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?

Whipple's Triad

The sweat-chills come right before you cramp up, Cailin Whipple preached to herself. She pulled her knees up to her chest, and felt for more bruises. Her sore hands searched, found the cool skin of her ankles, and they embraced. She’d told Barbara that practice would end at four o’clock today. It had to be almost five, and she still wasn’t here. Big surprise, she sneered, step-moms don’t remember jack.

Do better next time. Coach didn’t look too happy about her play today, but he could go take a long walk off a short pier. She replayed the last five minutes of the practice game in her head for the forty-second time since walking off the field. She came up with scenarios where she could have snagged that last bullet pass. Just a reach, a cradle, maybe juke and play it off a fumble. Even Chet Haskell could have done it, and he can’t even touch his toes. Her mind always had the same answer, though: my hands aren’t tough enough. She felt the dull heat of her palms, and rubbed them on the curb. First just palms, then she ran her fingers across. Back and forth, up and down, faster, more pressure. The friction ate at her skin, quickly wearing the first layer off, and soon over-stimulating her nerves. She hissed, and brought her hands back to her naked calves.

A gust of late November wind pushed through her sweat-stringy hair, and she set her jaw against it. The curb in front of Cobb High was cold and cruel; like sitting on Ebenezer Scrooge’s lap, Cailin smirked. Her stomach tightened and shrank. It gurgled an unladylike sound. She kept ignoring its pleas. She could take it. Lunch was a long time ago, and consisted of a bun-less hotdog and over-steamed zucchini. Wet, slippery, and melting apart zucchini, a boiled, bland pickle, pale paste in tepid water. Cailin opened her mouth to retch, but caught her breath. In through the nose, out with the mouth. In, out, in, out. Swallow slowly. Eyes watered, and she shivered.

Dinner, she thought, as her mouth formed the word. She played harder on an empty stomach anyway, and since starting that crazy diet to shut up her step-mom, she didn’t even get her afternoon candy bar.

“You like games with rules, right, Cai?” her step-mom had started, “This can be a game. You have to get so many meat things a day, and dodge the breads and sugars. No sodas, no Snickers, no sweets. A system like this would help a girl like you”, Barbara smiled.

“What kind of girl is that, Barb?” Cailin had snapped back.

“You will call her ‘Mom’ at this dinner table” Dad said, and that was that.

But Barbara was right. That pixie woman Dad had gotten all crazy over knew something. Cailin had lost a lot in this last month, and had to tighten all her straps down more. But she missed the Frappuccinos, the chocolate and the sugar. Oh, not getting sweets was the worst! Cailin ground her molars and imagined being different. What it was like for other girls? Girls not like her, skinny and petite enough to shop at Miss Thing. Heck, just to be small enough to walk in there, look at the sparse tables of tees and shorty-shorts, and then laugh at how uncool this shop, this whole scene was. Just once. Just once.

Cailin looked both ways and dragged her runny nose on the shoulder of her shirt, leaving a thin dark streak on the polyester. She sniffed, and laughed to herself. She still wore her practice uniform, and tried to think of anyone, someone to blame for having forgotten her change of clothes. The track pants weren’t too thin, but the football jersey was ridiculous. She was swimming inside it without shoulder pads at the beginning of the season, and now it had just gotten looser and bigger. She pulled her legs under the shirt-hem, and thought for a moment about the Fun Dip in her bag.

She could have taken a shower, and gotten dressed like normal, if she hadn’t been so forgetful this morning, and left her clothes in Barbara’s car. This week had been bad for remembering stuff. She forgot to wear kneepads on Monday, and almost forgot about a math quiz today. Good thing she’d told Wendy about it last week. Wendy called last night and asked if she was studied up for today. Cailin had lied and said she was finishing the practice test, even though she hadn’t touched it. She made sure she studied when she hung up. The quiz wasn’t too bad, but would have tackled her if not for that reminder.

They all didn’t get it, but it had to be football. Coach said at tryouts that she was built for basketball, but Cailin had just shrugged. Sometimes people, she thought, classify you like M&Ms. There are a lot of different M&Ms out there. Plain, Peanut, Peanut Butter, Almond, and she’d even heard Jamie talk about Coconut ones. Well, if you saw all of them in front of you in a big trick-or-treat heap, you’d think that it was all just a mixture of colors. If you wanted to put them in piles, you’d put the reds over here, the greens over there, and keep going like that. When you see the melts-in-your-mouth-not-in-your-hand shells, you think you know how to sort them. Cailin knew she was an M&Ms Football, no matter what her candy coating made you think.

Another Ford truck lumbered past Cobb High, rolling cautiously past the “Slow Down During School Hours” zone. Another hour, and the kids would be back to racing down Mackinaw St, whipping around the law-abiding fuddy-duddies. Cailin still hoped her dad would get her that car he’d been promising since Mom. Her dad managed the only Burgie’s in town, and business wasn’t good this year. When the McDonalds opened up down the block, the burger-and-fries, milkshake-drinking teens in town migrated to it. No business meant no bonuses from Headquarters, and no car for Cailin. Barbara loved that; more control over her “little girl”.

She shook her head, trying to clear the feeling of cinder blocks scraping. She really didn’t hate-hate Barbara. Ugh. This headache had been bugging her all afternoon. Rubbing her temples wasn’t helping anymore, and the hunger wasn’t helping. She drew the rogue hairs from her face back behind her ears, and sighed. She stomped her feet against the cold, and crunched a few leaves in the gutter. The pieces of leaves looked like fish food flakes, and swirled in a small dust-devil.

When she was in second grade, Cailin had a fish. She called him “Blink” because he couldn’t. It took her dad a week to convince her that fish breathed water, and ate the baked fish-meal cereal he or Mommy sprinkled into the water. Cailin tried the fish food, and even though it didn’t taste like the cereal she ate, she still served Blink a breakfast of champions. She felt rotten inside when her Dad said her fish was dead. Gone? When does he come back? Dead from eating too much? Why didn’t he stop? Do fish get fat, or do they die first?

Mom was gone, too. It wasn’t from eating, but it was just as permanent. Cailin poked at the bloody patch on her elbow. It was sticky, and it still wasn’t scabbing. She’d stumbled on the ‘hike’, collided with one of her own team’s defenders, and took a hard spill onto the 40 yard line. “Use BOTH your feet, Whipple!” Coach yelled. “Use both my feet... to kick your face!” she now thought, and shook her head. She couldn’t think of anything good to say when he was shouting at them, and really she hadn’t thought of anything good now, but at least it was a retort. It was something.

She squinted against the streetlights, too bright for her eyes. The longer she sat, the more her resolve to wait grew. It wasn’t patience, but an exercise in endurance. When Barbara finally got here, then she’d be sorry. Cailin’s cold hands were fists, and she didn’t want to relax them. No apology would be good enough for making me wait without bus-fare or a candy bar.

There was the Fun Dip though. No, she thought, I can’t.

They started appearing weeks ago. It started during a history test. The first one was on her desk when she came back from the drinking fountain. She looked around the room, but no-one was looking back. So many faces, but no eyes and no suspects. The history teacher loudly cleared her throat, and Cailin sat down, holding the candy like Police evidence. She snuck it into her backpack, and forgot about it until she got home. The diet said no sweets, so she didn’t want it, simple as that; it’s against the rules. It didn’t taste so great, but she felt better after eating it.

I have one still in my... she rolled her eyes toward her backpack, and caught herself. No sugar. Meats, proteins, vegetables. Dinner.

Her blood had chilled. It was maybe a week after the history test. She was stooped in front of her locker, exhaling, watching her breath turn to fog. Through the cold smokescreen she saw there was more Fun Dip. In her locker? Was this a joke? She took another breath, and as she remembered it, the air didn’t steam up.

They showed up again, almost for every practice, and Cailin didn’t want to eat them, or throw them out. In her backpack they went, and she’d end up tearing into them later when Barbara wasn’t around, and wouldn’t see her tie-dyed tongue. Enjoying the magically-appearing candy felt weird, but it was just a little sugar, right?

Now, as she sat waiting, something different surged inside her, warm like black pepper, and it chased those chills away. Today was different. She was late to warm-ups, and not thinking about the game. The “C” on her history test made her stay after the bell to talk to the teacher about it. The teacher almost added a ‘minus’ to the grade when she saw another stupid mistake Cailin had made. Late already and anxious, Cailin just grabbed her paper and left, running down the halls.

Moving fast changed her. Speed made her feel real. Her hair was built for momentum. She hit her stride; nostrils drew silent breath into her warming lungs. She was flesh and blood, but underneath, a bone machine ran. She moved through the hallway like she was already on the field. There’s the fifty yard line, a drinking fountain. A band kid and the janitor’s mop bucket: the forty, the thirty. Around the corner, and towards the girls’ locker room with the flair of a ballerina, she stuck her turn. Right at the entrance to the girls’ lockers Cailin almost collided with someone. This guy she almost hit said a startled “Hi!”, and as she passed him, Cailin waved at him, but she still ran into the locker room.

The room was empty, and almost quiet. As she slid up to her locker, she realized that guy had walked out of the girls’ lockers. She laughed at the idea as she spun her combo lock back and forth. Wasn’t he in one of my classes? Poor kid, he must have made a wrong turn; why else would he be walking out of...

The locker door let out the tiniest squeak as it swung open. There was another package of Fun Dip inside.

-------------------------------

The school clock tolled the half-hour. 5:30. Dark outside. Sidewalk, wind, sweaty. Headache throbbed. Mad at Barbara. Hate size 12 shoes. Confused.

Cailin pulled the Fun Dip envelope out of her backpack, and tore out one of the candy stix. The Fun Dips were sweet, and kind of nice to have. She dipped into the first pouch. Grape. Grape was plain, and mild. Not like eating real grapes, but... OK. She tasted the second. Cherry. It was better, warming, sweeter than most cherry candy. Third, RazzApple. Color-changing, tangy, distinct. That’s the one to keep for last.

The headache was melting. Maybe today’s practice wasn’t so bad. A make-up test in history. Not-so-magical Fun Dips appearing. She looked down with a smile, and wondered about what she’d say to him. She pulled the candy stick out of her mouth, and dipped again. This’ll take more sugar.

don't quit, bacon bit

...that phrase got stuck in my head on the way out to Palm Springs. I searched, and I can't find anyone that's said that before; I didn't pick it up somewheres.
I like giving out nicknames, even if I'm the only one who uses them. Doesn't have to match, or make sense... when do I, anyway?
But I want to say it, don't you? To people that are in pain, bummed out, over-tired, and under pressure. Those right at hand or left behind... up to something, and down-to-earth.

Smile, and try it out.

The Malawi Blog

Hey, fans and friends...
The Malawi blog is up... start here:
http://bragdonwood.blogspot.com/2009/04/42409.html
That way, you get it all in order...

5/11/09

Carnivore was the bomb! Woo hoo! Roasted chicken and ostrich meatballs rocked! Great sauces, and the tropical soda was great too! No stomach aches either... at least for me and Rick. The atmosphere was crazy -- there were monkeys in the trees behind us, and tree frogs creaking and shrieking so loud that we had to yell sometimes! Also, there music system seemed to be all late 60s and 70s tunes. Yes, I danced to ABBA as they carved meat off of swords... they played “Fernando”and “Dancing Queen”.

Also a bunch of Motown / soul stuff that was familiar, but I don’t remember them now. Sorry Ladysmith Black Mambazo. Our taxi broke down with a flat on the way to the restaurant with a flat tire.

Sad times, but because of being broken down, we saw the Kenyan President’s motorcade roar through the city. Pretty cool, actually. Kenya is first world -- it’s surprising to see black people that aren’t thinner than me around. :- )
Greg and Simon lost their hippo teeth souvenirs to customs... shoulda checked ‘em... too bad; they were nice ones. I can’t wait to get home... it hit me in the middle of a Kenyan gas station how surreal it was to be in a city that wasn’t American. Seriously, that was the first time I got that “I feel like I was photoshopped here” vibe. Hearing Audioslave’s “Cochise”, and Oasis’s “Cigarettes & Alcohol” on the in-flight radio station made the middle seat bearable. The girl next to me is snoring. I actually think that’s cute. Then again, I met a girl (a friend of a friend) a few months ago who had pretty bad breath... and I thought that was cute, too. Endearing, unique... you know what I mean...

Before getting on this flight I talked to a couple from London who were exactly one of those couples that Nick Park interviewed for “Creature Comforts” -- I almost didn’t believe that they were real accents, since they were so spot-on British. They couldn’t believe the poverty in Kenya... I told them what I’d been doing in Malawi, and it surprised them. They’re very sheltered... said the pot to the kettle...

Anyway... I thank you all for your prayers, your support, and your friendship... if I missed anything, please ask me about it!

5/10/09

Left Malawi, and pretty much all I packed behind. This morning, a few of us went to church in the village. It was good to see those guys one last, time, give ‘em hugs, and worship with them. So many smiling kids, too. I wonder when I’ll be called “azungu” again...

At IBF, a new set of locks meant the staff were locked out of the sound room... so we had an acoustic morning. ( -:
Brian preached on Annias and Sapphira, and the proper way to give, and how to do it with the right motives. It’s not the amount that matters, it’s the heart of the giver.
We all got out of there quick, and a few of us rode with the Dinerts to the airport. The flight took off on time, and we’re now drinking our last Malawian Fantas in tiny airline cans. Chris is the man. He sits the same on a plane as he does on a boat, in a car, or at dinner. There’s something Pauline about that, I think.
We’re going to Carnivore for dinner, so I gave Chris my entrée, and he gave me his dessert... mmm... canned strawberry shortcake... I’m tired and my pants are too loose.

(a running gag from Braveheart)
Servant: An excellent idea, sire...
King Edward (Longshanks): IS IT?!

5/09/09

It rained during the night, hard enough to wash away footprints, and give me and Ruben license to sing “Africa” by Toto again. I haven’t made many appeals, but seriously, you need to feel an African rain. It felt so much more... correct than in the US, with buildings and roads that don’t erode or lead to water. I was supposed to get wet; I was getting in the way of those droplets, who wanted to soak the soil they were aimed at.
We did a short little jaunt in the morning before breakfast. Dan and I were in one car, and most of the others were in the... other. I’d barely talked to Dan the whole trip, unless I was asking for a task, or trying to defend, dodge, or distract from being teased. It was cool hearing how he’d shifted from member to leader of an STM. Wow, I’m just thinking of all the conversations that I haven’t mentioned now. So much learning taking place... at least for me.
On the way out of the park, I didn’t have a seat belt, and... uh.... I slammed my head good and hard on the top of the car. Painful, but tonight it’s become a lump with a bruise. Nice. Rick gave me a Hershey bar to treat the pain. Spoonful of sugar, right?

On the way back “home”, we stopped at Dedza, the city / plant where all Brian’s flooring tiles were made, and where almost all Malawian pottery starts. We saw the ovens, and all the beautiful plant life scattered around. There were pretty sculptures and nicely painted fired clay pottery. I bought something else to ease the teasing -- a pretty goblet with an orange sunset and savannah trees, and some Malawian coffee for the peeps in the IT office. It smelled fantastic. The coffee, I mean.
As we drove back, some guys in a fast government car kept throwing blue papers out of their car -- they were pro-Bingu in the upcoming elections, and dozens of kids were running out into the street to get them. So dangerous, and it was just photocopied posters. Very effective though; the word was spread.

We stopped by and visited Kwacha’s family -- his sisters, their kids (so stinkin’ cute!) and Kondi and Patricia. We had a Malawian cake for a snack, and a round of Cokes and Fantas.
When we got home, I stuffed all my souvenirs into my backpack, and I put all my extra clothes, supplies, and stuff into the giveaway bins. No extra clothes, only the stuff I’d wear on the way back. I gave away a lot. I wish I had more. Tim took my empty bags; no more checked luggage... only my backpack. I helped Ruben fix the dryer... even though it kept breaking. Bummer on that. The desserts were epic again -- three different ones, plus ice cream! Molva pudding is a SA dish... like a syrup-soaked cake, warm and sticky, but wet enough that it keeps you salivating.

5/08/09 pt. 2

(continued...)

We got back to shore, and after a few tasty chocolate chip cookies, we headed into the game park. We stretched our legs in an unlit round room with pictures of all the creatures we could expect to see inside. It was a little odd. I’m (Carl wiggles his fingers) thinking like a writer, but this is a Jurassic Park moment -- there’s an electric fence around the place to keep big things from getting out... but it doesn’t stop little things from sneaking in. I think of Dinner the goat, tied to a rope again. Ah, Lex... as if you really knew Unix.
We dropped our stuff off in our “cabins” -- military tents on raised “decks” with thatched roofs for extra covering. The deck of Brian and my tent was freshly treated to prevent termites... i.e. used motor oil was smeared all over it, like a Kevin McCallister trap. With my shaggy beard and scruffy hair, I feel like Marv as I ice-skate in sneakers...

The trip through the backwoods of Liwonde was so cool! The car, clockwise from the driver’s seat was Rick, Tim, Ruben, Ron, me, and Greg. We saw impala, wildebeests, waterbucks, baboons(!), wild boars, and eventually, elephants!

We started off, trying to drive to the rhino enclosure, well to the north of the tents and the lodge. Rick and Greg scoped it out, but soon, we realized that it had been a while since anyone had been down this path. I try not to think of Frost, and instead enjoy the ride. Soon, we arrive at a disabled vehicle, and a tractor. The bridge is out, or never was.
We get out, and walk across, with Rick splashing and 4x4ing behind us. I didn’t even think of the possibility of crocs in the water to the left and right. Later, the guys offer me money to run across the backs of any crocs we come across -- $5 to go from one side to the other; there and back again. Easy money.

After driving on what Rick and Greg called “a game trail” for a bumpy long time, we had to get out and go over a dry river bed. There were a number of clean, fresh clam shells here. Greg guessed that baboons had a picnic lunch here, having brought them from the water, 300+ yards away. It was kinda suspicious, you know? An empty house, with dirty dishes still on the table. I still think it would have been cool if the monkeys had gotten into the car while we were distracted.

We drove past many more amazing trees, deer, and rustling brush before truly finding our dead end point. There was no bridge that a car could take -- maybe Erin’s Bumblebee, but not this rental car.
We cracked out the Cokes and Fantas we’d packed, and listened to the silence. It was amazing. I don’t have the words for the feeling -- this was the furthest from anyone else I’ve ever been. Yeah, the rest of the guys were there, but no-one else. Animals that didn’t know the hand of man were literally just beyond the next tree. Rick, Ron, and I got out on the wooden supports for a (former) bridge. It was cool, high above the water, sipping a Fanta.

We went back, over hill and over dale (we missed Chip), and back to the path beyond the river... Ron got chased over the river by Rick in the car... I’m glad he didn’t fall in. We were close to camp again when Ron spotted two elephants off to the left. We watched and photographed them, and I even (on a dare) tried to tag either of them with a rock. Fortunately, I’m not a good thrower...

Man, next we saw a grip of elephants crash through the trees in front of us, and a ways behind us. It was sweet -- we heard one or two of them trumpeting. I wasn’t scared... don’t know why. Seriously -- I would have thought that would rile me, but it was just cool; cool like an airplane taking off, or seeing an 18-wheeler parallel park.
So, once we got back to the lodge, it was dark, but lit by candles and kerosene.
Ruben, Greg, and I sat, drinking our bottled sodas, feeling like we were 19th century Brits on safari. So we started talking like it. Greg told us of the ‘chaps’ that he’d known who had been gored or trampled, and Ruben spoke of trying to rescue friends from quicksand... and losing them. I had such a hard time keeping a straight face -- I now know where Shannon gets it. Just such a perfect charade, as I swirl my Fanta like brandy, and lean back in my comfy chair.
I gotta admit, the meal was a bit dodgy -- I wasn’t sure what had been washed or prepared with “tap water”. I stuck to the beef and the soup -- if it boiled, or if it burned, I should be good... right?

After dinner, we went to the sitting room again, and had our official “debrief” time. I wish I could share some of the thoughts, memories, or things the guys were thankful for, but I’ll let those things stay in our group. It was a total blessing to serve with these guys. To BE served by them.
Oh, I somehow mentioned Muppets, and Tim asked me if I was a Muppet fan. I proudly said I was, and I think Greg or Dan asked if I could sing any Muppet songs. I started singing “The Rainbow Connection”, with occasional harmonic help by Ruben (doing a Kermit voice)... I don’t know how weird that made me look, but it felt like massaging a pulled muscle. The Muppets are a touchstone in my life. Comfort food and a security blanket. Muse and jester.

Tonight, I went back to my tent rather than doing a 10pm drive into the jungle with Dan and the rest. I’m tired, and wanting to lie still. Brian and I talked about dating, being a kid (and the misbehaving we’d done), and the mission field. Such a different life from mine, even so different from his life in SA.