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.