bell - a verbalization of consciousness

Living for Two...

Its 3:50am, and I can’t sleep.

And yet, I’m determined as ever to get up when my alarm rings at 8:33am…
…so, needless to say, these next 4.5 hours are a very strange lucidity.

I can’t sleep because my father died when he was 35 years old, in October of 1989. His name was Edsel Morgan Bell, Jr. He was a beautiful man, and I realized recently that I am living for the both of us. When i look out of my own eyes at something new and picturesque, I often imagine him seeing exactly what I see, for the first time too.

He had a quiet humor about him—genuine, and smooth in every way. Tall, and strong, he was a servant to those he loved, and had not a harmful bone in his body. His smile would strike you with warmth; his eyes so honest and true. He loved to take my grandma to the movies; it was always the latest Western film, and always the biggest bag of popcorn. He loved peach cobbler pie, and just about any dessert you could put under his nose. He always smelled clean and fresh, and his hands were rough around the edges. After eating french fries, he would always brush his fingers against themselves to get the salt off, and i’m told he was also known to bring some moves to the nightclub dance floor…

My dad was named Edsel Morgan Bell, Jr. The name “Edsel” means “Noble One,” and I think it fits him quite nicely. He had wanted me to be named Edsel too. I was almost “Edsel Morgan Bell, III“…but my mother insisted i be named, “Aaron.” And so, here I am. Aaron Morgan Bell, the first.

I can honestly say that what I know of my father is not enough to satisfy me. I know that he drove a cadillac, coupe deville. It was white, and with blue interior. This car was his dream, and in his final dying years, he drove it with all his pride. Before that, he and my mother owned an old, busted, boxy yellow volvo—-durable, with brown interior. My dad loved his dog, a black labrador mixed with Manchester Terrier. She was such a gorgeous dog, and her name was Clara Bell. I remember how strong and how caring she was. She respected our yard, only because we had a fence…and she used to give me piggy back rides when I was just learning to walk. When my dad was unable to live on his own, he had to give Clara Bell away. (I’ve always wondered how the rest of her life was). My dad was married to my mom some 5 years before they had me. I am told that I was an “unexpected” baby, and even that my mother was on birth control at the time…so my parents were quite mystified, it seems, to hear the good news. Considering I was born two weeks “late” on september 17th, i’m assuming my folks knew how to bring in the New Year with sincere celebration!

Shortly after i was born, my father discovered his lymphatic system was in the second to worst stage of Hodgkins Disease, cancer, and that it was irreversible. Once spread throughout your body’s entire lymphatic system, the cancer can move virtually to any part of your body. As i understand it, shortly after my first birthday, he was given ONE year to live. By the time I was four years old, i vividly remember him still beating the odds, but still going in and out of chemotherapy, not a hair on his tall, slender body… and i remember how tired he looked, and how clamy he felt. His eyes still brought the same old warmth, and his smile still shined the same old love. I also remember a day where he stood in our living room, drinking water from a glass, and i could see, shortly after he swallowed, water spots appeared on his t-shirt on his stomach. The lining of his stomach had become so thin, that he was literally leaking out the water through his belly.

My father worked at A.O. Smith, a steel car frame factory and heating unit manufacturer. He was in and out of work while juggling the cancer. My mom was working, i believe at Brady Corporation, in customer service, just to keep the lights on. As my dad’s perseverance continued to beat the odds, the hospital bills continued to climb. The emotional roller-coaster continued to roll, and it was no wonder the marriage suffered. I was only four years old, but I remember my mom bundling me up for the cold outdoors, and i watched as my parents shared one last inaudible and cacaphonic moment at our side-door step, and then I left with my mom in the volvo, never to return as a family again.

Things changed quite rapidly from that point. My mother sought refuge with her old high-school sweetheart in his apartment in the suburbs. This man is named Keith—very kind, and very fond of both my mother and I. I remember playing with toy cars, and having cool pajamas, and drinking ecto-cooler Hi-C. A year or so passed, and keith proposed to my mother. Shortly after, my half-sister, Chelsea Nicole, was born, we moved out to a safe quiet community, and all the while I continued to see my father on the weekends at the old house.

I remember climbing the crab-apple tree in his front yard, and watching television on his gigantic screen. I remember seeing my Grandma Bell at christmas, and her asking me to give her “some sugar”, which meant I had to give her a kiss on the cheek—-which I hated to do. And when i turned 8 years old, i finally understood the rhythm i was in—being a bigger brother to my little 2 year old white sister; being a good student and undiscovered artist; seeing my father on the weekends in the city; spending all the weekday’s and all the holidays with my mother’s and step-father’s families… and every night, I’d give thanks and pray for my dad to get better. And he did. And I remember after my 8th birthday that he had a very bad re-lapse, and the doctors didn’t think he’d pull through. The man had fought for 7 years, and i knew he had it in him to beat this. Then in late October, the doctors said my dad was looking much better, and that they would release him at the end of the week. My mother and I went to see him in the hospital, with tubes coming and going everywhich way, and his body so frail and pale under the sea-green sheets.

The next day, after school, my mom came and got me from daycare. She was there earlier than normal. She took me to her car, and began to cry as she told me my father had died that day, and that he wasn’t coming home. I remember how sad she looked. I dont think I cried. I remember just looking out into the world through my eyes, and my face and my mind went blank.

Today, I am almost 27 years old. No one knows where Hodgkins Disease comes from, how its originated, nor if its hereditary. 1% of all the people with cancer have Hodgkins Disease, and as rare as it is, I’ve never lived a day thinking that the disease has my number too. But i’ve also never lived as if i have all the time in the world either. I can hardly imagine living beyond 45 years old. 27 years old is how old my father was when I came into his life. At this age, already i have seen more of the world than he ever saw— i have visited 14 countries, and 39 states. I have played more sports, climbed more mountains, canoed more lakes, studied more school, and made more friends. Each day I find new happiness, and I hope Edsel can see these great moments through my eyes. I know my life will one day begin to slow down, and take root. It is the natural progression… But i know now that I am living for two. This gives me great purpose. And so, in 10 days, i will begin my life in New York City.

Goodnight, Dad.

Living by the Shape of your Personality.

Below is a passage that I had to omit from my MA thesis. There simply was no room, and the passage proved redundant to the other text. But, the passage holds several kernals of truth & fully embodies the spirit of my work:

“You go into life according to the shape of your personality. You encounter life, people, and so on, through your personality, not directly. Is this clear? Now you do not see your personality. It is not conscious to you. So perhaps you blame life or people, or feel disappointed, and so on. The trouble is that you have acquired a certain mechanical device for making contact with life called personality that renders life to you according to its shape, as it were.

“And so here you are, always carrying about with you your personality, your apparatus for experiencing life, and always hoping perhaps, if you had a new environment, new people, a new house, new clothes, etc. that everything would be utterly different. How can that be? You are carrying about your apparatus for contacting life—that is, your personality. You may pack your bags and fill them with new clothes and go to the Anitpodes—but you carry your personality with you, with all its acquired habits of mind, habits of emotion, habits of behaviour, habits of talking, habits of finding fault, habits of movement, habits of health, and so on.

“Now this work is about how to get away from oneself, not from life. You do not get away from yourself by changing your outer scene. For this reason it is necessary to observe oneself and see what one’s personality is like and study it and see what one’s appartus is like. We all have all sorts of dreams about a new life—about ideal circumstances, marvelous people, etc. But such dreams are idle because even if we were placed in exceptional and beautiful conditions, such as are said to obtain in Paradise, we would react to them through our personalities and very soon be returned out as quite unsuitable, I fancy.

“The trouble really is that none of us knows how to live, because none of us sees that the trouble lies in the personality—that is, in the receptive-reactive machine we use to contact life. And we shall never learn how to live even a little aright if we do not work on personality in us, and see what it is in us in each case and what troubles arise from ourselves and not merely from others and from life.”

~(Maurice Nicoll, Psychological Commentaries on the Teachings of Gurdjieff & Ouspensky, Vol. 1, p.278

Reinventing the Feel...

I think I’m dying inside. I can’t tell though. Life is heavy right now, and MM may have said it best, “we’re all in survival mode right now, and those modes might be clashing a little bit.” But that doesn’t excuse the anguish I bring upon myself and on others. So, I need to reel it in, and use my words. I can feel it now… I’m afraid to Feel.

I can’t seem to wrap my head around myself. And perhaps we can’t be expected to do so at every moment of every day. But the fact still remains that I can feel moments where I keep tiny secrets from myself. Moments where I have a feeling, or position, and avoid it, discard it. And as the rich trail of my emotional debris lingers in its own wake, I am a tortured inner world, who thinks it better to not expose my pain than to feed the ear of another, for another’s sake. It seems since the dawn of the Romans, we can’t help but thirst for Others’ suffering, to lick our lips when a friend is down. The sympathy we often share with eachother is nothing more than raw fabrication, mixed with a slight sadistic joy— the listener lends an outside frown that’s inside felt completely upside down… Almost sinister when you think about it, isn’t it?

I remember why I first took to writing down my thoughts. I knew my need for admittance, to struggle patiently with the thought. Staring at the words I choose, as my intellect tears apart my emotional gut. Ivan Osokin says life is circular, and that we never quite run away from our old selves. I think what tortured Ouspensky in his last years was how, in all is growth, he never changed— the root of his emotional shortcomings never fully were removed. What a pity and a pain to be so prolific, and yet so myopic all at once.

unfinished…

Doing Damage Control

Massively perceptive (and accurate),
And extremely self-reflective,
To the point where all the Others think he’s right about himself.

That suddenly, in the mind of masses, he…
Gains propensity for brutal honesty, and
Compassion for the truth.

His affliction is conviction,
His heart, both light and sword.
The part that hurts the most,
is our response to his hurtful words.

We didn’t want to hear that.
It penetrates too much.
Half the ouch is that he’s right,
The other half’s from how he pouts.

Be confident, I tell him.
Rest assured when you are right.
Let the other person come to learn,
what you’ve concluded from insight.

It’s a letting, not a yelling.
Give a smile not a scorn.
Right or wrong, we’ll slow it down,
and replace with patience all our slurs…

Reaffirming Our Credibility.

If not our word, then what do we have?

I suspect we have nothing but the hollow, wishy-washy frame of character that we may unadmittedly and unintentionally construct and hide behind, a tactlessly superficial conundrum of self that we’ve allowed to take root more permanently in us, as us. To such a question, most of me wants to quickly reply, “Without our word, we have nothing!” … for the bond of trust between two parties is often irreparably damaged when one’s word is rarely fulfilled or rarely trusted. All it takes is one instance of a “failed word” for the doubt between persons to intensify like an epidemic, and to spread unpredictably from one person to another, continuing ad infinitum throughout all the degrees of social separation that divide us. I can picture it now, “Oh, so-and-so can never be trusted… She’s ALWAYS late!” or, “Not such-and-such! That group is only in it for themselves; you can tell they aim to manipulate!” In this way, people’s reputations are ruined forever, their characters condemned by others to be something that can never change for the better. So, I get to thinking…

What is it about our word that is so important? How do we recover from our mistakes? How to we (re-)gain credibility? How to we keep from arousing in others a worry or fear for suspicious intent?

And so, a second part of me re-considers, and suggests that beyond our word, perhaps we have our “intention.” Without Intention behind our motives, why else would we give our word in the first place?… Quite naturally, I am reminded of a cumbersome bit of advice from my grad school advisor, who once said, “You may intend to lift a thousand pounds, but that doesn’t guarantee us a thing.” After a laugh, I understood exactly what he meant. One may give his word because of his good intention, but good intention alone will not instill in others a trust that you will be successful. And good intention alone will not reconcile the consequences of failing to live up to your commitment—as in the case of the weight lifter who drops a thousand pound bar on his chest! … There is something to be said for the two working together—our word and our intention—and the force of the two at work within our character. Without one in service of the other, we are sure to disappoint.

The difficulty is that it takes effort for trust to happen between two people. When one person meets another person, automatically there is a judgment made in the first moment. Can this person be trusted? Oddly, everyone brings their own set of criteria to this process, as to what qualities must be immediately present for me to even consider this other individual as an acceptable and honest fellow. And if each person should pass this first test, the two may spend an entire lifetime affirming and reaffirming to each other their credibility. And so, here I am—recognizing my own history, my own relationship to my “word.”

Admittedly, it’s not always easy to match one’s intentions with one’s actions. But striving to improve our intentions, that is, setting it as our goal to make the additional considerations FOR others that we may otherwise forget to consider, is a good first step to bettering our actions, to affirming our credibility. It’s not in action that we affirm credibility but in the way intention and action are bound by our “word.” How better to hold ourselves accountable than through our relations with others near and dear? And yes, intention is not synonymous for action, but if we are focused on making good intentions, I believe that we can begin to better see the value of binding the two together with our word.

Too often we throw our word around without follow through, leaving something to be missed in either our intent or in action. Maybe we said that we would call at 7pm, and then think nothing of it when we make the call at 7:15pm. In this case, for example, either our intent simply doesn’t included consideration for others who may depend on our word, or our actions are incredulously separate from our intent. Both hurt our ability to be true to others. Let us then focus on the bridge—reaffirming our credibility by focusing our intent on the way we use our word. The focus then for me will be treasuring the language of commitment.

When I use my word, I have become two people. Myself, the one with intention. And the other person(s) involved, the one(s) with expectation. My goal will be to recognize each time where I am deciding to give my word, and in those moments, I must consider how specific I can be in my commitment. The goal will be to say only what I mean. That is, to agree out-loud to that intent which I most believe I can meet with action. Whether I say I will call you at 7pm, or whether I say I will call you after 7pm, may just be the difference. I recognize there are times when I must be more loose with my language, versus those times when i must be most specific. Either way, the commitment is the same. To be true to my word. To be bound to others by intent, expectation and action.

Caught Myself Staring Out the Window...

I was looking out the window the other day, and began to notice all the birds flying around. It took me a while to even notice that they were there, as I was first enamored in some thought that I can now no longer remember. But there they were, ten, maybe fifteen birds chasing after each other around the house, one after another, like a game of tag—and it struck me that my cats stare out the window with perhaps the same astonishment and enthusiasm as I had in that moment. For them, each bird is a curious sight (and perhaps a delectable dish!). And in a similar way, every shaking tree branch in the wind, and the subtle stirring of all the low shrubs are equally deserving of a moment of their pause, and of their attention. I began to ask myself why I had become so indifferent to the busyness of the natural world around us. Sure, I’m belly-button deep in writing this thesis, but do birds flying overhead no longer inspire us to pause? Might a supremely picturesque scene only hold our attention for but a moment’s glance? And then I began to wonder where we are going at this rate…

On "Transgression"

I’m having a kind of crisis as I recall my relationship to my own past.

I am accountable for every action I’ve ever done. What of my purity? How will I be seen by those children in my future? No amount of right/good done in life replaces the circumstance of wrong action. What do we make of our transgressions? Must we always admit them? Throughout the process of “unification of personality”, what does it mean to say, “I did.” ?? Am I right to assume we are always accountable for past and present? Given my certain history, what’s to say a like transgression won’t reoccur? I guess this is one kind of motivation for work on oneself— to not repeat one’s misdoings. Can we blame another for fearing the reoccurence of such a behavior in us? Kongzi (Confucius) will assert that an upright man will never expect wrong action in another, but he will be the first to recognize such behavior as it occurs. Why does he say this? If only there were more upright people… and less wrong doings, of course.

Diatribe 5: Feeling the Momentum of What?

(excerpt from my journal, clearly admitting the coming and going of I’s in myself)

I just realized in myself the force of momentum. I’ve been reading all night long at Little’s. A customer comes in, I put down my book and stand up to make his purchase. We talk, and after wishing him a “Merry Christmas” while tallying the total items, making correct change and closing the register, I sit back down at the table. Just before picking up my book, I realize a vague something in me that wants to get up and do something. I’m staring forward from a chair behind the register and immediately think of walking around the store. I think of checking on each cooler like I routinely do, making sure I can personally account for the purchase of any vacant items. I imagine buying something to eat, tearing into a bag of chex-mix or tasting a real fruit popsicle. I think of my thin wallet, contemplating the prices, $0.99 or $2.49. But “It’s Christmas time,” I think to myself. “Could I treat myself?—maybe I’ll buy both!” The very next thing I know I’m dreaming over what I’m going to do this weekend in Seattle, and whether I’ll be able to stick to my monthly budget. Then… I woke up. For a slight moment only. Immediately, an I, perhaps the one most curious about the Work, began to search for the origin of this long thought. Here I am seated in my chair, music blaring on the speakers, and I remember that I was just staring out into space, thoughts frozen in internal-dialogue over my role as a store clerk, as a starving twenty-something adventurer, and as a broke professional graduate student. I now remember that I was just responding to something in me that wanted to move around, some momentum that arose after having served that customer at the register only moments ago. So, calmly I breathe deep, stretch out my arms, slowly twist my neck, and began to capture this recollection on paper.

Now back to my book.

Unvirtuousness... pt.1

By virtue of retrospection, I am able to detect the very moments in my day where I could have been virtuous, and failed to do so. Not to say that I was overridden with vice, but rather, I was unvirtuous, when a moment presented itself for virtuous action. These kinds of revelations hit me every so often, so I’ve decided to keep track.

Today I didn’t pick up an umbrella that I was sure a student left.
It began to rain on my way home, and had I saved her umbrella for another class, not only would she have had her umbrella, safe and sound, but I would have been dry for my walk home.

It seems that virtue always works both ways.

On Being 'Grave'

I don’t need to be so grave.

I just finished a very good book, and I’ve been doing some thinking. There seems to be many different ways to respond to people. Whether one’s efforts be towards, what I call ‘orientation’, or towards actual development (as in the I of self-remembering), any progress demands conscious work and will. I recognize this, and know that increased suffering results from the two in ‘tango.’

Eating the ‘I’ does a good job of showing the inner battle that the ‘remembering I’ goes through in fighting and extinguishing the many and fleeting egos of personalities (what we call the “I”s, with the parentheses!). I thought through this knowledge, calling upon my own experiences, and realized our changing “I”s flee from experience nearly as quickly as they come. Why is that?

Rather than how do they come, I began to ask, “How do they go?” It seems that my changing “I”s, at times, are simply taken-over by some new “I”. I will have new awareness and suddenly a new “I” will emerge to capture the situation. For example, if you are on a beach, looking to the ocean on a hot summer’s day, you might find that “I” want to swim all day long, but suddenly… an eagle flies from over head and you watch it soar up over the treeline behind you. As you turn back to the ocean, you see, just beyond the dunes, a giant natural rock formation which establishes the steep ascent of a distant bluff and you think you see a smaill cave opening— “Oh, I’ve got to go check it out!,” you exclaim to yourself. “And HURRY! It’s only 50 meters away! RUN!!” But, seconds later, you shake off the thought and decide you’ll check it out later with your friends. You re-realize that the water is perfect, and you really must get into the ocean on a day like this, ASAP!

You understand? New “I”s (and old) are constantly rushing to the scene and assert themselves… And often times we start to listen to them, to the point that we are habitually over-run by them, over-run by personalities that come and go. The other day I explained much of this to my girlfriend, who lovingly said, “I hope you you don’t ever see me as your project.” She was innocent in her look and so matter of fact about it, “I” couldn’t help but give it some emotional consideration; next thing I knew, “I” had created an emotional identity for her, and one that needed my reassurance that she would never become my project. Which is entirely true and something my deepest sense of my remembering-self firmly believes in, but I realize now that I feel as though I made the situation more grave, as if we both knew such a day will come, but “I” will protect her!

It dawned on me several days later that there are many ways that such “I”s disappear— by distraction (shift in awareness), by dismission (where the “I” is self-hating, weak) and by take-over (over-powered by another “I”). The Fourth Way of course is through self-remembering, where we strive to keep the I as primary, and we practice consciously burning off the changing “I”s which try to be primary (often succeeding!). The first stage in self-remembering is the will to want to develop, and the work to first obesrve the ways “I” make choices. I’ve realized I’ve recently been letting my grave-“I” dominate many of the most intimate parts of our conversations. I’m other ways with her as well, but I see no need for negative emotions, and I think being ‘grave’ is one: amongst other qualities, it feeds off having power over others while also failing to allow a true I to reveal it self… in a word, it conceals one’s essence, making one painfully unavailable for others.

I knew down deep that no one could be another’s project. To do so requires an understanding of the personal nature of another person. One can never know of another’s understanding. Self-development in the Work is a striving toward unifying all conscious experience into a single I, and ultimately coming to embody the impersonal (a non-dual perspective on reality). A learner is given ways to learn, but only s/he can do his/her learning; that is to say one can never know of another’s understanding. I realize now that “I” could have just as easily had a more positive response to her question, yet just as truthful: “Well, honey, I consider myself as a project, and not a very easy one. I don’t know how many projects you think I can handle, but I’m sure as hell not looking for more ‘Work’ to do! … ha! ha! ha!”

If I could go back in time, well, I’d still take the time to reflect after whatever “I” do. As Gurdjieff has said, “Sleep little without regret.”

Words from My Teacher

“What we read in books, the written word,
is an echo of the original sound. IDEAS are living things
and must be transmitted, person to person,
and planted like seeds in the fertile soil
of a receptive mind.

We can read to prepare our minds, to focus
and tune them like an instrument,
and that is good and necessary.

But the real learning begins at the hands of a teacher
where the line of transmission is continued in
the one who seeks to know.”

~Nancy Chappell

Grandma Alene Kuchler

Alene Kuchler (born “Alene Koehn”), my mother’s mother…
Born: April 16, 1917
Died: Dec. 30th, 1999, at age: 82

Grandma’s College Senior Photo…. at Marquette University in Milwaukee, WI

Class Photo, 1938… (top row, middle)

Class Vice President… (zoomed in: bottom row, middle-left)

Sorority Photo… (bottom row, second from left)

Grandma’s class details…

Spinning my wheels

[…’Reincarnation’ as just a hopeful romantic ideal…]

If I believe in I Heart Huckabees’ blanket theory that says we recede back into the cosmic force when we die, and we understand this cosmic will to constitute all of the material world, couldn’t we assume that if I died in Africa (or USA, or Eugene), that I’d likely reincarnate near the same region? What is the likelihood that my spirit will travel around the globe, and reabsorb into human form halfway across the world— especially if the soul reincarnated immediately! … I can see how the Dali Lama tradition proceeded as so…

Do you ever read Emerson and think you just might be Emerson reincarnate?… picking up where you left off, moving forward in precisely the same way? Maybe we really only live once, but leave behind a spirit/path that others follow. It’s a system meant to inspire. Nothing more. And only the few will reach enough Enlightenment to influence the world. How? I do not yet know. But I will try.

Each life is one effort to push the potential of mankind. Cosmic Will wants you to help nuture her, but we will extinguish ourselves if we cannot live in her harmony. Yes, reincarnation aside, we will die anyway, but there is a way to be at peace with all experience. Simply trying to live in this way will give those that live after you a better chance as well— in fact, your biological disposition (environmental context, psychological persuasion, etc.) compels you! You are given a gift.

What is the consequence if you (don’t) take advantage of it?

Diatribe IV.

Diatribe IV: New Year’s Night.

Last night I was ready to die. I felt my mortality in full force for the first time, and felt indifferent to it. I couldn’t have cared less. I was ready for anything and would be who I was regardless of anyone or anywhere. I was hard. And I scared myself, but there was nothing I could do. This was my headspace. I would have fought anyone; I would have provoked anyone. I would have sought to intimidate anyone who thought they were someone, but in the end, I found myself back in the arms of an old love, would still hasn’t learned to let me go. That seems to be too common these days. And sure, I should take some responsibility, right? It takes two to tango, right? I’ve been accused of dating the same types of women before. But I really disagree. There’s something more fundamental at work here, I insist. I just be me. And maybe I’ll say this about it: every interaction, every relationship is generally perfect until I quit. I’ve been dumped before, but not since 7th grade. Since I’ve come into my own, I generally find myself effortlessly treating my partner better then they’ve ever been treated. Striving to meet and surpass their needs, often before they even know they desire something. No fights, no games. They give into me, and I show them a world they’ve never dreamed. A world that is real, and interactive. A world that is wide and vast, and accessible. I articulate the moment. I bring significance to any moment. I know this about myself. I’ve been told even. It’s unfair to take these things about me for granted, but I’m convinced that it is how I’ve been. I’m convinced that my partners would all agree. But the game ends for me. The engagement becomes lopsided, and I feel a dependency that I cannot return. It’s unfair, I know. I demand all of this power; subconsciously persuade these people to completely trust me, and give into me, and afford me the freedom to take risks, and be mysterious, and be unpredictable… and when finally, they submit, I either grow bored or uncomfortable. Maybe I should say out loud, just so I hear it, that I enjoy overcoming everything that people thought they were. I like to challenge them. I have nothing particular in mind, no real goal other than to set achievable challenges for them (and myself) that return favorably. In the end, people fall for me. Give in to me. Submit and follow me. Hunger for me. I must ask, is this really what I want? Do I have a goal in mind, or am I just fucking with people? Am I making people’s lives better? How can I know? Who am I to be riding my high horse? I could easily go so far as to say that I do this with all of my interactions. With men, women alike. With partners, homies, friends and family. With teachers, and teammates, with campers and students. I win them over. I challenge the boundaries. I demand attention, and respect, and allegiance. But it’s all effortless, I swear. I’m like a machine, programmed to engage other consciousness in this way. I impress myself upon people, and though they may be talking, they’re really the one’s doing the listening. And none of it hurts me, until I realize that I take away something from them when I turn my back. This is my one life’s tragedy. This is my pitiful comedy. This is my weakness. My egotism spreads so far as to assert that I actually hurt people in my absence. It’s true. I’ll admit that I feel that too many differing degrees. But rest assured, this is the very thing that pains me. I wish it wouldn’t be so. Honestly. Lately, I’ve strived to not open myself up to others because I am afraid of myself. Afraid of the power I (could) have over people. The irony is that some people are hurt when they realize that you refuse to open up, or that you refrain from opening fast enough for them. In these ways, one way or another, I can’t win. Down deep, I think everyone is desperate to wear their heart on their sleeve. Not me. I just don’t want to be sad. And so, I’ve stopped dating; or at least on paper. But that doesn’t really change things. I think the single thing that wears on me is the feeling I have that others have expectations for me—to wow and impress them. To amuse them and open them to themselves and to the world. To entertain. To resolve. To inspire — they all want such things from me… and the most trying part is that I know I can give these to them. To anyone. But how to choose? I have one life to live, and there is not enough time in my day to make room for everyone. Plus, some people don’t deserve me, right? Who are you to argue with me if you dare? In my weeks of nostalgic introspection, I can’t help but feel this overwhelming propensity towards sadness. At least the experience of it. I said the other day that I really need a good funeral. Something that might really move me. I’ve forgotten the quality of sadness. I’ve become too indifferent to misfortune, and negative emotion. I’ve become impenetrable—even to myself. I beg for the day where someone challenges me in ways that help me grow. In ways that inspire me. Leah Proctor once attempted to address some of these concerns after I had recently broken up with Laney. She said, “Aaron, you bring something out in people, and when you leave, it’s like you take that away.” This past week, Wolf and I have been out and about just trippin’. With acute observation, Wolf has watched me be on point at Alex Payne’s and at Maria’s house party (with Ira and friends). He watched the effortlessness. Sometimes it stuns me just as much, but I’ve grown a bit more indifferent to the wonder of it all. I just slip in and out of anywhere I please with a confidence and an ease. If I’m on, there’s just no stopping it. At least not yet. I can’t help but feel that it will all hit the wall soon enough. I’m no nice guy, and I have no self-delusions of being able to maintain this forever. There’s no balance to it all. I take, take, take. And it seems that all I give are incomplete perspective, and empty promises. This is not sustainable; eventually I will have reached the masses, and my secret will be out. I will be found. I am an evil magician of sorts. I’ve often recognized that I could strive to be pure good, or fall, and be pure bad. What’s to stop me? I manipulate, but it seems passive and appropriate to others. But I swear, if they only could follow me around, they would see the in-genuine nature of it all. They would seem themselves the fool, the pawn. Again, Wolf has been following all break, and yet he couldn’t see. To him, it’s all still an impressive gift. He’s still awestruck. He told me that I am the most interesting person to watch in a social scene, that I can’t help but be nice to people. That I can’t help but win them over. That I constantly seem to impress and amaze people. And that I was passive aggressive about it all. This was his language. His only challenge to me was to provide him an example of when I was angry with someone. Where I didn’t have patience from someone. He was curious. But he paints me to be too virtuous, can’t he see? Inside, I am a raging egotist. Caught and lost in the personal. Delusioned and insincere. You could be anyone, anywhere, and you’ll get the same from me—though it may play out in different ways. I make myself addicting, and that, again, is the tragedy. Don’t you see. I have endless thanks for those that learn to turn their backs. That’s one less person I have to worry about. One less person that I am concerned with living up to. One less set of expectations placed on myself on their behalf. As I sit here, in my room, listening to Mac Dre, staring at the same wall decorations that have been in my room since I can remember, I see a plaque on the wall that reads, “Aaron—‘Bringer of Light,’ The Lord is my light and my salvation; The Lord is the strength in my life of whom shall I be afraid?” (Psalm 27:1). I don’t know why it so rooted in religious rhetoric, but the title is very curious, no? “Bringer of Light.” Before I was even born, this was my predestined identity. Many things happened to me yesterday night that made me re-think. Clearly, 2005 was the most difficult year of my life. From the ultimate, to the relationships, to the academics, to the financial troubles, and beyond—every aspect of me prevailed in some way. And though I can’t help but feel the lurking, forthcoming demise of Aaron Bell, I was able to ward off these potential set-backs — not without the help of others of course. I must admit that I would not have made it otherwise. But, somehow, someway, I’ve been awarded a fresh start. Hannah, the four year old video-gamer helped me realize that. Greg and his relationship with Rose, and her subsequent long talk with Wahn about past physical abuse helped me realize that. Schleicher and his unwavering vulnerability to Michelle helped me realize that. The new marriage of Kyle and Karen, and of Jeremy and Caitlyn, helped me realize that. Whippets on 6th and National helped me realize that. Saying, “She just wants to suck. My. Dick.” on the phone after I threw my broken phone to the ground helped me realize that. Shifting from one conversation to the next, like a game in the presence of my self and wolf, helped me realize that. Rachel Waid, in all of her strength, and all of her heart, helped me realize that. She helped me feel what it means to love. I could cry right now if she told me that I helped her feel the same. Julie Perreth, in all her difference and all her similarity, helped me see that. Giving that 39 year old a Blatz and a ride, helped me see that. Calling out that chick who I thought licked the street pole, and making all 8 people around her chill out for a minute, helped me realize that. Getting kicked out of that warehouse party, and almost starting a fight, but instead, chillin’ out and allowing the bouncers to wish me a Happy New Years, help me. Tresca calling me 3 or 4 times, getting me to come back to Schleicher’s, and kicking Balke out of Wahn’s bed, really helped me out. Schleicher’s friendship, and Wahn’s honesty. Shoop’s warmth, and our entire, general comradery gave me a strength that I’ve only taken for granted. A strength that mysteriously, and for the first time, I was all too ready to give up only hours before—I wouldn’t take it from myself, but I dare and pity the person who would try to take it from me. When I grabbed that transvestite by the wrist, and threw her to the ground after reaching her hands into my pockets, I was able to come back down to earth, and for the first time in a long while, I re-found my footing. 2005 was a fucking ride. And I’m glad it’s over. And I’m ready for 2006. I’ma take control or die. And that’s just how it is.

one can't rely on good fortune.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I relish in the suspense of my own productivity. Secretly, I love to push the limits. Maybe it’s not too secret afterall. I dare the whole world to doubt, to place it’s bet against, and I enjoy the bleek odds that I create for myself. It’s an addiction. And this is just the motivation that tickles me inside. Admittedly, it’s almost sinister.

So what if the world stops paying attention? Good question. But not possible. These days, I feel too dialed in. The world will outright turn against me before it stops paying attention. Plus, there’s always the loving few who can’t help but care; they’re predisposed to care… and as much as it is unsettling to hear, love does exist in this way. Love, as such a burden, is a conversation for another time.

I’m advocating a type of living that disregards the ‘safe’ decision, and transcends the idea of a ‘comfort zone.’ The whole world is one’s playground, and fear of failure is blindly overshadowed by the drive to defy the doubt, to overcome the odds. This style of living might receive praise, and turn heads, but if anything, it quickly discourages sympathy. For who really has time to give sympathy to someone who has ‘put himself in this position’? I also suspect that it fails to invite true allegiance. If the situation looks like something more egocentric than perseverant, on what basis could a comradery really be sustained, especially upon a failure or shortcoming? — you know the saying, “When the team is playing well, everybody is a fan.” I sense that if things go wrong with me, people will be disappointed… but sympathetic? Doubtful. Keep their allegiance? Doubtful. However, I’m prepared to switch it all up if that’s what needs to happen, to kick this social world and start anew. If it all hits the fan, and I find myself alone in my dejection, I’ll still have my sense of self, and I’m cool with starting all over. What’s life to be otherwise?

My life will not be predictable, nor scripted. I won’t allow it.

The trouble is, in regards to my big picture view, it’s never gone wrong. I’ve always taken on many projects, and the boundaries have had to give, and exceptions have had to been made, but I’ve come out on top (or what feels like ‘on top’… maybe this is a key distinction; one which might save me an ounce of what already sounds like arrogance). My fear now is that I’ve begun to take the cosmos all for granted. I lost my wallet on Friday night, after a drunken rage in Santa Cruz, and some homeless men helped me find it on the public beach, Sunday afternoon. You tell me how I’m supposed to think that things aren’t supposed to work out. The other day, I was called an “egotistical optimist,” and I’ve rescinded my initial retort, and reluctantly am in full agreement. I’m probably the definition of an egotistical optimist, but one who has been traditionally comforting and dependable to others. I don’t understand the balance either.

It’s gotten to the point where I know no other way of doing things though. I feel reluctant to change my approach (under the “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” mantra), but I admit that, these days, I’m asking myself if I really think my habits will work this time around. But honestly, I don’t feel like I know how to make decisions under the guise of a fundamentally different way of living.

The best advice I’ve ever gotten was from Matt Armstrong a long time ago. In a very personal letter, which I’ve sinced misplaced but haven’t lost, he complimented my counseloring abilities, comparing me to a camp legend who I’ve always respected. Armstrong kept his letter short and sweet, and in a single sentence he gave me three quick bits of advice. The second bit seemed embedded in the middle for a reason, so as to sound slight and to risk being overlooked, but I believe it to be the most important part of his message, said in a way where it wouldn’t outright offend or discourage: “Keep your ego in check,” he said, and glory will follow. It was an impressionable age, and I’ve never forgotten his words. But I’m afraid my good fortune and achievements since have let my ego out of the bag. I walk with a confidence that is too transparent for my tastes. I offend myself at times. Maybe I listen to too much Fifty Cent for my own good… (but how can I stop?!)

This level of awareness is essential. My sense of self-projection plays a role in my temptation to defy and to procrastinate. But my wits still have the last say. I recognize my ego needs to be challenged by itself, restrained even. It’s been running around, doing what it wills, meddling with my sense of what should be important to me, and I feel as if I’ve finally captured it in my cupped hands. But if I open up my hands, then what?

I won’t distinguish or absolve the ego. I’m in no mood for the apathy that ensues, and I think it’s essential to having and pursuing interests. My ego has been my edge, my fuel, and I’d be lying if I said otherwise, but it simply can’t be center stage. (I got goals, man). I need to put it to work. The problem is that the ego has no foresight, and can’t recognize the relationship between it’s short term goals and it’s long term ones. It needs to take ownership in maintaining the equilibrium it so craves, or else it will fall short — like it is designed to do if given full control. I need to put my ego to the test of discipline and honest effort, or I will lose my chance to be a part of an even bigger EGO. Period.

The first step to change is admittance. The second is to devise a plan that will work. The third? Application.

Sticks and Stones...

Despite popular belief, I’m doing very well. Incredible, even— I insist! I’d actually presume that the general populace sees and agrees. The other day I read through my post archive and came to realize that my inner monologue is a bit of a stressed-out, introspective, worrying, dramatist. I can admit it. And most levels, I’m concerned with Time and relations and purpose and meaning, and who knows what else… But don’t let that fool you. It’s just one dimension of Belltron, and on the whole, the man is balanced and moving forward.

In general, I’m honestly feeling relaxed and comfortable, but we all experience varying emotions. This is what it means to be human. It’s just that I choose to articulate those experiences in hopes of better understanding them, and in attempts to put them to rest— which is the more challenging of the two. Just getting the thoughts out on the page before me provides some sense of resolve, and it allows me to stare me right back in the face. The page is my mirror. The words are my facial expressions, and I chronicle so as to digest and negotiate myself in my growth. I’m working hard to be less divided as a person, but these entries will forever continue to speak on only a fragment of who I am, and who I’m becoming. I’d think that to be fairly obvious.

I was re-assuring a close friend just the other day that things are swell. I’ve shifted my schedule around a bit this fall to make space for achievable stability, and in so doing, my teaching position has been passed on to another. Admittedly, it’s just too much to do — playing club, coaching oregon ultimate, taking classes, writing my thesis, and trying to determine what the priorities should be all the while… you get the idea! I mean, I could do it all, right?, but is that really who I’m trying to be? No, I’m not driven purely by blind pride nor by an insatiable appetite for accomplishment. And so, we make choices. This decision has afforded me a lot more mental space, and time to keep my body healthy and rested. “So, no worries,” I said to him. And this is the truth. Things are good. I am an optimist through and through. Find me a friend that would tell me otherwise!

Part of me worries if I offend. Part of me is concerned that I insult the unsuspecting. But most of me feels it is important to be honest with myself, and sharing that honest moment with others is a most vulnerable step. People always have a choice. In these cases, they can turn away from my words in a fit of spiteful misunderstanding, or recognize their own complexity reflected back; and if this be the case, together, we push forward in this world, and maintain the communicative intrigue…

Summer in Eugene: finding Focus

This summer, I’ve somehow managed to squeeze every last drop of day into something enjoyable. I still got things done that needed to be done (I think), but I’ve really enjoyed myself. I’ve been taking some time for me: playing ultimate in Canada and at Potlatch, and soon again in Boise for Labor Day. I’ve been working-out like it’s my job: doin’ stair workouts twice each week with some friends, and hittin’ the gym and tossin’ the disc everyday in between. The body feels good, and what’s more, I feel like I’m really listening to it. I didn’t have ANY beer for about 3 weeks. However, this past weekend, my housemates and I threw a huge house party on Saturday night with 2 local kegs, and a couple hundred jello shots, so I had to drink my share of barley! What can I say? I’ve been eating right, resting right, and floating down the Mckenzie river when the afternoon is right… yeah, it’s been a dream.

To boot, I’ve done quite my share of daily reading; mostly books on occult philosophy and other esoteric doctrines. I can’t seem to shake P.D. Ouspensky. He and I just think too similarly — or at least right now, anyway. I’ve begun to feel really good about the idea of unveiling some of his philosophical critiques (on G.I. Gurdjieff and beyond) as a focus for my MA thesis. P.D.O. and I have a lot of overlap, and I think if I keep my nose in his books, I’ll have a bit more motivation to drive some of the other papers I’m working on. I guess we’ll see how full circle things go…

One thing I can be sure about is my new challenge of Focus. It can be a very difficult thing to stay positive. And it can be a very difficult thing to find balance with so many different people and activities on a single plate (a Life metaphor, I guess), but to attempt to maintain focus in addition to an extensive list of priorities AND a personal quest to stay positive is a whole ‘nother level of difficulty. I’m up for it. It’s time. It’s with focus that I must begin to carry myself, or else, put quite simply, I will surely fail at achieving my goals, this time around.

Focus requires some organization. It requires setting firm deadlines for yourself, and a sense of determination. The Bruce is moving in with Jake and I, and the management and maximization of our apartment space will defintely be an exciting challenge, but I’m hoping to carve out a niche or two that will allow me to focus and continue my reading binge with ease. I’m optimistic; but what else could I be, really?

I hope to continue blogging more routinely. It gives a certain order to my innerpersonal meddlings, and gives a good pace to my expression of them. Chronicling the times to come is a bit exciting. I have much school to do, with big dreams and big goals attached to its every step. You’ll never hear me say there’s something I should do, but I’m excited to see just how hard I could work.

These next 3 or 4 weeks I dedicate to reading more of the PDO pile at my bedside. But whence I return from my travels in september, the writing game is on. Self Synthesis, chapter one, will have begun…

Existential Privilege?

Last night, admist a warm conversation with a good friend, I had a relatively melancholy realization: the whole principle of existentialism is admittedly a privileged cognitive endeavor. To even begin to consider oneself existentially involves a fairly privileged socio-economic comfortability, and overall state of life. Those fighting and working just to put food on the table are most critically inseperable from the system in order for their survival. Existentialism, unfortunately, presupposes a stability; it requires the time to contemplate and the leisure from which to philosophize. Clearly and sadly, this is a luxury not afforded to all of earth’s citizens.

If only you could see me now...

“You ask why we live and exist and continue on??? Because it may not be for us, but for others… for others understanding, for others learning to love, for others gaining or re-gaining hope… for the fulfillment of positive love and life itself. For you. For me.

For whatever the reason, and for all the pain that life does unleash upon us, it is the little things that we remember and those are the things that make it all worth while.”
~A.J.L.

Edsel, Peg and Aaron Bell (1981):

What Happened to "Playing"?

Today, I found myself sitting on the floor with Sam, Susan, some Oregon-grown Pinot Noir, and an evening to shoot the breeze. Again, it was one of those days. The three of us all don’t know eachother very well, and consequently, our conversations had so much free reign. We could chat about virtually anything. I’ll trace the lineage of thought as far back as I can, but the important thing has to do with ‘playing’ - or lack thereof.

Maybe it was the great city of San Francisco that started the ball rolling, or maybe it was our difference in dress and wardrobe that did it, but somehow we got to talking about how John Meyer and Sam dressed up as Tinkerbell and Captain Hook for their Halloween weekend gettaway in San Fran. They went over the top on this — spending like a $100 each and making the most elaborate and expressive costumes possible. They roamed the San Francisco streets like it was their job, and partied like family honor was at stake. I think this brought up fairytales and children stories.

I remember talking about the movie, “princess bride” and the “wizard of oz”… we spent some time talking about sequels and prequels to that movie, but I wasn’t really into the conversation at the point - at least, not-in-it-to-win-it. I came back when we began talking about “Gooines” and the “Neverending Story” and the flying dog-like thing therein. It was one of those movies I remember really enjoying, but I cannot remember what the movie is about, for the life of me. The same goes for the “Smurfs.” I can’t remember any episodes, but I remember enjoying it, and remember watching it. Ahh, the early 80’s. And that’s just where our convo took us.

The next thing I know, we’re conjuring up old memories of days on the playground, and we were singing jump-rope songs. It started with that antagonizing song that went something like, “Michael and Annie, sittin’ in a tree, K, I, S, S, I, N, G. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes the baby with the baby carriage…” All of a sudden, between the three of us we could carry on the entire song, “… suckin’ her thumb, and wettin’ her pants, tryin’ to hula-dance…” It was great. We were like three nine-year-olds singin’ and clappin’ and laughin’. It was awesome. And it didn’t stop there…

Miss Susie has a steamboat, the steamboat has a bell
Miss Susie went to Heaven, the steamboat went to
hell-o operator, please give me # 9,
and if you disconnect me, I’ll kick you from
be-hind the ‘fridgerator’ there was a piece of glass,
Miss Susie sat upon it and cut her little
assssk me no more questions, and tell me no more lies,
the flies are in the city the bees are in the park,
Miss Susie and her boyfriend are kissing in the
D - A - R - K, D - A - R - K, dark! …

Aww, man, it was so fun. We remembered all the days of sitting in circles and clapping, and singing and keeping in rhythm. It was at this point that Susan asked, “yeah, why did we play those games anyway? What was the point?” To which, Sam replied, “It was playing. That was the point. Just to play.” There was a brief pause and I think all of us thought the same things. We thought about all the games we used to play — all the games we really loved. And then we all came to the same realization:

We’ve stopped Playing.

Oh, sad sad day! What a realization. We just don’t play anymore. I instantly thought that I’ve always had camp as a place that kept my playing, but I’ve moved on from that place… and I can’t remember the last time I just played, for the sake of playing.

I like to think that ultimate is my playground, or reading is where I play — but come on, let’s get real… these are metaphores that became reality. There’s something fundamentally different, and something fundamentally lacking in trying to term these engagements as play. What is it like to just ‘Play’? And what happened to “Playing”?

A link for the Playful.

Shedding Stories

A post from Ashley’s blog that I needed to share:

“A passage from A Heartbreaking work of Staggering Genius:

‘These things, details, stories, whatever, are like the skin shed by snakes, who leave theirs for anyone to see. What does he care where it is, who sees it, this snake, and his skin? He leaves it where he molts. Hours, days or months later, we come across a snake’s long-shed skin and we know something of the snake, we know that it’s of this approximate girth and that approximate length, but we know very little else. Do we know where the snake is now? What the snake is thinking now? No. By now the snake could be wearing fur; the snake could be selling pencils in Hanoi. The skin is no longer his, he wore it because it frew from him, but then it dried and slipped off and he and everyone could look at it.’

posted by Ashley @ 1:51 PM”

[..talk about positive cognition, among other posts, and still others …!]

Modes of Being, of Expression

In short, I’m in need of some new mode of expression. I recognize that the way we express ourselves is awfully variable. Often different parts of our personality, of our being, are excited and engaged by different people. True. No question. The same could be said by different contexts, and activities. I’ve been aware of this for some time.

In fact, this fall, I decided that I would make myself completely vulnerable and open to anyone who might ask me anything. Why not? What secrets am I really afraid of sharing, or whose judgments would I really fear hearing? (better to have someone judging me from the inside out, eh?) Granted, this isn’t always easy, but I sincerely have chosen to (and with much success) share any aspect of my person under question. In retrospect, I’d say this has been in an attempt to allow myself to be engaged on any level with any person, so as to further my own sense of being, and to discover additional modes of expression. But these days, I’m not feeling like the group conversations or the duologues are enough.

In short, I think the issue is language. I’m very language oriented, and have become moreso throughout the years. With language comes an undeniable appeal towards reason, and explanation. But within hyper-personal and uber-invasive (I use this term with positive connotation) interactions, I find that I’m often trying to speak of certain emotions I might be feeling, or beliefs that I might have. This gets tricky within language, to the point that I often stumble with ‘getting at the right words’ or am just generally dissatisfied with the things I end up saying. Sure, I could try to learn more words, but I don’t know if that will solve the problem (plus, if my listener doesn’t know the word I’m using, we’re back at our original enigma). Our language, in particular, is necessarily so limited. And I’m beginning to skate around the boundary of my rhetorical expanses.

I’m in need of some new mode of expression. I’ve exhaused my present state.

And there really is no denying this. I’m in need of some other release. I imagine that the answer to my restlessness lies within one of the many mediums of art: sculpture, painting, photography, drawing, design, music, poetry… I guess I just need to keep proceeding forward until one fits. My being is at stake here, people. Living admist cognitive swill, and expressive imprisonment is not an acceptable alternative for me.

I bought a “mandola” last week, so that should be coming in the mail shortly. I guess I’ll start there.

Buber tells us of Love

Jesus or not, Buber provides a very helpful description for me about ‘Love’ (and the fact that i’m groovin’ out to Omar’s album, Best by Far, at the moment is definitely helping me feel why):

“Feelings accompany the metaphysical and metapsychical fact of love, but they do not constitute it; … Jesus’ feeling for the possessed man is different from his feelings for the beloved disciple; but the love is one. … Feelings dwell in man, but man dwells in his love. This is no metaphor but actuality: love does not cling to an I, as if the You were merely it’s ‘content’ or object; it is between I and You. Whoever does not know this, know this with his being, does not know love, even if he should ascribe to it the feelings that he lives through, experiences, enjoys and expresses. Love is a cosmic force.”

[p. 66: “I and Thou” - Martin Buber]

Additionally, for Buber, “All living is meeting” and though I’ve read very little of his works, I believe that I, personally, have a responsibility to make something more out of the dialogues I have with others - as should everyone. The question for me becomes: ‘how am I doing?” … and to be honest, I feel like I’m slipping, losing grip, sliding into some transcendental abyss……

I could keep clawing and scratching at my conceptions of the past, hoping to hold on to what has once been, or I can let go, and see where it takes me. It’s clear that Life changes, and you know what, I’m willing to take the ride; no reason not to, right?

2 Stanzas of 'Incoherence'

And with the breath of a thousand souls, I sigh…
My pattern of woes has changed it’s beat.
Cerebral swirlings run rampant inside;
No ground below to greet my feet.

Oh dear, my Narcissus has shown her grace!
A pinch of my skin, and a blink of my eye,
I’m kissing my reflection and her face.
This deja vood’ist has me vexed with, ‘Why?’

[…unfinished…]

That place.

As I look around … I see so much.
A friendly smile and a simple touch.
Hearing sounds of an innocent youth,
Hidden by the beauty of nature’s truth.

Ain’t it sad, it’s not always like this?
When I leave, this is what I most miss.
I’m reachin’ out, grab onto my hand.
Help me now, do whatever you can.

I’m fallin’ free and I’m fallin’ fast. I’m feelin’ lost behind this facemask.
I need a hug, it’s no easy task. A sip of life is all that I ask.
So please … just give me what I need to keep me goin’ strong.
Just try… direct me to the place where the fun lives long.

Lookin’ out across the strawberry sky,
Watching the birds and wishing I could fly,
Feelin’ kinda helpless standin’ on my feet,
An eagle-eyed view would be a mighty fine treat.

It’s dark outside but there’s fire all around,
In my mind, in my heart, it gets my feet off the ground.
Tryin’ to escape, let me soul leave this place,
But no one can go without leaving a trace.

I’m fallin’ free and I’m fallin’ fast. I’m feelin’ lost behind this facemask.
I need a hug, it’s no easy task. A sip of life is all that I ask.
So please … just give me what I need to keep me goin’ strong.
Just try… direct me to the place where the fun lives long.

hmmmmm…. hmmmm…. hmmmm…
hmmmmm…. hmmmm…. hmmmm…

—————————
Summer, 99’.
Reuben on the Harmonica.
Chris Carr on the guitar.
Bell with the vocals, and the lyrics.

Hölderlin Quote

Thanks to Ted, I have come across a quote that suits my fancy:

“He who has thought most deeply loves that which is most alive.”
~Friedrich Hölderlin

A secret

I’ve not been posting as often as I’d like, lately. Not for lack of interesting material (quite the opposite rather, considering John Edwards was on campus the other day, this pretty fun political comedy routine happened last night at Cozmic Pizza, and I’ve had some progressive conversations of late), but I’ve found that I’ve been journaling a bit more and blogging a bit less. So it goes.

In an effort to move forward with this space for thought, I’ll reveal a little known secret about me in the context of a short occurence that took place last night. So, I was out on the turf fields, between 8pm and 10:30pm, tossing the ‘bee with some Oregon kids. I was super into it. Yelling and raving, exclaiming such things as, “you can’t hold me!”… and “it’s too easy. it’s just too easy”… when a 50/50 disc went up just after the clock struck “10”. The disc was high, and charging, full-throttle (yes, i have a throttle), Koko and I converged in opposition on the disc. I have a considerable height advantage and a large competitive smile of anticipation came over me … I leaped. As my feet propelled me from the turf below, I launched to meet the disc at its highest point. My right arm swung forward to grab the disc, while my left threw itself downward to further propell my flight. And that’s when it happened. My elbow smacked Koko in the face, … and what’s worse, the disc went uncaught.

It was a shame on two accounts. Dave (Koko) shook it off, and felt rather optimistic since there was no blood… but no sooner had he said this did blood start to pour from his nose like lava from St. Helens. I felt horrible. But he seemed cool with it, and didn’t hold it against me. He let it drip to a complete stop, wiped, rinsed and we were back to throwing. The only comfort I could offer him at such a time of anguish was, “hey man, if it helps any, I want you to know that I’ve never had a bloody nose… ever!… in my life!”

Dave and I remain friends to this day. And, yes, I’ve still NEVER had a bloody nose. Ever. In my life.

Hulda

A second piece that I found most interesting was by an artist from Edmond, Wash) named Diane Saffitz Her painting was titled, “Hulda” (2002), and i found it incredibly captivating - the idea, and her interpretation especially. Sorry I couldn’t find a picture to show you. You’ll have to check it out on your own. The absract read:

Diane Saffitz’s painting, “Hulda”, was inspired by the tenacity of a 93 year Miami woman (pictured with holding a bat at her television which is at a loss for reception), who refused to leave her home during a hurricane. The daring with which she protected her house and belongings inspired Saffitz to rethink the importance of her own home. Hulda’s example seems as a reminder that in our own homes we live freely and independantly, defining happiness on our own terms.

My first thoughts: “oooooohhh… I see. How interesting.” Which, really… says a lot.

Truth is Not a Sentence

While at the Tacoma Art Museum I came across a most interesting piece, indeed. It is by far one of the most exhilarating works of art that I’ve ever seen, brought to live by elements of the very things that create our sense of existence. I was blown away, and had to write down the abstract. The artist, again, was Iole Alessandrini, born in Italy in 1962, but now living in Seattle, and the piece was titled, Truth is Not a Sentence - it was absolutely wonderful. Made (in 2002) of laser, digital video, sound and LCD panels, I present you with the abstract:

“Truth is Not a Sentence” explores the differences between statement and fact. Using text, sound, and lasers, Iole Alessandrini presents different kinds of information about the world. Viewers must determine for themselves what is true. The laser draws attention to the physical dimensions of the space. The sound is Alessandrini’s invented language. The repitition of the text, “the truth is not a sentence” scrolls across the monitors. Alessandrini’s goal is to have people realize that their perception of the world is a reflection of their psychological state.”

Wow.

A dream I had

Wow. So, I just woke up on my lab floor after a fairly good night sleep, and I realized I just had this incredibly detailed/graphic dream. One where my heart was really pounding and all of my senses seemed intimately tied to the experience. I immediately ran to the computer and typed it out as I remembered it. It was a race to write before the remanance of that dream faded - but I think I got most or all of it (minus some specifics). Written very colloquially, I thought I’d post it. Oh, and yesterday I saw this play called, “Picasso at the Lapin Agile.” (I also remember seeing it in High School, but last night’s performance far outshined my previous encounter). Incredible play. Some great food for thought. It is a play written by Steve Martin and the script is phenomenal - the perfect combination of humor and genius. Be sure to allow your life to cross paths with this play at some point. That’s all I wanted to say… that, and there’s a lot of incredible plants blooming around campus these days, and a gorgeous purple-flower tree in full bloom in front of our house. I should take a picture — it just changes the whole dynamic of walking home in the afternoon. It’s beautiful.

THE DREAM:

We were in this dark room. With some big object in the middle, perhaps a pool table. (which now makes a little sense). Probably about 8 guys or so. And I think we were putting posters on the wall and just hanging out. I didn’t remember knowing any of the fellas, but I knew that I belonged in the room. Somehow I had a machete and started swinging it around, sort of ninja like. (I’m sure it related to the type of poster I had). I started jousting with this guy and he got all defensive. Somehow (and this is where it gets fuzzy), someone wanted everyone to fight to the death. (it might have been my suggestion). Everyone was in agreement. I realized how serious of a challege this would be, and though I was confident, I realized I didn’t want to die. But, I disguised my fear, and said a joke, “hey, wait… wait… We can either fight to the death, or you can all give me $1,000. What do you think?” No one took the offer. I was sincere. At the very least, you could save yourself for a mere $1,000 or you could potentially die this painful, miserable death for sake of pride. Nonetheless, I fought and was excited to do so (you tell me where I fall on the pride scale). This one man came at me and suddenly I pulled a second machete from my side (longer than the first), other people had other weapons, they were all hand-combat weapons but to be honest, I don’t remember them. This one guy came at me and swung, I ducked and attacked his left hand. It was easier to attack because I was right handed, but then I realized that he was right handed and this did nothing to cripple his offense. So, I immediately destroyed his right hand and stabbed him in the chest. My adrenaline was pumping now. A man came at me from the corner and I whipped a machete at him full speed. In the back of my head, I wasn’t sure if I could pull it off — chuck a machete and have it land blade side in — but it worked! I hit him in the neck and it made a certain thud. He was still standing. I felt attackers coming from all sides. I ran to him and pulled the blade out of his neck and sliced off his right hand at the same time. As I turned another man came at me. I stepped to the side, low, and came up at his mid-section. Again, aiming for the hands and regained composure. I threw another machete at another man; this toss worked as well. Soon, I had gone through (what felt like) everyone in the room. It was unbelievable. Not only did I think I wouldn’t make it, but it went by so quickly. I felt so powerful. I began walking to the door and all of a sudden, on my right hand side was Kevin Claus [this sophomore on my college ultimate team]. As chill as could be. No weapons. No fear. Just chill. I said, “Kevin, you made it!” He said, “well, yeah … What did you expect?” I was proud, for I knew he had fought his way through. Though we had all been fighting to the death (implying one victor), I didn’t even think about finishing off Kevin, and obviously he felt the same. (The thought didn’t even cross my mind in the dream.) We went and looked at his poster, and to be honest, I can’t remember what it was. But it had some holes in it and some slice marks — it seemed as if he still had the poster in his hands when he began fighting, using it as somewhat of a distraction or a defense. I remember leaving the room, going through a door into the next room. I forget who was there or what was there, but I still had the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I soon realized that Kevin had not followed and I went back to the doorway that connected this room to the one I just came from. The door was ajar and part of me feared another perpetrator lurking on the other side of the wall … so, through the door entrance, I stabbed into the air in front of me to see if I could excite the swing of any hiding attacker. I slowly moved through the doorway, but remember, the door opened forward so I could not see around the door to my right. Then, from the right came Kevin. With a big smile. I stabbed toward him, only because I saw movement, but then I realized it was Kevin and dropped my guard. I immediately realized that we had killed everyone else and smiled back. Then Kevin and I walked into the next room, and that’s all I remember.

Crazy, eh?

(Back to work…)

Costa Rica Reflection

Charity – a catalyst for our sense of community
- a colloquial project of reflection -

Recently, I found myself with the most incredible opportunity – spending a full month in Costa Rica for my January term. What started out as 4 weeks of intensive Spanish study, quickly morphed into an insurmountable period of reflection. Here I was, a fortunate, middle-class American boy graced with the extravagant privileges that my society simply terms: college education, personal transportation, cellular telephone, internet access, health insurance, job options, savings account, etc. But, until my trip to Central America, I had taken all of this for granted. Sure, I was grateful, but I had no frame of reference for comparison. It wasn’t until I had spent 3 or 4 days in my host-family’s house before I realized how lucky I was.

Unlike Costa Rica, my house back home was equipped with warm showers, screen doors, and big rooms. We have multiple television sets, multiple cordless phones, and multiple automobiles. At my house, we have 2 floors, 2 refrigerators, and 2 pianos. The animals in our home aren’t visiting lizards or threatening cockroaches, they’re miniature schnauzers and fuzzy gerbils. Chickens don’t wake you in the morning, alarm clocks do. And there’s no need to make your own spaghetti sauce or grow your own aloe plants, we have convenience stores for both of these things. ‘How fortunate, how lucky we are’, I thought … at first.

But then I found myself in the routine of living in Costa Rica. I would wake up promptly every morning at 7:30am, fill myself with pinto (rice and beans), eggs, plates of papaya & pineapple and indulge in leisurely conversation with my mamatica. I would walk 2 miles down the busy ‘Avenue Central’ to school; or catch the bus if I was late! I’d often shake hands with others on the bus, or greet the people at the stops as I passed. Warm smiles and gentle head-nods seemed to culminate in the crisp Caribbean air. For being thousands and thousands of miles away from home, aside from the lack of English, I certainly felt like I hadn’t left.

As time rolled on, and I became more attune with the country and seemingly more engaged with its people, I began to notice the subtle differences between Costa Rican culture and American. It took me weeks to put my finger on it, but I couldn’t help but feel an air of community that far exceeds the American customs of which I’m most familiar. Day in and day out I would see new faces, young and old, visiting our house, partaking in a casual dinner, exchanging stories of the day and opinions of the world – all while the phone stayed on its hook. It was the way people interacted with each other. The way they listened to each other. The genuine interest they showed in each other. It was a type of communal charity that seemed to define the atmosphere – an atmosphere they termed “pura vida,” the pure life. It made me feel as if America and our lives of middle class suburbia suffer from a stagnant sense of community; something I like to call, ‘closed-door syndrome.’ I’d like to take you through my thought process – an interpretive perspective of the typical American neighborhood, the contrasts of modern Costa Rican culture and the reasons its sense of community is so successful.

Growing up in the United States, American children are filled with certain ideals; ideals centered around individualism, independence, and achievement, to name a few. We’re constantly told to ‘do it yourself,’ ‘get your own,’ and ‘save what you earn’ – all words of wisdom, but when combined together we begin to see a type of society that serves as its own detriment. In our fast paced life people become too quick to focus on themselves. Their saving habits become addictions to serve the self; there seems to be a reluctance (absence) to shower our neighbors with unexpected pleasantries, save the manufactured hallmark holidays which might drive us to buy a card or give some candy, as opposed to bake a cake or share a pie. Neighborhoods become interactive solely for utility: “Say, Mr. Jones, can you collect my mail while we’re gone on vacation?” or “Mrs. Merryweather, could you please keep your dog from defecating our lawn?”, or worse, “Say, Mr. Jefferson, I live across the street, would you like to buy a wreath?” The sense of community in neighborhoods is reduced to subtle hand-waves while getting the mail from the end of the driveway and going outside to mow the lawn only because Mrs. Anderson across the street is already out doing so. Block parties are seldom. Neighborhood picnics are a rarity. Middle America seems to suffer from this hyper-self-serving-individualism that keeps the family in the house and neighbors at a relative distance.

Not to mention the way we keep in touch with each other. With our ATM machines, computer animated bank tellers and drive thru windows, we’ve managed to reduce person-to-person interaction to a minimum. The charity of tipping has changed from a genuine assessment of server-to-client rapport, and has shifted into a custom of impersonal percentages. No longer do we walk over to a friend’s house and allow for a casual ‘hello’; we call them on our cell phones and arrange appointments to meet them somewhere. Look around you. Our nation breeds self-isolation. The public transportation systems are hardly used to their full capacity in most American cities, and we are left to watch millions of non-carpool cars, capacity = 1, occupying 5/6 of the freeway lanes, driving to and fro. It’s absurd. Everyone wants their own car. Their own house. Their own space. And worst of all, we forget to take the time to share it – in the right way. Throw your parties; have your Christmases; try to justify how your house is open to visitors with its locked doors, big home security systems and gated driveways – its seems that in America’s efforts to acquire things, we’ve forgotten how to share them, we’ve forgotten about good wholesome community.

I would never have come to these realizations had I not spent 4 weeks in Curridibat, Costa Rica – a small suburb with a big heart. It was here that I learned of a culture of people that found a way to live more, while having less. There were no elaborate homes, no big yards, and no private swimming pools. Not everyone had a car, not everyone had a television, and not everyone had his/her own bedroom. Life, in Costa Rica, was focused on living, not having. And Costa Ricans seem to live together. Their secret: their emphasis on community.

Neighborhoods were alive with a special ambience that I had never really felt back in America. People, young and old, were out enjoying the day and enjoying each other. Walking with friends or playing soccer in the park was commonplace. Neighbors were constantly visiting one another, bringing a tasty treat, or an engaging conversation. Coffee was always offered; dinner was usually shared. When you went to buy bread at the local pantry, you’d catch up on the latest news or talk about the latest soccer game with the baker. When you went to a bar to watch the game, you’d find yourself instantly sitting with other supportive fans, clanging mugs and singing cheers.

Costa Rica seemed so people oriented. People would actually make time on the street to stop and genuinely talk to an old friend or a passing acquaintance. It was not an American atmosphere of head nods and shoulder shrugs – if that! There was an ever-present sense of community and it was in your face, wherever you went. This culture blurred the lines of young and old. It brought grandparents onto the soccer field, and children to the “grown-up’s table”. Families were stronger here. Love was more tangible. People seemed to share their life, and consequently, themselves with more people and with more frequency than Americans.

I really think the Costa Rican sense of community was so successful because of the way people gave of themselves. In Curridbat, there was an atmosphere of giving and sharing – both of what you have and of who you are. Going through your day wasn’t a juggling act of hiding your identity behind blank faces on the sidewalks and avoiding eye-contact on the city buses. It was a culture that embraced interaction. It was a culture that put the phone down, turned the T.V. off and had a good conversation with a friend, made a good dinner from scratch with a neighbor, or went on a walk with your brother/sister. Some may call this communal love, or describe this as a particular type of social open-ness, but I think it can easily be seen as charity.

Here, I think we see charity emerge as the glue that holds the society together and as the catalyst for creating community. Charity fosters a healthy sense of belonging within each community member and establishes the groundwork for an attractive inclusive environment. Having neighbors and fellow countrymen that embrace your same ideals through kind action and thought provides a sense of cohesive security that allows people to be happy and to be confident in being themselves. I don’t know if Costa Rica is enriched with a more self-assured populace because of its established charity lineage, or if America suffers from borderline social insecurity from its hypo-self-serving-individualism, but one thing we can be sure of – there’s a difference in the atmosphere. Let’s just say, my return trip to Costa Rica lurks at the forefront of my thinking.

Council Bluff

Ahh… Council Bluff

Wow. This picture makes me feel a lot of emotions. It’s like I’m still a 9 year old boy looking at Council Bluff from the audience for the first time, but as i gaze forward, the people seem strikingly more familiar. All of sudden, I look … and it’s my closest friends up there …. oh, … and me?

Ahh, Nostalgia

So, I was sitting in my “History and Systems” Psych class today, and during a fit of boredom, mixed with a side of ADD and sleep deprivation, I looked over to my neighbor’s half of the table and happened to pay attention to her books. This was already more exciting to look at than my half of the table, which was decorated nicely with a pen that I found on my walk to school and a piece of paper that I ‘borrowed’ from some dude at the start of class. So, I’m looking at these books of hers — all neatly stacked upon eachother, and perfectly lined with the corner of the desk. She’s paying attention to the lesson, and I’m pretty much staring at (and thinking about) her situation. [To be honest, I don’t have books for the class (yet)… my goal every semester is to try and weasle my way through the course as long as I can before I succumb to the pressure and … commercialize (yeah, it’s a new verb I made up). I’ve only made it through one class without buying books, but I gotta keep the tradition alive during my last semester, ya know?] So, I start thinking, where is this girl from, what is she all about? I mean, she’s seriously listening, she’s taking rigorous notes and her books are all orderly, and then, BOOM, I saw it —- the second book in the stack (of three) was covered in what appeared to be a thick, black, lycra lining. I took a double take. Sure enough, it looked like that same size and shape book as the official book for the class. Everyone else had the same book on their desks, but without the fancy covering. (I thought about all of this in between the two glances of my double take).

I took a closer look, and it seemed as if this was a fairly expensive covering. Strong material; durable. Black, so as to absorb heat and keep your hands warmer on a cool, NW morning. It perfectly fit the book - so they must come in other sizes, presumably in packs of 3 or 5, so the purchase may be more expensive one would expect - possibly from some book specialty store.

Seriously, I thought, who is that concerned with their books that they go out of their way to buy (no less) coverings for them? I mean, it’s college… you’re either going to keep the books forever, or return them at the end of the semester, what’s the big deal? I even thought, “How dumb.”

But then I had a flashback. I remembered a 3rd grade version of myself sitting on a sunday morning at the kitchen table with my mother, cutting and taping newspapers or grocery paperbags to fit all of my texts. At the time I felt so special. I had new books! I was with my favorite person in the world! And we were doing a project together! (and maybe when we were done, we would do a really super-duper hard puzzle for adults or watch “Anne of Green Gables” for the 5th time that month). And when we were all finished making the book covers perfect, I could color them, and write all over them and maybe even put cool stickers on them. That was the best.

What a great feeling! I was all smiles, and still am. I’m so glad I saw that book cover today. I seriously think I’m going to cover all of my books when I get home. Big thanks to that girl in my class!

[Oh, and by “cover” I mean “buy,” and by “when i get home” I mean, “and then go home and cover them.”]

A Collection

I keep a journal on me at all times. It’s a ‘moleskin’ and I use it religiously — for thoughts, reminders, quick stories, quotes I hear, quotes I write — whatever. Often, I find myself paging through the things I’ve written and, simply, remember. Here are one-sentence entries I’ve made recently:

“the unexamined life is not worth living” ~Socrates

And so, it seems that the more you examine your life, the more you become an exemplary human being (specifically to Socrates’ standards, but, perhaps to all of ours).

At the same time, it seems as if our culture offers a whole lot of distraction and not a lot of opportunity to examine life.

I’m taking a class on “Charity,” although the topic is likened specifically to “love”, which was later described as a possible combination of three things: commitment, passion and intimacy. I wondered, “are these right? Is this a healthy, holistic understanding of love?”

Do we have good reason for thinking that we will never have good reasons for thinking there’s a God?

What does “tongue and cheek” mean?

On the first day of my ‘Philosophy of Religion’ class my professor posed the question, “what is philosophy.” To be honest, I don’t enjoy these types of questions. But somehow we got on the topic that “some say there’s no answers in philosophy”, to which our professor replied, “In reality, there’s TOO MANY answers — philosophy tries, in so far as it’s possible, not to take things for granted.” I liked that response.

I’m taking a class on “justice” and on the first day of class my professor asked us what our thoughts were about this frase:
“treat equals equally, and unequals unequally.” (SIDE NOTE: At some point in the near future, I’d like to speak about whether or not I think Animals have rights.)

I was spinning a frisbee the other day and this woman says to me, “you must play basketball!”

I saw the Ultimate Samurai again in Costa Rica, and the last sentence stuck out in my mind. It was something to the effect of, “… that he may have found some small sliver of peace that we all seek, but few of us ever find.” I wonder, is this true?

A sad day

Today is a sad day in Costa Rica. It’s my last full day. Surprisingly, I’ve made a few friends here in one months time, and today is a day of good-byes and so-longs. I bought cake for the kids at the orphanage where I worked — it was muy rica — and the kids loved it… so much that half of every bite was on their face, and after we were all done eating, our incessant hugging left the cake on my shirt — hazaa for tide! I had lunch with a buddy at my favorite little place - kind of like the Penelope’s of Costa Rica. My friendships with the workers there had really blossomed into an uncanny exchange of perspectives — on life and which woman walking down the street was most attractive. Ahh costa Rica. I spent my afternoon walking the streets of San Jose, feeling an emptiness — a feeling that all is temporary; and a feeling of anticipation, knowing that in a matter of two days I will be plummeting back into the fast-paced world that is America. It’s the middle of the afternoon… we have plans to go out… but, I’m not ready for the day to keep going. I just sort of want time to slow down for a while. I will surely miss this place—- I have a story to tell…. about an incredible event that happened, and probably the reason I was supposed to come to Costa Rica. pero, no tengo tiempo ahora……………….

Humility

I have 3 minutes of free time during a class break, so I’ll share with you a tidbit of my morning:

Today, I interviewed a woman from Nicaragua… aka, “una Nica”. She lives in los barracas, a poor neighborhood of sorts, and her life is clearly sub-par in the eyes of other Costa Ricans (Ticos), and especially Americans (Gringos). But, she came here in search of a better life and a more stable economic situation, and she truly feels she’s found it… here… in the barren streets of Curridibat, Costa Rica. We talked. And the whole time I couldn’t imagine how this life could be better then the one she left behind. We talked some more. She asked me about EE.UU. (aka, USA) and she assumed we were all millionaires and living lavishly in a ‘developed nation’. I told her that I think our nation is developed —- for sure —- with things. We have technology, freeways, non-corrupt police (for the most part), democracy, commercialism and opportunity. Sure. But where I think our developments have failed is in our minds. I don’t think our minds and philosophies of life have ‘developed’ —- in the sense that I don’t think our busy lives encourage us to contemplate enough. I told her that “I don’t think our minds are humbled with Global Awareness”, the type of global awareness that comes from the way these people live everyday. We both smiled. Con mucho gusto.

When I come home ...

[music: Moroccan Spirit]

Everyday we wake up with goals for that particular day, even if our goal is to do nothing, or to not have goals (which, BTW, occurs few and far between as of late). Over the last few days I’ve been trying to figure out how I’m going to get back to school, and, more specifically, with my new car (though mine is white). So, today, I woke up with this goal in mind, and arranged to bail out of my return flight to Seattle from Costa Rica. Instead of flying from San Jose to Houston and on to Seattle, I’ve decided to spend the night in Houston, catch a flight to Milwaukee the next morning. There, my dad will have my car (a.k.a., “the saab”) waiting at General Mitchell, and I will hop in the ride and kick it out west for a liesurely 4-day, 2,600mi road trip back to school. I thought to myself, “How great would it be to pick up some friends on the way” and proceeded to bust out my new cell phone and call up my housemate, Justin, who lives in Minneapolis, MN. I find his number on yahoo ‘people search’ and call him up, and I’m like, “Hey, man, how’s the home life?” And he goes, “Well, no one is around.” And then it hit me —- when I come home, life is crazy!

When I’m at school, life is mine. I feel my world is purely dependent on my decisions, and yeah, sure, there’s always an element of chance, but I feel in control, more or less. I choose to go here, and stay there, and do that, and say this … blah, blah, blah. But at home, the world is different. It’s beautiful and wonderful, don’t get me wrong, but different. Perhaps two uses of the word, “responsible” will help shed some light on the distinction.

At school, I feel that I must be responsible for my experiences. I have to take responsibility because I am pioneering my own life in a new place at a new time. When I come home, it’s not so much that I need to take responsibility, but, rather, I have a responsibility. Here, responsibility is governing my actions, whereas, in the former, responsibility is trying to understand my actions.

At home, there are so many people in my life that have been there since the beginning, and I want so badly to keep them in my life. I see that my life is defined in part by those relationships and their ability to progress. I find myself bound to making time to see each one of my friends and family members and to share in the experiences we each have had while we’ve ‘been away’ at school, or at work, or at war. Home is something constant and developed, and reliable, and unconditional (or so it seems), and I have a responsibility to its maintainence, especially if it remains something so dear to me, and at the heart of my person. School, on the other hand, is predominately growth, and risk-taking, and discovery, and adventure, and I must take responsibility for my experiences and choices. Home is stability. School is instability.

This is not to say the two are different or incapable of having similar qualities (in fact, at home I often make plans with my home friends to do wild stuff while at school)- its just, at home I find myself reflecting about my time away. It is easy to relate with the very people you grew up with and who approach life similarly. Its interesting to see the different directions your friends’ lives have taken, considering we all started at virtually the same spot. I wonder if this notion is what keeps everyone coming back home for the holidays. When I fly home to milwaukee I always know there are over 25 ultra-great friends from High School that are chomping at the bit to hang out, catch-up and go have some beers. Aside from them, four families wait with open arms. My immediate family (of 4) is stoked to have a full house again, my mom’s relatives (the Kuchlers) are already fired-up for the holiday festivities to come, my father’s family (the Bell’s) work hard to make-up for the 13 years of lost time, and who can forget the minikani family - going to winter camp, chillin’ at pubs, gossiping over who’s coming back to camp or not, and loving every minute of it. I come home to a symphony of faces. It never fails. I love it. I’m bound to it. I don’t want it ever to change. And it is for this reason that I spend so much energy trying to see everyone, and share in their ever-changing lives, if only for a day.

At school, I have no idea where my efforts in academia are taking me. I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, while I journey into seemingly arbitrary directions. Hoping to meet the right one, attend the right school, and have the right job. I make decisions and I don’t know what will come of it. But I have learned to take responsibility for them. My life at school couldn’t be better. It is easily the best part of my life, and the root of whom I’m becoming, but when I come home, life is crazy. It becomes a frenzy of knowing all the great people you want to see, and trying to make time to see them. I feel like I come home with so many things to do, and people to see — and take the time to drive down memory lane and see how the city is changing or how High School is the same as it ever was. When I come home, it’s not that no one is around, it becomes a struggle to be around everyone.

But I raise my glass (of merlot) high, and wish a happy holiday to all the people I’ve been able to spend some time with this break (so far…): mom, dad, sis, mike wahn & Annie, erik schleicher, greg hartman, shoop, burcham, joe g. & Lauren, lindsey wehr, tresca, amie & Colin, kristin, sarah marks, jovita, april cook, kim morgan, eric hoffman, brett hoffman, mike wolf, ryan cunningham, adam taff, molly verette, kyle balke, karin sommerfelt, jeremy jefferey, Caitlin (Jeffery), Trangy, Petey, ‘gina, Mr. & Mrs. Matranga, Frank & wife (and 2 children), aunt kathy, aunt Jean, aunt Dori, Uncle Jim, Uncle Larry, Lonnie, Rachel, Andy, Marla, Leah, Amanda, Brian & Nancy Pederson, Barto, Lindsey’s cousin Seanna, Mr & Mrs. Hartman, Mr & Mrs Wolf, Mrs. Nelson, Mr. Wahn, Mr. & Mrs. Yee, Jessie & Renee Yee, Perry, Colleen, Kevin, Christine & Maureen Bremner, Mauda, Drayna, Michelle Barrie, Ira, Mark Meiling, Carole Dede, Grandma Meiling, Mr. & Mrs. Cunningham, Alex Payne, Chris Klein, Dennis & Sons (from Philmont), Pastor Johnson, Mr. & Mrs. Nauman (and daughter), travis King, ellen Burchell, Chris Sampson, Danielle Reed, Mr. & Mrs. Taff, Mr. Moreland, Mr. T., Mr. Zeitlow, Marika, The Koenitz family, Jim & Donna Zarek, Christie Zarek, Val Schleicher (& lil’ michael), Niko Alexiou, Mr. & Mrs. Wright, Karen & Kristin Wright, Johnny Hyland, ….

And I’m sure many more…. When I come home, there are so many people to see, and so little time to see them. When I come home, there are so many tales to be told, and laughs to be had. There are so many bars to be visited, and beers to be dranken. Dart games to be played, and holiday toasts to be given. When I come home, life is crazy. And I’m ok with that.

I gotta go. Tonight, some friends of mine have formed a band and are putting on a show, and then I’m off for another Bell Family Reunion - in celebration of my Unlce Cliff’s birthday.