Faults Follies and Identity

Have you ever really sat down for the purpose of thinking about identity and how you define it?

How do you define your own identity?
What components play a part in that definition?
Is there a difference between what you do and who you are?
How much do your looks or clothing play into it?
How much do other people's definitions of you play into your own?

Identity is tricky. Should we define our identities based on the things, or people, or ideologies that we identify with the most. That is to say, those that we find ourselves most pleased by, most comfortable with, those that we find to be most in line with the way we would make things were we in charge. Or perhaps we should define our own identity based on the things we one day aspire to be. Therein lies a dangerous risk of then never being able to attain the identity we aspire to and in the end giving ourselves the identity of failure because we couldn't "get there." But if we desire to improve ourselves is it better to define ourselves by the mistakes we are trying to fix, by the characteristics we aspire to, or should we perhaps define our identity as someone who is seeking to be better.

How defined does an identity need to be? Can I actually simply define myself as a man who is seeking to become a better man? That is a fairly undefined statement. That is to say that many of the details are not defined. What defines "better" for instance?

It's ever so slightly disturbing that this rambling about identity (composed over a period of months in fits and bursts) is mostly punctuated with question marks...

Wouldn't one assume that identity is something much more easy to comprehend? I think we often treat it as though it is, and thereby offend, discriminate against, and misrepresent many people. But who knows if that opinion can be true at all, because all I've established is that when it comes to identity I can't seem to establish anything with any real solidity.

I'm tempted to use some extremely meaningless and yet very palatable, politically correct, open-minded phrase like "Identity is what we make it." or "Your identity is your own." But those statements do not make any real statement.

So after contemplating this and giving myself nothing but more questions and no answers to any of them: What is my identity? (or at least what do I define it as?)

The only characteristic about me that seems permanent enough to define as an identity is that I am not the man I want to be, and I'm trying to get there. I also know that the standard I hold myself to is unattainable, and therefore I will never be the man I want to be. This however does not make me a failure. It simply means that there is always progress to be made, and there is always work to do. I will move both forward and backward in this pursuit, and that will at times depress me. But when it comes to my identity: I am a man who is seeking to become the man he knows he should be. I am always that, no matter what changes around me.

Faults Follies and Brokenness

I am not, nor can I be, perfect.
Sometimes I accept this to readily.
Sometimes I am a bad friend,
I am a bad man,
I am broken.

I am not, nor can I be, perfect.
I am far too OK with this existence.
I need to provide resistance.
I don't fight hard.
I am broken.

I am not, nor can I be, perfect.
Sorry for ignoring your reality.
Sorry that is too hard for me.
I hurt too much,
I am broken.

I am not, nor can I be, perfect.
I look like things that are not me.
I try to be things you can't see.
I wear myself out.
I am broken.

I am not, nor can I be, perfect.
Some days are worse than you know.
Some days are just too slow.
I am limited as a man.
I fix what I can.
I am broken.

Faults Follies and Aim-ful Wandering

There are certain phrases that we hear and expect to go a certain way. Much in the same way, there are certain things in life that lead use to expect other things to follow them. Because of these facts I decided to twist the phrase "aimless wandering" in the title to try to find a way to describe the unfulfilled expectations currently existing in my life.

Life has taught me that it is reasonable to expect to be told what steps to take when someone else places a goal in front of you. It seems that right now, this is another one of those times where God is not following the rules we play by down here on earth.

I have felt a very distinct calling from God to a certain profession. Namely, I feel that God wants me to be a pastor. That much is clear to me. However the steps I need to take from where I'm at to get there are not clear to me at all. I don't know if I should go to seminary, or not. Nor do I know which seminary I would go to if I did go. I'm not sure where I should go to get the training and preparation I need to serve as a pastor. I really haven't had the strongest connections to any church or denomination over the past 4 to 6 years because I've been a student in two different states. In that time it's been difficult for me to find a church that I could call home.

The church I grew up in has been changing a lot and no loger feels like home. In my time in Minneapolis I attended somewhere between 5-10 different churches with varying degrees of regularity in an effort to try to find a place to settle in. Thus far in Champaign-Urbana I've attended a minimum of 4 different churches. I can't seem to find a place that's doing ministry in such a way that I can truly settle in and join in with their ministry. Maybe that's simply because God is calling me to be a pastor because he's calling me to do ministry in a way that's not being done, and that's why I can't find it.

I'm trying to figure out which organizations/churches/denominations might have ministry going on that is close to what God is calling me to, but it's very hard to find such information. I've found one organization that seems to be doing ministry the way I feel God calling me to. However their US base is in Minneapolis and I don't live there anymore. I attended their church, and wish I had gotten more plugged in. But I didn't find out about that church until shortly before I was done with my degree, and it was also a logisitcal nightmare to work their services into my busy schedule.

At this point I'm trying to be patient and prayerful about all of this. I'm great at one of those two, and anyone who knows me would be able to tell you which one I suck at. So I'm praying a lot and trying very hard to keep my eyes and ears peeled for the next time God decides to give me more direction.

My Muse is Amused

I don't care if I produce a bunch of really shitty poetry

It's just that these words flow freely out of me

And I know this might not be the right time for me

To let these thoughts form poetry

But of the things I control my muse is not one

She makes love to my mind and won't stop 'til she's done

I sometimes finish a poem only to start another one

'Cause in spite of the first climax she's only just begun

She can do things to me that I'll never understand

Her movement forces exclamations that are completely unplanned

Her greatest pleasure is the movement of my hand

And my pen on a page to record our last meeting

As she caresses my thoughts I can feel my heart beating

Faster and faster to catch up with her rhythm

She always brings new inspirations and I can't just dismiss them

And if I try to write when she's not around

I have to be sneaky for fear I'd be found

'Cause she's got quite the temper and can get really jealous

And when it comes to anger she can get overzealous

So most of the time I let her have her way

And I try to keep her happy to make sure that she'll stay

With me in the morning after nights when I'm too tired to write

And I simply have to say, "Baby, not tonight."

My muse is amused by the effort I put in

To every smell, sight and sound, down to the drop of a pin

Just hoping to find the right moment for our next rendezvous

To be inspired by a thought that rings true

So I catalogue moments of joy and of pain

So I'll have stories to tell her when we meet again

About love found, love lost, and love yet unknown

About the things that I've learned and the ways that I've grown

But sometimes I wonder how much she cares

When ages have past since the last time that we shared

I lose confidence and wonder what I must have done

For the rhythm and rhyme to have left my tongue

Lonely, lying there inside of my mouth

As if all inspiration had migrated south

And I'm left waiting for the arrival of spring

Hoping she'll come back on her beautiful wings

To touch my mind with her gentle affection

And direct my pen through a series of lessons

That teach a young schoolboy the methods of pleasure

That result from the use of an excellent measure

Of verse at the appropriate time

If only she'll revisit my mind

I would smoothly stroke the her curves with my pen

And a page to keep track of the sin

We commit in loving each other too much to wait

For our intimate moments to be approved of by fate

And sometimes these intimate feelings

Cannot be contained by four walls and a ceiling

So our shouts can be heard

In each little pen-stroke that forms a new word

That may someday be shouted at comparable levels

From a stage by a poet who's caught in the revels

Of the page-printed echoes of our ecstasy

Every time my muse visits me

No Working Title Ch. 6

Eventually of course I had to leave the mall. Having become sufficiently convinced that the Barnes & Noble equipped with a Starbucks could only provide me with safe cover for so long, I knew I had to make a decision. To run or not to run? Whether tis nobler... etc.

I, as always immediately began running through the consequences of this decision in my head. If this, then that. Except these if/then thought processes ran through at least one hundred different scenarios. I followed the logical outcome of all the foreseeable forks in the road as far as my mind could take them. Admittedly, executing this thorough analysis while driving a motor vehicle is probably more akin to driving while intoxicated than I would like to believe, but this is the way my brain has always worked and I never learned how to stop it.

Once again I had managed to arrive at my chosen destination by some form of teleportation, because I have absolutely no recollection of the roads I must have driven along to get from the mall to my place. However, I was there. I quickly grabbed nearly all of my clothing, leaving only old Halloween costumes, and four of my five suits behind. I was also smart enough to grab as much food as I possibly could. Fortunately for me much of the food I had at the time was neither frozen, nor did it require refrigeration. Of course the assortment of snack foods and desserts would really only provide me with calories not any sort of nutrition. But at that point I didn't have time to try to put together balanced meals.

Having gotten all of the aforementioned items into my car I once again hit the road. This time being careful to drive along roads unfamiliar to me. I figured if I went places that I never went to it was likely that no one would be looking for me there. I happened across a Bank of America branch I had never seen before which I was quite grateful for. I felt safe enough to make the stop and empty one of my checking accounts. Banks aren't really inclined to give people ridiculous amounts of cash. I was promptly informed that if I wanted to close my account they would only be able to give me a cashier's check, which for all intents and purposes can only really be used to open another account at a different bank. Conveniently for me the teller I was dealing with was easily flustered and she actually answered me when I asked what the largest amount of cash was that they'd allow me to withdraw. Something makes me feel like that was a against teller protocol...

I walked out of the bank $10,000.00 richer, at least considering only the wealth I carried on my person. Then I proceeded to pick a random direction and drive, stopping only when my body cried out loudly enough with hunger pain to force me to eat, or when nature called loudly enough. I didn't sleep that night, I drove. Seemed like a good idea at the time, and whether it was or not, my brain was so ridiculously over-active that night there was no way I'd have slept if I had chosen a place to lay my head.

I had clearly decided to run. I had not really made this decision consciously. I had merely started running while I was deciding whether or not to run. This forced me to adhere to the following logic: "Well, I've already started. Why stop now?" Which may not be the strongest of arguments when considering drugs, sex, or any type of detrimental activity. However, I'm willing to accept the faulty reason behind the argument because I feel that it's justified in the case when those sentences really should read: "Well, I've already started running for my life. Why stop now, when that just means I'll be killed?"

So, taking the "Why stop now?" attitude with my current situation I decided that I needed to determine the best possible way to continue on this course. However, there's not really any useful information regarding running for one's life taught in any university's aerospace engineering curriculum. So I really had no idea what I was going to do.

I decided a severe change to my appearance could only help me hide. Having grown the long shaggy hair and beard that comes from two years of grad school taking over one's life to the point that one has little time to consider doing anything other that class, work for class, research, or preparation for research, I decided to shave. I went to the first barber shop I saw in some small town I only visited because my hunger pains had been strong enough to knock out Ali in his prime. I told the kind old man to take everything down to the skin, "Shave it all off." I told him. "It's high time for a change."

No Working Title Ch. 5

I woke up in a daze. This was the cheapest hotel I had ever stayed in, and in spite of costing nearly one-quarter what my family had insisted one must pay to receive a proper place to spend the night I had slept just fine. I had been too tired to stay awake any longer than necessary upon arrival so I simply crawled in bed, removing only my shoes and belt.

After a few minutes of confusion and general morning stupor the soreness of the bumps and bruises hit me like a truck. I stripped down and walked into the bathroom to take a shower. While waiting for the water to warm up to a reasonable temperature I surveyed the damage in the mirror. I had a sizable bruise on my hip from being tackled onto a cement sidewalk. I could feel the bruise I couldn't see on the back of my head, although "Eric" had not managed to cause a bump to form on my head with his punch. My gut was sore and my arms were mildly bruised from our encounter on Massachusetts. Overall I'd say I was in good shape considering that his intent had been to kill me. He hadn't even drawn blood.

I felt a strange pride in that fact. In spite of the fact that I had put out the contract on my own life, because I really and truly wanted to die. It was a strange type of validating feeling to know that someone had tried to kill me, and had not managed to make me bleed. It was one of those moments that made a guy feel manly. I was tempted to flex what little muscle I had in the mirror. I was, however, too sore and confused about everything to allow myself such frivolity, or at least that's what I'd like to believe. Really what happened is that I noticed the water had become sufficiently warm, so I hopped in the shower to get clean, and massage out some of the soreness from the previous days exploits.

After showering, I of course dried myself off and got dressed. I sat in the one chair provided in that room, which was an uncomfortable wooden chair placed near a small table. In spite of it's inhospitable nature I sat in this chair to contemplate. I had many things to think about. What was I going to do next? Why had I foiled my own plan? What did it mean that I was strangely proud of that accomplishment? How would I continue to run, or for that matter did I want to run? Should I just let the next person kill me and take my family's wealth? Was killing me sufficient to earn such a lavish prize? Like I said, a lot of things to contemplate, and each question seemed to lead to another question. The answers seemed to be just around the corner sometimes, but they must've seen me coming because they alluded me at every turn.

In spite of the fact that I knew being in public made me vulnerable, I also knew that there was a certain safety provided by being surrounded by witnesses. I also had the strange delusion that someone would be tracking my credit card already, and know exactly which hotel I was currently resting at. Therefore I grabbed the few things I had with me and drove to the nearest ATM. I made the maximum allowed withdrawal, and reminded myself that I should get to a bank and empty one of my accounts to have a sufficient supply of cash, that is if I wanted to continue running. I also needed more clothing and some breakfast.

In order to make things simple I thought I would drive back to my place to get some things to make this escape possible. I had begun to pack a bag before going to campus, but then realized that if I waited longer the business day would end before I had finished my wild goose chase at M.I.T. So I had resolved to come back home and pack up my supplies.

As I drove back I noticed a mall off to the right of the highway, and decided that would be a fine place to get breakfast and some fresh clothes before I got home. I bought an entire outfit and changed in a restroom. Then I went to what seemed to be one of twenty corporate coffee shops in the mall in order to get some breakfast. The particular corporate coffee establishment that I selected was located within the bookstore at this mall. As I walked toward the coffee shop I saw the aisle containing journals. That's when the idea to write some things down in hopes that it would organize my thoughts occurred to me. This story is being written down not to entertain, but simply to help attempt to make sense of all of this.

I then got a medium roast fair trade, and a delicious looking blueberry coffee cake. I sat down with my breakfast and started to scribble down what you know as chapter 1.

Faults, Follies, and Being Big-nosed and French

I've realized recently that there are many things that I want for the world, or at least the part of it that I'll ever come in contact with, and not terribly many things I want for myself.

One of my favorite literary characters is Cyrano Savinien Hercule de Bergerac. One reason I've always like Cyrano is that I can relate to him. For him it was his huge nose, but it's different for me. However, I am very similar to Cyrano in many ways. One Cyrano quote from the play that I know I've said before with different words is, "I for your joy would gladly lay mine own down, - e'en though you never were to know it, - Never! - If but at times I might - far off and lonely, - hear some gay echo of the joy I bought you."

That's what I mean about wanting things for the world, and not so much for myself. I want those around me to be happy, or if not happy than be in pursuit of becoming the person they are supposed to be so they can be happy then. I have at times in the past set down my own happiness to help others be happy, in so much as I've done things that complicate my life to simplify the lives of those around me. The strange thing is that I honestly don't think I know how to do things any differently. I'm not sure why I do things like that. Is it the way I was raised, the way I'm wired (so to speak), is this part of my nature, or something I've learned? Not having an answer to that question I simply accept that this is what I do.

One thing I've been thinking a lot about recently is what my purpose is here. How am I supposed to live my life? What legacy am I supposed to leave? Am I supposed to be an engineer, a pastor, an actor, or something completely different?

I want so many positive things for the world. Now I just need to figure out how I can best bring those things into reality.