The Move Feels Right

Today

2009-12-02T00:18:00.002-06:00

The man stumbled into the road. His face contained none of the warmth of a drunk business man but all of the brow's surprise. Those of us standing on the other side of the street started and stopped, expecting him to have seen the light change whereas the rest of us, busy with our cellphone television shows and thoughts, hadn't. I looked up from the text I was constructing to the sound of a green, crosstown bus and him stopping, lined up upon the crosswalk, directly in front of the double yellow. The bus accelerated and stopped a few times as we had a the cross.

He stood there. There was something mumbled and he slapped himself on the face, hard, as if accepting wrong doing. Like his standing in traffic, as cars moved all around and the bus turning toward him, was his penance for something unseen or unknown.

Then, the light did change at the four-way stop, the green man lit up, and we didn't let up on the accelerator. He reached out to me as I passed him, like he was confused, asking for directions or an alien new to our world. I kept going. His gaze followed me until I crossed his shoulders and he turned to face forward again.

The crowd said nothing. As if fully aware of the man's dilemma but prevented by cultural or social stigma to say or do anything.

Across the street and obstructed by the tunnel entrance I couldn't see if he had moved until I moved again and he hadn't. His knees were still bent at 90 degree angles, like preparing for an impact, and his hips locked.

* * *

Lined up along the street were three police buses with tinted windows and no drivers. As if the warden of the prison had decreed that today was "enjoy yourself day". Prisoners were allowed to walk among us, enter Lotte World to buy presents for their families or decorations for their cells, and ride the rides at the indoor amusement park. A large advertisement on the middle bus displayed seven police officers, sitting on a picnic blanket with two children taking pleasure in the day.

"I'm totally blogging this..."

2009-06-16T21:55:00.002-05:00

So, after an argument with Lindsay I've promised not to post the following comments on the AsburySafetyZone's retarded jamboree. I'll be posting a shorter one that doesn't mention her at all. You should all ridicule her for her insolence.

"Asbury is less than a mile long and lined with cars that force drivers to slow down to allow others to pass. The environment isn't indicative of an unsafe situation. My wife walks down Asbury to work nearly every day, so your erroneous comments about not knowing the area are just that. Snide remarks and accusative rhetoric haven't helped your cause, just made you look bad.

"Now, I'm not saying that traffic safety isn't important. I am, however, saying that there are far more important and pressing things to do than the purchasing of a web domain, using iWeb to create a page with a pig on it, setting up a blogger page with one post on it, and spending money on signs, most of which don't make any sense.

"I've also noticed that these signs have been removed from the lawns between curb and sidewalk, making them even less noticeable by passersby and, thus, utterly pointless. However, if these have been stolen, I rescind this past remark.

"As I said, traffic safety is a serious issue, and I hope and pray that no children have been hurt by speeding motorists on Asbury. But at this point, it seems as though folks with way too much time on their hands are piddling about instead of doing something meaningful for the community outside their own street. The streets of Evanston, incredibly not Asbury, are in a state of disrepair. Perhaps using your clout and boasted mayoral connections to raise awareness that bicyclists and cars alike have damaged their tires and each other in an effort to dodge these sometimes 10 feet wide holes. This, to me, seems like a far more important use of time and effort."

Notes on the rewatching of President Obama's Inaugural Speech

2009-01-25T10:44:00.002-06:00

I decided to rewatch the inaugural address this morning, after nearly a week, in hopes that I could glean more from that fifteen minutes. Here are my notes. Also, at the bottom, you'll find the video, brought to you by Hulu and Fox News.

"My fellow citizens..." - He connects himself with the people. Makes himself less of a "rockstar" or "god" to being on pare with everyone.

Use of scripture - "...it is time to set aside childish things."

Reframing of commonly used and exhausted adages - racial unity, freedom, equality.

Remembering and taking pride in the past. Briefly remembering victories and learning from failures?

Get off your butt, stop complaining that it's too hard or not possible, and get back to work/the progress of this nation.

Necessary change, evolution, and development to meet requirements of the future. "All this we can do; all this we will do."

We must do our duties and jobs, each and every one of us, to ensure the progress of our nature. To continue to evolve and grow and be an example.

We must lead the world, be an example of justice, unity, freedom, and prosperity. (Be part of the world?)

It seems as though he's suggesting that we evolve our thought and actions from what we did in Iraq (invade, take over, rearrange, attempt to free the people, but never actually give them the ability to self govern or self rule) to what we must do in Afghanistan (assist the people to rise up against the oppressors and forge, for themselves, the country they deserve). "...and forge a hard earned peace in Afghanistan."

"We will not apologize for our way of life, nor will we waver in its defense..."

"We know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness..."

Emphasis on "non-believers". First president to recognize this, growing population in an effort, presumably, to bind us together again regardless of belief and/or faith.

Addresses the Muslim world and fantasist leaders and perverse groups blaming their problems on anyone but themselves.

"...we are will to extend a hand if you are will to unclench your fist..."

Praising the fallen soldiers and forefathers; remembering the past so we may not make the same mistakes.

"A willingness to find meaning in something greater than themselves."

It's up to us for this country to continue on.

Need for love, respect, community, and to "lend a hand" to our neighbors (extrapolated, represents the kind of country we must be with regard to the world).

Tuskeegee Airmen, sitting near the president as an example of the past that must be learned from and never repeated.

Remember what this country was built upon, what makes this country; these are the things that remain, must be remembered, and must continue.

"...new era of responsibility."

The task ahead of us is difficult, but we can't continue our lax behavior. We must confront the future with conviction and armed with the tenements this country was created upon.

We all have a job to do. No longer is it the leaders that must do the work, but all of us.

Rare comment about the dying of segregation and racism. He embodies the change that must occur and must be for this country to evolve into that "city on a hill". (standing ovation)

The move to come

2008-12-19T01:27:00.002-06:00

Far too often I let the sight of falling snow consolidate all the maybes and possibilies and might-bes into a mass of twisted iron. It weighs and coats everything, the wind freezes the locks, and expands the metal to the point where the slightest adjustment in pressure might cause everything inside to pinata outwards. It's time to move...

On January 12th I leave for Decatur, IL. Until today, I didn't know where I'd be living - the fear that I might being forced to live with an 18-year old freshman, experiencing alcohol and independence for the first time - or whether I'd be able to eat anything. I tried to speak with the head chef about my "food requirements" over three months ago to no avail. He suggested that I get an apartment off campus and cook for myself, noting a Kroger not more than a mile from campus. I gave him a look through the phone, it was not received. That conversation ended with nothing. He passed the buck, refused to actually deal with my requests, and told me to handle it for myself. Of course, this is something I do right now, something I've been doing for two years now since discovering my "food requirements", and am perfectly comfortable continuing to do so. Problem was: Kroger.

A Kroger in Decatur, IL, no less. This is like asking a rock climber to buy her/his gear for the ascension of Mount Everest from a sporting goods recyclery store; all second hand and nearly worn through. There's just no way.

Then, continued the tribulations of trying to uncover whether or not a friend would sublet my apartment. His dodging had become tiresome over the months, his excuses (which turned out to be realistic, but still) unending, and I was left with more creaking and groaning of steel. It wasn't surprising that I find myself, right now, sitting at this computer wishing my stomach ache would subside or disappear so I can get to sleep. Usually, I'm forced to wait until I'm about to fall over, to hit the pillow, and it's becoming more then I can handle.

But, as I said before, this all existed until today. Today, I found out I have an apartment and that the director of dinning services has assured the dean I've been in contact with that there will be food for me to eat, every day, three times a day. Then, after more evading phone calls and texts, my friend finally told us what's going on with taking over the apartment. It was relieving. I felt my stomach warm and unbend...until I realized I'd be gone in less than a month.

Soon I'll be gone. Five months, sure, isn't a long time, but it is when you're in the belly of the beast. When you're unsure where your heart sits. I'll be back where I was six-years ago but older now, more prepared. But that doesn't calm me, it just opened one gate and froze a different one.

Brain threads

2008-12-17T00:08:00.000-06:00

There's something that wants to come out right now, but I'm not sure which 'something' I want to hold the cage upon for. That's the way it ends up after watching a great film, seeing something inspiring, drinking a eye-opening song or album. And that's where I am right now.

I'm in bed. There are sleep noises all around me: hum of the laptop's fan, sag of bed, churning of the heater, jangle as it turns off. I want to write about inspiration, but I won't. I want to write about where an idea begins, but I won't. So, let's go with train of thought.

Apparently, I've been told, the train that sits in the station in my head does not make all the stops a lot of other people's does. There are a few that try to tie that to this disability thing that I won't get into but I doubt that's it. After all, could a disability shape one's perspective? Could it form the pattern? Could it extrapolate the projected path from someone mentioning how beautiful the sunset is to me just stopping, completely shutting down? Nah, that doesn't make much sense. My brain does that. Sure, the route isn't necessarily predetermined all the time but more often than not, it is.

I'm a staunch believer in thought nodes. What I mean to say is that the phycological star I hitch my theory to is that there are these nodes, interconnected through synapses, of thoughts, memories, images that are spaced out throughout the brain. Now, these nodes are just the generalized notions, the most basic, boiled down generality of things. Hmm...let's try this again. Yellow, green, and blue are all colors. They're all defined within that umbrella, right? Right. So, there's a node. Colors: Yellow, green, blue, etc. The problem is that green is comprised of both blue and yellow, so those branches are connected independently of the umbrella: color. Following? Awesome.

So, here's the thing: these items in the brain, plus the nodes that they branch from are associated and organized specifically. So, I'm saying, my brain associates things differently then most. Why? Because there's one giant node, in my head, that all other nodes are threaded. All other branches can be lead back to one, universal mega-node: God.

Wow, I just went all over the place. Anyway, with God firmly established, with this "mega-node" as the backbone, the fundamental, purest, first creative point well established I can say that all inspiration and thought stems from that source: God.

Was that coherent at all? I'm not sure.

I watched ADAPTATION tonight for the first time and my brain immediately went to the way it's wired and why. So, I guess that's an explanation of who I am and how I think. I guess. Some train, huh?

As the days move on...

2008-12-10T15:06:00.000-06:00

It's been a little while, yes. Right now, I sit in Cafe Ambrosia in Evanston, a block from Northwestern's campus, trying to create content. Since the last time I posted Heather and I launched Davidprecht.com and really want you to visit it. It's super rad!

Outside of that, I've been so busy with the Central Region Baha'i Conference this past weekend and trying to get this site up and content-ful. I haven't really been able to think about life without work, I've been so cocooned in other stuff. We'll see how things settle in the next couple days. Perhaps I'll begin thinking about it again. As it stands, however, there's too much else to think about.

Post No Work, Day 3: Late night

2008-12-04T02:15:00.001-06:00

As the night continues, we're still up. We sit here in the kitchen/dinning room sharing stories and thoughts. All deeply personal. Some causing welling up. At this point we've gotten into the innate varieties in our (Bobby Aazami and my) Persian parents - both his parents and my mother are from Iran. Talking about the pride they carry, the inability to translate personal thoughts and passions into words [unless, of course, they're talking about the Baha'i Faith or their pride in their children when speaking with strangers or friend and we are not around (an attribute Emily Price had mentioned her father also shared, as well as my father)], and their, thankfully, diminishing belief that the non-Persian cultures of the world will eventually come around and aline themselves with traditional, Farsi speaking people. This last bit is one that doesn't solely dwell with Persians, but one that most other cultures have had to tackle over the last hundred to two hundred years. Anyway...

Hitting the rewind button for a while, we talked about our (Bobby and my) leaving of the Baha'i National Center. How we both felt like the time had come for us to move on. I admitted to both of them that I had been feeling it for some time, and Bobby told us a story about how his moving on felt right, three months or so before the lay off. He told us that it was the perfect time to leave, especially knowing now that the lay offs took place.

Then, he told a story about receiving a prayer book at his goodbye party, a tradition for those departing from the BNC and weren't fired. He said that he wanted to make a big joke about receiving the prayer book, that he was primed and ready to blurt it out, but got choked up looking down at the personalized message and signatures from all the members of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of the United States. It was a big deal for him. It's a big deal for everyone leaving to feel like their service was appreciated.

I stood there across from him, looking down at my hands. They looked the way one's hands would look if they were holding something that meant something. ...yeah, that sounds overly dramatic and silly, but that's the way it felt. When the story concluded I told them that I felt bad for everyone that was laid off. No one had a party; no one was forced to stand in front of a large group of people to tell them what their plans were for the future; no one had the chance to look down at a symbol of their service.

Bobby was shocked. He apologized to me as if a proxy for the NSA, and it was appreciated but I still felt a little hollow.

Fast-forward a bit to Luthando walking back through the front door, shifting pieces of mail in his hands. Amongst them was a book-sized, padded envelope. I saw it and felt something, but didn't dare cling to it. We continued talking about whatever we were talking about at that moment until he got to the table in the dinning room. He analyzed the envelope addressed to him and passed the rest of the stack to me.

On the sticker, affixed to the padded envelope was the letterhead for the BNC and my name and address. First, I thought it was a DVD. The newsreel or something. But why would they send me the newsreel? I rationalized it away quickly and began opening, and there it was... The prayer book.

It hit hard. Bobby began cheering and stomping, hooting and hollering, around the kitchen as if rubbing it in my face. "See! See what happens! You feel bad, like you're not appreciated and Baha'u'llah delivers proof!" And he was right. Despite my previous comments that I had come to grips with my departure from the BNC, despite swearing to my parents that it didn't hurt "that much" and that I was prepared and probably needed to leave, it still hurt a bit until that moment.

I opened it up and saw that every member had signed the card, stuck to the inside cover. On the opposite side of the folded page, a message addressed "Dear David". It didn't matter that each are the same, that they're form letters printed out, folded, and presented to the NSA members to sign. I felt like they cared. That my service meant something to someone other then me.

Post No Work, Day 2: Lax days, stiff beats

2008-12-03T16:29:00.002-06:00

It's been over a week since last I wrote. The Thanksgiving break, the primarily reason why. But here I am again, sitting at my computer, wondering about not only what to say, but where I am mentally. Hmm...here goes something.

I've realized that I have a derth of new music. After the sometimes painful drive up to Minnesota, cramped in the back seat with Lindsay and my little sister, I found myself pouring over the tracks on my iPhone. Very old hat. In fact, even my parents, whose commentary on the music I listen to has become something not only old hat but background noise, interjected that what I was suggesting they had either already heard or was boring. Usually, I brush this off but...they were right. My iTunes has become riddled with collections of dust and hair. Enter, last.fm's Top 10 lists of 2008.

The great thing about last.fm is that it's largely democratic. Their system catalogues what you listen to and how many times and keeps a running tally on their site; I highly recommend it. This is the perfect dynamic for unbiased representations of what is "hot".

Last.fm, although apparently largely comprised of Brits, has decided, based on number of plays, what the top 10 artists, albums, and tracks are of 2008. This list, after I ignored MGMT for reasons I don't care to get into right now, has become one of my benchmarks. It is my springboard into a new world of tunes.

Oh, did I mention the Shortlist Awards? Yeah, that's another brilliant resource. Because, really, I don't care that an album went gold. I care that it's good, great, or fantastic.

In as much as my current mental status: I'm optimistic.

I'm working on the content for my website and, when I feel tapped out on that, I'll be attempting to pull out another essay or two. And as far as non-creative ventures, Monday was my last full day at the office. I cleared everything out save a drawer full of drum sticks and a cowbell - don't ask. Having explained the piles of unfinished, unfiled, or ignored work to Steve, I left with Lindsay. Perhaps her stressful state, attempting to create and print the agendas for at least two of the upcoming, spur of the moment Baha'i conferences, keeps my mouth closed about the whole experience. That maybe there's something lingering that will require my attention at some point in the near future, but I don't think so. I think the two weeks I spent after being told I was laid off was preparation enough. That any more dwelling on it or mulling over the ramifications would only serve to set me back, and I really don't need any of that.

I, instead, walked through the building, collecting hugs and warmest wishes from many of the most impressive people I've ever had the chance to work or spend extended time with. There was an air of confidence from them, and hopefully from me, as I walked out. And a smiling calm that I thanked him for helping me whenever I needed it, goodbye from Mr. Bowers, the Secretary of the National Spiritual Assembly of the Baha'is of the United States. Also, that he pushed me out the door when I felt the tractor beam of the building beginning to take hold.

Post Job, Day 13: The excuses

2008-11-25T16:18:00.002-06:00

Yesterday, I decided to take the day off. I remember doing very little, if anything, to further my situation at school. That's...pretty much it.

There's been a funk seeping like the water from the washing machine upstairs into my brain and soul, brown from collecting dust and rust flakes. It's lethargy, I think. That belief that I shouldn't do much of anything, ever save sitting around and feeling sorry for myself. That, unfortunately, hasn't helped anything, however, yet it persists.

Today, was a different story, I suppose. I woke up, late, and began my day slowly. It's obvious my pace and mindset stems from the malaises that is life right now. I'm unhappy with being dropped, can't accept it, and am being a bit of a baby about it. Scratch that, a huge baby about it. This is something I should have pushed through quite some time ago. Should have been able to conquer the fear over the unknown next step and accepted it instead of this childish sitting around in my underwear, watching movies or television shows as work piles up both at my former place of business and the projects I claim to be working on. The truth is, I'm not. And that, what?, makes me less then I know I can be. It leaves me sitting in my head, shaking in disgust at what I see that I'm doing. You know, nothing.

Not only is this a problem with my professional life but with personal life as well. I'm trying to make progress, align myself correctly with the stages I should be involved in for my age, and be on the look out for that "someone". Problem is, I'm not. I'm just here, in front of my desk like a sad sack of crap. And now I'm off the rails...

What everything here boils down to, what is at it's heart is fear. Terror, really. Am I ready to return to school after everything that happened last time? Am I ready to get married when I don't know that I've made the kind of progress I feel I should have made? Am I ready to make that step into my career instead of continuing this line of poor-paying part-time positions that don't initiate my brain at all?

The answer to all these is 'yes'. A resounding 'yes'. But what of the terror? What of the grip it has over me. What happens when I'm in Decatur and can't see family and friends and remember that I am capable and can push through this? It owns me. But it shouldn't. And, at this point, I need to ignore the juvenile excuses that used to "work" and be an adult. Accept it. Be it.

I'll get there.

Updated

2008-11-22T19:39:00.001-06:00

So, I updated the site a bit. It was getting a little drafty in there and needed a quick redesign. I'll spend more time manipulating things later, but as is, it doesn't look bad.

Post Job, Day 11: Weekend relaxation feels like weekday relaxation

2008-11-22T19:32:00.002-06:00

Sure, there was a hiccup with our internet connection earlier today, but this feels like an all together lax day. 'Dear Science,' plays in the background as I've been sitting here at my desk for most of the day. And by day, I mean that I woke up at two. Oh, did I mention the shower I took an hour ago? That's my day so far.

I'll need to do some work on the many projects I have tonight or today will be an absolute wash. ...script writing it is!

Dear Comcast,

2008-11-22T16:25:00.002-06:00

"I'm doing this as hard as I can."

Yeah, why do I have to pay you more when you make a mistake? Grr...

Post Job, Day 10: The dream

2008-11-21T19:43:00.002-06:00

There was a conscious setting of my alarm last night. 8 o'clock. I'd wake up and get to work as close to the time I would normally do so. 8 o'clock came, music started playing, my eyes opened. I layed there in my bed recognizing that I needed more sleep. Snooze button. Out. Fifteen minutes later music starts playing again, and my eyes open. I recognized the need to be awake by turning off my alarm and sitting up for a minute or two. I sat there, attempting to glare through my caked eyes, fell over and went back to sleep.

In that in between time, between turning off my alarm at whatever time and waking up again at 11:30, I had some kind of dream. Not sure if it was of the day variety or if I was in the actual state of REM sleep, but, well, who cares. So, here's the dream...I'm being kicked out of the Baha'i Faith. No joke.

Obviously, this has links to my being laid off by the Baha'i National Center and my father's passed history of being laid off but I felt something different. As if this was something possible. Like doing something "wrong" in accordance to whomever would have the effect of having me be kicked out of the Faith that I have prescribed my life. It's odd, sure, but there's something there. Did I mention I was being fired by my boss at the National Center? No, well, he did. ...perhaps this just links me back to being laid off and finally dealing with it subconsciously. That would make sense anyway. Hmm, I'll really have to delve deeper into this at some point. Just not right now. I'd like to spend some time relaxing after this week. After a taxing day of having people tell me, again, that they'll miss me so much when I'm gone. That I shouldn't leave; as if this was my choice; it would have been sooner or later anyway, so there's that. I'm not sitting here in judgment of them or angry that they care, just that it's draining to hear it three or four times a day by three or four people. It's just a constant reminder of "hey, you won't be here anymore."

On the plus side, I received a letter today, handwritten and professional, from someone in the office offering their perspective of the situation and me, personally. It was uplifting to see what those whom work around you think of you. So positive and loving they are.

THAT WAS MY DAY!

Post Job, Day 10: Oh, right. I was going to write something...

2008-11-21T00:45:00.002-06:00

The day came and went and I got very little "work" done. I did, however, solidify my final semester's schedule, dropping a redundant Shakespeare course for History of Modern China (why not?).

Oh, and there was lunch with Josh Elder, writer of Mail Order Ninja and the new Starcraft graphic novels. We talked about publishing and inexpensive yet fabulous Argentinean artists and the proposals I will send to them in the form of short stories, then scripts. The prospect has become to be more real to me. Like it could very well happen in the very near future. Like I could write two or three short stories, or maneuver a couple I'm working on, to be ready to send off by January; a very doable prospect. I will have, after all, an entire month of butt growing and eye destroying to endure. Wee!

He also talked of beta testing and street teaming his new project, primed to begin launch in February. Whereas before things looked like they might happen, now, they done gunna. Which is a good feeling. -- Weather Channel app for the iPhone?! Whaaa? Wait...wait...my phone's battery just died as I was trying out the app. Damn you, battery and my obsessive playing of majong for the last hour! -- ...oh, right, blogging. So, right, I'll be working on those things I mentioned...you know the ones.

Also, I have this plan to finish, at least, three books before I leave: 'Conscious Courtship', 'The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay ', and 'Kite Runner'. I'd like to crack 'Theodore Rex' and 'Hero of a Thousand Faces' as well but I'm trying to be realistic here. You can follow my progress and read my reviews on goodreads.com, easily one of my favorite sites that doesn't include the buying of them.

Also-also, no hair cut. Too cold. Didn't want to have to wear a hat right after getting things did. Too many short hairs. Too many excuses. Next week, it'll happen.

Also-also-also, there's a $10 triple-feature of 'The Creature Walks Among Us', 'Godzilla vs the Sea Monster', and 'Horror of Dracula' at the Portage Theater starting at 6:00 p.m. Join me, won't you.

Much more writing tomorrow...also, some blogging about where I'm at mentally and all that. Night night.

Post Job, Day 9: Tomorrow's day

2008-11-19T23:37:00.002-06:00

Scheduling

10:30 - Doctor's appointment
12:00 - Lunch with Josh to talk about comics, options open to me
2:00 - Haircut 4k
2:30 - Grocery shopping: pizza ingredients
3:30 - Following Josh's advice on finding a cheap artist
4:00 - Script writing
5:00 - Beginning pizza making process, thinking about the day, meditating while chopping red and green peppers
8:00 - The Office, 30 Rock, conversations
10:30 - Script writing

Any in between time on the train will be spent reading and any at home will be reading, minimizing noodling on the tubes, and writing various blog posts or short pieces I get inspired to write.

Geez, being a writer is exhausting or something.

Post Job, Day 9: I like my life more then blogging!

2008-11-19T21:38:00.002-06:00

A friend sent me this New York Times article called "In Web World of 24/7 Stress, Writers Blog Till They Drop". It's a pretty self-explanatory article. People are blogging themselves to death, to bad health, to nervous breakdowns.

The reason I mentioned death first must be for the same reason the writer of the article did, scare bloggers. Make it pop like a blogger. Also, that whole inverted pyramid thing. But, regardless, this hit a nerve in me. I've thought about living the life of a blogger. I had a lady and gent from a Mac website offer the opportunity to write for them, to be the voice of new Mac news, and I wanted to do it. I was excited by the idea of pumping out a few ~~articles~~ blog posts a day and reaping the benefits. Then, things didn't work out and I was bummed out like Matt Buchanan, passed out on his keyboard.

This article, though, freaked me out! Like scared straight, but it worked. Matt Buchanan doesn't have time to eat proper meals, so he's "regularly consuming a protein supplement mixed into coffee." Pardon my language, but that's fucked up. The articles does not, however, mention any kind of social life or his emotional state; both of which, I'm sure, are massively screwed up.

It's like the single mom, working three jobs to support her kids but LOVING IT. But there's another aspect of the story that was disturbing: do they have families? Do they see their families if they have them? I want a family!

Ugh. Sure, this post is a bit reactionary and I recognize the irony that I'm sitting here typing this out as I freak about the conditions many bloggers subject themselves to and that I'm going to keep writing in this and one other blog, but I certainly won't be getting paid for it! Oh...wait...

Post Job, Day 9: Lingering afterthoughts

2008-11-19T21:37:00.000-06:00

I've realized something as I wrote that last post, and I'm not sure how I want to word it. ...well, let's try this...

With regards to continuing work at the National Center even though everyone laid off has left there are twofold reasons:
1) When I was hired, I told my bosses that I would attempt to stay for my full, two-year commitment. That's not to say I didn't bitch and moan during that time, wishing I could leave or be doing anything more interesting then making adjustments to someone's contact information. I did plenty of that. Heck, I even wanted to leave a few times. I straight up told my boss I was ready to leave. That I was looking for other jobs and would leave the second I found one. He supported it. Not surprisingly, Steve saw that I was unhappy, unchallenged, and in need of change and made ever accommodation that I could interview for other positions or make my schedule flexible. So, he's the reason I'm doing what I'm doing. I know that when I tell people that I want to stay for my full two-year commitment it sounds noble and wonderful, but it really has to do with Steve. The guy gets crapped on day-in and day-out, and I want to help him out as best I can until I leave. Sure, it doesn't make up for the complaints and bitching in his office, but it's something, I think.
2) When I'm not there, I feel a difference. Not in me, necessarily, - although that is fairly evident in that the job gives me some semblance of structure and purpose - but in another person. A person I don't want to see sad. When I come in, there's a difference. That's all I'm saying.

So, I'm committed to staying there until December 1st because of Steve and, well, because I want to be there for someone. Someone whom I would buy a Juan Valdez Pod Coffee Maker for. ...on second thought, that thing's kind of ugly. Next Woot Off item!

Post Job, Day 9: Settling in

2008-11-19T21:10:00.002-06:00

As some of you know, I was laid off last week. It wasn't a happy experience, but not nearly as jarring as it was for those 27 others. I spoke with three of them and their soreness struck me. They had no plan. This was a surprise.

So, I commiserated with them, knowing full well that I wasn't sore. My job would be phased out in the next two years anyway, I was leaving for school in January to finish my degree, and, well, I had a framework. I watched them as they spoke, their eyes shifting around the room, full of nerves and what-am-I-to-dos. It helped them, maybe, to get past that first emotion of anger or disappointment or whatever negative thing their minds went to first, but I'm not sure. No one's ever sure. Then, I answer the question of what I was to do. There was a noticeable change in their posture. They no longer thought of me as one of them but as an outsider. I didn't worry about work as they were. I would be staying on, volunteering my time, until December 1st to the office I had been part of for two years. I would remain there, comfortable, as they all sat in their homes, scrambling to find some kind of work.

That was last week, though. I've shifted my schedule to work three days a week (Monday, Wednesday, and Friday), and spend my "free time" on the phone ensuring everything is in line for my return to school.

And that's where I am right now. This is the first time I've posted anything or openly talked about my joblessness on the internets outside vague posts to twitter. So, I'll try to keep myself focused with this, and, hopefully, ensure I don't sink into something bad...if that makes sense.

More to come.

Daily blog

2008-11-19T21:06:00.002-06:00

So, I sent this to myself while in bed thinking it might be a good idea. The more I thought on it the more I liked it.

Unemployed blog entries keeping me up on my daily life, ensure my brain won't numb out, and writing sharp. Do I start now or December 1? ...Might make sense to write more on days I take off but still a post or two while at work.
Set a time table: wake up earlier, timeframe it up; watch a movie, read a book and talk about it; get myself ready for the shift to the new site; get ready for school; etc.
Get back to basics.
Set daily tasks.
Can't get depressed, talk about it.

Sent through the tubes from my iPhone

I'm going to do that. It's going to follow this post here here. So there you go.

The Destiny of America

2008-11-05T13:51:00.003-06:00

"...May the American people and their government unite in their efforts in order that this light may dawn from this point and spread to all regions, for this is one of the greatest bestowals of God. In order that America may avail herself of this opportunity, I beg that you strive and pray with heart and soul, devoting all your energies to this end: that the banner of international peace may be upraised here and that this democracy may be the cause of the cessation of warfare in all other countries."
~ Abdu'l-Baha, The Promulgation of Universal Peace (1912)

There was background noise

2008-10-09T19:01:00.002-05:00

My walk home from the train station, the dusk red/pink showing me the way, is a standard one. Turn left after the trellis onto Paulina; walk passed the Currency Exchange; the small, Jamaican shop that is undoubtedly a front for the sale of drugs; and passed the Belizean Restaurant. I always stay on this side of the street, claiming to Jon that it’s better lit. In reality, I just feel safer and surrounded by more people. Passed the vacant storefronts and Post Office, passed the Howard Street Academy, and the boarded up doors leading to, one would surmise, the office of the folks that worked in the approaching shelter. But today, as I cleared the parking lot for the Academy, I saw a man walking passed giving someone a look. When he got a few steps from him he did much then same, furrowing his brow, and looking at me with worry.

I craned forward in wonder at the first person he gave the look to, a young adult male, red track jacket with blue piping, black shorts with red pinstripes, red Kedds, and a black, rayon bag. My first thought was of bewilderment; which I’d have to say was on the gentleman’s mind before. Who was this young man walking down Paulina in the same direction? His posture pulled back, arms akimbo with hands around the rope straps of his bag, and arrogance in his step. What business did he have in my neighborhood?

Gentrification, I thought. That must have been going through the older gentleman’s head. He looked at this swaggery mf, acting like he could buy and sell everyone on this street. Taking a stroll, like the sidewalk was being paved just for him. And then he saw me…but he didn’t see me. He saw my face and his reaction was immediate. I was his white friend. I was here to gentrify with that mf that just walked by. I was here to push all the black folk out of their houses and turn North Howard into the new Hyde Park, Up- or Boys-town; that’s who I was. Only I wasn’t.

I followed this buck, watched him push through a crowd in front of the shelter. Congregated and jovial, blind to what the older gentleman and I saw. He continued this way and made the turn directly ahead of me at Jonquil Terrace, staying on the south side of the street as I crossed to the north, and passed both schools. He ran in front of a car that wanted to turn left, ignoring its presence and took no notice of the children on my side of the street. They walked like they had sticks up their a- as they looked over at him and giggled. One girl put her arms at her sides like thinly drawn, black triangles, and puffing out her cheeks, as she couldn’t mimic this cat’s beard.

He kept going after I turned down the alley. More people noticing. I unlocked the backdoor to my apartment, and locked it behind me, saying hello to my smoking, short-haired neighbor that I had helped two nights before. When I got to my door, the keys hanging from my fingers I wondered if I was a racist.

I quickly changed cloths and entered the bathroom, turning on the light above the center of the room and turned on the hot water. I washed my face furiously with hand soap, paying special attention to my forehead and chin, and I prayed. Not just the normal prayer I say after a day at the office or when I’m struggling. The kind of prayer that made the water washing over my face matter.

Afterwards I just stood there looking at myself, and wondering if what I was becoming was helpful to anyone.

New and Pretty Speculation

2008-10-09T17:07:00.005-05:00

(This was going to be a piece published, but it was decided not to as there were too many articles on the same or similar topics. Oh well, next time, for sure!)

According a new engadget article by Joshua Topolsky, the Apple event this Tuesday, October 14th at 10 am PDT will be to unveil the new line of laptops.

This is exciting for several reasons, the most important of which are as follows:

It’s about damn time
Possible Blue Ray disc drives
Possible use of “brick” technology
It’s about damn time

There’s been a lot of speculation with regards to new notebooks for neigh on three years now. And lately on this very site. Because, really, Apple has lacked any sort of game changing innovation in their design or functionality. Sure the Air was an innovation, but it’s still not the “laptop for everyone” that the MacBook or MacBook Pros’ were. Those machines were built as shuttles, go betweens for folks that didn’t really need a disc drive. Also, they were gorgeous. But here’s the thing, I didn’t want one. I like disc drives. The MacBooks were perfect because they kept with Apple’s mold of laptop creation, but, yes, they are quite dated. Sure the MacBook Air is great, especially since they’re lightweight and sexy like woah, but I don’t want to have to download a movie illegally to watch it on my laptop; I do that anyway, but that’s neither here nor there.

As well, more PC companies have learned from Apple’s iPod model and gone the way of giving the consumer choice on the color of their laptop, instead of shiny black or ‘blah’ gray, and we’re all wondering if Apple will do the same. After all, when it works for one product, it will no doubt work for the rest. (I want a blue, aluminum laptop. Give me a blue, aluminum laptop!)

But will it really matter? Will color be introduced with rumors of this new “brick” method…whatever that is. Many have speculated that Apple is investing time and resources in creating a new enclosure for their MacBook Pros, similarly to their Air. A sort of single piece of aluminum, without use of screws and seems, creating the sleekest, sexiest laptop ever birthed.

There’s so much speculation here. So much hype! So many questions!

October 14th…don’t let me down Steve.

I would like to address detractors of the new Facebook

2008-09-25T23:09:00.003-05:00

Shut up!
As of a month ago, facebook unveiled their new site. A site of simplicity and ease of use. It's too bad that you folks don't understand the concept of web 2.0. It's too bad you're still using your hotmail or yahoo email accounts. Learn to use the site, grow with it. Recognize that scrolling = bad, and that setting up your feed filters makes everyone's life easier.
To distill this message to it's purest form: the internet is about change; embrace the change or get out of the way.
Sorry if that's rude, but, seriously, if you have a problem, go use myspace and it's copious nudity.

High School Story Time

2008-09-19T00:37:00.003-05:00

me: there's a background joke to that

Heather: yeah, I'm sure

care to share with the class??

me: My friend Brandon and his family went to the Rainforest Cafe while we were in high school

now, Brandon is my friend, and very intelligent and completely out of his mind

So, his parents were reminding him not to make a scene or be too silly

even though his entire family is, well, insane

They're sitting there, looking over the menu when the server comes up looking rather morose and wearing nothing but the darkness of his soul

Heather: hahaha

so far so good

me: thanks

He, like corpse, asks for their orders starting with his mom. While this is happening, his dad leans over and tells him not to be "an ass", and Brandon agrees

Very soon thereafter the server looks at Brandon and with a complete lack of emotion asks what he'll be having

to which Brandon replies, in his best death metal growl, "RAM'S BLOOD!"
Heather: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA

beautiful

me: the server quickly excused himself, saying that he'd get a different server

that is one of my favorite stories about Brandon

Heather: wait, seriously?!

me: yes

this actually happened

Heather: I mean the getting a different server part

me: yep

Poem-ish - Draft One

2008-08-17T17:13:00.001-05:00

Production Factor or The Mumbler in the Kitchen

He believes that things should remain in motion, flux, static. He'll set the microwave to two minutes, but won't let it get to it's preprogrammed destination. And he'll leave the display: 8 seconds. He leaves it for himself. For others. He leaves it remaining. Then, there's lights. The ones in his bath and bedroom that burn all night. Often times over the island in the kitchen. Like a trail. A reminder that he was there. Well-lit breadcrumbs.

He'll turn the tv on, volume down, while motioning with his thin, black brush on linen paper. The gesture soaked up by the paper in water colored dullness. Sometimes he'll unmute it, laughing and repeating lines at night. Missing other lines and wishing he could rewind the program to hear it again. But he knows if he did, he'd miss it again from the laughter. The glow of Comedy Central's late night programming adding to the brightness from the crack of the door.

Does it hurt?

2008-07-06T00:52:00.001-05:00

Jeremy stands there and offers the common question. Then, explaining that “most people want you to say ‘it doesn’t hurt’ or ‘you get used to it.’ Even though it’s impossible to get used to, you’re sticking a needle in your stomach!” I just watch him. His smile and demeanor mask the consistent pain and annoyance. He’s had it for nearly twenty-years now. He’s entitled to a few tirades.

“I mean, does it hurt when you bleed? Of course it does,” he answers before anyone could respond. I start thinking back to the many responses I’ve given people when they’ve asked as he laughs, the cap to a syringe between his lips. He draws back the plunger and I remember my mother watching my first time in the hospital bed. I was 20, so they put me in the pediatric ward, a room away from a kid with breathing tubes in his nose and a shakiness as he walked, the wheels squeaking in synchronicity on the mobile IV and oxygen tubes. She stood there, half in wonder, half in terror. What had happened to her son?

She took responsibility. I never understood why, but, then again, I’ve never been a parent. Especially at the time I didn’t understand. I just wanted her to stop, so I told her it was nothing. The doctor stood next to my bed on the day I was to be discharged, the day I would have to give myself a shot. I had attempted to skirt the issue until then. Telling the nursing staff I wasn’t ready. I’m sure they understood somewhat. My life, after all, had just spun wildly out of control.

Jeremy yanked the syringe out from the bottle of his Lantus, the same kind I use at night. Flicking the side to concentrate the bubbles and discharge them. A couple drops slid down the metal delivery system and I remembered how my mom’s eyes welled up. I was holding the needle, hovering over the pinched fat on my thigh for a while. Must have been two minutes, easy. The doctor just kept smiling and watching my leg, my mother preparing to cup her hands over her mouth and cry, and me, in a state of disbelief. What was this? How did I get here? I looked over at my mother and realized it didn’t matter. She didn’t need her son to be an existentialist here; she needed me to do it. Do it and make it seem like it didn’t matter. Like it was nothing. So, I did.

Jeremy then sat down and pulled up his shirt, grasping some fat around his stomach. His skin was so smooth and incident-free I got a little jealous over his experience. I could think of no other reason why his stomach wasn’t riddled with bruises, red dots, and bubbles under the skin from burst blood vessels. These are the things I hide from my mother and show to few friends. It’s not easy to avoid the dome or trickle down of blood in your first few years. Now, 90% of the time I’m golden, but that 10%...there’s enough of a percentage there to give me pause. Enough sharp, consistent pain as I graze or get nearby a nerve. Enough mornings standing in front of the mirror at nearly matching, dull purple bruises. Just standing there, willing them to go away. Poking at them to see if they still hurt, they do until they disappear, or counting the dots that unnaturally freckle between the hairs.

Jeremy’s movement to his stomach was fluid, something I feel like I’ve gotten down as well in my quarter-of-the-time dealing with it. The nonchalant pinching and plunging and holding for an entire minute and removing isn’t an easy task, but it’s pedestrian for him. As the rest of us in the room allow him the courtesy to vent, I’m wondering if people perceive my own unwillingness to hide my “disease” to the world the way they look at Jeremy. Do they shrug it off? Are they used to it? Do they think it’s an act of defiance?

He recaps the syringe and sits it next to him on the couch, returning the vial of clear, stings your nostrils fluid to the bag at his feet. I then catch wind of the smell. The stereotypical medicine smell: sterile with an acute sting deep in the nostrils. Or like the green, roll-on bottle of Absorbing Jr. my dad would apply to his pre-arthritised joints and onto my knee when I thought that was the only physical problem I had.

“If you don’t say something like that they brace themselves like I’m going to reach over and stab them or something,” or that they feel the need to share in the experience, I think. They bite or try to swallow their bottom lip. It’s better to just comfort them, I think. Not let them worry. If people knew what it was like they’d coddle us. My mother specifically. So, Jeremy pushes back while I try and reassure those around me, those who care so much they gird themselves like I did before the first nurse pinched behind my arm. I’m not sure if that’s his standard response, but even if it were it would be understandable. Type-One diabetics have a right, I think, to get angry from time to time. We didn’t cause this. Didn’t not take care of ourselves. We’re just stuck with this thing that requires not only care of our own wellbeing but of those around us.

I sat there listening to him chuckle some more at the absurdity his life has become. Twenty-eight, diabetic, and at more frequent risk of spikes or drops in his blood sugar I wonder if his parents responded the way mine did. With guilt and my need to comfort them. And I remember the response I gave earlier that day to a friend who saw me inject for the first time, “sometimes, when you hit the wrong spot, it still does hurts. A lot.”

Just a touch, briefly

2008-05-20T15:35:00.003-05:00

So, this is a quick message before I can write something substantive later...in a year or two.

Best name of the day.

Johann Sebastian Wong

Let it really sink in there. This could actually be the best name ever. I mean...wow!

Boom

2008-04-08T21:28:00.001-05:00

The lightening and thunder just set off a car alarm.

Fat Tony the "official poop collector"

2008-04-01T15:58:00.003-05:00

This whole trip I could have been writing my thoughts; collecting them for the book I'll undoubtably write. But I couldn't. My brain hasn't worked at all today, and that all culminates here on the Pink Line to the Loop.

I'm sitting here, reflecting on the day and realizing that I was running purely on adrenaline and faith. Adrenaline from the, cold that kept my nose running and head aching, excitement that there might be a treatment for the diabetes I've been afflicted with for
-- Transfer at State to the Purple Line Express to Linden --
the last five years, and faith that the time had come. There's a movement to what's happened. A fluid motion in the continuity of it all.

A little more then a year ago I became part of an inhaled insulin study downtown. I would inhale and drop by or call with my blood-sugar readings, regularly give blood tests to ensure my levels were constant, and the occasional chest x-rays to make sure the inhaling process wasn't destroying my lungs. They were always impressed looking over my A1C, "its like you don't have diabetes at all." That's the same thing doctors, endocrinologists, and nurses have been saying for as long as I've had this. I actually remember the first time someone said it. I was at a visit to my first endocrinologist, Dr. Chang. His nurse looked down at my chart at the results of the A1C they'd drawn on my last visit. With a smile she said those same words I would become so accustomed to today. I've always just smiled, proud that I had been taking care of myself so well, been able to keep my levels stable, but there was also that other feeling. Something inside me clung to the words "don't even have diabetes," like there was a reason those specific words were used so consistently.

Then, last April, I had a conversation with a family friend, Dr. Moyyaid, at the Baha'i National Convention about what lead to my diagnosis.
-- Transfer at Fullerton to the Red Line to Howard --
He expressed interest in the knowledge that I had been to Jamaica and fell sick with dysentery three years before my diagnosis. He never smiled but pulled on his lip every time he heard something interesting. Dysentery. 21-years old. No family history. Healthy. He waited until he noticed I was looking around at the doors I was supposed to be ushering and stopped me, asking for me to come by his office on my vacation to Dallas at the end of May. He told me it could be a parasitic infestation in my gut. That it was common for people who did service or were missionaries to the Caribbean. I shrugged but agreed. He smiled, shaking my hand with determination and vigor. Like a man with an undeniable hunch. He told me he'd speak with my mom and dad some more, and grasped my shoulder before I ran back to the doors.

The next day, on the last day of convention, my mom told me that she and Dr. Moyyaid had been talking over lunch. That he felt confident in his earlier comments, and insisted that I come to his office in May. I agreed, and set it up.

-- Exited the Red Line at Sheridan, walked home --

On the first full day of my vacation, my grandfather, in a terrifying drive, brought me to Dr. Moyyaid's office. I won't get into the details about how he and his assistant arrived at their diagnosis or the odd layout and mumbo-jumbo craziness that spouted from them, but there it was. He confirmed it. There were, in fact, parasites in my lower intestines that he believed cased my diabetes. "And, if you take these supplements," he handed me two boxes housing two bottles each and another independent bottle, "we can clear out your gut, and get you healthy again." I was pretty excited. Not as excited as my mother, who wanted to reward this possible solution with mountains of gold purchased with the tears of both her and my grandmother.

So, I did it. I took the pills. They made me crap like a thunderbolt and fart like an elderly person after a prune health shake. My roommate complained about the smell. I complained about the smell! Still, Dr. Moyyaid told me that was normal and to, if I could handle it, stop eating meat to accelerate the process. So, I did. I stopped eating meat. And it my insulin requirements slowly began to drop. After two months of hypoglycemic miscalculations, my insulin requirements were cut in half. I told my family and they freaked out. I told the head of the inhaled insulin study and she, after seeing my readings, was baffled. Same with the doctor heading up the study.

When I called Dr. Moyyaid to reorder those supplements, however, I didn't return my calls. Weeks went by. Then a month, until he finally called me back. By then my numbers had gone back to where they were. Worse, actually, and I quietly cursed him for not getting back to me. For letting my numbers creep back up, even though it might not have been his fault at all. Here's where that faith part comes in. I just prayed. I prayed that if this was the time, if that was the moment I was supposed to be rid of my diabetes, so be it. If not...well, all right.

There were other situations where Dr. Moyyaid didn't get back to me. Two weeks here, two months there all piled up, and I noticed no change to my levels. Everything was back to where I had been before speaking with him. I shrugged the feelings that God was messing with me. Remembering all those comments from my parents and in Baha'i School about how tests are God's way of showing us He's paying attention. I thanked Him for the attention, and, where I would usually falter and my spiritual base crumble around me, kept going. Sure, there were a few moments where I cursed Him for messing with me like that, but very quickly I came back to remembering that feeling I had whenever a doctor came in with my chart.

This long entry all culminates to Friday, March 27th, the day after returning from a project-rich vacation to L.A. Out of no where I receive this friend invite on Myspace with a bizarre message about how this girl, Erin, had been stalking me online for three years now and decided to just introduce herself now. I hesitated. I checked her page and noticed my ex-girlfriend in her "Top-8". Also, she was attractive, which helped things, so I accepted the invite and started a conversation with her. Within a day I realized she wasn't crazy and we made a date to get tea Sunday night.

The "date" happened - was it a date or wasn't it still escapes me, but I don't know that it really matters for the story. We sat there at Uncommon Ground - a fitting choice for my desire to not be around alcohol as there was a bar, blurg - and talked for two hours about ourselves. She seemed interesting with her story of how she decided to quit medical school and, years later, was working toward her nursing degree at Loyola and obviously high intelligence level. Several times I looked at her, knowing full well that she was a nurse and would probably eat up the fact that I was a diabetic and perhaps even having this whole thing turn into a pity situation or diagnosis, and wondered how and when my illness would break through into the conversation. It took a while until the comment "I don't do sugar" that it came up. I was then telling her a short, much shorter then this mind you, version of how I got to where I was. She sat there confused, like something was knocking on a door somewhere in her brain, listening to me. After deciding we should get together again we went home. I went home and I shot myself in the butt with 15-units of Latus, and I went to bed.

Next day, Monday, there was a message in my inbox from Erin. She had done research after hearing about the parasite hypothesis Dr. Moyyaid had given me and pinpointed an article about a bug with the same symptoms and situation I found myself in right now. The key to this message was at the bottom: "These abnormalities are reversible after specific treatment for TS. / Translation: Get rid of your amoebas!!!" Treatment? Reversible? "Is there a specific person I should go to? A specialty doctor of some kind?" I fired back. It had begun.

So, here I am. I'm coming back from Rush Hospital downtown after scrapping two pieces of tightly packed, red poop into a vial with a disgusting smelling green fluid in the bathroom of a lab in the Professional Building to have them check for parasites and amoebas and being directed to five different offices in three different buildings. It didn't take long, actually. Like everything was set out in front of me. A path with arrows of gold tape pointing to that end destination. Whatever that may be is fine. If its all illuminated, great. If not, oh well. I've lived through it all. Continued to draw breath and my prayer book to thank God for all the attention...even though I do hope this is the last of this specific test.

Entamoeba Histolytica

2008-04-01T11:45:00.002-05:00

Exocrine pancreatic insufficiency in tropical sprue.

BACKGROUND: Pancreatic insufficiency may appear secondary to several intestinal disorders. It may contribute to malabsorption in tropical sprue (TS).
METHODS: The exocrine pancreatic function was evaluated with the indirect pancreolauryl test (PT) in 56 patients with TS. The PT results were analyzed and correlated with serum albumin levels, degree of intestinal atrophy, and steatorrhea.
RESULTS: Abnormally low values were found in 36 (64.2%) cases. A significant relationship was not observed between PT and hypoalbuminemia. Patients with more severe damage by intestinal biopsy tended to have lower PT values. No relationship was found between pancreatic insufficiency and steatorrhea (expressed as g/24 h), but patients with pancreatic insufficiency had increased stool fat concentrations (expressed as percentage of wet stool weight). All patients responded favorably to treatment with folic acid and tetracycline. Fifteen patients with abnormal initial PT values underwent a repeat PT after a 6-week therapy; all of them showed normalization of PT values.
CONCLUSIONS: The abnormal exocrine pancreatic function found with an indirect test in patients with TS is probably secondary to a low pancreatic hormonal stimulation due to intestinal damage, as occurs in celiac sprue.
These abnormalities are reversible after specific treatment for TS.

Thank you, Erin!!!
If you know what all this means you'll understand why I'm excited at the possibility. If not, well, "it" could be "reversible after specific treatment for TS."
I'm off to the clinic to get my poop screened!

Deadlines

2008-03-17T01:08:00.002-05:00

So, the real problem with self-imposed deadlines is that they don't feel real. Heck, I'm not paying myself to write this or anything else. I'm not writing for anyone else who's expecting my work to be complete by Friday at 5 p.m. No, doesn't happen. Instead, I push things back further and make myself feel bad when they're not done several weeks later.

Its something I need to figure out. Or I could give up now...no, I'll just figure it out, hopefully.

Captain Research

2008-03-17T01:01:00.004-05:00

This is the point where I need to find a professional writer to talk to; because, I'm stuck here with a problem. I've been working on three projects now for about two weeks and feel I'm approaching the point where I should be typing things up - I've been writing all these things in my Moleskine because I missed the tactile nature of shaping words and erasing and so forth - with the same, if not more, vigor. Only problem is I feel as though I've come across a roadblock in the form of research. There's a lot of stuff I haven't read or asked people and I'm not sure how comfortable I am continuing to write without that information. So, I start writing thins thing. Just to keep myself loose or tight or alert. Wondering if I've ruined these projects due to a lack of due diligence in researching. Should I have even started work without the information I needed? Should I plow through, going as far as I possibly can before I get stuck and start researching, only to plug things in later? I've written notes, after all, above pages on things that need clarification or expansion. It all leaves me kind of at a loss. I just sit here, my pencil ready to go and my brain hacking through the confusion position I'm in.

As it were...

2008-03-10T23:24:00.003-05:00

So, I haven't been doing the whole "blogging" thing save a few spots on irregardable.com - check it out, I write reviews, post random and funny things I find online, and attempt to fill the void left over the complete lack of any comments by anyone the site was intended to be created for (blurg) - as I've been a little preoccupied with my attempts at writing. As it were, I'm working on several projects, scripts, and concepts that I'm hoping will catapult me into superstardom...or help me land some money writing comic books or graphic novels or anything. I've been getting tips and help from people already in the industry that have really solidified my wont for the genre. Something about writing dialogue with very specific pictures in mind to coincide that gets me going...came out weird, but its pretty spot on.

I'm told that a lot of how the industry works is by getting a whole lot of stuff written, find an artist to work on your stuff, and hand in whatever you can get. So that's what I'm doing. At this point I have two illustrators that I'm working with, each different in styles, personalities, and senses of how books should be laid out and created. Its an incredibly rewarding situation to be in, and I can't thank them or anyone who put me in contact with them enough. Seriously, Touba, you're amazing...but you kind of suck. You knew this.

What's really great about all this is the chance to be writing. I get on the train in the morning and I've already pulled out my Moleskine and pencil. The ideas have become more fluid and complete as scenes fall out of the graphite and onto the page with such ease that its hard to believe I'm writing them. Sounds like I'm degrading myself, and I kind of am, here but it really feels different. I feel different. I feel the way I always thought I would feel if I were able to do this for a living. Now I just need to badger my illustrators to get things done before I'm driven mad by data entry work.

All I could muster at this point

2008-02-06T23:13:00.000-06:00

I'm very tired right now. Very tired. Tired to the point where I leaned back in my chair to look at the ceiling in an attempt to gather up more knowledge from the universe and woke up a few minutes later. Isn't that a shame? Can't even tap into the infinite understanding and information bank without falling asleep. Maybe I need to purchase more bandwidth, purchase a strong router, or invest in sleeping pills. (snore)

OH GOD! I mean, I'm awake. Anyway! For the last two weeks now I've been awash with ideas and creativity on the mind grapes, and I'd like to thank Henry, my partner. He's...wait...business parter. He's been doing illustrations and been a great resource to bounce ideas off. Its been truly fantastic to finally have a partner, someone who shares in my enthusiasm about projects and is willing to read all the stuff I write, decent or masterful or shred-worthy or kindling-worthy or wordy and long winded, without making it feel like a chore or annoyed with my insistence that he read it RIGHT NOW!

Anyway, he and I are continuing to work towards completing three or four short comics for submission to the Baha'i Publishing Trust and some other backburner projects, I've just pitched an idea for a graphic novel about a genius little girl, and I'm beginning to outline the framework of the skeletons of a possible book about being diagnosed with Type-1 Diabetes in your twenties. So, that was a long sentence and is what's going on.

Sorry that I don't write in this here blog as much as I wish I could, like the old days in Dallas with nothing to do and a mind that wondered aimlessly, but I'm going to attempt somewhat of a comeback. An attempt to write a little more than five times a month and to, possibly, post up some dialogue or random stuff that I'm working on. Because I love you, invisible audience of people who don't read this blog! Oh, and by the way, invisible audience, those comments are not necessary or wanted. ...I will not eat that cheeseburger nor the pickle!

Status Report!

2008-01-31T23:44:00.000-06:00

Well, if we're talking about right at this exact moment, I'm pretty tired. Looking out the window it would appear as though the office will be open tomorrow, not what I wanted at all, but its beautiful. There are intermittent flakes that appear in street light beams and uninterrupted albino snakes tracing branches. Then again, I'm not spending too much time looking out the window, unless you're calling a monitor a window...which it is in certain senses...hmm. Regardless, I had a burst of creativity/excitement/
ideas as I read. Since Henry dropped off a copy of the Hidden Words of Baha'u'llah from the library in the basement of the Baha'i National Center I've decided not only to read it in search of great imagery and story ideas but I want to just read it. Get through the entire thing, reading each Hidden Word at least twice to attempt to grasp everything that's going on. I won't, as is Their nature, but I'm trying. As step in the right direction indeed. Anyway, that burst of creativity has lead me to attempt to finish this short comic I've been working on for...about three or four months now. An idea that I really liked back then and am loving now that I had some consultation with Henry on some ideas and possible new directions. Its forcing its way out of my head and, right now with this short break, I'm preventing its unleashment. Its beginning to hurt my head a little. So, I'll get back to it. I should probably find a way to write more in this thing, at least once a day as I had before preventing depression and sadness and prompting happiness and introspection. Those were good times.

More later!

For now...here's some of what I'm working on right now. It's for a comic, so its mostly just overall plot points as the thing doesn't have any dialogue. All action, no speaking! At least fourteen explosions! ...so, that's not true at all. Here's the thingy:

"It’s four years later and our girl sits in a stark, white examination room in a blue gown on an examination table. She’s hunched over and you can see her spin. She’s fairly emotionless, hoping not to anticipate or over think anything. She’s gripping the table tightly. On the chair next to the table there sits her clothing, tossed out of frustration, and her purse, a stuffed horse’s head sticking out."

An excerpt from a skit I'm working on

2008-01-23T01:01:00.000-06:00

Well, so, I’m here to read some things from my bookkkkkkkks. Yes. But first, I wanted to take care of some things. First, I don’t really want to answer questions. I know its normal at readings, but I’m hardly normal.

[Laughter and applause]

Also, I probably can’t answer the questions anyway. Second, I need four more glasses of water, tall as a man, to drink, then pee out. My kidneys aren’t what they used to be. They need a little nudge from time to time. Sometimes a kick from a little kid who doesn’t like you or a young woman who calls you ‘disgusting’ for trying to look up her skirt. Only happened once.

Self-Analytical

2007-12-14T21:48:00.000-06:00

Occasionally, someone brings it up, "Any prospects?" "No," and it goes on from there for a while. I don't elaborate on reasons or get into the real minutia of how things have panned out in my history with women. But really, it hasn't been good, mostly. Generally attracting the complicated or struggling. I've packed my bags and accepted that, right now, there aren't any whom I've met that break that mold. Who aren't looking for some encouragement or a shrink, I'm neither, but an equal. Someone to grow and progress with. To move through the worlds of God. To share with.

The funny thing is that I've written this exact entry before, perhaps more than twice, and the results turn out the same. This time, however, it stems from my sitting here on the train listening to a young woman complain to her boyfriend as he stares back vacantly and the guy across from her, while his own girlfriend, checks her out. Or the group of three, complaining about 'guys,' preparing to land at a party. It's an exercise in supposed gender roles. More aptly, a celebration. They act as their generation and gender is supposed to. It's likely that they question these thoughts. Think about them, briefly, at moments when their alone only to snap back to norms in a single erasing stroke. It's actually difficult to think of anyone who doesn't. I'm sure it happens in samples in places, and they're gleeful ignorance fills them with a fabricated feeling of displacement, of vacuousness. They'll never say so, of course. Keeping to themselves, they don't think it's apt to mention, like the already established mores dictate.

As males we're supposed to keep feelings, thoughts, and emotions in check; never revealing ones true self for fear of being called a sissy and being dejected. And as women, they're supposed to bramble directionless, and never show any real intelligence. That's not, of course, to say this is universal. Simply, that it is accepted; perhaps even expected.

Maybe this is just the world that I see, the world that "talks most and says least" as my high school had and continues to nominate and vote on. Maybe those of merit, the women I'm actually interested in are among those who "speak least and say most." But how does one find this person? Are they happened upon? I hope so. I'm tired of hearing silly things from people who only have my happiness on their minds. Silly things without ever trying to understand what it is that might make a person happy.

No offense, friends.

When a stumbler needs a push

2007-12-13T23:32:00.000-06:00

Over the three weeks I've been full time again I've focused on watching movies I've missed and reading and saving the writing, if at all, for the train rides; hunched over, my Moleskine in my lap, anticipating the bumps. A lot of the things I know I need to be working on have been pushed back and "prioritized". I'll write the script this weekend, revise that short story tomorrow night, or meet with Henry about the new comic project next week, when we're less busy. There's a lot of that. Much more then actually getting things done. The thoughts are there, I mean, they come up, I just don't act on them. Pages 1 and 2 of the script are done, revised to death, but the rest remains in a pre-production writer's strike like the real guys. Except they feel comfortable calling themselves "writers" and cashing pay checks and not having to think about such things as "is my blood sugar too high?" "Too low?" Is the dryness in my throat from a 200+ sugar level or general dehydration? The headache? It's tough to tell them apart a lot of the time. They probably have their own things though, and they probably do question themselves as I've been doing. they probably have projects where they have to push themselves to make sure they don't die in a limbo.

And then I look back at the passed - think back to the moods, the inescapable feelings - and remember that it's depression. That fair weather friend. The one I smile at through the mesh screen of the front door out of courtesy and finds it's way in regardless. That grin, that pang that it understands by looking at it's crows feet. Really, that's how it gets hold. How when you turn from the door it's right there, in a rocking chair, waiting for you to just sit down and do nothing with it for a while. And you do. And it aches.

Things I love about riding the train:

2007-12-10T11:37:00.000-06:00

or something...
1) Wanting to pull the headphones/headphones out of someone's ears or pulling the CD Player/mp3 player from their coat and smashing them;
2) Listening to an old Russian man extrapolate, in broke English, on his belief that we could solve all our energy problems if only we could utilize the power of donkey technology [the Saudis are getting 8 mpg (miles per goat) while we here in the U.S. are only getting 4], and then switching to Russian as you see the Russian woman sitting across from growing increasingly angry as he's obviously saying something offensive in Russian;
3) Hearing an African-American woman who's either a really fantastic actor or a paranoid schizophrenic mumble to herself about how 'black africans' are scum and should have 'accepted the whiteman's handouts'...whatever that means. She was so worked up she was spitting and nearly knocked me over as she made her way to the exit.

Not a lot of writing...

2007-12-03T22:38:00.001-06:00

So, I've been doing a lot of reading and watching of movies over the last week. Catching up has been something I've needed to do for quite some time and I couldn't be happier than sitting here, as my room fills with heat that is beginning to make me sweat, and watching movie after movie and reading comic after book.

...that is all. FOR NOW!

Avoiding over-punctuating

2007-11-28T00:49:00.000-06:00

The heater turns on and melts my imagination. That's to say, I feel things slip. Now, I could very easily crack the window, level the room, but that won't last long as the room would grow cold and the heater wouldn't turn back on until I'd added blanket then comforter to my pile. Circuitous again, it would be. The worst of it is that rest comes similarly, shifting. I’m usually unable to just lie down and zonk out. Things require a certain level of attempt, of concentration or contemplated and exacted plans. And regardless, I’d walk up again at around three. So, I don’t lie down at all for a long time, until the balance is a little closer to bearable, until around now-ish.

My first thought to that end is simple: won’t this leave disruptive clouds under my eyes? Won’t it cause a disconnect from the text I’m reading on the el as all I can do to remind my eyes that they should stay open is watch others on the train. Usually, there’s at least one gentleman asleep, leaned over with his mouth a trap and his mustache growing passed his lips. I never hear him snore or sleeping, just know that he is; his breathing is indicative. Those around him, including the night waitress whose day is spent at Roosevelt or Truman not hardly bundled enough, seem concerned, like they’re his children and they know he needs the sleep. So, they block the door and mutter curses to the driver about keeping the door open or the train itself for the ill-temperate air pumping through the vents.

But what if I do fall asleep now? …no. Doesn’t help, really. The mornings will be slow, and I’ll read too much knowing that I could just wait until arriving at my desk, after pressing my jacket against my mesh chair. This, of course, will yield exhausted or bored or simply uninspired hours with the screen, or walking the hall to hold conversation that holds no prompting and the shifts in chairs and raises of eyebrows that tell me that they “actually have work to do.” I don’t, really. The piles could be executed in the time it used to take: 6 hours. None of this pacing oneself. Taking moments to jog in place and splash single-serve cups into my face and shake the beads off.

The floor could be pushed down, my eyes together and bent. I could work on the back muscles I’m supposed to, to best support the growth necessary back there, but I don’t. I mean, wouldn’t that just keep me up even longer, sweat even more with all the windows up, beginning to fog from the furnace and the steam that might come off me if I were in snow and a monk somewhere in Tibet; or so I’ve read somewhere. No. …nope. Allow the mind to wander seems to make more sense. This junction would seem more palatable if only my imagination and brain would work in this heat. Defiance, they heat lest often comes.

This all just came right out...

2007-11-09T11:37:00.000-06:00

At some point, over the last couple weeks, I felt my mind slipping. Every once in a while a spike on the right side of my head, all the way down to the back of my eye or a stomach issue that that ends with a collapsible body. And I've been just confused. Looking and analyzing as much of what is happening in my life as possible and not seeing a discernible pattern. Well, maybe that's speaking a little too soon. There are things that do make sense, possibly. The stomach aches like I used to have in elementary and middle school are a singular example of that. ...well, actually, maybe some of the ache, the ones all over, are consistent with spiritual difficulties. A lack of teaching, prayer, specific, positive thoughts. The things that generally keep my going. It's just not that simple. It can't be. As I attempt to move passed those things I realize more. That I really miss Lindsey. Miss sitting around, feeling uneffected by the world and catching up on episodes of Lost while talking about our spiritual, emotional, and physical states. That her chiropractor believes she needs to eat more foods with trace minerals and after my session with Julie (the intuitive) something similar was brought up. There would be a level of release. Not completely unlike the gentleman who was just in the washroom and his gross moans of urination, but above all a feeling of connection, one that I don't necessarily feel with most people. A conversation of unrelenting truths and love and self reflective analysis.

So, I sit here, several hours after beginning to write this, wondering, still, how I might be able to avail myself of the stresses, and I remember that not long ago I wrote about the futility of focusing, stressing about the things we cannot change. Then, reality snaps back and I realize that those things aren't what are the real issue. Not even close, in fact. My problem rests in those issues, those problems that I do have, but refuse to make attempts on correcting. Those I've created for myself. Tombs or crypts for my head to live. But, dammit, I ain't dead yet.

Now rests the need to find motivation. to reuncover modes of recognition, acceptance, and conquering; also, to ease myself down as my penmanship is disintegrating as I write, like I'm running out of time, but I'm not; I'm free. Then, I can do something beneficial and worth while and awesome.

Here's looking for the push! Also, for my cellphone to call Dad and Lindsey, and vomit out rainbows of joy (eww) and frustration (also, eww).

Cataloguing has never been so exciting...or something

2007-11-08T22:06:00.000-06:00

Finals are fast approaching, and thus comes stress. I've avoided it so far by trying to get work done early so as to fight off the inevitable backlash of too much sugar being produced by my liver, but I'm no longer hopeful that it'll maintain. Tonight I had a spike and ended up falling asleep for several hours missing my night class. Now, while this may have to do with a possible excess of food, it may have more to do with the growing feeling that I'm losing control of my stress levels. And, like most things, it doesn't stop at spikes in blood sugar and the possibility of landing myself in the hospital or on a gurney in an ambulance with the opposite problem I had three years ago. And while this time I would have fabulous insurance so as to lower the payment from $400 something to around $50 its still something that shakes me. The problem could octopus out (spiders suck) and latch onto the overwhelming stomach issues, the attempt to wipe out all parasites in my gut and "cure" my diabetes entirely, and the general disarray of joints and sockets. I mean, this is about as good a time as any for another dislocation, hyperextension, or loud popping or cracking from my shoulders.

I've just realized that I'm not to good blogging without writing it down somewhere first. there's something about permanence that dwells on these keys. the idea that once its typed its there forever and can nary be removed or changed. Hmm...I need to go say some prayers.

Next time: preparation writing first!

"Is there any remover of difficulties, save God..."

2007-10-24T15:27:00.000-05:00

Difficulties abound and that prevents me from writing. I don't like to write angry, frustrated, or in any negative state as it manipulations what I write. Things tend to gravitate toward the unhappiness or difficulties I face instead of the positive aspects of the story or issue. I prefer to write happy or content. That way I'm able to convey the positive message thusly. I could continue rambling on about this, but instead get some finality. I pray. Throw it all into Lake Michigan or ask God to sort out all the things I have no control over. Liberation then occurs and I'm able to focus on the things that need to be addressed and thrive.

As-Salāmu `Alaykum?

2007-10-24T10:45:00.000-05:00

There have been several situations where I felt the desire to speak up or say something but didn't. Walking to class, sitting in the lobby of the English/Modern Languages building and hearing a conversations, or in class as my professor lectured on Constantine imposing Christianity in Europe, North Africa, and parts of Asia Minor in the early to mid-forth century. Why can't I say anything? Is it simply a situation of my not knowing enough and therefore resisting for fear of humiliation or misinformation? Am I just shy?

It could be both and more than likely is, but this leads me to wonder what I can do to remedy the situation? Can I push myself to learn more, or invest some time speaking up? Seeing someone as I walk and opening my mouth to say 'Salaam'. Would this be misunderstood? Would they think I was mocking them? That I was a Muslim too? That might open with glee over a connection and end with them calling me an infidel, a heretic. This hasn't been the case before, but who's to say that those previous examples weren't flukes?

No, I couldn't open myself to such a think. Can't reasonably invite it to happen. Instead, I'll remain as shy and quiet as I normally am until a situation of ignorance or intolerance presents itself. Then, I'll stand up. Inform them of the beauty, peace, and love that are the pinnacles of Islam. Try my best to be that voice Baha'is are supposed to be: protectors of Islam. Defenders of the faith that preceded our own, that continued the message God was revealing for humankind, that brought some of the most important discoveries and things of beauty ever understood or created on this earth; all for the love of God (Allah) and His Profit, Muhammad. I'll do that, be that, but never reveal myself to any Muslims as attacks would follow, a misunderstanding would ensue, the breaking down of the love I have for their Faith as it is revealed from god that therefore should be. Until then, I'll see them, smile, with love and respect, and hope that eventually the misunderstood comments will dissipate or disappear completely, have Muslims to despise and loathe us by way of a different kind of misunderstanding. And the cycle will continue but not forever...as God has deemed it so.

To my Philosophy professor

2007-10-23T10:30:00.000-05:00

I wrote this quickly and did no proofread before sending it off...so there were a lot of typos that I've since corrected.

Professor "Person",

I have a few questions and comments regarding what we were talking about in class on Tuesday, and wanted to clarify a few things.

First, in 345 A.D. a primary faith of Europe was non-existant. As far as history suggests, there was a collection of ideas that people appropriated to create a belief structure that, as far as I recall, was not uniform (save Paganism; which wasn't entirely without its branches and offshoots). Historically they had no Profits of God, no messengers to proclaim a message, and it was not until Rome's force of Christianity that they began to conform. As well, when Rome decided to impose their beliefs those people were killed or converted, yes; however, they also moved east and began a nomadic life as "gypsies" or in hiding as Pagans. Most of the people were accepting of Christianity as Christians adopted their holidays into the Christian Faith, making it easier for people to make the transition.
As well, you had mentioned that Muslims, Buddhists, and Hindus were spread out through the land the Romans would convert. This, as far as I can recall, is incorrect. Muhammad did not reveal His mission until 610 A. D., so it would be impossible for His Faith to exist in Europe at the time. Going along with that, Buddha and Krishna's Faith's began before Christianity yet within the far east of Asia, and didn't spread themselves very far at all. While there may have been pockets somewhere in Europe and Asia Minor, the likelihood is low.
Lastly, Spain was taken by the Muslims for quite some time. "The religion was dominant in the south of Spain from 711 AD until 1492 AD under the rule of the Arabs and Moors of al-Andalus." (Wikipedia article on the 'Timeline of the Muslim presence in the Iberian peninsula') During this time, Muslims made many of the discoveries that would later be credited to Angelo-, Spanish-, French-, or Portuguese-Christians as some of the most glaringly biased and ignorant maneuverings ever (in my opinion). The Faith prospered in the fields of science, medicine, engineering, creating architecture, etc during the "Dark Ages" as many Christians squabbled amongst themselves and attempted to cure diseases they thought were brought on by the devil by using leeches, often times killed people for no reason other than a cold.

I don't mean this as a lecture, history lesson, a showing you up, or anything like that. If that were my intent, I would have made mention of this during class; which would have been counterproductive and disruptive as the purpose of the comments seemed to be based on illustrating a point about the force of Christianity by the Romans on Europe in the mid-4th century. I just feel very strongly that Islam not be misrepresented in any way shape or form. Based solely on conversations I've heard on DePaul's campus and in the workplace, most people don't know anything of Islam passed the words Islam, Muslim, Allah, and, possibly, Quran, and this is a grave under-sight for such a beautiful, loving, and proud Faith of God to be ignored, misrepresented, or slandered in anyway shape or form.
Please also note that I would have done the same in regards to Christianity, Buddhism, Judaism, or any of the other Revealed Religions of God.
I do hope you understand, again, that this is not meant as a slight to you. I think you're a wonderful professor and are doing a fantastic job dealing with a class where many of the students refuse to open their mouths or the few who are, perhaps, overly eager to answer as often as we possibly can.

After my next class with him he informed me that he wanted to print the ramble off and show it to the class, not giving an answer why. It felt kind of weird to have him say that since I was writing something private. Regardless...now it is public.

Changes

2007-09-06T12:55:00.000-05:00

Both her shirt and shorts are tight. His eyes seem trained, chaste, ignoring the obvious. She seems flirtatious, an Anthropology major, she says. Again, he's uninterested. This is my kind of dude. The kind who ignores the short guy who just walked out calling him 'bro'. He asks if I've been helped. I have, and I tell him so. I suppose this is the kind of situation people are starting to understand as "bromance" or "manlove" or "mancrush" - a straight man's attraction to another man. The finding of similar characteristics, qualities, or disposition. This is what I have right now.

Its my first day on this campus, my first day in this area. My first time exiting the station at Fullerton instead of transferring to the brown. Its disorienting. There are a lot of young people in flip-flops and dressed down demeanor, walking with the kind of cockiness yet confusion indicative of a college campus. Its disorienting. As if my life, attitude, and segmented world has progressed over the last four years but these bubbles reign unchanged - only the details change. The fundamental stuff, that's what doesn't. The students filter in and out. And I'm sitting here with a moleskine in my lap, scribbling notes.

Blanky Title!

2007-09-04T08:42:00.000-05:00

Long have I...wait..I'm going to start over, that sounded way too ridiculous. I've been riding the train sporadically for a few months now. Watching cloud forms get on and of at each stop, legs crossed as I jotted down my longing to join them, to flow like them. And now, I begin that transformation.

Today is my first day, as I walk slowly, too slowly, from the front door of my new apartment to the gentleman handing out copies of the Red Eye and opening doors for restockers of processed and preserved, packaged foods next door to the Sheridan Redline Stop. I sniffled as I walked by, adding a dollar to my car, wishing I hadn't spent as much money but more time cleaning out the dust caked to the ceiling fan as it circulated air above me.

Its going to be a good day, I think, at this exact moment, trying to ignore the pile of nicotine gum blister packs in the seat next to me. After work I'll have my back adjusted and spend about half hour cleaning out and ferrying the last bits of my left over "stuff" in Shane's SUV to the new place, only to wash more dishes and spend more time making my first real meal at the "coming together" apartment. Or I'll watch some TV and crash at about seven-thirty like I've needed to do the last four nights. Dreaming of a class schedule and the uncomfortable seating in a lecture hall.

Stored in my Neck

2007-08-29T04:47:00.000-05:00

Early today I signed my new lease and handed over my security deposit just a block from the apartment I'll be moving into on Sunday. As I sat there, anxious pen hovering, my grip on the heft of what I was about to sign up for evaporated. The gentleman at the desk was incredibly kind, cheerful, and funny. I was drawn in by his candor and stayed for a story about his college career.
Then, my spirit was lifted up, I felt comfortable as closure on the "is this the right move for me" question was given, and the reason became clear: a glut of receptive souls in a new neighborhood whom I would teach by either opening or not opening my mouth. I was refreshed. Confident. And then found that I had signed everything and it was done.

Untitiled

2007-08-16T15:40:00.000-05:00

Roughly two months before I would have started fifth grade my parent's began enrolling me in a Catholic school some distance away. It was a change, a possible restart for me, but most importantly, it was to save me.

The irony behind having a name like Mrs. Joy wasn't that she made all the children happy and joyful (wouldn't be ironic that way), it was that she had, by the middle of my third grade year, already caused enough damage to see one of her student's, Justin, parents relocate to Seattle. This sounds like an exaggeration, a tale from a movie in the 90's where all the kids thought their teacher was a monster or an alien or an ax murderer but it wasn't. She made Justin feel worthless, alone, and like a bad kid. His behavior at home started to change, and his parent's took notice. It wasn't long after that they knew something was up and began asking questions. "What's wrong?" "NOTHING! LEAVE ME ALONG!" he shouted back as he stomped up the stairs in tears.

After a few of these outbursts, they started analyzing where this could have come from. This lead them to his third-grade teacher. They took their complaints to the principal, nothing; to Mrs. Joy herself, an irritating and consistent nothing; to the school board, nothing - she had tenure, and had taught at the school for over ten years, so there was no touching her. Justin's parents were forced to turn toward other avenues to resolve the problem. Now, this was the mid-90's, the thought of kids going to see a therapist to "talk out their problems" really hadn't hit the mainstream yet and left them with very few options, but his mother had been offered a job in Seattle. So, in order to save their son's emotional health, they moved their life to Seattle. To escape.

Directly before the move, Justin's mother spoke with mine. They knew each other, not well, from school functions and my birthday sleep over party or something, but she confided in my mother with the warning to watch out for David. That, with Justin gone, she could turn her attention on the other kid who talked in class, who might not fit in as well with the rest of the class. My mother accepted the advice but wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. She hadn't heard anything about their being a problem with Mrs. Joy before. Hadn't heard any chatter from any of the other mothers from school. So, she didn't put the utmost credence in her warning.

Months later I wasn't just talkative, a little disruptive, I was an shouting, violent, and volatile. My parents weren't sure what was going on. I certainly wasn't the best behaved kid, but things were never this bad. My mother began poking around about Mrs. Joy, asking questions of some of the other parents and found that this woman had a list of students whom she humiliated regularly. I'm not talking about molestation or violence but a very obvious emotional and mental attacking of a kid; which can really screw someone up. As time progressed my parents were sheepish. My mother, at one point, tried to speak with her about what was going on and was easily ignored by her intimidating demeanor. She would question what Mrs. Joy was doing and Mrs. Joy would dismiss her as she dismissed me and everyone else. My parents were at a loss. They contacted the principal and school board only to find that her case had come before them several times and had been shot down by Mrs. Joy's domineering attitude. She had tenure, she owed them nothing, she was untouchable. By the end of the year I bottled it all up. Thought about others more than I thought of myself. Their well-being, their whim always seemed far more important than my own. I lost my personality and become an enabler. She had destroyed me

Then came fifth grade. Right after the school year ended my parents got word that Mrs. Joy would, again, be my teacher. They dropped everything, and thought about alternatives. What other schools could I go to, were they any good, would it be a good environment for me? Their search lead them to St. James, a Catholic School a few miles away, where my sister and I would transition to for a year. After that, I would move to middle school and my sister could go back to our previous school. I had no say in the matter, there was no consultation on the strategy. Just like my disastrous time in the third grade.

A little frustrated

2007-08-14T22:06:00.000-05:00

So, as of September 1st I'm homeless. Shane, understandably worried about money issues, has backed out, and we lost our lease. I'm not sure what to do at this. So I'm freaking out a bit.

Reviewerish

2007-08-13T22:25:00.001-05:00

We entered through a side entrance that was hidden from the rest of the building, like the mystery doors on busy city streets that lead to shoddy apartment or equally, if not worse, shoddy injury attorney’s offices. “Did you want to walk or take the elevator?” Joan asks. The faux marble flooring was noisy under our work shoes; wooden heels echoing throughout the short hallway. Taking the stairs, “its only one floor up? That’s good. If it were further we should have taken the elevator,” Soheila chirped turning the corner to see a new-looking door with decorative, angled glass framed by a soft wood. It looked like the door to a home, only cheaper; so as to say, the door itself would probably be knocked down with a single, quick shoulder or kicked through with a steel-toed boot to the base. Walking in, I realized this would not be a normal restaurant experience.

The door entered to a waiting room with knick-knacks hanging from clear, plastic hooks and signs about “wellness” and the “realignment of the spirit”, leading to a receptionist behind a table with expensive, polished rock jewelry. Just behind the receptionist, beyond the load baring wall and Chinese screen was our party, seated around a table, in a room with very little depth. Itself, the room was large enough for three small, circular tables that had been pushed together to accommodate our size, and to ensure that anyone else who wanted to eat would be forced to sit on the couch in the “waiting room”.

Turns out, the “café” was actually affiliated with a spa that surrounded it like a nest. It became clear that the kitchen was no larger than that of an inexpensive one-bedroom or studio apartment in Chicago; which would explain why we were required to phone in our order the day before to make sure our food was there, and wouldn’t take a substantial amount of time to prepare. Displayed above us was a variety, meaning five or six, pieces of art either created by the people who worked there or replicates of more well-known pieces. This information was pridefully advertised as you walk in the door as their “gallery”

After our meal, we were given a tour of the “spa”, which was buzzing like a dead air conditioning unit as the manicure and pedicure specialists sat about talking about their families and slothfully grunted and nodded their heads when we came past.

All in all, it was a very weird experience. The food was great, but the actual environment was less of a café or restaurant and more of a…private kitchen catering to clients of a spa.

Dragonflies and softballs

2007-08-06T16:18:00.000-05:00

Last night the humidity drowned our lungs. As my teammates fielded grounders and pop ups and, later, I followed the bike path from Northwestern down to the lake and beyond gnats and other bunched together bugs got stuck to beads of sweat and facial hair. They would become attached and picked or brushed off with irritated sounds; like the sounds I'm sure they made, only inaudibly, when they got stuck. We would all just continue on, thinking very little of it afterwards.
I stood behind, as a catcher, offering advice to pitcher and hitter alike. As they swung and missed, swung and missed, then connected on the only good pitch to them so far. Some got discouraged as they dropped their bats and headed out into the field to swing at the dragonflies who gathered to feast. Scores zip, hovered, and dove through the encroaching swarms of bugs.
At several moments I became concerned about not wearing glasses. I thought the gnats and friends would meet my path, and become glued to my corneas; I would lose control, and hit the ground like being splashed by scalding oil. Soon there after I thought about other orifices, and decided to go home, stopping for a while to admire the hunting bi-planes as they maneuvered the air, perfect examples of how to use a three-dimensional space. And being smart enough to know when to dive in, right in front of us, and when to lay back and let them come to them.

Quick write about the things that occured earlier in the day

2007-08-03T11:11:00.000-05:00

A friend of mine has asked the question: how does one rib shift over top of another? This came up after I returned from a chiropractic adjustment to repair such a situation. If anyone knows, by all means.

In the mean time, to explain what all has occurred, I was playing softball, made a play from the outfield and chucked the ball in to second. Upon the third throw, sometimes to home, I felt a pull in my lower back. So, I asked to move in to play second, afraid that I might have ended up damaging something. Fast forward to two weeks later, after I sat out playing to "heal up" and get my health back in line. I was playing second, before that I threw and warmed up my arm and felt pretty great. After the forth or fifth play, I felt a pop in my back. It was worse than before. I tested the arm, just to make sure, and it was like an instant collapse. I would feel a painful, extreme pull from my lower back to my rotator cuff. So, I sat out again.

Fast forward, again, a week, my back wakes me up in the middle of the night, it hurts to sit at my desk and do work, so I set up an appointment with my friend and massage therapist, Ben Brown. At that appointment, he told me there wasn't much he could do. Pressed on some things, stretched somethings, but nothing felt better; it felt worse even. So, I biked home. Pain got worse. Woke up in the middle of the night, downed four ibuprofens, passed out in a pool of sweat. Woke up, biked to our retreat (feeling every turn of my body and bump of the road), and sat there unable to keep myself from wincing. Soon there after, I couldn't take it anymore, called the chiropractor I heard about, and set up an "emergency appointment" (its called that because the doctor wasn't supposed to be in the office today, and made the appointment out of the kindness of his heart). Cut to his office, his large, brown, spotted tongued dog scratching on the door to the office he/she was locked up in while the doctor took care of me. The doctor looked down at me, standing at about 6'6" or so, asking questions about my back, about the injury, and told me that he was going to Lalapoloosa this weekend and only knew of two of the bands playing, "That's when you know you're old".

This just in!

2007-07-18T15:17:00.000-05:00

We're here on the scene where, not three days ago, David Precht started to worry about the outcome of a script for the comic book he has volunteered to write, 'Above & Beyond'.

The book, a publication of the Treasurer's Office's Young Believers Department is an education tool, teaching and exploring the Baha'i Funds and young people's involvement. Stories generally center around between five and six Baha'i Youth and their non-Baha'i friends in a nondescript suburb at a nondescript high school.

The target age group for the book seems to be "junior youth" or those impressionable young people between 12 and 15, and work toward creating as positive, although, fictional, a role models as possible.

As this story is being written the issues for David Precht's first script continue to unfold. A once simple storyline has been scrapped and re-imagined several times. Even the lesson has been changed more times than the writer washes his cloths.

Right now, however, Mr. Precht has expressed that while the story has been solidified he doesn't "feel confident that the presentation and execution will be well received" by his target audience.

We will continue to monitor the situation as it unfolds.

My ultra-sensitive ways

2007-07-12T15:56:00.000-05:00

Some comments are to be ignored, others are given their credence, and still others are taken to heart. They all blend together, at times, for me. There's no way to say, definitively, that every comment made by people will cause a jumbling of gray-area but there are certain times when someone's comment too closely mirror the thoughts in my head. In these moments I close up, I slow down (generally, I'm worked up about whatever it is we're talking about), and I start to process the thoughts and comments. Attempt to really figure out how much is real and can and should be adjusted. I wonder about how much an effect this will have on the view of myself and spend too much time pondering what others will think or how they will (re)act. The thoughts, like roots, grow and branch off to infinity. How much of is true? How much would it effect my life if were excluded? Will this diminish who I am? And then the real question is arrived upon: Where does this action stem from? I pause, I figure it out, cross the street with people I've been walking to lunch with, and become more conscious of how I speak. Add the change to the inbox, opened and viewed, and strive to implement it.

Anti-Climactic? You bet!

2007-07-11T15:42:00.000-05:00

I had my regularly scheduled, once a month phone visit with the woman, Dolores, who heads up the inhaled insulin study I'm part of - that took a long time to say. It was a little nerve-racking as this was the first time I'm giving her results since my insulin requirements have decreased by 2/3. The whole time I read them off to her I tried to gauge her response. Was she happy? As excited as I was, or frustrated, angry even that one of the members of her study may not be part of it much longer? I never got a straight answer, or indication one way or the other. At one point she gave me the whole "faux surprise" and "excitement"; I say faux because, over the last year, she's used that same tone and inflection only to find out that she was unimpressed, playing around. So, I sat there, at my desk, on the phone with this woman, unsure of her response. Trying to hold back the "booyah" that was building inside me. Swelling and letting out short jets of steam from my ears, brimming over, and then I thanked her. She told me she would call back with the results from the doctor in about an hour; which lacked any semblance of the excitement I had. I thanked her again, this time with more conviction, like a cocky hunter about to venture forth after some big game, and hung up.

Pause button struck

2007-07-05T08:04:00.000-05:00

A quick look back on the last two weeks yields a lot of steps in the right direction. Hopefully I can continue in that direction. I mean, tests are necessary and great, but at this point I'm just thanking God for the break.

An unlawful maneuver

2007-06-30T00:18:00.000-05:00

I waited outside for my roommate's sister's fiancé's friend to arrive, breathed heavy and saw my breath.

I saw my breath, in June. Early, very early, on June 30, in fact. Now, I should add to that by saying the visible breath was slight and I was breathing a little heavy, but still. Such a think should never happen. I shouldn't hear that it's warmer, in the winter, in Perth, Australia right now.

Oh yeah! Also!

2007-06-22T23:29:00.001-05:00

You'll have a great time here in Decatur if you're a raincloud or a huge fan of show choir.

A text message from Lindsey

2007-06-22T23:20:00.000-05:00

"I am so glad you found out about your ass parasites!"
My friends are supportive and awesome.

Oh, I have some things to write about, I just haven't. But I will soon...I hope. See, the issue here is that I've been really focused on relaxing and working on getting an A in this class I'm taking here at Millikin. When I get some time, which will probably take place on Sunday as I'll be done by the end of tomorrow, I'll be sure to write about my trip to Millikin and its parallels to the first time I ever came down here to visit, a conversation I overheard about politics and religion, the overwhelming and painful stomach aches that have plagued me since I got here, and the chef who was the answer to my dietary prayers. I look forward to writing it!

Running of the Bull...ish President

2007-06-13T10:28:00.001-05:00

Here's a fantastic article about what goes on in the middle of the fourth inning at National games. Mount Rushmore! I call on thee!!
Love it.

The Effect

2007-06-06T15:59:00.000-05:00

There are very few moments of blinding rage in my memory. I can search back, search for tags in the files of my mind and bring up rarely anything resembling a "rageful" moment or "losing it" because of something that happened or was said. Heck, moments of actual anger are so few and far between that the search results could fit on two, maybe three pages on Google. This is not, however, true of my reaction to ignorant racism. Ignorant racism is a term I'll use for a moment in which someone uses a racially insensitive or offensive term without understanding its true nature. A good example would be where, because the people around someone uses a term a person assumes it is okay to use that term themselves. Problem is: it's not okay.

This just came up just a few minutes ago as I was reading a friend's wall, and saw that someone used an insensitive word. Now, being as how this person is in Texas, specifically the DFW area (a place where students have shown up for Halloween in black face) it pulls me in to the personal knowledge that there are still places in the US, specifically the southern states, where the overt racism is still rampant and takes place without thought. It stems from a place of complete ignorance and devoid of the understanding that what they're saying may be wrong. Still, I can't say this is an excuse, simply a fact of what the world is comprised of at its current history. But I digress.

Moments where I see or hear someone using such words, being completely oblivious of the surrounding context of a word infuriate me to no end, and it’s only recently that I’ve been trying to quench the tendency to “lose it” or change that anger into something positive. Actually, this came about after a conversation with my roommate’s mother, after telling her the story of something that happened in, you guessed it, Texas. She explained that my anger is commendable, but ultimately doesn’t really help to diminish the likelihood of someone displaying ignorant racism. Channeling the anger through the understanding that what the person is doing is, generally, out of ignorance the best response one can give is by attempting to educate. After all, a Bahá’í it’s our understanding that living the life and embodying race unity is the best way to change the world view of race and other such injustices. It’s only through those actions, those positive attempts to just exist, that revolution can take place.

So, I’m glad that I took this moment, this long moment to work through my own anger about racism and injustices that are dealt to those around me and transform that negativity into something overtly positive. I hope you’re able to take the time to think, as I did, more about how you can best embody racial unity and equality in your everyday life. And recognize that it’s not only a long, extremely difficult road it’s also an incredibly rewarding destination.

Lined in...

2007-06-01T20:14:00.000-05:00

The rain follows me for a lot of reasons. I talk in my sleep which disrupts my roommate and just plain telegraphs it across the world. I make my grandparents angry because on my vacation I didn't spend enough time with them, my friends are disappointed because I didn't spend enough time with them on my vacation, and my fluid in my head has been replaced by tears from my brain which has depressed that I couldn't take a vacation. I'm relegated to my desk, which is the middle of the apartment; not private but exposed to everyone here and the neighbors who can see through the two large windows and one window with patched together diamonds of class with black caulk. To sit here, while someone walks by on the phone, talking joyfully as I attempt to spill. My room is dark with the blinds drawn instead of bright with them open like I need it, to feel like I'm not dead. The light is on in the closet, because my roommate continues to leave it on after he leaves or sits at his desk, in the room, boxing my bed with two walls and the door to make four sides. The person who reminded me, who had faith in me, who would text me with messages like, "You're David Precht, and you're loved," taking away from the three phone calls asking me if I forgot to make other phone calls or take care of other things is no longer visible. Or those others who simply question, like the room is an interrogation and detention center. Track lighting instead of the florescence strobing with energy saving effort. But mainly the rain follows me because while I love who I am, what I have planned for myself, the stupidity and narrow-mindedness of this society, of the culture that I am half part of immediately assumes that I'm not worth anything. That my path isn't going to provide for a family. That I could if only I went out and got my doctorate in something retarded field that I'm not passionate about at all, that I would depressed and hate myself for entering in the first place. That's what I need. What I should do. The path I should have taken. The rain falls on me because I'm ashamed that part of me can't accept the very nature of who I am, and who I have to be. Now, as those doombringing clouds begin to dissipate and the rain slows to a trickle, barely drowning out the thunder miles and miles away I take solace in the fact that I have, a long time ago, begun on the path Baha'u'llah established for me. Happy in the knowledge that my gift is the right one, my life will continue smile-filled, and the family I start will abolish the myths that my predecessors tried to orate from their Mercedes Benz's.

Ants and Micro Machines

2007-05-28T10:33:00.000-05:00

My extended family is spread out around the world. Italy, Germany, Iran all have these invisible threads across the Atlantic to Texas, Minnesota, and Illinois. It doesn't happen often, save for weddings and the like, but when I was ten or so family came in from Köln. The most important site, for them, was downtown Chicago. Now, Germany is the "old country" for (me and) a lot of people, and there's a reason why it's called that; hundreds of years old houses and ruins and vestiges of the past rise up everywhere you look. Great monuments and memories of both fantastic and poorly conceived, even devastating ideals. In later years I realized that that sense of history is almost normal. Seeing a three hundred-year old church or park that has existed longer than any of the oldest buildings here in the U.S. happens as they're walking to the bank. My relatives wanted to see something new, something distinct to this country. Among those things was my second cousin nearly jumping through the roof of my parent's mini-van in excitement over seeing a Corvette and the Sears Tower.

It's pretty funny to think back to when you're a child and remember the wonder that existed as you looked down at the city, holding your wide-open hand up like you've just blocked out nearly half a large city. How small the ants (if you could see them at all) and Micromachines were moving about like they're part of some greater thing. Moving together. And then running over to tug on your dad's shirt, to point out the white, domed building rising up from the trees drawing everyone towards it, unifying ants from all over the world.

I ramble a lot!

Yes, Shirin is a Precht

2007-05-05T16:47:00.000-05:00

My sister went to the State Science Fair today to present her project of which water is safest to drink (I can't recall the actual name, sadly) to a panel of judges. A week ago it became apparent to me that she wasn't all that interested in going and had been nervously and anxiously thinking her way to a ulcer (no, not literally). She would stand with her elbows to her stomach, slightly hunched over, white knuckles to her collar bones. She went anyway, as one of ten students from her school; six girls. She called with ten minutes left on the three hour drive back home to tell me that she received a gold medal in...some specific category. My mom chirped in the background, to which my sister responds, "I want to have a Viking funeral when we get home." My mother was obviously displeased, "Someone next to me said that she was going to burn hers when she got home," my sister responded with a chuckle.
Upon arriving home, or so my sister filled me in soon there after, she "stomped on it." I asked if she took pictures, and she responded with a 'no' but said that she "started yelling...and mom yelled at me and dad laughed." Of course mom would yell at her daughter stomping on the project she was sure she loved and felt no animus towards. Problem was, there was a lot. She then mentioned that she didn't think our mom would let her having her Viking Funeral, "but it would be cool". It was at this moment when I realized that this needed to take place. The project needed a proper destruction, and what better way than setting it out in some filthy water in some lake somewhere. I then asked "could we shoot a flaming arrow as it floated away?", and that she should keep it so we could give it the proper send off by ourselves. She would, of course, need to keep it quiet from mom as she would kill both of us if she found out.
This whole exchange of continuous laughter concluded with my sister saying "so I think that I'm just going to stomp on it and kick it and throw it in the mud until it DIES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Now, none of her text was changed from the IM conversation we had. That is actually what she typed and how she felt. Amazing. She had to go, I bid her "good luck with [her] destruction", and we concluded with a couple goodbye's and an 'I love you'. I cannot properly put into words how wonderful my little sister is, but I hope this produced some kind of feeling.

You know...

2007-04-28T10:26:00.000-05:00

What's funny here is that I am writing every once in a while. It's just not finding its way from my moleskinne into my blog. Hmm...perhaps Wednesday will breed some time for writing, cleaning, and getting healthy. WOAH! CONCEPTS!!

South India

2007-04-22T12:04:00.000-05:00

Lately, I've been watching a Discovery Channel series on the Mysteries of Asia, specifically The Lost Temples of India. The specials show the enormous temples that King Rajaraja built in an attempt to stave off being reincarnated as a worm "or worse". They show men whose lives are devoted to the adorning of the many gods they worship here. Their silence a mask of the ancient world, their devotion to piety and tranquility is inspiring though. We're shown a 58-year old man walking the streets, shirtless, in a white skirt-like loin cloth and white and red painted on his forehead with a basket full of flowers to used to adorn statues.
It's a pretty fascinating cultural study, not to mention the section talking about the training of elephants to move 40-ton slabs of granite to create Kind Rajaraja's temples. The trainers, riders seem to be connected to the animals, symbiotic in a way as they apply apply pressure on the stomachs to guide them while riding and different oscillations with their voice as they bathe them in the river. Scrubbing with hand-sized brushes. I'd like that to be me one day. Well...at least for a little while.

Happy Ridvan!!

2007-04-21T22:01:00.000-05:00

"The Japanese are the most hardcore society in the world"

2007-04-11T18:00:00.000-05:00

Those are Ray's words, and they're probably true based on what will be occurring tonight. So, the Boston Red Sox and the Seattle Mariners are playing at 6:05 CST. Daisuke Matsuzaka will be pitching for the Red Sox and I don't really care who will be up for the Mariners. Only thing that matters: Daisuke Matsuzaka vs. Ichiro Suzuki. Yeah. This is HUGE! It's been six or seven years, I can't remember which, since these two played against each other, but it didn't end great for Ichiro. In a recent interview about the match up, Ichiro said that he hopes the game will "ignite the fire in the very recesses of my soul." Umm, I love you, Ichiro. Please crush the Red Sox with your "awesome".

P.S. - Ichiro was 0-3 with a strikeout, and Daisuke Matsuzaka got the loss.

Drool, drool

2007-04-10T00:25:00.000-05:00

I've been trying to think of something to write about all day long but have been hitting the giant wall that is "sleep depravation" and laziness. Sleep depravation stemming from how little I'm sleeping and how that's slowing down my ability to function, and laziness in that I haven't gone to the gym for over a week, am feeling weak, and my blood sugars are going nuts as a result. Not to mention the weirdnesss that's going on in my left knee and my ability to nearly pop my left shoulder out on a uppercut swing on Sunday. Lastly...I'm tired.

Take that copyright laws!!!

2007-04-09T14:55:00.000-05:00

Will it blend?

2007-04-09T13:03:00.000-05:00

I mean, wow!

Long Time Coming

2007-04-08T04:00:00.000-05:00

Being afraid of change is natural.

My application to DePaul's BA/MA program is being processed. Now it's time to start looking at a class to take at Oakton Community College this summer to help lighten the load of my first semester. It's one of those "finally, I stopped procrastinating and just did it" moments. Things feel lighter in my head. Easier.

If only I could do the same and take care of my parking ticket; the selling of my computer, car, and drum kit; the starting of my first issue of Above and Beyond, a comic book put out for Junior Youth by the Treasurer's Office at the Baha'i National Center; and getting over the fact that my best friend is moving to LA in little over a month...by getting over, I mean accepting positively and not fostering the annoying "normal" feelings I get in these situations...like resent getting so attached that I get angry. Wow! I am a work in progress.

Application Question

2007-04-08T03:53:00.000-05:00

Q: Think of a recent failure and achievement. What were they and what did you learn from them? Will these experiences change how you act in the future, and why?

A: Turning a negative into a positive isn’t an easy thing, especially when talking about failing out of school. For me, it was essential.

My biggest achievement will be getting back into school. Loving it as I did in my first year. Truth be told, I probably should have left Millikin long before I failed out. The environment wasn’t conducive to any kind of productivity or stability either emotionally or spiritually. Then again, finding an institution that fits, one that fulfills all or most of your requirements isn’t easy. Some float from institution to institution. Others, myself included, decided to be stubborn and wait to see if things got better. They didn’t, and that ostrich-in-the-sand mentality will forever be one of the biggest failures of my life; not listening to that voice that keeps telling you that someone isn’t good, it’s working, is doing you harm. I just wish I had left before my grades, emotional and spiritual state had been so effected. Then again, if it weren’t for that very obvious test, I might not be the man I am today. So, I’ll thank God for the good and the bad.

Holy Smart Mirror, Batman!

2007-04-08T02:59:00.000-05:00

Here's to Frustration!

2007-04-07T15:10:00.000-05:00

The score was 7-3 at the top of the 8th, and then 7-6 by the bottom. The sad part is that I expected them to win. After all, they one last night and tonight should be no different, right? They had a chance to flip that three-game sweep; to demolish the Yankees and get that boost of excitement and determination for the rest of the season. Many of us on the O's fan blog Camden Chat set up post after post about their elation at how well Steve Trachsel pitched, and how the bullpen was a sure thing. In fact, earlier I had been telling Carmel that if the O's had a good lead, it was going to be hard to beat them because of how good their bullpen was.

And then it was 10-7 on an Alex Rodriguez grand slam. And then...there was our uniform reaction of shock, disbelief, and swearing loudly, standing up on a chair in the middle of a busy TFI Fridays as a cloud of 10-year olds' eyes and ears couldn't be blocked soon enough.

I really don't like the Yankees.

Ooze

2007-04-03T14:50:00.000-05:00

A month ago or so Mike Castelaz and I spent about an hour reminiscing about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and our feelings on the upcoming movie. In the process one of us did a google image search and found a website dedicated to cataloging all the toys they ever produced from 1988 to the present.

It was strange looking at a plastic screen at an object I remember, vividly, holding in my hands; feeling each ridge, groove, and smoothed green, plastic surface. It was even weirder exchanging stories about Mike's vast collection to my limited but my neighbors complete collection of Ghostbusters toys and accessories. Of course, each memory runs thick like an old film in a older theatre, with oil burning lamps lining the walls and a curtain to accent the drama instead of bright like a film projector running choppy in your living room on a hot summer day, butts on the carpeted ground. Regardless, my face is always illuminated again, washed over anytime I remember baseball cards and gloves, hours in the pool, Transformers at six in the morning, and hurky jerky periods in my room, reading and hiccuped arguments around the dinner table.

"Gotta take the bitter with the sweet."

It's like you're not my car anymore

2007-04-02T20:19:00.000-05:00

The time has come for my car to face the facts: it's not doing so well. Poor car, possibly.

Futility

2007-04-02T00:57:00.000-05:00

Anytime I say to someone that I'll be "really busy this weekend" or planning on "spending the weekend sleeping" just take it with a grain of salt...or a pound. There was a plan. A plan to take care of a slew of things that I had post-ited to my laptop, here. Only one of the four are completed; of course, there are several that exist as ideas or needs in my head that will forever float in the ether of gray matter.

I didn't get more sleep or even close to the amount of sleep, didn't get any of the reading and writing, or complete most of the errands that I had planned on getting. And I blame the ants. Forget recognizing that I have become sloth. Forget that I have bedsores from sitting here; which is not true. Even forgetting that my "brain hasn't been working quite right". These are real, but not as real as those ants. Those ants that even after spending three hours cleaning the kitchen, disinfecting everything, even thinking about utilizing the tactical, nuclear missile we keep in the basement appear to be unfazed.

This is a nonsensical post that is going nowhere and only proves how much sleep I need to get. BLAH!

"They look like dorks!"

2007-04-01T01:37:00.000-05:00

We are at war

Today we planned and executed several tactical and disinfecting attacks on the invaders. They didn't know what hit them. This was, until we realized that they had grown in numbers. They have turned to guerrilla attacks on our HQ and spat upon our initial recommendation of peace accords. They are ruthless: executing attack patterns when our backs our turned, waiting for us to drop our guard. We've seen their capabilities: stealth, speed, strength, and the ability to climb on any surface, including walls. There may be a spy in our midst. Reporting all our movements utilizing a simple yet unrecognizable code language. Discussions on how to deal with an infiltrator have not been fruitful as two of our generals have suggested that they know our troops, they would know if one of them were here. They say its in the thorax. I say that's ridiculous. Even at night we can hear their handiwork. They're skilled and much smarter than the size of their heads would suggest. Our latest, large scale attack on their primary barracks has yielded many victories, yet even more anger as more continue to emerge after our acid bombings and heavy sweeping. Until we know more we should keep conversations to a minimum. At any moment they could be upon us. Swarming, clouding, consuming.

Soon we will claim our independence. Independence from the ants!

Nerds can only transform so far...

2007-03-29T23:13:00.000-05:00

Brush your teeth

2007-03-28T23:20:00.001-05:00

I want to thank Scott Heisel for the link.

The day promises newness for tomorrow

2007-03-28T11:20:00.000-05:00

Tonight I'll take the 4:31 p.m. purple line express train to State/Van Buren and walk 0.1 mile to 1 E Jackson Blvd. The trip will be crowded, and I'll probably be without a seat and a change of clothes as I thought to myself, this morning, if I show up looking professional, it's more likely the head of admissions will see that I'm serious about going to and graduating from DePaul. At least, that's what I'm thinking. Yet, the rain stopped about an hour ago and the sidewalks will still slosh with small, medium, and large puddles from here to the train station, from the station to DePaul and back again, so it makes me rethink changing. Especially since these pants, technically, are a size or two too big, and bundle on the sides and back. All this and Lost at nine.

Expect more thoughts as the day slowly progresses and the sun is exposed and then quickly hidden again, spontaneously; with fists cursing the clouds.

"Old Jewish men play Chelsea Guitars"

2007-03-28T11:18:00.000-05:00

Now that's an old Blues man at work.

Now with less sleep!

2007-03-27T10:01:00.000-05:00

For the last few days I've found myself needing to sleep later both at night and in the morning. An example, I jumped on the exercise bike last night at ten thirty and didn't stop until quarter past eleven, then absolutely had to read until about...one. Then, I wake up at six thirty - well, I mean, that's when my alarm goes off; I actually don't get up until about seven - to start my morning routine.

The absolutely sad part is that I don't even remember hitting the snooze alarm the first two, possibly three times. Oi!

Posts will probably be a bit spacey today.

Through the looking glass...

2007-03-26T09:58:00.000-05:00

A few months ago, I wrote about my love of riding the train and my longing to be among the masses of riders every morning and evening. Yet, despite my coming to a time when that will become a reality (back to school), the 'el' situation has, as I'm not privy to such things yet, become a black mark on the cities "spotless veneer" (shakes head, obviously). So much so that an article in the New York Times is talking about issues the CTA and it's riders are having with closures, a lack of communication about closures, an out of date rail system and cars, overcrowded trains (I've noticed this, and it's getting a really bad), decreasing funds, and a tardiness that is about as annoying as commercials for Fred Claus (seriously, why was this movie made?).

Thanks to Sara for pointing the article out to me.

Mercy

2007-03-25T12:08:00.000-05:00

US vs Ecuador [a bloody nose, stretcher, and two quick goals in the first (US) and eleventh minutes (Ecuador)]
Chile vs Brazil (nil - nil in the thirteenth minute)

Oh my!

Update: Ronaldinho penalty kick in the fifteenth minute! Goalie almost had it.

Something borrowed, something chrome

2007-03-24T23:58:00.000-05:00

There was an article in the New York Times today about a innovative subway car that was created in 1949 sitting in the Transit Museum that would have sped its way along the, long planned, Second Avenue line. Problem is, they never actually created a Second Avenue line due to . Each car was a piece of time's technological ingenuity; with a stainless steal shine, "high-tech air purification systems", "round porthole windows", et al. Turns out, the New York Board of Transportation is finally planning on digging the tunnels for such a line between 96th and 63rd Streets in Manhattan. Just a few years late.

How fascinating would it be to unearth a long buried line that had been dug out quite a while ago but never used? Possibly infested with ghosts...or Native American ghosts...or....you know, rats. Sounds like a story to me! Probably worthy of Warren Ellis. ...yeah, I'm still kickin' on his stuff around.

A tad lax in today's posting: A Summary

2007-03-24T23:37:00.000-05:00

So, I've realized that it's the weekend...interestingly enough. But this weekend is the real kind. Not the mid-week kind that we had earlier that was distracting, confusing, and oddly made Tuesday a Friday and Thursday a Monday, but an actual, real to life weekend. So, I slept. Slept, drafted my fantasy baseball team (we look good, team!), stayed up reading and generally being lazy, watched the first half of the Discovery Channel's "The Lost Tomb of Jesus", slept, ate, and was even more lazy.

Highlight for the day: our landlord came out and I was quite rude to him. Not on purpose, but generally because he was two hours late and he very rarely actually comes out to fix what we request for him to fix and that he's agreed to fix. ...if that makes sense. As it stands I'm sore that I was so rude and really should work on trying not to skip the "firm yet still kind" gear of my personality.

Anyway, I'm currently reading up on ancient Egyptian religions, having just finished reading some things about Nikola Tesla, his place in popular culture, and his problems with people believing what he said he could accomplish. Good stuff! Some posts to follow.

P.S. - I now, very much, love Wikipedia even more.

Channel 101 all growed up

2007-03-23T13:30:00.000-05:00

Well, it's been a "slow day" of catching up... Wait...let's try that again. It's been a slow day, so I've been surfing around, reading articles instead of catching up on the work I haven't done this week when Shannon alerted me to an article.

When you get the chance, you should check out the actual site for Acceptable.tv. It's passable-rific!

A minor distraction...

2007-03-23T00:30:00.000-05:00

My roommate hadn't seen the picture of Kari Byron with Wolverine claws. This has been corrected, and all is good.
Check out the artwork on her page though, pretty impressive sculptures. Did I mention she's from Mythbusters and extremely intelligent/sassy/attractive/obviously talented.

Destroy All Humans

2007-03-22T18:04:00.000-05:00

This is a ray gun.
Sure it's crazy and neat, but is it mad scientist, destroy all life crazy, neat?

Six innings of shut out ball

2007-03-22T15:47:00.000-05:00

So, Trachsel ended up not allowing a run in six innings. This is good as the last few times he's gone out there he's been pretty awful.

Nick Markakis went 4 for 4 with two homers, a triple, and a single with four RBIs. And so, part of the offense woke up. 'bout time.

Have I told you the story of the hippo and the watermelon?

2007-03-22T14:10:00.000-05:00

This is a story I just told Lindsey over IM:

One summer a bird - you know, an African one - was landing near a God-made lake in the middle of a blank area. The bird landed near the water and was greeted by scores of other birds - also, African ones - who chirped and moved over to allow the first bird access to the water. The bird appreciatively started sipping slowly while others bathed, played, and splashed about in the calm water. One of the other birds - a short one, you know the kind with the blue feathers - hopped over and asked, "Hello! Where are you from? What watering hole do you frequent? I ask because none of us have seen you before." To which the bird responded, "Oh, I've been traveling for several miles, migrating, because my land's were taken over for farming. We tried sharing the land, but the machinery's smoke columns and noise became too much. So, I left."

"Wow," exclaimed the tiny bird, "that's a horrible story. I'm sorry to hear that you had to abandon your family. Well, we'll gladly accept you into our collective, if you'd like." "I'd like that very much," cried the bird. The two birds hugged as birds do - you know, they nestled up next to one another; don't get all gross about it, ya jerk - and began to drink the water together.

Later that day, a rhino came to the lake to rest and drink.
It's hardened, gray skin like armor reflected the sun's rays and provided shade for some of the younger birds. The bird saw the rhino and instantly recognized it. The bird quickly flew overly and greeted it's old friend the rhino - animals don't have names, they're animals; this isn't the Lion King, come on! - with wild chirping and elated flapping. To which the rhino began stomping about in happiness, disrupting the younger birds around the rhino - I can't tell if the rhino's a male or female, and I'm not going down there to check; that's gross - until the rhino stopped and quickly began conversation. After a lengthy conversation about how the rhino and bird's families were - they're short because of a meeting you have to go to; thanks - the bird noticed that the tip of the rhino's horn had been chipped off asked what had happened. The rhino sank into the folds of it's neck and bashfully said, "I don't want to talk about it" - which translates to, "thanks for reminding me, jerk." "Oh, come on. I hope nothing hurt you," said the bird dripping with care and concern. The rhino, reluctantly, explained that the other day, when walking by a lake similar to this a hippo splashed out from the water, surprising the rhino, and threw a coconut at the rhino's head.

The bird was stunned that such a thing would happen, looking around to notice that the story had produced an audience of over fifty birds from all around the lake, listening intently. "I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to make things better?" "Yes," said the rhino quietly, "you can all back away from the lake slowly. Act like there's nothing wrong. Just get about twenty feet from the edge." "Why?" asked the bird. "You want to help me or not?!" shouted the rhino, in a whisper.

Very quickly, all the birds who had been playing along the cusp of the lake receded well beyond the rhino. "Now," stated the rhino calmly, "BREAK YO'SELF!" shouted the rhino as it stood up on its hind legs, pulled a rocket launcher out from under it's left leg - dude, if I had looked back there I totally would have seen the thing, but that, still, would have been intrusive and gross - and fired it into the lake, blowing all of the water and a hippo up in the air.

The hippo, now very dead, landed about five feet from the rhino who had settled back on all fours and replaced the rocket launcher. The rhino, slowly pulled a watermelon out and began chomping down on it as it walked toward the corpse. "That's for stepping on my shoes," the rhino said quietly as it walked away. All the birds horrified, clumped together as the rhino walked passed.

So, I don't have a moral to this story. Give it a moral in comment form, or suggestions on how to make this story more ridiculous.

Trachsel will not fall apart...I hope

2007-03-22T13:35:00.000-05:00

My O's are up 6-0 in the bottom of the 4th. Nick Markakis is 3 for 3 with two home runs, a triple, and four RBIs. Hit for the cycle, DAVID DEMANDS IT!

Join Hands Together!

2007-03-22T11:55:00.000-05:00

National High Five Day
Thursday, April 19th, 2007

This has fulfilled all my dreams all at once. Well...some of them. I don't think they're willing to make a tasty, sugar-free chocolate or caramel pudding large enough for me to swim in. ...I will have taken a shower!

P.S. - Wonderful! "Bolly mustache, Thadeaus! Let us exchange five fingered hand slappings. Hoorah!" Send a high five, why not. Posted at 1:30, 03/22/2007

2007-03-21T11:58:00.000-05:00

Looks like that pen thing has a light on the tip plugged into the base/holder. Please explain the clicker on the other end though.

The Droop

2007-03-21T11:34:00.000-05:00

Every time I'm here I stare at this poster for longer than I should: "Understanding Allergies" by Schering. Descriptions of allergens and how the human body deals with them as well as images of those, reactions of, and the processes involved with those allergens. The poster is sticky taced to the slightly darker than robin's egg blue walls, continuing on until striking much darker blue cabinets and continuing on again. There's very little as far as instrumentation here save the blood pressure measurer, a "sharps collector" full of test strips and pink finger prickers, and a thick, pen-like device plugged into a green, then white base with a glowing green indicator on the front. Well, there are also the four boxes of differing sized Diamond Grip, powder-free latex examination gloves, but they don't seem like they count.

I write this inane and dull and pointless description in a vain attempt to stay awake. I was sitting in the lobby, watching Casino Royale with a group of people for over an hour, and have now been in this examination room for nearly another half hour. Words are slowed from my brain to page as my blood sugar continues to drop despite my lack of movement.

Then the doctor came in fro a moment, only to leave again...

The rain made me lethargic

2007-03-21T09:32:00.000-05:00

This morning I woke up at eight. Stop! This morning I woke up at eight fifteen. Stop! This morning I woke up at eight thirty as I decided my snooze button had gotten enough abuse. I didn't exactly get up as rolled about for a few seconds until finally reaching for my laptop. A train from Noyes to Belmont, Belmont to Quincy seemed the best option at nine twenty-eight from my horizontal, non-bespectacled position. I sat up and began my now normalized surfing...only to head to the shower at ten 'til nine.
So far, so good!