Summer Dies Every Year

Tomorrow it begins again. And you're nowhere to be found.

You've moved on and that's cool. It's the way it's supposed to be. It's the way the congressmen wrote everything up. It's what Mother Nature does every fall.

Now I have to start over. With new teenagers. A new group of people who took my class for all the wrong reasons.

I'll get through to some of them. Just like I got through to you. But I'm still afraid that maybe I won't. I'm afraid that one of these days you guys will stop listening. I'll say something and you'll roll your eyes. And I don't want to be around for that.

I'm stuck in some sort of triangle. I get older every year, but you guys stay the same. And I keep saying I'll move on. But here I am. It's 11pm and I should be working on my disclosure document. But instead I'm reading your blogs, doing everything I can to keep tomorrow in the future.

Thanks for the memories.

#summerblogs2013

How To Be A Man - 5th Edition

I found this book with my dad's name on it. 

It has everything. There's stuff about sex and shaving and even a chapter on bodily functions. I look in the back to see if there's anything about love. 

It says "See Relationships." 

There's a lot about dating, about opening doors for girls and putting your jacket down over puddles (why would anyone do that?). There's a section on how men should pay for things and how much to leave for a tip. A section about asking for directions in front of your woman. There's a section on household responsibilities (women take care of the inside of the house, men take care of the outside). There's even a paragraph about the silent treatment.

But there's nothing about falling in love.

Nothing about how long it takes or how you know if it's real. There's nothing about the stomachaches or nights spent up wondering. There's nothing about the anxiety over the first phone call. Or the anticipation of the next encounter. 

The book doesn't say anything about how to tell if she loves you back (I looked twice). 

There's nothing about the first kiss or the first letter or the first conversation. There's nothing about the fear. Or the danger. Or the excitement. 

I guess some things we just have to figure out on our own.

Things that go through my mind when I struggle to make eye contact withyou.

Where should I be looking?

Why did they look down? Do I have a booger in my nose?

Why did they look up? Am I going bald?

Is there a New Girl on tonight? I need to record it.

Which eye should I be looking at? Both?

I'm thirsty.

Man, his eyebrows are thick.

I could beat this dude up.
How often should I blink?

This guy's arms are really big. 

I'm miserable.

Does my breath stink?

What time is it?

What should I do with my arms?

Does she think I'm weird? I haven't looked at her in 3 minutes.

Are my eyes open too wide? I feel like I'm staring.

There's no way you're my son.

There's no way I'm your son.

Is this conversation ever going to end?

I think it's been awhile since I blinked. I'm going to blink.
Is my zipper down?

Why are you frowning?

You probably make more money than I do.

There's no way the Heat should've won game 6. They got lucky.

When should I sigh and say "Alright" so they know this conversation is over?

Hey, I look pretty good today. (As I look at myself in the reflection of their sunglasses.)

This conversation is ridiculous.

We're all going to die. 

Is it too soon to go back to reading my book, checking my phone, reading this article, etc.?

Watering the Lawn

I'm tired of life getting in the way of everything I want.

Like writing. How can I write anything when my lawn is burning up in the backyard? There are too many other things calling me. I can't possibly cross everything off my to-do list today. I can't possibly listen to all the voices in my head. There's a reason why there are so many wanna-be writers out there who claim to want to write, but never do. Please don't let me turn into one of them.

I sat in my empty classroom today and wrote. I sat there for an hour and probably wrote for a total of 12 minutes. Most of my time was spent staring, or thinking, or getting side tracked, or dozing off.

Sometimes I feel like such a hack. 

But writing is hard work. So is watering the lawn. It requires time. And effort. It is not exciting. I want to say that again, it is not exciting. You will never see a reality show where you watch people water their lawns. And you will never see a reality show where you watch people write. Because it ain't good TV. It's boring. 

But the lawn must be watered. Every day. Especially in this heat. Especially when you're off in the summer and you have free time. Especially when you have to look at that lawn every day. And especially when you know what it could look like. Especially when you go to your dad's house and see what your lawn will look like in 20 years. 

Grab a hose, grab a sprinkler, put a hat on, and go outside and water. If you have automatic timers on your lawn, then you don't need my advice. Your lawn's fine. But we ain't all rich. Some of us have to wake up early and go outside. Some of us have to stand there with the hose while we imagine what it should look like. What it could look like. We have to sacrifice time with our kids to keep things green.

Warning: no matter how much you water, it will never be green enough. 

When I grow up

My kids fight about the dumbest stuff. They worry, they cry, they throw fits...

and I just roll my eyes. 

And I wonder if God is the same way.

Like maybe the stuff that bothers me doesn't really matter. God just watches and listens and then goes back to reading his book or updating his blog. Maybe he wonders why more people didn't favorite his last tweet or why he doesn't have more followers. Maybe he rolls his eyes when his mom calls and how she still treats him like a kid even though he's 33. He's almost 34. And he's God, for crying out loud. 

Maybe I'm being blasphemous. 

But I don't ever get offended when my kids pretend to be me. 

They wear my shoes and my shirts and talk like me. They play school and pretend to drive and mow the lawn. They swear at the TV and throw their Playstation paddles when LeBron misses too many threes in a row. They say shut up and oh my goodness and one time they called The Incredible Hulk a perv. And I think they got that from me.

The bad news is that we might turn out like our parents. 

The good news is that they might turn out like God.

Work in progress

I started writing and the world moved on with its life. 

This is me procrastinating. 

This is me taking a break after I've written the opening and closing sketches (I guess I'm supposed to call them Incidents) to the book I'm writing. This is me pretending that I'm actually writing a book. This is me being one of those losers who tells other people about the alleged books they're writing. As if anyone cares.

This is me sitting in front of my iPad with a keyboard and a $10 Pages app and my Utah headphones listening to my Explosions in the Sky Spotify channel. Trying to be real. Trying to be honest. Trying to do everything it was so easy for me to tell my students to do.

The hardest part of writing is sitting down to write.

My brother in law is an artist. I went to his house today and saw his painting room. Pictures and drawings and sketches and notes everywhere. He is a professional. He inspires me and intimidates me at the same time. If only we had the same blood. If only I could write standing up next to an easel instead of sitting down on my couch. 

Two years, really?

Has it really been two years since I updated this blog?

That's sad.

Blogs are like kids. It's easy to forget about them if you have too many. And I have 13 blogs. (Luckily, for my kids, I only have three kids.)

Speaking of novels and wishes children and ideas, here's something for you. And I'm serious this time. I'm going to write this summer. Really.

Here's the idea:

Boys are going extinct. All the babies being born are girls. It used to be 50/50 girls/boys, but now it's like 80/20 girls/boys.

So Charles (or Tom) is one of the boys. He's 15. And he's one of only 6 boys in his school. There are 814 girls. Sounds awesome, right guys? But there's a lot of pressure. Even today there are a lot of expectations put on men. What it means to be a man. And in this story, those expectations are on steroids. Charles (or Tom) is trying to figure out who he is and who he loves and what he's supposed to be.

That's all I have so far.

Oh, wait, and the title:

But I also have a new keyboard for my iPad and a book to help motivate me and other books to give me ideas and some free time (since I finished my Master's last month).

So here goes nothing.