I am Guilty of This Landscape.

Take a moment, and steal a glance at this vista.

Do you see the landscape that I see?

The tips of the mountains peak out over the top of oily, thick clouds. These weather worn summits, once cradled in the soul of the earth, timidly rise above a white veil that no eye can penetrate. They are islands of naked rock in a sea of mist...

As I descend into the aerial blanket, and walk in the uneven, steep roads on the mountains, I am drenched in truth. It condenses on my skin and clothes. What I saw above no longer moves me, for this chill and damp sink in: all is depthless above these clouds!

I forget that flat world, and move on. The air I breathe becomes ever thicker with familiarity as I descend; I leave the clouds behind. I sit in a high place of no consequence. I soak it all in.

I see. I know the earth churns still; these rocks I see are not dead. Where they crowd together, they form pillars and precipices, mountains and molehills. Where they pull away, chasms and canyons are born. This soulful planet moves its mass on a whim. A master unto himself, some subterranean titan pushes and pulls, rippling and smoothing out the surface as he pleases. I laugh and I cry at his work.

The palette of color that swarms my vision is exhilarating and satisfying. What color I perceive has been flushed out and deepened by the intense bouts of rain that plague this region...

There are also rivulets and streams that roll along the side of these mountains. They roll along quite purposefully until they are swallowed up by swollen rivers. Oh rivers... they run recklessly away from their sources. They take what they will, and race on to find the lowest point in this world. In truth, I don't know where the lowest point is. I cannot see it from my perch.

I am guilty of not understanding my own hand in all this creation. This world is mine. Its form and shape. Its function and purpose. All is determined by me. And yet, I don't understand why it is what it is.

I know so little about why I do the things I do, and why I think the way I think. What I do know is based on my understanding of my “inner landscape,” if you will. But then, that understanding only goes so far... One's soul is a very hard thing to be in charge of! Where do my rivers run to? What is it that works away in the interior of my world and shapes my landscape? Why do I feel what I do? Why don't I feel what I don't?

I wonder about these things, but I don't wander down these paths of thought too far. It gets dangerously dark in those woods. I have accepted that some questions are answerless, and some answers remain eternally on the tip of the tongue, but can't be spoken. AH! How that bothers me!

But that is the nature of this landscape of mine, and try to accept it. At least there is beauty here. That comforts me.

I Don't Want to Be a God.

Mormons believe that the ultimate goal of every human being is to become like God, to become gods.

Is it wrong that I don't really want to be a god?

- I don't want to be an idol, some worshipped thing. I don't want my face plastered on buildings, windows, clothes, jewelry... or votive candles.

- I don't want to be sung at/about. (Especially by Christian rock bands.)

- I don't want to be prayed to. Can you imagine people thanking you, praising you, and asking things of you all the time every minute of every hour of every day?

- I don't want people fighting wars over who I am.

- I wouldn't want to be the figment of a mad man's imagination.

Nothing about my list comes close defining who God is, or what it means to be a god. Being God or a god in general (if you can say that) is a very difficult concept for me to wrap my head around.

Right now, I'm thinking to be a god is about the relationships. Think about it: would God exist if His children did not?

If I am God's child, then He is my Father, so we have that relationship... But I feel it runs deeper than that. Ever get the feeling that there's something bigger than you and all this? I've had that feeling, and the funny thing is that it never has detracted from my sense of self-worth. It's always made me feel wanted and included. It's a complicated sensation; I feel warm and at peace, but at the same time feel pain, a kind of longing I guess.

Maybe a longing for home? If I had to put a name to this feeling, I'd call it love, but that seems inadequate.

Right now, I believe to be a god means to be unconditionally in love with others, with a love that no amount of space, time or any limitation can obstruct.

If that's what it means to be god, then I may just reconsider the position :)

And I'm Like: Haiku-oo-oo

Saw this on a friend's Facebook wall today:

i see you driving


round town with the girl i love


and i'm like: haiku

Genius. Absolutely genius.

Life is great, and busy, and great. It feels weird to say it, but I'm so happy to be in school right now! And I'm happy to be in Provo! I have such great friends, and I got a job at the Creamery Bakery. I make food, and I eat it. It's glorious :D

(In the back of my mind, I'm wondering when I'm going to run out of luck... but hey, it hasn't happened yet, so let's forget about that.)

I'm also happy that I watched Atonement a couple days ago...

Uh-huh, now tell me you ain't happy now :)

Link by Link.

You build a chain

link by link,

And to travel a road

you must take the steps.

To stop and stare

into someone's eyes,

you must make the first glance.

Is there a chance that this isn't chance?

Link by link.

It's how we build. It's how we live. It's how we love.

That's my little thought today :)

Walking On a Dream.

Here are three thoughts I have had my first few days in Provo:

1.) Provo tastes like exhaust.

2.) There are so many genuinely kind people here!

3.) I'd totally go straight for straight guys.

I smiled when that last thought came into my head. I'm so gay :P

In other news...

I was sitting in a class on Tuesday, and the professor asked the class where they saw themselves in the future. My fellow students responded with all sorts of elaborate plans, ambitions fueled by their passions. They shared their dreams.

All their dreams seemed so specific! Those people in my class knew where they wanted to go, what they wanted to do, what they wanted to be. I was impressed by how concrete their goals were, and how driven they were.

I confess: I dream of dreaming. The idea of having a dream intrigues me the most. I find other people's lust for success and fear of failure fascinating. I love stories and symbols and words. There are just so many possibilities! In my mind, I can have have it all, or nothing at all... whatever suits me best.

I was just thinking on the plane ride to Provo that if I failed at everything for the rest of my life I would still be happy. I'd still be content. It was a very odd thought; I was both disappointed and pleased with myself for coming to such a conclusion.

But this is how I am. I'm always planning, but have no plan. I'm always dreaming, but have no particular dream.

Or maybe I have a dream and don't know it? That would be interesting...

Anyways, here's some Empire of the Sun. This a fan video made for a college project. Cool Stuff!  

My Brother's Treehouse

So I guess my brother and I are pretty tight. He wants to hang out all the time, and I don't ever mind. I always try to make myself free. He'll show me stuff he's done, and share all sorts of stuff he's learned. There's always something new with him. Or, I guess it's not new to him; it's just always new to me. He's a pretty smart guy.

I always enjoy the time I spend with my brother. The best is when we go walking together. We'll just wander and talk. Our connection is the strongest when we're walking side by side. I can feel him, and his walk, his touch, his tone of voice and everything affirm to me that we're best friends. Every once in a while, my brother will glance in my direction. Deep and good are his eyes. I know he's there for me.

He tells me we used to walk together a lot more than we do now. I can't remember if that's true or not. I think it's because I have to go to school and go to work and things like that. There just isn't as much time as there used to be. But my brother's patient. Whenever he calls me, I tell him that'll see him when I can. He always says that's fine, and that he'll always be waiting for me at the treehouse.

Yup, we have a treehouse :) A long time ago, my brother decided he would build me one. I was surprised and taken aback by the offer, but I agreed. I even offered to help build the treehouse. My brother just smiled and shook his head at the suggestion. “Don't worry yourself,” he said, “This is a gift from me to you.”

It is a good gift. The house sits snugly between the branches of a strong, old tree at the top of a grassy hill. I believe there is just as much blood, sweat, and tears in that treehouse as there is planks, nails, and glue. The rope ladder is always unraveled, and the trap door always open. It always seems bigger on the inside than it appears on the outside. I don't really understand how my brother built it, but that's not the point. Whenever I reach the top of that hill, I smile at a simple, beautiful, and welcoming haven.

So'll drop by today, right now. I'll say hello to my brother, and maybe we'll  go on a walk.

To My Future Friends

Hi. I haven't met you yet.

You might have seen me walking around campus, or munching on something unhealthy in the Courgareat. You might have caught me staring off into space in the HFAC (It's a nice place to think), or wandering the floors of the Library (I get lost easily). Maybe I'm a familiar face, a face you recognize, but have no name for. Perhaps one day if we cross paths enough, we will meet for real, and you will know my name and I yours. Perhaps we'll talk, and maybe we'll become friends.

I want you to know that I'll try my hardest to be kind. I want you to know that I'll always try to give you my full attention. I'll try not to make false assumptions or snap judgements. I'll do my best to listen more than I speak. I will talk with you, and never talk at you.

I want to know you. I want to help you. I always have, and I'd like more than anything in the world to be your friend.

The truth is... I need you. I have problems. I have fears. I have doubts. I am scared and troubled. I know you have similar shadows too. We are imperfect, so let's be imperfect together.

Stand by my side; when one of us falls, the other will pull the fallen back up. We'll brush off the dust, and we'll keep walking through the bad and the good. There's no other place I'd rather be than at your side.

As your future friend, I (pinky) promise these things are true.

Most sincerely,

apronkid

Unexpected Stasis, No More Brave Faces.

I turned off the lights, I turned off the radio, and I left the car to hum it's grumpy hum. I sat there in silence, wringing the steering wheel with sweaty hands. I was parked on the side of the curb in a dark, unfamiliar neighborhood.

I couldn't move. I was unable to move.

I had reached unexpected stasis.

The sensation I felt is best described like this: It was as if I was suddenly sandwiched between a wall composed of my Reality and a wall composed of my Perception of Reality. It was as if for some unknown quantity of time, these two Walls were rocketing toward one another at an alarming rate, and last night was the night they were to collide and annihilate one another. I just happened to be the buffer that stopped them from colliding. New Year's Eve, in my salt-encrusted Honda, I found myself forcefully squished between that which is Real, and that Lens from which I view the Real.

And I finally realized... I am in pain.

I know there are people who have had it worse than me, but it doesn't change the fact that the roads I have traveled have been shadowy and frightening. It doesn't change the fact that my skin is still raw, pink and shiny from the fires I've waded through. It doesn't change the fact that when I look back, I can see my blood stain the trails I have left behind.

I can no longer dismiss the pain and suffering I've fought through to be where I am now. That would be a vicious lie. I can't just toss all of my anguish aside, and comfort myself with phrases like “Everyone goes through rough patches.” or “Jesus knows what you're going through.” or “You aren't crazy.” All the sh*t I've gone through was Real. This sh*t is Real.

I can no longer hide that fact that I'm scared. I can no longer hide my failure to be perfect. There are no more brave faces.