And....We're Back...

It’s been over 2 weeks since I posted last. In case you weren’t counting, but were vaguely curious. No excuses.

It’s not that I haven’t had enough on the brain that might’ve been worth sharing, it’s a matter of figuring out how the devil to express myself, and filtering down to what’s actually worth expressing…

Mom’s best friend, every so often, will ask her for another ‘Jeff story.’ Mom takes it as a compliment, as do I, as I’m sure it’s intended. I’m quirky enough, and forever into something uncommonly sufficient, for retelling. I try to be. As the quote on my posted picture way back in September states, Life is too short to remain unnoticed. (Salvador Dali). I truly believe this. Or, I have in times past. ‘Believe’ means, literally, by life. Whatever you ‘believe’ should be painfully obvious, statements unnecessary, by your life. The way I carry myself daily should indicate that I’m certain my life doesn’t have enough spare time for mundaneity. I prefer to be quirky. I like being strange. Sticking out like a healthy thumb on a sore hand…

Or so I say… I don’t feel that I’ve been upholding my own standards so well in recent weeks. To be fair, though, how many of y’all have camped out in a Chick-Fil-A parking lot?

I have a few different lives. Farmer Brown honestly exists only in memory now. I don’t expect Professor Brown, who was at one point pursuing a Masters in Literature, to resurface again any time soon. Parson Brown has been laid to rest, save for the occasional ranting sermon on here. Jeffro The American Billy Bob John Deere the Backpacker, the Hippy Within, is all but suffocating here in Northwest Arkansas. I’m having multiple identity crises. I went from eating every other meal as and with a vegetarian to residing once again in the Deep [Fried] South. Accustomed as I’d become to walking and taking public transit, and doing my best, transportation wise, for the environment, I’m now once again driving a fire-breathing dragon with an 8.1 litre engine. I’m still living in a backpack, though I’ve been on the same couch nearly a month. The same couch, mind you, that I spent 7 months on in ’06, and 2 months on at an earlier stint this year. I’m awfully stationary for a drifter. I like being able to collect all the worldly possessions I care to keep into a 40-pound maximum weight pack, but I’m vicariously enjoying joint custody of a china tea service housed in Edinburgh, Scotland.

To use a Britishism, I’m a complete nutter.

In Europe, I quite obviously didn't fit any particular theme, fashion or otherwise, beyond 'trekker.' The only thing I felt the need to conceal was my telling accent. I wanted to be a local, and if you've never heard my voice, I've been told that I have a very distinct vocal quality. I never wanted to stick out too much, to be easily labeled-- here or anywhere else. Now, I'm back in the world in which not only clothes make the man, but the vehicle he drives as well. I'm uncomfortable with outward signals, but those I'm already swathed in are precise in their statements about me. The wardrobe I kept in Europe, and prefer at all times, is highly non-committal about my station in life, even my home continent. Every moment of my day today that was spent outside of my parents' house screamed precisely of class definition-- the store I made a few purchases within, the vehicle I showed up to work in, the job itself that I was working at, the clothes I was wearing. Everything spoke volumes.

Tomorrow, I could dress differently, drive the other car, and make a few bucks elsewhere, and be an entirely different person. The day afterwards, I could trade the truck off for a Jeep, throw away all of my non-open-toed shoes, and start from scratch yet again. Now, granted, there are some very precise definitions attached to anyone carrying an orange backpack through the average European train station, but I am pretty comfortable with all of them that I'm familiar with-- good, bad, or otherwise. The classification I receive at home, however, doesn't sit so well, and I doubt it ever will, in any circumstance-- whether I work in a cubicle, atop a tractor, beneath a car jack, in front of a computer, behind a parts counter-- I DO NOT want to be so easily qualified as a ________. It doesn't matter what shape the hole is, I'm one peg that simply didn't come off the lathe so well.

I was described, as a ten year old, as someone who 'marches to his own drummer.' Thank you, Mrs. Crouch. At just under a quarter century, I'm still proving you right.

Further On.

The Eternal Geek

Well, I'd promised something special for Easter, but every time I got started, I felt too heretical, and backed down. Once my thoughts are collected better, I'll put them down as a chapter within a book, or as a book itself, entitled 'Growing Up Baptist'. Keep your eyes open to the NY Times Bestseller list for that one...

Just a quick blurb because it's been over a week...

If I ever realise, as I'm waking up, that I'm dreaming, I do my best to direct all of my foggy mental capacities at storing the dream to write it down once I'm functional enough for that occupation. Today would've been a good day, but just as I realised what tricks my mind was playing, the phone rang, and I was snatched out of a thrilling bit of brain play, and it's a shame, because I was really interested in the final outcome of this morning's dream.

I was doing a crossword...
And it was really tough. I couldn't figure it out for the life of me. But I'm certain that if I'd had another 10 minutes of semi-consciousness, I could've at least gotten the stumping clues written down...

Total geek...