Failure to Self-Flagellate

How I wish I could convince myself that I'm not good enough for this. The evidence is inconclusive, particularly considering the difficulty of finding an unbiased source of information. If I could only stop absorbing the blows of disappointment and let them knock me down for once, maybe I could leave the part of me behind that insists on squeezing blood from a stone. Or if I could produce one crowning achievement that I could look back fondly on in the dark times. As it is, I'm so conflicted I'm starting to worry that I'm incapable of letting go of what may already be gone.

Introspection. Also, a Parable.

I realized tonight that the only reason I can "play a part" as an actor is because I can somehow empathize with the character's situation. It saddened me to think that I can show rage and hatred only because of the potential for those dark emotions in myself. I must conclude that a part of me, hopefully a small one, would like nothing better than to fiddle as Rome burns.

A parable:

A young Native American squaw was sitting by the communal campfire, gazing intently into the flames. The tribe's elder, seeing that the youth was deeply troubled, said to the young man, "There are two wolves at war in your soul. One is dark and evil. He thirsts for conquest, vengeance, and power. The other is bright and good. He strives to build a time of peace and joy." For a few moments, the youth did not acknowledge the elder's words. Then the boy looked up at the elder and asked solemnly, "Which one will the win?" The elder replied, "Whichever one you feed."

Hello, Yeah, It's Been a While

Oh, how my vanity drives me to unrealistic expectations of myself!

Full to Bursting

On occasion, when I see something artistic and wonderful, I feel this strange compulsion to create something artistic and wonderful of my own. Rarely does this go anywhere, partly because I'm inconstant and the feeling passes, partly because I'm secretly not that artistic (like, at all) most days, and largely because I get so overwhelmed with the need to act on my impulse that I end up doing nothing except staring slack-jawed at whatever it was that brought this feeling on in the first place.

Have I written about this before? I think maybe I have, but I'm too lazy to look back through my handful of blog posts to verify. Oh well, here it is again.

Maybe someday I'll make something so beautiful that it'll purge all this longing. Somehow, though, I doubt Nature would allow the void that would be left behind to exist for long before refilling it with ever-stronger desire. Perhaps that's part of what keeps me going, an indelible element of my identity. A blessing and a curse, I suppose.

By the way, check out the band Discovery, if you haven't already. They're a side project of Ra Ra Riot and Vampire Weekend. They're weird, but strangely awesome. You'll see what I mean. Thanks, Callen McLaughlin and Jeff Olson, for turning me on to them.

Your Homework

If you are reading this, your assignment is to research Paulo Coelho, if you're not familiar with him already. I've only read one of his books (The Alchemist), but it forever changed the way I view God and the world around me. His language is so simple, so beautiful, so timeless. He's an example of that rare individual who can combine accessibility, depth, and beauty in his writings.

Here's his blog: http://paulocoelhoblog.com/

Enjoy.

Tongue-Tied

Today I really don't feel that I have anything to say.

I get this way a lot. Which is part of the reason for my infrequent posting (along with being busy and procrastinating). Maybe I'm too focused on being able to say something revolutionary or profound or "right." I know that's a potential pitfall in my life that I have to be careful to avoid. I truly love learning, as corny as that may sound. I love classes and books and holding deep philosophical conversations with people who intrigue me (of which there are many). One of the problems that presents is I often refuse to allow myself to be ignorant, to not know. I almost always take special care to formulate my words, whether spoken or printed, to demonstrate linguistic skill, eclectic academic expertise, and lofty ideals.

Sometimes I think what I really need is to just let go and express myself (or refrain from expressing, gasp!) as I truly am, undecorated and unfiltered.

My Junk

I've realized I'm a bit of a packrat.

The weird thing about it is how methodical and organized I am in my packratness. I was going through my room at my parents' house packing for college and I realized just how much stuff I have from over the years. Some of it is sentimental, but a large portion is just old junk that I've packed up neatly and stuffed in some random corner to rot for all eternity.

Not only that, but I'm an electronic packrat. My photo folder is meticulously organized, with folders upon sub-folders upon sub-sub-folders, but I have a hard time culling photos after a high-volume shoot. I have no problem tossing the out of focus and over- or underexposed ones, but I will agonize over which of two nearly identical photos of a certain subject I want to keep and will usually just give up and keep both.

The worst part is that I keep waiting for life changes (moving houses, getting a new computer, etc.) to motivate me to clean things out. Since my junk is kept from interfering with my productivity, I ignore it until it reaches critical mass. Usually I do pretty well in the foresight department, but this is one area of my life where I'm operating on a purely reactionary maintenance schedule.

I'm Very, Very Sneaky, Sir

I've noticed a sly trick that I pull on people.

Whenever I'm in my tiny little Texas hometown, I talk to locals in a subtle but noticeable Central Texas accent. This happens especially when I'm trying to sound like I know what I'm talking about even though I'm completely lost.

For example, today I went to get my tires checked out because I was told when my car was recently inspected that some of them needed replacing. I drove down to a local tire shop and talked to the secretary about getting new tires. She walked out with me and inspected my current setup, asking all kinds of questions about tire sizes which I did not have the slightest idea how to answer. As the conversation progressed and she weighed the pros and cons of big and small tires for me while I stood wide-eyed and nodding like an idiot, I noticed my Burnet accent slowly creeping into my voice in an effort to blend in. My attempts at social camouflage were futile, however. I could tell she could see right through my paltry show of tire knowledge.

Does the trick work? Hard to say. It usually seems to produce the desired effect of masking my ignorance. I figure it can't hurt in any case. Plus, it always happens subconsciously, so I don't feel guilty about hiding behind my drawl.

At least I can give you this warning: if you're ever talking to me and you notice my accent slowly increasing during the course of the conversation, it's probably because we've entered intellectual/linguistic territory in which I feel less than supremely confident.

...And We're Back!

So I haven't posted in a while. I just realized my number of followers almost exceeds my total posts, which is a bit ridiculous. Does that sound like I'm bragging? Well, I'm not. I'm actually self-deprecating.

What am I going to do about this disturbing reality? Make a Labor Day resolution, like any good American (it's the closest holiday I could think of). Here's what I'm going to [attempt to] do:

• Post more.
• Make smaller posts.
• Get more autobiographical, in hopes of making my blog more accessible. To that end, I'm also getting rid of the Rancor guarding the blog's doorway. 450 cool points to everyone who gets that reference.
• Not be so cerebral all the time. I recognize that using the word "cerebral" is itself a tad cerebral, but what can I say? I like irony. Especially the irony of the fact that this post promising to make more posts doesn't really count as an actual post.

Keep me in your prayers, America. This seemingly trivial undertaking is actually monumentally difficult for someone with such a terrible habit of starting things and not following through with them.

Antiauthoritarianism? And So Young!

This week, the other counselors and I were playing a game where we tried to keep the kids from getting on this big floating pad in the lake. They giggled and screamed and loved it. At one point, one of the kids asked who I was, to which I replied, "I'm the king of the lake!" This 7-year-old then proceeded to shout, "Anarchy! Anarchy!" as he shoved, pulled, and prodded in an effort to dethrone me, as it were.

I was laughing so hard I couldn't even fight back.

Entering a Strange and Unfamiliar World

I am now, for the first time, the owner of my very own pair of Ray-Bans. They are black Wayfarers with a yellow inner side. Thanks, Maria!

Inspiration, Though an Unlikely Source

I have found a new idol. Eugene Hütz.

He's the frontman for a band called Gogol Bordello. He's from the Ukraine, and his Gypsy family evacuated following the Chernobyl disaster. He then emigrated slowly west through Europe, ending up eventually in New England. Then, in 1998, the band formed and began touring, collecting a hodgepodge of musicians from the world over. They're fantastically popular with critics and have appeared on many major talk shows. Their music is an eclectic blend of punk, East European folk, and latin rhythms. Parts of some of the songs are even in Romani, the Gypsy language!

My fascination is based less on Hütz' musical prowess (though he absolutely, undeniably rocks) than it is on his dedication to his culture, his robust self-education, and his refusal to adulterate his personality and style to fit popular taste. He simply is who he is, unapologetically and without reservation. I want that kind of confidence and joy in my own life.

Pa chiv tuka, Mr. Hütz.

Speechlessness

I'm not sure if anyone can relate, but sometimes I feel so warmly towards someone that I just want to say something wonderfully positive about them. I wish I could express the deep gratitude I feel for the people God has placed around me and the special role each of them plays in my life. I always end up just grinning like an idiot and giving them a hug or something.

I've been experiencing this a lot lately. It feels so good feelin' good again.

Decisions, Decisions

I just got into Burnet for Easter Break a few hours ago. Maria and I spent last night at her parent's high-rise apartment in Austin. It's a really incredible place, brand new and fantastically furnished. The view from the wall of windows in the living room? Unreal.

But now I'm feeling conflicted. I've had a comfortable upbringing; I didn't exactly get whatever I wanted, but we never had to wonder how we were going to make the next house payment. As such, I've come to desire a certain degree of luxury in my life. I would dearly love to be able to one day live in the type of place Maria's parents so graciously offered to my friends and me last night.

I love acting. Every moment I spend on stage, I feel closer to some divine truth, some great spirit of humanity. I'm happy when I'm acting. It's much more play than work. So how could I give that up to pursue medicine? "You can always do community theatre, Jeff!" Yeah, but it's not the same, and everyone knows it. Or at least I would always know it. Furthermore, recent developments regarding the future of medical care in the U.S. as well as changes in my personal life have robbed a career in medicine of much of its appeal. So I'm left to wonder if I'm willing to risk a long stint of poverty to pursue my dream career or if I'd be better off just settling for something mildly interesting, useful, and safe with a nice fat paycheck.

Decisions, decisions.

Specialness

Some moments in our lives are special.

They're not special because of what occurs, but because of the circumstances in which they occur. It's not necessarily just about the people or the place or the scenery or the time of day or the particular mix of emotions. It's about a combination of factors, a unique blend of elements that work together to create an indelible impression on our minds and hearts. We are certainly more than the sum of our experiences, but sometimes a single experience is more than the sum of all the rest.

Things that were once special can become mundane through overuse or painful experiences that become tied to what we once held dear. But the cause is not lost; shifting a few variables can reinvigorate our senses and revitalize our spirits. We can rediscover the specialness in ourselves and in our lives. I know that for a fact.

Fear of Flying

Over Spring Break I started taking flying lessons with my Dad. He's a great teacher, and my background knowledge of physics and conversations with him over the years have helped me come along at a satisfactory pace. He's even agreed to instruct me for free, though I'm sure I'll wash his planes a few times for payment along the way.

I'm not sure if my recent flight training has anything to do with this, but I had the most terrifying dream last night. I don't think it indicates an unconscious fear of flying or a mistrust of my father, but it's haunted me all day nonetheless.

In this dream, I was flying along in the Bonanza with my Dad over the countryside near my hometown. He was instructing me in his steady, patient manner, and I was trying my best to follow his directions. As we came in for a landing at the Burnet airport, I found myself in total command of the controls, something I was not (and am not) prepared for. As a result, I jammed the plane onto the runway, crippling the wheel struts and nearly flipping the plane over before bringing it to a grinding halt. My father was fuming, and I was in a cold sweat brought on by a sense of having narrowly avoided my demise.

We loaded the plane onto a trailer without speaking a word. I expected to ride back with Dad in the truck, but he inexplicably told me that as punishment I had to fly for another few hours with my brother in the passenger seat. Steven climbed into the Remos beside me and we took off. A few minutes in, the sky began to grow dark and we started encountering turbulence. The winds buffeted our tiny craft, and I began to fear that I couldn't control the plane.

Suddenly, my point of view shifted from a first person perspective to a view from outside, as though looking at my plane from another flying beside it. The frame of the Remos began to shift in strange ways, and eventually the wings detached with a horrific snapping sound. The entire plane fell to pieces, and I watched helplessly as my brother and I tumbled to earth, still strapped to our seats. After a few moments of free-fall, we became nothing more than scattered remains strew across a woody hillside in central Texas.

I woke up sobbing.

I rarely remember my dreams, so the vividness of my recollection in this case indicates the profound impact this experience has had on me. I'm unsure what it means, but I'm suddenly incredibly nervous about the idea of ever flying with anyone else in the cockpit. My expression of wide-eyed terror as I hurtled downward absurdly clutching the now-useless yoke is difficult to banish from my thoughts.

Lessons from COPS

I used to watch COPS with my parents a lot. It's simply amazing that the same scenarios can play out over and over again in cities across the nation and be broadcasted on national television without teaching the American people a few valuable lessons. Here are some things to consider before breaking the law.

• If you run, they will catch you. (Or if they don't, they probably won't put it in the show.)
  
• Crying gets you nowhere in violations more serious than a speeding ticket, even if you're a woman (but ESPECIALLY if you're a man).
• Officers of the law HATE being referred to as "dude." "Bro" is probably a mistake as well.
• If convicted of a crime of any nature, your likelihood of recidivism is inversely proportional to the number of teeth the meth hasn't rotted out of your mouth yet.
• "Oh, Lourdy, Lourdy!" is not a valid legal defense. Neither is "Come on, man."
• Don't lie about something that will soon become obvious. For example, if you know there's a rock of cocaine in your glovebox, don't swear to the arresting officers that there's nothing illegal in your vehicle. They won't take your word for it.
• Put a shirt on if you expect to be arrested in the near future. You'll be grateful when your mugshot gets printed.
• With a few exceptions, police officers can lie to you about anything during questioning. They are usually much better at it than you are, and they will almost always win a lying contest. Try it out if you doubt me.

Keep rockin' steady, boys in blue. The quagmire you wade through on a daily basis sure makes for entertaining television.

Simplicity and Serendipity

I'm on Spring Break this week, a week ahead of almost all of my friends from high school. I figured I'd struggle to entertain myself, but to be honest the change of pace has been exactly what I needed. I have been able to breathe deep, sleep late, and rediscover some of the simple pleasures that make life worth living. Here's a list of joys I had forgotten about.

Baths.

Reading on the couch.

Wrestling with a 90-pounds yellow lab.

Naps.

Vanilla bean ice cream.

Playing handbells.

Thinking about nothing in particular.

Forgetting what day of the week it is.

Cash Cab.

Conversations with Dad.

Kids' movies (Oliver & Company and Beethoven in particular)

Rocking chairs.

Home-cooked dinners.

Not setting an alarm when I go to bed.

Absence making the heart grow fonder.

Listening to: The Killers

Reading: The medical writings of Hippocrates

Flight

Here's a poem I've been working on. I'm not trying to "say something" about "the state of the underprivileged in America" or whatever. It's just a series of images that have haunted me lately. Some of the line breaks got messed up by the blog's formatting, but you should get the gist of it.

Steady drone of rain.

Rhythmic slap-slap-slap of sneakers pounding pavement,

accelerating with the heartbeat

of a delinquent.

A degenerate.

A hooligan.

A hoodlum.

A youth.

Pockets full of his prize,

he flees the scene,

reaches an alley,

leaps in,

stops.

 

 

Back

[breath]

to the wall,

[breath]

he pants

[breath]

as quietly

[breath]

as possible

[breath]

and waits.

[breath]

[breath]

[breath]

[breath]

He listens.

[breath]

[breath]

[breath]

Nothing.

[breath]

[breath]

He sighs.

[breath]

A noise.

[gasp]

A shout a light a turn a flight into the dark.

Around, over, under, through,

beyond the edges of the map in his mind,

he runs and leaps and trips and falls,

collapsing in a sobbing heap of broken will.

He can no more.

 

 

Minutes pass.

 

 

Like hours.

 

 

He reaches deep into his pocket and withdraws

the score: an apple and a pear.

A bite of each, and exhaustion carries off our troubled teen

to fitful sleep.

Visual, Not Verbal

I've been making really long posts lately, ones chock-full of my half-baked ideas and meandering tangents. So to mix things up, I submit some of my favorite photos from my portfolio. Click them to see the full version (they get cut off because of the blog format, and I don't know how to fix it). I hope you enjoy them.

Contextual Criticism

Okay, so Hamlet's all well and good, but what if it was set in SPACE?!?! Or what if Odysseus were Japanese? Would the Christ story be as significant if it had occurred in colonial America? 

For those of you who don't know, I'm currently in a production of Macbeth at Baylor University. Our iteration is set in a vague modern era. The swordfights are played out with katanas. Duncan wears a leather trench coat and aviators. All in all, it's a very hip, cool, artsy concept.

But is it valid? 

Shakespeare's contemporary actors would have worn fancier versions of their everyday Elizabethan garb and would have used few if any set pieces. The Bard obviously never intended for his play to be reinterpreted in this way, which raises interesting questions regarding the relationship between artists and their work. Should authorial intent guide our understanding of art, or should each play, painting, song, etc. stand alone and be endowed with meaning by the viewer?

I've never been a huge proponent of modern art. In general, I think it assumes too much about the obscurity of meaning and opens the door to purposeless imitations of true artistic depth. That being said, I accept the postmodern notion that an artist's work is larger than the artist and assumes an identity all its own. 

Once again, I'm going to take the moderate position on this issue. I respect those who incorporate other works into their art. Iphigenia 2.0 by Charles Mee (which was performed at Baylor last year) is an excellent example of intertextual dialogue. Michelangelo's supposed first painting, The Torment of St. Anthony, is a near-perfect copy of a German engraving of the same subject. These artists are not stealing, they are paying homage, adapting, and adding new layers of meaning to other works and the stories and themes they represent. As an artist, one must be comfortable with personal interpretation and application of one's corpus. However, it seems disrespectful to me to subvert or ignore an artist's intentions when evaluating their art. If someone publishes a play with obvious Islamic overtones, I think it would be a mistake to present that play as though it were purely a Christian allegory. If another artist wished to write a new version of this play with a central Christian message, I would have no problem with that. In fact, I wouldn't mind if someone analyzed the play as though it were a Christian allegory as an academic pursuit. I just find it foolish to pretend that an artist could somehow become possessed by a universal spirit that has its own purposes and produce some magnum opus that transcends their limited perspective.

The point of my ramblings is this: transporting works of art into a new context is perfectly acceptable. If it makes it more accessible or highlights aspects of the piece that interest you, then go for it. But don't assume that you have been chosen to recieve mystical insight into the spirit of the work that enables you to unlock its true meaning. That's both arrogant and unjustified.

Listening to: A random mix of indie college rock (Ben Kweller, Brand New, The Shins, et al)

Reading: Other people's blogs

Procrastination CAN Be Productive!

As I sit here attempting to write my Theatre History essay, I realize I would much rather be blogging. So here I am.

Today's topic: Dreams.

My friend Kara Killmer is in a new reality show that premiered today on Hulu called If I Can Dream. She's living in a house in L.A. with 4 other people, each of whom is trying to "make it" as an actor, model, or musician. If you get a chance, check it out. Kara's the really nice blonde actress (not the other blonde actress).

Anyway, seeing Kara's premiere got me thinking about my own life, and what it is that I want to do with it. What is it that will make me happy? What am I hoping to achieve that will make me feel as if I've "made it"?

I think people too often pigeonhole themselves into thinking of dreams as purely career-based aspirations. Most folks I know would say they dream of becoming doctors, actors, teachers, pilots, you name it, but if you ask them what their dreams are for their souls, their relationships, their minds, and their broader experiences, you'll see the same wide-eyed, panicked expression I always got when a teacher exposed my lack of attention in class with a pointed question like, "Mr. Wittekiend, Belmopan is the capital of...?"

Why is this the case? Do we not consider these areas of our lives worth dreaming over? Are we frightened by the kind of honest self-evaluation that is called for when we expand our dreams to include the subjective, the abstract?

If we root our dreams in earning titles and accolades, we make ourselves vulnerable to disappointment and bitterness when the world decides that we don't make the cut in X area and never will for Y and Z reasons. That's not to say that we shouldn't have goals for our working lives or seek to attain greatness; these are wonderful pursuits. They're just not a valid basis for a conception of personal success. A person is more than the sum of their assets. The kinds of people that are fondly remembered after their passing are those that love life and pursue joy wherever it may be found. The world will see more Fortune 500 business moguls, more superstar lawyers, more beloved celebrities. My future children will never have another father. My parents will (most likely) never have another child. My place in this world is a unique one. I feel these burdens every day, and I thank God for them because they inspire me to constantly improve myself.

I'm going to wax autobiographical for the third time this week and delineate my own dreams for you, my tiny audience.

I dream of being the kind of man of whom others will say, "He tells the best stories!"

I dream of visiting every continent. (Well, every continent where sane people live. This excludes Antarctica. You can keep that one, penguins.)

I dream of finding beauty in something or someone that everyone else had given up on.

I dream of anonymously donating a large sum of money to a charity and being a strong enough person to take the secret to my grave.

I dream of reading all those books I always told myself I would.

I dream of being a hero. It doesn't matter to me what form that takes.

I dream of finally balancing a stable self-image and interdependence with a woman I love.

I dream of tithing.

I dream of becoming a semi-famous actor. Sure, it's selfish and petty. But partly I just want to prove that you can succeed in theatre without being a total jerk or selling your soul.

I dream of being able to do the Sunday crossword in the New York Times.

I dream of regularly reading the New York Times.

I dream of forgetting my mistakes but remembering the lessons I learned from them.

I dream of writing a handful of songs that I would actually listen to, or a couple of poems that I don't hate.

I'm not going to ask myself to achieve all of the above. That's what makes them dreams. They're whimsical. They're things that are difficult (for me, at least), things to strive for. The day I run out of dreams is the day I forsake my humanity.

Listening to: Blink-182

Reading: Random theatre history books

My 80-Year-Plan

Since I got to college I've given a lot of thought to the kind of man I want to be. And for the record, I'm not sure if the title "man" is really justified. Once I turn 20 I'll feel comfortable calling myself a man. I know, I know, I'm practically a child. Get over it.

Anyway, I find personal inspiration in diverse places. If I find a person whose example I wish to emulate, I do my best to remind myself regularly of what it is I saw in them that I wish to instill in myself. The following is a partial list of the men (some real, some fictional) that inspire me.

Michael Moak. Thanks for helping me realize that the measure of a man does not lie in wedding a woman other men will envy him for.

Ken Wittekiend Sr. and Jr., my grandfather and father respectively. You are the very models of masculinity to me. If I can live to be half the men you are, I will consider my life to have been a successful one. I am exceptionally jealous of my half-brother that he was born first and got to share your name.

The unnamed hero of "Theme Music" by Asheru & Blue Black of the Unspoken Heard. Check out the video when you get a chance. 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4cLTatujA0

Job. He constantly reminds me that God does not hate us.

Jack Skellington. Okay, so this is super lame. I'm aware. But childlike innocence, desire to expand one's horizons, and swift rectification of wrongs are admirable traits. 

The apostle Thomas. A cynic, but upon meeting the resurrected Christ he becomes the only apostle to address Jesus specifically as God.

May the parts of these men that I admire be found in me.

Listening to: Asheru

Reading: Henry V

...There's Hope

So, this is my first blog post, inspired by Maria Knorr. Well done there. Also, thanks to my Dad for inspiring the blog title. I'm no good with these witty little sayings. Way to drop the ball on passing along that gene, Dad.

I have no idea what purpose this experiment will serve. Poetic ramblings, cathartic venting, random life updates, pop culture minutiae, whatever. All are possible and likely.

I guess I'd better try to write something worth reading in this post...oh, here's one! I learned a bit about Buddhism the other day in Masterworks of Drama (a fascinating class full of wonderful people whom I love). The concept of desire as the root of all suffering resonated with me. I'm not comfortable with the ascetic (stoic? I'm not a philosophy major for a reason. Well, three reasons.) idea of eliminating all desire from one's life, but I do see the connection between my past disappointments and heartaches and a inordinate desire for things I didn't need. As a result, I hereby vow to consider my desires and whether or not they are justified whenever I am upset by new developments.

I suppose I can now add a dash of Buddhism to my spiritual/philosophical recipe, which is as follows:

4 parts Christianity (generic, Armenianist)

1 part Southern Baptist Christianity

2 Tbsp Aristotelian metaphysics (Golden Mean preferred)

A pinch of agnosticism

Skepticism to taste

Mix ingredients in a large bowl until homogenous. Never allow to set, as later additions are probable.

Listening to: Bruce Springsteen

Reading: The Voyage of St. Brendan