Recently I have moved from my cousin’s house in NE Portland to live with some guys I met downtown near the PSU campus. It’s nice to be a little more central to things, don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I didn’t like riding three miles uphill at one o’ clock in the morning arriving at my cousins place sweatier than a fat guy doing jumping jacks in a sauna, I just don’t have that kind of stamina now that I’m pushing 21 years old and have to beat the whole next level on World of Warcraft before I go to sleep. The guys I live with go by the names Luke and Brandon. These are their Christian names but in the Native American tongue they are called Treefro and Flying Squirrel, don’t ask me why. They both got tattoos recently and that’s when I knew they were legit. I can’t live with un-legit people. I was un-legit once. Now I’m legit. I’m too legit. Too legit to quit. We built another level to their bunk bed so now all three of us live in a three level bunk bed which creaks like an old tree that is about to collapse during a hurricane. The space is a little tight for my taste but they make up for it by giving me foot rubs and rubbing lotion on my body( I have a serious dry skin condition okay!) In the next room there lives a guy named Brian who I don’t see much because he has a girlfriend and he is so whipped it is ridiculous. He can suck on a poopy flavored Popsicle for all I care. He is not really that whipped, I just have to berate him for said relationship because I am secretly jealous and overcompensating for my lack of such a relationship. He is actually a really cool guy and if I was a girl would seriously think about dating him should he ever become single again.
There are always people at our house, which is cool but also tiring. It is a very diverse crowd. L.A. is a homeless Vietnam vet who sleeps on our back porch at night. George is a guy we met form Bulgaria who has hence decided to sleep at our house every night and eat our food but hasn’t really bothered asking permission. Luke and I talked to him once about it but I don’t think he got our American lingo and deep down I feel bad for him because when I think of Bulgaria I think of depressing Russian novels and somehow think that if we do not let George stay with us he will be forced to eat cut-up dog pudding, even though he lives in the U.S. now and has a nicer bike than me. Charles is the next character who comes over and he is possibly the most interesting person I’ve met. He lives at the sketchy motel down the street and gets un-employment checks from the government which he spends on pot, oysters and steak. He told us once that he takes five baths a night while watching made for T.V. movies. He also told us that he saw a dinosaur called a tyranosauraus-raptosaurus and that the government hides oysters in the pillars that support freeways to keep us from learning the truth about our toigel muscle. Sometimes he is on drugs.
There is usually never a dull night and so far I am having more fun than doing mushrooms and riding the teacups at Six flags.
Saturday, September 13, 2008
Hardcore is to Christianity What Yelling is to Angry People
I remember what it was like to hear, for the first time, the song Jesus Freak by DC talk. My spine tingled and writhed with adrenaline as I felt my senses being awoken by the sound of rock. I grew up in a moderately conservative Christian background that still subscribed to the definition of rock music as “of the devil” and thought that Marilyn Manson actually was the devil or at least one of his top demon henchman. So when I first learned that I could listen to rock music such as DC talk or Switchfoot and still be a Christian, I was stoked to say the least. From DC Talk my musical pallet morphed from P.O.D. to Project 86 and then to bands such as Demon Hunter, Norma Jean, and Haste the Day, whom I still listen to today. Throughout my fascination with hardcore music I began to notice a disturbing trend. This trend was beautiful at first but, like meat that is left in dumpsters, a sour began to arise. The first thing I noticed was that a) hardcore music was, without exception, the only form of music that Christians were actually good at making, which was the beautiful thing, and b) most young Christian teen men my age were crazy about it, which is the disturbing thing. It is disturbing, more perplexing actually, that good little Christian boys would develop such a taste for such outlandish thrashing. I started wondering one day what the reason for this was. Not that listening to hardcore music is any way bad or wrong, but I began to wonder if there was some aspect of life that Christianity missed giving people like me and hence caused us teenagers to go slightly crazy with aggression and rage. Perhaps it was our way of venting, rather than going out and drinking. Perhaps it was the alternative to being rebels who smoked weed and kicked little kids on swings. Whatever it was, thousands of Christian teenagers everywhere started listening to hardcore, two stepping in mosh pits and picking up loose change. So could it be that somewhere along the line the message of Jesus became safe and that the only alternative to doing “worldly, rebellious” things was listening to hardcore? It was especially appealing to kids like me who really wanted to do the right thing and follow Jesus, but who grew up in churches where it was just so dang boring. It was our form of rebellion which is fine, but, I feel like we might have missed something. That perhaps one day the gospel of radical revolution was transformed to a life of Little House on the Prairie. The sad thing about it is that a lot of Christian men and women see little else in Christianity that is real, exciting and raw. Hardcore is to Christianity what yelling is to angry people. It is a vent, and also a lens through which we see that something in Christianity might be just a tiny bit off. I love listening to hardcore music but, to be cliché for a moment, is that really as “hardcore” as we Christians get? What about following the simple, but dangerous and revolution-esque teachings of Jesus? I am eagerly awaiting a future(and not just for the hover boards and flying cars) where followers of Jesus are known for their “hardcoreness” and “non-conformist” type behavior, not only as a genre, but as lifestyle of revolutionary type love.
Sunday, September 7, 2008
Fickle
Every so often there comes a time in one’s life when one realizes, fears, more like it, that one might be completely alone. Sometimes just for the night, the weekend, or perhaps, for life. This can happen for a variety of reasons but more often than not, there is a very simple cause that sets in motion such an averse and disastrous consequence to both your self-esteem and your personal happiness as a human being. Usually it is just as simple as the fact that on a particular night everyone else in the world seems to have plans except for you. I feel like this happens to me often. I realize that this might happen on a particular night because everyone is either a) out of town, or b) has plans or is invited to something you are not/ cannot attend for whatever reason. At a time like this my mind begins to get particularly fluttery and a bat is set loose in my head to wreak havoc by pooping all over the inside of my head as if it were a cave. I begin to freak out because I realize that I could very possibly be a loser and that all my friends were really just my friends out of pity and then I think that no one has ever really wanted to hang out with me, save for my little brother who idolizes me for the simple reason that I am his older brother. Then I think about how I have never really been loved in my life, which by the way is a complete lie, and then I think about how no one gets me and I am the oddball, the loner, the weird guy, who will most likely move to Wyoming to live in a teepee and smoke peyote. None of these thoughts are remotely true but they feel true at the time and that’s the problem with feelings is that they are never rational or scientific and they are very unrealistic but because you feel it, it effects your whole being.
This morning I woke up with that idea firm in my head. Everyone I knew had plans for the weekend or was out of town and I was sure that I was going to be left alone. I was sure that it was going to be a bad day. Depressing, yes, and not a good way to start the day but I figured the sooner I accepted this fact the sooner I would have some morbid satisfaction in it. Yesterday was not a good day. I had an off day at work and it was one of those days where I was sure everything was going to fall apart. It was a day of existential crisis as I went through the day knowing that life was meaningless and cruel and certain I would be wandering sad streets of isolation and desolation for the rest of my days. I went to sleep listening to sad music and raking up as much self pity as I could muster. I knew for sure that no one ever really loved me that I would end up alone with nothing to fill my heart with. I knew that I was never going to “make it” or have what they call a “relationship” and was certainly not going to have it “together.”I had no idea what career path to take or even what my purpose was in this life. I could not muster up any hope at all that life would work out and that I would be fine. I knew that my world was going to slowly crumble around me until I was nothing but a crumb from a once delicious and tasty Peanut Butter cookie. My roommates were out of town for the weekend and I knew that there was no one else I could hang out with.
I planned on going to work, not enjoying it and the spending the rest of the afternoon/evening reading and writing at the Ace hotel while drinking Vanilla Smirnoff vodka from the bottle someone gave us in our fridge. I contemplated whether or not to take the vodka with me and mix it in with my coffee, allowing for the possibility of me to pass out on the second floor of the Ace hotel, or, wait until I got home to start drinking and then pass out to a funny movie in hopes that I would forget how much of a loser I am, drinking by myself with no one to hang out with. I was certain that the day was going to be a disaster. At work I formed a list of all the sad music to buy for the evening to keep me in a constant state of tragedy. I thought about a band I saw last weekend called Bon Iver and how the lead singer/front man wrote the album by taking his heartbroken self to a remote cabin in the woods of Wisconsin. I thought about how I wanted to got to a remote cabin and spend a year in isolation.
Without really thinking about it I was planning how to spend my day of tragedy and self pity by doing all that I could to saturate myself with the feelings of loneliness I knew for certain would haunt me the rest of my relatively short, but nonetheless presently long and hard existence. I knew for sure that it was going to be a bad, lonely weekend. Rather that fighting this idea I figured I would embrace it. But luckily, yet also ironically saddening, this did not happen. It was a relatively good day.
Work was fine. I had quite a few people to hang out with and I think thing with the particular girl I’m interested din may not be completely lost after all. At the end of the day I could honestly say that it was good. I did not wind up getting drunk by myself and embracing loneliness. I ended up having a good night and that feeling of hope I was sure had fled slowly returned.It makes me wonder because some days I have no idea how to process life. Some days are good and some days are bad and it seems that I have absolutely no control over it. Yesterday I was ready to take my own life and today I’m thinking that life is actually a very beautiful and rare thing that I wouldn’t trade for anything. It reminds me once again of how fickle and human I am. I wish that I wasn’t. I wish I was a constant beam of light like the North Star, never moving and always glowing. But some days I have absolutely no self esteem and no confidence or hope in life or humanity at all, and some days I feel confident and alert ready to inject myself at whatever life throws at me.
Some days I have hope that it will all work out and other days I am certain that I will end up alone and become one of those old bitter men with a cane that little kids are scared of. Yesterday I was not vibing life at all and right now I am honestly pretty stoked on it. I have no idea how to process life. I wish that I could file it all away and organize it so that my head would make sense and the bat that is constantly beating and flying around up there would die. But I don’t think I will ever be able to file life away in a nice little boxes and filing cabinets. My files will be all over the place because life is messy and I think you can categorize and label very few parts of it. I guess I am okay with this, it is freeing in a sense. To no longer spend my days trying to make sense of everything and reduce everything to a math equation. It is a freeing thing to rejoice in the complexity and mystery of life, of love, of God. It can be very frustrating otherwise.
This morning I woke up with that idea firm in my head. Everyone I knew had plans for the weekend or was out of town and I was sure that I was going to be left alone. I was sure that it was going to be a bad day. Depressing, yes, and not a good way to start the day but I figured the sooner I accepted this fact the sooner I would have some morbid satisfaction in it. Yesterday was not a good day. I had an off day at work and it was one of those days where I was sure everything was going to fall apart. It was a day of existential crisis as I went through the day knowing that life was meaningless and cruel and certain I would be wandering sad streets of isolation and desolation for the rest of my days. I went to sleep listening to sad music and raking up as much self pity as I could muster. I knew for sure that no one ever really loved me that I would end up alone with nothing to fill my heart with. I knew that I was never going to “make it” or have what they call a “relationship” and was certainly not going to have it “together.”I had no idea what career path to take or even what my purpose was in this life. I could not muster up any hope at all that life would work out and that I would be fine. I knew that my world was going to slowly crumble around me until I was nothing but a crumb from a once delicious and tasty Peanut Butter cookie. My roommates were out of town for the weekend and I knew that there was no one else I could hang out with.
I planned on going to work, not enjoying it and the spending the rest of the afternoon/evening reading and writing at the Ace hotel while drinking Vanilla Smirnoff vodka from the bottle someone gave us in our fridge. I contemplated whether or not to take the vodka with me and mix it in with my coffee, allowing for the possibility of me to pass out on the second floor of the Ace hotel, or, wait until I got home to start drinking and then pass out to a funny movie in hopes that I would forget how much of a loser I am, drinking by myself with no one to hang out with. I was certain that the day was going to be a disaster. At work I formed a list of all the sad music to buy for the evening to keep me in a constant state of tragedy. I thought about a band I saw last weekend called Bon Iver and how the lead singer/front man wrote the album by taking his heartbroken self to a remote cabin in the woods of Wisconsin. I thought about how I wanted to got to a remote cabin and spend a year in isolation.
Without really thinking about it I was planning how to spend my day of tragedy and self pity by doing all that I could to saturate myself with the feelings of loneliness I knew for certain would haunt me the rest of my relatively short, but nonetheless presently long and hard existence. I knew for sure that it was going to be a bad, lonely weekend. Rather that fighting this idea I figured I would embrace it. But luckily, yet also ironically saddening, this did not happen. It was a relatively good day.
Work was fine. I had quite a few people to hang out with and I think thing with the particular girl I’m interested din may not be completely lost after all. At the end of the day I could honestly say that it was good. I did not wind up getting drunk by myself and embracing loneliness. I ended up having a good night and that feeling of hope I was sure had fled slowly returned.It makes me wonder because some days I have no idea how to process life. Some days are good and some days are bad and it seems that I have absolutely no control over it. Yesterday I was ready to take my own life and today I’m thinking that life is actually a very beautiful and rare thing that I wouldn’t trade for anything. It reminds me once again of how fickle and human I am. I wish that I wasn’t. I wish I was a constant beam of light like the North Star, never moving and always glowing. But some days I have absolutely no self esteem and no confidence or hope in life or humanity at all, and some days I feel confident and alert ready to inject myself at whatever life throws at me.
Some days I have hope that it will all work out and other days I am certain that I will end up alone and become one of those old bitter men with a cane that little kids are scared of. Yesterday I was not vibing life at all and right now I am honestly pretty stoked on it. I have no idea how to process life. I wish that I could file it all away and organize it so that my head would make sense and the bat that is constantly beating and flying around up there would die. But I don’t think I will ever be able to file life away in a nice little boxes and filing cabinets. My files will be all over the place because life is messy and I think you can categorize and label very few parts of it. I guess I am okay with this, it is freeing in a sense. To no longer spend my days trying to make sense of everything and reduce everything to a math equation. It is a freeing thing to rejoice in the complexity and mystery of life, of love, of God. It can be very frustrating otherwise.
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Protest! Protest!
Yesterday I went to my first protest. It was not necessarily called a protest. I think it was supposed to be referred to as a "celebration" or a demonstration. It was a labor day march for the civil rights of illegal immigrants living in the U.S. Apparently many Mexicans are neither allowed to work nor leave and they cannot provide for their families. Immigration has falsely arrested thousands and split families apart. The march was put on by a bunch of Evangelical Christians to show that they stood in support and solidarity with the migrant workers. Unfortunately many Christians do a bad job of making outsiders feel welcome. The church is often slow to move on social justice issues like this and do a bad job standing up for the oppressed and the marginal, ironically those whom Jesus helped the most.
I rode my bike to 3rd and Madison in front of City Hall. No one was there. I have never been to a protest before and so i just assumed that if you go to the general direction of where the protest is supposed to be you will hear loud bullhorns and see an ocean of signs. But there was no one around. I wandered around for a few minutes before i saw a guy with a guitar and a girl with a drum unloading stuff from the back of the van. The girl had a hippie skirt and the guy had a beard so i figured these people might be able to help me.
I walked over to them and introduced myself rather awkwardly. By introduce myself i mean that i stood there until they noticed me and introduced themselves to me. It turns out they were the people i was looking for except for one thing: there was only about four of them. They assured me more were coming and while i believed them i also had a small panic attack because i realized that i would not be marching in a mass of people obscured, inconspicuously hidden by dozens of picket signs and tye dye shirts.
Slowly about ten more people trickled in. During this time i wrote words with sidewalk chalk. I wrote things such as "Love your neighbor" and "God is Love." Other people wrote bible verses about hospitality and others drew facts about immigration and U.S. policy. After enough people arrived a guy by the name of Brandon said a few opening words about how the Latino families are our brothers and sisters and how we have a chance to help the least of these. He said a prayer and then we began to march. Two people carried a banner of a lamb holding a flag with a cross on it in its mouth. Im pretty sure it is the same design from that book "Jesus for President." I had just read that book so i was stoked on that. The rest of us held signs and wound our way through downtown Portland until we reached the immigration office or "Ice" as it is known. I already knew from an name like "ice" that this place must be cold hearted. I bet they abuse their pets and make their children clean the toilet with toothbrushes just because. They probably also hate things involving the words "party," "ice cream," and "fun." They probably hate Snickers bars.
When we got to the Ice office we set up a prayer vigil and read some bible verses and sang some songs. A lady from the news filmed us and she was shocked to hear that us "evangelicals" cared about these people.
The whole time i was doing this i was trying to figure out whether or not i really believed in the cause or just wanted to go to a protest so i would be trendy and cool and progressive. I also thought about how it would make a good story to tell to girls. "What are you doing tonight?" they would ask. "Oh you know, nothing much. Just going to a protest."
Then they would tell me how passionate i am about my beliefs and how they would want to go out with someone like that.
I didnt really come to a conclusion about whether or not what i was doing was legit or not. I think it was. I mean i really do care about the poor and the marginalized. I really do believe in action over apathy and doing something to ignite.
So I guess it was a good experience. I believe that God was with us and that he heard us. I met some really cool people and i guess did my best to bring love and make the world a better place.
I rode my bike to 3rd and Madison in front of City Hall. No one was there. I have never been to a protest before and so i just assumed that if you go to the general direction of where the protest is supposed to be you will hear loud bullhorns and see an ocean of signs. But there was no one around. I wandered around for a few minutes before i saw a guy with a guitar and a girl with a drum unloading stuff from the back of the van. The girl had a hippie skirt and the guy had a beard so i figured these people might be able to help me.
I walked over to them and introduced myself rather awkwardly. By introduce myself i mean that i stood there until they noticed me and introduced themselves to me. It turns out they were the people i was looking for except for one thing: there was only about four of them. They assured me more were coming and while i believed them i also had a small panic attack because i realized that i would not be marching in a mass of people obscured, inconspicuously hidden by dozens of picket signs and tye dye shirts.
Slowly about ten more people trickled in. During this time i wrote words with sidewalk chalk. I wrote things such as "Love your neighbor" and "God is Love." Other people wrote bible verses about hospitality and others drew facts about immigration and U.S. policy. After enough people arrived a guy by the name of Brandon said a few opening words about how the Latino families are our brothers and sisters and how we have a chance to help the least of these. He said a prayer and then we began to march. Two people carried a banner of a lamb holding a flag with a cross on it in its mouth. Im pretty sure it is the same design from that book "Jesus for President." I had just read that book so i was stoked on that. The rest of us held signs and wound our way through downtown Portland until we reached the immigration office or "Ice" as it is known. I already knew from an name like "ice" that this place must be cold hearted. I bet they abuse their pets and make their children clean the toilet with toothbrushes just because. They probably also hate things involving the words "party," "ice cream," and "fun." They probably hate Snickers bars.
When we got to the Ice office we set up a prayer vigil and read some bible verses and sang some songs. A lady from the news filmed us and she was shocked to hear that us "evangelicals" cared about these people.
The whole time i was doing this i was trying to figure out whether or not i really believed in the cause or just wanted to go to a protest so i would be trendy and cool and progressive. I also thought about how it would make a good story to tell to girls. "What are you doing tonight?" they would ask. "Oh you know, nothing much. Just going to a protest."
Then they would tell me how passionate i am about my beliefs and how they would want to go out with someone like that.
I didnt really come to a conclusion about whether or not what i was doing was legit or not. I think it was. I mean i really do care about the poor and the marginalized. I really do believe in action over apathy and doing something to ignite.
So I guess it was a good experience. I believe that God was with us and that he heard us. I met some really cool people and i guess did my best to bring love and make the world a better place.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)