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I used to take off his boots at the end of the day. I didn’t look forward to it, but Dad had a lot of fun with it and we’d smile at each other. They’d thud even on the carpet, and I’d pull their leash into the closet. I didn’t know where he’d been, mostly adventures on our little farm in the mountains of North Carolina, repairing fences to keep in the goats, or pouring concrete slap for the pig pin. Or dusted with green from mowing the lawn.

I just plopped my boots in my own closet, in my own house, thousands of miles away from my father.

I got this pair of Doc Martin boots free while I was on The Real World. They aren’t the punk kickers I had when I was in high school, but wallet-brown leather work boots. The trademark yellow stitching lets me know they aren’t just any work boots. These boots have been through it all. I stepped on elephant crap in Africa, waded through Mardi Gras muck, painted a vandalized church in Mexico, and now they are keep cactus from piercing my feet as I trudge through the desert.

Dad’s house was a farm house in the mountains. He’d never have crazy paintings on his walls, and my living room has more chrome than his garage. He had shaggy hair and a beard, and I have stiff spikes. But at the end of the day, he rests his crucifix on his nightstand, just like I do.

I woke up in the middle of the night (what city am I in?) and saw my white Mr. Rogers sweater levitating on the corner of my bed—it just floated there. I took a quick breath and whapped it with my pillow. Thud! …oh yeah, I hung my sweater on the post. I looked around the room to make sure nobody saw me, then I went back to sleep. Damn that was scary. Note to self: don’t write this in my journal.

It’s rare that I can be in and out of the Midwest in less than 18 hours. I left Friday late afternoon and flew into Cleveland. A cool, smart guy named Greg picked me up and we went on Coventry Street for dinner. It was fun being in an old town with snow all over the place. We had a late dinner and talked about everything.

Saturday morning I spoke at an event for the Catholic high schoolers of Cleveland. I wish I could give more talks like that. I work at the art of speaking. I was able to be passionate but be eloquent and concise. I meant what I said, and I hope something struck those teens.

–Quick to the airplane and back here to Phoenix and fall asleep.

Why do I wake up at 7:58 AM on my one day of the month to sleep in? It doesn’t matter, I am here at Einstein’s doing my “day off thing”—writing journals and sipping my favorite coffee. I’ve tightened up some journals over the past week, and it’s time to go. Man, I’ve been here for two hours.

So what’s going on in my life? I am just seeing what it’s like to watch time pass. It’s easy to get caught up in the book of life—you just can’t insist this is the last chapter. That’s why so many people do stupid things in high school, then again in college. It was this movie last night…

Stephanie and I accidentally watched About Schmidt, the other Jack Nicholson movie. There’s no clever story or over-the-top characters, just an old man retiring, losing his wife, and watching his only daughter get married to an average guy. Every character in this movie was so average and lifeless. Nobody was under the age of 35, but I could see people my age in each character, even the old people.

Twice I seriously thought about walking out and doing something else. Why watch someone else’s miserable life? But, Stephanie and I were on a date, and I can’t imagine Jack Nicholson would choose a bad movie all the way through.

“When I am dead, and the people that know me are dead, it will be like I never existed. What have I done with my life?” That line really got me thinking. Really, that’s what happens when you spend all of your life on yourself. Like Grampa told me in high school, “Invest your energy in something greater than yourself.” That’s what I am doing.

The movie is narrated as Jack Nicholson write to a six year old boy over seas that he just sponsored for $22 per month. Seeing how much future his boy has, and how little past he has, Schmidt wonders hard what his life was all about. And it’s through his sponsorship of that boy that this old man finds meaning.

Old generations and new generations…

Everyone wants good parents. But how many people are willing to be good parents? I can see it now: parents shape the generation that will rule the world. It’s been that way forever, and it’ll always be that way.

:::

It was cold inside this afternoon, so I threw a sheet out over the lush green grass and lied down to let the sun do its thing. I started getting those loopy-dream-thoughts and lost myself. I came to my sense and realized my plane was taking off in less than an hour. I zoomed to the airport, and I made it just in time.

Now I am floating somewhere over the Midwest on my way to Cleveland, OH. Night flights are always better. The passengers are usually calmer and I feel like I am in my own world. These Bose earphones hush the drone of the engines, helping me to forget I am on a plane.

I don’t know what’s going on inside of me. The movie last night affirmed me and I feel ever better about serving God with my life, not myself. But at the same time, I am struggling with the idea of getting old. I know this is silly b/c I am still in my early twenties, but everyone who is old was once young.

I am just going to have to leave it at that.

I don’t feel like myself right now. I have all of this emotions flitting around inside of me, none of them settling down so I can identify them. After writing and deleting the last couple paragraphs, I know it’s because I’ve been watching TV since Saturday. I hardly watched TV since high school, and it’s a strange place to be again.

Television creates these unreal worlds that entertain our mundane worlds. You just can’t win. You are stuck to a couch going nowhere, doing nothing. Then you let the flickering box show you lives you’re not living. Yuck.

Matt M. gave me a demo CD he made for his next album. He did a duet with Danielle that is such a mysterious love song. I think the lyrics are from Psalms, but there’s a line she sings: “Kiss me beyond my lips…”

Love. It’s the greatest gift from God, and we are just learning how to experience it. You have to share it or you’ll die. You have to accept love, or you’ll die. Matt M. said I needed to let people love me.

He’s right. I can have tens of thousands of people sign my guestbook, get fan mail… I am so happy they take the time to write and that does me a lot to me. But do I let those around me love me? I am surrounded by so many people that I really like. I call them good friends—they are good people and they are my friends.

I’m not afraid of being loved. I let my family love me a lot. We’ve always loved each other.

I am safer when I keep people at a distance. I’ve let people into my life who had the wrong intentions. I do get abused, in small and big ways. That’s what happens when you are Matt from the Real World. I could let people walk through the door and become closer to me, but I’m not going to stop what I am doing just so I can cry and hug a warm body.

Maybe I’m gone too much…

I know love isn’t emotions and affection. I know that. I just don’t know where to go from here. I just need to take those moments being around others, and let there be more love.

“Kiss me beyond my lips.”

You can always remember what you did last year at Valentine’s Day. I clicked back on my journal to read what I wrote here in my journal last year, just to see what I was thinking. That’s one thing I cherish about this journal, I can go back and see where I’ve been, and get an insight on where I’m going.

I spent an hour reading things I wrote…things I don’t even recall writing. I must’ve written it, I know I went through that. But memories evolve as time passes. We have a choice how we remember our past. I had forgotten some of the junk I’ve gone through.

The last few years of my life have been everything but ordinary. I went on The Real World and every part of my life flipped upside down. Being “me” meant something new, even if it is still the same me. I’ve been infatuated and heart-broken. I worked my tail off to finish college, then left a city that I loved. I’ve been devastated. I survived then thrived in New York City. I lived in Harlem and made great friends. I’ve banged through every nightclub, met so many women. I’ve lapped this country hundreds of times and spoken to countless audiences. I’ve been to more beaches, seen such hurt, slept in the strangest places…

Now I am pushing a mega-website from the middle of the desert, pouring all I have into what I have absolute faith will make the world a better place. I still lap the country like there’s no tomorrow. My friends are stable, responsible people. I am around families again. I bought a new car and then a house. A few months later, this house is still mostly empty because I am never here. I am lying in bed, and it’s the only thing in this room. My sleeping bag from Boy Scouts is keeping me warm.

I didn’t know a stable life would feel like this. It’s wonderful…the stress, heartache, and jitters are gone. Maintaining stability isn’t a full-time job, and I can put my energy elsewhere. But, those experiences, through hell and back, were good for me. Those lonely loud subway rides that traced my prayers beneath the city…

Who knows where my life will go, what people I’ll meet, or what adventures wait for me. There are thousands of canvases waiting for paint, thousands of people needing to be hugged. I’ll have to tie my shoes each morning, take out the trash, and iron my clothes. That’s part of the adventure too. Through it all, I just have to let God love me.

(I don’t know you and I’ll probably never meet you. I write this on a cold night in the desert, alone in my room. It’s not important why you came to this website. I don’t know where you’ve been, how you’ve suffered or how you’ve laughed. Know this: God loves you. His love is waiting for you every moment of your life. We are in this life together. We were never meant to make it on our own. Let God love you.)