If these walls could speak

If these walls could speak
They'd whisper sweet apologies
With regret in their stone-cold eyes
For the limitless heights to which they soar
Come with a terrible price
Crush and melt a man's very own soul

If these walls could speak
They'd sing a solemn dirge
For the weary backs upon which they were built
Chains and anger clanking in the bitter winter wind
Brick and mortar held together
By the stale, sickly sweetness of blood and sweat.

If these walls could speak
They'd send me their stealthy, sotto voce tones
Warning of shadows pacing the watchtower
Bastard enforcers of fate, of fear and self-loathing
Their rifles aimed at pulsing, throbbing, messy hearts
With an executioner's glare

If these walls could speak
They'd resound with all the insanity
And the howls, the riots, the unspeakable acts
Behind translucent sheets, under tables and behind closed doors
Upon the maimed, the marred, the unforgiven

If these walls could speak
They'd pray down that invisible hand
To carve their sorrow and shame
Upon my flesh and bone
With their haunting tales of angels and demons
And beautiful, fallen ones
Wrestling, warring for human hearts.

If these walls could speak

I'd silence them all.

If only Grace would pour her light down upon me
To melt the steel, the limestone, and the razor wire
Dissolving the patterns, the lies and the illusions constructed
by my imagination.

If these walls could speak, why,

They wouldn't speak at all.

on prayer: troupe

we are quite the act, you and i.

a dance
a tango
a messy, freeing entanglement
of arms and legs
of hips
of breath
of movement

your hand upon mine
and upon the small of my back
while
rhythm and passion
intertwine
and i lose control
over and over
and under
and beneath
fervent summer nights

we inherit the risk
and the whirlwind
while we shimmer together
drunk with wine
with words
with intimacy

the stars blink and smile
and watch our shadows
glide across the floor.

still, my love,
i have traded you in

and i assume the role of master
innocently, maniacally
pulling your strings
jerking your movements
twisting your head
into a garish, ghastly
tarantella

how i shape this discord
to harness your motion
to choreograph your steps
to contrive and conform into

a safe, pleasant, harmless thing

where i always come out on top
and i rule the world

and so i emerge
perfect and scar-less

a heartless being
a lifeless doll

shake me up, my dear
before i rob myself again.

Short Story: Quest

I went urban exploring for the first time with a small group of friends. Toward the end of our little adventure, an intriguing red velvet wooden box caught my eye. My friend Brian retrieved it, I imagine my friend Jeanne felt as intrigued as I and I promised both I'd write a story about it.

Here it is.

I had heard rumors of the hidden world.

The boy perpetuated the mystery, the intrigue. He claimed to have discovered a portal to an alternate world, but I did not believe him. All I had seen was an empty field and a long white wall that stretched to the long dirt road. The local townspeople had an unwritten contract with all the village inhabitants: No one crosses the wall.

The wall, he declared, is the doorway. We must only pass through it.

Breathless and nervous with energy, he had the glazed look of a boy who had traveled far and wide, to the deep and high places. He insisted on the magic of the place, that we should follow his steps.

I and my friends, we debated on whether we should follow.

Like the Pied Piper, his lilting song of confidence mysteriously compelled us across the field, and before we knew it, we were at the brink of the secret place. The forbidden wall.

I saw no opening. How shall we pass through, we demanded.

He said nothing. He only smiled and leaned forward, nodding at us to do the same.

Hesitant, I touched the wall, then followed suit. A whoosh of bright light enveloped me and I felt propelled forward.

Felt my atoms swirl around, connecting and reconnecting, attaching and detaching, and the light shimmered around.

Suddenly a cold shiver rocked my body and we crashed through an invisible barrier.

Reeling from the shock, I slowly stood up and looked around, amazed.

How the scenery had changed.

Our band of explorers filtered into the courtyard, wide-eyed and exhilarated at the unknown and mysterious that was ours for the taking.

Yet the decay and havoc greeting us both jarred and filled my senses. I imagined the clash of civilizations, of technology, of cultures. Obscenities sprayed in red and black upon the plaster and stone echoed of other wanderers and vandals who had passed before us. Miniature seas of broken glass lay in glittering sheets upon the broken cement and weeds. The chaos of the landscape seduced us into our own personal forms of delight and mischief.

Still, the echos of the place that once was filled my imagination.

I envisioned fantastical dragons swooping down from the burning sky and an emperor robed in regalia to a cheering throng of spectators, swathed in red and cold and a brilliant array of fireworks exploding across the evening sky. I smelled jasmine and burning incense and perfume. I felt an atmosphere, charged with electric anticipation at the crowning of the emperor's new queen.

With these visions in our heads, we raced and flew from rooftop to rooftop, defying gravity, striking brilliant poses against the clear blue sky. Scaling giant rock formations and scrambling up vine-tressed walls, impromptu and amateur acrobats straining and striving only for a new perspective, a heightened panaroma. We roamed the open-air faux temple, a pantheon and graveyard of fallen gods, now profaned with the juvenile scribblings.

I understood, then. The magical world was not one of a noble quest or a daring rescue. There was no ring to find and destroy, no dragon to slay and no palace to defend. The glory of this place was in the brokenness and the decay. The unlicensed freedom it brought.

We split off in various directions, confident we would find each other again. We raced back and forth calling forth to one another, yelling in triumph as we discovered various treasures. These treasures transformed us. One found a thick wooden stick swathed in bright crimson. Leaning upon this staff, he became suddenly wise, a sage with soft, twinkling eyes of wisdom. Another found a broken horse hoof in the dark recesses of a cave. He became a daring warrior, hitting targets with precision and mightily shattering rocks and roof tiles with defiant glee. Still another found a brilliantly pink lotus, and she transformed into a beautifully regal lady in waiting, rose-colored satin and silk robes. Yet another found the frayed edges of a worn map. She became an astute, celebrated cartographer, charged with unlocking the mysteries of the farthest reaches of the empire.

I looked on at my companions with envy at their discovered treasures. I had still not found mine.

The magic of the day seemed to dwindle with the setting sun. As shadows lengthened, we trudged back to our starting point, retracing our footsteps to the white wall.

I noticed the halo of light surrounding before I saw the box itself. It sat atop the rooftop, gleaming in the sunlight.

I wasn't even sure how the box was loosed from its original hiding place. I could see sunlight striking the red velvet, brilliantly illuminating it among the broken tiles, dark and splintered window frames and jagged glass shards of the long-abandoned pagoda.

The boy, noticing my enchantment, said nothing, only smiled. He sprung and leapt, lighter than air, upon the tiled roof, freeing box from its lofty hiding place, handed it to me. I wondered at its mystery, tracing the worn, frayed edges, intrigued by the mystery locked inside. I tapped the side, listening to the satisfying echo of the hollowness.

I wondered at its purpose. Had some passionate love letter, or some tear-streaked confessional been tucked away in the hollow for safekeeping? Had it housed spice packets or cigars or some trinket from a merchant ship? Had it been the sacred hiding place of a child, full of mundane treasures that spoke of warm summer days beneath the cherry blossoms?

I ached to know. I looked for an opening but it was sealed shut. I tucked it away in my satchel, intent on unraveling its mystery in private, away from my fellow travelers.

We reached the threshold and I braced myself for the journey home, the wrinkling of the universe across a infinite, seamless fabric of time and space.

I watched my companions disappear one after another through the wall. I was the last to go. I pressed my body against the wall and braced myself for the icy shock, the disassembling of myself. Nothing. Puzzled, I leaned forward again. I only felt the warmth of the wall.

Panicking, I imagined myself trapped. I dug around in my satchel for my knife, thinking I could cut or scrape my way through the wall. My hand brushed against the soft velvet of the box.

Suddenly, I understood.

Why I could not pass and why the sunlight of this place seemed to illuminate the box for me and for me alone.

Quite alone, I knelt down, knife in hand and gently pried open the box. With some effort, I gingerly separated the top lid from the bottom frame, cutting away through layers of dust and disuse. I lifted the top and peered inside. I saw dark green felt lining the bottom and the sides, but no treasure. No keepsake or locket or partially burned letter. I felt along the inside, hoping for a secret lock or catch or spring inside. I pored over every inch of the box with the delicate care of a surgeon, but found nothing. I thought I had smelled the faint odor of crushed flowers, but shook my head at my overactive imagination.

Disenchanted, I tossed the box aside. I laughed out in derision, at the mystery unraveled, the thrill gone. It lay upon the broken stones, dulled in the receding sun.

But then, a thought.

I picked up red velvet box again, suddenly charmed by its lack of pretense. Shall I merely abandon my treasure? Dare I discard it? After all, it had faithfully carried the stories of its journey toward me upon the gentle breeze, which had long eroded with time and moth and rust. I tasted the salty winds guiding the sails of the merchant ship that brought it here from afar. I saw the glitter of jewels and spices it once held. I smelled the perfume of the heartbroken lady who kept her soul's secret locked away in there. I felt the wood of the teak tree her lover had chopped down to carve this box for her, to burn and bring her warmth with fire, to build their secret haven.

And it was mine.

I felt myself transform.

With a secret smile upon my lips, I stepped through the wall, leaving the box behind.

I caught up with my companions later.

Tension, Dialectics of Thinking and Philip Yancey

Tension. Lately, my heart has been overwhelmed with the intricacies of human thought, motivation and behavior. People perceive situations and process information and experiences so differently, it's a wonder the world hasn't yet exploded (or imploded) from the chaos and pain this tension creates.

I discovered the dialectics of thinking my freshman year of college. In an oversimplified explanation, this is the general concept: For every idea (thesis) there is an opposite idea (antithesis). A reconciliation of these two ideas in a paradox creates a new idea (synthesis). For all of the dialectical theory's flaws when applied to economics, political systems, philosophy and everything else, I do see this kind of thinking played out in the mechanics of faith, introspection and relationship.

Over coffee with a friend the other evening, she drew attention to one of my quirks: I tend to explore ideas from every facet, embracing the extremes and truly contemplating them, trying to reconcile the validity of two opposing arguments. This makes me come across as remarkably inconsistent and indecisive, as I am always adapting when new thoughts or opinions are introduced.

Open-mindedness to a fault.

I've been wrestling with this aspect of myself more and more recently, trying to understand and expose both the pitfalls and glory of such a mindset.

I am a firm believer that for every Truth or Value, there is not one but TWO opposites. That every value is the mean of two opposites. This tension plays out beautifully in the story of the gospel. Faith and works. Grace and freedom. Jesus, both God and Man. God, Three yet One. Kingdom, both here and not yet.

It plays out in relationships: logic and emotion. alone time and community. Vulnerability and boundaries.

We are constantly living in a state of tension, trying to reconcile opposite ends of the same paradox.

I tested nearly 100% N on the Myers-Briggs test. Meaning, in my own thoughts and in my relationships with people, I'm usually [constantly] unraveling meaning and dissecting motives and searching for underlying patterns in everything. It can be exhausting. And it can get me into trouble, especially if I began to perceive things that are not really there. I think I've toned down in this a lot in the past couple of years and have been able to just let go and live in the moment and not be so concerned with unraveling other people's motives or reading into people's reactions. Other people--friends past and present--have graciously [but brutally] shown me that the reality I perceive may not be the same as the reality they perceive. Or more importantly, reality as it is. It's been hard, it's been challenging, but extremely necessary.

But the extremity of this tendency of mine does resurface.

And I'm realizing more and more: we're all approaching True Reality from opposing perspectives and trying to meet each other on some common ground.

I'm in the middle of reading "What's So Amazing About Grace?" by Philip Yancey. I'm moving through the pages slowly than I typically do, trying to savor the words and wrap my mind around the truth. As much as I have thought about [and experienced] grace over the years, I do not believe I have contemplated it to this intense degree. It's really kind of earth-shattering to me, how the patterns of grace are so contrary to the patterns of ungrace that are ingrained in the DNA of the world. Yancey talks about the "atrocious mathematics of grace," explaining this as someone giving up something that costs them everything to someone who deserves absolutely nothing. And how unnaturally far and removed that seems to be from our own day-to-day experience in the economics of being human. I've understood that idea theoretically, maybe even theologically, but translating the atrocious mathematics of grace into every day relationships and attitude is a bit staggering to me.

I'm still processing. The implications are overwhelming.

So far, 2009 has been this crash course in communication and perception, revisiting and reworking the validity of intuition. 2008 was a wonderful year in which this tendency of mine learned rest and restraint.

It'll be interesting to see where this leads in the upcoming year...

Short Story: The Sculpture

This was my accidental foray into a genre known as magical realism. I say accidental because I did not even know that magical realism was a genre until my friend Billy enthusiastically informed me. Gabriel García Márquez (of 100 Years of Solitude) is apparently a recent famous author who is known for this genre, although I have yet to read any of his novels. According to Wikipedia, magical realism is "an artistic genre in which magical elements or illogical scenarios appear in an otherwise realistic or even "normal" setting."

This is my exploration of the tension between reality and idealism, specifically rooted in Western cultural assumptions of romantic love.

I went to the Gallery today.

I had long anticipated this moment. Though it had been months since I had last been to the Gallery, the image of the sculpture burned unmistakably clear in my memory. In my time apart from the sculpture, I often took pleasure in re-creating the memory in my mind.

The statue stood in the center of the enormous circular rotunda, set with windows which poured a steady waterfall of light to its central figure. Grand and majestic, he rose from the dais like a mythical god. His marble form was poised and alert, and every stone muscle, taut with discipline and strength and resolve. His flawless proportions elicited a sense of order and grace. His face, perfect and glorious, turned slightly upward. His impossibly blueish eyes, though marble, seemed to radiate a natural source of light from within. He gazed enigmatically, piercing the souls of all who looked up on him.

Years ago, the statue had been carefully restored and transported to the gallery from its former dominion, from the ruins of a temple, somewhere in the Mediterranean. For centuries, throngs of adoring patrons flocked to the statue, eager at the prospect of catching even a glimpse of his famed beauty. Lines formed and wrapped out the Gallery door and down the street, nearly for miles. Frenzied tourists descended upon the gallery in gaggles of haphazard lines, elbowing impatiently for a chance to have their photo taken with him, though no photograph could do the sculpture justice.

Scholars, historians and even philosophers endlessly debated over its creation and the wonder of its meaning, though none could pinpoint or unravel its mystery. Capturing the wonder and imagination of even the most famous and skilled artists, the renowned statue had inspired poetry, symphonies, and even an opera by one particularly enraptured soul. Curiosity piqued at what music this sculpture would inspire, I went to hear it for myself last autumn.

I remember sitting in the velvety opera hall, allowing the beautiful tones of the arias to envelop me and cause my spirit so soar, even for a brief moment. Yet even as the applause and excitement of the evening receded, I left the opera hall disconcerted, for I had realized the terrible, beautiful truth: All such attempts to capture the immortal were flawed and hollow at best.

And it was if this sculpture encapsulated the very Ideal locked away in every human heart.

I remembered my own early mornings of stolen moments and lazy afternoons I would spend in the gallery. I came as often as I could spare these moments. After all, the ever-changing sunlight altered each attribute, highlighting the subtleties and inspiring contemplation and an infinite myriad of emotions. Mesmerized, I would spend hours in front of the sculpture, studying it from every angle. The contours of the marble sculpted perfectly resonated with something stored up in my own heart, though I could not quite define it.

His beauty unsettled me.

Sometimes I brought my guitar, strumming softly, allowing the sculpture’s beauty to wash over me and motivate my soul as I plucked the strings, singing and humming almost unconsciously. Occasionally (though I am certainly no artist) I brought my sketchpad, merely allowing the infinite lines and shapes that I saw reflected in him to impress themselves upon the blank sheets of paper. Still other times, I brought my diary, scribbling imperfect scrawls of poetry and impressions upon crinkled pages. I could never re-create anything remotely worthy, but I could immerse myself in this. In him.

I felt I knew this sculpture as intimately as I knew my own heart.

This is how my feet carried me toward him today.

Breathless with anticipation, I pushed through the glass double doors of the Gallery that I knew and loved so well.

The clean, white corners of the display hall created a light, airy sense of space. A blank canvas, no doubt, upon which each visitor projected her deepest, most sacred dreams.

Today, the moment of reunion was even more glorious and intimate than I imagined. The gallery was deserted, save for a lone soul sitting on a bench, though I barely noticed him at first. Dust motes swirled and floated around the immense statue like delicate snowflakes, shimmering as the multicolored sunlight streamed in through the upper windows.

I slowly circled the stone statue, marveling and reveling in the moment of being reunited with my treasured sculpture. In a rush of emotion, all the memories of the hours I had spent in that room came flooding back, overwhelming me.

So absorbed was I in admiring the statue, I almost didn’t notice the young man sitting on the bench. He was sitting thoughtfully, his posture both relaxed, clearly enjoying the peace and tranquility of the room. Only briefly distracted by him, I returned my gaze to the statue.

The boy spoke, suddenly interrupting my thoughts. “Do you like it?” he asked.

Irritated to be disturbed in my thoughts, I hesitated. Though unruly locks of hair partially hid the boy's face from me, I realized the sincerity of his tone, that he sought a genuine answer. I thought of how to answer his question honestly. For truthfully, the thousand emotions and impressions betrayed my utter fascination and ardent obsession with statue, rising and burning within my chest, I thought I might burst. “I do. Very much,” I said simply.

The boy seemed to read the complexity of my expression. He nodded. I felt inexplicably understood.

“Do you know the artist?” he asked.

“The artist? Of course, I do. The artist is…” Suddenly, I was shocked to realize and remember that for all of my hours in the gallery, I did not know the artist’s name.

And nor did anyone else. For though archaeologists and scholars had relentlessly tried to discover the identity of the sculptor, all efforts had come to nothing.

The mastermind, the beautiful, sensitive soul behind this work of art remained a complete, utter mystery.

“I do not know,” I sheepishly confessed.

"I know the sculptor." He leaned forward. “I can tell you the secret. Do you want to know?”

Intrigued, I stepped closer to him. Forgetting myself and all sense of etiquette, I suddenly realized that, more than anything in the world, I yearned to know the artist’s name. “Tell me.”

Delighted, a slow, mysterious smile played upon his lips. He leaned toward me, inches from my face and whispered, “No one. And everyone"

Incredulous, I laughed, amused at the absurdity of his claim. "That is impossible."

Still, he insisted, "No one. And everyone. I should know. I was there."

Illogical paradox, I fumed. “This statue is thousands of years old! It is ancient, and you are so young. You are only a boy!” Disgusted, I pulled my face away from his and nearly walked away.

Suddenly, he turned to face me fully, and I was shocked at what I found, staring into the infinite blue of his tender expression.

Looking into those beautiful, ancient, all-seeing eyes, I suddenly understood. For his glorious, piercing gaze was an incandescent window into another universe that held all the mysteries of this world. Of my heart, of every heart.

At once, I knew his words to be true. This was indeed the soul that had witnessed the creation of my beloved sculpture.

Suddenly I felt quite small. "Why are you here?" I asked, both intrigued and intimidated by his presence.

"Vandalism," he replied merrily.

"Vandalism?" His words did not quite register.

"Truthfully. I came to destroy the sculpture." He gestured to a sledgehammer at his side, which I had not noticed until then.

My heart cried out in protest. "Destroy it?"

His eyes danced and sparkled, but not unkindly. "Why, yes."

A indignant fire rose up within my chest. I momentarily thought about grabbing the sledgehammer from him to defend the sculpture I loved so dearly. "But why?" I nearly shouted.

He sighed softly, a beautiful, ancient sound. "Its essence is Real. The most Real there is. Is that not what drew you here day after day?"

I trembled slightly, feeling utterly exposed at his words.

"Oh, the essence is certainly very Real. But the statue itself is not. This Sculpture is a mere refracted reflection of reality. The partial refraction is swallowed up in the beauty of Reality."

I uttered a quick, derisive laugh. "Not likely." But I stood motionless.

"Consider how many hours you've spent here, lost and mesmerized in the beauty of this trinket, this trifle. Despite its utter perfection and the obsession it creates, you remain unsettled. You know you do. For it is the false perfection that disconnects you from the true Reality."

He handed me the sledgehammer. "Go on. Do it."

I stood frozen, sledgehammer in hand. How could I destroy it? The sculpture that I adored and lived and breathed for? Turning toward the boy, I reared back, feeling the gravity of the moment. I thought about crushing him.

No one. And everyone.

I turned slightly, closing my eyes, allowing the momentum of the moment to propel the hammer forward.

I heard nothing but the sound of shattered glass falling around me like drops of rain.

I saw nothing but soft, blueish hues and tones of the boy's eyes explode in brilliance, flooding the Gallery at the sound of the breaking.

I felt nothing but the marvelous surge of joyous intuition as the other universe descended in the Essence unleashed.

And I was stunned to discover at last, how fragile the sculpture really was.

Remembering, Re-Creating 2008

I was looking over my 2008 LOST calendar and looking at the dates and events I had marked down, mapping out my life for 12 months. I decided in celebration of the New Year, that I'd ruminate/highlight/chronicle the most memorable parts of my life as it unfolded in 2008.

A quote from one of my beloved discoveries of the year, Radiolab Podcasts: "All remembering is an act of creation."

This is not an attempt to be eloquent or deep. This is solely my mind taking inventory and indulging;)

So here's to Re-Creation of 2008.


January:
-An overnight, whirlwind of craziness to NYC to do an OaKs show and interview on WNYC's Public Radio International. Hauling my 500 pound accordion through the subway and streets of NYC will not rank high on my list of favorite things to do. But flying up to NYC for 24 hours is probably the most rock star-ish thing I'll ever do. Our "meet-the-press" session felt strangely like an episode of Flight of the Conchords. Meaning nobody came. And thanks to an uncensored interview with the folks of Uncensored Interview, I discovered that I intensely dislike being on camera. Ironic, since I know thrive off of video blogs, nearly 11 months later.

February:
-An awkward but necessary camping trip (which later actually turned out to be refreshing) where I finally met a ton of people at Status, despite attending for more than a year and not ever getting involved. Three lovely people (Josh, Lauranne and Jessica) broke me into community that week and the rest is history.
-Erin's 21st/Black and White birthday. I just remember laughing a lot that night and having a lot of "appletinis." For some reason, I remember playing the opening bars of "Smoke on the Water" with a few other people by blowing on open bottles of root beer. This was also the night of the best game of Catch Phrase. EVER.
-A road trip to Kentucky and Tennessee with 7 of my favorites. We took a gazillion pictures, played in snow (some for the first time), stayed in the most amazing cabin ever, endlessly played Phase 10 and Skip-Bo, made pancakes. Playing that crazy Untangle game in the hot tub took far longer than it should. Also I will never forget not being able to tell if it was Erin or Michelle lying to me during Mafia. I remember sitting on a sun-warmed porch overlooking the mountains and thinking that for a few days anyway, I wanted to live on top of that mountain forever. And the drive through the Smokey Mountains on the way home looked like Narnia.

March
-Recording the OaKs Songs for Waiting album. Well this began much earlier, but it culminated finally this month in our OaKs CD release show at the Social. I loved the challenge of figuring out vocal lines, collaborating with the guys on harmony and Wurlitzer parts. The producers and artists I've worked with have always been firm believer in the homegrown, grassroots approach and so I've always loved standing in front of those mikes and pop filters, with nothing but a pair of headphones and the warmth and wood floors of somebody's home, rejecting the stark sterility of a recording studio. On the CD release night, I remember bright lights and lots of friends cheering and jamming my heart out.

We started to feel like a band.

-Traveling to Austin, TX for South by Southwest 2008 and playing the Fanatic Promotion showcase as well as several day parties. Again, those day parties felt extremely Flight of the Conchordish. Bands and sound checks and bars and wandering through vibrant, pulsing city streets. Feasting on tangy Texas BBQ our last night there on the remote outskirts of the city was heavenly and I will not forget that evening that saw me drink my first bottle of Fat Tire.

The Hotel Cafe showcase at The Parish changed my life. The conversations, the ease, the intelligence of songwriting and the camaraderie onstage showed me a new way of being a singer/songwriter.

April
-Mostly a blur of more OaKs shows in Tampa and the Social, a birthday party I should have gone to but didn't, and endlessly fun evenings of The Office, LOST, Scrabble and Apples to Apples at Oscar and Jodie's

May
-Seeing Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova (from the movie "Once") live in Atlanta for a show. Beautiful, soothing music. I only wish our seats could have been better. But hey, the flight was free. And coming off of their Oscar for Best Song, I'd say the evening was slightly legendary;)
-the one month I was actually consistent with going to Sphere to talk about Disappointment with God, led by Jeanne and Tiffany (little did I know where these friendships would lead...) I'm starting to actually see people, and not just let them float around me in a blur. I walk away from these discussions refreshed, challenged, intrigued.
-FMF festival: blue men, bright lights, confetti, and an ease into the routine of set-up. Later that week, an early night cut short led to Cheyenne Saloon and Ceviche.
-the last show with The OaKs, though I did not know it then at the WMNF Tropical Heatwave show. Think SXSW, except the audience is mostly hippies.

June
-OneRepublic concert--I think I can trace the true beginnings of my hanging out with Jeanne, Tiff, Les and Su to this evening. Piano keys pounding, cello sighing and crazy awesome subwoofers. Music owns the night.
-Ingrid Michaelson concert--I got to sing onstage with her for two songs. I will never forget that. This evening was exuberant and legendary, but only in my own mind.
-An evening where everything fell into place: a rodeo where we learned about the extent of animal cruelty and that nobody really dresses up for rodeos, coloring in the kids' menu can bring hours of entertainment at Bennigans, and hanging out with friends can be fun even though the movie is super lame.

July
-Trip to New York City to hang with Paige and Jenny on July Fourth weekend. I remember Jelly Beans, endless shelves of books at the Strand, rooftop fireworks in the rain, taking shelter under a crowd of umbrellas, flying through the air and hanging out on rocks in the middle of Central Park, drinking coke and amarettos in some supposedly trendy club that played lame music. Endless photos, wandering and laughing.
-sitting in Books a Million with Becca and poring over an Atlantic Monthly article and having our minds blown. We sat in the parking lot, contemplating mystery and feeling suddenly very small. I can always count on that girl for amazing conversation.
-a inexplicably memorable day at the beach. sun and sand and waves and foam and strawberries and baby sharks. a day remarkably beautiful in its simplicity.
-a Black and White party of mayhem, strangely potent green liquid, dancing, red boots and bonding with Leslie through laughter.

August
-another random party. Laughter and absurdities and recorded voicemails on the back porch. My Filipino Freestyle was born, my purse was stolen, the ground was wet and the couch somehow managed to survive it all. Even to this day.
-A wedding. I reconnected with an old friend and found that I missed him much more than I imagined I did.
-trip to DeLeon springs: sun, canoes (I remember it felt strangely like being in an episode of LOST), pancakes that were worth the two-hour wait, plus the most amazing bacon ever. I still remember lying beneath the sun and trees and thinking I wish I could bottle up moments like that forever.
-Meteor shower in the open field near our house. Oscar helped me acquire this fire pit, which turned out to be the best investment I made this year (apart from my Macbook), as it has proved to be the central focal point for many a social gathering this year. New friends and old friends bonded over s'mores and iPhones, mixing and blending on blue tarps and blankets. I saw beautiful lights flash brilliantly across the sky all night long.
-Tiff's birthday, despite horrid Tropical Storm Fay; Happy Hour at Friday's, B.B. Kings and Cowboys and Wall Street Plaza. We had a fake bridal shower wedding, and then flipped quarters and ate hash browns at Waffle House until almost 4a.m.
-D.C. with Jeanne: I ate the best filet mignon of my LIFE, wandered capitol hill and stayed in an amazing old Colonial-era house with tons of character. I loved the wandering, the exploring, [the eating:)] and the conversations.

September
-evenings of book discussions over C.S. Lewis.
-lots of running by misty, orange and pink sunrises, endless political debating
-crazy trying to cram 5 people into a photobooth at Bar-B-Q; playing Rock Band live to Journey
-I believe this is when Jeanne and I bought our ticket to Sydney. Though I may have gotten the date confused? Regardless, I discovered someone who was just as restless and keen on leaving and having an adventure. The rest is history. (Or at least, a history that is still being written...)
-trip to St. Pete for beach and Salvador Dali

October
-I wrote Slide. Starting to find the secrets of writing decent hooks. But only just.
-The Mel version of Hiphopapotamous was born after Midnight Mass. Also, I got caught in a rainstorm while running this weekend. "Primal connectedness to nature."
-The first 80s night at Backbooth for Walt's birthday. As Jeanne so eloquently put it: "I saw flashes of fluorescent lights, people shaking it, and pearls. There were silly boys and funny old men. The next thing I saw was a photobooth strip, memories in a memory. Birthdays are best celebrated like this."
-the Longest Best Day ever: Muse Theology with Chuck deGroat, volunteering with Praxis kids at Give Kids the World, and then dancing the night away for Jahred's going away party.
-Aquatica--blissful day in the sun and water with beautiful friends.
-Halloween Party--chaotic, haphazard evening of fire, dancing moose, alter egos, Clue Characters, ukeleles, guitars and blue tarps
-Food and Wine Festival-
-Seattle- my first trip to the West Coast/Pacific Northwest. An evening of skee ball, hash browns, paper telephone, and almost making it to the club in Portland with the 80s dancing on a trampoline floor. A beautiful dream that may yet come to pass.

November
-Election Night--another evening of fire (sort of an ongoing theme of 2008), marshmallows and video blogging.
-Finally running the 10K! I felt exhilarated, learning I could run and talk at the same time (thanks, Dana) and my body felt like rejecting all junk food forever. For all of 30 minutes. This feeling was shortly followed up by a glorious chocolate chip waffle.
-Disney at the Swan and Dolphin with the girls. Escape from reality. This is where Texas de Brazil daring was officially born.
-New York City--a whirlwind blur of the Statue of Liberty, the Financial District, finally seeing Chicago on Broadway, and scoping out Justin Timberlake's restaurant. Conversations on planes, in parks and on city streets.

December
BK's birthday brought a memorable evening of Mongolian BBQ and conversation with my three favorite ENTJs (well Sonny MAY be an ENFJ).

A Cuban-Filipino Christmas with the family: amazing Cuban food, an evening of Scrabble, exchanging gifts. I forgot how much this quality time with family is necessary and central to my life.

I finally finished The Brothers Karamazov, a goal several years in the making (unfortunately).

Stardust gig/night of IHOP: probably December's most memorable evening so far (still banking on tonight;). And for this reason:

I'm realizing more and more how beautiful the people and relationships around me are. They're difficult, but rewarding, if I take the time to take off my blinders, my comfort level and actually engage with people and pour into them and just take the time to notice and be invested and be involved... well, it's not even about a reward. It's just LIFE.

I've never regretted a single spontaneous late night, initiating a necessary [or just enjoyable] conversation, spending time with any one person, taking a random trip somewhere new and exciting. Ironic, since I am going to an "I Hate '08" party tonight, because I truly did not hate 2008. It's been a remarkable year of new friendships, renewed friendships, discovering (or re-discovering) community, putting into practice all the hard lessons of 2007, learning to be vulnerable, remembering to give, to write, pray, to surrender, to create, to be still, to make time, to be completely present where I am, yet to plan and to dream. I'm not perfect and don't claim to be--I cringe at the flaws but celebrate the growth. This year has been probably one of the most enjoyable and remarkable years of my life.

Part of me is bracing for the storm, because I know that this only a season, maybe even an aberration, but for now, the main theme in my heart is [unceasingly] gratitude.

Stardust Gig/IHOP Video Blogging

I played an acoustic show this past Saturday night at Stardust Video and Coffee near Baldwin Park. My friend Chase Patterson (of the one-man band named Solaseria) invited me to come open up for him. I've seen him perform there before and I remember liked the venue, I've been jonesin' to play a show lately and try out some of my new songs, so of course the decision to say "yes" was basically a no-brainer.

Since I am the anti-stereotypical band member, I of course showed up to the venue early and had an hour to kill, so I ordered some food. They have a mad awesome chicken pesto sandwich which I devoured.

The main thing I was excited about was my new friend Kirk joined me for my set. He sings, plays acoustic guitar and violin. I always prefer to surround myself with other musicians when performing. Even when Syd and I used to play out, we always preferred playing with Dav (on drums) and Lauren (on violin) and occasionally the great Kris Karlsson when he could grace us with his amazing guitar skills. Also playing with The OaKs a lot has made me appreciate even more the chemistry and creativity of collaborating with other musicians.

I was super sad because I lost my favorite guitar pick that night. During sound check, it slipped from its place wedged between the guitar strings and fell into the abyss also known as the cracks between the stage. What are the odds? I was bummed because it was a guitar pick I got at SXSW this past year. And it said SXSW '08 on it. Ah well.

The stage was a little crazy. Jeanne said it looked like I was singing inside a bleeding heart. You decide.



Overall, I was happy with how the show went, and even more happy with how many people came out to see the show. I really want to try and release an album before I leave for Australia, even if it's a short 5 or 6 song ep. On top of the other ten thousand things I need to get done over the next couple of months.

I did make another infamous video blog, which I will post below. I've decided I'm going to start posting the video blogs here as well. Anyway, this latest one involves me and seven of my friends (Walter, Jeanne, Brian, Sonny, Alecia, Les and my sis) and late night escapades at an IHOP somewhere in Orlando.