Fictional Dream

Last night I had a dream. I'm standing in repose at the end of a road that has been long and trying. I can remember every day of that journey.

The pain. The tears. The agony. And my repose slowly turns.

But scattered among those memories are small glimmers of goodness.

A hope here. A laugh there. A hug ever so seldom, but sovereign.

Now that I'm at the end of this thing I'm curious to know what is next. I'm standing with cracked teeth and calloused heels asking my Maker "What did all that mean? Because I'm still hurting. I'm still broken. I'm further along on this road, that's for damn sure! But, for what? What have I done?"

The next moment in the dream is something that I've wanted for so long it hurts to think it. A burst of light knocks me down. I've never felt a light. It was hot and it was painful. The deafening effect of it all is what terrified me. I could hear the voice of every man that's ever lived. Some crying in pain, some shouting for joy. Others were whispering softly their love to another, while some were just breathing.

Imagine listening to 4,000,000 people breathing in unison. Imagine how that would pierce your ears.

I held on tightly as the light of all men rushed past me. It lasted for what seemed like an eternal second. Maybe a day. Maybe 4 minutes. But once it passed, on the other side was the repose I was missing. Once it passed, I could see Heaven. I could see Eden. The garden was beyond what I could describe. It left me breathless and I collapsed. While I was sobbing in the soil a Hand reached to me and lifted. He was a kind faced man. I've never felt more in love with someone I had never seen. But I had seen Him. Something about His face felt like home. His Hand around mine was too familiar to reject as new.

And then my repose turned to realization. Then to rejoicing.

My Lord had no answers for me. He had no words to settle all the questions in my head about the last 84 years of my life. And there were so many. Instead, all He had was a Hand. And once it held me, it was over. All the agony. All the crying. All the seldomness of good. It was finished.

And I was home.

St. Beck

"Standing on the last legs

Of a dream that walked away"

-Beck

Sometimes in the mess of nonsense, a light peeks through and casts a shadow over the things we don't need to see. Such is the case with this line from a great, but kind of vague-in-meaning song.

Now, to be clear, I'm not perched preaching on the soap box about the necessity of lyrics to make a song great. I have a theory about music that I won't go into now (but will later) that basically states: "Music is a gift from God. All of it."

But in this case, I am dealing with the lyrics. Or... the lyrics are dealing with me...

I think about these words as I think about my life today. There are dreams that I have. There are a lot of things I want to accomplish and be a part of. But today I find myself assessing which of those dreams are right for me to hold and which of those are right for me to let walk away. I honestly don't want to admit which ones I feel I should let walk away, but I can't deny it either. Because regardless of how hard I try, if I'm not supposed to grip tightly onto any of my dreams, if they're not supposed to be in my hands, well, then they're going to leave my hands. I think I'd rather let go than have them yanked from me.

But what about dreams having legs in the first place? What if dreams are constantly evasive and moving so as to keep our attention? To keep us on the move. We hear a lot about "pursue your dreams", but I think I always assumed that it was a steady prize that once had, was there to stay.

Maybe they do have legs. Maybe we are supposed to keep chasing them.

Maybe I'm tired of chasing sometimes...

but maybe too bad, because dreams are walking away. Like Strange Apparitions.

Chapter 1

So I started to write a short story while I was flying to Paris last year. Then I stopped for a long time. Then I started again when I was in Nashville a few months ago. And then I stopped. But I want to continue, so I'm putting up the first section of it here for you to read and give me feedback. Thanks :)

Disclaimer: Any likeness to actual people or events is purely coincidental and in no way reflect by any inference the beliefs of the actual person, place or entity as described in this story.

Jack and Florence and How They Fell In Love

If there was a day of the year that could beat Christmas, this might the one.

Florence had resented her parents for years. Let's be serious. Who names their daughter Florence post 1943? But despite her disdain, today could not have been better. It more or less started when Jack tripped over her purse.

Jack may sound bold and daring and somehow gentle and caring as a name, but not this Jack. For the last 20 summers, Jack didn't leave his house. And over the course of 20 winters, he never threw one snowball at his non-existent friends. So he figured after a quarter of a century out of the womb, he should probably birth himself out of his current cave.

Jack was a day trader who worked from home. He spent the majority of his adolescence playing online poker. Little did he know that he could utilize those skills to make an honest (sort of) living.

If there was a day of the year that was scarier than Halloween, this might be the one.

Jack didn't just lack social skills, he was completely inept when it came to human interaction. Words didn't form sentences when they fell out of his mouth. His hands shook as he would force himself to use them. He would shift eyes constantly, never looking up, just side to side behind the rapid fire blinking. But he came into the world for a reason, so he tried to keep his focus as he moved towards the local coffee shop.

Florence was studying the classics. She wondered almost everyday why in the hell she ever picked that as a course of study, but she was consistently intrigued by it all. The deeper she got into her classes, the more intrigued she found herself. So in her comfortable wingback chair in Portland Brew, she was lost. Double carmel macchiato in one hand, Anne Bronte's "The Tentant of Wildfell Hall" in her lap, she was lost. But after what only seemed like minutes but was actually hours, she was found.

Jack stumbled from stairs of the bus as he attempted to look like a normal human being who could exit a bus. Didn't happen. What did happen was a bag thrown from his shoulder, an awkward noise thrown from his mouth and a bruised ego that was already in bad shape.

If there was a day of the year that hurt more than April 14, this might be the one.

Jack proceeded to gather himself and his things and make his way into Portland Brew, the local coffee shop with the most mediocre online reviews. His hope was to find a non-Starbucks place that served fair trade coffee but didn't have too many patrons. He was throwing himself into a pool to learn how to swim and figured that was enough. That it wasn't necessary to jump into the ocean on his first day. Although it was already feeling like the chlorinated waters were rising into a huge squall.

As Jack made was walking up the entrance sidewalk to the shop, face down, he arrived to an opening door which was a quick reminder of why his mother always told him to watch where he was going. Jack missed her. But at that particular moment the only thing going through his head was the door that just hit it. He was too far to turn back homeward now but was questioning this venture more and more with each act of clutz he perpetrated. Once he collected his jarred thoughts he continued into the shop, resolved to watch where he was going. His head up, looking at exactly what was in his way. But his focus on the above-the-waist area of the world blinded him to where his feet were, and it wasn't long before his steps were fatefully interrupted by a purse sitting next to a wingback chair.

Florence was surprised to say the least. Her mind was so swallowed in the novel in her lap that not much shook her. But this did. Jack did. Her novel quickly closed as her legs reacted to the man tripping next to her, and her hands tried to deflect his bag which was barreling towards her face, but they weren't fast enough.

And with that, with the cold sting of a book bag to the face and the harsh burn of falling face first next to a beautiful girl, the two paths of Jack and Florence met.

She could've gone the way of a younger girl and focused on the pain. She could've let the anger take hold. She could've given into the baser desire to scream. But she didn't. In her refinement she didn't. In her compassion she didn't. Instead, she quickly jumped to her feet to help the poor man up. And he, flustered in his down state was surprised to say the least. His mind was so swallowed in the situation of yet again falling that all he would notice was people noticing and laughing. Not so with her. She noticed. She did not laugh. She helped. This angel of a lady cared.

"Oh my God! Are you ok?!"

"Ummm, yeah, I.. I uh .. I think so," as he took her hand. He wasn't sure what to make of her. In the last 35 minutes of being away from his nest, his chick heart hadn't seen anyone this gentile. His mother always kept him under her wing. Protected him. Shielded him. But this was a different feeling. This felt... freeing.

He brought himself to his feet again but now with angelic help, tried to brush off all his shame, but he couldn't. She could. She did. With her smile. Which he noticed immediately was dripping blood from the corner. Then it hit him like it hit her. "Oh geez! Your mouth! Did my? Did I? Oh geez! I'm sor.."

And before he could get the ever so important word out she stopped him, "No no no, I'm fine. It just startled me, really." And with that wiped her lip with a napkin and handed him his bag. He didn't know what to make of her. Of this. So he just took the bag and awkwardly started to step away only to be stopped again, "Wait..." She wasn't sure what to make of him. There was something that captured her about his being. His existence sort of, amazed her. It could've been her novel. It could've been the stark contrast he seemingly held to the entire world around him. Not sure what it meant she offered, "can I get you a cup of coffee?"

Mornings for Me 101

Get out of my dreams and into my car. That's what I always say.

Except I don't.

Ever.

What I do say is, morningtime is grumpytime. There have been countless times that I've heard the words "rise and shine!" and for every one of those times there have been at least three malicious thoughts towards the sayer or the actual words for ever having existed to form that phrase in that context.

I just hate waking up.

Sunrises are beautiful. Morning air smells good. Newness is exciting. But if all of that could just happen after about 11AM that'd be great.

mutemath

Link Fest '09

What do a bicycle, the ghetto of East Austin and a satchel have in common? I mean, besides the thousands of hipster's gentrifying Amercia one east side at a time...

me.

I biked from Yellow House to Cooleto this afternoon. Currently I am manning the front desk at a small church in Austin as a source of income. This affords me not much except gas money and 3 hours a day to hulu, blog and do other things computer related. So in efforts to conserve the little dough that i do have, I bike.

I am not a hipster. I think I possess some qualities of what you might call a hipster. Namely, I like to wear cool things. When it comes to being a slave to trends, I'd say I'm a 2%er. Not immune to it, but not bound by it.

ANY WAY

As I was biking with my satchel through east Austin, I was struck with a thought:

"It's hot."

I was sweating. I was moving. And if you know me, you know I HATE being hot. I mean, when I say I hate it, I mean anger envelopes me and I turn into something only comparable to the character that Colin Hanks plays in Orange County. But only the scene when he gets pissed at his mom for being a drunk who he is embarrassed by and his druggy brother and then a huge horrible situation happens and he gets so fed up that he hurls himself into a pool with hopes of drowning and leaving all the shit behind that he's had to deal with. Don't worry, its just funny in the end. But today felt different. It felt good to sweat. It felt good to be pedaling through the humid air. Maybe it was the journey's end that was pushing me, or maybe it was just a moment of therapy for my mind and body. Either way, I enjoyed it.

And I want to enjoy that more. I want to enjoy the struggle. For the end, and for the process.

We'll see how that goes...

hmhmhmhm (its the new hahaha, but the chiller, mouth closed chuckle version)

3:10 to Yuma

i see singleness as a problem. an issue. something bad that needs to be eradicated. but not in a way that may be smart throughout it's progress, but just anything to accomplish the end goal. the ultimate end is more important than the means.

but it's a hairy situation.

this thing of romance. this thing of love. it somehow is a thing that possesses the qualities of what are traditionally, starkly different roles.

the means

and

the end.

somehow it is the means by which you get to the end of itself. (don't worry, i re-read that two dozen times, it totally makes sense.)

so here's the deal: i want to love. i want to be loved. my motives are pure, so why would it have not happened right by now? maybe it's Grace. that i am to have what is absolutely the best thing regarding love, and i just can't see how to do that, so it's being done for me and to me and around me.

you see, i am, everyday, inside of myself getting lost. worried. thinking. stuck. held captive. but i can love by Love's hand. i just don't do well at that.

i am who i am being made into, not what i've known myself to be.

so i will one day love.

i will one day be loved.

and on the road to that day, will love all the way.

concentrate. there's too much at stake.

Jibber Jabber

sometimes i just write. i don't know where it comes from or what it means or how it's applicable to me or anyone. but here is one of those times:

forgive me if i don't stand
i've only had a bit to drink
but stretch to me what is your hand
and i'll give you reason to think

hope down and ante up
we're all waitin' to fill our cup

Hollywood Horrors

Hollywood horrors don't necessarily involve a monster, blood or gore. I've often found myself terrified by the aspects of Hollywood as they have been attempted to be played out in real life. As I have attempted to play them out in my life.

I believe that we are pivotal in the writing of our own stories. We have the amazing gift of free will.

We have the option.

But danger makes its appearance in the moving-picture frames when we take it all on. When we become autobiographers. As powerful as my choices can be, they don't ultimately dictate the plot. No, the book that we're in is a complex masterpiece in which the Author's pen is uncomprehendingly being guided by His hand and ours at the same time.

i think.

Maybe it's less like a book being authored and more like a dance between us and Him.

He's leading us and we're following. But we have the ability to step on His toes, or let go of His hold. Not as fun. Not as good.

Whichever analogy suites your fancy doesn't really matter. Because either way we're moving.

The repeating question is: what is the balance between His moves and ours?

I don't know. I think I'm finding out.

Just pray before you plant yourself in one particular camp. Because it's highly likely that the camps we can align ourselves with could be heretical or misleading at best.

Just keep moving in the realness of what's around. Of life. Real life. And who knows? Maybe our stories will look a lot better than anything Hollywood ever puts out.