gotham does- it's the outlet that gives him what he yearns for. He simply can't deal with everyday life on a normal basis. He's thus trying to save Gotham because he believes in it, but he's also trying to save Gotham because he needs to save Gotham. Even at great personal expense and sacrifice, the cost to him is inconsequential compared to the need he satiates within himself.

Sometimes we'll do anything to get what we need, or even a glimpse of what we need. You might believe in something and chase it for what it is. You might also chase something because, regardless of the personal cost, it gives you that glimpse. It satiates something within you. Maybe it's something you deserve whole-heartedly, or from a more reliable source, but you'll take it where you can get it. You become mercenary for it. So you stand on rooftops and run off anytime the signal hits the sky ... hoping against hope that maybe this time, this night, Gotham will be saved and you'll find that peace.

Odds are, though, that you're too eager. Too accepting. Too willing to respond to the call and take any semblance of something that fulfills that need within you. Will this be the time? Or will it just make things worse? Even if you know the answer, you'll probably head off as fast as you can into the darkness. To find the thing that you're looking for.

Who knows?

In the meantime, I'll be on the roof. Send up the signal if you need me. 'Cause let's be honest ... could I really stop myself if I tried?

Burn Out

This is too much, even for my work style. What's more, both of my grad work positions are going to take up even more time next semester. Something is going to have to give ... and for the sake of sanity, I will not and cannot let it be the time I spend with friends.

For perspective, it's bad news when you can't wait to start working full time. It's not that I know I'll be doing less- knowing me, I'll still work 50-60 hour weeks- but it's the chance to reset my schedule that's really appealing. I had that chance for this year. The whole operation just kinda got botched. The biggest problem was that I entirely underestimated the effort and time that grad classes and research would take. As a result, I now find myself absolutely exhausted and strung out. It's not even like things are going poorly ... it's just that I'm not sure I can keep this up much longer.

For now, we push on into Thanksgiving break.

Pilgrim

... and I am alone.

I turn North under a darkened, hazy sky. It feels late but the sun is just beginning to set on the edge of the cloud cover. Behind me lay a bustling city of travelers. With a last glance to the city center from whence I'd come, I tighten my grip on my bags and follow the curving road upward.

The train station is almost empty at this hour, holding little but an automatic ticket stamper and the abstract hum of the ceiling lights. Platform D. I stride outward past tired commuters, heading off into the falling night. My mind, unable to do more than detect and observe, instinctually reaches into my pocket and pulls out my music player. I sit on a scratched, half-broken bench for some time, scanning the tiny black box for something, anything, that would spark. Nothing. The night remains cold. I return the music player to my pocket and simply gaze at the concrete, made orange from the platform lights.

I lay back in the green train car, unable to see much of the countryside through which we travel. Normally I would be calmed, soothed by the rhythmic clacking of the wheels on the track. My body and mind would gradually shift into that gentle numbness of sleep; I would awake at our destination. There is no shifting tonight ... no movement, no natural tendency toward slumber. The clacking resonates throughout my chest as it would through a hollow drum, rebounding and echoing with each renewed shock from the wheels below.

Another station. My throat is dry ... I stumble into a half-darkened snackshop as the owner begins to lower the gate for the night. We do not speak the same language but I form my hands as though to beg or pray, then flash him one finger. I will be quick, in and out, I just need water. Please, sir. I say it out loud, knowing he will not comprehend, but I say it anyway. He understands, leaving the gate half-down to ward off other travelers but returning to the register. I hurriedly grab a bottle of water, toss him a coin. I reform my hands and bow my head, thanking him profusely. I hear the lights click off and the gate clang onto the concrete behind me. He must have seen my eyes, I think.

Another train, another countryside. There is only darkness still. The car is more full this time, a car of maybe a hundred sleeping souls. Some snore. A young woman behind me exhales softly; if I lean my head against the window I can feel her breath against the back of my right ear. A priest some rows up is the only illumination in the black cabin, poised under a yellow light and reading from a tiny tome. The heads of the sleeping souls bob in unison with the bobbing of the car, side-to-side against our motion. I imagine we dart through the night, cutting the woods and hills and grass with a cleave of swift steel and fire. Despite this outward serenity I do not sleep. I am out-of-body, I am not here. I am seat 68 on car 21.

The sun breaks over the horizon a nighttime later. As it rises we pull into our destination, another stone and gray city. My mind has now been oscillating between a nullified existence and a quiet but agonized screaming for some hours. I am exhausted by this but find my legs have already risen to take the aisle. They carry me out of the car; carry me to my bags; call to my arms, who generously lift my bags; carry me out of the station to a bus map; call to my eyes, who scan the map and identify a bus number; bring me to the correct stop with the correct number.

Out of the bus window I see a city passing by, alert and alive with noise amidst a the rising sun. Honking horns and traffic lights, people laughing with friends, the language I do not know. Again on instinct I check all my pockets, as I would before leaving for class or to fly across an ocean. I panic slightly, as I have all during my journey, when I don't feel my phone or keys in their respective left and right spots and instead find a passport and plane ticket in their place. The bus runs alongside the sea as I run these checks. When my habitual obsession is appeased, I take the time to view the sun reflecting over the water. Is my wallet in my bag?

The airport is as it was eleven (twelve?) days ago. I pass through security. I pass through the terminal. I pass through to my gate. I arrive just as the doors are opening. I hand over my ticket and passport silently. In broken English I hear, "You are going home?" "Yes." "Safe flight." "Yes." I walk down the jetway, find my seat. Place my bags. Sit down. The interminable screaming is now quite intense, almost deafening. I yearn for it to abate to the out-of-body numbness. Despite my exhaustion I cannot sit still. In my wallet (which was in my bag and not my pocket) I find $19 dollars. What can I use this for? I do not want to read my book or write or watch the movie or hear the woman with the crying baby or hear the business man type on his laptop or hear the incessant question of the stewardess or hear the clinking of the coke cans, so arrhythmic and unlike the deep guttural clinking of the train car wheels at 31,000 feet. I hit the button and show my money to the stewardess and form my hands as though to beg or pray. She brings back what I ask for and takes some of the money; I drink it and the screaming fades a little. Two more button hits and I live a little again. Still my body will not sleep so once again I sit still, now at 550 miles per hour and 31,000 feet, flying over an ocean. I am going home and want to be nowhere else. At this thought I am seat 26E on flight 47. It feels good.

Another bus outside the airport. No one is on it but me. The driver takes us through the streets of a bigger city, out of it, through the more amber countryside, to within a few miles of home. He will not take me further. No one can? I sit on the curb and wait for my friend to come find me and take me the last few miles home.

I sit on my bed. My bags are downstairs. I see the walls of my room. The blue of my sheets. The familiar shape of my horn. The smell of my laundry. The calls of the people outside. The heat of the summer.

I sit there, wishing I were back where the sun had set on the edge of the clouds.

100th Post

No words on this one. I talk too much as it is.

If anything in this world has saved me, it's the beauty of brass.

Go to it:

Organ Symphony
C. Saint-Saëns
Performed by the Black Dyke Band

Memory

I ran down the path and stopped under the bridge. After hopping down the slope, I emerged at the water. It was sunset in Bethlehem and the sun shown over the tops of the trees, the buildings, the river. There was some bustle of big noise in the distance, but it was overcome by the chattering of the bugs around me. I stood, my breath becoming more even, completely enveloped by the scene.

It was one of those rare moments when peace finds you. When you know things are going to be okay. When you're not afraid of the future or regretful of the past.

I knew things were going to be okay because that sunset showed me a thousands images at once.

The first time I kissed her. The picture of me sleeping on Dad's stomach. Me and my brother in Disney world with our Mickey and Donald hats. That night on the other side of the bridge. Dawn over the Rockies. The tunnel before Finals. The Pooh Bear that sat in my crib the day I got home from the hospital. The moon that one night. The French countryside from the top of the mountain. The city lights with Uncle Tim. The smell of my grandfather's trains in his basement. The clutter of my best friend's backseat. The onion haze of Uncle Didn's gravy. The quiet scratching of the stage curtain. The sound of six trombones on Here's That Rainy Day. Main Street as we turned the corner during the parade. Sunset over Amsterdam. The practice room at 6:30 AM with Mr. C. The scent of the breeze as we descended into the stadium. The brightness of her eyes. The hot pavement of the parking lot. The scent of Mom's wine.

The sound of Welcome Home.
The sound of I Love You.
The sound of Goodbye.

This river, this sun, this scene, right now.

I know everything's going to be okay because of all I have seen and heard and done in this life already. All at once, these things are unique to me and universal to everyone. Everyone has this collection of memories that makes them who they are. Because these memories are so unique and universal, I have to believe that people have felt all the same emotions that we have for thousands of years. Billions have lived and died with the same pictures we have, just with different faces and backgrounds.

Everything's going to be fine. Roll with life ... live it, learn from it, love it. Be with those whom you care about. Enjoy it all.

With one last fleeting look, I turned from the river and went back up the slope. When I reached the path again, I took off running.

That's all there is to it.

Nerd Out

1998 was a good year for Christmas in our house. A fateful meeting with a legend of the DOS universe that summer had aided in my rapid ascension from a strictly console gamer to one of the joint console/PC variety. While this arrangement only further aggravated my already significant childhood obesity problem, it also opened an entire world of possibility to my pudgy little mouse-clicking fingers.

The DOS legend that unveiled these new and beautiful horizons to me was none other than the original Warcraft: Orcs and Humans. Although now an ancient tome of a previous age, it is a tome revered and heralded by all who have ever heard the heartwarming whistle of Orcish spears graze the air. Its influence since 1994 is perhaps only eclipsed by the halcyon memories of we who battled for the green fields of Azeroth. Even today, there are few sights in gaming that I find more terrifying than that of a Daemon sporting the impenetrable hell that is Unholy Armor. "Surely, the catapults will kill him!"

Fool.

Anyway, thus enraptured, my natural descent into the Blizzard Universe was as predictable as it was unstoppable. Christmas that year welcomed not only Warcraft II: Tides of Darkness into our home, but also the sweet nectar of the holiest gods that is Starcraft. I am not exaggerating when I say I logged more hours on Brood War than perhaps 98% of the other games I've played, combined. Months-long completion quests involving 120 stars and 230 missiles paled in comparison to the sacrifices I laid at the feet of the Overmind. Online matches, solo missions, map editing ... so many hours and days and weeks did I practice hydra-spamming and muta-ling builds.

I am simultaneously overjoyed and immensely saddened by the delay of Starcraft II to 2009. On the one hand, I eagerly await the chance to put the Juggernaught (my new quad processor PC) into action, once more driving through the Koprulu sector with the Fury of the Swarm at my back. On the other hand ... if the game were to be released before next summer, I almost guarantee I would be unable to finish my M.S. degree on my current timeline. The choice between interstellar conquest and stoichiometric mass balances is no choice at all, and money has little value to those who would call themselves Cerebrate.

In the meantime, I shall bide my time. There is little to be done but work to complete this degree so that I might enjoy the luxury of SCII in peace when it finally does arrive. That, and work on brainstorming my SCII call sign for online play. I was thinking perhaps "panamajackjose." It should be fitting, since rumor has it that the new Twilight Archon will have a mana-based attack known only as "Jueves." The command will drive all units in a certain radius into a chaotic bloodlust, satiable only through the grim death of their enemy.

In 2009, I submit my soul to the Will of the Khala. For now, back to work.

Happy Monday.

Vice

"Choosing your virtue is easy ... you may select whatever is most suitable to your palette and you get points for 'doing your best.'

Your vice, though ... that's something to be cherished. It's rarely rewarded in any fathomable way, and yet we all have them. We all exercise them daily. We all make horrible, exquisite, ultimately damning use of them so that we may live day-to-day, hour-to-hour, minute-to-minute. But they are, indeed, damnable. Obscene. Best left alone. My god, could you imagine life without the vices that keep you from killing yourself? What horrors we may yet witness in the name of virtue, integrity, and unutilized vice.

For it is what we must not do- but do anyway- that in many ways defines who we are and how we are remembered. A good man is remembered by his family and may enjoy the honor of his house for all ages ... but the troubled man, anguished man, dangerous man, that is who we are. The man who will wrong others and be wronged. The man who will condemn others and be condemned. The man who will go to the grave with not just friends but half a society's worth of enemies. All of us, living in vice, damning ourselves and the day we were born with each swig of the bottle, thrust of pure lust, drag of some obnoxious chemical.

So I say, to all who will hear ... choose your vice with care. Choose your weakness such that you may live to the heights of damnation and the depths of immortal praise. Be who you are and do what gives you happiness from breath to breath ... for although I do not celebrate or endorse hedonism, I do say that its appeal and use, in ironic moderation, is what makes this existence in any way comprehensible. Remember- any hero may choose his strength ... but the wisest man knows that he spends far more time with his flaws."

Deja Vu

11:01 PM

His light: The lamp above the kitchen table.
My light: A desklamp and a computer monitor.

His noise: The Phillies game.
My noise: The Daily Show.

His work: Scheduling and inventory.
My work: Turbine modeling.

His vice: Gin and tonic.
My vice: LionsHead.

His goodnight: Two sons and a wife.
My goodnight: Two roommates.

Try or not, you will emulate those whom you admire.

"As a family, our natural talent is work ethic."

Your Element

Can't forget to send e-mails to the band director and the chapter. Also, my adviser. I never dropped off that contract ... I should do that this afternoon. Need to knock out both homework assignments this weekend. Is there an extra team meeting this week? I should check on both of them, but I was told not to. All right. Gotta switch the laundry over. Errands are done. Did I forget anything else I should have gotten? Shampoo. Sure, I'm free at that time. I can take care of that. I'm on it. Just hand it to me and it will be done tonight. Not due till next Friday. One more cup of coffee. I'm free to run tomorrow. No, I'm not. The next day? I'll let you know. We should hang out. I'll definitely be there. Can't promise I'll be there. We can't talk anymore. We just can't. It's unbearable. I'll make every effort. Hey, I have tickets to this thing- want to go? I need more shampoo. The homework is due Thursday, right? The homework is due on the 30th, right? When is the exam? Gotcha. The plant model will be submitted by Friday. Sure, we can do Tuesday and Thursday. Let me check my calendar. Let me run that by my to-do list. Let me see what else is in my e-mail box. We should do happy hour before rehearsal. I'm not playing the gig next week, but the one in October. Yeah, I picked up the dry cleaning. Yes, officer, I understand. Wait, when is the homework due? Hey, are you free to go out this weekend? I just posted the Jueves plans- let me know.

Yes, I can do that.

Give it to me.

I'll have it done by tomorrow.




Sometimes it just feels good to be in your element ... and I've always known this about myself. If I don't fill my to-do list and my calendar, I grow unhappy, pensive, and restless. If I can fill it week to week, day to day, always be producing, always be running, and fall asleep before I can read a whole paragraph ... I'm happiest.

It just feels like I'm a little more me again.

Happy September.

Duplicator

"I think most of us would be horrified to meet ourselves and discover what everyone else already knows about us."
-B. Watterson

The point that I've been consistently returning to is that everything of the last six months has been done before ... by me. There's nothing new here. The difference is that this time I'm the one on the other end. Of all the actions, mistakes, sins, and choices made, I've just never had to face them this way.

The difficulty I'm thus having is reconciling recent events with the idea that I've done the same things in the past. It's forcing me to come to terms with something I've never anticipated- myself. I'm seeing myself and my own previous actions in a way I've never been able to articulate or understand before. This new knowledge has already been both impactful and, perhaps more importantly, painful.

I'm trying not to lament my past actions or choices as I sort things out. There's little sense in doing that aside from dealing with my own feelings. The most significant thing to take from this is the decisions I will make in the future.

For 22 years, my personality and character have been built on fear. Most of the other base facets of how I behave- the obsessiveness, the perfectionism, the need for acceptance- can be traced back to that original quality. Sometimes positive outcomes have resulted from it, not the least of which include my professional and academic achievements. But when it comes to people ... to love ...

You can never really understand your impact on others until someone else impacts you the same way. It's the reason why I love teaching music. I know what it is to be taught by a good teacher whom I respect and want to make proud. It's the reason why I hope to be a good father someday, because I know what it is to have the best one.

And, like everything else in the world, it goes both ways. You can't understand the hurt you cause someone else unless you've been hurt the same way.

Now, regardless of how you feel about the show, I'm going to end with a quote from South Park. Butters articulates my current feelings very well.

"Oh, I love life ... yeah, I'm sad, but at the same time, I'm really happy that something could make me feel that sad. It's like... it makes me feel alive, you know. It makes me feel human. The only way I could feel this sad now is if I felt something really good before. So I have to take the bad with the good. So I guess what I'm feeling is like a beautiful sadness."
-L. Stotch

Happy Jueves Eve.

You Can't Give In

"I'm just sad for you."
"Why?"
"Cause I know it won't make you happy."

I have great friends, a strong family, and countless opportunities coming up this year. My graduate work will go well, the TA job should be fun, and I'll be doing more musical activities than I have since high school.

So for now ... I'll try to focus on that stuff.

Happy fall semester.

Alfred

They'll hate you for it ... but you can be the outcast.
You can make the choice that no one else can make.

The right choice.

Red Cross

As I begin to fade I can feel my body growing cold. My mouth is dry and rusty, my lips tingly with their slow loss of sensation. My hands begin to shake, and I find it ever more difficult to hold them where they are. I’m losing my grip. My feet are numbing ever so gradually. My toes will barely flex. The last sensation I begin to feel consciously is a dull but pervading thumping in the back of my head, just above my neck.

In the distance, I’m aware of the realization that this rhythm is my heartbeat. Almost. It’s slower than my heartbeat, more profound, more instinctive. The awareness spreads to all my organs, heightened by the deadening of my limbs. The vessels meant to keep me alive, usually forgotten, have come to occupy the whole of my being.

My mind wanders. Is this what it’s like to die?

Frigid ice lances through my arm and jolts me back to thought. This might be what it’s like to die. Two minutes to go. I can make it.

The last some-odd minutes my life has oscillated between red and clear. Red leaves, making me weary and numb and dropping me into the primeval of my organs. Clear returns, a freezing that numbs also but puts me back into a hazy mind. Every minute or so they switch. Numb and numb. Dying and sleeping. How did this start?

“Give me your hand,” she had said.

Red again. Black spots at the edge of my vision and I’m sinking. I can see the essence of my life moving away from me, taking with it energy and feeling and want. We’re waiting until enough is gone. Half a liter of me.

Clear again. I can see but I’m frozen. The clear isn’t what I need. It’s a replacement for the red, to keep my veins and arteries and capillaries from collapsing. But it won’t do what only the red can. The coldness makes me feel hollow.

“You’re going to feel this,” she had said.

Red again. The drop is a little higher each time. The red had begun with a burning and an excitement as I opened myself. Willing to give energy and feeling and want freely. Wishing I could give more, regardless of the fall.

Clear again. I’m dimly aware of the fact that the clear is mine as well, in some way. Despite this, our short time apart has made it cold, and the crystal coldness of it is alien to me. No one has ever cut themselves and seen emptiness come out.

“We’re done. You look pale,” she says.

She applies a thin band-aid that barely holds back what I continue to give.

I stand up. My limbs are weak and my vision unclear. The dull throbbing in the back of my head is deafening. I stagger away on unsure legs, full of my own cold nothing. Outside of my skin I tell myself to be patient. In time energy and feeling and want will flow back into my body from the deepest part of my bones, restoring the red of my life.

For now … I leave behind half a liter of me.

East East East

It's drum corps weekend in the Lehigh Valley. This one might take the cake for the amount of time I'll be spending on the activity; it'll probably be the most since '05 when I actually marched. The best part is that I discovered where the Cadets are staying for the weekend through a friend of mine in the Allentown Band. We all know what that means ... rehearsal watching. Yes.

Here's the schedule. If anyone wants to be included in this celebration of music in motion, let me know.

Friday, August 1st
DCI East Championship (I)
Allentown, PA
J. Birney Crum Stadium
Step-off at 6:30 PM

Saturday, August 2nd
Cadet Rehearsal
Bethlehem, PA
Freedom High School
10/11 AM - Whenever

DCI East Championships (II)
Allentown, PA
J. Birney Crum Stadium
Step-off at 6:30 PM

Sunday, August 3rd
Music in Motion
Westminster, MD
Westminster High School
Step-off at 7:00 PM

For Holy Name Shall Always Be.

Amen.

1005

I would not think to cut my heart from Wood
The cover of boys and birds.
Able to give and bend and age and groan,
Adaptable to the ravages of wind and rain,
But weak to fire-
To be swallowed in an instant
By the slightest kindling
Left only as dull ache and biting smoke
Losing form and soul alike-
And worse to be at once a ghost
Having lived but been consumed.

I would not think to carve my heart from Stone,
The seat of kings and queens.
Able to withstand but the hottest fire,
Stalwart long (but not forever)
Against the hardest rain,
Taken from the deep base of the mountain
or the summit that scratches the sky,
Either way sacrificing
Purpose for flawed form-
And worse to be broken, shattered
By the tiniest pebble tossed in the wind.

I would not think to cleave my heart from Iron,
The ribbing of cities and men.
Able to bear the weight of the mountain,
Tempered by the purging fire,
Bending in time with the wind
Ignorant of its attempts-
Weak however to rain
which may rust,
A corruption of form-
And worse to then collapse, tearing down
The rest of this delicate structure.

I would so think to cast my heart from Steel
The skin of soldiers and sky,
Being desirous as I am
Of strength in bending.
Unscorched by your eyes
Unmoved by your voice
Dry to your tears-
Thereby shirking your elements
Which burn and break and rust lesser earths.

But this being the worst
Because I could be safe for ages-
Strong
Cold
And wishing you would return
To somehow destroy my perfect form.

My Worst Enemy

"Hello, this is Dwight Schrute calling from Dunder-Mifflin, and according to our records you appear to be low on office supplies."

My dad has a way of revitalizing and inspiring that few others do. Maybe it's the fact that he's normally so stoic, making his words that much more impactful when he does speak. Maybe it's because I love and respect him so much. Regardless, what he said this weekend hit home.

This morning I woke up, took a shower, threw on my work clothes, put up an away message, and then walked over to the dresser where I keep the day's effects. Today included:

-wallet
-glasses
-keys
-cell phone
-ID badge
-desk keys
-blistex
-iPod

... and there, sitting in the corner of the drawer, was a gray bracelet that said, "Support the Rabid." I put it on for the first time since the end of the schoolyear.

Of course my feelings haven't changed all that much, if at all. Of course I oscillate from day to day, hour to hour, often minute to minute. Of course writing this down is probably more for the purpose of convincing myself than for convincing anyone else. But there's a difference between living with those feelings and living while being trapped by those feelings. My dad helped me figure that out.

So for now?

Another day, another segue.

Weakness

I have a significant weakness for certain aspects of an individual's personality. They take on the form of the same outlets I use for emotional release: music and writing. That isn't to say I'm not moved by the other interests, passions, and loves that help to comprise a person ... I'm just most easily swayed by those two.

As I've discussed before, there is something deeply personal for me about sharing the music that moves a person most intensely. It's a direct reflection of my own love of the art form and the effect it has on me. I'm usually pretty open about sharing my love of certain songs or artists. Like everything else I feel, my reactions are pinned directly to my sleeve for all to see. When someone else can do the same and offer me insight into their own musical loves, then, I begin to feel connected to them in a way I don't feel with others. I come to feel that I know them on a level below the surface, closer to where their emotions really lie.

Looking across my past, this theory is pretty easy to trace. The friends I've had the strongest relationships with have always been found through music, either as fellow players, marchers, or listeners. Among the romantic relationships and interests I've had, regardless of their length and intensity, the same pattern is clear. I've felt most strongly attached to those women with whom I was able to connect on a deeper musical level. Other factors obviously came into play, but in general this theory holds across the last 8 years without question.

Aside: have a really been dating people for 8 years? Holy crap.

More recently I've come to appreciate writing as a form of personal expression, probably within the last 3 years or so. Since then it's become a consistent outlet for me, even when I find myself unable to write in an articulate or thought-forming way. Being able to read the personal writings of others has since come to have a similar effect on the way I view and connect with an individual. From the most superficial blathering about a bad day to the most heartrending confession, all writing reveals something about the writer. And it's once again that revelation, that sharing, that lets me feel so much more in tune with someone.

I guess the most important thing I can take away from this line of thinking is that whomever I become involved with in the future, for now or forever, I would hope that music and writing could become an intrinsic part of the relationship we share. I know now how vastly influential and positive those connections are for me. I have no worries about artistic connections in friendship. I've always been drawn to fellow musicians as friends. It's just something to keep in mind romantically because musical or written connection seems to be the thing that transcends the usual machinations I throw up in self-defense. I can be very good at keeping others out, intentionally or otherwise; this might be a way to let them in on mutual terms.

And besides- is there anything more frightening, exciting, dangerous, or intimate than driving around listening to music in the darkness, or reading your most secret thoughts aloud to someone?

Perhaps ... but the list seems pretty short.

Happy Sunday.

Compostela

I've tried writing almost 20 entries in the last two weeks that I haven't been able to finish. Some thought process will start, some notion of what I want to say, and something halting will come between the beginning and the end. As a result, 17 beguiling posts sit in my "Edit Posts" column; nearly all of them are stopped mid sentence, even, as opposed to mid entry or mid paragraph.

Sometimes I can't say what I want to say in a way that I like.

Sometimes I can't easily articulate my thoughts into a cohesive flow.

And sometimes ... many times ... I just can't figure out what I even want to say.

Of course the importance of writing isn't necessarily finishing, but the attempt. I know that. And insomuch as the attempt is being made, I suppose I should be content. It feels like I've lost my words, outside of posting those of others or quipping about workplace idiocy or mentioning some exterior event going on. Maybe that's best for now.

It's just sort of a shame ... I was thinking in the car today that I love summer for its inspiration. These three months are the season when I usually feel most invigorated and motivated to explore music, writing, and reading in ways that I can't during the year. In a little over a month, time will shrink back to its normal size, and the race will start anew.

I hope I can maybe sort through what's happening now and rediscover a way to communicate. It's not the lack of communication with others I fear most, really- that always comes in time- but it's my inability to communicate with myself. It's a lonely feeling in a way I've never experienced before.

On the plus side ... I just finished this post.

Goodnight.

Hedging

Lessons in Love, by Way of Economics
By BEN STEIN

AS my fine professor of economics at Columbia, C. Lowell Harriss (who just celebrated his 96th birthday) used to tell us, economics is the study of the allocation of scarce goods and services. What could be scarcer or more precious than love? It is rare, hard to come by and often fragile.

My primary life study has been about love. Second comes economics, so here, in the form of a few rules, is a little amalgam of the two fields: the economics of love. (I last wrote about this subject 20 years or so ago, and it's time to update it.)

In general, and with rare exceptions, the returns in love situations are roughly proportional to the amount of time and devotion invested. The amount of love you get from an investment in love is correlated, if only roughly, to the amount of yourself you invest in the relationship.

If you invest caring, patience and unselfishness, you get those things back. (This assumes, of course, that you are having a relationship with someone who loves you, and not a one-sided love affair with someone who isn't interested.)

High-quality bonds consistently yield more return than junk, and so it is with high-quality love. As for the returns on bonds, I know that my comment will come as a surprise to people who have been brainwashed into thinking that junk bonds are free money. They aren't. The data from the maven of bond research, W. Braddock Hickman, shows that junk debt outperforms high quality only in rare situations, because of the default risk.

In love, the data is even clearer. Stay with high-quality human beings. And once you find that you are in a junk relationship, sell immediately. Junk situations can look appealing and seductive, but junk is junk. Be wary of it unless you control the market. (Or, as I like to tell college students, the absolutely surest way to ruin your life is to have a relationship with someone with many serious problems, and to think that you can change this person.)

Research pays off. The most appealing and seductive (that word again) exterior can hide the most danger and chance of loss. For most of us, diversification in love, at least beyond a very small number, is impossible, so it's necessary to do a lot of research on the choice you make. It is a rare man or woman who can resist the outward and the surface. But exteriors can hide far too much.

In every long-term romantic situation, returns are greater when there is a monopoly. If you have to share your love with others, if you have to compete even after a brief while with others, forget the whole thing. You want to have monopoly bonds with your long-term lover. At least most situations work out better this way. ( I am too old to consider short-term romantic events. Those were my life when Lyndon Johnson and Richard Nixon were in the White House.)

The returns on your investment should at least equal the cost of the investment. If you are getting less back than you put in over a considerable period of time, back off.

Long-term investment pays off. The impatient day player will fare poorly without inside information or market-controlling power. He or she will have a few good days but years of agony in the world of love.

To coin a phrase: Fall in love in haste, repent at leisure.

Realistic expectations are everything. If you have unrealistic expectations, they will rarely be met. If you think that you can go from nowhere to having someone wonderful in love with you, you are probably wrong.

You need expectations that match reality before you can make some progress. There may be exceptions, but they are rare. When you have a winner, stick with your winner. Whether in love or in the stock market, winners are to be prized.

Have a dog or many dogs or cats in your life. These are your anchors to windward and your unfailing source of love.

Ben Franklin summed it up well. In times of stress, the three best things to have are an old dog, an old wife and ready money. How right he was.

THERE is more that could be said about the economics of love, but these thoughts may divert you while you are thinking about your future.

And let me close with another thought. I am far from glib about the economy. It has a lot of pitfalls facing it. As workers and investors, we know that many dangers lurk in our paths. But so far, these things have always worked themselves out and this one will, too. In the meantime, they say that falling in love is wonderful, and that the best is falling in love with what you have.

Not Even 8 AM Yet

This morning a bottle of cologne fell out of my medicine cabinet and smashed into a thousand pieces on the floor. Since I didn't have time to do more than a cursory wipe of the area before I had to leave for work, there are two fun new developments in that room:

1. A crapload of tiny glass shards is splayed across the room. Thank goodness we don't shower or get naked in there.

2. There is a large, powerful puddle of Calvin Klein's Eternity for Men still sitting on the floor. By the time I get home to fix that, I predict that the bathroom will be unlivable. And to think- I was hoping that I wouldn't have to pee in the rec yard until I was drunk.

To brighten my day and yours, though, here's a conversation that happened between Jeff, Chad, and Brian this morning. It's a winner.

Brian: "So until they figure out what caused that reaction, I'm going to have to get an allergy test."
Jeff: "Those suck. What a pain in the ass."
Brian: "Supposedly it's a little prick test all over your back."
Jeff: "Chad, you used to give your ex-wife a little prick test, didn't you?"
Chad: "Yeah, but that was only twice a year."

Happy Monday morning.

Does It Depress You?

How alone you really are?

Final Dark Knight Trailer

I haven't said this in many a year, but this movie could very well be my favorite of all time if the trailers, reviews, and released footage are any indication. Christian Bale is returning to offer his expert portrayal of Bruce Wayne/Batman- a conflicted, tortured, lonely soul trying to do the best he can. We all know, though, that Heath Ledger's anarchist Joker is going to steal the show.

It's only ten days away. For anyone who wants to see me nerd out in the extreme, make sure you join me during one of the many, many viewings of The Dark Knight I'll be heading to in July and August. The best film ever made about my favorite hero and favorite villain of all time?

Let's put a smile on that face.

Alchemy

I was standing in the Allentown Bus Station today trying to discern the incomprehensible schedule they had posted on the wall. I had to get to JFK ... and that was all I knew. The rest was a smudge on some yellowed paper that had been hanging since the bicentennial.

After a minute or two, a man came up and stood beside me. He was about four inches taller than me, bald, Hispanic, and had an impressive goatee. My eyes caught his tattoo, massive arm, and gold chain before I glanced up at his face.

"Where you going?"

Uh, JFK- trying to figure out when I have to be here to catch the bus on Wednesday.

"JFK Airport?"

Yeah.

"Hell, man, no problem. Wednesday? Check this out- match Allentown, Wednesday, JFK ... here you go, man. 9:15. You're here at 9:15, you're going to JFK."

Wow ... cool. Thanks a lot.

"No problem, man."

I thanked him, then walked over and bought my bus tickets. When I turned around, he was gone.

When you want something, all the world conspires in helping you to achieve it.

I think I met the King of Salem in Allentown today- and I think it's time to get on the road.

See you July 6th.

The Road Goes Ever On and On

“What I think is that a good life is one hero journey after another. Over and over again, you are called to the realm of adventure, you are called to new horizons. Each time, there is the same problem: do I dare? And then if you do dare, the dangers are there, and the help also, and the fulfillment or the fiasco. There's always the possibility of a fiasco. But there's also the possibility of bliss.”
-Joseph Campbell

Going to Lehigh was a hero journey, as was marching with the Cadets. Both times I was lucky enough to find the boon and return home safely. There were others, as well, of varying types and degrees … some were bliss, some were fiascos.

I think part of the reason I’ve been so listless lately is that I haven’t received a new call to adventure that I actually want to answer. Working full time as an engineer would be a hero journey of sorts, but I have little interest in pursuing it. The test in that adventure would not come from a desire to pursue excellence but from the endurance and patience I would need just to get up every day. With the options and years arrayed before me as they are right now, I will not go down a path that I know will be a struggle of the worst kind. At least, I won’t without some sense of absolute necessity attached to it.

That’s why, after grad school is over, I’m hoping to answer the call and stage a real, global hero journey. My quest will be to travel the world; my boons will be a greater understanding and awareness of this planet, a greater understanding of myself, and a new sense of purpose for where I should go next. With the money I make next year, it might be possible to live that way for six months or more, bouncing from continent to continent with a backpack, The Alchemist, and my trusty Chewbacca action figure. One always needs a copilot, right?

Fun fact: when you type in “chewbacca” in MS Word 2007 without capitalizing the first letter, the program autocorrects and capitalizes his name. How goddam cool is that?

So yeah … one more year of hiding on Old South Mountain, and then it’s time to make the decision. I say “hide” because that’s exactly what it is. I actually have very little desire to get a Master’s degree, but staying is so much easier than leaving and that MS is my ticket to do so. Some might consider it a cowardly decision- after all, I have the chance to take my current education and go earn a solid salary somewhere. I could have an apartment, fill it with things, have my friends at work that I share beers with on Friday, watch the Phillies on TV during the summer, and come home for holidays. It would be an existence that a lot of people would relish. But cowardly, selfish, lazy, or otherwise … the 9-5 office space gig just isn’t what I want to do, possibly ever.

This year, I guess that will be my real hero journey … to figure out what I can do with my life after the bubble finally pops. After all, you don’t have to join Obi-wan on some damned fool idealistic crusade in order to make a journey. You don’t need to spend ten years in the Mediterranean dodging whirlpools and snake monsters. Even dropping the One Ring back into the fires of Mount Doom seems like a huge pain in the ass. Some of the most important adventuring you can do happens while sitting on the roof of your shitty off campus house and watching the stars, journeying right there within yourself.

Happy Friday.

Camera Mugging

Much to my chagrin, there aren’t too many similarities between where I work now and The Office. The show has a distinctly more dramatic and sitcom-esque style to it, and the characters there are much more exciting, intense, and full of life. Every so often, though, I do get one very Office-like experience: a classic mug-the-camera moment ala Jim Halpert. It’s not overly common for something ridiculous to happen around here, but when it does I just find myself instinctively searching for a camera crew with which to share my joy/mirth/sadness/scorn/general emotion.

And, fortunately for me on this wonderful Friday morning, I recently experienced one such moment.

So I walked into the bathroom at 7:30 AM and heard loud talking. As I rounded the corner I found no one standing there, leading me to believe that there must be two guys in stalls having a conversation. I made a quick check under the doors because now I was curious about who would engage in a loud, ongoing conversation while taking a shit. What this revealed, however, was that there was only one other guy in the bathroom. That’s when I realized … this dude was on his cell phone while dropping the kids off at the pool.

Undoubtedly, the best part of the event was when I heard the topic of his conversation. Here’s a rundown of his dialogue and my responsive thought process as I used the urinal on the opposite side of the room:

“Whatever you want, go ahead. Those details don’t matter that much to me.”

I can’t believe he’s talking on his phone while taking a dump.

“Honey, really, just pick out the ones you want and I’ll look at them when I get home.”

Is he on the phone with his wife? Does she know he’s in the bathroom?

“I do care. I really do. But I’m just saying that you don’t need to wait for me before you make this decision. Pick out the placecard design online and submit it.”

Placecard design? Wait a minute, he can’t be discussing-

“Yes, I care about this wedding!”

Jesus Christ.

“Fine- if you want we can wait until I come home from work and take care of it all this evening. Honey, really, that’s fine.”

She can’t possibly know he’s crapping during this conversation.

“Hang on one sec.”

…?

[light splash]

“Sorry, I’m back.”

… are you fucking kidding me?

And with that, I bid you all a very happy “Friday Morning Following Tequila Thursday.” If your morning was anything like mine, it’s already been tempered by a headache, intense lethargy from only getting 5 hours of sleep, and more than a little disgust at hearing a guy punch the toilet while making wedding plans.

As for the rest of the day, I think it’s time to take a page out of the book of Creed … which, in this case, means I’m going to spend the next 8 hours figuring out what the hell it is I actually do here.

Here’s to summer.

Cliche Indie Movie Scene

I'm sitting on a train at one in the morning, cruising through a landscape of humming orange glow and traffic lights playing to empty streets. I can only see out the window if the train is in motion; otherwise, the fluorescent lights completely outshine the world. My car is empty except for myself, a dozing conductor, and a couple other passengers. A loudspeaker crackles out incoherent station names every ten minutes or so. There's considerable time before he'll vaguely pronounce a word that sounds like the name of my stop.

A businessman with loosened tie and tired eyes sits across the aisle, slowly scrolling through a blackberry. He occasionally types a few sentences. Once he answers a call and quietly talks. The only part of the conversation that is discernible is the end: a brief "I love you, too. I'll be home soon." After that he puts away the blackberry. His eyes seem less tired.

Two other men at the back of the car are wearing orange, blue, and black from head to toe. From their talk it's impossible to tell if their team won, but from them you can hear the comfortable platitudes of fervent baseball fans. The team needs a new coach. Their bullpen is killing their game. A couple more hitters coming alive could save the series. Damn the Phillies.

The remaining car passenger is a black woman with headphones on. She's been asleep since the train was set in motion back at the city. I've been wondering what she's listening to for about as long.

My coffee cup is about drained, as are the batteries on my own music player. My eyes have been sifting in and out of focus for a while, now. One moment they're seeing the outside, watching the cities and suburbs and fields pass in darkness; the next, as the train stops, they only see the reflection of the businessman and myself. My eyes look like his, if a little more lively due to the coffee.

The music I'm playing is a mix tape from a friend. In cliche fashion, all the songs seem to fit the scene. Any one of them could play as a camera started with a shot of me from outside the train, then panned away slowly. Eventually the camera would come to rest high above the train with the tracks in the center of its view; the train would continue traveling off into the darkness. The orange hum and oblivious red and green traffic lights would line the tracks on either side. The sad vocals on top of a guitar or piano would nicely accent the isolation of this shot.

The point of the scene would be just as cliche ... I see it as ending the movie. Travel usually symbolizes searching, or the journey of a character. A train is perfect for this, because it takes many travelers all at once, each with their own search, and it has the ability to move them far over the horizon. Even better, a train will usually run through the night. The traveler is thus forced to wait for the destination to arrive, whether it be their last stop or simply the next step. A traveler who cannot sleep is going forward but is still trapped to ironically watch the world go by, even as they move.

The only question left for the scene is: where am I going? Home? Finding family? Hiking distant travels to lands unknown? Meeting friends? Chasing love? Following an instinct?

Coming to find you?

"Here at Last ...

... on the shores of the sea, comes the end of our fellowship. And I will not say: do not weep, for not all tears are evil."

Last night, I was walking through my old high school with one of my best friends from home. She and I marveled at the changes that had already taken place since we had left 4 and 5 years ago ... walls repainted, lockers rearranged, remodeling that had been done, even different smells. Pictures hung on the walls of athletes, musicians, and scholars whom we didn't even know. Some of the teachers who had influenced us so strongly were still around, but many had also retired or moved on to other work.

Most telling was the change that was evident in our old hangout, the band room. Neither of our band directors were still there. The only records of our time in that room, our glorious and wonderful and infinitely beloved time, were the dusty trophies that lined the walls with the years 2002 and 2003 on them. No one had cleaned them for ages, that we could see ... but we remembered the sweat, energy, and passion that had gone into earning them. Those trophies might just be gray, forgotten relics of plastic, but to us (or at least, to me) they represented the most expensive and worthwhile commodity in the world: friendship.

Walking through my high school a week after my college graduation caused a fairly significant emotional reaction in me. It hasn't really sunk in yet that those four years are over, I think because I'll be returning to Lehigh again in the fall. In the back of my mind, there's that comfort in knowing that the location and people will be almost entirely the same as they've been. Some very important and dear people will be leaving ... going to work, going to other schools, leaving the country ... but many others will also be staying. There will still be parties and nights at the bar, walks in the moonlight and talks until dawn, long evenings of sadness and joy and poor decisions.

I guess that, when I really think about it, the thing I'm clinging to most desperately at this point is not the people, or the place, or anything like that ... but to the past. Just like in high school, Lehigh is a place I've come to own and feel and live within. It has given me almost everything I've had in the last four years, and has affected every single thing I've done in that time. It's become safe, understood, reassuring. It's a place that has given me pride, accomplishment, and a sense of who I am. And yet, I know that returning this year will not be the same, and that in May 2009, it will all be over for good. Only one year from now. The only thing I can guarantee is that I'll be armed with 3 degrees, my personality, my confidence, and the friends I've made since I arrived. With those in my pocket I'll be turned loose on the world, just like everyone else, to make of it what I will.

I know very little for sure at this point. This month has become, as my brother put it, "a very weird sort of stasis." It's like my undergraduate education ended and left me at a train station with no ticket, money, or destination. Sure, things are lined up for the next 12 months of my life- an internship, graduate work, research, teaching, and music. The problem is that I don't think I want the life that I chose for myself four years ago. Having seen the working world, I could never give 40 hours a week to a cubicle, solving engineering design problems on a computer all day. I could never commute half an hour each way, take lunch with the same people, slowly build a suburban house into a truly American suburban castle. There's got to be more to life than that ... there's got to be more to living that that.

As I said, I don't know much of anything at this point. My father's illness reminded me that I need my family. The end of my last relationship reminded me that I need love. Saying goodbye to Lehigh reminds me now that I need friends, laughter, support, and a sense of belonging. So the question that everyone faces is ... where do we find those things? Where are they in our future? Where can we achieve them ... and also achieve work that fulfills us?

Before we left the high school last night, we found a display case full of the biggest trophies our high school band had ever earned. The tallest trophy in the case still belonged to the CHS band from my senior year, when we had won the state championships for the first time. Just seeing the trophy brought back memories from the whole season, and the night we won. Even four and a half years later, having come through so much, that memory still moved me so deeply ...

What I know for certain is that, in my life, I want to find a woman I know how to love. I want a family. I want to be able to provide for them. I want to see the world. I want to go on adventures without knowing how they're going to end. I want to devote some portion of my life to music. And, towards the end, I want to be the old man that people come to for advice, for laughter, and for stories.

It's a lot to ask, especially with no plan ... but I guess if I've learned one thing, in my four years as a Lehigh engineer, it's that you can usually get by with having absolutely no plan at all.

Happy Graduation, everyone. Good luck.

The Curse

"i do have some bad news for you. if you hold to the standards that i believe you do (you were a cadet after all), you will never be happy with your level of success. you will always think you can do more. you will always be looking for the next big thing. sorry! there is only one time when the quest is over and that is when you are… well… dead. not sure that is all that much to look forward to?"
--- george hopkins

This quote is eerily, eerily accurate. Almost depressingly so.

Grief

Grief is most often used as a term describing the effects of losing a loved one. Someone close to you passes, be it family, friend, or lover, and it is said you will work through the stages of grief. Different people experience and express grief in all different manners; in general, however, we all know the main stages of the process. We all know that people go from one stage to the next, ultimately seeking to find acceptance and the ability to push forward again. Despite the hole they might feel, the love that was lost, or the companionship they miss, most people eventually find a way to go on.

I guess what I'm realizing is that grief and the process behind it don't just apply to the loss of someone you love, specifically. They can apply to the loss of anything. At the moment, I feel what I'm working to overcome is the grief of losing this time in our lives. Never again will all of us be in this place, with each other, as who we are. Never again will you be the person you are right now ... for better, worse, or indifferent, you will never be the same.

Some of my high school friends and I stay in contact now. We mostly talk online, sending quick messages or thoughts every once in a blue moon. I'm even in the same situation with a lot of my Lehigh friends who have already graduated. Life rolls on, and even when we see one another again, even if it's in the same haunts and with the same group- it's just not the same. The thing that is different is us, individually and collectively. There's no way to go back and be the way we were.

As life passes like this, it also comes with mistakes, some with no chance for redemption. Each mistake, however, comes with the opportunity to move forward with that much knowledge at your disposal. In addition to the failure of time, I thus grieve for the fact that there is no way to retrieve time which has already passed. I grieve for those mistakes and the consequences they have brought about, as well as the minor missteps along the way. I grieve for the chances I never took and the opportunities I may have squandered or never realized.

The most important part of these revelations is that, as with all grief, I must also come to realize that these feelings are okay. Despite the pain, loss, regret, or other emotions that recent changes have spurred in me, I must know that they are a part of life. As my grandfather says, you have to live each day as if the best is still to come. Get up with a purpose. Wake each morning with the deliberate goal of working through the feelings you feel. Trust in the future, and in yourself.

It's okay to be sad. It's okay to miss the friends and loved ones who are leaving even before they're gone. It's also okay to look back on the last four years and wonder what you might have done differently, if given the chance. But you can't go around those feelings ... you have to go through them. There is no secret to escaping them. Not in the bottom of a bottle, or in giving in to temptation, or in forsaking those things which once gave you purpose. Trying to get out those ways is easy- but you'll ultimately never get anywhere.

Tonight I ponder and sleep. Tomorrow, I will watch the dawning of a new day ... and begin to push forward.

Live each day as if the best is yet to come.

Hero

"I'm not afraid of dying, Jer. I just don't want to leave you guys behind."

My father said that to me on the phone about two months ago, when he was first diagnosed with cancer. I immediately told him not to think like that ... he had a very treatable form of cancer, he had caught it very early, and the doctors were on top of it. Nothing could go wrong. I said that I knew he was going through a really hard time, being trapped in the house alone all day with thoughts like that, but he didn't have to worry. He was going to be around a long while yet.

My dad seemed to calm down a little bit after that. The next week the doctors found that his cancer hadn't spread- by March they had scheduled his surgery. This Thursday they'll be removing it from his body, hopefully for good, during a routine operation being performed by one of the best surgeons in Philadelphia.

It was a cold, rainy night when I had that conversation with him. At first what he said took me aback. I didn't know how to respond. This was my father ... the man I've spent my entire life trying to be, trying to make proud of me. He would always be around, wouldn't he? He'd watch my brother and I graduate from college. He would help us move into our first houses, see us get our first jobs. He would be standing ten feet away when we both eventually married. He'd be in the waiting room or on the phone when our children were born, hanging on the news that he was a grandfather and probably wishing he hadn't quit smoking back in his 30's.

Later that night, laying in bed, I cried over the conversation we'd had. Until it actually comes to stare you in the face and the possibility becomes real, I suppose many of us don't think about the mortality of our parents. Most of us have already lost an older member of our family. Those of us who haven't can probably at least attest to watching someone grow into an older, frailer form of themselves as the years have gone by. But your parents ... well, they're your parents. At least to me. Where would they ever go?

I'm going home this Thursday to be with them when the surgery happens. It's a routine operation. The only possibility of complications comes from my dad's tendency to bleed fairly heavily (a fact which I told the doctor could probably be attributed to his intense gin drinking). My dad will be recovering by Thursday night and back to his regular self by mid May or so at the latest. He'll be sitting in the bleachers of Goodman Stadium as I graduate in a little over a month. I'll hug him when we take family pictures after the ceremony. And for now, there'll be no more need to think of when he won't be there.

Someday, nearly all of us will eventually see the passing of our families before our eyes. The parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and others you grew up with, and who had such an impact on your life, will be gone from this world. The most important thing you can do, in my mind, is make sure you let them know you love them even if they already know, in whatever way your family shows that kind of thing.

I love my dad. I'm who I am and where I am today because of everything he's done and sacrificed in the last 22 years. In my eyes, there is no greater man on this earth, and making him proud has been my foremost goal throughout the entirety of the last decade. I'm happy that he's going to be around for a long time yet ... and now, I think I'm starting to understand that it will be okay if a long time doesn't mean forever. I'll miss him-

the man who taught me how to play catch even though I was never any good at sports

the man who sat through too many high school football games so that he could see me conduct the marching band as many times as he could

the man who, despite not understanding jazz, could tell that our trombones were so much better than our trumpets year after year

the man who drove me to and from every Cadets audition, practice, and rehearsal the entire season

the man who worked 15 hours a day so that my family could live well

and now, the man who makes up cookies every single time we come home, and times it so that they're still warm when we walk in

I'll miss him when he's gone. We all will. But I'm sure he knows we love him, and that we'll take care of each other. If I had to pick one thing to tell him that maybe he didn't know, it'd be the same thing he's told me so many times. I want to make sure he knows that, someday, I hope my children can look at me the same way I look at him. That they can know the things I do are for them. That I'm proud of them. Quite simply, I want to make sure my dad knows he's done a great job ... and that if I could live up to be anyone in the world, it would be him.

Anyway, thanks for reading this one, if you did ... it means a lot to me.

Happy Sunday, everybody.

24 Hours - The Night I

11:00 PM

We file into the church and it's already 1,000 degrees. The old sanctuary hasn't been retrofitted with a successful air conditioning system since its construction in 1495. As a result, the 200 old people and 400,000 candles that line the pews make for a fairly uncomfortable atmosphere, to say the least. Fortunately, the suit and tie I'm wearing will be able to absorb a copious amount of sweat before leaking through. At least that's some consolation.

My uncle, aunt, and grandparents are already there to greet my family. Poppop is wearing the same suit he does every year. It seems my brother won the bet over my grandmother's sweater- he bet red, I bet green. I always forget that she likes to match the flowers. For some reason the heat hasn't seemed to affect any of them. It makes you wonder, really. How do old people survive at such temperatures? It's like they're covered in titanium shelling.

We file in and jump into the same order we always do in the Herman-Walsh aisle. My uncle and aunt are at the far right end, followed to the left by Dad, Mom, my brother, me, my grandmother, and my grandfather. We've come to time our arrival so perfectly that we only wait about 90 seconds for the service to start. In our minds, there's no sense arriving too early and greeting the old people we can't remember. As interesting as Mrs. Rhimathy's stories about her cats are, well ... frankly, they're not that interesting.

The Pastor stands up and begins the welcome to the service. He's the same old Pastor with the same old greeting and same old parables about the holiday. His voice is far too soothing and well fitted to the warm sanctuary; even despite the coffee I chugged, I can feel myself going. I actually get excited when it's time to sing the first hymn- the standing will surely wake me out of this stupor. That's when I remember the same thing every year. The hymns are so slow that it's actually possible to fall asleep standing up. The only thing keeping me awake at this point are the cramps falling out of my back muscles. Who's idea was it to build pews out of hard wood, arched forward ... Jesus.

And so the service rolls on for a whole 55 minutes. My brother and I have exhausted our supply of scratch paper, and the excitement of tossing a dollar into the collection plate was lost a scant 18 years ago. I've mocked the trumpet player/organist duet about 15 times. My grandmother has asked me to quiet down. I'm also fairly certain that I've lost enough moisture from sweating that I'm moments away from hallucinating my way into a spiritual journey. Why the hell do we do this every year?

Suddenly the lights go down. Candles are passed around with an efficiency that once again belies the many years this church has held this service. The heat hasn't dissipated, but for some reason seems more appropriate and fitting in the darkness. I sit up to get a better view of what's about to happen. Even my brother and father, usually the two most stolid members of the family, take a newfound interest in the proceedings. My grandmother has noticeably taken a set of tissues out of her purse. Maybe this will be the year she doesn't cry, but I doubt it.

At a subtle and theatrical pace, a man stands up from the choir and reaches the altar. He pauses there for a moment, looking out past the congregation toward the back of the church. He is obviously intense. His eyes reveal a focus learned from many performances and songs having been sung in his lifetime. The opening notes- the same familiar arpeggios, played ever so softly- begin to rise and fall in the darkness around him. At the last moment before he begins, a smirk forms in the corner of his mouth.

I smile too, as my uncle takes his first breath into the song that will announce the beginning of Christmas. It's 11:56 ... right on time.

His strong tenor voice, well learned in the ways of stage projection, rebounds off the walls with a sudden excitement. The congregation experiences a visible jolt out of the comatose sobriety they had been falling into the last hour. Even the opening words, sung at a comparatively soft timbre and volume, have already entranced everyone watching. As always, it's easy to see that my uncle is good at what he does. Very good.

The song continues in its rolling, oscillating melodies from low to high, soft to loud, contemplative to joyful and back again. The underlying but consistent crescendo moves the hearts of those listening as their emotions follow the words of the hymn. My grandmother has begun to cry- looks like my brother won this bet, too. I thought she would at least make it to the second verse this year. Damn.

Finally the song reaches its peak. Tension builds- we all the know the melody, and despite my uncle's proficiency we always doubt whether or not that top note will come out. An octave jump to the top of your range requires a hell of a level of skill, even for the best performers. He sings closer to the note, ever louder, ever more passionate, ever more beautiful, until finally he goes for it-

And then my uncle is singing the final "Noel" as loud and high as he can. The raw power of his emotion and voice burst through the church and congregation around us. Both my mother and grandmother are crying now, and my own eyes are moist with the meaning of the moment. He holds the note, and holds, until suddenly he lets go. An infinitely long second of silence follows, his voice echoing through the arches above us. The organ comes back in, my uncle sings the final words, and then the song is over. He departs the altar without a word.

The Pastor rises slowly, stands before the congregation, and opens his arms. "It is 12:01 in the morning. A Merry Christmas to you all- may the love and guidance of our Lord embrace you and all whom you love on this day. Go in peace."

The cool night air outside the church is the most soothing sensation I've ever experienced. It always seems to be a clear night on Christmas Eve, and the stars shine against the night. We say goodnight to the family, congratulate my uncle, and jump back in the car for the ride home.

I'm not a very religious person, and for the most part I'm not moved by organized religion of any kind. Seeing my uncle sing on Christmas Eve, though, and watching my family come together for just those few minutes at the end of the service as his voice rises and falls ... well, hell. I guess we all believe in something, don't we?

12:10 AM

Cadillac

http://play.rhapsody.com/johnwilliams3/
johnwilliamsgreatesthits19691999/
cadillacoftheskiesfromempireofthesun

If there's one thing I wish, it's that I could sit with you for the longest time and listen to music. We could do it anywhere ... on a cliff overlooking the sea. In the haze of a summer's dusk, rocking on a porch. Under the stars. There's no one perfect place- in an odd way, there are too many places that are perfect.

There'd be no need to restrict the type of music that we listened to. My only rule would be that each selection would have to mean something. It would have to hold a place in your heart, draw something out of you, require something of you. I would offer the same; nothing less than music that meant I had to share some piece of me with you.

As we listened, though, I would have the same regret I always do. As much as my words would try, I wouldn't be able to tell you how the music moved me. I could certainly tell you why it was special ... I could tell you the memories it invoked. I could try to tell you about the images it conjured. I could summon the courage and even tell you that it made me so happy, so afraid, so sad, so peaceful. But the actual how of what the music did- the swell of emotion within my chest, the involuntary wetness in my eyes, the silence of my chattering mind- I could never declare to you in a way that mattered.

The only solution would be for you to see it happen ... for you to hear the notes and see the tears running down my cheeks. To place your hand on my chest and feel my pulse quicken. To reach out and try to experience what I was feeling first-hand.

I'm not very good at expressing myself sometimes. I'll show you anger, joy, humor, frustration, and cynicism quite readily. But sadness, fear, hesitation, or any other sign of weakness ... I have the most difficult time letting them out. There's just a distinct inability in me to look at you and tell you I'm vulnerable. I can't bring myself to say that I need someone, or that I'm afraid what my life would be like without them.

The first step, for now, would be admitting the truth that I really do need the people in my life. To deny that would cheat them and myself.

In the meantime, while I work on that, I was wondering if you wanted to listen to some music. If you're up for it, we could start with the corps hymn and go from there ...

Stuff I Should Be Doing Right Now

1. Planning out the airline tickets I need to get to France with the Allentown Band. Additionally, I should be plotting out anything else I want to do in Europe with my week off. It's only three months away ... but what's intercontinental travel without a little excitement?

2. Writing my Martindale thesis. It's a pile of dog crap right now.

3. Sleeping.

4. Taking care of the plethora of useless paperwork I've amassed from NSCS and Gryphoning over the last few weeks. It's amazing what a distinct sense of apathy can do for your motivation when you know the work is pointless.

5. Finishing the regular, worthwhile homework I've amassed over the last few weeks. It's equally amazing how doing almost zero work has only cost me about half a point of GPA for this semester so far. Makes you wonder what I've been doing with my life up till now.

And what am I doing instead of all that? Sitting on the couch, waiting to go to another meeting that, ultimately, will not matter in the end.

As much as Spring Break should have rejuvenated me, I think for right now it's taken the last of the wind out of my sails. Things will be okay again soon, just ... for right now they're not. And it's not like there's even anything I could be doing except getting up and taking care of the usual shit. There is simply nothing left to be done but wait for time to pass.

So for now ... I hang with friends, I do what work that I must, and I wait.

"I find I'm so excited, I can barely sit still or hold a thought in my head. I think it's the excitement only a free man can feel, a free man at the start of a long journey whose conclusion is uncertain.

I hope I can make it across the border.
I hope to see my friend, and shake his hand.
I hope the Pacific is as blue as it has been in my dreams.
I hope."
-Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption

24 Hours (the morning II)

7:02 AM

I'm downstairs a scant few minutes before my brother, but that's all I need. Dad has been out the door for two hours and at work for nearly that long. Mom isn't home from work yet ... she gets off at 6:30, though, so this bodes well in terms of her bringing home a breakfast treat. In a few minutes we'll probably hear the garage door go up, then see her walk through the kitchen with one arm carrying her work bag and the other arm carrying a box of fresh donuts. Back then I didn't understand how loving it was to stop on her way home from the night shift; fortunately, I do now.

I scratch my leg absentmindedly as I look out the sliding glass door into the backyard. Why do flannel pajama pants always itch so much after they bunch up around your knees the night before? There's a light dusting of snow on the ground and the sky is a stoney gray. The swings sway with derision at the wind that whips through the closely nestled homes of our neighborhood. I feel warmer for having seen the obviously freezing climate outside ... hopefully Mom will be home soon.

My brother's arrhythmic stair descent distracts me. There's no time to lose. I vault into the bean bag chair just as he comes into sight in the kitchen. I lean forward and click on the Nintendo moments before he can reach the switch himself. He whines as he realizes his defeat, but the rules are clear on the matter and there's little he can do. I smile and, in that effortlessly superior older sibling sort of way, tell him I'll try not to take too long. He harumphs, wraps his dinosaur blanket a little closer, and slumps on the couch next to Dale, his stuffed chipmunk.

It's another half hour and a chair rotation later (I'm on the couch now with my stuffed dinosaur, Tales) before Mom comes in. My brother is doing well in a tough Mario level, so I head over to greet her and say good morning. She walks through the garage door looking more than a little tired, but she smiles big as soon as she sees us. "Good morning, my boys." She drops off the donuts (to which we cheer triumphantly), then makes us promise to be good and get her if we need anything. We tell her we love her and that we'll see her at lunch. Mom takes one last look at us before slowly heading upstairs to catch up on a few hours' sleep. We're proud that our Mom trusts us so much ... we can take care of the house all morning so that she can sleep.

With Mom safely tucked into her warm bed and Dad not due home until dark, my brother and I are in our own little world. The only rules are to keep everything clean, to stay inside, and to not fight. We play video games, build vast spaceships with Legos, construct massive structures with K'nex, watch our favorite cartoons, and ensure that our stuffed animals pursue noble quests in the kitchen. Around noon we'll run in and wake up Mom, but for now, just these few hours each Saturday morning ... it's just us. Jer and Dan. Mom's angel boys.

And that's another perfect hour in the day.

8:00 AM

22 Years

For the last 22 years of my life, I've been working towards something. But maybe what I've been working towards isn't the 9-5 job, and the decent salary, and the okay place to live. Maybe it isn't the new honda and the swingset in the backyard and the big screen TV. Maybe what I've been working towards is actually the ability, and the courage, to choose something other than that which is expected. Maybe it's the personal faith in myself to know that I can do anything in my life, and it will turn out okay. Maybe it's the understanding that there doesn't have to be understanding all the time. Or, most importantly, maybe it's the knowledge that there is no right answer, except for the happiness you feel inside yourself each day.

Whew

So the week was capped off by my second car accident in the last two years. This one was definitely my fault, I'll definitely be paying the other guy's damage, and I got to watch my car get towed for the first time ever. The body damage was minimal on the Mach 5, but it wouldn't start after I moved it out of the intersection where the collision happened. My dad thinks it's the drive shaft or the alternator ... both of which could be bad news. For now, I cast the destiny of my vehicle to the Fates (at least until early next week).

The rest of the week was spent either forgetting about appointments, accidentally double scheduling myself, or losing my glasses. The glasses are missing for good this time, I think. I still can't sleep for more than a couple hours at a time without waking up, and usually then in a cold sweat. To top things off, for some reason I just can't seem to calm down anymore. I'm wired with this nameless dread or intense stress that I just can't shrug off. I've tried everything ... going to bed earlier, cutting coffee, working out, spending more time on music. I wonder if there's anything else to be done?

What's most frightening about this unusual behavior is the effect it's had on the nights I go out. When the option to drink presents itself, I immediately cast aside the idea of drinking moderately in favor of getting intensely drunk. A very large part of me just wants the stress and constant mind racing to abate, and a very practical way to do that is to drink into myself into thoughtlessness. I've actually gone out of my way to not drink at all this week after the events of last weekend. I don't trust myself to be safe ...

Hah, funny example of my current mindset- I just realized I haven't eaten anything today since 11 AM. I haven't been hungry at all. And I know if I go to bed soon because I'm tired, I'm going to lay awake and wait for the clock to tick beside me for a few hours.

Oh well ... time to go watch some Office and see if there's some wisdom to be garnered there. In times of crisis, always ask yourself: What Would Michael Do?

Engineering

"Music expresses that which cannot be said and on which it is impossible to be silent."
-Victor Hugo

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Kb-pobBiKkI&feature=related

The notes you hear and the emotion they generate will not be the same for any one of us. Regardless of this inherent dissimilarity, however, each of us is capable of feeling through music. We may be inspired, enlivened, or made to weep by those sounds which find a way to affect us. The only true downfall of music is when it rebounds upon deaf ears, or upon stone hearts which will not be moved.

So open yourself to music. Close your eyes and let the visions play in your head. Drown out the noise of the day and hear the melody that reaches your soul. And most importantly ... share what you hear. Denying what music makes you feel defeats the very purpose of that music in the first place.

Like your band director always said- play out. Right or wrong, good or bad ... play out for all to hear.

Think Hard

Another 366 days around the sun.

Did you accomplish everything you wanted to? Did you meet everyone you wanted to meet? Experience everything you wanted to experience? Say what you wanted to say? Be who you wanted to be?

Partially. Sometimes. I wonder what I should have done differently in the last year.

What would you change about last year? That's the wrong question to ask ... it's the same as asking what you would change about the earth's orbit. The fact is that you can't change it.

So what's the real question?

What will you do this year? This month? This week? Tomorrow? And most importantly- today? It becomes a math problem, engineer. Today's choices x 365.25 x your life span in years = you. Most people aren't built in a day. Character is built in pieces, ever so small, and they can only be added over long spans of time.

What if I don't know what to do?

That's the other problem, engineer. No black and white, cut and dry, right and wrong. It's all a mix of colors. The only "correct" solution comes when you wake up in the morning, and you're happy with the piece of life you're creating.

Will my TI-89 Platinum do it? I downloaded the extra graphing package.

... just go to class already. And think hard on your choices. Think very, very hard.

Play On

So unless I made a mistake somewhere, this blog now has audio capabilities. On the right side of the page should be a box labeled "Compositions." Each of the links in that box connects to a sound file that I uploaded to an online file storage website, Box.net. Follow the links and you can download those sound files, playable on itunes or any other audio program that can handle wav files.

The three items posted so far are what I've thrown together in Sibelius up to this point. They might suck, but hey ... everyone needs a creative outlet, right?

Happy composing.

24 Hours (the morning)

5:55 AM

I always set my alarm to five minutes before I have to be awake. I roll over slowly onto my back, hazy as usual about where I am today and what I'm doing. A quick spasm in my left leg reminds me of exactly what I'm doing. Sun streams in from the open windows at the top of the gym, making the yellow walls burn with a warm glow. The air in the room is hot and heavy, dense from the lack of circulation and large number of bodies. I lay for some minutes in silence, enjoying the solitude of wakefulness surrounded by sleep.

At exactly 6:02 AM, another member of the corps taps me on the shoulder. "You're already up? Good- wake the others on that side, I'll get this side. Outside and ready to go in 8 minutes." I quickly roll my sleeping bag and place my belongings on the side of the bleachers, ready to be moved out at a moment's notice. I put on the day's attire- cotton shorts, an old t-shirt, fresh socks, sneakers, a faded cap- and then slip through the far side of the gym. I slowly find the crew, including Froggy, Elk, Red, Flamin' A, wait a minute to make sure they're all up, then head out the gym doors to the day.

I lean against the gym's outer brick wall for a moment, taking in our new surroundings. In a minute or two, I'm joined by others; we exchange bleary-eyed nods. The breeze is already warm on my face, even though the sun is just peaking over the mountains to the east. Directly below us is a turf field (seems like it's in beautiful condition) with other sport facilities spread around the complex we're in. In the distance we see the giant boulder that gives this town it's namesake, similarly glowing a vibrant tan and green in the summer sunlight. The sky is completely clear and an overwhelming blue. The scene makes me smile despite the soreness of my legs and the dried blood still on my face.

Eventually we're all there, and the guy who first woke me up arrives. "A mile that way, uphill. Only the main tower, then back for breakfast. Stretch and run begins in forty-five minutes. Let's go." We jog up the mountain at an easy gait, letting our lungs adjust to this new altitude. In about ten minutes we're at the tower, still not having said a word, and we erect it with a speed that belies the end of the season. We've put it up and taken it down too many times to count by now. Despite the pain of the early wake-up, the brisk jogs, and the monotony of our job, I know I picked the right crew to be on for the summer. I also know I'll miss it when it's over.

Once the tower is up, we realize we have a few extra minutes so a couple of us head to the top. The climb gives us another 30 feet of view at what is already the top of a mountain, and we can see for miles upon miles in every direction. The sun is rising quickly, illuminating more of the vast range of Rockies around us. There still isn't a cloud to be found in any direction.

Several moments pass ... faint bird calls. Warm breeze.

Blue sky.

Our vision is finally broken by the quick check of a watch. "All right ... breakfast time. Let's get back." We descend the tower carefully, regroup, and enjoy the easier jog downhill to breakfast. In another ten minutes I'm twenty people back in the chow line, thinking about eggs and wondering what we'll be working on in drill today. There's a peacefulness in my heart that I haven't felt in the longest time. Those mountains did more for me that morning than anything else I could have asked for. An unexpected dream come true.

And that is my perfect wake-up. What's yours?

7:00 AM