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Kumo_kun
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Name: Colin
Gender: Male
Interests: I'm a Christian, an artist, a musician, a best friend to many, and a close friend to a whole lot more, a brother, long-winded, a goofball, a geek (and proud), a movie freak, a reader, a writer, a poet, and a slew of other things. But most of all, I'm a person. I hope that's cool with you.
Peace and Love,
Colin F.
Expertise: Professional breathing, Olympic sitting, Major League blinking, and making dumb jokes.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Entertainment
Message: message meEmail: email me
Member Since:
4/15/2004
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| For those who aren't reading my new blog, this is what you're missing out on...A COAT FOR ALL SEASONS
Legs spread wide as I sit slouching in a chair at the end of a long and taxing day, not much comes to my mind very quickly. My mind works like lightning as soon as the clock strikes nine am, rushing from one task to the next, and when the day is done and I have no lightning left molasses begins to leak from my ears; the sweet and hazardous byproduct of the industry of thought. I am tired and slow and a sleepy tortoise with insomnia. I don't want sleep, I'm just tired. But then, that's what they all say, isn't it? The tortoise thing, I mean. I don't know, there's molasses leaking from my head, I'm probably not making much sense. Either way, my legs are spread wide and I'm slouching and it's eight thirty p.m.
People are walking past me as I sit. It isn't very late at night, so it makes sense that so many of them would be out at night. There are two walking hand in hand. They are both male. One has short , dark hair and the other's is down to his shoulders and is curly and blonde. They are wearing polo shirts and jeans, and the one with the longer hair is wearing a brown jacket. They seem happy, and they seem nice. Why don't I ever hold hands with my best friend? There was that one time, of course, but that was more of a joke than anything. There aren't many people you should be more comfortable holding hands with than your best friends. These guys seem to have it figured out alright, I think. Next time I see my best friend, I'm going to hold his hand.
Sitting here in this position, I feel comfortable with these people. I don't much like people all of the time. They're noisy and loud and they have too many stories. Everyone has a story. My mother told me that when I was very young, and again and again until I was older and almost the age I am right now. About half an hour ago I was sitting in this same spot in a slightly more upright position, waiting for a bus, and I was watching the people pass and trying to imagine everyone's individual story (based on stereotypes and generalizations and the like) as they went. It gave me the most incredible headache, which is primarily what started the flow of molasses. My brain finally reached its giving point, and it gave. Imagining everyone's story was particularly difficult, mostly due to the fact that everyone around here seems to walk so very fast.
People walk too fast. I understand having places to go and things to do, but why does everyone have to have something to do and somewhere to go all day long? I saw several of the same people walk back and forth and back and forth. I wanted to ask them where they were going, but then I would have to stop imagining their story and I would lose track of everything and the molasses would have only started to flow sooner, the headache would have only gotten worse. Still, people walk too fast. What about all those people with shorter legs or smaller lung capacities; the one's who just can't walk that fast? How are they to keep up? What if one of the slower ones is friends with one of the faster ones? Do they compromise and find a speed where one is almost going too fast and the other almost too slow? Or do they avoid each other altogether because they just can't make it work? And what if it does work at first, but then one of them is injured or something and can't keep up? I don't know, but I do know that people walk too fast. They're here and then they're gone, and when they're gone and I've gotten to know their story, I miss them. I can only imagine that everyone else is the same way. If I can't run to catch up with you, will you be gone within the year?I sincerely hope not.
It's cold out, but not the sort of cold that the sun can do anything about. It is the end of a sunny day with a cool temperature and a breeze, and I'm wrapping my thin jacket around me, keeping my current posture. Something on my chilly insides is telling me to sit up straight, to gather warmth from my legs by holding them together, but the molasses flowing from my ears is causing a disconnect and my body just doesn't care enough to do anything about my current temperature. But the temperature isn't the problem; I'm not even all that cold. This cold is exclusive and particular. It wants only me. It wants only the sort of people with little legs and little lungs that move slower than everyone else. It wants to cut through us and chill our insides. It is the wind of the fear of loneliness, of being left behind. But I have a coat, and am growing impervious to the wind.
In recent months I have been growing. It's as if I can feel my torso and legs sprouting out from under me at this very moment as I sit here on this bench, and pretty soon people are going to have to start stepping over and eventually underneath my legs to get around. I'm just getting so darn big. The, however, growth does not come without side-effects, even if it is natural. I've grown a bit more reclusive as the result of everyone's stories and constant motion; I can only keep up with so many people and remember so many stories. This is not to say that I don't care about anyone else, I consider myself very much to be in the category of "people-persons", whatever that means. It's just that when it comes to the list of people that I think of when I consider whom I would like to spend time with, the list is fairly short. Acquaintances no longer thrill me, and friends are a conundrum. Brothers and sisters, close friends – those are the key.
I'm getting warmer just thinking about it. Spread out across the US are people I know. I consider these people my closest friends; the ones who stick around. The ones who have stood the test of time and made me wonder why I try to spend time with anyone else. The sort that you could almost imagine as family because it's almost as if you grew up with them (and in some cases, you sort of did). The thoughts of these friends are piling in my head now, slowly, climbing and climbing and forming a tower to warmth. It isn't cold out, it's quite nice, but these thoughts are warming me in a season of particular iciness. That's how people work, I think. We work in cycles; in seasons.
Today is a cold one. Perhaps tomorrow will be warmer, it depends on who I see and how I feel and what I do. Maybe it will be swelteringly hot, maybe it will rain, who knows? The seasons that people live through daily are fairly unpredictable and short-lived. And then there are those seasons that people live through that last a bit longer: months or even years. Seasons of light and darkness like they have in Alaska. The sun never sets and the moon never goes away. Sometimes they are seasons of no weather at all so that you can't tell wether you're in a desert or a tropical rainforest, but either way all you really want is for a change in the seasons. But no matter what season you're in, it can always get cold. Natural seasons are categorized by their amount of sunshine and their temperature because we're moving towards and away from the sun; the earth is, I mean. But people-seasons are different. We're moving towards and away from something, but I still haven't pegged down what it is. Either way, it can always get cold wether it's summer or winter, spring or fall.
That's where those people that you know come in. The ones that are willing to meet you where you are wether you're running or walking or both. The ones that are family regardless of what color blood you've both got or what kind of molasses flows from your ears when you're tired and can't think anymore. These people are patches of a patchwork quilt. They are feathers in a down pillow. They are thermal underwear and polar mittens. And when you stitch them all together with arms and a hood, they form a coat. A coat for all seasons, no matter what season you or they are in. And you become of their coat, or part of it, anyway. You trade warmth in those cold seasons, and sometimes just the knowledge that they're willing to contribute is enough to warm you. It is for me at the end of a day like this. So I pull my coat around my shoulders and shield myself from the bitter cold of too many stories and the biting wind stirred up by too many people walking around far too fast, and I am warm being wrapped in the love of the people who love me back. And the molasses stops flowing from my ears and is replaced by the remaining steam from the heat of the whole process, and I close my eyes and relax and wait for the bus as I am warmed in my coat for all seasons.
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| Meeting PeopleLoneliness is to be curtailed.
I need to go to church.
"I think maybe I'm one of those people that isn't meant to be with someone. I don't know. Holy shit, a deer!"
The end.
Cheers.
THE NEW CRAP
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| It's finally been doneI went and did it.
And it felt so good, too.
I switched.
This thing has served its purpose, and now it's time to move on.
If any of you care to move with me, you can do it right here:
SONGS FROM SUNDAY SCHOOL (and what to sing once you've graduated)
The above is my new blog. It's going to be a bit different. Not too different, but just different enough.
I'll still keep this old thing around for the sake of remaining in
touch, but if you want to hear what I have to say or see what I have to
hear or something like that, you're going to have to go to the new blog.
So, cheers, xanga.
Someday soon I'll be raking up all the old posts and putting them into a text file for posterity.
I don't look forward to that.
See you over at the new digs.
And, as always,
Cheers,
Colin F. | | |
| This Life Will Kill YouEventually. But eventually, everyone dies.
It has recently come to my attention that success in life is based purely on how hard you're willing to fight, how relentlessly you're willing to wrestle everything that you come up against.
I got that feeling again this weekend and especially today. That feeling that says "You're alone". I believe that MeWithoutYou says it best.
"Still there's a whisper in my ear...
a voice of loneliness and fear,
and I say 'DEVIL, DISAPPEAR'..."
That's about right. Loneliness and fear. Mostly loneliness. I have no idea why I feel it, but I do believe I'm going to take a proactive step and talk to someone in a counseling position about it. I'm growing quite tired of that feeling.
Anyhow, pray that I get a job.
I wrote a song today.
It sounds a lot like Clem Snide to me.
Maybe soon you'll hear it.
ACT I/prelude:
Heart, you're gettin' tangled up, you're eyes are gettin' sore
the men inside this town are pigs and the women are all whores
sex is always at its best when you're forgettin' what it's for
and hunting down angelic guests and beatin' on the door
ACT II:
Sweet and and all unknown to me, you're suffering their lies
the venom in their spittin' tongues is getting in your eyes
burning up the retina to make you blind
a cigarette inside your mouth, you're at the firing line
and Fuh-get all the petty things he whispered in your ear
and I'll forget the guilt I felt when my mother was in tears
and my father slammed the door behind his greatest fear
you and are without blame, now let's get out of here
CHORUS:
well you've got your hands and feet untied
and I've got my rifle at my side
so
take this cloth
and dry your eyes
and tally up all of the lies
so we can say goodbye
(it's gonna be alright)
(so we can be alright)
ACT III:
Friend, I know it's gonna hurt, and I know it will take time
and you can talk until it out until you've put it all behind
but if I can take some off your back and put it onto mine
it's doesn't matter if it hurts, I promise, I'll be fine
let's put the piece back in place, the ones they tore apart
and fill up all the little holes they punctured in our hearts
they were wrong, believe me they were wrong, back from the very start
and you and I are both too right, too strong to fall apart
ACT IV/falling action:
We can ride into the sun and go our separate ways
and write the truth into the world until the end of days
those fools are made of stone and brick, but we are made of clay
and once we brush off all the dirt, we're gonna be ok
The End.
Cheers,
Colin F.
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