what makes a person a person.

Although I missed class on monday, I was fortunate enough to have a class mate fill me in the the fascinating details of the 50 minute period was absent from. The levels of who a person really is... This is a subject that i have been dealing with in a very real way for the past few weeks. Not only in self-reflection but in general, about other people I am very close with. And there is always the basic question, what makes people do the things they do? Why do people act against their own beliefs for something they want? Why do people settle for anything less than God's plan for their life?

I am a religious people watcher. It's one of my past-times, hobbies and passions. Whether they are walking to class, air-drumming in their car or simply sitting quietly, I'm always interested to know how they got there. Like in the TV show, when they start at the end of the episode and then they go back 13 hours to before the incident happened. I think that people are a lot like the earth, as Professor Corrigan argues. They are easy to pollute and death is inevitable. People are much more complex than a single celled organism, they have feelings, hopes and desires. When I see a woman crying on the side of the street or an old man at a bus stop i often wonder what choices they made along the way to walk them into the places and situations. I wonder about what they believe, and how they live that out.

People watching is a lot like reading a good book. Every person will see each character differently. And no one but the author (God) will truly see the character (humans) as were were created to look, feel and be. Which is why I believe that it is important to ask God to let us see people through his eyes and no longer through our narrow scope of thinking. People are multi-layered organisms that we are called to love. So maybe our reading and study of literature is a way of creating the skills to really explore people, and to more fully put ourselves in others shoes in order to fulfill our God given calling.

night i'd rather forget.

I remember it like it was yesterday. The cold dark night, the silent anticipation of things to come, the morbid hope that I would be wrong. I sat next to a good friend. His hair fell over his brown empty eyes. He had been telling me all night what to do in my current predicament. I obeyed. He told me we should follow her. I could still see her light grey eyes open and close as they spoon fed me lies. I could still hear her last words roll off her cozened tongue. Somewhere deep inside me i knew the truth. I knew the cold hard facts. 1. She was lying 2. I was a fool 3. It was over. As i sat in the passenger seat of that dark red ford pickup truck i knew that this moment was something that would change my life. I didn't say a word, my body language was screaming insecurities. The lights were off. Then she emerged from the house like a enemy fighter preparing for battle. I wasn't.

She was with her short stalky friend and i was with mine. There they stood completely unaware of our existence. She was in a green dress, and all this for a study visit to starbucks? My friend and i knew the answer. She wore a mask of love, and trust when all she really knew was deciept and guilt. She crossed through the yard into the car and all i could help thinking was where, who, why and what did i do to deserve this? The truth is no one deserves this.

We kept out of sight, we crept around the corner, we floated through the night like two shadows. And that's what we were. Shadows, dancing across the background of her night. We followed them down streets to a parking lot. It was a large parking lot and her trust for me removed her suspicion of me not trusting her. Around the corner we hid, like spies gathering intelligence. Both of us watched the scene unfold. A second car, an suv, another guy. In some ways i've learned to thank him. In others I can't help but resent him. She arose out of her car, and walked with such purpose, such pr-meditated infidelity. The kiss. The way my stomach turned. The tear that fell down my cheek. I'd never look at her the same way. My friend didn't say a word. He wasn't the type to ignite my already blazing flame. He knew that there were no words to console me.

I once saw her as beautiful. Now in a matter of seconds she became some else to me. Something ugly and vile. Something that I never wanted to be. She became the one thing we always swore we'd never be. She just did the things that she promised she'd never do. Her eyes turned black like coals. Her skin turned into a course paper. I no longer saw her the same. After all these years, and it all comes to this. The house of cards. Love is a house of cards. She is a house of cards. No matter how many attempts i made to stack it, it always falls.

I sat speechless. No word could describe my thoughts. No pen could name this feeling. This was the one time i never wanted to be right. Everything changed. Her look was no longer sweet to my eyes, it was bitter. Her dress was no longer glamorous, for the first time i saw her for exactly what she was. Fake.

music is in his bones.

I hope to be able to make music for a living one day. Reading this passage over and over again really kept meaning the same thing to me, my music can take so many shapes for so many different people. I'd like to think that I understand everything that goes into writing a song. But sometimes, there are parts, lyrics, guitar or piano riffs that I have no idea where they come from. Another thing that struck me about the passage we read sacredly, was how he seems to think that not many people really ever hear a song. As a musician that has been in a recording studio, I can say first hand that you can never truly ever hear a song until you've been through the process of creating a song. For example, a watchmaker puts all the pieces of that watch together. He sees watches in a completely different way than a normal, non-watch making person. The watchmaker thinks of each individual part, the escapement, periodic, balance wheel, balance spring... In that same way a un-athletic accountant can't fully appreciate the grace and beauty of a professional basketball player. Just like this, no one but the artist can really, truly hear any song or understand the meaning of any lyric.

I was fortunate enough to be able to record a album this fall in a professional, platinum certified studio, and i know for a fact that ever since then, I can't listen to music in the way. This doesn't mean the songs have changed. It simply means what I listen for has changed. I listen for each individual piece of the puzzle that makes the song what it is. John Mayer's new record "Battle Studies" is a perfect thing to listen to if you want to try and connect with a song. You can literally feel the emotion he was trying to deliver through each not he strums. Which sounds crazy, but if you listen, I mean really listen, I think you can hear it too.

I love listening and re-listening to music. I get something new out of it every time. I think a song is an amazing way to reach people, and also an amazing way to be moved. Although we will never fully know the artist true meaning, I think finding our own meaning is far more valuable.

the imaginary invalid.

I have to give a disclaimer for the following blog. I may go far to deep into the meaning the play. The imaginary invalid was a very good production. It was full of creativity, talented actors and over-the-top-slap-stick-humor. This was probably the best southeastern production I've seen since attending southeaster. The acting was, for the most part, very well done. The main character is told by his doctor that he requires a plethora of medications and injections. As the story progresses we find that many of his issues are all mental and created by his fear of his doctor. There is all the typical elements of any theatrical production, love, a gold-digging wife, a nerd, a loud mouthed housekeeper and a slew of backup dancers. I think the concept of the of mentally creating problems that really don't exist is a very interesting thing to think about.

How many times has someone told you something about yourself, maybe that they didn't like your singing voice, or that your shoes didn't go well with your shirt or maybe someone in the church that looks down on you for something? As soon as all of these things enter our minds we consider changing them. Sometimes i think we are a lot like the main character of the Imaginary Invalid. We are in a shroud of insecurities caused by the words of other people. The doctor tells him that he has all these diseases and problems when the only problem he really has is call "being a poor judge of character." One of my teachers in grade school pulled me aside after class and asked me, "Son, do you have ADD," to which i replied, "No, don't be ridiculous."

BUT THE DAMAGE WAS DONE.

She didn't do it intentionally but she planted a seed in my mind. A seed that grew into an excuse for why I was such a procrastinator. I began to create an Imaginary problem just because I was a hyperactive child. Did i really need to be diagnosed with a disease? NO. All it should of been diagnosed as was a lack of discipline.

I enjoyed the production and it made me think, Be careful whose counsel you listen to and deliberate long and hard before giving your money away to a gold-digging witch. It's also inmportant to filter through all the things that are poured into you, so you do not become, an imaginary invalid.

this blog is very late, but still on topic.

Yesterday my grandmother was admitted to the hospital. Her health is rapidly decreasing and the doctors are not sure how much time she has left. I think it is safe to say that these thoughts consumed me yesterday. Although she is almost 90 years old and has lived a long and happy life, I still wonder about her thoughts. When she looks back on life, does she see a series of regrets, a chain of events that led her here, or all the happy memories that life brings? Does she think about my grandfather's health, and how her death would kill him? After going to the cemetery and looking at the faded and broken tombstones, I think the married people got it right. The ones who aren't even dead but already have looked into the face of their mortality and seen their names written in stone. Wouldn't this cause you to live life without regrets? Never looking back but always seizing every moment like it could be your last. I can't help but think that there are so many things that my Grandmother didn't do, didn't feel, didn't experience. When I talked to her yesterday, she told me that the only thing she wished, is that she didn't have to be in the hospital but instead could go home to take care of my grandfather. Maybe that's love. Something that even in the face of death, denies self and thinks of the other. My grandparents have been married almost 68 years, and maybe they've learned a few things along the way. I think that Whitman is on to something when he questions why we cover coffins with flowers. Don't we do that in everyday life, we look at truly horrible things and then throw some roses on it, make it look prettier than it really is. Death's ugly sting can surely be nullified by sugarcoating it's stinger.

This is a scatterbrained blog, that has very little to do with Whitman, or Lewis, or any of the other things we've read, but Love and Death are really the only things we read about. So in a way, I'd argue that this has everything to do with what we've read. Thinking about other people and there own thoughts, lives, loves and deaths. I think that our reading so far this semester has prepared me for my Grandmother's inevitable date with death. And maybe that's the point of all these readings, assignments, blog entries. It's not about the grade, it's about learning life, and being able to apply bits and pieces of each thing we read and applying it to help us be better at life.

So maybe this blog is late, and all over the place. I know that if i had written it last night it would of been even more scatterbrained.

gravesaide reflection.

The other day I took a trip to the cemetery for a class field trip. At first i didn't really understand how this would be useful to me. I read Whitman's poem and thought that it was just another well crafted string of metaphor and alliteration. But once i began to read his words outloud, surrounded by the sleeping souls of those who had passed, I saw his words in a completely different light.

A few years ago I went to my own grandfather's funeral. I remember thinking about him, in all my twisted memories of who he was and wondering if he could look down on me, and see me, and if he could, would he be proud of the man he left behind? Would he see all the ways he impacted my life? When i was standing there reading Whitman's words about our dark mother, i couldn't help but think of my grandfather, and how i wish that i could of seen death creep towards him, But would the realization of when he would die spare me the pain of that loss? The eulogy was given, and although he was a Christian i couldn't help but feel a pain, almost a loss of hope.

The thought of death always brings such terrifying finality. Reading Whitman at the graveside reminded me that even the best written word, or cleverly crafted speech, would never truly comfort someone dealing with death. All we can do is cover the coffin with flowers and tears and reach out to God even when we don't feel him there.

Death's song is a station that we all hope to avoid, but a station that we all scan pass, hoping that we never have to listen to it's melody.

maybe the married people got it right.

I went to the the cemetery. I stayed for at the least 42 minutes. I took a picture on my phone and now I'm having trouble uploading it. I went there with Andy, Heather and Alex. It was a jolly old time.