So, in the past couple weeks, I've had two job offers, which is nice, I accepted both, as they are both for part time positions. And what's nice, is that I'm working again. It's an amazing feeling. Between the two, I'll probably have a 40 hour work week, something I haven't had with regularity since the spring of 2008, when the recession hit the newspaper business especially hard. It's been a humbling experience. I used to think that I was too good to work retail again, but, you know what? I'm good at it, and I'm really going to enjoy myself.

hmmm...

people always say that God works in mysterious ways, it seems to me that this only makes sense when our will and God's are at cross purposes? Just something to think about. Night.

Yay!

Hawks won 27-20, Pac 10 looks solid. It's gonna be a good week!

House

Sometimes I feel a strange kinship with Greg House (before he got together with Cuddy), and Harry Bosch. Seems like the liaisons and connections are only bus stops along a long and winding road that each of us had to travel alone. That said, sometimes it sure is nice to see a diner's lights in the distance sometimes. Most of the time, however, I'm a one man wolf pack.

Hell

Like I said before. Sleep is no refuge. In sleep the hell is distorted into places you could only imagine in your nightmares. I guess that's what it becomes. A nightmare.

Hmm... it sucks

You ever really want that one thing that you KNOW you can't ever have? It's kind of lame. You try not to think about it, to put it out of your mind and just move on, but it won't let you. It's always there, teasing you, mocking you. Driving you insane. You can't ever seem ti find it. Or if you find it, it remains just out of your reach. Always there but never really yours. Sometimes you want it so bad that your body aches. Deep in the region between your chest and your stomach. But there's never any way to make the pain go away. The only thing that would make it go away is to possess the coveted, forbidden treasure, the forbidden fruit, if you want to be cliche about it. It just keeps taunting you. Sitting there, staring at you. The more you try and put it out of your mind, the more it stays there, always under your consciousness, festering like a canker. It's the first thing you think of when you wake up, and the last thing that you think of before you go to bed at night. Even sleep is no escape, as it haunts your dreams, continually manifesting inches from your nose, even within your grasp, only be snatched away from your hands by the returning lucidity of the waking hours. Pain and pleasure, love and hate, desire and repulsion all intermix within the need for this thing. And the desire for it leads you into purgatory, a specialized hell of your own making. Sometimes it feels like the only escape is to end your consciousness, and thus end your thoughts. It's just as easy as dining on the barrel of a twenty two. I don't know why I'm telling you this, it's not like you care.

Brother Elijah

Brother Elijah

A story of a Brother I will tell,

Born as a slave upon the Southern fields,

Escaping, through the railroad, North to dwell,

To become the first colored man in Gospel yields,

Named for Elijah, mighty priest of Old,

And named for Abel, Adam’s beloved son,

This steadfast brother, by Joseph Smith was told,

To go forth and preach the Word to everyone,

A priest, an Elder, and a Seventy,

Elijah Abel walked strong and true, upright,

And he was not alone, nor had to be,

As a brother walking in God’s holy light,

For Walker Lewis, and Joseph Freeman too,

Held power of God on the Earth to do,

His will, His works and preach His wisdom true,

This sacred trust that by no means was new,

For Jethro, Moses’ good-father did hail,

From Africa, and Tzipporah, his wife,

Long dwelt in the horn of that land round which ships sail,

And was black of countenance and full of life,

This steadfast brother, ever strong remained,

For even when adversity did call,

Elijah never lost his sacred claim,

Alone, against his foe, he did not fall,

In time, Elijah’s story will see light,

And prove in God’s eyes, that black is pure as white.

Football!

It feels so good to be playing ball again! :). I know it's only flag, but it feels amazing! I can't wait to get back in shape

Generalization and Xenophobia

So what's up with everyone making sweeping generalizations about immigrants and Muslims? I don't understand it. We feel that since we have the privilege of being American we can label other groups of people? A people as diverse as us should be the last to do that. Do we judge all whites by the actions of the white supremacists and white nationalist churches? Do we judge all the Germans by the actions of the Third Reich? No, we don't. We allow these people the opportunity to prove themselves individually in our eyes and the eyes of the community. Why can we not extend the same courtesy to Muslim Americans and Mexican Americans? There are over 1.5 billion Muslims in the world. Are we really going to believe that ALL of these people hate America and wish to destroy it? That's bull shit. Sorry. It is. That's like saying that every black man wants to rape a white woman, when in fact violent crime is intra-racial, not interracial. Intolerance is born of ignorance. We can't let fear and ignorance keep us from extending a hand of fellowship to those who are Americans, just like the rest of us. Why should we deny those who come here the same opportunities our forebears had? Opportunities that they got by killing and displacing the Native American tribes who lived here for thousands of years. And don't give me any of that Manifest Destiny shit. God didn't give us the right to give blankets full of smallpox to villages and massacre women and children at Wounded Knee. Our past is hardly spotless, so I believe we owe those who come to this country the right to help make America great again.

Michael Vick

So, everyone knows that I'm a fan of letting people have second chances. Particularly people who commit crimes of ignorance. Michael Vick for example. Lots of people feel very strongly about animals, and so this might offend some people. However, I feel that people should have a chance to prove that they learned their lesson when they serve their time. Unfortunately, the prison system, which claims to be a tool of rehabilitation, most often ends up with people in and out of jail because of how hard you have to be to survive inside. Adjusting to life on the outside is near impossible.

Michael Vick has done a very good job of turning his life around and keeping his nose clean since he's gotten out of prison. He's been a model citizen and a good team player, as well as a leader. He's shown the last few weeks that he can still lead a team. I'm glad that Andy Reid has decided to give him a chance to prove that he can win. He didn't bench him when he had the hot hand. It's no secret that if he had benched him, there would have been discussions about the racial issues. Benching the black quarterback for the white one even though the black quarterback was winning. So, I'm glad it didn't come to that. I hope number seven keeps showing us that redemption is always possible.

New Life

So, my best friend/big brother Marcus McCoy, and his wife, Maybelline had a baby this last weekend. Micah Octavio Morris McCoy. I'm so happy for them! Having a child is something amazingly special, and I think something that more people should put serious thought into. It's really something special. Two people coming together and creating a small, miniature life with pieces of both of them. To use the music metaphor I established last night. Two people's songs blending in harmony to create a new, entirely different song, which grows and develops independently of its parental refrains.

I know that there's a deep-seated biological drive to reproduce, but I think there's also a spiritual component as well. In creating new life, we are emulating God. That's part of what makes having children so special, and the reason that we should all take this more seriously. I know that someday I want to hold my own child in my arms. Who knows if I'll ever get that chance, though. I'll have to find someone first. I'm also not trying to downplay the virtues of adoption, which I wholeheartedly support. But there is something innately wonderful and special in the creation of your own child of your own flesh and blood. It's something that someday I hope to experience. I've always wanted to be a dad more than anything else. As much as I try to deny it, it's always there.

disharmony

Why is it that music affects us more deeply than the written or spoken word? I'm a writer, yet I feel that my words on a page affect someone far less than the resonating tone of a note. Music speaks to the centers of our souls in a way that words never can. Whether it's song, or instrumentals, music is the way that our souls talk. That's interesting, since, sound is simply vibration. Maybe the essence of our intelligence isn't something physical, or something intangible. Maybe it's a wave, a vibration that's tangible to others around us. Maybe we meet others whose waves vibrate in the same frequency as ours and thus we make connections. The music in our souls has found harmonious notes with which to be associated in a symphony of life. Maybe love works the same way. We meet people who vibrate on our same frequency, and then we meet people who we can be with. That would go a great way towards explaining why I haven't been able to find someone. Maybe my music is off key, out of tune, somehow in disharmony. Maybe, when I bring it in contact with the music of another, it creates discord instead of harmony, the notes shrieking like an out of tune violin in the hands of an inexperienced player. I haven't been able to find anyone who's song is affected by mine like I'm affected by theirs. If we're here to find love, then my song is doing a lousy job of finding instruments to harmonize with. This leads me to believe that the vibrations within us that proclaim our comrades are different than the ones which proclaim us to our lovers. Friends I seem to have no shortage of, yet, when it comes to love, the deep, resonating, passionate, and powerful love of which poets (ironically since I am one) write of, I've experienced this feeling reciprocated only one time; this one time, it rang out as clearly as the resonant chords of Beethoven's 9th Symphony, but came crashing to a halt during the refrain. Ever since then, I have been weaving a song of discord, unable to come into harmony with someone, those to which I desire to attune my song have no ear for the notes in my soul. I've been trying to perfect my own song, but this seems to reinforce the notion that my music may be deeply, fundamentally damaged beyond repair. The notes so twisted and jumbled that I'll never be able to find another piece to match with, no matter how hard I search, or how much I try to change the song. My song will always be out of tune. And because of that, it will never be part of a harmony.

Every time that I hear the song, Suteki Da Ne, I'm reminded of a love that will never happen, one that never was. I think it's silly that this is the case for a song to which I don't even know the words, but it's true. That song, to me, rings of real love. I'm forever cursed to sit and wonder what would have happened if I'd been brave enough to open my mouth and say how I felt. Could I have found the harmony, or is the fact that I'm too afraid to let this happen to myself again keeping me from ever being able to risk enough to find my song? Maybe someday I'll be willing to go out into the storm and brave the lightning. The lightning flashing in the smokestack, the winds of change and the capriciousness of fate. Is it fate, or do I make my own fate? Do I take it in my hands and create the love, the harmony that I'm so afraid of losing that I won't even look for it? Does it even work that way? I've always heard that it finds us when we don't look for it. If that's the case, then I wonder what happens to those of us that within are so desperately lonely that we try to talk ourselves into thinking that we're better off that way. We make the excuse that our loneliness is the human condition at its most simplistic level. When in actuality, only in individual accountability are we meant to be alone. Maybe that's why it feels so right when you hold a girl in your arms, even if it's only a friend. It's a finger in the dike that's holding back the sea of despair. Maybe that's why I love hugs. They just keep me going until i can find someone to fill that hole and keep the sea out for good. But nothing in this world is ever for keeps. There are no happy endings. The achievement of one goal simply reveals another behind it. Is this endless chase something that we really want? Is there ever a time when we can rest, or is there no rest until our eyes close and never open again? No true peace. Sorry, I got off track, but I thought it was interesting.

Che?

So does it make me a bad person that I really admire Che Guevara? I think that socialism is how the government can protect the people from the greed of big business. Lots of people seem to look at the government as the problem, but the government exists to serve the people, and it answers to the people. It's our tool. The private sector has no such checks on it. It answers only to profits and its stockholders. So I'm sorry if I want the government to protect the people from companies who are out to make money no matter the cost. Healthcare, for example. It's a big business. Like any business, hospitals and insurance companies are there to make a profit. Who wins? The businesses. Who loses? The population. The difference between having private, profit driven companies to control things like this and then the government is that the government is elected by the people. If people don't like what the government is doing they need to become more active. Corruption in government is bred by apathy. Corruption in business is there to begin with. The private sector is not there to look out for the interests of the little man. The motto of the private sector is to make money, and the consequences be damned. I'd rather trust people I elected and whose job depends on how well they serve the people than people who want to exploit us for monetary gain. That's why I don't understand those who feel that the private sector is going to look out for the interests of the common people. It's not good business to do so, which is part of why government is profitable, but why it's also necessary. So, if that makes me a socialist, then so be it. I'm a socialist.

Why I Wouldn't Raise a Family in Utah

I wrote this back in July. At the time I hadn't thought that I'd ever want to go back to Utah. Since then, I've had a change of heart at least as far as going back there for school. I still wouldn't ever raise my family there. But it's not that bad when you have friends and family. They help you overlook some of the worst parts. I think that the companionship is the important part. We're social creatures, as primates, after all. And so, while I might be returning to the Y to finish my Masters, I still probably won't live there unless BYU offers me a teaching position.

It’s cloudy out, but I can feel the sun. People say that we don’t have sun in Seattle. I love this city. The clouds really do suck sometimes, but you get used to it. I’m grateful that I grew up in this place. Of all the areas in this country, I think that this was the friendliest place I could have possibly grown up. My parents, in contrast, grew up in both a very different place, and a very different time. I felt some of that time when I went to Utah for school. In Seattle, race and ethnicity stare us in the face every time we leave the house. It’s a multi-cultural, multi-racial city, a true melting pot—I love it. I was far from the only mixed race child in any of my classes. Because it was so normal, because everyone looked different, it wasn’t necessarily something that divided any of us growing up. My best friends in elementary school, Michael and David, were both white kids. I’m still friends with them now. I don’t think that the topic of race as ever come up between us, whether positive or negative. Maybe I was just being naive, but I never had to deal with any of that. In high school, we just asked kids what they were, and it was pretty cool to find out everyone’s differing heritage. Even going from Seattle to the more affluent suburb of Bellevue, I didn’t really notice the difference. People were just people. It didn’t matter if they were black or white. I didn’t see color. This is part of what makes Seattle so beautiful to me. It doesn’t matter who I marry, I am pretty sure that my children won’t experience the stark, harsh realities of racism and discrimination until they are old enough to deal with it.
Unfortunately, I found out that I was different for the first time when I was about six years old. At my grandmother’s house, one of the places where you’d figure a young boy would be safest. My mom had just gotten married to my step dad, Mark (who was a white man, but honestly, it’s never even something I’ve thought about). I was playing in my grandma’s woodpile with my cousin, Ryan. He was a few years older than me, about eight or nine. We were playing knights. We would take the sticks that looked the most like swords, and duel with them until we got called to eat meals in the evening. These meals were usually pretty good, except for when my cousin Kelly was making her famous (or infamous) macaroni-ramen. I was the only person who couldn’t stand it. It’s probably a good thing, since a serving of this culinary chimera contained about two week’s worth of sodium. It was just after one such meal, and we were playing down in the woodpile, engaged in a furious display of juvenile swordplay, when the neighbor boy from the trailer down the road approached, his dirty clothes and greasy blonde hair were a stark contrast to both Ryan and I, who were dressed in clean new clothes despite the fresh dusting of Idaho dirt that covered the both of us.
“Hey, Ryan!” He called out in a country drawl. “Come play!”
Ryan groaned. He had never liked this boy. One of the Barney kids. They were bad news. He called back at him “I can’t, I’m playing already.”
He looked at me, and made a face. “Why you playing with a nigger?”
It didn’t really sink in exactly what he was saying, at least, not to me. Ryan knew exactly what he was saying, and he was pretty deeply offended on my behalf. “He’s my cousin,” he said. I heard the anger in his voice, but I was only six at the time, and I hadn’t quite connected the anger in his voice with what the other boy had said.
The boy made another face, his dirty, freckly nose crinkling. “You got a nigger for a cousin?”
I heard it that time. I hadn’t heard that word in real life before. I’d heard it on TV. I knew that it meant something bad. I knew he was calling me something bad because my skin was browner than his. I didn’t even really understand the implications. All I knew at the time was that he was calling me a name. I didn’t like it. I felt my eyes tearing up, and my lip quivered. I didn’t want to cry, I just knew that boy was being mean.
“Shut up!” Ryan yelled at the other boy. The other boy looked mad. He noticed that I had started crying.
“Hey, the nigger is crying!”
Something snapped inside me. I picked up my stick, and I ran toward him. I swung it as hard as I could, and my stick connected solidly with his nose and mouth. The boy fell backward onto his rump in the dust. I dropped my stick and ran toward my grandparents’ house. I could hear him scrambling after me as I bounded up the steps two at a time. Ryan yelled frantically at the other boy to leave me alone. I tore through the door and the first person I saw was Mark. I threw myself around his waist and started crying. He asked what was wrong. I told him what the other boy had said. His face clouded over and he looked at the other boy, whose face was framed in the screen door. The boy shrunk back from the anger in that gaze. Mark walked outside and began yelling at the other boy in my defense. This experience taught me quite a few things. I was different than a lot of people, and some people would be mean to me because of it. It had also taught me that some people don’t see differences at all and are willing to look after you just the same.
I was a lot older before it made a difference again. This time, I was in Utah, at Brigham Young University. I remember driving through the gates of the university, having no idea what to expect. I definitely wasn’t expecting my roommates to be inordinately excited to have a black roommate. Until this time, I hadn’t really thought that much about how race is part of self definition, particularly for black men. If I’d lived my entire life in Seattle, I’m sure that I would have experienced some different treatment with regards to race. After all, this is America, and if recent political events have taught us anything, the race question is inseparably entwined with the culture of this country. Even in a place that’s seemingly as colorblind as Seattle, it becomes an issue. This issue is probably magnified by my religion. I’m a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints—also known as Mormons, a religion with a history fraught with racial conflict and inequality. Despite this, it’s the only church where I feel comfortable with the backbone of the doctrines. That is why I am a member. There isn’t a logical explanation. Logic kept me away from the church for five years. Against all the logic, it’s the only place that I’ve really felt happy. That said, the Mormons that I know back home in Seattle are far different from the ones that I met in Utah.
I don’t like Utah. I think it's boring. I think that Provo is only a fun place for those people who can't bring themselves to grow up. I think it’s ugly, brown, and full of self righteous conservative idiots. This is not to say that every person that’s a conservative is an idiot. Quite to the contrary, I know several conservatives that are probably more intelligent than I am. I also know many liberals that live in Utah, who are also more intelligent than me. However, I do know that there is a large number of people who I find disagreeable. I got called the infamous “N-word” a lot more when I was in Utah than any time since. My freshman year, I hung out with a group of students who weren’t very good people, simply because they were the “cool” group to hang with. We did a lot of stupid things, including driving around with a megaphone hollering at cute girls. I’m pretty certain that a lot of the people that I know now wouldn’t have been friends with me back then. One of the things that led to me leaving this “crew” was the fact that so many of my “friends” would make racist jokes simply to see my reaction. I have a good sense of humor, but the jokes grew more and more mean spirited, and the words used more and more offensive. These boys regularly made it clear that they only found white women attractive, and held white people in higher esteem than other ethnicities. To be fair, not all of these boys were from Utah, but they also weren’t from the place that I call home. That doesn’t help how I feel about the place.
To be fair, I met a lot of really good people there too. My track teammates were all awesome people, as well as my coaches. And the friends that I met after my freshman year and lots of the guys from my ward that I got closer to later in the year were great as well. Even so, if I had known what Utah was going to be like, I probably wouldn’t have gone. That’s probably good that I didn’t know, because I do have a lot of good friends that I met down there, people who changed my life positively, as well as people who changed my life negatively.
Some of these people who changed my life positively were my fellow Black students at the Y. Despite the small number of black students at BYU, the few of us that lived there tended to bond together. We formed a tight knit community in order to escape the discrimination and ostracizing of our peers. Several of my closest friends, whom I consider family, I met in Utah. Although I have made some of my greatest friends there (black, white and many other ethnicities), I would never want to put my children through the racist environment that I encountered. Give me Seattle, Washington, and more people like my friends that I grew up with, of all colors and hues, than the homogenous environment of Utah, with its intolerance and bigotry any day. To get away from this, I would gladly take the rain. Am I bitter? Yes, I would say that I am. But that’s all right. I would rather be bitter at a state and an idea of the type of person that I don’t like, than to be prejudiced against all the people that are different from me. Utah can be a good place, and I’m sure that some people had better experiences than I had. But, I wouldn’t want to bank my kids’ happiness on it.

Is Love Worth it?

The old adage goes that it’s better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all. That it’s better to know the highs of love and to have to endure the lows of losing said love, than to have never experienced it. In my most humble opinion, this is complete, total, bull shit. I would have to say that those who haven’t ever had their hearts pricked by Cupid’s darts definitely hold an advantage over those of us who have. I think that of all the diverse pains I’ve had to endure—from appendicitis, to collateral ligament micro-tears, to pneumonia—the pain of losing someone you love is most definitely the worst. Two years later, and the pain still isn’t all the way gone. I feel it every time that I see a happy couple holding hands. I feel it every time that I see a couple with a new baby. I hate engagement photos; I hate the smiling, happy girls, with the bright flashing rings on their hands. They just serve to remind me of the one who I used to make smile. I used to love watching her eyes flash. I loved playing with her son. I loved hearing her tell me she loved me. I really wonder now if she ever actually did. My heart likes to tell me that she did, but I don’t think my head would let me believe it. I don’t think if she ever loved me she would have ended things like she did; without ever really giving me a reason, without giving the ring back. She kept the ring and she kept my heart, or the best part of it. There’s been a hole inside that I’ve been trying in vain to fill with many different things. I’ve tried to fill it with everything, except for filling it with myself. My father told me recently that we never truly get over those that we love; we just learn to live without them. I believe that, yet I hope that that’s not always true. I don’t want to spend my life with this hole, loving her for loving me and hating her for leaving me. That just feeds the pain. You can’t close the hole and keep it open at the same time. So what I’ve tried to do is close the gap by loving myself. It’s been a long, hard road, and I wonder if I’m brave for trying to move on, or a coward for being so affected by this for so long. Something dies inside you when you love deeply, and then that love is lost. I envy the man who’s never felt this type of love. I think he’s better off. I don’t know if or when I’ll let myself love someone again. I don’t think that it’s worth it. But who knows, I could be wrong. But I doubt it.

Football Stuff

So, I'm a pretty big football fan, and today my beloved Seahawks went up to Mile High Stadium and got drubbed 31-14. Lovely. Despite the final score, we made a lot of mistakes in this game that handed it to Denver. We came right out the gate with guns blazing and scored on our opening drive. But then there was that little piece of yellow laundry on the field that every fan hates. Holding. The next play we got intercepted on the 4. Denver took over and we stopped them. They punted. We muffed it. Three plays later, Denver TD. Shitstorm. I could tell it was going to be a long game, and we ended up losing with a few more turnovers along the way. Unfortunately I didn't get to watch most of it, as I was at church. Lovely language from a churchgoing man, I know. We all knew this was going to be a rebuilding year, and shooting yourself in the foot on the road with turnovers and penalties is better than playing your best and being outclassed (A La the Washington Huskies and BYU yesterday).
But you know, the thing that makes it a little better is that the damn Cowboys are 0-2. Looking at all those irritating Cowboys updates on Facebook really makes me want to delete some people. So, from where I'm sitting a 1-1 record and a 1-0 division record aren't things to worry about too much. We all knew from the beginning when Pete Carroll overhauled this team that it wasn't going to be a super bowl year. Honestly, I am okay with us taking some lumps because our young players are getting valuable reps that will help make them better. A 6-10 record is nice to me this year because I don't really see any marquee, can't miss QB prospects coming out of the NCAA this season, and we'll likely pick up a quarterback in the second round. I think we should use our first round pick to further shore up our lines.
Speaking of college, I'm loving this year, despite the fact that both my Cougs (BYU, WSU) are positively awful. Oregon, who I should burn forever in the seventh circle of hell for rooting for, is on a positive tear, scoring 189 points in a 180 minutes of football and pitching two shutouts. Not to mention, they bent Tennessee over out behind the woodshed in their own house. In three games, Oregon has outscored their opponents 189-13, while piling up 611.7 yards per game and averaging 63 points. LaMichael James has 361 yards on 30 carries--a 12 ypc average--and three TDs in 2 games. Running roughshod comes to mind, as Oregon is leading the nation in both offense and scoring, showing no signs of slowing down, and is second in rushing at 380 yards per game. The other teams in the top 5 in rushing don't also pass for over 200 yards a game. Boss stuff.
Michigan quarterback Denard Robinson is a one man show. He's single-handedly produced more offense than all but 43 schools in division 1-A! That means Robinson has accounted for 1,231 yards of total offense, and 8 tds in 3 games! Book that man a plane to New York for the Heisman ceremony now! So... enough of my ranting... my top 25.

1. Alabama
2. Oregon
3. Ohio State
4. Nebraska
5. Boise State
6. TCU
7. Texas
8. Oklahoma
9. Wisconsin
10. Utah
11. Florida
12. Stanford
13. Arizona
14. Arkansas
15. Nevada
16. South Carolina
17. Auburn
18. USC
19. Miami
20. LSU
21. Iowa
22. Michigan
23. West Virginia
24. Oregon State
25. Penn State

Those are my votes. :). Have a great Sunday, I'll probably write something substantive later, I've been kicking around something to do with my hatred of the concept of true love and soul mates. We'll see.

Hope vs. Nihilism\

I don't really understand the purpose of life. I find it interesting that I continually oscillate between two very different thoughts regarding the purpose of life, and our reasons for being here. The thought which I most often embrace, and the one that I truly, dearly hope is the right one, is that God put us here for a probationary period in which we can prove our worthiness to come and live with Him in the next life. Most of the time, I accept this thought without question, feeling it reinforced by a feeling deep within my soul. A "burning in my bosom" if we're going to be using hackneyed cliches. I love this particular thought because it ascribes some higher purpose and meaning to my own existence. This leads me to my other thought. The other thought that I have is that we delude ourselves into the existence of a higher being and life after death because we are afraid to accept our existence as finite. We are self aware, so how could we possibly lose this awareness after death? Maybe the whole existence of religion is just a thought that we have had in order to lend more importance to our lives. I mean, without something higher, a greater purpose to provide meaning, there is very little meaning in life. We're one small speck of dust on a slightly larger speck of dust rotating around a ball of gas in the middle of an inconceivably vast vacuum. Nothing that we do in life can affect the universe in a measurable way. Even the climate change which we are inflicting on our planet through indiscriminate use of resources won't much outlast us as a species. We haven't been on earth very long. If earth's history were a clock, running from midnight to midnight, human beings would have existed for the last half of the last second before midnight. Without God, there isn't really anything significant about us. The planet would easily forget about us within a few thousand years. And within a few hundred thousand even our mighty stone monuments would be unrecognizable. We might not even be the first intelligent beings to have inhabited this planet, given the inconsistency of fossilization and the readiness with which the Earth can hide her secrets with regards to the artificial monoliths of civilization. To put it bluntly, without God, we're nothing. Just dust floating in a vacuum. Something interesting to think about next time you pick up the vacuum to clean your living room. To quote one of my favorite lines from the movie Collateral:

I could have done anything i wanted to... but you know what? New news. It doesn't matter anyway, if we're all insignificant in this big ass nowhere... says the bad-ass sociopath in my back seat. But you know what? That's one thing I gotta thank you for, bro, because until now I hadn't looked at it that way. What does it matter... what do we got to lose anyway?

This quote pretty much epitomizes my second thought. It's the essence of nihilism. If there's not a plan, an overarching purpose for our existence, why do we even exist at all? If there's not a reason, then we're just here, and that seems like a cruel joke to me. If we're just here, if we're just floating on a rock in the middle of a cold, dark emptiness, then is there really an objective meaning and purpose to what we do? Honestly, if this is the case, why should someone bother adhering to any code of mores and values. Integrity gets you nothing if nothing exists after you're dead. If it stops with your final breath, what purpose does living for others server other than making you feel better about this existence which we all have the misfortune of inhabiting. It's something that I don't think my mind can truly process. That way lies madness. I wonder, if when we die, our conscious will continue to exist, and we'll return to God; or if we return to the void from which our consciousness sprang? The universe is vast, cold, and dangerous. It's uncaring, unending, but constantly changing. There's an underlying order in what appears to be chaos. This order is what gives me hope. I believe that the order we see both in our world and the larger universe comes from God. If morals and values serve no purpose without a higher power or a reward or punishment in a subsequent existence, then why do we have morals and values? Did these things come from God? I would like to think so. Of course, I won't truly know the answer until I die. So, until then, I'll try to have faith, and ignore the darker paths of my thoughts.

We're all alone

So, I'm sitting here listening to the rain. The persistent drumming of the droplets on my roof has always been a comforting feeling to me. I just came in the door from some adventure or other. I'm sitting here contemplating what directions my life should take. I've always been a fairly gregarious person, but I don't really like to share my inner thoughts and feelings with people. In fact, I don't really know if I've ever truly shared the true essence of myself with anyone. Maybe I'm frightened. Maybe, I'm simply the type of person that knows that no one else could possibly understand my thoughts. The avenues upon which they meander slowly through my head. This is probably for the best. We all, when it comes down to it in this world, live, and die, alone.

Loneliness and the state of being alone are two different things. Loneliness, by its very definition, reflects a person's desire to be with and around other people. We miss our friends, we miss our families, in the case of some people, we miss our significant others. Sometimes I feel loneliness, but it's always a temporary feeling. When the shroud of social niceties and interactions is stripped away, all we have in the end is ourselves. I think that recognizing our true state as one of singularity, of, ultimately, lonesomeness, not loneliness, is essential to finding peace in our lives. We may have companionship, friendships, families and coworkers, but in the end, our actions and by extension our successes or failures are ours alone. We bear the final responsibility. Support is always nice, but the final decision, the final resolve, rests with the individual. I think if more people realized that they are alone, they would be happier. They'd be fulfilled in their own desire to bring about their own happiness. Happiness, like any emotion, is a choice that rests with the individual. If we can learn to be happy alone, we can be happy under any circumstances. I believe this is important, because at the moment when we exercise our reason for existence--free will--we are always alone. No one can make a choice for us. For me, or for you. The choice rests with you, alone.

Angst in Autumn

Isaiah Moorhouse walked out toward the bus. The thought of the conversation with his father that morning dominated his thoughts. The usual speech about how he had to play his heart out. How he had to play better than Tracy Knight. He’d heard the same old speech from his dad every game day for the past four years. The fact that his dad and Knight’s dad had played ball together in college at Washington State only made things worse. They carried their rivalry down to their sons. It didn’t matter how he played, Isaiah would have to come home to Nestor Moorhouse asking him why he didn’t play better than Knight. His dad didn’t seem to care too much that the team only threw about ten passes a game while the tailbacks got about twenty carries apiece. He’d get the same speech again tonight. Bullshit.

He couldn’t ever say, “Good game, son.” Isaiah had heard the speech one time too many. He’d walked around with a chip on his shoulder all day. He had even blown up at his girlfriend, Lauren Parsons. He felt pretty horrible about that, she hadn’t deserved any of that.

Things didn’t get any better when Isaiah got on the bus. He tried to sit up front with the rest of the starters, but Knight pulled rank.

“This seat is reserved for receivers who can catch the ball,” Knight scoffed. He wobbled as the bus lurched into motion.

Isaiah swung his gear onto the seat in front of Knight. “I do catch the ball.”

“Practice don’t mean shit Moorhouse,” Knight reached over, snatched Isaiah’s pads and threw them into the aisle. “Sit in the back with the Jayvees.”

Isaiah hesitated, then scooped up his pads and strode all the way to the back of the bus. He threw someone’s pads into the aisle in front of him and sat down. He pressed his fingers against his eyelids hard. He sure as hell wasn’t going to cry in front of the team, especially now that they were on their way to the game with no escape from the taunting if someone saw him.

Isaiah pressed his face to the glass stared out one of the rear bus windows at the cars racing past on the freeway. It was about six forty-five. Forty-five minutes until kickoff. He leaned back against his pads, stowed in the seat next to him, and sighed. A road sign flashed by: Duvall, 15 miles. He felt sick.

“Twenty minutes until we get there,” he breathed. The head coach insisted that the bus ride to the game be completely silent. Helps the team focus, he said, or some other bullshit like that. Isaiah didn’t really buy into all of Coach Warner’s “motivational techniques.” Humiliating a player, or busting them down with up downs after practice, anything to move credit for the wins off the player’s shoulders and onto Coach’s. He flipped his CD player over, it was the only sound he’d hear the whole ride. Isaiah shifted again and skipped to the next song, DMX, to distract himself and concentrate on the game. Well, he was freed from every thought but one.

“Knight’s a bastard,” Isaiah said, glancing up at the front. “I should be up there with them.” He stared at the intricate pattern of cornrows on the back of Tracy Knight’s head.

Isaiah ran a hand through his nappy afro and scraped his fingernails across his scalp, like he was trying to rake his brain.

The bus jerked to a stop and Isaiah looked up toward the front of the bus and stuffed his CD player into his bag. Coach Warner stood up, tucking his paunch into his belt. “Alright, everybody into the locker room!”

Twenty minutes later, Isaiah streaked out on a post pattern. He burned the corner with fancy footwork and turned to find the ball. The wobbly spiral hit him right in the numbers—and bounced down onto the turf. Isaiah cursed. A Third down and a dropped pass—time to punt. He jogged back to the huddle,. As he took his spot, Knight piped up. “That’s one, chicken-shit.”

It was going to be a long night.

The time ticked steadily toward half. Less than a minute to go, and Isaiah had two more dropped passes, one of them a tip that the Wolves had returned for their only score of the game.

“Goddammit Moorhouse, if you drop the ball you can at least not tip it to the other fucking team!” Knight said when the offense took the field after the kickoff. Easy for Knight to criticize, he had three touchdowns. The play came in with Rowe: 232 counter boot at eight. Finally, Isaiah had a chance to redeem himself. Coach Warner apparently thought that the running backs deserved a break after such a good performance.

Isaiah jogged out to the line. He kept his eyes on the ball, and sprinted off the line when it snapped. Isaiah weaved his route expertly and found himself wide open downfield, looking up though the blinding white lights, searching for the spinning football in the dark sky. He glanced over his shoulder, looking for the ball. All he had to do was catch the ball and then . . . Touchdown! He blinked a bead of sweat off his eyelash, finally saw Jared Rowe’s prefect spiral and swore because he hadn’t run hard enough to catch it. He kicked hard the last five yards, and dove, hands out, stretching—but the ball smacked off his fingers while he hit the turf hard, raising a small cloud of rubber dust. Isaiah spit the rubber out of his mouth. He didn’t want to get up. He knew he would get chewed out for missing his fourth catch that night. He sighed, choking back a sob and pushing himself to his knees before climbing to his feet. His dad was watching and he just blew it—again! He knew Tracy Knight was waiting to lay into him. He slowly tucked his red and white number 1 jersey back into his shiny white pants. He didn’t feel like a number one.

Sure enough, soon as he reached the huddle, Knight shoved his oddly colored blue eyes into Isaiah’s grill and rapped the back on his helmet. “Way to go, chicken-shit, you can’t even catch it when you open!” Knight sneered and spread his palms. “That’s number four!” Knight grinned, perfect white teeth in a light brown face. He grabbed the collar off his number 33 jersey and flipped it toward Isaiah’s face, tipping his helmet down so Isaiah could get a good look at his pride stickers, a gesture of seniority, and Isaiah knew it. Although he was five or six inches shorter than Isaiah, he more than made up for it in weight. But that didn’t slow Knight, who also ran track, and had won the hundred meter dash the year before. Isaiah, finishing in fifth place, was stuck playing second fiddle to Knight in track too.

Isaiah fiddled with his gloves and took his spot in the huddle right next to Knight. “You ain’t got nothing to say to me, dog,” he muttered, choking back another sob and blinking his eyes against the tears. He didn’t hold a candle to the tailbacks in importance to the offense, as the Pirates were a running team. He also couldn’t hold a candle to them, at least not to Knight, in ego either.

“What you mean I ain’t got nothin’ to say to you, Moorhouse? You musta busted your head on that play, son!” Knight latched onto Isaiah’s facemask and yanked him down the five-inch difference in their heights, and his eyes burned into Isaiah’s. “You drop another third down pass and we’ll be doin’ a three-legged hop to the hospital at half time to get my foot out your black ass!”

Isaiah had had enough. “Get off me, fool!” he said. He pushed Knight backwards into Lance Thompson.

Thompson turned and grabbed Knight by the pads. Knight spat at Isaiah and broke Thompson’s grip easily. Thompson reached up to wipe a blond bang out of his green eyes. He looked Isaiah in the eye; Isaiah slumped but held his gaze. Knight straightened and stared Thompson right back. “You two gonna run your holes all night or play ball?” Thompson asked, and a few of the big linemen in front of them growled and grunted.

Isaiah bit his lip and looked down. He couldn’t cry now. His dad probably saw it all. He snapped his head up when he heard Rowe’s voice barking orders, and caught the last half of the play call. “—Alright, twins right, Hail Mary on two. Twins righ—”

“Fuck that!” Knight spat with a glance in Isaiah’s direction. “Fourth down, Rowe, and I know just what to throw at those pussies over there—the 144 reverse, they won’t know what the hell hit ‘em.”

Rowe bobbed his head. “Alright, your call, Tracy, you’d better bust this for at least ten yards, I don’t give a shit if there’s only ten seconds left until half, if you can’t take it all the way you’d better get out of bounds Trace. If I change the play and it gets blown up it’s my ass!”

“I got you,” Knight said.

Isaiah let a soft smile show on his face at Knight’s arrogance, then he focused on the play.

“Block your asses off, guys,” Rowe said as he leaned over the linemen. “Wing Formation, 144 reverse on set . . .”

Isaiah stuffed his mouthpiece in and split out to the weak side of the line, sizing up his blocking assignment, the outside backer. Number 55, the linebacker wasn’t even looking at him, focused instead on Thompson, lined up in the halfback position. Isaiah was glad it was a run and he couldn’t mess the play up, well, not unless he didn’t block. He checked to make sure he was on the line, and then glanced at the bald man in the leather jacket standing just beyond the fence. He also looked to the stands behind the man, where a blond girl in a black number 1 jersey clapped and cheered. He smiled and glanced back down at the man before focusing again. At least his dad could see him block like a star.

“Set!” Rowe barked as the center snapped the ball.

Isaiah ran toward number 55, and hit him at full speed, catching him off balance and knocking him down. He snapped his head around and saw Knight cutting hard to the outside off tackle to get around the unblocked defensive end. He was going to get trapped between the corner and the end. Isaiah could have sprung him for a big run if he just blocked that dude, but it might serve Knight well to get stuffed. Isaiah ran at the defensive end full speed. The end never saw what hit him as Isaiah caught him in the side of the helmet and sent him rolling along the turf. Isaiah rolled up with a whoop and watched Knight launch into the much smaller cornerback full speed. No contest, at least forty pounds in his favor, Knight bowled the defender over without losing a step.

Isaiah raised his hands to signal touchdown, watching Knight showcase his speed in a nearly uncontested footrace into the red turf. Knight stopped in the end zone, turned around and pointed the ball at Isaiah, pumping his fist before tossing it to the official. Isaiah spared a quick glance at his father, who nodded. Isaiah sprinted off into the end zone to smack Knight’s hand as the siren blew two long sustained notes.

At the beginning of the second half Isaiah and Knight burst onto the field side by side. They jumped and whooped, taking the center position as the team pressed into a big circle, screaming and butting heads.

The wall at the center of the press opened up and Rowe stepped through, carrying his helmet. He ran a hand through his straight black hair, then pulled the helmet over his head. He held up his fist. “Alright boys, the score is thirty-five, seven!” he announced. The team exploded. “But we’ve only played twenty-four minutes of football, boys! We kicked their ass the first half, and if we’re not careful they might come back!”

“Hell no!” came a voice from the back.

“That’s right! We’re gonna show these fools that the first half was a warm-up!” Rowe shoved his fist into the air. “Bring it in! We’re gonna make them wish they quit playin’ football at the first half. This may be their stadium, but it’s the Pirates’ house tonight!”

The team crushed in on the center spot, sweeping Isaiah in so he was face to face with Rowe, who winked and cried, “Pirates!” Isaiah and the rest of the team yelled, “Pirates!” so loud that Isaiah wouldn’t have known his voice was among those cheering if it weren’t for his raw throat. He pressed along with the team to the visitor’s sideline. When he reached the water cooler, a heavy weight slammed onto his back, nearly dropping him.

“Way to block back on that last play,” Knight said, dropping off Isaiah’s back and slapping him on the rear. He stuck out his hand, looking Isaiah in the eye when he clasped it. “I know I wouldn’t have busted that shit back there if it wasn’t for you. I appreciate it, dog. We cool?”

Isaiah hesitated, then slapped Knight’s butt and grinned. “Yeah, we cool.”

“That’s good, now we actin’ like teammates,” Knight smiled, breaking the handshake and stuffing his helmet on. The ref’s whistle sounded, and Knight offered a cursory wave to Isaiah, then turned and ran out to take his spot on the kick return team.

Behind the fence Isaiah could see his father standing in the exact same spot, but with a look on his face Isaiah couldn’t exactly read. He’s not disappointed, Isaiah thought, and then it hit him. He hadn’t seen that look in a very long time. “He’s proud,” Isaiah said, hardly daring to believe. His dad’s expression darkened when he noticed Isaiah staring at him. He pointed back out to the field, his lips moving. Isaiah caught the message and whipped his head around in time to catch the kickoff.

The Wolves’ kicker launched the ball into the air, a deep kick that threatened to go into the end zone. Knight caught it leaning backward on one foot to avoid the touchback and sprinted up into the wedge. Isaiah lost sight of him for a second, and thought he had been tackled. Then Knight burst out of a press of defenders at the thirty-yard line, dragging one from his right leg as he rumbled forward.

“Fight ‘em off, Knight!” Isaiah cheered, cupping his hands in front of his face like a bullhorn. Knight slipped the defender and took a beeline down the sideline at the forty. He fought for yardage before being shoved out of bounds right in front of where Isaiah stood. The Wolves’ thirty-eight yard line.

“Lets go, O!” Isaiah cried as he bounced out to the sideline. “Thirty-eight yards! We a hop, skip, and a jump away from six points!”

The offense congregated seven yards back from the ball. Knight staggered up, breathing heavily, amidst smacks and words of congratulations. Knight exhaled and spoke up. “Rowe, I can’t run this play, man, I’m tired as hell.”

“That’s alright, Trace, you and your four touchdowns get a rest this down,” Rowe said, clapping Knight on the pads and stepping in front of the huddle. “We’re passing this play—coach wants a one-play strike to the end zone!”

Isaiah’s head popped up. Rowe had the fire in his eyes. “Let’s do it,” he said, his own gaze matching Rowe’s. He tightened the last snap on his chinstrap. “I’m ready.”

“Trace, all you gotta do is block on this play,” Rowe said. He motioned for the linemen to duck their heads and leaned forward. “Flexbone, slot right, 221 bootleg on three! Flexbone, slot right, 221 bootleg, on three! Ready? Break!”

Isaiah took his spot, split out wide to the right side of the formation. He looked across the line at the defender, who backed off another two yards. You’d best respect my speed, mused Isaiah. He tightened the straps on his gloves, listening carefully to Rowe’s cadence.

“Down . . . set . . . hut! Hut! Hut!”

Isaiah ran out ten yards, then stopped, and cut back hard, hands up to catch the pass that wasn’t there. Turning just long enough to see Rowe’s pump fake, he cut back downfield and sprinted down the sideline past the faked-out defensive back. Isaiah turned back to find the ball already on its way, a wobbly spiral that he had to adjust his route to catch. The ball hit his hands just like before, but this time Isaiah cradled it softly, tucking it under his arm. He ran outside, toward the corner of the end zone. The safety came in hard. Isaiah leapt toward the pylon in the corner of the end zone, the ball outstretched. The safety slammed into him like a wrecking ball, a devastating blow that sent him flying toward the sideline. Out of bounds, Isaiah managed to wedge the ball inside the pylon, knocking it over. He rolled to a stop, ball still in his hand, and a throbbing pain in his side.

He propped himself up on his elbow, glancing back. The referee raised both arms on either side of his head. Touchdown! Isaiah fell back to the turf, dropped the ball and brought a hand up to wipe the tears from his eyes. So what if he dropped four balls, his first catch of the game was a touchdown! He leapt to his feet and raised his hand, his index finger pointing skyward. He ran back to the sideline. Knight bounded up to him, embracing him in a crunch of plastic.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about! That’s number one, baby!” he said. “You just getting started tonight—this is your half, cuz!”

Isaiah caught Knight’s open palm in a high five. “You damn right!” he said. “Second half is my time!” His eyes found his father’s again, and this time Nestor Moorhouse was clapping. He called out again, and this time Isaiah heard.

“Nice catch, son!”

Twenty-three minutes later, fourth quarter, the Pirates had increased their lead fifty-six to ten. The game was pretty much over over, but Isaiah wanted to make one last statement. He cut confidently toward the sideline on a short pattern. The ball streaked toward his outstretched hands, and caught it with a soft thud, tucking it and shaking off a weak tackle by the defender. He dashed forward ten yards before a flying tackler knocked him out of bounds.

He grabbed the hand in front of his face to climb to his feet. His helper was Knight, still fired up. “Nice catch, homie! What’s that, six in a row?” Knight said with a grin.

Isaiah tossed the ball to the referee and joined the team. Rowe winked at Isaiah before he announced the play: “Wing right, 228 boot at nine on two. Isaiah, watch for the ball on the post-corner!”

Isaiah jogged out to the left side of the formation, sizing up the small corner lined up five yards in front of him. He looked down his nose at the defender, who wasn’t even six feet tall. I own this guy, he thought, grinning. When Rowe called out the second “hut,” Isaiah snapped forward, sprinted ten yards, then cut a forty-five degree angle inside. The defender shadowed him without losing a step. On his fifth step inside, Isaiah planted his knee and cut hard at the same angle back outside. The ball was in the air as he turned around, hands up, and thudded into his gloves with a smack. He put a quick juke on the corner and turned up the sideline toward the end zone. He scanned inside and saw the safety headed toward him at an angle sure to stop him short of a score. He also saw another shadow moving parallel to the safety, one that the single-minded defender didn’t notice.

He cut back inside, sprinting full speed for the red turf. The safety mirrored his move, turning back inside—and ran headlong into Knight, who had come across the field on a post route. The safety went down hard, and Isaiah cut up again inside Knight, high-stepping into the red as time expired.

Isaiah jumped up and slammed the ball over the top of the goal post like a basketball. The officials didn’t even bother to flag the offense, they just signaled the end of the game.

Isaiah ran back toward midfield to join the press of his teammates as they sang the West High fight song all the way back to their bus. Even though he wouldn’t get a chance to wash the stink off until the team got back home, he stopped at the gate for a quick kiss from Lauren when she ran up to him.

“Good job, baby,” she said. She jumped up and wrapped him in a tight embrace. “I’ll be waiting later tonight.” She dropped down out of the hug, her lips brushing against his cheek.

Isaiah returned her kiss and walked toward the bus. He tried to step inside when a strong hand grabbed him by the shoulder pads, yanking him down from the steps. He looked around into his father’s face.

“Hey dad,” he said with a weak wave.

His father’s hand descended on his shoulder with a crunch. “Nice work today, son,” he said.

Isaiah’s cheeks grew hot. He dropped his gaze and said, “It was alright.”

His dad raised his chin to look into his eyes, smiling. “Three touchdowns is more than alright, son.”

Isaiah shook his head sheepishly. “Knight had four. I thought you wanted me to do better than him,” he said, and shrugged.

His father pulled him into an embrace. “You played your heart out, son. You did your old man proud.” His father released him. “I’ll see you at home.”

Tears pricking at his eyes for the last time that night, Isaiah climbed the steps to the bus. He took a seat behind Knight in the front, exchanging high fives with his teammates. He looked out the window, catching a glimpse of his father weaving his way though the crowd.