phenomena.

Here I am.

I went back and read a lot of what I used to house here. I think that for a lot of people, there might be some merit to the classical notion that the most beautiful things come out of anguish. I realize that other people have problems too, but there was indeed a certain clarity to the literary documentation of my constant emotional suffering. There was a sincerity and poignancy that, if I may, I find difficult to hone in on these days. That said, I'm far from suffering and hope to achieve something different than before by documenting my travels more objectively. I'm headed toward bigger, better things and would like to use the catharsis of journaling to share the experience rather than wallow. Is this weird, indicting my former self that way? He'd no doubt understand that often times, we're swallowed up by circumstance and can't see through the haze. I was circumstantially miserable, and I'm not anymore. We'll see how long that lasts, I suppose.

I spent the most lovely ten months of my life living in Charleston, working for the largest professional theatre in the state. I had the opportunity to perform in several professional productions, teach some of the most delightful children, experience the culture and and beauty of one of the most incredible American cities, and above all, create relationships that I hold largely responsible for rescuing me from the emotional mire. I don't want to sound rude, but when I moved there, I never thought that I would create the types of connections that I did. Real, intense, loving connections with people who come from a very different place from me. I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose, because if I'm anything, its constantly blessed with opportunities to meet the most amazing

people. But I recall a sense of pessimism about the interpersonal aspect of the contract when I moved there, a reservation about my ability to ever create and establish the kinds of relationships that I had from before:

"I have begun meeting people, vining out socially and giving out

kernels (only ever small and brightly colored baubles) of self, establishing my type and my grit (or relative lack thereof), making my habits and attributes and stripes apparent and clear. I have met some wonderful people and grown close to them quickly. I've created a pattern, tested it, and know that it works. I'm safe, but far and guarded. What can one do when walking foreign land? "

Well, that was silly. I made some of the best friends I've ever had, and leaving them ranks up among one of the hardest things I've had to do. Man. Come to think of it, I really lived it up. I danced (a lot), I sang, I acted, I ran and walked and biked (oh how I biked), I shared, I drank, I I partied and cooked, I taught and learned (man...I learned a lot), I cried, I traveled, I ate. I was so wonderfully, undeniably myself. It was truly an oasis. I had arguably the most fun of my entire life, and the relief is in knowing that those wonderful people will all still be around. Good times.

I've moved back to Virginia to live for a few months with my sister. She's 5 1/2 months with a

baby girl, my first niece, who's due sometime in October. The little one weighs only a pound but I already feel so fondly for her. I was lucky enough to go with my sister to her most recent ultrasound, and I got to see the little darling in the womb. At one point, she angled her body such that she was facing the sensor with her mouth open. I don't know about you, but to me, that looks like a smile.

Living with my sister has been great. We live at a medium-pace which, while at times a bit lethargic, is a welcome change from the often 14 hour days spent working in Charleston. There is a bit of a culture shock of course, leaving Charleston's internationally-renowned restaurants and rich history for the suburb of such a place here in Virginia, but we make do. I've had a great deal of time to recommit fully to my other responsibilities and passions, namely my work with CASA and my podcast, Mouth Off!, and I'm arranging again. This week, I start a new, fantastic job in Hampton. On Wednesday I begin as the Director of Youth Day Camps for the Salvation Army. I'll be responsible for, well, directing their day camps. From managing and scheduling the counselors, leading field trips, organizing the daily schedules and maintaining the administrative end of the program, I'll be working full time for the summer, for once, in a position that will really utilize my skills. I've mentioned a lot how much fun I had in Charleston, but I haven't mentioned how absolutely invaluable the experience was in giving me really helpful skills to put on my resume. I'm really excited to start, to get to be working with children still, to be occupying my time and making a difference. You know, all of that altruistic, good-spirited stuff.

But also, I'm really glad to be making money. Enough money to save money, so that this Fall or early Winter, I can make my way to New York City. Working in the theatre for an extended contract really reinvigorated the never-dead but often hidden desire of mine to live and breathe in the performing arts. My time away after college really killed the drive in me, but being on stage- performing and singing and arranging and teaching- made me feel terrific, and I have tapped into some terrific and exciting new aspects of my abilities. I think it's the place for me. Also, there's a lot of a cappella, ALL of the theatre in the world, and friends. Lots of friends. Namely, one James who has been there for less than a month and is already living the dream- hopefully homeboy is placeholding for when I get up there.

So that's all of that. What's happening now? Next weekend I'm flying to San Jose, CA for the CASA Board Retreat. It's one of the only time years that the acting Board members get to convene and do the awesome work of the organization all together in the same room. At the end of the month, I'm going with Brittany to see the new Twilight movie. No, it wasn't my idea, and no, I'm not a fan, but there's a fun little grown-up party being held at the Air and Space museum downtown and frankly, who am I to turn down fun and free vampire-themed alcohol and food? (In other vampire news, Season 3 of True Blood starts tonight- I am very happy about this. )

And finally, if you're looking for your a cappella fix this summer, I've got the hookup. Primarily through my podcast, Mouth Off! (which, if you're reading this, you should subscribe to), I've scouted out a few terrific new collegiate albums coming out. I'll post some more about them this week, but they're goooooood. In pursuit of some aca-reading? Check out my friend Andrea's new blog dedicated to her quest for a cappella stardom after college. This weekend we had a fun (and hopefully informative) talk about what she can do to keep up with aca after school- and basically, we're in love so you should definitely check it out here.

That's it for now- but hopefully I'll be around more consistently. I have lots to say and finally have the time in which to say it. Things are good. That's a pretty amazing thing to be able to say.

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good things.

I'm going to be waking this here thingy up very soon, but for right now suffice it to say that my life is in full gear. A new job, a new home, a new plan and a new outlook are all about to send me into a pretty remarkable new place.

Stay tuned.

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Got to see the River Man.

Betty came by on her way
Said she had a word to say
About things today
And fallen leaves

Said she hadn't heard the news
Hadn't ahd the time to choose
A way to lose
But she believes

Gonna to see the river man
Gonna to tell him all I can
About the plan
For lilac time

If he tells me all he knows
About the way his river flows
And all night shows
In summertime

Betty said she prayed today
For the sky to blow away
Or maybe stay
She wasn't sure

For when she tought of summer rain
Calling for her mind again
She lost the pain
And stayed for more

Gonna see the river man
Gonna to tell him all I can
About the ban
On feeling free

If he tells me all he knows
About the way his river flows
I don't suppose
It's meant for me

Oh, how they come and go

Oh, how they come and go

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=idcaRTg4-fM

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that boy is a monster.

Forgiveness. I mean, just look at it again, say it in your head, mull over its meaning and then say it out loud. Forgiveness. What an insipid, whiny word. And isn’t it funny how this word, or rather the abstraction that the word represents, is the gateway to either the rebuilding or complete demise of most human relationships. We all mess up, and we all must repent. The problem for me is that I know that we all should forgive, but I’m finding that that’s coming harder for me now than ever before.

Its funny to write about, that is, to see these thoughts in print. I stopped journaling largely because I ran out of time, but also because I became exhausted. The retelling of only the negative aspects of my rather inconsistent life was starting to make me feel tired, so I took a break. And despite the fact that I am a memoryphile, one who lives in dual awe and fear of what memories can do to the brain and heart, it was becoming too much to relive things a second time. At any rate, I suppose that I’m visiting now to seek that original sensation of catharsis and release at getting some of it out. I realized recently that despite my positively lovely day-to-day life in Charleston, I don’t do much talking. That is, I don’t do much talking of the really valuable kind- the kind of talking in which you talk about the things that really matter to you, talking about how you feel (and why), the kind of talking that improves you. I don’t do much of that anymore…largely because, again, I have no time, but also because there seems to be a shortage of folks I can trick into following me down that labored path.

Anyway, forgiveness. You know, God has a pretty clear stance on forgiveness, a pretty cut and dried one. Something like, “forgive everyone, right away, because you’re not in a place to NOT forgive them.” I can get behind that, except that I’m not a deity, and my real flesh goes on pulsing with the hurt and the fury long after the transgression. Anyway, the long and short of it with me is that I know what I’m supposed to do. And I can say with some clarity that is a great place to be in, to know what you’re supposed to do or be doing. Lots of people, like my mother, spend their whole lives just trying to figure out what it is they ought to be doing. I’m lucky to say that I think I have a pretty good idea, and I am faithful enough that God and fate will intervene and push back when I’m doing the wrong thing. That said, my struggle right now during my time home in Virginia is not in knowing what I’m supposed to do about the situation (which is simply forgive), its in finding the strength to do it.

I’ve considered writing a book (honestly, I have considered this) about the past two years of my life. Not because I’m under the silly delusion that its so compelling a story that people would want to read it more than anything else, but because I think its so bizarre, absurd and otherworldly that for my own amusement, experiencing it as a reader, an outsider, might illuminate even more for me. That said, the pace of events did manage to teach me some valuable things, among them self-control.

Which brings me to today, in which that same self-control that I learned and nurtured during the past year’s episode was put to the test. I succeeded in being reasonable, but am left wondering if that is enough. Release, for me, true release, tends to be a bit overwhelming. Years of carefully and deliberately packaging away emotional nuggets can put everything in its right place, yes, but then you’ve collected a room full of delicate trinkets just waiting to be bothered. When they do happen to be bothered, things can get…well…broken. And while I preserved the condition of everything in the room this time, the passive attacks on my character and motivations are really shaking things up.

So what does all of this cryptic fodder even mean? Well, it means that, just like in life, I can’t talk openly. It’s unbecoming of a gentleman. So, like in life, I come up with creative euphemisms about emotional trinkets on shelves in abstract cerebral rooms, all in an effort to effectively but politely admit that I am not, and don’t know how to be, in a position to forgive my mother for the stable of wrongs she‘s passed and continues to pass on us. As far as I can see, not much results from her ongoing presence in our lives save more confusion, vitriol and anger. When you’ve a tumor or a hangnail or a stain in your shirt, you get rid of it. So with that in mind, why not similarly rid yourself of a presence in your life that only functions to warmly welcome in an atmosphere of negativity? Naturally, this attitude of mine (which, let’s be honest, is perfectly practical) has vilified me in the standard manner, because it’s so “cold”. Some things just never change, I suppose.

What can I say? One has to chill the exterior to cool the hot anger on the interior. "Apathy is your best friend right now." I'd normally not condone such a sentiment, but when the alternative is fiercely going off on someone, I'll compromise on my stance.
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flèche et croisé

I'm going to let you down, going to toss you around, going to make you want everything you haven't found. I'm going to hold your hand, then ask you to stand ten feet away. And it's just like you said- I live in my head. I'm saving up all that I can til I'm dead. It's always the same, and never the same way.

And oh if you don't want me though, I'll only want you more. I fall in love with hard to get- you know you're just like me: a mystery with nothing more to see, a virtual reality.

I'm in a love affair without a love song. I'm in the habit of having what I don't want. I'm just a hologram- you can see, but don't touch me baby. Oh, I bet you want me.

I am taking up space, I'm right out of place, I'm holding a half-hearted smile to your face. It's pretty enough, but watch out- it fades away. Time is ticking so fast! Does anything last? Soon I will be just a part of your past! I'll leave you with this, you hold on in blissful memories.

Now that you can see I'm not, not what you make of me:

I'm in a love affair without a song. I'm in the habit of having what I don't want. I'm just a hologram- you can see, but don't touch me baby. Oh, I bet you want me now.
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tightly wound.

i haven't been so bottled up since...well...since I don't know how long.

at any rate, where is my master?

(i almost called you today- almost wrote. but opted not to after i saw it there, that familiar smear that smacks of cheap connect. i almost said the 'miss' and almost cleared the cache, but realized that i'm no longer inclined to move backwards.)

at the risk of sounding like my loathsome former self, i've been struggling a bit. a small, small bit, but struggling nonetheless. i got dust in my eyes and i can't get it out, so to speak. the honeymoon is over and i'm finding/remembering that i'm actual. i'm strong, but actual and breakable as well- to be honest, this reminder is not a welcome one.

i've fallen victim to that sickness (again), the mucky but crackling torture, inside and outside, waking and sleeping. there isa cure, but i don't know it.

so.

what can i do but bottle up and wait for the wonderful blast?

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hitting home.

A falling star fell from your heart and landed in my eyes
I screamed aloud, as it tore through them, and now it's left me blind

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark

No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight

In the shadow of your heart

And in the dark, I can hear your heartbeat
I tried to find the sound
But then it stopped, and I was in the darkness,
So darkness I became

I took the stars from our eyes, and then I made a map
And knew that somehow I could find my way back
Then I heard your heart beating, you were in the darkness too
So I stayed in the darkness with you

The stars, the moon, they have all been blown out
You left me in the dark
No dawn, no day, I'm always in this twilight
In the shadow of your heart

Someone just kill me now.
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steps of man.

My poor, neglected blog. I've come to think of it as a person, a friend to whom I cryptically confess things that I've worked over in my mind, but a friend that doesn't have anything to say back. I always feel guilty, and responsible as it were, to my journal when I don't write in it. I realized the other day (while washing my hair in the shower) that that guilt I feel when I don't take the time to scrape all of this off of the inside of my skull and onto the keyboard is guilt towards what I'm not keeping track of for my future self. Inevitably in a year or maybe two, I'll want to look back at this and see that I neglected to keep track of the past two months.

A lot has happened- I spent a week in West Palm Beach, recharging. Honestly, like a hungry sponge I just reveled in sun and warm air and salt water and beer (lots and lots and LOTS of beer) and love. Comfort and love were abounding- I slept in a small room with my favorite people in the world, and didn't even have perspective until after I'd gotten back about just how much I needed that break. In the planning phases, Whitney and I knew that we were getting burned out and that we needed a break, but I don't think either of us knew just how much we needed to live, even if for four days, without any real responsibilities. At any rate, it was lovely. I miss it everyday.

I moved to Charleston- I'm here there now. I work for a theatre company teaching (alot) and acting (alot), and it's rewarding and tiring and altogether near perfect. Apologies for using the cliche, but Charleston really is a beautiful city. The view from my new apartment downtown is amazing- a harbor which houses the yachts and sailboats of very rich people, and the sun sets in my living room window, which makes the room orange and red and purple every evening that isn't cloudy. There are hundreds of fantastic restaurants in town which I've begun to scope out, there's history and charm and seabreezes. There is also, unfortunately, a horribly oppressive spectrum of heat and humidity. I hear from locals though the everything is much better, much prettier, and much more bearable come October.

I have begun meeting people, vining out socially and giving out kernels (only ever small and brightly colored baubles) of self, establishing my type and my grit (or relative lack thereof), making my habits and attributes and stripes apparent and clear. I have met some wonderful people and grown close to them quickly. I've created a pattern, tested it, and know that it works. I'm safe, but far and guarded. What can one do when walking foreign land? My mother emails and I don't respond- such a statement bears no meaning to anyone here.

I don't suppose that I have much else specific to say. I'm sorry for abandoning this here page. I hope it's forgiven me.

After all, who will shut all of these windows? It's these windows who are telling me to cleanse my dirty mind of all of its preciousness.
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t.y.t.o 2009

"What was it --- through everything terrible, nocturnal, unwieldy --- what was that thing? It had been last to move aside, reluctantly yielding to the huge, heavy wagons of sleep, and now it was the first to hurry back --- so pleasant, so very pleasant --- swelling, growing more distinct, suffusing his heart with warmth: Marthe is coming today!"

---Vladimir Nabokov, "Invitation to a Beheading"
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mouth off.

I wrote up this post for the introduction of my new a cappella podcast that I've co-created with my friend Dave Brown and posted it on casa.org. For the sake of posterity and for the maybe 2 friends I have that read this but not anything else I produce, I'm cross-posting it. If you love me, you will listen.

The world of a cappella music is such a fun place. We’re a strange little microcosm of the greater music industry, full of brilliant minds and tons of talent and huge personalities. We’re in a community where time flies by almost in dog years it would seem (in that case, I’ve been singing aca for 42 years!), and we’ve proven that with time, we adapt quite ably to this rush of progress. The a cappella recordings of the 1990’s sound generations different from those of the early 2000’s, and the recordings of the early 2000’s sound primitive compared to the recordings of 2009. The champions of the ICCA went, in just a few years, from standing in an arc and singing their heads off, to singing their heads off while LITERALLY doing backflips across the stage. We went from having Rockapella and Take 6 acting as our only liaisons to the greater musical community, to having shows produced on major network television channels, and original artists creating albums of our covers. We’re evolving, and we’re doing it quickly.

It’s this sense of joyous and frenzied adaptation that brought me and my devilishly handsome and talented cohort Dave Brown to conceive of and produce our new podcast, lovingly named Mouth Off. There are several aca-podcasts out there, each beautifully filling its niche in our musical realm. Our mutual love for these shows as well as our incredibly nerdy obsession with the radio programs on NPR inspired us to take a shot at it ourselves. But we didn’t want to develop a show like anything we’d heard before in our acaverse. We wanted to mouth off about issues in a cappella like competition, arranging and recording style in a forum other than RARB. We’ve been aching for a venue to openly and creatively share our personal tastes in a cappella music with our peers. We wanted to chat it up about this group and that group; we wanted to shine a light on the incredible arrangements that move us, to make a shout out to the little guy (or girl) in a cappella who’s working hard without much recognition, to share music you may have never heard, to talk shop about recording and rehearsal practice, to wonder about crappy album art. But more than that, we wanted the chance to have a blast while geeking out over the one topic that somehow, without bringing either of us much money or widespread fame, has gripped our musical souls without letting go. Thus, Mouth Off was born.

And mouth off, we do. This podcast is a weekly show, to be released every Sunday night. It includes interactive segments in a 2 person talk show format (think “Car Talk“, just younger and louder). We pit arrangements of the same song against each other to learn about different arranging perspectives, honor our personal vocal heroes and voice crushes, visit the a cappella of the (not-so-distant) past to see from whence we came, and review new albums from a variety of groups all in an effort to gab about our opinions and share our fascination with the human voice. We’ve strived to create a show that not only aca-heads like ourselves will love, but that non-singers can tune into and have a laugh while hearing and learning about things they might not have known before.

While we’re both extremely active in the a cappella community, this show isn’t directly affiliated with any of our other projects. This is just a side project from two guys who can’t turn on the radio without insta-rranging songs in our head, can’t hear a friend talk about a song without mentioning a far superior a cappella version we own, and spend maybe too much time anxiously awaiting the new BOCA. We hope that this show reaches out to the people like us as well as those who couldn’t give a damn about a cappella music. More than that, though, we just hope that this show is fun to listen to .

So, my humble request is that you check out our show when you’ve got a few moments to spare. You can find a new show every week at www.mouthoffshow.com, as well as some info about us bozos and our lovely announcer Ms. Alli Brooks, as well as links to some of the places in the acaverse that get us all excited. If you’re an audiophile like me, you can also check us out on iTunes by searching for “Mouth Off” under “Podcasts”. It’s going to be a good time, and we cant wait for you to check it out! We’re beyond excited to announce Mouth Off to the a cappella community at large. We hope you have fun, learn something new, get to know us better, and let us know what you think!
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propinquity.

I left for work at about 5:15 this afternoon to work a closing shift at the store. I was running a few minutes late, but my manager’s are almost all very laid back, so I wasn’t too worried about being three or four minutes late. I showered right after an early dinner of good old American meat and potatoes: pot roast, baked potatoes and carrots and biscuits, and felt for the most part that I’d rid myself of the mood that was following me around earlier in the day. (I’m particularly susceptible to a sort of hazy gloom as summer unrolls its oppressive waves of heat on us. This isn’t something I’ve found I can really affect, only learn to deal with.) In short, I was feeling good, or at least better.

I got in the car and headed down the same route that I always follow to get to work: right on Harpersville, left on the Parkway, right on Coliseum, left into work. While I was on the Parkway, stopped at the light at Big Bethel Rd., I was more than usual engrossed in my own thoughts. Listening to an album that I’ll be reviewing here soon for my podcast (I should have thought to cross-post my other blog about it…at any rate, you can read that HERE), I was organizing critique in my head and assessing the ins and outs of the groups arranging style and delivery. A sharp clapping sound (like lightning striking) interrupted my thoughts. I looked out the window to my front right and saw that there had been a wreck in the middle of the intersection.

A large white SUV, a monstrous tricked-out GMC, had smashed into the passenger side of a silver Chrysler convertible who‘d tested her luck and run the red light. On the other side of the convertible, an old pickup truck with a faded cab had rammed into the driver’s side of the convertible and bounced away.

For about thirty seconds, nothing moved. Not me, not the other people in the cars around me, and none of the drivers of the scrapped cars. There was almost silence. Then, after that short vacuum of sound, the Hispanic woman who drove the SUV got out, as did the short, plump woman driving the pick up truck. Both paced around the outside of their vehicles, clutching their cell phones, desperately assessing the damage to their cars. They didn’t notice that the driver of the convertible wasn’t joining in their post-traumatic ritual.

I started to panic. I felt like I was suffocating. It was the a cappella music. I turned it off, having completely lost whatever thoughts I’d had about the review. I scolded myself for even thinking about the damned review, because it seemed that no one had noticed that the third driver hadn’t gotten out of her car.

What made this worse was the image that first flashed through my mind- it was of the method I often use to remove a shriveled and curled up dead beetle from the dusty corners in my room. I grab a tissue (or two, depending on the size of the insect), and grasp the bug holding the middle of the two tissues, bunching it up furiously as soon as I’ve made contact with it in order to avoid it touching my bare skin. The convertible looked very much like the tissue. I felt instantly nauseous when I thought of the poor beetle woman inside.

I couldn’t even see her. The metal and glass had crumpled so over itself that she wasn’t visible. As my panic rose, I searched for my cell phone. I’d left it at home. I put my car in neutral and yanked on the parking brake, thinking for a second that I’d get out to help her. Then I worried about leaving my car in the middle of a busy road. Then I considered just driving off, but argued internally that the police might need witnesses. I argued with myself for about twenty seconds, and in that time, luckily, a host of different people were pulling into the median and onto the side of the road, parking, and rushing from their cars to the scene.

Because I live about three miles from an Air Force base, there were several men in camouflage fatigues who rushed to stand around the cars. One of them began directing traffic. Another tall, muscular man who looked like he’s just left the gym ran to the convertible, and after surveying the damage, leapt onto the trunk of the car to try to see down into the crunched up driver‘s seat. After about another minute, the car was completely hidden from view by the wall of concerned and nosy citizens.

A man who’d parked his own SUV in the median and run towards the wreckage with emergency flares returned to his parked car which was right by me, when the man in the car to my right shouted to him, “Is she ok?” The man with the flares seemed too preoccupied to answer, so the man to my right yelled his question again. The flare man heard him this time and stopped, looked confused and then very anxious, muttered something unintelligible and went back to whatever duty he’d been given.

The military man directing traffic wasn’t following the cues of the traffic lights (which hadn’t actually malfunctioned), so I sat through another two green lights before being beckoned to drive through, awkwardly, on a red light. I drove past the devastated cars and the crowd of people and then over the hill to Coliseum drive, where I took a right and got to work only a few minutes late. I saw two emergency trucks flying down the road the other way to get to the accident. The people on their side didn’t slow down or pull over like they’re supposed to. I was struck by the disrespect for human life, so discreetly buried in their lack of action.

After I got into work, got to the computer where I clock in, put my keys away and got a swig of water, I realized that I was shaking rather violently. I’d been grasping the steering wheel and gear shift so hard during the accident that my hands were achy.

I went about the tasks that had been assigned to me in our notebook (and I think its worth noting that there was more work than usual…seems the two guys who were working the shift before me had given themselves an easy day), and all the while felt like I was in a dream. I have to be honest with myself; I have to speak frankly. The woman in that convertible most likely died. She was buried in the fuselage from her own car. How could she have survived? And if she did, what must she look like now? I was so shaken that I was ignoring my co-workers questions (he doesn’t work very much in that department and asked a lot of questions) and ignoring customers asking for help.

From the outside, it seems so cliché when someone mentions a jarring shift in perspective. That said, seeing the gruesome crash changed my perspective on my life, right now, deeply. It molded and morphed the shape of things I juggle daily; how much sadder I now feel that Alex wants nothing to do with me, how much heavier it is to know that my mother’s creating (or so she says) a new life without us, how much more terrible is each day that passes and I don’t sing. But conversely, how silly is my crush on the larger room in my new apartment in Charleston? How ridiculous my unspoken arguments with my alma mater, or my fretting about an extra 5 pounds on my frame? It all seems so different. I hesitate to brush it all aside as “trivial” or “meaningless”; before today, they mattered, and after today it all still matters. It all matters. Every last worry, every last anxiety, every last bauble that tinkers back in forth in my head when I wish I were sleeping. They all matter. And perhaps, in spite of what I’ve just said, the smaller things matter more when I consider the inherent temporariness of the “big” things. (How much more valuable is it now when Iago comes up to me as I type this, and puts his paw on my arm. Is he comforting me or asking for attention? Either way, its worth the world right now.)

At any rate, the day exhausted me. How fitting that I’m ridding Invitation to a Beheading. Cincinnatus, who’s been sentenced to death by beheading, lives tortured day after tortured day in an absurd prison in which the date of his execution is kept from him, his visitors are bizarre and otherworldly, and he has no choice but to ruminate daily about his very secret but very imminent and bloody demise. He lives each day thinking the next is his last. And then, of course, it isn’t.

That guy, what was his name? (Googling now...) Ah! Matt Nathanson, the guy who wrote that song, 'Car Crash'. If I recall correctly, it was a fairly popular song last year. "I wanna feel the car crash/I wanna feel the capsize/I wanna feel the bomb drop, the earth stop/'Til I'm satisfied"...He's clearly never seen someone die in a car crash, otherwise he wouldn't want for it so desperately.



My opinion is that no day is a good day to be rudely confronted with one’s own mortality.
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I fought the war, but the war won

I've appreciated this year of respite from grown-up living, I really have. Staying with my family for free right after college, saving up some money, going on auditions and interviews while spending some solitary (read: friend-less) time to figure myself out has been a real blessing. I've enjoyed the quiet.

Unfortunately, we live in a real house. With a yard, and a garage, and gutters. And I, as the largest and oldest male in the house am expected to contribute my physical strength and stature to the upkeep of these more brutish aspects of real home living.

Hence the reason for this writing, my war with the gutters.

When I woke up, my grandmother asked if I'd clean out the gutters. They hadn't been cleaned out since fall, and as we're expecting some heavy rain, we don't want them to get too heavy and fall. She was smiling as if she'd accomplished something big and couldn't keep it to herself. I said, "sure I will." As if she really couldn't contain it anymore, she beams at me and points to the space by the front door. Lying on the ground is a long silver hook with a spout at the end, wrapped in that abominable plastic that makes Christmas presents (headphones, Rubix cubes) so damned hard to get into without inflicting serious harm on oneself. "It's a gutter cleaner!" she says, "it's going to make it so much easier for you!"

After she leaves to take my brother to the doctor and then to get a haircut (he recently attempted to cut his own hair in the bathroom...he looks kind of like this now) I decided to throw on some clothes and do the dumb gutters.

The gutter cleaner hooks up to a hose. You can turn it on after you've placed the hooked end in the gutter, and it will pressurize the water to spray out the nasty things caked in the gutter. Those are its supposed functions, at least. Our gutter cleaner failed in that it didn't pressurize the water NEARLY enough to blast away all of the leaves and such, and the cleaner doesn't hook up to the hose cleanly. So in hooking it up, the seal broke a disc of water sprayed out. As as I was trying to spray things out of the gutter after finagling the hookup, a seal broke in the MIDDLE of the cleaner, and all of the stored up pressurized water poured out and soaked me. The top half of the cleaner got stuck on a branch, pulling it apart, sending water into the air (and then back down onto me.) I thought I'd get closer to make things easier and not have to reach so far, and pulled out the ladder. The continued seal breaking soaked the ladder, and while doing the back gutters I slipped on the top rung and fell from it into my sister's new garden. I crushed a few herbs (don't tell her) and ruined the jeans I was wearing in that really dark fresh bumper crop soil. Finally, one half of the front gutter just...fell...down.

I wouldn't consider myself physically unable to do outdoorsy work, not by a longshot. I've done tons of yard work, tons of garage cleaning, tons of weeding and sweeping. Add to that, I'm 6'4" and 200 lbs of dude. We all sort of figured my height would make this project easier for me than the others. We were wrong.

I'll stick to raking the leaves, thank you very much.

Edit: I just found out that my brother had already cleaned the back gutters. Oh God. Someone kill me now.
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"artists are thieves" and the like...

Mmhmm.

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a small history.

Today, my grandmother was in the living room sorting through hundreds of old pictures out of a box from the attic. The pictures were from me and my sibling’s childhoods, all the way back to my Mom’s childhood. I went to work, and when I came home all of the photos were sorted out, I guess, to wherever she wanted them to be. One thing was left out, on the coffee table, a yellowing piece of wide ruled notebook paper with pretty legible elementary school level handwriting on it. I figured it was on of my many rip-off stories from middle school, so I read through it:

“The Snow Queen (Story)
The Snow Queen is the queen of snow. She makes snow come down, stop, and stop. The snow queen is not a person she’s a big cloud. Her home is every where. She was the prettiest cloud in the world. She was a very big cloud. To every other cloud she was the beautifulest cloud for a queen. Snow Queen had one boy friend it was a rain cloud. His name was Rain King. They fell in love with each other and finly got merried. And Snow Queen had two baby clouds a boy and girl. There names were Twinkle (girl) Shower (boy).When Twinkle and Shower grew up they became very famous like there mother and father. Twinkle made evry summer day very beautiful. And Shower all ways gave spring showers. Snow Queen made winter ground sparkle all covered with her white coat of snow. Rain King made all farmers happy because wher Rain King rained he helped there crops grow. They made a lovely family. One day Snow Queen was snowing and she ran out of snow. And a few days later Snow Queen had pasted away.

The End
By Sandy Hicks”


These things seem to creep up on you, don’t they?
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the new face of zero and one

I woke up this morning with a heartache.

No, I'm not talking about heartburn. I'd like to think I'm experienced enough with that, after my years of late night beer and wine drinking, Pokey sticks and Pad Thai. That fiery morning retribution has a very specific timbre. This is not heartburn. It's a heartache.

I went about the day, doing what I always do. It was a Sunday, so I did some cleaning and dishes, then sat down and did some work on arrangements I have backlogged. I wrote a few emails and went grocery shopping. It was raining. I listened to jazz.

But what IS that nagging? That...throbbing? I can feel it in that nether-region in my middle, that place that only reports sensation to my brain when it's filled with longing or hurt. If I wasn't itching to finish reading this novel and sit down to watch a movie with Gabrielle, I'd spend some time to consider a name for that place that nags me so regularly...what can I call it?

Unbeknownst to me, the Furies have apparently been pursuing me too.

Maybe it's you? Maybe it's sympathetic vibrations. It's possible that I'm hurting for you. Maybe it's my mother. Maybe it's Snorty (oh hello...I didn't see you there). Maybe it's the rain?

It's probably the rain. Wait, it's ice now. My front lawn is white.

Yeah, it's probably the ice.
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Quotes from Bruton Ave.

Brent: "Hey, did you know that if you pour hot water into a bag or bucket of maggots they poop themselves to death?"
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Orestes pursued by the Furies

In the painting Orestes Pursued by the Furies, William Adolphe Bouguereau has created a scene inspired by ancient Greek mythology and tragedy. The image is based on a particularly dramatic portion of the legend of Orestes. According to some versions of the story, Orestes killed his mother Clytemnestra as an act of revenge (Clytemnestra had earlier murdered her husband Agamemnon). In turn, Orestes himself was punished by the avenging spirits known in myth as the Furies for taking the life of his own mother. Some sources even claim that the young man was driven mad by these Greek goddesses of vengeance.


I would hardly consider myself an art connoisseur. To the contrary, when at a museum I'm forced into that blissfully ignorant situation in which my only real opinions on the piece center around how it makes me feel--- I'm hardly in a place to consider technique or style. When my sister, grandmother and I went to the Chrysler Museum of Art yesterday, this, of all of the hundreds of pieces of art I saw, moved me the most.

The first thing that I noticed when I walked by it in the large room, full of 19th century Neo-Classical sceneries and portraits was Orestes' eyes. They're so full of anguish and fear, so ferociously tormented. All it took, for me, was a glance at those eyes, and I was hooked. Everything about it, from the shape of their bodies, to the hatred in the faces on the Furies, to the blood pouring from the dagger wound...something about the elegant deliberation, the painstaking craft of it, really moved me. Even his legs...the way they arc, the way the foot connects with the pavement... its just very moving. And for some subconscious reason, I feel like there are furies after me as well, though they've declined to mention why.

I've had a really hard time with my usage of there/their/they're lately. It's like, for some reason, my mind doesn't want to let me follow the rules, even though it knows them. Anyway, please be kind.



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stop talking.

So, Seattle is the best place.

Thursday.

There's something about the transient nature of airports that makes people anxious or emotional anyway. This time, I was flying farther than I have ever flown before, so naturally a little of that emotional charge got to me. I was doing well, aside from the fact that I was so bored and restless on the plane, until we came down out of the clouds above the Rocky Mountains. I'm hardly a person to get emotional over nature (partly because I've never seen...like anything), but the mountains are so beautiful. So majestic, and being above them gives you such a different perspective on their vastness. I thought I might cry. Then, as the plane was coming into Seattle, a got a pretty rad view of Mt. Rainier. Truly, this place is so beautiful.

I can always tell if I'm going to like a place right when I get there. There's a tangible energy present in most places, and I can usually check into it right upon arrival. Seattle has that energy, and its very good. (Unlike Baltimore- "It's like Gotham City without Batman.") Anyway, that's that. I could kind of just tell that I would like it.

Ray picked me up at the airport, and took on a mini tourist-y romp through the city. I got to see the harbor, Pike Place, the Space Needle...all of those things. Ate WAY too much Indian food at this little restaurant called Qazi's in Fremont, and then got to tour the UW campus (it's beautiful, a lot like the prettier parts of FSU's campus, just much hillier). Met up with Joyce at the school, met a few teachers, sat in an aria class with BagelsBaigs...Arian...and kind of just chilled out. There really are a billion Starbucks' here.

Friday.

I got a friggin FULL night's rest thanks to the time change and my general sleepiness. Had a couple of meetings with people- GoMap for funding/multicultural stuff and met two great girls, one of which was at FSU when I was there (random), sat in on a 20th century music class (and wanted to contribute my thoughts on Stravinsky's Les Noces, but didn't want to seem like a presumptuous ass...), and then got lunch at this freaking nummy place called The Hi-Life. Had a voice lesson with Joyce later in the day (holy CRAP my e vowel is on its way), and then while Joyce was at school finishing up her day, Ray took me to the Ballard Locks, these fascinating reservoirs descend to allow ships to navigate the differentiated water levels of the dam. I took a lot of pictures, but I’m a dope, and they're on the camera’s internal memory and I don’t have a cord to get the pictures. I will eventually. Take my word for it, it was awe inspiring. The idea that there is a pump strong enough to funnel in enough water in a chamber to raise a massive fishing ship up by 30 feet was fascinating.

We had dinner at Tawon Thai, a delicious little Thai restaurant in Fremont. I'd never had Indian food until the day before, and I'd never had Thai food until this, and I can say with some clarity that I ate more than my fill. Seriously- at Qazi's I just got plate after plate of Indian food, and at the Thai place, we all ordered a big something and kind of shared (and I made sure that there was very little leftover.) It was so good. Pad thai, curry, bean threads, and some fried eggplant looking thing--- I rolled home. For realz.

Saturday.

Not sure why, but sleep in Seattle seems to be a lot better and longer than sleep in other places. I suppose that three hours never really caught up with me, so I felt really indulgent sleeping as late as I was on Eastern time...

I woke up at around 11am and Ray and I went down the street to this place called Blue Star for breakfast. I got some sausage and egg scrambly thing with the most delicious red potatos. I was a very happy Christopher. After that, I got showered and got ready for my audition. The tie that I’d brought with me (this navy blue and forest green paisley thing) matched my ensemble perfectly, but because I was hell-bent on my full Windsor knot, the tie (and who am I kidding- I can’t expect that much, I did buy it on sale from Target…) was too short to handle all that knottage, so I couldn’t wear it. Luckily, Ray had this fantastic green and yellow creation that worked perfectly. I went to the school and sight sang (like a bad-ass, if I may say so myself), rehearsed with Laura, my pianist (who sadly hadn’t looked over my music at all…) and then auditioned. I don’t have the same audition chops that I used to, meaning my voice isn’t up to the dry, nerve-wracking challenge of auditions like it used to be, but I should say with some confidence that I thought things turned out well. First two songs went well, then Tom the Voice Coordinator, wanted to hear my long (sick nasty long) aria, which was also fine- I just completely forgot the last 20 bars of the aria. I mean, my accompanist wasn’t doing me any favors, but I seriously just…forgot the end of the piece. So, instead of acting a fool and stopping or trying to figure it out, I just stood there…pleasantly…until the end of the piece. Freakin’ lulz.

They asked me a few questions (which I think I answered well), and then they asked my GPA. Now, to just keep it real, my final GPA from FSU wasn’t great, but it wasn’t bad. Like… it was way above a 2.0, but not quite a 3.0, and that was largely due to my staggering lack of motivation my fifth year and my insistent depression at the beginning of that school year. It kind of became too late to fix what I’d messed up when Cassie shook me to my senses. Anyway, my GPA was a bit of a hindrance, and I found out that I would need to write a little something explaining what the hell was happening in my life to make my grades plummet. I of course have no issue with doing that, but had a mini-crisis at Qdoba after the audition, because my whole life I’ve always been THE smart kid. You know the one. The one who went above and beyond the mandates of an assignment, the one who would rather read a book then go out with friends, the teacher’s pet, the know-it-all…you get it. Through high school, I was more laid back, but still a well studied smart ass. And even in the first four years of my undergrad, I got great grades. So needless to say, it was hard for me, having to face, for the first time in my life, that it was my grades serving as the obstacle. I suppose its not that huge a deal, especially because it was only one year, I hardly failed out, and I got my degree. I guess that there was just something so...pedestrian in the predicament, that I had a small crisis afterwards. But I worked through it. Arian and I started promptly drinking.

After a couple of (very strong) cocktails, we went to the get together at Joyce’s, which was nice. I met a few people and talked with everyone, had a few beers, at some pizza. It was a good time. After that, we went back to Arian’s for a little beer pong and further pregaming, and I got to meet (or re-meet, as it were) Arian’s friend Alexa. Turns out, I have known Alexa for several years, but only peripherally. She got her Master’s at FSU while I was in the beginning of my undergrad, and our circles crossed here and there. Regardless of all of that, she’s awesome, and it was great getting to spend time talking to her.

Dave drove us downtown. We couldn’t find the club, Baltic Room, so we walked the streets. I met these two guys on the street in Capitol Hill that gave us the absolutely WRONG directions (and “Pete Albertson” told me Facebook him…I didn’t, but it was amusing that I woke up on Sunday to find his name scrawled on my arm.) Arian changed the game plan, and we went to this place called Amber. It was actually a really cool bar, with a great vibe and reasonable drinks, but there was a really strange demographic represented. We chilled there for a while, but decided we might be able to rage harder at home, so we braved the cold, naturally got some Taco Bell, and beer ponged hard at Arian’s. Mucho fun-o… and I passed out on the left side of Arian’s king sized princess bed. Mmmm plushy. (I haven't, at any point yet, mentioned how completely opposite Arian and I are. Yet somehow, we always have a wonderful time together. She has me drawing out the word 'fuck' until it disappears, and speaking in abbrevs. Oh no.)

Sunday

Dear Christopher, work on your tolerance. I had a ridiculous hangover all of Sunday. I didn’t get up until like…1pm. And I felt nauseous all day. Seriously, I felt like dying. Was it worth it? Yes.

Arian and I, after rolling out of bed, went for brunch at Hi-Life and then to take care of some of the more touristy things around the city.

• A picture with the statue of Vladimir Lenin in Fremont --- check
• A picture of the space needle (we didn’t go up in it because it costs $15 and it was a cloudy day- not the best conditions for the experience) --- check
• Visit Pike Place Market --- check
• Pictures of the universe’s first Starbucks --- checkity check
• Delicious Seattle salmon via the Seattle Crunch roll at Umi Sake House --- om nommity check check
• Meeting my future boyfriend while sampling freaking om nommy cheese --- I die.
  

The Grammys were actually very good, though Miley Cyrus, Taylor Swift, and whatever sadistic ass that thought it would be a good idea to organize a duet between the two should all be strung from a tree. Jennifer Hudson - you betta sang. Robert Plant and Allison Kraus - hellz yeah (that album really is terrific.) I do rather feel that Radiohead got the Album of the Year shift, but its mostly okay because Coldplay (whom I do love) didn't get it over them, which would have been the real travesty. But then, RADIOHEAD DOING 15 STEPS WITH THE FREAKING MARCHING BAND? I seriously didn’t blink or breathe the whole thing.

Radiohead - 15 Step
by Alisvideo

Pardon my French, but you've got to be fucking kidding me. FUCK YEAH, RADIOHEAD.

Monday

The flight home sucked. The heater wasn’t working on the plane, and it was freezing. Like…seriously freezing. I don’t know if you know this, but it’s like…negative tens of degrees that high up in the air. IT WAS FREEZING. Not to mention, I’ve never flown back from the West Coast so a four hour and a half hour trip became a seven and a half hour trip. Boo.



Since getting back, I haven’t been able to sleep very well (not so much a new occurrence)… but it’s been nice being home. I missed my family, so being back has given me even more perspective.

I’ve also seen the remaining three Best Picture Oscar nominees that I hadn’t seen- my thoughts on those will be coming soon (though I should just put this out there- this year’s nominees are perhaps the most congruously fantastic set of films for the last few years).

So, moving forward- waiting to hear back from UW, finishing up an arrangement or two, getting ready for the ANY reunion, doing some CASA work, and getting used to my fancy new glasses. Life is good. More later.
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mountains valleys oceans streams boyfriends

1. I have SO freaking much to say, but I'm a cry baby and a little bit jet lagged, so I'm going to save it for tomorrow night hopefully.

2. I hate that blog has been more pictures than words lately, especially considering I've been writing down all of these neat ideas that I've wanted to share. I will share. I will share. My OCD is knocking hard, but:

3.
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worst tuesday ever.

I have real tears waiting to make an entrance. Fucking max ugh.

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