Wednesday, May 31, 2006 | by nathan

Secret Fears: Confirmed

I was planning on only writing two posts, but this was too good:

As I was finishing up that last post, the garbage truck came by. My office windows face toward the street, and so as the blog took its sweet time to publish, I leaned my chin on the palm of my hand and watched the huge mechanical arm reach from the side of the truck, down to the first of my black plastic trash bins. It picked it up and dumped it in the back of the truck, and I thought, "Cool."

Then the truck operator, he got out of the truck, looked in the second bin, and shook his head with a mixture of disappointment and disgust, then just stood there for a few seconds, staring at my garbage bin like it had just called him a dirty name. Finally he got up into the truck again, and after a few more seconds, the mechanical arm came down and took my trash.

It was like he was trying to consider whether or not my garbage was too disgusting to haul away; a fear I have long held. I always think my inner rubbish is more disgusting and twisted than other peoples’; of course my actual garbage would be revolting as well. This is the opposite of the truth, of course, but what can I say? The road to spiritual health is a long one.

He was probably just pissed because I threw all the lawn clippings into the rubbish bin, and I don’t think we’re supposed to do that. 

Wednesday, May 31, 2006 | by nathan

Junk Stories

About a year ago Liz was in town and we went thrift-store shopping. Aside from stealing a Jem t-shirt right out of the hands of a twelve-year-old girl (an event which worked itself into my last novel - and don’t judge me - that little girl had NO IDEA who Jem is), and Liz finding the most hideous dress you have ever seen, which she did not wear to Eric’s wedding, thereby breaking her promise to me, I found myself wandering around in the back of the store. Now, bookmark that as I elaborate:

I’ve always had a thing for junk; I think it comes from the fact that, for me, throwing something away is akin to tossing one of my kidneys in the trash; I find it hard to part with things. Why, right now, on my desk, there is a flower I wore on my tux when I was in Monica’s wedding:

In my storage bins there are probably twenty or thirty dollars’ worth of European money in various denominations. On my shelf there’s a little toy figurine I found in the parking lot of the mall across the street.

All those letters and knickknacks and old magazines from the attic.

Old drafts of writing, funny bits of trash, like the ceramic bee I found buried in the dirt in my backyard.

My current favorite is a pamphlet entitled "Protection in the Nuclear Age;" I found it in the fall of 2004 on a table in the physics department at SWOSU - it’s from the sixties and tells all about how to survive a nuclear blast and the days and weeks following. It amazes me because it talks all about how to live comfortably in fear; about how the solid concrete roof of your nuclear fallout shelter can be converted into a wonderful garden patio for entertaining guests. I actually have two copies of it; in case anyone wants one.

I also have a copy of The 1980’s: A Countdown to Armageddon by Hal Lindsey that I got at the Friends of the Library Booksale. I have more old issues of National Geographic tucked away than I can count, because it makes me sad that, when I was a kid, my dad’s collection was ruined when our basement flooded.

I have a rug that my great-grandmother knitted:

I like how colorful it is, and so I drape it over my office chair to make it feel less businessey. Also, I never really knew my great-grandmother; she died when I was 20, and before that she was pretty much a pain to be around (God rest her soul). So it’s good to have some connection. I suppose.

A lot of people consider me morbid for hanging on to stuff like this; I do not deny the charge. But also it gives me a great source of comfort to think that my grandkids, or my brother’s grandkids, or the Flynns’ grandkids, or hell, the people who buy this house after we leave and find the stuff we accidentally left in the attic, will realize that this random junk we left behind really meant something to us, and they will want to honor that. It will be an act of faith on their part, because they will have no way of knowing what the junk meant; all they will know is that it was important, and that we were alive, and there was a story there, and they will know that it means something.

The little figurine, the skeleton guy, for example; Brian and I found him walking through the parking lot of Shepherd Mall on our way to the grocery store. We walk over there a lot rather than driving - we walk to get stuff for dinner, then we walk to Blockbuster to get a movie, and then we come home. We make our dinner, we watch our movie, and we are happy just spending that time together. And one day, as we were walking, I found this little purple-shirted skeleton guy in the parking lot of Shepherd Mall. That’s the whole story; and yet, it means something, even just a little.

So last year, Liz and I were in the Uptown Thrift Store in I-240 in Oklahoma City; it’s one of my favorites for buying funny t-shirts, or puff-painted ties, or judicial robes - whatever. Anyway, I was wandering around in the back and came across this incredibly ugly collage:

It’s the kind of thing you might never stop to notice, except that Eric’s mom used to make things kind of like this for us all the time - assembled pictures of all us friends hanging out back in high school. This is cheesy, and sentimental, and yet I still have all of them. So when I saw this one, I took a moment to stop and look.

There is a note in the center of the collage. This is what it says:

Dear Kath, 

You have made this summer the best summer I have ever had. I never really felt like I had a best friend. Well I finally found one Kath its you. You understand me better than anyone else. You have been there whenever ever I needed you. You always know the right thing to say or do. You know when to listen and when to talk. I will never forget the times that we’ve spent together. I don’t know what I’m going to do these next 8 months. I don’t even know where to begin there is so much more I want to say. I always be there for you. I hope you realize this . You are a very special person to me. I thank God for bringing us together. Remember, I love you.
    Love,

   Kelli

When I read that, I dunno - I got all choked up. Here is a woman who, on the face of it, doesn’t seem to have much self-esteem, and who feels like she never had a best friend. She goes out of her way to make this fairly elaborate piece of artwork to celebrate that friendship, and twenty some-odd years later, it ends up in a thrift store.

I couldn’t help myself; I took it home. The people at the store forgot to charge me for it, which I took as a sign. I am pretty sure I have no way whatsoever of finding out to whom it once belonged, and I’m not sure I want to. It sat in my closet for a long time at mom’s, and then I almost didn’t bring it to the new house.

Then I hit a snag in the novel, and looked over at it, and decided to honor it by making it a character in the story; Jess needed to find out something specific right then, and this collage was a perfect way to deliver that information, albeit in a hidden way, a way that she would not realize until later. (Hence my awful original title for the novel).

Now it sits on my floor. I have decided to hang it in the office once I get the walls painted (yeah, still yellow). I want it to be in a place of honor, because as cheesy, and ridiculous, and opulently sentimental as it is, that friendship should be honored, even if I know nothing about it. Just like if someone found, say, the tacky little plastic gondola that Summer got for me in Venice in the summer of 1997 (which is also sitting on top of my bookshelf, a place of honor), I would hope they would at least realize that I kept it for a reason, and that it meant something very, very special to me.

I cleaned the office this week; the desk is clean and only filled with the clutter with which I have chosen to adorn it. This has got me thinking about junk. We’ll see what else I can find. In Cleveland neighborhood of Oklahoma City, it’s only ever a few weeks between estate sales anyway.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006 | by nathan

Garden Blog

The yard’s going gangbusters. We’ve had trouble keeping the hydrangeas healthy, what with the intense Oklahoma heat and lack of rain - so we are watering like we’re trying to put out Hell, and then wham! This morning, a random thunderstorm brought us some much-needed moisture. And now, the hydrangeas are exploding. Take a look:

We have a variety of colors, from this pale pink one, to hot pink:

To a kind of purple (this one’s my favorite):

You wouldn’t believe how beautiful they are in real life, and how soft to the touch. I must admit, I am surprised at how much I am enjoying this flower garden; next year I may have to try my hand at vegetables. And all of my hibiscus are doing well, too. The main one, on the east side of the garden, is getting huge:

As are the two I discovered buried underneath ivy at opposite corners of the garden, northeast:

and southwest:

Monday I cut all the dead shit away from the beautiful flowery bush underneath the tree in back, and it has started doing well, too - it even branched out and added a color: Pink! (They’re in the back).

And, as usual, the roses are going nuts. Anybody have a date? Come on over and grab a flower for your sweetie:

And in case anyone is worried that I have become one of those gardening, tamed, "best-friend-with-a-heart-of-gold" faggots, think again. If I need to explain further about not being a tame queer, then you can probably figure out on your own what that means; in the meantime, have a flower:

Monday, May 29, 2006 | by nathan

Date Sunday and Five-Hour Naps

Saturday we spent all day helping Erica and Alex move into their new house. I have helped Erica move more times than I can count - to Stillwater for college, around Stillwater to houses and apartments, back home, and then, of course, when we lived together in Norman - and every time it has been fun. I hate moving myself, but for some reason helping other people do it can be quite enjoyable. Especially when said people make sure to have their brand new refrigerator stocked to the hilt with water and beer.

We sat up with them on their back porch talking about the Dixie Chicks, and Jesus, and why Erica finds Catholicism so confounding. These conversations are helped and hindered by beer.

Brian and I got home around 2:30 and went straight to bed.

Yesterday morning we got up in time for church; I am finding that the more exercise I get the better I can fit into my regular clothes, which makes me happy, and so I felt very excited about getting to dress up just a little - with holes in my jeans, granted - for the service. Robin and his familiy are on their annual summer retreat, and so our service was led by Rabbi Barry Cohen of Temple B’Nai Israel in Oklahoma City. I like anyone who can be a guest minister and pull out all the political stops - Cohen talked about how Oklahoma’s legislators and representatives in Washington are not doing what is best for our state, or our country, and how what they are doing cannot be considered "Christian," or "faith-based" at all because they are tainted with oil money and hold no traces of compassion.

So after a fairly invigorating sermon Bri and I headed to the Paseo Arts Festival, because I was hella-hungry and we had been wanting to go. Also, all that beer from the night before had made me queasy - and the fact that I had helped Erica and Alex polish of a pack of Kools made it twenty times worse. So we ate, and walked around a bit. I love doing things like this with him because he is a wonderful people-watcher. We escaped the heat by hanging out for a bit in Blue Moon on Paseo, but mostly we walked around, eating gyros and mango-flavored Italian ice, holding hands and watching people.

Of course, the heat was exhausting and so we headed home, vaguely thinking we might watch a movie. Five hours later we woke up on the couch. Gotta love a date that involves a five-hour nap.

So as it was evening we decided to find something to make for dinner, settling on the red pepper and artichoke pizzas from the Betty Crocker Healthy Choices cookbook. So we hiked over to the grocery store to get the stuff for them, and then to Blockbuster. We rented Transamerica, Waiting for Guffman (Bri hadn’t seen it), and Happy Endings. 

The sweetest part of the night, for me, was standing in the kitchen, making pizza, listening to Herb Alpert, just being with Brian, being domestic.

At some point in the night I realized that Bri had scotch, but I had nothing to drink. I lamented this for awhile until I realized that I had one more Caffrey’s in the fridge from Jaye and Laurie’s trip to London. And as much as I had been saving it for a "special occasion," after last week when Zach accidentally drank one, I figured I’d better just go ahead and bite the bullet. Also, what better special occasion is there than a sweet night at home with the man you love?

Caffrey’s may be the best beer in existence. It is aromatic like an amber, but creamy and not bitter at all. It gets a perfect head on it when you pour it in a glass, and it doesn’t twist up the back of your throat when you drink it. Anyway, I thought I would memorialize my last glass with a photo:

Thursday, May 25, 2006 | by nathan

Garden Blog

Things are starting to happen in the garden. Life things. For instance, the hydrangeas are starting to bloom fantastically. They’re like an explosion. This week they were getting wilty and flaccid, but some watering perked them right back up; it’s so hot outside that we almost have to constantly water everything. But check out what happens with just the merest hint of loving care:

They’re almost as tall as me now! Then again, what isn’t?

Also the hibiscus is doing well:

And I trimmed up the tree in back because some of its limbs were growing downward, causing the branches to sag. It made it look bad, and I had a sneaking suspicion that it was actually bad for the tree.

It’s worth mentioning here that I get a little too overstimulated with the pruning shears; cutting off limbs and branches, even dead ones, is incredibly exciting to me on a deep, deep level. I may become addicted if much else needs pruning. I have also discovered that I am incredibly good at weeding - at pulling up the tiny little plants in the flower beds and the grass and getting their roots. I have thin, busy fingers that are always looking for something to do - probably also why I type so quickly - and I can always spot even little fledgling weeds.

Anyway, here’s the tree:

Think of this with an altar underneath, rows of chairs - this is where the wedding will be. Am I stoked? Yeah, just a little. One time I think I got excited about that. (tee hee).

Some other cool things have started happening:

Not sure what this is, and I need to cut all the dead stuff away from it, but those flowers are really pretty. This is under the tree, next to the shed.

This one is next to the hibiscus:

And of course, the roses continue apace. I had to get on tiptoes over the tall fence to get this one, so the shot is not the best:

Still not sure about how to get the beest blooms out of the roses, but they seem to be doing pretty well. 

Wednesday, May 24, 2006 | by nathan

HOLY CRAP DID YOU SEE THAT???

Three words, and a whole lot of questions, about the Lost season finale:

OH.MY.GOD.

What was Jack’s plan?

What was the bright light?

What the fuck was that HUUUUGE statue? Where did the rest of it go, and why did it only have four toes? 

What happened to Locke, Eko, and Desmond?

What did Charlie see?

What on Earth was up with Libby?

Did another plane crash on the island?

We know why Flight 815 crashed; but why did the Nigerian drug plane, the balloon, the sailboat, and the old ship all wreck on the island?

Who is "Henry Gale?" Are they really the "good guys?"

What will happen when Hurley delivers the Others’ message?

What did the Others get out of Walt?

Which was the experiment - the Swan or the Pearl? Why were all those tubes in the middle of nowhere?

Did the plane REALLY crash in 2004?

What did the failsafe do?

Who were the Russian guys? What were they looking for with little miss Widmore?

WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?

Any series finale that leaves you with this many questions is just…well, it’s just great. I officially no longer consider Lost a "replacement" for such wonderful television as Angel, Buffy, Wonderfalls, Firefly, Carnivale, Dead Like Me, or The Inside. It’s officially the best show on television. Well, it and Veronica Mars.

This was my last series finale of May. I’m probably divorcing the TiVo for awhile; twelve hours at least.

What, you thought I’d be watching American Idol? I’m offended. I have no interest whatsoever in anything that looks like this:

Apparently this guy won. I only found out tonight that his name is Taylor; I’ve been calling him "That Gray-Headed Guy." SOOO over it. Watch Lost, people!!! Every reality television show costs at least two or three writers their job!!

Wednesday, May 24, 2006 | by nathan

I Love When I Don’t Even Have To Comment.

Best.

Acronym.

EVER:

BARF: The Biblical America Resistance Front.  

Wednesday, May 24, 2006 | by nathan

Paranoia

You know, I would be fine with the President. I would be fine if all that happened was that I disagreed when he spoke. I disagree with him on almost every single thing. I oppose the war, the tax cuts, deficit spending, The Patriot Act, the federal marriage amendment, and slashes in veterans’ health care, among many others. I fully support abortion rights, stem cell research, alternative fuel technologies, environmental initiatives, and separation of church and state. Among other things.

I would be fine just disagreeing with George W. Bush. What makes me hate him - and I really do not want to hate - is the fact that he makes me paranoid. I hate it when my worst fears and opinions about someone turn out to be correct. After 9/11 I began to worry about George W. Bush. He has that same gleam in his eye that his father had; it is a gleam that the two of them share with Ike Turner - something in them tells me that they are not quite right.

After 9/11, when all of that rhetoric was happening about "With us or against us" and blah blah blah, I began to worry that our phones were being tapped. The Patriot Act worried me at a deep, soul-sick level. The Iraq War almost made me completely lose my shit. And everywhere, lies. The war is going well. Things in New Orleans are fine. Global warming does not exist. The economy is strong. Iran must be stopped, but North Korea is more or less Okay, or, at least, nothing we need to worry about.

Turns out, the war is a mess, and it has been from day one. Things in New Orleans are still not fine, almost a year later. The economy has sucked ass since this president took office; as a lower-middle class person, I know this to be true. It all makes me crazy, because everywhere I look in the media, and in the two or three people I know who still support this president, there is this massive denial, this willful ignorance, as if the world will start caving in if we admit that things are not absolutely perfect.

It makes me feel crazy. I spent an hour this morning grinding my teeth together in rage while watching CNN. Then I tried to calm down by watching trailers over at Apple, but I saw two movie trailers that made the crazy fear start up again:

1) Who Killed The Electric Car? Turns out, big oil. Who owns big oil? Well, the president and vice-president, for starters.  

2) An Inconvenient Truth. This administration denies that global warming exists because they get money from the people who cause it, who will stop making money if we stop global warming.

To use the inevitable Joss Whedon reference, an exchange from the final episode of Angel:

Angel: The people who don’t care will never understand the people who do.

Hamlton: Yeah, but we won’t care. 

I think that this is so deeply true in our world as to be frightening. There are people in our world who have a lot of power, and a lot of money, and in order for them to keep it they have to continue destroying the world, and the poor, and the future has to not matter to them; nor do the lives of people they do not know, or care about, or understand. They must believe that poor people deserve to be poor, that oppressed people need to be oppressed for their own good. They must constantly make their main spiritual practice the practice of being right, because the only alternative - the practice of being kind - is too costly.

Nietzsche was right, in a lot of ways. In our world, the will to power is what gets you power. Ethics are not as important in our world as whether or not you have power. Look at Ken Lay - he screwed literally millions of people out of their entire hopes for retirement, because he wanted more money, more power. And he has it - he was the single largest contributor to the Bush/Cheney campaign fund, and now, no matter what he has done, he is going to get off because he knows the right people. 

Nietzsche was right, but only because the world is a horrifically screwed-up place. Power matters because we are slaves to it. We want wealth, and influence, and respect, and to have our tiny little feelings validated.

The problem is, it seems, when you get a whole lot of power, or a whole lot of money, if you want to make more - or even keep what you have - then inevitably someone must suffer for that. I don’t know how to deal with the fact that people suffer in the third world so that I can have my piddling little lifestyle. I do not understand how people like Bush and Cheney and Ken Lay sleep at night. Do I think people with a lot of power and money can weild these things compassionately? Only in the sense that I believe it is possible for a camel to fit through the eye of a needle, but only with a very, very large miracle.

The problem is that every paranoid fantasy we on the left have had about Bush’s administration has come horrifically true. We suspected that there were enemies lists, that our conversations were being heard, and yet we knew that this must mean that we were crazy, and so we felt crazy for thinking it. And yet - we were right.

We suspected that going into Iraq would be a horrible mistake, with far too many deaths and no clear way to get out, and yet everyone seemed to tell us that we were crazy for thinking so. And yet, we were right.

We were right that no one was really doing anything in New Orleans. We were right that people very high up in the administration had given the order to reveal Valerie Plame’s identity and endanger her life for nothing more than political retribution. We were right that oil companies were making windfall profits when we were all-too-willingly paying three bucks a gallon for gas - after all, there had been a hurricane; of course the oil companies had to charge more.

Maybe as an American I have too much of a sense of entitlement. But what it comes down to is this: THESE PEOPLE DO NOT CARE. Bush does not care about the people in New Orleans, or the ones in Iraq, or the poor women who will have to get back-alley abortions from Dr. Nick while rich women go get a "D&C" from their doctors. He does not care about the thousands and millions of gays and lesbians who commit suicide, because he gets a ton of money from James Dobson’s followers. He does not care about millions of new cases of asthma in young people in poor areas with horrible pollution, because he and his family live on a giant ranch in Texas, and he gets a lot of money from oil companies who create that pollution, even though they really do not have to.

He does not care because if he cared, he would have to give up a lot of what has made him powerful. And yet, he has to pretend to care. He has to lie and say that he is protecting you, and your family, by having someone monitor every phone conversation in America, and by sending young kids to die or lose their limbs in Iraq, by making things a whole lot harder on the working poor and the middle class.

These people go through the motions, and they go home to their families every night sincerely believing that they did what is best, unable to see that they have been so corrupted by power and wealth that they no longer know what is best for America, so corrupted that they are unable to care. There is never enough power, see; never enough money.

I hate that I think this way about the people running this country, because time was I would think someone was a little crazy who said things like this. But we who have spent the past six years having crazy, unhinged thoughts about Bush have been right at almost every turn. This does not make us good people; it does not even mean we are not mentally ill. But that we have been right about everything else makes me think that I am right when I say that Bush does not care, and never will.

They will keep killing the electric car because the oil companies keep them in money.

They will keep trying to criminalize gays and lesbians and poor women because the religious right keep them in voters.

They will keep marginalizing the American worker because big business makes more money off of cheap immigrant labor, or from outsourcing to the third world (thereby keeping the third world marginalized), and big business supports them.

They will get in bed with anyone who can deliver them to where they want to be.

I worry that we have gone so far that only a revolution - a real revolution - may be the only thing that can bring us back. But I continue to believe in democracy, in the people. I continue to believe, as Martin Luther King Jr. said, "The arc of history is long, but it bends toward justice."

I tend to think it doesn’t so much bend toward justice as it weaves, bobs, dances, and cavorts around and eventually ends up there. I just wish that me sitting here grinding my teeth together was more of a help than it is. 

Wednesday, May 24, 2006 | by nathan

The Long Way

So I almost never watch Malcolm in the Middle. I have absolutely no opinion on the show whatsoever. But then, I was randomly watching the series finale, because it’s on our TiVo for some reason. And I was absolutely awestruck by the following exchange, when Malcolm and his mother are arguing about his future.

Malcolm: I’ve been suffering all my life!

Lois: I’m sorry. It’s not enough. You know what it’s like to be poor, and you know what it’s like to work hard. Now you’re going to learn what it’s like to sweep floors and bust your ass and accomplish twice as much as all the kids around you. And it won’t mean anything because they will still look down on you. And you will want so much for them to like you, and they just won’t. And it’ll break your heart. And that’ll make your heart bigger, and open your eyes, and suddenly you will realize that there is more to life than proving you are the smartest person in the world. I’m sorry, Malcolm, but you don’t get the easy path.

My dad said pretty much the same thing to me before I left for college.

I let that sit there for a week; then I was listening to Taking The Long Way today, and the first song on the disc has been on repeat since this morning. You can read the lyrics here; if I posted them all this would start to resemble a high school journal.

The whole idea keeps ringing in my heart, like a bell. One of the most intense criticisms of my personality that I ever received was this: "Nathan, you always have to do everything the hard way."

Perhaps this is true. But I feel like in my life I have had to do everything my own way, and, as I am not usually that bright, I find myself doing a lot of things the hard way. I want to learn everything on my own, without help or tutelage; this often means it takes me a whole lot longer to catch on or get the hang of things than most people. But also, it has made me observant, and watchful, and these things have made me a good writer.

When Rich and I were breaking up I remember we had a tearful conversation about how I felt like I had no life experiences, like I had been so sheltered and self-isolated for most of my life, because of my insistence on working through everything myself, of figuring everything out on my own, on getting there my own, longer way. I told him that he had so many experiences that he took for granted, and that I wanted that. He is not really known for his piercing insight, but he said something I will never forget:

"You’re not the kind of person to take things for granted."

God, I wish I was. I do; my life would be easier.

The song has me thinking about all the places I have been, both physically and spiritually. I think about all these crazy adventures I have had - downhill piggyback races with drunk Irish guys, flagging down a Wheaton College van on Michigan Avenue, sleeping in Woody’s trunk in Hurricane, West Virginia; traipsing all over Europe with my little yellow duffle bag; climbing Mt. Yale in Colorado; finding my way home in a drunken haze at five in the morning.

And I think about the qualities that make me who I am, and how some people seem to like me, and a few seem to really, really hate me. I think about how it makes me squirm when I get a compliment, even from Brian, who had this to say to me today:

"If I could, I would throw a party in your honor every day."

I think about everything it took for the two of us to come together - just from my end it always seemed like I would never get here. I think about all the boys who hurt me, and the ones I hurt, and how much like death it felt to come out, or to be in high school.  

I have absolutely nothing about which to pat myself on the back. I have nothing to ever convince anyone that I am cool, or better than anyone else. And somehow I am at total peace about this. I mean, think about it - yes, I traveled around the world, I went to school out of state - but I moved back, lived with my mom for a year, and have not left Oklahoma except to travel in three years, and I am absolutely thrilled about that. I am still friends with a lot of my friends from high school, and I would not change that for anything. My tastes in movies, music, clothing, and television leave a lot to be desired in the coolness department, and I am not a brilliant conversationalist a lot of the time. And yet I am finally in a place where I just don’t give a shit who knows that.

Ahhhh, but it’s so much more. I used to want people to think I was somebody, you know? I have known people in my life who could stop conversation in a room with a laugh, or an insightful comment. I hated myself for being the kind of person who entered unnoticed, often said little, and then slipped out, feeling as if the room had heaved a sigh of relief upon my departure. I spent all of high school, and a fair bit of college, trailing along after people who I thought would make me cooler by my association with them. And of course it didn’t work, and a lot of those people ended up really disliking me.

Which, it turns out, is fine.

I worried for a long time that returning to Oklahoma would mean that my adventures were at an end, that all my ways of convincing people that I was cool would dry up. And it may mean that; I have not checked in awhile. But what it has also done is forced me to slow down and really look at what is around me - at good friends who begged me not to move away because they loved me and wanted me around; at a family that somehow manages to love even my flaws, and a man who can turn an afternoon drive into a sacrament.

It’s not perfect. It’s not globe-hopping adventure, or crazy success in my career, and it is definitely not cool. As of yet I have achieved and failed at every single one of those things.

What it is, is Mine.

I used to play a game where I would pretend I had fallen asleep way, way back - say, when I was sixteen - and awoken to this life, this person I am. I would pretend that I had to thumb through my bills, or my papers and records, my pictures and my wallet to find out who I am now. Also, I used to think about what I would change if I could go back in time, to do every moment from the first day of college, or of high school, or of this decade, over again. I don’t play that game anymore. It’s not that I had some huge revelation of the wonderfulness of my life, or that I made some decision to stop regretting and start living. I think I slowly realized - and am still realizing - that the life I have now, screwed up, poor, unsuccessful, uncool, Oklahoma-based, and still awkward and strained as it is, is exactly the life I would pick.

I got here my way. My way is not perfect, and if I could change some things, I would. But I can’t. And a lot more of the time, that is okay with me. Because I find that the things that used to keep cutting me wide open - envy, regret, fear, insecurity, self-loathing - are cutting me less, and less deeply, than they once did.

There are friends all over this city, and this country, and the world who care for me, and who do it so well I can hardly stand it a lot of the time. Tonight Bri and I had hand-crafted beer at our favorite local brewery with the Flynns, and we ran into Steve, our neighbor, who sat and asked us about our wedding. Thank You.

I have a mom and a dad who sacrificed anything I asked so that I could be educated, but who drew painful boundaries so that I would know how to be good at being alive. I have a brother who can kick my ass, which is only fitting, as I used to kick his all the time. I have aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents who, for some reason, believe that I might be a success someday, but who love me anyway and will let me write about them. Thank You.

There is a man upstairs who is asleep, and who will wake up the second I get in bed just enough to drape his arm around me, which is the only way I can sleep. Thank You.

The road I took, the way I got here - my heart does not allow me to take him for granted. My heart has been broken a lot, see, and that made it bigger. The problem with this is that it hurts more. K.C. and I talked this weekend about how we share a condition that Anne Lamott calls "clinical sensitivity," which pretty much describes it. It makes for good addicts, and good writers. In the latter, in her case this is true; I hope it will be in mine someday, too. (It already has been for the former).

Two years ago I am pretty positive I was drunk, because it was 2004, and I was drunk a lot in 2004, because my world had been falling apart pretty much nonstop for three years.  

Life is often unbearably wonderful and sad at the same time. I do not understand this. For now, I do not need to. Good night.

Tuesday, May 23, 2006 | by nathan

Cool, Cool, Cool

So today I got to do something I have dreamed about for quite some time:

I got to sign a contract to get paid to write.

My internship at the Gazette is over, and so Rob brought me my contract to be a contributing writer, which I got to sign - wham! - with my signature, and on the "Title" line, write "Contributing Writer."

God, I am stoked.

Rob showed me pictures of their new baby - he seems like the coolest child ever. In one picture, he’s even doing the "Moose" salute - his fists all raised up by both sides of his forehead, his tongue sticking out. I said, "I think you may have a smartass on your hands."

Also, I updated the Sounds page with some new summer music, all linked with the appropriate place at Amazon and/or CD Baby where you can buy any of them you like. iTunes just finished downloading the new Dixie Chicks earlier, and I’m telling you - one of the best country albums I’ve heard in a long time, and not just because it punches Toby Keith’s musical teeth down his throat.

Good music and my first writing contract. Could this day get better?