this is the first thing i remember:

mike.  why did i call mike?  was it because we had the same birthday?  did that necessitate friendship?  our birthdate was one of two things we had in common; the other was that we were born in the same hospital.  same hospital, same day.  what does that matter? why did he always instant message me and find my new myspace pages?  i was a year into college, he was a year into a career at aeropostale.  couldn’t we leave it at that?  (we could.)  i called him.  (we didn’t.)  i was in the parking lot of the new ’super’ wal-mart at the ‘dorman centre.’  (the british spelling was not fooling anyone, this place was trash.)

(years before, my cousin had played football for dorman high with stephen davis on the very spot my car was parked.  why was i hanging out in the wal-mart parking lot?)

mike picked up.

‘yello?’

‘hey…wanna go do…something?’

i walked around wal-mart while i waited for mike.  i think i bought floss.  i think i still have that same package of floss.

mike arrived.  two girls ran from his car, squealing and giggling.  i didn’t understand mike.  i still don’t.  we decided to leave his car in the wal-mart parking lot; we would return later, much later (4:30 am), with alcohol on our breath.  in the in between time, we drove 40 miles west, we changed a flat tire, and i met the girl that spiraled two years of my life into nothing.  pools and guitars and hot tubs and exposed brick walls.  mcmansions.  private school.  she was from another world.

four months later, she bought me a johnny depp biography for my birthday.  somehow, i knew this meant it was over.  for two years, she was the first thing i remembered in the morning, the last thing i thought of at night (in a crowded dorm room, in a cave on boulevard).  she was a secret.  the world never knew.

without her, i’d never be the man i am today.

this isn’t a story about lamenting ‘the one who got away.’  this is a story about the ironic chain of events that led me to the love of my life.  sawing and nailing.  who was i before i sawed and a nailed?  i was no one.

these may not be my favourite authors,

but they are my favourite writers.

• Jack Kerouac
• Chuck Klosterman
• Tao Lin
• Richard Yates
• Albert Camus
• C.S. Lewis
• Dave Eggers
• Kurt Vonnegut
• Stephen Dunn (poet laureate of my list)

the ice of boston is muddy.

and i slip on it every time.

it took five men to dig my car out.
it was only the first snow.

kids.

we were kids together
(and i mean kids as in
“the opposite of adults”).
we were outcast together.
we were in-between states
together.

apart, we were together.
alone, we were together.
in new hampshire, together.
park benches and trains,
downpours and snowfalls,
together.

your face has changed since then.
your features have swirled into the
graceful elegance of a woman.
you’re not a kid anymore;
you’re more beautiful than ever.

snow.

the last time i saw snow like this, i mean really saw snow, i shared a secret in a house full of strangers.  i began to feel like i wasn’t a stranger after all.  snow in march, snow in october.  what’s the difference?  both are abnormal.  even here.

human life is dangerous.  the cyclical pattern of our days means we take things for granted.  our minds go numb.  every day could mean something, could be worth while, instead they melt together into periods.  elementary school, college, rebellion, when i played football–whatever.

as sam beam would say, “our endless numbered days.”
human life is hard.

on one side of the spectrum, we have a fresh day upon waking.  the sun rises every morning, despite anything.  these days can blur together, feel like chores.  routine makes life possible, boring.  we are always in danger of sleepwalking through our lives.

i have been guilty of this far too often.  i look back at my four years in college and see very few distinct moments/experiences; a look back at my time in high school produces even fewer.  it is hard to treat each day as a gift when they all seem so much alike.

on the other side of the issue, our days are numbered.  no one is immortal.  no matter how endless this barrage of clean days may seem, it can be so for no man.  life on earth always ends.  we are always in danger of fearing our own end to an extent that it interferes with daily life, weekly life, monthly life.  we are in danger of transfixing and writing albums, poems, notebooks full of fear and worry.  we are in danger of forgetting the point of life in the first place.  we are in danger of forgetting Love.

let us never forget Love, for Love never forgets us.  Love is light.  Love is caring.  Love is action.  Love only exists for those with childlike spirits.  Love for the cynic is as hard to see, as hard to achieve as Heaven is for the rich man.  Love refreshes each day.

each day is a gift.
each endless, numbered day is a beautiful, inescapable gift.
human life is what you do with it, how you perceive it.

Love locks itself out of the house and laughs.  Love sets its shoes on fire (accidentally) and marvels at life.  (it is anarchy that sets its shoes on fire purposefully.  nihilism does not have shoes.)  Love steers through deep snow on the interstate and keeps a smile attached to its face.  Love notices the difference in the shade.  Love cannot be exhausted.

the poets and the saints sometimes realize how precious human life is.
i say we should all strive for that realization anew each morn.
we haven’t much time to make a mark on this world, no matter how endless these numbered days seem.

those late night promises.

“i’ll be your friend.”
but you just haven’t made me yet.

“i’ll call you tomorrow.”
but i don’t have your number.

“i love soccer.  yeah.  i’ll meet you in clemson.”
i mean, i do love soccer.

“i got a big place in memphis.  you guys should come up.  you could sleep on the floor.”
i never believed that one, personally.

“both of my parents are from boston.  yeah.”
who said that one?

“we can try again next week.”
or maybe next, next week.

“yeah, i think i’m going to try to call you more, like once a week.”
no, that’s far too often.

“you guys are really great together.”
but you’ve already broken up.

“it’s like a hotness sandwich.”
but only one piece of bread was hot.

“you’re not going bald.”
why do you lie to me?

today is exactly how i feel.

some people give themselves too much credit.

i give myself too little.  let’s be honest and forthright here–growing up is hard to do.  in middle school, i remember people talking about how hard puberty is for tweens and teens. ‘the hardest transition of our lives.’  they were wrong.  if i had stopped after college, they would have been correct.  if life were over at 21 when a degree was placed in my hand and evans p. deferred shaking the other because we  had more honorary doctorates to give out, that would have been true.

college was easy.  college was simple.  familiar.  college seemed permanent and happy.  four years.  maybe this is just the path i took.  easy undergrad degree, plenty of fun to be had, but you’ll pay for it later.  maybe i’m not even making sense.  i don’t miss college, life is just hard once you are released from that shell.  or maybe it’s not.  maybe it’s just me.  maybe it’s just having to do this alone.

i did move 1000 miles from home.  1000 miles from kathryn.  i can’t remember what originally made me want to flee south carolina.  i’m sure it’s a composite of 1000 things.  the earliest seeds were probably sown during my fifth grade trip to dc, but that’s not the point.  the point is, here i am.  i am farther from south carolina than paris is from rome.  i could see a fourth of europe in my 19 hour drive to south carolina.  maybe that’s a drive i don’t really plan on making again.  i can’t call it home.

home is where the kat is.  i don’t care what anyone thinks about that.  it’s the truth.  i’m getting married in may.  in the meantime, i have to allow myself some leeway.  growing up is hard to do.  i’m alone here in massachusetts.  let’s be honest, it’s a beautiful, wonderful place.  it’s the birthplace of autumn, but at the end of the day i’m not going to get coffee with a friend or walking around some downtown with a new digital camera.  life is tough right now, but it’s making me tougher.

and i can’t complain, i just can’t complain.  i am provided for.  i have a beautiful fiancee, a job, love from the highest, and a brand new macbook pro just in case.  sometimes my brain just runs ragged and gets a little foggy.  sometimes i just need to take a nap or eat a whole thing of frosting with my fingers.  sometimes i need to do both.

history of.

just made a ‘history of emo’ playlist.  it is by no means a history.  it is by no means made completely of ‘emo’ music, other than the fact that i consider all of the songs to have emotional qualities.  it includes:

• ou est le swimming pool (electronic)
• monsters of folk (folk?  no.)
• brand new (‘america’s radiohead’)
• tears for fears (‘new wave’ kings)
• rilo kiley (‘indie?’)
• elliot smith (swoon.)
• the cure (obviously.)
• weezer (miss you, days when weezer was relevant.)
• the vaselines (missed these guys too.)
• the smiths.  (obviously.)
• phil collins.  (hah.)
• kid cudi. (pioneering the emo rap genre.)
• kanye west. (grandfathering the emo rap genre.)
• gillian welch. (too new york to be folk.)
• death cab. (emo.)
• starflyer 59. (marginalized =.)
• emmy the great. (of course.)
• the replacements. (oh my.)
• jeff buckely. (seriously.)
• manchester orchestra. (slowly going the way of the buffalo.)

there are more artists on there but.  i’m done typing.  i have no pertinent commentary at this moment.

50 ways (1/5).

1. fall down the steps.
2. bad sushi.
3. southern accent.
4. the usual.
5. focus.
6. blood vessels.
7. social anxiety.
8. caffeine withdrawals.
9. meta-cognition.
10. taking a left when you should have taken the first right past the hardware store.  (directional miscues.)  you’d be surprised at how certain roads stretch and curl back in on themselves, or even toward nothing at all.  nothing specific at least. sometimes you get on a road and just keep going because it seems like this road would eventually connect to a road you are more familiar with.  it seems like the same general direction.  this was one of those times.

an initial look at the psychology of selective twitter.

selective twitter is interesting.  what makes one decide this ‘tweet’ should be on facebook and another should not?  what thought process adds ‘#fb’ to the end of this one and not that one?  there’s a whole psychology behind selective tweeting; the roots are exposed.

if i say ‘i’m cleaning my room,’ i don’t deem that facebook ‘worthy.’
so what can make this sentence ‘worthy’ of going on facebook?

(why do we even want our twitter updates posted on facebook?  aren’t we the people who, when faced with the ’silliness of twitter,’ tell our friends that we do it only for ourselves, as some kind of ‘running journal’ to look back on.  there is no rise and fall of hearts or days as we publish or refrain from publishing our twitter updates on facebook.  to understand selective twitter updates, we must understand why post updates to facebook in the first place.  it seems to be ~75% egotistical.)

the twitter updates that we send to facebook seem to be of some self-boosting nature.  these tweets usually involve self promotion–’check out my new blog. #fb.’  usually, if we think we said something funny, we send it to facebook (‘yo, george washington, i’ma let you finish… #fb.’)  most people are more likely to send a tweet that mentions their significant other to facebook, especially if said person does not tweet (‘just had ice cream with my girlfriend. it was SO great.  we’re totally in love or something. #fb.)  we’re also very likely to selectively tweet something that seems like a large personal accomplishment (‘just ran two miles in a thunderstorm! whew.  #fb’)  some people send tweets about their personal spiritual life to facebook.

i guess the last one is the only one i’m really not guilty of.  in fact, after i finish this post, i’m going to tweet it and send it to facebook.  i’m not passing judgment on selective twittering, but it’s interesting to think about what the tweets we pick really say about who we are.  i think.