Lack Of Colour

if you feel discouraged
when there's a lack of color here
please don't worry, lover
it's really bursting at the seams
absorbing everything
the spectrum's A to Z

-- Death Cab for Cutie

Today, the world might as well be in black and white. I see smiling faces with no connection to smiling hearts. Smiles, hugs, and small talk with those who might as well be strangers. A bustling intersection out the window; cars spewing every which way to no avail.

This university is a big pond with lots of neurotic, stressed-out, insecure, hyperactive fish.

Number by Color

I've discovered the hidden pattern to my dating life.

It's color-coded.

The girls with whom I have significant friendships can be generally divided into two categories: the quasi-blondes, and the quasi-brunettes. The former find me attractive, while I'm attracted to the latter.

I can't figure out whether it's my subconscious hair color preference, or coincidence, but the figures are pretty compelling. Marjorie, Mindie, Natasha, and Chloe are all blondes, while Jill and Lauren lean more toward brunetteish-ness. Although... hmm... there are a few darker-skinned brunettes who throw that simple distinction for a loop. Maybe a slightly more complex system is necessary. Let's see...

Blondes: They initially dislike me, but eventually we get to talking usually on the phone, and we become fast friends. Eventually, they want to be more than friends, but for a variety of reasons, I've always put the kibosh on that.

Fair-skinned brunettes: Jill and Lauren.

Dark-skinned brunettes: They like me immediately, but they're flirty enough that I never really take the time to get to know them. Eventually, they go away.

Hmm, I wonder where a redhead would fit into the picture...

Why Hello There...

Apparently, this pseudonymous mental barf bag has more of a readership than I thought. Hi, people!

See With New Eyes

Every morning, you wake up under your own head of hair. You open your eyes, and your field of vision is framed by your own nose and forehead. Your feelings are influenced by the unique mix of chemicals in your own brain. Your thoughts are based on your own past experiences.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be able to truly see the world from another point of view? Have you ever wished that just for one day, your field of vision were framed by someone else’s nose and forehead, that your feelings were influenced by the unique mix of chemicals in someone else’s brain, and that your thoughts were based on someone else’s past experience?

There are lots of people whose minds I would like to get inside. For some reason, today I decided to pick a few of the minds that interest me most.

The first one on my list is Jill. From the outside, she lives an incredibly charmed life, and I’ve always wondered how that’s affected her thinking. If my life included as many wonderful, improbable things as hers does, I would begin to wonder if the world might be some sort of game set up for my personal enjoyment. I’d like to know if that’s happened to her. And I’d also like to know what it feels like to be really, really, really short.

Next up is Dr. Ashland, my old piano teacher. He’s a fascinating man, and an amazing musician. I’ve taken several classes from him over the past few years. In any teaching situation, he manages to convey concepts in very few words, and his quick wit makes me think there’s much more going on inside his head than he reveals. I’d like to know what it feels like to have his depth of understanding about classical music, and what it’s like to have his spiritual background. And I’d also like to know what it feels like to have such a distinguished-looking head of white hair.

Third on the list would be June. June is a Korean fireball in her late 20s, with an infectious happiness and love for God like I’ve never seen before. She was instrumental in starting the church I attend at home, and I don’t think I’ve ever had a conversation with her that did not lift my spirit and put a smile on my face. Unfortunately, we lost touch a while ago; she left the church abruptly, and I’m not exactly sure where she is or what she’s up to now. I try to call her every month or two, but she doesn’t return my calls. I’d like to know what made her decide to leave the church, and how I can most effectively minister to her needs. And I’d like to know what it feels like to have such incredibly contagious charm.

Fourth, I’d like to get inside Natasha’s head. I’m not art critic; I couldn’t tell you what makes good visual art if my life depended on it, but I think Natasha is a good artist, and she has a refreshingly random, improvisatory approach to life that always makes me smile. I’d like to know what it feels like to have art sense and creativity like hers. And I’d like to know what it felt like to watch me tumble out her car window after that Nickel Creek concert last year.

Fifth, last, and most, at the moment: Amy. Simply because I don’t understand her at all.

I

It's a beautiful day outside. A little windy, with a high of 73 degrees. Positively glorious.

There's a small remnant of a veggie wrap on the table. Strains of Dave Brubeck drift through the air. A mother carries her small child down the aisle and out the door. Besides the two employees behind the counter and two women placing orders, I'm the only one here.

It's been a long weekend already. Yesterday, I played synth for vespers and bass for Adoration. The details are uninteresting, but suffice it to say vespers ran more than half an hour late and Adoration sounded awful. I arrived back in my dorm room a few minutes before midnight, discouraged and depressed. I've invested so much into Adoration, and really want to see it be a blessing to people, but sometimes, it just seems doomed.

This morning, I didn't wake up until 11:30. I arrived at SMC church and found a seat in the back just in time to hear the sermon. It was a confusing one.

In the few minutes after church, four different good friends asked if I had plans for lunch. I told them I was busy, and felt rather guilty, because strictly speaking, the only plan I had was to be alone for lunch.

So here I am at MiAroma, marinating in the quiet ambience, recovering my sanity, talking to God about all the things that have me feeling down today. (There's a few, but they're either too boring or too personal to write about.)

Jill and I were talking about prayer earlier this week, and she expressed a degree of cynicism about the Christmas-listish nature of most prayers. Is prayer nothing more than a chance to get God's help? Worse still, is prayer nothing more than a chance to think positively and visualize your goals, thus making you more able to attain them?

I think there's more to it than that, and the "Dear Santa" approach to prayer shows a fundamental misunderstanding of what prayer is for. Prayer is not the process of enlisting God's help in solving our problems and celebrating our successes; prayer is the process of making our problems His problems, and celebrating His glory.

Fit For a Herd of Cows

"Hey, Wry! Did you get any interesting leads today?"

I turned to see Riley entering the foyer.

"A few. Mostly just the health systems and the GC auditing service. What about you?"

Riley responded, saying something about not being interested in Tennessee internships, or being very interested in them, or something. I wasn't really paying attention -- my brain was having a full-blown social crisis.

Normally, I'm not a terribly obsessive-compulsive kind of person, but I must confess to one persistent habit: whenever I see someone wearing a nametag, I read it. No matter whether I already know the person or not, I read the nametag (including the fine print), just in case it says something I don't already know. I guess that stems from my shyness; I want to find out as much as possible about the people around me, so I have as much conversational material as possible. Or something like that. Anyway, it's a pretty compulsive habit for me.

Of course, on this particular day, Riley was wearing a nametag, and as she talked, I noticed it. I lost eye contact and looked down at her nametag. I looked at the logo and the fine print. I looked at the dark blue border and the skin behind it. I'd had a very short night's sleep, so my eyes began to relax and unfocus, settled comfortably on that blue border and the tan skin behind it.

Skin?

In my head, there's a little tiny control room. In that room, there's a little tiny man named Ed. He's surrounded by kazillions of video screens, tons of meters and gagues of all types, and an Avogadro's number of switches and dials. Most days, Ed has very little to do, so I usually picture him with his feet propped carelessly on the desk, paging through Paste, sipping on a Roma slush. On this particular day, he was slacking off as usual, when he noticed the bright blue border and tan skin featuring rather prominently on all the monitors.

Ed jumped out of his chair and began frantically whacking switches and flipping buttons, looking for the "emergency neck jerk" mechanism. Eventually, he found it. (Yeah, Ed's a bit of a prude. But hey, he takes good care of me.)

With a heavy, irritated sigh, Ed grabbed the intercom mic and flopped back down in his chair. "Hey, moron! You're staring at her breasts!"

Ok, maybe that little control room in my head doesn't really exist, and maybe Ed's just a figment of my imagination. But it sure felt like he was yelling at me.

Riley was still yammering on about something or other. Something about the headquarters of the Discovery Channel in Washington, D.C. I focus on her words for a moment, and then became distracted by the fact that Discovery Channel's initials are D.C., so the D.C. is in D.C. Hmm. I wondered why they were in D.C. Was it because of the Smithsonian, and all that stuff? Maybe there were just a lot of smart people in D.C. But there were smart people here, too. Maybe they just didn't like the fact that CNN is down here. I dunno. Sometimes, it seems like somebody dumped all our multinational media conglomerates in a handbasket and FedExed them to you-know-where. Second Day Express, no less. With a return address of "Riley". Hmm, that is a nice blue border...

My idylic reverie was shattered by another jarring message from my mental intercom: "Pull up! Pull up!"

Durnit. Twice in one conversation. At that point, I noticed that Riley was indeed wearing a neckline down to here, which explained the juxtaposition of blue border and tan skin. I thought back to the Terry Pratchett quote about a "chest fit for a herd of cows," and picture a herd of miniature cows with their heads sticking out above the neckline of Riley's shirt. It was a funny mental picture, but I decided not to laugh. I looked up into her eyes, determined to not look down until she left.

There was only one problem: I still hadn't finished reading the name tag.

The name tag screeched, "read me! Read me! You just need to get through the top right section, and you'll have read it all."

My eyes dropped obediently. They saw only blue borders and miniature cows.

"Not like that, dimwicket! Look up, gather your composure, and try again. You can do this."

I looked up into her eyes.

The miniature cows mooed, "read our nametag!"

"No! Nein! Nyet! Negatory! Nuh-uh! Not working!" Ed bellowed over my mental intercom.

I finally resolved to turn forty-five degrees to the right and look at the far wall of the foyer for the duration of the conversation. Eventually, Riley, cows, and nametag all decided to leave for greener pastures on the other side of the foyer.

I never got to read the rest of her nametag.

Transcontinental, 3:30 a.m. Sunday Morning

Ring, ring, ring.

Heyya.

The return was late. The concert was great.

The pick-up was thirty seconds tardy. The drive out went quickly.

The dinner plans were poorly thought-out. The fault was entirely mine.

The allotted time for dinner was one hour. The restaurant wait was forty minutes.

The opening act was The Mammals. Their music was... well, I don't know, because we arrived after they'd finished.

The Nickel Creek set was mostly familiar. The Britney cover was pretty funny.

The venue was quaint. The lights under the balcony were a little weird.

The mandolinist was crazy as usual. The guitarist looked a little too tipsy.

The encore was surprising. Fleck and Meyer were onstage.

The concert's end was at 11:30. The time zone was central.

The late leave was until 2:00 eastern. The problem is obvious.

The adjusted estimated return time was 3:00 a.m. The dean was not amused.

The return drive was languid. The sleep deprivation was affective.

The arrival was 3:15 a.m. The drop-off was businesslike.

The girl is a catch.

But not for me.

For Her Amusement

It was late. Natasha and I were just arriving back on campus after going to see Nickel Creek in Chattanooga.

I pulled up and parked beside her car in the music building parking lot. Since my car wasn't tagged for dorm parking, I'd have to leave it here tonight and walk back to the dorm.

Natasha walked over to her little red Honda and unlocked it. "Hey... do you want a ride back over to the guys' dorm?"

"Sure!"

I walked toward the passenger door, but Natasha interrupted. "The passenger door's broken. You'll have to climb in the driver's side..."

With some ungraceful and amusing effort, I managed to get all six feet and two inches of me from the driver's side door into the passenger seat.

Soon, we had arrived at the front door of the guys' dorm. "Thanks for the ride, Natasha!"

I reached for the door handle, then chuckled. "I guess I'm trapped."

After a few moments' thought, I decided to roll down the window and exit that way. Somehow, I managed to climb out the window backwards, nearly falling out upside-down in the process. I landed in a rumpled heap beside the car.

Natasha leaned over to the passenger window, rather amused. "That was graceful. Are you.. okay?"

I dusted myself off. "I'm fine. You know I only did that so you could laugh at me, right?"

Natasha grinned. "Of course."

::

Several months later, I learned there was nothing wrong with Natasha's passenger side door. It worked fine, but since she told me it was broken, I never tried it. I guess that means I climbed out the window for no other purpose than for her amusement.

Anything for the ladies, I guess.

More Than Enough

The most famous and often-quoted of the Psalms begins, "The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."

That's cool for David, I guess. But when I take stock of my own life, I see a jam-packed calendar that left me unprepared for a few assignments last week. I see a bank account balance torpedoed by the first tuition payment of the semester. I see a 6'2", 160lb toothpick in the mirror. I see my "mom car" out in the parking lot. And ya know what?

I want!

I want 25 hours in a day, and 8 days in a week, and a secretary to make sure I never forget things. I want a nice fat scholarship. I want 20 extra pounds of muscle, and I really, really, really want a 350Z. Or a Honda. Or a diesel rabbit, for that matter. Anything but the mom car!

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want."

I picture King David writing those words. David didn't want, because there really wasn't anything he could possibly want. David had it all!

"The Lord is my shepherd, who gives me all the hookups. I have wealth, health, youth, charm, good looks, and a whole nation I get to boss around. Of course I don't want!"

I grumble. "God, what’s wrong with you? How come you won’t be a good shepherd and give me all that stuff?"

Silence.

But is that really how it was for David?

I erase the mental image of King David with one of Boy David. A shepherd, the youngest of seven sons, working a dead end job in the middle of nowheresville.

"The Lord is my shepherd, who satisfies me in the most unenviable of circumstances. I no longer need to want."

I sigh. "God, what's wrong with me? Why am I so different from David?"

Silence.

I don't have the answer key, the magic formula, the as-seen-on-tv life fixer machine. This is the real world; not all Christians have dinner on the table or a roof over their heads tonight. And those who have food and shelter are busy fretting about their lack of money, lack of a boyfriend or girlfriend, lack of a good job, lack of a 350Z, or any of millions of other things. In some way or another, we all want.

To be continued...