I should be a model.

Firstly, an apology: A blog about my life would be a lot more interesting if my life were interesting right now. But lately it's been pretty standard. Take my recent Thanksgiving vacation — it sounds textbook to me: going home; seeing my family; seeing my high school chums; sleeping in; taking a break from my regular life; planning to read books and write music free from the stresses of the aforementioned life; eating too much turkey and pie; playing a pickup tackle football game with some friends but mostly strangers bigger than me; freaking out about getting tackled or having to tackle someone — I've never ever played tackle football before!; getting over it; feeling like a tough guy in a way I rarely do; going to a party that night with the aforementioned chums; realizing that I'm still crushing on the same girls I crushed on in high school; realizing that I'm still the least traditionally desirable guy in the room (although the room has changed quite a bit); going home alone but totally okay with that; eating too much good food that I don't have in Portland; being scolded about my eating habits; feeling bad about my self and my body image; feeling ready to go back to Portland two days before my trip ends; not getting ANY reading or writing done; but unlocking the secret level in LEGO Star Wars; staying up all night before my morning plane flight (like always. I'm not afraid of the flying — it's the uprooting I hate); losing the rest of the day in Portland half asleep; awaking to the same fears and doubts I left a week ago; eating the leftovers Mom packed in my bag; Mmm, they were yummy.


Secondly, a confession: I took a little creative license in the preceding paragraph, for the sake of the story. In actuality, I did not bring any leftovers from home home to Portland. (Which home is "home?" That's another story. Another poorly written story.)


Thirdly, a second confession: It took me a few minutes to remember the word "confession." I was all set to use "admittance," as in, "something to admit." That's not what "admittance" means. Or is it??!


Fourthly, a recommendation: Yesterday saw the release (in New York and Los Angeles) of a film called The Diving Bell and The Butterfly, an adaptation of the book by the same name. You all know of it, so I'll summarize briefly. It is about a man who suffers a stroke and loses all ability to communicate, save for blinking his left eye. In this terribly limited capacity, he manages to write a book, blinking one letter at a time, about consciousness inside what he calls his "diving bell."

Now, I have not read this book, but I am definitely going to; I hope that it addresses an issue I've got with the universe (possibly my biggest issue), which is this: there is so much going on in the world (and in my room, and in my head), so many sensory inputs, that I cannot process them all, let alone communicate them to another person. The communication is the important thing to me - to be understood is to not be alone. And unless a person is in a constant state of description from the moment he is born, he will always be behind, trying futilely to catch up with his life that is moving forward at the speed of, well, life. That man can never be fully understood. And that is a terrifying prospect to me. I can type 100 wpm, and speak faster than my mother can understand, and I still can't keep up with life. Having all of my communication slowed to a crawl, to one letter every second or so? I can't imagine.

I'll report back after I finish the book. If you've read it, feel free to report to me your opinions on it.


Fifthly, which is also lastly, a third confession: Growing up, I never in a million years thought that I would become the type of person who does this:



Yet here I am.