Write it down

Are blogs cool?

Are blogs helpful?

Would I be better off being just like Creed from The Office who only puts his thoughts into a word document for no one to read?

"..no one puts a lamp under his bed after he lights it. He puts it on a lampstand..." (It's from Luke in the Bible, poorly paraphrased by me)

There are probably about half as many blogs as there are people, and that's a whole lot. Even if the precise number of blogs was half or even half-half of my original guess, we're still looking at 750 million blogs in the world. What are they about?

Cooking.

Relationships.

Religion.

Cooking and Religion.

People with access to the internet and at least 5 fingers (10 is preferable) can write whatever thoughts they want and throw it into the world wide web of information.

It's overwhelming.

I'm getting sick of it already and I just started this post 7 minutes ago.

But you know what? It's cathartic. Getting my thoughts out on to a screen or a piece of paper is resourceful for my thought-life, which is, all in all, my life.

So I don't think it matters whether blogs are cool or helpful (though that certainly seems like the goal), the reason there are 750 million (take that one to the bank!) blogs is because people need to get it out. Shake it off. Breathe life in by exhaling out. Or something.

The last post I made on this blog was 3 years ago. I was 20, in-love with someone I knew nothing about, and living in Chicago attempting to be a pastor.

Now I'm 23, in love with my wife, and living in New York attempting to be an actor.

The trouble is, I don't remember the last 3 years. I wasn't on mushrooms. I didn't write it down. Sure, there are pictures. There are Facebook posts. That's TimeHop. But I don't think that tells the whole story.

I have 10 minutes left on this library computer. I'm currently in Dexter, MI on a contract with a theatre company doing a holiday show. I have no car, no one that I have a deep relationship with. So I go to the library. Reading is important. Everyone should read.

I like that blogger is combined with google. It works.

The Purple Tie

A year ago today (well, thanksgiving), I was sitting here in this chair. The throne of thrones at ASC Desk in the commons. 10 am shift. I was wearing this purple shirt. I was wearing this purple tie.

I hate being told I'm wrong. And if you told me that everybody is like that, I would hate it. My life is how I run it, and that's how it is. I was born this way. This path was revealed to me. Blah, blah....

What do you do when a very credible source tells you you're wrong? How do I, as Eve 6 puts it, "swallow my pride"? Who wants to listen to criticism? What would life be like without it?

Well, no one would tell you that you couldn't do 'that'. What ever 'that' is. I would choose my own way, without recommendation, without Grandmotherly wisdom, without self-help books.

How far would I get?

When I was in 2nd grade, I got in some petty argument with my mother. I felt all this righteouness like I was owed something by her (or something). I decided on my own that I was gettin' out of there. I was hittin' the road. I was going to run away from home, from rules, from guidelines, from everything that was "holding me back". I grabbed my meager marbles-bag of a backpack and stuffed it with three shirts, a pair of shorts, and bread. I know, I know, that's a lot, but I planned on being away for 20 years. I got on my goliath bike with pegs on the back, and I started for the elementary school connected to my neighborhood. I lived in a small town called Jimtown. It's about 3 square miles in it's entirety. I rode my bike to the high school, down CR 22 to 5 points, and back towards my house on CR118. But I was not going back home. I was right, and I was not going to give them the benefit of showing weakness. So I went to play catch with my buddy Vella whose house was just down the road from mine. I had been gone long enough for my parents to get worried. After a couple throws, my dad pulls up and tells me to get home. How did he find me?! It's no worry, though. I had won. They broke before I did.

I was a brat.

I know this now, and most times I was aware of it growing up.

Who wants to be told they're wrong? Who wants to be told they are insuffiscent to properly care for themselves? Who wants to be told that cannot save themselves?

I do. I want to be told that. I want to be wrong. I want to be weak. I want to be vulnerable. I want to be insuffiscent. Why? Because that is when God shows his face. That is when he shows up, when a little lamb has a broken leg.

We all suck and need help. We need criticism so we don't blow our heads off and ruin everyone's lives with our natural stupidity. We need God.

Last year, in this throne of thrones at ASC Desk in the commons, sitting in this chair, wearing this shirt, and this purple tie, I think I wrote a blog going home or something. Every year they get better!

Congratulations and awesome shuffle time

Today will be a good day. It's the 24th! 24 is the best number.

I am more than half way through the semester and I have few things to say for myself. I am a little taller, according to my taller friend getting taller. I am learning discipline and responsibility at an EXTREMELY slow and alarming rate. I'm learning it, though. I couldn't say that last year at this time. I am working to survive, 9 to 5, staying alive. Chicago drains my wallet. I love clothes and being hot and stuff. It's so great, but it costs money. So do girlfriends. But Maggie is worth it. Oh yeah, Maggie. She's my girlfriend. She's a vegetarian fairy person, but very real and wonderful and is in favor of dating me. It's all good in this hood wif 'dat. I am 2 weeks from 20.  Nothing will change, except everything. I will LORD this 'not being a teenager' thing over my teenager friends like the London Nazi bombing. Too soon?

Godspell is also coming along. 3 weeks from now I will be the Son of God. In little ways. This show is going to be one of the most difficult performances I have ever undertaken. I'm sure that anyone who is in any kind of Passion Play (The final week of Christ on stage) has been brought to some newer understanding of what all went on there in that time. Maybe I will grow a little closer to my Savior. Maybe.

Resting in those great big Godly arms

-Jess

The Millenium-scapade.

Friday

12:18 pm

I'm getting changed after my photo shoot, looking at my phone like it was a heart monitor and I had a few minutes to live. I need to get to that 12:45 train. I grab my bag and I'm down the stairs. I do my routine pat down. I’ve got my phone, wallet, and computer. Now for my phone charger. Where's my phone charger? I drop my bag on a chair and grab sheepishly grab the next elevator to the 4th floor. I grab my charger and fly down the stairs, almost knocking down the poor soul who was unlucky enough to be in my fire trail. Grab the backpack and I'm off towards the El. My awkward run/jog is not helping my already frazzled look.

12:24 pm

I make it up the obnoxiously large flight of stairs to the train to catch the Brown Line right as it arrives. Luck be a lady tonight. Now the long trek to my safe haven: Randolph Street. It is taking forever and a century to get there. I am driving myself mad waiting after every stop, so mad that I convince myself to get off 6 blocks before the station and sprint because "I’m fast enough". 

12:35 pm*

The good news is I am fast enough. The bad news is that it is 6 blocks and it’s been 2 years and some change since my last basketball practice. I get back to my awkward freshman-that-is-late-for-the-first-day-of-class charade and I’m off. Zigging, zagging, huffing and puffing. I just took a deep breath as my legs are reminded off this while I type.

12:38 pm

Anyways, I make it to the station. It’s a few minutes till that :45 train and I am content and proud of my supreme hustle . I walk briskly through the heavy doors to the platform and look for that glory train to paradise.

*While Jess is running through Chicago, I am the train that is leaving at 12:35. He should have checked, re-checked, and then checked the schedule again.

12:47 pm

Dang it. 

A week later, still a blubbering mess.

More of this

One Act

“…DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU'VE SPAWNED, SIR? She is a spider. She is a diabolically devious as Medusa. Her capacity for compassion extends only as far as her immediate periphery. She uses her charm in the same way the Borgias used poison. Her wit is an epic in trivia. She conforms to civilized conduct with all the morality of a traffic light. Her empathy is as deep rooted as her mirror. The lip service she pays to the social amenities has all the sincerities of a Hindu kissing the Pope’s ring. She is a pot of poisoned honey…”

from the play "Integrity" by John Patrick.

I silently performed this at my desk. I would suffice in doing that for the rest of my life.

I'm in an Advanced Drama class this semester. I am assigned to pick out a one act play, cast and direct it. I have never directed before, so I am looking forward to something new. I picked a show written by the same man who wrote the monologue above called "Fettuccine". It's a fast paced argument of a play between a husband and wife over the welfare of their only son. I have been blessed to have made friends in the "drama scene" here at Moody and I already have three pristine actors in mind. Hopefully I'll be able to successfully direct them while at the same time have them direct themselves. If I were a wagering man, I would bet that this is going to be a great semester.