I blame my mother

Rachel and I were just sitting here talking about my childhood and how she's had an uncommonly thorough exposure to it. She knows many of my friends from elementary school and has heard a number of the attendant stories (yes, this includes a certain stabbing incident).

She asked me why I stabbed my then acquaintance, now friend in the arm with a pencil. The answer was that McSomethingkins wouldn't stop talking to me. I was inside during recess and the only way that happened was as a form of punishment. So I was bothered to begin with and then somebody wouldn't leave me alone. I ignored her and tried to keep working on whatever I had been assigned but that didn't work. At this point in the explanation, Rachel asked me if I asked McSomethingkins to leave me alone. I never asked McSomethingkins to leave me alone. I resorted to more drastic measures obviously.

Thinking through the story and why I hadn't asked McSomethingkins to stop talking I was reminded that I almost never end conversations. I'm just not very good at it. I feel awkward, as though saying "I should go" or "It was good talking to you" means "you suck" or "you're boring me." Rachel helpfully chimed in that I probably got this from my mother. My mother talks and talks and talks. On an average visit, it takes between twenty and thirty minutes to get out the door and into the car to drive off from my parents'. Her conversations don't end until they absolutely have to. For me, I don't end conversations because I feel like it's impolite. I'm guessing I picked this up from years of hearing her talk with a disproportionate amount of the conversations ending quickly, neatly, or when I wanted them to.

I'd like to take this moment to apologize for any awkwardness I've unintentionally inflicted over the years through my communicative defect. I was like a monkey with a hand grenade: I didn't know what I was doing.

Glitter is the herpes of craft supplies

The title for this post comes from a bit by Demetri Martin. Rachel introduced me to his comedy and I'm impressed. His "If I" videos on YouTube are really funny, but actually philosophical. It's just the sort of arrogant self-aggrandizement/self-deprecation that I'd like to think I'd indulge in if I ever became a comedian, which of course I won't.

He had his career planned out at elven. He was going to become a lawyer. He went to two years of law school and decided it wasn't the right thing for him. It made me think about my own job. I had brief thoughts about staying at Independent Study after graduation. I'd continue working on high school courses, but ideally I'd make more money (that is part of the idea behind college and all). But the more I think about it, the less sure I am. One of the biggest motivators for me is seeing the results of work I've done. I started at Independent Study just over a year ago and have yet to see the first course I worked on put into production. It's the sort of thing that makes me wonder if it ever will. The quality control process is the culprit as far as I know, which only makes me want to arrange a transfer to that department to see what the holdup is.

My first choice for a job used to be editing sci-fi books. However, this is the most sought after job in my industry so the chances of getting that range from unlikely to impossible. The sad thing is, I don't even know if I'd want that job right now, not that anyone's offering it to me.

I'm guessing a healthy dose of my general bleah feeling is that I've heard new news about the transplant. They've scheduled another evaluation for the 6th of August. I know it's terrible, but I'm sick of it. They need to take care of it already. I'm most likely not going to go to school fall semester. I have a hard enough time forcing myself to do homework when I haven't had a major organ removed so I'm not going to push my luck. This means graduation will be pushed back for me, again. I might be able to still be done by April, but I'd need to take classes via Independent Study and that hasn't worked out in the past.

This whole transplant deal has been the glitter or herpes of the last two years for me. It just keeps popping up out of nowhere attracting my attention and bothering me only to fade away again for another few months. I realize I'm being terribly selfish in my thinking about this. Obviously this whole process has been far worse for Angie, Joe and any number of other people, but regardless it still sucks. I think this might actually be the last time; it might actually happen. I hope it does soon because it's a crappy little storm cloud that keeps moving a little ahead of me, when I'd rather just get soaked and be done with it. Normally, I'd read back through this for errors, but I'd rather not mix business with pleasure.

Zombification

It's been some time now since my last post. Squitchy.org served me well until I forgot to take care of the financial obligations involved in having a clean domain name. Since being separated from my site, I've seen it bought by a Chinese based internet company and then resold to another company in the UK. The site that now owns the squitchy.org domanin name is sedo.co.uk. They rejected my offer of one dollar for my site as too low and informed me that premium domain names are often sold for three or four figures (told here perhaps implies more human contact than actually transpired; I entered my offer into a form). Despite their big talk of three and four figures, I found that I could buy my old domain from them for $60 even. I can only guess that this figure directly related to the four unique visitors the site has had in the last month. So McSomethingkins and three random strangers each cost me $15. Or rather they would have if I was going to buy back squitchy.org. Sad to say, I will not be buying it back.

Instead I am reviving this site: squitchy.blogspot.com. I figure since it's been dead a while and now brought back to life it counts as a sort of zombie, much the same way prunes and raisins are zombie plumbs and grapes. While I am no fan of prunes or raisins, I've learn from countless hours of video games that zombies can be fun. That is provided you have a shotgun or chainsaw at the ready.

Moving and all that

I got my own site for Christmas so I'm moving my blog there www.squitchy.org

Enjoy

The Beginning of Something Better

Historically I've hated goal setting. I'm pretty much going to chalk that up to poor follow-through on my part. When it came down to it I didn't want to change as much as I wanted to avoid the discomfort of change. I've been thinking a lot lately about what I really want out of life. Accordingly, I've created a list of New Year's resolutions. I'm almost positive that this is the first time in my life that I've ever actually made such a list. It is as follows:

1. Spend time every day learning how to write, and by extension edit better
2. Learn to play the guitar
3. Help my roommate train for his triathlon

I enjoy writing, I enjoy editing. That's what I've said, but by and large my actions have not supported such a theory. I bought a MacBook recently that will go with me all over campus to be used to just that end. I also recently bought two new books with authors totally unknown to me (I'm halfway through the first). I made it a goal a while back to read a new book every two weeks. At the time the goal was realistic. Now, I will not have such luxury of time, but such reading will count towards my roughly hour or so spent daily writing, reading, or editing.

I took a guitar class during last spring semester and learned nothing. I didn't practice which meant I didn't want to go to class, which meant I didn't learn anything there either. It's absurd really. I paid to take the class "for fun" and I didn't do much of anything in it. My brother sent me a guitar tuner for my birthday. My birthday is in March, but he thought it was in January. Serendipitous if you ask me. Any time that I thought about practicing the thought of tuning the guitar, with a cd and listening, was too much for me. I did it a couple times only to ask Clark if it sounded right and wait the ten minutes why he undid the damage I had done. Again, I've been saying I want to learn guitar for a long time, but haven't done anything about it. That needs to change.

To clarify, I'm not going to be in the triathlon, but I am going to train with my roommate for it. I know he needs the extra motivation of exercising with a friend and I just need the exercise.

My goals are rather lofty in my own estimation. My reticence to set goals in the past has been driven by a fear that I wouldn't complete them. If I don't try at all though I'm certainly not going to make such changes. Here's hoping for something better with the new year.

Facebook is Useless...

I'm not real sure where I want to put this when I'm finished. That is assuming I finish it at all. That is assuming I figure out what it is. I think it's about time I rant a little about something that makes no sense to me, namely facebook. It doesn't serve any discernible purpose that I'm aware of beyond allowing you let friends of friends look at your pictures in a sort of stalker-lite fashion. It's not going to get you put in jail or slapped with a restraining order, but I'm guessing it's not quite the same, just guessing. I thought, okay, I've already got a blog, why would I need a facebook page?

The answer is that a ridiculous amount of BYU has registered on facebook. Short of the pseudo-stalking I can't figure out why. I've imported some 51 posts from my blog, but I don't think anyone has read them. I don't think people really go on facebook to write things. I've checked my friends “walls” and the latest comments are about a month old or they're a one liner like “Merry Christmas.” So I ask again, what is the point? How is it that a totally useless activity like facebook can draw in so many people, while blogging finds itself largely tossed by the wayside. Is it that people really hate to write that much? Is it that not enough happens in their lives that they view as extraordinary? I suppose, in all fairness, that I haven't updated my blog now for a month so I don't have much room to talk. But at least the page that I don't have updated serves some purpose. I'd post a short story or two I wrote, but blogger jacks up my formatting.

Give me Back my Ignorance

I've half-written a good number of poems, but I never seem to finish them. I guess I'm posting this for the fact that I finished it. The title of the poem is the title for the post.

Days I sought for voice
I already knew it
It didn’t hide in the shadow
The shadow of another man’s greatness
Not in the footfalls of an alien path
No, I had tasted and tested it
A wine of my own making
Made bitter by youth of mind
A blade forged in the fire of my ideals
Full of imagined fractures, faults

I buried it, thought it weak
Not for any lack of virtue or
Particular hint of vice
Voice would stutter like
Jagged breaths of frigid air
A sad little death rattle of clarity
Half-glossy sort of half-truth
You weren’t good enough
How could you ever be?

My throat ran dry like
A kind of fleshy river
Too long neglected
Too little appreciated
When voice returned
It was bitter
Disappointed
And coughing up the blood
The blood of my innocence
The blood of my ignorance

I Shouldn't Think in Public

I should explain something to Bryant...

When I walk around campus, the grocery story, or anywhere else by myself I think. It's not a normal, maybe not even healthy, sort of thinking. If you've ever gone a day without sleep and then finally crashed you know how enveloped you are in sleep. People could yell, fires could be set, but you would simply keep sleeping. Thinking is like this for me when I'm walking by myself. I'd be inclined to call it day-dreaming if I was actually day-dreaming, but I'm not. I think about a wide variety of things, but the common vein is: what can I do to change the way things are? It becomes such a draining sort of thing that the problem solving portion of my brain shuts down certain "superfluous" sections of my brain, most notably my social skills.

I ran into Bryant the other day in the grocery store with Kelly and I wasn't exactly...lucid. I can't remember what I said, but I did get the distinct impression I made an idiot of myself. Were this an isolated incident I could write it off as a fluke. However, I'm reminded of a similar incident that resulted in unanswered calls from a girl I had gone out with a few times. Basically, I ran into her in the library on my way to work and in my socially weakened state said something to the effect of: Hi! I'd stop to talk, but I'm on my way to work. I'm sure that's what everyone wants to hear: I'd rather go to work right now instead of find out how you're doing. Couple that with the fact she called me a few times since our last date and I hadn't initiated such a call and well...

I guess what I'm saying is that for all my thinking I act pretty stupid pretty frequently

Uncharacteristically Hopeful

I've thought for some time about doing some serious writing, but I've had some real doubts. There has always seemed to me something mysterious about books, or rather authors. So much of what I've read is brilliant. Reading those books, so well written that it seems effortless has perhaps elevated the nature of an author in my mind. I've had this misguided little image of someone sitting down to write and spinning literary gold at will. I've heard plenty of things said to the contrary, but none of that has really sunken in. Maybe it's one of those childish dreams or ideas that have been with you so long you want it stay true. It occurs to me that sounds an awful lot like some allusion to a personal apostasy, but it isn't.

I think what finally disillusioned me was the last story I wrote for my creative writing class. It couldn't be more than 750 words, about a page and a half. I spent somewhere between seven and eight hours on it. I guess in actuality I spent two or three hours of that on a different story and decided I didn't like it. Regardless I spent several hours awkwardly attempting to form a coherent little story. As my deadline approached I was panicked. I made a major change in storyline all of twenty minutes before it needed to be turned in. I hastily applied my changes and turned it in with a lingering sense of disquiet.

I debated going to class the next week because I was sure I'd get my paper back with a C or D, a frowny (frownie, it's not really a word) face and comments to match. I went anyway. Part way through class, my teacher talked about how we did on the paper as a class and complimented me with how I introduced details in my story. I was taken aback honestly. He doesn't give out much praise, maybe one compliment per class, which means weekly. I ended up getting a 54/60 on it, the highest grade in the class. When I got my paper back several spots had been marked with "you lost me here." So I didn't exactly nail the thing, but I did at least do something right. All in all I'm feeling a lot more confident that with some work I can manage this writing thing.

Cleaning, Meth, and Me

Either my apartment is willing random articles into existence, or my roommates and myself are irretrievably messy. I haven't felt really relaxed or at peace in several weeks. Tonight was uber-crappy. I looked around my room and all I saw was vomit in clutter form. I made me nauseous and at the time I put things where I did there wasn't really any thought involved. Now I don't know how other people try to calm themselves, but cleaning has never been my modus operandi. Oddly enough though I gave it a try and I feel better, not good, but better. In addition to cleaning my room I took out the trash that hasn't been taken out since the last time I took it out a few weeks ago. By now that meant two full bags. I even took clothes out of my closet that I don't wear to give to DI. Sadly, the rest of the apartment is in a similar state of distress, but one thing at a time I suppose.

It seems cliché to me for cleaning to calm me down. I've never seen people do it before except on TV and the idea of taking advice from characters on TV doesn't sit well with me. I guess I shouldn't complain though, after all, my apartment is a little cleaner and I feel a bit better. Maybe there is something to that feng shui stuff, either that or I'm becoming anxious and obsessed with cleaning. But I swear I've never touched Meth.

Where Have all the Squitchy Thoughts Gone?

It's been slightly over a month since I posted last and well it's high time I remedied that. Being a naturally inquisitive and curious person I find myself in the most puzzling of quandaries. For the first time in a long time I don't have any questions to ask about...well anything. I feel a little like shouting "Level 2 reload, reload" to my brain. I'm fresh out of questions and that scares me. Yeah, not just disturbs, but genuinely scares me.

I've always had some great question to ponder during down time for my brain. I've got nothing. I'm not saying there aren't plenty of things I have yet to understand. I'm just saying none of the questions that come to mind hold my interest. Even as I write this I'm trying to think of an example of one of these great questions, but nothing doing. I guess if I could think of one on command this wouldn't be an issue. This has probably been the source of my posting drought. No it's not apathy or procrastination, but just a lack of things I want to write about.

The only solution I've come up with is reading and lots of it. One new book every two to three weeks should hopefully give my creativity a defibrillator like jump start. I'm thinking my selections should represent a veritable cornucopia of literature so any suggestions would be most appreciated.

A Tragic Sort of Happiness

Life has been really busy the last while. By really busy of course I mean that I'm actually doing some of the things I'm supposed to for a change. I'm working thirty hours a week and taking classes in the afternoon. I've even broken down and done some homework. My creative writing class for this semester has been great so far. I like his secrets to writing. His main two are:

1. Have a take
2. Don't Suck

As it turns out my teacher isn't a BYU professor by trade, but actually works in the Welfare department of the church office building, at times with my dad. I'm pretty sure that nepotism in this case will actually create more work rather than less. He has a high opinion of my dad so I'm guessing he'll be expecting good work. All in all my classes are good, my job is good, and well I'm still a terrible person. I'm pretty happy with things how they are, the caveat to that being I need to get more sleep. My brother called me today and let me know the treatment Angela (my sister-in-law) has been receiving isn't really helping anymore. The last time that happened they had to accelerate the transplant process (this was an earlier transplant, my kidney will be her third transplant). My brother Joe said he was going to rattle cages until he got them to okay the transplant. He said he was going to try for something in the next couple weeks. We'll see how that pans out since the last time I heard that was months ago, but she has gotten stronger since then. I can only hope that it works out this time. I can only imagine how hard this has been for Joe and Angela both.

Admittedly, I think I've kind of kept myself from feeling an honest sort of happiness since this whole deal started. I think there's just some native guilt in me that feels terrible to be happy when other people, especially those near me are hurting. I guess I'd rather be sad and connected than amused but cold to the emotions of others. I'm pretty sure that's a destructive sort of thought process, but just because I know that doesn't mean I can or want to change it.

The Job and the People

This last week with my class has been an eye opening experience. The guys that I work with have seen a great deal of ugliness in their lives. Whoever hasn't seen any nastiness in life has had their eyes and ears shut mighty tight. They probably know as few people do, the horrors that people can inflict on one another. Despite all of these experiences, or rather in part because of them, these guys are some of the most hopeful people I know.

Don't misunderstand, they don't walk around with bright happy faces all the time. Most of the time I see them go through the normal range of emotion that we all do. But, I think of how hard it is for most people to just manage being happy with relatively "normal" lives and I marvel at how these guys cope. Going into the job, I was worried about how much of a disciplinarian I was going to have to be. So far, everything has been much better than I worried it might be. I really like the guys and, if I'm not mistaken, they seem to appreciate me.

It's taken me a long time to really comprehend one simple principle: In life, people are what matter most. The challenges that these guys face come from some disconnect where they don't interact with other people in the best manner. I once stabbed a friend of mine in the arm with a pencil and have spent a large portion of my life in self-induced social isolation, so I'm not real sure how I'm supposed to help them with social skills. I have to say, it's nice having a job I care about for once.

Changes in the Status Quo

Let me begin by saying that the rumors of my death have been greatly exaggerated. With all the time I've had open between not having work or school I still haven't managed to write an entry until today. Anyway, as a general update I got a new job. I'll be working at the Utah State Hospital with the high school aged boys there who have behavioral or emotional issues. I'll essentially be the TA for my roommate Steve who is now starting his first year of teaching. It should be a good deal different from my recent jobs in that I'll be working with other people for a change. I'm still waiting for the transplant. It looks like it'll be a while yet.

I gave a talk today in church and remembered what I don't like about giving talks. Speaking in front of people isn't a real big deal anymore. No, the thing that bothers me is that after I sit down I immediately remember some four or five key points I managed to omit from my talk entirely. Oh well. Sorry this is such a lame post after so long, but at least it's a short lame post. I've written two other whole posts and just deleted them so this one at least made it to the blog, for what it's worth.

Sigh.....When Does That Life Stuff Happen

It's official, I'm painfully, woefully, and utterly bored. I was planning on skipping summer term and working fulltime. When the transplant stuff came up I figured I'd just have to give up on finding a new job and continue on at the library. I didn't think it would matter much because the transplant would be pretty soon. I've worked about ten hours in the last three weeks and, as of last Friday, I'm all caught up. I have no work to do at work. My boss won't be back for another week, which doesn't help matters.

So at this point, I have no school and three hours of work a week. I've watched TV, I've played my computer, I've read books, and I'm bored out of my skull. I'm thinking that I just need to quit and see if I can get some temp place to hire me. Since I still don't know when the operation is going to be, that's probably the only place that will hire me given I can't guarantee my availability for any real length of time. The worst thing is, with as little expected from me as possible you'd think I could take care of errands and such. I have a library book that is close to a month overdue, but somehow the less I need to do the less I do at all. It feels like my willpower has been in a cast and now it's all shriveled and weak. I hate waiting.

Patting Myself on the Back and Kicking Myself in the Butt

So a friend of mine recently commented that she had been reading some of her old posts and realized her recent entries aren't "up to par". I just went back and read my favorite of my own posts Love is like the deacon two-step, not the waltz and realized my own writing has taken a similar slide. So, both because I have time, and because I think everyone needs a little creativity every day, I'm going to start free writing at least fourteen minutes a day. I once did free writes for seven hours straight to make up for half a semester of slacking so I figure a few minutes shouldn't be too hard. Here's hoping I can get back a little of that style that's bled out of my writing.

Bear in mind the link will take you to the post, but you'll need to scroll down a bit.

Killing Our Own Dreams

I've been reading a talk recently by Bruce Young. I don't remember the title, but it talks about the miracle of faith and the miracle of love. Admittedly, I am a little wary of something being called a miracle. To me, it seems like the word miracle implies not only a fantastic or amazing event, but carries a connotation that that event is fantastic or amazing in part because it was the result of little actual work. In any event, I got past the title and kept reading.

I haven't finished the talk quite yet, but I have to say the ideas in it are provocative. I mean that in a good way, as in: "The talk provoked me to serious reflection." One of the main ideas he posits is that in both faith and love individuals often keep themselves from the very happiness they claim to want. I hated the idea. I still do, except now I think it could be true. It turns out, whether or not I like an idea has little to no impact on the veracity of that idea. His point is that with faith we have confirmations of what is true and yet, at times, we doubt those confirmations. We doubt that such a good thing, such a wonderful thing as the gospel could be true. Why do we doubt that? To paraphrase Bruce Young's idea with my words, we would rather be sure we're going to hell, than unsure if we're going to heaven. It goes back to pride. We don't want to be wrong. We don't want to be disappointed. So to avoid that disappointment we give up hope. I know I'm not the only one who hasn't pursued a relationship because I might be rejected or might be disappointed. Oddly enough I think Wayne Gretzky said it best: "You miss 100% of the shots you don't take."

It seems, at least at times, that people would rather not try and be sure of their failure than risk the possibility of being disappointed after hoping for something, never mind that there is the possibility for success through hope and effort. I think as far as dating goes it's being able to meet someone new and actually think something could come from it. The talk also points out that overanalyzation can kill a relationship.

You know I start posts off fully intending to write about something new, but somehow it comes back to the same things. I've already blogged about the human tendency to choose a crappy certainty over a happy possibility. Guess I'm all out of new ideas.

Reason and Faith are not Mutually Exclusive

I was at my parent's house yesterday and needed something to read while I ate my lunch. I came across this article from Jerry Johnston in the Deseret News and was very impressed. It's an interesting read, here's the link:
Reason and Faith

Man's Search for Meaning

I'm currently about half-way through Viktor Frankl's Man's Search for Meaning. I think I first heard about the book in high school and it's been kicking around in the back of my brain since. I was at my parent's house last Thursday and needed a book to read while I waited for tests to be done at the hospital. A couple of bookcases have migrated into my old room sometime in the past few months with my Dad's books in tow. It was here I noticed the book and started to read.

I think the vague impression I had of the book before I started to read was that it was a book all about how to be happy in any condition. This is part of the book, but for me not the primary message. Of course, if five people read a book, that is intensely honest and personal, you'll probably end up with five different messages. Anyway, for me the message was summed up pretty well when he said

"We need to stop asking about the meaning of life, and instead to think of ourselves as those who were being questioned by life--daily and hourly. Our answer must consist not in talk and meditation, but in right action and right conduct. Life ultimately means taking the responsibility to find the right answers to its problems and to fulfill the tasks which it constantly sets for each individual."

Connected to this idea is what he says of suffering. He explains, and what mortal would know better, that sometimes our task is to suffer, but here he notes that "his unique opportunity lies in the way in which he bears his burden." So it's not a question of why do we suffer, but rather how.

A Pound of Flesh for Your Thoughts

I've had the same conversation a number of times in the past week or so. I'll ask what someone is doing in the summer, to which they will answer: school, work, both, etc. In polite response the question will be asked of me. Somewhat hesitantly, because it's not really the stuff of normal conversation I'll answer that I'm donating a kidney to my sister-in-law and I'll be off school and work to recover for three to eight weeks. I found out that I was a match a week or two back. Since then Angie (my sister-in-law) has had another stroke caused by high blood pressure from dialysis and stress. Of necessity this has accelerated the process of donation. On Thursday I'll go in for another round of tests, after which I'll be given tests followed by more tests. The operation itself is, to my knowledge, happening some time in the next week or so provided things go well.

The thought of several weeks of rather limited mobility, I must admit, is less than pleasant. Angie has had problems with her kidneys for a long time; this will be her second transplant. Right now she's still in the hospital from the second stroke. No permanent damage was done, but she's still working on normal consciousness; it comes and goes for the moment. I was over at my parent’s house for Father's Day and my nephew Logan said the prayer for dinner. He said "Please bless Mommy so she can come home and we can be a family again." My dad is still shaking off leukemia from a year ago, though he's started working part days. Thinking about this makes it pretty hard to take self-pitying thoughts seriously. Sure my job is crappy and I can't seem to fix a few things in my life, but what do I have to complain about? Albert Einstein said "Only a life lived for others is worth living." I hope that this experience will help me learn, at least in part, how to live that way. Being uncomfortable for a few weeks may not be much, but I hope it will be something like the widow's mite for me and my selfishness.