Steal the Bacon

Poem for Today, though the day be gone

2007-05-09T23:11:00.000-05:00

"Today has never happened, and it doesn't frighten me."
-Bjork

Cherry soda for an hour's drive;
sips fill the time and bring home closer faster.
"Skip TV" the cap commands
and today I have.

Morning light filtering through flying hay
for horses.

TVs, microwaves, futons, fridges,
finding their way to car cushions
with the help of tested muscles.

Emptying of once-occupied space;
the future.

Jellybean bag full of flavors,
too many brown, too few pink;
still, million dollar taste
in a penny.

Joy in the aisles of Target,
lightness not offset
by the Target policewoman's
half-watchful eyes.

Anticipation of a gift's discovery
by the woman who
anticipated the world's discovery
of me.

Late night conversation
among three friends
in an empty parking lot
in front of the closed bookstore;
one car black, one white,
idle for a moment
then gone.

Cherry soda for an hour's drive.

Intermission

2007-04-30T22:26:00.000-05:00

This has nothing to do with living adventurously, but it's fun to make. Call it an intermission. The following is a group of conversations that tell a story, created from song titles in my iTunes library.

Wake up
-Am I awake?
Saturday morning
-We are the sleepyheads
Hell yes
-Was I in your dreams?
Yes/no
-What does it mean now?
I can't decide
Light up this room
-Who left the lights off, baby?
You
-Another sunny day
-It's summertime
Summer...It's gone
-You can't fool me Dennis
I just don't know what to do with myself
-See the world
Sweet Marie
-I celebrate the day
Have you fed the fish?
'Cause you can
-Nothing left to say but goodbye
I ain't saying my goodbye's
Don't walk away

-This place is a prison
-The world outside
-Go it alone
-Almost forgot myself
-Go sadness
-What would I have done?
-Nothing (without you)
-I miss you
Hello operator
-What is it now?
I'm a cuckoo
I'm in the way
-I dare you to move
Alright
-Using our feet
I can't decide
Never felt this way before
-Is this love?
-Love is different
Let's get lost
Hurry up let's go
-Into the woods
Raoul
You can call me Al
-Sweet Marie
Does he love you?
-Love's a game
I say I love you
-Nobody loves me
Once around the block
Step into my office, baby
-Just tonight
-Lover I don't have to love

Getting into you
-A minor incident

-Dinner at eight
Don't push
There's no home for you here
-I need you
Do you?
-If you want
Someday you will be loved
Somewhere else

Welcome home
-Sorry
I don't know what it is
-Might tell you tonight
Tell me in the morning
Goodnight sweetheart
Please shut off the lights
-Many sighs
-Slow night, so long

Daylight
She's so cold
-I should tell you
-Before I wake
I know it's over
Spoken without words
-Sorry
-Mistake of my life
Let my love open the door
-Say goodbye good
I ain't saying my goodbye's

The years go by
One of these days
Why do I keep counting?

-Does he love you?
-Say yes

My doorbell

If you've followed this far, you can write the ending. Post a comment with a song title that answers whether the couple is reunited.

Hill

2007-04-24T23:46:00.000-05:00

The trampoline is my favorite place on Earth. The black circle in the middle of the rusty red springs is where my mind takes off. Somehow it really does work as a mind teleportation device which takes me anywhere to do anything.

That's not necessarily a good thing. I found myself on the streets of Oxford today. I was walking to the public library from the college. Passersby had the sweetest accents as we all moved in different directions between the flat-faced, elderly buildings with their window eyes. The wind was blowing slightly, carrying a few pieces of trash to no destination. And then I was on Broad Street suddenly, with a row of stone statues watching me pass the bookstore...

No. My feet are descending into bouncy black fabric. I am in Morehead, Kentucky surrounded by green trees and a comfortable home. Tired of the fact that a descent follows ascent, I get an idea. I jump down on the hard earth and put my shoes on. Beside the trampoline is a pile of ashes from a recently burnt pile of paper and wood. I pick up a fragment of newspaper with the only visible words "Who You Are" in big block letters surrounded by black burnt edges. I'm looking for meaning in a pile of ashes. I need fresh air. I head towards the hills.

Green leaves are starting to explode out of the reaching branches. A silent stream runs in the opposite direction to my right. Soon I am out of sight of any man-made objects, except for my clothes and the dirt path. I haven't explored nature in so long. Everyday some new woodland adventure awaited me when I was a kid. The dogs run up behind with intentions of joining me. I don't mind; they will scare away the snakes. Over the hills and through the woods go Nestle, Emmy, poor old Mala and me.

Up, up, and up some more. I want to go to the top, to see over into the other valley. The rocks and dirt are slippery under my feet. The dogs take to the bushy hillside which does not accommodate my vertical body. With every 50 steps or so I get a better view of the small hollow below me. Many trees have been knocked down due to loggers that raped the hollow a few years ago. The ugly dirt paths are more pronounced with the lack of standing trees. But without the brown path, I don't get to the top.

I can see the top. The briars have me in their sharp grasp though. The dogs moved through the pointy weeds quickly, but my shirt does not pass as easily as fur. I am a contortionist, my body bending in weird positions to escape the tiny plant-knives. Stepping on the bottom of the briars I am able to bend them temporarily for my passing. I escape the family of briars much slower than a rabbit, but make it out eventually and take the few remaining steps to the peak of the hill.

The sweat pours down my brow while the dogs pant collapsed on the ground. Standing on a rock to place myself even a few inches higher, I take in the view. White fences make rectangles and squares on far-away fields and a line of interstate is dotted with moving boxes. I can't see my house since it's directly below the hill, but others are present to remind me of human life outside of my own. With the fences and roads, I realize it's true what I've heard; human activity is signified by straight lines while nature is all curves and guesses. Even the mostly straight tree trunks lead up to wild and devious branches.

But what have I come up here for? What is my goal, the lesson? I search through nicely filed Sunday school lessons in my mind but none of them apply to my purpose on the hilltop. Though I see God's green creation all around, my gut feeling is one of empty randomness. Walking along the ridge, avoiding briar patches, I find a white piece of paper with writing on it. Finally, an answer thrown from Heaven. It is a tag ripped from a mattress. How it found its way to the hilltop, I have no idea. "New Material Only" it says, and it informs me that the mattress it once belonged to was made in Lawrence, Massachusetts. Stupidly searching for meaning in meaningless phrases, I throw the tag to the leaves. But when it lands on the ground I can see its flip side and a row of numbers written there in pen. I pick it up again and think, "This is it." The numbers (there are ten of them) must be a phone number. I will call the number and my life will suddenly make sense. Taking my cell phone from pocket, I type in "3370300246." What will I say? If someone answers I will tell them I have the wrong number after finding out who lives at the other end of the phone. I hit the green "Send" button. Immediately I hear the familiar beeps and womanly voice informing me that my call "can not be completed as dialed." I've reached a dead end. Who begins up the hill is who makes it to the top.

After sucking in the sight one last time, I head down a different path towards the bottom of the hill. This path is not without briars. There are even more. I add a few more minor cuts to the already small drop of blood on my bare leg. My shirt will have several tiny holes after this journey, but I would rather it bear the bruises than my skin. Emmy and Nestle are making it down fine, but old Mala, the chocolate lab, is struggling. She is stuck at one point and barks in pain. Her back right leg is barely working. Extremely aggravated by all the briars, I finally find a stick to block them. That quickens my pace a little, but I wait for Mala because I don't want her to die on the hill today, which seems very possible right now. I finally reconnect with the large dirt path that brought me up and the descent is made easier now. Mala must stop every few feet to catch her breath (which must be difficult considering her visible ribs) but she makes it to the bottom alive. I probably accompanied Mala on her last trip to the top of a hill. Around one or two more curves in the path, and I have the house in sight. Mala collapses in the grass beside the cars with no intention on rising until the morning. I flick a tick off my leg and enter the house, the sound of television flooding my ears.

Bum

2007-04-22T20:18:00.000-05:00

I walk into the Georgetown College grill on Friday. Joining a table of friends, I immediately belong and don't. More don't than do. New faces have been added, conversation often turns towards classes, and my mailbox service has been terminated. I take out the magazine and next semester's schedule which has been waiting in the box for some time and order some greasy food to match what sits on my friends' table.

"What are you doing back?" "Wow. It's been awhile." "Do I know you?" I answer for my unexpected return about ten times, barely knowing the answer myself. Joy slowly creeps up behind me as I reconnect with familiar faces. Not my friend Joy, but the emotion. The happiness reminds me that Georgetown is home, just as much as Morehead. I decide to play tennis with some friends, and don't leave the whole weekend.

Staying in Gtown for the weekend allows me to play the role of bum. It's not a bad occupation. Friends offer drinks, places to sleep reveal themselves at the right moment, and the lack of schedule invites spontaneity.

My weekend acquires a soundtrack on Friday night. I buy the album Sam's Town by The Killers for cheap and have new lyrics to sing, full volume, in the car. "Well he doesn't look a thing like Je-sus/ but he talks like a gentleman..."

Bad service at Corky's bar-b-q and a suspenseful movie later, a few friends and I drive to the Gtown Steak n' Shake at midnight. We don't mind the stares from surrounding tables due to our loud and joyful conversing (as you can imagine if you know him, Ryan Arnold is the loudest) because milk shakes in hand and good friends all around, we are unassailable. An old man in the parking lot dancing to a portable radio on his car's roof at 1 AM sums up the night's emotions better than anything.

A drive to KFC for a chicken breakfast with Brian Belva on Saturday (I order a kid's meal, and follow the correct vine to the trees) helps inform me that the kite festival is currently going on. I went last year and must go this year. Chad, Alex, and Claudia drive with me to the spectacular event of flying plastic and culture. I eat Mexican flan (dessert), play frisbee (only hitting one passerby), and enjoy the kites (especially the one connected to a fishing pole) from a grassy seat.

My godmother Debbie unfortunately can not attend the concert with me Saturday night due to a sick doggy. I do get to meet with Debbie for a wonderful shopping center walk and yummy burrito though. Chad goes with me to the concert and we rock it out for a few hours. Even rock bands change (Audio A only has one or two familiar members) but good music doesn't. The release of a million pieces of red and white confetti upon the audience caps the night for Chad and I.

My bumming days come to an end for now when I meet my parents on Sunday for church. But even the delicious Chinese food at the mall and wonderful moments playing tennis with my dad and jumping joyfully on the trampoline feel like borrowed blessings. Really, to live is to bum.

Mud

2007-04-19T21:16:00.000-05:00

A trip to Eastern Kentucky isn't something that immediately excites. Cory was chosen to appear on a billboard for his upcoming role in the High School Musical play and had to go to Prestonsburg for the photo shoot. I was his chauffeur, except with no pay.

The parking lot of KFC occupied me while the camera captured by brother's excited poses mid-air. The horrific experiences of Sudanese refugees that I read about while waiting seemed impossible next to my comfortable seat with a good book surrounded by tame civilization. A lion's feast of a Sudanese boy was interrupted by the rearrival of Cory.

We had plenty of time before we were meant to meet our grandparents for dinner at the best burger place in Kentuck. I decided to drive us down to Archer Park, a dilapidated valley full of playgrounds and sport fields. I got out and started to shimmy across the edge of a small bridge overlooking a creek. Indiana Jones-style, I made my way over the green, disease-promising water. Cory, who had decided to remain in the safe car, got out to follow. We both made it across and found ourselves in the middle of Mud City. The whole park had recently been flooded, and mud showed no surface mercy. The playgrounds were covered, the basketball courts too, and even the pool where my mom and dad met as small kids for the first time. Slipping and hopping from dry dirt to grass, we made our way around a playground with a clown-face garbage can to a war memorial full of wreaths and flowers. A circle of high-flying American flags cornered us and an inoperational fountain. Some names of those killed by bullet, bomb, or some other stupidity stood out on the memorial. First, there was Amos. Vigus was probably my favorite. Good ol' Homer made an appearance or two and Tip as well. The names were about as foreign to my eyes as Cory and I were to the empty park. Leaving the fountain full of ensnared quarters and pennies, we made our way to some bleachers made of rock behind a baseball dug-out. From the top bleacher, we leaped to the dug-out's roof and walked on its shingled top. Standing on the dug-out, confident and unafraid of the muddy doom that awaited us below, Cory and I announced to the sport of baseball, and whatever other sport was looking for some, that years of strike-outs and tag-outs didn't matter. The diamond was dirty, but our shoes would soon be clean.

Leaping down from the roof, we chose a different path through the mudlands to the bridge. As we were about to cross, the park police stopped his truck and yelled at us to cross back into the world of cleanliness. "We're on our way," I yelled back. After again passing the playground with a mouse head rocking chair covered in orange plastic, we sped away in my white clean car with the dirt drying on our shoes.

We waited on our grandparents by a flooded river behind the restaurant. A randomly placed wooden swing gave a great view of the floating objects passing on the bulging, rapidly flowing vein of light brown color. First, a rodent swam by against the current. I think it was a beaver, though it could've been an otter for all I know. Then the procession of large river creatures started. The first was like a shark, with a large spike ascending out of the muddy brown water. The next few looked exactly like crocodiles. Then a white Styrofoam cup passed. The next creature had small spikes all over and could've been a dinosaur. I really could have sat all day watching the monsters, but Cory yelled over and told me to stop staring at the passing logs and trees. I reluctantly said OK, and slipped over the last of the day's mud towards the restaurant.

How has a mud-filled park and flooded river entertained me so? I don't know, but the brown dirt that still clings to my shoes will remind me tomorrow that life is meant to be dirty, if dirty means adventure.

Welcome

2007-04-16T12:29:00.000-05:00

Battling post-Oxford depression, I decided to keep blogging about life. There may be no Eiffel Towers or walks down colorful Cowley Road, but there will be life. And life isn't meant to be boring.

I played a game in elementary school called Steal the Bacon. In the game, the gym coach yelled two students' names and those students had to race from the edges of the basketball court to the center. On a chair in the center sat a chalkboard eraser, nicknamed "the bacon" for the sake of the game's name. Whichever student stole "the bacon" and returned to their side without being tagged by the other student won.

Time is that other student. We must race with might towards the goal of a fully lived life and grab it before time takes it away. Even when we have it, time runs after us to take it away. Welcome to the race.