Legend Becoming Myth

Hey internet, it's been awhile. Yeah, I know. I'm lazy, I'm a loser, yada yada.  But I'm back, and I have something I want to talk about. Myth. Neil Gaiman was once asked why he spends his prodigious talent writing fairytales and myths like Sandman and American Gods, and he responded, "Because myths have power." The academics around him at this conference nodded agreeably, but didn't believe him. They were more interested in the sociological implications of the myths. They seemed to view them as "dead cold things that had no longer anything to do with any of us." Instead of delivering the lecture he was invited to this conference to deliver, Gaiman read a retelling of Snow White that he had written from the perspective of the Wicked Queen. People there called it one of the strongest and most disturbing stories they had ever heard, and they described the experience as "Drinking something that they thought was coffee, but found that someone had laced it with wasabi or blood." None of the things in the story were new ideas, though they were put in an unfamiliar format. These themes and archetypes survive and continue to move people because there is something particularly potent about them. Something that gnaws at our souls and whispers the hint of answers to a question we desperately want to know. Again he told them, "These stories have power," and he walked out of the room. The man is my hero.

And he was right. This is something that's been bouncing around in my head for the better part of a year now, with my Oxford classes on Tolkien and King Arthur, a class I took on fairy tales last semester, and the thesis I want to write on superheroes. To go into all the ideas involved there would take WAY too much time, so instead I want to talk about how myth relates something else. I want to talk about Batman.

I love superheroes in general, but Batman has always been my favorite. Once when I was 5, Jeremy, one of my best friends, called Batman Butt-man and told me that the Ninja Turtles were better than the Caped Crusader. Though this was (and still is) one of my favorite people in the world, I seriously considered terminating our friendship then and there. Thankfully, I did not. Later, he discovered Batman Beyond on Kid's WB and decided that Batman was pretty cool after all, and he reformed his ways. Childhood silliness aside, there is something really powerful about these stories, and to this day I cannot get enough. The Dark Knight Returns is my favorite comic book, and it is up there with the best books I have ever read. 

I saw The Dark Knight Rises the other night, and I've been having some great discussions on facebook about the movie and about myths. This whole article was originally a comment on a post from a friend's wall, but I thought that it was a bit lengthy for facebook. I needed to start blogging again anyway, so I decided to do a post instead. The post in question was on my friend Sean's (not me, another guy) wall. Sean had issues with the movie. He thought it was an anti-climactic end to the series. He thought that the way that they treated Bane as a second fiddle to Talia Al Ghul diluted his dark aura, and while good, Bane did not live up to the powerful performance that Ledger gave as the Joker. He thought the plot was too complex, he thought the burial scene was over the top, and he thought that the movie was basically a re-hash of the ideas from the previous two films. He and he and I had bantered about it on my friend Brittani's status, and I think I made a decent case for the film, but there were some questions left unanswered. A mutual friend posted this article on Sean's wall, which said a lot of what I wanted to say.

http://io9.com/5927630/nolans-batman-trilogy-a-unique-achievement-in-myth+making

 The rest of this is the would be my response to article in question. I agree almost completely with this article. This is possible the best and most cohesive movie trilogy I've ever seen. Is this installment quite as good as The Dark Knight? No. Dark Knight was a pretty damn good movie, and the second movie in a good trilogy is usually the best because it's the climax: Terminator 2, The Empire Strikes Back, The Bourne Supremacy, etc. Indiana Jones and Attack of the Clones are the exceptions to this rule, but I digress. 


The true merit of Nolan's last entry in the trilogy (though a fine film in its own right) is in the way that it incorporates the ideas of the first two. There are questions left unanswered that Bruce has to deal with, and the way that Nolan sets up the arch in Bruce's development throughout the three is staggering. Joseph Campbell would have had a field day. I had Batman Begins in my mind when I saw TDKR and after watching the first movie again, I am astounded at how cohesive the trilogy is and how much it centers on the idea of becoming a legend. In the scene where Bruce is inducted into the League of Shadows, Ra's tells him that he can't fight crime as a mortal man. He has to become an idea. A legend. If he can master fear, he can become incorruptible; he can become everlasting. These three things are the mind, soul, and body of legend. While he and Ra's disagree on the application of the principle, Bruce takes this lesson to heart, and the whole stinking trilogy revolves around it, around the Batman myth.

The first movie is about the fear part. Ra's tells him that if he wants criminals to fear him, Bruce has to master his own fear. It's no coincidence that the "super villain" he fights is the Scarecrow in this movie.  Bruce becomes Batman to do what Bruce can't. He conquers his own fear of bats and turns it into a weapon. He becomes a legend that operates outside the constraints of a corporeal existence and the constraints of a corrupt system that is bound to the same limitations of corrupt mortal men. He is now a symbol of hope to the oppressed and a symbol of fear to the oppressors. There's a line where he's interrogating a corrupt cop who swear's to God that he's telling the truth. That isn't good enough for Bats. He says, "Swear to me!" He is literally putting the fear of God into these people, or rather a god. He is now perceived as a semi-divine force that acts as a surrogate protective deity for the city. He is Gotham's mythology. However, in mythology all divine births have a cost–– death. We see it in the stories of the Olympians, in the Death of Baldyr, and especially in what Tolkien called the archmyth or "true myth," Christianity. If Batman is to be born into this world as the title (Batman Begins) suggests, Bruce Wayne must die. 

 Bruce sacrifices his own reputation and indeed his own everyday life to do Batman's work. He disappears for 7 years to train himself to become Batman, during which he is pronounced dead. When he comes back to Gotham, he pretends to be a spoiled rich playboy to throw off suspicion, sleeping around with movie stars, acting like a drunken idiot at high society parties, and generally trashing his family's respected name. He now wears a mask constantly, whether it's the cowl or the playboy's sleazy grin. The prince of Gotham, as he once was, is no more. Rachel tells him that Bruce  Wayne's face is now a mask and Batman's cowl is his real face. You know what? She's right. Bruce Wayne, the real Bruce Wayne, is dead until Batman's work is done. 

This leads us to part two, concerned with the other two facets of Ra's definition of legend: incorruptible and everlasting. Batman is now a successfully employed symbol, and he is striking down organized crime right and left. But Bruce has become pre-occupied with the legacy Batman will leave and life after the cowl. The problem is, although Batman is a symbol, the man under the cowl is still a mortal man, and he can't do this forever. He thinks that Harvey Dent can be the lasting change that cleans up Gotham, a white knight to replace the dark one. The problem is that Dent is not a symbol. Dent is not a myth. He is human being, and like any human he can be killed or corrupted. Worse, he's a politician, which makes the corrupting that much easier.

Enter the Joker. The Joker is convinced that society's laws and morals are a bad joke and that everyone is just as insane and evil as he is, and he wants to prove it by corrupting Gotham's two heroes: Dent and Batman. It works with Dent, who becomes two-face and nearly murders Jim Gordon and his family. But he admits (gleefully) that Batman is incorruptible. He refuses to violate his moral code, regardless of the cost, and he proves to the joker that Gotham's people can put other people's lives before their own. But Gordon and Bruce decide that Batman is "not the hero that Gotham needs," though he is "the hero it deserves." They decide Dent will be a better symbol for Gotham, and Batman sacrifices his reputation so that Harvey's can endure. As a result, the Dent act is passed, and Gotham cleans up her streets. Batman agrees to be hated and hunted, "because he can take it." He's an idea, after all. He can endure much more than a normal man. in a very Christ-like way, he absorbs Harvey's guilt into himself so that Gotham can prevail. The Dark Knight falls so that the memory of the White Knight can take his place. Except now Batman is dead, and with Rachel gone, Buce thinks he really has no life to return to. Batman and Bruce Wayne are both dead. As Alfred tells him, Bruce hangs up the cowl, but never goes back to his normal life. He's a recluse operating in limbo.

Also, as the third movie shows us, the sacrifice wasn't enough. Something is still rotten in the state of Gotham. Though things have gotten better, the foundation of that improvement is a lie, and the new symbol they have chosen is still a man, even though he's dead. Bane proves that this foundation that they've built, like Dent's reputation, is all to easily destroyed, and that politics are still just as dirty as they were, though there aren't as many thugs on the street. They've been replaced by corporate crooks like Dagget. The system is still human and flawed. Gotham still needs something that can transcend society's limitations if it is to get any better. Batman worked because he wasn't just limited flesh and blood Bruce Wayne. "He could be anyone," Bruce tells Blake. "That was the point." Like all myths, he is general, archetypal. Something like that is stronger than the face of one man. Gotham needs Batman again, but Batman is gone, even when Bruce puts the cape back on.

When Bruce fights Bane, Bane tells him that he is a fool to think that he is strong because he feels no fear of death. He tells him, without fear, there is no hope. Without hope, Bruce cannot match the desire or the ferocity of Bane, and the other man in the mask breaks him. Wait a second. Fear. . . wait, that was important in the first movie, right? Bruce had to master his fear. But in this movie he is not mastering his fear. He has none to master. Alfred tells him that he wants the end to come. He wants to die. So what were those three parts of legend? 1) Mastery of fear. This is gone with Bruce's fear of his own mortality). 2) Incorruptibility. He has tarnished his name for Harvey and allowed the symbol of Batman to become corrupted). 3). Everlastingness. Bane has broken him and left him to die as he watches his city burn.

All three precepts of his legendary status have been shot to hell. The legend of Batman is no more, until Bane leaves him in the pit. Bane inadvertently hands Bruce the keys to the gates of Hell by restoring his reputation (so that he could muddy Dent's and turn the people against the law) and by telling him that his lack of fear (and subsequently his lack of hope) is his weakness. Bruce rediscovers his hope and his fear of losing that hope, and Batman rises from the pit of Hell, reborn. Now he can beat Bane. Now he can save Gotham. After defeating Bane and Talia, he attains the final part of the legendary staus–– the everlasting part. Catwoman tells him that he can leave, that he's given the city everything already. He tells her, "Not everything. Not yet." But he knows that he will. Once again, Batman has to sacrifice himself for the city, but this time he has to give up not his reputation, but his life. Sort of. 

As far as the rest of the world knows, Batman dies in the explosion. He is now Gotham's messiah. It's a baptism by fire and water through which Bruce and Batman die to be born again, now as separate entities. Blake asks Gordon if he had any idea who the Dark Knight was, he tells him, "I know. He was the Batman." The idea of Batman has now separated itself completely from Bruce's flesh-and-blood body. The Batman myth is now indestructible, incorruptible, everlasting. Bruce has his "clean slate" that he begins with Selina, while Batman becomes the symbol for justice and sacrifice that Dent never could be. The hero Gotham didn't deserve, but needed. He's no longer limited to a flesh and blood mortal form of a man, even in the academic sense. He's a legend, an idea, now a thousand times more powerful than he was when it was only Bruce Wayne under the cowl. When Bruce passes the torch to Blake, or Robin (loved the reference), who carries on the physical work of Batman, he is ensuring that the Dark Knight will live forever. He is now a myth. 

Holy crap, Nolan. That's a lot of crap to pack into the subtext. And I'm not even scratching the surface. But to create a cohesive line of thought about something as gargantuan as myth and legend and say this much this well in three films. . . what an achievement.

Was this movie as good as The Dark Knight? Probably not. I don't care though. These three films are a collective work of art. By themselves, they're good movies, but together they are something that has never been done by any superhero movie, or any trilogy for that matter. I have never seen a trilogy that investigates one theme so thoroughly or works so cohesively. So thank you, Mr. Nolan. I thoroughly enjoyed your work.

Climbing Arthur's Seat (Into the Tearing Wind)

A looming mound of sharp turf-covered stones rises,
sharp like the chill that races up my spine, sharp like the biting
breeze that cuts through my coat like a blade.
This mound is an island amidst Edinburgh’s crowded streets.
Here atop this mound, this island, the hands of time sit still.
Here soft comes the rain, and tearing comes the wind.

Fortress walls have crumbled. Kings have passed away.
The earth is old, but the air is young,
still young as it was the day the world was made.
That air, that fierce young wind tears the words from my mouth,
carries my voice over the evergreen grass of Caledonia, over the seat of kings
where soft comes the rain, and tearing comes the wind.

Mason’s stones lie scattered upon this aged mound,
towers toppled, walls crumbled, the fort destroyed beyond recognition.
Yet I cannot help but wonder what they once were,
what sort of men stood at arms atop them in the same soft rain,
and what sort of voices spoke, voices whose words were torn from their mouths,
like mine, bourn away and still carried by this same ever-young, tearing wind.

The highland gale cries, it screams long, loud, and clear,
a wind fresher, a wind greener than the grass that grows
upon this aged mound of rock and earth. Voices in the air whisper
below the gale’s keen, asking almost altogether unheard,
“Was this the throne where the Bear of Britain sat? Was this Pendragon’s roost?
Was this where warriors feasted? Peerless Cai, bold Bedwyr, and the rest?”

Soft comes the rain; tearing comes the wind.
I know my mind is filled with too much romance,
with men who likely never lived outside the songs the poets sing.
But those words, those songs, those voices still resound in me,
playing upon my heartstrings like Taliesin played upon his harp,
Like Merlin’s magic that seems to play upon my immortal soul.

Soft comes the rain; tearing comes the wind,
stirring some sleeping soldier in my soul that longs for battle, beasts, and blades,
that needs to feel the same rough, caressing wind that blew the banners of kings.
Like bottled thunder, my sharp, rolling laughter bursts out.
Blade-like and biting, it cuts through the squall’s scream,
and my labored climb turns to a run at breakneck speed.

Into the tearing wind I step, into the tearing wind,
trying to steal a kiss from a hurricane, to feel the embrace of the rain,
to find seat at top of the world, to hear the words on the wind.
This the eye. This is the sacred centre of the storm of this world’s realm.
This where the shackles of time fall, broken, to the ground.
This is where the stories end, where memory begins.

The Truth About Christianity

I want to start this off by saying that I am no expert on theology or Biblical literature or anything like that. I'm not a pastor, I'm not a theologian, and I have no formal training or schooling. But I've read the bible, and I've been learning and thinking about these things my whole life. Some I learned from my dad, who pastored at one point, some I've learned from reading, some I've learned from experience with God. That being said, here's my rant:

I have a lot of issues with how the Church in America looks. I don't mean churches, I mean the Church as a whole. One element of Christianity that everyone seems to dwell on is the idea of the afterlife. Not that there's anything wrong with believing in an afterlife. It's important, and one of the things that Jesus said he came to bring was "eternal life." But I think people are mistaken when they think that the whole point of being a christian is getting to go to heaven. It isn't about fire insurance. It isn't about being good and getting to play a harp and wear a robe when you die instead of going to hell.

This misconception comes from a fundamental misunderstanding of the fall and what it means. Yes, after the fall, the curse dictated than man has to die. Suffering and toil come into the world, blah blah blah. Everyone's heard that a million times. But that isn't the only part of it. Before man falls, he and God are humanity in perfect relationship. After the fall, that perfect relationship is broken. Sin has come between them. Paul has something to say about it in Romans 1:21, "For although they knew God, they neither glorified him as God nor gave thanks to him, but their thinking became futile and their foolish hearts were darkened. 22 Although they claimed to be wise, they became fools 23 and exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images made to look like mortal man and birds and animals and reptiles."

The ultimate problem isn't that man now has the knowledge of good and evil. The problem is that he let go of the knowledge of who God is. By disobeying him, he refused to acknowledge the creator's role as God. The serpent told Eve that after eating the fruit she would "become like God" (Gen. 3:4). By disobeying God's only command, Adam and Eve were essentially saying, "No, I will be my own God. I will follow my own commands." And since man refuses God's sovereignty, he forgoes God's protection, as the latter part of Paul's passage indicates:

"Furthermore, since they did not think it worthwhile to retain the knowledge of God, he gave them over to a depraved mind, to do what ought not to be done. 29 They have become filled with every kind of wickedness, evil, greed and depravity. They are full of envy, murder, strife, deceit and malice. They are gossips, 30 slanderers, God-haters, insolent, arrogant and boastful; they invent ways of doing evil; they disobey their parents; 31 they are senseless, faithless, heartless, ruthless. 32 Although they know God’s righteous decree that those who do such things deserve death, they not only continue to do these very things but also approve of those who practice them." Sin and death are not punishments in as much as they are the logical consequence. After man rejects God's sovereignty, the protection that comes with it is also rejected, and God essentially has to watch as man destroys himself with his own rebellion.

Every man has eaten the fruit and rejected God's sovereignty and protection, save one. Christ was in perfect relationship with his Father. After his Baptism God says, "This is my son whom I love and with whom I am well pleased." He does nothing in his ministry without consulting and following the will of the Father, and he follow's God's plan even to his own death. The primary thing that he gave up wasn't his life, though. He took the full burden of the world's sin on his shoulders, and that burden separated him from God. He gave up the perfect relationship with the Father that he had. That's what he means when he says "my God, my God, why have you forsaken me?" That is a sacrifice far more painful than anything that he endured in his tortures, brutal though they were. And because of his sacrifice, we now can have relationship with the creator.

That's why I get angry when people think that christianity is about being pure and good, or about going to heaven when you die. This isn't a self help class. This isn't fire insurance. Those are tertiary elements. Christianity is about having a relationship with the creator of the universe, even though you don't deserve it, but he was willing to give up everything to let you have it anyway. Behavior is a byproduct. Heaven is a bonus.

Why Sean Is A Lazy Procrastinator

I think I’ve just figured out something. Something kind of important. My biggest character flaw is probably laziness. I am the biggest procrastinator on the face of the earth. I constantly put my homework, my creative endeavors, work, job hunting, errands, and even time with God on the back burner. I already knew that. I also know that my frequent exhaustion and burn out comes from the all nighters where I scrape by by the skin of my teeth to produce acceptable work. Lately I haven’t even been able to do that. Case and point, England, or even recent times at Mercer. I always kept moaning about the time I needed more time to finish, but I had all the time I needed. I just wasted it watching movies, traveling, eating, going to the pub, watching football games, and watching youtube videos, and arguing with people on koptalk.

But I think I figured out the root of this. When wasting time I always tell myself that I deserve this break, that I need to unwind and I’ll do it later. That’s partially true, but I’m going about it the wrong way. Psalm 60:1 says, “My soul finds rest in God alone.” Whoops. So here’s what that means: no matter how much time I waste, no many naps I take, no longer how long I wait for energy to come to me, it won’t. I will feel burnt out and tired until I find rest for my soul, and until I find that rest, I will not be able to do anything else to the capacity he created me. Furthermore, until I make time for God, and until I feed myself spiritually, I will be stuck in this limbo, this rut of half-done endeavors, unfulfilled goals, and undeveloped ideas. My soul is crying out for relationship with my creator, and until it gets it, I’m going to keep sabotaging myself. So this is my next project that I’ll pursue before I write, before I study, before I work, and before I find rest or pleasure I the things of this world, I will pursue relationship with the Father. God help me.

Houses and Homes

Right now, I’m sitting on a couch in Oxford in a house that is not mine, sipping black coffee and thinking. I have 4 days before I leave the UK for the last time. I’ve already written a post about how I feel about leaving Oxford, so I won’t rehash that. I want to talk about something a little more specific, namely my house. I call it my house, because although it never really belonged to me, it FELT like mine. It felt like home. And I suppose that’s natural. Aside from on campus housing and my brief spell housesitting, this was the first time I’d really lived on my own, not even having even the option to go home on the weekends or even to call. A dorm room doesn’t feel like home. Neither does a constantly dark apartment whose living room is occupied by your Moroccan suite mate who doesn’t like sharing a room and whose temperature is constantly fluctuating between 50 and 85 degrees.

Something was different about this house, something I can’t quite put my finger on. Maybe it was the environment. Aidan has been a constant element in all three, but Katie and Clare, though new additions, were more amiable companions than my suite mates of the past. They were certainly more present than their predecessors were. I think have grown quite accustomed to hearing Clare singing Beyonce and Nicki Minaj songs at the top of her voice and morning talks with Katie after she got back from her run. I’ve gotten attached to our little study nook in the sitting room, to the way the sunlight hits my bed in the morning, to cooking dinner with Brittani, Kalie, and Stephen next door. I’ll never wake up in that bed again, cook on that stove, or read on that couch. Never again will I bump over that pot that held the loose board to the fence, never again will I smell the fresh rosemary growing by the door as I fumble for my keys. And for some reason I don't quite understand, these realizations sadden me.

The house had it’s problems. The lock stuck, the shower leaked, the boiler was finicky, and the internet was inconsistent at best. But I loved it despite these imperfections, or maybe because of them. This is the first place I ever had Thanksgiving away from home, the first place I ever roasted a chicken or turkey, or baked a pie on my own. I miss already the noises and smells and sounds that accompanied my daily routines, and it felt very strange when I had to retrieve my luggage from my room. All the dishes and food and linens and appliances and other things were all packed up in boxes that lined the wall by the doorway, and the place felt very different. It seemed as though the place had never been lived in at all. It was. . . dead. Deserted. I felt like I was standing in a tomb, not the place I had made my home these past 6 months. I didn’t like the feeling. I still don’t. Soon I’ll be back in the house I grew up in, and it strikes me how much people like me like to create a false sense of permanence about things like this, whether it’s about people, homes, school, jobs, cities, or whatever other thing you can think of to fill in the blank. When we find something we care about, we can’t stand the idea of losing it; can’t stand the idea of it no longer being there in our lives. Growing up in Newnan, it felt like life there would last forever. High school on the first day felt like it would be much longer than the short 4 years it turned out to be. Already I feel like my time at Mercer has flown by, and my hiatus in England is already gone. Nothing in my life, not even me stays the same for long. It’s a scary thought. Maybe that’s why people like for me look so desperately for permanence. We aren’t afraid of eternity or the permanent, we’re afraid of the idea that everything will continue with us and pack us up in boxes like a bunch of old dishes, put us in the ground, and forget about us. People can go crazy thinking about it for too long.

What a Difference 4 Months Make

So I’m sitting on a plane from Geneva to London at the butt-crack of dawn, exhausted, broke, probably smelly, and very content. How do I describe the myriad of experiences I’ve enjoyed and lessons I’ve learned from my trip to Europe? I don’t just mean my trip to the continent, either, I mean over this whole semester abroad. Since I’ve left the States, I’ve done thousands of things that I’d never done before: I’ve climbed mountains in 5 different countries, I’ve explored castles, cathedrals, alleys, closes, lochs, mountain trails, country roads, and underground crypts and passages, I’ve tried local beer from 7 different nations, I’ve seen plays at the globe and Stratford, I’ve wandered through strange cities, and gotten utterly and wonderfully lost. I’ve roasted and carved turkeys and chickens, planned my first Thanksgiving feast, tried foods, wines, beers, and bread I’ve never heard of, and I’ve laughed with, cried with, eaten with, and lived with so many new people. I’ve paid homage to some of my academic and literary idols, visiting their homes, their colleges, their old haunts and pubs, and even their graves.

I cannot begin to convey how all these things have affected me. How can I describe St. Patrick’s Cathedral or the Alhambra? How can I explain the serenity, the peace, or the spiritual weight I felt there? How can I express how learning at the feet of scholars like Francis Warner, Barry Webb, or Julia Cresswell has so fundamentally changed my studies, my reading, my thoughts and my writing? How can I put to words the majesty, the grandeur, the magnificence of the heaven-shaped landscapes that I’ve seen since coming here? I’ve seen the cliffs of Moher’s staggering peaks, the snow-crowned Swiss Alps, the view from Arthur’s Seat, the tranquil depths of Loch Ness, the clear bay of Le Leman lit up with the lights of the city, and countless other wonders that my weak words cannot ever capture. How can I put to words the incredible sense of awe, humility, and smallness that those sights have inspired in me? How can I tell you what it feels like to watch the sun set in Grenada and to drive up to the city, lit like a sea of little candles leading up to the Alhambra? Or what it’s like to see the streets of London or Geneva gleam like a giant Christmas ornament against the night sky? How can I capture the sensation of sprinting up a mountain with old and new friends, heart and adrenaline pounding, then surveying the sprawling city beneath you, with the wind crying in the night, tearing at you face in a violent gale that might knock you clean off the mountain? How can I put on paper what it feels like to wake up seeing the sun rise over Edinburgh Castle, perched on the rocks like an eagle?

It seems almost hopeless to even try to capture on paper the things I’ve done, seen, tasted, smelled, climbed, explored, felt, discovered, or learned in the course of four short months. A list can’t capture the nutty hale taste of Spanish coffee, the deliciously pungent tingle of French wine, the sharp bite of an Irish wind, the gentle kiss of Scottish rain. I can’t do justice to the tastes: the salty, crisp of Irish potatoes, the warm oil and butter of Italian bread, the sweet sharpness of a Spanish pomegranate, the light creamy delight of English scones with clotted cream, or the smokey, sweet burn of Scottish whisky. I can’t explain the simple comfort I get from a cup of tea while listening to a soft Irish rain, or from the dull glowing laugher shared by friends around a bottle of Spanish red wine. I cannot explain the feeling of power, of excitement, of accomplishment I felt sitting at the top of mount Holyhead, the Alps, or Arthur’s seat so high above the world, then running, racing, sliding, tumbling down at breakneck speed. Words on a page cannot convey the myriad of purples, gold, reds, and pinks that the Spanish sunset paints on the clouds, the sparkle of lights that line ripples of the Thames, or the staggering lushness that fills the deep green of the British and Irish countryside.

I’ve tried to express it. I’ve tried and I’ve failed. For 2 pages and 3 previous drafts I’ve attempted to put my experience to words, but to no avail. Maybe that’s why I had trouble keeping up with my blogging and writing while I’ve been here. Maybe I knew how short my attempts would fall. But I can tell you one thing that this ordeal has done to me. As much as I’ve seen, tasted, experienced, and done, I know that this was only the briefest of glimpses into the sprawling wonder of the world. As much as I’ve done over these short months, I know there is infinitely more out in the wide world that I haven’t done yet, and even more that I may never do. I want to drink deeply from this cup until I burst, to savor every taste of this wild, precious, and brief life that I can. Brittani told me before we arrived that I would get the travel bug. That’s only half true. I’ve got the life bug. I want to learn, read, write, taste, create, experience, love, laugh, and discover until the day I die, whether it happens in a small town in Georgia or in the streets of Europe. I am a learner, a writer, a reader, a wanderer, and a questioner. To then end of my days I will always be so. Learning that by itself would have been worth the trip.

Leaving My Heart in the City of Dreaming Spires

I am sitting at my kitchen table in my house at oxford for the last time, wishing a great number of things. I wish that I had worked more on this blog, that I had managed my time better at Oxford, that I had gotten more involved with student life here, that I had gotten more involved at church, that I had been to more of the museums and plays and concerts, that I had saved more money for my trip, that I had read more, that I had spent more time on my papers, that I gotten Liverpool tickets, that I had done countless other things here, but they all really boil down to one regret: I wish that I was coming back for next semester. I understand that is something that I couldn't do from the get go, but it doesn't lessen the blow of having to return to America. My friend Sarah said yesterday that she was just now remembering what we were retuning to and she was not necessarily looking forward to: "I forgot how ugly everything is in America! And everyone's so fat!"

I don't know that I agree with her on the whole. I don't think America is all necessarily ugly, and it certainly has its positives. I have missed several things: netflix, water fountains, family, friends, biscuits, pancakes, and several other things. At the same time, I feel a lot like all those fictional characters who stumble into another world like Narnia or Albion, finding their own world falling short of this vibrant new one that they must now leave. It will be good to go home and see everyone for christmas, but I am leaving a piece of my heart here in City of Dreaming Spires. I will miss several things here too. Goodbye pubs and pub food, local English beer, and watching the matches with Simon. Goodbye Oxford libraries, the tutorial system, the Warners, and both of my wonderful tutors. Goodbye Eagle and Child, Folly Bridge Inn, and the White Horse. Good bye pound land, primark, British public transportation, free museums, and George and Danvers. Good bye cathedrals, meadows, and all the beautiful architecture that will no longer adorn my walks to class. I hope to return to you someday. Meanwhile, it's off to London, Spain, and Switzerland before my final journey home.

48 Hours in Transit

Well folks (the few of you that actually read this), it’s been a while. It’s been a long summer, one I spent almost all of living alone in Macon scraping together enough money to pay for this trip. A few weeks ago I went home for a few weeks before Brittani and I left for Europe, trying to sort everything out and spend some time with the family and friends before the trip. Wednesday night I left the States and it has been pretty much non-stop movement ever since. Over the 48 hour period between 11:15 on Wednesday evening and Friday evening I have hopped around between 5 different countries, more than I have ever been in my life. We left Atlanta that night, had a layover in France the next morning, and arrived in London that afternoon, took a bus down to Oxford to drop off our bags, and took a bus back to London to sleep in the hostel we had already booked. The next morning we took a train from London to Holyhead, Wales, and then we took a ferry to Dublin.

I had left the country only once before today, and that was to go to the Bahamas when I was 12. Since I was young and that's only a few miles from Florida, I’m still counting this as my first major international excursion. So far the experience has been surreal. I’m really not sure what exactly I think or feel about it yet. To be honest, I’m still not sure it’s quite sunk in that I’m here. Since we got accepted, Brittani and I have been poking each other, looking over with our ridiculous grins dripping with excitement, exclaiming, “We’re going to Oxford!” as if this were utterly new and previously unannounced information. And every time she or I would do this, it seemed to be just that. We were even doing it on the plane ride over, because even then it seemed like we needed to remind ourselves that this thing we had planned (and I use that term loosely) was a real thing and actually happening.
After the waiting for this since October when I applied for the program, the stress of trying to plan and pay for it, and the work I’ve done both to get in and to afford to go, my emotional response to this whole affair probably resembles a roller coaster of some kind. I say probably because I’m still really not sure. I’ve been tired from the trip the jet lag, and confused and worried from getting lost with Brittani on the way to the Hostel and London (we found it eventually), and I’ve been excited enough to burst for the 11 months leading up to this process. My body’s been in transit for 48 hours, so I guess my brain has a right to still be.

There was a considerable amount of stress before Brittani and I left as we realized how underprepared we were/are, and ended up having to drop our plans to go through France and Germany before term started, and opted for Ireland because it was closer, cheaper, and ultimately simpler.
There are a few things I do know about what I want out of this trip though. I want to grow and I want to learn as a person, as a Christian, and as a friend. My dad gave me some good advice before I left, and one of the things he said really struck a chord with me. He told me that if I want to get something out of this, to listen and watch as well as I can. I should be slow to speak and be less concerned about whether or not these people in Europe like me than about what I can learn from them. I should keep my eyes and heart open to what God has has for me in this trip and what knowledge I can take back with me, because those are the things that will stay. It was good advice, I think, and I’m taking it to heart. I’m going to try to see as many things and people as I can before this is over, but that’s not all. I want to know my friends better and myself better. I want to grow closer to God as I see more of his people and his creation. If I see more facets of his image and his handiwork, maybe I can learn something about him and something about myself.

For All the Books I Never Finnished

For All the Books I Never Finished

Why do I horde these piles of bound white leaves,
ink-stained gossamer strips of wood that are too thin to cover me,
too frail to shelter me from the wind and the rain and the heat and the unrelenting cold
of cruel, lovely mother earth––

Why do I stack these pages of Dante and Donne, Faulkner and Freud,
King and Kerouac, and Milton and Homer and a million others,
more than half I’ll never read, and far fewer than half I’ll ever understand––

Wouldn’t I be happier with piles of green leaves? Or strips of wood that blocked the merciless sun and pouring rain, that silenced the stinging howling wind of vanity that calls me a fool for considering to chase it?

Is it the ridiculous romantic notion to become the noble scholar,
the starving artist who only needs the taste of words on his lips,
who dismisses the world and its money with a fluttering of his hand and his pages?

Do I think that these new books will be any different than than the dozens of others,
countless tomes and volumes and leaves that lie in my room, discarded,
their words half-spoken and still-born in my head?

Do I think that the musty smell of ink and paper well awaken my senses,
sharpen my wits to see the poetry in the world I stumble through
lazy, blind, and thoughtless––

Will it open my eyes to creation, my ears to the music of the air and water and
and heartbeat of this city that I still know nothing about? Will it let me hear the
voice of the God I once knew or the calls of Caliope that I thought went silent?

I know that the books will do nothing themselves.
They float, anchorless, without a mind to take root and germinate in.
A story, a verse, an idea will not simply come with the morning sun––

My God did not stop speaking, nor did the muse cease singing––
I know all I need to do is to bid the noise of distraction to stop,
to quiet the grinding gears of my mind and listen if I want to hear.

These books are real, not some 3 dimensional wall-paper to adorn my house
Nor is the pile an erected monument to an intellect I want everyone think I have.

But still they lie unread and still my pen sits idle, still full of ink that now begins to dry.
Still I buy more to throw upon the pile, all the while dreaming Quixotic dreams of
the thoughts and contemplations and inspirations that prose and poesy once brought me.
But still I never turn the page nor pick up the pen,
save to sign a check for some pretty book to lie unread,
all the while filled with dread that all I’ll ever write for the world to see is that ugly, frail
little wisp of a name–– that damning, doooming admission of wasted life.

Sharing a Meal

I think I understand why my parents cook for so many people now. I aways enjoyed eating those big meals, but I thought preparing them was a major pain. But this week, for some reason or another, I wanted to do a big dinner for everyone. It didn't exactly go as I planned. It took two more hours to get everything ready, and half the people I invited couldn't come. I burnt the second round of garlic bread, and I blew my money for a week on a pyrex pan.

But I loved it. There's a certain satisfaction you get from cooking for someone, from sharing a mealy you made. And it's not just from eating or being told your food is good. It's from serving someone. Helping someone. What is it about food, especially good food, that gets people to let their guard down? Why does sharing a meal bring people so much closer together? I hadn't felt that close to those people in a long time, and I probably won't again until the next time I cook.

I don't know what it is. I still don't, but I wanted to try again with breakfast. Pancakes had a few glitches too. This time WAY more people came than I expected. I ran out of eggs and buttermilk, and I think the second batch tasted a little powdery. Still though, I can't get over the feeling I get feeding people. Or the feeling I get running around the kitchen trying to pour drinks, tend three pans, and mix bater for the next batch. It's work, a LOT of work, but it's satisfying. Half the people didn't help with groceries like they said the would, and we didn't finish breakfast until 1 pm. But who cares? It made me happy to do it.

I may need to do this more often.

When I Remember. . .

"That boy is gone.
Sometimes I miss the way he wept at night.
To be still and not run,
To be rocked to sleep in your light.
These days there is not much that will bring tears to my eyes,
But when I remember who i am and who you are,
When I remember. . .
A cloud moves in, rain falls, thunder strikes, and sunshine breaks through the clouds.

I am walking blind,
So distracted that I dont even feel when you hold me.
When did I grow such thick skin?
You are my sunshine and rain,
My joy and sweet pain.
I'm a spotless stain.
That boy is gone,
But nobody moves me like you do
When I remember. . .

A cloud moves in, rain falls, thunder strikes
And sunshine breaks through the clouds
I can cry out of sorrow and joy
Every drop of rain turns into a crystal in the sun
So wash my eyes, my clothes, my skin, my bones, my soul
My feet, my love
I'm not forgotten
I'm in your thoughts cause I feel sunshine in the rain

To this day nobody moves,
Nobody,
Nobody moves me like you do."


It's funny when parts of your past poke their heads into your life again. I used to listen to those guys all the time when I was younger, but I never knew that they wrote this, or anything like it. This is the cry of my soul. I am something more than what I am now.

Procrastination is like masturbation: in the end, you're only screwing yourself

You know how everyone says that you can't be successful if you put things off until the last minute? It's one of those things I just sort of smiled and nodded to, but basically ignored. I had great grades in high school and college, was involved in everything, and was still incredibly lazy. I did my homework the night before, the morning of, or during class, and got through tests and discussions largely through my memory and my ability to bullshit. I figured if I worked hard during practice and rehearsal, turned in a passable assignment, and paid attention during class; I would be fine. There were a couple of close shaves, but I got A's, a starting spot, scholarships, and roles. I never took the idea of preparing very seriously.

Until this semester started kicking my ass. I have homework assignments out the wazoo, a job, passport and scholarship applications, 18 hours of class time, and no clue how I'm going to get caught up. Sorry, world, but Spring break was not long enough. I might have to mimic my roommate and hide myself away for a few weeks, venturing out only for class and food.

I'm really glad I'm the oldest. I used to hate it. I hated the responsibility, hated baby sitting, hated everything always being my fault. I got used to it, and even grew to like it. Now I thank God I'm not one of the younger ones. After seeing the people they are becoming, I think if I were younger I would be afraid of living in their shadows.

Ellen's queen of everything: the prom, jr. miss, the golf team, the dance studio, the stage. Neil's a two sport letterman as a sophomore, and probably a better athlete than I'll ever be. Steve may be more gifted than all of us put together. I'm glad I'm not the youngest. I don't have to worry about proving myself, or trying to surpass them. Instead, I can just watch them and be proud.

It's really weird though, watching them. Neil can outrun me now, and he's almost as tall as I am. Steve is wittier and more athletic than most people I know in college. Ellen's almost in college. I'm twenty years old. This is nuts.

Halfway there, and so am I. . .

Today is a good day. Mr. Nicholson's check may not be huge, but it knocks out almost a sixth of what Oxford will cost. At this point, I really wasn't expecting it either, especially after Brittanni got one of the grants. But there it is, another thousand dollars I won't have to earn (or I can spend on travel expenses).

It's amazing how after two weeks of hell, things start to come together. Dr. Raschko wants to help me with grad school. I got to pray for a friend who I never thought would want it. I won some money. No class today, and my school won the game. Life is good. I know things will probably go from good to suck to good and to suck again before the next time I post. It's important to remember these times though. To many times do men curse the heavens after falling off the chair God made them. I know my life will never be perfect or easy, but every now and then I think He lets me know that it'll still be good.

I haven't gotten everything together yet. I've still got a lot of stuff to work through, and it'll be a sleepy day in class tomorrow. But storms can never erase sunshine, hard as they try to cover it up. I won't let anything let me forget the moments of grace I see, even if they are vastly outnumbered by moments of pain and failure. It's enough. I survived half the semester. Round 4, final bout of sophomore year. Next year I'm a junior. Weird.

Change

Like Aaron Gillespie said, "Times change, people change, and sometimes change comes looking for you." The second act of this whole college thing is about to start, and several things will not be the same. Enter and exit the love interest. Re-enter some best friends. We have major. We have goal. We still don't know what the hell we're doing. And the scenery is about to change again.

I wanted to post right after these things started happening: after I found out about oxford, after she and I started fighting, after the break up. I didn't think it was fair, and I'm too flipping busy, so I didn't. But I need to write, and one little poetry workshop once a week won't cut it. This probably won't either, but I need to vent, to think, to compose. I can't figure things out in my head. I have to do it here. I have to do it now. Carla Kimsey is dead.

After years of her being sick, after years of fighting this battle everyone said she would lose in months, after all the improvements, the miracles and the relapses, and the tears, she's dead. It never quite registers. When someone dies I never really figure it out until I start writing to them or about them. Even then it's so bizarre. It doesn't seem real. And those were people I barely knew. Aside from Mr. Ben, this was the first one really close to home, and he died when I was just a kid. Grampa Lauren was a hermit who only spoke to me three times in my life. Papa Dave was the same. Sasha was someone I knew, but didn't see outside of school or church. I didn't even know Ray or JR. But even those deaths shook me. I wrote about them. I cried for Sasha. I cried for my Grandfather.

Why aren't I crying now? When it matters? When it's someone I cared about, someone close to my family, I shut down. My brain doesn't register. I called Cathryn trying to comfort her, and I was useless. I couldn't say anything. I've never had a problem giving advice or being comforting. I do it all the time, sometimes for people I barely know. Why can't I do it now? Not that it would really change anything. Holy shit, I can't believe she's dead.

The Kimseys have always been like family. She was like another mom to me sometimes, especially when I was little. I still remember her taking me and Jon-o to soccer practice or picking me and Cathryn up from church. I remember her telling us to be quiet when I spent the night at their house. I remember her hugs and the tired gentle smiles she always had. Her sarcasm. Her strength. I remember her cracking jokes with my parents at the dinner table. She's been in the hospital for weeks and we never visited her. Our family never went over there. We've been supportive throughout this whole time, praying for them, loving them, encouraging them. But we weren't there at the end. At least I wasn't.

She always said that she was ready. That God had given her peace and she accepted whatever he had for her. And she didn't die in six months. She lived another 8 years. Isn't that worth celebrating? She said she would have traded what she learned from this for anything. That until now she didn't know how much God loved her, how much her family loved her, how much her friends loved her. Would I be able to say that? To believe that? I don't even know what to think about it. I have no clue what it must be like for her kids, the kids I grew up with.

Carla Kimsey is one of the most remarkable people I have ever met. She loved God and loved life through the calm and though the storm. She was a source of life, encouragement, and strength, even in her physical infirmity for all who knew her and many that didn't. The world is a poorer place without her. We all loved you Miss Carla. We'll see you again someday. Rest in peace. This is a change I don't ever want to get used to.

Enough

I am tired of not doing what I say I'm going to do and doing exactly what I say I'm not going to. I tell myself, "Okay, all you have to do today is this one assignment." Then I proceed to do everything but (as I am doing right now) until my work piles up on the day before everything is due, and in a frantic and desperate attempt to finish everything, I turn out a series of just pasable efforts to stave off the inevitable failure that will come my way unless I change something now. It's not just homework though. I'm too lazy to work, to lazy to finish the stupid novel, that stupid short story or those stupid poems. I don't have the motivation to finish books I love, even when they're assigned to me. And the worst of it is that my time with God has been utterly non-existant.

Furthermore I have personal convictions that have been present in my mind since I was thirteen years old, and I am tired of not walking in them. I am tired of being unable to say no because I am afraid of hurting someone's feelings. I'm tired of not being able to tell a person that I don't want to spend every waking moment with her (even though she is the one person I spend more time with than anyone or anything else) without her blowing up, and I'm tired of staving off the inevitable. I'm tired of being spineless, and I'm tired of feeling guilty for every five minutes I spend apart from her.

I'm tired of her asking for a future I can't promise and I begin to doubt is possible. I know this is going to suck. And I already feel like an ass.

Dammit

Why do stupid, trivial, easily avoidable things have to ruin good days? I wake up to a pancakes and bacon breakfast this morning, thinking, This is great! No class, great food, and lovely company. Now I can get caught up on all that crap I need to do.. But wait, turns out I did have class, I missed talking about my favorite character in the Old Testament for great books, I lost my phone, I have to miss a dinner date I've been planning for weeks, and by spending my time straightening this out I have accomplished nothing I intended on this day off. I need to get over this hump and get my butt in gear, or I'll blow this whole semester.

A sound without a voice, a song without a tune, resounding and echoing in this beautiful void

I try to gather thoughts and words to reflect the truth that I see,
but they fall like grains of sand through my fingers.
I know my words are less than drops in the Ocean
compared to giants like Milton, Poe Homer, I am less than a spot
in the vast array of poetry and prose,
and even they are but pebbles at the foot of the mountain
a puff of gas in the nebula, burning brightly and beautifully and then gone.

Even they are but drops in your ocean.
If they are so small,
microscopic titans, geniuses made playthings,
What can I ever hope to be?

“Vanity, vanity” Solomon called it.
Catching wisdom is impossible;
with every step I take it grows further and further
from where it seemed before my steps began.

All the books I can never read, all the things I can never see,
the discoveries made and the conclusions drawn as man grows into itself. . .
I can never see even a fraction of them.
There is too much!
I want to drown in these beautiful words, imagines, sounds, and ideas
I am drunk with them already, though I have not even finished my first sip.

The effort is hopeless, but not pointless, beautiful in its impossibility.
I see the perfect imbalance in the symmetry,
the perfect order in the chaos.

I run wildly like a dog chasing its tail,
not knowing why or what I’d do if I caught it,
but oh such a chase.

“Vanity,” he said. But such magnificent vanity!
All these thoughts and these wonders,
these marvels and miracles
I can never count them all.

Perfect stars in perfect constellations in perfect galaxies
that move in perfect harmony in the universe,
chords and notes and scales that layer into songs and themes and symphonies . . .

It explodes in brilliance, reborn every second
I can’t focus, I can’t say it all.
It’s too much. It’s too beautiful.

Oh God, to see your mind and the vast array of knowledge, of beauty, of truth. . .
the very idea is too sublime, to beautiful for words.
I am lost and drunk with the very inkling of it.

I’ll never be able to read and see and think and hear them all,
much less understand them.
Oh but I long to try. And I will.

I see your beauty in gentle curves of the female body,
as it dances through each day and night.
I see your wonder in the man’s back as he struggles,
moving mountains, poetry in motion.

Their embrace moves me to tears.
Oh Lord, my heart cannot bear the wonder.
It cannot hold it all. It will burst.
But don’t stop, let it burst and erupt in the wonder,
exploding into such a wondrous light that no star could ever rival.

They complement each other perfectly,
two bodies, one flesh,
two hearts, one soul.
The symmetry is so sublime.

I cannot stop to even my verses' feet,
to arrange my words in the perfect rhyme and rhythm I hear in my heart.
Science, history, citizenry, soldiery, books, songs, treatises,
farming, running, flight, questions, answers, drama, . . . it is all an art.

So beautiful is you creation, so beyond my pitiful vocabulary.
I see now that it is more than any of us could ever hope to know.
I see it in the perfect geometry in Babe Ruth’s swing and the
symmetry of two lovers embracing,
I hear it in the hum of Stevie Ray's guitar,
a soul older than time or earthly bodies,
older than himself,
singing with notes and chords and scales he cannot read,
reverberating and echoing long after he’s gone.

It’s in the effortless perfection in Poe’s meter, Milton’s tone,
in Dylan’s verses that sing with beauty that needs no pretty melody to be a song.
It’s in Sinatra’s voice, in David’s proudly undignified dance.
It’s in Rembrant’s brush, Da Vinci’s plans, Jefferson’s pen,
Einstein’s equations, and Euclid’s lines,
Perfect works pouring forth from imperfect vessels.

How can they make such things without you flowing through them?
How can any of it make anything that resembles sense without you?
How can man’s warring desires that enslave him
release their vicegrips on his mind without you?
How could reason, order, natural law, logic, or pattern emerge without your hand?
How could such things crawl out of the sea of random chance?
It seems more likely to drop a set of keys into a bucket of scrap metal,
Watching a porsche emerge. . .

I heart it in a baby's cry, I smell it in the rain, on the earth,
in the housewife’s feast, in the perfumed fields of Eden.
I feel it in the ground beneath me, in the air above me,
and in the bones and soul within me.

How can they say you hide, Lord?
You are everywhere, you are everything and more.
You pierce time, empty space, wandering thought,
muddled mind, troubled heart, and scarred soul. . .
I am overwhelmed.

Even your word,
the written embodiment of your glory,
is a faded, pitiful reflection
compared to the incomprehensible awe of your presence.

And I so I stand:
merely a sound without a voice,
a song without a tune,
resounding and echoing in this beautiful void
without ears to hear it
a key without a lock,
until you make all new
and fill in the missing colors of my paint by number dreams.

Your glory and magnificence transcend the words we use
to describe or even name them.
In abject humility, I lie, prostrate before you.
All I ask is to remain here at your feet,
drowning in the vast seas of your wonders,
catching beautiful, wonderful glimpses of light,
bouncing off a picture too vast for me to see.
All I know is that what I see has beauty,
beauty transcending my mind’s feeble imagination.

And so it ends. . .

My freshman year at college comes to a close. Goodbye thirty grand and one year of my life. This year brought its share of success and failure with it. I fell in love with poetry, literature, and theatre all over again. I earned high marks in several classes, scraped by in a few others, and even dropped one. I got my first lead role in any production ever. I got drunk for the first and probably the last time in my life. I pursued a few romantic interest, which in turn were filled with their own successes and failures. Two of them were just mistakes at parties. I had my first break up and my first full fledged relationship. And I may be in love for the first time. I changed my career path twice, and my roommate once. I learned how unbearable it can be to live with someone, and I also learned how rewarding it can be. I wrote some poems I am proud of and several I am not. I skipped class for the first time, and I earned a reputation for being late. I think I found out more about who I am, and I feel like I'm more comfortable with it now. I learned to be spontaneous, and I learned that I have more to offer this world than I had first believed. I have also discoverd several faults in myself, namely an need to be validated, lack of punctuality, laziness, and heedlessnes. I made a lot of friends and a few enemies. I'm saying goodbye to Plunket forever, and I'm saying goodbye to a few friends for now. This summer I'll see if I can get another job or if this relationship can survive a two hour distance.

Halfway over

I set out to do a lot of things this semester that I did not do, and the semester is halfway over. I hoped to achieve a lot this semester, and I'll be the first to admit my failures. Too many classes, too many lines too learn, too many things to think about. I bit off more than I could chew and it drove me to do things I never thought I would do. To blow of steam I ended up making a fool of myself at a party, becoming the very thing I looked down upon my whole life, a drunk hormonal idiot. And though it could have been much worse, my couple hours of fun costed me. I put myself in a place with someone I really should not have been in, not being fair to her feelings or mine. Not only that, but I hurt my reputation and credibility. I may have lost respect from a few people who I care for deeply, one in particular. How can I tell them what I believe to be true when I act like that? Will they always think less of me now? There more I think about it the more I realize how painfully insecure I am, and how other people are noticing.

I hate quitting more than I can say, mostly because it is something that spreads like wildfire, like the plague. I seem to have contracted this particular virus too. I quit calculus, (which I never should have signed up for) which is the closest to failing a class I have ever come. I quit reading for my classes, relying on sparknotes and my ability to bs my way through a discussion. Every day I start poems, stories, assignments, and ideas that still lie unfinished. I keep putting God, writing, and exercise on hold, wasting hours in front of a screen. And I am paying for it. Not to say that now I'm some reprobate bum now, and I'm absolutely hellbound. I know better than to be that melo-dramatic. I also know in the grand scheme of things these problems are insignificant. But I know I'm squandering what I have, and the time I have to use it.

At the same time I have accomplished things. I have learned. I have grown. I made new friends and rediscovered Shakespeare. I got a big role in a production and I tried some new things. I do have a few scars from this, but I know God can help me salvage what I need out of this, and I still have half a semester left. Let's see where it takes me. There are definitely still possibilities.