I start these lists with the reader in mind. I want you to feel free to add to or augment in any way you feel appropriate. So here are a couple starter lists that strike my fancy at the moment. You may also start random lists of your own.
Favorite words to say for it's phonetic qualities only, not emotive:
Proposal – especially when said with a Russian accent
Instinct
Fancy
Chum
Lookie – ok, this isn't a real word. But I still like it.
Monument
Webbing
Favorite Shoe Brand Names:
Lotto
British Knights
Troop
Buster Brown Wildcats
29.8.06
I Dream of Jesse
The Setup: The night of August 15, 2006 I was Jesse James. I could see that night's events through the eyes of Jesse James, but also as the third person witness. But, the whole time I felt what Jesse felt. I was Jesse James. The entire dream took place with my knowing that I was going to die. I knew how I was going to die (gun shot wound). However, I didn't know the moment I was going to die, or who would ultimately kill me. It was as if I'd read the last page of the book, where I knew generally what was going to happen, but I hadn't read the whole last chapter. So, there was some mystery there. The entirety of events to follow were seen through this lens of not having anxiety of dying, but of just when it would happen and who would do it.
Scene One: I was in a cabin that sat on a prairie surrounded by thick woods. In the cabin with me were two women that I couldn't identify in a lineup. I started the dream in preparation for a group of lawmen coming to apprehend me because, well, I was Jesse James. I don't know how I knew they were coming, I just did. I began planning on how I might counter attack. I ended up sneaking into the woods as the lawmen were coming for me.
Scene Two: The lawmen came and I laid in wait. A series of gun fights ensued as I fought individuals wondering if this was going to be the guy that was going to kill me. I fought off most of them and retreated back to the cabin. After a brief moment of rest the lawmen brought reinforcements and began shooting at the house. It was becoming clear that I wouldn't escape, so I gave up. The lawmen apprehended me and took me to jail.
Scene Three: I am in prison. My cell is hardly a cell at all. It is all darkly stained hardwood walls and floors. There is a bench with a nice red cushion. There are no bars. The walls of the cell do not extend all the way to the ceiling. In fact, they were only about head high. I couldn't see over them but I could hear. The door was about two feet off the ground and was only about shoulder-high. Also, in the back of the room was a buffet of food (I mostly remember fruit). At the front of the room near the door was a desk with a desk lamp turned on.
I had many visitors coming by to meet Jesse James, the great outlaw. One by one, people came in and I tried to be amicable all the while wondering if this person was going to be the one to kill me. Eventually, a man comes in who I definitely sense is the one to kill me. He approaches the door and asks me to put my fingers in a device so he can cut them off. I tell the man, "No, you can't cut off my fingers." As we argue over whether he'll be cutting off my fingers the Sheriff comes and breaks the two of us up. He sends the man to the next cell, and visitors continue filing in. All the while, the man who tried to cut off my fingers is chattering and drawing all these parallels between my life and Jesus.
Eventually, the man who tried to cut off my fingers comes back and calls me to the door. I walk up to him and see him reaching into his pocket. It is then that I know this is it.
He pulls out a really small pistol. I put my hands out in an attempt to block the bullet. The bullet passed through my hand and into the side of my stomach. I remember thinking, "maybe I can survive this." The man who shot me then walked into an adjacent room and turned a Sanitation Dial to the lowest setting. He assured me that I would never live because the germs would cause an infection that I couldn't survive. So, I laid on the desk and waited to die.
Scene 4: As I'm waiting to die, one of the women that was in the cabin with me came to see me. She told me she loved me. Somehow I knew that she had never told me that before. There was no kiss or a real ending to the dream. It just ended as I was waiting to die. I didn't feel scared. It was a foregone conclusion I was ready for.
Scene One: I was in a cabin that sat on a prairie surrounded by thick woods. In the cabin with me were two women that I couldn't identify in a lineup. I started the dream in preparation for a group of lawmen coming to apprehend me because, well, I was Jesse James. I don't know how I knew they were coming, I just did. I began planning on how I might counter attack. I ended up sneaking into the woods as the lawmen were coming for me.
Scene Two: The lawmen came and I laid in wait. A series of gun fights ensued as I fought individuals wondering if this was going to be the guy that was going to kill me. I fought off most of them and retreated back to the cabin. After a brief moment of rest the lawmen brought reinforcements and began shooting at the house. It was becoming clear that I wouldn't escape, so I gave up. The lawmen apprehended me and took me to jail.
Scene Three: I am in prison. My cell is hardly a cell at all. It is all darkly stained hardwood walls and floors. There is a bench with a nice red cushion. There are no bars. The walls of the cell do not extend all the way to the ceiling. In fact, they were only about head high. I couldn't see over them but I could hear. The door was about two feet off the ground and was only about shoulder-high. Also, in the back of the room was a buffet of food (I mostly remember fruit). At the front of the room near the door was a desk with a desk lamp turned on.
I had many visitors coming by to meet Jesse James, the great outlaw. One by one, people came in and I tried to be amicable all the while wondering if this person was going to be the one to kill me. Eventually, a man comes in who I definitely sense is the one to kill me. He approaches the door and asks me to put my fingers in a device so he can cut them off. I tell the man, "No, you can't cut off my fingers." As we argue over whether he'll be cutting off my fingers the Sheriff comes and breaks the two of us up. He sends the man to the next cell, and visitors continue filing in. All the while, the man who tried to cut off my fingers is chattering and drawing all these parallels between my life and Jesus.
Eventually, the man who tried to cut off my fingers comes back and calls me to the door. I walk up to him and see him reaching into his pocket. It is then that I know this is it.
He pulls out a really small pistol. I put my hands out in an attempt to block the bullet. The bullet passed through my hand and into the side of my stomach. I remember thinking, "maybe I can survive this." The man who shot me then walked into an adjacent room and turned a Sanitation Dial to the lowest setting. He assured me that I would never live because the germs would cause an infection that I couldn't survive. So, I laid on the desk and waited to die.
Scene 4: As I'm waiting to die, one of the women that was in the cabin with me came to see me. She told me she loved me. Somehow I knew that she had never told me that before. There was no kiss or a real ending to the dream. It just ended as I was waiting to die. I didn't feel scared. It was a foregone conclusion I was ready for.
10.8.06
What's a blog?
So, here it is my first Blog. This is significant because it was only 6 months ago that I hadn't the foggiest as to what a Blog was. It was six months ago that I sat in a banquet hall with this pocket-protector-wearing guy who started telling me about his blog and others he reads. I didn't have the nerve to tell him I didn't know what a blog was. I was a confused little boy. The conversation felt eerily similar to sitting in the back of my parents station wagon while they had an entire conversation s-p-e-l-l-i-n-g o-u-t e-v-e-r-y f-r-e-a-k-i-n-g w-o-r-d.
Thankfully, as I write these words I can put all that behind me, and I can laugh at anyone else who doesn't know what a blog is.
Thankfully, as I write these words I can put all that behind me, and I can laugh at anyone else who doesn't know what a blog is.
21.2.06
I'm All Growns'd Up
So, many are probably expecting a tale of what has been coursing through my mind in such an event as turning 30. And while turning 30 certainly does make you think about a lot, the realization of my having "grown up" had nothing to do with the next click on my age-o-meter.
Something happened when my conscience went to San Diego. That is to say, my wife Sarah, went to San Diego. So, here I was in a familiar position of my conscience being away for days or a week at a time. My friends can vouch for me, any time my conscience has been away, disaster ensues (broken windows, trashed houses, drunks packed in boxes and left to be found by the police...I could go on.)
This time was different. Almost from the start. My conscience left on a Thursday morning. That Thursday evening I went to a pub with a friend of mine for a pint, then we went off to a prayer meeting in my neighborhood. The prayer meeting was closed. I went to bed.
This is when it gets eery*. What does a strapping 29-at-the-time young man do with a Friday night when his conscience is in San Diego. I'll tell you what a young man does (at least this young man), HE DOES HIS TAXES! Shitz. I did my taxes on a Friday night with no conscience in sight. Let me say this again just to allow it to sink in. I DID MY TAXES ON A FRIDAY NIGHT!
Saturday morning I wake up refreshed and ready to take in the day. Do I reach for the cereal box or instant oatmeal. Hell no. I'm doing oatmeal the old-fashioned way – on the stove top. I give it all the trimmings: Brown Sugar, raisins, dried blueberries and raspberries. I enjoy my concoction while reading the Indianapolis Star. Then I filled the pot with water to "soak" in order to shirk the responsibility of washing it until my conscience's plane was on the runway, right? No, I washed that pot til it shined. Weird, huh?
Weirder still is that I followed the pot washing by organizing my closet. By "organizing" I don't mean that I just picked up the huge pile of clothes and moved them to a less-conspicuous location. I categorized my clothes in the following categories: Jackets/Pullovers, Short-Sleeved Shirts (oxfords/button-ups), long-sleeved cotton shirts, long-sleeved button-ups, sport coats, suits, ties, and sports jerseys.
These short vignettes are just a microcosm of the week without my conscience. Those of you who read this and think "yeah, so" clearly don't know me well enough. I don't quite know what to make of the apparent change in me. I don't even know that I like it. But it is becoming apparent that I'm all growns'd up.
*-did you know "eery" can be spelled as I spelled it, or "eerie"...alternate spelling...interesting.
Something happened when my conscience went to San Diego. That is to say, my wife Sarah, went to San Diego. So, here I was in a familiar position of my conscience being away for days or a week at a time. My friends can vouch for me, any time my conscience has been away, disaster ensues (broken windows, trashed houses, drunks packed in boxes and left to be found by the police...I could go on.)
This time was different. Almost from the start. My conscience left on a Thursday morning. That Thursday evening I went to a pub with a friend of mine for a pint, then we went off to a prayer meeting in my neighborhood. The prayer meeting was closed. I went to bed.
This is when it gets eery*. What does a strapping 29-at-the-time young man do with a Friday night when his conscience is in San Diego. I'll tell you what a young man does (at least this young man), HE DOES HIS TAXES! Shitz. I did my taxes on a Friday night with no conscience in sight. Let me say this again just to allow it to sink in. I DID MY TAXES ON A FRIDAY NIGHT!
Saturday morning I wake up refreshed and ready to take in the day. Do I reach for the cereal box or instant oatmeal. Hell no. I'm doing oatmeal the old-fashioned way – on the stove top. I give it all the trimmings: Brown Sugar, raisins, dried blueberries and raspberries. I enjoy my concoction while reading the Indianapolis Star. Then I filled the pot with water to "soak" in order to shirk the responsibility of washing it until my conscience's plane was on the runway, right? No, I washed that pot til it shined. Weird, huh?
Weirder still is that I followed the pot washing by organizing my closet. By "organizing" I don't mean that I just picked up the huge pile of clothes and moved them to a less-conspicuous location. I categorized my clothes in the following categories: Jackets/Pullovers, Short-Sleeved Shirts (oxfords/button-ups), long-sleeved cotton shirts, long-sleeved button-ups, sport coats, suits, ties, and sports jerseys.
These short vignettes are just a microcosm of the week without my conscience. Those of you who read this and think "yeah, so" clearly don't know me well enough. I don't quite know what to make of the apparent change in me. I don't even know that I like it. But it is becoming apparent that I'm all growns'd up.
*-did you know "eery" can be spelled as I spelled it, or "eerie"...alternate spelling...interesting.
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