shadows and light

Could I Have Saved Your Life?

2011-07-31T18:16:00.001-04:00

I don’t understand what happened. I’ll never understand what happened. I’m not sure I ever want to understand why you chose to leave this world behind, no matter how much I need to understand; it hurts to think about, but the penance of the living is of no consequence to the angels of the shadows.

I don’t want to know, but I need to know. I still blame myself to a degree. I always will. I cannot lay this burden down; I can learn from it, let it inspire me not to fail my friends and family again, but I can never leave it behind. I can never outrun memory and recrimination. I can never completely forgive myself. I know that if you were truly at that point of no return, there is probably nothing I could have said or done that could have made a difference, but I’ll never know for sure.

It is that shadow of a sliver of a chance that maybe I would have had the right words, the right actions, that maybe just knowing I was here for you would have stopped you from pulling the trigger; it is that shadow of a sliver of a chance that makes the memory and the grief such a killing thing.

Two weeks before you died, you called me and told me we needed to talk. You told me you were in legal trouble and needed my advice. We agreed to go out for beer and talk about things. Then stuff came up and I pushed it off until the next weekend. My life was so busy with summer classes, a relationship that was disintegrating, social obligations and work; I didn’t know it was so serious.

You shot yourself before I ever got the chance to go get a beer with you.

When I needed you, you were there. When I was going through my divorce, when I was going through crazy shit with Meghan, when I was doing too many drugs and getting caught up in the mess that was the Acworth house, you were there. When I needed help moving, when I needed help with Evolution, you were there. You dropped everything when I needed you.

When you needed me, I was too busy. When you needed me most, I wasn’t there.

Intellectually, I know that once someone reaches that point, you can’t talk them out of it. The part of me that is governed with logic knows I’m not to blame. My heart can never be so sure, my soul can never grant myself absolution.

I picture you in the driver’s seat of your Jeep, looking at the .45, flipping the safety off. Your two most prized possessions. I try to imagine what was going through your mind at that moment. Did you forget how many people loved you? Did you feel alone? What made you pull the trigger?

We survived everything together. We lived through the drug years, the rave years. What made you end it? How could you make that choice, and leave your friends behind to deal with the wreckage of your passing? You were there for Brett’s funeral. You sat next to me at Phile’s funeral. Did you not think you would be mourned?

I want to call you a coward. I want to tell you what I think of your decision. I can’t. You failed me. You failed the tribe. We made it through the fire and the light. We survived. We’ve been through hell together and you bailed on us.

We failed you. I failed you. You were at your lowest point and I was not there. I can’t take that back. I can’t fix it. I want to fix it, but I can’t. Some things can’t be fixed. Some mistakes can’t be erased.

I’ll never know if I could have fixed it. I never got the chance to try. I never got the chance to save your life. You saved mine. When I was drowning, you pulled me out of the water. I never even saw you sink below the waves.

Should I have? Did I miss a signal? Were you reaching out to me, drowning in the ocean, calling for a liferaft? That last time I spoke to you, when you wanted to get together and talk, did I miss something in your voice? Did I miss some inflection, some tone, some word choice that should have made me sit up and realize something was seriously fucked up?

You were my brother in all but blood. You were the best man in my wedding, and I would have been the best man at yours. I should have seen it. Should have recognized it. Maybe you would have done it anyway. You probably would have done it anyway.

I can never, ever know whether you would have done it anyway. I never made the effort. I can’t even say I had a chance to stop it, because I don’t know if I could have. All I do know is that I never made that chance. I never had a chance to save Brett’s life. I never had a chance to save Phile. I might have had a chance to save yours.

It is the missed chance that still keeps me up at night sometimes. It’s been a year. The grief passes; even wounds of the soul eventually heal. It’s that shadow of a sliver of a chance that I can’t get over. If I’d taken the shot and missed, it might be different, but the clock ran out before I got a chance to. I can’t forgive myself for that. You called me. You needed me. I put it off. Two weeks later, you were dead.

It is those two weeks that will haunt me for the rest of my life. It is those two weeks in which I might have had a chance to save you. It is those two weeks that I’ll never get back.

I know I’m not responsible. I know it’s not my fault. I’ll never know if maybe I could have saved your life.

Not Waving But Drowning

Stevie Smith

Nobody heard him, the dead man,

But still he lay moaning:

I was much further out than you thought

And not waving but drowning.

Poor chap, he always loved larking

And now he's dead

It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,

They said.

Oh, no no no, it was too cold always

(Still the dead one lay moaning)

I was much too far out all my life

And not waving but drowning.

MLK-I have a Dream speech translated into LOLcat

2011-01-17T19:14:00.000-05:00

My friend Stacy posted today that she wanted someone to translate Martin Luther King's I Have A Dream speech into LOLcat.

So I did.

Note: Martin Luther King is one of my heroes. This is meant for humor and as a homage to one of the greatest men of the twentieth century. Thank you for making my country a better place, Reverend King.

Meow Luther Kitty- I haz dream

I iz happeh to cuddlz u todeh in waz gun be da bestest day for cheezburgrs in the histeree of ar littrbx.

Vry lng ago, a grt persun who lvd cuddlz and gvng kitteh treats rote a papr. Ths big papr set the slaves fre so they cud give kittehs mor lovins. Now they cud run thru the medows and ctch all the mices.

But now theyz still can’t chz all the mices. They haz to chz only mices in der own islandz of mices. They no haz all da chzburgrs. We cuddlz here today to claw wht peoplz legz so dey letz us chz mices wherevrz.

We comz to the capetlz to make them clnz ar littrbxs. Da first peoplz promizd al kittehs they wud haz cln litterbxs. Al kittehs, tabeez and caluhcoez and evn siemeze kittehz iz garunteedz to haz cln literbxs.

Why sum kittehs no haz cln litterbxs? We clawz ur legz til you givez us cln litterbxs for all kittehs and letz us all ply and cuddl and chz mices together. We haz no time to wate. Now iz time to let all kittehs be equel and stuffz.

You no ovrlk our clwng of ur legz. We no stop until we getz frdm. We wntz our litterbxs opn to all kittehz. We clawz you in sleep untilz all us kittehs are equel citishuns. We meow so we can haz justush.

But iz sumthng I must tellz my kittehs dat lie on warm windoesil ledng to scrtchng pst of justush. We haz to stl uz the littrbxs not go pee on peoplz beds. We mushent scrtch all furnushur to shrdz.

We haz be good kittehs. We haz give lovens and cuddlz to allz our peoplz. They r ourz peoplz and kittehs and peoplz haz cuddlz and stuffz wif ech othrz.

We iz no happeh so long az tabeez and caluhcoez and evn siemeze kittehs haz difrnt littrbxs an no can chz mices together. We iz no happeh if we can no slp on all the furnishure togethrz. We iz no happeh if we no drnk frum watr bowlz or haz chzburgerz. No, we iz no happeh until justush is servd and we all haz chzburger.

I knowz you come here thru lotz bad thingz. Sum cme frum animel sheltuhs. Some escapz from bad dogz dat chz us dwn streetz. Haz faith u wil getz chzbrgrs.

Go back to Misesipi, Aluhbamuh, Souf Caruhlinuh, Jorjuh, Louesheyana, ur brnz and ur sheltehs, noweng dat sumhow the situashun will be betteh.

I purr 2 u todeh, my kittehs, I haz dream. I haz dream dat iz Amerakin dream.

I haz dream dat sumtyme our nashun getz up, strtchez, and livz tru meaning of itz cred: “We haz truthz dat we know gud: dat all peoplz and kittehz iz med equel.

I haz dream dat wun day on red carputz of Jorjuh teh kittehs uf peoplz and tabbehz and caluhcoez will cuddlz az wun.

I haz dream dat my littr uf kittehz wil livz in nashun wher they iz no judgd bye colur of der fur but by how gud they givz lovenz.

I haz dream todeh.

I haz dream that even in Alahbamuh tabbehz and caluhcoez and siameze kittehs can haz chzburgrz together.

I haz dream todeh.

I haz dream that al littrbxs wil be cln, all dogz wil be fenshed and leshud, and we will all haz fishez an chzburgrz.

Dis iz ar hope. Dis iz fayf dat I go back to da souf withz. With fayf we can scrtch da couchz of dispare a scrtchng post uf hope. With fayf we can cuddlz az wun, meow az wun, cuz we be free wun day.

If we can haz gud nashun dis must cm tru. Let fredum ring frum teh kitteh sheltehz. Let fredum ring frum the sunnee spotz by the windoez. Let fredum ring frum the scrtchng postz.

Wen dis happnz, wen fredum ringz frum al da kittehs, we can haz al ceiling kat’s kittehs, tabbehz and caluhcoez and siameze kittehs, haz chzburgrz togethuh and meow in the wurds of teh ol tabbeh spirishul, “yay celing cat, we iz fre at last!”

Reign of Ashes

2010-11-13T15:25:00.001-05:00

Edit

Reign of Ashes

by Ben Bjostad on Saturday, November 13, 2010 at 3:19pm

Rage washes over me, bloodstream hardening,

skin aflame; I want to kill something beautiful.

I want to destroy all that was once beloved.

Rage, control slipping away, until all I can imagine

is your face, bloody, your teeth, loosened,

your pride and beauty stripped away,

until your ugliness is left bare for all the world to see.

Fuck you, who I once loved, fuck your words

and empty gestures, your disguises that fool the world

to see a pretty little girl. Rage consumes me;

I burn underneath its alabaster wings, the flame

begins to consume my veneer of civility,

and reveal the underlying truth.

It's been so long since I've felt this rage,

the mind can mellow, but flesh never forgets

shuddering, shaking, trying to keep control.

I want to hurt something beautiful today.

I want to kill the pain and slack the rage,

destroy it all, let naught but ashes reign.

2010-09-21T15:38:00.000-04:00

Benedict Arnold

In the end, it always comes down to treason,

A scarlet letter,a saboteur within the walls.

Turn your back and walk away, leave the wreckage

in your wake, leave it all behind and seek your light.

Make the choice that’s right for you, even if it’s not.

Destroy the walls, blow the bridge, steal away,

run to safety in the dark of night.

Run from the pain and break the faith.

Break the bonds that held you safe here in my arms.

Shatter all we built, the love placed stone by stone,

and walk away from the rubble that remains.

Your bedsheet treason can be forgiven,

your change in latitude can never be.

Find yourself in a war-torn wasteland,

leave me behind to heal my wounds;

run to daylight, run far away

give up the chance for absolution.

Turn your back on what remains,

spit on my anguished forgiveness,

hang your head in deceitful shame.

Leave the guilt. Leave the wounds.

Leave behind the scattered memories.

Sell your soul for a break to freedom,

leave consequences in your wake.

Speak the words and leave them hanging,

toss my replies into the wind.

Make your case and do not listen

to my rebuttals in the night.

Do what you must, do what you will;

you care too much, but you do not care at all.

Kidney-Stone-O-Rama!

2010-09-14T21:07:00.002-04:00

I actually wrote this about three years ago on my MySpace blog, and it's still the funniest thing I've ever written. Someone I know has a kidney stone problem she found out about today, which prompted me to move this over here since a: I haven't posted for a long time and b: It's funny enough to repost. I had much more fun writing this than the actual experience was.

Kidney-Stone-O-Rama!

So yesterday I apparently got a kidney stone.

I'm OK, but it was a frightening day. At least now I know nothing is really wrong with me.

Here is the account of my crazy medical crisis day.

Part I: In which the unquenchable fires of justice threaten valuable real estate.

Trust me on this: The last thing you ever want to feel when you wake up is burning in your urethra.

Let's face it. I'm a 28 year old guy. The center of my entire universe is my penis. It's the original multitool. This is very valuable body real estate, and it's just not supposed to burn. So when I wake up at 645am to feel the unquenchable fires of justice building inside me, my first thoughts on reaching full consciousness involve syphilgonorrcancerherpesitis, or a really angry sperm with a switchblade.

Once I actually wake up, I realize the switchblade option is slightly unrealistic, but I can be excused for failing to think or react rationally when there is burning in my penis.

I stumble to the restroom, there to look dumbly down at Hercules, but there's any number of reasons this can be happening. So I attempt to pee.

Still waiting….

Shifting bladder muscles to overdrive and grunting…

OK. One drop. This is not good.

I'm still rationalizing to myself. Maybe I don't need to go, despite all evidence to the contrary. I dress myself, gather my books and computer for my eight am government class and drive to campus. This has got to be just my body protesting against waking up at 645am. Everything's fine.

Really, it's fine.

Oh God, here comes the burn again.

Part II: In which the hero of the story attempts self-diagnosis of his bladder in a crowded classroom.

I love campus-wide Wi-Fi.

I take a seat near the back of the lecture hall and fire up my laptop. Being an eight-am freshman required course, half the class has laptops out. Supposedly, we're all taking notes on the lecture. In reality, everyone is on myspace, facebook and various instant messengers complaining to everyone else in the world who got stuck with an 8am class.

I, on the other hand, am frantically googling 'burning penis' and other classics of search engine lore, trying to find out why my lower torso feels like it's been bitten by one of those spider-crab parasite things from Cloverfield.

It only gets worse as the professor starts lecturing. Pretty soon, my bladder starts throbbing like a Scotsman is using it for a bagpipe and I've got pain on my right lower torso that's making me wonder if one can actually amputate a torso.

According to the internet, this isn't possible, exept for some old japanese manga I found of chicks with metal torsos. There really is a fetish for everything in Japan.

WebMd says my symptoms could indicate appendicitis. I have no great love for my appendix, but this would just not be a good time for it to explode. Exploding body parts are not a fun thing to happen. I think I feel a freak out coming on.

I want to try to make it through the class. I really don't want to be that guy who walks out from the back of the classroom mid-lecture while everyone stares at him and mutters 'let the shunning begin'. This runs contrary to the primary law I adhere to in life: Don't Be That Guy. I would have to walk down the steps to the front of the room and cross in front of the professor to escape the lecture hall. I will be shunned.

I'm going to have to Be That Guy.

I quietly pack up everything and slip my jacket on, and as quietly as I can make my way down the steps. Unfortunately, when you've got an overstuffed gigantic backpack, you feel like an angry troll is hammering your bladder and you're wearing big ass-kicking Goth boots, it's hard to be quiet and unnoticeable. The professor never breaks stride in his lecture, but I feel a hundred sets of eyes burning into my back.

They don't burn as badly as my loins do, though, so I make my intrepid course forward to the door and try not to run as I sight the men's restroom in the distance.

Nope, Hercules still isn't working. I have a vision of my body slowly being poisoned by whatever's left of everything I've drank in the last week. Given the amount of beer I consumed on my birthday a few days ago, this can't be good.

It takes me ten minutes to gather the will to leave the bathroom and walk back to my car, put my ginormous (this week's sign of the apocalypse: This has actually been added to the dictionary) backpack in the back seat, light a cigarette, and curse everything below and slightly above my belt.

Part III: In which the hero has to describe the burn to his hot Korean doctor.

Nothing in my twenty-eight years of life prepared me for a conversation with my mother that begins with the sentence "Mom, my urethra is burning."

Still, given her past as a dialysis technician, I figure if anyone knows what I should do, it's her.

I describe my symptoms to her and she tells me if I can't get an appointment with my doctor soon, I need to go to the Emergency room. Easy for her to say. She has military medical coverage. My work medical plan, however, is provided by Billy Bob's Used Furniture and Medical Equipment of Tulsa, Oklahoma, or some equally fly-by-night operation. Thanks, HR department.

I call my dad; he says pretty much the same thing. Apparently I've got a family history of kidney stones from both parents I didn't know about.

I drive to the University clinic; they don't open until nine. Then I call my doctor. They can get me in at 1145. So much for my 1100 and 1230 classes.

I go home and try the restroom once more. This time, we have success. Not much success, but it is amazing how satisfying it is to be able to take a leak when you have previously been unable to. I now konw what it's like to be eighty. I also know why my grandfather was so pissed off the last decade of his life. It wasn't that his grandson was an utter failure at life and unworthy to be his namesake; it was merely an inability to use his dick.

I've never understood why I have to be weighed, temperature taken, blood pressure and pulse taken, every time I go to the doctor. Even when I went to get my referral to a psychologist for ADHD treatment, I go through the drill. All I want is for someone to make my penis stop burning.

Wow, that's a sentence I never thought I'd write. But wait, here comes the awkward part.

My doctor is about my age (late twenties). She just joined this practice a year ago, to replace my former doctor, who retired. She's fresh out of medical school. She's Korean, and we all know my thing for oriental chicks.Especially intelligent ones, and she IS a doctor.

I now get to describe to super-hot lady doctor my symptoms.

I relate the story to her awkwardly, trying to find every euphemism I can think of to describe my nether regions, and she reacts to it professionally, of course, but that doesn't make it any less awkward. She tells me it's probably kidney stones, and I have to get a urinalysis.

Fucking stupendous.

There's nothing in the bathroom that tells me what I should do with my plastic cup full of urine, so I walk into the hall holding a plastic cup full of yellow liquid. Good times. My doctor is looking at a chart at a workstation in the hall, several other attractive nurses are also doing various medical stuff, and I'm standing there looking like a guy whose crotch has betrayed him, carrying a cup of my urine.

"Oh, no, you're supposed to leave it on top of the toilet," the doctor says, and I can feel my face turning twelve different shades of crimson.

"There's no sign," I said. "I'm sorry,"

"I should have told you," she said. I placed the cup in the bathroom and returned to the exam room to study statistics and wait for the doctor to return.

She comes in a few minutes later. "There's blood in your urine," she announces. This is not something you ever want to hear from your super-hot lady doctor.

"It's something with your urinary tract. Probably a kidney stone since you said your family has a history of them. I'm sending you over to Kennestone Hospital for a CAT scan."

"OK..." i respond. Having never gotten a CAT scan, I'm picturing torrents of weird radiation and machines that look like torture devices from Star Wars.

"I'll give you a call as soon as we get the results back from Kennestone." she says.

"OK," I respond. I slink out of the doctor's office, convinced every single woman in the place has seen my bloody urine and heard about my plight. God, I hate life.

Part IV: In which the hero of the story makes his parents wish they had used a condom.

Even in pain, I can't let an opportunity to screw with my parent's heads pass me by. So I dial my mom's number, knowing she's worried sick about me.

"Ben? You OK?" She asks. I put on the most worried voice I can muster.

"Mom...how soon can you be in Atlanta?"

"Three hours, why?" she asks. Her voice pitches up and, being the youngest son, still 'the baby' in her eyes, I know she's freaking.

"Um, it's bad. Real bad." I respond.

"What's wrong?"

"They're going to have to do surgery today. It's really bad."

"I'll be on my way in a few minutes..." She's interrupted by hysterical laughter. I just couldn't hold it in any longer."

"Benjamin Boisseau Bjostad!" she yells at the top of her lungs.

"I couldn't resist, mom. They think it's a kidney stone. No big deal. At least I know what's wrong."

"You've got to stop doing this before I run out of anything but gray hair."

"I win," I reply. I then call my Dad and repeat the whole process.

If any of you, my readers, ever have kids, hope and pray they're not like me. This is the best I've gotten them since the April Fools Day I called them both to tell them my college girlfriend was pregnant.

Part V: In which the hero finds out he will most likely survive.

So I got the CAT scan (which wasn't nearly as scary as I thought, although the machine is intimidating; it looks like the thing that Arnold Schwarznegger used in Total Recall), and the call from my doctor. I've got a very small kidney stone that will pass on its own. It still hurts, but it's much more bearable now that I know why it does; when I have unexplained pain in that region, it qualifies as a bad thing. But I'm OK.

Things Ive learned this week:

*Kidney stones hurt

*CAT scans aren't scary

*My medical coverage sucks.

*Cloverfield is the greatest movie ever.

Now I'm off to work. Which is the mental equivalent of a kidney stone. Yay.

***

update: Almost three years later, I still occasionally get them. And they still suck.

Shadow (For Rob)

2010-08-02T13:32:00.000-04:00

A poem I wrote tonight.

For Rob Maner
2/12/81-7/30/10

Shadows

It is only in the shadows of winter
that I find my pen again…

I’ll never get the chance to save your life
as you might once have saved mine,
fallen into the dust of memory.
My life shining too brightly, too blinded
to see you waving from the shadows,
I threw that chance away.

I would take a bullet for you,
but I could not take the crushing doubts,
the broken places deep within your soul.
I could not penetrate the dark place
where your nightmare futures were born.

I didn’t try.

I didn’t try.

I have failed you, my brother; this is shame
that I will carry all my days. You’re gone
and all I have is the empty words
I scribe with a shadow-fueled pen,
the empty rage at the world,
my hollow sorrow, my tarnished soul.

You’ve left this world behind
with intention and the hope
that the shadows will envelope you;
will keep you hidden. You leave only questions
without answers, grief without resolution;
a harmony broken, an arrhythmic melody.

I’ll never know what might have been,
the sins of omission punish me with
all that might have been, and the shadows
can never bring forgiveness. I’m left behind;
I’ve forfeited my right to sacrifice.

Tomorrow, I’ll find the strength to speak
of your memory, of the empty place
where you once stood, my brother.
Tonight, all I can do is gaze at the shadows;
what did you see in the darkness?

What led you away from the light?

Song of the Week: Hybrid-Finished Symphony

2009-10-17T15:27:00.001-04:00

Link to Song of the Week: Hybrid-Finished Symphony

It's slow to build up and really get into the meat of the song, but give it a couple of minutes.

I am not your typical electronica/techno fan. I prefer stuff with soul, stuff that makes you feel and tells a story, not just stuff to dance to when you're on drugs.

Hybrid are a group out of the United Kingdom that consistently push the boundaries of electronic music. They've worked with other musicians ranging from Perry Farrell to New Order to the Moscow Symphony Orchestra, and the band is constantly evolving and changing. The name is apt; they like to blur boundaries, creating unique hybrids of music.

Finished Symphony is a classic case in point. They wrote the sheet music, commissioned the Moscow Symphony Orchestra to play it, and laid down electronic beats on top of it. The result is a fusion of progressive breakbeat and classical that is breathtakingly beautiful and imminently dancable. It still sends chills down my spine every time I hear it.

Give this a listen.

Tiesto party shutting down

2009-10-11T14:13:00.004-04:00

My initial thoughts on the Tiesto event being shut down last night:

Tiesto EDMPlanet thread

Youtube video of party getting shut down

I wasn't there and so am not going to make snap judgments. But from everything I've heard and been told, this was a clusterfuck.

That being said (and I wasn't there), this is the last thing I would expect from Liquified. There are things I dislike about Liquified, but in nine years in this scene I have never seen them treat their customers with anything less than professionalism. They are a smoothly-running, professional business and they've got a stirling reputation.

I had a altercation with security at the old eleven50 at a Liquified show. Wasn't Liquified's fault, it was overzealous security by the venue. I notified Devin and he took care of it. This was before I was a promoter; I was just another fan, and he was very gracious and apologetic.

So this may or may not be Liquified's fault. I don't know. I wasn't there. I doubt if most of the people that were there can say for sure; it sounds like a chaotic situation. It might be the cops, it might be Liquified, it might be the venue, it might be a few overreacting assholes in the crowd who called the cops and/or caused other issues. No one knows where to lay the blame yet.

But given Liquified's fifteen year plus record in this city of professionalism and good, well-run shows, I think they've earned the benefit of the doubt before trying them in the court of public opinion. I'm anxious to see what they have to say and what they do to make this up to their fans. I understand the frustration of the Atlanta EDM community, but let us not jump to conclusions. I threw shows for three years in this city. The promoter is always held responsible, and they should be held responsible to an extent; it's their show. But it's not always their fault when things go horribly wrong. I know this, Michael, Tim, MJ, Spunkie, Zak, Anthony, anyone who throws/has thrown shows knows this. Let's get some more info before we jump to conclusions.

Where I'm From

2009-09-16T12:04:00.004-04:00

I liked this piece enough to blog it.

It's an assignment for my Principles of Writing Instruction class. We had to write a piece on "Where I'm From...".

Enjoy.

Where I'm From

If you ask me where I’m from, I’ll probably just say I’m from Michigan. However, this might be oversimplifying by a bit.

I am born of sacrifice, service, a warrior spirit in a warrior line. I am born of Norwegian tundras and American battlefields, Viking reavers and steel Coast Guard cutters. I am born of the marshes of the Chesapeake Bay, the plantations of central Virginia and the hollows of the West Virginia mountains. I am born of tradition and hardship. This does not matter. I am who I am, who I choose to be. This is all that matters; I am shaped by the blood that flows within me. Context is nothing. Context is everything.

I am from the winter snow that

falls

without end, from the shores of an inland sea crowned with the jagged, broken ice of a dozen frozen weeks. I know that the darkest days hide a slumbering juggernaut of light, that the onslaught of spring is an irresistible force and that the flowers will always someday bloom.

I am from the hidden valleys that rest in the shadows of ancient mountains, rounded, tree-shrouded, and dignified in their age. The leaves turn into bright, incandescent flame as the sun drops lower every day, and so I know the beauty and the light inherent in deepest shadow.

I am from the fire and the light, the explosions that marched across my peripheral vision, and the drugs that rushed through my tortured veins. I am a veteran of the outlanders, the lost and misunderstood, and with my band of brothers and sisters I forged the steel that allowed me to overcome the devastation I wreaked upon myself. I know that there is no more terrible and mesmerizing beauty than the beauty that comes in the hours of our destruction.

I am from the stereos and car rides, the long conversations about everything and nothing, the shared moments that have defined the family I’ve chosen, and made them as important as the family I was born with. I know the beauty of my tribe, the glowing light of the connections formed in our deepest sorrows, and the joy of overcoming our mistakes and growing up together.

I am from the shining eyes of an infant child, crying as she’s passed around a dozen honorary aunts and uncles, fading to sleep as she’s passed back to her mother, who rocks her to sleep as everyone present swears an oath to protect this little girl from our mistakes. I know that the things I’ve been through have forged my latent iron into steel, and that I will use these mistakes as fuel to accomplish something good with my life.

I am from my past, the mistakes I’ve made and the good I’ve wrought. I am from my heritage, my context, and the decisions I’ve made. I am from the places that have shaped me and the people that have become my own in every way but blood. I am from my blood.

I am from places I’ve never been before and people I’ve never met. I am from a jail cell, a college, a middle-class house, a low-rent apartment, a dingy basement and the top of a lighthouse.

If you stop me and ask, though, I’ll probably just say I’m from Michigan.

Brotherhood...

2009-08-01T13:59:00.005-04:00

This morning, I woke up and checked my Facebook, and was reminded by a status update from Catie that today is the anniversary of one of the five worst days of my life. Four years ago, today, my world shattered in a way that I never could have imagined before that moment.

Four years ago today, I lost Brett Lanier, my brother in all ways but blood, a member of "The Tribe" as we call ourselves, our cantankerous clan of friends.

This is the first year that I haven't remembered this day until I was reminded, and in a way, that makes it hurt all the more. I've moved past it; we all have, but August 1 has always been the day that I remember Brett, and all that he meant to me, to all of us. When I woke up and saw that, it hit me all the harder.

We'd drifted apart in the years before he died, but I never imagined there wouldn't be time to renew our friendship. Then he was gone, and that changed everything for me.

As much of a cliche as it is, I lost my innocence that day. I lost my feeling of invincibility. The world became slightly darker that day, and although I have moved on, it has never been so bright again. I look twice on a dark street. I carry a knife most of the time, and look more suspiciously at the shadows.

It changed the way I treat my social relationships. I swore that day that I would never allow myself to drift apart from those I care about again. I swore that I would never allow anyone to stand between me and my friends again.

It was a major turning point for my entire life. Losing Brett, and the promise I made to reconnect to the people I care about, led to me spending more time with my friends. It led to me drifting apart from my ex-wife, who had been much of the reason I had drifted from the tribe, and that was when our marriage started to fall apart. She had managed to manipulate and control me into turning my back on my tribe, and one of the consequences of losing Brett was that I wouldn't let that happen anymore.

My divorce from Misty led to me returning to college, and pursuing my dream of being a high school English teacher. It opened up my life to new friends, new experiences, and to meeting Valerie, the love of my life. I was stuck in a rut before we lost Brett, working and going home to a joyless, soullless existence. His death opened up my eyes, and set me on the path to where I am today.

***

Brett Lanier was not perfect. He was no saint. His wit was acidic, and he never failed to call me on it when I was being an idiot. The man did not suffer fools lightly. He could sometimes be impatient, and seemed more comfortable with a pen, a paper, and/or a guitar than with people sometimes. He smoked. He drank. But he was one of the most brilliantly creative artists I've ever known, and one of the best friends I've ever had. He shared with me a love of words, of writing, and of the English language. Some of the best conversations I've ever had on writing were with him, and his songwriting and my poetry and prose. He was, without a doubt, the best guitar player I've ever met, and one of the finest writers. He was a true introvert, but once you gained his friendship, his trust and his loyalty, you'd earned it, and you had gained a worthy friend. Before he died, he was moving forward with his life, out of the morass of drugs and nightlife we had all fallen into in 2001-2002; he was in school, working on music, and had met Catie, who was the best person ever to happen to him. Had he survived, I have little doubt he'd be a renowned musician by now. The world is poorer for his loss.

I went back and re-read the poem I wrote about his loss, Brotherhood, after I saw Catie's status update this morning. I edited it a little, for I've become a far stronger poet in the years since I wrote Brotherhood, and I was very emotional when I wrote it. I couldn't change much, though, for it is a raw look at where I was in the days after his death. I share this with you here, in the edited version.

Brett Lanier, my brother, I will always miss you. Thank you for the five years that it was my honor to know you, to call you my brother, my friend.

5/12/82-8/1/09

Brotherhood
By Ben Bjostad

I: Endings and beginnings

It is now, in the coldest hours of the night,
when friends and family have faded away,
it is now that I mourn. It is now that I grieve
for all the futures that you will never have,
all the days that you will never live,
all the sunsets that you will never see.
It is now that I am filled with rage
at the theft of your life, the theft of a piece
of all our lives, a rage fueled by the memories
that are all that remains of you.
It is now that I speak in poetry of brotherhood
shattered, shared moments stained in blood
that was and is my blood; I speak in poetry
for my voice cannot speak these words aloud.

My brother has been murdered in the dark of night,
and I am afraid of what the morning now shall bring.
Like flowers under snow, I am smothered
with grief and vengeance, but I am powerless.
I will never be the same again.
I need answers. I need truth. My needs are meaningless,
for I fear that we will never know why anyone
would take my brother, would murder Brett Lanier.
I will never be the same again,
yet the loss of my innocence is nothing compared
to the loss of all of his futures and all of our past.

II: Timelines

Tuesday night, the phone rings, Brett is missing,
no one has seen him in forty-eight hours.
“If we survived all the crazy shit we used to do,
nothing could kill Brett now. He’s fine,” I speak.
We gather, spend a few hours drinking wine,
those of us who were once brothers and sisters,
and I know Brett will turn up; everything will be fine.

Thursday night, the phone rings; they had found his car
two hours away, the plates had been pried off,
and I start to worry; emptiness settles upon me
like shrouds of mist, and although I refuse
at that moment to admit it to myself,
I know that everything will never be fine again.

Friday night, I get the call at work, the body has been found,
and all hope shatters like a vase, on impact
with the ground. I am frozen, broken,
ignoring the people at the counter demanding service,
these people who do not know how it feels
to feel all hope rush away, like a subway train,
leaving only empty air and tears behind.

I drive home, broken, my cell phone ringing as we seek
each other’s voices, as we share the secret language
of anger and grief, of sorrow and rage,
a shared tapestry of memory and pain.
It is not until I reach home that I break down,
choked sobs that even a long embrace can’t wipe away.
We stand there forever, and the weight of the empty sky
feels like secret police stalking the darkened streets
of a third world nation under siege.

III: The distance between us

Friendships fade. Bonds of brotherhood strain
across the chasms of everyday life,
as we follow the paths that belong to us
and carve our days and years into ever smaller hours
that we can spend with those we hold most dear.

We were brothers once.

We drifted apart, our paths diverged. Time passed,
until all that was left of our brotherhood
were the places carved out of the dust plains
of our memories. There would always be time
for our paths to converge again, for sudden reunions,
for our lives to once again intertwine.
There would always be time to reminisce
of our shared past, of the nights of fire and light
when we were young, and free, and stupid,
the days when we burned brighter than the sun.

In the days of our brotherhood,
we navigated the shadows of a daylight world,
but we were but children in the night,
scars invisible underneath our unbroken skin.
In the long nights of our grief, our invincibility
is proved worthless by a random act,
leaving only wreckage among the towers of our innocence.

IV: Say it ain’t so

We gather, from across the city we call home,
to comfort each other, to defy the shadows
that would steal our brother, take all of his future
and all of our hope, leaving broken places hidden
within the borders of our souls. There are stories to be told,
souls to be held in the comfort of our collective embrace,
the imperative we all feel: the need to be together.
We pay homage in the only way we know, with loud music,
endless cheap beer and tales of our first memories of Brett,
the crazy things we did together, the crimes we have committed
and the good deeds we have wrought. We drink, and we smoke,
we keep him alive through the emptying of our memories
into the collective space between us.

Somehow, we all end up in the darkened confines of the bedroom;
all light extinguished, lit only by the souls of the living.
Laughter and tears intermingle, swirling together in the empty space
between us, and then the guitar chords of his favorite band shatter
the space, and we are all together again. We scream the words
in a primal call for his soul, a cry for our innocence, a scream of
defiance at the savage, evil streets below that stole our friend.
“Say it ain’t so...” we scream,
we sing,
we whisper.
“Say it ain’t so...”
we plead, a wish that this was all a dream, that someday, Brett will return.

V: Burial

We come together, in this place we never wanted
to see, this quiet house of daggers, one for every
heart that enters. We come to remember Brett,
to fortify his place in each of our souls, that place
that will forever be armored now, and never
entered again. We come to bury our brother,
and no one wants to be here today,
no one here can be anywhere else.
I cannot deal with this. I don’t know how
to deal with this; I have not the shields
or armor to contain all that I feel,
but I force myself to muster the strength
as his girlfriend begins to speak to a silent church,
speaks the memories we all have of him.
She speaks of days gone by, the union of the tribe,
speaks of guitars and board games, nicknames
and dry jokes, the perch and defenestration,
Armand Balthazar and Doctor Oblivious,
and she speaks of what Brett meant to her, the love
that should have lasted a lifetime, that was cut short,
and that we are now here to remember.
She pours out memories like golden coins,
all of our voices combined in hers, reminding us
of all Brett was, and all he wanted to be.

Hours later and hours away, surrounded by empty skies
and dirt roads, in the time-forgotten red clay wastelands
of south Georgia, we spill out of cars and into a graveyard.
It is now that the tears flow, now that it hits me,
all at once, in a way that it has not hit me before.
He’s not coming back. We will never see him again.
I will never have the chance to run into him
by happy accident, renew our friendship
and relive the days where we shined so bright,
like torches in the darkness. I realize now
how completely the darkness has claimed him,
how much has been stolen from us, from me,
from everyone who has ever known him,
and everyone who will never get the chance
to know my brother, Brett Lanier.

Where do we begin to reshuffle the cards of our lives
into a tableau that once again makes sense,
that hides the missing pieces we have come to fear,
the shadows that threaten to splinter all our other bonds,
sublimated beneath the imperatives of grief?
Where do we find our balance,
how do we deal with emotions so far beyond
all that we have survived before,
all that we have survived together,
when our brother is gone?
I thought that I was strong enough for this.
Standing at Brett's graveside, I know this much is true:
I don't ever want to be strong enough for this.

The empty words fade into the dusty skies
and the two cemetery workers begin their grim work,
lowering his empty shell, stripped of all that matters,
into the soil of the Earth. We gather at the edge of the graveyard,
scraming our defiance at the murderers who killed him,
the church funeral that twisted everything that he was,
the Earth into which we have entrusted him,
the world that would take him from us before his time.
"Say it ain't so..." we scream once again,
until all that is left is our echoes in the trees.

VI: Beginnings and Endings

I would give everything for one more reunion,
one more chance to share our common love of words.
I would give everything to renew our friendship,
to rekindle the bonds of our brotherhood.
I would give everything to see you share your music,
your words, your dreams, with the world.
I will never get that chance. I wish I had the faith
to belive in an afterlife, but I lost that faith years ago,
and only questions remain.

I wish I knew why you were taken from us,
when you had so much more to give.

Farewell, my friend, who was once, and who always will be,
my brother. All our futures have been stolen,
yet the past shall remain, as a memorial to all you were,
a memorial to all that you might have become.

Shakespeare Tavern in trouble?

2009-07-08T12:52:00.001-04:00

An email I got from the Shakespeare Tavern in Atlanta...

Help keep the Tavern open!

***

Hello All,

The Shakespeare Tavern is a Hungry Beast and these are lean times to be sure.

I can't express how grateful I am to all of you for helping to raise $20,000 just ten days ago. That being said, we are in danger of losing all that ground and even little bit more.

For this next week -The FINAL week for The Mystery of Irma Vep - we have almost 800 unsold seats. In all my years as your Artistic Director, I can't remember such a thing EVER happening!

And this comes after one of our all time slowest selling weeks. (OK-- obviously I know that this was the July 4th weekend, the weather was mild, everybody's broke . . . Still, the Hungry Beast has gotta eat!)

Our production of Irma Vep is wonderful, It has been described by many patrons as nothing less than "the funniest show I have seen in my entire life".

Jeff McKerley and Dolph Amick are comedic geniuses of the highest order, performing at the top of their game in a play designed for just that.

So I'm asking each and every one of you . . . especially those of you who haven't seen this comedic jewel here at your favorite theater . . . To get on the horn and buy your tickets now!

Use the magic words "Hungry Like the Wolf" in a sentence when you order and we'll even discount your tickets to $15 each!!

That's right, main floor seats to the main event for a mere $15.

I've known for months that the month of July 2009 would be the hardest five weeks in our history, in terms of squeaking through. I've planned for these weeks and I've implemented all kinds of strategies to make sure we could get through to August. The one thing I didn't plan on is that we would put on a play- a drop-dead outrageously funny, phenomenal production of a play at that- and that no one would come.

So please call now for tickets . . . and bring a friend!

Jeff Watkins
Artistic Director
The Atlanta Shakespeare Company at
The New American Shakespeare Tavern
404-874-5299 x 0 (Box Office)

PS. So you know, After this week, the Shakespeare Tavern will be closed for the rest of July. We are actually rebuilding our stage and the Tavern interior with special funding from a variety of sources (part of the "I've planned for these weeks" strategy I was telling you about). We'll be returning August 6th (my birthday!) with The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (abridged). I know a lot of you may be out of town that week . . . So any ticket you buy this week to the Complete Works is also only $15 ! ! ! Help me feed the Beast . . . Call now! 404-874-5299 x 0

Yay Fundamentialist Cloning!

2009-04-22T13:02:00.001-04:00

My friend Leigh asked me for some help. He is writing a paper on cloning and needed people to fill out a survey on cloning for it. So he sent it to me on Facebook.

So I responded with...

"Would you like me to do it from my perspective or from a fundamentalist Christian perspective? I can make it much more entertaining if I pretend to be a fundie."

Leigh responds back with...

"do the christian one :P"

OK...he asked for it.

Here is his survey, with my responses, from a fundamentalist Christian perspective...

Please answer the following questions.

1. What is cloning?

Cloning is a temptation of the devil. We were made in God's image. To make others in our images implies that we are Gods. We cannot take God's tasks as our own; he is our shepherd.

2. How do you feel about cloning?

Pastor Bloherd stated in a sermon just a few weeks ago that cloning is an abomination. He knows these things better than I; he was educated and is one of God's chosen spokespeople. Who am I to argue with him?

3. What is a positive aspect of cloning? Why?

There are no positive aspects....

4. What is a negative aspect of cloning? Why?

What isn't negative? Stealing our babies to clone them and replace them. Brainwashing them to not know the word of God. An army of atheist minions to conquer this world of God.

5. Do you feel cloning could be beneficial to our community?

I can't think of any.

6. Do you think cloning is immoral? Why?

Yes. Pastor Bloherd says so. It is not our place to play God.

7. Would you be a cloning donor? Why?

No. My body is God's, and I could not allow it to be perverted for the immoral damnations of Science. This world was created four thousand years ago, and will end soon. The rapture is close at hand. The Scientists lead people into damnations through such sins as pretending in dinosaurs and evolution, when the fossils were clearly placed there to fool us by the devil and make us doubt in God's divine plan.

8. Under what circumstances do you think cloning would be alright?

If God told us it was OK.

9. Who would you clone?

Pat Robertson and Billy Graham. And George W. Bush, so we would never have to have a different president.

10. Do you think cloning should be banned all together? Why?

Yes, except under the church's direct supervision and permission.

11. Should solders be cloned for military purposes?

I would only allow clones to be used for military purposes if the Church created them as an army of God, to drive out the Godless, the Jews, and those evil Muslims.

12. Do clones have soles?

Clones have soles on their feet, but they have no souls. They are remorseless tools of Satan.

13. If Michal Jackson was cloned, would he be black or white?

If Michael Jackson was cloned, he'd still be a black tool of the devil. If God wanted black people to become white, he wouldn't have given them afros.

14. How would cloning effect the natural progression of humans?

It would lead us to damnation and the Devil. It is a sign of the fallen world as we approach the Rapture. And they have a better version of Facebook in heaven. God's Facebook.

15. Would a clone be human?

Of course not. Humans are made in the image of God. Clones would be made in the image of Humans, but Humans have been twisted by the devil for his own ends, and only through eating Christ's body and drinking Christ's blood may we be redeemed and allowed admittance to heaven. Can clones drink Christ's blood? I think not.

Seriously, people should learn by now that I never take stuff like this seriously. :D

Back to schoolwork.

Splash

2009-02-22T12:46:00.002-05:00

Really tasty poem I found by Charles Bukowski (an amazing poet.)

Original poem

splash

the illusion is that you are simply
reading this poem.
the reality is that this is
more than a
poem.
this is a beggar's knife.
this is a tulip.
this is a soldier marching
through Madrid.
this is you on your
death bed.
this is Li Po laughing
underground.
this is not a god-damned
poem.
this is a horse asleep.
a butterfly in
your brain.
this is the devil's
circus.
you are not reading this
on a page.
the page is reading
you.
feel it?
it's like a cobra. it's a hungry eagle circling the room.

this is not a poem. poems are dull,
they make you sleep.

these words force you
to a new
madness.

you have been blessed, you have been pushed into a
blinding area of
light.

the elephant dreams
with you
now.
the curve of space
bends and
laughs.

you can die now.
you can die now as
people were meant to
die:
great,
victorious,
hearing the music,
being the music,
roaring,
roaring,
roaring.

This I Believe...

2009-02-12T16:23:00.002-05:00

A fun paper I did for one of my college courses recently. A meditation on the value of art to both societies and individuals.

This I Believe...
By Ben Bjostad

I freeze in a crowded room at the National Gallery of Art; my eyes lock on to a painting hanging on the wall, a shadow-drenched portrait of lonely souls wandering the desolate streets of the city that never sleeps. I see my reflection on the canvas, a half-century away. Bandwidth opens across the temporal separation and I know that Edward Hopper has felt what I feel. He has captured my inner core with paint years before I was born.

I skip class to finish a novel, lost in a crowd of people at a boarding school where it seems as if no one cares whether I live or die. There is no place where I belong. I am Holden Caulfield, and J.D. Salinger has told my story through a fictional creation.

I am walking across campus; my iPod feeds sound waves through my headphones, and electronic beats combine with the string section of a symphony orchestra to create a tapestry of emotion in my head. My fingers move to the beat; my soul plugs in to the band, Hybrid, through the electronic gadgetry that transmits it to me.

Art is the lens through which I can see myself for who I truly am. Art is the medium in which I discover myself. I connect to others through the creative artifacts that they leave behind, and my own art is meant to open my own soul to the world.

I seek to clarify and explore the recesses of myself through creative expression, to mine my soul for truths that I cannot find in any other way. I find those same truths in the art of others, in any form that it takes. Creative expression is a form of interpersonal bandwidth; it is a way to break down the walls between souls, across time and space. Those connections help me discover new ways of looking at myself and the world around me.

I believe that art is my most pure reason for living; it is the most enduring and meaningful remnant of a civilization. Art allows me to transcend myself. No one will care, years from now, about the cars that I’ve owned or the places that I have lived. No one will connect with me through my resume. Art is eternal truth. Creative expression is the universal language, the conduit in which my soul meets the world.

This is the greatest gift that art grants me. This is art’s undeniable value. Through the connections granted by artistic expression, I know that I am not alone. Through my own art, I reach out to others, and open up the bandwidth to communicate with no barriers. I leave my mark on the world in the hope that it strikes a chord in others, and others mark my own soul in return.

Storms Will Come

2009-02-04T01:08:00.003-05:00

Storms Will Come
By Ben Bjostad

I offer to you my outstretched armored hand
and prepare to step into the broken glass.
Everything’s spinning now, rotating, building to
escape velocity.
I’m losing this, losing everything,
and as I picture you in a playground in Washington Park,
walking through a leaf-strewn woodland,
under bridges, over playgrounds, until our lips meet
I am struck dumb, wordless, without arrows
in my quiver, to combat the forces of entropy.

Nothing lasts forever. We build as best we can,
(the storms will come),
but if the levee will break, it will break. I’ve known,
always known, the levees were weak, the river’s rage
threatening outside our citadel walls;
Under siege, I cannot fill sandbags fast enough alone
to protect the causeway spanning the miles between us.
It is the distance that is such a killing thing;
the gust front is sweeping in and it’s a losing battle,
but this storm will break. Have faith in that.
The storms will always break.
Build well your levee walls; have faith in me,
and I will fight to keep the causeway clear.

The miles mean nothing so long as I have a purpose,
the sandbags light as feathers, the winds a dragon
that I might slay for you. All I need is hope.
All I need to know is that you’re waiting for me;
we built this bridge together, a span worth fighting for.
Someday the waves can take this bridge;
you’ll rest in my arms, the storm will pass, and our love
will stand firm against all the wind and rain can do.

The distance...

2009-02-02T11:05:00.003-05:00

Hellogoodbye
All of your love
From the album 'Zombies! Aliens! Vampires! Dinosaurs!

Check it out on Amazon here

Girl, you wanted
To shut it all off and make a run for the door

It's so hard
To make it
For every inch we get we need a mile more

But there is always so much distance can't but feel it somehow
But you have never ever felt it like you feel it right now
I'm closing off inside and I was only just starting
But you can't be close enough unless I'm feeling your heart beat

All of your love
Is all that I need
All of your love
Is all that I need

Girl
What are you doing now?
And are you going out?
Or has your life shut down?

Are you there?
This thing keeps cutting out
I feel like freaking out
But we keep reaching out

But there is always so much distance can't but feel it somehow
But you have never ever felt it like you feel it right now
I'm closing off inside and I was only just starting
But you can't be close enough unless I'm feeling your heart beat

All of your love
Is all that I need
All of your love
Is all that I need

Girl
It's hard enough
Just to move around, yeah
It's hard enough
Just to move around

I wanted you
Oh, I wanted you
Girl I wanted you to move
Oh, I wanted you
Girl I wanted you
Oh, I wanted you to move
Around
Around

All of your love
Is all that I need
All of your love
Is all that I need

I first heard this song on Saturday. It's kinda perfect for the way I feel right now.

John Updike dead at 76

2009-01-28T11:02:00.004-05:00

Another one of my literary heroes falls to old age. I was born fifty years too late.

John Updike, prize-winning writer, dead at age 76

By HILLEL ITALIE – 21 hours ago

NEW YORK (AP) — John Updike, the Pulitzer Prize-winning novelist, prolific man of letters and erudite chronicler of sex, divorce and other adventures in the postwar prime of the American empire, died Tuesday at age 76.

Updike, a resident of Beverly Farms, Mass., died of lung cancer, according to a statement from his publisher, Alfred A. Knopf.

A literary writer who frequently appeared on best-seller lists, the tall, hawk-nosed Updike wrote novels, short stories, poems, criticism, the memoir "Self-Consciousness" and even a famous essay about baseball great Ted Williams. He was prolific, even compulsive, releasing more than 50 books in a career that started in the 1950s. Updike won virtually every literary prize, including two Pulitzers, for "Rabbit Is Rich" and "Rabbit at Rest," and two National Book Awards.

Although himself deprived of a Nobel, he did bestow it upon one of his fictional characters, Henry Bech, the womanizing, egotistical Jewish novelist who collected the literature prize in 1999.

His settings ranged from the court of "Hamlet" to postcolonial Africa, but his literary home was the American suburb. Born in 1932, Updike spoke for millions of Depression-era readers raised by "penny-pinching parents," united by "the patriotic cohesion of World War II" and blessed by a "disproportionate share of the world's resources," the postwar, suburban boom of "idealistic careers and early marriages."

He captured, and sometimes embodied, a generation's confusion over the civil rights and women's movements, and opposition to the Vietnam War. Updike was called a misogynist, a racist and an apologist for the establishment. On purely literary grounds, he was attacked by Norman Mailer as the kind of author appreciated by readers who knew nothing about writing.

But more often he was praised for his flowing, poetic writing style. Describing a man's interrupted quest to make love, Updike likened it "to a small angel to which all afternoon tiny lead weights are attached." Nothing was too great or too small for Updike to poeticize. He might rhapsodize over the film projector's "chuckling whir" or look to the stars and observe that "the universe is perfectly transparent: we exist as flaws in ancient glass."

In the richest detail, his books recorded the extremes of earthly desire and spiritual zealotry, whether the comic philandering of the preacher in "A Month of Sundays" or the steady rage of the young Muslim in "Terrorist." Raised in the Protestant community of Shillington, Pa., where the Lord's Prayer was recited daily at school, Updike was a lifelong churchgoer influenced by his faith, but not immune to doubts.

"I remember the times when I was wrestling with these issues that I would feel crushed. I was crushed by the purely materialistic, atheistic account of the universe," Updike told The Associated Press during a 2006 interview.

"I am very prone to accept all that the scientists tell us, the truth of it, the authority of the efforts of all the men and woman spent trying to understand more about atoms and molecules. But I can't quite make the leap of unfaith, as it were, and say, `This is it. Carpe diem (seize the day), and tough luck.'"

He received his greatest acclaim for the "Rabbit" series, a quartet of novels published over a 30-year span that featured ex-high school basketball star Harry "Rabbit" Angstrom and his restless adjustment to adulthood and the constraints of work and family. To the very end, Harry was in motion, an innocent in his belief that any door could be opened, a believer in God even as he bedded women other than his wife.

"The tetralogy to me is the tale of a life, a life led an American citizen who shares the national passion for youth, freedom, and sex, the national openness and willingness to learn, the national habit of improvisation," Updike would later write. "He is furthermore a Protestant, haunted by a God whose manifestations are elusive, yet all-important."

Other notable books included "Couples," a sexually explicit tale of suburban mating that sold millions of copies; "In the Beauty of the Lilies," an epic of American faith and fantasy; and "Too Far to Go, which followed the courtship, marriage and divorce of the Maples, a suburban couple with parallels to Updike's own first marriage.

Plagued from an early age by asthma, psoriasis and a stammer, he found creative outlets in drawing and writing. Updike was born in Reading, Pa., his mother a department store worker who longed to write, his father a high school teacher remembered with sadness and affection in "The Centaur," a novel published in 1964. The author brooded over his father's low pay and mocking students, but also wrote of a childhood of "warm and action-packed houses that accommodated the presence of a stranger, my strange ambition to be glamorous."

For Updike, the high life meant books, such as the volumes of P.G. Wodehouse and Robert Benchley he borrowed from the library as a child, or, as he later recalled, the "chastely severe, time-honored classics" he read in his dorm room at Harvard University, leaning back in his "wooden Harvard chair," cigarette in hand.

While studying on full scholarship at Harvard, he headed the staff of the Harvard Lampoon and met the woman who became his first wife, Mary Entwistle Pennington, whom he married in June 1953, a year before he earned his A.B. degree summa cum laude. (Updike divorced Pennington in 1975 and was remarried two years later, to Martha Bernhard).

After graduating, he accepted a one-year fellowship to study painting at the Ruskin School of Drawing and Fine Arts at Oxford University. During his stay in England, a literary idol, E.B. White, offered him a position at The New Yorker, where he served briefly as foreign books reviewer. Many of Updike's reviews and short stories were published in The New Yorker, often edited by White's stepson, Roger Angell.

By the end of the 1950s, Updike had published a story collection, a book of poetry and his first novel, "The Poorhouse Fair," soon followed by the first of the Rabbit books, "Rabbit, Run." Praise came so early and so often that New York Times critic Arthur Mizener worried that Updike's "natural talent" was exposing him "from an early age to a great deal of head-turning praise."

Updike learned to write about everyday life by, in part, living it. In 1957, he left New York, with its "cultural hassle" and melting pot of "agents and wisenheimers," and settled with his first wife and four kids in Ipswich, Mass, a "rather out-of-the-way town" about 30 miles north of Boston.

"The real America seemed to me 'out there,' too heterogeneous and electrified by now to pose much threat of the provinciality that people used to come to New York to escape," Updike later wrote.

"There were also practical attractions: free parking for my car, public education for my children, a beach to tan my skin on, a church to attend without seeming too strange."

by Hillel Italie (Associated Press)

We are the change we seek...

2009-01-26T12:17:00.004-05:00

In honor of the first week of President Barack Obama's adminstration, this is a collection of my favorite quotes over his political career.

In my opinion, President Obama is the finest orator in politics today, and perhaps since President John F. Kennedy. I believe in President Barack Obama. I believe in the audacity of hope. And for the first time in my adult life, I have faith in the leadership of my nation.

*****

"Change will not come if we wait for some other person or if we wait for some other time. We are the ones we've been waiting for. We are the change that we seek."

"Americans... still believe in an America where anything's possible - they just don't think their leaders do."

"Focusing your life solely on making a buck shows a certain poverty of ambition. It asks too little of yourself. Because it's only when you hitch your wagon to something larger than yourself that you realize your true potential."

"I don't oppose all wars. What I am opposed to is a dumb war. What I am opposed to is a rash war. "

"I know my country has not perfected itself. At times, we've struggled to keep the promise of liberty and equality for all of our people. We've made our share of mistakes, and there are times when our actions around the world have not lived up to our best intentions."

"If the people cannot trust their government to do the job for which it exists - to protect them and to promote their common welfare - all else is lost. "

"If you're walking down the right path and you're willing to keep walking, eventually you'll make progress. "

"It took a lot of blood, sweat and tears to get to where we are today, but we have just begun. Today we begin in earnest the work of making sure that the world we leave our children is just a little bit better than the one we inhabit today. "

"My parents shared not only an improbable love, they shared an abiding faith in the possibilities of this nation. They would give me an African name, Barack, or blessed, believing that in a tolerant America your name is no barrier to success. "

"People of Berlin - people of the world - this is our moment. This is our time. "

"The fact that my 15 minutes of fame has extended a little longer than 15 minutes is somewhat surprising to me and completely baffling to my wife."

"There is not a liberal America and a conservative America - there is the United States of America. There is not a black America and a white America and latino America and asian America - there's the United States of America."

"This is the moment when we must come together to save this planet. Let us resolve that we will not leave our children a world where the oceans rise and famine spreads and terrible storms devastate our lands. "

"Tonight, we gather to affirm the greatness of our nation - not because of the height of our skyscrapers, or the power of our military, or the size of our economy. Our pride is based on a very simple premise, summed up in a declaration made over two hundred years ago. "

"We can't drive our SUVs and eat as much as we want and keep our homes on 72 degrees at all times... and then just expect that other countries are going to say OK. That's not leadership. That's not going to happen. "

"We have an obligation and a responsibility to be investing in our students and our schools. We must make sure that people who have the grades, the desire and the will, but not the money, can still get the best education possible."

"We need somebody who's got the heart, the empathy, to recognize what it's like to be a young teenage mom, the empathy to understand what it's like to be poor or African-American or gay or disabled or old - and that's the criterion by which I'll be selecting my judges."

"We need to steer clear of this poverty of ambition, where people want to drive fancy cars and wear nice clothes and live in nice apartments but don't want to work hard to accomplish these things. Everyone should try to realize their full potential."

"You know, my faith is one that admits some doubt."

"Hope – Hope in the face of difficulty. Hope in the face of uncertainty. The audacity of hope! In the end, that is God’s greatest gift to us, the bedrock of this nation. A belief in things not seen. A belief that there are better days ahead."

"The true test of the American ideal is whether we’re able to recognize our failings and then rise together to meet the challenges of our time. Whether we allow ourselves to be shaped by events and history, or whether we act to shape them."

"America is a land of big dreamers and big hopes. It is this hope that has sustained us through revolution and civil war, depression and world war, a struggle for civil and social rights and the brink of nuclear crisis. And it is because our dreamers dreamed that we have emerged from each challenge more united, more prosperous, and more admired than before."

"Iraq is sort of a situation where you've got a guy who drove the bus into the ditch. You obviously have to get the bus out of the ditch, and that's not easy to do, although you probably should fire the driver."

"Yes, our greatness as a nation has depended on individual initiative, on a belief in the free market. But it has also depended on our sense of mutual regard for each other, of mutual responsibility. The idea that everybody has a stake in the country, that we're all in it together and everybody's got a shot at opportunity. Americans know this. We know that government can't solve all our problems - and we don't want it to. But we also know that there are some things we can't do on our own. We know that there are some things we do better together."

"It's not just enough to change the players. We've gotta change the game."

"Values are faithfully applied to the facts before us, while ideology overrides whatever facts call theory into question."

"Today I say to you that the challenges we face are real, they are serious and they are many. They will not be met easily or in a short span of time. But know this America: They will be met."

"The time has come to reaffirm our enduring spirit; to choose our better history; to carry forward that precious gift, that noble idea, passed on from generation to generation: the God-given promise that all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness."

"Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America."

"Now, there are some who question the scale of our ambitions, who suggest that our system cannot tolerate too many big plans. Their memories are short, for they have forgotten what this country has already done, what free men and women can achieve when imagination is joined to common purpose and necessity to courage."

"Those ideals still light the world, and we will not give them up for expedience's sake."

"For we know that our patchwork heritage is a strength, not a weakness."

"America, in the face of our common dangers, in this winter of our hardship, let us remember these timeless words; with hope and virtue, let us brave once more the icy currents, and endure what storms may come; let it be said by our children's children that when we were tested we refused to let this journey end, that we did not turn back nor did we falter; and with eyes fixed on the horizon and God's grace upon us, we carried forth that great gift of freedom and delivered it safely to future generations."

"What is demanded then is a return to these truths. What is required of us now is a new era of responsibility -- a recognition, on the part of every American, that we have duties to ourselves, our nation and the world, duties that we do not grudgingly accept but rather seize gladly, firm in the knowledge that there is nothing so satisfying to the spirit, so defining of our character than giving our all to a difficult task."

"This union may never be perfect, but generation after generation has shown that it can always be perfected."

"This is our moment. This is our time, to put our people back to work and open doors of opportunity for our kids; to restore prosperity and promote the cause of peace; to reclaim the American Dream and reaffirm that fundamental truth, that, out of many, we are one; that while we breathe, we hope. And where we are met with cynicism and doubts and those who tell us that we can't, we will respond with that timeless creed that sums up the spirit of a people: Yes, we can."

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer. ... It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled. Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals or a collection of red states and blue states.
We are, and always will be, the United States of America."

"Parents have the primary responsibility for instilling an ethic of hard work and educational achievement in their children."

"I love America too much, am too invested in what this country has become, too committed to its institutions, its beauty, and even its ugliness, to focus entirely on the circumstances of its birth. But neither can I brush aside the magnitude of the injustice done, or erase the ghosts of generations past, or ignore the open wound, the aching spirit, that ails this country still."

"The blood of slaves reminds us that our pragmatism can sometimes be moral cowardice. Lincoln, and those buried at Gettysburg, remind us that we should pursue our own absolute truths only if we acknowledge that there may be a terrible price to pay. "

"In the end, that's what this election is about. Do we participate in a politics of cynicism or a politics of hope? I'm not talking about blind optimism here... No, I'm talking about something more substantial. It's the hope of slaves sitting around a fire singing freedom songs; the hope of immigrants setting out for distant shores; the hope of a young naval lieutenant bravely patrolling the Mekong Delta; the hope of a millworker's son who dares to defy the odds; the hope of a skinny kid with a funny name who believes that America has a place for him, too. The audacity of hope!"

"And then, on September 11, 2001, the world fractured. It's beyond my skill as a writer to capture that day, and the days that would follow — the planes, like specters, vanishing into steel and glass; the slow-motion cascade of the towers crumbling into themselves; the ash-covered figures wandering the streets; the anguish and the fear. Nor do I pretend to understand the stark nihilism that drove the terrorists that day and that drives their brethren still. My powers of empathy, my ability to reach into another's heart, cannot penetrate the blank stares of those who would murder innocents with abstract, serene satisfaction. "

"It is the lucky ones who serve; the unlucky ones drift into the murky tide of hustles and odd jobs; many will drown."

****

These are the quotes that jumped out at me, the ones that made me think, that made me believe.

Visions of America

2009-01-25T13:54:00.001-05:00

Rabbi Sherwin Wine:

There are two visions of America. One precedes our founding fathers and finds its roots in the harshness of our puritan past. It is very suspicious of freedom, uncomfortable with diversity, hostile to science, unfriendly to reason, contemptuous of personal autonomy. It sees America as a religious nation. It views patriotism as allegiance to God. It secretly adores coercion and conformity. Despite our constitution, despite the legacy of the Enlightenment, it appeals to millions of Americans and threatens our freedom.

The other vision finds its roots in the spirit of our founding revolution and in the leaders of this nation who embraced the age of reason. It loves freedom, encourages diversity, embraces science and affirms the dignity and rights of every individual. It sees America as a moral nation, neither completely religious nor completely secular. It defines patriotism as love of country and of the people who make it strong. It defends all citizens against unjust coercion and irrational conformity.

This second vision is our vision. It is the vision of a free society. We must be bold enough to proclaim it and strong enough to defend it against all its enemies.

from www.frethink.com, one of my favorite blogs.

The Green Economy- Fighting poverty and global warming in the same battle?

2009-01-24T19:09:00.005-05:00

There's been a lot of discussion in the last few months about the 'green economy'. Most of it's been political rhetoric, but there's a truth to the possibilities it offers us.

It's apparent to anyone with half a brain that "Drill, baby, drill!" is not the answer to our problems. We as a civilization face environmental disaster within the next few generations. Global warming is a fact. Dwindling natural resources is fact. Mass extinctions are a fact. We, the human race as a whole, face a challenge. We must reform our society to better co-exist with the rest of the ecosystem, to stall and reverse the damages we've wrought.

I'm not a tree-hugging hippie. It doesn't take a lot of intelligence, though, to know that without taking better care of 'Spaceship Earth', our way of life is doomed. The clock is ticking, and we've got to start now in the process of learning how to reverse global warming, stabilize the global human population, and conserve our resources.

This is a daunting task when facing the economic troubles that our world has right now. It's harder to find money for research and development, for massive changes in how we produce and utilize energy, for educating people in how to live at peace with mother Earth, when those same people are struggling to buy food and keep a roof over their heads, when tax receipts are down and the national debt has ballooned to over eleven trillion dollars. The same set of challenges can also serve as an opportunity, however.

I read an amazing article today in the New Yorker, 'Greening the Ghetto', about Van Jones, the chairman of an organization called Green For All. His goal is to "get the greenest solutions to the poorest people." His ideas are remarkable, even if he's still figuring out how to apply them. He shares the goal of President Obama, to establish a green economy. To use government spending to stimulate an environmental renaissance, to use the massive task of rebuilding our infrastructure and reforming the way we treat the environment to stimulate the economy, provide jobs, and lift ourselves from recession. It's an admirable goal, and one that can kill two birds with one stone.

Van Jones wants a piece of the green pie, but for a good reason. He aims to combine saving the environment with providing jobs, especially for the poorest elements of the population. In his words, he wants to turn 'Joe the Plumber' into 'Joe the Solar Panel Installer'. He argues that making this an "everybody movement" hinges on making everyone have a stake in it, from the rich to the poor, and that providing jobs for the poor gives all elements a reason to support environmental reform. He wants to guide gang members into putting down their handguns and picking up caulk guns, to provide job training in the green economy for the most disadvantaged members of the populace. It's a worthy goal, and he has the support of a lot of noteworthy people, from former Vice President Al Gore to Congresswoman Nancy Pelosi.

For the most part, those who are most interested in saving the environment tend to be the college-educated, older, more affluent element of the population. This is backed up by studies, but I see this myself everywhere; when you don't have the education to know why the environmental problems facing our world are so serious and/or you're worried about where your family's next meal is coming from, it's hard to worry about the big picture. To make environmental reform work, we have to get everyone involved. And it can be the perfect 'Manhattan Project' to stimulate the economy, the way that the internet did fifteen years ago or the Interstate system did fifty years ago.

He's still not giving a lot of concrete ways to accomplish these goals. He's obviously a great salesman/idea person, though, and maybe just planting the seeds of the idea is enough to start it moving.

Read the full article on the New Yorker Online here

I love you without knowing why...

2009-01-24T06:38:00.000-05:00

"i love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. i love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride; so i love you because i know no other way 'than this: where i does not exist, nor you, so close that your hand on my chest is my hand, so close that your eyes close as i fall asleep."-Pablo Neruda

Bright Atlanta

2009-01-24T04:25:00.001-05:00

Bright Atlanta, originally uploaded by Nrbelex.

Why does photography make my city look so much more spectacular than it actually is?

Kiss- A painting

2009-01-17T03:14:00.004-05:00

I am in love with this painting.

It captures the way it feels when my lips touch Valerie's and everything else about the world recedes to distant background, to be replaced by the bright glowing shell that our intertwining souls build around us. This painting captures love.

I'm not an art critic. I'm not even terribly knowledgable about visual art. I just know what I love when I see it. And I wish I could have this hanging on my wall, because every time I looked at it, I would be able to feel milady's presence in the room.

The artist is Leonid Afremov. I highly recommend you check him out (the link leads to his website). His use of color is extraordinary.

A wish...

2009-01-14T23:11:00.000-05:00

This says everything I want to say to my lover right now, so many miles away...

New home.

2009-01-14T02:53:00.001-05:00

There comes a time when one grows past MySpace and Facebook. I'm 28. It's time.

I'll still maintain my digital personas on those sites, as I do on several others (I have a laptop and a lot of time between classes). However, I want something that ties all of my varied interests together. Currently, I have a presence on the above-mentioned, Alt.com, Collarme, Fetlife, Stumbleupon, edmplanet, and several others. This is my new primary blog, though.

If you've stumbled upon this page and it looks unfinished, it is. I'm still moving in. Give me a few days. Or a week. Or two. You try balancing a day job, four classes, your lover being 600 miles away, and twelve short story ideas bouncing around your head. We'll see how you like it.

My name is Ben. Welcome to my world.