Opposable Thumbs

2003-01-21T20:17:00.000-08:00

Under the sunset canopy, his voice strains under unknown saddness, yearning for the lost glimmer of hope.
Over the roar of the Pacific, he calls; his song of the day's remorse becoming tonight's memory. The fleeting record of loss.
Through the blanket of dusk, his sorrow captures us.
In his truths, we relate and as darkness resumes its noble place, we open to our own pasts, refreshed in new solitude, awoken with honest chords and stolen words. We hear our cries in his cries, in the approaching surf, in the growing night silence.
Together, alone, we seek ourselves.

2002-12-19T20:35:00.000-08:00

If I close off the world, maybe the answers will come. If I surround myself with absence, surround my thoughts with the comfort of a child's ignorance, the joy might return.
Instead, I shake in fear of the life I live. The choices that threaten happiness, the jokes that Hobbes must surely enjoy now filling my hours.
I yearn for the promises of teenage nights, when I would cower beside my bed and swear that my life would be better, between the silent cries for help, I swore my life would mean something. It was an oath that possesses me, that leads me, and shielded me from the discomfort of service. But I didn't know the pain would weaken the bonds, leaving me here today - remorseful for the decade of opportunity lost to a noble dedication.
And this promise 14 years remembered remains powerful. I'm scared to break the pledge and disrespect the memory of that boy. So instead I continue, unquestioned.
May the truths reveal themselves. May the nothingness be the answer.

2002-12-05T04:34:00.000-08:00

Random Thoughts

Happy Birthday Strom! (I don't care what everybody else may think about this man, he jumped with the 82nd on D-day when he was 44 years old, and that's all one needs to say)

Its a snow day!!!!!!!!!!!!! No, not a true Minnesota quality snow day, but it will do for the East Coast.

I wish that people thought more like themselves, for themselves and beyond themselves, and didn't not think like usually happens.

If I could rise above it all and see the world for what it was, would I.
would I forgo the daily mystery, the hourly search for why and where and when and who,
no, I'm happy just walking my wandering way,
suprised by the bends and content with its happiness.
(Well, maybe I'd take a quick peek)

2002-11-25T19:58:00.000-08:00

Birth of a Painting-

Over an off-blue background appears the strokes of competing darkness,
undisciplined, unruly, playing with yellow khaki - evolve into greens into swirls. More anxious efforts parallel the borders in unrecognizable fear.
Now, the movement overtaken by dark blue hues hiding uncertain intentions. Suddenly, two eyes appear from the anarchic mist searching downward towards unseen feet - averting their embarrassed gaze. More blues coaxed from the visionary pallet. Then the repressed arch of a nose, the nose of humbleness and shyness and never-tested strength. From cautious reds reveal two lips dripping the first syllables of ... of an apology? And all is encased by darker. unkemp hair, not there but implied by the shadows from an off frame light. Then, saddness betrayed in the dreary afternoon tints and unforgiving strokes, all stealing the secret of regrets from unwitting passing audiences, inexplicably drawn in by blue remorse.

Its soul is born.

2002-11-20T20:18:00.000-08:00

I feel small tonight. No, not in a physical sense, nor in any measure of mental capacity, but in the measure of myself as a man. This Saturday, I fly back to Minnesota to begin my Thanksgiving vacation. I will be spending some time with my parents, and seeing some old friends unknown since high school graduation. I may, just may, even take some time to make some new relations if me and the unsuspecting future friend happen by the same place on time. There will be fireplaces, sans chestnuts, gently glowing, bouncing their warmth around the downstairs den. Hopefully the snow will hide the off-brown din of late fall grass and neglected leaves. I will be warm, never hungry and in the comfort of my family.

I will leave unfulfilled - and small.

My best friend will be spending four hours of Thanksgiving day in a shelter for abused mothers and children. He will most likely spend most of it serving food to others, and the rest cleaning up after nearly 8 hours of cooking. There will probably be a lot of hard work and there will definitely be a lifetime of new, uncomfortable smiles disguising soft "Thank-yous."

I doubt he will regret a second of it.

When we meet up on Saturday after Thanksgiving to tell stories, I will share a couple humorous incidents from the Minnesota homecoming and then I'll listen to him and learn and remember and respect the sacrifice that too few make.

2002-11-17T21:08:00.000-08:00

"Would you like to live in Alaska?" she inquired - uninspiredly.
The dimmed lights, interupted by a squad of flickering candles, decorated her face in warm grays. The pulses of transplanted folk music seasoned her thoughts, but neither explained the question. No matter; my response was unaltered.
"Could I still play pinball" I begged with sudden urgent importance.
Her response was swift "No!" delivered mid motion as she rose from couch to retrieve her tea.
"Would you be there?"
'You don't even know me". The rebuke bounced off me, only traces of the insult remained on the already battered ego.
"Yes" I finally settled within myself.
"Good" she judged, now standing behind me, cupping the luke warm green tea.
"Then go"
I turned in only semi-feigned interest to see her returning to her original cushion and friends.
Quickly surveying her escape, I was drawn by her aloofness, broken only by a subtle wink. So I stood, and grabbing her coat left beside me, prepared to follow her dream.

2002-11-13T21:18:00.000-08:00

The walk home is short
past the shops
left at the Lounge
downhill, under arched trees.
At dusk, shadows trace these footsteps along familiar paths
the same dog whimpers
the same cat scampers
the same squirrel scurries
(in anticipation of someone else.)

At the corner of the bottom of the hill,
I pause
and ponder the daily steps
the friendships of this street
Lights blink, or wink, and I turn
towards home
never alone.

2002-11-13T21:17:00.000-08:00

Unrecognized steps trace the paths of unmet friends
Our destinies separated by minutes
or hours,
or uncomfortable wayward glances
The companionship I seek
again successfully avoided.

2002-11-12T21:16:00.000-08:00

A New Day

A chill in morning air.
Damp leaves swishing under newly nimble feet.
People, everywhere, moving, living. I among them.

There-
sunrise (it begins?) anew.
I walk, run, sprint to nowhere. But I am there, among the life of the city.
Surrounded, I inhale the joys of creativity awakened (slowly perculating), the thrill of undiscovered discovery that awaits the bold.
Morning papers brushed aside (irrelevant, dampening the will of the unknown). They report the news of what was, not the promise of tomorrows happenings. No challenge, no seeds of boundless thought, no contempt for ungrounded regret, those papers bland with one-day-oldness.
Look away, look away into the faces, look away into the masked enthusiasm shared by a handful of visionists, now walking, marching out of step towards the days unwitting purpose. Will it be today, for you, or yesterday repeated in every detail but the calendar plus one. Will it be today, for you, or tomorrow a day early.
Or will it be today, today, and never today again...

Somewhere a friend wanders the summitting hills of Nepal, not lost but not found. He has walked into whitewashed dreams armed with a Crayola 64 pack and a child's disrespect. But he is not. He is not real until his return, and his return is marked in days past expected delivery.

We await the descent into the www, the stories formed into unruly patterns of words and sentances. We await the return of the alien.

2002-11-11T20:00:00.000-08:00

...and then he returned to the keyboard, refreshed, enlivened...alone.

So it rained today. I guess its good for the creek, the random parks and little kids in need of mud. But its not good if your day was supposed to consist of a 14 mile drive to Great Falls Park, a .8 mile walk into said park, and 5 hours of climbing bluffs directly to right of path (falling dramatically down to banks of Potomac River). Yeah, that didn't happen today, because it rained.

Instead, I was banished to a traditional workout, in a gym, with impersonnal perfect rows of machines isolating individual muscle groups in ways never replicated in the real world, which was too wet today because it rained.

So there I was, pushing and pulling and sitting up and sitting down and mentalling wandering between incomprehensible ideas, and generally avoiding contact with any fellow banishees. The horror of facing an army of failed Saturday afternoon infomercials, lined up awaiting orders from me - never to come. It took me exactly 43 minutes to tire of the burden, leave, and run home, in the rain (never ending in its taunts of what it stole today).

Finally, tonight I remember Scott and Jack and Eric. They were all my friends. Thank you.

2002-08-18T21:26:00.000-07:00

Six lines of a Second Cousin:

"Which one of you is Steve?"
"I am"
"Hi, I'm your cousin."
"Good to meet you."
"See you later."
"Yeah."

2002-08-18T21:25:00.000-07:00

Saturday night was time for the Metro Cafe, hidden on 14th Street, hiding music innovation. Tonight's surprise was the Red King and a family member never met. The unknown reunion now delayed from an accident, but late only for an empty bar. Seven lonely souls wait, awkward at the bar, clumsily drinking unspoken memories. Behind me the ghosts of poets linger in the eyes of the sketchy paintings. I don't look back, instead staring to the floor, then the marks on the wall, dreaming of meanings disguised.
The crowd drips in, forminb by the bar, then the band arrives - hugs, cheers. Somewhere in the five band members hides my second cousin. He doesn't know me. I don't know him. I glance towards the growing stage trying to guess who could be my relations yet avoiding eyes. Am I embarrassed? Why?
More surprises await.

2002-08-17T21:45:00.000-07:00

"Its time," he sai, matter of factly and betraying two years of friendship.
"My life has consisted of chapters," Mike continued. "The first included my high school years, then the college years, and then my time in Norfolk. Now, these last two years in DC are my latest chapter, and tonight, I close the pages of this chapter."
He proceeded to return an empty glass to the bar, just as he did nightly for the last two years, then he turned and walked out the door.

I would never see him again. Lonliness returned.

I guess I knew that night would eventually arrive. Mike had been talking of a change, a move meant to shock his life into the new reality. We had shared the dreams, lived the possiblities and now he is in full chase. I just never thought our dreams would lead to a hollow soul lost of companionship, but there he went and there I sat.
His words still lingered in my memory. His last chapter closed.

These sounded like the perfect first words to my new chapter...

2002-02-09T22:28:00.000-08:00

Its never easy to explain how I got here, but there must be a pattern described by multi variable third degree equation. More likely, its just me feeling at home, comfortable, and on the search that defines my life.
So there I was, still driven by the beat of the 18th st lounge as I leave the ummarked door and turn right onto the street. My house is a mile up, two blocks over and uncountable revelations away. I pass the crowds shuffling into/out of and around chauffers in yellow transportation all witnessing the advanced logic of the twentysomething brain: we have to go here and she has to be dropped here, but she can't sit next to him because...
I feel suddenly prepared for approaching GREs.
Head down, feet moving, or shuffling, sensing the life in the streets.
I become part of the fading conversation back at the lounge. My memory fades in their circle, now overcome with a new round, a new solo and the emergence of Jude from Alexandria.
I now this happens, I will hear about it on Monday.
I am already worlds away, having sacrificed the bounty of inspiritation coded in the words, "No, she's hot. Check out the blonde in white. How ya doing?"
I risk this loss for the treasure between Dupont and Adams Morgan. Here is my heaven, walking and being.
Fueled with repentent ideas, flavored with Brooklyn Lager and the soul of "Green Jeans", I walk.
My mind races, again, through high school angst, past awkward junior high hall periods, into the rhymed reason of 80's music and out again into forgotten goals of success and nascent desires for fame now lost in self selection.
How will it end, the stop light blinks. Will it be a terminal flashing red with me waiting perfunctualy, or will I speed passed. Will they catch me? Did I really break the rules? Why?
Why do tears still release at the memory of Memphis Belle and the sight of Janae on the couch across the room watching me and not the movie. (It will end in two weeks when I leave for college, never to return except in weekly moments of painful regret).
The street is alive with nothing. I see its ghosts, scurring for peace from intoxicated interlopers, then peak from perfect hidding places to whisper, you are one of us, stay, help, be.
I am one of them, my life faded into pain and now defined by a quest for nothing in the future and nothing in the past but everything right now.
It is.

2002-02-07T20:35:00.000-08:00

They will be running tonight- the dreams of tomorrow.
I feel them readying, preping for a night of discovery.
Hopes of love, chance of success, the goal of better life,
dreams,
dreams reflecting unbounded ambition for self discovery
floating aimlessly in a turbulant subconscious,
tied to reality with the worn rope of expectations, frayed, tired, slipping.
And there I sit, in breathless anticipation for life's ultimate ride, about
to commence down the rapids of created by towering dreams,
it will be the ultimate ride,
soon,

once that last rope slips
and tired reality drifts into a new subconscious.

2002-02-05T20:38:00.000-08:00

I miss the sunset, wandering the beach with no direction except to track the voyage of the sun into tonight. Under shifting skies and nascent stars I dance with waves as memories tickle bare feet. There, beyond the purple and red and orange clouds, beyond the mirages, beyond the birds laughing in the playful colors, beyond my own reality: I see us together. I sense our hands touch, fingers nervously trace unseen feelings in the silent hope of a million tomorrows - beginning tonight.
I walk on, I chase away the day and welcome the solace of dusk's cool entrance. The waves ebb, the clouds blend, my footsteps erase, my world collapses into the immediate surroundings and I am still escaped away with her.

Alone, welcomed, solitary, warm,
complete...in her distant embrace.

2002-01-17T19:48:00.000-08:00

Conflict:

I am surrounded by conflict. It surrounds me at every turn; work, friends, coworkers. This existance is defined by the inability of these worlds to cooperate.
I see the results. I see the unhappiness. I see the misery driven by desire, driven by the inexplicable search for more. Their quest leads to impact with others.
Conflict.
They scramble for themselves, grabbing, groping, more, more, drunk on excess and never content with their circle of conflict.
I laugh at the confusion.

2002-01-16T19:54:00.000-08:00

At the Airport

I wait for her arrival. She must be on the ground now, waiting in her seat, seatbelt fastened. Is she thinking of me?

I wait for her arrival. I watch the elevator from the concourse, wishing her appearance. Around me reunion's unfold. Loved one's returned to eachother's arms. Miles closed. Emotions rekindled.

I feel her walking down the concourse. She must be here soon.

Will she be looking for me? Will her eyes catch mine? Will the feelings rush me, uncontrolled?

I wait with the impatience of Junior Prom. Nervousness betrays my age. Shifting, twitching, I beg for calm. I beg for her arrival.

There, now walking towards me. Look this way. I'm waiting. Please return to me.

2002-01-06T19:14:00.000-08:00

"Do you think about them?"

This question is oft posed. It is a question that I still fear; a question that am troubled in answering. Now, nearly four months after our friendships were ended, the answer remains elusive.

There memories have evolved over this time. In first hours and days, I was overwhelmed by a suffering I had never dared to imagine. I didn't want to think of their last moments - trapped in their back office, struggling against fruits of unknown enemies. I liked to think their deaths were immediate, painless. I know this isn't true.

For some time, my memories were bounded by their loss - the families, the new children, the dreams unrealized. I felt empowered to live their lives for them, as if everything new I strived for, everything I challenged and accomplished could somehow serve in living memorial for their sacrifice. This wasn't enough.

Now, even so shortly after the event, their memories are fading. Specifics begin to fade, replaced by a feeling of content, a feeling of compassion, a feeling of companionship.

Do I think about them. No, not exactly. They are simply always a part of me. They will always be who I am.

2002-01-04T21:57:00.000-08:00

The following is a critic of "The Lord of the Rings" offered by one of my friends:

"The acting was superb. The movie was visually stimulating, very true to the book, the scenery was spectacular. Even was great.
I hated it"

Not one to accept such an answer, I dug.

"Well," he retorted, "the ending was terrible. I know it was true to the book, but it left me unsatisfied".
A further, more painful and drawn out discussion revealed the ending, according to my friend, was not an ending. There was no closure.
Therefore, the movie sucked.

Unfortunately, I feel these sentiments are echoed throughout America. And this is my complaint. That Americans are so intent on seeing expected, happy, predictable endings, that any deviation must be horrible. Furthermore, this characteristic will affect an entire movie.
Americans insist on an ending. A quantifiable, obvious conclusion before we are happy. It is echoed in our foreign policy, our entertainment, our politics, everything. Instead, I prefer to enjoy the journey. "The Lord of the Rings" is a fantastical journey - maybe the best ever told. And it only makes sense the end should be the beginning of the continued journey. The experiences - happiness, loss, exhiliration - these make the journey worthwhile.

Consider applying this same mindset to life. Our obvious conclusion is death. Is that the only thing that matters. Does this make a successfull life. No, it is the events that comprise the journey. The paths taken, mistakes made, smells, love, laughs, pain and experience that makes life full.

2001-12-31T14:37:00.001-08:00

Everytime I see her, I find a new reason why she's beautiful.

2001-12-31T14:37:00.000-08:00

I remember Friday nights at the Duck Inn, in Viriginia Beach. From mid-May until September, this was the place to be on Friday nights from four in the afternoon until after sunset. I spent many hours, words, and Duck Bucks there, all in some inexplicable pursuit never achieved.
This past year, something odd happened to these memories. The summers I spent there, Duck Inn memories were dominated by random seven digit collections of numbers, faces and bodies automatically categorized into priorities, and meaningless stories meant to empower greater quantities of drinks.
But there is a different memory, whose details shine brightest now. Amid the collection of inebriation and single minded mingling, there was a man - at first seen as part of the personality, then an annoyance, then simply not there at all. He was dark, bald and wore bright white simple smocks that glowed in the dusk backdrop. He circulated freely through the crowds, looking for conversation, looking to engage in development, looking for a sympathetic travellor. He found ridicule. He didn't care.
There must have been a hundred versions of groups turning their backs to him, of jokes passed off just within ear shot, of blatant humiliation for the immediate pleasure of supposed friends.
I like to think that every so often, there was also somebody who listened, who learned, and probably challenged him. Maybe somewhere on that blasphamous beach, two travellors crossed paths, shared some secrets and moved on.
I was never one of them.
I fell to the need for a quick joke or the perceived pressures of ill society.
I am still in regret.

2001-12-26T20:10:00.000-08:00

Parade of Dreams
They form up at 10:34 in Chicago Ohare Airport as I lounge listlessly in confusion: the parade of my dying dreams campaigning for life. I sit in awe, seranaded by childhood goals, played out before my eyes. The world freezes, the people step aside in respect for lost childhood.
High steeping, clicking, stomping, attention seeking. My eyes wander down the line, my heart quickens in solemn rememberance of hours spent in Mr. Ruley's trigonometry class starring at clock hoping for a sign the hands understood a drifting teenager now thrust into life unwanted. Unwritten words of desire massage my mind, unspoken thoughts, unrealized intentions gather and charge and conquer a weakened soul.
Why
Why did they attack. What didn't I give them.
My child arrives to announce the presence of girlfriends never known, their signs lost on naive eyes.
A way out. A path, please.
I run away (well practiced over countelss encounters). I run over opportunity kicked to the ground, I run, I run to the plane, begging escape. Fly me away, carry me to a new world, excavate me from the chains of relentless misery.
i plead, more to myself.
i beg in impish tones unknown to respected men. I am repressed, I am embarrassed, I am not the man I was to be.
I run again, my world now blurred in comfortable confusion. If I can't see, If I can't feel the world it will not be. Numbness is welcome, so I run: safe in motion, stirring the ether of me.
I run faster, faster, higher, away not looking, not feeling, just moving towards an unrealizeable future, but now is nice.
i run.

2001-12-18T20:53:00.000-08:00

So I'm sick. Not horribly, just my voice: its scratchy.
To me, it sounds like I am the reincarnation of Bob Dylan's early voice.

Yeah, my voice is scratchy, its scratchy, I've got a cold.
I drank some water, is was cold.
Now I'm hungry gonna get me some food, maybe sandwich or two,
yeah, I gotta cold.

Gotta girl, she's on my mind, all I think about all the time,
she's everything my mind desires, everything this boy needs,
I needa call her on the phone, tell her how I feel,
but I'm scared,
so scared, she won't be home,
then I'll be all alone,
all alone.

See, I've got this girl,
and she's all I need.
Please lord,
let it be.

2001-12-18T20:36:00.000-08:00

I didn't chose to run. I didn't. One day it just made sense.
I left at seven in the morning, chased by the morning sun, disturbing gently placed dew. Down the road, through the town yet dreaming, left at Oak Street and away.
Behind me childhood memories linger, trapped in the trees, faded, though I didn't look. My eyes longed for the mountain peak looming ahead; my mind raced ahead into tomorrow's purpose.
The trail rose to greet me, challenging confident legs. Clumsy rocks threatened my feet, though not seriously, just enough to tickle anxious toes yearning, yearning, onward, today begins now.
Between two trees a deer calmly questions me, then nods in silent approval, "Yes, you are welcome."
Upward, into lost thoughts, long drifting in the unknown sky, flitter by. Curiously, I lunge at a straggling thought, trapped in the heavy air -
gripping the reminiscent pray between my thumb and fingers in wonderment. Then the slightest taste, timidly, sweetness fills my world overwhelmed by the first kiss unfairly forgotten in the rush of nervousness now justly savored:
my hand caressing hers, alive, trembling. Her head cautiously turning in measured degrees, then rising. Her eyes, now aware of the approaching unknown, of the promised bliss, of the future foretold in illicit desires, now lost in deep searches, alternatingily timid and bold, then the flood of unearthly bliss, showering two souls forever joined in their moment.
The trail bends, twists and teases and finally submits as the summit grows.
I am alive, I have arrived, the world unfolds before me, revealing innermost secrets. My world unfurls, fueled by emotions rediscovered, driven by the search for the quest for meaning. Driven by the memories of friends whose journey ended months ago. I am driven by their unheard words, encouraged by their desires. Around me awakes the world in the valleys below, around me awakes the purpose, now clear, unfiltered by uncertainity and false beliefs. Around me their dreams drift, unfullfilled. I slow in the blizzard of hopes, of lost hopes, serenading me, wooing, courting. I grab one then another and another, my hands grope for the swarming dreams. I want them all, I feel their power, I am truly alive, I am reenergized. I feel their family, a language, the books unread, the friends lost, the unending search ended now unended.
I didn't chose to run. I am glad it chose me.

2001-12-16T00:01:00.000-08:00

The night collapsed into himself.
Hours of wanting words and measured looks
failed.
Replaced by the lonliness of Conneticut avenue at three in the morning,
serenaded by unfamiliar shouts and desolate dreams.
Instead, his vision replaced by lasting hope,
formed by childhood optimism,
sheltered through teenage self importance
and fostered under twenty something idealism,
he falters,
the realization of his life's hopes
faded into missed opportunity.
yesterday's regret
today's misery.
tomorrow's dejection.
Hope intercedes,
hopefully.

2001-12-12T20:09:00.000-08:00

The deep draft of the creek opens before me,
soaking sounds surround my lost gaze
into the rush of water, past the distractions
I find solace in this moment,
in the serenity of the forgotten beauty

The solititude refreshes worn emotions,
drained through a year pain
and left barren.
alone.

Finally, the feelings returned
the warmth of joy, the burn of sadnress,
the itch of anticipation,
returned.

And the world, my world appears,
ready for the flood of experience held in check
now unleashed into the tomorrow,
tomorrow,
tomorrow we begin.

2001-12-12T19:56:00.000-08:00

I have nothing more to say, close the blue book and walk out of the room, trying to retain three months of desire now moments from release. I toss off the blanket of academic repression and relish forgotten joy. As I leave the building, I'm overcome with energy stolen from a class of fourth graders as Christmas vacation begins. I run to the car, rush home as the my world fades.
Treaties, coalitions, political realism replaced by the void of creativity.
Now home, eyes closed, legs crossed, I search for direction...

2001-12-11T20:15:00.000-08:00

I had promised myself I would start after my last final, but I was so excited that I couldn't wait.
Tomorrow it begins,
tomorrow the next step is taken.
tomorrow a return to endless discovery,

this time, filled with more hope, dampened by sorrow, and overcome with the joy of new love.
the ideas are perculating as we speak, so sleep well tonight in confident suspense for tomorrow's vision...

The door closed with a thump. He mindlessly dropped his bag on the bench by the door, slipped of his shoes and hit play on the CD player. Sitting down on the worn couch, Dylon glanced into his life. Freed from the pursuit of academia, suddenly the world, his world reappeared. What first, the pile of unread of books, hours of forgotten meditation, or the promise of aging friendship wilting in neglect.

No, tonight he sat on the couch, listening to the unbridled happiness approaching from the distance. Months of patience, of yearning, about to be rewarded. He sat motionless waiting for the arrival.

2001-11-02T19:47:00.000-08:00

In hindsight, I expected it.
As I sat on the phone, listening the prolonged ring, my mind started connecting memories.
It played out like a bad Charlie Sheen movie: the "tired" line on Saturday night, the empty good night kiss,
the no phone calls or emails. I guess I knew all along.

It was almost cordial, the last phone call:

"I had a lot of fun hanging out with you"
"Yeah"
"I've decided I don't want to date you anymore"
"Yeah"
"I'll see you around?"
"Probably not"

And it ended,
then followed the requisite singing along with Chris Isaak on the "Forever Blue" album, the late night run through town
in some embarrassing show of defiance. The slow realization that she is gone, the emboldenment of bachelorhood.

It must be a disturbing sign that the length of my relationships have been shortening over the last three years - each one fractionally shorter
than the previous.

I don't know?

2001-11-01T20:07:00.000-08:00

Trapped at work, I run, escape,
Just like before...

Now I walk, under the comfort of hazzy stars, and wonder into the why of today.
I walk under the blanket of lonely nights.

I remember nights at sea, nights punctuated with countless stars. I would always wander topside,
and gaze into the past. The stars then were my only friends. We could talk, or not talk, or just be.
Some nights, we shared our dreams of tomorrow, of the promised happiness we all pursue. They foretold
of love, of misery and the misguided steps between each.

How right they were.

I miss the stars - their truthful counsel.

Now I walk the streets aimlessly, searching for those moments unappreciated.
I walk looking for those promises of yesterday.

2001-10-31T19:23:00.000-08:00

On a night filled with distractions, my thoughts remain focused on her...

I guess we're done. The false sense of finality rings in the unanswered phone. Yes, she walked away Saturday, and by Sunday morning we walked alone - my steps now uncertain, unguided, lost...

I don't even know why, not even sure if it really happened. But I know she's not here now, and I am.

I remember the first time I saw here, walking from under the setting sun, highlighted by the heavens. I smiled in uncontrolled amazement, and
managed a shy hello in respect. We talked, then we wrote, then we met over the patter of patterned key strokes, sketches of ourselves to colored over the following the weeks. And such vibrance was uncovered.

She's gone, from what I can tell, and with her follow a trail wishes unknown.

Please return,
Please return.

2001-09-14T21:00:00.000-07:00

America doesn't get it!
Let me back up for a second - lets start with the basics.
Terrorists are rational. They are not crazy. They are not insane. They are calculating political masters. Every attack is designed to achieve a predetermined political end state. The goal is not the attack itself, but rather the message it sends.
The attacks on DC and New York were powerful blows against our country, but they were not the ends, they were the means to a goal.
So what is their goal.
Lets return again to history, this time the history of Latin American terrorism of the 1960's, and to Marighella, the author of "The Mini Manual of Urban Guerrila". These groups would conduct terrorist attacks in cities. Their goal was to inspire a revolution against the ruling party. However, the attacks were not meant to challenge the regime directly. Instead, the attacks were meant to provoke the government into action. Their objective was to force the governments hand in preventing terrorism by laying down a blanket of oppression over the city to prevent future terrorist attacks. This oppression leds to radicalization of the entire population against the government, thereby creating more recruits for the terrorist and hopefully a swelling of support for revolution.
Sound familiar yet?
It is impossible to believe that any organization that was able to develop at least 18 suicide bombers and conduct four hijackings in three cities leading to the now known devestation, its impossible to believe that such an organization did not foresee the expected American response. Any attack of this magnitude must surely demand overwhelming response by the mighty American military.
They expect it.
That is their goal. Yes, the thousands of deaths and millions in capital losses are desirable, but their goal is the American response.
Why?
Any American attack against the terrorists will create more terrorist. If Usama Bin Laden is targeted and killed, his death will be avenged by 5 more terrorist groups. Futher more, any attack runs the risk of alienating the Arab world against the United States.
This is the goal of Usama Bin Laden. He wants the removal of US presence from the hub of Islam. He wants the return of Islamic Law to all Arab countries. Polarizing regional public opinion against the US is the first step.
The end goal is to rid the Middle East of American presence. The means is a massive attack against the US homeland leading to a counter attack which will polarize the world into West versus Arab.
And we are blind enough to give him his victory.
Our leaders stand before our country and speak of "war", "total victory", and "retaliation". Usama Bin Laden sits in Afghanistan and watches his plan unfold along the predicted path. His victory is not ensured until missiles began to rein down on his training camps. His victory is only days away.
America doesn't get it.

2001-09-11T20:14:00.000-07:00

What do I do now?

2001-09-11T20:01:00.000-07:00

There was a plane crash.
Then there was an explosion.
Eric, Scott, Punches, Trip, Paul,
I'm sorry.
I wasn't there to help.
I'm sorry.

2001-09-08T19:30:00.000-07:00

How to Behave Around A Senator - A Case Study
Learning how to behave around a Senator is a vital skill in a city like DC. Unfortunately, few DC-ites have bothered to acquire these talents. The following are offered as comparative examples in handling Congressional Presence.

Scene: Early Saturday morning, a group of runners meet in the Pentagon parking lot for the weekly run. Senator Frist from Tennessee arrives. 0612 the group departs for a 22 mile jaunt through Northern Virginia.

Example 1: (mile 10)
Local Idiot (LI): Senator, its a pleasure to be running with you on this great morning.
Senator Frist (SF): Yes it is.
LI: Sir, I must congratulate you on your position on health care issues. Its takes real courage to defend your stand.
SF: I've been a long time supporter of these issues...(trails off into impersonal, well-practiced sound bites.)
LI: If you have some time, I've got some original ideas you might be able to use.
SF: (trying to vary pace in effort to shake the LI.) I'd love to hear them.

Conversation continues with the Senator increasingly annoyed at his run being spoiled.

Example 2: (mile 18)
Me: Good morning sir.
SF: Looking good guys.
Me: You ready for the big game this afternoon.
SF: Go Vols!
Me: Should be a good season this year.
SF: I like our chances.
Pause a couple minutes to crest hill
Me: (Taking a bite off my power bar). You need some power bar sir. Its Vanilla Crisp.
SF: No thank you, I'm trying out Gu this run.
Me: How do you like it.
SF: Its an acquired taste.
Me: Have a good run sir.
SF: Don't let me catch you now.

Lessons. Its important to remember that elected officials are normal people too. The last thing they want to talk about on Saturday morning 18 miles into a run is the impact of the US withdrawal from the UN Racism Conference or the Social Security Surplus.
Please, people of DC, I beg of you, a little respect for our members of Congress.

2001-09-06T20:35:00.000-07:00

Again, I am lost...
Feeling uncomfortable with this, I drown myself in work.
More papers, more reports, more excuses to forget
the last two weeks.
In reality, I've never left California
I'm still running the hills overlooking Santa Barbara.
I'm still driving North on 33, three miles outside of Ojai.
I'm still sitting at a table under pale blue skies.
I'm still telling the waitress, "No, she's always a few minute late."
She was.
Now its Thursday night, one day left until the weekend. 10 more hours of work. 10 more hours of pleasant distraction.

2001-09-03T19:57:00.000-07:00

Its Monday night, after a three day weekend.
For some unimportant reason, I decided to take a walk. Nothing exhaustive, just a quick lap around the block. My mind quickly returned to the past three days, for me spent writing a couple of papers for submission, working out and primarily unpacking. It was this last task that continues to occupy my thoughts. You'd think that when you've packed and unpacked as many times as I have over the past decade, nothing would be unexpected.

That is never the case.

For me, unpacking is a glimpse into who I was - unpacking is unearthing the foundation of me. Its a never ending stream of memories in the forms of forgotten T-shirts and supposedly lost pictures. There is always one treasure to be found at the bottom of a box, now restored to the glory once possessed years ago.
This time, it was an old picture of my college dorm-mates. I found it protected in a swarm of blankets.

There they were, 25 of my closest friends. I concentrated on each face, remembering their names, their home towns, their sports, pasttimes, boyfriends and girlfriends. I remembered the culmination of perfect friendships created over those four years - friendships unmatched in the six that have since followed. These 25 formed the expectation that has never been equalled since.
Overwhelmed, I sat down, the picture still in my hand, my mind now wondering what had happened. It had been almost a six months since I had seen the last of these friends. Many I hadn't seen since graduation. I still write to a few, though not enough to do justice to our past. I still hear stories about their lives, but these echo hollowly in void that remains.
My trance was broken by a knock at the door - the three crisp knocks we all learned our freshman year. With a burst of lost excitement, I jumped at the door...
It was a couple of my neighbors inviting me to their Labor Day barbeque. "Thank you" I said to my new friends, "I'll be right there". As I put on a pair of sandals, I took one more glimpse at the picture, this time staring into my own eyes 7 years earlier.

I wondered if they saw the same person I did.

2001-09-03T07:02:00.000-07:00

Motto of the Economist-
to take part in "a severe contest between intelligence, which presses forward, and an unworthy, timid ignorance obstructing our progress"

I like it!!!

2001-09-01T20:48:00.000-07:00

So summer is dying. Experts give it only two more days to live. I for one predict its ghost will linger over the coming weeks...
For me, summer has ended with a three week bonanza of activity. As you may have read, I had the "opportunity" to fly out to California for some consulting work. After two weeks of straight work, I flew back just in time to move over the weekend to my new flat. Yes, I've moved a mile south into the suburbs of Adams Morgan.
Important facts: I've got too much stuff for a twenty something bachelor.
My phone was finally hooked up yesterday officially the ending my unintentional sebatical from blogging.
The world continues to amaze me
Memories of California continue to be swayed with thoughts of Meegan.

Meegan, who walked into my bookstore and smiled. And then we talked, first of calendars and vacations and dreams and topics I'll never share. We talked.
Its a night that still lives within me.

It also has inspired a couple of stories still fermenting in my head and soon to be born via keyboard. I'll share latter.

So now, good night gentle travellers.

2001-08-29T13:11:00.000-07:00

Please be patient fellow interlopers, I am undergoing minor life changes (ie moving).
But I shall return, this Friday, with tales of endless beaches under golden skies and the chase for the girl who again stole my heart...
be patient, and all things will be revealed...

2001-08-21T01:45:00.000-07:00

Dear curious patrons,
I'm in CA and I've got 5 minutes left on my paid internet. Standby for rapid stream of consciousness. Spent a week remembering why I left my last life, dreaming of what life could be, and yearning for...
I've spent nights lost in the sky, floating, wandering, wishing I might be a star tonight, looking for direction in a mess of confusion.
Fast forward to tonight. Meet Meeghan, the conservative artist who drew her left foot on my notes and know I'm in love, lost again. Meet Shaun who lost his job, his girlfriend and found freedom. We share stories of the search we never shared.
Meet the fog, settling in on a dreary town, the fog blanketing the scene, sealing in the mystery. Me trapped on the outside watching the misty tide encompassing the lives before me. Confusion ensues, which way to go, what to feel, what to see, confusion, and peace in the lonliness, shielded. ten second bys

2001-08-12T20:11:00.000-07:00

So I'm going out West again, this time for a little over week, including some time on the water.
Some may understand the excitement/anxiety of this return. I guess it'll be fun?
I have enough thoughts to keep me busy, with one girlfriend having left me, a career surrounded in questions, and
lingering ideas from a summer of class.
Will write when I can.

Until then,

2001-08-09T19:58:00.001-07:00

Another final done. This one even harder than the last, but even more enoyable. Now I'm one third of the way to my masters. (YEAH!)
And again, it marks the growing paradox in my life. As you probably noticed, my creative droppings were sparse over the last fortnight, mysteriously coinciding with the last two weeks of class. As happened in the previous classes, the culmination of theories created a bounty of ideas combining and evolving in my head, consumming my limited intellectual capital. Maybe my MBA friends can help me with my resource allocation. Yet any solution will be too late to solve my existing dilemma.
I am overwhelmed with theories in terrorism and strategy: fueled by a constant news addiction of unfolding history. Each new construct forcing out the peacefulness and exploration I had fostered over the last year. Each news clip killing a new avenue of expression.
I know this denial is destructful, but its draw is irresistable.
I am trapped.

I think it was Degass who, in explaining why he never married, said something like: alas, I have two loves and only one heart.

2001-08-09T19:58:00.000-07:00

2001-08-08T07:35:00.000-07:00

But when I am alone in the half light of the canyon,
all existance seems to fade to a being with my soul and memories.

Eventually all things merge into one,
and a river runs through it.

The river was cut the by worlds great flood
and runs over rocks on the basement of time.
On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops.
Under the rocks are the words,
and some of the words are theirs.

I am haunted by waters.

- From "A River Runs Through It"

2001-07-31T14:37:00.000-07:00

I FOUND HER

My old high school sweetheart who wasn't.
Exact details are unimportant. The short story is I fell madly in love with this girl who may or may not have loved me. We never had any relationship that constituted dating, but I thought what we had was..., well I thought it was perfect. I still measure relationships by that impossible standard.

After high school, we went different ways, different coasts. I watched a lifetime of hopes fade into memories.

Now, she's back, atleast in electronic form.
I found her email on some non descript high school alumni web page.
So, what do I do now. Do I write, do I laugh at destiny and close the book with an electronic "good-bye".
No, me being the foolish dreamer, I'm writing.

In fact, I spent most of today at work trying to find the words.

I think I've settled on:

Hi, I'm Jeff. Do you want to talk?

I'll let you know how it goes.

2001-07-29T20:15:00.000-07:00

I HAVE A TWIN:

No this isn't some feel good story of the week about long lost brothers reunited after a tragic birthday party mix up.
And, OK, this person isn't really my twin - nor have I actually met him.
A little background might be beneficial here.
Last week I was studying in my new favorite garden when two women approached me.
"Hi"
"Hey" I responded in shock and confusion.
"Do you know us"
Despite every desire, my quick review of my faint and cloudy memories revealed nothing.
"No, should I" (Never words you want to say to women, and this was twice in less than a fortnight)
"Didn't you go to Kenyan University"
"No, should I of"
"Aren't you (name removed to protect future schemes)"
"No, I'm (name removed for above reason)"
"Oh, you look just like him"

From here the conversation turned to how we were exactly the same, and so on.
I, being eternally questioning, doubted the validity of the entire exchange until the next night when I met another women from Kenyan who confirmed I look exactly like this guy whom I've never met.

This all could have passed without consequence had it not been for an unpublished article I read several months ago by a Dr. Parsons. He theorized that the odds of successfully meeting somebody at a bar or other social event are improved by a factor 9.5 if there has been a previous encounter, no matter how slight. Simply put, by being out and visible to the dating public, one's chances of getting a date improved markedly.

Well, with my twin living in the same neighborhood, being visible, my odds just jumped exponentially. Oh yes, the days of single J. Brook are numbered.

Or, the inspiration of disappointment will be perpetually rekindled.

2001-07-26T21:21:00.000-07:00

So, I'm back in Norfolk, (scenic Norfolk on the Chesapeake Bay). Don't ask why, it really doesn't matter.
But here I am, in my room eating Oreo's and Zingers and realizing nothing.
Tomorrow, time to visit with friends, see the sites, eat at the Monkey and feel the joy of being Naro minded.

Good Night,

2001-07-26T05:54:00.000-07:00

smug [smug ] (comparative smug·ger, superlative smug·gest) adjective
self-satisfied: conceited and self-satisfied

[Mid-16th century. Origin uncertain: perhaps ultimately from Low German smuk "pretty," from Middle Low German smucken "to adorn."]

smug·ly adverb
smug·ness noun

2001-07-24T18:22:00.000-07:00

Is it possible to be too independent?
Is it possible to be socialized away from relationships, that in striving to be self sufficient, one actually becomes unable to share?
Is it too late to return?

2001-07-23T20:46:00.000-07:00

Its Monday night and the work week already started rough, but tomorrow a close friend is flying to Hungary to study for a little bit, so we all heed our ceremonial duties as friends and venture into the night. The first choice made: Brickskeller with ample selection of beer available, including Hungarian Beer which we order on principle. Buried in the taverns we meet Sarah and Shannon and Kendra (the black studies major from Dartmouth who is in town to work at Johnny Rockets for the summer). Before us the evening passes through stories and laughs and promises of adventures to be shared in the months ahead, some of which may be kept but many forgotten. We all admit the best adventures are never planned, they arise from the fog of indecision and the collection of friends with nothing better to do than cement their eternal bond in the unexpected.
The night ends, or morning begins, or maybe we just moved on into life. And as I turned to my walk home, my thoughts again drifted into kalidascopes of visions. Slowly making my way to the Dupont Metro, I happened to glance up into the distant sky, then over to another statue centered in nondescript park - a statue of a small man in rags with a stick walking, eternally walking forward.
Gandhi.
I paused, considered the man, and then I thought about everything again...

2001-07-21T21:44:00.000-07:00

Here's the dilemma. You're going out on a date - the classic dinner and a movie version. What movie do you see. Do you stick your genetic insticts and, as a man, hold out for the thriller, action, suspense movie. Or do you concede the cheesy date movie for concessions to be named later. There is no easy choice here.

Thank God for John Cusack.

He'll make any date movie "legit" for a dude. Ever since he raised one stereo above his head to woo the women he loved, John has been the man. John makes it OK to see that date movie, without looking over your shoulder for coworkers or friends.

From men everywhere - Thank you John.

2001-07-17T19:56:00.000-07:00

Time to sleep.

I hope everybody saw the tour today. I hope everybody saw what it is to strive towards a goal, to spend every ounce of effort over countless days, all for the possibility of being... whatever you dreamed.

Until then

2001-07-16T19:52:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow it starts - the real beginning of the LeTour De France. The first week plus was for show - the bright colors, showy sprints and cheery, victorious faces. Tomorrow, the real race begins. There will be no pleasant, picture perfect finishes. Instead, there will be over 7 hours of hill climbing madness, victory, defeat, surrender, and glory, there will be a test of last years committment, a measure of desire. The picture won't look beautiful, the faces won't glow. And lost in the pain and suffering are the reasons we each strive a little more each day. Yes, tomorrow, the real race begins.

As for me, I'm back. Another round with the finest physicians possible, more uncertainty and doubt. Enough I say.
Enough confusion masked by latin roots. I feel fine, its time to resume life...
So into life I burst, releasing a week of caged emotion into the night. Out I went, driven by raw, unbridled, seducing passion ready to feel, taste, explore and succomb to the wilds of possibility. Let the world revel itself, and let me share in return.

Ahhhhhhh.

2001-07-15T18:31:00.000-07:00

I can't believe the time I've wasted.

Let me back up.

It was 1 o'clock on a perfect Sunday afternoon. After much procrastination, I ventured out of my self induced, virus inspired seclusion and into the waiting streets of Cleveland Park. With a series of political theory articles tucked under my arm, I made my usual trek to the local Starbucks. (Yes, I know what it stands for, and no I don't support their beliefs, but it was the only place to study). Out of the corner of my eye, I caught two twenty somethings, with conspicious bags duck into a local bakery. I watched from the street side locale, awaiting their exit armed with delectable pastries.
They never left.
Their fate soon consumed my curiousity, overpowering the draw of dry academic writing. I walked across the street to the store, casualy eyed the daily wares, and then noticed the back door. With new enthusiasm, I walked into a hidden patio. I walked into any Italian or French outdoor cafe, complete with a fountain, vines of grapes overhanging secluded tables, and anxious birds darting for discarded morsels.
The secretive patronage glanced my way and solemnly accepted me as I chose a corner chair. There, for the remaining afternoon, I escaped. I watched birds scurry for snacks. I saw the sun tease the gentle fountain, uniting in a shifting rainbow. I surveyed my fellow loungers, and then withdrew into myself, lost within a hundred dreams bursting upon the perfect scene.

All this, this escape, this new reality, lay only steps from door. And it remained hidden for nearly a year.

Oh the waste...

2001-07-12T19:43:00.000-07:00

I apologize, but there will be no great insights into life's confusion tonight. It seems that my newest uninvited guest, Mr. Epstein Bar Virus, has sapped any creative energy. When I was first diagonosed with mono, I was almost excited. I had visions of new inspirations, tales of life seen through deprived eyes and the perspective of trudging through life with 100 pound mental weights slowing thought to pedestrian understanding. Instead, I've got blankness.
Nothing.
Life turned bland. I'm left wandering in a void, unattached to world, devoid of meaningful reaction.
I can only wait for the return of a sunrise, and the hope of its promised inspiration.

Waiting for my world to reappear...

2001-07-11T19:56:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling restless these last two days. Uncomfortably restless. No, these words don't fully explain the sensation, but they must do.
Its a growing feeling of work undone, of dreams awaiting reality.
So many nights I've spent alone in thought. So many paths identified, mapped, and stored for later exploration. Now, I feel the planning is done, its time to move forward. Yet that's the part I fear - the actualy decision of one course. In my mind as long as I kept finding new beginnings, life's purpose was being fulfilled. This was really just a way for me to put off a decision that might make me move on in life.

I don't want to surrender adolescent daydreams.

But the feeling is growing. The desire to move, to chose and go, its gaining appeal.
The battle within is raging, the youth of yesterday is aging, and the boy of tomorrow will not surrender his turn.

2001-07-09T19:01:00.000-07:00

She walked out of the sunset and towards a startled me.
"Hi"
"I know you"
"Yes, you do"
"Yes, I do"
"I'm Sarah"
"I'm an idiot?"

Not the way you want to re-meet an absolutely amazing woman.
I guess we'll see if I can recover.

More ominously, I've got mono again. At least I think I do.
I spent this morning walking through a Monday at half speed, watching the flutter of activity surround me. I moved with marked caution, trying to comprehend the world played in fast speed, trying to understand how I could possibly have moved at that speed last week, and trying to understand why. Work was much more enjoyable with trail of thought following each coworker, and the recognition of thoughts normally lost in haste.

Tomorrow: more words from the fog of illness.

2001-07-08T18:52:00.000-07:00

I saw myself in the mirror last night for the first time. I'd seen glances here and there, maybe even an oddly familiar reflection, but not like last night. I was struggling to find the right clothes to wear to a blues club, when my eyes floated from my clashing shirt to a lost stare in the mirror - wandering in its own existence. There I stood, watching myself: confused and frustrated. I watched my spirit struggling against unknown expectations. I felt the burden of this life's experiences.
It wasn't awkward, this casual meeting. More like two friends reunited after prolonged journeys, each patiently sharing their tales of discovery. I listened with anticipation as each chorus of words approached happiness, then diverted to sorrow. Each time, I hoped, each time I sunk in despair. I learned the causes of hopelessness, now growing on a once ageless face.
The meeting was interrupted by the phone. There was only time for brief farewells and heartfelt promises as I shuffled off to a beckoning friend, looking for tomorrow's joy. And as I walked out into the night, I thought I saw the slightest glimmer of hope in my own eyes.

2001-07-07T08:32:00.000-07:00

So I got the letter today - I'm being kicked out.
It turns out my landlord is selling, and I'm no longer welcome. When I first moved here, I was so excited, because for the first time in my adult life, I had the opportunity to live in the same place for more than a year. Now, my hopes of stability of crushed.

Let the great search begin. Anybody knowing of any cool places to rent in the district, please let me know.

More importantly,
Tonight:
6:00PM (EST)
Wolf Trap
Live A Prairie Home Companion Show
with the America's best storyteller since Mark Twain.

so excited.

2001-07-05T20:15:00.000-07:00

First Question:
"So, What are you going to do when you're done with your degree?"

"I dunno"

I don't.
I have dreams, I have a vision of where I want to be. Its the path from here to there that is confusing.

Then, somewhere between salad and chicken, I remembered Tom's words early in his inventing days. "I don't know how to make a light bulb yet, but I know hundreds of ways that won't work."
Well...

I don't want to worry about my SUV that has 25 degrees of separation between seats.
I don't want to save for a fridge that keeps my lettuce crisp and chills wine in seconds.
I don't want supplemental insurance, 25 more channels or 7 cents a minute.

I don't want to know what is next.

2001-07-04T19:02:00.000-07:00

I love days off!

Yesterday, I turned in my final.
Today, I celebrated by doing nothing.
Well, OK, I watched Andre win in the quarters and read some old magazines that have stacked up over the last two weeks. I spent some time cleaning my apartment (the parents are coming for a vist/unofficial inspection tomorrow night.) In preparation, I am preparing answers to the established and expected questions.
"Yes, she was nice, but we just didn't get along"
"But there is no reason for me to make my bed"
"Yeah, I think Italian sounds good tonight"
"How can you possibly support President DeLaRua? His economic policies are severly flawed and threaten destroy Mercursor, taking down the Brazilian economy as well."
"No"

Now, I'm getting ready for sleep.
Ah, sweet sleep, and dreams.

On a separate note, I've done some extensive research into why I have been unable to find an attractive, brilliant, personable girlfriend. I've never asked one out.
Life's answers are so simple.

No worries,

2001-07-03T23:22:00.000-07:00

If I could have your attention for a moment.

Ladies and Gentlemen, if you would please take your seats.

Thank you. Before we continue with act II, I would like to take a moment to share some thoughts. First of all, I hope you enjoyed the first act. I'm sure you will all agree that it had something for everybody. In the coming scenes, we hope to continue the same trends. Additionally, we hope to add some new ideas. The producers are still considering adding a new character. Negotiations are in the final stages with several possible candidates. I wouldn't rule out a love interest or possible secret crush. Old school fans, don't fret. I assure you our hero will still suffer the disappointment and frequent heartbreak you have come to expect. Our dialogues will continue to be underlined by unfulfilled desire and the search for tomorrows' purpose.
So please, grab some junior mints and popcorn. The second act will begin soon.

(extended pause)

Lights Dim
Cue fog, cue drunken couple and the midnight wanderers.
Curtains open on the Calvert Street Bridge.
Enter J., walking slowly, burdened by the pains of lost yesterdays.
J. glances up. Stops, turns to the railing and glances into the masked moon.
(Long stare into the deep midnight).

2001-06-21T21:34:00.000-07:00

No time to workout today - too busy at work. So I guess I'll drink tonight instead. First liquid of choice: coffee, black, served at Tryst coffee bar.
Scene: Me, hot cup of coffee in left hand, back pack with semesters worth of strategy knowledge held firmly in right hand, eyes darting back and forth, lips speaking desperately above jamming rasta band, "are you matt or todd". Sorry Johnny, no sign of the eastern expedition.
Coffee starts to settle, time to move on. Walk to car, thinking of what Michael Corleane would do know. Must get in his mind, must think as him.
Car starts, drive down Connecticut to Politics and Prose. More coffee, three more pages of midterm completed. Reread pages and recognize they all sound like crap. Walk outside in disappointment. Spot stacks of books by the dumpster.
Outer lobe of cerebellum: "oh my god, the books"
I run into the store and say "are those books outside free?" I'm really thinking, "there's books outside about to be destroyed, everybody come quick and help."
"Yes" they respond. Maybe to both.
I walk back outside and began to help the books, as if they were fish out of water. Strangers walk out of the store.
"Help the books, they're dying" I think.
"Look! free books" I say.
Soon a mob of freedom fighters surround me, scurrying through words begging to be read.
I save twenty books myself, now all comfortably resting in my living room.
Return home. Not ready to write yet, so I venture out into the Thursday night.
What would Michael Corleaone do?
Drink!
So I drink a couple of beers, think of a 15 page paper due in mere days.
Everything makes more sense when you don't think.
Its time to write!!
Good night.

2001-06-20T13:36:00.000-07:00

A quick realization at 4:22 in the afternoon:

So I took this afternoon off from work. Well that's a bit of a revisionist interpretation, but the details are irrelevant. There is something about sitting in the sun, music in the background (its a Guster day), and nothing but passing thoughts for entertainment. In this freedom induced haze, my latest revelation occured - I'm sick of running.
(not in the physical form, the JFK 50 is only 5 months away).
No, I'm sick of the running pace of work. I can't remember the last time I didn't count on a working weekend. I think it was that brief period of time after college and before my first job. I can't remember the last time I didn't see the world in blur. I miss the time allowed for second looks at life, the time to consider the pieces and then appreciate whole. I miss time.
And for what?
What has this frenzy led to?
The answer escapes me, and my only instinct is to chase it down.
But I'm too tired.
Too tired.

2001-06-18T19:45:00.000-07:00

Fellow interlopers,
I solemnly request a little latitude in the coming week. My mind is no longer my own. Instead, I will be living the lives of strategist's past. Yes, it is midterm term for the summer session: mine being a 15 page paper due in no less than seven days. Topic - analyze the policy decisions of the Corleone family in "The Godfather", using the theories of Clauswitz, Sun Tzu, Machiavelli and any other appropriate dead strategic thinkers. So off I go, promising only passing glimpses into my reality.
Good night gentle readers.
Good night.

2001-06-17T18:39:00.000-07:00

An open letter to runners/walkers:

Please allow me a minute to introduce myself. I already know most of you from various nods and smiles exchanged on our routes. Your silent hello's have always eased my runs over the years. Thank you.
However, there is a growing trend among us that is frightening. It threatens the very principle of running. I'm referring to running with a radio. This is wrong.
Running, in its purest form, is not about losing weight. Its not about speed or competition.
Running is journey.
Running is one of the few opportunities we have to experience the world, when our senses are fully aware. Running is when our mind awakens, when ideas bubble with unknown fury. It is a chance to peer into ourselves and into our world.
Running is listening to ourselves.
Running is not to be soiled by artificial stimulus. Running does not require a distraction. Running is the distraction.

Please, take the headsets off. Hear your thoughts. Don't be afraid of yourselves.

2001-06-15T23:43:00.000-07:00

Another Friday night. This one wasted at Ireland's Four Providences, singing endless songs of bitterness. I know all the words. I know all the claps. For those few songs, I again belong. Then the music ends, and light returns and we empty into the street. A few closing words, dragged out by me, and I'm alone.
Its only a two minute walk back to my flat, but I choose the long way tonight. Newton Street takes me into darkness. Around are the dark windows of my neighbors lives. I see one light dimmed as I past - two shadows disappear into eachother. Ahead, a car door politely closes as she drives off. He remains for a moment, then walks to the front door, smiling.
I keep walking. Past the cat hunting by starlight in the yard. The cat turns to measure me, then dashes off.
I keep walking hoping it will all make sense - this swarm of unrealized dreams.
Newton street ends abruptly, marked by an aging "Dead End" sign. There I stand. Alone. Looking ahead where the road doesn't go. Looking back at where I was. Looking upward and wondering.

Its a good night.

2001-06-13T20:02:00.000-07:00

I got an email yesterday from a friend down in Houston who related his experience in the floods last week.
He woke up at 2 in the morning to the sound of water splashing on his driveway. When he looked out the window, he couldn't see the streets or even his lawn anymore. His neighborhood was a series of wooden islands. Without thinking, he grabbed some things he felt were important and ran out to warn his neighbors.
Then, helpless, he went to the top floor of his one floor house and waited. Luckily, the water stopped, only two crest twice more over the next two days. Each time, the unstoppable rise in water seemed unending.

I've spent the past two days thinking what I would do - faced with such an event. What things would I have grabbed for save keeping? Would I have stopped to help other people? Would I think, or panic?
I don't know.

2001-06-11T20:13:00.000-07:00

You'd think as you get older, you'd start to figure some stuff out. I mean really, after 20 some years of rational thoughts floating through my consciousness, I figured I'd have some concrete beliefs. But no, these damn life experiences keep emerging and shaking the whole structure of me.
Today it was inmate McVeigh. I really thought I had a well developed concept in my defense of capital punishment. Honestly, I really hadn't spent anytime on the subject since my polically formative years. I knew my position, and was confident. Then today happens, begging renewed examination.
As I walked through the office this morning, every TV and computer was turned to some news station, watching as a countdown ticked away to death. I watched with the nation as the time neared zero. Four states away, the first injection was given; inducing sleep in the victim. Shortly thereafter, I imagined the doctors asking inmate McVeigh if he was still awake as his eyes slowly rolled to the light above. Seeing no response, the next injection was begun; stopping his breathing. As his last breath escaped into the death chamber, I envisioned the doctor rapidly injected the final serum, stopping his heart. I'm sure at this point, everyone took a step back to ponder their mornings task as inmate McVeigh lay in peace, the last murder victim of the attack on the Federal Building at Oklahoma City.
Somewhere in this methodical killing - and it was a killing - my confidence in once firm beliefs shattered.
I'm still not sure which side I'll fall out onto to.
I do know that I've got a lot more to think about tonight.

2001-06-10T19:58:00.000-07:00

I bear silent witness to your slide into despair. Happiness stolen, replaced by growing emptiness. The loss filled by bitterness at life's unfair turn. I hear her cries carried in your words. Haunting. I feel her pleas for help embedded in your heart. Her pain becomes your pain becomes our pain, shared together. Her memory slowly destroys you from within, fueling endless sorrow.
You are not alone.
Please, please help me she cries.
Run to the sound, you run into the past, everynight. You run with impossible hopes. Everynight, arriving into eternal horror.
She was beauty.
She was love.
She is not forgotten.

2001-06-09T06:59:00.000-07:00

I am not one to claim a complete understanding of the rules of dating. I know there are some I have forgotten, neglected or blatantly violated. I am not proud of these minor indiscretions. These unwritten rules are often the early casualties in the war for love, and war is hell. Yet, even in the bloodiest battles, there are some rules that should never be broken: that are never broken...
So, you would think after talking to a women for a three hour plane ride from Boston to DC, then six weeks of emails and sporadic phone calls, and finally through three dates, somewhere in that time, she would find time to mention any significant others, namely any boyfriends that she may be dating and have been dating for the past year. And then only after the fourth date mention him.
I list this under the unbreakable rules of dating.
Should we as a people fail to appreciate the grander implications of such behavior, the very basis of our social structure threatens collapse.
Or, maybe I'll just move quietly on my way and patiently await fate's meandering course.

Cheers,

2001-06-05T20:49:00.000-07:00

Down Ordway:

I step outside my door and into the world of dreams. Above the day ends in peaceful vibrance, tempting life below into sleep. Through these longing shadows I dart. Purposly moving between the fears of tomorrow and the sadness of yesterday. Around me appear a thousand haunting faces and a thousand passing thoughts read on suspecting stares as the world blurs into the excitement of unknown. Ahead the city disappears into dusk. Ahead I run, fearless, into the tonight, to confront the ghosts of me. Ahead I run into the sorrow of loneliness, into the remorse of friendship lost.
Faster.
Faster.
Feel the chill of failure, closing. Hear the chorus of defeat, chanting.
Faster.
Not tonight, not again. Don't let the pain return. Don't let the regret of lost opportunity return.
Faster.
Burst through the closing veil of darkness. Ahead to the hope of tomorrow.
Faster.

2001-06-03T19:50:00.000-07:00

Its Sunday night. Again, I've spent most of the weekend reading writings from previous centuries. The few moments that I escaped into modern thought were reserved for her (no, not her. A new her!)(I know, I'm excited too!). Unfortunately, I have no inspired words of my own tonight.
More importantly, class starts again tomorrow night for the summer session, and I'm feeling a little overwhelmed already. Three nights a week for almost two hours each night. Plus almost 1000 pages of reading a week. All to quench this damned intellectual thirst my parents cursed me with. At least the topic is kind of interesting: the philosophies of war and conflict. I say interesting in a haunted house when you're 7 years old interesting. Its scares the hell out of you, but you keep wanting to go back and see it again.
Good night, confused world.

2001-06-02T22:57:00.000-07:00

Midnight
The rush of ideas floods my weakened mind,
overwhelming the intoxicated consciousness
Somewhere in the confusion lies truth, lies future,
lies the answers to my why's,
or maybe the way to...
to the girl in the corner who just glanced this way
then the saddness returns,
then the memories return
of the woman who stole my heart
and ran off with him,
ran with the love that was mine.

My stare is drawn to the floor,
away from everybody, away from the sorrow
and I disappear into the music.
maybe soon her memories will fade
but not tonight...

2001-05-31T21:02:00.000-07:00

What have I become? Where has this road led - this road I began 10 years ago with the promise of fulfillment. And I bought in. I bought in to the extra hours, the suffering of childhood lost, the sacrifice of happiness for this promise. Now I am the product they imagined, the vision they advertised.
I am not happy.
I know this now. I know what they made. I feel the effects of becoming what nobody understands. Now I am what nobody wants. I walk through this life, in between, isolated, invisible to them.
I don't belong.
Everyday, the passions grow for something new, for the strength to stand tall on my rooftop and scream to the world and see their eyes turn and see their eyes see me.
Me.
Everyday, I wait to stare into somebody's eyes and see the reflection of understanding and know the comfort that tomorrow could bring.
Instead, I walk between lives, misunderstood.
I walk between the world's I crave, afraid to break the mold they formed.
Scared.

2001-05-29T20:20:00.000-07:00

From my floor:

The silent rise of incense,
playfully spiraling into air.
Whisps dance on unseen sensation,
then scatter into nowhere.

2001-05-28T19:23:00.000-07:00

For those readers of specific histories, our friend Drew is on day 8 of his journey to the heights of Denali.

I watched "A Time For Drunken Horses" last night, one of a few Iranian movies released in recent years. This one actually portrays the life of the Kurdish minority in northern Iran. It was simple, innocent, and I haven't stopped thinking about it yet. To see what life could be like, to see what it is like for vast stretches of population..., well its just sobering. Again, I wonder if my life is helping. I wonder what I should be doing, what I can do. Its so easy to spend a life in this country complaining about the rising costs of gasoline, diminishing portfolios, and rising medical costs, or even the dearth of good movies and the prevelance of immigrants.
I stand here to say we've lost our vision.
Worse, few desire to see past themselves.
I dare anybody to look past our castle walls into the surrounding misery. I dare anybody to look into the eyes of hope staring back and do nothing.
First, I must dare myself.

2001-05-28T17:27:00.000-07:00

Oops

2001-05-28T17:20:00.000-07:00

I keep looking, not believing my eyes.
It can't be over. It can't end now.
So much insight, creativity, and purpose, now available only in archives.
John, thank you for the last year and good luck.

2001-05-27T11:06:00.000-07:00

Its Sunday. It sunny. I'm having a bad hairday. Yes, its true that I don't own a comb, nor do I spend more than a few passing seconds to order my hairs (usually accomplished between tooth brushing and deodorant swiping). Normally this level of disregard leads to "my look". Not today.
More importantly, I'm deep into academic denial. First of all, grades for my first semester of grad school came out a couple of days ago. One prof didn't even submit grades yet, and the other prof gave me a B+. B+. Here's why I'm upset. Going into the final paper, I had a B and an A-. Normally I'm fairly humble about writing (because I have no reason to be anything other than humble), but that last paper was awesome. There is no way I got less than an A. So I ask you, unbiased voyeurs, how could he possibly give me a B+ for a final grade. All this just confirms my dislike for grades.
My second act of denial is that summer school starting in two weeks. How can I possibly expect to waste an afternoon reading Clauswitz in preparation for the first day of class. A day like today was meant for day dreaming, for mental wandering through suppressed desire, for old friends and new stories and plans for the future that may never arrive, but today they are real. This is a day for Locke not Hobbes, a day for Paradiso not Inferno, a day for Feynman not Hesse, and definitely a day for Mamet and not Clauswitz. This is day meant for lounging with no particular goals, just waiting patiently for life to reveal another secret coded in the clouds.
So with no direction, I'm gone...

2001-05-26T12:07:00.000-07:00

I want my blogspot back!!!

2001-05-25T21:06:00.000-07:00

And work ended at 2 oclock in the afternoon. With the remains of the day to experience, I went North. North along the coast, teasing the shore, laughing with the waves, laughing, laughing. North the road went, so North I journeyed, following to Santa Cruz, home to Taryn whom I only knew from Venice. Having no purpose but curiousity, I wandered through her childhood, through streets that echoed a spirit I knew a half a world removed. Content with reflection, I returned south, windows down, Leonard Cohen on the CD, my mind bouncing with freedom, filling with words, with visions. Onward I drove.

2001-05-23T00:13:00.000-07:00

Well, I made it California, four hours late. All I got to see was a brief overflight of Big Sur from 16000 ft. Hopefully tomorrow, the true CA adventure begins. Until then, the world waits...

2001-05-21T19:39:00.000-07:00

Its Monday night, the stars are hidden by reluctant rain, and my world is dampened by the memories of loss and saddness and why didn't I's.
Some say I spend too much time in my past. I should spend more time right now.
I think they're wrong. I think nights drearied in misting regret are perfect for yesterday. I only wish I had more yesterdays worthy of rememberence.
So I look into tonight, into the sorrows of eternal friendship and the joy of failed love and wonder without prejudice which she will be.
Tonight, the tap of memories on the window. Tomorrow the shower of evening sun under Big Sur skies.

In between, time...

2001-05-20T20:10:00.000-07:00

Today was the perfect day to reorganize my CD's. No, I did not just break up with a serious girl friend as some Nick Hornby disciples may propose. However, the inspiration was never far from my mind. For me, it was more to symbolize a break from previous life. Yes, it is time to remember where I'm going. Where I want to be. This weekend, I realized how many dreams I have forgotten or more embarrassingly just ignored. So as of 5 this morning, they're coming back. And to cement the decision, I reorganized my CDs.
Which brings me the most important decision of my new life: In what order should i reorder them. Here is where Nick provided some great ideas. I could go chronologically, either from date released or date purchase. I almost chose to organize into groups defined by the girl I was seeing when I bought them. Then I amended it to the girl I was thinking of when they were bought. This raised too many complications, most so trivial as to be unworthy of these e-pages. Other ideas: color of the CD label, alphabetical, by artist, or just scatte r them on my floor and arrange without thinking.
In the end, I chose to order by mood: mellow, excited, sad, anxious, and waking up.
How this relates to my life change, I'm really not sure. Of course, think of all the time I'll save by not searching for the perfect CD.

More importantly, two days to my arrival in Monterey. This time, I'm seeing some time in Big Sur and maybe a trip to Santa Cruz.

No worries,

2001-05-19T11:19:00.000-07:00

Its the clarity of the everything at 4:30 in the morning. The city is asleep. Disruptive misperceptions disappear. My world is, just as I want it to be.
The rhythm of my methodical walk home releases my mind from captivity. I wander, from the gentle swosh of a forgotten breeze to the rippled puddle rearranging my reflection to the memories of girl asleep 1000 miles behind me. Is she dreaming? Is she happy? Does she share the saddness of yesterday's mistakes? I wonder.
I remember the clarity of Sioux City at 4:30 in the morning. I was walking beside a best friend. In those lost miles, we rambled through childhood memories of cool aid and carmeled apples. We shared truths newly revealed between blocks of reflective silence. We waited for the morning sun, then disappeared into ourselves again.
I remember the look of my best friend in the early morning hallway. I glanced up. I saw years of thank you's glimmer in torn eyes. Our glance shared the essence of eternal friendship. Then I said good bye and walked away.

I feel the hint of tomorrow's sun. Quickly over the bridge, past the bars, into my apartment and onto my bed.

I wonder what today will be.

2001-05-18T13:34:00.000-07:00

Wow, read this and understand.

2001-05-17T19:48:00.000-07:00

Is it possible to be too happy being single? It's the question posed in passing in this morning's post. Is it possible to become so engrained in the lonely lifestyle of bachelordom that the traditional American dream becomes a nightmare.
I offer my life as exhibit A. I wake up at 5:30 and go to work. Two nights a week, I go to class after work until 8:30. The other nights, I go to campus to study. When I get home, I usually fit in a quick work out (first phase of the 2007 eco challenge is a weekend race this fall), then write some words, eat some dinner. Next thing you know, its 11:00 at night and time to go to sleep.
This is the life I am used to. It is the pace of life I've grown to expect. The pattern is now fully engrained in me. So where is the time for anybody else in life?

In my search to find somebody special with the same interests I have, I ran out time.

With every activity I add, every dream I chase in the name of happiness, I chase away the hope of meeting her.

Maybe I'll find the answer in Hesse's works.

No worries,

2001-05-16T20:17:00.000-07:00

My first full day without academic responsibility, the day of reward that I have waited all semester for, and I did nothing.
I worked, I read the paper, went for a short run, watched my one show, and that was it.
No creativity, no random inspiration.
Maybe my subconscious is being possessive.
Well, I'm about to find out.

JB

2001-05-15T19:54:00.000-07:00

So much to say. Too much to say. Turned in my last paper, school is done, until June 3. Still looking for my inspiration. Hopefully this time off and my trip next to California will help the recovery. Can't wait for the big West Wing season finale tomorrow night. I think I'll clean my apartment tomorrow. Got my tickets for Garrison Keilor in the mail today - excitement. I wish my best friends didn't live so far away. When I'm walking on the water, splish splash me and you, taking a bath. When I'm walking on the water, comes up from my toes to my ankles to my head and to my soul and I'm OK. The stars are out, must be time for bed. Good night.

2001-05-14T15:22:00.000-07:00

You wouldn't think I'd be this depressed after 2 nights with Dave in concert.
Maybe its the weather,
or the friends who've said goodbye.

As Dave said,
"One drink to remember
Another to forget"

I wonder if she'll take me back again
I wonder if she'll take me back again

2001-05-08T19:32:00.000-07:00

Tonight the coffee shop was empty. Well, except for me, 8-10 blank pages about Afghanistan and misdirected thoughts that just walked out the door and are questioning an innocent dog down the sidewalk.
Nothing unique, really. This is my usual, spent drinking coffee and mentally wandering the streets, watching the world pass by at a safe distance. I see the same people, in pairs, alone, sometimes thinking or talking or smiling at a private memory. They have always been the same to me. I watch the sun set in solitude, and try to guess the ending. I grasp at diluted inspiration, filtered through my guarded life.
I like to think that by leaving my apartment and watching the world I am in fact part of the world. I know it isn't true.
I watch the building across the street, worn through years of neglect, vacant except for a tailor shop. "Same day alterations now available" the florescent sign screamed.
About two months ago, they started to rebuild: first by tearing down the imposing facade, then by cleaning out the rubble, uncovering years of secrets hidden behind aging walls. I watch an endless parade of lost memories unceremoniously dumped into waiting garbage trucks. They tore away useless layers believed vital to its unique character. They left just a skeleton fully exposed to my peering eyes.
Tonight, I thought I heard the building sigh in relief.

2001-05-08T18:45:00.000-07:00

From the U.S. News and World Report:

Most climbers take two to four days to reach Mount Everest's peak. Babu Chhiri did it in a record 16 hours and 56 minutes last year. The 35 year old Sherpa died on April 29 after falling 100 feet into an Everest crevasse.

I'm jealous...

2001-05-07T20:26:00.000-07:00

Another Monday, with me working on nothing important for 10 hours, a quick workout (climbing wall, pullups, situps), on the Metro to campus, say hi to Karen, off to the Library and the peaceful mumblings of collegiate minds searching for tomorrow's purpose. Then back home, ritually check the underused answering machine, and off to the bar to continue my pursuit of carefreeness. Just enough time to open my notebook when I hear, "what are you working on".
"A simple explanation of the Soviet Invasion into Afghanistan"
"Great topic" answers the greying, scraggled gentlemen. "What's your angle?"
"I was working on a cultural explanation based on fears of repeated invasion."
"Good topic, but be sure to consider their historical desire for a warm water port and the conflict with the Iranian empire in the 1600s"
(Who is this guy)
"Good point, I'll look into it"

Throughout the following exchange, I learn that my drinking partner, Ed, was left home at 18 to live in Iran, then France, worked his way into journalism, and became the CBS Bureau Chief in Lebennon during their civil war, then the NBC Bureau Chief for DC before retiring.

"Another beer J.?"
"No thanks Barkeep. Is this guy for real?"
"He's the real thing, some sort of journalistic legend"
"Huh"

I love being an alcoholic

How do you reference drunk journalists in a research paper?

2001-05-06T20:07:00.000-07:00

I did it again.
I went to study at my favorite coffeeshop/book store, never intending to leave the caffinated beverage section. But three consecutive head nods demanded a walk, and that walk demanded a walk upstairs to published temptation.
It was a new hardback, topic unimportant, other than that it demanded my instant attention and purchase.

My name in J. Brook, and I'm addicted to books.

2001-05-06T09:49:00.000-07:00

Tragedy:

For the near future, I am no longer responsible for my thoughts actions. My excuse is based on a lack of Monterey Jack, salsa and Tostitos.
Last night at 9:30, my cheese grater broke. With this simple metallic failure, I lost the ability to efficiently combine the above ingredients in a tasteful manner.
I fear the consequences of extended nacho deprivation.

2001-05-04T22:50:00.000-07:00

It ended with me lost, at the corner of Conneticut and Cathedral

It began 8 hour earlier in a make up class for Political Analysis class. Yes, a Friday evening spent discussing theory. Tonight, it was the beginning of World War I, and the acceptable answers were misperception and organization, but nobody cared about the millions of souls who never saw 11 November, 1918, or the millions more cast into the foreign world, forever lost.
On to the end of sememster party at the Tombs to be drafted into an argument about how Jervis and complexity theory were generations ahead of anything Van Evera every wrote, but nobody tops Waltz and what paper am I writing next.
What do you mean the story of the nights lost in Her world?
What theory is that based on?
Lost, I walked to the waterfront, to Tony and Joes, to the place to be, to meet friends, to spend the night wondering where Christine went, and what happened to Shane and who did Jamie go home with and J, you just don't fit in without a cell phone, and where are we going now?
I knew, so I walked, confident, going home, alone,
wondering if anybody else heard the lilacs tickling the air back on Calvert St.

It ended with me lost, at the corner of Conneticut and Cathedral

but I knew where I was going.

2001-05-01T20:28:00.000-07:00

One class down, only one class and 8 pages loosely connected by realism to go,
then my one month off. What to do, with no homework, no stress, nothing but a world of ideas and ten fingers to translate...

But tonight is music by miles.
Let my mind drift slowly drift to tomorrow,
through a mirror house of possibilities I wander,
lost, but not scared, just curious
looking left, then right, then pull myself into the air,
above the confusion, laughing...

I see her again. That's three nights in a row.
About two in the morning she appears, as if she was never gone.
No words said, just the gaze.
Deep into her, deep into the mysteries, twisting, drawn
deep into her I fall, wantingly helpless
Three nights in a row, I surrender to unfair beauty,
Three nights in a row, we kiss, for the first time

and she walks away.