"When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became an adult, I put away childish things."

For several years now, people have told me that I acted and behaved older than my age. I don't mean to brag about this, but it's given me an interesting perspective on notions of adulthood, and where one draws the line between child and adult. I've always socialized outside of any age restrictions, making friends among younger children and my age peers as easily as men and women of 30, 40 or 50, but I've always considered myself a child, even among people only a year or two older than I am, until recently. This trip has really brought into focus the fact that I am becoming one of the college students that came across to me as almost a higher caste. The quotation I began with, in my interpretation at least (because there is no meaning in the text ~_^), brings out an important fact in Paul's growth: he no longer perceives himself as a child, but as an adult. The bit that Paul leaves out is that putting away childish things isn't very simple. It takes a lot to look at what you've known and say goodbye, casting aside that which has been with you through many difficult and formative years. Walking down 125th St. today (yes, I'm in Manhattan at the moment, but leaving for Maine in the morning), I realized that the people I passed by were not looking at me as a child, but as just some guy walking down the street. I'm starting to see that guy too, and I think he'll do alright for what's in store.

I write to you now from the Julia Rogers Library of Goucher College, MD, wher I have just spent the morning in classes and interviews. It's ben a busy week, and I've been disconnected for most of it. Last Wedensday, My dear brother Tripp and I drove (well, to be precise, he drove, I played music) on down to Huddleston, VA, to prepare for his wedding. We stayed at a beautiful cabin on Smith Mountain Lake, far from civilization, with a breathtaking view. After spending a couple days fretting and running errands, the day arrived, and I can say in all honesty that it was one of the best weddings I've ever been to. The entire service embodied the joyful quirkiness I've come to expect from Tripp and Trish. I also got to visit with many dear friends, both old and new. Mark and Susie and Luke were in attendance, as were lesser-seen-but-just-as-exciting-to-see Laura and Sarah, Justin and Mae, and new friends Larry and Kate. Much partying, dancing, good music and good food ensued. The morning after, I got up much earlier than I should have, and made my way to the bus depot and rode the day away on a Greyhound bus, finally arriving in Baltimore.

So, that brings us fairly well up-to-date. I'll post something fairly long on maturity and growing up when I have the time (probably in the next couple of days). Later!

And a good Talk Like a Pirate day to all of ye, mateys! I'm here to tell ye about a timber-shivering good show ye should swing by, tomorrow night at 8:30 at Kafein, where the grog is good and the waiters all have multiple piercings, like good pirates should. And on this particular night, you'll be able to hear many swashbuckling good musicians playing their tunes, including myself and my good mate Ian Lempke trading off vocals, guitar and tin whistle, and joined by a special guest, me old bucko Tripp Hudgins (of the Irish band One of the Girls) on the mandolin. Be there, or be consigned to Davey Jones' locker. Yo ho ho!

...is a big day. And on a Sunday, no less. I can see it now...

"The Lord be with ye, matey!"
--"And also with ye! Arr!"

"Arr! Blessed ye be in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Grog-- er, Ghost!"

"And Jesus said, 'Shiver my timbers! This be my body, given for ye.'"

Tomorrow's gonna be FUN.

Looking back, my posts for the past week or so have been moderately depressing. It's interesting, because I haven't felt the way I would expect the author of those past entries to feel. Sure, I've been under a bit of stress, but none of it romantically related (for once), and I've actually felt pretty good when I can get out and about. So why the themes of abandonment and loneliness? I really don't know. It's a bit like gardening with unidentified seeds (or what I imagine gardening would be like, as I have been banned from taking care of plants, for the sake of all plants everywhere). You can put all the work and effort into raising it well, you can water it, give it plenty of sun, make sure it's set in fertile soil... but you won't know what it is until it's grown. It's somewhat similar when I write. I can put forth all the effort, and give birth to something that (I hope) either sounds pretty or has some literary merit, but I don't know what it'll be about until I go back and read it over. Weird.

Tears shed into the too-bright sun
Sparkle with deceptive beauty
As they are drawn down his face,
Defying standards of masculinity.
"Boys Don't Cry" my ass.
She is the one standing stoically,
Swallowing the rising emotions and hiding them
Deep in the corners of her mind
Before turning her back and leaving.
"Till death do us part" just doesn't mean what it used to.
He doesn't understand what set them apart
She doesn't understand what put them together.

"Dry your eyes mate/
I know it's hard to take/
But her mind has been made up/
There's plenty more fish in the sea/
Dry your eyes mate/
I know you want to make/
Her see how much this thing hurts/
But you've got to walk away now/
It's over"

"Dry Your Eyes" - The Streets

(With deep respect for Tim Burton and Johnny Depp)

I lived alone
In my own little world
Never wanted
or needed a girl
Until I came down
From my mountain peak
And I saw your lovely face

And I feel like Edward Scissorhands
Misunderstood and incomplete
Nobody wants me around
I'm a pariah, a certified freak

I cannot touch
Without causing pain
I cannot be with you
And it drives me insane
I carve your likeness
From blocks of ice
So I can see you everywhere

And I feel like Edward Scissorhands
Misunderstood and incomplete
Nobody wants me around
I'm a pariah, a certified freak

I know that you're down there
Among your own kind
But you should be with me
Our hearts are entwined
But the world around
Is angry and scared
And they drove us apart

And I feel like Edward Scissorhands
Misunderstood and incomplete
Nobody wants me around
I'm a pariah, a certified freak

Probably could use a little tweaking, but it's a draft, anyway. Suggestions and constructive criticism is welcome, as always.

"Every word is like an unnecessary stain on silence and nothingness."
~Samuel Beckett

Someone took this shot of me making a fool of myself onstage at last Sunday's show.

That's me with the glasses and the Guinness shirt and the evil red eyes. I kinda look like I'm throwing up, but I'm really belting out the chorus to The Proclaimer's "I'm Gonna Be."

She decided against a Quaalude. Quaaludes made her feel sleazy. What was the point of feeling sleazy if you had no one to sleaze with?
Could you conjugate that? To sleaze. I sleaze. You sleaze. We all have sleazen.
Words constantly annoyed her like that, reminding her of the gulf between Art and Making a Living. "Mona's good with words," her mother used to say matter-of-factly, "if she can just learn to Make a Living at it."
Her mother Made a Living in real estate.
Mona hadn't spoken to her in eight months, not since mother had joined the Reagan campaign in Minneapolis and daughter had written home breezily about her Sexual Awareness Retreat at the Cosmic Light Fellowship.
It didn't matter.
More and more it seemed that Mona's real mother was a woman so in tune with creation that even her marijuana plants had names.

Tales of the City, Armistead Maupin

I've been doing a lot of performing lately, it seems. Last night was my third week playing at Kafein's open mic, and Sunday I went to a back-to-school party/concert at my friends Kelsi and Bonnie's church, where there was a lot of jumping around and going crazy, and I jumped up onstage to sing along to a cover of "I'm Gonna Be" and "Amazing Grace." Shameless plug here, check these guys out, they all rock (Hey, they were nice enough to humor me onstage): "Flatfoot 56 and Neophyte Standing. Thanks to Kelsi and Bonnie and Megan, and thanks also for the friendly folks at the Revolutions youth program for being friendly and fun and all-around cool people. And for teaching me never to ever play "Banana Hose."

Part of the college preparation experience is visiting various campuses that I'm interested in living on for the next four years. This is a sound premise. The only flaw with this premise is that I have to plan the trip whereon I visit said campuses. Yes, my Myers-Briggs labels me a J, but only just. I'm like a caffiene-free diet J. As such, this is indeed a daunting task. It's not exactly chopping down the mightiest tree in the forest with a herring, but it feels like it sometimes.

I have been reminded to post the full story of the chipmunk incident, which Dad mentioned a few days ago. Not quite two weeks ago, I had gone up to Kalamazoo for Heather's ordiniation, and stopped by at a bridal shower for Tripp and Trish on the way home, so I'd been gone for about 24 hours. I'd dropped all my stuff, dinked around online a bit, and talked to a couple friends, who encouraged me to come by Kafein and hang out with them for a bit. I went back downstairs, and was in the process of putting my sandals on when I heard something moving in the basement. I immediately froze and listened carefully. I heard it again, and let my instincts take hold. I slammed the basement door, ran outside, and got the neighbors. Five minutes later, I prepared to reenter my home, this time with Michelle, who had brought Roy, their dog, and Frank, who had brought a baseball bat. After ringing the doorbell and waiting for a minute or two, we started exploring, poking around the basement with trepidation. We were just nearing the furnace when I saw the menacing silhouette in the window: a three-inch rodent. After establishing that it was, in fact, a chipmunk (whom I now refer to as Mr. Chippy, in reference to a fabulous comic book by Roman Dirge), and that we were wholly unprepared and unable to capture it, Frank, Michelle and Roy went home, and I kept the basement door shut. Two days later, Mr. Chippy had an unfortunate encounter my neighbor Ellen's cat. Thus ends the tale of Mr. Chippy (Ooh that's bad. Pun not intended, sorry).

Incidentally, Mr. Chippy's method of entry had been a puzzle for a few days, until I tried to do a load of laundry. Evidently, he had fallen down the dryer vent tube and ripped open the foil-wrapped coil at the bottom to get out.