Departure

I've just confirmed my that my flight departing from SLC to STL will be leaving at 5:20 PM on Saturday, February 4th.

wants and needs

I want to borrow hair trimmers, to shave off this beard. The novelty wore off about two weeks ago. I want to plug in my iPod somewhere, and listen to music. Loudly. I want to talk to some one. Quietly.

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You can't always get what you want You can't always get what you want You can't always get what you want But if you try sometimes you might find You get what you need

the Rolling Stones You Can't Always Get What You Want

the centre cannot hold

Edit: Hmmm. Folks, I've decided to edit this entry. It was more crude in places than my sense of civility allows. I had reservations when I wrote it to begin with, and when that feeling didn't leave, I decided I needed to make changes. I apologize to those of you who read it earlier.

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Friday compressed more emotions into a single day than I thought humanly possible. I overslept. Woke up at 11:00. I kicked myself for it, but thought that at least it was better than 3:00. Or 5:00. I had an urgent email from the Petitions Office, asking me to call them immediately. My blood ran cold. But I called anyway. It turned out that they just didn't have a correct phone number for me, and I had forgotten to sign my petition. I told Coralee at the office there that I'd be right over. It snowed about an inch in the time it took me to walk from my apartment to the ASB. Visibility was nil. It was the closest to a whiteout I'd yet seen in Utah. I was pleased about being proactive. I was taking charge, taking responsibility. The truth will set you free. That's a nice change from how I'd been feeling before. You can't handle the truth. I arrived at the ASB with my hair entirely white, then entirely wet. I need to get a jacket that's not leather for weather like that. Coralee was a bit surprised to see me so soon, but we settled everything and it was a nice feeling. The snow was still driving down, and I had no desire to walk in it. So I went to the TMCB, and headed for the computer labs. I was locked out of the system. I'd half-expected it, because they're usually pretty good about having active accounts correspond to people actively taking CS classes. But it was a bit of a blow to my morale. My account's been active for five years on those systems, due to... well, it was manipulation of the system and asking one of my friends who is an admin to help me out with a problem. The solution to which left me with an account that never expired. I pulled out my laptop, which I'd packed into my bookbag. There was room; there were no books taking up the space. I got onto someone's random wireless access point that had been left wide open. Surprisingly enough, the wireless coverage in the Talmage building sucks. You'd think the CS department would have done something about that. Maybe it's due to their ongoing feud with OIT. I read my webcomics, talked to a few friends, and realized that I was just going to be a wreck until I spoke with Miriam. I've been thinking about what this conversation was going to be like for weeks. There was a lot I needed to say, and a lot I wanted to ask. I needed to settle my account, right some wrongs, make what amends I could. There were so many things I wanted to talk about. And I feared it would be my last chance to talk, really talk, with this girl I love. She'd come over in a bit, and give me a call first. I went to my apartment and did something for a few hours. I don't recall what. She came, and we talked. My roommates had the graciousness to make themselves scarce. We had a heart-to-heart. We spoke of what was, and what is. What might have been, and what may yet be. I came close to tears. I only recall one time that I have actually cried. It was when my grandfather died. It was my first semester at BYU. I was 17. He was my hero, my friend, the standard against which I measure myself. I didn't cry when I found out. I wasn't until a week later, when we finally lowered his casket into the ground, that I found the tears. Only one aspect of the conversation do I wish to discuss here. Miriam stated that she has been surprised by how many secrets men hold onto. I said that surely women have their secrets too. But no, she said. Nothing of the magnitude she has heard of from the men in her life. I had no answer. I've been pondering her statement since, and I think I'm beginning to see why it is. Men don't cry. From the time they are born, the expectation of strength is instilled in them. Men don't cry. Men don't admit weakness. Men don't worry about petty things like emotions. A male who does is somehow less than a man. A coward. A wuss. It is one of the great lies of our civilization. It is the idea that than a man who is less than perfect, less than strong, is no man at all. He emasculates himself. Men don't cry. But they want to. They want to be able to tell someone their fears and secrets. They want to be able to let go of that burden. They want to have someone to entrust with their fragility. Two can bear more than one alone. Men collect secrets, like a whale collects barnacles. Waiting for a chance to scrub themselves clean. And so we talked. We said what we needed to say, and asked what needed asking. I felt extraordinarily blessed. I asked for an hour of her time. She gave me three. Matt came to pick her up around 10:30. She and I had supposed the three of us might find some people and do some thing. When I saw him though, I quickly made my exit, stage right. He looked like he had seen a ghost. Somewhere inside me a switch flipped. I went from painful, drawn out introspection to chipper, almost manic extroversion. I went to dinner with friends. I had Dr. Pepper. I was glad for their company. It was what I needed. I arrived home around midnight. I tiptoed past my roommate and his fiancee watching a movie in the darkened living room. After hearing snippets of dialogue I realized it was The Brothers Grimm. I crawled into bed. Then I wept, bitterly.

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Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world

excerpt from W.B. Yeats' The Second Coming

State of Affairs

Well, I'm back in Provo. The things that I thought would be hard are easy. The things that I wanted most to do frighten me.

#pragma

On a more down-to-earth note, I'm still in need of a ride from SLC to Provo on Thursday. My flight touches down at noon. Matt?

Exhaustive Explanations

Read the post below this one first. It provides context to this one.

I give the answer which is true, but which is utterly unsatisfying to me. It's the one that explains why I don't accomplish a lot of things that I want to do. It's my bane, my achille's heel, my enemy, my shame. Me: "Mostly, I was just exhausted."

Over the last few weeks I have discovered a few things. Among them, that it's not normal for people to be exhausted all the time. It's not normal to sleep for hours and not feel rested. It's not normal to force yourself to stay awake for days at a time so that you can collapse unconscious afterwards. It's not normal to spend four hours of every eight in bed awake, staring at the ceiling. This was news to me. I've spent the last five years in such a state. In hindsight, I see the damage that my exhaustion has done. It's foiled my academic aspirations. It's ruined romantic possibilities. It's slaughtered my ability to be a reliable employee. I thought I was "just" depressed. I've been firing on two of eight cylinders for longer than you, dear reader, have known me. In combination with my perfectionism, it's caused heartache for me and the ones I care most about. Perfectionism. I hate admitting my weaknesses and shortcomings. I feel like I should be better than what I am, should do more than what I am. "Should" is a dangerous word. Especially when I'm using it to refer to myself. I've known since I was very young that I have exceptional talents and abilities. Growing up, it was obvious to me that I could accomplish anything I set my mind upon. It seems though, that you've got to find a way to drag the body along too. I feel shackled by my flesh. It just won't do what I ask of it. After a while, I started getting used to being tired all the time. I tried to tell myself it was normal. I figured that since I'd started doing the right things, seeing the right doctors, taking the right medications, been pronounced clean... that I really was ok. It didn't make it true, though. Oh, I could fake it enough to squeak by. But it made it hard to explain why I did so poorly in my classes, when I was "ok." So I lied. And I lied, and I lied, and I lied. Then I lied some more. I hurt my family, I hurt my friends, I hurt myself. I destroyed trust. I wasted money and several years of my life. But eventually, the truth comes out. It always comes out. I don't really care to lie any more. For the last two years, I have failed every course I have taken at BYU. The pattern went thusly: I would start the semester full of hope and vigor, and do well in my classes for a week. Surely this time I'm doing ok! After the second week, I'm feeling tired. But I'm hanging in there. By the end of the third week though, I'm completely worn out. And I can't admit it to myself. Much less to others. So I lie. To myself, mostly. Lying to others was a side-effect. And now? I'm too tired to lie any more. So I told someone. I told my family. I told my doctor. And they told me, that maybe they could help. That I shouldn't have to live feeling tired as I do. But changes must be made. Hence, here I am in St. Louis, leaving behind my place of suffering and hope. They say they can help. I dream of a day when I can stand before you all, healthy and strong, and show you what I am truly capable of. I write these things not to ask for your pity, or even your understanding. It would be nice, however, if you could give me your forgiveness. Somehow I suspect that it is my own forgiveness that will be hardest to obtain. BYU might forgive me, at least. I've submitted a petition to strike the last two years from my record, leaving me with a sparkling GPA and good standing with the University. I have reason to expect that it will be granted. What bothers me most, though, is that even forgiveness cannot return opportunities lost. It cannot rewrite the past. It cannot undo what has been done. All it can do is let me move forward. I am done with shame and lies. I am done with the facade of perfection. I am a human being, flawed, and burdened, and struggling, and weak. And it's ok. I am beginning to believe that. I plan to return to BYU someday, having accomplished great things. I want to finish what I have started there. Academics holds much interest to me, if only I can muster the energy to do them. I like to think that some of you will be there when I arrive.

Rebel Yell

I didn't yell at my dad today. I mean, I don't usually yell at my dad. But sometimes something will set the two of us off, and we get into one of our famous knock-down drag-out shouting matches. When I got home from running some errands tonight, I was running late. So was he. Our conversation went something like this. I am paraphrasing slightly. Him: "So, what did you do today?" Me: "Yard work, mostly." I moved mulch for about two hours. Sadly, this was most of what I accomplished today. Him: "So what did you do on your job hunt today?" (long pause) This is normally where things go from tense to bad. He's got a raised tone of voice, though he probably doesn't realize it. Usually I'll match tones, and the shouting begins. Today, I was just too tired to argue. So I told the truth. Me: "I didn't get anything done on it today." He's upset now. Him: "Well, why not?" More truth. Me: "I had a bad day, and between getting stuff together for the trip to Provo, and moving all that mulch it just didn't happen." Him: "What made your day so bad?" There's an ugly tone there. He's probably not had a great day either. He did come home from work two hours late. I look at the floor. I give the answer which is true, but which is utterly unsatisfying to me. It's the one that explains why I don't accomplish a lot of things that I want to do. It's my bane, my achille's heel, my enemy, my shame. Me: "Mostly, I was just exhausted." He looks utterly disarmed by that statement. Concerned, even. The conversation continues, but I won't detail that here. There's no hint of argument in it any longer. The key point was that somehow, I didn't yell at my dad today. I've been getting to know my parents the last few weeks. To know them not as a child, but as their son. The problem with my dad and I is that we're too much alike. We think about things in the same fashion. We respond to stress in the same ways. My mom says it's uncanny. My dad and I argue in the same ways too. It's infuriating. We each know the other's thought processes, and pick holes in each other's logic until logic can do no more, and there is only shouting. We both can seem angry sometimes, without meaning to. It's because we're worried about someone. Probably the person we seem angry with. My mom's told me this for years. But today, I think I finally understood what she meant. I didn't yell at my dad today.

Flight Plan

I have a flight arriving at SLC on Thursday, January 26th at 11:55 AM. My return to STL is on Wednesday, February 1st, in the evening. (Though, this may yet change a bit. The trip to SLC is solid though.) Make your preparations accordingly.

Vanity

Here is a random photo of me with beard.

What am I doing here?

A lot of things, yet nothing at all, it feels like. I've been doing a complete tear-down and rebuild of the motorcycle with my dad. We spend an hour or so every night. It's quite a bit of fun, and extremely educational. Last night we got the engine turning over properly. Rebuilding the starter and all the electrical connections made a huge difference. It's never started so easily in all the years we've owned it. I've been taking pictures as we go, so look forward to that! I've been preparing my resume, and collecting contacts in the industry. I'm going to go full force on the telephone calls once I return from Provo. If this all works out like I think it will, I will have my first Serious Job. I've been going on splits with the missionaries, and have really enjoyed the opportunity to get out to do some service for others. I've been reading books. Fermat's Enigma, Freakonomics, The Programming Language Ruby, Agile Web Development with Rails, and others. I've been cooking some meals for the folks. Everyone here is having a rough time medically. I do what I can. I've been playing some FFXI, though less than you probably think. It's been about a week since I last logged in. But I've been making some largish accomplishments in the game, and it's good to have some people to chat with. It seems that my schedule is not very compatible with talking to Provo folks lately. I've done some work for my boss Brent at BYU. Heh, I've still got IT's laptop. He got an exception for me to finish up the work I've been doing there. It's good to get some closure on that. I've been growing out my moustache and beard. It's just over a month now, and looking more complete. I've been spending time at the LDS employment center here in St. Louis, getting good advice on constructing a resume, tips on interviewing techniques, and lots of networking contacts. It's an excellent resource. I'm getting ready to return to Provo for a bit. The most likely scenario at this point is that I fly out on Monday morning. I'll need a ride from the airport - would anyone be interested in helping out there? Over and out.

Noted

I suppose I really should say something. People are probably wondering what the heck is going on. Long story short: I've decided to defer my enrollment to BYU, in order to conduct a job search here in St. Louis, with the goal of getting ready to serve a full-time LDS mission. I've tried to write several posts about all the happenings, but suffice it to say that life has been complex lately. I kept getting bogged down in details as I tried to write. So yeah. I'm in St. Louis, I'm reasonably happy and healthy, and am looking for a job as a software developer. I expect to be back in Provo for a week around Friday January 20th to get my stuff in order.

Dog Days

Pets are hard to photograph. This is my dog, Bear. (formally it's Baron of Willow Pond, but that's more of a communal pun in my family.) Note the tennis ball with which I bribed him to sit still while I fiddled with the camera. (Edit: I originally wrote the following as a reply to Jill's post, then decided it fit better in the main article.) I love goldens and other big breeds of dog. Huskies and Labradors and Samoyeds and so on. Beagles and other hounds are nice too. Bear's a pedigreed golden. We made sure to go with a reputable breeder who could document that his family history didn't include any incidences of hip dysplasia which so many goldens get in old age. That was a good idea, as he's quite fit. He's in good health, aside from being a bit overweight. In the last year or so he's started having some trouble with arthritis, but once we started putting aspirin in his food, he's been active and healthy again. My aunt and uncle raise and show Samoyeds and Pomeranians around the country. They do sheep-herding trials and such, in addition to general grooming shows. They've won a lot of prizes :) They also take in old show dogs who have bad tempers and rehabilitate them. They've taken in some famously ill-tempered dogs and helped them to become the most kind and friendly dogs you'll ever meet. We've not groomed Bear professionally in a while - you should see him when he's had all of his fur trimmed and cleaned! It's worth the $15 at PetCo when his fur's getting unruly. He's got a slight kink in his tail, but beyond that he's show-worthy and very beautiful. Mostly he's a family dog though. He loves to be around people. He was a bit of handful when he was younger, but these days he's rather laid-back. Anyway, that's my dog. I'll try to get a photo of our cat Holly to go up here as well. She's a real sweetheart. Her full name is Mistletoe and Holly, as she was a Christmas gift when she was a kitten. We usually just call her Miss Holly or Holly for short though :)

Bearded Visage

As per request, here is a mug shot showing my current growth of facial hair. P.S. Taking a portrait shot of yourself is a bit difficult without an assistant handy. Also, this post just about marks the one-year anniversary of this blog.

Blarg

So it turns out I have Pertussis, or Whooping Cough. It's supposed to last about 6-8 weeks, so I'm down to 4-6 weeks left at this point. Fortunately I shouldn't be contagious any more, having survived the first couple of weeks. At this point mostly I'll have a horrible-sounding cough on and off for a few weeks, and I'll be generally weakened for a while.

Hopefully I won't be sleeping for 16-18 hours every night like I did last night. I just barely got up in time for a late dinner.