Watching 5th Street

I'm currently sitting in starlight, (which I've decided will become a routine of mine) and I unintentionally sat facing the window, which was a good choice on my part.

that whole people watching deal I have is having a field day.

I started writing about something else this morning, something really pointless actually, so I erased it all and just watched 5th street. I watched the grown men shoot baskets in their coats and ties before going to work, trying to fit some fun and association in before they go and plop themselves behind a cubical and numbers all day. I saw Tony walking downtown in his work uniform, which means he won't be at school today. He wasn't at school yesterday either. I asked him about it once, why he didn't come to school and whatnot. He responded: "You've gotta put the family before yourself, you know?"

In comparison I feel staggeringly selfish. I have a father. My mother works one job, not two. I don't have the names of my sisters tattooed on my arm so they can be assured I won't forget about them.

All things considered, I'm sheltered and again, selfish.

I may or may not continue this one. I'm off to class.

Wednesday Morning Coffee and Fries.

I'm sitting at starlight cafe doing homework, which I find pretty ironic... skipping school to do homework; but it's pretty typical for me.

I was working on my soundplot for tech theatre, which is already two days late, and the lady ordering her drink at the counter passed out and fell to the floor. She seizured, but only for four seconds, (for some reason, i counted time.)

Everyone leaped up to help. Some called 911, some got her pillows, some just surrounded her and asked if she was okay... it had to be incredibly overwhelming, so I thought it would be best to stay out of the way. I have this thing about people watching. It's completely unintentional, but I like it, so I see no reason to stop. I saw the baristas flipping out because they didn't know how to handle the situation, an English teacher continuing to correcting papers, trying to pretend nothing was happening, and a little girl. The little girl was smiling.

Not at the lady of course, but at her mother, who had fled from her table to help the woman. Her mother was fitting a pillow beneath the woman's head when the little girl looked at me, looked at her mother, then back at me... with subtext of "That's my mom." I smiled and nodded. She was then instructed to go to the back and find a damp washcloth to put over the fallen woman's forehead.

She immediately obeyed.



Proud of her parent who, she believed, had saved this woman's life.

Once the ambulance came and left, and I knew everything was okay, I got to thinking on my heroes. I realized my heroes were either dead, intangible, or no longer worthy of being my hero.

Ralph Waldo Emerson one said "At last every hero becomes a bore." Some day, the mother of that girl will no longer be a hero. She will no longer be invincible. She will be a mortal mother "who just doesn't understand."
She will grow to find new heroes, idolize other people that are much more extravagant than her mother.

I realized that a child's perception of any human hero holds the characteristics of God. I was told once that people will only let you down. Friends are amazing, and they can be the most ideal companion, but in some way shape or form, they can't live up to what you'd like.

I've realized I don't have heroes. I look up to certain people, but I keep their flaws and imperfections in the back of my mind, dulling the effect of their awesomeness.

I've raised my expectations for my heroes... so much so that I think only one will ever be considered mine.

He can't let me down.

Sunk.

I'm gonna buy a gun and start a war... if you can tell me something worth fighting for.

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Lately I've been asking myself what I'm doing this for. This whole life deal. I Initially said "I'm living for Christ," but that was pretty much a lie. I'm living for myself and dragging God along for my own benefit. Listening to Him when he's practiacally screaming at me, and praying when I suck and need help.

Truth be told, I feel as though I'm suppose to be undergoing some titanic change, but I'm missing my directions to do so because I'm so wrapped up with the rest of my life.

I'm not really positive as to why I'm posting this, but I will.

Take it as you will. Perhaps you're in the same place I am.

Alluding to Lucy

After reading Lucy's most recent post, (which I would suggest anyone) I got to thinking about this entire concept of aging.

Our age proves nothing. I know a girl in particular that is at least four years younger than I, yet her scope on this whole "life" ordeal seriously leaves me in awe. Sitting and having a conversation with her has made me envy her wisdom. Her thoughts much more profound, much more original, much more real than anything I can compose.

I also know an adult who goes through life looking over his shoulder. Everyone is against him, and it's him against the world. No matter the cost, he'll keep himself and his son safe from this cold place. His son however, fears nothing. Not in a rebellious or and audacious sense, but in confidence in his will, self-preservation, and trust in God.
Which is more mature? That battle could perdure with no answer.


I feel like age can't be determined by a number, but by experiences. Determined by the people you've met and the stories you've heard. Determined by the scars you have and the people you've healed... An ancient man can have lived in the same place his entire life, but the young travelling musician will have a circumspection the old man could never understand.


It makes me wonder how old, in the sense of exposure to life, I will live to be.

All I know is that I will refuse to live in a cage that will prevent me from taking life in; having the scars to provide wisdom to those who are ready to hear it.

I want to be the old man who has a story for every situation, and advice for every downfall. I intend to have trouble walking because of all the places my feet have taken me, and trouble seeing because of the sunsets and sunrises I've seen.

I think then, maybe, I will be content.

Sixty Bullets.

Sixty bullets from a vexed barrel, more than half met their intention.
The other half left scars bad memories that will go down in history books.
The books will spell out how devastating the massacre was.
How horrible it was, how evil the kid had to be to do such an "incomprehensible, heinous act."
And horrible it was, evil he must have been.
So evil that he couldn't have anyone to help him before he reached this place.
So evil that his mental instability wasn't noticed by anyone.

--
I feel deeply for those affected by this ghastly instance.
I also feel deeply, however, for the kid who bore the gun.
He needed help and didn't receive it.
He then proceeded to make an unmistakably irrational decision that affected the nation.

There's a poem by C.S. Lewis that I've read a number of different places that keeps coming to mind.

"all this flashy rhetoric about loving you
i never had a selfless thought since i was born.
i am mercenary and self seeking through and through
i want God, you, all friends merely to serve my turn.

peace, reassurance, pleasure are the goals i seek
i cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin
i talk of love --a scholar's parrot may talk Greek--
but, self-imprisoned, always end where i begin..."

it goes on, but that's the part i wanted to highlight.
we think about ourselves so often.

suppose someone, one of us, thought about that one kid instead of ourselves.

could the outcome of this day be different?

Trench coats and Accords

I spent the day walking around DC today. I walked passed about fifty people dressed in the same trench coat, twenty people driving the same black 2006 two-door accord, and one man dressed in an American flag toga singing improvised protest songs while his wife, (who was similarly dressed) attempted to sing along, despite the fact there was no possible way of knowing what he was about to say.

but she kinda did.

I knew the words he was singing were improvised because the song was never ending, the structure was uncanny, and the melody was similar to that of a Presbyterian hymn i used to sing when i went to an orthodox church. He sang about guards walking by and the monotonous people in their black trench coats and black accords who are too wrapped up in their everyday lives to realize how Bush is moving towards monarchy. Obviously topics which could flow in any direction, yet about a fourth of the words that flowed from this man's mouth were predicted by his wife.
This couple was in their sixties both with long gray hair that fell to about their shoulders. The man's hair fell tangled under a beret, and the woman's was dreadlocks tied loosely at the back of her neck. They obviously had been married for a long time, because they had grown slightly crazy together. They dressed alike, protested Bush's obvious plan to overthrow the democracy together... and I envied that.

It takes an incredible amount of love and trust to reach an extreme like that; but much more, it takes an incredible amount amount of love and trust to look at those people in the trench coats and accords and look down upon them.

Knowing that the people around you will never, ever reach the point of comfort and contentment that you have, i believe, is bliss.

Truth and Trust

The statement below is true

The statement above is false

I've found the problem isn't deciding which is true, but which you are willing to trust.

Are we really telling the truth, or trusting that others will trust and believe it is?

Inability.

i can see perfectly what i want to write... but that's the problem. i see it.

i see predestined heartbreak from a much higher source. it's his time to leave soon, but he doesn't know how. he has blue eyes. she has green. the girl wears dark colors, not as sign of depression, but as a sign of earthliness, thoughtfulness... for the reader, not for herself. her colors are subconscious. i see guitars, lattes, a blue crayon, a single bedroom apartment, an unlit pipe, shaggy brown hair and and overgrown beard. i see fading hope, but passion. i see maroon walls. a lover in the corner of the crowded room, smiling at this shaggy, overgrown musician. smiling cause she knows the song he's playing is for her. She's sipping on her favorite drink. cafe latte. simple, but that's the way she likes her things, simple. she's writing in her notebook that she carries everywhere with a blue crayon.. cause that's all she could find on her way out of work. (she's an elementary school teacher... first year.)

they're walking home, hand in hand... a loft apartment downtown. they have to climb up a narrow flight of stairs to their place. they don't talk much at all on the way home. not because of nothing to say or anger or awkward situation... but because there is comfort in their silence. They take in everything. They soak up every bit of goodness that they can, because life is hard. a cool night like this can get them through five bitter ones.

i see all of this in picture, but not in structure. absurdly frustrating.

i can write all of this, but i can't seem to put together everything i want you to see.. i see this... i dunno perfect picture. i see this happen, and as it plays in my head on my own little personal projection screen I'm frantically trying to write it down before the next scene.

i think that's my problem. i want people to see movies in what i write, and vice-versa if I'm to act something out. i feel like if i act something, I want them to see the work and thought and detail behind it.

i suppose this as a post will be more productive than what i would try to write. I'm aware that it is difficult to follow and doesn't make a lot of sense, but maybe you can see where my mind is going with this.

hopefully this did someone in the world some good.