Today a bee decided to make its home in my hair. It snuck in unbeknownst to me, whilst I was blowing my nose in a library bathroom. What business it had in the library bathroom, I've no idea, but as best I can surmise it must have been a male bee, or else it was horribly out of place and only took refuge in my lengthy locks to flee its bee embarassment. Either way it decided that it liked my hair quite well, since it resided there for at least 20 minutes before being discovered.
We shared a symbiotic relationship, the bee and I. Friendship in its purest form. I provided it with protection from the cold world and shelter from the very cold itself. In return, it pollenated my hair follicles and probably would have mulled up a balmy batch of homemade honey for me, had I not decided to rake my left hand right through its newfound home in the middle of my physics class. To the bee, this southpaw was seen only as a threat, a predator encroaching upon a blossoming comradery, and so it thought it best to, at the very least, defend the kind stranger who had shown it such kindness as to offer some sanctuary in such uncertain times. The bee gave its life for this cause, defending me from the greatest enemy of them all: myself.
As the insect's broken form was flung to the ground, the classroom erupted into a blasphemous din. I plucked the sweet stinger from my left ring finger, and then took my leave. Thus ended my liaison with the bee.
She has a bigger heart than anyone I've ever met. It's been 3 months and I still can't forget that. I'm reminded by the stark contrast of the people I encounter stateside. And it doesn't even matter that she's beautiful to me. Beauty fades. And the most wonderful of personalities will grate your nerves over time. Simply the fact that she loved me on my worst of days, cared more about me than any other ever has... she loves like Jesus; I can't forget her, and I don't want to.
She kissed me on my shoulder, for no reason at all. She bought me a hat. She spoke the sweetest words I'd ever heard. She told me God loved me very much. She pretended she wasn't cold to impress me, and at length accepted my jacket. She jumped on me in the parking lot, just because she felt like it. She taught me more than I ever hoped to learn, and yet swore she learned more from me. She fought me every time I tried to pay for anything, fought and lost. She told me I was handsom when I hadn't taken a shower or changed my clothes in days. She whispered four words into my ear on the roof: "You're my best friend." She cried when I left.
I told her that I hoped one day to marry a girl like her. She said that she would like nothing more than to one day marry a boy like me.
But now she's been trapped in a relationship with a boy she doesn't even love, by cultural differences I couldn't begin to explain to you, much less fully understand for myself. He's not a horrible person. His only flaw that I can see is the way he refused to take no for an answer, and proceeded to make her say yes by manipulation and by force. Unfortunately her only flaw that I can see is an inability to stand up for herself. And only after trying and failing to teach her how, do I realize that I'm not the person to do so.
She still loves me from afar. I can feel it in the words she writes. But she can't tell me that. And I can't tell her that I feel the same. I couldn't even tell her while I was there, for too many reasons not to. Reasons that told me I would love her more by not telling her. I already complicated her life to a ridiculous degree simply by being her friend. And even though she told me she'd rather have my friendship and deal with the consequences, I still felt like the biggest shmuck in the world. My plan was to wait, wait until I could come back, wait until it wasn't forbidden, wait until I could act on it. Then he came along.
I want to tell her that I would do whatever I have to, to marry her and live wherever she wanted, to spend the rest of my life repaying her for the love she showed me, to make her happy.
But now, if I tell her, it will only complicate things further.
If I return, her life will fall apart.
If I wait, she'll probably marry him.
And if I forget her... well, that speaks for itself.
I know that God can be trusted, I know that I have to pray, and I have been through loss before. I just wish someone had a solution for this.
This is more honest than I've ever been with you. Believe me when I say that it's more complicated than I could ever begin to explain in a black-and-white box in a lonely corner of the internet.
And thanks to a stupid dog, and a stupid song, and a stupid playwright, try as I might I can't forget, that t'was Romeo killed Juliet.
The preacher that I am referring to is Mark McCrary. I should find out the general area he lived in if the city/town is small. Maybe it is around the corner from you.
If there's one thing you can count on in this life, it's that you will be surprised. That's one piece of wisdom I hope to share with my children one day.
Life is interesting. I haven't actually told you anything about my life in a long time, opting more for posts of the witty, thoughtful, and desperate varieties. I'm still at this dreadful school, struggling to stay alfoat in these dreadful classes of this major that I detest. There are bright sides though. My roommates are incredible. I would have never chosen them when I first got here, but I'm now so glad we were all randomly assembled in this amazing old house. And we do, after all, have the best porch in Starkville. To think of all the nights that have been spent sitting in these couches on this beautiful brick porch, telling stories, smoking cigars, jamming, eating pasta... We've shown movies on this porch with a projector screen, we've held concerts on this porch... It's an escape from this boring town.
I haven't been doing much musically for quite a while... I mean I've been rocking out and playing at tallent shows and in RUF, and even learning how to play the banjo, but I haven't written anything in a long time. At least, I hadn't. I'm getting back into it now. Currently I'm working on a song inspired by something a random girl said to her dog as she was walking it by our porch the other day. "Turn around Romeo." I think that's a pretty decent line. Talk about your modes of inspiration...
Yesterday, I tought my best friend how to tie a bowtie. I also gave him my old tux, and then sent him off, to go win a girl's heart. He'll be in Japan for 4 months again, but I have a feeling he'll be married before too long, and I'm just going ahead and fulfilling my duties as his best man.
As for me, I feel a bit like old Romeo. My love is betrothed to another man, whom she doesn't even love. The difference between Romeo and myself, however, is that I know there's more to love than just passion, and I understand that my actions have consequences. There's also the fact that she lives 2,800 miles away. It's an extremely helpless feeling, knowing there's absolutely nothing you can do, or rather, that there's tons of things you can do, it's just that none of them would help the situation at all. I suppose the only thing I can do is pray. Why don't I put as much stock in that as I should?
I performed my first original song at the age of 5.
I have painted Van Gogh's starry night. Twice.
I once sang "In Christ Alone" in Spanish in front of 700 Peruvian Mormons.
I can make curry, foccacia bread, cheesecake, marangue, sweet potato fries, and damn good pasta.
I can sing the Periodic Table of Elements.
My ex-aunt is Brook Burke.
I've eaten sushi underneath a bridge in the rain.
I was shot in the head in a low-budget underground Zombie flick.
I have performed the complicated swing-dance maneuver "Around the World" one time, and done the pretzel with every girl I've ever met.
I can spell rendezvous.
I know exactly how to prepare the perfect cappuccino.
I can play any song on the guitar using the same 4 chords.
My mom is the Sunmaid Raisins lady.
I own the banjo that was used in the first ever opera in the history of the state of Alaska.
I can roll my R's better than Antonio Benderez.
I have galloped at full speed bareback in a thunderstorm on a horse named Jazz.
I've gotten a standing ovation from a thousand people for performing a song that I wrote the day before.
I gave a box of chocolates and a rose to girl I'd never met in Walgreens on Vallentine's Day.
As a kid, I broke my arm inventing a new extreme sport involving a stairwell and a matress.
I hugged Chris Thile.
I have never lost at the Limbo.
I was once paid $10 to sing the happy birthday song.
My duct-tape wallet has an ID window and 2 billfolds.
I've played guitar in every airport I've ever flown out of.
I can whistle and hum at the same time.
I remember a cover song you had posted on here. It was really good, but my memory is failing me about which song it was. I hate when I can't remember facts when I need them.
don't want you or your visitors to see ads? join gold!
When I think of heaven, deliver me in a black-winged bird, I think of flying down into a sea of pens and feathers and all other instruments of faith and sex and God in the belly of a black-winged bird
I've been thinking and I think that I hate competition. I think competition is just deriving enjoyment from other people's disappointment. I've never been good at sports or games or anything. Maybe I lack the competitive drive? I dunno. All I know is that competition brings out the worst in everyone, including me. For every winner, there must be at least one loser, and usually it's a lot more than just one.
I'm feeling rather ghostly this evening, sitting on the porch of my old, old brick house in the cotton district, wearing a very vintage vest, shrouding myself in a plume of clove-smoke, pondering over what's really important in life and the very long laundry list of things that aren't. What put me in this odd state of mind you ask? That would be my death--in the stupid college assassin game.
Girls are tricky little backstabbers, and not just when it comes to campuswide watergun competitions. I mean, guys will stab eachother in the back, no doubt. But at least they feel bad about it. Girls seem to derive some sort of sick pleasure from betraying others. To all of my female readers, all two and a half of you, shame.
I believe it was David Wilcox who said (actually, I'm quite positive it was him, but I do so enjoy phrasing it that way, and who are you to deny me the simple pleasure of doing so?) that life is a lot like WalMart. There's one thing you go in for, one thing you really need, but as soon as you get in there, there's blue light specials and you get confused, you get distracted, that's all... and you wind up with an armload of shiny junk. Next thing you know, you're checking out, and suddenly you realize, "Oh, there was that one thing I came up for!" but it's too late now, you're in the express line!
I think that's a good analogy. So I'm going to make myself a shopping list, of not only what to get but also what not to.
Since that second list might take quite a lot longer to write, although competition will be first on the list, here's what I've got so far of the other:
yeah, i don't have much of a competitive nature either. i used to be more competitive but once i started college....i mellowed out dramatically. the last time i got truly competitive was when another guy started taking an interest in a girl i liked. so then i stepped up my game and now she's my wife (-:
