The Love Blog

I caved and decided to write a “love blog” like I've seen several of my friends write. I'm sort of a tool, but not entirely. This blog is, I think, written from the “other side of the fence,” if such a euphemism is permissible.

I don't have a “love,” nor have I ever. I've come close several times. At least three. One time the girl went, quite literally, crazy and joined a cult. That was five years ago and counting that she disappeared into complete anonymity. Again, I loved the “bad girl” and she loved me back, or so she said. It turns out that by “I love you too,” what she really meant is, “I'm going to date you once, string you along for several months, and then date a meth head waste case before I spiral downwards into my own self destructive hell.” That's only a rough approximation of what I believe to be her true intent behind her obfuscated verbiage. The third was of my own volition. The opportunity was there, but I screwed it up. It might have been for the better, but so many variables have occurred since then and now, that I might have made a mistake. Either way, one cannot dwell in the past.

My goal wasn't to come here and bemoan my own shortcomings, or damn the entire nature of love, or garner sympathy. This blog is for future love.

Future love is something I've been giving a lot of thought to recently. One of the big questions in my head is why? Why should I be loved? Is there any justification in me having happiness in the form of love from another? Realistically, isn't the only being that has guaranteed His love for me is God, my creator? Why do I deserve to love?

The other night, when I was writing, it came to me that I would really love to see the way love affects my writing. I've seen other events shape my writing, and love would definitely be another step in my evolution. I've seen the effect loneliness has on my writing, I've seen anger's effect, depression, happiness, euphoria, reflection, and theoretical love, but not that deep running romantic love one experiences in that “dedicated relationship,” or whatever the devil it is you kids call it these days.

Sometimes, like right now and mostly all of today, and probably this whole week with the exception of Wednesday, I feel entirely self sufficient. I sometimes feel as if I don't need another person. In fact, I feel that way more often than not. It's mostly in times of extreme loneliness, boredom, or depression that I wish for someone beside me. There are also those rare instances that watching other couples can cause some sense of longing. Those instances are fairly rare, however. Most of the time I feel pretty well balanced and happy, though that doesn't answer those “why” questions I asked earlier.

One piece of advice offered up to me as a frustrated high schooler was that “God has someone special planned for me.” Oh yeah? Really. That means a lot coming from the girl who walked all the way across the gym to tell the guy (me) who's sitting on the bleachers not doing a damn thing that, “I would never date you, but you're a good guy, and the guy I date would definitely have to have something of you in him.” That's a nice backhanded comment. Is that some sort of weak gay reference? If not, there's no better place than the source, right? No?

This answer, in the quest for a “yes” to a “why” is a weak gazelle. It somehow presupposes that God provides happiness of this level. It's the type of empty promise that completely ignores the fact that right at this very moment, someone is starving, someone is dying, someone is probably being shot. There's a good probability that they serve the same God I do, and there's also good probability that their death will passed unnoticed. This is the result of that special kind of Americanized Christianity that assumes that God wants me to be healthy and happy. It's also that schizophrenic type of Christianity that says that God orchestrates events, yet I'm still free to choose. But somehow God's going to have me work here or there, or have me marry this or that girl, as if I'm a marble in one of those tricky rolling mazes, in which one has to avoid holes: the results are the product of blind chance + forces outside of my control, which = I did it.

This definitely did nothing to answer the why, but it did help cut off a lot ends that would have become dead ends; bunny trails.

A lot of modern psychology talks about being happy within yourself, and not depending on others for your happiness. You create your happiness. What a load of self serving shit, if ever I heard it. Why would we think that somehow we can create a perpetual motion machine within the human mind and emotions? We can't. You cannot create for yourself. I wanna say that's a law of physics, or some other equally absurd system. Unicorns are probably involved somewhere, or at the very least, a California Condor. Rather, it seems like the human emotion system is a cyclical system. You choose how to react to your atmosphere, and act on that for others. Somehow, creating that emotion in others creates it in yourself, possibly because they've acted upon this back towards you. In all honesty, however, there is something in the process that's somewhat mysterious: somehow the act itself is what generates these genuine good feelings. You see this concept demonstrated all throughout different cultures and religions, but because modern man is so much smarter than our combined ancestry, we've come to realize that happiness is in yourself, which seems to be a total farce. This blog is not the place to debate this, but a life that is characterized by doing things for yourself is often found to be a very depressing and unfulfilled life. Perhaps a good example of this would be someone like Mother Teresa, or possibly even Ghandi (that pansy) vs. someone like Judas (you could argue his death was the product of extreme remorse, and I would agree, but the events leading up to it were characterized by extreme greed) or the shooters at Columbine, who were just all around douches.

To clarify what I think might be an otherwise muddy paragraph, what I mean to say is that I cannot “make happiness for myself.” I cannot make myself happy by granting my heart whatever it desires, or pleasing my eyes with all the things that are pleasing to look on. I cannot conjure happiness out of myself by doing things for myself. Rather, I can “make myself be happy.” I have to choose to be happy in whatever circumstance I am in. People do this all the time, and these people have lives that suck far worse than yours, so shut up. It's sort of a fine line, but the difference is this: I'm sad, so I buy a new car, which gives me “new car euphoria,” a temporary form of happiness at best (and car is interchangeable with any self centered act, purchase, or endeavor). If, however, I feel sad, but choose to do for others, happiness is created. Does this make sense? It's the act of doing good. This isn't to say that you should ignore yourself. Far from it. Recognize limits and needs. For example, I need time to be alone and away from others, almost daily, or I am a colossal pain in the ass. I mean, more so. Contrariwise, there have been several times, and the following just one example, where doing good for someone else while feeling “blue” has served to create happiness in myself: one night I felt depressed and unwanted, but chose to go downtown to help the homeless with my church anyways – give them warm food, blankets, warm drinks. I ended up meeting some people down there that not only caused me to reflect, but then caused me to feel immense satisfaction and contentment. Satisfaction I'm still able to draw on almost a year later. Contrast that with the waning (almost gone) happiness afforded me by that new CD I just “had to have.” Clear? Let's hope so, because here comes the conclusion... y'bastard.

Thinking on all of this, I realized that a lot of the talk I hear concerning relationships is talk that sounds a lot like “what can I get out of this relationship,” or “how does this person make me feel,” or “what can this person do for me?” It was here I realized that this is not what I want. I don't want to just sit around and be an absorbent emotional sponge, accepting whatever treacle the other has to poor into me. This is also the point in which I think I discovered why I often feel as if I don't need a significant other. I often feel sufficient as is because I feel as though all my needs are “met,” which they “are.” I have good friends, loving family, good food, a place to sleep, books to read, a job, things to write, I'm currently learning, and I have some sense of where I'm going to be. At least in the near future. Every once in awhile, however, I get that feeling, like I need someone. In high school I interpreted that as the “I feel unloved” syndrome, which cold hard Logic, with his brother Facts, knocked flat on his back. I now recognize this feeling as the need to love. I feel the need to find someone whom I can love and invest in. The investment should be returned, or you end up with loonies cited way up there in paragraph one.

Years of not knowing and asking why have lead me to this conclusion. I do not need love to be loved, but rather to love.

So, I raise my glass – and raise yours with me – to future love. Cheers.

This might get me nailed to a tree, but...

I don't like The Fray, and I'm glad they didn't win best rock album of the year. If that happened, I would have had to have quit being a rocker because whatever they do, rock it ain't. Chili Peppers won, which is alright. It probably was the best of the year, though it's still a bit mild for my tastes (I guess that what happens when you fall in love - makes you all soft and whatnot). Slayer beat out Tool for best metal album, which is weak, because slayer is the generic storebrand weaksauce. Their sauce is so weak, that it doesn't even have a graphic on the label. Just a white can with the black and white words, "weak sauce" painted on it. Every other award I genuinely do not care about. Essentially, as long as Fallout Boy, and their clone denizens, and The Fray don't win.

I sort of feel bad about not liking The Fray, but that's mostly only because they came out of the church I go to and I've met a few of them. But if it were any other band like, say, those delightful (sarcasm) scamps from N*Sync, everyone would be understanding, but given the climate surrounding The Fray, I've always been apprehensive in stating my opinion of their music, but this thing's been eating at me. Perhaps they should create a genre called "wuss rock" and you can stick them and Coldplay (gag) and that one gay Irish band that's everywhere. Snow something I think. Snowpatrol? I think that's them. Aren't they Irish? I can see why they play in America. Ireland probably kicked 'em out for being a bunch of nancy boys.

So that was essentially it. I've heard several times over the past week from different sources about how "The Fray better win the award for best rock album." Nix to that. They don't deserve to rub shoulders with The Red Hot Chili Peppers, and this goes beyond my personal style. This extends to the very music they make. They may make music, but rock it ain't.

It feels kind of good to get that out in the open... until I, inevitably, meet them and when asked why I didn't like their album I respond with, "because it's incredibly wussy (among other things) you girls."

And on a peculiarly related note: apparently they used to be called Fancy Showbox and possessed more of a punk edge. I didn't know that, but I remember going to one of their shows in high school. I stayed home sick. It was more I stayed home lazy, but my parent's permitted it. They made me go to youth group that night, however, as they were having a clash with the youth group leader and didn't want him to think that my absence was due to them. He took us to Faith Christian High School where we watched the band Fancy Showbox play. A kid broke his arm or got a concussion because they were crowd surfing, and the people that were supposed to provide him with the surfing support dropped him. And then something like eight years later they're all super popular. How bizarre is that?

Terror

This week has been a good week. Apart from work, which is eternally a source of varying degrees of uncomfortability. rather, thursday, friday, saturday will be/were good'n's. thursday, after school and after applying for my passport, i got together with my friend dane for a couple of hours. we enjoyed food, funny movies, and each other's company. It was pretty sweet, basically.

I went home, messed around on the internet for a few minutes, and then went to take a nap before tae kwon do. I wasn't laying down for more than three minutes when my roommate Drew shouts, "Cuyler, you need to wake up now!" "Son of a bitch," read my thoughts, "is something on fire? I don't wanna be running and stuff." "Dan Simmons is at the tattered cover!" he shouts. As soon as he hit the S in Simmons, I was falling out of bed struggling to put on my pants. I emerged from my room, pants mostly on, shirt half on, shouting to Drew, "come on! what's taking so long?" We were off to Dan Simmons.

Dan Simmons is my favorite modern author. Author above authors. He writes cross genre fiction. Everything from horror, to adventure, sci-fi (mostly speculative), detective, as well as romance i do believe, though i haven't read his romance. My two favorite book (series) by him is one called Hyperion (the strange epic struggle between the god of the humans and the god of the machines), and another called Ilium (the trojan war... in space. Sounds lame, I know, but it ain't. It rocks balls.).

I love listening to Dan Simmons speak. I've only gotten to do it one other time, but I loved it then, and I loved it this time. He always talks about the process of creating his novels and the sources that go into it, and a thousand other details. He spent most of the time discussing 1840's British naval exploration this time, as his novel is the fictional, and monstrous, account of a real voyage that got lost in Antarctica, and the clues they've found are simultaneously terrifying and maddening. For example: they found a long boat stuck in the ice with several men aboard. Three of them completely clothed, frozen to the boat. A third, a complete skeleton, with tooth marks and knife marks marring the skeleton. "They turned cannibal" one expert is quoted as saying. That's possible, but apparently this skeleton was of a fourteen year old boy when the youngest person that left port would have been 18, and at the time of their disappearance, 23. there are several similar occurrences. Another longboat with another skeleton, this one full grown, another fully clothed man at the back of the boat, gripping the side of the boat in, what is assumed, fear. No visible signs of aggression between the clothed man and the naked skeleton.

The last time he came to the Tattered Cover, Dan said, "I am here, with my people, in my church." He was referring to the book store. He went on to elaborate that with such small numbers (readers as a whole), surely we accounted for something that could be considered religious. He then gave us facts: "Roughly 2 per cent of Americans read for pleasure. 50% of that number read trashy romance novels. I speculate that 95% of those left read those damned Left Behind novels." We all laughed. I felt a little bad that the only piece of prevalent Christian literature has got to be some of its worst, and the only Dan would have been exposed to. I mean, not that Christians have done anything really worth while since this country was founded, but nevertheless, why couldn't he have discovered Donald Miller, or Rob Bell?

I bought 3 books: 1 to read, 1 to never touch (which he drew a picture in of a terrified crewman. awesome.), and 1 to give to my absent friend. I talked to him briefly about how I learned of the mistake of only buying one signed copy, but mostly, I would just like to listen to him talk. The guy in front of me criticized Dan for his description of a polar bear: "you said that the creature had a triangle-head. now, when i picture a polar bear, I don't see a triangle for a head. I see a head that might be described as triangular, but not a triangle-head."
"That's because it's not a polar bear. It's my monster," Dan responded. I chuckled. What kind of douchebag criticizes the author signing his own book? Especially when you, the signee, are more than likely completely incapable of producing an equivalent.

After that, Drew's mom and grandpa took us to get some dinner. I like drew's grandpa. He's a friendly type who reads way more than I do, and way more than I ever have.

Tonight, I have dinner with a friend, tomorrow a day with friends, and dinner with friends as well. Sunday is church, and quite possibly dinner with friends.

And while work is always a source of discomfiture, there were 2 awesome spots. In chronological order: an older guy said, "I couldn't help but overhearing, you're a bass player?" So we got to talking, and it turns out he's the frontman of a local act in denver. He says he wants to give me a call and have me try out for playing with them. That would be pure awesome, and a pseudo fulfillment of a minor dream: to play local music.

2. This full on awesome kid. He was maybe a year and a half. Couldn't really speak yet, but he was really charismatic, and him and I had a good time talking gibberish back and forth. Then he started yelling: AAAAAAHHH!!! AAAAAAHHH!!! AAAAHHHH!!! So i turned to him and went, "hey, shhhh!" so then he put his hand over his mouth and in a hushed whisper yelled: aaaahhhh! aaahhh! that kid was awesome and, quite frankly, positively impacted the rest of my week.

Where the Rubber Meets the Road

I went to a little place I like to call Paris on the Platte here in Denver. Let me first say that the images I had of it are incredibly wrong. I imagined a place that was much larger, and looked less like it might be a surrogate crack house. Having said that, I actually liked the place... minus the fact that the words “friendly” and “service” are about as central to their vocabulary as “wit” and “charm” are to mine, which is to say that are entirely alien concepts. I still liked it. It's a sort of beatnik style coffee shop/restaurant/bar that is also one of the few bastions of indoor smoking, without getting federally arrested and thrown into debtor's prison, which is why it's so popular. Being a smoking bar, we took advantage of that.

By we, I mean Mike Davenport, on again off again best friend, and major catalyst for all of my theology for the last year, his fiance Kelly, who is an english major as I am, and a writer as well. Next to her was her friend Micah, who is also an english major and a writer. She was new to me. She seemed smart and friendly, though quiet, and had a near perfect smile. The bit I did get to talk with her I enjoyed. Next to her was Ryan, whom I'd met before. Ryan's really cool in that borderline nerd kind of way. He's going for aeronautics, so talking sci fi with him is always enjoyable. I haven't talked with him much, but he seems like the kind of guy I could truly get along with if we could just sit down and talk. Then his wife Lynnette. I mostly know nothing about her and, due to the cramped table geography, was entirely unable to talk to her. Then was Zack, Mike's little brother. Zack's a hoot. That guy rocks and I love seeing him. He's funny, laughs a lot, but then can get down with a real serious heady conversation. Then his wife Hannah. She's really pretty, and very nice. I haven't ever talked with her to great length, though I would like to some day. Next to her (and me, thus forming a circle) was Cody. Cody was cool. Had a big fat bowled pipe. We talked a lot of theology and general life. I enjoyed his company and wish that I get to enjoy it again in the future.

So, the company was good, the malt was good, and the pipes were good. We all (us guys) lit up our pipes, sharing tobaccos and what have you, talking about life, God, whatever topic should arise. It was a very good night, and while I don't have any kind of earth shattering revelation to bring out of this, I was proud of myself. I made an effort to talk to everyone there, that was feasible to talk with, and make good conversation. Slowly, I make progress with my resolution.