Should Have Spent This Time Reading

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close by Jonathan Safran Foer
Eating Animals by Jonathan Safran Foer
The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini
Wampeters, Foma, & Granfallons by Kurt Vonnegut
Shopgirl by Steve Martin
Sophie's World by Jostein Gaarder

What do all of these books have in common?

They've each got bookmarks in them that range from the free, quotation-endorned bookmarks from the cashier at Chapter's to the receipt from my last physical therapy appointment.

That's not really what they have in common but it is a result from the fact that I have started them (one of which for a second read) and not finished yet. The kicker is that I don't really have reason not to finish them. They've each hooked me in their own ways, they're each books that I feel would add to my "books I feel smart talking about" cache... and, they each sat at various places in my house while I was couch bound and wasted my time playing melancholy puzzle games and getting addicted to LOST.

Then, here in my 9/10ths of the way unpacked room, I feel glad that I was too lazy (or, too repeatedly injured) to finish unpacking that last tenth. That's that much work I won't have to do here in a month or so.

Blah. Life. I guess I'll keep going.

I Think I Need More Ginseng

First off: how boring are blogs that start with:

"Sorry I haven't posted in a while. I couldn't think of anything to say..."

Well, that's sort of the case here. Amidst a conversation with one of my roommates this morning, I had the smallest little thought timidly tap on the back of my mind:

"Um, Justin?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"You... you know what Ben's talking about right now?"

"Uh-huh."

"Well, I was thinking... if you think it's a good idea... I have this thought. You could, y'know... expound on it and turn it into a pretty good blog."

"Yeah, totally. Remember it for me, okay?"

"Um, yeah. Sure. But, y'know... that normally doesn't work..."

"That's what she said! Haha! What normally doesn't work?"

"Ha. Good one. Um, remembering little thoughts like this one. They tend to... disappear. Almost as soon as you're done focusing on them."

"No, no. This one's good. I'll totally use it. As soon as we're done talking here. Oh, and I have to answer some emails from work. But, then! Then I promise I'll sit down and write it out. I really like this idea."

And, I did really like that idea. But, then I turned back to my conversation and the little thought dropped his shoulders, hung his head, turned and walked out the backdoor.

The little jerk left the door open, too. 'Cause just a few minutes ago a breeze made me shiver and when I went to close the door I realized that I didn't leave it open. So, now I'm left here scratching my head wondering...

...was it something about my first PT appointment this morning? Something about being on the road to recovery?

... was it something about my surgery? I haven't sat down to write since the hour before leaving for the hospital.

...was it that I hadn't written since the surgery? Was it about the complete lack of productivity that this week has been?

...did it have something to do with LOST? That, along with Dexter and Bioshock and Netflix, is is the reason more than my leg has atrophied over the last two weeks.

...was it about the mandate coming down that we have to move out of this house? No set date or timeframe... but as soon as someone buys it out from under us.

...did it have something to do with realizing how much grace I've received, particularly from my housemates, since my surgery? They have been so good to me.

I don't remember. One thing's for certain: I am growing quickly tired of being an invalid.

Thoughts on Being Cut Open

I'm taking Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close to the hospital so I can be re-introduced to my favorite character before going under the knife.

...

"I once went to report on a village in Russia, a community of artists who were forced to flee the cities! I'd heard that paintings hung everwhere! I heard you couldn't see the walls through all of the paintings! They'd painted the ceilings, the plates, the windows, the lampshades! Was it an act of rebellion! An act of expression! Were the paintings good, or was that beside the point! I needed to see it for myself, and I needed to tell the world about it! I used to live for reporting like that! Stalin found out about the community and sent his thugs in, just a few days before I got there, to break all their arms! That was worse than killing them! It was a horrible sight, Oskar: their arms in crude splints, straight in front of them like zombies! They couldn't feed themselves, because they couldnt get their hands to their mouths! So you know what they did!"

"They starved?"

"They fed each other! That's the difference between heaven and hell! In hell we starve! In heaven we feed each other!"

"I don't believe in the afterlife."

"Neither do I, but I believe in the story!"

Mr. Black is Causing Me to Stumble

I'm kind of an attention whore.

But, I think I got a little bit of an explanation as to why today. Remember that whole 'do unto others' thing?

I received an amazing bit of encouragement from the people I work with today. We had our Admissions' Winter Retreat and spent the day at Tilikum (a.k.a. Greatest Place on Earth) basically alternating between extreme silliness and intentional relationship culitvation. Despite the fact that we were on retreat for 8 solid hours I am genuinely tired.

The piece that will forever hang in my mind is when we broke into small groups to encourage one another. The process started by each person sharing a story of a time in our lives where we felt proud of who we were. Then, the other people in the group would drop three words of encouragement on the person who just shared. After I told my story, the words that fell upon me were some conglomeration of 'makes people feel important', 'willing to help', and 'listener'.

Then, as the person showered in love, we had to pick one of those ideas and introduce ourselves to the group. I tried to paraphrase a few of the thoughts and I said, "Hi, I'm Justin, and I pay attention to people."

One of the ladies I work with decided that was not good enough. "No, no, Justin. I would definitely say it is more of a valuing that happens. You value people."

Hi, I'm Justin. And, I value people.

Do unto others... Attention whore... kinda makes sense, right? Basically: show me some love. I promise I'll show it back.

Incredible. Today is the first day of Lent... I'm having reconstructive knee surgery in less than 36 hours... I turned twenty-five a week ago today... And yet, three little words are what this blog is focused around. In the end, I guess it's more important as to how you got somewhere than where you end up.

Damn, I wrote a great paper in high school about how the ends justified the means.

In related news: I'm re-reading the first book I've re-read in a long time. I don't re-read things very often. There's always so much more that I want to start that I don't want to take time to read something I've already been through once. But, there is one book that made me break that rule: Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close.

I don't intend on breaking out into one of my many rants about how it's the greatest work of fiction every produced (but, it is). The idea that I want to focus on is that I've stalled in my re-reading. I turned a page yesterday while I was at the end of a exercise bike ride in the gym and realized that I'd finally come to the introduction of my favorite character. I wanted to give my full attention to every page that Mr. Black occupied in the novel, so I closed the book and finished my ride.

That was yesterday. I've had two or three chances since then to sit down and begin those pages (including right now, actually...) and I've not been able to do it. No time feels right. It needs to be perfect.

Am I putting off the ends? Is this part of the means? Will I ever know happiness?!

My Last Act as a Kid with an Excuse

Lying.

Sorry, Bryce. I really did have a good idea in my head when I left work earlier today. I had a title, an idea for the body; the blog had almost written itself. Then, the evening hours came.

It looked like it was going to start off well: I was walking around to meet a friend for dinner at 6pm and it was still light outside. Light. Outside. At 6pm. I half assumed that I'd need a flashlight on my way out of the gym 'cause I've just fallen into the routine of expecting it to be pitch when I leave campus after work.

That last paragraph begins like the night is about to take a turn for the worst. But, the truth of the matter is that I spent my last night as a 24 year old with one of my closest friends. We had burritos, went to a class to learn about Catholicism, and then sat in her car in my driveway as we exchanged truly meaningful inquiries and comments.

I like to think that there have been a number of good opportunities for great conversation in the last week or so. A smattering of examples that would occupy all but one finger on my counting hand immediately spring to mind.

This was deeper than that. This reminded me that I am far more than the words I speak, even far more than the thoughts I think. This reminded me that 25 is not the number after 24 or even before 26. 25 is the cumulation of 1, 2, 3, 4... et cetera.

I have doubts. I have fears. I push past the future of those on a daily basis to put on the optimism I have such complete mastery of in every moment of every day.

By doing so, I've also pushed past the events that have brought me to this place. I'm so caught up in postponing the inevitable and focusing on making the moments of today worthwhile that I've disintegrated my memory of the ways I've impacted people. Which, is funny, because the title I was going to use in my original post was going to be 'One Less 24 Year Old in the World'. That may still happen.

So, this has turned into a series of thoughts. Maybe someone would describe it as a blog. I apologize at the beginning because I was intending to produce a declaration of conquering and instead it has transpired into a treatise on hollowness.

I.

Will.

Try.

Not.

To.

Lose.

Control.

Las Vegas: Not Really for Lovers

I have a confession to make: I am consistently scanning the horizon for a relationship status change. I could write pages on the thesis that I am not looking for any major commitment at this point in my life. But, the primary focus would be the sappy and groan-inducing things that I miss about having around that 'special someone': someone to call on my way home from work, someone to have a certainty of Friday/Saturday plans with, spending the majority of a day watching movies/television and still feeling like you've done something moderately productive, etc.

As much as the radar is checking ring fingers and trying to catch more-than-random glances every waking hour, I've found that spending a little time in the Las Vegas airport is giving the radar operate a little R&R. We can go ahead and run at minimal power for the next hour and a half. There will be no Bastille storming anytime soon.

Las Vegas is one of those unfortunately many places on earth where you can get an overwhelming sense of the depravity of man. And, I'm not about to break into a bashing of gambling, drunkenness, or smoking. For starters, I smoked a pretty good cigar for a solid hour last night while getting slightly tipsy... and, I love a good poker night as much as the next person.

No, I'm much more of a "everything in moderation", fence-sitting kind of guys. The depravity that I'm feeling now is that sense of hopelessness and hollowness. I could very well be projecting the emotions that I am feeling when I glance upon an elderly person in a wheelchair strapped to an oxygen tank pulling rhythmically at the arms of a slot machine. They could be riding the roller coaster of life and loving every gripping minute of hoping the odds will fall in their favor. But, I doubt it.

The scary thing was sitting next to a guy on my flight down here and realizing that the main thing that separates he and I is roughly 3 decades. He wasn't on oxygen or had any noticeable disabilities, he looked like a pretty healthy 50-year-old guy. But, I was reading 'The Wild Things' by Dave Eggers, and I was falling in love with the character of Max. The character in the book is VERY similar to the kid in the movie and my first reaction to the kid on screen was 'Whoa! Slow down.' I'm no psychologist, but I was definitely leaning toward A.D.D.

And, the book paints Max in almost the same light. He has trouble focusing his thoughts at time, he is prone to episodes of acting on instinct, he's a very antsy kid. But, then it hit me, what part of being a normal 8-year-old isn't like that? Aren't kids supposed to get in a little trouble and push boundaries and confound their parents at how surprisingly simple their thought process is?

Basically, I was defending Max because I'm mostly sure that I was pretty close to that kid when I was growing up. I didn't have a lot of snow in SoCal to make a fort and have it fall on me... but, my brother and I collectively thought it was a good idea to spit on our carpool's ride. Why? Because we pretended to spit on another car on the way home, and he called us out on it. He said we pretended, so we decided to show him by actually spitting on his car.

Makes sense, right? Well, no. It's stupid. It's illogical. It's very... childish. Would I do it again today? No. Is it something I have fused in my memory and now, twenty years later, has made me a fully-functioning adult? I'm going to vote 'yes', but I understand that may be up for debate.

So, back to the guy on the plane. If I was used to be a Max and am now somewhere lost in my mid-twenties, then I am on the path to becoming the guy next to me: a wise, experienced old guy. Wise old people havent been that way their entire lives... they kinda had it formed around them.

But, there is a lot to do between now and then. And, what’s the probability that I’ll be the guy on the plane? What’s stopping me from winding up in Atlantic City with a walker and an alcohol addiction?

Not enough. I need to get out of here and get my radar going again.

Dreaming of Physics

Shoot.

Shoot. Shoot. Shoot.

I purchased three books yesterday. And, despite my repeated convictions to spend less money at Powells and spend more time at the library borrowing books, money is not at the center of my present worries.

Well, it is... but, that's because I am still trying to replenish my savings account after a financially devastating November and December filled with a small amount of Christmas shopping, traffic tickets, first and last month's rent, and a new TV. (Note: The last two hurt so good.)

However, my explosion of harmless expletives has roots, not in anything monetary, but in what the books mean for my future/next year/destiny.

The first one? 'The Universe in a Nutshell' by Stephen Hawking. Yawn. Is anyone really surprised? The amateur astronomer completed his collection of Hawking books? Isn't he tired of purchasing books that don't make any sense to him?

The second one? 'The Wild Things' by Dave Eggers.

Okay, so this one has little cause for alarm. Actually, I should be celebrating... And, I should have one less 'shoot'. Let's start this whole thing over:

Shoot.

Shoot. Shoot.

'The Wild Things' is Dave Egger's novel based on Maurice Sendak's 'Where the Wild Things Are'. He helped write the screenplay for the recent film adaptation. And, apparently during the process of writing the screenplay, Eggers was encouraged to put the plot into a novel, as well. As I have been rendered smitten by each of Eggers' other works, I expect his interpretation of this classic to smote me once more.

Okay, so, that was a good more. I can't consider a chain of events where I would regret purchasing this book. Even if it winds up being an unenjoyable read, the book was produced covered in fur that gives it the appearance of being its own 'wild thing'. One way or another, this guy is going on my shelf.

So, the third one? The third one isn't even a traditional book! The first was nonfiction, the second fiction... the third is a test prep book. Not bad enough? It is the test prep book for the Physics GRE.

See, I spent my Martin Luther King Jr. Day turning my life around. Remember the leaves? I was turning them. I started a blog, I dedicated myself to going to the gym before work in the morning, and I sent emails of inquiry to universities across the United States that I might apply for enrollment into their Master's of Astronomy program. The response was overwhelming:

"Well, you only have a math degree... It would be better if you had physics... The GRE will be the bar that you're measured from."

"Then I'll teach myself physics!" the Max in me proclaimed. "I've got a healthy start, just grant me six months and a few books and the laws of physics will be tucked safely under my belt!"

That was my demeanor as I drove to Powells, as I tracked down the test prep books, as I paid with a swipe of my Discover card, as I had my parking verified, as I drove home, as I climbed into bed with the book, as I blogged about how I was about to crack the book open...

But, not as I started reading. Wow. As the pages turned, my fire flickered. A grave reality set in: those who teach themselves entire subjects of academia accomplish truly great feats. Feats that are definitely not the norm.

I 'shoot' repeatedly through this bombastic musing because I ran headfirst into the realization that there is a long, strenuous road in front of me that I must intentionally take steps down every day. A long, strenuous road that I could march powerfully down and easily wind up with nothing. The odds are definitely in favor me reaching the end, taking the exam, and not scoring as well as I needed to.

So, my watered-down profanities comes from the realization that I've got to do this thing and it may not pay off. I've got to stick with it... I've got to stick with it....

I've got to.