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.