A Jar of Lightning Bugs

Do you remember us together
Growing up on Ohio plains?
Those days are over, and now we're older
But things don't really have to change

'96, no neighbor kids to reenact those summer games
So we made good with brotherhood and a two-man relay race
Not twins but close with hand-me-down clothes and the bowl cuts Mother gave
Like blackberries that stained our jeans, those memories never fade

Public pools and nighttime lulls mixed with the smell right after rain
And that lightning bug emotion that I still can never name
Backyard camping, telling ghost stories to keep ourselves awake
We begged on grass-stained knees, "please Summer, stay another day."

Do you remember us together, growing up on Ohio plains?
Those days are over, now we're older, but things don't ever have to change
That lightning bug emotion can still come another way
Memories give more meaning to who we are today



Those are the lyrics to one of the newer Crazy Old Maurice* songs, called Brotherhood. It was interesting to write it, because... well, okay, so, it was interesting for a couple of reasons. For one thing, it was interesting because we wrote it together. Writing lyrics with multiple people can be tricky, because you won't always agree with another person's idea of where the song is going. I've always felt a little strongly about this, because when I've been in bands I've always been the singer, and I feel weird about the idea of singing something that isn't the idea I wanted to convey. So it's a bit tricksy to take the ideas flowing around in three heads and try to mix them together into one cohesive idea. So, it was an interesting experience to write this from a technical perspective.
It was also interesting, however, because the songs that I've been writing lately have been more story-driven, and, at least at their surface level (which is, at this point, the only level I've really read them at), fictional. We've got a song about a Death Row inmate, we've got a song about a ship-wrecked sailor, we've got a song about a man who lost his wife and daughter, etc. None of these things have I personally experienced (again, maybe if you dig deeper into them there's something autobiographical there, but I haven't [actually, you could argue that there are strong autobiographical elements in Devil on the Road, but that's not really relevant to our present purpose]).
This song, however, as you can more-or-less plainly see, is about my brother. Well, strictly speaking it's about our brothers (the implied " we" being Crazy Old Maurice), but when I sing it I think about my brother, obviously. I haven't written a song about my life in a while.
I used to do that all the time, actually. Back in the day, that's all I wrote about. In high-school, I wrote really, really craptastic songs about girls and whatnot. After high-school, I expanded that somewhat to the point that I wrote about other things, such as family (but still mostly about girls). After my mission I expanded it further to the point that I wrote about God and faith and sin and redemption as well as family and life and girls. The connection, though, was always that I was writing about what I was thinking about.
Lately I've gotten away from that, and started writing stories in songs. I don't really know why I've been doing that. And, I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't think it's a bad thing that I'm writing fictional songs; not at all. I like them, and they allow me to explore ideas, feelings, experiences that I don't otherwise get exposed to.
At the same time, though, one of the reasons that I fell in love with music was that it allowed me to share what I was thinking and feeling in a way that makes it resonate within me and those that hear it. I don't think I need to go into a discussion on why music is powerful; you probably already understand that. Suffice it to say, I wrote songs because it was a way to talk to a friend when there wasn't a friend at hand.
So, maybe, we can surmise that if I'm not using music that way anymore, that must mean that I don't need it like that right now. Something else must be filling that niche in my life. So, either the things going on in my life don't require venting to a friend, or I've got enough friends around to talk to that I don't need to vent to music.
I think I'll go with the second one. I mean, a lot's going on in life right now, it seems like, so I don't think it can be the first one. I like the second one better.
Now, this doesn't necessarily mean that I'll never need music to vent to again. I might need it again one day, perhaps when I don't have quite as many friends who are easily accessible. But if this is a reflection of the fact that things are actually pretty good right now, well, that's just fine too.

*Did you know I was in a band? It's true! We're called Crazy Old Maurice, and you can check us out on Facebook to hear our music and whatnot. The last show that we did was the BYU Battle of the Bands (which we won on the full-set stage, thank you very much), and we have another show lined up for the end of January. Cool times!

I Actually Have Been Busking Before, And It Was A Lot Of Fun

For as long as I can remember, one of my greatest career aspirations has been to be a writer. A real writer, like a novelist. Not a textbook writer or a letter writer or whathaveyou, but a real novelist. Once I started getting into C.S. Lewis I expanded that desire into writing what I called Lewisian essays, but novels were still "where it's at" for me.
This desire has manifested itself in many ways as I've grown. Sometimes its manifestation means something along the lines of a short story I write, other times it ends up being an idea for a novel that never really seems to get off the ground. Sometimes it's been quite strong, other times it's taken a back seat to other things I've wanted to do. One time I really committed myself to it, because I thought I had a great idea (looking back, I still really like the idea), and I got something close to 50,000 words before I hit a block, and the story still hasn't recovered from that.
Now, let's switch gears for a moment. I have a certain friend who I met relatively recently, who I have spent a lot of time talking with. We talk about a lot of things, whether it be political theory or astronomy or physics or film or history or religion or whatever. Well, one of the things we've talked about the most is career goals and motivation and desire. Specifically, we tend to talk about mine. More specifically, we tend to talk about my desire to be a writer.
I think this is primarily the case because he's written two books. Don't get me wrong, they're basically self-help books, not at all novels, and quite boring, but still. That's two more books than I've ever written, so I tend to defer to his "professional" opinion and experience.
Often, when this subject is brought up, he'll ask me how much I've been writing lately. Generally I'll tell him that, due to my having a bunch of school things to do or my music taking up a lot of time or spending time with friends or whatever excuse I can justify to myself, I haven't been writing very much at all lately. I don't believe that I've ever told him I had written more than a page.
Why is this? Why is it that I claim to love writing, and to want to be a writer, yet I almost never write anything? Because, it's true; I do love writing. I enjoy it very much, especially when I'm writing something that seems exciting or interesting or new to me. And yet I don't do it very often.
This has led me to think about two things: Firstly, do I really want to be a writer? Secondly, what thing do I love so much that I do it whenever I get the chance and for as long as possible? Because surely that should be my dream career goal.
In answer to the first question... actually no. I don't think I want to be a writer. Well, wait, scratch that. I want to write. I enjoy writing very much. If I get to the point where I can actually publish a book one day, I will do it, and I hope I get there. But I do not think I'm really cut out for career writing. I'm not sure what it is about me, whether it's a lack of discipline or a lack of drive or if I simply have other interests that matter more to me, but for whatever reason I'm not going to be a career writer. It was a sad realization, but it was true, and that was what mattered.
In answer to the second question... okay, I know this is going to sound cliche, but it's music. I can't tell you how many times I picked up my guitar and starting playing the new song I'm working on while I was preparing for my Spanish test today (which I aced, by the way). It seems like every chance I get I'm either playing a musical instrument or thinking about doing it. I love it so much, and it's so freeing and powerful for me, that I really don't think about anything more.
Now, what does this mean for me? Does this mean that I drop everything and go out busking every day, playing guitar on the street corner? No, it doesn't. I'm still going to study English and work on becoming a teacher at some university one day. That's my goal, and I'm happy with it and I'm excited for it. I'm still going to write on the side when I can or when I want to, and I'm still going to try to make it big in music, but I'm not going to really change much as far as my behavior goes.
So, you might ask, what was the point of all this? Why did I feel like this was worthy of telling you all about if it wasn't going to effect a change in my life? Well, the answer is pretty simple, I guess. Self-knowledge. I feel like knowing yourself is pretty important, and that means knowing what you like, what you don't like, what you need and want, and what you were, are, and will be. You can't become what you want to be if you don't know what you were or what you are. So this was actually kind of a big thing for me. It was a shift in priorities and goals, not a lessening, but a strengthening of myself and my resolve. So go check out my band (yes, this was all a philosophical front for plugging my music, deal with it) Crazy Old Maurice on facebook. We'll probably be playing a show soon, and you won't want to miss it.

Who Knows? Maybe That's One Of The Questions They Ask You When You Get To Heaven.

I think I'm going to pick up painting.


It's interesting. I'm not sure why I've never gotten into painting. I really enjoy drawing, writing, and music; those are my premier arts. I've been seriously playing music since high school, I've been writing (in one form or another [and off-and-on, at that]) since probably middle school, and I've been drawing since before I can remember.


So why is it that I'm not really into painting? I mean, I like paintings. I really enjoy going to art exhibits and looking at the paintings and thinking about what the artist was trying to tell me, what I'm supposed to be feeling. Sometimes, with certain paintings, I'll be caught up in the technical bits, wondering how an artist could mix the colours together with such perfection, or how in the world the artist made paint look like light on a mountain. It just boggles my mind.


But, then, if I enjoy looking at paintings so much, why is it that I've never really tried my hand at it? I mean, the last thing I painted was in eighth grade, I believe, and it was terrible. Actually, I think it was okay for an eighth-grader, but whatever.


As I've thought about this more, I've started to come to a realization (and, at that, one that I certainly didn't want to have): I think I've never tried my hand at painting because it requires a lot of you. Doesn't that sound terrible? But I fear it's true. Let's look at the things I have tried, shall we?


I've been drawing for a long time. What does a person need in order to draw? If we stick to traditional conventions (which seems appropriate when we're essentially examining what a three-year-old needs in order to draw), we see that we need paper and a pencil or pen. Maybe a marker. No big deal, right? I could find all of those things right now without even getting up from my desk.


What about writing? Actually, it's pretty much the same for that. I mean, yeah, now I use a computer to write on, but I don't really need to. Writing on good old fashioned paper works just fine. So, that's pretty simple.


Music is a bit tougher because you do need to get an instrument. Without that, you can't really play music, right? But once you have that, that's about it. You don't even really need any training in music; I wouldn't say that I have much real training to speak of.


Painting, though. You need an easel, you need canvas, you need paints and brushes and a room and newspapers, and all kinds of things, and then, even if you get all that stuff, what if your painting isn't even very good? It seems tough to me.


Let me add a little note here: it occurs to me that, if I had developed talents other than those which I have, maybe I would say this about music or writing. I don't know, so it's not terribly relevant, but I think it's relevant enough to be worth mentioning.


Now, the point of this post is not to talk about how lazy I am. It's not to talk about how I'm such a lame human being or anything. It's not even really about how much I'd like to take up painting. The point is basically to improve myself. To think of something I would love to do, and do it. If I'm not doing it, I want to be able to figure out what's holding me back and fix it. Because one day, someone (whether it be a student, a child, or friggin' Saint Peter himself) is going to ask me why I didn't ever paint. I don't want my answer to be "I didn't have time," or "it was just too much work." I'd much rather my answer be "actually, I did."

A Visit From Joshua

Here's a short (really short) story I just wrote. The idea came out of some things that someone said during a class today. I won't go into it too much because I don't want to spoil the story, but I really like it. Again, it's very short, and it might not make a whole lot of sense to everyone, but it makes a whole heck of a lot of sense to me. I might expand it someday.

A Visit From Joshua

The warm smell of banana bread filled the small cottage as the woman hummed and dusted and baked. She rushed around the kitchen, making sure everything was just so, everything in its place. There were dishes to be cleaned and shelved, clothes to be folded and put away, and floors to be swept, and she went about the work happy as can be.

She jumped a little from surprise when she heard a knock at the front door. "Coming!" she called as she hurriedly hung up her apron and made for the door.

"Joshua!" she exclaimed to the well-dressed young man standing on her front step. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing very well, Misses Patterson. How are you?"

"Oh, splendid, just splendid," she said. "Won't you come in?"
The young man took off his coat and hat as he followed her into the house and she began to tell him about all the exciting things she had been doing since the last time he'd dropped by. "I'm making some bread right now, if you'd like some. Oh, I do wish you'd called, I might have been a bit more prepared."

"I did, actually," he said, "but I only got your machine."

"Oh, that's right, that's right, the telephone hasn't been working properly," she said, a bit absent-mindedly. "I do need to get that fixed, I just haven't found the time."

She led him into the living room, and grabbed a feather duster to clean just a little bit more. "I'm so sorry about the mess in here," she said, "I've just been so busy."

"It's quite alright," Joshua said. "I don't mind at all. So, tell me, how has your family been doing?"

Just as he finished speaking, a timer rang out in the kitchen. "Oh, yes, just one moment," Misses Patterson said, "I've got to run back into the kitchen for just a bit to check on the bread. Please make yourself at home."

She quickly rushed back into the kitchen, and Joshua took a seat on the sofa. He could hear Misses Patterson humming a cheery tune from the kitchen. He looked around at the living room walls, adorned with family portraits that were very old, and not a little bit dusty. The room hardly looked lived-in at all, actually. It looked more like a set piece in a museum, put together as a depiction or an homage to what might be considered an idyllic home.

There was a piece of paper crumpled on the coffee table. and he picked it up to read the hastily-scrawled handwriting across it. It was a note, a reminder to stop by a neighbor's home and say hello.

"How is Misses Grant?" Joshua asked loudly so that Misses Patterson could hear him.

"Oh, drat," Misses Patterson called back. "I knew I was forgetting something. You know, I meant to go visit her the other day, but I just forgot all about it. Dreadful thing, too. She's been terribly ill for a few months now. But I'm sure she's alright. Someone from the church will have gone to visit her."

Joshua set the note down on the table and rested his hands on his knees, waiting for Misses Patterson to finish whatever it was she was doing in the kitchen. "What are you making in there, Misses Patterson?" he asked her. "Could you use any help?"

"Heavens, no," she said, "You just stay right where you are. You're a guest, after all! Besides, it's nearly done. It's an old family recipe for banana bread that is just delightful. You'll love it when it's finished.

After a few more minutes of preparing things, making sure everything was just so, Misses Patterson finally came out of the kitchen with a plate full of delicious-looking banana bread. "All done," she said. "Now let's have that chat!" She offered Joshua a piece of bread.

"Thank you," he said, picking up a small slice and eating a bit of it, "Actually, I'm really sorry, but I've got to be going now. I'm on a bit of a tight schedule."

"Oh, no," she said, crestfallen, "but you've only just arrived!"

"I know, I'm terribly sorry, but I have a lot of people I need to be visiting. And you seem to be rather busy at the moment anyway."

"Well, that is true. I am rather busy," she said as she walked him to the door, "but you will come back again soon, won't you?"

"Oh, I'm sure I will," he said as he put his coat and hat back on. "And thank you very much for the bread. It was quite good."

He started back down the walk and waved to her as he left. "Do come again soon," she called after him. "I do so enjoy our visits."

I don't know if that made much sense to anyone. If you're not thinking the same way about it that I am, then it might just seem like a rather boring scene, where nothing really happens. The way I see it, it's hugely telling of our nature and who we often are. It's a small thing, but it was nice to write and to think about.

I haven't posted on here in quite a while. A lot has changed since then. The biggest thing would be that I moved to Utah, I suppose. But a lot of other things have changed as well. I guess the tough part is to take all these changes and exciting things going on in our lives, like baking banana bread, and making sure that they don't take away from the more important things we should be doing, like visiting Misses Grant or talking with Joshua.