Notes from Vertigo

South Dakota, Where are Your Sons?

2010-07-29T20:35:00.004-05:00

Vanderlyle crybaby, cry

Oh the waters are arising

Still there’s no surprising you

Vanderlyle crybaby, cry

Man it’s all been forgiven

The swans are all swimming

I’ll explain everything to the geeks*

I listen to The National and the Badlands appear. Sand, water and wind; catalysts for a broken land. As I follow no apparent speed limit interestingly enough Cormac McCarthy comes to mind. I feel like I am supposed to be carrying the fire, but right now I am confused and I’m not sure where I put it last. Maybe its in my other jeans. Maybe. The only thing I do know is that everyone around me is asleep and before me waits hundreds of years of oppression followed by a 20^th century of neglect. Thigh high grass hems in my steed of composite steel and plastic. Each run of the wind approaches the car on my right, bending the long grass in a unified, slightly visible wave, and as if I didn’t exist, passes over my vehicle only to continue its path in the fields to my left. And time goes with it.

My destination does not feel as much like a destination as a rest stop. The community of Red Shirts’ two streets form a type of circle that seems to imply a creeping dynamism. This is not the end, they denote, just a stop on the journey. I park my car and step into 30 grasshoppers each saying I’m no Moses. I nod in agreement and continue on to see Fern and her children.

They are Lakota and they are beautiful.

It takes an ocean not to break

Fern stands tall and always aware, watching the world around her take place. Her planted feet indicate a confidence from wisdom gained only from a life of hard experience. A life where little can surprise her anymore.

Davina, Fern’s granddaughter, dances and weaves throughout those surrounding her. Even in the midst of her 5^th month of pregnancy, she has a grace that follows her steps, a life that, while it is at first reserved, becomes infectious to all of us with which she shares.

Davina’s two children, TaAliya and Michael, are simply and wonderfully just that: children. In all the world, in its darkness and segregation the one constant that I’ve found in humanity that supersedes culture and difference is that kids are kids. They all love to laugh and play and run. Only adults can rob them of this.

Fern and family reside in a form of governmental housing set up for those on the Pine Ridge Indian Reservation. Not an hour’s drive from the Wounded Knee Massacre sight, the single level structure with basement feels like more of a middle-finger-for-your-troubles than it does reparations. Faded paint, knee tall grass, and we’ll-get-to-you-when-we-want electricians all speak of a nation long forgotten. But who am I to judge. Where will I be next week?

As for right now I am apart of a colony of new generation american ants, descended upon this residence. We are here to help, hopefully. To take the faded composite siding covering the outer walls and hopefully inject them with color. To frame graduation certificates and to place sand beneath Michael’s feet where once there was dirt. And some of us are even here to bring power back to this home.

All the very best of us

String ourselves up for love

I stand in place in the middle of the front yard and a week passes before my eyes. I turn in a circle and watch the ants mow down the prairie grass, sending my plague brothers to other lands. I watch as the ants cover the home with a blue as rich as the sky beyond the horizon. I watch as Fern and family move from behind their doors to sitting out amongst us, laughing talking, chasing Michael. I watch as oppressor and oppressed become more than historical statistics. I watch as we become family.

And then we are done. The week is over.

The ants, my generation, my new family, my brothers and sisters, get back into their white vans, wave tearful goodbyes and begin the last leg of their journey. A remnant stays behind to finish out details before rejoining the colony.

I find myself alone and reticent once more. A warm prairie wind blows down over the hills and embraces me in its path, heading down the dirt road out of town. Heading back to my home. And time goes with it.

As I drive my Korean import back through this rugged expanse of American Frontier, not yet settled, I wonder what is so bad about these Badlands. The National continues to keep time as I span the miles and look forward to returning to Tennessee. I look forward to my friends and home and laughter and familiarity. But as I drive my heart burns. It burns for Fern. For Davina. For TaAliya. For Michael. As everyone around me sleeps I realize that my heart burns for my family and in that moment I know where I left the fire.

Cover me in rag and bones, sympathy

Cause I don’t want to get over you

I don’t want to get over you

* Lyrics from Vanderlyle Crybaby Geeks, Terrible Love, and Sorrow by The National

Lawn Care and the Existential Crisis

2009-06-11T00:31:00.001-05:00

Yesterday i had the pleasure of kneeling beside my 7-year-old brother in law (BIL) as i wore raw spots in my fingers trying to start a Weed Eater. I’ve come to realize (even within the realm of my handicapped mechanical abilities) that no matter how many times a person were to yank the pull string, if the machine does not want to start it is not going to start. Simple as that.

Even still, life frustration and general stubbornness allowed me a few extra pulls (just enough to notice that i had worn the outer layer of skin off of the inside of my fingers. Ergonomics can kiss it.) When i sat back down on my heels in apparent surrender my BIL decided it was time to bring all 7 of his years of wisdom to the table.

“You tried praying for it Eric?”

Without looking up I kind of smiled to myself, not because it was cute, but because of the fix-all we’ve made of prayer, and simply said, “Nope. I haven’t.”

Realizing that time was a-wasting he then proceeded to matter-of-factly inform me that, “Well lets do that, then. C’mon.”

Again, I stayed still for a moment, contemplating the implications for a 7-year-old if God doesn’t answer his prayer to start the unholy weed eater. Concluding that sooner or later in his life my BIL will realize that not all prayers are answered the way we want just because we ask, if in fact they are answered at all or even if an Answerer exits, i said, “Ok, lets pray.”

I laughed a little to myself as he knelt beside me and closed his eyes. In a span of 2 minutes my existential dilemma of belief and faith was being metaphorically lived out over an unresponsive weed eater. Knowing that the appropriate Modest Mouse song playing in my head wasn’t really going to start coming across the small work radio, I said a pretty basic but honest prayer, we both said Amen and then, with a deliberate pause i grabbed the machine and gave the pull string one more tug.

Nothing.

I laughed again (maybe cause its easier and less embarrassing than crying) and thought, yep, that just about figures.

My BIL on the other hand wasted no time with his response to our apparent answer of No.

“Well, i guess we’ll pray to the devil then. Dear Devil in Hell . . .”

I went into instant big brother shock and sharply blurted out, “NO. MAN. No. We can’t be doing that. God may not answer, but i’m not sure we want to head down that path.”

The kid just kind of looked at me quizzically and then simply said, “Well if we pray to the God in Heaven and that didn’t work then i thought we’d pray to the Devil in Hell.”

I’m sure i rambled off some cliche excuses as to why we don’t do that, and how its wrong even though God didn’t answer, he must have his reasons, etc, etc.

However, the more i stood over that infernal weed eater and thought about the simple logic of my 7-year-old comrade, the more i was impressed. There was no hate or bitterness associated with his appeal to the “other team.” There was nothing more than an alternate means to accomplishing a goal. If i had to classify this philosophy i think that it would be called Humanism exploiting contemporary Christian spirituality. God and the Devil are just resources to be used to accomplish our will. I think my BIL just created a new religion with out meaning to.

Of course, the only loophole in all of this is that if there is no God then the Devil’s existence also comes into question. But a 7-year-old needs a few constants to hold on to when navigating his desires.

And i need something to hold on to so that the past 28 years of my life don’t seem for naught. Even if its the devil.

That which i fear is simply me.

2009-06-06T01:29:00.002-05:00

What if we all just walked away. We just quit. Because that is what peace is, isn’t it? Quitting. The act of saying i’m through.

Walk away now. Do we have a canonized chance if we can just walk away. To take our dreams and toss in the unused towel. To do that which is completely abhorrible and nowhere near honorable. Can we pull loose our tie, unbutton our oxford and just stride out into the stopped traffic, revealing not spandex screen-printed with an "S" but a bare chest. To say this is who/what i am.

What is so inexplicably amazing about this life that is worth holding on to with our finger nails digging into its safe arms like talons with ratcheted tendons. What is so tenaciously “worth it” that what comes next can’t compare?

I’m not talking about suicide. I’m talking about the simple fear of death.

Safety. Comfort. The only things we know. The end of all we know. Dead men tell no tales, and this is true. If we aren’t alone then none who have gone before are coming back to tell us. It’s either so saturatingly great that a backwards glance isn't even merited or . . . or we simply cease to be.

And what do we cease to be?

What is so special about our names that they can’t be ruined? What is it about honor and life and trust that makes us into the greatest of actors, preforming our opus on the stage of life, only to take the final bow as we lean into our earthen beds. All we really are is the salt and the dust and the water that has existed before it knew us. Why do i have to be me?

I once walked through the streets of a foreign land only to have everyone stare and mistrust my tall, white frame. Why? Because they didn’t know me. They didn’t know they could trust me. And they were right. They caught me before the curtains had a chance to rise.

Our names are nothing but a simple title for a given character that we have decided to play amongst this group of friends or those coworkers. He’s funny. She’s shy. They’re so charming. What a prick. We cling to this existence we call life because it is “real” and what we “know”, all the while the very thing for which we fight is based upon something that is as wholly fictional as the world to come.

No one knows what happens when we die.
And no one really knows me.

No one.

We all have our guesses and comfort-driven hopes that buy us some modicum of false security. But in the end we all exhale alone and march into that from which we were born: the silenced nameless.

Is it not interesting that we trust falsified security over the definite unknown.

How Different Are We Really

2009-03-01T19:00:00.004-06:00

I watched the Oscars about a week ago. It was during the acceptance speech of Milk screenplay writer Dustin Lance Black that i heard the following excerpt:

. . . to all of the gay and lesbian kids out there tonight who have been told that they "are less than" by their churches, by the government, or by their families: That you are beautiful, wonderful creatures of value. And that, no matter what anyone else tells you, God does love you . . .

I do not think that i have heard something that is so blatantly true in a long time. By blatantly true i mean that it is not garnished with BS or cliches. The truth in his statement just is. And the part i loved was that through his emotion and mannerisms you could tell that Black actually meant and believed this statement. It didn't just sound nice. To him, it is how the world works. God i hope so.

So now I park my car down by the cathedral,
where the floodlights point up at the steeples.
Choir practice was filling up with people.
I hear the sound escaping as an echo.
Sloping off the ceiling at an angle.
When the voices blend they sound like angels.
I hope there’s some room still in the middle.
But when I lift my voice up now to reach them.
The range is too high,
way up in heaven.
So I hold my tongue,
forget the song,
tie my shoe
start walking off.
And try to just keep moving on,
with my broken heart
and my absent God
and I have no faith
but it's all I want,
to be loved.
And believe,
in my soul.
-Bright Eyes, Waste of Paint

Hit the link below to watch the full speech -

Acceptance Speech

Jack Burton Told Me Beggars Can't Be Choosers

2009-02-26T01:23:00.000-06:00

I've often wondered what will fill the final moments of my life. More than likely some crunching noise, 70-feet of water, or a semi-rhythmic beeping and soft, sterile florescence. This is probably reality.

However . . .

. . . lets say, as a divine, grand gesture, the power that is allows me a little creative freedom with my end. In other words, I can choose my last sights, sounds, thoughts and emotions.

The following is a semi-random assortment of 5 collision moments as described in my last post. They are the film like moments that we look back to and our gut aches as we remember each detail of our senses at those exact moments.

a) This Will Destroy You - The Mighty Rio Grande
Whatever senses i have that tell me i am alive explode as i scramble the 30 feet to the crest of the wave. I turn just as time slows almost to nonexistent. A stiff off-shore breeze begins to fill my lungs with warm, deceptively placid air one last time. From my watery throne I look from one side of the bay to the other. The whole 1/2 mile is beginning to fold in on itself with brave me in the direct path of its natural course. I smile and whimper. A true reaction of humility. Time decides it again wants to be a part of my life, and begins to make up for what it lost in a curling detonation. My warm, watery throne is now a placental coffin as it buries my used body in its tumultous depths. The entire Pacific is then above me as the hand of some almost unknowable diety reaches down and says "here is where your proud hawaiian waves halt." I want to know that i am small and that somewhere in the dark cold is purpose beyond what i can create. For the next 30 minutes i sit on a bench waiting for a bus that will not come today. I eventually hitch-hike for only the second time in my life.

b) The Editors - Well Worn Hand
I feel the warm wind of Tecate as i ride amongst her mountainside shacks in the back of a F-10, tasting dirt, and watching Carmello grow small. The little, almost blind Mexican man says little and simply waves as we leave him atop his lonesome hill. Even as his figure disappears behind a ridge, i realize that beautiful Carmello will die alone. Later, as i try in vain to find a lock for his house, i come to the conclusion that nothing i can do can keep him safe. My hands are too small.

c) Mason Jennings - How Deep is That River
I am the little boy i will always be as my father and i weather the lightening storm of the rockies. He simply tells me that "we will make it down," and i'm forever 5-years-old looking up at a man who represents God. 12,000 feet, unbridled wind, and the sense that i could vomit from altitude sickness at any moment make for an especially long evening. Our tent bellows and expands, an asmatic's only functioning lung. I alternate between staying hunkered down in my warm cacoon of a sleeping bag and sitting straight up, staring into the moving dark. Daylight and the possiblity of seeing my wife are an eternity away, visible only as a small light in a window held open by my father. He always had strong arms.

d) Radiohead - Videotape
My stomach churns a little as my parents drive me to St. Thomas to see my friend who has just been in a car accident. I pretend it means nothing. Dad parks the car as my mom and i walk through the automatic doors of the ER and begin to make the left down the hallway which we were directed. I then see my friend's father standing before the doors, arms crossed, and eyes stained. My walk slows and i can't quite make it too him. My mom does and at that moment, that same moment that i just cannot seem to take another step, i hear, "We've lost him Jane. We've lost our boy." Innocencse and hope died in a car-wreck 2 hours ago. Somehow my back manages to find the cold hospital wall and i slide down its sterile surface to meet the well-travled floor. I can only cry. We were 18 and immortal. We were Peter Pan and now its time to grow up, put on a suit, and help carry the casket. This loss, this permanent soul vacancy is now the singular moment that will help define everything that is to come. It is the hollowness of death that will give berth to life.

e) Wheat - Body Talk (Part 2)
The feel of her hand in mine as i stand atop Sunset Cliffs, her scent mingling with the mineral smell of the pacific as it washes up from the cascading waves upon the lava rock. All the fire of heaven departs in a slow blaze of a hundred reds, purples and oranges as this burning life-giver fades into the mighty western ocean. I cannot remember any other emotion than complete and utter peace. The kind of peace that only comes from being wholly aware that you are alive at that one moment and what came before that moment and what will follow does not matter. Right now all that matters is right now.

Philosophical Physics as Taught by the Supersession of an Old Testament Priest

2009-02-21T01:18:00.015-06:00

For Ed and Collin, who wasted no time in answering back from the void. The following ramblings are for you.

Better Than Ezra is a 90's-to-present band whose single greatest album in my humble yet right opinion is How Does Your Garden Grow (A Series of Nocturnes). This album is their most experimental both in lyrical subject matter and musical composition. Vibraphone, Rhodes pianos, and the flowing cadence of Kevin Griffin unite to form a truly beautiful 58 minutes and 25 seconds of music. An aural testament to the 9th decade of the last century not to mention a cultural anchor for my pre-twenties self. This all is significant for one simple reason: Track 10 is titled Particle.

While i assume that this song is about the subject's drug use, it's very title has inspired my philosophy for all of human interaction.

Something in me believes that we (humanity) are all colliding particles in the ever expanding nuclear fission of life. We careen about this crazy thing we call life (ie. space and time; ignited by birth, no less), bumping into one another in seemingly the most random of instances, and whether we care to admit it or not, we exchange a part of ourselves in this interaction. Call it a collision.

We are altered (be it subtle or otherwise) by this collision, and as we hurtle towards forthcoming particles we carry with us all the evidence of our past collisions. Over time these collisions begin to shape us and define us whether for better or worse. They begin to make us who and why we are. And even though all collisions shape us, as our ever-maturing life continues its outward expansion, a select few colliding moments stand out as significant.

Now it is important to note that the duration time of a collision is irrelevant. All that matters is the intensity with which we particles have collided. Decades or mere seconds, it really does not matter. A collision lasting 2 minutes with the right particle (person, just to keep the metaphor clear) can leave you changed far more than years mildly bumping into others.

These unique collisions have special meaning because of their impact. How hard they hit us. These are all the pungent memories that, love them or hate them, we just cannot shake. They are sliding down the hospital wall because you can no longer stand after realizing that your friend in the next room is mortal. They are 40 hours without sleep as you and your wife just cant wait to see Times Square. They are the warmth and peace of home. They are driving at midnight with a friend through middle Tennessee as snow slowly begins to descend on the windshield.

Each one of these moments is an impacting collision with unique particle. And even if that particle is passing into the truly unknown we still feel their impact by their very vacancy. I guess sometimes we do not even notice a collision until the other particle is leaving us.

My point is this: the very memory of these collisions can instantly return the sights, smells, thoughts and emotions to us, thus signifying their impact and weight in our lives. All of these sensory reminders are wonderful, but they are only present in our memory because a collision took place. And for a collision to take place it means another particle has to be present.

And this is what it means, particle.

To run the human race.

To be a particular human. (i don't even know if that's a pun)

To PARTICIPATE.

We are ugly and we are messy. We are wide-eyed and insatiably curious. We are amazingly creative and yet we destroy just about anything we touch (i believe that is called the rise and fall of civilization, which has been going on for quite sometime now). However, when its all said and done, we are simply a bunch of particles colliding with one another, forming this beautiful explosion called life.

Join me for my next entry as i wax articulate about my last few moments of life. Frankly i'm banking on a mental film featuring a montage of several unique collisions, backed by a sound track of my choosing, and directed by Michael Mann.

And that's life . . . what can i tell you. - Anthony Hopkins, Meet Joe Black

If I could do it again
I'd make more mistakes
I'd not be so scared of falling

If I could do it again,
I'd climb more trees
I'd pick and I'd eat more wild
blackberries

(Give me moments)
Just give me moments (give me moments)
Not hours or days (give me moments)
Just give me moments (give me moments)
- Bloc Party, Waiting for the 7:18

Songs That Remind Me of California Pt. 1

2009-02-16T09:15:00.001-06:00

Push Your Head Towards The Air - The Editors

If I lay face down on the ground
Would you walk all over me?
Have we learned what we set out to learn?
Well come home, we will see

Now don't drown in your tears babe
Push your head towards the air
Now don't drown in your tears babe
I will always be there

When you fall and you can't find your way
Push your hand up to the sky
I will run just to, to be by your side
Don't you ever bat an eye

Now don't drown in your tears babe
Push your head towards the air
Now don't drown in your tears babe
I will always be there

But I will tear the prize from your hand
Keep you from harm, that's what you said
There's people climbing out of their cars
Lining the roadside, trying to glimpse at the dead

Now don't drown in your tears babe
Push your head toward the air
Now don't drown in your tears babe
I will always be there

Sometimes you gotta go . . .

2009-02-11T14:07:00.007-06:00

So, according to the "Posted Date" on my last blog, it has been 7 months since I last posted anything on here. In that time I have left my career, my wife lost her job, and we are both currently floundering in that lovely sea of purposelessness. This is not a bad thing. Nor is it a good thing. It just is a thing. And while this thing is still hanging around I figure I might as well work out some of my frustrations, hopes and fears on this wonderfully articulate exercise known as "blogging."

First off let me state that previously I used this blog as a connecting point for my supporters (I was a missionary for those who are just joining in) and a staging point for some of my thoughts. When I decided to leave my job at the mission organization behind last October I figured that I had also left behind the need for this blog.

Well, 7 months and many late nights wondering "what the H is going on?" later I realized that this blog will always be necessary. This is how I process my world. This blog is how I attempt to make this crazy, fallen place we call Earth make sense. And more than that this is my shot in the dark. This is my attempt at contacting other lifeforms that want to participate in this conversation called life. This is the hope that someone out there maybe reading this and connect with the material enough to respond. I am Emilio Sandoz.

A Step Too Slow

2008-08-28T12:02:00.003-05:00

All of us have, at one time or another, been warned by Wallace Shawn never to get involved in a land war with Asia. Only slightly less-well known is to never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line. While I felt that I understood, and even abided by these principles, the one that proved to be elusive was that you never play basketball in Mexico unless you are wanting a general reminder of why they overcame at the Alamo.

Sitting on a bench in Tecate, Mexico, feeling like I was about to vomit because I haven’t ran this hard in months, I looked around at my team of US Deportees (that was why they all spoke English) and wondered, “How in the world did I wind up here?” I wasn’t upset or depressed, I was simply amazed at the fact that I was 2000 miles from home playing basketball on a court sans A/C in Mexico with impossibly tight rims, and it felt as if I had stepped into some alternate reality. I felt that if I had grown up in Tecate (or had recently been deported from the States), this is what day-to-day life would feel like.

This is important because, running camps all summer long, I rarely get a chance to truly feel what it is like to live in the places where I spend 1/4 of my year. There is a buffer of safety and normalcy (at least what I know of normalcy) within the walls of our camp. And even though I leave these walls to go to the worksite, or get supplies, or even go to the beach, every reason I leave the safety net is always related to work in some manner. Often, in most cases, the safety net even goes with me in the form of a 150-person small army known as the campers and their leaders.

And so, standing under an iron hoop (probably steel nowadays) snagging rebounds as teammate Arte (who informed us he went to Penn State . . . State Penitentiary, that is.) cordially shouted, “Where’s My CHANGE? GIVE ME MY CHANGE,” I realized that I was here, playing basketball on a purely social level. This game of Mexican hoops in no way benefited the Mission. As a matter of fact, none of the campers or their leaders even knew I was here playing basketball (don’t worry, there were staff back at camp), and even if they did, it would not have made the slightest bit of difference in their trip. This was basically playing ball just to play ball.

And that is what amazed me.

In that moment I knew I had succeeded in transcending the “us” and “them.” It had become “me” in the midst of them. I was caught up in a slow moving Mexican Hurricane (actually, some of them where pretty fast).

Now, I’m not naive enough to believe that I was thought of as a brother Mexican. Derogatory curses from the other team based on my lighter-shade-of-pale skin reiterated this. But it was these very curses that excited me, because they told me I was in a place where these people felt confident and comfortable with insulting me. It meant that I did not have an entourage of 150 Americans with me as a safety net. I was truly out of my world and into theirs. And as small as that made me, it felt exhilarating.

Little Nemo had left the reef to explore the immeasurably big Ocean.

Peace,
eric

Thank You, Mr. Rockwell

2008-02-05T14:32:00.000-06:00

I just finished my civic duty of voting in the Tennessee primaries. As i get older and i become more aware of the world around me, i find it incredibly interesting that a major portion of my future could be decided in November. Granted, this happens every 4 years, but i guess with the onset of maturity and responsibility comes a greater weight to the voting process, at least for me.

(not actually me)

The beauty of this, for me, is that our actual votes can make a difference, regardless of your opinion of the Florida ballots in 2000. (Would there even have been a discrepancy if individual citizen votes were not counted?) As Americans we can complain all we want about corruption in politics and how there seems to be little point to it, and there is some case for both of these.

However, the fact remains, that we are a people who believe in the power of one. Who believe in our power of choice, collectively and individually. We love stories about individuals who stood against the masses and made a lasting and impacting statement. Just look at who our national holidays are named after. Our nation was birthed from people who boldly thought that their voice actually should be counted and that their choice should be heard. (Yes, they were white, slave owning men, but all things have to start somewhere. It was the very freedoms that these men wrote about that empowered and inspired women and minorities to stand up and demand that their choice should be worth something)

I look at the political situation in countries we visit with Mission Discovery, and the presence of true corruption is indeed oppressing. (Chad, Kenya, Mexico)Why vote when the next person in line for the presidency (or so deceivingly named dictatorship) is just another corrupt despot who will enact his will upon the populous? And when this has taken place your entire life, do you even have hope that positive change could ever take place?

We, Americans take for granted just how much we believe in the power of our choices. And that is why, regardless of whether my candidate wins, i feel a responsibility to wait in lines on rainy days, just to push a few buttons on a machine that looks like an early 1980's cash register. Because i think me pushing those rubbery buttons will actually change the world around me. Idealistic? Maybe. Naive? Never. It would be naive to think that free-will choice, our greatest God-given gift, means nothing in this world.

And here in lies the catch: my choice does not end as soon as i walk out of my local polling destination. If i simply vote, cross my fingers, and hope for the best, (which all too often i do) then i am yet again taking the power of my choice for granted. Each day i have a choice to make a difference in this world on a personal level.

(not actually Abraham Lincoln telling Gene Hackman, "It's about time Jimmy played ball!")

I think something should be done about the local homeless population? Great. If launching an educational job-placement program sounds way too involved and drastic, then i should simply make a sandwich and go sit down with one of our street-side brothers/sisters and listen to their story. I can't stand the border situation? Then i should take a few days to cross it and make the colonia a place to call home, and not just a dusty waiting room with a chance to swim to a better life. If the world around us can be affected by those making choices of negative influence, why can we not affect it by making positive ones?

Like i said, i am more guilty than anyone of sitting on my laurels while expecting someone else to do what needs to be done. However, I am slowly awakening to the responsibility that comes with my ability to chose. In other words, why should i wait for a government to do something when the choice is mine everyday?

Peace.

This is just a nightmare
Soon I'm gonna wake up
Someone's gonna bring me round
Running from the bombers
Hiding in the forest
Running through the fields
Laying flat on the ground
Just like everybody
Steppin over heads
Running from the underground

This is your warning.
4 minute warning.

I don't wanna hear it
I don't wanna know
I just wanna run and hide
This is just a nightmare
Soon I'm gonna wake up
Someone's gonna bring me round

This is our warning.
4 minute warning.
- Radiohead, 4 Minute Warning

A Beautiful Explosion

2008-01-29T12:19:00.000-06:00

I recently saw a movie where a man stood on the brink of an explosion. While this is normally not a good place to be (in my humble opinion), this movie was different. This was the guy’s ultimate sacrifice to save the world and all in it. So it was a choice for the man to be standing in front of the on coming blast wall as atoms expanded and multiplied. As I watched, the camera was positioned directly behind the man during the explosion, so all that could be seen was his light-permeated silhouette of the man as the blast wall past around and through him. Of course, beautiful music was playing, making this moment a moment of beautiful sacrifice and not one of sad loss. It was poetic and epic and actually kind of took my breath away.

My good friend Jon and I were talking the other day, and I decided this movie was a metaphor to explain what it is like to do what I do. To be down in Mexico as students from a far off land come and show love by holding children and building homes. There is a simple spark in the middle of all of this that I get to stand next to and watch as it expands and multiplies. It is a growing invisible, spiritual explosion that slowly envelopes all who are down there. It ignites as you look into the eyes of a child who has not eaten in a while. It ignites as you look into the eyes of an 80-year-old couple that will sleep in a bed for the first time in their lives. It ignites as you look into the eyes of a mother who has recently lost her son. It ignites as you watch jaded teenagers crying as they leave families that they have known only for a week. None of us (students, leaders, Mexicans, or myself) held the match, but we are caught on fire all the same. None of us are the catalyst for this explosion, but we are the atoms used to transfer this Holy fusion from one person to another. We hold hands and tell stories that inspire and burn.

And me . . . I stand at the epicenter of this blast as the man from the movie. I am a silhouette before the expanding light reaching out to permeate my being and engulf me until I am completely swallowed by the blast wall. And the beautiful thing is that it was never meant to reach only me, but any that would turn and simply take the time to notice its effect.

This beautiful explosion is not just reserved for Mexico and those in it. No, this explosion is no respecter of borders and so it enters the States by way of students who saw their Creator for the first time. And they carry this permeating light back to their own families, their own churches and their own schools back in their own towns. It grows and we hear stories of how far it has reached. Places like Oregon, Wisconsin, Maine, Missouri, and Indiana. We hear stories of people wanting to help the poor in their hometowns. Finding coats for the homeless, and repairing homes for those who can’t. This is the invisible explosion that the Creator ignites. And like most things, I need to be in the middle of that. I want to be right next to the spark when it happens. And then I want to be engulfed and just wait for the beautiful music to kick in. To wait for the poetic moments that take my breath away.

This is my dream. And you are helping me live it.

As I start my ‘08 travels this week, I realize I haven’t told you “Thank You,” enough. This I know for sure. Thank you for all you’ve done and all you are continuously doing not just on my behalf, but on behalf of the spark. God uses your hands, your prayers, and your support to ignite His beautiful, invisible explosion that is engulfing us all. May the light and the heat reach you. May it permeate you where you sit as you read this.

Thanks again.

Eric

All you have to do is look out for a little extra brightness in the sky. So if you wake up one morning and it's a particularly beautiful day, you'll know we made it.
-Cillian Murphy, Sunshine

And regardless, in the evening
A light is thrown by the setting sun
It speeds along this vast familiar
And silently crosses everyone
It's the light that's changing
- Mason Jennings, The Light (Part II)

Gimme Shelter

2008-01-25T14:53:00.000-06:00

A little update.

Anna and i have solved our car issue and are now tackling the bigger issue of shelter. While we have had wonderful shelter over the past 3 years (actually the past 25 and 27 years respectively), we have decided that it is time for us to take steps to acquire our own shelter. We are now currently in a contract to buy our first Condo. This is an exciting and an amazingly involved process. I knew there would be paper work, but i never would have guessed how much. But i guess all is fair when it comes to borrowing money from banks.

(Not actual Condo)

A Beautiful Song

2008-01-15T11:24:00.000-06:00

I was just listening to this song and thought that i would share the lyrics. Probably one of the most beautiful songs i've heard in a while. I can't get tired of it.

A Dream for Us

cause what i feel inside
i dont want to hide
it's you that got to me
its what i want to sing
cause i've got a dream for us
running through my mind
sitting on the beach
looking at the sea
and we're old and tired
and time has made us smile
as we go on counting things
people in the breeze
we're not the only ones
there's hundreds on the shore
looking at the sea
but it's just you and me
if the day never comes
i sink beneath the tide
will you still be with me
or disappear?

- The Appleseed Cast

Longevity Beyond Plastic . . or. . .How Jesus Defeated Optimus Prime

2008-01-07T12:40:00.000-06:00

As last i left you, the faithful reader, i had just announced my 2 points:
1) Christmas should be about our selfishness
2) Christmas should be about our inability to grasp God.

Today we discuss point numero uno.

Christmas should be about our selfishness.

What Christian in their right mind would even begin to agree to this statement? (What Christian in their right mind would volunteer to be crucified upside down? We, as a people, have a very peculiar way of classifying our sanity.) To answer the first question: not many. Not many people would dare say that Christmas, the time when we celebrate the birth of our savior, should be about our selfishness.

But think about it. What better time to be reminded of why we need the very one we are supposed to be celebrating. Remembering the one who died for our sins would seem a little less blasé (to me) if, for a season, we (Christians) honestly realized how fallen we still are. How selfish. How fully ruined and evil.

Now this isn’t to say that this is our Mardi Gras (no offense to Catholics, but lets be honest, we know what goes down in New Orleans). This is not an encouragement to celebrate our wickedness.

No, it is simply a time to look past our blinders of self righteousness, which, as a people, (and I mean the Church this time) we have a tendency to wear quite often. What if Christmas was not a time to pretend how much love, remember, and honor our savior, but a time to remember just how much we still need him. No matter how long we’ve been a Christian. No matter what position of leadership we hold in our local church. No matter what good deeds we do, or how many times we’ve prayed for forgiveness. No matter how much we remind people that, for us, Christmas isn’t about the presents.

So this is exactly why Christmas should be about our selfishness. It is the very reason that a savior was sent to us. If ever we achieved some kind of homeostasis with in the laws of good and evil, would we still not be tainted?

As the church one of the biggest issues we face is how to overcome a “holier than thou” opinion that many people have of us. What better way to confront this issue than by openly admitting our depravity.

For at least a few days a year, we would honestly and openly say to the world, “You know what, we aren’t perfect. We don’t even come close. We have addictions, vices, and dirty secrets that we just can’t shake. We are no better than anyone else. Some of us are meth addicts. Some of us are addicted to pornography. Some of us can’t help but lie. Some of us are even attracted to the same sex.” Gasp. Not that this would describe anyone in our churches (I hope you picked up on the sarcasm). “And that is why we are celebrating. Because we, like everyone else, needed a savior. And he came. He came for every lying, cheating, stealing, lusting, last one of us. As a church we are as imperfect as any other group of humanity. That is why we are clinging to the birth of a baby 2000 years ago.”

And that is why years from now, as a greater self-realization washes over the child who, at the age of 6, huddled under blankets with anticipation of giant transforming robots awaiting him in the living room, a Jewish baby will start to take precedence over the great Optimus Prime.

And now i leave you with a wonderful quote by the great Fyodor Dostoevsky from his book Notes from Underground:

Tell me this: why was it that, as if by design, in those same, yes, in those very same moments when I was most capable of being conscious of all the refinements of “everything beautiful and lofty,”3 as we once used to say, it happened that instead of being conscious I did such unseemly deeds, such deeds as. . . well, in short, as everyone does, perhaps, but which with me occurred, as if by design, precisely when I was most conscious that I ought not to be doing them at all? The more conscious I was of the good and of all this “beautiful and lofty,” the deeper I kept sinking into my mire, and the more capable I was of getting completely stuck in it. But the main feature was that this was all in me not as if by chance, but as if it had o be so. As if it were my most normal condition and in no way a sickness or a blight, so that finally I lost any wish to struggle against this blight. I ended up almost believing (and maybe indeed believing) that this perhaps was my normal condition.

Peace.

But if you try sometimes . . .

2008-01-03T14:55:00.000-06:00

Belated Season's Greetings to all.

If you would but humor me in a little convoluted philosophical Christmas exercise, I would be grateful. Here we go:

The only true way to measure the reality of time is to count the passing of each year’s Christmas. As any good American child knows, from Turkey day on there is but one goal at the end of the snow-covered, seasonal rainbow, and that is December 25, Christmas Day. 27 Days. 27 days filled with anticipation, counting, and may be some last-minute good deeds. Why? Why is this the goal? Why is this the object of fascination, so much so that it can alter the very behavior of an individual? One reason and one reason alone, my Yuletide Inquisitor: This is when we get what we want. Not just what we need or something for free, but we specifically get excited about getting something we want.

Now, everyone and their mother (literally), will argue that this is exactly what is “wrong with Christmas these days.” Golden opportunities for greed and Capitalistic exploitation by major corporations have become the reason for the season instead of the birth of our Savior. This blatant display of greed shows how lost we’ve become. It shows how selfish we are as a people (by “a people” I mean Americans) It shows that Christmas is all about us and no longer about anything greater. It is no longer about our savior, born this day, 2000 years ago.

But let’s be honest. To a 6-year-old the birth and death of some baby 2000 years ago, no matter how historically significant, just does not carry the weight of a 30” tall, fully poseable Optimus Prime with 45 different points of articulation. Call me a pagan or a cynic, but its true. I’ve been there and I bet a lot of you have too. Nobody wakes up at 4 am to go read Matthew Chapter 1 (the Christmas story) because they just can’t wait any longer. Think about it: to a 6-year-old the idea of sin and forgiveness is incredibly intangible, and pales in an attention-deficit comparison to a giant plastic robot that the kid can actually feel and touch.

And this is exactly what Christmas should be about:

Our selfishness. Our inability to grasp God.

Besides the fact that I just bought me a ticket to hell in most people’s minds, I would love for you to join me next week for the further exploration of my first point:

Christmas should be about our selfishness.

Have a Happy New Year.

I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.
- Jane Austen

Recompense for the Mute

2007-12-21T09:03:00.000-06:00

Here is the latest newsletter. Hopefully it will give you a little idea of the view from where i sit. There are millions of people out there like Maria and her family. Leave me a comment if you're interested in helping out with them.

Peace.

My wife (as some of you may know) was recently in a car accident involving a Semi Truck. Stopped in traffic on an interstate near our house, Anna was rear-ended by a tractor-trailer. She called me crying, and the first words out of her mouth were: “I’ve just been hit by a semi.” Immediately, as I’m rushing out the door to find her, I think this is the last conversation we may have. Thankfully, she suffered only mild injuries (for such a wreck), and our car is going to be replaced.

Shortly after the event we were given the advice that we should seek a settlement for a brand new car. Even though our old car is not worth this, and the insurance company is taking care of her incurring health bills, Anna and I were told that we should be compensated for our troubles. Our stress. Our loss. Our grief.

In other words, justice would dictate that Anna and I, through our sufferings have earned a little recompense.

So I started thinking about Maria who used to live in a shack in Tecate, Mexico. I say “used to” because one night 6 months ago, her husband came home drunk and decided to burn it down in an attempt to kill his wife (it would seem they were having some marital problems). While she was fortunate enough to not be in the house at the time, their 10-year old son, Angel, was not. So, as all of Maria‘s worldly possessions literally went up in flames, the neighbors had to hold Maria down to keep her from a suicidal rush into the burning house to save her son.

Now the next part I tell you I do not intend to be graphic for the sake of shock, but to be graphic to give you, the reader, a dose of reality. Those that were there that night could not hide from the reality that burned before their eyes, and neither will I hide it from you. The neighbors said they could see the son inside the house flail about as hot oil from the roof dripped on to him and continued to burn his body. A 10-year-old being burned alive. A mother being held down so that her remaining children will still have a parent in the morning. A druken father whose answer to marital issues is some gasoline and a lighter. My God, who compensates these people for this trouble? This grief? This loss? Who decided that justice dictates that the suffering of these poor people have earned them a little recompense. Who will listen for these voices that are rarely heard?

You did.

Maria has a new home because the money you gave meant that we (Mission Discovery) could have building material to build her a new home. Even though there is no worldly way to compensate someone for the loss of a child, you did provide Maria and her family with a brand new house. And while Maria and her family grieve for their loss, the fact that they have shelter is one less major necessity they will have to worry about.

As so many Christians talk about, but so many little actually do, you stood in the gap. You said, “Maria’s loss ends here. We can’t replace her son, but we can giver her a home, a bed, and clothes for her kids.” I know, I know. In your head your thinking, “ all I did was give my support.” But in your actions you built a home. And you kept a family dry and warm.

As this year draws to a close, all I ask is that you think back over the past year, and remember all the good that you did, some of it by simply by sending a check in the mail.

In a defense against the pessimists that would say that this world is a lost cause, I would present you as exhibit A. And then I would calmly say, “Bring on 2008.”

Thank you on behalf of those that are rarely heard.

Eric

In every headline we are reminded that this is not home for us
- Bloc Party

Welcome (in latin)

2007-12-10T09:36:00.000-06:00

I am Eric, and this is my blog. Let me be the first to say that it is completely odd to step out of anonymity and have my true name and true adventures posted on a website for all to read. While, at first, it is mildly uncomfortable, i will continue to pursue this endeavor for several reasons:

1) To keep my friends, family, and enemies up-to-date on my journeyings.

2)To "hash out" (i don't think this is a drug reference) some things that i am working through in my life.

I also hope that this is a place that you would come to share your thoughts and opinions on any of the subjects that are discussed. All are welcome to comment, and various points of view are encouraged. I, in all of my upper-mid-twenties wisdom, may even post something that you as the reader do not completely agree with. Great. Let me know. The more we interact as a community, the more we will sift through what we simply "believe, " and get down to what truly "is."

So there it is. Welcome to my upside-down world. Welcome to Notes from Vertigo.

eric

You can't stop what's comin'. It ain't all waitin' on you. That's vanity.
- Cormac McCarthy, No Country For Old Men