And once one had gone into the summer, it crawled out in fall, sunburned and miserable. The wretch that had gone in came out, but barely. So I took this wretch into my domestic environment, gave it a name, then a bath, and Mr. Pewtey became my new best friend. Out of the dust of outside, the heat and the leaves-he came. Arthur Pewtey hadn't existed to anyone other than the flies which laid eggs upon him. After a bath he was much more presentable. This person, this entity was entirely new to the world however, and yet, was not a child. So first I took him out to a park with trees. I tried to get him to say something, but all he could say was "ahh" Shapeless words and breathful vowels made up most of our conversation. So I made the point to tell him as much about myself as I could, since, that is how we humans learn to speak anyway. I sang to him, he sat. I prayed with him, he sat. I ate with him, he sat, eating. I asked him who he was and where he was from, he said nothing. He sat. He did not smile. He would not smile. If I became very loud or came very close, his eyes would get bigger. So I brought him back from the place with trees and put him back into my domestic environment.
He lay on the couch. I gave him a pillow which he did not use, and a blanket, which he did. I gave him a sandwich, which he ate. He ate it slowly. With his mouth full, he went mmmmmm. But this "mmnnn" was not a satisfied "mmmm" nor a thoughtful "mmmmm" nor a thankful "mmmnn" This "mmmmmnnn" was the "mmnnnnnn" of one who was just discovering his or her vocal chords for the first time. This is why I came to assume that Arthur Pewtey was not from around here.
He had the most interesting blue eyes, short, light brown hair, blue-jeans and a soft checker coat which was covered in dust. His face was generally blank of expression, which I was quite taken with because it wasn't even an expression of indifference. Looking at him there, lying on the couch. He was not tired. In fact, he looked possibly even quite rigid. I didn't think that a lot of human interaction would be good for him, but I also didn't think that a lot of sitting around would be good for him either. I asked him "Are you cold?" I looked at him. I tried to use my voice and face and body to make it obvious that I expected an answer. All it got me was the same look through those interesting blue eyes which were neither dark nor light. He made no noise. He made no sense.
I couldn't even begin to imagine where he had come from. His name came from a television show, but he...I don't know.
He was a fully grown child. He seemed to be seeing everything for the first time. He didn't judge me or become indignant at my question, "Are you cold?" but he didn't know how to respond. He didn't even really seem to know that he should respond. I took away his blanket. I took away his pillow. I brought in some ice. I put the ice in his hand and said, "Are you cold?"

The ice dripped. I took it away.

I think he needs more time.

After a few moments, sitting there in silence, my wheels turning, he stood up. To my surprise, I stood up too. He just stood there. He looked at me with his expressionless face. I put the ice back in the freezer. I decided I wanted coffee.

Arthur and I walked to Starbucks. I asked him, "Do you want anything." He said nothing. He looked up at the signs. He seemed to know how to look at signs, but not how to read them. I ordered. I ordered two small coffees and a big cookie. This is not usually what I order. This isn't even really what I wanted that day. Really I wanted a mocha. I always want a mocha, but I didn't know what Arthur wanted and I didn't want to get something that was different from what he wanted. We sat in the corner at the booth. I took my journal out of my bag and wrote across the top of the first page: "Arthur Pewtey"
Then I wrote out the alphabet and some of my favorite things. I wrote some quotes. I took some notes. He watched me expressionlessly, but intently, for he didn't look away.
For the first time, I noticed him blink.

I had this idea that he must be an alien from somewhere. I spoke to him in English. I just talked. I gave him some of the cookie, more than half of which I ate myself. I motioned for him to put it into his mouth. He had eaten the sandwich and other food earlier fine, but he spit the cookie out. I think he does not like sweet things. I had been drinking my coffee. He drank his. He took a sip. He did not spit it out. He did not take another sip. When mine was more than half finished, I finished the cookie, threw out the tiny plate it had been on. I sat down again. I told him to drink his coffee. He took another sip. He was staring out the window.

I turned around as a kid on a blue bike rode past the window and down the street. Arthur stood up. I stood up. He threw down his coffee and ran out the door after the hoodlum on the bike. He was fast. I ran after him. The kid on the bike was riding slowly. Arthur was able to be gaining on him. I was not, but I could see them both. At the intersection across from the Starbucks, a red pick up sped through a red light. The truck slammed its breaks halfway through the intersection, the smell of burned tire filled the air, and it was that smell that I remembered more than anything. I blinked. Oddly, I don't remember any noise at all from the incident. The boy was fine. The bike was not. The red truck had no driver in it, but it had hit another car, which had been a dark blue Beretta.

Obviously I was and am confused because none of what I remember seems to make any sense. It went rather quickly. Perhaps if I burned some rubber I could bring something back. The strangest thing about it all is that I watched Arthur run. I watched the red truck approach the intersection, I watched the kid on the blue bike, and noticed the Beretta. Then I was running toward Arthur who was scratchless, the driver of the red truck was nowhere to be found. A shaken skinny college freshman was dialing the police on his cell phone, and the boy was more than thirty feet from his bike, just standing next to Arthur, surveying the scene, as speechless as Arthur, his bike was destroyed. Arthur blinked. I blinked.

Arthur took my hand and led me home. I didn't think of it at the time, but we should have stayed to deal with the police. I guess I didn't really want to deal with them. There had been plenty of other witnesses to the accident. Thinking back, it is strange, but it is also like a memory that is very vague.

If you, reading this, were hoping for the questions to be answered, I am afraid I can't leave you with any answers. I can only tell you what I know, the things I remember.

At that point, I was sitting in my living room with Arthur. My light green blouse was covered in Starbucks, so I put on a white sweater instead. I tried to gather my thoughts. Arthur apparently had some regard for human life, I thought, or whatever he knew would happen, he would have remained indifferent. He also knew where home was for me, and, temporarily for him. I paced about the apartment, which was all very natural for me. It was evening.

The sky was light blue with various shades of violet. My roommates were gone for the week. I poured some Sprite for Arthur and I. He spat it out into the cup. I poured him some milk, which he drank. It was about nine o clock.

"Mmmm" I said to him, with my mouth full.
He said nothing.
I put his fingers on my larynx and said, "Mmmm"
I put my fingers on his larynx and he said, "Mmmm"
I smiled.
He did not smile, but his expressionless eyes lightened for a fraction of a second. It was the beginning of a smile.

I think that this is the point at which we must all realize that everything is alright and nothing bad can happen. This is my blog. I have a multitude of things that aren't right in my life anymore. You might say that life simply hit me on the head with a hammer. Finally.
But aside from all the therapeutic whining and complaining, I've decided to fully comply with the requests of me. I have to get things done. I have to get a move on with my life and stop some of the foolish nonsense that has dominated me since my younger years. Silly people.

Theologically it's easier because I've realized that it doesn't really matter at all. If it's about God, then it's about God. At least it's not about us. Giving a Divine reason for life being as it is helps a lot of things immensely, but even if when it doesn't...it's still just not about us.

The narcissists in the group cringe.

The only thing that I've found to be true is that, generally speaking, the most meaningful and deepest beauty in this world is found in the foulest and most ugly things sometimes. And often, what the general populous accepts as beautiful can generally be some of the most disgustingly foul things in existence. Take whatever example you will, I shall armor myself in ambiguity and silence.

The roles are that of the following: there is the role of the caretaker and that of the afflicted. The afflicted can be that of mind, body or spirit; likewise the caretaker may be a healer of one of those things. This caretaker is absent in my life because my own biggest affliction is my desire to continue being afflicted at the expense of myself, for fear of the caretaker wasting his or her time. I feel much more comfortable taking on the role of caretaker than that of the afflicted (naturally no one wishes to be afflicted, but some find it easier than facing life because of fear of responsibility)

Speaking of fear of responsibility, a side note for parents: This is a crazy and dangerous world. You are responsible for your children. The desk workers at hotels, maintenance guys at pools, and servers at restaurants are not and should not be your replacements. Places that you take respite in are not to be abused or taken to be daycare. Thank you.

So much has changed. Such is life, you might say, but the issues I touch on must be left ambiguous. This is ultimately because of fear of what others think. I may not be as definitive as I once was because the age of figuring out who or what I should be should be past. But it is not. Quite contrarily, I haven't the foggiest. All I know is that I still enjoy a lot of the things I once did, and cannot continue doing them because of the paralyzing fears that have entered my life. It is easy enough to say "just forget them" but after looking at things on the larger scale, the little things don't matter. Little things like career and future and family lose their meaning. Perhaps my growing religion has been a bit of a cop-out. It seems that the world is ending...what worth does my major hold anyway. I can't help thinking that thought sometimes.

I feel that devotion isn't an easy thing. Becoming motivated by any sort of divine power is the most difficult way to become motivated...because the expectation is endless, the disappointment is endless when you fail, yet the forgiveness and ability to continue going is also endless. Therefore, because of the endlessness of expectation, there is no greater fear than failing. And even when you fail God, you may not lay down and simply allow oneself to be a failure, you're expected to pick up and begin again and again and again and again. There is no room for laziness, even in failure. By this token, to be religiously devoted causes you ultimately to change your lifestyle. It is the most difficult task any human being can accomplish, in fact, it cannot be accomplished. It is an ongoing action, which never ends, not even in death.
Yet devotion to God is a cop-out for so many people. We begin to believe (and I include myself in this one) that the end is near enough that there is nothing that can be done. We see things as impossible to change except by God's will and we forget that there are tasks at hand. Being truly devoted means also acts of service, not simply saying one will someday and procrastinating, but beginning it today. I should really follow my own doctrine. I am a hypocrite along with the others. I enjoy Church and worship, I pray fervently outside of church. I firmly believe that God is the only reason life is worth living. I am willing to work hard. But then I don't. I just don't do anything. This is about to change. I cannot continue to live as idly as I have. Tomorrow, as it is 2:13 am now though, will have to be the time for it. Now it is time for bed for me.

Except I cannot end my rant there. I am a bit of a religion fanatic these days. It is only for the greater glorification of God alone. I'm constantly searching my conscience for reasons why this has come about. I'm constantly looking to figure out why suddenly religiousness has taken root in my life. I don't want it to be my drug. I don't want it to be for attention. I certainly don't want it to be me living up to someone's expectations, with the sole exception of God. Trust me that I am asking those questions of myself. Before I became this way, I felt that people were religious because of some sort of emptiness in their life from some tragic event that must have happened, or perhaps they were brainwashed by society, or raised that way by their parents. Yet, I look at the people that seem to make up the population. I look at the extent of abuse in America, I look at parents that I see in my workplace, I look at parents from my home community and the more I look, the more I realize how much less most parents seem to care about their children than I believe they should. Perhaps this is why I find myself hesitant to enter into any sort of relationship with any sort of heterosexual male. I don't want to become like them.

Speaking of us and them:
I've surprised myself, how much I've become one of the brainless enemies of my past. I see the traits found in them and the traits in us.

The "us" traits in my mind were always those of artistic fanatics, charged by intellectual individualism, with a confident, yet unique view on things.
The "them" traits were those of general pop culture. Those who worship sex and violence but not in an intellectual enough way to realize the primalness of it, only to feel.

They are opposite sides of the spectrum I suppose. Nobody wants to be completely detached from their primal impulses. It is innate within us all to want to be violent when angry, regardless of how much we may suppress it, and it is innate within all of us to be sexual, even in the most innocent or watered-down of ways. I think that my problem is that I detach myself and find myself, oddly, most attracted to others who have also detached themselves from those impulses.

I feel in many ways that I am past the point at which I was ever attractive to anyone. Perhaps this isn't a bad thing.