Talent

They say that if you write fast you can write like an animal. They say that if your pen or pencil never stops moving, not even for those words you can't place your fingers on, not even for punctuation and spelling, that you can become fierce and ferocious and wonderful. But don't you dare stop and think things through. If you just keep that pen's tip flowing through the blank page in ruthless ambition you will eventually hammer out a miracle. You will somehow tap your way into something you could never dream of. Just don't stop writing. You keep that pencil flaring and you ignore those pains in your hands and that ache of slow moving ink that can never keep up with the words in your head. If you don't stop writing, never-ever stop writing, you can tap into the window of your soul.

I don't know if all that is true. I'm not sure I can believe it. My hand just hurts too often and all the words just seem so... so, ordinary. I'm no miracle worker and my hand cramps up like the first week of football practice. But I must follow the formula because I never know what to write anymore. I've lost a gift and a love to much greater miracle workers than myself. Thank you very much Mr. Raymond Carver. Thank you John Steinbeck. You've made me ordinary again. Average. Normal. Nothing special. I'm just a river of incomplete ideas and a lost cause. I much more prefer floating atop the current of characters and big ideas sent down stream almost effortlessly from the hands of men.

I don't have many ideas of my own. I can't paint a picture with a brush, a breath, or a fountain pen. I can't make the real seem surreal any better than I can fight a bull or win the heart of a lady. I can't throw down crisp letters and words that somehow manage to stay both seamless and broken. I can't point out the injustices of life any better than I can point out life's true beauty. It doesn't really matter how fast I keep my pencil moving. The words still remain just that, words. Mere words, jumbled and broken. Nothing to make a heart skip a beat. Nothing to wrap a mind around.

Maybe that is why I change hobbies faster than puberty changes little boys. I could never take my own breath away. I could never jot down something to be proud of. I could never work hard enough to impress myself and I always fall in love with that next medium. It's all so amateur. Little words from a little man afraid to grow into something bigger. Afraid to allow talent to mature through that awkward stage. Afraid to let puberty run its course and endure those late teens and early twenties. My hands will never find themselves because my mind is so far in front of them. Yeah, that hand drawn pick axe is cute, but its no Mona Lisa. That's a pretty little essay you got there, too bad you'll never cast a character quite like Adam Trask. Enjoy that riverbank you so casually fish from because you'll never release anything quite so profound as the day's big catch.

What is talent anyway? Is it merely another man's work? Is it simply the right place at the right time coupled with the heartache of ignoring one's own shortcomings? Is it the industrial age stomping out the individual's individuality until he can't take it anymore? Is it a man grasping, reaching, crawling just to stay himself? Is it the wonderment, the angst of trying to be understood by at least one other person? Is it a blind effort to be seen as something other than flesh and bones? Is it the inside of a man desperately trying to make its way out any way that it can? Is it a child's effort to hold the attention of a parent? Is it stomping out all the mistakes and smoothing them over and over again until finally you can spot no flaw and there is no choice left but to allow others to stomp on what's left until finally you don't care anymore and you move on to the next idea?

Let's let those run on sentences run their course. You are no Hemingway. Both of your ears are still intact and you will never be hung for an idea that is bigger than yourself. You know this. But you still don't stop trying. There is no choice but to let that pencil flow across the page no matter how average it all is. So what if you are amateur? So what if you can't fake talent? You can't fake beauty either but the world continues its cosmetic obsession because humanity refuses to accept its homeliness without a fight. You keep on trying because you don't know how to go on without that pencil and those words. So your ideas are small and your words may be without miracle. They still remain your words. And you love them, homeliness and all.

Frozen Lasagna

My world came crashing down on May 13th 2002. The night before my eighteenth birthday was the night my mom passed away. Eighteen is considered the symbol of adulthood, but I literally grew up over night. The only birthday present I got that year was the realization that life is short and the ones you love won’t be around forever. To make matters worse she died the day after Mother’s day. I didn’t get her anything. I didn’t even take her out to dinner. I spent the entire day asking if it was okay to do something with my friends. I made three different phone calls: the first to see if I could play some Frisbee after church; the second to get some pizza with the guys; and the third to catch a movie. Every call ended with an “I love you” and a “have fun dear.”

I got home some time after midnight and went straight to bed. The next morning my mom caught me in a hug as I was heading out the door. I was running late for school so I tried to make it quick but my mom insisted on this one. She told me that she missed me. I hadn’t been around much and she wanted to have a “just the two of us date.” I agreed, kissed her on the cheek and told her I had to go. This was the last time I talked to my mother. She died later that night.

I celebrated my birthday in a vain attempt not to show other’s my pain. I put on a fake smile as the Red Robin work crew sang me a happy birthday. I told myself, “If they only knew they wouldn’t bother with the false sincerity.” I skipped a week of school only to spend most of my days in bed. I ate nothing but the frozen lasagna that stuffed the freezer as friends and family offered condolences. A bittersweet meal, lasagna had always been my favorite. But no one’s lasagna was as good as my mom’s. Dinner became a symbol of my loss as I choked down the frozen counterfeit. I would never eat my mom’s lasagna again.

I greeted family at the memorial service and tried not to look crushed in front of my friends. I went through the motions until graduation. Prom. The SAT’s. College Applications. I really didn’t care about any of it. My grief turned into guilt as I recalled my mom’s last Mother’s Day and everything I failed to give her. Soon days became weeks and the pain wasn’t leaving. I blamed myself for anything I could think of. Maybe if I had acted differently she might still be alive. Reports came back that her death was ruled an accident. It wasn’t suicide. She couldn’t have known the low dosage of pain meds would mix poorly with her prescriptions. But it still felt like suicide. It felt like I was the one to blame.

I had prided myself on my ability not to blame God. An achievement made less impressive once I realized my anger was directed at myself. This realization didn’t free my shame. It took an entire year for the grief to turn to anything other than guilt. I understood that the blame was irrational, but I still experienced it. Every new day introduced me to another decision not to sit in self pity. Eventually, I learned to experience my grief guilt free. I didn’t have to make the effort not to blame myself, but turning back to the accusations is a temptation I still face today.

How to Write a Paper

Start with the research. Search the library for a book that deals with your topic, find said book in the lower stacks and then pull all of the surrounding books off the shelf. Put said book on top of your pile and climb the stairs with your pile stacked from palms to chin, arms straight. Spend three hours writing your bibliography. Use all of the books in your stack. Open your original book to its bibliography and copy any titles you may have missed that you think will impress the teacher. If needed, do a quick scan of the library for those books. Check your facebook and your email. Change facebook status. Tim Elliott is a blank slate. Update twitter. Wonder if your status was too vague. Facebook chat with a friend about how boring and frustrating homework is. Use the restroom. Return and look out the library window for about five minutes. Isn’t it beautiful outside? Actually, it’s January. But still, that wind is breathtaking. Glance at the clock, oh man, its lunch time. Ponder whether you can afford to eat and still finish the assignment on time. You probably can, but you are working a double tomorrow, so maybe not. Decide that you should get a good start on the assignment before eating. Flip through a few of your books until you realize you have no idea what to do next. Write down as many questions about the subject as you can think of. Flip through the books again. Write down a few more questions. Check facebook. Eat lunch. Buy coffee. Return to your work. Write an introduction paragraph. Quote something from one of the books. Delete your introduction paragraph. Keep the quote. Stare at your screen. Google the word “thesis”. Google the phrase “working thesis”. Write your working thesis, never reword it. Expand the thesis into an introduction paragraph. Check your facebook. Return to your work by drumming along to the Pandora playlist you’ve been listening to. It’s so beautiful outside, all windy and cold. Stare at the bald man with the sweet goatee walking down the sidewalk. Is that Tony the Beat Poet? Probably not. Read an entire chapter from one of your books. Oh shoot, its getting so late. Figure out how much more work needs to be done. Count the hours till the due date and the minimum amount of pages the paper must be. Realize that if you write a page an hour you just might get the assignment in on time. Get down to business. Pound the keyboard with fingertips as forceful as fists. Use a lot of quotes. Get stuck and stare at the screen. Check your facebook. Chat with friend about how hard this paper is. Get back to work by reading what you’ve written up to this point. Fix all typos. Cut and paste for better structure and flow. Scan your list of questions. Write a page. Check facebook. Go to espn.com. Examine trade details between Mariners and Red Sox. Read three articles. Stare out the window. Holy crap, its getting dark. How many pages do you have? Search books for a strong, long quote. Analyze quote for a page. Check facebook. Update twitter. Hum along to Pandora. Was that too loud? Look around the room. No one is looking, you’re probably good. Use the restroom. Write a couple more pages. Count your total lnumber of pages. It’s getting down to the wire now. Ponder your grade. What’s the worse you can do? This paper is at least a D. How can you get a C? Is a B possible? Delete part of your long block quote. Summarize the part you deleted and the main argument that author is making. Analyze main argument. Find something from another book that contradicts it. Summarize contradiction. Wonder if you are citing properly. Use a quote from contradiction to get another page worth of analysis. You are so bad at writing papers. Wish there was some trick to this whole paper writing thing. Write until the library is about to close. Check out a couple of books. Take work home, complain to your roomates about the amount of work you are doing. Eat dinner. Watch part of the Blazer game. Check your facebook. Write until three or four in the morning. Wake up at six. Take a shower and make coffee. Eat cereal. Write until you are finished. Compare conclusion with introduction. Check for typos. Save to jump drive. Walk to computer lab. Print paper. Turn in. Work a double. Drive home while keeping your eyes open. Fall asleep on top of your bed’s blankets while still wearing your work clothes. Forget to return the books you've checked out for five weeks.

Discovery Number 1

I learn something new everyday. Or, as the saying goes, you learn something new everyday. Here is today:

Sometimes I need to wear sunglasses on cloudy days.
You can eat chicken marsala and lasagna for only fifty cents more when you dine at italian factory outlet stores.
I still like Jonny Cash. Alot.
Alot isn't really a word.
I am most stubborn when behind the wheel.
This might just be the highlight of my week.
I am ENFP.
Anger can be logical. Example: Tim gets angry at things but not people. Tim's computer is a thing. Therefore, Tim get's angry at his computer.
Ben Harper wrote a pretty good song called Power of the gospel. This is how it goes:

It will make a weak man mighty.
It will make a mighty man fall.
It will fill your heart and hands or leave you with nothing at all.
It's the eyes for the blind and legs for the lame.
It is the love for hate and pride for shame.

That's the power of the gospel.
That's the power of the gospel.
That's the power of the mighty, mighty power.
That's the power of the gospel, well.
That's the power of...

Gospel on the water,
Gospel on the land.
The gospel in every woman,
And the gospel in every man.
Gospel in the garden,
Gospel in the trees.
The gospel that's inside of you,
Gospel inside of me.

That's the power of the gospel.
That's the power of the gospel.
That's the power of the mighty power.
That's the power of...
That's the power of the gospel.

In the hour of richness,
In the hour of need.
For all of creation comes from the gospel seed.
And you may leave tomorrow and you may leave today,
But you've got to have, got to have the gospel when you start out on your way.

That's the power of the gospel.
That's the power of the gospel.
That's the power of the mighty power.
That's the power of the gospel.
That's the power of the gospel.
That's the power of the gospel.

Metal Heart

Metal Heart from Keith Loutit on Vimeo.

Last Year First

1. Read thirty books. (15 classics, 15 others)
I'm pretty sure I fell short. I made the mistake of losing count, and allowing one of my roomates to move out (jerk took his books with him). I think I hit around 20-25. And I mostly read classics, so that should be 15 of those bad boys.

2. Go on at least three dates.
Two. And do double dates count? Because if they do then that would make it two.

3. Keep track of money earned and money spent.
I have the earned down, and good old IRS will reinforce my bookkeeping. Does subtracting money in possession from money earned count as keeping track of money spent?

4. Get at least a 3.5 GPA.
Fail.

5. Follow up on Post Graduation Plans.
Maybe I should just focus on graduating.

6. Make bike riding a habit.
I don't even own A bike, let alone enough bikes that would necessitate a habit.

7. Lose 20 pounds.
I managed to complete this one. Coincidently, I also managed to gain enough weight to do it again this year.

8. Start a mourning routine.
I'm pretty sure I meant morning. But maybe this was an omen about the upcoming sports year? The closest I got to an actual "morning" routine was walking into class five or ten minutes late.

9. Check two items off my things to do before I die list.
I invented a sandwich. Its called Grood? and it is amazing. Think of a mashup of grilled cheese, PB and J, and PB and Banana. I also gave up coke (aka soda or pop) for lent. Ironically, I forgot these items were on my list until I re-read them. I even accidentally do things right.

10. Don't move back home. (Dad's house)
I still very much don't live at my Dad's house.

Seattle FanFair?

Loyalty, at least in football terms, is not a moral choice like bravery or kindness; it is more like a wart or a hump, something you are stuck with for the rest of your life. I discovered this in January of 2003 when Hasselbeck wanted the ball and was going to score. He is remembered for dropping this line as Seattle won the overtime coin toss during the first Seahawk postseason game I had ever witnessed. (I missed the 2000 Miami game because I was stuck in an airport in San Fransisco. I don't even remember where I was going, but I remember sitting miserably at my gate listening to the cheers and groans from the guys crowded around the bar TV. The bar TV that had its back to me and would tease me with hauntingly blocked views from every surrounding angle I attempted. That TV was to Austin Powers' genitalia as I was to the immensely embarrassed and slightly amused twelve year old watching with his grandma. Every houseplant, table light, and glazed ham sat directly between me and that TV.)
Hasselbeck is also remembered for following his famous line by throwing an interception that Al Harris would return for 52 yards and a game winning touchdown. Read it: A GAME WINNING touchdown. A game winning touchdown that left me clutching a couch cushion on the living room floor. This is the first time I have actually hurt physically after a loss. This is the first time I have to catch my breath and physically recover before I can begin to filter through seventeen games worth of emotion. This is the first time I want to hurt an opposing team's fan and the first time I have to calmly ask said fan to change the subject or leave me alone for a bit. This is the first time he will comply mercifully. And, as they say, this isn't the only time.
When you are a Seattle Sports fan you know your loyalty as well as your tall vanilla chai, your organic whole food farmers market, your polar fleece, and your ninety minute commute through the rain. Marriages are nowhere near as rigid. You won't catch any real fan slipping off to St. Louis for a bit of extra-marital foreplay, and though divorce is a possibility (you can just stop watching if things get too bad), getting hitched again is out of the question. There have been many times over the last year where I have pored over the small print of my contract looking for a way out, but there isn't one. Each humiliating defeat (Buffallo, San Fran, New York, Green Bay, Tampa, Philly, Miami, Arizona, Dallas, Washington, New England) must be borne with patience. Each hair-pulling headline with fortitude and forbearance. (Lets review: The Mariners are the first team with $100mil+ payroll to lose 100 games, The Huskies lose to BYU, WSU, EVERYGAME!!!, The Mariners use a third string catcher in extra innings AS A PITCHER!!!, Holmgren coaches his last game in Seattle, The Tuba Man is murdered, and the Sonics get hijacked by an oil tycoon from Oklahoma City.) There is simply nothing that can be done about the tragic loyalty tattooed on our sleeves, and that is the realization that makes the Seattle fan squirm with frustration.
Of course I hate the fact that Seattle is losing franchises almost as fast as games. Of course I want them to score a gazillion touchdowns, hit a gazillion home runs, and play with the ferver of eleven Paytons, Largents, Edgars, and Juniors. But I know the score and it isn't going to happen, certainly not in the foreseeable future. We are still down by too much with not enough time left in the fourth quarter.
I was unable to defend my team's inadequacies all year. I could see them for myself, and I hated them. Sure we had eleven injuries at wide reciever alone. Sure we had a GM that practically begged for a losing team (signed Scott Spezio and Rich Aurillia? traded Freddy Garcia for Miguel Olivo? Carl Everett? Matt Lawton? traded Moyer?) After each feeble attempt at a pass and every misplaced pitch I would join the crowd's collective groan and brace myself for the silence that follows. It is during this silence that we add another game to our mental rolodex and throw another loss on the back end of our teams record. Our L column is now heavier than a high schoolers backpack. The sportsfan is chained to our L column and our L column is chained to Seattle, and there is no way out for any of us.

Gonna Let It Shine

A Night Shifter's Day

I tend to wake with some sort of loud chatter or laughter shared between two or three my roommates. Their voices usually escalate to bothersome proportions at some point between noon and three in the afternoon. They are as welcome as an alarm clock's buzz and something must be done about them. But in my slumbering state I can only respond as any other logical man would. I roll over and bury my head under the pillow. This only muffles the noise but it buys me time. It is my metaphorical snooze button.
Eventually I give up the warmth of my bed, allow my feet to hit the floor, rub the crap out of my eyes and give my hair some sort of heavy inspection with my palms. As I stand and allow my knees to find their proper balance I must decide my next venture. I can don athletic shorts and scour the laundry pile for the most comfortable/least rancid t-shirt, or I can grab a towel and head straight for the shower. I usually decide based on what time I have to work or if Around The Horn is on. Essentially everything comes down to whether I shower before or after an hour or two of ESPN and its Sportscentered glory. Life is rough when you've just woken.
Ultimately that fateful hour strikes and I must transform into the working man. I hygene up, pile on the black attire, grab the ol' apron and name tag, force my feet into their potholed cavern of a shoe, and head out the door. I invest six to ten hours of my day crafting an immaculate dinning environment and attending to the needs of the work crew around me; or, three to four hours pleasing the guest with speedy, spruce, and proper plate management. Sometimes I do both in one day. This all depends on a schedule I never write and rarely like. I enjoy my job, but the highlight of my day comes when I am told I can finally leave that stress infested hell hole.
It is then that I can truly be alive. I drive on through that drive-through and arrive home with a paper sack and a plastic cup shaking with Dr. Pepper. I'm just in time to discover the score of whatever it is that happened that night. And when I have finished my breakfast lunch and dinner I can wind down with a book, movie, internet, replay of the game I missed, or sitcom streaming through the Xbox. I better be quick though, I have a strict dawn-o'clock bedtime to make.

Updating the Alphabet

Books Added:
D: Downtown Owl by Chuck Klosterman
H: The Hobbit by J.R.R. Tolkien
J: Jesus for President: Politics for Ordinary Radicals by Shane Claiborne
K: King Solomon's Mines by H. Rider Haggard
P: Post Office by Charles Bukowski
U: The Untouchable by John Bannville

Books Finished:
As I Lay Dying
Cats Cradle
1984
The Road
The Yiddish Policeman's Union

Still Searching For:
L
Q
X
V

Considering A Revision:
Replace Man and Superman with My Name is Russel Fink by Micheal Snider
Replace Bridge to Teribithia with Babbit by Lewis Sinclair

Life Post ABC's:
The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to Follow the Bible As Literally As Possible

Moneyball: The Art of Winning an Unfair Game

Bigger Deal: A Year Inside the Poker Boom

One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Gossling IS the Man

The debate has been waging for quite some time now. This should settle the score.

Gossling's best movie.

In other news, I own this shirt.

If I Were A Band

I came across this random band creator on another blog. Your band's name is a random wiki link. The album title comes from the last few words from the first quote on the random quote generator. And your album art is your choice from flickr's interesting photo page.

My Band

The Candidate
Album
Doesn't Seem To Be Working

My band is hip, indie, politically charged and fond of irony. Only your cool friends have heard of us. This album can also be purchased on twelve inch and I have a good voice. If I were to photoshop our artwork for a more marketable product the band name would be in all caps above our president elect and the title would start under Progress' P and trail off towards the lower right corner. I mentioned I can sing right?

I am no Joe

Over the last few years I've received quite a few phone calls intended for a "Mr. Joe Langston." I am not sure how I came to be mistaken for this Joe but from what I have gathered the two of us have very little in common. Joe is a business man and receives voicemails about upcoming strategies and agendas. Joe also returns phone calls. If Joe fails to return a call Joe will receive numerous messages imploring Joe to respond with an update of accomplishments/needs/data/tools/various business apparatus demanding acknowledgment. Joe is also acquainted with a Hispanic lady who speaks little English. At one point Joe owed someone some money. Joe was not threatened, but collection agencies can be very intimidating and have heard the "wrong number" excuse before. Joe is also a handsome young fellow, or at least considered so by the elderly gent who kept inquiring of Joe's whereabouts while avoiding referencing him by name.

Unspoken Broken

Way back in January I made it a goal to try to take one picture a day. This lasted about a week. The idea was that I would generate blog ideas and post some good shots. But once I lost my daily internet access and the charge on my camera I gave up. But hey, these are the daily photos from six days of persistency.

The "New" Apartment

Best Milkshakes Between Tacoma and Portland

A Good Plan(ner)


Pete's Sweet Ride


Red Express O


White Guys Can Only Jump When Out of Focus

Alphabet soup?

Seeing as that I'm slightly behind pace to reach the thirty book goal, (Darn you Brothers Karamazov!) I need a new challenge to boost enthusiasm. Thus the alphabet list. My new goal is to read a book for every letter of the alphabet. The rules are simple. A-Z, no author repeats, titles beginning with A or The will count for the second word. (The Kalevala = K) Numbers will count as they are spelled. (1984 = N) I may decide to throw X a curve ball and just choose a title that has the letter in it. So here's my list so far:

A: As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner
B: Bridge to Terabithia by Katherine Patherson
C: Cats Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
D:
E: Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven, but Nobody Wants to Die: Or The Eschatology of Bluegrass by David Crowder
F: Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby
G: Guliver's Travels by Jonathan Swift
H: I Am Legend by Matheson Richardson
I:
J:
K:
L:
M: Man and Superman by George Bernard Shaw
N: 1984 by George Orwell
O: Orthodoxy by G.K. Chesterton
P:
Q:
R: The Road by Cormac McCarthy
S: The Shack by William Young
T: The Time Traveler's Wife by Audrey Niffenegger
U:
V:
W: The Watchmen by Alan Moore
X:
Y: The Yiddish Policeman's Union by Michal Chabon
Z: Zombie Haiku: Good Poetry for Your...brains by Ryan Mecham

Thought for Food

• What am I going to do without Bella Carollie?
• First Tomatoes, then Jalapenos, and now Hot Pockets?
• Can Jimmy Buffett write a song that doesn't involve food or drink?
• How much must I pay for invisibility?

Grit and Grime

In an effort of grand exploration I went for a float down yonder river. It was grand. It was exploratory. It was hot. It was muddy. I was barefoot. I made it home and tried to convince my roommates that the most Christlike response would be to wash my feet.
"What Would Jesus do?" I asked.
"Jesus would wash your feet. But society would deem that....weird," Dale responded, "I'll pass."
John was my only remaining hope and I continued to press the argument. John, get in here and wash my feet!" I yelled this time hoping my pastor like enthusiasm would elicit a response.
"No."
"What Would Jesus Do?"
"Jesus is in here sitting on the couch watching TV."
You just can't beat that argument. These days even Jesus can't resist the Simpsons.

On Summer and Roosters

1. I read much faster when it isn't for class.
2. I've underestimated mustard for quite some time now. We have some catching up to do.
3. Contrary to popular belief Christian Slater isn't a smuck.
4. Tillamook Ice Cream is really really good.
5. Doctors should recommend ten hours of sleep. Society would benefit.
6. The Corn Flakes commercial is deceiving, Roosters don't crow once, they crow until the sun has reached the highest point in the sky.
7. My neighbor has a Rooster.
8. The city doesn't discourage Rooster enthusiasts.
9. The city probably should.
10. Rooster enthusiasm is rather selfish.
11. The alarm clock has rendered city Roosters obsolete for some time now.
12. Roosters should probably go back to their roots: egg making.
13. If doctors recommended ten hours of sleep Rooster enthusiasm would decline.
14. Society would benefit and I wouldn't hate my neighbors.
    

Prostrate Fate

The problem with class extensions is that there is still the deadline to meet and procrastination to defeat. To stare seven papers in the face with only three days left to prepare ponder and process only proves that I am a foolish foolish man.

Why I Am Not An Active Blogger

• I do not own the internet.
• I value spare time.
• Facebook
• Cooking for yourself is difficult.
• The Multnomah Bloggershere hates fallacy driven posts.
• Creativity + Academics = Maybe Next Time
• I cannot spell.
• I am often on the fence.
  
• I am literally "between" my job.
• I once ran for president
• took dating nominations
  
• and tire of tooting my own horn.
• I went to Germany again, which has become an annual post stopper.
• I buy books faster then I read them.