Music Snobbary

I love music. Let me rephrase that, I love good music.

I have been called a music snob, I've been called a hipster (albeit by my self), I have also been called a music guru, and told I have a good taste in music. Music is important to me, and I take it very seriously.

They say that smell is the sense most strongly tied to a person's memory. For me music very strongly tied to my memories. Listening to certain music can bring back strong memories of experiences or certain times in my life. When I listen to the album About Today by Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti I am instantly reminded of driving around Atlanta at night during the fall. When I listen to Minus the Bear I feel like I'm back on the beach. Some music reminds me of high school, some of college. Music I listened to during good times and music I listened to during low times. The song Monsters by Band of Horses will forever be my favorite song because of the close emotional bond I felt to it. The song basically talks about how we have problems, and there are always going to be awful people, and how we try to hide from them. There is a line in the song that says, "Though, to say we've got much hope; if I am lost its only for a little while" its so optimistic in the face of people constantly trying to bring us down. It also helps that its a beautiful song too. I still tear up sometimes when I listen to it.

The point is that music moves us. We relate to lyrics, rhythm and melody. We can connect to artists and feel a kinship to them, all based on their music. These bands become extensions to ourselves, and can be how we express ourselves. We feel loyalty to our bands, and defend them. And if you have ever been told you are a music snob, or even had a favorite indie band, you might have experienced the agony of what its like when your band betrays you...by going mainstream.

It sounds silly, but if you are a music fan it can kind of feel like a betrayal when your band finds mainstream success. I have been chastised for feeling this way numerous times. Why does it bother us so much to hear our beloved band on the radio? I can't speak for everyone but for me its because of a couple of reasons.

1. It changes the band. There have been several indie artists whose music became much more accessible and less adventurous.
2. The band doesn't mean as much to the new found "fans." Your favorite band is like you childhood best friend who just ping-pong table and suddenly has a new found popularity. These new fans are quick to drop your band just as your best friend's popularity is sure to wane when someone in the neighborhood gets a pool table.

I'm not saying that just because you hear your favorite band's song on the radio that they've completely gone "mainstream" just look at Modest Mouse and Radiohead they have each had major hits and it hasn't changed their music.

I turn on the radio today and at any moment can hear bands that I like, that started out as Indie bands, and I start to worry. What if my worry is all in vain? What if the music industry is finally starting to have higher standards. I mean after all, Arcade Fire won a Grammy and Bon Iver was nominated. Maybe we have Internet Radio services to thank for this shift in demand for better music, now that broadcast radio stations are no longer our only source for new music.

No matter what your opinion on music is, I think we can all agree that we are glad Nickelback's popularity is dropping.

Golden Age of Television or My Dream Job

As I have mentioned, and will probably mention many more times, my aspirations are to be a professional writer. I would love to write novels, I would love a job as a copywriter, or an essayist that writes thought provoking pieces, however my highest aspirations, my dream job, would be to a screenwriter for a television show. I know what you are thinking, and yes I do indeed reach for the stars. 

I'm not really that great at small talk, in fact it's a small wonder that I am not legally required to make that disclaimer upon introducing myself to new people. As far as societal rules for talking to someone new, the first question after asking someone their name is to ask them what they do. For a long time I have not really had a good answer to give. "Oh I work at GNC" or "I'm a bank teller" even now, I have a pretty interesting job as a Youth Care Specialist at a residential foster home, however I still always feel the need to include the fact that my real aspirations lie as a writer. Those in which I converse with are usually more well-versed in the art of small talk and ask the next logical question, "what do you want to write?" to which I generally respond, "Anything. Books, blogs, copywriting, and so on, but really I would love to be a writer for a TV sitcom." For whatever reason that generally gets a laugh, and now as I reflect on these conversations I should probably respond to their laughter by telling them that I should use that line sometime in a script. 

Why do people respond with laughter when I tell them I'd love to write for a television show? I know I am not the first to say this, but we truly in a golden age of television. There are so many brilliant television shows on the air today. HBO and Showtime have blazed the trail with shows like The Sopranos, Game of Thrones, Dexter, Boardwalk Empire, The Newsroom, Bored to Death, and now networks like AMC, FX, and more recently Netflix have followed suit with Mad Men, Walking Dead, Breaking Bad, Damages, Sons of Anarchy, and House of Cards. Even half hour comedies are breaking new ground with Parks and Recreation, Modern Family, Community, 30 Rock, The Office, Arrested Development, and so on. 

The truth is, television is becoming a force to be reckoned with in the entertainment industry. For a long time there has been a stigma for "top tier" actors to do television. Alec Baldwin made jokes about it on 30 Rock (in 30 Rock made this joke several times, even with a cameo from Tom Hanks), David Cross had a joke about it on Arrested development. It has been seen as a step down for an actor to do television. I read an article yesterday that said that Steven Spielberg is predicting the "implosion" of the film industry. In the article they cited George Lucas saying that with the rising costs of producing and marketing films with the pressure to make them accessible for the masses is producing highly publicized  flops and unoriginal concepts/remakes/sequels while television is creating more ambitious shows for certain niches of audiences. Spielberg said that the more original and adventurous idea for movies are taking their pitches to television studios. People are now opting to stay home and binge watch original serial television shows than go to the movies to see something something safe and predictable. 

I love the long form story telling that comes with television. Consider a television show as a novel whereas a movie is just a short story. Television is becoming so much more than just fodder for the water cooler the following day. Right now on Facebook, Buzzfeed and other sites there are far more conversations about people's favorite television characters than there are movie characters. Why is that? Because there is more time and space to develop your characters, make them relatable and lovable, or vile and complex. When you write a television show, you have the ability and opportunity to create characters that people care about, can relate to and connect with. When you write a television show you have the ability to look more closely into everyday life and show the beauty in the little things without feeling the pressure to make everything on a grand scale. For the majority of people, life is lived in between the stories we tell, and that in itself is a story worth telling.

Plus, who wouldn't want to get paid to sit in a room and come up with jokes all day?

Antique shop (or Thrift Shop to be more topical)

I love where I live. 

My wife and I live in a loft in a community called Commercial Street in Springfield Missouri. It sits along the Frisco Railroad and once upon a time was a transportation and cultural hub in Springfield. It was home to theaters, saloons, factories, elegant hotels, and restaurants. As time went on, as it often seems to do, businesses like Wal-Mart, shopping malls, and large chain restaurants moved into town forcing the local businesses to close their doors, as is often the case. Commercial Street began to decay. From what I am told, Commercial Street became a very unsavory place to visit. And, as many cities are starting to do, a revitalization has begun to bring life and commerce back to downtown urban areas.  Slowly but surely, Commercial street is beginning to rebrand itself as a premier place to live, work, and play. 

As far as restaurants are concerned, we are developing into an international culinary hub. I live across from my favorite coffee shop and cafe called Big Mammas (they have soups and specialty grilled cheese sandwiches that will forever change your opinion on soups and sandwiches) down the road is a Springfield mainstay in Pizza House, a Lebanese place opened up a few months ago, The Artisan Oven opened below me only last month (their bread pudding was suburb), and here in a few short weeks a Peruvian place is opening up on the corner. We even have a local brewery and world renowned chocolate factory.

Outside of restaurants though, it seems that the only store fronts you will find that are not vacant are that of antique shops and thrift stores. I love these shops. The owners are some of the nicest people you will ever meet, some of whom even donated or loaned items to decorate my wife and I's vintage themed wedding. But have you ever stopped to realize the sad irony of an antique shop or a thrift store? 

I know these stores have found a new life since shows like Antique Road show, DIY television, and songs like Macklemore's "Thrift Shop" but really take time to consider the tragedy of the items in this store, or even the fact that these stores have to exist. 

Growing up in Kansas and now residing in Missouri, its not hard to drive through all these small towns that, at one time, used to be thriving communities, to see them reduced to next to nothing. When I was in college there used to be this particular route that I would travel on between my parent's home and the campus that would go through the Flint Hills, that was absolutely gorgeous. On that two and a half hour drive there were approximately towns I would drive through, and three of them are nearly run down. At one point in time, these locations were deemed a great place to live, new houses being built all the time, and I'm sure that each one of those families would never dare think that one day the place they call home, a place where under layers of paint they would find the marks of their children's heights on the wall, is now teetering upon the brink of being condemned. The roof they hung Christmas lights on near crumbling, and the porch and yard they watched their children play in is now littered with broken appliances and overgrown grass. 

It never fails that in each of these small towns there is always an antique shop, selling the last great treasures of these once great towns. Towns like Cottonwood Falls and Matfield Green have been reduced to mile markers and places for weather people to point to on a map for a reference of a storms proximity to larger towns. Yet antique stores persist in these towns, to sell the possessions that were once the envy of the entire community. 

These are objects that people loved, envied, even cherished, things that people saved up money for, things that people designed and built in a factory or by hand, and now they reside, forgotten in a shop, collecting dust. 

Take time to consider, the clothes you are wearing in this instant, the chair you are sitting in, the art on your wall, will either one day be thrown away/destroyed, end up in an antique/thrift shop, or if you're lucky passed down to remain loved and cherished. I know I for one can only hope that if my belongings are not passed on to friends and loved ones that establishments such as antique shops and thrift stores can find them homes where they can find further use. 

Another tragedy lies in the fact that these stores all over the country are closing left and right, with consumers choosing to to consume newer items. I'm guilty of it. It's a vicious cycle. Our precious new items we are so desperate to purchase and consume will also one day face the same problem. 

And so it is in considering the tragic and ironic nature of these store do we realize the futility of our possessions. They are simply objects we own for just a small window of time. The objects we love, we will grow to hate. 

Let us learn contentment. 

[insert cliche post title such as: Cameron Unfiltered or Cameron 2.0]

I realize that I have said in previous entries that this blog would be dedicated to my short stories, however I would like to amend that by saying that this blog, much like the majority of blogs in existence, shall be a vehicle in which I will convey my thoughts, which admittedly is scary, both for myself and for the reader.

Yesterday I began watching a television show called The Newsroom, which is an excellent program, one you should watch however I will not get into that right now. The basic premise of the show is that the main character, Will McAvoy (played by Jeff Daniels) is a very popular TV newscaster for cable news network, whom is recently told that he is journalistic equivalent to Jay Leno, people watch him because he does not bother them. The series basically opens with Will having a very public meltdown at a college forum he is speaking at. Without giving anything away, his programing directer basically sees a glimmer of potential of the great broadcaster Will could become and hires a new Executive Producer to bring the best out of him, in which she effectively does. Like I said, it's a great program, you should watch it. One of my favorite scenes in the show (of all 10 episodes in its vast history) is when Will is engaging with a woman who works for a gossip magazine who is trying to smear Will and his EP. Will gives a rousing speech about he and his crew are true journalists, and she should, essentially. mind her own business. She of course, in a futile attempt to save face, makes some snide remark about said rousing speech and says he will never win, to which he responds, "Eh, I don't care, I'm just some middle-aged man who never lived up to his potential, you don't want to be on the wrong end of me if I ever do."

Don't you just love it when a line from a book or a movie or song or even a TV show just resonates with you on such a deep and profound level? Given, I am in no way a middle-aged man, if anything I am twenty years Will McAvoy's junior, but regardless that line resonated with me. For my adult life (all ten years of it) it would seem that I have lead a very safe life. Much like Will McAvoy and Jay Leno, I live my life in a way so as not to bother people. I keep my views on my personal politics and religion very much private, at least in the blogosphere, and I have refrained from really publishing my writing, whether fictional or memoirs, away from the public eye (or if I'm being completely honest away from even being recorded) for the fear that it would not be good, or that it will bother people, challenge their thinking, or that I will be labeled ignorant and naive.

Ever since high school I have known that I have a talent for writing (in fact those that know me can attest that I communicate far better in writing than I do verbally). I have, on several occasions, received papers back from teachers and professors with notes saying they would like signed copies of my first book (Mr. Belsan, if you are reading this, I vividly remember you writing this on my senior paper, to which I will keep my promise). Since then I have aspired myself to become a professional writer. I still hold fast to ambitions of writing books and perhaps even a screenplay, however sadly, those dreams have been stunted by a conversation I had with a "friend while" while I was in college. I was talking with him about how I wanted to write a book, and his words to me were, and I quote, "What could you possibly have to write about?" I can see now that he was just a pretentious jerk (feel free to add in your own expletive if that helps).

The years following that conversation, those words have haunted me on a subconscious level. What on earth could I have to say that hasn't already been said? Then I did research into the costs of submitting manuscripts into publishers for them to even read it, without the promise of publication, and I became discouraged even further. From that point, I subconsciously assumed the role of Jay Leno, not just in my writing, but also in all other areas of my life. I was just trying to make my way through the world without bothering anybody. I kept my ambitions, stories, and thoughts to myself... and then I watched The Newsroom.

I may just be twenty-something who hasn't reached my full potential, but to that pretentious jerk (again feel free to reinsert your previous expletive. Just like a mad-lib!): well, I won't say something as threatening as Will McAvoy did, but still, I'm about to prove you wrong.

How dare anyone tell someone that another human being doesn't have a story to tell? That their voice is any less valid just because they have not acquired the proper degree, or lived seemingly exciting adventures. My stories and experiences may not make me a sought after dinner guest, but that does not mean that my voice or anyone else who has ever tread this great earth, does not have a story worth telling, worth listening to.

It is time that I stop wandering though life afraid of bothering people with what I have to say.

What if what I have to say is what millions of people have been dying to say but have not been able to articulate? What if what I have to say can resonate with someone as much as the words of Aaron Sorkin through Will McAvoy resonated with me. I'm not saying that my words are profound and earth shattering, but I have a voice and it is my right to be heard.

Welcome to Cameron Writes Stuff Down 2.0


(I realize how cheesy and overused that last line is, and I don't care.)

Commandeer

David glanced at his speedometer as he was approaching speeds well above the posted speed limit; he tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He did not know where he was going, but he knew he could not spend another moment here, in this town. He smiled as his foot pressed further on the accelerator, and his past shrunk in the rearview mirror.

His reverie was interrupted by a sea of red and blue lights speeding up behind him.

Dang it! He thought. This was the last thing he needed. He needed to put as much distance between him and his former life as possible. David pulled over only to find that the string of police cars flew past him. He sat there, staring at his steering wheel, trying to regain his composure.

Thump!! Thump!!

David was startled as a man slid across the hood of his car flashing a badge. The man opened the driver's side door. "I'm a police officer, I need to commandeer this vehicle! NOW!"

David unbuckled his seatbelt, looking at his packed suitcase in the back seat. "Can I at least grab my suitcase?"

"There is no time!" The man climbed into the driver's seat. "This vehicle will be returned to you soon!"

David stood on the shoulder watching the police officer take off with his vehicle, which contained his suitcase. He patted his pockets, and let out a loud groan. His wallet and cell phone were still in the passenger seat. David screamed in frustration. How can this be happening, I didn't even think this was legal outside of the movies! he thought as he paced up and down the shoulder of the highway, kicking discarded waste along the side of the road. Eventually, David sat down to wait. Seriously how long can a car chase take? He should be back any time with my car. There were at least five other police cars, surely they won't need mine.

David glanced at his watch, rush hour traffic would begin soon, and so the dilemma of hitch-hiking or waiting for his car to be returned arose. He looked towards the city he vowed to never return to, his eyes followed the cars racing towards him and then watched them disappear into the horizon, and he glanced at the woods beside him. The logical choice would be to stay put in one place for the police to find him, yet there was something so very appealing about running off in the woods, fending for himself and starting over. David put his hand in his pocket and pulled out his pocket-knife. I could do this he thought. I could live in the woods. Before he knew it his feet started to move towards the woods, away from the sounds of now busy highway, away from the city. As soon as his feet entered the tree line a sense of panic started to rise within him. He made it about twenty yards in before he could take it no longer, he collapsed to his knees and began to weep.

If David was being truly honest with himself--and at this point, honesty with himself was his sole possession, besides his pocket knife--he knew what he had to do. David must have sat there on his knees for at least an hour before he regained enough composure to open his eyes and survey the woods that beared witness to his breakdown. He now viewed each excuse he fabricated with the same sense of absurdity that a live studio audience views the antics of the buffoon character on a sitcom from the 80's, but he still persisted in concocting these excuses in hopes to feel some sort of comfort or consolation.

Without realizing it, David's thoughts has drifted from the shores of assigning blame to the violent seas of self introspection. How did this even happen he thought, suddenly feeling even more like a character in a sitcom. He viciously shook his head trying to get the cheesy notion out of his head, but no amount of denial or diversion can change the circumstances that face him. Much like the trees that surround him, the facts remain. It does not matter how far he runs, or how many times he runs. It won't matter how many times he reinvents himself. These trees will remain long after he leaves, no matter whether he travels north or south on this highway. The lives he effected remain effected, positively or negatively, regardless of his actions from here on out, his bridges remain burnt, but the choice now rests on him as to whether he leaves the ash and ruble for others to clean up and pray to God he does not burn any more, or return to the divide and sift through the debris and rebuild the bridge stronger. Closing his eyes does not clear the trees, running away does not bring forgiveness, nor negate the need for it. Closing your eyes or running away will only clear the way for a life of lies, lying to himself that the trees do not exist, that he did not bring pain to others, and lying to others, that he is indeed a good and noble man.

David stood up, grimacing at the stiffness in his knees, brushing the leaves and dirt off of his jeans, as he walked back towards the highway, contemplating whether this will make him a weaker man. Once he reached the shoulder, near where he was thrown out of his own vehicle, he sat down in the grass and waited patiently for the return of his vehicle. Of all the cars on the road, they had to commandeer mine.

Resurrection and New Life (originally written 4/5/12)

When you feel the cold metal restraints click around your wrist, regret begins to settle in for its long stay. When you see the devastated, utterly confused glance of the child you have failed, over his shoulder as he is carried out of the courthouse, by a stranger appointed by the state with rehearsed sympathy, you are haunted by the ever-increasing list of your short comings with it’s never ending string of implications and tears that will never dry. 

     It has been 15 years, but still, I cannot go out into the city without the fear of running into my son, and the shame I’d feel if he recognized me, the blame and anger I’d see in his eyes.  As awful as it sounds, I can't even remember his birthday. What kind of father am I? Well, according to the state, I'm not a father, I gave up that right the moment I gave into my addictions and urges. How foolish I was, how self-centered.  I once had such promise, such potential. I graduated high school with a 3.9 GPA, received a scholarship to Boston College, and then my life began to unravel. College began to change me, power started to drive me, control steered me, and the drugs consumed me. I am not proud of the way I treated his mother, the substances I put in my body, or the person I became, but when you suddenly lose everything you've had in life, no matter how much or little they meant to you at the time, you begin to reevaluate the life you choose to live. When you are in jail, you are positively made of time, time in which you have to sit with the choices you made, and time to figure out what you will do differently when you get out. 

    After my 12 month stay at rock bottom I moved out of the city to a small coastal town, stripped of my potential, scarred by my mistakes, and I took to fishing.  I was determined to not repeat my mistakes, so I began going to therapy, where I learned I can't control what had happened, only what will happen. And so I was again changed, though this time by the passing years, and this time for the better. Somewhere along the way I met a girl that could not only look past who I once was, but by the grace of God could love me for who I am. My wife and I have been married for ten years, and not a day goes by that I am not on my knees praying to God that I don't fall back into the man I once was.  

    Sometimes when I am alone out on the boat fishing, I can't keep from reliving that day in the court room. No matter how hard I close my eyes or how hard I grit my teeth I can't get the look on my son's face as he was carried out of that courtroom. Those days, I come home and I can't even look My wife in the eye.  I know she wants so badly to have children, but I can't help feeling like I don't deserve a second chance to be a father again. I want so badly not to shut her out in those times, but these days it is the one thing I cannot control.  

    On boat this morning, I begin to picture the scene in the courtroom, and was filled with so much regret, such a sense of guilt and shame about what Tom's life must have become, scared that he would follow in my foot steps.  I turned the boat towards the shore, in search of a distraction. I got in my pick up truck and drove to the general store to buy a copy of today's Boston Globe and a coffee. I sat down and flipped to the sports page to read about the Red Sox when I saw it. A face time has aged, brought to maturity, a face so familiar. I saw my son.

    In a quarter page spread, was a story about a high school baseball team winning the state championship, with a large picture of him being lifted up by his teammates. Arms raised in the air in triumph the look on his face was not of resentment or anger, but that of joy, of contentment, with that smile he has had since the days when I was his father. Through tear filled eyes, I read the story on the page held by my trembling hands. He had hit a walk-off triple to win the championship. The story went on to tell of all the heroics he did both on the field and off, of how involved he is in his school and community.

    I tore the story off of the page, and folded it gently and placed it in my wallet, and threw the rest of the paper away, and ran towards my truck. I sat in the driver seat, holding my keys, thanking God for the good man he had become. I turn the key and drive home instead of back to the docks, to find My wife's car in the driveway. I walk into my house to find her pacing our living room, a concealed smile on her face. Had she seen the story? How could she even know that was my ?

    "I have great news!" I said walking up to her, placing my arms around her.

    She smiled, pressing her hands to her mouth, "So do I!" she manages to say through her excitement, returning her hands to her mouth. She sits down on the couch. "You first!"

    "Well I went to the general store today to read the paper and have a coffee, and right there in the sports--" I began to get choked up. I cleared my throat and continued. "In the sports page I saw this." I took the page out of my wallet and handed it to her.

    "What is this?"

    "This, is my son, or was my son." I wiped tears from my eyes, "His team won the state championship.  Look how happy he looks! The story tells all about how he helped his team win, and how active he is in the community... He's not-- He didn't turn out like me.  He's not resentful, he has turned into a fine young man... I didn't--" I clear my throat again, "I didn't ruin his life."

    "Oh honey, that's-- That's so wonderful!" She wraps her arms around me, and I bury my eyes into her shoulder, to dry off all my tears. 

    "So, what's your news?" I ask, as she grabs my hands.

    "I'm pregnant!"

    My hands raise to my hands to my brow, and a smile fills my face.

    That night, after a dinner consisting of--well we were so excited, I can't exactly tell you what we had--We went to the beach to walk along the shore. All I could think about was how I get a second chance of being a father, a chance to do things different. We walk hand in hand, talking about our hopes and dreams for this new life we are bringing into this world, as the waves wash over our feet, wiping away all of my guilt and shame.

Advent of a Family (written 12/16/12)

 Through the cloud of his rapid breathing in the cold December air, Rusty stared out, through the woods he is momentarily nestled in, at the Christmas lights that illuminate the small town square. It’s not supposed to be like this, Rusty thought. After catching his breath, he looked around him to make sure he was not being followed and set out in search of a home traced with a glow of the Christmas lights, and a tree proudly displayed in the front window. If they can’t find me a family for Christmas, I’ll do it myself.It was a rather desperate attempt, but in the mind of an eleven year old, what other hope did he have?

      Rusty has lived nearly all of his life in the margins, as an asterisk. Deprived of the most rudimentary necessities that modern society assumes an infant should receive, such as care, love, and affection. Upon the discovery of the depth of this child's depravity, the state finally intervened, and in the absence or apathy of the next of kin, he was placed into the system. As time passed and Rusty developed from an infant to a toddler, so he was passed from family to family. Finally, at the age of six a young couple materialized and choose to adopt this young child with developmental deficiencies  and developing anger and rage issues. For the first time in his young life, Rusty felt loved. The anger was still deeply ingrained within Rusty, and despite his rage and problems in school, their love remained unconditional, though at the cost of this young couple's marital bond. The couple split up and Rusty went to live with his adoptive father. As time continued on its steady course, Rusty grew into a sweet, polite, and kind boy, though the anger still remained nestled deep within. Rusty continued to have his issues in school, and the father's mind often wandered into thoughts of how long his love for Rusty could remain unconditional, and it took a toll on the father's health. Rusty took the unexpected death of his father especially hard. In Rusty's limited time on earth, this man was the only person who stood by his side and loved him, despite his anger problems, though through Rusty's limited I.Q. all he saw was that his daddy wasn't waking up. Once more Rusty was passed back to the adoptive mother, who this time, was less eager to take him in. Now whenever this mother looked at Rusty all she saw was a reminder of her deceased ex-husband, whom she resented, and this child's now magnified anger problem. Rusty, now nine, could not explain let alone control his easily triggered anger and rage issues, it was all that he knows, a product of his tragic up bringing. For the next year the mother unknowingly projected her resentment of her ex-husband onto Rusty, and when he would act out she would constantly tell him what a bad child he was and in her frustration yell such things as, "you don't deserve parents!" Without knowing any better, Rusty began to believe the words of his mother and as a result, he began to have worse and worse behaviors, and once again the state intervened and took Rusty out of the home and placed him in a residential home with other boy with shared behavior problems. 

     The staff at the residential home quickly grew found of Rusty, despite his frequent outbursts. Each night, staff would pray with Rusty, he could have yelled, screamed, and cursed at them, throwing objects and threats, but no matter the circumstance, the staff would always pray with him and thank God for Rusty and for what a good boy he was, and with his eyes shut tight, hands crossed, and rocking forwards and back, Rusty would quietly repeat that mantra over and over to himself, "I'm a good boy, I'm a good boy."

     Before he knew it, Rusty had been at the residential home for nearly nine months, and the holidays were quickly approaching. Rusty has had his fair share of ups and downs while at the home, but overall Rusty has come a long way since he was first brought to the home, and it came time for his mother to work towards bringing Rusty back home. Still unknowingly projecting her resentment towards her ex-husband, and concerned for her own safety, the mother informed Rusty that he would not be invited back to his home. Rusty was all alone once more, and though this was by no means uncharted territory for him, the sting ran deeper. He found himself getting frustrated over the oddest things, such as his Silly Bands getting tangled together on his wrist.

     "Stupid Silly Bands, they should be called Idiot Bands!" he yelled to no one in particular.

     Rusty found himself becoming sad for no reason and cried uncontrollably in the most inopportune times, such as at church.  "I just want a family!" Rusty would cry. "Is it too much to ask that someone could find it in their heart to love me enough to let me live with them? I can be a good boy! I promise! I could try!" 

     The staff would often try to comfort Rusty, and would ask him what he wants in a family. "Well, they can't have any other kids, well maybe some kids, but I'd prefer they didn't have any other kids. They got to live on a farm and have lots of animals. And Shrimp, they got to be really good at cooking shrimp, like the best shrimp in the world!" Rusty's face would light up each time he was asked what he would want in a prospective family. And so he waited, and waited, and waited. Days went by, weeks went by, but still not any movement towards a family. Finally, Rusty could wait no longer, if they couldn't even find him a family without any kids, who live on a farm with lots of animals, and can cook the worlds greatest shrimp, then he would have to do it himself, he had to have a family for Christmas.  He emptied the contents of backpack on the floor of his room, and stuffed as much clothes as he could, and made sure he had enough room for his stuffed bunny.  When the timing was right, he bolted out the door and ran as fast as he could towards the woods, as the snow started to gently fall.

     Rusty began to shiver as the snow continued to fall, he pictured himself in front of a fire with his new family, opening presents, and the thought kept him warm. If he stood perfectly still he could hear the faint cry in the background, "Rusty! Rusty! Where are you? Rusty?" He knew he could not go back, not without a family.  He continued on, following the the glow of Christmas lights he saw through the woods. Rusty made his way through barbed wire fences, across creeks and fallen trees and finally came to the house. This could be my new home! he thought to himself.  "Rusty? Rusty!" he could hear voices calling his name further back in the woods, but he marched on, around the side of the house and up to the front door. 

     He rang the door bell and took a step back, surveying the home of the family that would surely take him in as one of their own. He noticed a Christmas tree in the front window with a fire roaring in the fireplace. Just as the door to the house opened up the voices from the woods grew louder, and beams of light from their flashlights shown forth from behind the trees.

Welcome. (I couldn't think of anything clever)

Welcome to my new blog, well my only active blog at least.

My life's main ambition is to be a writer. Plain and simple. I can look back throughout my life and see that this is what I was meant to do. There have been times in my life in which I have become discouraged, sidetracked, and talked out of taking this path, but in all honesty, when I picture how I want to spent the rest of my working years of my life, I can think of no other profession that would bring me as much joy as stringing together decorative or informational strings of sentences. I know most people would find the idea rather drab and boring, to sit in front of a computer all day, but I could not think of a better career.

At the moment, I may not have the most writing experience, and I am waiting till fall to go back to school to earn degrees in creative writing, but I have created this blog to keep me motivated in my writing. I have said for years that I wanted to be a writer, but when asked for writing samples, I have not had anything to refer to, most of my stories are scattered in various places, posted on random websites, stored on lost flash drives. This blog will serve as my writing portfolio. My goal is to post at least one short story on this blog every other week, to keep me motivated, and to sharpen my writing abilities.

I hope you enjoy my stories as much as I enjoy writing them. Feel free to leave comments or critiques on any post, or if you have any questions for me.

Thank you for reading.

Welcome.