I didn't want to tell everybody that I saw or write an article and send it to the denis website people, like I suspect some people have... and it made me sick. But I've told my parents and my roommate and the people we had over for dinner that night... and I showed Mel the letter because she happened to be around when I opened it. The Briar Cliff Review is more known for their short stories and poetry - their art is sometimes pretty interesting, but their photography hasn't really been too impressive. So, because of that, this really isn't too big a deal... but it's still pretty cool, I think. They chose one of my photos for the Spring 2008 issue. Our Advanced Photo class last semester all turned in two photos and I think two other guys got their stuff chosen as well. I think I have to print, mat and frame the shot I took and deliver it to the Sioux City Art place... oh shoot, I have to email "biographical information" to them also. I don't know. It's not a huge deal, but it's a bit exciting that it happened and that I'll get to see my photo in a publication. I put the news in the middle of this surprisingly large paragraph so only my stalkers will know. Yay!

I've been singing (Antichrist Television Blues) in my head for about three days straight. The above paragraph and a lot of other good things have been happening lately but there are times during the day, whether I'm in class, walking outside somewhere, or with people and I'll get the sense that I'm unhappy. For the general moment, I guess. Again, not a big deal. And I'm pretty sure this isn't a plea for attention but it's what's going on and I think a good amount of my peers share this general gray feeling. There are some people that I miss even though I've seen them lately. It's feeble and demanding to expect students with a full academic load and an entire social shade to their lives to be patient, I guess and that's fine when what you need isn't more people to surround you but... damn, I'm not really sure what I need right now.

That's not true. I need to read about Hinduism and write a two page response.

And I'll get to that, but the night is young.

I think one of the worst things someone told me was that I "need to" decide what interests me most - film, photography, writing, religion, food, psychology etc. - and focus on that one AKA forget about the other ones.

Into the light of the bridge that burns as I drive through the city with the money that I earn
To the dark of a starless sky, I'm staring at nothing and I'm asking you why
Lord, let me make her a star so the world can see who you really are

A lot of times, lately, I'm reminded that I'm 19... for three more months. Then, I'll be 20 and every child in my family will be out of their teens. Is this a horrifying thought? Yes, it makes me anxious - as if I should start investing in shit.

But 19 is still quite young.

It's not too young to start worrying about things, is it? And how do you divide up worry/what you have to do, what your responsibilities are with worry/what God has in complete, don't worry about it control, (s)he'll take over with it? Yeah, the good Christian will tell you that it's potato potato, but that doesn't really help.

ie. I have to... remember to get my parents' social security for fafsa, give blood tomorrow, meet with my film/novel team, meet with my documentary team, call the cops about documentary project, NOT call 911, email biographical info to Briar Cliff etc.

ie. God is in control of... whether I remember those things, shooting the right people my way...

But can't I also write those things down, find those people myself? Can't those people find me by themselves? Does God call us to miss people/seek them out?

My dad said that a calling isn't a dramatic voice that shakes your heart - you can't rely on the heavens to split to tell you that you'd make a pretty good insurance agent.

I'm not thinking about calling at the moment - more of what God has in control and what we can't do to... move God along or sway him/her.

More from the theology prof's son later, when he finishes his assignment.

Reluctance

Beside me lies my reading for Major World Religions. I placed it there, on the kitchen table, for myself to complete about four hours ago. I hesitate to start, not because I don't want to or that I'm procrastinating for the sake of procrastination. I am procrastinating, but in a necessary way. I hope. My father is the professor of that class and, really, it's no big deal. I don't think either of us change our tactics a bit. My approach to the class is more influenced by the fact that the content is fascinating and the professor unloads a gigantic workload.
But the assignment for tomorrow is a response to the reading - the topic of discussion is "Why Christianity?" And so, a personal profession of faith is required in each student's response.

So... okay.

So here I am, nineteen-years-old, asked to state, in words, what I believe in.

I've done a lot in an attempt to evade the question. I took a shower, did the dishes, made a delicious pizza and washed/maintained the bombastic cast-iron pan I've been using at every meal. It was a good shower and a delicious pizza. I prepared the dough yesterday, but something went wrong... I think it's too wet and I tossed too thick a crust. I made a simple roasted tomato sauce last night too (in the cast iron pan) and it rocked. A made a roast a few days ago (surprisingly easy, again with the cast iron pan and crazy delicious) with mushrooms in a red wine sauce. Gorgeous. With onions,a few slices of swiss cheese and a decent sized slice of bacon that my roommate keeps a hefty supply of, I crafted a very delicious pizza. But, as you now know, there are some changes I must make.

OK. Food post done.

The class, so far, has been spent exploring the way academia and society studies religion and how history has shaped it, influenced it, forcing it to grow and define itself. In my Media Criticism class, the first question of the semester was "What is a Christian film?" (I'll try and post the responses later). The first question of this class was "Why are you taking this class?" And a variety of answers were taken.

I couldn't help but sense that the professor felt a little concern when I said that, in response to another student, maybe we shouldn't study other religions for the sole reason of proving to ourselves that we've chosen "the right faith." He shifted his weight slightly and stated that, in the course of learning about other religions and worldviews, Christianity will also be illuminated.

"Oh I have no doubt about that, but how are we going to take the religions we study seriously if we're constantly keeping score? If we're constantly comparing subjects that require a different understanding of the universe?"

Basically, I felt anger from a few months ago when our family attended evening service and a guest speaker gave the message. He was a high school teacher in some local town and looked to be no older than thirty-five years old. And he spent the entire message giving a quick two sentence summary of the world's religions and then disputing it in favor of Christianity... in a small NW Iowa town that has more churches than it does gas stations.

"But Buddhism is obviously nothing more than an escape from reality! It's simply a false devotion to a godless mentality!"

If your mission was to get people to hate you, then you have succeeded.

But the point is that we cannot compare religions so quickly as to who is right(er). We're going to study seven or so complex, intricate major world religions... major... world... and though there are overlapping colors and shapes that are extremely useful in study, it's going to be... the extent of our study for each religion will be akin to overhearing someone sing Hey Jude and understanding The Beatles. (Yes, I just used the Beatles in an analogy to religion. AHhh!)

We'll see what happens, I suppose.



-Beer bread-

3 cups flour
2 tablespoons sugar
1 bottle beer

1 pinch salt
1 tablespoon baking powder

add beer to mixed dry ingredients and combine
add to bread pan

45 min. at 375 F

I should

start calling women "toots." But I wonder if it's "offensive."

clean my room.

remember to stretch.

call my brother.

finish things.

mail things.

_______________.

The summer wind
came blowin' in
from across the sea



I know - it's really not the time or the place to do anything but rest for tomorrow. Or, at the very least, to lie in the dark with your eyes closed and your teeth clean. It is not the time, Alvin, to look through the prints from twenty rolls of film that chronicle who you were and where you've been in the last five years. They are a testament to

how much money my mother spent on having these processed
the ridiculous decisions I made
the wonderful decisions I made
how much time we actually had in high school
how young and pale and skin-affected we are
how we haven't really changed at all
how careless I was with a camera

...among other things.

I don't think it's a coincidence that I impulsively spend an hour to reminisce with the still images of my life (Koreans in Michigan, hammocks and sweaty kids in Mexico, the summer wind in northern Minnesota, Christian teens in Orange City, a bunch of minorities at Calvin College) a handful of hours before the new semester takes off. The processing alone from this pile is probably upwards of a hundred dollars. A roll of color film isn't exactly free and, here on my lap, I have selected eight images. EIGHT. Of course there are more that I love and are decent in quality, clarity, composition etc... but still, eight?

Anyway, I've gotten - I hope - much more picky and careful with being a photographer.

I haven't very much else to say at the moment. I imagine tomorrow to go well... the forecast of my mood will be of general aloofness what with the mass of student body to freak out, the minute culture shock of an empty campus to a campus of awakened hormones... we're still driven by our hormones right? There's a good chance that I will be woken at one point or another.


9 25-10 40 . Documentary Film
chapel
11 40-12 55 . Film and Novel

6 45-9 30 . Fiction Writing (Tuesday evenings only)


11 - 11 50 . Major World Religions
12 - 12 50 . Comm 110
2 - 5 . Media Criticism


Oh shit. I have to register at some point tomorrow too. I better get to sleep.

My hair

has been growing, unbridled, since it was buzzed this summer. Do you remember how long it has gotten? My mom has gradually been stepping up with the "please, please cut your hair." After so many months, you get tired of asking her to calm down, to not worry about it and think of more significant things... really, goading her on, daring her, to stop nagging me- her youngest son, at the ripe age of nineteen. Her nags have, however, become more bold and specific, often thrown out as an afterthought when something unfortunate occurs so she can take advantage of the "and while I'm at it!"

But I held my ground, trying to change the subject to when my brother will get married.

One day,

"My dear boy, let's go to Sioux Falls tomorrow - we can see if you can get in our Sam's Club membership. (I can't.) We can try the new Japanese restaurant. (It's not bad.)"

"OK. That sounds like fun. We'll go before I have to work."

"Oh grand!"

"...yep."

"...there's a lady who can fix your hair."

"She's Korean isn't she?"

"She's been in America for twenty-five years!"

I've been getting my hair cut by Korean women for the first sixteen years of my life. I have never left an appointment without feeling that I resembled either a hairy, school bus-driving lesbian or someone who would be more comfortable in a cut-off flannel shirt, holding a can of Busch and watching very expensive, colorful cars driving in circles. I hated it. And when it wasn't by those women of our church congregation, moms of our friends whom I grew up with, it was by a Vietnamese lady whose only tie to our church was that her salon was on the way. She rocked. BUT her salon was bought by some pompous white woman and... she drove the business to the ground (but we moved away before that last part happened). I've made countless vows to keep away from Korean mothers wielding barber's shears and just to eat their food and flirt with their daughters.

But I love my mother. And the start of the new semester is pretty rough on her.

So I gave in, thought of the bulk food and sushi and violently shook my head around, feeling, for the last time, strands of hair waving and bouncing against each other, making that very subtle swoosh noise... like the sound a stove makes when the gas is cut off and the flame dissipates.

(OK. Maybe I liked how my hair was. As much as short hair is convenient, I did like the situation of how my head looked.)

The woman in Sioux Falls had happy, squinty eyes, like a Japanese cartoon. And she spoke with my mother as if she had helped raise me from the child unable to make his s sounds to the ravishing creature he is today. But it was still early for someone who gets off of work at 11 30 PM and also suffers from chronic insomnia (it's 4 08 AM right now, I'm not tired at all). So while my mother and the new ajhuma jibber-jabbered, I took my place in the chair, removed my glasses and walked the plank.

Without skipping a beat in the conversation, the woman whirled me around, pulled a lever to lean the chair back and began to massage my hair in hot water and shampoo.

I could have died. I forgot that, sometimes, this happens and I almost made a noise.

"Do whatever you want with me - just don't stop."

No, I made no audible noise and I probably left my droopy poker face on because the sound of rushing water cleared the talk and the calming, cleansing sensation of practiced fingers gliding through your mane is transcendental.

I sat in a daze and, after she circled my head, like a vulture, slashing she repeated the favor and I sat in the waiting room, trying to read an article on Interpol while she cut my mom's hair.

It was much later that I first saw myself in the reflection of our car window. She went with the lesbian look with a straight, no-nonsense, horizontal, "hair stops here" cut of my sideburns (and I think they were uneven). I kicked myself for leaving the house without a hat, but shrugged, let my mother lie to myself (and herself) (and to God) as she spent the afternoon remarking on how clean and pretty my new hair was.

After work that night, I buzzed my hair. We're starting fresh again.

The good things about starting this new semester:

Not working factory hours.

Not conducting back-aching, finger scratching factory duties.

Fiction Writing, Documentary Film Making, Major World Religions, Media Criticism, Film and Novel.

Projects.



The bad things:

Losing money to books.

Trading monotonous hours of simple labor for eighteen credits of academia.

Comm 110.

The noise.


So, overall, I'm looking forward to what comes after this weekend.

Hillary won in New Hampshire. Whoa! This is going to be fun.

My brother called me a hippie... and I did some thinking

I love/research/advocate/discuss/daydream about compost and composting.

I'd like to grow tea. Soon.

I read that you can keep lemon trees indoors. Wouldn't that be nice?

I own a poncho.

For the better part of last semester, I slept in a hammock.

Currently, I sleep on the floor.

I'm okay with sleeping on the floor.

I don't want an iPhone.

I don't want a new phone.

I don't really want MY phone - I'd gladly sell/rent it out.

My hair is long.

Free Tibet.

I have a shirt with Buddha on it.

I have a shirt with Shiva dancing on it.

When we were in Mexico, I split a grilled fish at the beach with my friend Oziel. We ate with our hands and washed the smell off by squeezing a lime.

I've been trying to think of an art project in which to use a shit ton of styrofoam cups... and then, we'll replace everybody's styrofoam cup stash with... ... oh crap, what do we do then?

I make paper.

Iron & Wine frequents my cd player. (So does the Polyphonic Spree and Tom Waits.)

I own part of a hookah.

I have a journal and its pages are made from tree bark (it was a gift).

Call it Burma, not Myanmar.

I don't freak out if there is no meat in a meal.

Wanna go on a road trip?

If there were an engineering course on designing a roof-top garden, I would take it.

Once, in the Commons, I went apeshit because there were fava beans in the soup. I love fava beans.

I've made my peace with being poor in life.

And hummus.

I think and plan for the commune.

Don't throw those coffee grounds away!


... ... ...


I have a journal with a spine that, apparently, is made from elephant hide. (It was also a gift, but still...)

I eat McDonald's.

I buy things from Wal Mart.

I work at a factory.

I use plastic grocery sacks. Damn.

When we were in Mexico, I ate at Pizza Hut.

...and McDonald's.

...Twice.

And I got my laundry done by washing machines.

I bought two Kanye West albums. (Would someone like to buy Graduation? I really don't like it.)

I drive.

Oh, and my phone is a razr. Wanna rent it now?




To be honest, it only bothered me that, within a few minutes, my brother felt like he understood who I was as a person... and that it could be summed up in one word... and for reasons that aren't necessarily "hippie" as much as "aware human being."
Also, he said the word "hippie" like he would say the word... ... um, "fag" or "poser." I don't think it would be unlikely that when he called me a "hippie" he really meant "poser."
Well, I think we've made quite a breakthrough tonight...
And that's fine, I guess. We are totally different people, my brother and I. And I'd be lying if I said that I don't judge his lifestyle... so, we're even. And it's probably good that we live four states apart. His friends are like him and mine are a bit like me.

note: I know not all of the things from the first list are necessarily associated with being a hippie but they are some of the things that my brother might point out.

We are less than six hours into this year. For a considerable amount of time, we will write down the incorrect year and scratch out 2007 to hastily scribble 2008 above it. The privilege to celebrate another of our birthday's will be bestowed upon us... at some point. Those of us who graduate will graduate and be thrown into something outrageous and horrifying; others of us will merely take another gigantic step in our academic journey; still others will continue thriving or, at the very least, surviving. Those are my assumptions anyway. If anyone deviates from the plan that I have doomed you to follow, please let me know.

I'm watching Next Food Network Star with my brother - this one contestant does not like goat cheese. (The others chose baby corn, bok choy, tofu and lima beans as their least favorite ingredient.) I love goat cheese (and baby corn, bok choy, tofu and lima beans). The project was to host a 5 minute segment about cooking their least favorite ingredient. I find myself wondering what dish I could make that features... cottage cheese.

Does anybody especially care about cottage cheese? Do you have an affinity for cottage cheese? Seriously, can you help me? 'Cause the only way that I've seen people eat it is like it were yogurt (spooned with or without fruit) or in a lasagna. I had a very solid lasagna at the Hielema house, but if I hadn't seen it on top, I wouldn't not have known it was there.

Also, if you're going to eat cottage cheese like it were yogurt, why don't you just eat yogurt? It's delicious. Can you put granola in cottage cheese?

So, that's what I have for you - a bunch of questions.

For next time's blog, please view Stranger Than Fiction. Twice, if you want to. And buy me the soundtrack. I swear it will make sense.