Info

you don't happen to know where the phrase "hang out" comes from do you?

it originates from history when hangings were popular, so if there wasn't anything better to do they'd go "out" to a hanging.

Maybe We Can Figure it out Together

I tried to decide what the point of life was. Solomon's words, though I rarely read them, began to echo in my head.

"When I applied my mind to know wisdom and to observe man's labor on earth—his eyes not seeing sleep day or night-then I saw all that God has done. No one can comprehend what goes on under the sun. Despite all his efforts to search it out, man cannot discover its meaning. Even if a wise man claims he knows, he cannot really comprehend it."

Then I got into an instant message conversation...



Josh: do you ever listen to songs on repeat way too many times in a row?

Grace: oh yes. I do that with most of my songs/ albums, actually. I have to wait years before I can enjoy them again

Josh: YESSSS!!!

Grace: which song are you having this experience with?

Josh: But when you finally remember to come back to them, or decide you'll listen to the album(even though mentally it doesn't draw your interest), its like hearing it for the first time again. well yesterday and today its been "while we wait" by Jack Johnson

Grace: Have you heard A Fine Frenzy yet?

Josh: yes!!

Grace: "You Picked Me" is my favorite thus far

Josh: lookin it up on itunes...

Grace: I almost cried when I heard that song because it made me think of God

Josh: downloading it...

Grace: I'm kind of sensitive like that. I cried at the ballet on Friday night too, haha!

Josh: that's great! i cried when I saw "Dan in Real Life"...which is a comedy.

Grace: Which part?

Josh: but I'm still a man!

Grace: Haha, but of course!

Josh: when he plays the guitar...can I ask you a deep question?

Grace: yes of course

Josh: quotations around deep

Grace: haha

Josh: what is the point of your life?

Grace: great question!

Grace: I'm not sure I know completely, but I have an inkling...Wow, I'm not entirely sure I can answer in this little message. If you really want to know I can try to write it out in a message to you

Josh: Yeah.

Grace: I've never actually written it out before, but I'll give it a go. I think it would be an excellent reminder. Plus, I would love to know what you think. What is the point of your life, Josh?

Josh: I'll probably know best by the time I die. I'll write it out

Grace: Great!

Josh: so much seems so illogical, so irrational, that as time goes by it gets harder to see the necessity in much of anything. I suppose thats the sentiment Solomon had with all his riches.

Grace: Yeah...Josh, I really want to step out of it all for a bit, you know? This has been a really strange season for me. Wonderful, but I miss stillness.

Josh: what do you mean by "it"? all the stuff you're supposed to be doing?

Josh: italics on "supposed"

Grace: Yes. There is always something to produce or something to engage in or something/one to tend to. I've suddenly become an extremely "busy" person. I want to connect with Dad on some seriously deep levels again, I feel like it's been a long time. I think I can bless and love people so much more when I can invite them into rest with Him instead of a whirlwind of social preoccupation. I'm so thankful that I was hidden for so long with him

Josh: What do you mean "hidden"? I assume you mean socially...and I feel the same way. I feel stretched every direction.

Grace: I don't know how to explain it really. I suppose you would have had to have known me before to really understand. Yes, socially I was below the radar until just recently, actually. The only one I felt truly known by was the Lord, and that was and is still such an intimate connection. But now there are a lot of people who know me and love me. It is such a gift, but it's just different. But it was more than just that. How do you feel stretched?

Josh: I seem to move in two speeds...the one where I seem to pass through life like a north-easterly wind that gently collides with other winds and breezes. We move in and out of eachother effortlessly. Then I get sucked in by a storm of tornadoes in the form of people with agendas, alcohol dominated parties, late nights. the rat race of competition to find a wife, to make a certain amount of money, to fit in. I haven't put this into words before so I don't know if it makes any sense. There are times in my life where I just sit and know that I can just sit. While people chatter all around. And then there are times in my life where I sit and think I have to be sitting a certain way.

Grace: I understand.

Grace: Haha, yeah. Even the quiet moments can be flooded with expectations

Josh: Yes

Josh: I sat watching a movie last night with a friend, and started staring at the ceiling. I was wondering what it would be like to serve God in every moment. And I got that fuzzy feeling. And then it got interrupted because my friend asked what I was doing. It only lasted a moment, but I still wonder. Its that feeling that seems to get interrupted far too often. Maybe its that pursuit of God that keeps getting disturbed. Maybe that's all you and I can really ever figure out. That we think there IS a God and that he DID die for us and that we want to keep pursuing him and seeking to serve his desire for our life. We will doubt, we will question, but we keep seeking to serve.

Grace: Josh, I want a God vacation. I want to get lost in him because He always meets me. That's exactly what I want just some time with him to soak in His radiant love and be free to worship Him in thought and action without concern for appearance. I know it might sound really corny but that is what i want with all my heart.

Josh: that's freedom

Grace: I am his daughter and ambassador. I have to know him to know myself and my purpose. Without fresh encounters with Him, I seem to loose sight of my identity, purpose, and authority. Plus, He is my Joy. I glow with joy when I am aware of his love for me

Josh: I don't think I need to saying anything back to that.

Grace: Oh, just checked the time. I have to run to my mom's, she is having a birthday party for me and my sis

Josh: you're pretty unique. now get out of here with your uniqueness

Josh: !

Grace: Hahaha! I will speak to you again soon, Josh (though it may have to be after my exams this week). Hope you have a lovely evening!

Josh: Thanks. OH! HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Josh: Its good to be alive!

Unfinished Dance

And we dance,
As time dies away.

And we know,
Death be as it may,

We dance forever,
forever and a day.

He'll miss her.
He'll stare at that picture.
She'll always be there,
At the end of his fingers.

The Way I Feel

Isn't it interesting that emotions are initially so involuntary? We can control what we think, what we do, but its a lot harder to restrict what we feel. Sure you can hide your colors, stifle them, shove them in the closet, but they're still there. Emotions are perhaps the truest and most honest part of ourselves we can give. They're also so dangerous. Well, in our own minds. Emotions cut out mazes of deceit. Emotions are like getting clubbed with a T-rex fibula rather than sliced by a butter knife. When I wonder how I feel about a person, the surest way to find out is to wait 'til they meet someone else. How does it make me feel to know part of my past is starting a new future? That's my litmus test.

Last Weekend I Went to Heaven

Do you ever kick yourself for discovering something you should have found long ago? I did that this weekend. Los Angeles, as many of you don't know, can be a pressurized and distracting city. Sometimes it can inspire me with all the glitz and characters, and sometimes it can drive me crazy. And when I start to go crazy, I go where things are slower. Where people think slower. Where the wind blows more gently. Where life gets simpler. Last Saturday at five AM, I got in my Chevy Cavalier and headed for a coastal town called Big Sur. From the beginning it was a unique trip: for one, leaving so early meant no traffic, a rarity in LA. As I sped along the 101 freeway, I passed by city after city. Then I passed Ventura, the furthest north I'd been in California. And about the same time, the land began to change. The hills seemed to get hillier and the grass greener, and I knew I was away. Soon I was cutting through mountains along Highway 1, commonly known as the PCH(Pacific Coast Highway). Now I must preface by pointing out that I live in Los Angeles and I've lived in Santa Monica, so seeing the ocean is nothing new. But when I came around the bend of a towering green hill that wanted to be a mountain, on my left I saw the big blue ocean like I've never seen it before. White cresting waves drew minus signs all over the place while seagulls flocked by the hundreds. The ocean seemed bigger, wider, more untouched than ever before. On my right those green hills climbed higher and higher, streaked here and there by flourishes of yellow dandelions. It must have been really funny, because I couldn't stop laughing. I think I laughed on and off for two hours until I saw a sign:

Hearst Castle
5 miles

Well shoot! Why not? So I found myself taking a five mile bus ride up into the hillside where the late William Randolph Hearst once played host to Hollywood stars, powerful politicians, even a mistress during the earlier 20th century. The castle sits up in those green green hills, with a view even God must be proud of. The ocean now seemed bigger than all the land around me. The tour was probably two hours long, and I loved every second, despite repeated scoldings by the tour guide. I kept drifting from the walkways and onto ancient rugs and walls without meaning to. My eyes were just too glued to what I was surrounded by. Or maybe I'm just a clutz. Anyways! I got back in the car and started laughing again. A few hours later those green hills were mixed with redwood groves and deep gourges cut out by cascading waterfalls and crisp, clean rivers. Since the ocean was still on my left, and still beautiful, I was still laughing. Well, finally I came to a little Dutch-style inn called Deetjens. Since I hadn't eaten anything all day, I went inside. A cute little brunette told me they wouldn't be serving 'til dinner, so I sat down for a cup of coffee and started asking about the area. I knew this girl had lived here all her life from the moment I first looked at her. She had that wide-eyed, glazed over gaze that so many northern california/oregon girls have. She had a certain purity about her. She could look me in the eyes indefinitely. And she always seemed on the verge of a smile, but not completely. Almost immediately I made the mistake of confusing this for attraction. Or perhaps I was right and she was attracted, but as we talked she eventually began cleaning in the adjacent room where her boss and a man sipping wine over a local paper could not judge our conversation. At least that's the way I saw it. She told me I should camp at the Fernwood Campgrounds. She told me they had live music tonight and a bar that all the locals went to. She told me there would be a lot of "hot" waitresses there. Ah, but I had already found my hot waitress! "Well if you're not getting done too late here, you should meet me there later..." I throw out. You can always tell before they utter a word whether they're game or not. She starts with a "well..." and finishes with "I have a...(head cocked to one side)boyfriend, so I'm not sure how that'd look..." she says. "But thank you, I'm flattered" she tacks on for good measure. Hmm. How do I salvage my honor, "well, I don't think that'd look too good now would it?!" and then I just start laughing. She laughs a little so I assume I've melted the ice that was starting to freeze over our conversation. I asked a few more questions about the area, and with my confidence still decently intact, I headed for Fernwood.

Let me again preface what I'm about to tell you. At the Hearst Castle I stopped by the information desk on my way out. The elderly lady standing there told me that I should have no problem whatsoever getting a campsite this time of year. So I figured it'd be a piece of cake. Wrong. I pulled into Fernwood Campgrounds only to find out that everything was taken, and not only that but the neighboring campgrounds were full as well. So I went into survival mode. Where would be a good place to park my car and sleep without being bothered by a ranger in the middle of the night? This drew the sympathy of the park guy, and he "created" a campsite for me between two cabins. That was great. I payed the handsome fee of $35 and scooted past all my fellow campers, feeling like I was safe. Wrong. Not only did I have no pants to wear in the quickly cooling air, but I failed to bring tentpoles for my tent. So I cancelled the $35 charge on my card, and headed to get something to eat.

Atop a hill I sat drinking local beer and watching the sunset, couples all around hugging eachother close and whispering secrets that made both man and woman smile. It felt good to be alone, but I now became aware of my own desire to share such an experience with someone else. I love being alone, but I also sense this innate desire to be "with someone". Just to be with them. But for now the ocean and the redwoods are enough. And the beer. So I kept writing, until the man to my right asked:

"what's that you're writing there? Is it a book or-"

"Its a screenplay."

"Oh wow. That's great. What's it about, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Well, its basically a fantastical version of my family's life. Mark Twain plays a part in it."

"Oh cool. Honey you hear that?"

The man's girlfriend had been listening all the while, so I found it extremely funny he would ask such a question. "Yeah. Kinda like what? Like Big Fish?" she asks.

"Yeah. Yeah that's...that's about right" and then the conversation trails off. I turn back to the sun, and then back to my notebook, until a few moments later a man to my left leans in "Sorry. Excuse me. I couldn't help but overhearing you're a writer? That's...I'm Joe. This is my wife Setiva. She's a writer".

"Oh cool. Se- what? How do you spell it?"

"S.E.T.I.V.A"

"Oh Setiva. That's a great name. So you're a writer?"

"Well, I mean..." and I've already realized that she is intimidated by me. She has no idea that I've never been published, never completed a novel, but she is, because of her self-doubt, intimidated by me. I wonder how often I do that. How often I give up my confidence when there is no reason to. Setiva may be a fabulous writer, far more capable than me, but she definitely does not know it. There are a lot of areas where I don't "know" my own abilities. Where I don't trust those abilities. Why? Fear is useless. Its not a comfort to her to shrink back. What is the difference between boldly claiming her abilities and passively shrinking away from them? A mindset. And that mindset starts with a decision to believe in what she's been given. We choose how we view life. That is the one variable we can control. How we view our life and the world around us. Well eventually I found myself back to writing, the sun all but hidden behind the horizon. Hours later, with a latte and four cups of coffee absorbed, I headed for the Fernwood Bar and Grill.

The old wooden building could hardly contain the music inside. I ran my hands through my hair one last time, opened the door, and again began to smile. Here was Big Sur, all in one room. Well every twenty something and a few fifty year olds. Even a few of the waitresses from dinner were here. An all black band was playing funky jazz and the whole place was alive. I walked past the many locals, my steel-toed camping boots bending the redwood planks like a cowboy entering a saloon for vengeance, "Can I get a Firestone?" I ask in a noticeably high pitched voice. Dangit. Why can't I ever just sound cool for one moment? Well that thought is cut off when I realize that the bartender is the same guy that gave me the campsite earlier. And the girl to my right is the cashier at the gift shop I bought lime green hemp pants from($45) and immediately returned when I found my own pants stuffed in the trunk. I get my beer and start to scope the place out. A few pretty girls. A lot of guys that look like idiots(guys always look like idiots, especially when they're talking to the pretty girls we other guys want to be talking to). The band is roaring. There's a sax, a base, a lead, and a drummer. The tables are shakin'. I put down the beer and join in as the basist commands us to dance. We form a ring and somehow I find myself in the center awkwardly contorting my gangly legs in a bold attempt to win the respect of all Big Sur in one fell swoop. Maybe it happened. Maybe it didn't. But it was awesome! From time to time I would walk past a major hippie with dreads that probably hadn't been washed for years. We would look at eachother, smile, wink and move on. Not in a weird way. Just in a "we get life like nobody else does" kind of way. Eventually I'm on the back patio when this same guy comes out headed for the stairs toward the campsites. He sees me and smoothly extends his elbow, seemingly as a less exhausting alternative to the common handshake.


"Youuuu wannna smoke man?" he says with a laugh and a fake puff on an imaginary blunt.

"Aww, no thanks dude. Take it easy".

Back inside I'm smiling. This is it. This is life. So simple. So nice. Nobody is using the two arcades, so I gamble fifty cents on the chance of scoring a new high on Galactica...

The morning comes and I stick my head out from my sleeping bag. A few cars are still parked in the lot. I've made it through the night without any flashlights from rangers. Another reason to rejoice. Pancakes, bacon, and OJ at Deetjens and then I'm off for a hike along the Big Sur River. Flowers are everywhere. Red ones, orange ones, blue ones, yellow ones. The petals form a living color palette in my pocket. A gentle breeze is blowing and somewhere nearby cold mountain water is splashing over rocks. The dirt path turns into a myriad of stones and all of a sudden there it is, the ocean. This time I'm not laughing. This time I feel like I'm in a Hemingway novel. A father is helping his son hold onto a kite as the shifting winds try to steal it away.

"What do you call those blackbirds?" I ask a man steadying a camera at the edge of a small cliff. He tells me, but I'm still not sure what he said in that garbled british accent. So I just nod, smile, and head on my way.

Highway 1 winds for miles, dipping and rising, until you come to the town of Carmel. A sign passes by in a flash, "Historic Mission San Carlos". Well how can you pass up a mission on a sunday and not feel guilty? So I, in cut off khaki shorts and a white t, walk inside to the low tones of mass. We sing all four verses of a hymn, I shake hands with the priest, and then an old lady offers to lead me to Clint Eastwood's restaraunt known as Hog's Breath Inn. The burger was pretty good(the ciabatta was a nice twist), but I knew it was time to head home. So I found a highway cutting through the canyons to the 101 freeway, and started driving south. I hadn't gotten very far when my eyes got heavy. Apparently all the visual/sensoral stimulation the last two days had kept me running on adrenaline. So I pulled off at an exit, parked behind an abandoned semi trailer to hide from the sun, and slept for an hour. This turned out to be a great move, because within an hour of being back on the road I was in the heart of wine country and the sun was losing just enough brilliance to allow all the land to soften like a landscape pastel. For the last time, I started to laugh, and acted on my earlier impulse by calling every family member until finally dad answered. I wanted someone to know what I was seeing. Words are a poor represenation of such creation, but when that's all you've got, that's what you give. I hung up the phone as the sun was setting alongside the coast of Santa Barbara. Los Angeles was nearby, and while the cavalier sped into the twinkling city, I was somewhere on a horse in the green green hills with a breeze blowing on my back.

The Roar of the UnderBelly

Tonight was a turning point in my life. We've all heard plenty of those 'ole wives tales: butter on a sunburn, feed a fever/starve a cold, wash babies in dawn...But until tonight, I had always dismissed any possibility that intestinal gas could ignite a match into a burning inferno. Never again my friends! Never again will I doubt!

My friend Dave came over to work on a few auditions. It is our duty as actors to help other actors in need, and so I obliged. As we read through scene after scene, Dave asked if I had any matches. We found some, and he proceeded to pull down his shorts, drop to the floor, and roll onto his back until his legs dangled overhead. He then lit a match, placed it near God's gift for exporting unused goods, and let the heavens hear his roar. I kid you not, the flam must have been four inches high! It was simply amazing! So of course I had to try. Well lets just say I'm a natural. So much so that Dave exited a bit early and awkwardly. As he left, I felt embarrassed, but deep inside I could sense a real pride being borne. It is a new day tomorrow, and I cannot wait to see what it holds.

What?

I've been in the midst of a war recently. Its been pretty brutal. And its been with my colon. Actually I think its a stomach bug or something. On top of that, I've been working on the set of a new tv show for twelve hours each day. The stomach bug has disabled my body's ability to actually "use" anything I eat, and so I've had zero energy while working endlessly. Today is a good day. I woke up, went back to bed, woke up again, and decided to make french toast. Its one of the few things in life where I know what I'm gonna get. If I put in a certain amount of effort, I get a certain amount of outcome. Beautiful, golden-brown fluffy pieces of cinnamon and syrup goodness...I don't like that I just wrote that last phrase. And I don't know why. For some reason I think I've heard it before and not liked it. Actually, I'm sure I've heard it before because everything, to some extent, is a regurgitation of prior thoughts or ideas. So does that mean I'm completely unoriginal, and so is everyone else? I guess that depends what "original" means. We can always take old ideas and string them together with other old ideas to come up with new ideas. That's original right? But there is nothing left to discover. No new ideas. The more I think about it, that theory can only apply to certain fields like music or stories or new sports games. Science is constantly evolving. New ideas come about because technology increases and we are able(they are able, I should say) to find itsy bitsy particles that couldn't be seen until we came(they came) up with a microscope small enough to see the little buggers. And what those buggers are doing. Original. Earlier I was watching some videos on youtube by a comedy troupe of sorts and realized that, while they had some funny ideas and made me laugh, on the whole their humor is based off of so much before it. Not only that, but the humor isn't as good as what has come before. Plagiarist comedians. Maybe what needs to happen is, someone needs to have a child, and when that child is born, lock it up in a room of white walls and light. Every night, when the child is sleeping, someone comes in and gives him/her a shot of essential nutrients. That way the child never experiences any particularly fascinating taste. This goes on until he/she is maybe 17. Then boom! The kid is unleashed into the world. Completely original. Any joke the kid makes is his/her own. Granted, I can't think that anyone locked in a white box for 17 years would have much to joke about. But it'd be worth finding out. The point is, maybe a person needs a completely untouched slate to be completely original.

Regret

Okay. Wow. I remember my elementary school library. It always smelled old. And there was an old record player where we'd listen to the story about the Belle witch. And it would get scratchy from time to time because it was so old. Even Ms. Mann, the librarian, had gray streaks in her hair. She was older than a lot of the teachers in the school. Near one of the two doors to the library was a small sign that is hopefully still there. It states

"If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all."

It was years ago that I last saw that sign, but its meaning hasn't changed a bit. Funny, I haven't thought about that sign until today. I had a friend in town for a few days. This friend, whom we'll call Patterson, has a very gentle and giving soul. But in the time we were together, I became frustrated by a lack of "connection", shall we say. I voiced this frustration to friends in text messages:

"In Malibu with Patterson. She's brutally unintelligible but she's buying. We had a ton of seafood..."

As the next few days began to unfold, I felt increasingly chained down. So one night, after Patterson had gone to bed, I went out to meet up with some friends. This made Patterson feel unwanted. I didn't bring her along because I decided I would not have a good time essentially babysitting since she did not know these people and leans toward bashfulness much of the time. Finally, Monday rolls around. I take a shower, and come into the main room of the apartment to find Patterson acting strangely flustered. Almost immediately she says she just wants to go home, and then admits to having read all my text messages. My heart, at this point, is bracing for impact while my head scrambles for excuses to soften the blows. Patterson wasn't snippy. She was just a bit cold and apathetic, which stings more than any name calling or finger pointing. What good can I do to call someone "unintelligible" even if I feel they've acted that way. I can do no good. The image of knocking the beams out from under a pier haunts me. To attach a word like that to a person, to any person, can only suffocate them. To make someone feel worthless, valueless, looked over, unnecessary, that is a crime that deserves whatever consequence comes along. I'd like to say that its her fault for reading my personal texts, or that its just the way I felt at the time, that I was being emotionally honest about how I was feeling. Actually, I did say all that stuff, but in the end what matters is what I said. Words can breathe life into a person, or they can tear a heart into pieces. The greatest consequence I can think of is the knowledge of what I've put in her ears, in her head. Forget whether I'm right or wrong or my trust was betrayed, I spoke pain into her life. I wish I'd remembered that cheap, laminated sign first, " If you don't have anything nice to say, then don't say anything at all".