I am among those fortunate few lucky enough to say that I live in a gigantic house. Three stories of sheer epic win. A spacious, luxurious abode that I am proud to call my own.
It started waaaaay long ago. My grandmother and grandfather married at age eighteen and went on to move in together. They (quite obviously) needed a house, so my grandfather was kind enough to build a temporary encampment. It was almost shack like at first. But after my mothers birth, and the creation of my four other aunts and uncles, the house became expanded upon. Slowly but surely, the house gained square-footage and began to enlarge. What was once a shack became the towering sculpture of architectural inspiration you see today. More rooms were added wherever they fit, and the house became the awkward, hulking, warm, imposing, and very lovable building it is today. It's like Ron's house from "Harry Potter", The Burrow. It's huge, looks like it was thrown together out of cardboard but is actually quite sturdy, and it pertains this friendly warmth and inviting glow. It feels like a home.
Why, all of a sudden do I start rambling on about how much I love my house? This morning, I cleaned out my extremely dirty and cluttered basement. It was almost inhospitable in it's original state. But exploring my house brought some inspiration. It's so old it almost has a personality of it's own. This house is a living, breathing being just like you and I. It has a soul about it, an energy, and no matter how out-of-shape and in desperate need of a maid's services it may be, it still puts a smile on my face.
Something flows into you when you are in the basement. It's like an entire other world. The soundproof ceiling and walls seal you off from the two stories of life above, and creates a sense of containment like no other. It's comforting almost to be that alone. You start to notice things you never saw before. You reflect upon your own nature and being. Every flaw or attribute is magnified one hundred fold. It provides an inspiration unlike any other. The most scenic view in the world cannot compare to drawing into your own world, opening your eyes, and taking in something that was never clear before.
That's the magic of a house. Sometimes an inanimate object can tell you more than any book, person, or being ever could.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
They're Crazy Good
Let me take this moment to express my love for Pop-Tarts.
No, don't slam your hand on your keyboard, go "Dietrich is 'ridiculuz!" and close this browser window. I know the majority (well, all) of my blogs are me ranting on about emotion and how much it sucks to be a teenager, but carry on.
If Jesus was still alive, he would eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast. These things are perfect. It's like everything about them is the best ever. From the moment the sweet aura of artificial chocolate and mixed berries permeates your nostrils, it is too late to turn back. Your teeth sink into the sweet pastry, and the syrup and preservatives fill your mouth with delicious synthetic happiness.
Plus you can do ANYTHING with these things. You can freeze 'em, toast 'em, eat 'em plain, plus you can take 'em anywhere. They are the pinnacle of portable junk food. Who needs Pringles when you have a virtually infinite variety of flavors at your fingertips? They have Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, French Toast, Ice Cream Sunday... Hell, what's next? Deodorant flavor?
Don't forget, I love Pop-Tarts. When I bite into them it's like an angel comes down and wraps it's feathery wings around my tongue. I can't express my adoration for Pop-Tarts in words. They are warm or cold or whatever temperature you want (assuming you don't, like BOIL them or anything) but no matter what stasis they reside in I love them anyways. Pop Tarts are, in all senses of the words, "Crazy Good".
No, don't slam your hand on your keyboard, go "Dietrich is 'ridiculuz!" and close this browser window. I know the majority (well, all) of my blogs are me ranting on about emotion and how much it sucks to be a teenager, but carry on.
If Jesus was still alive, he would eat Pop-Tarts for breakfast. These things are perfect. It's like everything about them is the best ever. From the moment the sweet aura of artificial chocolate and mixed berries permeates your nostrils, it is too late to turn back. Your teeth sink into the sweet pastry, and the syrup and preservatives fill your mouth with delicious synthetic happiness.
Plus you can do ANYTHING with these things. You can freeze 'em, toast 'em, eat 'em plain, plus you can take 'em anywhere. They are the pinnacle of portable junk food. Who needs Pringles when you have a virtually infinite variety of flavors at your fingertips? They have Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough, French Toast, Ice Cream Sunday... Hell, what's next? Deodorant flavor?
Don't forget, I love Pop-Tarts. When I bite into them it's like an angel comes down and wraps it's feathery wings around my tongue. I can't express my adoration for Pop-Tarts in words. They are warm or cold or whatever temperature you want (assuming you don't, like BOIL them or anything) but no matter what stasis they reside in I love them anyways. Pop Tarts are, in all senses of the words, "Crazy Good".
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
A Sound so Sweet
There is not a single person in the world who doesn't like music.
There's something in that mixture of melody, harmony, rhythm and poetry that blends together and serenades your soul. It's not in your ears. It's in your heart. It's the composer projecting themselves through your ear buds, speakers, iTunes etc. and straight into the depths of your heart. It's an expression, it's art, it's a way of life.
We all have different tastes, different preferences, different ways of life, but something in music we all understand. Who can't relate to music on some level? Regardless of genre, it's an emotion that makes you feel what the artist is feeling. It's expression, performance, and art. It can be inspiring, motivational, and moving. Music is truly a universal language. Without words or symbols, music is our communication. Dynamics, phrases, staccato, lyrical beauty and depth all come together to tell a story. But it's not just the story the artist composes. It's how you relate that story to yourself. A true piece of art will have a place in your life that you can instantly put it. You may not even fully understand it, but this piece of music somehow explains something you can't begin to grasp. It verbalizes words that do not yet exist.
It's for this reason that I have dedicated my life to the concept. I started taking guitar lessons five weeks before my fourth birthday, and before I could even fully speak the English language I could express myself better on an instrument. I went on to learn bass, piano, drums, trumpet, synthesis, and to study musical theory. I started writing original compositions in seventh grade and collaborated with a number of musicians in bands and groups to further expand this knowledge and work with others. It's not purely out of pleasure I do this. It's because I want to share my music with people. So many artists have touched me and changed me and I want to have the same effect. I want to give back to the people that need motivation and inspiration. It's not out of the desire of fame and fortune that I chase this ambition. If I just changed one person through art I would be satisfied.
There's something in that mixture of melody, harmony, rhythm and poetry that blends together and serenades your soul. It's not in your ears. It's in your heart. It's the composer projecting themselves through your ear buds, speakers, iTunes etc. and straight into the depths of your heart. It's an expression, it's art, it's a way of life.
We all have different tastes, different preferences, different ways of life, but something in music we all understand. Who can't relate to music on some level? Regardless of genre, it's an emotion that makes you feel what the artist is feeling. It's expression, performance, and art. It can be inspiring, motivational, and moving. Music is truly a universal language. Without words or symbols, music is our communication. Dynamics, phrases, staccato, lyrical beauty and depth all come together to tell a story. But it's not just the story the artist composes. It's how you relate that story to yourself. A true piece of art will have a place in your life that you can instantly put it. You may not even fully understand it, but this piece of music somehow explains something you can't begin to grasp. It verbalizes words that do not yet exist.
It's for this reason that I have dedicated my life to the concept. I started taking guitar lessons five weeks before my fourth birthday, and before I could even fully speak the English language I could express myself better on an instrument. I went on to learn bass, piano, drums, trumpet, synthesis, and to study musical theory. I started writing original compositions in seventh grade and collaborated with a number of musicians in bands and groups to further expand this knowledge and work with others. It's not purely out of pleasure I do this. It's because I want to share my music with people. So many artists have touched me and changed me and I want to have the same effect. I want to give back to the people that need motivation and inspiration. It's not out of the desire of fame and fortune that I chase this ambition. If I just changed one person through art I would be satisfied.
It's Complicated
Me and my girlfriend have a complicated relationship.
I use the term "girlfriend" loosely. She is my best friend, my jealous lover, my helping hand, my sunlight, my oxygen, my true love and my worst enemy all at once. It's often confusing and far too complicated to explain in a blog post, or in any amount of words for that matter. I could speak for eons and not even begin to grace the tip of the iceberg.
Why am I writing this then? Simply, it's on my mind. I want to share what's in my heart. What I am going through. It's been a rather confusing week for me, with highs and lows and bipolar teenage hormones gone haywire. It's difficult to keep a grasp on what is real and what was hopeful dreams. It's like a whirlpool of conflicting emotion swirling and enveloping me inside. It's love, pain, regret, distaste, comfort, and passion all fighting each other for a grasp on my mind. But isn't that what teenagers are supposed to feel? Aren't we supposed to endure these painful, false relationships so that the scars may strengthen us for adulthood when we receive a true relationship? With that one you know will always be there for you?
And what if, by God's act or your own action or just freak luck, you meet that person at such a young age that you begin to destroy the best thing you could ever possibly have? In the ignorance of youth our eyes are blind. I know this but I can't really tell what it is like to have my eyes open because, admittedly, I don't know everything about the world. So you struggle through life, trying to find your place, and along the way you meet the most beautiful, hypnotic, sweet and absolutely perfect girl in the world. What are you supposed to do? You rush into a relationship with them, you assume you know everything, and just because this person has no flaws and is absolutely entrancing you blunder into uncharted realms. And you just end up hurting them. Over the course of our fifteen month relationship, my girlfriend and I have broken up sixteen times and have endured countless more fights and disagreements. But why then, do we still remain together?
Could it be love?
I don't know. And I can't know until this veil of immaturity is lifted. It's truly difficult to maintain a relationship that deep at such an early age. Constantly, people are telling me "Dude, get over her." and "Why don't you date a nicer girl?" and "She says she hates you". What am I supposed to say? They don't understand logic. They can't begin to comprehend the magnitude of what we have been through together. What do I tell them, "Don't worry, we will be back together tomorrow."? I can't explain what she means to me. And what I know I mean to her. They can't understand that in the midst of the chaos, drama, and pain of teenage life, I have found something real. Something I can hold onto. Something I love.
I'm not complaining necessarily about my complicated, stressful relationship. In part, I am thankful for it. It opens my eyes. It teaches me to cope. It gives me joy and happiness unlike any other. It teaches me what it is like to love and to enjoy life. But it also causes me pain out of mistakes and misunderstandings between us in our foolishness. What is God trying to teach me? Why did He give me her?
If anybody out there understands this, then they know what it's like. Maybe someone has a taste of such powerful emotion. Perhaps someone out there is enduring the same romantic hardships in their youth.
Don't give up. There is always hope.
I use the term "girlfriend" loosely. She is my best friend, my jealous lover, my helping hand, my sunlight, my oxygen, my true love and my worst enemy all at once. It's often confusing and far too complicated to explain in a blog post, or in any amount of words for that matter. I could speak for eons and not even begin to grace the tip of the iceberg.
Why am I writing this then? Simply, it's on my mind. I want to share what's in my heart. What I am going through. It's been a rather confusing week for me, with highs and lows and bipolar teenage hormones gone haywire. It's difficult to keep a grasp on what is real and what was hopeful dreams. It's like a whirlpool of conflicting emotion swirling and enveloping me inside. It's love, pain, regret, distaste, comfort, and passion all fighting each other for a grasp on my mind. But isn't that what teenagers are supposed to feel? Aren't we supposed to endure these painful, false relationships so that the scars may strengthen us for adulthood when we receive a true relationship? With that one you know will always be there for you?
And what if, by God's act or your own action or just freak luck, you meet that person at such a young age that you begin to destroy the best thing you could ever possibly have? In the ignorance of youth our eyes are blind. I know this but I can't really tell what it is like to have my eyes open because, admittedly, I don't know everything about the world. So you struggle through life, trying to find your place, and along the way you meet the most beautiful, hypnotic, sweet and absolutely perfect girl in the world. What are you supposed to do? You rush into a relationship with them, you assume you know everything, and just because this person has no flaws and is absolutely entrancing you blunder into uncharted realms. And you just end up hurting them. Over the course of our fifteen month relationship, my girlfriend and I have broken up sixteen times and have endured countless more fights and disagreements. But why then, do we still remain together?
Could it be love?
I don't know. And I can't know until this veil of immaturity is lifted. It's truly difficult to maintain a relationship that deep at such an early age. Constantly, people are telling me "Dude, get over her." and "Why don't you date a nicer girl?" and "She says she hates you". What am I supposed to say? They don't understand logic. They can't begin to comprehend the magnitude of what we have been through together. What do I tell them, "Don't worry, we will be back together tomorrow."? I can't explain what she means to me. And what I know I mean to her. They can't understand that in the midst of the chaos, drama, and pain of teenage life, I have found something real. Something I can hold onto. Something I love.
I'm not complaining necessarily about my complicated, stressful relationship. In part, I am thankful for it. It opens my eyes. It teaches me to cope. It gives me joy and happiness unlike any other. It teaches me what it is like to love and to enjoy life. But it also causes me pain out of mistakes and misunderstandings between us in our foolishness. What is God trying to teach me? Why did He give me her?
If anybody out there understands this, then they know what it's like. Maybe someone has a taste of such powerful emotion. Perhaps someone out there is enduring the same romantic hardships in their youth.
Don't give up. There is always hope.
Friday, March 18, 2011
Gallons of the Stuff
I hate swimming.
From the moment my parents forced me into swim lessons at age seven, I despised it. Not just because my instructor was covered in tattoos and likely was an outlaw, but because I am just not meant for water. Ironic, I was born in Seattle and have lived in the Puget Sound my entire life, thus making me like a fish that breathes air. I just can't coincide in the depths.
Don't get me wrong, I love water. We drink it. We are full of it. Water, quite literally, surrounds me. I have near constant contact with views of water and frequent journeys across it on boats and ferries. But that's when I am dry. When submersed, it's a whole different story. Water is weight. It pulls you down. It drags you under. It fills your lungs and suffocates as the dark liquid pours into your every opening and washes out all hope and light. Not sounding like Blue October here, I just hate swimming. There are some freak people out there who actually ENJOY the feeling of liquid pressing the air out of them and find some way to propel themselves through this fluid for sport (cough, cough, Michael Phelps). I am not one of those people.
I have an intense fear of drowning. Aside from blood (and the occasional clown/math teacher), this would be my number one phobia. When you can't breathe in. When your lungs decompress and you gasp for air but your mouth fills with water and as you panic with your body losing oxygen, you slowly sink as the weight of thousand of gallons force in upon you. That's the fancy Blue October version. But in reality, this happens all the time. And I have the incessant fear that I may become the next victim of a drawn out agonizing demise.
I guess living around water has given me some fascination with it. The power it has over us, the space in our lives that it occupies. And the utter mayhem it could bring when brought down upon us. Water has a mystery, it has a certain enigma. It's a dark beauty almost. This stuff brings us life and gives us death. The delicate balance of the fluid that makes up our world but could flood it in seconds. I have always been fond of admiring the ocean and the awe-inspiring power it commands. And living in the Puget Sound I bear full witness to this magnificent body of water. The consistency, the mystique, the thoughtful and imposing beauty of such a dark and inspirational ocean. I love it's emotive power, the ocean can symbolize love, pain, freedom, loneliness, and silence. The ocean is so empty you can almost project yourself onto it. The open miles of water muffle all noise and keep it's surface tranquil. Peaceful one moment, but consuming the next. Sucking life and land under to feed an empty belly. Sucking all life down to a watery grave. I have always loved this aspect of the ocean. It's almost an art. The beauty and perfection put into a consistently serene open water. I admire the consuming strength of such a powerful substance. Perhaps this reflects on some darker part of me. Something that admires the raw power and symbolism the ocean holds.
From the moment my parents forced me into swim lessons at age seven, I despised it. Not just because my instructor was covered in tattoos and likely was an outlaw, but because I am just not meant for water. Ironic, I was born in Seattle and have lived in the Puget Sound my entire life, thus making me like a fish that breathes air. I just can't coincide in the depths.
Don't get me wrong, I love water. We drink it. We are full of it. Water, quite literally, surrounds me. I have near constant contact with views of water and frequent journeys across it on boats and ferries. But that's when I am dry. When submersed, it's a whole different story. Water is weight. It pulls you down. It drags you under. It fills your lungs and suffocates as the dark liquid pours into your every opening and washes out all hope and light. Not sounding like Blue October here, I just hate swimming. There are some freak people out there who actually ENJOY the feeling of liquid pressing the air out of them and find some way to propel themselves through this fluid for sport (cough, cough, Michael Phelps). I am not one of those people.
I have an intense fear of drowning. Aside from blood (and the occasional clown/math teacher), this would be my number one phobia. When you can't breathe in. When your lungs decompress and you gasp for air but your mouth fills with water and as you panic with your body losing oxygen, you slowly sink as the weight of thousand of gallons force in upon you. That's the fancy Blue October version. But in reality, this happens all the time. And I have the incessant fear that I may become the next victim of a drawn out agonizing demise.
I guess living around water has given me some fascination with it. The power it has over us, the space in our lives that it occupies. And the utter mayhem it could bring when brought down upon us. Water has a mystery, it has a certain enigma. It's a dark beauty almost. This stuff brings us life and gives us death. The delicate balance of the fluid that makes up our world but could flood it in seconds. I have always been fond of admiring the ocean and the awe-inspiring power it commands. And living in the Puget Sound I bear full witness to this magnificent body of water. The consistency, the mystique, the thoughtful and imposing beauty of such a dark and inspirational ocean. I love it's emotive power, the ocean can symbolize love, pain, freedom, loneliness, and silence. The ocean is so empty you can almost project yourself onto it. The open miles of water muffle all noise and keep it's surface tranquil. Peaceful one moment, but consuming the next. Sucking life and land under to feed an empty belly. Sucking all life down to a watery grave. I have always loved this aspect of the ocean. It's almost an art. The beauty and perfection put into a consistently serene open water. I admire the consuming strength of such a powerful substance. Perhaps this reflects on some darker part of me. Something that admires the raw power and symbolism the ocean holds.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
So... My Blog...
Hello there. If you are reading this than you probably know who I am. If not, I am Dietrich. You should be patient because eventually I am going to start posting good blogs.
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