"The world is so huge that people are always getting lost in it. There are too many ideas and things and people, too many directions to go. I was starting to believe that the reason it matters to care passionately about something is that it whittles the world down to a more manageable size."

-Susan Orlean, The Orchid Thief

***

My mom called and left a message early that Saturday morning. "Hi, it's me. I'm going to Sioux City today. I'll be back around one or two. There'sadeadbatinthegarage-Ineedyoutocleanitup. Talk to you later! Love you, bye!"

We found the bat whole and undisturbed on the floor of my garage. It looked like it was in peace, that it breathed its last bat breath during its final day of sleep, tired after a night of chasing insects about the roof where, that summer past, we would sit and wait for the sun to shine its purple, red, orange, yellow and, then, white light on us. There was only ever one bat flying about on those nights, those mornings, and I assumed that this bat, this gray rabbit's foot on our garage, was our bat. It lived and hunted here at 237 4th Avenue NE. I wrapped a plastic bag around my hand and reached down to put him away.

The bat wasn't dead.

SCREECH! LEAVE ME ALONE!

It stayed on the ground, on it's belly, and, like a dying witch, cried out about the cruelties of a bat's life. We flipped him over onto his back a moment later and he presented himself, still shouting, to us. He had an enormous wingspan and slowly struggled to die as a bat should, in his tiny and magnificent glory. His wings gleamed like silver. His voice died down to a small, continuous and desperate prayer.

"He's in pain."

I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to do it, but Matt was right because he couldn't even crawl about on the floor, much less fly to a safe, warm place to sleep. He didn't stop screeching when we placed him inside the bag and set him down outside. With my back turned, my eyes shut in fear and my hands over my ears, Matt took the shovel down and only then did the screeching stop.

I've seen squirrels flattened on the road. I've come across birds - magnificent, beautiful and delicate ones - dead near large windows. The first deer I remember being hit by a car was still alive, throbbing and struggling for breath, bathed in the red light from the car that hit it. I was young, looking on with my brothers who remember she cried herself to death.

It's been one discouraging-ass week. (Can you guess why?)

But it will end with good things. (I bet you can guess why.)

Flip the Power Through! switch for me. (Unless you are a jerk.)

Strike up the band to play a song and try hard not to cry. (...well, yeah. That's basically all there is to it.)

Recreational Reading: Please check these books out and read them!

The library has this nook next to this computer that is strictly reserved for "Online Book Catalog." This is the Rec Reading area. At first glance, you see a ton of Karen Kingsbury and a bridal magazine. Dordt will be Dordt. And then I looked around a bit more... and saw a lot of authors that I respect, books that pique my curiosity and I wonder about Alice Munro and that Kingsbury lady sharing the same shelf. Some books I would definitely look into here: The View From Castle Rock, Alice Munro; The Life of Pi, Yann Martel (have read and will see him speak at Calvin Fest in April); The Wal-Mart Effect, Charles Fishman; House of Sand and Fog, Andre Dubus; the Night Trilogy, Elie Wiesel; Son of a Witch, Gregory Maguire; The Master Butchers Singing Club, Louise Erdrich and so forth.
My concerns about this area and the librarians' selection are short-lived. Recreational Reading may give off certain connotations, but to enjoy literature is, perhaps, the best intention in picking up a book.
Read your Karen Kingsbury (Mela) and Bride magazine (every other girl at Dordt) if you so wish.

Three letters, the third is D, something that I should be all over right now

If there were a crossword puzzle in the Diamond, would people work through it?

Depending on the clues and the difficulty? Maybe?

I asked a friend this once recently and received an enthusiastic, "You can make those online!" in reply.

Why do I need the internet to put together a crossword for me? Would it be significantly easier than a pencil with a good eraser and some grid paper? I'm seriously asking this. Didn't you guys make crossword puzzles in grade school? Find the common letters and work 'em around crazy-like. It's not like I'm going all Wendell Berry on your asses and completely abandoning the fancy pantsy internet in favor of my wife typing out my thoughts on a typewriter (but that would be, on some anti-feminist level, pretty sweeeeet). I'm just saying that a crossword puzzle is pretty simple to put together, innit? Yeah, for print, it would have to be in digital format... right? Should I straight-edge and ink it to scan for the Diamond? I wonder...

I have... if I fall asleep within the minute, four and a half hours of sleep to go. Not bad, if I don't get hit by another head cold in the morning. It's much more difficult to man up and power through something like a head cold if it's the first thing that hits you when you wake up. Seriously. If I got hit with that in the middle of the day, it wouldn't set me back for more than ten seconds. "The hell was that about?" and then I'd be off, on my bike, to (proceed my efforts to) save the day.

By the way, the clues would be considerably more difficult than the title. That's just fluff. It's tissue paper in the gift bag, breadsticks at the Olive Garden, first-draft play-around-with-the-character-potential shit. Yeah, you get it.

I got another book from the library that isn't required reading. It's called The Tree by Colin Tudge, an English fellow who started a nursery (of the arbor type) when he was eleven.
An excerpt from the beginning, "Many a redwood still standing tall in California was ancient by the time Columbus first made Europe aware that the Americas existed. Yet the redwoods are striplings compared to some of California's pines, which germinated at about the time that human beings invented writing and so are as old as all of written history. These trees out on their parched hills were already impressively old when Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt, or indeed when Abraham was born. So it is that some living trees have seen the rise and fall of entire civilizations."

If you're reading this, please look up the other titles by this author.

The other day, I took my dog out to yellow yet another patch of our lawn. (It's not a big deal. The dog needs to pee. And we don't really care about our lawn anyway.) And on the other side of our neighbor's house, the sidewalk is lined with enormous and, presumably, semi-ancient, statuesque trees. Except where one should have been (and, a few days before, probably had been standing) was a soily patch of damp earth. Daisy sniffed about the area. I poked at it with my shoe. The dirt was still loose and why was that tree removed? It wasn't that scene from The Virgin Suicides, but it did puzzle me as to why the town (assuming it was the town's decision) decided to take out that particular tree in that row and leave the others standing as monuments to the seasons.

If I were as ballsy during the day as I am at night (right now!), then I might cause a big stink about it.

And I'd also beg for a job a la Fiesta.

Among other things.

-

Uncle Richard, me and James Earl Jones.

I rearranged my room so I can work in there!

I read through my outline for one of my classes and found that I had an essay to hand in before Spring Break. But the thing is, on that class before break, we were going to watch Road to Perdition and I had stayed up the night before... doing something extremely urgent. I forget, now, what that was but even in documentary filmmaking (the class before Road to Perdition class, Film and Novel), I wrote out another assignment for yet ANOTHER class that had to be done before noon. In short, I totally forgot THIS essay and... stuff.
But I suppose this is the kind of thing that happens the weekend before classes start up again.

I need to shoot a quick info. loop for the Family Crisis Center in town. I'm not all too sure what to use for footage, but I will need people to (I think) stare into the camera. Does anybody want to stare into a camera for me? Anybody at all.

Also, I need to make a few hundred dollars by the tenth of next month. Any serious ideas at all? I know. I know. Jeremy already told me that I could sell myself and, believe me, if I could, I would be all over that. Or, rather, I'd make it available for others to be all over that (me).
*Alvin picks up phone*
"Hello? Tonight? A necktie? You're going to have to supply that for me... okay. No, I can tie it, I just don't have any at my place. Okay. Yeah, I can do a British accent but... well, no... it's just, um, you know I'm asian right? Oh. OK. Yeah. Well, personally, I think Indian girls with British accents are really cute, but it's not... yeah, no it's not a big deal. I see what you're going for... no, I don' t know any asians with British accents but it's completely possible. No I can do it. I can do it. I'm telling you, I can do it. OK. Yeah, pick me up - I don't have a car. Oh hey, the accent will be another fifty. Bye! "

Man, that would be so sweet.

I'm going to write the rest of this blog in a British accent.

The bloody cold has returned to our humble town. It's poppycock. Utter poppycock. And this lovely tomahto plant that Jeremy brought over will need to stay under our humming lights. A rubbish situation for such an elegant beauty here, on my kitchen table, surrounded by faux-wood grain walls and a linoleum floor from the worst part of the seventies. Tea and strumpets, gov'nah and so forth.

Seriously though, today felt like the beginning of autumn - which I love, maybe the best of the times of the year - but isn't this supposed to be the time of year when the sun brings the green out of the skeletal landscape so that everyone wants to fall in love? Won't that give us that last extra push to kick the end of the semester in the head and finish strong? Days like this make me want to stay in with a cup of coffee and read.

And I did. It was great. I've got tons of things to read and I made some considerable progress today.

Even so... having a terrific day of reading cuts out every other thing I also need to catch up on ie. photo, writing (ah shit!), video work, film marathons, cooking stuff, compost and the other things on my constant to-do list that I keep beneath the floorboards.


100milediet.org
One of the great references from Lady Kingsolver.

REM

Food that my mom prepared and I cooked,
milk-turned-cheese was smoked, packaged and imported from the Netherlands,
grapes were grown, fermented, bottled and tagged with a kangaroo sticker
...and a Gala apple, white grapes and a good chunk of cantaloupe

AND hookah

AND Simon and Garfunkel playing their essentials

is a pretty good way to calm down, make things bearable, congregate, welcome yourself (and others!) back home.

Even if where you came from is three different ideas of home.
Joel's, Emily's, Bailey's.
I miss my family, I guess.

Someone said tonight that smell is the most memory-triggering scent we have. In my oxygen-deprived stupor, I almost suggested that sounds, or music, is pretty good too. I remember the specific persons I knew/was by hearing various albums.

I can't sleep... or I have no will to close my eyes and welcome the dreams.

My parents (and sister) are gone in Mexico until Saturday and when I entered this house, this home, and found no one but the 2 liter-sized dog yipping, yipping about, I got very excited. Do you remember this past summer? Ask if you don't.

But anyway, there are others lodging here with me. Tomorrow there is a good chance that more people will congregate and laughs will be had, stories will be told, food and drink will be shared and everyone's social quota will be fulfilled.

A few days ago, I imagined what it would be like to live alone. And then I put my Lief-thinking-helmet on and wondered if people are actually ever meant to live alone. This was a brief tangent, but I think an important and necessary one. Grow up under parental authority (learn about routine), graduate high school to live in a cell block with other kids under hormonal authority (start lifting weights, talking louder, pulling pranks), find a job/spouse or start a commune (visit the farmers' markets, start a garden, orchard, winery)... or not. Or, you know, graduate with some sort of degree and live alone.

Most of what I do or happens to me encourages thoughts of community living, of taking over the Stam house and setting up seven (SEVEN!) hammocks in their attic, working with them in the greenhouse and chasing the cats around the yard. And then hunting for morels down the road with them Sarvers, tipping/milking their cow and getting kicked by the little girl. Joel's mom will bake for us, tell us good stories and... ...

okay, I'm getting a little sidetracked.

Point is, I just read a book that will make it impossible to keep from gardening and for... however many years before, I've surrounded myself with people that I want to, in effect, garden with. On the roof of some abandoned warehouse in Seattle? Why the shit not? It started with "Oh man, he's an engineer and she's a social worker/grew up on a farm/knows how to skin a fluffy bunny... shoot, what can I do?" So I started to do some research, to read up on other people that have done it first. And then, oh crap, it got really interesting.

I believe that they are serious. I know I am, but it seems that my intent has little value on... much of anything. Right? There's hope and, at the very least, some emotional banking on this plan, this dream.

And if not... if it doesn't pan out for whatever reason (there are a bunch of potentials), then what? And then I imagined what it would be like to live alone, growing tomato plants off the kitchen window on some crummy apartment (if I get there even).

There are other things to worry about at the moment.

If you think I say a lot, you have no idea how much I hold back.

You don't know me! Don't act like you know me!

A lot of times, I'm being completely serious.

My mom would be proud to know that I missed rice while I was gone. If you're looking to have some rice and Korean food... well, I know how you feel. Give me a call if I want to have you around.

Ah!

Tonight we watched K-Pax and I realized and affirmed that Kevin Spacey is one of my favorite actors. Break is going well - to elaborate in a handful of Hemingway-esque sentences: The sun shines. The naps are long. The decisions are impulsive. The Veldkamps have a pool table. And I would't be disappointed if we watched a film at the end of every evening.
Today, we walked through Black Walnut State Park with Joel's dog and everyone got muddy. The trees were stark and bare, silhouettes against the bright March sky. I was thankful that the iPod left in my bag and that my amigos felt little need to converse - it would be difficult to hear the breeze with any other noise going on... and a soft wind rippling its way through a walnut grove is a gorgeous sound.
We washed our jeans, our shoes and the dog and I took a nap, first because I was tired (Joel and I stayed up the night before reading, he the Ender's Game, me Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver and if I care for you at all, reader, I'm going to beg you to read it - if I am desperately in love with you, I'll buy it for you. Anyway, I kept interrupting him to say that my book was more important/funny/outrageous. It is.) but then I woke up and decided to sleep more to bring the total to three hours. Because I could. And because I was emotionally invested in the dream - it was almost like watching a film about my life. Why not?

Hey Ruby Falls, I remember you telling me about your neck. I hope you are able to walk to the smoking bridge and hear the soft wind breeze its way through the bare vegetation. Did it snow in Sioux Center today? Eat good food, read good books and I hope that this neck issue will be over soon.

You there, we're going to hookah with our marathon when I get back. It's going to rock and we'll have the best conversations like we always do. Hope you're raking in the money from the old folks.

Lady, we'll see you (and your family, coffeehouse, cow, goat, flowers) soon. (You too Angel. You and your greenhouse.) We're going to visit Buddhists and a farmer's market tomorrow. Wanna come? I might call you in the morning to see if you want to.

Desperate Housewife - hope the trip is going just as planned and that you are having fun toying with all the guys. Tell Randy and Rachel that seventeen years old isn't young, but young enough to get away with anything. They'll know what it means. Crazy times. Hope you make it to a record store - say hi to everyone I told to take care of you.

Beard-o, both of you - current and former - are missed, by me. I'm looking for smoking perephenilia (cigs, cigars, hookah, incense, etc) here in Des Moines.

Caramel Cake, hope Canada was a good choice for break. I'm sure it was.

Guy on soapbox, did you eat the steak?

And the rest.

How good of friends can you be

if you think your friend is a dumbass? Or rather, if your friend thinks you're the dumbass. I can't imagine how it would even fly if it went both ways. I'm guessing that the majority of these thoughts are mere reactions, lighting up your personal disposition in such a way that you can't help but naturally, strongly think, "You are stupid." Unconsciously even. Maybe you place your hand on their head and laugh off what they say, making light of the situation. Or, at other times, you think (either to yourself or out loud), "Look, I don't have it in me to enjoy who you are right now. Behave yourself so I don't get pissed off. Later, I'll be able to tolerate you."
'Cause I don't think it's limited to the youngest children that they especially hate never being taken seriously. And now I'm going to lay awake thinking about whether I do that or not.
Lay awake comfortably and if you fall asleep, dream deeply.

When Harry Met Sally is one of the best movies ever. Nora Ephron, look her up.

...because I'm working on my short story alongside my boy, Joel. It's fun and one of the most difficult things I've ever done.

What I've learned:

You can't force it.

You can't rush it.

Coffee is bad, but good and necessary.

I wish I could smoke in here.

It's counterproductive to write with the mental parameters of literature in mind. It's best to write straight for hours and hours before reading it and organizing it.

If I hope to do this, or some form of this, for a living, then I need to get much, much better.

Snoop Dogg's new video, though it is edited, sucks.

In a non-threatrical, gradual manner, I've been pushed to the edge. It wouldn't be crass and inaccurate to say that I've taken a step toward selfishness and a step away from a servant's attitude and brokenness. Bah. Damn. Fart. This is public, isn't it?

Okay. New story.

Rachel threw a five-pound bag of gummy bears at myself and others on the couch at the Bean tonight. Because I sat in the middle of the couch and, also, because I pointed out the hefty bag of candy that she held, I commandeered it, hatching an extremely mediocre plan to distract and run away from the other Bean dwellers.
It was ripped open and shared, handful by handful by anyone who cared.
And then Chuck and I played Chubby Bunny (we called if Fluffy Bunny for the first seven-or-so rounds, which I thought was more difficult and better). To end a story poorly, I won.

Not exactly satisfying, I know.

... ... ...I have more to write about, but I'm going to save it for my short story, due on Friday morning-ish.

I stayed in the Bean tonight and I made a lot of noise. Lately, I've been trying to keep from both of those things but tonight... I couldn't tell you why I changed my mind tonight but I didn't worry about it. I was almost aggressive about it for the brief moment that it crossed my mind. I didn't even really want to be there all that much - I had made plans to keep from large groups of people. No regrets tonight, a little unsatisfied but good stuff.

Dan said today that he doesn't care about junior high drama bullshit. Maybe that's what got to me. I'll acknowledge that it's insane, annoying, attention-hungry and junior high drama bullshit, but I've been willing to work around it. Shall I continue to tip-toe about?

The coolest thing about fellowship with a bunch of friends is when some of them team up and roll their eyes at each other as if I'm their annoying child or that one guy who keeps tagging along. Make eyes at each other, act like I'm a pain to have around but please keep from sticking around then. You know? Just leave. Don't make me leave because of your condescending, "I'm only happy when I'm annoyed with somebody" mentality.

pt. 2

Or, you know, we could talk now. I guess this happens more than seldom, less than sometimes. I need to be awake for tomorrow, I need to be effective and functional. I may very well be because last night I slept for some time and I've read that you react to how much sleep you get from the night before last.

I'm tired. I've been laying for a handful of hours now but my head is actually starting to hurt. Without trying to, while trying to stop actually, I'm hearing a lot of music in my head. Well, it's not music yet. I'm hearing a lot of melodies and lyrics in my head, rushing about. Most of them are bad, all of them are fragments. And then I imagine spending the summer in the city - a tiny, horrible apartment with several friends and spending alone time panhandling. And I think about my guitar, inches from where I lay my head to sleep. Also singing parts of The National's Apartment Story and Ben Fold's Landed, from time to time. I'm an infrequent guitar player - I don't make time for it. But I just spent the last two hours putting together chord progressions and verses, bad ones, in my head.

And I didn't even watch any music videos tonight. They play the same ones over and over again anyway - maybe in another week or so, they'll switch up their routine and I'll see what else is on.

I spoke with a friend today who felt both the longing to spend time by herself and the delicate, looming feeling of loneliness. Loneliness, maybe, in the universal/romantic sense but, when we spoke, I think she meant loneliness in the "Well, maybe sitting here, doing homework in quiet would be bearable if someone else were sitting quietly with me." Maybe it was both. Maybe it's like how we check our mailboxes, hoping it isn't empty, hoping that, yes!, there are missed calls on our phones and new, unread emails waiting on our computers. And, yet, I cried out in anger when my phone rang earlier tonight, before checking to see who was calling (it was a necessary call - I answered it). I might honestly be happier when I see Denis tell me that I have 0 new messages and... well, I either get magazines or letters in the mail so those are always welcome. Contact? From specific people - there are things she wasn't telling me, there are always things we don't say. But I believe that, generally, she was expressing some sort of constant truth about herself. Does she have what she's looking for? Are the right people missing? Are the wrong people too present and too en masse?

I'm not lonely. Well, okay fine. Maybe in the universal/romantic sense when it's night and my thoughts are constipated with bad parts of potential music and, well, who the hell am I/where the heck is God/what does forever really mean?

No, it's not really one of those nights.

Most songs, lyrically, just start going.
"Please stop for a second while I try and try to pin your flowers on. Lalalalala."
"We'd hit the bottom. I thought it was my fault. And, in a way, I guess it was."

I guess I'm on brainstorm tonight. Which is good but really, really not the time. I know, I know. Muse and creativity cannot be controlled. And, really, I'm arguing with myself for wanting to sleep so I can be prepared for tomorrow instead of scribbling down every phrase and moment of thought-turned-word that enters my consciousness.

I guess here I am, though. Staring at my computer screen. My eyes have adjusted to light reflecting off my fluttering knuckles. It's a gorgeous image. Can I say that? Can I be distracted by this too, just for a moment? My hands are dry, not hard worked or calloused. Dry if only because of cold weather and the glow from the screen emphasizes the cracks and texture of my skin. Every line and fold of skin from where my fingers bend is quite clearly visible. And they move pretty fast.

I type this sentence and my fingers move, one letter at a time. Like a machine. Pow! Pow! Pow! Incredible. Incredible. Incredible. Incredible. Are you watching this? Incredible. Incredible. It's not the same as a typewriter, but the macbook's keys are very satisfying and smooth to clickity-clack about. Clickity-clack. "And it rained all night."

It's late. It's 5 AM. Shit, what the... how?
I hope to start running around soon. Maybe tomorrow even, if the evening weather permits, before capturing seven full(ish) tapes of footage with my team. Oh gosh. I'm going to need some coffee. My mom told me that I looked like an old man today. Usually, she's a very sweet person, assuring me that I am a beautiful, handsome and strapping young lad. (Wouldn't it be great if she actually said the words "strapping young lad?) Also, my jeans looked dirty. Mother's standards, I guess. But how do jeans look dirty unless they have mud streaked across them?

Ali Zayn al-Abidn taught something along the lines of... God shouldn't be worshipped for fear of hell, for desire of paradise, but for the humble gratitude of his gift of the capacity to worship him.

The mystic Rabi'ah al-'Adawiyah wrote, in contemplative love for God,
"My Lord, if I worship you in fear of fire,
burn me in hell.
If I worship you in desire of paradise,
deprive me of it.
But if I worship you in love of you,
then deprive me not of your eternal beauty."

Okay. Hmmm.
I'll talk to you guys later.