The Old & The New

I know it's been a while since my last post; so long, in fact, that much of my life is unrecognizable from where it was a year ago. I live in a new state. Have a new job. Interact with different people. And, for the most part, spend each day just trying to move on to the next one. For some reason, adjusting to my new life has been much harder than I ever would have thought and, as much as I want to do it, writing is something I just haven't been able to bring myself to do.

I mean, I've thought about writing everyday since I've moved, but up until now I haven't been able to produce a single word on any of my projects. My blog, short stories, novels, screenplays, all of them have fallen to the wayside. Maybe I'm just trying to come up with a reason to make myself feel better about not working on my craft? I'm willing to concede that possibility; after all, no one likes to bare a brand of outright laziness. What I'm hoping, however, is that it has something to do with too much change, in too little time.

Now, before you start thinking I'm one of those people who refuses to accept change, I'll tell you honestly that I'm not. I don't always like it, but I know it's one of the few inevitabilities in life and trying to fight it is an act of futility. Life moves in phases. . .I get it. What I'm struggling with, however, is the act of moving forward with it.

Why? Because some things I don't want to leave behind. Some things were pretty damn good, even if I didn't have the ability to recognize them at the time. Things like: Making pancakes for my daughter on lazy Sundays. Spending Christmas with a family who could fill a Norman Rockwell painting. Changing into pajamas at 4 0'clock in the afternoon. And laying in the arms of someone I love. . . .

I'm trying to move forward with my life--or, at least--I want to try. Everyday, I feel a tug inside of me. A subtle prod on my consciousness urging me to follow the flow and not fight the current. I know the time we have is short, that every minute I waste is another I'll never get back, yet everyday I also feel like I'm drowning in lethargy. In order to shake away the stupor, I have to fill myself with so much caffeine that my heart shudders more than it beats. Even then, the moments of artificial motivation are short-lived and the impetus to write usually fizzles before it can really begin.

How do you make yourself move on when your heart and mind aren't ready? How do you find the strength to forget, when all you want to do is remember? How can you have desire for future dreams, unless you're willing to admit the old ones are dead?

I don't know. I wish I did.

What I do know is that the present will never be what you want it to be if you're wasting all of your energy trying to forge a future than can never exist. . .no matter how badly you want it.

I'm hoping the sluggishness fades the longer I'm here, living my new life. I'm also hoping that just the act of forcing myself to blog will serve as the launching point for the present I have to have and for closing the door on the past that left me behind.

Whatever the outcome, I have to admit that it feels good to let my fingers strike the keys again. . . . And that's better than I've felt in a long time.

Another Scar in American History

Twelve dead, Thirty-one wounded.

I'm having a hard time finding the words I need to express the way I feel about what happened at Ft. Hood yesterday, which for me, is an odd thing. Words don't often elude me . . . not when I feel there's something worth saying.

But this is a different beast altogether. Foreign and strange. Alien, even in its familiarity.

Sure, we've all heard of shootings before. We've all turned on the television, or the radio, or the computer, or heard from a friend or family member that a tragedy had occurred somewhere in America; some seemingly random act of violence that devastated a local community and plunged the nation into mourning. As terrible as it is to admit, though, it's almost become mundane, a huge skeleton in the closet of Americana. For those who can remember back to 1966, there was the Charles Whitman tower incident at the University of Texas at Austin. The 1970 Kent State massacre where Ohio National Guardsmen fired into groups of students to 'quell civil unrest.' Columbine in 1999 and Virginia Tech in 2007 need no summaries, as everyone remembers those. Finally, we factor in all of the disgruntled employees who deem it necessary to pick up a handgun and expend their frustrations on their co-workers--people they had shared time and histories and holiday parties with--that list is growing all the time. . . . Just today, in fact, there was another such case in Orlando, Florida that ended in one dead and five wounded.

Now, Ft. Hood has been added to the list. Just another asterisk in the timeline, or footnote in the history books.

I said earlier that this tragedy is different than the others . . . and it is, in a way. Don't get me wrong. I hope everyone understands that I believe all of the acts of violence mentioned above were reprehensible offenses that have scarred America's history because that's the way I truly feel. Yet this shooting at Ft. Hood caused me to feel something else entirely. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I was stationed there, once upon a time? Maybe being a veteran runs deeper than I previously thought? Hell, it could be just the fact that Austin isn't all that far from Ft. Hood and it unnerves me that something like this could happen after all the "heightened security."

Like I said, I honestly don't know. But I do know that it takes a particular brand of cowardice to pull off such a crime.

The soldiers at Ft. Hood were preparing to go to war. They were running around, getting shots and dental exams, taking care of last-minute affairs, and trying to soak-up as much "home" as possible before they left. They were trying to commit moments from their lives to memory. . . . Not just kisses and hugs, but so much more. Like, what their spouses smell like when cuddled against them at night. The way the dog feels lying curled against their feet. The way their home looks as it comes into view, when work is done for the day. At no time, were they wondering whether or not they'd be safe on their own base. They weren't looking to dodge bullets. Not yet. Not from one of their own.

I don't care what Major Hasan's reasons were for killing and wounding over forty people. Religious views. Fear of deployment. Over-stressed at his job. None of that matters. What matters is that he took an oath, to protect this nation "from all enemies foreign and domestic" then he chose to forsake that oath.

Luckily for him, the country he broke his allegiance to, does not break theirs. He's received treatment for his wounds because the army guarantees him health care as part of his job. He'll receive a fair trial for his actions when the time comes because the constitution guarantees him that. Then the families and victims of all those affected by his actions will receive justice because our society guarantees them that . . . but it won't be enough. And it never will be.

Grad School

I've spent the summer, and now fall, avoiding this moment as long as possible. Why? No reason, really. It just always seemed as if there was something more pressing to do. . . . A sink full of dishes that couldn't wait, or sneaking in the daily workout just before the gym closed at midnight, or maybe even watching the new episode of "The Universe" on the Science Channel (I know, but what can I do, it's awesome). You see, it really didn't matter what needed to be done, it was the simple act of not doing what truly needed to be done that caused me to so severely skew the list of important events in my life.

Yes folks, I'm talking about procrastination. And, as a student and writer, it is one of those terms with which I am intimately familiar. That being said, the clutches of procrastination are no match for the hands of time. Melodramatic? Maybe. But that doesn't mean it's not true. Time has a detestable ability to keep ticking away without regard to the world around it. It doesn't care how much you're trying to hide from your future, it's going to push you toward it whether you like it or not. Which is exactly what it did to me; December 15th, the deadline for most graduate school applications, is drawing near and I'm forced to pick a place not only to matriculate but to live the next 3-5 years of my life. I've narrowed down the list to ten schools based on a variety of factors, such as, tuition, financial aid, stipends awarded, teaching assistant positions, location, faculty, length, and course work, but let's face it, ten application fees doesn't exactly fit into my budget.

As of now, my top three choices are:

1. The University of Texas. As a natural born Buckeye, this hurts me. But what am I supposed to do? The Michener Center for Writers is an amazing program that scores well in all categories except teaching assistant positions (but that's only because they think you should focus on writing, not working during your time in their program). A large selling point for this program is that they're one of the few programs on my list to offer Screenwriting as a major discipline and still allow Fiction as a minor, so I could follow both passions without feeling as if I've sacrificed one or the other.

2. George Mason University. Their program may not provide as large a stipend to their students, but it does provide the opportunity to teach underclassmen, which is a big point of sale if teaching at the collegiate level is a possibility after grad school. I must admit, it is something I've always considered, so gaining experience in the field wouldn't exactly be a terrible thing. They also have tremendous faculty, course of study, and while they remain a selective bunch, they're not quite as difficult to get into as the first choice on my list.

3. Indiana University. This program provides tuition assistance in the form of TA positions, fellowships, grants and stipends. It has an exceptional staff and English Department and is generally considered one of the top 10 programs in the country to attend. Its campus is absolutely beautiful and it has the added benefit of placing me close to my home state of Ohio, which would make visiting family and friends much easier than it is now. Yet the most attractive feature this program provides, is that even though they admit the program should only take two years to complete. . .they offer a third funded year for students to work on their thesis. Awesome.

Honestly, I don't think I could go wrong with either of these, however, they're also exclusive programs which means they only accept a select few individuals into their programs every year. I'm pretty confident in my writing skills, but I also have a very real pessimistic side to me that I just can't seem to shake. I'm also planning on applying to Texas State University, which has an up-and-coming program thanks to Tim O'brien lending his time and talents to the cause. Having received my undergrad degree from TSU, I'm already familiar with the campus, faculty, and commute from Austin so there's a comfort factor that can't be ignored with opting for the smaller school on the list.

I know having an MFA doesn't guarantee a successful future in the writing field, but it does guarantee that I will be tested to the limits of my abilities.

With any MFA program, a writer will be required to write more than he has ever written before and will quickly learn whether or not he has the discipline to give his budding career the time and effort it should be given. But it will also immerse him in an environment where writing and a love for the English language is a respectable and important form of expression. The support system in place at the graduate level--professors, students, thesis advisers--makes it easier to believe that the goal of writing for a living is not only attainable but a viable goal to hold. And that, I believe, is the most important aspect of all.

Here's to the not so distant future. I hope I make the right choice. Or at the very least. . .I hope someone makes the right choice for me.

Continuing the Struggle

Thanks to a corporate news station, either CNN or FOX--I'm not exactly sure which--I found myself swept into the throes of a terrible flashback.

As usual, I woke up bleary eyed and groggy, head swimming through a thick morning fog that never quite lifts until I have an injection of Starbucks and Lo-carb Monster. Everything seemed normal. I had already hit the snooze buttons on my alarm and cell phone--yes, both--three times, the television set still hummed quietly on its shelf from the night before, and I felt the frustration of everyday monotony sinking into my bones. I sighed . . . a long, drawn-out, exasperated heave of breath . . . then my vision cleared a bit and I focused on the actual images playing across the glowing screen at the foot of the bed. And my heart sank.

On this day in 2001, I was sleeping in late because I didn't have to work until 1 pm. Brandi (now my ex-wife) was already at work at the bank, and it was her shocked voice which told me to turn on the T.V. because a plane had just hit one of the twin towers. At the risk of sounding like an imbecile, I'm going to be completely honest. I was 25 years old at the time, not very interested in politics or world events, and then--just like now--had never been to New York. I remember dumbly thinking, 'What are the twin towers?'

When I hit the power button those eight years ago, I saw the exact same footage that I saw today upon waking, as someone had decided to re-air the footage, unedited and in its entirety. Black smoke rolled out of a gaping hole in the face of a glass and steel structure that dwarfed every other building in the vicinity except one. Next to it, partially obscured by smoke and fire and debris, stood its twin. Of course, I'd seen the buildings before. They were iconic images of American capitalism. Studios filming in the city often spliced panoramic shots of the New York skyline into countless scenes for their television shows and movies. Like many other Americans, I'd seen these buildings dozens of times without even realizing it, but every time their enormity somehow blended into the background. As it was, every news station was a in a state of confusion. Reporters called in with interviews from anyone who was even close to the first tower when it was struck, even those who had only heard what happened. So desperate were we for information. Was it a bomb? An accident? A small commuter plane, perhaps? The sky was crystal clear, surely weather couldn't have played a role in such a tragedy. . . .

Then a second plane entered the screen--a large commercial airliner--and slammed into the belly of the twin giant.

I remember the feeling that settled over me after seeing such a thing happen in real time. Shock. Disbelief. Sadness. Fear. The United States was under attack. Not our military, not the men and women in uniform who sign up and swear to protect us from "all enemies foreign and domestic." America itself--the people. Our way of life.

Today, as a better educated, 33 year-old, I watched the footage and realized just how much my feelings and mindset have changed over the eight years since the attack. Events that shocked me then are now commonplace, such as, Al-qaeda videos of Muslims training to kill Americans or stories of Anthrax being sent through the mail. The sadness is contaminated with contempt. I try not to let the actions of a relatively small group of radicals shape my emotions, but it's a difficult thing to do. How can people guided by a religious ideology harbor hatred toward such a large group of people based solely on the actions of its government? Yes, the United States is supposed to be governed "by the people & for the people," but most Americans are just trying to live their lives. They're trying to pay bills and put their kids through school. Hell, some are just trying to make it to the next day. Many of us aren't even aware of the machinations of government officials because we have other things to be worried about . . . yet we are still hated. Still targeted. The fear I felt that day has never left, nor lightened. In fact, it's deepened in a way. Now, I find myself glued to the news whenever countries like North Korea or Iran make threats of nuclear war. I'm afraid that sometime in the near future, threats such as these might make it impossible for me and the people I love to continue our struggle through life on our terms.

Yes, it's a struggle . . . and monotonous . . . and usually I wake with a sigh because I know that when I rise from bed I'm choosing to continue the struggle. But I do choose to continue.

I think about those people aboard the hi-jacked planes. The individuals at work in the twin towers and the Pentagon, the rescue workers trying to save those trapped in the towers when they collapsed--those people had their choices taken. Their struggles are over.

I know it's difficult--I know that usually the effort it takes to live is often so great that we forget, but . . . We are living life. Try to remember such a thing when you hit your snooze repeatedly because you don't want to wake up; when you don't want to pull yourself out of bed; when you don't want to shave and dress and drive to just another day at work, or maybe another day of getting the kids off to school. Try to remember, that at least we still have the option to live our lives the way we choose. We still have the ability to continue the struggle in whatever way makes us the happiest. Try not to waste it, it may not always be there.

Call me Ishmael

If any of you have taken a look at my current reading selections, you might have unconsciously winced as the words "Moby Dick" skittered across your vision. I know, I know. It's one of those novels that for years the public school system has crammed down our throats, telling us over and over again that it's a time-honored classic and a truly great American novel.

Who would have guessed that they were actually right for a change?

After some inward debate, I reluctantly came to the conclusion that I held a duty to the academic world to actually read the books listed in the literary cannon. Whether past or present makes no difference, nor does the actual inclusion on the list. . . . What actually matters is whether or not the work is or has been considered a classic piece of literature. And going by that definition, "Moby Dick" certainly should be included.

Calm down. There's no reason to roll your eyes. I'm not about to dive headlong into a long-winded, incredibly dreadful, 'I'd rather sit through an eight hour insurance seminar' diatribe about why all of us should actually read such Great works of classic literature. That's for each of us to decide on his own. But I am going to try to persuade you to pick this one up and give it a chance--assuming that you have not yet done so, of course.

Right from the first line, "Call me Ishmael," Melville introduces the reader to the main character in a warm, friendly greeting and in only a few pages you feel like you've known Ishmael for quite some time. He's an easy character to like. Simple. Straightforward. And Quite funny at times. If I remember correctly, I think I actually laughed out-loud when he met Queequeg, the island cannibal with whom he sets sail. Captain Ahab doesn't even appear until around the midway point of the book, but when he does the fact that something is wrong with his mental state is immediately apparent. The way Melville sets him up is brilliant. He has more than one secondary character drop his name in idle conversation, along with hints to the ever-present darkness that lingers around him. Even after they set sail, none of the crew see him until the voyage is nearly a week old and when he finally does emerge from below deck, he is not a disappointment. Of course, there are some things I could have done without, such as the whole chapter devoted to the different species of whales . . . and the odd section where it veers away from first person narration to be dictated in a play-like fashion . . . I admit, I nearly slept through that entire batch of writing. Overall, however, I love Melville's style of prose. It's full of imagery and symbolism that can be surmised by the above average reader, so you won't have to be a literary professor to figure out key underlying points in the story.

If any of you have read it, or decide to pick it up, drop me a line and tell me what you think about it. I'd love to know.

The First Day of School

To tell you the truth, from the time I left my secondary school days behind me up until the day my daughter started going to school some nine years later, this day always just, you know, faded into the background. Okay, maybe not entirely.

I admit that occasionally while strolling the Wal*Mart aisles buying books or movies or groceries or whatever people buy at that infernal store, seeing children huddled around the school supplies may have tickled a memory from among the dark recesses of my mind. Believe it or not--and I know many of my old schoolmates will not believe it--but I actually liked going to school. I liked opening new packs of paper and pens and pencils. I liked wearing new school clothes and shoes. Every year we're given the chance to start over. To do better. To build upon the knowledge we'd accumulated over the years. If we were athletes or band members, we held the advantage of another year of experience. To our cliques, we added one more year to the foundations of our friendships. And maybe the most important of all, it was one more chance to build up the courage to speak to that girl you couldn't forget about over the summer.

No, not everything about returning to school was bad.

I won't go into detail about those things which caused dread to fill my heart with every new school year. For the sake of keeping this post out of the cellar of sorrow, let's just gloss over it and say there were plenty of those as well. Then again, I wouldn't be me if I didn't say I hope teachers and parents learn from past mistakes and try their best to instill in today's youth a profound understanding for tolerance and diversity. After all, the people we think are so very different from us in our school years aren't really that different at all . . . they just may be experiencing the world in a much different manner at the time.

So, my daughter started fifth grade today and this is only the second school year since my separation/divorce that she has started school without me. I hope she's doing okay. I know she was waiting with excitement for the new year to start--and, why not, she's a queen of the school. Her and her cohorts rule the playground. They dominate their territory like mighty jungle cats. Until next year that is . . . when they quietly ascend the educational ladder to middle school, yet still somehow manage to sink in peer status. I hope she's doing okay. I hope she's having fun and learning something new, even if it's just the new kid's name. And I hope she's not just building upon her foundations of knowledge and friendships and experiences, but tolerance and understanding as well.

Define Yourself

How often have you read the words of an "inspirational" quote and actually been inspired? Did the words resound within you; did they make you feel that catch in your chest? You know the catch I'm talking about. It's that feeling you get when you read or hear words that could have originated from deep within you if only you'd had the ability to articulate your innermost beliefs--those words which propel your mind and emotions to action. Maybe words alone have never made you feel this way. Or perhaps you're the type of person who can find meaning on the side of a Starbucks cup. Either way, inspiration only goes so far. The real question is, how often have you used those words to propel yourself forward, as the impetus for action in your life?

The quote I've chosen for this week's Quote of the Week, is by Harvey Fierstein and when I read his words they did make me feel that catch in my chest.

Most people I've been associated with throughout my life--whether classmates, friends, or co-workers--don't realize just how much my family struggled during my adolescent years. (Now, before my family gets bent out of shape, reads this and starts assuming that I'm defaming the family name, that's not what I'm trying to do at all. I love my family, as flawed and dysfunctional as we are I can say that with the utmost sincerity. But that doesn't mean I can't envy those families who are able to show love and respect for one another at all times.) It wasn't just that we were poor and often ran out of grocery money after the first week of the month or had to heat bath water on the stove at times because the gas had been turned off, it was more than that. Much more. Like the pervasive alcohol and drug use that ran unchecked through my extended family. The volatile holidays with brothers fighting, flinging one another around the room and into the Christmas tree. And the extended shouting matches between Uncles and Aunts and Grandparents. Of course, all of this was considered "normal" by family standards and I didn't really think much about any of it until after I left Ohio and was able to see how the other half lived.

What does any of this have to do with Harvey Fierstein's quote? I'm getting to that.

You see, for the past few years I've been trying to change my life: to actually live in a world where the dreams I have are not just dreams but life goals. I thought I'd been doing a pretty good job of it, too, until someone casually mentioned that at times I, "hide behind my background." Those words hurt more than I wanted them to and I couldn't understand why, until I realized that they were true. As much as I've accomplished over the past few years in terms of obtaining the education I've always wanted, in certain situations, I was quick to assign failures to background related issues.

Here I am in the midst of living life on my terms, yet I'm still letting an underclass background define me.

Maybe I've grown up thinking that a person is always going to be a product of his environment, but if that's the case, I've been very wrong. To paraphrase someone who found the words while I was grasping for meaning, our environments and personalities exist in a fluid--ever-shifting--symbiotic relationship; each has influence upon the other, but only for a short time do they actually effect our current situations. Afterward, they're stored as experiences and, both, personality and environment change because of the addition to the foundations of each. Those who have the courage and insight, take these new experiences and motivate themselves as they move forward on the path of life, to achieve whatever dreams and desires fill their waking moments. Achievements can be many things and the greatest are glorious deeds.

While my background might have added to the foundation of who I am for a few years of my life, it can never define me. The only thing that can truly define who and what we are, is action, and each day we're given the opportunity to remake ourselves as we want to be seen. Of course, now that I realize my own excuses have been holding me back, showing me a false vision every time I look into the mirror, the only thing left to do is define myself from this moment forward.

Take some time and think about it. What moment or action have you let define you? Is it really who you are? And what has it stopped you from achieving?