7.28.12

"Hold out your left one,
The number three finger from your thumb"
-- The Maccabees, Seventeen Hands

I ask myself this question often: why believe? Lately it has been running through my mind incessantly as, perhaps, it runs through yours.

The other day I was sitting in a coffee shop. To my right, just outside the window, there was a little Buddhist shrine. As I sat at the table, I watched as one of the employees of the shop went outside and placed a cup of coffee and a croissant inside the shrine. She then lit some incense and walked back into the shop. The whole transaction had taken a minute or less and yet it left a profound impression on me. The simplicity with which it was carried out seemed to imbue the action with a deep and meaningful purity. Belief is everywhere.

But why? Why the croissant and the coffee? Why the folded hands and bended knees at night? Why the a cappella hymns when the electricity is out? Why the orange robes and bald heads and the banging of gongs early in the morning? Why?

Father: For some time now, I've been comparing the disparity of our callings -- doctor versus priest. You fellows are always able to see the end result of your work. I mean, you know immediately if you've been successful. For me, the results are far less tangible. Sometimes ... most of the time ... I honestly don't know whether I'm doing any good or not.
Hawkeye: I used to have a professor in med school who always said, "God cures the patients, but the doctor takes the fee."
Father: Do you think that's true?
Hawkeye: I'm able to do a lot of things in surgery that I'm not really good enough to do.
 -- M*A*S*H, Showtime

Do I believe because it makes me more than a man? Because it amplifies my talents? Because it makes me more able to meet life's challenges?

Those all seem like beautiful reasons, but they honestly just make me feel guilty most of the time. They push me into "should" territory. I.E. Because I believe, I should be more than a man; because I believe, I should be better at what I do; because I believe, I should be better able to meet life's challenges. Of course, "should" almost always exposes a disparity, and disparity + belief most often = guilt.

And maybe we should feel guilt. Guilt has been a powerful motivator in my past, maybe I am too quick to adhere to its negative connotations. But the truth is, guilt is exhausting and I'm so tired of it. I've been pushed to the point where the question of whether it's right or wrong is irrelevant.

Now more than ever belief doesn't feel like a transaction, like I often want it to, it feels more like a relationship. Indeed, it includes most of the elements of a relationship and especially the big one: commitment. So perhaps my questions isn't so much "why believe?", maybe it has to do with commitment, with me being tired of committing to something that can feel so right, but over which I never can have complete control. Belief is a commitment that includes so many unknowns.

"I ain't looking for help from on high. That's a long wait for a train don't come."
-- Malcolm, Serenity

Ironic that I usually hold so tightly to my beliefs in an effort to escape unknowns, but ultimately the allowance of unknowns is what a real commitment requires.

So will I commit? And why? Why do we commit to things? Why do we believe?

Maybe, in the end, it comes down to trying to get something you want vs. admitting to something you need. And in my experience, believing for a purpose inevitably leads to guilt, hurt, and anger. But believing as a necessity -- although it implies unknowns that are frightening -- ultimately leads to a relationship.

In the end, I believe that I need love.

And I love you.

6.18.12

Before you read: a caveat. First of all, I thank you for your patience as the last few posts have been less like creative nonfiction and more like journal entries. There are probably several reasons for this, among them undoubtedly a bit of my own self-absorption, but I simply want to express gratitude for your sticking with me. These posts have meant a lot to me and it also means a lot that you have taken the time to read them. That being said, I do hope in the future to return to the development of a medium whereby you and I can better relate and co-experience both the terrible and transcendent beauties of life.

Now, although what follows may seem somewhat pessimistic and at times ridiculously skeptical, especially in terms of spirituality, I believe it represents a big step for me. I have been struggling lately with emotions in general and trying to move into a vulnerable sphere in which I will more readily allow myself to feel and accept them. In this regard, I have lately experienced a feeling of wanting to belong somewhere and I believe that such was the case in the writing of what follows; among other things, I think I was feeling a particular brand of homesickness. And although this may not be an incredibly pleasant emotion, the fact that I was allowing myself to feel it at all and also the fact that I was trying to find a way to vent that feeling (in this case, largely in terms of spirituality) is, I think, fantastic. What is more, I think it interesting that I so intimately tie together in my mind these three themes: spirituality, belonging, and being loved. I hope you enjoy what follows. Admittedly, it is a bit long-winded and scatter-brained, but, well, if you know anything about me it's that I think too much and talk too much. Thus, this is probably a pretty good representation of me and my mind; sorry about that.

(Written on 6.17.12)
What do you want to do, Daniel? You're sitting here typing to yourself because you don't even want to use the energy it would take to speak! You are a dangus -- you sit here in nothingness and occasional self-pity wanting nothing and doing nothing. Actually wanting nothing isn't completely accurate: you are hungry. Your stomach aches slightly and you're so incredibly annoyed at the inconceivably slow internet speed that you may convince yourself, within a few hours, to go somewhere that has better wifi.

But just look at you, sitting there playing games and watching movies and thinking about nothing. All you think about is how you don't want to type using notepad because you have to press "enter" before the words hit the edge of the page (like a typewriter) so you don't have to be subject to the OCD annoyance of the page scrolling sideways. Seriously!? That is what you think about? Yes, that is what you think about.

You look for someone to blame for the internet speed, but you don't want to talk to anyone about it, especially because the effort it would take to figure out what's going on would be too much for too little benefit. Of course, that is looking at things very short-term since you will be here for another month or so. But even still, the effort to get up off your ass and go to True Coffee would be much less, at least in your mind, than the effort to talk to whoever is sucking up all the bandwidth or to talk in broken English to the owners of the apartment to try and get them to do something. Though I'm not implying that they wouldn't do anything. In fact, I think they would actually be very helpful. But what can you do? You can reset the wifi modem, which consists of turning it off and then turning it back on. Problem solved? Probably not.

Now that you've reached paragraph four, you start thinking about posting this to your blog. And from there your damned imagination flits about, thinking about how famous you'll be among "people" because of your raw style. About how a book full of pointless paragraphs like this one will be a best-seller. You think about what people will think about when they read it: some people will like it because they apparently will recognize its raw beauty. Others will not like it and these will obviously be people that don't understand it. But you know what? I don't understand it. Your typing to yourself instead of talking to yourself -- which is worse, I don't know and which is sane, probably neither.

You've been thinking about your sanity lately and wondering if you're "all there". Probably not, you suspect at least a touch of sociopathy. You suspect this for many reasons, one of which is your apparent inability to feel empathy. But your mind counters that you can feel it, you are just afraid to open up emotionally to the extent that you could. As you think now, the emotions that you remember were always in your own terms, weren't they? Have you ever felt sad for someone else? I'm not even sure if you know what that means; emotions are dark unknowns to you and you shy away from them even as you come to understand them better.

Your mind tires, it is ever so slightly frustrated by the fact that you cannot type as fast as you can think, several billion tangents always bouncing through memory and possibility and imagination like celestial pinball. That again makes me question your sanity, but if tangential thought makes me insane then isn't everybody just a variant of insanity? Probably. And that makes me question what "sane" means. Who knows?

I think often about women, but not about what you think. I think a lot about intimacy, about the deep desire to and simultaneous fear to be with someone. I think about what that person will be like, what I would want them to be like. And here again my imagination whirls and collides, producing scenes and attributes and snippets of dialogue, a smile, a body, a characteristic, like some elusive memory from childhood. But it is my imagination and many ventures down this road of thought end up at some variant of this: "how is anyone ever going to put up you?" I am not entirely sure. I am a mystery to myself and the more I discover, the more I feel lost. I try to hold on to things, but soon enough the holding on is more about pride and fear than about dedication to values.

Back to the atomic pinball, the tangents, the ideas, the memories, the possibilities, the everything. Have you even tried to pray like that? I'm sure you have, but you see, part of my current wallowing for some reason must include the possibility that I am so completely different from you so as to constitute a new species of human. This of course is absurd, but it is for some reason a basic construct within my mind. I can trace it back to thoughts and actions in my childhood and especially in high school. A time when my arrogance held true to many "talents" in an effort to feel superior. And I did feel superior, I still do, and that is a scary thought.

So many thoughts, I "shouldn't" feel superior, I "shouldn't" watch that show, I "should" pray more fervently, I "should" live the Gospel, I "should" have gone to church today, I "should" be a worthy priesthood holder, I "should" have a current temple recommend, I "should" study my scriptures, I "should have" been better able to teach that man, I "should" express my testimony more often, I "shouldn't" keep repeating the same sins over and over again, I "should" be more confident in my faith so as to be able to explain what I believe without sounding like I'm the five-star general of a Christian jihad, I "shouldn't" question the veracity of religion itself, I "should" know that God exists, I "shouldn't" be afraid of Satan, I "should" know the difference between desire and temptation, I "should" know that prayers are answered, I "should" know what prayer really means, I "shouldn't" just accept the Gospel because it makes logical sense, I "should" dive deeper into my faith by losing myself in the service of other people, I "shouldn't" be afraid of other people or their interests or their wants or their movements or their voices or their trust or their laughter or their faith or what they're right and wrong about, I "should" make more friends, I "should" at least interact with people, I "should" leave this apartment more often, not just to go to work and come back, I "shouldn't" be afraid to talk, I "shouldn't" convince myself to not do what I think I "should" do, I "should" eat, I "should" want to do something, I "should" want to do anything but sit here and want to do nothing, I "should" be doing something right now, something edifying, something remotely interesting, something spiritual, something that will get me "back on track," something that will restore my confidence in God and in myself, something right now, something that will help me want to be spiritual again, something that will restore my testimony and knowledge that God lives, something that will be more helpful to my happiness and sanity than just sitting here doing nothing and wanting nothing. I "should" do it, I "should" read my scriptures, I "should" believe more fervently, I "should" know. I "should" know something, I "should" know what knowing means and I should have a corner market on it. After all, that's the difference between my religion and all the other ones, right? The fact that you know something. Do I know anything?

I can tell you that I believe that I have a literal spirit inside my body and that that spirit knows things the same way that my brain knows things, but in order to access that knowledge, I have to open myself spiritually, whatever the hell that means. I can tell you I believe that, but that belief is constantly bouncing around with the other billions of thoughts and imaginations and convictions and memories and possibilities and logical pieces of irrelevance such that sometimes I don't know what is imagined and what is real, especially when my convictions are concerned. I've convinced myself of so many beliefs and new beliefs and new beliefs and coupled logic and knowledge with even new beliefs. And part of me says that mortal and spiritual knowledge "shouldn't" mix and that I will never be able to reconcile what I know spiritually with what I know logically. And maybe that is a source of my conflict, especially because another part of me wants to rage against that possibility with all the energies of hell.

My whole life, it seems, has been an attempt to reconcile spiritual and logical knowledge. And so I've gone from paradigm to paradigm, adopting some and creating some, creating some so fantastical so as to feel "forever" confident and secure. And I have felt confident and secure, perhaps far too often, feeling like my own "rightness" makes me that much more superior. Scoffing at those that cannot reconcile their faith with their logic. And so any mental brilliance that I can boast has become a curse, merely a tool to try to quantify God. And the dangerous part is that I have, if only strictly to myself, been far too successful at it, at "knowing" logically what faith is and what the Gospel is and what everything is, and, if not knowing, than at once coming up with a logic paradigm in which to frame it. So damned dangerously good at it, I can give you a million examples and a million justifications for doing it. "Don't want to be a fanatic," I tell myself, "those people that leave logic aside are just blind fanatics." At least that's what I want to believe, and because I want to believe it, and because I can fit it into a logical paradigm, I do believe it. But I can only believe things to the extent of doing them if I have a logical structure in which to place them. Thus, I inevitably fall into the trap of "I have to know logically why I'm doing something or supposed to do something before I do it." It has to fit into my comfortably logical sphere before I can be convinced to do it.

Do I believe that God lives? I don't know. I think I do, but it makes me afraid.

Of course, it makes sense for God to exist; the Plan of Salvation makes sense, a Savior makes sense, mortality, bodies, resurrection, it all makes sense, or at least I believe that I can figure out why it makes sense if it currently doesn't. Again, the curse of my mind: "I can figure it out; I can solve the puzzle; I can come up with the best explanation." Hell, I just wrote a "spiritual" treatise solving the riddle of fictionally operating outside the laws of physics. And I did it all with my mind; I borrowed from various sources, obviously, but it was all compiled in my imagination -- an entirely new logical paradigm to explain ex-mortal phenomena. Of course I did it, that shouldn't be such a surprise: it's what I've been doing with my faith for my entire life! Creating paradigm after paradigm: adding to my "testimony" and thoroughly convinced that my logical knowledge and my spiritual knowledge were synonymous. That the depth of my thoughts about the Gospel equated to the depth of my convictions and testimony.

Of course, my characteristic tendency at this point would be to swing to the other extreme. That is what I do best, even now I am coming up in my mind with a logical paradigm for spirituality that does not involve a logical paradigm. I'm about to preach to you a new Gospel, one that I'm mentally constructing even as I type, one that makes more sense now, one that reorders the truths that I cannot escape so as to make me feel guilty, but comfortable and confident in that guiltiness. Even now I'm incessantly trying to figure things out, figure out what I "should" and "shouldn't" think and believe in terms of my spirituality.

Answers, I search for the answer, for the solution, for the solution of a Gospel that now I think I believe has no logical solutions -- you see? The other extreme.

"Feel the spirit" is the only "solution" that I can come up with, or want to come up with right now. I desperately want to explore it more, but that's just because I want to come up with a logical paradigm. I want to make sense of it logically so I can hold it in my own hand before moving forward. But you know what, I don't want to let myself do it. I don't want another logical paradigm. I just want to be friends with the Spirit, if there is one, and with Christ, if He exists, and with God, if He exists. I just want to be friends with them, I want to feel loved. I am admittedly afraid to death to actively love and to show my love, I am so afraid to be filled with anything but what is logically sound. But I desperately want to be loved and I think that doing things like prayer, scripture study, and going to church can help me get there. And in time, maybe I can learn better how to love more sincerely, not just act like a friend or act like a leader or act like a teacher, but to actually be someone that truly loves others. Someone that is willing to live his life in constant care and simultaneous joy and sorrow. Am I willing to be that man? Maybe, but you know, maybe the more important question is: is it even really possible for me to be that man? Probably not, probably not for any of us, right? I mean, it's a beautiful ideal, but maybe not something possible just yet. Maybe that's what makes small pieces of charity so beautiful.

For now, I simply want to be loved.

And I love you.

6.2.12

 

"So, how do you feel today?"

"Fine, and you?"

"Oh, I'm fine, thank you."

"So what did you want to talk to me about?"

"Seems you had quite the explosive episode this morning, fist clenching and profanity, etc."

"Ya."

"Well, heaven knows you're not six years old anymore. What was that about?"

"Might not be a stretch to say I get disproportionately angry at little things sometimes."

"Definitely not a stretch, why do you think that is?"

"I'm not sure really."

"Do you get mad like that at other people?"

"Oh, absolutely, but I usually don't express it in the same way."

"How's that?"

"Well, with other people I usually keep it inside and brood for a while. Sometimes I'll sit somewhere where no one can hear me and vent a bit. Sometimes I'll take it out on that person, but in indirect ways. Kinda like George Costanza putting the lobster in the eggs, you know?"

"Haha, yes."

"But with inanimate objects, I have a heyday. Computers, video games, phones, zippers, you name it. And you know what's weird? Sometimes I'll even imagine that those inanimate objects have feelings and that they feel scared and sorry when I get angry."

"And how do you feel when you imagine that?"

"Justified, and powerful."

"Seems like that's really something you want to feel. I mean, doesn't the anger itself make you feel like that, too?"

"Ya. I think the imagining is kind of just an extension of the anger."

"So, why do you need to feel justified and powerful?"

"I'm not sure. I feel like it has a lot to do with what I want and things that are important to me, even if only mildly. Like taking a toy away from a child, you know?"

"Absolutely."

"It's strange, though. I mean, why do such small, simple things often become so ridiculously important to me? Why not just let them go?"

"Great question. What do you think?"

"Hm. I don't know. I feel like it's always been that way with me, though. I remember getting really angry as a kid over tons of trivial stuff."

"Like what?"

"Video games was a big one. This one time I remember getting so angry at a game that I was standing up shouting profanity at the TV. I kept playing the same level over and over again and each time I failed I got angrier. My whole family was in the next room! But I didn't even care. I was incensed. I remember my parents sat down with me afterwards and talked to me a little. I remember they said something about being a better example to my younger brothers."

"Did that help?"

"I dunno. I feel like it was the right thing to say, but I was a stubborn kid. I remember my mom telling me lots of times about water and ducks and about how water just slides right off a duck's feathers and about how I could let things go just as easily as that."

"But did you let things go just as easily as that?"

"Not really, I think I just found better ways to hide it. Like I said: stubborn kid."

"Seems like you still are."

"You said it. Funny how I still seem to invariably find ways to ignore the best lessons my parents gave me."

"Haha, you could probably make that same argument for atheism."

"Ooooh, that's fantastically controversial."

"Thought you'd like it."

"I put way too much value on what I want, don't I?"

"Ya, probably."

"You can't always get what you waaant; You can't always get what you waaant. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you neeed."

"Haha, another lesson from mom and dad?"

"Oh, yes; they sang it with harmonies and everything. It was infuriating."

"Superb! Sing it to yourself one more time and let's go get lunch."

5.9.12

What do you do with yourself when you begin to find out just how ridiculously serious you take yourself? Laugh, I think - chortle, guffaw even. I guess you've got to, right? Trouble is: laughing at myself sometimes makes me feel like I've wasted so much time, you know? I mean, what was I doing that whole time when I wasn't laughing?

But I guess seriousness isn't bad, right? Some people have taken their interests and passions very seriously and I feel like its turned out pretty well for them. Of course, the first three people that came to my mind where eventually assassinated ... hmm ... so, seriousness not so good?

That is so me it is hysterically embarrassing; I guess there's a little bit of all of us in that box though. How so very easy it is to go from interested to analytical to critical to cynical. What makes us do it?

I'm not really sure, but I am sure that I don't laugh about it half as much as I could. I guess that's why witty, silly, sarcastic humor can be so perfectly hilarious sometimes: it so often takes the seriousness of life and reminds us how foolish it can be. Oscar Wilde comes to mind, as does Monty Python.

"Algernon: Literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. Don’t try it. You should leave that to people who haven’t been at a University. They do it so well in the daily papers. What you really are is a Bunburyist. I was quite right in saying you were a Bunburyist. You are one of the most advanced Bunburyists I know."

"Customer: (deliberately) Have you in fact got any cheese here at all.
Owner: Yes, sir.
Customer: Really?
(pause)
Owner: No. Not really, sir.
Customer: You haven't.
Owner: No, sir. Not a scrap. I was deliberately wasting your time, sir.
Customer: Well I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to shoot you.
Owner: Right-Oh, sir.
(The customer takes out a gun and shoots the owner)
Customer: What a *senseless* waste of human life."

But I think seriousness can be good too; I mean, there are serious topics in life, serious situations, serious causes. Responsibility can be serious; suffering, injustices, tragedies. So, what's the difference between taking things seriously and taking yourself too seriously? A mirror, maybe?

You know, I think a lot of it has to do with how I look at other people. It's terribly comfortable to think that I have a very, very hefty say in what you think about me.

But it's easier to just laugh, isn't it?

5.1.12

Within two weeks I will be on a plane headed to Vientiane, Laos. It will be my first time visiting an Asian country and my twenty fifth time changing location within the past seven years.

For your amusement and because I want to see it mapped out myself, I have provided below a list of all these locations:

(Starting June of 2007)
1) 3 months - Provo, UT - Missionary Training Center (MTC)
2) 1.5 months - Alejandro Korn, Argentina
3) 4.5 months - Nueve de Abril, Argentina
4) 3 months - San Clemente, Argentina
5) 3 months - Berisso, Argentina
6) 3 months - Spegazzini, Argentina
7) 3 months - La Cumbre, Argentina
8) 3 months - Alejandro Korn, Argentina
9) 3 months - San Jose, Argentina
10) 2 months - Home (Valencia, CA)
11) 8 months - La Riviera, Provo, UT
12) 4 months - Foreign Language Housing, Provo, UT
(in this time period is included a two-week trip to Germany, Austria, Italy, Switzerland, and France)
13) 8 months - The Branbury, Provo, UT
14) 2 months - Debre Zeit, Ethiopia
15) 2 months - London, England
(includes visits to Scotland and England's Lake District)
16) 8 months - La Riviera, Provo, UT
17) 1 month - Home
18) 3 months - Kampala, Uganda
19) 4 months - Carriage Cove, Provo, UT
20) 1 month - Home
21) 3 months - Kampala, Uganda
(this includes visits to northern parts of Uganda such as Gulu and Luweero)
22) 4 months - The Crestwood, Provo, UT
23) 4 months - DeVere Court, Provo, UT
24) 4 months - Home
(this includes my recent trips to Chicago and Urbana, IL and to Washington, DC)
25) 3 months - Vientiane, Laos (pending)

For you nerds (which excludes myself, of course), that's an average of about three and a half months in any one location. I have moved around a lot.

As I look at this list, I am suddenly so very tired. My ambitions seem to melt away and I am left with a feeling of lonely shyness. I suddenly do not want to get on that plane to Vientiane, I am afraid of it in a strangely contradicting way - I feel that I want to belong somewhere, but I simultaneously fear what it takes to really belong anywhere. I doubt my ability to belong. Perhaps that can be one of the curses of loneliness: wanting companionship and yet fearing the intimacy it takes to produce it.

My mind, however, has slowly adapted to this pinball lifestyle. Without even having to consciously decide on it, I find myself storing future events in a secret mental location of "inconceivable's" and "not-actually-happening's." Thus, it is often not until I have to adapt to a new place that I actually realize that I'm there. I'm not sure whether or not to thank my mind for providing this service.

I think this causes me to look at friendships in a strange way, and that scares me too. As I set deeper and deeper expectations and ideals for friendship, I find it easier to justify emotional distance.

I think about you, about if I could be a good friend to you. Based on my track record, I don't know that I could offer you much (you see? justifying emotional distance...). Maybe some of it has to do with love, with what I define as love, with what I'm comfortable admitting to as love.

Perhaps that is something we all struggle with: honestly admitting to love, especially the non-romantic kind. I think one of the reasons I struggle is because I fear the permanence and commitment of belonging, and I fear what my love would influence me to do, and in so doing, what you would think of me. I think a lot about what you might think about me. Mostly I pale at the potential risks.

And I love you.

4.25.12

Today I am twenty six years old. I don't think that being twenty six really "makes you think" like I think you would think having achieved other ages. Today I am mostly lonely, a settled, almost comfortable loneliness that has been haunting me for some time. I think loneliness may be a kind of perpetual fear, but I'm not sure.

For me, the loneliness advocates subtle melodramas that pull a host of "shoulds" to the surface of my consciousness. In the name of looking for solutions (and often finding them in cold, ethical logic), these "shoulds" massage my thoughts with warm, endearing guilt.

I think about what you would want to read in this blog post, I think about what you would want a lot. And not so much in a benevolent or altruistic way, but more in the way of marketing, of being my own salesman. I've spent so much time trying to pitch myself as a likeable product, and I've spent far too much time succeeding.

You see? Guilt, haha.

But there is some truth there: I am not a man that is easily open with sincere emotions. I can be very closed and very judgmental, attributes often combined and intensified by my imaginative and critical mentalities. But I am also grateful for imagination and critical thinking.

I think that guilt really is the devil's advocate.

Imagination can be very much two-edged. A strange reference, I know, but a while back I was fascinated by a few lines from Hannibal Lecter in the 2002 movie Red Dragon:

"[You] stink of fear under that cheap lotion. You stink of [fear], but you're not a coward. You fear me, but still you came here. You fear this shy boy, yet still you seek him out. Don't you [understand]? You caught me because we're very much alike. Without our imaginations, we'd be like all those other poor...dullards. Fear...is the price of our instrument. But I can help you bear it."

This blog can be such an interesting environment for me, always here is the cycle of wanting to be honest, not wanting to be embarrassed, not wanting to bore you, and yet wanting to be sincere. Also there is the desire to write well. Also there is the desire to define with logic, this desire being constantly frustrated by another desire: admitting to elusive possibility.

I want you to know that I do like myself (and I definitely want myself to hear me say it). I am now twenty six years old. I am not married. I am not in a relationship. I am not at an optimal weight according to various BMI graphs. I did not eat lunch. I had an egg mcmuffin for breakfast and I probably will have another one tomorrow because they're delicious. I hate ignorance, especially in myself. I hate seafood. I do not like the beach very much although the vistas are gorgeous. I want to visit Spain. I want to live in London.

Sometimes it is very hard for me to like myself and I think, as alluded to by a cannibal, this can be the price of an expansive imagination - it is easy for me to imagine myself as another man, as a better man, as a more successful man, as the object of more affection, as the source of more respect and awe, as the victim of less fears and uncertainties.

I guess we all struggle with acceptance, with coupling imagination and reality, with reconciling the guilt-ridden interplay of beliefs and dreams. I so struggle. And I love you.

Now, if you'll excuse me, it's my birthday and I want some Red Velvet cake.

2.21.12

Zanja (n.): "the gutter," in Castellano. Zanjas usually run down both sides of a given dirt road in Argentina, in front of houses and buildings. Standard depth for a zanja is about waist-high on a large thoroughfare, for smaller roads, they usually reach the mid thigh. Zanjas are generally known to accumulate all manner of refuse, both solid and liquid, which mixes to form a slick, black sludge. If a dog bites you and then drinks from the zanja, you pity the dog, and hope it won't bite you again. When the street lights are dim, you worry about accidentally stepping, or worse, falling into a zanja. You've heard tales of people that have done so, the tales are not pretty. You may have helped once or twice when a given community has gathered to clean its zanjas; and while your optimism has noticed a curious brotherhood that this activity elicits among its participants, you must admit (though not pessimistically) that your nose has never be the same. You picture teenagers with black mud caked on bare arms to the elbow and bare legs to the knee.

Not all zanjas are filled with black ooze, some are quite dry and clean. Into these you fall frequently as you dismount your bicycle. And although it is a dry zanja, its cultural associations still curl your upper lip as you fall and produce not a few eeewww's to accompany the unbridled laughter of your spectators.

You wonder sometimes if anything lives in the zanja.

Some of your friends say they hate the zanjas, but you know they really just hate being away from home.

Once you may have witnessed a group of people pulling a middle-aged man out of the zanja. It was a grassy zanja that surrounded a large field. It was deep and he was heavy; he was also unconscious, delirious at the least. Drunk he may have been; he may have been drinking a bit and swooned, it was a fairly hot day. We heaved and heaved, it was difficult to get much leverage given the angle of the zanja. I can't remember now if he said anything during the entire process.

In front of each house there is a small bridge over the zanja. Most are wooden bridges, though sheet metal and care tires are also frequent. Some bridges you trust more than others. There is always a moment of doubt when crossing a zanja bridge. You have been repeatedly astounded at the strength of wood due to your experiences with zanja bridges. In your mind you often compare them to kingly drawbridges, though no drawbridge could compete with the simple, practical creativity of these small walkways.

It is customary, after crossing over the zanja, to stop at the house's gate and clap. Sometimes you secretly take pride in the loudness of your clap.

Sometimes when you clap, people let you in and give you some hot chocolate. They will usually take tea or drink mate. You sit by the fire because it is cold outside and sometimes the conversation makes you feel even warmer, like a brightness spreads within the room and polishes the best qualities of the hearts within it. You feel meaningfulness and smile often at the bliss of new understanding. One day you may have been there, in front of such a fire feeling the tugs of a shared gratitude growing in your heart. Sometimes your friends forget that feeling by the time you come back, but not this time. We could tell that he remembered and that he wanted us to come in. But his wife had said no. We were sad for her, he was especially sad. We never saw him again.

2.8.12

Yesterday:

6:15am - I take Matty to seminary. It's a little chilly outside. The last two days have been somewhat gloomy; heavy grey clouds pass silently as they entertain overcast thoughts. No rain.

6:25am - I try to think of something to say as we drive to the Peachland church building; nothing comes to mind. Something light would be good, you know, to start off the day positively. I must have said something at least, but I can't, for the life of me, think of it now.

9:00am - Dave's first day of a new semester at College of the Canyons. He heads to his English class.

10:00am - English class over, Dave comes home for a bit before his next couple classes.

11:00am - I hear Mom and her cousin (Shelly) talking. Shelly is visiting from Utah and her and my Mom always have a fun time together. For this I am glad. They call a local nail salon and schedule pedicures for 4:00pm.

12:00pm - Dave leaves for his other classes. He takes my truck, a fact about which I always feel somewhat reluctant. I don't know why, maybe I just like my truck to be my truck.

2:30pm - Mom and Shelly leave to pick up Matty from school. They take our American Eskimo dog, Luna. To Luna, going anywhere is an adventure.

3:30pm - They get home and Matty leaves to go to Tom's house. A few days ago he left to go to Tom's house and came home with bleached hair. He had asked me if I liked the urine-colored experiment better than the mohawk he had had previously. I had said that I didn't.

4:00pm - The blessed hour arrives and my Mom and Shelly leave to go get their pedicures. They invite me, but I decline.

4:15pm - Dad gets home from work, Dave gets home from school, and Matty arrives with Tom a few minutes later. We decide to have a guy's night: Mexican food (Chipotle) and a movie (Source Code) starting at 6:00pm.

4:30pm - Matty leaves with Tom to go to Granary Square to get some Arizona drinks. He takes Luna, making it her second adventure of the day.

5:00pm - Matty and Tom get back from Granary Square, drop off Luna, and leave to go to the jacuzzi. I am skeptical: Matty hasn't been given this much freedom for a while.

6:00pm - Matty has not come home. Dad, Dave, and I are having an intense discussion about strong opinions and whether or not trying to convince someone of the supposed rightness of your opinion has any merit. We talk about capitalism, we talk about the depth of religious convictions, we talk about jazz music, we talk about movies, we talk about missionary work, we talk about poetry.

6:25pm - Matty is still not home, so we drive to one of the local pools to pick him up. We find him at the Alicante pool in the jacuzzi. He is leaning out of the jacuzzi asleep and alone. He is drunk on vodka. He could have drowned.

6:30pm - Dad drives home and Dave and I help Matty get up and walk. He had stolen the vodka from Granary Square. He had been feeling sad. He had thought it would make him feel better, like getting high does. He hadn't known it would be like this. We speak very little on the walk home; mostly we are sad. Ironic, right?

7:00pm - Shelly's sister-in-law is there when we get home. We put Matty in the tub and Dave makes him drink some water. Before they really know what's going on, Shelly has to leave to go have dinner with her sister-in-law and Mom has to leave to go to a Young Woman's activity at church. Matty is still vomiting, but not too much. He is very convincing, but I don't believe him completely and that makes me sad. He is drunk, but he is also exaggerating. Why?

7:15pm - Dad and I go back to the pool to find the vodka. We pour it out into the bushes.

7:30pm - We get back and let Matty lay down in his bed. Dave gives him a large plastic bowl in case he needs it. We order Chipotle over the phone and Dad and I go pick it up.

7:45pm - Dad and I get home and we start the movie. Dave tells us about Matty needing the bowl while we were gone and how he used oven mitts to take it out of Matty's room. He says that he had almost needed the bowl himself while he was cleaning it out. Mom and I have been texting the following back and forth since 7:00pm:

"What's going on....cigarettes??? Something else???"

"Vodka :( hes doing better now though"

"Was he wasted and puking??? :("

"Ya, hes laying down now, i think hes finally done puking..."

"ughhhhh..... is he aware of what a STUPID thing he did???"

"Ya, he feels pretty bad..."

"So you're giving him love?"

"Ya, just trying to be encouraging"

"Thank you. Was Tom involved too?"

"No, matty said he wasnt"

"Where did he get the vodka???"

"He stole it from CVS :("

"What? Nooo! :("

9:15pm - Mom gets home from the activity and we talk about Matty for a few minutes. None of us really know what to do. I think of the phrase "stuck between a rock and a hard place."

9:30pm - I get a sweet text from a dear friend:

"'It is a far, far better thing that I do, than i have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known.' Happy 200th Birthday to Dickens :)"

9:45pm - The movie ends and Dave and I go to the supermarket to pick up a few things for Mom and Shelly - bananas, popcorn, and chocolate. We talk about Matty. We talk about our own demons. We talk about the beautiful, yet fickle nature of miracles. We wish for a miracle now.

1.26.12

This morning, as my eyes slowly swirled in half-openness, memory, like a dancing mist, lighted upon me. I felt my mattress below in the warm darkness of the room. And then, as thoughts are so apt to do when one has overslept, my mind opened some window of consciousness through which the mists of memory were violently sucked into cold realization. My eyes shot open and I looked down at my phone: 6:16 am. "Shit!" I said in a harsh, self-criticizing whisper. I was supposed to have left sixty seconds ago.

It is the second Thursday of me taking my sixteen-year-old brother to seminary. I had to wake him up yesterday and as I got dressed this morning I found it impossible to believe that he was already awake and waiting for me to take him to (amiably, of course) "the cemetery." Though I really can't blame him and (obligatorily) all other participants for naming it as such, I myself spent four years complaining and bragging about it before my (admittedly regretful) exhumation.

I left my room and walked down the hall in a yawning, blinking stupor. The lights in my brother's room were not on. For the second day in a row I woke him up with, "Matty, Matty, hey, come on, we gotta go." And, as before, he replied with, "Hm? Oh, alright dude," though today he seemed less brazen, perhaps today it was actually an accident. He did seem genuinely sorry later on as we got in the car, "Sorry I fell back asleep, Daniel."

"Oh, no worries, man. It happens," I had responded. I remember thinking, "so he still does feel some kind of remorse."

Two nights before, Matty, Dave, and I had been playing a game with Mom. At one point Mom had made a hearty joke and began to act rather silly, making funny voices, etc. "Mom, stop it!" Matty had said, "ugh, it bugs me so much when you do that!"

"Why," she had asked, still giggling, "why does it bug you so much?"

"I don't know, it just does!"

"Because it's an emotional response over which he does not have control," I had said. It was not the first sarcastic jab I had given him in the last couple of days. We have rarely been having one-on-one conversations anymore, mostly one-worded obligations that feel like driving with a clutch in heavy traffic.

And then I couldn't find the keys; we were late to pick up Hayley. On the way there I had told them the story of how Dave's cat, the night before, had been staring at the TV while we were watching a movie. It had reminded me of the movie Scrooged with Bill Murray. There was a polite laugh by both children followed by an emotionless silence. I got them late to seminary.

I thought about trust on the way home. I had said "goodbye" to Matty as I dropped them off; he had not said anything back.

1.20.12

"To the goldrush I must go", he said.
And I know he'll find his gold there
Find his luck bestowed there
And spend it all, both luck and gold
Til all I gave him's burned or sold
Even all his brothers
Who, in quiet nights without a bed
Opened bottles filled with dread
And to him in a whisper told
Of hungry mountains that kept our gold

"But still I must go," he said,
"You do not understand
The newness of the land;
That we now dig in richer mines
That must have scared you in your time,
But now are all secure.
And we are sure that in the lead
A purer ore and rock have stead,
And you know not what happy finds
I've seen with what you left behind."

"I do not know," I ponder this.
I yearn to tell him that he's wrong
And free an anger held so long,
But my words would fall on ears decieved
And spark no reason to believe.
I live in loathing love.
I wake and fear that with my kiss
He'll stab my open heart and his
I sit and fear that when reproved
He'll leave what he thinks he can bear to lose.

What do I tell him about the gold,
When his mind already stays there
And in the stench of death he prays there?
The blood of many men and mine
Have stained that jagged mountainside,
And some have never left.
In the darkest reaches of the cold,
We lied for warmth and hugged our gold.
Fear alone outweighed our hate
And empty eyes became our faith.

"To the goldrush I will go," he swears.
In dreams and thoughts he has control,
But he'll never leave there with his gold.
And I know the anger of the moans
That will plague the pleasure of being alone;
The tender burn of regret.

1.14.12

"I hate to ask," he said, "but there is trouble at work and I just need a little bit to get me through the week."

"Sure," I said, "no problem."

I ended up giving him about $25 (50,000 Ugandan shillings), just to get through the week. He never asked again and I never felt the same again; I don't know why.

Joseph is a sweet, energetic young man. I admire the way he easily makes friends and seems to include everyone, the kind of guy that is great with teenagers, somehow being able to walk the impossibly precarious tightrope of coolness and responsibility. When Joseph spoke in church, his words were sincere, though interestingly at the pulpit he seemed a bit schizophrenic - shy about being open, yet passionate about believing, as though he were still an adolescent at heart - terrified when open, invincible when closed.

Joseph, Andrew, and I would always try to sneak away from church meetings to find an "omupiira," a soccer ball; grabbing a couple youth and even somehow conning the local missionaries into playing with us, suits, ties, and all.

***

We must have played soccer for at least an hour with those two beautiful children. I can't remember their names now, but I remember that day - hot, wet, and wonderful. Elder Rodriguez, my missionary companion, was being a very good sport about playing with the kids, even though we had other things to do. But we always had other things to do, other things that had become boring and slow. I didn't like Elder Rodriguez very much. As a human being, I think his meekness and kindness could rival Gandhi, but the structure of his plans and work were, to me, ineffective, slow, and much too timid. And maybe I wanted to spite him a little, maybe that's why I was constantly trying to find a "pelota", a soccer ball, wherever we went, usually being able to snag a couple kids to play and laugh for a while.


On that particular day they were José's kids. José was a young, struggling father. The kind of guy that is great at parties, great at making people laugh, always trying to lighten the mood. The kind of man that, behind the nervous twinkle, has a depth of childish terror in his eyes, like the look of a loosing gambler.


We had already visited José and his wife two or three times and so had gone over most of the basics: Jesus Christ, the Great Apostasy, the Priesthood, Joseph Smith, the Book of Mormon, etc. They were very receptive, but noncommittal; aren't we all? I guess so, except for the receptive part.


Argentina's economy was still recovering from a terrible depression and so work was scarce. There were so many men we met that were like José, doing mostly pick-up jobs - painting, construction, cement work, etc. - just to get by. But in San Clemente it seemed harder sometimes, maybe because it is less urban, it's a small town on Argentina's east coast. And I would imagine that the local economy depends mostly on summer tourism, and, at the time, it was winter. My mind jumps to Cinderella Man: "You know, they keep cutting shifts down at the docks...and you don't get picked everyday."

"The thing is, I can't afford to pay the heat...I've had to farm out my kids."


"You know me well enough to know if I had anywhere else to go...I wouldn't be here. If you could help me though this time, I sure would be grateful..."

***

Joseph asked me for money and I gave it to him, so did José, and we gave it to him. But it was different than the movie. Watching something pitiful and experiencing something pitiful seem like two very different things. One feels like watching a child say he's sorry and the other feels like you have to be a child not to view a man differently.


In economics, money isn't even real, it's a symbol, a means to an end, some kind of mysterious river that facilitates the exchange of goods. So why have I felt so strange in those scenarios? I felt like I was perpetuating a dirty secret, like I was deceived, like with each respective, miniscule amount of money each respective Joseph bought a fuchsia-colored elephant (my mind jumps to the horses in the Wizard of Oz) that stared at me ever after, at church meetings, at chance encounters, at soccer games.

1.12.11

Things on my desk:

1. Two bottles of GNC's finest "MEGA MEN SPORT" athletic supplement which someday will make me buff and sexy. Just add water and personal initiative.

2. A clock stating the time (1:20) and a name (Robert Abbey); I must admit that neither mean very much to me: I just ate breakfast and I don't think I've ever been serious friends with a Robert. Though there have been at least two prominent "Robs" (who, for the sake of conversation will not here be equated with "Robert"), a skinny fellow that worked on one of my projects and had one of the most pessimist attitudes I've ever encountered and a larger gentleman that made documentaries, in one of which I was featured with a reddish beard that he glued to my face.

3. A photograph of my first day as a missionary: me in a green suit with an atrocious purple paisley tie and my dear mother clipping a missionary tag to my left suit pocket. "Elder Walker - La Iglesia de Jesucristo de los Santos de los Últimos Dias" - my name for the next two years. There is a ridiculously bright orange dot (a sticker) in the bottom right corner of the tag which is amiably named - among missionaries - the "dork dot." This small symbol accompanies each confident young missionary until, after the first day or so of orientation, classes, and trying to learn an entire language, all confidence is gone.

4. Though technically not on the desk itself, there is a small red cupboard hanging on the wall. Hanging on the doorknob of the cupboard is a photograph of my maternal grandparents. When I think of them, the words "hard," "stubborn," "experienced," "classic," and "soft" come to my mind. Memories too: red rocks, quarters in medicine bottles, an indoor pool, cookie tins, a polar bear rug, a large wooden Budda, etc. It is a beautiful picture, both are smiling.

5. On top of the cupboard are five máte gourds which I brought home with me from Argentina, one for each of us in the family. The first on the left is my father's: baby blue with silver trim and a classic gaucho design. The next is for my brother, Matthew: white and red with a prominent "Estudiantes" logo on the front and back - my favorite Argentine football team. Next is a dark brown gourd made from a cow's horn, it says "Argentina" across the top and features a carving of a horse, this one was for my mother. The second to last is a light brown with a similar gaucho pattern to the first - I gave this one to my brother, Davy. And the last is for me, it is simply one gigantic hoof, a real cow's hoof, white with brown spots, hollowed out and adorned with silver trim, "Argentina" carved into the left toe.

6. A purple polka-dot cup and a Hard Rock Café mug with 22 and 15 pencils and pens respectively.

7. A custom mouse pad which features a picture of my brothers and myself. In the picture, my brother Matthew is a but a wee child (must be less than a year old) which would make Dave around 5 and me around 10.

8. My camera which, to the 2/3 devastation and 1/3 elation of my mother, did and did not accompany me on my most recent international adventures.

9. A white, classic-looking telephone.

10. Three mini-DVs - I'm actually unsure what they contain. I recorded most of my ridiculous high school video projects on mini-DVs, so I'm sure that they have some beautifully embarrassing raw footage, but we no longer have a DV-compatible camcorder.

11. An empty iPod case and an unopened package of Skullcandy headphones.

12. An info-pamphlet and two free passes to the "Athletic Club" which someday will make me buff and sexy. Just add water and blah blah blah.

13. A spiral-bound notebook with some incredibly boring notes in it. Suffice to say that the first phrase in the notebook is, "I continue from my previous discussion..."

14. A new book - "Grace Notes" by Brian Doyle - which was given to me for Christmas by one of my dearest friends. It features a large toad on the front and contains, as stated below the toad, "True stories about sins, sons shrines, silence, marriage, homework, jail, miracles, dads, legs, basketball, the sinewy grace of women, bullets, music, infirmaries, the power of powerlessness, the ubiquity of prayers, & some other matters." Brian Doyle accompanies my recent creative nonfiction craze. And in fact, I attended one of his lectures with the very friend that bought me the book.

15. My cellphone with several pending text messages. Accordingly, I am supposed to "tell Matty how awesome that is," "apologize for sending too cute of a Christmas gift," "apologize for graduating and leaving Provo, thus being a 'selfish bastard'," "remind my brother Dave," "send Austin my utilities check for December," "not read anything too exciting at 2 in the morning or I may stay up all night," "attend FHE at 7:30pm at the church and bring treats if I want," "get dressed," "psychoanalyze a friend's dream in which I appeared in a blue leotard," and "send Megan the IRB for the 'Grading the Do-gooders' project." Lots to do.

16. A flash drive with two semesters worth of statistical nonsense on it.

17. The empty wrapper of a "Clif Builder's" protein bar. Cookies 'N Cream.

18. Another set of Skullcandy headphones; these ones have been opened and used with relish.

19. A check to Austin Nilsson for December's utility bill.

20. My planner.

21. My laptop.

22. My wallet which features a large red-and-white flag with an "E" on it. Vamos Estudiantes.

23. The Lord of the Ring's trilogy which includes (from top to bottom), The Two Towers (half-read), The Return of the King (to-read), and The Fellowship of the Ring (have-read).

24. My checkbook and a pen. If you pictured a blue pen, I curse you.

25. My iPod (charging). My current Fruit Ninja high score in arcade mode is 1073. I had to check again a few minutes ago that the score was real as it was achieved at around 3:00am this morning. On Angry Birds, I have been stuck for at least a week on the twelfth level of the second series. On Sudoku, my high score in expert mode is 75,029 and total playtime is 13:53:07 - I'm training for an epic Sudoku contest which is still to come (you know who you are). I also have the best high scores in the world on Scrabble, Boggle, and Bloons Tower Defense 4, but I will omit them here so as not to elicit too much jealousy.

26. Another spiral-bound notebook with more boring notes. A line to justify a lack of discussion: "Tentative timeline (Feb. 7 - 11): MOU with Deniva, assessment process proposal, finish registering for research (RS6/ endorsement), 4-5 practice assessments, ..."

27. My scriptures which include the Bible, Book of Mormon, Doctrine and Covenants, and Pearl of Great Price.

28. Two of my previous journals, starting on 2 May 2009 with, "I arrived in Africa five days ago and was instantly captured by its uniqueness and beauty," and ending 11 December 2011 with, "And I am afraid to forget, and yet, so am I afraid also to remember and attempt to process the profundity of emotions that surge within me like waves upon an empty beach."

My iPod is now fully charged and the Fruit Ninja is hungry.

12.11.11

Excerpts from my journal

11.21.10:
Snow this morning, but not quite so cold as it has been. As I was walking, the mountains were half-covered in an elusive white mist framed perfectly by a grey sky - so powerful in their peaceful, dominating presence.
...
In short, I refused the Lord; I provoked Him - "Lord," I said, "maybe this isn't the right time for me; perhaps I can receive this blessing a little later?"
...
I tried for some time after to compensate by asking forgiveness, but the moment had passed, the door had closed with the opportunity behind it lost. I felt like I had betrayed a friend and left Him with a hurt and saddened heart.

12.5.10:
But there is a deep and subtle hope and indeed there has been during even the darkest hours of these past few days that has resided at the edges of my heart - a spiritual peace that has soothed, revealed, and reminded.

12.21.10:
The semester and its memories, both dear and terrible, seem so distant now. Perhaps this is the mark of entering new stages of life and my mind even begins to wonder if our passage from mortality would not bear the same transitory feelings.

1.23.11:
A joy and gratitude fill my heart this morning as I can hardly describe to you. I am sitting again in this small chapel in Ntinda during my first sacrament meeting back in Kampala. Can I but begin to tell you what immense happiness and sweet gratitude reside here? These beautiful saints and pioneers, how grateful I am for their examples of willingness and faith. How grateful I am to be here again.

1.29.11:
In the car of my dear friend Alfred on the road from Gulu back to Kampala.
...
There is an African tree which I have seen frequently on this drive whose bright red flowers are in almost full bloom. Other trees there are, like gigantic flat umbrellas, but my favorites are those massive round monuments standing in motherly superiority and teeming with life as though giant green beehives. The scenery extends outward from the road in simple, untouched magnificence. And people by the thousands; scarcely have we gone a quarter of a mile without passing a person walking, on bicycle, on motorcycle - in towns along the way or simply traveling to some unseen location.

2.20.11:
No church today as the Ugandan elections are taking place. Megan has been terribly sick the last few days and so it has been better that we have been encouraged to stay home; she has been able to rest and recover.

4.23.11:
It is my first Sunday back in Provo. It was cold this morning, but clear; it looks to be the beginning of a very beautiful day.

5.29.11:
I ask myself, when someone comes to you distraught, why do you not shed tears with them? Why do you keep yourself aloof from shared emotion? There are a few immediate responses in my mind; the first is: because it does not resolve anything - it doesn't accomplish anything to sit and cry with someone; to cry with them only makes the solution more elusive and unrealized. But this mentality highlights another immediate response - more of a feeling - which is of nervousness and fear. But what am I afraid of?
...
I think my mind thinks that empathy is a weakness; the potential, it posits, of a person is to overcome challenges and be consistently confident and at peace. Emotion, it says, is merely an obstacle to viewing these deeper assurances. For me, to be emotional with a person would actually be hurting them as it would not help them see the solution and, what is worse, would only be admitting to the fact that I do not already know the solution. I would be fatalistic and would actually make me a worse friend - why embrace someone lost in a dark cave? Does your embrace really help them find a way out?
...
But what do these opinions really come down to? Perhaps these logical thoughts are but a fearful escape. But what is it really that I am afraid of?
...
Someone's disapproval of my character is, I think, among my most prominent terrors. Even my spirituality, in many senses, can be so dangerously tied to my fear of the bias judgments of others; and not so much for them to think I am flawed or even arrogant, but for them to consider me weak in any way. For them to think I am what I passionately do not wish to be.

6.12.11:
To the addict, what hope is there of repentance?

7.17.11:
Perhaps the problems I have are a part of who I am; of course, this scares me to say because it implies that I cannot eventually purge myself of my issues. I'm afraid of not being rid of that part of myself because it is something that begets misery; and reflecting, I am all the more scared because of the variable nature of myself - I am afraid because I cannot have complete control.

8.7.11:
The pieces inside me do not cease their movements: although storms may rage at times, the weather never stops and this is, I think, an essential consideration. Perhaps emotions do not necessarily end; perhaps they are not, as I have been so apt to think, a virus to be waited upon as an exterior trial to be borne. The body never stops, while we live, breathing, beating, processing, moving, healing, regenerating, and so on. So too do we never stop synthesizing, thinking, analyzing, feeling, desiring, searching, wondering, and so on.
...
Emotions and thoughts: they are always moving and changing and developing.

9.11.11:
Ten years ago today, early in the morning, my mother was driving me to my friend's house to pick him up so that she could then take us both to seminary. When Nick got in the car, he mentioned something about the World Trade Centers. We switched on the radio and listened in horror as it was described to us what had happened, what was still happening.

9.18.11:
In a strange mood today; tired, but not necessarily apathetic or melancholy. Perhaps a little irritable as well, but also peaceful; there is also a little bit of nervousness and anticipation.
...
There is just not enough time: that is the feeling.

9.25.11:
So strange to think that God has the completeness of the human entity understood - that the entire range of the being is open to His vision. That its purpose and all its possibilities are known to Him and understood by Him - is there anything on Earth for which we could claim the same? Maybe carrots?
...
What comes first, lying or fear?

10.16.11:
This may sound extremely arrogant, but it has constituted a tender mercy for me that Noelle has often complimented me on things that I have tried to value about myself, but about which I have been constantly unsatisfied. I have been and am so grateful for her; this experience continues to be beautiful and a tender blessing.

11.13.11:
This journal comes to a close as does my time at BYU - something like 37 days.

11.20.11:
Less than 30 days now.

12.4.11:
As the newness of recent discoveries wears off, I fear that I have begun sinking back into old habits of fear, doubt, and judgment. I feel tired - the weight of melancholy thoughts bearing down upon me; questions steeped in ambiguity surface from deep within and surge and fade in a pacifying, almost apathetic desire for unknowns.
...
Sometimes I think my emotions are completely separate from myself and a disease that I have to deal with. Sometimes I think my emotions are myself and that what I feel defines who I am, for better or for worse. And sometimes I think that my emotions are a part of me, an important piece of my being that can provide me with information about myself, kind of like me talking to me; not something that defines me or my value, but something that moves within me as an important piece of who I am.

12.11.11:
The last page of this journal as I enjoy my last Sunday here in Provo. I think of my first Sunday here, the many, many Sundays I have spent: in the Riv, at the State Hospital, at the Branbury, at the Riv again, Carriage Cove, the Crestwood, and now DeVere. I think of Ethiopia and Uganda - the gorgeous Sundays I was blessed to have spent with some of the most faithful, beautiful people and friends I have ever met. My heart travels to all these Sundays and the years that have passed in between them - it makes me simultaneously grateful and terrified. The weight of those years, their teachings, their people, everything, bearing down upon me as though afraid to be ignored, afraid to be forgotten. And I am afraid to forget, and yet, so am I afraid also to remember, and attempt to process the profundity of emotions that surge within me, again and again like waves upon an empty beach.

12.4.11

I listen to the song Street Spirit (Fade Out) by Radiohead followed by Dissolved Girl by Massive Attack - a gin and tonic mixture that pulls to the surface of my thoughts the heavy elements of myself. "Immerse your soul in love," the one says. And then the other, "say, say my name; need a little love to ease the pain." The rending pleas of the first song melting slowly into the smooth trip-hop vibes of the second; hurting and then meditating; exhausting and then resting.

My body accepts the sounds and meanings with varied opinions. I find it strange how it seems like I am so many people at once.

My feet can barely hear the music - the right foot curls its toes under and then stretches them back again, the left lays silent with the chair leg wedged in between the second and third toe. They remind me that they are bare and cold, but they do not complain, they simply inform. After several minutes, I notice that my right foot has been softly kicking to the slow beat; seems like it could hear after all. As for the left, the chair leg is now wedged between my fourth and pinky toe and the foot is jittery - it gets like that when the silver bell from my privates starts ringing.

My privates, at regular intervals, are tapping on a silver bell to signal that a trip to the toilet is preferable. However, I will ignore the bell for another 30 minutes or so during which time the bell will slowly transform into a large campanile and my small intestines into a gigantic metal hammer, pounding in less frequent, but more violent intervals until I finally traverse the 10 ft. or so from where I sit to the bathroom. Due to the distraction, my privates are not very responsive to the music, though, ironically, my efforts to soothe their insistence largely involves rocking and swaying to the various beats. I wonder if my privates are fooled. Probably not. That's okay though, I have other techniques I can use if things get bad.

My hands hear the music and are occasionally given to tapping, but they are mostly involved in typing, scratching my scalp, supporting my head when it bows to the side to think, and waiting. Other less frequent occupations include scraping at the small scabs on my face, pulling out loose eyebrow hairs, rubbing my eyes, texting, dislodging earwax, and cracking my knuckles; picking and rubbing my nose is also a favorite, but my nose seems pretty clean at the moment.

32 minutes later and the bells have stopped ringing, the alleviating comfort of their echoes fading into a peacefully empty rest.

My nose itches. My nose always itches. And what is more, my nose and I hate each other. Well, I guess that's unfair to say: I'm not completely sure as to my nose's feelings toward me. I posit one of three scenarios:

1. My nose does, in fact, hate me. Like Satan himself, the little devil lives to annoy me and buffet me with its itching, hurting, flowing, snotting, sniffling, aching, sneezing reminders that it, like a malignant tumor, has attached itself to my face in order that, one day, it might destroy me. It cackles and giggles in disgusting evil as it sucks dust and pollen into its ample caverns, purposefully looking for excuses to produce exorbitant amounts of snot such that any normal activity becomes a red-nosed, red-eyed, red-tempered venture into hay-fever hell. Even as I type, I can feel the demon cantering through the my nasal causeways, wielding a cheese grater the size of a thimble and scraping it against the interiors of my sinuses. "Curse you!" I say as I sniff, rub, and type some more.

2. My nose has severe mental challenges. This is the more benign ascription of my nose's pitiful attempts to actually be a nose. Perhaps it just doesn't know quite how to do it: wet and weepy it tries it hardest to smell and breathe, but for some reason just doesn't make the connection that its constant flow of secretions just doesn't help. It's like a toddler making a magical potion using all the things he or she can find in mommy and daddy's medicine cabinet - the sentiment is pure, but the methods and result disgusting, terrifying, and infuriating. To be honest though, I tend to lean towards this explanation only when I am seriously considering blowing off my nose with the nearest handgun.

3. My nose is a melodramatic manic depressant. Like a teenager alcoholic, my nose weeps with a deep sense of loneliness and confusion as it throws up again and again into the nearest toilet. Though sometimes cheerful, my nose has only to think about the crunching of fall leaves or fresh cut grass in order to fall back into and wallow through the mire of mucus and allergenic sobs of an addiction-inspired depression. It can't help itself and yet wishes it could, and it doesn't know why. The poor soul is doomed to a life of noncommittal solitude as it drinks glass after glass of Benadrylic cocktails only to vomit their contents in violent retribution once the non-drowsy buzz has worn off. This explanation can provide some pity and even empathy, but you must understand that patience soon wears thin when you're the one being puked on.

The music is over now and I must leave: a different kind of bell is ringing. More of a gong, actually.

11.13.11

What if we could fly?
Would angels call upon us
and beg us for ease?

11.12.11

A cold wind still blows
From southeast chills and grey clouds
Scarves are not enough

11.10.11

Graves cry with women
But soon knowledge calls them back
To lives beyond earth

11.3.11

Benjamin said that we are nothing.

In a mathematical sense, that is a limit that seems to approach the truth - even if we consider this planet alone with its billions, a single human being takes up a pitifully miniscule, insignificant amount of space; although when you're standing next to someone at a urinal, it honestly doesn't feel that way.

How many people could we fit on earth if we all gave each other the space we wanted? I think about how skewed that distribution might be, or how it is changing. It seems like we want more and more space, or at least plenty of glass screens between me and he. We like our glass screens, they protect us from inlaws.

In the sense of worthiness, do we deserve anything? Benjamin said no; Benjamin said we are nothing. And yet I deserve all the time - my mother tells me so - a cookie or a "swift kick in the pants." I do hope she means the backside of my pants. Do we ever really deserve cookies? I think it is my clandestine hope in life to one day merit a snickerdoodle.

I remember one day sitting on the bus going to a volleyball game. We were sitting on the chairs with our legs open, facing the ail and throwing oranges across the ail in an effort to hit each other's genitals.

I remember one day sitting in a room of my house with some friends. We were sitting across the room from each other with our legs open. We were throwing a plastic eightball across the room in an effort to hit each other's genitals. I hope you better understand now my preference as to the kicking of my pants.

In the sense of metaphysics, can we prove Ben wrong? What proof is there that matter exists? I mean, does anything really exist? Descartes seemed to think so, and he provided a proof. Ironic that Descartes tried to discount nothingness by proving the existence of God (which constituted a brilliant attempt in my opinion) and that Benjamin substantiated his argument of nothingness by comparing us to God. Can they both be right? Probably.

I remember one day having the stomach flu and feeling like an insomniac with knives in his hands was trying to sleep on a steel rotating bed inside my abdomen. I guess pain doesn't really prove anything though. Dammit.

In the sense of worth, I think I passionately disagree with Ben. But of course this begs the question: do I view myself as of the same worth as God?

I once arm wrestled my father and exerted myself to such a degree that my nose started bleeding. We both laughed hysterically as my mother - also laughing - ran into the kitchen to get me some tissue paper. Sometimes I pray that way, sometimes I convince myself that I'm too tired though, sometimes I am too tired.

Who measures worth? Who measures nothingness? I hope its not me, or people like me. Ben went with = 0; Descartes went with > 0. Maybe it's somewhere in between, maybe ≥ 0. But that just puts us back at mathematics.

In the sense of desire, I really don't know what to do. I desire things all the time including sleeping in, sleeping through church meetings, taking a nap instead of studying the scriptures, dozing off during General Conference talks, sawing logs during the movie they show in the temple, deeply meditating during my girlfriend's favorite part of a motivational speech, conversing with Morpheus during a particularly long prayer, etc. I think I desire other things besides sleep, but most of those things cost money.

One night I was supposed to go to a meteor shower with my friend Tara. When she came to my house to pick me up, my mother could not find me - I had fallen asleep on the floor of my room. Sometimes my faith is like that, probably most of the time. Could that be why I'm nothing?

10.31.11

Halloween on Alta Dr. meant you had to hit at least three houses - Roger's, Janette's, and Jo's. The holiday was a big event for our neighborhood and for the surrounding neighborhoods, my brothers and friends and I filling pillow cases to the brim with a better catch every year - the blue and red and silver fish flopping and jostling their paper fins as they struggled for breath - ultimately giving up their chocolate and nougat ghosts to greedy costumed fishermen.

Roger's house was stage-right, dark and dismal. As you approached along the driveway, you could just barely see a table on the porch. Closer and there was a bowl of candy on the table. A simple setup, novel, but there was, of course, a sickening twist.

 ***

Roger's daughter was an acquaintance of mine at school and the victim of one of the first terrible injustices I can remember. We were graduating Junior High School together, an exciting time. I remember one day walking to the bus and watching a couple kissing passionately, on another day I observed a boy throw up, on another I heard whispers of "that one redhead" being raped, and there were always dirty stories of dirty videos, lingo, slang, new vocabularies that had to be learned quickly on penalty of ostracization, on another day there was my first girlfriend giggling with nameless cohorts, on another a fear of wetting my pants, on another a fear of someone noticing the awkward angle of my pants due to the quintessentially pre-teen concentrations of blood that frustrated me to no end in the nature of their volatile, seemingly random occurrences; "random" in the current context being synonymous with embarrassment and thus, death - all these memories floating in the estuary of pubescent emotion and imagination where nervous feet still prepare to board the bus. It is like some migratory settlement, some open market of the newest signals, symbols of confidence being exhibited by frantic-eyed performers, their audiences simultaneously dazed in awful rapture and secretly plotting their individual means of perfect mimicry. That was the world of the bus.

At the end of eighth grade I asked Roger's daughter to sign my yearbook. As she was doing so, a tall, muscular boy named Brandon approached us. He insulted her, she defended, and he insulted her again before leaving us, my yearbook still in her hand. She finished writing her sweet congratulations and best wishes; she handed me back the yearbook and walked away weeping.

***

Roger's porch was lit by a solitary black light, casting unearthly shadows of perfect terror. And there, in the middle of the table, on a silver platter, was Roger's head, pale and bloody. "Take one please; only one piece of candy," the head would say in a hallow voice, as though its vocal chords were no match for the undead decay creeping up slowly from the empty veins at the neck. Roger was always just seconds from the guillotine, freshly lulling open his tired eyes to observe the world as if for the last time; each child the son or daughter of some French revolutionary, screaming as a parent chuckled, delighted at the memory of Her Majesty The Blade.

Stage-left was Jo's house. No twists here, only the most finely crafted jack-o-lanterns I have ever seen.

***

Jo was one of my dearest childhood friends and, to the best of my knowledge, is still one of the best artists of all time, ever. I was friends too with Chris and Kevin, but this latter friendship was much more about looking up sexual words in the dictionary, trying to figure out what a condom was, and getting caught repeatedly looking at Playboy magazines whilst (to the grave, no pun intended) swearing that they were only the latest issues of Sports Illustrated.

But Jo's friendship was much more meaningful, we would draw or paint together in her garage and talk. She loved Greenday and mohawks, she showed me once a model of a M*A*S*H helicopter she had made, she showed me her art, we often rollerbladed together.

At one point Jo owned a pair of large toads. One day we were in the garage observing the toads - one was sitting on top of the other. "I think they're mating," I said. That was my only awkward moment with Jo.

One summer Jo came back from school to visit. She had a purple mohawk and piercings. She came over to our house and told our family about her new adventures, we laughed at her stories (somehow a bumblebee had once gotten caught in her mohawk) and were excited for Jo, we loved her, I loved her.

***

Each pumpkin on the walkway leading up to Jo's front door was a brilliant work of art. There were symbols or scenes, witches, beasts, dragons, everything - a museum made mausoleum, the artwork displayed in creeping beauty to visitors with images of Roger's severed head still fresh in their minds. At the door there was usually only a simple bowl; that's just how Jo's family was, a bit reclusive, a bit mysterious. I would never enter the kitchen or living room of that house until years later, when Jo and her family had long since stopped curating the eery walkway.

Across the street was Janette's house, the piéce de résistance. Even before you approached the house, even before you approached the cul-de-sac, you knew about Janette, the witch, her wailing cackle piercing the night at regular intervals, carrying on for miles. At Janette's there was no candy, there was something else: witch's brew. Her evil screeches billowing from her like the clouds from her gigantic black cauldron. The witch herself was disgusting, sitting, one would imagine, on a chair made from the bones of eaten children. As she poured you a drink, you wondered what frightening ingredients had been added, what subtle poisons might be found within. Long, green fingers handed you the styrofoam cup from which you drank your doom; Hawaiian Punch, devious.

Janette died of cancer a few years ago. Every Halloween I remember her, hear her witch's laugh resounding in my head, taste the brew. It tastes like childhood, it tastes like cool autumn nights when I didn't wish my mattress was an ice block before falling asleep. It tastes like something instantly lovable and instantly respected. That was Janette to me, stubborn, but friendly - powerful in personality and sweet in understanding. Dedicated to community and neighborhood and family, a mover, and the finest screamer I have ever heard. No witch I have met comes close. Halloween isn't the same without Janette, but at the same time, Halloween couldn't be what it is to me without her.

10.19.11

I remember it as a perfect day in California, only a few skim-milky clouds spreading thin across a pale sky. I like to think that an airplane or two crossed that weightless sky as they often did. My mother and I were in the backyard of our house. I remember the backyard only slightly - there was a small table and chairs, the table may have even had a large umbrella to shade it from Valencia's heavy July's and August's. That was the same house that resided across the street for a taller house that had, at the tip of its roof, a small concrete cap that always looked like snow to me. Ironic too as I do not remember it ever snowing there, though it did once - we have pictures.

That was the same house from which we moved when I was still relatively young. I remember sitting in the passenger seat of our car as my mother drove us away, down Gaucho Ct. one last time. As we reached the corner of Gaucho and Magdalena, she began to weep. As I reflect now, I can only imagine what she felt - perhaps that strange quasi-grief that so often accompanies us when we move on to a new stage of life, a feeling of gentle peace and loss that simmers late into the evening, pushing our minds into reverie as we go from Magdalena to Del Monte to Estaban, down John Russell to Alta Dr., where the years of this new stage will sweep by in brilliance.

But all that is to come; for now, my mother and I are still in the backyard on Gaucho Ct. A tall wooden fence surrounds the backyard, a dark, dry wood that is frequented with knotted holes just big enough to peek through. One time I remember observing a gigantic grasshopper crawl across the fence on the left side of the patio - it was about as big as my whole head, maybe my entire body, it inevitably gets bigger every time I am brave enough to recall the memory. Suddenly the grasshopper haphazardly jumped off the fence and attacked me; I am still terrified of grasshoppers.

My dear mother will not budge, she has a plate of macaroni and cheese in front of her and is wielding a fork with one solitary, cheesy noodle impaled upon it. I do not want to eat the noodle; my mind cries against it in childish drama. I simultaneously crave the attention of my mother, fear the social implications of walking away, and am adamantly determined never to admit that menacing noodle into my tiny mouth. I do not want to eat the noodle! Why do I have to eat it!? Its gross; I don't like it; I don't want it!

Surprisingly, I'm not sure entirely why I don't want it. I mean, it might not taste amazing, but what am I so afraid of? And I afraid it will kill me? Not really. Hurt me? No. Cause emotional duress? Leave a bad taste in my mouth? Induce violent convulsions? No, maybe a little, but not really, and no. Are any of my friends there to make fun of me? No. Wow, I'm really running out of possibilities...

Somehow the situation embarrasses me; somehow I have decided that I do not want to eat the noodle (perhaps due to its purely undesirable unknown-ness) and that now eating it would have some adverse effect on my control of the scenario. My mother doesn't understand: she thinks that eating the noodle will help me overcome some trivial fear of the unknown. Little does she know how badly she is upsetting the complete social comfort of my life that I worked so desperately hard to achieve; an environment where I simply do not do what I don't want to do - what is she trying to pull!? I do not want to eat the noodle!

My mother understood perfectly. Years of mature confidence and patience now paid off as she brandished that cursed silverware with its painfully unrelenting noodle. She waited, resolute in winning this mental battle, in staking her claim and completely derailing the institutional cohesion of my wonderfully parasitic utopia. But I was fixed there too with something far more dangerous than patience, confidence, and determination: love.

To this day, I hate macaroni and cheese. To this day I shudder at its gooey consistency and the squishy sounds of cheese and noodle and bowl. To this day I hesitate to accept such apparently undesirable dishes into my mouth and stomach; into my being. And to this day I remember somewhere deep within me the lesson of that one lonesome noodle. And though I may weep and kick and hurt that such a noodle be presented me, ultimately I must take it and eat it, just like I did on that early-summer's day. And once the noodle hits my mouth and I begin to chew I inevitably remember that mac and cheese doesn't taste so bad or that, even if it does, the reasons that fix me there seem to always infuse the pain of chews and swallows with something from my mother's tender, deep desire.