Why do we dwell on the pieces of ourselves that we hate most? Fear most? 

And then dwell on them more?

Why are we convinced that we should hate any part of ourselves? Fear anything within?

This dark presence called shame makes itself appear sparkly and beautiful, a modern Siren, hypnotic and strangely alluring, entirely believable and maniacally poetic, watching all passersby, drawing us in only to slay us. And out of--I don't know--some warped desire to punish ourselves, some warped sense of identity and grace, and inflated by towering ego, we visit this Siren again and again. We visit the Siren in the morning and at night, following our mistakes and successes, at our best and in the thick of our worst, accepting lethal kiss after lethal kiss. And then we go on our way, offering those same vicious kisses to those around us, spreading the germs of this wretched virus.

But shame is a lie.
A killer.
Shame is toxic to the soul. 
Shame is poison.

Pay no attention to this stunning witch. No attention at all. And instead roll past shame and into the waves of grace. Grace. Grace. Grace is always waiting. Always waiting.

And grace, well, grace means I don't have to fear looking deep within myself. Because someone else has already looked closely, more closely than anyone, seen it all, all of me, and rather than placing me under the spell of shame, has instead chosen to hold me close.

Everyone is essential.

That person that hurt me.
The lady who tossed those acidic words over my heart, turning it bubbling and black singed.
The invisible nobody, all those ignored humans treated as floating ghosts.
The uneducated kid.
The President of that country I've never heard of.
The struggling actor in that wildly offensive and graphic movie I didn't see.
The crew that makes those cheesy television shows that seem to say absolutely nothing.
The musician with the completely average, non-remarkable, easily forgettable voice.
The writer who uses run-on sentences. 
The people who tell bad jokes, laugh uncontrollably, and then retell the bad jokes.
The used car salesman in the yellow, short-sleeve, button down shirt. 

Each one is essential to shaping someone who shapes someone who shapes someone who shapes someone.

That clan of folks that I so vehemently disagree with, that big-limbed intimidating crowd that sometimes drives me crazy with their loud banging opinions.
The guy that I used to be friends with.
My ex-girlfriend. Ex-girlfriends. 
The teacher who didn't like me.
The people who wear spandex.
Those that fall asleep in church. 
The boss who said I wasn't right or ready for the job.
That psychotic commander of that red convertible who cut me without offering an apologetic waive afterwards.
The gruff candy store owner that never seemed to like children.
The irresponsible owner of the vicious dog that bit my dog.
The parent that can't get the kid to stop crying.
The hooligan that keyed my car. 

Each one is essential to the mysterious flood of life, to the epic redemption that is being poured across this world by the Pourer.

The eras of history and culture that go unstudied, unappreciated, misunderstood
The big people.
The mouse-hearted. 
The people with unkempt hair and unflattering style and ear wax buildup and nicotine breath.
The unfairly talented, the staggeringly attractive woman, the chiseled cool cultured fellow with the great job and tender heart and handsome everything.
The privileged people who always seem to know the right people, catch the right breaks, vacation at luxurious places I've only heard of. 
The people who are so old they've lost touch.
The people who are too young to know anything.  
The people who are too heavy for folding chairs.
The gym rats, yoga experts, and athletically inclined.
The narrow minded.
The open minded.
The partially open, partially closed minded.
The artist.
The accountant.
The barista.
The leader.
The follower.
The businesswoman.
The skeptic.
The optimist.
The romantic.
The realist. 
You.
Me.

Everyone is essential.

Plenty of these books are crammed with ideas and stories and poetry and songs and dreams, the words of people who were willing to crack open their mind so that others might peer inside. These books are a glimpse into what people think about, daydream about, and long for, a glimpse into what people ache for and regret, a glimpse into where people choose to set their mind in the midst of the buzzing chaos, a glimpse into where an individual mind is, and where that same mind longs to be. Whether through fiction or non-fiction or some hybrid of the two, those are my favorite kinds of books. Those books teach me about life. About humanity. Art. Me. Those books allow me to connect to the author in a way that emotionally flat books don't, in a way that many conversations and relationships I have don't.

After all, there's really no better way to get to know someone than to ask them what they daydream about. That's a cutting question, one begging for an unfiltered answer. The good. The bad. Offensive. Whimsical. Innocent. Weird. An honest interaction around that question opens all kinds of doors, doors that other talking points don't touch. I mean, telling people what I do for a living says very little about me. And the same is true of where I'm from or how many siblings I have or where I went to college. But asking someone what they daydream about, or think about, well, that probes deep into the mind. And the mind is the playground for the soul. The mind is the place where our souls explain themselves, slip clothing over their ghostly bodies so that the real world can understand their form just a little bit more. The mind is the clearest picture of the soul we have. In that way, I know some authors I've never met better than people I've spent years around. Sure, I may know where my friends shop and where they go to church, and I may have met their family, but unless I know what goes bump in their mind, we are relative strangers.

So what's the point? I'm not sure. Maybe nothing. But I'm going to peruse the books, ride the rolling ladder, and see what the writers of these works are really like--those who are willing to show me a piece of it, anyway. And maybe I'll share with some New Yorkers what I've been daydreaming about, thinking about, and give them a chance to actually know me. 

The Ghost Town King.
What color is the sun this week? Are the flowers in bloom yet? What’s going on with my friend? Is his divorce final? How does my wife feel? Why is my sister stressed? When's the last time I was more passionate about someone else's art than my own, someone else's needs than my own, someone else? And when is the last time I thought about any of that, dwelled on that, swam a hundred laps in the water of someone else's heart? I cut ties to everything outside of me, and then I wonder why I sometimes feel so alone. I grow impatient, irritable with anyone who barges into me, my world, and then I wonder why they don’t want to make it their home. I wonder why creativity feels like such a curse. Selfish man: I forget that life outside of me exists. Or maybe I forget that life only exists outside of me, and that self-absorption is the most common cause of death.

Since I can remember, I've always had a bit of a crush on words, admired them, envied them, the way they can come together as the ultimate team, the ultimate organization, elastic in every way, capable of so much, capable of anything. Words can walk through walls. They can make things disappear. They can raise the dead. Words are giants, able to lift people up, carry them to the stars, and tear planets apart, grinding even the strongest person into dust. These are things I've known for a long time. I come from a family of storytellers, so it's a part of me, my bones made of paper, ink rushing through my veins. Words, stories, imagination--they've sustained me. They sustain all of us--

(This is an excerpt from Heroes and Monsters) 

No, I want everything now. I want the life I’m picturing now. My wounds healed now, clarity now. I want my career to take off now, to feel better now. I want my body to look good now, my tan to come in now, my friend to call now, my wife to find her keys now, for my financial windfall to happen now, for my food to be ready now. I want a response now, for the traffic light to change colors now, to be in love and married now, for my kid to stop crying now, for someone to notice my talent now. I want what I hope is coming. And I want it all now. I want tomorrow to come today, and Christmas by lunchtime. That’s how I’ve always done it. I’m always trying to make the next five years pass by before happy hour, and the next forty years of growth and experience and wisdom and success and love to occur before my head hits the pillow tonight. I want to live my whole life in a day. At least I thought I did. 

Yesterday I got what I wanted. The rain and the sky told me to be patience, but I said no. I refused. And I got my way. The gray clouds lifted. I no longer had to wait for anything. I acted on my own foolish sense of urgency. I bent time and space and people. Everything I wanted and hoped for arrived quickly, without delay.

And so I woke up this morning, eighty-five years old, breathing my last breaths, my whole life having flashed by, a victim of this toxic form of unnatural aging, a victim of impatiece. 

The Avengers

Confession: I’ve never seen Iron Man or Iron Man 2. I feel terrible. My punishment has been a complete inability to intelligently engage in way to many conversations surrounding how good both movies are and how great Robert Downey Jr. is. I find myself in a similar place (Minus the Robert Downey Jr. part) when it comes to Reservoir Dogs, No Country for Old Men, and Gone with the Wind. I haven't seen those either. So part of my desire to see The Avengers is, I think, an attempt to retroactively redeem myself, to right a cinematic wrong—is that possible? But my excitement for this movie isn't that entirely. I saw Thor and Captain America, and enjoyed both, so I’m confident that I’ll enjoy The Avengers.

On a completely unrelated—but sort of related—note. Last fall I was at a friend's bachelor party. We were at a local-hole in the wall-Austin establishment, one of those places where I imagine a number of bar fights break out—chairs breaking on people’s backs, a guy gets thrown into the jukebox, someone screams “Cops! Cops!”, we all scatter, etc. Anyway, at one point I scanned the lineup of other guys I was with, and it hit me. These guys are huge. Huge and almost scary. Huge and almost scary and tough. Huge and almost scary and tough, and they may or may not each possess a unique hidden super power or skill. And then I realized that together, they form a sort of super team. Yes, they're just some bright colored spandex and aliases away from being the Avengers. I’ve never been more confident of my chances in a hypothetical bar fight than I was that night. I kind of wanted to start one--break a pool cue on some biker?--just to watch these guys spring into action. But I didn’t. I knew that wouldn’t be right. So instead, I’ll have to watch them spring into action on the big screen.

Moonrise Kingdom

Okay, so I’m not a Wes Anderson junky. I don't resonate and fawn over everything that he directs. In fact, there are a number of Wes Anderson movies that I’ve never even seen—The Life Aquatic, Rushmore, and Bottle Rocket. Now I did see The Royal Tenenbaums and Darjeeling Unlimited. And I liked each, I think. But I’m definitely going to see Moonrise Kingdom. I like the title a lot. I find myself repeating it over and over again. The title is that good. As for the story, well it looks so splendidly quirky, stuffed with childlike romance and imagination, all of it bolstered by a side of Bruce Willis and Bill Murray (Bill Murray will always be Dr. Peter Venkman to me--are we actually going to get Ghostbusters 3? And if so, is he going to be in it? And whether he is or not, would a third installment be any good? ). But as far as Moonrise Kingdom goes, the real clincher for me is Edward Norton.

I am absolutely an Edward Norton junky. Fight Club? American History X? Rounders? The Illusionist? Even his movies that aren't as good are still good. Keeping the Faith? The Painted Veil? Primal Fear? I think he’s a brilliant actor. I even follow him on Twitter. Maybe one day he’ll follow me back.

Snow White and the Huntsman

So this one has a visually stunning trailer. Really good. And I think Charlize Theron will make a great evil Queen. But the main reason I’m going to see this one is because of a television show my friend Ryan convinced me to watch. Once Upon a Time. Have you seen it? Pretty great. The basic idea is that all fairy tale characters have been banished from their magical world, to this world, our world. And in the process they’ve forgotten their true identities. So the show goes back and forth, telling back stories set in the magical world, and telling present stories of these people who are lost in a foreign land. It’s creative. It's detailed. It illuminates new angles and explores the emotions of these old stories, and reminds me how much like these fictitious people I really am. Yes, Rumplestiltskin and I have a great deal in common. And the same is true with Pinocchio, the Mad Hatter, Grumpy, etc. So I guess I’m going to see Snow White and the Huntsman hoping that it will be more of the same, showing me how human these magical people are.

Prometheus

I’m not into scary movies. Or scary anything. I don't frequent haunted houses. I've never been sky diving. I haven't wandered through an old colonial graveyard recently. I rarely go to the dentist. I don't eat strange and exotic foods. There is no hardcore music on my Ipod. I run from spiders. And clowns. And I’ve never seen any of the Saw movies. I just don't get into scary things. Fear isn't an emotion I like connecting with. It could be because I saw The Fly when I was a little kid. Oh man that freaked me out. I don't think I was old enough to realize that I wasn't watching a documentary, or a home video, old enough to realize that THIS ISN'T REAL. When it was over, I was sure the whole fly-man-Jeff Goldblum thing was going to happen to me, that my face would fall apart, that wings would poke through my back, that I’d start— I don’t even want to think about. So then why am I excited about Prometheus: a movie that seems destined to frighten me silly? Well, the trailer is just too good. Based on those few minutes, I believe I’m in for a really intriguing story. The trick will be going with the right people, people I don’t mind being freaked out with, people who I don’t have to act tough with, people who, along with me, will also be just a wee bit convinced that some alien race might attack us while we’re eating ice cream afterwards. It's about aliens, right?

Rock of Ages

Now this one is a no brainer. 1) It’s got Alec Baldwin and Paul Giamatti. 2) It’s a musical. This is a plus. Some of my favorite movies are musicals, actually. Newsies. Moulin Rouge. Phantom of the Opera 3) And then the gigantic cherry on top...This musical is all 80s hair band music! I know! Yes! That’s right! Def Lepard, Bon Jovi, Damn Yankees, Mr. Big, Quiet Riot, Journey, Extreme, and more! My heart grows neon colored wings, parachute pants, a dangly cross earring, and a feathered mullet just thinking about it! Oh sure, there are other movies that I’m more excited to see this summer, but this is the movie that I wish I could be in. Heck, I live this movie in my mind every day, anyway. I might as well do it on screen, right? Hmmm...Maybe for the sequel?

Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter

In the off chance that I would ever want to write a book about a bearded world leader fighting against a race of legendary, nightmarish creatures, I read the novel of the same name by Seth Grahame-Smith, thinking it would be a great resource to learn from. And I did learn. What I didn’t expect was that I was going to enjoy it so much. In about a week I plowed through the book. And whenever people asked me what I was reading, I found a strange sense of joy in telling them, "I'm reading a book called Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter", and then watching their reactions. Some laughed. Some were confused, as if they didn't hear me correctly. Some wanted to know if I was okay. Some were fascinated by the premise. And others seemed slightly offended, though I don’t even think they were sure why—if you ask me, we get offended way to easily. Anyway, ever since reading the book, I’ve been waiting for the movie. I know, I know, a movie adaptation rarely lives up to the colossal, sweeping grandeur book, often leaves too much out, changes things, but I’m hoping this will be one of those rare occasions where that trend is reversed. Honest Abe. Dominating the undead. Awesome.

The Amazing Spider-Man

This one could go either way. It could be great. Or it could be like the last few Spider-Man movies. So what is my spidey-sense telling me? That it's going to be really good.

The Dark Knight Rises

I was a little boy once. More than once, actually. And as a little boy Batman captivated me. For Halloween one year, I wore that cheap, plastic drug store Batman costume—the one with the suffocating mask and the elastic band that pinches your head. I wanted Batman to be real. And…well…I still do. To me, he’s by far the most interesting hero of the bunch. The villains are so maniacal, scary, and yet funny too. But the real conflict of the Batman character isn’t with the villains, it’s with himself. He’s got all of this inner-turmoil, the buried demons and regrets and pains that he’s working out. The Bruce Wayne/Batmas story is this unending saga of inner-struggle. It’s so great! So yes, I’m kind of a schoolboy about The Dark Knight Rises. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve watched the trailers. But do you want me to quote them verbatim? I search the Internet for the latest film rumors and I stare at the screenshots, study them, hoping to discover some clue. I sit with my friends theorizing about how the trilogy will end, about Joseph Godon Levitt’s character, about what’s to become of Bruce Wayne, if Catwoman is going to ruin the whole thing, and yes, duh, working on my impersonation of the Bane voice (While it certainly needs more work, I’ve nearly got it—it’s kind of a British Darth Vader thing). So this isn’t a movie I can just go see. I’ve got to prepare, find a way to squeeze every last drop of hype and enjoyment out of this one. So, with that in mind, I’m watching all the other Batman movies in the days leading up to the premier! All of them. Here’s the list:

Batman (1966): starring Adam West and Burt Ward—POW!

Batman (1989): starring Jack Nicholson—great Joker—and Michael Keaton, topped off with an epic soundtrack by Prince

Batman Returns (1992): definitely the creepiest of the Batman movies. Danny Devito rocked the Penguin, and Christopher Wakken just had to be Christopher Wakken, which is always fairly creepy.

Batman Forever (1995): Okay, so I’m in the minority that actually liked this movie. I remember seeing this one in the theater with my mom and a few friends, and thinking it was amazing. I know, this is the point where the franchise started losing its edge, infusing too many bright colors and stupid lines, but I was on board with Jim Carrey as the Riddler and Val Kilmer doing his best Ice Man/Batman.

Batman and Robin (1997): Now this was bad. I’m not sure there was one part of this movie that wasn’t mishandled. Clooney as Batman—and those renovations to the batsuit? Yikes. Bringing in Batgirl? Arnold as Mr. Freeze? Chill out! 

Batman Begins (2005): when this released it immediately became my favorite superhero movie. 

The Dark Knight (2008): when this released it immediately became my favorite superhero movie and Batman Begins fell to #2.

Batman: Under the Red Hood (2010): I watched this on Netflix a few months ago. I liked it very much.

So, that’s what I’ll be doing leading up to the release of The Dark Knight Rises. If anyone wants to join me, you can come over—bring candy and chips and salsa and a pillow and possibly a Batman-themed costume—and if you can’t come over, I can Skype you in.

Yeah. It’s going to be a good summer of movies. Oh, I'd love to see a few of these at the Drive-In!

The bravest way to lead...

...is to Lead by Imagination

Then your shoulders—bent under by the weight of promises and fairy tales—sank. The lids of your eyes rolled down like a wave, sweeping away the blue stars in your head, and you exhaled out a million disappointments. But I was right there. Right there—just not what you were looking for.

Oh my gosh I tried to get your attention. I screamed! I banged my tiny little free hand against the drain-pipe—banged it raw till my knuckles went swollen and pink. But still you didn’t see me. So I slid down the pipe, running to the base of your feet. Staring up at you, I shouted more and more, waiving your shoelaces back and forth and forth and back like garden hose flags. But you didn’t recognize me, see me, even acknowledge me. Instead, you turned, wiped your feet on the mat, and walked back inside. And there you sat at your familiar window chair, trapped in your glass box, waiting, waiting for something that you didn’t have to wait for, waiting for something that had already arrived, waiting for victory, a sign that you’re growing, moving forward, getting just a tad closer, healing.

But you are! You are growing, healing! You're closer! I’m right here!

I know, I know, that can be hard to believe, hard to care about. You want it to be big and obvious and glamorous, recognizable to everyone else, especially to everyone else. You want me to be a celebrity of some kind—someone that everyone will fawn over, someone you can really brag about spending time with, name drop. But that’s not usually who I am or what I tend to look like. I’m so much smaller than you expect me to be. Sure, every now and again I show up in that clear and magnificent, star-studded way, but most often I’m tiny and unexpected, invisible. So most of the time I go unnoticed. Ignored. Because I am the word you didn’t say, the food you didn’t eat, the thoughtful note you left sitting on the counter, the lie you didn't tell. I am the fact that you got out of bed, that you’re still writing, leading, still trying, the fact that you applied again, that you showed up, said hello, the fact that you didn't look again, the fact that you opened up to someone who didn’t realize how long it’s been since you did that. I am one thought, one feeling, one innocuous choice. I am simple. I am little.

Yes, you want victory. And you have it right here in a bundle of crumbs. I'm right here.

I am victory, and I am much smaller than people think. So unless you develop eyes for the puny, you'll spend your life believing that you're going nowhere, that I'm distant from you, that you have no reason to celebrate.

Yes, most victories go unnoticed. 

Critique. Create.

Critic.

Creator.
When our passion for critiquing trumps our passion for creating, we have officially lost ourselves. 

The Divine is more of a creator than a critic. Right?

Then why am I so often the inverse? 

(Heavenly critic? No wonder we're scared of God.)

(Earthly critic? No wonder people are scared of me.) 

Those willing to critique, critique, must embrace the challenge to create, create, createcreatecreatecreate-

CREATING > CRITIQUING