Why Do I Do This?

     There has been for some time a popular atheist movement in the world that says "There are no good God believers; they are only good because there is a reward." While living in a predominantly Christian town in a very Christian part of South eastern Idaho and born to a very religious family, I never heard of this campaign or the truly great question that it brings up. I did, however, have a good friend who had heard it and internalized its message, and gave me the opportunity to think about it.
     He was an atheist, and was vocal about it too. Because most of our school was Christian, often times I can imagine he would feel the need to "rise above this ignorant belief" and continue gaining what he understood was common sense and scientific knowledge. He had not grown up with any religion, and the few times he was introduced to it he felt odd and rather uncomfortable. So he grew to not believe in God, and chose to instead trust his confidence with the things that he could see.
     He was an incredibly caring person who was funny and kind. We got along well, and often had meaningful discussions on life while messing around. He helped me understand that not all good people believe in a God or are "saints," and that good people do not all dress or look the same. I am proud to say that he helped me learn more about this weird, though wonderful world of ours.
     Of course, God has always played a huge part of my life, and had helped me overcome many obstacles and struggles, so naturally I was eager to share this with my friend. Quickly, however, I discovered his disdain for such "mysticism" and "blind faith in the unknown." I learned to not be offended by his skepticism, but it also deterred me from pursuing it much further.
     It was a couple years later, when I was in the eighth grade that I decided to confront him about his distaste for Christianity. Boldly I remember asking him "Why? Why do you have any problem with us? We try to do good, we help the weak and feed the poor! Why is this an issue with you?"
     Coolly he looked into my eyes and asked me why we do that. "Well because it is the right thing, and because God has told us to!" Emotions were starting to rise as generations of familial religious zeal stirred from their depths in me. Calmly, he then asked "And why do you do what this God tells you to do?" At the time, I felt like it was a stupid question, but that one has stayed with me for quite a while. I quickly answered "Because it is how we can be happy forever. No one else can guarantee that."
     That was when the kicker came. My friend, almost smugly said "You don't care about the poor as much as you care about the reward. I want to be good because I want to be good, not because some God is giving me an incentive."
     It left me speechless. My eighth grade understanding of theology and religion could not handle such a provoking and deep aspect. I remember telling him that it was a great point and that I will investigate in order to find out more.
     I had no idea how long I would think about that, and analyze myself and why I would follow what I knew God was telling me. It has caused me to really deeply think about my relationship with God, who I thought He was and why I listened to Him. It also caused me to think if I am a good person. Rather quickly, I came to the conclusion that I was not. I was in it for the reward, for what I would be given, even though what I was doing was really rather selfless, there could not be a more selfish way of doing it.


     This has also led me to more closely study our religion and what we believe as The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints. What do we believe in? Why do we do what we are told as a church? Why is this important?
     You see, I could have just gone and not asked myself those questions, dismissing my friend's point as an atheistic fallacy and continue on blindly following what I had grown with. I would not be too different in the sense that I would still be following my religion, and I would be doing what I thought I was supposed to be doing, but I had little to no accountability on the matter. I was simply doing what I had been taught to do, like a robot. There was no investigations, no questions, and no reason to my rhyme by my own standards, and when that conversation happened, it all of a sudden felt like it was not enough. It is what at church we call "leaning on your parent's testimonies." Philosophy teaches it as a fallacy of constants, that we know nothing different so we assume it is all there is (which does not actually make it real or true, just our limited perceptions and experiences). And so we take it for granted. The sun will rise tomorrow, and God exists and loves you. These are what I learned to believe because I knew nothing different. So when someone presented to me the most logical reason against those constants it caused me to look more closely at what I believed in and to see if it could hold up against it.
     Now, I carefully backtrack a little bit after that paragraph, I am not suggesting that one seeks to destroy their belief in order to affirm it, that is no way to make or keep a foundation, much like tempting yourself to cheat on a spouse does not strengthen your relationship with them. But when certain situations arise that challenge the status-quo of yourself, it is important I think to arise to the situation and battle the best of your abilities. It is important to not be ignorant but also hold true to what you believe, like all things in life this takes a careful and meaningful moderation and balance.
     And that is what I did. Granted, being immature and not very motivated at times, it took my longer than it probably should have, but I came to understand what I believe, and why I believe it.

My Own Mess

     My blog so far has been from my point of view of tragic events in my life, which is too often seeming that I am the victim of some terrible and unheard of storm. I hope this is not the case, but to ensure to you all that I in fact have done things and hurt people that have contributed to some of my experiences I would like to detail part of my problems. I, in many ways, have set myself up for failure.
     First off, I understand part of my circumstances excuse me from a degree of what happened. I was (and still am in many ways) mentally unstable. I struggle with feelings and emotions going too far and warping from potentially helpful or beautiful things into destructive and horrible things. I take out my sorrows too many times out on the people who I love and the people I am close to. Too often I am misunderstood and then I unjustly thrust that anger around me. I, in more than one way, am my own worst enemy. I am the common denominator in all of my struggles.

   I find myself in a struggle that I think many of us are in, working on what we can control and trusting that things will work out with things that we cannot control. The balance is real, demanding, and constantly changing, forcing us to adapt or fail. I have not risen to the occasion many times and that has lead to having the events that I cannot control go even worse. Like coming home early from my mission. I was in many ways destined to come home. The Lord wanted to humble me in ways that no other event could replicate, and so in many ways I was "destined" to come home. The difference though is that I could have gone home without hurting so many people as I did. I was bitter and ornery about my weaknesses, and did not seek out help until I had already destroyed much. I am not excusing others, nor excusing myself, things happened and all parties had fault in them, but I want to make sure that I do not come off as some sort of innocent victim.
     Did I deserve what happened to me? No, I do not think I did, nobody deserves to have those feelings of taking away your own life, or feeling that whatever they do they just are not what anyone is looking for. But did I help my cause at all? Not really, and looking back I am ashamed of what I had said and done at times. I am sorrowful about it, even to the extent I avoid even my  mission friends.
     About five months ago I came to the stinging conclusion that I hated my mission. It was a humbling and horrifying moment for me, because this is what I had dreamed of for most of my life, and this is what so many return missionaries have come home and praised with a happiness unparalleled. Was my belief fading? Was it proof that maybe none of this was true or that it was all some elaborate lie?
     That was a tough pill to have to swallow, and again in my life I found myself wondering if I had been duped or tricked. But quickly after that a flood of memories and times that I was saved and spared and helped in ways that coincidence could not explain, and the feelings of some of the best times of my life came back.
     I realized that it was not so much that I did not believe or did not know, but rather that I had weakened my belief by becoming a victim and falling to circumstance. You see, instead of realizing that I hated my mission not only because it was an incredibly tough road that had emotionally and physically drained me but also because I had really done some harm, I instead attacked the very faith that had kept me alive. I chose to become bitter.
     Looking back on that moment, I think that it is ok that I hated my mission (after all, I still do) but I think for different reasons. I hated the circumstances I was put in, and I hated how I acted, and what I went through, though I do not hate what I have become because of it. It shed light on many of my huge flaws, and has allowed me to take the steps to conquering them. I have become so much more understanding of people because of what has happened to me, and I strive to help people out far more than I have ever before, because I better understand the meaning of pain and hurt.
   

     That is why this blog exists, so I can diffuse potential bitterness inside of me. Since day one I have selfishly dedicated this blog to myself so that I can see who I am and what I stand for. This is just a public journal, and thus tends to reflect what haunts me and what has changed me. I have often mused to myself that this blog should more aptly be named "The Dark Shades of Red" or "The Colors of Deep Maroon" because it has such noir subjects and memories. I do not publish these to get sympathy, nor do I for attention, for any recognition, but rather because I want those around me and those I love to know that I struggle, and that all of these struggles do not have to be in vain. I owe it to you all as an explanation for every text or call left unanswered, every time I had let one of you down, and every time I left no reason nor rhyme. This is so that I can become a better friend, brother, son, and one day husband and father.

Smoke + Mirrors

Music is a powerful force that we have harnessed.

It has the power to inspire, to empathize, and to understand in languages and words that cannot be spoken.

It is the language of the soul.

     Today it has been monetized to a great extent, and though there is nothing wrong with being supported through art, it has come to a polarization where effort is no longer put into creating beautiful pieces so much as profitable ones. The music that the radio loves to blare constantly all day is all too often deep in appearance but shallow in reflection, much like a magic trick that is really just smoke, mirrors, and slight of hand. It is the feigning of emotion solely for a response, much like the up and coming artist Lorde points out in her song "Team", "I got sick of being told to throw my hands up in the air." 

     So that being said, I still enjoy thoroughly many modern songs and albums, and generally do not have a problem finding something that I connect with. What surprises me and has become a beautiful rarity is finding an entire album that has the same effect. Probably the first album to ever do that for me would be Linkin Park's 2007 album, Minutes to Midnight. Every single track had a rightful place for me, and I still enjoy putting the CD in my system and listening to the entire album as they mapped it out. Since then, only a few other albums have had such the pleasure of getting that same status, with many coming close. A great example of one that just so barely misses the mark in my opinion is Lorde's first album, Pure Heroine. Most of her ethereal and shadow-like mellow tracks are not only thoroughly enjoyable, but some of my go-to pieces when I want to experience my music rather than just listen to it, but there are a couple of them that I do not enjoy as well, and the distinction of the tracks is little, creating a well made album that just shies short of something legendary. Lana Del Rey's Born to Die album (and even the deluxe edition) is one that completely hits the nail on the head, providing a diverse, unique and a beautiful experience, and is near the very top of my list. 

     So what does Imagine Dragon's second studio album have to offer? In short, much more than I imagined (puns not intended.)

     Smoke + Mirrors has taken Imagine Dragons to a new level. Previously they where an extremely talented group who had worked incredibly hard to hone their skills and become something worth paying attention to, but this album changes that. Now they are a must listen to, with a far deeper and matured sound that is not afraid to try new things and seems to do them incredibly well. 

     My first experience with Imagine Dragons was a commercial about three years ago (a month after Night Visions came out) that used the now hit "Radioactive." I immediately turned to iTunes and searched for it, finally finding out a small up and coming rock band from Nevada had created it. I listened to Radioactive for months as my pumping workout song, and was amazed by how inspired the combination of dubstep and driving rock. Not to sound too hipster, but this was over a year before their first single "It's Time" gained real success.

     Since that memorable introduction, I have always had an affinity for them. Their debut album, Night Visions, was a fantastic mix of their Vegas stadium rock roots as well as a new new-dubstep/techno mix that redefined the Rock N Roll genre. I thoroughly enjoyed much of the album, though more specific tracks rather then the whole experience.

     This is where Smoke + Mirrors shines though, taking individual songs that are both memorable and very thoroughly worked on and then putting them into an incredible album playlist that makes them shine even more. From the fist riffs of "Shots" to the last sweeping melodies of "The Fall" this album creates feelings and moods in such a quick and yet meaningful way that it still surprises me.

Album Tracks

     The entirety of Smoke + Mirrors is organized very well, bringing diverse emotions and styles in a thoughtful and deliberate way. Even my reference album, Lana Del Rey's "Born To Die" does not have the same organized flow that Imagine Dragons has mastered, creating one of the few albums that ought to be listened to in the order that the artists have intended.
   
     For me the standout songs are immediately "Dreams," "I'm So Sorry," "Polaroid," and "Hopeless Opus." Dreams is an incredible one for me that touches on such a deep level it seems elementary. It is less ethereal as it is somber, and includes a satisfying yet purposeful beat that prevents the song from being melodramatic. The piano at the start sets up the mood for the powerful yet subtle lyrics. "I'm So Sorry" is the driving anthem for the album, and will likely become the next "Radioactive." Employing very driving guitar riffs and a deep, intense bass line this song is a fantastic test to see if your subwoofer is tuned well.

     Testing the Target bonus tracks was fun and exciting. Generally there are two different types of bonus songs, hidden gems and tracks that were not good enough to cut it in the actual album. Imagine Dragons includes both, and even though the entire Smoke + Mirrors album was a pleasant surprise, nothing had prepared me for the first two bonus tracks "Thief," and "The Unknown." Both of these have Reynolds singing in a more traditional and vibrato way, and it is fantastic! The music is at times busy on both of these tracks, but just to hear the way that he belts out the lyrics is more than worth is to find and purchase the deluxe album. The other two tracks are well made, but not as well thought out of, though the very last track is an acoustic feature.

Sound Quality Tests

     So how does this album sound, quality wise? In a sense, pretty darn well. I listened to it on three different pairs of varying headphones, two stereo systems, and finally a reference quality home theater, so I feel like I have a decent grip on the recordings. My sources where the "High Quality" streaming option on Spotify, and the Target exclusive edition on CD. With the headphones I first took a listen on a some well used Skullcandy Crushers, and was happily surprised to hear that the bass was not overpowering or unbearable for most of the tracks, though the can's ability to make some of the quick thumps on the tracks "Polaroid" and "Smoke and Mirrors" made it a bit messy at times. On the other sets this sound was good, but I felt something lacking, most of the tracks where not recorded for the casual iPod quality in ear cans and lower tier on ear headphones as well, leaving out many of the intricate and soft details that Imagine Dragons sprinkled into their work. The two stereo systems worked very well, though I noticed I had a far more enjoyable time with the subwoofer tuned higher than I usually have it, and the music never felt too harsh or boomy during my listens.

     What had me anxious was the studio theater system, which was always quick to point out any flaws in the recording that could literally destroy the album. A perfect example would be Woodkid's debut album Iron, which has a fantastic quality of musical writing, but poor recording has left it hardly ever touched in the collection. Right off the bat the bass was solid and the mids where astounding, but I immediately noticed a distinct harshness with the mid highs and highs. It was disappointing at some points and nearly completely distracting at others. A few songs seemed to be recorded far superior to others though, and upon learning this we backed off of the volume a bit and then everything became crystal clear and truly something worth listening to in the "full experience." What was stunning was the incredible bass that was mastered into these, it was so incredible it was literally dimming the lights during "Gold" and "I'm So Sorry," but also really went beautifully with "Dreams," "It Comes Back To You," and "Trouble."

     All in all, this album deserves not only a listen, but a dedicated listen on some good speakers. I personally have connected with the lyrics and music more than any other previous Imagine Dragons songs, and look forward to their future. 

The Chicago Typewriter

     Beauty comes in all shapes and sizes. Sir Francis Bacon once said "There hath no beauty without some strangeness in its proportions."  Many artists have celebrated the ordinary, such as the iconic can of Cambell's tomato soups, or a simple bowl of fruit. Sometimes it is cars, or planes, such as the striking contours of a Lamborghini Aventador, or the space-age looking Concorde commercial jet.

     I would like to speak a little bit about a strange beauty. It is the M1921 Thompson sub-machine gun. It is one of the most iconic weapons ever made, possibly second only to the still used Avtomat Kalashnikova Model 1947, or more simply put, the AK-47, which has over 30 million units spread all over the world.

The 1928 model with the classic "gangster" forward grip and deadly (and heavy) 50 round drum magazine. 

     The "Trench Broom" or "Chicago Typewriter" was first envisioned as a semi-automatic rifle instead of an automatic sub-machine gun. The struggle was finding a safe way to disperse the gasses and recoil of the round without losing the power and potential to reload a fresh round into the chamber. In 1915, General Thompson discovered the John Bell Blish patent of such a system, and began work on his "auto rifle."

     Upon discovery that the system did not work well with rifle calibers, Thompson then imagined a "one man, handheld machine gun" that could be employed in the nasty business of clearing trenches (this was the time of World War One, which was mainly fought via trench warfare)

     In 1918 the design was mostly well rounded, and was released as the "Annihilator I" but WWI ended before any prototypes where shipped to Europe. In 1919 the name of the gun was changed to the "Thompson Sub-machine Gun," and was available to civilians. The 1921 version (and the militarized M1921) variants where more reliable and better preforming, which gained the popularity among the early gangsters and bootleggers who wanted to be able to "outrun and outgun" the police. It's fearsome and intensely modern looks where accentuated by the vertical foregrip and large drum magazine, combined with the ribbed barrel and the Cutts Compensator crowning the muzzle made for quite the intimidating weapon. It preformed as menacing as it looked, spitting out over 1,200 rounds per minute of deadly .45 ACP lead, feeding from a 20 round box magazine, or fifty round drum magazines.

The original concept of the Annihilator I, looking not too different from what the infamous Thompson that it would spawn only a few years later.

     The later M1928, M1, and M1A1 models where all further refined for military use, but did not keep the looks and firing rate that the classic M1921 model had. The M1A1 was in service until after Vietnam with the U.S. military, and saw service at the hands of other militaries as late as the early 2000s.

The military wartime M1A1 model of the Thompson, though less infamous in looks and nature still quite the force to be reckoned with and an instrument of success during the many wars of its use.

     While the military weapon saw far more use and production, there are few weapons as iconic and intimidating as the Model 1928 Thompson. It is this model that the names "Chicago Typewriter" and "Trench Broom" where born for, and the tool that was used in the infamous St. Valentine's Day Massacre to gun down 12 people. It was so infamous and instrumental in arming these rebels that the 1934 NFA act (which prohibited the use of machine guns by US civilians) was named the "Anti Tommy Gun Bill" by the news agencies covering its development.


But aside from its deadly history and infamy, what makes this gun a work of art? For me, it is the design of the weapon, utilizing the recoil of the cartridge to reprime and reload the weapon in a reliably quick way. At the time this weapon was fiercely modern, using more metal than wood and having a very unorthodox shape or using a "vertical pistol grip" at both the front and the back of the weapon, allowing it to be controlled easier and paving the way for today's modern "assault" style of rifles and sub-machine guns that we know today.

Merry Christmas ya filthy animal! And a happy New Year. -From the "Fallen Angel" movies featured in Home Alone.

Call of Duty Advanced Warfare featured a futuristic take on the Thompson design, though this design is not only outdated in the present day, but would be archaic in the future that the game takes place.

Enduring Battles

     The cold air whipped at me one last time as I stepped aboard the small plane. Excitement, combined with a very natural anxiety joined me as I started to search for my seat. Tucson, I thought to myself... I was really doing this, and now, there was no turning back.
     I found my seat in the second to last row, on the aisle seat. A sweet old woman sat on the window seat next to mine, and looked oddly at me in my freshly cleaned suit and tie, with a little black name tag hanging from my suit lapel. She didn't say anything immediately, however, and I packed my carry-on suitcase into the overhead compartment, sat down, and buckled my seat belt. I had carried a Book of Mormon with me and intended to give it out, but the prospect of actually talking to a real person and then giving them it seemed to be far more daunting than I imagined it to be. Out of pure nervousness I simply opened it and began to read when the lady politely tapped my shoulder.
     "Young man," she asked, "Why do you look so handsome for a plane ride? Do you have a job interview?"
     My instincts started to take over as I responded, and the nerves subsided, letting me do what I wanted to do. I told her I was going to help the people of Tucson get to know God better, through this book. I learned that she had just lost her brother to cancer, and was flying back home from the funeral. It was the perfect time to start to talk about the beautiful truth of Christ's Atonement for us when the flight attendant interrupted me and announced to buckle up and get ready for takeoff. When She ended  her memorized announcements, I eagerly turned back to this elderly woman to resume our conversation and then give her the Book of Mormon when I realized that she had picked up one of the magazines provided and was reading it. My fantasies and visions of heroically bestowing my testimony with this little, blue book to her where momentarily dashed, and defeated. I read the book again.
     The plane started to growl to life, and began to inch toward its runway. Little did I realize that my entire life was about to be abruptly changed forever. Only a few minutes had passed before the captain received confirmation to take off, and punched the accelerator forward, lurching the entire plane in an immediate and violent pace toward the end. It was this force, this incredibly inhumane speed that triggered something deep within my mind. Something that had not happened to me before.
     It was as if someone disconnected a couple of very important wires in my brain, which made computing things and thinking rationally and logically completely impossible. Hyperventilation was the first physical symptom, causing near asphyxiation and instantly forcing me into as close to a fetal position as the seat would allow. My mind then started to fire insane and incredibly forceful questions at me, about my mission and why I was going. I was questioning my every move, why I was going, what was I going to do, and how I was going to do it. It shattered every last piece of whatever comfort or hope that I had in one single blow.
     Then the nausea of the acceleration and rapid elevation changes even further clogged and clouded my completely broken brain, only making my flight instincts further ravage my decision to board this plane to destiny. To this day I have not had a panic attack so forceful, so violent, and so painful as that fateful flight to Tucson. With every foot that we gained closer to our hot desert city I paid for in sweat, tears, and memory loss of everything I was taught and everything I loved. I could not have been more panicked if the plane decided to stop and go in a free fall into the depths of the Grand Canyon. In fact I wished that I could somehow magically fall out of the plane, and I fantasized  about the sweet possibility of maybe having this pain taken away in the instantaneous death of the drop.
     After two hours of this thorough brainwashing, and destructive spree, the plane harshly smacked the pavement of the Tucson airport, and eventually came to a stop at the terminal. Nearly abandoning all of my luggage and other fellow missionaries, I raced out to greet our Mission President and his assistants, but in my head I was hoping that someone familiar would be there to help me.
     Alas, no familiarity and no comfort came from meeting them. If anything, it seemed to be even more stressful and scary. The rest of my mission would be in this "fight or flight" mentality; I was never able to get past it. I returned home almost a year later because of its effect on me, and even today I am still plagued with nightmares of that fateful flight.


     To me, this has been one of the hardest things I have ever faced in my life. I constantly feel like I have failed, like I am some kind of second class citizen, or like I do not belong here. I think we all feel like that at one time or another, and I cannot say that my struggles are any more or any less than anyone else's, but I do know that the support that I have gained from my family and friends is the reason I am still here and still trying. Keep strong and true, know that you are loved and cared for, and that even though things do not happen our way, they will still work out.

Guernicia

 Before World War II erupted, there was a large civil war going on in Spain.

It was a horrible conflict where thousands perished and the infamous Francisco Franco became Spain's ruthless dictator.

Particularly in the Basque country, the fighting was brutal, and it is estimated that over half of the casualties were innocent civilians. 

As the war progressed, the Nationalist forces gained an incredibly powerful alley, Nazi Germany, who gave them arms, men, cargo, planes, and bombs.

     The Nazi Luftwaffe, or Air force, was developing advanced tactics to not only cripple their enemies' war machines, but to completely break the will of the entire nation to fight. They reasoned that if civilians where intentionally targeted that it would break their morale and they would soon surrender. Thus, the "Terror Bombing" chapter was indoctrinated into the Blitzkrieg tactics. There was only one problem with this new way of waging war; It had yet to be tested.
     Germany was not yet pursuing its world dominance, and so it loaned some pilots, planes and bombs to the Nationalists of Spain to not only produce another fascist country but also to test this Terror Bombing to see how effective it could be. They graciously accepted by choosing the little town of Guernicia, in Basque country.
     while Guernicia was the unofficial Head-quarters for the Republican forces, it housed one of the smallest military forces in the area, and was mainly populated by civilians. It would be the perfect testing grounds for their tactics, and they shortly afterwords prepared the Heinkel  bomber planes.
     The bombs started to drop the afternoon of April 26, 1937. For nearly two hours, hundreds of bombs fell into the once peaceful town, killing hundreds (estimated to be in the thousands by some experts) of unarmed, non-military people. The destruction was horrific, and would serve to be a template of the rest of Europe in only a few more years.

The destruction of Guernicia. Less than five years later most of Europe would look eerily similar. Eyewitness reports where horrific, detailing the incredible destructiveness of the bombs.

     The news of this bombing started to fly across Europe, and reached the ears of a native of the Basque country who was staying in Paris. Pablo Picasso, the famous cubist painter was stunned to hear about such a brutal attack on defenseless people, and not a month later had started one of his most famous paintings ever, in disgust about the massacre. He finished the 25 foot long, 11 foot high painting in less than a month, titling it Guernicia.


     Picasso used only black and white paints to depict the horrors of the bombing, giving it an ethereal contrast and making it feel like a photograph (which at the time were primarily monochromatic). Using his trademark cubism Picasso aimed to not only add complete confusion to the piece but also tell the tale from multiple angles.
     It should be noted that there are also some symbolism with all of the animals (namely the horse and the bull) but that is something that the individual should explore themselves.
     This is one of my absolute favorite paintings, and I am not entirely sure why. I remember reading in one of my Battle encyclopedia books as a young teenager and coming across a picture of this. The description talked about how people react and depict war in so many diverse ways, from such a striking, abstract, and unnatural painting like this to the triumphant horse riding victory of the Romantics. I have always been fascinated with conflicts like these, and to get a painting that depicts to me the chaos of what this new kind of war must be like captures my interest and emotions. What it must have felt like to be those poor citizens, having your entire world on fire and exploding, with nothing but the screams of your friends, neighbors and family mixed with the mechanical drone of the heartless, faceless planes above to hear. What would I do in such a horrific situation? Where do you begin in cleaning up and trying to repair all of this?
     On my last note of this painting, I cannot pretend that I understand Picasso's Cubism, and certainly not appreciate it the way that it is intended to, but I can appreciate the work that he has put into it, as well as the thought and the striking image itself that brings to my mind so many emotions and even memories. I like to think that Picasso would be proud that his painting has touched someone who previously didn't even like the movement.

To Write A Poem

To Write A Poem

     There are many times in life when the world presses down upon us and the feeling of Atlas, all alone and holding such a incomprehensible weight, is adopted by our feeble minds. It is a romantic notion that many of our heads love to entertain, though it is one that is rarely true for most of us. As the wise words of Jon Donne recall, no man is an island, yet we still isolate ourselves from the love and care from those that love us, and indeed we create many of our own nightmares in that regard. I suppose that is what makes depression so incredibly disheartening, because it is not so much a negative world seeping into an innocent soul but rather a negative mind feeding a fearing soul. We discredit those that love us because we do not love ourselves, and how can anyone deal with that? We feel that we are a burden, a mask that so quickly lifts to reveal nothing more than pain and future regret.
     And yet, it is so much more than just that... Like any true emotion, no amount of elaborate language can satisfy the simply complex depth. Let me try though.

When decisions must be made

Often our hearts turn heavy,

Entrenched with man-made levees

     It was a cool day, which was typical for New Mexico at this time of year, almost like it was not able to decide what it wanted to be, a cooling rainy shadow, or a sweaty hot mess. The atmospheric ambivalence played to my heart though, and as our little Jeep rambled along the dusty dead road, I felt my fears swell up again. The dirt's earthen hues combined with the dry grey sky seemed to adopt my melancholy, and the Jeep's inadequate engine was quiet enough that the whole scene seemed like a morbid montage played to the tune of death itself. And yet, I mused to myself, here I am, as alive as ever.
     The past few days had been some of the worst in my life. Even retrospectively, I still have nightmares and still regret those days with a sense of guilt that only the Lord could ever hope to relieve. I had been misunderstood, mistaken, and taken advantage of by others as well as myself. I had been stripped of everything I thought I loved and cared for, and everyone seemed so quick to continue the hate, myself, most of all.
     My companion knew all too well that there was nothing to be said at this time. While he was more than supportive, without the exonerating diagnosis I would receive much later, there was no way of understanding the situation. It was like looking for the final puzzle piece when the manufacture agonizingly forgot to include it with the others. Hope, as it seemed, had released its final petal and only working with blindness was left to continue.
     While he worked hard to be accommodating, understanding, and even content with the situation, I could not be. I had been stripped clean of all preconceived notions of who I was and what I was doing here, and there was not a minute that ticked by that those pervasive thoughts assaulted my already fragile mind. Insanity was at its peak, with all sorts of absurd philosophies and ideas starting to swirl around me, until I could no longer discern them from the truths I was sure of only weeks ago.

These scenes so quickly I can recall,

Hauntingly clear and vivid

Painfully reminding me of how hard I did fall

And how the trauma bruised my heart livid

     Quickly after the worst episode of the complete abandonment of my senses (because of my continuing and untreated depression and anxiety), my Mission President gave me what we both thought must be the answer to this issue, simply do not worry about myself, but get lost in the service of others. The doctrine had been drilled into me for all of my entire life, but never had it struck a cord so harmoniously in me that I thought that this must be what it was referring to. For a brief moment, my identity crisis seemed to be averted, cured, and completed, leaving me to go to work yet again.
     It seemed that, for the following few days President was right; I was indeed making leaps of progress and was functioning nearly to the degree that I thought I would be, right up to the minute it all collapsed yet again.
     We where in the hospital visiting a good less active member. The room was what I thought every hospital room was like, an ironic place that had the power to sustain and save lives, yet was devoid and sanitized of any character and soul itself. The whir of pumps and the hum of machines dominated this sterile habitat, and always it made me unnaturally uncomfortable. Maybe it was the help of the room's infertile and aseptic atmosphere that helped push me beyond the brink; Maybe it was the question that this inquiring man asked me. Either way, after hearing about his condition (which was a decidedly uneasy stability) he turned to me specifically and asked if I could give him a blessing of comfort and peace.
     The irony of the cold, calculated room started to immediately deafen me, and for what must have been multiple eternities I was engulfed in such a fiery pit of doubt and hate that I could not see what was in front of me. The small and overworked bottle imprisoning all of my fears, doubts, cynics, and paranoia burst into oblivion as they rioted back up to their rightful spot, in the forefront of my thought's focus. While even now, over a year after it has happened, I can scarcely recall the details with any of the vivid accuracy; I was at a complete loss of what on earth had just happened at the time. Tears uncontrollably streamed down my cheeks as I chocked on my words, finally having to shake my head a very solemn and weighted "no." Today this is probably the single worst moment of my life, not only the loss of my testimony at the time, but the failure to help another keep his. After another couple eternities of the most hellishly heavy silence, I found the words to B.S. my way out of the situation and quickly closed our eternally brief meeting.
     I have often reflected on this moment, naturally being the time when I could not be any less sure of what I knew and how I knew it. Today I can (to a reasonable extent) illustrate this with Descartes's introduction to Meditation I, where he admits that he has no idea how he knows anything and how he could know if any of it was possibly true. Again though, at the time I could not explain what had happened and what I was feeling. It was a truly out of body experience for me. I had no idea who I was, what I was to do with myself and what was important to me. I was so apathetic that it felt like I was viewing myself from the third person. This sounds dramatic (even by my standards) but it is exactly what I was feeling. There was no outlets I had discovered to safely and productively bleed and release the tension. When I was trying to work harder after my Mission President's counsel, I was not taking my pains and stresses to the Lord while I was trying to help others, I had kept them to myself to carry as well as the burdens of others. It was only a matter of time before I collapsed from the near infinite load.

Further and further

This little road descends

Darker and darker

'Till my hope seems to end

     This was my Atlas moment, where I was burdened with what seemed to be my entire world, no help, just criticisms all around. I had effectively completely isolated and alienated myself from even my own peers. I had defeated myself, and the ache of failure came upon me yet again. The Jeep was heading home after a long day of work, and the failures squeezed every bit of interest and love right out of me.
     The sun had started setting when we arrived back at our humble apartment. Darkness began to grow from the far east bends of the sky, slowly though consistently defeating the fragile last line of sunlight. Our apartment was also dark, and the few lights inside where quite inadequate with warming up the place. My companion and I bowed down into a kneel and prayed, planned and then set off to get ready for bed. Instead of slumping onto my mattress though, I went to my desk and sat, knowing that I could not go to sleep. Truly I had no idea of what I wanted in this mission, or even in this life anymore, but I knew that I could fight these feelings. I just needed the right outlet.
     My desk was cluttered with all sorts of my stuff, so I started to look through it, trying to find something that could explain me, and give words to my feelings. I opened up my scriptures, and verse after verse I felt no comfort, connected with nothing said, and discouraged I put them under my desk and began looking again. After clearing some missionary paperwork, I noticed my journal under all the clutter. Curiously I picked up the small, leather bound book and flipped through its pages. All of the passages were rather lifeless, dull, and purely explanations for what happened that day. I vocally snorted at my past self's writings, was this who I was? Day after day of nothing else but the same thing? Soon though I saw the days start to grow shorter in description, and many days were not accounted for at all before I finally stumbled upon a fresh, blank page.
     I can write better than that, I told myself. Gripping my pen I started to write. In my hilariously childish handwriting, I began by saying who I was and what I knew. I started to try to talk about my fears and pains, my goals and aspirations, and my dreams. When what must have been an hour had passed I was finished. I had put all that I thought I could possibly put into this, and was eager to read the results.
     With each word read, and each paragraph digested, my smile started to fade. I did not make it all the way through.

Back in my burnt down remains,

The dregs of my soul begs and pleads

Confined in this misery, Though with hope to evade

My hell seems content to be

     Though it was not poorly written, it had no weight to it. It was all just a story, a retelling of events and thoughts. A flat, emotionless, indifferent and cold work that did more harm than justice to my broken self. Even through my rage it seemed to make sense, one cannot try to describe the hopelessness of a situation by merely writing what happened and expect to feel it. No, I needed something more powerful. I resolved to abandon all physical context to get a pure sight of what I was feeling. It would be a journal for the mind, I mused to myself as I again began writing.

     It was not too much later when I decided to take a look at what I had created. Again, My hopeful ambitions, like a light from a flare, quickly faded before being completely extinguished. It had made even less sense in reality, not only denying me something to connect to and comfort myself with, but also mocking my struggle. Anger flared as I mercilessly ripped the page out and threw it as hard as I could away from me. The paper seemed determined in its campaign to humiliate me however, as it did not soar across the apartment but instead whimsically and almost calmly flipped around my airspace, again proving I had no control and no idea.

     It was enough for me. I rested my head against my desk, accepting my loss. Tears unwillingly strained from my eyes as I sat there alone. After five or so minutes of this, I sat up, wiped my tear stained face and looked down at what was left of my violently violated journal. Again, through some of the rough rips of the previous attempt I saw a white blank page, almost begging me to try just one more time.
     Hesitantly I picked up my pen, and wrote a simple sentence. It was just a statement, nothing elaborate, just a plain, crafted sentence. Again, I wrote another sentence to follow up the first one, still as spartan. Carefully I inspected the two, and found something interesting; I had accidentally rhymed the two, and noticed they flowed better. In fact, it kind of stirred something in me, like this elementary literary device had somehow sparked a kind of emotion inside me. Intrigued, I abandoned the novel narrative and instead tried my hand at poetry. I had never been a huge fan of poetry; I had tried it a few times as a child but never really found much interest in it before. Now though, it seemed very different.
     I wrote a simple A-A, B-B form, only writing what came to my mind. It was quick, and even fun. It took only a couple seconds for me to think of words that rhymed while still staying true to what I was feeling, and the rest was just simply writing it down. 

     I knew exactly when I was finished, because I said what I was feeling. I looked over it, soaking in each word and each line, and for the first time in months, I felt... understood. It took me by such surprise and force that I found myself literally crying at my desk. Part of me was just so impressed that a simple rhythm and rhyme could trigger such a meaningful response, and the other part of me was nearly ashamed that it was so. All of the time I had been praying and pleading to not only my Heavenly Father, but also my mission president, companions, and family back home had not yielded half of the results that this stupid piece of paper with ink on it seemed to. It was a rudimentary poem, primary by nature and so poorly written that I dare not share it, but there it was, the painting of my despair, my hope, and my dreams, both broken yet at the same time alive and well. At this time even music could not hold a candle to this intrinsic poem of mine, partly because I could not listen to the music that probably would have. That was acceptable to me, however, because I had found something new to work on and enjoy. I had written a poem.

Personal Insights

     One might say that this was a proof then that God could not exist. He did not answer me when I had asked Him, even begged for an answer, right? And yet I feel so strongly the opposite, that this was God's way of showing me how to help myself out. This was the beginning of my new testimony, a stronger, more heavily wailed upon armor that had stood the test of time and will continue onward. It is battle hardened and has many cracks in it, but still provides just enough of the strength required to get the job done.

     Another argument that could arise is the fact that despite me finding poetry, I still went home early, and even attempted to take my own life before that. Surely these would not have happened had the Lord taken away my pains and sorrows, or given me a silver bullet to defeat them all, and yet I am still inclined to disagree. You see, if I had not found poetry, I would have killed myself months before. God knew it would be a close call, but He also knew that if I chose to that I would come out with the tools necessary for my life. It was not a gamble on His part so much as it was on mine, I was the one with the choice, I decided (with a lot of help) that ultimately I did not want to die and leave behind a legacy of terrible pain. I had felt that before, and it was not a warm and welcoming feeling. He knew that I would come home early because He had only called me for 11 months. It is still hard for me to speak on, and you better believe that putting this into writing is no easy task (I have been writing this post for well over a month now) but I know that one day it will make sense. Until then I have my poetry, blog, friends, school, work, and family to help me out.