Ambition Without Dreams

Have you ever wanted to be something? Have you ever thought “if only I could?” Has a career or lifestyle ever seemed so appealing that you felt like you had found your calling? You have? What’s your secret?

Our generation is often told that we can do anything we set our minds to. All we need is to pick a direction and work our hardest. Some would say that this is idealizing and that some will never fulfill their dreams no matter how hard they work. Some have dreams, but lack the drive and work ethic to accomplish them. What about us? What about the people who have developed a work ethic, who believe they can accomplish anything, who are even fortunate enough to have the resources and support to become ANYthing they set their minds to… and, along the way, neglected to develop a dream. We, who have all the ambition in the world, yet remain apathetic towards any ambitions. What do we do?

College? Certainly. Career? Absolutely. Further education? Why not? But what in the world do I do for the rest of my life. Some know from their childhood that they want to be a doctor or a fireman or a dentist. Some learn in college what their real interests are. Some NEVER figure it out and go wherever the wind takes them, ending up in a droll, mediocre living; a means to an end. Some… don’t want that.

I love to learn. I light up when I’m researching interesting historical figures or classic literature or musical genres. I have passion for a lot of subjects; none of which would make a suitable career or that I would want to ruin by MAKING them my career. So what now? Business school? Can’t go wrong their, right? Aside from the fact that most business-related subjects are so boring they make me want to take out a small business loan for a start-up firearm dealership simply so I can blow my brains out. But hey, it’s a means to an end, right? And what end is that? The end of my career? My life? Do I really want to spend the majority of my life in a job that blows so that I can enjoy my few years of retirement before I die?

Bottom line: I want to accomplish something grand--something of worth; something hard, improbable, fun, and completely fulfilling. I don’t care if it’s lofty or if I’ve got my head in the clouds. I like it there, it’s happy up there. Where it’s not happy, is here on Earth; being sensible, responsible, and directionless. HOW DO YOU FIND A DREAM?!?

Why Won't He Call?

I call upon the goddess to aid me in telling the story of a love postponed. A tail of pining and immense attraction that left young lovers spellbound, yet compelled them to patience; in the midst of passion aflamed, any small amount of time may seam an eternity. Madness knocks on the door of the young lover kept from that which is held most dear.

As spring crept through the world, young Aphina—cousin to Aphrodite—galloped through the woods on her noble horse. Her hair darted and tossed as if to dodge the oncoming branches. Her beauty was said to be unmatched in the mortal world and her soul was as clear as an Olympian brook. Her horse slowed and trotted toward a nearby stream. After sliding off and noticing her unfortunate placement; she sat on a nearby rock to wash off her feet. Preoccupied, she failed to notice that she was not alone. Young Pathius had stopped at this enchanting stream to fish for sport. As son to local hero and Olympian Tharacles, much of his time was spent training and hunting in this forest, preparing for the day that he too could make a name for himself. Pathius let out an unintentional gasp, startling Aphina quite suddenly. His gasp was not due to the cold of the stream, nor from some accidently injury, but from cupid’s arrow. He had never seen such a beauty before. Aphina, well aware of his ganderings, quickly jumped up to gallop away. Pathius apologetically called out that he meant no harm and was simply startled by her beauty. As Pathius explained further, Aphina began to sense his sincerity and became flattered at his compliments and polity.

As the day wore on, Aphina and Pathius talked as if they had never met another person in their lives. Everything about them completely fascinated the other. Aphina, used to being gawked and whistled at, was taken in by Pathius interest in her soul. Pathius, on the other hand was completely enamored with the fact that he had found a beautiful young woman that actually had a soul. As night loomed, Aphina realized the hour and jumped atop her (very) patient steed. She was afraid of enraging her cousin Aphrodite (with whom she lodged). Unbeknownst to the young couple, Aphrodite had found and had been observing them privately after wondering what was taking her cousin so long.

As Aphina trotted away, she abruptly turned and yelled out the name and location of her home—much to Pathius’s relief. Aphrodite, being a tad upset for the delay, quickly made him forget this information. Pathius became quite angry with himself at forgetting such precious information, and so quickly; he brooded and tortured himself for hours. Two days went by and he still could not remember the address of the captivating Aphina. In sheer agony of soul, Pathius cried out in supplication to the goddess of love–pleading and begging for his memory to be restored. Aphrodite, surprised at the sincerity of the tortured, young lover and also realizing the harshness of her punishment, decided to restore his memory the next morn.

Ever since this day, men and woman wait at least three days to call after meeting for the first time, in appeasement and sacrifice to the goddess Aphrodite.

One Love

Tonight, I was mistaken for a suicide risk. Now before you jump to conclusions, keep reading (ha, get it, jump to conclusions). Sitting in my apartment, I felt an unexpected wave of depression and hopelessness crash over me. I did what seemed useful: I ran. I ran out the door, down the walk, across the street, and 6 blocks south. I would have kept on running, but my brain had a chance to catch up to my feet and it had to ask “where am I going?” I stopped to gasp for breath. I had, up until this point, been running steadily faster and faster, ending at a thigh-burning life-or-death sprint. Some could say I was running away--away from responsibility, life, or something equally appetising to the field of psychology. Whatever... the faster I ran, the better I felt. As I turned right and walked a couple of blocks, the cold night air also caught up to me. One of my hands plunged into my pocket while the other grabbed my bicep, crossing my body tightly with my other arm. I was still in a stupor and was trying to get a grasp on the hellishly stressful week ahead so my head hung low. Unknowingly, I had become the most pathetic looking, scruff-faced, night-walker that ever graced the streets. As I rounded a corner to walk North, a man came into view standing on his porch. His friend came out of the basement apartment to share a smoke. We all glanced at each other. Shamefully, my first thought was, “I wonder if they’re up to no good.” I coolly turned my head back to the asphalt in front of me. Subconsciously I had positioned myself in the center of the empty road and I'm sure my hovering friend, the street lamp, was throwing a gloomy shadow over my shaggy face. The friends started talking to each other and all I could make out was something to the effect of “…he’s got a look in his eye…”

One spoke up and sayed “hey, you alright bro?”

Maintaining confidence in my tone I responded with a firm “Yeah, I’m fine, just walking stuff off, ya know”

“ok, bro”

“Thanks for asking though”

“Just don’t do anything crazy.”

I replied with a quick “I’m not gonna do anything.” I'm sure they couldn't see it but I couldn't help smirking from amusement.

“You’re worth more than that.”

To which I came back with an equally quick but genuinely grateful “ ‘ppreciate it”

My first thought was not one of shock at the comment; my first thought was how impressive it was that the man actually cared enough to say something. I never see anyone voicing concern for strangers—not even if they feel like there is cause to. I also found it interesting that out of all of the self-proclaimed saints (of the latter-day variety) that I encounter on a daily basis, these two smokers standing on their porch at 1:00 in the morning seemed to show more saintly charity. These guys showed more concern for me in their brief query than any BYU student had done in the past year. Meditating on his words I proceeded to evaluate my own worth (to God, humanity, and to myself), what I could do to have more charity toward my fellow man, how sad it was that I was perceived as somebody on his way to hurt himself… I don’t know what exactly I am to learn from this brief, laconic experience, but I do know that it is significant.

A POEM: "Occupate"

Lucky is the man that loves hard work
And thrives on the tasks and the noise
Of a life spinning out of control,
Neglecting all that it destroys.
How should his life lack any meaning;
His gaze is on what he enjoys?
Whether or not, his mind has forgot
What all of his neighbors and loved ones have sought,
What “ought” to his mind he employs

Foolish the man that revels in art,
Who’s fantasies flow out of calm.
Life still may spin, or maybe it twirls
With worlds and a sprite in each palm.
How is he to get anything done
If faith replaces each qualm?
And lo, what ho, to his dreamland he’ll go
Where Mahler and Checkov, Picasso, Thoreau,
And Poe will be singing him Psalms.

My Friend Street Lamp

Sometimes I spend hours wandering the streets at night. I'll observe the night owls, think about things, or just listen to the city breath. This town has a shallow breath at night and if you're not listening, you'll miss it. I'm not usually out looking for anything on these late excursions; in fact, my motivation for walking around is often just to avoid doing nothing. What I end up finding, however, is character. I find charm in the streets and alleys of this small city. I find mediocre bands making their debuts in struggling cafes. I find late night magic and D&D tournaments in forgotten comic book stores with names like: The Dragon Keep. I find alleys with old fire escapes that are probably much too dangerous to use. I find temperamental street lamps--I wait underneath so that when the lamp turns back on, it will reveal me and not just an empty street. I find weekend dance parties in cramped living rooms with anxious circles of potential dancers. I find that sprinklings of rain don't just fall, they twirl and dance before a gentle collision with my face (something brought to light by my friend, the street lamp). I think I enjoy rain much more than I used to; I can tell by my walking speed. what once excellerated my pace is now inversely affecting it. It feels so nice against my face that I have an urge to experience it more fully; I start to untie my laces. Shoeless, shirtless, and shameless I walk through the back streets. The sidewalks are polluted with umbrella trees so I position my path in the middle of the road. No cars on these streets; I imagine most people have the prescribed amount of sense...

The Trouble With Love Is..... (men's edition)

My friend Cailtlin Bronson posted a blog about the boys in Provo: caitlinbronson.blogspot.com which I found to be not only hilarious, but somewhat accurate. So, with her permission, I've decided to complete this "provo daters" list by adding the woman to it. Though completely stereotyped and for fun, there is still much truth in this.

Similarly to my friend, I too am often asked why (out of all the cute girls at BYU) I remain single and haven't commited to a lifelong relationship in the holiest of matromonies. To help shed some light on this, let us attempt to classify some of the women we run into here in the land of loners and lovers:

-The 'Need A Man' : This product of upbringing has no plans for the future except to find that perfect Elder's quorum president. If this fails, then finishing school and graduating with bachelors degree becomes their "back-up plan." Between reading bridal magazine's and fishing for dates amongst her FHE brothers with 'mom's secret recipe brownies', she often fills her days with watching Gilmore Girls (as most girls do), planning dessert/game nights at her apartment, and occasionally writing that 2 page paper she's been procrastinating for her "Marraige Prep" class. Ironically, these girls are often torn between dating and girl nights, feeling guilty that they didn't spend 2 nights out of the 7 which they normally spend with their clingy roommates.

-The Indie Girl : This breed of unique, yet oh so similar girls (deserving the title since most have not yet matured to womanhood) are not always as independent as their name implies. Many of these girls are looking for 3 things in/on a man: Skinny-jeans, skinny-jeans, skinny-jeans. Though their distaste for trends and popular styles tends to steer them in the direction of thrift stores, they often spend more time shopping for their indie clothes than the trendy kids. This girl will spend her days photographing with her poloroid camera, going to see bands that can't play their instruments, and trying to philosophies so that other people conclude that she can really think outside the box. Careful, being a social descendant from the emo girl, she will pack a lot of drama into that free-thinking spirit of hers.

-The Former Class President : These tend to be the most sought-after women on campus while simultaneously being the most infuriating for men. She has her entire life planned out, but struggles to manage her weekend schedule. Confident, career-centered, and needing only a general social life. A typical day will include an early morning bagel, a dash for the door, school, work, school, work, more school, and top it off with the nightly visitors from the weeker sex (which, contrary to popular opinion, are men). Though most suitors will eventually discover her non-commital nature, she will one day surprise everyone and announce her engagement to a business finance major who treats her like garbage...ah, young love.

-The Foreigner : Though too few, this group deserves an honorary mention. This strong-willed female usually has more than a couple crazy stories (she'd have to to wind up at BYU). Often times, these girls go on a lot of first dates because, although no one will admit it, most boys at BYU can't get over the cultural or (dare I say it) racial differences. For shame! A couple other honorary mentions that won't be addressed due to lack of numbers would be the feminist and the normal girl.

-The "Me Monster" (aka Social Grace) : She often comes complete with features like "let's define who I am," and talking too much. You could also classify this self-absorbed woman in the "foot-in-mouth" category except she never seems to get wise to the fact that she's said too much. Often times the "Me Monster" will be very well-intentioned and will work SO very hard to improve herself in every area of her life (realizing that something is amiss)until... unfortunately... many of them morph into the "Why Not You Monster." This advanced "Me Monster" spends a considerable amount of time pointing out the things that she has done that you should do also. The "Me Monster" will spend much of her day daydreaming through class, conciously collecting things about her day that she can talk about later, and finding groups of people that she can invite herself in to.

-Painstakingly Plastic: I didn't want to go too stereotypical, but no matter how many times we make fun of them, plastics are still overpopulating every place. Always at the pool, never in the in pool, these barbecued barbies will some day have to meet the melanoma monster in person. Aside from outward appearance, these girls will hide away there most interesting features to fit the "perfect" mold. I have not yet been able to determine whether they are always putting on a front, or if they truly have absolutely nothing unique or inticing to their personalities. Despite constant maintanance and a well-practiced flirty voice, the Painstakingly Plastic will attract but never win over a "sweet bro."

These are just a few of the many interesting and intriguing girls that are found in Singleville, Provo. If you are thinking to yourself "awwww, that was harsh, he's so mean to women," just remind yourself that this is all in good fun and I'm only retaliating ;)

Beatnik Blogging

As you are probably aware (made obvious by my web address), I have a small fascination with the Beat Generation. I love the writing styles of Jack Kerouac and Alan Ginsberg. I crave bebop and cool jazz daily. I love my black turtle neck and, admittedly, own more than a couple of beret's. I've often wondered what led me to be so enthralled in this strange era of American History. Is it the stereotyped clothing style of the seudo French-Goth persuasion? Is it the attitude of reckless ambandon that is so delicious to my adolescent pallet--or perhaps the patriotic idea of hitch-hiking across the United States? It could definately be that this generation adored the style of music that I love and study full time. These all may be valid and accurate, but I think the most appealling aspect of these rag-tag, irresponsible youths is this: they valued and lived for creativity. Not only this, it didn't even have to be "good" creativity, it just had to be creative. I look at poetry/writings/art from this genre and half the time it's just ridiculous, stream-of-thought ramblings. Sometimes it's more fun to laugh at than analyze. THIS is the appeal: I can write! I can draw. I can paint/sing/play/create. I don't have to be a scholar or professional. I may not be able to do all of it well, but that's not the point. The point is that I'm trying to create something unique and new. ANYONE can be an artist and EVERYONE deserves to be. We shouldn't have to worry about how "good" our art is and we definately shouldn't have to worry about if other people think it's good. Your art is just that...it's YOURS; it's for you, by you, given to you. The more we create, the better we get at it and if we worry about how it's going to be received, we'll most likely give up early. Nobody starts off exceptional.

The Beat Generation seemed to understand this (at least the way I view it). When thoughts of these beret wearing hipsters enter into our imagination we tend to think of a smoky coffee shop where everyone, dressed in black, are sitting around listening to poetry and jazz. They are listening to creation...and supporting it.