sunday | october 31 | 2010

the odyssey.

words fail when it comes time

to say goodbye; a litany of concerns

remain hidden by the obscurity

of worry, and once again, i find myself

tragically speechless, hoping i've packed

enough for this journey. beyond

the threshold lies adventure and

uncertainty. the heroes of old found

themselves typically far from home,

braving scyllas and charybdises (charybdi?),

hurricanes and shipwrecks, fallen friends

and fiercest foes.

who am i who travels

forth into a world without

the promise of mythic hope and

epic redemption? what home

have i to purge of seedy suitors

who sup sumptuous savories?

who shall be my athena, and what

if i am not strong enough to string

the bow that has been given me?

all such pondering gives me pause,

begs me submit to the sirenesque

television who promises that adventure

shall be brought to me at 8/9 central.

but this is not the call; nor

is it the heart of the hero.

from forth i must go with

steady hands and quickened wit,

trusting that the path before

me is truly my own,

and that no one else shall

walk it better than i. whatever

calypso may offer, i shall refuse,

keeping my eyes on that

celestial ithaca where my Beloved's

song echoes through halls, and

gives this poor pilgrim the

rest he has so long needed.

saturday | october 30 | 2010

new resolve.

so let us go, hand in hand,

as one (not two) into the

setting sun so that find

ourselves not to be alone

when dusk turns to dark.

we shall have each other

and through long night

we shall endure in hope

and faith that the morning

light will bring new song.

what manner of thing shall

be too strong if we band

arms and fight together

against fierce foes?

with you by my side,

i will fear not, as i find

new resolve to survive.

friday | october 29 | 2010

pedal to the meddle.

we all long

to be told

that our beloved

will stick beside

us always. we

find such hope

to be fulfilling -

"the stuff dreams

are made of."

but does any

credibility exist in

someone who pledges

all of time

while driving away?

is my incredulity

an angry act

or remorseful response?

or is it

simply that i

am too afraid

to be the

one whose heart

speaks quickly while

a lead foot

finds his mouth?

thursday | october 28 | 2010

this is the song that never ends.

musicians are a strange brand

of mystics whose orchestration

permits access to that song which

has been sung by all humanity

since time (signature) began.

the limited catalogue of chords

and my underdeveloped ability

to carry a tune in a bucket make

this quality of musicality to be

of particular interest to me.

what is the space created between

musical instruments but that which

is filled by the spirit of God? in the

song we play, what part do we find

ourselves? are we continually singing

the chorus, or is it finally the bridge?

is this verse spoken by lover enthralled,

or is it a cry to the Beloved?

what is this song about, in the end,

and what is the coda we hope for?

wednesday | october 27 | 2010

three begs such complex oneness.

how can the same

substance appear

so differently?

perhaps this

is the question

asked by those

fathers of the

church whose

prayer pointed

homoousios.

one substance

existing in

three distinct

hypostases

baffles the mind,

bends back

the wit, inverting

all understanding

of man made math.

unique yet

inseparable these

three, existing

in, with, for,

and beside

one another

for all eternity.

such mystery

leads as we,

with isaiah,

cry out;

woe to me!

i am undone!

too lofty are

such thoughts

for created

intelligence.

meta-logic

beyond compare

gives pause and

begets prayer.

tuesday | october 26 | 2010

i haven't seen this movie.

i have never seen

the sound of music;

i suppose this statement

seems obvious if one

is not familiar with

julie andrews

or the legacy

she has created.

it's

immeasurable, really.

but

still, the fact

remains that

i have yet

to partake in

a few of my

favorite people's

favorite things.

monday | october 25 | 2010

missed exits.

"i think i need to be up there," he said, indicating the freeway above him. "damn it!"

"watch your mouth." she liked saying this to him. "just take the next exit, turn around, and get there. what's another two miles to this godforsaken trip?"

he flipped on the right blinker and began drifting into the next lane. "that's what i mean! aren't you tired, too?"

she looked at the kids in the backseat, making sure that they were still asleep. "incredibly. all i'm saying is that it has already been a long day, and i shouldn't have to worry about quieting another baby that won't stop screaming. we get there when we get there." she adjusted her seatbelt. "besides. it's nice to get a little more time with you."

he took the exit and slowed the car down to wait for a protected left turn. "yeah. it's been a while, i guess." he watched the cross-traffic. "sorry."

"it's okay. i mean. i know you're busy at work and all that." she shifted in her seat to face him.

"yeah, but –"

"but nothing," she interrupted. "you work hard. sure, we don't see each other much, but when we do, it's nice." she turned down freddy mercury singing, 'i got no rhythm.' "i appreciate all you do for us."

green light. "you do?"

"yeah," she said. "i do. i guess i don't say that enough."

"it's okay. i know you do a lot with the kids, and you're tired at the end of the day."

"yeah. but not too tired." she smiled, and they laughed together. "it's nice to do that again."

"it certainly is." he drove up the onramp, now headed the opposite direction. "i've missed you," he confessed.

"i've missed you back." she put her head on his shoulder.

then silence.

"you know," he spoke, "it's hard to drive with your head there."

she lifted her head.

"i didn't say stop," he grinned.

she put her head back down, and they were back on the road, right where they needed to be.

sunday | october 24 | 2010

just outside.

how frequently i find myself in the

dark room of my heart, looking upon

a brightly illumined world, just on

the other side of this wall. there,

no doubt, birds fly freely into a

setting sun, finding their way back

to hungry beaks left waiting; water

falls, dashing itself against rocks,

impetuously playing its thunderous

symphony; trees sustained by the

final breath of the season shed the

remnants of summer and begin their

waiting game until they wake once

more when winter meets its

snowy grave. it's a wide world, yet

this fortress somehow holds allure

incomprehensible. the wind passes

through the leaves and their easy

percussion bids me join. somewhere

children discover themselves brave

to the risk of, in socks, standing up

on slides; doubtless, this need for

this adventure is lost on their mothers.

and i, supposedly wiser than they, choose

the comfort of retreat, of isolation. the day

outside beckons, and i strain against hermitic

inclination in attempt to hear its gentle call.

perhaps i have enough courage to crack

a window and let the autumn breeze hit

my face and empower me to open the others

before looking for the door.

saturday | october 23 | 2010

here it comes.

a storm's a'brewing in the depths

of my heart, a noetic water cycle,

cumulonimbus clouds of the spirit

included, yet i remain without

an umbrella. now that i think about it,

infrequently do i find myself dressed

appropriately for such weather, trusting

such devastating rain will not fall, but

that i will find some way to evade the

onslaught that looms - usually i'm wrong.

such patterns are unpredictable and

my inexperience in soul meteorology

dims prospects of adequately preparing

for drastic shifts as strong winds of the

flesh consume and destroy my inner shacks,

and though i've heard threats of huffing

and puffing, i'm always surprised to

discover i've built my house on sand.

how can i withstand such brutal elements

as these which show no mercy to any

living thing or broken spirit? what

manner or mortar can support this

building and root it firmly to foundation

unshakeable? and will this torment ever

cease? all signs point to no, but amidst

the torrent of despair, i look for the Rock

upon which infirm housing stands.

friday | october 22 | 2010

hide and go peek.

it's an extremely human thing we do,

this game of hide and go peek. we try

and take ourselves enough of the frame,

just to make sure we don't get spotted -

most of us don't feel all that photogenic.

we attempt escaping notice, but i think

we're actually pretty terrible at it;

children are even worse, having not yet

learned how to cover themselves to avoid

being caught by the all-seeing eye of the lens.

our battle is a strange one, riddled

with the ambivalence of embracing the

guileless child within and obeying the

frightened protector who believes that

the world truly does intend the child harm.

but we keep fighting the fright, peeking

around corners, eager that someone sees our eyes

and tells us that it's safe to come out.

thursday | october 21 | 2010

the adolescent struggle.

sometimes

i wish

i just

fit in.

wednesday | october 20 | 2010

a hell of a night.

long have i wandered from home.

many are the dark nights spent in

foreign lands, wallowing with pigs.

like a disoriented pilgrim, my hopeful

searching has become fruitless wandering,

yet further i venture into this world

of poverty. scorning the comfort of

Fatherly embrace, i prefer instead the

rigid cold of rocky rest stops and

frozen shelter of open caves that

are akin to sarcophagi, mausolea

where broken spirits lie.

too much time has passed, it seems,

to turn around and retrace steps

long covered by the pestilent snow

of my heart.

but still, hidden within the recesses

of broken memory, i think i hear

a quiet Voice that patiently

continues to wait its turn -

a Voice that calls this vagrant

soul to return home, assuring

a vagabond of its intention

to leave the porch light on.

tuesday | october 19 | 2010

on further inspection.

i know that this is beautiful, but

i'm not sure just yet why i think that.

frequently, the most astounding sights

take some time to see, lest they

become nothing more than blurry photos.

perhaps, however, the mysterious

remains so only because it is i who am

unable to hold the camera with hands

that won't stop shaking. or perhaps

i was moving too quickly to get

a really solid glance at it. or perhaps,

most tragically, i didn't care to stop.

i have heard of people falling in love

with someone they once found to be

despicable. these occurrences give me

hope. i'm not sure why. but i am sure

that all have felt like the picture not

worth taking, like the book no one

wants to read, like the kid no one

wants to sit with. somewhere, deep

within us, these ideas and self-hating

comments take hold, and no one

should have to be alone.

how do (can) we hold others

with hands too shaky to allow

for finer focus on the things

worth finding? do we expect to

navigate successfully a dark room

without first searching for a light

switch? do we assume to know the

room simply because we've opened

its door? how, then, can we believe

we see another's soul or a thing's

beauty when all we do is take

blurry photos? needs be, then,

that we must learn to keep the camera still.

we must open books we're not sure about.

we must sit with those worthy of company.

we must shine light where

we assume only to find darkness.

monday | october 18 | 2010

antisocial networking.

this is supposedly the age of connection,

so how is that we hide from face-to-face

by informing our social network that

mountain dew throwback is the

best thing on the planet?

we can find trivia with the click of a button,

yet we miss the person in front of us,

concerning ourselves with the worldwide

reach of our tweets (and still, nobody

has given me a satisfactory answer for

what the hell a tweet is anyway).

my days begin and end before a screen as

i bow down before the digital god of information

and i find myself curious as to how

i became more machine than man.

we have defaced ourselves and one another,

studying profile pictures, yet not seeing persons.

we analyze text message hermeneutics, yet

we don't really listen to voices.

the viral community is aptly named,

infecting us as we denigrate human worth

laughing at (i don't buy "with") scarlet as

she takes a tumble or the heartbroken cry of

a man whose addiction has plagued a family.

have we really become so calloused that our

fellows, those who share with us this world,

are nothing more to us than a cheap laugh?

what has happened to our humanity?

what has happened to the hearts we once

opened to welcome those who are in pain?

did they get carpal tunnel syndrome

concurrently with our hands? or do we

just have nothing to offer anymore?

we must always remember that it not

enough just to be facebook friends,

we are have to be brothers, too.

sunday | october 17 | 2010

take me back in time?

"Roads? Where we're going we won't need - roads."

- Doctor Emmett Brown

frequently i have wished to go back in time.

not far. just, like, ten minutes - y'know?

it's usually for those moments when i open

my mouth to speak, only to find my words

muffled by my foot, which has decided that

my gaping pie-hole a perfect temporary home.

these are moments that pass before they've

even been noticed as "now" becomes "then"

before one can even call it the former.

the river of time cannot be dammed.

i guess, though, and i'm not sure, that

when i consider those times that i wish

i could rewrite, i'm not convinced that

a revision would really do very much.

who's to say the story wouldn't be worse?

and here's what i'm not sure about:

these moments where we misstep or

misspeak shape our lives, weaving together

an elegant tapestry of success and failure

that can only be described by an individual's name.

it's those idle words that give me pause -

those foolish instances that lead me to pray that

i learn from the past and that this now,

somehow, becomes a holy future.

saturday | october 16 | 2010

unanticipated agents of grace.

the effulgent energies of God

can take such bizarre shapes.

we often bow down before

images of conflated paradigms

of dads, lovers, kings, and ghosts,

forgetting that Consuming Fire

which once appeared in an

unwithered, holy shrub.

thrones and romances are hardly

his style. he doesn't throw on jeans

and toss around the football. that's

not to say that he wouldn't, it's just

what we'd imagine he'd do, but such

ineffable splendor refuses cliché.

he comes to us preferring to use

things that are, well, a little weird.

twists and turns of plot, questioning

questions, fighting oppression with love,

scouring the souls of men by

dwelling in their flesh, and on day three

rising from the dead. with a God

who remains above, beyond, and within all

things, one must expect the unexpected, hoping

that we will be filled despite our own unlikeliness.

friday | october 15 | 2010

i hope you learned something.

The gift of memory is an awful curse.

- Ben Gibbard

often i find that i am left

with dim recollections and

half-blurred memories

that revise themselves to

a point of something

damn-near utter obscurity.

smudged remembrances beg

the question:

what exactly happened here?

wracking my brain for answers,

desiring finer resolution, i find

no clearer perspective to these

pixilated enterprises of the past,

and these still-frames of history

become something tantamount

to impressionist paintings.

is there validity in saying,

"that was a dark time, but

now i'm much wiser and

much, much stronger?"

if those informing and

strengthening glimmers of

light are inarticulable,

has anything really been learned,

or does my delusion grow

with false understanding of

foggy retrospect?

where's the light switch?

it has to be somewhere.

thursday | october 14 | 2010

made for a blank canvas.

each of these is somehow different from another.

they are all made of the same wood, and they all

wait for the same purpose, yet something about

each is unique, entirely unlike any other color.

it is true, of course, that sometimes

yellow-green and green-yellow can look a lot a like,

but still, something between them speaks, saying,

"you are what you are, so rest in being that."

perhaps it is only the eye of the Artist that

such distinctions can find unity. yet somehow,

i can't help but have this sneaking suspicion that

all these colors will be used in his masterpiece.

wednesday | october 13 | 2010

with yet hours to go.

sometimes it's just too much to try

to keep enlivened such weary eyes.

the day grows long and lights grow soft.

edges are lost and this reality somehow

seems to be more shadow than truth.

it is these vagaries of Sunlight that

beg the question: can i really trust You?

spent, i come crawling to the end of

yet another cruel day, desiring only

rest, but where will i find it if not in You?

it is alone this desire, the wish for

divine Rest, that speaks veracity beyond

fraudulent blurs. it's not that You are

clear to me - how could You be? - but

You become real in unmet longing.

such intense, deep aching knows no

solace. what earthly goods (or words)

can satisfy the soul's hunger? and yet,

however dimly and heavily-laden,

one catches of glimpse of the lightest of yokes.

tuesday | october 12 | 2010

on the cusp of evening.

how can i be present in a world where

even the moon starts appearing while

it's still light out? who does he think he is?

it seems that there is always something else

beckoning me from any given moment, causing

this one to be sliced to shreds before my eyes.

the telephone lines that once framed and

underlined the sky's most valuable parts are

now nothing more than razor blades that have

cut to bits this one giftly sight. the clouds'

magnificence has become obscured by the

ever-pesky moon and have been tread upon

by the waxing night. how then, again i ask,

do i remain focused when even the slightest

sliver begs me to forget where i am and

concentrate on what is yet to come?

and what is the difference between

preparing for and obsessing over the future?

perhaps it is not a matter of here-or-there

that is at hand. perhaps it must be one of

here-then-there. these azure heights have

not yet abandoned this day. the cerulean

backdrop is still the setting of this instant.

with breath and thanksgiving for this life

and all its worries, i turn with joy to

the sun of righteousness who makes ready

all those who with faith sojourn into night.

monday | october 11 | 2010

theogeology.

geology would have its foundation rocked

if it even began to attempt cracking the mystery

behind the strata of my heart.

natural processes that explain the age of the earth

and the diagonal slant of levels of stone are useless

against the hardened layers of my soul.

science has explained for us a great deal and has

made comfortable our homes in the summer, but

fails to address the complexity of the human heart.

i think its no coincidence that the good book compares

the heart to land that receives seed, for like all

fertile land, we must be broken before seed can grow.

my heart has been covered by a conglomerate of sin

whose half-life only seems to be increasing - does

carbon-dating work into the future?

we have all been buried by the rubble of vainly constructed

self-images and sorry attempts at self-purification. we

attempt being our own rocks only to become a stonehenge parody.

we are a heap of stones who cast themselves against others.

we are a pile of rocks lost in the quarry of our lives,

desperately searching for the one who is

the headstone of the corner.

sunday | october 10 | 2010

something completely different.

"have you ever considered the idea that every star could be the sun of another solar system thousands of millions of billions of miles away?"

that's a lot of prepositional phrases, he thought.

"i mean. seriously. think about it. what if somewhere out there there's another couple having this same conversation?"

he doubted this.

"we might be on a double date with slime-oozing aliens right now."

he wasn't sure what was appealing about this.

"out there. aliens are sitting on the hood of their version of an old buick, overlooking some weird extraterrestrial city, wondering who is going to make the first move and finally kiss the other."

again, he doubted this.

"i think it should be the guy. his name is philip. i don't know why, but it is. and her name is val, but everyone calls her 'rider.'"

why?

"she used to be an equestrian."

space horses?

"except...on, like, whatever they ride on that planet."

probably space horses.

"seriously. think about it."

he didn't.

"what if we're not alone? what if this moment is totally insignificant? lost to the greater background of own impending yet inconsequential deaths. what if we're just one more speck in that night sky? infinitely small and alone. what if we're just another white dot in the sea of sparkles? how can we be sure anything really matters?"

he sat up and looked her in the eyes.

"what?"

he kissed her. he had never been one for existentialism.

saturday | october 9 | 2010

on mindfulness.

a professor once posited to me: suppose

our world were in total darkness, and

one day we found out that there was to be

one sunrise and one sunset. that's all.

he suggested that people would flock

to each coast, filling the seashore with bodies

for as many miles as exist to the north and south.

they gather here, he says, to watch this

spectacular event - this once-in-a-lifetime.

yet we inhabit a perpetual kaleidoscope,

but we have grown too busy to watch,

too bored to fill seashores with bodies

for as many miles as exist to the north and south.

daily, we miss these little big mysteries that

led g.k. chesterton to profess a childlike God whose

eye of wonder watches every sunrise and sunset, exclaiming,

"again! again! do it again!"

indeed, our Father is younger than we.

my friends, practice noticing. take time

and enjoy this earthly cornucopia of experience.

smell the air after the world is showered by rain;

rise with the sun, and join the daily hours of the birds;

taste the complexity of your next glass of wine,

and marvel, dear friends. be astounded.

refuse to grow old and pray that the God of our fathers

will draw you close to him, that in the future

you may grow ever more young.

friday | october 8 | 2010

a quintessence of dust.

O Lord, what is man that Thou takest notice of him?

Or the son of man that Thou makest account of him?

Psalm 133:4

i've been told that the

rings of saturn are braided.

there are fish below the sea,

well beyond the reach of sunlight,

far beneath the depth a human can dive,

fish that glow florescent,

illuminating the darkness,

with their own brilliance.

science and her gentlemen callers

have discovered these things

though robotic eyes. hidden kingdoms

for millions (some say thousands, i can't

say which is right) of years had remained

far from the mind of any individual.

who's to say that God didn't

braid saturn's rings or make fish shine

just so they'd look good on film?

this world of his, we forget,

was created for his own pleasure:

the rings, the fish, the sun, the ant,

the millions/billions of galaxies

undiscovered or newly discovered.

all these things existed before

you, before i, before hubble even

conceived of never-ending universes

or glow-in-the-dark ichthyology.

yet all these things were spoken

into being by God's word, and it was

man alone that he fashioned from

the dirt of the earth by his own hand.

we, a quintessence of dust, are

the pinnacle of his work, the paragon of creation.

but it is the beauty of the sky, the fusion

of geographical strata, the budding

of flowers, the expanse

of space that holds our gaze

while our neighbor sits at our gate, dying

to be fed, praying

to be welcomed, longing

to be seen. we, look beyond, straining

to see the glory of God in the night sky,

forgetting all the while that

the Lord did not come to us as a heavenly body,

but that he came to us, earthly mortals,

disguised as one of us.

thursday | october 7 | 2010

journey.

Your Word is a lamp unto my feet

and a light unto my path.

- Psalm 119:105

the first leg.

easy. I know where I'm headed -

it's right in front of Me. how

could I possibly miss it? I mean,

what's so hard about it? My Goal

stands right before My Eyes. of course

sometimes I don't know, but today

I ask: how could anything go

wrong on a day like this?

the second leg.

i've made a huge mistake.

where did i go wrong?

did i take my eyes off the goal,

or did i suddenly lose heart?

did i forget the way, or

did i ever really know it?

i'm lost, stuck in the middle

of the dark, afraid i've become

a vacuum of grace. and now i'm cold.

i'm tired. i'm confused. i'm a lot of things.

more than anything, though,

i'm pissed off, and i wonder if

i will ever be found again.

yet You call to me. softly,

at first, and then more softly.

You, the gentle Guide, remind me:

one step at a time, child,

one step at a time.

wednesday | october 6 | 2010

duelism.

light and darkness are at war,

and my heart is the battlefield.

the two nemeses combat ceaselessly,

and at any given moment, i am

just a step away from siding with either.

it's a fight to the finish (which,

as we all know, is a good place to end)

as the two share my inner vastness.

i wonder - i really don't know - if

the darkness works to its own undoing as

the rapid movement of the Light would

fail to appear as distinctly as it does

against the empty stillness of the dark,

and the phantasmic glow of the One who

dispels all shadow would not appear rather

than assert such hauntingly desirable presence.

tuesday | october 5 | 2010

mysterious benefactors.

perhaps

it comes from the master

bedroom, or perhaps it comes from

the childhood friend, or ex-something-or-other,

or maybe it's the mother standing

over a newborn's crib. or maybe it comes

from the next life. but there are

mysterious benefactors

who follow us with words

of light and life.

perhaps

we may not see (or know) them, but

their hearts remain forever entwined

with ours as they join themselves

to us by uttering our names and

shedding tears (of joy? of sorrow?)

on our behalf.

these patrons of good will are

the other cheek, the extra mile,

and the tunic also. they are

with us always, suppliant voices

who long to see us united with

the Benefactor of all as we, too, become

mysterious emissaries of beneficence.

monday | october 4 | 2010

this side of the screen.

it's sort of like a puzzle. each

little piece is necessary to create

a whole that some how amounts to

more than the sum of its parts. it is

a body of interdependent units,

linked only by their need for one another.

it's true that each can be viewed as its

own entity, but something greater is missed.

we can note how green this one might be, or

how the water in this one acts simultaneously

as mirror and refracting lens. we can marvel at

how clearly one can peer through and see

a bit of what's on the other side, and we

readily miss the - quote, unquote - big picture.

no member of this conglomerate reality

considers itself to be more or less than

its neighbors. indeed, these little frames

understand their union as affiliates,

and they embrace working together,

believing that such teamwork points through this

window to an amalgam of glory.

oh, Lord, help us, too, that we may see others' squares

as we point to That which is Beyond this side of the screen.

sunday | october 3 | 2010

agriculturation.

i've heard that palm trees aren't

even native to california, but that

doesn't seem to stop them from

looking glorious, silhouetted against

the backdrop of a setting sun, majestic

as they sway along to the tune of a

salty pacific breeze. indeed, they speak

something of paradise's reality as

their crowns make royal this purple

canopy. they declare this coast their own,

thriving in this place that is not their home.

amidst their acculturation they scream to

us (surfers, nurses, teachers, shoppers, waiters,

children, adults, neurotics, joggers, surgeons, et al.).

their cry is never lost to this otherwise

foreign ocean. they proclaim a gospel of sorts:

grow where you are planted.

saturday | october 2 | 2010

the art of discovery.

i guess i've never looked

at it that way. the familiar

has this unfortunate skill

of going unnoticed until some -

thing - makes it known and

establishes it as some - thing -

novelly quotidian. it seems that

this world is a never-ending

scavenger hunt.

perhaps i have grown too old,

and my soul hides behind

cataracts of the heart, while the Sun,

on the other hand,

casts new shadows that long

to be seen. i pass quickly through

the everyday, hoping for different, more

engaging stimuli, praying all the while

for the adventures of somewhere else.

it may be, however, that the art of discovery

lies not in finding new - things - that

make richer this life, but in seeing

the same old things

with ever new eyes.

friday | october 1 | 2010

Cut. Print It.

This movie is playing

way too quickly.

Before I can comment, or

ask what he just said,

the next scene is already

underway.

Characters come on screen and

exit, leaving behind something

indelible, yet unsubstantial. Their

presence will be nothing

but a memory filled with

one-liners and pithy remarks.

The writing is rich, and cinematography

pure. The score fills in the gaps,

telling us the inner states

of all involved, leaving us hoping for

a peaceable resolution. Maybe

an Oscar is in the future.

The film is a blur, and

when it ends, a story is

complete. The credits roll, and

that's that, reminding me always

of my own life with one, huge difference:

I don't get a sequel.