Couch Pomme De Terre

Television is bad for you. It rots your brain and turns it into a gooey paste that will drip out your ears and onto your shoes. It will turn you into a zombie who will sit on the couch and look at the world through
the little bright rectangle hanging on your wall. Television is evil and should be avoided at all costs.

I love television.

It has been more than two years since I last had television. Yesterday a magical man in a white Comcast van traveled from a magical land to my apartment and put a cable into my wall. This cable inexplicably flooded my television screen with bright images. Then the magical Comcast van man handed me a mystical wand with buttons on it and instructed me in the ancient art of "channel surfing."

Now little people live in my television screen and tell me all about how to cook delicious meals, make me laugh at ridiculous situations, send me to various countries to experience other cultures, and a variety of other amazing things. My mystical wand allows me to view other people who are less boring than the people who are already on my screen, or allows me to make them speak louder or more quietly, or sends the people away when I'm tired of them and summons them back when I am bored.

Even people who have long been dead live in this bright rectangle. I can even... oop... hang on - -

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Sorry, Julia Child just showed me how to make a "Gateau in a Cage." Bon Appetit!

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Sometimes its nice to take a break and let your brain get a little squishy.

Bruschetta, Bruschetta, Bruschetta...

What do you do when, due to a recent move, you gain four working stove-top burners and an oven that works?

You use them.

Today I discovered some extremely delicious (and simple) baking recipes. I may have been carried away by all the doughy delicious-ness and made more bread than I can handle. Actually, by the dwindling Italian loaf I think I may need to make some more pretty soon...

I made three different types of bread today - a regular sandwich loaf, an Italian loaf, and biscuits.

The sandwich loaf is simple:

-3 cups white whole wheat flour
-1 to 1.5 cups water
-1 package yeast
-1 tsp. sugar

-Dissolve the yeast and sugar in the water, then stir in the flour and knead for about 10 minutes. Let it rise for about 30-45 minutes, punch it down, reshape it and let it rise for another hour. Then bake at 425 for about 30 minutes or until golden brown on top.

-Here's a tip for a nice crunchy crust: if you have an electric stove, spray water out of a spray bottle every couple of minutes for the first 5-10 minutes into the oven below the bread. The steam will help create a crunch-tastic crust.

The Italian loaf is even easier:

-1 teaspoon active dry yeast
-1 teaspoon granulated sugar
-1 cup warm water
-2 1/4 to 2 3/4 cups King Arthur Unbleached All-Purpose Flour
-Dissolve the yeast and sugar in the water, then stir in the flour and knead for about 10 minutes. Let it rise for about 30-45 minutes, punch it down and reshape it and let it rise for another hour. Then bake at 425 for about 15-20 minutes or until golden brown on top. Use the same crust secret that I described in the sandwich loaf recipe.

The biscuits are phenomenal:

-1 3/4 cups all purpose flour
-1/4 cup cornstarch
-3/4 teaspoon salt
-1 tablespoon baking powder
-2 teaspoons sugar
-1 to 1 1/4 cups milk or heavy cream, enough to make a cohesive dough

-Mix all the dry ingredients together, then add the milk or cream until it forms a dough that shapes easily without falling apart. Then spread it out to an 8-inch round, 3/4 inch tall form and cut out your biscuits as large or small as you want them. Put them in the freezer for 30 minutes (weird, huh. This will help them rise) and then bake them for 20 minutes on 425.

-If you want a more golden biscuit, rub butter on top of them before and after you bake them. I didn't put butter on mine, so they don't have that golden glow.

Yummy goodness.

Ugh... talk about a house that smells great.

I have never made an Italian loaf before. The whole reason I tried it today is because I wanted to make bruschettas for dinner. If you are terrified of making bruschettas because they are sooo fancy and foreign and have great color and such fresh ingredients, then here's a fact you should know: the word bruschetta roughly translates into grilled garlic bread. There, now even your garlic bread can be called a fancy word like bruschetta.

Here's how to make bruschettas that people will break into your house to steal:

-Chop about half a pint of grape tomatoes into quarters (or smaller)
-Chop the same amount of Calamata olives (or black olives, for those afraid of deliciousness) into quarters (or smaller)
-Dice a clove and a half of garlic

-Put all of this in a bowl and cover it generously with basil, oregano, and any other spices you fancy. Then add enough olive oil to make your mixture mix nicely.

-Then cut your Italian bread into slices, brush them with olive oil and heat them in the oven until they are warm, but not browned.

-Remove the bread slices from the oven and top them with your tomato/olive mixture. Then place two thin slices of good, freshly sliced mozzarella on top, just enough to cover the bread. Broil the bruschettas for about a minute (keep a close watch! Things on broil burn easily).

This is the end product:

Then try not to eat an entire loaf's worth of these things, bake another loaf, and eat all of that by making bruschettas.

The Trouble With Tables

Our lives revolve around food. We love food. We love sharing our food with others and we love when others share their food with us.

The only problem is that for the past two years Megs and I have lived in a place that doesn't have a dining room. This put a bit  of a limit on who could come over and share a meal with us ("Hey guys, you wanna come over and try our new stuffed chicken recipe? Yeah.. yeah.. just stand around the house and hold the plate in your hands while simultaneously trying to cut the chicken with a fork and knife. Yeah... on really fancy dishes, too. Oh, your busy... okay.")

But now we have a dining room. The only problem is that have never owned a dining room table. So I searched the internet and the world of craigslist in order to find a dining room table for Megs in time for our anniversary. We really wanted a round table, since it can fit more people and seems to make everyone more accessible in conversation.

I finally found one that was perfect. It wasn't too expensive, it was just the right size, and it was nice and sturdy. When I got in contact with the seller, she acted like I was a crazy person for calling her up and asking about her table. And she definitely didn't want me coming to look at it.

"What exactly do you want to know? Its an oak table, its very sturdy.... its in good condition..." Said the table lady, repeating exactly what was printed on the craigslist description.

"Uh, I actually just want to know when would be a good time to stop by and see the table," I said.

"See the table? Uh, well, uh... what day are you wanting to come and look at it?" Said table lady.

"How about Tuesday, I'm free all day." I said.

"How about in the evening?" Said table lady.

"Great, what time?" I asked.

"In the evening." Said table lady.

"Okay... so about what time is that?" I said.

"In the evening... how about 7:00. That way my husband and I can get home and get settled before you come over to look at the table." Said table lady, emphasizing the fact that she has a husband and that he would be home.

"Call when you are on your way and I will have my husband give you directions." Said table lady, letting me know I'm not going to get any address out of her, just in case I should want to come over, tie her up, kick her dog, and take the table for free.

I waited for three days, thinking about the table and how it would be such a great gift. (We would have such wonderful meals around it. It will look so good in the apartment. I bet breakfast tastes better off of round tables. I bet coffee stays hotter and blacker on oak.) Finally 7:00 pm on Tuesday comes around and I give table lady a call. Her phone is turned off. I wait for 20 minutes... no return call... phone is still off. At this point I'm upset because I want this table to be a surprise for Meghann and I had already concocted a great story for why I was going out so late that night. Now I would have to go back, empty handed, to a wife who was wondering why exactly I had to rush out of the house at 7:00 pm.

At this point I'm sure that the lady thinks I'm a no-good criminal who will steal her great grandmother's jewelry if she even lets me step foot in her house. So, to say the least, I figure she won't sell me the table. I wait for an hour and half and finally tell Megs about my plans to buy her a table and how it didn't work out and how upset I was because it would have been such a good table.

Five minutes later my phone rings. Its the lady's husband. He explains to me that they thought I was coming Wednesday night and that they didn't know I was planning on coming by on Tuesday. He informed me that he could squeeze me in between other people who were looking at the table the following afternoon.

Great. Yay. It's good news because I might possibly still get the table, but I feel like a moron because I ruined the surprise gift. At least table lady doesn't think I'm a no-good, rotten scoundrel.

As I am driving to table guy's house the next day, he calls me to let me know he is going to be a little bit late coming home from the office. So I pull into the nearest shopping center and wait for 30 minutes for table guy to make his way home from work. Finally, he gets home and I head over to his house.

I see the table.

I like the table.

I buy the table.

On my way back home, I drive through snow, hail, rain, snow/rain, hail/snow, and snow/hail/rain with the table in the back of my truck. When I get back to the apartment, I lift this huge, solid oak table, which is soaking wet with ice, off of my truck and onto the pavement. I then proceed to raise, balance, and shuffle my way up three flights of stairs with a massive, solid oak table balancing on my hip bone. By the time I get this hulking, solid oak table up the stairs, my breath has left me and my heart is racing in order to pump blood to my brain so I could register just how stupid it was to lug an incredibly large, solid oak table covered in ice up three flights of stairs all on my own (the farther and farther up the stairs I went, the larger and larger the table seemed to get... it got bigger, and bigger, and bigger... and did I mention it was solid oak?).

I then defied the laws of physics by stuffing a huge round table through a small rectangular door.

Then I collapsed on the floor, wondering if that stupid table was actually necessary.

I am typing this on my very own, round, solid oak dining room table. And I can say that it was very much worth the effort and I believe that it will bring years of joy from the meals that will be shared and the people that will live around it.

But it did come at a price -  primarily, my back.

The Foodies

I am a man that enjoys food. Not in the 'I love wings and hotdogs and lite beer' sort of way that men normally enjoy food. I love cooking food, exquisite menus and unprocessed, whole foods. I love the different tastes and textures and colors and smells. I love the process of turning different ingredients into one amazing meal.

And I love doing that with friends.

This past weekend, me and two of my closest friends got together and cooked dinner for our significant others. We all love food, and we all love creating and cooking food together. Each of us are food snobs in our own way, which makes the menus we come up with intriguing.

This collaboration of foodies took place in a house out in the country where we set up a table for six outside under the sky - which was amazing. One of my foodie friends decorated the table with several miniature pumpkins and strawberry maize. We began the meal with hot apple cider, infused with cinnamon, cloves, and lemon - traversed into a delicious butternut squash soup - proceeded onto broccoli-and-cheddar-stuffed chicken with sweet potatoes and sauteed broccoli - continued with slow-cooked apples stuffed with pecans and raisins and covered with brown sugar and apple cider accompanied with vanilla ice-cream - and finished with home-made hot chocolate.

The night was gorgeous and the moon was bright, so we talked and laughed and ate and ate and ate. Stuffed, we collected ourselves, cleaned the kitchen, collected our belongings, and made our separate ways home.

Food is magnificent - food with pleasurable company is something else entirely.

Oh Good, You Made It! Oop... Sorry, No You Didn't.

I know... I complain about formal education A LOT. So here's more!

When I chose my major (Health Science), I thought, "Hey, the health care field is really a great thing to get into right now. I mean people always get sick, right?" And I was right, health care really is a great place to find a job. That being said, a health science degree is NOT  a good way to get into the health care field.

"What?" you may ask, "how can a degree in 'health science' not get you a job in health care? I mean, you must be able to be a Medical Assistant?"

"No."

"An opthamologist assistant?"

"No."

"Dental Assistant?"

"No."

"Hospice Care Assistant?"

"No."

"Pharmaceutical Technician's Assistant?"

"No."

"Well, surely you can be a lowly phlebotomy technician."

"No, I cannot."

"Well, at least you can work behind the desk answering phone calls for the lowly phlebotomy technician."

"No, I cannot. While they do not require a degree, they do require two years of experience as a phone answerer."

"You reeaalllly picked a bad major."

"I know. Hey, will you drop me off by that new Full Monty club so I can drop off this application to be a stripper?"

Prostrate to the Higher Mind

The college that I attend requires every student to partake in an exit examination before they are allowed to graduate. So, I called the testing facility and made my appointment. When I arrived to take my test, I was told that I had to leave my cell phone in a little cardboard box in an administrator's office. I was then led to a huge empty room that could fit 200 people, was told to leave my bag by the door, and was given a test and a #2 pencil. I asked if I needed a calculator for the test and was told, "no."  I sat facing a giant, wall-sized 2 way mirror; the kind you would expect to see in an interrogation room "downtown" at the police department.

I filled out all the first page of the exam with little bubbles that are required in standardized tests like these (Name - J. o. n. a. t. h. a. n. *bubble bubble bubble bubble*, et cetera).  I opened the exam and discovered that the so called "College assessment exit exam" was nothing more than opinions rated 1 - 5 (1 being strongly disagree and 5 being strongly agree) of questions like "Has this college provided you with an adequate level of interaction with various groups of people?"

My favorite question was "Has this college increased your creative capacity and individuality?"

"So," I thought, "what you're asking, on your standardized test (that you dispense in a large, empty, 2-way mirrored room that doesn't allow any personal belongings) that you force everyone to complete by filling in bubbles and rating questions as 'strongly agree' or 'strongly disagree' instead of actually allowing people to express their opinions, is 'have we cultivated individuality and creativity'?"

In order to answer this question to the best of my ability, I trekked back throughout my college career....

I remember American Literature opinion papers that told me to express what I thought about the novels that I read; I also remember how my teacher told me that I was incorrect in my opinions. I remember in Art Appreciation how my teacher told me that what I thought was a beautiful piece of art was, in fact, NOT art, but instead a huge waste of money. I remember every test question that I answered correctly but was marked as incorrect because, instead of regurgitating exactly what the book said, I actually learned the material and explained it in my own terms.

I remember teachers telling me how to write, think, believe, dress, walk, eat, socialize, drink, feel, listen, read, sit... I remember every unique, individual characteristic being devolved into a processed, mechanical, bland version made to resemble every teachers opinion of what it means to be correct.

I thought about the Indigo Girls and what they say about higher education:

I went to see the doctor of philosophy
With a poster of Rasputin and a beard down to his knee
He never did marry or see a B-grade movie
He graded my performance, he said he could see through me
I spent four years prostrate to the higher mind, got my paper
And I was free. 

So, I decided that this institution had not cultivated me to be an individual or to be creative in any way. I would NOT stand for this, not this creative, unique individual! So, with a flick of my pencil, I marked down a very dark bubble under "1 - Strongly disagree."

.............

'Did this college provide you with adequate opportunities to become involved in extra-curricular activities, such as sports or clubs?' 

*5 - strongly agree*

Stormclouds of Happiness

Most people describe their favorite day as a bright, sunny day on the beach.

Not me. I don't favor the sunny days. Sure, I love to see the sun when I'm in the mood, but if I had to choose a favorite day, it would be a rainy, dark, cold, windy day. I would sit in front of the fire place (if I had one), drink coffee and then read a book, watch a movie, and play board games. Or I would go to a coffee shop and sit by the window with my laptop and pretend I'm a famous writer who gets really inspired by rainy days.

I know why people like sunny days. You can go outside and play or go to the beach, or have a cookout, or do just about anything. But I like rainy days because people get really depressed and leave you alone to do just about whatever you want because they are too angry that its raining to try and regulate your life anymore. I love the clothes that you can wear when its raining: boots, scarves, hats, coats, jeans... especially if its cold, too. It seems like the world isn't exposing you like it normally does with that huge bright sunshine that shows every nook and cranny that you're trying not to disclose.

Its like rainy days give you a chance to walk among the world unseen for a change. People are hidden under big umbrellas and jackets and they are too worried about getting wet to pay you any attention.

Those days are my favorite. And I've got my book, a board game, and my coffee... so let it pour!

Quite a day in Hobbiton

Happy birthday to Frodo and Bilbo Baggins of the Shire.

Its the last day of Summer and the beginning of Fall. I could use a nice big hobbit-style birthday party full of seed cakes, raspberry jam and apple tarts, Mince-pies and cheeses, bacon, chicken, coffees, and ales. That Bilbo always could throw a party.

So enjoy today, the day of the Baggins's birthdays.

Not Thoroughly Thoreau

Some of the most influential men had the most impressive rooms in which to work. Mark Twain had a small, octagonal "writing hut" on the edge of a mountain that allowed him to see for miles. Hemingway had a writing studio on Key West filled with mementos from his adventures around the world. Thoreau had his cabin in the woods, Thomas Edison his library, and Darwin his study; with books that reach from the floor up to the ceiling and then spill over onto the desks and floor. 

I do not have such a magnificent space, but, then again, I do not do such work that is deserving of it. But I do have somewhat of an office, which is quite posh, indeed.

Before this luxury, I would come home from school, sit down and try to do homework. The only trouble was that my current residence consists of only one room, with a small loft above half of the space. I would work downstairs, which means I would perpetually get distracted by other things, like doing the dishes, playing with my daughter, or talking to my wife. Often I would wander the kitchen, scouring the cupboards for food. "We'll, this won't do," I decided after the second week of classes. So instead of coming home from school, I would walk to the college library and do my work there.

That was effective for a while, but it was cold and I was forced to sit in a 2x2 make-shift cubicle. It was quite silent, though... except for all the conversations from other students, the janitors in the bathroom yelling about what a mess people make, and all the general bustling of a college campus. Worst of all, I can't watch Doctor Who in a library without feeling like someone is watching right over my shoulder (What? I can't take a break? C'mon...)

So, today, I have established myself a brand new office space in the loft of my lodgings. The loft is also a workout room, storage facility, and closet; but it is quite a fantastic upgrade, none-the-less. My desk chair (a converted workout bench) faces the upper window, which provides a fantastic view of the trees, a nice breeze, and a window sill for my cup of coffee. My back faces the majority of the house, which allows me to work without distractions.

Ah, yes... now I can finally watch Doctor Who get to work.

The Death of Gnomes

I love gnomes. I love that they are peaceful, protect nature and are less than two feet tall. My wife and I have had 4 gnomes since we've been married. None have survived.

Its probably our fault, bringing them into our world and asking them to protect our pots of herbs and flowers. They aren't meant to live in such close proximity to humans as ours have.

The first three that died were brothers, Bodley, Dink, and Finkle. Bodley was in charge of protecting our mailbox when we lived in Newnan, Ga. He was taken from us, stolen by humans while at his post - we never heard from him again.

Dink guarded the maple tree and bird bath. He was attacked by fire ants and eaten from the inside out until he crumbled to pieces.

Finkle survived the move from our first home to where we live now, but due to an "outdoor furniture tragedy" he was broken in half.

The fourth was named Gerome. Gerome the gnome was my wife's gnome before we were married, so he was used to the mountain that we now live on. He traveled from my wife's home to our first home together in Newnan to where we live now. He surveyed our entire house from a little hidden spot on our deck. Only his eyes and red hat were ever fully visible. He looked after our little pots of herbs and made sure all the little chick-a-dees and bluebirds stayed fed.

I don't know if you are aware of this, but the only known enemies to gnomes are trolls. Trolls are smelly and evil and you don't want them living around your house. Gerome had been battling trolls around our house for a while and successfully kept them at bay. That is, until we left our house to go deliver our daughter 5 weeks ago.

We were gone for a week and Gerome the gnome was left to defend our cabin all by himself. He stayed by his post and put up a good fight. But when we returned to our little cabin in the woods and went out to introduce Gerome to our daughter, this is all we saw:

A troll tore off his head. His little red cap stayed intact on his poor little body-less, bearded head. His body, cold, as his little fingers still grip his garden hoe. He died a noble death protecting our herbs and little mountain birds from trolls - but he was only one gnome.

Good-bye, Gerome.

I'm Done... or am i?

I gave my final presentation of my college career yesterday, unless they spring one up on me in the last moment (which I would not put past these nefarious professors). It's been a long, hard battle between public speaking and me. I hate it. Despise it. Would like to buy a double-barreled shotgun and have a "talk" with it.

The first presentations I gave were in high school. You know, just little things here and there. I would sweat, turn bright red with embarrassment, and my voice would quake. Things didn't get much better from there.

At college I had to take a public speaking course that consisted of 5 entire people. But still it was so difficult. When I would present, my voice would be so soft it was on the edge of inaudible, I would sweat and stumble and read from my notes like I was at a book reading. I thought, "After speech class I'll never have to do another speech again!" I was wrong.

In my first class at my current college, I had to present for 45 minutes. 45 MINUTES! It was terrible, the normal sweat and bright red embarrassment and stumbling over my words. But then I had a panic attack around 20 minutes into it and had to rush to the bathroom because I thought I was going to pass out. And then I had to return to the front of the class and finish my presentation. I swore that was my last public speaking experience.

I discovered that in almost every class there was a presentation to do. Some with groups, some by myself, some an hour and a half, some 20 minutes. With every one I thought, "THAT was the last presentation... no, no THAT was the last presentation." I was wrong every time.

This semester I had all my presentations in one week (which typically happens to me, now that I think about it). My final presentation was in a class called "Human Sexuality." The topic that I was discussing was people with "Ambiguous Genitalia," also known as intersex individuals, hermaphrodites, etc. The length was 1 hr. 15 minutes. The point of the whole assignment was to draw the entire class into a conversation about the topic, mediate the conversation, and present my material. So basically I was teaching a full-length college course.

I have never seen as many naked people in my entire life as I have preparing this presentation. And not just normal naked people, naked people without specific identifiable naked regions. It was completely confusing. But there were some interesting thoughts that came out of it: 1. Jamie Lee Curtis is genetically a male (XY chromosomes) 2. That Olympic runner, Caster Semenya, is actually intersex but didn't know it until the Olympics committee ran a gender test on her 3. If Jamie Lee Curtis is genetically a male, but due to Androgen Insensitivity Syndrome (the inability of a person's body to react to the male sex hormone Androgen) looks and is "put together" like a female, which gender should she be attracted to in order to be a heterosexual?

But I digress...

The important thing is that I am done with my long battle with public speaking! I am done teaching college professor's courses for them! I am done making power-points about hermaphrodites! THAT was the last presentation!

But wait... haven't I said that before?

Living Poetry

Today I met a poet. His name was Marcus.

I was outside the little corner bar in downtown where our church meets on Sundays. I was outside because my newborn daughter wasn't complying with the "be quiet so that the pastor can speak" rule. We were sitting on a bench trying to figure out how to correctly suck on a pacifier when a man on a bicycle rode up and said, "You know, that's how Jesus is holding us. Just like that in his hands."

Great, I thought. Let's just say, "Ha, yeah isn't that the truth," and let him ride on by on his way to who knows where. But he didn't ride on by... he stopped and spoke.

"She's beautiful. What's her name?" He said with a southern drawl through his thick mustache. He was a slender man of about 56 with a baseball cap that was a little to big for his head. His hair was cut short, almost shaved. He was wearing an old white polo with jean shorts and worn out tennis shoes. He was probably 6 feet tall and only weighed 128 pounds, but his face reminded me of Viggo Mortenson.

"Her name is Jovi," I said as he put his big, yellowing finger in her hand to let her squeeze. He cooed and talked to her and was ecstatic when she responded and looked at him and his big mustache.

"Jovi? That's a great name," he said.

He told me that she was beautiful again, and then told me that I need to make sure that I focus on Jesus even though its hard to focus on anything besides my family right now.

"I did that... stopped focusing on Jesus. I was too concerned with my wife and my son. I didn't even think about Jesus when they came along," he said in a stumbling way. He spoke as if he may have forgotten how to put sentences together in the correct order, like he had to think about it a little longer than everyone else.

"I lost 'em. They were out shopping one day. Got hit by a drunk driver and it killed them both. You never know if anythin' is going to happen, so enjoy 'em."

He told me about his wife's 30 hour labor and how she threatened to kill him, saying "YOU did this to me!" He told me how he promptly went to the doctor to get his wife an epidural in an effort to save his own life. Then he chuckled at the memory. He said that he had really connected with his son before he died. He said he knows the doctors say that the babies can't see you cause their eyesight isn't developed yet, but he told that boy how much fun they were going to have together: the baseball games, camping, and everything. Marcus told his son how much he loved him.

Marcus told me how he has brain tumors from agent orange that was used in Vietnam. He told me how the chemotherapy he's on makes his hair fall out and how the shrinking tumors give him seizures. He told me how his children don't speak to him and how he lives in a house full of brain-cancer patients. He said he is the only one in the household who can walk so he runs all the errands. He told me how he was looking for a job so that he could get the $20 dollars to get his medications today. And he told me all this without complaining. It was the strangest thing - not once did I think, "this guy has had a hard life and stops everyone he sees to complain!" On the contrary, he told me in such a way that I wasn't sad for him... I felt like he had lived a full life and that he was thoroughly joyful for having what he had.

He told me how he was hit by a car while he was riding his bike. He was rushed to the ER and woke up strapped to a hospital board afraid that organ pirates were going to steal his heart and sell it in another country for $50,000 dollars. He pulled out a well worn article from the paper showing a twisted scrap of metal that was his bike, along with a team loading him into the ambulance. The car that hit him drove off, leaving Marcus unconscious in the middle of the road.

He told me again that he had brain tumors and that they affect his ability to think.

He told me how he wrote poetry and asked if I would like to hear some. I said that I would- I expected the ramblings of a crazy old man with brain tumors. Marcus didn't pull out a sheet of paper to read from, instead he just looked at me and recited his poetry. And it was elegant. Shockingly elegant. He told me another poem (that was equally astounding), as well as the story behind it. He told me how it had come to him in his dream. That dream was about Jesus speaking the poem to him.

Then he asked if he had shown me the article in the paper about him being hit by a car.

He met my wife when she came out to give me a bottle for the baby. He told her she was beautiful for having just given birth a few weeks ago. We all talked until the church service was over.

I thanked him for the poetry. He thanked me for the conversation.

He told me again about his brain tumors and how they affect his ability to function... to remember... to think. He said good-bye again. Told Jovi she was beautiful and that Jesus loved her and that she was going to spread his love. He was smiling while he got on his bike. Then he shook my hand and rode off in the rain in search of a job.

His life is poetry.

Ink Blots

I like inkblots. I like the mistakes that come out of writing in a notebook with a pen. It makes the pages seem like they are alive, like they have battle scars. This page contains collections of thoughts that have come out of those stray marks that appear in the corners of your mind. The ones that never seem to have anywhere to go, but still like to black out the white spots. They have no organization, aesthetic ambitions, or reason. They are simply there and I need somewhere to put them.