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jeffboone
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Name: jeff
Country: United States
Birthday: 2/29/1980
Gender: Male
Interests: coffee. good rock and roll, especially from the 70s. cooking. guitars. drums. amps. cymbals. seinfeld reruns. anne. jesus. johnny cash. aquariums. fishing. minneapolis. st.louis cardinals.
Expertise: coffee. rock and roll. fishing.
Occupation: maker of delicious gourmet cof
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
8/25/2004
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| i hesitated to post that last piece, mostly to avoid re-opening the pandora's box. this was originally intended to be the final draft, but among other things i ended up dropping part of the last sentence ("the most God-forsaken place I can think of) because i felt like it was a bit sensational and not completely true. i think at that point my feeling was that way, but it's really not that negative anymore. my cynicism tends to come out more when i'm doing stuff for school. i tend to think about how i didn't go to college when i probably should have after my 2nd year.
anyhow, thanks for the comments. i'm starting to really give this writing thing a go and i feel like it's important for my own development at this point to just put things out there. mostly i just wanted to say thanks to all of you guys, because in spite of a wide array of feelings about that period i made some really good friends that made it one of the best times of my life so far.
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| i thought i would post something i wrote for my creative non-fiction class, since it involves times spent with many of my fellow xangans. i read it to my class today, and trying to explain the house of horrors to non-evangelicals is a really strange thing. a couple of warnings if you decide to read on: 1. it's long. 2. it's a bit on the cynical side. anyhow, here it is...
Eighteen.
I walk into the Study Center, as I have every morning for the last two months. I pause, staring for a moment into a black cloud as my eyes adjust from bright morning sun to basement darkness. The Study Center is nothing more than a rectangular room, with a set of double doors in the back corner on one of the short walls. I am facing down the length of the room, and to my left someone plays an electric keyboard. I presume an outsider could mistake what he plays for bad adult contemporary circa 1993, except the words he is singing into the microphone mix in some religious jargon. To those of us in the bubble it is known as worship music, composed of fuzzy love words and religious phrases we have yet to realize we don’t understand. I imagine a home school prom would be similar to this.
“The bubble” is a term we all use to describe our separation from the outside world. “Biodome” would be more fitting. The enormity of the cultural structure that has been erected and the manipulative skill needed to convince college kids to opt out of their rights to drink, watch rated R movies, listen to music that isn’t Christian, and even date for their first year in the program is astounding.
The room seems to contain zombies rather than ministry bound, college-aged kids. There are around 100 of us, and the room is full but not constricted. Some are standing, eyes closed, their hands lifted as if surrendering to God at gunpoint. Others sit cross-legged on the spineless blue berber or against one of the lifeless gray walls with legs sprawled out, pretending to be deep in introspective thought while catching a moment of precious sleep. The music wilts to an end, one of the singers says a prayer asking the Lord to speak to us today, and we exit like a herd of lethargic sheep.
“What time did you get home last night?” I ask Tony, who is walking next to me as we move toward the bathroom. “A little after 4. Dan made us stay until every one of those scenes was wired and the power worked.”
“I can’t believe they still made us come at eight for prayer and worship after a night like that,” was my response. “If I got paid to do this I would have quit by now.”
“I know, but just think – Halloween is only a couple of weeks away and things will settle down. I just hope we can get it all done before opening night.”
Nineteen.
I am blinded every few seconds as red fire engine lights pulse through the dark sky, riding on the chilly October air as smoke pours up the cinder block wall and fiery orange light dances through a piece of chain link fence placed there to secure a large window missing it’s glass pane.
“You guys gotta shut that thing down pronto. We’re getting calls every ten minutes,” I hear a fireman tell Dan, the staff member in charge of the House of Horrors. Several hours ago Dan gave my friend Donny and I a job making the front of this abandoned grocery store turned haunted house appear to be on fire. A couple of industrial grade smoke machines and some theater lights on timers created an illusion that was quite convincing from the street. Donny and I exchanged proud glances while the firemen hauled Dan over the coals.
In just one week, hundreds of people every night will be walking through the rooms and halls we are constructing in this old empty building, haunted by “scenes of reality.” Apparently the lives of non-evangelicals are never ending downward spirals of violence and heartache just waiting to be halted by a fake haunted house in an old grocery store.
“I hope I don’t get the suicide scene,” I think every time I come around the corner into the old dairy fridge, taken back by the bloody chunks of fake skin and brain that have already been pasted to the wall. Who wants to lie around all night on a cold cement floor in a pool of fake blood?
I hope to get a part in one of the couple’s scenes with one of the girls, maybe domestic abuse or the one with the demonized boyfriend behind the mirror telling her she’ll never be pretty enough. At least there you get some company. As long as they don’t make me do the sermon at the end. I hate the sermon.
Twenty.
I am sitting on the blue berber of the Study Center, legs folded like a pretzel. My third House of Horrors has passed, and the blunt gray of winter has settled in. Just as I have been every morning for nearly three years I am in this room, an open Bible settled in my lap. My mind wanders to scenes of home in Minnesota, where the snow crowns the boughs of wild pines instead of filling the dry cracks of Illinois’ flat, cultivated turf. The lifeless gray on the walls has woken from its coma, and is now eating vigorously at my nerves.
“Focus,” I tell myself. “This book is the basis of your entire life, and you can’t concentrate for ten minutes.” My eyes scrape the pages for any sign of life. And as I read about the Israelites waiting to cross into the Promised Land, the curtain slowly, deliberately lifts and He speaks, gentle and clear, like the Godfather from behind his massive leather chair.
“Conformity will fuck you over, Jeff. Don’t be afraid to smash the mold and make art with the pieces.”
Twenty-eight.
I have never doubted that it was God who spoke to me that day. Through my lens, that was the last place that God should speak to me. I really doubted he even liked hanging out there. God, who gave rise to the wildness of the Boundary Waters, who oversaw the erection of the Tetons and the Rockies and the redwoods, who designed volcanoes and oceans, could not be the type of guy who would choose to frequent a Midwestern church basement with lifeless, dull everything. And though I’d never thought of it, that is the kind of guy who might use the word “fuck” when trying to get his point across.
My belief is that He did it in that specific place on purpose. I expect to find God in the mountains or in a canoe in the middle of the wilderness. But to find Him here, in a gray church basement, in the most God-forsaken place I can think of - that’s something I could not manufacture.
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| they are doing a recount, but it looks like al franken was not good enough, not smart enough, and dog-gone not enough people voted for him. seriously, jack handy was within 600 votes of becoming our senator.
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| politics seems to come up quite a bit lately, what with the conventions and all that. as usual i have some opinions, some stronger than others. here's what i don't get - what the hell does everyone see in barack obama that they don't see in other democratic politicians? i think as a politician he's bill clinton v2.0. say something that sounds nice, smile, look cute, and give out as few details as possible. i understand if you're a democrat liking the democratic guy vs. the republican. that makes sense to me. he's obviously more likable than hillary, but as a democrat and as a politician not nearly as qualified and his swing to the right following the primary season is proof that he's just another politician.
here's what concerns me about mr. obama. i am reminded more and more of the lead-up to george w. getting nominated. nobody really knew anything of substance about him in regard to his potential job performance. in an election based purely on mud slinging this is a serious advantage. if the election were about qualifications he would be the v.p. candidate on a clinton ticket. it is extremely dangerous to assume that one side of the political spectrum is safer than the other, and that as long as we elect (in this case) a democrat everything will be ok. obama thus far doesn't have any real campaign promises to break. holding someone accountable for doing what they say they will do is hard enough, but let's at least require the guy to take some stances. he's not an idiot. if we don't make him do it he won't. | | |
| macbook air
gotee if under 30
soul patch if under 55
fiji water
outdated political bumper sticker (usually comes in multiples)
bluetooth earpiece
bike suit
poodles
giant right hand man ring
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