Goodbye and Good luck Jason.

  posted by Christopher @ 9:04 PM

 
I wrote this email to a good friend of mine tonight, and then thought that perhaps the two people who still read this site would like to read about the events of this last weekend.


As for me, yes I am engaged, and it has the story to go along with it, as only I could manange to pull off. So get cozy, and let me regail you.

When I first moved up here, Donnette and I broke up, thinking I was looking for something else, and pretty sure another long distance relationship was the last thing I needed. But, when Sam said he and Steph were coming up over Labor day, I got Donnette to ride up with them. That weekend with her was wonderful, it was so nice having her around and I realized that I didn't want to loose her. That Sunday, she and I drove to the mountians, and ended up in Ashville, were we went to Dinner at this wonderful little Italian resturant, and then walked around downtown Ashville. So.....

In trying to pick the perfect place to propose, I decided to go back to Ashville, back to the same resturant, back to the same place where I first told her I was falling in love with her. Plus, she'd always wanted to visit that choice piece of reality near Ashville, so we decided to spend the say at Biltmore, and then to go to dinner downtown. Biltmore was wonderful, we did the wine tasting first and then went to the mansion to wander around. It was, however, so freaking cold, and rainy, which made me wonder how the evening was going to go. Not to mention the fact that I was a nervous reck all day long, andshe couldn't quite figure out why. (Keep in mind, she didn't think I had enough money to pay for a rind, and as such wasn't expecting this at all.) So, we went to dinner, back to the same place, and that was incredible, wine, dessert, more wine (I was really getting nervous, stomach all in knots and all.) When we finished, it was still slightly raing, and very cold, and we parked away from where I wanted to walk. She wasn't high on the idea of wandering around, but I persuaded, and she agreed to "quickly and briskly" walk with me.

So, we came to the spot, I stopped her, gave her a hug, and told her that when we'd been here before, I didn't know how everything would work out, but I knew I wanted to be with her, and that now, I still didn't know how everything would work out, but I knew that I wanted to be with her forever, and with that, I got on my knees, pulled out the ring, and asked her to marry me. No pause, she said yes, my heart lept to my throat, and we were engaged.

I took Keiths cell phone so we could call our families, it was so exciting, calling around and letting everybody know. Donnette hadn't cried until she called her grandmother, at which point she started crying, and so, we pulled over off the Interstate at a small town just south of Ashville to get a Coke from McDonalds. Neither of us wore our jackets in, I only had on a light sweater, which turned out to be a bad decision as when I walked back out to the car, my keys were not in my pocket. Instead, my keys were in the car, the locked car, the locked car on the cold wet sunday night just south of Ashville, on the night Donnette and I were engaged, when we were both wearing nothing warm, jackets tosssed casually in the backseat, locked.

This story is getting a bit long, so I will say that an hour later, with a bit of help from a local cop and a Food Lion manager, we broke into the car, and were on our way. Nothing lost, though I have had cold all week, and now Donnette is coming down with something. Still, it's a great story.

  posted by Christopher @ 9:57 PM

 
I knew a man Bojangles and he'd dance for you
In worn out shoes
With silver hair, a ragged shirt, and baggy pants
The old soft shoe
He jumped so high, jumped so high
Then he lightly touched down

I met him in a cell in New Orleans I was
down and out
He looked to me to be the eyes of age
as he spoke right out
He talked of life, talked of life, he laughed
clicked his heels and stepped

He said his name "Bojangles" and he danced a lick
across the cell
He grabbed his pants and spread his stance,
Oh he jumped so high and then he clicked his heels
He let go a laugh, let go a laugh
and shook back his clothes all around

Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles
Mr. Bojangles, dance

He danced for those at minstrel shows and county fairs
throughout the south
He spoke through tears of 15 years how his dog and him
traveled about
The dog up and died, he up and died
And after 20 years he still grieves

He said I dance now at every chance in honky tonks
for drinks and tips
But most the time I spend behind these county bars
'cause I drinks a bit
He shook his head, and as he shook his head
I heard someone ask him please

Mr. Bojangles, Mr. Bojangles
Mr. Bojangles, dance..

  posted by Christopher @ 4:47 PM

 
It has been a long time since I've written anything substantial.

I don't know why that is, why every thought I've had over the past few months has been whisped away the moment I've logged onto CompuServe. A year ago, I loved coming here, late at night, contemplating, thinking, hoping, pondering, rejoicing, and finally writing.

Part of this, I believe, is because I used to sit for hours on end, longing for a voice that would draw me away from the computer, and I wrote to voice my desire to find that woman. A year ago, I thought she might live in Charlotte, and that when I moved here, I would find her, and she me, and I would be happy, and I would live in North Carolina, and write about it's blue skies, and cool breezes and about how much I loved to take my dog for hikes through this states beautiful mountains. A year ago, I didn't know that I would soon meet her, but that she wouldn't live here, that she would, in fact, live in the same town I'd lived in for the last four years. She probably stood behind me in line at Publix, she might have bought a tank top right before I bought my newest pair of khakis. Twelve months ago, I didn't know that I was soon to meet the girl of my dreams, that I wouldn't take many trips to the mountians, but would instead load Bradford into my Jeep for six hour drives back to Gainesville, back to Florida, four states in six hours, the most uninteresting stretch of Interstate in America, a drive that no one would make unless their was a smiling face and a hug and a kiss and a weekend of kisses to be had at it's end.

Back to writing. I thought, was quite sure, that a relationship would provide wonderful fodder for writing, that Donnette would be the inspiration for countless journals, and memoirs and please give me my Pulitzer now, and no, no, I'll be happy to sign, no autograph, that for you. And I have learned so many things this last year, discovered I don't know shit about women and I can be quite the asshole, but that I love to talk, and am a decent listener, and can be thoughtful and that with a signifigant amount of grace I may be able to make her happy for at least four days out of the week. Yet, it is all so personal, between she and I, her and me, and that I know what makes her cry, but that's for me and no one else. I feel that to write honestly would now be opening a door marked with threatening red letters, "Do Not Disturb." Very few writers can communicate the feeling of being in love and being loved in return with any depth and insight, it involves pouring onto pages straight from the vein, emotion and passion, and I want to save whatever I may have of that for her.

But that's still not the whole truth, not why I've turned my computer on only to turn it off again a few minutes later. If I'm honest, and I want to be, I feel like my writing lacks any real poetry. I have no rhythm, no beat, a symphony without a drum section, The Rolling Stones without Keith Richards. Without rhythm, without poetry, writing just becomes words and periods, noise, clutter, white rice and brown gravy. I don't know why this is, if I feel this way because my life lacks poetry, or if I simply lack the means to express it. I wonder, if perhaps I like to believe my life to be full of meaning, poetic, balanced, and to write it down would destroy my illusion. A black and white reminder, like those fossilized footprints that haven't disappeared thousands of years after they were made. I would love to believe that I have rhythm, that I have soul and heart and depth, but I fear that two years worth of writing stand against me as evidence to the contrary.

Maybe I'm missing the point though. I wonder, having written all this, that perhaps there are other ways to express all these things that I so very much long to have. That heart can be found, not in my writing, but in helping some guy push his car out of the street, or that I can find my soul in good music, or a good book. That my poetry, my rythym is more evident, not in a few words I write here and there, but in the relationships I have with the people around me, my friends, my family, my love. Rythym, to know that God loves me, rejoices over me, allows my heart to beat as His does.

There is poetry in peace with God.

  posted by Christopher @ 3:21 AM

 
A resounding thud.


  posted by Christopher @ 12:59 PM

 
What does it take to forgive someone?

More than that, what does it take to forgive yourself?

  posted by Christopher @ 6:59 PM

 
I sat next to two men on my break yesterday...

They obviously worked for the bank, well dressed, expensive haircuts, not much older than me but I'm sure I'm not in their tax-bracket.

I've never really envied people with more money than me before, guys my age who make five times as much as me. But sometimes, as I take mental inventory against the things I've done, the things I've had, and the things I have to offer, I feel slightly inferior, or that I should be doing something more with my life. Chasing the American Dream a little more, making enough money to not have to worry about money, that sort of thing. This worry increases ten-fold whenever I'm around my sister, who at the ripe young age of 23 is making about four times more than me, lives in a much nicer place than me, drives a nicer car than me, etc. etc. And I always remind myself that really, money isn't everything, money doesn't make anyone happy, there are things more important that money, but I'm not sure how much I ever believe it.

But getting back to the bankers, they were discussing the upcoming weekend, and I discovered a coveted difference between them and myself. They were both, despite the money and the nice haircuts and I'm sure cool cars and nice homes, completely single. Much like many of the guys I've met at church the last few months, (guys who, although they also have good jobs and nice cars, are also single and not proud to be so) these guys were making plans for this weekend that did not involve an expensive dinner with the girl of their dreams.

And I wouldn't change places with them for all the money in the world.



  posted by Christopher @ 2:40 PM