Darkness. Ghostly shadows flutter across the damp walls of my cell. Triple lock. Bolt lock: relentless academics; chain lock: restriction; key lock: life. I only dream of what occurs outside of my little gray cell: day-time naps with no alarm clocks, weekend date without having to check my calendar first, reading a novel without class books screaming in the background, hanging out with friends without having to be discreet, fresh grass between my naked toes; freedom.
This confusion between dream and reality is mostly responsible for my bipolar mood swings. Though it's not swinging evenly so much anymore on a pendulum, my mood has been, forever it seems, halted on the reality side only. Such luxuries as stated only exist in dreams, that is, when I finally can dream. Because although I sleep at night, I'm never resting enough to actually dream. By the time I lie in bed, reach over and set my alarm for, at best six hours from then, and look up at the bars supporting my roommates bed, I'm too exhausted to appreciate the momentary escape from the day. Physically drained from having been at work non-stop for months--not to mention my recovery from two days of bed rest was disrupted by the following days two wrestling workouts. Mental toughness has been decaying for weeks now; I can't seem to be able to turn the page to start fresh. My body's supply of whatever chemical, I can't remember, that it is supposed to naturally produce to cope with stress, has run dry. Stress has collided with my Will and seems to have won the scrum. Especially if we're keeping score with smiles.
Am I feeling sorry for myself? Have I buried myself in self-pity? Maybe.
What is swagger? I mope.
Fundamentally, I'm told I have three pillars that make up my life right now: academics, athletics, and military.
..I had a Physics assignment due last Tuesday that I still haven't done. (today is Sunday)
..I haven't wrestled in two weeks, and this past week I was in the room once out of six workouts because I was sick and injured.
..My biggest grade in military was this past summer detail. I got an F for single-cause-failure from my drinking episode.
My attempt to support the weight is to add my own forth pillar: personal. But even that pillar is slanting.
..without counting the sarcastic laughs to cope with the depressing lifestyle I've lived the past few months, with the score climbing Stress-77 to Smiles-3. I rarely laugh. Hope to fill the emptiness with a female companion is absurd. I'll spare myself and my faithful readers from the pages upon pages I could produce on my forever journey for love, and just say I miss the feeling, and beg for her to find me. I'm still waiting..
Oh yea..when I tried to celebrate my twenty-first birthday last week, by merely watching a movie with some friends, I got caught breaking Room Restriction.
I'm not supposed to let them beat me down. I'm supposed pep up and keep my swag without breaking stride all the way through this punishment stage, which consists of sixty days Room Restriction, ninety days No-Privileges, weekly mentorship meetings, a twelve-hour alcohol abuse class(filled a Saturday), 35-40 pages of developmental writing on how this is a turning point in my life, and one-hundred hours served to weekend duty (where productivity has drastically dropped since we've started, due to the death of motivation). Not to mention, I live every day in the land of Professional Ethics Education. Constanly feeling as though I'm variable X in an X, Y Case study of morals and ethics. I'm under constant guard, because if I let up for even a nano-second The Man capitalizes on my momentary mental lapse and I get whipped back in line. The shackles around my ankles have rubbed my skin raw. No worries though, there's no pain..I am numb.
When will I rest? Not sleep. Sleep is not restful. Sleep is a tease. A few short hours of solitude yes, but not beneficial. The time I'm away from my hellish daily activities during the night only makes me weaker when I wake. I wake to thoughts of a better day overwhelmed with painful reminders from the previous days' chaos. What's the point? I'd rather never sleep, so that the numbness never wears. More Novocaine. Please. And a much stronger dose.
Effin Tripod :)
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Major Dilemma
Right side of my brain says Kinesiology. Left side says Literature.
I can't imagine there are many people are stuck in a rut over deciding between two such polar opposite fields of study. But I tend to fit these rare scenarios well: a fierce competitor on the wrestling mat, a twenty-first century old-school romantic, a loving brother, son, and Godfather, and a party animal to boot.
With my multi-personality, I long to satiate my thirst of many flavors. And with such little free-time here at West Point, each of my hobbies enters a battle-royal for just a little attention. A math drop dongs the bell to get the fight underway--practice piano or harmonica? Take a nap? Or indulge myself in the vampire love story of the millennium, Twilight? Or write a blog, in my journal, or finish one of my ten unfinished poems? Or Heaven forbid I would take the free time to do some school work. Now this would be a minor dilemma; for the blog-sake, a hobby-dilemma. My primary concern--one that lingers in the room and interrupts my seldom alone time for thinking with its overshadowing affects--is my Major dilemma. That is, which major I should select for my undergraduate study.
I've grown up in the world of sports, though with a unique twist in the backdrop of the usual competition-realm. Both my parents were athletic trainers; my mom works for an orthopedic, and my dad is the program director for athletic training at Mount Union College. This is where I began my amateur practice of sports medicine. At my first grade show and tell, I had my dad come in as a prop. And together we demonstrated how to tape an ankle. Beyond taping ankles I yearned for the knowledge of other common injuries. Throughout my athletic career I always asked the "why" story behind every incident regarding the human body. A friend would complain about shin-splints biting at his leg with every step, and I would go straight to my family source of anatomy/physiology and ask which muscles and tendons were effected by it, and how to prevent it. The average high school athlete doesn't know that the lateral-tibialis is the muscle by the tibia bone that is constantly strained with shin splints, nor that a good stretch would be manual resistance planter flex and dorsi flex rotations; and of course to "ice it." Attending West Point, my childhood ambitions to continue the family athletic trainer gene, and hopefully move up to the professional sports level, were temporarily ceased because West Point doesn't offer an athletic training major. But I was soon saved. I learned that they started a Kinesiology major.
Though the selection process for this major was narrow, due to only having eighteen slots per class, and averaging fifty applicants, I was lucky enough to make the cut. The story of my exercise science background was interesting enough for the department to overlook my lacking grades in Chemistry, Math, and Physics, and select me for the major. I shouldn't be so lucky. And now, after all that turmoil, I'm considering turning down this lucky dream come true. And betray my life's drive for athletic enhancement, for something in the complete opposite end of the academic world. Literature.
I've always enjoyed writing, but throughout high school it was a rare occasion when Mike Gorman read and enjoyed a book. That is, until a few years ago. I could give credit to many people--teachers, coaches, parents, friends; but I think I have to give the most credit to J.K. Rowlings. For, Harry Potter's seven year, multi-thousand page adventure lured me into the world of literature. Since then, I can't remember a time when I didn't have a book to escape to whenever I had the time or the urge to. I've fell in love with linguistics, and novels, and understanding different levels of writing. Experiencing an author's style and hearing his voice in my head has become just as real as being introduced to a friend of a friend. In casual conversation, I find myself referring to characters in a book as if they were real people. I feel the different shades of a protagonist's character living through me. I will even talk in the dialect of my new friend's voice that I heard the night before, in a whisper, under my reading light. When I'm reading one of Shakespeare's plays, I even rearrange my word order to fit the style of Shakespeare. Literature is alive in me.
"Welcome back!" Square One exclaimed, anticipating the return. Now what?
So here I sit, with only one week remaining to officially declare my major, and I'm nowhere closer to having my mind made up than I was when the year started. Torn by two loves. Impossible to do both, at least for now. I've went round and round through the ins and outs of both situations. But I feel like my displacement in progress is zero. Like a hot-wheel car zipping around hair-pin turns, looping vertical circles, and changing tracks at the same intersection over and over again, my thoughts changing velocity too fast to keep track--a G, maybe two-G's force around on my skull, in its attempt to hold it all together without going insane. Maybe I should go Psychology..
I can't imagine there are many people are stuck in a rut over deciding between two such polar opposite fields of study. But I tend to fit these rare scenarios well: a fierce competitor on the wrestling mat, a twenty-first century old-school romantic, a loving brother, son, and Godfather, and a party animal to boot.
With my multi-personality, I long to satiate my thirst of many flavors. And with such little free-time here at West Point, each of my hobbies enters a battle-royal for just a little attention. A math drop dongs the bell to get the fight underway--practice piano or harmonica? Take a nap? Or indulge myself in the vampire love story of the millennium, Twilight? Or write a blog, in my journal, or finish one of my ten unfinished poems? Or Heaven forbid I would take the free time to do some school work. Now this would be a minor dilemma; for the blog-sake, a hobby-dilemma. My primary concern--one that lingers in the room and interrupts my seldom alone time for thinking with its overshadowing affects--is my Major dilemma. That is, which major I should select for my undergraduate study.
I've grown up in the world of sports, though with a unique twist in the backdrop of the usual competition-realm. Both my parents were athletic trainers; my mom works for an orthopedic, and my dad is the program director for athletic training at Mount Union College. This is where I began my amateur practice of sports medicine. At my first grade show and tell, I had my dad come in as a prop. And together we demonstrated how to tape an ankle. Beyond taping ankles I yearned for the knowledge of other common injuries. Throughout my athletic career I always asked the "why" story behind every incident regarding the human body. A friend would complain about shin-splints biting at his leg with every step, and I would go straight to my family source of anatomy/physiology and ask which muscles and tendons were effected by it, and how to prevent it. The average high school athlete doesn't know that the lateral-tibialis is the muscle by the tibia bone that is constantly strained with shin splints, nor that a good stretch would be manual resistance planter flex and dorsi flex rotations; and of course to "ice it." Attending West Point, my childhood ambitions to continue the family athletic trainer gene, and hopefully move up to the professional sports level, were temporarily ceased because West Point doesn't offer an athletic training major. But I was soon saved. I learned that they started a Kinesiology major.
Though the selection process for this major was narrow, due to only having eighteen slots per class, and averaging fifty applicants, I was lucky enough to make the cut. The story of my exercise science background was interesting enough for the department to overlook my lacking grades in Chemistry, Math, and Physics, and select me for the major. I shouldn't be so lucky. And now, after all that turmoil, I'm considering turning down this lucky dream come true. And betray my life's drive for athletic enhancement, for something in the complete opposite end of the academic world. Literature.
I've always enjoyed writing, but throughout high school it was a rare occasion when Mike Gorman read and enjoyed a book. That is, until a few years ago. I could give credit to many people--teachers, coaches, parents, friends; but I think I have to give the most credit to J.K. Rowlings. For, Harry Potter's seven year, multi-thousand page adventure lured me into the world of literature. Since then, I can't remember a time when I didn't have a book to escape to whenever I had the time or the urge to. I've fell in love with linguistics, and novels, and understanding different levels of writing. Experiencing an author's style and hearing his voice in my head has become just as real as being introduced to a friend of a friend. In casual conversation, I find myself referring to characters in a book as if they were real people. I feel the different shades of a protagonist's character living through me. I will even talk in the dialect of my new friend's voice that I heard the night before, in a whisper, under my reading light. When I'm reading one of Shakespeare's plays, I even rearrange my word order to fit the style of Shakespeare. Literature is alive in me.
"Welcome back!" Square One exclaimed, anticipating the return. Now what?
So here I sit, with only one week remaining to officially declare my major, and I'm nowhere closer to having my mind made up than I was when the year started. Torn by two loves. Impossible to do both, at least for now. I've went round and round through the ins and outs of both situations. But I feel like my displacement in progress is zero. Like a hot-wheel car zipping around hair-pin turns, looping vertical circles, and changing tracks at the same intersection over and over again, my thoughts changing velocity too fast to keep track--a G, maybe two-G's force around on my skull, in its attempt to hold it all together without going insane. Maybe I should go Psychology..
Friday, August 21, 2009
Ozzie the Prodigy
At the young age of two Ozzie thrived off of applause: his veins would expand for maximum blood flow throughout his tiny pulsating body at the sound of hands smacking with excitement. But when you only showed facial expressions as emotions, he would walk straight up to you and grab you by the wrists and guide your hands together repeatedly, to encourage you to keep the energy alive. Each time he heard clapping and saw his fans' face light up, he would lead them in loud screams of continuous cheering, "yayy! yaayyy!" His energy would remain on high for hours at a time; he would work up quite a sweat so that his black bangs stuck to his hot forehead. My aunt Khel and Grammie were obviously his favorite fans because they'd never grow tired of his shenanigans. My uncle Jeff would watch in amazement at the miracle he was witnessing as his child developed before his eyes; a fresh boost of youth in his own life. For me, I don't get to be there nearly as much as I'd like, but I'd here stories, mostly from Grammie over the phone, trying to keep tabs on the kid, about how Little Z was doing--his new favorite movie, song, dance, his struggle to walk and talk and make his family laugh was never-ending. My Godson, Ozzie is a special kid.
Remember his name: Ozzie Gerald Smith. He can be anything he wants to be.
For instance... I'd just flown into O'Hare from my crazy Maltese adventure, and was ecstatic to get to see my family in Chicago. Though I love them all, I was most excited to see the little man, Ozzie. I drove with Grammie to Khel's house in the morning for an early visit before driving my second-cousins to the Milwaukee Miller Brewery, and as soon as I walked into the living room the wild-thing started running around acting a fool. He started out in a toddler's usual fashion around guests, by showing off his cool toys. No matter my reaction to the plastic dinosaurs or building blocks, he yelped in excitement and threw them backwards over his head. I guessed he wanted to demonstrate their endurance and his arm strength. Afterward, he would stare at me for approval, and proceed to chase after the airborne plastic rangers for another round. After a misfire landed on Grammie's white noggin, I thought he needed a distraction from tossing inanimate objects blindly over his head in a room full of innocent family members. So I pulled my sunglasses down to my eyes and made a sort of "Blue Steel" look to his face. The shine in the sleek-black lenses was all it took to forget the toys. After he studied how I was wearing them for a few minutes, he cried for his turn to wear them, so I put them over his face. Instant rock star. I directed him to the closest mirror so he could admire his new reflection. He knew he was born to be wild.
But as I became conscious of time showing off it's ability to pass without notice, I had to take them back and hit the road. As a last attempt to play with him, I gathered three of his latest projectiles, plastic display lemons, and entertained his imagination with some real life juggling--his rock star Godfather is so cool sometimes.
The next night was full of shock and excitement. Family dinner at Grammie's house is always a great time--pulling up all the chairs from around the house, and setting up the extra table on the side for the youngsters, good wine and beer for whatever you're feeling that night, and the best of all is our favorite of Chicago's Chinese, Plum Garden. This night, gathered in the living room after dinner, Ozzie was yet again the center of attention. Running around, showing everyone what he had created by hooking together two plastic hangers. He demanded applause, as described before with the clapping. "Yayy! Yaayy!" we would all chant in support. I had been waiting for over a week at this point to give him the gift I had bought for his second birthday, while I was in Malta; I knew it was a perfect fit for him. So while he was on the far side of his lap around the living-room for cheers, I laid the t-shirt face up on the carpet so that the monkey's antagonising face was teasing any one looking. The print read, "Malta" across the top, and "Born to be Wild" on the bottom--a perfect fit. When Ozzie was about to lap the shirt, he paused as I guided his vision to the shirt. I'd hoped that he would like it, and I was at least momentarily reassured by his interest in the monkey's face staring back at him. Then his eyes raised above the collar to find my anticipating eyes. Almost as though he were staring for clarification of the shirt's giver, he held the shirt in his tiny hands and stared at me for several seconds.
...the cheering sound waves bouncing off the walls were replaced by bright flashes, capturing the Kodak moment.
Not a second off cue, to end the moment with a light laughter, he smiled and threw it into the air behind his head. By now this was his signature throw. And suddenly I had an idea that I hoped would prove to be entertaining.
I left the room, and returned shortly with my harmonica in hand. At the sound of the first note Ozzie's ears twitched and his head turned like a deer's after hearing a shot somewhere in the distance. He gathered his bearings and baby-ran his way over to my feet. Mesmerized by my seemingly magical ability to produce such a sound, Ozzie wanted to know how I did it. I played several notes, going back and forth between playing a sound and blowing plain air to demonstrate my secret. He quickly latched onto my pinkie with his entire hand and pulled the harp to his mouth. A few spit particles may have went through the 7-hole, but nothing more was played. But after only two or three times through this routine, he mastered the art of the 'blow' and 'draw' for different pitches. The crowd immediately grew impressed with his natural ability as they encouraged him with laughs and cheers, half in disbelief and half in pure entertainment.
He soon had the entire family gathered in the kitchen--it provided the best lighting and stage-like effects. So little Ozzie, standing atop the table beside a bowl a grapes, had a dozen astonished faces and flashing cameras taking snap-shots and videos of our little harmonica prodigy. Grammie's face was flushed with laughter, I had to discourage the chants begging for an encore for fear that she would have a heart-attack from laughing. I had a quick flashback to when I would put her to tears of joy with my Steve Urkel impersonations back in the day. Great times with the family. And I've never been happier to be a part. And to feel especially privileged to have the role of Godfather in such a young and exciting kid's life. Little Ozzie...
Remember his name: Ozzie Gerald Smith. He can be anything he wants to be.
For instance... I'd just flown into O'Hare from my crazy Maltese adventure, and was ecstatic to get to see my family in Chicago. Though I love them all, I was most excited to see the little man, Ozzie. I drove with Grammie to Khel's house in the morning for an early visit before driving my second-cousins to the Milwaukee Miller Brewery, and as soon as I walked into the living room the wild-thing started running around acting a fool. He started out in a toddler's usual fashion around guests, by showing off his cool toys. No matter my reaction to the plastic dinosaurs or building blocks, he yelped in excitement and threw them backwards over his head. I guessed he wanted to demonstrate their endurance and his arm strength. Afterward, he would stare at me for approval, and proceed to chase after the airborne plastic rangers for another round. After a misfire landed on Grammie's white noggin, I thought he needed a distraction from tossing inanimate objects blindly over his head in a room full of innocent family members. So I pulled my sunglasses down to my eyes and made a sort of "Blue Steel" look to his face. The shine in the sleek-black lenses was all it took to forget the toys. After he studied how I was wearing them for a few minutes, he cried for his turn to wear them, so I put them over his face. Instant rock star. I directed him to the closest mirror so he could admire his new reflection. He knew he was born to be wild.
But as I became conscious of time showing off it's ability to pass without notice, I had to take them back and hit the road. As a last attempt to play with him, I gathered three of his latest projectiles, plastic display lemons, and entertained his imagination with some real life juggling--his rock star Godfather is so cool sometimes.
The next night was full of shock and excitement. Family dinner at Grammie's house is always a great time--pulling up all the chairs from around the house, and setting up the extra table on the side for the youngsters, good wine and beer for whatever you're feeling that night, and the best of all is our favorite of Chicago's Chinese, Plum Garden. This night, gathered in the living room after dinner, Ozzie was yet again the center of attention. Running around, showing everyone what he had created by hooking together two plastic hangers. He demanded applause, as described before with the clapping. "Yayy! Yaayy!" we would all chant in support. I had been waiting for over a week at this point to give him the gift I had bought for his second birthday, while I was in Malta; I knew it was a perfect fit for him. So while he was on the far side of his lap around the living-room for cheers, I laid the t-shirt face up on the carpet so that the monkey's antagonising face was teasing any one looking. The print read, "Malta" across the top, and "Born to be Wild" on the bottom--a perfect fit. When Ozzie was about to lap the shirt, he paused as I guided his vision to the shirt. I'd hoped that he would like it, and I was at least momentarily reassured by his interest in the monkey's face staring back at him. Then his eyes raised above the collar to find my anticipating eyes. Almost as though he were staring for clarification of the shirt's giver, he held the shirt in his tiny hands and stared at me for several seconds.
...the cheering sound waves bouncing off the walls were replaced by bright flashes, capturing the Kodak moment.
Not a second off cue, to end the moment with a light laughter, he smiled and threw it into the air behind his head. By now this was his signature throw. And suddenly I had an idea that I hoped would prove to be entertaining.
I left the room, and returned shortly with my harmonica in hand. At the sound of the first note Ozzie's ears twitched and his head turned like a deer's after hearing a shot somewhere in the distance. He gathered his bearings and baby-ran his way over to my feet. Mesmerized by my seemingly magical ability to produce such a sound, Ozzie wanted to know how I did it. I played several notes, going back and forth between playing a sound and blowing plain air to demonstrate my secret. He quickly latched onto my pinkie with his entire hand and pulled the harp to his mouth. A few spit particles may have went through the 7-hole, but nothing more was played. But after only two or three times through this routine, he mastered the art of the 'blow' and 'draw' for different pitches. The crowd immediately grew impressed with his natural ability as they encouraged him with laughs and cheers, half in disbelief and half in pure entertainment.
He soon had the entire family gathered in the kitchen--it provided the best lighting and stage-like effects. So little Ozzie, standing atop the table beside a bowl a grapes, had a dozen astonished faces and flashing cameras taking snap-shots and videos of our little harmonica prodigy. Grammie's face was flushed with laughter, I had to discourage the chants begging for an encore for fear that she would have a heart-attack from laughing. I had a quick flashback to when I would put her to tears of joy with my Steve Urkel impersonations back in the day. Great times with the family. And I've never been happier to be a part. And to feel especially privileged to have the role of Godfather in such a young and exciting kid's life. Little Ozzie...
Friday, May 29, 2009
The Red Tailed Hawk
She soars elegantly. Her grace is easily noticed, even only as a spec high above, swallowed in the deep blue. Her beauty is radiant. Drifting at ease, with perfection. Peacefully observing the surroundings on the ground so far beneath her wide wingspan. She's in a world of her own; the most beautiful of her species. Peacefully stalking her prey: learning his every move, his weaknesses. Her beak projects a wonderful call, "keeer-r-r" to tease those around her who are attracted to her. She knows they either want to be with her or be her; she feels the envy and feeds off it. She can see his vulnerability in the way he looks up at her: his eyes full of curiosity. But this curiosity blinds him. He overlooks her sharp talons and her pointed beak; he doesn't see that she lives to spread her wings to their full wingspan and fly freely through the air, piercing through clouds, flying her life nine clouds above the rest of the world, and worry-free. But these things are transparent to him. He only sees her shiny, soft feathers and beautiful tail and deep brown eyes.
His love is ignorant that her spirit is all she knows. Her beak is to feed, her talons to shear, and her feathers only to support her high-flying lifestyle. Once she has fixed her eyes on a target, he stands no chance; her claws are soon to follow. He is at her mercy--he becomes her game, her prey. She could humor him and have her fun circling him, toying with him. But she is never hesitant to strike when the game has been played, and her fun has grown old. Then this beautiful creature will have her claws into him, and her beak that once sang a glorious tune will become a deadly weapon. She will strike him at his weakness. She played long enough to observe and discover it, and soon she will take full advantage at his offered vulnerability; his passion. She will circle high above, elegantly in her own world, before she swoops down and tears at his heart.
His love is ignorant that her spirit is all she knows. Her beak is to feed, her talons to shear, and her feathers only to support her high-flying lifestyle. Once she has fixed her eyes on a target, he stands no chance; her claws are soon to follow. He is at her mercy--he becomes her game, her prey. She could humor him and have her fun circling him, toying with him. But she is never hesitant to strike when the game has been played, and her fun has grown old. Then this beautiful creature will have her claws into him, and her beak that once sang a glorious tune will become a deadly weapon. She will strike him at his weakness. She played long enough to observe and discover it, and soon she will take full advantage at his offered vulnerability; his passion. She will circle high above, elegantly in her own world, before she swoops down and tears at his heart.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Jinxed
Between Beer Pong games at one of my best friend's house, Derek Stanley, I cannot delay this blog any longer. Plebe year at the Point is almost complete: Grad week is all that remains, which for me begins an intense three week course in DIRT (physical geography), and then we're recognized as Private First Class Cadets until our completion of Cadet Field Training at Camp Buckner where we will don the Gold Brass as Corporals. Such Excitement. Crazy how just the other day, I swear I was anxiously awaiting R-day for CCBT to begin my unforgettable experience at USMAPS, and here I sit awaiting to be pinned that one shiny little bar that carries an all powerful authority.
But as the night continues, my plan to drink away reality and enter a mental sublime goes on. I Lose track of time, and all that pertains to the world as I know it. No hallucinogens tonight though. Nonetheless, an "AUM" state, I hope for. Though I've reflected enough on life thus far to have a few things figured out, I've reached nothing close to a conclusion of how I really feel. My purpose, my ambition, and the only thing I've ever been passionate about has betrayed me once more.
Love can be an evil thing.
I don't get it. It is our reason to live. Compassion with a lover. Camaraderie with friends. This is what we live for. So, Why would Cupid shoot his arrow through my heart and into Hers knowing that She could not return my feelings to me. Did he know that his glorious spell would eventually fade and She would soon aspire for something more--Let me clarify "more." More: carefree, unrestricted, conscienceless, free-spirited, wild and crazy promiscuous nights, balancing one text from Marcel (not to be confused with FRIENDS character Ross' pet monkey), and another from Marcus. Gaming the two of them depending on who's available at the moment. Exciting atmosphere. Meaningless with all of them, but all that M&M is such good chocolate. She loves it. Right now is all that matters. The night. The time.
I curse this curse that Cupid has injected into my system. Why not me? Why can't this spell be countered so that I can also have "more?" I fantasize, and to be honest, remember times of those notorious one night stands: her boyfriend irrelevant, the time unknown, the attraction electrifying. she Sneaked through the window and grabbed me, stripped down to bare flesh before I could even mention her dude's name. Reality erroneous, Erection reality. Sure the fantasy is fulfilled and the moment is complete, but when the bacon and eggs and orange juice are digested the next morning with guilt and embarrassment of virtue, the moment when she gasped her last breath of pleasure seems minuscule in the scheme of life. I see now why that cannot be my story. That is not who I am. Cupid's misguided missile of love has stricken my heart and filled my soul long ago and I have been and will forever be a Hopeful-Romantic lost in this wild twenty-first century. Waiting. For Her.
But as the night continues, my plan to drink away reality and enter a mental sublime goes on. I Lose track of time, and all that pertains to the world as I know it. No hallucinogens tonight though. Nonetheless, an "AUM" state, I hope for. Though I've reflected enough on life thus far to have a few things figured out, I've reached nothing close to a conclusion of how I really feel. My purpose, my ambition, and the only thing I've ever been passionate about has betrayed me once more.
Love can be an evil thing.
I don't get it. It is our reason to live. Compassion with a lover. Camaraderie with friends. This is what we live for. So, Why would Cupid shoot his arrow through my heart and into Hers knowing that She could not return my feelings to me. Did he know that his glorious spell would eventually fade and She would soon aspire for something more--Let me clarify "more." More: carefree, unrestricted, conscienceless, free-spirited, wild and crazy promiscuous nights, balancing one text from Marcel (not to be confused with FRIENDS character Ross' pet monkey), and another from Marcus. Gaming the two of them depending on who's available at the moment. Exciting atmosphere. Meaningless with all of them, but all that M&M is such good chocolate. She loves it. Right now is all that matters. The night. The time.
I curse this curse that Cupid has injected into my system. Why not me? Why can't this spell be countered so that I can also have "more?" I fantasize, and to be honest, remember times of those notorious one night stands: her boyfriend irrelevant, the time unknown, the attraction electrifying. she Sneaked through the window and grabbed me, stripped down to bare flesh before I could even mention her dude's name. Reality erroneous, Erection reality. Sure the fantasy is fulfilled and the moment is complete, but when the bacon and eggs and orange juice are digested the next morning with guilt and embarrassment of virtue, the moment when she gasped her last breath of pleasure seems minuscule in the scheme of life. I see now why that cannot be my story. That is not who I am. Cupid's misguided missile of love has stricken my heart and filled my soul long ago and I have been and will forever be a Hopeful-Romantic lost in this wild twenty-first century. Waiting. For Her.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Christ and Love
Church has been an on and off thing for the better half of my life, but about a year ago I began to take personal responsibility for my faith. That is to say, I made a conscious decision, and a consistent effort to give personal time to Christ. I had always kind of, sort of prayed: hoping for a girl to think I was cute, or wishing for good luck on a test or in a game, or my personal favorite was the before dinner grace--Jessie would always ask, "are we doing the short one or the long one?" haha. We usually opted for the short one. Every one knows it: "God is great! God is Good! Let us thank him for this food, Amen." But a new light shined brightly on my idea of praying in my head about a year ago. Ryan Johnson showed me how to live with Jesus.
He described Christianity as a personal relationship with Christ. Praying to God, and talking to Jesus can be as casual as, "God, I'm scared," or "Hey God, Mike again. Listen, I know you're busy with much more serious things in the world than my puppy love problems, but I need to get this off my chest..." And the thing is, it doesn't matter whether I whisper the words under my breath when I'm about to fall asleep, or if I'm in church on Sunday. God is there to listen whenever you're ready to let go. Now, I would advise if you were to do the first, start to talk to him before your first yawn because after that your eye lids just get heavier and heavier; and although I've done it many times, I think it's rude to fall asleep on God. --Don't judge me, I know I'm not the only one who's nodded off on God! ha. ..
One specific time I was influenced by another Christian, and introduced to different level of prayer was at an unexpected time last year. Kristina Harris and I were talking in a van on our way to this Greek Festival, with Ryan and the rest of our little Greek Club, OPAH! haha, and we passed a car crash. Once I returned to my seat after reaching back to see the shattered glass sprinkled all over the concrete, I looked over at her: her hands were folded and her head was bowed; her eyes, closed. I gave her a minute. When she looked up, I asked her what she was just doing, and she answered, "I was praying, Michael." I couldn't believe it. Was it that easy? Did that make a difference? I will never know and neither will she, but I believe that it did, and I pray that more people in the world will pray for others like she did. I try to pray for others now, as well.
This year I've experienced several churches on post, trying to figure out which service reaches me and which pastor inspires me, and I think I found a good fit. The energy at the Post Chapel during the Gospel Service is uplifting. Beautiful singing, a happy and involved community, and our pastor, MAJ Tulloss, really knows how to preach. Last Sunday, given the recent holiday, he preached about love. And as any of my friends would attest to, love is constant presence in my life that keeps my heart abeat. For the 45 minutes he talked about love, I didn't have to worry about keeping tradition of nodding off and jolting awake causing a scene because I was alert and attached to every message. Love is an action word. Show me that you love me, don't tell me. He said it so much, I couldn't help but visualize Cuba Gooding Jr. preaching the word of God and shouting, "Show me the love!!"ha. Pastor Tulloss was on point every time. Show your love for somebody. For do not actions speak louder than words? I automatically connected his sermon to my relationship with Reanna. I tell her that I love her, but I need to show her I love her. --I currently balance my lap top on my left thigh and type crossed-bodied to expose my right side for her dreaming (snoring) head. :) She's so cute.
Pray. I pray you will pray. For strength when times are hard, not for life to lighten up. For words when a friend needs them, not for his or her speedy recovery. For guidance when the road seems unclear, not for a decision to be made for you. Praying is just opening up and letting Jesus into your life. Let him show you that he loves you; and show him that you love him by being you.
Love is an action word.
Love.
I know there are many others who have inspired me to be a better person and a better Christain: you know who you are. Thank you! Ryan, Allison, Liz, Coach Cowgill, Dave and Cheryl, Mike Hutchinson, Orion Ross, Zoar, Jim Rafferty, Zack Leonard, Jackie, Foster, Derek, Travis, Mom and Dad, and Reanna. Love you all. God Bless. :)
He described Christianity as a personal relationship with Christ. Praying to God, and talking to Jesus can be as casual as, "God, I'm scared," or "Hey God, Mike again. Listen, I know you're busy with much more serious things in the world than my puppy love problems, but I need to get this off my chest..." And the thing is, it doesn't matter whether I whisper the words under my breath when I'm about to fall asleep, or if I'm in church on Sunday. God is there to listen whenever you're ready to let go. Now, I would advise if you were to do the first, start to talk to him before your first yawn because after that your eye lids just get heavier and heavier; and although I've done it many times, I think it's rude to fall asleep on God. --Don't judge me, I know I'm not the only one who's nodded off on God! ha. ..
One specific time I was influenced by another Christian, and introduced to different level of prayer was at an unexpected time last year. Kristina Harris and I were talking in a van on our way to this Greek Festival, with Ryan and the rest of our little Greek Club, OPAH! haha, and we passed a car crash. Once I returned to my seat after reaching back to see the shattered glass sprinkled all over the concrete, I looked over at her: her hands were folded and her head was bowed; her eyes, closed. I gave her a minute. When she looked up, I asked her what she was just doing, and she answered, "I was praying, Michael." I couldn't believe it. Was it that easy? Did that make a difference? I will never know and neither will she, but I believe that it did, and I pray that more people in the world will pray for others like she did. I try to pray for others now, as well.
This year I've experienced several churches on post, trying to figure out which service reaches me and which pastor inspires me, and I think I found a good fit. The energy at the Post Chapel during the Gospel Service is uplifting. Beautiful singing, a happy and involved community, and our pastor, MAJ Tulloss, really knows how to preach. Last Sunday, given the recent holiday, he preached about love. And as any of my friends would attest to, love is constant presence in my life that keeps my heart abeat. For the 45 minutes he talked about love, I didn't have to worry about keeping tradition of nodding off and jolting awake causing a scene because I was alert and attached to every message. Love is an action word. Show me that you love me, don't tell me. He said it so much, I couldn't help but visualize Cuba Gooding Jr. preaching the word of God and shouting, "Show me the love!!"ha. Pastor Tulloss was on point every time. Show your love for somebody. For do not actions speak louder than words? I automatically connected his sermon to my relationship with Reanna. I tell her that I love her, but I need to show her I love her. --I currently balance my lap top on my left thigh and type crossed-bodied to expose my right side for her dreaming (snoring) head. :) She's so cute.
Pray. I pray you will pray. For strength when times are hard, not for life to lighten up. For words when a friend needs them, not for his or her speedy recovery. For guidance when the road seems unclear, not for a decision to be made for you. Praying is just opening up and letting Jesus into your life. Let him show you that he loves you; and show him that you love him by being you.
Love is an action word.
Love.
I know there are many others who have inspired me to be a better person and a better Christain: you know who you are. Thank you! Ryan, Allison, Liz, Coach Cowgill, Dave and Cheryl, Mike Hutchinson, Orion Ross, Zoar, Jim Rafferty, Zack Leonard, Jackie, Foster, Derek, Travis, Mom and Dad, and Reanna. Love you all. God Bless. :)
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