Cheeken.org

My mom writes me letters.  Yes, in this age of cell phones and emails, she still sits down and jots a note, usually from work at the hospital, and usually on whatever notepad she happens to have handy.  I’ve gotten lots of psych drug stationary over the years, and the most recent letter says “Beijing 2008 USA” on the top.  Sure, she’ll occasionally send me an email or call me, but with surprising regularity, I get these wonderful little letters.

(A brief aside: the most frequent message that I get from my mom on my voicemail goes like this, verbatim: “I don’t want to leave a message.  I want to talk to the real guy.” *Click*  Sometimes it’s in a laughing voice, other times it’s left out of frustration that we haven’t talked in several weeks, but more often than not, that’s what she leaves.)

So, about every other week, sometimes once a month, I get a little letter from my mom, and it always contains a few key elements, usually in this order:

• Housework updates (what she’s fixing, having fixed, mowed, building, tearing down, contemplating, etc)
• Current work schedule
• Weather (this one has also frequently comes first)
• it ALWAYS ends with the reason she has to go to town next so that she can mail the letter.  Always. (current example: “Going to town to get paint brushes, so will mail this off.”)

The best part about these letters is the way that my mom phrases some things, many that are afterthoughts written in the margins right before she closes the envelope and drops it in the mailbox.  This one in the most recent letter made me laugh pretty hard:

Glad you didn’t fall through the ground from the e.quake or get hit with a brick

Two notables: 1) her abbreviations are always cute; here, it’s an “e.quake,” formerly, emails have historically been “ems;” 2) a brick?  That’s funny.  Of all things, hit with a brick?  Not dead, not a broken femur, not wandering zombie-like in the apocalyptic wasteland of post e.quake SoCal?  Nope.  Hit with a brick.  Word.

So, thanks, mom, for always brightening my day with your notes.  And that’s only one reason why my mom is awesome.

I’ve spent a lot of time over the course of my life struggling with religion and spirituality.  A couple of years ago, one of my more Christian friends asked, “So, what’s your beef with Jesus?”  And really, I don’t have a particular beef with Jesus, or God, or church.  I’ve worked in different roles within the church for my whole life: youth leader, speaker, Drama Guy, Sound Guy, Christmas Choir participant.  It’s not beef that I have, it’s more a fundamental skepticism that any of it holds water.  Like, at a really basic level.

Another friend was in town a few months ago, and we got to talking.  He’s still very involved in church, and a big Believer; we worked together in church in Maryland.  Our conversations about religion would frequently go something like this:

Me: Well, what about just living a really good and honest life?  Why would God not let you into heaven just because you didn’t Really Believe in one version of Him?

Him: But, you have to take what the Bible says…

Me: Then I guess that’s my problem: I don’t know if I really take the Bible as a capital-b Bible.

Him: *sigh*

Because at that point, really, any religion has trouble maintaining significance.  It’s akin to saying, “Look, that chair is an office chair, and not a couch, and you have to use it to work in, at an office building…” and me responding, “I don’t actually think that’s a chair.”  No matter what you think I’m supposed to do with/about/because of that chair, if I won’t even agree that the thing is a chair, we’re going to have some difficulties taking the conversation any further.

This led me to consider what I truly believe in; what gets me excited and passionate the way I’ve seen people who are genuinely religious feel about their religion?  You know that knot you get in your throat, and the way you almost are crying, but it’s like this excited, overwhelming, not really crying feeling?  Yeah.  That.

I realized it then, and it struck me again today: The thing that makes me feel most religious is Politics.

In 2000, living in Washington, D.C., I fell in love with Al Gore.  I participated in debate-watching parties (with Democrats sitting on the left, and Republicans on the right, natch), I put buttons on my backpack, and stayed up with Tim Russert as he wrote on his lovely little white board on election night.  Then, he lost.  And I was rocked.

But still, because it was politics, I went to the inauguration of GWB; bundled up, riding the DC Metro at 5am to get a spot on the Mall, completely giddy just to be in that space - the politic electric.  It felt like what I should have been feeling in church.

Today, I watched Barack Obama speak in Berlin, Germany, and for 26 minutes and 19 seconds, all the hair on my neck and arms stood up; I became a goose pimple.  And almost the whole time, I had that knot in my throat, not crying, but filled with emotion because of the amazingness of what I was seeing, and what I will be able to be a part of, in the prime of my lifetime.

I’d always wondered how it was that people in my parents’ and grandparents’ generations could actually complete the following sentence:  “You know, when I heard John Kennedy was shot, I remember exactly what I was doing…”  How inspiring does a person have to be that they put that permanent of a mark on a nation’s psyche?  How remarkable?  How memorable?

After watching today’s speech and reviewing Obama’s recent speeches from the Middle East, for the first time, I feel like I know what it takes.  And it feels incredibly sacred.

My prayer?  Voting.

My mission work?  Explaining why Obama is the best candidate in my lifetime.

My church?  Democracy.

My 28 Fundamental Beliefs?  The Democratic Party

Being politically involved makes me feel like I have the ability, and the responsibility, to change the world, to know what’s happening in the world, and to realize that I’m part of something much larger.  And, coming full circle, I think that’s exactly what God wants.

I’m just…

incubating.

The shower in my second-floor apartment has a window that looks out onto the street below.  Now, I already take long showers, but the fact that I can stand there and stare at people as they walk by, completely unaware that I’m watching them, makes my showers even longer.

(Yes, I realize how creepy that sounds.  No, I don’t care.  No I wasn’t…oh, stop.  That’s just gross.  Who’s the perv now?)

Yesterday morning, a man and woman parked their minivan on the side of the street and got out.  The man was carrying a white plastic grocery bag in his left hand, and carried his keys in his right.  It took me a moment, but I realized that they were both deaf, and the woman was signing to him while they walked across the street.

The man stopped walking, and, with his keys still in his hand, began to sign with his two available fingers.

My brain saw all of this and thought, out loud: “So, is that the deaf-equivalent of talking with your mouth full?”

Two years ago, after the end of my marriage, I managed to get myself in a relationship.  It was, I imagine, one of those quite-typical reboundy relationships, both for her and for me; one that had some high highs, but some incredibly low and damaging lows.

There’s one night in particular whose emotional and physical ghosts continue to haunt me.  She, I, and another friend decided to go to a concert in San Diego at the Casbah for one of my favorite bands, We Are Scientists.  I was So Freaking Excited.  (Like, think about your favorite band that not many other people know about. Now imagine them playing for You at a venue the size of a small backyard.  Really imagine that excitement.  Yeah.  It was at that level.)

The Scientists were touring for their first (and completely perfect) album, and I was tremendously excited to see them at a venue that I knew was small yet loudly intimate.  Four hours later, the night would end, after going through:

• Way too much alcohol
• Jealous rage
• Violent blackouts
• Lots of blood
• Lots of vomit
• Having to leave the show after three songs
• 45 minutes worth of drunk driving
• Remembering both too much and not enough

I have three scars on my right arm that remind me that it is possible for me to get in Way Over My Head.  To say that this night brought out the demons I had only glimpsed previously is understatement.  I lost it.  It brought to the surface insecurities, distrust, rage, sadness…a ’sleeping giant’ sort of thing, I guess.  I scared myself that night.

It was the ugliest series of events in my life.

A week ago, I learned that the Scientists are touring again for their second (not-nearly-as-good-but-still-acceptable) album.

And I’m going.  The crazy thing is that it’s at the Casbah, in San Diego; same time, same place, almost exactly two years later.  I haven’t been to the Casbah since the last show, and I’ve got all these weird nervous/anxiety-ish feelings about walking in, about being in that space.

It’s like returning to the scene of the crime.  And I’m afraid.

Two of the songs from the Scientists’ first album played like a soundtrack behind the events of that night, and would continue to be the score for that relationship as it collapsed into a messy creature with an agenda of its own.

“Callbacks”

I guess that I should probably leave right now
’cause I’m already kinda sweaty and freakin’ out
I gotta time-bomb headache that’s ticking down
I guess that everything is better when I’m not around

It’s all outta context
There’s nothing I’m into
Call it a complex
It’s really quite simple
I’m tired of these hang ups
I wish someone would call me back
How ’bout it?

Well my tongue is tired and I’m seeing stars
I got a million ugly words for what you are
I gotta busted back and a broken heart
I guess everything is better wherever you are

It’s all outta context
There’s nothing I’m into
Call it a complex
It’s really quite simple
I’m tired of these hang ups
I wish someone would call me back
How ’bout it?

It’s all about context
There’s nothing I’m into
Call it a complex
It’s really quite simple
I’m tired of these hang ups
I wish someone would call me back

I said that I’m so sorry to bring you down
I guess that everything’s better when I’m not around

This one, especially:

“It’s A Hit”

I should’ve known that this would happen from the start
This kind of function’s gonna have to fall apart
I guess before I would’ve sworn that we were friends
Maybe this problem points towards some larger trend

But I still don’t understand
What this whole thing’s about
And all the words that you said
Are somehow stuck in my mouth
And this was going so well
But I don’t know what I did
All I really can tell, is
I’ve been hit
I’ve been hit
I’ve been hit

Well there’s only so much drama I can stand
And this is just about as far as I will bend
So get your hands off my lapel
Because I think it’s time to go
You oughta know better.
You know,
You oughta know

But I still don’t understand
What this whole thing’s about
And all the words that you said
Are somehow stuck in my mouth
And this was going so well
But I don’t know what I did
All I really can tell, is
I’ve been hit
I’ve been hit
I’ve been hit

As I was falling down the stairs
And out the door
I guess I heard you yell my name
But I’m not sure
You know before I could’ve sworn that we were friends
But that’s how these problems always seem to end

But I still don’t understand
What this whole thing’s about
When all the words that you said
Are somehow stuck in my mouth
And this was going so well
But I don’t know what I did
All I really can tell
Is that I always get hit

And I still don’t understand
What this whole thing’s about
And all the words that you said
Are somehow stuck in my mouth
I guess I might take it back
But I’m not sure what I did
All I know about that, is
I’ve been hit
I’ve been hit
I’ve been hit

Here’s hoping that I get to stay for the whole show this time.  And no new scars.

I tend to have difficulty in remembering my dreams; last night, however, I had one that seems a little strange.

I was walking around Seattle at night, in a seedier part of town, and I came upon a small group of men, about five or six guys, standing around on a street corner.  I walked over to them, and one of them turned around and said, “Hey, look over there, it’s Ludacris!”

I looked up to find that, right in front of me, Ludacris was standing and talking to the group of men.  I said, “Hey, Ludacris,” and shook his hand.

A moment later, my right contact lens popped out of my eye and got caught on my eyelashes.  I quickly reached up and grabbed it.  Then, right before I put my contact in my mouth to keep it from drying out before I could put it back in my eye, I shouted:

“Oh, shit, Ludacris! I gotta go!”

That’s all I remember.

Overheard between two men in their mid-40s at the coffee shop this afternoon:

Guy 1: Hey, did you hear about John?

Guy 2: John? Which John?

Guy 1: The one who works with Ray.

Guy 2: I don’t know which John you’re talking about.

Guy 1: John the asshole.

Guy 2: Ohhhhh……

So, what’s different around here?

How about my entire life.  Let’s start there.

When I stopped writing here almost two years ago, I was in the middle of my divorce, trying desperately to hang onto my sanity while still going to school and working, and making some really, really unfortunate relationship decisions.  All things that would eventually lead me to take a leave of absence from school, go home to Oregon for a couple of months, and dive head-first into a some fantastic therapy.

At the time, I shut down operations here because it was too much of an outlet; staring at a blank post with So Much Stuff running through my head, but not being able to make any of it coherent, and also not really wanting any/all of my business out there.  And because the daily events and interactions that I once wrote about now seemed to pale in their banality to the uproar that was my situation, I didn’t even feel like I could write about that, or anything.

Further, the blogging-hiatus also seemed to mark the introduction of what art-students would inevitably call my Reclusive Period.

I’m still trying to work out of this odd little hole I’m down in.

I mostly stopped answering my phone, stopped responding to text messages, emails, and myspace messages.  There are people - really close people - that I’ve talked to nine, 12, fifteen months ago.  Not at all because they haven’t tried, but because I frequently haven’t been able to muster up the courage to answer the phone.  I’m not sure how to bridge the year-long gap, which is, of course, the result of me not being sure how to bridge the two-month gap, or the six-month gap…you get the picture.

I’d like to think that the gumption (thanks for that word, Grandma!) I’ve found to get this site back up is part of the larger work of me reconnecting.  I mean, I miss the people I’ve lost touch with.  But I also know that, if you go back through the archives, you’ll see several instances of me saying: “Yeah, I’m out of touch with everyone, but that’s because of [being busy harvesting Unicorn ivories] and now that it’s done, I’ll totally [hire a sky-writer to pen my magnum opus of friendship] to all those that I’ve ignored over the last while.”

Honestly, who knows what this will turn into.  At the same time, I’m trying to not feel any pressure with blogging this time around, because that’s the thing that prompts writer’s block in me.

So, I guess we’ll see how this turns out.  The good news is that since I’m using my old website, I’ve already spent some extra time this morning to knock down the influx of comment spam that was just waiting to be visited upon me.

Welcome back, everyone.  Most of all: welcome back, me.

I’m back.

Archives to be up in a day or so.

Then: I will blow your mind.

Check 1, 2, 3, 4.

My life is, as may or may not be evident to some or all of you, hectic and stretched beyond the limits of the allotted hours in the earth’s rotation. I hear that there are only 24; I keep hoping I can pull out an extra two or three.

I recently spoke to my supervisor about feeling overwhelmed and she suggested that I take a look at all of the things I’m doing and find places to cut back. I then thought that a good way to do this might be to make a Guilt List: a list of all the things I currently have on my plate, and rank then in order of their ability to induce guilt in me. This list is then compared to the Importance List, such that, by the end of the process, I am left with some things that are Important and Produce Guilt (i.e. dissertations) and other things that are Important and Do Not Produce Guilt (i.e. well, nothing currently, as I’m quite behind in most everything). Further, there are things that are Not Important and Produce Guilt - like this website.

As such, I’ve decided to quit writing here. Indefinitely.

In the past, I’ve taken both announced and unannounced hiatuses (not, in fact, hiati, as I had originally hoped), but even then, there was self-induced guilt around feeling like I *had* to get back to writing here.

I’ll leave the site up, I’ll even check to see if there are any new comments and try and respond as time permits, but don’t expect to see any site updates. I imagine I’ll return eventually, if only because this space has been a good outlet over the years, but for now, cheeken.org is done.

Thanks for the support and understanding. And starting now, I should have slightly less guilt. =)