That Awkward Moment When You Realize You're Going to Die One Day

There comes a point in everyone's life when they realize it has to end at some point.

The lucky of us just ride the tidal wave until it crashes on the shore, concepts of existence wasted on people too busy playing the cards they've been dealt and just go all in. They find joy (or at the very least, distraction) in the busyness and day-to-day rush of life. The sudden stop is of no concern to people with no seat belts, because they're just enjoying the ride.

And then, there's people that the idea of death just sticks to them like a Pigpen-esque cloud, stepping in cadence with their fearful shuffle. The slightest threat to their fragile existence is met with expert cowering and flailing of hands combined with picking the flight side of our adrenaline effects. Life is precious, and they're eternally and terrifyingly aware of how easy it is to go the way of the dodo.

I never even thought about death, honestly. It was a nebulous concept that didn't matter when I had the metabolism to consume four liters of Mountain Dew along with an office-sized box of Sour Patch Kids and call it breakfast. I had more important things to worry about, such as figuring out how edible two-day-old Papa John's is (verdict: surprisingly good!) and getting home in time to raid with my guild in World of Warcraft.

And then two unforeseen events kicked over my delusions of immortality.

The first one happened when I heard a sickening screech of brakes and metal twisting outside of my home, usurping the quiet summer evening that we had been enjoying. I ran outside to find a capsized SUV laying next to its prey, a truck, a sedan, a car of some sort, I honestly can't really remember. All I remember is helping the larger car's passengers out of their beached whale of a vehicle and then walking around it to see the husk of the other vehicle-that-had-been, its driver not moving other than sporadic, painful breaths that shook their entire body. I sat with the hysterical driver of the SUV as she kept asking me about the other driver, questions I couldn't answer in good conscience. So I just told her about imaging laptops at work, about how crappy I was at organizing them, how ridiculous some of my co-workers were with technology, just stupid, banal stuff. I didn't know what else to say. "Oh, you've probably just killed another human being, no biggie" isn't something you just tell someone that instinctively knows what they've done. That might seem terrible and tasteless now, but the honest truth is that at that point, everyone in that area was separated into the living and the dead and the reality was just as harsh.

I watched as the emergency crews cut the other driver out of their vehicle, saws singing their terrible music as the firefighters and EMTs went through their routine of attempting to punch the reaper in the face. Tonight, though, the judges would vote for the reaper in 12 rounds, and as I watched them work in the siren-cut night, I came to the realization that whether it was in a pretty way or not, we all end up like that poor sod. To this day, I don't understand how emergency workers live through each night without drinking themselves into a stupor to avoid that daily reminder of their own end that could come just as easily.

A few months later, I was sitting on my kitchen floor in a daze as my wife told me the news that would cement my relentless sense of the passing of time: she was pregnant. I was gonna be a dad. My stare alternated between the floor and those two pink lines that bore undeniable proof of my lineage continuing. But that moment was nothing compared to when I looked down at my son screaming back up at me, telling me that he was unappreciative of the world he just took his first breath in. Suddenly, I was painfully aware of everything that could happen to him, not just to him, but to him if something were to happen to me. Every room he was in was scanned meticulously for possible pitfalls and accidental electrocutions. Every food he could eat was viewed with a critical eye, its ingredients pored over like Scripture, and in some cases, memorized as such. Suddenly, I was slowing down in my morning commute, watching what I ate, and staying home more often to avoid any possibility of dying to outside causes.

This all came to a head last Christmas Eve when I suffered what felt exactly like cardiac arrest. My chest felt tight, my arm was going numb, and as we prepared to leave for the emergency room, I looked at my little boy packed tightly away in his car seat. I thought about all of stuff I wanted to do with him that my dad had done with me, how badly I wanted to be there for him as he started his walk through life, and it broke me down. I started bawling. For the next 12 hours, I sat in that hospital room with plenty of time to think about the expiration date of the little fist-sized muscle in my chest while IVs pumped drugs into my veins and Christmas movies distracted me from the fact that I had never felt closer to death in my entire life.

As it turns out, I apparently had a panic attack, or at least something similar. My discharge papers didn't exactly spell things out in a way that a guy with a bunch of meds in his veins could comprehend. My issues were part physical, part mental, and all terrifying. Everything seemed short-sighted and meaningless. Everything seemed so fleeting now, and I missed that laissez faire attitude toward life, where each day was an adventure and full of potential and not of metaphorical and literal deathtraps.

This is where my latent ADD and an all-new bout of depression shook hands and said "let's make magic!"

My job was now meaningless, I was wasting my life fixing computers, attending meetings, and chiding middle schoolers on their internet usage. I wanted to pursue my dreams and make the most of my limited time on this earth, but every time I tried, I would get halfway through the planning process and flip the table when I felt unprepared to fail. In the past year, I came up with ideas to run an esports organization, write for gaming websites, stream for charity, create content for YouTube, and write acoustic songs, all with excellent planning and forethought (I have pages of documentation, a domain name, and personalized email address for the esports organization alone), but as soon as I took steps toward them, I became incredibly aware of my incompetence that had been proven through the past decade. It was a vicious cycle of beating myself up for not doing something, daydreaming of a way to escape my office prison, getting the details right, focusing on all of my weaknesses, running away before I could screw it up, and then beating myself up for not following through with something for once and it all started all over again. Repeat ad nauseam.

When I officially left my previous job, they told me I wasn't a good fit, and it was absolutely true. Of course I wasn't a good fit, because if I was honest with myself, I was too busy keeping my head up my butt and flipping everyone else off. It's pretty easy not to be a good fit when you don't even feel like you're any kind of a shape. Eff their shapes, I wanted be a blob, just blob anywhere and not have to conform to anything and be responsible for separating my current life from my ideal life. I wanted to blob around and wallow in my blobbiness and blame myself and everyone else simultaneously for my unsuccess. It doesn't matter what kind of potential I was born with or could create, it was all lost in the blob of anger, hurt, and frustration of what I had become.

So what happened next? Well, to quote the perennial comedy classic Monty Python and the Holy Grail, "I got better."

Kinda.

To this day, I'm still not sure where I stand. As a Christian, you're taught not to worry about tomorrow and to rejoice at your passing because you'll receive your eternal reward. The fact of the matter is, though, the unknown is still a scary thing. Not knowing when, where, and how that stop comes is daunting even with the promise of eternal life. That fear is what drives me now, desperately searching for that passion and reason for my stay on earth. I don't sleep much. Too much to do to sleep, and I don't even know what I'm doing, but I'm doing it because I'm too scared of doing nothing.

But I'm getting there. This blog post is weeks in the making, scraping away the procrastination and forcing myself to just take one damn step, Aaron, take one step toward doing something worthwhile with your talents. The words in this post are my steps toward realizing some of my potential that the Good Lord planted in me from the start, and if I truly believe his Word, if I am "being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will carry it on to completion"*, there just might be some hope for this sad sack of sloshy organs. The creative being that has been trapped away in the walls built of years and years of excuses is finally starting to chip away at the floor when the guards aren't looking, and I'm hoping he escapes and sings me into action like Ronnie James Dio in The Pick of Destiny. In the meantime, I'm in a workplace that I feel driven to support those around me, and even though I don't want to be an IT guy for the rest of my life, this is a good stop on the journey and proper provision for my family.

One day, I hope that peace finds me. One day, I hope I can rest in the assurance provided by my faith. One day, I hope that I can enjoy the simple life of being a family man and not weigh my worth in what I do or don't accomplish.

That day isn't today, but I have hope that it's soon.

Hopefully, before I, yeh know, die.


*Philippians 1:6

The Gamecube, The Basement, and Jeff

This is an extension of an article that I wrote for The Maine Edge a month or so ago. Someone told me that the tone seemed awfully escapist and didn't accurately reflect my intended thoughts. So here, have a second helping. It started when you first invited me over to your house and placed your fresh copy of Final Fantasy VIII into your PS1. From the very first moment of that CGI opening, from the very first faux-Latin chorus of Liberi Fatali, my mouth was agape and my eyes were insatiable for those pre-rendered backgrounds and pixelated polygons mixed in the holiest of matrimonies. As someone that had an NES and SNES for the greater part of his childhood, watching Squall and his party walking in step through the gorgeous scenery of Balamb Garden set my mind on fire.  I wanted more. I needed more.

My visits to your house became more frequent, not just because of the games, but because of the camaraderie that sprung from it. There was never any drama at your house, there was no room for it in all of the fun. In fact, the closest we got to drama was the hour or so we took every night trying to decide what game to play.

After a few months of playing those PS1 games over and over again, I came over one night fully expecting and anticipating more of the same. However, as I walked into your basement, and when I saw that small, purple brick that subsisted on a diet of the world’s smallest optical frisbees, I immediately fell in love. The controllers were odd, alien, and yet immediately intuitive and comfortable. I adored the way the teeny-tiny discs sat expectantly in their cases, waiting to be peeled out and played. It was the first time I fell in love not just with games, but with a system as a whole. There was a magic about the Gamecube, that Nintendo magic that was packaged into that behandled square.

Now, I know that we had plenty of other systems and plenty of other games that made countless memories, but something about the Gamecube just stuck with me. To me, it became an anchor to one of the best times of my life. Over the next decade, the basement in your house was nirvana. No matter how rough school got, what girls dumped me, and when life in general just wore me down, your house was a safe place. A place where everything that was bothering me got left at the door, dropped with our shoes and forgotten with the rush of unzipping backpacks filled haphazardly to the brim with games and Mountain Dew. Years went by, and you never changed, and I mean that in the best of ways. You were a calming presence, someone I always could count on to be exactly who they said they were.

Unfortunately, we all have to grow up at some point. You moved out to Colorado a few years ago, and I didn’t even say goodbye. Didn’t feel right to, and I was hoping that with the advent of the internet as my main mode of communication, there’d really be no reason for farewells. I don’t want to say that we fell out, because we never did, but we drifted. That’s what happens when people live 3000 miles apart, the glacial pace of separation rearing its ugly head.

Without you here, I needed some kind of reminder of where I’d come from. I was quickly devolving into someone I didn’t know, someone incredibly cynical and mean-spirited that had no faith or sense of wonder left in him. In an attempt to throw a lifeline to a part of me that was quickly drowning in a sea of uncertainty with no confidence to keep me afloat, I found myself collecting Gamecube games. For whatever reason, these teeny discs were a link back to that better version of me that existed with our old friends in your basement. It was like picking up the pieces of my history, trying to fit them together and remind myself of where I came from. I had fallen so far away from finding happiness in the little things, and these little discs were slowly but surely reminding me about the best side of me I’d allowed to lie dormant for the past half-decade.

It all came to a head one sleepless night. My wife and kiddo were deep in dreamland, and I sat in the glow of my CRT, playing through the Adventure Mode in Melee in a terrible attempt to find a way to beckon the Sandman. I beat Master Hand, shot at the credits screen, and slowly watched my character’s trophy slowly descend and clatter to the table. As the gentle strings played out the quiet victory theme, I felt tears leap to my eyes. I hadn’t seen this screen since 2002, down in the safety of your basement. Immediately, so many memories of you, me, and all of our friends gathered around a CRT just like this one without a care in the world. You grow up, you get married, and life just dumps all of this crap on top of you. I mean, it’s not that I detest my family, I love them dearly and I can’t even start to imagine myself without the two of them, but the weight of responsibility is incredibly heavy sometimes.  You forget what it’s like to legitimately not  have a care in the world, focused only on having the time of your life with your friends. In that brief scene, I felt my burden lift ever so slightly. It’s not about the escapism, it’s about taking a break from reality for a second so its easier to remember what’s truly important in life. There are days when you can take a minute to breathe and go back to your adult life with that bit of imagination sticking to you, like a happy balloon floating above your world of spreadsheets and meetings.

So this little moment of triumph stuck with me. For a brief second, I felt that same spellbinding exploration of imagination, that love that truly started that first time I held that odd, horseshoe controller with its odd little button configuration. That wonder, that excitement and exhilaration of simply playing a game that you absolutely adore: you started this. You’re the reason I’m writing this article right now, Jeff. You helped me realize that this hobby of mine is worth immersing myself into, and that there’s still magic in it, this bit of child-like wonder that keeps me exploring these fantastic worlds and allowing myself to be absorbed into their fiction.

And it’s all thanks to you and that little purple cube with the weird controllers.

One-Armed Man: A Retrospective From The Cliffside

Today, I woke up with no hand.

At least that's what my brain told me. Brain woke me up out of a dead sleep, screaming "AARON, YOUR HAND IS GONE, WE NEED TO GO GET IT BACK!" I flailed around, trying to assess the situation through sleep-dried contacts and sleep-addled wits. For a few brief moments, I fully believed what my brain was telling me. I grabbed my left arm with my thankfully-working right hand, shaking it like a demon-possessed Slim-Fast, willing my apparently amputated limb to reappear.

This is all funny right now, but when you're working off 3 hours of sleep or so, that's bloody terrifying.

"Now, Aaron," you ask with semi-patient foot tapping, "is this going to turn into a ridiculously contrived metaphor for something that's going on in your life?"

First off, I don't think it's that contrived. Second, yeah, I guess I am.

If you're one of the few people that are fairly close to me, you probably know most of this, but for the rest of you that may not know the entire story, allow me a bit of exposition before I get into the meat of the post.

August 2011 to July 2012. The absolute worst, darkest period of my life. It all crashed down as I lost my job, left my apartment, moved back in with my parents. My confidence was shot to hell. I lost any sort of self-respect, slowly closing my personal borders to all but my then-fiance and my family. The only way I felt like I could deal with other people was through the barrier of Skype and a few hours of gaming. Other than that, I didn't want to deal with people. I abhorred the very thought of social interaction. If necessary, I could make it look like I didn't want to claw the eyes out of anyone that spoke more than five sentences to me, but I just wanted to be left alone. For the first time in my life, I genuinely considered suicide as an option to end this depressing venture and default on this terrible investment in my life thus far.

I found rock bottom in a 5-hour-a-week position at Whitney's Supermarket, cleaning out their meat room after they'd shut down for the day. I viciously detested this job. Shoe-deep in beef-laced water, scrubbing floors, and stocking shelves, but it was all I had. It was enough to pay for the gas from Charleston, and that was about it. I never felt so useless than in that job, so small and unimportant, so humbled. All I wanted was a way out.

Desperate to push away from this miserable existence, I started the steps toward joining the Air Force. Suddenly, I had to be better. I had finally found a reason to improve myself. Almost every single day, I was running a good mile-and-a-half, pushing myself further and faster each time. I had a sense of purpose about me again. I was sprinting toward a career, a stepping stone to self-worth and happiness, the ability to take care of my wife-to-be. It felt fantastic, and it seemed that there was a light at the end of the tunnel.

For a while.

I had my first doubts when the process started slowing down. Suddenly, there was roadblocks to every entry point into the armed forces. Debt, high school and college transcripts, and various other minutia were piling up, putting the brakes on any sort of forward progress. I had time to think. I had time to realize what my options actually were.

To this day, I'm not sure if it was fear, a sudden enlightenment that I never wanted to go into the military, or maybe a mixture of both, but I sent a polite email to my recruiters that said in no uncertain terms that I wasn't going to be wearing dress blues anytime in the next few dozen decades.

While this severely impacted my possible career situation, I found that it had actually alleviated my depression to the point of being around two or more people without the urge to beat people that broke my five-sentence fence with their own arms.

Problem was, I was still jobless, confidence-less, and now, living in a new apartment that I had absolutely no money to pay for. For the month before my wedding, I stayed by myself, searching for jobs by day and gaming by night until I literally was too tired for my burdens to keep me awake. Sometimes they still did. I slept on the floor of what was going to be Janelle's and I bedroom, sharing a sleeping bag with failure. Failure hogs the bed, by the way. Every night, the heavy summer air clung to my face, threatening to finish the job of suffocating me before my burdens got around to it.

July 1st. Sunday. I wandered into the back of my parent's church, enveloped in my own special blend of depression and disgust with a pity party in full swing. I sat down in the back row, callously watching the faithful up front kneeling at the altar, praying to a God that at this point I felt had screwed my life over. Bitterness had all but consumed me at this point. I was done with religious frivolity, done with the happy faces and "Lord bless yeh, brotha!", so done with all of these people whose every answer to any question was "YOU GOTTA HAVE FAAAAAYTHUH!"

Where the hell had faith gotten me? Faith had driven me into the very depths of self-worth. Faith had taken my job, my apartment, and my ability to have any sort of support for my wife. Faith had taken my personality and left me a stone-cold shadow of myself, desperate to cling to whatever bits of me I had left from my descent into madness.

Screw God.

Where was God? Where had He been when I lost everything? Where was He now that I was huddled in a corner of my mind, desperate for some sort of warmth and comfort?

Screw God. Screw it all.

All of this was running through my mind whilst I kept my emotions hidden behind the stonewall, leave-me-alone glare that I had perfected during my years of working retail. My mother, Lord bless her, didn't even hesitate. She sat down next to me and tried her best to encourage me, but most of it just buzzed through my ears. I didn't want to listen anymore, but she kept talking until I finally deigned to lend her my attention.

"...I just want you to have a job that you can be passionate about," came the tail-end of her last sentence. I glanced at her, gave her a half-hearted smile and nod, knowing she just wanted to help. I knew it wasn't going to, but I didn't want to hurt her feelings and brush her off.

Over the span of the next minute, I learned to never, ever doubt the effectiveness of the prayers of loved ones.

Not even 10 seconds after she said those words, not even 10 seconds, my friend Paul popped by my seat. Now, if you've met Paul, then you already know that the man is a 6'4 social butterfly, and when you see him coming, you're in for a pleasant conversation, whether you like it or not. In my current state of mind, the last thing I wanted was to talk to anyone, but I figured I could attempt to keep it brief. I had guests to attend to at my pity party, and they were an impatient sort.

"Hey, when you shippin' out?" he inquired while giving me a friendly buffet on the shoulder (which generally just about knocks me over). I politely replied that I had decided not to enlist. With Paul being a former Army man, I figured he'd be disappointed in my decision to remain a civvie. Instead, his eyes widened a bit and a smile spread across his face.

"Hey, you want a job?"

Paul works over at Dexter as the Technical Coordinator, and had heard through the grapevine that one of the area schools was in need of a new IT guy. He knew I had the skills to fit the bill, but he hadn't let me know yet because he thought I was still going into the Air Force.

I sat there, mouth agape at this turn of events.

10 seconds ago, I was a callous, bitter skeptic, ready to write off both life and God in one fell swoop.

That was 10 seconds ago. Suddenly, after months and months of searching and utter desperation, a job offer landed in my lap.

Granted, I was still cautious. There's no guarantees in this current job market, but I had a peace about it as I walked into Ridge View Community School's library for my interview. I mean, no pressure, right?

After all, it was only the day before my wedding.

I stumbled and weaved through their gauntlet of questions with all of the grace of a pregnant hippopotamus on ice, but my interviewers were gracious and friendly and helped put me at ease. I stepped out of the school that day with an old friend I thought I'd never see again:

Hope.

I pushed it all aside for my wedding the next day, focusing on the most important day of my life and just trying to take it moment by moment. It started with me strolling down the streets of Hermon singing  "Get Me To The Church On Time" at the top of my lungs. It moved to me walking around on the tables in the back room of Hermon Baptist Church, trying to assuage my nervousness with childish antics, my dad watching me with a mixture of bemusement and the wistfulness of a man that was remembering his own wedding day. I watched my wife walk down the aisle to the opening of David Crowder Band's "O Praise Him", the piano melody, as beautiful as it was, didn't compare to her radiance.

"I do."

"I do."

Kiss.

Drive away with Mrs. Janelle Waite.

It wasn't until we were well into Boston and enjoying our honeymoon when I got a call from Ridge View:

I got the job.

Tears welled up in my eyes as I thanked God for His faithfulness to an ungrateful urchin like myself.

As I sit in this Tim Horton's typing this all out, it's been almost a year since the events of those times, and once again, I find myself in a similar position.

I found out about a month-and-a-half ago that I was going to be laid off. No one's fault but the economy and the state of things, but I had the short straw this time. Budget concerns and whatnot. Not really sure, it's all above my pay grade.

I'm going to be honest, it's been gnawing away at me. I had just gotten comfortable with my job, my awesome, awesome job with an office with my name outside it and everything. I had just gotten back to the point where I had a self-worth that wasn't about to commit seppuku, and now, everything's falling apart again.

It hurts. I've been pushing you all away, and I'm fully aware of it. I don't talk to people about it, because  I shouldn't breath a word about my loss. It's no one's issue but mine, but I have so much on the line now. I have a family to think about, and this doomsday clock has been ticking over my head since early May, a quiet, deadly ticking that doesn't stop, even when I dream. I don't sleep well most nights, and I suppose that's because I internalize it all. I haven't talked to my wife about it as much as I should, I haven't sought support for it, because I felt I can handle it all. I don't interact with my friends, because I don't want to be arsed to pretend like everything's okay. I am a tank, and this is my battlefield. As long as people see how strong I am on the outside, then they won't worry about the grenade about to go off inside the hatch.

I'm frustrated. I don't want to deal with this all over again, because, quite honestly, I don't know if I can take it another time. The last time almost broke me, and now there's much, much more on the line.

I'm not necessarily writing this for you, dear reader. I need to write this for myself, I need to get my thoughts on a page and put it up so people can understand where I'm coming from when I excuse myself and wander away from their attempts at social interactions. I don't hate you. I just don't want to talk to you. It's nothing personal, it's just how I deal with this crushing weight with a straight face.

I feel like a one-armed man that can only cling to the side of the cliff he's hanging from but can't climb up to safety (ha! there's that metaphor!).

I want to have faith again. I want to be confident that God will come through for me again.

But I gotta be honest, I'm scared witless, and at this point in time, it's very cold out on this cliff by myself, and my fingers are slipping.

An Exhibition on The Anatomy of an Existential Crisis

Insert Disk 4 of 10: It's Okay To Leave It Behind

Nostalgia is a terribly funny thing, a cruel, warped mistress that can build our memories to god-like expectations. For instance, I write this while listening to an old recording of my old band, and hearing my 18-year-old voice crack and passionately hit high notes that I had no business reaching for. But as I listen to it, I remember the feeling of being onstage, belting out words that came from my heart, the weight of a microphone in my hand and a feeling of being exactly where I belong.


Games run this same gamut with me. I’ll hop over to Good Old Games or find some Top 100 NES/SNES games, browse through the list, and upon seeing my childhood favorites, my eyes grow distant and my heart wistful. It’s like all of my friends have come together for a high-school reunion.


“Oh, Lords of the Realm II! Do you remember the good times we had sending those peasants to fill in the moat under a hail of arrows? And how you could send correspondence with the AI opponents, like sending fart jokes under the banner of a compliment? Sheesh, that was endless fun! How are you making out these days? Oh, Sierra went under? That’s too bad, man. Your third game sucked? Aw, man, I am so sorry. Hey, I’d love to stay and chat, but I see Space Quest and King’s Quest over there, and I wanted to catch up with them. Take it easy, Lords of the Realm II!”


“King’s Quest and Space Quest! Holy crap, I figured you guys had died with the rest of the adventure games in the mid-90s! I see that you’re staying alive through VGA remakes of your earlier stuff, KQ, but other than that, I haven’t seen much of you. What’s that? Telltale Games is remaking you? That’s awesome, man! How about you, SQ? Oh, that’s right, you never got past the sixth game. You deserved much better, especially after the fond memories of you getting me through the Ice Storm of ‘96.”


Silly reunion shtick aside, there’s only one reason we replay old games, and it’s not because they “don’t make ‘em like they used to” or “you gotta get back to your roots”. We don’t even play them because we seriously think that all of their mechanics are better than most of the much-improved systems of today. The number one reason we play old games is simple: we’re trying to recapture that feeling.


You know, the feeling of starting off on an adventure again. The feeling of becoming completely and utter enthralled in a universe of someone else’s creation. That, for lack of a better word, joy. We dedicate online shrines to preserving these classics, somehow hoping to encase that rush for us to enjoy again and again.


I’m sorry, but I’m going to give you a terribly bitter pill:


You will never, ever feel that exact same way again.


You will never, ever recapture that glory.


You will never, ever recreate that experience.


Nostalgia has its place in the world, and that’s seated directly in the past. Any attempt to dredge up those exact memories is only going to end in serious disappointment. At some point, we have to leave those memories behind and enjoy them as just that, memories.


By the way, in retrospect, that band I was in was absolutely terrible. But you know what? It was a blast at the time, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. Just don’t expect us to ever play your bar mitzvah any time soon.


Aaron Waite would like to point out that Chrono Trigger is completely exempt from this rule of nostalgia.

Challenge Accepted

(Current writing music - Everett - Destination EP, click for free download of awesome ambient music)

In a few days, I'm going to pull off the riskiest financial venture I've ever taken part in.

I'm moving into my own apartment.

"Now, Aaron, you silly, daft fool, why in the name of Robin William's beard are you pulling such a stunt? Your budget consists of gasoline money and Monster Rehabs. What are you going to do when everything is crashing down on you at once? What happens when your car breaks down and you have to repair it? How are you going to save up for your wedding? What about school? What if you can't afford to continue your education?"

Continue, ad excuseum.

Everyone that has told me anything similar to this has said it with the utmost amount of love and care, so please don't think I feel that common sense is the plague that flattened the medieval world. I just happen to have different views on the subject.

Now, how to put this without making myself out to be the aforementioned daft duck*...

I'm something of an impetuous person. If something passes my filters of possibility, I'm generally gung-ho about it. No use in doing something, as the kids say, "half-butted". And trust me, I'm scared to death. I'd be the dual-aforementioned daft dolt not to be. This opportunity, much like my musical career, is something that seems fascinatingly improbable.

Here's my two reasons:

Number one, and least important:

What's there to lose?

If I fall flat on my face, if I flub everything up and end up back in my parent's basement, what have I truly lost out of my life? I've gained experience, and my life will go on, allowing me to apply a possibly embarrassing situation to the rest of my life. If I succeed, hooray, go me, I win a bunch of bills and quite possibly an Oscar (currently in the running for Best Whining Performance While Losing A Game of MLB 2K11). Again, life goes on, I apply what I did right, improve on it, and be a wiser person for it.

Number two, and most important:

I feel God is guiding me down this path.

Whoa. I just felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand straight up as you menacingly reach for your keyboards. You believe I shouldn't toss God's supposed divine calling toward things I want to, twisting it to my own will and forcing God into my chosen path.

As it so happens, I feel the exact same way. Trust me, I've been around enough Bible college students that have gotten a mate that way, enough evangelists and Christian artists that line their holy drawers with a divining rod of a silver tongue. It's not pretty, it's not right, and it's not a viable method of planning your life.

I say with all the meekness I can draw from a willing and broken soul that this ridiculous venture is part of my ridiculous life calling. An opportunity has opened for me, and with fear and trembling, I'm stepping through it. Not as cop-out for forgetting responsibility, but with an open heart that truly believes that God has His hands in silly little things, like where you live.

It's an adventure. I wouldn't have it any other way, and I will boast in my shortcomings so Christ can be glorified through a terribly trivial life like my own.




*According to Proverbs, it's keeping your piehole closed, because it's better to have people think you're a fool than to open your mouth and prove it. But that wouldn't make a very good blog, now would it?

Dreams Will Destroy (Your Pride)

300 plus hours.

300 plus hours that we can't get back, and we can only move forward.

Sheldon and I have been going through something of an emotional roller coaster the past 12 hours. Our day started brightly enough, with UPS dropping off our new equipment. A new mic and a few odds and ends may not sound much to most, but to home studio metalheads, it literally felt like Christmas. Our minds were sharp, our hearts were eager, our ears confident and ready to hear the newest sounds that we were going to create.

We were invincible.

My voice apparently didn't get the memo.

Take one with the new microphone was a sparkling example of a failure (see also: Robert Pattinson's Twilight character). Take two wasn't any better, and within ten takes, I had stormed out the door, spitting verbs and subjects that indicated I was going to take my hissy fit to the streets of Brewer.

I power-pouted for a good quarter-mile, questioning my ability at every single step, and every step a new burden on my mind.

Was this really the dream I had given up stable footing at my job for?

The notion for which I watched my grades drop while I threw everything I had in me at excelling at this this quote-unquote "noise"?

The ministry that just days prior had come just a few words away from ending my relationship with my fiance?

It's humiliating; watching your dreams destroy you with the very gifts you've been given to pursue them.

I looked to the heavens for evidence of my sanity. I poured my broken heart out to my Creator, the God that gave me this gift of vocal destruction. While there weren't any bright lights, sandstorms, or Nazi scientists getting their faces melted, I felt peace grow, if but a tiny bit, in the core of my 5'10 being. I was still on the right track.

It just wasn't going to be nearly as easy as I thought it was going to be.

You know, God doesn't infuse the language of a people into the minds of missionaries. He doesn't shove the entire text of the Bible into the memory of a pastor. These things take time, they take perseverance, they take dedication.

Why in the world did I think I was any different?

There's an old saying, one that states that God doesn't call the equipped, He equips the called. It doesn't mean that everything will be smooth sailing just because you're called to your purpose. Missionaries must study the culture and language of the people they intend to minister to. Pastors improve on their speaking techniques and double-and-triple check their words to the flock. Metal vocalists have to learn techniques so they can take care of their voice and make it sound the absolute best for a God that deserves our absolute best.

I was humbled.

Unfortunately for me (and fortunately for future me), my slippery humility slide still had a few twists and turns left to crush what little was left of my pride.

Looking for different ways to develop my vocal technique and the recording thereof, we stumbled upon a Swedish young man that was recording his own album, in a home studio much like ours. What little of his material completely blew an ego-sized hole in our once-mighty works.

We had been so proud of what we had accomplished. We threw around adjectives and superlatives like they were money in the bank. Our confidence in our abilities told us that we were better than any of the bands in our area. Our pride said we could break down walls with naught but the power of our guitars and growls.

Within five minutes of Scandinavian shredding footage, our egos had deflated to nothingness. We sat in stunned silence for those few minutes, breaking the silence only to remark on the guitarist's ability.

Once again, destroyed by our very dreams.

Sheldon turned and looked me in the eye with an incredibly strange mix of both depression and determination.

"We need to scrap the EP."

I was too stunned to not agree. We had both been flattened by this cosmic bus of a wake-up call. Our eyes looked up after being knocked down from our self-built pedestals, and we saw the weakness in our ways. Our months of practice and writing were not enough.

From that moment on, we've aspired to change. We are casting more and more aside to chase this dream God has given us, to hone the talents He's given us. We want His approval more than earthly glory, to change lives more than we want to pat ourselves on the back.

It's a painful process, tearing yourself out of the equation and planting your hopes into hands bigger than yours.

It's so worth it though.

Our wounds are still fresh. This loving chastisement has opened our eyes, and they are fixed on the prize even more than ever before.

The audible manifestation of our dreams will destroy not only our egos, but barriers into dark places for the light to be seen.