A Virginia Sunrise

A melodic guitar riff plays politely into my dreams.  It is rare indeed that my cell phone alarm would be welcome at 5am, but the reggae stylings of Dispatch remind me that this morning is unique.  I have a sunrise to catch.

A fairy-tale princess sleeps undisturbed next to me, and I’d like to keep it that way.  It’s a Wednesday, and she doesn’t share my luxury of being off today.  I slip out of bed and dress with all the stealth of a Ninja Turtle.  Escaping the bedroom unnoticed, I fill my backpack with the items necessary for the success of my adventure: gloves, camera, notepad, harmonica, apple, and water bottle.  Once packed, I pull wind pants over my shorts, a hoodie and a winter coat over my shirt, and a sock cap over my head.  It’s 36 degrees outside.  I hate Winter. 

At my front door, I take a deep breath and step out to meet my destiny.  Cold and dark, even before the Atlantic winds are ripping through my being.  Why did I wear flip-flops?

I have chosen this morning, March 17^th, 2010, for two reasons.  The first is for research.  The main character in my novel is to experience a Virginia Beach sunrise in March; thus, I will do the same.  The second is because daylight savings was three days ago, and every day from now until fall will bring an earlier and earlier sunrise.  I can’t get up any earlier than 5am.  It’s un-American.  

I start my car and adjust the heat to 350.  Once my fingers are capable of fine motor skills, I begin thumbing through my CD case to ensure an integral component of this experience.  I pull out the Mae* EP entitled “(M)orning” and feed it to my expectant CD player.  It will serve as my soundtrack during the hour drive to Virginia Beach, but one song in particular will be my anthem.  As fate would have it, “The Fisherman Song (We All Need Love)” is written about watching the sunrise at Virginia Beach in the name of art and creation.  The first two minutes of this 9-minute epic thoroughly set the tone for my morning:

Tonight I find it hard to sleep.

Each sound and squeak I hear

Keeps me staring at the ceiling.

Oh it's dark as night outside

And I can't stand

The quiet that it brings me.

And I got too much on my mind.

I think it's time to take a drive

And leave it all behind.

I’ve got a song that's halfway there.

I think it needs the ocean air.

I’m gonna grab my guitar

And get in my car.

Oh, I need some understanding.

I need a little love.

Gonna speed down to the ocean side

In a race with the stars above.

With my guitar in hand,

And toes touching the sand.

I can see the sun is coming.

Colors fill and crack the sky

With purple silver and golden light,

Drawing the day from night.

*Mae has long been a favorite band of mine, but only recently have I come to learn that they grew up in the very area I now live (They erected a Habitat for Humanity home 10 miles from my apartment in Hampton, VA). 

The drive is surreal.  My lingering sleepiness likens the dotted white lines of the highway to the starry night sky on my right, which is slowly being overtaken by the coming dawn on my left.  The countdown has begun.  Sunrise is at 7:14am.

6:35 – I park on a deserted street so close to the beach that my foot slides on loose sand as I step out onto the road.  I pull my coat close, grab my bag, and head into the wind.

6:47 – I am settled against a dune formed by the previous evening’s high tide.  A few gulls stand lifelessly around me, seemingly as expectant as I am.  My frigid legs and toes find relief as I fold them into my hoodie and coat.  The dark waves lap endlessly before me, their caps glistening against the pale horizon.

7:00 – The breeze carries the melody of my “E” harmonica across time and space.  Even with the tumult before me, an inner calm pervades my being.  A man runs by in front of me.  The first human I have seen all morning.  His feet slap loudly against the hard, wet sand, and I realize my song has changed to match his rhythm.  He doesn’t seem to notice. 

7:10 – Again, all is quiet.  I take the opportunity to pull myself out of reverie and take a few pictures.  I hate submitting to the harshness of technology, but a picture is like the first dance of a newly wedded couple or the musty smell of a childhood home.  It will serve to pull me back to this moment for years to come.

7:13 - I move to the waters edge, just before the soft, cool sand gives way to the compact ocean floor.  There I stand, my eyes pulling in the coming dawn, my lungs accepting the vital breeze.  The cold wind and ocean spray on my feet are nearly unbearable, but this is why I’m here.

Electricity pervades the air as nature seems to slow down, allowing Sol to rise from the depths.  Something like a rainbow splits across the horizon, with the deep blue of the night sky above me fading to white, then to yellow and orange along the horizon.  This tapestry climaxes around a celestial disc of brilliant red coming from just beneath the water, emitting the first crepuscular rays of morning.  An unforeseen surprise: I am seeing the sun from beneath the ocean, from beyond the world’s end. 

Following its due pomp, that phoenix of old abruptly arises and stretches its wings across the earth below.  The ocean is ablaze, and the veil of darkness shrinks to nothingness.  My eyes can stand no more.  I look down the illuminated shoreline.  Receding waves smooth out like glass and reflect a streak of light nearly as bright as its source.  The blinding glow still plays in my eyes, causing the sun to flash brightly each time I blink them.

7:25 – Within minutes of first light, the sun is high in the sky, its fire painting all below in shades of brilliant gold.  The world is alive.  Seagulls float on the breeze above my head.  Cyclists ride by on the boardwalk behind me.  The street beyond fills with cars.  The moment has passed, and here I stand. 

Suddenly, I become uncomfortable with the buzzing activity around me, as if all this life has burst into my private thoughts without asking.  I gather up my things slowly, still breathing deeply and moving the sand gently beneath my feet.  I take one last look upon that scene of beauty and thank God for all he has done.

Princeton - This Ain't No Ivy League

Aught eight was a hard winter in Missouri.  Even harder in southern West Virginia.  Harder still with a 2-mile bike ride to work every day for two months.  Hardest of all when the ride home was entirely uphill on a major highway without a shoulder (Who knew West Virginia had hills?).

West Virginia - Fun with numbers (courtesy of the 2010 US census):

#4 most obese state in the US

#2 for number of residents over the age of 65 (Florida is #1). 

#49 in personal income per capita (Mississippi is #1).

#50 - Dead last - for persons 25 years or older with a bachelor’s degree or higher.

These statistics, dear reader, were as novel to me at the beginning of 2008 as they are to you now.  Unfortunately, the knowledge would not have spared me.

Come with me now to the beginning…

It is January 2008.  I am a second year student in the University of Missouri Masters of Physical Therapy program.  In choosing my second clinical, I have submitted 25 preferred locations, by rank. 

#1: Columbia, MO.  Pop. 102,324.  Home of the Missouri Tigers, my friends, Shakespeare’s Pizza, the Blue Note, and McNally’s.

#25: Princeton, WV.  Pop. 7,652.  Home of John Denver.  Also, a bustling metropolis fueled by the coal mining industry…50 years ago.

Naturally, I get my 25^th pick.  So, off to Princeton I go.  Not in my car, mind you.  No, no, that would be foolish.  My 1995 Chevrolet Camaro might not make it that far, and besides, its HORRIBLE in the snow, and everyone knows it snows a lot in the mountains of West Virginia.  I KNOW!  I’ll fly out there and FedEx my MOUNTAIN bike out for transportation (because FedEx-ing it is cheaper than checking it on the plane.  My street smarts astound even me)…

So here I am in the Appalachian Mountains with 2 suitcases, my laptop, and my bike.  No friends acquaintances for 1,000 miles.  That is, until I meet Jason…my roommate.  Actually, he owns the small house I’m staying in (we’ll get to the house later).  Jason is a flamboyant, opinionated male who cooks nothing but weight-watcher's meals and refuses to ever introduce me to his "friends" hospitable, laid-back, sensitive occupational therapist who welcomes me into his home with open arms  (As it turns out, my ignoble fear of being hit on is completely unfounded.  I think he has a boyfriend).  His only downfall is that he’s a one-upper.  Thankfully, even this provokes me to annoyance only once during my 2-month stay.  During this instance, I present the idea that poison Ivy is horrible in Missouri, and he insists that it is worse in West Virginia (C’mon.  Really?)  Overall, my lodgings are the most enjoyable aspect of my incarceration.  I describe it as such because of the cell of a room I call home and the only view through its window being a graveyard.

I’m settled in to my lodgings and now its time for work.  For information on the patient population at the lovely local hospital I am to intern at, please see the “West Virginia - Fun with numbers” section I have posted above.  One other notable trait of these patients is that over 90% of them have coal miner’s lung (ICD-9 code 500). 

On a side note, I am not making light of these afflictions, especially coal miner’s lung.  It is a very tragic situation, and, in fact, I care very deeply for many of those I treated.  I am merely expressing my lack of excitement for my banishment to pick #25.

When I report for work, frost bitten and exhausted, my supervisor Spain’s (Yes, her first name is Spain.  No, not like the country) primary complaint about her current pregnancy is that she can’t drink as much.  I can’t help thinking her main concern should be that the circumferential vine tattoo she has around her waist will look like something from a Tim Burton film in about 7 months.   Surprisingly, she turns out to be one of the coolest people I’ve ever met (I’m starting to realize I can’t actually be mean, even for the sake of comedy).  In the course of my internship I accumulate countless stories involving feces, senility, and the like.  Unfortunately, as they are not the focus of this blog, it would not be worth the breach of HIPAA compliance to share them.

Now to what stands in my mind as the highlight of my stay in Princeton, West Virginia:

Sunday, January 27th, 2008:

I wake up early with some measure of excitement.  There’s a light dusting of snow on the ground (as with most mornings here).  I haven’t been to church since I’ve been out here, and it’s finally time to try out the small community chapel down the road from my prison house.  It’s so close, in fact, that I won’t have to ride my bike, which means I won’t have to put on my wind pants, winter coat, sock cap, rubber gloves (an actual necessity if I don’t want frostbite) and bike gloves over those (which wouldn’t have been a big deal, since I do it every day of the week for the 20mph downhill bike ride to work).  I arrive just in time for the other 29 members of the congregation to find their usual seats. Those around me fit the same demographic as those I treat throughout the week.  All but one.  A young, blonde, mildly attractive female sits directly in front of me, but soon goes to work on her nails and I don’t see her head raise again for the rest of the service.  The elderly lady sitting next to her (presumably her grandma) introduces herself after several others of the church enthusiastically beat her to the punch.

“Jane Doe (not actually her name…or was it), glad to have ya.”

“Andrew Winch”

“Edgar?” (I immediately think of the life-long West Virginia native, Edgar Allan Poe, and intimately sympathize with his motivation to write on the disgusting, disturbing, and depraved)

“Andrew,” I repeat, adding a thick country draw so she can understand me.

“Oh, Andrew.”

“Yeah.”

“So where ya from?”

“I’m actually here on a physical therapy clinical.  I’m from Missouri.”

“Oh, ok.”

-she starts talking to another woman for a few minutes-

“So, what kind of church do ya go to where you’re from?”

“I was raised Southern Baptist, but I go to a non-denominational church now.”

“Well, that’s what this is, a Church of God.  Now, in the Baptist church ya went to, did they say that once you were saved, you couldn’t be un-saved?”

“Yeah.”

With a very serious stare, “Now you don’t go down that path now, ok?”

“Well, actually, the way they described it was if you lost faith, you were never truly saved in the first place.”

With a slight grin, “Yeah…well I can PROVE that Judas was saved.  He did miracles, see.  He could draw out demons.”

“OK, well, but does that necessarily mean that he was ever actually saved, or God just gave him the power to do his will?”

“It meant he was saved, cause God’s not interested in evil things, like the Devil.”

“I understand that, but Judas could have done God’s will and not actually been saved.”

“Well, why would the Devil try to tempt you if he couldn’t win you over?”

“There are lots of reasons.  Our faults could affect others around us.  He could do it to spite God by getting us to sin.” 

Leaning in and looking directly at me, “He can get your soul!”

“Well, agree to disagree.” I say, turning around quickly.

“Amen,” she says with a smile, “We won’t fall out over it.”

As the service progresses to its “praise” portion, an elderly woman screeches sings her version of a classic hymn that literally forces an audible laugh out of my pressed lips.  Immediately afterward, the pastor asks, “Brother Andrew, would you like to sing a song or play piano for the congregation?” (I made the mistake of sharing my humble musical endeavors with him earlier).  I furiously shake my head and avert my eyes. 

At the end of the sermon, the pastor asks me to come back next week for a potluck dinner.  I respectfully decline as I force my way out of the front door and run for the hills…quite literally.

“Country Roads,

take me home

to the place where I belong.

West Virginia,

Mountain Mama.

Take me home

my country roads.”

Downtown Princeton

The view from my house

Princeton's Pride: the longest single-arch bridge in the country

Dei Song

In an effort to appease my over-active imagination, I've created the Dei Song Series, an ever-expanding Christian SciFi project.  So, naturally, I would like to share it.  Eventually, it will likely include a series of novels, short stories, blogs, discussion forums, etc., and maybe even music, movies, and comics (as soon as I find Robin Williams to grant me my wishes).  The story line follows the last days of humanity leading up to Armageddon and the impact of a select few survivors on a comparably young alien race.  I have purposely left the description vague to avoid spoilers and contradictions in a constantly growing universe, but as I’ve already finished the first book in the series and sent it to publishers, I can safely share a variation of the query letter I sent out with it:

Dei Song: Those Last Days is a 70,000-word Christian Science Fiction novel focusing on what it means to find purpose in a dying world.  The story begins in Areli Adva’s San Angeles tower home on March 7, 2121, and follows him in his adventures across a raptured United States.  The world Areli knows is filled with awe-inspiring technology and human extravagance, but he soon finds the untamed truths of nature dwelling just beyond its borders.  It is there, in America’s timeless Heartland, that he finds God in the stillness of the night. 

Originally springing to life from Revelation’s accounts of the 144,000, Those Last Days is an honest fiction of what could be, blending allegory with thought-provoking adventure.  Though reinforced with apocalyptic themes and Biblical references, the story is closer to War of the Worlds or Walden than it is to the Left Behind series or C.S. Lewis’ Space Trilogy.  A strong desire for the freedom and truth of nature mixed with intimate relationships among friends and family make this SciFi adventure appealing to a large audience. 

  

The Dei Song blog consists of various first-person accounts leading up to the end of the world, which have been collected and presented by Elias, a member of the alien race known as the Oluchipala.  The accounts will stay consistent with the Dei Song universe and will occasionally contain elements of the book series, such as major characters or events, thus giving insight into current and future story lines.  

That's about all I have for now but I'm going to do my best to keep putting out new material (I'm working on the second novel already), so check back often for new developments in the Dei Song Universe!

Taking a risk

This was actually my first post on this blog…but then I chickened out and deleted it.  So, now that I’ve tested the waters, this will be my SECOND blog.  I probably won’t have another one for a while, since I’m going to try to get back to working on my Dei Song series, but you should click on the link on the left side of my page, just above that ridiculous picture of me, as it’s my other blog devoted entirely to said series and contains further ramblings by me (this sentence has run on long enough…time for it to end).  Enjoy!

Disclaimer: My muse in this poem was a 101 degree fever and a tumbler filled to the brim with Robitussin Cough & Cold.  I originally wrote it with the intent of reading it on a stage, in front of actual people, which I obviously never followed through with once my drug-induced courage wore off.  Instead, it will be debuted here for my millions of faithful readers.

Density

Forgive me for being grave when I talk about gravity,

But gravity’s the only thing keeping me down.

On the other hand, I’d rather talk with premature gravity than talk about a premature grave.

That’s it! The earth’s just one big grave, forcing us to act brave.

I mean, what’s scarier than being held in the one place you don’t want to be?

Stuck in a sea of our own illusion of fear.

It’s earth’s selfish way of keeping us here, covering our heads from something up there.

Boy, if it was gone, we’d rise above this pond, and I bet, it just might be clear.

So you see, we’re just stuck in one big rave, trippin’ on the delusions we desperately crave.

So if gravity’s such a downer, how’d I get way up here?

Up above the beer and your, ah, slightly skeptical stare.

Now I’m not talking about this stage.  I don’t need this to be above the mean.

How’d I fight my way out of the grave? Is anyone else feeling a little slow?

But lack of speed’s no reason to fret, and if you’re small, there’s still room to grow.

That’s it, you’re dense!  No, wait, I’m sure I don’t mean it like that.

It’s just that you’re dense and I’m not.  He he, is anyone feeling a little hot?

Let me start over.  If I’m less dense, than say, YOU,

I just might break through this gravitational milieu.

Gravity can’t pull on what isn’t there!

But what do you care?  I’m just one of a few.

I’ll tell you why.  If I’m less dense, that means I’m light!

Or was it bright?  Either way, I’m sure I’ve spoken with authority at some point tonight.

After all, you don’t grow tall by anything you do, only by Grace.

So stop trying to save face, we all have room to grow.

So next time you’re feeling low, and caught in the world’s cage,

Remember, all you need is love, until we can rise above this tragic affair.

Then density, gravity, quickness, sickness, fears, careers, race, and age

Won’t mean a thing in the air up There.

ℜ-₩inch

For my first trick...

     So, for my first post, I thought it best to put in as little effort as humanly possible while still presenting a general sense of commitment. To accomplish this, I'll share a piece I wrote in the throes of my collegiate angst.

The Flooded Cave 

     My mind is swimming from another day of lectures, standardized tests, and “intellectual conversations” about the latest moral issues. I can’t help thinking, "The more I learn, the more I realize I don't know."  With this frustration threatening to overcome me, I decide to call it a day. I put my computer to sleep, I tell my phone when to wake up, and I tuck in my ipod. Now it’s my turn. A candle burns contently on my nightstand, waiting for me to drain the last bit of electricity from my room. I flip the light switch, and a veil covers my eyes. The shadows in my room dance with the solitary flame, and the autumn breeze from a cracked window keeps the tempo. I strain to see the world outside the glass, but my own dark reflection glares back at me, guarding me from what could be. My ideas and questions are confined to this dim cave. I have been here before.
     The familiar surroundings force me to focus my thoughts inward, on everything I have learned that I don’t understand. But suddenly, and without any thought of me, a strong wind comes through the window and rips through my reality. My candle is betrayed; its will wavers, it dims, and then dies out forever. I stand in oblivion, devoid of sight. I am at first deeply distressed. My world is gone. Where before I had the comfort of a prison cell, I now have nothing, and I suddenly long for what I know. My mind tries to create a mental picture, but I have no point of reference: no pictures, no computer, no desk, no reflection of myself on the window. Do I still exist? Descartes rings in my head with a resounding ‘yes,’ but somehow that’s not good enough.
     Something changes. All at once, I am returned to the physical universe. First, I hear the wind howl again; only this time it seems deafening. This freight train grabs the smell of the smoking wick and pulls it toward me. I take it in. Within moments, I hear an orchestra of crickets, cars, dogs, creaks, and numerous other happenings in the vast world around me. I even see the outline of what I know to be a tree on the other side of my window. I am freed from my cage of certainty, but I am not afraid. My thoughts are allowed to drift and reshape with the wind. I am open to life’s suggestion, in all of its complexity; but somehow, it seems simpler than I thought it could be. I slip across my room using the objects I know are there. At my bed, I realize how soft and forgiving my mattress is, and how welcoming my blankets are. I wonder why, but not for long. The unknown fades, and what I do know seems so much richer. My mind stops swimming and decides to drift.