|
munkymufin
|
read my profile
sign my guestbook
Name: Lucas
Country: United States
State: Kentucky
Metro: Louisville
Birthday: 9/24/1985
Gender: Male
Interests: Staring at Saudi Arabians, writing love poetry to Senators (but not Representatives; they're just ugly and fat), "the magnum," and finding new recipes that include paint chips.
Expertise: Heckling, coughing, nude modeling, lemon custard creme puffs, likes music, can dance, I found a dog a couple times and brought it back to its owners, flute playing, all-around rocking peoples' faces offs. Fo' shizzle.
Occupation: Student
Industry: Textiles
Message: message me
AIM:  munkymufin
Member Since:
12/3/2003
|
|
SubscriptionsSites I Read
|
|
|
|
| This is a nothing-post so that my blog is not deleted.
I got an email warning of deletion.
One day I will copy my old writings, so I don't want them deleted yet.
| | |
| Fare thee well, fare thee wellMy school has blocked Xanga, as I mentioned a month ago, and so I have begun a blogspot.
lucasmatthews.blogspot.com
If you go there, you can read what I write. I am trying to write more often, and with a different focus than what I used to have. I am trying to be less depressing, at the very least.
I will miss you, xanga.
Not really. Because you're not a person, silly!
I will miss the friends I made because of xanga. Feel free to stop by my new place, though. Or my facebook.
Fare thee well! Flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.
| | |
| Sorry it's been so long. Harding has blocked Xanga from on-campus computers, as it can be used for "Dating/Personals" purposes. God forbid! Anyhow, here is something I wrote a couple of weeks ago. My birthday is monday.
9-9-07
This morning I was running late for church. Then I hit every red light possible. Before I left the town, I gave up and pulled into a cemetery instead.
When my ex and I broke up, I would often hop on my bike and find myself at a cemetery. I was thinking of her today, also.
I walked and avoided puddles and was still as confused by cemeteries as I have always been. To look around you see lush grass that has no signs of ever being disturbed, as if the bodies had been born and always lived in the ground next to their ornate nametags. The decorations are cold stone and beautiful, fragrant dead flowers. To bypass the irony entirely (but in the end creating their own) most people now leave artificial flowers.
I found a sign that read, "No Admittance After Dark." I laughed and decided that I had better die in the daytime.
I found a fresh grave, belonging to Eugene Harris. He died on Wednesday. The dirt on top of him was uneven, and a small trench formed around the edge of the casket, where the rain stole his dirt. The wind, though, knocked all of his flowers, real and fake, and his wreaths on top of him, covering him once more. It seemed reverent.
I thought about the time I drove to that cemetery with a girl and cuddled. I felt passionate and awkward and alive.
I thought about driving past the cemetery a few days before, seeing what I now know to be Eugene's procession.
I thought about driving in my Grandfather's procession in February.
I thought about Grandaddy dying, and being so alone in spite of the fact that I was with my now-ex-girlfriend.
| | |
| Ever since last summer, the youth group here and I have been visiting a nursing home not too far from us. We sing, read some Bible passages that teenagers don't want to read and the elderly can't hear, pray awkward prayers (one time I almost thanked God for getting to see "old friends," but thought better of it, considering our company), and make small-talk.
I've mentioned this before, of course. It's one of my favorite things that we do as a group. I hear interesting stories (walking down the hall yesterday, I heard an orderly asking one of the residents, "You dated a MIDGET???") and get to see that look in the old folks' eyes where they think back to beautiful times when they ran, danced, and had a spouse.
Last year, there were three ladies that I never got the chance to meet. In fact, I never spoke a word to them or even put my hand on their shoulders. Every week, they were wheeled into the room and fell asleep as soon as we started singing. And they stayed asleep.
I found this, well, not offensive but more bemusing. On bad days I thought it was rude, but most of the time I just shrugged it off and looked at the other people while I sang. I never gave it much thought.
This past February, I visited my Grandfather just before he died. We knew his time was close, so I rushed home. I brought my guitar after years of "forgetting" it when I'd visit, as I get shy about playing for people. I even offered to play for him, because I wouldn't have the chance soon. I showed him a short piece I had written, and ten seconds into it he fell asleep. I finished, and he woke up. He asked me to play it again, so I did, and he replied in kind. He woke up again at the end of the song and asked me to play another one. I started into "Tears In Heaven," my grandma's favorite, and he fell asleep yet again.
I was a little sad until my Mom explained that Grandaddy had a lot of trouble falling asleep, as he had lost so much weight that there was hardly any fat left to cushion his old bones. His death was a slow and painful fight with leukemia, and it kept him up often. He slept intermittently through each night, and it was never restful sleep.
I played for him, and he was able to sleep. It was an honor.
I miss my grandfather so much. I think about him often, and what a good man he was. If only you could have met him, my friend who is reading this.
This year at the nursing home, there are about half as many people as last summer. Most of the sleeping ladies are gone, now. They've gone to be with God. Although I never met them, I miss them. But most of all, I'm so glad that the youth group lulled them into a little bit of comfort in their last days.
This year, whenever an old lady nods off, it is an honor.
| | |
| Tonight I fulfilled a dream that I have had since Freshman year of High School: I saw the Newsboys in concert. But back to that in a minute. Today has been a lovely day. I read comic books. I cleaned the house a bit. I got to the church building BEFORE the scheduled time of departure for our outing. All this and I got to go to a free concert with 12 of the youths. On the way down, I tried my best to get them amped, listening to some good ol' fashioned rock 'n' roll, but lackluster car-dancing was all that I achieved. We got there, hugged random people (it's a Christian outdoor concert, so sweaty hugs are a must) and laughed quite a bit. I enjoyed it oh-so-much (especially after being sick and indoors for a week and a half or so). It all reminded me of the simple glory days of being in a youth group, of trying to cause minor trouble and hoping that random girls notice you, of looking around and feeling happy simply to know that you are surrounded by believers. But now I organize things for a youth group; I don't want girls to notice me; and sometimes I tire of being around "believers." Billy Joel says that the sinners are much more fun, after all. Oh, to be back in the youth group. Oh, to be known as "righteous boy" and to love leading singing or giving lessons. Oh, to be unconcerned with insufficiencies and deficiencies. I took a walk the last time it rained here in Grand Junction, and my sandals began to collect more and more mud on them with each slogging step. The longer I walked, the more difficult it became. Sometimes I feel like that overall, where the more time I spend on this earth the more I am weighed down with guilt and memories. With age and loneliness. With failures. With old dreams. But for a while tonight, I was free. Free to run. Free to dance. Free to live for God. I jumped up and down like an excited teenager, I heard decade-old songs that remind me of those simple times and I was free to sing louder than I ever have around people: "Glory, glory. Hallelujah, He reigns." | | |
|
