My youth and my age are turned on their heads in me.

There’s a young man in me – not the type with a slackened jaw and wide eyes at the world, who listens, and reaches, and aches for every feeling and sight – but the kind you hear in the other aisles at the grocery store, whining for things in a tone many years too childish for his evident age. He is dirty, not because because he has been discovering things, but because he does not like to be clean. He is loud, not singing, but because he does not like to listen. He squints at you, not because he wants to see you any better, but because he has already decided you’re probably the type he doesn’t like. (He’d turn up his nose at you if he were any taller.)

I’m trying to shake him off.

There’s an old man in me, also, and he wants to sit down – not because he is tired, but because he just doesn’t care to exert himself. (Thus, his limbs grow weak from inaction, rather than the alternative.) He is quiet in conversation, not for humility, but for apathy instead; and besides, he’s above conversation with most folks (or thinks so, at least). He does not care if you hear his muttered critiques. They won’t do you any good, anyways. He pauses his grumbling to chuckle when you fall. He has read more books than you have (or at least better ones), he speaks more convincingly than you (or would, if he deigned), and he’s an influential(/persistent) voice in whatever community he graces.

I’m wrestling with him.

I’m sorry if these are the voices I let speak: the whiner and the grumbler. They are the louder voices in my ears, and I’ve a bad habit of parroting their mantras.

I’m praying for the youth and age the Father asks of me: that which stares, listens, feels, and wants to sing at what it sees; that which discerns, and is calm, and wise, and acts righteously for its wisdom.

Please be patient with me when I fail. Part of me is only human.


Q &

Why is it that I think so much more than I feel?

I’m not concerned about it. (Or I try not to be.) But I’m curious. (Or I try to be.) On the playground of my conscious life, my Mind is a quick and cackling imp, running circles around a ponderous and distracted older child: the Heart. He’s looking off into nowhere particular and ignoring the probing jabs and shouts of the younger boy. His eyes focus and unfocus with frustrating irregularity (frustrating not to he himself, but to the imp, who begs incessantly for the older boy’s help with random this-or-that’s and all too rarely rarely receives it).

I wonder why the older boy won’t focus like the younger wants him to – and whether or not it would be good for him to do so.

What is a waste of time, and what is esoteric, and why am I afraid of the both of them?

I don’t know if it’s valuable to record these wandering monologues. Do they help us think more clearly, or muddle us further? I think they help me; I hope they help you. Writing is like taking a picture of thought: every idea which once flew or flickered, promenaded or snuck about, is suddenly frozen and on display. Writing is like wrestling: difficult, sometimes sweaty, and dangerous around fire. Writing is like vomiting: one feels as though one must get something out, and feels better for it, afterwards.

I wonder why thinking feels so effortless, and is so difficult to present proof of.

Why do I feel I must anchor myself with legalism, and fly with liberality as fuel?

I rest and find peace in rules. (“I must make myself sleep for a given amount of hours.” “I need to balance play with study.” “I have to-“) But I am joyful and reinvigiorated when I break them. (Have you ever walked out to stare at the stars at two in the morning? Have you skipped school? Do you know that gut feeling that you are doing something right? Do you distrust it?) Would Icarus have flown more safely with a pair of heavy boots? I can’t tell if balance is supposed to be the careful weighing of extremes against each other, or a steady stream of pleasures and inconveniences so mild that they need hardly be weighed at all.

I wonder if I am procrastinating, or preparing.

The Orlandians // 140

Twitter said, “Can you tell a story  with 140 characters?” I replied, “You can bet your granny’s biscuits.”

140 ch - FL 6-11

A jacket snapped against the wind with a crack, and her hair blew in his face. Water? No. Blanket? It can wait, and he cannot. Disney.


He looked on at the young man in the aisle across from him, ignoring his father’s pitiful peace offering. He was fingering some kind of metallic device, with a lot of knobs and reflective things. Whatever it was, it seemed awfully confusing…IMG_1374

“A man who can laugh at himself is truly blessed, for he will never lack for amusement.” – J. Carlos


If I raise my eyebrow like this, no one will ever realize how tight my pants are.

Wearing another man’s face is a tremendous opportunity, he thought for the umpteenth time in however many hours. Immediate recognition, excitement, adoration. This is wonderful. He never realized that the world was distinctly lacking one more cement mixer on 11th and Boone. It’s funny how things get unbalanced that way.


Newly wed, she thought, with a funny smile. Sounds a little funny. And so she picked out the little funny hat for her bald husband, and they lived happily, and entertainingly, ever after.
p.s. 1-5 were good to.