fear (day 5)

"Keep your fears to yourself, but share your inspiration with others." - Robert Louis Stevenson

Day 5.

I'll tell you another time. But... trust me, I did it.

inspiration.

fear (day 4)

Never let the fear of striking out get in your way. -- Babe Ruth

Day 4. Soccer.

Not just soccer; park night soccer, with and against guys who are way better and more aggressive than I am.
Talked about it. Worried that I would get hurt; wondered if I would get busted up enough that I couldn’t run. Scared? Yeah.
So I went for it.
First thing I did was inadvertently bounce the ball off my hand. I was able to steal the ball a couple times, probably because I don’t (look like I) know what was going on. Took a bounce off the head, and kept going. Got a goal-speed-kicked ball into my jaw and neck. Kept playing. Wincing, but still in.
My face still hurts, and my toes feel like they’ve got rugburn, but it was fun, and I’m ready for something else. Something a bit more cerebral, though.

fear (day 3)

Peter Parker: You don't trust anyone, that's your problem.
J. Jonah Jameson: I trust my barber.

Day 3. change / haircut.

Despite the (eventual) baldness I’ve inherited, I’ve kind of been picky about my hair. Never wanted a comb-over, but I liked having some length. I’ve gotten the same haircut for almost 10 years. (number 5 on the sides, and about an inch off the top, no line in the back... ).
So, I went to Supercuts, and the haircutter lady asked me what I wanted. I asked what she thought I should get. She suggested a number 5 all over, and then a little shorter (4?) on the sides. She showed me the length my hair would be, and I felt the fight-or-flight tingle. And I said “go for it.”
It doesn’t look too bad. It’s surprised me a couple times in the mirror, but I think I could get used to taking suggestions that scare me.

fear (day 2)

I tend to scare myself. — Stephen King


Day 2. Heights.
Acrophobia.


Just to clarify, I’m not afraid of heights per se; the existence of tall buildings causes me no worry. Nor am I afraid of seeing others high off the ground, or falling, or getting hurt. I am scared of heights when faced with ‘em. I start to panic and (historically) quit when I realize that I will have to come back from whatever height I reach. Ever gotten scared by looking down from a ladder? That’s kinda what I get when I descend. It’s the instability; the dirt under my feet, the fatigue in my knees. Irrational panic. A speed bump that makes my mental Lamborghini bottom out.
So I decided to climb up the hardest path behind Brand library in Glendale. I’ve chickened out on this path a few times over the years. There are two other paths up to the lookout point; I’ve done the easy one a couple times, and the medium one once when a fellow hiker walked it in front of me.
Today, there was a family hiking up in front of me. I kept amusing myself by saying “HEY, a kid’s doing it!”... and slapping myself with “hey, a KID’s doing it”.
It was a great hike, and a breezy, beautiful day in L.A., but I kept my tunnel-vision against the path and the mountain. The fear danced in my periphery like Carlton Banks, daring me to look. I dared. More than once. It cranked the sweat valves up, and got my heart pounding like a “new message” icon.
The family stopped. They needed a breather. They told me I could pass ‘em, and I told them that I was fighting through a fear of heights. Offered them my back-pocket bottle of water. Then it dawned on me... most of my fears are assuaged when I talk about them. Maybe that’s why I need to write about it.
I went on ahead, and after a lot of heartbeats, I made it to the lookout spot. Very pretty, but... I needed to go higher. Further up. I kept hiking up the bare ridge that ascends to the antennas up on the highest hill. I got further than ever before. Anxiety high, knees shaking, forehead dripping, I reached a good turnaround spot, and then descended. Not easy; I HAD to crab walk down one part so as to not panic... even though I saw a barefoot guy do it ten minutes before.
I took the long, easy path back, and spent some quality time with my thoughts. I’m so glad I went the way I did because I got to see and hear an amazing event when the sun sank behind the closest hill.
I seriously thought some kids were throwing dirt clods or shooting airsoft guns at the plants, but after pausing, I saw what it was. The seed pods on some of the little valley bushes were exploding with the change in temperature. It was a great, clicking crackle popping noise. One blew up right near my face and hit my cheek! So amazing to witness.

fear (day 1)

A man who says he has never been scared is either lying or else he's never been any place or done anything. - Louis L'Amour

So, day 1.
In honor of shark week, and because I didn't want to try it again... today I took on sushi.
When asked, I was afraid to admit that I'm not a fan. I bet there's something you're scared to eat as well. The first time I ate at Chipotle I got a steak fajita burrito, and I was almost crying from the heat... I couldn't finish it. Now my order is chicken soft tacos (just sour cream, cheese, guac), and it's tied for my favorite meal.

Well, I went to Kabuki in Burbank, and after reading over the menu, I went inside. I immediately felt that rush of adrenaline you get when you realize that you've just been buckled into a rollercoaster. A slight eye twitch, a glance at the nearest exit, and then I knew I was in the right place.


I ordered a sampler. No sense taking the easy way out by only getting veggie or California rolls.

There was:
albacore (good)
regular tuna (thought I was biting my own tongue)
white fish (good)
yellowtail (too fishy, confused with white fish?)
salmon (slippery)
*krab (fake, I think...)
*sea eel (great, yet there were more bones in it than in my hand)
*shrimp (good)
*California rolls (avocado + eating a day at the beach)
(* = cooked)

I liked some, others gave me the shivers.
I think I'll need to keep trying; keep trying to find my order.

Oh, and I can still kinda taste it... is that normal?

fear (intro)

Fear is the new black.

I'm going to live this quote out

and write about it every day in the month of August.

España 6/03/2010

--
La Gente de Espana-

David Robles: The pastor of the church in Leon. A TMS graduate, and our contact for coordinating the STM. The Timothy to Henry Tolopilo's Paul. Married to Loida, with two kids, 3 and 5.

Manuel: Our host at El Campamento. Loida's dad. He's been running the camp facility for many years. He speaks some English, and is a pastor (associate?) at the church. Married to Pili.

Pepin: El Jefe. He's neighbors with Manuel, and quite a handyman. He gave us nearly all our marching orders while we worked. Great sense of humor, very little English, and married to Blanca.
--

David got to witness to two people on the plane. A girl named "Mima" was local to L.A., and said she'd like to go to Foundation! Very cool.

La cocina tiene una perra, se llama "Nesca". En un otra idioma de Espana (Basque?), "Nesca" es mas o menos la palabra "chica". Es una perra buena y ahora, es mi amiga. Ella tiene siete anos, y se gusta cuando tiro la pelota. Hablo con Arturo en Ingles y Espanol. Arturo tiene mucho legendas de brujas y magicas en Mexico.

"Es mi dia primero!"
First work day. Painting. We moved a bunch of furniture, rugs, and awesome artwork to the downstairs back room of the house on Calle Mejor, and threw dropcloth everywhere.

Definition: La Casa de Calle Mejor. It was owned by a rich guy, and it is a huge mansion. Not a Mr. Burns or Daddy Warbucks kind of place, though. This place looked like old California. Spanish Califorina. Zorro California. The owner was NOT a believer, and in fact didn't like Pepin or the church. However, when the economy took a dive, he lost a lot, and wanted to sell off the place mas rapido. I can't remember the price, but it was probably half what the place was worth. It needed fixing up, but it is / is becoming Efeso, the bible institute that David Robles has been running. There's an excellently redone room upstairs that looks like one of the nicer classrooms at CSUN. Best I could figure it, Efeso works like the D.Min program at TMS; personal work and study + occasional weekends at the school. There are a lot of rooms upstairs that have been converted to be little motel-style rooms (bed, dresser, tiny bathroom / shower). That's where we come in.We're gonna paint all the rooms that Senior Pepin wants done. Ceilings, bathrooms, halls, stairways. Are we going to get dripped on? Splattered by paint? Muscles taxed? Bring it on.

Arturo did all the ceilings, and the rest of us are doing the walls and the touch-up. Worked a lot with Cathy today. I will forestall all the praise I want to heap on her... for now.
Cathy's Top Five (in no particular order):
Earth, Wind, and Fire
Third Day
MercyMe
Journey
60's Rock & classic Jazz
I hope to create something that when packaged bears the words "Strike Anywhere".

So, amongst the art we moved there was a great painting of the Queen (by marriage) of Belgium. She was / is Spanish, and according to Manuel, her husband set aside his kingship for 24 hours in the 1970s when abortion issues were being decided, so as to not hurt his conscience, seeing as he is / was Catholic. Interesting story, but weak-sauce morality for a king. Glad my King's always righteous.

As I write, it is so hard not to try to write in Spanish. Espanol esta en todo al mundo. My brain only wants to think of things I can express in both languages. It's hard to explain, and if you haven't felt it, I dare you to go on a missions trip and find it. Dare ya.

Oh, and for every meal there's excellent bread served. It's made fresh in town en la panaderia. (as I type this down, I still miss it). The coffee is the bomb. It's smoother and less acidic than what I'm used to from Starbucks, and whenever they have coffee, they also include a kettle of hot milk to add. I mix it half and half and add a spoon full of sugar. Bring it on, coffee purists; me gusto café con leche y azugar. Muy bien. Vale.
And their Coke has real sugar in it. Not corn syrup. It's in 330ml cans; they look a little smaller than in the States. The States... wow, look who's gone European.
The cereal served en el encampamento todo el group se gustamos. It's like corn flakes, cocoa krispies, sugary fritos, chocolate honey smacks and kix mixed together. I had it with every breakfast while we were in Toral.
Today we found out that David's mom had to go to the hospital. Stopping and praying for her as a group was awesome. I don't remember doing that in Malawi.
David Robles came this afternoon with Henry Tolopilo. Pastor Tolopilo may have eaten too much local prosciutto ham. So cool to see and talk to him in a different country. He's very quick and clever.

We worked all afternoon painting and Vera hummed hymns. Nothing against humming, but [Note to self: next time bring an iPod or something]. Arturo scared us all with his gung-ho scaffolding ideas.
We went for a walk late at night, and saw a castle that had been converted into a museum and bar with stork nests on top of its peaks.
We had amazing chicken and rice and potatoes for lunch, and quiche, snap peas, y flan con Pina por la cena.
Translating is a blast -- great kid, don't get cocky.
Oh, and I fell asleep tonight while reading and hit myself in the face with "Mere Christianity". Bonk.

España 6/02/10 (part 4)

6/2 12:00pm
Left my first pen on the last plane. So it goes. Flying to Madrid from Frankfurt now.
The pat of German butter on my lunch tray says "82% Fett". Boba?
The water bottle that came with my meal speaks nine languages. I might speak two. They've got leather seats in this plane; it's like being in my car, but thousands of feet up, and thousands of miles away. Sleepy. Coffee in a tiny cup is my friend.

6/2 3:36pm
Starting a four hour bus ride to Leon. Cute little Spanish girl (maybe two and a half) saw a sign for the airport shuttle bus and said "chu-chu" to her mom. She was so happy, despite being tired. Vera jumped right in and helped out the girl's mom with her stroller and diaper bag. She's a great grandma.
It's hot here in Madrid; summer camp heat. All the Arrowhead campers know what I'm talking about. David Robles is cool already; a taller Ruben Videra. He's stickin' back in the city to pick up Henry Tolopilo for a conference some time in the coming week. We're riding in a huge van or a small tour bus; we each have our own double-seat bench. "Vogue" by Madonna was playing when we got in. Right now it's Bedingfield's "Unwritten". They drive on the right like in the States, and there are VWs and Sprinters everywhere. I think I’m gonna fit in.

6/2 4:36pm
An hour later. I must like writing, or at least "hearing" my own voice. Everyone but the driver is asleep. I keep wanting to text someone, anyone. Maybe Ed, maybe not. To share this awesomeness. To joke, to poke, provoke, invoke.
The rocks on the side of the road are jagged here; square, wrinked and kinked. Wind-powered generators on the hills and my shirt. Highway quiet and straight ahead. On my way. Speed limit changes every few thousand feet. What do I miss? Parallel lines, perpendicular ones, complex tangential ones?

6/2 8:08 pm
This place is great. This is the Europe that I thought only existed in romantic tales of Tolkien and... Melville? Hemmingway? The paint in my room (my OWN room? Are you kidding me?) is seafoam green; the doors across the street are faded blue. There are short railings around all the second story doors and BIRDS! Not rats with wings, but dive-bombing little swallows. A WWII motorcycle just passed. If I saw Jason Bourne run up the marble steps past me, I would think "this is how it's supposed to be".
There's a warm bleach smell to everything, like Hurricane Harbor, the scent of swimsuits, parties, and summer.
Maybe I'm lonely and lying to myself about what I should do. Can't believe I'm here. Both in life and body. I can't NOT hope. It's raining now; endless semi-vertical ellipses down the window. Slashes of splashes on glass.
I'm reading the third book in the "Hitchhikers" trilogy, "Life, the Universe, and Everything". It includes a scene where the main character(s) look up from the planet into a starless sky. I turned the light off, and tried to stare into the darkness of my room, only to discover that the ceiling was covered with glow-in-the-dark stars. It was magical, the kind of magic that you want to share. Exactly what I needed. I love this.

España 6/02/10 (part 3)

Fruit cup with my in-flight meal. Best. Pineapple. Ever. "Substitute" by The Who, and "The Mighty Quinn" by Manfred Mann on Station #14. Hahaha, I’m remembering an old SNL sketch where Bill Murray’s a frequent flyer in first class who keeps sharing with people what they ought to do on an airplane. He starts yelling to the plane "Bill Cosby on #5, the chicken-heart... it's classic!"

"Valentine’s Day" is playing for the whole plane to see. Sorry, Garry Marshall, I don’t feel like watching cute couples being cute or whatever the plot of this mess is. Maybe I’d be less cynical if I could see more than 50% of the screen from my seat. Heh heh. I think I'm getting punchy.

Last year I at least had a name, a thought, a direction I was casting my gaze. Not so much this time. Such different thoughts. I’d love to declare a major, wear team colors, sign the lease. Again, Joel Barish, ladies and gentlemen.
Top 5 lists are immature, right?

In that case, I'll postpone it... trust my King with everything.

España 6/02/10 (part 2)

In-flight entertainment included "Uncle Donald’s Ants" and that Pluto cartoon where the father and son coyote try to steal sheep ("Pluto, Sheep Dog"). I love that 1940s view of the southwest. The thought of sleeping outdoors in the wide open desert with only a Navajo blanket sounds a lot more breathable than a window seat next to two humid Pakistani businessmen. Not complaining, though. This is fun.

Now I'm writing sloppy... just flecked my pillow with pen ink. Sorry Luftwaffe, err... Lufthansa.

So, blast from the past, they just played an episode of "Goof Troop". I kid you not, I remember the episode, too. So many old memories leak out of me now; memories without reason or rhyme. Chip & Dale: Rescue Rangers (I was Dale, Ed was Chip). Darkwing Duck. TaleSpin.
I think Peg Pete might have come from the same neighborhood as the Boggs in "Edward Scissorhands". She was always too nice for Pete Sr.; what did she see in him? Goofy was a better guy, a stand-up dude -- just like Barney Rubble, Ed Norton, Al Borland, and any number of second-bananas from sitcom history. And how come Fred and Betty’s eyes, and Wilma and Barney’s eyes matched, huh? That always bothered me as a kid. Oh, and the answer is Betty.

España 6/02/10 (part 1)

(all the times will be Spain time; 9 hrs ahead)

Wow. I feel like I haven’t written anything in forever. Chalk it up to business, the murder mystery, and a few cranks on the ol’ cardiac tourniquet.
Just flew over Disneyland. It looks like it would be a good day to be there. Last time I was there I was texting “knock knock” jokes. Quite unique. Yes, I did just write a sentence fragment featuring two ‘q’ words. Hmm. I could sure go for some warm Mission tortillas, too.

One of our flight attendants (initials K.M.) was crying next to the ticket counter right before we checked our bags. She’d lost her bag of personal stuff and was many thousands of miles from home without it. She's a totally German blonde with a pleasant demeanor; looks somewhere between my friend Laura S. and Amy Poehler. Her face looked taut and worriless, and the wrinkling and folding of the her face when she stared to cry seemed like it was hurting her even worse. Poor girl. I’m glad she had a fellow flight attendant with her, otherwise I would have had to give her some airport chocolate and a bear hug. (p.s. another employee found her stuff before takeoff; very cool)
This is such a different team from last year. Half girls, not a bunch of tough blue collar cops and construction workers. I miss those guys. I should look 'em up.
This window seat is great; I hope I don’t have to crawl out, though.



Every word I write runs through my head sounding like Joel Barish. Can he be the one to read my audio book? As I try to remember / doodle a painting of Clementine, I really wish I were better at drawing. Maybe after the half-marathon, yeah?

on being not fat

OK, so I’ve lost weight in the last few years... there’re a few weird things I’ve noticed about and as a result from the change... let’s hope there’s some motivation to be found in my awkwardness.

▪I actually have an Adam’s apple.
▪Good: I can cross my knees while sitting. Bad: I do.
▪It is now harder to catch spilling liquids in my hands. The spaces between my fingers are now wider than they used to be, so if I make a cup with my palm, it doesn’t hold water.
▪Jean shorts falling down on an escalator is only funny if it’s not happening to you.
▪The pool and the ocean are so much better without an oversized shirt on.
▪I can fit through spaces in crowds I couldn’t before.
▪I can’t sit just anywhere now; not carrying a natural, umm... posterior cushion with me makes hard surfaces hurt.
▪Increased metabolism means more stomach growling. Stomach growling when sitting next to a girl is never cool. Ne-ver.
▪Waiters and waitresses now phrase the dessert question in the negative. “No dessert tonight?” instead of the optimistic “We’ve got a triple chocolate ____”
▪I went down a half shoe size -- I think my feet are more properly arched now. Still wide, though -- how do you people wear Vans?!?
▪Despite how much the first movie means to me, I really don’t identify with Shrek anymore. I sadly remember trying to slim down to fit into my Shrek pants for Halloween a few years ago.
▪As my girth shrank, the available room for putting stuff in my back pockets increased... sadly, as waist size went down, the pants pockets got smaller. I used to be able to fit a CD player back there; now, I have to choose paperbacks to carry with me based on their size.
▪The sweating -- I can wear one shirt with minimal pit-stain worry.
▪Not mistaken for a fanboy, gamer or a nerd as much.
▪Sharing food is easier -- also, I’m not expected to eat people’s leftovers
▪No longer Mario to Ed’s Luigi...
▪When playing “which character from ‘The Office’ are you?”, I no longer fear being labeled as Kevin. And for the record -- Andy or Creed.
▪Restaurant tables -- I can fit behind them.
▪When yelling at myself, I don’t include the phrase “fat-boy” anymore.
▪I don’t have to go to Outback to touch ribs. And fortunately, my ribs rarely have BBQ sauce on them.
▪I size up little kids and figure if they weight more or less than I lost
▪Shaving is different -- more angles to the ol’ Mount Rushmore. Lots more nicks. Sometimes I have to puff out my cheeks to get the job done.
▪Spill on my shirt, and I look like a klutz, not a pig.
▪Getting dressed doesn’t include inhaling.
▪I don’t quote Porkins (Red 6) anymore.
▪A lot of people knew me (secretly) as the fat twin... that made it easy to tell us apart. But now, even with his beard, a lot of people confuse me and Ed. It’s funny to give context to our differences. At least they believe I could be dating.
▪I actually get cold now -- machismo is all that keeps me from putting a jacket on.
▪I am not skinny -- Ursula Ditkovitch; that’s skinny. As it is, I am about five pounds away from being technically overweight.
▪Kids are more fun to play with when you aren’t out of shape.
▪Losing weight might have changed my taste in music... indie rock appeals to me as only hard rock used to.
▪That being said, I won’t fit into (or wear) skinny jeans.
▪I can button the collar on my dress shirts. Fitted dress shirts.
▪Less self-conscious = easier to start conversations with new people.
▪My normal singing voice changed. I’m a little less bass, a little more tenor now.
▪Less mouth-breathing means less snoring.
▪The clearance racks don’t seem to have my size anymore... I miss the cheapness.
▪Hawaiian shirts aren’t necessary to cover the bulges...
▪Now I’m picked last for sports teams because I have no skill, not because I’m out of shape.
▪I don’t have to check if I’m the fattest guy in the room. And yes, I would.
▪Exercise is fun... seriously!

(thanks to God, H.R., J.J., M.P., D.C., J.M., B.D., and all those who have motivated and encouraged me!)

dear honesty

Dear honesty,
I don't think I know you.
Oh, I've thought I did, but
seriously?
I mistake you for others, like a bigot
a rascist
maybe I should shake your hand
tell you why I say kind words to strangers
and choke my mind when I'm with friends
force my hope
through a colander
of half-wit
and
selfish modesty

nothing profound,
I've all but forgotten
how to open up without saying too much
how to pour without spilling.

as I write right now, I fight the metaphorical
the romantic, the vague
I remember decade-old advice from a TV show
"it doesn't have to be something meaningful, just something honest"

honesty, are you the truth?
am I being dishonest when I don't say what I want?
is it less true if I say it, than if I keep it away?
dye is deeper, darker when unused

is that what I'm trying to say?
that I think I'm weakening something to talk about it?
from where does that come?

childhood, no doubt; being told that my drawings weren't good enough
that I couldn't whistle on-key
that the lyrics I wrote shouldn't be shared
jaded by peer pressure
desires swallowed to appease an ally
graduation day

honesty, if I don't get to know you
how can you be my friend?
How can I invite you to dinner with her?